I just received my new driver's license in the mail. I don't have to take the test to renew. Take THAT Texas, and all of the friggin' tickets you gave me the last time I was there! California doesn't care that I drive eight miles too fast, and that I don't signal at least 50 feet before turning, or that my front tires go over the pedestrian line.
I think I'll go celebrate by...not going anywhere since gas is so bleeping expensive. So I guess that means the sidewalks will still be safe, for a while anyway.
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Monday, October 18, 2004
I am Soooooo Asian... How Asian am I? I have become so Asian, like FOBby Asian. Not just FoBby Asian, but like, FFFFFFFFOBby Asian, like one foot still on the boat Asian. * I got upset over an 85 on a test, and went to Forever 21 all in the same day. * I have a backpack with wheels. * I pack chopsticks with my lunch. *My fashion has deteriorated significantly. * I call people 'fool', but it comes out, "foo". * The highlights in my hair have turned orange. * The color of the lipstick that I use now, has the word 'frost' in it. * My speech patterns now contain multiple diphthongs and triphthongs, and if it's possible, polyphthongs. I have made the Asian whinny talk into an art form. * I have nails. * I tell the cute dog park boys that I would rather study than go out on a date. * I shop exclusively at the Asian super. * I get offended when people 'guess' my ethnicity other than Japanese. * I only hang out with other cool Asian girls. * I don't sleep with Asian boys. (Not by choice, like a REAL Asian girl, but because I don't know any Asian boys over the age of 25.) * I was really prepared for my math test. * I'm starting to acquire a taste for food that smells offensive. * I spit when I say words with the letter 's'. * I hold a lot of repressed anger. In honor of my newfound Asianism, I'm going to have me a glass of sake and study until 3am.
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Coincidence? I think not.
I believe I might have some kind of mystical power hidden deep inside of me. I control mother nature, or at least have some kind of influence. How else could it start raining (in LA, mind you. It never rains here. Maybe three days a year, and that's in February.) when it's been warm and pleasant and not the least bit chilly, at the moment I was thinking how funny it would be if it started to storm here in the Southland, because I'm watching this summer's blockbuster hit, "the Day After Tomorrow"? (Oh don't even get art wanker on me, it's a disaster movie, who doesn't love a disaster movie, especially when San Francisco is in ruins, and they accurately portray the Vice President as a jackass? I have to say, I'm disappointed that he didn't die and Perry King couldn't stay President. His chin could shelter the entire US, if you ask me) And to top it all off, we got lightening and thunder when everything froze up. It was cool. I would love for something like that to happen. I'm safe, I'm in LA. The smog cover will protect me. I have 65 pounds of pure blubbery puppy to keep me warm. Oh yeah, and my dog can keep me warm too. I figure if worse comes to worse, that 65 pounds of stomach fat I've got can keep a fire going like the eternal flame on the Olympic torch, for, oh, about ten years. But I digress. Yes, it's me that's influencing that weather demon out there. I've had to wash my car for weeks, and I was hoping for rain, but it's been so hot, never figured it would happen. But I was so desperate for a wash, I kept losing my car in parking lots because the color always looked different under the foot of dirt, and I couldn't see out the windshield when I was driving, I was thinking really hard about rain, and I was watching rain on the tube, and there you go, Rain.
What can I say, I'm a natural disaster just waiting to happen.
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Saturday, October 16, 2004
Health issues
Remember my Raisin Bran phase? I ate Raisin Bran at least once a day, for quite a long time, at least 7 boxes in a row long. My butthole is still angry with me. Now remember my eating habits and the fact that I usually forgo the chewing process and head straight for the digestive tract 0-60 in 2 seconds? I just figured out that shredded wheat doesn't digest so well when you don't chew. I've turned my Raisin Bran fetish into a shredded wheat fetish, and let me tell you, bran flakes get soft, shredded wheat does not. I'm on box three, and my butthole has had enough and is on strike. It threw up it's hands in the air and said, "I can't take it anymore! If one more piece of shredded wheat pokes me in the eye...OUCH!" I've lost control of my butthole, and as punishment, it decides to not work at inopportune times, like in the middle of exams, or while talking to the cute German soccer players at the park, or while trying to console a very sensitive girlfriend when she wants to talk about the recent death of a friend. And you can't really say, "hold that thought while I go drop the kids off at the pool". And cute German boys get kind of weird when they see you break into a cold sweat and your eyes roll back into your head, throw your dog into your car and speed off in the middle of a story they're telling. They probably won't be very receptive the next time you see them, as I found out. And really cute actors with really nice bathrooms will not be pleased to be late for events even if you're not dating anymore, and you don't care if he sees you pooping, he will still not look upon you favorably and will not use that bathroom until the cleaning service comes.
As my parting advice, I will just say: Chew your shredded wheat and consume it in moderation.
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Tuesday, October 12, 2004
I was driving home one night (yes, kids, I actually leave school once in a while), listening to the local NPR/college alt-rock station, because my car radio is broken and I can't change the station or use the cd player (hint, hint: donate!) so that's all I can listen to. And what comes on in-between whinny-man music and old-lady folk songs, but 'Easy Lover' by Phil Collins and Phillip Bailey. I wanted to change the station immediately, but unable to, I endured. And a minute into the song, I was pleasantly humming along. Ahhh, 'Easy Lover', how I miss my youth. What ever happened to crossover duets, or duets, period? Whatever happened to the effort of bringing two worlds together, of gaining more of an audience by riding on someone else's coattails? Whatever happened to the, Paul MacCartney/Stevie Wonder, George Michael/Aretha Franklin, David Bowie/Freddie Mercury, Babs/Donna Summer, Michael Jackson/everybody, hits? Where is Dionne Warwick with her friends? Oh how I long for nostalgia. Being back in LA, in the very city that I grew up in, I feel myself reverting back to my childhood somewhat, and I have to admit, a bit of me enjoys it. It's not really about the 'innocence' or 'freshness' of it all. I can't really say I was all that innocent, and my inner child isn't screaming to get out, I beat her down into submission long ago. She's in a little corner of my mind, huddled in a fetal position, muttering, "have to be good, can't let the bad lady in". And fresh? I shall not talk about that not-so-fresh feeling. I think all of this nostalgia and reverting are things that I haven't done, and I used to enjoy. Even little things, like my fried bologna sandwiches. My mother used to make them for me, and I was so embarrassed because it would smell up the room, and everyone else had cool lunches like McDonald's or Cup o' Noodles, or something fancy like that. Oh, to be holding a Capri Sun, or a store bought fruit roll, not one that my other made with old fruit and the food processor... And I refused to eat the cafeteria food-stamp lunches that my family qualified for. I had dignity, dammit. Then in high school, I still had fried bologna, and occasionally peanut butter and jelly. But I was working then, so I had some money for an occasional box of animal crackers. While the other students were snacking on fois gras and pate on little crackers, I would look on wistfully, wishing I could have extravagant lunches also. In my later years, when I could try fois gras and pate, I kick myself for wanting that crap. They call it a delicacy so stupid rich people will buy it. Yeah it's hard to come by, because NOBODY eats that part of the animal! Bologna is the same thing, only tastier! What are you people thinking? So I continue to fry myself Bologna, or make myself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. But this time, I pack myself a granola bar or a store bought fruit roll (can't say I really enjoyed the homemade fruit rolls). I go the the Super and oooh and aaaah at all of the lunchbox conveniences that I can indulge in: single servings of applesauce, microwavable soup, frozen goodies I don't have to deep fry beforehand (but it doesn't hurt). I show up to school proudly sporting my homemade lunches, but once in a while, I tease with my corndog (gotta love Costco), or sip my smoothie that I keep in my lab refrigerator (probably not the best idea, considering I'm not so diligent about capping my chemicals well). Speaking of reverting back to my childhood...As I rediscover the haunts of my wonder years, I remember a lot of things I used to do, some fun and wacky, some just friggin' stooopid. And I'm doing them again. Well, not so much the stooopid stuff. Sliding down the huge sand dunes on cardboard boxes, going to the pier and playing the ancient video games, frequenting my old hangouts. It's kind of fun. And I've reestablished a few old connections in which to indulge these pastimes. Now I want my mommy.
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Monday, October 04, 2004
Yes, I'm back in school, thus the large gaps in my literary endeavors here. But this year, I'm going to ostracize my audience even farther, but spending my free time doing NaNoWriMo this November. I invite you all to join me in producing crap that no one will want to read. Well, at least on my end. I don't have a concept or even a "genre" in mind yet. Ah well, it should be a good left-brained exercise to balance out the science/math overload I've put upon myself this semester. The past two years, I've been a bystander, watching others progress with their opus, thinking that I could produce 50,000 words in a month. But it's hard. Especially if one has school/work/a life. And currently, I have all three (woo!). Yes kidlets, I'm finally making the social rounds. Since I've decided not to sacrifice my social life anymore (I'm in LA, why be in LA if you're not going to take advantage of the social scene?), I've been trying to do something every weekend that doesn't involve my little Asian gang that I've re-established since regular session has resumed (yea me! I'm becoming a real Asian!). In participating in social activity at a more frequent rate, I've come to realize my screwy sensibilities when it comes to relationships and dating. It's all because of Southern California. The beach cities to be specific. Since I grew up on these here beaches, I've acquired impossible standards for partners of the opposite sex. People here, who've grown up here, belong to a completely separate aesthetic group than the rest of the country, unlike none other. Hermosa Beach, only being about a square mile, has the most bikini models per capita in it's residence. The South Bay is the equivalent of the Galapagos Islands, with its unique species found in this habitat only. Rarely do they leave, and when they do, they change and get ugly. Grown men here are completely hairless, usually without the aid of wax of other deploritories. I notice men in San Francisco and New York, and a lot in Boston, have a somewhat uniform layer of fur, from head to toe, long and bountiful enough to comb and style. Unkempt and unattractive (even if the person in question might be attractive underneath the grime and hippieness or smarmyness) seems to be the norm in Northern California. If it's not that, it's a bunch of straight men trying to make themselves look like women. I'm sorry, but the whole 'androgyny' look is sad. The East Coast is knee deep in hair product and attitude and they tend to be a little more than soft. I don't blame them, I'd have an extra layer of blubber to keep me warm during those winters too. But nothing beats a Southern California beach guy. So now I have these impossible standards in which I compare all other men to. And this weekend, was the local street fair, so I went with my mother to people watch and to stuff our faces with fried food and to over indulge in sweets. As we were digesting in the beer gardens while not drinking beer (I can't drink with my mother, not like that, and she doesn't drink), we sat there with our jaws to the ground, dribble from the corner of our mouths. It was a sea of shirtless, perfectly built men, interspersed with dots of well-proportioned, quite stunning women. But I couldn't tell because I couldn't stop looking at the men. And I realize, THAT's what I compare all other men to. AND, I have to admit, a lot of them are surprisingly smart. Yes, there is the Sean Penn surfer stereotype, but it really isn't the norm. Most of these guys have degrees (but that doesn't mean much). So now it looks like I can never leave LA, since I'm not looking to get married ever, and I won't be satisfied with a man from elsewhere, and I've been around the states and met quite a few men from other areas of the country, and nope, can't compare. Ah well, I guess it's just me and the pooch.
