Sunday, December 31, 2006

My Stereotypes, Myself

Today was a day of Asian stereotyping.

First, I went to the bookstore and read a chapter from The Price of Admission: How America's elite class buys its way into elite colleges -- and who gets left outside the gates. The chapter was entitled "Asians, The New Jews" (paraphrased).

The chapter describes how Asian college applicants are held to a higher admissions standard than other races (like Jews in the early 20th century) because there is a bias against them based on stereotypes that label Asians as: "quasi-robots that just do what their parents tell them to," quiet, shy, only good at math and science, and generally not socially interesting.

And then I went home and read a book my friend gave me for my birthday entitled More than Serving Tea, which discussed common Asian female stereotypes like: quiet, submissive, compliant, and inferior to men.

I don't know why I felt so overwhelmed after hearing all these stereotypes. After all, I've been aware of them before. But there I was, feeling dizzy, claustrophic, boxed in, and...well...labelled.

Luckily (or naively) for me, I had never experienced being prejudged based on my ethnicity because I grew up in Silicon Valley, home of the Asian American immigrant community where my highschool was at least 20% Asian (if not more). No one had preconceived notions of who you were, and I felt completely unfettered by any identity markers, except those particular to myself.

But now, having moved out of that haven of Asianess, and into the great wide world of, well, Non-Asianess, I realize that I am not a tabula rasa to strangers. I am, apparently: submissive, quiet, shy, quasi-robotic, and good at math and science. I am soft-spoken, obedient, hardworking, and let's not forget, as socially scintillating as paint drying.

And that bothers me because...like all stereotypes, they're kind of true, especially in my case.

p.s. No, that's not a picture of me in younger years.
p.p.s. Happy New Year!!!!!

Friday, December 29, 2006

A Good Day


Another year older
Today was colder
Than its been in a long time.
Though the sun was shining brightly
but briefly.

Instead of cake
at the mall I ate
half a bagel
with cream cheese
because the line was too long
for a mini-cinnabon.

I spent the day
cleaning and washing
swiffer in hand and
making a soup
I learned from my mother-in-law
made with flank steak.

It was a success.

Sunday, December 24, 2006

New Year, New You

I don't make New Year resolutions because I don't see the point in waiting until December 31st each year to change any aspect of my life I feel worth changing.




That being said, if the end of the year should happen to coincide with recent thoughts of self-betterment, then I may as well call them New Year resolutions.




One change I've been contemplating is doing more volunteer work. Well, technically I don't volunteer at all, so I guess I should just say DOING volunteer work.



Why? Because I feel the need to seek out self-forgetfulness. I would like, just for a moment, to not think so much about my own well-being and volunteering seems to offer just such an opportunity.



I don't know. It could totally backfire.







After all, could I really forget myself when I'm doing something that is motivated by self-interest?






Wednesday, December 20, 2006

Yay

I'm FREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!!

Went a little overboard...

Pages written so far: 16

Page limit: 12

We'll cut the crap, uh, I mean EXCESS tomorrow...

One more page to go!

And a whole lotta' editing...

Pages written so far: 11

This is hard with food poisening

Pages written so far: 8

Public service announcement and note to self: Never, ever, under any condition eat undercooked chicken.

Tuesday, December 19, 2006

Uninspired

Pages written so far: 6

I suck. I spent the whole day writing only 2 pages?!! I've got to pick up the pace.

One...last...hurdle...

Last final, a 12 page paper due Wednesday.

It's not so bad really, but at this point I'm so sick of sitting at my desk that every fiber of my being rebels against me and makes the whole process a real drag.

Pages written so far: 4

Sunday, December 17, 2006

A Heartbreaking and Fascinating Story

My Father Was an Anonymous Sperm Donor
By Katrina Clark, Washington Post, Sunday, December 17, 2006

I really wasn't expecting anything the day, earlier this year, when I sent an e-mail to a man whose name I had found on the Internet. I was looking for my father, and in some ways this man fit the bill. But I never thought I'd hit pay dirt on my first try. Then I got a reply -- with a picture attached.

From my computer screen, my own face seemed to stare back at me. And just like that, after 17 years, the missing piece of the puzzle snapped into place.

The puzzle of who I am.

I'm 18, and for most of my life, I haven't known half my origins. I didn't know where my nose or jaw came from, or my interest in foreign cultures. I obviously got my teeth and my penchant for corny jokes from my mother, along with my feminist perspective. But a whole other part of me was a mystery.

That part came from my father. The only thing was, I had never met him, never heard any stories about him, never seen a picture of him. I didn't know his name. My mother never talked about him -- because she didn't have a clue who he was.

When she was 32, my mother -- single, and worried that she might never marry and have a family -- allowed a doctor wearing rubber gloves to inject a syringe of sperm from an unknown man into her uterus so that she could have a baby. I am the result: a donor-conceived child.

And for a while, I was pretty angry about it.

I was angry at the idea that where donor conception is concerned, everyone focuses on the "parents" -- the adults who can make choices about their own lives. The recipient gets sympathy for wanting to have a child. The donor gets a guarantee of anonymity and absolution from any responsibility for the offspring of his "donation." As long as these adults are happy, then donor conception is a success, right?

Not so. The children born of these transactions are people, too. Those of us in the first documented generation of donor babies -- conceived in the late 1980s and early '90s, when sperm banks became more common and donor insemination began to flourish -- are coming of age, and we have something to say.

I'm here to tell you that emotionally, many of us are not keeping up. We didn't ask to be born into this situation, with its limitations and confusion. It's hypocritical of parents and medical professionals to assume that biological roots won't matter to the "products" of the cryobanks' service, when the longing for a biological relationship is what brings customers to the banks in the first place.

We offspring are recognizing the right that was stripped from us at birth -- the right to know who both our parents are.

And we're ready to reclaim it.

Growing up, it didn't matter that I don't have a dad -- or at least that is what I told myself. Just sometimes, when I was small, I would daydream about a tall, lean man picking me up and swinging me around in the front yard, a manly man melting at a touch from his little girl. I wouldn't have minded if he weren't around all the time, as long as I could have the sweet moments of reuniting with his strong arms and hearty laugh. My daydreams always ended abruptly; I knew I would never have a dad. As a coping mechanism, I used to think that he was dead. That made it easier.

I've never been angry at my mother -- all my life she has been my hero, my everything. She sacrificed so much as a single mother, living on food stamps, trying to make ends meet. I know that many people considered her a pioneer, a trailblazer for a new offshoot of the women's movement. She explained to me when I was quite young why it was that I didn't have a "dad," just a "biological father." I used to love to repeat that word -- biological -- because it made me feel smart, even though I didn't understand its implications.

Then when I was 9, the mother of one of my classmates ran for political office. I remember seeing a television ad for her, and her family appeared at the end -- the complete nuclear household in the back yard, the kids playing on a swing suspended from a tree and eating their father's barbeque. I looked back at my lonely, tired mother, who sat there with a weak smile on her face.

In the middle of the fifth grade, I met a new friend, and we had a lot in common: We both had single mothers. Her mother had suffered through two divorces. My friend didn't have much to say about her dad, mainly because she knew so little about him. But at least she got to visit him and his new family. And I was jealous. Later, in the eighth grade, another friend's father had an affair and her parents divorced. She was in so much pain, and I tried to empathize for the loss of her dad. But I was jealous of her, too, for all the attention she was getting. No one had ever offered me support or sympathy like that.

Around this time, my mother and I moved in with a friend and -- along with several other teenagers, one infant and some other adults -- lived with her for nearly a year. I went through a teenage anger stage; I would stay in my room, listening to Avril Lavigne and to Eminem's lyrics of broken homes and broken people. I felt broken, too. All the other teenagers in the house had problems with their dads. I would sit with them through tears during various rough times, and then I'd go back to my room and listen to some more Eminem. I was angry, too, and angry that I had nowhere to direct my anger.

When my mother eventually got married, I didn't get along with her husband. For so long, it had been just the two of us, my mom and I, and now I felt like the odd girl out. When she and I quarreled, this new man in our lives took to interjecting his opinion, and I didn't like that. One day, I lost my composure and screamed that he had no authority over me, that he wasn't my father -- because I didn't have one.

That was when the emptiness came over me. I realized that I am, in a sense, a freak. I really, truly would never have a dad. I finally understood what it meant to be donor-conceived, and I hated it.

It might have gone on this way indefinitely, but about a year ago I happened to see a television show about a woman who had died of a heart attack. A genetic disease had caused her heart to deteriorate, but she didn't know about her predisposition because she had been adopted as a baby and didn't know her biological families' medical histories. It hit me that I didn't know mine, either. Or half of it, at least.

So I began to research Fairfax Cryobank, the Northern Virginia sperm bank where my mother had been inseminated. I knew that sperm donors are screened and tested thoroughly, but I was still concerned. The bank had been established in 1986, a mere two years before my conception. Many maladies have come to light since then.

I e-mailed the bank five times over the course of a year, requesting medical information about my donor, but no one responded. Then one Friday last spring, I started surfing the Web. Eventually I came upon an archive of "Oprah" shows. One was a show about artificial insemination using anonymous donors. A girl perched on Oprah's couch. Next to her sat her "donor," the man who was her biological father.

I froze. Why hadn't I thought of that? If I wanted medical information and a sense of roots, who better to seek out than the man responsible for them?

I set out to find my own donor. From the limited information my mother had been given -- his blood type, race, ethnicity, eye and hair color and hair texture; his height, weight and body build; his years of college and course of study -- I concluded that he had probably graduated from a four-year university in Northern Virginia or the District within a span of three years. Now all I had to do was search through the records and yearbooks of all the possible universities and make some awkward phone calls. I figured if I worked intensely enough, my search would take a minimum of 10 years. But I was ready and willing.

A few days later, searching for an online message board for donor-conceived people, I came across a donor and offspring registry. Scanning past some entries for more recent donors, I spotted a donation date closer to what I was looking for. I e-mailed the man who had posted the entry. A few days later he sent a warm response and attached a picture of himself. I read through his pleasant words and scrolled down to look at the photo. My breath stopped. I called for my mother, who rushed in, thinking something was terribly wrong. "I think I've found my biological father," I gasped between sobs. "Look at the picture. . . .That's my face."

After a few weeks of e-mailing, this stranger and I took DNA tests. When the results arrived, I tore open the envelope, feeling like a character in a soap opera. Most of the scientific language went over my head, but I understood one fact more clearly than I have ever understood anything in my life: There was, the letter said, a 99.9902 percent chance that this man was my father. After 17 years, I let out a long sigh.

I had found the man who had given me blue eyes and blond hair. And it had taken me only a month.

My life has changed since then. Once the initial disbelief that I had found my father wore off, my thoughts turned to all the other donor-conceived kids out there who have been or will be holding their breath much longer than I. My search for my father had been unusually successful; most offspring will look for many, many years before they succeed, if they ever do.

My heart went out to those others, especially after I participated in a couple of online groups. When I read some of the mothers' thoughts about their choice for conception, it made me feel degraded to nothing more than a vial of frozen sperm. It seemed to me that most of the mothers and donors give little thought to the feelings of the children who would result from their actions. It's not so much that they're coldhearted as that they don't consider what the children might think once they grow up.

Those of us created with donated sperm won't stay bubbly babies forever. We're all going to grow into adults and form opinions about the decision to bring us into the world in a way that deprives us of the basic right to know where we came from, what our history is and who both our parents are.

Some countries, such as Australia and the United Kingdom, are beginning to move away from the practice of paying donors and granting them anonymity, and making it somewhat easier for offspring to find their biological fathers. I understand anonymity's appeal for so many donors: Even if their offspring were to find them one day -- which is becoming more and more probable -- they have no legal, social, financial or moral obligation to their children.

But perhaps if donors were not paid and anonymity were no longer guaranteed, those still willing to participate would seriously consider the repercussions of their actions. They would have to be prepared to someday meet the people whom they helped create, to answer questions and to deal with a range of erratic emotions from their offspring. I believe I've let go of any resentment about the way I was conceived. I'm playing the cards I've been dealt and trying to make the best of things. But not all donor-conceived people share this mindset.

As relief about my own situation has come to me, I've talked freely and regularly about being donor-conceived, in public and in private. In the beginning, I also talked about it a lot with my biological father. After a bit, though, I noticed that his enthusiasm for our developing relationship seemed to be waning. When I told him of my suspicion, he confirmed that he was tired of "this whole sperm-donor thing." The irony stings me more each time I think of him saying that. The very thing that brought us together was pushing us in opposite directions.
Even though I've only recently come into contact with him, I wouldn't be able to just suck it up if he stopped communicating with me. There's still so much I want to know. I want to know him. I want to know his family. I'm certain he has no idea how big a role he has played in my life despite his absence -- or because of his absence. If I can't be too attached to him as my father, I'll still always be attached to the feeling I now have of having a father.

I feel more whole now than I ever have. I love our conversations, even the most trivial ones. I don't love him, and I don't know if I ever will, but I care about him a lot.

Now that he knows I exist, I'm okay if he doesn't care for me in the same way. But I hope he at least thinks of me sometimes.

Katrina Clark is a student in the undergraduate hearing program at Gallaudet University. clarkatrina@gmail.com

What do YOU think about her story? Discuss.

Friday, December 15, 2006

The Aftermath

My tax exam this morning was easily the worst exam I have ever taken. Period.

Words that immediately come to mind are: Total decimation, carnage, The Rape of Nanking, scorched earth...you get the idea.

I did sort of anticipate the destruction. For the last 3 nights I have had the worst insomnia DESPITE popping sleeping pills like a young starlette her vicodins. So...tired...

If the exam was graded on an absolute scale, I would easily get an F. Definitely. Because I didn't even answer half the exam. Oh, I certainly B.S.ed my way through it...writing down freely associated thoughts in a stream of consciousness form.

I imagine my professor having a good laugh with his tax-buddies the way I laugh at highschool essays that say things like, George Bush is the King of America. Or we have 50 justices on the Supreme Court.

And if I can make someone chuckle...well, then it's not all for nought, I suppose.

Thursday, December 14, 2006

Status Update: I'm screwed

Hours until next exam (tax): 15

Percent of tax material reviewed: 50% - I'm regressing

Chance of falling below the curve: 85%

Anxiety meter: 10 (1-10, 10 means I'm jumping off a tall ledge.)

Really wanting: to jump off a tall ledge.

Status Update 3:40pm

Hours until next exam (tax): 18

Percent of tax material reviewed: 80% - no change! yikes. (it's called goofing off)

Chance of falling below the curve: 65%

Anxiety meter: 9 (1-10, 10 means I'm jumping off a tall ledge.)

Really wanting: to close my eyes, still.

Status Update 1:14pm

Hours until next exam (tax): 20

Percent of tax material reviewed: 80%

Chance of falling below the curve: 60%

Anxiety meter: 8 (1-10, 10 means I'm jumping off a tall ledge.)

Really wanting: to close my eyes. Staring at notes gives me major eye strain.

Status Update 11:30am

Hours until next exam (tax): 23

Percent of tax material reviewed: 75%

Chance of falling below the curve: 70%

Anxiety meter: 9 (1-10, 10 means I'm jumping off a tall ledge.)

Really wanting: to not study anymore

Wednesday, December 13, 2006

Status Update 12:01am

Days until next exam (tax): 1.0

Percent of tax material reviewed: 75%

Chance of falling below the curve: 60%

Anxiety meter: 7 (1-10, 10 means I'm jumping off a tall ledge.)

Really wanting: to sleep...but I think I'll take a shower first. My hair is as slick as an Exxon-Mobile mishap in Alaska. Eew.

Status Update 10:45pm

Days until next exam (tax): 1.1

Percent of tax material reviewed: 55%

Chance of falling below the curve: 75%

Anxiety meter: 9 (out of 10)

Really wanting: a shower

Status Report

Finals Left: 2

Days until next exam (tax): 1.3

Percent of tax material reviewed: 55%

Chance of falling below the curve: 70%

Anxiety meter: 8 (out of 10)

"Adventures" of Bland Betty Part II:

Tax finals are...well, taxing.

All study and no play makes Betty a bland girl.

But a sugary break (very ripe pear and chocolate covered pretzel, yum!) with a sweet friend helps to keep her from shoving a pencil in her eye and ending it all!

Thanks Alaberi!

Friday, December 08, 2006

The Adventures of Bland Betty

My big adventure for today was getting a book from the library. Don't all fall out of your chairs at once.

“Exciting” highlights:
1. It was so cold I had to resort to my scarf-as-a-face-mask routine. Factoring in windchill it was seven degrees out today!
2. I traversed winding tunnels and scanned rows of books before spotting mine.
3. The book was the last copy left!
4. Oh, who am I kidding, none of these highlights are really exciting.

But even bland heroines deserve a comic strip of their own:

Wednesday, December 06, 2006

eek

People who listen to me moan and groan about final exams probably think that I'm exaggerating and should just relax. And for good reason. 90% of students get between an A+ and a B (or so I've heard). But somehow, I still feel like the frog in the picture.

Maybe its because I'm too used to the not-so-gentle grading system of the UCs where you actually do fail classes when you know as little as I do about the course materials.

Or maybe its because of the pernicious lack of feedback you get in lawschool courses. With no homework, no quizzes, and no midterms, you basically have no way to gauge your understanding until you face your cursed exam. And my current profs are ones who change their exams so much from year to year that looking at old ones don't help.

Tuesday, December 05, 2006

I didn't flunk out...YET

I realize I haven't updated my lawschool blog in several months and for that I feel most derelict. I fell off the wagon because it was too hard to do law "stuff" all day and then come home and blog some more about it.

But now I realize that I miss the outlet for all my law-related ramblings. And I think a lawschool blog can be a great public service to help people see how little law students actually know about the law (or at least this particular law student) and how bankrupt a legal education can be.

So I'm getting back on the wagon...after finals. Exams have descended on me like a plague and I won't be "free" until December 20th, blessed day of emancipation!

I'm actually looking forward to a couple classes in the semesters to come, in particular, ones on mediation and negotiation. I've always wanted to know how to manipulate dissenters into agreeing with me, uh, oops...I mean, how to help disagreements turn into win-win situations. (Or, for you Office fans, a win-win-WIN situation!)

p.s. For those of you puzzled by the photo, its a picture of a nerd moneky! (yes, like me).

Monday, December 04, 2006

Couldn't have said it better myself...

This weekend was a flurry of fun and games. Alaberi already blogged about it so I'll refer you to her well-documented entry, here.

Saturday, December 02, 2006

What would a homeless person do with $100,000?

Master of the pop-culture universe, Oprah, had my attention.

On her show was Ted Rodrigue, a homeless man who was given $100,000 by documentary film makers in a little social experiment.

Ted was selected after undergoing thorough medical evaluations, psych-exams, and drug tests to make sure he wouldn't just blow the money away on a year's supply of booze or dope. Ted was also given several counselors throughout the experiment, some for homeless advocacy and some for financial planning purposes.

How did Ted spend the money?

Basically, he blew it at the rate of about $10,000 a week. He bought friends cars, he gave money away to relatives, he bought gifts for several new "girlfriends," and even bought himself a new $35,000 Dodge Ram.

When meeting with the financial planner Ted stated firmly that he has no intentions of working and wishes to not plan ahead as he is only concerned with today.

How is Ted doing today?

Sadly Ted is now $5,000 in debt and says he is more miserable after having had the money than before. He says his inability to "change his life around" by getting steady employment and such was due to his intense dislike for authority. He doesn't like people telling him what to do.

What did Ted learn from this?

When asked this by Oprah, Ted replied that this just confirms what he always felt about society: that they are blood-sucking users. After he gave away all his money to friends, relatives, and girlfriends, not a single one stuck around when the well ran dry, so to speak.

Oprah then turned on the heat: What do you mean that it was "society's" fault? Society gave you $100,000!

Oprah recounts her own story of homeless helping.

Once she passed by a homeless man and told him to meet here at that street corner again the next day. When they met again, Oprah gave him a new suit and told him that she had arranged for him to have a job. The man took the suit and never showed up for the job.

What did the documentary makers learn from this?

You can't solve homelessness by throwing money at the homeless. More often than not people are homeless because of inner demons (drugs, booze, gambling, authority-hating, etc.) that need to be dealt with first.

Find out more on wikipedia.

Friday, December 01, 2006

Lady Wisdom

Lately I've been really longing to have a mentor.

I imagine this older woman, maybe in her fifties or sixties, someone having had the profession that I will soon have and growing up in the same socioeconomic and cultural context that I have.

Her white hair is a crown of wisdom and her bright red lipstick a flash of defiance. Her laughing crows feet would be prominant, as would the frown lines extending from the corners of her mouth.

Quick to listen, penetrating in gaze, and heartfelt as Oprah.

Monday, November 27, 2006

A Piece of that Good Ol' Capitalistic Pie

Why do Larry and Sergey, founders of Google, look so smug?


Maybe it's because they are barely in their thirties and already gazillionaires. The search engine industry is a huge cash cow and Larry and Sergey are riding it all the way to the bank, laughing.

Isn't it time us average Joe Americans get a cut of that glorious search engine cash? Well, now we can.

Zotspot is a new kind of search engine that lets YOU profit from every search you do. And the more people you sign up for Zotspot, the more you make because everytime THEY search, you also profit. Its like a pyramid scheme without the "scheme" since you pay nothing to get started.

Sounds too good to be true? What's the catch? Well, to be honest, the Zotspot search engine is markedly inferior to Google's. Some queries that appear as the first item in Google won't even show up in Zotspot.

I guess it just goes to show that capitalism "works." There's a reason why Larry and Sergey are rolling in dough.

For more info, check out these articles about zotspot:
Yahoo Finance News
Boston.com Business News
CNet News.com
ZD Net India
Earth Times

Friday, November 24, 2006

Beauty and the Beast Syndrome

I recently heard my beautiful friend say that her husband is "So cute and so handsome." It totally caught me off guard because he's totally NOT. If I may put it midly, he's like a shriveled up corpse-like bobblehead.


It's interesting how, quite often, men do not have to be physically beautiful to be considered attractive to women.

This is a lesson that can be easily gleaned from a reliable source of modern anthropological behavior, the supermarket tabloid:

Exhibit A: Hot Christina Aguilera and her short, scrawny husband.



Exhibit B: Hot Jennifer Lopez and her shriveled-up corpse-like husband.



And, the quintessence of Beauty and the Beast Syndrome, Exhibit C: Hot Victoria Secret's supermodel Heidi Klum and her craggy-faced husband.


Why is it that this does not happen in reverse? You almost never see hot guys with significantly less attractive looking women. In fact, when women hit their 40's, most husbands start seeing a little honey-on-the-side.

Evolutionary psychologists would probably say that a woman's aesthetics indicates her healthfulness and thus her ability to bear healthy children. Men, on the other hand, don't need to look good to evolve successfully. They need to be a "good provider", which does not necessarily correlate to physicality...

But that's not really true. Back in the day, it was the strongest, buffest cavemen who caught the kill right?

Once in junior high, a teacher explained that men are "turned on" by visual things, whereas women are "turned on" by romantic gestures. Ha ha ha. That's a gross thing to hear from your teacher, but whatever, the man was just trying to relay to us the facts of life, I guess. And I suppose that does explain the Beauty and the Beast syndrome.

So single guys, drop the dumbbells and pick up some Shakespeare.

Saturday, November 18, 2006

Nail-biting!

I'm so nervous. Cal v. USC. On the line: Rose Bowl. Pac-10 title.

1st Quarter:
Cal 2
USC 3

2nd Quarter:
Cal 9
USC 6

Cal hasn't been to the RB since the 50's. Tonight could be THE night.

Monday, November 13, 2006

The Tipping Point


Now is that day in 365
when there are just as many leaves
on the ground as in the trees.

Wednesday, November 08, 2006

Not-so-smooooth Jazz

I love me some Coltrane on a rainy day,
when cloudy skies are drenched and gray,
and the pavement gleams,
and it's dark as night in the morning.

I love me the ballads on a sultry sax,
and a mellow bass while I chillax,
with some Merlot,
reclining before a crackling fire's glow.

Or at least that's how his music makes me feel,
even when the reality is:
I'm slaving away at my desk,
sipping a Nalgene-knock-off of Crystal-Lite laced water
in front of the glow of a blazing
halogen lamp.

Saturday, November 04, 2006

The Well-Dressed Toddler: Winter Edition

If I had a little girl...









"Look," you said...


"No reason. Just because,
I know you love flowers."

You've come a long way since that time
you picked me up for a date holding
a loaf of sweet Italian bread
in lieu of flowers, because
you had never bought flowers before, and
going to a florist made you nervous.

Friday, November 03, 2006

First things first

I've sometimes wondered, of all the 3 basic human needs (to eat, to relieve oneself, and to sleep), which one takes precedence?

Well, recently while waiting for my flight to board in SF Int'l Airport, I had the opportunity to find out.

As I sat down, I realized that I was starving and wanted desperately to buy some crappy airport food. But then I realized that I couldn't get up and stand in line because I urgently had to pee. Yet the thing holding me back from going to the bathroom was my incredible fatigue. But I was too hungry and needing to go to the bathroom to fall asleep! Arrrrgh!

It was like Catch-33.

And so I sat there at Gate 9, miserable and deprived for a few minutes.

But then a beautiful thing happened. My body instinctively took over and that day I found out which urge takes precedence for me: sleep.

After conking out for 30 minutes, I then went to the bathroom, and finally bought an overpriced sandwich.

And all was well.

Tuesday, October 31, 2006

Elusions of Grandeur, Delusions of Fame

You know what I really miss? I miss having illusions of grandeur.

That’s the great thing about being a kid. You can dream that one day, you will be the shizzle. You will manifest some hidden talent, some special skill, that will catapult you to fame and glory beyond the anticipation of the mere mortals who daily underestimate your true worth. (See e.g., Luke Skywalker).

But part of growing up is hitting the shizzle ceiling. At some point, you realize you’re not that smart, you’re not that funny, you’re not that cute, and people don’t like you that much.

What once was an unlimited universe of possibility slowly becomes a cramped bathroom stall to which you know you must be resigned, short of winning the lottery...and even then it's a shaky proposition as money can only take you so far.

Some would say that those are the ramblings of a pessimist. But I say that those are the reasonable viewpoints of a REALIST. Because, let’s face it people, the older you get, the uglier. The dumber. The less able to learn, adapt, and attract.

I had hoped one day to look like Christie Turlington. To end poverty. To influence popular culture. To be brilliant. To be able to express my innermost thoughts with the ease and skill of history’s most celebrated artists.

But now I must be content with my finite realm of mediocre abilities and limited resources.

And that, my friends, is how you know you are all grown up.

Monday, October 30, 2006

Gasp! I...can't...breathe...!

Well, chalk it up to the seven year itch. It's official. Reese and Ryan, Hollywood's cutest couple, have separated after seven years of marriage and two kiddies together.


What went wrong? Whose fault was it? Is Reese's fame and success to blame? Did Ryan really sleep with a Canadian waitress recently?

All I know is I'm unexplicably saddened. Very saddened. Sniff.

Sunday, October 29, 2006

I'm baaaaaaaaack...

All last week I was in San Francisco interviewing for summer jobs at law firms.

My firms collectively put me up in a nice hotel from which I had a magnificent view of the SF Bay and particularly Alcatraz island. But the Golden Gate Bridge was too far to the right for me to see it.


All week long I met with some 40-odd lawyers, asking and answering various questions about my resume, my interest in the law, and most pointedly, my interest in their firm.

Interviewing is not for the feint of heart. It was pretty grueling to be "interrogated" for long periods of time and trying to walk that fine line between excitedness and over-excitedness, which just smacks of desperation.

Now all I have to do is sit back and wait for the offers to start pouring in. That's sarcasm, for those of you who couldn't tell. I don't think I'm that attractive of a candidate since these firms have their pick of the litter and I asked more questions about "quality of life" than "quality of work."

My goal is to find a firm in which the employees work the least amount of hours, but which won't go bankrupt anytime soon either.

Wednesday, October 18, 2006

Ugly much?

I hate when bloggers put in video clips from YouTube, but for this one, I'm willing to make an exception.

Click here to see how the beauty industry makes normal people into bombshells and subsequently, makes a generation of normal women feel like sh_t.

Thanks to Virenda for the tip.

Thursday, October 12, 2006

Playing Dumb and Dirty

I used to be ashamed to be from California, land of the celebrity-politician --Reagan, the current Govenator.

But now, having seen one of the most infuriating smear commercials for Massachusett's governorship, I have finally found a state's politician I esteem less than California's.

One of the worst ads I have ever seen on TV is run by Republican candidate, Kerry Healey, against her opponent, Democrat, Patrick Deval.

In the ad, Healey implies that her opponent would make a bad governor because he's soft on crime. Classic Republican tactic (because admittedly, most Dems are too soft on crime).

But the way Healey does it is such an insult to the viewers. She manipulates totally irrelevant data to mislead people to draw a completely nonsequitur conclusion! Argh. I hate illogical arguments. I'm foaming at the mouth just thinking about it!!!

How does Healey start her ruse? The commercial begins like a scene from Cops, a dark highway and raw footage. Then a narrator, who sounds like the same guy who announces for America's Most Wanted, says something like:

"A young Florida state trooper came up to a stranded motorist and tried to help him. The driver shot and killed the trooper and was sentenced to death. Deval Patrick was his lawyer and got his sentence reduced. Now the killer is up for parole...

A lawyer is supposed to defend his client, but do we really want someone like that for our governor?"


Whoooooah there Healey! Back it up! There are so many holes in the "logic" of this ad it can't even float in a bathtub.

First of all, why wouldn't I want a great criminal defense attorney as my governor? The fact that he's a great lawyer probably means he's smart as a whip and knows how to get the job done.

Second, just because a defense attorney does his job well defending criminals DOES NOT NECESSARILY mean he is soft on crime. The man is just doing his job. Without further knowledge, one can not know anything about Deval's real views on crime just based on the bare facts of the commercial alone. Too little information!

Third, did you feel scared that the killer is now on parole? Well, don't be. "Parole" sounds like this guy is almost going to get out, but more likely than not, this guy will rot in jail for the rest of his life. Sure he's up for "parole", but he probably won't get it, ever.

And fourth, the commercial makes a big deal about Deval getting the killer a reduced sentence. But do they mention what that sentence was reduced from? Nope. It could've been reduced from 80 years to 75. Big whoop. That would make no practical difference at all.

Bottomline is: This ad is just plain stupid! A lot of things can go wrong in a criminal investigation. There are so many mitigating circumstances that you can't make a value judgment about whether the sentence was too lenient or not just based on the few sensational details the commercial selectively chose to reveal.

The criminal could have been mentally retarded or psychotic or convicted only on circumstantial evidence, or even misidentified!!! The ad wants you to think this guy deserved to fry, but we really don't know enough about the case to make any kind of judgment on that at all!

And suggesting that Deval would be soft on crime just because he once defended this convicted cop killer is such a horrible leap of logic. Who knows how little the reduction was? Who knows what Deval really thought about all this? Even if we grant Healey the most generous assumption, that Deval really was too sympathetic to the criminal, WHO CARES? His views could've totally changed by now!!!

If you want to say that Deval is too soft on crime, you'll need more than this flimsy commercial and the authoritative voice of the "America's Most Wanted" guy.

Maybe Deval really is soft on crime. But all this commercial shows is that Kerry Healey is soft on logic, which means she's either really soft in the head, or soft on integrity!

You can watch the nauseous commercial for yourself here.

***Addendum -- I finally realized what got me so riled up about this commercial. I mean, what's the big deal since, after all, ALL political commercials are full of crappalicious spins. But usually, they spin crap and make illogical leaps about POLITICAL ISSUES, like raising taxes and cutting funding for schools. THIS commercial totally steps over the line and hits below the belt by spinning completely irrelevant, non-political crap. It's the closest thing you can get to an ad hominem attack these days, like, X-Candidate will be a bad Govenor because his eyes are green. Stupid, stupid, stupid!

Wednesday, October 11, 2006

Yay

Today was my last day of interviews.

I'm looking forward to getting back on my regular tv schedule. Oprah, that means you.

Monday, October 09, 2006

Go Bears!

Say hello to my new hero: returning sophmore quarterback, Nate Longshore. (Aptly named as he is quite adept at throwing the pigskin a looooong way to the other shore, i.e. goal line).

Now that Cal finally has a decent quarterback, it can finally get its awesome offensive game on. But ironically, it was the usually lackluster defense that stepped up and won Cal's recent game against the Oregon Ducks. 45-24 baby!

Cal is going to DOMINATE in their upcoming games against UCLA and USC. Y'all be warned.

Saturday, October 07, 2006

Don't you hate it when...

Out of 20-some job interviews, by far the most "stump-me" question I got was this:

"What accomplishment are you most proud of that isn't on your resume?"

I gave the interviewer a blank look, which lasted a good 30 seconds while I searched my mental database for a good answer. Everything that I thought was great I put on my resume! Even the fact that I love stand-up comedy and the Food Network.

That stumper of a question was put to me last week, but it wasn't until this morning I finally came up with a good answer! Doh!

Friday, October 06, 2006

A Life

What is the meaning of life?


One summer when I was five I took a very long car ride that lasted about six days. I sat in the cabin of a U-Haul truck with my dad while my mom and brother trailed behind us in the Toyota Corolla.

Throughout the trip from Baton Rouge to San Jose, I remember only feeling drowsy and sweaty the entire time. There were no conversations, no music, nothing--except the feeling of a long hazy daydream, like when you have the flu and stay home from school. I don’t even remember ever checking into a hotel room so we must have driven through the nights and took naps in the car.

But my one conscious thought that I do remember, was pondering the meaning of life. And then, when the U-Haul stopped moving and we pulled into our first gas station in San Jose, I felt like I knew. Eureka.

Children studied hard so they could go to a good college to get a good job as adults. Adults worked jobs to start families. And grandparents exist to help with (and spoil) the kids. The End.

Forever after, when I heard that the question of the meaning of life was a stumper, I felt incredulous. I had it all figured out by age 6.

But now I realize that I had gained that definition by osmosis from my parents and the popular culture of the 80's. And it isn’t true. It isn’t nearly the whole truth of the matter at all.

Though it is probably considered progress to find out you don't know what you thought you knew, I can't help but feel I'm regressing. Two more decades and who knows what other foundations will be demolished?

Tuesday, October 03, 2006

Everyone's a Winner!

Wow. Here I was thinking I would stump a few people with my previous quiz question, only to find out what keen spellers you all are.

You were ALL correct! The proper spelling is "playwright", but if you prefer, you can also use "playwriter."

So, first place goes to Beckett who was the first to get it correct.


Beckett gets a Big Gold Star.




Second place goes to Slackeur who gets:


A Big Silver Star.




And Alaberi gets extra credit for typing out the actual correct spelling so she gets:


The Biggest Star Ever.
(A rare pre-gastric-bypass edition)

Saturday, September 30, 2006

Query me this...

Quick! Without looking it up, tell me:

Is the correct spelling:

playright
or
playwrite?


First person to get it right (not write) gets a BIG Gold Star.

Thursday, September 28, 2006

The Biking Fool

Check out my sweet ride to and from interviews (mind you I'm wearing a full suit, high-heels and pearls!)...


Just keepin' it real!

The one in which I defy my every inclination to be inert

Have you ever felt so bone-tired that the air seems thick as molasses?

And you tell yourself there is no way you're going to be able to lift your fat ass off the couch and drag it all the way to your desk to crack open a text book?

And then, ever so slowly, moving one millimeter per second, you actually, miraculously, find yourself sitting upright in front of your computer with the words "Tax Expenditures and Public Policy" in front of your glazed eyes?

Welcome to my world.

Now that interviews are in full swing, my schedule seems way too overcrowded. I can't believe I'm actually reduced to less than an hour of TV watching a day. That's just not going to work. Something's gotta' give.

Saturday, September 16, 2006

Did you ever know that you're my hero...

I cannot stop singing the praises of Michael Patrick King. The man is a pop-culture god.

He is the genius behind two of my favorite TV shows in the history of television. Not only does he direct two of my favorite actresses of all time, he does so in a hilarious, touching, and very human way.


His products are always very...TRUE. That is the highest compliment I can give to any form of art. His art is true in the context of its own genre. Sex and the City and The Comeback with Lisa Kudrow are hilarious and entertaining, but the pleasure doesn't come from gimmicks. Rather, like a good stand-up comedy routine, it comes from a deeply shared insight into the human condition.


His shows are the only ones that I will watch more than once, particularly to get his audio commentary on the DVD episodes. He always has the most insightful and compassionate things to say about the characters and their situations.

Now, being a visual person, I just had to see what Michael Patrick King actually looks like (after hearing his disembodied voice-over so many times). I googled his image and I have to say...


I'm a little shocked and disappointed that he looks so young and rather on the handsome side. I always thought great wisdom meant looking more like...well...Yoda.

Tuesday, September 12, 2006

A little less taxing, a little more waxing

Ok, so I haven't posted in a while and actually my insides feel like they are going to burst.

And yet I hesitate to write because my thoughts are a mess.

School started and I'm kind of a mess. For every 30 mintues of studying I feel like I need an hour of TV watching to "detox". Why am I so allergic to academia? I used to like to learn. Ok, no, that's a lie. I was always a TV whore.

Anyway, I'm taking some "exciting" classes. Hey, it doesn't take much to count as exciting in the world of law. After reading cases all day long, you won't look at paint drying in the same way again. I guarantee you that.

The exciting classes are: Tax, Constitutional Law, and Legal Research. Snore. They are exciting because for the first time ever in lawschool, my professors actually speak in indicative sentences! Like you and me! Like normal human beings! Yes. No more string of "Socratic" questions...never telling you what the answer is or if you're getting colder? warmer? going to fail your final?

And I've come to have a new appreciation of US taxes. Do you know what makes America so great? Seriously. It's our fiscal policy.

God forbid we should be like some other countries (like Mexico *COUGH COUGH*) where only the poor are taxed and the rich pretty much never pay a dime, except as bribes to the politicians, who make sure the tax legislation stays inefficient...and that's how the world turns round and round and before you know it, Juana's on a bus to Tijuana where she hopes to make a buck to send back to her kid but we all know how that story ends. (I'll give you a hint...Juana ends up making a buck in a less legal way, unless she's working in Las Vegas).

And that's my two cents...which I'll happily pay tax on.

Friday, September 08, 2006

Need more distractions from school...

You Are 36% Vain

Okay, so you're slightly vain from time to time, but you're not superficial at all.
You are realistic. You know that looks matter. You just try to make them matter less.


You Are Likely a Third Born

At your darkest moments, you feel vulnerable.
At work and school, you do best when you're comparing things.
When you love someone, you tend to like to please them.

In friendship, you are loyal to one person.
Your ideal careers are: sales, police officer, newspaper reporter, inventor, poet, and animal trainer.
You will leave your mark on the world with inventions, poetry, and inspiration.

Author's note: I am not a third born. I'm a second born!

Your Emoticon is Grumpy

Maybe you're having a bad day... or maybe something just upset you. Either way, you're definitely seeing red!


You Failed 8th Grade Geography

Sorry, you only got 5/10 correct!

Author's note: Hey, these questions are HARD! No 8th grader could get these right!

You Passed 8th Grade Spanish

Congratulations, you got 7/8 correct!

Author's note: Sweet! I still got it.

You Are 30% Weird

Not enough to scare other people...
But sometimes you scare yourself.


You Are Elektra

There's really no superhero with more style than you.
Because who could beat being a sexy assasin ninja?


You Are 80% Pure

You're so innocent, it's almost like you're not human.
Taking this test is probably the naughtiest thing you've done in a while!


Your World View

You are a fairly broadminded romantic and reasonably content.
You value kindness and try to live by your ideals.
You have strong need for security, which may be either emotional or material.

You respect truth and are flexible.
You like people, and they can readily make friends with you.
You are not very adventurous, but this does not bother you.

Author's note: This is so true. It's like they looked into my heart...and the hearts of 90% of humanity too.