Happy New Year!

Are you fully aware right now?
What do you mean?
Meaning, do you think you'll remember this in, say, ten years? This moment.
Like, this conversation with you?
Yeah.
Of course. I'll remember
this. Why wouldn't I?
I'm not sure. How old are you?
Thirteen.
Yeah. I remember being thirteen, but I don't remember a single, particular moment. I have feelings, maybe echoes of thirteen, but I don't remember any moments like this.
Call me in ten years; I bet I'll remember.
Maybe you're just smarter than me.

Perhaps it was a strange conversation to have with a middle-school student during lunch break, but I couldn't help it. That particularly cloudy day in early December, all I could think about was how I always feel hyper, maybe even, super cognizant of my life, but, inevitably, I can only vividly remember one week prior.

It's a strange idea that my presence is so malleable, so ephemeral. Like when you daydream while you're reading: the words in and out, just out of phase with the vibrations of your memory.

2009 sinks beneath the timeline horizon like a whale going back under the surface. Elegance, beauty, softness gone, existing somewhere else. A few sharp memories of pain stand out in '09. A few honeyed instances make me smile. But largely, the entire year floats somewhere out of sight.

Maybe it's just because it's December 31st. Or maybe I should take more ginkgo.

Goodbye, 2009.

Goodbye, My Plastic Christmas Tree

It feels like a break-up. It really does.

Every year, with tender emotions in December, our relationship is effortless. I gently place wrapped gifts at her feet, and she, in turn, stands tall and soft, like a goddess I've known my entire life. She is a paradox of intimate familiarity and passionate unfamiliarity. She may have the same unmistakable shape, but the way she dresses, the way she ornaments herself is just for me.

But the inevitable always happens. The saccharine honeymoon period ends in early January, and I prolong the doomed relationship as long as I can. Bitter words are spoken about our love as guests come into my apartment with barbs of "You still have your tree out?" With the magic of Christmas unwrapped, her smile fades. I forget to plug her in, and her lights, darkened and taken for granted, change her from a sparkling princess to a forgotten triangle.

So this year, with visceral, nostalgic pleasures cloistered away, I decided to pack her away with the calendar face still reading 2009. "No need prolonging the inevitable," I told her as I wrapped newspapers around her bust. She cried, and her branches fit chaotically into her newspaper prison. I tried to comfort her, told her "It's not you; it's me," and she loyally let me fold her face behind newspapers and rejection.

And as I slid her back onto the top shelf in the spidery-dark corner of my closet, I knew I'd love her again, in time. For now, her sight has become an annoyance, a reminder of the end of good times.

But next year, I'll reach for her outstretched branches; her plastic fingers, overeager for my touch, hastily prick my hands. But all love is destined when it is new and December; all love is possible in the future.

Silver orbs for bracelets, lines of golden tinsel to necklace her, and a star tiara dull in comparison to my affection. I'll offer her new gifts next Christmas; I'll love her more deeply than I ever have. And until then, I'll imagine the books on my shelf are her plastic, evergreen scent.

Day-After Christmas Shopping With Mother

I remember clothes shopping with Mom was a chore. Through my childhood (and embarrassingly my adulthood), if my mom wanted to buy me clothing, she bought five sizes and colors of the item and returned four of them after I'd tried them on at home. I raised such a brat-like stink in the store that, well, it was easier for her to make two trips. But like a textbook mother, she constantly prodded me into clothes shopping.

As I've grown up, our shopping trips have become much more sporadic. I look back apologetically that I sent her through such tribulations.

So today, when Mom wanted to buy me a new suit for Christmas, I initially rolled my eyes channeling the adolescent, anti-fashionista within me. But being older, and with an income separate from my mother's, I realized that free-suit offers are quite generous. So I sucked in my immaturity and met Mom at the store.

As she rifled through the racks of jackets, I kept my impatient feet in check. When she jiggled my pants checking how the cloth draped my buttock, I bit my tongue. And when the decision came down to two suits, one black and one blue, I hid my frustration and smiled as I changed between the pants and jackets four times.

In the end, though, I must admit: Mom picked out one slammin' suit. I never quite understood why "fancy" suits look so much better than regular, off-the-rack suits. Actually, I still don't. But at least now I'll have a suit in my closet that enacts that mysterious principle.

Back in my vagabond sweatshirt and jeans, Mom treated me to lunch. We sat quietly, both secretly exhausted from the shoving crowds and interminable suit choices. The trip certainly was annoying, but on the other side of the torture, I actually had some fun.

Mom's a pretty amazing lady. She demanded quality help from the clerks and tailor. Like a predator missile through the clouds, she wove in and out of hoards of people. And she used her shrewd cleverness to pit two different clerks against each other in order to receive a discount.

I didn't really like the act of shopping. But quietly munching on my french dip, I realized that seeing Mom act like a crazy-cool shopper was pretty crazy cool. And that was worth the jiggling.

Belief

I never had a traumatizing, "Santa-isn't real" experience. I never found the fluffy red suit under my father's bed. I never saw my mom placing the presents under the tree.

There were clues and inklings that, over time, compiled into a general disbelief in Santa. My step-father's swooping letters looked eerily like Santa's festive signature. I once received a Santa gift that was left off the letter I sent him. And as I got older, Santa became an object of ridicule in the school yard; I would nod along, adding a "Santa's hella fake" even though the question still rested, unresolved, in my Christmas spirit.

And I believed my way through childhood never having the one definitive destruction that so many of my peers experienced.

On a Christmas Eve walk with my mother today, she reminded me (like she does every year) to "go to bed early so Santa can come and deliver his gifts." There was a coy smile on her face, almost a flirtation, and she radiated holiday energy like mistletoe in a foyer. Though she and I both knew my true belief in Santa faded long ago, she still made efforts, perhaps for her own nostalgia, to have fun with the mystique and Romance of Santa.

As a 25 year old, I've learned to live life without Santa Claus, but I've also learned to see Mom as a special mom. All those years, she worked hard preserve a happy belief inside me. She thought quickly, and she acted quickly to quell any potential threats to my innocent holiday spirit. Though I never give her credit for being smart, she outsmarted me for years. Though she is not religious, she gave me faith in Santa.

And on December 18th, the last day before winter break, two of my 13-year-old students, bordering on the edge of their Santa beliefs, were arguing about Santa. Their voices climbed exponentially, and each stubbornly gripped their mutually exclusive viewpoints on Santa's existence. I was packing my desk for the two-week break when they came to me with "What do you think?" about the subject. All I could do was smile, coyly, and radiate holiday spirit as I replied, "Go to bed early and see."

'Tis The Spirit

I only go to the post office when I need to send a flat-rate box. Most of the time, I find myself half crouching, half sitting on the four box flaps trying to tape it shut. The confused Vietnamese postal worker behind the counter usually stares with dead eyes at a scene that should result in a humor-induced smile. But instead, she's always stone faced at the man emulating a chicken hatching an egg in a government building.

And in a building so obviously associated with frustration, dullness, and, above all, a strict sense of reality, I came across this bright red mailbox.





















This may be the first year of the Christmas mailbox; it may be the fiftieth. Either way, this functional icon of the season allows believers a physical locale with which to postmark their treasured messages to the Man himself, Santa.

And of all places to see something so wonderful, so full of the spirit. The post office. Where, once, a line of playful flirting resulted in a "The line is long sir. Please don't waste my time." The post office. Taking extra time to bolt a holiday mailbox into their floor. Deep down, the jaded and cynical of the USPS have a heart, just like the rest of us.

When My Dog is Going Poo...

is a bad time to woo a woman. It was one of those unfortunate days where my poor dog was cooped up in the apartment for 9 hours straight. When I unlocked the front door, he immediately ran to the foyer, ignoring me completely, and stared at his leash hanging on his "Hug a Pug" hook.

Being a stubbornly territorial dog, I knew he had to poo urgently when he only marked one bush before arching his back and relaxing his behind. I reached into my coat pocket and began uncrinkling an old Safeway bag. As I was checking for holes in my plastic-bag pooper scooper, I noticed a girl walking in the park. And with my fecal-laced luck, she happened to be the adorably captivating girl that lives in B building.

In keeping with the season, yet fashionable, she wore a baby blue hoodie zipped halfway. And with the oscillating San Jose winter weather being on the rise, she wore those trendy shorts that had "SJSU" printed on the seat. Her rusty red hair was in a half-pony tail, and she walked quickly with her toned physique that implied she was exercising.

We've exchanged glaces across the courtyard before, and I once tried to talk to her, but the gate to our complex snapped shut too quickly. So when she gave an arm-akimbo, coy wave in my direction, I was a flutter.

Only then did I remember I was holding a Safeway bag.

She was about 50 feet away. Should I meet her halfway and leave the poo until after my courtship? But maybe she saw my dog "do the deed"; she would think me socially irresponsible for leaving the litter on the ground.

30 feet. Pick up the poo? Pick up the poo and have concentric circles of funk around me as I spoke to her for the first time? Have the curling smell of excrement associatively tied to the first impression of me?

10 feet. I surrendered. I embarrassingly snatched the poo off the ground. My nervous grip tighter than usual. The feces gently squished between my fingers thinly gloved by plastic. She was close enough to vocalize a greeting, but, instead, I waved sheepishly. And as fast as I could walk without looking like I was retreating, I shuffled away dragging my confused dog behind me.

There will have to be another day to invite her to a Saturday-night dinner.

Abandoned Suitcase

Living adjacent to a city park, I've grown accustomed to the usual sights. The discarded Taco Bell bags stuffed with damp, bean-stained burrito wrappers. The squirrel who carries nest-making leaves in his mouth. And sometimes, a size 1 baby shoe in the sand, kicked off without the mother seeing.

But two nights ago, I stopped. I saw something unusual. Under the streetlight's amber glow, this rectangular gargoyle peered out at me through the misty darkness of winter.
















Over the next 48 hours, I continued to walk past this abandoned suitcase, pondering it like a melon misplaced in the cereal aisle. I wanted to unzip it, and, a few times, I walked directly towards it. But I always stopped.

The Romantic in me thought the suitcase might contain a manuscript by an undiscovered master writer. Or maybe loads of cash were inside, and upon its ethical return to the owner, they would split the tidy sum with me, 50/50.

But the paranoid skeptic inside always stopped me. He warned of the anarchists of the world who sought my anonymous demise. Maybe there were used needles infected with H1N1. Maybe there was a bomb. Or even worse, maybe there was a dead cat, split open down the abdomen with its stomach spread apart like wings.

No, for two days, I walked gingerly around the suitcase, unlocking it only with my imagination. And of course, on the third day, it moved to a new location. Obviously, the abandoned suitcase wasn't as infinite or perplexing to some people.

Unfinished Dreams

This weekend and last, 3 University of California campuses held ceremonies which conferred honorary degrees to people of Japanese decent whose collegiate education was derailed by the Japanese Internment during World War II.

Today, I was lucky enough to attend the ceremony at UC Berkeley.

http://honorary.universityofcalifornia.edu/ Take some time to watch the videos; they are worth the few minutes.

I also had the privilege of attending a luncheon for the students (who are now around 80-90 years old) where I was able to see them as people rather than specks from the Haas Pavilion bleachers. I didn't know any of them personally, so I hovered around the edges of the ballroom watching and listening. Many of the recipients of the honorary degrees came with their families, who loyally assisted by walking and wheeling their honorees around the ballroom. One woman, dispersed by the Internment, flew back to college from Texas to receive her degree.

These Nisei (second-generation Japanese Americans) students had their educations interrupted by war and wartime hysteria. Some said they continued their studies elsewhere, but most others said the diaspora after the Internment permanently altered their professional dreams.

And in their sagging eyes and sun-blotched skin, I saw my Nisei grandmother. Just a few miles away in Oakland, she said she'd rather stay home and watch my dog as I went to the event.

Though she did not go to college, I know her intent was to become a nurse. But the Internment altered those plans, and, moving to Minnesota after Topaz, she traded her white gloves for black-stained hands from the acid of peeling tomatoes.

After the ceremony, I went back to her house and told her about the day. I tried to tell her how strange and surreal it was. About how I've never seen so many Japanese honored before. But for all my excitement and awe, she returned a genuine but terse, "That's nice."

For a participant of the Internment, she rarely speaks of it; and in return, neither do I. All I could do was write this blog for her, even though I know she'll never read it.

I may not become a nurse, Grandma, but I'll walk your unfinished dreams to lucid sunlight.

Carousel

I'll give one chance, my dear, to pluck a rose.
And when you catch me, place its stem between
my grasp: The emerald thorns of envy rise
in reddened, passioned promises of "me

and you." My dear, come follow close behind.
My Fafner should not scare you. Golden bound
along round paths, he guards his princess, blind
to knights like you, who seek to earn my crown.

Mount your whitened stallion—but sheath your glaive.
Don't fear his claws; just fear I'll fly away.
You'll gallop up and down with metal gears
and plated poles to grant my lovely spray.

Come close, and let the rose untame its smell.
My dearest, give chase on this carousel.

Holiday Peeps

It's been several years since I've conceded that Peeps just don't taste that good. Don't get me wrong: I love Peeps. Their crystalline sugar coating, their spongy innards, their whipped white stickiness. I'm one of those fellows that buys three packs of Peeps at Easter time because they're cute and eats only about four chicks or bunnies before the teeth and stomach groan from the sugar load.

But I'm no Peep expert. I think today's trip to the market proved that point.

In the candy aisle, I came across Holiday Peeps in the shapes of Christmas Trees and Snowmen. Several ladies gawked at the supposedly grown man, who was too lazy to get a cart, drop his gallon of milk and three jumbo Mr. Goodbars with a squeal of delight. I was excited...to say the least.

I quickly bought four trays, two of each species, and scampered home, ready to consume my bounty with holiday cheer and milk. After an entire life of eating Peeps, the company had gotten it right: another holiday to share in the charmingly adorable treats. I was Indiana Jones; I had unearthed the Holy Grail of Peeps, and I was secluded away in my apartment ready to explore this undiscovered bounty.

Little did I know that seasonal Peeps beyond Easter are an old occurrence. There are Halloween Peeps, and 4th of July Peeps, and even Valentine's Day Peeps.

I am out of the Peep loop. I'm ignorant. And worst of all: I'm sad. All these holidays that I've been alone, celebrating in solitude without the comfort-companion Peep. Today's shopping trip showed me that I need to know more about Peeps. I thought I was in. Actually, I'm out.

Gingerbread Quandary

The holiday season is trimmed with indecision. Sale prices, store inventory, and frantic mobs paralyze me into procrastinated holiday shopping. Happiness only narrowly outweighs the holiday debacle that is shopping.

These sentiments were epitomized by my recent grocery shopping trip where I was frozen by two Pepperidge Farm cookie options: one, the year-round Ginger Man or two, the seasonal Ginger Family.

On one hand, the Ginger Man is year-round and, thus, consistently delicious. But to that end, he is familiarly predictable. He is crispy with a powerful bite of snapping ginger, and his face shines with crystallized sugar. Though he is slightly amorphous, his shape is undeniably recognizable as cookie decadence. He is an old, trusted companion, but I was tempted by another.

The Ginger Family is seasonal and, thus, annually exotic. But were they too chewy? Were they too thick? Like all new things, the Family was loaded with both potential flavor and potential disappointment. The distinguishable characters were lovable and sweet. The father's combed hair showed he was well-respected in their gingerbread community. The mother's humble apron showed home cooking was waiting just inside her edible house. And of course, the two children played, hands baked together in solidarity and love.

Both offered something magical and comforting. This wasn't a simple gingerbread quandary; this was an option that would stick with me, shaping the taste of my dessert for days to come.

But in rebellion to the overbearing indecision and consumerism of the season, I did what every overweight, cookie lover would do: I bought both.

Crafts, Cats, and Dogs

Today was the Humane Society, Silicon Valley's Animal Arts Craft Faire. Vendors sold adorable animal-related arts and crafts. There were home-made dog treats, hand-made chew toys, and decadent cat trees. There was live music, a food court, and activities for children.






And in case the humans wanted to shop unencumbered, there was a "Dog Valet" who would walk your dog while you shopped. That's my dog Pancake on the left with valet Judy.







The Humane Society moved to a new location in April, and the facility is amazing. Despite it being an animal shelter, everything looked immaculate. The dogs had giant cots covered with blankets, and each kennel was considerately filled with two dogs so they could run and play. The cats didn't have cages, but "condos" where mini-sofas and climbing trees faced large windows flooding the apartment with nap-able sunlight. There was even a special section for rabbit adoption.












The walls were covered with paintings and photographs of adopted pets' success stories that found new homes. The fountain at the main entrance captured the free spirit of a dog jumping into a lake with a cautious cat observing from above.

And while the Humane Society's new facility is simply amazing, the stars of show were the animals up for adoption. Going to an event like this, I mustered all my fortitude to not return with another dog. But when I got there, I saw so many animals that I wanted to take home. One Chihuahua mix in particular, Chispita, captured my heart. I watched her through the window, her brown ears half-folded over her apple-shaped head. She was calm despite the gangs of people traipsing past her. She was older, almost 10 years old, and I imagined her being passed-up for the younger, more-spry dogs.


But alas, I returned home with only one dog, my constant companion Pancake. I found myself whispering to him. I wouldn't want another dog so badly if you weren't such a great dog.

He curled up on my lap, and we watched tv together.

Please visit the Humane Society's webpage. Maybe you can adopt Chispita; she's a dear.

Tombstones

Opening the refrigerator isn't supposed to be this disheartening. The breeze shrinks my skin onto my bones, and the cold air is chilling as I peer into the graveyard of my Thanksgiving leftovers.

And this happens every year in early December.

Fresh from four days of splendid food, wonderful sales, and priceless family time, we are hungover, slogging through early December, out of earshot of Christmas's sweet tune.

With the interminable four weeks still before us, we are forced to eat the once-divine Thanksgiving leftovers. We cautiously smell the turkey before we eat it. We drain the stagnant water from the tupperwared yams. The pumpkin pie crust is flaccid and soggy.

We look on the rows of containers in our fridges, monuments to a wonderful holiday now gone. We were humbled by the joy of Thanksgiving, only now to eat tasteless food at its wake. Tombstones of leftovers remind us that even the happiest holiday times come to an end.

Superstar Plumbing Quality Assurance Phone Transcript 12.1.09

BEGIN CALL 19:23:54

Superstar: Good morning. Thank you for calling Superstar Plumbing. How can I be of service?

Caller: (Frantic) I need to have a plumber come to my house right away.

Superstar: Of course, ma'am. May I ask the nature of the service required?

Caller: Can you send someone now? The water's getting everywhere.

Superstar: Okay, ma'am. Everything is going to be alright. Can you try to explain what's going on?

Caller: Uh...I'm not really sure what's wrong. (Water sounds) My bathtub keeps overflowing. And yesterday, I had to take a pot and...uh...scoop all the water from the tub.

Superstar: Okay, so the tub isn't draining fast enough? Or is it plugged altogether?

Caller: It's just draining too slow. And some brown water started coming out of the sink drain when I used the tub...flooding onto the floor. It's ruining my carpet.

Superstar: Just try to stay calm. It sounds like you might have a clog in your main line. I'll make a note of that on the service request.

Caller: I've just never dealed with stuff like this before. (Sigh) My husband used to take care of all this stuff. He was a plumber, and I...I just never learned about it because he'd fix it fast.

Superstar: It's okay ma'am. That's what we're here for. If I could just get some of your information, we can send someone right over.

Caller: Thanks.

Superstar: Your address please?

Caller: 5454 South 98th Street. Oakland. California.

Superstar: Okay. And I'll send someone over within the next two hours to help get that drain cleared up for you. Is that okay?

Caller: Yes. That's good. Thank you.

Superstar: It's my pleasure, ma'am. And thank you for choosing Superstar.

END CALL