Tuesday, October 12, 2010

Untitled.

Death is a strange thing.

The doctors say that the tumor removal last year was not completely successful, that his lymphatic system has been damaged and the calcium level in his blood has become too high, making his heart susceptible to irregular beats.

He's too old for chemotherapy. His body can't take it, they say.

He's too weak to walk.

He's 94. He was riding bicycles last year. Now his legs are too weak.
But is there some form of exercise that he can still do?
I don't think you quite understand... his legs are too weak to carry him. He can't walk.

He seems to have come to accept it.
He was depressed at first, Dad said. He was a totally different person. He felt helpless. But I think he's come to terms with it. He... he's at... the stage of life... He's at his final stage of life. He's not suffering.

He has several options, they say.
He can stay at the hospital and stay under supervision. He can stay at home, and we can hire a caretaker. Or, he can be admitted to a hospice.

A hospice? Isn't that just like a nursing home for sick people?

A hospice is where sick people go when they've given up medical treatment. They may find further treatment of no use, or they don't want the pain. They are taken care of at the hospice so that it won't be painful when they leave.

I had less to say than to ask.
I had as much guilt as, if not more than concern.
A phone call a week earlier and I could have spoken to him, instead of finding out that he's been in the hospital.

Grief is a strange thing.

Dad seemed to speak with such exactitude, such factual acknowledgment, though not without feeling. His words were clean, his sentences tightly bound. He spoke, unwavering... accepting.
This is a man my dad has known and loved all his life. This is a man I know through a meager collection of memories and childhood visits.
Yet I felt like I was in pieces. I silently wiped a few tears, choked back a few sniffles. I tried to mirror Dad's solidity.

"I will have Kevin bring some photos when he visits," I say. Then I think, I will write him something. For the first time in my life. I will write him something. This time, it won't be too late.

Please don't let it be too late.

Saturday, September 25, 2010

9/25/2010

San Francisco is 27 degrees Celsius. The sun is blaring.

Books and catnaps in my jungle of a backyard.

Sampling and buying music at my desk to the setting of the sun.

Beer and friends, friends and beer.

Mount Kimbie tonight after a still-resonating high from Flying Lotus.

My ears filled with melodic honey until the sun rises.

Today is a good fucking day.

Monday, September 13, 2010

Aesthetics

It's strange how much a change of environment will change your appearance.

My wardrobe took a conservative and feminine turn after 5 months in Paris -- less skin (oh, California), more shape and curvature. London led it down a slightly more edgy and vintage turn -- more colors and patterns. And now, in San Francisco, it's hard to describe it as anything other than urban practicality, at least 99% of the time -- can I ride my bike in this?

Man friendly; not bike friendly.

I've had moments here where I feel like I've somewhat lost my previous sense of femininity. I've also been wearing less and less makeup as the years have passed on, which isn't to say that has any correlation with a lessening sense of femininity. If anything, I see it as shedding the unnecessary, impractical -- something simple and more natural. Although I have to admit -- I fucking love make up. I'm good at the application and the experimentation, but I really can't be bothered to wear all that shit on a daily basis.

So it's been somewhat of a struggle to mix up my closet as of the past year in SF. The weather isn't usually quite warm enough to wear the array of dresses I have, and even when tights and cardigans can make up for it, it's not practical on a bike. Considering I ride almost every single day, the chances that you find me in a dress or skirt is pretty close to null. And that makes me sad, because dresses and skirts are up there as my favorite item of clothing. Not to mention that my previous heel-queen self has relinquished my throne to all things flat and durable. Despite my previous ability to dance for hours on 5-inchers, I now squirm at the thought of wearing heels to anything more than an art gallery. This is where Southern California girls get their advantage -- they don't have to walk anywhere on a daily basis other than that hour in the mall or that 10 feet to their car from the store.

With that said, I've been trying to make compromises. Trying to get a bit more creative, come up with something that's not stylistically dead and still serve the purpose of the SF streets and my daily commutes.

I've been jonsing for a proper parka -- although the style I have in mind is a bit more synthetic/shiny looking and of a deeper green, I settled for the following:

Oversized hooded parka, ASOS
I'm obsessed with hoods.


And because I can't get enough of military green, or coats:

Funnel neck toggle coat, ASOS.
Check out the bee-yoo-tiful pleating in the back.

And to introduce a new member to the never-too-many supply of cardigans, my personal funfetti cake cardigan:

Vero Moda multi-color flecked cardigan

While it ain't easy trying to stay below the budget, it sure helps to have a boyfriend who wants to help you dress the way you do :)

On the subject of dressing, I went frame shopping in the past weekend for a handful of posters that deserve to be dressed. I didn't expect frames to be that f'ing expensive, but I did manage to frame the two of the smaller posters. The other two were a massive 20x26.

You can't really tell from this photo that it's a floating frame, because the margins are so damn small, but the dude I bought this from at an art show really made it difficult to fit this in a preset frame size. I had to trim this shit like 4 times. If you know how shaky my hands are, you'd give me a god damn trophy:



And an appropriately sick present from Jeff of 12FV found its home:


Oh, that's right. These will be hung, for all to see, in my next apartment, officiated as of today. SOMA, HERE I COME. I've beaten the SF housing monster. For this year, at least.

And for now, I'll just heave and sigh over gorgeous leather handbags, forsaken embellished tops and jersey dresses, and forget about delicately adorned flats. I've got some jungle-proof gear to pick up and mud-trudging shoes to try out for Brazil in December.

Wednesday, September 08, 2010

Criminal negligence


I have forsaken thee, mine blog. So much that it's practically criminal.
I was surprised to find out that people have still been trying to access my older blog (xanga), which I managed to update incredibly consistently through the course of 5 or 6 years. Yet, at the same time, I think my blog now is of a very different nature, consisting less of daily ramblings and focusing more on focused topics that require more than 5 minutes of thought.

Why the extended hiatus, you ask?
L-fucking-SAT. That, combined with trying to work more than 40 hours a week so I can save money, combined with trying to have time for my beloved manfriend 400 miles away (which necessarily involves scheduled video-calls and plane rides), now combined with house-hunting (lease is up in less than a month) is a fucking trip.


This kind of trip, it is not.

There is nothing particularly new to discuss about the LSAT, nor is there anything really worth mentioning regarding work (other than the fact that my team pretty much got wiped out and my favorite people are leaving). Al is always lovely and maintains my sanity (and occasionally tests it, but what else would love be?).

But

Housing. Man, fucking housing. Looking for housing in San Francisco (no, not East Bay, not South Bay, not even fucking West SF because you guys just don't count, with your asses way the hell 5 miles over) is probably one of the most ridiculous ordeals that man man will ever suffer, comparable to surviving the bubonic plague. Trying to find a bedroom in SF was harder than landing my current job. Open houses were always packed and awkward, and interviewing to be a potential roommate turned out more to be like a talent show or popularity contest than a practical decision on who wasn't fucking insane and poor.

"So," this hipster, I-live-on-the-corner-of-Dolores-hipster-fucking-Park-and-act-it girl asked me at her open house, "If you were to make a book into a movie that hasn't already been made, what would it be?"

Within 3 seconds, I replied, "The Dice Man. Heard of it?"

"No."

"It's a 1970's cult classic about abandoning all human inhibition. Sex, drugs, rape, murder. A psychologist begins a religion based on pure chance at the hands of a die."

"Ooh... interesting. ..."

Oh, interesting? That's it? Had no follow up? Pretty sure nobody beat that answer, that effortlessly. Yet I was not chosen. Despite my willingness to pay $1200/month for a damn room and my obviously sound mind, not to mention that she was totally impressed with my knowledge of the Bay music scene for having just moved there. That's why we are not roommates. Beez ass beez. Who asks that kind of shit to fill a room. You're not a coop full of screenwriters and aspiring actors. And if you were, you better damn well know The Dice Man. Because that book needs a damn screenplay, even (or, especially) if it's a shitty, low-budget effort.

And the movie poster will look exactly like this.


And she was no exception. So many people interviewing for roommates seem to have settled themselves on some type of pedestal, obviously feigning interest in the potential tenants they were speaking to, or just lifting their noses to their wine glass, sipping some shit and talking about the gentrification of the neighborhood. That, or it's just one big mess of an open house and everyone is just fighting for a chance to get a word in.

Anyway, that pretty much sums up the experience I have with room-hunting in the heart of San Francisco. I guess you pay for what you get -- namely, location. Thankfully, this time around, I have the roommates, just not the house. Hopefully it'll be less like surviving the plague and more like convincing the Ganja-treat-vendors at Dolores Park that you really don't want their treats.

Even if it's banana bread.

Or blueberry muffins.


Really. I don't want it.

Friday, July 09, 2010

Food and hypocrisy -- am I guilty?

You know me. I love food. Food, fucking food. Yumma yum YUM. The tastes, the colors, the sensory experience.

Most would know that I've started to drop meat from a good 90% of my diet for a while now (seafood is still at work). I get a lot of questions regarding my motivations behind this change, and I haven't really sat down and gathered my thoughts to voice a decently coherent response. So here's a start.

I started abandoning meat from the majority of my diet when I moved to San Francisco. All throughout college, I had pretty much dropped red meat from my personal shopping ventures (but still delighted myself in dining out on yakitori, Korean barbeque, steak frites, etc), basically due to personal preferences and an inclination for very healthy cooking. I preferred baking as the cooking style of choice, EVOO as the oil that trumped all others, and butter was never really an option. In London, I almost abandoned meat completely from grocery shopping list in order to save money (but, alas, still gorged on gyros, tiki masalas and shepherd's pies), and with the transition to working here, where food is free and vegetarian/vegan options are plentiful and delicious, I decided I'd give the pescatarian diet a shot. Why? Just because I could. It hadn't been difficult to subsist mainly off of vegetables before, so I didn't see why not to try to go 90% (giving up seafood seemed a bit too big of a transition). To me, cooking for myself is a therapeutic and creative process. It's a way to spoil myself and to take care of myself at the same time. I don't ever feel the desire to cook meat for myself, and when I do eat meat, it is on the few occasions that I'm dining out with friends at a non-vegetarian friendly restaurant.


Korean BBQ -- Not vegetarian friendly

As I mentioned before, watching Food Inc. wasn't exactly a revelation. I think I was aware of the majority of problems raised in the documentary, but watching the movie kind of provided myself with a pre-packaged punch-in-the-face-style of motivation that I needed to really get my shit straight. And this is what I practice now: On the very rare occasions that I do buy meat (cooking for guests), I will not buy, from any business, meat that is sourced from a factory-style farm or beef that is not grass-fed. I will not buy, from any business, eggs that are not cage free. Given that I'm not going to always know the source from which every restaurant buys their meat, I will do my best to make educated decisions or simply ask the restaurant. Essentially, I will do my best to buy only from a trusted source. And in San Francisco, with the abundance of local co-ops and farmers' markets, it's not a hard thing to do.

Here's a little story.

I dated this guy for about a month (too long) when I was in London. His name was E. E liked to think of himself as the new age hippie. He liked to dis religion, he liked to pick on people who liked animals but ate meat (aka me), and he liked to go on about self cleansing and whatever bullshit else he pulled from his ass. In other words, E was a self righteous bastard.

Yup. Self-righteous. And a bastard.


Upon hearing my conversation with a friend about how we love cats, he responded, "Oh, isn't that kind of hypocritical. You're eating chicken nuggets."

Um. How, the fuck, is that hypocritical? I find one species of animals adorable so I can't eat any species of animals? If I found daises cute, can I not eat elderflower? He then decided to follow up with a PETA article (right, so very objective) citing the atrocities of how animals are treated for consumption, how humans aren't naturally meant to eat meat, the environmental impacts of raising livestock, etc. Out of cordiality and some curiosity, I read it, and conceded that the environmental argument (how much more energy it takes to maintain livestock versus vegetables to feed x number of people) is very well made and thought provoking.
"I think you need to reread the part about the treatment of animals."

No. I don't.

This is where the real hypocrisy lies. E, who loved to talk about how religion is poison and how the religious crazies would talk irrationally and judge you for not following their beliefs, is pretty much a religious crazy on the food level. Incredibly biased in an uneducated way (and if he was educated, shit, I couldn't tell), he would approach me with harshly emotional appeals to change my style of living. And I think this is the worst way one can go about having a conversation about food, just as it is about religion. People will not identify with you, people will not receive you, and people will shut off, regardless of what your message is.

Shut up dog, you're domesticated. Your purpose to human was not for consumption. It is for puppy love and til-death-do-us-part companionship. SIT.


I don't believe that it is wrong to eat animals. I don't necessarily encourage or discourage it. It's a tremendous part of differing cultures, some more than others. The practice of animal sacrifices as paying homage to the gods was a huge part of ancient Greek society, and references to this practice are easily found in Judaism, Christianity, Islam and Hinduism. In certain African tribes, hunters undergo a ceremony to pay respect to the animals they hunt. Native Americans afforded animals (and all things natural) a tremendous amount of respect and spirituality. Accordingly, I do believe is that there is a proper way to go about obtaining meat. I believe in raising animals in the most natural environment to that animal possible -- I prefer to not use the term "ethical," because it necessarily implies a moral obligation with certain emotive attachments. At the same time, however, I do think that there is an "ethical" way to treat animals, but not in the PETA/E "animals are our friends and lets love them and ever eat them or you'll go to hell" way. The "ethical" way is to raise them in a natural environment, where they can graze, move, be outdoors, see the sun, and do what animals do. The "unethical" way is to shut them in an enclosed space where they're buried to their knees in feces all their life, where they're force-fed food that is unnatural to their bodies, where diseases run rampant and they are fed to grow to a mass that their own bodies cannot carry.
While a lot of people like to use emotional appeal by touting these facts, I think the more important and the most unethical part is that these unhealthy, tainted and miserable animals are then churned through a factory to feed the population at large. It's the product to be consumed that is of poor quality (and lethal at its worst), it is the work environments of these factories that are dangerous, and it is the people at the top who benefit at the cost of everyone else, consumers included. So, to me, the ethics here lie in treating life with respect, both to the animals and to the consumer population at large. It means to raise animals in a healthy environment, as well as having food companies providing quality products instead of selling shit while keeping consumers in the dark regarding the processes behind the creation of the product and the very real risks that they pose.


If these all died from disease on the factory farm (from noxious gas from their collective manure), then what might you be eating?

I think it's incredibly important to have a conversation about where your food comes from and what that means to you and your family. It's a matter of healthy living, and it's a matter of personal responsibility. It's equally important to consider how that conversation is delivered, because ultimately, it is a matter of education (and financial means, but that is something that can change with consumer education, and probably should be left for discussion at another time). It is an effort that needs to keep objectivity and constructiveness in mind, because it needs to begin as a local movement to educate consumers. Just as the anti-smoking movement took on, city by city, country by country as a consumer issue, so I think the food movement can as well -- but not by extremist measures, not by bloody animal abuse videos. This is where I pay Jamie Oliver so, so much respect, to start his reforms locally in the UK school systems, addressing their specific problems, then to move on in a similar fashion to a small town in West Virginia that is considered the most unhealthy area in the entire nation. And, on top of all that, the fact that he has a well received show on air regarding these efforts speaks volumes. Even if most people are watching it for the drama, they are still being exposed to the idea. People are starting to listen, people are starting to care, even if just a little.

Not sure if I were ever that excited about veggies at age 10.


My roommate Ham said it well when he suggested that I enter food policy: "You can't go into this caught up in your emotions. You have to approach this objectively." This is not to say that it is an emotionless issue, but that to enact change in the most efficient and appropriate manner, a healthy dose of objectivity is what will enable communication. People are defensive about their lifestyles, people don't like being told that what they do is wrong or unhealthy. But the truth of the matter is that it may be, and they're unlikely to accept that until you can frame the matter in a way that conducive to absorption and action.

So, all in all, I don't think I'm a hypocrite. I'm far from perfect, still deep in the learning process, but I am learning. I am comfortable with my decisions and I can answer for my choices. I don't judge others for how they choose to live, and I don't offer unsolicited advice on food. But know this -- I will always, always, be willing to talk to you about food. Food. Always.

Wednesday, June 16, 2010

TOTW: Baseball. ... ugh.

So I came up with this idea this past week for a blog challenge. Considering that Al and I both enjoy writing and have been slacking off on our blogs, we'd challenge each other with a topic of our choice every week, and do our best to write something decent.

TOTW (topic of the week): Baseball

Now that Al's given me the most f'ing boring thing to write about, ever, let me preface this post with this: I have never watched a baseball game live, so none of this will apply to an actual live game. My opinions on baseball here are strictly based on what I've seen on TV and what I know about the sport itself.

So with that said, this is what I think about baseball -- it fucking bores the shit out of me. Even on steroids, baseball is bo-ring.


(Momentarily distracted by an incredibly angry guy who just got ditched by MUNI. I'm scared that if I were outside and I tried to say something nice to him, he'd just fucking kill me)

Back to baseball.

I don't find that many sports to be engaging in the first place. Golf? Gag. Hockey? Zzz. Tennis? Meh. Shit, I don't even watch the Olympics. Not because I don't find the best athletes of the world mesmerizing, I just... don't think about watching the Olympics during my spare time. Basketball, football, rugby and maybe soccer are among the more interesting spectator sports to me (and by spectator I mean a couch-spectator). The only live games I've watched have been basketball (Clippers) and soccer (Paris). I got really excited during the World Rugby Cup when I was in Paris, but I think the environment had most to do with that, considering France beat New Zealand to move on to the semi-finals. Meaning, people were fucking shitting themselves, screaming and running down the street with french flags, crawling over cars in traffic, honking and drunkenly singing. I think the last time I got really stoked and pride-filled at a game was back in 6th or 7th grade, rooting for SAS (Shanghai American School) in the basketball matches, while also sighing and deeply crushing on this beautiful Japanese boy from Japan International School.

I think maybe it just comes to my feeling like I have no ties to any local teams. And without that, what do I have to base my fanfare on, if I don't actually know a lot about the sport itself? Maybe just the whole raucous surrounding watching sports. But besides that? Pretty much nothing.

Sure, I root for the Lakers. But not because Kobe is so amazing or that I actually know what I'm talking about. I just happen to be from Southern California, and know enough that the Lakers are solid, and know that I can tag along this huge Lakers bandwagon and have a lot of fun doing it. If I were to watch an Angels v. Giants game... shit, I'd probably just root for the Giants because San Francisco is that much cooler than LA. Warriors v. Lakers, though... well, I don't know. Nor do I care all that much. It's just fun. That's all. I don't really care about the sport itself all that much. I can enjoy it, I can get excited, but the majority of watching sports, to me, is the fun that you share with the crowd. The spirit, the tension, the uproars and the andrenaline.

So with all that said -- baseball is boring to me because I don't actually care for the sport itself, nor do I know anything about any players, nor do I go to live games. My friends don't sit around watching baseball, talking trash and getting amped. There is no equivalent of a Super Bowl Sunday amongst my social network for baseball. Baseball players aren't even attractive (soccer players, helllloooo). With that, what motivation do I have to care for, much less like basebal?

None. Zip. Nada.

Case closed.

Oh, and my topic for Al? Menstrual cycles. COME ON. So much better.

Tuesday, June 08, 2010

Food, Incorporated, indeed.

For the first time, I thought about going into food policy.

With the whirlwind of activity going on with studying for the LSATs, worrying about law school applications and admissions, and accounting for that likely chance that I don't end up doing what I plan, I've been scourging my brain for an alternative that I actually would like to explore. Law school is the safe choice -- not to say it's not a good choice or a wrong choice, but it's safe because I've had years to think it through, have had plenty of academic exposure to it, and have taken my time to work in various legal environments to know that I do want to pursue it as a career. But I've always looked upon it with a rather... limited perspective, for a lack of better description. Transitioning my focus from criminal to constitutional to corporate to cyber/IP, I feel like those are all rather well-established fields and... "safe" fields. With the exception of the last, I would maybe even venture to say that they are all conventional.

There's no denying that I love food. My first blog entry was dedicated to food, but it was so incredibly difficult to communicate where this passion came from. I have a reputation of being a glutton, a foodie, a die-hard fan of gastronomy, because people often assume that the fervor I have for food comes largely from the sensory aspect of it. But all that is such an extraordinarily small part of what food means to me. I guess it boils down to this -- food is an essential means of survival, and access to an ample and healthy supply of food, I believe, is a basic right that needs to be fulfilled and provided by the government. Speaking strictly in terms of the US, I don't think the majority of people understand what food can mean, what the consequences can be, and how easy and necessary it can be to introduce a healthy and sustainable diet -- at the same time, people also don't realize how easy it is to literally poison themselves and their family by the same effect. We are so plagued by a culture of convenience, short-term satisfaction and competetive costs that the most basic need of maintaining a proper diet has largely been ignored.

The topic has recently received a lot more attention with the whole organics trend, the focus on obesity, cooking shows/competitions and celebrity coverage like Jamie Oliver's TED talk and show. I think people are becoming slightly more aware of what's going on, but we're still nowhere close to where we need to be. And there's no denying that there's a strong, strong correlation between socioeconomic status and obesity, which opens a whole other can of worms in terms of diseases -- and that is something that is just astounding. Heartbreaking. Children in these situations have no choice. Parents in these situations have few, if any. Nobody is educated enough to be able to make the right choices, and if they are, support is scarce.

I guess this all kind of came about when I watched Food, Inc over the weekend. I didn't know what to expect, nor was I expecting much, but I was crying within the first 20 minutes of the movie. It wasn't about slaughtered animals or the fact that children were dying from contaminated food supplies from factory farms. The facts from the documentary weren't all completely new. It simply cemented the fact that we, as a society, have so completely fucked up a promising potential to live well at the most basic level, and food has largely become what too many other things have become -- a massive, power-wielding, monolithic business with little to no human elements. It has become a consumer operation, where all the loss is being suffered by the consumers themselves, as well as the small number of farmers who try to tough it out. And the part that sucks the most is that it really isn't anyone's fault but those who are never held responsible, those who are making the most money.

So I'm not really sure what I'd like to do with food policy. A very brief moment of research has yielded results for food policy at law schools only in the Midwest. I figure, with a legal degree, it could go towards efforts such as helping non-profits, farmers, or class-action suits against egregious behavior on part of major food companies that produce defective/contaminated foods. It's an idea at a very immature stage, but I think it's something I'd like to seriously consider.

My roommate said to me -- "Chieh, if you don't go to law school, you should go into food policy. And if you do end up in law school, you should go into food policy."

I like the ring of it.

Friday, May 28, 2010

First world problem.

Uh. I think my dad has recently acquired a Facebook account.

How many "Pablo Tung"s could there be in the world? A Google search yields like, 3. 1 of them is the Facebook account mentioned above. But how many Pablo Tungs are there in the world who are friends with my cousin and also some other old Chinese dudes that I recognize in his friends list?

He totally has Facebook.

But you know what, he hasn't added me, which I'm glad for. He'll see comments about ass-to-mouth, some crude ass shit I often write, and on top of all that, a link to this blog. I think he and I both recognize the awkwardness and discomfort it would cause if we were friends.

Case in point.

I know a lot of people are friends with their parents on Facebook, but uh... they're usually 1) white, and 2) they have nothing to obscure from their parents. Regardless of the fact that my parents are pretty liberal, we're still a Chinese family, and I have plenty of things in my life (including but not limited to images of myself completely inebriated or in compromising positions) that I'd like to not so blatantly acknowledge as I may via Facebook. My mom also seems to imply that she doesn't ever tell him about my relationship status, whatsoever.

If he adds me... I'll deny. And I'll probably call him and be like, "So, dad. Facebook? Nah. Let's bond in person, yeah? Cool."

I honestly doubt that he'd want to be my friend anyway. His OG Chinese homies are probably enough.

Yeah, okay. Settled.

This first world problem is solved.

Wednesday, May 26, 2010

His.

His tussled hair.
His doe-eyed stare.

The curves of his lips
along the ellipse of my hip.

His honey-scented skin.
As I breathe,
I breathe him in.

The trail of my fingers
down the river of his spine.
They linger.

Our mirrored smiles.
Our melting breaths.

I could stay,
I could stay here forever.
If only for a while.

Tuesday, May 18, 2010

I am not dead.

I lay there amidst shredded zucchini and broccoli -- my body contorted, fists clenched, jaws tight.

I heard Ham's voice near me: "Can you get up? Are you okay?"

I grunted my best "no" as the pain convulsed through my back, shooting through my fingertips. I was fighting to breathe.

Without going into much more detail, that's essentially the summary of my second bike accident. This time bloodless, but I'm pretty sure this residual pain is some sort of internal bruising from doing a 360 over my handlebars and hitting the cement, shoulders first.

Apart from that and the fact that I've sucked at blogging, nothing else is really all that exciting.

Spent 10 days in New York, mainly for the Legal Summit, where I realized that I am supremely lame in comparison to the mad partying skills that 40+ year old attorneys at the office seem to able to execute so effortlessly. While they partied until 6 am, totaling an impressive 3 bars/clubs after 4 hours of an open bar during dinner, I was back in my hotel by 2 am, kneeling over on the mercilessly cold tiles of the bathroom, puking diligently into the toilet. All the while, poor Al was on webcam with me, listening to my drunken ramblings until I paused and said, "Okay. I'm going to put you. On mute. ..." That's when I disappeared off the right side of the screen, only to reappear a minute later, slightly glassy eyed and, well.. my stomach a little more empty.

The studying is still never ending. The test is in less than 3 weeks. I'm chugging onwards. Chugging. Chugging. Trying to stay positive and not let it exhaust me, but, full-time work, class and studying does get rough.

You know what, I take what I said about nothing else being all that exciting back.
There is something exciting. Someone exciting. Incredibly exciting. And I have a tickling inkling that this excitement isn't going to die for quite some time.


Monday, April 12, 2010

Moments like these.

Plague the mind. And you willingly, softly succumb.

Are fleeting. So you chase. You spin. You laugh and you grasp.

Come innocent. And you float, you drift with the warm, ebbing currents.

Moments like these are meant to be bathed in.

Moments like these -- a sweet, subtle drowning.

Moments like these are a sickness to which you want no cure.

Moments. Just like this.

Thursday, April 08, 2010

Induction.

It's official. I have finally eaten shit on my bike. This is my induction to urban biking. I guess.

10:20 PM, riding downhill on Powell towards Market. A car is emergency parked on the right side of the street, blocking the only 1/3 of the street that is not covered by tram tracks.

God damn tracks better not fuck with me.
Well, I thought right. But I was wrong. They did fuck with me. I'm not sure if I simply zoned out, or didn't slow down enough. But there I went, front tire across the tram track at way too narrow of an angle. The tire slid in, caught, and as I lost my balance and got thrown towards the floor left-ways, I screamed "FUUUUCK" with such fervor I was convinced that the entire downtown district of San Francisco heard it. And if not it, the echoes.

As I lied there stunned for a few seconds that felt like minutes, a homeless guy ran across the street and bent by me. "Are you okay???"

"Yeah," I forced a smile, "these damn tracks."

"You really have to be careful, you know." His left hand held a panhandling cup. "Are you sure you're okay? Are you hurt?"

"I'm okay, thank you."

For a moment, I expected him to offhandedly ask me for some change. But he didn't. He reluctantly left me as I slowly pulled myself off of the gravel and slowly glided down the road.

As I rode home, I couldn't help but start laughing. First, out of the sheer adrenaline. I could've gotten hit by a car. I could've landed on my head. But I was back on my bike, riding. FINALLY, I thought. Finally. I finally ate shit. I've been waiting and semi-fearing for this day for so long. Then the staggered bursts of laughter of relief, incredulousness, and a weird sense of satisfaction.


Got home. Checked out the damage:

Minus the humongous piece of skin I peeled off my leggings, hip scrapes and a not-so-deep shin puncture wound.


Didn't have any antiseptic or rubbing alcohol, so I used what was available:

Yup. Smirnoff Green fucking Apple. It doesn't sting any less. Just smells worse.

Thanks to my corner liquor store, I was able to dress my wound:
Electrical tape --> Racing stripes

Ah.

Monday, April 05, 2010

Another epic monday.

Following my previous Epic Monday, today was another quite epically Monday Monday.

1) Having to deal with an English bank. Long distance.

You still suck. Even with your accent.

First of all, Europeans in general already suck at being efficient and having practical, common sense customer service. Take the time when I was in Paris, waiting at the ice skating rink in front of Hotel de Ville. The line for the skate rentals was maybe 8 persons long, but 15 minutes passed and nobody had moved an inch. Oh, why is that, Chieh? Well, you see, the lady manning the rentals booth decided to take a 15 minute smoke break and just LEFT with no replacement. And since she's French, and everyone else is French, they were all doing their oui oui, I'm le tired I don't vant to work so le hard nonsense. So I ended up waiting 20+ min to get some damn skates.
Anyway. 7:30 AM, I wake up, already disgruntled. I call Lloyd's. Let me first make it clear that I already hate dealing with Lloyds. If they're enough of a bitch to deal with when I lived in London, then it can only be that much better dealing with them from San Francisco with an 8-hour difference and crappy Skype transmission. Basically, it went like this:

"Hi, can I help you?"
"Hi I'm calling to close my account and discuss this charge I have posted to my account."
(repeat 3 times because they can't hear me)
"Can I have your password please."
*Gives password*
"I'm sorry that is incorrect."
"Okay, look, this account is over a year old and I just want to close it and discuss the fees so can we get around this somehow?"
"You'll have to call back tomorrow to discuss the fees ma'am as it is a bank holiday here."
"SO HOW ARE YOU TAKING MY CALL?"

I didn't actually blurb out the last sentence. I just kind of grunted, and said "Okay. Thanks." But seriously. Why are you, as the Bank representative, taking my call on a bank holiday to tell me you can't handle any bank-related issues. ????? BECAUSE YOU'RE ENGLISH. And you blokes are great at looking smart, being keen on gigs and getting pissed off pints but just can't handle customer service. Which is why you'd make me send a letter by mail including all my personal bank information to a PO box in the middle of bumfucking Isle of Man just to close my account.
Don't get me wrong, I love Europe and I love Europeans (the English included). They're great at being cultured and beautiful and making beautiful things. But they are just not practical people.

PS, I image searched "beautiful Europeans" and this came up:



2) Dicks.

Not penis, duh. But people who seem to lack common courtsey and annoy you.

They're really just douchey guidos, but I really like this picture.

So, having already had to miss my early shuttle to make my call to Lloyds, I had to take the 9:00 AM shuttle. When the shuttle arrives, I spent like 10 minutes helping to make sure this guy's bike could fit behind mine in the lower compartment. By that time, everyone else had boarded the shuttle, and I let him board before me. I get on last, and it turns out, the shuttle is full. Some other guy decides to be awfully nice and volunteers to take the next shuttle because "these two have their bikes down there." The guy who I was helping quickly plopped into the newly empty seat and I had no choice but to get off, fetch my bike to wait for the next shuttle, also realizing that the guy had forced his bike in so hard that he had gotten bike grease all over my white bar tape and knocked loose my brakes. Thanks, asshole. Dick. Asshole. Then, as we stand there joking about, "Oh I hope it doesn't rain because that'll really suck especially because I don't have a bike lock with me so I can't go anywhere," it starts pouring. We manage to find some shelter under a MUNI bus stop. Then, previously mentioned nice man comes out of a cafe and hands me a bag of banana bread. "If it's any consolation," he said. Thank you, bread man. Then we went on to talk about hipsters in the Mission, Nepal, bike theft and how lame UFC fights are.

So those are the only two things on my Epic Monday list today, but two of those are enough for me. English banks and dicks on the same day is like getting punched in the face and balls at the same time. By a kid. Or so I'd imagine. If I were a man.

Here's an awesome rant for you to top it off.

Sunday, March 28, 2010

Ho's and shows.

So, people never really (try to) get in my face, but when it does, it's usually pretty funny. Take yesterday.

Who: Me + friends + other fans + randoms
When: 12:30 AM
Where: Mezzanine
What: Kode9 & Flying Lotus show
Mood: CRUNK AS FUCK



So, having been bassed out and thrashing to Kode9 for over an hour, I move closer and closer to the stage. Maneuvering through a crowd to get to the stage at a show can be a very tricky thing, but I'm pretty sure I've got it down, especially at bass-heavy shows like this:

1. You gotta show that you're really into the music. I do so by nonstop dancing, thrashing head, pumping arms. This appeals to other real fans. They know you're not going to waste space near the stage. This also shows the average female show-goer who is just there with their boyfriend that you're not fucking around so they can leave you alone.

2. Be polite, but not too polite. If I have to touch someone to move in front of them, I'll put my hands lightly on their arms or back, smile and say, "excuse me."

3. Be able to spot out spaces that you can fit and get to them quickly. But don't force yourself in a space that's too small. That's just annoying.

4. I'm a girl.

So there I was, navigating towards the stage successfully, with David trailing behind. Fist pumping, head bobbing, feet shuffling. Kode9 is throwing out some heavy tracks, so I'm getting more amped by the second. I see a girl, somewhat grinding up on her boyfriend, who is not moving a single muscle. I see a big space in front of her, right in front of the stage. I move. I slide. I'm in.

I'm not quite mosh girl, but I'm aspiring.

Without turning around, I could just feel the discontent from behind me. I vaguely hear words like "pusher," "this girl," "push her." I don't bother turning around. The thrashing continues.
Then, the girl decides to "accidentally" dance into me with her ass and hips, quite hard. She was a "jolly" ol' girl, if you get my drift. Oh, hell naw bitch. Several attemps in, I accept her invitation to a ass-force competition. I win. I continue thrashing. Girl should be ashamed of herself, having an ass 5x as large as mine and can't booty bump me outta nowhere.

Then, for the next 10-15 minutes or so, she has 3 of her friends send me continuous invites to more ass-force competitions. I accept. I don't turn my head around at any point, I'm focused solely on Kode9, and I am thrashing some mad shit -- head, hands, ass. I don't do kickboxing and hella squats and bikram yoga to not stand this bullshit. Fuck this noise. By the end of 15 minutes, I still stand, victorious. Ass in tact, pulse pumping, and still throwing my weight to the music.

A little while later, I notice that David is standing awkwardly and uncomfortably away from me. "Why don't you come closer?"
"This girl keeps pushing everyone."
So, this time, I turn around, face the ho, and ask, "What's your problem. Why are you pushing everyone."
"You're in front of me."
"....Yes. This is a show. People get in front of you. If you don't want people in front of you, don't leave a space. I didn't even touch you."
"I think you should move." Her boyfriend remains completely still. Completely silent.
"Well... I don't really want to."
"Well, I think you should move."
"Hm. Well... I disagree. And now I'm going to continue enjoying this show."

Damn right. I was that close.

So I do exactly just that, continue thrashing the shit out of myself to Flying Lotus, screaming my head off, having a grand old time, with nobody bothering or touching me. Meanwhile, ho way back is still complaining to her boyfriend, who's probably thinking "God damn why's she such a bitch all the time. NEVER taking her to another show." All in all, it was a great night. Except David got gum in his hair, which we're going to assume that it was from ass-bump girl, who had to formulate some type of revenge once she realized that her and her friends' assing were inadequate.

There's no other way to end this post other than to post some tracks from Kode9 and Flylo.

--

Flying Lotus/ Lil Wayne - I feel like Dying (via Cosmogramma)
Flying Lotus - Parisian Goldfish; Flying Lotus - Tea Leaf Dancers (via NeuMagazine)
Kode9 - Time Patrol (via Dancefloor Mayhem)
Junior Boys - Double Shadow (Kode9 Remix) (via gottadancedirty)

--

For those of you who aren't familiar, Kode9 is a UK DJ who owns the Hyperdub label. He's got a good balance between the cleaner, more minimal sounds of drum&bass and the dirty, heavier grime of dubstep.


Flying Lotus (aka Flylo) is a DJ hailing from LA that creates some of the most experimental electronic fusions that I have ever heard. And honestly, having seen him live... damn. It's probably best to describe it as what I'd imagine to be drugged out mental intercourse, where all the endorphins and serotonin drip down to your fingertips and toes. Believe that.




Tuesday, March 23, 2010

Roommate e-mails, by Chieh. Subject line: SHIT

First e-mail: December 2009

Hi guys,

Sooo since lifting the toilet lid once yesterday in our main bathroom, I've been too horrified to even get close to it. Whoever left the present in the toilet, please just clean it up so that you don't make somebody else do the dirty work we can continue using that toilet. I don't care who it is, I just want to use that bathroom. And if the toilet is already clean and for some reason the lid is just closed... great!

Thanks.


---

Second e-mail: March 2010

Alright guys,

I cleaned the toilet two nights ago, and now there is shit splatters all in it. This isn't the first time. So, please, don't be a dick. If you have explosive shit, it's not like you don't know you're having an explosive shit. Take a looksee in the toilet and see maybe if any babies got left behind. If they did, scrub it, so nobody else has to scrub your poop. It takes 2 minutes. Clean toilets should last more than 3 days. Seriously.

That is all.

Thanks.

---

They should have a "most un-passive aggressive notes" coffee book. I'll be all up in it.

Monday, March 22, 2010

24 years old and what else is new.

When the fuck did I get to 24 years old? No, seriously. Time's not meant to go this fast. And I guess it's only natural to start feeling minor pangs of panic regarding my life and the path I'm taking. You know, same old shit that people go through each birthday from age 20 to like 29. These days, extend that to 35. What else is new.

I'm just about halfway there. Can't wait.

"Panic" is probably too exaggerated of a word. I guess "doubt" is more appropriate. I am not panicked about where I'm going, but I am all of a sudden no longer sure that going to law school will make me the happiest camper I can be. Not to say that I no longer want to go, but there is suddenly a undeniable voice in my brain repeatedly questioning my motives. I knew for a good, long while why I wanted to apply for law school. I loved my law concentration, particularly the materials in Constitutional law. I loved the arguments, the human elements, the application of theories, the palpable substance that seemed to resonate in everything I read, heard and argued for. It meant something solid, it felt like something I should be striving towards. I was 99% sure that this was for me. That 1% is because I don't ever like to say I'm 100% sure about future plans.


The realization that Constitutional law is too limited (by national jurisdiction and often, pay) brought me to reconsider my options. I was and still am a travel bug who cringes at the thought of immobility. In comes London, UBS, and the potential of doing compliance in a business setting. Along with the experience came horror, violent episodes of boredom and a strong distaste for investment banks. Potential job at Google. Enters the thought of cyber law, and tech law in general. Here's something that is internationally relevant (and increasingly so) and not easily defined by national territory. Now that I am working at Google and have seen a lot of the action up close, I've become increasing attracted to the idea of being an in-house advisor to tech companies, moreso than litigating, which was what first attracted me to the idea of law.

So what's changed?
Hm.

I'm not sure. But I'm pretty sure the following play a fairly considerable role:

1) Entrepeneurial roommates
Stanford grads. Always talking new opportunities. Business. Start ups. Independence. Self-fueled projects. Discovering new talents. Networking.
The biggest "project" I've going on right now is getting into Bikram yoga, building my run to 6 miles, and balancing work with class. The Roommates make me feel like I could be doing something more with my life than submitting to a pre-existing system that annually pumps out lawyers at an astonishing rate. Am I not living to my potential? Could I really be doing something food-related (corn salsa guru) or music-related and just simply haven't ventured out?




2) Age
Whoever says that you can always live your 20's is full of shit. You can live your 20's when you're in your 20's, and no other way will ever be how it's meant to be. Once I submit to law school (yes, submit), the debt starts mounting, the stress begins growing, and the inflexibility creeps in and settles. Maybe I'm not ready for all that. Maybe I need to fully live out my 20's, flaunt my shit, have my cake and eat it too, then enter this lock-down. Hustle, play, live a little. Law school is something I can always do. Everything else? Not so much.

Pretty sure life/pizza isn't going to be this enjoyable later down the road.



3) The goddamn LSAT
I'm not stressed about the test. I've come to accept it as a strategic challenge. A matter of discipline. A battle of the mind against this monster institution that's set out to destroy me and every other person in my position. I really don't care to talk to anyone in class, make friends, or get all fucking insane about the process. I'm in, out, getting it done. I want it isolated from the rest of my life as much as possible. But still, I fucking hate the fact that I have to take it. I'm so over (standardized) tests. I'm so over studying for the sake of studying and not for the material. And I also don't enjoy having to go to 4-hour classes after a 8-9 hour workday. My general aversion towards this test is probably spilling over and clouding the ultimate reason of why I'm taking it in the first place.



So there it is. 1, 2, 3. All bitching aside, I don't really think I'm all that doubtful. I think I'm just afraid I'm going to be missing out on something great once I submit. Maybe it's just a matter of timing, and being ready. Maybe I'm still not ready. Maybe I need to wait it out. Defer. Something.

And maybe that's okay.

?

Monday, March 08, 2010

In the past 24 hours...

I've managed to:

1) Mistakenly transfer $2000 to a basically dead credit card instead of my savings account.

One full roll is probably $2000.


2) Replace regular saline contact solution with hydrogen peroxide solution (because was out of the former) thinking that it was okay if I didn't use the instructed case. Upon putting the contacts in my eyes this morning, I thought I was fucking going blind, and that someone had put acid in my contact lens as some form of sick revenge.

Wikipedia says,
"Hydrogen peroxide solution - Used for disinfecting the lenses, and available as 'two-step' or 'one-step' systems. If using a 'two-step' product, one must ensure that the lens taken out of the hydrogen peroxide is neutralized before it is worn, or else wear will be extremely painful (FUCK YES IT IS). Saline must be used to rinse away the peroxide. If you get this solution in your eyes, it is highly recommended that you go to the Emergency Room and get your eye(s) irrigated."

Yeah. This shit in your eyes? Not ideal.

3) Overlook a splinter in my big toe for over 24 hours, realize it in the morning right before work and thus miss my morning shuttle in an effort to extract it. I got the splinter from frolicking all day on a ranch and looking at animal corpses, so It's cool.

No splinters. Just a dead ass shark.


4) Wear my dress backwards for half the day at work until I figured it out at lunch.

My dress? Backwards? YOU DON'T SAY.


Monday. Monday, indeed.

Monday, March 01, 2010

"家"




I often find myself returning to this subject, and often for the same reasons -- to discuss my deepest gratitude towards my parents, to express this immense pride that I have to have come from my family, which I can't seem to openly communicate to them.

I guess communication, especially with my dad, faltered ever since some dramatic episodes during high school that were mainly caused by my first "boyfriend," aka first super-douchebag-experience-that-fucked-up-my-grades-and-made-me-a-mess. It's not easy to maintain the same relationship between daughter and father after he discovers the details on how you lost your virginity, having a pregnancy scare and just how much of a shithead the boy really was. It can't be easy having two daughters 12 years apart -- raising one to tweenage chaos and then having to start all over again.

I seem to find myself in these weird situations with my dad. My mom got upset at me one time, claiming that he found a (unused) condom in his car after letting me borrow the car. I walked in my house one day and saw a green condom in its wrapper lying on the kitchen counter. Talk about passive aggressive. Imagine what I must've been thinking. I denied to my death that it belonged to me (because it didn't), but I was never sure if he believed me. My mom didn't seem to. To this day, I still don't know which fucker friend of mine left it in there and never owned up to it. I didn't get in trouble, but that was one of several awkward confrontations I've run into with my dad -- such as the other time when my mom found a condom wrapper in my bathroom and proceeded to sit me down in front of the both of them: "Chieh, I'm very glad that you and Kevin care very much for each other and that you are safe. But please, do not do it in our house." And that was that.

When it comes to the subject of sex, my dad never speaks a word. He neither approves or disapproves. He just sits in silence, most likely pained and broken hearted by having to confront the fact that I do what I do. Since the high school episode, he hasn't warmed up to any of my boyfriends except for Kevin. It took him over two years to reach that point.

If I really think about it, I don't know much about my dad. I've heard of his crazy party days back in the 80's and how he immediately took to quit drinking and smoking shortly after my birth. I know he's worked incredibly hard my whole life, never forgetting to bring me presents on every business trip until I was thirteen -- CD's, VCD's, hair bands, jewelry, stuffed animals, comics, and any obsession that I maintained at that point. I know that he specifically waited until I was done with middle school to move our family to America, simply because I asked him to. I also know that he was an incredibly fun and humorous man when I was younger, always full of (slightly inappropriate) jokes and air-tosses until I started weighing too much. I'm not really sure when exactly this all changed. I occasionally witness parts of his inner clown surface, more often in large social gatherings, but apart from that, he seems to remain (at least to me) an incredibly serious and stern figure. He lightens up so much more around my younger sister, and it's those times that I'm so glad he has her around.

It scares me that he's 60. It scares me that my grandparents are all 80+, and that I've probably only seen them a handful of times in the past 10 years. It scares me that I don't feel like I know him as well as I should, that we can't get over this barrier we both seem to have in communicating emotions with each other. I don't know when I last told him, "I love you."



I ought to go home more. I ought to spend more time with them and my little sister, instead of constantly being around friends and continually embarking on global adventures that my parents always so unselfishly support. I know I'm not giving enough or trying enough, and I'm not okay with that. I owe them too much, and I'm capable of doing so much. I just don't know why it's so difficult to change.

Well, whatever it is, I'm changing it. People may say that it's never too late, but at a certain point, it will be. It will be, and I will find myself back in my shoes when I was 10, incessantly beating myself up for the next decade plus for not having spent more time trying to take care of and know my grandfather better. Those lessons should only be learned once.

Life is too short to be afraid.

Monday, February 15, 2010

Plumplings

Monthly resolution to make dumplings? Completed.

Veggies: Carrots, cabbage, scallions, onion and ginger


Condiments: Soy sauce, sesame oil, and white pepper (not pictured)


Protein: Firm tofu!



Chop chop:


Mince mince:


Dice dice:


Pan fry:


Mash and mix:


Scoop and fold:



As the Chinese dumplings come into being, so do the Russian piroshkis..

Chop chop (onion, fennel):




Blend (cream, potatoes, fennel):



Roll and wrap:



And the beautiful creatures come into being:





Piroshkis are best paired with ketchup and sour cream. Really.


But we don't need much here other than some pan-fried crispness: