Everett

My uncle passed early this morning after living for 90 years. He was an omnireader, observant and kind, built with a slight frame and a thoughtful countenance; he was a chef, a traveler, a lover of antiques, generous in every sense of the word, and the nexus of my father's family. For the last several years of his life, after my aunt died, he grew exceedingly lonely and fatigued. I hope that now he is enjoying inconceivable happiness.

Today is the eve of all Hallows' Eve, and ghosts are on my mind. Good ghosts. Family. Heritage. Our connections, lives that haunt us with amazing memories of who we are and where we come from. The shiver of ending and of not knowing. I want to know. I want the light on.

Got Milk Money?

As a recently returning guest to the 9-to-5 jamboree, I've found myself still basking in the joy of a steady--albeit modest--monthly paycheck. Behold my poetic despair from just this summer:

Unemployment
Oh, the deafening silence of the empty inbox.
I make homemade granola bars at three.
Like a hunter, I click
on Apply Now! and wait
for an acknowledgment of love:
you, yes you, glorious you, come here, you.
My Hollywood pitch:
Groundhog-Day-meets-Chorus-Line,
with Please god I need this job.
Please god I need this job.
Please god.
But no, you sirs and madams, you
bottomlined twats, you continue to suck
my heart dry, laid bare in Portable Document Format
looking forward, as it always does,
to speaking with you soon.
I check and I check again on
nothing. Please somebody love me
with wild abandon. Yours sincerely,
MLJ


Ah, poetry. So now, with job in hand, I feel as lucky as a duck--maybe even luckier. As one of my friends put it, I got the last paid gig in California. There was a time not so long ago when I would have wanted a job that would have given my alma mater a reason to request me as their graduation speaker. But I'm older now. Wiser. Satisfied with my anonymity, my 2-buck Chuck, and my rental apartment. I do yoga now. Thank you, Effed Economy, for this odd feeling called gratitude.

Why I Love the Beauty Industry

Reason Number 1: Lauren Luke. I just discovered her this past week--which, I admit, means I'm way behind the times and not well-versed in British Youtube stars (with the exception, of course, of spunky never-been-kissed singer Susan Boyle). But nevermind my ignorance. Lauren's singlehandedly changed my view of the cosmetics industry with her down-to-earth and artless (yet ever so artistic) makeup tutorials. Want to get a Lady Gaga- or a Bollywood-inspired look? Then check out Lauren and her videos pronto. She's even got her own hip new line of cosmetics.

Reason Number 2: Dr. Legs. Cause she's got brains and she knows how to use them. Who else but a podiastrist-slash-fitness-guru would have thunk up a workout to improve your stiletto-wearing capacity?

Damn, girlfriends. Way to revolutionize beauty, step by step, color palette by color palette.

Silent Superlatives

Have you ever gone around a table full of people and allotted silent superlatives? You know:

That dude's got the worst earwax.
That kid's got the veiniest arms.
That dumb ass is definitely the dumbest.

You get the point. Makes me glad Sookie Stackhouse ain't sitting at my table or she'd see a whole lotta ugly going on inside my head.

Charity isn't my middle name. Actually, it's Lea.

Origin Stories

Well, as you can tell from my irresponsible absenteeism, I've been away from the blog, cheating my loyal reader (and any future biographers) of my private, publicized thoughts. Very sorry. Cyberland is hard to maintain.

Recently, when I saw J.J. Abrams's outta-sight film Star Trek, I began thinking about storytellers' interest in juvenescence and origins. From Adam and Eve to NYC Prep, we peeps love to know how youth gives way to adulthood, innocence to experience. Time stretches out so pleasantly with potential when you're a wee babe. And what storyteller wouldn't want to cash in on all of that delicious opportunity?

So what's my point? I'm not quite sure I have one. But in these uncertain times, when even President Obama's ray of hope barely lights the darkness of my employment-challenged soul, I find myself thinking about my own origin story: How'd I get here? Where will I head next? How many times will the narrator of my biopic get to say, "This is when it all began"?

Photographic

Can people be racist against themselves? Well, I just proved this sad fact the other day while staring, horrified, at a recent personal snapshot. "My god," I thought, "I look way too Asian." I mean, my eyes were all scrunched up in a slanty-eyed smile, like two symmetrical accent marks, and my teeth looked like long Chinese cartoon dentines. In short, I found the photo mortifying. But even worse was my realization that followed a split second later--the icy-hot, shameful feeling that I, in fact, shunned myself simply for being me.

Yes, I live in the great U.S. of A., where screwed-up ethnic identity is confused with the American spirit of multiculturalism and equality. It's exhausting having to fight the Caucasian beauty ideals that suffuse our culture and subversively convince me of what's pretty and what's not. Sometimes I mentally fail. But when that happens, I'm quick to reprogram, reboot, rethink.

A few weeks ago, I heard the author Gene Yang speak at San Diego State University. This brilliant artist/writer was the genius behind American Born Chinese, a funny, daring, and--for me--emotionally-inspiring graphic novel. Read it. It'll cure what ails you. Promise.

Ugly Pageantry

As the Carrie Prejean fairytale-gone-awry continues, I've grown more and more agitated by the swarm of inconsistencies surrounding this mess. On one hand, I can't really blame the girl for capitalizing on her fifteen minutes of fame. I mean, in a capitalist society, smart people capitalize. Even if I despise her argument for marriage being a heterosexuals-only club, she's got a right to an opinion. But what I can't stand is how this beauty queen pretends that her latest role as spokesperson for the National Organization for Marriage has been her life's goal. Let's be honest--it's been a twist of fate and nothing more, thanks to Perez Hilton.

Another thing I can't stand? The two-faced Miss California USA organization. These people invested in Carrie's assets by purchasing her implants a few weeks before the Miss USA Pageant competition, presumably because a little more va-va-va-voom could help secure that sparkly crown. But now this organization is debating whether Carrie violated her Miss California contract, first by posing semi-nude as a teen model, and second by making personal appearances on behalf of the National Organization for Marriage without express permission from the California USA pageant committee.

I have no qualms with the latter violation--that's Carrie's own fault--but the former violation gets me riled up. For one thing, I don't think you can give a girl breast implants--a surgery that perpetuates a culture of highly sexualized, highly objectified female beauty--and then condemn her for having capitalized on her own sexuality years earlier. Can the Miss California USA organization really claim the moral high ground here? I don't think so.