Yeah, it's me, b*tches

I'm Parker. Parker Peterson. The one and only Asian Version of ET. 'What is an Asian Version of ET', you might ask? Well lemme' tell ya'. It's being something you're not. ET isn't freaking Asian, he's just ET! Parker isn't freaking Asian either, he's just Parker...but if I could become something else. Somethinggg...something like, like...an Asian Version of ET, even for just a semester....then I know I gave you people everything I could... something Parker Peterson could not.

The Camera Stops

The camera snaps a shot
The bodies rise up from the floor
Like fireflies in an open jar
The bones start dancing
Rusted jewlery clanging in perfect harmony
Old trumpets and whiskey
Stained wooden floors now crisply cleaned
The smell of pine-sol
The air cool to their cheeks
The song picks up
Gruesome feet shuffling in rhythm
Faster
Faster
Faster
And....
The camera snaps another....
No more music
No more dancing
They lay on the floor
Motionless
The camera will snap no more

Inkblot

This is Tommy Mouldune. Tommy lives in a highrise, studio apartment in 1950's Los Angeles. He is an interesting type of person. He keeps to himself mostly, and lives a fast paced, caffeine filled life. However, the interesting part is Tommy has no family. Why? Tommy does not believe in true love. He thinks love is something that only exists in songs and movies. With no family in the way, he has become independantly wealthy. His life is perfect...or so he thinks. One day he wakes up in a different bed. "That was some sorta' party last night" he thinks to himself. "Must be in some broad's bed." He hears something from outside the bedroom. Cooking perhaps? Then a voice, "you're going to be late for work, Derek!" Then two small children come barreling into the bed, "mommy told us to come wake you up, daddy!" Tommy goes into the kitchen and tells the woman this is a funny joke, but he really must be going now. "Yes, you do need to be going, dear. You're late, but here, eat up first." Tommy tries to get to the bottom of what's going on...
- Could this be Tommy's real life, and the other face paced one was all in his head?
- Has Tommy been living two lives?
- Will Tommy accept his new life now that he has supposedly found his 'true love'? Or will he fight to get back to his old life?

HERE IT COMES!

DIALOGUE

1- ...and that's why I came home without any clothes on.
2- ...So uh, wait a sec. You said the guy was Finnish?
1- No no, Irish.
2- Oh yeah, right...
1- ...Hey, the guy was tough, alright? AND he had a gun.
2- I don't doubt he was...Hey, did this Irishman happen to have a golden tooth?
1- Well yeah. How the f-
2- And did he have a finely groomed mustache?
1- How do you know this?
2- Because he's uh, he's standin' right outside your door.
1- Holy JES- *gets pulled out of car*
3- Alright, lad. Out ya' come. *screws on silencer* Ye' thought ya' could just skip on outta' town and I wouldn't find ya', eh?
1- No, please! I won't tell anyone, I SWEAR.
3- That's right, boyo, ye' won't be tellin' anyone...*cocks pistol*
2- What are you doing? Stop!
3- You. Get back in the car, NOW.
2- Alright, alright! I ain't the guy with the gun.
3- Any last words, sonny?
1- Yeah, look behind you...
3- Those are awful queer last wo-
2- Ya' shouldn't have told me to get back in the car you filthy Irishman!
3- NNNO *gets ran over*
2- Get in, hurry!
1- Drive, DRIVE!
2- WOOOHAHAH! Yeah!
1- That was insane! Do you think he's *BAM*
2- Holy, what the?! He's shooting at us!
1- He's not dead?! *BAM BAM*
2- Ahh sh*t! This guy IS tough!
1- I told you!
2- I'm sorry I *BAM* doubted you!
1- JUST DRIVE!

Manajè twa

Manajè twa

"Oh no, no!"

"Oh yes, yes!"

blubbered

Lawrence I

whipped this thing

I'm cockeyed as hell

I'm

silk

crouched

to give you

five hundred bucks

I guess

I'll be

oily

shying away

the blur of traffic

This Rat-Face

is rotten

and

's going to burn

That smell, that smelly smell that smells....smelly.

My hands smell like dog vomit. That is all.

B L A D E R U N N E R

B L A D E  R U N N E R

   Let me start off by saying this was EXTREMELY difficult for me. Movies are my life. I'm going into film in college, it means everything to me. It's an understatement to say I've seen a shat-load of movies. My list of favorite films generally stays the same, though my numero uno favorite film changes from day to day based on my mood.
   Now with that out of the way, let's get on with it, shall we? Blade Runner. Ridley Scott gave us a film ahead of it's time in 1982, heck, it's ahead of it's time for 2012. If you haven't seen it, stop reading RIGHT NOW and go fricking rent it-no-BUY IT. It's too good a film to be merely rented then stored back on the shelves of oppression. Go buy it and watch it, then watch it again. Why are you still reading? Stop. I'm about to spoil the whole thing for you. Sorry to those of you who have seen it, they just wouldn't flippin' leave. Phew, okay.

   This movie really resonates with one of the topics we've discussed in this class; what does it mean to be human? That's the underlying message of this film. Set in a dystopian, future Los Angeles, Deckard (played by the brilliant, subtle Harrison Ford) is an ex-Blade Runner, or in other words, a killer of replicants. He's brought back into the business however, when four replicants escape from an off-world colony and come back to Earth.
   Behind all of the futuristic cityscapes lies a deeply articulated story and many philosophical themes. Among these themes are the following: - The dehumanization of people through a society shaped by technological excess. - The roles of creator and creation, their mutual enslavement, and their role reversal, i.e., the creation's triumph over its creator. - The nature of humanity itself: emotions, memory, purpose, desire, cruelty, technological mastery of environment and universe, mortality, death, and more. - Personal identity and self-awareness. - And the meaning of existence.
   If you're a person who loves mindless action, hot girls-a-plenty, and explosions, this film most likely will not be for you. However, if you're a person who really loves to think, and to be puzzled, Blade Runner is the film for you. Once you reach the climax you'll be going "Holy nards!" and by the time the credits roll you'll be like "Oh. My. Goodness..." Or maybe you'll just hate it and hate me for telling you to watch it. Whatever.

Untitled entry #2

Continued

            …He froze for a moment, then started to walk backwards, too afraid to look away from the lanky creature.  He stepped on the glass again, it gashed right in the same place on his foot as before.  It was bleeding very frantically now, and if he didn’t get it patched up in the next ten minutes, he would definitely go unconscious.  He was in a part of the hallway he hadn’t been to yet.  It smelt extremely horrific, but he could not figure out what it was.  The thing was still mere feet behind him, groaning increasingly loud.  With every step it took it felt like a small earthquake.  It was everything he could do to stay ahead of it, but it was so dark and he was slipping on the tile from his wound with every step he took.  He tripped over something.  It was soft and mushy.  It was too dark to make it out, but when he used his hand to prop himself up, he felt its face.  It was human, that was for sure, and it definitely wasn’t alive.  Then it sunk its teeth right into his hand.  Suddenly he could hear grotesque, mutilated sounds from all around him.  He sprung to his feet.  Then the creature was so close he could feel its steely breath on his shoulders.  He ran as fast as he could now.  He could feel the bodies around him rising up from the floor.  Their heads were brushing past his abdomen.  He was even touching shoulder to shoulder with some of them.  He could see a white light at the end of the hallway that he had just turned into.  He had done it.  He was home-free.  He couldn’t be more than thirty, maybe even twenty yards away.  Then, silhouettes started filling up the white space.  They were rising up from the floor, slowly like the others, and more were funneling in from the open rooms lining the hallway.  He looked behind him and the shifty footsteps were getting ever closer, as well as the monstrous footsteps from the creature.  He opened up the door nearest to him, only to come face to face with half a dozen more of them.  He did his best to hurry and close it, but they were to strong and too many.  The gap between the herd behind him and the ones in front was getting tighter and tighter.  There were only a few unopened doors to try before he would be overrun.  He opened up door after door, only to be greeted by musky breath, dead eyes, and hands reaching out as if for a loving embrace.  Only it was anything but.  He knew that when the first one bit him on the hand.  There were only two or three doors left now.  He opened the next one.  There were more of the “humans”, but there was a light on in this room.  It shined into the hallway and he could see something twinkling, perhaps made of some sort of glass.  He ran hastily to it, picked it up, and had but mere seconds to inspect it.  It was a SWAT riot shield.  Then claws were digging into the back of his neck and head.  He swung it at them, knocking several to the ground.  He was weak, and the shield was heavier than it looked, but he knew what he had to do.  He squarely positioned his body behind the shield, took a deep breath, and started sprinting with everything he had left. 

Part 3

Coming Soon

It's that time again!

JEALOUSY (Heheheh, we meet again...)

On Turning Ten by Billy Collins
Click HERE to read the best poem ever

I bet a Jap-load of people are gonna' choose On Turning Ten as the poem they are jealous of, but that's okay. I'm not going to choose another poem that I'm NOT as jealous of just because less people are going to choose it, or in other words, I'm not going to be a hipster/indie douche.

On that note, let's get right into it. On Turning Ten by Billy Collins. Where do I begin? Where do you begin with a poem like this? Should it even be considered a poem, or rather a religion? Because this poem is my life, rather than the blood of Christ or the Book of Mormon. This thing just hits me hard, and it doesn't let me get back up.

"You tell me it is too early to be looking back," Are you freaking kidding me? I feel like that line is a summary of my life. No one has told me personally that I'm too young to be looking back, but I'm still guilty of it. At fifteen I was looking back on how fun and rebelious I was at thirteen. At seventeen I thought to myself how good and carefree life was at fifteen. I am now eighteen and I find myself all too often going "Agh, why is life so complicated?", but little do I know that in four years I'll be in a reflective sort of mood and think to myself, "Man, what I wouldn't give to be eighteen again."

There are a billion reasons why this poem makes me jealous, but it really comes down to two specific reasons. One- the writing. Billy Collins is just unparalleled. He's the Spielberg or Scorcese of poem writing. I dream of the day when I can be HALF as good a writer as he is. Two- the meaning. I don't know if I'm so much jealous of the protaganist of this poem as I am familiar with him. I feel as if Billy Collins is writing about me. So I guess I'm jealous of myself? I dunno'. I feel like I'm rambling. I probably lost a lot of readers at the "hipster/indie douche" part, because there are so many of them at Lone Peak. Anyways, to those of you who read the whole thing, you get a figurative pat on the back. Ooo, nice muscles.

Untitled entry #1

            The blood was clogging up his airway, that’s the only reason he woke up. Otherwise he probably would’ve been out for a few more hours. It took a few moments for his eyes to come into focus. He stuck some gauze up his nose to stop the bleeding. From what he could tell, lying form his bed, there was no one else in the hospital. The whole place was ransacked. There were tables and mattresses lying about and the blinds had been replaced by thick blankets, allowing only a small amount of light in. He managed to get to his feet when all the sudden it hoofed across the end of the hallway. He was able to catch a glimpse of it. He could definitely tell this *thing* wasn’t human. But somehow, he could eerily remember it. He knew that he’d never seen anything like it before, but something was telling him to approach it, that this thing would help him out of his situation. He slowly started creeping towards the end of the hallway. His feet felt heavy, his hands, icy. He stepped on a piece of glass. It didn’t do much, but he could definitely use a bandage. Then he looked up from his foot and there it was again, this time motionless, staring at him. It was at least seven feet tall. He was frozen in his tracks. Should he approach it further? Should he stay where he is? Should he turn around and run? Before he could make up his mind it started moaning and growling. It was a sound he had never heard before; almost a mix between a wolf and a whale. It started off somewhat quiet at first, then it got so loud it felt like the room was shaking. It started shuffling towards him…

Part 2

Coming Soon

...zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz...................

I'm just gonna' come right out and say it, I dream about making sweet love. Sweet, SWEET love. That's as much as I'm gonna' say about that though, you sick perverts. Or am I the sick pervert for dreaming about making love? Doesn't everyone dream about that? What if you don't dream about making love? Does that mean something's wrong with you? Should you see a doctor? Should I see a doctor? Are you missing the part in your brain that makes you love? Or is it your heart that makes you love? I'm pretty sure your heart is just for pumping blood or something like that, I'm not a doctor or anything. So I'm like 78.43% sure it's your brain that tells you how to love. What's that? What else do I dream about besides making love, you ask? Well sheesh, lots of stuff! I dream about flying, battling shark people, being chased by a headless horseman, coming to school without any pants on, looking in the mirror and a monster is looking back at me, getting a brand new, expensive car then crashing it, running away from an unknown threat and all the sudden my legs stop working and they catch me, being in a room full of dolls and they all follow my every movement with their piercing little eyes, being chased by prisoners and more and more keep coming until they catch me and beat the living tar outta' me and I wake myself up before I die...Yeah, I should probably see a doctor...

There I am. Eating yellow snow again.

It seems like this has been happening a lot lately. The snow is white. I pick it up. Still white. I ponder it intentively, glistening in my palm. Still white. I take a bite out of it and what do you know? It's yellow. There I am. Eating yellow snow again. I wish it would just stay white.

What-the-freak-ever

Courage is lying about not doing this assignment until two hours before it's do. It's knowing no one is going to read this post on my blog. Well, okay, maybe a few people will read it, perhaps not even READ it, but rather skim through it. I wouldn't be surprised in the slightest if no one commented on it. And if by the grace of Zeus himself there happens to be a comment, it will be out of pity, and to make that other person feel good about themselves for posting a comment on this blog. So go ahead, have some pity and comment down below. Whoa, I'm sorry. Courage, right? Got a little lost back there. Courage, is that a verb or a noun? A verb if you're saying "I'm being so courageous right now." But maybe a noun when you say "No one has any courage anymore." Man, I dunno. I'm tired. I had a long mutha-effin' weekend. It wasn't necessarily bad, but it wasn't great. Shiz. Courage. Right. Ummmm. Oh, I got it. Have a little courage (and yes, a little pity) and post a comment on this page. G'head. Do it.

READ THIS

I hate people who don't say thanks after you hold the door open for them. Especially when it's fu*king freezing outside and they are super far away but you're like "Ah what the heck, I had my favorite cereal this morning and didn't hit any red lights on my way here. Sure I'll hold it open." Then they just walk on past. MOTHER FU*KER!

NOIR

   There I was, sitting in the lounge. Just a night like any other, only it wasn't. He was fifteen minutes late. When people run late to these kinds of things that usually means bad news. There it was again, the shake in my hand. I asked the waitress for another drink. Twenty minutes now. Same seat as usual. Far left corner of the room. I liked it over there because there were less people. Most guys are so love-drunk they never make it past the first dance stage. I had a girl I'd never met before.
   She had the face of a godess. Her hair was piercing blond, almost white. She seemed nice enough, almost too nice. We made small talk; weather, economy, sports, movies. I asked her what she was doing in a place like this. She asked me the same thing right back. I chuckled. But she finally gave way. She told me she and her boyfriend had a baby together, but he hit the road. She hadn't seen him in months. I was able to figure out the rest. She was a single parent living in this hell-hole of a town, how else was she gonna' get money? And with looks like hers, the job couldn't have been too hard to get.
   I asked her what she really wanted out of life. I mean, she couldn't have wanted to be doing *this* until the day she died. She said, "I only want one thing out of life. Lots of people want money, and fame, but me, I just want one thing, that's all. I want to b-" Then I got a tap on the shoulder. There he was, thirty minutes late. He reeked of alcohol, even for being in a place like this. I told her I'd be right back. She nodded, and gave a smile. We took our meeting to the alley out the back door. The less eyes the better. I could immediately tell something wasn't right. It was in his face. "I'm sorry" he said. "My boss, my family... Please forgive me." Then a loud ringing and a flash. My eyes closed instinctively.
   I opened them and I was lying on the pavement now. I could feel the warm blood pooling beneath me. He had already left. I wasn't sure how long I'd been out. Hours, minutes? Then I heard gunshots from inside the lounge. Three, maybe four. I was able to pull myself up by the dumpster next to me. I opened the door to a heavy smell of fresh gunpowder. There were loud screams and shouting everywhere. People were running amok. Like cattle in a pen. My shirt was soaked now, I ripped off a piece of it and tied it around my torso. I grabbed one of the girls and asked her where he went. "He went out the front door and drove off, he's long gone." I asked her if anyone got hurt. She pointed to the bar, where there was a tall, heavy-set man lying deceased on the ground. Then she pointed to the far left corner of the room. I already knew before I turned my head. There was the blond hair. Lying motionless on the blood-stained carpet. I couldn't move. Was it the gunshot that caused me to sit there, not doing anything but stare at her dead body? Was it lust? Was it what she was going to say to me? "I want to" the next word started with a b, I'm sure of it. I limped out the back door, and walked without looking back.

Know your meme

F E A R S

"You traveled the world...Now you must journey
inwards...to what you really fear...it's inside
you...there is no turning back. Your parents'
death was not your fault. Your training is
nothing. The will is everything. If you make
yourself more than just a man, if you devote
yourself to an ideal, you become something
else entirely. Are you ready to begin?"

I'm afraid of myself
I'm afraid of hobos
I'm afraid of anyone and everyone from Asia
I'm afraid of being racist
I'm afraid of skinheads
I'm afraid of boys
I'm afraid of The Birds
I'm afraid of girls
I'm afraid of The Bees
I'm afraid of not being good enough
I'm afraid of death
I'm afraid of really living
I'm afraid of Italian men with baseball bats
I'm afraid of being afraid
I'm afraid of Mr. Nelson when he covers his ears and starts screaming
I'm afraid of my sarcasm
I'm afraid of "prestiging"
I'm afraid of malls
I'm afraid of the hair that grows around my belly-button
I'm afraid of moobs
I'm afraid of H20
I'm afraid of this blog

Is the Mirror Lying?

Is the mirror lying?
Am I my phone?
Am I the kind of car I drive?
Am I the "friends" I have?
Am I the style of music I listen to?
Am I the clothes I wear?
Am I connected? Or do I just think I am, but really I am as distant as everyone else?
Am I my job?
Am I the way I do my hair?
Am I what I eat?
I'm a fat, juicy, tasty Whopper?
Am I the same jokes I tell, again and again?
Am I the tough, renegade adolescent I think I am? Or am I the outgoing, kindhearted type?
Am I the weights I lift at the gym?
Am I the movies I watch?
Am I the crude things I've done to my family?
Am I the tears that fall for the exact same reason every time
Am I the mole on my neck?
Am I what I see in the mirror?
Is the mirror lying?

I'm Thinkin' Boutchu' Yo

I'm thinking about you like soap thinks about my pinky toe named Jimmy. Like soap thinks about being dropped in a prison shower. Like prisoners think about not having freedom. Like freedom doesn't think about Obama. Oh, did I say that? Whoops...
I'm thinking about you like a train thinks about being derailed. Like rainchecks think about being cashed in. Like cash thinks about hoes. Like hoes think about pimps. Like a pimp thinks about a raincheck.
I'm thinking about you like plaid thinks about corduroy. Like Corduroy thinks about children's books. Like a child doesn't think about getting cancer at the age of 2, going through months of chemotherapy, being bald, and wondering why they're different.
I'm thinking about you like a Glock thinks about a SIG. Like an Alien thinks about SIGourney Weaver.
I'm thinking about you like a kiss thinks about herpes. Like herpes thinks about mass destruction. Like mass destruction thinks about Chernobyl, or Hiroshima, or The Two Towers, or my conscience.
I'm thinking about you like E.T. thinks about being Asian. Thank you, thank you.
*takes a bow*

The Hobo Across the Street

We exit the resaurant. He sits on the street. We laugh. He hears. We launch spit-wads at each other. He sees. We talk. He walks. The words mix and tumble out of his mouth like a baby eating peaches for the first time. My wallet is heavier than ever...

What is love? (baby don't hurt me, don't hurt me, no more)

Love is Donkey Kong. Love is an over-cooked Hot-Pocket. Love is seven hours straight with the arthritis setting in. Love is making a fist then exhaling. Love is the squigly line in my eye. Love is spilling the glass then lying about it. Love is Old Spice- Fiji. Love is alcohol and neon lights. Love is the sheet pulled over Hollywood. Love is a roadside bomb. Love is a nail that just won't let itself enter the wall. Love is a Toyota Corolla. Love is...

What would an Asian E.T. look like? Hmm, I dunno', but I think I speak for everyone when I say I know what it would smell like; orange chicken and chow mein noodles. Follow the path of the righteous man, and look unto the shepherd for knowledge. Be kind to him and he shall return it upon you.