Locating the Source of My Creativity

London - An Aside

2009-03-03T10:05:00.001-08:00

More stories from New Zealand (and now, Italy!) to come, but for now, a rant.

I just got off the London Tube feeling completely defeated and befuddled. At 4:30 PM, the platforms of both tube stations I utilized were packed with dark wool coats and a blur of bags. People were trying to get on the train, but no one was getting out (to accommodate the folks going in and out), and everyone huddled and packed themselves against each other in a 4 by 4 feet area by the doorsdumb sheep style. There should be a law against that. There should also be laws against massive people whose flesh spill over into the adjacent seats. And another law against people who don't remove their backpacks to make space for one more person in the train. I've given this subject a lot of thought. Mostly on the Bedford station platform of the L train when it was 8:30 AM, and three trains had passed by me with ostensibly no space for one more. I get furious, a quiet fury that makes me imagine doing unspeakable and bloody deeds to MTA officials and the apathetic MTA employees who threaten to strike for more wages and benefits, and the heartless MTA officials who have to placate riotous parties on both sides by hiking up the fare for struggling New Yorkers who don't seem to have any representation in this entire discussion, it's not even up for discussion, it just is, and prices just go up (much like gas), suddenly, on a date as final as Judgement Day as deemed by the MTA. (This may not really be an accurate representation of MTA issues, but this is just my interpretation.) I want to hurt them all.

I haven't had to deal with the MTA in months as I've been traveling and breathing fresh air under clear blue skies and dipping my toes in cold, babbling brooks and all that crap, but being in London brought it all back in one rush-hour trip. Public transportation during rush hour, anything during rush hour, makes me hate all of humanity.

Anyways.

On an utterly girly note, I got my eyebrows done by an artist (whose talents I would equate to Michelangelo or Titian), and I have never been so pleased. She spent an entire half hour on them! They're fabulous. I look like a pampered celebrity from my forehead to my browline.

Sleeping, or lack thereof

2009-02-20T22:22:00.000-08:00

I hate being awake when the birds start to chirp. You know you are up way too early when the birds have the streets all to themselves.

New Zealand - A Wellington Birthday

2009-02-12T19:06:00.000-08:00

13 February, 2009

Thanks for all the lovely birthday wishes on facebook and via email!! I can't tell you how much I miss everyone in the States (and everywhere) despite the wonderful adventures I'm having. And a big thank you for reading my blog. As I've said to a few of you, it's incredibly encouraging to know I have a few readers out there, and that my thoughts don't just float out and die in the Great Interwebspace.

I'm spending today lounging around in my bathrobe in a beautiful Wellington hotel room. A glitterly bouquet of roses and a huge English breakfast were delivered earlier today. I am spoiled rotten, indeed. Pictures to come.

Shameless Plug #2 - Te Anau Lodge

2009-02-12T17:49:00.000-08:00

2 -5 February, 2009

I can't rave enough about this place. If you find yourself in New Zealand, I URGE you to stay a few nights here especially if you badly need a break from your claustrophobia-inducing campervan or if you're aching and sore from oh, I don't know, say a 4 day-3 night hike through the fjordlands (Milford Track).

This place is a beautiful new and old little lodge with just 8 rooms, 2 of the most hospitable and friendly people in NZ, and 1 very sweet black Labrador named Josie.

The property is a large stretch of well-tended lawn with a rustic herb garden of basil, some dehydrated mint, and rosemary roughly framing a brick patio. A rusty bicycle leans against the laundry room (open to guests). On a clear day, the lake and its surrounding mountains are shades of blue and perfectly visible. Amid this peaceful atmosphere, you'll find clean, bright, welcoming rooms and 2 hosts, Matt and Chloe, who invite you into the lodge like it's their home. It's the little things that you'll find irresistible and fantastic here, and you'll also probably find yourself booking a room for another two nights (like Stu and I). Stu and I were supposed to spend just one night here to relax and recover and then jump back on the road to our next destination. Instead, we shifted around the rest of our itinerary for South Island, and begged Matt to let us vagabonds stay for two more nights.

What was it exactly that made us stay? It was a combination of the following listed below in no particular order:

1) Pieces of freshly baked, homemade cakes in the beautiful library/lounge upstairs (the carrot cake was delicious) with as much coffee and tea as you like.

The Library/Lounge

Delicious Carrot Cake!

2) Delicious continental and cooked breakfasts in the Chapel room in the mornings.

Continental breakfast spread

Cooked Breakfast

3) The fact that the lodge was a converted convent from 1936. It was literally moved, piece by piece, from a place called Nightcaps in South Dunedin to the town of Te Anau. There are photos and a little album of the entire process and its careful restoration displayed in the library.

4) Matt standing at the door to the patio and calling for his dog Josie.

5) Usually I don't care about this stuff, but little touches like the brightly polished timber wood floors, rimu wood panels and framing, bathroom tiles with paua shell details, and vintage suitcases as doorstops convinced me that a lot of work and thought had been invested in this place.

Suitcase Doorstop

I'm sure I can go on and on, but I think you get the idea. Plus I should leave the rest to be discovered first-hand.

Thanks to our wonderful hosts Matt and Chloe at Te Anau Lodge.

Shameless Plug #1 - Kapiti Ice Cream

2009-02-12T17:23:00.000-08:00

The best ice cream in the world is in New Zealand. Well, I don't have the research to back up that statement, but I'm working on it.

Kapiti Ice Cream, made by Kapiti Fine Foods Ltd., is incredibly delicious and creamy, deserving all the gold awards it received from the NZ Ice Cream Awards. (Sidenote: Kiwis seem to have awards for everything. We saw a tiny residential street awarded with "Best Street 2007" in Taupo.) The source of the name Kapiti is this beautiful region which was shrouded in low clouds and pouring rain when we drove through.

Bush Fires

2009-02-12T16:34:00.001-08:00

I understand now why New Zealand has these signs posted along the state highways all across the nation. It's mostly a good thing, I think, that one can sense the heavy presence of the NZ government's hand. But that's wandering into another topic altogether.

For this entry, I just want to acknowledge all the brave firemen and rescue workers (some sent by NZ's prime minister) and the victims of the tragic bushfires in Australia. I hope all your friends and family down under are safe.

New Zealand - Skydiving

2009-02-03T18:15:00.001-08:00

13 January, 2009

We were picked up at 9 AM to go skydiving by a "Kane" who had spiky brown hair with sandy blond highlights which was carefully swept over with plenty of hair gel like a contemporary interpretation of Mike Score from A Flock of Seagulls. He drove the van (which was empty of clients except us) fast and kept using his cell phone to call his base and make worrisome comments like "Do you know of a petrol station by here? I'm running out of petrol, yeah?" He was dressed like a skater but had an inordinate fondness for top 40 pop songs - we heard it all - Britney Spears, Pink, and Katy Perry to indiscernible, angry techno. I fell asleep only because I was so exhausted by jet lag.

Next thing I know, we were off the main motorway and on a windy, two-way road that undulated between rolling hills and valleys. It felt like he was driving really fast at this point, and the music was turned up louder since the engine was working harder, and suddenly, we arrived at a sign - NZ Skydive.

The place seemed like a hangout for skaters or truants. The office was a reinterpreted 2 bedroom home with shabby furnishings - worn, dirty carpeted hallway, a bare bathroom with no soap and a suspicious dark brown hand towel. Although there were anywhere from 10 to 15 guys milling about, nobody really spoke to us save the fat receptionist with pasty thick eyeliner and badly highlighted hair. She was relatively friendly until you started requesting things from her like a cup of water, then she became rather unhelpful and dismissive.

The guys all looked like aging skaters, others looked like they were barely out of high school, and a few looked like they were trying really hard to fit in. Four guys sat on an old velor couch watching videos of skydiving. Three or four more guys were gathered around a large Mac computer monitor watching more skydiving footage.

Finally, a guy named Jari took us aside with a curt "Let's get you in your jumpsuits" (in a thick Finnish accent) and didn't bother to introduce himself until Stu was in his jumpsuit and ready for the harness. I guess he thought it was best to introduce himself right before he got nice and intimate with us on the plane. Then we sat around in a stifling, air condition-less room until an older man came in with a colorful canopy (parachute) bag. The attention of the lounging guys turned, and several guys went over to talk to the man. This was Tony - the chief safety officer with over 12,000 jumps under his belt. He was my man. I was going tandem with this guy, the top dog. He was probably only in his late forties but his face was weathered like an old sailor's.

We were driven to the plane on the back of a truck like a hayride to our impending deaths. The driver/pilot looked like a 'Nam vet with a leathery, wrinkled face, aviator glasses (probably hiding his glass eye), and long greasy salt and pepper hair tucked under a trucker hat. He wore a long sleeved camouflage top and black denim cut-off shorts showcasing his hairy tanned legs.

Getting ready for the thrill of my life

We boarded (more like climbed and crawled) into the tiniest airplane I've ever seen. It was possibly the first plane ever manufactured, something straight out of Casablanca. We sat completely squished together so I didn't know whose limbs I was pressed against. Tony sat in the back, I sat facing him with our legs intertwined. Jari sat next to me with Stu between his legs, like lovers on a beach. My right leg lost feeling, not that it mattered before my fall to what seemed like sure death.

I expected the flight to be nauseating but it was quite pleasant to fly thousands of feet above the rolling hills and farms outside of Auckland - the same view we had flying into Auckland. Then I remembered that I wasn't just taking a ride, and my only way back was to jump out of that plane. We flew up to 12,000 feet which didn't really sound like too much in the brochure but definitely felt like a lot when saw farmhouses turning into tiny dots.

Stu jumped out first with Jari. There were several parts that were equally terrifying but each seemed to trump its predecessor. The first part was when Jari unlatched the flimsy plastic door which immediately snapped open and let the cold air blast in. It was misty and gray. We were in the middle of a cloud. The second most terrifying moment was when Stu hung off the side of the plane, his legs swinging beneath the side of the plane, and then suddenly disappeared into the gray mist. The third came when Tony started scooting us (I was attached to him by this point) towards the open door, effectively pushing me towards the edge. For a split second, I saw swirling mist and the absolute nothing beneath my feet. As instructed, I immediately tilted my head back (I didn't want to see what was or wasn't beneath me anyway) and held my arms in a cross against my chest like the sign language for "I love you". I didn't have time to be scared. I just remember my mind going blank and Tony saying, "Ready, darling"? I think I nodded and all I felt was his heaving stomach and barrel chest pressing against my back. He pushed off, and we spun through the frigid air in the most terrifying way. I forgot to breathe, but my mouth was open, and at one point in mid-tumble to earth, I felt my ears popping really, really painfully. The pressure made these sharp, painful snaps in my ears. I noticed that my mouth had become completely dry, and I finally shut it. At some point, Tony tapped my shoulder and I was free to release my arms and legs into a frog position. Apparently, we experienced about 45 seconds of free fall which was both an eternity and a flash. Tony pulled a cord, and I was violently jerked upright, the harness dug into my legs. While we were free falling, Tony had tapped my shoulder and pointed out the scenery which boggled my mind. How can you pay attention to some damn hills and cows when you're hurtling to the earth at god knows what speed? But, once we were floating with the parachute, I was able to close my mouth and look around. It was peaceful and extremely breathtaking. The only distractions I had were my popping ears, headache, and straps digging into my legs. But what a view!

It's a shame that we didn't opt for any pictures or video, but I'll be skydiving again in the near future, I'm sure. It's a highly recommended activity!

http://www.nzskydive.co.nz/

I Heart NY

2009-02-03T17:45:00.000-08:00

Missing New York, family, and friends.

Creative Interpretations of NY

Thanks to my old roommate Helen for the link.

**Erratum: Please note a correction to the first draft of this entry. The above should be "Thanks to my old beloved roommate Helen for the link." Apologies to all offended parties (Helen). Love!

New Zealand - Day of Firsts cont'd

2009-02-03T14:10:00.000-08:00

13 January, 2009 continued.

I left off with the promise of detailing more exciting firsts. I drove on the left side of the road for the first time in my life. I was extremely nervous, thinking that I might somehow forget what I was doing and wander into the other side of the road when making a turn. But you quickly get the hang of it. The trick is to focus on staying as close as possible to the right side since we American drivers have a tendency to wander to the left, dangerously approaching the curb or another car. Though everything feels pretty much the same, the one thing I really dislike is passing cars going the other direction on a State Highway. Despite its grand title, New Zealand's state highways are more like long, winding, 2-lane country roads. When you pass cars or trucks going the other way at a 100 kmph, it feels like you're going to scrape the right side against the other vehicle's but just narrowly miss! I do not like that feeling at all. I don't know what it is, but it seems different when the driver's seat is on the left side.

The next first experience was skydiving, but that definitely deserves its own entry.

New Zealand - Day of Firsts

2009-02-03T01:40:00.000-08:00

13 January, 2009

We picked up the Spaceship on this day. What is the Spaceship you ask? Why, it's only our home for the next 5 weeks. It is the campervan of all campervans: bright orange, fully visible from any point in New Zealand, fully decked with a mini fridge that freezes your produce and a gas stove that dangerously swings out from the back of the passenger seat while preventing the passenger from comfortably leaning back on long rides (due to the large gas tank tucked behind the seat), and and and, a full mattress bed in the back where you can stretch out your legs (but don't sit up!) and watch a DVD at your leisure. We were blessed with the Eclipse on our first leg (one week in North Island).

The Eclipse (Yes, it's missing a hubcap.)

So this day was the day of many firsts for me. It was the first day I had ever driven on the left side of the road! Actually, back up. This day was the first day I've ever driven a van so old and yet so brightly painted. For your edification, the van's other awesome features include a moon roof and a sun roof for the illusion of added space, full sets of cutlery and cookware for two, as well as a little pantry for your food, a solar shower, and awnings for the side and the back. Anyone jealous yet? But the best feature has to be, and still is, its ability to attract the attention of other Spaceships on the road (thanks to its blindingly orange hue) so you can wave and smile in secret society solidarity that only truckers and bus drivers have had the privilege to do. Awesome.

More to come on my day of firsts, and please stay tuned for future entries such as "3 Day, 2 Night Kayak Trip in Abel Tasman National Park", "New Zealand Phrases for $400, Alex", "4 Day, 3 Night Great Walk on Milford Track", "Holy Crap Strap", and "Character Sketch - Lake Matheson"!

Pooped. Going to bed. Shong out.

New Zealand - Auckland Jan 12

2009-02-03T01:22:00.000-08:00

My first incident in New Zealand (and trust me, not the last). It happened on the first day, well, first hour, of arrival, if you want to be technical. I ran the luggage cart into the damn curb, sending our bags flying everywhere. That curb came out of nowhere I tell you! Apologies to that Toyota.

On a separate note, those are the only pieces of luggage I have until April! And two of those bags aren't even mine. Not bad, huh?

At the Auckland Airport

New Zealand Jan 12 - Feb 17

2009-01-27T22:11:00.000-08:00

I'm in Queenstown (starting drafting this entry there, now I'm in Te Anau) at the moment, and it feels a bit strange to be writing about these places and days past. Time has been flying by, but it also seems like we've been traveling for a long time. Being on the road, on the go all the time, and living out of a soccer mom van (a Toyota Estima) makes one lose sense of time and place. Every holiday park, communal kitchen, public toilet, and dairy (deli/convenience store) starts to blend in and look the same, not to mention most of the tiny villages dotting the lengths of New Zealand's gritty state highways.

Auckland is a really nice city, although parts of it remind me of other cities. A friend said, after some extensive travel, that cities started to blend together for her, and they started to look the same. Auckland, Sydney, San Francisco, Honolulu, Buenos Aires, Lima are beginning to blur into one big urban entity for me these days. But language, faces, particular nooks, and especially, cleanliness are what make places unique in my memory. Auckland, and New Zealand in general, is extremely clean, and trash in public spaces is few and far between.

The below is a public park in Sydney. It's a bit hard to tell in this picture, but all the white dots are white plastic grocery bags. The entire park was covered in these plastic bags blowing in the wind everywhere like in American Beauty except it wasn't beautiful, it was just plain dirty.

In any case, New Zealand is pristine and beautiful so far (starting week 4). It's a very developed country that is quite under-developed at the same time. That thought to be explained in future entries...

First view of New Zealand

First view of Auckland

Sydney Jan 11 - 12

2009-01-27T21:15:00.001-08:00

We didn't have more than a full day and night here, unfortunately, but definitely a town on my list to visit properly. After all, I didn't have enough meals in one day to really experience the city.

I'm always surprised to come across Korean diaspora around the world. It's always a bit unexpected when I run into a Korean restaurant in places I'd never think Koreans could adapt to or adopt. But one's nostalgia for home never seems to disappear, and so far, I've been able to locate a Korean food joint wherever I go - Prague, Cuzco in Peru, Queenstown in New Zealand, and Sydney.

I must have gone to the wrong Korean restaurant in Sydney because my dolsot bibimbop (the hot stone bowl bibimbop - not going to bother explaining it here because my blog is for lovers of all foods, but especially Korean food) was seriously lacking the mysterious vegetables my mom had dubbed "mountainvegetablesjusteati,it'sgoodforyou" and no bulgogi meat! Perhaps the restaurant was serving up the recession special bibimbop. At least they didn't skimp on the gochujang sauce and gave me the whole bottle. Disappointed.

Dinner, although much more expensive, wasn't too much better. What I should've had were the massive crayfish that were suspended in large tanks at the Sydney Aquarium. What I had instead was the 7 course tasting menu at Aria. The executive chef of this place is Matthew Moran who didn't let you forget it with his autographed cookbooks prominently and tackily displayed everywhere for sale. And (surprise!) he reminded you that they were available for purchase ($40) on his menu and with your bill. The best courses were an entree of this incredibly savory and silky Peking duck consomme with shaved abalone, mushrooms, and dumplings, all enveloped by a shiny coat of truffle oil, and the dessert of a chilled peach soup with a raspberry ice cream cannelloni and ginger gelee bits. I've noticed that cool fruit soups for dessert is really popular, and I'm all for this trend. It's really refreshing in the summer.

Peking Duck Consomme

Chilled Peach Soup

I'd say the most winning aspect of the restaurant was the view of the majestic Sydney Opera House, and the most lackluster was its spotty service. I felt rushed to get out, understandable since it was late on a Sunday night, but our server had to be reminded several times to bring around cocktail menus and a copy of the tasting menu. All chalked up to an "ok" experience for the price. I'm definitely coming back for Tetsuya, a fabled unforgettable experience for a gourmand (or just a little ol' food lover like me).

Aria Restaurant

View of Sydney Opera House from our table

Sydney Harbour Bridge at Night

Sydney Opera House at Night

JAL Jan 9 - Jan 11

2009-01-27T20:45:00.000-08:00

Sweet Jesus, JAL, where have you been all my life? If I had known, if only, if only I had known about the food on this airline. I would have gone out of my way to fly JAL everywhere! I took photos for your viewing pleasure, of course.

The presentation was impeccable, delicate, and precise, in a very Japanese fashion. To the left is a little amuse bouche of beef and salmon sashimi, and some kind of roe I can't remember now. Of course, the food wasn't nearly as good as a meal freshly prepared in a restaurant, but it's as good as you can get some 30,000-odd feet in the air. JAL fed us extremely well with a constant supply of rice crackers, soybean snacks, and a sort of gourmet selection of steaming hot cup o' noodles (your choice of soba, udon, or ramen noodles) whenever we so desired! Not to mention the extensive beverage selection of shochu, sake, beer, liquor, and delightfully fizzy Japanese sodas.

the Japanese Omakase dinner

Mango Dessert and Green Tea

The Menu

A Snack

I took a long hot shower in the Japan Airlines lounge which felt great after a 1o hour flight from Honolulu to Tokyo. The best part(s) about flying JAL besides their food was the attentive service and the little amenities - refreshing eye mask, face mask (so your nose and throat don't dry out while sleeping, and it can also be worn around Tokyo so you blend in with everyone else wearing a face mask).

Badass

Honolulu Jan 6 - Jan 9 Part II

2009-01-21T00:46:00.000-08:00

I can't leave Hawaii without touching upon its food. To sum up, Hawaii's cuisine is general fatty goodness. I don't want to know what they put in their meat products, and I really don't care. It is tasty all-American stuff with an Asian twist. Chili, Spam, "all beef" franks come with a side of rice and some processed cheese, and gravy too if you request the heart-attack special.

The "fanciest" meal we had was at Alan Wong's in Honolulu. Located on a major street of 3 lanes and tucked away on the 3rd floor of a nondescript office building, I didn't have very high expectations. I was especially disappointed in the restaurant's choices of chain restaurant decor (like muted pastel green and mauve colors), orangy lighting, creaky metal restroom doors, cheap paper towels and an unsightly plastic soap dispenser. I know, I know I sound snotty, but at the prices this place was charging, this "fine" dining establishment had taken a lot of liberty downgrading the details.

My impressions continued to be negative. I noticed a dirty fork by my chair that had been carelessly overlooked by the staff. The uniforms were mismatched bargain bin ties with equally mismatched white button-down dress shirts. Clearly, the staff were given loose guidelines and had been told to supply their own uniforms. The service was friendly but a bit harried, and I think I remember my silverware was from different sets, but I may just be imagining things.

The cuisine was a sort of Pacific Rim-European fusion. The first dish appeared. I held my breath expecting to food to be equally disappointing. It was... shockingly good! Although everything was a bit too salty (even for a savory, salt-lick loving lady like me), the food was well prepared with each bite savory, layered, flavorful. My main course of seared Ahi steak was perfectly seared and seasoned, and the middle was a cool, raw pink.

The below was my starter of kimchi spring rolls, lettuce and shiso leaves (to be eaten like a Vietnamese spring roll), cucumber kimchi, and fried tofu (or maybe it was a seafood cake). The most delightful course was the dessert. We didn't even get a shot of it because it was gobbled up before we remembered to get out the camera. It was the Haupia Tapioca "Halo Halo" which was like the best fruit cup I've ever had. The tapioca came with a mini fruit salad of Hamakua Springs apples, bananas, pineapples, mango kanten, sweet corn, Azuki beans, and coconut shaved ice. It was so refreshing.

Everything was ono at Alan Wong's!!

Honolulu Jan 6 - Jan 9 Part I

2009-01-18T03:21:00.000-08:00

I met Stu's parents for the first time which I thought would have defined my entire stay in Honolulu, but the effect of that experience didn't hit me until much later. Stu and I were so busy catching up with friends, snorkeling, sightseeing, and eating our meals out that we barely ran into his folks. His house was very quiet, very much the empty nest with the absence of 3 grown children. I made sure to tiptoe around and close doors quietly lest I disturb the peace. Part of what made it so quiet was the beautiful garden and yard around Stu's house. There were fruit-laden tangerine, pear, pomelo trees, blooming lavender and white hydrangeas, lush avocado and lychee trees, bamboo for fencing, and these massive, majestic ceramic urns dark with water plants and tiny fish.

Each morning of my stay, I was woken up by the sound of insistent quacking outside the window. As Stu had warned me, ducks appeared up the side of a small hill to get their daily bread that Stu's father threw out the master bedroom window every morning. They waddled around, assembling themselves in some sort of rehearsed order and looked up expectantly. Sure enough, pieces of stale white bread fell from the sky. Though it was 7 AM, I was on my great adventure, and perfectly content to put up with their happy noise.

That evening was my first walk on Hawaii's beaches. We drove to Waikiki and walked on the sand on our way to dinner.

The next day we went snorkeling out in Hanauma Bay. I'm actually pretty terrified of water although completely in love with beaches and the ocean. The thought of drowning in bottomless, dark water conjures up a stomach-dropping feeling in me. Though we were snorkeling in shallow water with no large animals, it was difficult to manage the most menial or automatic tasks like standing or breathing in and out of my mouth. Transitioning from a swimming position to a standing position and going in and out of the water proved to be tricky as I tended to panic like a fish out of water.

There weren't too many fish, but I think the conservation effort will reverse that in the future. Where locals used to drive straight up to the bay and snorkel, a parking lot was created with a specific entrance and fees as well as the mandatory viewing of an informational 9 minute film about the Bay's delicate coral reef. Basically, you're not supposed to step on it, making most of the Bay's floor a landmine-like environment. Whatever it takes to keep Hawaii beautiful.

The Bay Area

2009-01-18T02:14:00.000-08:00

I couldn't believe how cold the Bay Area was! California always makes me think of sun and warmth and people with fake or real tans. But SF/Oakland didn't seem too much warmer than blustery New York. Of course it was actually a lot warmer, but I don't think I was dressed appropriately in a t-shirt and a thin jacket.

I was exhausted on my way to SF. I probably had frog eyes and a swollen face from my last hurrah in New York. Thanks to everyone who came out and humored me through my drunken stupor - especially when I couldn't control the volume of my voice in the diner, post-drinking.

SF was exactly the stop I needed before heading any further away from home. It was a moment to catch up with old friends, eat good food (I mean really good food), and sleep. My amazing hostess Kim let me do just that by stuffing me with fresh, delicious grub (every meal was memorable), and letting me sleep and sleep and sleep.

We started off the weekend with a really entertaining and informative tour through a chocolate factory which wasn't unlike Willy Wonka's chocolate factory. If only the pipes running along the ceiling were clear so the sweet dark brown liquid could be seen traveling above our heads! Oh, and there weren't any Oompaloompas. What a disppointment. The tour seemed pretty rehearsed, but there were moments of genuine enthusiasm from our guide, like when she passed around a sample of chocolate made from cacao beans grown by Japanese farmers in Brazil. This particular variety, called Tome-Acu, is grown in the Brazilian Amazon and is considered to be the closest in flavor to what the Mayans may have cultivated and consumed. Did you know that the first substance to be served to the public was theobromine in the form of chocolate (not caffeine in coffee or tea) in London back in 1657? Good stuff. Check it out: Scharffen Berger

After a little amuse bouche(s) of chocolate samples, we had dinner at the very fresh, very reasonably priced Pizzaiolo in Oakland. The chicken liver pate crostini was my favorite as well its castmates on the Winter Antipasti plate - hearty lentils and verdant kale. Runner up was the papperdalle with a really tasty chicken and pork ragu. Yum!

The next day, we had a homemade brunch and a walk through the colorful neighborhood of Mission. For dinner, we had a meal that always makes me feel at home - a Korean feast at Brothers in SF. But I have to say, the highlight of the meal was not the food. The highlight was watching Toronto Alex suddenly turn into a human vacuum, silently and methodically sucking up every last bit of meat off each rib, reaching across the 6 person table for the untouched banchan, and asking me if I was going to finish my oxtail soup. After having witnessed Alex eat 3 normal portioned meals more out of hunger and necessity, he was a sight to behold. He ate like it was his last meal. I guess you can take a boy out of Korea, but you can't take Korea out of the boy. We left reeking of kalbi, a scent I couldn't get out of my jacket until I did a load of laundry in Honolulu.

The rest of the weekend was filled with more sleep, more great meals, prolific chats, unexpected adventures and an unplanned trip to Berkeley Bowl.

Many thanks to Kim, Kirk, Alex, Meej, and Chinaka & Nate for the right start to my adventure that filled the tummy and the soul. ;) I left SF fully sated.

Great Adventure!

2009-01-18T01:24:00.000-08:00

I'm off, I'm off!! The GREAT Adventure begins, has already begun! I've never traveled so extensively in my life, and I wasn't really sure what to expect. Everything sounds doable in theory, but what does "communal toilet/shower facilities" or "campervan" or "self-contained unit" really mean? Although it has only been two weeks, I've discovered living out of a suitcase gets old, fast. And let me tell you, living out of a van is especially tiring. Traveling has made time fly out of my grasp, and I can't seem to find a moment to sit down and catch my breath. BUT what I've seen and done in the last two weeks is more than I've done in a very long time with my life. I feel like I've accomplished a lot, that I've been really living.

My itinerary:

Jan 3 - Jan 6 --> San Francisco/Oakland/Bay Area
Jan 6 - Jan 9 --> Honolulu
Jan 9 - Jan 11 --> in the air, crossing the International Date Line/Narita Airport, Tokyo, Japan
Jan 11 - Jan 12 --> Sydney, Australia
Jan 12 - Jan 19 --> North Island Part I, New Zealand
Jan 19 - Feb 9 --> South Island, New Zealand
Feb 9 - Feb 17 --> North Island Part II, New Zealand
Feb 17 - Feb 18 --> in the air, crossing International Date Line/Hong Kong International Airport, Hong Kong
Feb 18 - Feb 20 --> London, UK
Feb 20 - Feb 26 --> Italy
Feb 26 - April ?? --> London, UK/To Be Determined
April?? --> Officially move to Hong Kong

More on my adventures in the next post...

The Ol' Reach-Around

2008-12-08T14:58:00.000-08:00

Ewwww

Thanks to Hipstomp for sharing this darling moment of possible political suicide. Unfortunately, I don't think most people would be too shocked by this as a) it was accidental and b) people don't even blink an eye at this stuff anymore. What's a grope here or there?

For my international readers, in case you can't see it: Saxby Chambliss' Holiday Message

On a separate note:
Holidays are just around the corner, and the Christmas spirit is never so apparent anywhere as it in any retail store. I went to Pret a Manger recently to enjoy a nice lunch with myself, a salad, and a fascinating New Yorker article about Bernanke. After I had paid and settled at a little round table with comfortable bench seating, I found I couldn't focus on the article let alone chew my salad in any semblance of peace. Possibly because something similar to the below was playing in the background or foreground depending on how you looked at the situation.

Christmas pop songs are an abomination. Oh wait, except for this one.

Personally, I'm a little more fond of the more dramatic and stern Christmas song, "Carol of the Bells". This version makes me want to get up and Riverdance! Not sure what the medieval costume party is all about though. This one is just strange, and the ambiguous political message via a montage of flags and images are fitting of a Madonna concert.

Anyways, happy holidays.

Don't lose sight of the bigger picture, President-elect Obama

2008-11-13T15:28:00.000-08:00

The world as we know it is crumbling around us in small and large explosions - 9/11, Katrina and friends, the sub-prime mortgage crisis, the credit crunch, the end of investment banks, war(s), genocide(s) - leaving me with a pretty bleak outlook. Everyone is waiting with bated breaths for the President-elect Barack "Messiah" Hussein Obama to perform his magic and bring about categorical, wholesale change.

I haven't lost hope or any faith in this man, but one can tell that the weight of the world lies heavily on his shoulders. He is only one man, so I'm crossing my fingers that he doesn't collapse under the weight of the world's expectations. My only hope is that Obama and his staff (because governing is not the result of one man's effort) never loses sight of the larger picture. He has proven himself brilliant at perceiving the nuances of complex issues, and understanding that nothing is black and white, red or blue, or even gray or purple. As Thomas Friedman succinctly said, "I'm not a partisan. I'm not at war with Republicans or liberal Democrats. Most people are like that. They're not hyper-partisan--they just want you to come up with the right answer."* And the right answers are investing in the long-term, never compromising the future of our country for short-term relief, and holding onto integrity despite and in spite of 'the way things are done' in Washington.

One imperative issue that cannot slip off Obama's administration's radar: EDUCATION.

*From The New Yorker, "The Bright Side" by Ian Parker (November 10, 2008)

Elated

2008-11-05T14:33:00.000-08:00

I'm still on a high from last night and feeling, well, hope. The word is tiring, but the feeling is not. I can't seem to tire of the images, of people all over the world celebrating in the streets, in bars, in living rooms, of the President-elect's creased face, and the image of tears streaming from Jesse Jackson's eyes. It is incredible to see this overwhelming amount of global excitement.

Last night felt like New Year's Eve. There was an unspoken countdown (or countup in this case) with bated breath until the news was announced. Breaking News: Obama wins election. Last night was a new beginning, a night to make vows, and to make resolutions that you hope you will keep and eventually change for the better.

Hope and change. Hope and change. Hope and change. These are the words that have defined our nation and will define the global outlook of 2009.

I didn't see pure joy on one notable face. Barack Obama's gaze into the camera was intent, his smiles were brief, and you had to look at his wife and children to know that he was happy. Obama's win was not without tragic losses and absences: his campaign director in Nevada Terence Tolbert, his father, his mother, and most recently, his grandmother. But most vivid in his gaze was his intensity and his anxiety. He was not celebrating the night, but anticipating the challenges. His shell was there, an Obama cutout, while his mind and heart were at the White House.

This is the closest to fiction and fantasy our political reality has ever been. This is The West Wing, and I just hope that President Obama can be as bold and courageous as the fictional President Bartlet in Let Bartlet Be Bartlet. America has needed Barack Obama, not a superhero, but a man full of integrity who is a good father, husband, and leader. Someone who is unafraid of doing the right thing. I hope Aaron Sorkin's fantasy so vividly imagined becomes our reality in 2009.

On a completely separate, but related note (Obama's inheritance), this is the saddest and most creative perspective on the crisis on Wall Street.

Cartoon by Tom Toles from The Washington Post.

Feeling re-energized

2008-11-04T20:50:00.000-08:00

This night, of all nights, seems most appropriate to revisit my old blog and put thoughts to the proverbial paper. This night, this historic night, is an occasion for ceremonious, celebratory words.

And yet, the words won't come, and I'm left feeling a little speechless. I wish the political pundits and the networks would feel the same, and join me in a moment of silence. I wish we could pause and observe this incredible moment, of 200+ years of history in the United States, the struggles, the Civil War, the Civil Rights, the immigrants, the labor movements, the soldiers, the dead, the alive, the old, and the young. Stop all the cameras, stop the inaudible interviews, stop the screaming and champagne drinking. Feel this moment of emotions that is overwhelming the nation.

Congratulations to our next President. President Barack Hussein Obama.

"Everything really is possible in America." -- Thomas L. Friedman

God Bless America.

The Revival of One Hundred Steps - Part IX: Fetishes

2008-06-05T19:59:00.000-07:00

April 15, 2006 11:02 PM

I've lived in Manhattan for the last few years, and I've been spoiled by Giuliani's legacy. Nearly every neighborhood in Manhattan has been gentrified within an inch of its life. Streets are cleaned, the homeless have become less visible, there's no graffiti on the subway trains. There are many nights I opt out of a cab ride and walk home alone, feeling perfectly safe. I assumed the crazies had moved out of Manhattan; they now commute on the Path or MetroNorth.

But I hear of more than a few murders on the local news, of children left alone in the house unsupervised, of young women abducted from local bars. But it all seemed pretty removed from me until I had my own "New York of the 70s" encounter.

I ordered some food from an Italian joint called La Casalinga. I buzzed up the delivery guy to my door. After he handed me the food, I gave him a few bills and waited for the change. As he handed me the change, he looks me up and down.

(As an aside, I'll give a physical description of this guy in case anyone else runs into him. He has dark skin, a scruffy, unshaven face, dark brown hair that's parted in the middle and comes down past his ears on each side. His hair is curly and greasy with gel. He looks as he would in his own mugshot. He's about 5'10", 5'11".)

So he looks me up and down and asks, "Are you a dancer or something?" (He has a Hispanic accent, less "street" and more like "recent immigrant".)

"No, no I'm not," I reply.

"Oh because you have the legs and the feet of dancer." (I was barefoot and wearing cropped sweats.)

Ok... I was getting slightly uncomfortable, but I was flattered and figured it was going to end with the compliment. But no. The guy bends down, and runs one hand over my left foot. I freak out a little, but I try to keep my cool, hoping he would leave. Then:

"Yes, looks just like a dancer's," he says to me.

I back up from the door and start closing it.

"Thanks, thank you."

"You know reflexology? You Chinese," he asks, trying to re-engage me.

"No, no. Korean. Ok, thanks," I said, dismissing him.

"Reflexology," he responds as though he doesn't hear me, "it's a type of Chinese massage."

This guy gets down on ONE KNEE, runs his hand over my left foot, then my right. He fingers a big toe before I take another step back and thank him once more, more insistently. He's still down on one knee, and it becomes the longest few seconds of my life.

"Reflexology is like... and you push... pressure points..."

I'm not really listening to him at this point because to my horror, he has picked up my foot by the heel. He starts to massage the ball of my foot, caressing it a little. I pull my foot back.

"No thank you. That's alright. Ok, no thanks." I don't know what to say; I'm blubbering ineffectual protests against this Latino delivery guy with a foot fetish. I decided to remain polite because who knows what will happen if I piss him off?

I give my foot another firm tug, and before he lets go, he lifts my foot a little further, bends his head over it, and KISSES the top of my foot.

I jerk my foot away this time, remain polite, thank him, and close the door as quickly as I can push it without slamming it in his face. I hear the elevator take him away, and that's when I breathe out.

There's a particular feeling associated with an unwanted, unsolicited touch. It's a sort of tingling feeling right in the touched spot. It crawls up your body, the way disgust only can, and makes you want to take a shower. The tingling turns into a throbbing sensation like a burn without the pain. And it's one of those physical reactions you'll remember forever.

I understand, on a microscopic level, how women might feel when sexually assaulted or abused. A woman is trapped, usually in terror, then in anger. Even in her righteous fury, she hesitates to report anything because what if her attacker knows her address? What if he is the vengeful type? What if she's followed? It is frightening to think of the possibilities.

The Revival of One Hundred Steps - Part VIII: Crying and Other Games

2008-06-05T19:56:00.000-07:00

December 4, 2005 6:19 PM

I think one of the most certifiably insane things I do is cry. I have the ability (or the insanity) to cry at the most inane things like The Cosby Show, any number of romantic comedies, and commercials for diamond rings and Cheerios. But the inexplicable way I get emotional about 5 minutes of Scrubs and 30 seconds of a DeBeers Diamonds commercial is not just proof of the power of advertising. (Although I am a sucker for a great commercial or a well-designed product.) I'm completely drawn to the way television easily packages a torrent of complicated and interconnected emotions and presents it in a well-wrapped 30 second, 30 minute or an hour long segment that hits you right in the guts.

As ridiculous as it sounds, when I watch an episode of Scrubs, I can't help but wish that life would come in packaged 30 minute segments. Trials and tribulations would last only an alotted amount of time at the end of which would result in a tightly and elegantly tied bow of an epiphany. Everything would make sense. Then after your show would come an episode of Law & Order to put your life in perspective. But there isn't enough capital, sponsors, or products in the world that could ever make that fly. Because no one is really interested in the insecurities and fears that drives the person sitting across from you on your way to work on the 6 train, coupled with the fact that life doesn't come in 30 minute segments.

So everyone just desperately tries to hold onto everything they're afraid of because once that escapes, there'll be chaos. But once in a while one will react to his fears and hope that a commercial break will distract their friends and family from seeing something that had been buried a long time ago. It's difficult to fight your insecurities and act appropriately on a daily basis, but you do it to keep the peace. In the midst of protecting yourself and your privacy, it's the things that you say or don't say that can mess up the delicate balance you already have.

And perhaps Scrubs is not the emotional tour de force of Titanic or a Barbara Streisand song, but it certainly does it for me. It's an excuse for me to cry about the things I want to cry about in life. Does that make me a wuss? I said wuss.

The Revival of One Hundred Steps - Part VII: Hitler on Halloween

2008-06-05T19:53:00.000-07:00

October 31, 2005 12:23 AM

Halloween, Candy, & Condoms

Not a big fan of Halloween, but I was mildly turned on by the Boy's rendition of Clark Kent in a state of undress, or more specifically, in a state of ripping off his button-down to reveal a large yellow "S" rippling over his pectoral muscles and... uh, I got a little carried away there.

The only other thing I love about Halloween is those bags of mini Snickers bars. I feel guilt-free eating those bite-sized morsels although in reality I end up eating the equivalent of 6 regular sized bars. But I can get those bags year round which brings me to my original opinion of Halloween: general disdain. Halloween is just a poor excuse for shenanigans and hooliganism. Case in point: on the local news tonight was a story about a 15 year old boy shooting a 31 year old man in the Bronx (and 3 times in the arm and the ass) during a chase that ensued when the boy wouldn’t stop throwing eggs at the man’s purple Dodge minivan. The boy said the egging was a Halloween prank.

That’s the thing about New York: I feel like something completely senseless is always happening around me, at any given moment. I feel like I’m surrounded by characters of a play who represent detailed and specific stereotypes and are capable of, well, craziness. I think I was about to witness one of those instances this evening. As I walked into a corner store to buy some Vitamin Water, three guys walked in right behind me. They all looked conspicuously fashion-challenged in the trendy East Village, and they looked as though they had just busted out of jail. They strutted in like a modern trio of wise men looking for gifts, certainly not gifts for Jesus. The first guy, gruff and unshaven wearing a brown leather jacket and thick black boots, bought a coffee and a blue box of Trojans. I didn’t observe the kind. The second guy picked up a People magazine and folded it under his arm with the cover facing in. The third guy, in a New York Giants Starter jacket, grabbed a box of powdered Entenmann’s doughnuts. I didn’t know what the hell they were going to do with those three items because they all left together, but it looked like they were going to share a good time. Happy Halloween, boys.

By the way, there seems to be quite a bit of product placement going on in my blog. I would like to note that I do not support any of the aforementioned products in any way. But vitamin water is a delicious refreshing drink that can quench any thirst.

October 31, 2005 11:52 PM

Hitler on Modern Art

In a public speech inaugurating the "Great Exhibition of German Art, 1937" in Munich, Adolf Hitler finally actualizes his revenge on his former third grade art class peers for their relentless ridicule of his feeble attempts at drawing the human form.

I think one can get a fuller picture in the biographical full-length animated film by Tim Burton, currently in production.

In the speech, Hitler, clearly an expert on modern art, decided to air his opinion on the entire movement. Please, do not be intimidated by a nearly palpable sense of deep intellect, for Hitler is the epitome of all that is art and culture. Do not be afraid:

“I have observed among the pictures submitted here, quite a few paintings which make one actually come to the conclusion that the eye shows things differently to certain human beings than the way they really are, that is, that there really are men who see the present population of our nation only as rotten cretins; who, on principle, see meadows blue, skies green, clouds sulphur yellow, and so on, or, as they say, experience them as such… in the name of the German people, I want to forbid these pitiful misfortunates who quite obviously suffer from an eye disease, to try vehemently to foist these products of their misinterpretation upon the age we live in, or even to wish to present them as ‘Art’.”

The sage continued:

“No, here there are only two possibilities: Either these so-called ‘artists’ really see things this way and therefore believe in what they depict; then we would have to examine their eyesight-deformation to see if it is the product of a mechanical failure or of inheritance. In the first case, these unfortunates can only be pitied; in the second case, they would be the object of great interest to the Ministry of Interior of the Reich which would then have to take up the question of whether further inheritance of such gruesome malfunctioning of the eyes cannot at least be checked.”

Modern art by A. Hitler. Oh no, he never used air-time to share his lifelong resentment with the entire German nation.

The Revival of One Hundred Steps - Part VI: For the Love of the Game

2008-06-05T19:46:00.000-07:00

October 8, 2005 11:25 PM

So I've discovered that dating, a good dating experience, requires much more than the minimal effort of sex and meals. I've discovered not only do I have to keep up my charming end of the conversation and look ravishing at odd hours of the day, but I have to learn football too.

As the dating situation progressed into the NFL season, I realized conversation wasn't going to happen unless it was about the cover two defense formation of the Ravens. I tried, at one point in life, to learn the game, to decipher the secret language grunted by 11 Neanderthals who wanted to pummel the 11 Neanderthals facing them. But I got easily confused then distracted. The only thing that held my interest was the tight end and the other 10 tight ends on offense. So one could understand my lack of enthusiasm for the onset of the football season. Until I met the Boy.

As soon as I expressed interest in learning the game (a final attempt to find out what attracted millions of Americans), The Boy immediately sat me down in what became an impressive display of patience and persistence. He was like a Mr. Chips or Professor Keating crossed with Joe Gibbs; he made me BELIEVE in football. He explained the game using riveting visuals such as the Eagles v. Chiefs game (great comeback by the Eagles), and during half-time, coins to represent the players. He detailed each position with a finger on the corresponding coin, moving it in hypothetical plays. And suddenly I saw the light at the end of the tunnel. I understood the game. The game and I became one.

On Sundays you can find me in front of a TV, my eyes glued to the screen, yelling inane phrases, "That was SO a complete pass!" and occasionally, "Chad Johnson has a cute ass."

The Revival of One Hundred Steps - Part V: No Subject

2008-06-05T19:44:00.000-07:00

August 26, 2008 9:44 PM

Recently I was apartment hunting, and anyone in New York City knows what a painful process this can be. In fact I believe there's a rare edition of Chicken Soup for the Renter's Soul out there somewhere. Many stories can move the average person to tears. My particular experience certainly led me close to tears, not for myself, but for my broker in this rare instance. Shocking but true.

My future roommate and I had an appointment at 11 am to see a listing from Craigslist. The broker, we'll call her Pam, called to say that she was running late because she hadn't been feeling well (sore throat)and that she had to pick up a prescription on her way. We shifted the meeting to 11:15 am. At 11:30 am, she called to say that it had taken her longer than expected and she would be a little later. We ended up seeing Pam waddling up to us in an ill-fitting sundress and lavender flip flops, dry, frizzy hair haphazardly caught in a plastic clip, sporting a not-so-thin layer of sweat on the bridge of her thick nose. It was 11:45 am. And not only did she lack a key for the apartment, but it turned out that it already had applicants.

Despite our rather lackluster first impression of Pam, my roommate and I exchanged glances of sympathy and decided to give her a chance. She claimed she had a lot of great listings that we had to see, and that she wouldn't give up until we filled out an application with her. Ok, she seemed slightly desperate, a little disorganized, but she looked determined.

After spending the majority of the afternoon walking from the East Village to Chinatown and back, making a couple of stops because Pam was thirsty then later hungry, we decided to walk back to her office, check for more listings and regroup. On our way back, my roommate ran into a friend from school.

"Hey, Dimitri! What's going on?"

"Hey! Wow, haven't seen you in a while. What're you up to?"

"Oh my roommate and I are spending the day apartment hunting..." My roommate nodded in our direction.

"Oh, cool." Dimitri nodded his acknowledgement towards me and Pam. "Is she your mom?"

"Oh, haha." My roommate laughed (or more so released air from her mouth uncomfortably). "Uh, no, that's our broker."

"Oh, my bad." (Insert awkward silence here.) "Cool. I gotta run, later."

We both looked at Pam, hoping she hadn't heard. Plastered on her face was a stiff smile, but you sensed it masked far more complicated emotions. We continued in our direction in silence when:

"Do I really look that old?"

"No, Pam," we exclaimed. "No, of course not."

But she wasn't really hearing us. She was too lost in her own thoughts. Her smile (and her makeup) had melted as soon as we had started walking again, and I knew something had died. The worst part was, in that 20 second exchange, I had a snapshot of her life that I didn't want to see. I knew she would go home after work to a messy empty studio, her thick legs veiny and tired from walking all over manhattan that day. She would probably order take out from the Chinese joint next door and settle for some crappy reality tv show in her bathrobe and frizzy hair. And she wouldn't be paying attention to the show because in her head, Dimitri's voice asked "Is she your mom?" over and over again. She would probably pad over to the bathroom through the course of the show to stare in the mirror and trace the bags under her eyes.

My roommate and I left her, claiming that we needed a break from trekking around the city. We promised we'd call her in the evening. She begged us not to work with another broker.

"You guys aren't going to another broker, are you?"

"No, no, Pam, of course not."

We had to leave her. She was too desperate, too needy, and if we spent more time with her, it would rub off on us. And it was depressing as hell.

The Revival of One Hundred Steps - Part IV: No Subject

2008-06-05T19:42:00.000-07:00

August 21, 2005 12:48 AM

Relationships are incredibly complex. They seem to be a sort of constant dance, intricate footwork, and you have to practice the moves in order to perfect the dance. More importantly, relationships are about timing.

Relationships are much like taking the dance unit in P.E. class. First is the slow dance, junior high style, when your palms are sweating and you're about a foot and a half away from your partner, hands loosely clasped around the back of his neck or her waist. But you're dancing because you have an inkling that you may like your partner although it's not clear whether you LIKE like him/her yet. so you dance a slow dance, careful not to step on her toes, and you have a conversation face to face, wondering if your breath is smelling of the pasta you had for dinner.

If you liked your partner well enough, the next dance to learn is the waltz. It's formal, there are rigid rules as to form and posture, and each of you acts accordingly. You do the coffee waltz, the dinner and a movie waltz, and then the walk home waltz. There is polite formality but an obvious level of comfort; more likely than not, there is a desire to continue.

After the waltz probably comes the mambo or tango or salsa or something just as sensual because sooner or later sex becomes a factor. Something along the lines of dirty dancing. Then it's swing. In many cases, couples opt to reverse the order of the mambo/tango/salsa and swing. This stage is the highlight of the relationship. Swing is fun, fast, complicated, never easy but always a great time.

As far as I took this metaphor, i can't seem to think of a dance for the end. i suppose that's when the music stops, and you realize you're standing on the floor partnerless. You look around, you find the dark edges of the dance floor, and you scan all the wallflowers for another partner. You can either saunter over to the snack table for some punch and a break for your tired feet, or find a new partner and start to dance all over again.

The Revival of One Hundred Steps - Part III: Dry Cleaning and Other Matters

2008-06-05T19:37:00.000-07:00

August 7, 2005 1:36 AM

I've been thinking (only on rare occassions if the weather's nice) about relationships and cheating lately. I recently saw a film with several storylines, the majority of which involved cheating in some shape or form. And lately, all the stories I've been hearing about so-and-so's relationships have all been about cheating. Many, if not most, of my friends or acquaintances have all been the Cheater, the Cheat-ee, or the Third (or Fourth, in some raunchy cases) Party in relationships. What's up with this?

It seems as though we've become the victims of our own creations. We've created an entire culture (books, movies, television) that evolves around relationships, spawning unrealistic expectations and illusions of a significant other. We constantly desire to become carbon copies of timeless couples who, through good times or bad, are FICTIONAL. Romeo & Juliet, Scarlett & Rhett, Ilsa & Rick Blaine, Cliff & Claire Huxtable, Sally & Harry, George & Wheezy, ok, maybe not George & Wheezy but you get my drift. It looks as though real, everyday people are just not enough for us anymore. Are humans constantly looking for bigger and better? (I didn't mean "bigger" with any sort of connotation. Figure of speech; "Better" just doesn't go with anything else.)

I'm not sure anyone can ever be completely satisfied with what he/she has. It explains a lot though. It explains the entire chain of Starbucks. Why the hell aren't we content with "coffee" or plain old coffee-flavored coffee? No, we have to have 5 different variations on milk: half & half, whole, skim, soy, organic soy (I might have made up organic soy.) We have to have a hundred different flavors of coffee, and then we have to spruce up coffee itself by fucking with the concentration, the amount, the bean and calling it a hundred different names. I think we might be on the edge of some post-modern break down. We'll end up so evolved that we'll confuse ourselves and have nowhere to go but down.

Hmm... I think my train of thought took an express track to a complete lack of a point.

On a completely random note: I was at my drycleaners the other day when I saw this hideous shirt. By the way, you know you've been in New York for a while when your drycleaner guy greets you by name. I feel very loved.

He said to me, "We'll take very special care of your clothes, ma'am."

I replied in my sultry sex-goddess voice, "Don't call me 'ma'am', Vijay, it makes me feel old. And I'm not that old." (It's true, I'm not.) Then I slipped him a George and a wink. I was feeling generous that day.

He said, "Very sorry, Miss Sandra."

"Just don't let it happen again, Vijay," I said. Then I had him don a loin cloth and fan me with a large banana tree leaf while I sipped a fruity cocktail.

You have to read his lines in an Indian accent though. It's much more erotic that way.

So, I see this hideous shirt hanging in the rotating racks: it was a bright top with mesh, flesh-colored sleeves and all these colorful images that were supposed to resemble tattoos. It was like something a figure skater would wear if he were a member of the Sharks in West Side Story On Ice. I guess some people are really curious to see what they'd look like with tattoos all over their arms. The only thing I'd ever wear on my sleeve is a button or my achin' heart.

The Revival of One Hundred Steps - Part II: Manhandled

2008-06-05T19:35:00.000-07:00

August 3, 2005 1:17 AM

So I was on the 6 train this morning on my way to work, and I'm minding my own business reading my book. As I was flipping the page, my eyes wandered from the text to the floor of the train and fixated themselves onto a pair of some really ugly feet. Admittedly, my feet certainly aren't any objects of beauty. In fact, if I could replace any one (or two, I guess) part(s) of my body, it'd be my feet. I haven't yet heard of plastic foot surgery, but mine could use a lift and a tuck here and there. BUT I digress.

Back to the feet. I stared at these really awful feet, unable to turn away from the car wreck at the ends of her ankles, when I realized the worst part. These feet belonged to a WOMAN. Not only were they slightly dirty (grime caked between the toes, cracked but woefully painted nails, etc.), but her toes, oh the horror, her toes were these big, bulbous knobs splayed all over her J.Crew sandals.

I looked up to check out what this woman looked like when I was immediately distracted by a pair of MAN HANDS. This poor woman had MAN HANDS as well. We are all familiar with the classic Seinfeld episode in which Jerry is manhandled, and I couldn't help wondering what men felt like around her. I guess most men wouldn't give two shits if those hands were caressing the right (or the wrong, oh so naughty) parts. Then again, I don't think those hands are even capable of caressing; they are capable of clenching large objects in fist-form. I'm not even sure if her thumbs are opposable, or if they just hang lifeless at the sides of her palms like a cruel joke.

I'm probably going to hell for making fun of this complete stranger who I'm sure is a perfectly nice woman. But I suspect I'll be seeing quite a few of you there. Until then... goodnight.

The Revival of One Hundred Steps - Part I: My Old Blog

2008-06-05T19:21:00.000-07:00

I suppose I should begin at the beginning. The following several entries are from my ancient blog but remain relevant to this new one. They are, after all, my first foray into publishing my thoughts on the world wide web. Whoever you are, enjoy.

First of Firsts
July 31, 2005 7:07 PM

I start this blog in fear of boring people to tears, but then I realize that you can just as easily close this window and forget about my existence. But I hope that you will stick around and be my guest. I like to entertain. And if I could, I'd offer you food because that would show how much I really care. The disturbing part about this entry is I really have no audience right now, and in fact, I have no idea who I'm speaking to. It's a bit like talking to yourself in the mirror. Soothing as you go on and on yet disturbing when you step out of the bathroom and realize that you had an entire conversation with your reflection. Jesus. Somebody please call me.

It is now nearing the end of what I consider a pretty good weekend - I managed to spend more than 3 hours outdoors without spending over $20. It's quite a feat in New York City in my opinion. Saturday was one of those rare summer days in the city- very little humidity, sunshine, and a breeze that smelled like the Atlantic Ocean (it just does, dammit, I'm not trying to be writerly). Took the 7 train to Queens which is a borough I'm beginning to grow a crush on. It's the most ethnically diverse borough in New York City (138 different languages spoken) with hundreds of great restaurants (so I hear), and the best South Asian street food on the East Coast (also hearsay), and lots of cultural activities to offer. It's the home of Hal Sirowitz (last year's poet laureate of Queens and hilarious) and Ashrita Furman, the guy who holds the most records in the Guinness Book of World Records. He currently holds the title for Most Useless Skills (Although Somersaulting May Come in Handy on a Blind Date). In any case, Queens is pretty great.

I went to P.S. 1's Warm-up Saturday series (http://www.ps1.org/) with a large group of guys which has kind of been the story of my life. I was The Girl in my group of high school friends and the one everyone experimented with (I'm kidding!); Julie of The Mod Squad if you will. Warm-up had a great vibe; everyone was relaxed and enjoying the beer and the music, kind of like the Coke Zero commercial without the gay singing (and by gay i mean merry). I liked the DJ, although it wasn't the type of music I listen to regularly, it was the type that I like in clothing stores because it made the clothes seem cooler as though the outfit came with a beat. It was the kind of music that made you want to dance. And dance, they did, these crazy-ass New Yorkers:

photos to come as soon as i figure out how to use this damn blog. friends, please teach this young grasshopper how to work Livejournal. this entry is in dire need of visuals. gracias.