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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

?

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.