Bacchanal

Things found out this weekend. Well, my super power for one, which I have to admit, I've maybe heard before. That's the next game I'm going to play with myself, or maybe with others. What super power does so-and-so possess? This was a long awaited event, Lynn's bachelorette party. It might be the first and only bachelorette party I'm going to attend so I had to treasure it.

I was pretty excited for everyone to come together and have a fantastic time and barring some hiccups here and there, it was really pretty marvelous. I mean, I'm ready to nitpick at just about anything (I can't even tell if I'm negative or just observant, maybe it's a matter of perspective) but just about everything you could hope for to happen during a long weekend happened.

Great group of people, check. Good logistics and planning, check. Lots of activities, check. Night of awesome dancing and drinking, check. Bonding time, check. DDT, check. Music and singing, check. And candlelight, check. Fabulous food, check. Video games, check. Board games, check. Something new, check. Pretty much the weekend was a huge rousing success and it will probably be carried on in memory for quite some time.

Even amongst the gripes, the debriefings, the dramas and mini-dramas, the thing that really sticks out to me is how often these amazing moments get to happen. I don't know if this is something that's normal or not normal, but I feel like we're all really blessed to have these huge great moments every few months.

I know it's presumptous to think that people don't necessarily always have this, but I'm not sure if everyone does after a certain point. And the fact that this can keep happening for whatever reason, is probably cause for celebration itself.

George suggested a great tie-breaker for our two team "Who knows Lynn better trivia game" and it consisted of chronologically ordering everyone in the room by who's known Lynn the longest. Semi-surprisingly, I met Lynn the earliest, like 1996, two weeks into freshman year. We were in the same big sib little sib family for the Chinese Cultural Association or whatnot. I don't think either of us remember each other really but I do know she was definitely on the list. I continued doing things with my "family" and she never showed up again

Our paths wouldn't really cross again until sophmore year, when Hong happened to be in her dance and then ended up stalking her for a few months. One of the ways he tried to woo her was by getting one of those twisty cap, sippy, plastic cups. You know what I'm talking about? They were really popular back then. So Hong got her a Little Mermaid one. I remember we had to go searching long and hard for that damn thing. And she still rejected him. Well, at least until next year. Persistence and Little Mermaid, that's apparently the ticket.

I didn't sleep much this weekend. From the time James and Steve got in at eleven-ish on Friday morning, I probably only got three or four hours a night. It felt invigorating, except for spells when I was all dizzy and couldn't see straight. But whenever there's excitement, it's like I can just keep staying up. How I can bottle this natural adrenaline push should be my next goal. I'm wondering at what point I'll just stop being able to pull a long stretch of days without much sleep. Will that signal maturedom and body breakdown?

It's actually something I never want to have to succumb to. I want to be able to pull all nighters at the drop of a hat. It makes me feel young.

Class Assignment #2

For thirteen months, I drove exotic cars at twice the speed limit, sent pedestrians flying toward the nearest curb, and teased cops in my rearview mirror before boosting quickly away. At my finely tuned best, I could get from Point A to B faster than anyone else. The streets of San Diego, Atlanta, and Detroit were filled with an unending stream of wannabe racers, all hoping to dethrone the champ. Nobody could do it, I was the man among men, and it all felt incredibly, deflatingly…false.

It had started off well a summer ago, when my interview for a vaunted game tester position had been a series of softballs like: "So what did you play growing up? What system did you have? Do you love games?" I wasted no time dipping into my list of authentic gamer experiences. The real ones, the ones that made the interviewers nod their heads in appreciation. When I got the job, I was thrilled. Finally, a career. A dream fulfilled. I was in the video game industry. Mom, I made it.

There was a problem looming though: I wasn't one of the boys. It wasn't in me, I couldn't adjust to being around only guys for twelve hours a day. Especially guys that somehow managed to pair testosterony bravado alongside an obsession for Super Mario and his ongoing quest to rescue his one true love, Princess Peach.

Nobody called bullshit here? Guys who love video games aren't cool, that's exactly how you got uncool in the first place, by staying inside and playing video games all day. Why pretend otherwise? At least that what I'd thought.

Unexpected Lesson #1: Cool is relative
In real life, away from the confines of the testing lab, few of my co-workers could have been described as traditionally cool. Or popular. Nearly everyone was a social outcast of some sort. Dork, dork, geek, dork, geek, dork, nerd. These weren't even derogatory terms in any way, they were just descriptions. Nobody aspires to play video games for a living without a strong streak of dork-geek-nerd built in.

But instead of banding together into a happy League of Dorks, there was a clear hierarchy. Slumming at the very bottom of our geekdom was an unfortunate guy named Sean. The reason he became the verbal whipping boy of the testing lab? Well, heavens to all hell, his sin was that he was an unrepentant Nintendo fanboy. Sean's computer station was always decorated with the company's (official) paraphernalia. Action figures were neatly arranged on his monitor and carefully rotated in or out according to what pieces he wanted to show off that week.

Touching Sean's toys was predictably the easiest way to rile him up. So of course the bullies of the lab thought it was always hilarious to place Megaman and Luigi in compromising positions when Sean wasn't around. Then they would do the same thing to Donkey Kong and Diddy Kong. I didn't really find video game incest to be very amusing, but it was laugh or be laughed at — the law of the gamer jungle — so I laughed. Secretly though, I admired a guy who took pride in his toy collection.

Unexpected Lesson #2: Mulan had it easy
For some reason, I was the only Asian in the gaming lab for quite a few months. That meant any Asian related question was directed my way. Number one on that list was always "Hey, how do I get Asian girls to talk to me?" I wanted to say, "Well, it would help if you were less creepy" but instead offered neo-Confucian phrases likes "Be persistent and the path will become clear" or "Don't ask her what country she's from."

Another frustrated co-worker told me that whenever he approached a circle of girls at the club, they would all turn their backs, shutting him out. "What's the deal with that?" he asked. I used a predator versus herd analogy and told him to wait for the weak one to be separated out. Then quickly buy her a drink before she retreats to safety. "We're a group minded people, you have to keep that in mind." I dispensed useless advice and they drank it up because I was the voice of Asian authority.

Halfway through the development cycle, we hired another foreigner, a female tester. Before her arrival, the only other females in the company were the two receptionists, who liked to come through the lab every once in awhile, jump or giggle on command (literally), and generally boost morale. But now a girl was actually going to be in the lab with us and a big meeting was needed to prep us for it.

Jason, our boss, told everyone that sexual harassment was a big deal. Talking, touching, disparaging, praising, any of these things could constitute sexual harassment if taken the wrong way. Having half naked pictures of women on computer wallpapers was no longer allowed. Calling everyone "gay" or "bitches" was to be curtailed. He reminded everyone to be respectful of each other, girls and boys alike.

At the end of his little speech, the first question asked was "Is she hot?"
Jason rolled his eyes and said, "What do you think?"

I think the poor girl last two weeks. She quit after someone decided it would be a nice initiation to fart in her general direction. From two feet away.

Unexpected Lesson #3: Tbc

Day 257

Just finished watching "Igby Goes Down," a movie about a rich overprivileged know-it-all who can't love, hates most everyone, and likes to ruin everything. It's like the second coming of Catcher in the Rye, a book I've re-read a few times just to see if I was missing something. I mean, everyone's always talking about Holden as this great such and such. An inspiration, an example, a window into a certain angst. I never got it. But watching Igby, I sort of understood what Catcher in the Rye was driving at.

It was about finding your niche, despite your issues, your dramas, your goods and your bads. I guess it's really about growing up, or figuring how to grow up, something people still haven't done really. What is most shocking about being a full fledged adult (age wise) is how people are, incredibly, still hung up on issues that they could/should have seemingly solved eons ago.

As a child, I used to think that adults all had their shit together. What was neuroticism, what was jealousy, what was insecurity (in an adult) to a kid? I thought maturity and age came hand in hand. That's so not true is it? People calcify as they get older and have to fight to change. It's an uphill battle the entire way and oftentimes it's not even a fight people bother with.

When people talk about being afraid of "settling" in a relationships, how come it never comes around into being afraid of settling as yourself? Of being the you that will remain for the next thirty years or whatever. I think that's the thing that scares me more nowadays. It feels like 80% of myself is mapped out, and the other 20% I've basically given up on learning about.

It's like I've lost interest in the "why's" of me. I don't care why I do things anymore. Like why does the sun make flowers grow? I don't care, I just need to figure out what to do with the damn flowers. There's some sort of weak parallel to the creation versus evolution debate, but I'll pass on that since it's hackneyed.

I'm AIMing a friend in Darfur about her restlessness right now. It's existential season -- particularly for her, and she goes through this every few years, if not months -- and she's right now saying that even though she's always in crazy experiences and situations, she's "OD'd on sensory experiences in other worlds." So rarely is the answer somewhere out there too. Eventually, anything gets stale.

The answer is really in you, isn't it? All paths lead back to zero?

Class Assignment #1

Just a few hours earlier we had been discussing our "in case of parental death" protocol. One of our friend's mom was dying and everyone was put on high alert. His family had been ready for awhile now, since Stage Four cancer rarely spares. What hadn't been discussed was what should be done in case of friend emergency. We were all well versed on congratulations, graduations, marriages, babies, lay offs, break ups, and most everything in-between. Death was new. There wasn't a humorous email chain about Kevin's mother passing away. Nobody hit "Reply All." And that felt weird.

When our friend was run over by a speedboat in the Bahamas, it took all of ten minutes before the competition for best new nickname ensued. She had escaped with relatively minor injuries so it was easy to make light of the incident. "Scuba-Lynn" or "Lynn-atee" were the clear winners. We talked about making T-shirts, or at least an oversized button to commemorate the event. Lynn was highly amused and we congratulated ourselves on being supportive and caring "in our own way."

This time around, "in our own way," was confusing. I couldn't decide if it was normal for friends to fly in for a funeral, especially if you weren't close to the family. Lilly, already in San Diego, had slipped in at the end of our conversation, "You can stay at my house if you want, Jess' room is open." The way she said it, it seemed like she assumed I would be going home.

But wait, I wanted to ask, "Is everyone else going down? Is that what we're supposed to?" I didn't realize flying home was the automatic next step. I thought maybe we would consider sending flowers, or an apologetic email, or maybe hope for voicemail. Were there other options available, or this was something you just did because it was tradition, like reluctantly standing there with all the other unmarried males, waiting for the stupid girdle to go flying by?

After getting off the phone with Lilly, I immediately consulted my other adult friends, the ones I considered mature enough to give sage advice. The consensus seemed to be, "If you're free, you should go."

Hum, well, I was unemployed, I had a general policy to never plan more than two days ahead, and I had no life. Of course I would be free. Decision made. It hadn't been as easy as that though. A wise person had told me to call around and ask for bereavement rates. I didn't even know what those were but they sounded like a great idea. Unemployed remember?

So later that night, I spent forty fear filled minutes in front of my apartment at three in the morning, checking around for the cheapest flights between SFO and SAN. I was crouched outside because the inside of my apartment lacked reliable cell phone reception. Any phone calls had to be made standing out in the street, something I generally tried to avoid past midnight because the Mission still seemed terribly sketchy to me.

The last time I had stepped outside for a four o'clock cigarette, I had turned back after eavesdropping on a conversation between someone speaking in near-tongues and her friend, who sounded exactly like Chucky. Or he maybe he was an actual six year old but anybody who let a six year old hang around on my stoop in the middle of the night probably didn't have my best interests at heart. I'd packed my cigarette away that night and headed indoors before even making it past my gate. Since then, I've totally kicked my late night cigarette and stroll habit, replacing nicotine with the soothing safety of a locked door. Now I was outside on the phone, trying to make a deal and keep an eye on both alley entrances at the same time.

The first thing I found out about bereavement rates, also known as "compassion fares," was that they required proof of death. That made business sense, I guess. Airlines would have to prevent being taken advantage of by last second travelers somehow.

Proof of death required the name and relationship of the relative, in addition to the name, address, and phone number for the funeral home, hospice, or hospital. Sometimes they needed the name of the doctor. I clearly didn't have any of those, and wasn't about to ask. Getting home immediately wasn't looking good.

Luckily, after some calling around, I secured a $39 Southwest "Wanna get away?" promotion ticket. For the record, Southwest doesn't offer bereavement rates because "our fares are already the industry's lowest." Thank you Southwest for your daily compassion.

The next afternoon, "good friends fly home" badges pinned on our hearts, my friend Adam and I flew home.

Day 248

I just started taking this class the past week. It's a comedy slash writing class. It's an eight week workshop designed to explore and create a piece of comedic work. At the end of those eight weeks there will be a public performance. One of my resolutions from Jan-Mar was to take an acting class. This isn't exactly it but it'll have to do as a substitute.

Ideally we'll be exploring comedic forms, analyzing what makes something funny, and working through some of my fears of performance. I don't know why I have this issue with being in front of people since I've done speeches, performances, talks, training, etc. But each time it's in a context where people aren't really judging you maybe. When you do something creative, people generally ask one thing afterward: "What is good?" I think I'll aim for "so-so." Actually, I'll pray for "so-so."

There's also this pressure to be funny. I mean, I think I'm funny but apparently I'm not all that funny. So I'm going to have to write or perform a story that is not only so-so good but also funny. This should be interesting.

One of the in-class exercises was to think of a painful moment or event in your life and write the external and internal memories of it. External encompassed details and setting. Internal covered feelings and emotions. I'm notoriously horrible at saying how I feel about something. I'm possibly even worse describing details and setting. It's ridiculous since writing is about communicating one or the other isn't it?

Anyway, in trying to think of something painful or traumatic (not embarrassing, but actually painful), it took me awhile. As in I just made one up. I dramatized a recent moment and blew it up to the point it was actually painful. Everyone was supposed to say "ding" when they had a painful moment in mind. I was the last one to "ding," and I just kind of did it to go with the program.

In the end, my haiku from the exercise looked like this:

The lunch crowd is gone
Secret, then counter-secret
Interrogation!

I could explain the story behind it but there's not really that much going on. What I got out of this exercise was that I'm wholly unable to parse out the stuff that people seem so ready to define as painful. My pain tends to trickle away quickly. I mean, aside from deaths or the occasional relationship pain, what else do I have to complain about?

I'm worried that a lack of real experiences (defined by highs and lows, happiness and sadness) will hamper my ability to be funny. Or a story teller. Or you know, involved.