Jen Hite-Smith

 

Another Thanksgiving Commute

I have in the past written about my drive home for turkey day, the day we give thanks for extra belt holes and elastic waste bands. I will not bore you today with the details of each leg of the drive since that would be redundant considering the substance of the last thanksgiving journal entry, I will rather share a warning with you, my fellow Thanksgiving commuters.

It all began the Tuesday morning, my 8pm class was canceled, however my noon lab had not been. I have an estimated 12 and a half hour drive home from my Central Valley habitat to my western Washington home. If you haven’t figured out my problem yet, let me share with you that my lab lasts 3 hours. You my wonder why I didn’t wait one more day to travel the miles and miles. I do not expect you to know that I had to renew my drivers’ license the next day. So now that you know, your curiosity should be satisfied. I tried to sleep in as long as I could, trying to get a little rest before my venture to the north. Walking out around 9:30, I shrugged off my down bonds and looked for a shirt, something warm maybe.

I am a very patient person - little fazes me. This, however, is untrue of the morning. The first hour of consciousness sets the tone for the rest of the day. I walked into the bathroom, furry face and wavy hair concealing mild mannered Dan. I reached for the first knob, turning two or three times for hot, then doing the same for cold to reach that wonderful balance I like to call, comfortable. I reached for a second time, my pale hand penetrating the powerful flow. Something was different, something was not right, something was cold. After continuing to play with the knobs I had discovered that there was no hot water. Words came out of my mouth that would make most anyone blush, and the words flowed like the cold water as I suffered an icy shower. Oh fowl was my mood, a foulness that continued while I shaved with cold water, while I packed, while I ate, and while I entered lab.

Lab is allotted 3 hours, but it usually takes half that time, today however it took 2. Just another twist of the knife.

I hate to end on such a sour note, but life is not all cake and ice cream, and sometimes you need to just wait another day to drive home.

 

 

 

A Harried, Harry Potter Day

I have been known to follow many fads in my 20 or so years on this saturated collection of tectonic plates and gas floating around the only thing larger than Paris Hilton’s head. Yes, I have followed fads from my early days longing to pump up that little hemispherical basketball on my shoes for the reason of… well I guess I never figured out why that air pump was needed to walk around, to the cute little pocket pet I killed, to my iPod which I no longer own. There are some fads I’ve been successful resisting; I don’t subscribe to a myspace account, nor have I been convinced that bottled water is any better for you than the stuff that comes out of the tap.

Beyond electronics and carb counting, there is a mysterious literary line item that had caught the eyes and wallets of our fad hungry culture with a fervor that shows no signs of letting go. In case you have yet to guess, or are so captivated in this entry that you neglected the title, I am speaking of Harry Potter. Maybe you think I’m turned off by the possible religious accusations that point both at blasphemy and piety. I assure you that while I have read not a single noun from the series and have watched only one movie, a movie I contend to be so dark that it will keep therapists in business for decades, I in no way buy into that a line of books thought up by a single mother on a train hold any theological importance. While I could rant about this all day long I’d rather tell you about my Saturday.

I had been asked to take a few pictures of a private screening of the new Harry Potter movie by our wonderful Alumni department. Of course, I was up for the task. I needed to be downtown at 11am. This was not a problem since I wake with the sun each morning for my treks to marketing and biology each day without too much trouble. 11 am was nothing to be worried about. There were, however, complications.

The night before was full of all kinds of fun. There was so much fun, in fact, that I will spare you spare you the details since it will only lower your feeling of self worth and fill you with such an envy that your fingers will turn a shade of greenish yellow. On the fateful day I awoke with time to spare, but after a quick shower I found my car would not start. Usually turning the key awoke a cold grumpy monster with rattles and shakes my little escort would come to life. “Why today” I asked, but after twenty minutes searching I made the shocking discovered that the battery cable was loose. A quick turn of the 10mm wrench and I was off, but utterly late.

I parked my car outside the theater expecting to find no one around to take pictures of, but to my surprise the movie hadn’t started yet. It would seem that on such a sunny day I was not the only one with a hellish morning. I was greeted by our alumni coordinators who rushed me in to theater where I tried (without too much success) to snap a picture or two. But why hadn’t the movie started yet? When I returned to the lobby I found out. While I do not know all the details I was informed that there had been a bomb threat outside, the fine Stockton bomb squad had blown up a package which had postponed the movie for some time. It was sad the movie had to be delayed, but it allowed me time to get to the theater for a few pictures. I guess there is a silver lining to each cloud, but on that day, there was silver lining in a puff of smoke.

 

 

Off to Tahoe

I have been so many places in my travels that often times I wonder where I haven’t been. If this statement were true then I would sure have stories, and perhaps more things to write journals about. But the sad truth is that, much like an obese man on a couch with an endless supply of potato chips, I have little motivation to move from my happy school with my happy job and happy apartment. While I have seen the false snowy peaks of Disneyland and the gothic masterpieces of Chartres, I have never ventured to the local spots like Yosemite and Tahoe, at least not until last weekend.

A friend of mine (who I will only describe as possibly the most innocent person I have ever met) is nothing like me; she eats, sleeps and breaths new places. There is little surprise, of course, that this friend is a student of International Studies here at Pacific, a small humble school full of students more widely traveled and versed in the workings of international culture than a whole boat of diseased sailors. What does this friend have to do with my worldly travels? Well let’s explore that topic, shall we?

A few weeks ago this friend who we will refer to as “Angie”, read it with me now, “A n g i e”, asked me if I wanted to go to Tahoe. It turns out that this Angie is a runner and was going to run 10k around the lake. She felt uncomfortable, however, driving back after such an ordeal. Of course, I jumped at the opportunity.

It was Friday night at about 11pm when we started out trip, our journey through the dark east lands of California full of bears and stinky mountain men promised excitement. The first leg of the trip was easy enough, find the freeway. Through dark streets and back highways we drove deeper into the night. With each mile, the bright lights of the valley receded away from us, leaving us to the unknowns of the Sierra foothills. I fear that without my little GPS thing we would have been lost. Actually, that piece of futuristic technology is a double edged sword. We climbed further and further out of the flat comfort of the valley floor to what seemed to be an ever-growing dark mountain. I watched the elevation on the small display climb to 1000 feet in less than twenty minuets. When we reached 4000 feet I began to get nervous since I had encounters with road ice before.. A dim hallucination caused by God knows what began to resemble snow, and then the road became wet. At 3:00 am on a dark wet mountain road there was a fear that overcame me, a fear of ice, fear of sliding, fear of body damage. All seemed lost, till then, and hour later it all leveled out and we made it.

The next morning was an adventure, after dropping of Angie for her race I quickly become a fan of the Casinos that lined the Nevada side of the mammoth mountain lake. It was not a few minuets later when I, 20 year old Daniel Robert Cammarano became a critic of Nevada gaming laws. I don’t understand how I can be old enough to gamble and not be old enough to gamble. No matter, Nevada was a dirty place anyway.

To sum up I had journeyed to a new place, and found danger, vice and excitement all in the same breath. Would I do it again? Sure. Seems like a bad way to end a journal entry but hey, I’m the writer, if you don’t like it, suck on an egg.

 

 

Desperate Television

If you asked me, “What’s one thing I do less of in college?” what answer would you expect? How about we save a few letters and points of punctuation and I’ll just clue you in. That one thing is watching television. There are a few reasons for this which I will outline now because I really doubt you’d expect any less from your favorite online journal writer.

The first reason is time—I have no time for television because I tend to fill it with so many other wonderful things which I love to do in college like nap, work, and chat on my instant messenger till all hours of the night. Second, there is no comfy furniture near the TV and there’s not much else to say about that.

The third reason is by far the most important, and that is the quality of television on today, or at least on when I have the time to enjoy a little brain cell slaughter. When I flip on the TV I go to three channels—the history channel, the discovery channel, and comedy central. I find all other channels pointless and full of programming that would only entertain inbred, brain-dead fish exposed to radiation swimming all day in “stupid water.”

As I type I am watching my first episode of “Desperate Housewives” and I have to say that the crap on the bottom of my shoe is more entertaining under a light microscope than listening to a bunch of over the hill, b-class actors whine and moan about absurd, suburban problems. I suppose this show may be enjoyable to some people, but I like to steer clear of prisons and Wal-Mart.

Anyway, I guess I would just like to stop watching this silly show and finish my homework and the conversation I’m having on my instant messenger that’s been going on for 2 hours. We just finished saying “hello.”

 

 

Lost Key

Having a car at school is no requirement. Nor is it necessary for a fruitful and complete education. In fact, a car can be a huge distraction to your education. Giving you mobility is like a two headed serpent or, even better, chocolate. Sure, it tastes good, but eat too much, and you’ll be visiting the restroom often and wondering why your face looks like an ad for Proactiv.

I have a car and have, in fact, even written about the little red racer a few times. But today I will tell you about a very frightening experience I had relating to my car. It's so frightening your hair may turn white or even fall out.

It all began as a joke. I had taken the shoe off of a friend of mine and placed it next to their door. Later, when they came to me for the shoe that they had not found, I thought I’d have a little fun like in the “Goonies” when they made the kid do the truffle shuffle.

So we began with three laps around the parking lot, looking under cars, and then to the dumpster! Moving the tour to the darkest place in our Townhouse community, and through the spider infested dumpster area, we eventually wound back at her apartment where the shoes were waiting. Was this a nice thing to do? Of course not, but it was very entertaining, a premium on those weekday nights. You know what? Karma got me good.

Walking back from the office I reached for my key ring for the key to open my car, “What’s this?” I said to myself, “No car key?” "How annoying," I thought! "Well damn, I’ll just have to go get it from my room." That would have been it, except it was not in my room, nor was it in the humid laundry room, the parking lot, nor the fridge. I looked for what seemed like hours looking over 500 square feet of sidewalk, office and parking lot many times.

Finally, I found it in the grass. The green leaves trying to suck it in to the thatch for what end or purpose I have no idea, but I can only imagine a sinister diabolical one.

And, like the after-school special or the sitcom aimed at the pre-teen I learned a lesson that day, bad deeds beget bad luck, and stealing one person’s shoe, their form of mobility can have dire consequences on yours.

 

 

My life as an RA 

So let’s all take a few minuets, sit on our tired rears, and read a little bit about Dan’s life today. The creepy thing is you’ll be reading about the craziness that I’ve been experiencing in the last two weeks.  You see, I, your humble provider of diatribe and discourse, am now a Resident Assistant. 

It all began when I was sitting at home, enjoying a cold drink with my dad, and the phone rang. “Sure, I’ll be an RA….There in four days? Sure!”  It wasn’t a lot of time, but I wasn’t about to turn down a position in the University Townhouses!  For those of you that have no idea what the Townhouses are, it’s quite a sight to see.  Imagine a shaded apartment compley and then add a gate, pool, and a sandy volleyball court, and you will be green with envy for my new home. 

For the last two weeks I’ve been training. When I heard about training I figured I’d go to a class about leadership for an hour, and spend the rest of the day basking in the yellow heat next to the pool, cooling off in the blue over-chlorinated water when it got too hot—the hard life. 

Oh was I wrong.  When I got the training schedule planed out for the entire two weeks, with days beginning at 8a.m. and ending at 10pm, I was shocked! I got through it and now my residents will arrive today. Will they be okay with an internet celebrity such as myself as their Resident Assistant?  Only time will tell.

 

 

Dan, the Double “O” Seven Man

I have decided to let all my loyal readers in on a little secret of mine which I tell only a select few if they are lucky enough to know me that well, or lucky enough to be around me when my lips go loose for one reason or another. We will not digress from our topic to analyze in what situation or fashion my lips go loose, but rather explore the unexplored territory of my double life.

I suppose it doesn’t matter when it all began because it would not change the danger I live with each and every day in my thrilling double summer life. On any given morning, I’m up with the sun and ready to pounce on the day, heading out the door by the seat of my pants, running to my red rocket covered in the morning dew that indiscriminately saturates everything it touches, making the unlucky victim that touches it slicker than snot on one of my many nuclear warheads.

The next part of my day is dodging traffic on the horrendous Washington I-5 corridor. With the sun in my eyes I jive jolting Jettas and evade eclipsing Econolines for 30 minutes of heart pounding sweaty palm action to Headquarters in treacherous Tacoma. It is here that I meet with my higher-up, a pale man built like a Mack truck with the attitude of a swarm of bees on fire and the action to match. To protect his identity, we will call him Lord Slum.

He was raised by wolves in the back woods of Thurston County in a cave he refers to only as Tenino. Lord Slum will convey me on recon missions, hazardous endeavors where I must find the exact measurements of targets for future deceptions.

Lord Slum is not my only master, however. There is also the “Terror of the North” we will call Mapleleaf. The missions of Mapleleaf are much more direct. It is my sad duty to be a walking Hudson River, poisoning all organic life I see fit to kill. Ah, the pleasure I take in watching life yellow to death once I’ve mixed and injected a bit of Garlon on my prey.

There are other adventures in my summer double life which tend to be less deadly, and perhaps I will let you know about them later, but I am afraid it is far past my bed time and I must retire.

Editor’s Note: Dan works as an estimator for a landscaping company in Washington State.

 

Digressions on Soap

Three things make my head itch ─ hair cuts, tough philosophical questions, and not taking a shower. We may consolidate this list down to two seeing that I tend to shower right after I get a hair cut for the itchy head reason. Let’s forget the philosophical enigmas that plague the Rene Descartes types both past and present, and focus on the more serious topics of my choices in personal cleaning products.

Ever since I’ve been buying my own soap and shampoo I have had one pillar of truth that I follow to the “T”, like in Truth, get it, ‘cause there are two Ts in truth. If you didn’t find that funny you either have a sense of humor far to advanced for my jokes or you’re far to stupid to be thinking about college, or collage as you may spell it. Back to my point, up until just yesterday, I found it crucial in my soap-buying practices to go for the cheapest thing I could find! When it comes to shampoo, I find myself thinking of my masculinity. Staring at all the pinks and purples in the shampoo section of the store, I yearn for a manly shampoo, maybe one that had a dude killing aliens on it or something. The closest thing I have found is the kids shampoo ─ I figure it’s a buck twenty for a lot of shampoo, and it smells like one of my favorite fruits, watermelon! Soap has however been a different story. I’ve been buying watermelon shampoo since I was 16, but it was not until I came to college and discovered that they don’t provide soap, and even if there is soap in the shower, it usually resembles a small rodent ─ I tell you I’ll never do that again ─ I’ve had to buy my own. But when it comes to looking for cheap soap they try to trick you, ─ bar soap comes in all sorts of weird numbered packs. There should be some limit to how many you can package together, like maybe ONE! I think I might be losing some of you so I’ll get to the point.

The other day I was at Safeway ─ I refuse to buy from Walmart anymore, seeing that they are tearing at the moral and economic fabric of this country, nay the human race ─ and I was on a mission, to get soap. Actually I was hungry at first, but when I got there, I didn’t feel hungry anymore so I went to get some soap. Oh the choices. I could go with Zest and feel like a nice smelling Irish fisherman, however knowing that there was no such thing I decided against it. Then the Dove caught my eye. I liked the moisturizer thing cause my skin was awful dry lately (as you can see I’m sticking to this masculine thing) but I didn’t know which one to get. Then I saw a word that I didn’t know, exfoliating. I mean I had heard it in commercials but I didn’t know what it was. So I bought it, and today I showered with it. My first thought standing in the shower was “ouch!” what the hell, my soap was scratching me. This wasn’t cool, but I got out of the shower, not only did I smell nice, but I felt good! So this is why women like to bathe so much. Never did I think I would become progressive with my soap, but who knows, you might see me with a loofah tomorrow.

 

Mr. July

Oh the lucky ones, the blessed people who will be attending Pacific next year. We may greet you with smiles and gifts of placement tests and dorm rooms, but deep down lays a deep burning resentment for your class. The reason for the hate and envy is not because of your youthful good looks, virgin outlook, or even all those cute toes, no, our green die spawns from a much more prized gift placed upon you. If you had been accepted to my institution of learning, you should have been mailed a beautiful calendar outlining all the wonderful admissions activities coming up from the months of April to December. If you’re scared, fear not young one, you’ve survived the ides of March and there are no ides of August to be wary of. It is in fact the yes of July that should excited you. When the last day of June has passed you will turn that calendar to the month of July, and with that unleash stunning good looks and a smile that would put 40 years on Dick Clark. Mr. July is waiting for you on this glorious month, the month of barbeques and fireworks. A warning though, don’t look too long, for you will find yourself in a state of depression realizing that you could never live up to those handsome good looks.

In case you have yet to realize, I am Mr. July, a name commonly pointed my way by our Vice President of Student Life, a kind woman who I’m sure has yet to learn my real name. A nice thing about living on a small campus though is that a lot of people do know your name, and with that comes personal attention that you wouldn’t get in some Mega University up or down the freeway. I know I’m starting to bore you with all this “small school” stuff you’ve been told time after time by admissions mail and the like, but take it from me, a strikingly good looking student and Mr. July, that it really is true. Being Mr. July is just one of the fun opportunities I get by going to this school ─ it really is a lot of fun. I’d write more but I both forgot where I’m going with all of this and I don’t feel like writing more, so there. Have a nice day.

 

Avoidance Through Softball

What do you do when you have tons of work to do in addition to all of the little things you must take care of when you live without someone who will wash, dry, fold, and put away your laundry? You join a co-rec softball team with people you live with! Yes soon I will be joining the ranks of the other great softball starters like… uh… the one with the tight shorts, and that other one with the pony tail.

Yes, this Sunday I will walk out onto that green stage, that natural dance floor of kings and scholars to show the world, or at least the other team, that I have the spirit, the courage, and the endurance to hit an oversized baseball moving at nearly 5 mph with an arch that would inspire even the most geometrically inclined architect. Ah, to feel the wind on my face as I jog leisurely from base to base, taking care to touch each one with my toe as I approach only to leave as quickly as a sailor who had just found the love of his life, is wonderful.

We all know winning isn’t everything, but losing sucks. None of us are young enough to be scared of the over excited dad trying to forget his failures as a youthful athlete by pushing his kids to be perfect softball stars, only to drive them away from the beautiful sport. Still, either we win, or I’m going to cry and eat a tub of Double Dutch Chocolate ice cream.

 

Bracketology

Let me share something with you, my loved loyal reader. If you’re not a loyal reader, don’t worry, there is always time to become one, and I’ll even give you permission to read this exciting entry. As some of you may or may not know, the Pacific men’s Basketball Team has done wildly wonderful things with the ball this year. From the longest winning streak in the country to extremely exciting games where they won even though they were down 8 points with 30 seconds remaining. And because of all their heart ─ pounding, hard work they have earned a prized place in the playoffs. Oh the feats their feet have fulfilled like hitting hard hoops while being hindered by huge humans.

But there is one reason that this year’s tournament is much more exciting for me than your average fan. You see, our first challenge is Pittsburg, and I hope more than anything we get past them because then a true dream will be realized. What dream is this that I’m talking about? No, not the one where I’m sitting naked in class trying to think of more absolutely awesome alliterations. It would be the dream where my team faces one of my favorite teams from back home, the University of Washington. I think everyone will agree that the tired Huskies have no hope against the Big West hardened Tigers. I mean really, #1 seeds are so overrated! Yes it will be a grand game as long as the homely huskies can beat the mammoth Montana team. It will be a win well won for the Tigers and their fanatic fans.

 

Spring is in the Air

When I went home for Christmas break, I left a cold wet Stockton for a colder, wetter Washington. I found it got no better coming back. Due to closed passes and icy roads throughout California, of all places, my trip had an extra 9 hours tacked on. When I got to Stockton I found a wet place that was just plain cold. This type of weather is not what I came to California for. I came for palm trees and sunny days that never end. And while the weather is warmer than that of home, it’s still downright cold.

I have to say, I had lost faith thinking it would never get warm again. BUT NO! The winds are changing, the birds are chirping, children are singing, and weird noises have been coming from some of the rooms in the residence halls. What does all this mean? Spring is here, or at least the sun is back. Happy days!

Now why you ask am I writing about the weather? Is that what you really want to know? Well since you are all careful followers of my life via this wonderful worthwhile website I will tell you. The truth is I have no idea. You see I’m writing this from my campus job, and I’m doing this for two reasons. First, my boss hasn’t told me to do anything else. And second, by writing it while I’m on the clock, I become a paid writer which makes me a professional writer. Super happy days, all thanks to the opportunities provided to me by Pacific.

 

 

Tendonitis

So for all the many years I have walked this earth, this rock I lovingly call home, I have never had a major injury. Throughout my life I’ve wondered, “What would it be like to break a bone or get to ride a wheelchair?” Never had I fallen down a flight of stairs or fallen like a wounded bird to the ground. Never had I crushed my arm like possum under a Mack truck or had a doctor tell me that I overdid it again. Never until last week.

I am no doctor, I am not versed in sports medicine, nor do I know how a microwave works. And while the mysterious microwave intrigues me, it would not have been helpful trying to figure out why my knee was sore.

Sunday: I was out on one of Pacific’s wonderful green lawns playing a spirited game of football. Being someone that detests running, I figured if we played tackle instead of two-hand I would be able to get away with less effort. Well even though I didn’t do as much running, I knocked my head on the ground one too many times and got all beat up. But it was fun. Later that night I felt my knee hurting. No biggie, it must have just been a small bruise.

Monday: I woke up and my knee still hurt but not as much. But as I went through the day, my knee felt more and more like someone was sticking needles in it every time I climbed a step or got into my car. By the end of the day, I could barely walk up the stairs. I was a very funny sight to see, hopping up the stairs like some one had shot me in the knee for sport. When I finally looked at it, there was no purple! Bruises are purple, why wasn’t mine?

Tuesday: I have a weight lifting class on Tuesdays, and I figured my instructor, who is an athletic trainer, would be able to shed some light on the non purple bump-less bruise or at the very least I’d get out of warm ups. She said she thought it was tendonitis. My heart stopped, jaw dropped, and I couldn’t move. Was I gonna die? Am I disabled now? When is lunch? Will I need surgery? I had a permanent injury, what was I do to?

Friday: After a little research, I found out that tendonitis wasn’t a life threatening injury or one that needed extensive surgery, just a little sore spot on my knee. I went to see one of the fine school doctors, who moved my leg around a little and told me I was fine and just needed to be careful now with that knee.

What have I learned from all this? I can’t play as hard as I want anymore—I’m getting old. I suppose I should start looking into those motorized carts.

 

 

Radio Show Version 7.0

Now I know I’ve written about my radio show before, but that was last semester and there are a lot of new and exciting things that I’m sure will keep you on the edge of your chair as you read this. First of all, my radio show is no longer 2-3pm, its 1-3pm! That’s right, single hours are for babies! Not the cute babies! I’m talking about the bald ones that just make a mess and cry all the time without any consideration for others. This two-hour thing might also have something to do with the fact that I’m getting credit for doing my show this time around. Yes, I am the newest enrollee of the Broadcast Internship. Why you ask? The answer is simple—I enjoy doing radio shows.

Before you sign up, let me tell you, it’s no cakewalk. For two hours I sit in a hot studio with only the sound of my own voice to keep me company. There’s a lot of pressure too, the signal can be heard by a potential 150,000 listeners. How do I keep a grip on sanity during my show? For one, I LOVE the sound of my own voice—we get along so well. Also, I’m not always alone. Recently, I’ve had people from across the country call in to let me know what is going on in the world. And of course there’s the show’s psychic—the Dr. Phil to my Oprah, the Tango to my Cash, the Robin to my Batman—none other than Psychic Mel!

Yes, my show “Sunday Experience” has a psychic. You really should give it a listen. What? Not within two miles of University of the Pacific’s Stockton campus? That’s fine – here is a website where you can download the latest show right from the comfort of your own computer. Yep, by clicking on this link, hearing my voice will no longer be your favorite dream, but rather a sweet seductive reality.

Let me explain why this is all important to you. You see, I did a radio show last semester for fun. I had no experience in broadcasting nor had I taken a communication class. But someone over there in the communication building gave me a chance, and I had fun, and now, it’s a class! In college you find things you enjoy to do and you pursue them! That’s what I did with a little help from Pacific.
 

 

The Long Way Home

When I was thinking about where to go to school, location was a big part of it. I wanted a place that wasn’t in Washington (the state I’m from), but still close enough to drive home. I could have gone East, but I didn’t think Montana had much to offer. I almost went to Beaver Fever in Oregon, that is, until I discovered Pacific. Oh it was wonderful—Stockton is sunny, and there are some months where it doesn’t even rain.

The first time I took the drive it was fun — it was even a little of an adventure. The second time the drive was like an old friend. The third time it was the friend that just wouldn’t go away. Seven hundred and sixty-four miles in an average of 12 hours is my trip home in the car. Sure, if I were rich I could fly and do it in 2 hours, but I’m cheap. Why, you ask, don’t I ride the train? Well the train is twice the price of the plane and it would take 20 hours. When you add it all up, the car is the best choice.

Every now and then, I have a friend that will ride along with me, but most of the time, it’s just me, my car, and the open road, for 12 hours. Nothing can make the ride fun. Going up the first stage of the drive is the central valley of California, which has to be the most boring place on earth. Farm after farm after farm; you’d think the people of California would be fatter with all the food I see.

Then comes the mountains, and boy are they fun in the summer. My little car zooms by all the other cars and trucks, but in the winter there’s snow, and that’s not cool. Then we have central Oregon, which is the second most boring place on earth. But when I cross the Columbia River the thought of home in 1 hour as long as I go about 80mph is so sweet.

The ride back to school after Thanksgiving was long, and lonely. Everything was going fine till I got to Redding. From Central Redding for 100 miles, traffic was a crawl. Oh that gets old very fast. There is one piece of good news though. Because we were going so slow, I got the best gas mileage of my life, I went 393 miles on 9.5 gallons of gas, which alone made Thanksgiving worth it.

 

The Penalty of Puddles

I have this nasty little habit, but it’s such a fun habit. I love to drive my little red car through large puddles of water. I even paid extra for tires that are designed to deal with lots of rain, yet not so helpful since I moved from Washington to California. Oh the thrill of the approach! Will I hydroplane? Am I going to crash? Is that guy over there going to get wet? Testing my nerve I speed up, faster and faster, aiming it just right so I’ll go right through the center, the deepest part. Right before I hit it, I worry, should I slow down or swerve? No, I will not be persuaded to change course. Faster and faster, I hit the puddle…

The initial splash is amazing, water twenty feet in the air. All of a sudden the car bogs down, the tires cutting through inches of water to grip the soaked asphalt. Then comes the splash! The water crashes down on my window as if I drove into a lake. Sheets and sheets of water distort everything in view. Oh how grand it all is…That is until your battery light comes on. Time and time again I’ve done this, but only now, now when I’m 800 miles away from home does the water finally claim its electrical victim. It turns out that my alternator died a couple days ago, and I think I know why.

I really don’t mind replacing my alternator. What I do mind is dishing out the $390 to do it. But once again, the University of the Pacific comes and saves the day. Yes because I’m a student at Pacific I get 10% off at Midas, which is usually only $4, but for me, it was more like $40! So it turns out I got to save a little cash and it’s all thanks to Pacific. GO PACIFIC!

 

Dan’s Amazing New Responsibility

So the other day I took on a new responsibility and do you know why? It’s because college is all about two things, trying new stuff and taking on responsibility. And you know what, this is a NEW RESPONSIBILITY—can you get any more collegiate? I don’t think so. To get to the point, I now chauffeur a small chatty child home from school twice a week. Why, you ask? Why is not the question you should be asking, so shame on you! The real question is, why not? The answer is there is no reason not to, so there. It’s really fun. I get to spend 20 minutes with this cool kid talking about his day, while enjoying a nice drive by the river. I’d love to tell you more, but I’ve just started, and today is my second day to pick him up. I might take him to Wendy’s to get a frosty, or maybe something else! Not sure, but we’ll see what happens, won’t we?

 

Moving On Up: Personal Assistant of Media Relations Coordinator

So being the cultural center of Stockton (not being from Stockton I really wouldn’t know, but humor me for a second), my great school was kind enough to host a senatorial debate for a couple local candidates running for the coveted state senate. This race is the most expensive in the state at the moment, and the two participants have just been kind of mean to each other—great fun to watch!

Where do I come into all of this, you ask? You’ll never guess that I was the personal assistant of our skilled media relations coordinator. What fun I had! First, I got to sit in on a meeting with all the important people, and do you know what I found out? Important people have the greatest food at their meetings. I think that might have been the tastiest chicken salad sandwich I have ever had.

Then it was off to prepare for the debate. After seeing to all of my duties, I got to meet the mayor of Stockton, who I think won the debate. I’m not sure if it was fair. The mayor had been a Regent at Pacific and had visited the school many times, so he was very comfortable here. The other guy was ok, but not great.

When it was over, I had to take a reporter from the Modesto Bee upstairs so he could write his article on all the fun we had had. But the computer upstairs wouldn’t work, so he was going nuts. I did what any good media relations coordinator’s personal assistant would do. I took a respected reporter to the loudest dorm on campus (my dorm) so he could write his piece on my computer. It was so much fun, and the best part was I got to see what was in tomorrow’s paper today!

 

Who Knew I Was DJ Material?

So I was really lacking anything to do one Saturday, and sitting around on my can was getting to me. If I typed one more “lol,” I thought I was going to crack. It sounded like a good time to turn on the TV. Channel after channel was one huge let down, but then I found Channel 2! Channel 2 is the University’s station, and usually they just broadcast campus radio (89.7 KPAC) all day long, but now and then, someone will come in and have a talk show or something. To fill up the television screen, they play a slide show to advertise campus events, radio shows, stuff like that. Then one slide caught my eye. It was an ad looking for radio DJ’s! I said to my self, “Why not?” So I e-mailed Professor Ray in the Communications Department and said I wanted to be a DJ. I was ready for the tests to see if I was DJ material. Then came his response. I expected to have to come in for an interview, or maybe some extreme physical endurance tests…No, the e-mail said, “sure.” So I became a DJ. It was easy and all I had to do was ask. But it’s cool, and now I have a show on Sundays at 2 pm. I play music that never gets played on the other radio stations. I give away prizes every week. This week I’m going to give a way a box of Twinkies.

 

Picture Perfect Job

Hey, a new year has begun, and it’s looking like it’ll be a good one. The big thing right now is that I was just hired as the photographer for our campus newspaper, “The Pacifican.” I’m stoked! It was just a little strange how I got the job. I take a lot of the pictures for the University’s Marketing department, and the new editor for the newspaper works with me there. One day she saw me with a camera, and was like “I saw you taking pictures, want to take pictures for the Pacifican?” I was a little shocked. I don’t see my self as a professional (I do get paid to take pictures, so that technically makes me a professional), so I was like “ok…” Over the weekend I thought about it, and the more I thought about it the more excited I got. So on Tuesday (it was Labor Day weekend) I told the editor I really wanted to do this, so she told me about a staff meeting I could come to if I was interested, but I didn’t have to. I was under the impression that I didn’t have the job yet, but when I got to the meeting, I was introduced as the new photographer, what!?! I only hope jobs come so easy when I’m done at Pacific.

 

Fast Food Adventures

So one of the nicest things about the city of Stockton, or at least the area around Pacific, is 24-hour fast food. One day, around 1:30 am my roommate and I got a little hungry, so we got in my car and drove to Jack in the Box. We didn’t call it Jack in the Box, but I’m not sure I can say what we call it on this website. If you see me one day, and ask me, I’ll tell you, or give you a funny look and ask you to go away. So we got in the drive thru, ordered, and sat in that line for about fifteen minutes until we go to the first window. Another 10 minutes later, we finally had our food. And then, just like clock work I was asked if I wanted any Ketchup. I said “no, but I would like some taco sauce and lots of creamer.” My roomie really did want the taco sauce, however the creamer was all mine. I think that creamer is still in my car.

 

The Shortest Election in History

It couldn’t have been more than ten days into the school year and my hall was having elections for hall officers. I really wasn’t interested, but the two girls across the hall were, and they wanted me to go and support them. And I wanted to support them, however, I forgot when the elections were, so I missed out. I figured I should go and apologize, and besides I had to check my mail. What followed was the shortest election in history. While walking by the Hall director’s office a voice asked me if I wanted to be RHA rep, (nominated) and I said yes (voted), and I became a representative of the people (elected).

 

Photography Class is Fun

One of my first classes at Pacific was Photography 1. I learned a lot from this class — what silver has to do with photography, how to process film, but most importantly, that class doesn’t end at the end of class time. One night before a big film project was due, I met with a girl from class to process and print some film. I had become good at stringing the film on the reel for the developing process; however, my friend from class was less than perfect so I offered to help. We both entered the room and I shut the door. Since the film is light sensitive the room was so dark, you couldn’t tell where you hands were much less the film or anything else. I was helping my friend by holding up the film so she could cut it off the spindle. I could feel the shears on the film, she cut, and with a big grin on my face I screamed, “AHHahhhAHHH!” My companion’s only word for the next few moments was “sorry.” But once she realized that the sounds I was making were not sounds of agony, she got a bit angry, but I didn’t care. I was having fun — which is another thing I learned — you have to make class fun, otherwise you might not make it.