Annoying Po-Mo Meta-fiction that No One Should Read, But was Fun For Me to Write

Scene:
Exterior of San Francisco's Marina District. Scott Street on a characteristically warm Northern California winter evening as neighborhood shops are closing. Shopgirls peek out as they shut doors, local residents amble down the sidewalk with flushed cheeks in their gym clothes. We focus on a floor to ceiling glass front of a trendy backlit restaurant filled with white walls and only curved furniture. A young 20-something woman (perhaps ethnic? of moderate attractiveness? no, this is not a self-reference, what are you talking about) strolls through the door and enters the restaurant, finding only an over-eager waiter and a well-dressed couple of middle-upper class upbringing. Unless one was actually brought up in say I dunno, East Oakland. But let's be serious, it's the Marina, no one from East Oakland likes the Marina.

Girl: (Thinking) Fuck. Bad idea.

The waiter dashes across the room, hrm... perhaps he bounds? yes, bounds, across the room to greet the young woman.

Waiter: How many?
Girl: Just 1, thanks.
Waiter: Just 1? To eat here? Alone?
Girl: (Pause to consider potentially slowed mental processes). Yes.

The couple, a woman and man (clarification necessary for San Francisco) halt their conversation to simultaneously peruse her.

Woman: (Thinking) Oh my god, poor thing. I am so glad that's not me. I have a boyfriend.
Man: (Thinking) Me likey.

As the young woman is seated, the couple resume conversing while the waiter bumbling pulls away the second place setting on the young woman's table.

** Po-Mo Meta-Fiction says: this part is boring, SKIP -- fast forward **

The girl is nestled in comfortably to her impressively curved seat with a book and her bowl of noodles (so not a personal reference, why are you looking at me like that) and attempting, rather awkwardly, to prevent oil splatter on the pages of the book by cautiously holding her napkin in front of it. Proving too difficult a task for a young padawan of noodle eating, she proceeds to replace her napkin on her lap and indiscriminately splash the pages of a book given to her by *INSERT VERY IMPORTANT PERSON'S NAME IN YOUNG WOMAN'S LIFE & CAREER HERE*. (see? not a personal reference. I would never splash oil on pages of books. Author's Note: Dear Dave, sorry about your book).

The woman, rather conspicuously, reaches across the table for the man's hand and strokes his fingers.

Woman: (Loud Whisper) Do you think she feels bad eating alone?
Man: (Louder Whisper) I think she can hear us.
Woman: (Actual Whisper) No way!

The woman shoots a sidelong glance at the girl -- who is still indiscriminately splashing oil on pages and eating her noodles in an incredibly sloppy, unlady-like manner. (sooooooo not me.)

Woman: (Loudly) Sweetie, I have to run the errands, you've got the check, right?
Man: (Coughs on noodle) Uh, yeah, no problem. Oh yeah, make sure you get milk. And, ya know... ya know?
Woman: Of course, pumpkin!

The woman stands and, after readjusting the shirt (?) that seems to be melted onto her moderately endowed chest, bends in Betty Boop to style to place a theatrical kiss on the man's cheeks. (You go girlfriend, hell yeah, you got a man. You got a man and he's paying for you. Shiiiiittttt.)

Woman exits.

Waiter: Thank you, sir, how was the soup?
Man: Oh, it was great thanks. Oh, you can stop pouring her water, she left to run errands. Left me with the check again, heh heh! Looks like I'm paying.

(Author's Note: Gentlemen, when left alone in a restaurant with only a waiter and a stranger, best not to let that one slip out. You look like a d-o-u-c-h-e. Everyone can hear you, despite your attempts at making your voice loud and booming. Ohhhhh, it was intentional! Okay, wait, you just are a d-o-u-c-h-e, my bad. Save the kiddies! Don't use bad words! Spell them!)

Waiter: Ha ha, yes, I bring you check now. (In case you haven't noticed, we are in an Asian restaurant. Yes, we are. The noodles were a tip. Left by me, the author. Good tip, right?)

Man: By the way, what's your name?

The man extends his hand to shake the waiter's. They maintain the shake for a significant amount of time.

Waiter: Heem. H-e-e-m.
Man: Him?
Waiter: Heeeeeeeem. Two E.
Man: Oh, right, okay, Heem. Nice to meet you, I'm Ka-ho.

They are still holding hands.

Waiter: Kaaah, ho?
Girl: (Thinking) A-hole?
Man: Ka-ho, fast, short.
Waiter: Ah, keho.
Man: Uh, yeah, close enough. It's very nice to meet you!

Still holding.

Waiter: Yes, so nice to meet you too!
Girl: (Thinking) Swap numbers! Fall in love! Start a domestic partnership! Buy a dog that will end up homeless, or halved, when you break up!

The waiter finally drops the man's hand and bounds, (yes, just like Tigger) into the backroom to write down his numb-- I mean, complete the cash transaction. While the man is left alone in the room with the girl, he gives her a full assessment, and straightens his clothes in a (mildly) pathetic attempt to preen and puff out his extremely masculine pectorals. The girl, garnering his glances using the feminine wiles of reading her book intently and eating noodles like a blind dog with the flu, remains slyly "unaware" of his position.

He strides to the table.

Man: So... tell me, why's a pretty girl like you eating alone in a restaurant?
Girl: (Mouth filled with noodles) Arfunugenheim?
Man: I love a girl who talks dirty.
Girl: (Mouth still filled with noodles) Ruffenorgenabu?
Man: Perfect. My place is on the corner. Meet me there in 10 minutes.

The waiter re-enters, bill in hand -- duhhh, smiley faces next to phone numbers at the bottom of checks are just excellent customer service.

Waiter: (Batting eyelashes) Thank you, sir. I hope to see you again soon!
Man: Uh, of course, yes, thank you Him.
Waiter: (Shifts uncomfortably) Yes. Nice to meet you.
Man: Nice to meet you.

The man awkwardly bows, assuming that all Asian cultures must bow. He saw it on an episode of Mash. And in, like, The Last Samurai with Tom Cruise. Tom Cruise is God cause he went nuts on Oprah. No one does that to Oprah. Unless they like, know everything.


** Po-Mo Meta-Fiction says: I'm bored. And sleepy. End. Also, what the hell were you thinking when you wrote this. It blows. You are le suck at writing exercises! **

Provided for a single day's entertainment and procrastination of others. This message will be (vehemently) destructed in 24 hours, because as stated: it blows. Thank you. P.S. Happy Valentine's Day.

New York is Calling My Name

Okay, realistically, New York is calling to every 20-something with a dream and Type A personality; but the last couple weeks have been torture when I think about how close I could have been to the catwalks in Bryant Park (darn you, logic and maturity). Alas, I could not gaze upon the beauty that was Valentino's goodbye line, or Marc Jacobs venture into pastels, or the new fun that is Bandleader inspired coats. Uh, did I just say that? Dear former band geeks: you are vindicated. Thanks to the glory of the internet I bring you some pieces that j'adore. And no, they ain't Dior.

(thank you refinery29.com for the pom-pom worthy sets of photos -- L2R: Temperley, Robert Geller and Rag & Bone.)

The Rag & Bone is my favorite. Contemporary, but the clean lines and simplicity of the jacket will help it last beyond the trends of Fall/Winter 08. At least for a little while. Also, Orange (pumpkin?) is back and ready to whip some hiney, and it's joined by Emerald and Muted Gold.

(L2R: 3.1 Phillip Lim, Karen Walker, Halston)

Talk about killer color combos. Methinks the millennial decade will be characterized by females rolling in old-school glamour considering how glittery and glowing color palettes are these days. One day, I will actually make money and have financial stability so I can buy pieces like this. Until then, nose to the grindstone writing ridiculously inane pieces for publications and dreams of the beauty and glory that is to come whence I arrive in NYC. Le Sigh.

Thank G-d Someone Noticed

Pianists are getting way out of control with their onstage showboating. (cough, Lang Lang, cough) So, thankfully, someone started talking about it. I don't have much patience for it -- a reason I've never gone to see Lang Lang in concert, and why I will vouch for Yundi Li even though he's an @$$ offstage -- but it's nice to see that Bernard Holland at the nytimes took note. <3 nytimes, <3 Bernard Holland. Musicians these days are so talented, and they're discovering and making use of that talent earlier and earlier; but, zomg do some of them not understand stage presentation. I have the utmost respect for well nuanced pieces, but like Holland makes reference to -- how can you expect to create the type of nuance needed for difficult pieces if you're too busy doing the macarena on stage? And I say this having gone through an awkward phase of "stage movement" after a summer with a bad teacher, so this isn't some unfounded critique of the musicians. You might be able to fake it well enough through overly bravado-ed passages of Liszt or Brahms, but you won't get very far in with subtle phrasing and color playing Chopin's Nocturnes or Ravel's Jeux d'eau rolling around on your bench like a playful river otter.

Rant, rant, rant. Nostalgic/happy post to come later!

Singing in the Shower...

Is definitely one of God's kind gifts. Now, granted I have the glory of my own shower to revel in this opportunity, but that doesn't mean I won't still advocate that everyone, young and old, personal bathroom shower and res-hall shower(s), share in the joy despite their surroundings! Just don't blame me if you get yelled at. *insert non-committal smile here*

I haven't posted in awhile (cause at the moment I enjoy my day jobs and actually have some modicum of "work place respect" -- check back in a month, that may have changed) but I come blazing back with my recommended shower tunes for your enjoyment as V-day rounds the corner. Coupled or single, optimistic or cynical, belting these melodies at the top of your lungs makes all your woes fall to the wayside.

Classics:

Journey -- Don't Stop Believing
Tom Petty -- Free Falling
Neil Diamond -- Sweet Caroline

Fun New Stuff:

Fall Out Boy -- The Take Over, The Breaks Over
Jordin Sparks and Chris Brown -- No Air
David Guetta -- Love Is Gone

And, as a general not necessarily shower add-on, Timbaland's Shock Value still really whips booty. It's been almost a year since the album was released, and that man has still got me hooked. If you've tuned into a radio at all in the last couple months, you know Apologize is still running strong (read: overplayed). But there's a reason for it, and the rest of the album is pretty much of similar quality. Be sure to check out Bounce, One and Only, and Time. The last of which can be repetitive, but is perfect for running and working out.

If you know what I do daily -- cause let's be honest, I don't really want to put a name to the blog -- keep your eyes peeled for new pieces coming out soon. (Chinese New Year and V-day related) Wheeee exciting!

Laugh it up, Fuzzball : Round 2

Robert Friedman from the nytimes, a professor of psychiatry at Weill Cornell Medical College, decided to give a little kick to the mid-life crisis. Color me amused. Proffy Friedman essentially bats the "mid-life crisis" out of the park, as he called it (often) nothing more than an excuse for (primarily) narcissistic men to come to terms with a lack of novelty in their lives. Yikes. Nothing like a good dose of reality straight to the sweet spot first thing in the morning.

Thoughts to come later, or potentially never, because the counterpoints that have sprung up in my head are numerous and complex, and coffee has made my brain run in circles. Feel free to comment on the article, though! Curious to hear what others have to say.

Laugh it up, Fuzzball.

Note: Decided to actually post this since it elucidates my thought on the article more and... well, why not? Welcome to Version 1 of Fuzzball.
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This entry was originally a tad smug; it has since been amended to reflect merely a cocked head and a raised eyebrow. A professor of psychiatry at Weill Cornell Medical College, Robert Friedman at the nytimes decided to give a little kick to the mid-life crisis. Color me amused. Proffy Friedman essentially bats the "mid-life crisis" out of the park, as he called it (often) nothing more than an excuse for (primarily) narcissistic men to come to terms with a lack of novelty in their lives. Yikes. Nothing like a good dose of reality straight to the sweet spot first thing in the morning.

So, this middle-aged freak out is some blazing realization that you're no longer 20 years old. As a current part of the "20 something" demographic, I'd just like to raise a hand and say how damned uncomfortable it can be. It's funny, as 40 and 50 somethings are wishing they were our age, everyone I know in their early adult years seems to be grappling with a fear/terror of the unknown and struggling to find an identity outside of X education. Is it just me, or do you always wish you're another age, another job, another something or other? Maybe nirvana is just a fancy way to describe happiness with one's situation. If only those having mid-life crises could remember that the excitement they nostalgically recall abounding in their 20s, were actually uncertainty and breathlessness, and they're pretty indiscriminate about when and how hard they hit you. In fact, based on what Friedman says, the mid-life crisis is basically the same as the 20ish life:

"Why do we have to label a common reaction of the male species to one of life’s challenges — the boredom of the routine — as a crisis? True, men are generally more novelty-seeking than women, but they certainly can decide what they do with their impulses.

But surely someone has had a genuine midlife crisis. After all, don’t people routinely struggle with questions like 'What can I expect from the rest of my life?' or 'Is this all there is?'"

Ding! Welcome to the joyous post-college dilemma. Except we have zero money and zero stability, not to mention the pesky realization that this is as much, or as little, as you want to make it. Possibility is nice when it embraces you, but when it's bear hugging you till you can't breathe, stability can look mighty kind.

I won't deny that I can see how suddenly coming to grips with the concept of fatherhood and putting your life on a back burner for someone else, can be pretty terrifying. I just wonder why it "suddenly" snuck up on these guys. It's as if they hadn't already had, oh, 50 years to acclimate themselves to it prior to three kids, a mortgage and a wife who's left holding the bag. Here is See's pop-psychology analysis: since women who want to have children realize they're gonna be a walking baby habitat for 9 months, there's a fairly clear understanding that eventually your goals are gonna be put on hold, thus the mid-life crisis is smoothed into a gradual process throughout your adult life. But, it seems equal to what I'm observing to be the counterbalance in men: a gradual understanding/assumption of the "breadwinner" (pardon the feminist in me) and protector role. Ring fund, anyone? Apparently, though, the 'click' of all this has a delayed reaction time in some men. Ho hum, none of this growing up stuff seems too fun anymore.

Newsflash: women are afraid of commitment too, but somehow you don't hear about as many of them letting their flight response take over. Although, instead they get botox and buy lots of designer shoes and purses and ... oh crap, this looks kind of like a corner. Did I just walk myself here? Of course not. This is less a reflection on men and women, and more a momentary pause on what it's like to be 20ish and considering what it's like to be all growed up. To be honest, it seems like not much changes the older you get. The endless possibilities of this age are indeed appealing, though, and let it be kept in the record of See's ridiculous blog that 20 something women are afraid of losing novelty, excitement and adventure just like X aged men are. In fact, the fascination with the article comes from a fear of having just that: See's Happy Mid-Life Crisis. I can barely commit to what I'm eating for lunch, when does this whole "committing to a family" thing come into play? Yeesh.

Better make good use of my early adult life, hrm?

Strippers Write Good Too!

Happy New Year all! Blessings, good tidings, prosperity, longevity, um... suddenly I feel like a tweaked out fortune cookie.

Fresh back from a screening of Juno, and I must say, mad ups to Diablo Cody for her writing skills, and the cast for their tres bien performances. For anyone who doesn't know: Juno is the story of a hilariously caustic sixteen year old who decides to keep a child from an unplanned pregnancy. It documents the journey from her finding out, to her plans for adoption with a happy suburban couple, and the eventualities of her courageous and difficult decisions.

Diablo Cody, whose experience stripping is featured in her very own book, is the brilliant mind behind the screenplay. It's witty, snarky, and yet emotionally poignant in a non-cloying way. Shocking and unbelievable, yes I know. So many movies these days go for that hilarity and emotionality balance, and rarely manage to find it. (I may get blasted for this, but case in point, Superbad or Knocked Up). Somehow it always hits slightly off the mark. Cody's characters are three dimensional in a very human, likable way. I'd say it's fairly uncommon for almost all the characters to convey their vulnerability while maintaining witty banter. That is, of course, due much in part to the actors themselves. Ellen Page is stellar at portraying Juno. I'm such a huge fan of dry/witty comedic timing, and dang does this girl got some. Allison Janney, as always, holds her own with searing on screen tongue lashings. Anyone familiar with 10 Things I Hate About You (See shakes pompoms) will remember the turgid moments in the office with Heath Ledger and Julia Stiles. I could gush on and on about the film, but this should suffice and I'll just say this: go see it if you're in the mood for something that will make you laugh and make you think.

In other entertainment related news, Guitar Hero III is terribly addicting, but I recommend it to everyone. One of the many songs worth a listen to from their soundtrack is Superbus's Radio Song. Go French Rock! I publicize this, and not others, because that's one I'm sure most of us aren't too familiar with since the majority of the tracks are American Rock. Busy weeks ahead, so onwards we go into 2008 with many fortune cookie-like happy tidings from me to you. Here, I'll even put a smiley just to prove it. :)