Category Archives: through the looking glass

Eat Pray Love. Why not?

Now that the fever towards the book and the movie has died down, hopefully, I feel it is safe to explain why I cannot bring myself to pick up this ever-popular book. And really, it is not like there were not a pile of books in my house waiting for me to finish, and that War and Peace I for some inexplicable reason requested two Christmases ago is still staring at me accusingly every time I scurry past the bookshelf.

Simply stated: I am tired. How come the dark-skinned, exotic, “mystic” in the third world never spouts any wisdom for me? Or women who look like me? I want an easy piece of wisdom that would help me reach my A-HA moment at the snap of a finger. Or at least get me a hot piece of ass like Javier Bardem goddammit!

I’ll let someone a lot more eloquent summarize the inner struggle I feel whenever I come across scenarios as portrayed in Eat Pray Love.

[These movies that rely on such a trope] don’t teach you anything new about Asia or the Middle East. They rely instead on the stereotype that the East is someplace timeless, otherworldly, incomprehensible, waiting to be discovered by Westerners in search of self.

Now, nobody’s protesting Eat Pray Love, or saying that you should. After all, it’s kinder, gentler and subtler than Aladdin.

But it operates with the same Orientalist repertoire. It may not warrant protest, but its proximity to Orientalist tropes should make you think twice.

By Mia Mask on NPR

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There is also something quite personal: Elizabeth Gilbert’s Bali is different from the one I visited. In 1992. Or 1991. I’ve only retained very fuzzy memories of my trip to Bali. In all honesty, after all these years, they could only be fairly categorized as impressions by now.

I was very tanned and therefore I was constantly mistaken as one of the locals by the Western tourists (since NO locals would have mistaken me as one of their own. We don’t all look alike. By “we” I mean “Asians”…) The locals however did mistake me for someone from the Indonesian mainland since quite a significant* percentage of Indonesians were (are) of Chinese descent. My friend who has much paler complexion however was mistaken for Japanese. It suffices to say that all this made an excellent Comedy of Errors in which we were constantly propositioned by men of different races and national origins, and in which men, as I was surprised to find out, expected us to be grateful for the attention. Some more than the others…

Of course Bali was (is) gorgeous and spectacular as every single tourism brochure says it is. And I am not saying that it is different from any other region that relies  on tourism for the majority of its revenue. What I remember most, however, and you all know I am crazy so please feel free to ignore what I have to say and stay with the tourism brochures and/or Gilbert’s book, was…

Disclaimer: My father was a tour guide and a travel agent, my mother, a hotel maid. I have always felt ambivalent towards tourism and therefore my perspectives when traveling are always “unnecessarily” skewed.

My impressions from my trip probably had more to do with who I was than the actual locale. It is highly likely that I would have felt the same way towards some other popular tourist destination…

The vendors, mostly children, swarming the van our local tour guides drove us around in, calling out, “One dollar. One dollar.”

Our determination to bargain the price down as we were instructed so we were not taken for fools.

The shame I felt afterwards when I remembered how little one dollar meant to me in comparison.

The cottage we stayed in which was located in the midst of a local village an hour or so away from the main tourist area.

People’s stares and curious expressions because they could not easily identify me and thus conveniently label me when our local tour guides showed us around (and off?) to their friends and families.

One guy from the village decided to climb up the coconut tree to procure fresh coconuts for us and was ridiculed mercilessly by his friends for trying to impress the ladies. We all had a good laugh.

The sight of women bathing on the side of the road which was as natural as the stream that ran along the road.**

The disappearance of familiarity exhibited by our local tour guides with whom I thought we had become friends as soon as we arrived in the “city”.

The puzzlement at our friends’ refusal to join us for lunch in the city. And further puzzlement at their decision to say “Yes” to the same restaurant but “No” to the same table.

Their apparent discomfort when we were approaching the fancy upscale hotel in which a Taiwanese tour guide we met on our flight to Bali managed to finagle a room for us.

Their abrupt decision to not help us carry our suitcases into the hotel. Their sudden movement to take out our luggages and leave them by the van as the hotel bellboys materialized. Our failure to say a proper goodbye with our extended hands that were not taken as they quickly got into the van and drove off as if to say, “We don’t belong here.”

My inability to enjoy the fancy surroundings as what happened outside the hotel kept on being reenacted inside my overactive brains.

The casual comment by the Taiwanese tour guide about how easy it was to access the red light district: someone would come pick you up on a moped. My being surprised and immediately not-so-surprised. My sadness as I remembered what it was like in the village less than an hour away.

The two young Japanese men who offered to videotape my friend and me and focused the entire minute on breasts and asses.***

My much, much later realization that there was (is) a “myth” of the prevalence of gigolos in Bali. My remembering the smirks when we were paraded around, and my attempt to dismiss it.

My first encounter with Westerners (other than bars and pubs in Taipei) and my not-so-positive impressions of the loud, obnoxious, drunk males late at night on the “strip”.

My first experience of being mistaken for a “local” and the complexity it entailed when trying to get a vendor to serve us in a night market populated by Western tourists.

My first suspicion that there was something off about how I was treated by “foreigners” even before I learned of colonialism, globalization, Orientalism and the fact that “exotic” does not just apply to flowers and animals.

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It could be that I am simply jealous. I am jealous of Gilbert’s privileged freedom to be oblivious.

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* By “Significant” I mean the classic case of 1% of people controlling N% of the wealth which has resulted in conflicts and outright violence in the recent past.

** I struggled with whether to include this since I worry that this may further add to the stereotype of exoticism. But it serves as a stark contrast to what I witnessed later in the city and therefore I’ve made the conscious decision to include it, despite the potential downside.

*** Yes. We were naive idiots.

Sundays in My City – Flying Over New York City

I love New York City. I truly do. I wish it were really my city.

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Flying into NYC this view caught my breath when I realized what I was (not) looking at...

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Could you see the patch of sunlight over NYC?

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Leaving on a jet plane...

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I took these pictures in August when I was there for BlogHer 2010. I was thinking of New York City more than usual because of the anniversary of September 11 which was the day before this post was published.

I am leaving for a business trip again. [ETA: Boston]. Somehow this time I am feeling a bit resentful towards having to get on a plane and leave my family behind, and not just because in order to catch the 6 am flight I’ll need to get up before 4 am… This is peculiar since usually by Sunday noon I am already tired of all the whining and ready to get back to work where ABSOLUTELY NO WHINING IS ALLOWED.

“All my bags are packed I’m ready to go
I’m standin’ here outside your door
I hate to wake you up to say goodbye
But the dawn is breakin’ it’s early morn
The taxi’s waitin’ he’s blowin’ his horn
Already I’m so lonesome I could die

So kiss me and smile for me
Tell me that you’ll wait for me
Hold me like you’ll never let me go
Cause I’m leavin’ on a jet plane…”

Unknown Mami

The Rocky Horror Picture Show

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Jack B referred to The Rocky Horror Picture Show in his comment, and all of a sudden I was transported back to when I first arrived in this country. I started remembering these bits and pieces of my times in the US when I was, for all intents and purposes, an FOB.

You may still remember my tale of landing in the middle of corn field where the Champaign-Urbana airport is located and wondering why everything looked different from the American films I had seen back home. I wanted New York! I knew the Midwest was going to be different. But CORN FIELD as far as my eyes could see? *sobs*

It was the summer of 1993 when temperature routinely reached over 90+ (at least as I recall). As I struggled to my dorm room with my two gigantic suit cases (in one of them I had packed a rice cooker, typical FOB international student behavior), my jaw dropped when the door opened to reveal a tiny, tiny closet masked as a “room” with NO air conditioner. Tears started stinging the corners of my eyes.

It was a nightmare. I had made a mistake.

The International House (or whatever the department that is in charge of the lucrative trade of luring international students who receive no financial aides and pay full price) paired the newly minted students up with volunteers who would introduce these foreigners to the American culture. They forgot, however, that most of the foreign students were GRADUATE students (so perhaps a bit on the geeky side? Definitely not walking on the wild side… ) and the volunteers were all young undergraduates. My “volunteer” showed up at the door of my dorm room and, picture this: Tina from Glee reminded me of her. Only that this girl standing in front of me was a bit more Goth (before I even knew what Goth was and that Goth existed).

We had an uneventful “getting to know you” session at a coffee shop. The conversation was halting at best. Remember: I landed in a strange country less than a week ago and I had no prior experience conversing chitchatting strictly in English. Before we ended our first session, she mumbled something about taking me to a movie. Sure. I am game! But why did she ask me to bring a water gun, toast, and to wear a rain jacket? I was certain I had heard her wrong.

At this point, the memory channel gets really fuzzy. All I remember now is confusion. Lots of it.  I remember there was a movie playing in this auditorium that was not particularly clean. I seem to remember that “Tina” was a bit annoyed I had showed up empty-handed. There were people on stage dressed in outlandish costumes. I distinctively remember a guy in revealing women’s lingerie (and yes, it did take me a while to realize that was a man in full makeup and a full wig…) and stuff being thrown at various moments throughout the movie.

Oh. That’s what the TOAST is for.

I was sprayed with water and saw toilet paper rolls fly through the air. I also remember having popcorn dumped on me but that could just be real popcorn for eating at a movie theatre and not part of the Ritual.

Now some guy (Was it the guy in drag? I can’t remember for sure) asked demanded,

Where are the virgins? Give us the virgins! Where are you? Stand up if you are a virgin! Get up here. NOW!

Again, utter confusion as I desperately leafed through the pages inside my head to locate the word “virgin” and its definition.

OOOOOOOHHHHHH.

I was not. I thought.

Think again.

“Tina” pulled me up from my seat and physically delivered me to the stage… I was not a ham the way I am now. I was not at ease at all standing there, spelling out AWKWARD in blinking neon letters with my mere presence. I am pretty sure I was insulted (as demanded by the Ritual) but thank goodness for my lack of verbal English comprehension back then. The audience surely was laughing, slapping their thighs, cat calling.

I think I blanked out this part of my life: the rest of the evening after the man declared we were hereby deflowered and were no longer virgins and were allowed to get back to our seats. More screaming and foot stomping and cat calling. For something that should have been memorable to the extreme, curiously, I cannot remember what happened afterwards and NO alcohol nor medication was involved.

“Tina” and I never saw each other again after this. Heck, I don’t even remember her name. As a matter of fact, I did not remember this episode in my life, my indoctrination into crazy American Pop Cultures, until Jack’s comment. So thanks.

My only regret is that I wish I had a blog back then (since keeping a journal has always been out of the question for me – it’s just not for me). I would have recounted everything as soon as I got back to my sauna closet. Wait. Wait. I would have taken tons of pictures. Just imagine: The awesome blog fodder. The even more awesome tantalizing title for this post:

I Lost My Virginity at the Rocky Horror Picture Show.

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Sundays in My City – Jump!

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This post is inspired by MISSion Amy K.R., one of the WBEZ (Chicago Public Radio) blogs, where they conspired to save summer by making people jump at the same time on one designated night and encouraged people to stage their own gallery shows a la Philippe Halsman’s iconic photography book/exhibit Jump, and indeed, to Jump for Joy!

Naturally, I am recycling photos we took at the Outer Banks…

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Unknown Mami

Sundays in My City – A Night at the Opera

Ok. I lied. I went to the theatre with three boys under twelve with ants in their pants, what do you think? Just had to use it in my title because it is THE favorite album of mine, that’s all.

We went to see a Broadway musical… in Chicago… I wish I could tell you that I saw Spamalot.

Shut up! This is a hold-up, not a botany lesson. I want you to hand over all the lupins you've got.

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Or Wicked. Or The Lion King. Or Billy Elliot. But Nooooo….

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It is a musical based on a Disney movie. Like, 100% based on the movie... Wouldn't it have been enough to just watch the movie, again?

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Every time I walk into one of these classic theatres, I am startled by the beauty inside. The ornate, intricate designs overwhelm the senses and quicken my heart. Faced with the beauty, I feel guilty for not dressing up. I imagine that the walls and the chandeliers whisper, “We wish you had taken the effort to look as good as we do and help us remember those days…”

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Unknown Mami

Lost in Translation

The comment by Justin from Here where I Have Landed on my earlier post Things I Missed echoed my experience and feeling:

… when I tell people that I wasn’t born here, and that I came here to go to college, they’re consistently surprised, “What? But your English is so good!” like it’s completely unnatural that I can string my words together cohesively and not say “Engrish”.

I won’t lie. I have always prided myself on my “good English”. It is a skill that I have mastered on my own and therefore I believe I have earned the right to be proud of it. You know, the same way you’d be proud of your ability to speak, say, French just like the natives. Many many years ago, while I was working on my dissertation which focused on Asian Americans (both American-born and immigrants of Asian descent), I noticed and was troubled by the gap created by the (in)ability to command “good English”. Those who cannot communicate well in English are perceived as foreign, bizarre, lacking in humanity. People tend to write them off as “There is little, if not nothing, in common between us”. Stupid even. (Talking louder and slower. You know what I mean…)

<<Digression: Of course, interestingly, the above does not seem to apply to someone who speaks only French, or German. Or Spanish, depending on what the person looks like.>>

Against my advisor’s strong protest, I insisted on ending my dissertation with a rather personal essay because I believe in presenting a story from as many valid perspectives as possible, especially by people who somehow cannot “speak for themselves”, even if doing so might have negated some of the theorization I was trying to accomplish through my thesis. Since it’s been eating me alive how only 5 people have read my dissertation which represented 5 years of my life, I am going to share an abridged version of the last chapter of my dissertation here on this soapbox (aka my blog). After all, recycling is good for the earth.

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The field for one’s ethnographic study is full of ‘surprises’ and ‘exceptions.’ Every time I theorized a statement or a performative moment, something else would come up that threw my analysis off balance. My theories and analyses cannot account for all individual occurrences. There is always the ‘unexpected’ that makes me think more, that makes me care more. Such is the story of Zhang, a Chinese musician who works frequently with the local theatres.

Zhang came from Mainland China. He had been studying and working in Beijing for almost forty years before he came to the United States in 1993. Zhang has to work at five jobs just to make ends meet. Other than the occasional gigs for performance and composing, he also works at a Chinese restaurant for six hours every day, and he works as a masseur/accupressurist. When Zhang was hired to perform at dinner parties and in Chinese restaurants, by the Chinese standard, it was a fall from grace. He was the master musician in China, and now in the United States he has to peddle his music in front of dinner guests who pay no attention to his existence, let alone his art.

Zhang has tremendous difficulty adjusting to life here because he knows little English, and he has neither the time nor energy to learn a foreign language. He told me that when he gets a job offer, he asks people to send him information in writing. He then looks up new words in the dictionary and only in this way does he know when and where he is supposed to show up and what, to perform. The day before the performance, he has to drive to the place, like a drill, to make sure he knows the directions. When he works with the local theatres, he needs an interpreter to help him understand what their needs are and what the performance is about. People have neither the time nor the funds to translate the whole script for him. A lot of times he has to go home and look up most of the words in the script one by one. He told me he has never had an actual conversation with people in those theatres he works with because he can’t.

“Then why don’t you go back?” I could imagine people asking him.  So I did, and he explained,

“The material life is not as good for me in this country because I was provided with an apartment and a nice salary when I was in China, as ‘First Class Composer.’  In contrast, I have to work several jobs here just to pay my rent. I can’t function normally here because I don’t have an adequate command of English. I can’t even answer the phone myself… But what makes me stay is the liberation I feel here. The freedom to create music in my own way. Nobody can tell me what to do or what not to do.”

Zhang, like many artists, would like to believe in the universality of art. He needs to believe his artistic creation can be shared by all people, and his art can bridge the differences and bring out the commonalities between people.  However, this kind of theorization does not help Zhang’s situation. The discrepancy between his belief and his reality in the United States is painfully obvious.

The language barrier looms large.

Learning English somehow has become the primary goal of Zhang’s life in the United States, a goal he does not expect to achieve because he has to work most of the time in order to survive. With his limited English, he can find work that pays only the minimum wage. A vicious cycle was started as soon as he landed here.

Zhang surmises his own predicament, “I am crippled because I don’t understand English. There is no way I can get out of this bind with my limited command of English.”

It is curious how little has been theorized about the English language as an important factor in building “Asian American”  communities/identities and, at the same time, marginalizing the non-English speaking population. There are practical and urgent issues of immigrant subjectivity regarding language skills and economic class. Just because they do not speak English does not mean their subjectivities do not exist. Nevertheless, the boundaries set up by language barriers are real and difficult to cross despite all the talks of figurative boundary-crossing. It was luck that I happen to be a native Chinese speaker, that I could talk to Zhang and, as much as I dislike this term, ‘speak for’ him.

Towards the end of our interview, I asked Zhang the question I ask every one of my interviewees: “Where is home? Is it here in the United States or is it China?” Zhang was greatly affected by this question. The tears welled up in his eyes. I was stunned. I was not prepared to deal with this situation. A great sense of guilt overwhelmed me. Here I was, in a noisy and crowded Chinese restaurant, facing a 60-year-old Chinese man in tears. I made him cry. I felt as though I had made my father cry in public.

“I am sorry.” I did not know what else to say. “I am sorry.” My voice sounded helpless. Impotent. There is nothing I could do. And there I was, with a perfect “ethnographic” subject — one with a heart-wrenching story. One who is obviously a victim of national boundaries and political upheaval and cultural alienation and economic inequality. One who cannot speak for himself in the United States. I did not know what to do but say over and over again, “I am sorry.”

Wiping his eyes, Zhang said, “It’s not your fault. It’s just that nobody has ever asked me this question all these years when I am here. Home? Exactly. Where is home for me? I think I was brought here by Fate. Fate made me come here and stay… I don’t have friends here. I don’t have anybody that I can talk ‘heart to heart.’ In China, I have buddies. Here, nobody.”

When scholars analyze and document hardships that immigrants have to go through, they forget to mention loneliness. Right after I turned off my tape recorder, Zhang sighed and said, “You know, I have been here for so long and nobody has ever bothered to ask me that question. THAT is America.” He fell into a silence.

Reporting, live (kind of), from the Hometown Fest

July 2nd.

The party goes on…

Happy Birthday to Lindsay Lohan and Larry David. They should hang out together more.

Happy birthday to Hermann Hesse. To this day I am sometimes still Emil Sinclair looking/waiting for my (inner) Max Demian. Thanks a lot, man.

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The following is my entry for this year’s Pulitzer Prize. As Bob “Elvis” West says, Thank you. Thank you very much.

Wait Wait Don’t Tell Me. For real.

Oh man. I should have written this post Thursday night or Friday early morning when I was still riding the high from being at a live taping of my favorite radio program, Wait Wait Don’t Tell me. Instead I am suffering from the backend of the pendulum swing, crashing hard, filled with doubt and self-loathing.

This is a confession from a self-proclaimed dweeb, dork, geek-lover, fangirl, star-struck middle-aged woman who behaved age-inappropriately on Thursday night.

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1. Stuff that I said about how I never develop crush on celebrities? Total baloney, it turned out. I had the biggest grin on my face and was giggling like an idiot the whole time I was getting autographs from Peter Sagal, Carl Kasell, Charlie Pierce, and Paula Poundstone. (Roxanne Roberts left by the time we finished our “shopping spree” at the Wait Wait “Shameless Commerce Department” – a homage to another popular NPR program, Car Talk).

I am going to chalk it up to these brilliant people being so humble and so gracious that I could not but be awestruck by their total awesomeness.

I was also giddy from being swept up by the “camaraderie” in the auditorium. It really does feel incredible to be surrounded by like-minded people. For a second, I thought I could understand why the teabaggers go to tea parties.

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2. I was so star-struck. I didn’t even care that I failed to bring a “real” camera with me. Just being there was good enough for me.

What a fucking idiot was I? Who went to an event of a lifetime and did not even think of bringing their camera?

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3. Yes, my friend and I bought a lot of souvenirs. Well, Linda had to buy something for everybody she knows: lucky woman. She is surrounded by people who actually would kill her if she went to the Wait Wait taping without bringing home something for them.

Me? Not so lucky. Probably would have been more like a taunt if I gave my co-worker Idiot America by Charlie Pierce.

“Awesome! This is like Disneyland for Liberals!” I exclaimed with 100% sincerity.

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4. I stumbled forward when it was my turn to talk to Peter Sagal.

“Hi. I brought my own sharpie! This is like Disneyland for the Liberals!!! Ha ha ha.”

Peter. Silence. He might have raised his eyebrow.

“Who is this book for?”

“ME!” I might have squeed. Definitely giggled. A lot.

Peter. Silence. He might have raised his eyebrow.

“May I take a picture of you?” I added, out of breath, “I’ll just Photoshop myself in later.”

Bad habit of mine: pathological need to be funny when I am nervous.

Peter. Silence. He did give my phone a great smile.

Peter Sagal. THAT is a smile, right?

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5. Although Peter Sagal was my fangirl fanmatron crush, it was beyond cool to see Carl Kasell in person.

It was surreal to WATCH Carl introducing Wait Wait Don’t Tell Me

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6. Carl, as I had imagined, was very gentlemanly and very gracious. While I was getting an autograph from Carl, Charlie Pierce said in his booming voice, “Somebody here must have done some shopping!” I looked up just as he noticed his book in my arm.

“Good. Let me come over and sign that book for you!”

Yipeee! In my mind, I jumped up and down while clapping my hands.

“I am sure Carl and I can multitask!” Charlie said, as he took the book from me.

“Would you mind if I take a picture of both of ya together? I’ll just Photoshop myself in later…”

Serisouly, dude. Enough with the stupid joke already…

“Sure. I don’t think Carl and I have ever had our pictures taken together before!”

“Cool! I hope this does not mean [insert failed attempt at coming up with some apocalyptic phenomenon to show how witty I was in front of friggin’ Carl Kesell and Charlie Pierce. Smooth. Very smooth].”

Carl & Charlie. Together. Squee!

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7. I lurv Charlie Pierce. Even more so after I read the introduction to his book, Idiot America: How Stupidity Became a Virtue in the Land of the Free.

Actually he had me at the title of his book. But oh wow, the blurb for this book made me cry out YES YES YES!

The Culture Wars Are Over and the Idiots Have Won.

A veteran journalist’s acidically funny, righteously angry lament about the glorification of ignorance in the United States.

With Idiot America, Pierce’s thunderous denunciation is also a secret call to action, as he hopes that somehow, being intelligent will stop being a stigma, and that pinheads will once again be pitied, not celebrated.

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Charlie walked over to the other end of the auditorium when he learned that he hasn’t signed Linda’s copy. With Linda there, I finally had the courage to ask to have my picture taken with my crush.

“Do you want me to send you the picture?”

“Sure!”

“Give me your address so I can send it to you! Ha ha.”

Oh, I am having a heart attack remembering this while I type. Ugh.

Charlie had his arms on both of us. Squee!

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8. Although the taping is live, the show when aired will have already been edited. It’s very interesting to watch them doing the retakes.

This clip shows Carl doing a retake of “GGGGOOOOAAAALLLLL” in honor of World Cup.

httpv://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9zaBx9R2Yk8

It is unfortunate that I failed to successfully record and save the first “GGGOOOOAAAAALLLL” Carl did. He must have gone on for longer than a minute  (It felt like forever) and the audience was screaming and whooping and pumping our fists (Ok, maybe I was the only one that did the fist pumping since the audience was more refined than say at a rock concert…) His face turned red towards the end: I was so worried that he was going to pass out!

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9. Things I would not have learned about Peter Sagal if I were not there on Thursday:

  • He was a snake charmer in Michael Jackson’s video Remember the Time. Unfortunately it was left out of the final cut.
  • Peter DID shake hands with MJ. And, according to Peter, “shared a moment.”
  • He was an extra in Drew Barrymore’s movie Doppelganger in 1993.

Here is the video clip (taken with my Blackberry so apology for poor quality) of Peter disclosing his stellar resume in the entertainment industry.

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10. Paula Poundstone was the funniest. And the most gracious. For starters, Paula said matter-of-factly, “Listen to three kids whine” when asked what she will be doing this summer.

I am having such a girl crush on her as I relive my “time with her.”

We had to wait to meet Paula Poundstone because she actually talked with every single person that asked for her autograph. When it was my turn, the excitement of the night has made me completely lose my mind. I could not stop laughing.

She wrote,

Lin, May things always strike you funny. Love.

For 24 hours I have been replaying our exchange frame by frame, tormenting myself, wondering whether she thought I LAUGHED too much. Now I saw the word, “LOVE”. I am just going to take it literally. Paul loves me. Period. Life can go on again.

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11. Linda wanted the book to be for her mother-in-law, so Paula wrote,

Linda kept on yelling out things about you during the show.

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12. Linda told Paula her name is “Lin-da”, so I said, “And I went without the Duh,” which took Paula by surprise. She paused, thought about it, and chuckled.

PAULA POUNDSTONE LAUGHED AT MY STUPID JOKE!

BOO-YAH!

Did I tell you I have developed a crush on Paula?

Seriously. I could write a dissertation on this

My parents watch a lot of TV. They are at a stage where they deserve to do whatever they feel like, really, and my dad’s health does not allow him to stray away too much or too often from stationary activities. That being said, there are three televisions inside the 800-sq-ft. 3- BR apartment, so yeah, they watch a lot of TV. I have realized after having left home for the U.S. in 1993 that the most precious yet the most difficult gift I can give my parents is simply being there.  As a result, I end up watching a lot of TV when I keep them company.

It is always a quick and dirty way for me to get reacquainted with the here and now in Taiwan. The social mores in vogue. I am often reminded to be proud of where I came from, followed by a sudden wave of homesickness and dread while I am… at home… because of my imminent departure. On the other hand, I am also quite frequently flabbergasted, especially by the commercials. Since  “a cultural critic / modern tribe ethnographer” was one of my answers to “What do you want to be when you grow up?”), I cannot help but have a running commentary scrolling through my mind’s eye, my mental news ticker. To be unabashedly confessional, I am fascinated and excited by the contradictions, the dichotomy, the ambiguities represented in the media messages now that I have had a chance to step outside, looking in.

Sometimes a virtual lower third is the only image superimposed on what I am seeing…

WTF MOMENT: I CAN TOTALLY WRITE A DISSERTATION ON THIS.

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(The first line of caption in the video says, “The 42nd day after breakup…”

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httpv://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UFHk6nARDcM

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p.s. This post is being written as I watch TV with my father which we have been doing for about 2 hours now…

p.p.s. The first time we saw this commercial, my father said, “@#%%$. We are a bunch of crazy people.”

p.p.p.s. Yes, this commercial is being aired at all hours, not just “after hours” which do not exist here anyway.

“Do you realize the people back here are getting cookies?!”

Jerry: “I can’t go back to coach!”

This is from the 52nd episode of Seinfeld “The Airport”. The Hyperlink takes you to an 8-minute long collection of the best scenes from this episode. Watch from 7:20 for one of my favorite lines from my beloved TV series:

“Do you realize the people back here are getting cookies?!”

I don’t know why. I just loved it even back in 1992 when I had no idea that I would be flying frequently. In coach, nonetheless…

This post could have been titled “WTF Wednesday: How the Other Half Lives”. But seeing how it is already Thursday and I have been cheating via backdating a lot lately, I will just skip a WTF Wednesday post. This should help with my image anyway: soon I fear I will only be posting WTF posts and nothing else. Since my life seems to be full of WTF moments. Or it could just be me: I am wearing WTF Goggles as I go through life…

It suffices to say that Karma delivered. After my not-so-satisfactory-yet-definitely-great-blog-fodder-and-therefore-I-should-be-grateful-all-considered flights to Taipei, I was upgraded to Business Class for the leg between Taipei and Tokyo.

Prior to this, I had ONLY heard of the Lie-Flat Business Class outfitted for the Trans-Pacific flights. (From my beloved husband nonetheless, who will certainly get it from now on if he ever complains about his air travel…) Oh boy, was I excited. When I got to the plane, I was really nervous: I would have been greatly disappointed if for some reason this plane had only the regular Business Class seats. (Yes, one does get spoiled very quickly…) Wait. How come I could not find my row? It went straight from Row 10 to Row 19. Is it a cruel joke? The flight attendant pointed UP and said, “Your seat is on the Upper Level.”

WTF? Upper Level? There is an Upper Level? I mean: I knew there is an Upper Level on a 747 but I thought that was for the super duper Secret Society First Class seats: where they have a hot tub and possibly a stripper pole or something.

As I ascended the stairs, I could hear the angels singing, celestial music playing in the background. “Ahhhhh—–” Much to the chagrin of my seatmate, I started taking pictures as soon as I finished putting everything away. Oh my. So many choices in WHERE to store my shit that it took me a while to figure it out… (He soon exchanged seats with his wife…) I did not know that I would ever, ever, wish for a flight to last longer. Alas. It was not meant to be. The plane actually landed early. I only got to enjoy my Lazy Boy home theatre for a bit longer than two hours. So why couldn’t this flight have been diverted to Alaska? I would have been HAPPY… Very happy.

CODA: Soon afterwards, Karma delivered again. This time to balance everything out my flight from Tokyo back to Washington D.C. was delayed for TWO hours. And of course this time I was back to my coach class for the 12-hour flight. The reason for our delay? AFTER the Christmas Underpants Bomber threat, AFTER the airports around the world heightened security checks by adding a second checkpoint right at the gates for US-bound flights, AFTER we had all been searched and padded down by hand, thoroughly, some Einstein decided that it was a smart move to make a joke about a bomb with the flight attendant. She reported his dumb ass and he was hauled off the plane. Subsequently the cargo area had to be searched to rule out any suspicious material in addition to locate this guy’s checked luggage. Police and security guards were also on board to search the plane before we were allowed to take off.