Reunion

Space and time
Seasons and tides
A decade, twice and thrice.
Time enough for reunion,
Not quite enough to
Bridge the years between
Friends and acquaintances,
Couples and sweethearts,
Rivals and competitors,
Absent and abstaining.
Old friends are best as
Old age ushers nostalgia.
Fewer than a handful
Of years spent together
In the Strenuous Life
Still can mean so much
In the shared experience
Of affirmation and embrace,
Coming full circle in the
Universe radiating light-years,
The departed immortalized
In the stars, in our hearts.
Sentimental and maudlin?
Then, drink a hearty toast,
Back to life actualized
Until we meet again
On some sunny day
In time and space,
Love and grace to all!

The Cobain-Winehouse Exploitation

When my family had a recent trip to Portland, Oregon, on my birthday, we had the occasion to visit Voodoo Doughnuts and stand in line for the privilege of enjoying their bacon maple bar.  While waiting outside at the end of a rather long queue, I heard what sounded like a song by Amy Winehouse over a speaker system.  As we got closer to the entrance, we encountered the source of the music: a wayward-looking, perhaps homeless hippie girl with tattoos and piercings playing a ukelele with a voice that was uncanny Winehouse.

Thinking back on that incident reminded me of how the music business exploits artists like Kurt Cobain and Winehouse who obviously needed professional help in dealing with their mental health and drug addiction.  The industry has no qualms in profiting from their one-of-a-kind musical talent.  Amy Winehouse, the poor girl who struggled to survive in the rough and seedy parts of London, sang of how people tried to get her to go to rehab to which she just said no.  She became a sensation tailor-made for the Grammys, and unwittingly suffered the absurd irony of having a rendition of that same song sung on a pop TV show about an American suburban high school glee club.

Cobain, the sacrificial lamb of grunge punk angst who sang of teenage alienation, depression, drug addiction, and even whoring of musicians by the industry mercenaries, ended his mental torture by scattering his brains all over a room in his house in a pleasant well-to-do neighborhood by the western shores of Lake Washington.

Meanwhile, life goes on for those of us in artistic mediocrity who continue to shop digital music from iTunes or to steal it outright from other web sources.  Bewildering and cruel ironies of life never cease.

"George Saunders Has Written the Best Book You’ll Read This Year"

Best book review/author profile that I've read in recent memory.  I especially love this passage:

“In all things,” he wrote, “we are the victims of The Misconception From Afar. . . . The universal human laws — need, love for the beloved, fear, hunger, periodic exaltation, the kindness that rises up naturally in the absence of fear/hunger/pain — are constant, predictable. . . . What a powerful thing to know: that one’s own desires are mappable onto strangers.”

At the risk of hyperbole at the end of a story that began in a state of fairly high exaltation, I would say that this is precisely the effect that Saunders’s fiction has on you. It “softens the borders,” as he put it in one of our conversations. “Between you and me, between me and me, between the reader and the writer.” It makes you wiser, better, more disciplined in your openness to the experience of other people. The guy talking on the bus about how his girlfriend doesn’t appreciate his music and why couldn’t she just cut him that much slack, seeing how he just did all that time? The couple in the basement of the Port Authority, the wife helping her husband get into his Grover costume before he stepped out onto 42nd Street. The woman, one recent morning, who screamed at panhandlers on the subway that it was the day after Christmas and why couldn’t they just give us all some peace? “Peace on Earth,” she hollered. “Is that so much to ask for? Get off the train.” She went on for a while, and some other passengers started to turn on her. “I’m right!” she yelled. “I’m right.” And then her face took on the saddest expression.

It’s hard to maintain, the softness. It’s an effort. That Dubai story ends with these lines, wisdom imparted from Saunders to himself: “Don’t be afraid to be confused. Try to remain permanently confused. Anything is possible. Stay open, forever, so open it hurts, and then open up some more, until the day you die, world without end, amen.”

Click below for the full article:
George Saunders has written the best book you'll read this year

Vincent, part 4

Catherine suddenly stopped walking and turned toward Vince’s room.  James would be there reading or writing a story, she hoped.  Maybe he would answer her questions.  He knew Vince better than her, and she had confidence in James’ ability to analyze a situation objectively.  Catherine hoped that what he had to say on the matter would alleviate her guilt and confusion.

            The elevator took her to the eighth floor.  A short way down to her left and around a corner, Catherine came to a door that was open.  James was sitting at his desk reading.  She waited a bit to see if he would notice her presence.  Then she knocked and spoke with her voice trailing off, “Hello....”

            “Oh, hi, Catherine.”

            “You seem busy...”

            “No, no, come on in--”

            “I can come back later--”

            “Come on.  Si’down,” he pointed to his bed.  Vince’s side seemed conspicuously tidy and clean.  Catherine was sure James was responsible for that.

            “How are you doing?” Catherine asked, hinting at the subject to be discussed.

            “Oh, me?  I’m ok, considering.  How about you?”

            “Well, it’s like... I don’t know how to put it really....  I, um, I feel...somehow responsible for the.... I’m having trouble saying.... trying to handle this, you know.  I mean, why did he do it?”  Tears welled up in her blue gray eyes as she broke down.  He sat next to her and put his hand on her shoulder.

            “Don’t.... hey, come on.  Don’t do this to yourself.  You are not responsible.  Nobody’s responsible for this.  Vince was just...it was all too much for him.  I think he felt that he was beyond help, that there wasn’t anything to look forward to,” James lifted her face gently with his hand.  “Come on, Catherine.  Don’t cry,” he handed her some tissue from his desk and sat back in his chair.  “Where’s Steve?”

            “He’s not back yet.  He’s coming in tomorrow.”

            “Does he know?” 

            “Yeah, I told him last night,” she paused to collect herself and looked around the room.  “I see they haven’t cleared his things yet.”

            “No, but I got a call from his brother earlier today--”

            “His brother?  I didn’t even know he had a brother.”

            “Well, he’s gonna come by sometime this weekend, probably Saturday.  I told him whenever is ok.”

            “You seem to be taking this whole thing pretty well,” Catherine said somewhat impressed at his matter-of-factness.  “I guess I expected this of you, which is why I am here, to get a better grasp of this...thing.”

            “To be honest, I don’t know how else to act.  I don’t think I have full grasp of what has happened yet, either,” James spoke calmly, adjusting his circular wire-rimmed glasses which along with his long thin features, almond-shaped Korean eyes and short-cropped hair made him resemble some Mongolian nomad.  He stared out the window.  “I don’t get it,” he sighed, “I mean, what makes a person do that?  I don’t think I ever really knew him.”

            Catherine sniffled, trying to hold back more tears, then her voice boomed, “Ah, to hell with him!  Fuck him!” then she fell silent.  James stared at her in astonishment.  She ranted on, “You know, he probably did it thinking he could somehow survive or what a rush it would be to die by drowning.”

            “Yeah,” he let out a little chuckle, “you never could tell with him.  He was definitely the live-on-the-edge type,” James paused looking out the window and could almost see Vince teetering on the stone wall at Morningside Park.

America Where The Price Is Right!

Drew Carey just isn't quite right.  While that statement may be true in a myriad of entendres, I am speaking of the fact that, to me, Bob Barker will always be THE host of The Price Is Right, the Hour of Power of TV game shows.  Barker is the quintessential American host, slim, slick-haired, tan, Californian white male, wrapped in the ultimate pitchman demeanor, as seen through my young immigrant eyes.  I came to the U.S. as a wide-eyed 10-year-old, and watched this game show that embodied what America is all about:  an unabashed and unbridled glorification and celebration of consumerism that cuts across all racial, ethnic and social class lines.  The more I think about it even as an adult, the more I marvel and believe it to be true, still, even though I now rarely watch it all the way through.

Indulge me to walk you through the format of the show for those of you who have never watched it, heaven forbid.  By some pick of the lottery, four contestants are called out, "Joe Shmoe, come on down!"  There is no discrimination here as the only requirement is that you are in the audience at the time of the taping (do they even use videotapes nowadays, albeit digital?).  Equality.  Everyone is welcome in this melting pot or mosaic or what have you.

Next, Bob Barker (sorry, Drew Carey, I can't help it) the host is introduced; the crowd goes wild for he is the man in charge, directing the contestants, laying out the rules and informing them of what is to come and what the result is.  Out comes the first or the next item up for bid.  Pure capitalism and free market auctioning with a twist.  You must guess the retail price of the item "without going over" the actual price.  Four contestants call out their bids, and the item is usually some mid-priced merchandise like an appliance or some furniture piece.  And this is where it gets interesting.  Joe? 1000.  Mary?  1200.  Steve?  1190.  Ann?  1201.  Inevitably, if someone thinks that another person's bid is very close to the actual price or that all other bids are too low, then he or she would essentially lock out the rest and up their bid by one dollar, the lowest increment possible.  This rather cutthroat maneuver usually works but not always.  Then, Bob would announce the moment of truth, "The actual retail price is...1239!  Ann, you're our next contestant on The Price Is Right!"  Nothing is more egalitarian and democratic than the finality of judgment by mathematical means tied to cold hard cash.

Ann jumps for joy and bounds on to the stage, flying next to Bob and, if so inclined, gives him a hug and a kiss on the cheek.  Ah, Americans are so publicly affectionate and demonstrative; I always envied and admired that, but also somewhat mystified by it since my Korean upbringing is so staid and square, almost Victorian.  But the excitement is only beginning.  Bob engages in a brief small talk then he would cue the announcer, "Johnny, tell us what she can win!"  After a short pause which seems like an eternity, sometimes, if you've watched the show enough times, you can feel it with your sixth sense what the next prize is going to be...."A brand new CAR!"  The whole place goes wild and crazy, screaming in amazement and the sheer thrill of knowing that someone could win a new car.  And what is more American than a brand new automobile?  That brand new car smell?  That shiny and polished exterior and interior?  It almost doesn't even matter what the car is.  Who cares?!  You could win a new ride for free on a game show in America, and it doesn't matter where you come from and what you had done before you got here.  It just doesn't matter.  The rest of the show pretty much goes like this, and they usually give away one or two cars per show, so that's how you can sense who the lucky dog is gonna be if a car hasn't shown up by the first half hour of the show.  Ah, easy, eh?  And the show culminates with its prize bonanza, the Showcase Showdown,  a giveaway of thousands of dollars in merchandise and travel packages.  This is the rarefied air of hitting pay dirt.  American success!  Jackpot!  Sure, one could make the similar analogy and metaphor with Las Vegas, but the gambling aspect of it ruins the innocence of it all for me...

But "ain't that America for you and me?"  One can get lucky or strike it rich just by being here and living here.  That in a nutshell is the American Dream.  That is why so many of us have come to these shores by boat or by plane, gazing at the majesty of the mountains and the oceans and the Statue of Liberty, crossing the borders to the north and to the south.  We are all Americans looking for freedom, equality, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.  And no matter how high the cost to attain them, the price is always right.

The Price Is Right (Wikipedia)

[Footnote:  Apparently, Bob Barker has very ethnic roots and ties to the Pacific Northwest.  It reaffirms my belief that he is still the host that embodied America, the Land of Opportunity.  Wikipedia: Bob Barker]

The Original "Drive By Writing"

Had I thought of doing this a few years earlier, I would have been the proud owner of the URL http://drivebywriting.blogspot.com.  Someone beat me to it in 2004, which is kind of ironic because the stories I have been posting were majorly tinkered with around that time.

If you're curious, take a look at the original "Drive By Writing" blog.  The writer managed to post one story (well, two posts if you count the welcome note), and apparently did not believe in the usage of punctuation very much, unless that happened to be the inimitable style the writer intended.  Hey, I am all for giving the benefit of the doubt to a fellow wordsmith...

Vincent, part 3

[Another installment...Still haven't figured out how to wrap it all up...]

            Vince was undoubtedly odd, as Catherine thought about the past, but she had much sympathy for him, then everything got misunderstood.  She was never sure how to handle it after that.  How to handle him.  No one really noticed Vince until that one night at that one party little over a year ago.  They all lived on the same floor in that sanitarium of a freshman dormitory called Harden Hall.  Almost everyone in sight got stoned or drunk on beer, wine, liquor, then came the news that spread like cheap gossip does in the undergraduate library study hall.

            “What?!”  “Yeah, Vince said he’s got only a few months to live.”  “Nah, he was just blasted off his gourd.”  “I don’t believe it.  How in the hell did he get in if he’s got some terminal illness?  You have to get a physical when you apply.”  “I don’t know but that’s what he said.”  “No, he said that he’d just heard about it from his doctor.”  “Bullshit!”  “Gedatta here!”  “He was just drunk, that lying son of a bitch.”

            After that Vince was permanently labeled.  A good number of people who lived on the floor thought that he was a quiet, brooding type or was a pathological liar of some sort.  One Saturday night, a few weeks into the first semester, Vince just sat in the hallway gulping down an entire case of Bud tallboys, one after another.  They just watched him or ignored him completely, going about their usual weekend business, but there lingered a hidden consensus that Vince needed some serious professional therapy, since very few wanted any personal involvement.

            Then there was Catherine who felt compelled to help his troubled soul and volunteered herself for counseling him.  In doing so she came to know her current boyfriend, Steve--white, blond, athletic and aiming for Wall Street.  Steve was Vince’s roommate then.  He felt sorry for Vince but thought that he needed professional help, instead of the attention his soon-to-be girlfriend was giving.  After both of them dated each other exclusively, his disagreement became disapproval to the point of jealousy.

            “Do you really think that you’re doing any good?” Steve asked.

            “I’m just trying to help him.  What’s wrong with that?”  Catherine retorted.

            “You’re not a psychiatrist, not yet anyway.  Just ’cause that’s your career goal, doesn’t mean you should take this upon yourself.  Besides I don’t think you’re doing this out of some altruistic motives.”

            “Jesus, I was hoping that it wasn’t true, but you’re jealous of him getting my attention.  You men are such babies.  All right then, let’s hear your analysis of my motivations, doctor,” Catherine said deflecting his pointed remarks.

            “You’re helping him for yourself, Cat, to make yourself feel better.  Don’t even try and tell me that you don’t feel some satisfaction in knowing that he needs you or that people see you as this wonderful, caring, empathetic soul.  People do not act for the pure good of helping another person, unless there is something in return.  Come on, Cat.  Humility and modesty are quite overrated,” Steve flashed his green eyes directly into hers, “You know that I am right.”

            Catherine did not like being wrong at all, no matter how trivial.  She tried hard not to sound defeated in her voice, “You obviously don’t understand at all.  Sure, I admit feeling good about helping people.  So what?  You gonna hold that against me?  You’re accusing me of some sort of self-gratification?”  She knew, however, that he was partly right and looked away from his eyes, but she could feel his gaze upon her.  She lowered her head letting her dark brown hair obscure her eyes.

            Steve stroked back her hair with his right hand and touched her cheek.  “I care for you, Cat.  I want us to have more time together.  If that’s being jealous, so be it.”

            She couldn't be certain whether he was being sweet or condescending.  The whole argument wreaked of selfishness and guilt.  Nevertheless, Catherine liked that about Steve who could be as tough as her when it came to taking a stand.  She respected and admired that about him.  She began to spend less time with Vince and more with Steve, but there was no need to feel guilty about it.  After all, who could fault her for being with the guy who cared for her, maybe even loved her?  

            As she got closer to her dorm and away from the cafeteria rumor mill, she told herself, I couldn't have helped him, no matter what.  And he couldn’t have helped me, either.