Hydroponic Nirvana

Soup For Sluts: Cheap, Fast & Easy

2011-10-17T21:08:00.000-07:00

Of course it's from Japan!

Love: Can it be real if the object is not?

2011-06-02T21:38:00.001-07:00

"Super-Toys Last All Summer Long" by Brian Aldiss is a great little story and the basis for the film "A.I." In the beginning of A.I. a tech asks, "If a robot could genuinely love a person, what responsibility does that person hold toward that mecha in return? It's a moral question, isn't it?"

It basically sums up the short story by Aldiss. So my question is, what would our responsibility be to a machine that shows love? If we, being the creator, created a sentient cyborg child, indistinguishable from a living biological being, and programmed to love us as its parent, should we not reciprocate that love?

The theist might believe since it has no soul, we don't have any responsibility since it's just a machine. However, atheists generally do not believe in a soul. Would this free (or bind) an atheist to love this machine? Regardless of your belief of the existence of a soul we have to keep in mind that this machine is a "sentient thing." Are we morally bound to be responsible and care for this machine?

What are your thoughts?

I've been Sucker Punched. Next up, a cold shower...

2011-03-28T23:41:00.000-07:00

I imagine Zack Snyder snorting a line of coke before shouting “action!” I have imagined him doing coke even before viewing Sucker Punch and now I’m damn sure that he does indeed snort coke. Sucker Punch is a deeply flawed film fueled by poor dialogue, a simple plot and a clichéd story. It’s an evolved women-in-chains flick and wired like the mind of a teenage boy: an exercise in masturbation while flipping through the latest Frederick’s of Hollywood catalog and playing a video game... with a joystick. That said I turned off my frontal lobe as the lights dimmed at the IMAX. Now producing less dopamine, my brain allowed me to sink into my dark precipitous carnal core. I let go of my ego and super ego; this was going to be a wild ride on the id.

If The Brotherhood of the Wolf is broken down into 3 different films it could be considered a poor period piece, a horrible horror flick or a mediocre martial arts film. Instead it was a highly enjoyable film. Who knew that mash-up would work? It did and to that I say bravo. Sucker Punch has the same elements. Granted, in the Snyder universe the elements behave much different and are much more unstable.

Snyder’s protagonist is a 20 year old woman known only as Baby Doll (Emily Browning). She looks more like a 12 year old Nabokov character; a pigtailed blonde with a consistent pouty expression even when she’s killing the bad guys. Sent to a mental asylum for the accidental killing of her younger sister, Baby Doll breaks her mind from reality and creates a fantasy world in which she is the newest member of a, excuse me, brothel. Needless to say, that’s a fantasy of a man. The fantasy doesn’t stop there. Things are not going well in the brothel (go figure) so she creates another fantasy in which she and her fellow patients/prostitutes are an elite commando unit kicking ass on monster samurais, World War I German soldiers, demons, dragons and cyborgs all the while in combat ready lingerie. What’s not to love?

I’m glad you asked.

Snyder felt it was very obvious to show the audience that Baby Doll is 20 years old at the same time making her appear as if she was 12. Was it a nod to the male of the species that it’s okay to lust after her without feeling guilty? Her combat outfit was that of a Japanese influenced sexy school girl; like something out of a soft porn Manga. If you’re familiar with Japanese Manga, you’ll know that the artists prefer to draw big round eyes for their characters. That’s Baby Doll, a live Manga character and I feel dirty.

I'm cute, sexy and I pout. Don't call me Lolita because I'll kick your ass.

I know a lot of critics will pan Sucker Punch. Their reasons will be that it’s offensive or stupid or both. A few brave souls will say Snyder is a genius. For me, they’re both right and both wrong. I loved this film for all the wrong reasons. I make no apologies and neither does my highly satisfied id. The visceral experience overwhelmed my senses and left me asking myself, “Is Sucker Punch barely legal exploitation or post-millennium-girl-power-feminism?” You’ll have to see it for yourself to answer that but just when you know what the answer is, you’ll be wrong. Or should I say Sucker Punched?

Dedication to Andy Irons

2010-12-19T01:09:00.000-08:00

I tried to come up with the words but nothing came. That said, I will re-post this poignant video he made just before his tragic death. Andy shouldn't have died and if he had to die, it should have been while he was surfing. He will be missed.

Rest in peace Andy. July 24, 1978 – November 2, 2010

Love Cannot Be Calculated

2010-10-09T23:18:00.001-07:00

"Quantum Physics teaches that nothing is fixed, that there are no limitations, that everything is vibrating Energy."

Subsequent to the most tragic day
To which fate responds ambivalently
Courteous were you of my sympathy
My desire, I wonder, see it did you?

Or was it my blindness and stupidity?
Your beauty reaches beyond the heavens
Divine proportion, Your Golden Ratio
Impelled my uncalculated calculation

Amor fati, amor fati, amor fati
I too shall make something beautiful
Desperately I wanted to share it with you
My hopeless longing wishing you may

The supposition in which I played
See through it you would I had posited
Damn my theatrics, damn my stage fright
My miscalculation, deaf to my intuition

Your love of me found out did I
To which the sum may have been “in love”
A delay, an absence for too long
I returned, decided I had to call upon you

But your hand, it was taken by another
Taking my heart and soul with it
I have not uttered your name since

For the blade of love's misfortune
Upon my neck it spitefully rests
I realized my fatal miscalculation

One minus one equals melancholy

Surfing Santa Cruz

2010-09-25T22:02:00.001-07:00

I woke up today feeling good about surfing. As I drove down from San
Francisco I was hoping for some decent waves. Little did I know the
temperature would be in the high 80s. Apparently others did as traffic
was heavy and it took me almost twice as long as usual to get there.

The selection of rental surfboards were pretty bad. I was tempted to buy my
own but I found one which was a bit too small for me, meaning it was
designed for someone with more advanced skills. The dude who rented it to
me said I should be okay as he's seen me surf. I took a chance
thinking the waves might not be too big. I was right until low tide.
The waves were breaking 3 to 4 feet. Bigger than what I saw at the US
Open at Huntington Beach earlier this year.

Naturally my first few attempts on the bigger waves ended up as
wipeouts. My final wipeout was a bit nasty. The wave came in slower
than I expected so I paddled slowly. Either that or I read the wave
wrong and as I went to popup I realized I timed it wrong. I went to
kneel to catch my balance but then Mother Nature decided to work my
sorry ass. As I hit the water I heard "OHs" and other exclamations
from nearby suffers.

A local girl said I had the wave and didn't know why I tried to
correct my center of gravity. I explained I was using a board beyond
my skills and wasn't quite comfortable surfing it. As we paddled back into
the lineup she gave me a couple of pointers. She's a typical California
surfer girl - blonde, tan and beautiful. I'd think her husband would agree.
Oh well.

Santa Cruz is a big surfing town. You can find surfers out in the
water pretty much everyday of the year. Today was no exception and the
amount of surfers out in the water was crazy. Considering the board, I surfed
Cowell's beach because the waves are rather gentle. It's also where surf
lessons are given. There must have been about 20 people learning how
to surf. They tend to get in the way but I didn't mind as everyone was
a beginner at one point and deserves a chance to learn. I'm always happy to see new people of all
ages learning how to surf.

While I was surfing the smaller waves earlier in the day something
unusual happened; I saw a dolphin. It came right next to me when I was
trying to catch a wave. At first I thought it was a shark but saw the
dorsal fin bobbing in a circular motion. The dorsal fin of a shark
moves evenly on surface. Nevertheless it startled me and I slid off
the backside of the wave. The dolphin circled back and looked at me as
if to say, "Dude, that was a beautiful wave you missed." I was
surprised we was curious enough to come close to me and two other
surfers. We all patted him on his head then someone yelled out,
"shark!" I realized everyone was looking in our direction. The dolphin
swam around for a few more minutes then disappeared. It was incredible
and I never thought that I'd experience something like it.

Even more odd than that was a wedding was taking place on the beach. A
wedding on the beach isn't unusual but I was one of five people asked
to pose with the bride and groom. How could I say no on such an
occasion?

As I left the beach I realized I've been surfing over six hours. It
was then my arms turned to jello. I had to carry the board on my head
because I couldn't carry it by its rails. It was a great day but now my
body is telling me I will pay for it.

Perception: One Ring to Rule Them All

2010-09-24T16:10:00.000-07:00

One of the biggest challenges our species faces is our ability to get along with others. When we first begin to like someone it is because of what we find interesting about them. It’s not much but enough to make us want to know more about them. We see the big picture and it looks good. Troubles begin when we find out the details. It’s not as simple as being good or bad. They need not have several flaws as it might be one simple flaw that you just cannot accept.

They look good from afar but far from good looking.

Just as we evaluate someone, we too are being evaluated. There are those who pretend to be someone they are not. There are those who know who they are and don’t care how others perceive them. For the most part, I fall into the latter category. I say for the most part because I do not want to be perceived as a coward or a hypocrite. Those two qualities are at the top of my list of worst human frailties. I would find it troublesome if someone perceived me as either. We all care about what other people think of us to varying degrees.

This realization began to bother me. If others have a negative impression about me should I change? I consider myself an honest and decent person, why should I change because other people do not see who I really am? If I decide to change it’s because I want to better myself as a human being and not because I want others to have a better perception of me.

I volunteer my time to a local organization in San Francisco. One of my fellow volunteers asked me to get involved in another cause. I politely declined stating my reasons. This was unacceptable to him and word spread that I’m an uncaring sort and a hypocrite. Just before our last meeting, I saw my antagonist enter the office as I was standing across the street.

I texted him, “I don’t appreciate the lies you’re spreading. Please retract it all.”
His text back was, “No, what are you going to do about it?”
My response, “Step outside so we can discuss this privately.”

SFPD is called. Great.

Luckily the head of the volunteer program vouched for me and the booted my antagonist out of the organization. I could have avoided this by letting it go but I didn’t want people to perceive me as a hypocrite. This is something about me that I am currently unwilling to change.

Currently unwilling…

Each time I reflect on who I am I ask myself, “Who am I really?” I look back at my life and try to think like I did as a child when life was much simpler. I try to describe myself without classifications or labels. What is the best thing I’ve ever done without expectation of a reward? What’s the worst thing I’ve done out of fear or greed?

But willing to change…

As life progresses we change. We react to our environment; what we learn from others or through direct experience. We struggle to get ahead in life and ask ourselves, “What am I doing that is sabotaging my goal to become a better human being?”

The reasons are endless but I’ve developed a general plan on how to better myself. It came from Lord of the Rings; I believe it was my third read during the time I was studying psychology. One phrase kept popping into my head: One ring to rule them all.

Epiphany.

I believe there are only 4 perceptions of an individual:

* How you perceive yourself.
* How you think others perceive you.
* How others perceive you.
* How you want to be perceived.

Each perception is a ring. The fifth ring is the real you. Each perception holds a truth about you but perception is subjective and therein lies the rub. The OBJECTIVE is to make all the rings the same. I have complete control over how I perceive myself but getting the other 3 perceptions to align is difficult if not impossible. The only way we can change what others think about us is by observing feedback. Sadly, feedback often comes back to us as lies or is too ambiguous for us to interpret. Even our closest friends may lie to us because they’re afraid to hurt our feelings. It is this reason why I prefer to be honest with people who I have a relationship with. It doesn’t always work but at least I can weed out the people who I perceive is not worth my time.

Success: The Impossible does Exist and Failure is Inevitable but Never Wave Hope Goodbye

2010-09-07T22:17:00.001-07:00

Inspiration motivates us. It tells us that we can succeed. We are led to believe that nothing is impossible and failure is something to learn from. This belief is so appealing and pervasive that you can't avoid seeing an inspirational quote on Twitter. I do enjoy inspirational quotes but at the same time I find them delusive. There are things that are impossible and people will ultimately fail. This has nothing to do with not wanting success bad enough. People don't always fail because they didn't want something bad enough. Failure is often the result of someone else's success or events out of their control.

Right now you're probably thinking that I'm a fatalist. I'm not. Realist? Sure but that's not what prompted this post.

This past weekend I went down to Santa Cruz to surf. The swells were lacking and I spent most of my time sitting on my board, looking out into the Pacific. My fellow surfers complained but I was happy just to be sitting on the board in the Pacific, reflecting upon my youth. I remembered how badly I wanted to be a professional surfer. Not just a professional surfer but a legend. I wanted to be Kelly Slater before Kelly Slater became Kelly Slater, the legend. Perhaps if I focused on surfing instead of letting it fade out of my life, I could have been a great surfer. That was a long time ago and now it's too late.

This past winter I was fortunate enough to catch Chris Bertish grab a monster wave at Maverick's that gave the South African the win. That was all I needed to see. Though I've followed surfing throughout my life, it wasn't until then that my passion for surfing was back on the stove to reheat. To paraphrase Kelly Slater, "surfing is like the mob, once you're in, you're in forever." Now it's time for me to come out of witness protection.

This renewed interest has rejuvenated me. My goal now is to surf the North Shore of Oahu... again. I've already booked my trip - smack dab in the middle of the Triple Crown. Everyone I will meet will be a surfer in some form or fashion. Hopefully I'll be able to surf well enough not to look like a newbie. I might even look good ripping. Will I be good enough to surf Pipeline between pro-heats? Probably not but I am one step closer. Closer to be good enough to be a walk-on for Pipeline? I highly doubt it. I will never win Pipeline. I will never win Maverick's. I will never win Teahupo'o. Wouldn't it be bitchin' if I did? If I keep surfing, who knows? As long as there are waves, I'll keep surfing.

There are things in life that are impossible and you may fail but don't let that stop you. Success is like the elusive perfect wave. You may keep searching for it and never find it but you just may enjoy the ride.

Aloha...

Literature Aperture: A Snapshot of My Library

2010-08-21T21:45:00.000-07:00

Whacked out chick, Lori, tagged me for a literary post.

I have read over 500 books in my life.

The task of listing some is a bit daunting.

I can only recall around 300.

Feel free to comment and I'll feel free to retort.

Jacqueline Carey
The Fantasy Genre is not my favorite but every now and then I do find a book that intrigues me. To say that I enjoy Jacqueline Carey's complete works is even more astounding since she is a fantasy-fiction writer. There's something sultry about her prose; think Anaïs Nin without the overt sex.

House of Leaves by Mark Z Danielewski
The most brilliantly disturbed and odd piece of literature ever written. It's not for everyone. That is all.

The Last Samurai by Helen DeWitt
I was completely captivated by DeWitt's oddly constructed debut novel. Sadly there's a pathetic movie of the same name but I assure you it has nothing to do with that crap movie. The title refers to The Seven Samurai directed by Akira Kurosawa. The film serves as a pseudo-male figure to a fatherless child. There's a lot of warmth and hilarity between single mother Sibylla and her genius child Ludo. A must for any fan of Kurosawa and/or single parents.

Life of Pi by Yann Martel
I know you're thinking that a pattern is developing here. Life of Pi is another oddly constructed novel. Martel stated he needed to write this novel to put some direction in his life. Naturally this appealed to me.

Karakter by Ferdinand Bordewijk
Karakter was a difficult read for me. I got through it quickly but it stirred up emotions that completely drained me. On the surface, it feels like something Charles Dickens wrote but it was dark and read more like Kafka. Never knowing who my biological father is I can surely feel the contempt and rage Katadreuffe had for his dad.

Doctor Faustus by Christopher Marlowe
The best piece of literature on selling your soul to the devil, period. It's also the only work written during the Elizabethan era that deals with the subject. Oh yeah, Christopher Marlowe wrote what is attributed to William Shakespeare. ☺

The Big Drop: Classic Big Wave Surfing by John Long
All I recall from this book is what happened to me at Banzai Pipeline.

Ok, I think I'm done. The toughest part was selecting which books to put in. My head hurts. Where am I?

I gotta tag someone... Karen, you're it!

"Cairo Time" Critique: After the Waves come the Pyramids and Love

2010-08-11T21:34:00.000-07:00

This past weekend was glorious for me. As a whim I decided to check out the US Open of Surfing. The energy at the Open was frenetic and magical. My primary reason for going was to see Carissa Moore surf. Her win was the icing on the cake. The state of euphoria I was in had to come to an end but I didn't want it to crash abruptly. I planned to see "Cairo Time" prior to my decision to attend the Open, so this was the perfect time to unwind. I left Huntington Beach and headed north to Los Angeles to check it out.

"Cairo Time" stars Patricia Clarkson (Juliette), Alexander Siddig (Tareq) and the city of Cairo. I say Cairo because director Ruba Nadda unabashedly makes a spectacle of the city like Richard Linklater did with Vienna in "Before Sunrise."

"Cairo Time" tells the story of a woman, Juliette, on vacation in Egypt waiting for her husband, Mark, who is working for the United Nations in Gaza. Juliette expects her husband soon but is met by Mark's former colleague, Tareq. Tareq escorts Juliette from the airport to her hotel. Mark's arrival time is unknown which causes and already lethargic Juliette to go stir crazy and we are left to wonder if she becomes Tareq's lover before her husband arrives.

Nadda's film plays out like a series of postcards painted by Edward Hopper. There's a sense of solitude even in a city as densely populated as Cairo. The pace of the film is extremely even and things happen gradually; getting glimpses here and there of Cairo's beauty along with its sad reality of poverty. Patricia Clarkson is elegant and lovely; Tareq is dashing and humble. Nadda teases us with possibility of romance while blatantly inserting frames of Egyptian culture.

Nadda's direction is intentionally timid and vague. The sparse dialogue allows us to soak in the city and make us forget that we're watching a movie but rather taking a journey to a strange land that we only read about in books. Like meeting an interesting stranger and wanting to know more about them, "Cairo Time" does not resolve anything but allows us to cherish the time we had; a slice of life that we wish we were part of. If you're looking for point to the film, you're missing the point. "Cairo Time" is a beautiful poetic film and a must see for anyone who is a hopeless romantic who yearns to visit exotic lands.

Carissa Moore: The 2010 US Open of Surfing Women's Champion

2010-08-07T22:43:00.000-07:00

Congratulations to Carissa Moore for winning the 2010 US Open of Surfing. Though the swells were lacking, Carissa managed to catch the right waves to defeat Lakey Peterson in the semis and Sally Fitzgibbons in the final. Don't be surprised to see Carissa Moore surf against the men in a few years.

I apologize for the shaky camera work but I had to max the zoom to get decent footage. Enjoy!

Prop 8 and justice for ALL

2010-08-04T15:43:00.001-07:00

So the battle has been won by the opposition of California's Prop. 8 but the war is not over. The big argument for the proponents of Prop. 8 is that of tradition. I empathize. I too believe marriage should be between a man and a woman. The church has every right to disallow it in their organization. That opinion might be the remnants of my Lutheran upbringing. I have since renounced religion and regard it in the same way I view the Greco-Roman deities. However, my preference of what marriage "should be" has no legal basis.

The biggest idiot at Fox News (which says a lot), Glenn Beck, keeps reminding his viewers that America is not a democracy, it is a republic. Well jack off, your stupidity just undermines your argument against same-sex marriage.

A republic provides liberty and justice for all. Not for the majority, for ALL. Because we are a republic, we have natural/civil rights, not sociopolitical rights. The people are protected by the Constitution from the majority.

Which brings me back to Prop. 8. Though I prefer marriage to be between a man and a woman, I do not support Prop. 8. As a republic, we can't let this law stand. Regardless of your belief, logic and jurisprudence of a republic dictates that the majority cannot take advantage of the minority. If the church refuses to accept it, they have every right. On the other hand, the church and its followers cannot Constitutionally stop same-sex couples to get married by the State.

Keep your faith in your religion but keep them out of my laws.

The Enigmatic K-Zo Kaizhaku

2010-08-02T16:04:00.000-07:00

The Enigmatic K-Zo KaizhakuSP

Mama said, "Don't Hang Out with Failures"

2010-07-26T14:33:00.001-07:00

I'm not sure if Twitter fail (universal and individual) has increased but I've felt it. I've increased my average tweets per day in 2010 and my dislike for Twitter has grown to a point where I am now considering leaving it. This would be my second departure but unlike my first departure in mid-2008, which was due to lack of interest, this departure would be due to annoyance.

Inception Critique: Sowing the Seeds

2010-07-25T22:44:00.000-07:00

The basic storyline of Christopher Nolan’s latest outing, Inception, is a heist film. The pulse that weaves us through the film is based upon psychoanalytic approach of dream interpretation. Instead of some precious tangible object, the thieves in Inception attempt to steal a memory. Fans of Nolan are well aware of his fondness of characters weighted down by their own psychological baggage or as in Memento, the frailty of memories. Both are heavy elements in Inception. (Interestingly, memento is defined as “a reminder of the past” while inception is “the beginning of something.”)

Inception begins with a scene that occurs towards the chronological end of the film. This storytelling technique annoys me unless it’s utilized in a film noir. Though there are film noir elements I must stress that this is not a film noir. Nevertheless, it’s executed superbly.

After the opening scene, Nolan spends the next 40-60 minutes introducing us to his characters and more importantly, laying down the science of the film with an avalanche of information. The fast pace and hard transition edits can be quite confusing especially to those who aren’t familiar with the science and theories of dream analysis. I’d have to guess that in the first half of the film, the large amounts of master shots edited in rapid succession were done purposely to allow the viewer some time to digest what was being displayed onto the screen. This is a put-off to me but again, Nolan executes it well.

One can’t help comparing it to The Matrix, visually stunning and the perception of reality. However, The Matrix was rather elementary in its philosophy where Inception goes rather deep and perhaps too deep for the average viewer. Nolan not only throws a ton of visual effects at you, he also requires you to think, a lot. While my ears were sending Jungian dream theories to my brain, my eyes were sending mind blowing visuals to my brain. Thankfully the film was superbly constructed.

This film succeeds not just for its intellect or visual effects. It succeeds because we can all relate to dreams and how they make us feel. Freud had a very basic view of dreams: desire is the motivation of dreams. While I side more with Jung’s interpretation, Freud’s view has a universal appeal and is the motivation of Inception's protagonist: A man wants to go home to his wife and kids. If you take away all that is profound and surreal out of Inception you’re left with the basic story. The protagonist, who must overcome obstacles to achieve his/her goal. What it left out in the basic structure is the lack of an antagonist. Some may argue that Marion Cotillard’s or Cillian Murphy’s characters are the antagonists but they aren’t, not in the truest sense. Similar to real life, it’s easy to blame others (antagonists) for your failures but when in reality failures are mostly the result of self, you the protagonist.

Inception is a stunning film with a solid cast and worth repeated viewings. If you’re a person who remembers their dreams and questions them as I do then I highly recommend seeing it. It’s like the dream where you are trying to cram for a psychology final while holding onto a screaming baby on a plane that is about to crash into the ocean. Never had that type of dream? Strange, it’s one of my recurring themes in my dreams.

Spoiler Alert - The pitch in 60 seconds:

Cobb (Leonardo DiCaprio), a corporate thief/fugitive and his team, extract secrets from the minds of their targets via dream sharing.  They target Saito (Ken Watanabe), a Japanese mogul, who outdoes them.  Instead of exacting revenge Saito proposes to Cobb one last job and in return will use his influence that will allow Cobb to return to the States where his children are.  Their new target is Robert Fischer (Cillian Murphy) who just inherited a global energy monopoly.  Instead of stealing secrets Saito wants the team to plant an idea in Fischer’s mind to break up the monopoly.  This presents to be more difficult than stealing thoughts so Cobb and his partner, Arthur (Joseph Gordon-Levitt), enlist the help of Eames (Tom Hardy), a dream world impersonator; Yusuf (Dileep Rao), a chemist; and Ariadne (Ellen Page), a talented rookie dream architect.  The biggest complication is that Cobb projects the memory of his dead wife, Mal (Marion Cotillard) into his dreams.  Cobb can’t get her out of his subconscious mind because he feels responsible for Mal’s suicide.  Ariadne becomes aware of this and sees it may endanger the lives of her teammates.  She tries to help Cobb let go but will she be able to succeed before everyone awakes or worse, get stuck in the dream world?

Crepuscular Creatures

2010-07-02T17:40:00.000-07:00

Daylight shows all; blinded we become
Night shows nothing; nothing we see
Twilight dawns and sets; moments of epiphany
Seeing what is hidden; hiding our flaws
Crepuscular creatures all we are

Critique - Yellow & Green: Not an Autobiography of Marcy Chen

2010-06-20T18:47:00.000-07:00

“How can a woman be expected to be happy with a man who insists on treating her
as if she were a perfectly normal human being.” - Oscar Wilde

I first came across the condition of agoraphobia in psychology class. I dismissed it as some silly nonsense until one day I became interested and involved with a woman who suffered from the condition. Though I have flown over a million miles I am not a member of the mile high club but after dating a woman afflicted by agoraphobia I probably know what it’s like. I was in my late twenties. I don’t know if my interest of her was due to sympathy or lust but I can tell you if I met a woman with agoraphobia now, I’d run away as fast as I could. I am not saying I am unsympathetic to the affliction but I have enough of my own baggage to deal with and I don’t need to pay extra to check in another bag which is oversized.

Marcy Chen's debut novel, Yellow & Green: Not an Autobiography of Marcy Chen, details her struggle to cope with her agoraphobia whilst dealing with romance, family, friends, work and food. Though I’m not into “mashing” think of it as The Joy Luck Club meets Atonement meets A Moveable Feast meets Dilbert; cut out all the unnecessary parts and you have Ms. Chen’s novel.

The novel is written in the first person. The title states “not an autobiography” but I question the veracity of that statement. For the sake of separating the real author, whom I only know from Twitter, and the novel’s protagonist (and antagonist) I shall critique her work as a piece of pure fiction.

The first chapter dives right in on a first date and tragically ends when Marcy pisses herself. Her unfortunate and horrific situation produced some serious humor at her expense that I almost pissed myself. Chapter One was brilliant and a near flawless way to open. From that moment I knew that it was going to be a no holds barred tale.

The novel paces well but there are passages that are somewhat uneven; though that could be the desired effect considering the agoraphobia. Her bluntness at times is over the top and her graphic sexual comments are a bit unnecessary. However, Ms. Chen was able to bring the story back on track and continue where she stumbled; her faults often softened by her wit and humor. My only other complaint about the novel is the mistake many first time authors make: the use of over descriptive dialogue tags.

Yellow & Green: Not an Autobiography of Marcy Chen is a wonderful debut and I recommend it to anyone who struggles with their own baggage, scars and imperfections. Ms. Chen deftly creates characters you care about and root for or against. It’s a story which is quite unique in which the protagonist is also the antagonist without the psychological babble but with all of the delightful angst.

Click here to purchase a copy of Yellow & Green: Not an Autobiography of Marcy Chen at Amazon!

There is no Write way

2010-06-15T23:45:00.000-07:00

I have been called an idiot, often pig-headed, for my unremitting attitude towards certain principals. Those principals, which I have crafted for myself, have perplexed many who have encountered me. I, as noted by several conservatives, bleed too much to the left. Contrarily, liberals have labeled me as a right wing conservative. Neither side, I presume, is aware of the each other’s labeling of yours truly. Some believe I disagree for the sake of disagreeing. Not true, I do not agree just to be agreeable. I tend to state my opinion in most situations despite my awareness that a long, drawn out argument will undoubtedly ensue. My lack of diffidence, or my tenacity to stand ground, has served me well but has also caused me problems. My fault, if it can be called that, is that I cannot, or refuse to, find a balance.

I began this post on a socio-political note but this is not about politics, per se; we all know, life itself is very political: your family, friends, coworkers, and in this century, the Vanity Fair that is social media. Like information streaming on Twitter so too develops imbrications of information, gossip, trends, alliances, etc. The ethos of social media can be quite disturbing no doubt but there is harmony and joy to be found. I believe I am a better person for knowing certain individuals via Twitter. Considering that, I began to circumspect the attitude to which I would deliver my message.

I write this post not to insult nor belittle but I fear that I may inadvertently do so. Nevertheless, it is something that I feel strongly about and accept the consequences. This is strictly my opinion. I am neither a well known writer nor filmmaker of any stature and most definitely will exceed my purview.

This year I returned to jotting down notes, reflecting upon them daily, which steadily moved me in a direction, seemingly against my will, and somehow imbibed in me that which I already believed, or understood, as a child. Full circle, if you will, of an understanding that can only be comprehended when your cup is empty. From years of feeding and drinking from those “in the know” I have come to one very simple conclusion. They are all full of shit.

To post or not to post – that is the question but is it nobler in the mind to suffer that which disheartens the soul or to address directly that which does not veritably offend?

I wrote Shakespeare you dumb shits!

I thought about being more eloquent but concluded it would be best to write in a manner of a "bitch slap, wake up call" and to follow the spirit for which it preaches.

There is nothing you can do to guarantee success as a writer. Do not follow any steps because you’ll find yourself tripping over them. Of all the important things that makes one a success, the least would be talent. Do not click that link on Twitter that says “tips on writing” or “what you should know as a writer.”

Read the so called great writers.
Read trash novels.
Read legal contracts.
Read the comics.
Read everything.
Then forget it all.

“How to” literary/cinematic dogma is an anathema to art.

Just write.
Write because you love to write.
Write because you need to write.
Write because life is nothing if you stop writing.
Fuck all who says you can’t because you don’t play by the so called rules.
Tell them, “House of fucking Leaves motherfucker! Fuck you and your rules!”

The best advice I’ve ever heard on writing comes from the television show “Bones.” The title character, Dr. Temperance “Bones” Brennan, is a forensic anthropologist and a successful novelist. In the episode “The Woman in the Car” she is being interviewed and is asked what advice she can give to budding authors:

"Well the first thing they should have is an idea and then…well first you need something to write with… Well obviously you need a writing instrument and you need an idea. I’m just not sure which should come first."

That’s it. Perhaps a modicum of grammar is required but I have seen where that isn’t always the case. Interchange the word “breathe” with “write.” Stop breathing and you’ll stop living; which will in effect kill any aspirations you may have to be a writer, successful or not. If your goal is to make money, find another career. If your goal is to write, then write. Any other advice is bullshit.

Snippet: My Dinner with Krystyn Chong

2010-06-09T23:22:00.000-07:00

I had dinner with Krystyn Chong this past Monday night. She was in San Francisco for Apple's WWDC. She initially invited me for coffee though confessed it's not a beverage she drinks. I don't "drink" and she was kind enough not to insist that we meet at a bar. It's a rather arbitrary thing to decide upon but it did pose somewhat of a challenge for us as we spent over 30 minutes texting each other. We eventually settled in at Osha Thai Restaurant on Geary & Leavenworth.

A bit about Krys
I know Krys from Twitter. She began following me last October. I noticed a spike in followers after we began tweeting each other. Some of my favorite followers that I met through Krys are: Sung Lee, Loripop326, Terri Nakamura, and Edo 江戸. These fine people got me more followers. If it wasn't for Krys, the number of followers I have would be much smaller. Though I don't regard the amount of followers I have is important, it does tell me that she has a tremendous influence in the Twitter world. Though we all have our own style, hers is difficult to pin down. She's quite cognizant of this fact and doesn't seem to mind that people will love her or hate her.

Back to our Evening!
Krys alerted me to her poor navigation skills. I had to walk more than twice the distance to the restaurant as she did so when I arrived and found that she wasn't there I became concerned. She was only three blocks away but ended up going the wrong way. After taking the "scenic route" she appeared, talking on her cell phone. She hung up the phone and I called out to her. We hugged and for a moment there I sort of felt that I was in the presence of a celebrity.

We entered Osha and just as we were seated, Krys asked me if I was married. It sounded so innocent and casual but I was surprised nontheless. From that point we discussed our past relationships. She's easy on the eyes so I had to remind myself that we were not on a date. I know the guy to my left wish he was me as he kept staring at Krys and not his date. I told her I was going to write a brief blog of our meeting and that I'd let her read it before I publish it. She said that it wasn't necessary and that she trusted me. Brave girl.

We discussed a plethora of topics; one topic was about living in New York on 9/11. She told me all about her anxiety on that day and the weeks that followed. There was this sadness that I knew too well. I had 3 acquaintances who were in the Towers, one of them a good friend. I did not want this night to end on such melancholy so I switched the subject to Twitter.

Of course we two geeks could not let the night pass without taking pictures with our smartphones...

What seemed like a few minutes ended up being over 3 hours. She managed to grab the check, thus thwarting my chance of being chivalrous. Fear not, I did walk her back to her hotel. And thus ended my first meeting with a person whom I became friends with via Twitter.

Thank you Krys for a very fun evening!

I promised her I wouldn't get into the details of our discussions. She didn't seem to mind but I have decided to save it for myself. Get your own details, invite her to your town.

Clear Waters, Black Coffee: A Short Story

2010-06-03T22:27:00.000-07:00

The City is cold; always cold but never extreme.

"Much like you Waffi, much like you."

That is what papa said about San Francisco from which he learned through his visits there as a maritime sailor. Eskendereyyah, what you call Alexandria, can be hot or warm but never cold. The sun brought heat but the prevailing winds dictated the temperature. Little did I know as a child those winds would carry me around the world to the cold city. I intended to live my life in Alexandria, on the solid ground that I loved. It is odd that I, who grew up near the water, had an uneasy relationship with it. Even our most majestic of waters rejected me. I once vomited while sailing on the Nile on a calm day.

“The waters, Waffi, are not for you,” papa told me.

In the days coming up to my departure for America I refused any notion of leaving Alexandria. Even though the government is responsible for the murder of my family, it is not the doing of Alexandria. If it were not for my uncle, I would still be in Egypt; dead or alive I would still be in my beloved city.

Traveling to another part of the world terrified me. I do not know much about the world even though my father spent a great deal talking to my brother about it. Being the second son I was merely another mouth to feed. He rarely addressed me as "son." I was much closer to my mother. She was a true Alexandrian. Arab with a hint of Greek. I have never met a Greek but my uncle once told me she, like him, is a descendant of the Ptolemaic dynasty. I am not sure if this is true but Uncle Bubu (his real name) swears by it.

"You are not your father's son. You are you mother's. You are my sister's child. A child of a family that once ruled all of Egypt."

My father did not care much for uncle and demanded that he not speak to my brother. I am not sure why he was permitted to speak with me. I did not mind though, for I loved Uncle Bubu.

As I said, I do not know much. What I do know is poetry; though this is debated by my teacher. He believed my poetry would amount to nothing because I do nothing except lament about nothing. Perhaps he is right. My life has been uneventful. My brother almost killed my mother during his birth. I, on the other hand, was no bother. My mother was asleep when I entered this world. Apparently she did not wake nor had any dreams or nightmares the entire night. In the morning she woke up to find me at her feet unable to recall at what time she gave birth. Uneventful.

The day has come. Uncle Bubu found me free passage to San Francisco. All I had to do is work the ship and throw up as little as possible. After making a few port calls and living off of a diet of motion sickness pills, I sailed under the Golden Gate Bridge four months later.

“Salaam alaykum!”
“Alaykum salaam, Uncle Bubu.”

After stuffing me with food, Uncle Bubu told me the first thing he thought I should know about America.

"As you know, I am not a religious man. It has served me well to avoid... it would be wise for you to... unless of course we are, how should I say it ... then you should, well, should try to do the best to behave like a Muslim."

He was cryptic like that but as a poet, lamenting aside, I always understood him.

“I trust you have overcome your sea sickness?”
“With the help of these pills, uncle.”

He let out a hearty laugh.

“So tell me, how was it? The months you spent sailing?”

He let me talk uninterrupted, as my mother would, about my journey. When night came upon us and I laid my head to rest for the first time in this strange country, I recalled my feelings the day I sailed out of Alexandria; I wept. I wept harder when I could no longer see the city on the horizon. I had nothing but the city itself. Is this the lamenting my teacher complained about in my poetry? Perhaps he is wrong. I might have had nothing but I did not want to leave the nothing that I had. The pain I felt was not nothing.

It has been a full year since I had arrived on these shores. It is said that America is the greatest country in the world; it is full of opportunities. That may be but washing dishes to scrape out a living seems to be a universal struggle. My uncle believes I should go to college. I already have a degree, a degree in literature.

“Waffi, you must get a business degree or perhaps law. Then they will respect you.”

I do not know respect. Neither my father nor my brother gave it to me. Mother loved me but her attitude towards me was more like pity. I have learned that accomplishments win you respect. Not just any accomplishment, great ones where people talk about your achievements. Things they never considered great somehow became great once you have won the respect of others. It is an absurd world we have created for ourselves.

There was a knock on the door. I could hear uncle but not the person who was on the other side. We had many friends stop by but this was a rare occasion where he seemed to be having an engaged conversation in English.

My uncle walked into the kitchen before my curiosity was strong enough to force me to investigate.

“Waffi, this…”

He seemed to be confused and switched to Arabic.

“Waffi, I asked you to be presentable.”
“Uncle, I’m wearing a t-shirt and a pair of Levi’s. Is this not American enough for you?”
“Presentable means… never mind. Put on a pair of slacks and a nice shirt.”

A soft voice then spoke out, “Is this a bad time?”

A head popped out from the edge of the kitchen. It was a woman with long blonde hair.

“You’ll have to excuse me nephew, he’s been working very hard and…”
“No need to explain Mr Baba.”

They were both staring at me with these silly grins as if I was some captive monkey.”

“Uncle, what is going on?”
“I’ve set you up on a date.”
“What? With her?”
“No, with me you idiot. Now introduce yourself. In English.”
“Why?”
“Because that’s what a gentleman does when a guest arrives. Especially one as beautiful as her.”

Reluctantly and awkwardly I introduced myself. She called herself Shannon. I headed to my room to be, as uncle put it, more presentable.

“Waffi, are you putting makeup on? You’re taking as long as a woman to get ready.”

One of the benefits of speaking multiple languages is that you can talk behind people’s backs even in front of them. I find this rather rude but Americans don’t seem to mind.

I emerge from my room and find uncle just staring at Shannon.

“Uncle, would you rather take her out?”

Uncle Bubu responds in English, “My nephew is a comedian. You two have fun.”

Fun? I know nothing about this woman. Other than the obvious, what can I do with her? Apparently she has made plans for us to go to lunch. We went about a block before she said anything to me.

“It’s Middle Eastern fusion.”
“What does that mean?” I asked.
“Well, Middle Eastern food mixed with non-Middle Eastern food.”
“Oh.”
“You don’t remember me do you?”

Now my panic has turned into sheer terror.

“I used to work at the hotel. I was the concierge.”
“Well the restaurant has its own entrance. Kitchen employees are not permitted to enter through the hotel lobby.”
“Yes, I know, but your uncle introduced us.”
“Oh, I don’t remember.”
“Ouch, I guess I didn’t make an impression.”
“Sorry.”

We never made it to lunch as she decided this date was not such a good idea. I couldn’t agree more. I was going to head home so I could yell at uncle for creating this unfortunate situation but I decided not to because I know he did this with good intentions.

As I walked around the city, I found myself in front of Victoria’s Secrets in Union Square. Not a single person, male or female, can pass by without looking at their display. I noticed a faint smile reflecting in the window. I turned around to see who the owner of the smile was only to realize it was from the woman coming out of the store. To my astonishment, she is wearing a hijab.

“Are you stalking me?” she said while smiling.

I froze. Was she talking to me? Then she iterated her question but this time it was in Arabic. Again I froze. She had the voice and glow of an angel. It took me a second or two to realize her angel wings were part of the display.

“Espagnol? Francais?” she asked.
“Uh, English, Arabiyah. Coffee?”

She let out the most beautiful of laughs. It signaled to me that she was laughing with me and not at me. At least I hoped so.

Shaking her head she said, “You must be Egyptian.”
“How can you tell?”
“Your boldness to go straight for coffee.”

I kept telling myself to get a hold of my wits. Say something you fool! Ask her what her name is.

Instead I blurted out, “And you? Where are you from?”
“Don’t you want to know my name?”
“Uh, sure. I mean yes.”
“My name is Rana. And you?”
“Rana, Rana…”
“Your parents gave you a girl’s name... twice?”
“No, I, uh, have problems remembering names so I try to, well, remember them.”
“I see.”

She must think I am a complete idiot.

“My name is Waffi, from Alexandria. I was wondering. Are you, um, you look Lebanese but I can’t place the accent.”
“My mother is Lebanese and my father is Moroccan. I grew up in Morocco.”

She caught me staring at her bag from Victoria’s Secrets.

“Bra and panty set.” she said.
“What?”
“Underwear. They were on sale.”

She was bold and outspoken but the shape of her eyes was sad even though she was smiling. This made her appear shy although all evidence was to the contrary. The clash of what she was wearing appealed to me: a tie-dye t-shirt with a picture of an unattractive singer named Janis, a respectable skirt, a hijab and the recently purchased oversexed underwear. Naturally I did not see the underwear but judging from the store’s display it was a safe assumption that it would be oversexed and rather dangerous. I could not help but picturing her on the display, less the hijab of course. Being so close to a woman and imagining her in a more intimate setting made me anxious and ashamed.

“Are you okay?” she asked.
“Sorry?”
“You invited me for some coffee. Are you now retracting that offer because of where I shop?”
“Oh, no. This is America, right? And well, um… there’s a café around the corner.”
“Starbucks? Mon dieu, non. Let me take you to a place in the Mission. It’s near my place.”

I am not sure at what point I fell in love but I knew I was in love. We headed towards the Mission and settled into a café called Philz. I placed our orders and was delighted to find she takes her coffee the same as I: light and sweet.

“This is really good. You know your coffee.” I said.
“I’m not sure if I know much about coffee but I do know what I like.”

Indeed.

We sat there for hours talking, each drinking two large cups and munching on some pastries. I was disappointed when she stood up and announced that she needed to head home. The expression on my face did not belie what I was feeling. Noticing this she sat back down and proceeded to write down her number. I pulled out my cell phone so that I could reciprocate. I am not good with technology. I fumbled about until I could find out what my number was.

“You don’t know you own number?”
“I don’t call myself, usually.”

She laughed. It might sound silly but I took pride in that.

I walked her home and was hoping she would not tempt me by inviting me in. This felt so right and I wanted to be the perfect gentleman. I kissed her on both cheeks and wished her a pleasant night.

“I have a recital this weekend. Would you like to come?”

Of course I said yes.

“Good. So I’ll see you then?”
“I would like to see you sooner but this weekend will be good.”

She smiled and went inside. As I walked home I began to feel something inside of me that I have never felt before. A desire so strong I was content about life. How is that possible? For the first time in my life, I found purpose. I felt like a true poet. A true poet without writing a single word.

I was expecting to meet Rana’s parents at the recital; instead I met her friends who were a mixture of different ethnic backgrounds. From what I gathered, her parents still live in Morocco. Even though I considered myself progressive, this took me by surprise as most unmarried girls I know would never leave their home and live in a foreign country by themselves.

Rana finally greeted me and insisted that I sit in the front row. I was here for her so there was no need for her to insist. Uncle Bubu asked that I take some pictures. I thought about inviting him but I wanted to be alone with her. In fact, if I could have my way, I would have kicked everyone out, friend or not.

I began to fantasize walking along the streets of Alexandria with Rana when a strange looking woman appeared on stage and announced the beginning of the recital. There was not much stage space and wondered what kind of dance this was going to be. I immediately knew what kind of dance it was after hearing the first few notes coming from the speaker. Raqs sharqi. Better known by its misnomer - belly dance.

She came out onto the stage, moving like I have never seen a woman move. She didn’t make eye contact with me but it’s just as well as I might have fallen out of my chair. As she went through her routine my mind started wandering. Seeing her hair out of her hijab was as scandalous to me as if she had removed her top. I felt shame but yet I could not look away at such beauty that was before my eyes. Then it was over. Or so I thought.

I recognized the next piece. It was an Oum Kalthoum dance mix. I began to sing along in my head and before I knew it, Rana glided her vale around my neck and made eye contact with me. She was directly in front of me; my eyes began to strain as I could not angle my head back to look up at her. I could not move. I felt awkward with her staring at me, her usually sad eyes now appearing predatory. I wanted to relieve the stress on my eyes but her breasts were level to my line of sight. My face has never been so close to a woman’s breast since my mother last fed me from hers. I just prayed to Allah that she would not make me dance with her; I did not want the audience to notice my erection.

The recital had come to an end. I waited outside for Rana, smoking several cigarettes before she appeared.

“Did you like it?”

I don’t know where I got the courage to do what I did next.

“Rana, I love you and I want to marry you. Will you marry me?”

Her sad eyes began to tear. I was confused. What does it mean? I know it was an odd thing to ask after only meeting her twice but I thought she might laugh. Why was she about to cry? The strange looking woman from the recital approached us.

“Rana, are you alright?”
“Yes.”

The strange looking woman then addressed me.

“What did you do to her?”
“Nothing, I just…”
Rana interjected, “Yes! I will marry you!”

Uncle Bubu died a few weeks later; before the wedding. He had no insurance so all the money I had saved was gone for the funeral expenses. Since he avoided the Muslim community, I received no help from them and I refused Rana’s offer of financial help. She will be my wife. How can I take care of her if she has to pay my debts?

Rana’s parents were arriving today. A Muslim acquaintance of mine told me they are very traditional when it comes to marriage. I find it odd how people hold onto certain traditions but betray others. I suppose I am being hypocritical as I am guilty of that as well. I too have a conservative view of marriage. I cannot take Rana’s hand without her parent’s blessings.

As I headed to Rana’s place I realized I had only $5 on me. I was a fool. I bought a cup of coffee at Starbucks then headed towards Union Square where I called Rana. She did not pick up so I left a message and advised her I could not marry her. The battery in my cell phone was dying so I turned it off. After hearing my message I believed she would not call me back. An hour passed and I saw Rana enter the Square. She did not look angry or sad. She stood silent in front of me for a few moments and broke her silence when I looked away.

“Habibi? What’s the matter?”

Without looking at her I explained to her why I couldn’t marry her. She insisted that I look directly at her. Our argument progressively got louder and we switched to Arabic. A few minutes later two police officers came over towards us and asked if everything was alright. Rana apologized to them and they walked off.

“I’m sorry Rana, I really am.”
“ Where does this weakness come from?”
“It’s not weakness. If you want to hate me for my pride, then go ahead. I can’t change who I am.”
“Pride? I’m offering to save your pride! Nobody needs to know otherwise.”
“I’m sorry Rana but I will.”
“Maybe you’re right but everyone who knows you will see your pride as cowardice.”

She turned and walked away. I never saw her again.

A few months later I returned to Egypt. When I arrived at the Cairo International Airport, I was immediately seized at customs. I did not put up a fight nor did I ask what I was being arrested for. I agreed to sign every paper they put in front of me. It did not matter. My only request, which the government agreed to, was that I be jailed in Alexandria.

So here I am. Alone. Recalling the events that lead up to the biggest mistake in my life. A guard approached my cell. It was Issam. He was my closest friend. Today he announced that it was the day of my execution. He entered my cell and brought me a pack of cigarettes and a cup of coffee.

“I have prayed to Allah for your life but the court will not change its mind. I will now pray for your soul. I am so sorry Waffi. Truly I am. ”

Tears began to form in his eyes. It was me who was sentenced to death; how odd that it was he who needed comforting. I reassured him that I was at peace.

“Peace? Waffi, do you realize you’re a fool?” he asked.
“Rana is better off. She deserved better than me.”
“What are you talking about? Rana is only a part of it and if you can’t see that you’re even a bigger fool. Your father was right, you will never change.”

But I have changed. I now drink my coffee black. Appropriate really. My last cup is dark and bitter, just like my last day.

I've hummed to Muzak in an Elevator...

2010-05-31T23:47:00.000-07:00

Little did I know when I woke up today that I would be writing a new post, let alone a post about something that I had never consider writing. I've been tagged by Loripop326 to note 10 musical things about myself. I felt contempt, no, that's a bit harsh. Lassitude? Should I feel derision from someone I consider a friend?

Naturally I jest and feel none of those as it's all in good fun. It does, however, bring to light my disdain for writing about things that I have little to no interest in. That's not to say I am not interested in music but I feel quite inadequate, as a writer, to describe how I feel about it. For me, music, along with paintings, bring to the surface emotions that I feel are ineffable.

Nevertheless, let's get on with it because I know you're dying to know. Don't deny it.

1) I have traveled to 49 of the 50 United States. I've been to 52 countries. My feet have set foot on every continent except Africa and Antarctica. I have found that, no matter where I went, people identify with music. Music has the ability to break down political borders without breaking down cultural borders. I am in awe of that power.

2) Music allows for multitasking. With the exception of reading, I pretty much enjoy doing anything with music in the background.

3) I traveled to Ecuador many years ago. I met a girl named Cecilia. She didn't speak English and my Spanish didn't extend beyond obtaining directions to the nearest zapateria. Somehow we managed just fine. I found a record store that had a listening booth. It was awesome. They had a large collection of classic rock which surprised me. On our last day together, I took Cecilia to the store and had her accompany me to the listening booth. This is what I played for her...

Cecilia, you're breaking my heart
You're shaking my confidence daily
Oh, Cecilia, I'm down on my knees
I'm begging you please to come home
Cecilia, you're breaking my heart
You're shaking my confidence daily
Oh, Cecilia, I'm down on my knees
I'm begging you please to come home
Come on home
Making love in the afternoon with Cecilia
Up in my bedroom making love
I got up to wash my face
When I come back to bed
Someone's taken my place
Cecilia, you're breaking my heart
You're shaking my confidence daily
Oh, Cecilia, I'm down on my knees
I'm begging you please to come home
Come on home
Jubilation, she loves me again,
I fall on the floor and I'm laughing,
Jubilation, she loves me again,
I fall on the floor and I'm laughing

Every time I hear that song, I sing along and I can see Cecilia sitting in the booth, smiling back at me. I can smell her perfume mixed in with the pleasant odor of the store. Music can transport you through time and space.

4) Classical music is the only music I can listen to in any situation or mood. My favorite composer is Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart and I consider Ludwig van Beethoven's 9th Symphony the single greatest musical achievement.

5) My favorite score, not created specifically for a film, is from Stanley Kubrick's A Clockwork Orange. The single pervasive music of course is Beethoven's 9th.

6) If I hear Gene Kelly's Singing in the Rain, I think of the torture scene in A Clockwork Orange.

7) I have never seen my favorite band in concert: Led Zeppelin

8) I danced onstage with Gloria Estefan.

9) I hate rap.

10) On a first date with a girl, she claimed to have hated classical music. It was also our last date.

Done. That is all. I hope it will be sufficient for Loripop326.

Malice, Schadenfreude, Apathy, Pity, Empathy, Sympathy, Compassion

2010-05-27T14:13:00.000-07:00

My psychology professor was in town a few weeks ago. We had a turbulent relationship since day one in which she asked me to leave her class. I managed to get back into her class and earn an A+, albeit via attrition. Regardless, I was surprised she invited me for lunch.

Before our hors d'oeuvres she confessed to me that I was her worst and best student. She went into great detail and at times used clinical terms. I don't know if she was trying to mess with me but knowing full well of her profession I remained unassuming until she made a statement that I needed to correct. I tried to refrain from doing so but I failed miserably.

My protest was met immediately with her defense in which she stated, "I recall something you once told me. Shall I reiterate?"

That was my opening.

"Reiterate is as incorrect as irregardless. Common usage does not make it correct, unless its incorrect usage endures for a considerable amount of time. In my humble opinion, common usage which is learned by reason of ignorance of etymology is a travesty."

Smiling, she responded, "Touché but correcting me on a minor linguistic technicality to avoid the issue at hand is beneath you."

Did I say we had a turbulent relationship?

I then reminded her of my term paper which was about linguistic technicality in terms of defining seven attitudes. She, by the way, thought it was almost brilliant. Not to be outdone by someone who, unlike her who has 2 PhDs, she reminded me that it was flawed; ergo "almost brilliant." Not too flawed that she gave me an A+.

I won't iterate the entire report because it was 10 pages long but more importantly, I no longer have it. However, it has always been on my mind and since the advent of social media, I have increasingly reflected upon it. I still believe the following seven attitudes do cover our entire race.

Malice - The desire to cause pain to another.
We all have met or know someone who enjoys being malicious for the sake of being malicious. This character flaw has even caused me to feel malice towards the person who is causing malice.

Schadenfreude - Pleasure derived from the misfortunes of others.
I am not sure I ever met a person who has never felt this. When something unfortunate happens to a person who exhibits malice, I know I feel Schadenfreude.

Apathy - Lack of feeling, emotion or concern.
This might be anecdotal but I believe a large percentage of our race suffers from this in one form or another. This is not a judgment, just an observation.

Pity - Sympathetic sorrow or contempt for one suffering.
Pity to me is the odd word of the bunch since it can be a state of caring or contempt. If the feeling is contempt then I would position this word between Schadenfreude and apathy.

Empathy - The understanding of another's situation.
This is the word that started it all. Most people think empathy and sympathy are interchangeable words. There's much debate on a clear definition but I always use the word empathy to show that I'm cognizant of the situation. It has nothing to do with caring, which should be the defining difference. You can understand someone's plight but might be apathetic to it. To me, that's empathy.

Sympathy - The understanding and caring of another's misfortune.
Like I have stated above, I feel sympathy is empathy with care. There are multiple levels of caring but it stops being pure sympathy when you're actually motivated to do something about another's misfortune. It then becomes compassion.

Compassion - Awareness of another's suffering in connection with the desire to relieve it.
A great word and a great act. If sympathy is empathy and liking someone, then compassion is empathy and loving someone. Some have argued that compassion serves the one giving compassion the most. Even if this was true, ultimately the one needing compassion receives it. Isn't that what really matters?

I apologize for the randomness of this post but it's something I had the urge to write. Thanks for reading!

Snippet: Paris - The Kitchen Sink et Charles de Gaulle Étoile (Arc de Triomphe)

2010-05-06T16:43:00.000-07:00

Arrived at CDG with Kay. Though she claims to be worldly I am not finding that to be the case so far. Standing at baggage claim. Not for me since I'm a "professional traveler" and was able to fit everything I needed into a single carry on. She packed as if we were vacationing for a few months. She joked she brought the kitchen sink. I didn't find it funny. As I am a gentleman I foresaw myself being the poor bloke lugging the sink from the airport into Paris. My buddy George had yet to arrive from his connecting flight via Heathrow. All three of us left JFK so why'd he book British Airways? Did he foresee they same thing?

The bag barrels down the slide and slams into the retaining wall. A little girl is startled and exclaims, "Mon Dieu!" I reluctantly retrieve the battleship and proclaim,"You did bring the kitchen sink." I wasn't joking but she was laughing.

Me:    Metro, taxi or Air France bus?
Kay:   What's the fastest?
Me:    Taxi if there's no traffic but it's the most expensive.
            If we do the metro, you won't see Paris coming in.
Kay:   Bus.

No sign on bus. Ask driver. Allez-vous Charles de Gaulle Étoile? Oui.

Kay:    I thought we're going to the Arc of Triumph?
Me:     We are but the stop is called Charles de Gaulle Étoile.
Kay:    Charles de Gaulle airport, Charles de Gaulle ay towel. Popular guy.
             Who was he?
Me:     (to myself) Mon Dieu.

Received text from George. Just arrived at Heathrow. Can't wait until he arrives so he can absorb some of the nonsense that I'm getting full blast from Kay. How I agreed to letting her come with me is still a mystery. Should have had a cigarette before we got on the bus.

Kay is about to light up.

Me:     You can't smoke on the bus.
Kay:    I thought they had no laws about smoking?
Me:     That was awhile ago. See the sign?
Kay:    Oh no.
Me:     What?
Kay:    It's early.
Me:     What's early?
Kay:    My monthly. Don't worry, it doesn't affect me too much.

Great, thanks for sharing. I'm sitting next to a woman who wants a cigarette, jet lagged and reveals that her period must be early due to flying.

We arrive at Charles de Gaulle Étoile. Kay isn't impressed with the Arc de Triomphe. Bus driver seems to be struggling with Kay's bag.

"Mon Dieu!" He asks if we packed a dead body. I told him not yet and eye Kay and say, "C'est sa faute."
He looks at her and laughs. I laugh and hand him a tip.

Kay is laughing but has no idea what I said.

Kay:   Did he say kitchen sink in French?
Me:    Uhm, yeah.

Being the masochist that I am, I agreed to take the metro to the hotel. Rush hour has passed so I figured we'd be okay with the kitchen sink.

I buy our passes and hand Kay her pass. She goes off to the turnstile with the kitchen sink. Gracious of her to take it from me after I almost threw my back out on the stairs with it. The bag was too big to go into the slot that's designed for over-sized bags. (How bad is that?)

Me:   Ok, I'll go through first and I'll pull it over.
Kay: Ok.

I go through. I turn to find that she somehow managed to wedge the bag under the turnstile.

Me:   What the???
Kay: I thought it would make it. Just pull it from your side.

Great, this thing is jammed in there nice and tight. It'd be easier to swipe the Mona Lisa. Kay isn't strong enough to help me though she claims to be a black belt in Kempo.

A Chinese woman comes over and starts complaining. First in French, then in Cantonese. All these open turnstiles, she has to come to ours. I tell her to use another turnstile in French as I don't speak Cantonese. A Chinese-French guy approaches and scolds the woman, first in French then in Cantonese. She goes around still screaming. He helps me get the bag through. I offer him money which he refuses, smiles and says with a British accent, "If I had to guess, it was the lady's fault."

Kay gives a sheepish smile.

Finally made it to the hotel. It's extremely hot and humid. Kay gets us bottled water.

Kay:   That guy was a sexist jerk.

I look to see the vendor is a woman.

Me:     What guy?
Kay:    That Asian guy in the subway.
Me:     The guy who helped me get YOUR bag out of the turnstile?
             You mean that jerk?
Kay:    He's a sexist.

I'm thinking back now to her monthly issue and how it doesn't affect her too much. I too must be a sexist.
These are the things that never come up when you travel by yourself. Odd.

Warning: To be continued...

Snippet: Paris – Latin Quarter, part deux

2010-04-30T16:11:00.000-07:00

Background

Bob, from the previous post, loves the word “fuck.” Not sure how he found my blog since he has this to say, “Fuck technology.” Last year he bought his first cell phone. It doesn’t have internet and he doesn’t know how to text. “I bought a mobile phone not a fucking teletype.” He doesn’t have cable nor does he have satellite. He has dial up internet and a Windows 98 machine, which I gave to him in 2002. His cousin was my dear friend Charles (his real name). Bob is a devout Catholic but hates the Church for what they said about his cousin’s suicide. “The Catholic Church is all about money, power and politics. Fuck them.”

Bob still remains a Catholic and did attend one semester at the Seminary College at Seton Hall. He did well but for some reason felt God had other plans for him so he dropped out. Bob’s a good egg; hard boiled, cracked, scrambled and rarely sunny side up but a good egg nonetheless. He coined the term, homo-queasy, which I have used on occasion. He feels every human sins but it’s a worse sin to single out one group of sinners. “Jesus said whoever hasn’t sinned should chuck the first stone. Unless you’re Jesus you better drop that fucking rock.” He believes gays should be allowed to marry but he doesn’t apologize for how he feels about gays. “It’s like Brussel sprouts. It makes me puke but that don’t mean I hate gays. I’m homo-queasy.” At least he didn’t compare gays to a fruit.

When Bob said he wanted to tag along to Paris with me I was surprised. He’s a Republican. “I know what they say about the French but I ain’t got no problem with them. Paris is an architectural wonder. Those fucking frogs can sure build shit. Oh and they helped us get our independence.”

Okay thanks Bob but please keep the frog bit to yourself. Can you imagine him on the pulpit?

Snippet: Paris – Latin Quarter, part deux

Just got back from the local tabac, now on hotel balcony having coffee and cigarette staring at Notre Dame. Waiting for Bob who amazingly found an early morning mass. He just returned.

Bob:    Fuck

Bob heads into bathroom. I hear splashing.
Why’d he leave the door open? Probably doesn’t realize I’m on the balcony.

Me:    Yo, close the door!
Bob:    Fuck!

Now a frantic splashing, accompanied by spraying.
Don’t know what compelled me to walk over to the bathroom but I was frightened by what I saw.
Bob on the bidet.

Bob:    Shut the fucking door!

I walked away laughing my ass off. About a half hour goes by and he’s still up stairs. Finally, here’s Bob. We head down Rue Monge, cut over to Le Boul'Mich over to Café de Flore. We’re walking…

Bob:    Dude, I can’t believe I farted…
Me:     Ha-ha, in a pew???
Bob:    Shut the fuck up.
Me:     Well, how’d it go otherwise?
Bob:    Mass was awesome even though I couldn’t understand a fucking thing.
Me:     Is that why you farted?
Bob:    No fucker, the time difference is messing my shit up.
Me:     The Lord works in mysterious ways.
Bob:    God had nothing to do with it.
Me:     Amen.
Bob:    Dude, I shit my pants.
Me:     Do I need to be here for this conversation?
Bob:    I’m just telling you why I was on the… the uh… Australian fountain thing.
Me:     Australian what? Oh Jesus! I can’t wait until we're back home.
Bob:    Yeah and you’re gonna tell the boys you fuck.
Me:     Dude, you’d do the same thing.
Bob:    Yeah but if you’re gonna tell it, you tell the truth.
Me:     What the hell are you talking about?
Bob:    I wasn’t washing my bush. I shit myself and it was easier than washing my ass in the shower.
Me:     Ohh, hey now, we’re about to have breakfast.
Bob:    Sorry dude. By the way, why you smoking Marlboro?
Me:     That’s my brand, dude.
Bob:    I figured I'd try these French cigarettes. You ever smoke 'em?
Me:     Yeah, they're not bad.
Bob:    Yeah Ga-lousys are pretty good.

I decide not to correct his pronunciation as he seems to be enjoying himself for the first time.

Bob:    Dude, you know that fountain is a great invention but it shoots like a jet. Almost blew my dick off.
Me:     (coughing, hacking, laughing, crying, dying) Dude, we haven’t been here 24hrs but I can tell,
             this is gonna be a great fucking trip.
Bob:    Yeah, and I haven't seen Notre Dame yet.

Evidently, he hasn't been on the balcony...

Snippets Redux

2010-04-29T12:20:00.000-07:00

I have a photographic memory for conversations but an average memory for everything else. I ~~suffer from~~ deal with dyslexia/attention deficit disorder. I suppose I can fault my failures due to my condition but then I couldn’t praise it for what is has given me: A creative/eclectic, albeit odd, mind. See? I already digress.

This is my second attempt at blogging. My first attempt was a disaster mostly because there weren’t any decent blogging platforms and I had to not only write something creative but write the html layout. However, there were some posts that I liked and one of them I called Snippets. Basically it was random/odd snapshots of my life. The posts were much like the unintentional pictures I took with the first cell phone that had a camera: a finger, the inside of my pockets, my left nipple, the missing person on the side of a milk carton, etc. As you can see, they weren’t Ansel Adams but they did inspire me to write. I used to carry Post-it ® notes everywhere I went and jotted things down. They were meaningless snippets of my life; a patina of randomness that has made me who I am, for better or for worse. Fair Warning: The snippets may be crude and vulgar a la Tarantino. All names have been changed to protect the somewhat innocent. The first of more snippets to follow...

Snippet: Paris – Latin Quarter
Just arrived with Bob. He hasn’t said “fuck” once from Charles de Gaulle to the hotel. But who’s counting? Moi.

Pulp Fiction playing at theatre across the street. 2 single beds, big room, big bathroom, small balcony, view of Notre Dame.

Romantic but I’m with fucking Bob.
Fuck.

Bob inspecting bathroom.

Bob:     Dude!

I go to the bathroom and find Bob staring at a bidet. The bidet apparently has a Medusa effect on him since he seems frozen.

Me:      Dude?

He looks back at me.

Bob:     What the fuck is this?
Me:      (to myself) One. (to Bob) What the fuck do ya think it is?
Bob:     An oddly shaped crapper but why is it in the middle of the bathroom when there’s already a crapper
             there?
Me:      Jesus Christ, you don’t know?
Bob:     Fuck dude, just tell me what the fuck that fucking thing is, for fuck’s sake!
Me:      (to myself) Five, I’ll stop counting. (to Bob) Well it isn’t a hot tub.
Bob:     I hope not cuz my ass ain’t going in there.
Me:      Actually, I suppose it can.
Bob:     What?
Me:      It’s a bidet
Bob:     A beee-daaay?
Me:      Not beee-daaay. B’day, like Aussie for Good Day.
Bob:     G’day, bidet?
Me:      Yeah.
Bob:     And?
Me:      And what? It’s a bidet.
Bob:     Fuck dude, I couldn’t pronounce the fucking word, why the fuck would you think I know what it is?
Me:      It’s for women to wash themselves.
Bob:     Well why the fuck don’t they use the shower? (He takes a long hard look.)
             Wait, it’s to wash their bush?
Me:      Look at the big brain on Bob! That’s right, to wash their bush. You’re a smart motherfucker.
Bob:     Fuck, am I gonna have to hear Pulp fucking Fiction this entire trip?
Me:      Okay, but anytime you do the dumb American in Paris, I’m gonna do "walk the Earth Pulp Fiction."
Bob:     Deal.
Me:      You love Tarantino and you’re tripping on Pulp Fiction?
Bob:     Yeah but it was at my expense, fucker. And what did you mean, “I suppose it can?”
Me:      You can wash your dirty ass in there too, I suppose.
Bob:     Fuck you dude and make sure you take a mur-day in that crapper.
Me:      What’s it to you which bowl I crap in as long as it flushes? You plan on washing your bush in there?
Bob:     You’re the freak not me.
Me:      Yeah right. And by the way, it’s mer-d.
Bob:     Mare-dee, mare-duh, married, whatever, shit where you’re supposed to shit.
             Let’s go to Mickey Dees.

Bob’s a poet and he doesn’t know it but what I know is that we aren’t going to eat merde at McDonald’s.

Life is for the Living

2010-04-25T21:28:00.000-07:00

To Whomever Chooses to Read,

Today is the anniversary of a friend's suicide. His name was Charles and he was a very good friend. I was completely devastated when the news was delivered to me. Charles was larger than life. This poet, musician and humanist loved life so much that it was incomprehensible to me how he could take his own life.

The morning after Charles took his life, I went over to his house so we could walk to school as usual. He was a year older than me but his mind was more like twenty years older. I was excited to tell him something but when his sister Karen came out to inform me of what happened, I totally forgot and to this day, I don't remember what I thought back then was so important to tell him.

Melancholy set in but the next day I was filled with rage. I couldn't understand how Charles could do something so selfish. There was no wake and I was so mad at him that I refused to go to the funeral. A few days later, his sister came to see me. Thinking that she was mad at me I remember being afraid to see her. She wasn't. She handed me his suicide note. The envelope the letter was in stated that it was to be read only by Karen and to whoever else she felt needed to see it. I didn't want to read it but I felt pressured by Karen's presence. I won't divulge the contents of the letter but after reading it, I came to understand why he did what he did. His decision wasn't rational as deemed by society but according to how he viewed life, it was logical if that makes any sense.

Charles was a big fan of Shakespeare. He not only helped me with understanding Shakespeare but managed to get me to appreciate English. Before he helped me, I was a C student at best when it came to English. I'd like to think he would be proud of his student had he lived, even if he found out I became a Marlovian. We used to talk about spending a year in England after high school doing Shakespearean research, picking up some Oxford girls and finding out who Jack the Ripper really was. We even practiced speaking with a British accent.

One thing his suicide note said, "Please do not feel sad about the decision that I made. Life is for the living, so live it." On behalf of Charles, I shall iterate to you: Life is for the living, so live it.

Thank you,

John

P.S. Charles, I still do not agree with your decision to end your life but I will respect the last words you put on paper and cherish your wisdom and more importantly, your friendship. Forever.

10 Movie Facts About Me

2010-04-23T14:49:00.000-07:00

FADE IN:

I was in the middle of re-evaluating my 20 favorite movies of all time but then Lori (Oh Shit, She’s Awake) tagged me with this. She was tagged by Modern Day Story Teller, so ultimately I blame for Karen this dilemma I find myself in. Pissing and moaning won’t solve this so I better get on with it.

1) Star Wars changed my life… yeah cliché but I was 10yrs old so cut me some slack. I wanted to be Luke Skywalker. No, not the Luke “redneck, swap-spit with my sister” Skywalker. The Luke who was a kid who didn’t know his parents (being adopted myself) who aspired to leave a sad place (Nassau County, NY) and live the life of adventure (North Shore Oahu). Star Wars was my favorite until Lucas introduced us to Ewoks. What about Episodes I/II/III? What about them? I don’t even acknowledge them. Had Samuel L Jackson gone all Jules and said, “The motherfucking Force is strong in this Sith motherfucker,” the series might have been salvaged. Instead, we ended up with crap. Anyone who wants to debate that Episodes I/II/III were better than IV/V/VI, well, I say, as my favorite YouTube critic, Mike, would say, “Fuck you!”

2) My favorite directors are the three Ks. Kieslowski, Kubrick, Kurosawa. Loved everything they did with the exception of Kubrick’s Eyes Wide Shut.

3) Heterosexual dudes do not see chick flicks unless they’re forced to. I’m no exception but there is one stand out: French Kiss. Kevin Kline nailed the role. “Zi pilot sez zere iz a craque in zi engine but not to worry, he take off anyway.”

4) Mannequin sucks. I’m not referring to the movie though I do have to say to Hollywood, “WTF?” I’m talking about the blonde mannequin, Kevin Costner. How does his “acting as good as dances like white boys” get acting jobs, no less top billing? The brunette mannequin, Keanu Reeves, at least knows how to pick ‘em… sometimes.

5) Dubbed films suck. There are people who say, “I don’t go to the movies to read.” To that I say, “You must prefer mindless movies that requires no thinking if reading is too much of an effort.”

6) My favorite active director is Quentin Tarantino. Love everything he has done except his collaborations with Robert Rodriguez.

7) The only movie to make me cry: Schindler’s List

8) A movie I initially disliked but have grown to love: The English Patient. The reason for my initial dislike is that my date described it as a spy thriller. Since it wasn't, I was disappointed. Later on I was told that it should be viewed as a literary piece. It did the trick.

9) I don’t know why but people don’t understand my philosophy on books vs. movies. The book is better than the movie because YOU are the director. A movie that does not interpret a book the same way YOU have will most likely not be as good as YOU had imagined it.

10) I believe Michael Bay is the Antichrist of film. I could be wrong...

Are you happy now? I won’t be tagging anyone unless of course you’re into get spanked, er, I mean tagged. Really, is there a difference?

FADE OUT.

Banzai Jedi

2010-04-18T15:33:00.000-07:00

A long time ago on an island far, far away... A young padawan or in surfing vernacular, grom, decided to try his hand at surfing. I was already skateboarding so surfing seemed like a natural progression. It was 1977 and Star Wars was in the theatres for just over a month. Like many boys my age I had a Star Wars poster which shared wall real estate with Farrah Fawcett. I "bought" Farrah the previous year at the Ala Moana Center in Honolulu. It was the best of times. At least it was for me.

As I stated in my previous post, I learned how to surf on Oahu's North Shore. However, I learned how to stand on a board at Waikiki. Within minutes I was able to stand and within the hour I was ripping it like a pro. Or at least I thought so. My ego was busted when a local kid began to surf too close for comfort. His skills were light years ahead of mine but I wasn't intimidated.

"Hey asshole! What's your problem?"
"It's cool bruh, just testing ya."

His name was Seamus Ohara. The lack of an apostrophe in his family name isn't a typo, his father was Japanese and his mother was Irish.

For the next hour or so, Seamus showed me a couple of moves. I was amazed at how quickly I was able to pick them up. We became inseparable and a few days later I ventured to the North Shore with him and his older brother. It was immediately clear the waves on the North Shore were much larger. Oh and it was babes galore. I never seen so many cute girls in bikinis at one time before. I was stoked. The waves were pretty rad too.

The breaks on Sunset Beach is quite far from the shoreline. The shifting rights didn't seem too big for me to handle. It seemed Seamus read my mind and stated that they're a lot bigger than they look. He also noted that they're twice as large in the winter. It was here at Sunset that I really learned how to surf and it became my "home" beach. I became accustomed to Sunset's right breaks after surfing it day after day and was oblivious to the idea of left breaking waves. I did want to try my hand at ripping other beaches on the North Shore and heard grand tales of wicked left and right barrels at "Banzai" or "Pipeline." Tales of a monster barrel that completely engulfs a surfer. It's pretty much next door so I asked Seamus to show me how to surf there. When we got there, it was pretty quiet as he noted was the norm for the summer.

Years later I returned during peak (winter) season. So many pros from around the world were there. I stopped by my friend's house where his lovely mom told me he was at The Pipe. Mom revealed that Seamus was kind enough to hold onto the board he let me use years earlier. Bitchin'!

When I finally arrived at Pipeline I saw Seamus chatting up a girl who eventually became his wife.

"Bruh!"

After the pleasantries we paddled out. Unlike Sunset, the breaks at Pipeline are much closer to the shoreline. The waves looked something like this...

My childhood fearlessness failed. The waves were bigger, faster and broke in ways I wasn't accustomed to. The left break felt like I was driving a car on the left side of the road. Somehow I managed and after a couple of soft spills, I was surfing in the tube or "Green Room." Only one word comes to mind to describe what it's like in the "Green Room" to those who've never experienced it: ineffable.

There ain't no atheist in a foxhole nor in the Green Room...

As I traveled down the tube, surrounded by several tons of water, I felt as if I knew everything there is to know, enlightened. I bit the fruit of the forbidden tree. The wave's surround-sound buzz was like a Zen Buddhist chant; Mother Nature's Holy Water spraying your face. The goal: make it to the light at the end of the tunnel.

"It was like a re-birth."

I thought Seamus and his friends were going to laugh after I blurted out that nonsense but instead they said, "Welcome to the family, bruh."

With my confidence at an all time high, I wanted to check out the right breaks (Backdoor Pipeline) and figured it would be a lot easier since I preferred rights. Seamus warned that the Backdoor breaks are harder and faster. I figured I could compensate. I was dead wrong, almost literally.

The Backdoor was more crowded. I was forced to wait and let some really nice waves pass due to surfing etiquette. While waiting I began chatting with an Australian girl. I was planning to ask her out on a date but it was then I caught sight of a tasty wave building. It was hers but she didn't take it. I should have stayed there and made my moves on her but instead I stupidly paddled to grab the wave. I was almost out of position. Screw it, I had to go for it since this was Banzai Beach after all and if I nailed it, that Sheila would have seen how rad I was.

I managed to grab the crest, shave it for a split second and thought I was going to make a soft drop. Instead I shanked it and was thrown into a free fall. Pipeline breaks closer to the shore which made it easy for the wave to slam me into the ocean floor, head first. I hit my head on the coral reefs but fortunately my hand took most of the brunt. I tried to figure out which way was up but the turbulence from the wave violently dragged me across the coral and left me totally confused. My lungs were screaming from the lack of air and the gulp of salt water I sucked in. I thought I was going to die.

A sudden abrupt stop caused bigger fears as it meant my tether was stuck around some coral. I was right. After what seemed like an eternity I ripped the tether from my ankle and lunged upwards. Finally I hit the surface and saw the shore. That feeling of relief was momentary as I realized the next wave was fast approaching and there was nothing I could do to get out of its way. It came hard and fast. I felt I was flipped 20 times but it was probably only 3 or 4 times. All my energy was gone, this was it, I'm going to die. Luckily for me a local pro grabbed me and pulled me to shore. Unfortunately for me, the lovely Sheila was gone.

My dreams of becoming a professional surfer ended with that wipeout but it didn't make me surf shy. I went out later that day but took only the waves that I felt were easy. One of my Twitter friends (@loripop326) blogged about magic which I discussed in detail with her. Being a man of science I do not believe in such things. However, if the definition of magic goes beyond the hocus-pocus I'd have to say it does exist. To me, there is no place as magical as Pipeline. If you surfed it, chances are you'd agree.

Hang Loose and May the Force Be With You...

Chivalry is on Life Support

2010-04-17T18:42:00.000-07:00

I just returned from 3 glorious days surfing the beaches of Santa Cruz, CA. It brought back memories of my youth on the North Shore of Oahu where I learned how to surf. It felt as if I re-attained Nirvana. That feeling was shattered yesterday.

I was standing in line at a café. The woman ahead of me ordered a latte and tried to pay for it with a $100 bill. The girl at the counter politely stated that she was unable to make change for that amount. The woman then went into her purse and came up with 50¢. To alleviate her frustration I offered the woman $3 which she accepted but did not thank me for. I believed the woman would eventually thank me so I waited but instead, she took her latte and headed for the door. This slight prompted me to curtly shout out, "you're welcome."

"Whatever," she retorted.

You can guess that my blood began to boil at this lack of gratitude and courtesy. I was tempted to go after her and slap her à la Gittes.

But alas, I told myself to forget it even though it wasn't Chinatown.

As I drove back to San Francisco today I was still thinking about the prior day's insolence. This lead me to recall the "Greatest Slights towards John Tanaka." One of them was a date I had with a woman whom I met at the Metropolitan Museum in New York. I found her quite intelligent and outspoken which I find extremely attractive. Sadly, the date did not turn out well. On our first and only date she announced her annoyance that I opened the car door for her. I was caught off guard and was speechless by her continuing rant on how backwards I was for thinking that chivalry is romantic.

"Oh fuck me," I said to myself. (I believe it was to myself.)

I then responded that it wasn't so much of chivalry but rather common courtesy.

"That's a bunch of bullshit," she stated loudly and proudly.

I then told her to get out of my car and retracted the bit about chivalry vs. common courtesy.

Chivalry isn't dead but it's definitely on life support.

Avatar Critique

2009-12-24T16:03:00.000-08:00

Not being a big fan of James Cameron, I had no intentions of seeing Avatar, at least not in the theatres. A friend of mine, whose cinematic tastes are similar to mine, highly suggested the film. We are both film snobs. Not to the extent of Cahiers du Cinéma snob but snob nonetheless. He stressed that I watch the 3D version which, again, we both are not a fan of. The forecast was for rain, a good day to see a movie so I figured I’d kill some time and with a little luck, being a descendant of Lucky Kokura, I’d be spared a bomb.

Avatar does not tell a profound story nor does it retell an old story creatively. The film is spectacular in 3D but the same cannot be said of its characters. That’s not to say the characters are not likeable, they’re just missing a dimension. It also doesn’t help that these characters are walking clichés that delivered some of most ridiculous lines since Star Wars I/II/III. Cameron may not have the deftest prose but he is a fantastical storyteller.

Cameron wastes little time in taking advantage of the latest 3D technology and hardly lets up throughout the film. The storyline seems dated but this makes sense since the idea of the Pandora universe came to him in the 1970s. The lack of updating the story (or getting someone else to write it) is a glaring problem but it seems to have worked to his advantage. The story’s fundamentals are sound, albeit simple. Had Avatar been released in 1977, I believe we would have overlooked the corny dialogue and simple storyline. We did so with Star Wars. ( "Aren't you a little short for a stormtrooper?" "I'm in it for the money sister.")

The film really takes off once we venture into Pandora, the moon home of the native Na’vi. The forest of Pandora looks more like a tropical seabed; immersing this viewer into a world he wished existed. Cameron does a great job using vibrant contrasting colors but the colors are a bit faded under the 3D glasses. Hopefully this will be corrected once the technology improves. This is but a minor flaw in a movie that has many flaws. In the end I almost forgot about these flaws. I wanted to know more about the Na'vi.

Though I haven’t read any other review, I can hear the detractors:

Cameron is blatantly making a statement about “avaricious corporation vs. tree hugging spiritual natives” lacking character and decent dialogue. A film that is anti-technology, which is ironic since he uses state-of-the-art technology to convey his message.

It is ironic but it works. Despite the flaws, Avatar is grand and entertaining. Like Titanic, I may never view it again but it is a must see.

The Critique

2009-12-24T11:14:00.000-08:00

Most critics should call themselves reviewers. I might be a minority on this point but criticism and review are two separate things. A critique is an opinion of a piece of work. The critique must also include an explanation of the opinion beyond “it was awesome” or “it sucked.” A review is a summary that may or may not include criticism. I do not like to read a summary of a film prior to seeing it which is why I won't write a summary.

From time to time, I will post a critique on a book or a film. It will be in what I call café/diner style. Back in my twenties, after watching a film, my friends and I would go to a café or a diner and dissect it. There was no structure, just casual conversation. My critiques too lack solid structure. Noting the aforementioned, I will not reveal any spoilers. I will describe the work as a reference but I will not discuss plot. If you’re looking for a review, look elsewhere.

Lucky Kokura and the Fat Man - August 9, 1945

2009-12-23T15:28:00.001-08:00

Watashi no Okasan 私の母 (My mother) was born in Kokura, Japan in 1943. Two years later on August 9, a plutonium atomic bomb, nicknamed Fat Man, was destined to be dropped over her home city. Major General Charles W. Sweeney piloted Bockscar, the B-29 that was carrying the bomb. Sweeney could not get a visual of the target in Kokura due to overcast. He then proceeded southwest to the secondary target, Nagasaki. Had there not been sufficient cloud cover on August 9, 1945 over Kokura, I would not be here today. This does not make me special or unique as we are all here by chance. However, that single historical event is unique. The atom bomb dropped on Nagasaki literally ended WWII.

I first learned about this in my early teens. At the time I was reading Sartre, Camus, Kafka, Nietzsche, Heidegger and Shakespeare. To learn that I had a direct relationship with an atom bomb during puberty while learning about existentialism really fucked with my head. Being reminded by classmates every December 7th that I'm responsible for the attack on Pearl Harbor didn't help either. The government of the country I now call home unknowingly attempted to prevent my existence. When I tell people of my history, it's at this point they ask, "Do you think it was wrong to drop the atom bomb?" This post is not about the morality of using weapons of mass destruction so for brevity's sake and to avoid further digression, no, I do not think it was wrong.

My existence is a Plan B. My early years were filled with mistakes and unfortunate circumstances. My mother grew ill and my father was a philandering criminal. My maternal grandfather became my legal guardian after my mother died because my father wanted nothing to do with his old family. A year later my grandfather died and dear old dad still refused to step up to the plate. As luck would have it, I would be adopted by an American family. Through my adoptive parent's citizenship, I became a citizen of the greatest country in the world. Luck, however, is a matter of perception. That same couple that adopted me, were also people who had no business raising children.

So here I am, happy to be here. Plan B because the Fat Man couldn't see past the clouds; a party crasher not invited to this party called Life.