The Dalai Lama visited Los Angeles yesterday; I wish I could have attended his talk. As much as I’d like to feel that every life is precious, I have to say that Osama bin Laden’s death feels like progress. I’ve read that he had declared that his goal was to “wage war on the West.” That’s it? Fighting? What a terrible goal! How do you know when you’ve succeeded? When bearded men marrying women half their age and treating them like property is the norm in the “west?” I don’t get it. Bad plan, Osama.
Author Archives: Toph Beifong
Poverty = death = tattoos
I have only one relative with more than one tattoo, and minimal regrets about them. He has good taste and I like most of the tattoos he’d gotten, so I was shocked to hear that he wanted to get a portrait of his grandfather tattooed to his arm. My knee-jerk reaction: “Wow, that’s ghetto.” Tattooed Cousin: “What?! Why is that ghetto?”
I love my cousin. He’s a smart guy and a good person, so when I saw how bothered he was when I blurted out my (admittedly harsh) opinion, I figured I owed it to him to give it some serious thought. The following is written in the language of huge generalization.
It starts with poverty.
People of similar economic status live among each other
Whenever I look for an apartment, I’m struck by the fact that at the end of the day, I’m exchanging money for safety. Apartments in Koreatown, Compton, and Crenshaw are cheaper than apartments in Beverly Hills, Santa Monica, and Malibu. In order to live in what I would consider a safe neighborhood, I must pay more money. Poor people are therefore more likely to live in unsafe neighborhoods.
The poor stay poor
Everyone in the neighborhood is in similar economic straits. They can’t afford to send their kids to a school where everyone gets their own books, or personal attention from the teachers. Some don’t finish high school as a result of the terrible school environment. They can’t afford higher education, so the kids who graduate high school don’t go to college. Instead they get crap jobs with crap pay that doesn’t cover basic costs like rent and bills. It’s a cycle of poverty = lack of education = poverty. Some find some escape through alcohol and drug abuse, resulting in the occasional DUI (eventually resulting in the death of the user, or innocents caught in his way). There seems to be no way out without joining the armed forces (where they may die in combat), or breaking the law.
Poverty makes for a shorter, harder life
A percentage of the neighborhood turns to crime as a last resort. They arm themselves. A gang is formed. Rival gangs pop up nearby. They kill each other and are hunted by the police. Innocent people get killed during burgalies, hold ups, drive-bys, etc. The rest of the community are now a group of impoverished people living among criminals because they can’t afford not to. They are trapped by their own circumstance in a cycle of poverty and danger that lowers their life expectancy based solely on their geography. In addition, health insurance is a luxury most cannot afford. Preventative medicine is non-existent, so people die younger than they need to.
Collateral damage
As a result of all of these circumstances, poor people are very likely to know more than one person who has died in their life, often far too young. Ritual commemoration surrounds the death of loved ones. Decals are placed on cars. T-shirts are printed. Tattoos of the dead are seen as a genuine gesture of loss and love.
But everyone dies
Why don’t rich people get tattoos of their kids who die in car accidents, or drown in pools, assuming they love each other just as much as the poor? For the middle-to-upper class, tattoos are not accepted as a civilized form of expression of any experience or emotion, death and grief included. The constant reminder of the dead is not necessary to demonstrate a sense of loss. In fact, the tendency by the poor to constantly remind themselves and others of their beloved dead is seen as a callous, somewhat selfish and attention-seeking gesture. Grief is viewed by the poor as a public experience, but is decidedly private in more privileged circles.
Is it the sense of community that causes this? Rich people have the luxury of complete independence. They don’t depend upon each other for survival, while the poor may need to borrow a neighbor’s car to get to work, or loan money to a friend so he can make rent. For the poor, death is a group experience because everything is a group experience. For the wealthy, a WASPy, reserved attitude is the most acceptable response to just about everything
SPOILER: Tattooed Cousin got the tattoo recently, and it looks amazing. I mean, it looks ghetto, but portraits are some of the most difficult art to pull off, especially in a tattoo medium. His is really well done. I guess another qualm I had was that there’s nothing worse than a bad portrait tattoo. I guess I was a little worried it would turn out to be a fucking disaster (see pictured). And that shit is forever.
Tiny car syndrome
I know I keep saying this, but it’s settled: I’m buying a Fiat. Within the month of May, I will own a brand new white Pop model Fiat 500 with brown and cream interior upholstery. And it will be just adorable. I went on another test drive yesterday, and I’m officially sold. It’s way better than a Yaris (sorry Toyota, it was a tight race until I saw the interior- why would you put your dials in the center of the console?!).
I’m suffering from some anxiety about buying such a small car, though, and these worries manifested in a dream last night. In the dream, I bought the Fiat, but was given a small plastic car instead. The kind children play with. And I couldn’t tell the difference. It was bright yellow and made of that solid but soft plastic that kids’ giant toys are made of. I drove off the lot amid a loud buzzing sound the engine made, and couldn’t tell I wasn’t driving the Fiat I’ve been pining for during the last two months.
Eventually, I got out of my little plastic pedal car, picked it up with one hand, walked back to the dealership and stood there at the counter where I demanded, “This is not a Fiat. Where is my Fiat?”
Where indeed.
Imaginationland, Ford edition
I’m currently driving a 1998 Ford Explorer, a car that was caught in the pocket between a time when CDs were the shiniest music-storage format, and when the iPod bulldozed the market. There is no tape deck and no mp3 connectivity. I’m not about to lug all my CDs down from my apartment (one whole flight of stairs!), and the car might just eat them anyway. So I’ve been listening to the radio, which in Los Angeles means I change the station from rap, to hip hop, to top 40, to more hip hop, to classical (always on commercials), to top 40 before I give up with a loud, “Ugh, spare me!” The on/off button often gets stuck, so sometimes I’m forced to turn the volume all the way down and endure the ongoing disaster that is Los Angeles FM radio at the level of a whisper. It’s maddening.
Most of the time I do manage to turn the fucking radio off, and I end up driving in silence as a result, which leaves me with only my own pulsing brain to entertain myself. Often I sing songs that would shame me to sing in front of others (Mariah Carey, The Dixie Chicks, N’Sync, etc). Mostly though, I talk to myself… constantly. Rather, I talk to whomever I imagine to be there. Here’s how it breaks down:
Ex-boyfriend– It’s so weird how you needed a ride from the airport and none of your friends could pick you up! No, I’m not sorry we broke up, are you? Wow, really? No, I don’t want to give us another shot. My life is beautiful now, and you’re fatter than ever. Here, let me remind you why I was always right about everything…
That one jerk– Things are good for me, actually, thanks for asking. I’m working really hard, having fun with the kids, getting my Master’s, learning Kung Fu, dating a great guy, everything’s going right! Oh yeah, you have lost a lot of hair. I wasn’t going to say anything. Maybe it’s because you’re so depressed over your totally foreseeable divorce. You’re right, it was your fault.
Family member– Look, you can’t expect me to give you all my lottery winnings. I have charities to donate to, trust funds to set up, and I think half a million is more than enough to get you out of debt and on your feet. No, I don’t think a nanny would be a good idea. What will I do with all my free time? I’m thinking of doing watercolors and finishing my zobo novel.
Member of the press– Y’know, I saw the gun and I just reacted. There was no time to think. My natural instinct has always been to help others, it’s no surprise that I would move toward danger instead of away from it, especially with the kids around. I mean, that guy was already shooting, I had nothing to lose. Don’t get me wrong, a bullet to the shoulder hurts, but it’s a small price to pay for paralyzing some maniac with a semi-automatic. Yes, a flying side kick is something I learned to do over years of training, but I never thought I’d use it, especially on someone’s neck. I mean, what are the odds? No, I don’t plan to keep all the reward money for his capture. Most of it will go toward my parents’ mortgage, and my sister’s school costs. I’m a giver.
I’m not making this shit up. This is how my brain works. I’m a hero, a savior, the one that got away (and sometimes a superhero!). The car has become my fantasy pod. Car-travel has become a magical state that allows me to transform into a glowing, powerful, courageous ball of wealth-shedding light. And if all that fails to entertain me, or if traffic is especially stressful, I look at my rearview mirror and pretend that all the cars behind me are my armada, and we’re traveling in formation toward our future conquest! Yes, we may die, but the battle will be glorious. Stand tall, comrades! They will sing our songs and call us patriots of the motherland for a thousand generations!
Haiku distraction: le food
My coworker (let’s call her Lisa) is really good at talking, and I don’t mean that insultingly. It’s what makes her good at her job. She’s a networker. She can hold thousands of tiny details in the front of her mind, and uses a hundred words to get a simple idea across. It wears down the other guy, and makes whatever she’s talking about sound more convincing.
I went to a meeting yesterday with Lisa and our boss (let’s call her Ruth) regarding food for a big event we have coming up. Lisa said this meeting would consist of Ruth and our contact (the Manager and Chef) discussing pricing, etc., and Lisa would spend the meeting listening and taking notes. I thought, There’s no way you’re not going to say anything. No. Way.
Lisa said she would
sit and listen. I think we
both knew that was false.
Lisa will not stop talking unless she hears what she wants to hear. She can be pretty pushy, but again, we depend on that side of her to get her job done better than anyone else in the office could. Having said that, there are some words that are such an affront to the English language (on which, as you know, I have a pretty serious crush) that infuriate me to the point of spontaneous haiku.
“Guestimate” might be
worse than the manager-chef
dynamic. Awkward!
When we sat down for the meeting, Chef was AWOL. Manager was very professional, and clearly quite experienced with the price points and practicalities of each dish for the location of the meal, the number of people we wanted to feed, etc. He’s the right man for the job. Very professional and reserved. Then Chef joined us. Chef is a hulking, overweight, laid-back possibly German man with a thick accent and some good ideas, all of which were shot down by Manager. Manager had trouble hiding his displeasure for Chef. At the end of the meeting, Chef wanted to go back to the kitchen while Manager finished up with us. Manager disapproved. He asked Chef to wait. Chef did not wait, lol.
He’s so straight-forward.
I really like this chef. I
bet he spreche Deutsch.
Chef came to the table eating a brownie, then got up and brought us a plate of them. Score!
That girlish figure
Now and then I’m reminded that kids have no idea what the world is about at all.
One of them laid down on the floor after I asked everyone to stand up, so I told him that I’d once accidentally stepped on a student because he didn’t stand up when I told him to (true) and that he had cried (false) because it had hurt him (true). He didn’t look convinced, so I asked the kids how much they weighed.
“60 pounds! 51! 55! 62!” Wow, I said, that’s pretty good. How much do you guys think Sensei weighs?
Here’s what I got:
108 pounds! 80% of my body weight. Just enough to make me look like I would neglect my health if it meant a modeling contract. Look at how fashionable I’d be!
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120 pounds! 89% of my body weight. This just below my ideal training weight. I’m about 125 when I’m nothing but solid muscle. Awesome!
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340 pounds! 252% of my body weight. What?! This kid was dead serious. This was his best guess. At this weight, I like to think I’d be a little bit proud, like I’d just won a really shitty contest.
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90 pounds! 67% of my body weight. Yeah, maybe if I was 12, lol! I don’t have a whole lot of good memories of being 90lbs (6th grade). I had just experienced the fifth of five deaths that happened between ages 9 and 12. I wasn’t unhappy, but I was very alone, and in hindsight, a little lost. I’m happy to be an adult.
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1,698 pounds! 1,258% of my body weight. That’s twelve Me’s. Yeah, this kid was joking. If he wasn’t, he’d still be doing pushups right now. There isn’t a clothing size that would fit twelve Me’s. Plus, droopy boobs! Gross!
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61 pounds! 45% of my body weight. This was another serious guess. Bear in mind that these kids had just told me they weigh about that much, and you’ll stop thinking it’s a cute mis-guided guess, and start worrying about their super-short goldfish memories. I would have to have been dead for a good month or so before I lost this much weight due to decomposition.
1057 pounds! 783% of my body weight. At this point, I would have to make a choice: Aim for 1,698 pounds, or remain pissed off for being stuck in some fuck-ugly muu muu for the rest of my joint-crippling, asexual, two-seats-on-the-bus, stray cat attracting life.
C’mon, cars
I’ve been doing some online research on cars, and I can’t get over how deceptive the photos are. Every photo shows a car with loads of expensive options. Show me the car I would actually get, not the one with the spoiler and racing kit that makes it impossible to go over speed bumps.
Tell the truth!
Underdog!
This theme song got me as a kid. I couldn’t stand the cartoon itself, but I couldn’t get enough of the intro. C’mon, it’s inspirational!
When criminals in this world appear,
And break the laws that they should fear,
And frighten all who see or hear,
The cry goes up both far and near for…
Underdog! (Underdog!)
Underdog! (Underdog!)
Speed of lightning,
Roar of thunder,
Fighting all who rob or plunder,
Underdog (Underdog) Underdog!
Here’s the intro itself.
And Scrubs did it a cappella (starting at 1:40).

















