Poorly Written b/c I'm Sleeeeepy

I am on vacation but it feels like anything but. I don't know when home transformed from a much-anticipated getaway to a place I can't wait to get away from. Is it the weather? The infestation of hybrid car technology on every road? The fact that my nonfat, sugar-free, vegan, organic LA perception can't seem to accept free convention tshirts + jeans + sneakers as viable fashion choices? It's hard to say.

Lately I've been mentally perusing that fine line between friendship and acquaintance. Although I used to be perfectly fine with possessing a gaggle of the latter, my post-undergrad self is now more and more interested in the former. I know, I know, apparently not so much of a robot after all. It's hard for girls to give up the dream of "being popular" and as Mean Girls said, "I guess she just likes the attention." Ahhh so true. But I am tired of accommodating the mental handicaps, the emotional fuckwittery, the hypocritical complaints, and the general bemoaning of unsubstantial hardships so very popular with mopey quarter-life-crisis-sufferers the world over. What they want is sympathy that the icebox where my heart used to be lacks the capacity to produce and what I manage to conjure up instead sounds eerily similar to Whitney's post-LC-crisis dialogue on an episode of The Hills.

I've also thought about writing more about school on this blog but I don't want it to turn into a law school blog. It doesn't help that the only 1L law school blog from my school is written by an uber boring chick with the personality of cardboard, the writing style of drying paint, and the content coverage of QVC. I did recently attend one of those holiday booze sessions hosted by Generic Firm LLP where I saw the usual crowd of attendees from many past receptions. As we stood in our awkward business casual gear and metaphorically compared penis size through our mastery of small talk, I wondered when my peers had taken the time to morph into hideous men with couch upholstery-status ties and judgmental women who really needed to evaluate the intensity of their make up application.

Goal for next semester: BE LESS ROBOTIC, make more friends, avoid scary competitive ppul at all costs

BRAIN DYING

It's easy to be negative when a vague sense of inevitable failure looms over your shoulder day in and day out. But alas, such is the lawskoo life. I wish I was able to come up with a cogent topic for this post, but the truth is that I no longer have a personality. Yes, I am a robot. And one with poor taste (or so I've been told). A sampler:

Things that make my days bearable:
- The Hills
- Gossip Girl
- horrible reruns of that tila tequila dating show on mtv
- silently judging the plastic-y sorority girls at the gym (I know it can be argued that I am being hypocritical in this sense)
- froyo

What can I say? When it comes down to crunchtime (haha), my brain seems to allocate former sections dedicated to "being human" to "schoolwerk" leaving a monstrous husk in its wake. And this was a boring entry because I no longer have entertaining things to say (but did I ever...?)

PS: I have no costume for Halloween and I was secretly looking forward to this fiendish holiday (Duh, I'm a mouse!)

Alas...

It’s hard to blog when you find yourself inexorably ensconced in the deadly quicksand of time-wasting vices. Perhaps that previous sentence was a bit overreaching, but here’s a taste of how my days have been magically filling themselves up with no substantial content what-so-ever:

1) wii hunting: Okay, I feel like I am Juan Ponce de Leon hunting for the Fountain of Youth in the wilds of an uncharted Western Hemisphere. But instead of being able to settle for the secondary achievement of discovering Florida, I am just left with the empty vacuum of an out-of-stock notification in Firefox.

2) crunchyroll.com: It’s hard to fight my guilty pleasure addiction to wuxia soap operas of the uber-cliché variety. Flying? Obscure martial arts manuals and questionable wardrobe choices? Irresponsible boozing from gourds? Yeah, I’m there.

3) television: The last time I watched television with such devoted regularity was in the Dark Ages of awkward teenagedom where my show of choice was Buffy the Vampire Slayer and my wardrobe was marked by a suspicious favoritism towards Old Navy performance fleece (Did I really need so many sweaters? Or vests? In periwinkle blue??).

Factor in my chronic short attention span and we can see exactly how I managed to waste several weeks in the pursuit of absolute nothing. Oh good times. But among the muddle of quotidian mundanity lie gems like the following, which still manage to invigorate my wasting capacity for self-expression into vomiting out a few syllables of disdain:



Are you chuckling? Because I am.

There are just so many reasons why this picture deserves to be immortalized on a commemorative plate of some sort. Because I mean, nothing says, “In honor of Princess Diana” like a man whose lyrical prowess has produced gems like, “It’s a celebration, bitches! / Grab a drink, grab a glass / After that I grab yo ass.”

Plus I do like Kanye’s subtle fuck-you-very-much to Diddy by testing the limits of “indoor sunglasses” trend, very popular with douchebags the world over. Ahh and Harry, my how you’ve stealthily surpassed the receding hairline plagued shadow of your elder brother to capture our hearts as the Better Looking Prince.

The Cop Out: Of all the majors in the world, you had to choose this one, did you?

Most Asian-Americans who major in Asian-American studies are unproductive and self-involved.

Now before you come at me with your plebian (oh yes, I went there) retorts and vulgarity-laced diatribes about how I am sort some of self-hating wannabe twinkie, let me assure you that my disdain is an inclusive, equal-opportunity emotion.

I’ve always approached academia with a scientific perspective favoring objectivism. We learn our material, we investigate unknowns, we analyze our findings, and we argue our hypotheses in a giant orgy of intellectual professionalism. And this is all very hugs and puppies when we’re broaching abstract topics like Renaissance literature or physics, but when touchy-feely “relatable” topics come up like cultural anthropology or race studies, the shit hits the fan.

Politely speaking, I’d call it an “unfair advantage.” But let’s face it, no matter how professional you are in your exposition; you’re never going to win a debate against someone who can reference genetic evidence as street cred and deal a deadly K.O. with the lethal finishing touch of, “You can never know what it’s like to be (insert race here)…”

Aaaand this is why I feel that most AA classes are general bitching sessions for embittered Asians who are too passive-aggressive for radical action and too entrenched in denial for support groups. Come on! This is higher education, not The Plastics. Remember the reason we’re discouraged from butchering our essays with an overdose of “I’s”? Overindulging in personal sentiments often trivializes the merit of an argument.

But doesn’t this tactic, disparaged in other disciplines, often take center stage in AA class when almost every group discussion degenerates into someone declaring, with the self-righteousness only found in smug martyrdom, “Well when I was an immigrant child living in the intolerant neighborhood of (insert city here)…”?

Isn’t it utterly remarkable when we can major in an area of study whose main focus is essentially … ourselves? Doesn’t anyone see the hypocrisy here? It’s like me majoring in MYSELF. Of course I’d be the best student since I have an impermeable body of evidence that no other student could hope to access. I’d be the unchallenged champion of all debates since no one else could ever possess the privileged insight I hold of simply being me.

To be fair, I’m not saying that Asians shouldn’t major in AA. Your heritage certainly affords you the capacity for passion in your studies and a vested interest in the AA agenda. However, being Asian doesn’t mean you’re automatically two steps ahead of your non-Asian peers, having fulfilled some physical prerequisite. It doesn’t mean you can bully dissenting opinions under the P.C. code of ethics where it’s impossible to win an argument against a racial minority concerning racial minorities without looking like a racist monster.

Why not give yourself a real challenge and go outside your comfort zone? Learning is (go figure) about discovering different points of view, not lamenting your suburban, middle-class bullshit angst. If I wanted hear the mopey, whiny explanation of someone's fake problems, I'd watch an episode of SatC or Grey's. Stop enacting the academic version of “My Super Sweet Sixteen” where it’s all about youyouyou and start being proactive.

I Spy: The Baller Edition

This entry doesn't really have a purpose that exceeds "chuckle-worthy."

P. Diddy's Vegas party for the De La Hoya/Mayweather fight was like some over-hyped music video inflated with gratuitous cameos:







Can you find the following?

1) Nelly
2) Diddy
3) Fiddy
4) Jay-Z
5) J.D. (Jermaine Dupri)
6) the bling bling ring where my vision used to be

Mandy Moore was the only redeeming part of this nonstop train to Sucktopia, USA

I recently had the gross misfortune of watching this horrendous production:



I chose what I assume to be the Russian version of the movie poster because it somehow manages to capture the shitfest essence of the entire film and garnish it with an iota of creepiness.

Reasons why I suspect Because I Said So was directed by a man:

1) Overdosing on the subtle spice of a neurotic, critical, overprotective, but-we-love-her-anyway kind of mom.



Diane Keaton plays the requisite “mom” role in this atrocious rom-com and I genuinely wanted to punch her every time she appeared on camera. In fact, I feel that any real mother would probably find the overly cliché, psychotic inclinations of Keaton’s character to be offensive. Her campaign of verbal abuse towards youngest daughter Milly (wtf???), played by Mandy Moore, does not resonate with parental concern but seems to conceal a genuine maliciousness. It was scary and made her daughter’s continuous toleration of such behavior seem to be symptomatic of Stockholm syndrome.


2) Generalizing that all gatherings of the non-male variety are like girl versions of raunchy, whose-dick-is-bigger overshare sessions.

Maybe it is my inner prude talking, but I don’t think mothers and their daughters indulge in show-and-tell sessions of how an orgasm feels or competitively compare their individual performances in the bedroom … or engage in conference calls with each other during sex.


3) Assuming that “finding the right man” is the only priority in any woman’s life.

The moral of Because I Said So: being romantically alone is the worst thing in the world. No matter that Milly has caring friends and family as well as a successful career; the film tacitly labels her a social leper and portrays her as the ultimate loser. The reason? She’s single.


4) All women don’t mind finding out their date secretly has a child as long as she discovers this substantial development via the charming tableau of the man playfully interacting with his child. In fact, this discovery immediately causes the woman to eagerly commit to this man and his unearthed progeny.

Wtf? Snack-sized human beings are not the miracle drug for relationship anxieties. Nor can they completely hypnotize women into quiet submission.



(Yes, the film's wardrobe department did seem to be cruising the effects of a homeless-bag-lady-at-the-Kentucky-Derby bender at all times. And yes, that is a wedding cake, not a psychedelic flesh-eating space plant from the Qvartak hell dimension.)

The movie is a poor cut-and-paste effort hurriedly contrived from what seems to be a crash course in romantic comedy tropes. It’s like a mass-manufactured copy of an already lackluster original made by someone who only believes in stereotypes. The most gimmicky part of all is how they even managed to insert some random plot devices so Mandy Moore could sing.

HUH?!

If you know me, you know that I harbor deep-seated feelings of disdain for John Mayer. His whole “I’m so genuine and so down-to-earth and such a soulful musician unpolluted by the excesses of fame” shtick reeks to me of an underhanded, smug sense of self-importance. He’s like music’s answer to Zach Braff: another pasty, faux intellectual whose demeanor is marked by a vibe of too-cool-for-school.

Except that he’s not too cool to canoodle about with certain busty women whose entire claim to fame involved playing it stupid and mistaking fish for poultry. To be honest, Jessica Simpson seems more likely to be the target for one of Mayer’s quip-y blog pieces than a potential romantic match. Theirs was the union that truly baffled me since the only thing they have in common was a penchant for big hair (see picture).

But perhaps I was too quick to judge. I mean, Jessica could bring the beauty and John could bring the brains to this dating potluck, together forming some hermaphroditic embodiment of celebrity evolution gold. Here’s a “before they dated” comparison to show you what I mean:



Then as I was jovially trolling the recent flood of pictures from the Met’s Costume Institute Gala, chortling heartily at the various embodiments of fashion forward atrocities, I chanced upon THIS startling gem:



Huh?? Who was this charmingly boyish young fellow in desperate need of a tan? The albino love child of Johnny Depp and Jake Gyllenhaal? Suddenly I felt powerless as the structural tenets of my reality collapsed without warning. Could it be? Did I find John Mayer to be not entirely loathsome? Was I in fact feeling a slight twinge of fangurl-y gushiness?

It seemed this picture was not a fluke for here he is again a few nights later at some Time Magazine party:



HUH? Looking quite good? Smiling naturally without his usual unsettling suspiciousness? Was this even the same guy?? And what about his counterpart, you might ask. Was she also transformed and better off as a result of their haphazard love affair?



Well I guess not so much. It seems that Jess has become more bachelor party blow-up doll than human. I think this picture (especially that look of pure shock and awe from the elderly gentleman in the foreground) pretty much sums up the Mayer-Simpson dynamic in its current state.

Sausage fest on the sea

I have a bad track record when it comes to watching critically acclaimed movies. This is probably because films which pique my interest can usually be summed up as being part of the following genres:

- inane action flicks (Starship Troopers, The Transporter, etc.)
- Will Ferrell-type comedies (Zoolander, Anchorman, etc.)
- bitchy girl movies (Mean Girls, Heathers, etc.)

Anything that strays too far from this formula usually makes me want to take a nap or watch “So You Think You Can Dance?” But sometimes, I manage to sit through an entire piece of non-fluff. Like the time our remote ran out of batteries and I had to watch The House of Sand and Fog aka The Most Depressing Movie of All Time: Now with more suicide and death.

On a whim, I decided to Netflix this movie, whose title (as suggested by Lisa) could easily coincide with that of some kinky porno.



So, it’s no Schindler’s List, but it still beats the last movie I saw (D.E.B.S.) in terms of substance. And though the film’s 2+ hour runtime forced my puny, short attention-spanned brain to watch it in 30-minute segments like some primetime miniseries, I still loved it all.

It’s so hearty and glorious like an overripe celebration of heterosexual masculinity that makes you want to sing songs and drink ale and repair ships and bond with other burly men. Kind of like oceanic Gladiator. It also makes you wonder why Russell Crowe isn’t just the default star of every combative historical epic. Perhaps his presence could have benefited past disappointments such as The Patriot or Alexander. I mean, he’s had a pretty good track record so far:

A quick chuckle

Okay, so this blog has recently been inundated with a barrage of low brow picture commentary and a general lack of theme. And this post is no different. Hee! I love Scarlett Johansson, I really do. I love that she has this charming tonal affectation when she plays exasperated characters and that she seems (in a very middle school moment, though one could argue that my entire life is a middle school moment...) like a generally cool friend type. But I'm not sure if I thoroughly enjoy the coloring of this ensemble:



It's very pretty and colorful and lovely, but her complexion reminds me of that summer when Lohan went blond and emaciated. But the BEST PART is of course the COMMONERS peering past this fake Louis Vuitton backdrop in awe. Perhaps they were blinded by her bleach-y appearance. I am totally that girl with the backpack, contaminating the couture petri dish with an invasion of sneakers and sweats.

This kind of didn't make any sense. But I have finally found a wine that tastes enough like fruit juice for me to sip. Hee!

It happens to the best of us...

I was so distracted by the social awkwardness surrounding this picture that it took me a few moments to realize Diaz was sporting some signs of awkwardness herself. I do love that everyone is trying to play it nonchalant and ignore the high school-style reunion of scorned lovers in their midst. I also like that Justin is desperately searching for that fine line between prudishness and general aversion with his long distance shoulder pat of asexual camaraderie.

The whole thing reminds me of that episode of Friends where Monica calls Richard and wants to leave a "breezy" message and subsequently invalidates her entire claim by saying she is breezy. It's not a breezy reunion when it's ensconced in pursed lips, averted eyes, and general sweatiness.

And in case you thought I was over-analyzing the mysterious darkened patch of fabric (perhaps it was a pattern? perhaps a trick of the light?), here is what her dress looked like in full:

The Worst Trend of All Time

Why so upbeat Jenny? Are you jiving to the melodious clinking born of your odd piano keyboard vest and the metallic slinky where your forearm used to be? Or are you simply trying to distract from the creeping progress of your flesh-eating jeans? And this brings us to... the worst trend of all time:

ULTRA high-waisted jeans. Jeans with waistlines so high that they had to be deliberately altered to accommodate such irrational tastes. And who do we have to blame? Of course, the usual cabal of so-called "fashion forward" trendsetters:



My eyes are bleeding.

Quickie: What's wrong with this picture?

a) Ashlee is looking more Meg Ryan-ish than usual.
b) Pete seems to be exuding a saran wrap vibe through his fashion choices.
c) I love Coffee Bean. Hee! (Fine, this wasn't really topical...)

What about the fact that they are both actually wearing the SAME OUTFIT: skinny jeans, canvas-y shoes, zipped hoodies, beanies, and hipster nonchalance. I mean, would you really notice if they did some impromptu outfit switcheroo right there in the street?

Pinkberry, Pinkberry, Pinkberry, Pinkbeeeerry

Despite the grating, irreverent theme song that gushes out of the Pinkberry website like a bad case of diarrhea, I still must profess my undying love for this magically delicious concoction. As a card-carrying member of the "I only eat foods that maximize calorie straining technology" (sugarfree, fat free, taste free, etc.) posse, Pinkberry was like an overpriced dream come true. Mmmmm yummy. Soon I will make a real entry instead of this purposeless food porn. But first, I must watch the quality CW programming that is The Search For the Next Pussycat Doll.

DAY 1: raspberries, almonds, mango:




DAY 2: kiwi, almonds, blueberries:




DAY 3: blackberries, almonds, kiwi:



(wow can you tell that I might have a weakness for ALMONDS ALMONDS ALMONDS?)

Mocha Cream Cake

Mmmm, delicious (again from La Patisserie).

I should be writing my essay, but reminiscing about this cake was so much more fulfilling. Four more days until I mail this drippy, self-involved packet of redundancy off to the icy hellscape, where it will be critiqued by a similarly drippy, self-involved panel of redundancy. Oh the joys of an English major. We are like the convent-sequestered virgin brides of yesteryear who have learned no real skills beyond an arsenal of rich husband-pleasing antics: stitching, literary analysis, waxing poetic on cultural theory at upscale cocktail parties, derrida/fanon/deleuze/barthes/lacan/and the rest of the snooty mafia francais.

The Life of a Rich Man's Wife

Since last semester's anticlimactic end, many people have asked me what exactly is it that I do everyday aside from writing that deadly behemoth of an honors essay.

"Isn't it boring??"
"Don't you miss school?"

And perhaps it is a sign of my flailing youth or my intrinsic geriatric inclinations, but I actually quite enjoy my life of leisure and often fear if I can ever get back into book-learning-mode. Or interacting-with-people-without-being-supremely-irritated mode. Har. But back to point. Here is what I do everyday:

• blog writing
  
• blog reading
• exercising
  
• food making (and food eating)
  
• netflixing
• reading books with no pictures
• taking pictures of not-myself
• restaurant sampling
• LSD-reading (bad, bad habit)
• loehmann's + loehmann's-esque places (since I now hate going to the middle school zoo that is Valley Fair or the continuous AzN party that is Santana Row)
• movie watching
• trying v. v. hard to resist caffeine
• wine sampling
• occaisional tourist-y things
• trying new music via ruckus
  

Just one of those days...

It was warm but refreshingly breezy. Just one of those hopeful, pleasant days where everyone is in their kicky urban summer wear, sipping macchiatos with the sun in their eyes. Without explanation, the power went out for an entire block, liberating a storeful of Coffee Bean employees towards an afternoon of irresponsibility as well as a storeful of chocolate samples towards my eager embrace (they would have melted anyway!). And as I strolled about, overcaffeinated (Starbucks) and overdosed on dark-chocolate-with-caramel, I felt surprisingly great because I love this city, I love this state, and I never knew how good I had it until I left. So it's decision time again four years later, and though I know in the future I will want to bitchslap myself for saying this, I hope I make the right one for me.

Saturdays are for eating

Cherry Sushi:





Deluxe Dragon Roll (YUMYUMYUM).


Oyako-don (rather bland and disappointing).


La Patisserie:








Banana Custard (though very pretty, it was kind of bland)


Raspberry Chocolate Cheesecake (rich, lasting, and extremely gooood).


Cafe Vienna (a lighter cake with cappuccino flavors and very very good)

An Oscar Quickie

The most lethal strain of necrotizing fashionitis:




Please explain to me the contagious creeping-vine-jewelry-accessory that seemed to have infected every starlet this Oscar season.




(and don't even get me started on the pink hair)





Though perhaps this has something to do with it:




And finally, I would just like to express my inexplicable, unquenchable adoration for Reese Witherspoon:



She looks so gooooddd! I love it all -- the bangs, the breezy presence, the frilly dress, the slight dash of edginess achieved through the dark colors + relaxed execution. Hee! I'm even willing to overlook the large manacle trying to eat her wrist.

The Two-Year Grudge

I’m sure you’ve heard of this book. It made quite a wave in the stagnant pool of nonfiction bestsellers a few years ago, a list typically populated by weight loss guides and over-hyped memoirs. Yet to this day, I still harbor nonfuzzy feelings towards the tome in question. I would characterize my distaste as mild hatred spiced with a lasting residue of bitter resentment (yes, it is that specific). I especially hate that they’ve now managed to squeeze some sort of diet program out of this ridiculous manual.

Seriously?

First of all, a commercial diet program is only worth it if you’re a willpower-deprived type that gets motivated by the fear of being bitch-slapped by an authority figure. But sadly, this book and the demon spawn diet plan that it spewed forth can really just be simplified to the following: eat less, exercise more, avoid fast food.

The book’s logic is childishly simple, yet excessively romantic. Waxing poetic like some feel-good WE channel movie on steroids aimed at young, men-hating divorcees, it side steps real issues and goes for the delusional gold. Think of advice like … “Smart women don’t hate men. They approach their relationships with men respectfully and responsibly because before you can remedy your problems with men, you must first understand yourself.”

Replace “men” with “food” and you basically have the book’s main message. Its logic is that French women don’t treat food as an enemy but instead consider it as something to be appreciated and enjoyed, though with sensibility. So basically, an Oprah’s Book Club makeover of stuff you already knew.

But I beg to differ. Because if grandiose generalizations like “French women” are going to be thrown around like nobody’s business, then you might as well offer some REAL reasons. So here are some reasons why I think French women don’t get fat, free of charge and free of coddling doubletalk:

- French women don’t spend the bulk of their waking hours in always-thirsty SUV’s. They use public transportation and they use their legs. This is because fuel = expen$$ive unless you’re willing to shell out some vital organs (Though I guess the amount of weight lost via organ harvesting might offset any you gain through a sedimentary lifestyle).

- In France, lunch is the biggest meal of the day. Thus, more time to work off the calories with a smaller chance of gorging at dinner.

- People in France don’t usually snack. Snacking is something that children do in the afternoon when school lets out.

- Though gradually inundating the culture (Child obesity in France is on the rise), fast food is not always widely embraced. Americanization, cultural hegemony, blah blah blah.

- Smaller portions. Good luck finding a soft drink cup that exceeds two hand spans such as the following, from Texas:



- Yes, French women aren’t fat, but neither are they the emaciated Victoria Beckham types that all American dieters strive to become. They are just people who look proportional and couldn’t care less about you.

The answer lies in cultural differences and circumstance, not in some hush-hush regimen passed down the ages through the Celtic Gauls. They might as well have written a book called, “Blind People Can’t See” or “New Yorkers Love New York.”

And that my friends, has been bottled up inside of me for two years. Doesn’t it make you wonder what other secrets lurk in the icebox where my heart used to be?

Fact: I like chocolate mints.

During the treacherous times of my fulltime student-hood, I had oft heard tales of a mint so elusive, it was found only in isolated pockets of civilization unreachable by my peasant means … aka real cities. Mmm, but today, my fixation finally materialized into reality:









Cho-co-la-teyyyyyyy... yet with a kicky cinnamon center...

Can't wait to try all the other flavorssss. ^_____^

Happy Valentine's Day!

Pedal boats + heart shaped cloud at Shoreline