FRIDAY, DEC 13, 2002 - The Soul Surfer / Shredder Paradigm
When any hobby or interest becomes popular, the early adopting elite often laments the influx of newcomers and the way things have changed. This can be observed with the cyclical rises and falls in popularity of yoga, martial arts, swing dancing, rock climbing, indie music, blogging, and so on and so forth. The list is nearly infinite.
And in my youth no one did this better than me. But what I've come to realize over time is that no one group ever has ownership, or ever had it. An interest is dictated by personal taste, and as such, evolves with the collective characteristics of its participating majority. Over time that becomes the new norm.
Perhaps the inability to enjoy an interest after it has reached the mainstream serves only to underscore the insincerity of one's supposed love of it in the first place; ironically, the classic definition of a poseur.
FRIDAY, NOV 15, 2002 - Right Wing Extremists and Zealots Beware
I heard something interesting on the National Geographic Special, Skin, a sixty minute documentary discussing the biological, cultural, and social ramifications of what Alex Chadwick said "keeps your insides in." Anthropologist Nina Jablonski said that there is no such thing as race. Skin pigmentation, along with other anatomical features (I'm inferring here), was merely a biological adaptation, directly correlated to a people's location on the planet, and thus, distance from the sun. As soon as she said those words, it was as clear to me as the statement "water is wet."
In one sentence this theory seems to debunk a multitude of ideologies. That is unless you're a creationist, in which case the earth is as flat as your head.
SUNDAY, OCT 6, 2002 - Big Orange Boxes
I once heard a carpenter say, "The worst thing to happen to my line of work is Home Depot. I have to fix everyone's fuck-ups; then they blame me because it costs more."
It's true. During weekdays, HD is filled with scruffy men wearing paint splattered tee shirts. On the weekends, by contrast, you will find handsome couples with designer strollers, or perhaps a Daschund under arm. This is not a judgment. I'm just sayin'...
What is it about Home Depot that falsely empowers the do-it-yourselfer to give it a go with things that require a professional tradesman an apprenticeship period?
Today upon entry, the sudden smell of sawdust and adhesive definitely gave me that feeling; like it would be a good idea to start a home improvement project. The trouble is, I don't own a home. Ah ha! The selling venue is part of the marketing device.
I've heard, and so have you-- less inventory-- it only costs a $1 million to build one of these "Orange Boxes", equalling less than one day's receipts. Carenter's legend or not, it certainly underscores the point that there are a lot of us out there that believe ourselves to be handy.
MONDAY, AUG 23, 2002 - Small Hands
We met six friends in a small town outside of UCONN--fellow Midwesterners living on the East Coast.
One reason for the visit was to meet Sonja, our friends' four month old daughter. Such a child could bring the mightest man to his knees, cooing to entice her disarming smiles. Her hands are impossibly small when wrapped around my index finger, which appear as thick as a branch.
MONDAY, JUNE 24, 2002 - The Corner of Charles and Commercial
The 5:30 sun put a bead on the sweet spot between my sun visor and the view over the steering wheel as I waited to turn left. I inflated both cheeks and exhaled, drumming my thumbs on the wheel, half listening to the radio. My feet were hot in my shoes.
The light turned yellow but I had to stop short as a kid on his motorized Razor scooter cut between an oncoming car and me; the beginning of a smile crossed his face. But before safely across, he hit the sidewalk's lip which sent him chest first into a telephone pole, and then smacked the concrete with a hollow thud. He jumped to his feet to assess the situation.
Too late, friend, all coolness points awarded for the dick move were promptly revoked.
I laughed really hard before taking the left turn on green. Christ, it's good to be alive!
WEDNESDAY, MAY 1, 2002 - Cafe seat
The season's most formidable words are close at hand: "strappy" and "sandals". Using them in combination packs a deadly wallop as pedicured perfection struts down the very posh Newbury Street.
People watching is mesmerizing. Unfortunately, there aren't a lot of places to do it without getting your ass kicked.
THURSDAY, APR 25, 2002 - Memories of a Shit Box
I've had extraordinary luck with cars in my life. But of all that I've owned, none makes me smile like the 1979 Buick Regal I named Abbey after a Jewish vixen I met in 1988. We met at a concert, dated, and broke up, all by the second encore.
When I found the car, it had 56,000 original miles and a perfect interior, remarkably smelling of "new car". Apparently, the previous owner drove only to church and the supermarket.
In those carefree days, I worked at a Shell station in the Chicago suburbs. After the last mechanic punched out and I had completed my clerk duties, I backed my car into Bay 2 to get down to business. Mechanics made the best company. Rudimentary knowledge of Pink Floyd and zipped lips when they left to score a bag was all that they required.
They taught me that pre-fuel injection cars could be fixed with a wrench, hammer, and a blowtorch. But what that car needed most was lots of bodywork. My fellow grease monkeys took to calling me the Bondo King, referencing the ridiculous amounts of the hardening putty I used to fill every blemish on the car. I paid them no mind as I lovingly sanded, filed, and touched up for weeks. At night I dreamt of 305 rebuilt engines and quarter panel restorations.
Later in college, I ate my share of drive-thru fast food. I’d always had an unnatural aversion to drinking straws, so I’d put them in the passenger side visor. I never thought much about it until one day a friend pulled the mirrored visor down and about thirty straws spilled into his lap. The story told by friends is that I yelled “VANITY!” at that instant. So witnessed the birth of the straw trap, which remained a huge hit for those in the know.
At one point neither of the doors opened, or more accurately, would stay closed after being opened. I took to leaving the windows down and crawling through the windows à la Dukes of Hazard. There wasn't much shame in this either. We blended with the townies who had cars, in various stages of assembly, of their own on cinder blocks; this being a post-industrial town in the rust belt and all.
In the end, oxidation reached critical mass and nothing more could be done. In its final throes the frame was so rusted out that driving it further would have meant certain accordian-like death. Ultimately, the car, like the girl, was no less of a heartbreaker. A week later I traded the car for a free tow out to the junk yard.
FRIDAY, MAR 8, 2002 - The Can Tab, Cambridge, MA
I am in small part envious, but immeasurably grateful that I am not the thinning-haired Harvard Business School prick that told the bartender, "Don't ever put a straw in such fine scotch!" That'll make an equally bland story someday over power lunch.
Coincidentally, I bought Wall Street on DVD today.
FRIDAY, FEB 1, 2002 - Kai-bashing
Words such as kibosh migrate from person to person and from office to office like an e-mailed chain letter. When it's around, you're likely to hear it one or two times a day for a week, and then *poof*, it's gone.
Its pronunciation and spelling stand out in English like few others. Though its etymology is unknown, disputes over its German, Irish, or Yiddish descent still remain unresolved*. Besides all that, kibosh sounds pretty cool to say. That's the thing-- coolness happens to be its very un-doing. I don't hear this word often, but when I do, it's more cloying than the smell of a Dunkin Donuts after 5 minutes.
Words like kibosh are special. They should be preserved, relished even, as they roll off the tongue to the speaker's delight and the listener's envy. Instead, they're tossed about carelessly as if a bottomless well of these great words exists. In reality, the end result reflects only the word's diluted power.
So the next time you hear words like kibosh being casually slung around the office, resist the urge to join in. Doubly holds true for ultra-jargony phrases, but that's for different reasons. Squash it, or more accurately, quash it. Put the kibosh on kibosh.
TUESDAY, NOV 13, 2001 - Cooler than me
My mother reads more than I do, and is unappologetically current on the Simpsons. I think a winged pig just flew out my butt because my mother is, apparently, much cooler than I am.
MONDAY, OCT 29, 2001 - You Bastard!
Alarm clock, you mock me with your large snooze button target, only to jeer at me again in five minutes. Bastard!
THURSDAY, SEPT 20, 2001 - A friend found
I got the long awaited call from an unaccounted for friend in NYC who I had lost touch with in the last five years. I didn't believe her to be in any imminent danger, but I had to be sure. She's that friend you go in and out of touch with over the years, but every time you talk to her, you know why she's on your "A" list.
FRIDAY, AUG 15, 2001- Liberation Day (South Korea)
By passport, I'm a South Korean. However, I've been living in the States for almost 27 years. Though I've never acknowledged this day as a holiday before, I noticed that Google had adapted its logo to fit its theme of the day, which got me thinking about a few things. You see, Liberation Day refers to the day that the Japanese occupation, from 1910 to 1945, of (a unified) Korea ended.
Just thinking about it makes my teeth grit with fury. I spent a good part of my life hating the Japanese-- The Rapers of Nanking. Comfort Women issues unresolved. The stab wound in my grandfather's leg by Japanese soldiers. That motherfucker, Masaaki Matsusawa, in the eight grade, who made me feel ashamed because he spoke better Japanese than I spoke Korean.
What's crazy is that I love all things Japanese- sushi, anime, culture, Zen, bushido- the list goes on. Korea has a similar relationship with Japan as I did with Masaaki in which the short, older brother got beat a lot growing up.
The Japanese are mostly ignorant to their own history, which is at once infuriating, but also a relief. On one hand I'd like to see in my lifetime a Japan that owns up for the terrible things that it did in the name of Empire. On the other, I've met some amazing people like Saeko and Hori who seem unfazed. Possibly out of ignorance of their own history. Possibly because they are willing to forget.
iPod Playlist
Dark Water
War of the Worlds
Mr. and Mrs. Smith
Batman Begins
Revenge of the Sith
07.02.05 - Brent's & Jen's Wedding
07.03.05 - G4 Summit, Badger boycotts
07.03.05 - Phillies vs. Braves - L 3-4
>> Claire
Zulkey
>> Dooce
>> Mighty Girl
>> The Morning News
>>
Red Sox
>> Team Monkey
Choizilla 2001-2005