Bar None

This morning, right after wishing a "friend" happy birthday, I read that she was "against the movement" (the protests in Hong Kong).

Wha? Against democracy, a just voting system, freedom of speech? Wha? Who is AGAINST those things?

Do. Not. Compute! I wanted to unpost my greeting.

There, I am yet again convinced not to get political on FB. FB is hardly the ideal effective venue anyhow. If I want to get on a soap box, I'll go on a forum.

A cousin posts on my wall a video of the police teargassing the peaceful crowd, the majority of which are students. A parallel is drawn to the Tiananmen Square incident in 1989. A petition has been created to prevent bloody history from repeating itself.

In response, I pasted a news link with the comment, "The world is listening." That's my way of saying: CNN has reported the story. So I don't have to.

Even before China took back H.K. in 1997, I knew this day would come. It was only a matter of time. I have no faith in government or humanity. Really any effort to resist is futile.

But, what the hey, I sign the petition. But I will not share the video. I draw the line.

I refuse to get behind chain-letter-natured ANYTHING. It is a matter of principle. What are we, in fifth grade?!?

The ice bucket challenge? Ignore. The [insert number]-day grateful challenge? Pass.

If I want to be charitable, I'll do it any old time. I don't need a publicity stunt or anyone to tell me which charity to focus on.

I've been long aware of ALS, thanks to Tuesdays with Morrie. While it is universally good that funds have been generated for research, the whole disease-flavor-du-jour thing leaves a bad taste in my mouth.

I am grateful everyday for variable things. Some days I am more grateful than others. Some days there are more things on that list. I don't need to share with the world to prove that I can be grateful. It should not be a challenge to find things to be grateful about.

Some things I am grateful about would come across as dark and sinister anyway. For instance, I am grateful I am childless. I am glad I am not bringing another life in this insufferable world.

Centuries of genocide still go on today - it can happen to any race, in any corner. Nobody is immune. Endless disputes, endless wars. Nations economically thriving have utter disregard for ethics, the environment, human lives. Heck, any life. Global warming will kill us, if power-craving maniacs don't do it first.

Instead of leaving the dire situation for future generations to figure out, how about, just, don't. The earth is overpopulated anyhow. I've done my part to curb the madness. You are welcome.

I've been called morbid, depressed and pessimistic. I call me lucid, practical and in touch with reality.

Funny or Die

Went to the Oddball Comedy Fest last night. It was very cool.

First time seeing Louis C.K. live for both RJ and myself. Worth the anticipation. Everything else was icing on the cake.

Even though the experience was once-in-a-lifetime and thoroughly enjoyable, I hafta say: I'm getting too old for this shit. Even though I'd had nothing to drink (or smoke, unless you count the ubiquitous secondhand marijuana puff) and I was in bed by 11:30 p.m., I rose this morning feeling mysteriously hungover and dead tired.

I will also say I was ambivalent about the lineup. There was WAY too much pandering to the twentysomethings and the techies in the audience. And then there were the "old people" jokes (old people can't be hip; old people can't possibly understand technology!) I saw enough silver foxes around to identify with and feel jaded alongside. Ageism is becoming a harsh reality that I have grown increasingly and painfully aware of.

To be expected, front row seats got all the intimate attention and spotlight (not like I desire spotlight). The peeps on the lawn (who paid $45 and up a head for admission, or $15, if they snatched a Groupon) got some love too. After all, they were the underdogs who braved the (lovely) weather to be there, rental foldable chairs in tote and all, likened to the free spirits who might be spotted at, say, a open-to-all concert at the Golden Gate Park.

The folks in the middle, like us, got no honorable mention. Another classic example of how, in America, you'd better be filthy rich or flat broke. The middle class always gets screwed.

Which brings me to the point of why Louis C.K. is the best comedian of them all (given the group, not universally). A great comedian does not alienate. Instead, s/he remains relatable regardless of the story being told. In commiseration, the audience bond with the artist, cross-culture, cross-gender, cross-age-gaps.

It is an art not mastered by many. It would be easy to chalk it up to the fact that, yes, Louis C.K. happens to be close to my age; so he must be less likely to rub me the wrong way. Indubitably, life experience helps render a person more interesting, multifaceted, etc. But ultimately, it is what the person does with his/her history and how s/he shares his/her past with the world.

I have read that it took Louis C.K. years to realize the "secret" to comedic success, to arrive at what is known as his signature style today: simply, honesty. Sure, vulnerability is the first step. But it takes a superb mind to strike the right balance, so that in the most common traits and nuances others may take for granted, unpleasant elements notwithstanding, we are able to laugh at the absurdity of life and recognize how we are very alike. People are not as different as we sometimes make ourselves to be. Deep down, fear, disappointment, pain, what makes life life... as Joan Rivers said, life is tough. At least we can laugh at the same things.

Span

I was this close to messaging my first boyfriend today.

Pierce* was my high school sweetheart. We weren't the kind of "all-American" image you might conjure up, though. His heritage was of Africa and the West Indies. I was an immigrant from East Asia.

He was tall and slender. We were in the same AP Calculus class. He wanted to study astrodynamics. I wanted a boyfriend.

I really, really wanted a boyfriend. I technically tricked him into dating me. It was nothing short of intoxicating once I got him hooked.

It was intense and confusing and tumultuous all at once, as relationships at that age often are. He was extremely kind to me - the kindness was one of the most addictive elements.

All the while there was something that left me volatile, like I wasn't all that into him, but here I was, playing this part, and so I had to go on.

Until the curtains drew. The summer after we'd graduated, and inevitable we wound up oceans apart, for the first time, I fell in love - with someone else. While he was still writing love letters to me, mailing them all the way from the U.S. to Asia, where I was visiting my parents.

The guilt was tremendous. I did the only sensible thing I knew. I ran.

I wrote a curt note stating that I no longer wished to be bound to him or hear from him. And hoped that'd be the end of it.

"If you love me," I wrote. "You'll leave me alone."

Devastated, he continued writing for months (this was the era of snail mail), demanding to know why. I refused to disclose any details in my change of heart. After all, what kind of monster drops someone like a hot potato in this manner? Only a heartless bitch. In my inability to face myself, I couldn't face him.

The worst part was doubting if I had ever loved the guy, already knowing the answer. Kind of.

Took me years to realize I didn't know love then. I wouldn't for years.

It was the fall of my freshman year when I'd gotten another letter from my ex-liaison. He'd written an essay in English class, he said. He'd received positive feedback, he said.

The topic was "Someone Who Has Changed My Life". He'd forwarded a copy with the letter.

That someone was me. And that was the last I'd heard from him.

He said he'd cease contacting me out of respect for my wishes. He was that decent. And I felt like shit.

Years went by and I'd have more relationships, including my longest one, the one that ended in failed marriage, where I would question in retrospect, after all the dust had settled, "Did I ever love the guy?"

Thanks to social media, twenty some years since freshman year, it came to my attention that Pierce was in my circle of "friends".

At first I panicked. What if he says hello?

He didn't. Took me months before I even took a peek.

His hair was thinning a bit up top, just ever so slightly noticeably grey in the sideburns. But his face was essentially the same. The same exact kindness that radiates.

"I can't look," I told RJ, citing the possibility of photos of offsprings. "Why would that matter?" I wondered out loud.

Part of it was absolution, of course. If he was leading a good life, having left him wasn't so bad after all. "Look how great he's turned out!" I'd point and exclaim. How pompous of me, to presume I could've ruined a man.

And Pierce is not only one of the exes I feel this way about, in the category of "whom I've wronged". Of course, the guilt factor with Pierce trumps any other, as he'd never done anything to hurt me. He was never anything but kind.

The lingering guilt epps and flows. I debate if this is something I'd want to take to my grave. But I don't have a twelve-step program to use as an excuse to make amends.

More months went by before I clicked on Pierce again. I was eager to catch a glimpse of his life, reassurance that he was okay.

I see that he is slim as ever. In that regard, the years have been kind to him. No mention of a wife or kids. I see that he did get his wish of attending a university of science. I remember secretly deeming his ambitions foolish as I constantly caught his errors in calculus. I never once said a word. I was always on my best behavior with him. And it was exhausting.

Except for that one time when he thought Native Americans - "Indians", as we called them in the old days, were the same people as those who lived in India (ahem, that'll be West Asians to you these days). I raised hell then.

It was never going to work.

The impulse to jot him a note visits. What would I say? "Hey, just wanna say hi..." "Hi there. Hope you are well." "Hello. Hope life has been treating you well." All lame.

And what would I be trying to achieve anyway? Justification for my inconsiderate behavior all those years ago? If it is gratification I am seeking, the action to reconnect would be utterly selfish, probably only exacerbating the initial offense. Downright unethical. (And really I do not wish to "reconnect".)

And how prosaic and archaic would it be to hop from "no mention of a wife or kids" to "a lonely life"? (Granted, he did not have a lot of photos posted or tagged.)

He lives in Florida now, apparently. With JD, that makes two. I'd make up a country song along the lines of "All my exes live in Florida", but the humor is lacking. And I just don't have that many exes.

Guess I'll just have to let sleeping... exes... lie.


*Not his real name

Glitter

I came across a bunch of tiaras strolling past a window today. They were dainty, lovely designs. Some would make gag gifts, "happy birthday to me" kind of thing. But I stopped in my tracks. How I admired the sight! So pretty, so sparkly! They made my heart sing.

Just when one thinks one has put all that princess bullshit behind her, one gets tiara fever. I became obsessed. I spent much of the rest of the day looking online for the perfect tiara. What occasion would even arise for me to put one to use? Beside the point. I knew what I was looking for though. The lines had to be clean, not too adorned. Not fake pearls, please. Must be attached to a comb cuz I have fine hair. Must not encompass half the circumference of my head. I said dainty, didn't I?

Almost 12 hours later (I did other things, too. I'm not THAT pathetic), I couldn't believe nothing looked right. My trusted Amazon didn't come through. Not eBay. Not a dozen other sites at bargain prices. Not those targeting brides, flower girls, or communion candidates.

Then it dawned on me. OF COURSE nothing looks right. It's a fucking tiara! It doesn't belong on a grown woman's head. Not in the 21st century, working the grind, on a Tuesday. Or any day, for that matter.

What could've driven that kind of insecurity? The good old, I MUST have it! If only I could have THAT, my life would be perfect?! I thought I'd given up on the notion of perfect a long time ago. And easy sublimation and displacement - come on! What is this, Psychology 101? Puh-lease!

Think I'll stick to cooking on Sunday after all. That's a palpable sense of accomplishment. And at least I'll know why it's not about food.

Doesn't Mean Forever

Finally watched The Goodbye Girl last night. I wanted to see the movie that won Richard Dreyfuss an Oscar nod.

RJ called it a "chick flick" right away. I didn't let that remark taint my assessment. It was a charming piece, however detached from reality. How did Neil Simon know every divorced single parent's fantasy?

The feminist in me couldn't help but see all the socioeconomic implications, though. Paula, at age 32*, struggles to make a comeback as a dancer, faced with the harsh fact that she's out of shape and past her prime. Elliot, on the other hand, age 30*, is just starting out in his acting career. When one opportunity lets him down, another presents itself, without much time lapse, which ultimately leads to yet another better deal (without his active pursuit of one).

Whereas Paula lives with the realization that she is not self-sufficient at all. When Tony abandons her, she could have easily wound up on the streets - the apartment wasn't in her name. When street thugs rob her of a bag full of groceries, she is instantly fucked - it was all that she owned. She had absolutely nothing to fall back on. Toward the end of the film, she exclaims in epiphany, "Finally I'm not broken into pieces just cuz a man is walking out on me!"* While I was touched by that emotionally triumphant moment, I was very aware that, should Elliot not return in four weeks, as promised, she would have a hard time supporting herself and her 10-year-old in NYC (there was no mention of ANY prospects, job-wise for her, long-term or otherwise, after that car show stint with Subaru).

Back to real life: even though Dreyfuss' acting career arguably peaked in the 70's, he never disappeared from the silver screen (or other arenas). My personal favorite is Mr Holland's Opus. That movie, albeit also detached from reality, to me is heartfelt and impactful. The acting of the cast was superb, the chemistry very believable (and Rowena was hot). Dreyfuss is in good company of aging male actors who can still make a respectable living in Hollywood.

Marsha Mason, on the other hand, has not topped her presence in The Goodbye Girl. Meryl Streep is about the only American female actor in her age group who still has a career to speak of. The choice of roles she's had to play is unprecedented and unparalleled.

I am painfully observant that, these facts, which are very blatant to me, are not always so to men - even intelligent men. Which makes speaking out really important, even if it is pointing out the obvious.


*I'm going by memory so bear with me

Crossroads 3

Spent the past few days saying goodbye to the good peeps at both jobs. Will be taking a new direction in the new year. It's a scary leap but a necessary one.

Sure is nice to be told left and right I'll be missed.

Once the bosses get notice, this is it. A new chapter. No turning back.

To think that I've been doing this for 15 months now. That's a significant chunk of time. There are things I'm gonna miss, for sure. I have met some really nice people. We've had some good laughs. The dogs and kids I get to visit are the best. (And one cat too. Who knew?) I've enjoyed the ride, appreciated landscaping and vegetation at various homes. It's a pretty neat gig.

This eve, I found myself savoring every element. Every stop could very well be my last at that destination. I encountered lilies so huge and delicate, they resembled bridal gowns. How lucky I am exiting during the holiday season, able to take in all the lights and decor, I thought. Even the bone-chilling air was exhilarating.

"You'll never get to do this again," I told myself. "Remember this."

Yes, I will.

Seems obvious that we tend to treasure more what we are about to lose. That's human nature.

This is how we should live though. Every moment. This is it. This very moment is never going to come again. Feel it with your core and your being, so may you have no regrets later. Oh, fleeting moments. For what is life but a compilation of moments? The beauty and sadness of this very thought is almost unbearable - it leaves me gasping.

Divulged, Engulfed

In our household, instead of Sunday Funday, it's Saturday Funday - it's long been established.

So imagine my astonishment when I got up this brilliant gorgeous Saturday morn, showered, and did not feel the least motivation to head out.

The putting on clothes... the applying sunblock... Eeek!

I'm against doing anything I don't want to do. I don't need to know why. And so... I didn't.

RJ is a sweetheart for going along... pretty much with anything. Without judgment. Without so much as a question.

But I'm bewildered.

Is it the crazy work schedule that finally wore me down? The unpredictability of life itself that's been eating at me?

We ordered pizza. We stayed in. It felt goooood. Peaceful. Sane.

When I told RJ about the sanity I was reveling in, he said something to the effect of "Is sanity something you struggle with?" to which I answered, "Constantly."

I am reminded of the one day my mother got really mad at me when I was in elementary school. One day, I decided that I didn't want to go to school. I missed the pampering when I'd be home sick, the privilege of being homebound, but most of all, the NOTHINGNESS. No responsibility, no clock-watching, no putting on clothes. Or socks. Uniforms.

Since one couldn't just possibly take the day off a such a tender age, I decided that, indeed I was sick that day. Even after the adults took my temperature and announced that, clearly, I wasn't.

Still, I insisted that I was not fit to head to school. And no one was gonna make me. And so I stayed home. And my mother was infuriated. But off to work she went and in bliss I stayed.

This is the core of my problem. To say that I am simply lazy or an ill-adjusted adult would not paint a just picture. I didn't ask for this. This life. This thing called LIFE.

And thus, still, every once in a while, I want a sick day. World, please, just go away. I don't want to be part of you. I never asked to be here. I don't have it in me. Day after day after day...

I have shared with RJ a bitter childhood memory: often, on Sundays, my mother wouldn't get up. Noon would come around. Then 1 p.m. And she'd stay in bed. She wouldn't be necessarily sleeping. She'd just be lounging, reading the paper from the previous day. In other words, enjoying herself and the little time she had to herself.

The behavior bled resentment. I thought, if she loved us, she'd want to be with us. She'd get out of that damned bed.

Not to mention the practice further complicated the food issue. We waited. For her to get up. For her to get ready. For her to choose a pair of shoes deemed appropriate for the day's activities. Meanwhile, our stomachs were growling.

Surely she didn't care. Not about our suffering. Not about our anguish. Not about the years of an unhealthy relationship with food to follow and haunt us. Well, just me.

I'm pretty sure deep down that is one of the key reasons I didn't want to have children. That way, there's no chance of hurting someone that deeply. Whatever I may be doing wrong, I wouldn't be hurting a child.

But what does it mean when both RJ and I sleep till noon? When life is too much to face. When it is ALWAYS too much to face.

Thanks to FB, even my usually tacit mother, in a rare moment, recently reminisced and shared a sentiment from her career-driven years, "Sometimes you're exhausted, but there's no one to tell. So you just keep going."

A new FB friend comments that my posts are all "eat, drink and be merry", and says that she's envious.

Seriously? That's one shot out of seven days. Don't be oblivious to the highly censored and filtered that is our online presence that caters to the audience.

The world doesn't see the days I'm eating salad and cold rice in my car, dear. Glory gets documented. Not the dreary moments. Not the loneliness and the doubt and the big question: Why?

We didn't ask for this. No one did.

I'm starting to wonder if my mother at one point or another also thought, "Not this. Day after day after day..."

Or her father before her, who finally committed suicide. Because he never asked for this. No one did.