you'll just do it all again.

I'm at home, with nothing much to do but read and write.

And far be it for me to depart from my agreement to not be emo for the rest of the year, or to deviate too far from my blog's title - but I have to little to talk about regarding whiskey. So, really, what else?

So, since it's nearly the end of the year, here is an overview of the men of 2007. I didn't sleep with all of them; I'm not that much of a slut.

---

1. The Friend In Quotation Marks.
He technically belongs in the category of 2006 men, but for a very brief overlap into 2007. Also, I didn't do this in 2006.

The Friend in Quotation Marks actually started out as as A Friend Without Quotation Marks, which makes it the first such transition in my life. Generally speaking, I don't bed my friends, but he was cute and charming at a time when I was weak willed and lonely and rebound-ey. I am fortunate to have known him, not only for the good sex and enjoyable company, but because he is truly a smart, wonderful, and talented person who is surprisingly - still my friend.

Our relationship-of-sorts drifted away without any discussion into sporadic emails and text messages after we both got busier and caught up in our separate lives, but I am constantly grateful for the company we still share during our occasional talks over a beer or four.

2. The Boy I Liked.
I dated the Boy I Liked for about 8 months(and "sorta dated" for a bit longer). I remember asking him if he wanted to actually date me on March 14th. I only remember this because it was Pi day. Get it? 3/14? Anyway, he was one of those men that would have appreciated that, even if I'm certain he didn't remember.

I almost wish we hadn't dated, because I think we could have been wonderful friends. We played off each other incredibly well, and we definitely had some amazing adventures together.

He was probably the perfect balance of social and nerdy; I loved his friends and I wish I had met him at a later point in my life. Perhaps a version of me that was a bit older, a bit more prepared to settle down, and a bit less flighty and fickle.

Also, large cock. Seriously. Ow. Maybe too much so. Really, I'm not a very big girl.

At the end, though, the truth was that as much as I liked him and thought the world of him, I still didn't love him. There was just some sort of emotion missing from this relationship, and I truly felt that continuing it would have been selfish and unfair.

I do miss his company, though.

3. The One with the Perfect Penis.
I wish that I could be more truthful and give this one a far more appropriate name(not that the current moniker is inappropriate at all), but what I can find to actually say is minimal and completely trivial compared to what I still can't seem to find the right words for.

So, instead, I'll be crass and say that the sex, and general physical compatibility, was ridiculously incredible and I am afraid that if enough time passes, I will think that I would have just imagined it.

This boy was probably my greatest departure from "type." Objectively speaking, and based only on my past attractions to boys with rough hands and charming awkwardness, I would have ignored him. I'm still uncertain why I'd started flirting with him in the first place(or flirted back, I can't remember), but sometimes I am just compelled to do things I can't explain.

Perhaps that's why I still think about this one. I can't figure out why I liked him when I met him, except that I did. I found lots of reasons to quantify why I would have liked him later, as he is in fact, intelligent and funny and just awesome, but I am still perturbed wondering how I was drawn to him in the first place.

Some days, I am tempted to reassure myself by making myself think that the initial compulsion was formed on a visceral attraction to some basic physical feature, like his pretty amazing eyes - but I know that can't be true because I don't remember whether they were blue or green or both.

4. The One That Should Have Stayed The Fuck Away.
If I can think of one person that could have broken my trust in men, or people, it was him. I don't hate him, because I'm still convinced that it was all a mistake on his part. I actually often pity him.

But he also doesn't deserve another sentence worth talking about.

5. The We-Don't-Remember-It-So-Let's-Not-Mention-It-Again Boy.
Yeeeah. So, about that? Yeah, let's just not talk about that ever again. Yes, we definitely did not have sex - that much I very certainly remember. But I do have a couple bruises I can't explain, jerk.

Okay, memory being erased . Right. Now.

6. The Boy That Reminded me of an Awkward Puppy.
Perhaps it was because there was a large yellow Labrador sitting outside the bar where we were supposed to meet that made me think that he reminded me of a puppy, or perhaps it was the fact that his hair fell over his eyes as he stood up to hug me, or perhaps it was his awkward, and yet completely comfortable charm, but I felt utterly compelled to scratch his head.

The moment I met him, I wanted to protect him. Not in a creepy maternal way, but in the sense that he was a person that I never wanted to see hurt. Ever. It was a strange feeling, because I'd only felt that way about someone else once, and that feeling was far too fresh in my mind to be reminded of it again.

"You are a heartbreaker" - it has been an accusation levied by many of my friends, both in jest and with a degree of solemnity. They have been polite enough to attribute it to a sort of bumbling social gracelessness on my part, rather than any sort of malicious intent. I wouldn't be that sort of person, really. I am fairly ordinary: pretty enough, and smart enough and interesting enough, but at the end of the day, I'm just another girl, and not the stereotypical sort that breaks hearts. But - still. It happens.

And because the date with The Puppy, in fact, went very, very well and we got along like old friends, and were definitely compatible, and yet different enough, on an intellectual, creative and physical level - and he has already admitted to being somewhat smitten(although I take that with a grain of salt) - I know that the only way to protect him is to simply walk away.

---

2007 has been an incredible year for me. It has been a year of changes, like moving to LA, and taking my first desk job, and just the simple fact that I have met so many new and interesting people in one year that I want to keep in my life.

I'm ending this year a little lonelier than the last one, but I don't regret the adventures that got me here. I'll probably spend New Year's with my old roommates in their small, cramped, but comforting apartment watching romantic chick flicks. If these plans work out, for the first time in years, I will kiss no one at midnight.

For the first time in years, I am totally okay with that.

This is how it works
You're young until you're not
You love until you don't
You try until you can't
You laugh until you cry
You cry until you laugh
And everyone must breathe
Until their dying breath

No, this is how it works
You peer inside yourself
You take the things you like
And try to love the things you took
And then you take that love you made
And stick it into some
Someone else's heart
Pumping someone else's blood
And walking arm in arm
You hope it don't get harmed
But even if it does
You'll just do it all again

(regina spektor, from "on the radio")

omg. no more emo.

I swear, I just read this whole damn blog and I promise that there will be no emo posts for the rest of 2007.

I'll be the one to hold the gun.

I met someone a couple days ago, and had a pretty good time. He was just enough awkward to not turn me off completely with the typical smoothness I've come to notice in LA men and have developed a distinct distaste for. This sort of thing, as usual, tends to lead to "Hey, I'm a terrible person" conversations with my volunteer therapist and friend Matthew, the general gist of his criticism being summed up as: "Okay, so you went out with someone who is intelligent, well educated, ambitious, cute, funny and just enough nerdy and esoteric, and - you really don't think you're going to go on a second date?"

Nooo. I don't know. Yes. No. Maybe I will, I don't know.

I can feel my fight or flee mechanism kicking in, and in cases such as these, it tends to default to "flee". See, my wonderful practical logic is that if I never actually like anyone, I won't get hurt. So, the walls go up, and I don't have to worry about getting emotionally attached. Clearly, this is an absolutely faulty strategy, and I know it, but fixing it isn't really on my priority list for now.

I don't think that trust is something I really have these days when it comes to attempting any sort of emotional connection with other people. I don't trust other people, and I don't trust myself, and certainly not any part of me that would generally be credited with creating delusions of compatibility.

I think what I'm actually trying to say is that on an objective level, I am inherently compatible with an awful lot of people, and that "finding someone I have a lot in common with" has never been difficult for me. But I wish that I were more prone to emotional subjectivity, and even maybe a bit of ridiculous, impractical, illogical girly-ness. I do get that way sometimes - but I always think about it later and logic wins out when the prediction is eventual heartbreak.

There's this song by the Dresden Dolls that I've been listening to on repeat, that has a general theme irrelevant to this post. But there's this one line that goes "you'd rather be a bitch than be an ordinary broken heart." And it still gets me every single fucking time.

Well anyway - I still create New Year's resolutions, because I still believe that I'll try.

For 2008, I think I'll try my best not to run away.

i took out the trash today, and i'm on fire

When other girls in grade school were dreaming of weddings and husbands and houses, I envisioned a life in a charming flat(grade school was had with british nuns- we called them flats, not apartments), with some interesting job, and either a small, friendly cat or a big, stupid dog to come home to. I imagined walks to the grocery store, and constant use of mass transit, and a neighbourhood coffee shop and excursions to used bookstores and esoteric restaurants.

Yes, even at 8, I was planning the life of a pseudo intellectual, slightly introverted single woman.

Today, I walked to the grocery store and then wandered around looking for dinner, ending up at a place I affectionately call the "dive sushi place". It is actually far better than its moniker. I sat and watched a subtitled reality TV show while making my way through a pile of bulgogi, and some yellowtail sushi. At some point, I realized that the rest of the place was filled with couples or groups of people, and that the two men next to me had left and I was sitting at the bar alone. If it were an earlier point in my life, I would have felt oddly self conscious, but I just grinned and sent a couple friends a "Dude, I am such a bachelor!" text message.

As I headed out of the restaurant, it had started raining, and I walked four blocks in the rain before ducking into a Starbucks for some hot caramel apple cider, and walked another four blocks home. I admit, when I was eight, the weather never necessitated an umbrella. There is still something oddly romantic about the idea of walking into your apartment with jeans wet up to the knees from puddle jumping, and raindrops dripping off the tip of your nose, even if the reality is that it really just feels wet and drippy.

Still, despite the fact that I still do not take mass transit(but would, if it were more convenient), need to account for slightly inclement weather, and don't have any pets, my life is actually shaping up much like I had thought it would 16 years ago. Discounting the fact that I didn't have a sex drive when I was eight, and didn't account for the issues associated with that minor detail, I think that all is well.

always one foot on the ground.

I'm pretty certain that my most recent ex-boyfriend is ignoring me.

This is distressing in a number of ways, mainly because I think I've gotten old enough that I appreciate people for who they are, and not necessarily for a specific role that they fulfill for me. That said, while the places belonging to "boyfriend" and "lover" may seem somewhat disposable in my life - I truly miss "friend."

That said, I am also just annoyed at getting ignored. I get criticized, I get blamed, I get scolded and I get over analyzed. But I don't ever get ignored.

Yeah, that was a bit of petulance right there. I'd be intolerable if I were an only child.

Fuck it, I'm a good person. Or at least mostly good, and self aware enough to realize when I am not.

I'm putting together my next mix in my head. It is tentatively titled "I am falling in like and lust with you and you and you," to which my friend Allison commented "Oh, so it's your slut CD?"

Uh, sure.

Ironically, for the quasi-reputation that my uncensored mouth and my flirting and writing has earned me, I still haven't actually had sex with more people than the smallest number that cannot be represented as a sum of less than four non-zero squares. Still, I think I've had plenty of time to figure out what good sex is and what bad sex is, and that I find no sex to be absolutely preferable to mediocre sex. Perhaps it is a bit self absorbed and conceited to think this - but unless I'm picky, it's just not gonna be a particularly fair trade. And I like equality. Or rather, I like orgasms. Specifically, mine. And I like getting what I like, but really - if it's too much trouble, I can figure it out by myself.

I'd prefer a warm body pressing up against my back, and a tangle of elbows and legs and arms and hipbones and fingers and sleepy smiles in the morning. I'd prefer hands perfectly shaped to my tits, and I'd prefer my hair getting pulled until I scream obscenities at no one in particular, and perhaps at a God I'll willingly suspend my disbelief for(for a couple minutes). I'd prefer the smell of clean skin and soft hair and the feel of cold hands on my back, and neck, and waist, and thighs.

But - based on an objective analysis of the options actually currently and readily available to me, I'd still prefer to take matters into my own hands(so to speak).

Perhaps after a couple weeks, I'll be frustrated enough to change my mind.

But for now, I'm doing just fine.

a mix CD for December: 14 tracks

I have packed up my life in boxes on an average of once every two years. I've moved blocks, cities, counties, states and countries.

This somewhat nomadic existence makes little sense to me, but I can't detach myself from it. I envy the people who have best friends they've known since elementary school, because I've known my closest friends for no more than five years or so. I wonder what the concept of a hometown means, because I don't have one. The home that my parents live in is strange to me and holds no nostalgia whatsoever, except that which my mother has attempted to infuse into it. I hold a passport for a country that I don't recognize, and cannot vote in the country that I live in.

But this actually is about a mix cd, and not about my desire for a home. Well, it is about both.

After a couple years of flirting with various parts of Los Angeles, I decided to just buck up and move away from the comfortable, rent-affordable, bohemian artsy charm of Long Beach into a brick walled, hardwood floored, parking devoid studio in West Hollywood.

When you move a lot, even if it's just 30 miles or so, you realize a lot of people in your life are necessarily temporal. The argument is always made that your true friends stick with you, regardless of distance, but I already know that. It's the passerbys, the friend-of-friends, the brief acquaintances, the temporary lovers - those disappear and fade away. They go from being quirky paragraphs in an autobiography, to sentences, to sentence fragments, until they are faceless fillers in group scenes, and you struggle to remember their names.

That's what's different about Los Angeles.

In Los Angeles, people do not fade. No one is worth forgetting, and maybe the nature of it is that they simply can't be forgotten. There's a strange, mystical quality about this town, where no one is truly old.

Perhaps here, you just want to believe the facade.

Here, people pass you by and you shrug and dismiss them as bit players and background actors and stand ready to file them away somewhere in the back of your file cabinet brain. But you can't. You find yourself standing in the frozen food section of a grocery store, or walking to a bar, or building paper clip chains, or making noodle soup for a cold day, and you are acutely aware that these ordinary, everyday experiences would be better with some passerby, or friend-of-friend, or brief acquaintance or temporary lover around.

In Los Angeles, people are really fucking awesome.

This city is a place for invention, and reinvention, and that is fascinating. It is gentle and painfully cruel to everyone. It is filled with mediocrity, and completely unfamiliar brilliance. It is shallow and vapid and meaningless, but it is colourful and I am fond of colours.

I am terrified of this city. I feel like I'm looking into the face of something that is telling me, "I will fuck you up" and holding my head up high and replying stubbornly with "So be it." It's a ride, and I know that the higher a roller coaster goes, the worse it falls.

But still.

So, this is a hesitant, scared, love song for a city. And I don't know if it loves me, and I don't know if it is capable of loving anyone, really. But to feel so hopelessly awkward and graceless and small in a big, crazy, indomitably ridiculous city - and still feel like I belong - well, that's new.

---

---

1. california, rufus wainwright
2. why you'd want to live here, death cab for cutie
3. home, imogen heap
4. uncomfortably numb, butch walker
5. shores of california, dresden dolls
6. one night stand, the pipettes
7. ladykillers, lush
8. thank god i'm pretty, emilie autumn
9. a sorta fairytale, tori amos
10. angeles, elliot smith
11. i feel it all, feist
12. los angeles i'm yours, the decemberists
13. call and answer, barenaked ladies
14. summer in the city, regina spektor

on "overlap."

I had a friend over for lunch today and I made spaghetti and we had a picnic on my living room floor. The more interesting part, at least to any reader that doesn't care what I cooked for lunch, is the ensuing conversation we had about the concept of "overlap" and how I pretty desperately try to avoid it.

The basic concept is that I generally seek to avoid drama in my life. And the greater degree of "overlap" you have with your friends, the greater likelihood of drama, unspoken or not.

Here are examples of overlap -

1. You sleep with someone. Your friend makes out with someone. That's overlap.

2. You both sleep with someone. That is definitely overlap.

3. You both make out with the same person. This is overlap, but under certain circumstances, can be arguable overlap.

Any activity at first base or forward is overlap, and the further the base, the more disturbing the overlap.

I've overlapped with someone I know at least three times, and it disturbs me. She probably still doesn't know of any of it(and it'll stay that way!). But it's still aggravating. Oddly enough, with the exception of her and as far as I know(although I might just be being naive), I don't think there is anyone else I have had cause to overlap with. Which is really pretty awesome!

A good way to avoid any sort of overlap, and a rule of thumb I subconsciously follow, is to only date one person within any social circle. Sure, that severely limits dating possibilities...but hey. Besides, I'm really not sure I could conscientiously date within any social circle more than once, anyway. Social circle incest is almost always cause for drama, anyway.

So, I suppose I will have to disagree with the Spice Girls, who once said "If you wanna be my lover, you gotta get with my friends."

my mother's daughter.

It is my parents' anniversary tomorrow, and they will have been married for 26 years. My mother planned some romantic getaway, but naturally decided to bring her laptop.

So I'm sitting at work and she's talking at me over AIM, because she's found that I'm more likely to answer that than return phone messages.

Now, my mother is essentially an older version of me, except more inclined towards marriage and children, and better at welding.

She says, as I am mulling over a reasonably pointless report:

"When are you going to bring your boyfriend home?"

I take this opportunity to clean off my desk a little and go get a drink from the vending machine. She fills in the silence.

"If you maybe plan on liking him enough eventually, I'll like to meet him."

Wow, Mom.

In two concise sentences, my mother managed to:

1. imply, again and as per usual, my general emotional detachment.
2. guilt trip me about dating people(there will be more explanation later).
3. guilt trip me about not coming home enough.
4. convey her belief that I am in fact, unlikely to bring anyone home.
5. imply, however unsaid, that my brother has been bringing women home.

See, most mothers try to make you date someone. Anyone, it doesn't matter who they are, as long as they don't have too many piercings or tattoos or missing parts.

My mother does not.

Given, I haven't brought anyone home for about two years now, and there's been no one I've even touched suggestively in that time period without piercings or tattoos or missing parts. Well, I suppose she wouldn't known that that one boy was missing a testicle, but that was a exceedingly brief dalliance anyway. Oh, and that boy that I didn't know had a piercing or a tattoo until ALL the clothing came off. That didn't go anywhere either. Seriously, at least get some other part pierced or tattooed as well so I'm not completely surprised. But, I digress.

My mother discourages me from doing anything that will result in the embodiment of the three constants in my family that we talk about the least - alcoholism, infidelity and depression, all three of which have led various members of aforementioned family to death, and worse, family drama. I am not certain of this yet, but I strongly suspect that she believes that any relationship that I embark on will be a step towards me proving that I am in fact, her daughter and of this slightly fucked up lineage. My reassurances that I have yet to fulfill all three constants within the context of any relationship, and generally only one with each relationship, don't seem to make her feel too much better.

I'm beginning to truly believe that what my mother wants is for me to date a lot, and keep on telling her stories, but never getting to the point where I'd have to think about whether I wanted to bring them home or not, because I wouldn't.

She knows I am her daughter.

She raised me without a religion. She said I could figure it out myself later. Recently, she asked "Have you found which God to follow?" I said, "I don't think there is one."

"That's fine," she said, "I think there is one."

And that was that.

My mother knows that I am completely capable of repeating every mistake she has ever made. She knows I have an adjustable sense of morality. She knows that I stubbornly remain in relationships until I finally crack and dump boys over AIM. But she also knows that I am silly and inconstant, but never stupid. She knows that I will have adventures. She thinks I could use some therapy, but won't suggest it. She thinks my father is responsible for my emotional apathy, because he too is often as responsive as a brick.

And despite all this -

"You are a smart girl," she says.

By that, she really means, "If you fuck up, I know you'll weather it fine, and when you're a old, single, crazy cat lady and your boobs are saggy, I trust that you will have definitely lived and hopefully loved."

walgreens, purveyor of cheap, disposable romanticism

I had a pretty aggravating day today where nothing much happened, which was much of the reason for the aggravation.

As I ended my work day, I decided that a hot, relaxing bath would be exactly what I needed.

However, having left work at 10pm, my choices were to stop at Ralphs or Walgreens after I parked my car. Walgreens was the slightly more scenic, relaxing route.

And with that, I present Exhibit A:

Not originally on my shopping list, but definitely on my receipt:

1. Flowers. Please note that I do regularly purchase flowers for my apartment, and that I am not pathetically buying myself flowers on a lonely Monday night. However, my choices at Walgreens were a reasonably not dead looking bunch of roses and daisies, and a rather wilted bunch of 12 red roses. Clearly, I went for the former.

2. Haagen Dazs' Butter Pecan. One of my standard favourites. Also, not much variety in the frozen food cabinet.

3. Pillar candles(vanilla scented and unscented ones) and a low bowl with rocks. I will now misuse the word "karma" and say that this is definitely karma for my having incessantly made fun of various friends for having low bowls with rocks. They are utterly useless. And yet, I now own a low bowl with rocks.

4. Architectural Digest. For reading while soaking in the tub. I know it's Architectural Digest. The magazine rack at Walgreens leaves a lot to be desired, and this was the only thing I would have picked up in any possible case when the other reasonable (somewhat) choices were Martha Stewart's Living and something extolling the virtues of full figured women.

Not pictured is a bottle of cheap wine, as Walgreens does not carry alcohol, a fact that I learned belatedly and to a great degree of disappointment.

The bath was good and appropriately relaxing, albeit feeling a little bit like the kind of bath you order at a trying-to-be-classy hotel, what with the cheesy flowers and candles but minus a hot room service attendant.

The point of this is that for approximately $20, and the assistance of your friendly neighbourhood drug store, you too can recreate a tacky, faux-romantic evening in the comfort of your own home. It's fun, really.

i'll be the one to break my heart

I was typing up an entry about something that made me want to reference "I Feel It All" by Feist, and googled it to make sure I didn't completely fuck up the lyrics. In the process, I found this video of her performing live(on a bus) on the Jimmy Kimmel show, noticed that one of the guys in her band was playing a melodion, and completely lost my train of thought.

But it would have been a very wistful entry, I'm sure. I didn't need more of those, anyway.

(the video is here.)

So, instead, this will be a blog about the melodion.

I'm going to venture a guess that the melodion I own is actually the same kind as the one in the video, since I simply can't think of anything else that would be made in that hideous shade of pistachio-ish green. Except the table that I'm typing this on, but my dad made it for me, and the green is charming, but I digress(again).

I played my melodion in an elementary school marching band. We had to learn songs very quickly, so instead of learning any sort of musical theory, she wrote numbers on little stickers, applied them to the keys and we memorized numbers and looked at our fingers. Upon reflection, while this is a fairly good way to make sure the melodion section of your marching band gets their chubby little fingers on the right keys, it is a terrible way to teach music.

Yes, in my elementary school, the marching band has a melodion section. I'm not sure what was up with that either.

It's a pretty awesome instrument, and I'm not really sure where it is now. I know it's in a box somewhere, but I'm uncertain which city or end of the state that particular box is in. I have a lot of boxes in my life right now, and it seems that I always will.

I've been thinking about a lot lately, though - maybe just because I can't find it. I'm used to dragging it out of storage once a month or so and playing a small section of a song my grandmother used to like a lot(which is all I remember how to play). I always thought it was a pretty silly instrument, but I really miss it now that it isn't around. I take a lot of things for granted, I think.

a heart and a grey rubber block.

I was carving a heart(in a human heart-esque shape) into a lino block today and my hand slipped, and my cutter created a long, but very shallow, scratch on my leg. If I were more suspicious, or paranoid, I would take it as an omen, but truth be told, I'm just not very coordinated.

I feel graceless and awkward and there is nothing I can do about it.

one of those posts about racial identity, but also about hot women

Goddamn, you half-Japanese girls

Do it to me every time
Oh, the redhead said you shred the cello
And I'm jello, baby
You won't talk, won't look, won't think of me
I'm the epitome of Public Enemy
Why you wanna go and do me like that?
Come down on the street and dance with me

~Weezer, El Scorcho

***

The first girl I couldn't stop looking at was a friend of mine from elementary school. I don't even remember her name, actually.

She was two grades ahead of me. I wasn't paying much attention when she got up on stage, wearing our standard pinafore dress uniform, and held her violin under her chin. And she just stood there, with her eyes closed, wearing makeup(she looked uncomfortable - I suspect her mother played a part), and played her violin and I don't even remember if she played well or not.

What I do remember is that she was absolutely gorgeous, and I could never speak to her without stammering ever again. Before I left the country and that school, I wanted to tell her that she was really pretty. But I was even more chickenshit at age 10 than I am today.

In high school, my girl friends idolized Winona Ryder and I kept pictures of Vanessa Mae in my binders. Unlike them, I didn't talk about my celebrity obsession - because really, when you idolize most celebrities, it's because you want to be them. I didn't want to be Vanessa Mae, because I knew I couldn't be. I had already tried my hand at the musical prodigy thing and five instruments later, I knew it just wasn't going to work out. Vanessa Mae, the ridiculously sexy young violinist, was a symbol of failure, but really - what a gorgeous symbol of failure!


It's funny, because I am completely apathetic towards Asian men. Also, I am really mostly straight, and am generally not attracted to most women, but Asian musician girls(especially bowed string instruments) just get me every time. I forget sometimes, but I was talking to a friend of mine yesterday about this and very easily remembered. So that's on my list of obsessions - pretty Asian girls with long black hair in black orchestra dresses with a violin or viola or cello or double bass.

***

That said, it makes my general interaction with Asian women pretty ridiculously funny. If by funny, we mean either "antagonistic," "apathetic," or "uncomfortable."

I am a bad Asian girl. I don't mean the kind of bad Asian girl that you dress up in a cheongsam and then slap around for not rubbing your feet properly. I mean, I don't play instruments, didn't take math classes past pre calculus(although I fucking rocked geometric proofs), I date white boys, I don't own a designer purse. I have more domain names than I have shoes and I speak Chinese haltingly, at best.

My amateur anthropology attempt is that most Asian girls in those giggly little cliques are beta and omega females. They fit in by being the same. They can gain their place in society by owning a Dolce and Gabbana purse and Jimmy Choo shoes and dating a cute rich boy with a fast car while working a retail job at some hip boutique or as an accountant.

The alpha females are the ones that don't exist in that "typical" mold. They've adapted and carved a niche for themselves in this crazy city. They're feminist, liberal, and ridiculously stubborn. And there simply can't be that many alphas, so it is really a matter of who's going to be beta.

I'm not.

When I moved to America, the Beta-Omega Asian girls tried to assimilate me into their cliques a little, but gave up because I wasn't stylish and I didn't like the import car boys. I lost my accent within a year. In college, I did not join the Asian Student Association. They tended to ignore me - I was too loud, too boisterous, too opinionated and too white.

The derogative term used here is "banana". Yellow on the outside, white on the inside.

Ironically, this is not all too far from the reason I date white men.

An alternative term is "Twinkie", which is also yellow on the outside, and white on the inside.


Funny, because this is the reason I do not date Asian men.

After college, I entered a field with few women, and even fewer Asian women. I started meeting more Asian girls like me. Alpha Asian girls. And - fuck, if they weren't even more competitive than I was. I wasn't getting scorned for not being "fobby" anymore - now, I was that bitch who was going out for the same job, same man, same whatever.

It made no sense! I wanted to say "Hey, girl! We're kinda like each other. Let's be friends! We can watch Battlestar Galactica and read indie comics and make fun of import car models and talk about our crazy parents!"

No? I'm still a bitch?

Fuck.

Okay.

***

Back to the Asian girl musician thing. I have no doubt that this obsession stems in large part due to the alpha/beta struggle. I do not fail often. I have excelled in the vast majority of things I have ever attempted. I am always paranoid about it, but I also always get it right. Or I am very certainly convinced that I am right.

But music? Fuck that. My lack of musical aptitude is the most glaring failure in my life, and the one that is most apparent to my family. I have never completely failed at something I've tried - except this.

And so, when I look at the Asian girls with long black hair, in long black dresses, with their eyes closed, moving with the rhythm of their instrument and playing at perfect pitch - I recognize that I will concede alpha to them, and am thus smitten.

visits.

My parents and my brother are visiting me this weekend. This is in short, incredibly stressful.

Because, really - I am terrified of not being my parents.

My parents are the model of immigrant success. My father worked for the same company for about 30 years, transfering to multiple countries in the process and ending up in Northern California. He started as a technician, and ended up a vice president of a multinational semiconductor company. My father retired in his early 50's, my parents own their house, and my brother is getting a full ride through college.

My mother is an artist. She has a precise aesthetic, coupled with a constant need to experiment with new mediums and techniques. Her studio at our home is a playground. She handles cauldrons of melting bronze without fear. She welds better than I do. She drafts better than I do.

My parents have always unflinchingly supported my choices - "I'm going to major in Technical Theatre", "I'm going to Vermont for a few months", "I'm going to grad school", "I'm going to move in with two boys", "I'm going to quit grad school", "I'm going to freelance as a theatre technician."

Occasionally, I am jealous of my brother, who is getting the full financial support that I could only have dreamed of. But, at the same time - I never asked. Instead, they taught me financial planning, and I have nearly paid off all my debt. My dad taught me how to solder, my mother taught me how to cook. My dad gave me my first computer, my mother gave me a kiln. They taught me just about everything, really.

"We are proud of you." they said, "We're just really glad that you are doing what makes you happy."

I shouldn't be worried, because they have never doubted my ability to succeed. But, I am terrified that their trust is misplaced. I am scared that I am not as intelligent as my father and not as artistic as my mother.

I am afraid that my brother, who was valedictorian of his class, with his high SAT scores, and agreeable girlfriends and his acceptance to a college known for their engineering program will see that what my years of education, and all my multiple part time jobs in college and that all he respects in me has led me to a small studio and a job I am conflicted about.

I know I shouldn't worry, and yet I do. They have no reason to worry about me at all.

It's just that I know that I'm not the prodigal daughter, at least not compared to my brother, and they love me anyway. I feel like I am very much my parents, and being that mirror, my successes are theirs, and my failures are - well, that is self explanatory. I am really more a reflection of my parents than my brother is. I have their faults. I have their impulses, and their odd neuroses and quirks, and I am afraid that they see those in me.

I am afraid that all I have created is an illusion of confidence and competence and self sufficiency and that it will fall apart when my mother asks me where the salt is. I haven't bought salt. I know it's about ninety seven cents for a pound of Morton's Iodized Salt, but I just haven't bought any.

Maybe I'll just buy salt tomorrow morning.

That might make me less stressed.

harebrained ideas.

When I started this blog, the intention was to write about exactly what the title suggests. The joke was that "Men and whiskey" were two of my favourite things in the world, and the two things that I probably shouldn't constantly rant and write about in my other blogs or journals. I told very few friends about its existence, despite the fact that it is not difficult to hunt down.

As it turns out, the two groups of real life people that read this blog most often fall into the categories of "men" and "whiskey drinking partners," which makes it somewhat difficult to conscientiously write about them.

It makes stories significantly less interesting, especially if you have no idea who I am.

So - maybe it's time this were more of a real blog.

***

I'm 24.

I live in LA, and I feel like a stranger, albeit one that is never bored.

I work a corporate job, and I work as a theatre designer. The combination does work. Somehow.

I am afraid of commitment, failure and spiders.

I dislike cellphones and clowns. Most people just say they dislike clowns. But I really do dislike them.

I've tended to be a jack of all trades, which is often useful, although the "master of none" accompaniment is not.

I believe that fortune favours the brave, and I can only hope that I do not cross the line into foolhardy.

***

Coming soon - posts about first world problems and dinner.

hail mary, full of grace.

Most people who know me, especially those that are aware of the progression from agnostic to Christian to agnostic to athiest, laugh at the fact that I still pray.

The prayers have gotten more ridiculous over the years, and they are often more an exercise in stringing together my thoughts, than they are prayers with any intention, or hope. I have a childhood filled with non intrusive faith, though - and the remnants are difficult to avoid.

Here is a one, although it is more of a statement, and perhaps a reminder that will take hold when I am more sober.

***

Lord.

Give me thicker skin.

Give me the strength to ignore.

Give me the ability to not give a flying fuck.

Give me the sense to suppress my words that need not be said.

And most of all, give me the courage to walk away from those who couldn't care less.

***

Oh, I forgot - I'm supposed to be funny.

Here's a funny story.

Once there was a girl who was reasonably pretty and pretty smart and generally speaking, rather congenial. She didn't know all these things, of course. There were a number of people in her life that she rejected and walked away from; she was rather apathetic towards them due to somewhat mediocre self esteem. She just didn't think that anyone could honestly care about her. And since she thought nobody actually cared, reciprocation was just another thing that wasn't worth her time.

These passing people were just minor characters in her story. They were worth a paragraph, maybe. Perhaps a footnote if they had a couple notable quirks, but they were temporary people.

A couple years later, she grew to realize that she was pretty fucking awesome in many respects. She learned to care about people, and did. She realized that human connections were worth more than flippant paragraphs, and sought them out because she had - finally - begun to appreciate them.

Oh, and here's the funny part - because irony is funny, right?

The people in her life became more and more temporary. Her life began to seem more like a uncomfortable travel slideshow, filled with attempts to capture fleeting moments, albeit never really successful.

Perhaps she might have strove for some greater understanding at some point in her past, but for now, a corrupted and awkward consilience was satisfactory.

And then, she realized that she was merely another character in other people's stories, and at best - perhaps a generously kind sentence.

She just was a temporary sort of girl.

***

Oh wait, that wasn't funny? Sorry, I suppose I'm just not one for levity.

at least the graffiti is pretty.

The problem with putting all these walls up is that when you think it might be nice to have them down for bit, you suddenly realize that you have accidentally constructed a metaphor for the division between East and West Berlin(1961-1989). And then you realize - that wall's not a metaphor. That's actually a fucking wall.

Well, it is a metaphor.

I miss a lot of things, but most of all, I miss the headrush of infatuation without suspicion or cynicism.

Oh well. You can't be 18 forever.

write me a love letter with a heading in mrs. eaves ligatures.

"I don't think I am quite so much enthralled by him, as I am by the fact that he hasn't made any poor typographical choices," I said about a boy.

Mediocre typography is almost a standard found in the men that I date, which is generally surprising because my circle of friends contains a number of type snobs. Aside from a "Ban Comic Sans" flyer pinned to my cubicle wall, I'm reasonably tolerable, although my enchantment with certain men have certainly taken nosedives after witnessing appalling type decisions on their end. My friend Matt, who is certainly more insufferable of a type snob than I am(as I am barely one), once refused to walk into a restaurant after already having walked a couple hungry miles down Melrose Ave. because the menu, and signage were in Comic Sans and Arial. Despite being rather famished myself, I could not disagree with any particular point.

I fall in love with words easily - I obsess over perfect paragraphs and the people who write them. I don't like wasting time trying to think about the perfect man, because those sorts break your heart and leave you slightly different in all the wrong ways, like the relationship between Microsoft and Helvetica, so I divert my attention by lusting after the perfect serif. I don't know what it is yet, but when I meet it, I will know.

I'm not certain what the point of this blog was, except I was thinking about this on the way home from a bar.

conversation, circa 2006

"You are trouble," he said.

"Why?" I replied, even though I knew, but probably not for the same reasons he thought.

"You're a flirt and a tease."

"So are an overwhelmingly large percentage of the girls in this town." A mediocre defense, but one nevertheless.

"No, you make men think that there's a real chance."

"Well, there is."

"No - not the getting laid sort of chance. A real chance," he muttered, cryptically.

"What do you mean?"

"You make men think that they could have some semblance of a life with you. Some sort of real relationship where you would kiss in the rain and go on picnics and talk about marriage and your hopes and dreams. It's this aura about you - you're this stable ambitious artist intelligent thing, and I'm not certain why, but that makes men think they have a real chance at something. And there isn't. There really isn't, is there - because you are afraid of stability and commitment. You are the most independent and most needy person I've met, and I'm not sure I know of a single person can keep up with you." he said.

"Would you date me?" I asked.

"No, but I'd fuck you."


I had no reply.

on rejection.

So I'm listening to angry girl power songs and thinking about what the worst way to get rejected would be. I've decided on Abigail Williams' rejection(from Arthur Miller's The Crucible).

Abigail: And you must. You are no wintry man. I know you, John. I know you. I cannot sleep for dreamin'; I cannot dream but I wake and walk about the house as though I'd find you comin' through some door.

Proctor: Child-

Abigail: How do you call me child!

Proctor: Abby, I may think of you softly from time to time. But I will cut off my hand before I'll ever reach for you again. Wipe it out of mind. We never touched, Abby.

Abigail: Aye, but we did.

Proctor: Aye, but we did not.


I have yet to be blatantly and flatly rejected.

I've been subtly rejected.

I'm not sure which one I really prefer.

men and books.

One of the things that I always ask people that I have been on dates on or are otherwise interested in is "what is your favourite book?"

Oh, and I keep a spreadsheet.

This brief and informal survey covers men that I have dated, men I have gone on dates with, and men that I have fooled around with, but not dated, and excludes the three long term relationships and "nothing happened" people that I was merely attracted to. Actually, there is a random sampling of the "nothing happened" people, because I can't associate some of these books in my spreadsheet with people, and I assume it's probably them. It doesn't really skew my results much. Also, some people got two or three choices because they were indecisive when I asked.

So, what were the top books? The Lord of the Rings trilogy and Ender's Game are tied for first place with three picks each. I will say that four of those six men were not immediately apparent as nerds. Heinlein's Stranger in a Strange Land is second, with two and a half picks(the half being that I liked him enough to add him to this list, even though nothing would ever happen), but I knew those were nerds from the get go. That's a decent amount of book redundancy, considering that I'm not really a ho. It also says that I appear to be generally attracted to nerds. I'm actually very surprised that The Hitchhiker's Guide was not mentioned more often.

Character traits most often associated with the people associated with these recurring books(mind you, these are overreaching generalizations that I'm making because I can):

LOTR Trilogy: Generally shy. Slightly awkward. Adorable. Caring. Gentleman-ly. Most likely to try asking me out again. Needy. Weak willed.

Ender's Game: Artistic. Most likely to not ask me out again. Emotionally detached. Passionate. Distracted. Cold. Sarcastic. Confident. Self absorbed. Intelligent.

Stranger in a Strange Land: Creative. Most likely to actually go out with me again. Generally very socially adept. Jealous. Moody. Open. Inconsiderate. Honest. Engaging. Responsive. Affectionate. Calm.

The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy: Most likely to be obvilious to my presence. Most likely to quote Monty Python incessantly until I want to brain them with a soap dish. Generally happy-go-lucky. Private. Thoughtful. Humorous. Shallow.

Actually, there are only two books on the list that I wouldn't consider science fiction or fantasy(Kokoro by Natsume Soseki and Alice in Wonderland). Oh, and Slaughterhouse Five, but that really did feel like an afterthought - maybe he felt that he needed to impress me after first saying that he was really into Dune(which is by the way, a totally acceptable answer in my book). Man, what is with me and nerds.

Here's the actual list.

Men I have Dated and Their Favourite Books - 2002-2007

Isaac Asimov, The Foundation Trilogy, - 1
Isaac Asimov, I, Robot - 1
Douglas Adams, The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. - 2
Orson Scott Card, Ender's Game - 3
Alice in Wonderland, Lewis Carroll - 1
Stephen Hawking, A Brief History of Time, - 1
Heinlein, Stranger in a Strange Land - 2 1/2
Frank Herbert, Dune - 1
Philip Pullman - His Dark Materials - 1
Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman - Good Omens. - 1
Natsume Soseki, Kokoro - 1
Tolkein, The Lord of the Rings - 3
Kurt Vonnegut, Slaughterhouse Five, - 1

The worst answers I have gotten, which is also related to why these people aren't actually included on this list are:

1. anything by Robert Jordan. (Look, it's a fun read. I can see that. I read the first five of the Wheel of Time series before I decided I wanted to poke my eyes out. But c'mon. Favourite book? Really?)

2. Hamlet. This would have been a totally okay answer if the justification hadn't been "I think it's really deep. Have you read it?" "Deep", really? Yeah, I think Hamlet is pretty "deep" - you know, if I had read...Hamlet. Moron.

3. The Backstage Handbook. Now, this book is really useful if you might have forgotten how to tie a bowline, or needed a life size drawing of a 16d nail or just couldn't remember the height of a standard door. It is really awesome when you're not sure how to build a step unit, how to calculate wattage and need to convert a groundplan to the metric system. It is not your favourite book. It just can't be your favourite book. Come ON, this is not your favourite book! Bah, I'm done with stage technicians.

And so what does this mean?

1. I clearly gravitate towards nerds. I suppose we knew this already.
2. I am a huge dork who considers decent reading material as a factor in any possible relationship.

That's it, really.


By the way, yes, I have read Hamlet.

thoughts on men - the primer.

Dates:

1. I know this should be obvious, but buying me dinner does not mean I'll sleep with you.

2. I won't argue with you too much if you make significantly more than I do, but if we're both starving artists, which most of you will tend to be, let's not bicker over splitting the check because that's just embarassing.

3. I do appreciate you opening the door, even if automatic locks means I can't really lean over and return the favour.

4. I don't really want to talk to you about your ex girlfriend on a first date. It just really isn't first date material.

5. I will ask you what your favourite book is almost immediately and I will judge you based on your answer. I keep a record of this in a spreadsheet. It's serious business.

6. I work a lot, so I talk about work a lot. Sorry. I really do think it's super cute when you tell me about your roles in high school musicals, though.

Fuck buddies:

1. I'm not the jealous type. Actually, I'm very not-jealous to the point that I don't even enjoy being competitive. I want to be the smartest, prettiest, funniest, most talented girl that you are currently sleeping with. If I'm not, that's okay and often expected, but I don't like being second best, so I won't sleep, or continue sleeping with you. Other women that will trigger my lack of desire to sleep with you: 18 year olds, women with headshots, women who are programmers, engineers or strippers.

2. I don't mind suggestions regarding overlapping fuckbuddy arrangements(is that a polite enough term for "threesomes"?). But c'mon - just because you don't have good taste in women doesn't mean I don't either!

3. Talking to me about ex-girlfriends/fuckbuddies/lovers is okay, talking to me about current ones is not, even if you're bitching about them.

4. Hide evidence. I know you're sleeping with other people, but I prefer not to reach over for my chapstick and accidentally poke a used condom. Also, used condoms? They go in the goddamn fucking trashcan.

5. I consider you a friend, as well as a sexual object. I know this violates a couple tenets of standard fuckbuddy rules. I'm not developing feelings for you, I just can't conscentiously have sex with someone that I didn't respect in a context other than sexual.

6. I have a bad habit of sleeping with people that I may have reason to spend a decent amount of time around in other situations, including but not limited to work, school and/or mutual friends. For clarity's sake, a date is not dinner/lunch/beer following/preceding/during work/school, it is not a "hey, let's hang out" and it is not a "what are you doing now/after this meeting/before rehearsal?" Forethought is what makes a date, and if you're a fuck buddy, I don't expect you to ever have any. So don't get paranoid about heading out to dinner. It's not a date. Refer to #5.


Boyfriends:

1. So, remember #1 of the fuckbuddy rules? The one about not being the jealous type? If you're my boyfriend, it doesn't count. I will be jealous. I will have an inferiority complex. I do like the women in your life, but only until my relationship with you feels threatened. It takes me quite a bit longer to get there than a lot of other women, but I will be angrier and more depressed and irrational than they are if it hits that point.

2. I want you. I know it often won't really seem like it. I work, I have my own group of friends, I simply don't have that much time and I am going to pursue this relationship regardless of it. I know, it is very selfish of me. "You can't have it all," my mother says - but I'm going to try anyway. I need you to talk me out of my panic attacks, my irrational thoughts and my bouts of insomnia. I need you more than I will admit to you, anyone else or even myself. I am paranoid when you don't pick up the phone. I'm independent and I'm pretty tough but I still want, and very much need, you.

3. If you don't like food, this is really not going to work out.

4. I do not want commitment. I really don't. But, I'm trying. Much harder than you think I am. This is at odds with #2 and I know that. That's why I'm trying really, really hard.

5. I hope you're not the jealous type because most of my friends are male.

6. I am afraid of breaking up, and I am very bad at it. When relationships don't fulfill me, I try to fill the gaps with something else. Sometimes, its other people. I've cheated, and I've "helped" other people cheat. I'm not proud of it, and I certainly feel like shit because of it and I'm trying to fix the issues I have that make me do it. And if or when I break up with you, I'm going to try my best to do it with complete truth and respect and hopefully, grace.

on whiskey and men,

I like whiskey.

I like men.

A lot.

And not everyone needs or wants to know that.