I am poor

Today, I went to a local supermarket, Sainsbury, to buy some food when I realized, "I am poor." Money conversion continues to haunt my mind as I reach out to buy a jar of peanut butter. Yes...it says 42 pence...but it really says $1. So I put the jar back, and decide to buy a small bag of ballpark peanuts and a small crock of butter.

Orientation has finally come to a close and many of us are spending uncountable hours in the beloved Bodlean Library. My favorite part about the library is when they search you - I feel special, like a secret agent of sorts. With some much studying going on, it's still pretty hard to believe I'm in Oxford. I think if this keeps going on, I'll end up thinking I was in America the whole time. But then again, the endearing old British folk and the gentle caress of Mikey Fatigati in early mornings to stir me awake serve as a grand reminder.

The most awkward thing I've seen thus far:

On the way back to Oxford from the London tube, a man was sitting in a shopping cart making monkey noises as his friend proceeded to push him into a light pole...and on top of that, the drunk lady next to me says, "Looks like they had too much to drink." The cruel irony.

I also promised to write a brief excursis on Elizabeth Choi:

Dear Liz

You made me write about you

On this blog

I hope everyone is satisfied.

They speak "English" in England

I think the above picture captures a multiplicity of my emotions at the moment:

1) The raised eyebrow says, "Where on earth am I? British-land in Disneyland?"
2) The white metal bars say, "I can't go back to America?"
3) The sweater-vest says, "Yes, I am in England."


This morning, I woke up and imagining myself to be in America began to panic. "Why is it so gloomy?! Why is it so cold? Why am I laying on a matress with bad springs?!" Somewhere between struggling to my feet and putting on a pair of pants I realized that I was no longer in California, but Oxford, England. Besides everything being twice as expensive, I've met quite a few friendly townsfolk and had a pint of All Around with an Anglican priest. I'm determined no longer to be dubbed "half-pint Pearson," and Father Peter was more than happy to see such a goal-driven young man.





After mass I decided to go to a nearby department store named "Boswell" and attempted to buy laundry detergent and a plastic basket. Being more than lost, I proceeded to the cashier and asked him where I might be able to find such products. I am proud to say that after having helped me, I said to him, "Thank you. Cheers guv." Needless to say, I am eager to experience British culture.

Riding Eastward?

"Hence is't, tha I am carryed towards the West
This day, when my Soules forme bends towards the East."

Today is the day of final preparations: I'm buying as many tolietries as I can afford and getting my last American haircut. I told the hairstylist that I was heading over to England and she looked at me in shock and said, "You don't want a British haircut." I'm not too sure what that meant. For one thing, I don't have British hair. For another thing, I don't have British cuts.

My day consisted of scuttling around my hometown and sorting out last minute errands while making enough time to have a three-hour Chinese tea-time with a fellow co-worker, read Tolstoy for two-hours, and have a late night snack with my dad. My trip to Europe is pretty realized now, and you could say that the trip itself is very much inaugurated (go on and laugh theologians). You could also say a many other things, like: "Blue bungalow," or perhaps, "Monkey madness."

O reader, upon the next blog I shall be in England, deprived of good food and endless Californian summer. Though my journey carries me towards the east, my heart shall remain in the west. Well, that's not true. Something is bound to captivate me in the east: a fraulien "Bruhilga," guiness, St. Andrew's, the Vatican? The possibilities are endless.

Queasy

A man in the midst of pouring rain stops near the edge of the long trail. The rain splashes off of his hood and moistens his scarf. Reaching into his coat he pulls out an old compass and glances towards his map. No phone, no computer, no means of communication. All of a sudden, he is kidnapped and shipped off to Mars.
Anticlimatic? C.S. Lewis certainly didn't think so.

Above is one of my many fears as I prepare for a long trip to Europe, and although being assaulted and transferred to a different planet is somewhat desirable at times, I cannot help but feeling a little tingle in my stomach. Not the "I had too much salsa and lemon juice" tingle, but the "I hope my shoes don't get stolen in Europe" sensation.
I mean, think about it. A foriegn land, no shoes, bad scenario.

But, I will continue to blog about my travelling adventures...
and thus begins the wakening of the sleeping giant: YGLDYM

Summer Spooning

Summer has begun for most of us, and for myself, I must return to spooning; Golden Spooning that is. You would think it hard to blog about a work-experience that takes place in a yogurt joint, but not when the yogurt joint's in the heart of costal Orange County. My 3 year employment at the Spoon has allowed me to distinguish namely 2 types of people groups.

1) The Orange County Mom: Fanny pack, stroller, sunglasses, tan, baseball cap, exercise clothes.
2) The Orange County Teenager: T-Shirt, jeans, lots of shiny clothing, things that dangle, sunglasses, heavily gelled hair.

It wasn't until today that I realized, "Orange County is very strange." Maybe it's just the realization of summerization where things get hot, the sun gets bright, and people get melanoma. But then again, people can get melanoma anytime (one of the blessings of life...like evergreen trees).

I'm averaging about 35 hours a week, which means I get to know some of these folks. Some are nice, some aren't, some smell funny, some dance in the store. If this is culture, I'm very tempted to opt out. Onward to Europe!

8/30 - 12/05: England - Oxford UniversityLondon, Bath, Abingdon, Cambridge
12/05 - 12/12: Scotland - Isle of Skye, St. Andrews, Edinburgh
12/15 - 12/24: Germany - Heidelberg, Worms, Frankfurt
Amsterdam - Eindhoven
Czech Republic - Prague (?)
France - Paris (?)
12/25 - 27: Austria - Munich, Traunreut
12/27 - 1/04: Switzerland - Zurich, Interlaken, Geneva
1/04 - 1/10: Greece - Tessalonika, Athens, Corinth, Delphi
1/10 - 1/15: Italy - Bari, Napoli, Rome
1/16 - 1/31: Torrey Rome!

Engaging Target!

Imagine yourself seated in a F-15 Raptor flying at mach 4 approaching rendevous point 3.41 at sector 4 dangerously close to land to avoid radar detection. The radio static rings in your ears, and your sweaty palms are beginning to strangle the control panel. Your insides churn as the command operative crackles over the headset, "Approaching target."
"I'm in position...."
A shadow approaches in the distance and you flip the safety off.
"Engaging target!"
You fire, the plane violently shakes, red lights flash, and...the plane metamorphisizes into a big fuzzy gorrilla who resembles unshaven Roman woman legs.

What?! Who wrote this crappy anticlimatic excuse for a military story? Oh wait, I did.
Contra-expectations can be the funniest things sometimes. You open up an ancient treasure chest and find a pair of used underpants from Savers, you bite into a 3 day marinated steak and discover it was actually beef. Come now, examine the following picture:






The sly smile suggests cruel, heartless assasination. The terrified woman who rubs her upper-lip indicates a quiver down her spine. But what? This is a picture of a classroom?

Surprise? I sure was. All this to make the point that sometimes contra-expectations can be extremely funny, and sometimes, fitting.

Theology of Evangelism and "engaging unbelief?" What? A discussion about Spiderman's costume can be a segway into a deep conversation about life and the gospel? Whoa, that's less expected than a professor defending his students with a pocket knife from invading enraged sea-creatures!

A speech composed upon the circumstance of Pearson’s birthday processional

19 April 2007

One Score and One year ago,
Providence hath wrought the birth of a great man.

He is a man founded upon being Jolly, and the Proposition that all things can be made awkward.

Today we are gathered in solemn assemblage,

To rule on whether a man governed by such ideologies can – Nay, should! – Long perdure.

What shall we say then?

Shall we do away with Pearson that Peace may Increase?

May it never be!

Long Live Pearson.

Long live Pearson the Lau.

A mighty Pearson is our Lau

In Friendship never failing.

Our constant source of Joy and Pain

His Awkwardness prevailing

Alas! We now are late

His birth to celebrate

Twenty-One is now his age

Capri-Sun is all the rage

Drink up our goodly fellow

In our own powers did we trust

To sing his highest praises

Our efforts sure, would fall and bust

All heav’n his grandeur raises

Now to his Class we go

His powers forth to show

Exegesis on a scroll

His virtue we extol

May Pearson Live Forever!

Arranged: Flemming, Glazener, Schannep

Composed: Ye Olde Reformer

Freedom

Take a look; no, don't cring. Contemplate on it, revel in it:

its signifiance, its message, its raw machismoism.

Whitey tighties - the bain of every young man's childhood up to age 12. By why is this so? Has nature ordained this abomination? Or is this wretched rag a product of Adam's poorly sewn fig leaves?

Do not fear O reader, for I believe that like many existent evils in this world, God has placed this one in particular to teach us all a very crucial lesson: freedom. How? Well reader, please allow me to be so bold has to construe an allegory of utmost insight.

Life in Christ is progressive. Beginning on our spiritual journey, our loving Master allows us, in our depravity, to snap the elastic band of briefs upon ourselves - constraining us, imprisoning us. Little did we know, unlike typical undergarments, these particular ones are so tight that it reddens our skin and imprints its deadly elastic grip into our hips.

Seeing us in our helpless estate, we near the adolescence of our spiritual journey and discover the greater pleasures of life: total freedom, encased not in Hanes; but, in brands of much higher superiority: Joe Boxer....Fruit-of-the-Loom...and the like.

Inebriated we dance in our newfound glory. We learn to breathe. We learn to live.

God, in His Almighty wisdom, has appointed all for a purpose. Whitey tighties, as horrid as they are, serve to display the Maker's salvific plan: slavery unto the Law, but freedom in Christ.

A Quiet Friday

Friday, April 13th, 2007.

A day that many did well to fear. Friday, the 13th - the unluckiest of them all. A day when mothers keep their children inside, make them to play with soft, blunted toys, and eat only certified non-chokeable foods. It was not a day to be trifled with. One week following Good Friday, this one ought to have been 'Ominous Friday'.

But it wasn't.

Nothing horrid happened. No major constellations fell from the sky. No children that I know of contracted TB. No heads of state were assasinated. I didn't even see any car accidents. Heck it was even sunny! Surprisingly, miraculously, the world was at peace, and even joyful. how odd.

Yes, odd indeed. But, Dear Reader, I applaud your search for answers and your arrival at y.G.L.I.D.Y.M! (ee - Glid'-um!); you will not be dissappointed.

The astounding, and edifying reason for the blessed silence of yesterday flows directly from the Hand of Providence. Christ, having risen from the tomb and bringing the kingdom in its fullness to the world, knowing that Ominous Friday opposed the kingdom, and not wishing the world to suffer calamity in the week of His resurrection, he loved the world. IN this case, loving the world meant, not dying for that had been done, but allowing calamity to come to the one who would cause calamity. Yes, it was expedient that one suffer that the people might rejoice. In His sovereignty, He allowed that product of the Fall, Strep Throat, to overtake the mischevious Pearson, Sir Tricks-a-lot, who was sure to wreak havoc and ruin upon the world in celebration of his recent birthday. Indeed, taking advantage of this globally inauspicious Friday and its close convergence to another, personally auspicious day, his mischief was sure to rise to new heights, no man, living or yet to live, has dared to dream. But all that was thwarted by the mercy of God, who, not holding our sins against us, sent Jesus and strep throat to give us cause to rejoice in His greatness.

That, dear reader, is why Friday was quiet, why you woke to the sun and slept with a smile, and why we should all be thankful for Streptococcal Pharyngitis.


And now you know, the rest of the story.

Sincerely, the y.G.L.I.D.Y.M! NewsTeam

The Legend of Breakfast Ben

A limerick to my room-mate: Ben Flemming

A funny young fellow named Benny

Always left breakfast dishes so dirty

He swam in his rubbish

And was bit'o selfish

'Til slained by a school of crazed fish-monkeys

You just might ask, O reader: "How did Ben become Breakfast Ben?" 'Tis a long and daunting task; but nevertheless, I shall endeavour to undertake such a necessary task.

At the ripe age of 4 we join our youth, Benjamin, amid an escargot dinner arrangement. Playing with a wooden spoon he had stolen from the kitchen, young and eager Ben ran up and down the aisles...when alas! He ran into the leg of Uncle Bob. Now Bob was the fiercest of all the uncles and instantly demanded recompense: 3 sets of fine breakfast dishes. Alas, such a large demand rendered the Flemming family breakfast-dish-less, and all that had remained was the wooden spoon still gripped in Benjamin's hand. Mr. Flemming, steaming with rage shook his fist towards the heavens and cried out, "You promised!" (for Mr. Flemming had made a pact with Zeus earlier in his life that if Mr. Flemming had offered up his first-born, Zeus would break the curse. Ben, being adopted by Greecian diety would supposed to have had been freed from the evil Flemming curse: breakfast-dish-less-ness).

Now Ben, age 21, demi-god, lives his life in utter scorn against the Lightning King. He wakes up early, grinds his teeth, girds himself like a man, and defies the gods...using as many breakfast dishes as he possibly can. Such a frightening thing half-divinity can be, for Breakfast Ben does not use dishes at a normal human rate; but instead, (let the reader understand) the dishes are seemingly endless.

But little did you know, O reader, legend has it that Breakfast Ben was cursed by the Greecian gods to roam the earth for all eternity, never to rest his head. His toil? Eternal breakfast...with a new set of dishes each meal.

Toward a Healthy Academic Insanity

Dear reader,
Whereupon having engaged in the academic realm for well over several years, Ben Flemming and myself, Pearson Lau, have discovered our God-given brilliance. When in the course of human events which so deems necessary a grand-showcase of utter genius, the creation of a forum for giving to the desperate world that for which it yearns becomes most couth. Yes.

This blog is designed so that you, the reader, can participate in the sparks of revelation that originate at the breakfast table in the Bosom of Abraham and flit throughout our lives on such a consistent basis that humility becomes a most difficult, but excellently practiced, virtue.

But, alas, little did you know reader, by the very act of reading (nay, even viewing...thinking!!) such a blog validates (not validifies) our sheer quintessence. Have we sunk so far as having the need to vindicate ourselves? May it never be! Rather, our conscious bears us witness: we are freakin' awesome. Yes.

Thank you for coming: stay, bask in our greatness, refer us to your attractive single friends, and feel free to purchase from us premium indulgences (now 2 for the price of 1 1/2!).

Good-bye. *slap hands*
Ben and Pearson