White Christmas, Part II

Christmas in our family is very tradition-oriented. Each year we arrive, and sample the vegetable platter, while the main food is arranged on the kitchen table. Each household has been bringing its respective dish for over 30 years: Grandma Lou brings macaroni salad; Auntie Darlene, Chinese chicken salad from Rascal's; my mom, strawberry Jell-O ® with walnuts, bananas, and real strawberries. There are also homemade pickles, shrimp cocktail, rice, ham, turkey, potato salad, and casseroles, among other dishes. Yes, familiarity, stability, and eating: that is what Christmas represents to my family.

Enter Jennifer. Jennifer is not a relative by blood: she married into our family. Jennifer is white. Now there are plenty of non-Japanese members on both sides of my family: Hispanics, Chinese, Caucasians, maybe even a distant Jew or two. But Jennifer's racial difference augments the myriad other ways that she is foreign.

As it happens, E!'s "50 Fashion Do's and Don'ts" provided background noise at a Christmas Eve party I had attended the previous day, and Jennifer seemed eager to catapult herself into iconoclastic fame by violating every one of the "Don'ts" I had overheard during moments of conversational inattention. A "holiday" sweater tucked into her pants (the waist of which was pulled up to her armpits), a Santa hat. Sigh. "See the good in everyone," I meditated to myself.

Then it was time to eat. Every year the line forms around the table as people circle clockwise to pick up their food and then sit themselves in the living and dining rooms. I think it's good that we move clockwise for several reasons: it is Christmas tradition; everyone is accustomed to the practice so it avoids confusion; the clockwise direction is metaphoric. As we circumnavigate the table, our bodies move in a circle to represent an unbroken familial chain; a circle is continuous, and, like our Christmas gatherings, unchanging. The clockwise direction also symbolizes our harmonious movement with time: although the sacraments are the same every year, we recognize that with each Christmas, another year has passed.

Enter Jennifer. "Let's go around the other way this year. It's more efficient," she demands. Subsequently, she and the eldest of her brood sweep counterclockwise (counter-culturally , counter-intuitively, counter-decorously) around the food. Woe betide the upstart woman who would try to overturn over three decades of Japanese-American holiday ceremony for a nominal gain in efficiency! Honestly, as if in all those years our family hadn't perfected the art of the Christmas buffet...

Imagine, dear reader, the sheer chaos created by such an undertaking. People are confused, the line backs up, and poor Uncle Hodge (who just recently recovered from a stroke, and is moving around the table with the aid of a walker) is nearly toppled over in the ensuing calamity. From the back of the line, I hear disgruntled mumbling: "What's the hold up?" and "We're hungry." Whatever minimal gain which might have been rendered from this debacle is clearly outweighed by the befuddlement and near injury it caused.

In spite of this fiasco, the rest of the day turned out relatively well. Christmas gifts were distributed; all the member of my generation pick up the gifts from under the tree, decorated by handmade ornaments, and deliver them to people of my parents' and grandmother's generations.

Then came the annual game. Auntie Miye usually takes charge, and plans something each Christmas. One year it was Scattergories®; sometimes we just share what we've done since the last time we were together. This year she passed out a list of nine or ten questions, and then picked a few that she thought would be most interesting to answer. "If you could be any animal, what would it be and why?", "What would you do if you won the lottery?", and "If you could be any famous person or historical figure, who would you be?" were the winners. We went around the room (clockwise, naturally), allowing each person a chance to answer.

"I have heard the most deplorable conditions described by my high school students," I began in response to the second inquiry. "Their campuses are filthy, teachers are indifferent to students, school violence is prevalent, textbooks are hopelessly out of date... if I should win the lottery, I would open a charter school or two in neighborhoods in need of decent education." A round of affirming smiles and agreeing nods commend my altruism and insight.

Enter Jennifer's voice (from the kitchen): "I would do the same thing!" And for a moment, I have cause to like Jennifer. "Maybe I should have given her the benefit of the doubt," I muse. "A fellow teacher who really cares about her--" but before I can finish my reassessment, she continues her thought:

"I would do the same thing. I'm always saying that I'd like to open a charter school. That way I'd have my own classroom, and I wouldn't have to take my things down off the walls at the end of every year."

Sigh. Maybe it was just too naive to expect compassion from a woman who almost felled 85-year-old Uncle Hodge.

I was a little unsettled when I didn't see the chocolate mini-cupcakes (with mini chocolate chips inside, bespangled with red and green frosting in the shape of mistletoe and berries) on the dessert trays, but I found them later in large tin trays. Half the reason for coming was those chocolate mini-cupcakes. You may laugh or frown at that comment, but I only get the chocolate mini-cupcakes once a year, and I suspect they're laced with opiates. You just crave them for days once they're gone.

Lunch consumed, gifts distributed and opened, dessert finished, we gather up our belongings (both those we came with, and those newly aquired) and go.

Exit Jennifer.

White Christmas, Part I

As per our family custom, I had a (late) Christmas lunch with my mom's family, and Christmas dinner with my dad's. However, this year my dad's cousin was visiting from out of town, so my parents and sister decided to forego lunch at the Muramatsu's, and spend the entire day with the Hayashis.

With both my parents going to La Palma, it was incumbent on me to drive Grandma Lou to Brentwood for Christmas. Aware of my grandmother's affinity for country music, I set the radio to 93.9, KZLA.

I'm as fond as (probably more fond than) the next guy of an unseasonal Christmas carol; it's not uncommon for me to hum "Silver Bells" well into March; sometimes mid-summer I just can't get "It's Beginning to Look alot like Christmas" out of my head. Despite my predilection for these songs, I can't stand the deluge of holiday songs inundating the airwaves prior to December 25. To my dismay, the program director at KZLA decided that this year only Christmas songs would make the playlist beginning the week before Thanksgiving. [I hope said program director realized his mistake when, two weeks into this little experiment, he ran out of songs that fit comfortably into both the "country" and "Christmas" categories. Forced to abandon either the "country" or the "Christmas" requirement, apparently he found it wiser to embrace the latter: I tuned in one day and heard a Norteño-fied melody, heavy on the accordion.]

But for Christmas Day, it was back to safe, holiday classics, and what more appropriate song for this occation than...you guessed it: "Grandma got run over by a Reindeer." Listening to the lyrics with Grandma Lou next to me in the passanger seat made me feel a little...uneasy. Was the message a little too irreverent? With Grandma Lou well into her 80s, was the song too prescient? Whatever it was, I ignored my scruples and let the song play. Grandma Lou is a little hard of hearing, and she didn't seem to be listening to the radio anyway.

Grandma's hearing impairment and inattention notwithstanding, I had to take action when insinuations of public intoxication ("She'd been drinkin' too much egg nog,/ And we'd begged her not to go/ But she'd left her medication,/ So she stumbled out the door into the snow.") percolated through my car speakers. The thought of an inebriated, under-medicated matriarch overcome by an overzealous caribou just didn't seem worth it; the radio was heard from no more for the duration of our journey. Safely insulated from such vile, vicious imagery, we arrived cheerfully at our destination and alighted from the Prius.

Danger Zone

"Where are you from?" On the surface, this seems like a rather bland, straightforward question, but actually I've discovered that, like an onion, it's multi-layered, and the way one chooses to answer can vary tremendously depending on the listener's geographic enlightenment. For example, for most people whom I meet, "Cerritos" is a perfectly acceptable answer: neither too detailed, nor too vague. When I was in China, however, this response would have been totally incomprehensible; instead I favored a simple "America" (in Mandarin).

Around other Californians not necessarily familiar with all the cities in the greater Los Angeles area, the former answer might assume the questioner knows more than he does; the latter might be as uninformative as "from my mother's uterus," or be taken as an affront to his intelligence. Hence, in such social circles, I have settled on a safe "L.A.", or sometimes "Orange County."

(The truth, as my geographically enlightened readers well know, is that technically, Cerritos is in L.A. County, but in sensibility, demographics, and atmosphere, I find it much more aligned with Irvine or Fountain Valley than, say, Inglewood or Pico Rivera. Besides, as often as not, the person posing the question is asking to get a feel for your station as well as your local, so my answer isn't as disingenuous as it is informative. Anyway, Cerritos sits on the boarder of the two counties; cross the street from my neighborhood, and you're in Orange County. Our water is even piped in from the O.C.! Truth be told, Cerritos is a world unto itself, and defies categorization, but I'm not above classifying it for convenience's sake.)

My college years were a time in which I met many people from all over California, so I came to identify myself as an OCite when meeting new people. My regional chauvinism grew, until one day Aimee Chen (from the Sacramento area) called me on it. "Orange County is so snooty! Does everyone there have a six-figure income? Snooty, snooty snooooooooty!"

I rushed to the defense of my beloved county. "Not all the parts are nice!" began the retort. "There are ghetto parts--like Santa Ana." I am told that as I said "Santa Ana," my face underwent one of its infamous contortions, this one of utter disdain. (Unfortunately, I am not typically possessed of the power to restrain my face from divulging my true emotions; I do not, consequently, conceal my thoughts very successfully.) Noting that my comment had proved her point, Aimee laughed raucously.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Tonight I learned whence this provincial chauvinism stems: my parents. I was preparing to drive to the gym, and my mom inquired where I was headed so late. After telling her, she asked which gym, and I said I supposed the one in Norwalk, since it's closest to our house in Whittier.

"Norwalk?" she balked. "Norwalk isn't safe!"

My father had caught the name of this perilous city as he was coming down the stairs. "What about Norwalk?"

"He's going to workout in Norwalk!" my mom replied.

"Norwalk?!? Why don't you just go out with a sign around your neck that says 'Please beat me over the head'? What are you going to Norwalk for?"

If they hadn't so often repeated that infamous name, their response might have led me to believe they had simply misapprehended me. Instead of "working out in Norwalk" it seems they heard "opening up a liquor store in Compton," "moving to the Darfur region of Sudan as a UN peacekeeper," or "going to do investigative reporting for a year in Fallujah."

But fortunately for me, I compose this not in any place as seedy as those; I am safe and sound--in Cerritos.

Venice in Vegas--a reprise

Ok, here's one last word on the evils of Las Vegas.

Coincidentally, the Radio Music Awards were being held at the Aladdin the same time we were there. Look at the billing: Keith Urban, a nice nod to the rising popularity of country music. Maybe more Americans are waking up to our great, home-grown musical traditions.
Note: Kelly Clarkson got NO billing. But who did? Ashlee I-have-no-talent-and-Millie-Vanillied-my-way-through-SNL-then-got-booed-at-the-Orange-Bowl Simpson.

Kelly Clarkson: talented, can sing, deserves billing over Ashlee
Ashlee Simpson: does anything need to be said?

Moral: Vegas billboards are unfair.

Venice in Vegas

Eager to spend quality time with me, once every few weeks Shui invites me to go on a vacation with him. "I wanna go to Vegas again. Do you wanna go?" he'll ask. Although I appreciate his zeal to deepen our friendship, it appears that I'm just not as amicable as he is; I'm just not committed enough to shell out the money for a room, and eating out every meal for the duration of the trip. When I decline, I am overwhelmed by his esteem for me. A barrage of entreaties to join him, sincere expressions of our friendship, and pleas for a reconsidering of my decision quickly ensue my refusal. These rejoinders always culminate in variations on one particular theme: "If you go, you can drive your Prius, and use your great gas mileage. Don't you want to make the most of your mileage?"

So I finally capitulated and agreed to accompany Chuckie, Auggie, and him on a Sunday through Tuesday jaunt to Sin City; Shui had gotten a discount on suite at the Venetian.

Old World and classical themes apparently hold a big attraction for the designers of the Las Vegas casinos: Caesar's Palace, the Venetian, Bellagio, Luxor, etc. I think the owners are trying to evoke the grandeur, power, and opulence of the civilizations represented in these themes; it is curious that they have simultaneously channeled those societies widely held as the most prodigal, licentious, and generally dissolute.

Initially, the gambling establishments of the Strip render the desired effect on the eye of the observer. I was impressed by the Venetian's high, Sistine Chapel-inspired ceilings, its faux canal and gondola rides, the floor-to-ceiling marble. Even the fake sky painted on the ceiling of the indoor mall impressed me the first time I saw it. It didn't take long, however, for the illusion to melt away; and once it did, it revealed a pretentious "monument to bourgeois taste" (quote from the West Wing--don't you love the pop-cultural references?)

It all became too gaudy, too gimmicky, too garish. Everything gilded, everything lacquered, everything manicured and made over to hide what's really underneath. What's worse, it all feeds middle class pretensions: you have the feeling of having traveled to the great cities of the world without actually having been there. Venice, Paris, Rome, New York--all in less than 24 hours!

The point of these themed casinos isn't to endow patrons with culture or cultivation, to propel them toward a new level of sophistication; it's to provide the illusion of refinement. Art not for art's sake; neither for the artist, nor for the observer, but for Mammon. "Why travel to the Old World, when for less than half the price you can come to Vegas AND gamble?" the marketing suggests. Sigh. Just when you thought our society couldn't get any more trailer park (nothing against my friends in the trailer parks)...And here I am soaking it all in.

All of this reflecting on Vegas recalled recent reading I've been doing of John Ruskin (Victorian genius). He was a political commentator, an art critic, a literary critic, essayist, thinker, philosopher, &c, &c. In one collection of essays, The Stones of Venice, Ruskin reads the history of Venice through her architecture (really, a brilliant method). In particular, he traces the Venetian decadence from her heyday as a mercantile power, and attributes the fall to the city's wanton intemperance. How telling, how appropriate...one is almost tempted to read the same fate into this city, this new Venice.

For my more adventurous readers, I have compiled some excerpts from the Stones of Venice that seemed befitting. For those with an inclination toward moralizing (and I am among you!) read on. If you're not in the mood, don't feel obliged to trudge through Ruskin.

This rationalistic art is the art commonly called Renaissance, marked by a return to pagan systems...Gods without power, satyrs without rusticity, nymphs without innocence, men without humanity, gather into idiot groups upon the polluted canvas, and scenic affectations encumber the streets with preposterous marble. Lower and lower declines the level of absurd intellect; the base school of landscape gradually usurps the place of historical painting...

Nor is it merely wasted wealth or distempered conception which we have to regret in this Renaissance architecture: but we shall find in it partly the root, partly the expression, of certain dominant evils of modern times--over-sophistication and ignorant classism; the one destroying the healthfulness of general society, the other rendering our schools and universities useless to a large number of the men who pass through them.

...we shall soon feel that in those meager lines there is indeed an expression of aristocracy in its worst characterisitics; coldness, perfectness of training, incapability of emotion, want of sympathy with the weakness of lower men, blank, hopeless, haughtly self-sufficiency. All these characterisitics are written in the Renaissance architecture as plainly as if they were graven on it in words.

...sensuality and idolatry had done their work, and the religion of the Empire was laid asleep in a glittering sepulchre.

Perhaps most fitting:
One by one the possessions of the state were abandoned to its enemies; one by one the channels of its trade were forsaken by its more energetic rivals; and the time, the resources, and the thoughts of the nation were exclusively occupied in the invention of such fantastic and costly pleasures as might best amuse their apathy, lull their remorse, or disguise their ruin.

Christmas Concert

I spent a very enjoyable evening with one Ms. Melissa Don't-Call-Me-Missy Ng tonight. She called me a couple of weeks ago and invited me to accompany her to her work’s Christmas party, which she (rightly) feared would render her hopelessly bored, unless she were inclined to drink enough alcohol to induce an inebriation sufficient to erase all awareness of space, time, and the idle prattle that passes for conversation among her coworkers. Not given to drunkenness, Melissa’s only options were to decline the invitation (bad form for her first holiday party at the new law firm), or to bring a guest; misery loves company.

Actually, I had (without the assistance of liquor) a very good time. JT and Melissa's Day-of-Fun began with a drive to the Grace Community Church Christmas concert. That traffic was abysmal (which, early on a Saturday afternoon, was surprising even in L.A.) turned out to be a blessing, as it allowed Melissa and me a chance to acquaint one another with our lives since last we talked. Although I attended Grace Church for the better part of six years, this was the first Christmas concert of theirs I witnessed; after its conclusion, I quite regretted never having partaken of it before.

The aforementioned traffic rendered us about 30 minutes late, so despite Melissa's having procured tickets, we were relegated to seats against the back wall of a sanctuary that seats about 5,000 people (i.e. we were far from the stage.) Fortunately, the Christmas concert excels at glorifying and celebrating the birth of Christ aurally rather than visually, so it was no prodigious loss to behold the choir and soloists from so great a distance. In addition to Kory Welsh, the church's superstar larynx on legs, there was new male vocalist this year, Chris Ebner.

When singing his solo, Chris Ebner had a barely detectable audio resemblance to Rascal Flatts; I think it's a very faint nasal nudge he gives to certain words beginning with "H" or the short "O" sound. Whatever it was, Melissa and I were mutually astounded by his performance. His singing would have engendered a deep envy among the angels themselves, were the angelic host capable of that sin. Rich and full, his voice could one moment charge the room with energy, and lull the audience toward a placid slumber the next. His was not simply the gift of a beautiful voice; the vocal dexterity and complex modulations that slid past five, six, then seven notes declared that he was trained in his art. After the song, Melissa and I turned to one another and smiled--a silent comment affirming a simple message: "He can sing."

As there were a few hours between the end of one engagement and the beginning of the next, we drove to Beverly Hills to walk around and look at the shops. The city had dressed itself in a manner befitting its zip code; lights (neither too gawdy, nor too cheap) decked the streets to celebrate Christmas in a most ironic way. The lowly Christ child was born in a manger, among cattle and sheep, then wrapped in swaddling clothes, and lo: here was Rodeo Drive adorned in electric lights, her curbs lined with Jaguars (the cars, not the cats).

Then on to the Christmas party. Melissa went to the welcome table and picked up our nametags. She exchanged a few words with the hostess (a secretary, upon whose shoulders the arrangment of the annual event fell), and returned to me with my tag. I asked her what the hostess had told her. "She said we're free to eat and drink as much as we like, until we fall down drunk. This sounds like our kind of party," Melissa said as she rolled her eyes. She suggested that we stay 15 minutes, which was about all she felt capable of tolerating, but just long enough to say that she had, in fact, attended the party.

I ran into my old professor, Professor Johnson-Haddad, whom I had for "The poems and early plays of Shakespeare". She was a marvelous professor who did all she could to incorporate movie versions of the plays into our curriculum; she subscribes (as do I) to the notion that the plays were meant to be appreciated visually and aurally. Reading them is often as good as reading a screenplay; sure it might be entertaining, but it was designed to be viewed in a theater, not on a page. I told her I am applying to gradaute schools in English literature, and confessed my apprehension about the job market for professors. She confided that she (by choice) was not teaching currently, and assured me that the best and brightest professors are always able to find work. It turns out Professor Johnson-Haddad is married to one of the associates at Melissa's law firm.

That was the highlight of the Christmas party, as far as I was concerned. We spoke briefly to a lively and engaging attorney with whom Melissa works, and he mentioned something about "non G-rated letters" that he exchanged with his wife before they were married. Other than lots of San Pellegrino, delicious mushroom cups and steak skewers, not much else was very memorable.

We ended our date at BJs Restaurant, where we each had chili served in a hollowed out sour dough bowl. A very good evening. :)

Style Channel

When recently discussing shopping with Linda, she confessed that it functions as a pick-me-up on bad days. I agreed, noting that going to the mall is empowering: it endows the shopper with the illusion of agency. We determine what stores to enter, choose which items to try on and which to leave on the rack, and ultimately decide what--if anything--to buy. The whole experience imparts the otherwise impotent consumer with feelings of strength, decisiveness, independence, and proactivity. As an added benefit, the salespeople are so helpful and kind. "How are you?" they'll ask, and the best among them can fool you into thinking they genuinely care for your well-being.

"Oh, I've had a crumby day, and buying this shirt will give me the feelings of agency, decisiveness, and personal worth I need to feel better about myself," the honest part of you wants to respond. Instead, either because you don't want to project an image of weakness, or because that answer is too long, it is generally easier to settle on "I'm fine, thank you."

Its SSRI-like effects notwithstanding, shopping has lost the charm it once held for me. I've come to terms with the fact that I generally don't desire anything at the mall, and there is certainly nothing there that I "need." Although it can be fun to just walk around and people-watch, shopping now feels too self-indulgent, and often a little decadent. So I decided to make my Christmas purchases as efficiently as possible. I chose the Mission Viejo Mall, since it has a reputation both for providing an array of high quality shops, and for being relatively empty. To hedge against the possibility of crowds, I decided I would go mid-week, early in the afternoon.

As my Prius and I approached the mall, I noticed the long line of cars queued up to enter the parking lot. I was aghast--AGHAST. Who goes shopping on a WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON, in MISSION VIEJO?!? It was only one o'clock...shouldn't all these shoppers be at work? Sigh. The initial difficulties of just getting into the parking lot were repaid when a car pulled out of a space right next to the food court. This is prime shopping real estate, so I counted my blessings as I parked the Prius.

My sister has a theory that the farther south one goes in Orange County, the whiter (and more racist) one will find the demographics. Her postulate is based on a map at the Simon Weisenthal Center (a.k.a. the Museum of Tolerance), which shows the locations of various hate groups in the greater Los Angeles area. She said the hate groups become increasingly concentrated in the more southern parts of OC. I noted that Mission Viejo did seem to be a very homogenous area: beside me, there were only four Asians in the whole mall, and two of them were workers. One was a boy wearing rhino slippers. I thought it strange that someone would go shopping in slippers, until I noticed he was an employee of one of those mall vendor carts. He was modeling the goods of his stand, which included an assortment of slippers shaped like animal faces and paws. This seemed like very comfortable work attire, and I wondered if I should exchange my job for the chance to wear rhino slippers to work for minimum wage.

Later that evening I decided to catch some late night television before going to bed. Channel 63 is the style channel--one that was apparently added to my parents' arsenal of channels while I was away in China. How do I look? is basically a make-over show in which two friends and/or family members create new fashion and hair regimens for the contestant. As an added twist, a professional stylist is hired to create a third, alternate look. At the end, the contestant is allowed to view all three styles, and chooses one.

The contestant this night was a very unwilling participant. She was content with her appearance, and only agreed to go on the show to bring happiness to her family. She was a domestic engineer and Sunday school teacher who looked rather like an unfashionable Golden Girl (very '80s). The woman's daughter, sister, and a (mean!) professional stylist expressed their disapprobation of her hair and clothing, then left to shop for new attire.

When interviewed by the show's host, the woman began to cry, and objected to their characterization of her style. She said that she was very pleased with her style, thought it was "feminine and pretty." Clearly satisfied with her looks, she didn't understand her family's desire for her to morph into a more updated self.

Although I didn't particularly like her appearance, I felt sad for this lady. She seemed very sweet, and if she was happy the way she was, it seemed unfair for her family to be "embarrassed" by her (slightly passé) style of dress. Maybe all people should be left to their own devices, I mused. If someone wants to be ugly, outdated, or even hideous, that's his/her business! Maybe we all have the right to dress however we choose, irrespective of the grief or embarrassment it causes others. I think my high-mindedness is informed partly by the American ideal of the right of the individual over collective responsibility. Maybe by that, and the pathetic sight of that woman losing her identity at the hands of those acting "in her best interest."

Dating Dorkus

Recently my friend Eddie began dating Doris, the self-same Doris of yesterday's entry. Although I no longer harbor any feelings of malice toward her (despite the pain and trauma I suffered at her hands), I was a little surprised to hear that she and Eddie are now two halves of the same couple. I decided to get some milage out of that old Kids for Saving the Earth incident. Below I have reproduced two recent conversations I had with Eddie regarding their relationship:

etimus: i asked doris about her making you cry

etimus: she feels bad
Tomato JT: whatever!
etimus: she does
Tomato JT: i was a little, innocent ecologically minded japanese youth
etimus: she doesn't remember
Tomato JT: she's a racist, oppressive b*st*rd.
etimus: i'll tell her you think so.
etimus: linda remembers
Tomato JT: she does?!?!?!
Tomato JT: really?
Tomato JT: see, linda has a heart
Tomato JT: unlike that racist, oppressive doris
Tomato JT: or "hitler yang", as she was known in elementary school
Tomato JT: she threatened to send me to the goolag.
Tomato JT: i didnt even know what that was
Tomato JT: (or how to spell it)
etimus: i'm going to e-mail this to doris
Tomato JT: ok. she might get offended tho
etimus: only if you really mean it
Tomato JT: no, i'm mostly joking
etimus: mostly?
Tomato JT: ok, ok: half-joking.
Tomato JT: i was TRAUMATIZED
Tomato JT: i was a poor, innocent, environmentally conscious japanese boy
Tomato JT: imagine having no friends
Tomato JT: and then this MEAN, BOOK LOVING DORIS making fun of you
Tomato JT: and telling you she didnt want to associate with you
etimus: you're a silly boy
Tomato JT: what?!?!?
Tomato JT: are you taking HER side?!?!?!?!?! she's gotten to you, hasn't she?
etimus: haha
Tomato JT:you're a SYMPATHIZER
Tomato JT: i dont know if can trust you anymore
etimus: i'm staying out of this. you should e-mail her and settle this dispute.
etimus: one sided as it is.
Tomato JT: ...feigned neutrality! I SEE THRU YOUR THINLY VEILED DECEIT!
Tomato JT: sigh. i never thought it would come to this
Tomato JT: i thought we were friends, friends for life.
Tomato JT: now, a few emails with doris, and she has pulled you astray with her wily, witty ways

--------------------------------

etimus: i'm taking doris to our potluck at joys
etimus: are you going to be there?
Tomato JT: yes, i think so
etimus: ok.
Tomato JT: how exciting!
the majority has shifted again
etimus: what do you mean?
Tomato JT: most of our friends are dating/married
etimus: no, not you, alvin or ben or sharad.
etimus: scott
Tomato JT: very recently it was just joanna, linda,
Tomato JT: but pam, you, joined
etimus: now pam and i too
Tomato JT: yes
Tomato JT: and also chula
etimus: shui was on the other side for a wihle
Tomato JT: that swung the majority
etimus: these are tumultuous times...
etimus: and david was pretty steady for a while too
Tomato JT: oh yeah! and david
Tomato JT: see? joanna, you, linda, pam, david, chula
etimus: when are you going to join the majority?
Tomato JT: i am fairly happy here. i will join the majority when two or three of you breakup/divorce!!!
Tomato JT: ;)
etimus: that's true.
Tomato JT: i really like that comment. i will post it on my blog when i have time
etimus: if i break up with doris, you'd be in the majority again.
etimus: as will i.

Kids for Saving the Earth

Back in fifth grade, a few of my environmentally conscious classmates, with the help of a teacher whom they enlisted as an advisor, opened a local chapter of "Kids for Saving the Earth," a group dedicated to raising ecological awareness among youth. As with many organizations created by children (or politicians), our Kids for Saving the Earth branch functioned as a clique that bestowed fancy-sounding titles on the founder's friends (smacks of cronyism, no?) Joanna Solis was the founder, and president; her best friend Linda was treasurer; their friend Doris was the V.P. of Publicity.

Any apprehension I might have harbored about joining a club chaired by my elementary school archnemesis was overcome by my progressive personality, (and by my desire to try anything new, and the allure of being on the inside of a clique). Kids for Saving the Earth was open to anyone, so Joanna's antagonism toward me couldn't preclude my joining. It did, however, keep her from extending a cooshy position like treasurer, publicity director, or secretary of Health and Human Services to me.

Consequent to my joining, one day a week became dedicated to our afterschool meetings. We learned to bring canvas bags to the grocery store instead of using the tree-destroying paper or non-biodegradable plastic ones proffered by the supermarket chains. I began cutting up the plastic rings that hold six-packs together, to prevent birds from getting their necks and heads trapped in the loops. To save water, I switched from baths to quick showers; I brought leftover newspapers and aluminun cans to the meetings for recycling. We learned about the delicate balance of the ecosystem, and the cataclysmic consequences awaiting all of humanity if one precious species in the Great Food-Chain-of-Being became extinct.

Joanna's and my mutual contempt would have made all such productivity impossible, if not for the presense of Mrs. Bodger, our fifth grade teacher, and the club advisor. Outside the sanctuary of Kids for Saving the Earth, however, we were free to torment one another mercilessly. Because all the other members were associates of Joanna, this often left me most vulnerable to their predation. After one meeting, all the members were chatting, and I tried to join in the conversation.

"Butt out!" one of Joanna's friends said to me.

"Yeah, you're a boy," added another, the same way a Klan member might accentuate the word n*gger in that context to emphasize the absurdity of interacial mingling. "Don't you have any friends who are boys to play with?"

"Well, everyone else has gone home," I replied. The truth was that I didn't really have any friends; I certainly was not in the position to be gender exclusive, but it occured to me that admitting such a thing was somehow not in my best interest.

"Go away, find your own friends," Doris the (cruel) secretary said.

So I went away, not to find my own friends, but to cry, and lament my total lack thereof.

It turns out that I've since made my peace with Joanna, Linda, and Doris. The former is now married (and pregnant with her first child!) In fact, all four of us attended a Christmas party together at Joanna's house. Linda has a vague recollection of the incident described above, but the other two have no memory of it whatsoever. Despite their denial of this intolerable cruelty, the details of that day are still etched in my memory. I'm sure it had some profound effect on my development as a child, and most of the blame for my vices and shortcomings can be justly laid on their shoulders.

Over the river and through the woods

The last couple of Fridays I've been a "camper." This should not be confused with a camper proper (an outdoorsie type in a sleeping bag, in a tent, in the woods); a "camper" is what my family calls someone at a sleepover. And while we're drawing these fine distinctions between common and my familial uses of words, a sleepover isn't necessarily a bunch of kids at a friend's house watching movies, telling ghost stories, eating junk food, and talking the night away. Our sleepovers are better: as a child I would go to my relatives' house; they would take me shopping; we'd go out to a movie of my choosing; grandma would make my favorite dinner; I'd wake on the morrow to a bespoken breakfast (usually buttery scrambled eggs with extra crispy bacon; sometimes freedom toast).

I wasn't so indulged during my recent sojourn at my grandma's house. Auntie Gayle, through the addition of sheets, blankets and pillows, turned the living room couch into a very comfortable bed. Let it be said that while my family does not generally partake in what eighteenth century Englishmen termed "finery," there does exist among them a proclivity for particular comforts in eating and sleeping arrangements. This works out to my benefit when I spend the night at my grandma's house; the down pillow and comforter were absolutely somnolent and somewhat addictive.

The reason I've been staying overnight in Torrance is that I teach (relatively) early on Saturday mornings at an SAT academy in that city. I leave work on Friday, have dinner at Auntie Tammy's house, then go to grandma's. Having taken to long, hot baths supplemented by leisure reading, I've continued this practice when spending the night.

I bathe in the very same tub that my grandmother used to wash me in when I stayed at her house as a child. She knew the restorative powers of a good soaking; while washing me she always said, "after a bath, you'll feel like a million dollars," with a special stress on "million," the way one might emphasize a secret ingredient in an heirloom family recipe to ensure it isn't forgotten. I've never had a million dollars, but I imagine that if one day I do, my grandmother's wisdom will be vindicated, and I will find that world's riches are almost comparable to the steamy, squeaky clean, warm sensation one experiences after stepping out of the tub.

As I reread Northanger Abbey, the memory of one particular bath in that house wafted through my mind. My grandmother had stepped out of the bathroom to tend to some domestic business (maybe to check a cake, or move the laundry to the drier), and I had to use the toilet. She was gone for what seemed like a very long time, and so, unable to resist the demands of my bowels any longer, I relieved myself in the tub. "Grandma!" I called out. "I did an ounko [Japanese for "poo-poo"] in the bathtub!"

I heard her reply return through the hallway: "That's alright." Quickly following those words, she entered the room, whisked me out of the bath away from the offending deposit, and dried me off. She snatched up my turd and hurled it into the nearby toilet--such was its punishment for escaping at such an inopportune moment.

Such were my reflections on the heroism of my grandmother in dealing with the everyday unpleasantries of life. She was always calm, judicious, and efficient--all qualities I imagine she had honed through raising my father and his six siblings. Her absence makes such memories bittersweet, but I was glad to recall this incident as I relaxed with my book in the hot water nonetheless.

On My Stubs

I recently developed a new doctrine that says anyone buying just one book at a time is a philistine. Naturally, there are allowances that I have to make, for example: someone buying just a book as a gift; those under financial constraints; a student purchasing a textbook. I'm talking about normal people purchasing leisure or pleasure reading material--sufficient to say, people who don't read are given the unfavorable designation of "sub-philistine."

On what basis did I develop this new theory? The primary rationale is that if you're not buying a good variety of books, then you're not getting diversified reading. My fun new theory doesn't really account for one who simply buys many books of the same genre, or of the same opinions, or thoe who buy different types of literature, but on separate trips to the bookstore. I suppose I could just change my new doctrine to "Anyone not without a well-balanced reading diet is a philistine," but that's so much less catchy than my original dictum.

My new truism in mind, I went to Barnes & Noble the other day looking for The Letters of Lady Mary Wortley Montagu. I have taken to "three" as a favorite multiple in which to purchase books: two seems so minimally above the troglodyte's one; four can be expensive, and a bit too many to read in a reasonable amount of time. My recipe for success has recently been: 1. something from the 18th century to prepare me for graduate school; 2. recent non-fiction (almost always culled from NPR recommendations) to expand my understanding of the modern world; and 3. something fun--usually essays, or something by David Sedaris or Sandra Tsing Loh.

To my dismay, my good friends at Barnes & Noble did not have The Letters of Lady Mary Wortley Montagu--an offense which, in the fickle world of my allegiances, pushed them further from the appellation of "friends," and closer to "evil, untutored cretins." I was forced to replace this item in my "18th century" category with Jonathan Swift's Gulliver's Travels. The Year of Magical Thinking by Joan Didion, and The Oxford Book of Essays, a collection edited by John Gross, rounded out my purchase.

The latter book has proved quite diverting; the selection begins with Sir Francis Bacon, moves through John Dryden, Samuel Johnson, Carlyle, Twain, Pater, Woolf, Eliot, and up to Philip Larkin and Gore Vidal. [Incidentally, it contains essays by both Jonathan Swift and Joan Didion!] Though I initially scoffed at the $20 price tag for a paperback compilation, with over 150 essays in nearly 700 pages, it's actually quite a deal. Some essays are touching, others humorous, a few even very insightful. It's arranged chronologically, so it allows the reader to track the development of the essay, changes in the Western paradigm, and the evolution of the way people have used modern English through the centuries.

Some early practitioners of the essay favored titles like "On War," "On the Pleasure of Hating," "On Dreams," or "On Recollections of Childhood." So I decided to pay homage to them with this entry's name, a reference to my stubby legs.

I have long considered the disproportion of my torso and lower body. In high school, Pam often remarked that her legs are about the same length as (or possibly longer than) mine, despite the fact that she is a good 2-3 inches shorter than I. One of my college roommates is 6'7", making him tower a full foot above me. When we sit down beside one another, we were nearly the same height, the discrepancy in our body size thus owing almost entirely to his gangling, long legs, and my regrettably short stubs. Sometimes I think about this when I buy a new pair of pants, because I must always choose the shortest inseam.

I was recently reminded of my stubs by my efforts to forestall the inevitable end of Naruto; Alvin and I have begun watching Bleach, another anime series. It focuses on Kurosaki Ichigo, a high school teen who, in addition to the normal traumas of adolescence, must use his newfound skills as a shinigami, or death-god, to save the world. And how just how does he manage to juggle all these tasks? He saves alot of time in transit, thanks to his marvelously long legs!

As I watched a recent episode, I noticed (enviously) how slender his body frame is, how sleek and long his legs. If my legs were in proportion to my torso, I could easily be another two to three (maybe even four!) inches taller. I came to despise my legs, which seemed more appropriate for Frodo Baggins than me.

I relayed these concerns to Pam, who is also a big Bleach fan. Her response?

"We all get new bodies in heaven, so don't worry about it. Our glorified bodies will be perfect."

"That's true. So I'll have nice long legs in eternity?"

"Maybe you'll have the same legs. Maybe your legs are the ideal legs."

"Yes," I thought to myself, "maybe my legs really are the ideal legs! Look at all those people with their awkward, elongated limbs! They look as though they were stretched out on some Medieval torture rack. Ridiculous and unwieldy. And it's so sad: they've been duped into believing that their gangling femurs and tibia are attractive! Thank goodness that I have the perfect legs." And off I walked, proudly, to my Prius--on my stubs.

Middle Class Anxiety, Part II

*Sorry for the delay. I moved out of Alvin's glorious DSL mecca, where no less than six surrounding houses provided wireless internet to my Centrino-enabled signal-siphoning laptop whenever his (unreliable) Earthlink carrier went down. I am now back at home in Whittier, where I am trying to convince my parents to get with 2005 (2006-almost) and get some kind of high speed--or really, any speed--connection.

Anyway, as I surveyed the months of that calendar, thoughts not unlike those of H.L. Mencken (as he observed the houses of Pittsburgh) entered my head: It is as if some titanic and aberrant genius, uncompromisingly inimical to man, had devoted all the ingenuity of Hell to the making of them. They show grotesqueries of ugliness that, in retrospect, become almost diabolical. One cannot imagine mere human beings concocting such dreadful things... I wondered who would furnish a plastic woman with luxuries unknown even to most of the sybarites of the gospel of prosperity. My first feelings of quasi-revulsion were quickly followed (as are most of my initial emotions these days) by the realization that this would make for an interesting blog.

As I exited, another calendar caught my eye: Anne Geddes. "Oh, Anne Geddes," I lamented, "in your work it is possible to behold the impending destruction of our fair nation." I am opposed to animals in clothing--it's unnatural. It's creepy. And (again, unless they live in a severely cold region and are hairless) it probably makes them uncomfortably hot. Against babies in clothing I hold no such prejudice: clothed babies are generally as acceptable as the nude variety. However, I do feel that babies ought not be dressed as other things (with the possible exception on Halloween).

And here were babies in the counterfeit of all number of things: babies as bumblebees; babies as pea-pods; babies as wisteria; babies as Dom DeLuise. It is one thing to parade a baby as something unnatural; and while one is at it, she might as well take a snapshot, because who doesn't like photographic evidence of her perverse treatment of infants? But to sell those photos? For other people to buy them? This must fall under one of the laws proscribing public indecency, right?

The willingness of consumers to spend their money on Anne Geddes merchandise must signal that capitalism has produced an overabundance of wealth and placed it in the hands of the truly stupid. The middle class is now so well provided for that it is free to squander its money in ways previously reserved only for the upper echelons of the socio-economic ladder.

And what of my assertion of the middle class's newfound "predilection for all things mean and base"? I do not think it necessary to provide very much more evidence beyond Paris Hilton's ascension to stardom. On one hand, she is the heiress to the multi-billion dollar hotel chain (and has provided a useful role model to prodigal aspirants), but in the end, she's just RWT--rich, white trash. She's "girls gone wild," with a few extra zeros at the end of her IRS forms. One associate labeled her "the most useless person in the entire world." Her popularity signals a regrettable shift away from the praise of virtue, toward the celebration of turpitude. But Paris could be an entire entry unto herself, so I'll reserve comments for another day...

Middle Class Anxiety Part I

For the last half century (or more), our society has championed the middle class, effectively turning it into the 'Middle Class' (capital 'M', capital 'C'). In particular, recall: Middle Class Values; Middle Class Morality; and such slogans as "The strength of America lies in its Middle Class." Politicians from both parties are always promising to "save the Middle Class" from the machinations of their counterparts across the aisle.

I, too, have generally esteemed our Middle Class, as it is neither so high as to be inclined toward pretension or profligacy, vices which so often overtake the upper classes; nor so low as to preclude them from personal enrichment via reading, the arts, museums, and the like. (Although I have received word of a dwindling number of aboriginal and "native" people groups who have forsaken material gain in exchange for more leisure time, the poor of America--and of most nations of the world--are often so engrossed in simply making ends meet as to make recreation and extra-curricular learning difficult.)

Recently, however, my perspective on the Middle Class has shifted, and not for the better. A series of lamentable--though not necessarily unalterable--societal shifts has exposed my middling friends to the perils across both its socio-economic boarders. From the north, an insidious prodigality has swept down upon suburbia, thereby subjecting it to the unquenchable thirst of Mammon. From the south arises a predilection for all things mean and base, which has swept away aspirations for self-ennoblement. The strength that my beloved Class once found in being situated in the middle, has now made her vulnerable to the vices of those at either end. [Does this not, reader, remind you of the children's of Israel being led astray by the idolatrous nations surrounding what was their special place, the land of milk and honey?]

Maybe we have always had a proclivity for material excess, but having recently come into the working world, I have only now noticed. Regardless, it has come to trouble even me. I alluded to my anxieties about this in previous posts (for example, see J-Talk or Systemic Symptoms).

On one of my jaunts through the mall in searching for my favorite C-list celeb, I entered a puzzle/calander store, to see if there were any 2006 Naruto calanders (sadly, no). There, was, however, a cute troll calander, with those wild-haired trolls dressed up as geisha girls, Einstein, &tc, &tc. Next to it was a Barbie calander, so I thought to myself, "I wonder what they dressed up Barbie as in this calander. Einstein Barbie? Geisha Barbie?" What I discovered may shock the reader, so the faint-of-heart would be ill-advised to continue reading. Barbie in haute couture: Barbie in Bob Mackie, Barbie in Gucci, Barbie in a Vera Wang wedding dress [my aunt's friend wore a "cheap" Vera Wang gown for her wedding--$10,000!], Barbie in Versace.

Now Barbie is just a toy, and all societies from the beginning of time have sought divertment, so I can't object to Barbie per se. Even couture can be excused as the fleeting pleasure of a handful of obnoxiously wealthy women with no interest in philanthropy. But couture for our toys? No, here I must draw the line. While all people should be free to spend their money as they please, one really has to wonder at the sanity of Barbie in hand-sewn, rhinestone-encrusted garments that some little, rag-clad boy in the Philippines is being paid 5 Philippine Pesos to produce.

This entry is running a little long, so I will continue my tirade against profligacy tomorrow.

So You Think You Can Stalk, Part V (a reprise)

Since so many of my friends have been asking whether my long-held ambition has been manifest, (and because the SYTYCS series has been a particular favorite of my readers) I decided to do a short update:

I went to my mom's office to print out some more forms for my grad school apps (Berkeley material needs to be post-marked Dec 8, and five other major schools are due Dec 15--yikes!) last week. As I mentioned, Ryan's home is about a block-and-a-half from my mom's work, so I drove by in hopes of asking for the coveted photo so that I could attain my goal and put and end to this neurotic chapter of my life.

So close, guys, SO CLOSE! I did my drive by, and saw nothing, which shouldn't have surprised me, because how often do people wait around outside their homes--except maybe in the South. (I have this image of the South in which everyone loiters on his/her front porch in a rocking chair, sipping a mint julep; there is often a hound and/or guitar of some sort at its master's feet.) So I turn around and exit the tract; no sooner am I about to leave, then guess-who drives in at the same moment! Yes. But the entrance is so narrow it precludes even my Pruis, with its belief-defying turn radius, from making a U.

So I exit, turn around at the nearest legal intersection and head back in, the thought of blogging about my success nearly causing salivation. Thwarted again! I guess he had pulled into the garage; Ryan's car was nowhere to be found.

Don't worry, as soon as the apps are in, I will return to my quest with full vigor!

To my dismay, I learned that Ryan recently moved to L.A., which makes it more difficult to carry out my reconnaissance missions...However, I also learned that he's teaching a hiphop class on Wednesdays in Cypress, which will make it even easier for me to get that stupid photo once I have the time! :)

Sweetening Thru the Ages

...just like wine.

So yesterday I had to take some forms to my professor for letters of recommendation. Don't get me wrong, she is a "distinguished professor," which means she's at the top of her game; she's super brilliant, super respected in her field, and even has her own anthology of British Romantic literature. On top of that, she is, in large part, responsible for my decision to attend grad school (because of both her example and her encouragement to pursue my doctorate).

Nonetheless, she, it seems, is either rather lazy, technophobic or both. Most universities have moved to online applications for letters of recommendation, but she still wanted hard copies to fill out and mail in (which means I had to address and provide postage for many envelopes). Since she notified me of her desire to use the hardcopies via email, I doubt that she is a technophobe. And so I ventured forth to UCLA last night to drop off the copies.

On the way there, I passed by 550 Veteran Avenue, the building in which I lived my freshman, sophomore, and super-senior years at UCLA. Brought back some memories, and strangely, only good ones. I thought of my four senior roommates who took me under their wings when I was a freshman; I reminisced about all the older people in my fellowship who lived there my first two years of college. Since I was the only first-year in the apartment complex, they all shepherded me and did their utmost to keep me in line.

Here's a photo I took of our campus at night:

De-lovely, no? I didn't use the "sepia" mode on my camera; I think the photo just turned out this way because the only light sources are all those yellow-ish lamps on campus. It makes me want to go back east, attend a nice Ivy League school, and wear a rep tie and blue blazer embroidered with my school-crest.

The Only One Who Could Ever Reach Me

The impending deadline for undergraduate UC applications has created an onslaught of essays to edit, and has produced an overscheduling of personal appointments, during which I advise students on what--and what not--to say, and how (and how not) to say it. Along with the looming deadlines for my own applications, all this extra work has proved rather taxing. This stress is sometimes compounded by the moral dilemma of whether to help students into colleges where their placement is, at best, questionable.

As an advocate of high university standards, and an aspirant into the world of academia myself, I wonder whether it's right to coach students to say what admissions officers want to hear, or to prevent them from saying things at which the officers would cringe. I suppose it's all part and parcel of my job. I repeat this mantra on a nearly daily basis; that cliche (and many others) quench my conscience and allow me to keep on working.

On occasion I will meet a student whom I feel is truly deserving of admittance into a university, but whose entrance might be hampered by low grades or test scores. These students usually strike me as altruistic, amiable, or generally sincere; I always feel that not only would they benefit from a university education, but that they, in turn, would use their degree to benefit humanity (in some vague way--I never speculate about how exactly they will better the world).

Of the (literally) hundreds of essays I've surveyed this season, one struck me as particularly honest. I can't say that it was the best written, but it displays (what I deemed) a candid nature, free of the affectation and artifice I see in so many other personal statements. This essay doesn't overreach, or try to have larger implications than what it should. It tells what this students experienced, and how it genuinely affected him. If you don't like it, then let me show you the myriad of other, much more pretentious and boring, essays I've looked at.

The only essay to "reach me" thus far is by the son of a preacher man. What follows is his response to the third UC prompt.

"I get $20 a month," said Douglas. "I get ten a week," said another friend. Silence filled the air because I had nothing to say. In my immature mind, it seemed unfair to be a pastor's kid. I felt that everyone else had parents who were successful and admirable, but my parents only work at our small church, which doesn't make much money.
My perspective was completely changed through an experience in another church in downtown L.A. Upon going inside, I saw dusty cracks in the walls, broken down seats, and faded carpet. "Maybe my church isn't so bad after all," I thought. Although only a dozen members were present in the chapel, they were still determined to continue the service. As I sat there, I realized that although the congregation may have lacked material wealth, they were very satisfied.
After this experience, I was thankful for my church, and I realized that success isn't measured only in money. Being in the family of a pastor is something to be proud of and thankful for, because my family makes a larger contribution to the world. From my situation as a pastor's son who has to endure certain hardships, I've learned to be tolerant of hard situations and to be optimistic, even when things don't look good.

Ghost of Thanksgiving Present

So today is Thanksgiving. Happy Thanksgiving! Though this is typically my favorite holiday, this year's Thanksgiving did not live up to the memories of Thanksgivings past. Maybe it's just not as fun when I don't get to make the turkey myself; the meal certainly isn't as good without my angioplasty-proceeding turkey gravey. My family doesn't go around the table and name one thing for which each member is thankful, either. Bummer.

What follows is a ficticious Thanksgiving narrative told in the third-person. Though you may be tempted to speculate, please do not assume the story is in any way based on me, my family or my own experiences.

As on other major holidays, on Thanksgiving the Knudsens ate an amply-provided lunch with the maternal side of the family, and then pack that down with dinner prepared by the paternal side. Today Clark was swamped with essays to grade: 13 U.C. personal statements, 11 SAT writing exams, seven homework essays, one student evaluation paper, two turtledoves and a partridge in a pear tree. All of these needed to be returned either the following day or the day after that, when he would be working eleven and eight hours, respectively, so clearly Clark had no time to correct them later.

This predicament led him to read the papers and exams in his aunt's livingroom before lunch. His mother and father arrived after he did, and were disgruntled to see his engaging in (what, apparently, they perceived as) such anti-social behavior. They called him aside, castigated him for working (woe betide him for his unfriendly diligence!), and demanded that he put down the papers.

It should be noted that during the span that immediately followed this little exchange, neither of Clark's parents displayed the type of conduct one might expect from such paragons of social grace--the type of behavior befitting those who had just berated their only son for his temporarilly eremitic behavior. Mrs. Knudsen ignored all others in the kitchen, and silently arranged her jello-based dessert; Mr. Knudsen took to watching the football game--alone on the sofa.

It should also be noted that the guests at Clark's aunt's guests were not necessarrily the type of people with whom he, at that moment, desired to converse. Having overheard parts of their conversations, Clark made the (possibly hasty) decision that they were either unwilling to or incapable of engaging in the type of discourse in which he wanted to participate.

He further noted that there was very little way to discern which male was paired up with which female, or which child was part of whose brood. The situation was further complicated by the fact that many of them lacked wedding bands, so Clark was left to wonder whether all of the chidren were offspring of adults present, or if perhaps a kind aunt or uncle were baby-sitting as a holiday favor. It crossed Clark's mind that he could inquire about all of these things, but he didn't feel sufficiently engaged in the topic to remember the answers, and would have ended up having to ask again a few minutes later.

All the while (when not lamenting over the lost time he could have spent finishing his work), Clark was assiduously committing to memory relevent details, emotions, and responses to the environment around him. Under normal circumstances he would have simply recorded them in the small, black notebook he had recently purchased for this very use, but this would be too conspicuous. Clark was well aware that the act of observing changes the observation, but felt that this effect could be mitigated if the objects of his scrutiny were ignorant of his designs.

"How often would people act or speak differently if they knew I would record, edit and publish their behavior on my web log?" he mused.

Revisionist History

While my reputation as an excellent literary scholar and writer is well established, few people recognize my aptitude in history. Despite these distinctions, I prefer to maintain a certain degree of humility; in that spirit, my altruistic nature led me to obscure my genius, and I allowed my friend Ben to rank first in our junior and senior years of high school history, while I relegated myself to the lowly second place. [Incidentally, my benevolence ensured his reception of the prestigious--though ill-named--Don Donkey award for history.]

When one of my tutorees who usually gets writing and verbal assistance began preparing for the SAT II U.S. history exam, he enlisted my help. Notwithstanding my aptitude for the subject, my days in AP U.S. history seemed like history to me. The Battle of Where? Which Amendement was that? Gibbons vs. Who? Fortunately, a little review refurbished my memory, and equipped me with the necessary knowledge.

Here's a sampling of a conversation we had one day while I was quizzing him:

Me: So, who assassinated John F. Kennedy?

Student: Bunyan, Paul Bunyan. No, wait. I meant John Bunyan!

Me: Uh...Paul Bunyan is the fictional lumberjack of American folklore. He had a blue ox named Babe, and supposedly created the Grand Canyon with his axe. Maybe you mean John Wilkes Booth, who assassinated another president. Which president was that?

Student: Grover Cleaveland?

Me: Uh...no. Booth killed Lincoln. [Altogether ignoring the various conspiracy theories, which at this point I deemed too complicated for my student, I continued:] Lee Harvey Oswald shot and killed JFK.
-------------------
At the end of the session, I returned to the material which earlier had proved so difficult for my student (yet so entertaining for me).

Me: So who killed Kennedy?

Student: Olsen?

Me: No. Are you referring to Mary-Kate and Ashley? Though they have done a different sort of disservice to society, to my knowledge they have not yet assassinated anyone. Lee Harvey OSWALD shot Kennedy.
-------------------

On an unrelated note, here is a conversation that occured today among three of my students (whose names have been changed to protect their identities) during break.

Brittany: Kirt doesn't have bacne [back-acne]; he has it all over his face.

Kirt: Brittany, you're a whore. You have pimples down there.

[Here I intercede, reprimand Kirt for his language, and assure Brittany that he said "you're a horrible person."]

Brittany: What's that? Like yeast infection? Can you see a yeast infection?

Jeremy: No, I don't think so.

Brittany: Yeah, Jeremy would know. He's probably had a yeast infection.

Jeremy: No, I haven't.

Brittany: Yeah right.

[At this point I interupt again and explain that males do not get yeast infections.]

Student Profile #1

Since I spend so much time with my students, I thought I should blog about them a little more. Partially as filler, though mostly as pieces of actual interest, these entries should provide delightful, humorous, and occasionally poignant sketches of the people with whom I spend most of my waking hours.

I suppose the portrayal of Jeffrey (still considered one of my best entries) is really the first profile, but this account marks the official beginning of (what will hopefully be) an occasional and entertaining series. I begin with Anthony.

Technically, Anthony isn't really my student; he's in the homework room that I monitor for 30 minutes before his actual teacher arrives. Of the 15-20 students who come early for homework help, Anthony is among the best behaved: he works quietly, never allowing himself to be distracted, and rarely, if ever, causing disruptions himself.

His most conspicuous characteristic--which one, if he has one or more functional ears, cannot help but notice--is his speech. It's really a mixture of several curious features that makes it so fascinating. The first is that while he hasn't yet hit puberty, Anthony's voice registers somewhere in the same range as Barry White, or perhaps closer to the Godfather. Either way, I'm sure that when his voice deepens, it will drop below those amplitudes audible to the human ear, rendering him effectively mute. The first time I heard him talk, I thought he might be a chain smoker with an acute case of laryngitis.

The second aspect that contributes to his unique sound is his accent. One of the reasons I likened his speech to the Godfather above is that his pronunciation an ineffable amalgam of Italian and Chinese accents; honestly, it's so bizarre that I'm having a hard time trying to generate the sound in my mind's ear. My best guess is [Click on photo for higher quality pix.]
that he was raised by Chinese speaking parents, but lived in the Bronx until moving here recently.

To top it all off, he has a lisp. It's not a lisp per se since he can produce sibilant sounds just fine. I'm not sure exactly what kind of speech disorder it qualifies as; maybe it's related to his peculiar accent.

This photo is of Anthony wearing a female classmate's jacket. He thought it was funny, and declared, "I'm a crossdresser!" I'm not sure where he learned about drag queens and the transgender phenonena (too much Jerry Springer?), but actually to me he looked like a pimp in the jacket (don't you think so? A little Asian pimp). Ghetto fabulous.

Deathday/Birthday

Last Thursday was my Uncle Jon's 43rd birthrday; as the title of this entry indicates, it marked another important day as well: the second anniversary of my grandmother's passing.

My family got together at my grandma and grandpa's house to celebrate the beginning of our planet's fourty-third circumvolution around the center of the solar system since my Uncle's arrival into this world (yes, that is actually how my family has come to think of it). After having finished tutoring at 9:15pm, I drove over to wish my uncle a happy birthday, and to have some dinner.

Our family likes to eat: dinners tend to be excuses to indulge our appetites; holidays and birthdays are exercises in gastronomic excess. On this particular night, the entree was steak. My uncle bought a meat smoker a while back, and has been merrilly churning out smoked beef and poultry like a Farmer John's subsidiary. His recent embarkation on the Atkins bandwagon has only fueled this carnivorous practice. The side dishes included Chinese chicken salad from Rascals (yummers! they make the best Chinese chicken salad!), and a potato o'gratin dish. The latter was a dairy fiend's dream; it was suffused with enough sour cream and cheese to induce gout in anyone partaking of more than one helping. The birthday cake was a chocolate creation from Hoff's Hut. The cake itself was exceptionally moist, and the rich, thick frosting contained chips made of dark chocolate--the bittersweet kind.

Upon arrival, I noticed an ethereal gloom wafting through the house. It wasn't quite "depression," but something more akin to meloncholy, or even disappointment, the way one might feel after finding his weight has moved five pounds in the wrong direction after a couple weeks on a new diet. Even my uncle, typically the most high-spirited of all my relatives, responded to my "happy birthday" with a cheerless "thank you," and a forced smile.

No one mentioned the cause of this oppressive disconsolation,but of course, no explanation was required. I had just discussed the situation a few days prior with my mother.

My grandfather has tended toward reticence for as long as I've known him, but after my grandmother passed away, he became even more quiet, and rather sullen. Whenever I visit (and from all accounts, whenever I'm not visiting as well) he sits in this big leather recliner and watches TV. I'm not really sure he's always paying attention; sometimes he dozes off, and sometimes one can just tell that his mind is elsewhere. I told my mom that it's been two years, and grandpa should do things, go places, live life.

She responded that my grandmother's death was very hard for him. Then she said that maybe I just never loved anyone as much as he loved my grandma. She implied that I was being insensitive, but I said that it seemed rather wasteful for him to just sit there all day. My grandmother had been a very active woman; she loved traveling and trying new things. I said that he should make the most of his life now, otherwise it were as though he had already died. (After I die, I hope all my friends and family do things, go places, live life.) My mother summarily concluded the conversation by telling me I had better miss her when she goes. I surmised this was her way of insinuating that I had better be in mourning for her at least two years, and that I should to little to nothing during that time to prove the sincerity of my bereavement.

Since I was in Beijing teaching English last November, this was the first anniversary of my grandmother's death that I spent at home. I had expected that this dual deathday/birthday would be marked by some ambivalence, but I suppose I wasn't prepared for how pervasive the disconsolation would be.

It's strange how much dejection a sad event can bring to what would otherwise be a festive moment. I don't think the converse is true: happy events don't really ameliorate the grief of a doleful event; at least in this case, the celebration of my uncle's birthday seemed to have no effect on that day's other commemoration. If anything, I think it made it all the sadder, because everyone knew we should have been merry, but merriness isn't the same when it's forced.

Maybe it's all confusion about how to feel, or how we're supposed to feel. Maybe we want to celebrate, but in the back of our minds it seems disrespectful to show mirth on such a day. Maybe we want to mourn, but in our hearts it seems unfair to let my uncle's special day turn so bitter. So maybe we're just left with this confused ambivalence, the pretext of blowing out candles and cutting the birthday pastry, but the reality of what happened two years ago is still so fresh, even fresher than that bittersweet cake.

Unseasonable High Holy Days

One of my first blogs was about my student Jeffrey (see "It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven.") As do many freshman high school students, Jeffrey will occationally perform random, enigmatic feats in class. One of his particular favorites is twisting the hood of his hooded sweatshirt around and wearing it like a Yarmulke.

For those of you who read that early entry and wanted a visual image of Jeffrey, I have posted it below. For those readers who haven't partaken of that blog, make a point to click the hyperlink above! I guarantee your satisfaction, or your money back. In either case, here's what he looks like in his pseudo-Yarmulke:

Perspective

Sundays are great, aren't they? There's a Craig Morgan song called "That's What I Love about Sunday." Here are two sections of the verse-chorus:

That's what I love about Sunday
Sing along as the choir sways
Every verse of "Amazing Grace"
And then we shake the preacher's hand
Go home into your blue jeans
Have some chicken and some baked beans
Pick a backyard football teamNot do much of anything
That's what I love about Sunday.../

That's what I love about Sunday
Cat napping on the porch swing
You curled up next to me
The smell of jasmine wakes us up
Take a walk down a back road
Tackle box and a cane pole
Carve our names in that white oak
I steal a kiss as the sun fades
That's what I love about Sunday

Admittedly, my Sundays don't have quite this Norman Rockwell's Saturday Evening Post, heartland-of-America sensibility, but I think most of us can relate to a day of rest and leisure.

This past Sunday after church, I had dimsum with Shui, Auggie, Alvin and some other Baptist friends. To put an Asian twist to what otherwise could have been a very Southern event, we substituted dimsum at Tian-Tian for "chicken and baked beans."

As we walked out, boba milk-tea in tow, I commented to Shui that he seems "alot easier to tolerate now [he's] a Christian. Praise Jesus!" We laughed, and in a more earnest tone I added, "No, really. I'm glad you're a believer now."

This comment was followed by Shui's response: "No, I think I'm still pretty difficult."

Reflecting on this a moment, I said thoughtfully, "Maybe you're right. Well, then I must just be more patient and tolerant of your insufferability now that I'm Christian."

...and if I weep, let it be as a man who is longing for his home*

*Rich Mullins, "If I Stand".

Tomorrow marks the two week anniversary of my stay in Chan-land. Over the course of the last fortnight, I have come to realize that I am not at "home" here. Though Alvin and his parents are very welcoming and have been entirely accommodating and gracious hosts, they are hosts nonetheless, thus resigning me to the position of "guest" rather than "resident".

I spent a little time attempting to identify the cause of these feelings of misapprehension. I initially attributed my position as "outsider" to the fact that I was unaccustomed to the ways of this particular world. For example, the Chans almost never seem to use the front door; the preferred entrance & exit is the garage.

I also noted that the washing machine is a dual-use appliance: it not only washes clothes, but also serves as a dirty laundry receptacle during periods between washes, thus effectively eliminating the need for hampers. One of my hosts later elucidated the rationale for this practice: "When we're downstairs and use something, we don't need to go all the way upstairs to put it in the hamper." I suppose this makes sense, if ascension and descent are completely anathema to you.

A second manifestation of this aversion to the stairs became clear in the same conversation. I noted that, unlike in most households, television watching is the done upstairs, rather than in a downstairs family- or livingroom. I was informed that most households lack a room in the second story suitable for television viewing. When I noted that both Pam and I have such rooms, but have applied them to other uses, Alvin brought to my attention the fact that most movers are too lazy to lug a TV all the way upstairs, so most families must simply make do with entry-level entertainment. He added that the other benefit to this was that once television viewing had been completed for the night, there was no need to make the long trek "all the way upstairs;" one could simply jaunt off to his room and retire for the evening.

After further deliberation, I decided that while these idiosyncrasies have proved amusing, they are not really the source of my (for lack of a better term) home-sickness. I realized that "home" is about belonging, and about permanent residence in a place. Even when I lived in Beijing for a year, I thought of my apartment as "home." I knew I would be there for a while, and a sense of ownership informed my behavior. It is a little strange to live as a guest in someone else's home, and feel that you own almost nothing.

Then I realized that this is what it's really like to be a sojourner, an alien as Abram was. Perhaps it's strange that I gained this understanding right here in America--rather than half a world away in the PRC--but it has been an important lesson nonetheless. I hope that I will have less consideration for my earthly home, and gain a stronger yearning for a place in heaven.

Do not rejoice for James Joyce

I am taking a five-minute break from my preparation for the GRE literature test.

In order to do well on this evil exam, I have had to supplement my strengths--Elizabethan literature, Restoration comedy, 18th century satire, the first and second generation Romantics, early Victorians, early American poetry and fiction--by studying up on my weakness (a.k.a. everything else, but namely Middle English literature, modern and post-modern novels, all plays written after 1777, the pre-Raphaelites, and anything American after the turn of the last century). It has thus far been an exciting ride. I have rediscovered--and thoroughly enjoyed--A.E. Housman; I have been reminded why I dislike Woolf, Joyce, Faulkner, and Byron.

Having judiciously decided to use this time for a tirade against the inscrutable James Joyce (who puns in multiple languages), I think it best to begin with an anecdote relayed to me by my Princeton Review book for the GRE Literature test:

James Joyce demanded that his readers be erudite--and persistent. Of his notoriously dense Finnegans Wake, he is reported to have said, "Well, that should keep the critics busy for the next three hundred years." The text, whose purpose is to recount human history, is laced with everything from puns on Aleutian vocabulary to references to the author's life. At one point, due to his failing sight, Joyce tried dictating to Samuel Beckett. In the middle of the passage, a knock came on the door, which Joyce heard but Beckett did not. Joyce's "come in" was sedulously noted by Beckett. When this came to Joyce's attention, he was initially disturbed, but after a moment's pause, and presumably with a look of glee, said, "Let it stand."

I am not fond of Joyce. While reading through "The Dead" (of Dubliners), I noted that Joyce refuses to use quotation marks...maybe he inspired e.e. cummings. Instead of quotation marks, he has dashes thrown wildly about. I saw all these dashes and yelled, "WHO DOES JAMES JOYCE THINK HE IS? Emily Dickinson?!?"

And the camel's buried in a big straw stack

So, my first day as "sojourner" at Alvin's house, and already several things have gone wrong. This does not portend well for the future; on this trajectory, I should have caused Alvin's home and half of his neighborhood to have been destroyed in an unprecedented conflagration by Christmas time. "The Great Cerritos Conflagration of 2005," they'll call it.

The morning started off well. Alvin woke me at 7:30 to move my car, because I'm parked behind him in the driveway. I went back to bed, and woke up later in the morning. After a nutritious (and tasty) breakfast of Kashi Go-Lean Crunch cereal, I noticed several mugs and dishes in the sink.

"Wouldn't it be nice if they came home and saw that I had washed their breakfast plates?" I asked myself. "Yes, it certainly would!" I proceeded to clean the dishes. Toward the end of my task, the dish rack was rather full, so I vigorously shook the last mug in order to get the water out.

The unnerving clank of a high velocity ceramic-porcelin collision broke silence of my morning. Apparently in my alacrity to dry the mug, I had hit it against the sink.

"OH NO!" The jovial, carefree spirit that had characterized my dish-washing was quickly replaced by great trepidation. "What have I done?!?" Along the rim of the shiny, dark green glazed cup, a half-inch sliver of ceramic had fallen off, revealing the porous, white interior.

"Alvin's parents have allowed me to stay here, and I have repaid their kindess by damaging their property!" There was only one thing to be done: I had to hide the evidence. I checked the cabinets to make sure this mug was not one-of-a-king. Fortunately, I found five or six of its sibblings in the cabinet. With so many identical mugs, this one's absense would likely remain unnoticed. Whew! Of course I wasn't foolish enough to throw away the mug in the Chan trashcan, where it would almost certainly be discovered. I took it to work, and disposed of it there.

On my way home from work, I called Alvin to ask what kind of pastery his parents might enjoy for breakfast the next morning. He didn't pick up, which is very unusual; unlike me, Alvin rarely screens his calls. I was a little worried, and phoned again once I arrived at King's Hawaiian Bakery. Still no answer.

"Odd," I thought. "I wonder if I left the garage door open. Maybe he's talking to the police now! Maybe I left the garage open, and all of their things were stolen! Alvin can't answer the phone because he's telling the police everything that was taken from his home! WHAT HAVE I DONE?!?" I called Pam for a second opinion of my horrible vision. She assured me that Alvin was probably in the shower, and that I was being illogical.

I came home, and Mrs. Chan told me that I had, in fact, left the garage door open. Needless to say, I was mortified, but also very relieved that nothing had been taken from the house or garage. Although I had been careful to make sure the door began closing as I left, I had not seen it close completely. Alvin later informed me that the door sometimes reverses directions as it's closing. Sigh. This has been a very difficult day.

It remains to be seen for whom my sojourn at the Chan house will be more trying: for me, or for the house. I feel great stress to avoid completely dessimating their domicile; the house must do its best to withstand my inadvertent assaults. Who shall be the last one standing?

J-Talk

Here's an excerpt of a recent online conversation I had with Jay [edited only to remove redundant/unnecessary messages]:

Tomato JT: have you read my "celebrity enthusiasm" posts?
jerrick0: I have
Tomato JT: i can only imagine what you must think. but it's not really about the celebrity anymore: it's about my GOAL. that i decided to get the photo, and now i want to follow thru on it.
jerrick0: you are driven. to some odd things admittedly, but driven
Tomato JT: all my friends are very impressed at my super-sleuthing in finding the address. some are always concerned for my sanity...
jerrick0: you should be a private investigator, except I think you're a little too emotive
Tomato JT: HAHAHA. and my bright blue Prius is very unique looking. it's an interesting shape. the top is very parabolic
jerrick0: not exactly a convertible SUV?
Tomato JT: HAHAHA! very clever.
Tomato JT: no, that was only when i was inextricably drawn into the SYSTEM. but i have since been slightly extricated. but, if i had such a car, i could run down an old lady in it...
jerrick0: while sipping on your chai latte with soy, or something like that
Tomato JT: HAHAHA. i should have added that! i had more observations about the system while at the mall on saturday...
[Here I begin a tirade against "the system."]

jerrick0: the very fact that we're typing on computers we presumably own at 2:48am about the system plants us firmly within it
Tomato JT: (it's only 11:49pm here) hahaha, i suppose but it's not unusual for college students (or law school students) to chat late at nite.
jerrick0: I'd say that most college students and arguably ALL law students are in some way part of the system
Tomato JT: HAHAHAHHAHAHA.ok, that is true (about the law school students)
jerrick0: what about doggie sweaters and boots
Tomato JT: yes i know--i really object to animal clothing. UNLESS you live in a VERY VERY cold area, and your animal is relatively hairless
jerrick0: have you hear about these surgical implants for dogs? prepare yourself http://netscape.petplace.com/Articles/artShow.asp?artID=2630 http://www.neuticles.com/webpages/faq.html

[If you don't want to click the link, "Neuticals" are prosthetic testicals for dogs who have undergone neutering. Companies marketing this product claim that these replacement gonads give the dog a more "natural" look, and spare the dogs the supposed "trauma" of the missing glands.]

Tomato JT: THEY HAVE CUSTOM SIZING! OK, THIS IS JUST SICK AND WRONG
jerrick0: I was expecting the all caps : -)
Tomato JT: i told my friend that we should move to communism so that production of things like this would be banned
Tomato JT: that "anne gedes" lady...she dresses babies as FLOWERS and BEES, and then photographs them. that part is weird, but okay. BUT people actually BUY her photos, and things with the photos on them!!! but all of that is but a shadow of NEUTICALS.
jerrick0: you could dress up Ryan Conferido as flowers and bees and sell pictures of HIM
Tomato JT: HAHAHAHA. i will for SURE mention this conversation in my blog.