Tag Archives: imma be me

Random Randomness

13 Replies

I confess the reason why I took to Twitter so passionately was because I am the ultimate “idea man”. You know, like those people that go in front of movie studios execs to pitch movie ideas? (I learned of the movie industry from TV shows so YMMV) I have lots of one-liner ideas but that is the extent of my “genius”. Every day I walk through life making running commentaries on people I see, things I observe, news I hear, and [invisible] thought bubbles that pop up over my head. Not to mention the memes and quotes that make me laugh as I rapidly scroll through Facebook streams on my phone.

Oh, I should write about THAT.

I’d open my laptop, jotting a couple of lines down, and immediately running out of steam.

Dead. Nothing. Void. Hollow caverns echoing with the witty one-liners.

“There should never be a BUT following a true apology. Lance Armstrong apologizes like my husband.”

“Manti Te’o would have stood out like a sore thumb in NFL since he’d probably be the most faithful and gentlemanly boyfriend amongst all the NFL players.”

“Frankly I could care less that he lied. I am more concerned about the culture that forced Manti Te’o to fabricate a girlfriend who died of a [fake] tragic death.”

Echo. Echo. Echo.

 

I hope you will forgive me for the mental purge here. My brains are hurting with all the echo. Ok, smart ass. I know you can’t really get rid of echo by “purging” them. It’s just a figure of speech though I am definitely mixing analogies here.

 

I am sitting inside the train station again on a Saturday morning, waiting for Mr. Monk, my 10-year-old boy, to get out of the weekly religious class run by a Catholic Church that more than one Catholics have told me is TOO conservative even for them. There are reasons we are keeping him there and I will not get into them. Suffice it to say that my sons and I have had a lot of great discussions and I hope, we are “training” them to be critical thinkers.

What don’t kill you will only make you stronger.

 

What does it say about me that I love being in a crowd of strangers and feeling alive amongst the hustle and bustle? Invisible yet alive. This is the kind of crowd different from say, going to a conference or a party. There is no pressure, no obligation, no anticipation to socialize with each other. And absolutely no networking. I ABHOR the concept of “networking” by the way. I’d rather die. There I said it. Probably why I will never get ahead on the career ladder. I wish for my kids super-duper Google-Fiber-grade networking capability (ha ha I slay me). That’s all that matters nowadays isn’t it no matter what kind of job you are holding?

 

Got my new Kindle Paperwhite this week. I could not shut up about it, I know. I am sorry, ok? Leading to the moment before Marvin arrived (yes, I named my Kindle Marvin. 2 points if you guess Marvin who?) I had been restless, full of anticipation. I have never felt such excitement since… I can’t remember really. I lead a pathetic existence, yes. Now I curl up with Marvin in bed in the dark, caressing his comfortingly textured, paradoxically smooth skin (and promptly fall asleep. I like the concept of reading though). In the recess of my consciousness however I cry, “Traitor!” indignant for my deep love of rubbing my fingers with a book page in between, feeling the heft of somebody else’s words and thoughts in my palm.

Mr. Monk inherited the ex-Marvin now named Tardis. “Bigger on the inside”, get it? 10% into The Hobbit, he exclaimed, “I love Kindle!” he who previously had adamantly been on an anti-electronic-book tirade. “It is just so amazing. It’s like a book but more awe…” I held my tongue that wanted to argue as he curled up in bed with Tardis, so absorbed by what was happening in The Hobbit that he did not even bother to finish his sentence.

 

Facebook introduced GRAPH SEARCH this week. To me it boiled down to one thing: Discoverability. They are not changing their privacy policies per se and you continue to keep your privacy settings. The biggest (only?) difference now is that we can no longer afford to mindlessly LIKE or comment. Your friends will now see what you are liking and commenting on on their streams. We need to watch for WHAT we are liking, and if you are Interneting at work, WHEN you are liking because obviously when you are LIKING you are not WORKING.

I am not liking this.

 

A friend of mine noticed that I LIKED this article:

I Can’t Stop Looking at These South Korean Women Who’ve Had Plastic Surgery (thank goodness it is not something I’d be ashamed of when caught liking) and shared a piece of wisdom from Tina Fey with me. Of course a long tirade swirled inside my head that would have become an awesome blog post were I able to form cohesive sentences and string them together logically into paragraphs. Instead, Imma taking the easy way out. Ctrl C. Ctrl V. SHARE.

 Tina Fey

How to Rock [Fake] the 20s [Out]

16 Replies

Maybe it is because the release of the movie trailer for The Great Gatsby (2013) starring the Titanic “I am the king of the World” guy, the roaring twenties is certainly a popular theme for holiday parties this year. Based on the limited sample size of three, I confess: Two of the company parties (in different offices) I was fortunately enough to be invited to were of “The Roaring Twenties” and “Speakeasy” themes. And the hotel we will happen to be staying in on New Year’s Eve also will be a roaring twenties party.

So here is a tutorial on how to rock the 20s…

#1. Be white.

Ok, I am being facetious.

#1. Don’t tell your co-workers at a retro theme party that as a matter of fact if we were in THE era, you would not have been allowed to be in the same room as they, unless you were working as a waitress.

Hey, just want to get it out of the way.

 

#2. If you are a gentleman, wear your 3-piece suit and a gangster hat (i.e. expensive-looking fedora). You are done! See the gentleman in the picture who’s pointing his gun at me. Pretty sure he did not even have to dress up for his gangster acting gig.

#3. If you have short hair, wear a pretty elastic beaded headband the “wrong” way. Find any earrings that are dramatic and preferably in the Art Deco style (or, in fact, any geometrical shape will do. i.e. no hoop earrings…) at your local Marshalls and T.J.Maxx. If you have medium to long hair, you could be all professional actress-y and do the Finger Waves or Pin Curls. Or you could be lazy practical and tie your hair in a pony tail, tuck the tail inside the hair above the elastic band, stick 100 pins to keep the tucked hair in place and call it a day. See the crazy wombat on the right in the picture.

#4. You don’t need a dress strictly in the 20s style. Something with a simple silhouette will do. The key, I found out accidentally after the effect, is to have a nice, classy shawl.

#5. Take advantage of the fact that women did not know about “F* Me Heels” back then and spare your feet on the dance floor. Wear low heels with t-straps or some Mary Janes also look right for the occasion. I ended up with these.

#6. Scour your local second-hand stores for a beaded purse. I got mine for $12.

#7. Costume long black gloves, $8. Costume cigarette holder, $2. Going all out in lalaland, priceless.

 

#8. Take advantage of this opportunity to try out the “smokey eyes” makeup techniques from YouTube. Don’t fall asleep while watching this lady taking frigging 20 minutes to do her eyes and then think that you could just wing it. Don’t even attempt to draw in your eyebrows. Unless you have had practice before, let’s just stay away from the eyebrows. I don’t care if women in the 20s had strong eyebrows. If only we all looked like Louise Brooks and her amazing eyebrows!

#9. Make peace with your eyebrows.

#10. Perhaps you should consider getting enough sleep so the black circles under your eyes will not become augmented the night of the party and conveniently blend in nicely with the smokey eye look and turn it into a rabid raccoon look. Or, if you are Chinese like I am, it would be a nice panda look.

  Ta da!

 

 

 

 

#11. When you walk into the second party and immediately realize that you and your date are the only two people who actually dress up for the theme, don’t panic.

#12. Charm the actors hired to be a gangster and a British Constable (yes, do ignore the fact that there is a British Bobby at a Speakeay party) so greatly that they grabbed you as soon as you walked in the door to have pictures taken with you, not with your camera. While you are at it,  become simpatico with the actresses/flappers because of your awesome Louise Brooks choker.

#13. Yes, it’s ok to let the gangster kiss you on the cheek as he points his gun at you. (What you gonna do about it anyway?)

#14. When someone you know upon recognizing you actually bursts out laughing, and instead of approaching to say hi and telling you how awesome you are for having the guts, turns in another direction, stay cool.

#15. Make belief that you and your date are at some random bar surrounded by strangers (which may as well be the case, the part about “being surrounded by strangers”). The only difference is — Everything is FREE! Have more fun than everybody else around you.

That’s the best revenge of all: happiness. Nothing drives people crazier than seeing someone having a good fucking laugh. — Chuck Palahniuk

 

 

And finally, as always, channel Louise Brooks wherever you are.

 

For two extraordinary years I have been working on it – learning to write – but mostly learning how to tell the truth. At first it is quite impossible. You make yourself better than anybody, then worse than anybody, and when you finally come to see you are “like” everybody – that is the bitterest blow of all to the ego. But in the end it is only the truth, no matter how ugly or shameful, that is right, that fits together, that makes real people, and strangely enough – beauty…

— Louise Brooks on writing a memoir

 

Fly your freak flag high

30 Replies

or maybe this is not such a good advice.

Sigh. I have had a draft of this post for a couple of days now. I was going to write about how we should all let our hair down, show our true colors, and let our freak flags fly high. Way high.

To mix the cliches, we should fly that flag up and see who salutes.

I am too old, and life is too short, for all this shit of trying to fit in.

I was going to write about in the past two weeks, I had been under the duress of performance reviews (Oh, I absolutely hate writing self assessment and writing reviews for the others stressed me out to now end. I’d rather drink milk. Ok, maybe not. But you know what I mean. Maybe you don’t. Then good for you…) Due to the stress and the serious lack of sleep, I came a bit unhinged, according to my honest self assessment. I caught myself breaking into songs and dance moves at work. I was constantly invoking the  Hyperbole and Half’s meme: Answer ALL the emails! Invite ALL the peeps! Cancel ALL the meetings! Write ALL the reviews! Complete with the raised arm (which nobody else around me seemed to get…)

I believe it was unsettling for the people who sit nearby.

In my head, I saw myself walking over the edge, letting it all hang out, and I was at the same time feeling conflicted, not wanting to show my crazy at work. I wrote a co-worker that I was worried I have been flying my freak flag too high, kidding-on-the-square-ly, and he responded: Your freak flag is one of the few things that keep me going here. Keep your freak flag high.

I broke down and cried.

 

Hi, it’s me again. You know, the two straight-up vodka me. I can feel the alcohol working through my veins even as I am typing this. I know the feeling well. I am trying to NOT be drunk and I am very conscious of my drunkenness. I have to make extra efforts to keep myself lucid and carry a cohesive conversation and keep my voice at a socially acceptable decibel. I am also paranoid of people finding out that I am actually drunk so I try to stay as socially engaging as possible while mentally checking everything that I just said, and then try to dig myself out of it. My English becomes great. My accent is mostly gone. Two vodka me is awesome. Life at the party. (Note to self: Being “life at the party” is actually a sardonic phrase when everybody else is sober)

Well, all that immediately went out the window when I made a gesture wider than my brain could detect and control and knocked it down to the kitchen sink and broke it. All before 8 pm.

Yup.

So I am sitting here back at home wanting to cry because it was a party at the neighbor’s and all the other neighbors were there. I have already felt like an odd duck in this neighborhood. We were finally invited to a party! Maybe this time we could blend in and people would think that we are normal!

I am such a hypocrite, am I not? After all, I was the one the tweeted, facebooked and tumbled:

Today’s motto: Let your freak flag fly high.

And I made these memes because I was so damn proud of myself.

 

 

 

We are going to start a goddamn movement! Complete with a parade. With them flags!!!!!!

Seriously though? I am horrified to think that those people at the party are just going to think that my behaviors were due to my being drunk and rude and stupid: I mean, what kind of people got that drunk before 8, at a WINE party?! I don’t know why it bothers me so much. So just want to let you know. When I said I don’t care what others think, when I rah-rah-ed about how you just need to be yourself, when I encouraged you all to fly your freak flags high? That was more hypothetical. In an ideal world. If I were an ideal me. I would totally fly my freak flag. All. Day. Fucking. Long. And out in the open too.

I think I need to go to bed now.

I will fly my flag tomorrow. Sober too.

 

Can’t Hardly Wait

54 Replies

 

 

Some random associations from a picture I took this Sunday.

Budding.

Can’t hardly wait.

Spring Awakening.

Frank Wedekind

Frank Wedekind who in 1906 gave us a play criticizing the sexually repressed society with depictions of group masturbation and other subjects that scandalized theatre goers.

This quote attributed to Wedekind which made me chuckle because now whenever some trivial disaster happens in my otherwise mundane life, I think, “Yeah, a blog post has written itself!”

Any fool can have bad luck; the art consists in knowing how to exploit it.

 

The Lulu Plays by Wedekind.

Lulu, the complicated, contradictory femme fatal and victim, in a play that scandalized the audiences in the late 19th / early 20th century with its nudity, implied and not so implicit sex act, rampant confessions of lust and obsession, and an openly lesbian character.

Louise Brooks. Playing the role of Lulu in the movie adaptation of Pandora’s Box.

Louise Brooks. Writing a memoir many decades afterwards, so uncannily described how we feel now when we sit in front of our computers and pour our hearts out…

For two extraordinary years I have been working on it – learning to write – but mostly learning how to tell the truth. At first it is quite impossible. You make yourself better than anybody, then worse than anybody, and when you finally come to see you are “like” everybody – that is the bitterest blow of all to the ego. But in the end it is only the truth, no matter how ugly or shameful, that is right, that fits together, that makes real people, and strangely enough – beauty…

 

 

 

 

The Cuckoo and The Choo Choo

28 Replies

I am at the train station again. The one with the Starbucks.

I come here almost every Saturday morning when the kids are in Religious Ed. Free babysitting provided by the Catholic Church. That’s the least they could do for me really.

When I was waiting for my non-fat Venti latte, I heard “Hi, Mrs. Absence!” and barely recognized A, a boy who lives in the house across the street from us. I was pleasantly surprised for surely most kids his age (13, the same as my oldest) would have preferred to slip by without having to say hello to a neighbor lady whom his family does not socialize with other than “Hello!” when we chance to see each other outside. When I walked into the train station with my coffee, my oatmeal, my laptop and my iPhod, I realized that he was with a group of a good size, comprised of fathers and children. One of the fathers whom I have never met before explained that A’s grandfather organizes such a group outing for the dads every year around Valentine’s Day so their wives could have a grand day off.

[A’s mother does not work outside of the house. Both kids are old enough to take care of themselves and are away from school between 8:30 am and 3 pm. They have house cleaners that come every other week. What will she be doing today that is going to be different from her Monday through Friday? I cannot help but be curious…]

The stranger dad asked, “So are you going downtown today?”

I wondered what he made of me: me in my Aerosmith t-shirt, jeans, black boots, thick black eyeliners, and a choker necklace at 9 o’clock on a Saturday morning, oh, and I just noticed now, no wedding ring. (I often leave my ring at home together with my bracelet and watch. I get allergic reactions from metal easily…)

“To the Auto Show?” He added. Perhaps that’s somewhere he would rather go instead of the show they are taking the kids to?

“No.” I had not realized yet that it might have sounded odd to people that I come and hang out at the train station. I joked, “I am not going downtown. I am trying to get away from the kids,” taking for granted that he would know what it was like, what I meant.

Of course he did not. He looked downright uncomfortable, not knowing how to respond to my impromptu confession. Laughing awkwardly, he said, making a sweeping gesture towards the kids in his group, “Getting away from the kids? Sorry about that then.”

I laughed. “No, no. I am not getting on the train. I am not going anywhere. I am just here.”

He looked puzzled. “Here? The train station?” His eyebrows arched. Was that a cloud of horror passing through his eyes?

“Yes, I am here for the Starbucks. You know.”

Judging from his quizzical eyebrows, I doubted that he did.

I was baffled. What’s wrong with being at the train station? I thought.

At this moment A’s dad made his way across the train station and spotted me. “Hey! What are you doing here?” I gave him a hug and told him in mid-hug, “Well, I am coming with you guys!” Feeling sorry for the confusion visible in his face when I released him, I quickly added, “Just kidding. I am just here at the train station.”

“The… the train station?” He looked so confounded as if I had told him that I had been there for, oh I don’t know, a rally for the democratic party. Actually, he would probably have been able to understand that. It is this “hanging out at a train station with no specific purpose by myself” that caught him off guard I suspect.

“You know. They have a Starbucks here,” I added with an emphasis, “The ONLY Starbucks in town.”

“Surely there is a Starbucks closer to our houses, no?” He insisted, unconsciously attempting to steer me away from the train station perhaps.

After I rattled off the alternative locations, he concurred that this is indeed the closest Starbucks we’ve got.

“But…” He still could not let it go, “The train station?”

“Well, you see, when the train leaves, there will be nobody here. It is quiet and very nice. The Starbucks is here. And there is free Wi-Fi.” I could tell that he was not convinced that this was the most logical choice, or a logical choice at all, so I shrugged, “Well, I am strange this way in case you haven’t figured that out after more than 10 years…”

Now it’s his turn to reassure me my normal-ness. “Nah. Nah. You are fine. You are fine.” We both chuckled.

Fortunately the bell started ringing to announce the arrival of the commuter train.

“Have a nice day downtown!”

“Enjoy the train station!” He said, and I thought I detected a tinge of the kind of tone that people use to someone who insists on, say, rummaging through a junk yard. “Have fun at the junk yard even though I cannot for the life of me understand WHY but hey this is a free country so go for it!”

I did. For another hour until I had to pick the kids up. But I could not shake my own puzzlement over how they were so befuddled and possibly, amused.

So my dear Soren Lorensens, do you know, what is so strange about hanging out at a Starbucks inside an empty train station?

Remember this.

11 Replies

Screenshot from my new favorite film: Mary and Max, written, designed & directed by Adam Elliot

.

.

“Love yourself first and everything else falls into line. You really have to love yourself to get anything done in this world.”   — Lucille Ball

“If you don’t love yourself, you cannot love others. You will not be able to love others. If you have no compassion for yourself then you are not able of developing compassion for others.” — Dalai Lama

“NaBloPoMo forces me to change my perspectives on quoting famous people and thus taking an easy way out.” — Lin

Thank goodness Halloween is here because I look better in drag

42 Replies

Disclaimer: Objects in the mirror are both closer and farther than they appear.

.

Preamble: I have no idea what the point of this post is or whether there is any. Except to demonstrate the power of Picnik, the danger of believing in profile pictures in social media (Think Catfish), and the fact I look much better in black and white which is why I secretly long for living in Pleasantville before those stupid kids ruined it for everybody, and I will gladly trade places with Tom Baxter in The Purple Rose of Cairo, incidentally a movie I also watched multiple times hoping Tom would turn and address me directly, “Hey you!”

..I

For our graduate production, my undergraduate class staged M. Butterfly by David Henry Hwang. The play calls for an Asian man to live in drag, pretending to be a woman and fooling the self-delusional French diplomat (based on a real scandal!) None of our male classmates stepped up to the plate, and therefore we had a woman playing a man playing a woman.

Although I suspect that how we did it due to necessity was not optimal for the theatrical production, I later learned that there is a term for this: Faux Queen, aka Biologically-challenged drag queen, Female female impersonator, or Female impersonator impersonator.

When I was young, I fantasized about dressing up as a man because being a man gives you a lot more freedom (Think Mulan). I wanted to be a swordswoman in one of the Wu Xia novels or movies (Think Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon), dressed up as a young warrior scholar so I could roam the world and right the wrongs.

To this day I look forward to rainy days before or after it actually rains. It gives me an excuse to walk around with an umbrella.

I was fascinated by Victor Victoria and (still) believe that Julie Andrews looked much better as Victor.

For the majority of my high school career, all girls school, hello! I did behave and dress more towards the male end of the spectrum: closely cropped hair, asexual clothing, and let’s not forget, aviator sunglasses. I was known to make young girls blush when they mistook me for a dashing young man. Well, I was relatively tall and lanky and handsome. In a manga-character-like, pre-sexual, innocent kind of way. For a bunch of high school girls with similar lack of exposure and access to the other sex.

When I said I peaked at the age of 18, until then I had been living an arguably cloistered life, I was not kidding. Being naturally feminine has never been my strong suit. And of course, who’s to say what defines femininity any more, and the distablizing ambiguity suits me fine.

.

CODA: You know, I’ve struggled with this post since Monday. Normally if I am having such trouble with the direction I have been going in a post, I’d scratch it. Just as I was ready to give up and start anew some other time, I realized that Monday was the day when I bought my plane tickets home. This rambling on gender roles and prescribed femininity came from my anxiety of going home home next week. As much as I feel unease sometimes in this country, I feel/fear that I stand out like a sore thumb (and to some extent literally since I am tall by the local standard) over there. Oh well. I will be a woman playing a woman. Thespians, we are good at it, eh?

Wig Out

40 Replies

I took a nap today from 2 pm to 4 pm.

(Wait. Let me jot down the date for today. On October 17, I TOOK A 2-FUCKING-HOUR NAP, RELATIVELY UNINTERRUPTED, AND WOKE UP ON MY OWN!!!)

When I woke up, I was completely disoriented because I thought it was morning. At first I was confused, then I went into a panic: I thought I had overslept. This seems to happen every time I (get to) take a nap: I need an hour to recover from the grogginess, not to mention the residual memory of the said panic attack. Sometimes I am not sure it is worth it.

The house was absolutely quiet when I stepped outside the bedroom. The kids were outside playing, I remembered them whispering in my ear, asking for permission when I was sleeping. Strewn on the floor were the wig called “70s Dude” and the John-Lennon-esque sunglasses my 7-year-old “Mr. Monk” just got from the annual trip to the (overpriced and crappy-quality) Mega Halloween Costume Shop. I thought, “Why not?”

.

The Bloggess was right: Wigs rock!

.

I screamed when I turned around and saw Mr. Monk quietly sitting in front of the computer.

“I didn’t know you’re home.”

“Is that my wig?”

Should I be concerned that he was completely unfazed by my behavior?

All of a sudden I heard a commotion: my 7th grader and his friends were running across our backyard, passing the open windows and barreling towards the back door. I pulled the wig and the sunglasses off right before they came in sight. I smirked as I remembered this line from Sara Gruen’s Water For Elephants (one of the books sitting on my nightstand and inside bathrooms which I hopefully will be able to finish by the end of this year)

Keeping up the appearance of having all your marbles is hard work but important.

.

.

I actually tried on several wigs when we were at the said Mega Halloween Shop Stuffed With Mass-Produced Crap. In fact, I believe I tried on ALL of the non-blonde wigs they had: Elvira, Rebel Witch, Lolita, Hot Pink, Flapper Girl, Shirley Dimples, Sexy’n’Trashy, French Kiss Cheyene, Seductress, 60s Babe, Sultry, Punk Girl, Glamour, Madam Destiny.

Here’s the thing. My kids tried to talk me out of every single one. They must have found it unnerving. In fact, I KNEW they found it unnerving and that was why I stayed away from the blonde wigs. Mr. Monk kept on wanting me to try on the wig called “Mom” because

“That’s you. You are a mom!”

My 12-year-old tried to steer me towards the BLACK wigs.

“You should try this one. Or that one.” he pointed to the Egyptian Princess wig and Sassy Black Wig. Finally after the third pink wig that I asked for his opinion on, he said, “You really should just stick with a black wig, you know, because it does not look out-of-place.”

Yes, clearly, they did not understand the concept of Halloween when it came to their own mother.

And yes, though I am not proud to admit it, I sulked. I swallowed an entire speech right then and there and suggested that it’s time we check out and head home.

As we passed by the “Asian” aisle (labeled as so), the 12-year-old pointed out the wall with various geisha, China girl, Far Eastern girl costumes (black wigs included of course) “Mom, look! Yikes!” I turned towards him,

“Did you see? This was what I heard when you told me that I should stick with a black wig: A white woman can choose to be whoever she wants, having whatever color of hair she wants, whereas I have to stick with being Asian. With black hair.”

I sometimes feel very sorry for my children. “Other moms” don’t wig out over wigs, I bet.

.

.

This was the fortune I got today:

.

I once read that Fortune Cookie fortune writers have to strive to come up with messages that are neutral, offend no one and appeal to everyone.

What are the odds of this fortunate being “Absolutely not applicable – I am telling you honey, sweetie pie, no, I swear, this is just a stupid fortune, not going to come true, and of course I am not sad that it won’t come true” to whomever receives it.