ensimismado

Spanish word for being absorbed (with one self, but not in the narcissistic way; more in the covered layers of oneself

Spanish is so much more romantic

My Chinese neighbors

I live in the upstairs of an old, thin-walled 4-unit apartment building in Highland Park in Northeast Los Angeles off of Figueroa. The two units downstairs are occupied by two Chinese families. The women stay at home – all day – while their husbands seem to be out for part of the day and their kids are at school. Most mornings the wives chat outside, often with company. They speak in Chinese, loudly and all at the same time. Sometimes it sounds like they’re fighting, or disagreeing, but then by the end of their chatting, they all seem to be chipper and glad to see each other.

Realities

I underestimate human beings.
In the 4th grade, I was introduced to “critical thinking.” Since then, I’ve concluded that most Americans especially, are dumb. The only exceptions – then and now – are those who also recognize the innate stupidity of Americans and every non-American who act like or wish they were American.
My diatribe is not to demean Americans or claim (yet) that I will be an expatriate of the very country in which I was born. Or maybe it is, and I’m not aware of it yet.
It is worth noting that it is quite incredible that I have the innate right, as an American, to think whatever I want, say whatever I want and publicly post whatever I want for the world to see if they wanted to.
I think about the notion of reality and alternate realities often throughout the week. This week, I drew a connection between the mortal reality and the “fantasy” reality. I distinguish the two like so: the former being the one from which we anticipate, and for some desperately strive, to leave; and the latter being the unknown, or at least the better reality.
The fundamental question here is also the simplest question. What’s the point? Of anything? If the grass is always greener on the other side from whichever side you’re standing, then nothing matters equally, as equally as everything mattering equally.
The last thing I remember being told in high school by my teachers, high school counselor and principal was to follow my dreams. Turning 18 and becoming an official adult was not what I anticipated in relation to following the dreams from my adolescence. On the contrary, average people – most people – are reminded of how impractical and unrealistic dreams are. Why? Because there is always a bottom line and the bottom line is what no one wants to hear or face, whatever it is. Bottom lines are relative and the point is is that we don’t like them. Bottom lines are the ugliness of reality. And the sad thing about existing is that we wait it out until our last breath. We tolerate bottom lines by distracting ourselves with pastimes like buying stuff, working too much, watching baseball and performing duties we give ourselves.
I’ve overestimated human beings and have been disappointed, regretfully. So I’ve defaulted to underestimating so that I can enjoy an occasional surprise, experience an alternate reality for a moment.

Conundrums of the sexes

Most men will never fully understand women and vice versa.  Sure, there may be some rare cases where either sex will think and feel – especially when they’re vulnerable – they are understood by a lover or a professional (therapist, psychiatrist, culandera, etc).  But even professionals still won’t ever fully understand their opposite sex, however close they may be because unfortunately or not, it’s an act.
For most young women in their late 20s and early 30s, it is true that we feel insecure about being single. It doesn’t necessarily have to do with jealousy of our couple friends as much as it does have to do with our vexing contemplation of the men who we think lead us on and then suddenly disappear, which happens more often than not.

The lined paper exercise

Fifth graders can still fall in the pure and innocent category when comparing them to older adolescents and adults.
A trained psychologist once substituted for my fifth grade class – I believe she was the school psychologist. It was one of those emergency situations where my regular teacher had to leave in the middle of the day to take care of some family matter.
The substitute, a woman in her late 30s possibly early 40s, frizzy blonde hair in a “Working Girl” outfit, always seemed frazzled, discombobulated. I remember thinking she was going through a divorce. It was just a hunch.
On the one occasion I remember her subbing, she asked all the students in our class to take out a piece of paper. We all pulled out lined paper and were ready to take directions. The directions were simple. “Keeping your eyes on your own paper, write your full name wherever you’d like.”
I couldn’t help but glance over to my neighbor’s paper and watch him write his name in huge letters across the middle of the paper. It looked like everyone, at least the four who I sat closest to, wrote their names similarly, some not as big. I felt like I needed to do the same, but my hand wouldn’t allow me. My default inclination brought my hand to the lower right corner of the paper where I wrote in very fine printing and very tiny lettering my first and last name. At the end of the exercise, we evaluated our own papers. The exercise, as the substitute explained, revealed the core of our personalities. Those who were inclined to write in the middle of the paper and in big letters were naturally confident people who liked and preferred attention. Those who wrote small and in corners, basically, weren’t. Any minute amount of confidence I had left in me dissolved. And ever since then, I still write my name on the bottom right corner.

Slogans and jingles

“Nationwide is on your side.”
“… and as always, keep the faith.”
“… and to Viewers Like You.”
“Mac tonight!”
トンカツ食べたい!

“Dos, beinte dos, beinte dos, beinte dos.”

A humble queja

I live with my mother in her one-bedroom apartment along with my 25 year-old brother. This is the apartment where, as a teenager, thought I was most self-aware; felt the most hopeful and genuinely optimistic about life than at any other time; had my one and only phone interview with a professor for admission to the private liberal arts college I ended up attending and graduating from; and turned 18, among other things.

In two weeks I turn 27.  At almost 27, I am back with my mother because I don’t earn enough or have enough money.  If I am lucky, I can get through one month paying just bills without overdraft fees charged to my checking account.  The jobs I have don’t offer guaranteed work or set hours hence my monthly income is inconsistent hence monthly bills not being paid on time occasionally hence unnecessary stress on my body and soul.

I have food, shelter, water, and company, even if I don’t want it.  What is there to complain about?  Besides my teenage expectations of what my adulthood would be like, I don’t know what else to think about life except that time is money, the world functions on money, and life everywhere is a pyramid scheme.

How did Jimmy Fallon get his own late night talk show?

Anyone? Can someone explain how this guy got his own late night slot on NBC for all of America to watch at twelve-thirty-five a.m. if they wanted to, after Jay Leno and now Conan O’Brien? He has no standup or improvisational skills – he proves it to Americans every weeknight. The only possible explanation is that he’s good looking. He is attractive, he knows it and he uses his cute looks to his advantage, and he does it well. The only two moments I remember he distinguished himself well on screen was in the dance number he did with Parker Posey for the Pepsi commercial. The other was in the filmflop “Fever Pitch” where he was angry – at some point in the movie – at his girlfriend. He did well mad.
Jimmy Fallon is the symbol of my generation of young people. He is proof that no one needs acting talent to pursue fame or a primetime network slot for an hour-long variety show.

Poisoned picture perfections

They say to proactivate your face if it’s all out of place

Shine the light on the pretty parts and keep the shaded at bay

Pull from the shelf the packaged stuff and brush it on

Hide the ugly parts until it’s time to rush to the emergency room

Where they’ll break it to you,

You’ll need more than a mop and broom to uncover the layers of grime under the layers of powdered products.

Remember when we were told not to put people in place based on their face

when telephones and cameras captured rarer moments.

December

Los Angeles Decembers are nice. I think more senior folks aged 45+ like them more than those under 45. Most people aged 45+ (according to my generalized fact-not-checked statistics) prefer warmer climates than dramatic changes in weather. Since the tender young age of probably 3-ish, when I finally caught on to the idea of Santa Clause and associated the friendly bearded man with presents, one of my annual wishes on my Christmas list that I mailed to Santa Clause at the North Pole was for snow.  I couldn’t understand why it didn’t snow in Baldwin Park when it did everywhere else on television.

Later on, in college, I finally accepted the fact that Southern California is a desert and thus will never snow in Los Angeles.  The generally cooler weather in the daytime and chili weather in the evening is good enough for now.

Maybe Santa lost my wishlist.

Interlude: new favorite song of the day, “When they fight, they fight” by The Generationals

I will not compromise and settle for a snow machine.  We’re going to band together and make it freakin’ snow in East L.A.