Cieo

BELIEVE

Fri, 29 Jun 2007 01:45:17 GMT

Walking around Baltimore, you'll see a lot of "BELIEVE" signs hanging about nonchalantly on trashcans, abandoned buildings, homeless people and so forth, ostensibly to promote the idea that if all the denizens of this city were to squeeze their eyes shut and wish really hard, all their problems will vanish. From what I hear, the previous campaign leaned toward advocating a more active response to all the violence/illiteracy/suckiness--for people to give a damn or get involved, or something. I guess when trying doesn't work, wishful thinking is the next best course of action.

Enough about this city, though, this city that I no longer despise. Honestly!

How about Cieo getting published for the first time? It tastes sweet. It makes all my pipetting sores feel like little love bites.

FUCK YEAH!

Tue, 13 Jun 2006 15:27:33 GMT

The Frat

Sat, 10 Jun 2006 05:54:09 GMT

My bed is a loft that one of the former brothers had built for himself. It's more than ten feet tall, and I'm an ass-in-the-air, let-the-limbs-fall-where-they-may sort of sleeper. The good news is, he's also built a rickety ladder to go with it. The only thing missing is my phenomenal lack of coordination that can only be described as God's singularly humorless joke at my expense. Throw that in, and we'll have the makings of the grandest party ever--complete with flailing limbs, pumping adrenaline, and fruity red punch pouring forth from the punchbowl that is my broken skull.

***
There is a sign above my door on the outside that reads, "Ladies." I always wondered about why on earth such a sign would be on a frat brother's door.

A party is going on downstairs tonight. Featherweight girls are getting drunk off of Bud Light. Featherweight girls are stumbling into my room, thinking that it's the ladies' room. I think we've solved our mystery. Sitting up here near the ceiling, I do feel rather like a spider lying in wait for the next disgusting morsel of mind-numbingly dippy prey.

***
On a somewhat unrelated note, I'd like to know why boys are so icky. I used to think that I was just indulging in stereotypes, but faced with indisputable evidence, I must reassess my position.

Culture

Thu, 27 Apr 2006 09:07:31 GMT

There was a time when I hated my culture. Welcome to the world of an American Born Korean.

At the forefront of what I saw then as a glorification of ineptitude was the giant clique that traveled en masse through all three major blocks of my education prior to college. There was never more than one Korean clique in any given school, because the very concept of existing apart from the mother ship (whence flowed all manners of alien nutrients, blue eyeshadow, blonde highlights and rules on how to act in unison) had yet to be discovered.

Once chosen for one of their own, they would swallow the poor lambs whole and the end result of soaking in their digestive juices was always eerily indistinguishable from the other processed entities. The same unnatural accent that was neither 'f.o.b.' nor 'valley girl' (Foblish), the same liking of the insidious mockery of music that is K-Pop, the same hobbies, hairdresser, eyebrow tweezer--They were the same all the way down to the way they tied their damn shoelaces (no, seriously).

It took a long time for me to recognize exactly why I had such a viscerally aggressive reaction against them aside from the fact of the Western ideal of individualism that had been ingrained in me. I hated them for their lack of Korean culture. I hated the entire country for its lack of Korean culture.

The West has had its fair share of intermingling, with both dominant and subordinate cultures having something in the way of exchange (besides VD). Yet what I saw then in Korea, what I still see today, is nothing other than an aversion to itself, seeking only to borrow from the West in an effort to displace its own assets.

Its greatest commodity at the moment? Its soap operas. The style of story telling might not be as twisted as its American counterparts, but my issue is with the content. Take away the Korean actors and the Korean characters off the street signs, and there is nothing left of Korea in those shows. All you would have instead, are dramas that emphasize two things: the greatness of the West, and the inferiority of Korea.

Oh, it's never as blatant as that, but watch just a little more closely. In all Korean dramas set in present time, there will always be one character who is the envy of all the other characters for most of the show's running time. Her shining moments? Without exception, the moments when she either answers her incoming calls in English, when she visits the States, when she has the ability to order her food in another language. Anything that allows her to be a little less purely Korean for a moment.

It's all over the place, this phenomenon. I know it, it's called westernization, globalization, a whole slew of things--and probably not even isolated to Korea. But this is a country that is a part of me, and it disgusts me just a little more to see it happening there and in all the people who came from there. It started in my parents' generation, and I'm happy that I won't see the result of it in mine. But I worry for everyone else who comes after that, who will think of Korea and see the face of Britney Spears.
___________________________
I really didn't intend for this to become a rant. Alas.

Shiva: The Destroyer, Lord of the Cosmic Dance

Mon, 24 Apr 2006 06:19:27 GMT

Arjuna had such love and devotion for his god Shiva, that he begged Shiva to be able to see the true form of his greatness. Just this once, Shiva agreed, and revealed himself to the faithful man. Yet the sheer magnitude of all that was Shiva overwhelmed the prince, nearly killing him as he attempted to comprehend that which so surpassed his limited human mind. In his mercy, Shiva returned to his previous form, and contained himself within the bronze statue that the prince had worshipped before.

***

I sometimes wonder what it is about science and evolution that is so objectionable to some among us to the point where all attempts at discussion degenerate into barely controlled screaming matches. Personally, I’ve never understood why the two sides of fundamental Christianity and Darwinism necessarily had to be mutually exclusive.

Science and Darwin’s theory of evolution has always been bound by that which is logical and not contradicted by empirical evidence. All that belongs within its realm must agree and those points of inconsistency are the points around which scientists must converge to recover the common thread of logic. It is a process that has never failed to impress me with the methodical purity of its aims. Logic in itself is beautiful. To suggest that this world might be based on anything outside of a logical sphere of being is to suggest a less ideal universe.

It is inconceivable to me that the Christian God, in all his perfection, would ever have thought to create a world in which science, logic, and consistency had no place. Is it therefore so impossible that given one’s devotion to God, one might believe that evolution and science are the divine tools through which He might work? Is the idea of those seven days so powerful?

Maybe it is. But a part of me also remembers Arjuna. It’s unnerving to contemplate a world that you cannot completely hold in your mind. In the past few centuries, we’ve progressed further and faster than any preceding civilizations. A person’s world used to consist of his village, then his city, then his country. Now, the concept of world encompasses the entire globe, with eyes cast upward towards the stars. Yet it is still possible to maintain one’s sense of reality and self—the steady stream of images and knowledge, the simulation of interconnectedness, and the expanding of culture areas allows it.

The very concept of evolution takes all that security away. It tells you that there was once a time when nothing, least of all you, existed, and the unrelenting threat of reverting back to nothing barges its way into your consciousness. And if nothing remains when you and all that you know are gone, then not even the idea of Heaven seems quite adequate to justify your current existence. In short, with or without the presence of God, the idea of evolution chips away at your personal significance in this vast plane and for lack of better words, you cannot wrap your mind around the concept, try though you might. It’s easier to ask Shiva to return to his bronze statue, easier to believe that the world simply became, and remained constant and limited.

Maybe I’m wrong and there actually is true incompatibility between the two, with science and religion at odds for the rest of our time. But I’d like to think that there is room for reconciliation, or at least peaceful coexistence and mutual respect. I’m something of an optimist at heart, you see.

Ramen

Tue, 18 Apr 2006 01:57:13 GMT

It was the unholiest of alliances, the breach of all that is pure and good--but it had to be made.

Higher education, sure. No one ever tells you about the darker half. No one ever. They show you glamorous brochures, sprawling libraries, an architect's wet dream sitting there in wait just for you. Through the glitter and sparkling pizazz of rare books and infinite founts of knowledge, they don't tell you about the price of it all hanging over your head, odious rainclouds of ruin that refuse to dissipate--skewered to you about a permanent axis. An axis of ee-ville.

You're broke; you've emptied your pockets, your bank accounts, even the false bottoms of your shoes in the name of that which you were promised. The Ivy League dream.

But you still exist, a delicate shred of humanity shining through the rubble of your pride. And so after much gnashing of teeth, rending of clothing, and whining of voice, you admit your need to subsist on something to continue the legalized highway robbery that is your education.

You eventually give into the deceptive temptations of Nong Shim or Ichiban-- rippling filaments of psudofood preserved many times over for your frugal palate. Alas, it ended as with all back alley transactions. My form curled, prostrate, with brief moments of thumb sucking to dull the pain within.

Ah, for the ability to self-induce vomiting.

Keep it secret

Thu, 13 Apr 2006 03:10:37 GMT

There's nothing shameful about journaling, I don't think.

But try making sounds that even vaguely resemble "el-jay" at a party. You may as well have announced to the room that you spend your nights snuggled in the comforting silicon embrace of your Jessica Simpson blow-up doll while making sweet synthetic love to "Light my Fire." AND that you happen to be wearing a purple buttplug. If you've ever admitted to doing any of those three things at a party, you'll remember those slimy stares that make you feel like you've just been French kissed by a dead sea bass--you'll remember for a long time.

So as you make your way though your journaling path towards El Jay superstardom, it's best that you learn this painful lesson as soon as possible. El Jay, outside the tender womb-like environment of officially sanctioned gatherings, is not a socially acceptable topic for discussion.

"But Sundance!," you protest, tears of unforeseen rejection welling up in your dewy eyes. "Surely you are being too harsh in your assessment of the virtual world and its place in normal regimented society, for it is certainly not a shame to engage in the joys offered by a bound paper journal and is it not--"

At this point, I deftly stem the torrential flood of your ever more agitated words by ~~singing you~~ making a voice post of me singing you something catchy by Carly Simon or The Kinks.

Then, after your weeping subsides, you will realize the truth--as I have. Internet journaling for the internet, our dirty little virtual secret.

Sleep, you coquettish tease.

Wed, 12 Apr 2006 10:41:48 GMT

What do you suppose Sleep looks like?

Luck looks like Rita Hayworth, hair all done up, dress all flowy, hips swaying with the jangle of all the money she swiped from the last straight flush that didn't make it. Then I think about Death who looks rather rakish with California surfer bleached hair tossed back in a halo around a perfect smile that no one can resist forever. Why else would everyone eventually fall for him?

Then I think of Sleep, and all I see is a large bed exuding a huge swirling cloud of intoxicating perfume. The smoky perfume dances around him like his personal harem and draws you in, even when you know you shouldn't be tempted. But how can you resist just one dance? So you let those wispy fingers mingle with your own and you waft closer and closer, until Dream drapes over you and tucks you in.

Wake me up, come morning.

Education

Mon, 03 Apr 2006 06:56:06 GMT

I sat alone on my bed with my laptop cradled on my knees, reading through the last of my friends page while cursing the fates that had earlier stolen every last scrap of creativity from my brain, which was, as always, far too willing to roll over and take it. Then I looked over to see a rather scruffy young girl perched ever so obnoxiously at the other end of my bed, filing her chipped blue nails, flicking her disinterested eyes ever so insolently at me.

My muse had never run away from me--she was just a sullen, angst-ridden delinquent. Realizing this, I died a little inside.
***

Dear BFF (Best Friend Forever),

Today, I met the dreamiest hunk-o'-man. Our eyes locked as we walked down Main Street, and I knew it was kismet. We drew closer and closer together as though a great magnetic Cupidian force were pulling through our eyeballs. Just before our noses collided, he cocked his head towards the nearby Barnes & Noble.

He led me to a secluded bookcase and pointed out all the books he loved to read. It just made me feel all hot and fluttery inside that he knew how to read at all.

He wanted to tell me about his thoughts on Dante. Of course, I put a stop to that immediatamente. Instead, I made him tell me about how he learned to read in the first place. He thought it was a bit odd, but the manic gleam of my dilated pupils convinced him to proceed. I nearly took him in a womanly fashion when he told me that he had mastered the skill by the age of six.

In that moment, I belonged to him. Or so I thought.

As we walked a meandering path through the bookstore, he insisted on discussing random and meaningless topics such as current and historical events in various world countries and a whole bunch of other disparate ideas that I'll file under the trash repository term of Science.

It was bad enough to find out that this heathenish traitor to the mother tongue spoke another language, but to then realize that he has the attention span of a drunken nematode? Too much, BFF. Too much. O BFF, how will I ever stand to be with a man who jumps readily from subject to subject, each time contributing something witty and intelligent to the so called conversation?

A real man knows how to be focused. He sticks to one idea, like the irresistibly sexy mechanics of reading, writing, and arithmetic, and he sticks to it persistently. Kind of like those really cute blood-sucking leeches. Now they have what I call stamina.

It's all a moot point anyway. I parted ways with him for good in front of Dickens when he added LYING to his growing list of vices, telling me he was a high school graduate. As if they let the likes of him out of the kindergarten playground anymore.

Singapore

Fri, 31 Mar 2006 09:19:33 GMT

I've always lamented my tragic lack of culinary skills. It's a fact that makes the end result of cooking for myself almost unbearably agonizing to ingest. In my time, I've managed to screw up the most basic of food preparations.

I've burned eggs, overcooked ramen noodles, and dear god, left the electric burner on after cooking a whole pot's worth of pasta. I think the only thing I haven't thus far managed to irreparably mangle is water. I can get that stuff to boil without any major problems.

But I'll bet it's not as good as an Iron Chef's boiled water. I just know it.

It's always bothered me, but I always comforted myself with the idea that no one else my age really knows how to cook either. Maybe things don't magically turn into charcoal inside all their pans like they do in mine, but at least they're not cooking restaurant quality food. Oh, this assumption isn't based on reality, by the way. As with most of my thoughts, this labyrinthine train of logic developed in the mostly abandoned shanties of my brain otherwise known as the Land of Fanciful Thinking.

Today, subsiding_leaf and I went to Club Singapore's annual dinner which featured mostly Singaporean dishes made by its members. As the tender morsels of chicken melted on my tongue, I wept quietly inside--not because I couldn't cook like this, not because everyone else apparently could, but because I didn't care. It was the sort of food that made me forget about everything else in the room.

It was just me, a skewer, and ecstasy.

LJ, we need to talk.

Wed, 29 Mar 2006 07:55:46 GMT

Now, LJ, I love you dearly. Livejournal, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Live. Jour. Nal.

My heart skips just a little when I see you every morning--when I tuck you in every night. This infatuation with you borders on that other unmentionable side of sanity if you want the pungent truth of it. So you must take my words to heart when I tell you what I'm about to tell you.

SOMETIMES YOU JUST ANNOY THE LIVING FUCK* OUT OF ME. And here's why:

You know, for being composed of people who claim to want to write, it is mind-bogglingly difficult to find any decent journals in you to read. I don't know why you have an option for "Random Search" available when all the journals you randomly give me have either been voided from your bowels, Russian, or written by some fluffy twelve year old emo child with all the cognitive capacity of a dung beetle's smallest ganglion. Why do they even want to keep journals in which they can't seem to write ANYTHING of consequence to save their lives?

And why you have to be such a reprehensible dramamonger is beyond me. Why can't you just sit back and count all the money you get from people who want you to put out, instead of making up things like FRIENDS lists? Why not READING list? This is why everyone gets into a feces-flinging frenzy every time they get kicked off of a list. No, now when I unfriend someone, I've rejected him as a person and made him realize that contrary to what his mother has taught him, he's not the most precious butterfly in all the world. And don't even get me started on the sad ones who "friend" you and then "unfriend" you 24 hours later when it becomes clear that you don't intend to read them in return. Note that this was back when my userinfo still made it pretty obvious that I am not loose with my affections.

That's right, LJ darling. Best you start learning how to sweet-talk me with pretty words and people who occasionally write interesting things. You think about that. I'll see you in the morning.

*It's not as vulgar as you might think. I imagine living fuck to be the primordial essence of being--that which animates us, that which inspires us, that which we all are born with and keep within our cores until it just GETS ANNOYED OUT INTO OBLIVION.

**This entry was not inspired by any particular person. It was spurred by almost two years of bottled frustration. Please to not be asking me if I was referring to YOU. I was not, I assure you.

Color me Mary-Sue

Mon, 27 Mar 2006 09:27:42 GMT

When I sit myself down to write, I first purge myself of all Mary-Sueesque tendencies that might be lurking in the shadowy corners of my questionable psyche. The last thing I want is for my character to be a ridiculously romanticized paragon of everything you could ever possibly want to do or attain. Mary-Sues cheapen your stories, making them parodies of your original intentions. But Mary-Sue lurks in every writer, and just because you exorcise yourself before each writing session doesn't mean that you've banished her to the far-flung reaches of the 9th dimension where she belongs. She's only temporarily subdued, waiting to shoot herself back into your soul to skewer what's left of your respectability for breakfast.

That's why I can enjoy books by Anne Rice.

Writers all around the world should parade this woman about town on a giant palanquin with only the slightest hint of envy and indignation gnawing away at their heart of hearts. This woman, you see, has accomplished what no other writer has done as successfully on such a grand scale--she has made a career out of writing purely about the Mary-Sue in her triply distilled essence. No self-respecting writer will ever admit it, but deep down they've all thought about their unwritten Mary-Sue under lime* lights, a vast multitude of rabid fans groveling at her feet in rapturous adoration. Write a famous Mary-Sue, and her fans are your fans by very definition. You yourself will live on through her immortality, stand on her pedestal erected by the literati. Don't try to play it like you've never wanted it.

You have. But as a self-respecting writer, you've never done it. And that's where Anne Rice buys your soul through a simple PayPal transaction. She writes all the word porn you've ever secretly dreamed of but didn't think you could bring yourself to writing.

Everyone who is anyone in Ricedom is beautiful. Ethereally beautiful. Alight with the magical glitter of a thousand supermodel faeries kind of beautiful. Then they become vampires and they become, get this, even more beautiful.

Everyone who is anyone in Ricedom is a fucking genius. But not in the completely unsexy way that Einstein or the creators of Livejournal were geniuses. This is intelligence from having spent their entire privileged aristocratic lives reading books that nobody reads but everyone quotes from. Then they become vampires and they become even more freakishly well-informed. And they can read minds. And they can learn anything else they want to learn in one night. And they can beat any Jedi Knight in a contest of mind control and vampires don't have to stoop to using any pansy-ass force to do it.

And finally, everyone who is anyone in Ricedom never has anything permanent happen to them, because physical rules don't apply to them. Not even rules applying to vampires in Ricedom ever apply to Rice vampires. If you get into a fight, you can kick everyone's ass because you're the strongest vampire to exist EVER. If you lose an eye while on safari through the outer reaches of Hell, you can just go back to fetch it. If you try to kill yourself, enough of you will remain alive so that you can recuperate and your fans won't jump out of their windows. If you decide that you love another vampire, they'll like you back because all vampires are promiscuous whores.

Everyone who is anyone in Ricedom IS Anne Rice.

I always picture Anne Rice sitting at a throne made of her own books, held together by the sticky residues of what used to be her writer's dignity. I never picture her as sad, though. Rather, I see her content, eyes hooded, gazing contemplatively into the crimson light of an evening horizon. See, she's saved the lot of us. She's Mary-Sue enough for everyone else combined.

*Edit-- I originally wrote "limey lights" in an attempt to be cute with the made up words and such. Apparently, Limey is an actual word, and used properly, should make any man of British origin thrash you soundly. Apologies. I'm just a dumb American.

Treasure hunting

Thu, 23 Mar 2006 06:21:23 GMT

I wanted Barbies when I was a little girl. I didn't see the cheap fabric, the plastic shoes that Barbie couldn't even stand on, the gaudy use of glitter, the fact that Barbie was closer anatomically to a typical wasp than a woman. I saw the seeds of my own homemade theater instead, my beautiful actors packaged in cardboard castles. As an only child, I saw friends within the plastic molded plastic in the way that my grandmother never could be. She never was the type to indulge in my fantasy plays.

I remember asking her to buy them for me every time we went to the Galleria--we went almost every other day. I own five Barbie dolls and one Ken doll; not one of them are from her.

I don't know why she never wanted to buy them for me--my childhood best friend, Crystal, had a whole laundry basket full of them. She had so many of them that she couldn't even tell her dolls apart. She even had the Dream House and the red convertible. I was always a little jealous, but I never wanted to play with her dolls--somehow, I found it degrading, like a dog whining about the dining room table begging for scraps.

She never bought me dolls, but she did, on rare occasion, buy me books. We had a medium sized B.K. Toystore in the Galleria. It was on the far end of the mall with nothing but that department store, Robinson's or May before it became Robinsons-May, but we always stopped by there.

B.K. had a booksale one day, although I don't remember them selling books before, or ever again, for that matter. They had several makeshift cardboard crates full of books, all thrown together in careless disarray, selling for cheap enough that grandmother bought me a few. I don't know what drew me to it, but I ended up picking The Secret of the Old Clock out of the hundreds of books there. I ended up being a Drew fanatic for a couple of years after, hunting down her stories in the public library, sitting in the Waldenbooks to read the rest--Nancy was my heroine. You know what? I still adore her.

I can resent my grandmother for a lot of reasons, but at least I know that she gave me this.

Don't tell me I've become that girl.

Sun, 19 Mar 2006 23:07:15 GMT

I love going to art museums. In a new city, aside from the shopping, the art scene is one of the first places I'll hit. I'm almost afraid to visit Paris, because I'll never want to leave the Louvre--I'll be dragged away from there, kicking, biting, and screaming. Americans really don't need another black mark on their record like that.

I love the quiet serenity, the underlying zeal for preservation, the entire atmosphere of timelessness. It's the sort of place that demands respect--the fullest of the viewer's attention.

Which is why my actions today were unforgivable. I ran through the second floor galleries of the Philadelphia Museum of Art in less than two hours. I was supposed to get to the museum earlier in the day so that I might complete the research for my South Asian Art paper and still have time to go look at Poussin. In my infernal laziness and general lethargy, I didn't arrive at the museum until almost 4pm, with just over an hour left until closing time.

Forgive me, muses, for I have sinned.

Remember that sham of a "music" group O-Town???

Tue, 14 Mar 2006 06:24:27 GMT

Yes, yes you do. They were created some years ago when straight girls and gay boys were--just as dumb as they are now, only with different channels through which to express themselves. Five guys put together by the same obese megalomaniac with an odd penchant for younger dancing male flesh and bad combovers who created the likes of the Backstreet Boys and 'N Sync. In the last hurrah in the age of the boy bands, they were the new "sweethearts" in town. O-Town, to be exact. Lacking talent, drive, and the ability to sing and dance together in unison, this group inexplicably found itself shuffled away from the limelight into total oblivion.

Or so you thought.

Imagine my delight when I flipped the TV on to see that Ashley has decided to star in his own reality show, THERE AND BACK (again) with neither a hobbit nor elf in sight.

It was in the middle of some random episode, and it was relieving to note that I'm not the only one who finds his attempt amusing, if undeniably sad. He's now married with a child (whom he abandons on a nightly basis to get good and trashed with his wife at random bars), and the show's purpose seems not to be an attempt to chronicle his triumphant return as much as a hedonistic romp through the pitifulness that is his life.

Am I evil to revel in the thinly veiled public mockery of a fallen boy-bander?

German girl

Sun, 19 Feb 2006 04:18:06 GMT

December 2003, I was going to fly home to relatively sunny California, and do nothing but stare at the television set for as long as humanly possible. Much eating was planned along with comparatively little movement. I was going on the red-eye, United Airlines--in a few hours, land, drive past Encounter, then home. I dragged my solid Samsonite and Targus laptop case to check in. My e-ticket cleared, and I hurried my way through security and on to gate D9--it was supposed to be boarding already, and I only had a brief moment to grumble about D9 being counterintuitively farther down than D10. But no one was boarding. A snippy little chat with one of the flight attendants revealed that my plane was still in Washington due to some mechanical failure.

I was going to miss my connecting flight. Screaming silently in my head as to why no one down at ticketing was informed of this matter, I made my way back to reschedule. It was back in line that I met with the true face of incompetence that is United Airlines. In a daze, I wondered why the line was not moving. I had been the second person in line for quite some time. Then I noticed that there were five people seeing to the needs of one passenger, which, you know, is the way any logical person would run things. Thirty minutes later, I had a ticket in my hand for the next morning, bright and early at 6am.

The girl in front of me didn't have it as easy--apparently, she had been dropped off by a friend who lived three hours away. She was on her way back to Germany, connecting from Houston. In the spirit of camaraderie, the other similarly screwed Penn students and I offered her a place in one of our dorm rooms*. The other girls seemed to want to party, however, so German girl asked if she could stay with me. Off we went into my humble abode, empty since Carolyn the roomie had already left for Arizona. On the cab ride over, I called my friend Mariyahl to come and keep us company, act as a sort of buffer, be the one to call the cops in case German girl ever decided to get stabby with it, the usual.

The three of us spent the next couple of hours together, playing on my computer, talking about Germany, eating out at Philly Diner (the only 24-hour eatery we could think of), drinking coffee, listening to my mp3 collection. Back then, I was going through the last of my pseudo-goth phase, and kept a lot of angry German music on my computer accordingly. After she heard a couple of them, I suppose she was very glad for Mariyahl's company in that it prevented her from being alone with me, psycho killer.

I haven't spoken to her since then, but I think I left her with a positive impression of Americans--mostly. Here's Sundance, always doing her part.

*Yes, we knew that the airline would have put her up in a hotel, and so did she. But hey, we'd all just been raped by the airline and wanted some company.

The Da Vinci Code: A spoiler-free review

Thu, 16 Feb 2006 22:38:27 GMT

This has been one of the least productive weeks in recent memory. Classes have been skipped, work has been largely overlooked, scheduled extracurricular activities have been blown off. At the moment, we are feeling sluggish and somewhat guilty for all the laziness.

Which brings us to one of the instruments of my non-productivity, The Da Vinci Code by one infamous Dan Brown. I finally joined the masses (I've been doing that a lot lately) and picked up the book from my neighborhood Barnes and Noble bookstore. It was a nationwide bestseller and practically everyone I knew has raved about it at some point.

I was not prepared for the suckage to follow.

Alright, back up, rewind. It wasn't that bad--but I still wish I'd waited for the paperback version to pop up in my neighborhood secondhand bookstore.

This book is a perfect example of a story that depends solely on plot as its driving force rather than the strength of its characters. After going through all 454 pages and 105 chapters (excluding epilogue), I felt like I had been mugged at gunpoint. I had to turn those pages, not because I wanted to, but because I had to, just so I could satisfy my curiosity about what was going to happen next. This should not be taken as a good thing. I believe that a good story offers both a compelling plot as well as endearing characters who make you care. In stark contrast, this book doesn't even offer that compelling of a plot. It was merely a sequence of semi-interesting events leading a meandering path through a twisted but transparent jungle of conspiracy towards the promise of one big-fat-secret-to-be-unveiled-at-the-last-possible-moment.

The individual scenes were not particularly memorable, and like Sherlock Holmes when he found out that the earth goes around the sun, I am trying my best to forget them as quickly as possible. The only thing I was left with at the end of each chapter was that Brown seemed to care too much about making this book screenplay-ready. More than several times throughout the book, he draws parallels from one insignificant event to the next (one character in England enters some building or other AT THE EXACT MOMENT that another character touches down on an airstrip in France) in what I'm sure Brown considers to be absolutely genius segues. Every time it happens, I keep picturing sitting at his little writers desk, index finger poking into his bottomless chin dimple, shoulders quivering in glee over his own cleverness--it's quite disturbing. Instances like these among dozens of others that I don't have the heart to bore you with, all tell me that he practically had the damned screenplay written before the book itself.

The characters are a hoot, though. Some writers have great skill at creating that person everyone knows without sliding down that slippery slope into the land of played out stereotypes. But Brown can't seem to get himself away from stock characters. The main character, Langdon--I personally find the thin layer of dust in my halogen lamp to be more exciting. In literature, some protagonists are macho men. They go out into the world, butt their heads into any obstacle standing in their way, and things happen. Other male protagonists are more subtle. They have gentler natures but have some quality about them to help deal with whatever crisis comes their way.

Langdon shrugs. I shit you not. Of all the times in the book that punches were thrown and guns were pulled, all I remember Langdon doing is The Shrug. It was made only more pathetic because Brown seemed to think it showed his dry wit--some glimpse at the cavalier rogue inside the otherwise fussy Harvard professor with the chiseled face, body sculpted and meticulously maintained by fifty fucking laps in the pool everyday, who was not conventionally good looking but had piercing eyes over which the female faculty went positively googly-eyed. Oh, I wish I were making this up. The man going after the Da Vinci Code should have more to offer than his tweed coat and good looks (which Brown won't admit to, but you know what he's thinking). He should have the personality to back it up--left to his own devices, Brown would have cast Keanu Reeves as Indiana Jones.

The girl--yes, the girl. That's what she is. The girl. She has purple hair, her eyes are green, she has legs, speaks French, is supposed to be a The Shit in her local codebreaker headquarters, but can't seem to figure anything out beyond the Fibonacci sequence that any 4th grader could tell you. Her name is Sophie, and no, you won't care about her.

The Albino. Yes, Brown has not forgotten the requisite albino that's a regular feature in every great Catholic conspiracy. He's got pigment issues, I get it. His eyes are red, oooh spookies and eeries. Now tell me why. I don't expect an answer because there isn't one. Brown abuses this character repeatedly, and has him running around in public with his naked albino backside flashing toddlers and the elderly alike. Fetish much? The bleeding, naked, self-flagellating radical ascetic albino monk man adds an ever so subtle dash of freakish fancy for which I can see the merit in the context of a movie but which I find unnecessary in the context of a book. I'd make fun of what happened to the albino in the end, but I promised a spoiler free review, and I'll have to stick to my word.

So. Plot: weak, uninspired, predictable, only interesting enough to keep you turning the page to see if he really went there. Characters: NO development, no personalities, extensively stereotyped, Mary Sue-ish, physical characteristics beaten into your skull so you'll know them on sight when the movie comes out.

What the hell did I like? At first I couldn't point to anything in particular, but subsiding_leaf pointed out to me that Brown does have talent for pacing. After some thought, I have to agree with her, although I personally found his chapter breaks to be excessive. It's because of his pacing that you feel like there's action even when there isn't. It's because of his pacing that you feel like you can bear to start the next chapter. And it's because of that pacing that makes you feel like something just might happen soon to redeem Brown as a storyteller and The Da Vinci Code as a book.

Lost season 1: A spoiler-free discussion

Tue, 14 Feb 2006 07:17:04 GMT

although it's probably a pointless endeavor. Last time I checked, I was the only breathing person in this old US of A who hasn't been keeping up with Lost, yet another J.J. Abrams creation. I just finished watching the eighth episode of the first season.

The way the story has expanded is wonderful. It all starts off after the plane crash, and everyone is a stranger to the audience. Their stories unfold over a series of flashbacks throughout the episodes. Some revelations are predictable, others come out of nowhere, but they all feel like real people, if severely stereotyped. Maybe that's why they're so familiar.

The reason I'll keep watching for the time being is because because of J.J.'s style of storytelling. It's just like in Alias. He hooks you with the suspense factor with the promise of some great unveiling in the episodes to come. The characters draw you in as well. They'll start off intriguing, unique, mysterious, endearing--any or all of the above. I expect his first season to be golden, because if there's one thing J.J. can do, it's a hell of an intro. After that, I'm not so sure. His trademark errors will start to break through, and while they may be a handful of people stranded on an island (if you call this a spoiler, I will thrash you), I'm not sure he can contain the story before it runs away with itself. I hope he's able to bring the show to a satisfying conclusion so that I'll be able to look back at it and remember it as a good show.

But already, the little things are bothering me.

In one scene, two doctors are talking. One mentions that a patient has passed away due to a severe myocardial infarction. That same doctor finds it necessary in the same line to explain to the other SURGEON that a myocardial infarction is a heart attack. Call me nitpicky, but that one really bothered me. It's just not good form, fellas.

The Korean guy bothers me as well, although I can't really blame anyone in the show for that. As someone who speaks Korean fluently, his accent is like a chainsaw ripping through my eardrums. I can, however, blame the show for their awful translations. They're inaccurate (and trust me, providing correct subtitles would not have changed anything in the show) to the point where I now completely ignore the subtitles. I really don't know what I should attribute this to, but artistic license isn't it.

And to end my nitpicking with the biggest nitpick of all: One of the characters dislocates his right shoulder. In the very same episode (note that each episode rarely spans a stretch of time greater than a day and a half), this man with the injured shoulder wants to beat on another character. Tell me, if your right shoulder was dislocated just hours before, from what side would you be throwing your hooks?

No, don't think I hate the show. I like it quite a lot, in fact. I wouldn't be sitting here writing about it if I didn't like it. I just have a few reservations, is all. I hope I'm wrong, and I hope that J.J. has some sort of game plan in his head.

What's this??

Tue, 14 Feb 2006 03:21:25 GMT

A rose? I adore it, thank you :-)

Alas, sent anonymously. Time to fess up. Please?

Surreal

Sun, 12 Feb 2006 23:40:15 GMT

Snow days are surreal.

Light from the streetlamps bounces right up off the snow into my windows and through the cheap, loose-weave curtains I have hanging. It's comes through maroon, and there's always a slight haze on the outer rim of my vision, even through closed eyes. It stays like that into the morning. It stays overcast but too bright at the same time, if that makes sense.

Everything covered, and everything about you changes. Walk slowly, look out for black ice, find a patch of untouched snow in which to make your mark--a handprint made with bare flesh. Snow days make you feel like you're someplace else, time frozen. The artificial quiet surrounds you, movement fettered and weighted down by white. Nostalgic thoughts creep in, and the day passes, lackadaisical. Or maybe I'm the only one?

At the end of a snow day, I wonder.

I wish I could be more grounded in reality, be more pragmatic, be more like other people. Times like these, I feel like I'm walking through life without knowing it, pretending that time doesn't exist--and I'm the only one.

In which I have the ultimate FANGIRL MOMENT. You have been warned.

Mon, 06 Feb 2006 02:41:19 GMT

I have been in lust with Stewart Townsend for five, going on six years now. During those six years, I have allowed neither his utter lack of acting ability nor his hideous choices in roles to distract me from that which makes him shine--his body. Ever since I saw him in Queen of the Damned, he's been my dark prince of blood, sex, gore, and badly-done-Transylvanian-accents-passed-off-as-his-natural-Irish-even-though-he-was-playing-a-French-vampire-at-the-time.

Not even the absurd experience of my blind date during which I first saw the movie could quench the initial lust that invaded my being. I didn't care that Lestat was supposed to be French, blond, and violet-eyed--the ultimate Gary Lou of Anne Ricedom. He was a vision of magnificence with his dark hair, painted-on black leather pants, and enough white body powder to take away any evidence of a tan, and that was just fine by me.

So knowing this, dear audience, dear friends who know me so well, WHY HAS NO ONE TOLD ME THAT STEWART TOWNSEND WAS IN AN EPISODE OF WILL AND GRACE? As if you didn't all know that I don't have a television set to tell me about all the important things going on in the world. Curse ALL OF YOU for letting me down. This beautiful footage of my half-naked-flour-covered-object-of-unbridled-lust might have been overlooked FOREVER had I not recently taken to watching Will and Grace for lack of a better show to download (not completely true--there are better shows, but no fast downloads).

Now if you'll excuse me, my episode is waiting for me.

PS: If I hear the word Superbowl one more time, I am going to put something alive and pulsing through a blender.

Alias: Part Deux, possibly spoilered.

Sun, 29 Jan 2006 03:52:43 GMT

You might recall my beef with the show Alias not too long ago. You know, where I ranted about the show and how it's falling apart and how I refuse to watch another episode so help me God. Those of you who have been reading me for a while will also know that I contradict myself every other day. Well here's another one for the books because I've returned to the Alias fold. Pretty much.

My original complaints still hold. For the first nine episodes of season 5, the main character, Syndey Bristow (Garner), is still VERY pregnant. The original characters are leaving right and left, and new replacement characters are flooding in. The show itself is playing to the lowest common denominator. An example:

The branch of the CIA where Sydney works has just received the chemical analysis report on some guy who has been cryogenically frozen. Agent Dixon, a member of the team, reads a portion of the report.

Agent Dixon: They found traces of---erm---Calk--calkineurin...
Marshall (the tech guy) interrupts: Nono, that's calcineurin, with a "ss" sound. It's a neural inhibitor (a VERY simplistic interpretation, but I'll let it slide), blahdy blah blah.

Apparently, creator J.J. Abrams and all his writers have trouble understanding that this team is made up of freaking GENIUSES. A retarded infant would know that CALCINEURIN WOULD BE PRONOUNCED WITH A SOFT C, AND WHY WAS THAT EVEN NECESSARY? HOW DOES AFFECT THE PLOT EXCEPT TO MAKE DIXON LOOK LIKE A MORON, WHICH HE CLEARLY IS NOT???

Right, so they are still playing to the lowest common denominator and are still using kicky little modifiers like "next-gen" to describe every new weapon they happen to trip over. Yes, all of this is incredibly annoying. But I can't really blame them. Not everyone will be paying rapt attention, after all, and they need to simplify after every huge monologue; I get it. And they're not the only show that works this way. Plenty of other shows, especially in the sci-fi genre, do this on a regular basis.

I swore never to watch the show again, I remember. But things got boring, I needed a show, and I've invested so much in this show anyway--I wanted to see it through, it being their last season and all.

You know, the new actors are not bad at all--in fact, they're downright lovable in their own ways. I really thought I'd hate the new girl, Rachel Gibson. I know that she's only there as a booty call replacement for Garner while she's pregnant and not sexy, and it's shameful that they've actually introduced her EXACTLY like they introduced Garner's character in season 1. I mean, why don't you just tattoo "Sydney Anne Bristow" on her forehead? It's just as subtle. But I still like her. She brings a sort of sweet innocence to temper all the other jaded characters. After all, you can't have Marshall playing that role ALL THE TIME.

The new guy isn't bad either. He serves as a double replacement for both Vaughn and Weiss. The show has lost a bit of its comic flair without Weiss, but it did gain a little more edge now that they have this new stoic agent on board. Vaughn (Vartan), while pretty to look at, was SUCH a pussy. I've always thought so, even while drooling over his body in that episode in season 2 (you know what I'm talking about. Yeah, you do.). Total pussy wrapped in man-muscles. The new guy, however, is more like Sydney's father (Garber)--strong, silent, loyal, and gets the job done. Having read my last entry, you'll get why this might appeal to me.

Their crowning glory, however, is the addition of the Rienne character (Bouchez), a French assassin who goes by the moniker Le Corbeau. She's everything you've ever dreamed of being- dark, dangerous, mysterious, emotionally baggaged, and anorexic. But seriously, I've seen her in other French productions, and I've always really liked her. Here, despite some butchered lines thanks to her thick accent, I think she pulls off the part well. Must be because of her eyes--they're all you can really see since her skin has pulled so far away from her face, again, thanks to the anorexia (okay, I don't know that she actually is, but I'd be very surprised otherwise).

They're using these new characters as the driving force of the show, with the help of a new shadow government type villainous organization to serve as a counterpoint. In the show's fifth season, I think it works reasonably well, and I'll admit now that I may have been too quick to judge before. I said before that I've returned to the fold--that's true, but only to a certain extent. I'm no longer full of unconditional praise of the show, and all my positive thoughts about the show now come with caveats. But it's not as bad as I made it seem, and it's still a whole hell of a lot better than most of the other shows that are on right now. So go watch. You'll like it.

Oh, Fuck. I'm gonna die alone.

Sun, 29 Jan 2006 01:27:49 GMT

The water is wide, I can't cross o'er
And neither have I wings to fly
Give me a boat that can carry two
And both shall row, my love and I
____________________________________
I don't think that most guys realize just how attractive confidence can be. Not arrogance, but real confidence. Girls know what I'm talking about, right? It's the kind of aura that develops from knowing that you're good at whatever it is you do, and that you don't have to prove it to fucking anybody. These guys don't brag, and they don't strut either--they just go about life in a smooth, methodical fashion, taking one obstacle at a time into control. They don't need to advertise themselves because their merits are a natural part of them. Do you brag about the color of your hair and eyes?

Lots of guys try to fake it. Figure if they flap their traps enough, people won't notice their knocking knees. Figure if they puff their chests out far enough, you'll look away and miss the insecurity trembling in their eyes. They don't seem to realize that it's all so transparent.

True confidence is so hard to find in people, regardless of gender (present company NOT excluded). Which is why I'm probably going to die alone. I won't settle on this note.

Count 'em

Sat, 28 Jan 2006 04:12:13 GMT

Really, count 'em. My Korean friends. Now, subsiding_leaf gets on my back about this issue all the time. See, I don't have a single Korean friend.
_________________
Back in my high school, there weren't many other East Asians--really, mostly Koreans. I never liked how they all had this inborn compulsion to band together. Clique doesn't even begin to capture what they were like. A hundred little Korean boys and girls, all lined up with the same haircuts, the same clothes, and the same cars. Listening to them talk was like sitting through a remake of Clueless starring Jerry Lewis as the new Cher Horowitz. I never could figure out how they came up with those accents in the first place. It's not like anything you'd hear around the L.A./Glendale area and it certainly wasn't the result of being new to the country, but they all had it (or learned to have it).

New kids straight from the old country would arrive on campus, and be quickly swallowed up by the K-cult. Within a month, you couldn't recognize them, let alone tell them apart from all the other members. Same straightened black hair with blonde highlights, same blue contacts (yeah, because you're really fooling me now), same accent, and dear Lord, those childish voices.

K-cult girls would all adopt the most sickeningly fawning attitudes around the K boys. Everyone was their fucking oppa and Oma GAH, haji-maaaaa. From the outside, they just looked like this huge incestuous family, and I didn't particularly feel the need to join in on the Ma and Pa fondling fun.

For two short weeks, I was a part of that group. I didn't fall in line with the hair, the hideous makeup, or anything that they used to announce their K-dom. I can't say that I didn't get along with them, although only one of them really seemed to accept me. I can't say it was all boring either. But in the end, our short time together was no different than those instances when I pick up an issue of a mainstream fashion magazine. It's a fun break from anything important in life, but faced with an eternity of nothing but, and you'd rather shoot yourself through the eye.

Individuals, I get along with just fine--those who haven't lost themselves to the greater organization, the outcasts. But I just can't seem to find anyone. Always clumped together in purely cult-like fashion. What's a Sundance to do? I mean, not that it matters, but it IS kind of strange to not have one single Korean friend, no?

Blind Date

Wed, 25 Jan 2006 05:39:17 GMT

When I saw the first Underworld, I thought it was the worst movie ever made. I quickly changed my mind after seeing Van Helsing, but that's a story for another day. I don't particularly like Kate Beckinsale, the vampires in Underworld were mere pussycats compared to any self-respecting vampire I can imagine, and Victor the "head vamp" was a pansy.

But I'm still planning on seeing the second Underworld movie. I just have to, simply because it is a movie featuring vampires. This obsession started in high school during my second viewing of Queen of the Damned, another third rate bloodsucker movie.

_______
"Would you ever go on a blind date?" asked Darlene. I could hear her crunching on something over the phone. I glanced at the clock. Late--should go to bed soon. Well, soon enough.
"No, I don't think that I would," I replied. "Why?"
"Oh, no reason. What if you went somewhere and the guy just happened to be there?" I should have heard the sneakiness dripping out of the earpiece, but I suppose I was too distracted from painting my nails.
"Depends. If he sees me, I'd probably grin and bear it just to be polite. If not, then I'd probably duck out the nearest exit." It was all just hypothetical, after all.
"So, you, me, and Lina, are we still on for this Saturday?"
"Sure. Front of the second Mann theaters, noon."

I was looking forward to a girls' day out. Movie, lunch, shopping, maybe a coffeehouse chat later. It didn't take much to entertain us. When I arrived at the Mann Exchange on Saturday, they were there waiting for me. Darlene and Lina got the notion to start putting makeup on me, both coming at me with an assortment of eyeliners, hair pins, and mascara. Believe it or not, this wasn't how we normally did things. As they stood back to admire their handiwork, I regarded them suspiciously. Eyebrows furrowed, I made my way over to the ticket counter, eager to start the normal part of the day. Darlene followed, but Lina stayed behind, waving us away and pointing to her phone.

Darlene and I found seats inside the relatively empty theater, and waited for Lina to come inside. The trailers were almost over, and still no sign of Lina. When Darlene left to find out what the holdup was, I followed. There, right outside the doors, were my two evil betraitors, looking extremely guilty.

At the entrance near the concession stand, stood Lina's then boyfriend Simon, followed by a gangly looking fellow in a dingy mud-green oversized t-shirt with a hole in it, and jeans that were about an inch too short. He stood there looking thoroughly uncomfortable, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, shoving his glasses higher on his nose with his middle finger.

I threw a murderous glance at my Judases, who cautiously averted their eyes in case looks could indeed kill. So the plot was revealed: they knew that I would never agree to a pre-arranged blind date, and thus decided to ambush me. They did not know of any boy that I didn't know already, and so recruited Simon to find a suitable date as he attended a different high school. Except that they neglected an intrinsic flaw in their cunning plan.

You do not, I repeat NOT ask a straight guy to pick out other guys for the purposes of dating. NOT EVER.

I tried to break away, but I knew that would be too rude. The scrawny bastard with the scraggly moustache never did anything to me, after all. As most of the red in my visual field dissipated, I reluctantly agreed to sit through the movie with them. By now, we were a good twenty minutes into the movie.

Lawrence and I were forced to sit together, and I seethed silently throughout the movie. I barely noticed Stewart Townsend's naked chest, so great was my boiling fury. I did, however, attempt to make some light conversation sporadically. And that was how I found out that Lawrence apparently never learned how to talk. Not to human beings, anyway. The movie, in all its lackluster glory finally ended, and I made my way out of the theater glowering at the back of Lina's head the whole way. We made our way to the food court, choosing to lunch at the ritziest dive there: the Panda Express.

It was here that I discovered that Lawrence's one shining attribute was that he was unspeakably boring--and that his powers were only enhanced by daylight. There he sat in all his mind-numbingly dull grandeur, not able to respond properly to a single conversation starter lobbed his way. Not even when Darlene's gay pedophile pornstar/part-time cross dressing friend arrive with all his bawdy humor did Lawrence have a single thing to say other than a flat yes or no. Meanwhile, Lina wisely chose to stay on her side of the table while randomly mouthing apologies at me.

Four hours later, the ordeal ended. Over the course of those four hours, we walked all through the mall with Lawrence walking subserviently behind me, never saying a voluntary word. At some point, I forgot his name and started calling him Leonard--it didn't matter though, since he never corrected me. Later, while browsing through Borders, I took a break by hiding out in the bathroom with the girls (who were still bloody Judases in my book, but anything was better than hanging out with Leonard who still wasn't talking). When I refused to come out, he finally took the hint and called his dad to come pick him up.
______________

I still didn't know what the hell happened in The Queen of the Damned thanks to The King of the Insipid, so I ended up going again just with Darlene later that week. The movie itself was still bad, but we didn't care about that. We only cared about the heavenly face and body that made up this second incarnation of the vampire Lestat de Lioncourt. Since then, yeah, it's been a sort of obsession. If it's got vamps, then I have to go see it. So off to see Underworld: Evolution it is.