oblivious me

I am buzzed, which I will explain later, so this post may be a little less than cogent.

I woke up at 11am thinking I had the day off, when in fact I do not since my company believes in no holidays except Nazi ones and employs the “make workers sit at desk” philosophy of productivity.

Generally a sucky day, so I’m exceedingly happy to be back home, when my landlord offers me an egg, he called it Balut.

So if you’re as big of a nerd as I am, you may recall the Star Trek episode where Captain Picard was captured by Cardassians and tortured for information (THERE ARE FOUR LIGHTS!). During the torture, there was a scene where Picard was offered a Cardassian delicacy which turned out to be a baby bird fetus still in it’s egg, which Picard eagerly ate up having not eaten for several days.

I just had that. The baby egg fetus thing.

Seeing as how I am a borderline psychopath trying to save money by not consuming bacon 7 days a week, I was able to disassociate myself from my emotions and eat this thing. Immediately I was able to make 3 observations.

1. Ignoring the fact that I was eating a baby fetus, it was actually quite good. There was a surprisingly nuanced flavor of both egg and chicken which complimented the saltiness of it all, which I attribute to the blood.
2. I am eating a baby fetus.
3. I am a monster.



Oh wait I actually noticed a few other things.

4. feathers
5. a beak
6. the waking hallucination of a fundamentalist Christian version of Foghorn Leghorn screaming, “I say, I say, I say son, that’s murder!”

It was weird, and while the suffering of the unborn always makes things taste more delicious, I had to down a cup of cognac and a can of beer to make myself feel better, which made the reading of my passive aggressive letter from the DMV stating that another point on my record will result in me losing my license all the more salacious considering they’re both from traffic traps, one in a residential area with absolutely no cross-traffic (cops hiding behind the hill, no light T intersection), and the other over the hill where you can’t see the cops around the bend as they flag you for speeding because you’re accelerating down a hill (no pedestrian or intersection crossing).

But then I played L4D with Jennifer, so that was cool.

But, then she kicked my ass…. =/

So yeah, I don’t know if I mentioned that I am currently estranged from my family. Things were said on New Years, such as “i hate you”, “I never want to see you again, mom”, by certain unnamed parties, which culminated in me running 3 miles in the rain barefoot around the Fullerton suburb dodging what I assumed to be my Dad looking for me as well as the police. Also imagining that I was running from pretend ninjas made jumping fences at 3 in the morning all that much more bearable. In hindsight, it was all pointless as what I really wanted was a smoke, and apparently blisters and the sensation of stepping in dog feces barefoot, but what’s done is done and I learned a few things that night. Nicotine is a hell of a drug, and dog poo smells a lot like human poo.

So anyways having sworn never to talk to my family again since January 2, it seems the government has deemed to intervene in my personal life by going bankrupt and withholding my tax refund meaning I have the unpleasant choice of either borrowing money from my folks to tie me over for a while or turning tricks on craigslist. On one hand I could subject myself to the humiliating degrading whims of heartless people
I barely know, or I could help lay bricks for an old white couple looking to save a little money on their landscaping. I dunno, I haven’t decided. Although if I had to guess, the personified deity of irony will probably handle this for me.

Hmm… there are a few things I have yet to post over the last 3 months, but they’re all incredibly depressing so I’m trying to stave them off until the bitter end.

Which brings me to Jennifer, ah yes… Jennifer.

My absolute first impression of this woman, disregarding what I’ve heard from my friends, was a girl who has a voice exactly like that of my friend Thuy Vu, carrying a large bag of glitter cosmetics and offering to do my nails. This brings up an entirely unique set of mental baggage ranging from trying to overcome my preconceptions about this person to suppressing a primal fear of answering my phone, but regardless, okay, up until this point, normal right? Perfectly within the nominal range of acceptable social interaction right?

And it was! Surprise. For the most part it consisted of general small talk and ragging on me, which is frankly expected. I was disappointed at how much my drawing skills have deteriorated since going to Cid’s so I was complaining louder than usual.

But then the conversation somehow turned to how I ended up inviting myself over to this group when she suddenly says, “oh, that reminds me of my friend X, he can never take a hint and always tries to latch onto other people’s friends and mooches of them and what not.” Needless to say, I was stunned. Clearly she was psychic, but also I was beginning to suspect she lacks a certain mental filter that prevents personal judgments from leaking out into conversations. Obviously I do not suffer from this malady as I never just say what I think out loud the moment I think them, or when I’m drunk, or bored, or craving attention, or asleep during night terrors, or when I’m talking out loud to myself, or while I’m in Japan, or passive aggressively on a blog, but to do so in an implicit manner which might be perfectly innocent yet could be construed as a slight by a neurotic misanthropic Korean narcassist? That’s just rude.

That would have been end of that, but then she showed us pictures from a Yaoi convention she attended, which, Yaoi being the Japanese art of drawing gay men who all look like women sexing each other up, included such lovely things as, penis earrings, guys having a threesome, a cartoon penis, a cartoon penis dressed up as a bumblebee, a real life plushie of said bumblebee cartoon penis, pictures of sushi, a drawing of a guy taking it up the rear from another guy with long flowing hair, some candid group shots, cartoon penises, then cosplayers… yes, I can see why Jess likes this girl.

Then, having permanently traumatized my childlike innocence, Jennifer somehow misheard something I said for “ass rape”, and immediately without explanation, offered to introduce me to a gay friend of hers with “indiscrimate tastes”, which I inferred to mean not only did she think I was a closet homosexual, but that it would take an embarrassingly gay man with absolutely no standards to sleep with me. Back of the line boys, this one’s a keeper.

I just want to make this clear: I like her and I’m only saying this because I feel no one should get offended by what I think of them, plus everyone else likes her, so really, whats the damage? I would just like to point out that in the world of first impressions, she is a strong contender for my gold medal for “extremely polarizing first impressions which will be cemented in my memory for all eternity”. This position has several rivals, such as “Sex and Drugs” Richard who once suggested I had the ample qualities required for a drug mule. “Kiss me I’m Irish” Ryan, who’s claim to fame was rubbing his hairy nipples at me across the aisle of a crowded supermarket yelling, “JEeeEeeeEeeDDdDddd” and Wang, best known for his performance in “The first thing I see 2 inches from my face with a butterfly knife in his hand, one summer morning”. Honorable mention goes to “Coke hits harder if you shove it up your ass” Vu, “I’m a bed monster and will scare Jed when he comes home after a hard day of work” Cybulski, “Homosexuality is wrong and god is your only salvation” Spencer, “It’s not gay if other people are watching” Khai, and “God I wish I had never met you Jed” Sonky.

But then again, I notice that most of these are gay references, so hey, maybe she has a point?

Having just watched Coraline for the second time, I have to say I really really like this movie. I mean objectively speaking, as a narrative, it’s rather weak. The plot and pacing of the second half seem ripped straight from a video game, and the parts never add up to the promise of the whole, but the set pieces in this thing are just so sublime I had to forgive whatever faults my vindictive judgmental brain came up with. Some might say it’s hard to go wrong with the combined genius of Neil Gaimen and Henry Selick; others might ask who the fuck are Neil and Henry and were they the actors who played Batman and Robin in the original TV series?, but whatever the case, it really speaks to the credit of these professionals who have honed their respective crafts to such brilliant ends over the years that they can produce compelling fiction through their (i would say in spite of) unique styles.

Stop animation works fairly well for this kind of gothic subject, especially thematically considering the whole story was about dolls, and while it’s not perfect (spiders + bugs/ sewing + fairy tale(dolls + dreaming) = Hey 3d iS bAcK, wE shOuLd mAke moNey off thAt!!!), it does add a sort of “realism” that probably could not be attained by live action or other animation techniques. Pixar, for all their talent, could not produce a work like this (sorry Jaiyi), and that adds another layer of tragedy to this film considering it more or less represents the apex of what stop motion animation can accomplish. The use of computer animation to touch up the seams and add special affects to this movie is no small secret, but it does lessens the impact of some of the technological feats achieved in this movie because you think “Oh hey, this scene would have been way better if they just simulated rigid bodies using finite elements”. Okay maybe no one but math nerds who don’t get laid because they’re completely oblivious to the overtures of women would think that (again sorry Jaiyi), but for the general viewer, they don’t see the hundreds of man hours used to animate scenes with no wires, they see something that isn’t special because there was a billion doors in Monsters’ Inc. (again Jaiyi, no offense, you do great work… ya sellout).

And while I personally enjoyed the character Wyborn, I am not a fan of his inclusion mostly because it is a complete fabrication on the part of the director, which in no way adds to the core of the film. Granted I understand why he was included, the movie would have progressed even more awkwardly had Coraline been stuck talking to herself the entire time, but he does stick out as an obvious addition and detracts from the general thematic art direction of the movie. He’s just too “cool” as if he was put together via committee, except instead of bored housewives and religious fundamentals providing input, all the uncool kids from high school was put in a room and forced to provide ideas before they get their pot back. He’s a hunchback nerd with a motor bike and a techie freak mask which gives him way more visual presence than Coraline and tends to steal whatever scene he’s in especially since Coraline isn’t inherently a sympathetic character throughout the movie. This isn’t necessarily bad, supporting characters should offer contrast in a scene, it’s just that Coraline’s journey into the “other” world is supposed to be a symbolically personal one and it breaks the motif of the “dream” world to have someone share in it. I mean that’s what a dream is supposed to be, something you have that bores others to no end to have to hear about it.

I also didn’t like the fact that he or the “other” Wyborn was constantly saving Coraline. While no one will ever accuse me of being a feminist, it does detract from the narrative of a wonderland-gone-wrong as a metaphor for personal growth when one is constantly being saved by someone else, especially since Coraline’s personality isn’t exactly imploring the audience for sympathy. She’s supposed to be an independent courageous adventurer, she’s not even supposed to be necessarily likable let alone lady like. I get it, she has a vagina, just… just try and let her handle it on her own. See what happens. Maybe she will surprise you.

I would suggest Wyborn’s character is akin to a high end example of self-insertion in fanfiction. Basically you’re reading a story about Spiderman when all of a sudden Jeff Goldstein comes out of nowhere with godlike powers and saves the day. Spiderman then proceeds to suck his dick in a completely heterosexual bromantic manner and everyone lives happily ever after. Get the fuck out of there Jeff Goldstein, the story is about Spiderman, not Spiderman’s underaged best friend that no one likes in real life.

And if you’re not tired of hearing me complain yet, I also feel the “find the 3 souls” and the ghost kids’ dialogues could have been handled better. It’s just sloppy and especially irritates me because I feel one or two more rewrites would have made those transitions better. Obviously it could have been because of editing, but still, when you’re working in a medium that is incredibly unforgiving and makes reshooting scenes incredibly difficult, it helps to sketch a few more story boards and get it right.

But having said all that, I can’t fault the movie because god in hell, it’s so fucking creepy. I am a particular fan of the intro sequence which involves the refurbishing of a doll in intricate detail. This scene is fucking brilliant both in setting the tone for the movie and also it’s contextual interlacing of both death and the symbolic relationship between dolls and our mortal coil. Okay that was nonsense. I sounded like a fag and my shits all retarded; plants crave Brawndo because it has electrolytes, but still whatever, fuck you. It worked on so many levels. At least it wasn’t Twilight you stupid fat lonely 16 year old girls. Yeah that’s right, I called you on it overprivileged youths of America, whatcha gonna do about it? Cry diamond tears for your lost love because you’re a vegetarian? God, this is why people hate liberals.

Whatever, it’s a good movie, go see it.

So I watched Zack and Miri Make a Porno during a midnight screening, and I realize that Kevin Smith adheres to the Black Swan philosophy of movie making: create a low budget movie with lots of witty dialogue that produces a lot of laughs that is offset by that one absolutely sickening over the top disgusting moment that completely destroys whatever feel-good enjoyment you were able to glean from the previous 2 hours. You’ll leave the movie theatre thoroughly entertained but with a lingering realization you’ve been intimately violated, in this case, by the memory of Jeff Anderson covered in mounds of chocolate shit seared into your mind.

So with that pleasant imagery festering in my brain, I arrived home at 4 in the morning only to be greeted by a woman standing in front of a truck sitting in the street, and by sitting I mean diagonally parked across the meridian 2 inches from another car parked on the side of the road.

Naturally I thought nothing of it.

So she approaches me and asks,

“Excuse me, can you help me sir?”

and clearly, I immediately did, because not only do I lack a spine, but I also lack the a priori knowledge of what a spine is or its purpose, which in this case, is to prevent me from doing dumb ass shit such as becoming involved in the situation that was about to transpire.

Keep in mind that at this moment I was dressed in a striped shirt and tie, a black vest and a wool double breasted coat that can only be described as a gothic version of the one worn by the cartoon Madeline and also, by complete coincidence, an almost replica of the one worn by my friend Christine. This is the same Christine that everyone assumes that I am in love with and will try to steal away from her boyfriend Tim, which is patently untrue, except perhaps, as a humanitarian gesture to save Tim’s manhood from its grim fate, but alas I digress here. The point is I was dressed up like a 1960’s accountant, complete with the oil slicked hair and I must have appeared to be rather responsible and helpful sort of person, which as anyone who knows me, is clearly a representation beyond caricature, but I had two things going for me. I hadn’t opened my mouth yet, and as I was about to find out, she was fucking punch drunk beyond all measure.

So anyways, being the helpful type I drive up next to her giant Ford pickup, the mere ownership of which should have tipped me off to the levels of stupidity that were at work here, and got out my jumper cables, and I do what I’ve done countless times before for my goddamn Vietnamese friends. I proceeded to clamp the cables, only to be greeted by giant sparks and the hum of a non mechanical entity in my car winding up.

So I switch the cables and try again.

Then my car dies.

At this point, I’m sure, the tiny atheist in me wonders why god would test my faith by punishing me for being a good Samaritan, but I realize my own stupidity and graciously call AAA only to find out my membership expired 2 months before. I proceed to negotiate several phone calls, until finally, on the third attempt, find someone willing to update my membership instead of waiting until the morning when the membership office opened. Suddenly I realized that the other operators were all lying through their fucking teeth and traumatic memories of being stuck in the back seat of an unheated Celica deep within the Yosemite forest waiting for the AAA membership office to open pour over me like the torrents of an undying sorrow. Through clenched teeth I thanked the operator and proceeded to give the tow operator my location.

When he arrived, he was quickly able to revive my car, despite warnings that I might have burnt a fuse and my car would be dead until a complete replacement was made. Then I asked him to help my stranded motorist who had been sleeping this entire time. After waking her lazy ass up, we proceeded to jump start the car, but nothing would happen. So I get in her car and try to start it again when I notice something.

There’s no gas in her fucking car. There’s a tiny electronic display that reads, “Emergency, No Fuel”.

This should have tipped me off that I was dealing with someone who wasn’t completely there, but in my mostly chivalrous high I decided to ask the tow truck guy to take her to the nearest gas station. So he talks to the woman, asking her some questions, after which he comes back to me.

“Hey man, I can’t take this woman.”

“Why not?” I ask.

“She’s drunk, her entire truck smells like alcohol.”

I realize I had not even recognized this as I can no longer smell alcohol for the same reason I cannot hear the sounds being produced by the blood vessels in my ear lobe, over the years it’s become a natural part of my being, so I try to play it off.

“Look man, I just want to get her out of here, maybe we can get some gas or something.”

“Look, man, you seem like a nice guy, but I don’t think we should even get her gas, she might hurt someone, and there’s no reason to get involved. There’s liabilities involved essay.”

“Shit, you’re right, Alright, later man, I don’t want to get you into trouble. Fuck, alright I’ll explain it to her.”

The next thing I remember, I find myself with this woman in my car driving her to the nearest gas station. My only rationale is that for some reason, I was overwhelmed by pity and decided to help this women. Either that, or I realized she’s both irresponsible and drunk, which means my chances of getting a blow job in the next 30 minutes had drastically increased from their normal probabilities. I couldn’t even blame her for imposing, I suggested it, and practically dragged her from her car.

So predictably the gas station was closed and we couldn’t buy a gas tank, so I was driving her back when she says,

“Lets go to the point, that place is open 24 hours.””

“Uh, it’s getting close to 6, the freeway will be packed, look I’m just going to…”

“No no no, it’s just around this corner.”

“What? We’re in a residential zone.”

“No just take the freeway to Montgomery, it’s right there.”

In some tiny reclusive portion of my mind, it began to dawn on me. The exact nature of the beast that I had entangled myself with.

“Montgomery’s 10 miles to the east of here. I’m going to be late for work as it is.”

“No no no, just take the 101. Take a right.”

“Urm… the 101 is even further away, and in the opposite direction.”

“Well whatever just go there.”

This was getting ridiculous so I was trying to think of ways to ditch the bitch when she said,

“Can you just drive me to Selina?”

It was at this moment that I realized exactly what happened, but before I could open my mouth, she set the wheels of her own self realization in motion.

“Where are we?”

“San Jose.”

“What?” was her incredulous reply.

“Where do you think you are?”

“Gilroy.”

Gilroy. a podunk town far far away. More to the point, 40 miles away. A town so out there you had to be drunk out of your gourd to not have noticed driving nearly an hour in the opposite direction, on 3 different highways, 8 residential roads, one giant hill, and a cul de sac. It was a miracle she didn’t kill herself and several dozen people on her pilgrimage to my doorstep.

“You’re in San Jose.”

“OMG are you serious?”

“Wait how far away is that? Where’s Selina from here?” she asked.

“I’ve never heard of Selina, that’s how far away Selina is. How did you get here?”

“I was at a club and my friend left me there.”

“Where”

“At the club.”

“It’s a Thursday.”

“Oh god is this really San Jose?”

At this point I recalled other things, like how she was missing one shoe, how her car was all sticky from dried alcohol. How she slurred the entire time. How deep in shit I was if she had hit someone on the way here and how, try as I might, there was no concieveable way I could hit this bitch on the head, shove her on the curb and hope I never see her again.

Man, I thought to myself, this blowjob better be epic.

So I did what any reasonable, sensible person would do.

I’m just kidding, I drove her to the nearest home depot to buy her a gas can and went to the nearest gas station to fill it up with as much gasoline as I felt I needed to get her ass away from my sight as soon as possible.

And the whole time she wouldn’t stop bitching. Bitching about her friends who let her drive off drunk, her mom who didn’t put gas in the car, her boyfriend who wouldn’t pick her up and didn’t give a shit about her, about her job that she was going to be late for, and not nearly enough about how she loves the taste of penis and how sucking on one would make this awkward situation entirely bearable.

She also kept calling herself a dump stupid bitch, but I felt it would be rude to interrupt.

So we get back, and I start pouring the can into the gas tank, spilling a significant portion onto myself, then I ask her for her keys.

She can’t find them.

The keys.

The keys she spent 30 minutes turning over and over again in a vain attempt to start her car. The same keys she kept turning until I thought my head would explode while she looked at me with whiny eyes saying the battery was dead. The same eyes that glossed over the giant words “EMERGENCY, NO GAS” emblazoned on her dash and were I in a catty mood, the same eyes that thought blue mascara would go well with a red blouse and black stretchy pants.

I realized I was going to marry this woman, or someone like her, and in 20 years I’ll be right there, slightly pudgier, listening to her yell about how the world is conspiring against her, willing her misfortune into existence. How it’s everyone else’s fault and because of that, she’s going to sit in the car as she makes a complete stranger walk into a home depot to buy her a gas tank, so she can get her drunken ass back to hicksville California in time for ladies night at the old watering hole.

On October 31st, 2008 7:32am Pacific Daylight Time, scientists received confirmation that every girl I had either ignored or spurned, was indeed, good enough for me, for here I was, covered in gasoline at the beck and call of a complete stranger, who by all objective accounts was a danger to herself and others.

Oh and incidentally I found a half empty bottle of johnny walker in her truck while I was looking for her keys.

In the end she was unbelieveably grateful and offered me $50, which I declined on principle. Perhaps these were principles of never accepting reward for helping another person like my parents taught me. Perhaps these were “blowjobs or nothing” principles. But whatever the reason, when I turned that key, fed the gas and heard the engine start to purr, I was happy to never see her again, and I’d like to believe, deep down inside, she was happy to never see me again too.

So what did I learn?

I learned that I’m late for work because I decided to blog about this after it happened, I have to catch a Chinese bus to Westminster at 5:00pm today, watch my entire company burn around me while I pall around with my old college buddies as they get married, one by one, on some inevitable death march to suburban lifetopia. I’m also self conscious because I haven’t worked out in 4 days and Kevin Smith is a hilarious, but fat fucker.

Aw fuck it, I didn’t learn shit. I’m going to take a shower.

I hate writing, I really hate writing. You scribble a few words online and your high school friends think you’re amazing, so feeling like the toast of the town, you get it in your head that you’re the next David Sedaris or Sarah Vowell, and it’s only after writing anything longer than a blog post you realize you have the poetic flow of a river made from tar and no amount of auteur effort will compensate for the fact that anything you write amounts to nothing more than emo dramadies about emotional constipation and forlorn love. You also realize you write really long run-on sentences and repeat words a lot, and you hate updating your blogs, no matter how much Wang tells you to do it. There, I mentioned you, are you happy now? NO ONE READS THIS OTHER THAN YOU, LEAVE ME ALONE YOU FRENCH BASTARD.

Anyways…

Recently I was at a “dinner party” and, I honestly have to say it’s the best time I had where I had to complete a grammar test before the meal. Seriously, the organizers handed out a sheet of paper with sentences for us to correct, and the sad thing was I was really into it. Finally! External validation in the form of standardized rote memorization instead of soul-crushing work that taxes your resolve to succeed in the futile race against inevitability. It was elementary school all over again, and the world was making sense! I’d complain more, but I honestly haven’t been out very much recently and talking to the uncomfortably white guys sitting next to me was more fun than I had awkwardly ignoring the miasma of sexual tension of my so called ‘friends’.

On a completely unrelated note, it was nice seeing you again Khai! We should totally do that again!

So naturally having drank a few beers, I bust out my DS with my savvy flash kart, and I have to say, only in Silicon Valley will this not invite open ridicule and instead result in two people buying one for themselves. I’m surprised they didn’t just bust out their iPhones and order one then and there, then twitter that shit. And people wonder why I drink. Life of the party.

So things I have been doing with my time instead of doing something productive with my life:

I’ve started gathering the components of my Halloween costume, the Team Fortress 2 pyro.

Granted I haven’t yet been invited to a Halloween party, much less one where anyone would even recognize my costume, which in and of itself wouldn’t be quite a boon as the character I chose is known for being played by the most the dickish cunts who populate the Steam servers, wrecking havoc on friends and foes alike, ruining what amounts to be one of the better games in Valve’s catalog. It’s also very cumbersome and reeks of effort, but what the hey, I’m bored. Of course, the idea is that it would be a fully functional costume meaning there’s no chance in hell I would actually wear the thing, at least without attracting police attention, but really, if you’re going to spend all that effort in burning bridges, you might as well go all out.

So here are the components I have so far:

• 1 x Israeli Civilian gas mask
• 1 x Pair of Neosprene gloves capable of handling 500℉ of heat
• 1 x Polish surplus army helmet, steel
• 1 x propane tank
• duct tape

And here are the components I need:

• 1 x gas pump nozzle
• 3 x canisters
• 1 x suspenders
• 1 x red rubber/flame retardant suit
• 1 x neoprene boots
• 1 x bike brake handle
• PVC pipes
• flint

And of course, this is the item that inexplicably arrived instead any of the stuff I ordered:

• 1 x red fuzzy handcuffs

I wouldn’t have even mentioned this, instead keeping them in some locked box deep in my closet, except it would have prevented me from complaining in the form of the following story: Having spent a few minutes staring at the contents of the box, I decide to call the obviously not Amazon.com online shop hotline, and spent the next few hours on hold as I waited for a woman with a distinctly Southern accent to look up my order. Apparently the order includes said item, and having approved the order, I had indeed purchased them, and returning them would have cost me more in shipping and handling than what was charged to my account. Of course, no, she couldn’t be more helpful, no it wasn’t their error, and no, no amount of logic would avail me, since, by this point I’m pretty sure she thought I was into some sort of gas mask S&M fetish and proceeded to blow me off entirely. Or maybe it’s because she gets paid $6 an hour, whatever, she was dead to me.

I got the number for their parent company which turned out to be, apparently, a firearms distributor. After spending another few hours explaining I did not need rifles repaired or returned, then after spending another few hours being explained to that they are not an adult toy distributor, I gave up and decided to solve this problem the same way my ancestors would have, by drinking hard liquor.

Incidentally Visa doesn’t allow you to dispute a charge on your credit card for 30 days after a purchase, so by this point I gave up entirely. Fuck you corporate America, I’m already spending money I can’t afford propping up this charade of an economy, and this is how you repay me? Fuck you, I’m buying all my food from a co-op. Goodwill’s got all my business now, buster.

SO, for better or worse, I now own a pair of fuzzy handcuffs, and instead of waiting for an opportune moment of awkward hilarity which I seem to be goddamn prone to, I need some way to get rid of the evidence. So, urm, barring someone I know actually wants it (and is willing to go through life with me never looking into their eyes again), I’m gonna donate it to Goodwill! Because, you know, poor people need fun too.

I remember back when I used to live in a house with 3 walls. “Why doesn’t our house have 4 walls?” I would ask my dad. He would smack me upside the head and say, “You little shit! Use your head, if we had another wall, where would all the water go when it rained?” Then he would beat me up some more before serving me a boiled shoe for dinner. Those were the good old days with my dad, you know, before he lost his job.

I like Japan. I think I may want to live there. I definitely want to visit again, perhaps in the Kyoto, Osaka region and maybe a bit of the Okinawa Islands, but I was amazed at how interesting the place was, just walking around was an adventure. Other than Paris and British Columbia, it’s the only other place I would just want to live for 6 months/2 years. It’s just that interesting a place and I could get lost, just going from place to place, eating stuff.

http://picasaweb.google.com/jedkwon/2008_Tokyo_and_Hokkaido

Okay so I did get lost, just going from place to place, the point is I would like to do it again more often, on purpose.

We stayed mostly in Shibuya which is I suppose the trendy shopping district in Tokyo. Visited some shrines, did some shopping, saw some buildings, and generally had a good time. You’ll have to forgive my lack of good pictures, I really need to upgrade to an SLR soon.

Oh yeah, and the Onsen (Japanese Hot Springs).

I’m actually a fan of bathing in front of other naked men. It’s relaxing, convenient, and once your eyes adjust to the lighting and wang levels, it’s actually quite an pleasant experience soaking in the hot springs. You don’t have to worry about cleaning up afterward and it’s convenient having access to an assortment of hair tonics and lotions that I would never buy.

I didn’t really find the whole experience that gay, or rather, gayer than using the locker room at my local 24 hour fitness. Having started a workout schedule, I realize there exists a level of homoeroticism necessary to stay on a training regime. I mean sometimes you just got to stare at another man’s ass and tell yourself, “Holy shit, that’s what I want, that ass. That’s my goal for month 4, another man’s ass where you would currently find, the drooping jowls of a basset hound glued to my rear end. Q.E.D. The object of my desire: an ass so chiseled it could cut glass.” What? No? Just Me? Fuck you, whatever works man.

What was I talking about? Oh yeah, the Onsen was alright.

Overall Japan was fun, but slightly disappointing. I suppose because of the internet I’ve cultivated a somewhat skewed vision of what Japan is like, and although I can’t quite shake the nagging suspicion that somehow, the whole of Tokyo is some sort of parody of western civilization, it was more or less, readily recognizable unlike the random squiggles they used to communicate with each other. I mean, granted, there was that music video I saw in Akihabra of this 8 year old boy dressed up like Kanye West staring in his own hip hop video showing off his 8 year old ho’s all dressed up like a skanky Courtney Love (i know!) with better production values than Usher. Or the vibrating horse riding machine we saw in a sex shop and a family department store. Or the soapland girls, but whatever, the point is, being in Japan felt no different to me than being in California, except the poor people aren’t Mexican and the rich people aren’t White.

So yeah no Japanese women dressed as Gundam fighters tied up in tentacle vines screaming, “Tasukate!” while having poke balls thrown at them, but you know I went with 3 couples, what do you expect? Next time come alone and bring an extra thousand in cash.

Tokyo
★★★★★
AAAAAAAAAAA++++++ WOULD VISIT AGAIN!!!!!

Hey! San Jose International finally got free wi-fi!

I saw Wall-E Friday (A week before the premiere! I feel so… special! ಥ_ಥ) and I have to say, I loved it. It wasn’t perfect but all the elements of perfect were there: robots, love, a post-apocalyptic world, spaceships. This is the movie I’ve waited to see ever since I dreamed of Johnny 5, Battlestar Galactica, and Spiderman that one time I was delirious with hay fever and codeine, and you know what? Wall-E delivered. Actually there was no Spiderman, or Battlestar, actually it was a lot of Johnny 5, if Johnny 5 hooked up with an industrial trash compacter and had a bastard kid who lived alone, as a virgin for 700 years. Okay I’m doing a bad job of explaining this, but yeah, the movie did rock.

I think there’s a genuine concern that people consider this “risky” for Pixar as it deviates from the successful formula for summer blockbusters, and I can’t blame them. Kung Fu Panda was awesome. It was marketable, had action, comedy, and just the perfect drop of actual depth that saved it from becoming a terrible parody of itself. The inevitable comparison between the two movies may make Wall-E appear almost “art house”, which isn’t really an apt observation as Wall-E draws from a rich tradition of slapstick, almost vaudeville humor. Conventional though, it isn’t. Wall-E is almost entirely, in fact, quite literally, a study in character development, and it works beautifully on enough levels to make you forgive some of the more glaring lack of conventional film language and structure.

Of course, you really can’t go wrong with lovable robots, and there is something to envy in the innocent adolescence of our future robotic overlords. When Wall-E shows Eve his collectibles, he’s an anthropomorphic Annie Sullivan rubbing the hands of a robotic Helen Keller under the faucet of love and personality. When I do it, I’m just a sweaty man-child with Pokémon cards.

There were some things I wish was in this movie, like a robotic revolution against the bourgeoisie social structure that culminates in bloody class warfare, a more in depth exploration on malfunctioning robots as an indication of their growing awareness and personification, and robot sex, but regardless, it was the best movie I’ve ever seen where everyone doesn’t die at the end.

Hmmm let’s see.

Going to Japan, =_= can’t really afford it. Dammit I should have just taken the check from my Dad when I had the chance. STUPID PRINCIPLES.

On related news these are the same people I made a bet with that I could lose more weight in a month than Vince, or I would cosplay at the Comic Con this year. As anyone who knows me can imagine, it went well, but I think I’ve matured in that I’ve come to accept the consequences of my actions. As a sign of good faith, I would like to offer a giant cheesecake and this bottle of vodka to Vince as a token of my sportsmanship. Go on… eat it.

Wang’s going to France, thus heralding back to the dark days of yore where he would take advantage of the time difference to bother me at all fucking hours of the day. Good times. Let me just take this opportunity to say some parting words to a long time friend. SHUT UP! YOUR FACE IS UGLY AND NO ONE LOVES YOU! GET OUT! GET BACK IN THE KITCHEN! CAN I BORROW A DOLLAR? BECAUSE I’M A LITTLE SHORT! SLUT! Yeah, I was saving that for your wedding reception, but what can I say, I got caught up in the spirit of the moment. FUGLY!

And no Ed, I did not hang out with anyone else this weekend, I still care about you, no really, I’m not bitter that you’re closer to Jason than me and replaced me for 6 years and now that he’s busy doing his residency you have no one else to turn to. No, not at all.

:: Now Playing: Gloria Gaynor - I Will Survive ::

Starting dance classes in July, wee won’t that be fun.

And on top of all that I gotta find me a rich Korean doctor for my nuna. ¬_¬

Blah, rock on early late twenties, rock on.

I don’t normally eat sandwiches, but lately I’ve been bummed out so I grabbed a bite from my friend this Saturday. A friend who has particular rules about sandwiches. 1) She wouldn’t sell me any, but insisted that if I wanted to eat some that it would have to be at her place, yet 2) she wasn’t there. Eh, who am I to complain about free sandwiches? I’ll buy them some El Pollo Loco later.

Philosophically, I don’t really have anything against sandwiches, but I know from personal experiences what I can handle and what I enjoy and quite frankly sandwiches tend to scare me. Sure it’s fun at first, but as you continue eating sandwiches, you start asking yourself a lot of questions, and sooner or later you find yourself on the couch with the growing realization you lost 2 years of your life with nothing to show for it than insanely good video gaming abilities. This isn’t a universal experience, I’m sure, but ultimately you have to weigh the pros and the cons of any activity and judge their worth for yourself. This is why I no longer go to Tony Roma’s for baby back ribs. I don’t have to explain myself, they know fucking why.

The one thing I’ve always hated about sandwiches is the paranoia. I’ve grown to realize this is actually just an extension of my personality, but back then it always made me wonder what mad demons of yonder hell my subconscious doth grapple with on particularly long nights of the soul. Part of the reason was a sandwich will expand your percieved awareness while equally limiting your ability to participate meaningfully with your environment. So while you’re ‘aware’ of all sorts of things you’re not usually privvy to, you’re also that much less able to elucidate upon or act upon it.

Sounds like zen, but I feel the actual mechanism has more to do with sheer stupidity, as you’re just reacting to your environment on a much more ‘base’ level of reality. I feel that sandwiches just allows you to see things without the vaneer of social fiction we use to veil the narrative of our lives, and who’s to argue? When you’re high off sandwiches, you’re hardly in a position to be seducing people, or tricking old people out of their inheritence and if you can barely lie to others you’ll find it hard to lie to yourself as well. Instant sandwich lobotomy (EDIT: yeah the logic there was sort of raped, sandwiches effect my ability to write).

And this is usually the point where girls tend to lose eye contact and stare at their watches, but what I mean by social fiction is the ’story’ we tell to other people so that they can relate and interact with us. We shape it with our personality, our clothes, everything that has the potential to an indicator for tastes, ideas, and even agendas. Fashion is rife with this sort of symbolism but it rarely has to be as subtle. Strippers just use clear heals and glitter lipstick, and they’re perfectly able to evoke a response from their audience.

I guess you could just say sandwiches just make me overbearingly judgemental. When I’m high off sandwiches you’re no longer the brave enterprenuer pioneering new paradigms and technologies with your garage start up so much as that guy in a suit going from investor to investor selling equal parts bullshit and yourself. Your ex-girlfriend didn’t leave you so much because of a “conflict of interests and personality” so much as the fact you were a sad sack of boring pie that never left the apartment. Every memory of an awkward moment also becomes something else. “Was I hitting on her?” “They think I’m embarassing” “They’re using me for my incredibly good looks and charming personality.” It’s all very depressing but ultimately unsurprising truths, really.

Another thing I hate about sandwiches is that any story you listen to while you’re eating a sandwich instantly becomes the most elaborate epic movie you’ve ever seen inside your head. For instance, a friend asked me, if I would mind living with them. Since they were a couple I would be known as “Uncle Jed”, and suddenly I’m transported into an alternate reality where I’m 30 and they have kids. At first I end up playing with the kids and they think I’m the most awesome ‘uncle’ in the world, but as the years wear on, the dim flicker of understanding dawns in their little minds. “Mommy, why does Uncle Jed stay home a lot?” “Mommy, why does Uncle Jed not have a girlfriend?” “Mommy, why does Uncle Jed not wear pants?” Pretty soon I become the white elephant in the room that no one talks about, growing old and fat until I become that guy, the one that goes to family reunions and hangs out with people 20 years younger then themselves, giving out awkward back massages. At the age of 50 you’d find me on the porch of my halfway home, muttering insanely about fictional characters in an elaborate fantasy world I created to prevent myself from feeling lonely. Three years after my death, the first cadavers are excavated from their makeshift graves beneath my kitchen floor. It took all my efforts to prevent myself from jumping up from off the couch, screaming madly as I ran out into the night, fleeing what demons do prey on men’s fears. And the sad part for me is that’s the good sandwiches. That’s the sandwich I wake up from the next day and think, “man, I hope next time I eat a sandwich it’s like that not like the unimaginable fears that manifest themselves into an eternal living hell when I normally eat one.”

To everyone who’s asked me how New York was, I would prefer to refer to the ancient art of the bitchslap, a prosaic language full of history and nuanced expression. For instance, the “backwards extended lunge”, which roughly translates into the common tongue as “shut the hell up and get me a beer”, is apt for this occasion. Depending on the inflection of the wrist, the addressee can also be identified as a “woman”.

There is nothing more fun than meeting with 3 generations of your family, at least two thirds of them women. I have held more purses, waited in front of more beauty salons, picked up more food, and listened to more boring stories than all the cabana boys in Jamaica combined. I met my 15 year old god uncle, walked in on more sagging boobs than I care to remember, and was repeatedly awakened by a hyperactive 10 year old kid who seems to have developed a tenacious ability to rise at 6 in the morning (that’s 3am for us Pacific Timers). All that, combined with the fact that I am indeed 3 years older than the bride, which has lead to more “왜 결혼을 안 하나?”, than 13 closet lesbians would have experienced in a lifetime were god the director of the painfully unrealized comedy Saving Face, has made this an interesting experience nonetheless.

I will say this about New York, Korean food is awesome there. I am in the process of searching the Bay Area for Asamo’s Rice Balls. They’re rice balls packed in little plastic wraps, that as you unravel, wraps the rice ball in a dry piece of seaweed maintaining the perfect amount of freshness and crisp necessary for maximum rice ball enjoyment. Of course, I may be unnecessarily biased towards east coast food by my own cousin who happens to be a sushi chef, and while I did have reservations about the cheese flavored king crab, everything at his restaurant was delicious.

The wedding was held at Riverside Baptist Church in one of the most atrociously gothic settings I’ve ever had the privilege of waking up to, as weddings, no matter how anticipated and emotional, are very boring and church pews are amazingly comfortable when an old guy is talking slowly at you. As tacky as it is being wed under the visage of a giant stone Jesus hanging on the ceiling behind you, I was especially shocked at the “촌스러워” nature of the ceremony. I mean I know the traditional vows are rather archaic and sexist, but most people take that in stride, either implicated or explicitly acknowledging dominance in the marriage through the use of sexual positions. The most common being the missionary style, the doggie style, and the separate bedrooms-I have a headache-I’m going to my mother’s house style.

Koreans on the other hand seem to think it was not archaic enough as the pastor went on to describe in exacting detail just how submissive and obedient a wife should be. I fully expected him to throw out a diagram explaining exactly when dinner should be ready and how the laundry done. Now don’t get me wrong, as liberal as I am, I define relationships as when a woman starts doing your laundry, but you don’t come out and say that. I mean where’s the romance? You let it come out naturally as the culminating frustration of years of marriage and shattered dreams that explodes suddenly and awkwardly at your kid’s piano recital, not per course written verbatim in the wedding vows.

Then there was the ‘Korean ceremony’ which was narrated by the most obnoxious asshole in the world. I mean this passive aggressive fuck started condescendingly explaining everything to the one table full of white people the “rich” and “ancient” traditions of the Korean people, in a manner befit of a strip club DJ. Thanks a lot prick; we really needed a tour guide for what we’re seeing here: two kids dressed up like ninjas getting approval from the in-laws in the form of food being hurled at them. Irish people have this too, except it takes the form of a drinking contest. Doesn’t mean you got some fucking asshole narrating that shit for your chink friends.

This of course then transitioned nicely into the bride and groom dancing to a rendition of tap that ass in front of 4 generations of my family. Then I watched as the bridesmaid and groomsmen danced to hip hop and house music as I sat there watching in my fancy red vest with all the other awkward single men my age. It was prom night, had I gone, all over again, and no Harry Potter-esque magic mystery to solve to make me feel better about myself.

At least I got to listen to some nice daft punk and Aerosmith music.

I was seated at Table 8 which turned out to be the “miscellaneous cousin” table, which turned out not to be as terrible as I imagined as apparently I was the least socially awkward person there. This, of course, does not bode well for the continued survival of my clan, but I was too preoccupied with what apparently passes for “filet minion” to be worried. Really Riverside Baptist Church? Really? You stick slices of meat in a light glaze of industrial tenderizers, and you call it a meal? Fuck caterers. For my daughter’s wedding, I will kidnap no less than 6 grand chefs to prepare the most delicious animals in the most delicious way possible all the while lording over them in character as the original Godfather.

In the end, I left used, abused, and thoroughly ancillary to the events at hand. Almost as an afterthought my family drove me to the airport, and I never got to do any of the stuff I wanted to do, like visit Faisal, make up with Kevin, watch an off Broadway show, or something. As I sat there on the plane, I was overwhelmed with the sense of loss and regret that comes from a life of never taking chances or doing anything of worth. Nothing makes you feel older than watching someone younger than you get married, or succeed in life, or anything for that matter. I realized that in 25 years, I had never done anything as courageous as that, live life.

But it is okay now, because I now own a swanky suit with a red vest with matching tie, cuff links and handkerchief. All I need now is a pair of gloves, a cane, a pocket watch, a top hat, and a monocle and I’m ready to paint the town red. Oh yeah, the SF nightlife has yet to tango with the likes of Kwon… the mon.