A defense of and a message for Mother's Day

Alright, so...Mother's Day came and only sort of went.

I wanted to say something on this day for my mother, and her mother, and my father's mother, and everyone else's mother. Oh, and, of course, to future mothers.

Mother's Day can be claimed to be another holiday to make money with cards, candies and curios. I can certainly see the point. But I think it forgets something: there was a time, not so long ago, when giving birth to a child was a life-threatening attempt. That's still true in too many countries throughout this world. We should appreciate our mothers because, by dint only of location of birth, they were able to be safer when they birthed us. Basically, we should recognize our mothers as an appreciation for all mothers everywhere, especially those who give their lives for the lives of their children, whether in childbirth or in defense of their child's life.

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Now, I'd like to say something for my mothers (Mom, Nana, Grandma Chin, Lala, Grandma D, Pat, Aunt Roe, etc.) Obviously, some of these people are more my mother than others. But each of them has the same look in their eye when they talk or talked with me: a combination of love and pride with a tinge of fear that they might be screwing up. Everything here will not have pictures. I know that I like to put up my pictures of my subjects, but I don't have anyone's permission, and I feel like that's kind of a crappy thing to do for people I love.

My true grandmothers are Nana and Grandma Chin. My Nana is on my mother's side, and, oddly, lives in Atlanta. My mother's not from there, I'm not from there, no one in my family is, and yet, she's set up camp there now. *Shrugs* Anyway, I love her since she's the grandmother who's, historically, always pampered me. She's a beautiful woman full of life and vigor. Granted, she takes more naps now than ever, but she's still up for traveling and loves to hear about new music and new literature (she just doesn't like it all).

Grandma Chin is, logically, on the other side of the family. She passed when I was young, but I do remember one thing about her. She had a cane, but I can't remember why she did. She used to sit in this chair in the dining room of her house; she would eat something there and hang her cane on the bottom of the stair case railing. I, as a rambunctious child, would run around the house, which wasn't hard since it was basically a square. I would run from the living room to the darkly lit wooden porch, pass the orange wall-papered bathroom through to the lime green kitchen and hit the dining room and then the front door, which would light up the bottom of the staircase. Once, as I was running, and apparently far more cunning than I can ever recall being, I grabbed her cane and ran with it for a lap. Grandma laughed since she was sitting at the table eating; I guess she figured she didn't need it and I could play with it. What she didn't realize, as I said, was that I was plotting something. As I ran again, I grabbed her sandwich. She was angry, naturally, and went for her cane. Realizing that, in one hand, I had her sandwich, and, in the other, her cane, she sat back down and chuckled to herself. (She probably thought I was going to become a thief when I grew up. Or worse, a master strategist for the army!)

I was the first child of my mother and father, so they often, quite correctly, refer to me as the guinea pig child. My mother had to guess with me; whether it was with the best doctor in the city, which diaper brand was the sturdiest or how to go about the college application process, I was the one who paved the way for my sister. This isn't meant to sound bitter or angry toward my sister or anyone else; I hope I didn't convey that. I only wish to convey my profound thankfulness towards her for dealing with all of it with love, (mostly) honesty, curiosity and a hug waiting for me at the end of the day.

I wish I had more time to sum up every other mother in my life. Heck, I'd love to have more time to sum up every woman in my life. But I can't at the moment since it's almost 2 am. (This is where Mel laughs and says, "I've chatted with you much later than that." To which I say, shut up, you in-the-future-living, koala-petting, McDonald's-loving creep.)

Oh, and Harim, I promise. After the tour, your post is next. You know which one I'm talking about, right?

Hobos, hohos and ding-dongs (and elephants)

I realized two things after the last real post. One is that I didn’t link to Ben's page. The second thing is that my story was supposed to serve as an introduction to me, and I think it was more about Ben!

Here’s the thing: I think the majority of people who would read this are well aware of Ben. They’re well aware of me. However, I’m treating this blog as if it’s speaking to an amorphous being. Let’s call this being Mr. Internet. Hullo, Mr. Internet.

One quick thing to say: on the 6 train on the way out last night, a young man of 20 came into my car. He said he was from Washington, and he was trying to get to Florida for work. He looked grungy, and, by grungy, I mean dirty, not Nirvana-esque. He had a yellow, short, squat pit bull with basically a canine backpack around his (the dog’s) waist. He looked healthy and well-fed. His coat was actually shiny and petting him didn’t make my hand feel greasy. Essentially, this young man took care of his wonderful, loving, well-trained dog. My heart broke, and, as he walked by, I saw other people search for change. I pulled out my wallet and gave him a dollar. I’ve done this before, especially for very good buskers, since I feel like they gave me something (aural pleasure). When he walked away, I went back to my copy of Rumi, but it felt useless. I just wanted to sit and think. I wanted to be alone with my thoughts and memories. It was the first time I ever gave money to a homeless person and didn’t feel any sort of pity in doing it. That is to say, every homeless person I gave money to previous to him was out of pity for that person. In his and the dog’s case, I didn’t feel bad for them necessarily. I just wanted to share what I had with someone who seemed like he needed it. Do I know if he spent it on booze? No. Do I know if he goes home to a really nice studio on Montague Street? No. All I know is that it felt right to help these two, the consummate boy and his pup going on an adventure. As he walked away, I stared at myself in the subway window, which, especially when in tunnels, doubles as a mirror. I looked back at a well-fed face with my trimmed hair and beard, and wanted to cry.

That was depressing! Let's be happy and laugh at my expense; with that, I'm going to steal a post from Ben. It's a good one- Five key things I didn't experience until after the age of 23, or: The most revealing post you will EVER read on this blog

1. Very public displays of affection (not to be confused with public displays of too much affection)


2. Finally getting British humor (and finding it funny)


3. The joys of sexting
(Uhh...how do I show this without revealing my sex life?)

4. Growing a moustache!


















5. Being Zen, if only for a moment

(Seriously, can this guy be our mascot?)

Samson, or how to lose your facial hair and stay cool

So, I opened a new blog; I haven’t had one since the first couple of years of college. That was a whiny one, full of awkward quizzes and it had a Morrissey quote in the background. This one is not going to be like that.

The whole reason I’m doing this is simple: to reclaim an ounce of coolness in my life. Yes, I know, blogs aren’t actually all that cool. Honestly, I just have too many interesting thoughts that it would be a shame not to share. (This is, of course, in my opinion). I shaved my beard for a job- I grew it back, but I made up my mind as my chin started to appear. I’m pretty sure I lost a bit of my soul when the sun hit my bare cheeks that morning. I figured if I was going to have to put up with this hair indignity, I was going to do it with my fingers on a keyboard and my ears listening to a new record for me to complain about.

What’s this blog going to be about? Does it matter? Does anyone reading need a purpose?

Let me introduce myself via a story. This is about a daydream (you know when you’re awake, but let your mind wander and it becomes almost a REM-sleep dream; this is that) I had. I told it once to my friend Ben (Benny Paul) while we were at Kings County, a pretty great, very dark bar near his place. (The main things I remember are: it’s fairly cheap, they had no limes for our G and T’s, and the bartender was extremely cute and knew her way around bourbon). He thought it was really funny and I told him it would be here. It also doubles as my introduction to his wonderful blog- basically, it’s a blog about being a young man in a huge city, being down and out and loving it, being up, and just straight being. Also, if you enjoy British humor and Burt Jansch, he’ll probably fall in love with you (and you, in turn, should fall in love with him). Every girl I know has fallen in love with him.

The daydream goes like this: Ben, who is a pretty great filmmaker, and I, not a bad writer, particularly of poetry, were at the Oscars. This is right after the actual show. We had a film in the running, and he was in for best director and I was up for best screenwriter, and the film was up for best picture. We sat there, clearly uncomfortable in our rather nice tuxedos, which were probably rentals. I had my friend Scout (not her real name, but a common nickname for her) as my date- I’m pretty sure she came with me for the experience and a chance to wear a fabulous evening gown. Benji brought Charlize Theron, who had a thick South African accent in this dream; we kept asking her about South Africa, so I think the main reason Ben brought her was because she was South African. Not a joke- Ben enjoys accents and foreign stories. What does it say about me that I felt I should bring my friend as my date to Hollywood’s biggest event? That’s like bringing your mother- you clearly couldn’t get a good enough date or you date so many hot people, everyone applauds when you’re not bringing around a hot, sexy young thing. Not that you’re not a great date or a beautiful woman (she’s both), Scout, but I’d like to think I’d be having sex with a young lady with my Oscar statuette in the other hand. By the by, ladies and some gents, I suppose, if you’re having sex and the toy of choice is a gold gilded Oscar, you should never complain about the sex you’re having. Not ever.

Anyway, Jon Stewart goes up there for the best screenwriter awards, and does these impersonations of some nominees, including me. Apparently, I was well known enough for this to be funny. He combines my natural speaking voice (when I’m not drinking), a lower, sort of mumble, with my propensity to go an octave higher when something ridiculous happens. Most people refer to this as the Jerry Seinfeld or sitcom voice. Naturally, I win best screenwriter and get up there, and basically pull a Fiona Apple. If you don’t know what I’m referring to, YouTube it now. I’ll be here when you get back. So, I start saying all sorts of things about how this isn’t important and that we’re all bloomin’ lucky for what we do. The orchestra quickly plays me off. Everyone awkwardly shifts in their chairs, but Scout laughs and Ben just smiles and shakes his head. When he wins, everyone’s super happy for him; he steals a quick kiss from Charlize and hugs from Scout and I, and bounds up to the stage, his hair flopping and his legs only sort of running, like he’s trying to cross a street when the cars are coming down on him. His acceptance speech goes much smoother, and one can tell by the look in his eye that he’s almost saying, “Let me apologize for Greg.” He doesn’t, of course; I wouldn’t do it out of protocol, and I’m not saying Ben’s a boor, but he wouldn’t do it for other reasons. Simply, that trying to apologize for someone else’s personality and beliefs is like pissing in the wind. That is my impression; Ben may disagree. Anyway, he thanks all the right people, goofily smiles and walks away. I think we win best picture; my memory gets fuzzy, but I do remember finally thanking all my friends and family. That might have been an E! interview though. Last thing I remember was me winking at a beautiful young lady as we leave the theatre; it was probably Anna Kendrick from “Up in the Air,” but it could very well be Meryl Streep, who Ben and I have agreed is just plain sexy.