This blog is like an ex -- -- that I've finally moved on from. There were occasional gems here, but they can't be recreated from repeating whatever it was I was doing before. We've had history, W&S, which why I kept coming back, but it's about time I started afresh with another blog that won't have me continually looking back at old works and stifling potential growth.I've moved. Countdown Cadence The winter days, increasingly short as they may be, only seem to be getting longer. 68 more of them still lie before the end of the academic road, and even though a near lifetime of school has rushed past me, these 68 days ahead appear laboriously stretched out, suspended from the often inconspicuous flow of time. Life, it seems, is unwilling to let me move on to the next phase of things.The days make me indifferent. And it's not for lack of challenge, with remaining academic, internship and social obligations tugging the precious hours in a dozen different directions, and a concerted attempt at maintaining a pseudo-relationship of sorts despite those responsibilities. The indifference stems primarily from impatience. "The four best years of your life" failed to elicit enough late-night epiphanies and rah-rah alma mater spirit so much that I accelerated the process by a whole year -- the College Experience on Crack, effectively -- and still managed to be disappointed.My impatience may be foolhardy, seeing as how being a student is all I know, caught up for years in petty competition that now appear meaningless in the prospect of a reality without rankings and GPAs to validate my self-worth. Still, it breeds a sort of antsy frustration that bellows: Come on, Real World. Eat me alive. I dare you. I am undoubtedly ready for a future in the field, exhausting and straining as it may turn out to be. But until the last 68 days of my academic imprisonment are up, waiting and stagnating and fumbling to prepare for the transition seem to be the only ways to alleviate what feels like an eternal -- and irritating -- distance between me and autonomy. That was a hiatus, not a closing. Like Streisand, Cher and Madonna, this blog shares with them the expiration date of a department store liquidation sale: perpetually threatening to leave the business without ever actually doing so. Ergo, I'm back. Skeptic Out 2006 faded out with a nice roadtrip to Atlantic City and NYC -- and a bout of food poisoning that made me throw up seven times before noon yesterday. In a similarly uneasy way, I've decided it's time for this site to make a quiet exit off the blogging platform as I trundle ahead to other things. Wit and Spit has been an outlet, a crutch and an exploration, and over the past year and a half has served me better in all of those areas than I might've ever imagined. From meaningless venting to actual attempts at thoughtful prose, I've picked up needed literary practice and a few gobs of loyal readers along the way. Thanks to those who've commented, e-mailed, and made friendly mention of a blogger you hardly know (and it's been great meeting some of you in real life along the way). Now, it's time to grow up. After I graduate from college in six months, I'll have to take responsibility for my words -- as a journalist, your credibility is all you have -- and pony up my good name as the ultimate ante in the writer's game of wordplay. With potential job options through the PR firm, and an offer as a full-time reporter at the TV station I intern for (not to mention the numerous freelance gigs available in this city), the confidence that once eluded me now exudes from my fingertips. Although the future may still be a bit foggy, I'm prepared to handle it. My most recent romantic endeavor has a forseeable expiration date, I'm hesitating to try my hand at honest fiction, and job offers do not necessarily a paycheck make. But hey, that's life. I don't mean that in a carefree "c'est la vie" or a sulky "shit happens" sort of way, I just mean -- that's life. You play the hand you're dealt and hope everything comes up smelling like roses, for your sake. You've all been a lovely bunch, readers (even the nasty ones). I'll be sure to keep reading your stuff long after I've stopped publishing mine here. Happy New Year! Happy Holidays from W&S powered by ODEOAn ever-so-short but heartfelt holiday greeting! I am not a writer So I've been sitting here for a solid hour and a half, maybe more, glossed over and staring at the screen in an attempt to write something without deleting it 4 seconds later. After writing over 60 pages in the past two weeks, I'd like to blame it on finals, but this has always been my problem -- the failure to confidently plop down words on paper without the expectation of further failure.It's completely counterproductive, I know, writing and writing with nothing to show for it, which explains why my portfolio consists of a meager handful of poems and Spoken Word pieces (despite the fact that I never claim being a poet, it seems that's all I can attest to). There's a folder of half finished short stories I'm too afraid to touch, a collection of slightly above average blog posts for inspiration, and a love letter I wrote to an ex-boyfriend that I'd never let anyone read, but nevertheless remains one of my better pieces.I am not a writer. I say the words aloud to hear how it sounds. I am not a writer. Writers write. I only talk about writing. I am a failed writer -- a failed creative writer, at least. Newspaper articles and columns I have up the wazoo, that much is true. I am a journalist. But I am not a writer in the sense that I want to be.It might be that writing as a journalist has impeded my ability to write creatively. I fear letting emotion flow freely through my words because I fear others will correctly interpret those feelings, and because of that I have come to fear words loaded with personal bias. Only recently I've been able to admit that I'm more emotional than I like to think, and as a reporter that bears all sorts of eyebrow-raising implications.I know in part it's because I'm afraid, period. Mostly afraid that everyone thinks I'm some emo MySpace-esque blogger who thinks she can write but can't, which is frankly why I put so much time and effort into sounding rational and removing myself from the colloquial. I depend on the praise of others in a way that is crippling. You are my crutch, readers, especially a select few of you whose opinions matter more than they should, and I'm scared that you think I suck, quite plainly. You see, I am as needy for your hearts as I am your eyes.At any rate, for all those reasons and then some, I've stopped writing -- here and elsewhere -- altogether.I am not a writer. It really hurts to say those words. For a long time now, I've lusted after finishing a solid story, yearned for that final connection between words and essence. But I've realized I can't commit. I'm too afraid to put my whole heart in it, and this stigma of being emotional stalks every sentence. I think I am being far too emotional right now, even. So until I come to terms with it, sorry. Loving something isn't quite the same as being good at something. I just can't commit. So if I'm not a writer, what am I? Not occupationally but essentially speaking, that is. It's hard to tell. All I know is: I'm not the great literary-artist-in-the-making I thought I was. I'm just crazy Zelda who'll never be as good as the original Fitzgerald. In Flames Finals and papers, among other distractions, have left little room for blogging at the moment. Will write more after mid-December; thanks to those have asked about my absence. In the meantime, here's a lovely comment I received in response to a post I wrote over a year ago reviewing the book Female Chauvinist Pigs (that was interrupted by a rant after an old man asked me if I spoke English, then proceeded with a few sexist statements). The author of the comment accuses me of being "ugly and uncharitable in [my] opinion of others", "rude in [my] mind" and guilty of "classic self humiliation". Enjoy -- steve@designmemetic.com writes: "I hope your being facitious. are you aware of the sarcasm in these responses? you stereo type the old white guy even using the word "type" of person. as in stereo type. that's just classic self humiliation on your part I think it must be a deliberate joke. um, maybe you holding the book was the reason he asked you about the library? would you expect him to ask library hours from someone not holding a book?why are you so ugly and uncharitable in your opinions of others? maybe you are like your blog. . . nice graphic, but text flows outside frame indicating faulty understanding of underlying foundation structure and mechanics? sorry to be so hard on you, but I trully hope your deliberately trying to provoke this reaction and will therefore chuckly wisely in having achieved the effect you desired. p.s. I think women engage in raunch culture because it gives them a marketable advantage (read up on exchange theory). Stereotypes exist in the minds of people who don't know you as an individual. If they apprach you it is with a stereotype of how you will respond. Try approaching others more and you will be stereotyped less. Try proving your individuality with words and deads and again you will be less stereotyped. Since women are still generaly more passive socially in initiating male female interactions prior to individual non stereotyped interaction they naturally get stereotpyed more. It sounds like you didn't tell this man anything he didn't expect from his stereotype so why should he view you as an individual? Too bad you didn't speek up and express your individuality because it would definitely have changed his opionion of you from the stereotype he had when he first met you. Not in a good way, maybe, since you seem quite rude in your mind, but would you rather be known as uncharitable and rude or as a non individual stereotype? well, I hope again this is a joke on your part. If not I guess you'll probably be angry, call me some bad stereotype such as "angry fat white man" and ignore it if you've even read this far." To be frank, I was more than slightly offended after reading this today, but acceptance of criticism is key to intellectual progress. In response: 1) I in no way intended to stereotype the man, and hope you recognize why his comments, well-intentioned as they may have been, only reinforce the subtle colonialist attitude of many. I'm sure Asians do not have bigger brains, and plenty of us suck at math. 2) It would have been gratuitous to explain to him why these stereotypes are untrue or how politically incorrect they are. The burden does not lie with me to "prove my individuality" so I will be "less stereotyped". 3) Don't be silly. My readers love me. 4) Thank you for pointing out the issue with posting layout. On the monthly archive link it looks fine, but individual posts are screwy for some reason, probably because I changed templates a while back. I'll look into it. 5) I'll admit to indulging in self-deprecation (or "self humiliation", as you so put it) and am hardly the nicest person you'll meet. So? Your point is? At any rate, if I'm only "rude in [my] mind" then certainly I can't be offending anyone else. 6) It's f-a-c-e-t-i-o-u-s, not "facitious". Seriously, get spellcheck or something. Unless it's a stretch to assume that you speak English fluently.7) The post was written in a moment of anger, though I still agree with every statement made, however crudely put. I admit I would've changed the general tone of the post, given a bit of time to cool off. 8) Thank you for calling me out on being such a judgmental, self-righteous, impolite, counterproductive citizen of society. You asked if I would rather be uncharitable and rude, or a "non-individual stereotype". I think you were pushing for the former, unless I'm mistaken, so why don't you take that self-righteous, holier-than-thou bullshit and quit being such an "angry fat white man". Ta da. Thoughts after NAASCon Tangled between generations, reaching for a unified voice, Asian America sometimes exists as a haphazardly thrown together mix of ambition and hope. The road is slow and uneven. Save for a small handful of driven leaders, the face of the community is unclear, a blurred snapshot photographed too quickly. NAASCon 2006 at Northwestern inadvertently presented the problem with more clarity than it did the solution. Underrepresentation, media-shy leadership, stuffing too much information into far too little time. Rome wasn't built in a day. The same goes for this exquisite concept of "Asian America". No one really knows what it even means, or who and what is allowed within the boundaries of this precarious cultural territory, and the inevitable question arises: why? Is it because we don't carry the historically unifying oppression of slavery or the Holocaust, or the contemporary fire of immigration reform? Is it because we don't carry the numerical weight of the other minorities, in population and in voice? Is it uncertainty? There cannot be one Asian America so long as there is doubt -- doubt in our ideology (which is...?), doubt in our people (who are...?). If we cannot even so much as settle on who can be part of the community -- the term APIA considered far too broad by some -- then we cannot move forward. We become a gaggle of individuals tied loosely by the rope of "Asian American", all straggling about in different directions. Instead of solidified in oneness we become trapped into stagnance. Some argue that South Asians, not bearing the same history or cultural experiences of their neighbors in the East, cannot possibly share the same ideology. Some find no need for political awareness as a voting bloc. Still others, many others, are plainly apathetic, relinquishing responsibility for any need for an Asian American community at all. This is why we stand still. This hyphenated consciousness is yet cross-sectioned by a thousand other fragmented mindsets, split between dimensions. The road is slow and uneven, but marked by ambition and hope. If nothing else, for the moment, we must remember that. Podcast: Take 2 Okay, fine. I dropped the hokey, soothing broadcasting voice I was trying in my last podcast. You're left with my usual grainy, screechy voice. For all intents and purposes I think it sounds better than the last; you know, this podcasting business is actually far less time consuming than taking eons to deliver a classy blog post with thought and eloquence and all that jazz.I sense the sudden death of what little substance was left on this blog.powered by ODEOPlease allow a wee bit of time for it to load. Thanks.Also, if for who-knows-what reason you'd actually like to subscribe to this drivel, try the following URL: http://odeo.com/channel/143238/rss.xml New Feature! Wit and Spit: The Podcast powered by ODEOI have no time to write. Enjoy. (Feedback appreciated.) Steal my thunder, why don't you In recent weeks two writers from the mainstream print media have stolen my thunder, beaten me to the punch, whatever other trite idiom you can think of -- and written my words. Exhibit A: Two days before my first eco-devo story on Andersonville's formula retail ordinance is due, one Jonathan E. Briggs of the Chicago Trib publishes an in-depth article -- front page, no less -- under the headline "Andersonville puts reins on retail". Slightly cleverer and more thorough than my "Andersonville not buying retail ordinance", Briggs manages to contact all the snooty aldermen who refuse to return my calls. Exhibit B: Today, The New York Times publishes a piece in its magazine section, entitled "Love Among the Ruins" by one S.S. Fair. Early in the story this line stared me in the face: "As I grew older, I realized that some puppies can turn into disagreeable curs that may poop with impunity all over your self-esteem and beat-up boxers might be tempted to use me or other women as punching bags" [emphasis mine]. Sound familiar? Possibly because I offhandedly wrote a similar line two months ago about "...running into the one guy who pooped all over my ego." **********Now, I'm going to pretend for just a moment that I am not, in actuality, being a pompous twit who really believes that two full-grown writers have nicked my work, but that I have real grievances here which call for an exaggerated sigh and a snide email apiece to Briggs and Fair. Too bad it's not plagiarism if they do it pre-emptively, in which case I am wholly unable to do anything except stomp and fuss on my unholier-than-thou blog. Harrumph. Way to poop all over my ego, assholes. My personal heroes National Collegiate Policy Debate 2004 ChampionshipAHHH. I miss debating so, so much. For the second half of my high school career, policy debate was my life. The LP team would spend hours researching and revising arguments, filling up those plastic storage tubs with stacks upon stacks of case files . We knew every other policy debater in the city, JV or Varsity, from Northside to Whitney Young to Brooks. We spoke our own language. Disads, Topicalities, Kritiks. What's this year's resolution? Mental health? Oceans?I can't explain what it's like to read off those pages like your hair is on fire. Morgan Park's Varsity team usually exhibited these peculiar breathing techniques, wheezing through syllables mid-sentence. Cross-X was always my favorite part, shredding the other team with questions, stripping their case down in front of the judge.The timers, the tubs. I miss them. There's nothing like waking up at 6 a.m. on a Saturday to spend the next 15 hours cooped up in various classrooms talking at 100 miles an hour, anticipating what Disad arguments Lane Tech will feature this month. Banning Japan from whaling will lead to further US hegemony will lead to the world exploding? (The nuttier Disads always resulted in the destruction of the universe.)Then waiting, waiting. Who will break to quarterfinals? Who will win top speaks? Many of us didn't care for breaking as much as we coveted speaker awards. I have a little brown gavel at home that has "2nd Speaker, Junior Varsity" engraved on a tinny golden plate that encircles the head. It's one of my most prized possessions.Policy debate -- not Lincoln-Douglas, mind you -- graced me with a rare sentiment I still reminisce about: belonging to a community. It may seem ultra-nerdy to those on the outside, but it was definitely a place where verbal rumbles were encouraged and nitpicking at specifics -- "the 1AC's definition of 'substantial' is faulty" -- was not a crime. Ah, debate. I miss miss miss you. Hey Jealousy Emotions should be indulged in moderation, some say, for without that happy medium between the supposed oil-and-water dichotomy of reason and emotion, man becomes either soulless robot or slave to his whims. We've all had this debate before, under the assumption that we have at least some control over our volitions. But what about when emotion indulges in you? I have had reason, lately, to be reminded of an old boyfriend from what seems like long ago, who encountered me in a time of my life when I was prone to uncontrollable insecurity and jealousy. We had good moments, I'm sure, but what stand out are the highlights of my own resentful possessiveness, prodded by his tendency to flirt with my friends and on one occasion, make out with a foreign exchange student at a party we attended together (to his credit, we were on a "break" -- whatever that means -- a practice I highly discourage). His habits combined with my neuroses drove me near crazy. There were nights where sleep would fail me, where I would fail me, and imaginary scenes would rerun in my head in which I knew he was cheating on me, cheating on us. In retrospect, I cannot recall how many of those suspicions were valid, only that there were incidents which caught me off-guard and fueled future suspicions. Emotion would overcome me and I would allow it. It would eat at me from the inside, leaving me sobbing on a hardwood floor, clutching at my middle in a sorry attempt to stop it. That said, I write this memory not intending to defame that particular ex-boyfriend or anyone else, but more so to set the premise of explaining a feeling long forgotten. The all-encompassing nature of jealousy is inexplicable to those who have not felt its power. It consumes you, drowns you in its blurry logic of fact and fantasy. My own personal bouts of jealousy would attack me from the abdomen, a seizing pain that began dull and achey, slowly rising to the chest in shortened pangs. I could not breathe during those moments. Eventually I learned to cope, even taking some morbid pleasure in those pangs, akin to the sickly exhilaration felt when an elevator makes a sudden drop from floor to floor. But like an elevator's unexpected descent, jealousy would not, does not, allow me any control. That is what differentiates it from other emotions. I am familiar with anger. Anger and I, we go a long way back. I've learned to harness its usefulness (though that has not always been the case). Anger is more or less controllable, or at very least gives me the illusion of control. Jealousy permits me no such privilege. It is suffocating, jealousy. It is dark and suffocating, like being trapped deep in the ocean with only a fuzzy glimmer of light in the distance. Yet there are moments of clarity, where you may follow those glimmers to the surface, taking a rare glimpse of the ocean from a more objective view. The world appears much differently then. The water is clear and blue, and clarity fills you as naturally and artlessly as air fills your lungs. During those moments of clarity, you understand. But it is also parasitic, jealousy, and as suddenly as those rare glimmers light up your logic, they disappear, the darkness and suffocation drawing you beneath again without mention of warning. You cannot help but willingly drown. He was only one who ever made me feel that way, feel a possessive jealousy that in turn, possessed me. I do not fault him, although I wish he had done more to alleviate my destructive emotions at the time. Perhaps he couldn't have done more. I don't know. Our near-four years together are tainted by an impressionistic memory of insecurity and resentment. It is unfortunate. I cannot remember most of our relationship, actually, and it sincerely saddens me that my own uncontrolled volitions have dismantled any sweet-natured recollections, save for a few old photographs. My purpose then, is to ask all of you, any of you, to beware not necessarily indulging emotions in moderation, but to beware emotions indulging in you, lest they drown you in in smothering pangs as they did me. Allow yourself the strength and opportunity to breathe. Sometimes even memories can be choked in darkness, long past your own recovery. It is unfortunate, indeed. twenty Truffles following a delectable seven-course birthday dinner at Sweets and Savories, courtesy of LXT and L Dawg.Twenty was supposed to mean something special, being one of those nice, round numbers and all. Twenty was supposed to be about me. But as with most things, I should have safely assumed I'd be wrong. This birthday -- and the days leading up to it -- hasn't taken me into any special consideration whatsoever, though not in the way you might think it means. By all calculable probability, with any limited knowledge of the gears that sort of clunk about inside my head, anyone could've predicted that I'd lapse into some neurotic freakout session or miscellaneous variant of the increasingly trendy quarter-life crisis. But I won't. Because frankly, that'd be stupid. Instead this birthday has revolved around the people who revolve around me, whether in daily rounds or semi-annual elliptical treks. And what I've come to appreciate are the friendships I've made. Not because two of my closest friends took me to a fancy Frenchy restaurant, or because they threw a mini-soiree at their apartment, or even because they remembered the little things, like that I love Chardonnay. It's because they care. I haven't celebrated my birthday with a group of friends since I was 13, and trust me, it's unspeakably touching to have a few good friends spend an evening celebrating not just a birthday, but the connections between friends. Friendship ad infinitum is hard enough to come by, let alone one that comes with cake. Cutting the cheese(cake). So anyway. Every year (which really means starting last year), I promise readers a photo of the semi-elusive birthday skeptic. I figure an image of me wielding a large cleaver -- the birthday cake is on the table, I swear -- is like a present for both you AND me. At least, I know it gives me the giggles every time I see it. Death by keyboard So as it turns out, I'm not dying. Remember the post about a panic attack I had a few nights ago where I thought the stiffness in my left hand meant I was on the verge of a heart attack? Of course you don't, because I deleted it the next morning. But the cold, sticky feeling in my left hand proved enough to make me fear my own death for the first time, and I decided to let the school nurse give it a look-see. After all, it'd been a while since I'd seen her, my last appointment being that memorable Women's Wellness exam in the stirrups. A.B., the on-campus nurse practitioner, is an absolute life-saver, pun intended. Of all the faculty, staff, and admin at this university, she has never failed to make me feel well taken care of. B. has put up with my regular visits as a student reporter on the health beat and my regular visits as a student with neverending health concerns. More than that, she doesn't make me feel as though I'm crazy. "So you say you're feeling stiffness in your left hand?" she asks in her typically soothing, nurturing tone. I like her because she always calms me down. "My shoulder hurts too. My left hand is kind of... see on Saturday, my hand was cold and I didn't think much of it, but then the next night... well, I was washing my hands" -- I simulate washing my hands -- "and I think there's glue on my left hand, but it's really just the vein or something underneath making it feel sticky," I clench and unclench my hand several times to demonstrate. She checks my heartrate, blood pressure -- "Blood pressure's beautiful, 116 over 79" -- and the temperature of my hands. "Your arms feel about the same, but your left hand does seem colder." "It's not a sign of an early heart attack, is it?" "No," she says patiently, unpatronizingly. "But these are early signs of carpal tunnel syndrome, and you're feeling pain in your shoulder because the nerves in your arm are all connected." "So no heart attack, no impending doom in my future?" "No impending doom." She says with a smile. "But if this keeps up, you will have to wear an orthopedic wrist guard." I ask her about a number of other maladies -- sore throat, red skin spot, slightly strained ankle from a long-ago car accident (I like to save them all for one appointment) -- and eventually meander out of the clinical exam room, apologizing for being that student. "Oh no, we always like seeing you here," she says cheerily. How she treats me with such kindness and a straight face, I don't know. All I know is, when I graduate, I'm sending her a big thank-you box of chocolates and a fruit basket. Have a little faith She's 20. He's 22. They're getting married soon. "Why not wait until you're a little older?" one audience member asked, hand raised, on the Oprah-esque talk show. "Why wait?" the young groom-to-be shot back. "We know we're in love." It amazes me how some people place an extraordinary amount of faith in the unrealistic, the unbelievable. The ones who readily accept God as their savior, regardless of tangibility. The ones who fight for their country, regardless of dispute. The ones who accept emotion as lifelong fact. I actually envy them. Faith in the face of the unknown may seem foolhardy, but in the Aristotelian mean between extremes, to be foolhardy one first needs courage. Too much courage, true, but courage all the same. Singapore, repressed? Nuh-uh, says NYT Photo: Charles Pertwee/The New York TimesPleasant little exploration of Singapore's gastronomic development found in The New York Times. Quantam sadism in the midst of Fashion Week So I've started an internship at a local TV station that's actually been pretty cool so far. Tonight we covered the Designers of Chicago show downtown in Millennium Park (part of a string of events during international Fashion Week), which was a moderately classy affair in a white tent on Chase Promenade. Too bad I was only able to see 17 minutes of the show, since we stayed to capture the footage we needed then left. As of now, this young padawan reporter's duties consist of carrying camera equipment - although they do let me fix up the CG for the news program itself - along with other miscellaneous gopher work. In due time, I might be allotted a story or two. For now, I set up tripods. Thing is -- this internship collides with my Friday seminar course. The class runs Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, and happens to be required if I hope to stay in the honors program. I also need to have at least one internship on my record if I hope to graduate. Quite the pickle, as you can see. Fortunately, my seminar professor has decided to be compassionate enough to allow a weekly waiver -- not without a fair amount of grumbling -- and designate a one-third independent study, of sorts. However, as I discovered today, it isn't quite what I thought it might be. "I have a book I want you to read," he cackles (the man speaks in a perpetual cackle). "It's a kind of 'For Dummies' book. Guess what it is." "Um, I don't know," I shrug. "Guess!" "Darwin for Dummies?" I say, since after all, we are in the midst of reading Origin of Species. "No, quantum mechanics!" he hoots triumphantly. Quantum mechanics? What does that have to do with... anything? He continues. "I read it over the summer, and now you're going to read it, and then we'll discuss it." Which can't be anything else but punishment for putting my internship over my seminar, I am so inclined to believe. P.S. Does anyone know anything about quantum mechanics? Anything at all? I can't, I'm a liver pumpkin! Young-kyoo, a Korean ESL student who I tutor twice a week, has recently developed an affinity for "Desperate Housewives". The primetime soap opera is easy to understand, he says, plus "has a lot of pretty ladies." But one line in particular from last night's episode puzzled him. "I don't know if I can ask this to you," he replied when I asked if he had read anything this week which he didn't quite understand. "Go ahead," I prodded him. "Well, um, what does it mean when she says, 'I can't, I'm a liver pumpkin'?" he said slowly. I didn't even have to inquire past the peculiarity of the phrase to know which scene he was referring to, even though I don't watch the show. In all the previews of Sunday's episode, Bree (Marcia Cross) is shown adamantly refusing to have sex with her boyfriend before they get married, then half naked in bed, with his face descending past her hips, as she gasps, "I can't, I'm a Republican!" "Liver pumpkin? You mean Republican," I corrected him. He looked up the word "Republican" in his electronic translator and I explained the difference in political affiliations. "So if I am a Democrat, I can do that?" he asked. "No, no... I mean, well..." I struggled to explain. "It's a joke. Republicans... do that too. But it's hard to explain. See, Republicans are more conservative, so the joke is that they're too uptight to... you know..." I trailed off as Young-kyoo began to look confused again. "So was there anything else you wanted to talk about?" Other than cunnilingus? I wanted to add. Ditto Sontag An excerpt from "On Self" by the Dark Lady of New York literature, published in the New York Times last week : Why is writing important? Mainly, out of egotism, I suppose. Because I want to be that persona, a writer, and not because there is something I must say. Yet why not that too? With a little ego-building -- such as the fait accompli this journal provides -- I shall win through to the confidence that I (I) have something to say, that should be said. My "I" is puny, cautious, too sane. Good writers are roaring egotists, even to the point of fatuity. Sane men, critics, correct them -- but their sanity is parasitic on the creative fatuity of genius. -- Susan Sontag, 1958 Trip to the gyno I'm not a fan of people touching me, any of my friends will tell you that. Unless you're in some kinda special comfort zone, spare me the "Ohmigod girl, I haven't seen you in like, 20 minutes" hug (let alone the creepy-guy-in-the-library-hug), and don't expect me to share a drink straw. It's not so much a slice of antisocial behavior than a touch of hypochondria -- or maybe it's a bit of both, who knows. Either way, that makes a trip to the gynecologist real comfortable, believe you me. *****The newly relocated health center on campus is discreet, much more discreet than the last, and I slip in unnoticed, correcting my sneaking hunched shoulders upon entering (seeing as how I have no reason to feel taboo about a doctor's appointment, save for my own apparent discomfort). I wait, am waiting, for the receptionist to call my name, and flip through a Vogue or Vanity Fair or some other glossy magazine. The doctor, a youngish woman, steps in as I pause at a topless black-and-white photo of Kate Moss, and my reflexes cause me to flip away in anxiety. I don't hate gyno appointments, but something tells me I should, and I do. The beating around the bush -- pun intended -- begins, and she checks my blood pressure, temperature, heart rate, etc. We discuss my classes. She reaches for a drawer and hands me a stack of coarse papery stuff. "Now it's time for the very trendy paper robe -- just don't ask me for one come Halloween," she kids cheerily. After she leaves I promptly undress and strike a few poses in my new papery garb, flapping the sides and taking note of the draft. Needs a belt, I think. She returns and I am sitting politely on the examining bed, proper and distinguished and clutching tightly to the front. "Lift your right arm... left," she proceeds and prods, as I lie back and stare at the stucco ceiling, wondering what happened to the purple paper-mache mobile that distracted me from this the last time around. Pat here, pat there, stethoscope to the heart, breathe. We're getting closer to it. "Okay, time for everybody's favorite part. Why don't you put your feet in these stirrups and get comfortable... um, loosely speaking." The paper sarong around my waist spreads out as I do the same, and her face soons descends out of view. "I'm going to begin with an outer inspection," she says, and continues, with each step, to tell me precisely what how where she is examining. I wish she would stop narrating, and stifle a giggle. A long cotton tip pops into sight in the airspace above my knees and a slightly muffled voice alerts me to the swabbing, "Okay, I'm going to swab you now." "Okay," I reply, and with that, despite all self-control, burst into nervous laughter. "Ticklish?" she asks, hopefully as bemused as I am (I doubt it). "No," I say, and contain myself. Awkward. I congratulate myself on successfully making an ass out of myself while my ass is presently exposed and try to make amends. "Haven't been this intimate with anyone in a while." The humor is moderately well-received, but I cringe. She proceeds. "Now I'm going to do a bi-manual test, though they should really call it the goopy-finger test, because that's what it is," she jokes feebly and -- hello! -- there's that goopy finger. Standing up, her face slides back into view and I look away, reading a Women's Wellness pamphlet from afar. She continues the stand-up gyno-comedy, "It may feel slightly uncomfortable because, well, I have a finger in you." "Yes, you do," I reply.She applies her free hand to the outside of an ovary, inspecting for lumps. I wonder if she feels awkward. I wonder if maybe it's my doing. "Alright, I'm going to make sure your cervix is healthy, so you might feel some pressure, because ... yeah, I have a finger in you," she repeats, followed by "ha!". I try not to laugh again, more for her sake than my own. The gyno exam ends and she exits the room so I can get dressed, leaving me to fold my dandy papergear into a neat stack and set it on the examination bed, even though no one else will wear it. She returns and begins the under-the-table sex talk that Catholic schools apparently enjoy. "Do you need contraception?" she asks. "Um, no.""Are you sure?" she insists. I consider taking a few condoms from her for the hell of it, but I know I'll just toss them out anyway and decide to stop making the school doctor's life unnecessarily like a neurotic Woody Allen movie. "No thanks," I tell her, and slip back out of the health center, unnoticed, thinking life would be awfully peculiar if I made everyone go through such protocol to come near me. Asia Blog Awards Apparently, I've been nominated for something. And I was going to delve into a modest schpiel about how "it's an honor just to be nominated" and never mention it again, but who am I kidding? I have an ego that expands and waivers like the tide, so vote for me, bitches. Besides, I'm being pitted against nine other bloggers, including heavy-hitters like Mr Wang, Cowboy Caleb, and the one I would personally vote for, Popagandhi. Plus the mythical few -- mrbrown, Xiaxue, Mr Miyagi -- have recused themselves, and deserve a category of their own, anyway. But whatever. The point is, I need YOU to vote for ME. So long as I don't come in dead last, dear old Wit and Spit's fragile ego-based existence will survive another day, and I promise my readers a chicken in every pot! Or something to that extent. All the wrong men hit on me II: nobody said the game was easy Covered in sweat and beer, I perched back against a wooden railing and people-watched for a bit, shifting weight from one pink heel to the other in an effort to soothe my clobbered, blistered feet. The railing was wet and so was I -- having been victim to a number of spilled Miller Lites -- and about half the crowd at Canopy had managed to trample on my toes over the course of the night. More dancing was out of the question.Sarah had invited me down to U. of I. for the weekend on the premise that "the biggest Asian party of year" would be happening Saturday, at one point bearing the appropriate moniker "Asian Party", and at a later point the less descriptive, vaguely themed "Oasis". I was just looking for target practice. One phone number, one connection, one something by the end of the party would suffice -- every visit to Urbana until now had fulfilled my personal quota of at least one new contact, and I refused to let this time yield different. I peered down at the cell phone in my hand, sole possession of the evening. 1:07 a.m., it beamed in electric blue. And still nothing. I shifted to my left foot and felt that familiar burn ease up in the ball of the right. A drunk girl dropped her cup and sent more beer spilling over my feet. I really had to devise a new strategem. One problem with Asian parties is that they're so clique-oriented. You've got the greeks, the Asian-American student organizations, the fobs, and the general cliquey globs that roam in dancing Circles of Death across the floor, impenetrable and oblivious to bystanders (whose toes they inevitably step on). It's also impossible to tell who's taken and who's available, since Asian couples seem especially adept at keeping the PDA at ultra-discreet levels. I was at the ultimate disadvantage, being both a weekend visitor and currently alone. The best friend was socializing and politicking somewhere, the group we came with dispersed all over, and our other companion, aka my only dance buddy of the night, had just left. He had however, to my great appreciation, devoted himself to playing my wingman du jour. "I'll pretend to be gay and distract the girl while you take the guy -- even if she's chubby," he said in an earlier strategy session regarding juking couplets. In retrospect, I'm not so sure our game plan was all that great. Being an outsider dancing with a pseudo-gay Irishman (one of about four white guys in the club) who insisted on dancing Bhangra to "My Humps" just might have been a detractor from my successfully hitting on any available Asian men. Regardless, I preferred it to playing the game alone and connection-less. The only self-exposure I had gotten that evening resulted from my wingman's bright idea of pushing me on stage and insisting I dance with the scantily-dressed group of sorority girls and drunks up there. I had tripped on the speaker wires, got my heel caught in a plastic cup, and probably flashed my underwear to the entire club as I scrambled back down to the sound of, "Off the stage, VIP only." (Thankfully, a girl I vaguely, vaguely know saved my ass and told them it was okay. But you can bet I'm still cringing.)So there I ended up, slouched against the wooden railing in sweaty exhaustion, and what little I was wearing smelled gorgeously of smoke and beer infusions. I pitched my last resort tactic: play standoffish wallflower. Someone will inevitably see the prey of lone-girl-in-miniskirt and pick up the bait, always.Patiently, tiredly, I waited. And waited. And pretended to make a phone call (then a real one), and waited. Finally, I got a bite. He walked up -- spiky hair, striped shirt, typical clubber components -- and earnestly yelled over the music, "Maybe you want to dance?" Having crept closer, I could see he was slightly chubby and mocha tan, standing to 5'6" or something around my height. The pink heels made me 5'9". "O.K.," I said. It was a start. Immediately, he launched into some strange jerky movement, jutting his shoulders out at me and flailing his arms about stiffly. After introducing himself as what I think was Hyet or Neit or Lett, he asked me to "Guess what nationality I am!" "Um, Thai? ...No? Vietnamese?" I replied to Nyet. "YOU GOT IT!" Hett cried, like some sort of game show host, jabbing his fingers out to the side. I began dancing away from him and into the crowd to avoid further embarrassment, as he started the usual what's-your-school what's-your-major talk. "Philosophy? I'm majoring in astronomy," he articulated. "You know, it's funny, we both major in things that have to do with the sky," he said with a thick accent as he pointed at the ceiling. I winced. You had to give the guy credit for trying to be clever, I guess. "Do you like to dance?" asked Leht. I nodded. "Do you?" He shrugged his shoulders, still convulsing offbeat. "I don't know. Hey, are you a foreign student? I am." Gee, would never have guessed. A room full of eligible men and this is the only one who wants me. Fantastic. I decided to cut my losses and leave, having fulfilled my quota (arguably). "Are you here with friends?" he asked. "Yeah, and they're looking for me, I should go, but very nice dancing with you," I said politely, and left. No point being mean to someone so genuine in his attempts. I slipped past the button-up shirts and cologne and geled black hair, figuring eye candy would have to suffice tonight. I'll admit when I can't beat the stick-skinny, tube-topped competition. Besides, contrary to all my whining, I was in excellent company for the better part of the night, and now only wanted a few hours of sleep. Nobody said the game was easy. And you certainly can't win all the time. What you can do is learn from your experiences and devise slicker strategies. Next time, wear flats. Exit Christopher Sun poured down, spilling over prostrate limbs and seeping through heavy eyelids. The pavement was warm. Brows furrowed and eyes shut, Christopher yawned and briefly continued to lay on the pebbled ground, legs dangling over the stairs, before hoisting himself upright. He spoke as if to the skyline ahead. "Celine, it's Tuesday." "Yep, it's Tuesday," she replied, and scratched her arm absentmindedly. The museum had closed, and they remained outside on the stairs to the entrance in an attempt to plan their next move. As with most choices, however, moving forward meant waiting until the last door had closed behind them. Happy National Day Happy 41st, Singapore. Live long and prosper.An excerpt from the end of the Spoken Word piece I'm performing at YAWP!rom on Friday:from a descendant of yoursan Asian-Americana Singaporean-Chicagoana proud member of a non-community ofhyphens and abbreviationsof ABCs and non-PCsjust trying to show some TLCtrying to connect with a heartlandour hearts left so long ago -- so happy birthday, Singapore I love you though I may not always understand youand your peculiar little waysone can only hope you getwhere I'm coming fromwhere I'm headedwhere my heart liesin this newfangled worldof split cultures and subculturesand everything in-betweenbecause you know what?I am in the in-betweenand I hope you love me anywayI hope you're proud of me too. Would you go to YAWP!rom with me? The past week has been full of shameless plugs, I know. Well here's another one, and the most important of all, YAWP!rom:Click on flyers for more info.Because you are a child of immigrants. Because you've been told to go back home. Because America is your home. Because you know its about more than folkdances and food. Because you are more than just a member of an Asian Club. Because you're not sure which box to check. Because being Asian American is not solely kung fu, Chinese take out, and dry cleaners. Because you've been called a dothead, chink, jap, mut and terrorist. Because you are not a stereotype. Because it's not in the textbooks. Because you want to know about your history. Because it isn't always about a war-torn, ravaged land. Because you are an artist. Because you do not want their sympathy. Because you are a writer.YAWP! is a very special place near and dear to my heart. This summer workshop marks my second session, but the safe space and creative company of other yawpers makes anyone feel immediately comfortable to express, create, be. We're also mentored by some of the best Spoken Word poets in town, Marlon and Anida Esguerra. So those of you in the Chi who are interested in supporting the APIA community of writers, activists, and artists, dress up in your prettiest prom gear and head over for a night of good food, dancing, and awesome performances. I'll save you a dance. Promise. OK Go watch this now OK Go, a Chicago-based powerpop band and one of my favorites, has a new music video out on MTV. They're dancing. On eight treadmills. It's brilliant. At Last it's happening So I've been messing around lately -- and before you get horribly judgmental on me, I mean to say -- with podcasting. Get your minds out of the sewer, people. If I was messing around with guys I would sound much happier than this. Anyway, this past week I've been going technogeek and experimenting -- with women? again, no -- with music-mixing software and podcasting-type stuff. I've almost finished recording my first dabbling in audio-blogging, and if I don't say so myself, it's quite terrible. Expect to see, hear, experience the pilot podcast of Wit and Spit on Air, or The Screwy Skeptic Goes to Town -- the title's kind of a work in progress, if you can't already tell -- very, very soon. Coming to a blog near you! No, actually, just this one. *********** In other news:America's Got Talent, a televised reality-show competition, will feature At Last, an Asian-American acapella quartet in the finals airing Wednesday, Aug. 16 at 8:30pm Central Time. I haven't been keeping up with the series at all, but I had the opportunity of watching At Last perform live at Northwestern University back in April and they were AMAZING (if my rare use of caps doesn't indicate this to you, I don't know what will). Based in LA, these guys are sleek and suave and welcome to croon to me anytime, anywhere. They beatbox and belt out R&B like nobody's business, adding to the already growing group of Asian-American artists, musicians, and writers who prove that the APIA community has got rhythm too. We're not just a Model Minority full of fashion-disoriented doctors and businessfolk, you know. Watch At Last performing "Ain't No Sunshine" on America's Got Talent. Please visit the acapella group's MySpace for more songs and concert info. I highly recommend listening to "Slow It Down". http://www.myspace.com/atlast Let's watch corn grow Somewhere between Urbana-Champaign and Chicago via GreyhoundFor the 3rd largest city in the country, Chicago is unreasonably quiet sometimes, which I attribute to its being surrounded by a whole lotta nothing. Last year's Great Midwestern Road Trip involved me festering in a car, gaping at just how much corn and wheat fields lay between me and civilization; it's unbelievable how very southern Southern Illinois can be ("The moh-teyl iz payst the Whaaate Caystle, juz up the hee-ill from MicDahnald's"), not to mention the looks I got in Iowa and Ohio ("She's yellow! Gawk at her!"). Plus, everyone's out of town for the summer, milling around some part of Suburbia, USA, or traveling the vast expanse of countries that is Asia. I daresay I know at least a dozen people who are hot-potting it up in China or wandering around Korea or Japan. Everyone has forsaken me and left me to rot, I tell you, rot. Visiting Sarah down at UIUC last weekend, I spent the three-hour Greyhound bus trip rolling through green fields, yellow fields, fields of corn, fields of cows, all of which were enough to make my eyes glaze over and want to permanently roll into the back of my head. Did we really need to take all that land from Mexico? I think this country has enough to go around as is. We could build eight more New Yorks, five more LAs, at least another Chicago or two. 280 million people and only three big cities over the two million mark? How do these other people live? Good lord, I would absolutely die in the suburbs, let alone some minute town of 700 in the middle of nowhere. That said, even Chicago is beginning to feel small and slow; having lived on the North Side for 9 years, I could map it out blindfolded. For the first time a place feels like home, but increasingly all I want to do is leave, start a new chapter elsewhere. New York City glitters in the distance -- I know it's the only other place in the US I'd want to move to. Otherwise my only other option is jet-setting to someplace bigger, with more hustle and more bustle in its loins, with style and class and culture and history. I don't know, maybe some random island somewhere. All the wrong men hit on me Slouched against a shelf of Emerson, fingering the browned pages of musty classics, I was sure it was just me squinting and digging through the American Lit aisle of the library that evening. Well, just me and my boys, The Jacks (Kerouac and London), at least. In mid-contemplation over the appeal of the name Jack and whether it'd suit a little half-breed Singaporean someday, I hadn't realized that a real live male had managed to sidle up and begin staring at me, or rather, at the green terry cloth shorts I'd trudged out of the house in. Having successfully plodded across the carpeted corridor and arriving at PS3521.E7, the chubby, hazel-skinned specimen spoke: "How old are you?" "Um, nineteen?" I must've looked mentally handicapped. Why... are you talking to me? eventually formulated in my head, the thought printing out mechanically like one of those digital scrolls in the stock exchange. He started making small talk, and I tried to figure out what about slumping against a rack of books spells out "come talk to me". But this is the library, I thought. And who the hell is this kid? "Around here, sortof... coupla years now...yeah...no...college," I mumbled, rattling off answers to his questions, each one progressively shorter as I fiddled with a copy of "Death of a Salesman". It'll only take me a day or two to finish. I tucked the copy under my arm, suddenly becoming aware of the awkward silence that punctuated my last curt reply. "So uh, you in college too, eh?" I asked uninterestedly. "I'm doing alternative healthcare. I got rejected by almost every college I applied to," he said, in a way that made me wonder if he was almost proud of the fact. While his presence was no less than an absurd interruption, I felt ashamed of the instantly raised eyebrows on an otherwise blank face when I heard the words "rejected by almost every college". I tried to remedy my disdain. "Well, college isn't for everyone," the words tumbled out condescendingly, and with that, I gave up my half-assed attempt at politeness altogether. "Yeah, they didn't like the stuff I did when I was a kid, stuff I did in my past," he said. Which was? "You know, got locked up and stuff." Whoa. Hold up. You've DONE TIME? That is not something you bring up when hitting on a girl, especially one who would rather be reading than flirting. It was my turn to stare. He must've thought that scored him a brownie point or two, because he followed it up with, "So, do you have a boyfriend?" No longer drowsily batting him away, my full attention turned to him as I articulated "yes", flashing a polite, but very wide, smile. I may be a horrible liar, but this was one that I needed to get away with. "Oh." Awkward pause. "So, do you smoke?" Pity about this one; he just didn't seem to get the message. The Theatre of Tennessee Williams called to me, and it took an extra second to respond as my hands trailed up the book rack again. "Uh, smoke? No." "I didn't mean cigarettes." And just like that, all two irritated eyes were back on him. "No," I said firmly. "Don't plan on trying it, either," and I stubbornly returned to the shelf. I hate you but you are not going to drive me out of one of my regular hangouts. The next eternity and a half were spent in moderate silence, at least on my part, with him talking at me about how people disapprove of the way he dresses himself, how he hates his mother's younger boyfriend, how his last girlfriend cheated on him, until he stopped for breath and asked what I was doing after I was done at the library. "Going home. With my parents. Who are here." They were downstairs perusing the mass-produced fiction, just as they do every other week when we head to the public library. This news did not sit well with him. Pause. Shuffle. Pause. "Yeah, parents don't really like me. I'm not really a parent person. Maybe they think I don't dress well or somethin'," he rambled. No shit, sherlock. Perhaps sensing finally that his ratings were on the decline - not that they were ever on the incline - he found it necessary to ask one more getting-to-know-you question, "What's your name?" Too slow to lie, I stuttered out the truth and pawed at the small mountain of books I'd collected in the meantime. "My name's Phillip," was the unasked-for reply. Having waited patiently for the perfect cue to segue out of the most puzzlingly annoying conversation ever, I snatched it up once it presented itself. "Well Phillip," I hurriedly announced, "Nice to meet you, but I got what I came for, so I'm off. With my parents." Pause. Gesture books. Pause. He then motioned toward me and asked the most mortifying question of the entire encounter. "Can I get a hug?" he said, and stepped forward. That was it. I didn't know what kind of crap he was trying to pull, but I'd played along for long enough. "I'm not the touchy-feely kind," I stated simply, and ran off with my boys, a Jack in each hand, wondering if I put up with this bullshit only to write about it afterward.