As the adults immersed themselves in wine and dine and lively conversations, the child and the dog were having fun too.
Lemon the dog: "Hey, what have you got there?"
S. the baby: "Cracker, yummy."
Lemon: "Oh, if only I could get a bite!"
S.: "Not today, pal."

Are they the cutest or what!? :)

The street lamps that dotted along the pavements worked in collusion with the evening fog to create a sad, lonely look. The campus is devoid of its daytime traffic and bustle at such a late hour. I hurried along in silence, hoping to catch a professor that always taught a night class on this certain day. The route of which I am taking is the same that I took one and a half year ago, with the same patch of lustrous grass that was always too wet for sitting down; the same red brick building with that insouciant solemnness that curiously resembled many of its engineering students; the same cafe with its outdoor patio that my classmates and I spent countless hours toiling over term papers and finals; and the same school newspaper stands that I was so involved in putting in articles that no one on campus really cared for. Everything seemed to be unchanged, only that they now carried a gradual aging look -- if ever so slightly perceived -- a newfound forbearance.

After seven minutes of walk, cutting through the stillness of the wet, cold evening air, I descended into a short staircase that lead to the entry of the Journalism department. Upon entry I was greeted by the familiar luminous corridor, with the faint creaky sound underneath each step, and the plastered walls that are perpetually adorned by postings seeking student internship and scholarship. A clear, distinct sound of typing on keyboard can still be heard, as it was the same when I first started. I stole a glance inside the slightly cramped newsroom. The four rows of colorful but antiquated eMacs that spelled out defiance to Windows have now a slightly mawkish look. As usual, no one looked up or took notice that a stranger is physically present at the threadbare office, as each writer busied him or herself with the approach of deadline. I scanned each face and profile as discreetly as I could, and found no one I knew.

I made my way to the professor's office, located on the other end of the building. Luckily his light was still on. I gave a couple of light knock on the steel door and was granted entry by a muffled sound of "Come in." I gave him a handshake and briefly explained the reason why I had come to his office. In his avuncular and affable tone he enquired of my current employment and my educational goal. After some exchanged pleasantries he granted my request for a letter of recommendation that will be used toward the application of another Library Science program. I thanked him and took my leave.

Though extremely tired from working and driving to school afterwards, a sense of exorbitant nostalgia swelled like a high tide that I couldn't pull myself to leave. The derelict building in which I was in was indeed the embodiment of my youthful happiness and transgressive ambition. The warm corridor calmed my nerves. I chose a bench along the wall to sit down and closed my eyes to imagine the clangor in the former days. None so distinct other than that lonely soul typing against the approach of deadline.

Tonight I had a chance to taste an authentic Japanese household dish Okonomiyaki done in Hiroshima style. My dear neighbor Mr. and Mrs. F. and their little baby girl invited me and my landlord and landlady and roommate over for dinner. And as everyone got hold of the news that I will be attending graduate school at San Jose State University next year, my landlady surprised me with a lovely homemade cheese cake that is dedicated to my acceptance by the university. Words alone cannot express my gratitude.
In a nutshell Okonomiyaki is Japanese style pancake cooked with various vegetables and meat and seafood, splashed on top generously of Japanese mayo and Okonomiyaki sauce. The cooking is done right on the dinner table, as everyone can decide what ingredients to be put on. What delicious taste!

Our host Mr. and Mrs. F. are originally from Japan. They are in the antique/second-hand clothes and furniture trade. Their cozy apartment is furnished in a stylish 50's and 60's motif, in which every single piece of furniture was a result of a treasure hunt throughout Southern California antique mall and swap meets. They just had a baby about one year ago. She is such a darling.

On occasions as such we cannot skimp on the flow of alcohol. Every imaginable alcohol was at our disposal. To start out we celebrated with champagne, followed by Asahi beer, Japanese sake, California zinfandel and syrah. Of course, being a non-drinker, I abstained from but the champagne.

Everyone talked a great deal. The obvious advantage of living in a Japanese community is that I get to improve my paltry comprehension of spoken Japanese language. The conversation in general would zigzag between English and Japanese, and here and there I would catch a gist of their saying in Japanese. Everyone here is so incredibly nice and generous. At almost 12 am we thanked our gracious hosts and sauntered back to our apartment, feeling the sharp cold night air and watched the few stars sparkled above.
As I sit in front of my iBook and reminisce over our dinner party, I couldn't help but to feel a swelling of deep, sincere gratitude toward everyone that I got to acquaint since my moving here about five months ago. As much as I complain about living in Southern California, about how much I dislike living in the suburbs, I bethought myself as very lucky to have met the nicest people around. Being with them tonight made me forget my melancholy; they made me enjoy life.

Just as I finished my last blog entry at the local Starbucks, worrying as ever about the upcoming GRE, went home with my brain boiled with chagrin, a blissful letter arrived unannounced, giving me the first surprise of the year.

The ashen gloom that has been enveloping the city for the past week stubbornly refused to cast its melancholy elsewhere. It remained stationed, showering the city on occasion with fine mist that doesn’t require the use of umbrella, but nevertheless would moisten the lens of my glasses, filtering the way I perceive. At night it would drop heavy doses of raindrops with a clatter, making my sleep a wakeful event.

Something ghastly is slowly and noiselessly making its approach, piquing at my mind, tearing away piece by piece the buffer zone that is known as time. That something is a date: 11/15/2005. On this day I will put forward all I have worked for so far into one standardized test, the minatory GRE, and it’s supposedly to have significant implication as to what my future holds. It’s only a month away till judgment day. I had started my preparation sometimes around July, but my efforts so far has been halfheartedly proceeded for procrastination is the only personal quality I can boast of. Instead of toiling away on nonsensical geometry and algebra equations, or laboriously trying to memorize the secondary meaning of the word august, I instead indulged myself in reading Henry James, Franz Kafka, Thomas Hardy and Milan Kundera.

The two dog-eared GRE preparation books that had gathered a good amount of nonchalance are once again excavated from the ignored section of my bookshelf. I still remember the frisson of toward the books when it arrived from Amazon during the summer months. I glanced over the verbal section, of which the alien words still somewhat remain decipherable, though not entirely familiar as before when I had started memorizing with flash cards. Letting out a sigh, with a horrid feel, I turned over to the deadpan math section. It’s been how long since I last sat in a math class, I soliloquize to myself. I faintly recall of my college sophomore math class, where which I took much pummeling in trying to get by with a passing grade. That I did, with much relief, and I had never once again looked back at the queasy numbers. Then -- despite my immaturely thinking, I was actually happy -- I didn’t have the foresight and ambition of going to graduate school. I was too proud, too boastful, thinking that further schooling will only have hampered my bright career that is sure to take off right after college. How wrong have I estimated, and by such a wide margin! In the actuality that is today, I look about of what I have and achieved -- so little, so hollow, so sad.

With great reluctance, page by page, I meandered through the first few sections on the GRE math. As I am clarifying the meaning of integers and prime numbers and so on (and trying to stay awake), my fleeting eyes unconsciously shifted its gaze to the new novel I had just started, Alan Hollinghurst’s The Line of Beauty. I let myself succumbed to the bookish temptation, read unsatisfactorily for 20 pages or so, and got back to studying. However by this time, my arithmetic spirit has already been disabled, ceasing all functions. “Come back tomorrow,” the sign reads.

http://voluntaryconfinement.wordpress.com/

I want to give WordPress a try. Basically the contents are identical. Just different lay out.

Sometimes the best way to de-stress is a game of catch-the-bone with Lemon. She is happy. I am happy.

C. and I reminisced over dim sum at a crowded and noisy restaurant. We have not seen each other since our college days. And upon our meeting we extended courtesies to one another way over what was proper, considering that our friendship was quite beyond superficial means. Pleasantries were exchanged to and fro. I asked of her recent developments; she in response inquired of my life after university. There was an odd hesitation in me that I did not feel comfortable to divulge my current life over to this person that I at once felt to be indispensable. By the same token I did not venture in areas that I consider to be overly personal.

Shrimp dumpling was brought first to our table. The waiter spoke at first in rapid Cantonese, of which I failed to fathom, then changed to a softer tone in mandarin, asking if we would like to try the special-of-the-day dish. At present the ashen noon sky begun falling heavy raindrops that, despite the chattery noise confined in the restaurant, a muffled sound of rain splashing against pavement can be heard continuously. The hot steam emitting from the BBQ pork bun looked especially tantalizing at the advent of falling rain and temperature.

Just as I was fumbling with the paper wrapper of the bun, the questionary floodgate of C. that I have known so well over the years is finally open and let loose (Is it the rain?). Deep, hardball questions were thrown at random at a rate that I couldn't take two bites before giving answers that were deemed satisfactory to her. By the time at which she needed to take a sip of the lukewarm oolong tea the steam of the bun had already evaporated. Of course I don't feel sorry; this is the C. that I adore.

One by one the dishes came: Chicken feet (C. would never touch), pork dumpling and shu-mai, HK style noodle, rice-noodle sheet with shrimp and fried bread, sesame rice ball, and mango pudding (C.'s favorite). We ate slowly and joyously. Our lunch must have taken more than two hours (there are many people waiting outside for tables), of which not a moment passed without one of us uttering a notion that is of interest. I was glad to hear that C. has found life to be agreeable. Of all the people I know in our university department she is after all the few who have actually realize her dream of working in the field of press. She satisfied my curiosity about the actual field by answering each inquiry with much animation. In doing this service to me I felt my miseries were unclouded.

We bid goodbye at the front door. The rain is falling like fine needles at a much slower pace. C. will already be leaving Los Angeles without really stepping in. She wished me luck in my endeavor in finding a more suitable life. I watched her ran to her small rental car and saw her drive off. I am always the one watching over others move on -- I couldn't help but to feel.

I walked and walked, taking each careful step, looking about the prim surrounding, unused to the dispeopled pavements of downtown, wandered from 6th Street to 1st Street and back to 8th Street. There is nothing in particular that I wish to see, only that the act of walking and perceiving at random has a soothing effect upon my conscience, of which the feeling of dissatisfaction continues to fester itself.

I started off at the Central Library. Seeing rows of books carefully catalogued has a salutary feel, yet I felt no inclination to pick one out and render my concentration to reading. Last night I had just finished reading Henry James's The Portrait of a Lady, in which a conversation between Isabel Archer and Caspar Goodwood toward the end had a most striking point. I can't quite recall the sentence verbatim, but it has a close likeness to as such:

“Part of your life is a mistake, but please don't throw away the rest."

Has my choice of occupation, of residence and of my study a series of mistakes too? that in going with the current, instead of against -- and suppressing the capricious undercurrent in me to do otherwise -- will I further surrendered my remaining youth to conform to the wishes of others?

As I walked and brooded, without my knowing it, the Walt Disney Concert Hall's various angular arches, protruding proudly toward the blue sky, gleamed in the foreground and caught my unperceived attention. The steel vastness of the structure spell out magnificence, as anything Frank Gehry laid his hand on; and its glistening surface, in synchronization with the sunlight on top of the city, represented the grandeur of new Los Angeles. I stood motionless by the structure, head tilted, struck in awe. The building is near-perfection. Scratch out "Walt Disney" and replace it with something more elegant and imaginative, then we can talk about perfection. I never thought a cluster of steel can be rendered into a structure of such that exudes softness and elegance.

Looking about me it seems there might be a concert tonight. Scattered at every intersection were "Do Not Enter" or "Road Closed" placards awaiting their upcoming duty. It's my wish to someday attend an event as such. When will that take place I do not know. After walking around the structure and its attached garden, I proceed into the inner. The interior is pronounced by the modern marriage of soft wood and steel and glass. The staff members standing by, looking professional yet obliging at the same time, were very eager in explaining the intricacies of every nook and crevice. The box office also offers 45 minute walking tour of the building inside and out for $10. Instead I chose the touristic thing to do: picking out an $20 T-shirt at the gift shop, on which the famous design sketch by Gehry is imprinted.

After my self-appointed tour of the Concert Hall, and a brief walk over to the less-spectacular Ahmanson Theatre right next door, I started back for the library. On my way back, while passing the MOCA, an handsome man and a beautiful blond woman were arguing viciously in foreign tongue that I couldn't make out of what origin. Their quarrelsome conversation did not cease even of my passing by -- they were quite oblivious at this point of their argument. The deserted streets of downtown on a Saturday give liberty to anything one's mind gives to.

The furtherance of my walk, while dusk is slowly making its introduction to the disappearing daylight, made me perceive more things that are characteristically of downtown. The loud police siren, sounding more penetrating and luminescent amidst the tall glass and steel buildings, has a more urgent feel to than those that sound off at monotonous suburbia. Every two block that I traverse a beggar, hatchet-faced, with plastic cup in hand, would ask for my generous donation. Each I refused in affront fashion; it pains me to think of their daily struggle for subsistence.

Inevitably my daily struggle with my conscience will continue for a while, as my logic can only arrive at such inconclusive conclusion. My life is hung in the balance; how long will it be I am still in the dark. The tunnel of unknowing extends itself infinitely, torturing my senses, frustrates my equilibrium, and always gives ominous warning for the next stop.

Placid mind set + Ennui = Nothing to blog

I like IKEA. I dread IKEA. I like IKEA for its egalitarian affordability and the colorful catalog. I dread IKEA for having to spend an afternoon assembling a piece of furniture that is furnished with a primitive drawing of instruction that I could never decipher what goes where. But, hey, where else can I find such a place with a $30 new book shelf, and the beauty of not having to deal with a furniture sales person? Plus, going to IKEA means I get to browse the mind-boggling selection of Swedish food products. On the way there I stopped at a cafe for a light breakfast (its seldom that I eat breakfast and eat out). Coincidently the Financial Times is running an article about 25 influential billionaires in which the founder of IKEA is featured as number 22. Interestingly the Swedish consul general in San Francisco is quoted saying, with a great degree of condescension: "In Sweden, going to IKEA is like going to the supermarket to buy paper towels in bulk. But in America, IKEA is a wonder of super design."

After I hauled the tightly-packaged heavy planks home, despite my wishing to enquire Isabel's progress in The Portrait of a Lady, I set to work, tearing away the cardboard packaging and tried not to be overwhelmed by the work ahead. I tried to ascertain that none of the screws are missing (it happened to me once before). The instruction is as convoluted as ever, despite of IKEA's endeavor in trying to simplify the process by including no written words.

After much fumbling a rough outline is sketched in my constructive mind as to what goes where and how many screws are needed to secure it from falling apart. I cajoled, caress, entreating to the planks that they shall fit snugly. While the planks were cooperative, the screws were not. They are like a bunch of wild puppies, running around misbehaving, refusing to be housebroken. I screamed, cursed, bellowed, hammered away vagrant screws, and finally the burble of defiance quieted down, the mutiny leader put to its proper place, the autocracy restored.

It's pleasing to the senses to see books that long littered the edge of my tiny residence finally to have found proper shelter. I put up the bookshelf against the white threadbare wall, cataloged each book according to its genre and authorship, my tiny literary heaven is thus erected and put to my disposal.

In a nonchalant, dispassionate way I picked up the 6 iron and started swinging, aiming for the enormous dark night that hung listlessly over my head and extending into the far distance. The air felt cold; colder as the wind picked up momentum, enveloping my every sense with chill, yet my mind remain defiant, as, one by one, golf ball disappeared into the dark gloom, each carrying off a bit of my melancholy, my sorrow and my helplessness.

It was around 8:20 PM, after sunset, where no traces of daylight was left lingering, there formed a beautiful picture in the distance, where which the merging point between the dark night and the city's mechanical luminescence formed a dark purplish patch of ponderable size and luridness, and, with the help from the many fellow golf practicer, shooting stars disguised in the form of tiny golf balls were repeatedly launched skyward in haphazard fashion into the backdrop of purplish heaven. Wishes were whispered introspectively: "Get me out of here; get me somewhere; let me live my life as it should."

Given Google's forward thinking in search and software, I am very surprised to have read Google Maps' labeling Taiwan as "Province of China".

Google has been very active in the news as of late. The search engine giant's dominance now encompasses not only people's internet search habit, but the various softwares Google keeps on putting out are now a regular stable in many PCs. I for one am an avid user of Gmail, Picasa, Google's Desktop Search, and the host of this blog, Blogger. I cannot confirm whether this is due to political pressure by the People's Republic of China, or simple ignorance on Google's mapping department. Though it is hard to believe such mishap can be attributed to ignorance or human mistakes, for just take a quick glance at any map not published by the PRC one can easily see Taiwan is overwhelmingly listed separately from PRC.

Just for the record I am in no way an hard-core, die-hard pro-independence Taiwan Solidarity Union member, of whom are trying to stamp out any thing that bespeaks of China or Chinese heritage, even if ever so slightly. I am quite content -- though not excited -- about Taiwan's de facto independence at this point in time. I just wish that Google would simply respect the fact that Taiwan IS NOT A PROVINCE OF CHINA! Every decision-making process in Taiwan is enacted by the Taiwanese people and no one else. PRC has no say whatsoever in how many potholes to fix in Taipei or how many F-16s we can buy from the American or whom we can vote to be our president and legislators.

With blue sky and sparse white cloud hovering overhead, the exfoliation of the 405 freeway from traffic congestion, I and my friends E. and Y. drove northward to the world famous Beverly Hills, where vehicles that are valued close to, or over, six digits outnumber those that are fractionally priced, where even the most zealous bourgeois mentality would be humbled by the prevalent affluence so detailed in everything that the eye could perceive. Usually this uncharted territory remain to us off-limits for its flatulence and for our lack of Swiss bank accounts. But since my beloved The North Face store -- the only one in Southern California -- is situated here (of all place) I had no choice but to traverse the water that is privileged for the filthy rich.

Our timid, poverty-stricken minds are aggravated each time we walk the street of Rodeo Drive, in which looking at the well-heeled facade is like looking directly at the sun. Everywhere we see rich, tall blonde women with their thin frame clad in Burberry outfits and Hermes handbags, skittled in and out of their Mercedes or Lexus; and rich bald men swaggering along with their girlfriends or wives, not in any way inhibited by the scar left behind their brain by Dr. Bosley (the hair transplant doctor, the embodiment of hair loss restoration in So. Cal). However much we detest idolatry in materialism, we couldn't help but to lust over their much expanded economic power.
As we walked toward my purpose of this trip, while passing numerous designer boutiques, E. took the initiative to confiscate Y.'s credit cards lest she might on a whim bring back home the $900 handbag that has been the yearning of her soul as of late. I didn't have any say in this for my recent purchase of the iBook, of which I was lightly scolded for my indiscretion.

We reached my destination but came out empty-handed. I had precisely six items on my mind, but they were either out-of-stock or none were in my size. I had also planned on purchasing a new backpacking pack for my upcoming, nonexistent getaway that is scheduled at who knows when, and that also evaporated like a puff of smoke because of their inefficient logistical supply line. E. called it a blessing in disguise.

So the three of us combined to spend amazingly not a penny on our external decorations. We were rather happy about it. To celebrate our financial prudence (Y. termed it uptightness), we chose a Sunday brunch place and surrender ourselves to champagne, mollifying our tacit awareness that we are at the lower end of the economic scale.