True Love?

Perusing my local used bookstore, I found this book: True Love: Engaging Stories of Real-Life Proposals by Eva Marie Everson. I'm not the most “happily ever after” guy you'll meet, but I was certainly interested in this book and its topic.



I thought the book would be chalked full of real-life moments of love—proof that Harry and Sally, Philip and Aurora, and Rochester and Jane do exist in real life.

I was so excited about my purchase, I decided to crack the spine on my ride home on the Light Rail. Imagine my surprise when I realized the book is heavily rooted in Christian theology. In the spirit of Darkness, I decided to give the book a chance. Writing from a different spiritual background could challenge me to grow intellectually. These new Christian perspectives could help me understand my own beliefs in a more developed way. It would be closed-minded to disregarded a book simply because the author and I share different ideologies.

After a few pages, I came across the following quotation:
There is an obvious difference (though the world may not see it) between the Christian proposal of marriage and the secular proposal of marriage. Yes, the words may be just as romantic, the setting just as creative, the ring just as exquisite. But the difference lies in the understanding of the magnitude of the union. (62)

Apparently the author of the book didn't get the memo about being open-minded.

The way that Ms. Eva Marie Everson explains her thinking is simply too anemic to be considered rationale and open-minded. Her words are rooted in closed-mindedness rather than actual analytical thought. Let me explain.

Ms. Everson's diction is presumptuous. She assumes her readership shares her particular religious beliefs. Is there an “obvious difference” between the two types of marriages? Certainly. But to what obvious difference is she referencing? She doesn't clarify her thought process or her terms. And because “the world may not see [the difference],” Ms. Everson comes off like a self-proclaimed expert on the differences between the Christian and secular marriages even if that was not her intent.

She continues with an anecdote:
Years ago I read two articles describing the marriage proposals of two sets of celebrities. One couple had lived together for some time, and while their proposal story was interesting and fun, it lacked something...the other couple was John Tesh and Connie Selleca. The story was beautifully romantic (in my way of thinking) and their love for Christ and each other was evident throughout the piece. (62)

Apparently, the secular proposal was “interesting” and “fun” but it “lacked something” that John and Connie's proposal possessed. I find the phrase “lacked something” to be vague and worthless as support for her argument that Christian marriages understand something that secular marriage do not.

To that end, the purpose of this passage was not to prove her point logically, but simply promote Christian lifestyle while attacking the secular. If Ms. Everson had attempted an argument, even a flawed argument, I would have at least given her credit for her effort. But here, in this quotation, her words simply assume a secular marriage inherently lacks a spiritual gravitas and an “understanding of the magnitude of the union.” She does not attempt to debate her point of view logically—she simply relies on her own arrogance and closed-mindedness to provide the rhetorical momentum.

Isn't “True Love” supposed to be more universal than this? Why must a book about “True Love” be so divisive? Why must I read about why I'm not a good lover simply because I'm not Christian? Would an unwavering belief in Christ really make me a better husband? Why can't I love my wife as deeply as a Christian man loves his wife? Why can't this book about “True Love” simply make me smile at others' happiness rather than make me upset about others' preconceptions?

Ms. Everson, you have punished me for having an open mind. You're either a bad writer for being unable to support your thesis, or you're a ignorant writer for being unable to control your prejudice. Either way, you shouldn't be publishing books about True Love.

Everson, Eva Marie. True Love: Engaging Stories or Real-Life Proposals. Urichsville, OH: Promise Press, 2000.

My Narcissism Killed a Lizard

I went shopping this morning for groceries. I went out mostly for milk, but I got some other good stuff too like yogurt and granola. On my way to the checkout, I saw this CK underwear box.

















This box lit a fire in my belly. I've been incredibly lazy as of late. Spring break and March Madness will do that to a fellow. The constant snacking on chips and cookies has been a problem. I can actually see the physical results of my sloth. This box reminded me that I need to do some serious running.

I don't think I will ever look like the CK advertisement (beyond the fact that I'm Asian guy and the CK model is a white guy), but I think of the sexy ad as a kind of goal. I run to reach that goal.

Despite what some people think, I don't actually enjoy running. Sure, I feel more vigorous when I'm done, and I secretly delight in wiping my hand on my forehead and tasting my own sweat, but I don't enjoy running. I run only for the health benefits.

The CK ad is my goal of running. I understand that is self-absorbed, superficial, and masturbatory, but I didn't title this post, “Hyper-Self-Confidence and Comfort in my Current Self-Image.” I'll be honest: It would be nice to look like a model. And I think everyone has that superficiality to some degree. That is why people like getting dressed up for a night on the town. That is why people wear make-up. And that is why, on Saturday afternoons, my running path is pretty damn crowded.

The original intention of the picture was not to post on the blog. I took the picture on my phone to motivate me to go running: I was afraid I would surrender to my couch once I got home.

After putting my groceries away, I set out on a run searching for the elusive CK-ad-like six pack.

Saturday's weather was perfectly warm. It wasn't so hot that I couldn't breath while running, but it was hot enough that the back of my shirt was visibly wet. I like looking sweaty, so when I pass people on the trail, they can see how hard I am running. Wow. I'm an egotistical fool.

I was running a pretty good pace when I looked down just in time to see a lizard sunning itself on the asphalt. The lizard was directly underfoot. I tried to alter my step, but it was too late—my right foot was already on its way down. I stepped on the poor lizard with all my body weight.

I think I only landed on about half of the lizard because it popped up and hit my calf, which was a very creepy feeling. I stopped my stride and examined the carnage. The lizard was gone—ran off into the bushes—but it left behind a tail and a slight oozing of fluid presumably lizard blood and internal viscosity.

I would have taken a picture of the tail as proof, but I was about four miles from my home, and I don't take my phone with me on my runs.

So there you have it. I stepped on a lizard. Usually, I think of my running as a private, self-love that doesn't really hurt anyone. But today, my personal narcissism killed a lizard. Well, to be fair, I don't know if I killed the lizard, but if I didn't kill it, I certainly gave it the worst day of its life. And that's a steep price for a six pack.

Suicide

Today’s the day. The choice is mine. I hold
Each tiny cat before I close the box.
The cardboard’s marked with gutter water stains
From when I found the kittens outside my home.
But I can’t afford them now. So I drive
To the rescue shelter down on Sunset.

There’s still some time before I reach Sunset—
I stop at the super market and hold
A fresh salmon fillet from the driver’s
Side seat for the soft, crying cats boxed
Shotgun. It’d be fun to have cats at home,
But I can’t nurture life when I have stains.

In the lot, the salmon’s gone, the smell’s stained
My hands, and it’s time to find the sunset.
The cats are sad in their temporary home.
I pet the furry calico balls, hold
Them close, so they don't feel trapped or boxed
Like me: beyond the noon of life, driven

In empty minivans and family drives
With Alfred Prufrock’s wife’s aborted stains.
The kittens’ sun has boundless sky: no boxes
Except the one they’re in, traveling to Sunset.
I lost my dawn in 51 50 holds,
And feeling business trip at home.

I deserved more, so they deserve a home.
I arrive and complete my shelter drive.
I lift them free and let the worker hold
My tiny family away from my stains.
I make them promise no early sunsets.
I walk away and leave the U-Haul box

With the shelter’s daily helpers. The box,
With the whole day ahead, will find a home.
And now, I’m free to choose. I leave Sunset
And down the forkless, pathless road, I drive
The fastest pace that lifts my body’s stains.
Today, I have made my choice: No more holds.

My dawn has lost its hold. Away from boxes,
Responsibilities, and stains: I’m home
To smile and drive into my sunset.

Lost

My brother and his girlfriend found a dog wandering around the streets. They brought her inside and let her stay the night much to the dismay of their family dog Chewy. My brother and his girlfriend are putting up fliers and checking to see if the lost dog is micro-chipped. But at a certain point, there is little that can be done.

This dog is a puppy. I asked my brother to send a picture, and the one with which he provided me is the one with which I have provided you, dear reader. Cute dog, no?

I feel that this post has one of the highest probabilities of pontificating into well-trodden and cliché ideas. Everything from the Bible to Nietzsche has covered the idea of being “lost.” I've had this picture for about a day now, and I couldn't think of anything smart or original to say about this lost dog. So, I'm not going to try.

All I can really say is that if I lost my dog, I would be sad. My dog is a good friend not because he's perfect but because he's flawed like his owner. My dog and I understand what it's like to angry and stressed and confused. We're friends because we are both flawed beings.

I bet the lost dog and her owner are also perfectly imperfect for each other.

When my brother told me the story of the lost dog, I thought of Aristophanes' Speech from Plato's Symposium. Aristophanes says that in the past, humans were complete with four arms, four legs, and two faces on one neck (189e-190a). Humans' shape was “complete” in the form of a perfect circle (189e). But while these humans were complete, their “strength and power were terrifying” (190b). So Zeus cut humans into two pieces: male and female. Thus separated from their perfect half, humans were weakened. Humans spent their lives searching for the other half of themselves. The act of intercourse is the humans trying to fit themselves back into their original, circular form. For Aristophanes, love “is just the name we give to the desire for and pursuit of wholeness” (193a).

I know Plato was writing about human love, but I bet the owner is looking for the lost dog much like we all look for our other half from which Zeus tore us apart. Aristophanes' tale is wonderfully artistic, and I believe love, as defined in this example, can be applied to the relationship between a human and a dog: the search for a perfect match, where, when whole, the human and the dog have emotional strength and completeness impossible when separated.

The probability of this post actually helping is astronomically small, but I had to do something. Maybe these posted pictures will help reunite the puppy with her family. Out of sympathy for the affected parties and out of hope that the lost dog and her owner will become circular again, I'm doing all I can from Nor. Cal.

If you know of someone in the Fontana, CA area who lost a dog that matches this description, please let me know via the comments section, and I can put you in contact with the necessary people.

Plato. Symposium. Trans. Robin Waterfield. New York: Oxford U.P., 1994.

Teddy Grahams

During a walk with my dog on the beautiful Wednesday afternoon, I spotted an old friend: the Teddy Graham. It's been years since I've had a Teddy Graham, and the last time I had one was probably from an impostor snack-sized bag rather than the official 10 oz. box. It's been a long time since I've even thought about this companion from my past, but we were reunited on the sidewalk earlier today.

I remember eating Teddy Grahams often. Like other memories, I have only shards and feelings of eating this Nabisco snack rather than an actual chronological memory. I remember eating them after a day at elementary school. I remember eating the legs and arms first. I remember I hated the split-legged Teddy Grahams because the legs would already be broken inside the box. They aren't a particularly good dipping-in-milk cookie since they are so small, but I remember dipping cinnamon Teddy Grahams and my fingertips in milk.

If I had a box of them in front of my right now, I'd probably eat them. So why has it been years since I've eaten a Teddy Graham?

The answer to this question rests deep in the past. It took me some time to realize that my grandparents and mother were the sole purchasers of the Teddy Grahams for my household. My family bought the snack to bring me joy. But why no more Teddy Grahams now? The answer is that my family no longer sees me as a child.

When I sit and think “I'm no longer a child,” it's very strange—hyper-real, so to speak. I know I'm older, but I don't feel more mature. I know I'm smarter, but I don't feel more wise. Inside, I still feel like an immature child worthy of Teddy Grahams. But I know I'm getting older and getting more responsibilities even if my personality doesn't match my age.

My grandma sometimes gives me money when I visit her, but I no longer get Teddy Grahams from her. She tells me to spend the money on practical things.

The outside world sees that I have grown-up. The outside world sees Teddy Grahams as part of my childhood now passed. I could go to the store and buy a 10 oz. box, but what would be the point? Now that I've realized the truth of the Teddy Graham, they won't taste as good anymore. Sure, I can eat a Teddy Graham for nostalgia's sake, but eating the treat will only make me more aware that my childhood is dead.

It's scary to measure one's own mortality in Teddy Grahams. What part of my current life is a "Teddy Graham"? What is something I currently do or eat that, in a few years, will be obsolete? How many more versions of "Teddy Grahams" do I have in my lifetime?

During my walk this afternoon, I stopped and tipped my hat to a piece of childhood dropped by another little boy. I wonder what age he will be when his family stops buying him Teddy Grahams.

Traffic

This particular picture was taken on the 101 earlier today at about 2 PM. I don't live in So. Cal or any other highly congested traffic area, so imagine my surprise when I found myself in bumper to bumper traffic in the middle of the day.

Today was one of those days where it was very sunny but cool outside; however, while driving, the dreaded greenhouse effect kicked in. I became frustrated with my predicament: traffic and hotness. I'm sure we have all experienced this particular state of mind. Favorite songs on the iPod are annoying. Drivers in the adjacent cars look stupid or ugly or both. Minutes rather than miles become the unit of measurement traveled.

I felt chafed by the situation until I realized something: There could only be traffic on the 101 at 2 PM on a Tuesday because there is some kind of accident.

I've been in four accidents. Two times I was driving, two times I was a passenger. The most serious accident was when my high school buddy was driving. We got T-boned when we took an unprotected left when a pickup truck was crossing through the intersection. The car was pretty trashed. I remember my friend's face. His mother's car had just been mutilated. His face was sad and angry. He didn't cry, but the redness in his cheeks betrayed him.

Car accidents, especially ones that are your own fault, stay with you. The guilt and helplessness seem to echo regardless of the number of years that pass. I remember my accident outside my high school. I still feel uneasy when I think about it. Car accidents, perhaps more so than the boba incident, are life changers.

So here I am, sitting in traffic, no particular place to be and no particular schedule to keep, feeling angry for no reason other than the minor inconvenience.

Sure enough, about five miles up the road, I pass a white Mazda that looks like dynamite exploded the front end of the car. The bumper was twisted rather than shattered. The synthetic plastics of bumper looked like the tripe I get in my bowls of pho. The driver of the car was no longer at the scene. Only a few CHP officers remained. After passing the crash scene, the traffic opened back up.

I feel like a solipsist. I feel like the person I so harshly impugned only a few days ago. I'm in my own world, selfishly thinking about the traffic, when someone else had a very negative, emotional, and, quite possibly, life-threatening moment.

If I had to choose between losing my car in a wreck and sitting in traffic for an hour, I would certainly choose the traffic. And I should be thankful I was given that choice today. To the driver of the white Mazda: I'm sorry you had a tough day. I hope your tomorrow is better.

Sacrifice and True Freedom

Allow me to muse about one of my pastimes as mentioned on February 7, 2009. I apologize to my readers who care little about video games. But before you navigate away, know that a particular video game is simply the means of the post—not the end. While this post is rooted in a video game, my goal is to make the message as universal as possible. If I fail to reach that lofty goal: my apologies dear reader for subjecting you to trite “fanboy-ism.”

The first particular game my brother and I collaborated on was a game called "Final Fantasy 6" for the Super Nintendo. I use the word “collaborate” because my brother had to help me play through the 40+ plus hours of the game. For a 10-year-old version of me, 40+ hours were difficult to get through. I remember getting lost in the complex maps and constantly calling on my brother to “help me get out of here!”

"Final Fantasy 6" is a game about wayward travelers who form a party to fight the evil doings of Kefka. The game has a simplistic overarching story, but the characters that comprise the protagonist party have wonderfully charming back-stories.

Two particular playable characters in particular were Sabin and Edgar Figaro. They are twin brothers.



Edgar is currently the king of Figaro, a desert kingdom resisting Kefka’s evil actions. His brother Sabin is a wanderer who left Figaro in search of his true freedom to explore martial arts.

In a particularly poignant character-development flashback, Sabin and Edgar’s father, the then current king of Figaro, is dying. Sabin and Edgar meet on roof of the castle to decide who will be the future king once their father dies. Neither brother truly wants to inherit the kingdom, so they leave their fate to a coin toss.

Edgar, knowing Sabin longs to be free, rigs the coin toss with a double-headed coin. Edgar says to Sabin, "If it's heads, you win. Tails, I win. The winner chooses whichever path he wants..." Sabin of course “wins” his true freedom while Edgar stays behind to rule Figaro. Both brothers wanted a life outside Figaro, but Edgar sacrificed his true freedom to stay behind and fulfill the family duty. Edgar gave up his dreams for the good of the kingdom but mostly for the good of his brother.


I had to have my brother explain the significance of this part to me. At 10 years old, I didn’t quite understand why inheriting the kingdom would be considered a “sacrifice.” It would be so awesome being a king! But my brother was there to explain the nuances of Sabin and Edgar’s relationship. With my brother's help, I remember thinking Sabin and Edgar the richest and most trenchant of all all the characters in Final Fantasy 6.

Since 1994, I have since measured the literary, poetic, and artistic world against the story of Sabin and Edgar. The two-headed coin is my archetype of sacrifice and true freedom.

I’m sure there are millions of other more-worthy examples of artistic sacrifice, but this is the artistic representation that first resonated within me. With my brother’s help, I didn’t simply read the words on the screen—I began to understand and empathize with both Edgar and Sabin. In their relationship, there is no hero and no villain. At the time, the two princes in the game were as tangible as the two Asians playing the game.

My brother is the Edgar of the family. He did the smart and responsible thing. He’s a doctor. I’m the Sabin of the family. I pursued my true freedom. I read poetry. But I guess we are not exactly like Sabin and Edgar: We both chose our separate paths independently from each other; we didn’t have a defining coin toss in the desert night. He didn’t give me my English-degree freedom like Edgar gave Sabin his martial-arts freedom.

Between my brother and me, our "coin toss" is more of an overall sacrifice of his childhood to make mine more enjoyable. He didn’t need to give me baseball cards in my cardboard mailbox hanging from my doorknob. He didn’t need to yell at the neighborhood bully for me. He didn't need to help me shave my head. And he didn’t need to interpret video games for me.

But what if "Final Fantasy 6" was my origin as a literature student? What if my love of literature is rooted in my fascination with Sabin and Edgar?

If that is the case, then my true-freedom path is dependent on my brother's sacrifice. My current livelihood in literature is based on his sacrifice of explaining the plot to me. My personal "coin toss moment," the moment that changed my path in life, was when my brother explained the video game coin toss moment. Maybe we are Sabin and Edgar after all.

I might not understand how to run a kingdom, but I understand a sacrifice when I see one.


The young king of Figaro Castle, / ally to the Empire, and a / master designer of machinery…
Edgar’s twin brother, who / traded the throne for his own / freedom…

Unconditional Love

The last few days have been tough for my dog. He's having a bout with some stomach ailment. He's been throwing up a bit, but he's mostly suffering from diarrhea. He's not lethargic, and he's still eating normally, so I haven't taken him to the vet yet. But if this sickness keeps up for a few more days, I'll take him.

I grew up in Hayward, and when I got sick, my grandparents would come over to the house and take care of me while my mom was at work. I don't really remember too much about the physical act of being sick, but I do have vague memory shards.

I remember my grandpa would come in and ask me for a “high-five.” I was usually on the couch, laying on my side, so this act was more like a gentle, instantaneous hand shake than an actual slapping of hands. I remember him saying something to the effect of, “Give me all your sickness. I'll take it. I can handle it.”

I used to think him ridiculously uneducated because if I truly “gave him the sickness,” we would both be laying on the couch in pain--taking my sickness would not make me well. Mom would always chastise him to keep his distance because his “old people” immune system probably wasn't up the challenge.

Retrospectively, it was nice that my grandparents came over. Their house, that my grandma still lives in today, isn't too far from my old house, but I still appreciated the comfort.

But this recent sickness with my pooch has helped me understand my grandpa beyond simple appreciation.

I'm not a very good dog trainer, so imagine my surprise when my dog learned to poop only in the bathtub. Even with his uncontrollable, gastrointestinal struggle, he always runs to the tub. I haven't needed towels to protect my carpet because the mess is contained to the bathroom. Although, sometimes he doesn't quite make it all the way into the tub. In the last few days, I've seen trails of watery excrement in front of the the tub like a trail leading to buried treasure. Except, in my case, the treasure is actually dookie. But my bathroom is tiled, so it cleans easily.

He runs to the bathroom much like a person would in the same situation. He's very human in that way.

What is not human about him, though, is that he always looks very sad after he goes poo in the tub. He seems to understand that it is “not the normal and tolerated” thing to do. I pet him on the head and try to reassure him that everything is fine, but I can sense a certain regret in him. He stands with me while I wipe up the mess and returns to his doggie bed only after I've finished the sanitizing process. Last night, on a dejection-induced walk at 4 AM, I remember saying, “Give me all your sickness.”

I would rather it be me that has the explosive diarrhea; I have the mental faculties to understand that a stomach bug is nothing to regret or be ashamed about. I would have the physical nausea, but at least I wouldn't beat myself up emotionally. My dog is human enough to know right from wrong, but not human enough to understand the gray areas in between. Poop in the tub is just fine if you have diarrhea.

I have no sons. I have no daughters. But I am discovering a kind of bond that can only exist between a parent and child. A relationship when one sacrifices their own well-being for someone else.

Grandpa wasn't actually asking for my sickness in a physical sense. He was actually telling me that he loved me. And that's pretty special considering his reserved Nisei personality. He may not have gone to college, but he was not uneducated. Over 15 years later, none of my fancy collegiate or graduate courses have taught me what my free chihuahua/pug taught me about life and family: unconditional love.

Routine Solipsism

This is frustrating. I would use the words “Pet Peeve,” but those particular words seem too cliché to encapsulate my frustration fully.

While strolling about Downtown San Jose, I saw seven cigarette butts on the ground in one minute. Under what context would it be appropriate to throw a cigarette butt on the ground? Perhaps if I were a gangster, and I wanted the appropriately chic method of igniting my gasoline-drenched enemies, then I might choose to throw a lit cigarette on the ground. But if I were a smoker, just a regular guy who smokes, I highly doubt I would throw my cigarette butts on the ground.









On a separate but related note: someone who owns two ridiculously loud-barking dogs allows them to urinate in the stairwell next to my domicile. I tried asking this person please to stop with the dog peeing, but apparently it is as hard to train dog owners as the dogs themselves. I'm a dog owner, and I sympathize that sometimes the dog just does his business at inappropriate times. But this stairwell pee is a recurring problem. The owners don't even try to mop up the pee. I cringe when I think of dried urine powder caked into the grooves of my shoes.




The problems boil down to this: solipsism. These people are living in their own worlds. Their actions have no direct consequences on themselves, and in turn, they take no responsibility for the repercussions on the outside world.

These people are probably overall good people. They simply live this particular part of their lives behind a protective pane of glass. The world is visible to them, but they are not affected by its universal energy.

Yes, I will litter as it is someone else's job to pick up my mess. Yes, I will allow my dog to urinate anywhere as long as it's not my own living room floor.

It's time to fight back. I bought a hammer, and I am going to smash through their pane of solipsism.

I'm going to force a funnel down their throats until they gag and make them drink dog piss until their tears have more urea than boorishness.

I'm going to light a cigarette and crush the flaming end of tobacco onto their cheek so it leaves a scar—a cicatrix so rough they will forever remember: The outside world can permeate private selfishness.

Extreme? Good. That's how strongly I feel about this issue.

To those who need to hear this:
I needn’t resort to torture. The outside world should be taken seriously not because the threat of physical pain but because we live in a society, together. We both share the stairwell and Downtown San Jose. I understand and forgive your aberrant mistakes but not your routine solipsism.

Kiss Me. I'm a Banana.

Loyal readers will remember a post on March 8th regarding a lost banana. As a follow-up: I've since seen two bananas on the road, one of which I've provided the picture. The other was spotted while I was on a jog, and I couldn't stop, not even for a banana, to take a picture.

What is it about bananas being lost on the road? I don't understand. Their shape is oblong. It's not like they can roll down a San Francisco hill away from their owners. How are these precious yellow fruits turning into forgotten worthless transients? When I pack a snack in my bag, I cherish it until the moment I eat it. I don't accidentally drop it on the ground. And even if I did, the yellow peel would protect the sweet innards making the fruit itself still edible.

So what are all these bananas doing strewn about?

Maybe I've been trying to the solve the wrong aspect of this problem. Maybe, just maybe, bananas are more womanly than I give them credit for.

I believe the banana is the hobo of the fruit world not because of its superficial shape but because of its innate qualities. The fragility, the commonality--these make bananas easy targets for abandonment.

Bananas, like women, are everywhere, and they damage if treated improperly. People can simply toss away a bruised and hurt banana because they think there is always another banana. And most of the time, they are right. At a measly 30 cents a pound, another banana can be found as easily as another crush or one-night stand. While each one is perfectly unique, the tender nature of a banana requires personalized care, dedicated attention, and uncommon love, much like a woman.

Bananas are not apples. You can't leave them in fridge and forget about them for a week. Bananas are not pears. They are cheap enough to be taken for granted. Bananas are not oranges. They don't fit easily into any lunchbox.

I see bananas on the road because people toss them away like they toss away inamoratas. Truly ask yourself: How tenderly and patiently would you eat a banana if it were the last one on earth? If God created one banana just for you, would you peel it like you were sliding your soul mate out of her silk dress?

Happy St. Patrick's Day

I assume I'm like most people in that I don't really know what this day is about. This is not an open invitation for people to post the history of St. Patrick's day in the comments; if I really want to know, I too can type "wikipedia" in my google toolbar.

Frankly, my wearing green is more of a routine than an honoring St. Patrick or Irish Culture. In fact, I've been known not to wear green on purpose, so I could coyly ask the pretty girls to pinch me. That's me: prostituting the patron saint of Ireland for a flirtation. That's me: not religious and not aware of history.

But St. Patrick's Day does have some significance for me. This morning while walking my dog through his favorite shrubbery, I remembered Grandpa coming to my home in Hayward on March 17th--this was over 15 years ago--wearing nothing green except for a leaf gently tucked under his collar. He forgot the 17th was "Wear Your Green Day." Who could blame him? He was Japanese, and he didn't drink alcohol.

I can't remember exactly what year it was, but I distinctly remember seeing him walk through the front door of the Hayward house wearing a leaf from the front yard. I can visualize the leaf. I can see his gray sweater clearly.

It's sad that, in all likelihood, the exact year of this event is forever lost. I simply can't remember. My brother doesn't remember either. My mom, who frequently tells this story, doesn't remember. And Grandpa is gone.

I can sit logically and try to count back the years to when I lived in Hayward, but at a certain point, time turns all my memories into one anachronistic globule. Maybe there is a photograph of the leaf somewhere with a date stamp, but finding that picture would be almost as impossible as deducing the date in my mind. I imagine this is what it will be like trying to remember my own age when I'm much older: using hopeless logic to think my way into knowledge. In brutal truth, that date is gone. One of the most vivid memories of my grandfather exists outside of a chronological context. And I feel uneasy that no amount of research or interviewing will every bring me closer.

The anachronism isn't limited to 15 plus years ago. It has spread. Honestly, I can't remember how many years ago Grandpa died. I remember it was October. I remember I was in college. But what year? 2004? 2005? Others in my family probably know, but again, this yet another example of my family dissolving away through time like Marty McFly playing "Earth Angel."

My memories of Grandpa are more like feelings rather than actual memories. I can remember sensations of him sitting on the couch or trying to figure out how to turn off the house alarm, but I only have a few memories I can actually visualize. And the leaf on St. Patrick's Day is one of them.

I realize the post today is somewhat self-indulgent and personal to the point that no one else truly cares. But what other day of the year could I post something like this? On this exact day, an unknown number of years ago, Grandpa walked into my house wearing a leaf. And I remember it.

Happy St. Patrick's Day.

Sir Toby

“Ma'am, can you please open the door?” Get the fuck out of that ghetto shit hole. Subway is just 6 blocks from here.

Supporting his weight and forearm against the door jam, Rob leaned forward resting his face and hiding his eyes in his right-angle elbow cubby. "Ma'am, can you please open the door, so we can see what that smell is?" Rob and his partner Cliff responded to the complaint that a "stench like a dying man was a'coming from apartment 4B." The two officers had been on the scene for 35 minutes now, and they were stuck on the same pickup line.

“Ma'am, can you please open the door?”
“No.”

The sound of the woman's voice was close to the door and two feet off the ground. The quality of her words were muffled. She must have been sitting against the door facing away from the hallway. So much for kicking the door in. HEADLINE: Bruiser Cop Crushes Crazy Whore.

Rob drummed on the door with the butt of his hand. His knuckles were turning bright red, and the fleshy part of his hand allowed him to pound just a bit louder. I can't believe this bitch won't open the door. Plus it smells like ass in the hallway. "Radio the fire department. We might need to force our way in," said Rob.

Cliff walked toward the end of the hallway near the open window talking into his radio.

“Ma'am, can you please open the door?”
“Why?"
“We just want to see what that smell is. We got some complaints from others in the building.” Just silence. Damn. It’s like talking to a fucking child.

"Ma'am, can you please open the door and let us just take a look inside?" Crazy fucking shut-in. I bet she just shit her grandma undies and likes the lubricant.

Cliff came back down the hallway rebuttoning his radio to his uniform. “Firetruck's on the way.”
“The 26?”
“Yeah.”
“Sweet. I haven't seen Jim in weeks.”
“Said it'll be about 45. They’re finishing up a fire over on Chestnut.” Things were silent for a moment. “I hope she doesn't have a dead body in there. She sounds nice. I don't want to arrest her." Cliff looked at the door and scratched his chin like a father waiting for her daughter to return from her first date.

“Yeah,” Rob replied. I hope she does have a dead body in there. That’s the only way this bullshit waste of time would be worth it. It’s lunch, and I should be eating a cold cut combo.

"It's not a dead body" emanated from the door.

Cliff moved closer to the door and took a knee. “What is it then?” Cliff asked just above a whisper.

“It’s Toby.”
“Who the hell is Toby?”

Cliff turned to Rob and shook his head. “Be quiet.”

What the hell? Why’s he giving me the look? Some crack-pot bitch barricaded herself in her dank apartment and I’m the asshole? Let’s just chop the door open when Jim gets here with the ax.

“Who’s Toby?” Cliff asked through the door.
“He’s my cat.”
“Oh.” Cliff quickly got off his knee and whispered to Rob. “I think I get it. Where’s the pamphlet we got last week?”
“Which what now?”
“That pamphlet that lady brought to the last debriefing?”
“I have no idea. Check in the trunk of the car.”
“Okay. Wait here. Try to keep her talking.”
“Fine.” What the hell are you looking for now? Just wait for the fucking ax. Maybe Jim will let me bring down the pain. I’ll splash that fucker right through the “4B” on the door.

Cliff ran down the stairs and out of the patrol car parked outside the building. Rob walked over to the open window to watch Cliff shuffle through the trunk of the car. Rob lit a cigarette and blew the smoke slowly out the window. Below, Cliff pulled out his phone and started making a call. Who the hell he’s calling now? Jim’s on his way with the ax. Cliff ran back upstairs.

“What’d she say?”
“Nothing.”
“Did you try talking to her? Or were you just smoking?”
“Hey, man. She’s crazy. What’s my talking to her gonna do?”
“Don’t call her that.” Cliff walked back over 4B. “I’ve got someone coming to talk to you. Maybe she can help with Toby.” There was no response.
“So who’d you call?”

Cliff passed Rob a black and white pamphlet. “The Centre for Living with Dying.” Holy fuck. Are you fucking kidding me? Rob opened the pamphlet. There were phone numbers and some bullshit quotations about living with loss and grief.

“How’s this place going to help her?”
“I got some woman named Carolyn on the phone. Said she could come right over.”
“What for?”
“Maybe she can help us out.” Rob was visibly annoyed. “Look. If this Carolyn lady can’t talk her out, then we can bust in with Jim when he gets here. Cool?”
“Fine.” This shit is getting old. I can’t believe how many tax dollars are going into this one holed-up freak.

Carolyn arrived 15 minutes later in a casual maroon pant suit from Marshall’s. She wore a red scarf and her hair was up in a bun.

“Hey. I’m Cliff, and this is my partner Rob.”
“Nice to meet both of you. So where is she?”
“Right over there in 4B.” I can’t believe this dyke has a fucking job talking to insane people. What a waste of money. If this were jungle law, I’d have chased both of them down and fucking eaten them for being so soft.

“Hi. I’m Carolyn. Officer Cliff called me. Can you tell me more about Toby?”
“He’s my cat.”
“What color is he?”
“He’s brown and white with a black tail.”
“So how’s he doing?”
“He’s dead.”

Can you fucking believe this? This lady has a rotting cat sitting on her lap. All that shit and decaying organs leaking out the asshole. No wonder this hallway smells like fucking death.

“I’m sorry.”
“It’s just that David died six years ago, and we didn’t have any kids. David and I picked out Toby from the SPCA together.”
“When was that?”
“About 8 years ago.”
“You and Toby are good friends?”
“Yeah, we were friends.” The words were quiet and muffled by sadness and the door.
“How would you feel if we had a small ceremony for Toby out in the yard?”

What? This is insane. She’s going to freak. I bet this cat-lady is gonna be insulted by that. I better get my gun ready when she opens the door with a butcher knife.

In the smallest words of the day: “That’d be nice.”

Jim and his team of firemen arrived as Cliff was just finishing the hole. The woman from inside the apartment, despite having nursed Toby for several days, was in pretty good shape. Her cotton night gown was slightly stained from sweat. Her hair was matted in the front from her own oils and poofed in the back where her head rested against the front door.

The woman walked to the hole and placed Toby in the ground. She was crying, but not as hard as one would expect. Toby’s legs were stiff, and Cliff had misjudged the size of the hole. But everything ended up working out. After some massaging and maneuvering, Toby fit snugly into the ground. Jim leaned on his ax as he watched Cliff fill the hole, patting down the extra dirt that always remains after burying a loved one. Rob sat on the back steps of the apartment building smoking.

In a moment mostly for herself, her words were barely audible over the wind. “I’m not crazy, am I Toby? We were friends. I only ever went out to buy you food, and while I was out, I would buy myself food. I'm sorry I couldn’t take better care of you, but you’ve spent the last 6 years with me. You can go see David now. Can you tell him that I miss him?”

Fucking ridiculous.

A pant suited social worker. A burly 28-year-old fireman. A police officer. And a woman who loved her cat. All standing in the run-down back yard of slum apartment building. Weeds tickling their ankles. The ground, hard and dry, now had one spot of tenderness.

Fucking ridiculous.

Jim put the ax down on the ground and walked over to the woman and gave her a hug. “When you’re ready, I’d love to take you to the pound and help you pick out another cat.”

They all helped the woman back up to 4B.

“You coming, Rob? We can get your precious cold cut combo now.”
“Yeah.” Fucking ridiculous waste of time. He flicked his cigarette onto the mound of freshly turned earth. Lunchtime, bitches.


The Centre for Living With Dying

Ain’t No Love in the Hood For BSB?

At a recent gathering with some friends, the issue of the Backstreet Boys came up. Everyone in the room had a chuckle regarding my fondness for Kevin, Brian, AJ, Howie, and Nick. I never thought their music was “good”—and I still don’t—but there is something inherently charming about BSB and other boy bands from that era.

Fending off attacks from all sides, my only defense for my Backstreet Boys was that “they possess a certain nostalgic quality.” This did not convince them. Perhaps the trite and saccharine lyrics are too terrible for this crowd of musicians, but maybe now, beyond the pressures of the social situation, I can clearly elucidate what I mean by “nostalgically charming.”

Total Request Live with Carson Daly was the catalyst. The battle for the Number 1 spot was always a nail-biter between BSB and N’Sync. I wont lie: I watched the show a few times a week to see the music videos and be “up” on the news. But why?

The girls my age, the girls with whom I associated, were all very infatuated with BSB and the like. Thus, in order to converse about similar topics and appear empathetic, learning about boy bands was a requirement. I remember talking with my high-school crush about which BSB member she found most sexy vocally and which she found most sexy sexually. These boy bands, these black holes for masculinity, provided me and my male peers with an “in,” a way in which to bond with these unapproachable girls.

It didn’t stop with TRL. One had the buy the albums too. Those poor songs that didn’t quite become singles were still loved by our girl friends. We had to know about “Spanish Eyes” and “10,000 Promises” too; we could not be posers. To be with our girl friends, we needed to be genuine and earnest. Thus, albums, music videos, and knowledge were all required to sit at this particular table.

Maybe Backstreet isn’t appropriate anymore, but we all have our personal “BSB” when relating to the opposite sex. To all the men reading this: you can’t honestly tell me that in the realm of love, BSB is any less worthy than art or politics when it comes to finding common ground with the object of your affection. It is all about creating opportunities to show her how much you care about her and her interests.

I don’t consider “Everybody” the greatest American song, but when it comes on the radio or in my shuffle, I laugh a little. I’m closer to my 10-year high-school reunion than I am to my high-school graduation. I’ll take a melody of nostalgia any time I can, Backstreet Boys or otherwise. I’m okay with the guy at the stop light next to me who gives me the slant eye. Backstreet’s Back, and I’m alright with that.

Universal Beauty

There is no such thing as universal truth. Everyone has different perceptions of the same events, and everyone reacts differently to those perceptions.

I was walking in the Great Mall today, and I saw this couch in a store called “Casa de Elegance” or something equally ridiculous not because of the Spanish, but because of the irony. Read on.

Casa de Elegance sells furniture. I’m not a furniture expert; I can’t tell you about couches from the Late Victorian Era, or who designed this couch or that chair. I am simply a man who sits on couches. I do not study them or know about them. Thus, a store so obviously marketing itself in the niche of “faux-nice furniture attempting to fool people who know nothing about furniture” should, in theory, trick me into buying a “nice” couch.

The only problem is that the couches look like this:
















I saw the couch from outside the store, and I thought it so hideous that I needed to go inside the store to take a picture without the glare from the store windows. I needed an unobstructed picture of this anti-miracle.

The gold paint. The purple fabric. The print. And the couch wasn't comfortable. I just don't get it.

The manager saw me take a picture. He winked at me as if I was a hooker and he was a John. “That’s a nice couch, huh? Sending a picture to your friends? Nice!” The confusing part was that this man was actually serious. His confidence was not a guise. This statement was not a ploy to instill customer confidence in a shoddy product. He actually believed in his couches. I can't really explain how I know this, but I do. I simply got the vibe that he really enjoys these couches. I didn’t have the heart to tell him where the picture was really going, so I simply replied, “Something like that.”

This too-suave salesman spoke comfortably, and not with the slightest hint of desperation—he must actually sell these couches to people! He was probably thinking, “Hey. Buy the couch. But if you don’t, I’ve got hundreds of other people willing to buy that beauty.” So this couch, this monstrosity, has advocates in the form of salesmen and customers.

There is no such thing as universal truth. Even a couch, seemingly universally ridiculous and repugnant, has a salesman/representative who, in the deepest and most fundamentally serious use of the word, genuinely believes in its the beauty and functionality.

This is a real-life application of the rule: Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. After the trip to the mall, I couldn’t be more convinced.

Bad Niles

A professional chef once told me that even though Ratatouille is an excellent movie, there is an egregious factual transgression in the movie. Apparently, the movie refers to Rosemary as a spice, when it is technically an herb.

This chef felt bothered by the error. At the time, I thought they were being too hard on such a whimsical movie about a rodent and his love of cooking. Personally, I don’t know the difference between a spice and an herb, and I thought such a fact was superfluous to one’s enjoyment of the movie.

But now, after seeing an episode of “Frasier,” I better understand the chef’s perspective.

The episode entitled “The Proposal,” two friends are chatting about the scripted proposal words. The character Niles is describing his prepared speech:

"Oh, well this is where I describe my life before I met her. See, and then comes the part where she comes along and the meter changes to a more sprightly iambic: 'Now my life has meaning.'"

Let me first say that I love “Frasier,” and it is one of my favorite, if not my favorite, sitcoms.

This television program prides itself on its slightly esoteric references to art, opera, wine, science, and poetry. What other show could get away with reciting the last third of Tennyson’s “Ulysses” on the series finale?

In the following paragraphs, I refer to formal elements of poetry. If you'd like to know more about prosody, click here for a quick crash course.

My problem is with the “iambic” line “Now my life has meaning.” In the most conservative scanning, the line looks like this:

.../..x.../...x..../...x
Now my life has meaning
This is imperfect trochaic or a catalectic line—the line ends on an imperfect foot.

On a more liberal scan, trying to force the iambic meter, the line could be:

..x.../...x.../...(x).../
Now my life has meaning
This is an iambic line with a syncopation, but stressing the “ing” is simply wrong in formal poetry. Check any dictionary!

There’s simply no way this line could be considered iambic. My only hope, the only way I can sleep at night, is that Niles took this quotation out of metrical context.

In context, perhaps the line was:
..x.../...x.../....x..../...x....../...x...../
And now my life has meaning, Daphne Moon.

That’s much better. Perfect iambic pentameter. That’s it. That’s what happened. Niles took the line out of context. The writers that pride themselves on high culture simply misquoted their own poem they wrote for the episode.

But I can’t afford being that naïve. Nothing is perfect. Of course, the average person wouldn’t even notice. But for that instant, my mind was taken away from the scene, and it affected my overall enjoyment of the show. The joy of “Frasier,” and really anything meant to entertain, is the appeal to a specific type of cerebral activity. I can’t simply turn a blind eye to the error, and neither could the chef.

I apologize, chef, for thinking you overly critical. Now I understand: we are all held captive by our knowledge.

Winter's Comfort

I.
Survive with me in frost and icy months.
To dream a dream beyond the razor cold:
A Greek within a one-eyed winter’s cave.

A slab of winter crystals block the path
That leads outside. Amidst the shivers, clouds
Of breathing skim my hands and arms, but trapped
Within this cave, the sun and warmth inside
My lungs has set beneath horizons made
of ice. Alone, my breath is warmed by phrenic Spring.

In the coldest of winter’s months, I walk the garden inside.

II.
In the warmth of my mind, Persephone kisses
The terrain that imprisons me. Gardens do come
And ejaculate petals upon unprepared,
Unexpected worshipers. The flowers' aroma
have no bounds: in an ambient curl, like sun crests
In the darkest of ice, and intense warmth rises.

I walk the edge the heat creates.
To touch Spring, softly, sears my cheek.

It hurts—it hurts to be beside the bloom.
My Nature engulfs all who approach.

The flowers hold my hand
And burn me, circumferentially.

My skin roses when touched by Spring;

We are not the same.
Spring! You control your blaze, but I,
I can only sit back and pray you come closer,
Become hotter and set me aflame.

III.
Survive the bitter cold with the warmth from within.
As winter solstice passes,
The sun returns and melts away
The slab of ice that blocked my path.

The first experience of spring
In six relentless months of cold.

It is not as it was before.
Does the sun shine?
I see the light, but it lacks the warmth.
I see the grass, the blades do prick
My frost-bitten toes, but green
Outside is an unreal strand compared
To the meadow created inside the frozen cave.

I tear a daisy from the ground.
The stem bleeds a viscous odorless fluid.
The petals crumble in my palm.
The corpse is cold to the touch.
The stem and stamen and white tears
Of nature are as twisted as the legs
Of a dead crab washed upon the abandoned shores.

Persephone, my dear, you lied.
This is not the tryst you promised me.

IV.
The cave can give peace
Away from lifeless forms.
And Spring will come again
In winter’s ice.

Resume

Jafar
555 Oil Lamp
Desert Outside Agrabah, Arabia

RE: Bilingual Financial Analyst

Skills Profile:
· Can make up to three wishes for my master
· Bilingual in Arabic and Modern English
· Having a twisted beard
· Proficient in the Microsoft Office 2007 Suite
· Goal-Oriented
· Can violate the law of conservation of energy and other laws of Physics
· Can ride a horse at high speeds through a desert chasing a magic scarab
· Outsmarting “Street Rats”
· Works well in “itty-bitty” spaces
· Well-versed in searching for the Cave of Wonders

Employment History:
All-Powerful Genie: 1992-Present
As an All-Powerful Genie, I have learned to work with different kinds of clients/masters. I accommodate all different types of personalities, and I do not discriminate against my clients. I have a wonderful, red physique and a long black ponytail that portrays professionalism. My domicile is very small, and thus working late hours is not a problem.

Most Powerful Sorcerer in the World: 20-Minute Stint in 1992
As the Most Powerful Sorcerer in the World, I manipulated physical matter like turning an elephant in a monkey and a tiger into a baby tiger. I also used my magical staff like a golf club to launch a piece of my palace several hundred miles. I turned myself into giant cobra and used my snake-like abilities to further my career goals at the time.

Sultan of Agrabah: 5-Minute Stint in 1992
I wore white clothes during my reign as sultan. I unilaterally relocated the palace of Agrabah onto a mountaintop. I ruled on high as the sultan and tried to instill fear into my public.

Royal Vizier: 1989-1992
I advised the sultan in political affairs as well family affairs. I tried to marry into the royal family to help establish a healthy political future for Agrabah. I designed and developed a private workspace within the palace.

Reference:
Pre-The-Return-of-Jafar Iago

The Nine Deaths of Pooka

The enclosed room was not a playground but a proving ground. The desks, tables, and credenza were a gauntlet. A hop from the windowsill to the desk was the simplest of tasks. But only the strongest and most daring of the eight siblings attempted the leap of faith from the credenza to the bookcase. The drop: four feet down onto hardwood. Pooka, being the smallest, tried this jump only once. Her front paws never reached the top of the bookcase, her cheek slammed into the side of the case, and she landed on her head against the birch planks below.

...

Graduating to dry food symbolized something ominous. After being weaned off their mother’s milk, the siblings began to leave home. Families with children or couples in search of a pet came and adopted the eight one by one. Pooka was the third to go. The woman with shiny red fingernails lifted Pooka into the air. She held Pooka like a mother burping a child. Over the shoulder of the woman, Pooka caught the last glimpse of her mother, slowly patrolling the hallway. Her first night away from her home, Pooka chased her own shadow in room as if playing with her siblings.

...

Yarn balls and feathered cardboard mice from Petco were Pooka’s favorites, but recently sleep seemed more appealing than yarn balls. Naivety helped keep Pooka hunting the Petco mice, but curiosity and youthful vigor fade. The toys gathered in a basket in the laundry room. Pooka never learned how to take them out of the wicker basket, and she had no desire to learn.

...

Pooka was led inside by the warmth. She drifted away into a slumber amid the blouses, shirts, and socks. It was the perfect spot until Pooka was violently tumbled awake by a drying cycle set by the woman with red fingernails. Pooka spun around like she was in the first loop of a roller coaster. Tangled in clothing, she went limp and waited. Good thing the woman with red fingernails noticed the slightly arrhythmic thumping sound coming from her load of whites.

...

The neighborhood vagabond Charlie caught a hold of Pooka. She never understood why Charlie ran to her so determined or so vicious. Charlie smelled of the streets. He made sounds that seemed to be in time with his thighs. Pooka couldn’t get away, so she stayed with Charlie until he seemed to lose interest and jump back over the fence the way he came.

...

Two months inside of Pooka, six weeks at her nipples: Her eight children reminded Pooka of her mother and her siblings. But like before, the change to solid food was ominous. The woman with red fingernails gave Pooka’s children to families and couples who wanted a pet. As each child was taken, Pooka lost more and more will. And like her encounter with Charlie, she learned to stay still and let life roll over her. With the last child gone, the woman with red fingernails was the only other life in the home.

...

After a night on the town, Pooka couldn’t find her way home. With the fog of time dropping lower, obscuring her vision, Pooka felt more confused and blinded. All the streets looked the same. No amount of calling to the woman with red fingernails helped. Pooka tired to retrace her steps but eventually settled for the night in a doorway. Good thing the woman with red fingernails found her in the morning.

...

Just after coming home, Pooka realized there was nowhere left to go. Too lonely to run free in the wild, too old to start over. Her breath, thick as the humid air of Florida, enveloped her browning teeth. Her belly, growing large with the slowing of her metabolism, made it hard for her to clean herself. How long has it been? Where have all the lives gone? The balance has shifted—there is less to live than has been lived.

...

The right corner of the living room couch catches the sun perfectly in the afternoon. A thin film of hair covers the area where she curls up to absorb the sun. Today, her legs hurt just a little bit more, her head felt just a tad heavier. No birch floors or spin cycles. No fear or confusion. Pooka was not going to sleep; sleep is for those that have more lives to live. And she understood this.

Banana Intention

Neither a parked car nor a banana is very extraordinary. I might expect to see a banana resting on a parked car at the bottom of a hiking trail, but who brings a banana to an urban shopping mall? When I think of snacks to munch on during shopping, I don't think of a banana.

Regardless of the reason, some person brought a banana to Oakridge Mall with intention. My goal here is not to uncover the truth behind the banana (because no amount of analysis will elucidate the true intention for the banana at the mall) but to sympathize with its misplacement.

I've left a number of things on the top of my car. Cups of coffee, Jamba Juices, sleeping bags, watches, sunglasses. Most of the time, I only realize my folly when an avalanche of Strawberry Surfrider slides down my windshield. By that point, my watch, my drink, or my sunglasses is usually ruined. So I sympathize and empathize with you, forgetful banana owner.

It is incredibly frustrating to lose your physical items, especially physical items that have specific intentions associated with them. Losing a Jamba Juice is not just about losing $4.00; it is about losing pleasure and fruity-smooth refreshment. One time, in 110 degree weather, I spilled a Bright-Eyed and Blueberry in the back seat of my friend's Rav 4. I was so sad that I ended up licking the smoothie off of the floor mat. My friends thought I was insane, but ignoring the grit and the hairs from the mat, the drink was still quite refreshing. Intention behind these objects is everything!

I sympathize with you banana owner. You probably felt frustrated and angry and confused when you couldn't find your banana. Maybe you wanted a snack break during your trip to Macy's. Or maybe you wanted to feed your infant child a meal while shopping for shoes. Again, I will never know your intention, but I can feel your emotional tremors.

If there was even the smallest miracle of a chance I could have found you, I would have snatched that half-rotten banana and searched the entire mall for you. “Did you leave a banana on your car?” But whom would I ask? All people eat bananas! This is not a size 17 shoe whose owner is obviously a tall person. Delight from a banana is an inner quality, invisible to the naked eye.

Realistically, the odds of our uniting were so small, I simply left your prize on the trunk of the car. But don't think I was apathetic! I thought about you, and in my soul-searching, I thought the best way to help would be to leave the item there in case you returned looking for your banana. We are united, you and me—we are both humans who sometimes lose our intentions.

A Letter to My Sybil Vane

My Dear,

I am ready to say I am sorry. I’m sorry for dashing the dreams you once dreamt.

In the theater, the brightness does blind an attempt to objectify deities’ stage.
The subjective in Shakespeare’s creations capture unfairly. What chance do mere men
Stand against an immortal Juliet? Or a Kate? Or a Rosalind, dancing in Arden?
This accursed routine: observe the unlimited talent, ensnare the untrained
Undiscerning resolve, and, in hearts of all men, reveal unattainable dreams.
I am ready to say my goodbye.

Your trade is not a thespian.
Our theater lights were set upon reality.
I met you under sunshine, bright as Sybil’s love.
But Dorian calls me brother. Dorian’s picture smiles for me as well.
I call you Sybil Vane because I’ve seen you dance a god,
But dimly powered lights must fade and dash my dreams as well.

Yo I Am Quiting

NOTE: In case it is not clear, this blog is based on the fact that this person's name uses the word "quiting" rather than "quitting."

Xbox Live Gold Membership costs “$49.99 for one year—less than five dollars a month!” as stated on xbox.com. For those that are not as familiar with the service, a person buys membership and creates a profile not unlike Facebook or MySpace.

The first step in profile creation is choosing a name, also called a Gamertag. This Gamertag is your online name, the name that will appear when you kill someone in Halo 3 or score on someone in Madden.

Choosing my online name was something very important to me. My current name “hobodog” is a character from a children’s book I read growing up. I’m not sure why I picked it. Perhaps I disliked the idea of having a Gamertag without excessive numbers or Xs (e.g. Judorhapsode134769347538362 or xxJudorhapsodexx), so I picked a unique name.

You’d be surprised how many people online pronounce it “Haw-boh-dog” not “hoh-boh-dog.” In their defense, there's not a space in my Gamertag. It simply reads "hobodog." But still, have we not heard of compound words?

My friend, whom I know in real life, chose his name carefully as well. He chose his Gamertag based on one of his favorite books Steppenwolf. (Yes, I met him in English Grad School).

So with that entire context, I cannot feel bewildered by this young man or young woman’s choice to create a Gamertag with so obvious a spelling error. Perhaps they are so young that spelling errors are to be forgiven. But this rationalization naturally leads to another question: If this child is so young that they cannot use a dictionary, how and why are they paying $50.00 a year for an online service? The response to this question could be the parents pay for the service in which their young child, too naïve to use correct spelling, can meet people who use vulgar and sexually explicit language over unrestricted voice chat.

Maybe this gamer simply wanted an ironic Gamertag. Maybe this player wanted to create a commentary that online quitters (players who leave matches during play because they are losing) are stupid. Thus, spelling “quitting” incorrectly was a self-referential mocking of such a population: quitters are stupid and cannot spell correctly. But I seriously, seriously doubt this.

In all probability, this person is simply too lazy to edit his own writing. And yes, I am classifying one’s Gamertag as “writing” because it is a written form of self-expression. This is not a small typo, hidden in a sea of other words. This is his own chosen identity. Where is the pride?

Poor fellow. Good thing my team beat YO I AM QUITING’s team. Otherwise, this post would look like sour grapes.

Life Changer

I love drinking boba. Blueberry milk tea is probably my all-time favorite flavor. I’m no boba expert, but I can tell you if the pearls are overcooked or if they put too much ice in my drink. I'm just a fan who uses boba as a way to relax. In that regard, boba is not just a drink to me, but a part of my lifestyle.

Earlier this week, after having finished drink a large Mango milk tea, I wanted to kill some time. So, using my phone and curiosity, I pulled up the nutritional values for a boba. Depending on the drink and the size, boba drinks can be up to 1000 calories. I was shocked. I'm still shocked. That’s more calories than I sometimes get in a whole day.

One of my favorite pastimes is now gone. I can’t drink the drink knowing that it is blatantly adding to my weight problem. If I eat a pizza or drink a Jamba I at least feel full. Boba is so light though. It's treat, not a meal.

I can still technically drink boba, but I’ll never look at it the same way. Drinking one now would be like drinking a sin--so good, and so bad. Discovering the caloric content of my lovely boba drinks is, what I call, a life changer: a moment that changes the way you look at the world.

She didn’t say who she was dating. An acquaintance, who was insensitive enough to tell the truth, revealed she was now dating one of a best friend from high school.

Grabbing his car keys off his nightstand, a half-open drawer revealed a half-used box of condoms.

His skin felt waxy and dull compared to the shiny mahogany surrounding him. The skin on his face, stretched out and solidified by chemicals, was my last physical image of him.

I know boba seems simple, and I know it sounds like I’m being over dramatic, but this is one of those moments that will change the way I live my life. I don’t think I will casually suggest a boba to a girl I meet in class. I don’t think I will spontaneously choose to drink a boba on the train ride home. After a stressful day, a boba will only add to my fears that I live my life in excess and gluttony.

Even a small life changer, even an inconsequential drink, has altered the pulse of my routine.

Life changers, big or small, are our personal perceptions of the world yielding to reality. It is safe to live in world where our ex-girlfriends fade away, our fathers don’t have sex, and our loved ones live forever, but reality fragments our comfortable imagination into pragmatic events.

I won’t drink boba the same way, but this really is not about the boba. It’s about losing another piece of my inner paradise to the outside world of 1000-calorie disappointment.