New Year’s Resolutions…for everyone around me

January 7, 2013

There are few things more American than making New Year’s resolutions. Each year, around this time, we individually create a list of promises in hopes of bettering ourselves and becoming more fulfilled. Then we ignore it. Three years ago, after I failed my resolution to write a book, do 50 push-ups a day, lose 10 pounds, and become the first Vegan Iron Chef, I have stopped making resolutions for myself. It just becomes frustrating to try to better yourself, then realize that you’re not better at all, and that in fact, for failing to achieve your goals, you are actually a worse person than when you started.

Instead, it is now my tradition to write a list of Resolutions for everyone else, and then try to change their behavior throughout the year. This is far more effective. This year, my resolutions are:

That person in a complicated relationship with a jerk who keeps calling people up to complain about the jerk: For 2013, you break up with this jerk and move on with your life, or you will stop talking to me about the jerk.

Gluten-free people: Seriously, only 1% of you guys have celiac disease. The rest of you are frauds. Knock it off. Yesterday, I was at a party, and this conversation took place: “We have to go, but I would love to try your mango-peach salsa. Are those corn chips gluten-free?” “I’m sure they are, since they’re just corn, salt, and water.” “Well, can I see the bag?” “Yes, here, I’ll dig it out of the trash.” My God! For 2013, gluten-free people will do some deep soul-searching and find out if they really are intolerant of gluten, or they’re just being annoying, and if they are just being annoying, they will stop it and act like human beings.

Web Designers who make slideshow galleries: Jesus! Do you have any idea how annoying it is to have to click repeatedly to get all the information on articles like “20 Things Your Waiter Doesn’t Tell You That May Cause You to Get an STD”? For 2013, just combine them all into one scrolling page.

People who owe me money: Unless I said “Pay me back whenever you can” when I loaned it to you, in 2013 you will pay me back my damn money!

The Subway sandwiches marketing team: Those commercials with the adults who speak in kids’ voices are extremely creepy. Plus, with poor Todd being bullied by his helium-voiced female co-workers, who take his sandwiches, the whole thing is repulsive and slightly misogynistic and makes me not want to buy a Subway sandwich ever again. For 2013, you will hire the E*Trade babies and make commercials with them instead. They’re so cute, and hilarious.

People who make movies where there is some sort of bomb at the end and the hero has to sacrifice himself: That is a ridiculous new cliché that has appeared in practically every new superhero movie, from Iron Man 2 to The Avengers to Batman. In 2013, knock it off with the world-ending bomb plot, or at least have the sacrifice count by making sure the superhero doesn’t re-appear completely intact.

People with really long and obvious nose hairs: It’s distracting trying to talk to you. Usually you’re a really nice person, but I can’t see that because I’m fixated on your nose. In 2013, please clip your nose hairs so I can focus on what you’re actually saying instead of fantasizing about taking a weed whacker to your face.

Millennials: In 2013, you will, just…I don’t know, stop being so whiny and “me me me.”

The whole list is much longer and includes hipsters, people who don’t return food storage containers, really horrible parents who spoil their kids, spoiled kids, coworkers who don’t wash their dishes, T-Mobile, and others. I’m going to start working on achieving these resolutions by emailing Subway. Happy New Year.

8 Comments | rants | Tagged: , , , , , | Permalink
Posted by Wordpress

Recapturing the magic of Christmas

December 16, 2012

For the past few weeks, as I drive past houses that are decorated with Christmas lights, I feel a pervasive sense of sadness and the rapidly burgeoning weight of mortality. This is arguably the worst opening line for a humor column ever. I can’t help it. This is supposed the most wonderful time of the year, but all I can do is think of work, of stocking emergency supplies in case of a snowstorm, of how irresponsible those people are who are wasting all that money and energy to light up their house. I hope they didn’t get injured. Every year, hundreds of people suffer decoration-related injuries.

It has not always been this way. I remember how awesome the holidays were when I was a kid. Everything was magic. From the food to the songs to the possibility for snow to the joyful spirit that took hold of everyone. We had just arrived to the US, and the coldness was not something we were used to. But it was all worth it around this time, as the houses lit up and the sounds of silver bells jingling and the scents of cinnamon and peppermint wafted through the air. One day, my brothers and I found a string of Christmas lights that someone had discarded on the curb. We dragged it home, plugged it in, and it was the most beautiful thing we had ever seen.

For the next several years, the overwhelming joy we felt for Christmas was still intact, despite the fact that the family leaned Buddhist. My parents would load up us kids in their rickety station wagon and drive around the neighborhood, and we would gaze, bright-eyed, at all those houses with their breathtaking lights. We grew up on a mountain village and never expected Santa to bring presents, so Christmas day itself was not nearly as special as those drives around the neighborhood.

Inspired by all the lights, we kids would beg our parents for a tree. Mom and Dad were extremely frugal, once denying me the purchase of a pen (“Do you really need a pen for school?”). And yet, Dad somehow found a plastic tree, and I went with my mother to the dollar store, where she was all too happy to spend four or five dollars on ornaments. I remember those tiny orbs, so shiny, so fragile, reflecting the myriad multicolored lights on our tree. It was so magnificent that we kids would wake up at midnight, tip-toe into the living room, plug it in, and stare at our amazing creation. We couldn’t sleep because this tree was so awesome, especially when the rest of the house was completely dark.

Now, sadly, those memories have begun to crumble, and I can’t summon those feelings any more. Last week, I flipped through some of the family albums and found a picture of that magical Christmas tree. In the picture, it is about 3 feet tall and looks scrawny, tacky, and pathetic. This was what we kids were so sleeplessly excited about?

I am starting to realize, now that I am becoming a parent, that the childlike innocence and magic that we once experienced, if we are lucky to have experienced them, cannot last forever. Luckily, this sort of magic is unlimited and unassailable, because it exists in our perception of reality. In the mind of a child, unencumbered by the increasing stresses of life, a crappy second-hand tree, for example, is a wondrous thing. As adults, we have a duty to ensure that the next generations experience what magic is available in the world. That was what my parents did. When we drove around the neighborhood, the joy that enveloped us kids probably never reached them through the countless worries they faced, but they soldiered on.

And now I know why. We have a five-old nephew who loves Christmas lights. Each year, we drive him around the neighborhood, and the joy I find now is not in the lights themselves, but in my nephew’s perception of them. We watch as his eyes light up, and it is a different sort of magic. Still, I get a little bit jealous that he can still experience this. I have to resist the temptation to lean closer and whisper into his ear, “You know, hundreds of people get injured putting on these lights every year.”

4 Comments | Depressing reflections, family | Tagged: , , , | Permalink
Posted by Wordpress

Frak, I’m really going to be a father

December 3, 2012

Jameelah and I have just found out that our baby is a boy. We are ecstatic. Sure, we would love a daughter just as much as we now love our son, and I know that in some parallel universe, we are happily walking around a Ross store, looking at tiny little dresses and imagining what she would look like in them. Then we would drive our flying minivan back to our house on the moon to watch a version of “Revolution that” does not suck.

But, in my sporadic daydreams of fatherhood, I’ve always pictured a little boy. One with unkempt hair and a mischievous smile. I’d teach him how to skip rocks, and whistle, and put up framed artwork—manly crap like that. I would make sure that his fruit juice has 100% the daily value of Vitamin C. On nice days I would take him to the park, help him climb up to the top of the curly plastic slide, reassure him that it is OK, that I would catch him, and then I would wait at the other end with my arms wide open.

Now that I know for sure we will have a boy, the daydreams have become more vivid. I start envisioning little father-son moments where I would pass down pearls of wisdom that have been culled from decades of a hard-fought life. Wisdom like, “It is not talent that leads to success, but perseverance.” And “Intelligence is not determined by what you know, but what you do.” And “Don’t seem too competent, because people will just ask you to do more work and sit on an Advisory Committee.”

“Huy Jr.,” I would say as we sit on our porch steps, the sky in front of us painted in layers of gold and crimson by the setting sun, “sometimes when you slide down a curly plastic slide, static electricity builds, and that’s why you got shocked.” He would look up at me, his big brown eyes brimming with tears. “You must learn that occasionally, things don’t turn out the way you expect,” I would continue, recognizing a teachable moment, “but you should keep exploring the world, my son, for there is much joy and beauty in it, despite the occasional unpleasant surprise.”

“Thanks, Daddy,” he would say, “that slide really scared the frak out of me.”

“I know, but it’s OK…wait, what did you just say?”

“It scared the frak out of me.”

“Who taught you that word?”

“What, they say it all the time on Battlestar Galactica. ‘You frakking motherfrakker!’”

“How have you been watching Battlestar Galactica? We don’t have cable.”

“Dude, I’m five and a half. I just stream the episodes on my iPad 9. That, and Game of Thrones.”

“Huy Jr., you know your mother and I forbid you from using the iPad 9. The Retina Display technology was found in 2017 to cause eye cancer! You’re grounded!”

“I hate you!” he would say, before hopping onto his hover board and flying off to his solar-powered treehouse.

At this point, I would snap out of the daydreaming, seized by bouts of fear and panic. This would be followed by a few minutes of freaking out about how the hell I’m qualified to be a father. I have no parenting experience! I have managed to kill a lucky bamboo! Kids are smart these days, and they grow up in a world more and more dominated by technology, which they will understand far better than most of us could.

After panicking for a few minutes, I would calm down. This week, I was able to feel the baby kick. My son: such a tiny, fragile life form, growing and developing. All the fears and anxiety melted away, replaced with the image of his little-boy smile, tousled hair, and the scent of dirt, and grass, and fruit juice with 100% the daily value of Vitamin C. I would drift off into daydream again, imagining another twilight, another poignant father-son moment on the porch: “Dude, Dad, why do we keep sitting on this porch watching the sunset? Are you dying or something? If not, can I go watch the Walking Dead?”

Sigh, it was only a few years ago I could feel him kicking inside his mother’s womb…

Leave a Comment » | family, Pregnancy | Tagged: , , , , , | Permalink
Posted by Wordpress

Do Your Patriotic Duty, Shop on Black Friday

November 18, 2012

Around this time of the year, most of us take a moment to pause and reflect on the things for which we are thankful. Family, good health, love, the obliteration of Romney and his campaign team’s ego, the new study by Japanese researchers that says looking at pictures of cute baby animals is correlated with increased workplace productivity, etc. But don’t do it. Being thankful just takes away from crucial planning and preparation time for Black Friday, which comes from the Gaelic words bhleg, meaning “60% off,” and Frīgedæg, meaning “if you camp out in the cold for three hours in front of Best Buy.”

Nothing is more American than to stuff our faces with excessive amounts of food, then rush out and shove an old lady aside for a laptop or cake-pops maker. Remember, spending a ton of money that we don’t have to buy things we don’t need helps to advance our economy. We are on the edge of a fiscal cliff, so let’s all do our part. Now, Black Friday is a battlefield and not for the faint of heart. So if you decide to sleep after Thanksgiving dinner, no one will blame you, you Commie. If you are a real American though, here are some tips I share each year to make your Black Friday successful:

First and foremost, plan. You can’t just take your time polishing off a fried Turkey leg, then just mosey on down to Target, high on tryptophan, and they’ll give you a laptop for $49. Real Black Friday shoppers spend weeks, maybe months, looking through online ads and websites like blackfriday.com, creating an action plan that takes into consideration factors like the distance between stores, traffic, terrain, and the likelihood that other shoppers may wield cattle prods. Real Black Friday shoppers don’t sleep. They don’t bathe. They wield cattle prods.

Second, prepare yourself physically and mentally. Exercise. Go to crowded places and practice navigating through the masses. Strategic shoving is a critical skill to learn. If you are a newbie, start your training at a nursing home, then move up to elementary schools, followed by high schools. At first, it may feel awful and you just want to apologize to everyone you shove, but tough it out because guilt will only slow you down on Black Friday. With enough practice, you will be able to shove children, the elderly, and other shoppers with efficiency as you zoom your way to the George Foreman grill that is on sale for $4.99 at JC Penny.

Third, recruit several friends. There is no way you can visit every store that you want. Get two or three friends and divide up the locations and items, then later meet up and swap. Be careful whom you recruit for the mission, though. Millennials, for example, are very tech savvy, but they have no patience and will start whining only five hours into standing in line in front of Staples. Hipsters are surprisingly great Black Friday wingmen. Their skinny jeans make them more aerodynamic, and they tend to physically repulse people even without the shoving.

Fourth, get your tools ready. Pack shin guards, wrist guards, a helmet, and an athletic cup. Every year, thousands of shoppers get injured by stampedes, lacerated by metal shelf corners, and someone always gets a clump of hair ripped out by another shopper. Bring along a small first-aid kit.

Fifth, do NOT drink coffee. Coffee may seem like a good idea, but you will regret it. Remember, you are standing in line for hours, with bathrooms far, far away. Unless you are immune to the diuretic or other effects of caffeine, avoid it at all costs. Regardless, it is best to bring along an empty jar of Snapple. You will know what it’s for.

Finally, remember, what you are doing is helping our country. By waking up at 3am and waiting in line to buy that Ultrabook for $499 instead of $1099, you are strengthening America. Be proud. And as I tell people every year: never, ever, accept anyone’s offer for free Snapple.

8 Comments | Tips | Tagged: , , , , | Permalink
Posted by Wordpress

Baby Never Acts Wild, Very Low-Key on the Profile

November 1, 2012

Next Monday we will have an ultrasound to find out if our little critter will be a boy or a girl. This will give us a head start on indoctrinating this kid on its gender role. Just kidding. If anything, we will reverse-indoctrinate, meaning if it’s a boy, we’ll expose him to dolls, things that are pink, and soft emotions. If it’s a girl: trucks, video games, discreet scratching, etc. Jameelah has been very excited about this ultrasound. Mainly because this baby has not been doing much. “Boring!” she says, “it’s so boring! I wish it would kick or do a backflip or something!”

“You should sing to the baby,” she said one day. She’s been reading up on all sorts of research about how babies can recognize and respond to their parents’ voices and other noises if they’re exposed to them while in the womb. I’ve been trying to be accommodating, but somehow, it just seems silly to be talking or singing to someone’s stomach. “Hey,” I said one day at her request, “hey little critter. What’s new in there? How are you hanging? Getting nutrients from your mommy, growing and stuff? You got like two arms now? You’re developing your hypothalamus gland or something?—You know what, I can’t do this. I’ll talk to the baby when it comes out.”

It is not always fun being pregnant. Jameelah has been having heartburn and a weird leg pain. But the worse seems to be when nothing is happening. It must feel so surreal, carrying a life, and having no sign of it. She was looking sad one day, so I thought I would sing to the baby to cheer her up. He eyes lit up and she broke into a smile.

“What are you going to sing?” she asked. I thought about it for a moment. “I know!” I said, “No Diggity!” “Uh-uh,” she said, “you’re not singing No Diggity to the baby! Sing a lullaby.”

This is my kid we’re talking about, and No Diggity is one of the best songs ever written, ever. This baby is going to be exposed to good music, like the Zombies and Credence Clearwater and Blackstreet. It’s not going to listen to the crap that kids listen to these days: auto-tuned Hip-Hop/Pop and breathy women who sing songs with whimsical lyrics that are then used for commercials. Seriously, if I see one more car or gadget commercial where a woman sings with a breathy voice some song about bumblebees or something, I will seriously lose it. Like this irritating “Prius for everyone” commercial, where the annoying woman is all like “let’s hum, hum, hum, hum, a Prius for everyone.” It makes me want to punch, punch, punch, punch someone in the pancreas.

But that is neither here nor there. There is no use arguing with a pregnant woman, so I started singing one of the only few lullabies I know, “All the Pretty Little Horses.”

“Wait,” she said, “lay your head on my lap so you’re closer.” She was sitting on the couch. I laid my head down, one inch from her stomach, and started singing. “Hush-a-bye/don’t you cry/go to sleepy little baby/when you wake/you shall have/all the pretty little horses.” It felt silly at first, but it was a lot less weird than talking to the baby. I finished the song and looked up; Jameelah was beaming. I turned back to the baby and started the next song.

“Shorty get down, good Lord/Baby got ‘em open all over town/strictly biz she don’t play around/cover much ground/got game by the pound…” Jameelah started laughing. “I can’t get her out of my mind (wow)/I think about the girl all the time (wow wow)…”

I finished the rest of No Diggity (“You’re blowing my mind/maybe in time/baby, I can get you in my ride”), and I swear the kid kicked me in the head. OK, it didn’t. Seriously, this baby is kind of boring. Hopefully it’s developing its hypothalamus gland, or whatever part of the brain that controls music appreciation. I’m already lining up songs to cover for the post-ultrasound concert, and it will include some Vietnamese traditional lullabies, classic Mexican love songs from Los Panchos, and Juvenile’s Back Dat Azz Up.

8 Comments | family, Pregnancy | Tagged: , , , , , | Permalink
Posted by Wordpress

What Obama and Romney Can Learn from Reality TV

October 14, 2012

Sadly, as many of us had predicted, our political system has devolved into reality TV. Just look at the Presidential debate a couple of weeks ago. Do any of us remember any of the content? Heck no. What we focused on were the candidates’ looks and demeanors: did they blink too much, was there something stuck in their teeth, did they slouch, how many times did they sigh? Reality TV has trained us to pay attention to this crap, and to put substance on the backburner. Remember how American Idol’s David Archuleta kept licking his lips between verses? Don’t know if that boy can sing or not, but the annoying image of him licking his lips will haunt my nightmares forever.

What the Romney camp has understood recently that the Obama camp has not, are the principles of successful reality TV show performances. For example, the Endearing-Awkward Curve (EAC), which is basically a little bit of awkwardness is charming and helpful. Too little and the contestant seems cocky. Too much and they make everyone uncomfortable. I remember the President’s opening remarks, which sounded something like, “Now, on the economy, first, I’d like to say, um, that, uh, twenty years ago, I met my sweetie, the love of my life, and tonight, uh, is, um, our anniversary…” Meant to be sweet, it crossed into the too-awkward end of the EAC, like that time on the X-Factor when that kid who used to sing with Britney Spears came back as a 30-year-old man-child to audition, and the whole time, he just looked so sad and fragile. Poor guy broke down after his awful performance, making us all feel even worse.

Another principle is that of the Underdog. Sure, in real life we tend to ignore or make fun of those at the bottom of the ladder. But on TV, America will always root for the underdog (unless they’re too awkward). That’s what Romney had going for him. He had been slipping in the polls, with nary a chance of winning the debate against a president renowned for his speaking skills. If the President had been too forceful, he would have been seen as a jerk and a bully. We all hate jerks and bullies. Nothing warms our heart more than when a kid who is bullied stands up for himself, beating the crap out of his tormentor. My eyes misted up at one scene in Burn Notice, when this sweet little kid in a fight pretended to be down on the ground, and when his bully bent down to investigate, the kid stood up real quick and slammed his head into the bully’s chin. Romney knew this, so they struck, interrupting again and again, and unfortunately, people are conditioned to think that this is good.

But the Obama camp has been playing smarter. Now they are the underdog, so when Biden was aggressive, dismissive, and bellicose, many of us think of it as strength. I hope it is not too late. Actually, President Obama’s sucky performance might be a blessing in disguise, thanks to the Melinda-Priya-Daughtry Effect. Basically, when singers were so good, everyone thought they were safe because other people would vote for them. Since everyone assumed this, few people voted, resulting in these good contestants’ elimination. On the reverse, crappy singers kept getting ahead because their rabid fans knew they had to vote for them or no one else would, something called the Sanjaya Effect.

Unfortunately, whether we like it or not, elections will only become more and more like reality TV. We cannot stop this. What we can do, however, is adapt techniques from some of the better shows. For example, for the next debate, the candidates should speak with their voices obscured by autotune. They debate ten rounds in front of judges whose chairs are turned away from the candidates. After each round, the judges rate which candidate made the most sense based solely on content. Then the judges turn their chairs around to see who won. After that, we call/text a 1-800 number to vote for our next President.

1 Comment | Politics | Tagged: , , , , , , | Permalink
Posted by Wordpress

An Asian Dude’s Experience with Black Culture. Episode 4: What Yo Man Gotta Do With Me?

September 30, 2012

About every other day, Jameelah comes home and tells me which guys hit on her. “So I was at the gas station today, and this one kid comes up and was all like ‘hey, you got a boyfriend?’ So I said, ‘I’m married,’ and he was like ‘What yo man gotta do with me?’”

She gets hit on a lot, everywhere: “So this one cashier at Safeway…” “So this one dude with sagging pants…” “So this Moderate Republican with a wooden leg…” I am not at all threatened, because why would anyone choose ramen, when they can have caviar? OK, that’s a bad analogy, because we’re vegetarians and don’t eat fish eggs. Why would you choose an Otter Pop, when you got Purely Decadent Peanut Butter Zig-Zag soy ice cream, which is so good, you’d think it’s made with unicorn tears? Actually, Otter Pops are pretty good too…

The point is, I am not too worried, since my wife can take care of herself. Women get hit on a lot more than men, and Black women seem to experience it even more frequently. Sometimes Jameelah comes home incredulous. As a married couple, we now pay little attention to our appearance outside of work and formal events. Most days, we don’t even comb our hair, and with our generally shabby clothing, we may be mistaken for Thriller reenactment zombies or Mitt Romney at the press conference after the 47% video came out. “You won’t believe this,” she said, “I was at Taco del Mar, and this older guy asked for my number.” “Really?” I said. “Yeah,” she said, “I looked like this.” She pointed at her hair, which was sticking up in different directions. She was wearing a faded grey sweatshirt complete with spaghetti stains, and at least one eye was twitching from lack of sleep.

“So what did you do?” I asked. Jameelah’s strategy is to be courteous, while making it very clear that she is not at all interested. This usually works. “I told him thanks but that I was married. He was very nice about it.” “Well, that’s sweet,” I said, “it takes a lot of gut to approach someone.” “Not too sweet,” she said, “as I left he said I had a nice butt.”

The real challenges are when we are together, say at a club. Despite the ubiquity of interracial relationships in Seattle, the Black Woman Asian Man (BWAM!) couples are rare, so most people do not expect Jameelah and me to be together. This can cause some misunderstandings, such as Jameelah being hit on while I am right there with her, trying to drop it low. On occasions, I’ve had to push in, one time shoving a guy out of the way and giving him the Bruce Lee Death Glare. It has led us to compensate by engaging in sometimes inappropriate dancing to let all the other dudes know we’re together. “Quick,” she said, “some guy is looking at me. Rub up on me right now.” “What?” I said. “Just do it!” she said.

On the reverse, Jameelah makes it amply clear that she will “cut” any woman who tries to move in on her territory. This has never happened before, but it is sweet of her to tell me once in a while. Sometimes all the attention she gets makes me feel left out. The other day, she came back with another story about getting hit on. “Really?” I said, “Well, uh, me too! I was at Trader Joe’s trying to find Peanut Butter Zig-Zag ice cream, and, uh, this woman, um, was all like, ‘Hey, so, you, uh, you kinda cute, in an Asian Steve Buscemi sort of way…’ and I was like ‘oh hell no, my wife will cut you!’”

“I sure would,” said Jameelah, “I’d cut her bad.”

Leave a Comment » | Black Culture, family, relationship | Tagged: , , , , | Permalink
Posted by Wordpress

« Previous Entries
Next Entries »
Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 111 other followers

%d bloggers like this: