After the ball game, there was no time to rest on the laurels, because there was a party to get to. And what a party! Honestly, the hostess in question does the best spread anywhere I've ever seen outside a professional catering service, and is a step above many of them. And I got to drink out of a jar, a fact which felt very special to me for reasons I can't entirely explain. And the host taught us all to play mahjong, and, I gotta say, I'm hooked. For most of us, we didn't really a good grasp of the rules until the end of the game, so you gotta play again some time after that.
In my case, I had a minor advantage in that I--entirely unknowingly--had played mahjong before. Apparently, that was the mini-game included with the video game, Suikoden IV. Only they didn't call it mahjong. Or use the same number of tiles. Or the same name of tiles. And they changed some of the rules. So, yeah, not a great advantage. But there's still something interesting about learning a new game, something that's different from other forms of learning. Makes you think that maybe those ludologists are on to something.
And on a totally mushy note, a day like this makes me realise how lucky I am to have made the friends I have since coming here.
Fun mahjong fact: (source: wikipedia) If all four West tiles are discarded in a row, Chinese legend has it that all players will die shortly after. Which would have put a damper on the party.
Later Days.
Showing posts with label party. Show all posts
Showing posts with label party. Show all posts
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Monday, April 6, 2009
Squinty McGee and His Near-Sighted Notions: Update Part II
Memory Card Redux. On Wednesday, after the presentation, a friend takes me to Future Shop and I buy a new memory card. It's very strange, because when I go to pop it in, I learn it has been used. And not just pre-shipping stuff a company may include. I mean, it is very obviously pre-owned. It contained virtually every facet of its previous owner's life: personal photos, a resume, and payroll information for his business. Some very confidental stuff. I contact Future Shop to complain, and send the former owner an email. But before either get back to me, the point becomes largely moot, because on my way home on Thursday, I lost the card. In exactly the same circumstances that I lost the first. I'm assuming my pockets have a hole in them that sews itself up when I'm looking at it.
So: today I got yet another memory card. And to make sure this one stays safe, I've attached it to my key chain. And nothing could possibly go wrong there, right? (I'd add another link to the post where I speculate that I do this sort of thing deliberately, but... it's depressing enough, frankly, and it'll be worse by the time we're through here.)
Saturday Night.
After that week, you can imagine that I wanted to let off some steam. So I went out with some friends on Saturday night, to celebrate one friend's recent B-Day. (Happy Birthday, said friend! May your twenty-fifth year be less prone to object-oriented mishaps than mine.)
It was a night of discourse, drinking,and dancing. While my opinion on dancing is somewhere very close to Stephen Fry's--because at heart I am a man in his late fifties--I wouldn't have traded the other components for the return of my memory sticks. (Well, maybe not the first memory stick. That was not a happy couple of days. But the second one, anyway.) Usually, social gatherings like that make me go into "bolt" mode an hour or two in, but this stime, I stayed out to the bitter end, and I'm glad I did. Gang, to mix metaphors, you're all top drawer in my book.
Current Status.
I wish I could end on that happy note, but the autobiographical pact created by Philip Lejuene that we studied in the blogging class that instigated this blog compels me to be honest. My internet was giving me trouble today, but I needed to turn in a school assignment, so I had to get it to the university, one way or another. So, I trudged through the snow, picked up the latest memory card, and trudged back home to transfer the appropriate files. Now, on the first trip out that day, I had worn my glasses because I was trying to be conservative with my remaining contact lenses. But the snow was coming down at such a rate that I decided to wear my mask toque for the longer walk to the university. And if you're wearing a mask toque, you're not wearing glasses, because they don't fit well underneath it, your ears aren't there to allow you to wear them over it, and they'll fog up anyway from the temperature difference between your breath and the outside air. So I put the glasses into a case, tossed them in my bag, and walked to school.
Once I got to school, though, I was in for a surprise: the glasses weren't there, and I had forgotten them at home. (Or, alternatively, they're there, but I can't see them. Yes, I am THAT nearsighted.) So for the past hours, I have been sitting at a computer, with a monitor inches from my face. Because that is how dedicated I am to this blog.
Alternative ending for the previous sentence: ..how dedicated I am to preserving chances to complain.
Take your pick between them. One is probably more accurate.
Later Days.
So: today I got yet another memory card. And to make sure this one stays safe, I've attached it to my key chain. And nothing could possibly go wrong there, right? (I'd add another link to the post where I speculate that I do this sort of thing deliberately, but... it's depressing enough, frankly, and it'll be worse by the time we're through here.)
Saturday Night.
After that week, you can imagine that I wanted to let off some steam. So I went out with some friends on Saturday night, to celebrate one friend's recent B-Day. (Happy Birthday, said friend! May your twenty-fifth year be less prone to object-oriented mishaps than mine.)
It was a night of discourse, drinking,and dancing. While my opinion on dancing is somewhere very close to Stephen Fry's--because at heart I am a man in his late fifties--I wouldn't have traded the other components for the return of my memory sticks. (Well, maybe not the first memory stick. That was not a happy couple of days. But the second one, anyway.) Usually, social gatherings like that make me go into "bolt" mode an hour or two in, but this stime, I stayed out to the bitter end, and I'm glad I did. Gang, to mix metaphors, you're all top drawer in my book.
Current Status.
I wish I could end on that happy note, but the autobiographical pact created by Philip Lejuene that we studied in the blogging class that instigated this blog compels me to be honest. My internet was giving me trouble today, but I needed to turn in a school assignment, so I had to get it to the university, one way or another. So, I trudged through the snow, picked up the latest memory card, and trudged back home to transfer the appropriate files. Now, on the first trip out that day, I had worn my glasses because I was trying to be conservative with my remaining contact lenses. But the snow was coming down at such a rate that I decided to wear my mask toque for the longer walk to the university. And if you're wearing a mask toque, you're not wearing glasses, because they don't fit well underneath it, your ears aren't there to allow you to wear them over it, and they'll fog up anyway from the temperature difference between your breath and the outside air. So I put the glasses into a case, tossed them in my bag, and walked to school.
Once I got to school, though, I was in for a surprise: the glasses weren't there, and I had forgotten them at home. (Or, alternatively, they're there, but I can't see them. Yes, I am THAT nearsighted.) So for the past hours, I have been sitting at a computer, with a monitor inches from my face. Because that is how dedicated I am to this blog.
Alternative ending for the previous sentence: ..how dedicated I am to preserving chances to complain.
Take your pick between them. One is probably more accurate.
Later Days.
Saturday, February 7, 2009
And Yet He Looks Like Samuel Johnson
I feel like James Boswell.
Ok, that's going to require a little explanation. First, my last night. As those who know me can attest, I'm not exactly the partying type. Given choice, I'd prefer a small group of close friends over a casbah rocking. But on the other hand, long time readers know that I fancy myself someone who deliberately lives--in small doses--an interesting life. So after much hemming, hawing, and general indecision, I went to an English grad student house party last night.
In retrospect, it went EXACTLY how I should have expected.
And in this case, that's a good thing: I started out slightly awkward, but mellowed out as the night went on. I will credit a large portion of said mellowing to the fact that my four pack of pomegrante cider (Yes, pomegrante cider. Read the link above. Bad drink = good story. Also hangovers and intestinal problems, but those hazards come with the territory.) turned out to be a six pack, so when I thought I was downing my last drink of the evening, I was really just starting on the second half.
I've never drank enough to reach blackout levels, and tonight was no exception to that, but I'll admit to a general blurriness. What really stands out--besides the 5 km walk home at 3 am--is the Rock Band session. As will suprise absolutely no one who really knows me, by the third pomegrante cider, all I really want to do is belt out kareoke all night.
And that's roughly what I did. I performed righteously on "Mr. Brightside," kicked some major patoot on "Eye of the Tiger," and would have delivered an absolutely awesome "It's My Life" if it wasn't for not realizing until the song was half over that I was singing the Gwen Stefani version instead of the Bon Jovi version.
Now, the question I'm sure everyone is asking is: where does Mr. Boswell fit in? And if you're asking yourself that, then I have no choice but to belive that you just don't know Boswell.
John Boswell is an eighteenth century writer best known for his biography on his friend and mentor, Samuel Johnson. But he was also an accomplished autobiographer, and spent most of his life compiling a truly comprehensive memoir/journal. For my scandalous memoirs course, I'm reading "Boswell's London Journal 1762-1763." And if I feel like I had a night out on the town, I'm basically just putting a drop in the bucket to the ocean that is Boswell's life of cavorting and making with the merry.
But while he was an inverterate merry-maker, Boswell was also incredibly reflective. He was an avid church goer, which makes me feel a little guilty in comparison. On the other hand, I spend comparatively little time wenching with whores, so I guess we balance out. His journals show someone who was deeply conflicted with his life, and obsessed with how others saw him. Over and over again in his journals, he talks about feeling that he spoke too freely at a party, that he spent so much time trying to be the clown that he's not just afraid that he lost the respect of others, but that he lost respect for himself.
As someone who, in the past 24 hours, felt it absolutely necessary to convince a room full of people* he could do 50 push-ups, I get that.
And that's what I love about English: being in a position where I'm exposed to these ideas and texts that allow me to compare myself to an eighteenth century rake, or crack wise about Derrida's deconstructionist theories, or debate intepretations of chora. Bottom line: this stuff is fun.
Not fun is hovering around a toilet after the sixth cider, but that's another story. And probably one that doesn't deserve retelling.
*Come to think of it, it might have been an entirely empty room.
Later Days.
Ok, that's going to require a little explanation. First, my last night. As those who know me can attest, I'm not exactly the partying type. Given choice, I'd prefer a small group of close friends over a casbah rocking. But on the other hand, long time readers know that I fancy myself someone who deliberately lives--in small doses--an interesting life. So after much hemming, hawing, and general indecision, I went to an English grad student house party last night.
In retrospect, it went EXACTLY how I should have expected.
And in this case, that's a good thing: I started out slightly awkward, but mellowed out as the night went on. I will credit a large portion of said mellowing to the fact that my four pack of pomegrante cider (Yes, pomegrante cider. Read the link above. Bad drink = good story. Also hangovers and intestinal problems, but those hazards come with the territory.) turned out to be a six pack, so when I thought I was downing my last drink of the evening, I was really just starting on the second half.
I've never drank enough to reach blackout levels, and tonight was no exception to that, but I'll admit to a general blurriness. What really stands out--besides the 5 km walk home at 3 am--is the Rock Band session. As will suprise absolutely no one who really knows me, by the third pomegrante cider, all I really want to do is belt out kareoke all night.
And that's roughly what I did. I performed righteously on "Mr. Brightside," kicked some major patoot on "Eye of the Tiger," and would have delivered an absolutely awesome "It's My Life" if it wasn't for not realizing until the song was half over that I was singing the Gwen Stefani version instead of the Bon Jovi version.
Now, the question I'm sure everyone is asking is: where does Mr. Boswell fit in? And if you're asking yourself that, then I have no choice but to belive that you just don't know Boswell.
John Boswell is an eighteenth century writer best known for his biography on his friend and mentor, Samuel Johnson. But he was also an accomplished autobiographer, and spent most of his life compiling a truly comprehensive memoir/journal. For my scandalous memoirs course, I'm reading "Boswell's London Journal 1762-1763." And if I feel like I had a night out on the town, I'm basically just putting a drop in the bucket to the ocean that is Boswell's life of cavorting and making with the merry.
But while he was an inverterate merry-maker, Boswell was also incredibly reflective. He was an avid church goer, which makes me feel a little guilty in comparison. On the other hand, I spend comparatively little time wenching with whores, so I guess we balance out. His journals show someone who was deeply conflicted with his life, and obsessed with how others saw him. Over and over again in his journals, he talks about feeling that he spoke too freely at a party, that he spent so much time trying to be the clown that he's not just afraid that he lost the respect of others, but that he lost respect for himself.
As someone who, in the past 24 hours, felt it absolutely necessary to convince a room full of people* he could do 50 push-ups, I get that.
And that's what I love about English: being in a position where I'm exposed to these ideas and texts that allow me to compare myself to an eighteenth century rake, or crack wise about Derrida's deconstructionist theories, or debate intepretations of chora. Bottom line: this stuff is fun.
Not fun is hovering around a toilet after the sixth cider, but that's another story. And probably one that doesn't deserve retelling.
*Come to think of it, it might have been an entirely empty room.
Later Days.
Thursday, January 1, 2009
Everyone Should Celebrate the New Year with Inadvised Rambling
I think a week is the longest I've ever gone without posting. I'm blaming my new video game, Fallout 3. According to its clock, I've spent 40 hours on it so far. And yet the post-apocalyptic civilization is still unsaved. Tragic.
For the aforementioned blogging class, I've read a numerous amount of blogs, and one thing that seems to be in common throughout is that most bloggers make posts while dru---no, let's rephrase that. Most bloggers make posts under the influence of certain fluids that they later regret. (I admit nothing--I drink nothing but glacier-fresh water and ingest nothing but whole wheat bread.) So, in my post-celebratory state, clearly the only way I can properly acknowledge the events of the New Year while in a fluid-influenced state is to make today's post THE MOST AWESOME POST EVER.
I think I first need to establish that past New Years celebrations, to me, have not gone well. I spent 2000 in my parents' basement. 2001, I spent snowed in with my 16t year old brother and his friends after giving him a ride to a farm party. 2007 I spent at home with a migraine. And as the crowning achievement, 2006, I spent at home. With my mother. Watching Love Actually.
So the bar for 2008 was not set particularly high, I must admit. But that aside, I enjoyed myself immensely. I went for a New Years' celeb at a grad student friend's house (well, her brothers' house, but let's not quibble.) and the party was everything I wanted. There was enough fluids to ensure I overcame my own sense of ill-ease, enough friends to make sure I had people to talk to in a familiar way, and enough new people that I felt we weren't just going in circles, but that I was accomplishing something.
(And isn't it strange that I label meeting new people as an accomplishment? Or is it? Striking outside one's circle of friends is always a strange experience--it's an opportunity for redefining the self. What aspect do I want people to know about me? Or to not know? In my personal case, as defined by tonight, it appears that I really want everyone to know I watch Avatar: the Last Airbender. Another friend I've talked to over this vacation stay said that a turning point in her life was when she realized that she didn't have to have a huge circle of friends anymore--a few close friends that she could talk to a few times a month was enough. I think that's an interesting point in a person's life--when he or she realizes she doesn't need more friends to be happy. Have I reached that point? I dunno.)
Anyway, the party itself was a fun experience. Someone brought a yule log cake in the shape of an actual log, complete with marshmellow mushrooms. While the cake was not to everyone's palate, I approve of the general concept of marshmellow mushrooms, purely for the alliterative aspect. I hope that this results in similar products, such as fudge fungus and chocolate chalk deposits (ok, that last one is clearly reaching.). The talk seemed a little morbid for New Years--within the fifteen minute mark, the main topics of discussion were self-mutilation and suicide--but then again, since my previous New Years' Experiences consisted on such conversation as "But Mom, you're forgetting Hugh Grant's mystique," I feel I have no adequate mark to judge.
I was starting to feel antsy around 1:00 am or so, and made my excuses to leave. And on the way out, I had a chance to chat with a friend, which was also something of a strange experience. I wasn't entirely sure where I stood with her, and the chance to clarify (in an entirely good way) was welcome. (And as a general comment on the evening, The University of Blank is a wonderful university with a wide variety of lectures and guest speakers appearing on a regular basis, and as such, there are any number of reasons to come for a visit. So there.) Whenever you leave a party and you're no longer sure if you're wearing the correct shoes or coat, I think it's a good sign that you shouldn't have stayed any longer, so at least I have that.
I think I've mentioned before that while drinking and driving is entirely wrong and horrible and bad for the children, drinking and jogging is jolly good fun. I ran home in blizzardy conditions, and it was really good, to be honest. It seems like a nice way to start a New Year. ( I even invented a term for it--jrunken. See, you that the j from jogging and stick it at the beginning of "drunken." I briefly considered the phrase "drogging," but really, I think it's the liquid consumption, not the running, that deserves the emphasis here.)
So to recap: good friends, good new people, good logs. SECOND BEST NEW YEARS EVER. (Sorry for not giving it number one, but that one story about the porn couple who fell in love? Priceless.)
EDIT: Almost forgot:
Later Days.
For the aforementioned blogging class, I've read a numerous amount of blogs, and one thing that seems to be in common throughout is that most bloggers make posts while dru---no, let's rephrase that. Most bloggers make posts under the influence of certain fluids that they later regret. (I admit nothing--I drink nothing but glacier-fresh water and ingest nothing but whole wheat bread.) So, in my post-celebratory state, clearly the only way I can properly acknowledge the events of the New Year while in a fluid-influenced state is to make today's post THE MOST AWESOME POST EVER.
I think I first need to establish that past New Years celebrations, to me, have not gone well. I spent 2000 in my parents' basement. 2001, I spent snowed in with my 16t year old brother and his friends after giving him a ride to a farm party. 2007 I spent at home with a migraine. And as the crowning achievement, 2006, I spent at home. With my mother. Watching Love Actually.
So the bar for 2008 was not set particularly high, I must admit. But that aside, I enjoyed myself immensely. I went for a New Years' celeb at a grad student friend's house (well, her brothers' house, but let's not quibble.) and the party was everything I wanted. There was enough fluids to ensure I overcame my own sense of ill-ease, enough friends to make sure I had people to talk to in a familiar way, and enough new people that I felt we weren't just going in circles, but that I was accomplishing something.
(And isn't it strange that I label meeting new people as an accomplishment? Or is it? Striking outside one's circle of friends is always a strange experience--it's an opportunity for redefining the self. What aspect do I want people to know about me? Or to not know? In my personal case, as defined by tonight, it appears that I really want everyone to know I watch Avatar: the Last Airbender. Another friend I've talked to over this vacation stay said that a turning point in her life was when she realized that she didn't have to have a huge circle of friends anymore--a few close friends that she could talk to a few times a month was enough. I think that's an interesting point in a person's life--when he or she realizes she doesn't need more friends to be happy. Have I reached that point? I dunno.)
Anyway, the party itself was a fun experience. Someone brought a yule log cake in the shape of an actual log, complete with marshmellow mushrooms. While the cake was not to everyone's palate, I approve of the general concept of marshmellow mushrooms, purely for the alliterative aspect. I hope that this results in similar products, such as fudge fungus and chocolate chalk deposits (ok, that last one is clearly reaching.). The talk seemed a little morbid for New Years--within the fifteen minute mark, the main topics of discussion were self-mutilation and suicide--but then again, since my previous New Years' Experiences consisted on such conversation as "But Mom, you're forgetting Hugh Grant's mystique," I feel I have no adequate mark to judge.
I was starting to feel antsy around 1:00 am or so, and made my excuses to leave. And on the way out, I had a chance to chat with a friend, which was also something of a strange experience. I wasn't entirely sure where I stood with her, and the chance to clarify (in an entirely good way) was welcome. (And as a general comment on the evening, The University of Blank is a wonderful university with a wide variety of lectures and guest speakers appearing on a regular basis, and as such, there are any number of reasons to come for a visit. So there.) Whenever you leave a party and you're no longer sure if you're wearing the correct shoes or coat, I think it's a good sign that you shouldn't have stayed any longer, so at least I have that.
I think I've mentioned before that while drinking and driving is entirely wrong and horrible and bad for the children, drinking and jogging is jolly good fun. I ran home in blizzardy conditions, and it was really good, to be honest. It seems like a nice way to start a New Year. ( I even invented a term for it--jrunken. See, you that the j from jogging and stick it at the beginning of "drunken." I briefly considered the phrase "drogging," but really, I think it's the liquid consumption, not the running, that deserves the emphasis here.)
So to recap: good friends, good new people, good logs. SECOND BEST NEW YEARS EVER. (Sorry for not giving it number one, but that one story about the porn couple who fell in love? Priceless.)
EDIT: Almost forgot:
Later Days.
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