Another Coffee Cup

Katrina

      

At the moment--and after a long absence from this site...sorry--I'm watching a live Internet feed at my work from WWL, a CBS affiliate in New Orleans. The damage wrought by Hurricane Katrina has been nothing short of catastrophic for Louisiana and southern Mississippi. Images of oil rigs and cargo ships run aground or against bridges, people being lifted from rooftops by U.S. Coast Guard helicopters, and a flooded New Orleans scattered with submerged houses or buildings on fire from broken gas lines is all I can think about right now. Not too long ago, I read a clipping with the mayor of New Orleans, Ray Nagin, that perhaps maybe thousands are dead. Looking at the pictures and videos, I wouldn't be surprised.

I think what has happened is a disaster that the U.S. hasn't seen in decades, maybe even in a century. The last perhaps being Galveston, Texas being leveled in 1900 by a hurricane, or San Francisco six years later by an earthquake and subsequent fire.

Hurricanes aren't a rare occurrence in this part of the world. At least one or two hurricanes will hit the Gulf of Mexico or the American East Coast each storm season. But what separates it from the others whose names have since come and gone was the intensity, the (ever-rising) death toll, and the very fact that it nearly scored a direct hit on New Orleans. This wasn't Davenport, Owensboro, Virginia Beach, or Jacksonville. This was New Orleans. The New Orleans we all know; even if we haven't been there, we have a large cultural concept of what New Orleans is. Not only for us Americans, but for people around the world.

I'm reminded of a famous song written in the early part of the last century. Like the city itself, the song is a bit vague, even a bit mysterious, but vivid nevertheless. No one knows exactly when it was written or who wrote it, and its precise setting in the city is still being researched, even by archaeologists. Since its conception, it's been covered countless times by a variety of musicians that span genres and languages.

If you don't know what song I'm talking about--don't worry. In fact, you probably already know it. All you have to do is look up the Animals, an English rock band from the 1960s. They perhaps have the best-known cover of "The House of the Rising Sun."

The original lyrics go like this:

There is a house in New Orleans

They call the Rising Sun.

It's been the ruin of many a poor girl,

And me, O God, for one.

If I had listened what Mamma said,

I'd 'a' been at home today.

Being so young and foolish, poor boy,

Let a rambler lead me astray.

Go tell my baby sister

Never do like I have done

To shun that house in New Orleans

They call the Rising Sun.

My mother she's a tailor;

She sold those new blue jeans.

My sweetheart, he's a drunkard, Lord, Lord,

Drinks down in New Orleans.

The only thing a drunkard needs

Is a suitcase and a trunk.

The only time he's satisfied

Is when he's on a drunk.

Fills his glasses to the brim,

Passes them around

Only pleasure he gets out of life

Is hoboin' from town to town.

One foot is on the platform

And the other one on the train.

I'm going back to New Orleans

To wear that ball and chain.

Going back to New Orleans,

My race is almost run.

Going back to spend the rest of my days

Beneath that Rising Sun.

If you wish to help, you can contact the American Red Cross, AmeriCares, the Federal Emergency Management Agency (FEMA), and countless of others.

Arnold der nationale Sozialist?

Wow, Californian state politics have been getting nasty lately. Not that everything was fine and dandy with puppies and gumdrops before, but it's reached a relatively high water mark recently. In the latest summer review guide of the Sacramento News & Review, one of the free weekly issued papers in the region, Governor Schwarzenegger is repeatidly shown through photoshoped images, giving inane tips for summer things. But the pièce de résistance of the review is the opening picture of the article, which seems to suggest he's, well, a gas-guzzling Nazi. Judge for yourself:

Even though I've been opposed to a lot of what Governor Schwarzenegger has done and said since he came to office following that joke of an election, and I too will admit that I've made fun of his Austrian accent and Nazis from time to time...but would I exactly call him a Nazi?

Whether it's a bad joke or political or even both, I thought it was pretty loaded. Not that I'm defending the governor--not in the slightist--but I think we throw around politically-charged words (and really heavy ones too) just for the sake of it at times. Or in this case, images.

Maybe the SN&R has just fallen into a print version of Godwin's Law.

My Uber-Pretentious Top Ten Song List

Okay, so I was thinking lately about making a list of my favorite ten songs of all time. Sure, why not? I thought. The only problem though is where exactly to start? I don't remember how many CDs I have, but it's probably somewhere near two hundred or so. After about a day of thinking about it while I was a little bored in classes, I came up with this list. Here we go:

10. The Smiths. "How Soon is Now?" 

On of my top ten songs for a long time now, "How Soon is Now?" has for me always represented the Smiths in my subconscious. Of course there's plenty of other great songs they did while they remained a dark-pop powerhouse in the early to mid-1980s, but this one stands out. The opening seconds of distorted chords quickly meeting Johnny Marr's wailing guitar, followed then by Morrisey's confessional vocals is in my opinion one of the best song openers of all time, easily up there with Nirvana's "Smells like Teen Spirit."

9. Radiohead. "Talk Show Host."

Another long time favorite of mine, "Talk Show Host" has two versions: the original b-side version, and the one that appeared in Baz Luhrmann's 1996 Romeo + Juliet, which was mixed by Nellee Hooper. Although there's a few subtle differences between the two, Hooper's mixing of it is a bit more electronic and driving, and I do prefer it over the original b-side. Some set of lyrics I love are "You want me/Fucking, well come and find me/I'll be waiting/With a gun and a pack of sandwiches." That's an image to sure stick to your head. Although it wasn't made by the band, there's a FlashPlayer video to the original b-side version of the song. You can watch it here.

8. Massive Attack. "Unfinished Sympathy."

Made back in 1991, when Massive Attack were still trying to mold their version of British hip-hop into what we now call trip-hop, this dancy and catchy number is a head-nodding classic. Probably one of the best combinations of orchestral music, turntables, and soul. After listening to this, Mezzanine seems really far away.

7. Nine Inch Nails. "Hurt."

There are not many songs that can send shivers up my spine. "Hurt," is one of them. The fitting conclusion to 1994's The Downward Spiral, "Hurt" is a sonic confession of Trent Reznor's descent into drugs and depression, where the only thing that's real is the needle in the skin. Reznor's deeply personal lyrics are aptly matched with crinkled white noise in the background and a lone guitar, sounding as if it's suffering along with the singer. "Hurt" has crossed a lot of music boundaries since its release, from being the driving sample to Ice Cube's collaborative effort with Westside Connection's nihilistic "The Gangsta, the Killa and the Dope Dealer" to the late, great Johnny Cash superb version. While it's debatable which version is better (Reznor's original or Cash's take), "Hurt" nevertheless stands on my sonic mantle.

6. Nirvana. "Smells like Teen Spirit"

Put Nevermind in your CD player. Push Play. Sit down. Close your eyes. The famous opening rift plays. Time has stopped. The laws of the universe have temporarily been suspended. The song that launched grunge and Nirvana to the masses, was, ironically, a name of a deodorant brand (much to Cobain's displeasure later on), and its rift, as Cobain later explained, was an attempt to write a Pixies song. But what a rip-off it was! Easily a top-ten favorite, its music video also remains a rowdy, anarchic classic.

5. The Rolling Stones. "Play with Fire."

Maybe a bit of an unusual choice for me, this song was actually recorded with only two members of the Stones (Jagger and Richards), with legendary producer Phil Spector taking on bass; everyone else in the band was asleep! This song, hushed and simple, describes revenge and backstabbing in mid-'60s Swinging London. Plus it's incredibly short.

4. Joy Division. "Love will Tear us Apart."

Joy Division's most famous song, Ian Curtis croons of separation and intimacy under a backdrop of proto-New Wave synths and punk guitars. One reason why this song has so much resonance is that Curtis committed suicide less than a month after it was released as a single in 1980, giving new meaning to it. It also marks in many respects the end of Joy Division and the beginning of New Order. Excellent stuff.

3. XTC. "Dear God."

Although they never really were a supergroup in the likes of the Stones, Radiohead, or Nirvana, XTC did make good songs. And when they made excellent songs, they made masterpieces. "Dear God" is partly a confession and a rant about Christianity and creation. Sweet and bitter, the song asks--if not demands-- the Big Guy why there's needless suffering in the world and why is the ocean blue. Catchy, scathing, fun and intelligent.

2. Pixies. "Where is my Mind?"

The Pixies were always a bit of an insane band. One moment Latin-pop, the next moshing punk, they melt sometimes diametrically-opposed music forms into one, creating a sound that helped lauch many a band. For me, the song that best represents this highly influential group is this one, an ode to insanity backed up by a memorable guitar riff courtesy of Joey Santiago. It maybe best can be pictured at the end of David Fincher's Fight Club, as Ed Norton's and Helen Bonham Carter's characters watch Century City's high-rises be blown to bits. It's a fitting end for that film, and "Where is my Mind?" is a fitting soundtrack for both it and the often nonsensical world we find ourselves in. "Try this trick and spin it, yeah!"

1. The Stone Roses. "I Wanna be Adored"

Manchester, England seems to pump out great bands. There's three Mancunian bands on this chart (the Smiths, Joy Division, and now...the Stone Roses), and in the year 1989, this band was at the forefront of it all. Although their existence was sadly too short, the Stone Roses helped provide the psychedelic soundtrack to the Madchester scene. "I Wanna be Adored," from its simple build-up of white noise and chords, to its conclusion of hard beats and swirling guitars, feels like it lifts you up to a blurry British indie rock heaven.

The Superior Court of the State of California wants you to...

Last Thursday, I performed my civic duty and went to court as a prospective juror. I had never done this before.

Recently, my life and some form of government have increasingly become intertwined. On Tuesday, I went to the State Capitol building in Sacramento, wearing my new suit and tie, and was interviewed by one of the staff members of State Senator Carole Migden (D-District 3, Eastern San Francisco and Marin County). The interview went great, and when all was said and down, I was asked when I could start. I'll begin in two weeks once my finals end.

One part of the whole experience about going to the State Capitol that I didn't expect was the attention people gave me. Since I looked like a staff person, I got quite a few questions from the tourists wandering around the hallways and the rotunda, asking me if I knew where the Assembly galleries were, what does the Speaker of the Assembly do, can I take their picture...? Had I worn my regular clothes, no one would have even bothered. But with just a snappy change of clothing, everything changes.

Thursday was my jury day. Last month or so, I got a letter from the Superior Court of California for the County of Yolo telling me I've been summoned for jury. I sent in a reply that said I wasn't available because I'm a university student. But because I sent it out relatively late, it was best to admit I wasn't available for a trial in person, just so the judge could hear my words herself.

I drove up from Davis to Woodland, where our county seat is, to go to the Yolo County Courthouse, a big gray stereotypical American courthouse with Greco-Roman columns looking like it had been built around the New Deal. Once I got past the sheriff deputies at the metal detectors, I walked up to the upper floor, where I was pointed to a blurry glass door that said JURY ROOM 303 or something to that effect. I walked in to find a large room filled with around forty people, talking amongst each other, reading Time, Us Weekly, the Sacramento Bee, or simply just staring into space. Most of the people there were all older folks, either seniors or Baby Boomers. Only two other people my age were there: a young guy from Sacramento City College and a cute girl who I never heard talk.

After about a half hour of waiting, our room was led down to the courtroom by the black-uniformed bailiff, where we were seated in the back of the room. As quickly as the forty or so of us had filed in, we returned to exactly what we were doing in the last room: more waiting. Five minutes later, the bailiff returned to read us our legal obligations, where we raised our right hands and agreed. The judge then came out to be seated behind her big wood desk. She was a middle-aged woman--either late forties or early fifties--and told us what was going to happen in the next few minutes, remarking how it was easier to do this these days because people watched Law and Order. That got some to chuckle.

The bailiff began reading out names of people immediately selected to be seated in the jury box. There were about sixteen or eighteen seats available in the front left hand side of the room, facing the judge, the lawyers, and the person on trial. I was hoping the bailiff wouldn't read out my name; every time she did, I thought: well, that at least eliminates some possibility of my name. But on the second last name she read out, my name came. Damn, I thought. Later I realized that this actually was a blessing.

As we were seated, the judge read out more things regarding the trial, telling us the nature of the trial and how long she believed it was going to last for. She then asked for anyone in the jury box to raise their hand if there was some conflicting interest that blocked our ability to attend. My arm joined the two others who had their hands raised.

One man stated he had a business trip to attend. The other said something that I don't exactly remember. When the judge looked at me and said, "Mr. Hookey, what is your case," I stated it.

"I'm a student at the University of California, Davis, and I have final examinations starting next week."

The judge wrote it down and looked back up at me. Sometimes you really don't know how intimidating a judge can be. When you're watching a trial from the back and have no part of it, the judge's a distant figure. I remember when I was in the third grade and visited the county courts in Santa Cruz, the judge who talked to our class was simply an older figure who sat behind a big desk for much of the day. We thought nothing more than that. But when you're in the jury box and a black-robed person is looking down on you, asking questions directly to you, it's daunting. Even if the judge is being very courteous, you cannot deny this: the law is looking down on you. The law is asking you questions.

"And when do they start, Mr. Hookey?"

"Next Tuesday." My first final report is due no later than Tuesday.

"And for what class?" the judge asked.

"Chinese history, 1946 onwards." I meant 1949, but we've gone over 1946 quite extensively, and it was the first year that came to my mind. Close enough.

"Pretty hard, eh?" the judged smiled.

"Oh yeah." That got the court to chuckle.

The judge then went one to state a few more rules and asked the jury more questions regarding mental stability and our pasts. Were we abused as children? No. Do we know the lawyers and defendant directly? No. Have you experienced domestic violence? One person raised their hand. Have you known people who have experienced domestic violence? Another raised their hand. Are any of you involved in organizations regarding domestic violence? Two raised their hands and explained.

The judge then asked us one by one to then state our names, our occupations, our education, if we had children, and if we had prior jury experience. After we all did that, the questioning was turned over to the defense and prosecution lawyers. The lawyers asked the two men who raised their hands before mine why they couldn't attend the trial. It was a short grilling. I expected to be asked next by the lawyers, but they didn't proceed to.

After the questions were again handed back to the judge, she excused the two men and asked them to leave the court. Then she looked down on me and with a little smile said:

"Mr. Hookey, good luck on that final."

'Thank you."

I was excused.

The Fog of War

I haven't checked this site in a while, and lately I've been thinking that I need to change the title "Another Coffee Cup." Does it really fit? After checking the stats of how people visit this site, I mostly find that people come across it after puting "coffee cup curtains" or "coffee cups" on the Google or Yahoo search engines. I mean, honestly, coffee cup curtains? Excuse my metrosexual tendencies, but why on earth would you get coffee cup curtains? At least that's not too strange. The strangest way someone found this site was through Yahoo France; somehow "American Couples + Arab man" brought someone to this site.

  Don't ask me.

  Recently I watched Errol Morris' documentary The Fog of War. The film, which won Best Documentary at the Oscars back in 2004, details the life and strategies of Robert McNamara, the U.S. Defense Secretary from 1961 to 1968. The film chronicles his life, from his earliest memories, to his role in the Army Air Force in the Second World War, the Cuban Missile Crisis, and ultimately Vietnam. McNamara (which is actually pronounced MAC-namara) relates his experiences and opinions directly to the camera, whether it be meeting his future wife, or remembering Curtis LeMay's insistence on destroying Cuba even after the end of the 1962 Cuban crisis, to his admission that had the Allies lost the Second War, he and his fellow officers involved in the fire bombings of Japan would be considered war criminals.

At the end of the documentary, I had to pick my jaw off from the floor. McNamara, who's now in his late eighties, is still very much in command of knowledge and up to date with current world politics. One point which never left me after watching the film was his belief about how the U.S. and the Soviet Union averted nuclear destruction in 1962. We had empathy for the Soviet Union--not sympathy--but empathy: the ability to put one's feet into the enemy's shoes. Because we had some knowledge of how the Soviet leadership felt, we could seriously ask ourselves "what would they do?" By doing so, and with sure luck, we averted a war. Both sides operated on the same superpower soundtrack.

With Vietnam, according to McNamara, we didn't express empathy. Instead, the U.S. operated on the Domino Theory; the belief that communism was spreading from country to country like dominoes falling onto each other. The Vietnamese, on the other hand, didn't see it that way; instead, they viewed the Americans as the next imperial colonial power, replacing the French in quelling their independence. No matter how many American bombs and chemicals fell on Vietnamese jungles and villages, according to their former foreign minister, they would never surrender. The Americans, oblivious to the history and culture regarding the conflict, only magnified the problems due to their distinctly different approach over how to fight a war, one which McNamara was a participant.

  Whether you agree with McNamara's ideas or not, the end result is downright thought-provoking. In all a great, fascinating film. Probably one of the best documentaries I've ever seen. 

Back in the day...

  So the elections went ahead. And the elections had some trouble. But in the end the results where good.

The results yielded showed every entity (L.E.A.D., F.U.C.K., Student Focus, Independents) got two seats each. Rob Roy, the leading candidate and virtual face of the Friends, was disqualified at first over an issue regarding campaign expenditures and their receipts. It got a little nasty, but in the end, the Elections Committee brought him back in, probably because he won a seat hands down in the first round (virtually unheard of in student elections), and so many were upset at his disqualification.

It should be an interesting year. You can read more about it here.

Through all the books and essays I've been reading and writing lately, I've noticed that I've started to succumb to nostalgia. Not just any nostalgia. But high school nostalgia.

I went to San Lorenzo Valley High School back in the mid and late 1990s. I was part of the Class of '99. We thought we were so special: the last class to ever have a 19, being the last of the century (or so we believed). Anything really went in high school: cars driving fast in the parking lot, teenagers gossiping about Dawson's Creek, or hearing rumors about the new pool that was going to be completed that year. We talked about what we wanted to do with our lives in this new century. Some wanted to go to college. Some wanted to join the U.S. Army. Some didn't know honestly what to do. Most of us didn't really care about all that long-distance stuff when it came down to it. Sure we had our desires about where to go or what to do, but we wanted to live in the moment, where getting the most signatures in your yearbook was the most important thing on the planet.

My fondest memories of high school was meeting my friends at the time out on the Senior Quad near the central entrance of the campus. We ate pizza and shot the shit together, talking about our girlfriends or how much we thought a teacher was crap. And when all was said and done, a bell would ring and we'd flow back to class as it was instructed. Like clockwork.

One high school shtick that I had which lasted from about 1997 to '99 was wearing Hawaiian shirts all the time. I wasn't really trying to make a statement or anything. I just wanted to be different from the sea of teens wearing Nike, Adidas, J Crew, and Tommy Hilfiger, trying to be unique in my own way. I also spiked my hair up (or at least tried to) and wore some of those bead necklaces that were popular around that time. In the end, I looked liked a young Jimmy Buffet fan that listened to punk, minus that parrot shit on my shoulder.

I didn't do anything too special for school, being neither a valedictorian or a quarterback. Instead, I participated in the Literary Club and wrote for the high school newspaper. I also almost won Best Dressed too, but lost out to a guy who later admitted I should have won. But I got noticed. I appeared a couple of times in the yearbook.

After graduation, my friends and I all drifted apart. We saw each other a little after I started going to college, but two years after graduating, we were different people. I also spotted a few fellow classmates at college here and there, where we'd exchange some words about the old days and phone numbers, but left it at only that. To this day, I'm only in contact with three people from my high school.

  It'll be interesting when I'll start to get reunion letters in the mail later in this decade and the next; invitations to go back and relive the last decade of the 20th century with the people you went to school with, called your friends, and dated.

One moment that I'll never forget was my commencement speech spoken by one of the class' most popular students. As we sat on the football bleachers on that hot June day, wearing our robes and graduation hats, we listened to the student speak about how bright of a future we were entering, one where there would be hope in the inner city streets, an economy that was robust again, and how peace was being achieved in the Middle East.

When the speaker said that, a guy sitting next to me, one of our class' only Arab students, turned to me, smiled, and slowly shook his head. Out of all that optimism, none of us had any clue what was going to happen two years later.      

Electioneering

  It's election time here at the school.

Our student government, the ASUCD Senate, which according to Davis Wiki has a $9.7 million budget (yes, you read that correctly), has recently been plagued with quite a few problems lately. Since last year, our little fledgling student government has been involved in no less than three such scandals such as:

• A senator stealing nearly $360 in books from the Bookstore, and after serving a number of hours in community service, still served as a senator.
• The endorsement of a student who was running for the Davis City Council, thus violating IRS federal tax laws which prohibit this.
• Candidates doing their electioneering in the dorms and "helping" students by personally showing them how to vote for them: two big no-nos.

Add to the fact that our student elections have had a more dismal turnout than most American Congressional elections, then you can probably think that there's going to be quite a lot of voter apathy.

But this year's a little different (or at least I hope it is). Because of all the recent scandals that have been covered exhaustively by the Aggie, the resignations of three senators (two stemming from the scandals), and the emergence of a possibly strong new political party--or slate as we call them--there seems to be a different air for this election.

Basically here's a rundown of what the parties are:

• Student Focus: they're known as the Greek Party on campus, since their candidates always seem to come from or are supported by the local sororities and fraternities. Wearing yellow shirts around election time, they're easy to spot also because they always seem to be handing out these glassy yellow fliers advertising their slate. Lately they've been getting a lot of flack since their slate was the one primarily involved with Dormgate.
• L.E.A.D.: standing for Leadership, Empowerment, Activism and Determination, their slate was original touted as the more liberal slate on campus. Student Focus may wear yellow, but L.E.A.D. has that fiery determined red for a color.
• F.U.C.K.: with maybe the best ironic acronym I've heard since Team America, the Friends Urging Campus Kindness are the newest slate on campus. Unlike the others, they don't have any candy-coated color and are the most irreverent of them all. The F.U.C.K. are running the most candidates for this election (seven altogether). They are also probably the most loosely-organized party of the three
• The Independents: in the current Senate, the Independents hold the balance of power. They are what they are: independent from the parties on campus. But that doesn't stop them from getting elected, since some of the most influential and vocal senators in recent history have been Independents. 

If you want profiles and platforms, click here.

In my personal opinion, the most original ideas are coming from the F.U.C.K.. They seem to be the most energetic and alive slate there is. Plus they're not tainted with scandals, especially after all that Student Focus has had to go through lately. Also there seems to be something genuine within their proposals and especially non-conventional style, as opposed to L.E.A.D., which in all due respect, has not carried effective leadership, is just as equally diverse as Student Focus, is hardly activist, an its determination severely lacking as of late. Any slate that promises to make student government meetings more public, makes music videos, wants to get rid of useless fire trucks and last but not least make this student government more fiscally responsible has my vote.

My friend Ryan Basilio, who ran as an Independent Vice Presidential candidate last year with my friend Evan Beecher, said it best to me. The present slates--that being Focus and L.E.A.D.--are just mustard and ketchup. They both go on the same hot dog.

And that's it. There's nothing exciting about them, nothing slightly rebellious. Hell, they're not even that interesting either. They're both members of a nomenklatura student Politburo that drone to the same feedback, getting all the perks their posts give them, who seem as removed from the students as ever.

I know it's only a student government, but honestly, it's people like this who will go on to become city councilmen and women, go to state legislatures, maybe go on even to the federal level. Yes, we're young. But this is sometimes the first stepping stone. 

I'll admit that there's good candidates on both the hot dog slates, as well as excellent ones within the Independent slot. But without a doubt in my mind, the F.U.C.K. have the right idea. And if F.U.C.K. gain seats in the Senate, I'll be happy. And if F.U.C.K. doesn't do a decent job, I'll hold them accountable like any government should be.

But for this time around, I'm willing to give them a chance. After all, any slate that has piñata bashing on the Quad would get my vote anyways.

My First Tornado Watch

The weather. Most of us think of it in ying-yang way: Is it going to be sunny? Is it going to be raining? Will it be cloudy, or will it be hot, or is it going to be foggy? For the most part, I don't think of it as something that might hurt you. Coming from where I am, the most violent that weather can get is flooding, even that is restricted primarily to geography. Or if you're in a storm on the ocean. Or if you're in a freak blizzard in the Sierra Nevada. The normal person's chance of being in any of those two are, well, very slim.

  Being a Californian, if the weather is bad, it's more of a nuisance to me than something to fret about. There's more things to worry about, like earthquakes--not much in this part of the state, but still something to think about--or what crazy things CalTrans is going to think up. If there's a drought: okay, time to save some water, and it'll be over soon. If there's a mudslide; that's too bad. Don't build homes too close to the cliffs, hope the highways aren't blocked and hope no one was hurt. For Californians, violent weather always makes one think of the East or Midwest. That sort doesn't happen here, we convince ourselves, thanks to that psychological and physical barrier of the Sierras. After all, this is California.

Around mid afternoon, I was watching MTV when all of sudden it stopped broadcasting and began to admit the EAS signal. Most Americans know what it sounds like; if you don't, it sounds like a medium pitched continuous signal that's similar to the noise you hear when you pick up the phone, only just higher. It usually signifies that a) this is only a test, or b) this is a real emergency. I remember that during the 1989 Loma Prieta earthquake, its feedback faintly buzzed on the television stations, but I don't remember it playing during the September 11 attacks.   

After buzzing for a moment, virtually every television went black with a red bar at the top, scrolling across a warning issued by the National Weather Service. This was an emergency I thought. It read there was a Tornado Watch issued for Yolo County. I looked around the room for a moment. This is Yolo County, I thought.

The screen remained black with the red bar for a few more minutes as it issued more warnings for neighboring metropolitan Sacramento counties and a garbled voice read out the alert when the EAS signal stopped. I turned to the NBC affiliate KCRA and listened as a slightly nervous sounding weather reporter comment on a Doppler radar screen that showed potential funnel clouds over Woodland, Knights Landing and Natomas. He kept apologizing if he rambled, but said that he was trying to make sense of this as things happened.

Though it was too far from Davis to really see anything from my window, I could see what was happening on the TV, watching these multiple funnel clouds develop and fizzle out, all within twenty miles of my home. In the end, damage was minimal; a tornado actually did touch down, toppled a few trees, lifted up and put down some cars. Violent, but nothing like Midwestern twisters.

  Now I know California and this area has seen this weather before, but for me, this was a first. I have never been through a tornado watch before.

Presidents' Day Weekend

I just learned a few minutes ago that Hunter S. Thompson, probably one of the most famous American journalists and writers to come out of the 1960s (outside of Tom Wolfe) killed himself. In a time like this, we could have used a lot more like him. We could have used that insightful insanity to make sense. Now we can only think of what might have been. I can only hope that a new generation of writers or journalists can come out of this grand mess.

  This weekend was pretty chill. I'm sure this applies to a lot of us students out here, but this weekend was such a relief, especially after last two weeks that have been nothing but rain and midterms (and now from what I hear, a spreading stomach flu).

My cousin Amanda came up, which was great. It's always cool to see her. On Saturday night, we went out to a place in Sacramento called Club 21, a "woman's bar," which really is just a euphemism for a lesbian bar. It's fun to go with her to places like that. Even if guys like me aren't really going to get action in a place like that, it's cool to drink with a close friend and family member like her and watch a few really attractive women dance. Nothing wrong with that, right?

 

Valentine Rant

   

I cannot state how much I hate Valentine's Day. Call me a bitter single person, but I can't stand the day. No, that's not even the right word. I detest the day.

  Especially when you walk around the campus here. On Valentine's Day, the sight of all those couples holding hands, walking around with bright flowers, giving each other kisses, and having these heart-shaped balloons strung on the hooks of their backpacks, flaunting it all out so everyone else can see it; all that giddy little cuteness made me want to puke. Whatever.

  I'm bitter and single. Bitter that I don't have anyone right now. Bitter at those that do have (and jealous too). Bitter at all those who get those nice little red and yellow flowers and romantic candies and stupid red heart-shaped balloons.

  I was briefly going out with a girl, Lynly, for about a month. It went well, but school and the pressures of early-20s life at college got in the way. Perfectly understandable. No bad feelings. A-Okay.

  But when that gushy holiday comes around, I hate it. On Valentines, I sadly had to start out the day by turning on the radio and hearing John Mayer's "Daughters" playing. Firstly, I want to say how much I hate, and I mean hate John Mayer, along with Dave Matthews, Jason Mraz, Jack Johnson, Howie Day, etc...and this song was no better. I switched off the radio and put on the Cure's Pornography instead, and vented in a far better way.

  The day continued to get worse. I sat out outside for much the day, trying to do my homework on the quad (the main part of campus), while the cold wind refused to let up while the sky was blanketed by a gray curtain. Happy couples strolled by, with me looking on, trying to find distraction in my homework. A few friends stopped by to say hello, and likewise shared my anti-Valentine feelings. It was freezing; the cold going right into my skin.

   I went home after six to my apartment. A red card was waiting for me in the post box. It was from Mom and Pop. A big smile went on my face. I called them up later that night, and told them how they were my only true Valentines for 2005.

   So it goes.