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.

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!

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?

. : simple little stuff : .

Today is a day of simple pleasures. Perhaps this is my attempt at remaining "zen" as my curious away message stated yesterday, but indulging in the little stuff has been incredibly satisfying for some reason.

Here's my list of little stuff that kept bouncy and smiling. Hopefully at least one thing on here makes you smile too:

1. Good Music -- Feist is fabulous. She has such a laid back jazzy sound that is just so conducive to the fall weather that's beginning to settle over the Bay Area. Both albums, The Reminder and Let It Die have kept me pleasantly relaxed and calm. So far she's been accompanying me while I write/read/work and not while I drive, but I have a feeling she'll be good in any setting. (Thanks to D-Ha for the albums). Also, I need to get my hands on some French Jazz, because Feist's "L'amour Ne Dure Pas Toujours" or Love Does Not Last Forever makes me miss French terribly and remember why I always thought it sounded prettier than English.

2. Postsecret -- This blog, which I will perma-link on my sidebar from now on, appeals to my emo-artsy side. People from all over the world send homemade postcards to this guy in Maryland with an anonymous admission of some secret. The postcards are very creative, and all convey some idea that people don't feel comfortable saying out loud or confronting. Not to say that I think people shouldn't confront their problems, but I suppose in some way this allows them to do that, and if you feel this helps you then that makes me smile. This postcard isn't my favorite, but if I posted the ones I felt most deeply, I'd be revealing some secrets about myself now wouldn't I?

3. Fun New Gadgets -- in the form of new headphones and a cordless optical mouse. Since Big Bro has mysteriously misplaced my old mouse, I was forced to purchase a new one. I promptly felt dated and out of it when I realized that cordless mice are now the way to go. Apparently I'm 5 years behind in mice technology, since I actually asked if there was any lag time. The last time I hung out with someone who used a cordless mouse (because, surprisingly enough in college most people I know only used regular mice) they were brand new, jumpy, and had lag. Silly, outdated, fuddy-duddy See, cordless mice don't have any of those problems now.

4. Cafés - In particular, Douce France in Palo Alto. Some really delectable panini-like sandwiches, cute little pastries (heart-shaped cookies with strawberry filling!) and damn good coffee. If you're a Proscuitto fan like myself, I recommend the Angelo sandwich. I get cravings for this place all the time. Good thing I make a point to go there once a week. Oh, it also reminds me a little bit of Panaficio with how homey and comfortable it is. Add to that the free wireless internet they have and begin rejoicing, if you're an Internet junky like myself who enjoys good food.

5. Laughing with friends and family. Laughing makes people happy, laugh more, it's good stuff.

Ok, that last one was "hokey" as Big Bro puts it. My excuse for today is being rushed. Got to scamper off and run errands, so unfortunately this entry was cut short.

Quickly, though, in response to Mr. Tim and Mr. Maietta's comments on yesterday's post, yes, heart disease is a big deal. Thank you, both, for expounding on the benefits of alcohol to my heart even if it may slightly raise my chances of getting breast cancer. You have ensured that I will enjoy a life of intoxication and inebriation. Justtt kidding. Ha. But seriously, check out their comments on yesterday's post as both included good information about heart disease and the benefits of alcohol.

Some Vapid Reflections

First, no reviews for blowfish this weekend, due to what we'll call "corporate issues" (read: D-ha stuck in office a slave to the job) thus there was no partaking of sushi and fun drinks. I will, however, say that if anyone is out in Palo Alto, or Los Gatos... I suppose Silicon Valley in general, there is something intriguing about that scene which I can't quite put my finger on. Most likely the fact that everyone there is quite young, way too wealthy, and just sucking up the good life like nobody's business as they ride the wave of their brilliance. The highlight of my escapades on University Ave was most definitely the fabulously quasi-Euro trash guy pushing thirty and rocking out on the dance floor ... with a sweatshirt tied around his hips. FYI to all guys who are nervous about their dancing skills: his enthusiasm totally outweighed anything about his appearance, because he was surrounded by a circle of at least six or seven girls. What a contrast to discuss this in a post immediately after the Congo, ugh, I believe this feeling is called "self-loathing."

Second, kicking myself into high gear so life can be brought into existence. You can wait around for life to happen, or you can make it happen. I think. I am 20-something See, hear me roar.

Third, when attempting to figure out your "life," good ways to drown your sorrows/keep you chugging along, are: Gossip Girl (that's my second plug and I can claim a couple converts so far), Mint Green Tea, pillows, and Ben and Jerry's Strawberry Cheesecake ice cream. Mm, unhealthy sustenance. Crossing my fingers for one of the interim jobs to come through while I figure out the actual job.

Yeah, these posts are decidedly lame and poorly written. I guess even I function better during the "work" week.

Hah, all I want to do is sign off: xoxo, Gossip Girl. Some quick thoughts on that, it really is just that fun to watch. For those of you who enjoyed the OC, Josh Schwartz is a producer for the show and, I'm fairly certain, also a writer. Though the story lines are picked up from the novel series by Cecily von Ziegesar, Schwartz has done a great job of distilling plot points and showing well-rounded characters -- all while keeping his snark-tastic teens believably evil and warm-hearted. I'll definitely be disappointed if the show is canceled before it has a chance to blossom. It's also less bop-y than the OC, probably due to the story's placement in New York City. But, that could just be my slightly anti-socal mentality coming through. Oh, and also, for any Veronica Mars fans out there, the snidely witty voice of Gossip Girl is none other than Kristen Bell. She is so on with the timing, and phrasing, of her biting remarks. Keep an ear out for "fuster-cluck" in the second episode. At this point, the CW should really pay me for helping them out with their advertising.

Yikes. Let's hope that tomorrow's post is slightly more intelligent and, uh, substantial. Ugh.