George's first editing effort from her new Macbook. She learned how to edit and created this whole thing in just half a day. Bravo!

I've got a gripe. People who don't reply to an "are you in/out" email. Yes, I'm talking about you. I know, I know, for awhile I was against Evites, but that was because I could pretty readily assumed to be going. It's not like I have much to do. But when people are trying to make plans and particular people choose to not respond until the last minute, or to not respond on at all, well, it's rude.

Case in point. For our SF trip a few weeks ago, one friend continually called the other to confirm if they were going. We needed head counts, needed to arrange tickets to Stevie Wonderfull on Saturday night, and nobody knew if he was actually coming. Emails, calls, texts, and repeat repeat over, there was still no word. When we finally got him on the line, he pretty much lied that he'd gotten his ticket. I said "fuck it" and just let him fend for himself.

The same thing tends to happen when people are in relationships or have kids. Really? You're so busy that a quick "Sorry, can't make it" email can't come out of your smartphone? I find that hard to believe. So answer or be counted out. That's all I have to say.

Having failed spectacularly at pretty much every resolution I made in 2009 (the list was supposed to only encompass Jan-Mar too), I did at least one thing. I started podcasting. Hooray for me! It turns out I didn't even need a microphone because the built in mic from my laptop is pretty decent and with that and Garage Band, I'm able to just sit down with someone and start recording.

So for the past few weeks I've been dragging people into the studio with me (meaning any empty room) and making them talk to me. The idea is that it's just a slice of conversation from my life. Actually, that was the original idea. Now I'm working on being a better host, directing a conversation, sticking on topic, and basically making your fifteen or so minutes worthwhile.

The early episodes were a little rough -- but still amusing -- and I'm far from taking my podcast game to the heights it will soon be. However, it's been amazingly fun for me to do and I like it even as a historical account of conversations with friends. So yes, if you'd like to listen in and subscribe, the information is below.

So far I've covered some very fun topics and I'm hoping to get one a week up, which will be easy because I've already got another five or six in the chamber, so to speak. Next move is to figure out how to podcast with someone who's not directly in the room with me, so I can get episodes with friends from all over.

Podcast summary:
"You, Me, Us" is a podcast dedicated to talking with friends and people I know. The idea is to get interesting people to talk about something interesting for 15-20 minutes. Bear with me here, awesomeness is around the corner.

Main site: http://youmeus.posterous.com
Blog RSS: http://youmeus.posterous.com/rss.xml
iTunes link: here
You can also find it by searching for "You, Me, Us" in iTunes.

You can't dig someone else of a bad situation. I mean, can you? When people are down in the dumps, you can try to help them out and drag them out but usually they'll come up whenever they're ready to come out. I subscribe heavily to the idea that a person knows how to self medicate. If they need some drugs and rock and roll, they'll go find it. If they need friends or television, they'll find it. But what happens when you see that the path they're headed toward is a terrible one?

People love to use the phrase, "we're all adults now." I disagree. We're totally not adults now. We're basically still children. In fact, the more I learn about adults (anyone five years older than me, I still have a high schooler's mentality of what constitutes "older") the more I'm skeptical that anyone evolves past the child stage.

If you're a shitty seventeen year old, and then a slightly better but still shitty twenty four year old, there's a good chance you'll just be an almost not as shitty forty year old.

What changes, I think, is the amount of people who can or want to feel responsible for you as you get older. If you're a real drag to be around when you're old, you'll just find yourself in pothole after pothole, with less people to lean on as the years pass.

This is a working theory.

I'm over at Alabama Street, where we used to hang out all the time two years ago. In the time since, Alabama Street has taken on a totally different significance. A block down from this house is the girl I'm dating, who was only a few hundred yards away all this time, and I've been over the plenty the past few weeks. She's baking cupcakes now and maybe I'll sneak over to snag one later. This house, with its little front yard, where we all used to smoke and conversate, was the cosmic focal point of new friendships, reconnected friendships, and finally, failed friendships. So things are plenty different now.

Tonight, Daisy is working the ukulele, dropping a medley of pop and Hawaiian hits. She's currently working a Plain White T's song, at my request. Raqstar is holed up in the "champagne room," which is partitioned off with a baby gate, to prevent the dogs and cats to run in, and to keep the studious atmosphere in. Shawn is making a video for one of his classes and through the closed door we can hear each manic and high energy take. None of these exact things have happened before but it all feels overly familiar, in a good way.

There are two groups of young adults: people who haven't stopped working since their twenties versus people who've had at least a year off. Speaking as a candidate for presidency of the latter group, I wonder at what point the former group throws up their hands and says, "I need a break!" I hope the answer isn't simply "retirement." For people who are near my age, that's almost a decade of straight work. That sounds crazy to me.

How can you go ten years without having not taken more than two weeks off (and probably not consecutively)? I guess people can break up the work monotony with school or some such thing, but there are some people I know who've never stopped. If people are worried about escaping the rat race, isn't this exactly what they've been engaged in? Where's the exit lane?

This is like having stellar attendance in school. What's the point? You get recognized with a ribbon or a special announcement at graduation but then you start to think, "Wait, what is this award for?"

If you're going to go down, why not go down slacking?

I need a little bit of snark in my life. Okay, a lot of it. Earnestness, sincerity, cringing at un-PC comments, those things don't do it for me. I like people who can step right in and start launching sarcastic salvos. And do it quickly. I like my drinks sweet but my conversations bitter. Perhaps if I switched to unsugared coffee this perspective could change. Is that possible? Or even desired?

Today at a cafe I saw two guys pull out a stack of familiar looking books. I cruised by their table on the way to bathroom and my suspicions were confirmed. They were flipping through D&D guides. Through the rest of our time I kept glancing over in order to discern if they were a random bunch of friends or perhaps meeting as newbies and strangers. I hoped for the latter so I could stroll up and introduce myself. Alas, I couldn't figure it out so as we were about to leave, I just went up to them and said, "Hi, I couldn't help noticing your books and was wondering if you accepted new players..." This was after half an hour of hyping myself up mind you. I've been less nervous approaching girls before.

The trio returned my greeting half-heartedly as I tried to sneak in some banter indicating my experience and enthusiasm, eventually forcing my email on them. I sure hope they contact me -- maybe we can Wave together. D&D, you complete me.

Yesterday I gave someone I met just hours ago a deep man hug. The occasion? We shared the same favorite science fiction author. I believe he whispered "I love him!" into my ear as we both delighted in meeting a fellow (male) reader. I think I've only ever hugged four guys like that in my life. Sometimes you drum up temporary enthusiasm with a fellow human ("high five!") because of the moment, or alcohol, but sometimes you just feel like you've known the other person for awhile and am yet still excited to find out more. So yeah, it was that kind of night.

I'm trying to challenge myself to blog in here every day. At least 100 words, but no more than 250 (and am using a Firefox extension to keep track). I've fallen out of the habit of daily blogging and want to get back into it. What I'd like to do is capture mini-moments, to get my writing down to short and pithy paragraphs. I'm terrible at that because I'm a rambler and can't control my words. Unlike her, whom I'd love to learn from and emulate.

And I read about someone who just titles their post whatever the song playing in the background is, I think I'll do that too. This feels like a breakthrough, for no good reason at all.

People have asked me how long I can conceivably go crashing on friend's couches as my friends get older and acquire families. What I discovered during the trip to New York is that my accommodations have actually gotten much better. Friends have houses now, and apartments that have extra bedrooms, or just really nice singles. No more crashing in mini apartments with acquaintance roommates and cramped spaces. One friend even gave me her bed, made up with fresh new white sheets, even though I insisted that I was very happy on the floor. Yes, as I've gotten older, I'm made the transition from "couch crasher" to "guest."

The next step is to visit cities and be able to afford hotels and stuff like that. That's truly the adult thing to do. In the past, the only reason anybody's ever rented a room is because they had a significant other accompanying them. Now people figure a couple of hundred dollars is worth the non-host hassle and I can see their point. Although I doubt I'd ever want to rent versus harass my friends. Thanks friends.

I might lose a tooth. Not from stress or anything. That would at least be a good reason. Instead my reason was that a little cyst developed two weeks ago above my left incisor. Painless, unobtrusive, nothing particularly harmful or dangerous about it. Or so I thought. Instead of the check up and quick puncture I was expecting, I walked out six shots of local anesthetic later, mouth throbbing from dental surgery. They cut way deep into my gums and cleaned around the tooth. It was a bloody mess. And I watched the whole thing by holding up a hand mirror. Ugh. It turns out that the bone around my crown/root had disappeared and there's a good chance the tooth won't be able to heal or something like that. We'll see in three weeks. Keep your fingers crossed for me. It's times like that, stuck in the dentist chair, when I realize how lucky I am to never really be bothered by physical pain or sickness. I guess all that good health karma upends itself when it comes to my teeth.

I have some plans to eat healthier, consume less candy, and to slow down on the coffee and cigarettes. After my first draft of the next book is over, I'm going to start figuring out what leads to my constant ups and downs in energy. Is it as simple as "I'm a night person?" Does my energy only rise as the sun sets? (My current theory) Or does my consistent inconsistent intake of one meal a day, candy at will, coffee whenever I'm awake, and all the weird eating habits I've acquired through the years actually make a difference?

It would be nice to believe that my body is just some sort of fantastic machine where I throw crap in and good things come out. But lately I've started to come around to the idea that maybe my post-thirty body isn't quite as resistant as before. Or maybe I'm only a fast healer because I can afford to sleep twelve hours a day. Some experiments and trial-and-error are in order. As soon as I'm back from the East Coast.

When they say, "It's all downhill from here," they ain't kidding.

I've been doing a bit of date night my last two weeks here. That means I sit on the little couch while George and Chris are on the big couch. It also means they collaboratively cook a tasty (and sometimes experimental) dinner while I'm groggy and possibly still sleeping. They get home from a long day's work, slap on some aprons, and head right into the kitchen. George has been very good about preparing her ingredients beforehand too. Defrost that chicken, buy some milk! Where they find the energy for all this I'll never know.

George has accumulated quite a few cooking devices since she's started date night. The one we're most excited about is the Slap Chop of course, and it's been used to nice effect recently. It really does work amazingly, just like the late night TV ads say. George also has a salad spinner (unused), a new chopping board and knife (unused), and a huge collection of spatulas, slotted pasta scoops, and big plastic spoons. Taking a quick head count, the number of stirring implements she owns rivals the number of shampoos and conditioners in her shower. Which is pretty strange since George doesn't cook much. Her kitchen had been fully stocked for awhile and just waiting for a cooking partner -- or a head chef -- I guess.

So since I'm neither, what exactly do I contribute to date night? Well, I have my whale ice cream spade (unused) and I'm good at verbal encouragement. When someone defined the term "third wheel," they totally had me in mind. Occasionally I do the dishes but not enough. I sometimes volunteer and then forget. Or George beats me to the punch. On Tuesday she came home from work and went straight to the kitchen.

"See I told you he didn't," she said to Chris, pointing at the sink. She was hoping I had done the dishes from the previous night. Nope. I did think about it though. Really hard.

I think part of George will be happy to be rid of me (the other part will be merely ecstatic). I'm not exactly a good domestic partner. I once thought I was, back in college, but I realized that was mainly because I was never home. My roommates never saw me so thus I was, by default, a good roommate.

I assumed that meant I was good at living with other people. Oh how wrong I was. After a few stints living with friends (and one girlfriend), I've found that I tend to repeat the same pattern over and over. I take up space on the couch, I run up the electricity bill with all night lights and computer usage, and I don't do any chores on a regular basis. Oh, and my clothes tend to be strewn all over the place. You know in Sex and the City when Charlotte has to (gently) tell Harry that he leaves teabags all over the house? I'm Harry, except my teabags can be anything from loose dollar bills to cigarettes to books and random papers to my set of smoking clothes. Of course I wear a different set of clothes outside to smoke, shouldn't everybody?

See, I'm neat and tidy but only in a certain chaotic dirty way. Like I always say, "I'm sanitary but not necessarily clean." My mom hates it. She hates the way my room is always filled with piles of stuff. She's a neat freak and can't stand messes. Especially mine. Luckily George hasn't inherited that trait, otherwise she would've kicked me out by now.

Luckily I compensate for all this by being good company. I require very little care and feeding as a person in the room. While my presence is constantly felt, it hardly ever requires attention. I entertain myself easily, I participate in television banter, and I'm either down to do something or quick to avoid doing anything. That's not an easy trait to have. I'm like a little barnacle that might be unpleasant to the eye but ultimately something just doesn't feel right when I'm not around. That's what I'd like to think anyway. Farewell Fillmore Street, farewell!

Update: And yes, I just did the dishes even though it's seven in the morning. I just guilted myself into it. You're welcome.

It's weird to have the next two months planned. I already know how September and October will shake out. Which is settling/unsettling I guess. I've gotten used to not having anything planned. For example, the rest of this month will be spent finishing the first draft for the semi-sequel. It's definitely cramming time. There's a lot I still want to do up here in the Bay but this is focus number one. Finish the draft, turn it in, and then I'm free and clear of writing for a bit. I'm also trying to set up some publicity things for the book and that'll be the next thing to turn my attention toward, but this draft must be done!

This volunteer thing I've been dedicating some time to, an Asian American arts festival, is kicking off this weekend. Our night is on Saturday and we've got eight poets and writers lined up. The overall experience has been a bit of a disappointment actually. Had I not taken the comedy class, I don't think I would have felt any sense of having met new people or interacting with fellow artists. Generally the meetings have been spotty and it's been difficult to get any sense of group cohesiveness. Most of the real work has been conducted via email. I really like the organization and the people involved but I don't think I've gotten too much out of it. Or maybe I haven't put myself out there enough. We'll see how the festival goes though. Sometimes these things don't shake out well until after the event is accomplished and a success.

Then in October it's off to Michigan for another wedding, my last in Michigan, hopefully for the forseeable future. I love me some Jimmy John's but tickets to Detroit are a bitch. In good news though, I just bought my tickets to New York. It's rejuvenation time! I'm slated to be there for the last two weeks and maybe I'll extend it but right now that seems like the perfect length of time. It's a bit later in the year than I'd prefer to go but I hope the weather is warm enough to wander around the streets at night. I'm already lining up people and things to do and I'm super excited.

A friend wrote me the other day and had this to say:

"It worries me that you get restless and tire quickly and that you can't stay anywhere for more than a few months. I know you've definitely become accustomed to moving from place to place and job to job, but I agree with your comment about getting tired of yourself. It's not healthy, for anyone -- even if that's who you are. Honestly, I think that's what's getting you down -- not knowing what you want. I think it would be good for you to establish some stability and direction in your life -- stay in one place for awhile, work in one place for awhile."

I've been mulling that over. Not because it's not anything I haven't heard before, but because it came from someone whom I rarely see but honestly communicate with. If she can point out and sense my instability from afar, it must mean something. Anyway, after New York I think I'll be back in San Diego for awhile. Maybe find a job. Maybe take some classes. Maybe get that degree. Maybe find some new direction to go in. Real life's been on pause for two years or so now, even as it's slowly trucked along and taken me on multiple detours. Time to start living in reality again, right?

Or not, if I can avoid it.

(Movie spoilers ahead for Time Traveler's Wife, avoid if necessary. Actually, if you haven't read it, we probably shouldn't be friends anyway.)

It's not often that something can hit me emotionally for longer than five minutes. The last time I was conscious and cried? Probably something involving girls. Probably a break up or a fight or something. It was long enough ago I can't remember specifically. And it's ever rarer for me to cry in movies. I rarely emotionally connect with films to the level that I feel the urge to cry.

The number one movie I thought I was about to die from how much I wanted to cry? Whale Rider. Near the end, Paikea gets on stage to do a speech dedicated to her grandfather. He doesn't show up and she's trying to fight back tears as she does the piece. I haven't rewatched Whale Rider because I don't want to ruin the memory. I can't recall who I watched the movie with but I was literally bawling during the end. Shamelessly and uncontrollably. Before Whale Rider, I had no idea I could feel this way in movies.

After that, there's been a few movies that have hit me in similar ways but none that have actually absolutely slayed me. I think I got better at holding it in. Reach for the popcorn, take big sips of the Icee. For example, Finding Neverland was another top crying movie for me but I didn't actually cry, I was just like...teary. Weepy maybe. But inside I was the Great Lakes. After tonight, make some room and vault The Time Traveler's Wife up on the list. Hello Niagara!

I've pretty much narrowed down what makes me cry in movies. When a character is interacting with a parent who is either dead, dying, or about to die. Well, that's redundant. Dead or dying, I guess. But not just anything makes me turn on the waterworks. At the end of The Family Stone, there's sort of a sudden death but that didn't do anything for me. I wasn't emotionally attached to the movie in any way. Parental death alone doesn't do a thing. I need to be led up to it, like a horse to water.

So in Time Traveler's Wife the movie, when adult Henry is on the subway talking to his mother (who died in a car accident that coincided with the first time he time traveled), it was killer because it'd be percolating for awhile. I just sat there hoping the scene would end, but also hoping it wouldn't end. Like whoa.

The whole reason I love the story of Time Traveler's Wife so much is that it's about constant loss and longing. I can't decide if I feel more closely attuned to Clare or Henry's dilemma but the idea that two people are constantly trying to reach out for each other but can never hold on long enough, that's just terrible. And for Henry, he continually relives events. His mother's death. His death. Fights with Clare. Everything. He's a man on the move and mostly unwillingly.

But then, it might be worse for Clare. She never knows when Henry will be gone. He just *poof* disappears. And then she waits. For years at a time. And on top of that she really had no choice in deciding that this would be her life. Henry met her when she was only six. She had no chance to fall in love with anyone else. It was accidentally designed fate. She had free will to fall in love but also a heavy dose of predestination. Plus having Henry know everything that's going to happen in the future must be infuriating.

Sigh, it's so romantic, their longing and losing, their "You're the only one for me (even if you're never around)" commitment.

Awhile ago, I was talking to someone about losing a parent and if he said that he looked forward to dreaming so that he could see them again. I told him that's exactly how I felt. I unconsciously wake up crying sometimes and I won't even remember what happened but I've figured out that it's because in my dreams I've seen my dad and somewhere in there, I realized it wasn't real. So that's how I feel emotionally connected to Henry watching his past. Like he gets to go around and see things again, and you would think that's comforting, but at the same time, there's no future in it, you know?

I can't even articulate exactly what makes this book/movie affect me like this. I wish I could, and I think I'll have to try again sometime. But for now it's just interesting for me to get so emotionally wrecked post-watching/reading it. I don't feel this way often and I almost want to wallow in it and extend it.

But you know, the Real Housewives of Atlanta is on in the background. So that kind of kills the mood. Back to non-emotion land!

I took an informal poll of some of my guy friends and asked them if they share with other guy friends when they have a crush or am interested in somebody. So far my responses back are one "yes" and one "no." So entirely inconclusive. I know girls talk to girls about people they like, even in it's in the early "I saw this guy at the coffee shop!" stage. And I know that guys talk to girls about it. But do guy friends typically broach the subject to their guy friends? I dunno.

Awhile back, I was engaged in a conversation with a friend about how we're not necessarily as close emotionally as we could be because I don't tell him about girls. But to me, there's no reason to unless something's happening, it's happened, or you're caught. I don't typically turn to other people unless I'm in need of advice or venting, and I pretty much have those people already on speed dial. Everyone else just has to ask I guess, but I'm more of the don't tell unless asked camp.

Does this create an artificial barrier between friends though? Like if a friend is crushing on someone, would it better to know? I did have a friend who told me the other day that he thought someone we met was cute, and I guess that was his way of announcing his like to the world. (Because of course he knew I would then redistribute that information accordingly. I mean, I hope he knew.)

Then again, I love to know these itty bitty bits of gossip so I ask people all the time. So if you want to know, just ask I say. Then again, sometimes you ask and get a non-answer. Then you have to use your other sources and get the real truth out. That's the best. I know what you think I don't know.

We had a birthday dinner and party this weekend. It was excellent. George and I received Twitter mugs from Dann and they are fantastic. George has become an old lady in her dotage and can barely stay up till 3am anymore. I guess that's what happens when you pass thirty. Early nights in the Marina coming right up!

Originally I'd been numbering these posts by days I'd been thirty. So the day after last year's birthday was Day 1 and so on. Somehow I've managed to get up to 366 and there's still a few days to go until I turn thirty-one. Which means somewhere along the way I couldn't count right. Which sort of sums up the way the year's gone I suppose. Someone asked me if I didn't feel like celebrating this year because it felt like a lost year. I said that wasn't the reason. I'm not big into birthdays anyway. Last year was big, because we were entering another decade, but after that, eh.

And it would be unfair to say this has been a lost year. It's been really good. Trips to North Carolina, DC, and Seattle. Living in San Francisco for a few months. Paying rent (that wasn't so hot). My first bachelorette party. Attending five really important weddings, with another one still to come. We had a great Tahoe trip in February. My book released in May. I've met some new friends and one in particular that has been indispensable, even if we haven't been able to talk as much recently. Most of the year has been drama free and all of it has been job free. So yeah, it's been good.

But I feel a sense of having not accomplished much. After giving it some thought, what it came down to is that I feel pretty much exactly the same as I did last year. I'm only jokingly naive enough to think that turning thirty magically signifies some change but in my mind I thought I would use the opportunity to advance myself. To grow, to alter, to bloom. So far, no dice. It's not a New Year so unmet resolutions could still happen but if I'm measuring based on another flip of my personal calendar, then I feel really unfulfilled.

It's a feeling I'm not very familiar with or comfortable with. Like I'm antsy, but only in spare moments. I guess usually I'm very happy being somewhere in-between half empty and half full. But this year has been different. I feel malaise. I feel wasteful. I feel...different.

I also feel extremely fortunate to have been able to hang out in San Francisco for so long, with no muss and no fuss, and to kind of know the city -- as long as it's somewhere in a direct line between the Mission and the Marina. But I've not fallen in love with it and there's no sense of attachment aside from the friend family here. I guess the past two years I've had New York in the summer to catapult me into the rest of the year. This year I've not gone to New York yet so anything could still happen. However, it's safe to say that location isn't necessarily the solution.

The problem is within. As are the answers I guess. I kind of feel like I flipped my house but the furniture is all still the same. Or maybe it's the other way around. Anyway, happy thirty-first.

I can't decide if this blog is necessary or not. Plans to use it as a daily recording of things, as an experimental space, all have failed spectacularly. I'm trying to transition more of my normal blogging to the public blog, because really, who cares? And this can't serve as a journal so it mainly falls into third priority. And third priority means abandonment. But I owe this blog something because I like the design so much.

Suffice to say, I'm out of San Diego and back to San Francisco. I don't want to be here. Not because I'm not having a good time, but because I'm just over it. I thought I was just missing the beach back home but I suspected it was something more. While I miss the people and the SF family, and have another month of squeezing in quality time, it's not where I want to be for the winter. A few weeks ago, after a long night of talking by the beach in La Jolla, I was all fired up to blast whatever remaining money I had and move to New York. A few big purchases, a few wedding tickets bought, and a few reminders of how much I hate the cold have tempered that enthusiasm.

So where to next? Who knows. I have a month up here to figure it out and by October my obligations in SF will be over. I came up because friends were visiting, I had a book panel to do, and my KSW volunteer obligations had to be completed. I'm delighted came up because it's been the perfect time to hang out with some new friends but at the same time I definitely don't feel settled or that attached to remaining here.

When I've been talking to people, some have mentioned that I sound sad. I'm not sure if it's sadness I feel but it's definitely something missing. There's some things brewing that could take me a few steps here and there (backwards or forwards I dunno) but even those are uncertain. The good thing is that writing is going well. I'm excited to try out my new writing chops and to see what I'm capable of the second time around. After attending aforementioned book panel, I'm all fired up to be a real author! It's fun and rewarding and I need to get my promotion game on and get out there.

If you had all the money you needed for the rest of your life (not super gazillion rich, but a guaranteed steady source of income), what would be different? I've been thinking about that a lot recently. The answers are forthcoming, unlike the money. Please extend me again Mr. Obama, please.

I had an interview with a Chinese newspaper the other day. The journalist turns out to know both my mom and dad. He said something like, "Oh, you have good lineage." I'm not sure what that means but I took it as a good thing. The interview was set up by a family friend, Aunt Anna, who has taken a nice interest in my writing. She sent out some query emails to two Chinese publications and a few days later, two interviews! I'll be conducting both in my amazing Chinglish.

This particular writer actually has quite the story himself. He was in the Army for twenty years as a war correspondent. He wrote a book in 1985 about an ex-soldier who has been wounded and lost an eye, and then he moves to America but isn't sure if it's the right place for him. He said they printed 90,000 copies of the book at the time. That's a huge number. If a book sold 100,000 copies nowadays, that would be a runaway best seller. Due to a larger population and less competition for publication, it was semi-normal for a book run back then. I think nowadays if you had an initial print run of 30,000 you'd be leaping for joy.

Part of me wishes I had the ability and training to do interviews. I love learning about people and asking them all sorts of questions. I'm pretty much curious about anything. Strangely, I hate reading interviews, especially the ones with celebrities or musicians or whatnot. The format loses me for some reason, even though the words are much more direct than through a story that has the occasional quote. I'd really love to follow someone(s) around and try my hand at documenting their words/life.

I love reading the spotlights and profiles in Entertainment Weekly or Rolling Stone. It's like you find an angle, spin it out, and then get to tell the world what you think the person is like. The skill of interviewing is something I'd be interested in acquiring.

I've had thoughts about coming up with mini-profiles and articles about people I know in my life (or even strangers?) but it's difficult because sometimes in trying to tell a story, you might have to say negative or possibly offensive things. For example, what if I wrote that someone seemed "flippant, superficial, immature, or uncultured?" They'd hate me forever!

But if someone is willing to be a test subject, I'm game to try profiling them. I really admire the people who can capture a person's look or persona with just a few sentences and details. I'm wholly incapable of it so I should really practice.

Whoosh, and there goes the summer. It's only mid-July, summer weather has finally arrived to San Diego, and I've yet to actually get on a surfboard. Sadly, I already see the sun setting on Summer 2009. This month it's writing by mid-day, hang out by night, hitting the beach whenever I can, and then a return to San Francisco by early August. There's quite a few visitors slated for SF in August, led off by Des and Andri, and then Greg and Caroline. My biggest dilemma right now is whether or not to go to New York in August, before Palak's wedding. While New York in the summer is my favorite, half my reasons for going won't be there. Still, when has a New York trip ever been bad? That's it, I'm committing. I'm going. If I don't go anywhere with my summer, I'll feel like it's been wasted.

I've lately been feeling like if I don't go somewhere out of the country soon, my entire year will have been wasted. I've been asking around to figure out what sorts of programs allow you to go overseas and they pay for your room and board. I guess I could teach English, I mean, I speak it. But I'm not sure that's a good solution to what I'm looking for. For two seconds I even thought about the Peace Corps. But I hate the Peace Corps, and I couldn't commit for longer than three days anyway. Pretty much, I just want out somewhere.

So what else? Well, not much really. The first draft of my next book is due in August, and this time I hope it'll be two hundred times better than the first book. People have been asking me how EC is doing and to be honest, I don't know. The publisher doesn't tell me and it's hard to gauge sales otherwise. I feel like I'm not putting enough effort into doing the promotional and marketing bit, seeing as this is such a commercial work, but I'm also not quite entirely sure what I'm slacking on. I think I'll work on a book signing somewhere, just to have the experience. Maybe I can do one in New York! That's an idea. What I really need is someone who knows someone famous to give them a copy of EC and then they can be seen carrying it around. Quick, someone tell me who they know that's a celebrity. Go.

The other day, I had lunch with a family friend, call him Uncle Dragon, which is a too literal translation of his name. It was the type of talk that I probably need more of, and in the past I'd normally balk at, but I don't mind it nowadays. The "how are you" and "let me give you some advice" talk. You know, fatherly talk. I realized recently that it seems like most people have advisors to whom they ask about life decisions. Not minor ones but big ones. Maybe it's a parent, or a close friend, or a sibling, or something. When you find yourself at a crossroads, or even if you're not, these advice people tell you what they think of how you're doing.

I don't have these people. My life decisions aren't really bounced off of anybody. Not that my life decisions are all that serious or necessarily hard to solve, but I generally think about something, figure out what I want, and then announce it. This may not be the best way about things. While I certainly don't like being told what to do (I mean, isn't that what my Mom is for?), I'm beginning to suspect that it's somewhat abnormal to not seek counsel from anyone.

Uncle Dragon gave me some good advice, and some personality analysis. We mostly talked about jobs and career, and what it means to have self-respect. He made some excellent points, about me lacking patience and unwillingness to go through the lows to achieve the highs. I don't think he was necessarily very on target all the time but it's good to hear things from "the wiser" once in awhile.

I really wanted to ask him something, but I wasn't sure he would get where I was coming from. I wanted to ask, "What's the point (of all this)?" But I didn't want to get into a tangent about religion, or having a family, or being happy, or any of that. I just wanted to thank him for his time and to make him feel like he helped.

When I'm older, I wonder what sorts of advice I'll be giving, and how it'll be received.

"Young people don't know anything -- especially that they're young."
-Mad Men-

I wonder how many people are in love with Claire Danes, or were in love. With Angela, I guess, more accurately. I'm watching her talk to Letterman at age sixteen. It's a bit inconceivable that sixteen year olds are like this. I mean, she pretty much looks the same now, and her subsequent appearances on Late Night aren't necessarily more poised or more mature, or older, etc. I mean, compare her to the awkwardly spazzy Kristin Stewart, who was eighteen when she did her "star" turn on Letterman.

I'm trying to figure out, in watching Claire talk, if I've basically templated my dream girl out of some combination of Angela Chase, Natalie Portman (mainly Marty in Beautiful Girls), and Dorothy. All young naif-ish girls who are mature beyond their years. I'm pretty much destined to date young I've decided. Why fight it? All this and I haven't even read Lolita yet.

Recently, I've been having talks with people about the themes in their love lives. What types of people they are attracted to, who gets attracted to them, etc. For the most part, we're all old enough now where history is a big enough factor to go back and pick out some patterns and such. What I'm discovering is that I pretty much haven't moved past adolescence as far as what I'm attracted to.

What I have learned to do, is verbalize and pinpoint better exactly what I'm looking for. A new trait I think I like, for example, is neuroticism. I like people who read into all sorts of little things. Nervousness as something to talk about. If someone is super neurotic, it generally means they're really observant -- and we won't run out of things to obsess over. Now, while I know I'm attracted to this, I'm not sure if that's a good thing. Heavy neuroses might lead to terrible relationships (especially with me), but yet it's a quality I'm instantly attracted to. It's like I like that emotional and mental high maintenance, but if I were to actually date that, it would be a disaster.

I want to start a service (or write a book) about the importance of that first real relationship. I'm often of the idea "date that first one, get it out of the way, move on." But that really doesn't give enough importance to your first real significant other. Shit, that stuff will reverberate with you forever. Talk about being ruined for life. Anything bad (or good) in that first relationship and you'll be stuck figuring it out for the next fifteen years, or living in an infinite loop if you're destined for a tragic love story.

My service would provide parents and friends with the knowledge that their child will have the perfect first boy/girlfriend. We'd even do a psychological profile and figure out the best way for this perfect first person to exit their life gracefully after a year or two. Puppy love is fun and cute and all but we all know that there's no better way to scar yourself forever than through those first experiences.

This is probably a million dollar idea, but I'd only charge an hourly fee of twenty bucks or so.

Also, in talking about people recently, I've been using the term "gravity" and "attraction." Some people have attraction, some people have gravity. In short, attraction only works on certain types of people. Like magnetism, there's one pole that attracts and one pole that repels. People with romance gravity however, just suck the opposite sex right in. "She's got strong gravity, any guy who hangs around her will end up liking her." I have to refine this theory and come up with some examples, but it looks promising already.

Strangely, I don't have much to say post-Lynn's wedding. It was a great time, it was almost exactly as expected, and there were some really memorable small and big moments. Recently I feel like there's been a lot of events and I've been trying to furiously scribble them down in my journal but it's a losing battle. The more you try to write down and remember, the more you're likely to forget.

We talked late on Saturday night, after the wedding, about having some sort of telepathy machine to allow us to experience things from someone else's perspective. I think I'd settle for just having a machine that allows me to experience things (again) from my own perspective. Like that Ralph Fiennes and Angela Bassett movie, "Strange Days." They had a technology that allowed you to record your memories and emotions, and then play them back via a CD player thing. I need one of those. Actually, technology is far enough along to strap a pinhole camera to your body at all times, so you could kind of approximate it, but that would just be weird. Right?

Things can happen so fast that you don't really reflect on them enough, or allow the impact to sink it. That's the tragedy, I think, of a busy life. Not that I have one. I just have an extensive journal awaiting updates, which keeps me seemingly busy.

The most touching moment for me? When Ed sang Nat King Cole's "L is for the way you look at me / O is for the only one I see / V is very very extra-ordinary / E is even more than anyone that you adore can." He held the mic in one hand while holding her and dancing with the other. It was romantic in a very real way, it was public yet private, and it was incredibly sweet. Bravo Ed.

The place they had the wedding was gorgeous. Entirely outdoors, acres and acres of beautiful trees and foliage. It was reminiscent of PZ and Amy's wedding actually, the way different events were held at different locations. And the pre-hype was no lie, there really were white tigers on the premises, even if I didn't see them for more than one fleeting moment as we drove by. I'm not sure what kind of venue I expected but it wasn't this. Like wow.

Lynn and Ed exchanged their vows via haiku, which was irreverent, different, and apparently, ultimately, them. Like Babbs said, "I didn't know why I didn't expect something like that from Lynn. I should have known, I just didn't guess." That sums up my thoughts about the whole wedding. Of course this was going to be an impeccably planned and beautiful wedding, with class and taste and fun involved throughout. And of course she planned this totally stress free and had everything turn out perfectly. This was a Lynnchen affair after all wasn't it?

I kept an orange and brown napkin from the wedding. It somehow mysteriously stayed with Dann through dinner and then transitioned to his back pocket while he was dancing, and it made it all the way back to the hotel room. He left it there but I nabbed it because I thought it would be nice to have something tangible to remember the weekend by, aside from just pictures and memories.

There is some sort of karmic shift in the world actually, now that Lynn is officially married. I have a tough time pinpointing it. I've tried to speak to some people about it but I'm not sure everyone understands. It's not like this is just someone else who got married, another in the long string of celebrations. This is like Lynn getting married. It means something. It's not as quaint as people having crushes on her or liking her and now she's taken. It's not about Lynn representing this ideal partner for many, in group discussions. It's not about Lynn being a different person or leading a different life now that she's married. It's about something else/more... and I can't quite put my finger on it, or articulate it, and it probably only feels this way to a handful of people. I need to find those people and have a conversation about this.

I wait outside on the curb for my cab, the second one I've called tonight, feeling warm and buzzed but ready to go home. Mona canceled my first cab because she demanded that I needed to stay longer. I didn't argue. Hong had a big headache all night and was definitely not committed to having fun. He was already mentally tapped out of the wedding festivities the previous night, during the sangeet. His main goal was to get home and play poker. I swear nothing excites Hong anymore except gambling.

I wasn't ready to stop the experience yet though. After missing the ceremony part of the wedding, after standing in the wrong place afterwards (Mandisa: "You guys look adorable." Us: "Crap, we just missed your vows"), and after an off-and-on reception, the night was just gearing up. No way was I leaving yet. So at midnight, Hong and I parted ways. I to more Patron shots and champagne, Hong to home.

Three hours later, I was definitely feeling the burn but had jammed in some additional fun, and was now headed back to Eric and Anna's. As I leapt into my taxi, my skinny cabby asked where to. "Sterling Heights," I said. The girl in the passenger seat groaned. She had just been picked up too, and wanted to head home first. It was on the way, sort of. Being the gentleman that I am, I offered, "You can take her home first, no problem." She thanked me and offered cigarettes -- the perfect payment -- and we cruised around the streets of Michigan smoking with the windows down. I felt great.

Twenty minutes of staring at my GPS dot later, I was feeling a little worn down. Tired from the lack of sleep, stomach woozy from the alcohol, I was afraid I wasn't going to make it. I wondered what would be worse? Puking in the cab or puking in the Agustins, home of three wonderful babies? Thankfully, my double shot of Pepcid AC from earlier in the night held through and I arrived home to Hong and Eric playing chess.

Did I mention the cab cost $100? I couldn't decide if I had just tipped him generously or if I'd been swindled. Either way, it was worth it. Things that are always worth a few extra bucks: good times extended and basketball in a gym.

My class is over. We had our final performance last night and the whole thing came off famously. I wasn't sure how many people would show up but the room was packed. Easily fifty or more people. When we arrived for rehearsal, we each got a chance to stand up on the stage and practice adjusting the mic, read a few paragraphs, and get a good view from the elevated platform. That view was so key, but it can be disconcerting to look over a crowd for the first time. Seeing empty chairs and getting a sense of the space was useful.

I hadn't memorized any bits of my story. I knew that would make maintaining eye contact easier but I felt it was more important to get my words right. I'll look up when I got the chance. I had spent the previous night revising, making everything more colloquial, taking out all the alliteration that made my FOB-tongue stumble, and inserting a few more transitional phrases. I felt good about the piece, I felt good about my practice. The advice that Jon G and Heather gave me that afternoon was to "show more emotion." That could have been their advice to me for life, not just this performance.

Originally, I was slated to go second to last, right after intermission. In my head, I knew that my piece would probably work best first. It was short, it was frothy, and it was less serious than anybody else's. Chuck and Cathlin were the experienced performers of the group and maybe they should have bookended it, but both of their pieces were long. As we rehearsed, Sam changed the order and asked if Yasmine or I could go first. I volunteered myself. Not because I was dying to get on stage first, but because I just wanted it to be over.

Some people thrive on attention, spotlight, and audience feedback, I do not. It just makes me insanely nervous and self conscious. I had decided not to wear my typical thermal under my t-shirt for exactly this reason. Recently I've been breaking out in a mild sweat whenever something uncomfortable has been happening (speed dating, random social events). It's like Spidey sense, but useless and embarrassing.

I wanted to wear my hoodie up on stage, because it gave me more girth, but the whole space was so damn hot that I just ended up reading in my white tee. I sweated anyway, pausing a few times during my ten minute reading to wipe my head and then clear my palms. Goodness.

Overall, my reading went well. I'd like to think that I pull through better in the clutch. And I know I gave my best performance that night, with some good pauses, some better articulation, and better facial expressions. So it was a success. At the same time, it wasn't nearly as good as it could have been. I wish someone else had read it, then it would have been better. But that's not what this life challenge was about. I had to get up there and read. And I did.

Something to work on for next time: figuring out what to do with my hands. I tend to clasp and unclasp them. It makes me look intensely nervous and childish. Neither of which I was, of course.

The Art of Relationship War
A How-to

Pat Benatar, with her feline eyes and massive collection of spandex onesies, told us a long time ago, “Love is a Battlefield.” She sonically declared there would be no promises, no demands, and only love as war. The video for her song featured choreographed dancers doing moves that would now be relegated to the six o’clock aerobic hip hop class. But back then, as Pat shoulder shimmied a sleazeball off the dance floor and right out of her life, I knew that what she had to say was forever true: Love was a battlefield.

It makes so much sense doesn’t it? Love as war? A person’s heart has to be defended at all costs. Battles waged in the name of love have to be as fierce as those waged for independence. Fiercer even. Cast aside family ties and fight, like brother versus brother at Gettysburg. Overcome invincible odds like the heroic 300 did at Thermopylae. Charge epically, romantically, suicidally, into battle like the Light Brigade. That’s how fiercely you have to fight for love. As Wesley from the Princess Bride tells us, the fight is always “to the pain!”

So, when engaged in ultimate battle, with no recourse but the utter destruction of your enemy, who to turn to for advice but the Chinese? Well, not me exactly. But more specifically, Sun-Tzu, legendary theorist, heroic general, best selling author, and almost certainly a hit with the ladies. Somewhere in this spindly body of mine, his blood courses strong and proud, waiting to take over and assume command.

Sun-Tzu, he of the super styling fu manchu, laid down thirteen steps for success in any war-like endeavor. He started with Laying of the Plans (”Get a girlfriend”), asked for a definition of success (”Got a girlfriend”), and then wound through Plans for Attacking, Positioning, and Deceiving (”Keeping a girlfriend”). His last two chapters, the ones covering the proper use of fire and spies, were tactical masterpieces -- and my personal favorites -- so I’ll highlight a few things from there.

Who, when given the opportunity, hasn’t looked at their significant other’s email? Just a quick peek your heart says, while your brain is helplessly muttering, “Don’t do it! Respect her privacy!” That rational brain is soon screaming, “Who the fuck is this Mike character and why is he emailing her five times a day?” A bullet, imagined or not, is tearing through layers of your skin, your bone, your cartilage, fat, tendons and trust. The gaping hole left behind is waiting for some answers. You need some truth.

But (!), don't confront her, because then she’ll know you’ve been spying. Answers can be far more easily attained through a quick Google search. I highly recommend using quotes around the first and last name for more accurate results. It just works better.

Spying, or the gathering of intelligence, is usually counter intelligent. But being stupid can sometimes be really smart. You knew by opening Pamela’s inbox, that nothing positive could conceivably come flooding out. It would have been better to slide your mouse over to the “Sign Off” button and be done with it. But love is war, and knowing is half the battle. So I -- I mean, you -- read on, and maybe copy-paste some incriminating phrases. Maybe forward a line or two along to your friends for analysis. Then maybe send the whole thing when they ask for “more context.” All fuel for fiery retribution.

In his chapter dealing with fire, Sun-Tzu recommends waiting until the perfect moment to unleash vengeful fury. “If there is an outbreak of fire, but the enemy’s soldiers remain quiet, bide your time and do not attack.” Patience he means, don’t blow up everything all at once. Hold a little something back to knock your opponent, otherwise known as the love of your life, on their ass when they least expect it. Heaven knows you’ve been texting Sally from accounting a few more times than professionally necessary. And when the heated discussion about your possible but probably non-business use of “Miss you, see you Monday!” comes up? That’s the time to drag Mike and his five daily emails into the open. Fight fire with fire they say.

Sun-Tzu not only recommends holding something back in the arguing department, his Art of War emphasizes the importance of having reserves. Alternates, backups, troops to save the day. Never show off your entire repertoire and always tuck something up your sleeve. The general who throws his entire army into battle has no surprises left to spring.

Of course, there are nice surprises and not-so-nice surprises. Bringing her flowers when you’ve declared yourself a diligent non-romantic? Good surprise. Bringing her flowers because you’ve just lost rent at the casino? Bad surprise. Showing up uninvited when she’s out with just her friends? Surprise!

In a related lesson, it’s always better to not be too predictable. Or to let a girl know everything about you. As a Sun-Tzu admirer by the name of Napoleon Bonaparte once said, “You must not fight too often with one enemy, or you will teach him all your art of war.” Don’t be an open book. Be opaque, be difficult to grasp, be mysterious. Women love a good mystery. Nancy Drew, Agatha Christie, Angela Lansbury...and Velma from Scooby Doo, all shining examples of the female’s superior observational powers. It takes three times as much effort to hide something from a woman’s omniscient glare than from any male’s stupefied gaze.

Boys are also, by their very nature, entirely ill equipped to think of themselves as less clever than anybody else. Girls, by their sugar and Spice Girl empowered nature, know that boys aren’t nearly half as smart as they think they are. But boys can use that imbalance to their advantage. When faced with a difficult question, act confused; Sun-Tzu would call this allowing your enemy to underestimate you.

For example: “Did you love her as much as you love me?” “I don’t think I knew what true love was back then, so I can’t say.”

“Do you think she’s attractive?” “In what way?”

Deny, deceive, play dumb, and then run. A good warrior knows when to retreat. Sun-Tzu, Chapter Four, page ninety-six.

What Sun-Tzu counsels above all else, however, is that the best victory is one achieved without fighting. The general who accomplishes his goals without violence is the one to be admired. I understand and agree wholeheartedly. My man Sun is talking about passive aggressiveness isn’t he? To fight without fighting, right? Let water destroy rock, hugs instead of slugs, and rainbows before elbows.

In learning to turn the other cheek, it’s obvious that nothing infuriates a girl more than when you aren’t infuriated. So when she says: “Oh honey I’m sooo sorry I was talking to Justin all night, did you mind? It’s just we haven’t seen each other since, like, forever.”

Don't react. Intergalactic wars have been started for far less, I know. But don’t shrug her hand off your arm. Don’t grimace. Don’t even raise an eyebrow. The proper response, the art of relationship war response, is to shrug your shoulders and let it go -- for now. Cool off for a few weeks, wait for her guard to be down, and then fling the dagger.

“Oh honey, Sarah and I are going to get dinner and some drinks. I haven’t seen her since we broke up. She kind of wants to hang out alone. You don’t mind do you? It’s just we haven’t seen each other since, like, forever...” Be sure to imitate her exact wording and cadence. Practice beforehand if you have to. Borrow a mirror, buy a recorder, something.

The sudden similarity will hammer home your point, while having the dual advantage of reminding her that you were perfectly calm and collected when she transgressed, so she can’t say anything. She has to let you go. Make sure to dress up extra nice, exit with a big kiss, and thank her for being “so understanding.” Bonus points for leaving your phone behind in a place she’ll notice as soon as you leave.

Let’s see if she talks to Justin ever again.

Sun-Tzu, freaking genius right?

By committing to his thirteen simple lessons (like I have) you might strategically lose a few battles here and there, but trust me, you will never lose the war.

My phone rings at eleven, right in the middle of my zombie hours. It's Victor and he's asking if I want to get lunch. "I'm already near the Marina, I can get you in fifteen minutes." Struggling to get up and thinking about how toasted I'll be the rest of the day, I muttered, "Sure."

The lure of Halo and a ride around town was enough to motivate me to get up and out. I packed my bag for a possible slumber party. An extra t-shirt, socks, and contact case. Plus my laptop and assorted chargers of course. I'd been over earlier in the week so a toothbrush, towel, and pair of shorts were already waiting for me. His Anne is gone to Taiwan for two weeks on vacation, my (by default) George is in London, working her accounting magic. This has left both Victor and I apartments to ourselves. Our answer to all this alone time? Hang out a lot together.

I'd stayed up the previous night watching "Quiet City," two-and-a-half times in a row. It's a walky and talky movie, my favorite mini-genre. Just two strangers meeting in a city and then wandering and exploring (each other), almost in real time. The list of movies that previously fit this category probably numbered less than five. Then I read about mumblecore a few weeks ago, after watching Medicine for Melancholy at the Roxie, and decided I needed to know more.

Shot gorgeously with consumer cameras, on limited budgets, and focusing on the lives of twenty-something hipsters, this was the movie movement I wanted to belong to. But if I was too young for Before Sunrise/Sunset, I've suddenly become too old for melancholy and dance party usa. What the hell happened? How had the intervening decade managed to go by without me doing anything? It made me feel pathetic.

Then it made me feel inspired. After watching the movie once through, and then staying fully awake for the actor's commentary, and some of the director/cinematographer/sound design guy's commentaries, I knew what I had to do. I had to make my own mumblecore movie -- okay, short -- with D.I.Y. rigs, improvised dialogue, and whatever else I had to patch together.

I wanted to do it even if I had to get in front of the camera, something I loathe, just to have some material to work with. Once I hopped into the car, I started babbling to Victor about all this stuff. I think I did a terrible job explaining why I was so impressed by "Quiet City." But in the ten minutes it took for us to drive out to meet Ameer for lunch, he had agreed to watch it. I didn't mention that it was a little long and boring in parts.

Tentative working title for our tentative to be done project: "Dumbledore." Just kidding. Or maybe not.

Well, I did it, I went speed dating. After a year or so of declaring my desire to date, of flirting casually with match.com, and of writing down that dating would be a goal of mine, I went speed dating. Of course, it took free tickets and a charity event for me to get off my ass but who cares right?

Over the course of three hours, I met twenty plus some eligible bachelorettes. For the most part they were all lovely and very easy to talk to. During my first four minute date, I was super sweaty because the room was unseasonably warm. I wondered if my counter-part, the female #19, noticed. I wasn't particularly nervous but I wasn't super comfortable (yet) either.

I had dressed in my best white t-shirt, worn some non-jeans pants, and generally prepared to "change my life" as the dry erase board declared in blue ink. I had seen Dann do his speed dating thing a few times and knew what to expect. As I surveyed the crowd with Chris and Irwin by my side, we commented on the lack of prospects.

Technically, this was to be a speed dating event for over a hundred people. Three age groups, with forty or so people in each -- we were in the twenty three to thirty five group I think. The large office space was crowded with all manner of people, many of them older(-looking) and futtering around, and I would have felt way out of place if I didn't know that everyone else felt way out of place too.

Chris and I were slated to be right after one another. I thought we would initially play it cool and not acknowledge that we knew each other, but through the course of the night, it became a topic of conversation. I would gesture over to Chris in mid-conversation with some girl ("Oh that's my friend, give him a hard time), and on breaks we huddled together. At station number three, halfway through the event, we even sat together and talked to the same girl due to irregularities in the seating. We made good tag team partners, and our new idea is to have speed dating in pairs. It's a little less awkward.

For the most part, I had a blast during the entire experience. It's funny how even as you talk and conversate, you have this part of your brain that is processing -- at high speed -- if you could potentially go on a real date with this person. "Hum, is she attractive? Would we have anything in common? Is she sending any vibes back?" I watched this Science of Sex thing recently and they studied speed dating. Their conclusion was that you couldn't tell if a girl was interested in a guy by watching them during an event, but you could semi-tell by watching the guy. So I knew not to expect any "real" positive or negative vibes. Girls automatically chat and flirt when put into close proximity with guys and reading their signals indicates nothing.

I wanted to avoid the "Where are you from? How long have you lived here? What do you do?" questions as much as possible. I tried to let my natural curiosity take over and just ask other things. My two most generic questions were "So have you done this before?" and "Do you think it sucks that the girls have to sit here the whole time while the guys move around?" I used those when I had nothing else to say. Surprisingly, there wasn't much dead air with any of the women. I guess people come to these events ready to talk.

Overall, I felt the conversations were way too short. I have a tendency to listen before I talk so I found myself asking too many questions and not giving enough answers. There would be times when the bell would ring and we both would realize I said nothing about myself. There would be times I wanted to know more about some particular topic ("So tell me about glass blowing") but should have probably pushed the conversation to learn more about them.

Then again, speed dating is pretty much all about attraction. You can't learn that much about anyone in four minutes, so as we said afterwards, we could have easily selected "yes" or "no" without the talking portion. In fact, Dann said he's heard of speed dating events where there isn't any talking allowed. Just sitting there and looking at each other. How's that for uncomfortable? Dann did say that this type of non-verbal speed dating resulted in more post-event make outs.

The event got really draining for the women and a few of them started leaving. There were less women then men so they didn't get any breaks while we were fortunate enough to have rests every once in awhile. During those times, I would go hang out with Victor (he was on hand, dressed up in a blazer, and helping out), take a break for cookies or juice, and generally escape the forced conversation. I can imagine how tiring it would have been to not have those breaks so I can't really fault the women for leaving. Apparently one couple decided they liked each other so much that they decided to ditch the event altogether and just leave as a pair. True love indeed.

Out of the nearly twenty five women, I said "yes" to six. There were apparently two girls that Dann said were really cool and were semi-coworkers of his, but he cruelly ended the event before Chris and I could rotate in to them. And I thought he was our friend. There was one girl there I thought was really pretty, number nine, but there was no way in high hell she would have matched with me. I marked "yes" because I'm an optimist though.

Will I go speed dating again? Sure! Because I'd like to change my life in four minutes and next time around I'm going to drag George so we can gossip afterwards.

Life is good you know? If there is indeed some sort of karmic wave for past lives, whoever was the me right before me had a shitty ass life. And I feel fucking terrible for the next Jon that's surely slated for a downturn. The axiom, "Good things happen to good people," can't be true can it? I mean, I know lots of good people and tons of terrible things happen to them. I tend to think that sometimes some people are just luckier than others. I'm definitely one of the lucky ones. Some people tell me that they admire my carefree attitude, my general nonchalance, and my "whatever happens, happens" attitude. I'm not sure if it's necessarily a trait to be admired, since it does come with certain downsides, but I do concede that it can certainly make life easier. And really, it's hard to not be carefree when things just seem to fall into place.

For example. I was in the very beginning stages of sweating where my next paycheck would come from. Unemployment was running out, I hadn't really started looking for jobs, and there was still a whole summer ahead. Then I get a letter telling me that my unemployment got extended again. For another five months. Sweet right? And then a week ago I heard back from a random Craigslist job posting. I only submitted one resume, wrote a cheeky ass email, and figured it would never work anyway. As it turns out, the company is a tiny start up, needs the only marketable skills I really possess, and could possibly offer me a job soon.

So my biggest dilemma is figuring out if I should glide along for a few more months or get off my ass do something. To be honest, I don't have anything going on this summer, aside from hanging out, and I could probably use some structure to my day. I feel semi-ready to work again. Plus, working in a start up would allow me to throw a hundred and ten percent in, something that would make me work much harder, and much more motivated.

But oh that getting up pre-noon thing. It could be a kicker. I may leave it up to them. If they say "we want you," it'll be pretty stupid to turn it down, considering how easy it was to get the job. If they say "you suck," then my decision will be made. Let's go fates, tell me how my summer's going to be.

One thing I do know about my summer is that any time spent in San Francisco will be on George's couch. I've officially moved out of my studio in the Mission. The grand experiment of living alone lasted ten weeks, cost me three thousand dollars, and didn't really illuminate anything. Can I live by myself? I don't know, because I was hardly ever there. Now that I'm moved back into George's living room, I asked her, "Does it feel like I left?" Her answer was a joking, and honest, "No."

This past weekend, we took a much needed trip to Target and Costco, buying shoe racks, stackable boxes, and cubbies to put my things in. I don't think I'll move out again until I have a job. And even then, our living arrangement seems to be okay. It's senseless to throw $1200 down the tubes every month when I could just be subsidizing George's shopping habits -- which is what I'll be doing.

The thing is, as of maybe two weeks ago, I decided that I was unafraid of the Mission. I got totally comfortable walking around, I have meetings there all through the week, and I might really miss my go-to Mexican and Chinese restaurants down there. So I guess, in a way, I got something for my two and a half months of living "alone," even if it wasn't that much. I learned to ride the bus, I learned to like the Mission, and I learned that home ain't where you pay rent, but where you're most comfortable. Back to the Marina!

Things found out this weekend. Well, my super power for one, which I have to admit, I've maybe heard before. That's the next game I'm going to play with myself, or maybe with others. What super power does so-and-so possess? This was a long awaited event, Lynn's bachelorette party. It might be the first and only bachelorette party I'm going to attend so I had to treasure it.

I was pretty excited for everyone to come together and have a fantastic time and barring some hiccups here and there, it was really pretty marvelous. I mean, I'm ready to nitpick at just about anything (I can't even tell if I'm negative or just observant, maybe it's a matter of perspective) but just about everything you could hope for to happen during a long weekend happened.

Great group of people, check. Good logistics and planning, check. Lots of activities, check. Night of awesome dancing and drinking, check. Bonding time, check. DDT, check. Music and singing, check. And candlelight, check. Fabulous food, check. Video games, check. Board games, check. Something new, check. Pretty much the weekend was a huge rousing success and it will probably be carried on in memory for quite some time.

Even amongst the gripes, the debriefings, the dramas and mini-dramas, the thing that really sticks out to me is how often these amazing moments get to happen. I don't know if this is something that's normal or not normal, but I feel like we're all really blessed to have these huge great moments every few months.

I know it's presumptous to think that people don't necessarily always have this, but I'm not sure if everyone does after a certain point. And the fact that this can keep happening for whatever reason, is probably cause for celebration itself.

George suggested a great tie-breaker for our two team "Who knows Lynn better trivia game" and it consisted of chronologically ordering everyone in the room by who's known Lynn the longest. Semi-surprisingly, I met Lynn the earliest, like 1996, two weeks into freshman year. We were in the same big sib little sib family for the Chinese Cultural Association or whatnot. I don't think either of us remember each other really but I do know she was definitely on the list. I continued doing things with my "family" and she never showed up again

Our paths wouldn't really cross again until sophmore year, when Hong happened to be in her dance and then ended up stalking her for a few months. One of the ways he tried to woo her was by getting one of those twisty cap, sippy, plastic cups. You know what I'm talking about? They were really popular back then. So Hong got her a Little Mermaid one. I remember we had to go searching long and hard for that damn thing. And she still rejected him. Well, at least until next year. Persistence and Little Mermaid, that's apparently the ticket.

I didn't sleep much this weekend. From the time James and Steve got in at eleven-ish on Friday morning, I probably only got three or four hours a night. It felt invigorating, except for spells when I was all dizzy and couldn't see straight. But whenever there's excitement, it's like I can just keep staying up. How I can bottle this natural adrenaline push should be my next goal. I'm wondering at what point I'll just stop being able to pull a long stretch of days without much sleep. Will that signal maturedom and body breakdown?

It's actually something I never want to have to succumb to. I want to be able to pull all nighters at the drop of a hat. It makes me feel young.

For thirteen months, I drove exotic cars at twice the speed limit, sent pedestrians flying toward the nearest curb, and teased cops in my rearview mirror before boosting quickly away. At my finely tuned best, I could get from Point A to B faster than anyone else. The streets of San Diego, Atlanta, and Detroit were filled with an unending stream of wannabe racers, all hoping to dethrone the champ. Nobody could do it, I was the man among men, and it all felt incredibly, deflatingly…false.

It had started off well a summer ago, when my interview for a vaunted game tester position had been a series of softballs like: "So what did you play growing up? What system did you have? Do you love games?" I wasted no time dipping into my list of authentic gamer experiences. The real ones, the ones that made the interviewers nod their heads in appreciation. When I got the job, I was thrilled. Finally, a career. A dream fulfilled. I was in the video game industry. Mom, I made it.

There was a problem looming though: I wasn't one of the boys. It wasn't in me, I couldn't adjust to being around only guys for twelve hours a day. Especially guys that somehow managed to pair testosterony bravado alongside an obsession for Super Mario and his ongoing quest to rescue his one true love, Princess Peach.

Nobody called bullshit here? Guys who love video games aren't cool, that's exactly how you got uncool in the first place, by staying inside and playing video games all day. Why pretend otherwise? At least that what I'd thought.

Unexpected Lesson #1: Cool is relative
In real life, away from the confines of the testing lab, few of my co-workers could have been described as traditionally cool. Or popular. Nearly everyone was a social outcast of some sort. Dork, dork, geek, dork, geek, dork, nerd. These weren't even derogatory terms in any way, they were just descriptions. Nobody aspires to play video games for a living without a strong streak of dork-geek-nerd built in.

But instead of banding together into a happy League of Dorks, there was a clear hierarchy. Slumming at the very bottom of our geekdom was an unfortunate guy named Sean. The reason he became the verbal whipping boy of the testing lab? Well, heavens to all hell, his sin was that he was an unrepentant Nintendo fanboy. Sean's computer station was always decorated with the company's (official) paraphernalia. Action figures were neatly arranged on his monitor and carefully rotated in or out according to what pieces he wanted to show off that week.

Touching Sean's toys was predictably the easiest way to rile him up. So of course the bullies of the lab thought it was always hilarious to place Megaman and Luigi in compromising positions when Sean wasn't around. Then they would do the same thing to Donkey Kong and Diddy Kong. I didn't really find video game incest to be very amusing, but it was laugh or be laughed at — the law of the gamer jungle — so I laughed. Secretly though, I admired a guy who took pride in his toy collection.

Unexpected Lesson #2: Mulan had it easy
For some reason, I was the only Asian in the gaming lab for quite a few months. That meant any Asian related question was directed my way. Number one on that list was always "Hey, how do I get Asian girls to talk to me?" I wanted to say, "Well, it would help if you were less creepy" but instead offered neo-Confucian phrases likes "Be persistent and the path will become clear" or "Don't ask her what country she's from."

Another frustrated co-worker told me that whenever he approached a circle of girls at the club, they would all turn their backs, shutting him out. "What's the deal with that?" he asked. I used a predator versus herd analogy and told him to wait for the weak one to be separated out. Then quickly buy her a drink before she retreats to safety. "We're a group minded people, you have to keep that in mind." I dispensed useless advice and they drank it up because I was the voice of Asian authority.

Halfway through the development cycle, we hired another foreigner, a female tester. Before her arrival, the only other females in the company were the two receptionists, who liked to come through the lab every once in awhile, jump or giggle on command (literally), and generally boost morale. But now a girl was actually going to be in the lab with us and a big meeting was needed to prep us for it.

Jason, our boss, told everyone that sexual harassment was a big deal. Talking, touching, disparaging, praising, any of these things could constitute sexual harassment if taken the wrong way. Having half naked pictures of women on computer wallpapers was no longer allowed. Calling everyone "gay" or "bitches" was to be curtailed. He reminded everyone to be respectful of each other, girls and boys alike.

At the end of his little speech, the first question asked was "Is she hot?"
Jason rolled his eyes and said, "What do you think?"

I think the poor girl last two weeks. She quit after someone decided it would be a nice initiation to fart in her general direction. From two feet away.

Unexpected Lesson #3: Tbc

Just finished watching "Igby Goes Down," a movie about a rich overprivileged know-it-all who can't love, hates most everyone, and likes to ruin everything. It's like the second coming of Catcher in the Rye, a book I've re-read a few times just to see if I was missing something. I mean, everyone's always talking about Holden as this great such and such. An inspiration, an example, a window into a certain angst. I never got it. But watching Igby, I sort of understood what Catcher in the Rye was driving at.

It was about finding your niche, despite your issues, your dramas, your goods and your bads. I guess it's really about growing up, or figuring how to grow up, something people still haven't done really. What is most shocking about being a full fledged adult (age wise) is how people are, incredibly, still hung up on issues that they could/should have seemingly solved eons ago.

As a child, I used to think that adults all had their shit together. What was neuroticism, what was jealousy, what was insecurity (in an adult) to a kid? I thought maturity and age came hand in hand. That's so not true is it? People calcify as they get older and have to fight to change. It's an uphill battle the entire way and oftentimes it's not even a fight people bother with.

When people talk about being afraid of "settling" in a relationships, how come it never comes around into being afraid of settling as yourself? Of being the you that will remain for the next thirty years or whatever. I think that's the thing that scares me more nowadays. It feels like 80% of myself is mapped out, and the other 20% I've basically given up on learning about.

It's like I've lost interest in the "why's" of me. I don't care why I do things anymore. Like why does the sun make flowers grow? I don't care, I just need to figure out what to do with the damn flowers. There's some sort of weak parallel to the creation versus evolution debate, but I'll pass on that since it's hackneyed.

I'm AIMing a friend in Darfur about her restlessness right now. It's existential season -- particularly for her, and she goes through this every few years, if not months -- and she's right now saying that even though she's always in crazy experiences and situations, she's "OD'd on sensory experiences in other worlds." So rarely is the answer somewhere out there too. Eventually, anything gets stale.

The answer is really in you, isn't it? All paths lead back to zero?

Just a few hours earlier we had been discussing our "in case of parental death" protocol. One of our friend's mom was dying and everyone was put on high alert. His family had been ready for awhile now, since Stage Four cancer rarely spares. What hadn't been discussed was what should be done in case of friend emergency. We were all well versed on congratulations, graduations, marriages, babies, lay offs, break ups, and most everything in-between. Death was new. There wasn't a humorous email chain about Kevin's mother passing away. Nobody hit "Reply All." And that felt weird.

When our friend was run over by a speedboat in the Bahamas, it took all of ten minutes before the competition for best new nickname ensued. She had escaped with relatively minor injuries so it was easy to make light of the incident. "Scuba-Lynn" or "Lynn-atee" were the clear winners. We talked about making T-shirts, or at least an oversized button to commemorate the event. Lynn was highly amused and we congratulated ourselves on being supportive and caring "in our own way."

This time around, "in our own way," was confusing. I couldn't decide if it was normal for friends to fly in for a funeral, especially if you weren't close to the family. Lilly, already in San Diego, had slipped in at the end of our conversation, "You can stay at my house if you want, Jess' room is open." The way she said it, it seemed like she assumed I would be going home.

But wait, I wanted to ask, "Is everyone else going down? Is that what we're supposed to?" I didn't realize flying home was the automatic next step. I thought maybe we would consider sending flowers, or an apologetic email, or maybe hope for voicemail. Were there other options available, or this was something you just did because it was tradition, like reluctantly standing there with all the other unmarried males, waiting for the stupid girdle to go flying by?

After getting off the phone with Lilly, I immediately consulted my other adult friends, the ones I considered mature enough to give sage advice. The consensus seemed to be, "If you're free, you should go."

Hum, well, I was unemployed, I had a general policy to never plan more than two days ahead, and I had no life. Of course I would be free. Decision made. It hadn't been as easy as that though. A wise person had told me to call around and ask for bereavement rates. I didn't even know what those were but they sounded like a great idea. Unemployed remember?

So later that night, I spent forty fear filled minutes in front of my apartment at three in the morning, checking around for the cheapest flights between SFO and SAN. I was crouched outside because the inside of my apartment lacked reliable cell phone reception. Any phone calls had to be made standing out in the street, something I generally tried to avoid past midnight because the Mission still seemed terribly sketchy to me.

The last time I had stepped outside for a four o'clock cigarette, I had turned back after eavesdropping on a conversation between someone speaking in near-tongues and her friend, who sounded exactly like Chucky. Or he maybe he was an actual six year old but anybody who let a six year old hang around on my stoop in the middle of the night probably didn't have my best interests at heart. I'd packed my cigarette away that night and headed indoors before even making it past my gate. Since then, I've totally kicked my late night cigarette and stroll habit, replacing nicotine with the soothing safety of a locked door. Now I was outside on the phone, trying to make a deal and keep an eye on both alley entrances at the same time.

The first thing I found out about bereavement rates, also known as "compassion fares," was that they required proof of death. That made business sense, I guess. Airlines would have to prevent being taken advantage of by last second travelers somehow.

Proof of death required the name and relationship of the relative, in addition to the name, address, and phone number for the funeral home, hospice, or hospital. Sometimes they needed the name of the doctor. I clearly didn't have any of those, and wasn't about to ask. Getting home immediately wasn't looking good.

Luckily, after some calling around, I secured a $39 Southwest "Wanna get away?" promotion ticket. For the record, Southwest doesn't offer bereavement rates because "our fares are already the industry's lowest." Thank you Southwest for your daily compassion.

The next afternoon, "good friends fly home" badges pinned on our hearts, my friend Adam and I flew home.

I just started taking this class the past week. It's a comedy slash writing class. It's an eight week workshop designed to explore and create a piece of comedic work. At the end of those eight weeks there will be a public performance. One of my resolutions from Jan-Mar was to take an acting class. This isn't exactly it but it'll have to do as a substitute.

Ideally we'll be exploring comedic forms, analyzing what makes something funny, and working through some of my fears of performance. I don't know why I have this issue with being in front of people since I've done speeches, performances, talks, training, etc. But each time it's in a context where people aren't really judging you maybe. When you do something creative, people generally ask one thing afterward: "What is good?" I think I'll aim for "so-so." Actually, I'll pray for "so-so."

There's also this pressure to be funny. I mean, I think I'm funny but apparently I'm not all that funny. So I'm going to have to write or perform a story that is not only so-so good but also funny. This should be interesting.

One of the in-class exercises was to think of a painful moment or event in your life and write the external and internal memories of it. External encompassed details and setting. Internal covered feelings and emotions. I'm notoriously horrible at saying how I feel about something. I'm possibly even worse describing details and setting. It's ridiculous since writing is about communicating one or the other isn't it?

Anyway, in trying to think of something painful or traumatic (not embarrassing, but actually painful), it took me awhile. As in I just made one up. I dramatized a recent moment and blew it up to the point it was actually painful. Everyone was supposed to say "ding" when they had a painful moment in mind. I was the last one to "ding," and I just kind of did it to go with the program.

In the end, my haiku from the exercise looked like this:

The lunch crowd is gone
Secret, then counter-secret
Interrogation!

I could explain the story behind it but there's not really that much going on. What I got out of this exercise was that I'm wholly unable to parse out the stuff that people seem so ready to define as painful. My pain tends to trickle away quickly. I mean, aside from deaths or the occasional relationship pain, what else do I have to complain about?

I'm worried that a lack of real experiences (defined by highs and lows, happiness and sadness) will hamper my ability to be funny. Or a story teller. Or you know, involved.