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 Characters who emotionally withdrawn for no good reason are just as annoying as characters who fall in love too quickly.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'
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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)-