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.