Finally!

http://karenchu.net

I grew up in Asia where it was not uncool to like pop music.  Since Western pop was one of the few imports that provide a glimpse to what’s it like to be “American”,  I didn’t quite understand why so many of my American peers here are so dismissive about pop acts when I moved to America.  Anyways, I have an unabashed love and appreciation for Lady Gaga.  Love her or hate her, ya can’t deny that she has a vision for everything she puts out.  Her new video, for example, is some sort of bizzarre visual whirlwind that involves Russian hospitals, torture rooms, space aliens, and using Wii-motes for some futuristic human auction game. Let’s take a look after the jump:

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Now, let’s hope California is ready for change as well. Still waiting on the final results on Prop 8.

But Prop 2 looks like it’s going through! My vegetarianism and my battle against animal cruelty feel so goddamn worth it right now.

I know I already twittered this, but hot damn.

CNN is hosting an upcoming cattle call for political-themed Halloween costumes photos.  I’m pretty sure there will be plenty of Sarah Palins, houses with Russia next to it, and variations of “Joe six-pack” this year.

But to me, a successful Halloween costume has to either be incredibly well-made, or incredibly clever.  So just plain jane Sarah Palin?  Boh-ring!

Here’s my pitch: some sort of EXTREME MAVERICK costume mash-up of Sarah Palin and Tom Cruise a la Top Gun.  Sarah hair and glasses, in a flight suit, maybe aviators, and carrying a boom box playing Kenny Loggins’ “Danger Zone.”  Bloody brilliant, I say!

Here’s a photoshop of my proposal, with the tagline Ben suggested:

It’s 5:41am.

I crawled home around 5 hours ago blitzed.  After another unsuccessful night of Pub Quiz, Chris and I went to the Mirror’s Edge event.  Somehow, I ended up in Chinatown with some friends and randomly enough, Gears of War designer and posterboy, CliffyB.  Sam, Klepek, and I actually had to walk to this Chinatown dive instead of taking a cab.  We were carrying the 6 foot tall foamcore cutout of Mirror’s Edge heroine, Faith and no cabs would take us (to be honest, we were also acting like assholes so that didn’t really help our plight either).  So after a night of whiskey on the rocks, Steve Miller band jukebox selections, and Faith’s imminent beheading, and reading Jack Welch’s book drunk on the train, I finally got home in one piece.

About fifteen minutes ago, I was dead asleep.  I woke up because Cisco sneezed up a storm next to my face.  Then all of a sudden my brow bone starts hurting.  I figured I must have turned my head at some point during the chain of dog sneezes and his jaw bumped into my forehead.  No biggie.

Then my face started to feel cold and wet, and the pain wasn’t going away.  So I decided to take some action:  I got up to go pee.

Wow, there I was, staring at my own reflection in the bathroom mirror.  What I saw was a stark path of blood bissecting my face.  I freaked out– I wasn’t entirely sure if I was actually awake or if I was in some weird French horror movie.  I somehow ended up with a deep cut on my eyebrow.  I have no idea how this happened.  Cisco’s fang?  His talon-claws?  No idea.

I just know blood keeps gushing out now every time I emote.  Wow, weird night.

Sukiyaki Western Django Trailer

I have to preface this entry by saying that I am not a film geek at all. I spent two hours of my life last night at a Mamma Mia sing-a-long, so I know my tastes in movies are far from discriminating. So with that said, I’m very excited about Sukiyaki Western Django, a cowboy movie splattered with a whole shitload of blood, and with a whole shitload of Japanese aesthetic. Jackson Pollack would be so proud

But film nerds would pinpoint that the real selling point is the film’s director, Takashi Miike, the master of modern horror/uber-violent Japanese cinema. The only Miike film I have seen is Audition. I watched it years ago at a shady ghetto Halloween house party with way too many mind-altering vices in my body and with way too many feisty-fingered fratboys trying to pull the “hey, I’ll protect you from scary movies, let me put my arms around you” bullshit. The bad thing? I vomited. I don’t remember the entire movie but I do recall flashes of pure grossness that tickled my gag reflex. The good thing? The movie acted like some sort of cultural media castration because all the guys in the room vowed to never to mess with chicks ever again. So really, I have no actual knowledge of Miike’s craft but I do know he’s a guy with a pretty vivid imagination. So here’s to hoping that his new cowboy movie won’t make me blow chunks.

Three years ago, I was on the bus back to PJ’s old apartment from work.  I took the 31 that goes along Eddy Street that goes through the faux projects.  It was crowded but I secured myself a seat in the front where the benches are facing in towards the “hallway” of the bus.  A fobby asian girl was standing in front of me.  She probably wasn’t very bright since she had dollar bills stuffed into the side pockets of her backpack.  Those pockets were made of clear plastic mesh and so everyone could see she had about 10 dollars in there.

A homeless dude from the back was making his way to the front, probably to get off at his stop soon.  He sees the money in this girl’s backpack.  He stands there for about 5 minutes, staring at the bag while slowly reaching his hand towards the money.  The fob girl, lost in the world of music, had her headphones on and is oblivious to what is going on.  Everyone else on the bus sees this.  Glances were exchanged.  Oh my god, this guy is going to steal her money, they thought but all they did was be still, just waiting for this guy to make him move as if it was entertainment.

Finally, since no one was doing anything to prevent this from happening, I tapped at the girl and said, “Maybe you should put your money somewhere else less conspicuous.”  I’m not sure if she understood me, but she looked around and saw the homeless dude right next to her still staring at the pocket full of money.  She thanked me.  Luckily, my stop was next and I got up to make my way towards the door.  The homeless guy yelled at me.  Called me a cunt.  And then he spat at me while I was getting off the bus.

Now, I never got mad at the guy.  I was mostly disappointed at the other civilians on the bus who knew what was going on but didn’t have the balls or decency to say or do anything. Maybe I should have let the girl get her money stolen.  She was dumb enough in the first place to put it in a clear mesh pocket.

(weirdly enough, this was inspired by a GAF thread) Thanks to Chris Kohler who looked it over and spotted my fobby grammar mistakes.

Wyatt
Words: 742

A deep and disturbing rumble grows louder in Wyatt’s throat. That one unsightly vein embossed on his forehead pulses. Then it stops. He looks down on the ground, aims at the drain, and spits out a winner. It is probably the only time it gets this quiet around here. And like most self-proclaimed “smart types,” Wyatt gets all reflective at the wee hours of the night.

He thinks about today, which is barely three hours old. Today marks Chrissy’s seventh birthday, and Pete’s death five years ago. Exactly three months ago, Johnny left. And it was two weeks ago when Bobby graced this place with his presence.

“Jesus freaking Christ,” Wyatt muttered while shaking his head, and proceeded to process just how many have come and gone. How many ended up having happy endings, and how many were reincarnated into the form of a number, or worse, an asterisk. And like most self-proclaimed “smart-types,” he finds an empty corner and lights up a cigarette. He always attempts to blow a smoke ring on every first drag but always fails.

If only his father could look at him now: smoking a filter-free cigarette, smelling like stale gamey piss, and wearing some kind of faux scrubs with a big ol’ salsa stain in the front. “It’s chipotle,” the counter lady sneered. To Wyatt’s provincial palette, it tasted more like someone putting out cigarettes into a tomato.

“You ain’t one of those smart-types. You might wanna be like ‘em, but you never will be, so quit thinking about going to college, boy.”

But it wasn’t college that Wyatt desperately wanted at that point in his life. It was sweet escape. He felt like he couldn’t survive another day in that bum town, in that bum house, with that bum sadist dad. His soul was as wounded as his back, and even though he knew those slashes on his back would eventually become scars, maybe his soul stood a chance. He yearned for something that could rehabilitate him into a new man. Sadly, college wasn’t it.

But this was.

And it had been for the past eleven years.

Past girlfriends have scrunched up their faces when Wyatt tells them that he doesn’t have any other career aspirations. But they just didn’t understand. Though genes were kind to Wyatt’s looks, he wasn’t blessed with an expressive disposition. Wyatt couldn’t bring up the words to explain to them why he was content and had no interest in screwing it up. Some of these girls stuck with him for a while, thinking working at a city pound is noble. But that novelty wears off, and the once admirable animal-loving boyfriend Wyatt becomes that broke loser ex-boyfriend Wyatt who stepped on the ivory Martha Stewart rug with his shit-stained sneakers.

Wyatt always knew that these self-righteous geese never really cared about him anyways so he never told them The Stories. The Stories– an ongoing compilation of events he has come into contact with at the pound, each coupled with a strong emotion of his own. Anger: his first encounter with Boo, a passive bulldog puppy whose ears were roughly chopped off with a pair of dull drugstore scissors by a couple of asshole kids. It took five laundry cycles to finally mute that bloodstain on his work shirt into a faded beige. Bittersweet Joy: when crippled old Sesame finally got adopted but with only about a handful of weeks left in her. Sadness: Large breeds who were hastily dropped off at the pound from people who were late to discover their hearts are too small. Pain: Wyatt’s first big bite injury. That yappy little thing got away with a cubic inch of Wyatt’s thigh. Relief: You know those last-minute touchdowns or split-second three pointers that win the game, go down in history, and make grown men cry? There are those here, too: every successful adoption is a surprise win for the team.

Every one of The Stories is cataloged into Wyatt’s head. One would think a guy with a photographic memory would do well at college. Rather using his brain to store tidbits about Foucault or Vonnegut (two guys Wyatt didn’t give a fuck about), Wyatt was a walking freak calendar. Every day was an anniversary of something or another from The Stories.

And every night, he celebrates it exactly like this.

In the corner. Smoking a cigarette. Attempting to blow a smoke ring on the first drag.

Taken with the ActionSampler, Lomography Color 35mm 400 film.  Developed at Walgreens.  hah.

Since I was a kid, I never wanted to be an artist. Isn’t that weird?

I guess I thought it would be boring. Just sitting in front of an easel all day long. Not enough adventure. Not enough variety. And kind of lonely.

But I’ve been in a funk ever since the wedding is over. All those month up to the wedding, I had shit to make, things to design, pieces of paper to glue. And now, I’m left a bit aimless.

PJ says, “why don’t you paint?”

Well, I love to paint but what for? I want to be doing something for a reason. And sure, I can go all Bob Ross on myself but then I’m going to end up with a bunch of my own paintings sitting in the garage waiting for their dog chew toy fate.

I thought I quenched this urge by going on my recent LOMO spree. Photography’s fun but there’s to sense of creation, just suspension.

I need a project and a purpose.

A mural? Print-making? Whittling? God, I have no fucking clue. I just need to find something to do.