FightingPilgrim

Junior High was invented by the Devil. When I die, and should I be unpious enough to be cast into the Maw, my personal Hell will be El Rancho Middle School. We only had two grades, 7th and 8th, at the school. The reasoning for this is not unlike why the authorities sequester the most violent, flesh-devouring murderers to special wards in prison: seventh and eighth graders are pure evil. Combine their lack of morals with their burgeoning sexuality and bathe that an abject sense of insecurity, and you have a recipe for cruelty that would make Vlad the Impaler blush.

I hated Jr. High. As per above, I was just starting to identify myself as a person and as such was going through a very very bad hair year. Everyone back in the day had the "step" haircut, a sort of genetic precursor to the now ubiquitous "fade" haircut. Anyway, I have wavy hair, and so my step haircut ended up becoming a sort of Asian 'fro. People used to call me "pizza hut head" because my head looked like the Pizza Hut logo from behind. That was strike one in the baseball game of Junior High Cruetly.

Vietnamese people like to eat weird things. One of which is an egg where the bird is already developed inside it. It sounds nasty but it is great. (I once saw it on "Fear Factor and the white people on there almost yacked. But honestly its very good if you, ya know, have an open mind). So this was a very strange dish and I, being Vietnamese, became the brunt of jokes concerning this culinary oddity, to the point that I had another nickname (I don't think anyone called me "Michael" in Junior High) which was "dead duck". Even to this day, just typing that word sends chills up my spine. You have to imagine yourself, walking through your work or your school, and everyone, EVERYONE calling you a horrible name, with no reprieve whatsoever. It really hurt me and I had no idea why it was so funny. I can honestly say that i hated everyone at my school, and I think this animosity is reflected still when I meet new people.

Thirdly, and this last issue was to follow me into high school and even college, was the idea that I was somehow not "Asian" enough. The "Asian" kids at my jr. high wore a distinctive uniform: vans canvas shoes, Gap khakis that were staple-hemmed at the bottom, and polo shirts. It doesn't sound very intimidating, but I learned to loathe that outfit even as I sought to imitate it. But for reasons that still elude my understanding, the Asian kids at my school hated me. In high school I would become the target to their hive-minded bullying, and in junior high suffice it to say I stayed as far from them as possible. I now have an absolute hatred of bullies. I still see the "Asian" kids at the high schools, smoking cigarettes and otherwise trying to compensate for their lack of masculinity, and sometimes I want to jump out of the car and beat the hell out of them. Because I know that somewhere, some kid is having his life turned upside down because his pants aren't the right look, or his hair is funny, or because his family likes to eat certain foods; and nobody is looking out for him.

Sorry about that, hope somebody knows what i'm talking about.

It's been 2 some years since i graduated, a time that has been at times both fast and slow in passing. When you graduate things start to change in you, almost like a sort of second puberty. only this time, instead of growing facial hair and learning to find your where your dad hides his stash of porn, you start to think of the future. For some people, that means a strange genetic trait begins to be expressed: The Viet Conservative Gene.

Don't ask me why Vietnamese people are conservative. i have alot of ideas on why, but sometimes you can just attribute it to the Gene. It occurs equally in both men and women, and begins to afflict us after graduation. The carrier comes home, where s/he comes into contact with things that s/he may have forgotten, namely the Fox News Channel and religion.

Living at home, the carrier begins to express the Gene and behave rather strangely. The Gene affects the carrier's appearance, namely hairstyle and grooming. The Gene also affects mental capacity; it is not uncommon for carriers to suddenly, compulsively talk about "mutual funds" and "real estate" as if these were interesting points of conversation. The Gene can cause the carrier to be deeply, sanctimoniously religious. Newhope Church has a large quantity of VCG carriers.

There is no treatment for this condition. Should you suspect that you or someone you love may be succumbing to this terrible disease, the best course of action is to go out, get that person a job in marketing, and perhaps buy a luxury car.

I love the olympics. For two weeks all the usual crap that is on NBC is pushed rightly to the back as we watch sports which Norway is really good at. But dont get it wrong, winter sports is but a nooner, a way to tide us over until we get to the orgy known as the Summer Olympics. As such, there are some rather...questionable...sports which have made it onto the roster:

Skeleton:
similar to the luge, but where the racer goes HEAD FIRST down the course. The helmet is worn purely for decorative reasons. Skeleton exemplifies the Winter Olympic’s motto of “Ex mortis un omindus qualo” or “the Winter Sports can kill your ass”.

Biathalon:
To tell you the truth I actually like biathalon a lot. How can you not like a sport where you can carry a gun? The biathalon, in fact, evolved from a “sport” called “military patrol.” So imagine a bunch of large Nordic men patrolling around with rifles. Yea, it scares me too. 2010 will see the introduction of “Assault Biathalon” where the athletes will still be equipped with the standard rifle but have the option of duel wielding with the plasma pistol or Needler.

Curling:
Any sport where you can play in business casual is suspect in my opinion. That means you too, polo.

But as weaksauce as those and other winter sports are, they’re still better than that ultimate farce of a game: vollyeball.

Some of you might not remember this...

You know what i hated? Those skirts/shorts things that were like a skirt in the front but shorts in the back. I hated those things. Who thought of that? An asshole, thats who. It was such a tease, like "oh hey I'm going to wear this sexy skirt...psych! I'm also a dude." Its the fashion equivalent of a mullet, what with bringing together two incompatible styles into one horribly schizophrenic one.

I hated that thing.

My house is an absolute mess. Those sons of bitches from Clean Sweep and the Style network would pure chlorine into their eyes if they ever saw my house. Remember that ending scene in Raiders of the Lost Ark where theres that warehouse full of boxes and shit? My house is like that, except much less organized.

But I suppose that is part of the truth behind "home sweet home". I've been to some of my friends houses, all clean and shit, with their "matching furniture" and "shit stain-free carpeting." To me, a house needs to have certain key, aesthetically-challanged elements to make it a true home.

I can't speak for other ethnicities, but Vietnamese homes are practically REQUIRED to have certain items in their home:

1) Catholic icons.
Nothing says "Vietnamese" like guady, gold-encrusted paintings and statues of Jesus and Mary. The iconography is usually ubiquitous: there will be a big painting of Mary in entryway and a Jesus bobblehead in the crapper. Note that the icons are found only in Catholic Vietnamese families, sense Buddhists are very lazy and just have those sweet prayer beads used for strangling failed henchmen.

2) Clocks in the shape of Vietnam.
The Vietnamese diaspora lost their homeland in a brutal struggle lasting decades and costing millions of lives. So how do you hold onto the memories of a faraway promised land? Why, just carve out a cheap wooden clock shaped like the crappy country! Vietnam runs on two AA batteries, btw.

3) Excercise equipment turned clothing rack.
This is probably not unique to Vietnamese, but so consistent in my peoples' homes it must be mentioned. The above mentioned equipment could be anything: weights, abdominizers, that weird belt thing that jiggles your waist. For bonus points, the house has that mother-of-all-equipments: the treadmill. The treadmill in my house has been used for everything from a clothing rack, to a bookshelf, to a desert landscape for when G.I. Joe fought The Ninja Turtles.

4) Cars that the family can't afford.
While not technically something found in the home, the car usually goes with the home. Only Vietnamese people would buy a 2 bedroom shanty in the middle of gang-infested Stanton, and then splurge on three 50,000 dollar BMWs. Nothing says "properous" to a Vietnamese person like driving your white Mercedes E-class carefully into the garage that doubles as your uncle's family's residence.


happy new year bitches!

So this year I decided to be nice and send out Christmas cards to people.

WOE BE UNTO ME FOR DARING SUCH A GESTURE.

My first step was getting the actual cards. This was simple enough; I just had to find a place that sold deep, personal, highly spiritual tokens, but in packs of 8 gross. I went to Costco. I swooped up like 50 cards, each had what looked like a pipe cleaner bent into a different Xmas symbol. Since I was at Costco, I wanted to buy potstickers also but its hard to write “Happy Chanukah” on them.

The next step was getting people addresses, as in their snail mail address. That was a bitch. In this world, it is easy to get someone’s email address. Sometimes people give you their email address when you don’t even want it. I’ll be sitting at like a Starbucks and some son of a bitch will just be like “hey whats your name? how you doing? Have my email address.” Cellular phone numbers are also really easy to obtain, so easy its starting to get scary. Damn you, facebook.

But when you ask someone for his snail mail address, he suddenly gets REALLY suspicious. “Whachu you want my address for nigga? You gonna kill me? What you gonna send me sucka? Have my email address instead.” They literally will have no idea why I would ask for their address, as if the only terrorists ask such questions. Other times I’ll ask people for their address and that will cause them to have a mild stroke. They’ll respond, “What address?” I say, “The one you get mail at,” and then they come back with the snappy, “You mean my home address?” As if they don’t actually have a physical address but merely occupy a coordinate in the time/space continuum somewhere between Narnia and Gmail.

Merry christmas, suckas!

A lot of magazines like Elle and Cosmo and Hustler claim to know the secrets to pleasing a man. Most of the usually involve weird things like feathers or dressing up in elaborate outfits or writing him dirty notes. Those are not ways to please your man. Feathers are weird. If you got one we’d ask, “My God where did she get that feather?” Think about it, where WOULD you get a feather in this day and age? You’d have to kill a bird. And killing birds is usually not sexy. And when was the last time a guy was impressed with any fancy outfit? And for that dirty note thing: men are illiterate. I only manage to write this journal thanks to my English-speaking monkey, Henre.

So how do you please your man? Its easy! The scenario, which I call “Man’s Ultimate Day” should go something like this:

Your man comes home or over from whatever day he’s had. You say hello, ask him how his day went, etc. He probably will just say “it was alright.” Immediately bring him whatever snack/beer item he likes, without him asking. Turn on the TV and turn to ESPN (if possible, try to have a plasma screen TV). Have videogames ready for him.

After he’s played/watched for a few hours, take him to the bedroom and start with the oral sex. If he likes it, you can start off with some necking, but usually this will last about 15 seconds or so. You don’t have to do anything sexy, just the usual blowjob thing. But do play with his balls, for gosh sake.

Then proceed to the sex stuff. I’m lazy so I like to be on the bottom, but whatever he wants to do is the key. It’s ok to get a lil freaky and talk dirty, but generally don’t worry about it. We men are very easy to please, so a “I’m a dirty girl” here and there will suffice.

So after the deed is done, let your man take a nap. Make sure he is comfy and just let him sleep. Under no circumstances do you talk to him or otherwise to keep him awake. Usually, he won’t sleep long, especially once he notices the sandwiches or cereal you have thoughtfully prepared for him. After he eats (again), let him play videogames for awhile again until bed time. Maybe give him another blow job.

Ultimately, we men are not unlike any kind of zoo animal. We like our food, we like to play around with whatever amuses us, and we like to hump. Like zoo animals, we’re sometimes not very talkative, but rest assured we would appreciate being treated, quite frankly, like an animal. If you do all this stuff for your man, it will seriously make his month. It would be akin to taking a girl out to, say, a day-long shopping excursion capped off by a Ben and Jerry’s-fueled evening of watching “Sex and the City.” I only warn you that if you do decide to do the Man’s Ultimate Day, don’t do it too often lest the zoo animal take you for granted. Good luck, ladies!

Back in the day life was simple. I’d come home, change into my sweats, do some homework, watch some Batman: The Animated Series, and eat dinner. Sometimes I didn’t like what my mom made, but generally, I was a pretty happy camper. For those of you who think Vietnamese food is mainly pho, trust me it ain’t. Pho takes like 4 years to make, and requires beef from the Cow of Cows, found only in the hinterlands of darkest China or Vons, so its not really practical for everyday food. Mainly we eat rice, and sometimes we have some sautéed rice to go with it. Not fancy but whatevs.

This was the routine for years and years.

But when I went to college, my parents started getting lazy. They realized that with me gone, they didn’t have to put in as much effort making nice meals anymore. My parents are goddamn refugees, they’ll eat a tire as long as it had fish sauce on it, and so it was no big deal for them to stop cooking in any vigorous sense. When I would come home for visits they’d cook for me but generally they didn’t have to the rest of the year.

This was fine when I was living off the foodstuffs of Berkeley, where you can’t swing your arms in a circle without hitting Hammad, the Gyro guy; Lo, the Chinese good guy; and Pharatmapimlilit, the Thai food guy. And also Juan Sanchez, who runs the Korean food place (go fig).

But now that I’ve been home for two years now, things are starting to get desperate. I’ve been noticing that my parents have increasingly been negligent, even sometimes disdainful, of having to prepare meals for me. It used to be I would hear “dinner time!” every evening, but now I’ve been noticing other, not so vague hints from my parents that perhaps I should be barking up another tree. Here’s a run down.

(what my mom might say to me on a certain day)
Monday: Alright Mike heres some rice and spinach.
Tuesday: Here’s some uncooked rice and luke warm water
Wednesday: Here’s a cup.
Thursday: Try this...get it your damn self
Friday: Heres a spear...it ain’t been sharpened
Saturday: AHHAHAHH, sucka
Sunday:

Last night I went to the Foxfire, which is a large grill/restaurant/bar near my house. On the outside it looks to be just another homey family restaurant. But since I can remember the place is famous, or rather infamous, for being the “divorce bar.” Every weekend the place is PACKED with rather more…mature…people. For a better sense, imagine that all your aunts and uncles decided to slap themselves into the tightest clothes they owned and go dancing. That’s the Foxfire.

The place had this kind of hometown/lodge feel. It was as if Marie Callendar had turned evil and opened up a nightclub. The place was dimmed, but looking at all the patrons, it could have been dimmer. There was no DJ, but rather there was a live band that played all sorts of covers. They played Blackstreet, Next, Justin Timberlake, Alicia Keyes, etc. Honestly, the music wasn’t half bad, except the songs went on FOREVER. I guess where as young people want to have their dance music constantly changing via a disc jockey, old people – being afraid of change – prefer to have songs last for 8 minutes at a time. I had a hard time really looking around because I was afraid I might see a relative or something. My 360-point-of-view was as follows:

12 o’clock: In the corner I see some bags of leather…wait, those are women.
2 o’clock: Oh, there’s my high school physics teacher
4 o’clock: guy in a wheelchair
8 o’clock: I see the band…most of them look like they play Dungeons and Dragons.
10 o’clock: Dad?

Other notable notes:
• There is no “circle dancing.” That is, there are no groups of people just dancing in a big circle. Everyone on the dance floor has a partner. I assume this comes from the medieval traditions that all the old people grew up with.

• On a few occasions they played slow songs. I have to admit that was actually pretty fun slow dancing. There are no slow songs in clubs anymore, probably because if DJs played them, the dance floor would be full of girls dancing with each other and a bunch of guys looking on forlornly.

Friendster vs. everything else (11/29/05)

In the beginning, there was the Computer. And the computer said, "Ye, let there be the Internet", and there was the Internet. And the computer took some lines of code and created HTML, and It saw that it was Good. And the Computer said, "Ye, let there be websites of all kinds", and websites sprang forth – .gov, .edu, .net, and .com. And in the beginning, the Computer formed Friendster, and It saw that it was good.

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It was only a matter of time before our alienation at the hands of technology, and our love of this technology collided into a maelstrom called Friendster. They even have a damn Friendster movie coming out. But with the success of Friendster, there were bound to other social-networking websites. This is a guide to them.

Friendster – The original. Vanilla. The standard, so to speak. Supposedly, this is an “Asian heavy” website, but you wouldn’t be able to tell from the welcoming page. Friendster has a search ability on it that allows you to look up certain topics, the most popular topic being “How to win back your ex”. Recently, Friendster decided to scare the shit out of all its members by introducing a feature called “See who has viewed you” – effectively ending the cyberstalking which was why anyone signed up for Friendster in the first place.

Myspace – The “barrio” of the internet. Here, you can find all sorts of crazy things. When you sign on you almost half expect to hear that song that plays in the background of the Cantina scene in Star Wars. Even though Friendster has no prerequisites for joining, myspace for some reason seems to attract the seedier of internet dwellers. Porn stars? Go look them up on myspace. High schoolers who think they’re pornstars? On myspace. Hip hop thug types who somehow can log onto myspace despite obviously being incarcerated? Myspace. When viewing myspace, be sure that your speakers are turned OFF lest you be berated by mp3s of Fallout Boy or Celine Dion or 50 Cent.

Facebook – If myspace is the Junior College of social-networking websites, then surely Facebook is the preppy Ivy League counterpart. The interface is simple and modest. There aren’t any garrish pictures of “Cool people you should meet” pasted in every corner. However, the website tends to promote an “us vs. them vs. ugh State Kids” attitude by organizing everyone by their alma mater. Facebook is also chock full of naïve ass freshmen who were born in like 1998, so be warned as they may ask you if you’ve ever had Frechet for Ochem.

Orkut – Google’s social-networking website. It’s inexplicably filled with Brazilians. The combination of computer nerds an Brazilians guarantees that first your computer will get a virus, then your genitals.

Asian Avenue – This bad boy was around since people signed on using twenty eight-eights and Compuserve. Back in the day, it was just another way for Asian kids to disseminate the sticky pics and glamour shots they took. Everyone had names like AzNcuTIeTHugGanGsAHo24398. I had the displeasure of going there and now its sort of like Friendster and Monster.com smushed together except all the pics of white people are now of Asian people in business casual.

The other night I went to this Irvine party. Now, I’m not going to talk trash on my ant-eating brethren, but should that party last night be considered typical of an Irvine party, then there major differences between Berkeley shindigs and Irvine hootenannies.

First, it would appear that it is a sin to dance at an Irvine party. UCI may be home to the revered CADC and Kaba Modern, but it seems these two dance troupes are skilled because they are allowed to pour the entirety of their dance aggressions into their routines, and not into any house party.

Second, Irvine parties are scattered. On a Friday night in Berkeley, if you want to party you just grab your beanie and walk in a square around the campus. Or you can make what I call the “drunken X” which basically means walking down Dwight Avenue, turning on a random street like Hillegass, walk along Telegraph, then back up like Channing towards Frat Row. If it’s a Saturday and you can’t find a party then check to see if you’re a mutant because there’s a good chance the world has ended. I would check for scaly skin and the presence/absence/overabundance of certain sensory organs.

But Irvine is like 370,000 square miles give or take, and so one cannot merely walk around to find a party. Doing so would require at least two weeks worth of water and food and a trusty Tibetan. The parties are scattered throughout the town in small hamlets and apartment complexes. To put it in SAT terms, Imagine that Irvine is a circle with a square inscribed inside it, and that the square has an area of 36. If a random point were to be picked inside the circle, what is the probability that it will NOT be in the square? That answer is the odds you can find an Irvine party by just wandering around. (Answer is below, btw).

Another thing about Irvine parties is the lack of – how can I say this – unsavory characters that can derive from being in an urban area. When you’re in Berkeley, and you have a jumpin’ spot, it is only a matter of time before C-Dog and his posse from Oakland or Jeremy and his Berkeley High friends roll up in force. Dare I say that it was almost boring not having some ghetto Oaklandites invading the kitchen for whatever free booze they can muster.




***the answer is (18pi-36)/18pi

Recently my part time job at Princeton Review has become even more partial, and I have been reduced to working only a few hours a week. As a result, I’ve now caught up on most of my MTVing. Watching MTV is like looking into the sun: you want to do it because it makes your eyes tingle in a fun kind of way, but allow your gaze to fall too long and the back of yours eyes will implode. Nonetheless, I have been partaking in that Shakespearian effort “Laguna Beach: The Real OC.” Now I’m not really sure why they call it “The Real OC” but I feel I have an obligation to rectify the “reality” to which this show so boldly claims.

First, in many ways LB:THOC really IS real. I’ve had the luxury of driving to Laguna Beach a few times and it is SWANK. Its surreal. It always has nice weather there. When you walk around, you FEEL more beautiful. There’s this sort of haze like when you take those AZN pictures at those photo places, except this haze is everywhere and people are smiling. I go eat at this restaurant in that area sometimes and I SHIT YOU NOT people walk around in slow motion. A friggin benz will roll up, and like beautiful people will just pour out of it. Like a whole goddamn family of beautiful people, like some creepy episode of the twilight zone. The dad has on flip flops because in Laguna Beach it’s a city crime to wear closed toe shoes. The daughters have on these huge ass sunglasses and tops that should be hats but manage to not look too skanky. The mom will look even better than the daughters do. The sons are dark and handsome, and you know they’ve got the whole “play guitar on the beach, man im so deep” act goin on so well that panties get wet anywhere within 50 meters of them. Just imagine that for a second.

Then imagine my nappy viet ass standing there, I almost feel like going up and asking if I can take their coat and pleaz, massuh, dun be wicked wit me, suh, I done do you none wrong.

Oh yea, and everyone goes to the beach all the time. I swear you have to have special permission NOT to go to the beach.

But there is something queer about the title of “Laguna Beach: The Real OC” because, quite frankly, its not OC. Let me just flip the switch and show you the REAL OC. Here are some scenarios of what I think would happen if the Laguna Beach kids piled into their SLKs and went to the REAL OC.

Place: Calle De Los Muertos. Santa Ana, CA.
The LB kids decide that they want to get some burritos. They go to Santa Ana where they suddenly realize, hey there are actually a lot of Mexicans in Orange county. Who fucking knew? They drive around for awhile looking for a burrito place but instead find a shady alley. One of them tries to score some heroine but when the dealers discover where they are, they threaten to jump the kids. One of the boys takes out his guitar to start singing but the whole thing quickly deteriorates into a gang shooting.

Place: Harbor Blvd. Anaheim, CA. 1 block away from Disneyland.
One of the LB brats wants to go to Disneyland. After a good time at the park they go across the street to the local seven eleven. But this is Anaheim, yall, so the parking lot is packed with about 17 Escalades, Hummers, Range Rovers, and GMC Denalis. The kids go inside to buy some Gatorade or some shit but some of the 125 minorities outside stop them and ask, “Where you from, foo?” The kids respond with, “From the LB.” The minorities are aghast, “You’re from Long Beach?” One of the thugs shoots one of the kids. The LB kids clarify by saying they’re from LAGUNA Beach. Then the rest of them get shot.

Place: Brookhurst and McFadden, Garden Grove, CA
The LB kids drive over to Garden Grove and suddenly start to realize that, Holy shit, all the signs aren’t in English anymore. They’re English letters but they have all these fucked up looking accent marks. They go over to Lee’s Sandwiches to order a sandwich but find it has pickled carrots and tendon in it. Panicking, they rush over to the mall, only it turns out to be the infamous Asian Garden Mall. All the stores have illegal dvds and badly made, license-violating merchandise like fake LV bags and Pokemon toys. All the women are wearing white, three-inch platform heels. There are like 500 jewelry stores. Then, some gang members come and shoot a bunch of the LB kids.

Its Laguna Beach alright, but Laguna Beach is but a tiny sliver on Orange County as a whole. A more appropriate title would be “Laguna Beach: The Real Laguna Beach”.

Types of businesses/establishments whose presence indicate a BAD neighborhood:

1) liquor stores
2) cash advance/check cashing stores
3) pawn shops
4) Catholic churches

Types of businesses/establishments whose presence indicate a GOOD neighborhood:

1) Trader Joe’s
2) yoga studios
3) Mormon temples

I realized I haven't written anything explicitly chauvinist in awhile and, not wanting to disappoint my half dozen readers, I've decided to tackle yet another heterosexual human mating habit topic i call:

PILGRIM'S DEFINITIVE GUIDE TO GENDER ROLE REVERSAL DATING SCENARIOS

The thesis is simple: gals, you should always ask out a guy if you are interested.

And now my requisite three supporting paragraphs. My supports are not generated proactively, but rather are simple reactions to erroneous assumptions women have about asking out men.

Myth #1: I will look desperate if I ask out a guy.
This is wholy and completely not true. Why? Because there is no such thing as a desperate girl for a guy. Ok, let me back off that and say there ARE desperate girls, but a girl asking out a guy does not signal desperation. Desperate is like a 45 year old virgin or the girl who threatens to cut herself if you don't call every hour on the hour. Ok yea, that is a liiiitle desperate, and also a little creepy. Desperate is NOT asking a guy to get some coffee or to see a movie. To conclude, coffee = not desperate, self mutilating virgin = desperate.

Myth #2: I want the guy to chase ME.
Let me ask you a question, ladies. Can men read minds? To reiterate: Does testertone and the possession of a penis signal that that person has extrasensory perceptive powers?!?! NO! We don't know what the flying fuck is going on in a girl's head. We don't know if you like us or are interested (and, btw, dropping hints like "oh but i was looking at him" is NOT, repeat NOT a hint). How do we know when or when not to ask a girl out? We don't. We're morons. C'mon its friggin' 2005! There are no flying cars but at least could women take a more equal role in the courtship process? Its like girls still want us to just club them over the head and drag them off to a cave or otherwise carry them away after sacking the town they lived in. Hello? Last time I looked I was not a barbarian.

Myth #3: He will lose interest in me.
This is somewhat related to the "desperate" myth but with difference enough to warrrant addressing. I'm really really not sure where this "lose interest" thing came about. Its almost as if there is a kind of fairy tale going around only among women that goes like "Should you ask out men, BEWARE! For he shall lose the interst in thee and also will leave some money under thy pillow if put a tooth under it." This is totally not true. Let me put it in a parable. A lion is out hunting when he suddenly spots a herd of gazelles. He goes into sneak mode and prepares to pounce on the nearest gazelle. He's about to strike when low and behold he sees a huge steak just lying out in the open. The lion then jumps the steak and all is well. The lesson here is simple. WE men are the desperate ones. A girl comes up to US, asks US out, wants to hang out with US, we're going to say heck yea! We ain't no fools. We're not going to chase some damn gazelle over a damn mountain when the bacon/steak is offered right to us. The chase is overrated. Eating is what matters.

To summarize, Jane take Tarzan by the hand, show Tarzan what it mean to be loved.

This concludes the Guide's advice.

This is a little homage to the stylings of Mr. Michael Ian Black. check out www.mcsweeneys.net fo mo.


What a Goon Is Thinking
While He Waits for Blade to
Show Up to the Particular Hallway
He and His Fellow Goons
are Guarding So That They Can Jump Blade.

By Michael D. Nguyen

Ah, shit, man. Aw, SHIT, man. We are so totally fucked right now. Why am I here? What chance do me and my friends, armed as we are with these pistols, have against that fucking psycho? We’re dead. Oh Jesus is this what I signed up for? Blade is going to waste us as soon as he comes through that door.

We are so totally fucked right now.

This guy, Blade, he’s killed like a million of our dudes in the last 10 minutes. Some of those dudes I knew, may they rest in peace. They were some tough dudes, too. There was Mitch, the ex-Navy-Seal-turned-security-expert. I think Blade killed in half a second. Then there was the heavy machine gun turret crew, who Blade managed to mangle with that fuckin’ crazy sword he has. Blade even killed those two obligatory Asian assassin-types who are good with swords or sticks or whatever.

I know what we’re supposed to do. The boss said, “As soon as you see that Blade bastard, you start opening fire right from where you’re standing, don’t even bother taking cover or trying to flank him with your superior numbers. Just open up right in the open without any protection from his automatic weaponry. If you run out of bullets, which you shall since we gave each of you only one clip, then go ahead and engage him hand-to-hand even though he’s a trained expert in 4 different martial arts and all you guys have is about 3 weeks of training at the Learning Annex. Also, attack him one by one.” So that’s what we’re going to do as soon as he comes into our area. Shit if my calculations are correct, for him to get to our zone he’s had to waste like no fewer than 120 of our guys. Jesus.

Shit I hear him getting close.

Why did I sign up for this shit? I knew I should have stuck it through that LVN program down at Cal State Long Beach. But then Jenny got pregnant and I had to take what I could. I have to admit, the Half-Breeds have a pretty sweet dental and vision plan. And, yea, the perks are pretty nice. We get into any club in the city we want, with free drinks! The only thing is this stupid black uniform.

I wanted to go with like the blue jackets with the embroidered logo of our sinister organization. That logo was so sweet, it had this awesome glyph like the one I have tattooed on the back of my neck, and its surrounded by this awesome circle of fire. But the boss said the jackets made us look like queers so instead he gave us these black jackets – which HAVE NO LOGO OR ANYTHING – and told us to wear them instead. I think he’s just being cheap, I swear he got these at Costco.

Oh crap Tommy is crying. Suck it up, man, for God’s sake suck it up.

Fuck this, I got my own plan. When Blade shows up I’m gonna empty my gun right there. I better get set up with that right now so as not to waste time. I think I’m a decent shot, I mean shit he’ll be like 5 yards away from me. After that, I’ll just fall back to where the next group of guys is waiting. I’ll keep doing that until I can manage to sneak away. Fuck yea! This is the best plan ever. That little shit won’t get me.

Ok, here he comes, now all I got to do is aim and – oh shit that is a big nigger. Jesus, that body armor is crazy, this guy is no joke. What is that flashy thing he's just pulled out from his belt. Whatevs, all I gotta do is aim and get rea-glurrggghhh.

Today was the premiere of “So You Think You Can Dance,” yet another stroke of brilliance from the intellectual heavyweights at Fox. I had heard of the show’s upcoming debut for weeks beforehand and, as all who know my weakness for theatre and spectacle, I was becoming somewhat inclined to watch it.

But something was nibbling in the back of my mind; something that told me to avoid watching the show. I couldn’t place my finger on it. After awhile I voided the feeling all together and decided to check it out.

Mistake.

The show has the usual requisites: starry-eyed hopefuls, both talented and delusional; scathing judges (complete with British accent for some reason); and grueling audition sessions.

The show exhibited several auditions, some grand, some mundane, some painful. We follow Brian, the accountant-cum-breakdancer. We follow Isis, the surgery-enhanced belly dancer. Jen, the graceful jazz dancer. Kelley, the sweet blonde girl with a dream.

You might already see where this is headed.

As contestants are whittled down, we catch some glimpses of a few Asians in the background. Don’t worry they don’t get any real airtime and soon we’ll take care of them.

From what the show shows us – and granted this may be quite skewed – almost all the finalists seem to be worthy and talented.

But as we snip through the finalists, it is not talent or skill that arbitrates how well you do in this dance contest. Oh dear no, this is Fox. No, instead its your marketability. As you may have guessed, Kelley, the blonde – who happens to have a striking resemblance to that queen of sweet blondes, Britney Spears – makes it. The head judge said it best, "We're casting for a show, not just auditioning dancers." That statement speaks volumes. No Asians made it through. I suppose the undercurrent so far is "No Asians Need Apply."

I remember now why I don’t watch reality television. I remember that its not reality directly, although it is a mirror for that reality. It has no problems with paying lip service to diversity, but would hate for that diversity to get in the way of what really matters: ratings.

Think to all those reality tv shows: the Bachelor and Bachelorette, the Apprentice, even that other dance show, “The Wade Robson Project.” These shows don’t show reality per se, but they do show us the realities of perception. The Apprentice managed to find a totally incompetent African-American woman, an-all-looks-but-no-substance Black male, and a she-devil Asian lady. As if these people came in any other flavors, right? On the Bachelor/ette the minorities are eliminated before they can even get a buzz from the first glass of champagne.

Or even look at the “Real World,” who’s very title is so ironic a Greek chorus needs to be on call. We have the 5 white folks who the cameramen follow like mad, with the minorities providing interesting “flavor” or, even better, sexual territory to be conquered.

Those who produce these shows and even those who consume them are aware of diversity as it may exist in (at worst) movies and (at best) a brochure about diversity. Instead of true variation, we are instead treated to the same old paradigms, this time with a few stereotyped minorities along for “color.” We’ll let the colored on for awhile for fun but fear not the show will always have a nice white central character.

Back to “So You Think You Can Dance.” The show looked like it had real promise, and who knows it’s only the first episode; maybe later episodes will prove my racial theory incorrect. But it’s unlikely if for the sole reason that while we may now have diversity on television, it is merely a façade. Diversity is now something producers and the audience just checks off.

Of course I don’t want to take away from the actual talent and ability of the dancers. Whatever color, if you can dance then that is the great equalizer. I suppose that is what really hurts about this show. Its taken something as pure as movement, as dancing, and sullied it with the kind of bias that only a reality tv show can do. It should have been: dancing first, person second. Instead it’s, “dancing second, hair/eye/skin color first.”

More Reviews, this time of random capitalist websites:


Spicy Brown serves up fashion, food

If you’ve ever equated cute clothing with delectable eats (as I never have), well then Spicy Brown (www.spicybrown.com) is for you. A website combining pajama fashion with a sprinkling of cooking and eating recommendations, Spicy Brown is a ho-hum label high on the sugar and low on any actual spice. Most of the clothing is the usual t-shirt/tank top variety, printed with Nippon-inspired characters. Sushi Neko, for example, is a cat-cum-sandwich; the suggestion being that you could literally eat her up because she’s so darn cute. The website itself is simple and manages to play off a sort of sparkly-retro feel. And while the cooking and dining suggestions are an interesting touch, without more content, the whole thing is undercooked (God all my cooking references are so cool!). I suppose it only makes sense to bring together the consumer cultures of eating and shopping, and Spicy Brown is a nice place maybe for a bite of fashion or food, but it’s certainly no feast.

2 out of 4 Stripes


Gama-go (www.gama-go.com) takes us back to a simpler time: when radioactive monsters ruled and men in dark suits kept everyone in line (Thanks, Hoover). The art style seems to be inspired from those old Tweety cartoons where Tweety drinks that elixir that makes him huge and evil. Gama-go’s ubiquitous skull character, for example, is like Paul Frank’s trademark skull, except on a bad day and after one too many packs of Marlboro. The men’s jackets in particular are smooth and slick enough for a member of the Rat Pack. And, with a few exceptions, the accessories are classy and too cool to give a damn (I think the bird on the wallet is smoking!). The women’s designs are decidedly cuddlier but still derived from the classic 60s-era motifs. It’s really as if all our favorite cartoon buddies came back and decided to take us out for a night of hard drinking.

3 out of 4 Stripes

As per my continuing review theme, here is a review of the new Star Wars movie (spoiler free) to compliment my earlier review of the game:

STAR WARS MORE THAN A MIND TRICK

You got us, George.

Star Wars, as of late, had built up an empire around dazzling CGI, around neat little robots, space ships, and colossal battle scenes. The re-releases of the original three Star Wars movies featured tons of added effects, many of them floppy, awkward figures that stuck out from the original 70s and 80s stock.

Then Episode 1 came along, with its cute battle droids and pod raising and (damn my eyes) Jar Jar Binks. Episode 2 was pretty much more of the same. In other words, all this was kiddie stuff, more useful in selling cups at Taco Bell than advancing an epic. Star Wars heads were left thinking Lucas had abandoned them. It really seemed he had.

But now theres Episode 3. The movie starts off as usual with a flashy, kinetic space combat scene. But as the plot unfolds, we begin to get the feeling that something is different about this movie; more specifically, something very nasty is about to happen. Destiny is drawing everything and everyone into a tighter and tighter circle.

Things take a turn for the worse quickly. Not soon after Anakin pledges himself to the Dark Side, the Jedi are betrayed and systematically eliminated in a series of shots worthy of the Godfather. Whereas Anakin starts off as a loving puppy dog, he quickly descends into darkness. He turns upon his former brethren. In a shocking scene, he slays a group of young Jedi. Much later, Anakin force chokes his beloved in a fit of jealousy and rage. This isn’t kiddie stuff anymore. Like the Emperor throwing off his disguise of gentle statesman, so does Episode 3 shed its immature skin to reveal a much darker and adult heart.

Anakin’s conflicts this time are very real. It’s not just that it is Anakin’s destiny, or that Palpatine is brainwashing him. Anakin is doing what he thinks is right, and that alone makes his descent all the more hard to watch. It is painful because, in some way, Anakin is making choices some of us might. Rather than adhere to the nebulous philosophy of the Jedi, Anakin is ruled by his passions. In doing this, Lucas does something he hasn’t done in decades: he makes us care about the characters.

The story plays out like a huge Shakespearean tragedy, every lightsaber duel (and there are lots of them) a heart-wrenching soliloquy. We can’t help but get caught up in the grandeur of it all. The force of destiny weighs down upon the characters and the audience can’t help but watch in horror.

Now the cute battle droids and funky aliens, who we used to groan at, are welcome comedic relief to the dark nature of the plot.

Padme bemoans Anakin’s transformation: “I don’t even know you anymore!” She’s saying what we’re thinking. After the sugar of the last few movies, the fall of Anakin and the tone of the movie are all the more bitter.

If Lucas had planned all this out, then he is nothing short of a genius. It seems in retrospect that Episodes 1 and 2 were a huge set up. Every character now seems to fit together into a huge wheel. It’s as if Lucas wanted us to get have our guard down so he could wallop us with “Revenge of the Sith.” He didn’t lower our standards, he just set the contrast so sharp that when it was time to be dark, it would suck us all in.

Whatup my little ewoks.

I'm starting to look for random freelance writing/review jobs, and so I've decided to convert portions of this journal (my only true contact with the outside world) into a forum for my reviews. Eventually, I hope to start reviewing and critiquing clothing labels, particularly indie designers, because everyone deserves to have their dreams and creations shot down. In the meantime, let us enjoy this brief editorial warm-up: a few random review of some movies, games, and blogs I've come across. If anyone would like me to review something for them, then tell me and I'll be sure to drop a train on it.

ENJOY!

Star Wars: Revenge of the Sith: The Game: The Bad Game
Michael D. Nguyen

With his final “Star Wars” movie installment poised to either redeem or condemn his saga, George Lucas is surely biting his nails. Of course, let not the fate of a man’s entire life’s work impede the flurry of movie-appended merchandise. And so while the talkie “Revenge of the Sith” enjoys early positive feedback, the videogame spawned from it should be so fortunate. Players take on the role of either Anakin Skywalker or Obi-Wan Kenobi, depending on the mission, and are walked through the movie’s numerous battle scenes. A few of the levels are actually duels, where the protagonist goes mano a mano against another lightsaber-equipped opponent. Accomplishing missions leads to earned experience, which can then be cashed in for increased abilities. Unfortunately, the combat system, combined with the absence of meaningful skill upgrades, never allows the player the feeling that he or she has really gained any additional powers. At Level 1 the best thing to do is slap the “X” button. At Level 17 the same is true. And despite Anakin’s and Obi-Wan’s divergent paths, the two never differentiate in fighting style or ability (except that Ani gains the dark side trademark electric blast). The entire endeavor ends up being just a long trailer thinly-veiled as an action/adventure game. Might as well just wait and watch the movie, and save your thumbs some trouble.

I’m going insane.

Have you ever tried NOT moving at all? I mean just sitting perfectly still, except for the necessary breathing and blinking? If you try this at first everything will be fine. But soon you will begin to notice the beating of your heart. After awhile the beating will seem to increase until you notice that you can feel the very blood coursing in your veins. Soon it seems that you are aware of every muscle in your body, but not because you have reached any kind of Zen plateau; no, you realize that your muscles are screaming at you to engage them. Suddenly you are not able to move, the experiment that you’ve just attempted has now turned into a horrifying, invisible cage. You breathe but the oxygen never reaches your tissues. Frozen, the very weight of your clothes and the air around you are suffocating. Your body is trapped into a twisted shape, and although your neurons fire madly in your brain you cannot escape the clutches of inactivity.

Then you realize, it’s not a horrible mind experiment, its merely Orange County.

This place is so boring.