Category Archives: life

goodness, life

My Los Angeles

People chuckle when I call Los Angeles my hometown, but that’s how it feels.  Being raised here makes it feel small, even cozy despite how spread out everything is.  Nothing feels very far away, even though getting anywhere usually involves between one and four freeways.

It’s a difficult city to get to know, not only because it’s so spread out but because it’s so unpredictable.  Nice neighborhoods become rundown, unsafe and unkempt within a block.  The border of Hancock Park, a neighborhood full of multi-million dollar mansions, started just one block north of where I was raised.  But two blocks south of my house was a park where we would go to play during summer days, and where drug dealers would meet at night.  Two blocks south of that is Pico, and Los Angeles High School just to the west.  I used to run on their track in elementary school, and one afternoon we got trapped on campus during a lock-down; there had been a gang-related shooting on campus.

semi-oblivious

My parents did a good job of making us understand that there was danger around without allowing us to feel threatened by it.  I wonder sometimes how they did that in a city like LA.  It probably helped that the LAPD Chief Willie Williams (the first black LAPD Chief) lived next door to my family for a short time while I was six.  When asked by the LA Times why he chose to move there, he said something about “the neighborhood’s green lawns.”  Mom had a good laugh when she read that, and went outside to turn on the sprinklers that morning.  A small detail of two or three body guards would pick up the Chief every morning.  My mom would occasionally send me or my sister out with a gift of Girlscout cookies (we were both Brownies).  Once I gave one of them a drawing of a badge tucked into his hip next to his hand, thumb hooked into his pants.  He told my mom I was already an accomplished artist if I was drawing details instead of people at age six.  I remember my mom telling me about that, and realizing it was a genuine compliment.  And not just that, but a real compliment, from a total stranger, who was an adult AND a police officer?  I must have been glowing for a week.  Mom said my drawings always had the subject falling off the page.  She was right, and seemed really proud of me for that, which in turn made me feel really good about myself.

frame that shit (approximate reproduction)

My folks (especially Mom, who had also been raised here) educated us about Los Angeles at every turn.  She would take the scenic route to wherever we were going to point out local landmarks, who used to live in which house, what “used to be there,” and her personal memories of the city.  She’s known in our family for saying stuff like, “This is why people come to Los Angeles,” or “This is why people came to the west coast,” to which my sister once responded, “I’m pretty sure all these palm trees and the Hollywood sign weren’t here for the pioneers to see.”

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badness, goodness, life

Obama, Osama, O-Lama

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.

shit just got real

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life

Poverty = death = tattoos

that shit is forever

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

even after you die... it'll still be there

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.

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goodness, humor, life

Imaginationland, Ford edition

apparently I have paws

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…

SUCKS TO BE YOU!!

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!

the imaginary navy approaches!

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goodness, life

3 years without heavy metals

Boyfriend and I celebrated our three-year anniversary yesterday with sushi (mmmm, salmon).  I can’t believe it.  It doesn’t feel that long.  We’re really happy together.  It’s… kinda really, really nice.

I do! lol

A couple days ago he asked if I would choose to get a ring, earrings or necklace as a present.  I kinda stared at him like, “um… what?”  He knows I don’t wear jewelry, given how many chances there would be to lose it when I take it off at the dojo and at home.  And we’re not the type to exchange expensive gifts (I got him a button-down shirt this year.  Last year was go kart tickets).  Then I figured here’s my chance to get a present!  LOL  I said a ring, so I can look at it and feel loved (which is hard to do with the other two).

I don’t take this as a sign of an incoming shiny bauble.  Boyfriend is the type to gather information, and wait for the perfect time, the perfect item, the perfect circumstance before he were to introduce anything as substantial as precious metals into the relationship.  I told him once that I would be satisfied with a ring made of thread, and that I would cherish it in the stead of a traditional ring.  It’s true.  I’m proud of the person I’ve become, if that’s how I feel about jewelry.

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badness, goodness, life

Selective memory

I wonder if I’ll ever stop remembering those things I’d like to forget. Will I think of that creepy guy when I was 13 on a walk with my dog every time I drive down that street?  Will I ever forget that tip that friend I’ve lost touch with told me about turning down the burner?  Do I have to keep thinking about that fight we had in high school?  It was so long ago.  When will the remembering end?  Sometimes I’d like it to stop.

like this, but with a square toe

But there’s so much I desperately want to keep in my head.  Every conversation I have with my family (how many are left?), the way my friends and I used to hang out and talk all the time (I miss that), the things I loved about my first car (her name was Danny), those horrible loafers I wore to high school (I secretly loved them), the names of the kids at the dojo (I’m terrified of seeing them out and about).

So I need to write things down, and take pictures, and tell stories.  It’s a large part of why I started this blog; so the remembering doesn’t stop.  Because in the end, there’s so much more I’d rather not forget.

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life, martial arts

A generation of softies

what a douche

I’ve heard many people compare learning martial arts to joining the armed forces.  Participants become physically and mentally tougher, learn valuable fighting skills, and get their asses kicked on a fairly regular basis.  Whenever I run into another martial artist, our common trials bond us together instantly.  The running joke goes something like, “What crazy bullshit did your master put you through?”  We compare scars and bruises, techniques and tactics.  With a knowing smile and a firm handshake, we’re friends before we even know each other’s names.

[Note: This does not include martial artists who brag about their abilities.  Those are a totally separate group of people who are all buddies for different, more self-indulgent reasons.  I do not consider these people martial artists at heart.  See picture.  Note the poorly photo shopped American flag, and how the portion of his black belt with kanji has been intentionally blurred.  That’s taboo.  Badly done, Chuck.]

But things have changed since I was a student.  Instructors praise their students constantly.  They smile and laugh when their students make mistakes, then encourage them to try again.  This positive feedback approach is the complete opposite of what my generation (and all past generations) of martial arts students experienced.  How will my students bond in the future?  Certainly not over what a bastard I was.  I hope.  Crap.

Yes, things have changed.  My instructors were never wrong.  Being in class meant not smiling, not laughing, and never, ever talking back to the instructor.  If you made a mistake, the Grand Master would point in out in front of the whole class, often with anger in his voice.  And for what?  To humiliate the students into getting it right the next time?  All it did was make me tense.  I was not happy there.  Why did I stay?

I think it must have been the people.  The fact is, even with the tyrannical nature of the studio, we still had a lot of fun.  We still joked around and laughed and goofed off (and got in trouble for it).  We would clean up the studio, then go out for Korean food at the 24-hour place in K-town.  I had a blast, and it saddens me that I’m not really in touch with anyone from those days.  Gotta work on that.

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family, goodness, humor, life

Delightful disaster

scary-accurate

So… *sigh* I’m not known for being the best driver in the world.  I wrecked my first car within the first two years of ownership.  My second car (another Pontiac Grand Am) gave me all kinds of trouble.  I also had the occasional close-encounter with poles.  I sold it about a month ago just before it hit 100k miles and its value really plummeted, so I’ve been driving the car previously known as my dad’s old car, and before that known as my mom’s old car.  It’s a 13 year-old pile of American metal with 130k miles on it.  It’s louder and even less fuel efficient than my Pontiac was.  Time to get a new car.

A couple good people from out of town came to visit my family and see the sights of Los Angeles this past week.  We had a blast.  I spent all my time off driving them around my hometown, people-watching like a tourist and enjoying the company of people I don’t get to see nearly often enough.  You can imagine my delight when I was handed a chance to unwittingly entertain them with my notorious ability to cause body-damage to vehicles.

I was telling them all about the LA riots in 1992, and how my family chose to abandon our house when we could smell smoke from all the businesses being burned down just a couple miles to the south.  On our way out of town, we drove through a firefight between some armed civilians and the LAPD.  Just as we were discussing this, BANG!  The rear window shattered.  I was backing up SLOWLY into a parking spot in a poorly lit underground lot, and the back window touched what looked like an air duct.  Apparently safety glass all breaks at once, and with the same enthusiasm as a gun going off.

Even so, it was a fun day.  We went to a museum, had lunch at Umami, visited The Farmer’s Market and The Grove, saw the lights at LACMA, had Korean food for dinner, and gelato in Silverlake for dessert.  The window incident was a source of comedy and proof of the unpredictable delights of backing into front-only parking spots (of course, you could only see the “head-in parking only” sign if you were already going in head-first.  Fuck).

I guess it could've been worse

Dad and I went to the junkyard today to see if we could find a replacement rear window.  No luck, and they wouldn’t let us bring my camera in (fuckers!), but we snapped a couple cool shots with a phone anyway.  Take that, dirty commies!  I’m surprised by how fun it was going to this junkyard.  Those cars that were completely demolished were totally hypnotizing (see above picture).  I’ll have to go back and sneak in a legitimate camera.

We ended up buying a replacement rear window at a nearby junk shop (just $55!), and replaced it ourselves in my folks’ driveway.  And I finally remembered to drop off all that stuff at Goodwill!  Dinner tonight was ramen, strawberry mochi, olives and sweet red wine while watching a three-hour block of Daria.  Overall a really fun day.

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goodness, life

Go Jews!

I’ll never be one to encourage religious belief, but learning about the afikoman hunt certainly softens my stance a little.  It’s kind of cute.

Being raised with just a few Jewish friends, I never heard of the afikoman.  It’s a the dessert at the end of the Seder.  Commonly, it’s either hidden for children to find (afterwards they’re rewarded with sweets or money), or the children “steal” it, and demand a reward for its safe return.  This tradition is apparently for “keeping children awake and alert during the Seder proceedings,” lol!  So cute!

On a more serious note, I occasionally question Wikipedia’s choice of photographical representation.  Why put a burnt, sad looking piece of matzo:

yuckie

when you could put a happy, appetizing piece of matzo:

delectable

Right?  Get your shit right, Wikipedia.  The world is watching.

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life

Too meta for words

om nom nom

I’ve been going back and forth about whether or not to announce my blog on Facebook or just to my friends or whomever.  I think I like it the way it is; just a few people know about it, and none of them read it with any consistency.  That feels good.  This blog is for me, like my journal.  The whole point was to give myself some accountability so I would start making note of what I’m up to now and then, not to keep other people informed.  I really enjoy the anonymity.  Thank you, interwebz.

I’m rapidly approaching my 100th (public) blog post, and the one year anniversary of this blog next month.  I have it marked on my Google calendar (the day before Easter, on which I will not have to work!  My first actual weekend in forever, wahoo!).  But how should I go about celebrating something no one knows about?  It’s like being in a foreign country during your birthday; people can tell you’re excited about something, but you’re the only one who knows why.  I guess it doesn’t matter if other people are aware that those are benchmarks for me.

I’m going to try not to make my hundredth blog consist of only an announcement that it’s my one hundredth blog.  That’s just too meta.  And an announcement about self-reference (a blog post about said blog) is not a good post, it’s just a bad excuse.  But no promises.

So what should I do to celebrate?  There will be wine, that’s for sure.  That sweet Austrian wine, yes, that’s good.  And maybe… hmmm, no sushi is too much… I’ll definitely end up doing a little dance, probably in the kitchen.  It’s where most of my spontaneous dancing happens.  I might try to watch some anime with friends (or maybe start the second LOTR movie).

*GASP*  Maybe I’ll finally get that pedicure I’ve been talking about getting!  I want to have presentable feet at the dojo, and I’ve never gotten a pedicure before.  My mom took me to get manicures with her a few times, but the Asian women who did our nails looked so worn down and dejected, and then we were all, “Thanks, here’s five bucks for all your work!  I’m gonna go jump in my super nice gas-guzzling SUV and get a steak dinner!  Later!”  Yikes.

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