Hear/Say

The garage sale was fantastic– in the context of profit. People were surprisingly snide about how my clothes wouldn’t them (there were a lot of “if I were twenty years younger…” “if I were as tiny as you are…”), but I assumed that was an attempt at self-deprecation rather than a rude display of defense against innate jealousy.

Men looking for tools didn’t find what they wanted; although, I did sell a snowboard + shoes to a dude who was buying for his son. Sweet.

In this semi-purge (it was a great purge, but I say semi– because the mass in my closet seems to have stayed the same), the spiritually liberating process of shedding belongings is bittersweet; I find it rather odd that my relationship with items has sort of weirded me out because I’m selling them to other people. When a person places their hands on something I (used to) own, and I see it from a stranger’s perspective– rather than That-Shirt-I-Bought-That-Year-Because-Of-This or I-Remember-That-Summer/Winter/Spring/Fall– well, the memories sort of get in the way of realizing that they’re just objects, and that the sentiments I create are my life, rather than ‘its’ life. To them, the item is reduced to aesthetic and practical value, compressed into how much of a bargain it is (everything was practically $1). Anyway, when you’re left with what you think you need versus a superfluous silo of junk, it’s like the spirit of your past has resurrected itself and embodied itself in the stack of science-fiction and fantasy novels lining your desk, your packed itself into your bookcases, hanging themselves in your closet.

And in these flashes of memories, the replay and rewind of instances in your mind inevitably attracts the concept of mortality; that time passes, that we grow old, that certain items of yours become living thoughts of your life because of how they have accompanied you through the ups and downs and the unexpecteds… you begin thinking of items that could guard you through your future, your unknowns. What you will pass on as part of your legacy… to the unthinkable heirs and grandchildren whose spirits lurk beyond the pale of the present.

My mom’s vintage Rolex… it might be real. Even if my dad used to make watches and made boku bucks on being a watch salesmen/designer back in the day in Taipei– I can see him making this grand gesture.

Cartoonishly, stereotypically Asian, I’ve remembered this rice-cooker box my entire life. It’s always been our photo-box, where we store the multitudes of pictures that date back to my parent’s youth. Probably because it’s a sturdy, nicely square size– I don’t even think we still have that rice cooker. Cos it’s white. Ours is an olive green, hahaha.

The camera of my youth… my parents have used this camera since forever. Still in great condition… we used to drive to the arboretum behind my grandparent’s house in Illinois and take pictures in the park in the fall.

New things to make your own: I found this adorable night light at the goodwill, and it feels like something I’ll have forever…

GPOYW on a Monday. Dressing up for kicks and giggles. I love this shawl I scored at a Goodwill a few months back; others were skeptical of the purchase, but it’s such a bright, burnt gold with a fully endowed fringe… too FUN!

My jewelry box runneth over… but it’s not filled with jewelry. I found some cute perfume samplers in a bag of my sister’s stuff in the garage, and my diploma for UW is still rolled up and chillin’– I haven’t actually seen it yet! I think just having it is enough. The small wooden panel on the left with Chinese on it was from a very old Japanese temple in HuaLien, Taiwan. A guy was writing Buddhist scripts out and whatever you choose, he relates it to you in a way to give you a sort of fortune/ future advice. I won’t go into the meaning because it’s too heavy and deep.

Found in the rice-cooker-box-of-memories, a photograph of my dad in his white VW that he drove across the country with my grandparents.

My very first trophy, bestowed for winning third place in a poetry contest in 5th grade. Apparently the ballad of “BOB, who needs a JOB” was a semi-success with the judges. I didn’t win anything but the trophy; strangely enough, they awarded my teacher with 25$. My grandpa gave me $20 for winning, and because he loves me.

A Don Quixote wooden figurine I found at Goodwill…

My aunt made this for me, without measurements! She’s a seamstress, and is probably the most stylish out of everyone on my dad’s side. I love the print… so Miro-esque!

Since I was little I had always wanted to live in a library… so since I was little I’ve been collecting the books I’ve read. Especially Piers Anthony books– a sort of geeky, dorky thing to do as his fantasy novels are primarily based on puns. My friend’s mom totally digs him too, and I have an autograph and letter from him instructing me on my “thees” “thous” and “thines”…

I guess I’m sort of at the point where I could always go shopping, but I wouldn’t really buy anything anymore. My shop-cceptable quota is thoroughly saturated, which is a good thing, but I still have an addiction to VHS tapes and books. Anyway, it’s been strange realizing which items I will want forever and that mean so much to me– even if they’re just things. Personal symbols of a lifetime. It’s cheesy, but surprisingly comforting.

Graceee

Coincidentally, stumbled upon this! (“coincidentally”, referring to my previous post on two Batman movies)

Waaah!

Graceee

Today I had a discussion about high school reunions with a neighbor/ g-sale patron. He was telling me how the 20-year was the big “gasp!” of high school reunions, while I suggested that perhaps the gasp has been stifled, now that we’re already on the up-and-up on everyone’s lives via FB statuses, photos, profile pix, etc.. So maybe reunions will be kaput, once everyone already knows the gossip, and doesn’t want to spend the time to talk about what they discovered on Facebook IRL… ?

Yes, this is another FB post. But it’s lolz ish. Promize.

via peterandrewhart.com

Andrew Hart is an old classmate of mine from UW– impressively, he is part of the Seattle Times New Digital Media Dept. Ah, successful youth.

Graceee

I can’t help but reblog this fantastic fellow shot by the Sartorialist. Can’t tear my eyes away. I’m not even usually one for bling, but… he dunnit so gooooood…!

yum yum.

Graceee

So lately, being unemployed and bored, I’ve taken to watching dozens of movies in my cave of a room. Cave!? I should say comfy den; now that I have my own bathroom, I don’t have to leave My Premises.

Also, been celebrating the VHS. Because you can get any movie made before Star Wars Episode II (which is why I can’t find it anywhere on VHS), and flicks created in that great era are usually more interesting and sophisticated on the story-telling level anyhow (this is a giant blanket statement; although, I can definitely say that Adam Sandler’s movies have only gone downhill from Billy Madison, which– even as a celebrated movie– is sort of sad. I guess the baby-talk just wears people out). PS: not all of these are on VHS.

Batman
Starring Michael Keaton as Batman/Bruce Wayne, Jack Nicholson as The Joker and villan-turned-Joker Jack Napier, and Kim Basinger as the geeky but sexually appealing freelance photographer Vicki Vale.

Michael Keaton has pouchy lips.

It really works with the old school Batman costume– think of how well Christian Bale does it with the new Batman gear– his lips are pretty sharp (as are his teeth); his nose is pretty angular now that I think about it, and it goes with the sleek facade of the newer, darker version of the superhero. Anyway, Keaton’s pouchy lips are so 90′s. Like poofy scrunchies. And it’s like he’s throwing out Zoolander’s “Blue Steel” look 24/7.

See? Quite masculine, sharp-cornered lips, a nicely accented philtrum (I looked this up: the dip right above your lip), excellent, excellent, Christian Bale. Keep up the intensity.

Jack Nicholson… plays Jack Nicholson. On acid.

Batman Returns

Michael Keaton plays Batman/Bruce Wayne. Christopher Walken as villainous politician/profiteering power-plant magnate,  Danny Devito as the slobbering Penguin (Oswald Cobblepot), and magnificently sexual beast Michelle Pfieffer as magificently sexually deranged Cat-Woman.

First of all– what a great movie. Danny Devito is fantastic, and I’m so glad he’s totally playing up his typecast (creepy, weird, sexually frustrated stout short guy) as George Costanza Over The Edge. This should also say something about our society and our inherent prejudice against short, stout people, but who cares, because Danny Devito plays it up. Wow. His penguin flippers. His sexual innuendos and obscene gestures with his penguin flippers. The fuming, the spitting, the rage, the utter frustration of being him. I watched a few It’s Always Sunny episodes before this movie, so it was really a fascinating juxtaposition.

You’re so very welcome:

And Michelle Pfieffer? As geeky meeky turned desperate, schizophrenic seductress because Christopher Walken shoved her out the window, and cats nibbled on her fingers??? Thank you, Tim Burton. Also, thank you for that rockin’ “HELLO THERE” neon pink light in Cat Woman’s room (she really shouldn’t have smashed it). There is a point in the movie where she literally licks her latex uniform and pretends– no— actually grooms herself like a cat.

Christopher Walken was Christopher Walken as BP embodied in a person that looks like and talks like Christopher Walken.

I also enjoyed the penguin extras. Darling.

The Beauty and the Beast

You know the story. I cried when the Beast died, because I always do. It’s hard to be ugly.

The Most Dangerous Drug in the World

A National Geographic documentary on meth. They emphasized more than several times that the high lasts for up to 12 hours, and interviewed the creator of the “FACES OF METH” campaign. Takeaways? Meth is Gross. Meth is gross. Meth is really really sick. The scabs aren’t from the drug; they’re from people picking their own skin due to paranoia. Meth is gross. Meth gives you meth mouth, where your teeth rot and fall out and your gums rot and your teeth fall out years after you were a meth head and your jaw becomes deformed. Meth is gross.

Aside from the grossness, what is fascinating about meth: it’s so “effective” because it’s molecular structure is so similar to dopamine, which is the pleasure-flow that jumps between synapses and makes you feel good. It overloads your brain with so much dopamine that you’re body can no longer produce it automatically without the drug.

The drug was invented by the Japanese to help soldiers fight days and nights on end, and pump those kamikaze suicide bombers up to … well, fly into things and blow –ish up.

Until recently the drug was legal in Thailand, and frequently used by sex workers and laborers to boost their time-shifts, and thus, their paycheck. While violence due to crazy meth heads exploded, the government finally took action and illegalized it– in a brutal fashion. Many were killed as sketchy government tactics were utilized to target and eliminate meth movers and users. Many still smoke or ingest meth anyway, because they still have to competitively earn their money.

Second moral of the story: don’t have casual sex in Thailand.

Also, it just reinforces my belief that the people I used to live over were totally meth heads. They exhibit all behaviors and all strange appearances in which meth heads are usually suspect.

I Love You, Man

“I love you, Tycho Brahe”

I definitely laughed louder the second time I watched it.

Monty Python and the Holy Grail

All I want to do is hang out on their set. Coolest geeks ever.

Yoinks.

Graceee

Today was the family field trip to Point Defiance Park, Zoo/ ‘Quarium.

Ah, the little monstrosities they call children.  Maybe on their own (when they’re shy and intimidated) I can actually like them– but in packs, it’s just like stepping on an anthill. There’s no way to brush them all off at once.

I’ll keep the actual animal pictures to a minimum…

There were baby tiger cubs that were like giant lethal puppies dressed in ravishing stripes… momma had custody, apparently baby daddy tigers like to impregnate their women and GTFO… to the neighboring cage.

HAI, ‘lil seaho’s…

Funny useless fact: I’ve seen this Mr. Walrus (the) Sea Lion several times in my life as a child, though I’ve never been to Point Defiance Zoo. He was sold to Pt. Defiance from Chicago’s Brookfield Zoo in 2006. I’m sorry to say his place in Chicago was way swankier. And isn’t that a weird, depressing thing to pop into my head…

Soaking in the icewater…

The zoo wasn’t as big as I thought it’d be, so we got done earlier than planned and ended up exploring the beach and gardens of Point Defiance. The rose garden, in particular– how can you avoid the now cliché dreams of Alice as you weave about the flowers? And there were a great many variety, none painted, and some with interesting strain names…

“Livin’ Easy”

“Fame!”

“Chihuly”

“Sexy Rexy” wasn’t so sexy this year. No blossomz.

“Diana, Princess of Wales”

“Lovestruck”

“LeeAnn Rimes” wasn’t so impressive. Figures.

… but “Ingrid Bergman” was so Ingrid Bergman

The Rose tunnel…

Owen Beach park was also quite nice, it’s too bad they have skull and crossbones everywhere to warn off oyster/shellfish diggers. Apparently they have a toxic build-up…

Mt. Rainier was sunning itself today,

Tomorrow’s when I start clearing out the garage for the weekend sale. It’s going to be a terrible task, and since my brother’s taken to being a brat again, I’ll probably be cracking the (proverbial) whip.

GRACEEE

I never really thought that moving to Seattle would change much– I mean, I knew it would, but to think that my entire perspective on so many levels would engage with the exciting new place I have moved to… it wasn’t really in my mind. I was more thinking about how dumb it was going to be to make entirely new friends. In retrospect, of course it’s a strange freedom to “become a new person” or revert to who you actually are without the intense scrutinizing of people who think they can read your mind. It wasn’t so exciting for me; instead, I spent three weeks at the ESL table because that was where I could sit unnoticed. Where I could fit in; but not really, because most of the girls who sat there were Japanese anyway.

Angst aside, to think of the place I *used* to live– well, it’s mind-blowing to ponder an alternate future if I had stayed. The western suburbs of the “Greater Chicago Area”: where the farmland stretches on, the corn is ten cents, and the only thing greater than finally getting a car so you could actually do something outside of the house is… well, God. If you think of the ultimate boredom of “white/American” normality, Wheaton/Glen Ellyn is it.

And I didn’t live there all my life; before that, I lived in Springfield, Illinois. You’d think, being the hometown of Abraham Lincoln, and the capital of the great state of Illinois would be more than it is. It’s not. I remember the tiny apartment in my very early years… it’s like a dream… the ugly carpet, the bunk beds, the small backyard. The fact that I would always shut my eyes and wish my mom would turn left, towards the supermarket and the mall, so I wouldn’t die of boredom at home… and I faintly remember the phase I went through where I celebrated the word “bastard” and sang it all over town (my parents had no idea what it meant). I remember Rachael, my doll that closed her eyes when you lay her down, and how infuriating she used to be because she was so blonde, blue-eyed, and helpless. Whatever, she was my best friend.

I’m getting carried away, though: the one legacy in Springfield in which I revel in is Mr. Eggroll.

via flickr plasticfootball

Mr. Eggroll is the Chinese take-out restaurant my dad and my uncle opened– they designed the building (my uncle’s an architect), built the building themselves, and ran the place. I remember the yellow booths, and my dad teetering on the tallest ladder while he painted a giant mural of– well, the female Buddha.

They used to sell fried pineapples. Those were my fave. And the dessert was jello that looked like the Italian flag, with red, white, and green layers. The sign “Mr. Eggroll” that decorates the top tier of the building is mirrored. Funnily enough, I don’t remember eating anything other than the fried pineapples and the jello because my mom never worked. The building is still there, and the inhabitants consider it slightly historical because of it’s unusual and iconic design (I coincidentally ran into people who grew up there at a hostel in New York City who told me this). Now, my dad is in Taipei, Taiwan, and he has quite the noodle shop. We ate there all summer; there are tons of noodle dishes– lo mein, chow mein, noodle soup, different kinds of noodle soup, different kinds of noodles… and fried rice, congee, as well as other regular side dishes.

Even at a meager 22, Illinois feels like another lifetime. Having snow in November feels like another lifetime. White Christmases, and the flat land under the huge flat sky… I’ll probably visit soon. Tina’s starting her M.B.A at UC there. I wish I could have a reason to visit Springfield again, but that past will probably stay behind me.

Graceee

Maybe it doesn’t help my cool points, but I follow several key empire officials on my twitter account.

Sometimes, I like to pretend the people I follow are casually conversing.

Sweeeeeeet.

@yaycake

Graceee

There are certain color combinations some people can’t stand; but who’s to prove they never-ever-work?

Yellow and black brings up a bee-like emphasis; but Jane of Sea of Shoes makes it pop dark and sassy with black lace and a yellow puffy winter bolero:

via seaofshoes.typepad

Lascivious clash of colors… a conflict killed by class.

Graceee

Yesterday, I visited Seattle’s 2010 HEMP-FEST. It’s the best people-watching you get outside of folk-life; even so, the folks are much more extreme.

Walking down Elliott, the daunting line into Olympic Sculpture Park stretched for blocks and was thick six people wide. The Chan bros. and me decided to skip the line and walk to the northern entrance, across the train-tracks next to the silos.

Elliott was lined with little camper vans, havens blacked- out by makeshift curtains clenched in the window cracks and historic buildup of stickers. Dogs everywhere; pit bulls, puppies, bulldogs, dirty-mouthed children with elephant ears squeezed between their fat fingers and tender gums, their face powdered with jam and sugar. There was a boat docked under the silo arm that reached above the sea; not a boat, a ship– and it echoed whatever reggae music bumped at the stage decorated with a huge sculpture of a blunt (someone went “Dude, I swear that boat is playing music”). Tye-dye shirts, being worn, being sold (“I live off tye dye, man”), celebrated with leis of pot leaves twisted into bushel-like bracelets or waving lazily around slightly sweaty necks.

The sidewalk constantly thick with people and movement, of turning heads and the pulsing rhythm of festival life– but the atmosphere is relaxed; people don’t mind the bustle as much; most people are looking for semi-covert areas to smoke the pack of joints they rolled on the way over, looking for their hook-ups, their friends who promised them a good time; perhaps make some new friends in order to have a good time.

There are some who have too much of a good time; we passed a boy that looked sheet-white and stood stock still as both his friends grabbed him and murmured calmly while their fingers pressed savagely into the back of his arm; ten minutes later we were down the park but heard sirens…

Funnily enough, internal conflict was found in young pot smokers against 1) the younger pot smokers (“Those girls are like, 15!!!!”) and 2) families; particularly the women-and-her-child (boys: “yeah, I wouldn’t bring my family here”). I saw a young boy– definitely younger than 15– cheekishly wriggle up and ask “hey, can I bum a cigarette?”

The Chan bros. met up with their greater group of dude-friends, one of which was celebrating his birthday. They all chipped in to buy a spectacular bong for him– olive green with the clear bowels of the bong displaying ten tubes, what they called “splash shields”; people stopped him on the street and asked to see him “rip it”. The magnificence had a gold label near the lip, a giant RX designed into RelaX… while the wet grey blanket named Scott whimpered in the corner, because the social mingling with the trophy of a bong made him increasingly late to pick his parents up at the airport. And he was their ride in.

Read here for more information on 1068, legalizing medical marijuana in Washington state.

Graceee