Beyond Monsoons in a Communist Land...

Balloon

2012-01-13T18:29:00.000-06:00

Gas up so I can burst
Your bubble. Has your world been so perstine

it's never had a door mat

and you forgot how to get dirty?

Can I get a sympathy card for the
Child-
Hood he and he killed?

Mail me your thoughts scribbled

on lines so ruled

I can build empires on it.

They say the first settlers were courageous,

I say they're a bunch of cowards.

Argue that.

And manifest destiny is just a fancy

way of saying eviction.

Read the NOTICE.

You can drain the water

from the well and people

will still drown in the shallow.

End.

Building Constellations

2011-12-25T14:42:00.001-06:00

He got stars

For Christmas

And excitedly asked me to help him

Put them on his ceiling

We, lovingly, assembled

Each one with nylon strings and putty balls on the end

To let them dangle from the top

My nephew sat patiently on his bed

Watching as his sky fill up with Orion and the three sisters

This same nephew, who everyone said

Walked too fast, stepped too fiercely

Read too slow, wrote too sloppyly,

Delicately snapped the backs

Of each star into place and gently arranged them

It's getting towards midnight and he has to go to sleep

Because tomorrow he has to be at his father's early

So I tell him to save the rest.

For tonight they'll glow down upon him

Transmitting their immediate light to warm him

And he never has to wait light years to just to find out

That they've already burned out before his lifetime

Instructions:

2011-12-12T13:00:00.000-06:00

Put on a talk show,

let the voices fill the room,

not listen to a thing being said,

think about your shortcomings,

wonder if that smell’s coming from you,

shoo the cat off the desk and watch all the hair suspend in the air.

Log onto every social media site with your name,

delete everyone not in your phonebook,

untag every picture of yourself – leave only the drinking and smoking ones,

block everyone who don’t know your real name.

Open the fridge,

allow the cold to escape,

take out all of the food that needs to be cooked,

leave the vegetables,

set everything to broil, and walk away.

Watch the smoke rise towards the alarm,

don’t pull out the battery when it starts blaring,

listen to the neighbors call the Department,

print out a note to let them know –

Pet Present: Save Only the Cat.

Seppuku

2011-12-11T23:51:00.002-06:00

The first time I went around the block

that truck didn't look like yours.

An hour into the cat and mouse

of parking and I'm asking myself:

Is that the right trim, the right rims,

the right body to your truck?

Have you been following me?

This is for the adults.

The ones whose vision was supposed to be sharp,

whose secents were supposed to be keen.

You've betrayed your duty to the village.

You frolicked in daisies and jumped rope in the sun

while you were supposed to keep

an eye out for the wolf and an ear to the ground.

If the Japanese had the idea of honorable

death and called it seppuku, can we call

the dishonorable one murder?

Snail Execution

2011-12-08T08:43:00.002-06:00

This is just to say...
I did it.
I picked them out of the tank with
skewers. I could have
staked their bodies
with the pointed end;
that would be cruel.

This is just to say...
I dropped them
into the toilet, and their bodies sank
like brown pebbles into a desert well,
then I peed on their grave -
this is cruel, but

I didn't lose sleep.
There are bigger things to cry about.

Vague or Something Else

2011-11-28T22:14:00.003-06:00

I'm feeling vague, I'm
feeling amorphous, I feel
like saying: a square might fit in a circle,
but circles can never be square.

I don't pretend to know
that I know what that means or
what it's supposed to mean.

I can't. I'm not Fiona. I can't invert words
and make it mean something it doesn't.

That's the problem with poets, with artists, with you -
You want to daydream and sleepwalk
while you wait for the brilliant
sun to kill the dull moon.

I'm not poetic - poetry is just poetry
and a poem is just a poem [sometimes].

It's easier, I guess, to say:
the day you took me
shopping in the men's section
I let you in
passed the clothes and under
my skin.

See what I mean?

Beavers/Talk Time at the Dinner Table

2011-11-20T22:45:00.002-06:00

You've dammed everything up then

lost your mind, and

pulled one twig

And a monsoon came rushing in.

The night you sat across from me

refusing dinner while swallowing

censorship, you've dished flavors out

too spicy and bitter for the pot.

I hope you know I ate

as much as I could before

sticking my fuck-you finger

down my throat for self preservation.

I cried alone in the midnight garden.

It may have been the onions

or your foul mouth, both

caused indigestion and I couldn't

stomach things for weeks.

I dry heaved at the leftovers in my fridge.

Humans are not Fish

2011-11-13T22:21:00.003-06:00

For argument sake

I'll blame law school,

but these days I look

at things in terms of

Strategy. Thinking of

what road to mend and

what to let the

weeds take over.

There's a section on the BQE

that I swear is black tar-flavored

butter. A quarter mile of

perfection and then-

the hard times come.

I had a professor, who said: maybe

Two roads diverge and I chose

the one less travelled is not

about the daring spirit or

the heart's desire to seek new

adventures, but that Frost

was actually bitter about

being made up of atoms and

molecules that can't split

itself at will.

The human: God's ultimate torture device.

Come Indulge in Your Vices

2011-11-06T22:15:00.004-06:00

He must have bet on Red the whole
night and still thinks he can win. At best,
he's breaking even.

"Hey," he asked, "where are you from?"

I'm
from New York,
a far ways from home, from
the city of insomnia, from
one brand of sleeping
pills to the next, from
beaten, disheartened cab
land, from the City-of-the-Endless-Electric bill, from
streets not made for walking, from
food too beautiful to eat.

"Where'd you go to school,
Are you currently in school?
What was your major?
Give me your life
story and I'll nod like
I understand, like
I get it, but
I don't really get it."

"Oh me, I went to Morehouse, I'm
from the South by way of New Jersey,
from 5 generations of young, Black mothers,
from 5 generations of MIA, look-the-other-way fathers,
from 5 generations of strong, independent grandmothers, and
from 5 generations of four-fathers who were children of slaves
to America's forefathers who beat them and called their women whore-mothers."

And I was an English major. Yet, here we are -
a bunch of far-from-Anglo, children of slaves contemplating Plato
over the Roulette table, spinning...

The hands are creeping towards dawn while
he starts to play Odds. I tell him:
the House, yeah, the House, it
always wins. Know when to abandon ship. Playing the Odds
get you nowhere but straight to an even zero, quick.

This is when I realized he had his headphones in the whole time.

Built Differently

2011-10-30T22:46:00.001-05:00

"I never saw a wild thing sorry for itself." - D.H. Lawrence

Quietly, it retreated
somewhere away from the crowd
and lived its last
moments alone
as to not burden others
with its mortality.

In nature there is
no celebration of a
life well lived,
speech well spoken,
or testaments well taught.
just subtle passings,
going out without notice -

Borrowed

2011-10-23T22:33:00.004-05:00

"He died with his sword in his hand and so went straight to heaven." - Taylor Mali, Tony Steinberg:Brave Seventh-Grade Viking Warrior
--------------------------------------------------------------------
This morning
in the haze of Sunday lazy-ness I let
sleep take me another time
and let it have its way.

In a dream I remember
a fight beyond the brew
but at its boiling point. A dream Someone said:
"He has a bat, bring a broom."
Next thing you know I have
a broom and I am charging into
action to break up the fight.

The boy - he swings at me, I dodge
a nasty blow and pin him against
a barrel, a blockage and I see him --
he's brawling. He's hysterics. He has snot
and crocodile tears streaming
all over his black face.

Have you ever felt adrenaline pumping
in a dream? I have. All that hormone racing
in a dream; I pick him up from the bottom
like a baby learning it has legs to stand on
and realizing even quicker how weak
those legs are. I am holding dream Him
up right against my chest, I feel like a hero
while he feels like a child
I just rescued from one of those war-
torn countries you only see on
Christian television advertisements:
"Please donate and let (fill in the blank) have shoes."

I'm conscious that I am cradling Someone's
black baby. [who wants to be play missionary?]
I take dream Him into my dream House,
I give him dream Water and recognize a dream
Thirst in the dream Him that dream Me
internalizes dreamingly.

And then - He's a dog. He's a Jack Russell terrier.
He's lapping water with a hunger
only prisoners of
wars, wars, wars
have experienced.
I remember a fear of his waiting
and then, really, and then --

I am me
in a warm bed on a safe block in a white neighborhood in an industrial city in a rich country.
I am awake, but really,
really, I could still be sleeping and I
wouldn't know the difference -

This Is Not What I Had in Mind

2011-10-16T23:42:00.003-05:00

I started something then I decided you shouldn't see it.

I'm tired of writing about being disappointed with the city, about why Occupy Wall Street doesn't make sense, and explaining why I am not who you froze in time to be. I got the hint; you're sick of me talking about those things, too. We allllll get it. The city's disappointing, the Occupation is not how it should be and I've changed. Let's end it here.

But that would be too easy. I wouldn't really be making you work. You should work. Work gives the hands character. To really encapsulate that, here's something I think is really hard:

even if you rip
the tail off of the fake
mice that the cat chases, he will still
know that that's not
the same one he's been after
for days now. you can pin
a cross on that Christian man
and still not have him
dissolved of his sour sins.

i've thought of just passing
by his house to see him
on a crisp fall day, maybe
with his leaf-blower and a yankees
cap smug on his dome, tucked
under a hooded sweater like a worker's
halo, but i don't -- one of two things
could happen if i ever did see
all six-one of him standing in the middle
of the lawn collecting dead tree decorations --

1. i could accelerate and let the bumpers break
and fall and splinter all over his fucking body,
or, 2. i could abruptly shift to park
and run up to him and hug him
like my fucking life depended on it
until he understands that his life
fucked everyone else's

i'm a play-every-scene-of-every-scenario-in-my-head-in-a-split-second kind of person.

i'm a jump-the-gun-itchy-trigger-finger -- this is why i will make a terrible lawyer.

GoddamnittherewassupposedtobemoreformetosaybutIlostit...

... please see front desk for a refund.

Mediation on a Life that May or May Not Be Worth It

2011-10-09T20:04:00.004-05:00

You're going 67 on the 87, changing lanes, dodging slow cars like yours can handle all the exposed pot holes on this grooved interstate. You're switching between news and entertainment and wondering when did entertainers become news. You're hungry and you're tired and you're tired of being hungry and hungry for sleep-slow seep into steep deep sleep. You think of your grey hair, all twelve of them. Where did the day, week, month, year go? Between which birthday did you get this old? You're regretting selling that 18k gold necklace cause now gold's reckless on the open market, according to the news. You should have had breakfast. You remember the movie where that actress ordered a grapefruit. And you think of oxymorons. You've been thinking too much for too long. 12 hours of work and the sun had the nerves to set without you. You let go a big sigh. This is your life and the future's coming so soon you just hope the infrastructure's not ruined before you get there. 12 hairs and counting. You didn't even feel them grow. Sigh. Change the radio, put on a CD.

From the Inside Out (Everyone's Mountain)

2011-10-02T21:13:00.004-05:00

Someone once told me that everyone has their own mountain to climb regardless of how big or small.

Whitman once wrote: "Do I contradiction myself? // Very well then I contradict myself, // (I am large, I contain multitudes.)"

This is not a lesson in quotes, and it is definitely not a game of trivial pursuit.

I am not exactly the same person I was five years ago and I do not believe in the same exact things I did five years ago. But does that make me any less who I am? I would like to think that you don't think so. But here we are in the middle of an Occupation and I see that you are judging me for the things I say and my reactions to the actions around us. Warning: do not engage in the act of thinking you know me, really know me, just because we've broken some bread and drank from the same cup a few times. You do not know me.

When you tell me that you used to remember a person who was... fill in the blank, you are engaging in the practice of believing that people do not change. And if you are engaging in that practice, then you are a hypocrite because the very act of your REVOLUTION and PROTEST is to fight for change and to engage in the activity of subconsciously believing that people do change. How can anything progress without change?

I've stood on the corner of 125th street and Adam Clayton Powell Blvd at 7:30 in the morning watching the rain drench the Apollo and the Kennedy's Fried Chicken equally. I've sat on couches in some of poorest neighborhoods in the Bronx and Harlem and made a promise to try my best to get the mothers' children back into school as soon as possible. I've listened to Black mothers and Hispanic mothers equally as they poured out of their mouths the words their brains formed and their hearts felt.

The school didn't treat my child fairly. The Dean played favoritism. My daughter doesn't need to be out of school. She needs to be in a classroom.

I've felt them, each parent's grievance, each heartache, each "When are we going to get a break?"

I am not a sellout. I did not sell my marching drum for a new pair of sneakers. All I've done was revised my plan. So don't come to me with some shit of oh you've changed, you used to be different, you were down for the cause, you were in solidarity with us.

I know solidarity. I am a working-class immigrant, too. For years I watched my mother polish hands and scrub feet from 10-8 until the arthritis caught up to her (then she finally had Sundays and eventually Mondays off, only in non-holiday seasons). I've watched suburban kids speed off in their Sweet 16 cars while I walked to the bus. And it did not make me want to take over their cars or burn it to ashes. It drove me to study smarter and work harder.

All that fancy education has gotten me to this: Revolution is useless if you do not know what you want in the end. You can't have change if you don't know what you want the change to be. One of the rules of a negotiation is to have specific demands. And for all of the people crying about not being allowed their freedom of speech: FREEDOM IS NOT FREE and it definitely NOT ABSOLUTE. (Don't shit on a country that gave you the right to criticize it).

But look at me ... sigh ... I am rambling. Maybe all my fancy education brainwashed me, but let me say one last thing...

If you are trying to bring back the Civil Rights Movement, remember that those protesters wore their Sunday's best, so ask yourself: where's yours?

Something More There

2011-09-25T06:40:00.002-05:00

I could give two shits what you think of me. I know you probably think I ain't got a care in the world when you see me walking with my headphones on and my sunglasses dark, but know that that bag I carry got more than textbooks and a day planner.

I'm carrying generations of hope to be better than the previous generation. I'm carrying boulders that need to brought to the foot of the hill before that boulder can be pushed up. I'm carrying anxiety and expectations and feelings of "Oh God, why me?"

I'm not a martyr and I'm definitely not a saint. But if you look at me the way I look at some people, let me be the first to acknowledge my mistaken preconceived notions of care-free-ness.

If you are a daily defender of the needy, the poor, if you packing stones to help you advocate for people who been castrated by this system or that system, let me hear from you.

Let me be the first to congratulate you. Let me pin a badge of courage onto you. You, all of you fighters of good, need to be honored. Let me honor you.

Mystery Solved

2011-09-18T22:56:00.001-05:00

If you've ever had any doubts
now you don't. I've confirmed it -
God is vain.
How else can you explain
the amount of water on earth?
This is God's giant mirror.

Learn to Tell a Story

2011-09-18T22:52:00.003-05:00

I had something in mind yesterday. I wanted to tell you something. Something about hope, maybe about desire, maybe despite and sadness, but I forgot it.

I recall a fish and how it tricked me into believing it wasn't there until I reeled it up and saw its tiny dark mass just below the surface. When I finally pulled it up, it was already dying - fighting me and the new world until the bitter end. The hook slit off its gills like claws through stockings. I thought it would swim away the minute it hit water, instead it started to drift towards the bottom of the ocean. And in that moment I was taken, silently, with an overwhelming sense of grief. While I scrambled to take a picture it took its last breath.

Fishing, like everything in life, is a race against time. It's funny how we stood there like we had all the time in the world and I couldn't spare a second to get it fast enough back into the water. I'm a murderer.

But this is not what I wanted to tell you. I wanted to share a story of bravery and valor. I'm coming up short. This is me sinking like the fish; belly up with nowhere to go but down back into the pit of a mass.

Emergency Prepareness/Get off the Next Exit

2011-09-11T22:37:00.002-05:00

Have you ever lain on your back

on a nightly deserted street

in Brooklyn wondering

whose urine is on the pavement

or where the glass came from

that's crunching beneath your shirt?

I have.

Before the jumper cable stripping

to get to the copper, to save the horse and buggy,

and before the: “I should be crying,”

I watched the trucks,

the high-beams,

the tail-lights pass

frustrated at my blue-collar.

As the Seasons Run

2011-09-11T22:11:00.006-05:00

New York's a lover you have to leave
to remember how to miss

When I am somewhere else
I remember you in a way I hoped you were

You leave me a battered spouse
and push me to my second amendment right

Now I am on trial balancing matters on fixed scales.

Is it possible that I've ran out of things to love about you?

In towns and cities far from your face I see similar glances
that bring me back to your eyes, your dark
clear eyes I see my reflection in.

I remember the awe
when we first started, the warmth
on cold nights, the chill
on summer days.

Sometimes when I am not where you are
I remember your palm against my skin -- all that subliminal cancer.

How is it possible that I miss you, but I don't miss you. I love you, but I don't love you.

You are a lover I have to leave to remember how to miss.

Whatever This Is May Be...

2011-09-05T01:08:00.000-05:00

I'm not sure what to say to you. A, B, C happened and X, Y, Z didn't. I got busy/lazy/tired and didn't write. But here I am out of a promise to be better, at least in this aspect. I am supposed to give you a sentence or a "beautiful thought."

Last night I sat outside on a picnic bench in the humid late summer air surrounded by self-important people who have "hash-tag" problems and smoked a cigar with a friend for (their) birthday. It was the most phallic thing I've put in my mouth in a long time (you know, since the last time I smoked a cigar). I can't say I didn't like it, but the whole hour and change that it took me to smoke it, I had the biggest urge to inhale - to suck in all that hot smoke, all the tar, all the nicotine, but I didn't because you are not supposed to inhale a cigar. An hour and change worth of a tease. There's something insanely unsatisfying and aggravating about not being able to inject your own poison while its liquid overflows the needle-tip. I smoked a cigarette right after.

I am supposed to say something else very clever, but I've got nothing for you now. Come back before fall comes creeping.

When my brain runs a trip through time ...

2010-04-22T23:10:00.000-05:00

I miss things that I shouldn't. Today the Usual Suspects (plus or minus one) and I trekked around the West Village to get pasta from the teeny, tiny Italian place in the hole on Sullivan st. And because this place is such a teeny, tiny place in the hole had only 8 seats and could not have accommodated the Usual Suspects, we took our food to go. The problem with taking food to go, though, is where to eat the food when you are far from home. Well ...

In the middle of a four lane road, the lane divider had these benches. Of course the Usual Suspects and I decided to sit in the middle of roaring traffic to eat messy pasta. It was delicious!

While eating my meal I had the illest flashback. Once in awhile I remember something that I haven't thought about in a long time and it will come to me like an instant memory, but this was different. There I was sitting in the middle of traffic with my right ankle resting on left knee like a box cross and the flip-flop on the right foot semi-dangled into the road. I quickly thought of how much it would sucked if I dropped my flip-flop and a car gave racing through running it over, picking it up and dragging it further down the road away from me.

In that instant I am five or six again and I am in the far end of my Grandma's backyard in Vietnam. She lived in the countryside (and if you don't know anything about Vietnam, the countryside is surrounded by water where the only thing you can use to get around are boats). So I'm five or six and I am standing at the edge of Grandma's backyard facing the ocean or bay. I see the water, I remember it's deep. Out of nowhere I see a flip-flop float on the surface of the water like a tiny boat floating, floating, floating so subtly away. I see my brother on my left, he realizes the flip-flop floating is mine and he bends down, holding on to a bunch of tall grass as anchor to get my shoe...

A taxi's light flashes by and I am in Manhattan again. Still eating the pasta with its mushroom, sun-dried tomato, shrimp and flat pasta; I am a long way from Grandma's house. This is what those memories of Vietnam have come to - distant.

After the eating we trekked some more because being poor only allowed us one meal so walking takes up time and it doesn't really cost anything.

On the way home S told me that some guy on a bike had stopped and said some mean shit to one of the members of the Usual Suspects. I had totally missed that whole interaction. I felt bad. Part of me wished I didn't miss the encounter, yet part of me was thankful for that flashback because I hadn't thought of that backyard for so long, I was surprised I remembered it.

But like I always say: sometimes when I recall things about Vietnam, I am not sure if I actually lived that life, touched those things, experienced those events or if I had simply dreamt them or imagined them and now just reciting fantasy and fiction ...

I'm going to take this as a call to visit the land.

On Trying to Not Be a Snob at a Snob-ish Event

2010-04-21T23:35:00.000-05:00

Tonight I went to a rare Seamus Heaney reading at the Alphabet College. I've been to readings at said school before and they've never been in the big room for just one writer. I guess SH is kind of a big deal. Anywho, SH starts to read (after a terrible introduction by said school's president) and I sort of just drifted. I didn't want to and I didn't intend to, but sitting there looking at this speck of a person on stage, behind a podium in all of the auditorium's awe and glory, my mind wondered. I thought of sleep, of the book I am currently reading, of all the backs of heads of people in their niffy seats, sitting neatly, and listening attentively.

Then this older black woman, maybe in her 60's, 70's started walking up the aisle with her salt and pepper, pulled-back hair and her tan-colored leather grandma bag and I just started to rudely stare at her while she walked out (to the bathroom maybe, because she came back).

I don't know. In the 10 seconds that I watched her get out of her reserved seat in the front to where I sat in the back, I wanted so badly to write a poem about her and the way that she smacked her lips as she walked out like the old women I saw in Vietnam smacking their lips on chewed, deep green, raw tobacco leaves. It was the most fascinating thing.

This woman was the cutest (dare I say that?) old woman I have seen in a long time. She was probably the grandma to some lucky grandkids. I thought of Christmas dinners, Easter lunches, and church Sundays that she might have had and still have with her family. All of her children and grandchild dressed in Sunday's best for every special occasion. Hmm...

I am not usually fond of older people. I've always thought that there are two kinds of people in the world, those who are drawn to children and young people and those who are drawn to older people, the elderly, senior citizens. I guess, I've more or less, always been in the school of children, kids, young people because I've always been into the guardian role. For some reason, I think subconsciously, I am afraid of older people, senior citizens, etc. I find most of them uninviting, like they're always judging. Yet, in this moment, watching this woman walk out of an "important" literary figure's reading, I found her warm and caring and I don't even know her. There was just something about the way she waddled left to right and smacking her lips upon themselves that made me feel really good about life.

For all I know she might have kicked puppies and crushed ants for fun, but forever, I will have this image of her as a symbol of comfort.

There's a Comfort in Here Somewhere...

2010-04-01T23:36:00.000-05:00

Sometimes I forget to keep my mouth shut. Yeah, I might hate something in the moment and I know I hate it because I have it, but when it's gone I know I'd miss it or at least I'd wish I have it. That sentence didn't mean anything. I seem to rarely mean what I say or write what I mean.

Today I found a concrete example of the fact that I've gone up. I have this ritual, you see, for when I'm sad. This ritual includes one or all of the things like listening all of the stab-yourself-in-the-eye-because-it's-so-painful folk music, drinking beer I've had in the fridge for months and randomly tearing up out of nowhere. Usually, this ritual is to mourn the passing of a relationship, but today, I found myself doing this for a completely different reason.

I can't believe that I am here mourning a job. A job. A stinky, proof of being grown-up job. Yuck.

Yet - things are never really about the thing itself, is it? If you even understood what I just said then you'd probably say, "No." Things are never really about the thing on its own. The job is my idea of self-reliance, more or less. I mean, the job was shit and it didn't even come to paying enough and it wasn't intellectuality stimulating or profound. I can't even really keep a straight face and say that I did it for the money, because there wasn't really any. So why? Why am I upset about it? Because it represented a calm wave that I could ride into shore. Because, on good days, it made me so thankful that I didn't have to brave rain and snow to tend my fruit stand on the corner. Because it made me feel important to be in an office in Midtown.

I've been treading water for awhile now. Some days, when the sun was full, it was so good to have my head above water even if my body was submerged. I've been thinking about "Not Waving but Drowning" a lot lately:

"I was much further out than you thought

And not waving but drowning."

The job was a floaty tube to my being-in-the-water-too-long-to-keep-swimming ass. Here I am having to kick my feet to stay afloat, again. When's the SOS I sent out coming?

I Wish I was a Rapper

2010-03-23T20:38:00.000-05:00

Originally when I first started to apply for law schools, I was so sure. I was so confident. I thought that if I convinced myself enough that I was worth law schools' consideration, they would actually believe it themselves, and not as a passing thought or a mercy admit, but as a genuine desire for me to attend their school. Somewhere along the line, I think my overconfidence and my consistent insistence that I was worth it convinced the schools too, because I was offered admission into more than one great school, and not some bumble-fuck bullshit. Wow.

Funny thing is though, as I slowly let the prospect of going to law school and, ultimately, becoming a lawyer soak in and marinate, I started to get a little scared. Thoughts that I never allowed myself to think about started to seep into my mind, like "Oh my god, what if I fail?"

I won't lay awake at night worrying about whether I was a failure or whether I would fail at something the next day. I try not to dwell, not to be engrossed in any imagined, impending doom. I've learned since I was 7 to kind of roll with it. My family's moved from town to town, place to place so often that I forget the names and faces of people I used to talk to or those who I might have called friends. I've learned to not attach, but if I did and if I was hurt from being detached from the thing/person that I've attached myself to, I've learned to deal with it in private. I learned about inversion and internal suffering.

But I'm getting older and as this becomes the case, I've seen myself become less-guarded. Perhaps age is the reason why I am able to vocalize that I am scared. I am afraid of letting the people who had the utmost confidence in me down. I am also afraid that I might not be able to prove, secretly, to those who didn't believe in me or thought of me as just some poor kid that they were wrong.

Hmm... sometimes, I wish I was a rapper. I'd make a song, go platinum and buy a Ferrari sitting on dubs to run over the feet of all the haters. But I'm not a rapper, so for now while I wait for destiny to give me more forks in the road to choose from, I have to settle for posting words on blogs that no one reads.

Cheers, reader.

Vietnamese Food Whores

2010-03-17T10:59:00.000-05:00

Warning: My apologies in advance, this might not be a very intellectual post.

If you know me in real life, you might vaguely remember me muttering something about working for a duel job of real estate management and sales for a company that sells and maintains the POS systems (a.k.a. computer screens) in restaurants, bars, clubs, etc. It's not the worst, yet far from the best job in the world. (I imagine the best job to be something involving me traveling to various countries, all expenses paid while I sip hot or cold coffee while scribbling lines to poems and stories on the napkins and cups and at the same time I am giving out legal advice and dining at wonderful strangers' homes). Excuse me while I daydream...

Ok. So part of my job for this company is to look for leads, as it is called in sales, i.e. any place that would need a POS. In my search I find a great deal of Vietnamese restaurants that I never even knew existed beyond Chinatown or Flushing. Sometimes I am taken aback by the fact that I live in Brooklyn and work in Midtown because at roots I am a suburban kid who went through all of high school without a car (I might have been the only one). It might be a requirement of being Vietnamese and living on Long Island to take bi-weekly trips with the family to Chinatown for Phở and grocery shopping in order to stock up. What I've known of Vietnamese food outside of the home is greatly influenced by these trips. As a kid, I loved the eating part the best, and still do.

The point is: here I am in my early twenties, working for this company that more or less treats food and eating so materially it breaks my heart, because eating and food will always and forever be associated to these trips and my mother. So here I am looking up places that would need these systems and I come across so many avant-garde, postmodern, new-age Vietnamese restaurants in midtown, UES, Williamsburg and it makes me feel dirty in a lot of ways.

Let me explain. These restaurants are so modern, so new, so everything that Vietnamese food isn't. To me, Vietnamese food is about home and the comfort of sharing with the people you are with. The food can be very intricate. Let's take Phở for example. Phở is a complex soup and it's made of many components that you can't just throw in together at the last minute. It can take hours to make and it's usually better to let it sit before serving. I've seen every ethnicity from Chinese to Korean to Japanese open a Vietnamese restaurant or just a store that sells Phở. These restaurants, with their metal, oval chairs and steel tables, charge up to $9 for a bowl of soup! That's ridiculous! At most, it is supposed to cost $6 (for an extra large bowl - which we call the train bowl).

In addition to my bafflement of the price and decor of the space itself, the food isn't good!!! The way in which they make their soup is missing something that is essential to the soup itself, maybe it's the culture that they're lacking because most of the restaurants boast fusion (mostly between French and Vietnamese cuisines - but is it just me or wasn't there a grave fear and hatred for colonial France?) One owner in Williamsburg dared to state in an interview that she wanted to open the restaurant to serve the things that the public couldn't get in the Chinatown restaurants who charge too much for their food. WHAT?! Are you kidding? I admit that Chinatown prices have been crawling upward, but you can't get it cheaper in Williamsburg - it's the hipster hood, where being poor is trendy! WHAT?!

Sigh. I've exhausted myself. And good thing because I would get into the Banh Mi. PARIS SANDWICHES!? Are you kidding?! I know we took the pate and ran, but come on!!!

I call for a movement back to the family-owned, small, in God's ass-crack restaurants where you would have to be recommended and drawn a map to find the place. Let's bring back the $5.50 Phở and the $2.50/$3 sandwiches.

Don't get me wrong, I love capitalism and wouldn't trade it for anything to get back to Communist/Republic Vietnam where the airport agents blatantly asks for bribes, but don't fuck with my food! If the Phở isn't broken - don't fix it! Take me back to Chinatown Sundays where the people who work at these restaurants actually speak Vietnamese. Don't give me the French fusion bullshit; if I want French food - I'd go get it somewhere else!

Phew. I'm tired and hungry. Let's go get Phở crepes.

United States of Paranoia

2009-12-07T14:54:00.000-06:00

I am not the kind of person that is afraid of “Big Brother” monitoring my every move. In fact, I don’t even lose sleep over the fact that if you still have the “bunny-ears” for your TV, and if you position them in a certain way, you can pick up the channel that broadcasts various cameras around NYC (one being an overview of Times Square). While I don’t really care that our world has been so saturated with digitals eyes everywhere from the supermarket to the traffic light, I understand why certain people might be.

I haven’t looked up the official name for a person who has a grave fear of being watched by an unknown source, but I am sure that there is such a phobia. In an attempt to not put anyone’s fears down, I find some more rationally unfounded than others. Being afraid of socks – personally, not too big of a deal. Sorry, socks-fear-ers.

Let me explain. In America (and maybe elsewhere), from a young age we are threaten into submission of being “good” and to behave because there is always someone watching. Elaboration – go listen to the Christmas song “Santa Clause Is Coming to Town.” Got it?

“You better watch out, you better not cry, Santa Clause is coming to town … He sees you when you’re sleeping, he sees when you’re awake … So, be good for goodness-sake.”

Ummm, seriously? It seems appropriate that as I sit here in this all white coffee shop and being the only Asian, or minority person again, (this is another entry in itself), I am listening to the never-ending Christmas songs and every time this song comes on, I wince a little. I know some of you are going to chuckle and say to take this song light-heartedly and you’re right. I do tend to over-read, over-think and over-analysis more than it is good for anyone. With that said, though, take a moment to think about it.

No wonder so any children seem like they are spiteful. How many of us had our parents or guardians say, “I have eyes on the back of my head” and “I see everything”? I am not as smart as I pretend to be, so I don’t know if any psychologists or scientists have studied the idea of the “forbidden fruit” or simply acting out when every the opportunity presents itself because every other opportunity is so closely monitored. I am sure there is (and if you know the name of any of those smarty scientists and psychologists, please do let me know).

The point is that we breed a paranoid culture of adults from the time they are children. Everyone from Santa to God is omniscient, always watching and, consequently, waiting for you to mess up. Even if parents never physically hurt their children, we, as a society, beat children mercilessly with rhetoric and propaganda. These all-knowing, all-seeing figures not only do a number on children, but look at the adults. I am not sure if this makes parents victims to the same upbringing, or just plain lazy. It easy to have an invisible-force parent your children because you really don’t have eyes behind your head and because you can’t duct tape your children to your hips. Or it's just easier to teach children about absistence with the "Big Man Upstairs" as the one watching if you even touch yourself for too long when showering. Maybe … if only, Santa and God can baby-sit instead of being used as a symbol to be feared we wouldn’t nurture children to being adults who are constantly fearful of Big Brother.

Maybe I’m just paranoid. Or maybe Santa's just a stalker. Maybe God's a perv.

Chicken

2009-11-03T19:55:00.000-06:00

GIANTS build EMPIRES
on seeing how far one can push
the other without falling off.

Headlights glare like the steam
coming off
of an animated bull's nose.

the Objective of it all:
to last.
Push past "enough".

This is war. Invasion on space.

You and me? We're playing
a twisted version.
We might not run towards each other
on a high curvy cliff on a cold autumn night,
but we're definitely driving hard
body language as a substitute for words.

Funny - for someone who loves competition, I'm afraid
to win.

Notes to Self --

2009-10-16T07:13:00.000-05:00

Yep. The notes are plural. There just seems to be more and more things I need to remind myself of. I like post-its personally. How convenient to have miniature reminders, but then, the problem becomes, for me at least, I always end up with so many of them and everywhere too. To the point where they became to taunt me, and rather than reminding me that I have to remember or do something -- they make fun of me for being unable to complete the task. Maybe this isn't true at all and I am over-exaggerating. All of the above are probably true.

On a different note - punny, I like it - do not buy the store brand ham. Don't do it. It is way too salty. If you are in a regular supermarket, don't get it. Go for Boar's Head (and this is not an edorsement, althoughIwishitwassothattheycanpaymemoney,butit'snot).

I am convinced that everything, more or less, comes down to habit. We, you, me, I, she, he, they are, am, is a creature(s) of habit. Habit, habit, habit -- say that 10 times quickly and you'll think it's a singsong. Everything, from buying the store brand ham to the way we walk to the train to addictions, is some form of habit. To break these habits require change and you know the old tale - people are afraid of change. It's perpetual, really. "Out of the cradle, endlessly rocking," Whitman said. I believe the keyword in there is the adverb "endlessly." Oh, there I go with the grammar lesson - Stop It, Self!

I am not a manic lunatic, I promise. Wait, I am not sure of that -- I think I just broke my promise. I'm sorry about that. Wait, I can't be sorry for something that I haven't yet done, so I guess I'm not sorry? I'm contradicting myself again. What Would Whitman Do? He might tell me that it's ok that I contradict myself because I contain multitudes or he might tell me that I am crazy. You can never know with him.

Three or four paragraphs in and I have yet to make the point that I set out to make when the desire to post an entry hit. Sigh. Excuse me while I recollect myself. I was talking about habit. I meant to write about how I didn't listen to music while making the bed today. 90% of the time, I do, ever since I was a kid. Sometimes I just like to hear the ruffle of the bedsheets when you hold one end with both hands and throw it in the air to straighten. And then there was my feet putting pressure of the hinges of the wood floor like a back cracking. The grandfather clock and the plastic Ikea clock clicking, ticking, swinging un-insyncly. How annoyingly beautiful!

This is the end of the rope, the magician pulled everything out of the hat already. If I haven't told you, I am crazy, so don't listen to a word I, or Whitman, say. Wait -- you can listen to me and not Whitman, or is it vica-versa?

The Greatest Fan of Your Life

2009-09-25T10:08:00.000-05:00

Every time I hear Edwin McCain's song, I am ten again sitting by my window looking onto the backyard with the big berry tree that I used to pick to try to feed the squirrels. I am ten during that late summer day where lighting is a prerequisite for rain. My brother, Jay, sent me a camera last Christmas and it's one of those old-school film cameras. I am trying to capture an image of the lighting with a shutter speed that's too slow.

Is one of the questions you ask your spouse or protential spouse "Did you have a good childhood?"?

I always answer that I don't know. I remember stereotypical childhood things like owning hamsters, riding bikes with the neighborhood kids, waiting for the school bus, hitting the waffle ball over the neighbor's yard, but I don't know if that was a "good" childhood.

I remember being a loner. And ironically, even with a house full of people, I was alone a lot. I always had to fend for myself, so to say. But what do I know and how can I be sure that what I remember as a child actually happened?

There was a point to this ramble, but I can't remember what it was. If you know what it was, let me know. Please.

Sam Cooke Said a Change Was Coming...

2009-09-08T22:45:00.000-05:00

There must be a hill, because I can't see it down the road.

Have you watched TV, read the papers or heard the news lately? Everyone's talking about a change and/or of things being different, but I just honestly can't see it. I constantly find myself looking at the room around me and there's something different, I admit, and yet, there it's all still the same. Here I am on the same computer I've had since I started college. Here I am a graduate with a degree, yet still struggling like I did like I was an undergrad again. Here I am with the same test prep books that I've looked at for a year and a half. I guess what someone once said is true -- that "the more things change, the more they stay the same." How is this possible?

Perhaps the only noticeable thing that's different is the fact that I've changed wireless service. How funny is it that something as trivial as cellphone service can be the biggest change in my life?

Pardon me while I grab at straws and jump from subject to topic to main idea. I think I've ran out to smart things to say, but that would require me to have something smart to say in the first place. Have I told you that you should not take a word I say to heart? If not, don't. I warned you.

Post-out-of-Country-Experience, but It's Like I Never Left

2009-07-22T23:20:00.000-05:00

Eh, what can I tell you about Bermuda? It was rainy, then hot and humid. The people have British accents and the most "ghetto" looking kids give up their seat for older people. I guess I expected something more deserted island feel. I was very naive. Bermuda is like Manhattan, but with brighter-colored houses and banana trees. That's all I will say. Also, don't go on a cruise, because when you get back, the ground feels like it's still swaying. Literally.

An observation about NY - obviously, I can't get away from this city, in many ways. Today -- after a long, long day of hustling in my corporate suit that makes me look like I am running for office (Vote for Me!) under the hot sun, I stop by Grand St. for some packaged, instant noodles. I am a testament that looks can be deceiving because even with looking corporate, I had eleven dollars in my pocket and a half-eaten wrap in my bag.

So, in an attempt to save money and ruin my health, I bought some packaged noodles and pre-made bubble tea from Quickly (Ten Ren was too far). While I walked down the fish-water streets towards the train, I heard very loud music and someone rapping and hyping up the crowd. Of course I was hoping to find AZN pride rappers, because that's how I roll. Instead, in the Lions Park (or playground) was a stage with a Hispanic (I am guessing) rapper and a crowd of Hispanic and Black people rocking out to the rapper's song with the chorus of "Who Got It?!"

I couldn't help but watch him at least finish that song. After he was done, the DJ turned down the music and our rapper asks (like every rap song/show): "Where the ladies at?!" "AHHH," screams the ladies in the crowd. 2nd question: "Where the ladies who love JESUS at?!" "AHHHH," scream the crowd even louder. The rapper continued his questions, but with the "fellas" this time.

Now, people who love Jesus are not new news. But what blew me away was the fact that as the sun began to set upon Chrystie street in not-so-commercial-Chinatown, here was this group of people from "ROCK the BLOCK" outreach program. I didn't see a single Asian person in the crowd; they were on the outside of the group watching with stone faces. I rant a lot about New York and its loquacious ass, but man, sometimes, I am just in awe of the city. The seemingly clash of cultures that can occupy the same space amazes me. I don't know, something about that moment as I watch the people who love Jesus dance to Christian rap in old-school Chinatown, it's phenomenal.

Of course this is not to say that NY should be so damn expensive. (I can't help it, I have to be a little pessimistic, but I am trying.)

But I am tired, so let me go before I start on how Osama Bin Ladin's son was accidentally killed and now he will be 4x angrier than he already is. Tune in next time for more happy thoughts and writing (hopefully).

I'm Not a Comedian, But Let Me Tell You Something Funny ...

2009-07-04T18:29:00.000-05:00

Well, there I go again tricking you into reading only to find that there isn't really anything "haha funny" at all. Sorry. So forward we march into a depressing blog (more or less).

You know what's been on my mind lately? No, can't guess? I'll just tell you -- I've been repeating a line from Atmosphere lately, which goes: "Not every pony grows up to be a Pegasus, you gotta let people be hypocrites."

Man, how true is that? I've been trying to bite my tongue a lot lately with letting people be hypocrites that I am amazed I am not bleeding to death from the mouth. (Bad image, sorry again). But seriously -- I've been trying to let people react without thinking about their words and it's been hard and terrible. You ever get the urge to hit someone when they say something and you know they will regret it the moment is comes out of their mouth? Not just because it is a dumb statement or something, but because they will genuinely hurt the person they are saying that unprocessed thought to? Yeah... But let's move on, shall we?

Let me tell you something ironic and I hope the DHS and USCIS do not hold the following comments against me (they probably will). I hate, hate, hate the immigration system that we've got in America. Period. First irony -- I am making a comment anti-American today on the 4th of Ju-ly. Let me explain -- I've been in America since I was seven and I am twenty-two now, you do the math because I am bad at math (is this ironic too?). Regardless if you are bad at math too, you will realize that 22-7=more than a decade in the U.S. and yet, guess when I got my "green" card, which is really a shiny white. I've only had it for about three years, give or take a little. Do you see something wrong with the math here? If you don't, because you are bad at math like I am, I will tell you -- YES! There is something wrong here! I've been through the American school system and have even taught it to "Native" American born people and "Native" English speakers. So, you guessed it -- irony #2.

People always ask me several questions: "Where are you from?" "Where are your parents from?" "What nationality are you?" "Are you Chinese/Japanese/Korean/Thai/Filipino/etc.?" "Do you speak English?"

People always say to me: "Oh, your English is excellent." "You don't look Vietnamese." "Your eyes are not really that small."

The point is -- and there are several -- a lot of people also ask if I've been back to Vietnam after I've convinced them that I really am Vietnamese and was really born there and that my parents and grandparents were full Vietnamese (as far as I know). Then I tell them no and refrain from explaining my views on immigration and why I haven't been back. Once I finally got my "green" card, I had all intentions on going back to Vietnam, but I don't have the $$, so instead, as a graduation present, my mom paid for a trip to Bermuda. Yes, you've picked up the pattern, irony #3. Out of all the countries -- for my first trip out of the country -- I am going to Bermuda, a country that is still a British colony/commonwealth/whatever. Wow.

But wait, are you all irony-ed out? This is the last one, I promise. Guess how I am getting to Bermuda? Give up? A cruise! Boat! Ship! (Modern, tropical Titanic, but without the tragedy). Why is this ironic, you ask? Well, because for a good deal of the refugees who left Vietnam immediately, and several years later, after the fall of Saigon, they escaped by fishing boats. These boats were small, maybe 10 - 15 people on board max. (and this is being generous), but for the boat people there were probably 50 or so on the boat throwing caution to the wind and pleading with waves in hopes of setting foot on land again and in hopes of a new, better, fruitful life. And here I am, hours away from boarding a luxury, cruise ship. What's to be made of that? Here I am on July 4th, with BBQ scent in the air and fireworks in the open sky - this is supposed to be perfect, yet I feel like I'm missing and lost something.

There I go depressing you, so here's something optimistic. If you think of America as an adolescent, you will see that part of the reason why America is hypocritical, and idiotic at times, is because America is still going through growing pains. Remember yourself as a child and you will see that we are like parents to America and forgive and continue to teach. America is only beginning to spread its wings.

As a commercial once said: "Optimism, pass it on."

Two for the Price of One (or some bull like that)

2009-06-04T00:15:00.000-05:00

Lost and Found

I lost it
on the train on
the way home.

My Sun went missing
somewhere btw the last building in DUMBO
& the tunnel into Atlantic.

If I pull the
emergencycorddangling
at the back of the train,

can I get your attention
Mister Conductor Man?
Can you direct me

to where the lost
and found can be founded?
Do I really have to...

take this
all the way
back to Manhattan

to get my Sun back?
Can't you announce it on the PA?
I swear sometimes I think

you like hearing yourself
talk -- you're being too
loquacious right now.

End this non-sense of
NYPD, bag checks, suspicious
packages rubbish.

Give me something good like
how you found my Sun making
a brilliant bow across the sky.

I Swear, Someone Is Controlling the Weather

2009-06-03T23:41:00.000-05:00

I bet you a dollar that there is a producer/director type somewhere sitting on his ass in his large comfortable reclining chair watching the world happen and deciding what weather would be most appropriate.

The only "evidence" I have for this theory is the fact that when I was in cab heading south back to the Ridge, I was thinking about the thoughts inside my head and all the while it was raining. Then all of a sudden, a big charter bus passes my cab on the right and I had the destructive thought of what would happen if the bus just hit the car right then, in that moment the rain picked up and it pounded the black Lincoln town car to the point where the wipers went mad.

I am not sure if that makes sense. But it's been raining a lot lately, or so it seems and the weather has been corresponding to my mood. I feel fine in the morning, but then clouds start to roll in and the rain is light at first, but it continues to pour.

I also feel that New York has been too loquacious lately. Give me a piece of peace and a quart of quiet please.

I Ain't Got Nothing to Lose (or maybe I do)

2009-06-02T19:40:00.000-05:00

You ain't got to agree with most or anything that I say, but you gotta admit the fact that every family, regardless of race, class, etc., has a family secret or issue.

So finally my family's secret is rearing its head and I swear I mean it when I say I wish it was anything else but this one. But, I guess, similar to how you/I can't choose your/my family, mother, father, sister, brother, children, aunts, uncles, etc, you/I can't use the issues that your/my family deals with.

What can we do? Learn, cope, grow.

I don't know what I'm saying. For the record, most of the things I say on this, I don't know what I am saying, so I can't be held liable. I refuse to take responsibly for anything that my words might or might not make you do.

Your life is yours.

If keeping up with my blog is equal to my relationships with ppl...

2009-05-27T21:39:00.000-05:00

then I am in trouble. Neglect is the name of the game lately...

Actually, I've been playing a lot of games and none are really that fun. Let me school you for a minute. With each day that passes with me playing the get-into-law-school game, I feel more and more like I am losing the I-just-want-to-live-my-life game. As a consequence of both, I've been having a lot of terrible, troubling, turbulent dreams for the past few nights now. The triple T's that I just used is, thanks to my undergraduate education, called alliteration. Now, if I didn't go to college, would I have known that? I don't know - maybe, maybe not.

The point is this: I am about 15 hours away from the commencement for the school of Purple and White on the not-so UES and I feel not accomplished. I know I should be proud. After all, I've had enough conversations with friends, colleagues, random people to understand the difficulties that many people face in order to put BA/BS on their resume. Yet, I feel like it is not enough.

In high school, in the guidance counselors' office, there was a poster with different kinds of schools' doors on it and the caption read "Which door do you want to open?" I guess I miss interpreted the poster and understood it as "Which door will open for you?" I think that my years as a reading/writing tutor has taught me enough about syntax to understand that these two questions are different. The former implies that I have a choice and the latter negates the choice. Maybe, maybe not.

I am not trying to bore you with my grammar lessons. According to ee cummings, "since feeling is first, who pays any attention to the syntax of things" -- God, I wish I could really take this quote and run with only my "feelings" guiding the way instead of worrying about whether my syntax makes sense or whether my sentences are complete or whether the subject and the verb agree.

You may ask: "Who gives a fuck?" Then you will say: "Yeah, fuck it, just go." My problem is that I give a fuck; I ask of my students to make sure their syntax is active, their sentences are complete, and their subject and verbs agree, so who am I to say "fuck it" and throw all of that caution to the wind?

I am not feeling too good about my undergraduate education right now. When I started school, I thought that all of the in-class discusses, all of the readings, all of the papers were relevant and useful. I think that this feeling of not cherishing the BA came during the writing of my last paper of my undergraduate career, which, ironically, was about poetry and Gwendolyn Brooks. Do you get the irony? No? Well, it's because my major was English/Creative Writing with a concentration in 20th Century poetry. Ew, you may say. No worries, I am ew-ing it too.

As I sat at my four-year old Dell laptop, I thought I could feasibly write a paper on a poem that I have never read before because the one book that had the poem in was missing from the School of Purple and White on the not-so USE's library. In my defense, I have read critiques about it. Still. Wow. Dumb. I kept getting struck, I wasn't sure what to write about next as the hours started to tick, tick, tock away.

Soon enough, I turned to my extremely-generous-understanding-roommate/bestfriend-whoreallydonothavetobeextremelygenerousorunderstand and asked her if this was ok. Of course she said no. Of course I had to start a new paper about new poems that I've already read and had in my access. Of course I got the paper done and it was not bad. What shocked me was that I thought I could write a 8-10 pg paper on something I didn't know. Even though I wrote the paper and everything was dandy, I just feel like who the hell will pay me to write about Gwendolyn Brooks and who's to say that the Joe-somebody next to me in class didn't write a better one about a poem he has read, memorized, recited to strangers on the subway? I don't know.

So, the moral of the story? I don't have one. But if I had to pull one out of my ass, I would say that YOU, oh faithful reader, should take all of your education with a grain of salt. And if you are able to have more than one grain of salt, put it on the brim of a chilled glass and have yourself some margaritas because tequila-laced drinks are the only way to survive. Maybe, maybe not.

P.S. I wished I had pictures so you wouldn't be so bored.

M.I.A i.P.O.D

2009-03-24T19:24:00.000-05:00

I swear it wasn't intentional when I forgot my iPod in my sister's house on Long Island. It's been almost three weeks since I've listened to music on the train. (That just sounded like a confession... I guess I feel a little better.) It's been a strange almost three weeks. I've tried to find cheap mp3 players for sale, but each time I hold one in my hand, I end up putting it back because I just don't want to have to pay for something I already have. Then I tried to put music on my phone and bought all of the necessary parts like a SD card. Another problem arose. The music plays on the phone, but the jack to plug in the headphone is made for hands-free headsets and I, again, do not want to part with my money and pay for something I already have...

Without music, I've been reading a lot more on the train. I've tried to tune out more also. I even started to count the number of people who are not listening to music on the train as if we are all part of the Anti-headphones-music-on-train crew and that we have a secret, discreet language spoken through the eyes. Weird. Sometimes, I would catch myself glaring at people who are listening to music and think of them as robotic, insensitive machines. It's completely irrational.

As a side effect, I find myself talking to myself more, whistling to myself more and even singing to myself more. The other day, I had Mulan's "Let's Get Down to Business" song stuck in my head the whole day... maybe I should go talk to someone... maybe I am going insane. I finally cracked and asked my sister to mail me the iPod, but I'd probably still be talking, whistling and singing to myself even with the iPod.

So if you see me somewhere, come talk, whistle and sing along.

On Trying to Download a "Clean" Song

2009-03-22T10:28:00.000-05:00

I am a broken record. It seems as if every time I post a blog or write in my journal I always say "Oh I figured I'd update because I haven't in so long" or something to that effect. As much as I would like to recap my life thus far, I think it would be too boring.

Rather, what sparked my interest to write this post was my 14 y/o niece's request for me to download a song for her -- T.I. ft. JT "Dead and Gone". This is fine. I don't mind doing this at all, but when she sent me the email request with "u" all over. I replied back and told her to correct this and we would have a deal. Lo and behold, she did. (Next time we will have to work on the other grammatical errors, but I figured one lesson at a time.)

So, excellent, she fixed and I went to download the song. I couldn't find the song in the folder when I tried to send it as an attachment. So I went back into my downloading server and listened to the song to test it out. I am not a big fan of T.I. Partially because I think he is just silly.

But let's not drag a short story out. I am listening to the song and the introduction is T.I speaking and he has the "S-word" (haha) in there. Several times in a plain listening field. Now, if you know me, you know that I will be one of the first people to tell you that cursing, swearing, using expletives is a lot of fun. I do it a lot. At the same time, however, I also will be one of the first people to tell you that there is a time and place for it. Had T.I not have cruses in his speaking introduction, I wouldn't have search all of my search engine's files to find a "clean" song. If the curses were in the middle with his words, I could even argue that it was the passion of his words that drove him to use that kind of language because sometimes that kind of language the only way that can truly capture the essence of what he's trying to say.

I hate censorship really. I hate the terrible mechanical slurring of the words to say "ish" instead of. I sat at my computer for a good ten minutes debating my left vs. right side or my liberal vs. conservative or my grown-up-you-know-better vs. my art-is-art-and-it's-just-words side. I tried to re-imagine myself as fourteen and what I was listening to. I listened to a lot of hip hop like I still am today. Instead of looking for the clean versions, I was searching for the explicit, real, album version. Normally I would feel old when I attempt to correct/teach the "little ones," but I didn't this time.

My you-know-better-than-that side won. And I don't feel bad about it. The amount of accessibility to media today is so readily available at teenager's finger tips that they don't need another example of explicit language. I am sure they can get enough of it in school and in the world in general and from their father (but this is another story).

I want my nieces and nephew to spell out all of the words when they write my emails. I want them to use proper grammar with question marks at the end of their questions and periods at the end of their sentences. They will not be less cool for doing this. I used to use slang all the time -- "u", "r", "ttyl", "a/s/l", "chillin' ", etc. and it didn't make me more cool. There are far more things that stupid kids in your school can make you out to be uncool with.

I really believe in a balance of colloquial and academic, street and school, if you will. I also really want to let them understand, like my family tried to tell me when I was younger, that none of this bullshit in high school will matter when you are done with it and that it is ok to be a different person. Sure, you might have to eat lunch by yourself or take the bus home alone, but you continue to hold your dignity. But none of this matters to a fourteen-year-old, I know, I was there, I was that rebellious kid.

Oh well, even if they don't listen, I can still say that I tried, and that I played my part as the older "when I was your age" voice -- which was not so long ago. But to America and the world now, I must be a thousand years old. I am ok with being an antique; I worth more this way ;-)

Moral of the story -- I will continue to correct grammar and tell them (and maybe you) to speak with proper conviction. Check this out: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SCNIBV87wV4

Something About Life (... I think)

2008-11-23T11:31:00.000-06:00

I have known, but was reminded yesterday morning, that there is always good and bad to everything. Let me show you...

See picture on the left. That is the image of Bay Ridge on 95th street at 7:50 am. I am not usually out in the streets by 7:50, so I don't get to see this that often. But yesterday, on my way to a LSATurday (clever of Kaplan) to take a practice test, I was up earlier than usual. You probably can guess that the LSATs are not fun. But if you can't guess, I'll tell you -- They are NOT fun! I take 5 classes, teach one class, is the Senior Poetry Editor for OTR and tutor 8 hours a week. When I am not doing any of these, I study. I have no time for anything. In fact, right now, I should be showering to go to Master Practice classes for the LSATs. But once in a while, I get little reminders like the sky and the solitude of the street that you see in the picture. This is just a reminder to not shave all of my hair off, register into a mental institution, then come out and make a new album (like B. Spears). That's over the top, but most days when I have the one hour free to eat and head to LSAT class at 6-10, I mostly just want to fall down and cry. But the sky and the street and the buildings, that image just tells me to keep pushing. And that's exactly what I am going to do right now. PUSH ON MY FRIENDS, PUSH ON!

Oh Sister, My Sister...

2008-11-08T10:40:00.000-06:00

if anyone know what the title above is alluding to, I'll give you a cookie. Really.

Anyhow, my wonderful and lovely sister, Teena, is in deed all of those, lovely and wonderful and more of course. So a really quick run down of who she is and how she plays a role (for everyone who don't already know.)

My Sister is...

the refugee daughter that waded the ocean in a rocking boat to end up in Indonesia and then eventually the US. Moreover, the first time she attempted this, her boat was caught by the Vietnamese police/army/whatever and everyone was sent to "reeducation" camp, but even with this set back, she wanted to go again

the one who sponsored our family by herself working 2 or 3 jobs to make enough $ in the bank to be approved by the USCIS or DHS or pain-in-the-ass and then to rent a 2 bedroom apt for the 5 of us.

the sister that, at 25, took up the role of caretaker to a 7 year-old, who she has never met before and for all she knows could not really be her sister and my 14 year-old brother at the time. I am sure that was an adjustment.

the sister who saw that her mom and 20 or so year-old brother had to work so hard for someone else when they came here that she, in her innovative spirit, decided to open a nail salon in 1997/98 so that the family could work for itself (regardless of how many clashing personalities there were)

the mother that worked during her first pregnancy until the month or so before she gave birth. Then, when the doctor told her she had to give birth on Jan 3 2001, she said "No, I have things to do!" But then she settled for the 4th of Jan. (my bday -- and out came LILY NGUYEN ROBERT, my "god"daughter, niece, question-asker, "but-maybe-it's-like-this" contender, see videos below). And of course there's Joey, the most hyper-active, cutest, tannest, tallest 5 year-old.

the over-all, greatest, most helpful, selfless, hardworking, tea-one-sipper-then-leave-on-the-counter-er.

So when she sent me an email with a link to the article in The Hunter Envoy about my book, I didn't have the heart to tell her that I saw this already... I think she's proud and to even "think" that she is, makes me happy. And the only person who replied to the email was my Cousin Hat. Super sweet man who we will evaluate later... The point is this, she linked me to my article, I am linking you to that and others.

If you want to read it/about it:

The Art Vibe

The Writ

The Hunter Envoy

MySpace

The Olivetree Review

If you want to own a copy:

Amazon

Barnes & Noble

Over-due Hunter Commentary

2008-11-05T23:07:00.000-06:00

Dear President Raab,

Where's my meeting with you where you magically put out some funding to save me arse from dropping out of college? Hola at me J. Raab, I'm still waiting for that email back. I understand that you are busy with the "For Day For Night" light installations and how bright it shines, but they've been up awhile... reply to my email.

Or

Assistant to VP/Dean of Student Affairs or some long ass title like that... how about you not lose my forms and reply to your email quicker than once a week? I would understand if your computer was far away, but it is right on your desk! I saw it!

Hunter College, do I need to be Jane, Dick and Spot to get your help? Or should I be Laquesa, Shanequa Amkokreiso for you to help me? Tell me, I can be them, really.

Alright, fine, don't assist me... but then don't raise my tuition.

HC 1, Me 0

Prop 8 sounds like poison...

2008-11-05T22:59:00.000-06:00

oh wait, it is. Sigh... California and its Crazy, Stupid-ass Governor will just have to look at a great deal of people and spit in their faces... it's the same thing.

One minute Ellen and her gf (wife now) is getting married and everyone's happy and then the next minute 91% or something vote "yes" for 8? WTF?

Put the "O" symbol in the spotlight, send a signal to "O"bama...

The Kettle's on the Stove and Something Is Brewin'

2008-11-04T06:49:00.000-06:00

I will not even attempt to explain why I haven't been keeping up with this blogging business, expect for one thing, LSATs. That's all I'm going to say about that. On to more important things...

This morning I woke up and nothing was out of place. All three of the alarms went off like usual, I turned on the kettle to make LF coffee and then went back to bed for another 1/2 hour. After the half hour, after I woke up and LF left, I stood by the window in my studio apartment and looked out onto Bay Ridge, Brooklyn... nothing there was out of place either; everything was still in the same place I had last seen it the night before; traffic still on the bridge, buses still driving people/kids to work/school, commuters still walking to the train.

The funny thing is, this morning, I feel extremely content. I look at the rooftops of the buildings around me and the balconies on the houses across the street and I can not believe that I am standing here. 4 years ago, at this time, I was getting ready to graduate high school and at that time, if you told me that in 4 years, I would be standing in a 5th floor apt looking at out the window to see Brooklyn, I would pay you the $1 because you would have just been some crazy person at some fair or whatever on Long Island.

My point is this, we, you, me, her, he, them are standing on the crossroads in America. Whether or not Obama or McCain gets elected, someone is going to go home crying. Whether it is directly a part of their slogan or not, these candidates want change in one way or another. Tonight we all will be glued to the TV to see how the numbers add up. But tomorrow, tomorrow is the real day of truth. Tomorrow I will probably wake up, at the same time, in the same apt and look out the same window to the same landscape to see the same people on their same paths as yesterday, but I will know that something has changed because it doesn't matter who you choose, Change Is Inevitable.

One way or another, we have to cope with the new gain, or the new loss. Tomorrow, the real work begins to move forward from here because a beautiful woman once told me "Nothing is Static."

Was a Key Food in Bay Ridge on 95th and 4th

Hunter College students spending some quality time in the girls' bathroom on the 4th floor TH building.

Pushy People on the E

2008-09-12T23:18:00.000-05:00

train that is. Yeah, so I've been living in Brooklyn for about a year and a half now and haven't really done the commute to Semi-Hometown, LI from Alphabet College recently, until today...

Edit Note: I wrote this whole description of my train ride, read it over, and decided that it was boring. The main points were, I didn't realize it was Friday and Friday at anytime would be hectic train time, the ride took a while and people were extremely pushy, more so than other trains because they are suits and ties who justify their pushiness with the fact that they are trying to get home to their family, like none of us are trying to see our family as well... I know I was...

I get to LI and the sky is pouring water all over my head. My sister picks me up and she asks about the class I'm teaching... I tell her everything's so far so good. I think to myself that she always asks me about the newest happenings in my life and every time there's something always alittle different going on. I'm here now and all of the little people are asleep.

I was thinking before that I always feel so conflicted when I am here. On one hand, it's like I'm a little kid again, or teenager living with my sister and her husband and their new borns (at the time). Sometimes I feel like I am still in high school. Sometimes I call friends from HS that I still keep in touch with to see if they wanna get together and shoot the shit for a bit. We're always in dilemma as to what to do because there's only a limited amount of things to do here. Sometimes, when we feel masocistic, we go to the local Applebee's. Yes, Applebee's. The food is bad and the service really sucks. Even now with our ID's and now, with our "over-21-ness" the drinks suck and the beers are flat. However, this doesn't stop us, we keep going there and we always say that we wouldn't. See... that is evidence of the HS part of LI.

On the other hand, I feel old even I am here. L (my "goddaughter" and neice) and J (my only known nephew) are older now. I mean they are still little kids, 6 1/2 and 4 (almost 5) respectively. Then there's sister's husband's daughters from his first marriage, I guess they would be my step-neices. (I have a huge family, come meet them.) The point is that they are all great kids. Lily was born on my birthday and so when she turns 7 on Jan. 4, she's going to be the same age I was when I came to America. It is shocking sometimes to watch her do things; she does them exactly how I envision myself to have done things. This is all a tad scary. And Joey, her's a trip! When he was little, he was very shy and, I would say, skeptical of me and who I was, now... he's a little hanging monkey, always following me and asking me when I'll be home and when we're going to see each other, and why am I leaving again, and what presents will I bring him when I come back. It's wild to have little people in your family who you know will grow up to be adults and you are there to witness it all. I would say it's like watching the characters of your favorite long running TV series morph into beings... I say this again, it.is.a.trip!

The two teenage step-neices are wild too. I don't mean in the "Girls Gone Wild" way. They are so grown yet so young at the same time. I always catch myself wanting to tell them about things that I wish I knew at their age. Also, things that I, idealistic, as an "educator," think teenagers now should know. But, I need to keep reminding myself that my family might not have given me answers when I was younger, but they gave me the freedom to explore, experiment and discover the answer for myself (well, or at least I didn't tell them a lot of things that I was actually doing) :-)

Here is a sample of the Madness!

I woke up this morning...

2008-09-11T07:04:00.000-05:00

in a bit of a daze. I had weirds dreams again last night, not that this is new. A lot of random people was in it. Something about a fruit and then something about an elevator... odd. (I started to write out this whole description of my dream, but deleted it.)

It just came to mind that today is 9/11. I decided to bring in Doriane Laux's poem "Break" for the class. Pipolo did this poem with my English class maybe 4 years ago and I always have it in the back of my mind, so I figured I would bring it in as something not too formal. People need to be exposed to poetry and they need to learn how to critique it. If nothing else, the poem will be another scrap of paper that has a blank backside they can write other things on.

As I'm sitting here, the wind is blowing in the open window and it's kind of chilly and cloudy. I brought the miniature orange trees inside the house. They are not meant for this weather. Fall is coming and it's scary. I don't remember is being this chilly 7 years ago... but what do I know?

I'm off to see the wizard and by the wizard, I mean Thomas Hunter aka Hunter College. I'll see you on the dusty trail...

Jackasses vs. Fat Asses

2008-09-03T22:21:00.000-05:00

The war of the worlds between the donkeys and elephants is at a climax. The world is crazy.

What I want to know is who was that woman that got escorted out of the RNC tonight?

Also, a comment -- Levi Johnson, Palin's daughter's bf, must love the attention! Or not... haha

Stunted Mobility

2008-08-25T19:39:00.000-05:00

Currently: I am listening to Jack Johnson and drinking homemade Mango Iced Tea

I dragged my ass to Alphabet College today, just to tie up some loose ends with Fin. Aid and others. I am convinced that Fin. Aid (in any school, but specifically Alphabet College) has no idea what the fuck they are talking about. I've been waiting all summer for my PELL verification to clear up and only today, when I went to acquire about the status myself, did they tell me that I needed more information. I was did for an hour or so figuring that out. Let's see what happens in 4 weeks.

On the note of the "Human Condition," I witnessed two acts of ... shall I say, non-unity. On the NE corner of 14th and 4th, an Afghani man sells sheshkabob and gyro and etc. I got out of the train and was extremely hungry, so I decided to get a quick sheshkabob before meeting up with S. I order it from him and he's very nice to me and the white, young-ish man before me. Whatever, everything is goes as usual as when you order street food. So, I'm standing there waiting for my sheshkabob and this black, middle-aged-ish man approaches the food stand, carrying a little boy and the conversation goes like this
"You got Frank-footers?" asks the Black man.
The Afghani food vendor looks confused
The black man says it again, "Frank-footer?"
Afghani man goes, "Hot Dog?"
Black man says, "Yeah, hot dog, frank-footer."
"I said hot dog, you didn't say nothing," says the Afghani man.

Ok, so some language/communication barrier there, fine. The food vendor gets the hot dog, and the man asks for everything on it, the vendor says "I only have ketchup and mustard." "Fine," the man says. The dog is prepared and vendor starts to hand the man the hot dog with napkins, you know, standard "Eat-right-now." But the man asks the vendor to wrap it up and put it in a bag; the vendor goes, "No, no bag for this" (or something like this). The man is starts to get upset and is like "I bet you wrap the other stuff up, how am I going to hold it with him?" (referring to the little boy he's holding." Whatever, the vendor wraps it up and gives him a bag and asks how much, lifting up his can of Coke. "Two dollars," goes the vendor and then the next moment, the man walks away with the hot dog and the Coke and only leaves a dollar... the vendor curses or something in his language. All the while, I didn't even realize that he left.

About 15 seconds after, a fairly light-skin, Hispanic (I would guess) guy comes up and says for a Gyro. The vendor is still on the previous interaction and so he's kind of out of it. The Hispanic guys asks with he has beef and he says no, only lamb. "Alright, give me lamb," the Hispanic guy says. Things are prepared and the Hispanic guy says to not wrap it up, he'll eat it right there. Now, the thing this is, the Hispanic man has a five dollar bill in his hand and he's clearly, in plain-sight holding it out to the vendor to pay. The vendor hands him the Gyro, the give the money and get a dollar change (the Gyro was $4). For the next 10 seconds or so, he's standing there eating, which I was like, "hmm weird, why are you still standing here?" But whatever again. Next time I hear the Hispanic guy goes:

"You gave me a dollar" to the vendor.
"Yeah," says the vendor with a smile.
"I gave you a twenty," says the Hispanic man kind of quickly.
"No, five" goes the vendor.
"What do you mean? I gave you a ten."
The vendor looks around his cart and picks up the $5 bill to show him.
"No, I gave you a ten," goes the man.
The vendor is still confused, but give him five more dollars to the one he already gave him.

Meanwhile, I am standing there and the vendor asks me if it was ten, I shake my head and say I don't know, I didn't want to get involved. But the point being is that, for $1-$6 people will deceive.

I finally get my sheshkabob and pay him (without cheating him), but I left feeling bad. As I walked away, I thought to myself that maybe I should have said something. But on the flip side, it was not my battle. Anytime situations like these arise, I think of the "Fight or Flight" option. Maybe it doesn't exactly apply here, but in retrospect, I think I didn't say anything because I wanted to know how it would have played out without my involvement. I wanted the best of two worlds; I wanted to be physically there to witness the encounter, yet I wanted to be invisible to see the real results. I guess I was being a tad selfish. But I honestly believed that it wasn't my fight. I, who like to think of myself as somewhat "righteous," still fall prey to what I'll blame as the human condition, although I know that this blame does not justify my reaction or lack of one.

When shit hits the fan, everything is stinky..

2008-08-24T12:24:00.000-05:00

Yeah, yesterday, that's basically what happened. I don't wanna relay the whole story anymore, the point is that the friend that was supposed to be my roommate couldn't/didn't want to and so I didn't have a roommate. That would be fine if I hadn't paid for credit checks and put down a deposit. So, in my frantic state, I posted on CL for a roommate and got two responses from these two really nice girls. But now I don't think I can move in anymore (for various reasons). So I got to thinking about the chaos theory, which I always do when things like this happens. I love and hate the idea that one little thing can ignite everything and anything else. It is said that the small flutter of a butterfly can cause a monsoon on the other side of the world.

Wow, I got real deep for a moment there... (which I will periodically do).

On another deep note, which has nothing to do with my own, some-what semi self-centered life for the current moment, there is this Asian woman in Bay Ridge (this is not an erotic fantasy). She is pretty old, I would guess between 80-90's, she very short, maybe 4'10" and very thin. What's unique about her is the fact that she walks around all of Bay Ridge collecting cans/bottles and such for recycling. She usually wears a straw hat, like a sombrero, but more Asian pleasant, farmer like. So yesterday, S and I were walking back from 86th street and I walked by her (this is not the first time). But this time, she was sitting on the ground, on a cement step in front of one of the buildings by our apartment in the shade and she was eating something. She was sort of squatting in the shade and eating and I felt so bad... so terrible, I wanted to befriend or say "Hi" to her, or at least buy her water. But I didn't, I kept walking, too absorbed with my own life and problems. I mostly felt bad before she reminded me of my Grandma in Vietnam, who passed away 4 or so years ago. Well the moral of the story is this, if next time you see an old Asian woman sitting on the ground and eating, ask her if she needs some water. I think I'll follow my own advice.

Stalker

2008-08-22T16:37:00.000-05:00

So the other day, maybe it was yesterday, I can't be sure; all of the days are blending into themselves, I wrote this, which was intended to be a poem, but it's not...

She tells me that she’s become a stalker. “Yeah, it’s official,” she says, “I paid five dollars for her mother’s address.” Now, in normal circumstances I would be terrified that someone had paid money to find out where someone lives, I mean, God knows she might really go through with it and track down this woman who she’s been in love with for 5 or plus years and who have recently escape her boyfriend’s chambers. It’s confusing I know, all of these similar pronouns. Let me explain. My friend, let’s call her X has been in love with the woman, Y, who is in a relationship with a supposed horrible man, Z. Now X is not appropriately named because my friend X is really an introvert and not so much an eXtrovert. She prefers to be inside of her own mind instead of out and about. Can you get a feel for what I’m trying to say? Ok, so, X met Y the new-age way, via cyber space. They bonded through Astrology, literally, astrology dot com. The woman Y is a middle eastern beauty, according to my friend X. Y is everything that anyone could every want, what I’ll call the 2B’s, beauty and brain, in addition to the fact that Y is all for astrology and the somewhat mythological science of it all. Together they are perfect. But, within every tragedy there is the villain, aka the husband, Z. Z is an abusive, alcohol infused man. Z doesn’t really have love Y, Z womanizes Y, side note: keep in mind that I am getting all of this information second hand. Ok, so back to the beginning of this story, the reason X has supposedly become a stalker is because Y got pregnant and she doesn’t want to keep Z’s baby. One night Y told X all of this over the phone and from Y’s mother’s house. X is all frantic now because she doesn’t heard from Y in days and is worried that she might do something irrational. Now all of this seems like a typical soap opera, what’s the uniqueness of all this? Well, X has never met Y in person. They’ve exchanged emails, phone calls and text messages, but never face to face. This is the new millennia’s drama. The point of all of this is that it is amazing what strong reactions humans can have to each other without ever knowing each other personally. We as humans are attracted to a drama where we strive to be the hero. I’m writing all of this just to say that I hope X hasn’t done anything crazy because I don’t have enough money to bale her out of jail.