Why did Tony Bennet leave his heart behind in San Francisco? Why not leave behind innards of less importance to the maintenance of his health, such as the appendix, or one kidney? Is he implying that of all his vital organs, his heart serves him the greatest purpose? It is highly unfair to belittle other vital organs for the sake of poetry; I understand that the heart is symbolic of one’s feelings, so one’s leaving it behind is representative of strong attachment towards a certain place. Recent scientific discoveries have shown, however, that the brain—and not the heart—is responsible for the enabling of emotions.

So let us reflect on the bile produced by our pancreata, the cerebrospinal fluid that lets our brains float within our skulls, and the epethelium lining the lungs that aid these essential organs to do what they do best—and let us write pop songs about their wonders.

But movements for equal medical recognition aside, the San Francisco trip was a refreshing break from the monotony of school. We met up with J, the token Hungry Artist on our first night, and filled up the following days with a dizzying itinerary of shopping and sightseeing.

Fisherman’s Wharf, a staple to San Francisco sightseeing, gave us legitimate reason to morph into real tourists and snap pictures of anything we deem fit to be a novelty. The only thing that separated us from the stereotypical horde of trigger-happy Asian girls would be the, umm, well, nothing really. It grieves me to say that on that one day, we were the paramount example of an Asian mob with cameras, but it was fun.

We underwent great pains to acquire tickets too see the horrific slabs of brick that weigh down Alacatraz Island. Was it worth leaving the hotel at six in the morning to gamble on the chance of receiving one of the fifty early-bird tickets they set aside every day? My answer stands a firm and confident Yes. Alacatraz was not a happy place, with the ghosts of its Civil War and federal penitentiary past still pacing down the halls, and the musty stench of madness lingering behind cold steel bars. The solitude and separation from the rest of mankind drove me crazy during my four-hour stint there; spending eight to ten years would make legitimate grounds for harboring thoughts of suicide.

And now that the film has been developed, the scans uploaded, and the entry posted, there is nothing left to do but roll the metaphorical sleeves and make a mad offensive rush in the direction of the final few weeks of the semester. And after that, I wish to own all four volumes of The Cambridge History of Southeast Asia, because it would make sixteen-hour flights more bearable.

Posted on November 28th, 2006 by Antiguit

Math is not my friend. It’s not that I hate math — on the contrary, I’ve done everything imaginable to establish a peaceful coexistence with it: I wish it a good morning every day, I share my lunch with it, and I am even civil enough to leave the toilet seat up for it. I write it beautiful pieces of pastoral poetry with carefully measured iambic pentameters and swooping descriptions of the agrestic life we might have together. Why it chooses not to return my congeniality, I do not know. I’ve been more than gracious in my friendship towards it, but I am getting nothing back.

I will do anything to avoid numbers of all sorts, be they rational, real, complex, or natural. Let me smuggle a camera into North Korea and film the gross violations to basic human rights there; let me be part of a research team that infiltrates and exposes various mafia families with illegitimate ties to governmental departments and high-ranking officers; let me teach ignorant, affluent girls from the Jakarta upper class world geography; let me solve world hunger and find reasons to advocate nuclear power! Just please don’t make me graph anything else!

Posted on November 15th, 2006 by Antiguit

What an unproductive weekend. It seems no matter how many attempts were made to accomplish different tasks in one sitting, nothing ever gets done promptly. The overpowering urge to do things in the last minute ever present, you bargain with the workload, saying things like I’ll do it in ten/twenty/forty minutes. You lie like a dirty philandering husband and begin a torrid affair with Shark Week on the Discovery Channel, and before you know it, it’s 3.30 AM. You have a 9.30 AM class later on and curse yourself for not taking care of the work earlier; you solemnly swear that things next weekend will be different, that you will get things done well before 11 PM every night. All empty promises, of course. So when next weekend arrives you lather, rinse, and repeat. What an unproductive weekend.

Posted on November 11th, 2006 by Antiguit

If you could possess any superpowers, what would they be?

Transcendent charisma, wit, and ability to strike fear into the hearts of man. If you wanted to, you could own the world by being a great orator and and a figure who commands unparalleled respect; after all, these are some qualities shared by history’s most prolific leaders. If you put those powers to good use, you can do anything, so imagine being able to solve the world’s problems just by showing up at summits!

Suppose you were invited to an international assembly going undercover as an “observer” or “culturual liaison” (both red hotline code words for ‘Superhero’), when the prime ministers of warring nations Kopokostan and Hobonesia start squabbling. The proctor of the assembly would request the prime ministers to exit the meeting with you—the cultural liaison—and retreat to a small, padded interrogation room with no windows.

At the behest of other world leaders, who have democratically voted for an end to the war, you would attempt to stop the violence tearing the people of Kopokostan and Hobonesia by directly confronting their respective leaders and bombarding them with your super-charisma, super-snark, and super-scariness.

So you escort the prime ministers to the interrogation room and tell them to take a seat; they comply, because you’re so bloody scary. You flash a light into their glassy eyes and say “You two shake hands, make up, and put a stop to your silly little war or else I cut you,” before flicking a switchblade into a wall and opening a bottle of beer with your teeth.

Because your mere aura commands fear and respect, the two squabbling leaders would do as you say, based on the rational fear of you cutting them with a blunt hacksaw before feeding their parts to a hungry pet mako shark called Miffy. They go home, sign a peace treaty or two, bridge new diplomatic ties, establish a free-trade agreement, and the fighting stops. Easy.

Basically, you cannot fix the world with speed or telekinesis, or time travel, or body cells that regenerate quickly; you cannot do it with a batarang, or an invisible airplane, or the knack for morphing into a big green monster when PMS comes around. You might be able to do it as a collective à la X-Men or Justice League, but we all know that things do not get accomplished properly unless you do it yourself (just ask Jack Bauer).

So, beloved reader, what superpowers would you find handy?

Posted on November 10th, 2006 by Antiguit

I was studying (ok, fine, pretending to study) for my European history midterm, reading up on the details of the Hundred Years’ War, with my frighteningly diverse iTunes playlist providing the soundtrack. Being the very imaginative and visual person I am, I played out the scenes from the war in my head as a swooping Michael Kamen piece whined away in the background: headstrong British men on one end — tired and longing for home, but loyal to king and country, fighting for a crown that doesn’t even belong to them — and the angry, gritty French troops on the other side, fueled by blind patriotism and uncompromising eagerness to defend the motherland.

Suddenly, Panjabi MC starts blasting out of my headphones. The next thing I knew — whether it was purely reflex or the result of an overactive frontal lobe — I imagined the British and French soldiers dropping their heavy medieval weaponry, sort themselves out to tidy military formations, and dance in freakish unison (Bollywood style, no less) to the contagious beats of Panjabi MC.

And then I wondered: if Panjabi MC had been around during the Hundred Years’ War, and if they had played Mundian To Bach Ke during one of the battles, and if the Brits and the French dropped their weapons so they could have one big dance party on the shores of Normandy, would the war be over right there and then?

Maybe the United Nations should consider implementing bhangra into their diplomatic policies as a means of conflict resolution. Can you imagine future General Assemblies? C-Span will never be the same! Politicians and diplomats have to do away with the starchy white shirts and crisp power suits, donning instead colorful salwar kameez and sharp sherwanis. The agenda would include time outs for lassi, keema naan, and mandatory choreography that unites everyone in world peace and global solidarity. The Punjabi culture will save us all from self-inflicted apocalypse, and south Asian music shall reign supreme!

Now that would make for a very cool political science class.

Posted on November 1st, 2006 by Antiguit