Lucent truth and Crippling ambiguity

Halfway into the secret shade

2009-07-03T12:52:00.002-05:00

And here I am, back in prodigal Florida. So of course this means yet another soporific, gratuitously sentimental yarn that I must spin for the annals of this blog. Hey, it's what I do. If you don't like it, read something else.

But first, a lighter note! On my drive down from Atlanta, I noticed that my car was vibrating about half an hour outside of the city. It was vibrating so much that my seat felt like a massage chair. I pulled into the rest stop just before the I-475 bypass and checked out the exterior of the car. I couldn't see anything out of the ordinary (for my untrained eye, at least). Yet, I could still sense that something was wrong, because I knew my car wasn't supposed to be so friendly with my manly bits. Lo and behold, by the time I cleared Macon, the vibrations had gotten so bad that I had to slow down to a pedestrian 60MPH. Just as I was preparing to pull onto the shoulder, I heard a bang and the smell of searing rubber. My back right tire had exploded.

Honestly, I am damn proud of myself for not freaking out. And yes, I now realize that the vibrations were a sign that the alignment of my wheels were off. I have already recorded that tidbit as the lesson of the day. But I am [i]seriously[/i] kicking myself in the ass right now for not taking [b]ANY PICTURES AT ALL[/b]. The tire entrails were pretty rad to behold. If not for the gruesome rubber stains it left on the side of my car (while flapping in the wind like a rag), I would have thought it beautiful.

In any event, this was not my first flat tire. However, this was my first successful tire change! And I did it all by myself! I realize this is an accomplishment that doesn't exactly qualify me for a merit badge, but I'm still proud of it. I made it 12 miles down I-75 to a Walmart SuperCenter where I promptly got the tire changed for a nominal fee. My only gripe: THIS WALMART HAD NO BOOKS. Not a single novel to be bought or furtively flipped through in the entire establishment. All they had were tawdry magazines and Hallmark cards. I was disgusted. But if I could have something to read as I waited, I could at least get my softcore porn. Oh yes. I picked up a copy of the [i]GQ[/i] with the naked Sacha Baron Cohen on it.

I digress. NO PICTURES. Otherwise, they would be spilling forth from this blog like a cornucopia of twisted rubber and pavement.

I'm not sure how to process the information I'm met with when I come home nowadays. It seems like there's death lurking around every corner. Since the beginning of this year, we've lost two family friends, three neighbors, and two teachers. I'm appreciative of the fact that my parents choose not to tell me until they can do so in person, but at the same time, I'm taken aback. "Welcome home! This person died since the last time you were here." It's hard not to feel you've been punched in the gut, even if the death in question frankly doesn't mean much to you personally. I know that sounds cold, but some of these people I'd never even spoken with.

And now... it appears as if one of our cats is next. When I first saw her today, the most striking detail about her that I noticed was that it looked like she shrank. I mentioned this to my mom.

"She just lost a lot of weight. Her teeth aren't so great anymore, so she's having trouble eating."
"No, I mean she looks like her bone structure is smaller."
"Well, she's getting old. People shrink when they get older too."

It hit me like a ton of bricks. Mimi is approaching 15 years of age, a hefty 76 in cat years. I still remember the day my dad brought her home. She was a kitten of only a couple weeks of age, from a litter left abandoned and found by a jogger. At least this was the story my parents told me. I always suspected the orphan kittens held a more sinister story, but I was 8 years old at the time and in no position to hear such things. She was so small and shy she kept disappearing into corners and under furniture. I find myself struggling to remember more specific details about her: how fluffy she was, what kind of kitten habits she had, what her face looked like. And now that I'm faced with her imminent mortality, it's all I can think about.

I feel awful for saying this, but I hope I'm not here when it's time to put her down. I'm just not prepared to deal with that, and I don't think I ever will be.

These dull days; simultaneous not

2009-06-24T21:45:00.003-05:00

So in the recent days I've been obsessed with Matchbox Twenty, but in a slightly weird way. I found out that they are in fact not on hiatus anymore and had released a compilation album with six new songs in recent years. But instead of checking the new stuff, I immediately retreated to two of their older albums, #2 and #3 to be specific, and with special emphasis on "Bent" and "Unwell."

My appreciation for their music came at that brief, inimitable period of my youth when I discovered popular music but didn't really care about the words that were being sung. It wasn't until later in my tumultuous pubescence that I truly understood the gravity of some of the words that drifted out of my stereo, and by then I had become mired in the likes of Jewel, Goo Goo Dolls, and Vertical Horizon. I was standing still, listening to tired songs on a tired radio, because he was everything inside of me that I wished I could be. Details, details.

I digress. The words in "Bent" and "Unwell" resonated with me particularly well
in recent days, so much so that I used particular lyrics from each as instant messages statuses and as inspiration for tweets. Because, truthfully, I apply greater value to music as a form of poetry rather than as a form of musical expression. And I suppose I agonize and obsess about the words to try to find some way to possess them, to simultaneously declare emotional empathy to and independence from them. To take in all that was to be offered by the music and then be able to cascade its message throughout the course of my life.

Tonight, we walked down the street to sample the fare at Five Seasons Brewery. All along the way, I played the words to "Bent" in my head like a broken record, humming softly to myself between bouts of actual conversation. My mental analysis was in overdrive, ridiculously so. I was thinking myself in circles and reducing the words to meaninglessness. By the time we got seated at our table, I was almost grateful to have the house music blasted into my right ear by a particularly close speaker. It forced me out of my own little world and back into the discussion on beer choices that was going on around me.

Our server arrived, and I ignored him as I hurriedly scoured the menu for something to order. Let everyone else deal with the greetings and niceties, I thought. Luckily, I didn't have to think about the beers too much because they did flights at a reasonable price. All six of us ordered flights, and our server praised our choices but looked visibly flustered. Between all of us, there would be 42 glasses brought to the table, even if they were basically the size of a double shot glass. To make matters worse, we all ordered a different combination of beers, with some overlapping and some not.

By the time he stumbled back out with a heaving serving tray of beer, I still had not thought to take a look at the menu again. I watched the hapless fellow try to identify the varying shades of amber and gold and distribute them accordingly, only to realize he was one drink short. It was only his third shift since beginning work there, apparently. He bustled off to get one amidst a flurry of apology and obvious embarrassment.

He returned with the missing beer, and began to present to me my own six choices. Due to the size of the table, instead of lining up my glasses in a neat line in front of me from left to right, they curved inwards toward me, as to not interfere with someone else. Of course, everyone else thought this was hilarious. The inevitable torrent of comments ensued. And then out of nowhere, the server said:

"Your name is Nate too? Cool, I guess we're all a little bent, huh? Just like those glasses."

And off he went to put in our food orders. I would be lying if I said it was a moment of epiphany for me, but it was meaningful in its own right. I'm not sure if it was merely the combination of so many coincidences that left me breathless: the identical first names, our bumbling natures, the bent presentation of the glasses.

Or maybe it was something more. Maybe it was indicative of a pure and innocent connection that you can make with a complete stranger based on the silliest of things... the similarities in human nature and the human condition that plague and bless us all... the affirmation that each and every one of us must cope with the same things, and that we should find comfort in each other.

Not meant for male consumption

2009-06-20T21:49:00.002-05:00

I know the coolest people.

-------------------------------------------------
Woman Obsessed with Yaoi Fiction: Did you watch it? Did you watch it?!

(She is referring to a listing of soap opera episodes on YouTube featuring the storylines of famous gay couples from around the world)

Me: I got the gist, yeah.

WOwYF: WASN'T IT AMAZING?

Me: ... well, it was a bunch of soap operas.

WOwYF: Ok, ok. I know. And yes, I agree, most of the plot devices and writing makes one want to throw a brick through Danielle Steel's window. But this stuff is groundbreaking!

Me: Why, because the angsty couple is comprised of two guys or two gals?

WOmYF: Yes! And furthermore, I only forwarded links to you which had significantly M/M plots. The fact that there were also F/F relationships present is striking, and I think you would agree.

Me: ... again, why? And yes I'll concede to the second point.

WOmYF: Let's face it. The majority of the world is still steeped in rampant homophobia. Each of the soaps' country of origin may be progressive in terms of the LGBT communities and its issues, but we're kidding ourselves if we think the war is over.

Me: Umm. Ok. But why does this matter?

WOmYF: Think about the viewing audience for soaps. The targeted audience is women. Women are arguably the most influential people (read: soft power) when it comes to spearheading controversial social issues.

Me: ... I'll take your word for it.

WOmYF: If you decide otherwise, I'd be glad to forward you a bunch of anthropological and sociological studies. Anyway, the idea here is that women are a barometer for how perceptions change within a society with regards to various social issues. In this case, it's homosexuality.

Me: You're going to have to explain that one.

WOmYF: These kinds of issues wouldn't appear in soaps as positive storylines unless the women who watch them view them as normal to human nature. And if not normal, then at least acceptable. It's different from shows like Sex and the City since those shows were on premium cable and not subject to the same censors as broadcast television.

Me: I guess that makes sense. But what about prime time major network shows like ER, Brothers and Sisters, and freakin' Desperate Housewives who have/have had notable gay or lesbian leads?

WOmYF: That just helps to further prove my point. Those are nothing but prime time soap operas. You know it's true.

Me: ... you're right.

WOmYF: But back to the point. Take Brokeback Mountain for example. That movie garnered a huge female following and fan base. In the years following, just count the states that have allowed civil unions and gay marriage, in spite of Proposition 8. These things may not be causal with respect to each other, but they are at least correlated.

Me: Interesting. Do you think that Brokeback is the reason that all these soap storylines seem to be so popular?

WOmYF: I don't think it's the reason, per se, but I think they're all fruits of the same era. These writers and actors are operating with the functional history of shame, secrecy, and denial that has driven the lives of gay men and women for centuries. Long before Brokeback Mountain there was Philadelphia, and although it was chiefly received as a piece of AIDS cinema, it was an important piece on gay identity as well. And remember, they're soap operas. They feed off of conflict, romance, and tension. Combine those with a gay identity and you basically have a formulaic plot that is quite frankly very riveting. They will vary depending on if it is a M/M or F/F couple given inherent gender differences and identity issues, but overall it's the same.

Me: I guess that's fair.

WOmYF: Luke and Noah in the US. JP and Craig in the UK. Christian and Oliver in Germany. Not to mention the lesbians out there nowadays. These presence of these kinds of relationships points to them now entering what's considered to be mainstream. Not to mention the fact that they humanize and contextualize what once was merely anecdotal for a lot of people. Even if people have gay or lesbian friends, they might not fully understand what it means to cope with that identity. In a way, seeing these soap characters can help.

Me: But racism is still an issue in the US, and in the clips I saw, there were very, very few non-white leads and even fewer interracial relationships. Does race fit in this industry differently than sexual orientation?

WOmYF: Well, no. It's all a slow process. There have been leaps and bounds since the birth of the civil rights movement, but there is still work to be done. I mean, HELL, look at all the crap that Sotomayer has to deal with. Proposition 8 is the gay rights equivalent of that. It's important to not focus on the battles lost, and instead on the progress made. Baby steps. It's happening.

Me: So basically, if you want to know where society is going, pay attention to soap operas.

WOmYF: And romance novels!

Caught between a ham sandwich

2009-06-09T22:42:00.003-05:00

So my day consisted of moving my every earthly possession down from North Atlanta into Mid-Atlanta and then into this fine establishment:

PLEASE NOTE THE VERBAL CUE.

You will note that it is on the 4th floor. What you cannot see is that there are no elevators in that building.

Now, granted, I was spared from the heaviest of lifting. Those were Man Challenges (tm) reserved for two other individuals. But I will nevertheless now lapse into a coma that will not end... for about 6 hours.

And then more moving.

Hint: laziness can explain everything

2009-06-07T23:36:00.000-05:00

Some people have it in their heads that I was in the greater New York City area for three weeks based on instant messaging, my twitter shenanigans, and this particular blog entry. Lies and misinformation, all of it.

I was actually in an undisclosed location operating undercover for an undisclosed organization, performing heroic acts of jackassery.

Here I am documenting a recent rash of vandalism thought to be perpetrated by a resident gang of militant Atari enthusiasts:

... and infiltrating a seedy establishment that dispenses warm Bud Lite and Trader Joe's organic tortilla chips to minors:

... and recording the horrid conditions in which respectable pole dancers must practice their noble craft:

And of course, the obligatory jump shot, courtesy of the hotel room I broke into so I could raid its minibar:

I especially enjoy the look that Ted appears to be giving me from within the TV. His demeanor and expression may look blank, but he's really thinking: bitch you crazy.

All in all, I can tell you that my mission was a rousing success. I am awaiting my payment of nipple tassels and Funyuns, and hopefully there will be more work for me in the future.

In other news, an anonymous friend of mine has finally gotten her period after a ~~fun-filled~~ exasperated 8 days. I may possess neither a uterus nor a vagina, but I feel like if you are still a virgin and the closest contact to semen that your cho-cha has had is wading in the shallow end of the municipal pool, you probably don't need to worry about being pregnant.

Outlines staring back at you

2009-05-28T01:36:00.003-05:00

I got bored today and took the eHarmony personality test. This is a bit of what they had to say about my "Openness":

Like someone who can sleep comfortably on either side of the bed, you are equally at home with ideas and beliefs that you have held for a long time and with new ways of thinking and believing that grow out of your intellectual curiosity.

Your sense of who you are and what your place is in the world around you rests on values and principles that are the solid ground you walk upon. You've tested them, they work for you, and much of the time you are content to trust them, that is, until some provocative new idea slips in from a conversation, book or some flight of your active imagination. "Hmmmm. What's this. Never thought of it before." And off you go, exploring.

Since you love to learn, you've always been teachable; you absorb new information, which means you are well-educated in things that matter to you. Sometimes your intellectual exploring will lead you back to where you started; the "next new thing" proves too shallow or impractical to you. But once in a while a new idea or belief will dislodge you from the ground you've stood upon; it is so compelling and persuasive that you step away from the tried-and-true and embrace this notion that is brand new to you.

Because you hold both solid beliefs and are open to new ideas, you are accepting of other people and other ways of thinking and believing. You are flexible enough to listen to something new and different, or something outside of your comfort zone; if it works for you, you'll take it in, and if not, you'll let it go. In this sense, you know who you are: you are neither closed-minded nor wildly open-minded, but walk somewhere near the middle of the intellectual road.

Interesting. I think this is a sugarcoated way of telling me that I'm indecisive, wishy-washy, and possess a terrible attention span.

I don't think I'd disagree.

Penciled names and utter dark

2009-05-24T00:47:00.002-05:00

I saw your ghost today on the 7 train.

It was as if time and space had rearranged to age you 20 years and place you in front of me.

You were standing there, wearing your faded gray jacket and your trademark jeans. You were holding two shopping bags from stores that I couldn't discern, and you looked haggard and withdrawn. Your face was a study in cynicism, your eyes a betrayal of youth.

It was mesmerizing. It was all I could do to not stare. By the time I disembarked and transferred to the D train, I was shaken but still composed. But as soon as I sat down, your ghost sat down across from me, your bags placed neatly between your feet.

And there it was again as I transferred to the A train. And again to the F train.

Now I was convinced I was insane. I fished out my phone to sneak a picture of the ghost, just so I could look at it later and convince myself it wasn't you. Even as I took the picture, I found myself staring into the screen, entranced by the resemblance.

When I reached my destination, I strode out of the train and up the stairs with an urgency that surprised me. I made it halfway down a long, barren, white tile hallway before looking back, just to see if the ghost was behind me.

There was no one.

Now, hours later, I look at the picture I took on my phone. It's too blurry for me to make out specific facial features, but I am just as speechless.

I may never know if you were actually ever in Manhattan and making your way to Brooklyn on this brisk May evening... but I know I still miss you.

Something wonted this way comes

2009-05-12T23:12:00.002-05:00

Internet sucks in Manhattan. I need to find a free wifi hot spot, ASAP.

I keep forgetting to bring my camera. I've traipsed through the Upper West Side and the Upper East Side so far, but will likely repeat those ventures just to get pictures. And when I say pictures, I mean highly pretentious photography taken under the assumption that I know what I'm doing and that my yuppie tourist camera is capable of greatness.

Stay tuned.

Seeping in our mutual home

2009-05-06T01:22:00.001-05:00

Educational, fascinating, and ultimately, really entertaining.

On the merits of discipline

2009-04-18T06:34:00.003-05:00

It's become a sort of tradition now for me to watch the early morning cooking shows on the Food Network every Saturday. That's when all of the worthwhile shows shine.

Whenever I come across a dish that looks particularly pleasing, interesting, and/or easy, I immediately hop to its web page and bookmark it. It didn't occur to me until now that the Food Network allows its viewers to comment on and rate the recipes on its shows. Curiosity piqued, I started to go back through my folder of bookmarks to see what others had to say about some of my favorite gleaned recipes.

Oh my god.

Some of these people are just goddamn retarded. Now, granted, there are some commentators who seem to legitimately know what they're talking about. They'll recommend a seasoning swap or alternative cooking methods to bring out more flavor or create better texture. Those comments are invaluable to folks like myself who are (basically) still novices.

But then there are the idiots who just need to shut the fuck up.

"I would not recommend this at all. I used dried tarragon instead of fresh, left out the nutmeg, and substituted savoy cabbage for the spinach, but it wouldn't have mattered if I had followed the recipe to a T. It was horrible."

Um. You are retarded. Fresh and dried do not have the same flavor. And what the fuck? Since when are cabbage and spinach swappable?

(Lady who gave a recipe 1 out of 5 stars) "This was not fast at all. Took me and my sister over 3 hours to make this."

Bitch, this isn't fucking Rachael Ray or a Thirty Minute Meal. This is gourmet cuisine. Pull your head out of your ass, not everything is as fast as motherfucking Hamburger Helper.

"I didn't like this dish at all! The flavor was terrible, and it didn't come out at all like it did in the show. Even my husband who will eat anything couldn't finish this when I made it! We had to throw it out."

Lady, maybe you're just a terrible cook. It happens.

Just another example of everyday stupidity.

Attention: what products to use

2009-04-14T19:57:00.000-05:00

So I'm standing in the check-out aisle at Publix, purchasing my weekly stock of bread, eggs, and assorted snack foods. This couple of about 20-something years of age walks up behind me and begins to unload their groceries onto the conveyor belt; I barely notice them. Nameless woman (heretofore known as Alice) yells at nameless man (heretofore known as Bob) to move his ass, and punches him with the cart until he nearly falls into me, face first. I leap forward, turn around, and give them a look.

Bob looks me dead in the eye and says, "Dude, you smell like a woman."

Alice, still unloading stuff onto the conveyor, doesn't miss a beat and replies "Well you smell like ass, so shut it."

Bob turns around, regards Alice, pauses, and then shrugs, continuing to help her empty the cart, but not before adding, "It's pronounced Axe."

Alice looks up and glares, "Did I freakin' stutter?" She then pushes past Bob and leans in to smell my neck. TO SMELL MY NECK.

She turns back to Bob and snorts, telling him "You must have confused smelling like a woman with smelling clean."

Meanwhile I'm just standing there, trading weirded out looks with the cashier, who has now taken a full minute to ring up my bag of broccoli.

Alice then turns back to me and says, "Sorry hon, I hope you didn't mind me doing that. You smell nice, what do you use?"

I tell her (Dove and Nivea), and she nods approvingly. She spins on her heel, and repeats what I told her to Bob, and barks at him to go pick up some for himself. He looks at her incredulously, to which she responds:

"DO IT OR I'M NEVER FUCKING YOU AGAIN!"

The cashier explodes into laughter and shrieks "I hurrrd that!".

Bob slinks off to find his assignment, and Alice turns back to me and says "I should have known. Any product with a V in the name must be good. And goddammit, that Axe junk was riding my last nerve."

I could only nod, and walk out of the store.

All in a day's work.

This devil on my shoulder

2009-04-11T17:17:00.003-05:00

Obligatory "every now and then" music post of pseudo-emo intentions. You don't have to like it. Just drive through if you are not amused.

Today's singular reason for being

2009-04-10T04:42:00.000-05:00

It's amazing how well we can sabotage ourselves, without even realizing it.

The methods can be as varied and diverse as we ourselves. But in the end, the underlying reasons are all the same.

Pride.
Responsibility.
Shame.
Guilt.
Denial.

And it's never as simple as we would like it to be. We're not that lucky.

At the end of the day, it's not enough to accept the mere recognition of your condition as the first step to salvation. Nor is it enough to formulate a battle plan to turn back the clock.

We can only hope that our crimes against ourselves have not left indelible marks on our hearts for which we cannot forgive.

My every belief and desire

2009-03-20T15:50:00.000-05:00

I think it's no surprise or coincidence that yesterday, while I was making tracks around Gainesville in my old stomping grounds, I was struck by waves and waves of nostalgia that crested and crashed over me, all at once like fits of uncontrollable laughter and shuddering spasms of choked up tears. These simultaneous peaks and troughs human emotion met and nullified each other, creating within me a blank and emotionless mute for the duration of the day. With every twist and turn I took down memory lane, I was confronting each and every one of my triumphs, each and every one of my failures. And slowly, as this chorus of haunted memory reached its crescendo, it culminated in the awful symphony of "what if" that's been much too familiar to my ears.

What if I had tried harder?
What if I had actually been challenged and developed real ambition?
What if I had had the capacity for self-reflection in my teens that has been so instrumental in my adult development?
What if I had developed a damn backbone?
What if I had just given a damn?

I suspect that I will continue to repeat these contemplations every year until the day I die, with increasing severity. With any luck, I will be that much wiser for it.

In other news around town, there's been another death in the extended neighborhood society since I've been gone. There was this quiet Chinese couple who lived down the street from us, the Shus. They were friends with my parents; how they came to know each other, I don't quite remember. Maybe they went to school together, maybe they were from the same hometown, something like that. In any case, they've always been around, even as far back as our days in California. When we relocated to Florida, they somehow ended up in Florida too. Again, I was too young to remember any of the specifics; I doubt my parents ever really explained everything to me anyway. In any case, all four of them were struggling in academia at the time, and had to work hard and study harder. Both men were working on PhDs. Rather than shell out a ton of money to put me in day care, I was placed under the care of Mr. Shu's mother, who was living with them. In hindsight, it must have been really awkward for them to have to be struggling students and also care for their parents, but that's what happens when you combine the American Dream and traditional Chinese responsibilities. I spent so much time in their apartment while not in school. Truth be told, I was normally bored as all hell. I didn't have any friends where they lived, and they had nothing at all for me to do. I am not exaggerating: they did not own a TV or any other sorts of distractions as they were as of yet childless. Granny Shu probably berated the hell out of them to have a child. If anything, though, they probably saw what my parents had to deal with and made the wise decision to put off child-rearing.

In the end, it's all about timing. When all the degrees were got and all the jobs were secured, Mrs. Shu got pregnant quicker than you can say "Trojan!". They had a son, the big(ger) bucks started to roll in, and it was time to buy a house and leave the apartment life. Long story short, our families bought homes right down the street from each other in a brand new development. Ironically, at this point the amount of involvement between our families began to drop off. I saw them every now and then whenever the Chinese families in town got together to have dinner and reminisce about the old country, but other than that, we went our separate ways. As I got older and started to feel the call of college applications, my parents mentioned them and their professions in the hopes that I would glean some guidance from their experiences. They are biomedical and chemical engineers, respectively, but my parents urged me to steer clear of chemical engineering for apparently no reason. However, it eventually became clear that Mrs. Shu had developed lung cancer, and everyone was basically certain that the cause of the cancer was through her involvement in chemical research. I don't remember how far it had developed, but I remember hearing that her chance of survival (keep in mind this was over 5 years ago) was about 40%. I took it all with a grain of salt.

When I went home this month, my mom told me that Mrs. Shu had finally passed on from complications of her lung cancer.

All in all the news hadn't really affected me much. I think I grunted acknowledgment and went back to what I was doing. Her family was having a wake that night, and my mom asked me if I wanted to go. I didn't have anything better to do, but I opted out of it anyway; in my mind, I had reasoned that I would end up feeling awkward and eventually start to resent everyone there for my restlessness. It bothers me now though that I thought that way. And I don't know why.

All frozen in centered delight

2009-03-19T20:05:00.003-05:00

So I've been to this ice cream parlor for a couple of days now whilst in the Keys, mainly because they offer free wireless with any purchase. The past couple of times, I've gotten a modest scoop of ice cream, and tonight was no different. I came in and ordered a scoop of butter pecan, and tried to pay with my credit card.

DENIED.

Turns out there's a $5 minimum to use a credit card here. In the past, I had used cash. So, in order to fill out the minimum, I had to increase my order to include a scoop of cookies n' cream, crushed Butterfingers, and two chocolate chip cookies. The result?

Awesome.

Wispy glimpses in common time

2009-03-18T11:26:00.002-05:00

The simplest of all things

2009-03-16T20:43:00.002-05:00

Stay tuned.

A glance across the fence

2009-03-09T02:39:00.002-05:00

I wish I had the problems of everyone else I know.

And I'm not saying that in a bitchy, "you-think-YOUR-life-sucks?!" kind of way. And I'm not going for dramatic histrionics either.

But damn... I really do wish I had your problems.

Weathering the tepid chill within

2009-03-06T13:49:00.003-05:00

I rarely have bad dreams. Usually, they are either whimsical or completely off the wall (see this entry here). More often than not, they just make no sense. And out of the bad dreams that I do have, they are mostly comprised of silliness like getting into a wreck and finding out that I am a pinata, spilling tootsie rolls all over my car. Maybe 1 out of every 100 bad dreams I have are full-blown nightmares.

That said, a couple of days ago, I had the most bone chilling dream that I can remember in all of my 22 years of life.

I don't remember the nadir of my dream anymore, but I recall crouching on top of a boulder near the trough of a lush mountainside. It was so gorgeously green and vibrant; it was striking because I normally don't see colors so vividly when I dream. But for some reason, despite the beauty around me, it felt ominous. There was this menacing stillness, and this chilling disquiet. The fact that I could see everything so clearly did not help; looking back, maybe I unconsciously knew that I was dreaming, and I was unsettled that the dream was so unlike any other dream I'd ever had. I looked around me, and saw that I was at an intersection of two paved but unmarked roads, and that I was sitting in the north quadrant. I don't know how I knew this, but upon recognizing the other landmarks at the intersection, my sense of direction just clicked. My boulder was about ten feet from both roads, and behind me the land just faded into woods. To the west, the trees were less dense, but the land sloped toward the ridge of the mountain. To the south and to the east, there were sparse rows of innocuous houses, each of them slate gray and completely unassuming. It felt like home.

I sat there for awhile, scanning my panoramic view of my surroundings, listening intently. It was still dead quiet, and I couldn't quite figure out what I was listening for. I was a total loss for what I was trying to do. As I looked around, I noticed that there was virtually no movement anywhere: no wind through the trees, no wildlife scurrying about, no shadows in the windows. After awhile, I started to feel incredibly vulnerable and exposed from my vantage point. I shifted from feeling utterly baffled to leering into the distance, searching for another pair of eyes that I felt were on me.

Eventually, I heard the low hum of an engine in the distance. From the foot of the mountain, to the southeast, I spied a motorcycle with an indeterminate amount of passengers racing toward me. As it got closer, I could see a man at the helm with a woman clutching onto him from behind, her long black hair flailing wildly behind her, hanging onto him for dear life. Whatever the speed limit was, they weren't obeying it. They crept closer and closer toward me, and soon they were close enough for me to see their faces.

The man's face was a study of determination. His eyes were dark and veiled, his brows weighed heavily upon his face like they carried the weight of the world. His mouth was fixed into tight grimace broken only a nervous twitch that made it look like he was biting his lip.

When my eyes shifted to the woman's face, I saw that she was looking right at me. A chill went down my spine. At this point, I was exactly perpendicular to their trajectory over the summit. With her wild hair everywhere, I couldn't see anything but her eyes, and they looked absolutely terrified. In that split second where they were the closest they would be to me, I knew they were fleeing. I looked at her, she looked at me. I couldn't have actually heard her if she said anything to me, but at that moment I heard in my mind the message that she was screaming at me with her eyes:

What are you doing? Why are you still here?! Get out! FOR GOD'S SAKE, GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE!!

And then they were gone, speeding uphill toward sanctuary. And suddenly, I realized why I was there. I had gone to search for a way out of. Everyone else had disappeared, and as far as I knew, I was the only one left. I scrambled down from the boulder, briefly contemplating sprinting after the motorcycle and escaping on foot. However, no sooner had I hit the ground than I was knocked breathless by a sudden sense of dread and subsequent realization: I wouldn't make it. I looked down the road from where the couple had originated, and scanned the horizon nearby. I couldn't see anything, but still my feeling of dread multiplied and multiplied until I was nearly blind with panic. I knew that even if I couldn't see it, it was coming.

I sprinted into one of the houses, not even knowing or caring which one I chose. I had a singular goal: to hide myself as well as I could. It would be my only chance. I raced from room to room, looking for a crawlspace or something to squeeze myself into. I stumbled into what appeared to be a child's room and stopped dead in my tracks. There was a small girl of about 3 years playing absentmindedly with a doll. She looked at me sheepishly, and went back to her doll. Without thinking, I scooped her up and delved deeper into the house. I knew that there wasn't a single suitable hiding spot anywhere in the house, and that it was too late to rush into a different house. I had to make do.

I settled into the space under the desk in the study, cursing at myself for choosing such a prosaic place to hide, but knowing that there was nothing better. The little girl had remained remarkably calm and quiet until now, but had now decided to start mewling in fear. Panicked, I tried to quiet her, but she only got louder with her whines of protest. She didn't want to be under that desk. As I tried frantically to calm her down, I couldn't think of anything except the fact that the sound of her voice would give away our location and lead to our doom. Desperate, I tore off my jacket and smothered her mouth with it, eliciting bloodcurdling yet muffled screams.

For what seemed like an eternity I just sat there, clutching this nameless girl to me with my jacket silencing her tireless voice. There was still no overt sign of danger, but I knew otherwise. I could feel it. Everything seemed to ooze maleficence. It's hard to describe in words. I imagine that it's similar to feeling paranoid about everything and everyone. I sat there, rocking back and forth, constantly whispering Be quiet, please be quiet to the girl, praying that we'd somehow manage to stay hidden.

Suddenly, the girl stopped crying. I felt an initial wave of relief, but then I noticed something. She was looking at the wall. But instead of a wall, there was a window. In that window, I saw the silhouette of a figure against a backdrop of brilliant light. It was looking at us. I stomach sank. It reached out toward us.

I squeezed my eyes shut as the house began to crash down.

And then I woke up.

Experimental dos, don'ts, and cocktails

2009-03-05T09:30:00.000-05:00

When multiple people in your life tell you they want you to blog more, chances are that you are surrounded by bored and/or lazy people, and that you yourself are bored and/or lazy and/or boring.

And now that this entry has officially festered away for days in my draft box without being published, I am convinced that I am in fact boring.

So! In an effort to live a more entertaining life, I'm going to try a different approach to posting. Stay tuned!

Somewhere only the shadows know

2009-02-19T18:26:00.003-05:00

Proof that I am no longer a misanthrope:

I had a dream last night that started out with me inexplicably trying to shave the back of my head. Maybe it was the back of my neck, I'm not entirely sure. I was standing in front of a mirror with a straight razor, trying to contort myself into a position where I could see where I was aiming for. Obviously, this is nigh impossible with only one mirror, so I decide I should look for another, hand-held mirror so I could abuse geometry. It was at that moment that I realized I was calf-deep in a fountain in the middle of some city park. No one around me seemed to think it was weird that I was in the fountain, that there was a bathroom sink and vanity in the middle of it, or that I was trying to shave the back of my head/neck. So I climb out of the fountain and scanned my surroundings for a mirror, a compact, anything. I see nothing. Promptly, it begins to rain. No, it begins to HAIL. Needless to say, I haul ass toward nothing in particular, seeking shelter. I run past a bunch of fairly innocuous park scenery and reach the edge, where I cross the street, dodging (of all things) HORSE CARRIAGES and make my way into a CVS. I take a second to wonder why the fuck a CVS is in the middle of a metropolitan city, and then look for a mirror. I find a nice little compact, and reach for my wallet. I touch emptiness. I drop an F-bomb. I reach for my cell phone. Again, I touch emptiness. Again, I drop an F-bomb. At this point, I realize that I have also lost my razor somewhere and somehow. The store clerk starts to attack me with a broom, since I am apparently soaking wet and dripping all over the carpet. Yes, this CVS is carpeted. I try to fight back, but soon find myself standing on the sidewalk. Miraculously, it has stopped raining and hailing. I reason that my phone and wallet are probably at the same place. I begin to look for a pay phone so I can call my phone, and then die a little on the inside when I realize I don't have my wallet so I can't use a pay phone anyway. I see a woman walking down the street, texting on her phone. I ask her if I can use her phone; she gives me a dirty look. All of a sudden, it starts to hail again. One of them falls on her head and kills her before she can hit the ground. I shrug, pick up her phone, and call my cell. I hear my phone ringing off in the distance, faintly. Intrigued, I throw the phone at the dead woman's body and run toward the sound of my phone. After a few seconds of running down the sidewalk, the ringing stops, and I kick myself because I should have just kept the woman's phone. I look back toward her body, and see that she and her phone have mysteriously disappeared from the front of the CVS. Something hits me in the back of the head. I turn around, and see my phone lying on the ground. I reach down to pick it up, and it jumps backward. Long story short, I make a veritable Looney Tunes ass of myself as I chase my phone down the sidewalk, until I run head-first into a man. I hit him in his crotch, of course, as I was stooped over and pawing for my runaway phone. I hear him scream as we tumble to the ground in an awkward mess. I look up, and see that the man is Al Gore. He's out cold, a little vomit dribbling out of the side of his mouth. I roll him over, and discover that he has crushed my phone. Enraged, I kick his catatonic body. He explodes into a shower of Tootsie rolls and Jolly Ranchers, as if he was in fact a pinata. Right on cue, a flood of tiny children rush out and swarm the falling candy. So many of these children come out that soon I'm crowd-surfing. The children disperse and I find that I am now on top of a boulder. It starts to roll downhill (yes, I am apparently also on top of a hill), but I somehow manage to stay on top of the boulder despite the fact that it is spinning underneath me. I just sit there flabbergasted for awhile, until I hear sirens behind me. A cop is pulling me over. The boulder rolls to a standstill, and the cop steps out of his squad car, walks up to me, and starts to write me a ticket for speeding. I begin to argue with him over the idiocy of getting a speeding ticket while on top a boulder. He gives me a look, and I realize I am in fact driving a limousine. Speechless, I just accept the ticket, and the cop walks back to his car and drives off. I look down at the ticket, and see that it is actually a napkin with a ketchup stain on it. And then I wake up.

The point is, if I were still misanthropic in any way, I would never have asked that woman to lend me her phone.

Havoc: cry of the gastro-american

2009-02-15T23:10:00.000-05:00

So it's been a long time since my last food post. Well, at long last, here it is.

Ramen with embellishments. Asian comfort food, for real. I used the prepackaged stuff, of course, but if you think about it, all it includes is the consomme (in powder form) and the noodles. Both are needlessly time-consuming to make yourself, so why not take a shortcut? The debris you see floating in there consists of bokchoy, firm tofu, and oyster mushrooms, stir-fried on the side with a little ginger, garlic, and shoyu before being added to the mix.

This probably looks better than it actually was. I screwed up the ratio of ingredients in the filling by taking an ill-advised shortcut. Oh well. All you need to know is that it was made for Morgan's ~~Valentine's Day~~ Single's Awareness Day party, was actually consumed, and left me with lots of delicious leftover phyllo sheets, cheese, and asparagus. I will make excellent use of all three ingredients. Case in point:

I don't know how I'd classify this stuff, other than delicious. That is in fact not rice, but couscous, tossed with more of those oyster mushrooms, bokchoy, and roasted asparagus, and seasoned with a little anise seed. The dumplings are store bought (only because I still suck at making them, honestly), and the dipping sauce is a favorite concoction of rice vinegar, Chinese chili paste, sugar, and toasted sesame oil.

Mmmm. I'm looking forward to the rest of this week.

Someone staged a jocund purge

2009-02-08T09:26:00.002-05:00

Instead of going to bed at 4AM, which is really not as bad as it sounds (by my standards nowadays; I don't sleep, I nap), I stayed awake to further the minimalistic objectives of slimming down my Facebook account. My reasoning wasn't based on anything but a general sense of discomfort toward the "social networking" tool. It really has become nothing short of the new MySpace. Sure, there are less ads (for now at least), and one could argue that the average user is much different than the average user of MySpace, but for me, the web app has run it course. So why wouldn't I just deactivate my account completely?

Well, I'm getting to that.

Just before the winter holidays, I pared away the bulk of my "profile" and all of its limbs, removing every single application that I could remove. I removed every field in my personal, education, and work information that I could, leaving only my contact information. I disabled all the reporting on my account that Facebook does... no more notifications to my friends whenever I post to someone's wall, or RSVP to an event, or get tagged in a photo. Finally, I restricted the entirety of my profile to confirmed friends, with the sole exception of my photo (people have to know it's me when they go to add me, right?).

I completed all of this with a minimum of weariness and anxiety. It was mainly just a bunch of emotionless pointing-and-clicking. TopFriends? Terrible application, good bye. FriendshipWheel? You are the weakest link. OregonTrail? Good times, but hit the road. I thought nothing of it afterward. But the next step wouldn't be so forgiving, and I knew it.

I was to trim down my friends list.

I approached my task this morning in a methodical way. I would go through my entire list and attempt to qualify an individual against these specific criteria.

Would this person recognize me? Recognition would only count in the present day; I'm sure I look different now than I did in high school, when I had long hair, or even during the period in between.
Do I have any outstanding commitments to this person?
Can I recall a memorable story about this person, memorable enough with which to reminisce over tea or cocktails?
Have we shared a conversation, via any medium, in the past 6 months?
(Perhaps the simplest, yet most complicated of them all) Is this person really a friend?

In a lot of ways, that last one functioned as a form of "veto power". But I knew immediately that I would have to wield that exception carefully, or else my original intent would be compromised. In the end, anyone left on the list would have to be completely defensible. So slowly my hefty list of 500 began to melt down.

The first two passes through the list were relatively easy. I was able to quickly discern if someone was an obvious candidate for The Burning Place. The majority of those culled first were people I had met once (and only once) at a party, or a conference, or in passing somehow. The remainder were random people that I honestly didn't recognize.

After that, I was left with just over 200 people. And so came the difficult task of enforcing criterion #3 and (to a lesser extent) criterion #4. Gone went some found lost friends, gone went some old college classmates. Gone went the bulk of my high school peers, and it dawned on me that many of whom I had never really considered friends anyway, even during high school. With this realization, I obtained my second wind. 180, 165, 150: all of them folks that I had reasoned as being more than mere acquaintances.

By this point, I had identified a group of people who would not see the The Burning Place, at least not today. But this still left me with a group of about 20 people who I couldn't quite confirm and couldn't quite deny. In short, I was having difficulty applying criterion #5. Some of them I still talk to sparingly, but most not. Most of them were really close friends at some point, some not. And every single one of them I consider to be influential and consequently important to my life. But therein lied the problem. They were important to my life story, but not in my life. In the end, I was fighting a battle between the sentimental and the practical, and since the name of the game was practicality, I ultimately removed all of them.

Those were some of the hardest button clicks I've ever made. But it was all a fascinating lesson in identifying those who are truly important to you, even if they're no longer your "friend".

It occurs to me that I may be being just a tad be melodramatic. Perhaps. But I think that anyone would have a similar experience if they tried to do this.

In any case, this step 2 of 3, and step 3 should be better. I still have to go through all my tagged photos and dignify myself, for lack of better terminology.

Step 1. Tiresome, tedious.
Step 2. Emotional, striking.
Step 3. Embarrassing, hilarious, memorable, pathetic, downright weird, etc. etc.

Doctor Serious and Mister Fun

2009-01-31T21:09:00.002-05:00

"Players only love you when they're playing.
Women, they will come and they will go.
When the rain washes you clean, you'll know."

And the beat goes on.

To quote a tactless man

2009-01-20T14:56:00.003-05:00

Years from now, when I think back on this inauguration day, these are the things I will remember.

*jazzhands* SASHA!
"Non-believers"
"Mr. Pelosi" (hilarity has been since rescinded upon realization that Nancy did not keep her maiden name)
the eerie absence of the word "God" from the majority of the proceedings
Yo-Yo Ma breakin' it down
a sense of utter unity and a remarkable schism between the religious and secular

As Thomas said to me as we drove to lunch afterward, I'll reserve judgment until some real action occurs. I had asked what happened to the separation of church and state via facebook status, and Rusty replied that today was a "step forward for minorities" and a "step backward for non-Christians". So why does it feel like no one is winning?