Having a Cavity Filled...

is a bad time to woo a woman. Loyal readers will remember the Toothy Chair from about a week ago. Bad news: I had a cavity. And wouldn't you know it? My dental hygienist today was a 20-something-year-old cutie.

Meeting women is hard enough, but the deck is stacked against me further when I'm trying to court the woman who is scraping Snickers from between my teeth.

The very act of having a cavity says, "I am unable to handle the responsibilities of my personal hygiene." I mean, the average person doesn't care about teeth as long as they aren't meth-addict teeth. But the dental hygienist? Teeth cleanliness is her livelihood. As soon as she read my chart, "Mr. Rhapsode - Cavity" she knew I was incapable of a mature relationship.

While actually having the procedure, I'm lying parallel to the ground with her hovering over me. This is not a flattering angle. I'm not saying I have an over abundance of boogers, but if I happened to have one, she would be staring at it for a good hour while the dentist drills my face. My hair gets all rumpled from the napkin covered headrest, and the bright lamp dangling above reveals my bumpy complexion.

And to cap off my first impression, she tells me to "rinse and spit" into that tiny sink while half my face droops from the numbness. I sip the water slowly and purse my lips—or so I think. But of course, spit, water, and tooth shavings dribble out of my mouth and onto my shirt. She chuckles a motherly laugh and dabs up the pathetic mess with my dental bib. Smooth.

Needless to say, I'll be eating dinner alone this Saturday night.

Gamestop Smells Bad

According to a recent study by the Entertainment Software Association (ESA), 40% of gamers are female. That number seems a little high. One of my buddies said, "That number probably includes all the Wii Fit gals," referring to casual gamers.

But 40% seems about right after an encounter I had today with a co-worker who responded "I like playing Call of Duty 4 on my 360" to my unabashedly sexist question, "You play video games?" Still skeptical, I questioned her further, but all her answers were "gamer answers." My co-worker is certainly a gamer despite all my prejudices telling me otherwise.

So I guess 40% isn't so unbelievable.

With that in mind though, why do seemingly all Gamestop locations smell terrible? When I walk into a Gamestop, it's like I'm walking into a bathroom where someone finished defecating 5 minutes before: the source is gone, but the aroma lingers. They have that anonymous humid bathroom smell that sticks to you as soon as you walk in. And like the bathroom, sometimes you just gotta go in there; I'm all about cheap video games.

So, if nearly half of the gamer population is of the fairer sex, why are greater lengths not being taken to make these locations more aesthetically pleasing to a wider demographic?

Maybe there is a logical explanation as to why the Gamestops all smell like body odor and Fritos. Perhaps all the used-game boxes, with the countless owners, are covered with pungent grime. Why are the boxes sticky? It reminds me of an adult video rental store where all you can think about is what the previous owner did before handling the dvd case. Hmm. Maybe the employees of Gamestop should disinfect the boxes once they buy them back.

Maybe I'm again operating on my sexist assumptions, but I don't think women want to go into a store that reeks of snack cakes and armpits. But then again, maybe women don't mind the funk as much as I think. I was wrong about female gamers; I could be wrong about females and their affinity for dank store locales as well.

I Sync My Life with the Garbage Man

Elaine: What time you got?
Kramer: Oh, no. I don't wear a watch.
Elaine: What do you do?
Kramer: Well, I tell time by the sun.
Elaine: How close do you get?
Kramer: Well, I can guess within an hour.
Elaine: Well, I can guess within the hour, and I don't even have to look at the sun. Well, what about at night? What do you do then?
Kramer: Well, night's tougher, but it's only a couple of hours.

Seinfeld, "The Engagement"

I used to wear watches all the time. But working at a youth camp in the summer of 2003 forced me to abandon my watch-wearing ways. The 100-degree sunshine for five hours a day gave me a wicked watch tan. To stave off this melanin tattoo, I looped my watch through my backpack strap. After that summer, I could never reclaim my desensitization to the constant rubbing and the thin film of sweat captured underneath the watch face.

Since then I've used my cell phone as my time keeper. Most people think I'm flipping open my phone to check my messages and texts, but I'm really just seeing how long it is till work is over. This isn't a bad thing though; my co-workers think I'm more popular than I actually am.

But beyond the cell phones chronologically coordinated by satellites and the Swiss watches that wind themselves with my body's own momentum, there are smaller things that keep time in my life.

This morning, walking down the street to the light rail, I noticed the Monday garbage truck was still half-a-block early. It's strange, but my Monday walk to the light rail is always set to the time keeping of the garbage man. I can tell if I'm going to miss my usual train based solely on where the garbage man is. If he's past the red house, I need to quicken my gait if I want to make my train.

There is an older gentleman who always jogs around my building between 5:30 and 6:00 pm. He always wears the same gray running shorts and green tank top—in summer or in winter. If I hear his shuffled stride outside my living-room window, I know I should start thinking about dinner.

Beyond the cell phone clocks and fancy wrist watches, there are many tiny things in my life that chronologically pinpoint my existence. Even if I smashed all the physical timekeepers in my life, these garbage men and joggers and countless other subtleties would keep me somewhat on time.

It's strange. I wouldn't say I rely on them, but they certainly supplement my routine and consistency. And they don't even know it. They simply keep time, like always, punctually unaware they they are part of my life clock. I feel connected to these people, even if I don't actually know them.

If a Milano Cookie Was a Woman...

If a Milano cookie was a woman, she would be the incredibly elegant and sophisticated socialite you dated for three weeks. She had a fancy name to match her fancy demeanor: Eleanore, Melania, or something equally elevated.

Your first date was to a black tie affair. Her dress, a subtle white color, silkily bounced as she moved, and the visual lines were stiff yet touchable like a new bag of Milanos. She wore a cream-colored foundation on her face, textured like the reserved sweetness of a vanilla wafer. And her eyes—oh her eyes—were midnight traced with eyeliner like the straight ribbon of dark chocolate encircling the Milano.

But it was not meant to last. You needed doughy, undercooked Safeway cookies. You were at a place in your life where you ate cookies from the plastic tray, not from the ridged-paper liners. You took her out on a two more dates after the first night, but you couldn't keep up with her grand lifestyle: you tried to add Milanos to the weekly grocery list, but $5 for a small bag of cookies was simply too grand.

After you told her, she looked up into your eyes and said, "It's okay. I understand." She understood about your affair with Keebler simpletons and Nabisco bimbos. Your first kiss was also your last. You tasted her crumbly yet smooth texture, and you knew Abigale and Milanos were destined for a world far better than your Chips-Ahoy monotony.

Street Rat

Last night, I was about to turn off the television for the evening, and I saw that Aladdin was on. I've seen Aladdin countless times, but I had to turn it on just to see which part of the movie it was.

And wouldn't you know it? I lucked out: it was the part at night just before "A Whole New World"; the part where Aladdin asks Jasmine, "Do you trust me?"

Charming. Sexy. Suave. Top five favorite Disney moments.

Ah. Jasmine never stood a chance. Aladdin is so debonair that he didn't even need Prince Ali. That's when you know you're hot: the gorgeous and intelligent princess loves you in your Street Rat identity.

Too bad I don't have Aladdin's winning personality or his from-the-streets good looks. I guess that makes me a regular street rat. That sucks.

Toothy Chair

I don't usually pay a lot of attention to chairs. The extent of my knowledge about seating decor is whether or not it respectfully accepts my butt. But a few times in life, I am privy to a truly wondrous piece of furniture. The piece of furniture that makes me think, "Whoa. That's a cool chair."

I don't really like going to the dentist, but I keep going back to Dr. K. partly because he has this really funny and thematic chair in his waiting room: The Toothy Chair. It might sound frivolous choosing a dentist based on a chair intended for children, but the funny chair helps me relax before the I lie unnervingly supine with a hygienist knuckle-deep in my mouth.

Just think if all businesses had chairs in shapes that exemplified their products or services. What if I could sit on the cornea of a giant bean-bag chair eyeball at the optometrist? How about sitting on an oversized steak chair while dining at Black Angus? And who wouldn't want to sit on Tom Cruise's face while waiting in line for Top Gun at Great America?

Themed chairs have gotten a bad reputation lately. Or rather, me sitting in themed chairs as an adult has gotten a bad reputation lately. I often hear people pejoratively refer to these beloved chairs as "juvenile" or "tacky." As an adult, I apparently should know better than to become giddy when I see a fun chair. While I agree some theme chairs are hideous, many others are simple and tasteful if given the leeway to be light-hearted, like the Toothy Chair.

Many cherished and accepted adult activities tap into that part inside us that wants to sit on something whimsical. Merry-go-Rounds. Roller coasters. Fancy cars. All those special types of seats are birthed in our lovable childhood experiences with quarter-operated cars outside the supermarket and the mascot-laden playgrounds at McDonald's. Why shun our instinctual affinity for fun chairs simply because we are older?

If we suspend our skepticism and regain a piece of our childhood, we might find unexpected delight in a chair. If we suspend our disbelief, even if only for a moment, we might regain the ability to say, "Whoa. Now that's a cool chair."

Renegade

The bride wore a simple empire waist gown with a bow tied in the small of her back. As she walked down the aisle with her father, her train swept the rose petals with a length that was elegant yet humble. Despite wearing the same black suit with gray stripes as his three groomsmen, the groom differentiated himself with a pristine white shirt, a baby-blue tie, and an anticipating smile.

The wedding on Saturday was a small affair in Atherton. The couple got married under a white gazebo surrounded by soft green leaves eager to contribute to the ceremony. As the bride and groom began reciting their vows, the girls in the audience flattened their curls as they rested their heads on their boyfriends' shoulders, as if to say, "That'll be us one day, my love."

Even I, a cynic of love, will admit to a moment of tenderness—a moment that made me reflect on all whom I have loved and will love.

But amid the ceremony that turns skeptics into acolytes, there was one renegade woman, untouched by the circumstance of the occasion: the wedding photographer.

Among the muted cell phones, the photographer's camera noticeably clicked during Paul's Letter to the Corinthians. When we were seated, she was standing. While we stood back respecting the cutting of the cake, she encroached on the fondant.

The servers don't bring the chicken till the appropriate time. The bartenders stop clinking ice into glasses once the toasts start. Only the photographer can make noise in silence, turn darkness in light, and improvise action in confinement.

The photographer is the renegade, the outlaw, the dangerous one who not only challenges the structures of the wedding but has permission to do so. The photographer's job is to hold a camera and move with anarchy. But in that anarchy, there is a noble cause.

The wedding photographer may seem obliviously selfish by obstructing the view of wedding events, but in truth, the photographer is ultimately self-effacing: none of her wedding photographs snapped in self-reliant individualism show her own face.

For all her obtrusive camera flashes to wash-out subtle dusk, for all her disruptive dashes across the reception to catch a spontaneous image, she will be the forgotten attendee of the event, a blank line in the guest book. The wedding photographer, paradoxically, disappears in her own individualism. The renegade of society blends back into anonymity because our images often rewrite our memories.

10 Weird Things While Teaching Comp to 8th Graders

This week I've been teaching composition at a summer program. This voluntary program is tailored for at-risk and low-performing youth and offers mathematics and writing for the soon-to-be 8th graders.

I was in charge of the composition sessions.

Maybe it's the fact that I don't usually work with middle schoolers. Or maybe it's the fact that it's summer in the South Bay in a classroom with no AC. Whatever the reason, these kids did some weird things.

1. One kid threw a water bottle at me while I was writing on the blackboard. When I privately asked him why he did it, he responded, "It just felt right, you know?"
2. One guy took off his shirt during class. Granted it was hot, but undressing? Really? All of guys thought it was weird, but some of the girls thought it was becoming.
   
3. While I was speaking about body paragraphs, one kid, probably unfamiliar with asymmetrical balance of the the college classroom chairs that have hinged tabletops attached, toppled end over end while leaning his desk on two legs. It was hard not to contribute to the raucous laughter.
4. I lost control of the class when I said, "You must end every sentence with a type of punctuation. More often than not, it will be a period." Apparently, the kids very recently learned about feminine biology.
   
5. During my talk about how body paragraphs are like hamburgers, one kid purposefully wiped his forehead with his middle finger. When I look at him in confusion, he nodded his as if to say, "That's right. I'm bad."
   
6. One kid spelled the word essay, "assaey."
   
7. Because my class was right after lunch, one kid left a half-eaten hotdog on the chalkboard tray.
   
8. When I asked if there were any questions regarding the grammar lesson, one kid asked, "What are you?" When I finally decrypted his meaning, I responded, "Half Chinese and half Japanese," and I was greeted with a disgusted face and a "That's weird."
   
9. He may have been joking, but one kid tried to steal my sunglasses.
   
10. One kid asked me to refer to him as "The Time of Times." I'm still not sure what he meant.

Falling in Love

A triumvirate, a holy trinity of truly juicy apricots surprised me on the street: such smoothness, such freshness to be sitting upon a container for the rotten and forgotten. I imagined picking one up, my fingers instinctively searching for a sore or bruise—but there were none. The grove of fragile white hairs circumnavigated, uninterrupted, around the face of the fruit.

I felt warm liquid flow inside of my cheeks. This saliva of anticipation is not the same viscous bubbly spit used to swallow a pill. This is clear. This is the unique warmth that prepares my mouth, my entire body, for something juicy and sweet...and extraordinary.

In my mind, I touched the apricot to my open mouth. The gentle fur teased the grooves on my lips. My front teeth searched for the natural crevasse between the two hemispheres of the fruit.

I pierced the skin.

The engorged orange-pink flesh leaked nectar and pulp into my lips. My tongue and teeth worked to skin the mound of pure apricot flesh from its peel. I swallowed the pieces. My throat made the sound like I was gulping water. My throat moved more smoothly than when it is swallowing jell-o.

I examined the hole my teeth left behind. The blood of the apricot osmotically clotted its wound, like water filling a hole dug in shoreline sand. I sipped the excess juice from the divot and cherished the sound and the flavor. I loved it.

But I awoke to the smell of the trash. Garbage is composed of seemingly random parts, but the smell is always predictable. Maybe there is a waxy-paper wrapper with scalene triangles of melted cheese. Perhaps there is a clear, plastic cup with half a shot of melted ice at the bottom. And maybe, just maybe, there is some rotting fruit: delectable flesh decaying from its state of perfection.

The perfect summer apricot, waiting for me on the street, stays perfect only in anticipation. And with that, I penitently smiled, leaving the trio intact.

If a Bowl of Udon Was a Woman...

If a bowl of udon was a woman, she would be your naturally beautiful girlfriend. Her face has sharp yet graceful lines, and her striking features rarely need the accentuation of makeup.

A bowl of plain udon noodles, delicious in its simpleness, is both hardy and desirable. Unlike other dishes that rely on colors or presentation, the wheat-flour noodles and salty-sweet broth awaken the deepest hungers within. Like your natural-beauty girlfriend, with hair as touchable as the perfectly boiled udon noodle, simplicity is sexy.

But for elegant evenings, your udon girlfriend applies the most subtle shades of makeup to highlight her beauty, not hide her blemishes. She softly kisses her lipstick, drawing a line as thin as the pink of kamaboko that gently accentuates a bowl of udon. Her eye shadow caramelizes her eyes as rich and tempting as a shrimp tempura half floating in broth. Each of her curled eyelashes are as fragile as the thinly cut scallions that rest on the island of noodles.

And when you return home from you evening out, she washes her face with hot water and a Bioré Daily Cleansing Cloth. The steam from the sink rises onto her face like the moist aroma of a fresh bowl of udon from the kitchen. She turns around, and you smile.

No foundation, no scallions, no lipstick, no kamaboko.

You walk over to her and smell her most basic, yet most beautiful, self. "You look delicious."

Inconsiderate

The light rail train was packed, and, despite several open seats in front of her, this mother left her stroller in the middle of the aisle blocking any possibility of moving toward the front of the car. Now, I understand being a mother is difficult, and I would have no qualms with a nose tackle of a stroller if the baby was crying or in some way requiring her mother's attention. But this sugar-plum-dreaming baby quietly rested in the middle of traffic while her mother calmly read the paper.

I had to stand for the duration of my train ride.

Inconsiderate.


While watching some of the festivities at the San Jose Obon, my friend took this picture of two girls encroaching on her space. "[These] girls would lean back and rest on my legs like I was the back support of a recliner." My friend was not upset but, rather, confused as to how people could be so unaware of their bodies.

Personally I would be upset. In hot South Bay weather, sticky-backed girls leaning on me would be very off-putting. I understand this was a crowded summer festival, but people should still be aware that putting full-body weight on someone is inconsiderate. And if truly nothing could be done, they should at least apologize for pickling someone's kneecap in their armpit.



On the train ride home, I overheard about 80% of this couple's conversation. The VTA light rail is like a giant sound amplification chamber on tracks. Now, I understand the ambient noise on the train is somewhat loud, so louder speaking voices may be in order. I overheard sentences like, "He brought a knife to a gun fight? What the fuck was he thinking?" I found the act inconsiderate and topics confusing.

But maybe I'm just out of touch with motherhood, bleacher etiquette, and gang violence. Maybe I'm being too closed minded. To gain some insights, I'm off to listen to "Beat It" and read What to Expect When You're Expecting while sitting on a metal bench. I'll report back.

Roadkill

Animals dead on the road typically evoke a stronger emotional response than clothing on the road. If I see a mutilated fluffy tail on the double yellows, I think it might be Wart's squirrel lover from Sword in the Stone. But when I see a shoe, I usually just think some negligent driver committed misdemeanor littering.

Things change though; I've never seen roadkill quite like this.
















I've seen animals, compressed into 2-dimensional corpses, glued to the highway with their own blood as the adhesive. But this flattened shoe, split apart by the accosting speed of a passing vehicle, had the macabre presence of a dead animal.

The moist, vibrant shoe leather complemented the woman's purse as she strode from the passenger seat to the restaurant door. The clicking of the heels against the concrete attracted her date's eyes. He held the door open for her as she walked through, her maroon dress trailing like a ribbon unrolling from its spool. "Thank you," she said. He smiled, blushingly avoiding her eyes. Her dress, her smile, and her shoes were all blended together creating a powerful first-date persona—the identity that says as much with actions as it does with words.

Dead animals easily sadden us because the blissfully unaware creatures have a specific life and death. Maroon pumps are made out of inanimate objects to begin with, so they are easily disregarded as trash.

But I've never seen a shoe this flat, horribly crushed of its life pursuit of protecting and accentuating the foot. Even the spike heel was robbed of its perpendicular glory to heighten and beautify its wearer by being pushed parallel to the sole.

I've seen trash, and I've seen dead animals—and this was neither. This shoe was a moment somewhere between true sadness and losing your fourth-favorite piece of jewelry. An instant that makes you think, "This is a memorable moment," as you walk away into forgetfulness.

If Red Vines Were a Woman...

If Red Vines were a woman, they would be your corporate co-worker who works at a different branch. You only see her a few times a year at the corporate meetings, but when you do see her, you always have a fling.

Red Vines come in two main delivery methods: the iconic tub and the movie-theater box. You buy the tub of Red Vines at Costco for your church picnic, you impulsively buy the box of Vines while waiting in line for Star Trek—but whatever method you happen upon the Red Vines, you never specifically went out to the store to buy them. You never had a specific craving for them. Just like your co-worker fling.

Your eyes meet across Conference Room B in the Radisson. You both stepped outside to "get some air." You casually started up a conversation over drinks. Maybe this time will be different; maybe this time you won't fall into that primal passion that seized you during last year's quarterly review. But like that first sensual bit into the Red Vine, when the twisted waxy ridges smoosh between your front teeth, you are ensnared.

You can't consume them just once. There is something comfortably familiar yet erotically exotic about the Red Vine and the co-worker. Before you know it, you've eaten 17 Vines and you've missed your boss's presentation on "Interoffice Efficiency."

But as much as you loved the weekend, you don't love them. As pinkish and gummy as your spit is, as wonderful as the romance was, you bid adieu once the tub and the agenda are empty. Even though you love curling her hair, her long, hollow, red strands, around your fingers, you don't buy another tub and you don't call her until the next meeting.

You never see people snacking on Red Vines at home, alone. And you never see people seriously dating their inter-branch co-workers. That's because the Red Vine and the office romance find their deepest shade of red, their deepest passion, when there is a pretense for their existence.

Fireworks

Daisy hated fireworks. It wasn't that she was particularly unpatriotic. She loved eating 4th-of-July hotdogs that carelessly fell to the floor. And she loved lying by the warm oven as the evening's apple pie browned. It's safe to say that she loved everything about the 4th except for the fireworks.

Around 9 pm, exactly when the navy blue and the ruby orange skies reconciled, Daisy could sense the inevitable. It was the sound, the repeating din of fireworks that drove her insane. She tried her best to cover her ears as she ran around the house screaming, but when one of your hands is actually one of your feet, this is a difficult task.

One year, the fireworks over Kailua Beach started a bit early, and Daisy was still outside. She tried her best, but her phobia and momentum carried her through the screen door into the house. She didn't just rip the mesh—she ripped the screen from its hinges.

I guess I'm a bit like Daisy. I often hope to have bad seats for a fireworks show: that the fireworks actually explode a great distance away from me. I've been to three 4th-of-July shows when the fireworks would explode directly over my head like I was wearing a hat made of igniting firecrackers.

Looking heavenward, the biggest of the explosions expanded wider than my eyes could perceive. It was as if God himself was revealing a part of his own body. The sublimity of the sky mixed with the pounding resonance in my chest made an experience thought-provoking, not celebratory. If a man-made ball of gunpowder could be that terrifying, think how big God would be. Or Satan.

Daisy died of cancer in mid-June 2006. Driving home from the vet, an empty dog bed in the back seat, I thought that the timing of the disease was the one silver lining: she lived thirteen years but only experienced twelve 4th of Julys. Daisy wouldn't need to rampage through the house with a tumor sloshing around in her chest. Daisy hated fireworks. And I guess I do too.

I didn't watch the fireworks that year. I just sat on the couch watching syndicated sitcoms. I listened though. I heard the starting slow cadence of ricocheting pops build into a grand crescendo of machine-gun rounds fired into the air.

I live only a few blocks from the beach, so the sound always shakes the figurines on my shelves, but the evening seemed calm and tranquil—and lonely. I had no one to bark in my ear as I held them, whispering, "Happy birthday, America."

That's Not Rainbow Chip!

I really hate it when people confuse "Rainbow Chip" frosting and "Funfetti" frosting.

Rainbow Chip frosting is made by Betty Crocker. It's the frosting that already has the round chips harmoniously integrated into the frosting. Funfetti is the Pillsbury frosting that has an unenlightened segregated package of sprinkles that one is expected to manually mix in.




Walking through Target today, I saw this section of Funfetti sniggering at me. "Hey there, chump. Target doesn't carry Whore Crocker's Rainbow Chip." Defending my frosting mother's honor, I knocked out one of Funfetti's front teeth. Who's laughing now, Doughboy?








But there wasn't always this hate between us. I open-mindedly bought a can of Funfetti about four years ago when I was still in college. How bad could it be? While preparing the frosting for my first cake, my knuckles kept dipping into the frosting making my hands sticky. Excuse me Pillsbury, but I don't have extra-long frosting stirring spoons.

And I'm no baker: I didn't know how many sprinkles to put in. My first cake came out like a sprinkle donut: sprinkles crushing the aesthetic. The sprinkles on my second cake were so sparse that it looked like a topping mistake: the lone gummy bear in your mixed nuts at the ice cream parlor.

Some people are particular about their wine, some about their coffee. Me? I'm particular about my pre-packaged, fat-inducing, Betty Crocker cake toppings.

The rainbow chips are softer than than Funfetti sprinkles. It's as if the rainbow chips have somehow absorbed the frosting's poofy essence into their genetic structure. The Funfetti sprinkles are, in texture, too different from the frosting itself. It's like getting a stale raisin in your oatmeal. And that is the beauty of the rainbow chip: it exists in neither the sprinkle realm nor the frosting realm—it exists in the same realm that unicorns and mermaids exist: sweet delight.

I Dreamed the Dream That Lovers Dream

Behind the house, we walked beneath the pines.
The trail released a lingering dust that dimmed
the laughing summer voices from inside.
Our shoulders swayed and gently glanced in time

with the coy, half-curved smiles shyly revealed.
He brushed the peach-pit pebbles with his foot
before he flapped a white silk sheet over
the sloping terrain, swollen by the tree roots.

We sat in warmth despite the citrus sky.
I rolled pine resin between my fingers
and watched the sap turn black. He whispered kisses
tickling the goosebump hairs behind my ears.

     This dream inspired love's faith, but day told me:
     Even the sweetest dreams are only dreams.