a to do list for this blog

You know, I just can’t seem to get things done in a timely fashion.  Just to kick my bum into gear, I am going to write up the things that I have been knocking off of my 101 list, starting with these things:

• Learn to tango.
• Learn to make excellent risotto.
• Find a hat that looks good on me.
• Visit a friend who is far away.
• Eat a mangosteen.
• Grant a wish.
• Write my Senator.
• Write my Congressman.
• Find a rockin’ pair of glasses.
• Go a week without wearing make-up.
• Storm out of a room, dramatically.
• Get to 400 blog entries.
• Learn the Presidents, Vice Presidents, and a few bizarre facts about each.
• Have a conversation with a stranger.
• Spend an entire day in my pajamas.
• Read 5 books that I own, but haven’t read.
• Finish 5 books that I have started.
• Watch five movies that I pretend I’ve already seen.

While some aren’t, most of them are completed.  And bitches, I’ve got the photographic evidence to prove it!  That is, on some of them.  So by the end of next week, I will have completed my list of things on another list that I am to document.

Yeesh.

good grief…

Okay.  It’s been far too long since I have been updating this thing.  And why is that?  Probably the same reason why nobody else seems to be rocking their blogs.  

Real life.

Well that, and I have been seduced by the facebook.  Maybe it’s the combination of speed, feedback, and instasnark that has me so beguiled.  Why spend an entire afternoon spell-checking something that may or may not be read by anyone when I can throw out one or two smart ass comments every hour or so?  

On the downside, I think that my writing skills have atrophied beyond redemption.  So October ninth resolution, get back to it.  

Egad, this is like taking antibiotics.

remarkable things in half-hour intervals – part 4

What follows is part 4 of a true story of a girl (me) and her on-going battle with addiction.

[continued from part 3]

My father believed that television sets should be like Americans: huge. I can’t recall what the screen dimensions were, but I remember it seemed enormous. Then again, I was very small.

I remember the furniture in the living room was arranged so that the television was the focal point. Every seat was angled in such a way that we would all get a good view of the set. For the greater part, this was an ideal setting. The only time this caused a serious problem was during the occasional prime time viewing of Hollywood Squares.

For some reason, I was extremely disturbed by the presence of Wayland Flowers, and more particularly his puppet Madame. The wicked looking Madame was considered to be quite a wit. Perhaps this was true. I don’t know. You see, every time she appeared on the screen I would scream in terror. It was a combination of her skull-like features and extra large nostrils that sent me into conniptions. Seeing her was torture; I did not know what I had done to deserve such agony.

Madame would arrive in my world completely unannounced. There I would be, lying calmly with my head resting on my mom’s leg when this witch of a puppet cackled her way into my line of sight. Everywhere I turned, her evil eyes and giant chin seemed to follow me. I knew that if I didn’t escape, she would bonk me across the temple with her grotesque head, and then chew off my fingers. That’s right. She nosh on my digits like they were 98° vienna sausages, with Mr. Flowers holding the jar of mustard. Rather than soothe my 5-year old soul, my parents would laugh at my discomfiture. Or perhaps it was howling. Who could recall such details?

My only recourse was to cover my ears while screaming bloody murder and run upstairs to my dear grandmother’s room. There, I would be reassured that no matter how much she seemed to want to, the carnivorous Madame could not climb out of the set.

The following morning, I needed to be certain that Madame was no longer infecting my airspace. I would walk past the television, double back, quickly turn the knob, and dive behind the couch. If she couldn’t see me, she couldn’t see my delicious fingers. Thankfully, her cackle was not for the morning. She was probably off terrorizing another little girl.

Or perhaps working off a hang-over.

continued in part 5…

remarkable things in half-hour intervals – part 3

What follows is part 3 of a true story of a girl (me) and her on-going battle with addiction.

[continued from part 2]

How did it pass that by the age of four my sister and I were speaking in full, if slightly juvenile sentences in both English and Korean? I believe the credit might belong to the Helena Rubenstein Foundation and the Children’s Television Workshop.

Grover was always my favorite monster. From the moment I saw him flying through the air with his knight’s helmet and “Super Grover” cape, I was smitten. He was cute, funny, fuzzy, and blue. With his exhaustive yet hysterical repetition, he taught me near and far. With the help of John-John, he taught me to count backwards. He was the main reason I sat still for Sesame Street, and still do on occasion.

To be honest, I can’t think of any other reason to watch Sesame Street these days. Maybe I’m too old, but I don’t remember this show being so boring. I blame it on the introduction of the ubiquitous Elmo, whose only redeeming value is that his segment’s Mr. Noodle is played by the brilliant Bill Irwin. Rather than being showered with baby talk, watching classic episodes of this show reminds me of a time where monsters spoke to kids like they were little adults. And what is with the “Elmo loves you” junk? Sure, Grover doesn’t use contractions, but at least he does not refer to himself in the third person. But I digress. With the help of Grover and his pals, English seeped into my mind, as did my affection for the television set.

Growing up, I remember thinking that our television was beautiful. I am not saying this from an addict’s perspective, but from a strictly aesthetic point of view. The picture tube lived within solid maple housing. The simple design offered but three knobs: the on/volume knob, the knob for VHF channels, and the last for UHF channels. The design was simple, yet versatile. Everything was placed in the exact location it should have been. It came with no instructions, save for the warning label stuck to the back saying “Removal of this panel WILL cause electric shock.”

I loved that set. It was functional art. Those were the days where you were expected to crochet a vast doily to protect its delicate surface. It was a time when built-in sound was the only option. It was an era where picture quality was adjusted by hitting the side of the cabinet, but only after failing with the tuning rings. It was the decade when cable was only for perverts.

My father believed that television sets should be like Americans: huge. I can’t recall what the screen dimensions were, but I remember it seemed enormous. Then again, I was very small.

continued in part 4…

remarkable things in half-hour intervals – part 2

What follows is part 2 of a true story of a girl (me) and her on-going battle with addiction.

[continued from part 1]

So where did I go wrong?

It’s not like there was a carrefour, or as the less imaginative might call it, a crossroad. I can’t put my finger on one point and say, “Ah yes. If I did this instead of that, my life would be much better.” Rather, there was a parade of tiny missteps and readjustments that led me to this less than astonishing life. I am not saying that it is bad. Just a little ordinary.

So how is it that a child full of dreams and possibilities, a child who had the complete map to a charmed life, take so many wrong turns? It is after deep reflection and with full conviction that I can say in truth, my world might be a fully realized dream had it not been for television. No really.

To drop a bit of science: as I understand it, language acquisition begins as early as two months. We begin with single words that identify our needs, such as mama, up, and cookie. By 18 months, we are stringing together a few more words to express more complex issues: all gone, no bed, and where puppy. We begin to understand the basics of syntax and sentence formation. By the age three, the hardened skull of a little genius has developed an early mastery of spoken word, albeit with an extremely limited vocabulary. All of these little miracles are made possible by the repetition from nurture and the wonders of nature.

In my case, the repetition that came from my nurture did not remotely resemble the words you read now. You see, as is common with immigrant families, my parents worked long and hard hours all the while speaking a language that was not their native tongue. When they returned from their respective jobs, they grew tired of the effort English required and relaxed into the comfort of Korean. They knew that they weren’t teaching us English, but they figured that as babies in America, we would learn it eventually. So how did it pass that by the age of four my sister and I were speaking in full, if slightly juvenile sentences in both English and Korean?

I believe the credit might belong to the Helena Rubenstein Foundation and the Children’s Television Workshop.

continued in part 3…

remarkable things in half-hour intervals – part 1

What follows is a true story of a girl (me) and her on-going battle with addiction.

I was the American Dream in progress. I was the second daughter of immigrant parents. A surprising child, I was cute, bilingual, articulate, and charming. I had an abundance of friends and the teachers were wild about me. I was an I.G.C., which was New York City public school-speak for smarty-pants. I soaked up knowledge like a sponge, and my penmanship was excellent. All signs screamed “THIS CHILD IS SOMEONE!”

Even my artwork, lovingly attached to the refrigerator by a rainbow of magnetic letters, suggested that my future held great promise. So with all of this before me, I can’t help but acknowledge that things have not turned out as well as they could have.

It wasn’t that my parents didn’t encourage me. On the contrary, they believed not only that all of my dreams could come true, but that indeed, they would come true. Further, they stressed that by my choice, I can make things happen. While they were not nearly as optimistic about my sister’s prospects, they wholeheartedly believed that everything in life was mine for the taking. And why wouldn’t they?

I had a game plan.

By the age of six, I decided that I wanted to be President. First, I needed a very big house.

By the age of eight, I realized that to make this happen, I must learn how to fight crime. Also, I should probably go to an Ivy League School.

By the age of nine, I understood that I should probably major in History, or as I called it, Social Studies. Oh, and it is very important to learn to pick a lock.

By the age of ten, I was certain that it was absolutely necessary to become proficient in a musical instrument, as all spies and academics were skilled in that way.

All of these thoughts were not the product of enthusiastic parents, but of my own precocious mind. As I knew it, these dreams were well within my grasp.

So where did I go wrong?

continued in part 2…

mr. math can’t catch – part 3

[Continued from part 1]

[Continued from part 2]

Part three is a doozy of a long post, but it’s the last one. That, and I couldn’t find a good place to edit the sucker.

mr. math can’t catch – part 2

[continued from part 1]

Pitchers and catchers report.

These words mark the first day of spring. They define the day when my boys of summer will converge in some sunny clime. They will work off the winter pudge, work the cold out of their elbows and knees, and get in shape for the long season ahead. Slowly, the rest of the line-up will join the early birds. Most everyone is healthy, vital, and excited to be back to baseball.

Within the evaporating miasma of winter, we will catch a first glimpse of new teammates and old friends, refreshing hope like the green buds of the first spring crocus. I will join the legions of fans that wish nothing but success for this team, pledging my support and allegiance, with hopes that they will bring joy to my city. I will be happy once more, though I know that my manic euphoria is fleeting.

Anything can happen in the long month to follow. Meaningless games might demonstrate potential weaknesses in the line-up. Egos will emerge, injuries occur, and reminders of the disappointments from the past September begin to creep forward. March is the month of worry and doubt. Then, in a flash, April arrives. It is Opening Day.

The poetry that is baseball fills the speakers of my car stereo once more, as John Rooney calls the play-by-play:

One out.

A line drive to right

6-4-3.

Double-play, leaving one stranded.

The Sox are up.

It’s the bottom of the ninth.

They are the classic words to a classic play. The game unfolds in my mind as I circle the block once more so as not to miss the end of the game. The home team wins, and hopes for a pennant bubble up once more. Though this bi-polar ride of emotions will continue for the rest of the season, I could not be more thrilled.

Baseball season casts a bright light on the most mundane work days. The furtive peek at the previous night’s box scores, the lunchtime recap of game highlights, and raucous discussions between amateur general managers makes every miserable day almost pleasant. A night game transforms an otherwise dismal commute into my favorite part of the day. On those evenings, I tailor my work days to end just before the first pitch. A few of my more clever coworkers understand my outwardly disordered schedule, while others might chalk it up as another perquisite of a consultant. It is of no matter. I exit the building, open the car door, climb into the driver’s seat, hit the 3-button on my car stereo, and begin my escape to baseball.

There are days where my escape can only be described as complete. These are the days when I wear my team jersey, tucked away under a sensible pants suit. My jeans are squeezed into the briefcase, shoved between my laptop and a third draft of an RFP. On those days, I work at a breakneck pace, delegate a bit of responsibility to a few of the more competent worker bees, and blast away from the hive. Leaving early, I join the traffic caused by other slackers with the same agenda. But truly, traffic is of little concern. Happily, I listen to the most banal of pre-game programming. In truth, it is a guilty pleasure when knowing it is the precursor to a trip to the park itself. The park: a place where one experiences the camaraderie, heartbreak, and ecstasy that is baseball. Even as a backdrop for crushing pain on an overcast Friday, the park is sacred.

[Continued in Part 3]

mr. math can’t catch – part 1

In lieu of doing any actual writing, I am going to enjoy the balmy summer weather. To keep you entertained, I leave for you a little piece that I quite enjoy. For those like AKA Stephanie, who only read this before bedtime (so she promises), I am breaking it down in easily digestible chunklets.

Those who know and love me have heard this story many times over. For those who haven’t had the pleasure, I promise that it gets funnier…

feminist ha-ha

[EDIT: I posted this on October 09, 2006 @ 23:28 on a blog that I did for a writing class. It still amuses me. I am tossing it back in the archives at the end of the week.]

Usually, I don’t watch Jay Leno. His jokes are designed for trucked-in tourists who’ve been standing in the sun too long.  I find it appalling that he directs cat-fight noises towards his female guests who express a strong opinion about anything.

It was by chance that his show was on in the background when Jay introduced his next guest, Annika Sorenstam. Since I watch as much golf as I do Jay Leno,  I wasn’t expecting the chuckles. Color me surprised.

Sorenstam was speaking about playing golf with her buddy Tiger Woods. She said that they would get very competitive, and would make bets on the game. When asked if she would ever win, she went on to say, “Sometimes, but I only get seven-tenth of what he does.”

That is what we call a zinger. Unfortunately, Jay’s audience didn’t get the funny.

Shame.

in lieu of a real entry…

I leave you with this amazing piece of geek humor:

Found at  xkcd.com