tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-88225631493095469032024-02-07T01:25:29.102-07:00The Wes Side StoryWeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07743661373264487370noreply@blogger.comBlogger16125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8822563149309546903.post-34721673583651558492011-11-06T22:00:00.000-07:002011-11-12T16:34:06.512-07:00The Charmin Cold WarIt's a quiet Sunday evening in my apartment, a rarity here. Individually, my roommates are quiet academics, but together, after hours of isolation in the dusty annuls of the library or some dingy chem lab, they are pretty combustive. I suppose constant noise is the biggest downside to having a Jerry Jones-size TV in the living room. While we can see Jake Heaps throw interceptions with perfect clarity on game day, the time share ESPN gets on our TV is miniscule compared to that of <i>Call of Duty</i>. I just might end up with PTSD after living here, hearing gunfire and death day in and day out. You can probably hear it way out in front of our building, on those benches by the science project of a duck pond we have here. <br />
<br />
Yes, an apartment full of college guys in their mid-twenties has all kinds of byproducts. Noise is one; the Cold War is another. Not the war which made Russians the bad guys in every Hollywood film for 20 years. No, this war is all about <i>not</i> being the guy to buy some apartment commodity. A clear example, repeated in every apartment I've ever lived in, involves toilet paper. Nobody wants to buy the next pack of Charmin because everyone swears that <i>someone</i> is using way more than they are themself. They'll never get their money's worth--besides, it's someone else's turn anyway! Always.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://scrapetv.com/News/News%20Pages/Everyone%20Else/images-3/toilet-paper-toilet.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://scrapetv.com/News/News%20Pages/Everyone%20Else/images-3/toilet-paper-toilet.jpg" width="170" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">a more perfect world</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Learning to dodge bankrolling the T.P. supply is priority one when living in an apartment of mid-twenties barbarians. It's a game of chicken, each person watching the roll quickly dwindle down to nothing. Then, one day, there's just a poor man's<i> </i>piñata there on the rack: a cardboard cylinder with shredded paper tassels. The game is on. Unable to go without some two-ply for very long, people resort to all manner of tactics. Some hoard a secret supply while other roommates covertly dig for it when they think nobody's looking. Some, afraid of their cache being discovered by such scavengers, bring a day's supply home at a time, shamelessly collected from some restroom stall at school. The less innovative roommates, underestimating their foes, find their stash of coincidentally-two-ply Cafe Rio napkins rapidly disappearing and hope their socks' disappearance on laundry day had nothing to do with the war. Once, we even discovered a roommate was actually getting by using the
roll of blue crepe paper left over from a Cinco de Mayo party. In the end, someone invariably breaks down and the opulent supply of Charmin is again enjoyed for a few weeks before the cycle repeats.<br />
<br />
While not usually shared among all roommates, food also seems to continually be dwindling in supply. College guys are in a perpetual state of needing to go grocery shopping. I'm pretty sure we have this demographic to thank for the formulation of the dollar menu. With school due dates repeatedly coinciding with that fateful day when the home food supply runs out, Wendy's, McDonald's, Little Caesar's and Taco Bell make their fortunes, one green Washington at a time. It's tough to find food with short prep times and distant expiration dates. I recently decided I'm done bothering with potatoes. I don't know how the Irish do it. Mine always go forgotten beneath the sink and I find them some time later once they've sprouted into a healthy family of chia pets. They usually stay there, loyally guarding the cupboard for a while before we bother to throw them away, at which point they are adolescent shrubs. We usually drag them out to the dumpster on our way to Wendy's. In the end, it's hard to remind yourself that all the shopping, cooking and cleanup are all worth it for just yourself. I've outlined it in a flowchart down below.<br />
<br />
I hope all the madness is good for us after all. Living through countless toilet paper cold wars, making who knows how many fast food runs and trimming entire forests of potato chia pets will serve to make us appreciate the craziness of family life later all the more. <br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBO5WC0iwf__fLHGGvyvdRA5AYKltXAUcX5InmskiwPU1SvbwsLZJ9i4HAuWNRDV9JAgign1MKvfdYwiq6MMaILCW08yhfl_lfOXvnoy_avrCVs8tE8lHmGPoNoySVchD3Ef3anfg0zxo/s1600/food+test+%2528final%2529.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBO5WC0iwf__fLHGGvyvdRA5AYKltXAUcX5InmskiwPU1SvbwsLZJ9i4HAuWNRDV9JAgign1MKvfdYwiq6MMaILCW08yhfl_lfOXvnoy_avrCVs8tE8lHmGPoNoySVchD3Ef3anfg0zxo/s200/food+test+%2528final%2529.jpg" width="122" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(click image, then click "show original" to zoom in)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Weshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07743661373264487370noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8822563149309546903.post-248680041877769732011-06-11T02:26:00.008-06:002011-06-19T16:19:08.952-06:00The Game<div style="text-align: left; font-family: georgia;"><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:trackmoves/> <w:trackformatting/> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:donotpromoteqf/> <w:lidthemeother>EN-US</w:LidThemeOther> <w:lidthemeasian>X-NONE</w:LidThemeAsian> <w:lidthemecomplexscript>TH</w:LidThemeComplexScript> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:applybreakingrules/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> <w:splitpgbreakandparamark/> <w:dontvertaligncellwithsp/> 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mso-para-margin-top:0in; mso-para-margin-right:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left:0in; line-height:115%; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:11.0pt; font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family:"Cordia New"; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi; mso-bidi-language:AR-SA;} </style> <![endif]--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: normal"><span style=" color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-family:lucida grande;" >As the work day was winding down on Thursday, I was informed by a coworker that Friday's work day was canceled and that our entire division was having a "morale event." This seems to me like the kind of name AA would give to a group picnic or support circle. Come Friday morning, we hopped on some very large buses that were waiting outside and were zipped off to downtown Seattle.</span><span style="font-family:"Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-Times New Roman";mso-bidi-language:THfont-family:";font-size:12.0pt;" ></span></p> </div> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; font-family: lucida grande;font-family:lucida grande;"><span style=";font-size:100%;" >We unloaded and headed into a tower nearby, navigating our way through a mall and going up six escalators to the top floor where we were ushered into a posh fashion club artistically decked in dark furniture with starkly contrasting white accents and brilliant pink decorations.<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; font-family: lucida grande; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg54Tw0GRtiyrFuteXao8D6kHyO_qBNLPJDKwF9jXt1UdMYmjm6lZFYhSAelLZPh5ZQrFU479A4LzsxBewyqRCBu3NwpQsTdwixy6suL8kBapGoHbu3_ysMqsRszwvs3DjylcXFrM4CX9U/s640/Go%252520Game%252520-%252520Super%252520Pink%252520Lounge%2525202.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 235px; height: 175px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg54Tw0GRtiyrFuteXao8D6kHyO_qBNLPJDKwF9jXt1UdMYmjm6lZFYhSAelLZPh5ZQrFU479A4LzsxBewyqRCBu3NwpQsTdwixy6suL8kBapGoHbu3_ysMqsRszwvs3DjylcXFrM4CX9U/s640/Go%252520Game%252520-%252520Super%252520Pink%252520Lounge%2525202.JPG" alt="" border="0" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4Dg_SxUMvs3C6Y4MAwG-NDKaaFqf29Y9vegtNlweK9O7m7AskVW6nE4LR4N_wnXT5AQ5Hs18i3yN4oxRSlGCX_1YqIvbTHclYTvWDlvM8EzcxAoX2Zt2c8PuZLyOUQD28lWQ1rstEXbo/s800/lounge.jpeg"> <img style="cursor: pointer; width: 305px; height: 175px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4Dg_SxUMvs3C6Y4MAwG-NDKaaFqf29Y9vegtNlweK9O7m7AskVW6nE4LR4N_wnXT5AQ5Hs18i3yN4oxRSlGCX_1YqIvbTHclYTvWDlvM8EzcxAoX2Zt2c8PuZLyOUQD28lWQ1rstEXbo/s800/lounge.jpeg" alt="" border="0" /><br /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; font-family: lucida grande;font-family:lucida grande;"><span style=" Times New Roman","serif";font-size:100%;" >We seated ourselves at the tables as deep club music pulsed. It felt strange to be in a club during the day, light sneaking in through windows as neighboring skyscrapers leering pale in the daylight, clearly visible on the other side of the glass.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>We all talked awkwardly at the tables, eating the lunch they served, until a carbon copy of Michelle Dodge walked out in an orange jumpsuit with military accents and the word <i>GO</i> in shiny black letters on the back.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>She stood at the stage and started the show.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; font-family: lucida grande; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgorR81bB6w7YM38JP6bpwwINGJjecOC_Siuz-FClWE9FxphyGTKAHChMg2YQpMTBFtFxkzR48ajBFhQNcY2f3hOnsGNkCgtT97fz04cu5CyeQJG4o4Q_9uvwWj15toTrRg0zOjm13EvAc/s800/Go%252520Game%2525206.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 229px; height: 171px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgorR81bB6w7YM38JP6bpwwINGJjecOC_Siuz-FClWE9FxphyGTKAHChMg2YQpMTBFtFxkzR48ajBFhQNcY2f3hOnsGNkCgtT97fz04cu5CyeQJG4o4Q_9uvwWj15toTrRg0zOjm13EvAc/s800/Go%252520Game%2525206.JPG" alt="" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:78%;">This is a different jumpsuit girl</span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgorR81bB6w7YM38JP6bpwwINGJjecOC_Siuz-FClWE9FxphyGTKAHChMg2YQpMTBFtFxkzR48ajBFhQNcY2f3hOnsGNkCgtT97fz04cu5CyeQJG4o4Q_9uvwWj15toTrRg0zOjm13EvAc/s800/Go%252520Game%2525206.JPG"><br /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; text-align: left; font-family: lucida grande;font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="Times New Roman","serif";font-size:100%;" >“Welcome to the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Game_%28treasure_hunt%29">Go Game</a>!<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Look at the people around you at your table because they are now your teammates.”<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>She proceeded with some brief instructions and a lunchbox for each group.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Our group ended up with a yellow, weathered metal box with a marred picture of Bugs Bunny eating a carrot.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“Open your boxes and let’s start.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; font-family: lucida grande; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDgua2pqQ2WswVKjyoaLwxgx94juYUGFHSbpXY6cf4h1fOw_o0_5Ltj4Arkl9Q2GhyphenhyphenSHzI2wh-4MfDmNny6ByuwUpllT7fOHYuMGVPRyYg-Vx3fi0KhjXGRadi1Ip9ugEa_ieJmu1ErHw/s800/Go%252520Game%252520-%252520Super%252520Pink%252520Lounge.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 255px; height: 191px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDgua2pqQ2WswVKjyoaLwxgx94juYUGFHSbpXY6cf4h1fOw_o0_5Ltj4Arkl9Q2GhyphenhyphenSHzI2wh-4MfDmNny6ByuwUpllT7fOHYuMGVPRyYg-Vx3fi0KhjXGRadi1Ip9ugEa_ieJmu1ErHw/s800/Go%252520Game%252520-%252520Super%252520Pink%252520Lounge.JPG" alt="" border="0" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6J1QHEpUCh0yvpiNe7z0pbKUiV96tp-exzu9NH9KsPHbjAJlbkl1m4zmUXPbg-YENuW4B620F-1mb6Wfy1sTMtxMxIUk9hAS5ZHlap5BKQpIVUefCNpFmnteakCkojId5czWurzASirw/s800/Go%252520Game%2525202.JPG"> <img style="cursor: pointer; width: 255px; height: 191px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6J1QHEpUCh0yvpiNe7z0pbKUiV96tp-exzu9NH9KsPHbjAJlbkl1m4zmUXPbg-YENuW4B620F-1mb6Wfy1sTMtxMxIUk9hAS5ZHlap5BKQpIVUefCNpFmnteakCkojId5czWurzASirw/s800/Go%252520Game%2525202.JPG" alt="" border="0" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; font-family: lucida grande;font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-Times New Roman";mso-bidi-language:THfont-size:100%;" >We opened the lunchbox to reveal a cell phone, a digital camera, two maps and a black permanent marker.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Jumpsuit girl looked nothing short of amused at the looks on everyone’s faces as she instructed each group to turn on their phones.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>As the worn screen slowly flickered to life, jumpsuit girl in an ominous, theatrical flair said, “Welcome to…the Go Game.”</span> </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; font-family: lucida grande;font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-Times New Roman";mso-bidi-language:THfont-size:100%;" >Our group crowded around the screen which again welcomed us to the game and, with some brief instructions, offered our first challenge.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span><i>Go to the corner of 1<sup>st</sup> Street and Pine and press “go.”<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Do not press go before arriving at the exact intersection or you will lose points.</i><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>We dashed down the escalators, dodging pedestrians who wondered why a group of adults were running around, holding an open cell phone out in front of them like a compass. We spilled out into the street with other groups and ran to the corner where we pressed go. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span><i>Take a picture with all members of your group together and then select “prove” on the phone</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>It was here we discovered to the Go Game wasn’t an average scavenger hunt; it included riddles, historical questions requiring internet help and paid actors disguised as normal people which you had to find and interact with.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; font-family: lucida grande;font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-Times New Roman";mso-bidi-language:THfont-size:100%;" > </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; font-family: lucida grande;font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><i><span style="Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-Times New Roman";mso-bidi-language:TH">Congratulations!<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>You now have 15 points!<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Now for your first real task, you are near the famed Pike Place Market!<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>While many manage to master the art of disguise and deception here, an unlucky few have not.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Near a portly porcine wanders an embarrassingly conspicuous tourist who would be overjoyed to point you in the right direction.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>If you find the correct tourist, she will respond only to the question “Are you from a small town?” with a key phrase which you will need.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></span></i></span><span style="Times New Roman","serif";font-size:100%;" >The task seemed deceptively easy, but the portly porcine (which means pig if you, like I, didn’t know) happens to be in what’s probably the most touristy point in all of Seattle, so spotting a “conspicuous” became a game of Where’s Waldo.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; font-family: georgia;font-family:lucida grande;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz3HLSJ-KXxMEUKaPDNdpQbXNtSWlr9rKi1DuKwhwMqIC0FR3a72gSFpJGdxHx3g-Gpwst2XM8c6WFJ-r6wVyBXTcOK-SwJ6UN55gv-HChGbIBCXR9OaBLgYzXUVCw5i9_b0sM3u75-TA/s800/Go%252520Game%2525205.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 259px; height: 191px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz3HLSJ-KXxMEUKaPDNdpQbXNtSWlr9rKi1DuKwhwMqIC0FR3a72gSFpJGdxHx3g-Gpwst2XM8c6WFJ-r6wVyBXTcOK-SwJ6UN55gv-HChGbIBCXR9OaBLgYzXUVCw5i9_b0sM3u75-TA/s800/Go%252520Game%2525205.JPG" alt="" border="0" /></a></p><span style="font-family: georgia;font-family:lucida grande;" > </span><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-Times New Roman";mso-bidi-language:THfont-size:100%;" > </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; font-family: lucida grande;font-family:georgia;"><span style="Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-Times New Roman";mso-bidi-language:THfont-size:100%;" >After a few minutes, we regrouped near the pig statue and Don exclaimed, “This whole place is full of tourists!<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>How are we supposed to find the right one??”<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I turned to say something to him and noticed a woman literally six inches to his right wearing a Canada sweater, a baseball cap from the MidWest, a fanny pack, sunglasses and was holding a tattered map.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“Umm, excuse me ma’am.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Do you happen to be from a small town?”<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>She turned her head with a sly grin and Don yelled, “Holy cow, she was <i>right here</i>??”<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>She chatted excitedly for a minute and gave us a password to type into the phone, but not before we got a very touristy photo together.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The only way you can advance in the game is by either getting the correct passwords at each clue, or guessing incorrectly three times, each incorrect guess costing you points.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-Times New Roman";mso-bidi-language:THfont-size:100%;" > </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; font-family: lucida grande;font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-Times New Roman";mso-bidi-language:THfont-size:100%;" >Here are some of our other tasks which were written into sometimes-complex riddles.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Some of the riddles were tough since I was the only native English-speaker on my team.</span><span style=" Courier New";mso-fareast-Times New Roman";mso-bidi-language: THfont-size:100%;" > </span></p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: -0.25in; line-height: normal; font-family: lucida grande;font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="Times New Roman","serif";mso-fareast-Times New Roman";mso-bidi-language:THfont-size:100%;" ><span style="mso-list:Ignore">1.<span style="font:7.0pt "Times New Roman""> </span></span></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><b><span style="Times New Roman","serif";mso-fareast-Times New Roman";mso-bidi-language:TH">Video challenge—In nine minutes, film a scene from your favorite video game.</span></b></span><span style=" Times New Roman","serif";mso-fareast-Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language:THfont-size:100%;" ><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>We filmed a battle scene from Street Fighter II with Mike bobbing back and forth, fists out, like <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ryu_%28Street_Fighter%29">Ryu</a>.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>After Mike defeated Xiao, I leap-kicked into the scene and Mike pretended to get hit.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Coincidentally, a woman behind Mike was opening her car door right as he fell backward leading him to fall completely <i>into</i> her car, knocking her over and smashing his head into the car door.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>She had one scary angry face.</span></p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: -0.25in; line-height: normal; font-family: lucida grande;font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="Times New Roman","serif";mso-fareast-Times New Roman";mso-bidi-language:THfont-size:100%;" ><span style="mso-list:Ignore">2.<span style="font:7.0pt "Times New Roman""> </span></span></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><b><span style="Times New Roman","serif";mso-fareast-Times New Roman";mso-bidi-language:TH">Look for a pirate near the waterfront lookout.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>You have 20 yes/no questions to figure out his favorite food, but you must ask them in a pirate accent.</span></b></span><span style="Times New Roman","serif";font-size:100%;" ><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>We found the character and I asked, “Arrr thar mate.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>We be lookin fer a pirate.”<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I got a blank stare back, accompanied by, “What?”<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Thinking he was simply unimpressed with what I felt like was a good pirate impression, I asked him again.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“We be lookin fer a pirate thar sir.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Have ye seen one?” The man looked slightly flustered, “Son I can’t understand a word you’re sayin’.” Awkward pause. “Aye, thank ye, mate.” The real pirate was down another flight of stairs. After 16 questions we found out his favorite food is marshmallow (whose favorite food is marshmallow?!) and the pirate gave us a bag of marshmallows.</span></p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: -0.25in; line-height: normal; font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;font-size:100%;"><span style="mso-list:Ignore">3.<span style="font:7.0pt "Times New Roman""> </span></span></span><span style="font-family:lucida grande;font-size:100%;"><b><span style="Times New Roman","serif";mso-fareast-Times New Roman";mso-bidi-language:TH">How many large marshmallows can you fit in your mouth while retaining the ability to say the phrase "chubby bunny"?</span></b></span><span style="Times New Roman","serif";font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"> Don got seven, after which he gave us a password</span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: -0.25in; line-height: normal; text-align: center; font-family: georgia;font-family:lucida grande;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMV6BIZY_8YJKfQ81WiiMBGv6lMZCymBF3UfFl8ooL-c9Walet-wcCr5VeCJWvf1bNg1sgH0J8ZixShdWh0wWxoZyIU-IgHjphtP5ENTOQRmdJWb29JdAKe4FTnGaw8se-A3B0vVruxlo/s800/Go%252520Game%2525203.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 257px; height: 191px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMV6BIZY_8YJKfQ81WiiMBGv6lMZCymBF3UfFl8ooL-c9Walet-wcCr5VeCJWvf1bNg1sgH0J8ZixShdWh0wWxoZyIU-IgHjphtP5ENTOQRmdJWb29JdAKe4FTnGaw8se-A3B0vVruxlo/s800/Go%252520Game%2525203.JPG" alt="" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:78%;">"chubby bunny"</span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMV6BIZY_8YJKfQ81WiiMBGv6lMZCymBF3UfFl8ooL-c9Walet-wcCr5VeCJWvf1bNg1sgH0J8ZixShdWh0wWxoZyIU-IgHjphtP5ENTOQRmdJWb29JdAKe4FTnGaw8se-A3B0vVruxlo/s800/Go%252520Game%2525203.JPG"><br /></a></p><span style="font-family: georgia;font-family:lucida grande;" > </span><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: -0.25in; line-height: normal; font-family: georgia;font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="Times New Roman","serif";mso-fareast-Times New Roman";mso-bidi-language:THfont-size:100%;" ><span style="mso-list:Ignore">4.<span style="font: 7pt lucida grande;"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family:lucida grande;font-size:100%;"><b><span style="Times New Roman","serif";mso-fareast-Times New Roman";mso-bidi-language:TH">Video challenge—In 14 minutes, film a ballet re-enactment of a historical event involving the whole team.</span></b></span><span style="font-family:lucida grande;font-size:100%;"><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>We did a beautiful, moving piece about the Berlin wall coming down following which East and West Germans Riverdanced together.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>We were mildly embarrassed when some school, there on a fieldtrip, all stopped to watch us. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></span></p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: -0.25in; line-height: normal; font-family: lucida grande;font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="Times New Roman","serif";mso-fareast-Times New Roman";mso-bidi-language:THfont-size:100%;" ><span style="mso-list:Ignore">5.<span style="font:7.0pt "Times New Roman""> </span></span></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><b><span style="Times New Roman","serif";mso-fareast-Times New Roman";mso-bidi-language:TH">Inside the Athenian is a "magical maestro" who, if asked, "Do you know Harry Potter?" respond with a magic trick revealing a keyword.</span></b></span><span style="Times New Roman","serif";font-size:100%;" ><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>We had to walk through the pub, which is where part of <i>Sleepless in Seattle</i> was filmed, asking anyone who looked like they were either a musician or magician if they knew Harry Potter.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>A portly gentleman seated near greasy windowpane said, “Yeesss, I know that Harry fellow.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He does magic!<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I do too!” and he pulled out a deck of cards.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>His tricks were rather impressive.</span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" face="lucida grande" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: -0.25in; line-height: normal; font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi9QioFMBdmdPY44cbOdTTVAQ3q0m3NFCHDIXOrapE2N2dilqIRnnKTmza0-TItL_-ZjFleIY4AGy2Tv_d7WlRpDKk8uPfaEe-hu7BlA9w1pu1Divyu5ks5nr5cIYMz_wqZZhbiXV2vOUG/s1600/Woodpecker+and+Seattle+031.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 280px; height: 209px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi9QioFMBdmdPY44cbOdTTVAQ3q0m3NFCHDIXOrapE2N2dilqIRnnKTmza0-TItL_-ZjFleIY4AGy2Tv_d7WlRpDKk8uPfaEe-hu7BlA9w1pu1Divyu5ks5nr5cIYMz_wqZZhbiXV2vOUG/s1600/Woodpecker+and+Seattle+031.JPG" alt="" border="0" /></a></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: -0.25in; line-height: normal; text-align: center; font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:78%;">This picture was shamelessly pulled from Google</span><br /></p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: -0.25in; line-height: normal; font-family: courier new;font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="Times New Roman","serif";mso-fareast-Times New Roman";mso-bidi-language:THfont-size:100%;" ><span style="mso-list:Ignore">6.<span style="font:7.0pt "Times New Roman""> </span></span></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><b><span style="Times New Roman","serif";mso-fareast-Times New Roman";mso-bidi-language:TH">Go back and ask the magician one more question for a riddle with the answer.</span></b></span><span style="font-size:100%;"> He did a neat coin trick and give us the next password disguised in a phrase—a phrase he had to repeat four or five times before we got what the word was. </span></p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: -0.25in; line-height: normal; font-family: courier new;font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="Times New Roman","serif";mso-fareast-Times New Roman";mso-bidi-language:THfont-size:100%;" ><span style="mso-list:Ignore">7.<span style="font:7.0pt "Times New Roman""> </span></span></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><b><span style="Times New Roman","serif";mso-fareast-Times New Roman";mso-bidi-language:TH">The absence of what animal allows Pike Place to be "sanitary"?</span></b></span><span style=" Times New Roman","serif";mso-fareast-Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language:THfont-size:100%;" ><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>If you’ve never been inside that part of the market, absolutely everything is decorated with animals.</span></p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: -0.25in; line-height: normal; font-family: courier new;font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><b><span style="Times New Roman","serif";mso-fareast-Times New Roman";mso-bidi-language:TH"><span style="mso-list:Ignore">8.<span style="font:7.0pt "Times New Roman""> </span></span></span></b><b><span style="Times New Roman","serif";mso-fareast-Times New Roman";mso-bidi-language:TH">How many girls does it take to bake a German white rye?<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>It's been done for more than a century in a certain shop along the market. </span></b></span></p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: -0.25in; line-height: normal; font-family: courier new;font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="Times New Roman","serif";mso-fareast-Times New Roman";mso-bidi-language:THfont-size:100%;" ><span style="mso-list:Ignore">9.<span style="font:7.0pt "Times New Roman""> </span></span></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><b><span style="Times New Roman","serif";mso-fareast-Times New Roman";mso-bidi-language:TH">Special challenge—duel with another group in a dance-off on the street which had to be judged by a stranger (Thriller vs. the can-can).</span></b></span><span style="Times New Roman","serif";mso-fareast-Times New Roman";mso-bidi-language: THfont-size:100%;" ><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>In a surprise upset, our team of five Indians, one Chinese, one Vietnamese and the least dance-capable American ever couldn’t put together a version of Thriller worth calling the winner.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>It was heartbreaking for us and nauseatingly hilarious for any passers-by watching.</span></p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: -0.25in; line-height: normal; font-family: courier new;font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="Times New Roman","serif";mso-fareast-Times New Roman";mso-bidi-language:THfont-size:100%;" ><span style="mso-list:Ignore">10.<span style="font:7.0pt "Times New Roman""> </span></span></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><b><span style="Times New Roman","serif";mso-fareast-Times New Roman";mso-bidi-language:TH">Inside a nearby dairy shop is a hand-painted hen.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>While the hen looks like she’s right out of the 1970's, what event occurred in the same year the hen was actually painted?</span></b></span><span style="Times New Roman","serif";mso-fareast-Times New Roman";mso-bidi-language: THfont-size:100%;" > (Steve Jobs announced the iPhone [in 2007] ) </span></p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: -0.25in; line-height: normal; font-family: courier new;font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="Times New Roman","serif";mso-fareast-Times New Roman";mso-bidi-language:THfont-size:100%;" ><span style="mso-list:Ignore">11.<span style="font:7.0pt "Times New Roman""> </span></span></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><b><span style="Times New Roman","serif";mso-fareast-Times New Roman";mso-bidi-language:TH">In the market is a place that seems like a place Lionel Richie would love to hang out with other musicians of similar ire and fame from his era.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Next to that spot is an unsuspecting reference to a mid-western U.S. city.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Which city is it?</span></b></span><span style="Times New Roman","serif";mso-fareast-Times New Roman";mso-bidi-language:THfont-size:100%;" ><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>After spending a substantial amount of time looking for references to the Midwest near a women’s clothing store, Don found a Milwaulkee Sausage sign behind a coat rack downstairs by a store marked “Earth Wind and Fire.” Don’t know how we overlooked that.</span></p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: -0.25in; line-height: normal; font-family: courier new;font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><b><span style="Times New Roman","serif";mso-fareast-Times New Roman";mso-bidi-language:TH"><span style="mso-list:Ignore">12.<span style="font:7.0pt "Times New Roman""> </span></span></span></b><b><span style="Times New Roman","serif";mso-fareast-Times New Roman";mso-bidi-language:TH">Photo challenge—take a picture of your team showing superhuman strength.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></span></b></span><span style="Times New Roman","serif";mso-fareast-Times New Roman";mso-bidi-language:THfont-size:100%;" >We were about to do this when we encountered a bonus challenge… (the caped superhero walking the streets)</span></p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: -0.25in; line-height: normal; font-family: courier new;font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="Times New Roman","serif";mso-fareast-Times New Roman";mso-bidi-language:THfont-size:100%;" ><span style="mso-list:Ignore">13.<span style="font:7.0pt "Times New Roman""> </span></span></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><b><span style="Times New Roman","serif";mso-fareast-Times New Roman";mso-bidi-language:TH">Bonus challenge-- Superwoman asked us to take a "compromising picture" with her.</span></b></span><span style="Times New Roman","serif";mso-fareast-Times New Roman";mso-bidi-language:THfont-size:100%;" ><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>We asked a UPS driver who was parked there if we could use the back of his truck.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>While two guys in the group posed, pretended they were on lookout, Xiao stood defiantly shushing a shocked-looking George while the two girls and I were picking up Superwoman and stuffing her into the back of the truck as the UPS driver looked on. </span></p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: -0.25in; line-height: normal; font-family: courier new;font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><b><span style="Times New Roman","serif";mso-fareast-Times New Roman";mso-bidi-language:TH"><span style="mso-list:Ignore">14.<span style="font:7.0pt "Times New Roman""> </span></span></span></b><b><span style="Times New Roman","serif";mso-fareast-Times New Roman";mso-bidi-language:TH">Start walking back toward the Super Pink Lounge in downtown Seattle while answering some questions:<span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span> <span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span></span></b></span></p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt 1in; text-indent: -1in; line-height: normal; font-family: courier new;font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="Times New Roman","serif";mso-fareast-Times New Roman";mso-bidi-language:THfont-size:100%;" ><span style="mso-list:Ignore"><span style="font:7.0pt "Times New Roman""> </span>I.<span style="font:7.0pt "Times New Roman""> </span></span></span><span style="Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-Times New Roman";mso-bidi-language:THfont-size:100%;" >What movie is the following picture of a kiss from? (we never got it) <span style="mso-tab-count: 1"> </span></span></p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt 1in; text-indent: -1in; line-height: normal; font-family: courier new;font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="Times New Roman","serif";mso-fareast-Times New Roman";mso-bidi-language:THfont-size:100%;" ><span style="mso-list:Ignore"><span style="font:7.0pt "Times New Roman""> </span>II.<span style="font:7.0pt "Times New Roman""> </span></span></span><span style="Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-Times New Roman";mso-bidi-language:THfont-size:100%;" >What logo or product is the following picture of a Q featured in?<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>(Quaker Oats) </span></p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt 1in; text-indent: -1in; line-height: normal; font-family: courier new;font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="Times New Roman","serif";mso-fareast-Times New Roman";mso-bidi-language:THfont-size:100%;" ><span style="mso-list:Ignore"><span style="font:7.0pt "Times New Roman""> </span>III.<span style="font:7.0pt "Times New Roman""> </span></span></span><span style="Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-Times New Roman";mso-bidi-language:THfont-size:100%;" >What female actor does this childhood picture belong to? (Brad Pitt – since when is he female?) <span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span></span></p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt 1in; text-indent: -1in; line-height: normal; font-family: courier new;font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="Times New Roman","serif";mso-fareast-Times New Roman";mso-bidi-language:THfont-size:100%;" ><span style="mso-list:Ignore"><span style="font:7.0pt "Times New Roman""> </span>IV.<span style="font:7.0pt "Times New Roman""> </span></span></span><span style="Times New Roman","serif";font-size:100%;" >What note do orchestras tune to? 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mso-style-qformat:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin-top:0in; mso-para-margin-right:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left:0in; line-height:115%; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:11.0pt; font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family:"Cordia New"; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi; mso-bidi-language:AR-SA;} </style> <![endif]--> </p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">The first 10 teams back got a password for 100 bonus points. The club served drinks and oysters while the Go Game staff readied the closing presentation which consisted of each of our submitted pictures and videos. To date this was the coolest work function I’ve attended, despite the embarrassment of having the video of me ninja-kicking into Mike played in slow motion with sound effects for all of management to enjoy. Thank you, Jumpsuit Girl (whose name actually turned out to be Michelle after all).</span></span><span style="font-family:"Times New Roman","serif";mso-fareast-Times New Roman";mso-bidi-language:THfont-family:";font-size:12.0pt;" ></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="line-height: 115%;font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"></span></span></p>Weshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07743661373264487370noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8822563149309546903.post-40815840795240201012011-05-21T14:20:00.005-06:002011-06-19T00:15:14.971-06:00Final Round Interviews<p>I typically have to wait for a few days and accumulate some stories and events before I write on here, but this month has been active enough that I have to be selective of what to share or I’ll just keep typing for days. About a month ago I received a call-back following an interview with Microsoft, asking me to come to Seattle to interview again. I was understandably excited since working at Microsoft would be a dream opportunity for me. After a lot of emails and arrangements, I packed my bag and headed to Seattle. I generally enjoy traveling, and have since I was a kid; however, one aspect of travel is and will always be annoying—for some reason, I always get selected to be searched at the airport. I don’t know what TV shows those TSA people grew up watching, but in the shows <b><i>I</i></b> watch, no terrorist has ever looked like me, so really this all seems slightly unjustified. The agents dug through my bag and scanned it twice before handing it back with a look of lingering suspicion.</p> <p>As I packed everything back nicely I wondered if the contents really did look a bit fishy. Inside were toiletries for three days’ travel, a suit, passport, laptop and a book on secure algorithms. I was missing a few things to achieve true spy status though—mainly a 9mm, an Aston Martin DB5 and probably a speedboat driven by a girl named Ginger.</p> <p>The interviews themselves were extensive, challenging, stressful and fun at the same time. I’m fairly sure I was the only person on campus in a shirt and tie, surrounded by surprisingly stylish, coffee-bearing, North Face-clad engineers bustling about. I’ve had some curious people ask what the interviews were like (and I would found it helpful before I went) so for any curious potential interviewees, here you go:</p> <ul> <li><strong>10:30 am</strong> <ul> <li>After taking a wrong turn and driving through what looked surprisingly like the compound on Jurassic Park, I arrived at the recruitment building. It took some time to find it since Microsoft’s <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoskKNAtrNffvYxqaVIf1jMrBe-r9honzzFUrt70JQXxZ4CsltzD-g9I66u7HGdYqDJlZ_SdNUjwfCc-uQoR_CYmaRN7fxwbKm7wqlAlmHz3wBnNBsy5lxyPMLj0QEwa9_yAlEZzQiMXuy/s400/campus_microsoft_.jpg">campus is a small city</a>, several times the size of my decently large university. Inside was nothing like I expected—I found myself waiting in a vogue lounge furnished with furniture that looked like colored microwaved marshmallows, Xboxes with Rock Band, sound-proof meeting rooms with glass walls, karaoke booths, banks of futuristic-looking computers, tables of breakfast food, cold beverages and every kind of tea Britain could ever dream of taxing us for. I felt very odd standing there with a folder of papers, adjusting my tie. </li> </ul> </li> <li><strong>11:15 am</strong> <ul> <li>My recruiter arrived and we stepped into a conference room. She asked some questions to get to know me a bit better, offered some helpful advice for the interviews and explained how the day would go. She then slid me <a href="http://www.daveamenta.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/06/connector3.jpeg"><img style="margin: 0px 0px 5px; display: inline; float: right" src="http://www.daveamenta.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/06/connector3.jpeg" align="right" height="116" width="154" /></a>two cards, one with my first interviewer’s name and office number, the second with “Microsoft e-cash” written on it. “Your first interview will be a lunch interview. Buy yourself and your interviewer’s lunch with that card. They’ll like that.” The lady at the desk in the lobby punched something into the computer and within a minute or two a campus shuttle Prius with a number pained across the side pulled up. “Good luck!” the girl called as I headed out and drove back through Jurassic Park in the Prius. </li> </ul> </li> <li><strong>12:00 pm </strong> <ul> <li>Lunch interview with a nice Indian guy where we ate pasta and he asked me about my job, schooling, methods of troubleshooting, what the most difficult problem I’ve ever solved at work was, high-level questions about different programming languages, etc. </li> </ul> </li> <li><strong>1:00 pm </strong> <ul> <li>Headed to his office on the second floor of a our building. Few engineers even turn their office lights on because the building has so many windows. “Alright, now let’s do some coding problems. We’ll start with a pretty easy one.” Popping the lid on a marker he asked, “So if I give you three numbers, each representing the length of a side of a triangle, write an algorithm to tell me what kind of triangle it is.” I was specifically told several times by my recruiter to ask questions before coding because the interviewers intentionally give you too little information, wanting to see what type of questions you ask for. I asked a few questions to get what I needed then got work. He’d occasionally comment or ask why I was doing something a certain way and not some other way. The last several minutes of the interview were him asking me what errors could occur, what vulnerabilities the code had and how I could make it faster. I was surprised at the level of error checking they did, looking even at things as small as stack or operator overflow. </li> </ul> </li> <li><strong>2:00 pm</strong> <ul> <li>Went to an office just across the hall where I was greeted by another Indian guy named Sunil. This interview started with behavioral questions followed by more code. He asked a question about binary trees and wanted a function to traverse the tree and determine which path led to an edge node where all the nodes along the path added up to a number he would pass in. I got to the end of the function but I knew I wasn’t recursing right and couldn’t quite figure it out in time. My confidence was a bit shaken afso I decided to follow my recruiter’s advice to grab a juice from the fridge and take a breather between interviews and shake it off… You are interviewing all day and they understand it’s tiring, so one bad interview won’t kill your shot at a job, she said. </li> </ul> </li> <li><strong>3:00 pm</strong> <ul> <li>This one was in another wing of the building with another Indian guy named Shiv. He had spent some time in Utah and was excited to talk about it. He seemed very at ease which was good after how tense the previous hour had felt. His coding question was a direct <a href="http://xkcd.com/356/">nerd snipe</a>. He asked me to write a function which would, given a string like “abracadabrax” would return the most repeated character, printed the number of times it was found, followed by the least repeated. If there were any ties, then both characters had to be printed alphabetically. So the output above would be “aaaaadx.” I wrote my solution and he asked “so how fast does that run?” I looked at the algorithm and answered. He said, “Okay, can you make it faster?” So I worked to shorten things up a bit, cut out a nested loop and he asked the same thing. Then he asked, “can you get that to linear time?” I worked until we were out of time and he asked, “So how do you feel about this?” I felt like I’d just missed the final answer, but I said, “Well I solved the problem, I made it subsequently faster twice, but I’m curious how you get it to linear time. How do you do that?” He grinned and said, “Oh, you can’t.” Then he cast a side-ward glance and with a mischievous smile added, “You said you liked challenging problems; how did you like that one?” Seriously? An unsolvable problem?? It was inward relief and agony. </li> </ul> </li> <li><strong>4:00 pm</strong> <ul> <li>Final team interview with the hiring manager, the only American I interviewed with besides my recruiter. He was a hilarious guy who shook my hand and said, “So this is Richard Holley. What’s up?” “Hey, nice to meet you. I actually go by Wes.” Still half-smiling he said, “Yeah, I don’t like that, man. Why would you forego using such an <i>illustrious</i> first name as <i>Richard</i>?” He grabbed some Red Vines and sat behind his desk. Then I noticed the placard on the door with his name “Rich H.” and I smiled and he laughed. “Alright, now as the manager around here I get to save the hardest questions for last. So I’m going to ask you some of the craziest code you’ve seen here today.” He paused for a second before continuing while I inwardly groaned, “nah, I’m just messing. Let’s just chat—we’re done with coding today.” So he sipped from one of the four juice cans on his desk and asked questions like why I’m here, what I’m interested in doing at Microsoft, why I want to work at Microsoft, where else I’ve interviewed, how the day has gone so far, and what accomplishment I’m most proud of in life. He was unexpectedly inquisitive about what inspires me, drives me, and where I wanted to go in life and particularly in my career. The interview seemed relatively distant from anything of a technical nature at all and involved a lot of laughter. </li> </ul> </li> <li><strong>5:00 pm</strong> <ul> <li>I grabbed a shuttle back to the recruitment building and had a final meeting with my recruiter in the melted marshmallow furniture. She told me what she thought and said she’d get back to me as soon as Rich made his decision. </li> </ul> </li> </ul> <p>The next afternoon I was walking around near the waterfront in downtown Seattle when a girl stopped me on the street. We talked for a few minutes and her friend (who happened to be Mormon) joined us and started telling me about the singles wards here while I explained why I was in town. Just then my phone rang and my recruiter yelled, “Wes! It’s Kristy—sorry it’s so loud I’m in Disneyland. I can’t talk much now, but I wanted to call and let you know that I just got an email on my phone that we’re making you an offer!” I was a bit in shock, but she continued anyway, “Awesome right?? I’ll call you with all the details tomorrow.” I hung up and turned around smiling, “Holy crap, guess who that was??” The two girls looked at me, “Oh my—did you get the job??” We all joined in a massive hug while jumping up and down celebrating on a corner in Seattle, me and two random girls.</p> <p align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgybKKs0DHfT7MoZQRwlMS1BEPeMgcLyf1icxMhMy9ikjN_y6-CEdsEWD0x41GW4cMi1_ftVbe93iG-S12RL7O5DEnzHqBwll2K1hezbxR_MBDVbOkeM8Yv6C-h04eluR9I7kIfdc0RPAw/s576/Seattle%20Juxtaposition.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px 0px 5px" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgybKKs0DHfT7MoZQRwlMS1BEPeMgcLyf1icxMhMy9ikjN_y6-CEdsEWD0x41GW4cMi1_ftVbe93iG-S12RL7O5DEnzHqBwll2K1hezbxR_MBDVbOkeM8Yv6C-h04eluR9I7kIfdc0RPAw/s576/Seattle%20Juxtaposition.jpg" height="242" width="280" /></a></p>Weshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07743661373264487370noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8822563149309546903.post-77783297165741344732011-02-21T00:29:00.000-07:002011-02-21T02:55:21.381-07:00Grandpa<span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:georgia;" >My grandfather was rarely seen without a watch.</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:georgia;" > </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:georgia;" >He had a golden watch with a Gucci-style band on it that he wore a lot through my childhood.</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:georgia;" > </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:georgia;" >Grandpa was a businessman and a man of his word; punctuality was an inseparable part of who he was.</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:georgia;" > One year ago when Grandpa got sick, he wore that watch less and less as his priorities shifted from arriving to meetings promptly to resting and recovering.</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:georgia;" > </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:georgia;" >One winter afternoon my mom was heading over to help Grandma clean up her house.</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:georgia;" > </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:georgia;" >As we were heading out the door Mom asked if I would bring my guitar and play for Grandpa while he rested. </span><div style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: georgia;" id=":3gu" class="ii gt"><div id=":3nu"> <p class="MsoNormal">Grandpa sat up and tried to put on his best smile as we came in.<span> </span>He never liked letting anyone know he was in pain, which is partially why the cancer went undetected for so long.<span> </span>He told me a story about when my mom was a little girl and brought home a kitten.<span> </span>The kitten disappeared and my mom cried and cried.<span> </span>Grandpa seemed sad as he told me that part, as if he still, after all these years, wished he could go back and spare my mom those tears.<span> </span>His expression changed slightly and he said, “Well enough of all this old stuff.<span> </span>I want to hear you play.”<span> </span>I expected him to close his eyes and embrace sleep as I had done countless times as a kid while my dad sat against the wall in the shadows of the room I shared with my brother, playing his guitar until we were asleep.<span> </span>Instead, Grandpa folded his hands over a pillow on his lap and listened.<span> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">In that moment music made perfect sense, saying all the things that I could not.<span> </span>As I packed up to go, Grandpa spoke briefly with my mom.<span> </span>As I passed by, I told him I loved him and hoped he felt better.<span> </span>He looked up with his crystal blue eyes and characteristic grin, now stained with pain and said, “I love you too.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">In the weeks following, the family met at Grandma and Grandpa’s house often.<span> </span>We had family firesides where Grandpa bore testimony and blessed his grandchildren.<span> </span>I spent many sad drives back to Provo with bleary eyes, struggling to understand why, of all things, he had to have such a painful, incurable form of cancer.<span> </span>Why such a good, innocent man had to experience such a restless end.<span> </span>As the merciless clock on the wall ticked on, speaking and eating became increasingly taxing affairs for Grandpa and family members took turns watching over him through the night.<span> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">In what were his final hours, we talked about serving missions, football and camping.<span> </span>He told some stories none of us had heard before about growing up down south and, with his final breaths before he fell asleep, he praised his angel of a wife.<span> </span>That night, the only intelligible words he uttered from unconsciousness were brief passages of a prayer to his Father in Heaven. Even with his final breaths, he showed his gratitude and allegiance to his Savior. Grandpa knew that even though it might not be the Lord's will to heal him, it was His will to save him and have him Home.<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal">After Grandpa’s funeral, Grandma gave me his golden watch.<span> </span>No longer wound, the hands had stopped moving and stood where Grandpa had left them.<span> </span>Feeling an unworthy character to wear this great man’s symbol, I keep his watch in a special place in my room.<span> </span>Coincidentally, when I put it there, I placed it next to something else—my missionary tag with Christ’s name in large letters.<span> </span>I couldn’t help but think about the similarity of the two items, both meant to be worn in memory of a life lived so much greater than my own.<span> </span>I’m grateful for those examples in my life.<span> </span>I love you, Grandpa.<span> </span>I miss you.<span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkV10SHJ3ygo397xz4WgvJHWuit4TGfaneo4vKCv0q758lulVwOb1lr1Y8e8atIhJ7FcmyYnCCY2sy4i8OcfeWnElvCbVRSB7P9MjDpip005_3eOtaqkZPuZoRVBXtEdoj7bj5xhRqpoQ/"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 453px; height: 305px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkV10SHJ3ygo397xz4WgvJHWuit4TGfaneo4vKCv0q758lulVwOb1lr1Y8e8atIhJ7FcmyYnCCY2sy4i8OcfeWnElvCbVRSB7P9MjDpip005_3eOtaqkZPuZoRVBXtEdoj7bj5xhRqpoQ/" alt="" border="0" /></a></p><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;">Photo by my mom near our home in Sandy, Utah, 2009</span><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> </div></div>Weshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07743661373264487370noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8822563149309546903.post-32832817449897624092010-12-26T23:55:00.006-07:002011-01-15T11:07:22.040-07:00Post-Christmas with Televised Nonsense<span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">I’m sitting in a love sac, sipping a 50/50 blend of cranberry and orange juice (try it—you will be converted) while the TV drones on.</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">It’s a showcase of Southern Californian groups all singing creative renditions of Christmas songs that PBS shoved behind the more, uh, palatable </span><i style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Austin City Limits</i><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">.</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">So far we’ve had mariachi bands, bell choirs, an all-Asian choir whose director looks like <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eEyFHBUvZyw">Señor Chang</a>, and now the most interpretive of them all.</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Currently, some group is doing a break-dance rendition of </span><i style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">A Christmas Carol</i><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">, including Tiny Tim spinning on his head while Jacob Marley and Scrooge krump around him.</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Yes, this is the kind of tribute Southern California gives to Christmas which just goes to show that Compton has no idea what Christmas is all about.</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Or Dickens’ books. </span><p style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);" class="MsoNormal">This just feels like an entirely appropriate way to wind down after the holidays and get ready to close out the year right.<span style=""> </span>After all, things got pretty crazy toward the end.<span style=""> </span>I’ve been going through the interview process with Apple which, while fun, is a bit mentally taxing.<span style=""> </span>After an interview with a rep at a career fair, then a very long interview with a project manager, whose name I couldn’t even pronounce, at Apple in Cupertino, I think my brain had exhausted its ability to reason soundly.<span style=""> I say this b</span>ecause, among other things, I decided to grow a mustache.<span style=""> </span>This wasn’t a total disaster (like my 2008 debacle) as nobody told me I looked like an ice cream truck driver.<span style=""> </span>Someone did, however, tell me I looked like a bomber pilot.<span style=""> </span>Conclusion: success.</p><p style="text-align: center; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);" class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieiVnqezNGm7g5PDaLAa7F9NXy7Zcp6u5BbfGCh7QVEoFrvLpPVf7OT1a03FPqmhLVsBwZwpQyNVF3PMulinjwe7RI3efNVUH8siJzlo79gcTZha_4oHdhZ9Sqpe4O2GtwsRBj45xkqKI/s800/Mustache%20Darkness.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 340px; height: 204px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieiVnqezNGm7g5PDaLAa7F9NXy7Zcp6u5BbfGCh7QVEoFrvLpPVf7OT1a03FPqmhLVsBwZwpQyNVF3PMulinjwe7RI3efNVUH8siJzlo79gcTZha_4oHdhZ9Sqpe4O2GtwsRBj45xkqKI/s800/Mustache%20Darkness.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a></p> <p style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);" class="MsoNormal">The fun was short lived, as I needed to shave it off to cut weight for all the walking I would be doing while Christmas shopping.<span style=""> </span>I hate shopping.<span style=""> </span>The Catholic Church used to pop their opponents’ fingernails out with a wooden chip for punishment. . .I think I’d prefer that.<span style=""> </span>Hey, you try shopping for my mother!<span style=""> </span>I would like to give effusive thanks for a successful trip to my friend Erica, and the driving mix my brother stuck in my car stereo.<span style=""> </span>We easily found stuff for everyone in the fam and had a pretty good time.<span style=""> </span>In all the fun, I almost had an out-of-body experience in Bath and Body Works.<span style=""> </span>I generally have a terrible sense of smell, but I’m apparently like a wolf in that store, picking up the scent of coconut lime verbena, sweet cinnamon pumpkin, cool citrus basil… What is this place?? <span style=""> </span>After the mall I even went 4<sup>th</sup> grade and made my mom a Christmas card, but being rushed in adding the finishing touches, I forgot a letter. So, next to the cute illustration it read “Feli Navidad.”<span style=""> </span><sigh> And just like that, my card went from being cute to embarrassing (to explain the goat, my mom wanted someone to buy a Peruvian family a goat for her Christmas gift).<br /></sigh></p><p style="text-align: center; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);" class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvgzBjHT7fmQGiTakNXuQiu6A3UdCOpXvgaN2Qopk6m8NczkABaLnEYg7SaM1S8Qj1mlhTg8uvIKnlzeGc97b-ar2lFqqAMGd04VZOjLpBD5ElfEHZ84aIitSPMdjrt2iLTtZ5eWF6NTo/s640/Christmas%20Card.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 238px; height: 177px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvgzBjHT7fmQGiTakNXuQiu6A3UdCOpXvgaN2Qopk6m8NczkABaLnEYg7SaM1S8Qj1mlhTg8uvIKnlzeGc97b-ar2lFqqAMGd04VZOjLpBD5ElfEHZ84aIitSPMdjrt2iLTtZ5eWF6NTo/s640/Christmas%20Card.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a></p> <p style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);" class="MsoNormal">Christmas was fantastic!<span style=""> </span>Far from a white Christmas, it was green and warm enough to play in t-shirts in the back yard.<span style=""> </span>Uncle Robert and Aunt Hyun-suk came from Korea, bringing a camera crew in tow.<span style=""> </span>Uncle Rob is a television celebrity in Korea and wanted me to give a Christmas message to all the Thais in Korea.<span style=""> </span>According to his producer, it should air on Korean national television sometime mid-January on their version of “Good Morning America.”<span style=""> </span>I’ve always laughed at those guys wearing the “I’m big in Japan” t-shirts, but on second thought, maybe they really are.</p><p style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);" class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcnhyphenhyphenlLi42uu6Sltc08rWpDV5YfNL7p6Vo5jvvu7BmTVPhLnf3RyEA2FZ1YZiNcXZ2XkquJJVGUokpqfvN1_P7p7u27jjTgDKgtlOcjaT8DrchZkRBxT29VkL4eJPPCBOPkHauvznrloM/s576/Holley%20Christmas%202010.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 256px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcnhyphenhyphenlLi42uu6Sltc08rWpDV5YfNL7p6Vo5jvvu7BmTVPhLnf3RyEA2FZ1YZiNcXZ2XkquJJVGUokpqfvN1_P7p7u27jjTgDKgtlOcjaT8DrchZkRBxT29VkL4eJPPCBOPkHauvznrloM/s576/Holley%20Christmas%202010.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a></p>Weshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07743661373264487370noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8822563149309546903.post-39220324742290457032010-10-31T01:03:00.006-06:002010-10-31T19:19:04.588-06:00October ObservationsI've spent several days on end coding up a webcrawler, which is easily the most code I've written before. Between 1 and I'm-going-to-gnaw-my-own-arm-off crazy, I'm at about an 8. It's been a while since I've written and I'd better take a break before I become a 9 on the aforementioned scale, so here goes.<br /><br />Just four gallons of milk ago the weather was still warm and I still woke up to the darn sprinklers under our window. Now my face hurts when I ride my bike and I sleep under 36lbs of blankets, curled up like a potato bug with a 4 year-old prodding it. Classes are intense (please see above paragraph) and, as always, fall has allowed for all sorts of amusement. For example:<br /><ol><li>The kid in computational theory who always sits next to the podium, right under the professor's nose, and plays his GameBoy (I guess we just call them "DS's" now?) wears a safari hat <span style="font-style: italic;">every day. </span>Real name: unknown. Suspected name: Christopher. Name that Joe and I use: "Safari."<br /></li><li>The furniture in my apartment is really just termites holding hands. I accidentally broke the back off a kitchen chair with my chest. So we have four full-backed chairs and now a stool as well. Variety is good.<br /></li><li>My roommate <span style="font-style: italic;">leaps</span> off of the bunk bed in the morning. The bunk bed already on cinder blocks. 150lbs falling 6.5 feet onto old plywood covered in lint labeled as carpet is hardly quiet. This made him about as popular with me as the WNBA. For a while there, I thought I was going to have to resort to booby traps.<br /></li><li>A mystery roommate leaves large enough wads of hair in the tub drain that I feel obligated to name them...just before going to great lengths to throw them away without any skin contact.<br /></li><li>Tuesdays can be made enjoyable despite starting work at 4 am. This was accomplished by me establishing "Documentary & Crock-pot Tuesday" in the office. We watch a new documentary in the early hours of our shift, while preparing lunch in a crock pot, which we cook all day. It's great working with the smell of slow-roasting pork and pepper; however, the scent seems to overpower any cologne and leads to increased attention from hungry girls.<br /></li><li>Difficult tests in a large room with hundreds of people collectively making absolutely no noise can be perfectly nerve-wracking. They can be made worse, however, proven by Dr. Rodham who puts you in a room with no Internet and randomly selects one of this semester's lab projects for you to duplicate from memory in three hours. <shudder></shudder></li><li>The Yankees lost to the Texas Rangers. Let's not talk about it. Still too soon.<br /></li></ol>Weshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07743661373264487370noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8822563149309546903.post-47410775936120080792010-07-04T15:07:00.013-06:002010-12-17T02:22:46.056-07:00Happy Birthday, America<span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" >Technically it’s the fifth of July, but I’m going to count it.<span style=""> </span>This is my favorite holiday of the year.<span style=""> </span>I absolutely love my country.<span style=""> </span>The sheer excitement of the day got me out of bed at 6 to meet my family at the Provo Balloon Festival.<span style=""> </span>Sidenote, the Provo Balloon Festival is apparently one of the largest in the nation, although Albuquerque’s is still larger.<span style=""> </span>Sadly the winds were too strong, which resulted in the five-story Coke bottle balloon—located between Smokey the Bear and the portly pig—tilting wildly and collapsing on a suddenly frenzied group of parents. People started grabbing for their children like football players for a fumble while the balloon leered overhead, falling fast.<br /><span style="font-size:100%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI1KkWfK5XPhy2wzZ-V7Yp1BGXcthJQ0AMKigziVg9McTeQapjYQx5uhqyPoLoi1XtZw7fab-s5hnz1IAe0zmfAe-xPzbBq7RH9Qi_CT8vfapvniNbV-Z42_OdLHA1laWPRi7tQ_EulBE/s1600/Balloon+Festival-14.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 133px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI1KkWfK5XPhy2wzZ-V7Yp1BGXcthJQ0AMKigziVg9McTeQapjYQx5uhqyPoLoi1XtZw7fab-s5hnz1IAe0zmfAe-xPzbBq7RH9Qi_CT8vfapvniNbV-Z42_OdLHA1laWPRi7tQ_EulBE/s200/Balloon+Festival-14.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5490283099801923218" border="0" /></a></span></span> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;">The family is <i>mostly</i> in town.<span style=""> </span>My Korean cousins brought some of their friends over from Korea.<span style=""> </span>The conversation was all fun until the woman started speed-talking excitedly after I mentioned that I'm at BYU.<span style=""> </span>Although I’m not sure what was said (my aunt would only say with apparent embarrassment, “Oh, don’t worry about that <nervous chuckle="">”), the situation was strikingly similar to an awkward night at the market as a new missionary in Thailand when, <i>apparently</i>, I had accidentally arranged some sort of courtship with the shop-owner’s daughter.<span style=""> </span><b>I</b> mistakenly thought he was asking if the apples looked good and if I really wanted them.<shrug><o:p></o:p></shrug></nervous></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;">After an unhealthy number of Holleyburgers, a good game of football (during which we found out Seth throws with a perfect spiral), some ice cold soda under the walnut trees at the farm and a little American television, it was time to watch as Provo assaulted the sky with fireworks.<span style=""> </span>Last year my roommate Chris and I were on the pyrotechnic crew for Stadium of Fire so we knew just where to go for optimal viewing.<span style=""> </span>Unfortunately, there isn’t much grass there and, due to long lines at Dairy Queen and the appeal of Blizzards, we didn’t have a lot of time to find some.<span style=""> </span>So we sat on the police barricades running down the center of Canyon Road and University Avenue.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;">We ooh’d and aah’d as the fireworks filled our entire range of view.<span style=""> </span>We were so close that when one exploded a little close to the ground, the purple sparks and ash lit up the pavement around us.<span style=""> </span>It was like the closing scene of <span style="font-style: italic;">Oceans 11</span>, when everyone is looking at the fountains of the Bellagio—we were in total mesmerized awe, caught up in the magic of America.<span style=""> It was a Sandlot moment where time lost all importance. </span>At the end of the concussions and sparks, the crowd cheered and began chanting “USA, USA, USA!!” while Sam Yam rode his stereo speaker-mounted bike down the street blasting MGMT - “Kids” while the crowd followed him like he was the Pied Piper.<span style=""> </span>It’s moments like that where you feel the almost tangible excitement and realize just how lucky we are to be in America. <span style=""> </span>It’s not a perfect place, but it’s trying pretty hard in a lot of ways.<span style=""> </span>As we all tromped down the street by the thousands while buzzing about how great the show was, how perfect the weather felt, how awesome America is, how awesome tomorrow is going to be, and intermittently chanting “USA” or exchanging smiles with strangers, we lived the blessing that is America.<span style=""> </span>We live it every day.<span style=""> </span>Happy birthday, America.<span style=""> </span>God bless you. <o:p></o:p></span></p>Weshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07743661373264487370noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8822563149309546903.post-75625081269510109682010-02-03T07:25:00.001-07:002010-02-07T14:56:44.571-07:00The End from the Beginning<p>Goodbye January. Good riddance too. I’m surviving, but I really wish I had noticed this note in my computer science textbook before the add-drop date passed:</p> <p align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwbcKd9Mhl2GMqZHJfok3_aVIkzZmR812XxuCwMxgjbS9iZOkF-IlIkcmucv2SosgE5G-DFcXMOMp2smiVJJfnTMUGSddakv5cVZD3QhZPsC8U9p6z1zEIsSslv74Hc6dHPieYeETE1qo/" target="_blank"><img style="border-width: 0px; display: inline; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px;" title="CS Notes" alt="CS Notes" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDEIpNgT-5lcDe7HJ2GHNEwzH7DY7Wm6ztCOpnbCkwco5UsggDVv3nKG97BFLxxjLbWEQh3lqL-1O2-FAuYiLgU4x7tZ6NZmSbRJC5d3G9BQ6NoU8gIttUKjMsRGeCtL4UeXChPFRdR1k/?imgmax=800" align="left" border="0" height="117" width="95" /></a> </p> <p>The past 29 days might have been a lot more enjoyable. As usual, things have managed to stay interesting. We got two new roommates, one of whom called me “Chris” for the first few weeks of living here. I was going to see how long I could keep it going, but one day he heard someone say my name and, after a brief moment of silent embarrassment, my newfound moniker was gone. Being called “Chris” didn’t bother me too much since I mistakenly called him Paul for the first few days he was here too. In actuality, he’s Gary and I’m Wes. Pleased to meet you.</p> <p>Each of my professors this semester are wildly different from each other. Dr. Bergeson reminds me of Animal from the Muppets. He has red hair and lectures with similar comprehensibility. Understanding his lectures is like trying to pick lyrics out of the Barenaked Ladies’ song <em>One Week, </em>and you’re left asking your neighbor<em>,</em> 'What was that—<a href="http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/barenakedladies/oneweek.html" target="_blank">chickety-China</a>??<em>” </em>If I’m ever the one selected to diffuse a bomb or stop a virus, and he’s the guy feeding me instructions over a radio, we’re screwed. On the other hand we have Dr. Gee, a nice guy with an affinity toward the dockers-with-white-sneakers-and-windblown-hair look, who is so accomplished in Egyptology that he is cited in <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Gee" target="_blank">wikipedia</a>. Someday I would love for someone to ask if I use facebook so we can be friends, only for me to politely decline and refer them to my wikipedia page. Baller. While Dr. Gee knows an untold number of languages, it baffles me how even after years and years of reading dusty volumes, he has never come across the word “comb” and wondered what it’s for. Then again, I should just consider myself lucky that my hair is tightly governed by cowlicks and never gets too muddled. It’s only been messed up a few times, like the bad haircut of 1998. <shudder>. <em> </em></p> <p>Speaking of hair, I’m sad that Conan and his foot-tall red wave aren’t on TV anymore. Instead there’s Jay with this foot-tall chin and unfunny jokes. Apparently Hulu users aren’t very happy about this transition either, as seen in this screenshot of Jay Leno videos. Ouch.</p> <p align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsATXfT3TAJgk-ig72z_WXtJ-AH22nqzYzOBX1YM1PRvEulPmRE0Is2fjjYf-feDWRTZBTtGzLbSOedS34dlgWnw9q0IZT9CkHuetLnZi0v8JH2UWZ5-m2m_cSBmxvqW6qpASFvVjGbkI/"><img style="border: 0px none; display: inline;" title="Leno3" alt="Leno3" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/_uEIaJhW-aj0/S2mITiX4eiI/AAAAAAAAAvs/5Q0NBO1KAFM/Leno3%5B5%5D.jpg?imgmax=800" border="0" height="95" width="160" /></a> </p> <p>I feel bad for Conan, moving all the way out to NYC from LA only to be fired within seven months. He’s asked for a fish but been handed a stone more than once. When celebrating 10 years on the air, Mr. T presented him with a necklace bearing a giant “7.” When Conan pointed out that he’s actually been on the air for ten years, Mr. T responded, “I know that, fool...but you've only been funny for seven!” I suppose it’s further evidence that nobody knows the end from the beginning (except NBC producers). I remind myself of this when I think of my youthful vision a few years back, of spending my days with other aspiring accountants, reading the Wall Street Journal by the fountain, my left hand carefully poised, holding a French-dip sandwich. I usually remember this around 8 am while rubbing my bloodshot eyes and rushing to class in the Talmadge Bldg., my left hand carefully occupied with a madly overpriced textbook, bookmarked with a marred transcript. Sorry for dreaming, BYU. My bad. </p> <p>Occasionally I do guess the end from the beginning with surprising accuracy. In the spirit of doppelganger week, I came prepared with an example. This is a picture of a friend’s daughter, who might not have facebook yet to change her picture to a celebrity lookalike, so I’ll do it for her. I just know this is what she’ll look like. Can you blame me?</p> <p align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFhWWHe8eHFaGUTjw6M7l4rv2EeSl5nvk6xf6ZVT92Xx8YqMHf2xAQcDzUvczix-TFR2ht1ylvwENtCOKlwEkIH8Q7Z3yopd3Kvae-K8ftU89hKMvD-srQKsHqfA0FQtXjtwdrYz31nrs/s800/comparison.jpg"><img style="border-width: 0px; display: inline;" title="comparison" alt="comparison" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDJhyB_KIz9NpdA6C2TH4XmK263u5xEdUghy36knTO4HW6dB4wQIs8pbCeUJM7S54gr5u4AyS0-oeWSSunVI4vKrlcsT4B9gl08HX97UAkVbw6Tv5mhQkxmyrSELZswFcLKMbnjquEKw4/?imgmax=800" border="0" height="78" width="124" /></a></p>Weshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07743661373264487370noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8822563149309546903.post-80340787383500497172009-12-24T23:44:00.000-07:002009-12-27T01:35:05.948-07:00It’s A Wonderful Christmas Eve<p>Christmas is full of tradition in our family, as it probably is in yours.  This year nearly the entire family made the trip back to the Mormon Mecca, coming from Canada, Seattle, and even Korea.  In the heat of battle with a billion other fellow procrastinators, we somehow found time for some of our Christmas traditions—yes, including lunch at Arctic Circle.  Apparently they just built one in Draper.  After being served a slightly gray-hued hamburger by a girl with Gummi Bear (© HARIBO) eye shadow, however, I wish I could go back in time and change this tradition to a more palatable establishment.  Then again, I do owe them at least a little loyalty for inventing the sweet nectar now affectionately called “fry sauce.”  Bless you and your tinted burger for that, Arctic Circle.  </p> <p>We spent Christmas Eve with the Holley side of the family.  I saw Aunt Shannon for the second time this year.  I believe that makes my quota.  The Korean part of the family was there in living color, Kevin playing an absolutely gorgeous song on the piano called <em>Merry Christmas Mr. Lawrence</em>.  It makes me think of peaceful winter nights … and skiing, for some reason.</p> <div style="padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; width: 197px; padding-right: 0px; display: block; float: none; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding-top: 0px" id="scid:5737277B-5D6D-4f48-ABFC-DD9C333F4C5D:a7ee92a7-894c-425d-9109-9864ef12e13f" class="wlWriterEditableSmartContent"><div id="ee96713e-8181-439a-a13b-dcdc6213ba80" style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px; display: inline;"><div><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YwkuS9FlB7M" target="_new"><img src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/_uEIaJhW-aj0/SzccOSXj_yI/AAAAAAAAAuo/O_IdEtKuCuo/video89fc1c746721%5B3%5D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="border-style: none" galleryimg="no" onload="var downlevelDiv = document.getElementById('ee96713e-8181-439a-a13b-dcdc6213ba80'); downlevelDiv.innerHTML = "<div><object width=\"197\" height=\"164\"><param name=\"movie\" value=\"http://www.youtube.com/v/YwkuS9FlB7M&hl=en\"><\/param><embed src=\"http://www.youtube.com/v/YwkuS9FlB7M&hl=en\" type=\"application/x-shockwave-flash\" width=\"197\" height=\"164\"><\/embed><\/object><\/div>";" alt=""></a></div></div></div> <p>Being together like that, back in the town my ancestors helped found, reminded me again of how amazing my family really is.</p> <p>As the day was winding down, my planning-savvy family all headed home to kick up their feet and call it day.  Not me.  No, it was back to the battlefield with me where my fellow procrastinators were frothing at the mouth in panic as some cowardly (or maybe just wise) WalMart employee was threatening to close the registers in 20 minutes.  After several unsuccessful attempts this week, I finally found the bottle of perfume I was planning on giving my sister but couldn’t give it the final sniff of approval since it was sealed in a plastic box <???>.  Annoyed, I asked the woman shopping next to me, “How am I supposed to tell if this passes the test if it’s sealed up like this?”  She laughed and replied with a sly grin, “Well, you <strong>un</strong>seal it!  I’ve never been caught!” and she haughtily ripped the package open and produced a sweet-smelling bottle from within.  Just unseal it—how foolish of me.</p> <p>With shopping now completed I returned home where Jimmy Stewart and Bedford Falls were already awaiting me on the television.  I watch my favorite movie, <em>It’s A Wonderful Life</em>, every year on Christmas Eve…usually alone.  I really love that movie and all of its little lessons.  This year I noticed, for the first time, what Clarence wrote in George Bailey’s note at the end of the film, “No man is a failure who has friends!  Thanks for the wings –Clarence.” Fantastic movie!  </p> <p>As I type, stretched out on the sofa in front of the fireplace, feet up, my now-empty glass of egg nog on the sill, silhouetted against the frosty window, I can’t help but be grateful for life.  George Bailey was allowed to see what the world would be like without him and found that his little, everyday influence had shaped his small town in incalculable ways.  I wonder how often I judge someone, forgetting that I can in no way comprehend their potential.  Do we know our own?  Christ the Lord never traveled more than 100 miles from His home, where He was born in an animal’s stall, was never formally educated, and probably never wore anything nicer than a pair of sandals and rough cloth.  I wonder if He meant to teach us something by coming to the world He would save through such humble means.  In any case, I’m grateful for this season named in His honor and wish you all a Merry Christmas!</p> Weshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07743661373264487370noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8822563149309546903.post-74296877404347715502009-11-29T22:23:00.015-07:002009-11-30T01:38:41.777-07:00The Passing of a FriendA sad event has occurred which has resulted in the passing of a good friend, my Dell Inspiron laptop. Sigh... After three years of wonderful companionship, my good friend has finally seen his day. At first, I thought it wouldn't be difficult to fix a broken monitor hinge, so I took out the screws and opened the case up, disconnected the display cable and the LCD lighting cables, removed the broken hinges, marred up the metal with a screwdriver, and gorilla glued the crud out of it.<br /><div><div><div><div><div><div><p align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn5SouTF4L2UMFfwwO_O_ra4nqZweZkIWcS7yBEAUEsBscAUsdYcfIVX4ZTo8VSjtMqt5XBKc46Rya1Ajas-vMhJXpXxvd5vA9vhiL-9Ny8QsWhB-M-PH9pID1R5m7-tAKoPCPbPwe600/s1600/step+1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 239px; float: left; height: 184px;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5409794507232687778" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn5SouTF4L2UMFfwwO_O_ra4nqZweZkIWcS7yBEAUEsBscAUsdYcfIVX4ZTo8VSjtMqt5XBKc46Rya1Ajas-vMhJXpXxvd5vA9vhiL-9Ny8QsWhB-M-PH9pID1R5m7-tAKoPCPbPwe600/s320/step+1.jpg" border="0" /></a></p><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6I-G_OqnKTCr23TPKrTqNYg_xd-YXSTu-8ksIVWcYVc7LiOmaFybqmVGAz9LIevssDo8NyKwmF4ccG-79sGXA1Ctc5hO3RVkTypEgf0I0LUOvJBz1Q0FYsyQP5udxHH_P_PoP9lPXtLw/s1600/PICT1656.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 242px; float: left; height: 183px;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5409794980855278754" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6I-G_OqnKTCr23TPKrTqNYg_xd-YXSTu-8ksIVWcYVc7LiOmaFybqmVGAz9LIevssDo8NyKwmF4ccG-79sGXA1Ctc5hO3RVkTypEgf0I0LUOvJBz1Q0FYsyQP5udxHH_P_PoP9lPXtLw/s320/PICT1656.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><br /><br /><div><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6zqtxTekxPjt1d7zeSbv4G2Cv-mrJSevZ2FmKd98a5g6es-WyRLxELGM80IUo5WPYlZIO0-vX26ro9YIEZU4XTFfEFk2f1a8gApkgc6mkncomxK06BwlcXd2WlKvqx1hy39VmyJhpeOI/s1600/PICT1657.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 238px; float: left; height: 159px;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5409795942186847394" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6zqtxTekxPjt1d7zeSbv4G2Cv-mrJSevZ2FmKd98a5g6es-WyRLxELGM80IUo5WPYlZIO0-vX26ro9YIEZU4XTFfEFk2f1a8gApkgc6mkncomxK06BwlcXd2WlKvqx1hy39VmyJhpeOI/s320/PICT1657.JPG" border="0" /></a></div> <div> </div> <div> </div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSeOICXAwR-IepIOWvKq1iOxYMu6VJxQfMKKtxuT7ZBPLHwH_fgSgtWmxwE1rC7e5ZZ_xEZvnNkUdwVB2oHHmwgfPBk7bC8DkL6SpKcnGExy6Oa8WSK3uSUippqd46uK2OqMWpPbbdj7I/s1600/PICT1658.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 244px; float: left; height: 159px;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5409796349183085074" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSeOICXAwR-IepIOWvKq1iOxYMu6VJxQfMKKtxuT7ZBPLHwH_fgSgtWmxwE1rC7e5ZZ_xEZvnNkUdwVB2oHHmwgfPBk7bC8DkL6SpKcnGExy6Oa8WSK3uSUippqd46uK2OqMWpPbbdj7I/s320/PICT1658.JPG" border="0" /></a><div> </div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0pWHsvfCh4gBQWnCqAYUDu-PPbIedk0PxNaNFONYhRPm3DP9dT3oya57B0BewU89U3gL8W9ZIRR4weaaRG-sZdsaczt7x1WAzrGQoZUwrb8PHtf6dZj9wB8-bQ0Ted2SNagXJppb-reU/s1600/PICT1665.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 240px; float: left; height: 305px;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5409797343854001490" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0pWHsvfCh4gBQWnCqAYUDu-PPbIedk0PxNaNFONYhRPm3DP9dT3oya57B0BewU89U3gL8W9ZIRR4weaaRG-sZdsaczt7x1WAzrGQoZUwrb8PHtf6dZj9wB8-bQ0Ted2SNagXJppb-reU/s320/PICT1665.JPG" border="0" /></a></div><br /><br />Apparently Gorilla Glue isn't as strong as it's proponents tout because the hinge support broke right off again. After a few tries, I decided to weld it back together, which did work but the when the metal settled, it had slipped under the clamp and hardened crooked <@!%#>, so my laptop is now essentially a desktop and I found myself in the market for a new one. At least this is a good time of year to be buying something like this, right?<br /><br /><div> </div>Black Friday is so much of what I'm all about: unrealistically awesome prices, early hours, enduring freezing cold temperatures, and pulsating crowds of people foaming at the mouth over the piles of steeply discounted merchandise. Ah yes, and this year I didn't intend to merely peruse through countless shelves, but I had a real need and I was shooting to kill. I got off work at midnight and promptly joined my friends Nate and Thomas who had reserved a patch of sidewalk out front of Best Buy with what had become a quivering sea of shivering people and tents which stretched to the end of the block and out of sight.<br /><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIznaccZQmqHtlZDZY5Zw43eoxmP3u2ohikozfcEPuEQxZ2fPnZEprHeiUDWCgpiA0L1qOnJySnBk7waz2nEP3I69Bj9qiz7N3I0_8VGRNH-_pZ4DuM9S7K455silXcZoRhZCWqRKhdkg/s1600/BlackFriday2.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 275px; height: 206px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIznaccZQmqHtlZDZY5Zw43eoxmP3u2ohikozfcEPuEQxZ2fPnZEprHeiUDWCgpiA0L1qOnJySnBk7waz2nEP3I69Bj9qiz7N3I0_8VGRNH-_pZ4DuM9S7K455silXcZoRhZCWqRKhdkg/s320/BlackFriday2.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5409810670502232706" border="0" /></a></div><div> </div><div> </div>To make the stay a bit more bearable, we got some extension cords and a power converter at WalMart, and some burritos at Betos (a bad choice), and hunkered down between some dude with a kerosene lantern and two guys reading Treasure Island in a tent <??>. We ran the extension cords from Nate's car to the sidewalk where we huddled under sleeping bags and blankets (thanks to Nate for letting me use one of his sleeping bags because I didn't have one in Provo) and watched Star Trek on a laptop.<br /><br />One of my friends, who happened to be at the front of line, snagged a voucher for the Sony VAIO I was looking for and brought it to me. Andrew, I owe you big time for that. After an hour and a half in line, I finally snagged my new Sony VAIO laptop. While in line, I met a nice guy from India who was incredibly happy that I understood his accent (my roommate is from India and I work with several Nepalis). I found out he has met the missionaries a few times and, by some incredibly random chance, I had in my pocket a pass-along card that I had picked up off the ground the night before, which I gave to him. As we paid for our stuff and headed out, he said, "It is very nice to meet you, Wes. Can I have your number? I would like to get in touch with you soon and ask you some questions." I hope we stay in touch. </div></div></div></div></div></div>Weshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07743661373264487370noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8822563149309546903.post-84230408433166248422009-11-28T13:59:00.007-07:002009-11-29T22:14:00.012-07:00Mid-semester Pit Stop<div style="TEXT-ALIGN: left">Winter always feels long. Whether it's the temperature being below 40 degrees for six months, the fact that you can't have any prolonged activity outside without protective gear for your epidermis, or BYU's staunch opposition to taking school off for any reason that makes the winter seem so eternal, I don't really know. Fortunately, with the advent of Christmas break's younger sibling, Thanksgiving break, we find ourselves with a week or so to take a breather. I think this is the longest Thanksgiving break BYU has had in years. I guess we do deserve a little something for having to start school in August.</div><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 322px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 222px; CURSOR: hand" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH32ONCBm6CiCQui97L3c0nmAURKPLloj-_5LH3q1QXb3IVqemNoHJw5gsHDJ-YnZziPpQeS_voGIY9-uC0ULCQzGG4TPQLtsoztHtC95BqUBR4QVFwXyF90eqH8CLyK3pfQlqPiFMlxk/s720/DSC_0041-Edit-Edit.jpg" /> <div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center" align="left"> </div><div align="left" style="text-align: left;">I come from a pretty big extended family, rooted in age-old family traditions. Thanksgiving, particularly on my Dad's side, is an almost sacred event where everyone goes overboard in preparing for it (example, last time we had 14 people bake pies on top of their normal food assignment <drooling>). I absolutely love it! This year, however, things were a bit different. With Grandpa still in the hospital recovering from recent surgery to remove some cancerous tumors, the family decided to eat at our house this year. With a decent portion of our family living between Washington and Edmonton, we had a smaller turnout than normal. but it was still fun.</drooling></div><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: left">What's a get-together without a friendly YouTube-off, showing ridiculous videos which millions and millions of people had seen yet we had never heard of. Afterward, my cousin Russel and I got roped into playing a game of Smash Brothers, which verified that neither of us have any game at all. Stevie Wonder could probably beat us. For real. We both had so much damage that the game stopped counting.</div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: left"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 200px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 154px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5409736609245139026" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4GybouHyvHKi80Gn-MYETYDidzxGzx4HxK4k92KUDbcDVXWHiciy5mYOBjLboEXkTmaNBi9VY1Xa9hkQlONBF8bnous_v4bVBaMOeFx_yDieVNVlbUvYqjLc1pGBOo00-Fu3740kHER0/s200/gaming.jpg" /></div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: left">So this Thanksgiving wasn't our typical large-family feast, but it was still a welcome breath of fresh air from fall semester. My mom put together a slideshow of Thanksgiving, available at: <span style="BORDER-COLLAPSE: collapse" class="Apple-style-span"><a style="COLOR: rgb(237,28,36)" href="http://animoto.com/play/onT8hdmRIc0nl0YimzGLrg?autostart=true" target="_blank"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">http://animoto.com/play/</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><wbr>onT8hdmRIc0nl0YimzGLrg?</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><wbr>autostart=true</span></span></a></span></div><br /><div></div>Weshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07743661373264487370noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8822563149309546903.post-30498403691459323892009-11-01T22:20:00.002-07:002013-10-31T17:25:35.499-06:00Halloween of Epic PorportionAsk any of my friends, I love Halloween. With still-warm days giving way to cold evenings, trees maintaining an increasingly pathetic grip on the last few leaves hanging there, and a sudden proliferation of bare sticks and dead foliage scraping along the streets in the wind, it almost seems like Nature makes a decent attempt to make Halloween as creepy as possible. Every year my friend Chris Beyer and I do what we can to spice this time of year up a bit, mainly by finding the scariest movies we can manage to get our hands on. On Halloween we show our favorite pick to a bunch of friends and relish in the horror that follows. This year, however, was absolutely <span style="font-style: italic;">epic</span>.<br />
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I spent a good 45 minutes watching YouTube instructional videos and trying repeatedly to tie a respectable turban on my head for our ward Halloween party. I donned full Indian dress robes strangely resembling silky lingerie, slapped on a beard which could easily be mistaken for a dead cat, and partied hearty for a while. We were sure happy Cousin Abdel (green shirt) could get work off at 7-11 and join us.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglc_EiziSwG2qw-bOe4RKPClQwbNnvkbDL8gs9oA84x_SGjmtDIbnKSudYaiOzY2qSMtJD2wzYVqGMkRh-xBVbzlU2CCLPGzKqIwasHNQixVju-p_Shd5a2C4cu4WKJtu7_zG9DrtdKnk/s1600-h/Halloween.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5399445898917986370" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglc_EiziSwG2qw-bOe4RKPClQwbNnvkbDL8gs9oA84x_SGjmtDIbnKSudYaiOzY2qSMtJD2wzYVqGMkRh-xBVbzlU2CCLPGzKqIwasHNQixVju-p_Shd5a2C4cu4WKJtu7_zG9DrtdKnk/s320/Halloween.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 213px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
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(same costume, different party -- I'm the moron blinking on the far right)<br />
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Later, my roommate Ricardo wanted to show a group of us friends a scene from a horror movie he found. We got sucked in and ended up watching the whole thing. Now we've watched a good number of these things over the years, but this was the first that left me tense like a two-day onset of rigamortis. We literally had to get up afterward and walk around to shake the lingering suspicion that something might be behind the couch waiting to eat our faces off. By this point we had a good-sized group of friends in our living room and decided it was Halloween, gosh dang it, and we're going to live it up! We slipped over the tall, spired fence around the city graveyard, with minimal injury (RIP Dara's hoodie), and played hide-and-go-seek among the tombstones and trees (bad luck in pretty much every culture, I'll bet).<br />
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After a satisfying couple of rounds, we headed up toward an abandoned hotel sitting all alone next to the insane asylum (mental health hospital, for those in need of a politically correct translation). We parked behind a dark warehouse and crept in the inky night up the hill to the shadowy, monolithic structure looming above. I'm not making this next part up--as we approached the hotel, the voices of inmates singing in the hospital wafted through the trees which were shuddering in the frigid breeze. Could it have been creepier? Someone had pulled a board off a window leading to the basement where we dropped in. Inside, every sound transformed itself into an echoing footstep, never failing to deliver petrifying results on the group. Rats scrambled through the walls as we crept up the winding, creaking wood staircases by light of cell phone. With every breath of wind from the mountains, ominous groans resounded throughout the catacombs of rooms through which we were cautiously moving. I should have checked my jacket sleeve for nail-marks where Melissa was hanging on for dear life.<br />
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Afterward, we shared scary stories in the bed of Ricardo's truck behind the warehouse before driving home and watching another Halloween favorite: "Coming Soon." Of course, like any gathering of friends with a computer, the night wasn't complete without sharing a few YouTube videos with millions of hits that none of us had heard of. Yes, this Halloween will go down in my memory as the best yet. Happy Halloween, everyone.<img alt="" src="file:///C:/Users/wes/AppData/Local/Temp/moz-screenshot-1.png" /><br />
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<img alt="" src="file:///C:/Users/wes/AppData/Local/Temp/moz-screenshot.png" /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm24Dnr7eT5IJPs3l4fcBWdwvvC58RsGBrqqSeP_qeDjBb0bb0x_-DFdPbHMhsb01Z87xE0cCOqF-m-gOMqNIidPdPbX2WeIcjyygzOXwapkZDra6uzh3QInI6ZNXlyLlRpCDMUI_P8Pc/s1600-h/hotel.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5399453533347648786" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm24Dnr7eT5IJPs3l4fcBWdwvvC58RsGBrqqSeP_qeDjBb0bb0x_-DFdPbHMhsb01Z87xE0cCOqF-m-gOMqNIidPdPbX2WeIcjyygzOXwapkZDra6uzh3QInI6ZNXlyLlRpCDMUI_P8Pc/s200/hotel.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 136px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 200px;" /></a>Weshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07743661373264487370noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8822563149309546903.post-91202398339112446102009-08-18T02:33:00.012-06:002009-10-31T09:36:28.050-06:00From the Archives: Los AngelesThis is a little tribute to summer I never posted...<br /><br />With the advent of finals each April, I start to salivate at the potential of summer. This year, while pining for the return of summer's buoyant, liberating relief from overcrowded lecture halls and long nights thumbing through tired books, I began giddily compiling a list of activities to complete. Standing on the cusp of four months of freedom and adventures untold is like holding a blank check in your hands. The world is your oyster...for four months. August, on the other hand, bears the exact <span style="font-style: italic;">opposite</span> feeling. My summer cruise ship is slowly making its way back to port--a very morose, boring, academic port, I might add. So, to spruce up what's sure to be an otherwise-depressing August, I went to Disneyland.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxpFEgIXREB2oxdPKxzRymreieD0l1nGqDcPF7oAjCnYymJ8dJc_7Z7dVDHyVZa12EZQXx-ZicF66WHV_BRKWOW8oy5E4tu1QpUls0t2HcGa7O9acZCz6eESYDtoY0rf8zxUiWRHIBijw/s1600-h/California.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 354px; height: 95px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxpFEgIXREB2oxdPKxzRymreieD0l1nGqDcPF7oAjCnYymJ8dJc_7Z7dVDHyVZa12EZQXx-ZicF66WHV_BRKWOW8oy5E4tu1QpUls0t2HcGa7O9acZCz6eESYDtoY0rf8zxUiWRHIBijw/s320/California.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5398785437613016338" border="0" /></a>My last trip to Disneyland was over ten years ago. In that duration of time, the child in you could easily grow up, which would really be too bad. My return to Disneyland was pretty much everything I thought it would be, but I found that I did carry some baggage from my last trip circa 1998 when m<sigh>y dad took me on Splash Mountain. Let's just say the drop at the end was slightly unexpected. The picture was deemed "priceless" enough that they actually purchased the picture, which much to my chagrin, they gladly show to people upon request. I have hated that picture for years and this trip was my chance to avenge myself and show those blasted roller-coaster cameras who <span style="font-style: italic;">wasn't</span> terrified to be there!</sigh><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx0iiq5h5f_HNmoK6jkxE3UY85gmHVZsgkzTydTz7JadHKmDr-Yg38aOhMWwxnUWPjkWke5xCM4yoP3VHXnoPo3Wiu-oa_4_GL032aKFIZGuftojW81bKiFvgvq9uNDu2qNecvHxi2kLs/s1600-h/splash+mountain.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 316px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx0iiq5h5f_HNmoK6jkxE3UY85gmHVZsgkzTydTz7JadHKmDr-Yg38aOhMWwxnUWPjkWke5xCM4yoP3VHXnoPo3Wiu-oa_4_GL032aKFIZGuftojW81bKiFvgvq9uNDu2qNecvHxi2kLs/s320/splash+mountain.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5398786662931860146" border="0" /></a><sigh></sigh>Weshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07743661373264487370noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8822563149309546903.post-81215380559406837842009-06-22T23:13:00.010-06:002009-11-03T18:21:27.676-07:00Happy Father's Day<span style="font-size:100%;"><span>S</span>o</span> a few days ago my mom emailed me with an interesting request. She wanted me to write a rap for Father's Day. Okay, I said, why not? Dear reader, please hold your arguments--that was a rhetorical question. Besides, keep in mind, I was alone and bored at the time with no one to speak sense into me. Now, I'm not from the hood (my neighborhood is about as menacing as the Sandlot), but I saw some crazy stuff in high school and I lived in Bangkok for a few years, so I felt qualified.<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: left;">My mom and sister went to some pretty sincere effort to get thugged out (which I'm pretty sure mainly involved shopping at the local second-hand store and getting chain from Home Depot, but maybe that's how real thugs do it too). </p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: left;">My plan was to show up unshaven and without a belt, throw down a few lines, and stand to the side looking like I'd just taken a few jabs to the ribs. It's a difficult look to master, but every true rapper does it; I'm fairly sure it's a requirement for CD covers. Otherwise their CD will have to be sold in the same section of the record store as David Bowie and Prince, which, of course, cannot be tolerated by a legit rapper.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: left;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTRNu4G8aPHNNXNusrlNwRRj2t6hglKpWNnsyJFfr7BDXwLGKSlPcSt8m4l_v-0Z42YiNJ-c_SX7fKHIfpcRERpb1bOK7x_2VUtZFAUV0_AA758_2_L7yb9uQjHrSHTiT6sxenyrxiRxM/s1600-h/cut+a+record.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 182px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTRNu4G8aPHNNXNusrlNwRRj2t6hglKpWNnsyJFfr7BDXwLGKSlPcSt8m4l_v-0Z42YiNJ-c_SX7fKHIfpcRERpb1bOK7x_2VUtZFAUV0_AA758_2_L7yb9uQjHrSHTiT6sxenyrxiRxM/s200/cut+a+record.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5350490760837489106" border="0" /></a>Then no one would believe your lyrics about stealing rims, taking a few shells, or life in the infamous, yet seemingly nonexistent, "hood." Fortunately, my stuff will never be found mis-shelved behind old Beegees albums--not with a CD cover like this anyway. No, we could at least be in the same part of the store as the Black Eyed Peas. Even if nobody bought our album, I would be content with just being able to say I'd cut a record.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing" style=""><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);font-size:130%;" ><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7ylufPp_rQTYoIUslGvR8iQ-HfUTp5fSSYc_I81gt3FEyV0IpNs9ajwIIyY6Ln9AP1-j6-Jmnrv68PIicDFBajzzGEghzlgVOm5w9j17I8LgXIQq6bfLhnZoypoGRXFFwDfC6ftzNj8Y/s1600-h/Blingjpg.jpg"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Click here</span></a></span> for the lyrics of our one-time-only concert and some pics from Father's Day at home. I want to thank my dad for all he's done for our family, friends, and me. Happy Father's Day, Dad.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"> </p><p style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfBJwLOacoyyG_wgCU2RBuPoypFYHw3mEaE-Hhpezukzg9Nbq5Dx5giLvCtn03T3YDdAiPWbelvkxBCbKrPobpz6PeJQHPXsuHuU5IGmkUPBhghZZjSVPpkFMzmXlxuCgTCs0au7USURM/s1600-h/2009-06-21+Father%27s+Day.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 133px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfBJwLOacoyyG_wgCU2RBuPoypFYHw3mEaE-Hhpezukzg9Nbq5Dx5giLvCtn03T3YDdAiPWbelvkxBCbKrPobpz6PeJQHPXsuHuU5IGmkUPBhghZZjSVPpkFMzmXlxuCgTCs0au7USURM/s200/2009-06-21+Father%27s+Day.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5350503286604144386" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4QQUpNxj4zrl5R6wMb39-7W01EVbFicKBrAF7tLGdbFU0OZIf9iZ3PIsFYRRxjUdpV6XWvuGfex6nXiZVYapC_YXSQu1RMJZ1qnSS6g_IN2cGbSgonzkshvXvXRKi3_N5OuMKRWh2T3A/s1600-h/2009-06-21+Father%27s+Day-18.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 125px; height: 188px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4QQUpNxj4zrl5R6wMb39-7W01EVbFicKBrAF7tLGdbFU0OZIf9iZ3PIsFYRRxjUdpV6XWvuGfex6nXiZVYapC_YXSQu1RMJZ1qnSS6g_IN2cGbSgonzkshvXvXRKi3_N5OuMKRWh2T3A/s200/2009-06-21+Father%27s+Day-18.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5350498052349833682" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpW2oAWmGXGsncCgcCwLgBGjzWLU3rYNxMh9fiwxif_L7Rm1-WVFicApCUZ8EQjdKJwNNrbaPj7qe4VMX1PxC7PFE-OkaqH-Ge46ybOYIXYF5dCQuWjdsdbs5UQHeNokGSXrcYL_BhAKU/s1600-h/2009-06-21+Father%27s+Day-15.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 133px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpW2oAWmGXGsncCgcCwLgBGjzWLU3rYNxMh9fiwxif_L7Rm1-WVFicApCUZ8EQjdKJwNNrbaPj7qe4VMX1PxC7PFE-OkaqH-Ge46ybOYIXYF5dCQuWjdsdbs5UQHeNokGSXrcYL_BhAKU/s200/2009-06-21+Father%27s+Day-15.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5350503296480976770" border="0" /></a></p>Weshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07743661373264487370noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8822563149309546903.post-54902565625210541162009-05-16T00:43:00.003-06:002009-05-17T04:47:55.838-06:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhysHZBxXezjNsAZDYSz8uEn2Wt2GOqDr3OJU_pu9LZBe9Qq0Yd5yB1rRsM3g7qUQ_Iu0UTSYBAJglsxFG9kBJE_iogBPFOGbcUwRdSiPYVyikMqLwnd89CGf2N_B6691I0GavTeXWHhBQ/s1600-h/Capture.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 81px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhysHZBxXezjNsAZDYSz8uEn2Wt2GOqDr3OJU_pu9LZBe9Qq0Yd5yB1rRsM3g7qUQ_Iu0UTSYBAJglsxFG9kBJE_iogBPFOGbcUwRdSiPYVyikMqLwnd89CGf2N_B6691I0GavTeXWHhBQ/s400/Capture.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5336670848322575858" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br />Not long ago I read an article about <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stephen_Wolfram">Stephen Wolfram</a>, a dapper British bloke who was publishing papers on particle physics at age 17, and who received his Ph.D. from Caltech at the age of 20. Well recently, between breakfast and lunch, our good chap Wolfram created "Wolfram Alpha." The self-dubbed computational knowledge engine went live May 15th. So, what is that you ask? Let's just say that if Wolfram Alpha and Google ever mate, SkyNet will be born and anyone who has watched Terminator 2 will never sleep again. Okay, back to the question; Wolfram Alpha is like a giant calculator taking input from your full name, a formula for a Taylor series (e.g., "<a href="http://www19.wolframalpha.com/input/?i=taylor+series+sin+x%5E2">taylor series sin x^2</a>" - I wish I had this when I took calculus <sigh>), or genome sequences (e.g., "<a href="http://www19.wolframalpha.com/input/?i=ACGCAAGCGAGC">ACGCAAGCGAGC</a>") to an RGB color (e.g., "<a href="http://www19.wolframalpha.com/input/?i=rgb+127+255+212">rgb 127 255 212</a>"). So, let's try it out!</sigh></span><br /><span style="font-size:100%;"><sigh><br />Tell me about my first name, Wolfram Alpha...please. At this point I'm feeling a little like I'm on the bridge of the Enterprise, but before I can even push my glasses back up the bridge of my nose, Wolfram has an <a href="http://www19.wolframalpha.com/input/?i=Wesley">answer</a>. Apparently 1 in 1499 people in the United States (0.067%) share my name. Some might call us a rare commodity. We should start a club. In 2007, "Wesley" ranked 195th in popular names in America with a lucky, yet slim, 0.093% of all newborns receiving their invitation to join our exclusive club. Hmmm, what else?</sigh></span><br /><span style="font-size:100%;"><sigh><br />Wolfram Alpha? No answer. Tell me about "<a href="http://www19.wolframalpha.com/input/?i=McDonalds">McDonalds</a>" please. After a momentary pause while Wolfram Alpha scratched its surely oversized brain and flexed its fiberoptic muscles, I soon find myself looking at stock quotes, P/E ratios, price histories, crazy but impressively complex graphs and diagrams, and even an address of origin. Nice, but one more test is in order--just for fun.</sigh></span><br /><span style="font-size:100%;"><sigh><br />Wolfram Alpha, what is the nutritional value of my "<a href="http://www19.wolframalpha.com/input/?i=ham+and+cheese+sandwich">ham and cheese sandwich</a>"? Wait for Wolfram to think. Total calories: 350, protein: 25 g... this is impressive and all, but what about something <span style="font-style: italic;">sincerely difficult to figure out?</span> Wolfram gives me the "shame on you" face. Riboflavin content: </sigh></span>480 μg (insert diagram reminiscent of stuff I ignored in biology class), folic acid content: 4.4 μg., and the sandwich's likely size: 5.1 oz.<br /><br />Well, my share of the 0.067% of Wesleys nationwide is very impressed. I spent a good hour grilling my new-found digital Rainman on a wide variety of topics. I'm just expanding my repertoire of useless information for the next time I get stuck in a long line with some food science majors, get lost in the ESC, or imitate Stephen Hawking (a surprisingly common occurrence). You see useless information isn't <span style="font-style: italic;">entirely</span> useless!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb5Rwk7nSo9mQPawLxCwJt2P6LkFb178PndzdRJ1Eph5y-MxZgb8M9ApFIouGTkTRdEzkBFuRIVXipJYMO5i0ENMcolFS3n1Ymf3yy_SkAIegNtUVQ4I8GF38L2EmZT77D3nHKkIEoYYA/s1600-h/useless+information+comic.gif"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 218px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb5Rwk7nSo9mQPawLxCwJt2P6LkFb178PndzdRJ1Eph5y-MxZgb8M9ApFIouGTkTRdEzkBFuRIVXipJYMO5i0ENMcolFS3n1Ymf3yy_SkAIegNtUVQ4I8GF38L2EmZT77D3nHKkIEoYYA/s320/useless+information+comic.gif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5336669672824693058" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span>Weshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07743661373264487370noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8822563149309546903.post-75012117318712143492009-04-28T01:05:00.003-06:002009-10-31T14:48:30.551-06:00A New SeasonBurning the midnight oil is an activity all to familiar to a college town's population, however tonight's occasion comes far more welcome than that of months' past. I'm stretched out on my living room sofa under an open window. The cool April breeze has a refreshing quality which I seem to have forgotten after six months of bitter, frozen air. The living room is sporadically illuminated by small explosions of light as the first season of Prison Break plays tirelessly on the TV. Yes, this is exactly the kind of night my mind has dangled before me like a carrot on a stick for the past nine months--the kind of night where no due dates hang overhead, where no homework has overtaken my dimly lit desk in a sprawling paper forest, where I have no 8:00 am obligations tomorrow, and where I can lie here watching a season of Prison Break and listen to the birds chirp playfully outside. Yes, spring is back, and with it comes the delightful prospect of a thousand other things just waiting to be seen and done.<br /><br />Out front of our apartment sits the big blue dumpster, sleeping open-mouthed, revealing his recently ingested spoils, having just gorged himself on the garbage of a hundred students preparing for their seasonal migration. Only feet away from our over-stuffed, slumbering friend, just beyond the reach of the fallen crumbs of used moving boxes and old egg cartons lies the curb, eerily lacking in occupancy. Where the street had once looked like a social club for automobiles, every free inch taken by some gas-guzzling patron, now resides nothing but the oil stains of its former residents. Much like the curb, the streets lie dormant and unused but alas...this is summer in Provo and I love it.<br /><br />So what does this summer have in store? Another academic dynasty has now passed. Gone are the days of backpack-bruised apples and smashed, half-fermented PB&J's, and snow-covered sidewalks which have never seen a shovel since they were laid. Come are the spring evenings of movie marathons, guilt-free frivolous activity (e.g. just laying in a park with a book and enjoying the fact that there's a clear sky), fishing, fireworks, thunderstorms, and barbecues.<br /><br />Here's a brief recap of last summer...<br /><br /><div class="post-body entry-content"><p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVuc7rS7y5Q-WRtN1W_b-94sgQsZKq_vnn3S0vHQmhGhLqMa1ynHiJHVzP-MulDZ9otgFnWK5rMrPDgVT1u81mXuP_0A4wOCX9JIeb32MtYvBhDzu_qbYmHBIV0IuYfyuDw3vbKkRcCt8/s1600-h/10.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 137px; height: 103px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVuc7rS7y5Q-WRtN1W_b-94sgQsZKq_vnn3S0vHQmhGhLqMa1ynHiJHVzP-MulDZ9otgFnWK5rMrPDgVT1u81mXuP_0A4wOCX9JIeb32MtYvBhDzu_qbYmHBIV0IuYfyuDw3vbKkRcCt8/s200/10.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5330410070076935474" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvwD6VEpMiaSznufORRVMQFUUPngMRgdLpycHMNSb6OE5Ny6dTgaEJGq4d5mIa3TWNPaUGG_usKctO1Gr88GetJDZy9o9jWzASSgYhHiT8Bm3ZZZgq8VYBArUURr0hUqlfspX4IIKcqFA/s1600-h/5.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 142px; height: 104px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvwD6VEpMiaSznufORRVMQFUUPngMRgdLpycHMNSb6OE5Ny6dTgaEJGq4d5mIa3TWNPaUGG_usKctO1Gr88GetJDZy9o9jWzASSgYhHiT8Bm3ZZZgq8VYBArUURr0hUqlfspX4IIKcqFA/s200/5.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5330410067063527586" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHaqUkmCbFeyXgfSqRNMsUp4EcUAQSr2DTBFwbs1_o2yqKNlQp9Ep42Bxsqx6MjX9jz7bHOGGTteCeqhjrZKc6TrG0-IW-_hJIp4DzXwfTjVn2W6Z9nwYjvo6Qhy8Mx2pYSpUjCRRXCuI/s1600-h/DSCN0001+%28Large%29.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 137px; height: 103px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHaqUkmCbFeyXgfSqRNMsUp4EcUAQSr2DTBFwbs1_o2yqKNlQp9Ep42Bxsqx6MjX9jz7bHOGGTteCeqhjrZKc6TrG0-IW-_hJIp4DzXwfTjVn2W6Z9nwYjvo6Qhy8Mx2pYSpUjCRRXCuI/s200/DSCN0001+%28Large%29.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5330410071229156546" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW7L-kTed_BiEFTKTS_cGV-M-DyHwSA6A8qzPvy-hn1aFuauE6etYbZhb6a3qVeKQp-4uY5fW_Z0ZQldnKddZ-hYhz1q1ceV56moeWMeArPeRJOb3A7Trs2zR2Ck6r2L6DcBEsICDAJB0/s1600-h/DSCN0562+%28Large%29.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 136px; height: 103px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW7L-kTed_BiEFTKTS_cGV-M-DyHwSA6A8qzPvy-hn1aFuauE6etYbZhb6a3qVeKQp-4uY5fW_Z0ZQldnKddZ-hYhz1q1ceV56moeWMeArPeRJOb3A7Trs2zR2Ck6r2L6DcBEsICDAJB0/s200/DSCN0562+%28Large%29.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5330410073865257010" border="0" /></a></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p> <p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb6e77TJDqO-w5EOe3TJBaHhtKEPFFCTDxtIWnjeeWOWpBpR0wOFk04rXCXmTRM0pvlIPiNVGclqIi7aTtyO-IGzeVaUcjMeJr9MlbEyqQllX2BW-oM9quUgp_IaVFzE2MwCG-cljquOU/s1600-h/DSCN1114.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 153px; height: 105px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb6e77TJDqO-w5EOe3TJBaHhtKEPFFCTDxtIWnjeeWOWpBpR0wOFk04rXCXmTRM0pvlIPiNVGclqIi7aTtyO-IGzeVaUcjMeJr9MlbEyqQllX2BW-oM9quUgp_IaVFzE2MwCG-cljquOU/s200/DSCN1114.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5331115645815121698" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNCyjfFYHsRcq54o1K866alCFvyjVnwBVhJiGnzjghf75KpDAgY-zEGq_4ZxzQ6wJqnWsqB0_cEluiO4tZy_e-X0DMZjZg46tXBtOg3YE2C8F81iua7g3Uu1_ATJM1W8RXoMq-vHN1hkg/s1600-h/DSCN1079.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; 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