oblivious me

I hate writing, I really hate writing. You scribble a few words online and your high school friends think you’re amazing, so feeling like the toast of the town, you get it in your head that you’re the next David Sedaris or Sarah Vowell, and it’s only after writing anything longer than a blog post you realize you have the poetic flow of a river made from tar and no amount of auteur effort will compensate for the fact that anything you write amounts to nothing more than emo dramadies about emotional constipation and forlorn love. You also realize you write really long run-on sentences and repeat words a lot, and you hate updating your blogs, no matter how much Wang tells you to do it. There, I mentioned you, are you happy now? NO ONE READS THIS OTHER THAN YOU, LEAVE ME ALONE YOU FRENCH BASTARD.

Anyways…

Recently I was at a “dinner party” and, I honestly have to say it’s the best time I had where I had to complete a grammar test before the meal. Seriously, the organizers handed out a sheet of paper with sentences for us to correct, and the sad thing was I was really into it. Finally! External validation in the form of standardized rote memorization instead of soul-crushing work that taxes your resolve to succeed in the futile race against inevitability. It was elementary school all over again, and the world was making sense! I’d complain more, but I honestly haven’t been out very much recently and talking to the uncomfortably white guys sitting next to me was more fun than I had awkwardly ignoring the miasma of sexual tension of my so called ‘friends’.

On a completely unrelated note, it was nice seeing you again Khai! We should totally do that again!

So naturally having drank a few beers, I bust out my DS with my savvy flash kart, and I have to say, only in Silicon Valley will this not invite open ridicule and instead result in two people buying one for themselves. I’m surprised they didn’t just bust out their iPhones and order one then and there, then twitter that shit. And people wonder why I drink. Life of the party.

So things I have been doing with my time instead of doing something productive with my life:

I’ve started gathering the components of my Halloween costume, the Team Fortress 2 pyro.

Granted I haven’t yet been invited to a Halloween party, much less one where anyone would even recognize my costume, which in and of itself wouldn’t be quite a boon as the character I chose is known for being played by the most the dickish cunts who populate the Steam servers, wrecking havoc on friends and foes alike, ruining what amounts to be one of the better games in Valve’s catalog. It’s also very cumbersome and reeks of effort, but what the hey, I’m bored. Of course, the idea is that it would be a fully functional costume meaning there’s no chance in hell I would actually wear the thing, at least without attracting police attention, but really, if you’re going to spend all that effort in burning bridges, you might as well go all out.

So here are the components I have so far:

• 1 x Israeli Civilian gas mask
• 1 x Pair of Neosprene gloves capable of handling 500℉ of heat
• 1 x Polish surplus army helmet, steel
• 1 x propane tank
• duct tape

And here are the components I need:

• 1 x gas pump nozzle
• 3 x canisters
• 1 x suspenders
• 1 x red rubber/flame retardant suit
• 1 x neoprene boots
• 1 x bike brake handle
• PVC pipes
• flint

And of course, this is the item that inexplicably arrived instead any of the stuff I ordered:

• 1 x red fuzzy handcuffs

I wouldn’t have even mentioned this, instead keeping them in some locked box deep in my closet, except it would have prevented me from complaining in the form of the following story: Having spent a few minutes staring at the contents of the box, I decide to call the obviously not Amazon.com online shop hotline, and spent the next few hours on hold as I waited for a woman with a distinctly Southern accent to look up my order. Apparently the order includes said item, and having approved the order, I had indeed purchased them, and returning them would have cost me more in shipping and handling than what was charged to my account. Of course, no, she couldn’t be more helpful, no it wasn’t their error, and no, no amount of logic would avail me, since, by this point I’m pretty sure she thought I was into some sort of gas mask S&M fetish and proceeded to blow me off entirely. Or maybe it’s because she gets paid $6 an hour, whatever, she was dead to me.

I got the number for their parent company which turned out to be, apparently, a firearms distributor. After spending another few hours explaining I did not need rifles repaired or returned, then after spending another few hours being explained to that they are not an adult toy distributor, I gave up and decided to solve this problem the same way my ancestors would have, by drinking hard liquor.

Incidentally Visa doesn’t allow you to dispute a charge on your credit card for 30 days after a purchase, so by this point I gave up entirely. Fuck you corporate America, I’m already spending money I can’t afford propping up this charade of an economy, and this is how you repay me? Fuck you, I’m buying all my food from a co-op. Goodwill’s got all my business now, buster.

SO, for better or worse, I now own a pair of fuzzy handcuffs, and instead of waiting for an opportune moment of awkward hilarity which I seem to be goddamn prone to, I need some way to get rid of the evidence. So, urm, barring someone I know actually wants it (and is willing to go through life with me never looking into their eyes again), I’m gonna donate it to Goodwill! Because, you know, poor people need fun too.

I remember back when I used to live in a house with 3 walls. “Why doesn’t our house have 4 walls?” I would ask my dad. He would smack me upside the head and say, “You little shit! Use your head, if we had another wall, where would all the water go when it rained?” Then he would beat me up some more before serving me a boiled shoe for dinner. Those were the good old days with my dad, you know, before he lost his job.

I like Japan. I think I may want to live there. I definitely want to visit again, perhaps in the Kyoto, Osaka region and maybe a bit of the Okinawa Islands, but I was amazed at how interesting the place was, just walking around was an adventure. Other than Paris and British Columbia, it’s the only other place I would just want to live for 6 months/2 years. It’s just that interesting a place and I could get lost, just going from place to place, eating stuff.

http://picasaweb.google.com/jedkwon/2008_Tokyo_and_Hokkaido

Okay so I did get lost, just going from place to place, the point is I would like to do it again more often, on purpose.

We stayed mostly in Shibuya which is I suppose the trendy shopping district in Tokyo. Visited some shrines, did some shopping, saw some buildings, and generally had a good time. You’ll have to forgive my lack of good pictures, I really need to upgrade to an SLR soon.

Oh yeah, and the Onsen (Japanese Hot Springs).

I’m actually a fan of bathing in front of other naked men. It’s relaxing, convenient, and once your eyes adjust to the lighting and wang levels, it’s actually quite an pleasant experience soaking in the hot springs. You don’t have to worry about cleaning up afterward and it’s convenient having access to an assortment of hair tonics and lotions that I would never buy.

I didn’t really find the whole experience that gay, or rather, gayer than using the locker room at my local 24 hour fitness. Having started a workout schedule, I realize there exists a level of homoeroticism necessary to stay on a training regime. I mean sometimes you just got to stare at another man’s ass and tell yourself, “Holy shit, that’s what I want, that ass. That’s my goal for month 4, another man’s ass where you would currently find, the drooping jowls of a basset hound glued to my rear end. Q.E.D. The object of my desire: an ass so chiseled it could cut glass.” What? No? Just Me? Fuck you, whatever works man.

What was I talking about? Oh yeah, the Onsen was alright.

Overall Japan was fun, but slightly disappointing. I suppose because of the internet I’ve cultivated a somewhat skewed vision of what Japan is like, and although I can’t quite shake the nagging suspicion that somehow, the whole of Tokyo is some sort of parody of western civilization, it was more or less, readily recognizable unlike the random squiggles they used to communicate with each other. I mean, granted, there was that music video I saw in Akihabra of this 8 year old boy dressed up like Kanye West staring in his own hip hop video showing off his 8 year old ho’s all dressed up like a skanky Courtney Love (i know!) with better production values than Usher. Or the vibrating horse riding machine we saw in a sex shop and a family department store. Or the soapland girls, but whatever, the point is, being in Japan felt no different to me than being in California, except the poor people aren’t Mexican and the rich people aren’t White.

So yeah no Japanese women dressed as Gundam fighters tied up in tentacle vines screaming, “Tasukate!” while having poke balls thrown at them, but you know I went with 3 couples, what do you expect? Next time come alone and bring an extra thousand in cash.

Tokyo
★★★★★
AAAAAAAAAAA++++++ WOULD VISIT AGAIN!!!!!

Hey! San Jose International finally got free wi-fi!

I saw Wall-E Friday (A week before the premiere! I feel so… special! ಥ_ಥ) and I have to say, I loved it. It wasn’t perfect but all the elements of perfect were there: robots, love, a post-apocalyptic world, spaceships. This is the movie I’ve waited to see ever since I dreamed of Johnny 5, Battlestar Galactica, and Spiderman that one time I was delirious with hay fever and codeine, and you know what? Wall-E delivered. Actually there was no Spiderman, or Battlestar, actually it was a lot of Johnny 5, if Johnny 5 hooked up with an industrial trash compacter and had a bastard kid who lived alone, as a virgin for 700 years. Okay I’m doing a bad job of explaining this, but yeah, the movie did rock.

I think there’s a genuine concern that people consider this “risky” for Pixar as it deviates from the successful formula for summer blockbusters, and I can’t blame them. Kung Fu Panda was awesome. It was marketable, had action, comedy, and just the perfect drop of actual depth that saved it from becoming a terrible parody of itself. The inevitable comparison between the two movies may make Wall-E appear almost “art house”, which isn’t really an apt observation as Wall-E draws from a rich tradition of slapstick, almost vaudeville humor. Conventional though, it isn’t. Wall-E is almost entirely, in fact, quite literally, a study in character development, and it works beautifully on enough levels to make you forgive some of the more glaring lack of conventional film language and structure.

Of course, you really can’t go wrong with lovable robots, and there is something to envy in the innocent adolescence of our future robotic overlords. When Wall-E shows Eve his collectibles, he’s an anthropomorphic Annie Sullivan rubbing the hands of a robotic Helen Keller under the faucet of love and personality. When I do it, I’m just a sweaty man-child with Pokémon cards.

There were some things I wish was in this movie, like a robotic revolution against the bourgeoisie social structure that culminates in bloody class warfare, a more in depth exploration on malfunctioning robots as an indication of their growing awareness and personification, and robot sex, but regardless, it was the best movie I’ve ever seen where everyone doesn’t die at the end.

Hmmm let’s see.

Going to Japan, =_= can’t really afford it. Dammit I should have just taken the check from my Dad when I had the chance. STUPID PRINCIPLES.

On related news these are the same people I made a bet with that I could lose more weight in a month than Vince, or I would cosplay at the Comic Con this year. As anyone who knows me can imagine, it went well, but I think I’ve matured in that I’ve come to accept the consequences of my actions. As a sign of good faith, I would like to offer a giant cheesecake and this bottle of vodka to Vince as a token of my sportsmanship. Go on… eat it.

Wang’s going to France, thus heralding back to the dark days of yore where he would take advantage of the time difference to bother me at all fucking hours of the day. Good times. Let me just take this opportunity to say some parting words to a long time friend. SHUT UP! YOUR FACE IS UGLY AND NO ONE LOVES YOU! GET OUT! GET BACK IN THE KITCHEN! CAN I BORROW A DOLLAR? BECAUSE I’M A LITTLE SHORT! SLUT! Yeah, I was saving that for your wedding reception, but what can I say, I got caught up in the spirit of the moment. FUGLY!

And no Ed, I did not hang out with anyone else this weekend, I still care about you, no really, I’m not bitter that you’re closer to Jason than me and replaced me for 6 years and now that he’s busy doing his residency you have no one else to turn to. No, not at all.

:: Now Playing: Gloria Gaynor - I Will Survive ::

Starting dance classes in July, wee won’t that be fun.

And on top of all that I gotta find me a rich Korean doctor for my nuna. ¬_¬

Blah, rock on early late twenties, rock on.

I don’t normally eat sandwiches, but lately I’ve been bummed out so I grabbed a bite from my friend this Saturday. A friend who has particular rules about sandwiches. 1) She wouldn’t sell me any, but insisted that if I wanted to eat some that it would have to be at her place, yet 2) she wasn’t there. Eh, who am I to complain about free sandwiches? I’ll buy them some El Pollo Loco later.

Philosophically, I don’t really have anything against sandwiches, but I know from personal experiences what I can handle and what I enjoy and quite frankly sandwiches tend to scare me. Sure it’s fun at first, but as you continue eating sandwiches, you start asking yourself a lot of questions, and sooner or later you find yourself on the couch with the growing realization you lost 2 years of your life with nothing to show for it than insanely good video gaming abilities. This isn’t a universal experience, I’m sure, but ultimately you have to weigh the pros and the cons of any activity and judge their worth for yourself. This is why I no longer go to Tony Roma’s for baby back ribs. I don’t have to explain myself, they know fucking why.

The one thing I’ve always hated about sandwiches is the paranoia. I’ve grown to realize this is actually just an extension of my personality, but back then it always made me wonder what mad demons of yonder hell my subconscious doth grapple with on particularly long nights of the soul. Part of the reason was a sandwich will expand your percieved awareness while equally limiting your ability to participate meaningfully with your environment. So while you’re ‘aware’ of all sorts of things you’re not usually privvy to, you’re also that much less able to elucidate upon or act upon it.

Sounds like zen, but I feel the actual mechanism has more to do with sheer stupidity, as you’re just reacting to your environment on a much more ‘base’ level of reality. I feel that sandwiches just allows you to see things without the vaneer of social fiction we use to veil the narrative of our lives, and who’s to argue? When you’re high off sandwiches, you’re hardly in a position to be seducing people, or tricking old people out of their inheritence and if you can barely lie to others you’ll find it hard to lie to yourself as well. Instant sandwich lobotomy (EDIT: yeah the logic there was sort of raped, sandwiches effect my ability to write).

And this is usually the point where girls tend to lose eye contact and stare at their watches, but what I mean by social fiction is the ’story’ we tell to other people so that they can relate and interact with us. We shape it with our personality, our clothes, everything that has the potential to an indicator for tastes, ideas, and even agendas. Fashion is rife with this sort of symbolism but it rarely has to be as subtle. Strippers just use clear heals and glitter lipstick, and they’re perfectly able to evoke a response from their audience.

I guess you could just say sandwiches just make me overbearingly judgemental. When I’m high off sandwiches you’re no longer the brave enterprenuer pioneering new paradigms and technologies with your garage start up so much as that guy in a suit going from investor to investor selling equal parts bullshit and yourself. Your ex-girlfriend didn’t leave you so much because of a “conflict of interests and personality” so much as the fact you were a sad sack of boring pie that never left the apartment. Every memory of an awkward moment also becomes something else. “Was I hitting on her?” “They think I’m embarassing” “They’re using me for my incredibly good looks and charming personality.” It’s all very depressing but ultimately unsurprising truths, really.

Another thing I hate about sandwiches is that any story you listen to while you’re eating a sandwich instantly becomes the most elaborate epic movie you’ve ever seen inside your head. For instance, a friend asked me, if I would mind living with them. Since they were a couple I would be known as “Uncle Jed”, and suddenly I’m transported into an alternate reality where I’m 30 and they have kids. At first I end up playing with the kids and they think I’m the most awesome ‘uncle’ in the world, but as the years wear on, the dim flicker of understanding dawns in their little minds. “Mommy, why does Uncle Jed stay home a lot?” “Mommy, why does Uncle Jed not have a girlfriend?” “Mommy, why does Uncle Jed not wear pants?” Pretty soon I become the white elephant in the room that no one talks about, growing old and fat until I become that guy, the one that goes to family reunions and hangs out with people 20 years younger then themselves, giving out awkward back massages. At the age of 50 you’d find me on the porch of my halfway home, muttering insanely about fictional characters in an elaborate fantasy world I created to prevent myself from feeling lonely. Three years after my death, the first cadavers are excavated from their makeshift graves beneath my kitchen floor. It took all my efforts to prevent myself from jumping up from off the couch, screaming madly as I ran out into the night, fleeing what demons do prey on men’s fears. And the sad part for me is that’s the good sandwiches. That’s the sandwich I wake up from the next day and think, “man, I hope next time I eat a sandwich it’s like that not like the unimaginable fears that manifest themselves into an eternal living hell when I normally eat one.”

To everyone who’s asked me how New York was, I would prefer to refer to the ancient art of the bitchslap, a prosaic language full of history and nuanced expression. For instance, the “backwards extended lunge”, which roughly translates into the common tongue as “shut the hell up and get me a beer”, is apt for this occasion. Depending on the inflection of the wrist, the addressee can also be identified as a “woman”.

There is nothing more fun than meeting with 3 generations of your family, at least two thirds of them women. I have held more purses, waited in front of more beauty salons, picked up more food, and listened to more boring stories than all the cabana boys in Jamaica combined. I met my 15 year old god uncle, walked in on more sagging boobs than I care to remember, and was repeatedly awakened by a hyperactive 10 year old kid who seems to have developed a tenacious ability to rise at 6 in the morning (that’s 3am for us Pacific Timers). All that, combined with the fact that I am indeed 3 years older than the bride, which has lead to more “왜 결혼을 안 하나?”, than 13 closet lesbians would have experienced in a lifetime were god the director of the painfully unrealized comedy Saving Face, has made this an interesting experience nonetheless.

I will say this about New York, Korean food is awesome there. I am in the process of searching the Bay Area for Asamo’s Rice Balls. They’re rice balls packed in little plastic wraps, that as you unravel, wraps the rice ball in a dry piece of seaweed maintaining the perfect amount of freshness and crisp necessary for maximum rice ball enjoyment. Of course, I may be unnecessarily biased towards east coast food by my own cousin who happens to be a sushi chef, and while I did have reservations about the cheese flavored king crab, everything at his restaurant was delicious.

The wedding was held at Riverside Baptist Church in one of the most atrociously gothic settings I’ve ever had the privilege of waking up to, as weddings, no matter how anticipated and emotional, are very boring and church pews are amazingly comfortable when an old guy is talking slowly at you. As tacky as it is being wed under the visage of a giant stone Jesus hanging on the ceiling behind you, I was especially shocked at the “촌스러워” nature of the ceremony. I mean I know the traditional vows are rather archaic and sexist, but most people take that in stride, either implicated or explicitly acknowledging dominance in the marriage through the use of sexual positions. The most common being the missionary style, the doggie style, and the separate bedrooms-I have a headache-I’m going to my mother’s house style.

Koreans on the other hand seem to think it was not archaic enough as the pastor went on to describe in exacting detail just how submissive and obedient a wife should be. I fully expected him to throw out a diagram explaining exactly when dinner should be ready and how the laundry done. Now don’t get me wrong, as liberal as I am, I define relationships as when a woman starts doing your laundry, but you don’t come out and say that. I mean where’s the romance? You let it come out naturally as the culminating frustration of years of marriage and shattered dreams that explodes suddenly and awkwardly at your kid’s piano recital, not per course written verbatim in the wedding vows.

Then there was the ‘Korean ceremony’ which was narrated by the most obnoxious asshole in the world. I mean this passive aggressive fuck started condescendingly explaining everything to the one table full of white people the “rich” and “ancient” traditions of the Korean people, in a manner befit of a strip club DJ. Thanks a lot prick; we really needed a tour guide for what we’re seeing here: two kids dressed up like ninjas getting approval from the in-laws in the form of food being hurled at them. Irish people have this too, except it takes the form of a drinking contest. Doesn’t mean you got some fucking asshole narrating that shit for your chink friends.

This of course then transitioned nicely into the bride and groom dancing to a rendition of tap that ass in front of 4 generations of my family. Then I watched as the bridesmaid and groomsmen danced to hip hop and house music as I sat there watching in my fancy red vest with all the other awkward single men my age. It was prom night, had I gone, all over again, and no Harry Potter-esque magic mystery to solve to make me feel better about myself.

At least I got to listen to some nice daft punk and Aerosmith music.

I was seated at Table 8 which turned out to be the “miscellaneous cousin” table, which turned out not to be as terrible as I imagined as apparently I was the least socially awkward person there. This, of course, does not bode well for the continued survival of my clan, but I was too preoccupied with what apparently passes for “filet minion” to be worried. Really Riverside Baptist Church? Really? You stick slices of meat in a light glaze of industrial tenderizers, and you call it a meal? Fuck caterers. For my daughter’s wedding, I will kidnap no less than 6 grand chefs to prepare the most delicious animals in the most delicious way possible all the while lording over them in character as the original Godfather.

In the end, I left used, abused, and thoroughly ancillary to the events at hand. Almost as an afterthought my family drove me to the airport, and I never got to do any of the stuff I wanted to do, like visit Faisal, make up with Kevin, watch an off Broadway show, or something. As I sat there on the plane, I was overwhelmed with the sense of loss and regret that comes from a life of never taking chances or doing anything of worth. Nothing makes you feel older than watching someone younger than you get married, or succeed in life, or anything for that matter. I realized that in 25 years, I had never done anything as courageous as that, live life.

But it is okay now, because I now own a swanky suit with a red vest with matching tie, cuff links and handkerchief. All I need now is a pair of gloves, a cane, a pocket watch, a top hat, and a monocle and I’m ready to paint the town red. Oh yeah, the SF nightlife has yet to tango with the likes of Kwon… the mon.

Basically further evidence that I have too much money on my hands and am willing to spend $18 tricking two Japanese people I’ve never met or heard from before endorse a political candidate they know nothing about.

Definitely the premiere drunken fraternity activity of the month of May, the B2B was more or less a drinking party that moved across San Francisco like a cloud of smog. It was full of traditions I never knew or truly understood, like the tortilla discus throwing, the floats, the Elvis clones, but out of all the bizarre spectacles I saw that day, I guess I was most affected by the legions of naked men. Not to dwell too greatly on this point but there’s something completely disturbing about watching 5 little girls dressed up as fairies running past you across two 60 year old men with wrinkly asses and erections. How do you reconcile that as a parent? “Exercise is important but try not to trip and impale yourself on a raging man-spear”?

To be fair I should have seen this coming, it’s very rare you sign up for a $50+ activity that comes with a warning about nudity. Unfortunately not being native to the Bay Area, I misunderstood the difference between “not allowed” and “try and stop me you fucking pigs” and I found myself navigating the sea of erections, averting my gaze from the saluting one eyed weasel as I desperately persevered for the finish line dodging as many bishops in a turtleneck as I dared. Penis.

It was only after the 7th mile, after all the corporate concession stands, the random no-name bands playing on the sidewalk, the gay sailor doing his best Marilyn Monroe impression atop a garden sprinkler that I felt the significance of it all, coming over the last hill over the ocean waves breaking along the beach. You’d think someone at some point would have explained what the “Bay to Breakers” name meant, I mean even Carl’s Jr. has a goddamn history pamphlet for people unlucky enough to have the time to read it while waiting for a double western cheeseburger, but no, instead they drop you on the edge of the river styxs making your way through the valley of the crazies, until finally, at the end, you realize it was earth after all. You maniacs. You blew it up. God damn you all to hell.

Still, it was rather depressing that I only finished 30 minutes before Christine, who in all honestly, couldn’t have walked faster if she did it backwards and actually stopped by a Popeye’s’ along the way.

On one hand I feel motivated to try harder and sign up for the hundred small races around the Bay Area. I’ve definitely caught the bug and feel this is something I can do which will make a valuable contribution to my health.

On the other hand, Audrey finished in an hour and 15 minutes and must now have her legs broken.

This happens every time I start a blog. At some point I run out of funny things to say and my posts either degenerate into whiny petulant emo gutter speak or I just start making lists of things I’m going to do that week like a virgin spinster with 7 cats. If I wasn’t such an attention whore, this would bother me, but as it stands I’ll continue to blog because 1) it helps me manage and process my life 2) it shuts Richie and Khai up and 3) I get to talk trash about people that don’t read blogs. That’s right Diana, only a sissy girl would cry at the end of Crisis Core… I mean who cries at the end of a video game? *sniff* I love you Aerith Gainsborough!

I cannot get rid of my guitar instructor. I miss out on two sessions, I tell them it’s not going to work out, that I’ve moved on, but no matter what I say, he finds some way to bring me back in. My heart isn’t even in it anymore, I’m just going through the motions now, pretending to enjoy a commitment I made that is no longer satisfying for me, all the while secretly looking over my shoulder to see if there’s something better I can get my hands on. On one hand it’s annoying because I feel like I’m wasting my time on something that isn’t going anywhere, on the other hand it’s given me deep insight into the mindset of every girl I have ever dated.

On the bright side, I will be able to go to Japan in August, assuming I can put up with the ridicule of the Tantau group until then. Apparently I had 13,000 frequent flyer miles saved up with American Airlines so I might as well use them. EXCEPT WINDMILLS DO NOT WORK THAT WAY. Basically AA uses miles like we use dollars, as a completely arbitrary way to measure a spiraling global currency that gives you less than you put in to get it. You need 65,000 to fly to Japan, meaning you had to have at least traveled halfway around the world and more before you can cross the Pacific for free. While most people would have known this, I had to find it out through Diana, who I go for all my financial consulting whether or not she wants to give it. Still going though, but I’m gonna have to plan out the rest of my summer better, and maybe just run the marathon I haven’t been training for in San Francisco or something.

Shenney tells me there’s an opening at Blizzard for a web programmer. Wouldn’t pay too much, but I get to at least be around things I like and people tell me its a nice place to work, although after Starcraft 2 I can’t imagine how much longer Blizzard will remain Blizzard especially with the Activision acquisition. Also involves less risk/commitment than my other options at this point, my only reservation being they recently moved to the Irvine Spectrum so at lunch I would get to listen to ditsy blonde suburbanites and their valley girl accents talk about banal inconsequential things that fill me with killing rage. Also I’d have to make nice with my contact there, Sarah, who is an absolutely wonderful woman, except I can’t remember anything about her except staring at her thong in high school. Wait, was that some other girl? Actually, that was one of Sarah’s friends. I don’t remember anything about Sarah at all.

I had dinner with my landlord’s family on Sunday. Wendy is the big momma and she speaks 6 languages, too bad one of them isn’t English. I’m actually able to understand what the kids say to her because its a mixture of Chinese and English (Chinglish) which isn’t a very different from my native dialect of Konglish. I mean basically it’s just English words with indistinguishable grunts for verbs, and lots of hand gestures. We talked about neighborhood kids stealing our shoes, spoiled kids, homosexuality, and the children poking holes in each other’s condoms in a competition to see who gets their respective girlfriend pregnant first. All in all, only about half as uncomfortable as the meals I enjoy with my own family. Kevin, the eldest, is trying to set me up with a Korean girl (”omg Korean? we have so much in common!”) or perhaps more accurately 3 different girls. Apparently, he fancies himself a matchmaker but his method involves just throwing girls at you until one of them sticks. In addition, I also appear awkward in his eyes, so he felt an interview and workshop process would be helpful. Thanks a lot jackass, if you weren’t such a nice guy I’d be hitting on your hot girlfriend right now. Actually that’s a lie, if I didn’t love my rent so much, I’d be hitting on your hot girlfriend repeatedly, all night long. Yeah! That’s what she said!

EDIT: They’re actually a very nice group of people and I find them entertaining and I would enjoy continuing my living arrangement for quite some time. I meant no disrespect. God, I love my rent.

What else…

Missing out on the Joshua Tree trip this weekend, just like I’m going to miss out on the whitewater rafting trip next month. I wouldn’t mind as much if I had more outdoorsy friends in the bay area, but since snowboarding season ended I haven’t done anything outside, plus I’m too ghetto cheap to buy a road bike and go riding with Tabish. I dunno, I need to get out of this rut. Been depressed all weekend.

Oh wait, no, I kicked Chieze’s ass in tennis 6-6, point in overtime and kicked Tim’s and Vince’s ass in Smash. Also Wang got homosexually violated by a Vietnamese guy. I feel better now.

I went to Yoga Monday and I have to say the weekday after-work crowd is much more… aesthetically pleasing than the weekend crowd. All the 20-some corporate drones trying desperately to stay thin and flexible makes me realize that maybe… just maybe, life is worth living after all. Not at all like the class Jess takes me to, which consisted primarily of middle aged white women trying desperately to stave off the onset of osterioperosis, making me realize that maybe… just maybe, vision is overrated.

Not quite as sore as my first day but still got a great back and shoulder workout. I’m thinking yoga can be a good compliment to a weight lifting/aerobic regime, and requires absolutely no equipment other than a mat and a towel to wipe up the ocean of sweat I produce. Definitely something I might consider continuing if I can find a great location closer to San Jose… and one that didn’t cost fucking $90 a month.

Ultimately tho, I am not pleased with several aspects of Yoga, specifically the ones where you assume positions that only Hentai characters and pretzels are supposed to be in. Yeah the “Happy Baby” they call it, bullshit, I’ve seen it before, except it was called “Natalie takes it hard” in Teen Sluts 5. All these years I thought I was watching porn when in actuality, it was a deeply spiritual ritual to unlock a woman’s inner chakra that just happened to involve a pizza delivery boy.

I have always wondered why they used baseball as a metaphor for sex when it’s an incredibly dull repetitive sport which exists for no other reason than to give people the chance to drink beer and eat garlic fries. Yoga as a metaphor, on the other hand, makes total sense to me. I have no idea what I’m doing, a woman is telling me what to do, and by the time I’m done I’m covered in sweat and deeply confused.

I’m seriously thinking about developing Man-Yoga, basically the same thing without all the gay stuff and every Chataranga ends with a roundhouse kick to the face. Also afterwards you get beer and bacon as a reward for your efforts.