The day that I got over you
The sun was gold, the sky was blue.
I went to Woodleigh, went by train.
What fate, or sense, had tried in vain
to say so many times before
I heard at last. At last I saw.

What sense, or fate, had tried to say
Was that a stunning summer's day
And all life's other little treats--
kir royales, sports cars (leather seats)--
Could never be enhanced by you.
You are not good. You are not true.

You are not brave. You are not sound.
Outside the pub I look around.
Your absence gave the village scene
That perfect glow. It might have been
Paradise, or the South of France.
For giving you a second chance

Fate could have scolded me with sleet,
Dark grumbling skies. Instead, a treat
Your joyless hand could not describe.
No chance. This shining day's a bribe
I'm way past ready to accept.
Briefly I missed your rude, inept,

Changeable, narcissistic form.
Then I cheered up. It was so warm,
The sun so bright, the sky so clear
The day I made you disappear:
Today, the twenty-eight of June
Have a nice life and afternoon.

-by sophie hannah

it feels so good when it hits your lips

When I was five, my brother used to be in charge of our after-school snacks. We lived in Plymouth Gardens at the time, a rambling apartment community surrounded by an imposing metal fence. Sometimes we would have to climb that fence which would scare the bejeezus out of me. After school, I would walk with my brother to the 7-Eleven down the street where he would buy us a slew of candy to tide us over until dinner: Poprocks, Bubblicious, Blowpops, Ringpops, Now n Laters. Then to round things out nutritionally, Slim Jims for himself and a Firecracker for me.

A Firecracker, for those who grew up in some remote village far from civilization, is a processed sausage that usually sat right next to the cash register, unrefrigerated and theoretically fully cooked. It was packaged in a plastic sheath that was clear on one side, looking a bit like a used condom--though certainly I didn't think so at the time--marinated in a fiery, vinegary, heavenly brine that you could see through the loose plastic film.

Oh how I loved the Firecracker. Having been raised almost exclusively on a breakfast of scrapple, I had a very refined palate when it came to processed meat products. This particular sausage was milled to a wonderful smoothness, like a hot dog, but with a powerful kick that marked the beginning of an inexhaustible affinity for eating spicy foods. I would eat it slowly, one meaty bite at a time, gently pushing the sausage up through the wrapper until it was gone. Succulent. Then I'd tilt the wrapper upside down and let the hot vinegar seep into my mouth... And if my memory serves correct, I proceeded to suck that thing dry.

Somewhere along the way I seem to have lost my tolerance for heat. This was made abundantly clear the other night at an Ethopian restaurant where a stuffed jalepeno kicked my ass, a change in me that has only occurred in the last year or so, making me suspect that my tolerance for spicy foods is somehow tied to the viability of my eggs, if it is true what Max B. says about my declining years of fertility. He informs me I have at most 4 good years left. But at this point, my greater sense of loss is not over my unborn but over whether or not I will be able to enjoy a Firecracker in the same way ever again. But I daresay, it's worth a try.

It only now strikes me, after writing this, belching cheap and watery sentiment, that maybe I'm not writing about Firecrackers at all but about sex and blowjobs. In the process of recounting this story, I seemed to have lost my bearings and for an instant I really thought that I was telling you a revealing and affectionate story of my childhood. I should know better by now... a story about sausages is always about sex.

someone tell me what is up with this weather!?!?

I swear it's not the bottle of wine talking, nor the salmon shitake parpadelle pasta with ginger dressing salad that is making me think that tonight is the most beautiful of early summer's evenings when the kiss of picnics and bbqs are in the air, nor the smell of jasmine or whatever the fuck kind of white flowers they are that have haunted me ever since i've moved to l.a. that i've never figured out quite what they were, nor the korea-togo soccer match (actually screw that cuz i don't think i really care) , nor the coffee that i had midafternoon with hijoo with an illicit cigarette or two where we talked about absolutely nothing and still had a good time, nor that quiet beauty of dusk when i can barely hear the traffic anymore and the pressures of late night have not yet set in, nor the feeling like i still have an entire summer of fucking around left to do without major recrimination for the real responsibilities of papers, writing, conferences, deadlines, where my neighbors can screw as loud as they please because i'm just happy that they're getting some and that it's all really just funny anyway when you listen to people having sex and but what is that ouie-ouie sound that that guy is making how very californian, and oh, the sun is gone now but still warm enough outside for a constitutional around the block to make the day last just a little bit longer... yeah that's right all you indolent motherfuckers, finally, finally, finally.

Now that I think of it, maybe it is the bottle of wine talking.

G3

"...We have located the enemy fleet under the command of Admiral Kompüter, but do not yet have visual contact. We suggest the best course of action is to fire at random into their vicinity and listen for the impact of the shells..."

G4

"...We believe this battle will not be over until one or other fleet is sunk in it's entirety. Our gunners await your commands. We're counting on you, Sir..."

G5

You sunk my battleship!

(Awesome photo not my own.)

elephants' graveyard

I don't know why but a lot of old people go to Carl's Jr. to eat salads. There's something depressing about this. Partly, it's just annoyance at having to eat my six dollar jalepeno burger in such an environment of reprobation. This afternoon, I was biting down into this formidable creation, my eyes closing involuntarily to get a good mouthful, jaws unhinging like a boa constrictor, when I felt the gaze of the grey-haired lady next to me, clutching the perversity that was her low carb bunless and seemingly meatless "burger" in hand. She had a pair of those wraparound sunlight resistant sunglasses on so I couldn't really tell what she was thinking. But I imagined that her eyes were sending me darts of jealousy, suppressed torment, resignation. Her companion, unaware of the tensions being exchanged, was stirring fat-free Italian dressing into his salad.

When people get older, and are that much closer to death, I think they should enjoy what is left of life. Instead of squandering away their last available years of pleasure on illusions of good health. Isn't it a little late for such preventive measures? How many more minutes will they be adding to their lives by eating one more salad? It's unethical to eat salads at burger joints. And senior citizens should be particularly prohibited from this type of behavior. Those sorts of people are probably the same ones who convert to Christianity on their deathbed, futilely searching for truth in the cliche "better late than never". I'm sorry but sometimes it is too late.

Only slightly more depressing is the MacDonald's in Koreatown on 8th and Western. That branch is popular with old Korean folks who have no place to go during the day. If they were in Seoul, they would be meeting their friends at Pagoda Park, flirting with other seniors, playing chess outdoors under the hum of the cicadas hidden in the canopy of trees. But in LA, where there are no parks and only blocks of concrete, they amass at this MacDonald's with packed lunches and thermoses of tea, too frugal even to buy themselves a cup of coffee. I was told that the owner of that location felt so sorry for them that he erected a tent outside and put picnic tables out there for them. So now you can see them lounging about a little more comfortably, but still with that displaced look about them like they didn't know how it is that they came to be in America.

When I get really old, that's when I plan to be truly debaucherous. My current regimen of exercise and healthy eating is all just part of my greater retirement plan. I figure that once I pass 60, that's license to start drinking continuously from morning to night. I'll take up smoking again and live exclusively on fried chicken and pork products. All of us need goals and have dreams. Some are more attainable than others. I feel very fortunate right now that I have the foresight to work towards a tangible future and achieve these goals though they may loom distant and daunting. I vow to let nothing stand in my way.

rossum's universal robots

People do things that surprise me all the time. I think I may be guilty of chronically underestimating those around me. Like when my brother got into his first choice college early decision when I was sure that I was the smartest one in the family (early delusional symptoms). Or when a friend from high school became a successful children's book writer. Or when all my friends started getting their Ph.D.'s before me... no wait that's another issue. But my friend Kathleen has really outdone all my expectations.

I'm leaving for London today ostensibly to help her with her "robot project" but I don't think she needs my help any more. In one of those rare flukes where someone not only does something they say they're going to do, but they do it quite impressively well, this robot project, which started out rather humbly as just a performance of the play "R.U.R. (Rossum's Universal Robots)" by Karel Capek, the earliest robot piece probably ever written, was transformed into a full blown, Microsoft sponsored event with films and discussions led by famous professors, all made possible by the sheer will and tenacity and vision of one Kathleen Richardson, Ph.D. student extraordinaire. Though I'd like to think that my believing in her had something to do with it.

She's gotten some press through Cambridge University and the BBC. For anyone interested in Kathleen's work as an anthropologist studying robots and their relation to the people and society that have created them go to her website here.

And for those who read my last post and think that I'm actually on the lam, I will not confirm or deny. But I certainly can confirm that I will be punting down the Cambridge River and reciting ee.cumings under the pale moonlight. So if/until I return... beedeebeedee.

don't pass go, go directly to jail

I feel dirty.

Somehow I didn’t file my taxes this year.

I used to have an accountant named Don Chang. He worked in Koreatown out of a little strip mall. Quite on a whim, I’d saunter in unannounced every April clutching the five pieces of paper that constituted my tax portfolio and sit in his waiting room being chatted up by his secretary who reminded me of my mom. He’d eventually call me in, calm in the eye of a storm, ensconced in a tornado of papers, wall to wall, floor to ceiling, all of it belonging to people who clearly had very complicated financial lives. And despite the fact that I usually walked in quite at the last minute at the busiest time of the year, he would ask me how I was doing, talk about his kids, ask me about my studies, and generally just be the nicest guy in the world as if we were sitting on a porch in Tenessee sipping lemonade just to pass the day. Quite the charmer. That’s probably why I could never bring myself to complain about the fact that he would ream me with a $70 bill after he spent about three minutes actually filling out my tax forms. The best part, outside of the luxury of pushing a wad of paper in his direction as my sole tax filing act, was that he would bundle my copies into a lovely envelope with company letterhead that made everything so very official feeling. It was also a comfort to know that in the case of any error, he would be investigated before I would. In fact, I almost had to take no responsibility whatsoever. That is $70 of pure freedom.

I should never have stopped going to Don Chang. His name “Don” by the way is synonymous with “money” in Korean. Very auspicious.

At some point, I had the brilliant idea that I would save the money and file my taxes myself. It was a deluded attempt at being a responsible adult. But, hell, everyone else was doing it. And it was starting to get embarrassing having an accountant. After all, I was in grad school, I was poor and Asian, which in some twisted way translates into having to file your own taxes.

Well, the whole point of this is that I didn’t do such a good job on my own. After efiling my taxes this year, in an over optimistic gesture, I went back online to check and see if my tax return had come in yet. In one of those heart stopping moments that only can happen in things computer-related—like when you accidentally delete a document, get the blue screen of death, or unintentionally reformat your hard drive—that I realized that while I had diligently finished the whole efile process, I had never actually… filed… my… return.

The thing is, I’m pretty sure that those Turbotax programs are designed to be idiot-proof. Which only points to one sad fact. Don’t say it, don’t say it.

So, do you think there's a warrant out for my arrest? Will I still get my return? I plead innocence. Incompetence. Insanity. Oh, how I hope that Don will take me back next year despite my errant ways. I really miss him.

Tell my mom I love her.

they slay me

I have a bunch of favorite writers who you could say number among the famous people, like (in no particular order) David Sedaris, Haruki Murakami, Banana Yoshimoto, Dave Eggers... just to name a few. The things that is especially important about this list is that they are alive and still producing so that there's a feeling of suspense that I'll never know what they'll come up with next. Suspense is very important in sustaining people's attention.

But the other kind of writer that probably impresses me more are those rare writers who really know how to turn out a good email. What distinguishes a pretty good email from a truly fanstastic email is generally whether it can solicit a solid snort out of me, or even better if I get spit on the screen. Spitting being my unofficial academy awards for email genius. If I take a loose count right now, I can say that there has been only... hold on... seven people in my entire lifetime who have been able to make me spit on my computer screen. I'm not going to list them here lest the people who didn't make the cut get offended.

But prominent on this list has to be my brother. I don't know what it is about the way he writes, maybe it is our genetic compatibility that makes his writing so appealing to me.

This is a digital artistic rendering of my brother, the one who is currently in Cambridge, England being inducted as partner into his firm, and one with whom I clearly share no common genes. Outside of the obvious fact that we don't resemble each other at all, myself being the far better looking one, he is also much better at everything than I am--smarter, funnier, better writer, earns more money (though not hard mind you), lower golfing handicap.

thinking out loud

At a practice practice jobtalk that I gave early this week, where I bedazzled my audience with a slideshow to the extent of which has never been seen on this side of the Pacific, I was taught a very important lesson about giving presentations.

Apparently, or so my friends tell me, if you're trying to be convincing, especially to people who you eventually want to hire you, it's not a very good idea to say in the middle of a speech anything along the following lines: "While I know that history should usually be grounded in empirical fact... I have to admit that this particular chapter is based on pure conjecture."

p-p-p-post!

Having not posted for what has been nearly a month, to the chagrin of the two people who read this blahg, I can't figure out how best to start the ball rolling again, so I'll just launch right into it by saying that I sat in someone else's urine today.

Like all people, I'd like to say that this has never happened to me before. But that would be a lie. It would be closer to the truth if I said that I used to sit in urine all the time growing up, never quite having mastered the art of putting the toilet seat down in the middle of the night. Combine that with my brother's rather questionable aim and you have one soggy ass.

What just might be worse than sitting in someone else's urine is the realization that you totally forgot you sat in someone else's urine until you got into bed just a moment ago. Any potential for blissful sleep ruined by that routine mental review of the day that takes place just before you nod off. In a fleeting moment it all came back to me, the suspiciously warm seat, the creeping tingling sensation in my damp pants, the faint smell of ammonia and then... the crippling knowledge that I haven't showered since this happened.

Which is why I sit here typing.

What better way to get over my personal mortification than to share it with anyone who will listen? It's always worked for me before. Now, the big dilemma is whether I bother to get in the shower after I've finished this ritual cleansing here. Is there really any point? Can't it wait until tomorrow?

Let me just tell it like it is. There is a 99% chance that I will jump right back into bed after this. I think that this is a good thing. It means that I have my priorities in order. Sleep is clearly more important than good hygiene. Although sleep ranks lower than the Food Network but higher than my dissertation on my scale of importance.

For anyone who was wondering, it was a sordid month for me this past month but I am well on my way to returning to top form. In addition to getting over some hurdles in the past week or two, I have a most exciting trip to London coming up in a couple of weeks that involves robots, thespians, great big pints of beer and if the gods are kind, no more urine stories.

giant fish googled

Aw hell. I only just realized that I missed April Fool's Day. My second favorite holiday after Buddha's Birthday. And by a week no less. My plans are foiled! So I guess I'll just have to wait until next year. Until then, allow me to post a picture that I found somewhere on the internet under the search "giant fish".

a baby after my own beer

At no insistence of my own, my dear friends the Hanscoms named their second child "Stella" who was born today, named I hope after one of my favorite beers which I foresee will ensure that she'll be crisp, fragrant and delightful especially on a lazy summer night. Or else she will drink and cuss like a sailor. In either case, she'll be great fun at parties, something that just makes me want to love her more.

Congratulations to bringing child #2 into the world. I hope she'll live up to her namesake in spades. And here's to starting on a third. I'm thinking... Franzeskaner?

flip it and reverse it

(or "How to evolve faster")

Have you ever wished that you could be part of one of those sleep studies? The ones where they put you in a windowless room, which I imagine is buried deep near the earth’s core, and then see what happens to your sleep schedule? Because if we can manipulate our sleep cycles, then isn’t this as close to manipulating time as we will ever get?

So, for the sake of science, as well as the betterment of all humankind, I’ve been engaged in a sleep study of my own.

For the past couple of weeks now, I’ve gone to bed and woken up when I felt like it. As a result, I sleep with the rising sun and have my first cup of coffee at noon the next day. Of course, this whole thing really started because of one fateful night when I happened to catch “Dirty Dancing” on TV at 3 am. It totally screwed me over. Though I must have seen that movie at least a dozen times, I was compelled to watch it one more time just to see Patrick Swayze’s jazzy dance moves in the final scene. Man, he really knows how to bring it home. Who knew men’s hips were designed to swivel like that? It didn’t help that my ex-boyfriend is the spitting image of Patrick Swayze, a fact that to his embarrassment was realized on an overnight ferry bound to Tientsin watching “City of Joy” with a roomful of Chinese people. I'm not saying this to say that I think Patrick Swayze (or by implication my ex-boyfriend) is particularly hot. They are both okay looking. But everyone in the room, including myself for a brief moment, thought he was the person in the movie. He didn’t have the same rotator hips though… which was undoubtedly the reason I had to break up with him. But that is another story for another time.

So back to the sleeping thing. My ultimate quest in this experiment is this. Is it possible that if we listen to our bodies, we don’t need as much sleep as we think we need? All of us are bound by the strictures of certain commonly accepted ideas, such as the food pyramid, not swimming after you eat, pumping the brakes on a wet road, yada yada yada. But just as we know that the food pyramid is full of shit, it is very possible that the accepted wisdom that guides our daily lives have been built on ephemera, concocted from some stuffy white guy’s impaired brain.

I’ve already managed to dismantle the notion that we need regular meals at regular intervals throughout the day. My snake-eating thing is still working like a charm. So I have a good feeling about this. I’m thinking that I may be able to shave a good 10 hours a week of sleep time off my normal schedule. Sleep and food, two things that I think the modern person overdoses on through over-rationalization, these are the two obstacles preventing the everyman from fulfilling their greatest destiny. If we unchain ourselves from the enslavement of time, what will we not be capable of?

Previously unbeknownst to me, it just so happens that it is National Sleep Awareness Week. I suggest that in celebration of this happy coincidence, we all lie down for a nap…

dreaming of blogging or blogging dreaming me?

I dreamt last night that my friend Joe had a blog. And he wrote something in the comment section about how I never comment on his blog. So I did. And then I dreamt he thought it was funny.

Tell me I'm not mistaken but somewhere out there I think people have interesting technicolor dreams. That's because they probably lead interesting technicolor lives. Clearly I don't do either...

it's hard out here for a... grad student

It's award ceremony season here in Los Angeles and as I watched the Oscars the other night, I was reminded of how few opportunities we are given to commemorate our accomplishments, or even to mark the passing of time. As much as Hollywood represents something materialistic or superficial about American culture, and as much as we ordinary folk are divorced from that lifestyle, we should also recognize the absolute necessity of it, especially for its role within our ritualistic universe in this increasingly secularized world.

Our diminished capacity to commemorate things has left us without a formal venue to gather around and celebrate achievement, though I wonder if it is simply because commemoration at least in my academic world is generally associated with loss through graduation and departure. While there are holidays and birthdays, is it too much to want more? To want the formal integration of award ceremonies into our life? Why do kids and actors get all the trophies? Since when did they stop giving us those things? And for most people, is their college diploma going to be the last important commemorative document they get? Hell, that's not even an award. You paid for that piece of paper.

There are so many things to award in life, at least in terms of the things that I would like to have recognized. My best research paper, my first outside grant, best conference presentation, a published article. Even juicier are those other more intimate events--best kiss, best blowjob, best all time fuck ever--these are events that become diluted down to nothing more than information passed along in whispers over coffee, events that deserve greater fanfare. Screw that! Sound the trumpets, fire the guns. Maybe among the many skills we have to learn in the course of life, we should also learn to celebrate our achievements no matter how small, because for the rest of us, there is no Oscar waiting behind the curtain.

I suppose that in the pea-brained graduate student's imagination, the Ph.D. itself is as close to winning an Oscar as you can get. Except that by the time you get to this stage, there is a sense that the degree itself is not award enough for the pure hell that you have to go through to get it. The loneliness, the poverty, lack of any security about the immediate future. The sense that no one really cares about your work. Anyone I've talked to who have actually gotten their Ph.D. (and there are many of them because I have an enormous number of brilliant friends!) says that it is meaningless and empty. Of course, not only do I think these people are overly modest, I also think they're lying sacks of shit.

Everyone says that doing your Ph.D. is more like running a marathon than a sprint. Having actually run a marathon, I rather compare it to an iron man triathlon, the kind that beats you down and makes you feel like donkey dung. When I ran the LA marathon back in 2002, I hit the proverbial wall at mile 17. The subsequent 9 miles were indescribable agony. I have never recovered. No wonder it is taking me so long to finish my degree. I hit that wall in 2002 and I'm still trying to make it over the finish line.

At this moment, about a hundred and fifty pages of my dissertation stand between me and my degree. I have a feeling like I will finish or die. One of the two. It is that degree or me. I have no idea what I initially intended to say when I started this, because now that I brought up my dissertation, I can feel it trying to stare me down and all I can do right now is stare back and hold my own.

the emperor wears vintage

Go away 80s. I'll not mince words when I say that 80s fashion sucks. So stop it, please I beg of you.

It’s hard to tell if my visceral response to the 80s revival has to do with my own traumatic fashion faux-pas growing up. Like that time that I was waiting for my dad to pick me up from school when Courteney Schlein, an upperclassman who was waiting next to me, looked me up and down and said, “… Nice… vest.”

I was clad in a navy-colored puffy down vest, the kind that would be very comfortable if you were, let’s say, skiing in Vancouver. It might also have been unseasonably warm out that day. Of course, I never wore that vest to school again. (I have left out the part where my dad eventually pulls up in our rattling two-toned brown and beige Chevrolet cruiser as Courtney’s mom pulls up right behind him in an immaculate black Mercedes sedan.) Or maybe it’s because of the time that I arrived at a formal wearing a homespun creation that involved black and white houndstooth and a balloon skirt. A formidable combination to say the least.

Regardless, I like to think that my offense is simply on an aesthetic level, pure unadulterated aesthetics, of which mine are very refined and vastly superior to other elementary humans that walk this earth.

But it only dawned on me this afternoon that there is even such a thing as an 80s fashion revival. This occurred as I was eating lunch and taking a moment out of my otherwise very busy and important day when I happened to catch Beverly Hills Cop on TV. The opening montage had Eddie Murphy strolling down Rodeo drive and checking out all the fashion victims wearing clothes that look disconcertingly like the hipster fashion of today. My superfast brain proceeded to make the connection that there are people out there, I dare say very young soulless people, who never actually lived through the 80s, resurrecting out of some sort of retro tomfoolery a fashion wave that should lie deeply buried in our shameful past. What’s worse is the culture of what I call “ironicalism” surrounding it. Whatever (insert finger quotations here).

Let’s call things as they are. First, this so-called “vintage” craze is nothing more than used clothing. That’s right. That would be stuff that other people didn’t want and were almost willing to throw away but were too cheap to do so. So, while I am a believer of recycling and restoration of quality goods (homes, furniture, old typewriters, cars, handmade bespoke suits) I refuse to buy into this delusion over what is in fact thrift store shopping. And if you’re going to buy thrift store stuff, fine, it’s all good, but let’s not go calling it “vintage”. It’s just used shit.

The thing is, some of my best friends wear "vintage" and I love them despite it. I understand that old stuff has a lot more character than off-the-rack Banana Republic. I will even claim to have a couple of prized used items in my own sartorial collection. But if we could only be a little more honest about what it is. And if we could just refrain from pretending like 80s clothing has been around long enough to be "vintage". And while we're at it, can we please not pretend that wearing "vintage" shoes is not completely gross? Someone else's foot was in there for chrissakes.

Fashion is inherently referential. All the looks have been done before and even the bubble skirt of the 80s can be found to date back to the 50s. But what I would like to believe is that if there can remotely be such a thing as "progress" that this would somehow entail leaving the bad stuff behind, being able to judge the ugly from the beautiful, or at least place things in a refreshingly new context where to be ironic isn't just to reproduce a look but to reconfigure that look into a real statement with true irony. When it comes down to it, the whole 80s vintage thing is just a physical manifestation of everything else going horribly wrong in the world. It invokes Reaganomics, Less Than Zero, square headlights on cars. So I don't think that it is overreacting when I say that the next person I see prancing down the road in an ill-fitting "vintage" dress and some outlandish beaded necklace and Jackie O sunglasses is not only committing a crime against fashion but a crime against humanity and should be punished accordingly.

On a side note, it's fracking freezing in LA today. It must be 50 degrees out or something.

the dragon whips its tail

In an uncharacteristic departure from my general policy not to post pictures of myself, I'm publishing this picture to prove to my beloved friends that I indeed still live.

Here is a curtailed list of some of the things that have prevented me from writing anything:

Olympic curling, out of town visitors, karaoke, car wreck (okay maybe just a bump), grey goose martinis, 2 am chacharoni, Alee, huge fight with the BFF, minor fight with the dad, teaching, and did I mention olympic curling? All while ineffectively trying to make progress with my dissertation.

What I learned from all of this was that human relationships are require work. Sometimes if you're lucky, everything happens effortlessly so that there is a seamless flow between one's personal and professional life, but in most cases you have to make sacrifices to make one or the other succeed. And in the past week I've dropped the ball in showing how much my real friends mean to me.

So on a very personal note, I'd like to send out this belated Valentine's message to the following people:

1. To my "not-so-secret" admirer, thanks for the anatomically correct one pound chocolate heart. It is so grotesque/lovely that I cannot bring myself to eat it.

2. To the Hanscoms, my adopted family, thanks for being a constant in my life.

3. To Alleycat, thanks for making me miss you more.

4. To Kathleen, eat more sushi and call me in the morning.

5. To Walter and Lambda, I wait with bated breath for your visit.

6. Ditto for Anne.

7. To Lily, Happy Birthday.

8. To Rebecca, when life gives you lemons get your legs waxed.

9. To Strongsad, someday Marzipan will answer her phone. In the meantime, stop letting Homestar smoke so much.

10. To "the other Cho", I'll be in Boston in July.

11. Luigi, I know you're out there somewhere. I miss you.

12. And last of all, to the Xoo. Please don't be mad at me anymore. I'm not perfect but trying my best. I have a pig in a blanket and I'm at your door. If you hear me knocking, let me in.

Apologies to anyone else who is reading this. But sometimes you just have to bring it down and keep it real.

has it really come to this?

Okay listen. I honestly don't know what is more disturbing. That it took me over thirty years to learn how to tie my shoelaces properly. Or that I sat here with my sneaker in my lap reading "Ian's Shoelace Site" for fifteen minutes following Ian's shoetying instructions. Either way, I can celebrate knowing that my days of bungled shoetying are over. No more of those inferior loosey goosey slip knots for me. I'm all reef knots from here on out. Yes! Is this what nirvana feels like? There were certainly no empty promises here... Ian really does know how to bring the fun, fashion and science of shoelaces!

they are dead to me

The fog rolled in on Palos Verdes friday night in a thick blanket. You could barely see five feet ahead of you. Cars disappeared into the mist like sharks slipping out of sight on a dark ocean floor. It felt incongruous with the room that I had just left, warm and lively, full of sounds of tinkling glasses and muffled laughter. Like stepping out of a cocktail party directly into a zombie movie. That's when a group of zombies actually emerged from the mist and began to chase me. I pulled my camera out just as the leader started to shuffle over to devour me, almost succeeding, before I ran screaming away like a blasted flibbertigibbet. Miraculously, I lived to tell the tale.

fabulize

The following words are to be forever excised from the English language:

glamorous
vintage
quirky
eclectic
fabulous

If you find yourself using any of the above at any time you should send me $100 per word per violation. I accept paypal. However, I'm prepared to provide some wholesome alternatives so that we might begin to incorporate language into our vocabulary that inspire our imaginations instead of regurgitating stale platitudes that have lost any descriptive power whatsoever. Let's exfoliate such linguistic sleaze from our lips and begin to revel in the verbal delights of:

loosey goosey
tomfoolery
hullabaloo
flibbertigibbet
autological

Screw homogenization and let's live a little.