Emily rant

The other day I was watching this television show where an exclusive interview was being conducted of the 2004 Olympics women’s tennis (doubles) gold player Liting, from China. Having lately acquired a real predilection for tennis and all things tennis related, I watched the program with piqued interest. My interest soon turned to disgust however when the television host, sitting there looking all pale and smarmy, decided to zero in on one specific topic: the color of Liting’s skin. Now, she’s no southern magnolia with cream colored skin, that is true. However I looked at her and my first impression isn’t, My God, look how dark she is! Nyuk nyuk nyuk! But this television host decided to turn to her college-aged studio audience and proceeded to conduct her own little survey. She goes, “How many of you find dark-colored skin attractive?” I rolled my eyes but I continued watching. Of course like 90% of the audience prefers pale skin, because Chinese people are just biased like that. This one guy did stand up and profess his particular preference for dark-skinned girls because he asserts they look healthier. Anyway, it just dragged on and on and to be perfectly frank, I thought what the TV host was doing was insulting to her guest of honor. This woman was clearly in need of a crash course in basic professionalism and perhaps common decency. Why instead of focusing on Liting’s tennis triumps and sorrows are we focusing on the color of her skin?? Who cares about her skin? She’s not in the running for the title of palest beauty in all of China after all. What relevance does that have to her tennis ability? Really, if I could roll my eyes more than 360 degrees, they would take a road trip to California.

Lawn-mowing

It is curious function that once a person is able to defeat the powerful stagnating force of inertia, momentum kicks in with relative ease and agility. All this mumbo jumbo is just to say that I finally got my lazy arse to the yard the other day and faced down the lawn mower in a contest of willpower. The first five minutes were the most frustrating because the mower refused to start. I grabbed that handle and boys and girls, did I pull and pull! I nearly yanked my own arm out of my sockets actually and if the mower could chortle, it'd be rolling on the grass at all the effort I was expending. After about 5 minutes of futile struggling, I finally wised up and actually read the instructions. It said to push this button five times (a cold start primer) and then like a lazy tigercat, it purred to life. What beauteous music to my ears at that moment! However the giddy feeling of success lasted but a nanosecond as I started pushing the mower across the fat, overgrown fur that is our lawn. Soon again I was pushing the mower in what seemed like an uphill battle. I held on to the mower with tenacity however and even though the tremors of the motor were pulsating against my palms, I just kept right on going. I amused myself by cutting patterns in the grass and then going in concentric fashion til I hit the bulls' eye. 1.5 hours later, I managed to give my lawn a successful haircut, very brisk, businesslike, no fuss. The whole time I was doing it, I was also plotting how to become super yard girl by mulching my trees, pulling out weeds, killing off the evil little things taking over the front of our yard, trimming the hedges and so forth. But at the end of 1.5 hours, with my hands literally shaking and numb from all the "massaging" action of the mower motor, I told myself that he who paces himself lasts longest and there's no sense in trying to do it all in one day. With that in mind, I bid my yard responsibilities a pleasant adieu and went on to enjoy the rest of my day in reverie.

This guy

I’ve been wanting to blog about this one guy for some time now. Every once in a while, on my way to work, I’d pass by this bus stop and see this guy just standing there waiting ostensibly for the bus. He is a trim, clean-cut and neat guy in his 40’s, with light gray hair. He would invariably be standing there and he would play with this one metal ball, the size of skeeball. What he does with the ball is very tai-chi like, he would undulate his arms and have the ball travel up and down the length of his arms and he would have the ball travel to the tip of his hand at which point he would let it flow very gracefully to the other hand. It’s difficult to describe what he’s doing with the ball, but it requires great control, dexterity, grace and balance. Generally speaking, he allows the ball to flow down the front and the back sides of his hands and the overall effect is like the ball is dancing in the air very close to his arms and hands.

In all this time, I’ve yet to see him drop the ball. But Alas! Today, he dropped the ball! The ball then rolled into the street and he very nimbly hopped into the street to scoop it back up. Because the red light allowed me to stop right next to the bus stop, I very shamelessly indulged in voyeurism by watching the whole incident in its entirety.

The other thing I like about watching him is that, he seems so focused on what he is doing as to be completely oblivious to all the gawking passerbys, such as yours truly. He just does his own thing and exhibits very tangibly that sometimes lofty, sometimes elusive thing called “independence of spirit” so trumpeted by proud Americans. More than his skills with the ball, I hope to display that spirit more and more as my hair slowly makes the shift from black to gray.

Dr. Paul Farmer's talk

One of the things that I find fortuitous about working where I do is the wealth of opportunities to go hear interesting talks given around campus. Today was one of those blessed days when I was actually able to hear Dr. Paul Farmer, live and in person, give a presentation about the work he has been doing to deliver community-based health care modules to the very destitute in Haiti, Rwanda and other such places.

Dr. Paul Farmer did not disappoint. With his studious look but boyish voice and mannerism, he gave a very buoyant talk that was punctured with clever little jokes. You can tell this is a guy who thinks quickly and who thinks deeply. He is impassioned and he is not afraid to point out what he thinks is completely absurd or ridiculous.

This is in sharp contrast to the very measured, rational and almost banal tone that most researchers/scientists have when delivering a presentation on the protein mediated transport through cellular membrane in s. cerevisiae for instance. He has a bit of a bulldog approach to adhering to his vision of what rural healthcare should be like. And he said quite frankly that he’s not afraid to just tell patients what they need to do to get better.

Of course, there are already enough people out there singing his praises, so I think I won’t devote my entire post to just that. Judging from the size of the audience there today (I had to stand for a whole 90 minutes and if you know me, that’s asking a lot of me), he is a man widely admired and known at least through the NIH community.

Anyhow, this talk gave me a good reminder. Whatever it is that we want to do, we should pour our hearts and our souls into them. For people like Dr. Farmer, with the brains, the energy, the vision and the abilities, he can go very far with dedication to boot. With smaller, more modest people like me, with perhaps ½ the brain of his, with 1/3 the energy, with ¼ the vision and 1/5 the abilities, I can maybe at least go a third as far as he’s gone with the proper dedication and heart and single-mindedness, and that’s probably farther than I would ever go if I were just to wander aimlessly through pleasure or comfort seeking corridors. So it’s not so much that I want to go out there and save the world in typical superman fantasy-like machismo. It’s more like I want to create my own niche where I can achieve my own modest goals.

Scribbles et al.

Lately all I can think about is how to best jam in everything I want to do before medical school all within my schedule and at the same time, fulfilling all the various obligations of my multi-faceted roles within society. So far it’s not been working out too well.

I even got an organizer. I find myself compulsively making To Do lists. The problem with To Do lists is that, prioritizing them is very important. I’ve not yet mastered the art of prioritization. Therefore, I’d find myself dilly-dallying with low priority tasks like organizing my latest collection of clothing and meanwhile, forgetting to ah..well, let’s just say, neglecting some more important and pertinent tasks at hand. I’m also horribly and unrealistically ambitious. I want to swallow that elephant whole. I want to go to the gym and work out everyday. But as soon as I don’t make it to the gym one day, I am super annoyed with myself and then pretty soon, I don’t go for a week. I don’t know why it’s always a do or die for me, I guess at heart, I am a binary creature, not making enough room for the inevitable fallacies of human nature.

Sunday, I went to play tennis. It was a gorgeous day, a day you’d imagine to be the typical lovely day someone in the Great Gatsby would be able to enjoy on a lazy afternoon, it was warm, breezy, perfect for sipping lemonade and sitting out in the shade. It was however, a bit warm for tennis. So there I was, playing tennis, all the while wishing I had the wisdom to bring a little cap to protect my “southern belle” paleness. Just kidding. I am the black sheep in my family – quite literally.

So there I was playing tennis and I was conscientious about not breaking out into an all out sprint after every ball. I knew for one thing that it would be too much for my poor beating heart to exert so much effort. I proceeded to play a lazy man’s tennis. Any balls that are too much out of reach, I’d just let it go, quite contentedly. I noted philosophically that it’s not unlike my tendency and approach at life. I’m no bulldog that’s for sure. But on the other hand, I’m pleased to report that I’ve gained some measure of control and grace whenever I do make contact with the ball, and 8 times out of 10, the ball is a nice smooth shot back into the opposite court.

Today I took my folks to the airport. En route, I made an illegal left turn, mostly my fault of course, but it didn’t help that my easily excited Dad yelled, “Left light!” and caused me poor head to spin in confusion momentarily. So I gassed the pedal and proceeded to make a left turn and very narrowly missed being (I was in the path of collision too) made into Emily hotdog. We made that narrow escape and all of us suddenly had the feeling of having been through an Indiana Jones episode. It took a while for the collective nerves of the Yenstones to calm down. Then we were on our merry way again.

And so it is...

What now, can be said about the massacre that occurred this past Monday at Virginia Tech? I read an article on the New York Times about how Korean-Americans are immensely uneasy as the news of the massacre trickled out and revealed a psychotic Korean-American who was responsible for such brutality. Indeed, they should be uneasy. The American public hasn’t been known to be very kind to the colored races in general, whatever their range of colors may be. I am not surprised that bigoted white Americans will take this opportunity to let their long repressed racism rise untempered to the surface and explode in the form of expletives uttered at the Korean race, or hate mail, or property damage, or even physical violence. That’s how an emotional, unrational world operates, an eye for an eye and these people would feel properly justified to give voice to their inner bigot.

What’s more so, I am to some extent uneasy myself, wondering if strangers on the streets will take me for a Korean and randomly beat me up for an event that truly has nothing to do with me OR my race. But this isn’t an issue of race and it never should be. It’s an issue of mental illness, social isolation, deeply simmering anger and dysfunctionality. I also read in the papers about how the family is supposed to be a very nice family, helps neighbors shovel snow, etc. That’s all well and nice, but I can’t help but think, they really could have done more on their end to prevent what happened on Monday. But as someone very angrily and cogently pointed out, (see jason’s blog), it’s not exactly useful at this point to play the blame game.

My thoughts and prayers go out to the families of those who were gunned down this Monday. I can only imagine how dark the world seems right now to those that are in mourning. I saw one picture of a grandmother gazing with forlorness at the picture of her beautiful grand-daughter, only 18 years old and now dead. As for the family of the killer, I don’t even want to imagine what they must feel now, having raised and contributed to the society their monster of a son. Yes truly, this is a tragedy that appears to lack the least bit of redemptive value.

Onward brave soldier!

Recently I learned of a phrase that I found intriguing. The term is coined “counter-factuals.” I first learned of this phrase while listening to a series of lectures on the History of the United States as presented by The Teaching Company. It’s a wonderful companion for the early morning rush hour and I highly recommend it to everyone.

In any case, the term “counter-factual” was used to denote the speculation that had Japan not attacked Pearl Harbor and enraged the roaring beast that is America, then Japan may have been able to hold on to its massive Asian empire that stretches from Korea, through many parts of China and almost all of Southeast Asia. When I consider that scenario, I do shudder for all of Asia, because it would be a vastly different world today and everyone would be speaking Japanese and all non-Japanese Asians would have been second-class citizens in the hegemonic Japanese empire. I would never have been born in Taiwan and never would have immigrated to America and never would have started my hobby of blogging and in short, I would not be here today.

Of course, that is where the “counter-factual” comes in and douses muddled heads with a splash of cold rationality. The truth is, this is mere speculation and too many events could have occurred in place of a nonexistent Pearl Harbor attack that it is simply presumptuous at best and imaginative at worst to conjecture such a scenario.

But as I tend to be moralistic in my blogging, I would venture to say that the active use of such speculations occur commonly in our everyday lives and could use a dosage of counter factual realizations. I often fantasize that had I not chosen A, B or C, perhaps I would have ended up in med school years earlier. By now, I would have been almost finishing up residencies and I would have saved my mom and dad the multiple gray hairs that they have had to spout during the course of my meandering. But true to my sheep nature and my wandering soul, meander I did until I finally meandered to where I’ve always, at the bottom of my heart, wanted to be. Yet is it true? Is my regret founded on something quite untangible, too many layers of speculation and uncertain factors? Yes, I would have to say that is possible. Had I not chosen A, B, or C, I may very well have chosen D, E or F and ended perhaps even farther away from my very original goal than I am now. I may have meandered still farther into the pastures of exploration and who knows? I could still be in Asia, teaching English, traveling with the Peace Corps, convinced myself that I should become an English teacher, worked my way through an East Asian studies PhD, ended up marrying a philosophizing hippie and traveling distant lands. Or I could decided that practically trumps all and gone back to school and got a degree in something useful and marketable, be spit back out in a couple of years and proceed to climb the corporate ladder.

All these speculations, no doubt can be boring to people unrelated to me, but I just want to demonstrate the endless possible permutations of life unfolding. This is all to say that, it is best to think of life in this manner. All that has happened was meant to be. All the choices that had been made were meant to be. Some were erroneous perhaps, but they can provide a lesson well learned. Some will prove to be beneficial in the long term, though were painful in the short run. The best thing that counter-factual has taught me is to steel myself against useless regrets and lamentations. And with this belief, hopefully I can be instilled with bright hopes for the future. The best is not what has not happened in the past. The best is what will happen in the future.

More to this life perhaps

When two or more females congregate together, invariably the topic of conversations turns to relationships and the subject of love. This has been my experience time and again with all my female friends. In fact I cannot really think of even one female friend with whom I have never discussed this topic. People talk of male bonding over beer and football, but for women, there is ever only one thing that truly glues: the subject of men.

Which brings to me to my second point and lately, a point of ire. Is it possible that we women focus too much on members of the opposite sex? What finally is the endless intrigue and fascination, what is all the to-do about these creatures? Men are just men, boys are just boys and truly, in and of themselves, they are not all THAT inexhaustibly interesting. I suppose I can chalk it up to the age old evolutionary drive in all women to establish a healthy and robust nest for her future egglings. Therefore, with so much at stake, it is endless exciting to discuss the ways to figure out what relationships are all about and what makes for successful, good, lasting relationships. As for dysfunctional relationships, well, one can’t possibly understand what is good about a “good” relationship until one thoroughly analyzes the myriad ways in which a relationship can flounder and dramatically sink to the bottom.

Really, women approach the topic of relationships with the microscopic zeal of the craziest, maddest and baddest scientists out there. They scrutinize every angle, they comb for underlying meanings, they sniff for the unsaid implications, and they concoct fantastical theses on what a man really means when he says X, because of course, he can’t possibly only mean X.

I don’t know if I can offer any true insights on the topic of relationships but I think one very cliched phrase bears repeating here. “Don’t sweat the small stuff.” Lord knows life is stressful enough as it is as we juggle our career aspirations, being good friends to our group of hyperstressed female friends, fulfilling our various obligations as good daughter, good sister, good girlfriend, we really need to at some point learn to let the little things go. In other words, don’t be anal and resist the urge to psychoanalyze every thing your guy does. At least psycho-analyze something else that might be more interesting – like what is God thinking today? Yeah, the big Kahuna up there deserves some more scrutinization than I confess to giving to Him recently. But I do believe that.

I think I will make it a personal point to NOT talk about relationships every time with my various friends. Maybe we will talk about famine in Africa, the gross neglect of the Japanese government to make sufficient reparations and expression of regret over its atrocities, the latest movies, the unique style of Jack Keroauc, etc etc. With so many things under the sun, we are doing ourselves a disservice by being overly myopic about our focus.

Here’s a list of things I would like to do before I head off to boot camp in the Fall.

1. Finish editing my video of Grandpa
2. Donate like 25% of my clothes, or sell on ebay, I won’t mind the extra cash
3. Donate 50% of my books to the public library – decluttering is on my mind recently
4. Find good housing in Philly
5. Plan an awesome vacation for July
6. Read every single book I have recently checked out from the library – 10
7. Help rehaul my house’s sad little lawn, currently overrun by evil little weeds
8. Re-memorize all the countries of the world, I’ll do this every year til I’m 80
9. Mmm…more to come when I think of them

The Namesake

Saturday I went to see The Namesake, a film by Mira Nair. I came from the film with mixed feelings. Firstly, this is one of the few films that I watched that made me feel like I was watching a three-day serial in one sitting. It was like watching the third installment of LOTR, the film could have ended probably half an hour before it finally did and not be worse for the editing. That said, there are moments in the film that I really enjoyed, and I have to agree with Stephanie Zacherek of Salon.com that the two brightest jewels of the film were the parents, who came together in India and immigrated to America to begin a new life for their family.

Whenever the two of them share the screen together, the poignancy of the moment deepens and thickens. The time when Ashima locks herself in the bathroom to shed a few self-pitying tears at being scolded by her newly wed husband for shrinking his clothes at laundromat illustrated the typical domestic disagreements of any young couple. What was particularly sweet however was how the husband, immediately chastened, coaxed his wife out of the bathroom by cooing a litany of little sweet nothings, “my ashima, my crazy ashima, come out, my sweet sweet ashima.” Inspite of her tears, she starts to grin nonetheless. It was not only a realistic portrayal of a young couple, it was a glimpse into the tenderness that the two shared.

As a first generation immigrant who was raised in America however, I can empathize deeply with some of the themes of this film. I can understand feeling both ashamed and proud of one’s ethnic heritage and the jarring conflicting feelings of this duality. I can also understand seeing a person who is Caucasian and mainstream in every way and feeling like we are light years apart in terms of our life perspectives. At times, that feeling occasionally turns into outright rejection (as Gogol did to Maxine). And even as I do so, I am meanwhile sipping my Starbucks mocha latte, surfing the web and chatting on my cellphone. I am no more or no less different than I choose to think myself to be. I can also somewhat empathize how the parents must feel whenever they look at their children and see only strangers. Surely at times my own mom has looked at me in astonishment, thinking, “How on earth did I give birth to this…creature?” Because as if the generation gap isn’t a wide enough gulf, often there is a cultural gap, contributed in part by the environment I grew up in, a world vastly different from their own.

The film by Mira Nair is the film of every middle-class immigrant who has sought a new life in America. The film highlights the tension for children caught between the old and the new who are not sure, often times, which way to go. For all its good intentions, it sometimes became overly ambitious, trying to say too much at once and ending up not getting anything very clearly across. The film would have benefited from slowing down, splicing out unnecessary footage, and forming a stronger cohesive vision. Yet irregardless, it was nice for me, as a Chinese-American, to sit through a film about an Indian-American and to realize, aah yes, I can relate. I’ve been there.

Call me Emo

When I was in middle school, I once observed a feud that developed between this Asian girl and this semi-white trash girl, we will call her WT girl. It was junior high and the middle school I attended at the time wasn’t known for its stepford children. Some pretty mean kids from the ghettos of Maryland suburbia attended that school. So the feud between these two girls got intense. In the locker room, I observed as sixth or seventh grade girls surrounded this Asian girl and then dished out ugly and hurtful insults at her. Her looks, her body, her b.o., her choice of sexual partners even. I don’t remember what the insults were, but I highly doubt they were all that original or creative. Nonetheless, it was quite painful to watch this girl get bullied. She was clearly outnumbered and ostracized.

WT girl kept talking about “beating” her up and “kicking her ass”, classy comments like that. So the big day arrives and the two of them faces off in front of a large crowd of people. I was one of the onlookers. Even before WT and A girl started anything, A girl starts crying hysterically and says brokenly that her mother told her that she shouldn’t fight because it wasn’t the Christian way. That Christians don’t fight and aren’t violent. I swear, I’m not making this up. So WT girl goes up to her and pushes her around, roughs her up a bit, but almost uncertainly and half-heartedly. All the while, A girl has her face buried in her hands and she was crying, but she didn’t hit back.

I guess I’m relating this story now to illustrate two things. One, I’m a big wimp. I didn’t try to stick up for her at any point in the game. Granted, she wasn’t my friend and I had no real obligation to, but I did think it was wrong that everyone picked on her. I guess WT girls had a lot of WT friends. Anyway, the mob effect can be kind of scary and for a 12 or 13-year old kid, I wasn’t looking to join the party and get some nasty blows coming my way.

Secondly, I think ever since then, I developed a protective shell of my own. Although this incident had really nothing to do with me, I experienced it somewhat vicariously and I was always scared to think about what if I had been that A girl and I had to be bullied or pushed around by a whole mob of angry, overly hormonal teenage girls? Case in point, back in elementary school I was quite a tough little cookie. I got into fights with kids before, mainly because it was like a knee jerk reaction. You don’t like what someone said? Just push them. Pretty soon I earned the reputation, well undeserved, of being “the one you don’t mess with.” But that was after all elementary school. Then the small fish graduates to go to a bigger pond and there, she sees all these scary ass big and tough people that she doesn’t want to mess with either. Then she realizes that she is a small fish after all and contented herself to floating quietly in the background, to avoid the predators. I am now that fish.

Ah yes...updates...

Yesterday was a highly satisfying day. I saw the culmination of a few years’ of hard work and intense innard knotting. I have to thank many people who helped me get to this point in my life and truly, I consider myself a lucky lucky girl.

Last night I made the very deadly mistake of rubbing toothpaste on an emerging pimple in the effort to dry it out faster. However, I compounded on that mistake by putting a band-aid on it and then going to sleep. It became a sauna and hotbed for the pimply virus all night and this morning, I woke up to a grossly mishapened face. I was all hot and panicky as I tried to mold my face back to the way it was before. Then I had the brilliant idea of pressing ice on it to make the swelling go down. As I’m writing this, my face has thankfully resumed its erstwhile shape but I now have a big ugly flaming red something or another in the vicinity of the pimple. I’ve even taken ibuprofen to tame the reaction. The score at this point: Emily 1, Pimple 4. But the war will go on.

Woman, your name is cuckoo

My coworker told me about this girl in China, who is 28 years old. When she was 16, she once had a dream about Andy Lau and ever since then, she's lived her life for him. She recently went to some official Andy Lau fan club meeting and everyone there got to pose with Andy Lau for a picture. however, she wanted to be able to "talk" to Andy for a longer, more intimate, one-on-one session and was, unsurprisingly, denied permission. Get this...enraged, her father jumped off a cliff and committed suicide. The daughter is now demanding that Andy Lau apologize to her family, read the suicide note and then arrange to spend alone time with her.

I'm sure I am missing some details but this is seriously where major thresholds between sanity and insanity have been crossed. Now I don't feel so pathetic about my own life.

Dental Day

Today I went to the dentist to replace a loose filling. She gave me a shot or two of novacaine before proceeding to wreak all sorts of damage and havoc on my tooth. Okay, she probably was just trying to clean all the gunk out, but with her pliers, and picks and tiny tooth filers, I swear a whole mine crew was in the caverns of emily’s mouth, digging for treasure.

Curious thing about having a numb side of your face – when I touch it, it feels really soft but it also feels like I’m touching dead flesh. I try to rationalize that this is what it feels like to touch my face, from another person’s perspective. But the more overwhelming impression was that, I was touching soft, pudgy and slack meat. It felt really strange. Also, I think this must also be what it feels like to have a stroke and have one side of the face collapse from damaged nerves. I was never so happy to enter once again the world of actual feeling, of pain sensors, of movement and agility. I guess I experienced vicariously a little bit of what death must be like.

I need to start taking better care of my teeth. Flossing, rinsing, brushing, whitening – the whole works! The other day I was told that I wasn’t making enough of an effort to make myself “hot.” Despite my heated protestations and indignant retorts, I guess I have to admit that I’m a slacker about that sometimes. But tomorrow is a brand new day as Miss O’Hara famously said, and tomorrow is a good time to start becoming the hotness that is somewhere deep inside yours truly, waiting to be excavated, waiting for its day in the sun.

Tick tock

The waiting game has turned a new corner for me and like a roller coaster, I feel like my heart is in my throat and my stomach some 10 feet below me. I can't say I relish the feeling overly much. There is, in that agony of being suspended, almost a despondent, morose desire to just rush to the end, no matter how badly that end may be. Because nothing can be quite as bad as having to hang there, right before the impending drop.

Somewhere in my head, the two words "intervention prayer" dance around tantalizingly. If I pray hard enough, do you think the outcome will be favorable? I know it's not the way to go, and I know God is no Santa. Yet, this is where the logic loses its sway, to some degree.

Okay, I'm just babbling forth complete garbage. As Philip in Of Human Bondage would say, (crossly I may add), "Oh you do talk rot!" I do indeed sometimes.

This is because the outcome greatly matters to me, I must say. I readily confess that, even as I have no intention of disclosing what such outcome pertains to. Those who are close to me know what I am talking about, so that's all that really matters. I just want to sit here and wail about the difficulty the hardship oh the torture! But then again, I think I'm getting a bit nauseated by how cliched I sound.

They say that what does not kill you will make you stronger. Hmm...will this make me stronger? Tougher? Or just more wilted? More defeated? I guess only time will tell. But to be more scientifically accurate, seven days should be about right. To be honest, I know I will be okay either way. Sorry for all the theatrics earlier, folks, it comes and goes you see. I have an inner dialogue with myself pretty much all day. Okay fine, okay I will be okay. I just want to brace myself for the worst and hopefully, by sheer willpower, bully it away. HAHA. This is wishful thinking on steroids.

A little bit of Michael Scott in…

Let me introduce the character of Michael Scott, from NBC’s comedic show, The Office. It is sometimes difficult to put your finger on him and predict exactly how he will react to certain situations. For people he likes, he turns a blind eye to their faults and to the people he really really likes, he comes across as painfully needy and emotionally dependent. For the people he does not like, he is the cardboard cutout of a jerk and an insensitive clod.

Michael Scott is all I.D., he simply does what he feels like doing. Sometimes he feels like a heterosexual and behaves accordingly. But I believe there are times when he feels like swinging to the other end and he just does, his feelings for men can be just as intense as they are for women.

His ego is so blatant, it’s practically and (literally) in one episode, a second head on his shoulder. He wants to be liked, he wants to be popular, he wants to be known as funny and he gets extremely upset when he feels like he is going to hurt someone else, that is, only when he actually realizes that he might upset someone else.

Perhaps the best way to describe him is that he is a vulnerable, obnoxious but still needy 10 year old stuck in the body of a 40 yr. old. Somehow over the years, his mental age has failed to keep step with his physical age.

On to a more self-reflective note: there is a little bit of Michael Scott in everyone. I see a little of Michael Scott in GW Bush, because I’m willing to bet two dollars that GW Bush thinks he’s a pretty well-loved president, despite strong evidence to the contrary. I see Michael Scott in the quirks and nooks of the people around me, and certainly there is even one in me. There are definitely times when I feel like being a jerk to somebody simply because I felt like it and there was no better reason for it. There were times when to some people, I want to display a clingy, desperate “like me like me” side (okay, that doesn’t happen very often) but usually on the rare occasion that it does, I usually dredge up sheer pride and the last vestiges of dignity to refrain from such behavior. When I was five or six for instance, I remember going to a family friend’s house in Canada. There were these two older girls there and I was so eager to impress them, I was talking a mile a minute, gabbing happily about red firetrucks or something to that nature. It was the first time in my life I remember wanting to impress. The two older girls seem mildly amused by me and decided to pay attention to me and that made me feel triumphant. I remember brushing off my mom when she tried to come talk to me, because I wanted to bask in the attention of these other girls. That was my most distinct memory of being a complete sycophant and since that day, as I said, my pride overcame my I.D.

Michael Scott is not without pride either. He floats around in a universe of his own making, where he’s the best-looking, most friendly, funniest and most importantly, well beloved manager at DunderMifflin. It’s a good thing he suffers from a poor memory because he always manages to forget the times when his employees openly laugh at him or defy him or exclude him from their activities. He has an uncanny ability to see things the way he wants to see him. He is married to his self-delusisions.

This brings me to my final point. Michael Scott represents some of the worst qualities of adolescence – selfishness, inconsideration, desire for attention and adoration. A character like Michael Scott is the perfect foil to exasperated, alert Jim, who watches all these shenanigans and then turns to the camera to produce a wry face. If I may say so in my defense, there is at least a little bit of Jim in me too. =)

Reflections on choices

In Chinese, there is an expression “yi bei zhi” which denotes a “lifetime” or in some cases, “forever” and “eternity.” Sometimes this is used in the context of “you will regret something” for “yi bei zhi.” Back in the time of my grandparents’ and even parents’ generation, they believe in making so-called “right” choices early on in life or else one suffers the consequences forever and ever (or at least for the rest of one’s natural life.) There is a certain, unspoken but tangible dread of taking that one wrong step, down a slippery slope, and for what one will regret bitterly afterwards.

For instance, the other saying is “nan pa ru chuo hang, nu pa jia chuo lang” which signifies that the worst thing a man should fear is entering the wrong profession, the worst thing a woman should fear is marrying the wrong man. Because, these are mistakes that will resonate a lifetime.

I was just reflecting on how that is no longer true in today’s day and age, and especially no longer true in America, the land of opportunity and the land of second chances. In my relatively young life so far, I can sense that had I lived in a different time period, some of the choices I made earlier in life would no doubt be a curse to me to the day I die. However, because I am fortunate enough to exist at the intersection of time and space where it is indeed possible to reinvent myself on a daily basis, to redirect the forces of my destiny and alter the direction of my future based on the exercising of my will, well, what can I say, in this respect, it’s great to be an American.

Therefore, the term “yi bei zhi” has lost most of its power and terrorizing element. That term does not mean as much today as it once did. What is “yi bei zhi”? 10 years, 20 years, 30 years? At any point, you can change the old yibeizhi to a new yibeizhi. Of course, I’m not unaware that as with any change, sometimes the baby really does get thrown out with the bathwater (since I’m using all these aphorisms, might as well keep right on going) and sometimes, the eagerness with which people embrace new things, change, excitement and just perhaps, something different from their humdrum lives may cause them to also throw away something that they will regret losing later on. So it’s as with many things in life, a double-edged sword, the power to choose, the power to reinvent yourself and the power to put something down and pick something else up.

So just to borrow from Spiderman’s wisdom, “with great power, comes great responsibility.” Only if you exercise your power wisely can you say that you are making the most of the opportunities given to you, instead of becoming overwhelmed and dominated by the plethora of bewildering options and beckoning sirens. Be wise, my friends, be wise.

Conditioning Disaster

Last night I decided to condition my hair to a beautiful luxuriant shine. I shampooed meticulously, got out, towel-dried my wet hair and then raked some conditioning cream into my hair. I then wrapped my head into a shower cap to let the moisture really soak in. The instructions say to let it sit in hair for five minutes. I thought it would be fine to go for sixty instead (because I’ve been brainwashed by society to think that more is always better). I settled down and chatted with my friend. The call ended up being over an hour and twenty minutes long. After this extraordinary exercising of tongue, I decided to call yet another friend and tongue exercise another 40 minutes or so. After that, I lay back on my bed exhausted and promptly dozed to morning.

I woke up the next morning with the horrible realization that I had slept all night with a very wet, very moisturized head. It may have been psychosomatic, but I literally felt a headache coming on as I imagined all that moisture seeping into my skull, penetrating the deep recesses of my neural cavity. I wonder if I have done irreversible damage not only to my hair but even more distressing, possibly to my brain. I then leapt into shower once more and prompty doused my poor soggy head in hot water for five minutes.

Epilogue: So now my hair feels somewhat more substantial, heavier. I still feel cold though and the chill may entirely be in my head. The moral of the story, don’t be such a putz about these things, sleeping all night with an insulated mess of wet slimy hair is no fun at all!

Kiss Me, Kate

Friday night I ventured off into Northeast DC to watch a play rambunctiously titled, "Kiss me, Kate!" It's a play within a play, about a production company putting on the show of The Taming of the Shrew. The lead roles were to be played by a man and a woman who were once married but have since divorced. Onscreen, the man plays the suitor who must "tame" the woman, Kate. Offscreen, the man and woman fight like cats and dogs, often going for the jugular. Still, it is obvious they still have strong attachments to each other. How the offscreen romance is resolved directly affects how the onscreen romance crystallizes in the final act. The breaking point for the man is perhaps the famous "spanking" scene where, onscreen, the man, as Petruchio, gets so fed up with his ex-wife's verbal and physical abuse that he grabs her, flips her over his knees and gives her a thrashing. It is unclear to me whether or not the thrashing was supposed to take place in the actual "Taming of the Shrew" although it fit in with the theme rather well.

Now I have a question for my dear readers to ponder. Are shrews typically portrayed by skinny, hot-tempered women? For reasons I can not comprehend, but somehow the image of a corpulent, fully resonating woman doesn't quite mesh with the image of a shrew. This shrew was no different. She was skinny, angular, flat-chested and very plucky. She sang a number called, "I hate men" to rousing applause. However, there was something in the way she carried herself that was very crone-like and off-putting, not in the least feminine and graceful. Still overall, I enjoyed the show. I especially enjoyed the number where three suitors dance around the gorgeous Bianca (the shrewish Kate's younger sister) asking for her hand in marriage and she blithely sings,"I'll marry any Tom, Dick and Harry." They proceeded to do the train, with her at the forefront, wiggling her head side to side and chanting, "Ah Dickety Dick ah dickety dick!" That was funny. Of the plays I've watched in the last year or so, the common thread that runs through them is how bawdy and naughty they can be.

U4eeya!

Today is such a lovely day! I went out during lunch and as I was driving along, I noticed the plate in front of me. I couldn’t resist the urge to say it out loud and then it clicked! What a clever little way to say the word euphoria and how apt it is to encounter this word on a day like today, full of sunshine and good cheer.

Yesterday I was doing my taxes, very grudgingly I might add. Emily was NOT full of good cheer then, especially when at the end, I saw how much I owed. So began the mad scramble to check and recheck figures and data entry, trying to see how many more deductions I can squeeze back from Uncle Sam’s grubby hands. I saw a place where I could list my expenses for having some sort of aquamarine oyster farm and that if so, I could get not just deductions but actual credits! It’s so random that I had to smirk. Usually I think of tax incentives as the government’s way of encouraging certain practices or behavior. I guess this was the (state govt)’s way of encouraging us all to grow our own pearls.

The Office

Lately I was bestowed the gift of "The Office." At first I wasn't thrilled with the mockumentary style and the whole talking to the camera bit. I'm not sure that actually adds to the show. I also had to get used to the lack of music accompaniment because there were awkward moments in this show that appeared all the more awkward for the dead silence that occurred sometimes in its trail.

That said, I think I'm catching on to the genius of the show. It is in the little movements and the unsaid portions. These people, who think they are participating in a documentary of their daily workplace, usually put on a particular front to present a side of themselves to the audience. But when they stop talking, when they look down, or away, or pause uncertainly, that there is the gold.

I just saw a scene for instance of Pam talking to the camera, telling them how she wants the best for Jim and wants him to find somebody to be happy with, etc. Then the next scene shows her finding out that Jim has a hot date for the weekend. She smiles in an effort to appear supportive and casual and then walks back to her desk. Later on, she puts on some gloss and looks both self-conscious and dejected. Feelings of inadequacy and loneliness and perhaps a touch wistfulness? Not one word, just a gesture.

Currently my favorite characters are Pam and Jim, not hard, they are the only two remotely likeable, more fully-fleshed out characters at this point. Dwight is too far left field for me to relate to and Michael Scott ranges from being mildly annoying to extremely obnoxious. But I'm willing to bet that out there in the real world, there are more than a few Michael Scotts floating around. The only question is, do they know it too?

Encountering Pan's Labyrinth

Last night I finally watched the film I’ve been curious about for some time now – Pan’s Labyrinth. Ofelia, the female main character reminded me of Violet from the film “A Series of Unfortunate Events,” an altogether unfortunate film in itself. Both girls have the chestnut dark brown hair with very pale, very delicate complexions and oddly sensuous and full lips for a child. The child was luminous.

The film takes place in Spain during a particularly tumultuous time when two warring factions struggle to gain control of the country. One side has become the guerilla side, the other side seeks to claim legitimacy through organization, manpower, and uniforms. Yet essentially, we see this is a country at war and spies and undercover agents abound, as in most wars. Similarly, torture as a means to extract information was readily employed, which mercifully, we were mostly spared from. This was a dark, dark film, with an ominous undertone throughout. Even when the fantasies of the child led her into an enchanted and creepy netherworld, we as the audience are conscious throughout that true evil is not within that kingdom. It is outside and everywhere else.

I was extremely tickled by the appearance of the mandrake root in this film. The mandrake root was placed in milk, upon which it became an imitation baby, flailing its little plant stubs around and wailing like a child. It was adorable. When I was a kid, I watched this Asian drama where a little “mandrake root” walked around and all the villains fought each other to consume this delicacy. A four-year-old girl or boy played this plant. It was adorable too, often tripping from one place to another, and was only capable of saying, “Ya yaaa Ya yaaaa.” It relied completely on the kind fairy to protect him from becoming someone’s medicinal herbal broth.

What to say about Pan’s Labyrinth? It is a beautiful film, with tremendous creative energy employed in the birth of certain monsters. I shall never forget the grotesque figure of the mummy like creature with eyeballs in his palms. His bloodstained finger nails were a great touch too. He was almost too exotic and interesting to be truly terrifying. The part that was no fun at all was the gory, sickening aftermath of a captured and of course, mutilated guerrilla, who pleaded to be killed in the end to the doctor. Death, in this film, appears to be a blessing and a gift. The film may well be saying that, only through that portal, shall we enter a kingdom infinitely richer and more majestic than what life as a human can provide. After watching this film, I can’t say I disagree.

Thoughts before lunch

Today an angry man tried very hard to ruin my morning by irrationally and rudely blaring his horns at ME for letting people cut in front of me, as we made a single-filed trek up the ramp to the freeway. I debated whether or not to shake my fist at him, for all the good that would do. I couldn't bring myself to seriously ponder flicking him off. At first I wasn't even sure what gender this angry creature was, and I thought it was a female. So I muttered a few gender specific expletives under my breath. Then I look closely and it was a man and I quickly switched to the other gender specific expletive and also uttered a silent apology for females everywhere.
It was such a stupid incident though that I think I am doing him too much of an honor by even bothering to memorialize this incident on my hallowed blog grounds. Stupid man, you need to be slapped.

I've been reading the best Travel writing of 2006. A woman went on a daring journey to Lhasa in a rickety broken truck driven by a silent taciturn Chinese man. They had to carry their own gasoline because there weren't exactly rest stops along the way. At one point, the trucker managed the incredible feat of setting himself on fire because he had gasoline all over him. But being stoic and strong, he apparently continued to drive, third degree burns and all.

I also read about this American who went to Japan to partake of the ancient art of tattooing. He made it sound all mystical and profound and sacred. The Japanese are very good at turning the ordinary and the mundane into high art. They are also very good at being disdainful, whether deserved or not. In any case, they look down on American tattooing and believe theirs to be supreme. The tattoo master uses something crazy like 10 needles bound together to pierce the skin. The person being initiated into this crazy ritual must bear the pain and not show one grimace or cringing, so as to earn the respect of the master. Masochism was never a foreign concept for these people.

Updating for the sake of itself

I just came back from an interview up North. It was a pretty good drive both ways, I thanked God that I wasn't stuck in traffic at all and that, I didn't have to resort to slapping myself to stay awake, as I have had to do on previous long drives. The interview itself was pretty decent. I think my faculty interviewer liked me enough, though for 10 nerve-wracking minutes, I had to ramble on and on just to "tell a little about myself." I also had a student interview by this Taiwanese Asian kid. He seemed a bit tired, he explained it was his second interview for the day. Anyway, I had the feeling I didn't knock his socks off, but hopefully he liked me well enough to reocmmend a green light. Such power in the hands of the little ones. I probably should have tried to squeeze more of a connection with him regarding Taiwan, falling back on good ol' common ground, but something told me that he wouldn't fall for it.

The night before I had dinner at this awesome sushi place called 1225 Raw. or maybe it's just called Raw. Anyway, I can't recall the name exactly, because it was soo freakin' cold last night that once I was outside, my mind began chanting, "must get inside must get inside" in an obsessive liturgy. The special sushi rolls were fantastic though and my palate was greatly pleased. I also enjoyed the ambiance. The only thing I disliked was the so-called "mochi" dessert at the end, which is by now, the epitome of clicheville for Asian consumers. Maybe it's still suppose to shock and awe the rest of America.

Mom's friends

Last night Mom had some guests over for dinner. I sat around after dinner and listened in on the conversation among these "adults" as I like to do. I often think that it amuses me to hear what other people have to say and then reflect on what type of person these people are. The husband has a slow, deliberate way of speaking. His sentences are logical, ordered and neat. You can see that his mind probably operates like that too, in a very deliberate, step-wise fashion. He recounted the experience of his father, who passed away last year after spending five months in the hospital. Some of the experiences must have been painful for him to recount, but he was very in control, very calm and placid. I admired his calm. I also realize that I want to think like him, in a step by step, logical manner. I don't like having undercurrents of thought that act like a monkey scrambling around wildly, from one point to another. It takes great effort to grab ahold of that monkey and keep it planted firmly in one place, all the while, it's struggling wildly to break free and scramble about again. I digress, bad monkey!

So the wife of the dynamic duo is an interesting character too. She talked about her experiences child-rearing. She had two daughters, roughly around my age. Growing up, she disliked the sound of crying. When her younger daughter would cry (after being whipped around), she would tell the girl to go into the storage room and cry, so she didn't have to hear it. However, this one time, the girl wouldn't stop crying in the room and she kept hearing it, so annoyed, she went to the room, yanked the girl out and promptly gave her a second beating. Her daughter, feeling very wretched and wronged, said, "you told me I could cry in this room!" and her loving mother snapped, "Yes, but you were crying way too long. You were just asking for another round!" Holy Canoli, I didn't know Moms come in such shapes and sizes. I mean, I thought my mom was a fierce one for once breaking the hanger in beating me and my sister up, but that probably only occurred once in my life. This mom makes my mom seem like a gentle lamb.

Regardless, now we can look back on such times and laugh (especially me, since I never had to undergo such a treatment).

Lean years ahead

Lately with typical narcissistic zeal, I realize two things. I’ve gained weight! I have color on my cheeks, overall, I’m looking healthy and well-fed, maybe too well-fed. But I console myself that I’m like a penguin, I’m trying to get fat during these months before med school (aka the lean years) and hopefully by the end of four years, I would not shrivel away to nothingness. I’m trying to stockpile on the blubber. Like most girls, the reason I can feel my expanding self is through squeezing into my skinny jeans. Hitherto, none of my jeans are “skinny” per se, but now, putting myself in these jeans in the morning has become very much a “sausage making” experience, if you can picture that imagery in your mind.

I heard a good sermon recently, courtesy of my monkey sister, who thought her sis could use a little financial wisdom 101. The main message by the speaker was, “saving” money means keeping money with you while “spending” money means removing money away from you. Very simple message right? Funny how people don’t really get it, yours truly included. In the past years that I’ve worked, I realize that I’ve exercised very poor money management on the whole and well, let’s just say, this message is very timely. Before I jump into this pit called higher education and bury myself alive with hundreds of thousands of med school tuition debt, it may help to have a little financial management know-how to weather the “lean” years ahead. At the very least, I should try not to take a shovel and too gleefully dig an ever bigger hole to rest in all eternity.

Mmm…got to know a nice group of ladies last night, most of them seem either my age or slightly older. Almost all are married, one’s expecting. We are going to study the Bible. Now, I have to admit that I don’t have the most religious temperament on the whole. From a positive standpoint, you can call me a free wheeling spirit, not given to being tied down by dogma too easily. From a negative standpoint, perhaps it’s also because I’m a lazy pug. But my intentions are good. I very earnestly hope that I will get something out of this by the end of three or four months. Like some of my friends right now, we are all, one way or another, embarking on some spiritual quests in search of greater truths.

Two anxious teenage mothers asked me today of my opinions regarding AP exams, high school grades, college competitiveness, etc. I could barely stifle a yawn. I realize how little I care about such things and because they seem so very unimportant to me, it was hard to fathom why these two mothers flutter around these issues like their lives depended on it. Then I chided myself for my lack of empathy. Obviously they care because they care abour their precious poodles. If poodle enters community college, well then, all hope and dreams are dashed. Okay, I’m being harsh. Anyway, my point is, I don’t know whether or not your undergrad colleges really have to be so great. I do think that wherever you go, you can choose to make the best of it..or not. So in short, much depends on the poodles’ own mettle. Same goes true for you and me, folks, in all stages of life.

2007 Chinese Lunar Year Performance

Friday night I was privileged to be invited to a show put on by the Chinese Broadcasting Arts Company held at Strathmore Music Center in Bethesda, MD. Such a distinguished acoustical hall in suburbia Maryland brings pride and joy to all Montgomery County denizens. Even to a musically challenged person such as myself, I was impressed by the glass or crystal panes that hung in the high ceilings of the music chamber to bounce or reflect sound to all parts of the dome. It paid off prettily when singers on the stage expanded their lungs and brought forth mellifluous notes to grace our eardrums. I was on the "upper tier" which is about four stories from the stage. My coworker next to me brought a handy pair of binoculars, that's how far away we were, the people were lego-sized to me. But enough gab on the surroundings, let's get to the meat, shall we?

My personal favorites of the show were: six dancing mermaids on the stage, in iridescent glittery blue green sequined costumes. They wriggled so delightfully up and down, giving a visceral impression of really swimming in water. I am astounded once again at the possibilities of a human body and its feats. I wish I could wriggle like that.

Another performance was given by this charming young man, singing about paper airplanes and going home. I don't really know what the heck he was singing about, but he had a nice singing voice and with the help of my friend's binoculars, I got to see his nicely chiseled features as well.

My third favorite performance was a skit by a husband and wife duo (on stage and in real life). They were "divorced" and both ended up going online to search for a second love. The skinny, effeminate husband called himself, "GORGEOUS MAN" and the middle-aged wife portrayed herself as having Gong Li's dentures and Zhang Ziyi's lips. Naturally, they ended up on a blind date together and more than a few sparks flew. It was very funny. The guy was also really effeminate.

My fourth favorite performance was by this woman who goes onstage and starts to yodel. It was incredible how high and clear her voice was and how fast she can yodel. She spoke a completely insane language of notes and pitch -- before hers, my vocal chords will surely develop an inferiority complex.

Through this entire performance, I felt a bit like Polly in "An Old-fashioned Girl", all excited to be dressed up and "going to the opera house." There was a tinge of glamour in the air but I realize it's only because such an outing is rare and far between for me and I always relish it when the opportunity arises. I also realize of course that if I were to make a habit out of going to shows or operas, say, on a monthly basis, it would soon lose all magic and excitement. Therefore, best leave it to the rare blessed occasion and allow such things to retain their eternal appeal.

The Great White Tower

Last night I finished watching this Japanese drama about two physicians. The ending was perfect. I cried. I was intensely moved by the entire story and more specifically, because the show attempted to define what a good physician entails. Overwrought and anxious as I am about my own future career, watching this provided me a timely reminder that, ultimately, my goal is simple: I want to become a good doctor, and that, is entirely, up to me.

I was also genuinely touched by the mutual respect and fullness of feeling these two main characters (both physicians) have for each other. It goes beyond friendship, it has rivalry, and jealousy and competition, but also, tremendous respect, concern and care. In Chinese, "zhai hu" comes to mind. They very much "zai hu" each other, because they are conscious that on some level, they are yin to each other's yang. They are engaged in a battle of will, a dedication to their art, and loyalty to their own creed, yet at the same time, they long desperately to reach out and touch the other person, obtain their approval and understanding, or somehow land on the same page. In the end, their differences outweighed their similarities, or perhaps, they shared a true fondness for each other that overcame their vastly divergent beliefs. They were bonded to the end.

Jaded and cynical and stone-walled as I am to mawkish sentimentality, this drama resonated a stirring within me and I felt compelled to respond, or at least, to turn it over and over in my brain until it hurt. Even as I watched the weakness of Zaigen Sensei for fame and glory, I confronted the exact same vein of pettiness within myself. I'd LIKE to think I can be like Satomi Sensei instead, a Japanese male version of Mother Theresa, selflessly devoted to the sick, the tired and the poor. Between what I'd LIKE to think of myself and what I truly am however could not exist a wider gulf.

So I am humbled by this drama and I am reminded of what my own destiny will be. Fame, fortune and glory? Maybe not in store for me. But perhaps, if I keep my focus on that which is most important, my destiny will be fabuleux indeed.

My MogHam moment

I stayed up til past one last night, reading Of Human Bondage by W. Somerset Maugham. Since this is my personal pick for my book club, I am naturally more inclined to spend the time and effort to read this book thoroughly. So far, because this book is over 600 pages long, the members of my book club are struggling a bit, but I have confidence that we shall overcome.

Funny coincidence. I was in the lab on the weekend and ran into my ever so diligent coworker. Before I was heading off, I decided to introduce Maugham to him, because good things ought to be shared. As soon as I mentioned his name and showed him the book, he grinned and zipped out of his bag, The Razor's Edge, also another book by Maugham, and one of the first books I had read by him. We ended up, of course, having quite a lively discussion of Maugham.

So why do I like Of Human Bondage? I guess because I can relate quite intensely to Phillip, the introverted but voracious reader born with a club foot. I am quite aware of course that I carry with myself my own cross and symbolic club foot. In any case, Maugham is not only an astute observer of the human condition, he's also so so good at putting into words some of the more nebulous feelings and sentiments that lesser minds like myself have encountered, but nonetheless was unable to package into verbal maxim.

My personal nightmare, as I've mentioned before, is to have the sum of my life put together in a succinct paragraph or two, and that the paragraph happens to be mainly filled with negatives and that it also happens to be quite dead on the mark. That fate befalls perhaps 98% of all characters in Of Human Bondage.

Topics that were covered in OHB include passion, lust, pretentiousness, self-delusions, disillusionment, contempt for artsy-fartsy denizens, waste of life, true love, healthy love, unhealthy obsessions, self-anaylses, critical assessments of others, etc etc. The list goes on and on.

Interviewing up north

I’m back from my two day excursion to the North, stayed with my good friend from college, froze my butt off while treking from Queens to Manhattan, sat through an agonizing presentation given by a Director of Admissions, whom, as far as I could tell, was well practiced in the art of delivering bland and comfortable stock phrases, and an interview by this loopy professor who had a habit of giggling after every sentence or two. Did I make him nervous perhaps? Zeus! I was supposed to be the one peeing in my pants from overwrought anxiety. Instead, my nervousness soon turned to befuddlement, as I pondered over the possible sources of his obvious amusement. The conversation went like this.

Me: So yeah there was a bunch of literature that followed the CR that was termed scar literature. (I was expounding on what measely knowledge I still retained of East Asian studies way back when)

Prof: Interesting. I’ll definitely have to read about the CR in my spare time. [GIGGLE]

Me: nodding politely, striving for a semblance of enthusiasm. Definitely. I could recommend some books…

Prof: don’t know when I’ll get to it though. [Giggle.] Currently reading War and Peace. [GIGGLE] [GIGGLE GIGGLE]

Me: oh very ambitious project. Do you like it so far?

Prof: I’m on page 15. I’m going to give it to page 300 before I decide if I like it or not. Hehehehe.

Me: (having no clue how long W&P is, I ventured a quip nonetheless) By then, you’ll probably be like 1/3 of the way through.

In essence, I thought this professor was nice enough. I liked him though I just found him to be mildly strange, due to his incessant giggling, chortling, chuckling, whatever you want to call it. It was a laugh condition. But I also got the sense that he just did this as part of his job description, and he really couldn’t care two bits about the interviews. He asked me on a scale of 1 to 15, what my interest in primary care is. I said 12. I probably should have been a go-getter energizer bunny, slam my fist in my other hand and yell 15!!! But frankly, that’s not my style.

Ooh well, I hope I get a nice fat letter nonetheless! Cheers and happy Pig year all!

Non Sequitur

Yesterday just before I was going to traipse out of work, trying to beat the sunset in my dash for the comfort and safety that is home, I was waylaid by a well-meaning coworker. This co-worker, and I really like her, btw, has a tendency to speak very low when at work. (Catch her at happy hour and she becomes the MGM lion) Anyhow, she came up to me and she mumbled something really low. I heard "office of screaming girls, Valentine's Day, blah blah?" I looked at her uncertainly. She smiled affably, congenially, almost conspiratorily. I hesitated. She waited. I didn't really have the heart to burst her bubbles and ask her to repeat herself. It's a very deflating experience, to be asked to "come again?" Because I've had that experience many times and I hate it when people don't hear me the first time. Finally I ventured a very bland response. "Well, Valentine's Day is very overrated, as it is." I said, a bit uncertainly. She looked at me confusedly. Then she agreed, and proceeded to say, "Yes, but blah blah blah?" Essentially, she repeated her question, the question of course which I didn't get in the first place. This time, I heard it, I understood what she was trying to ask and finally, I smiled confidently, like someone who finally learned how to recite her alphabets in the correct order, I answered her question accordingly. So I probably was not altogether successful in pretending that I caught her question in time, but then I thought I was still a pretty smooth cat for my blase quip. As I am currently waiting on my RNA to finish their mass migration south, I have drawn a little picture to humour myself.

Today

An icy blanket has fallen over the DC metropolitan area. Federal government has decreed that employees are to come in two hours later. So after enjoying a nice cozy breakfast with family, I scooted upstairs to finish my morning toiletries. My mom fretted and my dad worried, because they didn't want me to drive on the icy roads. I poo-pooed their concerns, rather looking forward to my adventurous drive on the road. The ordinary has become tinged with a little excitement and I'm always attracted to excitement.

Driving out of my neighborhood proved the most harrowing. The roads have not been cleared, and it was caked with a thick layer of ice and snow. There were tracks laid down by previous intrepid explorers however and I very dutifully followed the already trodden path, going at the breakneck speed of 5 mph.

Later on the road, two things pissed me off. One was when people foolishly decide to walk on the cleared roads, regardless of whether or nor they were for pedestrians. I pictured a bowling ball knocking down pins, that's how it would look if my car were to skid out of control and slam into those g-damn idiots. I was mad that they not only put themselves in danger, but they also made me risk manslaugther. Needless to say, while passing by these people, I drop to almost a crawling pace, just so I won't have to go to jail for their idiocracy. I gave them the evil eye though and by God, I hope they felt that.

Second thing that pissed me off was when I was trying to inch my way ever so gingerly to another lane. A car behind me had the audacity to travel at, gasp!...30 mph. How dare he go so fast?? In short, he zoomed into the lane that I wanted to change into and forced me to sharply turn back into my own lane. Pissed off by this bad driver decorum, I immediately changed lanes and began tailgating him at the heart pounding speed of 35 mph. Then I had to laugh because I felt like we were in turtle world and though we were both in reality crawling, there was still road rage.

Anyway, today's the dreaded Vday. Hope everyone has a decent day and don't get too hung up over the Hallmark propaganda.

News and notes

Do you know what is the best smell in the world? Okay, the best smell in the world is the whiff of chicken soup brewing on the stove with black mushrooms and winter melons floating lazily on the surface as you walk in the door, cold and hungry. The second best smell in the world has to be men's cologne or aftershave on clean skin. I don't know why it just occurred to me, I don't even think I realized that I was missing it, but I really do like the smell of men's cologne on skin. mmmm...yummy....This is saying a lot from a girl who is notorious for her lack of olfactory abilities. I may not smell a lot but I do appreciate it when I get to. =)

In other news, I decided to postpone my trip up to New York due to inclement weather. I don't want to be singularly responsible for adding those extra gray hairs to my mom and dad's already increasing grayheadedness and I don't want to have the reason for my early and untimely demise to be, because I skidded off somewhere on I-95 due to the snow and sleet. I always fancied that if I have to go, I would go in a blaze of glory (and no, please don't read it as fire, dear God, I hate flames). Alright, enough tongue in cheek.

I read a great article by Maureen Dowd who delivered a scathing observation and indictment on today's flurry of "Chick Lit" that has taken over commercial bookstores. Ironic that it's a female who is so vengeful about it...or perhaps not so ironic after all. I find that women are often the harshest critics of other women sometimes. Not that I disagree with her, it seems that these days, we are overrun with fluffy books like "Good in bed" and other forgettable varieties, books that I confess I would pick up to read just for fun and completely forget the minute I put down the book.

Finally, I have to say that I felt an odd surge of pride to learn that a female has become the president of Harvard University. This is finally substantial proof that progress has been made and the gender gap is decreasing, if ever so infinitesimally smaller. I also felt at the same time an equal burst of shame for myself that I am not an ambitious road-runner/gunner/shoot for the top character. Will I ever stop being so lazy? How can I hope to my coveted blaze of glory by meandering lazily through the pasture of life? This lazy sheep has some serious self-recriminations to do.

The sound of emily's thoughts

For various reasons, I'm feelin' down in the dumps today. I guess I just need to find a way to pull myself out of this mudhole of self-pity and ennui. Oddly enough, listening to the Wierd Al's song, "You're pitiful" made me laugh and I felt better immediately. After all, that's what I was doing, feeling pitiful and there's no medicine better than self-deprecation.

I watched a Korean soap opera recently. The guy in there is really not the hottest sexiest most desirable thing I've ever seen, but for some reason, I was oddly moved by this guy. If someone like him walked into my life right now, I'd marry him in a heartbeat. There's just something about him that struck a chord in me. His name is Ahn Jae Wook. I would have too much fun with the name Wook, for one thing.

Lately a cold spell has fallen over the East Coast. It's man vs nature as we hunker down, grit our teeth and try to get through this bitter chill the best as we can. The cold weather has effectively dashed all my last motivations to do anything outside work however. As soon as I finish work, I make a mad dash for home. In the morning, I make a mad dash for work. I feel like a lemming.

Perhaps I should go swimming. I bought a new swimsuit, it's red and very sporty. I feel like an Olympic swimmer in my new swimsuit. I feel like I could be the Guardian. Anyone saw that movie? It's classic Hollywood cheese, with words like, "So that others may live" that play at the end of the movie to music that is grand and uplifting and sorrowful. It jerked two tears outt of me while I was strapped to my seat at 30,000 feet. Sniff...

My lame duck moment

My lame duck moment came today when I was sitting with my coworkers and happily munching on my crunchy bbq tortilla wrap. The sauce was so good and I must have been famished because I polished off my wrap in less than 5 minutes, which is an absolute stunning world record for this tortoise eater. Hm, okay, I am getting sidetracked by the food. Anyhoo, as I was happily munching away, I suddenly heard my mentor make some snide remarks about IRTAs (that's me) and very shortly after, all spotlight was turned on me as everyone turned to watch an appropriate reaction. Now was a moment of possible glory folks. I could have very coolly tossed my shiny hair back and calmly returned a witty, dead-on remark that defused the situation and made me appear possibly brilliant. What does this creature do? She looks confused and then she splutters and then she does the possible dorkiest thing ever, she protests hotly, "Nuh uhhhhhh. that's not true!" Aahh, smack on the head a dozen times over, how possibly more idiotic could I be? It was such a classic Scrubs moment where I could have come up with a great comeback and instead, I was only able to cough up something very juvenile and childish. If only my life was scripted and I have only the great, the smart, the deadly lines to deliver. Instead, looks like I got stuck with the village idiot role. =(

Taiwan II

Got back from Taiwan on Thursday night. Have been spending the past few days in shameless self-indulgence of the lazy cat variety. I slept when I wanted, ate when I wanted and watched TV til my eyes hurt. In Taiwan, I felt like I never got to rest properly and I think the fatigue took a heavy toll on me, even causing my appetite to decrease to the point where I wasn't able to enjoy the food in Taiwan with the relish it deserved! That, in itself, is the most tragic of all grievances.

I don't think I should bore you with the play by play of my trip. I should list some highlights however.

One day, I went to Taichong with my mom and her friend. After having the famous local dish known as "shan yu mian" (which isn't really all that, after all) we headed over to the world class Shinkong department store. While my mom had a mini reunion with her old classmates, I roamed around the mall through all of its nine floors. At the very top, I was rewarded with an exhibit of silk woven tapestries and paintings. I really wanted to take pictures, but there were guards around who made sure that didn't happen. Yet it was such joy to my eyes! I remember admiring one work, which is of a girl in a red and gold background, she herself was wearing red and was possibly a bride on her wedding day. The threads woven into that painting had an irisdescent hue and the entire work was absolutely mesmerizing - well because I like things that glow or are shiny. I am a raccoon at heart.

I got to spend time with my cousins. One of them is marrying possibly at the end of the year, possibly a little later, depending on how soon she can get her braces removed. This brings me to my new beef. If you flip open any random fashion magazine in Taiwan, you'd find girls dressed in all manners of getup, multiple layers is a neccessity, boots are a near necessity, or if not, at the very least, indecently high pumps. Most girls have either very long straight hair or they have very long hair, either way, it's usually very long. I wouldn't say every girl in Taipei dresses like she just strolled off the runway, but for the girls that do dress up, they really take "dressing up" to a whole new level. In the U.S., I consider myself to be slightly above casual and maybe a tad lower than trendy, basically a comfortable blend of trendy casual. In Taiwan, I realize I've been knocked soundly into the sub-casual region. I'm under-accessorized, overly reliant on solid shades and single layers and worst of all, I plodded all over TPE in my brown walking sneakers. Never have I felt the full brunt of being so UNCOOL.

The food in Taiwan is as usual slobber worthy. Everywhere you go, food is shoved into your face. There are the bakeries that show off rows and rows of gleaming pristine buns (play Heaven music now) which always beg to be devoured. There are the street markets with vendors hawking their wares, with people hunkered down near plastic tables, sloshing down soup and noodles. My mom is particularly attached to this particular type of fried flat bun with sesame on top. Inside its savory crust, you will find meat and vegies that work in some magical combination to produce an unforgettable and satisfying mouthful. It's only 10 NT to boot (30 cents US)

Then there's the frenetic pace of Taipei. Everyone in the city always seems to be rushing to somewhere. Nowhere can this be more evident than at the main Subway station of Taipei MRT. When you're trying to transfer from one train to another and you reach this main hall, suddenly before you, you would see a sea of black heads bobbing to and fro. No matter how often I've been to that main hall myself, I never cease to pause inwardly and look on the scene before me with an appropriate degree of awe. Maybe it's because I spent the better half of my life in the suburbs. Maybe it's also because I spent the better half of my life in a diverse country. So it's always a slight cultural shock to see so many of my own kind out there, because I'm so used to being outnumbered and not part of a vast majority. Of course, on a global scale, I know I have the distinct pleasure of being part of the race that is 1.3 billion strong =P

Okie dokes, I'm a little tired from my rambling. I think I will write of more amusing adventures when it suits me. Now excuse me while I guzzle some more Robitussin down...

Taiwan

Here I am in the city of my birth. So far the weather has been very nice, cool but not cold, slightly wet, slighty drizzley, as befitting winters here. I've had some goooood food. But I confess, the simple thrill of being here sometimes affect my taste buds to the extent that everything at first taste absolutely divine.

Everyday has been very hectic. I've been rushing around with my mom, hitting up place A and then place B and then place C. It's a constant rush. I'm tired, but I feel like it's worth it.

I will have to write later because I got to rush off now for further social obligations...

The Clan of the Great Cave Bear

Each time I see this book (and I've seen it many times now over the years of my persusal at bookstores or libraries), I have a vague feeling that we've met before, but I could never be quite certain if I've actually read this book.

So recently I picked it up at the library to satisfy my curiosity once and for all. Last night, then, I spent six very companionable hours with this book. Six hours! I started reading the book at 10 PM, and by the time I finished, it was pushing 4 AM. I was amazed how fast time flew, but I was deeply immersed in the story so that's why six hours passed in a blink of an eye.

The story tells of a young blond girl, whom, at five years old, was separated from her family and adopted by a different clan, a group of people that are wholly different from her, not just appearance-wise, but on some level, they are in a different evolutionary branch altogether. However (spoiler alert) she is able to produce viable offspring with a clan member, so they must be within the same species at least.

The writing is descriptive and expansive, sparing no words to describe scenes and people. It's not brilliant writing, because it takes about 200 words to say what a more accomplished writer might be able to say in 50. From a literary standpoint, it's easy reading but the story is close cousin to the dime and nickel romance adventure novels. However, I would still give kudos to the author who made some very detailed narrative sketches of a woman who finds her inner strength, develops her skills and mind to defy a clan of neantherthals (essentially).

What also gives the story warmth and depth is the deep love that she shares with her two adoptive parents, a shaman of the clan, who is an old, crippled man filled with wisdom before his time. The other woman is a medicine woman, and sister to the shaman. The profession of medicine is unabashedly elevated to a status of honor and almost spiritual importance.

The part I like best is when she begins to secretly teach herself to hunt by using a sling weapon. It's a taboo within the clan for females to hunt (any woman who touches a weapon is severely reprimanded and if she should hunt, they are cursed with death) So my inner feminist was ra-raing the whole time while I read about her becoming as good or better than anybody in the clan with the slingshot weapon.

In short, this book was a very feminist saga of one woman who was adopted by people very different than her and imposes strict rules and regulations of male and female hiearchy. As this novel was written in 1980, I have a feeling that the whole struggle for female rights is not far from this author's mind. Yet it was also couched in a story of love, of adventure, of survival and makes for a great Friday night reading.

The Diet Coke Story

This afternoon, seized as I was by a sudden attack of thirst, I fumbled through my wallet for change. The machine was finicky about the dollar bill and has been known to swallow the paper and then go into a bill induced coma, unresponsive to all kicking and screaming by the frustrated consumer.

So, being ever so clever, I scrounged up a dollar and walked around the lab to ask for change. Person A, always kind and helpful, managed to dig up 90 cents. I went to Person B, slightly more gruff but still nice at heart, and he tossed me a dime. I was very grateful with my handful of coins and jingled them in my pocket on my way to the vending machine.

When I got there, I put everything in meticulously and pressed on the WATER button. Dasani beckons allluringly like a sea siren. However, the reverie stopped there, abruptly, when I realize that the machine was silent and stony. Nothing. Slightly alarmed, I went to push another button when HORROR of HORRORS, I hit Diet Coke instead. NOOOOOO! I was the picture of "Scream" my friends, as I clasped my head in agony and deep anguish. I was ready to beat my chest in despair, and slam my head against the wall. Okay, no I wasn't. But what I really did do was pump my fist in aggravation and even hopped a little. It was very uncharacteristic of me, but for some reason, I was all id today, I want my drink and I want it now! Person A happened to be in the same room at the time and witnessed my tantrum, she couldn't help chuckling and said, you're funny when you get upset. That's because I am usually a kabuki/botox/mask girl, I show no emotions, apparently.

Anyways, the story doesn't end here. As luck would have it, a guy in my lab LOVES diet coke, so my first thought was to pawn it off him. I went to him and tried to sell it to him. However, he saw through my ruse and very shrewdly gives me 60 cents in exchange for my room-temp diet coke. I took it meekly, because I know he was doing me a favor. The rest of the lab laughed and ribbed him hard for taking advantage of a postbac, who gets paid next to nothing. I said, this is why I'm not in business, because I'm always gonna be the one who gets ripped off.

But 60 cents wasn't enough to get another drink, so I went to my wallet once more and scrounged up another dollar bill and marched back to the machine. Lo and behold, the machine took my dollar bill without a hitch!!! And then I got an ice tea out of it. When I got back to my desk, I found that he had replaced the 60 cents with a dollar, for feeling somewhat bad, he very good humouredly bought my diet coke for the full price. All this was going on to the great amusement of my lab mates, who thought it was very funny that there was so much to do over one small drink.

Persuasion

I just spent the last three hours immersed in Jane Austen's last novel. Reading a romantic novel such as this always puts me in a pensive mood. I enjoyed the novel for its insights to the human heart, the intricacies of a woman in love complete with the full portrayal of insecurities, jealousies, cowardice, pining, subtlety of gestures and stealthy observations to satisfy one's many whimsical questions and curiosities.

I'm less satisfied with the portrayal of the men in the novel though, because they seem to be less complete, less abundantly and fully fleshed out.

But putting aside my inner literary critic, I want to talk at length about this thing called persuasion. It is true that people in positions of authority or are perceived wiser by virtue of their age or experience have the power of persuasion. They can greatly influence a less experienced person, to sway a person's way of thinking.

I'm often quite torn between the american ideals of independent thinking (self-reliance per Emerson) and following the well meaning advice of my elders, when they run contrary to my wishes. I've been told that I'm actually a very willful person, despite my laidback persona. I can't decide whether to be pleased or troubled by such an adjective. I suppose only time will tell, in a strictly practical manner, whether being willful leads to fruitful and abundant living or a joyless muck of an existence.

Such is my state of mind too when it comes to the subject of dating and marriage. It seems to me like everyone has their ideas of what would be "good" for me. I sometimes find myself wondering whether or not I truly know what's best for me. Will I be a silly foolish woman, running after the appearance of true love only to find out that it's an empty facade? Will I be a smart thinking individual, with both feet planted solidly on the ground and approach the problem from multiple angles? As I'm getting ready to embrace the twilight zone of my 20's, I have to admit that being more cautious, being more wary, being more cognizant of various factors play a bigger and bigger role. Gone are my impulsive and happy go lucky college days when I'm not capable of thinking beyond a year in advance. I think I've now progressed to at least thinking 4-5 years in advance. All this thinking though, based mostly on wonderings and endless musings, have been more than a little wearisome.

When being somewhat tired or restless, my inner houdini kicks into high gear and I think with much relish to the summer when I can take a nice long trip to anywhere in the world really, but most likely asia. I would like at least part of the trip to be a solitary sojourn, for me to travel the world, fancy myself a character in a fairy tale (to seek her fortunes in the world) and hopefully to learn more about myself at the end of the trip, or gain some pearls of wisdom through various encounters along the way.

Wormy morning

Today is a gloomy Monday morning. The steady rain that started from the night before ensured one thing: thoroughly soaked land and mass migration of worms from down below. I've never been more grossed out, as I first walked from the garage to my car and as per my custom, would look down to gingerly step over the various megadriles sprawled in every which way. I saw fat ones that were easy to sidestep and really thin ones. In fact, to my horror, I think a lot of earthworm babies had just been birthed, because I saw so many thin pink string like objects on the ground and seriously, it was like Times Square for worms.

At my work place, I had to walk about 4 minutes to the building. That was a harrowing trip and as I walked to the building, I was chanting "gross gross gross" to myself, as I once again traveled in hip hops, trying to not be the reason certain earthworms meet their maker today. I also tried not to breathe or inhale too deeply because you can smell the scent of squashed worms in the air. I was especially fascinated and disgusted at the same time by this particularly FAT long juicy oozing worm. It was so big. I think it's an all you can eat buffet for some lucky birds out there.

Okay enough about worms, seriously, I need to get a life as I just spent the last 15 minutes expounding on the topic of these legless creepy crawlies.

oh YES

I am the woman!!! I just fixed my aunt's computer and made it internet accessible by installing a wireless pci card into the computer. I did it with great hesitation and more than a little trepidation because the first time I attempted such a stunt, the computer's motherboard decided to buy a one way ticket to heaven. Which is to say, it died. After much hullahoo, we finally got another motherboard in place and at first I wanted to just use some plug and play wireless adaptor, but that was a piece of crap.

I'm so happy I'm blogging away even while the computer is still not put together fully. I guess I just wanted to gloat about my awesome hands on skills.

Hm..well...since I'm blogging anyway, I might as well provide some ever so exciting updates. I watched a Chinese film called Peony Pavilion which documented this ambiguous and more than a little sensual relationship between two women. But the hottest scene of all was when one of the women had an affair with her coworker. That guy is HOT. His name is Daniel Wu, if anyone's interested in oogling. He's got a nice build.

One poor member of my family, due to a slip, is now condemned to walk around with an arm in the sling. I am designated her "right-hand woman" -- literally, since it's her right hand that's out of commission for the time being. I am learning how to serve, but sometimes, I admit, not as gladly as I should be, especially when I'm preoccupied with my own thing, which is about 99% of the time.

I have to finish Persuasion by 1/11 in time for my new book discussion club's inaugurated meeting. I hope I will be able to finish in time and then intelligently put in some input. My lit hum professors will be so proud.

The BABY's bill of rights

On my way to work today I heard an interesting debate regarding two parents' decision to stunt the growth of their nine year old mentally disabled child, thereby, through artificial means, keep her childlike for the rest of her life. At nine years old, she has the bone age of a 15 year old, therefore, at about 4 feet 5 inches or so, she has already grown to 99% of her total height. Through surgery, she will never develop a womanly figure, nor be able to give birth, nor even to have menstruation like a fully grown woman.

Outraged callers from all over the world are tsk-tsking the actions and decisions of these parents and horrified at the violation of this child's human rights. However, they should bear in mind that the nine year old child has the mental capacity of a 3-month old baby, she can't lift her head, she can't walk, she can't even swallow food, but is fed through a feeding tube.

Although the procedures are indeed drastic and irreversible, and I question the long term health benefits of injecting her with such high doses of hormonal treatments to alter growth, let's face it, this is not a person capable of making and executing decisions for herself. Leave her on the street somewhere and she'd perish within a day or two. Her entire life is kept up through very artificial means. The word "normal" in her life is turned upside down. She may develop sex organs but she will not be a normal woman. The fact that she can develop "normally" in a physical way does not mean that in fact, she will indeed live a normal productive adult life.

Maybe I'm short on patience when it comes to the more practical matters, but the way I see it, the parents are the ones who will be her hand and foot slaves for the rest of their lives, If they feel they can take better care of her as a 65 lb "child" instead of a 150-200 lb grown woman, all the power to them. At the end of the day, taking care of a mentally disabled and physically incapacitated person is no walk in the park. The parents have actually written a blog trying to defend their decisions based on the fact that it was good for her, not just merely convenient for them. However, and this may be offensive to some people, I think it's perfectly alright that the parents may have also done these treatments on their daughter with the intent of making it easier on themselves too.

What is the problem here? This child, essentially a mindless creature, most likely devoid of self-consciousness, has the right to be loved and to be cared for by the people who will do so. That's IT. As far as I'm concerned, she has as many rights as the baby who has to get a polo vaccine shot. It would be absurd to expect a baby to clutch a baby sized pen in his chubby fingers and meticulously sign on the dotted line.

January First, immersed in the Curse

Monday night I went to watch the new film by Zhang Yimou titled “Curse of the Golden Flower.” It was so irisdescent and awashed with color, that it bordered on being an eyesore, but only in certain scenes. I was unprepared for the heaviness of this film, of an order that matched the darkest Shakespearean tragedy. Bold colors of gold, aqua blue, magenta pink, rich embers of hues decorate the cinematography. Watching this, I get the sense that Zhang Yimou was not so much a film director, but a painter artist at heart.

The opening scenes showing the multitudes of palace slaves getting ready for their day reminded me of how it was in Spirited Away, when you get a grand bird’s eye view of the spa house and what it took for all its oiled parts to kick into gear at the same time. Except in this movie, it took precision and clockwork team effort to a whole new level. Everyone did everything in synchronous motion, from brushing hair, putting on dresses and going through morning toiletries. It emphasized more than ever the dehumanization of any one person, the robotization of mankind.

Gong-li was resplendent and convincing as the miserable but still regal empress. She carries the noble burden very admirably and is able to, despite a certain distance that separates us lowly human beings from her, convey the universal themes of human emotion: jealousy, anxiety, bitterness, resignation, anger, and borderline insanity. One of my beefs with this film would be that no comic relief was ever present in the movie. It started out grand but heavy, it ended grand and even heavier. It was just heavy heavy heavy. I left the theater, half dazed from all the dazzling colors, but my heart felt heavy from the burden of such enormous bloodshed and tragedy. It was definitely not the type of movie to kick off the new year in a happy go lucky way.

My feelings about this film are mixed. On the one hand, the mega production of this film, the grandiose battle scenes were awe-inspiring. The film makes me feel like a very small insignificant thing, in the face of the millions of troops that surged onscreen. It was LOTR without the CGI effects. On the other hand, the sheer grandeur of the battle scenes also serve to make the main characters smaller than life too, less important, more distant and consequently, less to be concerned with in my mind. These petulant and conniving royalties, with their incestuous affairs and tyrannical natures, caused the deaths of thousands who have no better way to explain their deaths except that they were at the wrong place at the wrong time. Tragic, really, so terribly tragic.

The film was not without redeeming characters. The second son of the empress, Prince Jai, came through as the sole purist with a noble heart. Amidst the muck and dirty swamp that characterizes his royal family, he is the sole lotus flower that rises above it. I think Jay Chou brought to the character an admirable performance. He’s not an obvious choice to be cast in that role, I guess, because he lacks the noble appearance of his parents, but it doesn’t matter, because he came through in the end. I have nothing to say about the older brother, appearance wise, he’s a major turn off, character-wise, he’s even worse. I don’t know why he was cast and what purpose he served other than to be wretched and pathetic and just gross.

Zhang Yimou was one of my first favorite Chinese directors, back when I first began to watch films critically and appreciate them above and beyond the typical Steve Chow or Jackie Chan mad-dash and entertainment. His earlier films were powerful and moving or more than a little disturbing. This film, his latest, definitely is very disturbing but also very powerful, in a different way. It wasn't so much powerful in terms of its emotional impact, but more from an aesthetic standpoint, it delivers triumphantly. The use of music and sound were also very effective. At the end, I felt like I had been to an opera and I was left drained, because the visual feast served not to nourish me, but rather, it absorbed energy from me, That was the price of enjoying this film, Curse of the Golden Flower.