And then we were talking about university. Me and my buddy were basically giving them insights on what they can expect in NTU and NUS (she was from there). He was also telling me about all the stories he had heard from his seniors. I simply said they are true: university is tough. I have to say that I’m not fond of my uni and my course, and I want to be really honest with him about my experiences. I talked about how 800-strong per cohort is just too much for the professors to handle, and they simply don’t, or are not able to care about our progress in the study.

And also, because he is also a foreigner, I warned him about the tendency to use Chinese and the heavy Chinese accent until they are unrecognisable anymore. Not to forget to mention that I feel that most of the teachers are not real teachers. They are just smart, clever people taking the next step after post-doctoral. In conclusion, it’s a combined mess. There are those with okay English but lousy teachers. There are those passionate teachers but horrible English. And there are those who simply were not born to teach (and didn’t really try).

Last week there had been posts wandering around fb about the rise of NTU’s ranking. And I wonder what makes a good university. What is the purpose of existence of a university? Has NTU become so much of a model university that it jumped so high in the ranks?

I remembered attending this seminar about German education with mom (oh yeah, it was way back then when she encouraged me to go, before she changed her mind and locked me here instead. Ok yea she refused to be blamed but I have to do it because it drives me crazy just to blame myself). The speaker of the seminar said, “The top universities pride themselves of producing good graduates. But the fact is, they were selected from the finest to make sure that they will be good graduates. The German universities took not only the best but also the less-than-the-best pupils who are willing to learn, and they mould them to be good graduates.”

Isn’t it so true? Well since I didn’t study in Germany (sadly), I wouldn’t know whether the last statement is really true, but I feel that, yes, this uni that I attended selected the best students. But they are already super clever, so of course they will graduate with flying colours. And those who are not so fortunate, will always be the not-so-high-marks-achiever.

Is it because I’m going up? Or because I’ve been dragged away? By what? Myself?

…

And so I have no choice but to look down helplessly, until my sight was obstructed by huge, steel rods.

Until I can’t even see that dream.

And I realized that I can’t go back, except if I repeat the circle. And only if I have the ticket….only if He give me one.

.

“It’s been a year since the DADT repeal. I know you’ve touched on it and how important that repeal was to you. Does it still linger? Do you find that there are people who refuse to agree it’s over? Do others still hide their selves for fear the DADT repeal was paper-only and offered no real protection?”

So I’ve decided to cover that. I have spoken about it briefly before, so check here to see that initial post.

Alright. I was underway throughout the whole time that DADT was becoming a news item. To my detriment, I was also not every interested in politics at the time so the first inkling I had about the whole situation was when there was a command-wide training about it. They broke it up by rank. Officers firsts, Senior Enlisted (E7-E9) then E6, E5, E4, and E3 and below. I was somewhere in between the E6-E4 briefs.

At this point I was married and everyone assumed I was straight. I was known to be gay friendly, as I was close friends with many of the out gay people on board, but otherwise no sideways glances were tossed my way.

The meeting was very straight forward. They told us what had changed (Gays were allowed to be out and open about their sexuality). Saying words like dyke, faggot, queer, etc, were disallowed and were just as bad as racial slurs. Anyone acting out against anyone who was open about their other than hetero-normative sexuality would be prosecuted. The hour long briefing came to a close with the person giving it asking “Any questions?”

And that’s when it began. Now to be fair, it was a single sailor who asked all of the following questions, but the amount of people saying “Yeah!”, nodding vigorously, or even pumping their fists… it was saddening.

Instructor: Alright, let’s open the floor now for questions.

Sailor Homophobe, standing up: I have a question!

Instructor: Go ahead.

SH: So… Like… are there going to be separate gay berthings now?

Instructor: I’m sorry?

SH: Well these guys can just sleep in our berthings, so if there are not any separate gay only berthings, that should mean I can go live in a female berthing right?

Instructor: I’m not following.

SH: They can just be in our berthing have sex all over the place, so I can just go down to the female berthing and do the same right?

Instructor: No. Sit down.

I remember talking to my fellow gays at the time and saying “This is going to end in tears. When the first guy [I definitely meant guy, not girl] on our ship comes out they’re going to beat the shit out of him. There are going to be deaths over this.”

The antigay sentiment on our ship ran so strong and hateful. I noticed that it was only mean who said hateful things. All the girls were totally ok with it. There were several out girls on the ship already. Many guys were fine too… but there were so many men gunning for blood everywhere. “If a single fucking faggot even looks at me…” “I swear to god if he touches me I’ll break his dick off” “So now they’re just going to be fucking nonstop everywhere…” the list went on and on.

But nothing ever happened. The Huffington post recently released a story about how the DADT repeal had pretty much no detrimental effect.

And for that I am so glad.

I did not draw this, click for link

I still correct people from time to time. The word faggot is still heavily in use. Recently a junior enlisted sailor said “Stop running like a faggot” to another sailor during our PT session. After the run had finished I took him to the side and calmly explained why it was wrong. I also warned him that it was just as bad as using a racial slur, and that it could put him out of the military. I was extremely surprised when he responded “I am sorry [my rank and name], thank you.” It wasn’t the typical snotty “Hey thanks for correcting me, not” I was expecting. He sounded legit and a little abashed.

As for myself, it took me a while, I think around 6 months, to be fully out with myself. I was still working a little under the impression that it was bad to be perceived as gay. Now I am in a different rating, and things are different than in the engineering world… but I haven’t heard anything bad about my sexuality (at least to my face). The people who still hide themselves seem to be the younger generation who have been hiding themselves since they were young, but I have seen more than one in the closet gay come out since DADT has been repealed.

Small steps, but we’re getting there.

(FYI, today marks the 1 year anniversary of the DADT repeal

Image Source – Getty Images

You can read the official MLB article here:  http://mlb.mlb.com/news/article.jsp?ymd=20120918&content_id=38609650&vkey=news_mlb&c_id=mlb

This was released Monday prior to today’s committee meeting:  http://toronto.bluejays.mlb.com/news/article.jsp?ymd=20120917&content_id=38585782&vkey=news_tor&c_id=tor

I’ve written about the steps being taken by Major League Baseball, and specifically certain MLB teams in the past…  and this just further demonstrates their commitment to equality.  It’s a good thing when people, so brightly spotlighted in the public arena are willing to take an obvious stand against discrimination and bullying.  All too often people report only on the negatives.  This may have become a story based on the ignorant actions of one man (who has since apologized and will be actively working to make things better) it has become a story of a team and an organization willing to do what is right, and that’s something worth noting.

Escobar’s salary for the games will be donated to GLAAD and the You Can Play foundation.

He met with reporters before Tuesday’s game at Yankee Stadium and said through coach Luis Rivera that the slur on his face was “just a joke.”

“I agree with the suspension. I don’t have any problem with that.  I’m embarrassed,” Escobar said. “I’m sorry for my actions. I don’t have anything against homosexuals. I have friends who are gay.”

The players association was consulted on the matter and will not appeal the suspension, sending a clear message the homophobic messaging will not be tolerated by the league.

What Escobar had written under his eyes translates to, “You are a [gay slur].”

Many on Twitter expressed outrage with the message Escobar displayed on the field.

Maybe instead of a suspension, Escobar should have to write “I have poor judgement” on his face for three games.

— Scaachi Koul (@Scaachi) September 18, 2012

Hey Yunel Escobar and @bluejays! We’ve got more than a few books you should be reading.. twitter.com/GDBooks/status…

— Glad Day Bookshop (@GDBooks) September 18, 2012

Escobar apologized “to all those who have been offended” for what he said was meant to be “just a joke.”

“It was not something I intended to be offensive,” he said through a translator. “It was not anything intended to be directed at anyone in particular.”

The suspension — issued after input from Commissioner Bud Selig, the players’ union and team management — was to have started Tuesday night at Yankee Stadium. The game between Toronto and New York was rained out.

As part of his penalty, Escobar’s lost salary during the ban — about $82,000 — will be directed to two advocacy groups, the Gay & Lesbian Alliance Against Defamation and You Can Play.

Escobar will also take part in an outreach initiative to promote tolerance to others based on their sexual orientation, and participate in a sensitivity training program.

Pictures posted online showed the 29-year-old Cuban infielder with the message written in his eye-black, a sticker players wear under their eyes to reduce sun glare, during Saturday’s home game against Boston.

Major League Baseball regulations prohibit derogatory words and symbols on uniforms. Writing something of that nature on eye-black would fall under that category, MLB spokesman Pat Courtney said.

“Mr. Escobar has admitted that his actions were a mistake, and I am hopeful he can use this unfortunate situation as an opportunity to educate himself and others that intolerance has no place in our game or society,” Selig said in a statement.

GLAAD President Herndon Graddick commended the decision.

“Today’s actions show that MLB and the Toronto Blue Jays are committed to creating an environment that all fans and families can enjoy, not a place where discriminatory language and anti-gay attitudes are accepted,” Graddick said in a statement.

In May 2011, MLB suspended Atlanta pitching coach Roger McDowell for two weeks without pay for inappropriate comments and gestures with homophobic and sexual overtones made toward fans before a game in San Francisco.

Escobar is batting .251 with nine home runs and 49 RBIs for the last-place Blue Jays.

And the punishment is handed down. Your thoughts? Be heard in the comments section below…

(TM and Copyright 2012 CBS Radio Inc. and its relevant subsidiaries. CBS RADIO and EYE Logo TM and Copyright 2011 CBS Broadcasting Inc. Used under license. All Rights Reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten, or redistributed. The Associated Press contributed to this report.)

I’ve never been harassed in a public restroom. I’m not sure why. I hear it’s a thing that happens frequently to gender-anomalous and gender-nonconforming folks. It happens enough that there’s discussion of it, writing about it, workshops about avoiding it, art about it. But it hasn’t happened to me. And I don’t know why.

I certainly look strange, in terms of gender. Some folks find my gender hard to ascertain. Some stammer over pronouns or sir-ma’am-sir. Some ask outright which I am. Some ask if I’m changing genders, and some ask what else I’m planning to do in the gender change they assume I’m undertaking. But I haven’t been hassled in restrooms.

It’s not that I haven’t been in public restrooms. It’s not that I go out of my way to use single-stall restrooms. I’m not even consistent in which restroom I use. Mostly I go for the women’s, but if the line is shorter or if I just feel like it, I’ll use the men’s.

I’m not an intimidating person. It’s not that a potential attacker would look at me and decide I’d win the fight.

Maybe I’ve just been lucky, not to have been hassled in a public bathroom. But it seems like, given the frequency of harassment others report, I should have been hassled at least once by now.

A while back, a fabulous queer friend suggested that maybe it’s because I’m clearly not trying to pass as anything. It’s no secret that I’m oddly gendered, so it’s no fun for a would-be-bully to point out my difference. It’s no secret what my genders are, so no one will feel duped when they “realize” that I’m not what they thought. No one gets to feel righteous by outing my sneakiness or gets to be a know-it-all correcting my error. The friend pointed out that attempting to pass is implicitly asking those around you a question: “Do I pass?” By necessity, it’s putting the decision about your gender in the hands of those around you. It’s giving the people around you the opportunity to approve or deny. I’m not trying to pass, so I’m not asking anyone a question. I’m not giving them the implicit opportunity to evaluate my gender. So, while my gender is non-traditional, it’s also not a secret or a question. Which takes all the fun out of harassment.

I think I also benefit from a dearth of stereotypes about bearded women. To take the South Pacific view on prejudice, “you’ve got to be carefully taught” to hate others. No one really gets taught to hate bearded ladies. There are slurs for gay men, for lesbians, for races of all sorts, for many religions, for women, for disabled folks, and for transgender folks. But there isn’t really a slur or a stock set of insults or jokes about bearded women. Sure, people learn to tease a woman who sports a hint of darker lip hair. But a full-on bearded woman? We’re believed to be mythical. We’re considered hoaxes, invented by clever make-up artists of bygone circuses. Or, if we are believed to be real, we’re considered so rare that you’d never expect to meet us – we’re a once-in-a-generation world record, a believe-it-or-not fascinating freak, like an 8-foot-tall man or a cow with two heads. We’re in the category of rarity that borders on the fantastical and miraculous, chimeras that are possible cousins to mermaids and centaurs. The most common reactions to my beard seem to be confusion and disbelief, followed closely by curiosity. Anger and derision almost never come up, in bathrooms or anywhere else.

Now, there have been a few times when someone got upset by my gender. Twice, the worst insult they could come up with was “bearded lady,” and they had to rely on their tone of voice, volume, and adjectives to convey their displeasure.  The other time, I got called an abomination, in Hebrew. Apparently the ultra-Orthodox have a stronger set of gender-policing insults at the ready than most Americans. Or, to be fair, one ultra-Orthodox man did.

When I first grew my beard, I was nervous about restrooms. I followed the advice from friends and workshops. Go in with a friend. Talk as you go in, so they can hear your high voice that confirms your place in the ladies’ room. Avoid eye contact. Rush in, rush out. Try to avoid standing in lines, which gives people time to look at you. Now, I forget to do these things.

I wonder what else is protecting me from restroom harassment. I’d like to think that my confident posture is helpful, but I’m not sure that’s true. Partially because my posture isn’t always that confident. Maybe it works in my favor that I’m not intimidating. I’m short enough to not be very threatening, so maybe women don’t feel scared. Or maybe it helps that I have at least a few clear signals that I belong in any given restroom: tits, stature, voice for the women’s; beard, haircut, clothing for the men’s. So, if anyone is looking for confirmation that I belong, they can find it easily enough.

I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. For someone to hassle me or assault me in a public restroom. Four years and counting, and it hasn’t happened yet. Knock wood.

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This one man would come in (usually on a Saturday). He was friendly enough and always seemed to recognise me and make note of the fact in a kind way. But, he had this stutter and, when he talked, my reaction was to feel very uncomfortable (being very timid at the time) and unsure of how to act. Of course, I’ve never said anything about it (to anyone) and I helped him on his way.

That feeling and the memory, of each time I’d interacted with this name-less man, it has always stayed strong in my mind. After a while, I even found myself beginning to stammer and stutter and, well, it’s never gone away since then.

It isn’t something that plagues me too often. Sometimes, I can go days without doing it (then again, the same can be said of talking to others…) but, there are certain words that I have great difficulty with. I have a quiet voice. I do not mumble but, people don’t hear me very well (even though it’s loud, inside my head) and I’m often asked to ‘speak up’ (sometimes using a prehistoric grunt, rather than a word you might find in a dictionary!).

I can only think of one clear example. Aside from this, I think it’s mostly words where you have two identical consonants within close proximity to one another… I could be mistaken. It’s quite ironic but, this one word is definitely a…

PROBLEM

Try it for yourself though, out loud. Does your ‘R’ sounds like a ‘W’? Are you also trying to add a vowel in between the ‘B’ and ‘L’? What happens to the ‘M’ at the end?

Those are three of the variations I ‘create’.

Are speech impediments contagious?!

Chapter 1: Conscious

5:40 am. My alarm bell had rung for the 5^th time that morning. Sleep should be irrelevant, unnecessary, and unsatisfying, but that day, like any other day, was fulfilling a need, a need that caused me to disown reality. I hated sleep and loved it as if it was a constant satisfier. I hated it because it pushes me from reality but I loved it because it was an escape, an outlet for all emotion. I couldn’t remember a time since I was 12 years old where I didn’t have such a contradictory relationship with sleep. That night, I dreamt nothing and that was perhaps why I loved it so much. It was nothing; it was devoid of matter and meaning. Some days I’d try to challenge myself to see how many times I could click the snooze button. To wake up, was to be back in reality—something that was much worse than sleep. How would I know that this day was to be the day that would change my life, my associations, my drives, my passions, and my reality? How would I know that waking up that day was going to be my last day as an outcast—disjoint from society? Perhaps, I’m still an outcast and perhaps, I’m as integrated in society as any human can possibly be.

Nonetheless, that morning began like any other—I’d hit snooze up to 5 times (10 was my record), think about why I’m waking up, roll out of bed after quiet contemplation, fall into my shoes and clothe myself while stumbling like a being without thought. I wasn’t really that enthusiastic. I’d pour myself a glass of water and eat a fistful of bread since I hadn’t any money. In fact, I hadn’t much of anything. My house was a pile of sticks; you know the kind that the Big Bad Wolf blows down in the Three Little Pigs? Yeah that was my house. I had a thatched roof and a wooden box that enclosed me about 22 ft wide by 22 ft long. I lived 10 miles from the city and my transportation to and from work was always walking. Walking always calmed my nerves and prepared me for the tedious task of pressing TOYS. Of course, it was raining—more specifically, pouring—and I was late to work. I hurried to the door only mistakenly forgetting my worker identification card—something I had done for the last 6 days in a row. In the past, I’d not only been reprimanded for forgetting my WIC, but I had skipped work to stay in bed and it had become very frequent. Work was the last thing keeping me conscious in this world.

Today I arrived to the factory at 8:16 or 1 minute past when I was supposed to be there. The first person to greet me with a dissonant tone was Kelvin Wetley, my hotheaded supervisor.

“You!” Kelvin sputtered, wobbling slowly over to me. ‘You’ what an indirect way to say my name. Barren of any meaning but impersonality.

“Yes sir?” I said without enthusiasm.

“You’ve been late 6 out of the last 9 days and today appears to be no exception. You are exactly one minute and 11 seconds late to work today. You’re tardiness is inexcusable and you are walking a very thin line today Mr…” Of course, he forgot my name. “It appears that you forgot your WIC today as well which marks the 7^th day in a row. I’m placing you on high probationary status which means that if you are off your quota for TOYS today, I will fire you and strip you of any job in this city. Tread lightly.”

I nodded my head in understanding. There wasn’t anything to say. I was late, but it hadn’t occurred to me that my job was in danger until then. We had run through that same routine several times but he had never gotten to the point of actually threatening to fire me. What told me this one was particularly different was the fact that he didn’t represent my name in syllabic nonsense or laugh after his insults had settled upon the air. He had stated his point quite—well—pointedly. Then he decided to speak.

“Return to your duties and get that stupid quizzical look off your face.” I apparently had my own quizzical look all to myself. It was somewhat of an accomplishment.

“Yes sir, right away.” I said hastily. It was 8:25 and I couldn’t afford to waste any time not making quota—not that it mattered to me. Nothing did, so why would a quota matter? Truth is, he had raised my quota above everyone else’s just to make it impossible to ever accomplish. Why? Just to see me fail—repeatedly. I lived as a result of his desires and wants, not mine. I had never come close to satisfying his quota and I never wanted to—until that day when it was impertinent that I do so to keep my job.

I rushed into the pressing room and quickly set up the machine. Hour by hour, I was on track for the unreachable quota of the day. I was moving fast, too fast. I’d gotten into such a focused mindset that when Mr. Wetley came to check my progress by standing over me, as he did at exactly 6:10 every evening, I spun around and knocked his arm into the presser and pulled down the lever, pressing his arm into one of the TOYS.

His face contorted into twisted, unrecognizable pain.

He was sent immediately to the hospital. I, on the other hand, was fired on obvious grounds. On his way to the emergency room, he muttered something about pressing full charges against me. That last of my connection to the world was severed and now I had no definable physicality. What was left was a small flicker of a human, a devastated human. My existence was null—a blip of humankind.

And I hadn’t trudged the 10 mile journey home. I never looked forward to it. I checked the time, 8:01. In other words: late. The darkest individuals infested many of the streets I had to traverse. Some of them were cast down into this congested pit of suburbia as individuals of lit pasts while others were born and bred impoverished. The final classification was individuals without compassion—the emotion of binding. I crept carefully across those streets. This night was the last night I would walk those streets.

On the last mile from my home, I was engulfed in the murkiest of all the streets. It was home to a gang lord, an unrespectable creature of inhospitality. On the streets, he went by Z-Yaz, but his name was Eratz Lukoya. I had escaped those streets by hiding in the darkness but that night I was a destroyed human being. I walked at a crawl on his main side of the street un-phased by wary eyes. Three of Lukoya’s members chose to be drunk that night. Lukoya ordered them to patrol the streets and stomp anyone who walked near his ‘kingdom.’ They were unfortunate victims of indoctrination.

I had been looking gloomier than usual and they thought that was rather humorous.

“Yo, gent.” I looked up a bit. “Yah you. What’sss wrong with you? Sssomebody call you a bad name? You need any cheering up?” Their leader exclaimed as he tossed a precarious looking club around in his hands.

“Just a dismal day. Leave me to myself.”

“Nah you need sssome help. We got sssome fancy toysss to play with.”

“Not interested.”

“We sssee ya walkin’ thisss path every day an’ you don’t care. Alwaysss shneakin’ around and avoidin’ usss. Isss that how you treat your friendsh? Real masshter of sssubterfuge.” His drunken squalor had gotten annoying by this point and I realized that if I didn’t get out of there at that instant, I was most likely going to be beaten to death by a lowly street gang.

I took off knowing that they would pursue and if I was found, I would be beaten. After a minute into the chase, I was far ahead of them. Their drunken stupor left them slow and clumsy. A half a mile left to go, I took off into a closed alleyway hoping to hide from them. As they ran by, another member of their gang, covering this street, called them over to the alleyway and told them I was somewhere inside. They spread out and covered the entrance, but I wasn’t going to sit around and wait, so I stood up and tried sprinting out when they got close. Two of the thugs grabbed my collar and pinned me against the brick wall.

“Not ssso fassst, masshter. You goin’ sssome place tonight and not invitin’ your friendsh? That’sss harsssh.” His tongue licked back and forth—unstable like a potent concoction. “I ashked if you wanted to play with our toysss. At leassst be ressspectable and ansshwer proply.” He then proceeded to punch my stomach 7 times in an uppercut fashion. I felt the wind knocked out of me—the breath of life coming in then out which blurred the distinction between light and darkness. He took the club and smashed in my right shoulder blade. On the fourth hit, the club broke and shards from the club went into my arm. My blood spattered onto the already reddened brick wall. With the broken club, he thrusted it into my left thigh and then ripped it sideways leaving shards. Blood by now was dripping down my legs and arms uncontrollably.

“You’ll never ignore your friendsh again. Let’sss leave him to think about hisss actionsh.” At this point, I was thrown against the ground and punched across the face one last time before they left. The ground was stained red by a vibrant mixture of living cells and rocky pavement. The alleyway consumed me. I was swallowed up by a child’s fear, the fear of helplessness from the monstrosities of the night.

I closed my eyes, expecting to die—even wanting to die, but I awoke with a girl standing over me calling for help. Her face was broken, but beautiful and entrancing. Her eyes portrayed a ruthless and uncompassionate past. She was strong and she was an anomaly among her kind. Most people destroyed by their past were un-resolved and they relented to the system. She went against that stereotype. She was more compassionate and more driven than anyone in the streets. My eyes blinked and I asked her why I’d been sent an angel. All that came out to her was muttered gibberish and I was still in danger of dying with so much lost blood. She repeatedly told me that an ambulance was coming and would be arriving shortly.

By the time, the ambulance came and she patched me up with the best of her resources, I had lost 7 pints of blood—enough to almost cease functioning. How I lived that long until the ambulance came is mysterious. I believe that the mere fact that there was somebody out there who cared for me as much as she did, was enough to keep me functioning. It wasn’t that I had more will to live than any other person on the planet. It was the fact that I had believed I was more and she was more. One person was enough to latch me onto this world. One person was enough to help me. One person was enough to believe in me.

I was brought to the shambled, relic of the past that was our hospital. Sixteen people staffed it. This world had ignored the past and complimented the future. What remained was the sepia overtone of a previous best. The un-automated stretcher proved that. As I was brought in the hospital, the lights flickered on and off and were hung from thin copper cords. In a way, the lights were paralleling my fate—life and death. Those lights had barely enough power to illuminate one person, let alone a hospital. The girl had followed the entire time. She was the cord to illuminate me.

As I entered the emergency room, I went into cardiac arrest. The couple of pints of blood I had remaining were unable to flow throughout my body. The doctors tried using the defibrillator but to no avail. When I closed my eyes, all I saw was red and white light clashing together in an eternal dance. By then it was too much. I decided to let go. They pronounced me dead at exactly 12:22 in the morning.

Since they could not find any identification on me, they decided to tell the girl because they thought she was my wife or girlfriend. She didn’t pause to think and instead pushed past the doctor and into the emergency room. She had seen far too many people die to let another fall victim to such misappropriated punishment. She grabbed the defibrillator and went to restart my heartbeat when the doctor came in and held her arm. She let go of the left defibrillator and pressed the other one against the doctor. He fell onto the floor in an electrified slump. The left defibrillator fell onto my head and shocked my entire body.

The electric pulses from the defibrillator ripped into my neurons and muscles tissues. Instead of being destroyed, the frequency of the electrical shock was exactly the frequency of my cells—due to a providential mutation. The neurons multiplied and divided into twice as many networks—un-forming, forming, and reforming again. The muscle fibers ripped apart and doubled in number. However, I was half-dead at the time and the line between living and dying has haunted me since. Half of my cells retained function and the other half crumbled under the stress.

The pain was excruciating and after 11 minutes of my body convulsing and having been pronounced dead, I awoke screaming in agony as my body struggled against itself. Thousands of images flashed before my eyes—all memories of the past—flooding my brain with powerful emotions. The doctors restrained me and strapped me onto the bed. Finally, my body had stopped torturing itself. The brightest light possible entered my eyes and I could see. I was awake. I was conscious.

It’s just something I feel has to be done as it’s even more relevant now than it was back in 1989 or when it was being repeated on the BBC throughout the 1990′s. In addition to the original cast (who would be given an image overhaul and reinvented origin) some new characters would be introduced.

This is Herp Pea, he’s the most tech savvy after iPea and also the most promiscuous of the group. He’s also a moron.

There would also be Derp and Lerp pea for consistency reasons.

Also featuring are Dog Pea who is just a physical mess, crack addict and communicates by barking. Tits pea (self explanatory), i Pea (A robo megalomaniac who uses everyone for his own personal gain), Slur Pea (she’s racist, nobody likes her but some find her funny) Don Pea (a gangster), Ice pea (Pea rip off of Ice T the Original Gangster), Red Pea (He’s just red), Jealous Pea, Cop Pea (he is the law) Clear Pea, Foggy Pea, Strong Pea and Cats Piss the elf.

This is because I’m trying to think about the saleability of the idea and frankly without characters like Tits pea this just won’t fly in the modern competitive children’s tv show market. Stay tuned for further developments.

Josh

‘B.S.N.O!’ everyone choruses.

I had planned this night out for approximately one month and two days. Drink had been lugged in from Eastern Europe, dresses had been bought, taxis booked and cancelled, and spirits – alcoholic and otherwise – had been roused for the occasion.

I had even written an itinerary, folded it up and put in my pocket. When one plans in advance, one’s plans must be noted so as not to stray off course.

It is around 9.30 pm and everyone is here, in da flat, drinking da drinks. Everything, so far, is going to plan. One of our friends is arriving later, potential man in tow, and we are out to get him.

‘Listen,’ says one blonde friend, taking my arm and looking very serious. ‘Do NOT let me say anything to him.’

‘Yes,’ says the other blonde, imploringly. ‘Don’t let us ask him about “his intentions”!’

I promise, panicking slightly that it is now 10.05 pm and the majority of the group have changed into their pyjamas.

I gather the group round the coffee table, much like a shepherd does his flock, and try to introduce a game to them. Like sheep, they look at me blankly and chew their straws. I give up after round two.

We then head out da flat, and walk up to our sophisticated cocktail venue of choice. It is now midnight, we are way off course, and I finger the itinerary nervously.

The sophisticated cocktail venue of choice is ‘crammed’, according to the bouncer.

‘One in one out?’ I ask hopefully, glancing back at the long line of us.

‘Nut,’ he says.

‘How rude,’ I say to the friends. ‘Anyhoo…’

In da club – the classiest lassies in this joint. It is now 1.30 am, and I’ve lost my itinerary. I look around and see an empty meat-market, where the best picks have already been plucked and taken home to roast, while the cheap cuts and offal are still on the dance floor.

The other friend arrives, man in tow. Both look a little nervous. I turn back to the dance floor to observe the leftovers.

‘Hideous,’ I say, slurping on a fishbowl.

Despite the fishbowl having four straws, one in each corner, somehow it’s already empty, and no one has helped me.

Aha! The itinerary is folded up in the crevice of the chair, and I tug it out, triumphant.

9 pm – friends arrive fashionably late, of course, in full attire

9.01 pm – drinking games commence and everyone enjoys them

10 pm – leave flat, on time and in an orderly fashion

11 pm - sophisticated cocktail venue of choice

12 pm – in da club, dancing and prancing until dawn

I look around. One friend is nursing a bruise, wondering how she got it. Another has decided to pick up a slightly battered-looking piece of meat, but isn’t all that pleased about the bargain. Meanwhile, the two blondes have trapped our friend’s potential man in a corner. He looks haggard and abused.

‘WHAT ARE YOUR INTENTIONS?’ they are screaming.

Suddenly the lights come on, and I can’t find my cloakroom ticket. The friend with the mysterious bruise leans over to me.

‘That game you tried in da flat earlier,’ she slurs. ‘It was the worst one I’ve ever played.’

‘Cheers to B.S.N.O!’ I call out, defiant, raising the empty fishbowl.

‘What does that even stand for?’ she asks. I fold up the itinerary, regretfully.

‘Big Spontaneous Night Out,’ I reply.

Im nächsten Leben werde ich mehr lesen
Im nächsten Leben schreibe ich eine Nachricht in einer Flasche und werfen es auf das Meer
Wünschen, dass es jemand lesen wird und werde ich die Nachricht von jemanden finden
Im nächsten Leben werde ich ein Opernsängerin
Singen alles was mein Herz will sagen

Im nächsten Leben werde ich vier Sprachen sprechen
Im nächsten Leben werde ich die Welt reisen
Ich werde in den sieben Meeren schwimmen
Ich werde klettern Kilimanjaro
Ich werde sehen viele verschiedene Menschen und Kulturen
So werde ich eine weniger egoistische Person

Ich weiß genau: in meinem nächsten Leben
Ich werde nicht weniger als das, was ich bin
Ich wäre stolz auf mich
Ich werde es genießen meine Jugend
Ich werde es nicht bereuen mein Leben

inspired by “Im nächsten Leben” by Basta

CLAREMONT (CBSLA.com) — A gay slur was spray-painted on a garage door in Claremont and police are investigating the incident as a hate crime.

The vandal spray-painted the garage with a slur against gay men that begins with the letter F.  CBS2 and KCAL9 does not use that word on the air or in print on our website. Underneath that word the vandal also wrote “Death” in large black letters.

The incident occurred in the 2200 block of Narrarro Drive.

Police believe the vandal spray-painted the message sometime between Monday night and Tuesday morning.

Police said the homeowner rents to an openly gay man. Two men live at the residence.

Rachel Kim, reporting for CBS2 and KCAL9, said both of the men have a connection to a local  gay bar.

Anthony Martinez, who works at the bar, said “I don’t know why people do this.”

House mate Andrei Belov — who used to work at the same bar — said he was more shocked than saddened. “This is a really safe area,” he said.

Martinez and Belov rent the home. They told Kim they had no idea who could have done such an act. The vandalism also included egging the residence.

Homeowner Helene Klein said she happily rents to gays. “I happen to like gay people,” she told Kim, “I’m all for their rights and I feel very strongly about that. But something like this really has us shaken up.”

In addition to the slur, and the eggs,  Belov says he also received at least 17 calls from a blocked number starting at 3:40 in the morning. He says they called for almost two hours. “The only thing I could make out was something about a door.”

Martinez had a message for the vandal. “Find something else to do. Find a hobby.”

Anyone with information is asked to call Claremont police at 909-399-5411.

No one likes and cannot stand to see oneself in a bad condition and bad light (to be embarrassed, not to be able to handle the situation and to lack self – confidence). These are unpleasant states of the soul. Everyone likes to feel good.

Keep in mind that errors are normal. Students’ time is to make mistakes, and “not to know everything”. Otherwise, you would not be students but already mature artists (although you will often hear that they also make mistakes).

There is no successful man who has not suffered a defeat, but there are those who just can not bear it. A successful musician accepts a flexible life and himself in it.

Success is the sum of defeat and the favourable outcome of something attempted.

Taken from my book 
I Am Studying Clarinet III

Paul Smith was a guest on WXYT-AM’s Charlie Langton show this morning commenting on his recent controversy.

Mr. Langton wished to discuss the matter as being primarily a free speech issue regarding Mr. Smith’s signs at the April, 2009 Tea Party rally.  Here are a few interesting quotes from their discussion.

When queried repeatedly about Smith’s use of the word “fags” on the Nancy Pelosi sign, he had the following things to say:

• “I attacked a person, I attacked an elected official.  I have not attacked the entire population of their supporters.”
• “It’s not a homosexual slur at all, it’s an attack on Nancy Pelosi, and that’s a big difference!”
• “Well if I put a 12-letter, politically correct statement on there it would’ve been fine print so nobody could read the thing.  You know, when you’re doing a political cartoon or a headline, you’ve gotta abbreviate stuff.”

When questioned about his future effectiveness on council, Smith stated:

• “At least 5 of the 6 councilmen were 100% against me to begin with.  They treat the city council as a private fraternity or a high school clique.   I’m a despised outsider because I dared to run against an incumbent. I defeated an incumbent.  They had four women and three men on the council.  Now it’s the other way around, four men and three women.  The women on council haven’t said a word to me the whole time.  Essentially, I think if I moved to adjourn, we’d be there until midnight “
• “There is nothing to be lost…I was the Lone Ranger before and I’m still the Lone Ranger.”
• “The only effectiveness I ever had was the ability to discuss things that wouldn’t have been discussed at all before, and I’ve still got that.”

Speaking on what he would do if he had it to do all over, Smith stated:

• “I’m not apologizing or backing down for anything, but I think if I had it to do over again I wouldn’t have included Jennifer Granholm.  I think she’s a nice girl, I would really like her, she’s not really good at handling money, but she was a good person.  But at the time she was really sending us into bankruptcy. But I think I would really personally like the girl.”

Mr. Smith: you are certainly entitled to your opinions and your right to free speech.  But “fags” is not the only “abbreviation” for the word homosexual.  You could have said “gays” and used the same number of letters.   And you certainly are “discussing things that would not have been discussed at all before,” but if you think that makes you an effective member of council, you are seriously deluding yourself.

As the media is wont to do, they have narrowed down the public’s objections to Mr. Smith’s continued service on council to a few words on signs from 2009.  Certainly his lack of restraint back then is still an issue today, but those signs are hardly the predominant issue in my mind.  Mr. Smith’s problems are mostly his stubborn refusal to perform the actual job of being a political leader without being insulting, arrogant and demanding to everyone who doesn’t agree with him or see things from his perspective.   His complete and utter lack of respect for his office and the people who hold it along with him is palpable, and it adds up to a wasted seat on council.

If Mr. Smith thinks he is going to be able to advance an agenda, he is wrong.  He doesn’t have to be accorded the right to speak his mind at every meeting; there are parliamentary procedures available to keep his speech to an absolute minimum, and that, I believe, is what will happen.  As Mr. Taylor said, there is no Constitutional right granting Mr. Smith the ability to serve as a politician.

Smith has ruined his chances at making a difference.  It’s a shame; he had much to offer.