toot toot the adult net room!

I don't check my comments very often. Well ok, I don't get very many comments to begin with... but when I do, I tend not to notice for a while. So the other day when I happened to look I was surprised to see that I had a comment in Chinese... or Japanese (and here I must apologize for my ignorance as I am not familiar enough with either to differentiate, especially in typed form)... anyway, some sort of foreign Asian language, and was somewhat touched that my post had apparently moved this stranger to comment, although they were not comfortable enough writing in our language to post in English.

Yes, ok, occasionally I can be a bit naive. Yahoo Babelfish was kind enough to inform me that apparently my post had moved someone to post an ad for an adult website. Who knew my writing would have quite that effect? My immediate reaction was to erase the comment, but just as my cursor was hovering ominously over the "delete" button, I decided I just couldn't do it. It was just too hilarious to send off into internet purgatory. It was like a slightly ridiculous little inside joke between me and... well, myself. Or another reader in the slim chance anyone else should see it and get curious (and/or bored) enough to make use of the the internet's wealth of online translators. Or else maybe people would see it and think that I'm just so cool that foreign people read my blog and feel compelled to comment lengthily.

And what do you know... it would seem my blog is actually prime advertising space for Asian adult websites, because--Booyah!--I got another one today. I don't feel it necessary to share the entirety of the translated text, after all, that might ruin the mystery. Suffice it to say that it promises a wealth of such variety as "the beautiful woman room", "free movie onlooking", "777 adults", "the adult article", my personal favorite "toot toot the adult net room"... and other such things of a "free" and "adult" nature. Well, that is if you're looking for the Chinese version. The Japanese version turns out to be much more exotic, with such attractions as the "heaven room", "lust shadow piece", and "exemption expense shadow one 觀 watching". Whatever that is. I couldn't really tell you, but it sounds intriguing.

Anyway, I've decided that sadly, I must delete these comments soon, before I become widely known as an online porn trafficker. So all of you with secret Asian porn fetishes out there, get your fill while you can. Unless of course I can manage to contact them and get them to pay me for advertising space. That's a whole 'nother story.

and I managed not to put my back out

I consider the occasional rearranging of a room, much like a life, absolutely essential. Which is why I now find my bed uprooted and perpendicular to where it originally resided, allowing for my newly acquired Tamara deLempicka "La Dormeuse" print to be hung above it and making room for my long awaited window seat to finally happen in the nook that looks out onto lovely Waller Street (so I can be serenaded by crazy Russian ladies and witness events like the drug bust that happened outside my house last night from the comfort of my very own window nook!) And all the while greatly increasing the chances of me NOT waking up shivering from being surrounded on three sides by poorly insulated window panes that let the icy San Francisco morning air in to torment me.

Ah, room rearranging. A purging, reorganization, enabling of new perspective. Yes, I suppose it's true that we humans are creatures of habit, but we are also incorrigibly restless beings who, whether actively or subconsciously, crave change. We may as a whole be creatures of habit, but habit also can breed contempt. Maybe that's why we seem to so often cling to habit, to the familiar: because we like to complain and bitch and play the victim, all while acting as if there's nothing we can do about it. Or maybe it's because we're lazy, or because we just don't know what else to do. Maybe we're too scared of change, or maybe we just don't know how.

I do know that change is seldom easy. But like most difficult things in life, it is inevitable, and essential to growth. And it's not always something we have to just passively accept; we can take the reigns and make positive change happen in our lives every day, if we choose. So even if it's a seemingly tiny, inconsequential thing like getting a haircut, picking up a new hobby, spending a Saturday volunteering, cleaning out your closet and giving old stuff away, or rearranging your furniture, I say: embrace change. Thrive in the new point of view it gives you, however subtle, however seemingly unimportant. And for the love of god, please change your socks and underwear every day. We all appreciate it. Really.

so this is the new year*

So here we find ourselves in 2010. A new year, a time of universal hopefulness and idealism, when anything seems possible in the shiny new 12 months lying before us like our own personal yellow brick road. What exactly is it about a New Year that seems to make zealous optimists out of even the most jaded and cynical of us? That has people going crazy with resolutions, making promises to themselves, many of which are sure to be forgotten in a few months, after the shine of glitter confetti and sound of noisemakers has faded into the distance?

I guess as a species we've always loved a blank slate. It's why wealthy folk paid the church for indulgences in the Middle Ages (sorry peasants, guess you're screwed!), why Catholics have Confession, why new jobs and new apartments and new relationships are so exciting. It's a fresh beginning. And so the New Year lays before us like a phoenix reborn in glorious feather regalia, a symbol of hope and renewal. A chance to leave behind all the mistakes, all the disappointment, frustration, half-assing and heartache of the past 12 months (after desperately attempting to squeeze in the greatest possible amount of champagne and debauchery into the one last night of the year, of course).

But the truth is that the turning of a calendar page to January 1st can't magically absolve us or erase the past. And it shouldn't, because the past is something to remember and learn from, both the good and the bad. Of course we all want the next year to be better than the last, but merely hoping it will be so doesn't do a damn thing. The only way to make sure that happens is to learn from the mistakes and wrong turns of the past and do our very best not to repeat them, and to continue with the positive steps made in the last year.

Personally, my new year began with something that felt vaguely like a kick in the gut, but I refuse to believe this can be indicative of what lays ahead for the year as a whole. The truth is that it will probably be like just about every year before it: some good and some bad, lots of frustration and lots of laughter, odd adventures, stressful times and perfect lazy days, triumphs and failures, some betrayal and hopefully more loyalty, a little heartache, a little love and a good amount of joy.

I don't know, perhaps the fact that 2010 was ushered in by a Blue Moon has some astrological or astronomical significance, maybe it means this year will be unique, one to remember above the rest. Or maybe not. But like everyone else, I have to believe that this year will be great, that it will be the best year yet. Not because of a lunar phenomenon, not because I think that all the mistakes and sorrows of the past have been erased, or because I think this year won't bring any. But rather because whatever life and circumstance have in store for me in the next 12 months, I know I have the ability to make this year great.

Because, like everyone else, I have the choice to be happy; the choice to learn from my missteps, to think positively, to make things happen and to accept the things that don't, to grab onto the good things that come my way and learn to let go of the things that drag my heart down. I've been thinking a lot about free will and choice lately, after reading East of Eden, and it has occurred to me that free will has to be either the greatest gift from God or the greatest invention of Humankind (depending, I guess, on where your theological predilections lie). Because it sets us free; it gives us that choice, and in choice there is power.

Sure, we often don't get a say in what happens to us, the things life throws at us. There are many things in life we have no control over. But we do get to choose how we react, and what we do with what we're given. We have the choice to take opportunities or dismiss them, to give up or persist, to hold grudges or forgive, to love or hate. It's pretty amazing if you think about it: the tremendous power we hold without even realizing it most of the time. And while at times the responsibility of having that choice may seem more like a curse, that is what puts us ultimately in control of our own destiny and gives us the ability to be happy, successful...whatever we want to be.

So I guess my most important New Year's resolution is this: to make the choice to take control of my life and exercise my free will to be happy. To not let anything or anyone take the joy out of me, not let anyone make the sun seem less bright or the world less beautiful through my eyes, whether by their negativity or stupidity or by their inability to love or appreciate or accept me. And reversely I resolve to the best of my ability not to do the same to others, to not be anyone's metaphorical anchor or fire extinguisher. While writing this I was reminded of the old song they used to have us sing in elementary school:

"This little light of mine, I'm gonna let it shine.
Hide it under a bush? O NO! I'm gonna let it shine."

Apparently it's actually an old children's gospel song, and if that's true than it must certainly be the best thing my Catholic school education left me with. Although I think the original meaning of the song had to do with spreading the "light" of God's word, whereas my personal interpretation is more about finding joy within yourself, staying true to who you are and letting your unique spirit shine through. So friends, I hope with all of my heart that this year you let your light shine (let it shine, let it shine, let it shine). And make it a good one. Because fuck circumstance, you have the choice and the power to make it happen.

As for me, I am throwing myself into 2010 head first, perhaps a little more disillusioned (and hopefully a little bit wiser), but no less convinced of the beauty and goodness in the world, and more determined than ever to fully embrace it.


*title borrowed from a Death Cab for Cutie song I vaguely remember

tell me a story

This post has been a long time coming, but busyness, laziness and other, pushier thoughts have continued to crowd it out until now. But how seems like a good time, it being Christmastime and a mere few weeks after my beloved grandfather's passing.

I guess it really started with a thin purple book, handed to me last Christmas Eve with apologies that it was not the customary check my grandparents had given over the past several Holidays. What it was turned out to be far more precious: a locally-published collection of my grandmother's poetry; a time capsule, a little piece of her story, and with that of my own history. Of course I've always known my grandmother wrote poetry, and I've read some of it over the years, but somehow it was as if that little volume opened up a whole new window for me, from the bio in which I learned new things about her life and career before my grandpa and my dad, to the pages of her poetry, words straight from the soul. It almost felt like a sort of trespassing or voyeurism, the intimacy of reading the thoughts and emotions of years past.

I don't know if this is just me or if it's a universal thing, but I seem to carry specific snapshots of my grandparents around in my head, as if I have a defining image of them frozen in a certain period of time. For instance, although in the end my maternal grandmother was very weak and unable to walk by herself, and though I saw her daily in her last years as she had come to live with us then, still when I think of her I see her in her mid-seventies, so opinionated in all her feisty French stubbornness, still riding her bicycle daily between her house and ours, in a skirt and sans helmet, of course. For my recently passed paternal Grandpa, the image is circa five to ten years ago, discount hearing aid squealing as he recounted an amusing anecdote just a little too loudly, twinkle in his eye, or hummed some old melody. Or wielded his trusty old pocket knife at the dinner table to cut his meat. He was a character, indeed.

So I guess but it's just kind of strange for me to think of my grandparents when they were young, to think that they were ever my age and what they must have been like and how the world must have looked like through their eyes. It's crazy the first time it really hits you that your grandparents and parents and aunts and uncles had this whole life before you were born, before you knew them, filled with triumphs and heartaches and adventures you know very little of. I think often we forget that, but the thing is that even though they came before us, these events are in a way a part of us as well, an extension of our history. And someday the people you took for granted to be there will be gone, and along with them the chance to hear their history from their own mouths.

It makes me sad to realize that, whether due to selfishness or simply not thinking about it, I've never bothered to find out a good part of these stories, to really learn about the lives led before I was a presence on this earth. I am grateful that a few years back I got to hear my Grandpa talk about his musical adventures in the navy in WWII, something I'd never really known about until then. And there was more to learn from reading his obituary, things I love to know now but wish I'd had made efforts to learn while he was alive. I guess that's how it goes, that you never think of some things until it's too late. But I guess I should also make a point to make that effort to know my elders and learn their history, learn from the hard and interesting and amazing lives they've led. And maybe even in the process understand myself better.

So I will say Merry Christmas everybody, hold your loved ones close and don't be afraid to ask for their stories. And for those who can no longer be with us, let us remember them fondly and celebrate their stories as well.

gratitude, happiness and the dangers of being content

Dear Pat,
You came upon me carving some kind of little figure out of wood and you said,
“Why don’t you make something for me?”
I asked you what you wanted and you said, “A box.”
“What For?”
“To put things in.”
“What things?”
“Whatever you have.” You said.
Well here’s your box. Nearly everything I have is in it, and it is not full. Pain and excitement are in it, and feeling good or bad and evil thoughts and good thoughts—the pleasure of design and some despair and the indescribable joy of creation.
And on top of these are all the gratitude and love I have for you.
And still the box is not full.
John

--a dedication from John Steinbeck to his friend and editor, Pascal Convici, published in the preface to East of Eden


I don't usually do the whole "what are you thankful for" thing on Thanksgiving. It's not that I'm ungrateful, it's just that I've always kind of felt like it was one of those traditions that has lost meaning over the years and become almost a mindless, perfunctory thing, much like New Years resolutions or Valentine's Day. I believe that being thankful, along with doing little things to be a better person and showing loved ones that we care about them, should be on the daily agenda, not something we need to set aside a holiday for. But let me cut that rant short. The point is that, in reflecting on the holiday of Thanksgiving the other week and looking back on my life in the last year, I realize there is a lot I have to express gratitude for. Yes, I know I'm a little late, but (see above) fuck it, why not today?

So here goes...

I am grateful for the people in my life, for the family I often take for granted but who are always there for me, always thinking of me, and who I've often had to push away to realize that I do actually need them and want them there, even if some of them still drive me insane at times. And for the friends life has seen fit to put in my life and keep there, those people who accept me and don't judge, who at times seem to be able to read my mind and know exactly when I need to talk, or when I just need a drink, who keep me grounded and keep me young.

And the people who've come into my life in the past year, I'm grateful for the new life they breathe into my routine and for the promise the future holds for whatever journeys we may take together. Even the people I've only met for a little while, and who I may never cross paths with again, I'm thankful for the short time we've been able to spend together, for the wisdom and insight they may have graced me with, and for the laughter we may have shared.

I am also very grateful to have steady employment, especially in this less-than-ideal economy, and especially after the incredibly humbling experience of being unemployed for a long period of time. I'm thankful for the challenge and the purpose my job brings to my life at the moment, for the financial security which gives me peace of mind and allows me to continue living in this beautiful city, and for having the time to enjoy it for the next year or two while I figure out what the next step will be and attempt to plan my future.

I think that maybe most of all, I'm thankful for my current state of mind, the place I'm at now in my life. Looking back at a year ago this time, I'm just grateful to be free of the chains of guilt and doubt and internal chaos that had held me as prisoner for a while, and the unmotivated rut I was in for some time preceding. I'm grateful to have found myself again, and, I think (or hope at least!), to have become a better version of myself.

And still, in spite of all this, despite the fact that I feel confident and happy and maybe the most grounded and centered I've ever been, I still feel a bit of malcontent stirring up in me at times. It seems that there has always been that restlessness just at the back of my mind. In the past I haven't always known what to make of it, sometimes it would make me feel guilty, as if I wasn't thankful for everything I have. As if I were greedy. But recently I've been thinking, maybe it's not such a bad thing to be greedy in this sense. Because when it comes to life, who ever really gets enough? Who ever really gets to do all they want to and see and be all they want to?

And that little feeling; it's not really an ungratefulness, or even taking things for granted (although I am certainly guilty of that sometimes). It's more of a reminder, I think, that as good as life is right now, there's more out there; there's more to see and do, more to be. And that doesn't mean I need to rush headlong into change just for the sake of it, it simply means I need to be aware, and to not allow myself to become too stationary or too comfortable , or ignore that little restless voice for the sake of security or comfort.

And I can’t help but think that this is part of the human condition. That there is a restlessness inherent in our nature that makes us never quite content. Maybe we are destined, for better or worse, to be always searching, always looking for something right around the corner or over the next horizon. Maybe we're all born to be wandering souls, to a greater or lesser extent. And to a certain extent anyway, who's to say that's a bad thing? Because that sense of restlessness, maybe that's what keeps us moving forward, always wanting to know more, to be more. Maybe that's what keeps us striving to be stronger, to be smarter, more productive, more successful. Because if we're completely satisfied with every aspect of our lives, what motivation is there to keep growing and learning? If you're content sitting at the bottom of the mountain, why climb it?

So I have to think that contentedness is not a natural state for a person. Because contentedness breeds complacency, and complacency is for cows in the field, chewing their cud, satisfied to remain the same, day after day, because they have no dreams, no vision. And maybe that's what really separates human beings as a species (well ok, besides opposable thumbs): that ambition, that longing for adventure and drive for change. That the grass is always greener, not just on the other side of the fence, but on the other side of the mountain, the other end of the ocean. It's what keeps us moving and exploring, inventing and discovering and building.

Of course it can also go too far, that drive can prove detrimental to one's health and happiness. After all, if you're constantly on the move and never standing still, it's hard to ever really enjoy anything, or to find any sort of peace. And when you're always looking for something bigger and better it is very easy not to see and appreciate what's right in front of you.

So how does one find that balance? At first glance it seems like such a blatent contradiction to say that discontentedness is congruent with well-being. In fact, I'm pretty sure that any English dictionary will tell you that "happiness" and "contentedness" are synonyms, but personally I see a glaring difference. And I don't know if it's the definitions of these two words which have been twisted and misinterpreted over the years or if I just have a freakishly slanted way of seeing things, but I can't help thinking the real key to happiness has to be this: to be at peace with yourself; to love yourself, flaws and all, and be present in the here and now, to be grateful for all you have and enjoy the good and the beauty around you, but to still retain that little bit of restlessness and discontent that keeps us always searching, always questioning and always striving to find a better life and the very best version of ourselves.

Because maybe the box is never full, and maybe that's how it's supposed to be; that deep down in our very DNA we were blessed and cursed with an insatiable appetite for life, a limitless capacity for joy, sorrow, curiosity, and everything in between. But just because the box can never be filled doesn't mean we'll stop trying. And it doesn't mean there can't be a whole lot of amazing stuff inside.

all things great and small (or, how a bug’s life was spared thanks to alcohol and an overly emotional day)

What is this, you ask? An ordinary Ikea jar? Au contraire, good sirs and madams, for this seemingly mundane bottle has found part-time employment as a bug-capturer and temporary housing for spiders. So while its previous contents of genuine Thai seashells lay scattered atop my bookcase, let me tell the story so you aren't quite so terribly confused.

You see, at approximately 11:58 last evening, my cat alerted me, with a sound somewhere between a meow and a growl and a bleat, that there was a foreign intruder in our room. Sure enough, it was a spider, who was subsequently captured, held hostage in the aforementioned jar and then set free near the wilderness of our garbage bins outside. I showed my prisoner to two of my roommates, and one examined it while expressing curiosity at my tolerance. It seems he holds a more violent reaction towards intruders of the eight-legged variety. The thing is, I used to be a stomper myself, or a tissue-suffocator, etc. Whatever the method of euthanasia, I certainly did not at one time find it appropriate to troop downstairs at midnight and venture out into the icy air to let an ordinary bug roam free.

But rewind about a year ago, and I can tell you the origins of this apparent madness. All I really remember is that I had just gotten home from a particularly drunk night of a particularly bad week and I was feeling particularly awful about myself, not to mention particularly overly-emotional, likely due to a combination of that fickle friend alcohol and the events I was dealing with at the time. I had just entered the bathroom and braced myself and my blurred vision against the sink when I noticed a spider in the bathtub. My accustomed initial reaction of stifling a scream and shuddering probably followed, and I proceeded to try drowning the thing. And then a funny thing happened.

You see, I'm not usually that emotional. In truth I've come to see that I tend to be very much a dude when it comes to feelings. I can reluctantly admit that they're there, but I have an inordinately difficult time expressing them, which is to say that I for the most part do not talk about them, and when I do am inevitably only able to awkwardly and probably at least semi-incoherently half-express them, though whether due to lack of practice or innate inability I don't know. So when they accost me like they did that day I tend to become a bit overwhelmed and act in ways others may view as strange.

Anyway, in my inebriated, overwrought state, I watched the spider as I tried to pour water on it and flush it down the drain. And something just came over me, call it an epiphany, or call it a ridiculous over-sensitive drunken fancy. Because as the water got closer and closer to its eight little legs, that little spider began to fight like you wouldn't believe. It started crawling faster than I would have thought possible, scrambling valiantly up the side of the tub to keep away from the deadly stream nipping at it's feet. And it suddenly dawned upon my booze-soaked mind that I've never had to fight that hard. I've never had to work that hard, to truly hustle, just to survive. And it seemed to me that one really has to respect that effort, even if is coming from a tiny little spider.

So yes, that little bug taught me a lesson, and in turn earned its life and freedom. And along with itself saved many others, because since then I've felt obligated to adopt a No-Kill, Catch-and-Release policy when it comes to spiders and other creepy-crawly things (unless they're overtly hostile and impossible to safely trap, like fleas and that Chicagoan wasp that was at least as long as my middle finger). It's kind of funny that I would be reminded of that incident this week, when I seem to have found myself in an especially uncharacteristically emo state. But then again, maybe those are the times I need it most; the little reminder that all this too shall pass, and that it's the true hustlers who always survive. Those who see the shoe sole bearing down upon them and don't give up and give in to a seemingly inevitable fate, but instead scramble like crazy to stay afloat, stay alive and take whatever life may throw at them with a smile and a wink.

word.

"I was reading the dictionary. I thought it was a poem about everything."

~Stephen Wright

As far back as I can remember I've had a love affair with the English language. I don't know, maybe it's genetic from having two English majors for parents and a journalist/poet grandmother, or perhaps just ingrained in me from a very early age, but it seems like from start I could never get enough. Yes, I was that freakish, nerdy kid who was the only student not groaning when it was time for a vocabulary quiz, who aced almost every spelling test, who preferred to play Scrabble over Monopoly or Candyland or Operation.

Because I just can't help it, I love words. Words by themselves, their meanings and histories and the way they sound rolling off the tip of my tongue; words strung together, the endless combinations and possibilities they present for one to express oneself. I believe that there's actually a lot of truth to that infamous quote, "The pen is mightier than the sword." I think maybe we don't always realize the power of words; on their own they may seem flimsy or unimportant, "sticks and stones," we say, "they're only words."

But words can lift you up and they can cut like the sharpest dagger. Words can set you free or they can crowd up in your head but be impossible to get out of your mouth and can drive you mad. And words, when put together in the right way, when in the hands of someone who knows how to use them, can touch a person's soul, bring forth tears of sadness or laughter, persuade someone to change their entire life, incite a revolution. The power of words, of language, is immense.

I find myself in complete and slightly envious awe of poets and authors so adept at wielding words, at manipulating the English language. I suppose writing is somewhat like sculpting with language; in the same way an artist takes a simple block of wood or clay or marble and turns it into something beautiful, the writer can can take a set of what you would think of as perfectly ordinary words and somehow transform them into something profoundly magical, something completely unexpected and extraordinary.

So when a friend announced that his apartment was throwing a "What Did You Want To Be When You Grew Up?" party last weekend, I decided to go as "The Great American Novelist". Ok, technically as a child I never stood up and announced that I wanted to be such a thing (if I had even known what it was), or even a writer, at that. Technically as a child I suppose I wanted to be either a veterinarian, or for a while the person at Marine World who chilled with the tigers on "Tiger Island" (sweet gig, right??) I think I may have even gone through a brief wanna-be ballerina phase before I got tired of being the chubby kid in the leotard.

But even in elementary school I always enjoyed reading and relished the creative writing assignments I was given, always going pages and pages over the minimum requirement (yes, extreme verbosity has been a chronic problem for me). And I'm pretty sure I went through a period in high school where I dreamed of someday writing the Next Great American Novel (I blame my Junior year English class). So that seemed close enough.

And am I really "grown-up" now anyway? There are certainly times I wonder, though I do try and at least make a good show of being an adult. But this, I think, is a greater question that I don't want to tackle at the moment. Regardless of whether or not I am currently a "grown up", I am certainly not what I want to be in the long run. I may have a job, and a good one at that, but I don't have a career, and I've got a long way to go in figuring that out.

But I digress. The truth is, I'm pretty sure that this blog is about as close as I'll ever get to being a novelist, Great American or otherwise. Ok, I may love words, and I may be able to turn a nice phrase now and then, but I never had much of a knack for plot. Or persistence. Not to mention that I seem to lack the apparently necessary proclivity for suicide and capacity for extreme alcoholism.

Isn't it sad that genius so often seems to be accompanied by an immense drive for self-destruction? So many of the great writers, musicians, artists, etc. seem to have been plagued by mental illness and other inner demons, or maybe by just too violent a passion for life... but I suppose it only makes sense that extraordinary things should come from brains that operate so differently from the status quo.

Indeed, I sometimes think that I would like to be a genius, and a genius writer at that, but I'm afraid that I may just be too balanced (wow, never thought I'd be saying that!), and perhaps I value my sanity and my health just a bit too much. So I suppose I'll just have to settle for playing the part for a night, and continuing to enjoy the written genius of others. Mustachioed or not.