Bug Decal

My dad's car got broken into a few days ago. I wasn't with him at the time, so the entire story was related to me secondhand, but I still felt a surge of frustration days after and twice-removed from the actual insult.

My dad was having a meal in South Berkeley, and upon his return, the back, passenger-side window was smashed in. Luckily, my dad had taken his laptop and business briefcase with him on a whim because it looked "tempting just sitting in [his] backseat." It was as if fate was smiling on him...sort of.

The thief made off only with a few trinkets, the most expensive being a bluetooth headset. I listened intently over the phone as my dad relayed the story, and I added the obligatory "that's fucked up" when appropriate. Surprisingly though, out of all the things lost out of his car, he ended his story with, "You what's gone though?" His voice sounded more serious from when he was speaking casually about losing his mambo CDs. "The bug sticker."

I was about 10 years old when I was on this bug decal phase. I had this plastic mold with all different kinds of bug shapes. I'd pour in the special paint that would dry into a thin film like a more-translucent fruit roll up. I gave my dad a 5-inch red and green grasshopper with a yellow head as a gift. Humoring me, or so I thought, he put it on the back, passenger-side window.

That bug has been in his last three different cars: even when he junked his old Corolla, even when his old Camry died, each time, he must have sacredly pulled the bug loose and gingerly applied it to his new car.

Perhaps out of machismo or anger, we both goaded each other about how we would enact some physical violence on the thief for being such an ambassador of ill will. Dad said he would punch him. I said I would give him a curb job.

But we were both exaggerating our violent tendencies to hide our disappointment. I doubt my father or I would ever assault someone over a few Gypsy Kings CDs and a plastic bug. But I was mad. Reminders of my childhood are rarely in such an obvious place as my father's automobile; it was almost like a trophy case for my bug—a trophy case that happened to have an engine and four wheels. The robber ruined a gift to a father and a gift from a son to abscond with a mere $50 worth of miscellaneous commuter items.

I guess we were both exaggerating our violent tendencies to hide the fact that our poor bug decal is gone forever, shattered by some fool who had no idea what he was doing when he smashed a 15-year-old window.

I know I usually have pictures to go with my posts, but it seems almost poetic that there are no pictures of the decal—that one of the last childhood and sentimental traditions between my father and me now only exists as a secret, hidden by our exaggerated masculinities.

If Lucky Charms Were a Woman...

If Lucky Charms were a woman, they would actually be two women: one woman, the object of your affection, with whom you are enamored, and one "third wheel," her best friend, with whom you are annoyed.

The object of your affection is as beautiful, sweet, and petite as those hearts, stars, horseshoes, clovers, and blue moons, pots of gold, and rainbows, and the red balloons. But her best friend third wheel, who tags along on all your dates, is as annoying as the toasted bits of oats that ruin your marshmallow breakfast experience.

No cereal is as intoxicating and sobering as Lucky Charms. And no date is as electrifying and numbing as a date with a beautiful woman and her boyfriendless best friend.

You pour a bowl of that General Mills flagship cereal hoping you shook the box just enough that more marshmallows than oat bits fall from the bag. But of course, your bowl is tainted with the color of pasty brown instead of the chalky but oh-so-sweet colors of the rainbow.

You take the object of your affection to dinner hoping that you made it clear enough that it was a "romantic" evening. But of course, your opportunity to show her how sexy you are is tainted with the awkward and momentum-killing comments of the best friend.

General Mills: clearly your Lucky Charms are marketed to parents hoping to provide their children nutrition and good times. So why not make a separate cereal that contains only marshmallows and market it to the adults of the world? The adults that don't mind an intimate date with the object of their affection. The adults that want to be alone with the marshmallows because they have something more sensuous in mind: eating a bowl of the sweetest cereal with the lights off. And with no third wheels to ruin the best laid plans, we can finally get Lucky...Charms, that is.

Volunteering

Don't ask me how I ended up at the CityTeam Ministries Recovery Center. I am not a Christian, a homeless person, nor a person who typically volunteers, but I spent the larger part of my Saturday cutting fruit and serving the homeless.

I volunteered quite a bit in high school and college in order to help pad applications. I sometimes felt guilty, but people often reminded me that "it's okay to receive credit for good deeds."

On my way to the Center, I thought the job was going to be cathartic. I thought about how I would meet some old timer down on their luck, and they would tell me their heartbreaking story about how they ended up on the streets. I thought about how I would run out of food with hundreds of people still in line, and I sadly would need to turn people away.

But there was no catharsis. Just hard work in the kitchen. Everything was what I would expect out of the situation. Catharsis implies a certain amount of growth or unexpectedness, but today's experience was just ordinary.

I spent about two hours cutting pears, apples, and cantaloupe for the fruit salad. I never considered myself a good "fruit cutter," but after a couple of hours, I was tearin' those pears and melons up! I was a fruit cocktail machine. At at 4:45 the doors opened and my job was to put a slice of cake on the meal trays. It was a simple task.
















After the meal, we cleaned up, and I left. No certificate of appreciation. No validation of my hours. Just a handshake and a "thank you" from the coordinator.

At home now, writing this post, I feel the same as I did this morning. I don't feel like I had a life-changing experience. I don't feel like I particularly connected with anyone. I thought volunteering at a homeless center would unnerve me, but it was an emotionally pleasant day. I feel oddly unsettled, or rather, I feel unsettled that I don't feel unsettled. I feel like I should have some message or pontification—a life lesson or an experience that need be shared. But I'm the same man I was this morning. Nothing is different.

But maybe that's the point: that volunteering doesn't change you; it changes the people. Getting a letter of recommendation or counting hours for some school form is not volunteering. It is helpful, to be sure, but it is a personally driven task. Volunteering is what happened to me today—a few hours lost and leaving without a signature or a time card...or a catharsis. A task so small it wouldn't fill a line on my resume. Volunteering is when the change comes externally, not internally. It seems appropriate to confess: today was my first time truly volunteering.

Why This Man Excercises Every Morning

Death notice
July 3, 2004

Jeannie Chu passed away peacefully on June 26, 2004. She was born in 1924 and passed away just one month short of her 80th birthday.

She was a loving and vibrant person who had a life full of accomplishments. She worked as a seamstress for over 25 years, and her elegant and quality alterations attracted a loyal following. She had a deep passion for the violin and, after she retired, she enjoyed giving lessons to the local youth. She was well-known in her neighborhood both as a seamstress and as a musician.

Jeannie was an ardent patron of the arts, especially the theater and the symphony. Jeannie loved the outdoors. Early in the morning, she could always be found with her husband practicing Tai Chi.

Jeannie leaves behind her husband, Walter, of 42 years, their two sons, Jason and Charles, their three grandchildren, Alice, Mark, and Stephen, and their dog, Bobo. Jeannie had a wonderful life and will be missed dearly by her family and friends.

Special thanks to the caregivers and wonderful staff at Pathways Hospice Care. Instead of flowers, Jeannie's family requests donations be made to the Susan G. Komen Breast Cancer Foundation.

The Death of Genius: Michael Jackson

Poet and essayist Ezra Pound once said that a genius on the level of Chaucer, Shakespeare, or Dante was impossible in a contemporary society because it offers people too many avenues to explore thus dividing their focus from one true pursuit—that Chaucer's, Shakespeare's, and Dante's lives, truly dedicated to writing, allowed them to flourish as geniuses. For Pound, genius was created by segmented and compartmentalized realities for each specific writer—from that isolation, genius was born.

Jackson was a genius much the way Pound labeled Chaucer, Shakespeare, and Dante geniuses.

Jackson's childhood lifestyle and wealth allowed him to create a kind of alternate reality within the reality that the rest of us perceive. To that end, Michael Jackson was similarly isolated within his genius like Chaucer, Shakespeare, and Dante.

From that state of "Romanticism enacted," Jackson created his own social mores and norms: a world where age, music, sexuality, dance, and performance intermingled in a way a non-genius could never understand. That is why, in our reality, Jackson epitomized dichotomy: performer and recluse, American icon and pedophile. His actions were brilliant and, then, amoral. To society, these polar opposites were irreconcilable, but to Jackson, they were integrated parts of his life within his genius.
















This image shows Jackson's skewed sense of reality. This painting, part of his home decor, depicts him simultaneously as a prince, knight, and King Arthur. His personal reality, while bizarre to the outside, is what allowed him to create such unique and amazing music and performances. Based on Pound's idea, Jackson's genius is like an alien coming to earth and doing things their own way unaffected by the norms of human society.

His perceptions of paranoia and fear manifested itself in "Billie Jean." His idealistic views on gang violence bled through in "Beat it." And in a reality where Neverland Ranch was home, Jackson created his epic "Thriller" by combining genres in a manner a non-genius never could have imagined.

And that why Jackson is so timeless. His music and influence are not affected by chronology because he is from an alternate reality. His music is current and relevant today because his vision is unlike anything people from our reality have ever seen or will ever see again.

Jackson probably did some "illegal" things in his life, but can we fault him? He lived in a different type of world. A world where his genius was allowed to flourish and his imagination allowed to run rampant. On Pound's idea, Jackson, alone in his own world, was allowed to evolved in a way no other human on earth can ever recreate. Isolated in his own mind, Jackson promoted himself to ruler, emperor, genius, and king...the King of Pop.

The Slothful of Dante's Inferno

"Beneath the slimy top are sighing souls
who make these waters bubble at the surface;
your eyes will tell you this—just look around.

Bogged in this slime they say, 'Sluggish we were
in the sweet air made happy by the sun,
and the smoke of sloth was smoldering in our hearts;

now we lie sluggish here in this black muck!'
This is the hymn they gurgle in their throats
but cannot sing in the words that truly sound."

(VII.118-126)













Works Cited:
Dante. Inferno. Trans. Mark Musa. New York: Penguin, 1984.

Bolts of Silk

One of my poems has been published on an online poetry blog "Bolts of Silk" (which, I must say, is a very potent image and title for a poetry blog).

Check it out.

Thank you Bolts of Silk for posting one of my poems.

If Rice Krispies Were a Woman...

If Rice Krispies were a woman, she would be the woman who was your best friend but secretly loved you. The woman with whom you have coffee together but never date. The woman with whom you see movies with but never hold hands. But in the end, the woman who secretly loved you since they day you met.

You'd see her at least twice a week, in one-on-one settings, but you never made a move because you never thought of her that way. The Snap Crackle Pop of your conversations were cacophonic and hilarious. Like Rice Krispies, your relationship was simple and constant. No drama of dating or jealousy, no unnecessary colors or marshmallows—just casual consumption of a good friend.

For her, you were more than a crush. That she wanted to hold your hand and kiss your cheek and be your monogamous cereal. But you couldn't commit. The milk of truth soggied your once gregarious friendship and bowl of cereal. For no cereal goes as soggy as fast as Rice Krispies. Left long enough, like the awkwardness of her unrequited love, the Rice Krispies turned into a soft, tepid pool of slosh.

You didn't want to look like a jerk, so you continued to hang out with her, but no more one-on-one meals. You invited friends to act as buffers, and you used marshmallows to create Rice Krispie Treats because intimate bowls of cereal were too uncomfortable.

No one is blaming you—choosing a cereal and choosing a girlfriend are personal preferences. They don't blame you either; they understand. When you have the unexpected "bump-into-each-other" in the cereal aisle, you smile politely and maybe share a laugh, but your friendship is effectively dead. You both know the truth: friendship and Rice Krispies spoil under the weight of uneven love and low-fat milk.

There's Nothing Buddhist About Bingo

The cream of the crop, the highlight, the crown jewel of the Oakland Buddhist Church Bazaar: 3 cards for $1 Bingo. That's right folks—Bingo. Every year, my brother and I suffer for the unfiltered and raw energy of the gritty Bingo experience.

I'm serious about Bingo; today I found myself muttering (probably audible to strangers) how the old woman behind me was "pissing me off" for having a stack of 4 prize tickets.

When a voice across the room calls "Bingo" when you have 4 in a row, the emotion is a mix of violent malice and acrid annoyance. If it is a quiet "Bingo," I grumble to myself, "Why don't you call it louder so we can freaking hear you?" If it is a loud "BINGO," I grumble to myself, "Why don't you have some class and call it with some quiet dignity?" The only thing that makes me content when I'm playing Bingo: winning.





Blast the taunting of 4 in a row!










The prizes for winning Bingo aren't even that good. Most of the items can be bought at Costco for no more than $7. To a certain degree, I would rather keep the prize ticket as a battle scar rather than trade it in for a tub of Red Vines. But then again, there is something atavistic about beheading a Red Vine that one has earned through the hunt.

That's the rush of winning Bingo: that one can call out to a room of strangers and say, "I beat all of you. For this moment, I am the king of the entire room." How many situations in life provide that sense of domination?

Maybe I should relax a bit, though. I mean, my grandmother, who is well into her late 80s, enjoyed Bingo today on a very simple level. She can't walk very far anymore, and she gets tired very quickly, but even she was able to sit and patiently find pleasure in winning a consolation prize of seven cups of Maruchan Ramen noodles. She was elated to win. When she called her perfectly melodious Bingo, I couldn't help but smile.

Maybe Bingo isn't about power. Maybe Bingo isn't about beating the competition. Maybe there is some Buddhist about Bingo.

Maybe Bingo is about tradition—about sitting with my brother for the some-teenth year in a row and laughing about how badly I want B12 and he wants N42. Maybe, if I allowed it to be, Bingo would be just as fun without the prize tickets. Maybe that is the grand scheme of the Church of which I am not a member: to make me learn a lesson without actually attending a service.

Father's Day (One Day Early)

My brother and I were equally stumped by the question, "what would Dad want for Father's Day?"

My brother suggested getting him a new pair of golf shoes, but my father, like many people, is very particular about his shoes and how they intimately fit his feet. Golf shoes were out.

Our agreed upon meeting time was rolling around, and my brother and I still had nothing but a card for our father. Granted, it was one of those fancy $3+ cards, but we still felt empty-handed. Partly out of laziness and partly out of confusion, we arrived at the Japanese restaurant in San Leandro carrying one blue envelope between us.

After we finished our dinner, we drove into Hayward/Castro Valley looking for a Starbucks. Of course, in today's caffeinated society, this was a fairly easy task.

Readers might not know this, but I grew up in Hayward. I moved to the Central Valley of California when I was in middle school.

We found a Starbucks easily, but it just so happened to be across the street from a restaurant/ice cream parlor from our childhood still called the "Ice Creamery." Dad, my brother, and I decided to forgo the faceless corporation for a nice bowl of nostalgia ice cream.











The three of us closed down the parlor. It was like old times when newly divorced Dad would pick us up for his custody time on Tuesday nights. Ice cream. Video arcades. Dinner out on the town. I felt like I was in elementary school again.

Dinners with my dad and brother are always loud and fun, but today was a reflective moment when I realized how far the three of us have come—as a family. Sometimes it's hard to remember yourself or your family as you were in past; you need a context, a backdrop, or an Ice Creamery.

My brother is a doctor, but he's still the logical son. I am an educator, but I'm still the emotional son. And my father...well, my father is still the moderator dad. And while that may not be as nice as a new pair of golf shoes, I think our Father's Day (one day early) was a success: tonight was an homage to the Tuesday-Night Trio.

Silence

i want to tell you i like you, but...
you might already know
you might not care
you might not think its genuine, or worth persuing
and it might make my position worse.

soi guess ill just wait untill its obvious enough for you.

Punxecret

The day we met was simple: laughing hard,
a stolen glance—Those were my purest words.
That night, though, all the nights along the road
until now, I saw a faceless lover carve
your simple virgin face with lips like shards
of conquest. Loving faceless phantoms blur
decisions in the day. Potential blows
of rejection freeze me, so I'll just wait.

- - -

The winter frost arrived. The mouse's supply
of food diminished dangerously low
by thoughts of hawks that might consume his heart.
Inside his hole from fear, he decided to lie
and wait within starvation's safety. Shown
no mercy, winter kissed his slowing heart.

Why I Write Sonnets

"First, " he said, pressing his wrists together, "You are handcuffed by having to write fourteen lines.

"Then, " he said, sitting down to press his ankles together, "You are shackled by having to write with a set meter."

Leaning forward to crouch into a ball, he declared, "They put you into a sack called rhyme."

Rising suddenly from the chair to spread his arms, he declared, "But think what a magic act it is if you can set you meaning free!"

~Aaron Kramer~

Zany Marketing versus Insane Advertising

I eat cereal for breakfast every morning. And I'm not monogamous to one particular cereal; I'm promiscuous. I'll hook up with Cookie Crisp one night, and then buy lunch for Honey Nut Chex the next afternoon.

Because of my casual dating philosophy, at least when it comes to cereal, I know a thing or two about promotions. The toys wrapped in those sticky plastic bags. The tokens one needs to collect to get a shirt. The childish mazes on the backs of boxes.

But the most interesting promotions are the ones that actually change the cereal itself; you know, like when they add a new color Crunchberry or when the shape of Honeycomb changes from octagonal to rectangular. A change in the beloved product is a risk, but if done correctly, the marketing effects are worth it.

But today I saw the weirdest change in cereal content. Maybe I'm just getting older, or maybe my tolerance has diminished, but this promotion freaked me out:




















How in the world do hang gliders relate to Apple Jacks? And why would the executives at Kellogg's think it a good idea to make a triangle-shaped Apple Jack? I'm so confused. I was slightly deterred from Apple Jacks when they introduced that strange apple mascot (shown in the picture) who looks like he's on some illicit drugs, but blue hang gliders in my dear sweet Apply Jacks? That's crossing a line from creatively zany to pathetically insane.

While in the supermarket, I took some pictures of other cereals that I believe have successfully changed their content in some zany yet logical way.




At least Cocoa Puffs is mixing it up by adding complimentary flavors to their cereal. Chocolate and Vanilla puffs? That's thinking! I'm interested to see if it tastes like an ice cream sundae. A+ for piquing my interest in the flavor.










Lucky Charms is always adding new marshmallow shapes. And frankly, I get excited to see the new charms. I always imagine telling my son or daughter about how "when I was a kid, it just blew my mind when they added the Red Balloon."








Look at that crazy Rabbit on that crazy box art! Spinning the new swirl Trix on his finger like a Harlem Globetrotter. Genius. I bought this cereal just to stare at the "radicalness."








You see, Apple Jacks Gliders! It is possible to create logical yet zany cereal promotions. Out of all the cereals of which I posted pictures, you, my dear Apple Jacks, are probably the most delicious. There's no need to sell out with Gliders. What's next? Adding the word "Xtreme" in front of your title? Have some pride. Seriously.

Blue

Electric fly killers have three basic functions, all of which must be present if we are to have an effective fly control system: they are to attract, to kill and to collect. Attraction is achieved using lamps that emit Ultra Violet light. As UV light is invisible to the human eye traditional UV lamps had phosphors added which produce visible blue light enabling us to see when they are switched on.

This blue colour has no attractant power and is purely an indicator.

From: Fly Killers: The Myth and Magic
By: Paul Sidebottom

The ocean blue appears so far away.
I often wish to drink the center spot,
that all the sea surrounding me obeyed
my words and bowed in homage of my clout.
The sky appears so blue. I wish to fly
upon the wind and tear between the geese
and clouds. And I would fly beyond the sky
and view the peons trembling underneath.

The blue harmonic buzzing calls to me—
Ambition calls me. Dare I break the clasp
and free this vast potential? Dare I free
the strength and hope once kept beyond my grasp?

I wish no more: my blue cylinder
is here—Touchable—Kissable—Power.

Facebook Killed My Yearbook

The yearbook was not supposed to be a victim for Facebook.

We signed yearbooks knowing growing-up was part of the aesthetic value of a yearbook: that fragility of time and mortality of life were sewn into the spine of the book itself.

I was an editor of my high school yearbook. My fellow staffers and I would pour over each page checking for typos or incorrect spelling of students' names. Yearbook was an unpaid, thankless job. Holding my yearbook in my hands, I remember the 3-hour meeting simply for choosing the font of the cover text. Every yearbook spread was important because the entire student body of over 3,000 students would read the words and view the pictures. Every page needed to be perfect.

But even with my deep love and respect for "the yearbook" as an art form, it was only recently that I realized that Facebook has made my sacred text obsolete.

I remember my college friends leafing through the pages of my yearbook laughing at how fat I was, how strange my hair looked, or how thick my glasses were. There was something communal, almost tribal, about sitting around my yearbook and turning stiff immutable pages. With the physical book between us, I could tangibly express my memories, for a brief moment, to person who did not attend my high school.

But times have changed.

Where your yearbook is immutable, Facebook is dynamic. Where your yearbook is tribal, Facebook is high-tech. The yearbook is nostalgic Romanticism; Facebook is gritty Realism. Where once we would trace the outline of the prom queen's face with our fingertips on the page, Facebook accosts her by showing her fat and knocked up. Where once we could return to 1st period with our favorite teacher, Facebook ruins our flashback by showing him bald and senile.

If I wanted to see the kings and queen of my past dethroned, I would meet them in real life and view the moribund spectacle. But Facebook has encroached on my sanctuary and murdered my yearbook by bringing mortality onto my computer screen.

I don't want to foolishly live in the past with my yearbook, but I also don't want my memories desecrated by Facebook. But I have no vote; none of us do. It seems evolution has already chosen the terrifying sublimity of the present over the rosy perfection of the past.

If Count Chocula Was a Woman...

If Count Chocula was a woman, she would be your summer-camp girlfriend. You saw her every year, at the exact same time of year, throughout your adolescence. Count Chocula wanted to bite your neck, and your camp sweetie wanted to give you a hickey on your neck.

Count Chocula cereal can be found year-round, but the Count is most available at one particular time of the year, just like your summer-camp girlfriend. No matter what cereals were in your pantry, no matter what girls you were interested in, when that time of the year rolled around, Count Chocula and the summer-camp girlfriend trumped all others.

When the right time of year did finally come around, the passion bloomed. When the first pallet was unloaded at Target, when she stepped off the bus into your arms, you wondered how you ever lived without her. Her chocolaty hair. Her sweet marshmallow lips.

You spent your entire time together. All other girls left your mind. All other cereals staled in their half-eaten bags. You spent so much time together, you almost got sick of her...almost.

But you remembered your passion was ephemeral. Buying 25 boxes of Chocula was as futile as keeping a picture of her on your desk through the other three seasons. Your love bloomed only in that one particular time; attempting to love out-of-season never worked.

After Halloween and summer camp ended, all you could do is slowly drink the brown milk left behind, gently touch the browning hickey on your neck, and sweetly savor the seasonal memories gone until next year.

Blinded by Thorns

my life has been so rediculous lately, and im so incredibly lost.
all i can do is laugh about it and hope that things will get better.

~Punxecret~

The once red rose had turned to faithless brown
and bowed its head to mourn the passing hues.
The dying petals cackled as I burned
the flower's corpse. And then I left for home.

Along the journey of my life, I woke
to find myself confused and lost inside
the darkened wood. Upon the stubborn walk,
I strayed off course without a rose to guide.

But then a blinded clown approached and claimed,
"I'll be your guide," and smiled through yellowed teeth.
His rainbow colored clothing loosely draped
his starving frame—he was as lost as me.

The sightless led the lost while telling jokes.
I laughed along, and I could only hope.


~~~

PS:
I happened upon the Punxecret blog about a week ago, and while the teenage angst or "emo" levels are rather elevated, I have become a religious reader of this particular blog. There is something pure about the posters' levels of loneliness and sadness.

This blog is unique in that the username and password are made public: anyone can login anonymously and post their thoughts or feelings. Because all the posts are by "punxecret," there are no means to individuate one post from another. The posts all blend together into one globule of emotional tension.

The Punxecret posts may not be the most refined, but they have unfiltered emotional charge. I enjoy absorbing that charge and discharging it into my own poetry, hopefully in keeping with the poster's original intent.

Pathetic Fallacy

Pathetic Fallacy: the tendency of poets and painters to imbue the natural world with human feelings.

I went out mostly to buy more frozen corn, but I also planned on getting some take-out dinner from L&L. But while meandering through the aisles at one of the stores, I came across this sight:
















I didn't rearrange the stuffed animal pens; this lonely but very cute puppy was waiting for me. I looked around trying to find the other members of his litter, the other toys of the same model, but this forgotten pup was the last of his kind, the unwanted runt.

I reached into the cage and picked him up. Some stuffed animals look softer or more cuddly than they really are, but this little fellow was a treat for the eyes and the fingers. His fur felt like a mixing of silk and cotton: smooth yet fluffy.

As I do with all stuffed animals I consider purchasing, I looked for a company-given name on the tag. I always find it interesting what the creators of the stuffed animals name their products. But sadly, the only thing on this poor, isolated pooch's tag was "WARNING: CHOKING HAZARD."

That sealed the deal. I adopted the loner, and took him home with me. To balance my budget, I had to eat soup from a can and Spam instead of chicken katsu and mac salad, but sometimes, doggies just need to be rescued.

Maybe I fell for the market ploy of the toy company—the fur and eyes and ears were made specifically to attract the gullible customer. Or maybe I'm a victim of pathetic fallacy—I saw some of myself in the marooned canine. Whatever the reason, I have a new dog.

It might be ridiculous to you, dear reader, that I would forgo a meal and buy a toy because it looked sad. And it might be equally ridiculous that I felt glad (I wouldn't exaggerate by saying ecstatic) to place little Chubby on my headboard and introduce him to Charlie, Chip 'n Dale, and Domo. But you know what I say? Happiness that costs a few bucks, regardless of the source, is worth it.
















Works Cited:
"Pathetic Fallacy." The New Princeton Encyclopedia of Poetry and Poetics. 1993.

Some Things Don't Taste Good

You know what's strange?

I love anything strawberry flavored, but I dislike strawberries; they are too sour. But strawberry yogurt? I'm there! Strawberry syrup? That's right!

I love Kit Kat chocolate and Snicker's chocolate, but when someone hands me high-class chocolate, I often find the flavor unpleasant. I guess I'm just a low-class chocolate kind of fellow.

I love fish. I order fish at restaurants, and I cook fish at home, but I can't stand tuna fish out of the can. It smells weird.

I love the sugar donut, but I'll always buy the maple bar because it's usually the same price, but it's so much bigger. I feel like I need to get the most dough for my dough (OH YEAH! Pun!). I mean, maple bars are okay, but they are certainly the jester to the sugar-donut king.

Sometimes I think the bread smells better than it tastes. Especially warm bread.

When I eat my candy or fruit snacks, I divide them into color groupings and eat them one at a time from each division.

I eat Luna bars even though I'm not a woman. They just taste better than Clif bars.

Even with the myriad of special flavors, Original Corn Nuts are still the best. Ranch? BBQ? Are you kidding me? As far as I'm concerned, all the non-Original flavors are just wasting perfectly good Corn Nuts.

I sometimes put canned olives on my fingertips before I eat them.

I eat so much cereal that I warrant having a special cereal bowl with a straw built into the side.

What are some of your strange food tendencies?

~~~

PS:
This post is my 100th post.

I don't know exactly how many of you there are, but I wanted to say thank you, dear readers, for visiting me. Feel free to leave me comments, even anonymous ones. I enjoy feedback. But even if you wish to bathe in the buffer the Internet provides, I still thank you for sticking with me through 100 posts.

I enjoy writing. And I enjoy writing for you.

In my Dream

You were in my dream last night. =]
I miss you.

~Punxecret~

We shopped inside the mall for clothes and hats
for Friday's party. Costume parties aren't
my pleasure, but you said we'd go as "cat
and milk." You and I found the perfect parts,

and I became your cat and you my milk.
You poured yourself into a saucer. Full
and white, I lapped you up, absorbed your silky
fat, and tucked it behind my marbled fur.

You held my paws as gently as I kissed
the gifted birds for you. A perfect match.
But at the party, you couldn't hear me hiss
as you floated away with the kayak.

I lived a life in which you loved and left,
and even in my dreams, you loved and left.

Reciprocity

There is a growing trend outside my apartment building: people going through the recycling and trash bins. I've heard grumblings from fellow tenants that "those homeless people should go bother someone else," and I find that statement a tad harsh.

I'll concede that having a mother and children searching through my trash isn't the most elegant sight to see. I'll also concede that shouting and excessive noise from the dumpster searching is inappropriate at 6 am. But the pejorative attitudes based on prejudice seems somewhat extreme.

I actually don't really mind the "dumpster diving." Over the last few weeks I've seen some pretty amazing stuff come out of those dumpsters. Kids' bikes, couches, bar stools, TVs. Why wouldn't someone go in there and pull out some stuff for their family? Tough times are tough times, you know?

I would be lying if I said I've never pulled out something from our dumpsters: I have two 10-pound dumbbells I found, gasp, in the dumpster. And a few months ago, I helped clean out a garage full of soda cans. There was $350 worth of cans, and my take was $100 for half a day's work. So how can I impugn people who also wants to capitalize on recycling benefits? If the cans and bottles are there, it's fine with me if they want to take them.



The pile of cans equaled my 5'5" father.







The problem arises though, that while the people going through the dumpsters, they are haphazardly throwing the garbage—rotten bananas, dog waste bags, food wrappers—into the street. I understand sometimes items need to be taken out of the dumpster so the items at the bottom are more accessible, but the garbage needs to be returned to the dumpster when finished.

No joke: I had to throw away my garbage twice yesterday. Once when I took it out of my apartment, and a second time when I picked it up out of the gutter. And to that end, I will have a pejorative attitude about the people searching in the dumpsters.

Dumpster diving is fine, but dumpster divers shirking responsibility for the mess is not fine. Take my cans. Take my old TV. But please, put the trash back into the dumpster, so I don't have to pick up the mess.

I'll politely tolerate the shopping cart rolling outside my window. I'll politely tolerate the shanty town made across the street. I'll even politely tolerate the occasional razor shards of glass preventing me from wearing sandals in my own neighborhood. So can there please be some politeness reciprocity regarding the littering issue?

Beautiful Man

The light rail today was especially crowded, so I had the rare experience of sitting next to a stranger on the light rail this afternoon.

After I sat down, he looked over into my lap and noticed the small gift I was holding. "Is that a corsage?" I peeled down the red tissue paper just enough for him to see the small pot that was holding my plant. "Ah. It's a potted flower. That's a beautiful flower, man."

We rode for another minute or two before he turned away from the window and asked me, "Is it for a girl?" "Yeah," I replied. But before I could explain further, he added, "I guess that's a silly question. That's obviously a gift for a lady." And we shared a laugh—not the kind of laugh between two friends, but the very different type of laugh between two strangers. The kind of laugh that fills the space with politeness rather than hilarity.

He turned toward the window again, and I thought he was done talking, but he started speaking quiet words.

"Love is a tricky thing, man. I had a girl too, once. But things are all messed up now. We got divorced just a few months ago. And now we're in a custody battle over our daughter. Love is a tricky thing." Every time he'd say the word "love," he'd gently close his eyes and shake his head like he was softly trying to rattle loose the painful word from his vocabulary.

This wasn't a mindless anecdote proffered by a lonely 70-year-old; this was a confession spoken by a heart-broken 29-year-old. I could see he wanted to keep talking, but he looked distant. So I urged him forward with his story by asking, "What's your daughter's name?"

"Isabella-Marie. You want to see a picture?" He pulled out his cell phone. It was at least two generations old. The paint was chipped. The screen was opaque from countless scratches. A cell phone used for many years. An owner unable to upgrade to the newest iPhone or Blackberry.

His daughter's face took up the entire screen. She was smiling that adorable 2-year-old smile, but she looked like all the other 2-year-old girls I see. But I glanced at the man's face, and he wore a grin that convinced me that Isabella-Marie was someone special. "That's my daughter," he softly said, almost inaudibly.

It was strange to see a person, a stranger no less, so voluntarily vulnerable. He was self-aware and eloquent, impassioned and sensitive. He was secure enough with his personality to use the word "beautiful," which is incredibly rare for a man. I almost wish he and I were friends, that I might talk to him more, learn more about him, tell him that I thought him beautiful.

"That's a beautiful flower," he said again as I stood up to exit the train. "She's a lucky lady. Good luck, man." His "good luck" wasn't just a platitude. I could see it on his face: he was actually hoping that I would have good luck—a life free from divorce and custody battles and heartache. I'm not sure why he kept complimenting my plant, but he must have seen something in its red petals. Maybe hope. Maybe nostalgia. Maybe love.

I didn't have the heart to tell him the plant was for just a friend.

If Frosted Flakes Were a Woman...

If Frosted Flakes were a woman, she would be the redhead girlfriend you dated in college who happened to be a really fabulous baker. Without the safety net of the dorm food, you relied on her for free desserts.

The hypnotizing blue box, like the beautiful azure eyes of your sweetheart, called out to you. The bright orange tiger? her flowing orange locks waving in the wind. She was a beauty, and that girl could bake!

She made you spongy cupcakes and tangy lemon bars, gooey brownies and warm apple pies. But like Frosted Flakes, she made you obese. Like your belle's delicious baked goods, Frosted Flakes has high sugar content with little nutritional balance.

And she always gave you the delectable leftovers of her heavenly goodies, just like the wonderful sugary-syrupy residue Frosted Flakes leaves in your milk when you're done eating the cereal. Even after your redhead girlfriend left your apartment, even after you finished the last bite of your cereal, the other half of the cake and the cereal run-off lingered like a saccharine refrain, singing honeyed words of temptation to gain weight.

You're fat because you loved your girlfriend's baking. You're fat because you love Sugar Frosted Flakes. And you're fat because you were too busy thinking "They're Grrrreat" to stop eating either one.

Thoughts from Westfield

I went to the local mall today by myself. It was a strange experience. I've driven to the mall solo but always with the intent of meeting someone there. I guess malls really are oases in society: all the animals gather there for sustenance and community. Today, intentionally isolated, it was strange to be around so many people, so many groups of friends, so many couples, and yet still be alone.

I'm a terrible tandem shopper. When I frequent malls with other people, especially with women, I get so tired and irritated. I guess I don't quite understand. I wear a size Medium from Gap, I buy the Medium: no need to try it on. Why do women try on the tops, even at stores they frequent?

My annoyance and tiredness are directly proportional to the size of the clothing pile when a woman says, "Okay, I'm just going to go try these on." I'm not trying to be sexist; I admit that I'm ignorant. But can you blame me? 30 waist, buy the 30 pants. Boom. Done. No dressing room. I've known no other way but my own. Everything else seems confusing and foreign.

When I go to the mall with other people, a granola bar is as essential as my credit card. I need the sugar rush. Otherwise, I freak out.

But today, I didn't need a pick-me-up granola bar. I was in and out of the mall in just under two hours—that's including a 45-minute stop in a coffee shop to read. I specifically remember thinking, "Hey, I'm not exhausted." I took a few pictures of other men, obviously blackmailed into shopping by their partners. I empathized with their plight.
















Maybe it was because I had the coffee break, or maybe it was that I only went into the stores that interested me, but whatever the reason, today's trip the mall was much less annoying than usual. It was a functional outing rather than a half-day ordeal.

In the crowds of high school chums celebrating summer and adolescent couples celebrating romance, I did feel lonely. But I'm not sure that negative feeling of loneliness outweighs the jubilation I felt because I didn't need to take a nap after returning from the mall.

Thoughts? Is your mall for social shopping? or for functional shopping?

Explaining Death to My Son

We watched the yellow balloon float higher and higher. My son was crying those uncontrollable tears and screaming those seemingly disproportionate screams. To me, it was just a drifting $0.10 trinket from Red Robin, but to my son, watching the balloon fly away was an act of helplessness against the infinite sky.

"Don't cry. It'll be okay."
"I want it back."
"It's so high though. Look how high it is now. Even the tallest ladder couldn't reach it."
"But where will it go?"
"No one knows. We just have to watch it float away. It'll land somewhere, though. All balloons eventually land."
"Where?"
"Somewhere. We won't see it'll again, but it still exists somewhere far away."

I held his hand that, moments ago, held the ribbon of the balloon. I got vertigo watching the balloon twirl higher and higher. The ribbon, once tethered to my son, chased the balloon like a line of six ducklings following their mother.

"We can go back and get another balloon if you want."

He stayed for a few more moments watching the balloon float south.

"It's so small now. It looks like it's farther away than the clouds."
"Yeah."


~~~


PS:











I killed a snail on accident this morning. I spread his innards a good three inches. That incident birthed this post.

Great Deals

I'm not talking about Black Friday deals. I'm not talking about clipping coupons from the Sunday paper. I'm not talking about sales that dictate entire shopping trips.

I'm talking about deals that come out of the shopping jungle and pounce on you unexpectedly. I'm talking about fortuitous deals that are so good that it's not a question of purchasing the item but a question of how many to purchase. I'm talking about deals that, out of nowhere, make you say, "YEAH, Mo'fo!"





I love me some Frosted Mini-Wheats!

Paco

I bought one of those "paint the white plaster figurines" at the store today. I'm not quite sure why. The picture on the box had a flesh-toned man in a brown cowboy hat playing a guitar. He was wearing a red shirt and blue plants. He was very cute. I thought it looked like a lot of fun for just $1. And I thought, how hard could this be? Just slap all the colors in the right spots, and he'll look great.

As I was waiting for my dinner to cook, I realized there was a big problem. The kit, which included a brush, and the white figurine, only came with red, blue, yellow, and white paint. How the hell was I supposed to recreate the example coloring on the box with just those colors? There were no instructions.

I've never been a painter. I've never mixed colors in their correct proportions. I mean really, outside of elementary school, where anything goes and the pictures are expected to look insane, when do you really mix paints? I've gotten through my entire life without knowing what primary colors mix to make other colors. That is, until today.

So while I waited for my rice to cook, I sucked it up and started painting my musical cowboy. With the help of WikiAnswers on how to make different shades of brown from my four colors, I brought my plaster figurine to life in just under an hour.

And I know this kit says "Kids 8+," but I still felt very gratified to use a new artistic medium somewhat successfully. The alchemy of getting the perfect hue. The patience of applying the paint in small quantities. The gentle blowing to dry the paint. I know it's silly, but it was rewarding and fun to try something new.

Maybe happiness isn't as elusive as I often make it out to be. Maybe it's as simple as mixing brown paint and applying it to a plaster cowboy hat.

I named him Paco. I don't know why. And, honestly, I don't want to know why. The name just made me smile, and that's enough for today.

Big Wish

Isn't this the biggest dandelion ever? I should have put something in the picture for scale, but you can believe it was between the size of a baseball and a softball.

A dandelion of that size is something remarkable. They are so fragile and temperamental. Especially in a city park, a rambunctious child or a puff of wind easily could have shattered this globe of petals.

It's been a long time since I've wished on a dandelion. When I see them now, in my adult life, I usually kick them mostly to help them disseminate their offspring, but I also enjoy seeing the tiny white flowers dance on the wind like upside-down ballerinas pirouetting across the grass.

But a dandelion this big? The wish was certain to come true! So I thought about it, but nothing came to mind. And I specifically remember coming out of my hopeful thinking—There's no such thing as wishes.

I was dried up. My mind was too realistic to actually believe in wishes. I would simply be obliterating a tiny miracle of nature just because superstition required it of me. So I walked away, leaving behind potentially limitless wealth or undying happiness because I was too afraid to bend over, make a wish, and help a weed reproduce. I just didn't want to get my hopes up for a wish that I knew would never come true. I didn't want to experience that tiny moment of disappointment when I would realize the dandelion failed.

Every birthday wish, every shooting star, every penny into a fountain, eyelash on a cheek, or dandelion in the park is essentially one tiny instant of disappointment. Our wishes never come true: that's why they're wishes. They're parts of our lives beyond our reach. Being a child must be amazing. A child still has the innocent strength of mind to believe that good things can happen simply by throwing coins into water or blowing on a weed.

I wonder what age we all stopped believing, I mean really believing, in wishes. Some people still make birthday wishes into their old age, but that's more desperation than actual belief.

I went back out to the same park later, and I saw the stump plucked of its wonderful aberration. Someone saw the same dandelion and had made a wish. I wonder what they wished for.

I wish I had that kind of simple confidence in wishes and dandelions—that I might pluck a flower and blow without turning it into a pontification on happiness, dreams, or the fear of not getting either one. I wish that I could still believe in wishes.