My Baby Shot Me Down

Henry and I are researching Airsoft BB guns for use in um, a recreational manner. Mainly we're trying to settle who would be a better shot. From watching Surviving the Cut: Where Marine Snipers are Born, I learned that each sniper team operates in a pair. One to spot targets, gauge the distance, check on wind, humidity, and other such things; one to shoot. Ever since an extraordinary childhood career in Duck Hunt, I've been convinced that I'm a crack shot. This was proven out when we visited a Seattle fairgrounds in my teenager-dom and they had those arcade games where you shoot metal targets with a menacing pop gun. I'm pretty sure I was like Annie Oakley that day -- in the rain no less. Bang bang. No wait, just "bang." One shot, one kill.

A lot of people probably grow up wanting to be snipers -- they are clearly the coolest -- but only a few are born with the requisite skills. I believe I am one of those people. In contrast, Henry is best equipped to be my spotter because he is good at reading the elements -- he's much more outdoorsy than me. Plus he's impatient, never a good trait for a soldier who uses inaction as action.

Of course, Henry thinks I should be the spotter because my "soft hands would blister against the course handle." (To add insult to injury, he added, "Your hands are small enough, perfect for holding binoculars.") No way man! I can just wear padded gloves to protect my admittedly delicate hands. My counter on most of his points is that I can hold my breath longer, an important asset for a sniper because breath control is very important.

We'll be competing in a "hold your breath" contest when the weather warms up enough to go swimming. Loser is the permanent spotter. Little does Henry know that I can hold my breath longer than most humans -- it's from all that flute playing as a youth. I don't care if I smoke. Even with a few cigarettes a day I can still hang underwater for so long I'm practically a fish.

Now our sniper duo just needs a few jobs. Please hire us, we'll come protect your home against threats foreign and domestic. We'll also take out anyone you want within a range of ten to a thousand yards. I think we'd like to eventually specialize in Peeping Toms, as those are the grossest. Be sure to ask for our friend rate.

Earlier this month, I tried to read the autobiography of an American sniper. This guy had the most career sniper kills in U.S. history, over one hundred and fifty. I quit after about twenty pages. While I tried to put aside my political views and just get into his story, it was impossible. It takes a certain type of person to join the military. To be willing to go somewhere and take shit down just because you are told to. Even a few pages in, the author's voice was too off-putting to continue.

While I haven't read that many military books, Black Hawk Down is one I'd recommend as it unspools the events of the Battle of Mogadishu in an extremely compelling way -- for better or worse.

Yes, Act of Valor is a glorified commercial for the armed forces. Yes it's reprehensible to support American military action in places it has no place being. Yes all those Marines and SEALs are trained right here in San Diego. Yes it's wrong to glorify the excitement of seeing things blow up while ignoring the horrors of war. But damn the movie is every Modern Warfare 3 player's bloody dream. Is watching Act of Valor a vote of support for more military spending? Is getting a thrill watching gun boats come charging in to mow down Filipino terrorists wrong? Is cheering on the sight of paratroopers dropping into a Mexican town to engage in a firefight totally reprehensible? Yes again on all counts.

The thing I mostly felt while watching this movie, aside from slightly conflicting feelings of "this is so awesome/wrong" is how much these soldiers put on the line. Their training and precision are awe inspiring, their jobs crazy, their sacrifices many. Even if you hate the military, it's difficult to hate the individuals -- well, not true, but you know what I mean. Most of my friends likely wrinkle their noses when positive talk of soldiers and the military comes up. I'm with them, I mean, how can you not be? But...

"You don't want the truth. Because deep down, in places you don't talk about at parties, you want me on that wall. You need me on that wall.... I have neither the time nor the inclination to explain myself to a man who rises and sleeps under the blanket of the very freedom I provide, then questions the manner in which I provide it. I'd prefer you just said thank you and went on your way. Otherwise, I suggest you pick up a weapon and stand a post. Either way, I don't give a damn what you think you're entitled to."
-A Few Good Men-

Melisma

Much of my weekend was spent blowing through Game of Thrones and Homeland. (Stop right here if you need to because spoilers are contained below.) People have been telling me that Game of Thrones should be right up my alley as it's all fantasy and geekery. As my friend had free HBO at her place, I spent an evening over there pretty much inhaling the entire series in one shot.

Verdict: Good show but it's not for me. My entire hesitation about getting into Game of Thrones was that of the people recommending it to me, none of them were really fantasy fans. For many of them, this was their first-ish brushes with fantasy stuff and that concerned me. During childhood I raised myself on a heavy diet of trashy fantasy books and media so my taste has been honed to a particular swords and sorcery type fantasy

Newsflash: Game of Thrones is not (high) fantasy. I mean, it's fantasy as in it's set in an imaginary world, and there are some elements of the supernatural, but the appeal of the show is the political intrigue, not the heroes and monsters -- literal or humanoid. Basically it's an impressively complex and fully fleshed out world, inspired by the various wars of succession in medieval England, but it's pretty short in the magic department. Yes dragons eventually show up -- I spent an entire late night / early morning devouring the Game of Thrones wiki -- but I assure you that the series is more about who fucked over whom for control of some parcel of land than anything I'd have liked to see.

Game of Thrones is about power, families, war. Unless they want to start bringing in some mystical shit, or interesting other races, or start showing the epic battles, I'm out on all of it. If I'm going to get all wrapped up in historical minutiae, I'd rather just read about the real England.

"Well, I always wanted to be a wizard!"
-Samwell Tarly-

I don't know why but a friend said that it seems like I've bound and gagged my inner geek and stuffed him in the back of a closet somewhere. This friend and I, clearly we haven't hung out enough. In addition, the other day I was tasked with explaining the difference between orcs and goblins. C'mon now, elementary.

My friend got a real kick out of me having this kind of (valuable) knowledge. Is my geek flag not flying high enough? Clearly I don't emphasis how much elves, dwarves, and stuff like that play a role in my life -- and self identity. From now on I'm just gonna go around talking about wyverns and wights at parties. Or attend parties where other people talk about this stuff.

As for Homeland, it's definitely a good show. Claire Danes plays a CIA agent who is trying to figure out if a former American P.O.W. has been turned by some terrorists. Suffice to say, I'll watch the former Angela Chase in anything but she's beyond fantastic here. Her character is bipolar and Danes' depiction of her manic state is both spot on and for me, reminiscent of a manic episode from my past.

Sadly, the first season ends in a completely disappointing manner and after the credits rolled, Amanda and I sat outside on her balcony, waiting for the sun to rise, sucking down cigarettes, and railing against the time we'd just invested into Homeland. Sorry Claire, we won't be returning for season two.

The problem with these two shows is that the draw is all about finding out "what happens next." As put forth in this A.V. Club article about The Sopranos and the decline of the episode, some TV series now are just putting forth installments versus episodes.

"Why is treating an episode as an installment a problem? An episode functions unto itself as a piece of entertainment, one that has an ebb and flow that can be enjoyed on its own terms. An installment serves the über-story of that season without regard for accomplishing anything substantial during its running time."

I can't invest into stuff like this. I'm as susceptible to getting sucked in as anyone else -- more probably -- but if the show is mostly plot driven and doesn't give me enough magic moments while watching it, my impatience just makes me skip online and read the outcome. It's more satisfying and efficient that way. I hate the feeling of being dragged along week after week.

Mad Men, I need you back soon. Hurry.

• Serial Killers: Are HBO-Style Dramas Ruining the TV Episode?
• No, The Sopranos Didn’t Ruin Television
• The Episode is Alive and Well

Sweet Nothings

Wrapped up two short stories for a writer's workshop I'm trying to get into for the summer. They weren't very long stories -- only 3,000+ words each -- but they took forever to slog through. It's not even great work. It's passeable and hopefully enough to get me in, but I know they're not what I wanted them to be. The requested word limit was 2,500 to 6,000 but my rationale was why write double the minimum for something that I may not even get in?

This is probably not the way I should think. A responsible writer would use this opportunity to work out an idea in full and submit the best story he could. Instead I wrote enough to calculate what I think will get me in and then slapped on quick endings to just be done with'em. And after submitting my application I ran around joyously like I'd just accomplished something. The small victories my friends, the invisible victories.

The workshop is six weeks long and you room and board at the location -- conveniently in San Diego this year. The program is also pretty expensive, so I'd be paying to live fifteen miles from home. Still, I'd be excited to attend what's essentially a writers camp. Our adolescent summers were jam packed with summer camps so this would be throwback territory. What kind of adult can go to something that sucks up a month and a half? The non-working that's who. I'm excited to meet my people.

NBA players must be on the phone constantly. I mean, Jeremy Lin said he talks to Yao Ming every day. And in another recent interview, Gilbert Arenas listed off who he chats with on a regular basis. It was like ten players. Add in the phone calls they have with their regular friends, old coaches, wives, girlfriends, side honeys, agents, managers, etc. and professional athletes must be on the super unlimited plan.

Where do they find the time? I guess there's a lot of time for athletes to just chill out and take a few phone calls because they are traveling so much. What I'm curious about is if they're talking about personal stuff or it's all just basketball. "Great game today man. How're you feeling about, you know, life?" Are they emotionally supporting each other in everything or do they lean on each other because only those with similar first-hand experiences can relate to their struggles? Do these guys then have a late night phone call before going to bed? "Good night Dwight, talk to you tomorrow." This is what I'd like to know about, the telephone habits of my favorite players. Someone should connect the dots and infographic out their communication network for the rest of us.

Also I learned what a "honey dip" was. Well not really. There seems to be conflicting definitions. The honey dip is either your main squeeze who is "your main chick, your ryda chick, who is with you through thick and thin." Or it's "your main chick on the side, she'll always be there but knows she ain't wifey." Someone clear this up for me. For now I'm just going with "side honey" to define the latter situation.

From an interview with John Jeremiah Sullivan in LA Review of Books: "[Slavoj Zizek] has this thing about love, the evil of love, and he says, I really don't like love, because what love says is: I pick you out from everything, and I'm going to give you special attention, meaning that everything else is denigrated, and he says there's something a little evil in that, and in the same way I think that there something a little philistine about lists."

All I care about is lists. And picking things out from everything else. What level of hell is for exclusionists?

My top five soups from Grantland's Souper Bowl bracket: ramen, tortilla soup, pho, corn chowder, minestrone. If beef noodle soup were on this list, it would replace minestrone in a heartbeat.

Bowling Together

I don't know if you spent a lot of your college experience going online to take personality quizzes but I sure did. The two favorites freshman year were the OK Cupid dating one and the purity test. The latter subtracted a point for each "unpure" thing you'd done. Back then, at eighteen years of age, one of my friends scored an awe inspiring 99 points. We argued about whether or not going to prom qualified as a date. Had I lost the argument, she would have been the picture of lilly white perfection. Nowadays I'd find it hard to trust anyone who scored less than a fifty-five.

Also, if you know someone who gets a zero on the purity test, you should probably reconsider your friendship because question #100 is "have you ever committed bestiality." I mean, not to judge people's lifestyles or anything but I'm too prude for that. Even by association.

Last week I was listening to David Choe on Howard Stern and it's really something. I mean, I love Choe, am ambivalent about Stern, but the interview is really all kinds of great. His anarchic energy is something I could never deal with in real life -- I'd be so afraid -- but at a voyeuristic distance, it's fascinating. Mainly because I don't understand a single bit of it. And if you want to sample some more Choe, the sixteenth and final episode of his Koreans Gone Badly podcast is two hours of rambling chatter about the porn industry, sex tourism, and all that gooey stuff David and Co. normally talk about. Dirty hands indeed.

I just retook the OK Cupid test because I'm making another friend do it. For most of my twenties I was Last Man on Earth but a few years ago I made the leap up/down to The Manchild. Reading over the descriptions, basically what it says is that I went from a guy who was haphazard, inexperienced, and quite possibly "a dick somewhere down the line and fuck[ed] it all up" to someone who was unthinking, hurtful, and liked seeing bad things happen Pretty accurate.

Today's result was Vapor Trail, which indicates that I've become, at the very least, more experienced in relationships. What that also means is I've had my share of blissful beginnings but things never turn out how I'd like. True and true. The description goes on to explain that my problem is I'm never happy with someone for an extended period of time. Again, true. Why pay for therapy and friends when OK Cupid does all of this for you? I don't really believe in astrology, astronomy, or fortune telling but I'll ride or die with the Dating Persona Test. Especially since it tells me that the Vapor Trail is also "the most likely male type to be haunted by serious regret." Yeah man, sometimes I regret, I do.

The part that I don't get in the Vapor Trail description is this: "Vapor Trails especially need a girl who will laugh at their jokes." Is this true? Females of the world, if you ever feel like laughing at something I say -- even out of pity -- please don't because I need to conduct an experiment. Will my self worth collapse if there is no laugh track in my life? I sure hope not. Nothing is worse than the guy who is always trying to get the chuckles from others. Be sincere already. I don't want to become that guy. Please, don't laugh.

Yesterday night, standing outside the 24-hour coffee shop while the rain drizzled, my friend asked if I liked being single. I couldn't have been more demonstrative with my answer. "Yes!" See, parts of last week was spent helping a friend through her break up process. It reminded me that what I don't miss at all is how being in a relationship can just tank an otherwise perfectly good day. You'll be floating along happily and then a small fight or a tiny thing happens and you're spinning off into disaster.

Not having to deal with that is alone worth staying single for. (That sentence sounds awkward.)

Always Love You

Over the weekend, after going to my friend's house Friday night and then promptly falling asleep on her couch, I think I accumulated sixty hours of sleep. I'm sick. As in I have a cold. Dribbly nose, sinus pressure, stuffed up everything. This is not much "sick" for most people but since I'm rarely under the weather, I think it slayed me. Well I had trouble figuring out if I was sick or just lazy because I regularly sleep twelve-plus hours anyway. What's a few extra stuck in there? I think I have pain tolerance but no idea how to handle discomfort. Give me a quick punch in the face any time, just let me breathe regularly please. People who get sick all the time, or have allergies constantly on the attack, bravo to you all. Stay strong.

Also, I'm having trouble stomaching all this Whitney love, as three days ago she was a punchline and nobody cared. Now she's dead and everyone is so effusive. It's the Michael Jackson effect and I don't like it. I know some of you might agree, so let us make a stand. Stop this hyperbolic "I'm so sad and she was the greatest" wailing. She was the greatest but it probably would have been nice for her to hear that while alive. Please steel yourself for the inevitable Jeremy Lin backlash too, it's gonna come.

• Bill Simmons on Whitney and Squandered Brilliance, circa 2009
• Jay Caspian Kang visits Linsanity
• Kang again, "Jeremy and Jin (2010)"

I've been reading Cometbus #53 and one of the bits chronicles John Holmstrom's career as a magazine publisher. He started Punk Magazine when he was twenty one and had it fold a few times. In just a few short pages, I learned about how integral Punk was to establishing the scene, how often Holmstrom had gotten fucked over by partners, printers, or just plain bad luck -- and some of his own doing of course. It's basically a tale of constant failure but also constant rebirth. "Holmstrom's story was always ending but never over. Like the scene of the same name, Punk died again and again." There's a lot to admire about that, because a few failures probably end most people's verve to keep going in the same direction.

What I'm trying to figure out is when people first failed. And I'm trying to recall when I first felt like I'd failed at something. Throwing the basketball at the wrong hoop? Maybe not getting into the school I wanted to? (Thank goodness I didn't get into Rice actually.) Having to take Stats 402 twice? And somehow still not passing it? Okay, that was a failure, but it didn't seem to reflect on me as a person. Dropping out of school? Again, that somehow didn't put a dent in my notion of self either, although it probably should have. Failing in maintaining relationships? Is that even really a failure? Not being a good friend/son/person? I guess you could fail at life, but that seems a little broad. I'm looking for specifics. I'm gonna try to drill down to when people felt like they failed, like utterly collapsed when they thought they were going to succeed. And the subsequent decision to keep going on. If they did.

If someone I knew was like Holmstrom, starting things up and having them collapse over and over again, we'd probably speak quietly about his lack of success and the stench of his failures. He'd probably resent his unsupportive friends and hate us all. We'd call him delusional. Some articles and studies talk about how kids of a particular upbringing and aptitude are not prepared for set backs. They are used to trending ever upward and when things don't work out, they become paralyzed by their inability to overcome difficulty. This is probably a lot of people I know.

If you'll recall, there was this guy in Ohio who has an exotic pet collection but released them all right before shooting himself. Reading the article about what transpired that night is the saddest thing. Over forty tigers, lions, bears, wolves, and other assorted animals were killed. When the story first broke, people jokingly said that the authorities were probably having the time of their lives going out on a big hunt. Of course nothing could be further from the truth. It was a sad slaughter. What is hard to understand is why anyone should be allowed to keep exotic animals around, much less forty of them. Is there an amendment I missed somewhere?

The Air Up There

Maybe you've been busy not paying attention to sports this weekend but aside from the (horrific) Super Bowl, Jeremy Lin has been obliterating the NBA news cycle with his play. An undrafted rookie from Harvard, Lin fought hard to make it to the big leagues and despite some stellar pre-season showings, he never got much run in Golden State during his rookie year. People were saying that the team only had him around to appeal to the Asian American demographic. Please see Exhibit A, one of the Warriors' Asian Heritage Nights. Gag.

Despite his draw at the ticket counter, Golden State cut Lin this year during the pre-season. The Houston Rockets, bereft of Yao Ming's Chinese-y presence, scooped up Lin before the season started but they too cut him, right around Christmas and before the NBA's opening day. For a devout Christian family like the Lins, that must have confusing. I'm also thinking Lin got a few talks/interrogations from his parents about what his future plans were. "Will you look for a real job now? Where is your suit and tie?" Luckily the New York Knicks signed Lin a few weeks ago and sent him to dominate the D-League before calling him up.

Last week I saw Lin play in a short stint versus the Celtics and he looked pretty respectable. The scouting report on Lin is that he doesn't have much range on his jumper, that he favors his right hand, and that he's a bit slow defensively. To offset that he's got great court sense, surprising quickness and burst, is sometimes called "a genius" at pick and rolls, possesses decent size and deceptive strength, has a knack for getting to the basket, and seems to always be around the ball, causing steals and grabbing rebounds. He's also good at passing and getting teammates involved. Keep in mind the Knicks' season has been going down the tubes because they lack a point guard that can give their craptastic offense some direction. Many Knicks fans, and even some teammates, openly petitioned coach Mike D'Antoni to give Lin more playing time.

As of three days ago, Lin was sleeping on his teammate's couch because his brother's place in the city was booked up with weekend guests -- and Lin didn't have his own spot yet because he was wary of getting cut again and his minimum contract was unguaranteed. Then on Saturday he came off the bench to put up 25 PTS, 7 AST, 5 REB, 2 STL (video) versus the Nets, leading the Knicks to a thrilling victory. Last night Jeremy got his first start and played 45 out of a possible 48 minutes, throwing together a 28 PTS, 8 AST, 2 STL (video) effort and led his team to victory again, this time without Carmelo Anthony or Amare Stoudemire, the two stars of the Knicks.

The Garden was chanting "M-V-P" at Lin all night, and the majority of the crowd stayed after the game to continue cheering wildly while Lin was being interviewed. You don't see that very often. It's safe to say that the tough to please New York sports fans have embraced Lin and he'll be receiving a guaranteed contract, if not a permanent job in the starting rotation. If Jeremy has a third game like this in a row, he's going to own the city and inspire millions of Asian parents to cut back on piano and academic tutoring to push their kids outdoors with basketballs in hand. Aaah, utopia.

While Lin isn't the first Asian American to play in the NBA, he's the first one people (we?) are flocking to. One reason is that the five or so other Asian Americans to grace the NBA hardcourt haven't exactly "looked Asian." Well, aside from Wataru Misaka, who played three games for the Knicks in 1947. Everyone else has been either half or a quarter Asian. Not to discount their Asian-ness, but you know what I mean. Sidenote: Misaka technically broke the NBA's color line, as the league didn't integrate with other minorities until 1950.

And sure, the NBA has had Asian looking players before, but they were mostly of the giant behemoth variety, imported from China or Korea to man the middle. Or in most cases, cheer from the far end of the bench. Lin is an exciting slashing player that has not only held his own, but has been storming Sportscenter. Actually I can't overlook Yuta Tabuse and Sun Yue, a Japanese and Chinese guard, who had short stints in the NBA. It's safe to say that few knew who they were and they never made any highlights.

Now on the discussion of what nicknames are appropriate for Lin. I've seen some pretty horrid ones, many of them borderline or outright racist/ignorant. I mean, I don't even know how I feel about the comments about Lin scoring just as well on his college entrance exams as he does on the court. There's nothing outright offensive there, as he is the first Harvard player to make it into the NBA since the Fifties, but taken together with the general stereotypes of Asian Americans, it's a little off-putting. But I'll concede I'm possibly oversensitive here.

Right now people are calling him "Lin-sanity." I don't like that because it's too much like Vince Carter's "Vinsanity," and Carter was a highlight reel and not much else. Unless people want to start going with "All Man, All Asian," a play off of Carter's other nickname, "Half Man Half Amazing." I'm alright with that. Actually I could almost roll with "Amasian!" too. With the mandatory exclamation mark of course. Maybe even the "z" for the "s." Okay maybe not.

I fear Lin getting stuck with something like "Dragon's Breath," which would be a little funny but not really. I also cringe about anything Shaolin-related. Or a play on any Chinese food ("Panda Express, General Tso, The Wok"). I'm almost hoping someone starts calling him "Rice Rocket" just so I can get riled up. Same thoughts on "Bamboo Baller." Although I could talk myself into "2 Fast, 2 Furious." Don't roll your eyes!

Right after Saturday's victory, Spike Lee blurted out some Lin inspired nicknames via his Twitter. "Grasshopper, Kung Fu Hustle, Hidden Dragon, Fist of Fury, 10 Fingers of Death, Kato, Enter the Dragon." Since then he's been going back and forth with people about whether or not they were insensitive. Spike's main defense is that acknowledging someone's heritage isn't racist. When black people get pulled out of the car by police for driving while black, that's racist. True and true. But nobody is going to be happy with a martial arts themed nickname here. Move along Mars Blackmon, nothing for you to do here except sit in your front row seat and cheer along.

So far Amare calls Lin "Sun Tzu." Carmelo gives him a head nod and hand bow (3m41s) which I can totally get behind. And although this is all sorts of wrong, my favorite nickname suggestion so far is Jeremy "Abacus" Lin, which reflects his calculated and intelligent old school game. Or maybe we just call it a day and name him "Model Minority" or "2400" for his likely SAT score. Or go nostalgic and call him "Data." Lost in all this is that Lin is actually Taiwanese, but whatever. "R.O.C.-A-Fella" probably wouldn't fly anyway. Jeremy "Formosa Rising" Lin?

I've never been so invested in a nickname. Well, not since Blake Griffin's anyway.

Edited: My friend Vivek suggested "Better Luck Tomorrow" because "that's what [Lin] should say to players when he scores on them." I will heartily co-sign on that!

From A Distance

It was my dad's birthday the other day. I had to be coerced into going to the grave site to drop off flowers. Usually we'll go together if we're all in San Diego, or my mom will task us with going if it's an anniversary or something. This time she was busy getting flowers ready for an upcoming event and she told me to go alone. I was non-committal at first but after some reflecting, I thought it best that I did. Personally, I have no attachment to the grave site but I guess you do things not for the dead but for the living, right?

Sometimes, when we go to the grave site, there's people sitting around and picnicking. Yes the (semi-)open grass and view are nice from the funeral home place but really, it's a bit weird. Not morbid exactly, but there are better places to picnic. And the dead might appreciate the effort to include them but somehow I doubt it. That could just be me though. If our dad was in a mausoleum or something, then I would probably visit more. A giant field full of gravestone plaques stuck into the ground? Not my definition of relaxing or picturesque. "I'll just spread my blanket out here on this, um, Mrs. Johnson, 1912-1971, I'm sure she won't mind."

Years ago, my dad and his friends started up a golf club for the Chinese community of San Diego. Him and his best friend, Dr. Charles, organized everything and recruited people to join at every opportunity -- members now number in the low hundreds. They'd often host dinners and social events in conjunction with the golf club, and the two of them were always the entertainment MCs. Yesterday was their club's twentieth anniversary party. Dr. Charles found out I was in San Diego and wanted me to come represent my dad, who was the club's inaugural president. "I made special hats for each of the commissioners, you must come," Dr. Charles declared. How could I refuse?

Basically the event was a wedding without the wedding. A slideshow of photos ran on a projection screen the whole night. Speeches were made, trophies handed out, dance, skits, and karaoke performed. I went up whenever they recognized my dad, and lined up in his place when all the presidents took a photo together. Most of them were uncles I've know for years -- my dad's good friends -- and I was semi-surprised that he was the only one who had passed away early. Not that these uncles were old, but I guess it was such a sharp visual observation and reminder. Horrible thing to think?

Anyway, as the only "kid" there, it was a fun and nostalgic event. Many of our weekends growing up were spent like this. All of us hanging out in a corner or upstairs while our parents sang, danced, and laughed the time away. Some of the parents I hadn't seen in awhile came up to say hello by going, "I'm so-and-so's mother, do you remember me?" Of course I remembered them! If not by exact name, at least by who their children were.

One group of parents came out with a rehearsed dance number -- riffing off of K-Pop's Super Junior -- and they were hilarious. I'd never seen some of my friend's parents do this kind of thing. They are all hams, like super hams. At one point in the night, people flooded the floor and did the line dance that George had patiently taught them fifteen plus years ago. I guess the Tush Push is evergreen -- at this point all the parents are pro at it.

I hope when we get older, we'll have these kinds of social events and group functions to organize and attend. Otherwise we'll just sit at home with our children, scolding them about homework and bad decisions.

Dr. Charles is the best, for many reasons, but one thing our family really thanks him for is that he never forgets. He made those special hats for all the presidents and made sure my dad had one with his name and service year inscribed. Dr. Charles introduced his speech last night by noting my dad's birthday, and talked about his contributions to the community, and said true things about what a competitive golfer my dad was.

Sometimes when we go to the grave site there are already flowers, and we know that Dr. Charles was there before us, never forgetting.

Ra Ra Riot

Driving up to L.A., I realized it's the rare time I'm faced with no computer or electronics around. No articles, no emails, no blogs, no AIM windows, no games, nothing to read or interact with. Well, even when driving I usually have a podcast on so I'm engaged listening to that, but since our Vegas trip, I have re-discovered CDs -- the tape deck adapter in the car isn't working. Having music on, and time to kill, means that my mind actually drifts without other voices talking to me.

Which is how I discovered that I haven't had time to sit around and think about things in awhile. Naturally, cruising along in the slow lane for two hours leads to all the questions I usually don't bother with for more than a few moments: What am I doing next month? What's on my to do list? What writing ideas do I need to flesh out? What what what?

More importantly, it's not just thinking about these things but having the time to churn an idea around. Instead of giving an item ten seconds of briefness, I am sitting there in (relative) silence while having the space for a thought to return again and again. Even if it's only for fifteen minutes, it's longer than I usually spare. What I'm saying is that I should probably go on drives more. Which is what RNA does when she needs to process something. Of course I no longer have exclusive rights to the car since my Mom is back so maybe I better just fire up the bike. I'd return to my nightly walks but the mountain lion could still be prowling around our community. In my imagination anyway.

Also, I found out that being alone with my thoughts mostly leads to a depressing place. That's pretty normal though, I think. Nobody emerges from solitary with "I'm so happy with my life and I feel great!" exclamations. Whenever I used to see this one ex-girlfriend of mine get her knitting gear out, I'd cringe because I knew I would soon be in trouble. While her hands were mechanically moving, her brain was free to wander and piece things together. Invariably that would lead to some sort of revelation about our unhappiness, or she'd be able to pinpoint something I did wrong.

That's why I can't date knitters. It's just a recipe for disaster.

• Why Kids Need Solitude
• Solitude and Leadership

A friend just finished up a month long journey through South Asia. She's never traveled that much before overseas, and she went solo. Following along via her blog posts made me wonder if I could do it. It sounded like an epic adventure, a truly epic adventure, but I kept thinking "Wow, that boat ride sounds cold. Dang, that must have sucked to get swindled like that!" when I read about some wrong turns or someone screaming at her for no reason. Lying in a nice clean bed, in the safety of my childhood home, I was living vicariously, with no real urge to follow in her footsteps. Sure her trip sounded grand, but it also sounded inconvenient. And tiring.

Isn't it disgusting that my creature comforts are more valuable to me than going out and having adventures? While I don't believe in the epiphanic motivation of traveling to "find yourself," I do miss the crazy things that happen in foreign places. Reflecting back on some earlier trips, many of my fondest memories were the semi-disasters. Sleeping in an airport in Barcelona because we couldn't find a place to stay; losing the bike lock key in Vienna and racing to get to our train; getting mugged in Rome while on the phone with my girlfriend; being stranded in nowheresville China; facing a ten foot pile of manure steaming in front of me in England, waiting to be shoveled. These are the moments that stay with you.

The unexpected.

Now I'm not that excited about going anywhere, and when I get somewhere, I just want Wifi and ample electricity. JMZ calls my last few years a rotation between the Bermuda Triangle of SD/SF/NY and not "traveling." He's right of course. What I do is run around, run away, go in-between. There's no destination, and even worse, no journey.

In theory, money is the limiting factor but that's not true. You can go anywhere to teach English. You can get little jobs in foreign countries no problem. Our one friend, who had never been as far as Irvine, went to Taiwan and then lived there for three years without speaking the language. Sure he probably exotic danced, or maybe was a gigolo, but he got by. Lived and learned.

Another friend of mine just left for South Africa. At thirty-something, she's off to join the Peace Corps. While the efficacy of the Peace Corps is debatable, my friend's willingness to uproot herself from her embedded social circle, her boyfriend, and her comfortable but possibly stagnant life situation can only be seen as 100% admirable.

Given the cash and courage, where would I go? (Duh, I'd go to the Apple Store, that's where!)