Video Games in China

I recently learned some interesting information. In China, it is a common fact many movies/books/games are not released to the public. Not only that, but if a citizen of China has internet, they are blocked from ANY site that would give them information about Tienanmen Square. However, what I found most interesting is that they actually alter the content of some video games to conform to their views or beliefs. Intrigued about this idea, I decided to order a copy of a game I didn't think could ever change – Pokemon.

As hard as I tried to find Blue Version, it was an odd coincidence that they were all Red.



The first thing that you might notice is the slogan. Apparently the government isn't too fond of any one person having “all” the Pokemon. The game program sets a maximum number of Pokemon weekly so that no one can reach the level of Pokemon master.

The gameplay progression is totally changed. There are no gyms, but rather autonomous collectives surrounding Pokemon of a certain element. It was especially hard to figure out which character was the real gym 'leader.'



After finally collecting each one of the badges, I was quite surprised to find that the Elite Four have been completely taken out of the game. After entering a large building I was required to fill out a number of forms and told to wait 3-4 days for an official response. To what, I have no idea.



Throughout the game I had to deal with an evil organization that I assumed to be team rocket until the Gym Leader, Vladamir, revealed that he was the head of the KGB and the R did indeed stand for Russia.



I still haven't beaten the game. The final boss keeps taking away all the Pokemon I catch and replacing them with level 1s every time I get to his building. More word on this next week.

-Trevor Seyfried

Thanks Resnet! Luv ya!

SOO I'm James Farmer, and my first blog is a late blog! Though it isn’t my fault!

Well, it partially is, but it wasn’t due to negligence. In fact, I wrote a blog last night, but Resnet decided that since I was using a wireless router, that I don’t deserve their oh-so precious internet. I guess the school doesn’t want me to have wireless internet in my own apartment. It could also have been those 3 gigabytes of amateur porn films I was pirating…neahh.

Anyway, here was my ORIGINAL Blog, before my butthurt Resnet experience. Maybe I'll get a handful of points even if it's a couple hours late:

“Hello, my name is James Farmer, and this is my first BLOG!

Christ, I haven’t written a blog since high school. I kinda miss high school right now, actually. What I miss the most were the motivational speakers. I like motivational speakers not because they motivate me (they really don’t), but because they we’re my source for the newest insults. If anything, motivational speakers were the reason why making fun of kids at school became so appealing.

One example, a motivational speaker came to our school and was talking to us about bullies. He said, “You’re hurting these kids! You see a guy who’s wearing pink, and you call him ‘faggot,’ ‘homo,’ ‘fairy,’ and you’re slowly killing you’re classmates with these words.” I had my notebook out, and I would think “Hmm, I’ve never heard of Fairy, that’s a good one!” and I’d jot it down for later use.

My favorite motivational speaker was Michael Pritchard.

Look up this guy on google, he’s not made up. He came to our school nearly every year and talked about the same bullshit. What always disturbed me about him was his transitions. Normally, a motivational speaker integrates humor with their serious issues so that the kids can laugh while learning a good, well-hearted lesson. But Michael Prichard’s humor was COMPLETELY opposite of the message he wanted to deliver. He would do impressions, but then would talk about something awkwardly terrible literally several seconds later. He would say, “So my dad was a BIIIGGGG guy and he would come home *funny stomping/manly noises* and all the babies in the neighborhood would cry *funny baby noises* and my mom was a TINNNNYYY little woman who sounded like *funny high pitch lady voices* and kids commit suicide everyday and it’s not funny at all,” THAT’S how abrupt the transitions we’re! I’m no good at stopping my laugh when I start, so a lot of my peers thought I was some awful kid who thinks suicide is hilarious.

Maybe that's why I have such terrible humor.

-James Farmer”

Me vs. Man vs. Food by Julian Burg

I don’t watch that much TV, but when I do it’s pretty much exclusively some “world’s craziest videos: seniors edition” (seriously) type of vibe, or if that’s not on, any food show can always fill the void. I’m sort of fascinated with food channel/travel channel shows. I think it was Louie C.K. who pointed out that food shows are like porn for another sense, which I think couldn’t be more spot-on. I find myself sitting in front of the TV drooling like “ooooh yea, eat that food. Oh SHIT I bet that tastes good. Now chew it. Yeah, now swallow it. Oh shit yea.” Then I can grab some Kleenex and mop up.
But of that whole genre, Man vs. Food is a real stand-out. If you don’t know Man vs. Food, it’s the show where Adam Richman, the fat gluttonous piece of shit pictured below, wolfs down 6 pound burritos and other food items that could feed a village in India for… I don’t know, weeks maybe? –And all while playing it off like he’s a rock star and doing these challenges ‘for the ladies.’

Adam Richman

Seriously though, I want to see this show broadcast on huge plasma TV’s in some decimated African shanty town, where I imagine droves of starvin’ Marvin’-esque kids with bloated stomachs and surrounding flies watching with no expression as Adam Richman “conquers” another 11-pound pizza (literally). He actually once ate (not even as a challenge, just as an indulgence) a bacon cheeseburger sandwiched between Krispy Kreme donuts as the bun(!!). It’s little instances like that that make me get up, yell “yeehaw!” while swinging my lasso around, and thank God for making this THE GREATEST COUNTRY ON EARTH. But he seriously bites into it and starts giving it a serious critique about how “the sweetness from the Krispy Kreme plays off the bacon so delicately…” and whatever. It was like a regular episode of Top Chef. Which now makes me think, I’d love to see someone on Top Chef solemnly present their dish to the judges like, “alright chef, so what I have prepared for you this evening is a sizzling angus burger with some melted American cheese and applewood smoked bacon. –Oh yeah, and I put it on some Krispy Kremes. Enjoy.” I’ve also decided that possibly more entertaining than the show itself would be the “Post-challenge shit edition” where Adam breaks a sweat as he drops DOUBLE DIGIT POUND dumps into some poor unsuspecting toilet. You know, for the ladies.
So I could write a novel on all the food channel bullshit, but I would be remiss if I didn’t make a mention of Guy Fieri.

Guy Fieri

There’s not a lot to say… I just can’t really get over the fact that this guy not only exists, but is somewhat successful in life(!?). Pretty unsettling. I probably say this a lot, but this Guy is stiff competition for the single biggest douchebag I have ever laid eyes on. This fool seriously looks in the mirror before leaving the house, fixes a few platinum-blonde spikes in his hair, and goes, “yeah, we’re good.”

Alex Finlay, Entry #1, I hate my housemate.

My housemate is kind of insane. It’s not particularly surprising since I live in the Porter Apartments, but this guy isn’t insane in a funny way. “Anthony” bugs the shit out of me. He's the kind of guy that you want to die first in a movie so you don't have to watch him try to act anymore, plus Tweak from South Park. He never buys food, eats mine, and then complains when we have no food. He’ll wander into a room, into a conversation, and interrupt whoever is speaking in order to insert whatever is annoying him at the time (i.e. his major, his parents, me, his classes, his room, his lack of weed, me, his sickness [by the way, thanks for the flu, fucker], his lack of friends, me…). He hates me almost as much as I hate him. And maybe I wouldn’t mind him so much if it weren’t for the fact that he complains so much. In my household, I’m the one who’s anal about the kitchen and keeping everything neat and puts everything away. So “Anthony” asks if we could move the silverware to another drawer and, as a benevolent dictator, I consent to the change. After having the silverware there for a few days, all of the other roommates tell me individually that the silverware’s new spot is retarded, which it is. It’s completely out of the way and it was a really stupid drawer to put it in. But that’s “Anthony” for you. Completely illogical and unpractical. <---mmmm repetitive. But I can’t think of the right words to describe him, so fuck you. Anyway, I moved it back to its original location. When I told him, he freaked out and started yelling at me that I had moved it in the first place and that he was just getting used to how it was and then I moved it to the location he suggested. WTF. THIS BOY NEEDS XANAX MORE THAN I DO. We got into a huge fight that was basically like this:
Him: “Why are you always telling me not to eat your food and to wash my dishes and to clean up after myself???”
Me: *speechless*
He’s crazy. I came into this living situation thinking he’d be the normal one. I was wrong. The former acid dealers I live with are saner than “Anthony”. If you hear a story about a murdered Porter student, hide this blog entry.

Caroline's Trojan Troubles

All right, so... There is something I need to share with you that has been on my mind for some time. I'm a little worried because I don't know of anybody else who has a mind dirty enough to make this connection, and I truly hope I am not the only one who has noticed this, but as I sit here and honestly put some serious thought into what I've been contemplating, I continue to giggle like a schoolboy who's just seen boobs for the first time. Here is what troubles me: Trojan Condoms.

The name "Trojan" came from the story of the City of Troy. It was the most powerfully guarded city of its time, a stronghold. No army was strong enough to invade its walls. That's where the name comes from. The power and safety of this little sheath of rubber is epic in its ability to protect against the attack of armies of bacteria and viruses that are pretty much inevitable when you have sex these days. Its strength is limitless, its strength is...Trojan. That's the allure of the name.

My worry comes from the other possible interpretation. My interpretation, which pertains to the more popular mythological symbol from that story: the Trojan Horse. The symbolism of the horse is pretty much just to encourage the user to think that he's hung like one. And I guess that works, because Trojan is "America's most trusted name in condoms". But does anybody else think of the rest of the story of the Trojan Horse when they hear the name? Does anybody else realize that the Trojan horse was a device that infiltrated the impenetrable fortress. Once inside, there was much celebration. But soon after, the device broke open, and the little men within the device then left it and then disbursed and destroyed.

America's most trusted name in condoms is also America's most ironic name in condoms.
Just thought you should know.

Peace,
Caroline Klink

6 Degrees of Dating Shows

I don’t get to watch television much anymore, originally because I didn’t have a TV, then I couldn’t find time for it in my school schedule, but I recently realized why it was not such a bad thing when I saw Real Chance of Love for the first time, and I realized why it was so easy to let go. I was told by the ‘friends’ I was watching it with that this was a show based around people who participated, and lost, in another dating show called I Love New York, who got that show by being on Flavor of Love, which was the aborted mess that came from his relationship on the Surreal Life. It would be like giving Steve Buscemi’s minor bellhop character in Barton Fink a spinoff movie of his own where we watch him shine shoes for two hours, then making a movie about the person who supplies him with shoe polish tallying up his inventory, followed by a film about that person’s milkman driving his empty truck home and of course each person would get their own trilogy. Television has become some sick and empty version of six degrees of separation that acts like black hole of entertainment. But on the bright side, now people who want to be on TV don’t have to worry about getting a good agent, working, having talent, or fucking the right people, they just simply have to wait for the right non list celebrity to refuse to date them on national TV.

Blog #1-Merlin Jones

Will Poulin: Hippies

So fuck hippies. Fuck em hard. I’d end it there, but I have a minimum word count to fill. You know what helps put me to sleep? Drums. Not just any old drums, but drum circle drums, played with no thought to rhythm or structure. And since when was incoherent screaming a fixture of drum circles? What is so fucking important about communing with the fucking earth spirit of fucking Gaia that you have to scream your ass off at one o’clock in the GODDAMN MORNING? And the worst part about those shits is their attitude toward everyone else who happens to not have a ball hash the size of their fist rammed so far up their colon they can taste it. All I’m trying to do is get some sleep, but if I ask them politely to stop making that arythmic noise and die in a well, they get all righteous and preachy and start telling me that I can’t impose my authority on them because drumming is just a state of mind and maybe we’re all part of the same energy field man, and TOUGH SHIT BECAUSE I DIDN’T SAY YOU COULD IMPOSE YOUR SHITTY FUCKING DRUMMING ON ME YOU PIECE OF SHIT MEAT SACK WASTES OF SPACE AND AIR. You white, rich-parented, unintellectual, narro- minded, ineffective leeches. What you are doing is not helping anything or anybody. Dancing around and howling at the moon like a bunch of dipshits is only going to make things worse while making you feel better about yourselves.. You want to be the change you seek in the world? Burn a cop car, or a bank, or an Army barracks. Refuse to pay taxes, go to prison. BURN DOWN A PRISON. Take a big, fat dump on Mark Yudof’s lawn. Fuck you.

Santa Cruz, I love you. (Benjamin Gray, Blog #1)

Yesterday started like most days: I woke up on the floor in the corner of my room holding a mostly empty bottle of tequila and wiped away the salt residue from last night’s tears. But it didn’t take long before the day took a very strange turn.

You know how pedestrians in Santa Cruz always think they have the right of way? Even when you’re half way through the damn intersection, they just step right in front of you. I think every fucking person in this town missed the day in Kindergarten when turn taking was discussed. They were probably on strike that day.

Anyways, I was dropping someone off downtown, which involved navigating the excruciatingly frustrating one-way dead-end sonofabitch that is Pacific Ave. I sat at a stop sign as a bus load of normal folks crossed in front of me. Just when the last of the crowd stepped out of my way and I’m about to start moving again, a seemingly homeless, rag adorned gentleman stepped off the curb causing me to stop once again.

Forgetting my window was cracked open, I asked aloud, to no-one in particular, “Are you fucking kidding me?”.

Clearly hearing me, my new homeless friend turned toward my car, made eye contact with me and yelled, “I AM FUCKING KIDDING YOU!” It was at this point that he unzipped his pants, protracted his apparatus, and slapped his long floppy black cock against the hood of my car.

Before I had time to ask myself what the hell had just happened, he had re-holstered his salami and finished crossing the street. I sat there in a confused stupor for a few more moments until the car behind me began honking.

I then proceeded to buy myself another bottle of tequila. Thank you, Santa Cruz.

Chris Nuth’s Blog Entry #1

They say that tragedy plus time equals comedy. I hope this is true, because the last two weeks of my life have been tragic. I have watched 4 seasons of Survivor, back to back to back to back, and probably a little front in there too. I’m completely obsessed with the show. I had never seen it until two weeks ago, and now the floodgates are open. Even though I’ve read the Wikipedia page and had the winners spoiled for me, I still obsess over the show. Like most cultural phenomenon’s, I’m playing catch-up. I was never the kid that had the newest toys, or knew what people were talking about when they traded Pokemon cards. I’d probably be cool if I had this blissful ignorance on purpose, but in reality I’m just lazy. My laptop has spent so much time on my lap playing Survivor DVD’s I think I need to buy it dinner.

My love of Survivor has taken over my life. I do my tribal dance during the credit sequence, where the rhythmic drums and beats inspire me to wipe the goldfish crackers off my half-naked body and do 1 minute of white person cardio dancing. I cheer when my tribe wins, and cry in shame when they don’t. I eat pizza in front of the screen, pretending they can see me eat while they starve. I have dreams of how I might win the next Survivor competition. I dream of a post-apocalyptic Survivor game, where the show takes on a Sci Fi twist and one tribe is full of mutants. I dream of being a survivor on the island from Lost, and I’m in an alliance with the Smoke Monster. I dream so much because I take Ambien CR, which really fucks my shit up, to put it delicately.

I went to the store yesterday and bought some flint with a machete. I want to learn how to start fire in the wilderness, with nothing but myself, nature…and a machete with flint. Still, I want to train myself to be the ultimate survivor, and join the show after I graduate and become the victor! I will have to sacrifice my beloved carbs and sugar, eating only coconuts and rice to train my body in the ways of dangerous malnutrition. I must learn to spear fish, and kill them without having handiwipes to clean my hands. I also want to learn parkour because it looks cool, and might help me in obstacle courses. Parkour can also help you run from the police.

My normal life is being affected. I call my comedy group members my tribe. We are the Pagong tribe. I form alliances with girls, I don’t “date” them. I win Reward challengers by going to class, and the prize of pizza fills my belly. I sleep in a sleeping bag, on a king size bed that is kinda springy, so it’s just like roughing it in the wildness. I listen to tribal music on my Ipod, and throw spears of celery into the trash instead of making myself a salad. I ran outside in the rain to simulate monsoon conditions, and I tried to build a hut out of falling tree debris. I killed someone the other day, to win my immunity challenge that my dog told me about. Now I can’t get voted off this island…this island called America!

Whoa, sorry I really lost it there for a second. Anyway, yeah. I got addicted to Survivor like it was heroin. Delicious, tary heroin. And now come the withdrawal, as I must focus my efforts on the serious class work that I have to do in my Stand Up Comedy Class and my Philosophy of Star Wars Seminar. Deadly serious class work. And if I give these last two weeks some time, they just might stop being a tragedy and turn into delicious heroin. No, comedy! I meant comedy. I had no idea what to write about for this blog entry.

Nick Edrick's Blog #1-A Night of Passion

My bedroom is a very strange place. The first thing the girl sees when she walks in is a framed picture of King Tut hanging on my wall. I like to call him King Toot, and I do so whenever I talk to him. His face is locked in this perpetual half-smirk that really makes me want to punch him. I’ll greet him and introduce the girl to Toot, and he will simply smile knowingly at her. He knew a lot of women in his time, that Toot.

The next thing the girl sees is my guitar, which I have cleverly left out on the bed as if to say “Oh, sorry, I was just picking out an Amaj7dim chord before I went out, I really dig the sharps, you know?” That way, she’ll think I’m more sensitive then I really am. Once I move the guitar out of the way, we can get down to business. I sit down on the bed, she does the same. We stare into each other’s eyes. I say something smooth like “You look really pretty in that dress.” She says “It’s actually a skirt.” I lean in. She leans closer. I have to go to the bathroom. And it’s a full scale evacuation, if you catch my drift.

I excuse myself to the girl and to Toot and leave them to chat while I go drop the Browns off at the Super Bowl. Half an hour later, she’s asleep and covering the whole bed. I go sleep on the couch, using my towel as a blanket. King Toot just smiles. He’s seen all this before.

A Day In The Life - Emily

"Hey hey! What's been happening with YOU, Emily A----?" You ask, eagerly perched on a tasteful wooden chair loading this week's comedy blog on your tasteful laptop computer in an even more tasteful urban café.

"Oh," you mutter, "I see you've let your vocabulary slide a bit since I last spoke with you."

Maybe I have, faithful reader, maybe I have, but maybe it's because I've been dealing with the BULLET HOLES in my garage window.

My garage window, circa yesterday.

Yeah, it's a goddamn problem. There are six bullet holes, and the rest of the glass is about as cracked out as my neighbors. I live downtown, in an area frequented by drunkards, miscreants, hairy vagrants, and that new Pope - any of whom could be the culprit.

Papa B-XVI, stay the hell away from my garage.

My neighborhood is dirty. Last week I found a used needle on my steps, and I know I stopped throwing my heroin empties there since at least August. I bought a trash can, motherfuckers. It was time. The yard was full again.

My house. Not pictured: crack addicts.

Man, I could tell you tales that would convince you Santa Cruz needs a crime-fighting hero to bring order to our streets. I could go to City Hall, demand an audience, and tell our elected representatives that the time to form a team of justice-seeking, pistol-packing vigilantes is NOW. I could show them the costume designs (think Teddy Roosevelt meets Batman), and I could demonstrate my prowess with a variety of weaponry. And I could be rejected for the fifth time in two weeks.

Not pictured: Success

Anyway, none of this is going to change the fact that my landlord is definitely going to notice that the bullet holes came from inside my garage.

Damn.

Lesson of the week: Indoor shooting ranges and BB guns are awesome, especially when coupled with a case or two of chilled Tecate, but a camping tarp does not a bulletproof backdrop make.

I’ll see you next week, when I’m done searching my lease for a “tenant-is-fucking-retarded” clause. Until next time, cowboys!

Olivia Mendonca, Blog #1: What color is Your Parachute?

When I was growing up, I wanted to be an astronaut. More than anything else. I literally could not comprehend the idea that there were people who didn't want to be one. I wasn't a stupid kid, I should have realized that the world just wouldn't work right if everybody had the same job. I mean, imagine trying to find a parking space when six billion people show up for work in the morning. That would just be silly. I should have caught that one, even at age six.

However, there was one profession that did give being an astronaut a run for its money: Jedi Knight. I had a lightsaber and everything. I would get dressed all in black and go in the backyard to practice my “moves”. Mostly I just ended up whacking myself in the head with the lightsaber. I quickly discovered that that wasn't going to work, either. There's just not as big a job market for those with force-wielding skills as there used to be.

The thing is, even if my past career ambitions weren't very realistic, at least I knew what the hell I wanted. Now I'm just wandering through life with no real idea of what to do next. It's just a bit worrying to be accumulating thousands and thousands of dollars in debt that I'll have to pay off doing “I don't know what”. Unfortunately, no one is going to pay me money as a reward for simply not dying.

In high school, I had a few friends who already knew exactly what they wanted to do. Of course my first impulse was to scream in their face, “YOU LIE!” I wasn't convinced that they could possibly be that sure. It just isn't normal. I was secretly hoping that they would all fail miserably and live sad, empty lives. Or that at least they would end up changing their major.

I'll probably figure something out soon, but I'm just a bit impatient. It would be nice to have a clear plan, but why not enjoy the feeling of having endless possibilities? I guess the real reason I'm writing all this is that I don't want anybody to be surprised when they see me fifty years from now wandering around downtown in a Jedi costume.

Gregory Towle, Post #1

So, I’m here to talk, or should I say, write, about First Rain. Yeah, it’s awesome, and yeah, it’s amazing and stupid people run around nude for like three hours, very cool. Not. It’s funny cause in the next couple of days everyone realizes they have pneumonia, and end up going to the hospital. I mean, don’t people realize that getting naked in the middle of like, an intense rain storm isn’t the smartest idea? And then there is the possibility of pictures ending up on the internet. You just know that some random guy is gonna have a camera, and he’s just gonna have to post those pics online. Actually, I’d be more scared if I saw a guy with a camera, and then didn’t find the pictures online, that would scare me. Like he just kept them, and was treasuring the images of my nude body forever. Anyway, besides the worry about pictures and fatal illnesses, there’s the worry about getting back into your room. Apparently every year some of these idiots manage to forget the fact that keys and id’s are sort of necessary when you want to get out of the rain, so they have to call their RA or CSO (of course they’ve managed to bring their cell phones.) So, the RAs and CSOs now have to deal with several hundred naked, and most likely incredibly horny people, willing to do anything to get back into their rooms.

I think I’m going to apply to be an RA next year.

Anyway, there are also the people on the naked run that wear clothes. Now THOSE are the people you want to smack, I mean, if you can come out in boxers and such, it sorta defeats the purpose of a “naked” run. I mean, where’s the fun in that?

That said, I fully intend to participate again next year. Thanks and have a good day!

Julie Roth

Have you heard about the angler fish? There was one in Finding Nemo so my guess is, “Yes, I do know what an angler fish is.” They’re those ugly little mothers that have a little glowing worm-like appendage at the end of a long antennae. They mate for life because the male fish, which is about ten times smaller than the female, attaches itself to the side of the giant female and eventually goes from a parasitic spouse to a sperm bag as he slowly becomes a part of her body. It’s the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard of. I’m not a marine biologist, but I did do a report about these beasts in second grade, and all I can remember is how tricky drawing the fucker was.
I am not the big momma letting pathetic guys latch on to me like their life depended on it. I’m probably the biggest wienie I know, and I think it might surprise people because I’m tall, have nice hair, and look like Bjork. However, I also collect things with kittens on them, have a crippling fear of the dark and sea creatures and my mom, and I finished the internet.
I never thought of myself as having an addictive personality, but the one heifer I’ve attached my pathetic little body to is the Internet. Do you know how lame it sounds to say, “I spent 12 hours today looking at websites?” Well, whatever, asshole. I’ve seen more celebrity genitals than I can count. I also know how to put on drag queen make up, fold a shirt in three seconds, and can prove to you that JC Chasez is a Mennonite. I’ve seen so many cute babies and animals that I forgot what my own family looks like (but I’m pretty sure my little brother looks like Bruce Lee and my dad might be Santa Claus).

It’s taken me at least three hours to write this because I needed to stop and find out that Britney Spears was just voted the #1 celebrity mom, see Lindsay Lohan lash out against her ex, Sam Ronson, on Twitter, and check whether or not some Finnish Fashionistas updated their blogs yet. They haven‘t.

A Pleasant Morning with Kirill Zaitsev

Morning yall,

So, if you knew me at all you’d know that I’m obsessed with being prepared, for anything, from being prepared for class (did I print everything, submit everything, etc etc) to going out to movies (tickets to a Very highly rated movie, I’m a college student… I’m not paying 10 dollars to watch crap; I can that at home for free) to dates (wallet, breathe test, signed letter from my psychiatrist saying I’m not crazy anymore). With pretty much everything, I like to read ahead and know what I’m walking into. So Yelp.com is a godsend for me.

It has led me to several wonderful restaurants, some great hotels, just good times. However, yesterday, I came across the Yelp page for San Quentin (yes the prison), which somewhat confused me. How do you rate a prison? Here's my guess:

3 out of 5 for Executions/ style
2 out of 5 for Client retention
4 out of 5 for their continental breakfast?

I mean, if they built an Olympic sized pool and added a spa, would that help or hurt the rating?

All that said, it actually has a rating of 2.5, so there are mixed feelings out there, because most of the reviews are either one star or five…. I wonder what type of person is leaving each review….

*insert transition*

I had a job, not so long ago, and I wore a necktie to this job. I like neckties for three reasons:

• They’re 100% useless and therefore qualify as the only accessory that straight men will wear.

• You can wear the ugliest tie in the world, and have no color coordination (another straight guy thing) and be alright.

• (My favorite) They are, without a doubt, designed to be portable nooses.

Before we had cyanide pills for secret agents, we had the necktie! That’s right, if you are trapped by evil commie spies, and you know you’ll be tortured until you tell them that American Military Secret (probably Martha Stewart's cornbread recipe is what they’re after), and you need a way out… Just sling that tie over a pipe running through your cold damp jail cell, say a prayer, apologize to god for your life of sin, and jump off the stool.

I just noticed that both my topics involve death… I’m actually a happy person, on the inside.

-Kirill Zaitsev

Scott Curtis Blog 1

When speaking publicly about masturbation Mark Twain once said, “To the lonely it is company; to the forsaken it is a friend… They that are penniless are yet rich, in that they still have this majestic diversion.” Indeed wiser words have never been spoken, and I have pledged myself to living a full and vigorous life based upon the simple principle of self-abuse, a living code of conduct that I take where-ever I go. In fact, in all of my well rounded traveling experience the feat that I’m most proud of is the fact that I have masturbated in a total of ten foreign countries: including three pulse pounding sessions above 40,000 feet in an airplane lavatory; once in the renowned Parisian art museum the Orsay (Impressionism give me a hard on); twice while watching the surf crash upon Omaha beach on the Normandy coast; and finally once in a small bathroom outside of the Sistine chapel in the Vatican. Some people might say that my habits are disgusting or unhealthy, mostly my mother when she catches me in the act. To those people and to the world I declare that self-abuse is a victimless crime whose medical and psychological benefits are too numerous to count. However the most important benefits are that regular healthy masturbation lowers blood pressure, reduces stress and anxiety, makes for a more productive workforce, lowers the incidence of violent crime, keeps the poorest and most destitute classes from instigating revolutions, deceases the birth rate, and finally it makes for one hell of a practical joke. The aforementioned recommendation applies to both men and women so please I beg of you to punch the bishop until you can no longer; stir the trough and fiddle your skittle. Nobody knows but I’m probably masturbating as you are reading at this very moment.

Naked Run by Oliver Cruz

Well a couple days ago it rained for the first time in Santa Cruz. My friend called me up and said “Yo man we got to do the naked run”. I was like well man I don’t want to be playing star wars with you while we are running. We both decided instead to check out if there were a lot of people going so we walked around campus. We got onto the metro bus. When we stopped at kresge naked people wanted to get on the bus. In my head I was like no fucking way the bus driver will let them on the bus. To my surprise he let them on and in my head I said to myself, “Do not get a boner, do not get a boner”. I told my friend hey man do not stare at them, just act natural. He then told me, “How the fuck can I do that when it’s right in front of me”. Then I told me friend that it must suck to be naked if you have a small penis. My friend then said to me, “Well that’s why I decided to not do it anymore”.

When we got off the bus we let all the naked guys get off the bus first. We did not want risk getting touch by their dicks and balls. So we got off at college 9. We saw all the naked people running and yelling. They must be yelling to show how cold they private parts must be. I told my friend the only way for me to do this is if I’m high or drunk. My friend then said to me, “The only I will do this is if my dick grows about three inches”. So this year’s naked run was very memorable.

Victor Nguyen Blog#1: Those crazy teachers

I had some funny teachers over the years. I once had a chemistry teacher, who was talking about how shrooms had the same effects as Acid (in case you didn’t know they’re both hallucinogens). There was this one time where his “friend” tried shrooms with his other friends in the bathroom, as you know you don’t try drugs by yourself. He swears that his friends’ faces melted right off and that he was chased by this ugly ass leprechaun all around the school which was why from that day on little people scared him.

In junior high, I had teacher who had a problem with his students. They kept constantly stealing stuff off his desk. Eventually he got fed up and came up with a prank to stop this one and for all. He took a pill jar and filled it up with rabbit droppings. He then labeled the jar “Smart Pills.” One by one the rabbit droppings were disappearing. One day a student came up to him and asked if he could have a smart pill. My teacher answered, “Sure go ahead.” After the student tried it he pauses a moment and said, “…these taste like rabbit droppings.”
My teacher snaps his fingers and quickly replies, “There you go, its working.”
No one ever dared to steal from his desk after that. However, what really bothered my teacher was….how did he know it tasted like rabbit droppings?

Lastly, I had a teacher who always played jokes on us. Sadly, he passed away during the semester he was teaching us, but before he did, he told us that the school required us to write a paper for the class. However, he was going to be lenient and let us take notes on a movie instead. A few days later and after his passing, the principle came in and asked us what we were doing in class. After we talked about the school’s requirement and the movie, the principle said. “…we don’t require you to write a paper for the class.”
We all couldn’t help, but shake our heads. Even in the grave he still gets the last laugh

Sorry Katy by Julia Yeager Blog 1

This was a very random event that simply made me smile :)
Last Friday, after class, I got back to my dorm room and noticed a pink post-it note left on my desk. It was from my roommate Katy, who was at her desk. She watched me as I walked over to read the note:
______________________
|
| Did you pick your
| nose and leave a
| booger on my
| laptop? I mean, if
| you did I’m not mad
| but… did you?
|_____________________

Wow, what a shock. Boogers in a college dorm. I laughed and asked, “Oh my god, are you serious?”
She replied, “Yeah!, when I got back from class there was this like, huge brown booger on my laptop, and I was like, What the fuck. Was it you? I’m not mad but-”
“Yeah, no... It totally wasn’t me; I don’t even know what you’re talking about…”
She laughed and said ‘okay’. The conversation had been dropped and she continued facebooking, no doubt, about the mysterious laptop booger.
I sat there thinking… ‘Someone, came into our room, to stick a big brown booger to my roommate’s laptop. Who would do that? What was their thought process? “Oh damn, I don’t have a tissue… better go find an unsuspecting laptop surface.”
Later, my roommate left to do laundry as I continued to work on my homework…
Naturally, I HAD to fuck with her. I needed to put a second ‘booger’ on her laptop before she got back. I looked around the room, frantically searching for booger materials… I settled on some soil from a houseplant I had on my desk. I slathered lotion onto the small piece of dirt and smeared it onto her laptop. Perfect! It smeared just the way a booger should... I waited for Katy to get back from doing laundry…
Needless to say, my roommate was not happy to see the second booger. No matter how much I tried to explain, she would not listen. I told her the first booger was definitely not mine, but that I had created the artificial booger. She was not listening, all she could say was, “Julia, what the fuck… this is not okay, so not okay.”
Today is Wednesday and she still refuses to look at me.

Blog numero uno by Eric James Barger

It's 2 AM, and I'm finally getting around to posting this god damn blog. But, it ties in to what I'm talking about! Yay! So I’ve been having a really hard time sleeping lately, and I can’t really figure out why. Maybe it’s because my bed feels like some construction workers used the remaining tiles they had to throw together a mattress. Or maybe it’s because I’m having horrible nightmares of the 12 cottage cheese butts I witnessed during first rain, flopping up and down like some demon trying to tell me to run back to Porter. Yet another theory is that every morning at 7, I wake up to the banging of hammers on my wall, and construction workers singing in loud voices. Or maybe it’s because I’m stressed about my classes because I really want to do well… no, that’s definitely not it. Anyway, I don’t know why, but I’ve been having really vivid dreams, and jerking awake, not sure where I am. The worst was when I had a nightmare that I had been transferred to Merrill, and I woke up believing that my roommate was sitting at his computer, playing World of Warcraft. But I think the real reason that I have a hard time sleeping is that I’m always really excited about whatever is going on in my life. I have great friends, albeit friends who stole all my rice crispy treats in the 30 seconds I was gone to refill my cup. I play Belegarth, which is that nerdy foam sword fighting thing you see people doing on the quad. So if you ever see me, and I start talking about my battle strategies, please slap me. I don’t want to turn into that guy. I’ve been exploring the woods, which eventually led to getting lost in the woods, panicking, trying to call my roommate but realizing there is no reception in the woods, wetting my pants, climbing a tree to see where the hell I am, panicking some more, sitting in the fetal position, and then finally realizing that the road is 20 feet to my left. Anyway, every night, before I “sleep”, I always reflect on what I’ve done so far, and I get really excited about what’s to come, which makes it nearly impossible to drift off. So I lie there every night, and I think to myself, “Holy crap, my parents would be so embarrassed.”

Blog #1 October 15, 2009

Dear Bloggy,

You may not be aware of how awesome Batman, but just to remind you, he’s so goddamn awesome! I’ve been playing a lot of that new Batman video game and I just finished it moments ago. I got a lot of it done due to the fact that there’s been a storm here lately in the big Cruz. A new storm coming at this earlier part of the year can only mean one thing… First Rain, my second favorite UC Santa Cruz holiday. I decided to chicken out this year because I was lame and took the “I still feel a little sick” route. Yeah I really could have done it, but I’ve done it twice already and I wasn’t looking forward to massive shrinkage adventure part three. It was disorganized as always because people don’t know the rules. Some have said that a thing like a naked run has no rules. Of course it has to have rules! If 420 has rules, then so does an event like First Rain. Two events were held because the first one never counts (a phrase I hear every First Rain because for some reason the one that happened didn’t really count). Instead of running around with all the other hip Santa Cruzians, I had late night at the dinning hall as usual. This being my third year at Santa Cruz, one would get used to the quality off food. It seems that every year my standards get even lower. When I look at a bowl of potato chips next to a bowl with crappy onion dipping sauce and think that it’s variety, something’s wrong. They even took away my favorite salad dressing at the Cowell! I just blame all the low grade quality on budget cuts (they’re great for blaming anything that goes wrong in this school. I think it’s time I start ending this thing, and stop listening to this j-pop video game soundtrack (damn I’m such a nerd).

As always with love,
Jamus Hain

Ariel Conkel - Blog Assignment #1

Last Tuesday night, I experienced one of the many delightful student body events that the University of California Santa Cruz has to offer:The First Rain/Naked Run.

This was truly one of the funniest, shocking, and silliest thing I have ever witnessed, yet it was one of the most humbling and coolest things to watch. People of all different sizes, shapes, colors, colleges, sexes, and places in life all came together for one night to embrace one another and celebrate the start of the rainy season.

Or I could be taking it totally and completely wrong, and everyone just wanted an excuse to drink, take off his or her clothes, and run through campus screaming. In any case, I got to see more wiener, bongos, and vag to last a lifetime.

I, however, was a pussy and hella bitched out. [Sorry SoCal, I realize “hella” is a strange concept to wrap your head around, but you’re getting used to the rain, you can get used to “hella”] I thought about doing the run in bra and panties, but didn’t want to be like the lame asses at UC Santa Barbara and UCLA and do a panty run. It’s the Naked Run. Go Big or Go Home. If you’re going to do it, do it all the way. [Wow, sexually innuendoes seem to be an occurring thread in this class].

My favorite part of this whole charade, aside from sipping tea watching the goods bounce past the balcony of my apartment, was the way in which everyone decided to accessorize their ensemble. I saw fanny packs, golf hats, colorful scarves, knee-high socks, and a BAG PIPE!

What a story to tell Grandma about my first college experience. She’ll be so glad I came to UCSC instead of the all girl private college she had suggested years ago.

Cheers to nudity!




[and rain]

Life So Far At UCSC By: KEVIN COWIE

So far UCSC has been the best decision of my life. UCSC was my first choice and since I didn't make it into any other college, UCSC was my only choice... However there are only a few things that I've noticed about UCSC that sometimes get on my nerves. For some reason everywhere I walk around I smell skunks everywhere! But it always seems to be in the most remote locations I smell the skunks. I could be walking on the Kredsge bridge and the skunks are below me. I'll be in the dinning hall and the skunks smell will be practically enveloping the room. The weirdest thing is the skunks like to follow the kids with dreads or long hair, they usually are wearing tie die also. But hey I cant complain. The naked mile was a great time! I ran with the crowd for a while but I didn't feel like taking my clothes off so I just pinned a piece of paper on my shirt that said “nudest on strike”. Eventually I striped off the clothes, yet who the #@%* thought it would be a great idea to take pictures of everyone running?! Great you have a naked picture of me now what? I know ill tag Kevin Cowie in this picture on Facebook! Well sure I had bragging rights and sexy pictures to show everyone. Plus the exercise from that 3 mile run felt great. The only problem was that my mom got Facebook around 2 months ago. So unfortunately she knows how to use it... “OOO lets see what new photos Kevin got tagged in at UCSC...... AHHH What the #@%* is hedoing!!” Well on a different note the dinning hall is great! All you can eat which really is helpful for my fat @$$. I usually end up going alone, not because I don't have any friends here its just how my class times work out. But sitting by yourself is just kinda of creepy so I decided to grab an extra plate of food to throw everyone off. I just put it across from me and whalla! Instant friend went back for more food and he will be right back excuse.

To All the Hipsters I've Loved Before- Brianna Colomb

Blog #1
My dear naked run participant with the concave chest,

I get it. Sometimes the beauty of seeing sweet precipitation meeting the arid soil for the first time gets me a little feverish too. And yes, my clothes sometimes feel too much like the culture coffin they really are. And yes, the need to show UCLA that they are indeed delusional assholes for thinking the undie run is something to get excited about is tempting, but dear emaciated whitey, please resist the urge! If I wanted to see a Porter freshman’s fuzzy little pic-nic patch I would put on an ironic t-shirt and get my banjo.

Now I realize if the naked run were exclusively for the well hung Adonis it would be restricted to the members of the Queer Men of Color group, but is avoiding a painful rehashing of my sexual blunders too much to ask? We all fuck a few mistakes in college, like that doughy virgin who introduced me to Edward forty-hands, but seeing Bilbo Baggins and the Hobbits flop past me only reminds me of that awkward minute and forty seconds that I’ll never get back.

But if not for me, think of yourself! Letting that cute first year down the hall compare you to that normally unfuckable kid with “a great personality” who is actually packing heat is tantamount to admitting that the guy who sings while he takes a dump is actually you.

Now please, next time you get the urge to show off the custard cannon and its genuine fur coat, please think of your friendly neighborhood slut, if they see it when they’re sober, they’ll have a harder time forgetting it when they are drunk.
I guarantee it.

"Al" Mulifanua Asuega

Blog #1

So yeah I hate my grandma. Mostly because she's stronger than me and was so got damn ruthless when I was growing up. I mean I don't blame her at all for the way she treated us because we weren't exactly daddy's little angels. Me and my brothers were probably more comparable to little gremlins from hell. Like me and my brother would play this game where we would pretend that my grandma was the Evil Lord Rita from the original Mighty Morphing Power Rangers. Yeah you remember that shit, old school. After one episode me and my brother would be so wired off of Gogurt and gushers, we would wait in front of her bedroom door on top of our couch so we can get a good vantage point at defeating the evil Rita, or in other words jump kicking my grandma by surprise. But remember how I said my Grandma was ruthless and extremely strong, well she would always be ready to catch our kicks with her bare hands and throw us into her laundry basket, which by the way was not only filled with clothes, but solid objects like a wheel chair and a sewing machine. Yup my grandma liked to hide her things from us. Needless to say after that I had to use the wheel chair for a week and use her sewing machine to patch up the jeans and shirt she ripped in the process of slamming me. Yeah in this version of Power Rangers, Lord Rita always beat our ass. It was the worst 18th birthday ever. I used to wish a my megazord would come to my rescue and rid us of my grandma, but than I think... I would probably put my money on my grandma in that matchup. Yeah my grandma hated us hehe. But more than us she hated our neighbors. Yeah my grandma was like the Al-Qaeda of our apartment complex. We had this one neighbor that constantly borrowed sugar and eggs and shit from her all the time. This one day my grandma was just fed up with their freeloading that she made me go give a list of demands to our freeloading neighbor demanding for the replacement of some of the items they borrowed. The list was insane, it sounded like a ransom note... even had the cut out creepy letters you cut out of magazines. The list had random stuff like... 1. 6 packets of kool aid 2. 1 corn 3. 3 Gala apples (organic by the way) 4. 1.3 pounds of brown sugar (i think she's been keeping track), and the list goes on.

Stupid pedestrians...

Gareth Meeson
Blog #1

So you know what really pisses me off? When people ride their bikes slowly. Bikes are made to be faster that walking, not the same speed. The other day I was biking to class and I saw a guy riding his bike on the road right by a bunch of people, literally going the same speed. Every time I bike past some one going super slowly I turn back and look at them. Half the time they have a blank expression on their face and don't even know where the fuck they are anyway.
I also hate it when people don't look when they step out onto the fucking road. I once had to slam my brakes on so hard that my back tire skid across the ground and eventually popped because I had worn a hole through the tire itself. The person took out their headphones, and said, “Sorry.” and walked off. One nice bike tire ruined because of an ignorant person. My advice to all you reading this, look before you cross the damn street! And don't jump off of the sidewalk randomly either, i've almost hit three people because they did that.
Basically, I hate stupid pedestrians. I don't understand what people are thinking some times. I was once waiting for a bus and a guy jumped into the road and tried to hitch a ride from a passing car. The bus honked a few times, but the guy didn't move for at least ten seconds. A small part of me actually hoped that he would get hit by the bus....
People need to stop being so stupid and pay attention to the world around them, if I see you jump out in front of a car and get hit for no reason, don't expect me to pity you. Good day to you all.

David Leavitt, Blog #1: Reality T.V. is not so bad after all

I was never a fan of reality T.V., but the other day that all changed. It happened when I was watching some daytime television, which basically consists of terrible yet entertaining soap operas, the anti-Christ Glenn Beck, and 37 different versions of Law and Order playing simultaneously on 37 channels (the one with Ice-T is awesome though). Then there is reality T.V., which has crept its way onto literally every channel out there, even Animal Planet. Seriously, they have a show called Animal cops. So as I flipped past Animal cops and Jerry Springer, and my Super, I’m a terrible person sweet sixteen, I was starting to get fed up with all this reality T.V. But then I came across T.V. gold, in the form of VH1’S Rock of Love. This show was so bad, for both society and your brain, that it was good. Let me brake down how this show works.

Rock of Love consists of one man looking for love, in this case Brett Michaels, who you might remember for being a member of the 80’s band Poison or for fucking Pamela Anderson in a low-budget, amateur porn video. Bret gets to choose the love of his life out of 20 female contestants who are all half his age. These contests must go through mentally and physically rigorous challenges to win Bret over, challenges consisting of mud-wrestling in outfits that emphasize their giant, yet very fake tits, fist-fighting with each other for no reason in particular, and drinking so much that it sounds like they were just shot with a tranquilizer dart. Each week, after Bret sleeps with all the contestants off camera, he eliminates them one by one, until he finds “The One”. It’s as simple as that. Television at it’s finest hour.

Alex Caan, Blog #1: Things That Make No Sense

10.14.09

In my every day life, I notice things that, to put it bluntly, make absolutely no fucking sense. Why people do stupid shit, I have no idea, but it certainly catches my eye. I thought I’d point out a few particular situations that occurred within the last week or so.

The Naked Run: Don’t jump to conclusions. I am in no way suggesting that the run itself does not make sense (even though it probably gave everyone swine flu and/or pneumonia). Running naked through the forest in sub-temperate weather is something I can almost comprehend, but what I cannot understand for the life of me are those who take PICTURES. I can’t speak for anyone but myself, but I can guarantee you that I will remember 600 nudists running through a fucking storm. I don’t need visual documentation. If you need it, you’re either not paying close enough attention or you’re a goddamn pervert. If you are a pervert, Google search “boobs.” It’s 100% easier than taking blurry photographs of college kids. Even worse than the creepers with cameras are those who stand around in rain coats and yell at stragglers about their tendency to walk. “It’s the naked RUN, not WALK!” Correct me if I’m wrong, but walking naked is much closer to running naked than standing around in winter clothing and being a douchebag. I dare you to try running around campus without stopping to catch a breath. Unless you’re Usain Bolt, I seriously fucking doubt you can do it.

NASA Got Bored: With budget cuts and an unsteady economy, the folks at NASA have been doing a lot of thumb twiddling lately. Last Friday, the rocket scientists took a break from Sudoku and said, “Fuck it! Let’s crash a satellite into the moon.” And so they did! The satellite impacted the moon around 4:30 am and created another crater to be added to its already massive collection. The folks at NASA all ooooed and ahhhhed as the $79 million satellite burst into debris and then returned to their computers to master minesweeper (apparently NASA still runs on Windows 98). Not only does this make no fucking sense to me, but also now I feel bad for the moon. He’s lonely enough as it is. No need to throw shit at him.

Until next time,
Alex Caan