Celeb Sighting

Verizon Weird, I took the subway uptown on Monday to buy a triangle mallet, and who sits across me with his novel but the Verizon guy. Same haircut, same glasses. Very odd to be so close to him! And what I do with all famous people in my vicinity, I think about them for a short intense time, for the duration that they’re in my obrit. Why is he riding the subway? He’s like in a kabillion commercials, this guy has got to be loaded. His family in Westchester probably still remember in “Pippin” in the ninth grade and how he showed something special, but till he booked this recent gig, they still thought he should give law school a whirl. Perhaps his friends in Brooklyn still invite him for parties on Saturday which he shows up less and less for. Some will say he hasn’t changed, others will think he’s definitely gotten a little too big for the britches, but only Verizon guy will really know if he’s different or not.

Sad. That’s why I can’t handle being near famous people. Kirsten Johnson once worked out at my old, now defunct gym West Village Workout (which I loved because the average gym user age was like 66. Awesome!) and I thought about her and “Third Rock” the whole time. Too distracting.

Celebs I have seen:

* Verizon guy

* Kirsten Johnson

* Woody Allen and Soon Yi Previn

* Natalie Portman

* Scully or Gillian Anderson

* Sapphire, the poet who wrote “Push” (No one else recognized her in African dance class. I’m like, oh my god, that’s Sapphire. Maybe b/c I was in publishing when her book came out and I saw her author photo a kabillion times.)

* Michael Stipe (tiny in person. very pretty blue eyes)

Comforting Jennifer Aniston

tina_aniston_smaller.jpg Love hurts, you guys, when only one’s in love. Happy belated Valentine’s Day!

The only Valentine’s Day I can remember, before I met my husband, was in high school when I went out to see “Hannah and Her Sisters” with my parents on Valentine’s Day. It was a Saturday night to boot, so running into hordes of teens my age was especially humiliating. I remember thinking, we can’t all be like Justine Bateman. (She hosted SNL some night on V-Day and talked about how it was her favorite holiday.)

Regarding the photo, okay, I know, it doesn’t really look like Jennifer Aniston. This was at Madame Tussaud’s. Aren’t wax figures creepy? I can’t watch “House of Wax” with Paris Hilton, because that’s about wax people coming to life — and they look like that as it is. I don’t really need to see an enactment of this actually coming true! This picture was like one second before I freaked out because I thought she moved. Photo courtesy of friend/director Jesse Jou for our upcoming production of “My Mom Across America” in Ithaca this weekend.

Ack, I can’t make the photo any smaller. I even recruited my cousin Ed to help, so that now at least you see the whole picture instead of just a section of my ear. (He’s the one who helped me with this site–thanks Ed!–if you want to hire him, go to www.edmondcho.com.) Anyway, sorry, it’s so freaking GIGANTIC!!! — never mind, ed and i figured it out.

What’s on TV at 4 a.m.

sleep Sleep, elusive sleep. Man, there’s very little in the world I love as much as sleep. (Well, that’s not true exactly. I love sleep, I love my bed, but I also love my husband, my parents, my friends, ice cream, vacation, a $10 bottle of red wine (oh yeah, I live large) the list goes on. I’m crazy about ice cream.) But after our Philly excursion, I came back with a fever and took Thera Flu on Wednesday night and proceeded to stay up till 4 a.m.! David was out till late so he didn’t witness me lying down for thirty minutes, getting up for thirty, down for thirty, up for thirty. It was terrible. You lie there, thinking about everything you have to do in the morning, what you have to be alert for. You get angry at yourself for not being asleep. I mean, what’s the big deal? All I usually have to do is lie in bed or put my head down on my desk, and then BOOM, I’m out, sleep comes as easily as writing my novel never does.

When David finally came home, he listened to my woes and then promptly fell into a snoring doze. I couldn’t believe it. The guy never falls asleep easily. Usually, he’s the one parading around the apartment in the middle of the night. In one of my thirty-minute up sessions I stared at him sleeping peacefully and realized I hated everyone who was sleeping right then there. I was so envious.

I shouldn’t complain about sleep, at least to my mom friends with small babies, going through baby boot camp, where they don’t really sleep more than two hours at a time and then have to get up and breastfeed or whatever it is that they do.

Eventually, I watched a lot of TV, and here’s the real reason why I wanted to post this. What was on at 4 a.m.:

*An old episode of Alias

*An old episode of that Mulder and Scully show (ack, my memory is terrible).

*A rerun of Jay Leno

*Infomercials

*A special on how older women celebrities were getting booked for ads now to appeal to the older audience like Christie Brinkeley for CoverGirl, Raquel Welch for Mac, Elizabeth Hurley for Jordache, Diane Keaton for Loreal.
(Seriously, did Raquel Welch sign a pact with the devil? How is it that she has no wrinkles and she’s over 60? Plastic surgeons aren’t THAT good, are they? Do they really think women will relate to that kind of luck? And by the way, Elizabeth Hurley is not an average looking human being, hello.)

*Commercials starring people you know.
(I saw my friend Sam’s Hallmark commercial. His only line is kind of a grunt, or like a Latino kind of noise? I have no idea how to describe it. He imitates the accent of this Valentine’s Day stuffed animal).

Music Makes the Bourgeosie and the Rebel

singersinger I love to sing, but am unfortunately only mildly talented in this area. My singing talent peaked in 1985 when I shocked my fourth grade teacher at P.S. 55 in Staten Island when I got up and sang all of my heart out “Matchmaker, Matchmaker” from “Fiddler on the Roof.” “Tina Lee!” Mrs. Sybil Warnick the teacher said, she was floored, more because I never said a word in class, never mind sang a whole song. I was intensely shy, but she was casting “Fiddler on the Roof” that year, and boy, did I want a part, so I told myself to do it and I blushed like a tomato for hours before and after, but it was the first time I really went for something. It was a character defining moment. I got cast as Golda, the mother character, in “Fiddler on the Roof,” beginning my long, twisted, confused road on my Korean-Jewish American identity. That same year, my family and I went to visit Korea for the first time since I was born and my relatives begged me to sing songs from “Grease.” (And I was too shy to oblige, though I had many, many fantasies of being Olivia Newton-John and had acted out the end scene in the amusement park with some other little kid peers who shared my same babysitter.) (Another aside: I think my friend Becca actually wished Olivia Newton-John was her mother. That’s kind of weird, huh.)

I remember an article in the Times or some such Commie rag (heh heh, I’m kidding, I read it like every hour) that analyzed the vocal ranges of current pop singers. Morrissey and Madonna apparently have the smallest range of all recording artists today (perfect for me), which brings me to my next topic — songs to choose when in a kareoke bar.

Songs that show off your voice well:

*La Isla Bonita by Madonna
*Anything by the Smiths or Morrissey
*About the Weather by 10,000 Maniacs
*Sk8ter Boi by Avril Lavigne
*Don’t You Want Me by Human League

Songs you shouldn’t sing, unless you excel at this sort of thing, or you’re just drunk:
*Your Song by Elton John
*Kiss by Prince (Please, for those of us who came of age in the 90s, it’s hard to witness people’s private, sensual selves come out whenever this song is on. Perhaps, I just speak for myself.)
*Anything by Melissa Etheridge
*Welcome to the Jungle by Guns n’ Roses
*Endless Love by Diana Ross and Lionel Richie. (I just tried it. Very hard to sing a song where the vocalists are like actually really good.)

Success!

winners The only thing worse than having peers who are more successful than you is having people who are younger outdo you. (My friend Jenn came up with the latter point when a young alumni from her college starred in “Carrie, Part 2.”) You know Morrissey, lead singer of the Smiths? He recorded the very peppy, sweet-sounding tune “We Hate It When Our Friends Become Successful,” which makes me laugh.

Do I want my friends to be well, happy, productive, and successful? Of course I do! But I wouldn’t mind cornering one of those adjectives for myself either. I have a friend who is an internationally renown poet (in fact, I no longer refer to her by her name but by Internationally Renown Poet, and she’s friends with all the young, hot novelists whose books are being turned into movies. She’s a really nice woman and when she heard me bemoaning my average fate, she tried to comfort me with “Don’t worry, you’re young. You’ll get your book published,” which I thought was very sweet, but I also think untrue. I don’t live in a world where you can presume success is yours the way she, and the other top literary talent of the country, are able to. I might have a few years ago, as a promising young undergrad at a prestigious Ivy League university, but baby, those days are long gone along with my awesome (never appreciated) metabolism rate.

Briefly, I thought of joining the Alumni Club, to, I don’t know, somehow assimilate myself into greatness, listen to lectures, quote Kierkeguaard and Kant over a hot toddy and cigar in tastefully decorated, revered halls. I would breathe a sigh of relief, knowing I have finally arrived. BUT the fees to join are insanely high and frequent, and I don’t really need to spend money like that to fantasize when there’re plenty of places I can do that for FREE, like I dunno, at the library, in front of the boob tube, over my favorite jigsaw puzzle, etc.

The trick is to be happy anyway. Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!!!!

Philly!

Phillywaffles My friend Becca and I traveled to Philly to visit Sung-Ji, Greg, Danny, Kirsten, and Danny and Kirsten’s brood of Simon (7), Bishop (3 or 4), and Koan (1 or so) “what is the sound of one cheek farting” Kashock. (Not my koan joke; see Katherine Min’s short story about dating a monk.) As soon as the boys arrived to Sung-Ji’s house, they hit the ground running, relaying from the living room to the kitchen and back, wrestling, using each other as horses, smothering each other. It was like being in a pin ball machine all of a sudden. Amazing how little they were and yet the entire atmosphere exploded once they arrived.

Sung-Ji made an amazing chicken pot pie and salad with a fancy dressing I like talking about but will probably never make. Then two kinds of waffles and maple syrup sausage for brunch the next day. All weekend, I skipped my friend Jesse’s advice of always being at a “five” on a hunger scale of 1 to 10 and got seconds, which made me feel like this:

Miss Piggy

which is too bad because really, we would all prefer to feel like this:

Dolly Parton

No heat!

heat miser! Oh man, when my folks moved to Brooklyn this fall at my behest, it was a gigantic, life-changing move — for them. They left their house of more than twenty years in idyllic, suburban New Jersey, to a smaller apartment, a more low-maintenance home near me, a total big deal. We moved them, so that the two of them would no longer have to shovel snow, drive a car, climb onto the roof to empty the gutter, or obsess over the flooding garage. But now, every time something goes wrong with their apartment, I feel an overwhelming amount of guilt. Although I really try to help their sense of well-being, I flip when things go wrong, and the transition has been anything but smooth or cheap. First of all, with any NYC-area property, you spend less time looking at it than a piece of clothing — that’s how nutty the market is. And only after living in the new pad have problems come up. The latest being the LACK OF HEAT.

Last Thursday was their first night with heat or hot water. As usual, Dad goes with the flow and Mom bemoans her tragic fate in life. After we agreed they could survive the night in their apartment, I watched Fox News announce it as “the coldest night of the year,” estimating the number of homeless and families without heat would DIE that night, which freaked me out. I worry about them — they are officially seniors, frail and tiny, as well as 100% fat-free. (Their lack of body fat makes me wonder if I am adopted, among other characteristics they exhibit). Like, among my nicknames in Korean for them (list is short, due to the fact I don’t speak the language) is meh-doh-chee (this tiny, puny dried fish) and kah-shee (fish bone).

While I was away this weekend, they somehow figured out who to hire to do this and that, something to do with a five-year-old boiler being dirty and needing to be replaced for five hundred dollars, which stresses us all out and makes me feel entirely responsible. I can’t help it — I feel responsible for the weather, the weird, sneaky things the pad reveals. But hopefully, HOPEFULLY, life will slow down and things will quit falling apart.

Mice Redux

No pictures. My kind super felt sorry for me and installed glue traps around my apartment–by the radiator, beneath the stove. They’re not humane, sorry to say. Heard awful stories where the poor mice get stuck on them and cry and scream, then eventually starve to death. Hideous. I can’t even deal with fishing, people (holding the pole for hours and chatting, yes; actually feeling something alive struggling for its life at the end of my line, not so much).

Luckily, there is mercy in the world and the mouse has not returned. The only thing the glue traps have ensnared are the edge of my stockings–and let me tell you, they’re powerful. I had a mini-trapped-mouse experience. Like just imagining something trapped in the trap with me was enough to inspire me to flail around uncontrollably around my kitchen, dragging the 25 cent contraption all over, yelling “gross, gross, gross.” 

Eight Seconds in Madison Square Garden

bullriding Saturday night, David and I got invited to box seats in Madison Square Garden for a bullriding competition. The whole contest for a million dollars started with a prayer (“bless our riders, our livestock, and bless this great competition of bullriding”), an appearance by Rudy Giuliani (Really? Running for president requires he do this on a Saturday night?), and some U.S. soldiers.

Each dude gets released from a pen on top of a bull which from all the way at the top of Madison Square Garden, still looks like a mac truck. I think the object is to stay on a bull for eight seconds with one hand in the air, like that movie starring Luke Perry, keep your chaps on and not get trampled on. Then after getting spun and tossed off the bull like crazy, you have to scoot quickly and get your bum on top of a fence so you don’t get…gorged. After watching ten or twenty, I finally stopped screaming. It’s just scary–when a dude falls off and the bull is stomping so wildly they literally fly high in the air, you just worry they’ll stamp on someone’s chest or hand or head or pinky. I don’t know. As I watched the bulls 360, I thought to myself, Not an activity for say the nausea-prone or the pregnant.

I worry about the lives the bullriders lead. They can’t really be more than high school educated and, like minor league baseball players, they have to travel to each town and muster up enthusiasm for a dying demand for this particular life skill.

There was one rider called “Mike Lee.” I got excited. Was he Korean? Nahhhhhhhh. In fact, most of the crowd seemed to be caucasian with cowboy hats on except for this one small group with yarmulkes.

Mice advice

mice Just as I was settling down for a nice post-xmas, nerdy relaxation of watching back-to-back 24 episodes, red wine, and tax preparations, a little brown mouse darted past me from beneath our stove to under our hot pink living room couch. Eeek!! My friend Jenn actually befriend her mouse visitor, but for me, dude, it positively shatters the feeling that my apartment is a sanctuary.

What do you do? My husband asked that I look for humane traps, like a mouse motel, and while I don’t really want to pay extra for a mouse to enjoy duvet covers, I also don’t want to deal with dead little creatures. I searched for traps at my local Rite Aid. There’s a whole section for mouse solutions–mouse traps that have in Sspanish Mata ratones all over the packaging, there are gigantic blocks of mysterious green material that mice apparently nibble on and then just die. My husband, Buddhist that he is, cannot abide by ending a mouse life. Me? I can’t either, for entirely different reasons. Not for any motivation as lovely and profound as the transmigration of souls, but simply because I am squeamish. I can’t really bear to even kill bugs for this reason, so I’m cool with David politely escorting cockroaches out of our apartment without smooching them into squashed afterthoughts. (Eeeew. Even imagining this gives me the heebie jeebies. Do you see why I’m okay with a lack of nature in my life?) I shouldn’t have told my mouse tale to my parents, who react to my once-in-a-while coughs as a sign of like threatening illness, but things have been slow and they need something to fret about.

Please little mouse, just go hang out somewhere else.