Part of Me Glimpse of Me Who am I?, the odds and ends A history in four parts:

Part of Me

"Scalars" has returned, "Michele Wiley is a poop!" is no longer. Welcome back.

There is a bit of sad news to report. But first, a quick update on me me me.

Nothin' much new with me. Another semester has flown by, increasing my fear exponentially. I'm still not sure what I'm doing here in college. I think by the time I finally find out, I'll have my diploma. (Either that, or I'll be kicked off without ever knowing, being forced to move back home and take a job at the local grocer as a "bagger.")

The big news in my family is that my brother, Mike, is finally marrying his girlfriend of several years, Caroline (pictures of them circulate these pages quite often). He proposed to her in early January. The wedding date has not been set. Whenever it may be, our whole family and most of our good friends will be there. Sufficed to say, we're all very, very happy with this bit of news.

Grades came in. I did better than last spring, thank God. I couldn't handle another semester like that.

Things in my residency are going well. I'm surprised: there are so many normal, down to Earth people here in La Loma. I was expecting a much higher percentage of freaks. None the less, I'm making friends. Hopefully I'll be able to keep most of them for the rest of my stay in Berkeley. My only qualm about suite IC38 is that too many people having been moving out… didn't know I was that bad to live with.

Michele and I are still together. Surprisingly, she hasn't gotten rid of me yet. I guess my "charm" is just too overwhelming.

And now, for the sad news…

My friend and condone, Maxwell, my cat fish of one year, has passed on. Here's the long, draw out story that everyone probably expects me to spiel out:

On the night of January 10, 1997, I return to my room to be comforted by a long night's sleep. Before turning in, I checked my fish tank, to see how things were doing, who was talking to who, who was sleeping with whom, the usual gossip, as you can guess. No, no, no, there was something terribly, terribly wrong with the scenario: Maxwell wasn't himself. He was drifting with the current set up by the pump, unable to swim for himself, unable to do the duties required of him as a fish. He was dying.

Immediately, I prepared my backup tank, in hopes that I could save his fleeting life. I knew he could never survive if left alone in the tank; a dying fish surrounded by healthy fish undoubtedly always gives way to a massacre.

In the rescue tank, I gave him plenty of food, in case his illness was due to starvation. (No such luck… to this day, I don't know what took Maxwell away from me.) He wouldn't, or couldn't, eat. As a last minute resort, I took Maxwell in my hand, and moved him near the water's surface, begging him to try. No, no, no.

He didn't.

And then Maxwell died-leaving this world as I gently, oh so gently, rubbed his fishy belly.

I'd like to think that as he passed from this world into the next, he knew that I was with him, that I wishing him well, thanking him in my heart for what he gave me.

Soon after his departure, I begun the mourning. The lights were turned off, candles were placed around the tank. After awhile, I prepared him for his voyage to his final resting place. I said "goodbye, my love," and I flushed.

I hope that you, too, will think of Maxwell when you encounter any great body of water. For he might be there, for sometimes that is where sewage goes. And if he is there, I am sure his spirit is swimming around happily as it always was in my tank. And he is physically there, too. For every fish that dines on his carcass contains a little part of him.

I have to carry on. I think Maxwell would have wanted that. I must admit, for awhile I was considering donating the rest of my fish to an aquarium store, for, without Maxwell, I feel lost. But, in the end, I carry on.

There will never be another like him, my dear Maxwell.

And that's it for the update. I have to go cry now.

Who am I?, the odds and ends

I like to tell people that I'm going to "build toasters" when I grow up. Usually it's in response to the question: "What are you going to do with an Engineering major?" Frankly, I really don't know what I'll be doing with an "Electrical Engineering and Computer Science" degree. I'm not even sure if I like the major. But, for now, I guess I'll stick with it. I can't think of anything else, so at least that's a good sign.

If, before I die, I'm allowed one final request, I'm going to ask for my ideal meal. There's no particular person I'd like to share it with, nor is there any certain location I would like. I just want the food. My plate would consist of the finest foods from around the world: a hearty serving of homemade stuffing and a 12 piece Chicken McNuggets, with a frozen Eggo waffle, and a heaping of homemade potato salad. To drink, I'd like a bottle of Schweppes Bitter Lemon. Doesn't it sound perfect?

I never liked stamps. I never liked coins. I never really liked baseball cards. Wisely, I never was an avid collector of any of these items. No, I knew what I wanted to collect. I knew what was truly important. That's why I can show you about thirty different Coca-Cola cans from around the world. I've got bottles, small cans, big cans, normal cans, a lot of different shapes and sizes. I didn't let my fascination for Coke paraphernalia discourage me from collecting other things, too. I've probably got one of the most extensive assortment of air sick backs in the greater Bay Area. Mind you, they aren't used. Some are plain, some have tie strings, some even have advertisements on them (one, in particular, doubles as a bag for film processing). Don't tell me there's nothing to do on an airplane. My box full of chewed up fingernails is also finally beginning to look impressive. Please disregard that last sentence, I was just trying to somehow out-do my air sick bag collection in some way.

A history of me

"Hello, my name is…" Jacob Johansen. There's no middle name. Let's get that straight. No, it's not too embarrasing or hard to spell. It just doesn't exist. I have my birth certificate to prove it. For whatever reason, my parents, John and Kirsten, didn't give me middle name the day I was born, back on October 8, 1976. They also didn't give my brother, Mike, a middle name when he was born on January 9, 1968.

I sometimes tell people it's because I'm Danish. ("No, I'm Danish, not Dutch. Different place entirely.") I can play off Danish people as being weird because not many people know someone who's Danish. All in all, it's a nice little country (situated on top of Germany and surrounded by the North Sea). The people there seem a little bit more laid back, more traditional when it comes to spending time with the family.

Unfortunately, my Danish roots aren't sown deep. Don't get me wrong, I'm very thankful that I finally settled in California. However, sometimes I really wish that I could speak the language to some degree of coherency and maybe spend a little longer than a few weeks there every couple of years. But there's hope: Next year I plan on taking Danish here at the University of California, Berkeley. I'm also hoping that maybe on of these upcoming summers I'll be able to spend in Denmark as part of an exchange student program.

Anyway, I'm getting a bit ahead of myself. Back to the story.

When I was about a year and a half old, my dad was given a job opportunity with the then up and coming Intel that he would be a fool to pass up. So my parents and my brother packed everything up (including me), and headed for San Jose, California.

grade school era

Reflecting back, the grade school era was a rather strange period for me. None of my friends from the block (the ones with whom I'd always go with to "explore" the neighbor) went to my school. As you can see by the accompanying photo, I went to a private school. Yes, I was a St. Stephen's "mustang." (I'm not sure how they associated wild horses with children in plaid vests, but that's what we were.) My friends all went to the public school… and I was envious like no one could imagine. They'd come home before me, they had more days off than I did, and they never once had to wear a plaid vest to school (except maybe on silly dress day or Halloween).

That's how life went from pre-school all the way through sixth grade. Things didn't change much at St. Stephen's (except the big move from one building to another). It's no surprise that the majority of the students in my sixth grade had been with me ever since I started that school.

A lot of memories are hazy now, but there are still some from that time that are as vivid as ever. I remember feeling really, really embarrassed when my fifth grade girlfriend (the lovely Erika) wanted someone to dare her to kiss me. I also remember feeling rather disgusted at the thought of her getting that close. (Sometimes, like my Erika situation, it becomes painfully obvious when you goof.) I also remember carpooling with Joshua Whitten ever day. It wasn't bad when my mom drove in the mornings, but it was absolutely miserable each afternoon when I had to cramp into their tiny and smelly early 70's Honda Accord. It wouldn't be so bad if he didn't have a little sister. I learned to hate children very early on. Probably around the time when she grew fond of eating Cheez-Its while singing about little bunny fu-fu. To this day I still despise even the odor of that godforsaken snack treat.

junior high era

Reflecting back, the junior high era was even stranger than any time previous. For the first time in my life, I had the freedom to wear whatever apparel I damn pleased. Maybe I decided upon the ultra-bright QuickSilver shirts because I had felt so constricted in red and green plaid. That's my excuse, anyway. It is also around this time that my hair started doing funny things. Back in grade school is was always nice to me… it just hung down and did what I told it. Now it had an attitude. It stopped obeying the wishes of my comb and starting hanging out with the curled crowd. My once straight hair now looked like it just had a fresh perm. My hair wasn't the least of it all. Then my face did odd things. It ballooned up, decided it liked to be oily, and then finally gave me some facial hair.

Not only was this physically the most hideous time of my life, it was definitely the hardest to bear emotionally, as well. It was unbelievably strange being put in an entirely new environment with new people and new teachers. Also, it was the only two years of my life where I went to school with my best friends. The place was Martin Murphy Middle School, and the life was rough.

Between all the adjusting, I managed to cause quite a stir when I took it upon myself to tell this particular girl, Michele, that I liked her. The shear discomfort of it all apparently wasn't enough. So one of my friends (for not too much longer) decided to tell this girl that I was a tad bit psychologically deranged. It didn't take long before some counselors and my Spanish teacher were involved. ("Jacob, when I was growing up I didn't know how to act around girls either. Ay carumba!") I could write books about what happened next. But I'm not being paid, so I won't. To make things short, it took about a year of convincing, but I think I finally got her to believe me that it wasn't true.

Just as I was finally getting used to being in junior high, it was time to leave my friends again and go back to a private school.

high school era

My freedom was gone. Gone were the days of QuickSilver, gone were the days of no homework, and gone were the days of going to school with females. I was at Bellarmine College Preparatory, a private Catholic school.

I spent the first two years there basically not enjoying life like I should. I wasn't making friends easily, and those I had I wasn't sure if I liked. I still had most of my old friends (some friends from Martin Murphy and some from my neighborhood), but something was getting in the way: females. During ninth grade, my two best friends, Scott and David, and I had a messy situation when all three of us liked one girl. Although I guess she chose me, things weren't so easy. And, before we knew it, she moved. Sophomore year wasn't any easier. Scott was in a long lasting relationship by then, but David and I still had no one. Often times we would consider ourselves the biggest losers on the planet, but we weren't. We were just growing up.

Then things took a miraculous turn during the summer between Sophomore and Junior year. I made probably the closest friend I had up until that time. Her name was Lara, and things went very well between us. On June 26, I buried my past fears and asked her to be my girlfriend.

The next two years were good years. They weren't perfect, but I look back on them with fondness. Lara and I stayed together, and the relationship grew. I finally settled into a good group of people at my high school, and I was busier than ever doing homework. I even somehow became the co-editor-in-chief of the school newspaper. That job took an unbelievable amount of time to do, and I'd never felt so much stress before. But I made it, and I'm glad I stuck with it. Probably my biggest regret during this time was losing a very important friendship of mine for about a half year. My friend Michele (yes, the one from junior high) and I had the strangest friendship I had ever had, some very good moments and then some not so good. And then suddenly it all became too much to handle for awhile. Thankfully, we became friends again after some time passed.

And that was high school.

college era

And now I am at the University of California, Berkeley. It was a good choice… I'm extremely glad I chose Cal over Harvey Mudd College. With Berkeley, I'm still in the Bay Area which I love and I'm making friends with people who I would never had imagined myself making friends with. Besides, everyone knows that Northern California is much better than down south.

My life has bent and reshaped a lot since the beginning of the summer of '95. First, I found myself in a new home when my parents decided to move to the central valley. Then college started, and everything was shiny new. There was a new place to live in, new people to meet, new experiences to be had. And then also my relationship with Lara ended after two and a half years. (And boy did things end with a bang.)

To top it all off, I then managed to involve myself in one of the messiest, soap opera adventures that I could never have even dream possible. But, in the end, things have resolved very nicely. Thank God.

Life, quite simply, has had its ups and downs.

But, every bit of it has been tremendous for me. In just three semesters, I've grown immensely as a person… some ways good, some ways not so good. But that's what college is for, I guess.

It shall be interesting to see how things go during my sophomore year at the University of California, Berkeley.