The Wild Geese at Lake Forest

Dustin's graduation party was held at his "neighborhood association," a term that, I suspect, was passed down to him from his parents. Though the Wens may employ this euphemism to distance themselves from the supercilious stigma attached to "country club," I was not fooled in the least by the guarded gate surround the delectable, well-manicured grounds.

"I'm here for the Wen's graduation party," I told the gatekeeper. As I spoke this shibboleth, an intemperate amount of pleasure welled up within my breast at being admitted into the "association." The place was redolent with entitlement and exclusivity--in other words, this was my kind of place. [A friend once commented that I am snobbish, but in my heart I know I'm above that; the truly elite are never snobs.]


[The selection of venue for Dustin's graduation notwithstanding, it should be noted that the Wens are actually a very down-to-earth family--the kind of warm, generous, and middle brow family one would be more likely to encounter in middle America, rather than south County.]

Even better than the swanky aura was the lake in which you could ride paddle boats surrounded by semi-wild geese that trail you if you offer them crumbs (which of course I did). See the goose in the first picture? Isn't it beautiful? It's feathers are so sleek and silk-looking. So lovely, in fact, were the geese that they reminded me of WB Yeats' famous poem, "The Wild Swans at Coole." I momentarily considered trying my hand at poetry to imitate Yeats' style and mood, but even I am not that self-delusionally arrogant.

Anyway, anyone who is as easily as enrapt by a beautiful water scene as I am should not miss the opportunity to see the geese on the lake just before twilight. Their graceful silhouettes on the inky-mirror of the water, all in relief against the peach-colored rays of the setting sun weaving through the trees--spectacular!

WB Yeats
The Wild Swans at Coole

The trees are in their autumn beauty,
The woodland paths are dry,
Under the October twilight the water
Mirrors a still sky;
Upon the brimming water among the stones
Are nine-and-fifty Swans.

The nineteenth autumn has come upon me
Since I first made my count;
I saw, before I had well finished,
All suddenly mount
And scatter wheeling in great broken rings
Upon their clamorous wings.

I have looked upon those brilliant creatures,
And now my heart is sore.
All's changed since I, hearing at twilight,
The first time on this shore,
The bell-beat of their wings above my head,
Trod with a lighter tread.

Unwearied still, lover by lover,
They paddle in the cold
Companionable streams or climb the air;
Their hearts have not grown old;
Passion or conquest, wander where they will,
Attend upon them still.

But now they drift on the still water,
Mysterious, beautiful;
Among what rushes will they build,
By what lake's edge or pool
Delight men's eyes when I awake some day
To find they have flown away?

Jersey Boys

Philip, purveyor of tickets to such non-mass consumed theater shows Tick, Tick, Boom! and Jason Robert Brown's The Last Five Years, got tickets for Jersey Boys, and we finally watched.

While I'm often a big fan of Philip's discoveries, Jersey Boys felt more like an impersonation show, rather than an original musical. It was not unlike cabaret night aboard the Bahamas cruise ship my family and I took back when I was in the eighth grade (circa 1994). I distinctly remember the Neil Diamond impersonator doing "Sweet Caroline," "I am...I said," and the Independence Day perennial classic "[Coming to] America." [I thought it would be a nice touch here to include a list of other impersonators and their respective repertoires, but in my mind's eye, I can envision Mr. Diamond's bird's nest haircut and caterpillar eyebrows. "Hands, touching hands, reaching out/Touching me, touching you/Oh, sweet Caroline!"] Yes, it was rather like that night off the Floridian coast, except no one was playing shuffleboard on the upper decks, and there was no free midnight buffet to follow.

...or it might remind one of another favorite type of impersonation event: a drag show (minus the crazy false eyelashes, and padded bras. But I'm pretty sure there were plenty of 'mos at the Ahmanson...) But I digress.

For those not familiar with Jersey Boys: it purports to be the true story of the Four Seasons, so it isn't an original plot; the songs are all from the Season's (substantial) hit list. Although the story was mildly interesting, I felt it would have made a much better made-for-tv-movie, with music included. Our tix were $66—for the third tier balcony! I would have much preferred the show for free, in my sweats, on my comfy couch at home.

The reason I found the show so unsatisfying was that it was much more entertainment than art: according to me and Horace, art should both delight and instruct. [And while Horace developed his aesthetic theory a couple millennia before I did, I assure we we arrived at our aphorisms independently.] Jersey Boys didn't instruct—I didn't feel more enlightened about the nature of man, the state of civilization, or expansive matters. I don't think it posed any questions, let alone suggested answers. It is a populist musical..and I guess I prefer interesting, avante guard-type musicals.

Which is not to say there was not merit in it. The division of the singers' lives into four 'seasons' of the play was alright, and the singing was definitely good (who can resist those doowop harmonies?) But overall, I wasn't impressed and might not mind a refund if one were proffered. (Believing that standing ovations should be the exception, rather than the rule, I was the only person in my row who remained seated during the curtain call.)

The bottom line: wait for it to come out on DVD.

Dear Palestine,

Dear Palestine,

**GET IT TOGETHER ALREADY.** So you elected an organization recognized by both the CIA and the EU as a terrorist organization to run your parliament, now they've initiated a civil war against your president and his cabinet, which all experts agree will incontrovertibly result in a mass humanitarian disaster. You are not ready for democracy. Period.

(Incidentally, I cannot find you, Palestine, wholly culpable for this electoral failure. The current Administration of my own nation, in misguided optimism, has crafted a foreign policy strategy that unleashed the forces of democracy upon your region. It has celebrated Iraq as the model for democracy in the Middle East, and now you are feasting on the fruit of their success in reproducing that nation's state of affairs.)

(I know many out there would cite some of my comments as hypocritical, since my fellow Americans and I brought Bush₄₃ back for a second term—this time without any vote recount mishaps, Supreme Court rulings, or electoral college vote technicalities on which to place the blame. Still, as abominable as those on the left find him and what he's made of our nation, I seriously doubt any of them would leave the democracy of the US for that in Palestine.)

(Actually, the problem in Palestine raises some real questions about governance in the Arab world. Clearly oppression and Saddam-style tyranny are neither tolerable nor sustainable, but so far the alternatives have not produced better results. Maybe the Middle East is simply not yet ready for government.)

It seems that freedom is, indeed, on the march. The problem now is cleaning up the carnage that it's leaving in its wake.


* * * * * * * *
November 2007 update: Gazans are indeed starting to feel the pain of Hamas leadership. A host of UN, US, EU, and Israeli sanctions are making a difficult situation even worse. See NPR story here.

Medieval Times

In what appears to be a case of nostalgia-gone-wild, some of my friends have developed a bewildering (and, in my view, slightly regrettable) attraction to Medieval Times. Take for example, Alvin, whose parents took him there for his birthday dinner. [Really? For his 27th birthday—not his 7th? I could go on about this one, but there's no need to belabor the point. The Chans are nice people, but nice people don't always make good decisions on selecting celebration venues.] Or Kevin, who selected 7662 Beach Boulevard Buena Park, CA as the destination for a date with his gf, Brina. (And say what you want about the atmosphere not being sexy, romantic, or worth the $51.95 cost of admission, but know this: a month later, Kevin asked Brina to accompany him a second time to the "dinner and tournament"—and she accepted!)

All of this leads one to wonder: What would an evening in the dark ages really be like? (One is tempted to believe that the knights of yesteryear did not employ the Internet to advertise their "European-style Castle featur[ing] Knight Club (with DJ & dancing), extensive gift shop, Museum of Torture, [and] two full bars." Equally dubious is the "1,116 seat, air conditioned arena [which] features state-of-the-art sound, lighting and special effects systems for the ultimate tournament experience.")

The air would certainly be "conditioned," albeit with the fetid aroma of rotting food, urine, and the fecal debris that was thrown out into the streets. Certainly the "lighting and special effects systems" would have consisted of candles that hardly rendered enough incandescence to see much of anything (which is probably for the better, since most modern guests would be repulsed by the rats scurrying to and fro). Those with constitutions hearty enough to withstand the stench and un-sanitation would dine not on roasted chicken and spare ribs, but half a pint of gruel and an unwashed carrot stick.

I also rather doubt one's entire medieval experience would consist of sitting around leisurely and watching jousting. The majority of the patrons should probably be laboring in the fields—poor pawns toiling away from sunrise to sunset under the scourge of serfdom. When their day's work is done, Medieval Times partons would retire in their burlap vestments to their cottages to spend the night freezing together on the floor. Those who find this life unbearable might be comforted to know that they wouldn't have to endure it for very long: life expectancy would be somewhere between 20-30 years. And as they exit the venue, every third guest would be struck dead by the Black Death.

Ahhhh...the good ol' days.

"A Dream is Wish Your Heart Makes"

Below is my dream from last night. Hopefully it doesn't contain any implications about the state of my subconscious (other than, perhaps, an active and healthy imagination that will feed any fiction writing I decide to do). If this dream does reveal something about the state of my mental health, and you are able to discern what it is, please let me know (unless it's particularly disturbing, and the resultant trauma of finding out would drive me deeper into psychosis).


Kevin walks into the room as if he owns the joint (his usual too-cool-for-the-room entrance). Only this time, his haughty swagger is out of place. Something is wrong with this picture; something is frustrating Kevin's efforts to project his "I'm a rock star" aura. Is that a corn chip on his eyelid? How did it get there? How is it adhering to his skin? And how does he continue neither to feel nor see it? (It's pretty massive, and is clearly obstructing the vision in his left eye.)

"Love the corn-chip eye patch, Kevin," I taunt.

"What? Do I have something in my eye?"

"Come here, lemme get it." Secure in my masculinity, I try brushing it away without feeling awkward by this homosocial touching-of-the-face. Part of comes off. I try a second time, and more is removed, only to reveal an odd crusty film where bits of Frito once lay.

"Ugggghhhhh! Kevin!" Brina says in her usual I'm-disgusted- by-something- Kevin-has just-done tone. She starts trying to rub it off his face (a typical Brina maneuver is to be repulsed by something Kevin has done, then touch, pick, or otherwise initiate contact with whatever initially grossed her out). When all of a sudden, in walks...

...ADRIENNE LAU! [Warning from the surgeon and attorney general: minors, those with weak constitutions or at high risk of heart attack or stroke, or anyone offended by partial nudity should NOT click on the hyperlink.]

So, in real life, Adrienne is about 4'11". My subconscious likes to hyperbolize these kinds of salient features, so she only comes up a little past our ankles. Adrienne is wearing...a slurpee cup. (If you were foolish enough to click the hyperlink, you will see that this sort of get up is not more bizarre than her usual costumes. You will also notice that the typical slurpee cup is composed of considerably more material than many of her outfits.) Everything above the waist (about three-quarters of her body mass) is poking up out of the plastic lid; everything else is hidden inside the murky nether regions of the paper vessel.

Her plastic lid keeps scraping against my ankle and irritating it, so I pick her up, and drop her so that she faces another direction. Like a wind-up toy, she just waddles off along the path on which she's set. Unfortunately, this is in Brina's direction. Brina curls her lip in revulsion and says, "Ugh! I don't wanna talk to her!" Adrienne sinks into the slurpee under the lid, but when we lift the cap off, she is no where to be found! Somehow she has disappeared!

With another "ugh," Brina dumps the entire contents on the ground. I move to scold her, but Jessia Ng steps in and says "it's alright."

"It's only alright if she's going to clean up." But before either of them can reply, I wake up.

If a dream is a wish one's heart makes, as Cinderella instructs us, I have no clue what I am wishing for.

So You Think You Can Write

[Because of entry backdating, the gap in publishing from the previous entry appears to be only a couple months. In truth it has really been close to half a year. Business to the extreme...but once I get around to November entries, I'm sure I will explain the insanity that has been my work schedule recently. In truth, this is sort of a perfunctory exercise to: a) get me to finish an earlier idea for a post; and b) get me back into the habit of writing semi-regularly. Apologies for the banality.]

Those familiar with So You Think You Can Dance know that it is a competition that involves people specializing in a particular dance form competing and experimenting in different genres. I liken my Master of Professional Writing program to the show: people with from a variety of writing backgrounds (poetry, creative non fict, short stories, novels, drama,) must dabble in the other genres before completing the program and earning their respective decrees. The good news is MPW is not built around the premise that two people get expelled from the program at the end of each week based on popular vote. The bad news is that those who arrive safely at the finish line are not promised $100,000 or contracts of any sort. (In reality, I'll just have a degree that will probably relegate me to a life of penury. Before you start sending sympathy cards my way, consider my classmates, many of whom will end up with said degree plus $80,000 of debt.)

I feel a little intimidated by the poetry part because it's different from all other writing forms (see, for example the terms, "poetry" and "prose." Almost all literature is divided between these two genre, "poetry" and "everything else.") At the same time, I'm very excited to receive formal instruction on what it means to write poetry, and am also interested in doing screenplays and sitcoms.

PS: I got accepted into an assistant lectureship! In exchange for 20 hrs/wk of teaching and preparation, I will be reimbursed for tuition for up to 12 units a semester (more than enough), plus dental and health insurance, plus a stipend of $19K per annum! YAY!. It feels really good to be really taken care of and paid to teach. I love feeling like a part of academia again—this time as teacher receiving remuneration, not as just a student. (Not that there's anything wrong with being a student; I am excited to participate in the student atmosphere and learn alongside other eager minds.)

Monster

So I've been teaching this new class at Eton Institute in Torrance. It's a writing class for which my boss asked me to create the curriculum. I'm not sure whether she wanted me to teach it just to give me something new to break the monotony of my regular SAT classes, or whether there was actual demand, so she needed me to make up something. In any event, it has been fun. Recently the students worked on personal essays.

Here's the introductory paragraph from an interesting entry entitled "Monster," by Michael Ahn.

It has existed ever since my introduction into this world. A grotesque monster dwelling nearby that I can't seem to avoid. This monster is unlike anything I have ever seen or heard before in myth or legend. It is cunning and clever beyond any other, while mischievous beyond compare. I hypothesize that it is comprised of twenty tons of pure evil, and a teaspoon of kindness. In its boiling cauldron of life, there is a minuscule, microscopic piece of charcoal it calls a heart. No matter how hard I try, greater forces keep me from kicking it of my home or attacking it. In everyone else's eyes, it seems like a perfect being, but I can see right through its clever disguise, this monster, my sister.

I guess I like it because: a) I was genuinely surprised by the ending and assumed the monster was a dog or awful household pet [here I confess that I'm projecting my own feelings about my sister's beloved dogs]; and b) I actually know Michael's sister. She was a student of mine, and not at all the way the essay portrays her.

The rest of his piece isn't worth reproducing, but the beginning amused me enough to post.