May 18, 2010
Ok, I haven’t really been true to my word in updating people on what’s been going on in my life, so here’s part 3.
This here is Weill Hall, Cornell’s new biomedical engineering/biology building. This is where I spend most of my time. I was kinda sad when I found out this was the BME building because I wanted it be all castle-like like the rest of the buildings on campus. I guess Cornell wanted to go for the SD mormon temple look instead.
This is what I meant by “castle-like.” The picture on the right is the picture of Cornell’s west campus, or rather, the 2nd year dorms to be exact. I don’t really know what it looks like inside, but it looks like the ideal place where innovention and sorcery are brewed.
The picture on the left is Cornell’s famous clock-tower. It’s 161 stairs up to the top of the clock-tower, where the chimesmaster resides. There are around 3-4 designated chimesmasters at any given time who conduct daily “concerts” every few hours on the hour. These guys have to actually kick pedals and pull levers to serenade students with a wide variety of tunes ranging from Cornell’s fight song to Aladdin’s “A Whole New World” to Coldplay.
I actually didn’t know this until I looked it up, but Cornell actually has one of the best chimes programs in the country. What a random thing to rank.
Anyway, climbing to the top was like one of the first things Ivan and I did when I was moving in; however, having just been to Italy and climbing to the top of the Duomo shortly before going to Ithaca, we were not very impressed.
I think this bridge is called Thurston Bridge. Kind of sad, but this is where most of the students who have committed suicide have jumped off of. For a few weeks after the incidents, Cornell posted security by the bridge 24/7 (which is why you see that guy in orange). Now, they’ve set up really ugly fences that don’t completely block off potential jumpers. I mean, granted, there haven’t been any suicides since the fences were put up, but I think it’s more correlation than cause. Also, it seems like the fences only target spontaneous jumpers, but I’m not sure how much of the suicide population they represent. I think it would’ve been smarter to make like a huge net instead because 1. The view of nature and scenery would not be obscured, 2. you could catch the jumpers and since they’d be stuck there for awhile, they’d have some time to re-evaluate their lives. What would you guys suggest?
Lastly, the picture on the bottom right is just a sidewalk that’s close to the BME building. I needed an extra picture in that space for my collage thing, that’s all.
That’s it for campus life. Hope you guys enjoyed it. Until next time!
May 11, 2010
Since I’ve changed my blog’s format, some much appreciated people, who I never knew checked my blog, have graciously told me that they are fans. For those new to my blog, I don’t mean to brag, but I used to be the head artist and writer for a syndicated and massively popular comic strip called, “One SidED.”
Just kidding, it was a comic I did for my church’s newsletter back in San Diego and then something I continued for fun while waiting to go to grad school. I didn’t really want to write a blog entry today, so I decided instead to take a trip down memory lane and post some of these old comics.
Overall, I got pretty mixed reviews. Some people liked the comics; some liked the banners; some liked the ideas; and some told me that if I loved them at all, to never draw again.
Anyway, for your viewing pleasure, enjoy!
Anybody have any comics or ideas they want to share?
May 4, 2010
One thing in my room I forgot to highlight last time was my brother’s housewarming gift for me.
When I first moved to Ithaca, Ivan came with me to help me get settled. After a long day’s work of buying supplies and picking up things from craigslist, I wanted to stop by the Salvation Army to “treasure hunt.” Ivan had been set on buying me a housewarming gift the whole day and knew that Salvation Army would be the best place to find some ridiculous item with which to christen my apartment.
At first, he was going to buy something generically and slightly funny (some fruity girly painting with zero lasting value), but judging by his whimpering and pouty lips, even he hadn’t convinced himself it was the right gift.
However, just as we were about to leave, he saw it: the present of presents and gift of gifts. There would be no discussion. This was the gift that would motivate me for the school year, if not for a lifetime — the one that would catapult me into greatness… from boy to man.
Think about it: “Believe in the Magic of your Dreams.” What better display of dreams coming true than Papa Unicorn, with a rainbow spewing forth from his anus under the backdrop of majestic waterfalls, teaching Baby Unicorn the ways of their magical kingdom?
And now, atop the door frame that leads into my room lies my new mantra in life.
Earlier this semester, I dreamt that my dog, Sing Yeah, came back to life as an elephant, and as I hung onto his tusks and swung around, we rode off into the beautiful sunset, together again.
April 27, 2010
I know a lot of people know this story already, but I thought it would be a nice way to start a new segment I call, “Story Time,” where I tell you guys a (mostly) true story about my life. Enjoy!
This is me…err, rather, this was me. I used to wrestle in junior high and what you see there is 5 feet and 110 lbs of pure man.
One of the most vivid memories I have of junior high wrestling comes from the first varsity match I ever wrestled in. I had just won my challenge match and was subsequently bumped up to varsity. After finding out my opponent would be against Dartmouth Middle School, I invited all my friends to go watch my anointing as the greatest thing to have happened at Fisher since Pizza Hut breadsticks.
On the day of the match, Dartmouth informed our team that since they had nobody in the 110 lb weight class in varsity, they would have their JV member wrestle me. I considered this a slap in the face, an affront to my honor, and I would make them pay. However, one look at my opponent, and I knew this match was going to be different from anything I had ever faced; I had seen the face of my enemy, and she was ready to rumble.
Just kidding. She was not ready to rumble at all. This girl stood a good 3-4 inches shorter than me but still packed 110 lbs and honestly did not look like she had wrestled a day in her life.
Before the match started, my coach called me over and told me to “tech pin” her, which in layman’s terms is the ultimate display of dominance over an opponent (win of 15 points + a pin). We laughed heartily as men often do and high fived each other multiple times. The girl was gonna get owned.
The match started, and I immediately took control and before I knew it, I was already up 4-0. It was at this point that I decided to implement my sure-fire strategy to get me the 15 points and an easy pin: I would put her in a cradle and keep getting near-falls (3 points for holding opponent’s shoulders to mat for 3 seconds without actually pinning him/her) until I reached 15 points and would just pin her after that.
So, I got her in a cradle and was on my way; however, since she was so much shorter than me, my face ended up being kinda close to her bottom end. Paying no heed and fixing my eyes solely on the prize of glory, I stayed the course and pushed on ahead. This was the easiest match ever, I thought to myself as I heard the ref slowly count, “1….2…..”
And then… from the darkest regions of her anal channel came the softest of “pfffffft’s.”
My hair blew back ever so slightly as the musk enveloped my face like the gentle caress of the warm summer wind. I could not believe what had just happened. Where were the flowers? The potpourri? The rainbows? Did an angel at least get its wings? For reasons that escape me now, I decided to take a sniff to confirm what had just happened and indeed, Gaseous Clay had used the most forbidden of techniques.
My coach had stopped yelling at me to continue as my eyes told him I had to abort the mission. I pinned her and the ref raised my hand declaring that I had won the battle, yet it was she who had won the war…but truth be told, there were no winners that day.
I’m not sure if she continued her wrestling career, though some say she still walks among us today. As for me, I eventually recovered and became the league champion in my weight class; however, even with all the accolades, I will never forget the lesson I learned that day: Never be too prideful or a girl just might fart in your face.
April 20, 2010
I’ve always found the idea of signatures an oddity. Who was it, exactly, who first decided that people needed to have a signature. I mean, what did people do before the signature existed? I wonder if one day somebody was like, “Good morrow, storekeep. Today, I shant be verifying my credit with a tale of my forefathers but if you’d lend me your quill there, I shall give you in its stead…a sign” and then proceeded to watch everyone’s heads explode from trying to understand what just happened.
In some ways… or many… I’m the black sheep of my family — I don’t like playing Chinese courtesy games, my Cantonese has an accent, I don’t wear glasses, the list goes on. However, my greatest transgression for many years has been how ugly my signature is compared to Ivan’s, my mom’s, and my dad’s.
What does this have to do with my time in Ithaca? Well, since I figured I would soon have that Cornell rubber stamp on my resumé, I might as well have an Ivy League signature to match on my cover letters. I’ve heard it said that one’s signature tells a lot about a person, and the consensus for what mine was telling people was: dumdum writes with feet.
So anyway, I’ve prepared for you a small visual journey of how my signature has developed throughout my life until now.
This was back in elementary school when teachers still required students to write in cursive, which I maintain has to be one of the most useless things I’ve learned in school ever. I’m not sure what is more embarrassing/impressive — that I still remember how I signed my name in elementary school or that my cursive at present looks exactly the same as it did back then.
This “signature” came when it was declared that students no longer had to write in stupid cursive. Having decided that since I was at the top of the middle school totem pole, I left my childish ways behind by abandoning the “Eddie” moniker to take on and embrace the much cooler, mysteriously sexier …”Ed.” I continued using this one until halfway through the semester when I realized I could save a few milliseconds on my spelling tests by writing my name as fast as I could….which gave birth to this monstro…usly beautiful signature.
As you can see, I kept this signature for a good number of years… through junior high, past high school, through college, right on to my first semester at Cornell. I was actually pretty proud of this signature because I thought it looked cool and more importantly, I could write this signature blazingly fast.
Luckily, my brother was kind enough to point out that my signature looked like it was written by a retard. In fact, he even went the extra mile by adding a voice to my signature which sounded like a fat ‘ol witch saying my name while trying to squeeze out a fart. Phonetically, it looked like, “ee-ehhhhddd yeeehhhp.” Whenever he would forge my signature, he would seriously just wrap his left fist around a pen, contort his face, and scrawl any random shapes that popped in his head.
Well, enough was enough. One September morning, I woke up, grabbed a pen and paper, and worked for many hours on making a new signature. This was the end result:
In my humble opinion, I think this looks more… mature… and cleaner, at least, than my old signature. What do y’all think?
*Update* A lot of people have been asking me what that line is in between my first d and that vertical line. Just to clarify, my signature spells out “Edward Yip” now, so that line is the supposed “w,” “a,” and “r.”
I remember some article some guy wrote awhile back analyzing Barack Obama’s character through his signature. Do any of you believe that one’s signature is telling of what kind of person he/she is? What’re your thoughts?
Anyone think they have a cool signature and wanna share?
April 15, 2010
My time in Ithaca is coming to a close, so I figured now would be a good time to update on what’s been going on.
A lot of people ask me what my apartment is like here, so I decided to make my first post about that. I live in a 1br/1ba all by myself.
The table you see in the first picture is one of few American made wooden tables that I got off of craigslist from some gay dude for 50 bucks.
For my mattress and chair, Ivan and I drove an hour out into some farm town called Danby and met the most interesting man in the world. When I called him to confirm we were coming, he told me, “Oh, when you drive up, I’ll probably see you from my plane, so I’ll just fly down and meet you guys.”
This guy was no joke. He used to be some highway patrol officer who one day decided to go live in Indonesia for awhile to go ride elephants, chilled with a buncha Buddhists for a few years, and now lives in a house he built himself. Ivan was wearing my Florida manatees shirt that day. The guy took one look at Ivan, sized him up, cocked one eybrow up and asked, “You ever felt a manatee before? ’Course you haven’t. I felt one when I was swimming with them in the Atlantic. Kinda feels like an elephant.” Then he ripped an oak tree from the ground with his bare hands and threw it into the sun.
The mattress and chair cost me 25 dollars total. Win. However, Ivan and I spent the night scrubbing the mattress with baking soda, soap, and whatever detergent we could find. That thing was/is nasty. It’s ok. We did our best and forgot the rest.
This is a fire hydrant. I see it every morning while I wait for the bus.
Speaking of which. This is the bus stop I walk to every morning. I wait for either the 30 (or 70 on the weekends) every day to go to campus which comes every 15 or 30 minutes depending on what time it is. It’s like a 3 minute walk to the bus stop and a 10-15 minute ride to campus. During the winter, the Triphammer Mall sign would tell me exactly how much pain and suffering the frozen tundra of Ithaca would bring me every day. The worst it got was like 8 degrees F. I swear, I didn’t even think that was legal.
That’s all for today.
March 18, 2010
Just a show of hands. Does anybody want an update on life in NY?
January 6, 2010
Sing Yeah: 1998 – 1/04/10
He was always a lively dog. He ran around and played like the best of dogs and always wore his heart on his paw. If ever unhappy, he would drop a deuce or two anywhere and everywhere to show his discontent. Yes, he knew what punishment would ensue, but he didn’t care. He followed one rule and one rule alone: there are no rules. Damn it, he was Sing Yeah.
Yeah, you could try to play fetch with him, but he would never promise to return the ball or toy to you. You could try to trust him and leave him unattended for a bit, but he would never promise to not lay his tasty treats in the middle of the room for you. If he sensed that we were going to put him in the garage, he would run away with the wind on his feet. If we tried to push him in the garage, he would call upon the earth to hold him in place as he stuck his butt up to our faces. And even after we managed to get him in the garage, he would miraculously jump over our defenses carried perhaps by his air of defiance.
Never one to obey or accept confinement, he had a steely resolve and an indomitable spirit. He was a lion that somehow got stuck in a dog’s body. He was Sing Yeah.
As our noble and gallant protector, whenever someone would drive up to our driveway, Sing Yeah would always jump onto our window sill, his watchman’s tower, to see if it was friend or foe and alert us accordingly.
And as a Yip, whenever our family would sit at the kitchen table to play family games, I would have him sit on my lap so he could watch. Rambo would always jump off and waste his life away on the couch, but not Sing Yeah. Sing Yeah always stayed and watched until he would grow tired, rest his head on the table, and fall asleep as the gentle sounds of his snoring guided the pace of our game.
He died on Jan 4th after having eaten an abundance of coins, unbeknownst to us, which caused his liver to stop functioning. Over the course of 2 days, he lost all of the energy and spunk we came to know and love. Even mentions of going outside or being put in the garage failed to elicit any kind of response. He could no longer run, and he no longer ate. He was dying.
On Saturday, Jan. 2nd, my dad and I brought him to one of his favorite places to run around hoping that finally giving him free reign to frolic would bring back the Sing Yeah of old. Unfortunately, he just stood there weakly, hobbled around for a bit until his hind legs gave out, and then plopped down and just laid there only able to stare at what used to be his domain. Knowing that his last moments were drawing near, we carried him around to all of his favorite spots so he could enjoy them one last time.
On Sunday, Jan 3rd, his skin and eyes turned yellow, and he no longer wagged his tail at the sight of my mom, his favorite person in the world. He could no longer stand on his own and needed me to prop his hind legs up when he needed to go to the bathroom. I stayed with him as my parents went off to church and stayed with him until they returned. When they pulled their car up to the driveway, I carried Sing Yeah to the window sill for his final post as our protector.
We took him to the vet later that day to see if there was any chance of a miracle. I held him in my arms as we drove to the vet, his body uncharacteristically limp. He panted heavily as the passion and energy in his eyes belied his emaciated body. When we took him into the vet, he showed what turned out to be his final act of rebellion as he threw his head back and forth and every which way as the technicians tried to attach an IV to him. We were told there was a 50/50 chance he would live.
On Jan 4th, the vet called and said that Sing Yeah had died in the morning and had died a peaceful death.
It’s a bit ironic that it was his own disobedience that led to his undoing. Then again, for a dog that had dedicated his life to one of rebellion, it seems like this was the most fitting way to go.
He was the best of dogs, he was the worst of dogs. Untamable as the wind yet as gentle as the breeze, he was Sing Yeah, and he will be missed. Good bye, buddy.