I don’t get the appeal. She’s an okay actress, not great, and something about her face looks off to me, like are her eyes too close together? I mean, I’m still going to see the chick flick “Becoming Jane” and probably “Get Smart” b/c I’m bored in general, and I appreciate that she went to college and isn’t in the news b/c of her DUIs and underwear antics, but what is it? Why is this girl getting all this work? Who made her wear this dress? AAAAccck, and yet I can’t stop thinking about it. Please explain her appeal to me so my brain can rest.
Archive for July, 2007
So I was reading Angry Asian Man blog, which is really hilarious and keeps me up to date on all matters I should be po’d about and proud of as an Asian. One of his angrier diatribes was against this Barbie-cute, blond comedienne named Chelsea Handler, whose schtick on Leno was about Pax, Angelina Jolie’s son, who won’t know he’s Asian b/c he doesn’t know how to do nails or drive poorly, etc., etc., etc. It sounded mostly stupid to me, but I did go to this girl’s web site, like a dumb ass, and even reserved her book “My Horizontal Life,” about one-night stands.
The writing sample sounded promising and I figured I would be in for a nice, entertaining ride about embarrassing booty calls, light summer fare (because I’ve run out of my current light obsession—YA romance novels; yes, I am sad). I don’t get offended as often as maybe I should (?) and figured her Asian comments would be a one-time lack of judgment. I put the book on hold at the library (b/c I am a senior citizen, I love the library, and I live in a studio), and waited for it to come in. Much to my dismay, the essays were too dull to really finish and then there was one about an ex boyfriend caught in a ménage a trois with two Asian ladies and racial commentary ensued. You know, stuff about slanty eyes and calling them the wok n’ roll twins.
People, all I want is to be caught up in a good story. Why do I have to deal with this stupid stuff? I figured her Leno schtick was a one-time racially offensive thing, I didn’t know it was consistent throughout her work. Jees, what a loser. Anyway, I don’t recommend her work!
Even Harry Potter now has some Asian kids in the Hogwarts school!
Last night, I saw the Bill T. Jones/Arnie Zane Company dance at Prospect Park with Nancy and Michelle. I’ve always wanted to see Bill T. Jones perform—the few times I’ve seen him speak (okay, the one time on PBS, when he was doing a dance project for people who were dealing with fatal illnesses), he struck me. First off, he’s a stunning man and he speaks like a poet, he really feels his words, so it was great eagerness I schlepped to his free performance.
The only exposure I’ve had to modern dance is through my pal Kirsten, who is a dancer/choreographer among a million kabillion things, and Bill T. Jones’s stuff’s kinda reminded me of her dances—weird, baffling, mysterious but also exciting. I don’t understand it, but I like it. As an audience, I’m always, duh, why that text with that move there? There was a lot of this wild stop/go thing, like the dancers are changing their mind mid-sentence, and then drive forward in a completely different direction/pace/idea. This would never occur to my body, as I have barely mastered the side to side bop, with some finger snapping, and am still progressing with my pop and lock.
Man, all those dancers worked hard, sweating, contorting in un-average positions seemingly without effort. I always wonder about their lives off-stage, if they like the touring, to come to non-home places to sweat your buns off and dance your heart out and move on, if they feel as free as they look (I do one set of sit-ups and I’m ready lie down). And then Bill T. Jones comes out shirtless, and dude, this guy is no spring chicken, but still ripped. He’s actually more ripped b/c he’s old man-ripped. You can see the years of practice in his muscles, each clearly defined, and his friggin’ 10-pack. My first thought was Bill T. Jones could make millions selling Tae-Bo videos.
Nancy now wants to start a dance company, and although I don’t dance or choreograph well, I am allowed to join and started practicing my modern dance moves immediately on the subway ride home.
Me: So what happens in the end?
Nancy: Are you going to read it?
Me: No, I’ll see the movie. So what happens? Does he die in the end?
Nancy: I can’t tell you!
Me: What’s the difference? I can google the ending tomorrow.
And so on.
I kind of badgered her for a while, but she resisted. While I admire her strength, I am disappointed to not know how it ends. I know it’s a bad habit of mine (actually, dunno if it’s that bad, it’s not like evil) but I used to read the ends of books all the time. I still read them through till then end. My junior high school teacher gave me a hard time about it, how I have to enjoy the ride, the mystery, and I do like that part–but if you can find out, aren’t you a little curious?
If there is anyone out there who has yet to see the flick (Tony, Christine), let me know and we can coordinate.
I bet he dies in the end.
Don’t tell me though.
And with cable, they will get rid of their dial-up connection…whoa.
Me: Mom, we from the future want to welcome you to the new millenium
…seven years later.
Mom: Silence. Laughter, then more silence.
I have to go lie down now. This is really mind-boggling.
This weekend, at the engagement party of my childhood friend Alex, I got to see a lot of people whom I haven’t seen since I was in junior high school. Her half sister Pam said, “The last time I saw you, you were 13. We were driving to Montauk and Christopher Reeves asked for directions, and you yelled out ‘I thought Superman could get home from anywhere’ from the back seat.”
Apparently, Reeves laughed. Yay! B/c what a little heel am I, considering what his fate turned out to be. Okay, that’s it. I promised my husband I wouldn’t keep telling this story, so there it is, to remind me years later when I forget.
Here are the sports I am good at:
* thumb wrestling
* knock hockey (if that’s how you spell it)
* House of Dead II
Notice arm wrestling is not on that list.
My first arm wrestling match was with Mom on a family vacation in Utah. We were at a Denny’s and I challenged her for the last fry. To my surprise, she agreed and said something like “Bring it on” and posed for action. I was so shocked that I was paralyzed by paroxysms of stomach-wrenching laughter and my 90-pound mother proceeded to trounce me. Anyway, for many years, I thought I lost that match b/c I was weak from being blind-sided by mom’s sudden bravado. But last night, with the last stragglers of my bday gathering, the meal ended with an arm wrestling challenge. After I lost two girlfriends, I challenged one of their husbands, which my husband pleaded me to avoid, but I was too beset with the giggles to worry about his advice or the fact that the rest of the restaurant had stopped eating to watch us. I thought, how bad can it be? I’m the only one among us who is actually paying a trainer to watch me lift weights.
I lost to everyone. I got beat by Joslyn, Alex, Marla, Martin, and my husband. Joslyn and Marla were even for a while and the boys refused to arm wrestle each other. And perhaps out of bday pity, someone challenged me to a thumb wrestle and I got to win, which was nice.
Oh well. There’s a place for me in the world yet.
I had tons of babysitters growing up. Both my parents worked as soon as they could find fulltime work when we got to this here country. There were the Kims — who had three kids. The father was kind of physically abusive and the oldest girl my age had bad breath. I actually told her mother that (what an ahole. I just wasn’t thinking). Then when I was even younger, there was a Korean couple in our building with two adorable kids younger than me, whom I kept beating up. That couple was interesting, b/c the husband constantly accused his wife of cheating till she burst into tears. This was all in Korean, so I could only absorb the subtext at age 7.
Then there were more cheerful babysitting memories (though the drama scenes of dysfunctional families never really bothered me.) There is, of course, my aunt who saw me like all the time for two years when we lived with her family in Staten Island, and I kind of beat up her kids too. (I had bully/chubby issues as a kid, I think. I was wildly jealous of anyone with a parent around. Today, I no longer beat people up.) There were some young Phillipino women who used to watch me when we lived in the Bronx. Then there were the Sungs. B/c their mom, who I think went to pharm school with my mom, was willing to watch me along with her kids, we moved to NJ (which doesn’t seem to be like the best parameter to be your only for moving to a town in my opinion). And I didn’t really beat her kids up (she had a little girl and boy, both younger than me), but her boy and I fought constantly, driving everyone crazy. God, I hated that boy when I was 9. He would do stuff and say “Hey Yun [my Korean name], your name’s in the dictionary” and he’d point out the word “Yum.” That would make steam come out of my ears. And when his mom would give me a Pepperridge Farm blueberry turnover before going to school (second breakfast, nobody knew, mum’s the word) or her costume jewelry, it would be his turn to flip out.
But the best parts of those days were when the three of us would plan spectacular stunts. I don’t know, stupid stuff, like daring each other to run past the neighbor’s dog or like staircase Olympics. In their house, there was a long stair case, the bottom of which met the front door, and we would slide down on our bums and get rug burn over and over again. Or we would drag the large pillows from the living room couch and pool them at the bottom of the stairs leap from the top. When Mrs. Sung came home and couldn’t open the door (wedged shut by sofa pillows), we had to stop. Someone taped Xanadu, Superman with Christopher Reeves, and Clash of the Titans from HBO that summer and we watched them over and over again. I don’t know why the hell we did that b/c those movies are not that good. So much about being little I remember as a battle not get bored.
Did you know Morrissey has a gigantic Latino fan base in L.A.? Who knew. Apparently, his lyrics speak to the disenfrancised everywhere and they love his morbidity, which clicks with certain aspects of Mexican culture and moves them the way Manchester England working class teens did. Supposedly, music critics are ticked off b/c they feel like his career should’ve died in the 90s when he ventured into solo stuff, but I love this rebirth and the match of two incongruous mates. I heart the 80s and New Wave! Yeah!
Read this in-depth article from the OC Weekly on details. It’s old news now but new to me.
Oh, and according to Tony, Siouxie Sioux of Siouxie and the Banshees fame is anti-Semitic. I’m totally crushed.