Christmas Song Rant

Well, Christmas has come and gone and it was pretty terrific.

As for shopping, I took one day to reconnaissance and get ideas and then 3 days of actual shopping and *poof* I was done! Well, not exactly, "poof," as my feet ached and my leg muscles tightened so I hobbled more than walked, but still, overall...good.

In the last post, I mentioned Christmas songs I wish they would play more frequently on the radio. This got me thinking of Christmas songs I wish they would take out of rotation...at least for a little while.

Feliz Navidad. No offense to my Spanish-speaking peeps, but ugh. What is it about this song that starts rubbing my nerves raw after the first chorus? The radio stations play this song way too much.

Do They Know It's Christmastime? Or whatever the title of this well-intentioned, but obnoxious song is. Something about the third or fourth time you hear it...it begins to sound self-indulgent and a tiny bit condescending...benevolent, but in a nauseating way. Ha! Sounds like a way to describe a wine. "It had an arrogant nose and no legs."

Santa, Baby. Call me old fashioned, but I do not think Christmas carols or any song about Santa should sound like or allude to sex. Don't get me wrong...in the right context it's fine (e.g., Fever...love that song). And I know she's not singing about the real Santa, as in the one who lives in the North Pole and has a penchant for cookies, but still...it kinda grosses me out.

That Christmas Shoes Song. They even made a tv movie out of it. Talk about emotional manipulation. "Please pull my strings, Puppetmaster!" Bleh. The fact that they use a little kid to sing part of it makes it even worse somehow. Adds to the manipulation factor, methinks. It's so blatant it should be funny; however, I just find it annoying (insert nose wrinkle here).

The Little Drummer Boy. This song is usually sung waaaayyyy too slow and something about the Pa-rup-a-pum-pum part makes my eyes start to roll to the back of my head. I can't control it. Weird, since this is one song in which I would do the "ding, ding" parts on the piano while my sister played the song (we didn't have a triangle). Somehow even the "ding, ding" has lost its luster.

One last general pet peeve...with all the remakes of Christmas classics, does every vocalist need to insert so many unnecessary runs in the song? Beyond the show-offy-ness of it all, it truly is an unwelcome distraction. Part of the joy and allure of Christmas Carols is that you can sing along. Who has fun singing along when the singer starts singing in different octives? Ugh.

Some may think I'd add the Chipmunk Song here, but I actually like it and still think it's cute. I also haven't reached my saturation point for "Merry Christmas, Darling" although some years the radio stations really push that one to the edge. Then, there are songs like "O Holy Night," "Ring Christmas Bells," "The Christmas Song" and "Do You Hear What I Hear?" that I can listen to repeatedly by different artists.

This started out as a nice post-Christmas post and ended up being a rant of sorts. Hmm...doesn't seem to bode well for the New Year!

Ready or Not...

After reading my previous entry, I am struck by how maudlin and self-indulgent it sounds. I felt somewhat embarrassed by it, but then I thought, where better to be maudlin and self-indulgent than in my own on-line journal? Better to write it down and get it “out of my system” than to subject friends, co-workers, family and others unlucky enough to be in my vicinity to all of that. The less-than-generous are piping up, saying “it’s too late!” Hmph.

Oh well…

I have not written in awhile because I have not felt compelled to do so. No impetus. No desire. But, one of the purposes of me doing an on-line journal was to force me write. There are actually a lot of things I would like to write about: my experiences working at a poll station for the primary and general elections, about some things I’ve been reading and watching about sustainability, about some of the awesome live performances I’ve attended lately…the list goes on.

So, why haven’t I written?

Lazy. Tired. Unmotivated. I feel a bit like I’m in neutral, just coasting along allowing gravity to work its will on me. And this is not a way I want to feel going into Christmas. This is supposed to be a magical time. Not magical as in abracadabra or mysticism, but magical as in having a sense of wonder and feeling a deep abiding joy and peace to celebrate the Savior’s earthly birth. Not the commercial hype of gift-buying, but the fun in gift-choosing and gift-giving.

I have begun with the outer trappings hoping it will trigger inner motivation. My Christmas tree is in its stand waiting to be decorated and smelling wonderful. I put a Christmas carol CD in my bedside clock radio. I have not gone to the mall to shop yet, but that might be counterproductive right now. Now, I would be grouchy looking for parking, impatient waiting in line, and getting outraged at other people’s rudeness, etc. I’m trying to get to the point where looking for parking is no big deal, because I can finish singing the Christmas carol on the radio as I drive around. When waiting in line gives me the opportunity to talk to others in line with me or contemplate how lucky I am that I can afford to purchase gifts. When I do not even notice that other people are being rude.

Yeah, I’m not there yet.

But I will be. Hope springs eternal, I guess.

I hope the beginning stirrings are occurring. I get teary eyed listening to some carols on the radio. Especially “Mary Did You Know?” I am totally digging that song right now. It speaks to me. There’s also a “Joy to the World” song that I love but have not heard yet this Christmas season. It’s a little boy singing and the chorus goes something like:

Joy to the World
Peace for every boy and girl.
Hope when life is hard
Light when everything seems dark...

Yeah…perhaps I may be able to go shopping this weekend after all…

Almost

Barak Obama is the President-Elect of the United States.

Wow.

Honestly though, it is not quite as great as, “Hillary Rodham Clinton is the President-Elect of the United States!” However, it is almost as great.

Listening to Obama’s galvanizing, gracious, and pragmatic acceptance speech, I can almost dismiss the ever-so-faint whiff of regret that America is not celebrating the election of its first female President. Almost. It remains, just a shadow of an aftertaste, but it remains. What if a woman had been elected President of the United States?

We came close…closer than we have ever come before and perhaps that is good enough…for now. Another rung placed on the top of the ladder…one step further. But it hurts, still, to have come so close; and yet that proverbial glass ceiling, for all its cracks, remains relatively intact. It functions as it always did: as a barrier.

Many people of color are thrilled with Obama’s win. They feel they can “really” tell their kids that in America, you can be anything you want to be. I am a person of color. I, too, feel a sense of pride and the hope that comes with newly open doors. But, then I think of the little girls. Will their eyes shine as bright? Will they inhale that confidence, the same way as little boys…so it becomes their truth? So intrinsic that it becomes part of their very being? Or will there be that tell-tale whiff (or did I just imagine it?) that intimates, “But maybe not you. You’re a girl.”

Why must I work harder, better and faster than my male counterparts to get to the same level they inhabit? Will it be all the sweeter to reach that level? To surpass it?

I realize these are not new questions. All minority groups have gone through and continue to go through this morass of questions. Women, people of color, people of a different religion, political party, of different abilities, that speak different languages, of different sexual orientation, people that hold on to a different value system than the majority of their neighbors.

Does the opening for one of us mean an opening for all? I wish…I yearn that this is true. That we can build on one another’s successes. The 15th Amendment to the U.S. Constitution gave black men the right to vote. The 19th Amendment gave women the right to vote. But then I see Proposition 8 passed in California, thus making it illegal for people of the same sex to be married. And I wonder, “Are we almost equal? One step forward, two steps back?” And it hurts my heart.

So this election victory of Barak Obama’s and the agents of change who envision a better world and have reached out to grab it with both hands…your victory…our victory…it is bittersweet to me.

And part of me wonders why I cannot enjoy the fruits of this victory? It means a great deal regarding how we see ourselves, how we identify ourselves as a nation. Why dwell on the negative? The “almost” of it all? Will there always be this sense of emptiness? This feeling that no matter how much is accomplished, that it is never enough? That does not sound healthy.

Then the other part of me argues that it is this part – the one that remains unsatisfied, that strives for more and for better, that will keep our nation and its people on the right track, moving forward. Progressing. So perhaps what is perceived as “negative” is not really negative at all. It is the refusal to rest, because we know we can do better. We can achieve more. It is the part that will ultimately crack that ceiling, made of glass but dense as concrete, into a million shards. And the daughters of the generations who follow will live as if it had never existed. But each will have her own shard, an heirloom reminder of what their grandmothers and great-grandmothers fought, sacrificed, and lived for.

Congratulations, Barak Obama. Congratulations, America.

We’re almost there.

Almost.

Palin Pain

Am I the only one who is worried about Sarah Palin? On the campaign trail, she has been attacking the Presidential candidate from the other party (which apparently is the job of the V.P. candidate), trying to tie him to terrorists and asking, “Who is this guy who does not think like us? Who does not share our values?”

Huh?

That “guy” has been on the campaign trail for almost two years now. That “guy” has gone through a highly competitive primary election process to win the nomination of his party. He has been screened and vetted and has weathered scandal (i.e., Reverend Wright among others). He has written two books and numerous books have been written about him.

I’ve got a better question the American people should be asking. Who the heck is Sarah Palin?

Is she a hockey mom who happened to have the grit, charisma and intelligence to hold the highest office in the State of Alaska as she appeared to be at the Republican Convention? Or is she the fumbling, seemingly clueless and in-over-her-head neophyte as she appeared in her interviews with Charlie Gibson and Katie Couric? Or perhaps she is a one-issue (energy) Republican automaton spouting canned answers to unrelated questions and a bit snarky when feeling defensive, as she appeared in the V.P. debate with Joe Biden.

Will the real Sarah Palin please stand up? Please stand up! (My humble apologies to Eminiem). A bit ironic as McCain is currently getting flak for not securing permission by the Foo Fighters and other artists to use their songs in his campaign.

And if permitted, a follow-up question. Why is it that when transparency through media access is being courted by everyone else involved in this election, Ms. Palin has been tucked away? Her media and public appearances carefully vetted? Inaccessible when everyone else is begging for media attention? (At this point, I picture The Rock with his signature well-groomed eyebrow raised in askance.)

Then there is the conclusion of the recent investigation by the Alaskan bi-partisan commission that began before McCain announced Palin as his V.P. pick. They determined Palin violated an Alaska’s ethics law by abusing her Executive power by firing a State official for personal (familial) reasons, although there were no recommendations for sanctions or criminal prosecution. There are also the stories coming out of Alaska about how Palin’s modus operandi when stepping into a new position seems to be getting rid of those she perceives (accurately or not) as threats and hiring people loyal and grateful to her, although they may not have been as qualified.

I am also concerned about her naked ambition. I think her nickname is “Sarah Barracuda” for a good reason (as I am SweetlyDemure for a good reason). It was pointed out to me that all politicians are ambitious. But, I hope most people go into politics because they want to make a difference, to make changes to improve the lives of their constituents; and their aspiration for higher office is to be in a better position to affect those changes. This may seem naïve, but I am hoping they at least start out this way.

Here’s something I wrote in a “comment” section about Palin after watching the V.P. debate:

It was sooooo irritating and frustrating watching that VP debate! Palin could have been in a room talking to herself and it would have looked exactly the same. They could have just spliced Biden and Ifill in later. Ugh. Let’s talk about economics and the candidates’ plan in this time of crisis…then we get Palin’s canned lecture on energy. Whaaat? It was literally painful.
And the response of the American people? A higher percentage of them think she’s ready to lead. Huh? Were they listening to the same debate? I think people heard her tone of voice, a few folksy platitudes and her canned, rehearsed rhetoric and did not realize that she was not answering the questions put to her.
The worry for the Dems was that Biden would come across too bulldog-ish and if anything, he was too soft. He should have put a little more pressure on her, it might have rattled her a bit. In fact, Palin came across as confrontational and kind of snarky when she made the “white flag” comment in response to Biden’s call for a timetable to get the troops out of Iraq. (One of the few times she actually responded to something!) And also when she corrected Biden on the mantra “Drill Baby, Drill” or whatever. Hello, she couldn’t even get the name of the General leading our troops in Afghanistan correct and Biden didn’t rub her face in it…he didn’t even mention it. I think she called him “McClennan” when it’s “McKiernan.” Bleh. And after some fact checking, he (McKiernan) did say that the surge tactics used in Iraq would not work in Afghanistan (like Biden pointed out and Palin contradicted).
Another telling moment occurred when the candidates answered the question about the (Constitutional) role of the V.P. I seriously wonder (I’m not being facetious) if Sarah Palin has read the Constitution in its entirety. Cheney’s attempt to “expand” the VP position to the Legislative Branch and still maintain Executive Branch privileges is ridiculous and clearly contrary to the whole idea of separation/balance of powers. Ugh. (For those who didn’t see the debate, Palin was for Cheney’s unconstitutional and self-aggrandizing illogic and Biden answered quite correctly that the VP role in the Senate is clearly drawn in the Constitution and that the role of VP is firmly situated in the Executive Branch).
A final thing worth noting was Palin’s answer to Katie Couric about what VP she admires the most. She said George HW Bush because he learned as VP and “moved on up” (or something like that). No matter what happens in this election, she’s in it for 2012, I’m sure. That woman is ambitious. Ambitious and inexperienced and (perhaps?) too ignorant to know she doesn’t know enough. Either that or her ambition far outweighs any concern about that. No matter which way it is, it’s scary for us, the American people. (FYI, Biden’s answer was Lyndon Johnson).

Sarah Palin concerns me. I think Matt Damon likened her nomination as a Disney movie gone absurdly bad. Let’s keep the movies in Hollywood (and Alaska) where they belong and out of Washington, D.C. There is enough absurdity going on there already.

Writing Woes

What is it about writing that makes it so personal even when the content itself is not remotely personal?

I understand the feelings of ownership and protectiveness when writing something that involves some kind of intimate insight, experience or feeling, like poetry or a story, or the authorship of anything that took a lot of time, resources and creative effort. But what about writing something as impersonal and mundane as committee minutes, an audit report or policies and procedures?

I like to think of myself as an open-minded person, who welcomes, nay embraces, constructive criticism, and uses it to grow and improve. I do not like to think of myself as the kind of person who becomes protective when challenged, and automatically (i.e., unthinkingly) becomes defensive upon any hint of others correcting my writing.

Notice I said this is the way I would like to think of myself, rather than this is the way I actually am. Just when I am buying into the delusion that I am sincerely open to critical suggestions, something happens to remind me that I have yet to reach that pinnacle of self-actualization.

One example is a script I wrote for a church cantata. Some kind of narration was needed to tie the seven or eight chosen songs together and I was asked to do it. I spent some time writing a script to make the flow of songs cohesive and meaningful. While I did generate effort to write this script, it was not like this was my life’s work and that I sweat blood and poured all my artistic juices into crafting it. I probably wrote two or three hurried drafts before handing it over.

In most cases, I realize that once a script is “handed over,” the writer ceases to have even a modicum of control over it. Various people can change your words, your stage directions and your meaning without your consent, much less consulting you. I thought I was okay with that. I thought I would be fine even if there were massive changes to the script. I was fooling myself. When I actually saw the performance, I mentally noted every change. Some characters were lumped together; lines were deleted, modified or added; blocking, stage direction and other nuances were altered. I realized that for the most part, I did not like these changes.

Then, I realized I liked it even less when one of the people in charge of the cantata mentioned offhandedly to me, “I hope you don’t mind, but the Director made some changes to improve the flow of the skit.”

“Oh no,” I replied gritting my mental teeth, “as long as it makes a better performance.” What a big faker I am. I desperately wanted to mean those words as I felt them leave my mouth. Alas! Alack! I hope wishing to be a better person counts for something.

More recently, I was the lead writer for a Report at work. My co-workers contributed, but I did a significant amount of the writing. Today my boss wants one of my co-workers to “tighten up the language;” and the way he made it sound (and from his expression), I do not think these will be minute changes. I said that was fine, but I preferred the changes be made on the side (as comments) rather than to just change the text, so I would know what parts did not work for them. I may be paranoid, but from their furtive glances to one another, I think they want to do some major over-hauling.

The professional in me wants to be fine with all this, but rather I feel annoyed, irritated, somewhat insulted, and frankly, petty for feeling this way. Despite my best efforts to feel and be otherwise, I am taking this personally.

But why? Why am I taking this so personally? Maybe because this was the third draft and I really felt it was ready to go (albeit with some minor tweaking). I mean, if they wanted some major changes, then why did they not bring this up earlier? Or did they mention it and I failed to appropriately address it in the report?

Perhaps the root of this comes from my core belief that I am a good writer. I am self-aware enough to realize that I am a bad, even horrible speller, as well as a poor grammartarian and punctuationalist (I know they are not words, but I am taking some creative license here), but despite these handicaps, still a good writer. And when I say good writer, I know I am not great, but good, as in better than over half the population (which would be “average.”)

Now, an uncharitable (e.g., discriminating) reader may think at this point, “nothing I have read thus far convinces me that this person is as good a writer as she thinks she is.” Ahhh, therein lies the problem. Maybe that is where I have gone wrong. I have an inflated view of my abilities.

Well, some time has passed and the Report for work was finalized and distributed. The overhaul was as minor as an overhaul can be. I mean, by its very nature, an overhaul means to change much. All in all, it was not as bad as I had envisioned. To be honest, it still chafes a bit, though. Like thick thighs encased in corduroy. It chafes.

Day of (Almost In)Action

Who knew it would be so difficult to find an opportunity to do some good?

Saturday, September 27, 2008 was the national Day of Action. It is a day to highlight community service and volunteerism as change agents in our nation (legislatively as well as on the community level). A friend mentioned that his church helps paint over graffiti in the Kalihi area. I thought this would be a great project for a few friends – get together in the morning and paint over graffiti.

Well, we arrive somewhat bright-eyed and quasi bushy-tailed, ready to paint our little hearts out. But what do we find? Actually it is what we did not find that was the problem. No graffiti! It would have taken longer to open the paint than to cover the small patch of graffiti. Now please, do not get me wrong. It is wonderful that there was very little graffiti there. It’s just that now we had to think of something else to do.

As we stood around and forced our brains to find another idea, it was suggested that we go deep into Kalihi Valley (Kokua Kalihi Valley) where they plant and care for native species. We drove up there and I must say, I had an attack of the girly-girl attitude and winced at the ankle-deep mud and plethora of thirsty mosquitoes that were immediately attracted to me. My friend looked at me, one eyebrow raised in silent question. I wrinkled my nose and answered, “I think they have enough people to help here. Let’s do something else.”

But what would that something else be?

Then, two other friends unexpectedly join us and we prove that four brains are better than one as we finally decide to pick up rubbish at a nearby park. We drive there only to find a bustling Farmer’s Market, no parking and a clean park. At this point, I am beginning to feel a bit thwarted and my earlier enthusiasm begins to flag after facing no graffiti, mud, mosquitoes and a clean park. My friend half-jokingly suggests we shop at the Farmer’s market to support our local growers. I think that’s a great idea, but we determinedly trudge on (as well as one can “determinedly trudge” while in a car) to find another park that may need our services.

We drive to Lanakila Park . . . and there is a softball game being played. I am about to cry to the Heavens when my friend says there is a park above the softball field and a school. The four of us grab our industrial-sized trash bags and set off in search of unsightly garbage. At first there is very little garbage, which gives us an opportunity to talk and catch up with one another. Then, as we get to the elementary school, there is a fence. The stopper and catcher of all blowing garbage. At last, some real work to be done!

As we fill our trash bags, I tell myself that I should have brought some gloves (because rubbish can be icky) and I definitely should have tied my hair back, as it kept blowing in my face, impeding my ability to spot more garbage as well as holes in the ground I tried to avoid stepping in. I begin to notice how the gentle warmth of the sun has slowly become a laser beam of intense heat as my brow literally sweats. I am a bit ashamed to realize that I would not have survived a generation ago in the plantation fields, as the repetitive bending to pick up rubbish causes some twinges in my back. I am a weak, soft product of the couch potato generation. Yet, my compatriots seem fine and I realize that it is just me who is having difficulty.

We cross the street to the Lanakila Health Center where free TB tests and other services are provided by the Department of Health. The parking lot and surrounding area is a cornucopia of garbage. Our trash bags runneth over. Well, not quite. But they did get quite heavy.

There is immediate satisfaction in picking up rubbish. An area that looked disheveled, messy and neglected is suddenly “clean” and free of debris. Just looking at the expanse of grass or parking lot clear of garbage lets you know that you accomplished something.

In addition, a nice woman walking by thanked us for picking up rubbish in her neighborhood. She said that sometimes the area looks terrible and that she appreciated our efforts. I looked up, wiped the sweat falling into my eyes, and smiled at her in thanks. We did not do this for acknowledgement, but it was nice just the same.

So, was it really so difficult to find something good to do? Not really. If we actively look for opportunities, they will “suddenly appear.” If we pay attention to the needs around us…the needs of our environment, the needs of our family and friends, the needs of our neighbors…there are so many opportunities for us to serve. In small ways and large ways and in-between ways. We just need to open our eyes and see with our hearts. I realize I am channeling a little Dr. Seuss here, but who better to illustrate that child-like wonder and experience those warm, fuzzy feelings?

Day of Action. I like that. Not only realizing that there is a need and that we may have the resources to address (at least a part) of that need, but taking the next step. Action. To recognize a need is insufficient in itself. It’s a first step, and first steps are important. But we need to go beyond that. To act. In love, in humility and wholeheartedly. I have a modest proposal: how about a Life of Action? How truly transforming and wonderful that would be!

“Of course, this means I would have to start with me,” she thought warily and not without some apprehension. *Sigh* “I guess my couch potato days are numbered.”

Enslaved by Blackberry (with apologies to Bob Tarte)

I just finished a great book by freelance writer and author Bob Tarte. “Enslaved by Ducks” documents Tarte’s adventurous journey into pet ownership, which winds up in his pets owning him. He was a city dude. Footloose and fancy-free. No pets. Then he got married and moved to the country. And what seminal event caused him to begin down this astonishingly slippery slope? Binky the bunny.

My downfall began similarly with Blackberry, the bunny of my co-worker’s daughter. You see, I once was Queen of my Universe…Mistress of all I surveyed. My apartment was my personal queendom and my sanctuary. I lived my life beholden to no one and I liked it. Then one day, one I would look back upon as dark and ominous although I had no idea at the time, somehow, through some kind of Jedi mind trick on my co-worker’s part combined with my own naiveté, she convinced me that a bunny would be a wonderful addition to my household.

That was the day my life changed…forever.

I have this half-baked theory about people generally being comfortable with animals or comfortable with babies. Since my siblings are sooooooo much older than I, I did a lot of free babysitting of my nieces and nephews growing up. Holding a newborn, changing dirty diapers, getting thrown-up or peed upon are all par for the course as far as I am concerned. But picking up and holding an animal? How does one do that? Correction: how does one do that without getting bitten? Or without hurting the animal. At least babies wear diapers and they don’t have teeth…the worst they could do to you is try to “gum” you to death. They won’t break skin and make you bleed. They won’t scratch you and leave huge welts on your tender skin.

Anyway, if it is not already obvious, I am much more comfortable around babies than animals, because I did not really grow up amongst animals (a dog I was too young to take care of and fish when I was older do not really count). And as mentioned above, I, much like the intrepid author, “fell into” pet ownership…with a bunny.

It always starts with the bunny. Cherchez le lapin.

A cute, adorable, furry, continuously pooping, ever digging and chewer-without-ceasing-of-everything-you-do-not-want-him-to-chew bunny. What those people (and by those people I mean the ones that encourage the unsuspecting to become bunny owners) fail to tell you is that bunnies are more like Bugs Bunny…sly, naughty and destructive.

Even in my novice fog, I knew it was important to set the tone early. I am the owner. I’m the human. I’m in charge. One way bunnies “mark” their territory is by rubbing their chins on things (males also spray, which is that funny scent you smell when you enter my apartment). Apparently there is some kind of gland there that leaves a scent, declaring: “Property of Blackberry the Bunny.” So what do I do? In order to establish my dominance in this relationship, I rub my gland-less chin on him, look deeply into his eyes and seriously and authoritatively intone, “I am the alpha bunny. I am the alpha bunny. I AM the alpha bunny!”

This has made as much difference as a lone raindrop in the Pacific, which is to say none. Blackberry still has run of the apartment, and if I do not pay attention he will: chew electrical cords down to the copper wire, hop onto my dining room table and eat whatever is on there or knock it off the table (one particularly bad incident starred a vase of flowers and some stagnant water I kept forgetting to freshen), or will dig and chew his way through my carpet or through the couch. When I use the preposition “through” I mean it literally. Blackberry can run in one end of my couch and out the other due to his toothy biting and incomparable scratching.

All this being said (as well as being true), I cannot imagine my life without the little bugger. I love him. Even though when he deigns to let me pet and quasi-cuddle him on the floor (he hates to be picked up and will start kicking and wiggling to leave the warm comfort of my hug), he will ruin the almost-tender moment by running away into a corner and grooming himself. I try to console myself that he just has OCD, but he always seems to suspiciously be licking only the places where I touched him. As if I had cooties or something. Very disheartening.

This is the mystery of pet ownership. Even when the animal shows little or no affection (and sometimes aggression…I’m only sticking my hand in your precious cage to get your bowl out to feed you. So stop growling and charging and pawing me with those wicked nails that I’ve let grow overlong because I am too scared of cutting them and hurting you and because you won’t sit still long enough for me to cut them anyway…oops, sorry, just a tiny tangential rant).

What was I saying? Something about the joys of pet ownership?

Seriously, though, even when the animal shows little or no affection for you, the provider of food, shelter and unrequited love, there is some (one-way) bond there. Those weird quirks like running away from you become endearing. The chewed up books on the bookcase are marks of affection. I think owning a pet does something mushy to your brain. It’s the only way I can explain an intelligent, independent individual who did not want to be a pet owner in the first place (me, in case it was not already obvious), continuing to make loving overtures to an arrogant, naughty, disdainful, rebuffing bunny.

Wanna snuggle, Blackberry?

Gen X: Dare to Do Urban Acupuncture

I recently read “X Saves the World: How Generation X Got the Shaft but Can Still Keep Everything from Sucking,” by Jeff Gordinier.

This is not a book for everyone, and obviously it will probably help if you are an Xer, as I am. We are a bit of a niche market in that according to Gordinier, the Baby Boomers and Generation Y "both swell past the 70 million mark, whereas Generation X is usually pegged at around 46 million." We are the forgotten step-child of the generations by marketers as well as historians. We're cynical, ironic and fringe. Slackers, low-key and the opposite of whatever self-aggrandizement may be. Gordinier created what he calls the GXAT (Generation X Aptitude Test) to determine if you belong to Generation X.

Question #1: Do you want to change the world?
A. Yes, and I'm proud to say we did it, man. We changed the world. Just look around you.
B. Yes, absolutely, and I promise I will get back to doing that just as soon as interest rates return to where they're supposed to be.
C. Omigod, omigod, changing the world and helping people is, like totally important to me! I worked in a soup kitchen once and it was so sad but the poor people there had so much dignity!
D. The way you phrase that question is so f***ing cheesy and absurd that I am not even sure I want to continue with this pointless exercise.

Question #1 is the only question on the GXAT. Guess which answer means you're the Xer?

Things coalesced for me reading this book. Snippets and scraps that were floating around in my head arranged themselves and formed a quilt. Something with a shape and purpose. A-ha! That’s me!

While reading this book I saw some old episodes of MadTV. They had a sketch called X News. It was like Gordinier wrote those scenes – same language, flavor and attitude. Not unlike The Daily Show with Jon Stewart and The Colbert Report. When interviewed, both Stewart and Stephen Colbert insist they are comedians, not subversive leaders daring to undermine the repressive social-political environment suffocating free thought. They do fake news. This is Generation X. No illusions of grandeur.

Gordinier discusses how Barak Obama is one of the first Generation Xers to break-out in the political arena. It is one of the reasons Obama seems so free of the old political discord of Republican vs. Democrat, feminist vs. traditionalist, white vs. black, etc. And so it is believable when he talks about change. His language, his perspective is different from the Boomers who have been running the country these past decades. Gordinier writes, “Scan his [Obama’s] first book, Dreams from My Father, and you’ll see that Obama’s way of thinking developed amid the backwash of skepticism that followed the grand march of the sixties and seventies. He’s allergic to anything that smacks of movementism.”

One of the things I liked most about this book is that Gordinier shares what Xers are doing around the planet...and it is amazing. Majora Carter organized Sustainable South Bronx in order to lobby and fight to “green the ghetto.” There is Fritz Haeg teaching others how to create edible gardens and opening his home to conversation and the sharing of ideas. Dave Eggers opened a non-profit writing center for students housed in a pirate supply store (and similar centers have opened around the country). Cameron Sinclair and Kate Stohr created “Architecture for Humanity” an organization that creates homes and buildings of beauty and function for those who may have lost theirs in a natural disaster, or where a building is needed. One of their projects is building an HIV/AIDS clinic in Mozambique. Their philosophy is that if you create something beautiful, people will take care and value it.

Sinclair calls it “urban acupuncture.” A small-batch solution that can be spread around like a virus (a la You Tube style), hopefully creating a ripple effect beyond the small act itself. Where the underlying belief is that there are a hundred million solutions, not one solution to the problems we face. This is one of the cores of the Xer mentality. No grandiose “greatest generation,” no worshipping of consumerism or emo ego-centrism and no rose-colored glasses…even when viewing our own reflection. Feeling that uniformity is toxic and that just doing a small thing…your thing is enough. Change comes from the fringe; we are in the margins, so who better than us to instigate such change? We have always been on the outside looking in.

It is not unlike what Kanu Hawaii is trying to do. When I think about it, it is very Generation X. Not surprising, since it is a bunch of Xers who created it. Embrace tradition without being sappy or idealistic about it, but look forward in a dynamic way. Not searching for THE answer (in fact not even believing there is only one answer), but utilizing community to discover the many answers. “Join” groups if you wish, but maintain your individual ideas, ideals and commitments.

The last chapter of the book is entitled “I Will Dare.” This is the way Generation X will keep everything from sucking…we dare. Dare to dream, dare to fail, dare to do.

Friendship Stew

Making friends.

How does one go about making friends? And I’m talking about real people, not the imaginary, inflatable or cyber types.

I guess the first step would be to put yourself in a position where you would encounter people. But this alone is insufficient. You can be friendly with many, many people, but still not consider them your “friends.”

I remember not knowing anyone in Kindergarten. The friends I had made in pre-school were in other classes or at different schools. I remember being out on the playground during recess and taking my turn on the sliding board. Once I slid down a few times, I stood at the bottom of the slide and watched other kids slide down. I saw a girl with a smiling round face and two pigtails on either side of her head that were braided and tied at the bottom with ribbons that matched her blouse. She looked nice. Once she slid down the slide, I said, “Hi! My name is SweetlyDemure. Do you want to be my friend?” She smiled and said, “Okay!” and we were best friends until 5th grade when she and her family moved away.

I guess that technique could still work today…in Kindergarten, but what about something that will work amongst adults?

Looking at my current pool of friends, I notice that with many of them are long-time friendships. I still occasionally hang out with people I went to elementary school with. I had a tight group of friends in high school, but we drifted apart in college. Funnily, friends that I keep in touch with today from my high school years belonged to a different clique. Also, I still see a couple of people from college and a handful from law school, tennis (I have played adult7 league tennis since college) and church (until recently I attended the same church since elementary school).

Another group of friends actually started out as friends-in-law. A friend-in-law is a friend of your friend. Somewhere down the road we all went out together and eventually the relationships morphed and I ended up seeing the friend of my friend more than my original friend. Then at some unknown point a little farther along, my friends-in-law have become my friends.

A few friendships were built out of the workplace, but the core of my social circle has never emerged from the people with whom I work. We do lunches or dinners and go over to each other’s homes every once in awhile, but while I would consider some of them good friends, they are good friends on my periphery, as I am on their periphery. It would not be strange to call them for a favor, but they are not even buddies I see once every two months.

Friendships develop in different ways. Perhaps my way is the crockpot method, whereby for whatever reason we find we are in each other’s vicinity and realize at some later point that hey, we meld pretty well together. A friendship stew, if you will. I’d like to think of myself as more of a potato, being able to get along with almost any meat or veggie, no matter how exotic. This, as many things in my life has come back to food. Introspection makes me hungry. Well, truth be told, almost everything makes me hungry. Beef stew, anyone?

It's Alive!

There is just something about a live performance. Whether it be music, a play, or a poetry slam, there is something about seeing it live. And it is not the “tightrope” feeling that something may go wrong at any moment. That’s unsettling to me. Rather, I think it may be the palpable energy, the interaction between performer(s) and audience and the audience with each other that raises the bar.

This weekend I saw Carlos Barbosa-Lima in concert at the Honolulu Art Academy. He was amazing. He has an interesting style that I would not have known about if I had just heard a recording of his work. His right hand looks stubby, because he really curls his fingers in when he strums and picks. You can only see up to the middle knuckle. Yet his left hand looks like a long-legged spider traveling up and down a fret board web. Sometimes dancing joyously and unfettered, other times picking its way daintily.

The last number he performed (not including several encores) was called “One Note Samba.” There was such a pure innocence and vitality about they way he interpreted the music. A joyful, unselfconscious exuberance that immediately had me picturing children playing, running across a meadow, laughing with faces shining. Another song he played was called “Conchichando.” In my program, I just made a one-word notation next to the title: “Wow!”

Something happens when art is performed live in front of me. It could be the result of hundreds of rehearsal hours or an impromptu session. Either way, why does it seem so good for my well-being? Why do I miss it . . . feel that something is lacking? Why does my “creative side” (whatever may be clinging to life there) get fired up when someone shares their art with me?

Part of the reason I love live music is it gets me to think abstractly . . . in colors, scents and movement, something that does not convey itself as easily when I’m listening to a CD. It’s like my creativity suffers from narcolepsy, and once it goes to sleep, it can slip into hibernation for long periods if nothing wakes it up and I end up sort of just drifting along. I’m afraid one day it will just never wake up. Definitely time to wakey, wakey!

Parents are People, Too

I am not sure when in time I had this epiphany, but the moment itself is clear. One day I realized that my parents were more than just my parents, they were individuals apart from me. I am embarrassed that this realization came rather late in life (I believe I was in my mid-twenties and out of college). It was one of those defining moments for me where my world paradigm shifted, never again to revert.

In some ways my Dad is your typical Asian patriarch. King of his castle, he communicates in grunts and facial expressions. “Taisho,” as my Mom calls him. But there is another side to my Dad. He can be a talker, a teller of stories. It is a source of amusement in our family. At a family gathering, we’ll see him talking to one of my uncles or a cousin and say to each other, “Okay, I guess we’re not leaving for another half an hour!” Or we’ll commiserate, “Oh, poor uncle/cousin, cornered by Dad!”

So I grew up hearing his stories, and as a typical child, was bored when he started (in my mind), droning on and on about the old days. Since he grew up in Hawai’i, he did not have the “I walked 5 miles in the snow to get to school” story, but every other “typical” old-time story was told. I heard about working in the plantation on the Big Island. Learning to swim by getting thrown into the stream by the older boys. How his friend “Udon” got that nickname (which is a hilarious story).

My Mom is more reticent. She is more of a listener than a talker (a lesson I have been trying to adopt from her all my life), but even she will get nostalgic and talk about her past. About how she and her six siblings walked barefoot everywhere (no shoes). How she pretended to be asleep so she would not have to go work in the family farm early in the morning. That her friends got her English name put on her birth certificate one day when she was absent from school.

Now that I am older (and thankfully a bit wiser), I have grown to cherish these stories of my parents’ lives. Not just their stories as children growing up in the Territory of Hawai’i (pre-statehood), but when they first met and how they struggled to purchase their first house. How difficult it was to find a white-collar job as an Asian man and what life was like before Unionization.

But there is one story in particular that really turned a light on for me and made me fully realize that my parents are individuals. Individuals with dreams, hopes, disappointments and struggles all their own, apart from me, apart from our family, and even apart from each other. I do not know why this story among all the others particularly resonated with me, but it did…it still does.

One day my Mom and I were talking and she mentioned (almost off-handedly) that when my Dad was younger, he had wanted to become a teacher. What?!? It amazed me that my Dad had wanted to be something other than what he was. Didn’t he always want to be in insurance? Didn’t he want to be in sales? I mean, it seemed to fit with the gabby, bon vivant side of him.

My Mom went on to tell me that he did not become a teacher because he had to quit school (which I knew, because his father died before my Dad was in high school, so as the oldest boy, he had to quit school and earn money to support the family). What I learned that day was that my Dad came to O’ahu to find better opportunities to earn a living and to support his siblings. Even after his siblings were off on their own, he and my Mom had already married and he had a family to support.

My parents raised me to believe that I could be anything I wanted to be; do anything I wanted to do if I worked hard enough and put in enough effort. Yet my Dad, because of how seriously he took his responsibility to his family, was not able to be what he wanted to be. He had to give up his dream of being a teacher. Part of the reason he worked so hard was to ensure that I (and the rest of his kids) would have that choice that he did not have. It is something I have always known (I mean, everyone knows most parents work and sacrifice to give their children a better life), but now it was personal and real to me.

It humbled me to learn this. I have always loved and respected my parents, and except for a few rocky years in my teens, I knew I was lucky to belong to my family. And I know that my parents deserve a lot of credit for whatever is good in me. But for some reason, still beyond my comprehension, learning about the dream my Dad decided to forego just made everything sharper, more intense, more real. Maybe it is because it seems so seminal…what one does for a living. Maybe it is the Gen X belief in the importance to find meaning in your work and that the ultimate is to do what you love. Whatever it is, it made me look at my parents in a completely different light.

It made me understand that parents are people, too. And once that becomes real to you, you can never look at your parents in the same way again.

Grumblings & Mumblings

Just call me Oscar, because I am a grouch.

I know, I know, it is so difficult to imagine one as sweet and demure as myself grouchy. One might even suggest it would stretch the limits of one's imagination. And yet, alas, it is true. During the past two weeks, I think I have been less patient, less understanding, less loving than my normal impatient, semi-understanding and somewhat loving self. Huh.

Things that have been getting on my nerves:

People that insist and/or whine about how busy they are at work, yet they always seem to be goofing off. I say, if you goof off, goof off. Everyone has times when it's difficult to concentrate and taking some time to play solitare, chat, read the newspaper, update your blog (heh), etc. can "cleanse the palate" so to speak and help you concentrate better...eventually. But please do not repeatedly tell me (or others) how incredibly busy you are when obviously you are not so busy that you can't spend half of every day not working! How is that possible? Bleh.

Spam. Not the bad-for-you mystery meat in a can, but the kind you get in your e-mail. I do not need to find a hottie, have money to invest in anything, want a bigger penis (I don't even have one, why would I want my non-existant penis to be bigger?), want to participate in a get-rich-quick scheme, etc. Why do I get Christian dating sites, Jewish dating sites, affair/fling sites, dating over 40 sites, finding young hottie/bootie call sites? They all contradict one another. Whatever happened to target marketing? Do these people actually think I will cull through their ads and check out the ones applicable to me rather than press "Delete All?"

People who worry about inconsequential things. At lunch the other week, someone kept mentioning how she was going out for dinner that night and was worried about not having an appetitie for dinner if she ate too much at this lunch. Does this even make sense? Please, woman! If that is your biggest worry, stop talking about it and enjoy your life! Even after lunch she was speculating if she ate enough or too much, because she was having dinner in 5 hours! Bleh.

Passive-aggressive people. I'm Asian. I can be passive-aggressive with the best of them. That doesn't mean I like it. I don't like it in me and I don't like it in others. Be passive or aggressive. Not both at the same time. Not attractive. Not cool. You know who you are! (Tee hee!)

People who cut you off on the road, then drive slow. This one may harken back to my natural impatience, but I dislike when someone speeds up to cut in front of you, then drives slow. If you are going to be impatient enough to cut in front of me, then be impatient enough to keep up with traffic and move it! The other people that are annoying are the ones that are driving leisurely, then when you want to cut in front of them, will speed up so you are unable to cut in.

Grouchy, irritable whiners. Yes, at this point I am beginning to irritate myself with all this negativity. None of these things are worth getting upset about, but here I am ranting and grousing away. How's that for attractive? I would never allow a guy to say this, but perhaps it has a bit to do with hormones. It's the time of the month that I'm craving red meat. Uh, too much information? Good thing nobody reads this anyway.

No more grumbling, no matter how cathartic it may be. The next post will be all sunshine and light, baby! Sunshine and light.

An Open Letter to Michael Chang

Michael Chang.

***sigh*** (insert dreamy smile here) ***sigh***

Huan Hsu recently wrote an article for Slate entitled: “Dear Michael Chang: You ruined my tennis career. Thanks for nothing.” Here is the link to the article: http://www.slate.com/id/2194929.

My response: “Dear Michael Chang: You ruined me for other men. Thanks for everything.”

In my formative years, I rarely crushed on Asian guys. My best friend would go ga-ga over Asian dudes, but me, my attention was focused on the haole dudes. The one exception: Michael Chang. He caused my heart to go a-flutter and my eyes to go all dreamy.

Why? Because he is the whole package, baby!

Physical: He is about 5’9”, which is a perfect height for someone who is . . . er . . . 5’ almost 3”. I could wear heels and he would still be taller than me, but if I wore flats (as I always do), he would not tower over me in that weird, uncomfortable way. I tend to feel like a little kid when I am around tall people, which mentally takes me to that kid place. Which, if you are around a romantic interest, can be somewhat creepy, if you know what I mean.

His legs are incredible. Now, I am not one to usually gawk at men’s legs. I’m usually looking a little farther up . . . and I don’t mean their butts . . . I meant their faces. But Michael Chang has exceptional legs. I guess because he relied on his quickness and his ability to chase down every ball, he really built up his lower body strength. A law school classmate was at a tennis tournament and saw Michael’s father and informed me his father had thick, muscular legs, too. She said it boded well that it was a genetic thing and not likely to change once he (Michael) no longer played professionally.

Which leads me to my final physical point…the guy has stamina. He built his fierce reputation around running every single shot down. His opponent could never relax, because no matter how good the shot, Michael Chang would run that ball down, whether it was the beginning of the first set or the end of the fifth. He worked hard to be physically fit. That also gave him a mental edge, knowing that he could stay on that court and run around in the fifth set without being super tired and shaky. Which segues nicely into the second category,

Mental/Intellectual: Michael Chang was a thoughtful player and mentally tough. I believe in an interview, he compared playing tennis to playing chess. You could tell he was constantly thinking on the court. Strategizing. He would set up points, because physically he did not have the height or muscle mass to do what came naturally for other players, Michael had to play smart. He would figure out his opponents’ weaknesses and work it against his strengths. He had a game plan, but adjusted his plan to the capriciousness of the game.

Michael was always very articulate when interviewed. He came across confident, but not cocky, and was always contemplative in his comments. You could also tell he set very high standards for himself; and when he did not meet those standards, he was pretty hard on himself.

Family / Christian Values: Michael Chang has always been clear that he is a Christian. And from the way he conducts his public life, his faith seems like a very important part of who he is. That is very attractive! Much of his time after retiring from tennis seems to be spent on his charities and helping others. He also seems very calm and caring.

And he does this work with his family. Now some may be apprehensive about joining a close-knit family. But once they know you and love you, you become part of their fabric, so to speak. The importance of familial relationships and respecting your parents has been ingrained in me since I was a child. To be honest, I’m guessing his mom will be the most difficult one to win over. But, I’ve always done really well with parents. Heh.

X-Factor: Finally, Michael Chang has that X-Factor. Something that draws my eyes toward him. Something about his intensity and focus. Very intriguing. Maybe it has something to do with traveling around the world and learning about different cultures. Perhaps it was learning how to handle the pressure and attention of being a top athlete at such a young age. Perhaps it is simply innate in him. Whatever it is, he’s got it.

So, Huan Hsu of Slate, do not be jealous of Michael Chang and all he has accomplished. Rather, embrace it…embrace your Asian-American culture of expectation and values and what it means to be an Asian male in America. Let go of your one-handed backhand, net-charging, serve-and-volley ways and accept who you truly are. And take another look at Michael Chang. See that cute dimple in his cheek when he smiles? Perhaps he’s smiling for you, Huan; though I prefer to think he’s smiling for me.

Reality TV Love, Another Look

I watch a lot of television. In fact, I probably watch too much television. I think it has something to do with my propensity toward addictive behavior, but that’s fodder for another post. The reason I bring up television is because there are two shows that I really am kind of falling in love with . . . and they’re both “reality” or unscripted shows.

Part of the reason I am writing about this is because I hope to garner some understanding about why I have latched so strongly on to these two shows in particular. What is it about them has me repeatedly watching repeat episodes?

The first show is on TLC and is called “Jon and Kate Plus 8.” It is about a couple who has two sets of multiple-birthed children (is that what it’s called?) Anyway, they have twin girls and sextuplets (3 boys and 3 girls). I believe the twins are 7 years old and the sextuplets are almost 4 years old. The couple (Jon and Kate) are in their mid-30s, I am guessing. Kate is a nurse and now a stay-at-home mom. Jon is an IT person.

My first thought on why I like this show is because their kids are adorable. But there are adorable kids all over television. Then I thought, maybe it is because I get to “peek” into their family life. Some kind of family voyeur (but not in a creepy way). I am somewhat privy to the couple’s relationship with each other as well as the relationship they have with their children, and the children’s relationship to one another. But that kind of dynamic is rife in television, with the plethora of Nanny type shows and American Chopper and Little People, Big World, Hogan Knows Best, Kardashians, etc. I am not addicted to those shows.

So perhaps it is because the kids are a quarter Korean? They really pull toward the Asian features. Jon is hapa, having a Korean mom and a Caucasian father. Kate is Caucasian. Am I so thirsty to see Asians on television that it accounts for my fascination with this show? I do not know.

The second show I am addicted to is “Run’s House” on MTV. No Asians there! It is about Joseph Simmons (or Rev. Run or DJ Run) from the seminal rap group Run DMC, and his family. He has a wife, 3 daughters (one newly adopted) and 3 sons. The two older daughters are living in California, but come home to New York often. The oldest son is in a rap group trying to break into the business, the youngest son is interested in cooking and they seem like a really nice family.

The Simmons household is not crazy and chaotic. The kids listen (somewhat!) to their parents and speak to them respectfully. Likewise, the parents speak to their children with love and respect. Of course there are arguments and disagreements and people are irritable with each other, but on the whole, it is obvious that this couple (Rev and Justine) have managed to raise solid, caring children in the midst of wealth and notoriety.

At the end of each episode, they show Rev soaking in a bubble bath and providing a “Final Thought” a la Jerry Springer on his Blackberry. He has a nice way of summing up the events filmed for the show and has a positive message.

One commonality is that I believe they are both Christian families. Jon and Kate attend an Assembly of God church and talk a little about their faith on the show. The Simmons family does not really talk about church, but Joseph’s nickname is “The Reverend” and he ends each show by saying something like, “God bless.” It also seemed like he (Rev) avoided any shenanigans while on tour with Kid Rock. The Rev would go to his room alone while the rest partied. Of course, this does not necessarily mean they are a Christian family, but maybe they are.

So, perhaps what draws me to these shows is that they portray loving families. They may argue and speak harshly to each other, but they apologize and try to make things right. When television shows you war, death, struggle, hunger, fear, greed, sensationalism and pain in the world around you, there is comfort in knowing people like that exist. Families like that exist. They are not perfect, but they are trying their best. They face different kinds of challenges, but find strength in the love they share.

That may sound hokey, but it is also encouraging and uplifting . . . and maybe our world needs a little bit more hokey-ness. If I am going to be addicted and oddly fascinated with television shows, well, I guess I could be addicted to a lot worse than that!

C'mon Baby, Light My Fire

I am disturbed.

Not in the unstable, unbalanced, psycho kind of way (now wouldn’t that be a fascinating post?) More like there is a disturbance in my universe kind of way.

This past weekend I lost my fourth tennis match in a row, thus going 0-4 for this season. But that is not the reason I am disturbed. Rather, I am disturbed about not feeling disturbed about losing my fourth tennis match in a row. I think this is the first season in the many, many years I have been playing adult competitive tennis when I have not won at least one match. So why am I not bothered by this?

One reason may be that I am coming back from a wrist injury that kept me off the court for about a year. Perhaps I am cutting myself some slack because I realize I am returning from an injury and cannot expect to jump on the court and be at the level I was before the injury. Coupled with that, I have not really practiced a lot since my wrist healed. I cannot expect to play well after taking a long time off and with a limited amount of practice.

But it is more than that, which is why I find myself concerned. Have I lost my competitive edge? I notice I do not have the same focus and the “fire” that I usually have when I am competing. It’s almost like I do not care if I win or lose. Well, to a certain extent I never have cared too deeply . . . I mean, I am unwilling to cheat to win. I always did not (really) mind losing if I played well and prefer that to winning a match that my opponent is deliberately tanking to preserve her rating.

Generally, I am a good loser . . . on the outside. However on the inside, I keep thinking about what I could have done differently; I relive errors and am somewhat irritable at how poorly I played. Truthfully, I am a bit hard on myself. But this past season I have not scrutinized my play in the same way I have most of my life. I have not been as critical and have been more willing to just “let things go.”

Perhaps I am disturbed for nothing. I still find joy in being on the court and playing. Maybe I have even evolved, letting go of petty and unproductive thoughts. But I don’t think so. I don’t feel evolved and it’s not like I’m acting or feeling any better. I want to care about the quality of my play more. How does one get that back? Sports commentators call it a “fire in the belly.” It’s the thing that causes you focus more during the crucial points, helps you see openings and take them aggressively, pushes you when you are behind and basically makes you a better player.

I do not want to have lowered expectations of myself. I want to expect myself to give my all during the match and leave it all on the court (something that did not occur in my last four matches). That’s how I want to play tennis. That is not to say that I do not have fun on the court because I am so busy leaving my guts on it. Many people have said that while watching my matches they can’t tell if I’m winning or losing, because I am always smiling and laughing on the court. Well, I can smile and laugh and still feel ferocious (in the sweetest and most demure way, of course!) I am missing my ferociousness. I want it back. Where the heck did it go?

I will continue to practice during the “off” season and hopefully my game will improve. Hopefully if I play tennis more, I will rekindle the embers of my competitive spirit. I will focus and I will care and I will have the eye of the tiger! “Grrr!” rather than “meow . . . purr.”

The New Yorker Cover Controversy

The cover of The New Yorker is causing quite a controversy. The cover shows a characature of Barak Obama in muslim dress and Michelle Obama looking like a member of the Black Panthers holding a machine gun. They are giving each other a fist bump. In the fireplace, the American flag is burning and above the fireplace is a portrait of Osama bin Laden. The title of this piece: "The Politics of Fear."

Now, I believe I understand where The New Yorker editorial board was coming from. They saw it as biting political humor. Satire. Poking fun at our absurdities. And they are correct.

How absurd to think that the presumptive Democratic nominee for President of the United States is a terrorist and hates America. How ridiculous to believe this Baptist church-going man is Muslim. How silly to think he was raised in a terrorist camp and/or is a terrorist sympathizer when he went to Punahou School in Hawaii.

How have the American people become so fearful? I thank the government for instigating it and the media gets the assist for perpetuating it. Make the people so afraid that they will not ask questions, demand reasons or think critically about the unsubtle erosion of their civil liberties. In attempting to protect the very ideals we cherish, we have allowed ourselves to be stripped of those same rights. After all, if we think, question or demand accountability from our government, WE WILL DIE!

The policies approved by our Legislature in the mis-named Patriot Act, the Administrative dictates from the Executive Branch and the capitulation by the Courts have all been a disservice to us, the American people. The people who are supposed to love freedom and liberty. As Tony Benn says, it is much easier to control a frightened, uneducated populace than a healthy, vibrant, knowledgable one (or something like that).

The news media is supposed to ask the tough questions and ferret out truths, rather feed their own capitalist hunger and flash provocative (and misleading) headlines, play overly dramatic music and basically scare us into listening to them. If we don't, WE WILL DIE! The New Yourker was poking fun at them...and at us...through publishing this cover. How easily the American public allows itself to be manipulated by a frowning leader and a few minor chords accompanying a scary headline.

The fist bump in the picture is obviously a reference to the "terrorist fist bump" controversy a few months ago. Some political pundit mused aloud if the fist bump referred to a terrorist message. Probably the same person who thought t.v. chef and talk show host Rachael Ray was giving a message to her terrorist peeps by wearing a printed scarf. Don't these people know that if they have these thoughts they should keep it to themselves? I believe it was Mark Twain said something like: it's one thing for people to think you're a fool, it's another to open your mouth and remove all uncertainty. But these people get paid to start these idiotic rumors. Bleh. Worse yet they're on "news" stations. Double bleh.

For these legitimate and thoughtful reasons, I believe The New Yorker ran its cover. To point out our absurdities when there is any mention of the Middle East. To highlight our knee-jerk reactions to the words "muslim" or "terrorism." The New Yorker probably sees it as their job, maybe even their mission to point this out to us.

But even though I understand all this, I still find the cover in poor taste. Perhaps satire needs to be biting and shocking, but my initial reaction when I saw the cover: Too soon. Too close. In proximity, emotionally and in time. Obama is the presumptive Democratic nominee for President. A part of our populace truly believe he is muslim or is tied to terrorists. No one makes 9-11 jokes in New York City. Because it is too soon.

In order for it to be witty and funny there needs to be some distance. We don't have that distance yet. But perhaps this cover has helped create some of that space. If that is the case, then perhaps it was the right call after all.

Reality TV Love

I have a confession. (((Deep Breath))) Last night I . . . well, I . . . I watched the last episode and the subsequent season post-mortem of Tila Tequilla’s Shot at Love. And no, VH-1 wasn’t the only channel I could catch that evening. I was channel surfing and there was something morbidly compelling about it that caused me to waste, er, spend two hours of my life watching these episodes. I’m sure it does not speak well of me or my taste in TV.

For the uninitiated, Tila Tequilla is a bi-sexual internet star. For this show, she invites men and women to compete for her affection in full “reality” TV style. It came down to two finalists: one man and one woman. Tila rejects the man, who professed his love and was obviously devastated by her decision.

Then Tila meets with the woman and offers her a “shot at love.” The woman declines and Tila is crying, shaking and in full “why me, what’s wrong with me, why can’t I find love” mode. The woman (I forget her name) says she rejected Tila because she is confused about whether she wants a relationship with a man or a woman and is also unsure if she can meet Tila’s expectations for a partner. She also mentioned she sees Tila more as a friend than in a romantic way. Ouch!

So, as one may be able to guess, the post-mortem / reunion show was strange, awkward and painful. When the man (I forget his name, too) confronts Tila, he is quite civil, but wanted an explanation why she did not pick him. Tila gives some lame excuses, which basically tells me she just wasn’t into him, even though she professed her love to him on several occasions (they showed clips of that).

The big confrontation occurred between Tila and the woman. The woman was explaining why she rejected Tila, but Tila was having none of it. She was obviously still hurt and embarrassed and it quickly degenerated into a screaming, name-calling fiasco.

Anyway, after watching this, I did not feel well. I didn’t feel dirty or anything, but it kind of hurt my heart to see all this pain, anger and selfishness up for public consumption. I was also kind of irritated that Tila seemed to blithely dismiss the man and his feelings and made it all about her – that somehow Tila was wronged and hoodwinked, but refused to see how she had done the same thing to others.

It made me start to wonder about love. What does love mean? What makes anyone think love can be found in the artificial world of a TV show? Have we (society) perverted love? Or have we created something unobtainable in our expectations of romantic love?

So here are some relationship lessons I learned in those two hours (see, they weren't a complete waste of time):

Lesson #1: Loving another person means humbling yourself and truly wanting what is best for them.

I think most of my irritation stemmed from the seeming hypocrisy of Tila going on and on about how much she loved this woman, made herself vulnerable and now is broken hearted, when it seemed more like her pride was damaged than her heart. Tila was mean, vindictive and hurtful when she spoke to the woman on stage.

Compare that with the man whom Tila rejected. The moderator asked him if knowing Tila got rejected after she rejected him made him feel any better. His answer was no. In fact, he said that it made him hurt more, knowing Tila was hurting and did not find her true love. That sounds more like love to me. Even though Tila hurt him, he cared about her enough to truly wish the best for her. Tila was not empathetic or sympathetic towards the woman at all. In fact, she was was not empathetic or sympathetic towards the man, either.

During another part of the show, the moderator created this hypo: what if the man and woman had been together with Tila to hear her decision? And then, after choosing the woman and being rejected, what if at that point Tila turned back to the man? Would he have started a relationship with her knowing he was her second choice? His answer: he was not sure. He said maybe they could go on from that point and forget the past and build something better together.

Wow, that was cool. That's humble love. Love without pride and self-righteousness. Perhaps when I feel that way about someone, I will know I am truly in love.

All this also goes along with Lesson #2: You can learn a lot about a person by how that person behaves and handles a situation in which he or she does not get something he or she really wants.

Lesson #3: Beware of hearing only what you want to hear and forcing everything to fit into the paradigm of your own construction at the expense of reality.

During their last date, the woman expressed her doubts and insecurities to Tila. Tila interpreted that as the woman being afraid to let herself be vulnerable and fall in love. Tila imagined herself being the one person that would make the woman feel safe so she could love Tila and be loved in return. What the woman really meant was, "I do not know if I want this. I do not know if I want to be with you."

Lesson #4: Tattoos are forever, but relationships may not be; therefore, if you choose to tattoo, please tattoo wisely.

Both the man and the woman got tattoos. While the man said he did not regret it, he did wish it was smaller and less gaudy. The woman's tattoo was of a star similar to one Tila has. The woman's brother, mom and dad all got similar tattoos to make it a family thing. Remember Johnny Depp's "Winona/Whino Forever?" A cautionary tale for sure.

Lesson #5: If you find yourself contemplating finding love on a "reality" television show with a bi-sexual internet personality, run quickly in the opposite direction.

Dazed and Confused

I do not understand why Barak Obama has refused public campaign funds. Here are my issues:

1. Earlier in his campaign, Obama promised, if he became the Democratic nominee, he would use public funds and would encourage/challenge his Republican counterpart to follow suit. Now Obama is going back on this promise. Why?

The two main reasons I can think of are both unflattering.

One reason might be that he did not realize how "broken" the system was when he made the original promise. If this is the reason, it makes him look like a political neophyte. Inexperienced. A babe wandering in the woods versus a savvier more knowledgable opponent who knows the landscape. This reason also opens the door to all the questions about Obama's inexperience. Yes, Chicago local politics is not like Honolulu local politics, but c'mon...it's not like being seasoned on the national and international stage. Obama has not served a full term as a U.S. Senator, and most of that term has been spent campaigning.

The second reason may be that Obama did not realize how much more money he can raise if he refused to take the public funding and once he saw that fundraising power, he opted for what he felt would give him the edge over McCain (co-papa of some of the most significant campaign finance reform legislation of our time, even though much did not pass). If this is the reason, Obama looks opportunistic and willing to compromise his "beliefs."

2. I have listened to Obama's reasoning regarding this issue. If I understand him correctly, he is not taking public funding because it is a "broken" system. Well, this raises more questions for me than answers. Does taking private funding eliminate the corruption? Not necessarily. Big business, conglomerations and the like can contribute heavily to Obama's campaign. Will Obama feel less indebted to them because they gave him money directly rather than through the Democratice Party (aka soft monies and slush funds)? I do not think so. Does Obama think so?

And frankly, the only way he could probably get around that is to promise not to accept more than a politically "nominal" amount from any contributor like Ralph Nader or Jerry Brown have in past elections. I have not heard Obama say anything like that.

Furthermore, is Obama saying that public financing of elections is so irrevocably broken that he cannot function at all within its tenents? How does refusing public monies (and its subsequent restrictions) serve to fix or heal the "broken" system? Public campaign financing was supposed to be the great equalizer. Even the playing field. Why not agree to use only public air time? No "purchasing" tv time for political ads. Obama could have called for that and asked McCain to join him. It would have put McCain in a tough spot, because he has served as the champion for reform in this area. Why not do that? You see what I mean about more questions than answers.

I am confused. Someone who understands, please explain it to me, because I do not get it.

"Sicko" Inspiration

I saw Michael Moore’s film “Sicko” this past weekend. This film spotlights the state of health care in America with special emphasis on the effect of insurance companies. How many of you love your HMO?

Now, I know Michael Moore has his critics. Notice I said I saw his “film” and not his “documentary.” While Sicko has documentary elements, as a whole I saw it as more of a personal call to arms rather than a Frontline production. Critics say Moore cherry-picked many of the statistics he used. I believe it. They say Moore’s own point of view influences his filmmaking. That’s true. They say his self-aggrandizement gets in the way of the facts. That might be a bit of an overstatement, but there is some legitimacy to that, too.

All the criticism however, does not mean this film is not powerful, heartfelt and sincere. I was not surprised that this film moved me. Frankly, I would have been surprised if it had not. Tragic stories of death and struggle. Of pain and helplessness. Of overcoming all the hurt and loss. Stories of heroic fights against insurance companies and bureaucracies that ended in the death of a loved one. The tears, frustration, anger and resilience of their families. I expected to be moved by all of that. And I was.

What I did not expect was to be inspired. To have my inner self and my core values lit by the burning flame of belief in untainted democracy, the connectedness of humanity and the passion for righteousness.

Moore interviewed some really interesting people. I have a new hero. His name is Tony Benn. He has been involved in British politics for decades and he rocks my socks. The content and meaning alone of what he says is powerful, but when accompanied by his passionate, sincere delivery…well…it just takes his ideas and ideals to a whole other level.

Benn talks about how good leaders are recognized by the people, as in, “Wow, look at the good things this leader has accomplished!” He said great leaders are not recognized by the people, instead the people say, “Wow, look what WE have accomplished!” He goes on to talk about how it is easy to govern a frightened, cynical, demoralized populace and much more difficult to govern an educated, healthy and confident nation.

America has become a frightened, cynical and demoralized nation. We are afraid of terrorists, so we give up our civil liberties. We are afraid of losing our homes and health insurance, so we stay in jobs that leech the life out of us. We are cynical; there is a pervasive feeling that nothing can change our circumstances. No matter what we do or say, we will not make a difference. Just look at how many eligible voters actually vote in our country. Our fear, our cynicism serves to demoralize us.

But Benn has an alternate vision. He sees the power of true democracy. He sees how it equals us, how it connects us and how it behooves us to be a moral people…not in the “my God is better than your God” way; but a society working to protect the voiceless, the disenfranchised and the powerless is a moral issue.

Which segues nicely to another individual interviewed by Moore in Cuba – Che Guevara’s daughter, who is a doctor there. She spoke so eloquently and so genuinely about how each life is precious and worthy. That providing care and offering dignity for each individual is a purpose worth fighting for and worth personal sacrifice.

I am not doing these people justice with my questionable memory and inelegance. And I know this comes across as socialist. But why is that a dirty word in America? The movie points to other areas where we readily accept these “socialist” ideals: police, fire departments, libraries, parks, public school.

When the people making decisions about what tests and treatments we can and cannot have, and what specialists we can and cannot see is a for-profit business subject to shareholders, there is an undeniable, colossal conflict of interest there. It seems rather obvious and straightforward to me.

When over 50% of families declaring bankruptcy do so as a result of injury or disease in there is something wrong. People should not lose their homes and what they spent a lifetime building because they got sick or were hurt in an accident.

Are we going to remain fearful and demoralized and sit here and do nothing, or will we become educated, strong and proactive? Will we storm the castle gates demanding health care for all our citizens? Our government is no longer scared of us…the people. They are scared of not getting contributions from big businesses and conglomerates. We need to once again become the people that cause decision-makers to shake in their little Brooks Brothers suits. We will no longer be manipulated and frightened so we stay quiet and hope no one notices us.

We need to get in touch with those buried revolutionary roots of ours. We need to remember that some ideals are worthy of the fight and sacrifice. We need to have confidence in the power of our voices. Methinks it is time for America to have another revolution.

Viva la revolution!

Democratic Nominee

Ambivalent. Yup, I think that is how I feel. Ambivalent.

Dictionary.com defines ambivalence as follows:
1. Uncertainty or fluctuation, esp. when caused by inability to make a choice or by a simultaneous desire to say or do two opposite or conflicting things.
2. Psychology. the coexistence within an individual of positive and negative feelings toward the same person, object, or action, simultaneously drawing him or her in opposite directions.

Barak Obama is the presumptive Democratic nominee and Hillary Clinton is out of the race. It's fairly accurate to say that I have positive and negative feelings about this.

I heard Hillary's concession speech and thought it was amazing. She hit all the right notes in throwing her support to Obama and in thanking her supporters by acknowledging the importance of what she (and they) was fighting for...and that it was not for naught. That their sacrifices and efforts on her behalf meant something. She was strong, gracious and nothing like the right wing's media pundits tried to portray her as: a shrieking, nagging wife. She was a viable candidate for President of the United States and they kept saying all American's would hear when she spoke was, "How many times have I asked you to take out the garbage." Bleh.

I know she was not the perfect candidate. She is institution. She is party machine. She began as the First Lady fighting the health insurance companies and ended up being the Senator who took contributions from those same insurance companies. She voted for the war in Iraq; and never publically acknowledged that was a mistake. But she is also savvy, has a vision and seems to genuinely want to provide all Americans with the same benefits and advantages she has had in her lifetime. The same can be said of Barak, too. I also believe he is savvy, has a vision and is genuine in his beliefs.

But his inexperience keeps rearing its head and getting in my face. When one applies for a job, the interviewer uses past experiences and behavior as the best indicator of how the candidate may act in the future. It is all he or she has to go on, since we don't really have Deloreans with flux capacitors. I know Hillary Clinton can handle criticism and legislative wrath. I know she can handle herself with international leaders. I know she can work with both sides of the aisle ( at least to some extent). I do not know these things about Barak Obama. He may very well be able to do them, but then again, maybe not.

Obama's crew has shown it can win campaigns. Does this mean he can be the CEO of the United States of America? I wish campaigning had more to do with one's ability to execute the duties of President. Great campaigners can be lousy leaders and vice versa.

And so I am ambivalent.

Smoke Gets in My Eyes

The other day I decided to make this yummy chicken dish with whole garlic cloves, lemon, rosemary, etc. I added hassleback potatoes, putting a sliver of garlic between every other cut in the potato. For this dish, you slow bake the chicken for 2 hours at a low temperature, then turn up the oven to 400 degrees for the last 45 minutes so everything gets some nice color.

As the chicken is slow baking in my oven, I start to smell those delicious baking chicken and garlic smells. Eventually I start smelling chicken grease smells. Then smoky greasy smells. The chicken fat is melting and overflowing from my obviously too shallow pan and landing on the bottom of my oven. The heat is burning the fat and making smoke. The smoke is coming out of my oven though the sides as well as the little vent in the back.

I start to panic.

You see, I live in an apartment. I live in an apartment that has a smoke detector, which is part of a building-wide system. This system automatically calls the fire department. Also, every apartment has sprinklers.

I do not know what will trigger the sprinklers. Is it smoke for a certain amount of time? Smoke plus a certain degree of heat? Just a certain degree of heat? I also do not know if only my sprinklers will go off, or will all the sprinklers on my floor go off (there are 5 other apartments on my floor and 18 floors in my building). Will the alarm go off and evacuate everyone? Ack!

I turn off the oven even though I have not done the high heat for 30-45 minutes yet. I get a towel and fan somewhat frantically below the smoke detector, trying to avoid a building-wide evacuation. The smoke detector’s red light blinks. Does it always do that or does that mean it’s ready to go off? Why haven’t I been paying better attention so I would know these things?

Eventually, after much pondering, anxiety and towel waving, I sense the smoke beginning to dissipate. The oven is off. All is well. I lower my arms in relief. I take out the chicken. The potatoes are not completely done and the chicken is not nice and brown on top, but it is cooked. I eat one. Yum. Needs a little more salt, but yummy.

My body begins to relax. I have a bright idea. Why don’t I engage the self-cleaning feature of my oven? Then tomorrow I will have a clean oven and can finish baking off my chicken and potatoes and have a satisfying meal.

Looking back, I can only blame the left-over adrenaline/endorphins that must have still been running amok in my system for thinking such idiocy was brilliant.

I turn on the self-cleaner feature of my oven and have the first niggling in the back of my mind that this may not be as brilliant an idea as I think. I should’ve listened to my Spidey-sense. But nooooo. I set the oven to clean and then take a shower. By the time I am out of the shower, smoke is coming out of my oven. Not greasy, chicken-smelling smoke, but dark, acrid, scary smoke.

Duh! When an oven self-cleans, it goes on super-high heat to basically annihilate any crusty left-overs and turn them into ash. Except I don’t have chunks of left-over food, I have chicken fat and olive oil on the bottom of my oven. I see flames. I have created a grease fire in my oven.

Double ack! Triple ack! There are not enough “acks!” in the universe to express my dismay. My trepidation. My intense bout of panic.

I turn off the oven (Thank goodness it turned off. I think some ovens, once the cleaning mechanism is turned on, do not turn off until it is done). I fling open my apartment door and start feverishly fanning beneath my smoke detector with my bath towel.

I start to pray.

The smoke is toxic. Like a tangible entity, it hovers menacingly, burning my eyes so I am tearing. It burns the back of my throat, which has already constricted in my anxiety.

Then I have another item to add to my list of horribles: my bunny!

If these fumes are toxic, which they very well may be, how will it affect my bunny? I run to get a fan and put it on high by his cage, hopefully creating enough airflow to disperse the smoke. I grab another fan and put it in the kitchen. But now I think I’ve somehow made it worse by causing the smoke to swirl around rather than find its way out of my apartment.

I take the fan out of the kitchen and hold it over my head beneath the smoke detector, because my arms are tired of flapping my bath towel around. I wonder if I look like John Cusack’s character in Say Anything when he holds the boom box over his head. Then I think the smoke must be getting to me, because that is asinine.

I pray some more.

Finally, after what seems like an eternity, the smoke’s tentacles seem to slowly disperse, becoming less black, less gagging, less scary. I am exhausted physically, mentally and emotionally. I am sweating from all my frenetic exertions and need to take another shower. My whole apartment smells like bad grease fire.

So now I have some new items to add to my list of successful apartment living:
(1) Do not make Cajun-blackened steak (first brush with smoke detector going off, luckily sprinklers didn’t follow suit);
(2) Do not broil kalbi (who knew how much smoke some short ribs would generate?);
(3) Bake chicken in deep pan so fat does not drip onto oven bottom; and
(4) Should #3 occur, under no circumstances should the oven’s self-cleaning mechanism be engaged.

I may not be smart, but at least I’m educable.

Some Cheese to Go with Your Whine, Mademoiselle?

I do not think of myself as a whiner. I don’t particularly like whiners—even if they’re little kids. Whining is unattractive, annoying and unimaginative. It isn’t clever or thoughtful or insightful.

But after yesterday, all I can say is, “Bring in the brie, havarti, cheddar, mozzarella, maytag and parmesan, Baby!” I had enough whine in me to handle all that, plus more!

I think what I did (because I am still not absolutely sure) was completely wipe the hard drive in my father’s computer. Pictures, e-mails, copies of letters, investment thing-a-ma-jiggas are all gone. Lost forever in the deep, dark, morass known as cyberspace.

It all began when my dad’s computer froze on me. No amount of creative threats, mouse shimmying or pressing ctrl+alt+del made an iota of difference. So I did the only thing I knew to do: I unplugged the computer. I waited 30 seconds. Then I plugged it in again. As the computer was re-booting (or whatever it is called, yes, I’m one step away from being a Luddite), I saw on the screen: “F10 = System Recovery.” I thought to myself, “Yes, I would like to recover whatever I may have lost when I unplugged the computer.” I proceed to press F10.

BIG mistake. After it goes through the “recovery” process, I am left with having to set up this computer like I just took it out of the box! All the user names are gone. I even have to go through the process of setting up the internet connection. Now why in the name of all that is logical and not misleading would the computer equate “recovery” with “wiping your hard drive clean”?!? That is not “recovery,” that is erasing. Starting over. Clean slate. According to the dictionary, “recover” means: (1) to get back or regain; (2) to make up for; make good the loss or damage of; (3) to salvage.

Pressing F10 did the exact opposite of all that! I lost, damaged and wiped clean so as to begin from scratch.

I felt awful. Still do. So what did I do in this moment of crisis? Was I stoic? Did I begin reparations? No. I started to whine. (Yes, it helped as much as one would imagine, that is to say, not at all to negatively…refer above to the irritating/annoyingness of whining).

I whined to my brother-in-law who happens to be our family’s computer go-to guy (Whaaaat do I dooooo?). I whined to my parents in apology for losing all their stuff (I’m soooooo sorrrryyyy!)

My mom said: “It’s only computer stuff.” Of course, my mom only uses the computer to play spider solitaire. My dad uses the computer to e-mail, manage his investments, keep copies of business letters and to store pictures taken on vacations and other important picture-worthy events.

At best my whining made me feel better in the short-term…like an indulgence. But then I started getting annoyed and irritated with myself for being such an annoying, irritating whiner. Plus I was feeling weak for having indulged myself in such a wallowing pastime.

Seriously, why could I not have left well enough alone? If I had not pressed that idiotic F10 button, everything would have been fine. But for that F10 button, I would not be loathing myself so entirely right now. For being an idiot. For being a whiner. For indulging in my whininess. For being an indulgent idiotic whiner. Bleh.

I am all for equality and not showing favoritism, but I must say, I will never be able to look at the F10 key in quite the same way again. A part of me will always loathe the F10 key.

I’m sorry, Dad! Deceived by the F10’s siren call of “recovery,” I led your computer into cruel rocks and taunting waves only to be torn asunder. Waaaaahhhhh!

Now, gimme some cheese!

Japanese Mind Meld

I’ve been brainwashed (well, at least I’m pretty sure).

At some point in my life, unbeknownst to me, I learned stuff I did not even know I was learning (though I guess that is true for many things, but I am just realizing it now . . . yeah, no wise remarks, after all it was slow and steady that won the race, baby). I do not remember my parents (or any of my family for that matter) verbalizing any of this. I do not recollect discussing this with my friends. I know I did not learn this in school or at church. But somehow I know:

• That when I step out into the world, my actions do not only represent myself, but my family and (to some extent) all those who share my ethnicity;

• That just as my actions reflect on others, my family and other members of my ethnicity reflect on me and how I am perceived by the world; and

• That my ethnicity means Asian in general, and Japanese in particular.

When I look back, I know all this was somehow ingrained at a young age. It manifests itself in the following ways, which explains why:

• I cheer for the Asian person in most contests (Top Chef, etc.) Though I have also been known to cheer for the female (especially if it is in a male dominated field);

• I felt inordinately proud of Michael Chang when he won the French Open (and it’s not just because I have a crush on him that continues to this day…and no matter what you may have heard, I did not stalk him at the U.S. Open in 1999…);

• My heart fell(even more) when it was released that the Virginia Tech shooter was Asian, was slightly relieved that he was not Japanese, then went back down again wondering if people would even know the difference (which is shameful, I know. I’m not proud that these thoughts even crossed my mind.)

This indoctrination is very subtle; because in the ordinary course of my life, I do not feel the weight of my ancestors upon me. I do not feel the shame/disappointment/joy of my family. If my parents/siblings accomplish or excel in something, I do not feel the residual brightness fall upon my head. I do not think any thing I have done adds to anyone’s cache except my own (and to a smaller extent, perhaps to my parents).

I was born and raised in the United States. Raised in Christian church. I did not grow up hearing about ancestors or the “old” ways (except I knew my mom thought it was important to visit my grandparents’ graves. I just thought it was a respectful thing, but I see now it is also a cultural thing for her). I cheer for the U.S. during the Olympics, know next to nothing about Japan, can’t speak the language, don’t know the culture and am definitely more Euro-centric than Asian-centric in my thoughts and preferences (to this day my sister insists I should have been born into an Italian family; and there is some Italian family out there with some changeling that likes rice more than pasta, fish more than red meat and sushi more than antipasti).

The traces of these connections to my ethnicity and to group mores and ideals are faint, yet surprisingly tenacious. What on its surface looks almost wispily ethereal is anchored into a substantive foundation. And the reason why this came to the forefront of my thoughts? Because I read some guy’s blog.

He wrote about a particularly awkward and upsetting interaction with two men in Japan, seemingly yakuza types. Their exchange, which was written with humor, nonetheless embarrassed me because these men who acted so beyond the scope of appropriate behavior were Japanese. I do not know any of these people. Yet I felt responsible . . . so responsible that I actually apologized to this stranger (replied to his blog entry) about the behavior of two other strangers. That is not normal.

It’s surprising how deep-rooted these feelings of responsibility and ethnic representation are – that they do not even have to be articulated to take hold. Perhaps it is a secret government project using shame to control the masses: Japanese Mind Meld.