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: