Asian Thought

Blaze of Glory

2006-06-03T01:38:00.000-07:00

Reason No. 4, 080 why I love living on Capitol Hill: As I was leaving the bar tonight, my friend Rebekah and I are greeted by a Volkswagen van on fire. I mean in flames, smoke billowing, waiting for the thing to blow up like in the movies, fucking on fire. We walked up the hill, where we encountered a group of people, and ended up talking to the driver of the van. Turns out he was just driving home from work when people noticed his car was on fire and yelled at him to get out. He jumped out, leaving his car at the intersection right in front of the bar, and books up the hill. I actually got to get on the phone and dial 911 for the first time in my life. The fire engine rolls down the street and they get to work. The crowd gathers. Ah, the drama on an average Friday night. As for the postscript, I wish I could be there when he explained this to his insurance company in the morning.

I See You

2006-05-22T16:53:00.000-07:00

The Christian right hates sex, sure, we knew that. But this is ridiculous. So I'm sure they'd love to hear about this.

This has nothing to do with God or sex, but it's rare when nature comes to Greek Row.

Long Highway

2006-05-21T23:45:00.000-07:00

One of the reasons we deify musicians is because of the disconnect between album material and live stage show and us, the faceless audience at-large. It's that gulf between artist and listener that actually benefits both producer and consumer. The idea that these avatars of melody seem untouchable almost, well, makes the word-and-song dance about everyday thoughts, feelings, experiences and emotions all the more deep and powerful. It's as if once an instrument is in play, a song penned, a voice unleashed, the artist is somehow outside of the human experience, able to observe and report back as an objective party.

Of course, most of that is bullshit. We love our music, we want it to matter, and for those of us who choose to devote large portions of time and income (your humble author included) on the material, we want some fucking validation. We want it to mean something. So that wall between performer and fan is very necessary. It helps with the whole myth and romanticism thing. But no matter how devoted to your craft you are, you still have bills to pay. Often we forget that not everyone is making U2 money. Your favorite rising indie band or coffee shop Jack Johnson wannabe isn't exactly rolling 'round in a Phantom or appearing on Sofia Coppola's latest soundtrack.

So OK, what does this have to do with anything? Well, reader, be patient, writing short is not a skill I possess. Anyway, on Sunday afternoon I stroll into a local coffee shop. Waiting in line, I notice one of the servers behind the counter looks vaguely familiar. Then it hits me. I turn to my friend Cassie and whisper "Isn't that Sera Cahoone?" Yes, turns out it is. Some background for those not familiar with the local music scene. Sera Cahoone is a singer-songwriter originally from Colorado. Her self-titled debut album was released earlier this spring. It's fantastic stuff. Her voice is a deep southern, gothic timbre, haunting and melodious all at once. She sounds like the love child of Cat Power and one of those old-time country and bluegrass singers from the middle of last century. Anyway, it's one of the better local releases I've heard in a long while and one of my favorite albums right now.

As I wait to order, it strikes me. Even though she is super talented, a good songwriter with a knack for making topics that would be cliché in the hands of lesser performers (unrequited love, horrible relationships, loneliness) into something original and refreshing, she is about to serve me a tall, $4 iced coffee on a muggy Sunday afternoon. I didn't feel sad for her exactly, but part of me wondered how many other musicians I've liked are in similar predicaments. I forget sometimes that just because I pay $10 to see her open at Neumo's or shell out the $12 for her album, she isn't getting mainstream radio play and only music nerds like me really have any idea who she is at the moment. She likely has credit card debt, maybe a student loan, a light bill to pay and groceries to buy just like me. So if being a barista is paying the bills while she continues to pursue her passion, who am I to judge? At least she's doing something she loves. And the funny thing? It didn't erase the myth or make me think any less of her. Instead, as I sit here and listen to her record while I type this, I've gained a new appreciation. You can hear the hunger in her voice, the songs taking on a whole new perspective. She's being shaped by real experiences and her music reflects that. That whole thing about myth and romanticism? Fuck it. Sometimes reality is the best way to connect. That and making sure to tip 100 percent.

A 'Pointless' Debate

2006-05-10T21:06:00.000-07:00

Apparently, many virile young men at campuses all across America are having the same mortifying problems as their fathers and grandfathers. When chased, it seems, they, um, lose interest. I can wholeheartedly state that I have no problems with the modern woman's needs. After all, I am a Feminist at heart.

"Back In The Days When I Was Young I'm Not A Kid Anymore"

2006-05-08T23:25:00.000-07:00

I've been in a retro mood of late – flicks, kicks and chicks. But of course, for me, it always comes back to the music. So, in honor of back in the days...

"When girls was bellin' tight courderoys/Like for the boys basket weaves, Nike Court Airs and footsie socks/And eatin' pickles with tootsie pops/And it don't stop; I'm glad, cuz when J.J. Fad hit 'Supersonic' it was kinda like a sport to wear biker shorts/Or to wear jeans; And it seemed like the masses of hoochies had 'Poison' airbrushed on they asses/Dudes had on Nike suits and the Pumas with the fat laces/Cuz it was either that or K-Swiss/I miss those days and so I pout like a grown jerk/Wishin' all I had to do now was finish homework."

...I present a random list of songs present at seminal (and the not so seminal) points of my adolescence:

Song Playing During My First (Real) Kiss: Weak, SWV
First Song of First Album I Ever Owned: Lay Your Hands On Me, Bon Jovi
Song Present When I Witnessed My First Death Of A Pet: The Transformers Theme
The Song I Lost My Virginity To: Part of Your World, Little Mermaid Soundtrack (It was playing in my high school girlfriend's little sister's room next door.)
Song That Kept Skipping The First Time I Made-out With Someone: Part-Time Lover, Above The Rim Soundtrack
Rocking The Tape Deck The First Time I Called Someone To Ask Them To Go To A Dance With Me: Mr. Big Stuff, Heavy D
Song That Taught Me That Cursing Was Cool And That White People Were Evil: Fuck The Police, NWA
On My Walkman When Derrick Kicked My Ass In Sixth Grade After An Argument Over Whether The Bears Would Suck That Year (They Did): End Of The Road, Boomerang Soundtrack
Most Heavily Played Song At First Co-Ed Party I Went To In Seventh Grade In Which We Played "Seven Minutes In Heaven": If I Ever Fall In Love, Shai
First Song Of Set Of First Solo Concert I Attended: Catch A Bad One, Del The Funkee Homosapien
Song On Repeat Most Often When My Friend Bill and I Stayed Up All Night To Complete The Trilogy – Beating Super Mario Brothers I, II And III In One Night: My Perogative, Bobby Brown
Song Of The Summer, Year I Graduated High School: Too Close, Next
Played Ad Nauseam At Every Post-High School Graduation Party: Still Not A Player, Big Pun
Song Playing In The Car When I Arrived At College: You Know My Steez, Gangstarr

Turning Japanese

2006-05-08T17:42:00.000-07:00

Apparently, this is quite the hands-on event.

A Different Type of Dear Jon Letter

2006-05-07T22:12:00.000-07:00

Dear Douchebag,

Stop stealing my fucking underwear. It goes without saying that the whole two washers and two dryers scenario of our shared laundry facility dictates that your ass must do a lot of waiting. I can understand if my load is sitting in the dryer and the cycle is done and your wash cycle is complete and I'm nowhere in sight. Fine, remove my stuff and stack it on top of the dryer. But no society I've ever read about says it's proper protocol for you to place some of your stuff – tidy whities, girlfriend's massive and unattractive panties, holey socks – in my goddamn dryer cycle.

That's not even the worst part. Sometimes, you fucking shithose, your sneak-thief ass will get your stuff out before I arrive. Somehow in this transition some of my underwear goes missing. Not the designer jeans, not the vintage T-Shirts, only my fucking BOXER BRIEFS. Now, I have seen your stuff hiding out amongst my shit – I always know it's your stuff because I don't have a fucking 38 waist you portly fuck or rock saggy BVD briefs you cunt – so I know their is no conceivable way you are squeezing your ass into my size 30 draws. And yet, shit seems to go missing. Somehow, you are actively picking out a pair or two (usually the high-end stuff) and making off like some fucking cowardly frat boy in some lame-ass rush prank.

So this begs the question: What have I done to you? Did I stab your cat with a sharpened toothbrush? Did I insult you one day while getting the mail, by asking if you were a Carlos Mencia fan? Did I slap bellies with your girlfriend after blacking out in the hall? I want some fucking answers. I want to know, really, what you do with my underwear. What the fuck is going on cheapskate? If I find your fucking stuff in my load again, expect a revenge I save for only the worst kinds of people. Fuck you.

Sincerely,

A pissed off neighbor.

Chirp, Shawty, Chirp

2006-05-04T16:25:00.000-07:00

If some of the early songs I heard are any indication, her new album is going to be rifuckulously awesome.

A Slow Work Day

2006-05-03T16:43:00.000-07:00

I was listening to Felt's Tribute to Lisa Bonet album during my run today. This would be the union of West Coast backpack rapper Murs and Slug from Atmosphere. This is the second such "tribute" album from the duo, who earlier shouted-out Christina Ricci, the B-List actress who is rivaling the Polar Ice Cap in terms of dwindling body mass. Neither album really has anything to do with either actress. Instead, as we've come to expect from both MCs, it's just an excuse to rhyme about sex, everyday slacker-hipster minutiae and (difficult) women.

So, being the original, outside-the-box thinker I am, I was compelled to make a list of the celebrities I would dedicate a tribute album to. Since I can't sing, rhyme or warble, play an instrument or look fly rocking a big alarm clock around my neck, this is of course all hypothetical. But a man can dream can't he? The top five:

KEIRA KNIGHTLEY
Um yeah, so the whole abs thing and those nearly visible hipbones are reason enough. But add her cheeky Britishness, her recent demonstration of acting chops and her, well, just keep looking at the picture. Plus, she sticks it to all those people hung up on cup size. Beauty doesn't care what size you buy at Victoria's Secret.

ZOOEY DESCHANEL
Plausibility, much like beauty, is all about perspective. How else to explain why an anonymous boob like me believes their is a measure of attainability when it comes to her? Quirky, eccentric and just off-center enough to be endearing and not crazy, she's the type of woman you could discuss Balzac, watch Italian New Wave films with, argue about politics or some other geo-political issue, yet could still knock back a few beers with and bowl a few frames. That's sexy.

NATALIE PORTMAN
The Harvard-educated beauty is obviously smart. She's also a talented thespian who can shoulder a major studio film (V For Vendetta) and little indie ones (Garden State), too. She isn't afraid to poke fun at herself, as that SNL spoof showed. Bring the Israeli-born Portman to Seder and be the most popular kid in the room.

SCARLETT JOHANSSON
For the longest time I thought she was my secret. First in The Man Who Wasn't There and then in Ghost World, you just knew. Those lips. That voice. Those smoldering eyes. Then she did Lost in Translation and then the fucking Island and suddenly all these yuppies and frat boys were on the scene. Still, you can't blame those legion of Volvo drivers and Busch Light drinkers (and future meathead Republicans). Who could resist?

CATHERINE KEENER
Ah, the hot older woman. You have to love her humility (she has repeatedly embraced her status as character actor extraordinaire), her talent and a sexiness brought on not by Page Six stunts or slinky dresses, but by experience. Versatile enough to star in such fare as the 40-Year-Old Virgin, Being John Malkovich and Capote, this is the kind of woman you could approach middle age with.

Would You Like My Number With That?

2006-05-02T16:51:00.000-07:00

So I sort of stole the idea for this post from here. But anyway, it made me think about the age-old question when it comes to those in the service industry: Are they just being nice because they're paid to or is there some fleeting chance that I, the Gorilla Monsoon of awkwardness and pregnant pauses, may have actually impressed said merchant?

Living, as I do, in the hipster haven of Capitol Hill, I am surrounded by beautiful women on a daily basis. From the 1 a.m. trot to QFC for Teddy Grahams and Miller High Life to last call at Linda's to spending half my paycheck at Sonic Boom, I am merely a passer-by as this trolley of unattainable beauty clatters past. Not a single task, no matter how mundane, can help me avoid interacting with a woman well outside my weight class. (For the non-sports fan, I mean, much like John Cusack's Rob Gordon character in "High Fidelity," I have to punch my weight. I'd place myself between welterweight and middleweight, which means I know that knockouts in the heavyweight class are best left alone for the results could be both painful and embarrassing.)

Example: The coffee joint tucked next to the QFC. The women that work there should only exist in the pages of some Hipster rag like The Fader. The kind of women who chain-smoke Camels, drink PBR, wear vintage – the kind of women you've wanted to sleep with since, well, you found your dad's old Playboy stash hidden in the bottom of a box of old Sports Illustrateds.

There is one girl in particular, a blonde that makes you realize why men fawn over blondes. A recent interaction with her:

Me: Um, black drip, please.
Her: That'll be all for you, hon?
Me: Er, uh, yeah.
Her: That'll be $1.50, sweetie.
Me: Er, um, thanks. Keepthechangeforatip.
Her: Huh?
Me: Um, just, uh, well, keep the change.
Her: Well, thanks. Made my day there, hon.
Me: Cool. Cool.

There are more like her all up-and-down Broadway and its side streets, an endless string of concrete arteries filled with women that scare the shit out of me. There is hot hippie chick that works at Pagliacci; Raven-haired, blue-eyed vixen staffing Broadway Video; Short-haired, punkish blonde at Crossroads; Tattooed, lithe, brown-haired, hat-wearing, ass-kicking bartender at Linda's; Cute, pixieish, dirty blonde server at Linda's; Artist-moonlighting-as-Atlas-Clothing-employee-with-Operatic-name, and of course, impossibly cute, petite keyboardist in local band who says things like: "I like my boobs. They're Ds" and "I love my rain boots. I have them in orange, too. Ooooh, galoshes. I like that word better. Galoshes, they sound right."

OK, so that last girl doesn't actually work in the service industry. I just threw her in there because I actually had a conversation that didn't involve me stammering or thinking of what not to say and hoping that she can't see me beginning to sweat and panic, because I have no idea what to say next.

I've figured it out; it's not actually the women themselves that frighten me. It's the idea of them. I mean they're supposed to be nice to you, it's their job to be cordial. But at the same time, a lot of them probably have some measure of natural approachability or else they would not be constantly interacting with people. Which makes it all the more confounding. I find it difficult enough figuring out if a woman is interested when she isn't serving me Vodka tonics or slices of pepperoni. Add the dual role of mercantile responsibility and this is damn near impossible.

Instead, I choose to ogle on the sly, secretly hoping that you reserve your terms of endearment only for me, that the eye contact is not just because I'm next in line or that when you compliment my choice of DVD rental or the shirt I picked out, you really mean to say: "I could watch that with you" or "I could help you take that off." Alas, good reader, sometimes fighting the good fight is more trouble than it's worth. In the meantime, at least my service comes with a pretty smile.

The Most Dangerous Man in America

2006-05-01T20:13:00.000-07:00

Since most traditional members of the Washington press corps were long ago spayed and neutered, leave it to a fake newsman to give the most pointed, ballsy political commentary of the year and one of the harshest, dare I say, brutally honest critiques of the Bush White House to date.

In case you missed it, Saturday was the White House Press Correspondents Dinner. Basically, this is an excuse for those scribes and other purported newshounds that cover the goings-on at Pennsylvania Avenue to dress in tuxes and eat an overpriced, undercooked entree and continue its meet-and-reach-around relationship with the Administration. But this year's host, Stephen Colbert, had an entirely different agenda. The host of Comedy Central's The Colbert Report, simply laid waste to all those in the room, eviscerating them with a deadpanned, detached, but unmistakably dissenting performance.

He didn't rant, he didn't stomp around, spit invective or curse. No, he used cold, hardened irony. He mocked, he taunted, he brilliantly satirized not just the Administration, but the press that has cowed from the Bush-Cheney tag team, the Right-Wing machine and its supporters and the way politics in general, is conducted these days.

Unsurprisingly, those in attendance were not laughing. The President looked nonplussed, the First Lady glared at Colbert, the press simply fidgeted under their suddenly, uncomfortably hot seats. Is it a sad state of affairs when a fake reporter has the balls to challenge a sitting President sitting mere feet away, while the real press charged with the responsibility of giving an accurate picture of the Administration can only pick at their steak or chicken? Yes. But in this day and age, it's just nice to see someone stand up to a bully.

The Prince

2006-04-30T19:13:00.000-07:00

Those of you who know me are aware that I share the same affinity for baseball as I do with getting stabbed in the eye with a spork. Generally, I avoid the watching of said sport unless I am paid to. I have also deftly avoided the loss of vision via plastic fast food utensil, so win-win thus far. I don't hate baseball, I'm just ambivalent towards it.

But thanks to the sorry state of athletic affairs at my old alma mater, (that would be Washington State University for the uninitiated) the bright spots I find must be latched on to with vigor. And while the women's rowing team is ranked seventh in the nation, I'm not jumping on that bandwagon. I'm never going to be that desperate for a winner.

So, leave it to a baseball player, a freshman, at that, to get me excited about, well, baseball. Granted, the team is still middle-of-the-pack, but Jared Prince is far from your average newbie.

I covered Prince when he was a three-sport star at North Kitsap High. While everyone was aware of his prowess on the diamond, it was assumed that the all-state quarterback would matriculate onto the roster of some Pac-10 football team.

For whatever reason, that didn't happen. So Prince turned to baseball. WSU and UW were his final choices. Possessed with a fastball in the mid-90s and some pretty nasty breaking stuff, the 6-foot-3 righty was supposed to be a young pitcher who could help the pitching-starved Cougs immediatly.

Well, he's done that. As his first season nears an end, Prince is 6-1 with a 3.80 ERA, shutting down USC today, as WSU took the series with the Trojans. But what no one figured was that Prince would go all John Olerud on motherfuckers. Splitting time on the mound and in the outfield, Prince is also among the Pac-10 leaders in hitting (.426), doubles (14), RBI (44) and on-base percentage (.508). He's shown some nice pop, with four homers to date, and is a strong defensive player, leading the team in fielding percentage, having yet to commit an error this season.

Which, aghast, means I may actually PAY to attend a baseball game this season. Forget the Mariners, the Cougs visit the Huskies in late May. They'll face UW junior fireballer Tim Lincecum, who aside from being a lock as a top 10 pick in the June draft and having possibly the best season by a pitcher in Pac-10 history, is also the best pitcher in Seattle this season.

Pass the peanuts and Cracker Jacks and give me a seat next to a gaggle of sun-dressed, flip-flopped, fake-tanned sorority girls. Take me out, indeed.

The Best Albums of the First Quarter of 2006

2006-03-30T00:21:00.000-08:00

There has been a slew of fantastic music coming out lately, so just some thoughts on what I'm really loving thus far and what may end up making my top 10 list at the end of the year. No rankings, the albums are in the order I remembered them by.

Band of Horses, Everything All The Time
Right now, if the year came to an end this would be at the top of my list. Think Shins meet My Morning Jacket. Just fantastic pop music. And they're a Seattle band. So, I get to show off my local pride, as well.

Ghostface Killah, Fishscale
There has been so much build up on this one, and thankfully, no let down. C'mon fuckers, this is the guy that is carrying the flag for real Hip-Hop. BUY THIS ALBUM. Show the man some love.

Boy Least Likely To, The Best Party Ever
Technically, this came out in Britain last year, but thanks to its official U.S. release this year, it makes the cut. Fantastic twee pop. You might see big things from this duo soon.

Love Is All, Nine Times That Same Song
Swedish band with infectious melodies and sly, subversive lyrics. Lovin' this album like it was Scandanavian crack.

Arctic Monkeys, Whatever People Say I Am, That's What I'm Not
Soooo much hype it was bound to fail to meet some people's expectations. It's like Oscar time when the nominations come out and people who haven't seen all the best film nominees inevitably read all the hype and are let down when they actually see the films. Well, these lads from England didn't shoot their wads prematurely. The hype was well-deserved.

Destroyer, Destroyer's Rubies
Dan Bejar writes songs you wish you could write. Actually, he writes better than most so-called writers. And he sings. And he's from Vancouver, so he probably smokes lots of good weed. And he kicks it with Neko Case. So yeah, he's much cooler than you.

Field Music, Field Music
More great British pop. Think Wire meets The Beach Boys. They were one of the big discoveries at South by Southwest this year even though the album came out in Britain last year.

T.I., King
Great Southern Hip-Hop. Love the way the words just roll off his tongue. I thought Urban Legend, his last effort, was uneven. This is just an entire album of hot shit. King of the South? Well, with this effort he may be inching towards his self-proclamation.

Juvenile, Reality Check
In college, if you had told me one of his albums would ever make a list like this, I would have laughed at you. But like his fellow former Hot Boy cohort Lil' Wayne did last year, Juve stepped up and delivered by far his best album to date.

J Dilla, Donuts
Oh, you don't like instrumental albums? Well, I guess you don't like sex or beer or pizza or sex with beer and pizza, either. Released days before his untimely passing, Jay Dee showed why he was one of hip-hop's best producers over the last half-decade. Tasty.

Man Man, Six Demon Bag
Man Man is like your crazy uncle. If that crazy uncle liked Captain Beefheart and Tom Waits and had several friends just as deluded and played lots of loud fucking instruments. Still, this Philly collective makes it work. Unconventional, but never unlistenable. The most fun album so far this year.

Jenny Lewis and The Watson Twins, Rabbit Fur Coat
The sexy Rilo Kiley frontwoman goes all twangy on us. I'm not complaining. I can't get her songs out of my head for hours after every listen.

Isobel Campbell and Mark Lanegan, Ballad of the Broken Seas
She is the former chanteuse for Belle and Sebastian. He is the former frontman for The Screaming Trees. Yet, together they make beautifully haunting music. Plus, she's hot and Scottish.

Belle and Sebastian, The Life Pursuit
I think it's their most consistent release to date. They've taken the whole indie pop-folk sound they've done for the last decade and taken it up a notch. Plus, they're Scottish, so even if the music is twee they can out-drink you and still kick your ass.

Eccentric Soul: The Deep City Label
OK, so compilations ordinarily don't count. But the folks at Numero Group have put out another winner. A fantastic collection of songs from the now defunct Deep City Label in Miami. Almost every major city in the U.S. had some sort of indie label that put out soul and R&B records in the late 60s and 70s. Deep City's roster put out some of the most soulful songs I've heard in a long while.

Jason Collett, Idols of Exile
One of the 879 members of Broken Social Scene, Collett's latest solo effort is a solid collection of pop tunes. It's like ear candy.

Tapes 'N Tapes, The Loon
THE buzz band at South by Southwest this year. This Minneapolis quartet is blowing the fuck up. I mean, Apple now mentions them on their Web page as a band to keep an eye on. Think shoegazer rock mixed with some post-punk sensibilites.

Still Hurting 'Em

2006-03-08T01:23:00.000-08:00

So it's been a long-ass wait between posts. I'm not saying this one is going to make readers wet with anticipation, and really, I don't think I have much to say. So, just click on the link and enjoy, because I can't make shit like this up.

Blades of Steel

2006-02-14T01:49:00.000-08:00

I will admit, the first time I saw the new Gillette Fusion, I was skeptical.
Come on, who the fuck needs five blades to shave? I didn't want to hate Gillette. I mean, they gave us the Mach 3, when no one knew they even needed three blades.
I remember the naysayers asked, "Why three? Two was perfectly fine." But those are the same backwards douchebags who thought the move from one blade to two was crossing the line.
Progress people, progress. Just as we've moved past computers that take up entire floors of buildings and one-size fries and sodas at McDonald's, we can move forward in things that actually matter every fucking day – like taking a sharp object to our faces each morning.
But as I prefaced earlier, I also said nay. I too was shortsighted, limited by the mere thought of FIVE blades. My trusty old Mach 3 had given me no problems. It was part of my morning routine, like grits and toast and the masterful handling of my dawn bulge.
So when I saw an ad for this monstrosity during the Super Bowl, I of course responded how humans always respond to things they don't understand – I made fun of it, thereby masking my own fears and insecurities of something that had actually blown my mind. Like adulthood, I just wasn't ready for it.
On Sunday, in need of more razors and confronted by the fact that the grocery store near my apartment now keeps razor refills in a locked glass case, and with no attendant nearby, I was forced to concede that this task would go unfulfilled.
Then I saw it.
It beckoned to me, in all its corporate unholiness. Its own stand-alone display in flashy orange and blue. FUSION it read. What it actually said, however, was much more meaningful. It really meant to say: "For $10, this will forever change your life."
And it did. Monday morning was the first day of the rest of my life.
With five blades and a head that moved in metronomic precision with the contours of my face, it was the smoothest shave I've had in a long time. It even rivaled the time I plunked down some cash for one of those old-fashioned, single-blade shaves from a barber.
There was need for just one swift stroke at a time, no touch-ups or reapplications of the razor were needed. I felt like a master artist, swiftly, brilliantly fashioning each stroke, no wasted motions, no precious seconds spent on missed swaths of skin. The hair gave way easily, like a fine roast where the meat slides off the bone.
It was over in five and I was out the door minutes later. My day, no matter what I faced in the ensuing hours, at least had a brilliant start.

I Just Wanna Get Next to You

2006-02-06T21:12:00.000-08:00

Dear Crunchwrap Supreme,

Baby, you've changed my life.
I know, I know, you've heard that line before. But until you came along I was messing with all these trifling dimepieces who weren't worth half the time in line at 2 a.m. or pocket change I spent on 'em.
But you, damn, you were different, like a dream. Perfection enclosed in a six-sided tortilla. You're everything I ever wanted in a late night tryst – that hot, creamy, not-found-in-nature-yellow nacho cheese, those faux beans and Grade D beef, the frozen lettuce, shrink-wrapped tomatoes, topped off with that smoooth sour cream – baby, if I could bone one fast food menu item for the rest of my life, it would be you.
You were there to settle my stomach after too many vodka tonics. You gave me comfort when I was nursing that late afternoon hangover. You filled my stomach with joy after another long day at work. You never backtalk, ask what I'm thinking or whose panties those are stuffed at the bottom of the hamper.
You make me want to settle down. You're the only one for me now.
Ultimate Cheeseburger? I kicked her to the curb. Dick's Deluxe? Put that broad out on the street. White Castle slider? Told her stank-ass to catch the last bus out of town. Filet-O-Fish? Gave her a breath mint and some cab fare.
Can't you see how serious I am? It's just you and I now – Bonnie and Clyde, Biggie and Diddy, K-Fed and Britney-style. We'll be together forever. As long as I have three bills and this unending craving for processed foods, we'll never be apart. Promise.

XOXO

Asian Thought

Super Nova

2006-02-01T00:12:00.000-08:00

I know the Super Bowl is at the forefront of every breathing person's mind in this region. But I pride myself on my forward thinking. So I'm looking ahead to the best annual sporting event in America – the NCAA Tournament.
It is appearing more and more likely – this current six-game losing streak would be a huge hint – that my Washington State Cougars will be left out of the field of 65 for the 14th consecutive season. And as such, I need my annual "other team to root for."
Up the road from Pullman we have Gonzaga. Love Adam Morrison, 'stache and all, but can't root for a team in the same media market that totally overshadows my alma mater.
Eastern Washington features the best freshman nobody's heard of in guard Rodney Stuckey. But unless they miraculously win the Big Sky Tourney, the Eagles will be watching March Madness unfold in Cheney.
As for Washington, well, do we really need to get into that?
Instead, I'm going with a team that appeals to my natural inclination for strong perimeter play. To win an NCAA Championship, strong guard play is ESSENTIAL. Name a champion, aside from Kansas in '88, that did not have a strong perimeter game, especially at point guard, in the last three decades.
Yeah, thought so.
Early defections to the NBA the last 15 years or so has meant most of the nation's top prep big men and post players either never make it to college or are one-and-done. So, college basketball is essentially a guard's game.
That's why I'm going with Villanova. Yes, two decades after Rollie and his crew shocked the world, I'm picking another Nova squad to take the whole damn prize.
Unlike the Nova team that won it all in '85, these Wildcats aren't flying under the radar. Nova is 16-2, ranked fourth nationally, and are off to its best-ever start in the Big East, which is saying something this season, because the 16-team behemoth is the nation's toughest conference.
And they are doing all this with their best player, 6-7 forward Curtis Sumpter sidelined all season with a knee injury.
So how ARE they doing it? Simple, their four-guard lineup is easily the nation's best set of outside players.
A couple seasons back, another Philly team, St. Joseph's, barely missed the Final Four with a guard-dominated lineup.
That team featured a pair of pretty solid NBA players – Jameer Nelson and Delonte West.
These cats (pun intended) are better.
Allan Ray bitch-slapped Louisville the other day with 26. He's averaging 19.1 a game this season. Randy Foye is an athletic scoring machine and is leading the team with 20.4 per. Mike Nardi (12.6) and Kyle Lowry (10.6) round out this deadly foursome. All are legit players, all can shoot, stretch a defense and Ray and Foye will likely play in the NBA.
But what about post play? Well, 6-9 Jason Fraser has underachieved, but 6-8 Will Sheridan has picked it up. Sumpter, may or may not return, but ACL injuries are always tough.
The point is, people are waiting for the other shoe to drop. Only, it hasn't. And in the rugged Big East, where there are several teams with capable bigs, the Wildcats keep winning.
Come March, with an experienced team capable of shooting the ball well, cause matchup nightmares and execute a halfcourt offense and still play some sticky defense, I don't see how you can't look at these guys as serious threats to take it all.
At the very least they'll be fun to watch. Write these guys in your bracket with a pen.

The British Are Coming

2006-01-30T19:22:00.000-08:00

I am an Anglophile.
Yeah, I said it. I like most things British – comedies, dramas, Pete Doherty, tea, fish and chips, soccer, Keira Knightley and, though I can't go into precise detail about what I am watching, I can generally follow a cricket match without getting lost.
Still, even I have my limitations. For whomever said the British are more gentile and sophisticated and well-mannered than their American cousins, never set foot in an English school.
If we are the home of the bully and the land of Columbine, we cribbed it all from the tip sheet off our Anglo-Saxon brethren. The British take bullying to new heights. It's like they are the Kobe Bryant of bullying and we are the 12 guys on the Raptors wishing we could be half as lethal and efficient.
Sure, we have the occasional school shooting, but that's only because the British don't allow private gun ownership. Imagine if guns were allowed in Britain – I guarantee they would have half-a-dozen Columbines a month.
And man have they stepped up the ante when it comes to pushing around the weak and meek. Courtesy of the good folks at Nerve.com, the latest, most fashionable way to mentally and emotionally scar a classmate for life:
"Happy Slapping is so 2005. To be too cool for school these days you have to do the Seagull. In schools all over London, apparently, break-times are seeing boys running into the bogs to masturbate furiously, collect their jizz in the palms of their hands, then go out and find a younger kid . . . then slap them in the face while shouting 'SEAGULL!'"
Bust out the wetnaps.

Guess Things Happen That Way

2006-01-25T00:56:00.000-08:00

Relationships, pseudo or real, are all a matter of perspective. Complications always arise even though all of us want simplicity. It's the double-sided nature of human interaction. Nothing is what it appears and everything is as we wish it to appear. There are people who come into your life at moments when you least expect, catch you off-guard and suck you in. It could have been a smile, a word, a gesture, a look, a conversation...well, you get the point. The jump-off is usually some innocuous thing. But that's what's so wonderful. Those small, intimate moments are what you spend the rest of your time together trying to chase.
You wish that it could stay frozen at that stage when everything was casual and comfortable, that exciting feeling of the unknown. In a strange way, things only seem to go downhill the more the mystery is stripped away. Pulling the curtains back, one layer at a time exposes all – the hidden chambers of your personality, your history, whatever baggage you have in tow, how you like your eggs – all of it eventually surfaces.
Then you wonder. Are the things being said duplicitous? Motivations and scenarios run through your head. Friends get in your ear. Paranoia runs rampant, neuroses surface. Past fucks, relationships, failures, hard-luck cases, family dynamics – the whole of your adult life rears right in front of you. And now you have a decison to make. And remember now, it's all about perspective, about points of view, about how you see it and how they see it, and shit always gets discombobulated in the crossfire. You can push your past in front as a shield and run or you can stay. You can risk nothing at all to play it safe. You can gamble and maybe, for once, it won't be like all those other times.
Patience, right? Impetuous actions won't get you anywhere. You get tired, though. A natural breaking point. Nothing is more tiring than chasing an impossible love. Change is gonna come, but you can't be the one to force it. It's not going to be you. Never was. Perspective, man. Point. Of. View. It means knowing the right time to walk away without looking back.

Strange Fruit

2006-01-13T00:38:00.000-08:00

Who am I? Check the nameplate.
First, I have no idea what direction this is going to take. I know blogging is like the Internet version of Uggs by now. So you might be asking yourself, why Asian Thought, why do we need another blog? And I have several, vague answers that probably won't answer your questions:
First, as an aspiring novelist I could use any forum to write as much as I can. When I say aspiring, I really mean that. All I've done towards that goal is FANTASIZE about being a published scribe and imagine how cool it would be to have the fat advance and be sitting in some chateau in the south of France while my comely, vaguely European editor and I comb through my manuscript during the day and roll through the sheets after drinking several bottles of wine during the night. So, yeah, working on that.
Second, I dunno, I usually have a lot to say and instead of running up my cell phone bill calling friends with random bull-ish at all hours, now you can literally choose whether you want to hear me out. That's democracy in action, motherfuckers.
This will likely take many shapes as I decide on the path I want to take or whether I feel motivated to keep at this. But it'll basically be a collection of random observations, things I read or hear or see and, yes, my personal life – in short, like every other blog out there.