The Omni-Historian

I find myself constantly ragging on certain historical figures (i.e. General McClellan and his repeated follies) for their utter "stupidity" and blind "ignorance." I have to stop myself from falling into the common trap of what I've designated "The Omni-Historian." Having a 3rd person point-of-view history book, we are placed into a position of absolute knowledge. On that pedestal of omniscience and omnipresence, lifted up on an air of authority, we tend to judge, criticize, and condemn every strategical mistake in war or political slip-up in presidency.
There is always an inclination towards antagonizing one side of party meanwhile placing the other in a righteous light. We shun the South for its revolting practice of slavery and ignore the vital factors and conditions of the time. To the South, slavery was their lifeblood, their economic means. On the other hand, the North retains a holistic glow, despite their rigorous (though indirect) involvement and partaking of the slave-connected profit. We fail to truly put ourselves in their position, but rather walk in their shoes while retaining our curent all-knowing status.

Not only does it breach upon moral grounds of pompous superiority and even injustice to a degree, it taints our perception of history, infringing on our ability to grasp it in an unbiased and clear way. If we are to free ourselves from a narrow-minded, closed-off view of the world, we must first drop the binding chains of generalizing with sweeping conceptions. Instead, we need to adorn the tattered, worn-out boots of the men of Valley Forge, neglecting not a single hole on the faded leather. We need to cease the antagonist-protagonist argument and stop for a moment to consider what either side was fighting for and what they had to lose. Only if we accomplish this can we do justice to the historical events that has made us into what we are today.

Colored Collisions

NOVEMBER 10, 2012: Went paintballing for the first time.

That will be a memorable day. Sure it wasn't as thrilling as I had hyped it up to be, and it didn't exactly match up with the images of "Matrix-style" dodges and sniper-type marksmanship that I had conjured up, but it was good fun nonetheless. My friends and I all got a healthy dosage of pain and exhilaration with a few bloody skin breakages and nasty welts. There was the sense of accomplishment and joy from hitting someone dead on their chest, the excitement from going "Rambo," dramatically sliding behind cover and madly taking on a group of armed gunners, and the disorientation of being on the receiving end of a clean shot to the face.
 Bullets were flying everywhere and as soon as I would feel safely sheltered, a gooey explosion of neon green would splatter across my mask, penetrating the air holes and coating my face with the dyed sucrose (a not-so-tasty experience). All in all it was a wonderful day of inflicting and receiving suffering to dear friends and strangers alike. With each game came fantastical tales of glorious battle and boasts of spectacular feats.

"Let boys be boys," they'd say, but there were none more vicious than the giggling girls blasting away with menacing laughter, and sending a steady stream of pain to anyone in their way. They matched the ferocity of many of the guys there, uninhibited by any form of mercy or sympathy. I will forever be scarred by the pain of two of the sweetest, kindest church-girls I've ever known unleash a fury of pellets onto my exposed back. Never will I forget.

Amish Friendless Bread

 Just yesterday a friend of mine handed me a piece of "Amish Friendship Bread" along with a "starter pack" and instructions. It was delicious and perfectly moist, and given the fact that she was no baker per se, I was a bit surprised. With the starter in the hand, I skated back home and went to bed. It had been a long and calorific Thanksgiving day, and I was just as stuffed and dead as the turkey within my bulging tummy.

Typical of a Thanksgiving week, I feasted voraciously the subsequent days as well. But this time I contributed beautifully baked, cinnamon-sugar crusted pieces of culinary art to the potlucks. Absolutely scrumptious. Being the curious critter I was, I asked my dearest buddy Google some questions regarding the bread, to which he replied, "Amish Friendship Bread is a type of bread or cake made from a sourdough starter that is often shared in a manner similar to a chain letter." So those starters are basically yeast cultures that each person cultivates throughout a 10 day period to give to others to do the same. Problem was, I now had several starter packs that were to be handed out to friends and family, but the actual need to bake is a big turn-off for a lot of people it seems.  Not having anyone who was interested, the bags just sat in the kitchen for the next 2 days until one night BOOM! BOOM! Two of the bags had expanded past their capacity and exploded, waking my mother and I up in a bit of a fright. Tired and having given up I just threw them into the freezer to bake some time in the future.

And that there is my sad story of baking Amish Friendless Bread.

Numbing Nostalgia

Every cold season that comes by brings back toasty memories of my dearly missed footy pajamas. Those were the good old days. Each night I would adorn a brightly colored and peculiarly decorated coat of armor that was impenetrable by the ruthless ravagings of the chilled night air. With my frigid foe vanquished I slept soundly, illuminated by my radiant glow-in-the-dark patches and kept safe and sound by my mighty stegosaurus, triceratops, and pterodactyl guardians. That was my life and I was the king. Nothing could touch me nor dared to. All were intimidated by the fiery war colors of my glorious unitard.



Unfortunately, those days are gone and now the joys of footies are reserved for my two younger siblings Benny and Minnie. How I would watch them in bitter envy as they contentedly snuggled up in their fuzzy, little PJ's with nonchalant grins plastered on their faces as they lazed about watching that day's episode of  "Spongebob." All the while I screamed inside for the comforting sanctuary housed within. They laughed at the cold that cowered from their presence, while I pathetically begged for mercy from it, longing for the return of days long past. Days in which I had taken that wooly night-time attire for granted. NAY! It was more than that. It was solid warmth manifested in utterly soft fabric through sorts of sorcery that I dare not try to understand. Made from silky threads harvested from exotic cotton plants of lands far off and crafted with utmost precision by the hands of some master seamstress. But reminiscing about it is all I have now, without risking household humiliation of course. Perhaps one day, I will be blessed once again with the joys of its sweet and reassuring embrace.

Cuckoo for cocoa

Look at this beaut of a beverage container. Never have I had a higher opinion of a "ready-made"food product let alone its container. I mean, just look at it. Starbucks' design team really outdid itself in this product's packaging and presentation. I met eyes with her from across the aisle, and oh how we fell so deeply in love. Now they say its not solely about the outside appearance but rather the inside that counts. She's not missing anything there either. A perfect blend of rich chocolatey goodness with just the right ratio of "darkness." A nice breath of fresh air from a sugar-blasted milk chocolate world. That bitter tinge fused with her subtle sweetness and full creaminess, creates an intricate savor. Complexly fabricated into an easily distinguishable Hot Cocoa that puts Nestlé's little cocoa powder packets to utter shame. One with genuine flavor, void of that nasty aftertaste one tends to encounter with any other "insta-cocoa." I can say with confidence that this is the superb hot cocoa commodity available on the market within its affordable price range ($28.99 USD).

This drink has become a part of my daily routine. A swig here and there while I do homework keeps the juices flowing. It turns out I'm not the only one incline to her allure, however, as I came home to find a doppelgänger acquainting herself with my very own. My dad had purchased it while perusing at Costco on the very same grounds I had. He was captivated by the wondrously presented cylindrical container: sleek, shiny, classy (yet retaining simplicity), and just perfect. I myself am an avid believer in "beauty in simplicity" outside the realm minimalism though. It goes to show the equal importance of aesthetics in conjunction to quality. Had she never caught my eyes, I never would have experienced what she had in store for me.

Jetskeee!

Oh the joys of jet skiing. Possibly the single most thrilling sport I've done. Speeding across the waves, going airborne and feeling the impact coming back down, trying to see past the spraying seawater, and just yelling for the heck of it. It's the untamed ocean that does it best. The rolling waves never give you a second's rest, and the frigid water makes it ever more exhilarating. But it's not just the adrenaline rush I get from ride that makes so amazing, but the stories that come with it.
There was that one time I knocked my dad out cold. My dad had bought an inflatable tow-tube, we were setting it up, but the towline got tangled in the turbine. Well, being the genius that I was, I gave the ski a nice little rev and BAM! The line got sucked in and knocked my dad's feet from under him. He of course landed on his head and blacked out, but a few hours of amnesia later he was fine.

But this is my go-to-story: A was a dark and dreary day. A little windy and as chilly as ever. I was driving, with my father and cousin in the back. I don't know if it was the adrenaline or just plain stupidity but I choked that throttle, and when we hit an exceptionally large wave up we went. We landed at a peculiar angle and were all thrown off in a chaotic flash. Here's the kicker though: being the genius that I was (again) I incompletely fastened the carabiner that connected the key to my life vest. And away the jet ski rode at 60 m.p.h. There was a moment of silence and shock then panic as we frantically tried swimming to it, but it was gone. It seemed bleak. We were miles from land and our precious jet ski was probably going to either crash into some rocks and get wrecked or got stranded who knows how far away. There seemed to be absolutely no one around until finally through some miracle from God a group of guys passed by and retrieved the ski for us. After a lot of "thank you's" we head back home, thankful for the fortunate turn of events.

Ben

"Name him Brandon," I said.
"No, I'm his mother. I choose," said she.
And that was how my brother's name came to be.

My mother has a thing, or rather obsession with relations in her children's names. There's me, BENjamin, and then my little brother, BENny. And my little sister?


The process of naming her went like this: BenjaMIN + BenNY = Minn(ie)

It's cute (?) in a way I guess, and at least everyone that finds out for the first time gets a good laugh or two so no harm done there.

And that's them, minus the big, bearded man in the middle of course; that would be "The Lumberjack." Benny is a little bundle of energy. Unusual and goofy, but a really bright kid. He's easily frightened and is one of those kids that cries in Disneyland's Haunted Mansion. Then there Minnie. She's an even more peculiar case. She tries to be a delicate and shy princess-type girl, but she's a fearless diva or spoiled brat, depending on your viewpoint. But to be fair, she's the youngest and the only girl. It's only logical that she's "daddy's girl."

But back to the names. I've long come to accept our names. It didn't really bother me much to begin with. However, "Benjam-ny" has become a household hallmark with my parents. "Benjam-(stuttering)-ny!" they would call in a thick Asian accent, "Get down here and do your homework!" Of course the name of their favorite child comes first to mind, so it's an understandable mistake, but even worse is "Ben." Let's examine this: it could either mean "Benjamin and Benny," "Benjamin," or "Benny." They could be asking for a pen for goodness' sake, but under their accent who could know. Do you not see the predicament you have created, Mother?

ADVENTURE!

 

After eight long years, I decided to relive my sweet childhood memories. One emulator later and I'm playing Pokemon FireRed. Of course I went oldschool with the revamped version of one of the very first games of the Pokemon franchise. It's been a refreshing experience with frequent flashbacks of my days of old. I remember begging my dad at Fry's Electronics to buy me a "RumblePack" for my GameboyAdvance just for this game and tremoring with glee each time it shook as my level 52 Charizard "Blast Burned" my hated foes.

The only thing is, I've made the same progress in a week as I made after months in my younger years, and that bothers me. I don't feel the same excitement I did with each evolution, gym badge, hidden items, or legendary pokemon because I always knew what was coming. With internet walkthroughs and aids, I knew every nook and cranny in the game. There was no adventure.

In this instantaneous age where every bit of information is at our fingertips, we tend to take shortcuts in everything we everything we do. And I think that defeats the purpose. There's that one saying about the journey being better than the destination, and I completely agree with that. Discovering those new things in Pokemon was definitely one of the best part: finding out what was effective against what and going into every other house to figure out where to go, chuckling at the silly remarks from those 8-bit humanoids. So to everyone out there, slow down once in a while and just enjoy the ride.

Iphone 5 Review

With every new iPhone that makes its way to the market, comes the question"What's better about it?" time and time again. Although it doesn't matter considering the fact that it immediately sells millions, there are several significant perks to the i5.
Internally the iPhone 5 boasts an upgraded dual core processor and system memory, and has an increased screen resolution. The camera has been improved and LTE has been made available. Additionally the iOS 6 software update was released in conjunction with the i5, allowing for more features and apps. However, I'd like to focus on the physical functions of the i5.
I was among the skeptics who believed an upgrade would be rather useless, however, the moment I was able to test one out, my mind was changed. Right off the bat, you can notice a much more comfortable weight to the i5. The less chunky size also allows a much more pleasant one-hand grip. I could care less about the .5 inch extension, however, although it's still a perk.
Finally, I'd like to touch on the new "Lightning connector." It created a bit of a stir in making all previous Apple-compatible products obsolete. But honestly, these people need to calm down keeping in mind they were the ones complaining about the original 30-pin connector. It'll be a short matter of time for these obsolete products to be cycled out, and its functionality (easier, faster, and reversible connection), I find, is worth the trouble in the long run.
All things considered, I'd say the iPhone 5 is a buy (7.5/10 rating) if you have a hole burning in your pocket.

Biphasic sleeping

In response to a heavy workload and need to stay up relatively late, I have looked into sleep cycles. From the research, I discovered polyphasic sleep which consists of multiple ("poly") phases ("phasic") of sleeping each day. In the most extreme case there is the Uberman cycle that calls for a rigid schedule of 20 minute naps every 4 hours. Do a bit of math and the total amount of time asleep is only 2 hours. Aside from possible side effects, that pattern doesn't fit with many schedules and is typically used only in extreme scenarios.

The most common pattern is monophasic sleep: one 8 hour slumber. What I have been experimenting with, however, is biphasic sleep. This is composed of a 1.5 hour long nap coupled with a 4.5 hour core sleep: grand total of 6 hours. This cuts back 2 hours of sleeping and therefore logically adds 2 hours of being awake. The timing of these naps are crucial as they need coincide with natural sleep cycles you go through while unconscious (REM and non-REM). As a result, someone on this cycle is able to stay up later and wake up earlier.
After school, I take my nap at 4:30 PM, waking up at 6 PM. I then do whatever needs to be done including homework, and at the latest I sleep at 2 AM. This allows me to wake up at around 6:30 AM and so far no sign of sleep deprivation have shown up. If that continues to be the case, this might become a long term thing.
This sleep pattern coupled with a sleep cycle alarm clock app that I found works wonders. By monitoring your sleep cycles, it is able to coerce you awake at just the right moment during light sleep rather than startle you. This leaves you feeling refreshed and full of energy, ready to start a brand new day.

Thrive by Switchfoot

"I've been awake for an hour or so
Checking for a pulse but I just don't know
Am I a man when I feel like a ghost?
The stranger in the mirror is wearing my clothes

No, I'm not alright
I know that I'm not right
A steering wheel don't mean you can drive
A warm body don't mean I'm alive

...Feels like I travel but I never arrive
I wanna thrive not just survive"

These lyrics, this song, the message have stirred up a sort of discontent in me. Although it hasn't evoked an emotional response, this is probably the hardest a song has hit me. It been on my mind for quite a while now, constantly surfacing here and there bring along with it an exasperation analogical to a catchy song stuck in my head. Annoying in a sense of incessantly poking at me.

Simply existing and living are on far ends of a spectrum. The essence of the song sums itself in the line, "I wanna thrive not just survive." To not just go through the motions but rather go against the established flow of things: to fight and steer our lives as we desire.

It's a great song with a great message which I completely agree with, but how I'll repsond to it I don't know. Will I live by it or just remain pacified in "death."

Lying there with life dwindling away.