the land of plenty

time and time again - visiting home makes me realize how comfortable my life would be living in cali again.

cali is the land of abundance. so much space. so much food. the produce is astoundingly cheap.

you can get FOUR ginormous grapefruits for $1?! unheard of!
you pay HOW much for your 1 bedroom apartment?
what? she's having another baby!?

in cali, i have the luxury of using as many napkins and toilet paper without thinking twice. turning on the heater is like second nature. and my family does laundry here about 3x a week.

as wonderful as all of it may sound though, i realized that NY is my new home now.  i feel somewhat displaced here as if i'm living in a past that i like to look back on fondly, but doesn't feel like "life" in the here & now.

when i think of socal, i think of my family & my pockets of friends. but i have no grander view or vision of the city of los angeles.  whereas with ny, i feel like i'm a part of something bigger (a movement of some sort), which is both intimidating & empowering all at once.

there is a certain "one-ness" about living in NY- you just feel like you're part of this living, breathing city that brings people together and propels them to new heights.  new yorkers (or i guess you can say the transplants that call themselves new yorkers) take pride in living here and see it as part of their identity (one that is chosen and willed rather than one that is predetermined). 

there is something definitely unifying about being miserably crammed in a subway car of people in contrast to being miserably isolated in your car during la traffic.  something about ny and its close corridors (and this loss of personal space) just naturally bonds people together, even in the most irritating situations. misery loves company, so they say.

ode to NY street performers

sometimes, days can get you down
living in a city that moves
at the speed of light

we find ourselves drowning
in just a blurry abyss
of work, schedules, business as usual.

and as we muster the strength
to carry our heavy legs
to our next course of action

you are there.

the little tiny accordion player
on the long stretch from the 7 to the F
- your music makes my feet lighter
and my steps a bit jaunty

the acapella quartet in union square
- your sweet melodies & harmonies
seem to cut through the bitter air

the sax player in the subway cart
- your expressive gestures & notes so blue
create the perfect rendition of "as time goes by"

i close my eyes and i'm not there
i'm not with the sullen chinese lady
holding grocery bags of cabbage
or the gaggle of teens, hyper
with energy suppressed from school hours
or the petulant toddler giving slobbery death stares

i'm in that place again
a place where time & energy & life stands still

no, you don't deserve a quarter
or even a dollar or two

you deserve much more -
for taking us into (or out of) a moment,
transcending us to a better place
and breaking our 'cycle' from time to time.

we thank you for your craft, your passion, your souls
your brilliance

the aftermath

the storm has come and gone - and we are still alive & standing.

living in an outer borough of ny, we've been blessed with electricity and internet all week.  others haven't been as fortunate. while we are having the longest, extended slumber party (sandy brought down our schools, offices, and  subways), others are living and scavenging without any power.  we can't help but to feel a teensy bit of survivor's guilt as we eat up a storm and watch every rainy day movie possible.

i haven't had the opportunity to venture out to the city yet, but i've heard stories from friends & roomies that it's like a ghost-town at the lower parts of manhattan, while anywhere north of 30th st - there are throngs of bodies roaming the streets like it's the zombie apocalypse.

when i see the epic/horrifying photos showcasing all the massacre of nature, i can't help but to think that it's like a superhero movie come to life. it's funny because as much as nyc gets demolished time and time again in every summer blockbuster, you somehow still think that the most exciting and arguably the most important city in the nation is invincible.  but then sandy hits, and you realize that even a place like manhattan is subject to disaster, which only brings on the harsher reality that we really don't have control over every aspect of our lives. we are small, and even a city like manhattan is fragile.

one of my favorite photos from the storm. jane's carousel in brooklyn.

May God be with those who are mourning the loss of their loved ones and those who are putting their lives on the line to help others. 

oh, geography

As much as I love my NY life, there have definitely been some serious sacrifices I had to make while living here.

But more than the insanely high rent and brutal winters, I think the biggest drawback would be not being around my closest loved ones.

Seems obvious right?  But it recently crept on me as a slowly realized understanding that things are just not quite the same no matter how much I keep in touch. Throughout the 2-year duration that I've been living here, I have rarely felt strong pangs of homesickness (except for some random moments when I start to really miss my grandma), especially since I still talk to my family and my best friend back at home on a fairly regular basis.

But I realized that you can't deny the power of proximity.  No matter how much effort both parties put in, you feel an inevitably growing distance. When you talk to them, you find yourself omitting those stupid, little details of your life that you normally would share with someone you see on a daily basis (i.e. current roommates, coworkers).  And it's not that you literally can't share those things, but you just don't see any point in it... who really wants to hear that stuff right?  So you try to package all the happenings of your life into more readily digestible forms - the quick highlights or the overarching theme of the season.  But what we fail to see is that those silly, petty details (those complaints about the train traffic, that crazy scene you might've seen on the streets, that "special little moment" you might've shared with someone) are actually the tiny propellers that help sustain relationships.

That's why I value my roommates (j & e) so much - they're my home away from home.  As "introverted" as I am, I enjoy having roommates and I think I would drive myself up the wall if I lived alone.  Sometimes you just need that person that you need to rant to or in my case, listen to (haha).  Yes, some of the stuff we may talk about may be inconsequential, but hey- it's the glue to our bond. Their companionship is truly priceless, and it'll be a strangely happy/sad day when we all find possibly more significant other's to move in with.

blue tuesday

Something that I never really experienced until I came to NY was this interaction/relationship you have with your doormen.  These doormen you see day in & day out; they probably know about your patterns more than you do by the way you scramble out the apt every morning, the packages you receive once in a blue moon, the visitors you get late at night.  We have three doormen (now four I believe) at my apt. building.  They all greet me very pleasantly in the mornings with their distinct "good morning ma'am!", "why hello Juuulie!" or "how youuu doin?"

So it kind of broke my heart when last week, I heard that the oldest doorman is terminally ill in the hospital.  Yes - he was kind of a strange one.  The one that looked pretty disheveled (I admit, I judged him) and would be a bit "overly" friendly as he jibber-jabbered comments to himself. 

But all those past feelings of annoyance and irritation at the old guy seemed so petty and mean-spirited when I found out the disheartening news.

I actually asked the younger doorman if this older man had any family & kids, and the guy said he doesn't think so and that he possibly might have a sister somewhere, but is not even sure if she's aware of his condition.  This made me even sadder.

These people you see and talk to everyday of your life (even if it's a quick salutation) - you can strangely feel their absence.

"Hell-A" to "City of Angels"

It feels good to be in cali again.

Though I do feel a bit disoriented not going back to my beloved hometown - good ol' hacienda heights, I am growing fond of my parent's new residence in LA (or more specifically a small town south of Pasadena).  NY living must have really deprived me of the everyday comforts of cali life, because my family has been surprised at my exaggerated appreciation for all the closet space.

The open range of land, the clear multi-lane roads (well in the suburbs), and the kindness towards pedestrians - this all feels foreign now, but at the same time oddly wonderful.  I've done a lot of sh*t talking about LA while I was in NY: too much driving, too much sun, too little culture in this lazy, urban sprawl.  But I think I've turned my back on LA for too long (approximately 2 years), because I'm slowly starting to recognize the merits of this forsaken city.  Four different people said "good morning!" to me while I was taking a stroll with my mom today - unheard of!

I remember I once said I had no definite timeline of coming back (if ever) to Cali.  But this trip home is making me seriously reconsider.

But don't hold me to that quite yet... after all, it's only been one day.



 -edit- It's been two full days and still loving it. And one of my first thoughts were-> "this might mean I'd have to change my basketball team??" Well I don't like the Lakers, so that means my default team would be the Clippers. Okay, well Chris Paul is pretty hot and their jersey logo has cuter font. Again, don't hold me to this, my thoughts are still a bit premature.

senses heightened

I've always been the observer - I don't say much... I like to sit back, watch, & listen (of course, not to everyone and everything - a person has her limits).

I don't feel the necessity to speak the thoughts that are meandering in my mind, for they seem senseless and often times, superfluous to any real topic of conversation. But that doesn't mean that I was necessarily a person who was highly sensitive to others. Mostly my observations were from a cold distance - like the perfect journalist reporting on hard news.

Living in New York though has somewhat made me more in tune or aware of people's emotions and energy. I have never felt so disheartened, moved, shaken by the things I've seen and experienced - Some of those things which have been sadder, uglier, more frightening than all the things in my past years living in the sunny, warm comforts of Cali.  Yet in the darkest of places, there is hope.  

The darker the night, the brighter the stars, The deeper the grief, the closer is God! ― Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Crime and Punishment

hiatus

It's been a while since my last post... reason being (and this is bit embarrassing to admit) i just found it annoying/frustrating to navigate on the new blogspot interface- where are all the buttons?! Why does Facebook/Google feel a need to update their "look" every other week- just leave it be. don't you guys have more important stuff to do?

There's nothing more moody than NY weather. These past few weeks, I've suffered the brunt of unexpected rainshowers and surprisingly warm weather. rain, rain go away.

So, I've been reading the Steve Jobs biography, and I just find myself constantly marveling at this man's life - from his family history to his love affairs with famous artists to (above all) his legacy at Apple/Pixar.  And it amazes me what a cold, cruel person he was at the core - but then again, geniuses to that caliber are usually not the most warm, down-to-earth people.

The bio does a pretty decent job showing a fair share of the bad with the good:
Jobs was often manipulating and possessed a dangerous charm in order go get his way.
He was a smelly dirty hippie (he believed his fruit/vegetarian diet took care of hygiene).
He was distant to his past lovers, wife, and children (mostly his daughters).
He took people's ideas and called them his own (even after publicly denouncing them at first).
He was a big crybaby.

Despite all his gigantic flaws, I can't help but to respect the man.  While reading the book, I literally find myself getting chills when he's developing a new idea or presenting a theatrical product launch. And what I appreciate the most is that Jobs really knew how to craft artistry in technology. Not only were his products a piece of art (I still remember my first ibook - whatta beaut), but even their packaging & their ads were tasteful with a touch of whimsy. Still one of my favorite ipod commercials:

must-read (esp all you californian/new yorkers)

Joan Didion's "Goodbye to All That"

"It is easy to see the beginnings of things, and harder to see the ends. I can remember now, with a clarity that makes the nerves in the back of my neck constrict, when New York began for me, but I cannot lay my finger upon the moment it ended, can never cut through the ambiguities and second starts and broken resolves to the exact place on the page where the heroine is no longer as optimistic as she once was. When I first saw New York I was twenty, and it was summertime, and I got off a DC-7 at the old Idlewild temporary terminal in a new dress which had seemed very smart in Sacramento but seemed less smart already, even in the old Idlewild temporary terminal, and the warm air smelled of mildew and some instinct, programmed by all the movies I had ever seen and all the songs I had ever read about New York, informed me that it would never be quite the same again. In fact it never was. Some time later there was a song in the jukeboxes on the Upper East Side that went “but where is the schoolgirl who used to be me,” and if it was late enough at night I used to wonder that. I know now that almost everyone wonders something like that, sooner or later and no matter what he or she is doing, but one of the mixed blessings of being twenty and twenty-one and even twenty-three is the conviction that nothing like this, all evidence to the contrary notwithstanding, has ever happened to anyone before.

Of course it might have been some other city, had circumstances been different and the time been different and had I been different, might have been Paris or Chicago or even San Francisco, but because I am talking about myself I am talking here about New York. That first night I opened my window on the bus into town and watched for the skyline, but all I could see were the wastes of Queens and big signs that said MIDTOWN TUNNEL THIS LANE and then a flood of summer rain (even that seemed remarkable and exotic, for I had come out of the West where there was no summer rain), and for the next three days I sat wrapped in blankets in a hotel room air conditioned to 35 degrees and tried to get over a cold and a high fever. It did not occur to me to call a doctor, because I knew none, and although it did occur to me to call the desk and ask that the air conditioner be turned off, I never called, because I did not know how much to tip whoever might come—was anyone ever so young? I am here to tell you that someone was. All I could do during those years was talk long-distance to the boy I already knew I would never marry in the spring. I would stay in New York, I told him, just six months, and I could see the Brooklyn Bridge from my window. As it turned out the bridge was the Triborough, and I stayed eight years."

rest of the article

caution: stupidity ahead!

So, a few weeks ago, I decided to sponsor a child from Compassion, a Christian children advocacy ministry (my boy is from the Philippines!), and I had to fill out and send back this little information pamphlet, sharing a bit about myself to my kid. So today, after finally remembering, I started filling out my pamphlet until I came upon a portion where I had to draw in a star on a map to indicate which state I'm from.

Okay... this is kind of embarrassing for me to admit in the huge realm of the blogosphere (and I know I'm going to put every UCLA grad to shame), but I didn't know where NY was on the U.S. map.

But in my defense, geography was never my strong suit! And it's not as big and distinct as California! And as many souvenirs and memorabilia there are for NY, I don't see anyone with a shirt with the shape of the state on it!

Okay, fine I'm dumb. I'm down to the level of those people who are in the "Jay-walking" segment on the Tonight Show, where they don't even know who the president of the US is.

All right, so I actually googled the map of the East Coast. Funny thing is even after seeing NY, I couldn't believe that was how New York looked like. New York isn't supposed be that big. And New York City can NOT be that tiny. I could not believe that the five boroughs of NY were that tiny compared to the rest of New York. And what are these other places? Onondaga? Cattaraugus? Chemung? - They sound as foreign as African tribes. Delaware? Isn't that a separate state?

My ignorance of the greater world (or even Greater NY) astounds me. I'm gona go study a map now.

And I remember seeing this the other day in my feed:

Sad thing is, I'm not even a true New Yorker.

the eye of the beholder

I've always been (somewhat) interested in fashion, though my limited knowledge of it comes from following fashion blogs and speed-browsing through Vogue while at the grocery checkout line. I wouldn't necessarily call myself tres chic (i'm a total cheapo and frequent shopper of forever 21 & H&M). But the world of fashion intrigues me, and that was why I initially wanted to watch "Bill Cunningham New York", a documentary about the New York Times fashion photographer.

What I didn't realize was that I'd be so touched by the story of this happy, little old man and his singular love & passion for his craft. And how it all came so naturally to him- the photography, the city, the clothes, the people... it wasn't work, it was his pleasure. Surrounded by the froufrou grandeur of the New York celebrities and socialites he photographs, he lives contently with his meager wardrobe and minimalist lifestyle- averse to any forms of praise or monetary rewards. Most of the documentary follows Bills everyday life and displays his lovable nature as he comes in contact to a wide spectrum of people from ordinary folks on the streets to journalists/art directors at the Times to the "who's who of New York" at fancy galas to the models at the Paris Fashion Week.

However, what really came out of left field for me was this extremely poignant moment when the documentarist (?) set Bill down and started asking about his personal life, specifically about his romantic relationships (or lack thereof) and his religion. As someone who grew up in a Catholic home and still attends church every Sunday (despite his hectic schedule), Bill paused for an uncomfortable length of time when asked about this subject. He slightly let out what sounded like a sob, and tried to explain casually that he had always gone to church since he was a child (though his eyes would always be looking at women's hats) and religion has been a good guide to life. But then he went on further saying that as one matures, it becomes "something else" (mind you, this is loosely quoted, because I can't remember his exact words). These two questions regarding his romantic life and his religious life seemed to have hit a nerve. The question about his romantic life (or rather the implicit question of whether he was gay) was never explicitly answered, but the roundabout way in which it was, suggested that perhaps his religious upbringing came in conflict with his personal desires (though this may be just me assuming too much). Nevertheless, my heart went out to this man who lived a fulfilling, yet solitary life.

Now my eyes will be peeled for a wobbly, old man in a blue jacket biking his way through the streets of New York. And if I ever see him zip past me, I'll run after him and give a big fat hug to this beautiful human being.

styska se mi po tobe

It was a short, but sweet trip to Cali. It was definitely nice to see old faces... and it's reassuring to know that if things go wayward in the east coast, I'll always have somewhere to turn to. But I have to say- there is a bit of awkwardness when I see people again... not that people are necessarily awkward towards me, but more on my part. I think it has to do with knowing that things have changed (or at least that I have changed somewhat) and not really knowing how to carry on. I guess I just feel uncertain of how I should act... the last thing I wanted was to give off an air of a snooty New Yorker.

Milan Kundera, my favoritest author of all time (as I mentioned time and time again), encapsulates these concepts of "nostalgia" and "homecoming" so perfectly in his short novel, Ignorance. The main character, a Czech expatriate named Irena, returns home after living in France for 20 years. After years of being away, she feels strangely displaced as everyone still perceives her as if she was the same person she was when she left:

"Earlier, by their total uninterest in her experience abroad, they amputated twenty years from her life. Now, with this interrogation, they were trying to stitch her old past onto her present life. As if they were amputating her forearm and attaching the hand directly to the elbow; as if they were amputating her calves and joining her feet to her knees...Twenty years of her life spent abroad would go up in smoke, in a sacrificial ceremony. And the women would sing and dance with her around the fire, with beer mugs raised high in their hands. That's the price she'd have to pay to be pardoned. To be accepted. To become one of them again."

I'm not necessarily saying that people were trying to discount my experiences or my time away... in fact, it was quite the contrary. But I do understand the feeling of disconnect... and the necessity to let go of, or at least stifle, those experiences and my NY self in order to fully fit in back in cali again.

But one thing I realized as I was basking in the warmth from missed loved ones and the sunshiney weather was that my wandering heart really did find its place in NY. It's strange because as I was talking to people, I actually caught myself referring to NY as "home." And when people ask me when I'll be returning, I find myself answering "indefinitely" or "when I'm old... like 40+". But who knows, maybe one day I'll be stuffed like a sardine in a stinky subway listening to "I love L.A." on my ipod, and my heart will just be overwhelmed with an unbearable yearning for my hometown. But until that day- you know where to find me.

Now is the winter of our discontent, Made glorious summer by this sun of (New)York

The other day, I passed through the Port Authority Bus Terminal in Times Square as I was waiting for some friends. It made me feel oddly nostalgic; I used to take buses there all the time, back when I used to be a bridge-and-tunnel girl living in Jersey (though I'm technically still a bridge girl, since I'm in Queens). Ahhh~ I remember those days... wearing breezy sundresses and running in humid weather, trying to catch the last 11pm express bus. With frantic (or so it seemed) classical music setting my panicked mood, I would haphazardly run up the escalators of the empty station. Funny thing is that it was only a few month ago, but it feels like years have passed since those Jersey days.

That's the thing about New York; the seasons go by in exponential speed, each one being so distinct from the prior. When people here find out I'm from Cali, they always ask in bewilderment, "How could you leave Cali?! The beautiful weather?!" I swear, that is like 9 out of the 10 reactions I get. But seriously- how could you appreciate beautiful weather if it's beautiful all the time? There is no bad to make you appreciate the good. And I think that's also why everything feels so slow and lazy in SoCal: everything is lumped together in one indistinguishable mass of time. While here, different months call for different clothing, different moods, different food, different work ethics, different outlooks, different activities, a different culture & lifestyle altogether. Though the weather here is testy, I like the variety of spells and seasons. When the sun unexpectedly decides to shine its face on a Tuesday, I can't help but to bask in the sunlight and walk around with a huge smile on my face. When there is a hail/sleet storm on a Wednesday, I splash around in my rainboots, sharing giant umbrellas with my well-prepared friends.

With that said, when is it going to be Spring?

Cali vs NY

I think it's funny how the people I meet here have this misconception that Cali people are really nice. New Yorkers know that I'm an out-of-towner right away, because they say I smile too much. My NY native friend claims that Cali guys are not as conniving and have clearer skin... she wants me to set her up with a "nice, LA boy." If you mean by nice, you mean lazy and unmotivated, why sure! Okay, I guess that was a little harsh and unfair to categorize all SoCal guys that way, but East Coasters really do have a different standard when it comes to ambition and career goals. I felt very humbled when I first came to NY, because I felt like I was constantly surrounded by people who were smarter and more successful than me. Coming from the suburbs of Cali, I definitely felt like a small fish in a big pond. In fact, I still kind of feel this way. Everyone is either embarking a prestigious career in law/medicine/finance or taking up the entrepreneurial spirit and starting their own business; this was somewhat of a rarity among the Cali folks from back home. I guess the New York perception of us is true... we're just laid-back beach bums who ride life on the slow lane.

Which reminds me, I'll be home in less than 2 more weeks. I feel like going home to nice, sunny California is like a cop-out; I am such a fair-weathered friend. Next year, I promise I'll spend the holidays in cold, moody NY.

Which also reminds me, ever since I was little I really wanted to go to Santa's Village (that's after LegoLand and Holy Land in my list of ridiculous theme parks I desperately want to go to). I wonder if the California location closed down? It was the closest thing to a real "Christmas experience" in Cali.


Thinking about it now, I'm sure it would be extremely strange and creepy.

remembrance

While we were walking to the bus terminal on 41st st. the other day, my friend looked around and exclaimed how we pass by this area everyday as if it's any ol' block in town, yet Times Square is considered the #1 destination for people all over the world.

I remember a little over a year ago when I visited NYC, all chipper and starry-eyed... Right when I stepped into this glitzy strip of lights, I couldn't contain my simple, unaffected vigor for life. But now, I've officially become the numbed, jaded New Yorker as I irritably pass straight through people's pictures and shove my way through the masses. I keep my strained eyes to the ground to avoid the bright lights (as well as eye contact with rowdy, homeless folks).

It's almost like being in a relationship with someone. In the beginning, you're just giddy with excitement and you notice the great, unique qualities that sets this person (or in this case, this city) apart. But after a while, seeing him day-to-day, you just become desensitized and forget the initial charm of his quick wit or his manly gait. His singularity becomes a normality, and you wonder to yourself how things have gotten so... (for lack of a better word) blah. I guess that's the flaw of man: we just get used to everything where we end up appreciating nothing.

So New York, I will promise not to take you for granted. I will be in awe of the flatiron building every morning when I pass it. I will fall in love with Central Park like it's the first time. I will take joy in riding your subways and passing through your busy streets. I will not forget why I left deadbeat Cali for you. You will always be numero uno.

home away from home

Having my parents visit made me realize how much I've missed them... but at the same time, reaffirmed why I moved out in the first place.

It felt surreal having them here... my two worlds (New York life + Cali life) colliding. When they were here, my dad kept commenting about their old life in NY... how certain establishments were still standing, how things have changed. Like how there was this amazing pizza joint somewhere on this block, and I would shake my head frustratedly and say "appa, there are millions of pizza places..." While I was working, they'd conquer the city on their own, traveling seamlessly from Queens to Brooklyn to Manhattan to Jersey in the course of a day. As they stepped into our humble studio home, they commented on how we need to tidy up after ourselves; our week-long cleaning session was in vain.

I couldn't help but feel half-embarrassed as my dad stormed into quiet wine bars in East Village asking them (in his rowdy, half-drunken state) what time they were closing and what other good spots were in the area. And while there are a million awesome eateries in town, they just wanted some ssuh-lung-tang & soju. (Boy, was my dad in for a rude awakening when he found a soju bottle was thrice the cost!) Before they arrived, I was so ecstatic about their coming that I told myself there was no way that I would let the little things get to me. Oh, but how I was wrong. I saw myself quickly reverting to the irritable daughter with the short temper that I thought I got rid of when I left home.

For some reason, my dad was adamant on finding the landmark residence of O. Henry (the poet). In fact, we were searching every nook and alley of Greenwich Village on three separate occasions trying to find this freakin' house. We would go into random boutiques and stores, harassing store-owners for directions (of course, none of them had a clue). I was completely annoyed, unaware of why the heck this place was so important to my dad. Eventually, I found out that my parents discovered on the first day of their trip that their dear friends (another married couple) who they planned to visit, passed away this past year. Apparently, it was an extremely tragic incident that had to do with a suicide. 20+ years ago, my parents went on a double date with this couple at a pub nearby the O. Henry site, explaining my dad's relentless need of wanting to revisit this place. I wanted to kick myself afterward.

As they departed with hugs and kisses, I felt a little heaviness in my heart. Them being here reminded me of their beginnings, their sacrifices, and my own beginnings. Wow, that was very Amy Tan of me, but something about it made me feel a bit sad and strangely hopeful all the same.

you better get your move on (woah-oh), or all the good ones will have gone....

Funny incident today at work:
A pretty blonde lady strolls into our office.
"Oh I'm looking for Scott Randall."*
I look up Scott Randall in our directory and see a photo of a frumpy, curly-haired dude (kind of like the grown-up version of those Superbad guys).
"Oh, are you a vendor or a client?" I ask.
She smiles sheepishly and replies, "Neither. A girlfriend."

And right then before my jaw dropped, Scott Randall comes out and they greet each other with a kiss and walk into the office together.

Diva coworker next to me says, "Ooh. That Scott Randall is one lucky mofo."

I laughed, but I couldn't help thinking he must have a lot of money, which he probably does since most of the employees (at least the males) at my office do. (That's a very cruel thought to have, isn't it?)

But its a weird thing I noticed while living and people-watching in New York. There are extremely mis-matched couples, especially the homely (plain, at best) men with their gorgeous girlfriends. Either the women in this city are really not superficial (with looks) or extremely superficial (with money).

But I always thought if I was extremely beautiful and modelesque, I think I would care less about my beau being physically attractive. It's like since I'm so good-looking, I'd get sick of seeing too many good-looking people all the time. Does that make any sense?

Then I thought maybe I need to lower my standards a bit when it comes to outer beauty. Maybe the only path to happiness (apparently from the New York girls I've been observing) is that girls just need to be with guys that are 3-4 notches less attractive than them. That's the only way a girl can be truly adored and secure in a relationship. But then again, how could you be with someone without being even a little bit physically attracted to him? How would you wake up to their face EVERY morning of your whole life if you didn't like that face? But then again, sometimes even a good-looking face could get tiring to look at if you had to look at it every morning.

My cousin said her standards have been changing as she gets older. First, she says she was all about the face (very handsome with good features and structure)... then she realized she can't be that picky anymore and just asked for good height (5'10"+)... but then she realized the pool is too small, so then she just settled for a decent body (not fat and not too skinny). I realized that more than being strictly handsome, it's all about having a good (warning: gona turn a lil fobby here) 인상, which basically means "impression/vibe." Yep... and everything else is just a bonus.

*name has been changed to protect identity.

f.n.o.

Going to Fashion Night Out in the city last night brought it home again that NYC is a place where there is a huuuuge gap between the have's and have-not's. Maybe it's because I'm always in the grungier parts of town, but I always seem to forget that there are millionaires and billionaires in the midst of us.

lovely lines

real live ken dolls!

this little girl is way too precocious for her own good.

As I strolled around, getting free cocktails and hor d'oeuvres from Tiffany's, Mikimoto's, and Bergdorf & Goodman- I was constantly surrounded by modelesque beauties and rich socialites schmoozing it up as they gave each other thoughtless pecks on the cheek and paraded around in their chichi outfits. And there I was- with my disheveled hair and ill-clad in my Forever 21 jacket and Steve Madden shoes. I felt like the epitome of the "small-town girl" as I was wide-eyed and in-awe by the glitz and glamour of it all. I even found myself subconsciously "ooh-ing" & "aah-ing" at the pretty brand-name trinkets & treasures that I wouldn't have given a second thought to a month ago. (Just last week, I was poking fun at every pretentiously ridiculous item at the Commes des Garcons store.) Afterwards, while all the fancy folks went to their Michelin star restaurants and private parties, we went to Subway for some fine dining.

But don't all Cinderella stories start off this way?


(In the words of Wilco, what would we be without wishful thinking?)

snafu

Isn't it funny that church service lands on Sunday's- the last day of the weekend stretch? Somehow, I find that it's hardly arbitrary and seems almost like a well thought-out, calculated arrangement. In Manhattan, it seems as though services (especially in churches where there's a thriving population of young adult church-goers) are even pushed back until the last tether of the weekend... usually in the late afternoon or evening.

I guess it offers us the option of having wild, unadulterated nights of drunken debauchery and promiscuity (usually starting from Thursdays) and the safe claim of being able to come to church for a thorough purging/repenting session.

I know this isn't what Christians are supposed to do. (As in living a completely double life and being a weekly prodigal son.) And church isn't designed for these purposes. But I wonder what it would be like if church was on Friday or Saturday instead. I think us heathens would benefit from it. With the sermon ringing freshly in our ears, I think we'd be just a tad bit more reluctant to engage in "unbiblical" acts and maybe think twice about indulging ourselves in the seductive NY nightlife. Who knows...

city of God

As flawed and emotionally inexpressive as my dad can be, I really am in awe of his wholehearted, unshakable faith in God.

My dad first accepted Christ when he moved to New York. Living in the gritty slums of Queens & Brooklyn (back before the areas were gentrified and hipsterrific), my parents left their comfortable homes and friends back in Korea to be confronted with the harsh reality of urban life. It wasn't exactly the American dream that they had in mind. As they tried to adjust living in this foreign place, they saw the ugliest of humanity... my mom getting beat up and punked around by scary Puerto-Rican women, both parents getting held up at gun-point numerous times, and their store getting burned down by gangsters. They had nowhere else to turn but to God.

It's hard to appreciate God when things are good. Not that I'm exactly living the "hard-knock life" out here, but it is different from living in lazy, sunshine-filled California. Something about that place makes one feel a bit too complacent. I lost my will and urgency to pray. I was spiritually stagnant. As reluctant as my parents were in sending me 'cross country, the only thing that really compelled them to letting me go was this underlying hope. Their hope for me to find God in a dirty city of despair and desolation.