Ho Hum to All That

We're in Vegas, making good on our pact to stay out of San Diego for New Year's Eve whenever possible. So far we're on Year 2 of the plan and if we can keep our string of super fun NYE's intact, it would count as an achievement. Currently I'm camped out in the hotel room because that's what I do in Vegas. Smoke indoors, lust for buffets, keep the Wifi pumping, and wait to be dragged out into playland.

Overall 2011 sucked. I couldn't point to any specific suckiness but I think everything regressed all around. Then again, I've said that for a few years running now, which may point to a general decline. Actually, that's not true. 2009 was good, great even. So it's just been downhill for a little bit. 2012 though, whew, that's going to be the year. Things are going to be so good in 2012!

I'm trying to work on my optimism. It's not a resolution, just a half hearted attempt at being less negative. Although being negative is probably one of my finer traits. So really, why mess with a defining trait?  My highlight of 2011: Celtics game, duh.

This article about conjoined twins who share sensory inputs is pretty fascinating. It makes me think of Tomax and Xamot, the evil twins from GI Joe who both get hurt if one of them get punched. They were also mirror images of each other, which is something that cannot be discounted. Plus they spoke in horrible Eurotrash accents.

There has to be a great story out there somewhere about twins who are fated to be enemies but yet can't kill each other because they would both die, right? Actually this last point may be a little too Harry Potter and Voldemort. I was upset when Harry survived the end of the series. What's the point of him being the last horcrux if he didn't actually have to sacrifice himself?

It's the rare movie I want a happy ending to happen. But I just watched one where I was desperate that the two leads end up together. Characters who emotionally withdrawn for no good reason are just as annoying as characters who fall in love too quickly. "She's perfect for you, how could you let her go?" The movie actually wasn't about their relationship that much, but more about the protagonist's relationship with his dad. The whole thing was really great actually, like what Garden State and Greenberg should have been, but I can't share the name of the film because I'd ruin it for you. It's probably better you stumble upon it yourself.

Plus, when I met up with a friend the other day, we touched upon the subject of being tainted by reviews before and after things. I used to read a ton of reviews about a film before diving in. Blessed with a short memory, I'm able to completely forget plot details as soon as I read them. What doesn't leave however, is the opinions of the people I've read. Invariably, this taints my perspective on a movie. Over the past year or two, I've tried to cut out as many pre-viewing reviews as possible but haven't done a thing about firing up websites immediately after watching something.

Concerned with what critics think, or what they noticed that I didn't, I'm usually already checking movie reviews as we're stepping out of the theater. I'll look up the director's previous works, who wrote the script, what an actor or actress had been in, and then hit up other people's opinions. It all contributes to my overall feeling for the film.

It also makes me feel like I have no backbone because one negative sentence from someone I respect is enough to make me re-evaluate things. Not whether I liked it or not -- that never changes -- but how "good" it was. That's the way it was with this movie. I loved it, and immediately messaged a friend I knew had loved it too, but there were too many polarizing opinions around to pass a recommendation on. There's just no way to know if somebody else would experience the film like I did. Sometimes that possible positive shared experience just isn't worth the risk.

Dunk On Everything

J.J. Barea ends most of his tweets with "coqui." I've been Googling to find out what he means by that. Technically the coqui is a tiny frog found in Barea's native Puerto Rico. Barely an inch long, the males of the species blurt out "ko-kee, ko-kee" from dusk till dawn. Of course, "coqui" is also used as a slang for cocaine. Somehow I doubt that's what Barea is referring to -- at least publicly. The most logical theory is that Barea's nickname back home is "coqui" and so he signs off with it for everything. Now I will watch every Timberwolves game thinking of Barea as a little frog. It's pretty fitting if you've seen him play.

Other great animal related NBA nicknames: Dennis "The Worm" Rodman, John "Spider" Salley, Craig "Rhino" Smith, Kevin "Durantula" Durant, Billy "Kangaroo Kid" Cunningham, Chris "Birdman" Anderson, Larry "Legend" Bird. (Note that Bird was nicknamed "Legend" while he was still playing, that's how good he was.) I also like to think that Daniel Gibson's nickname, "Boobie," is a reference to the seabird, although it's not.

Worst animal related NBA nickname: Kobe "Black Mamba" Bryant. He gave himself the nickname because he admired the way the snake can "strike with 99 percent accuracy at maximum speed, in rapid succession." And not because he watched Kill Bill, obviously. Robert Rodriguez was kind enough to sacrifice himself on the altar of dorkdom to direct a short film about Kobe as The Black Mamba. If Kobe wasn't so damn good, he'd get laughed off the court for such a lame nickname. Actually, if Kobe wasn't so damn good he'd be such a dork right? Whatever, he's totally a dork anyway. And I mean that in every deragatory way possible.

Even worse, Kobe's dumb nickname influenced his former teammate Trevor Ariza's even dumber nickname. If you knew Ariza's nickname was "Cobra," you're a much bigger NBA fan than I am. Considering his career 43.3 FG%, and his pathetic season last year, that nickname is incredibly inept. Unless cobras are much less deadly than I had previously thought.

I think we can all agree that historically, the best animal related NBA nickname ever was Bill Mlkvy's, aka "The Owl Without A Vowel." We just finished drafting for my fantasy basketball league. Can you tell how excited I am for the season to start?

And now onto post-basket celebrations. I was reading about Peja Stojakovic's retirement and found out what his three finger salute means. I had seen Dirk Nowitzki do it after big shots, and culturally informed by the bar scene in Inglorious Basterds, just assumed that's how the Germans signaled "three." Instead, I found out that the three finger salute is used by ethnic Serbs, represented in the NBA by Stojakovic, current Celtic Sasha Pavlovic, the immortal Darko Milicic, and long retired Vlade Divac.

"The symbol is associated with the Serbian Orthodox Christian Church, and experts say it represents the Christian Trinity of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit. But, through decades of ethnic strife, the gesture took on a nationalist meaning. It is also associated with the 'Three Cs,' from the nationalist slogan 'Only Unity Will Save the Serb.' It became used as a threatening weapon, an 'in your face' gesture aimed at terrorizing non-Serbs.
-Vlade's three finger salute (2003)-

All that symbolism and now Lamar Odom does it after his three pointers because it's cool and his teammates do it. Don't you love sports? My favorite post-basket celebration remains Quentin Richardson and Darius Miles' from back in the day. After scoring they'd head down the court tugging on antennas on their heads. It could be interpreted in so many ways. My thought on it was they were indicating their otherworldly talents by pointing out their (invisible) alien appendages. The move was popular enough to be featured in a Nike commercial. Yes, D.Miles and Q.Richardson had a Nike commercial. I'm in shock too.

My Celtics don't really have a chance this season. They struck out on Chris Paul. They didn't get David West. They lost Jeff Green. At best they'll challenge the Heat for a few games in the playoffs and then bow out. I'm so worried. I'm so hopeful. This run as contenders has lasted much longer than anyone could have rationally predicted, so I shouldn't wish for more. But sometimes I wake up and am convinced I live in a world where the Celtics didn't lose Game 7 to the Lakers. This is a reality for me, until I remember that terrible day in 2010 and have to crawl out of bed and go on with the rest of my life. Sigh.

• Everyone in the NBA Needs to Fear 'The Rondo'
• Diaries of a signature move: Rajon Rondo’s fake around-the-back pass
• Diaries of a go-to move: Paul Pierce’s step back jumper

And here is the greatest basketball related rap song ever: Heavy D's "Jam Session," featuring a pre-Ready to Die Notorious B.I.G. The player name drops and the lines on this track are just so hilarious. "You nibble on my double dribble or alley-oop and monster dunk / Or Isaiah, say ya prayer when I step inta your lair / Leave the lane clear; I'm welfare like Lambeer."

The one thing that always confused me about the lyrics was the Bill Paxton reference.  Surely Biggie meant John Paxon right? How do you get that wrong? Or is there something about Bill Paxton's basketball prowess I'm missing? Coqui!

Tampopo

I had forgotten I wanted to check out Lucky Peach, David Chang's collaboration with McSweeney's. But there it was sitting on the bookshelf at my friend's. I dug in immediately. The first issue is all about ramen and it's pretty amazing. The opening article finds Chang and his co-editor exploring the ramen culture of Japan, randomly popping into shops and finding the best noodles they'd ever eaten.

The thing that struck me was not only how varied and nuanced the ramen scene is -- that I already knew -- but how many chefs had dedicated their lives to perfecting their version of the dish. Many of the ramen shops in Japan are spots that only have seating for eight to twelve and the menu consists of one or two items. The spaces are so physically little because that allows the owner to exert better control over his food. The article's writer expressed admiration for how one chef took the time to make sure every ingredient was perfect for each bowl, each customer, day after day, month after month, year after year, for over twenty years.

There's something insane about that.

Do you remember the Vimeo last year about Di Fara Pizzeria in Brooklyn? The owner there has been cranking out his pizzas for over forty years and doesn't let anyone else touch his work. His children help him run the business but they do not touch the pizza. He just bangs them out himself, even as his body breaks down.

There's a lot to admire about this sort of dedication and single minded purpose but I think about how these people never take a day off, never let anyone help them, and then they grow old and sit around smiling at what they've accomplished. But what have they accomplished exactly? The best ramen in the world? The best pizza? Do they become immortal? Or do people just say "Man, I sure wish X was still around to make my pizza because I'm hungry. Oh well, Grimaldi's?"

I understand these guys are artists and craftsmen, but tales of (old) people doing the same thing over and over forever just make me sad. Was there nothing else they wanted to do? Nobody else who could help them? I'm gonna go get me some of that ramen though. Japan needs to happen soon. Slurp!

Gone Fishin'

We're spending the week working out of Hong's kitchen. The absolute dream would be if everyone worked from home and we could all just head into an office that was centrally located and contained all of our necessary foodstuffs. If that office was also about twenty feet from our bedrooms, that would be just fine too. One person could do their writing, another could do their day trading, etc. All the while we'd rotate control of the speakers and then take breaks to fix up a coffee or two. The nap room would be very close by also.

Maybe this is the appeal of those temporary spaces where creatives go to gather. I've never tried one of them because it didn't seem financially worth it, but maybe a couple of hundred dollars a month to sit around with some people you like -- versus people you generally don't care about, like at most day jobs -- might be productive and energizing. In just one day's worth of work AMR and I have made great headway in our side projects. Actual work being done? Who knows. Fun and camaraderie? Off the charts.

This morning Gene brought over his two girls. I heard the front door slam and then Sage's high pitched voice bouncing off the walls. There was no chance I wasn't going to get woken up in about twenty minutes anyway so I rolled out of bed and guess what greeted me? Gene at the stove making eggs, toasting bread, and frying up some honey soaked bacon. How fantastic!

Working from home also allows friends to come over to hang out for a bit, and some of those friends even make you delicious sandwiches to eat while you go over classic wedding photos -- like this gem -- and try to get one of the kids to interact with you to prove your worth.

I love it when other people work from home. I make a motion that we all move to the same city, find jobs that don't require going in anywhere, and purchase a ten room mansion for our work / life uses. Who's with me?!

Falling, Catching

A sea of white people as far as my eye could see. I was getting ready to watch White Christmas, the musical, so this was semi-appropriate. A thousand old white people ready to reminisce and give enthusiastic Tuesday night claps. It was like going to an indie movie theater in San Diego, times ten. I don't know if you know this, but if you go to watch movies midday, it's packed with white seniors. That time slot is my bread and butter.

Last time I was at an independent theater to watch The Skin I Live In, there was this old(er) lady asking the ticket office attendant what the movies were about. "I don't like anything too artsy fartsy, is this artsy fartsy?

Serious lady? Do you know where you are exactly? The AMC is down the street.

In White Christmas, there's a token black background singer/dancer thrown in. I was trying to figure out if that made any sense; if she would be riding the train to Vermont for a Christmas holiday in the Fifties. I mean, I guess if it's a period piece, what's the point of making a concession to diversity by throwing in one black girl? That was the only thing that bothered me about the musical. The rest of it was feel good holiday fare.

I'm not familiar with old time Hollywood classics -- I couldn't identify Bing Crosby if you paid me -- and it always takes me awhile to get into the rhythm of it. It's pretty hard to relate. All the World War II jingoism, all the "hilarous" sexual innuendos. I wondered if in forty years my generation would be filling up some Orange County performing arts center bobbing our heads along to nostalgic hip hop musicals, waiting impatiently until intermission to pee.

This was my favorite song from the night: "Love and the Weather." It's so damn true!

A friend called the other morning, at ten. Shockingly, I was awake. Then we proceeded to have a two and a half hour long conversation. I had to recharge my phone three times because my stupid iPhone is on its last legs. It was the longest phone call I've had in at least a year. I enjoyed it, of course, but I kept waiting to see if she needed to go. I just assume people need to jet after twenty minutes or so. I mean, who talks on the phone anymore?

People do I guess. Have long phone conversations.

I used to hate the sort of play-by-play phone call, where you're just going somewhere and you call someone so they are accompanying you, or you are accompanying them. Both of you are sort of not paying attention but there's an exchange of some sort otherwise. I don't miss this particular type of phone interaction, but sometimes I wish I had it back with certain people because without it, I have no idea what they're doing.

This Atlantic article about what it's like for a Chinese student to come to college in America is good. My friend is predicting a world battle between China and the United States in the next decade or so (not an uncommon position). I don't think it'll happen.  But we should all talk through what to do in such an instance. Just in case.  If people are preparing for imaginary zombie invasions, shouldn't I decide in advance which side I'd support?  Or maybe I should just prepare for an internment camp.  Man, I hope they have Wifi there.

Speed Trap

I first read A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius when I moved to Jersey City in 2000.  It was before I knew what parental death was, a year before 9/11, and a few months after college.  I saw the book at the Union Square Barnes & Noble and the title was just so amazing.  I picked it up and read it quickly, not really understanding all of it, not entirely sure if I loved it or merely liked it.

It was hard to decide if this was even good writing, because I'd mostly read fiction before that.  AHWOSG was the first personal narrative I'd read that resonated with me. It didn't occur to me that anyone would want to write (much less read) a contemporary memoir about someone who was young and not famous.  His book was so quotidian

There were so many conversations about Dave Eggers around that time, as everyone seemed to be reading his book and judging it.  "Did you read the preface first?  What did you find funny? What was your favorite part? Did you finish it?"

After some hesitation, I soon become an Eggers fanboy, just like so many others. I never got into his fiction though, or even What Is the What and Zeitoun. Instead I just followed all his other pursuits, The Believer, McSweeney's, 826 Valencia, Teachers Have It Easy, and his various Best American Nonrequired Reading collections. I just wanted to know more about Dave Dave Dave.

During the events of AHWOSG, Eggers was twenty eight or so.  That seemed like an insurmountable barrier between us, his additional six years of maturity.  I wondered if my late twenties would be like his. Thrust into adult-ish responsibilities, amusing anecdotes about life, love, and friends, that kind of thing. While cleaning up my book shelf the other day, I found a copy of Staggering Genius and have started rereading.  Now at five years older than AHWOSG Dave, I feel like maybe missed out on my own late twenties for some reason.

And now that memoirs by young people are just about my favorite genre of book, I totally understand what all the fuss about Eggers was back then. For better or for worse. For example, here was Michiko Kakutani's review from 2000. And a much less favorable view of Eggers from two years ago.

"Billed as a memoir 'based on a true story,' his book is a furious whirlwind of energy and invention, literally wearing its originality on its sleeve: blurbs on the jacket describe the uselessness of blurbs; the inside flap reprints a passage removed from Chapter 5. There are rules and suggestions for enjoying the book, 'an incomplete guide' to the book's symbols and metaphors, an explanation of the book's major themes, the apparently real phone numbers of several of Eggers's friends, a musical score to indicate the tonal quality of certain conversations and so on."
-My Brother's Keeper (2000)-

Around the time Eggers was blowing up, I bought a little gadget for my girlfriend that could identify songs on the radio.  She was always asking me what this or that song was, and back then it wasn't easy to find out. You clicked this device when a song you liked was playing, and then you manually input the radio station.  Later, when you synced the thing to a computer, the time of the button press would be logged and a program would search the radio station's playlist to find the song title.

I thought it was the greatest gift in the world and so magical.  Remember, back then you couldn't find out what song was playing unless you waited around for the DJ to say the title, or maybe for someone near you to recognize it.  Same with channel surfing on TV.  You could sit on a movie and have no idea what it was until the end credits.  I don't even recall being able to successfully find songs by searching lyric snippets, or movies through IMDB.  Was there an IMDB?

It was a dark time.

Now, when I think about how technologically amazing Shazam is, I kind of laugh at how ridiculous that gadget was. And I wonder if she thinks the same about our past relationship.

Knees to the Floor

I woke up this morning to news about another Virginia Tech shooting. The pictures weren't being circulated yet, but apparently the gunman was still running around. Students and staff were on lockdown; one professor went onto campus right after the time of the shooting, as the school's semi-newly implemented alert system didn't work. Oh, and the head of campus police was off contesting a hefty fine for having a slow response to the shooting years ago.

During that April weekend in 2007, I was in the middle of my so-called manic episode, and I recall getting driven down from Los Angeles to San Diego, getting out at a gas station, and the guy behind the glass wouldn't help us. In full on paranoia mode, I was certain he had read about the Korean gunman, and that was why he was wary. Clearly I was not in my right mind, but it all seemed to make sense then.

As I was reading about the tragedy, my email and phone started blowing up as news of Chris Paul's trade to the Lakers came flying in. Laker fans disguised as my friends delighted in knowing that they had stolen CP3 from the Celtics. I never leapt out of bed so fast, to get caught up on the news. When I found out it was to be Pau Gasol and Lamar Odom for Paul, I knew immediately that Dwight Howard would be headed to L.A. too. It only made sense, they can't rely on the injury prone Andrew Bynum in the frontcourt.

I was so excited for the upcoming NBA season. Logically, the Celtics are long shots to win the title, but this core has at least one more season together. However, if the damn Lakers manage to team Paul and Howard (the best point guard and center in the league, respectively) together with Kobe, it would be game over. Heat versus Lakers for the next decade. I refuse to live in a basketball world where this would happen.

Thankfully, the NBA overstepped its bounds and David Stern was pressured by the other owners into calling off the trade. While personally I'm delighted -- a chance to email and text all those haters from this morning -- it's a really bad precedent set by the league. I don't care though, as anything to hasten the Lakers' decline is all right by me.

The rest of my day was spent whipping up a website for fiftyfifty.me. It's a books and movie challenge Lilly and I are gonna try to get people geeked up about.  Initially I was just going to do it myself, do it low key, but then Lilly was so excited about it and now we're gonna take it worldwide. Or at least to the next block over. There's a few more finishing touches I need to do on the site, but it's just about done.

Ugly & Terrible

Things impossible not to like: Catherine Keener and mid-century modern design. In Please Give, Keener and Oliver Platt's married couple own a secondhand furniture store specializing in dead people's stuff. (There's actually a very similar looking shop on Valencia Street, in the Mission, and now I want to ask them where/who they supply from.) Oh wait, my blog post has to be redacted. The first person I asked said that she didn't like mid-century modern design. Great. There goes that theory. Well, I guess we're down to just Catherine Keener for universally liked things.

My friend said that she does not like that era of furniture because of the "inevitable 70s retro grade school vibe" she gets from the furniture. I guess she's right. Mid-century modern could be that, as it's so in right now. But just look at some of the chairs and buildings that came out of that era. How can anyone not love it?

It's amazing how just one comment from one person has tainted my opinion. Clearly I lack a backbone.

Anyway, I was going to suggest everyone go watch the Eames documentary, but clearly not everyone is going to agree it's a must-see. Fine, just go rent a Keener film, you philistines.  May I at least suggest a Nicole Holofcener helmed Keener movie?  The director of Please Give makes the most beautiful low key movies. Even her worst effort, Friends with Money, had its moments.

The book that inspired my first web domain is this, Hyperwest: American Residential Architecture on the Edge. I don't have my copy anymore but I'm proud to say that when anyone Googles "hyperwest," my long defunct site is the first option. Above even Amazon! I haven't accomplished much in my young life, but this is a big one. Hyperwest forever.

Turn Your Lights Down Low

This Esquire article, "What Is a Man?" details how the author went about de-manning himself. He goes about stripping himself of all things male -- the things he thinks society expects of a man. No more opening doors, no more fixing things, no more trying to outdo everyone, no more sports. He also tried to substitute more smiling, more listening, more eye contact, and more attention paid to taking up less space when occupying space.

Reading through the article, I'm like, "This guys sounds like a total douchebag." Except he's probably not. He's more likely just a typical American guy. It wouldn't be fair to label him a douchebag at all. Yet I was just revolted by him. (My indignation waned a little after Googling him.) I'm having difficulties articulating why I felt this way except that anything having to do with "this is what a man/woman should be like and thus I'm that way" just sets off general alarms.

Of course, now that I think about it, I'm constantly saying things like "Oh, it's because she's a girl" or "He's such a guy" when talking about friends' actions and motivations. Which really amounts to the same sort of thing the article talks about right? That's gotta be some sort of sexism involved in partitioning actions down to gender -- even colloquially. I probably need to examine why I do this.

And I can't believe it, but I think my stance on the Roots vs Michelle Bachman thing is with Bachman. It was hilarious -- but wrong.

I have this friend who is in love with all the sorts of things I'm in love with. Cheesy ballads, softie movies, dancing along to pop starlets. But he always sort of makes the "we're so gay" comment after he partakes in those actions. I guess I understand why he says that (ok, not really) but I'm curious why he doesn't just own what he likes without having to box it into anything.

Then I read a line on Theresa's blog that said: "I find the whole concept of etiquette and chivalry to be sexist and classist." And then I'm like, it's true, chivalry can be sexist! And I realized that my aforementioned friend is also one of the most chivalrous guys I know. This is probably a point we should discuss at some future date.

What Woody Allen's movies tell us about the male identity:

"All the business about peace and love, social conscience, the brotherhood of man, the stopping of this or that war, all the terrain of cultural crises that Allen traverses, is shown to be, in the essential mind of the male, subsidiary to the one true crisis, the sex crisis. What is a political rally to Allen? It’s a place much like a museum or a gallery or a book party, where available women leave their sanctuaries and expose themselves as though on the savannah."
-Alone at the Movies (2008)-

Headlines

I've been tucked away all month trying to finish out NaNoWriMo. I had 2,100 words a day hanging over me for the past month and while it made me feel semi-productive to do some writing each day, I was surprised at how much mental space it took in my head. My entire day revolved around when I should be writing those two thousand words.

At first I did it as the last thing on my list before going to bed. But sometimes I'd go out somewhere until late, or fall asleep early, and then force myself to get up at weird hours to finish the words. Then somehow my sleep schedule went to semi-normal for two weeks and I was able to get my writing done first thing in the late morning. I'd then have a whole luxurious day stretching out in front of me that I didn't really know what to do with.

Writing should probably not be such a chore, but when obligated to some sort of (self imposed) schedule, it sure felt like one. In the end, I'm glad I did NaNo though, as it gave some structure to my month.

Other noteworthy November events: Three midnight special occasions. Immortals, Modern Warfare 3, and Breaking Dawn. Some lady brought her infant child to the midnight release of the game. I couldn't decide if I blamed the mother or the father. As for Breaking Dawn, the movie theater we selected had prepared eleven theaters for the extravaganza. Eleven. Hong made us leave as soon as the credits rolled, causing me to miss the extra scene. I'm still bitter. Oh, and there were a few very young children in there too. Who are these parents?

There was also a Gosling-fest over Thanksgiving, which started off with All Good Things, in which Gosling plays a frightening possible killer. Gosling proves that good or evil, he's still fantastic. And after re-watching Crazy Stupid Love, I've decided this Dirty Dancing scene from the movie is absolute genius. As Lilly said, "I bet someone really does this and they incorporated it into the script." I'm thinking recreating scenes from the Karate Kid didn't get anyone to first base. If only I could lift things/people.

As I'm learning, it is not easy to write a romantic comedy that is consistently funny. The most I've been able to come up with so far is a few forced grins. If even that.

And the snow capped mountains white

The thing about long distance relationships is that sometimes they're easier than the nearby kind. There's enormous space to grow yourself, to establish independent routines, to manage sharp painful missing into habitual monotomous missing. It becomes routine to ache. After awhile, it becomes so natural not to have them around that you place each other on perpetual hiatus.

The long distance relationship is all promise -- and math. "Look at what we can feel in just a few weeks together. Think about how that might be extrapolated into infinity." But time spent together is not necessarily exponential. It's easier to forget that when you're long distance, because then the times together do feel exponential.

Some time ago there was this girl who lamented the fact that I was always flying back and forth, never sure where I'd be next month. She said that made it hard to build something together. I asked, "But what would we be building?

"A future," she replied.

To me, a long distance relationship was already about the future. "When this happens...then we can...see you next...." The only thing that sustains a long distance relationship is the future. And maybe a bit of the past too. The fond memories together that get rehashed over and over again to sustain your feelings. Those can carry on for a surprisingly long time. But inevitably, that runs out. It's near impossible to nurture a relationship this way, much less evolve. At some point, you have to bite the bullet and physically reconvene.

Or just give up.

This post brought to you by a viewing of Like Crazy.

All Saints

I'm running crazier hours than usual. Slowly over the past two weeks, I've crept from sleeping at dawn to somehow only getting tired around noon. So that means I'm crawling out of bed at eight. Or nine. Or today, ten. And really the only reason I was even halfway awake at ten was because I needed some food and then a friend called. My cell phone was actually out of service for three days, I didn't even realize because I hadn't left the house or been out of Wifi reception. Whoops.

So what do I do with all this time alone? I dunno, somehow time just flies. Last "night" for example, I tried to go to bed and my new thing is to read on my Kindle before passing out. I went through a few chapters of the Steve Jobs biography, then picked up Westerfeld's Behemoth from 34% in. (Reading eBooks is interesting because I have no idea what page I'm on. I just keep plowing through.) I stopped at 92%, so I would have something for today. Then I popped in a podcast, pulled on my eye shades -- my newest coolest thing -- and finally passed out.

When I semi-woke back up, I went through my usual gamut of Reader, Uniwar, Chess, Twitter, and various iPhone things. Then I played about an hour of this new game, Game Dev Story. This was probably five-ish. With no real reason to get back up -- basketball was off -- I collapsed again.

Upon really waking up, I ate my rice and eggs, threw in the laundry, watered the outside plants, got caught up online researching at all these animals I previously knew nothing about like numbat, bandicoot, sand cat, potto, gundi, fennec, hyrax, etc. I'm gonna kill it at the animal game next time we play. Then I didn't even read the articles I'd starred from earlier, as I got lost into the dark hole of Gaddafi capture videos and articles about his reign. One of the rebels sodomized him as they dragged him away. I can't decide how I feel about that.

A bit later, Hong tried to lure me to go play Modern Warfare 3 -- which we lined up at midnight for two days ago -- but I resisted because I'm an oak. Plus I still had my writing to do. Oh right, I'm doing NaNoWriMo this year. I'm like trying to super plug away. It's the worst drivel but all I'm trying to see is if I can write for thirty consecutive days. I'm not caring if it doesn't make any sense, if it's basically uber-terrible, because I'm just trying to make myself sit down for a daily regime of a few thousand words.

So far it's day ten and I'm right on track. The goal of NaNoWriMo is to have a 50,000 word book done in November. Basically I'm fooling myself into thinking I'm productive by participating in NaNo and making my writing session job-like. Like Kanye said, "He got that ambition baby, look in his eyes." I'm trying to learn how to set goals. Can you tell?

The only other thing I did today was play around with a friend's upcoming app and then write a long email back to them about bugs and features. Oh I also did a little online dating surfing to sift through the gamut of guys drooling over my friend's profile. She signed up two weeks ago and got so many damn messages. I was trying to figure out if I'd be embarrassed to let someone see who I was writing back to. Probably not I guess.

Tonight, it's 7:45 am and my plan is to watch the Bill Cunningham documentary on Hulu, finish up Behemoth, and try to wake up tomorrow for writing, basketball, and Immortals at midnight. I guess this is living.

Of note, there was a minor rampaging fire five miles away from our house earlier this afternoon. It occurred to me that even if someone tried to save me, I wouldn't even be awake. Or even notice the hills behind our house were on fire. Or that there was smoke outside. This amuses as well as frightens me. In related scared news, Lilly and I watched the new Almodovar a few days ago and I'm still recovering. And I refuse to go outside without lots of lights on. Or you know, a bright moon out.

But Inevitably

There was a night a few years ago, after we had all gone out and then brought burritos home. We fired up Mariah Carey's epic The Adventures of Mimi tour on Palladia. It was three of us guys and a girl that one of the guys was kinda into. She found it a bit strange that we needed to have Mariah on at three in the morning but it didn't faze her too much. (And I think my friend got the girl, although he won't confirm or deny.)

We still have that concert saved on the DVR because it really needs to be rewatched every holiday season. If you can't tell, I'm on a Mariah kick because of a Bill Simmons' article about her. It's really a must read. Digging into my iTunes, I was surprised by how many Mariah songs I didn't have. After asking my friends to send me their Mariah MP3s, I noticed that one of them was labeled "baby shower soundtrack." There's so many things wrong about this. I mean, baby showers have soundtracks? Seriously? At which point is that used?

I'd forgotten that one of my goals this year was to get an article up on Grantland. I mean, sports and pop culture, that's like stuff I should be able to crank out in my sleep. I better come up with something amazing and get it to Mr. Simmons soon. What Bill Simmons has done for America is to make it okay for males to showcase their obsessiveness over reality shows, 80's movies, and 90210. For that we should all thank him.

In-between concerts, Mariah spends her time resting her voice and sleeping in a humidified room. Now you know.

You're the One

A friend sent along this website that someone he knows started. It's an online dating advice site. For various fees this girl will meet with you to learn about what you're like and what you're looking for, she'll create a "winning" profile for you, and she'll analyse your photos. A bit more cash will get you hand picked matches, unique messages to people you might be interested in, and unlimited dating advice over email. The ultimate package includes all that plus she handles the pre-date communication and arranges everything including locations and reservations. She'll also brief and de-brief you before and after the date.

Um, how can I start a company like this? Hello, this was tailor made for me. Sort of. Things that would work against me: I don't have a success story like she does to give my method some credibility -- she met her current love after 120+ dates. I haven't gone on nearly enough dates so my advice could be seen as coming from theory versus experience. Also, I don't have a degree in economics or a masters in business. Not that these last two matter. I mean, really, what kind of education do you think Patti from Millionaire Matchmaker had? I doubt she's an Ivy Leaguer. But I'm damn sure she's a millionaire!

Here's what I do have to offer: I can write a better profile than she can. I can tell you when to hold the line against doing something stupid. I can tell you you're worth it. I can work with you to weed out the idiots who message you. I can catch spelling and grammar errors on profiles. I can tell if a guy is a douchebag or a girl is too into herself, just from the photos. I can stalk people better than you can stalk them. I can encourage you to keep going on dates, as long as you tell me everything afterwards. I have read most of the big dating books and can quote from them when needed. And I can do all this for free! I would do it for the love of the game.

Sure, I may be incapable of commitment myself but I can tell other people how to put on the shackles. Those who can't, teach. Am I right? I'm thinking inventing a long lasting relationship is the only way I'll get some dating cred. What I'm thinking is that my partner and I will play the happily together couple while we relationship coach our customers. I have just the friend in mind too; she would be absolutely perfect for this job. Absolutely perfect.

Now that I'm digging around online, there are a ton of dating and relationship coaches available. I had no idea this was such a competitive space Still, there's gotta be room for my future partner and I to carve out a little niche right? Young professionals who are too busy to find cool people on their own? People on their last shred of patience with dating? Cynics who are closet romantics and love Legends of the Fall? Please email me if you'd like our services. Confidentiality assured.

14 Shots to the Dome

I came home to a dead car -- not to mention being locked out -- and it took a few days to figure out if it was the battery or alternator. The good news is that I successfully moved my friend's stick shift car in and out of the garage; the bad news is that I'm totally inept at all car related things. For a moment, watching my uncle tinker around under the hood, I thought maybe I should learn a few automotive repair techniques. But that's probably something I wouldn't be good at so I'll just leave it up to the professionals. It's Alanis Morissette ironic that I drove across the country just fine but the last two times touching a car in San Diego, the vehicle has putzed out on me.

On Saturday night I parked myself in front of the television to continue my romp through the 1993 NBA Playoffs. NBA TV is showing all the good games from each series and I've pretty much DVRed every single one. That '93 post-season is the one where Michael Jordan three-peats for the first time (and retires after his father's murder that summer). It's the one where the Clippers were actually better than the Lakers. It's the one where Charles Barkley was finally freed from Philly and led the Suns to the Finals. It's the one where Reggie Lewis collapses during the Celtics' first round playoff series and then passes away during an off-season practice three months later. It's the one where I was fifteen and skipping every Chinese school class to play basketball. Those were the times.

Here's what else I saw, flipping between the basketball games and our free movie channels: Geena Davis in The Long Kiss Goodnight, which was her last semi-decent movie, before her then husband, director Renny Harlin, tanked her career. Their team up resulted in the biggest box office flop of all time according to Guinness. Cutthroat Island did so bad it even bankrupted the production company who financed it -- and killed pirate movies until Johnny Depp revived the genre eight years later. No wonder Geena and Renny got divorced. Can any marriage survive that sort of epic failure?

I also rewatched Point of No Return, which was way worse than I remembered, which led me to question my movie taste as a teen. The plot is totally ridiculous and it's really pretty ripe for another remake. I'm into assassin movies but this was just terrible. Bridget Fonda is so 90's. More edifyingly, I saw the entirety of Jaws for the first time and finally understood its power. I'm thinking I should go through the Steven Spielberg oeuvre one of these weekends. After Jaws I got into some documentary about indie movies and fetish sex, which posed the question if actors having real sex on-screen was considered art or porn. ("If a movie makes you think about it, it's art.") Concurrently I watched Prelude to a Kiss, which is a body swap story about appreciating what you have and falling in love with Meg Ryan.

Finally I cleaned up with a viewing of Julie Taymor's Frida biopic, which made me realize that I knew absolutely nothing about Frida Kahlo. It was all new to me: her two marriages to Diego Rivera, her affair with Leon Trotsky, her many physical ailments, her artwork, her politics, and why most of her work was auto-biographical. "I paint myself because I am so often alone and because I am the subject I know best." Narcissist!

Cure for the Common _______

Before leaving New York, my aunt took me to her Chinese masseuse in Queens. After sitting and holding my wrist for a few minutes, he asked if I did or had any of the following: stayed up late, didn't eat regularly, got dry eyes often, slept a lot, worked as a programmer. Of course I answered "yes" to every single one, except the last question.

What he diagnosed was that my heart was weak, like it didn't pump hard enough or something. His suggestion was that I regulate my sleep pattern, go to bed before midnight (as eleven to one is a crucial time for the body to heal), eat a hearty breakfast, and partake in exercise that gets my pulse racing. Then he showed me a simple set of moves roughly translated as "the breaching turtle." I'm to do this twenty seven times a day and I'll feel much better in a few months. I'm going to give it a go because what else do I have to lose?

He used a lot of Mandarin terms I didn't understand and I'd say I missed fifty percent of what he was trying to tell me. Of course, everything he said is about 100% in line with what my mom tells me every day so I could probably fill in the gaps. For a moment I thought there was some conspiracy between my mom and this doctor about admonishing my lifestyle. But that could not be so as she's in Taiwan.

Most Chinese doctors I've seen are very traditional, and I don't know how seriously to take what they say. I mean, I believe in Chinese medicine and techniques, but there usually isn't a whole lot of room for individuality. What if some people are just night people? What if some people can drink cold things in the morning just fine? What if every human body is different?

Then again, as I'm getting older, I realize that my way of doing things could be flawed and there could be reasons why these Chinese health biases have lasted so long. I'm still trying to figure out if I can get to bed earlier -- probably impossible -- but at the very least I'll try to eat some breakfast or something when I wake up. Gotta go stock up on that congee, youtiao, and soy milk!

"Also known as 'deep-fried devils,' [youtiao] are twisted strips of dough -- approximately twelve inches long -- that have been deep-fried in oil. Their nickname, 'deep-fried devils,' is derived from ancient legend. During the time of Confucius, a government official falsely accused Yueh Fei, a famous scholar and poet, of treason. Yueh Fei was subsequently put to death. The Chinese name for the dish, 'Yu Za Kuei' translates literally into deep-fried devils. Frying the crullers in oil symbolizes the government official and everyone who participated in the scheme being deep-fried in oil for eternity."

Along with the health advice, the doctor told me that I should marry Chinese because, well, I didn't understand what his reasoning was. Like I literally didn't understand the words he was using. Did he say that non-Chinese women were crazy, disrespectful, weird? I have no idea. He could have been complimentary for all I know. I'm hoping after a few of these breaching turtle moves that my heart will not only pump stronger but I'll have clearer insight into dating too. Chinese medicine really is holistic!

Valhalla

I fell asleep on the train coming home the other night, as unfamiliar station names breezed by. On a weekend, the last train out of Grand Central leaves at 1:56 am and I had already passed on that to continue hanging out in the city. Normally I would have crashed at a friend's but I was wide awake and thought I might as well go back to Scarsdale since the next train was only twenty minutes away.

Late night revelers packed the 5:39 train and by the time I woke up and hurriedly jumped off, at least half the other riders were passed out too. I had missed my stop by three exits and for a minute I thought about just walking home, forgetting that the Metro North stops are miles apart. My iPhone battery was on life support so calling a cab was out of the question.

I guess this is what an adventure is, if I were in a foreign country. But when you're not travelling, this sort of mistake is just an inconvenience. Luckily all I had to do was stand on the opposite side of the tracks and wait for a return train. Another guy had groggily gotten off the train also, and we exchanged confused information before settling in for cigarettes and conversation.

Turns out he's from Ireland and was studying at NYU. His family runs a printing shop near Dublin and he had come out to get a masters degree. We talked a bit about what it means to take over your father's company, to follow in their footsteps. He said he enjoyed most of it and liked the closeness of working with family. I asked him what he thought the hardest part was so far. He said it was that his dad didn't have a succession plan. Like when he died that's when it would pass on, but until then, his dad was in charge.

I think my dad had a semi-succession plan. In the summer of 2001, he came out to New York and picked me up on the way to Boston for a business trip. I was a year out of school and not really doing anything, and my dad pretty much said as much. This was the only time I'd ever been invited for anything business related.

We toured a manufacturer he was planning to partner with. At the end of the trip, as he dropped me back off in Jersey City, he said that maybe this new deal was something I could help him out with. "Sure," I said. "Whatever you want." We didn't talk much more about it. I think he was waiting to see if I would ask/find myself.

Well, now I'm asking.

At the end of our train ride, after an hour of waiting and hopping from the express to the local, I asked my acquaintance how he stayed happy -- living far away from home, without friends around, taking a long train ride into the city for a few drinks. It felt weird to ask a stranger that.

His response, "Why, don't I look happy to you?"

A Violent Yet Flammable World

I've spend the last few evenings watching Don Draper seduce every lady around him with a look, and then majestically flaming out with his old tricks three seasons later. Of course, ladies love cool Don so he still succeeds more often than he fails. It's just shocking when he's rejected. Like really? Who would pass up getting with Don Draper?

Draper represents a lot of things I hate about guys in real life: uncommunicative, repressed, sullen, married to his work, misogynist, an unfettered womanizer. But he's also like this really great man who sticks by his personal code of honor, possesses unshakeable presence, and is ambitious and amazing at his job. Plus he always knows how to say just the right thing when he needs it. No question about it, Don Draper is a man to be looked up to. "What Would Don Draper Do?"

Re-watching Mad Men is bringing me to last year around this time, when I undertook a similar Draper frenzy. I think we were whipping through Season Two then, in anticipation of Season Four. What that means, literally and symbolically, is that I'm back where I began. I think I'm giving up on 2011 in anticipation of a 2012 that really can't come soon enough. It's only mid-October but I think I'm in year end mode already. I bought a ticket a few hours ago, any guesses on where?

I'm sure you've heard but there's a spate of female-centric comedies debuting on TV recently. I felt like I had to check them out in support of women creators in television and such. Of the three, Zooey Deschanel and her New Girl is the easy winner. It's not amazing but there can be no doubt, Zooey is "adorkable" and irresistible. Actually the real appeal of the show so far has been the douchebag character, played by Max Greenfield. Again, someone I would avoid in real life but great on-screen.

The bad news is that 2 Broke Girls is very unfunny despite leads I like. And Whitney is even worse. The brain behind the two latter shows is comedian Whitney Cummings, who should be applauded for having her babies picked up for full season runs but I'm wondering why they both suck. I can't get over the grating laugh tracks. One of the Internet people I follow, Molls, is a writer for 2 Broke Girls and she's hilarious but I can't find any traces of her humor in any of the episodes.

Back in San Francisco, before I left for the drive, we had started watching the first season of The Cosby Show on Netflix. The writing was so good, the laughs still so relevant and timely, that I wondered what kind of staff was responsible for doing the show. How many black writers were behind the scenes? How many women? How old was the staff and what was their previous experience? What would it take to create a sitcom like that today? Here's a 1984 article, "Cosby Puts His Stamp on a TV Hit," that sheds a bit of insight.

When is anything good and nuanced going to appear on television about young people -- in a drama or sitcom format? Or did that already happen and I missed it? Was it Friends? Oh wait I said "nuanced."

The Rest Is Still Unwritten

After leaving Utah, otherwise known as the place Footloose was filmed, we traveled on to Denver. Because Leslie's friend was still at a concert, we spent our time eating Chinese food at a place called "blue ocean." I'm pretty sure the name was aspirational, as was the food. Afterward, still with nothing to do, we pulled up in a parking lot and played Whitney Houston and Deniece Williams from the stereo and danced with reckless abandon because who the hell did we know in Colorado? The guys closing up the pizza place stared and two girls from the coffee shop came out on a smoke break, saw us dancing, and mock danced also. Whatever, you all want to dance with somebody, I know you do. I also received my first house dancing lesson from Leslie. This was all caught on video and the footage is available here.

Despite a late arrival, we decided to head into downtown for brunch at this place called Snooze. They are apparently opening a location in San Diego soon, which is swell because SD lacks in good brunch places. Well, this location had a two hour wait and that left us with lots of downtown exploring to do. Denver is basically like San Diego actually. If you've been to both, you'll know what I mean. Leslie's friend whom we stayed with is just about the nicest guy ever and he not only housed us but then paid for our lunch. Also he had some amazing white couches in his condo. Getting white leather couches is a statement you know? It says that you are somebody who cares about cleanliness and am unafraid of having your friends sit in gleaming perfection. I would never dare to get white couches in my house.

This is quickly turning into a recap, which is not what I wanted. Basically after Denver we embarked on the bulk of our road trip. Originally Leslie wanted to pass through Chicago but it was decided that having Kansas City barbeque was more of a priority. Housed in a gas station, Oklahoma Joe's was listed as one of Anthony Bourdain's Thirteen Places to Eat Before You Die. While I'm not much of a ribs guy, Leslie said that they were definitely the best ribs she'd ever tasted and with the casual atmosphere and cheap prices, OK Joe's was well worth the trip. Later on, as we approached St. Louis, we reminded each other of how both of us had applied to Washington University. Basically that meant Leslie and I were fated to meet regardless of where we went to college.

I don't know if Leslie had any trepidation about spending a whole week with me but I sure didn't have any concerns about her. I mean, even though we've never attempted a trip of this magnitude together before, we've been in each other's lives for so long that even in our annoyances I knew we would be fine. Our biggest disputes were probably what kinds of music we could share, our differing stances on the death penalty, and my lack of motivation in the mornings. I did learn that the girl had to be fed every four or five hours, like a ravenous Tamagotchi. (Why do girls get so cranky when hungry?) Back in college, Leslie and I often acted like an old married couple and ten plus years later, the energy was pretty much the same.

For her, the trip was a necessary adjustment period from life in San Francisco back to living near family. She said she welcomed the time to let the Bay slink away versus just jumping into an airplane and being deposited on the East Coast. I was hoping to come to some life decisions on our trip too, but singing and dancing got in the way. The good news is we played a game where we categorized our friends according to what colors we think they would be. We also talked a lot about the criminal justice system as she tried to get me to start Season 1 of The Wire. I refused because I knew it would suck me in and ruin the rest of my October.

Overall, driving cross country was much easier than I expected. Five hundred miles a day works out to about eight hours, give or take, and even with just two drivers, it wasn't too bad. Sure we didn't quite go coast to coast -- I'm getting dropped off in Penn State for a week or so -- but we made it with energy and enthusiasm to spare. Both of us would have wanted to take a longer trip across, as our schedule left little time for dawdling post-Utah. I didn't really get to soak in the stillness of middle America, nor did we make many stops, except for once to a kitschy tourist trap called Nostalgiaville that specialized in Elvis, Betty Boop, and Wizard of Oz paraphernalia.

Leslie took about a thousand photos and let's hope they see the light of day soon. In the meantime, here are mine: Roadtrip 2011. In total, we drove approximately 3,075 miles, stayed in Mt Carmel Junction (UT), Panguitch (UT), Denver (CO), Topeka (KS), Brazil (IN) and only almost died once. Well, not even, but Leslie screamed like we were about to die, even though the deer crossing the road was walking incredibly slowly and I was driving even slower. #trust

Ain't No Mountain High Enough

Years ago, three of my good friends went on a road trip to Utah and Arizona. They were going to camp, hike, and take in the sights. After initially being considered their fourth, I was dis-invited. They could not fathom how an indoor loving, dirt hating, physically frail person such as me could survive the rigors of their upcoming trip. Now I must use this forum to set the record straight.

I have camped before. Successfully.

I have carried a hiking backpack through the wilderness to a clearing, made a tent, and then slept there dirty and unwashed for a day or two. I've rowed a boat through the water and then slept on the sand as wild pigs ran over us in the morning. I have snow shoed across endless terrain until I got sick (ok, maybe I feigned sickness to skip the next day). I have lived on a house boat for ten days while digging holes on the shore for our feces. I have slept in huts, hammocks, and bare ground. I have been places where there was no electricity and Wifi. Yes, most of these experiences were more than ten years ago -- thus violating my "If you did it over ten years ago then it doesn't count" rule -- but they were done.

Admittedly, I generally avoid physical exertion but if the end result is worth it, I'm willing to do it. Which brings me to my next point. The whole idea that the harder you work to get somewhere, the more valuable the experience, that's entirely bunk. Applied to hiking, this is the idea that if you go twenty miles through the wild, the picturesque scene at the end will be worth more. Bullshit I say! If there's an easy tram around, I'd rather just take that. What would motivate me to get to the top of a mountain isn't a sight that I could easily see elsewhere, but something actually valuable. Like ice cream.

When I'm made hiking captain of the world, I'd install ice cream and Jamba Juices at the end of every trail. "But that would ruin nature!" What's ruining nature is two million people crunching through this man-made trail buddy, just shut up and hand me a spoon.

As we ascended near the top of one of Zion's mountains, we asked people coming down if going all the way was worth it. Generally their answer was that the sight was okay but nothing particularly amazing. "There's an unimpeded view of the canyon but you can also just see it from much lower. It's about the same." I know this missing pot of gold doesn't hold true for all hikes but if you handed out gelato and sorbet at the top, that would instantly make everyone motivated to keep climbing. At some portions of the Great Wall, you can toboggan down to the bottom after hiking up. I'd install these too, but change the toboggans to water slides. Why not think outside the box a little? I could make hiking so much better.

Also, I must put on record my aversion to pretty sights. While Leslie was gushing and awestruck at every moment by the majestic beauty of Zion, I found myself uninspired by anything that I saw. "The forests in Yosemite are nicer. The rocks here are interesting but not that great. Where are the mountain goats?" ran my inner monologue. When we got to some water advertised as "pools," they were more like dribbling streams and tepid ponds. Yippee.

At one stop, a woman was posing on the rocks as if she were an aspiring Sports Illustrated swimsuit model. Another guy, a young foreigner, was high up, sitting barefoot, smoking a cigarette, and looking pensive. I guess the clicheness of what people do in nature gets to me. Yes it's pretty. Yes it's unbelievable God put this here just for us. Yes it's amazing we get to live on this amazing Earth. Yes it's nice and we can share a moment. But overall I'm unmoved by views without some context.

I think I'm generally more interested in the science of nature than actual nature itself. Like how did these rocks come to be these striated colors? What's the topography like? Are these plants native or imported? Who settled this area? Is this a good place to hide from mountain lions? Just looking at something pretty does nothing for me. (Unless it's the ocean, then it does everything for me.) I also prefer exploring versus "hiking." I'd rather just walk around and see where I end up as opposed to going toward a destination. The destinations tend to disappoint unless there's a deep pool I can dive into or something.

In related news, Leslie is out at Bryce Canyon National Park today while I'm at the motel sucking up Wifi. My Google Reader proved to be more enticing than different but the same rock formations. For the record, Zion is beautiful though, and gorgeous, if you listen to Leslie versus my Negative Nelly soundtrack.

"Which reminds me: we were driving home yesterday and the person I was with asked if I liked to travel. I said no, I didn't like traveling. She looked at me like she was seeing me for the first time. We were climbing a hill. Everybody likes to travel, it seems. If you read the personal ads almost everyone mentions traveling. The only thing more popular than traveling is hiking. So I amended it slightly. I said, I like going places with people I care about. She said she liked seeing things she'd never seen before. I could see where this was all headed."
-Excerpted from Stephen Elliot's Daily Rumpus-

The High Road

Concerned about arriving at our reservation late, Leslie suggested that we leave San Francisco in the middle of the night. Lucky for her, the middle of the night is when I'm most awake. So a day later than originally planned and in the dark, we set off for Utah at five in the morning -- aiming to arrive by nine, to avoid the twenty five dollar late fee. Three blocks away from George's apartment, we started hearing scraping sounds every time we hit a minor bump.

Other things about Leslie's Accord that I discovered a few minutes in: The dashboard lights don't work, the right side mirror is warped and cracked, the driver's seat doesn't slide back. But the air conditioning was fixed and the headphone jack she installed earlier that day worked beautifully. Good enough. Driving her car reminded me of my own 1997 Accord, which was in a similar state before we gave it away earlier this year. Perhaps illogically, I have no real concerns that the car will break down somewhere along the way. I tend to take a "if I don't see/think there's a problem, there isn't one" philosophy with vehicles.

The scraping was a concern though. Leslie's initial thought was that there was too much weight in her trunk. While a hundred or so extra pounds didn't seem like it would affect much, it made logical sense that luggage needed to be jettisoned. So instead of heading for I-80 and the open road, we found ourselves at a slow moving FedEx in the Financial District, preparing to ship two of Leslie's bigger bags across the country.

Despite waking up at five, we didn't actually leave the city until seven. The sun was up and there were still seven hundred miles to go. As we shot across the Bay Bridge, the car did it again. Bump, scrape, scrape. Oh well, what's the worst that could happen? Something drops from the undercarriage? A tire pops?

Lessons learned during the first day's worth of driving. The groves lining Bakerfield are pistachio trees. That's what we've decided after ruling out apricot and olive. Also, in shocking news, Bakersfield is California's ninth largest city and the 51st largest city in the United States. It is also home to the world's largest ice cream plant. Impressive right? In reality Bakersfield took five minutes to drive through. What other sorts of towns are we going to come across if Bakersfield is a relative metroplis? I'm excited to find out.

Lesson two: My co-pilot has a lead foot and despite being a recent law school graduate, has absolutely no regard for driving restrictions. After being pulled over for speeding, she expressed annoyance at getting caught at only 20 mph over the limit and then she told the officer that it seemed wrong that there was no ticket amount on her paperwork. "Well that just seems ridiculous! Don't you know how much it will be?" The officer was not swayed by her indignation.

Seeing as she's accrued a ticket in only three hours of driving, the over/under for number of citations Leslie will accumulate on this trip is three. Lay down your bets now people. I've also dubbed her car "The Black Hole" because so far she's lost or misplaced her eye mask, her cell phone, sunblock, and a few more items despite the fact that we've only exited the car like twice. At the end of this trip, when she cleans everything out, there's going to be a pile of goodies shaken out.

A thirteen hour drive, one time change, and two stops for food later, we pulled into our country inn at eleven. Before the trip I looked into our audio book options. I thought something intellectually stimulating would keep us engaged. After downloading stuff like The Souls of Black Folk, The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, Don Quixote, the Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, and the Communist Manifesto, I'm pretty sure none of them will be used as the passenger is just going to knock out if we put these on. Music and podcasts it is!

Let's Gauge It

Well, the wedding weekend couldn't have started off less auspiciously. While driving a few short miles to the groom's house in preparation for the ceremony, my car puttered out about halfway through. Panicked that I wouldn't make the one event I couldn't be late for, I dropped it into a lower gear and hoped for the best. A few more blocks and the car wouldn't move even when I punched the gas pedal to the floor.

After Ameer came out to look at it, he announced that the transmission was shot. So, stuck between an upcoming ceremony and a dead car, I ditched the vehicle on the side of the road -- for George and James to come pick it up later.

That was the only hiccup the entire weekend. Everything else went amazing. Splitting the mandatory family portion of the night away from the party time was a stroke of genius. Even though I had my hesitations about a wedding being planned in two different cities, that turned out to be the greatest move ever. Spreading a wedding out over a couple of days also allowed for lots of down time and relaxation, and it felt like an easy vacation for all. If weddings are reflective of the happy couple's personality, then this was a no muss, no fuss affair that perfectly mirrored what they wanted.

Let's talk about being a groomsman. Having never been so up close and personal when two people were getting married, I was surprised by how touched I was. Weddings tend to be blasé affairs nowadays. I sit in the back rows, flipping around on a phone or reading the Bible while some guy up front goes on and on. But when you're standing there at full attention, there's nothing else to do except study your friend for each shift in emotion and affection. I had a perfect view of the bride's face as she stared deep into Henry's eyes, their gazes locked upon one another. I saw all of the bridesmaids' reactions as the couple said "I do."

At the Chinese banquet after the ceremony, I gushed to my friend about how great it was being a groomsman. It felt so close and personal being in the wedding party, like the thrill of seeing a dolphin out in the wild versus at an amusement park. Eric, a veteran of many weddings and groomsman duties, laid it out like this.

"You've never been a groomsman before?"

"Nope!" I gushed, declaring that I didn't want to attend weddings anymore unless I was a groomsperson.

"I'm sorry for you if this is your first experience. It doesn't get better."

"What do you mean?"

Eric passed his hand over the center of our table. "What do you see here?" It was empty except for the food.

"Usually there's a centerpiece here. Guess who brings that?" he asked.

"Me?" I offered.

"Did you have to bring anything to the restaurant? Run any errands the last few days? Was there a tux rental or something you had to buy beforehand?"

"No, I just showed up for the pictures and the ceremony," I said.

"It's never this easy. Normally the groomsmen take care of anything the groom needs. Before, during, and after."

"Oh." After receiving Eric's words of wisdom, I've decided maybe I best just be a groomsman this once and leave on a high note.

The venue for the party portion of the wedding must be discussed. Most weddings are held in staid hotel banquet rooms that reek of uniformity and manufactured opulence. You get to dinner, sit down at your table for ten, and proceed to make some chatty with people that you hopefully know. Well, Henry and Jane's wedding was held at a stylish restaurant, and with its mood lighting and open yet closed spaces, Mesa was an ideal location for celebrating.

A friend pointed out that because the setting was a lounge and felt like a normal night out, people were encouraged to mingle and bounce around to different areas, even during dinner. This created a festive atmosphere and avoided the stilted feeling that can sometimes accompany eating times. After the amazing food had been served, they opened up the retractable roof and let the music fly. Yes the house DJ refused to play Party Rock, or take any requests for some ridiculous reason, but the night was so fun anyway.

And then magically near midnight, a sausage cart rolled up outside, hired by the bride and groom to feed their guests again. This was such a hit that people mingled around outside for quite awhile, tossing back bulgogi and spicy pork sausages while neglecting the open bar inside. More bottomless lychee martinis eventually lured everyone back to the dance floor.

When the party wound down, the bride was still ready to keep going and just like the night before, we went back to the hotel and camped out in the open patio area for drinking, smoking, scarfing down cookies, and getting the valuable downtime that really allows you to hang out, catch up, and reflect on a fantastic time. So perfect.

Alright, who's next?!

Vertigo

We went surfing today. The waves pummeled us like nobody's business. The reports offered sixty five degree weather and six to eight foot waves. Ideal conditions, if a little bigger than I'm used to. The routine of getting our boards, towels, water jugs, and a burrito beforehand went perfectly. Then we hit the water. It was freezing. Everyone but the two of us were outfitted in wetsuits. The waves were sizing down but still monstrous (relatively). The break was two hundred yards off shore and we had to fight through four or five sets of powerful waves and whitewash to get out there.

I never completely made it. For one, I'm a terrible paddler. Just pushing out that first time took a lot out of me. Right before I got to the calm area where everyone else was sitting, a monster crashed on top of me and swept me nearly all the way back to shore. Unable to keep my board underwater for duck dives, incapable of turtling, I resorted to just fighting my way back out, inch by inch -- my board out of control every time a big wave hit. After spending more time upside down and underwater than right side up, I gave in. I managed to ride one little guy in, mostly balancing on my knees, and then collapsed on the beach. A few moments later, I saw my friend emerge from the chaos too.

We were both spent. Total time spent in the water? Maybe twenty minutes. My friend is a far better and sturdier surfer that I, and it relieved me to see that even he had given up. Both of our heads pounded from headaches and ear pressure. I figured my board had maybe hit me on a tumble, but since we were both suffering from the same symptoms, maybe it was a combination of cold and sea sickness. Or maybe so much saltwater flew into my ears that I just lost all equilibrium. Our climb back up the cliff sapped our remained energy reserves.

After recovering our senses, we retreated to the jacuzzi -- I took two Motrin -- and listened to some small boys marvel over Angry Birds on the iPad. We're officially over the hill.

For this experience, I passed up getting a tattoo yesterday. Despite having grand plans with two of my friends to get tatted together, I had to prioritize surfing. Tattoos and salt water don't mix. I promised that I'd show up for moral support though. One of my friends was getting his very first tattoo and I was so excited to be there.

Instead I overslept and reached them only after the deed was done. Friend failure. Huge. My lame excuse is that I was woken up by this, a four year old swinging a fuzzy flower in my face three hours after I went to bed. After reading some Calvin & Hobbes together, and watching a bit of Netflix before she left, I passed out and missed my vibrating phone alarm. (Sidenote: This precocious child selected a 1939 movie to watch, Shirley Temple's The Little Princess. Her biggest concern: "When she turns into a princess, she'll get to dance right?")

Now I'm hardly a reliable friend but I'm not flaky. If I say I'll be somewhere, I'm be there. This time though, I wasn't. And missing your friend's first tattoo is probably worse than missing their wedding or graduation or acting debut or something. Getting a tattoo is permanent and an irrepleaceable experience. If you aren't there when it's inked, you'll never be in that story, that moment.

At first I wanted to beg forgiveness. But then I realized that I really shouldn't be forgiven. I'd never let my friend hear the end of it if they failed to show up for my tattoo appointment. So instead, I'll just share his disappointed text to me: "The open wound on my arm is nothing compared to the open wound on my heart."

Touché.

My friend Henry is getting married tomorrow. We met at a pre-prom introduction outside Jamba Juice -- then called Juice Club. It was me and my blind date and him and his girlfriend, who was my date's best friend. That girlfriend was Henry's first one ever. Tomorrow, fifteen years later, I'll be standing by him when he says "I do" to his very last.

In that decade and a half, we went to college together, lived in three different cities together, and have kept each other's secrets by mutually abiding to a Cold War nuclear armament philosophy. "If you have ammo, I'll get more ammo. If you ever fire, I'll fire too." So far so good.

Fundamentally we're very different people. He's a risk taker and a big picture kind of guy, with nerves of steel. I'm a conservative fuddy-duddy and always honed in on details that make me chirp, "No no, that won't work!" Despite that, we've made fine complementary colors.

I've never been a groomsman before. I'm hoping to have good posture.

Take Me for What I Am

I've found my dream tattooist. That's the good news. The bad news is he lives in France. Of course, since I'm unlucky, he just left Williamsburg a few months ago. He comes to the U.S. once in awhile and works out of a shop literally two blocks from where I subletted earlier this year. I'm gonna stalk him until he shows up again. Or to go France, whichever is less logical.

I was looking at Picasso and Miro sketches, and stumbled upon Noon's work. His style is so unique and the work is so detailed. Some people donate their body to science, well, I'm donating my skin to Noon. He's got this one tattoo that has everything I'd want: stars, rockets, fish, robots. And I am obsessed with his clouds. But I don't want to dictate to Noon what I want, I'll just let him do his thing. You don't go up to artists and say, "Hey, gimme this this and this." No, I believe in just letting them do what inspires them.

• Boucherie Traditionnelle
• Tattoo Road Trip article on Noon
• Noon Gallery 1 | 2
• Noon's blog

In the meantime, I found this other fantastic artist in San Diego. I think I'm going to give her my forearms. I hope she can work with the spindly canvas. Her stuff is wonderful patterns and sort of mehndi-like. I absolutely love her use of shading and negative space. She's out of the country until late September, otherwise I'd be camped outside her shop this week. Instead I'll just go surfing -- something you can't do with fresh tattoos -- and wait patiently for her return.

It's been four years since I've gotten a tattoo. That's utterly ridiculous. With luck, I'll rectify that ten fold by the end of the year.

My friend Wendy has the most drool worthy tattoo, done by Yann Black. It's a minimalist bird and the simple lines that stretch down her arm to tie the piece together blow my mind every time I see it. Turns out Yann and Noon worked together to develop their styles. Of course.

Draw Back Your Bow

Listening to: Sam Cooke, "Cupid." Me and this track, this track and I, are going to be amazing friends.

I hopped out to the city for the first time in two weeks. Since returning from my mini East Coast tour, I've been holed up house sitting and writing. Going from trees and solitude to traffic and buildings took some readjustment before I settled in. It's bad but I can't decide which I prefer right now. For my sake I hope it's the traffic and buildings.

The lounge I ended up at on Thursday night had a retractable roof made of glass that was pretty exciting while in motion. When going out, anything different is suddenly an attraction. "Did you see those inverted bathrooms? Wow!" I'd like to think I'm above it but I'm really not. I mean, I'm still curious about an ice bar, even though I already know they're stupid.

Despite downing only a handful of drinks, I was gone before midnight. Maybe I should have stayed longer to dance it off, but on the taxi ride home, it was all I could do to concentrate and not throw up. When I got to my friend's apartment, he was not in top shape himself and while normally I'd offer my assistance, there was no getting around the fact that if I didn't lie down immediately, my world would end.

After this near miss, I'm holding off on alcohol until the Labor Day wedding. Then I will order shots but surreptitiously pour half of each down someone else's throat. I've been getting hangovers recently when I drink, even in the slightest amount. They are so decapitating that it shocks me people are willing to subject themselves to this over and over. Wouldn't the world be a less painful place if we read more about alcohol rather than drinking it?

On Friday, my plans to go to a friend's art show was literally washed out, as New York got pummelled with rain and everyone was trapped indoors. Watching my friends gather and hang out in their apartment, I realized a few things. One, it's really just so much easier to date within your ethnicity grouping. This particular group of friends rolls mono-ethnic deep, and half the girls from one state ended up dating or marrying half the guys from another state. Seeing the familiar interactions the group had -- not all attributable to shared backgrounds of course -- it made it very clear how hard it might be for an "outsider" to slide in. If you value your ethnic social circle, it's much easier to find a similarly shaped peg for that particular hole.

Later that weekend, I had talks about this exact same topic with another friend. He's semi-dating this girl whom he can't quite convince to go serious because he's not her desired ethnicity. We compared notes on how sometimes people date one contrary type (i.e. not their ethnicity) or whatever for awhile, but then once they hit a certain age and readiness, they settle down with a person that fits the mold. Bam, game over. So my friend fights the fight, being an ethnic ambassador. I'm supporting him from the bench.

The other realization I had was that all the problems I encounter trying to get my friends to have united fun by playing games are basically universal -- especially when half the crowd just wants to talk, watch television, or are anti-games. I think in the future I'm going to forgo trying to make a group of people move the same way, and just retreat to the confines of my electronics. That's actually the opening number to one of my book projects right now. A young girl lamenting how she wishes all her friends could be replaced by robots. It's not autobiographical, not at all.

Triple Double

Frozen with fear that one day I'll lose my laptop, I spent most of my day creating a system for my email. I'd been using Mail on my Mac for the longest time and relied on folders and draft boxes to keep all my shit organized. However, as pointed out to me by Ameer, that puts me at high risk for losing everything should my laptop not be around. And since I'm such an advocate for cloud computing, I had to get my Gmail all configured up. Then I cleaned up my contacts list.

I could regale you with more details but that would just be too much personal info divulged. Suffice to say, my goal is now to master all the Gmail shortcuts so I can play my email like Rachmaninoff. "Look ma, no mouse!"

A year ago around this time I was chilling out in San Diego, having a slump of a summer. Now I'm housesitting in a very similar manner, but across the country. The good news is that I've being productive and consuming vast quantities of sweets -- cookies, chips, Skittles, something amazing called "Rocky Road pudding cake." The bad news is that the summer is already over. Not technically but I know exactly where I'll be a month from now and it won't be here. In fact, I'm not settled in New York any more than I was twelve months ago. I don't need to remind you that that's not exactly progress.

The other day I asked my friend how her new job and city was. She told me that she was working a lot. Ten years ago she said that she wanted to make director and would be happy there. Guess what her level is now? "Director." Goal accomplished I'd say. I wonder at what age you can just say "I'm good here, let's just stop." Whatever age that is, I'm pretty sure it's not your early thirties.

On an unrelated note, a few weeks ago I went up to Washington Heights, way up in the 160s, higher than I'd ever been. My friend does her weekly Internet radio show from there, The Failure Series. She was kind enough to let me and another friend talk about whatever we wished. We chatted about blogging and writing and I tried to read the short story I wrote the day before. I couldn't make it all the way through re-listening to my reading because it was so stilted but I'm thankful for the off the cuff practice.

Present Past

I got an email the other day from my aunt in San Jose. It was a forwarded email from a cousin in China. For a long time, I thought my father was the oldest sibling in his family. When we were late teenagers, I found out different. Apparently he had an older brother and sister who had been left behind when my grandparents fled to Taiwan. Now my Chinese aunt's son wanted to contact me about a project he wanted to do. His idea is to write our family history; he from the Chinese side, me from the American side. I think that's the idea anyway. I'm not sure exactly what his goal is, if this is intended for publication or just his own personal curiosity. Because he doesn't know English, I have to get his emails translated. Google does a lot of things well but going from Mandarin to English is still pretty dicey.

The idea is intriguing but I don't know a lot about our family history. My cousin Chloe is about half my age and knows twice as much. She's actually been to China to see some of the "missing" family. Although I guess we're the missing part of their family. It's a pretty common story, siblings from both my parents' sides were left behind when the Communists took over. From what I can tell, that's what this cousin wants to touch upon and capture.

Chloe and I constructed a rudimentary family tree based on what we knew. It only spanned four generations and I already found out that my grandfather likely had a sibling or two I didn't know about. I had just assumed that my grandfather and his brother were the only two siblings from their generation. In retrospect, that makes no sense. Chinese families of that era never had just two children. I guess we just never asked if they had any brothers and sisters. I feel like we grew up in a historical haze.

Our family history was never much discussed growing up. Even now my aunt is cagey with the details as to exactly who this cousin writing me is. From what I've pieced together, he might technically not be related, or there was something that separated him from our family timeline. I feel like I should say "yes" to him, just because he reached out to contact me. What would my response be otherwise? "No I'm not interested in finding out more about our family. Sorry."

For some time, I've had Alexander Chee's "Portrait of My Father" pinned on my browser tab. I keep meaning to write something similar about my father. One of the things holding me back has been my lack of knowledge about him. Slightly shamefully, I don't know his preferred drink, his candy bar, or what he read. I guess this potential project would be a good reason to find out.