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I did two good deeds today. Its inconvenient for us to think that we would only do such deeds during the holidays, but its certainly no coincidence that I’ve never felt more aware of my past guilt than during Christmas. I gave a reasonably well-dressed young man a subway token, when he at first asked for spare change (no, it wasn’t Liam, although I did give Liam a token too. I’m more or less use to him asking me for spare change and unwarranted high fives). 

Its been a few years since I’ve been a regular transit rider, and on the subway today, I grew fondly reminiscent. Mostly of the passing daydreams and secret TTC crushes, and less of the interminable waiting periods between streetcars. It is perhaps, if anything, comforting, embarking on this solitary travel by the companionship of a million strangers.

Taking transit gives us an opportunity to sit quietly and anonymously, sometimes overhearing odd conversations between passengers about their lives. I overheard one group as they discussed their friend’s recent abortion. The girl was 16 and already had two abortions, one caused by her boyfriend throwing her down a flight of stairs. I was certain that was just an urban myth, but apparently, it seems to work reasonably well.

In passing, I have seen the faces of dozens of remarkable and unremarkable people, knowing that I would only see them once, and nevermore.

In Vancouver, I rode the bus often, and just as often, slept soundly with head against the window (likely with gaping mouth and drool coming out of the corners). It was hardly a welcoming sight for people to sit next to me. I suppose when the bus is full, if anyone would sit next to the smelly, greased-up fat guy, that wears a wrinkled suit everyday on the #6 Davie bus, I would be a welcome alternative. Well, maybe that is extreme.

On one of those trips, I awoke and realized I was sitting beside a young girl about my age. She looked over at me as I roused. Feeling her eyes, I lifted my head and deftly wiped the tiny bit of spittle from the corner of my mouth. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and smiled at her. She had on a light blue tank-top with white trim and held a gym bag on her lap. The tank-top straps hung loosely on her shoulders.

She wore her strawberry blonde hair down (more blonde, than strawberry), falling lightly around her bare shoulders and framing her slightly rounded face. I can remember this clearly, and without much effort, even though this was more than two years ago.

Her figure was average, though she carried herself with a delicate grace and balance. She had bronzed skin, likely from being outdoors and her smile was spellbinding. She asked a quick question about the upcoming stop, and I gave a short reply. It hadn’t crossed my mind that she might be interested in having a conversation about more than just transit stops.

We continued to chat and have small talk. Having grown up in a relatively small town, I tend to relate better to other people from small towns, and she had grown up in Delta. While the conversation winded its way around friends, and hang-out spots in Vancouver, I noticed the bus was soon heading to its final stop. 

We got up and said our goodbyes. I walked away in the opposite direction, almost immediately regretting that decision. I knew I would never see her again. I turned around and nearly ran back, searching for any sign of her. I ran down the six-stories of escalators of Burrard Station, looking for her and uncertain what to say if I had found her. Of course, she had long gone by then. 

The regret then eventually dissipated. I began to take on a different perspective of these encounters. Are these moments regrettable? I think that these encounters are meant to be enjoyed for the time that they happen. Live that moment, remember it, and then let it go. You can’t cling to those moments anymore than you can contain it in a bottle. Otherwise, there will only be the unbearable heaviness of being.

Becoming light puts into perspective these moments and reveals their fleeting nature. Hold onto it, and you will grieve over it. Let it go, and you remain the victor, having received all its spoils. We shared that moment on the bus, and passed through each other’s lives as we were in transit from one point to another. That was the moment to remember, and that’s what it will always just be.

I’ve seen many movies that I’d care not share with my friends. Mostly, terrible movies and some were just plain embarrassing. I’d often regret seeing it, and think, how can I wrest those two precious hours of my life back from these movie usher thieves. Indeed, the trailer for In the Name of the King: A Dungeon Siege Tale was so deceivingly good, that it was just enough to extract $12.50 out of my pocket (this is where you could imagine my dollar bills having white fluffy wings, flapping its way out of my wallet into thin air).

I don’t regret a few movies I’ve seen that were critically dismissed as self-serving tripe, such as AVP: Alien vs. Predator which was decent, if not the greatest SciFi flick ever made by man. Or even, Mean Girls which was a masterful tale woven together by Tina Fey (screenplay). I enjoy those types of movies, if not to relieve this compelling obsession with aliens tearing shit up and high school drama in general.

The backstabbing, gossip, childish meandering and simple lives of these characters allows us (yes, you’re coming with me) to escape to a time where we could be carefree and hate and attack each other with inconsequential reprisals.

It was with great anxiety that I knew of Twilight long before the trailers hit, and long before people were buzzing about Cedric Diggory playing the role of Edward Cullen. Cedric who’s casting can only be explained by the singular requirement for an actor playing Edward Cullen: less talent, more dreamy.

Anxious to not tell my friends that I’d been waiting to see it, nor to tell them that in fact, I would probably be waiting in line with the other 18 year olds at the box office, I feigned much disinterest. Quoting reviews that read, “Twilight is a disappointingly anemic tale of forbidden love that should satiate the pre-converted but will bewilder and underwhelm viewers,” I hoped to throw them off the scent. No, this movie was definitely not for me. Much like Edward Cullen, I held my reservations in check and hid in the darkness so as to not reveal my true identity. I only came out when it was cloudy.

But tonight! I saw it, and Catherine Hardwicke did not disappoint. I am notoriously known for favouring so-called “bad” movies, but in this instance I would like to draw your attention to movies such as Lords of Dogtown, Tank Girl and even I’m Gonna Git You Sucka. Great movies that she either directed or was involved in some way or another.

This story unfolded like a giant origami masterpiece. Maybe even a giant origami crane. Each fold and crease blatantly narrated and wonderfully extricated to the audience as though we were all in their heads. Or at least, over their shoulder. I suppose it was more like piggy-backing.

A forbidden love story emulating the Romeo and Juliet tale, with classic lines like, “I don’t have the strength to stay away from you,” or “I’m afraid I might eat you, and you might taste like bacon.” I studiously noted these lines in my own notebook, saving them for later. You see, gentle vampires don’t drink human blood, because it will cause them to ravage all humans in a rabid state of inhumanity. These docile vampires prefer to live amongst us, and refer to themselves as “vegetarians” who secretly feast on deer blood while humbly trying to become another valuable member of society.

How wonderful and fresh to see them comparing drinking animal blood as being a vegetarian. As he remarked, “Its like eating tofu all your life, but never being satisfied.” Someone get this boy a steak! He’s been craving one all his 200 years of existence, and now there she is. A delicious young girl to devour if he so chooses. And then I began to wonder, have I ever fallen in love with a nice fat, ribeye steak before? Oh yes, I had one yesterday. It helped me to relate to his pain, of seeing a walking steak and not being able to pour some peppercorn gravy on it. How terrible!

Despite his failing will power, he is able to keep his distance, only to visit her while she sleeps. I also noted this down for future relationship advice: if you cannot be with a girl due to stupid species violation rules, quietly creep into her room and watch her sleep. She’ll wake up, see you then think she was dreaming about you. You’ll be like a vision of beauty at the foot of her bed, so long as you jump out the window before she reaches over for the pepper spray. And if you need to convince yourself that this is right, just remember — all you are really doing, is nothing so different than viral marketing.

So eventually, she becomes weak and tastes the forbidden fruit from Edward’s ice cold hands (at least, I think it was from his hands). Falling down the rabbit hole into an Eden-like paradise of generous, intellectual vampires who love Debussy and can play many musical instruments, she is hooked and wants in. She wants to be let into this exclusive country club of high society vampires. This fantasy played out over the span of 2 short hours, and resonated within the audience of 7 people in the theatre as we clapped our applause, thunderously echoing and reverberating against the walls when they finally did kiss and end up at prom together. After seeing enough of these movies, you’ll soon realize that all roads lead to prom.

Of course, there could not have been a more complete package if they had forgotten to include the set up for the sequel. The prerequisite setup was made for the sequel, as the tale of wolves from the forest (First Nations tribe) wove a backstory of a peace treaty between the vampires. One of those wolves, Jacob, has a tiny little crush on our heroine hottie whom she was too quickly brushed off as just another gay best friend. Get in line, chump. Too bad, Jacob, you’re just not as dreamy as Edward, and considering you’re probably a werewolf, you might want to look into getting an electric personal groomer. P.S. You’re ugly.

The love triangle is brewing, and looks like the sequel will provide more juice. Certainly these movies need to be made faster if they are still going to use the same cast. The problem with teen movies is that you can only get 2 or 3 out of them before they start getting old. Unless you’re the Harry Potter franchise, in which case you’ll see those movies until Harry’s a ripe old age of 52 playing a 20 year old Potter, still trying to escape his past, and still scratching his forehead at his, now sagging and droopy, lightning bolt scar. Someone please tell Mr. Potter that, yes, we get it. You’re an orphan. Some orphans do something good with their lives like become President of United States, so stop dragging your feet and get on with it.

They say twilight is the magical hour for photography, but they never realized how true this statement would be for film too until this one came along.

There are 5 stages in the Kübler-Ross model for dealing with grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. Where am I in this model? Somewhere in the abysmal ether between the intransitive verb form of balding and the adjective form of bald. Soon, I won’t just be balding, I’ll just be plain bald! I find this particular state not so unlike purgatory, begrudgingly waiting for that someone to conjugate this verb slightly; to shift the paradigm of my life with one phrase; to note in passing to a mutual friend as they point my way and say, “Who’s your bald friend?”

No, he’s not bald, my friends would defend. He has a shaved head! Surely, you can see the stubble that rouses out from his scalp, resolutely defying all resemblance to Lex Luther, Gandhi or (God forbid) Howie Mandel. But then again, denial is merely stage one and I’ve already come so far. No, there is no more denial or anger. There may be bargaining at hand though, depending on whether or not I can employ my seasoned bartering skills with God and have him, once more, bestow upon me that raven mane I once wore.

And yet, I ask myself, will I ever be able to walk into a hair salon again and ask for a haircut without being faced with suppressed mirth and sly grins?

Recently, I needed to find some oil for my clippers and I wound up in Zellers wandering aimlessly down fluorescent aisles looking for some kind of mythological oil product that no one seemed to know about. If you’ve ever owned clippers, you will know how difficult it is to find replacement oil.

As I was ready to give up, I stumbled upon a large, red, neon sign that read “Magic Cuts” right there inside this vast and sterile discount department store. Should I continue my interminable search for clipper oil or just pay the requisite $20 for a quick trim? Laziness seems to always prevail.

The moment I walked in, the entire staff of barbers and stylists paused and glanced up from their work chairs, simultaneously turning off their noisy clippers. The silence, broken only by the stereophonic muzak coming out of the ceiling’s speakers, caused me to consider turning and fleeing in the style of Road Runner.

“Can I help you,” asked the middle-aged, jerry-curled receptionist.

“I need a haircut.” Why else would I be at Zellers?

She smiled and looked up at what remained of my youth atop my head: hair soft as goose-down, clutching to my scalp like dying leaves in autumn.

Yes, I thought. I really do need a haircut. I’ve got a hot date with a gorgeous Turkish webcam girl and no amount of high-contrast, blurring or pixelation would spare her the unsightly wreath of shag around my ears. My clippers were rusted, and I had no salad bowl. Perhaps I should be glad that I still need clippers to cut my hair, rather than being sufficiently equipped with a pair of tweezers.

And so, I sat down and she proceeded to work her so-called magic cut. It took approximately 6 minutes and I was whisked out with a wave and good tidings.

I’ve considered skipping one of the stages of the model, and move forward. I mean, why waste time being depressed about this loss? I would much rather move past that stage, and side-step into the Fünke model with the help of some plugs. Or… should I say 4,000 plugs?

Living on my own, has me resorting to just eating butter.

The hardest part of growing up is telling your parents that you are moving out. Typically, this is a problem people face at 18 years old but for me its more likely to happen 12 years later. I’ve lived at home for far too long since coming back from Vancouver. They call us the boomerang generation.  We leave for college, come back and live at home, leave for a few years then return home again to get our bearings. Mostly for financial reasons, but in my case, because I’m really lazy.

I wasn’t sure how I’d break it to my parents that I’d rented an apartment and secretly started moving small boxes out during the week. It wasn’t easy explaining the missing furniture, emptying bookcases and even my own often random disappearances.

It came down to a head one morning when the night before, I had packed up a few boxes and lined them up in the hallway while my parents peacefully slept. But I was so tired, I lied down to rest, and awoke the next morning. Crap, I thought. I didn’t move those boxes last night.

I walked out of my room and my mom and dad were sitting at the breakfast table talking quietly. Here it comes. They saw me and started asking, what is with those boxes. Surely they figured it out. My mom already knew, but my dad took a deep sigh and had to sit down. His only question was, who’s going to pay for the cable bill now?

I got ready for work, with them talking and walking around asking if I needed boxes. Surprisingly, they got over it pretty quickly. My dad called out to me as I was putting my coat on and said, “Before you leave can you move my TV into your old room?” He’s already planning out how my old room is going to look.

My parents were reasonable and very supportive. A far cry from the last time I tried to move out; not only move out, but move 3,000 kms away. There were no tears or guilt trip this time, just questions concerning logistics and how we were going to get a cable outlet into my old room. My dad had already started packing up his stuff to move into my old room. We ended up pulling about 40 feet of cable through the condo’s air duct and draping down the wall, held together by a twist-tie, to his digital cable box. Decor is not a main concern for my dad. Making sure the Fairchild channel still works, that was his paramount concern.

This, taken just before I wrapped it in Saran wrap.

It took a week of not very stealthy preparation, but I’ve finished everything relatively quickly. I started with a naked apartment, and now, thanks to the Brick, I have a queen-sized bed, a nice TV and a couch that I have seriously considered wrapping in Saran wrap. Most Asians will understand this oriental tradition of wrapping things in plastic. Certainly not for fear of dust mites, but more for preserving furniture until long after you are dead and gone.

I never thought I could love anything more than my Mac laptop, but as it turns out, I love my new couch! I hesitated for a few days on making the investment, but after dreaming about lying on it on a lazy Sunday sometime down the road, I walked into the Brick and asked them to wrap that baby up.

The sales team at the Brick have recently discovered their new paycheck in the form of this striking young Vietnamese man. Generally, Vietnamese people are dauntingly hard-nosed when negotiating sales. This, I was told by Ahim the Brick Sales Guy. “Most Vietnamese people are really tough,” he said. “But you, you are the easiest sale ever.” I couldn’t decide if it was a compliment or a slight, so I just said thanks.

Not only do Vietnamese people fight for every penny, they would rather sell out their own relatives to avoid paying more than 50% of the ticketed price. Its a cultural thing. So when I went in and bought a bed, tv and couch and was going to pay full price, instantaneous in-fighting broke out. I was pretty sure I heard someone get on the PA system and said, “Sucker in Aisle 5″.

And here, I had to make sure each sales guy got their fair share of commission on each of the sales. Like hyenas scavenging over a dead gazelle, they clamoured over the cash registers hurriedly pressing numbers and telling me about these wonderful accessories for my TV like a wall bracket or a $50 Obama bobble-head that would make a great addition to any living room. I respectfully declined the wall bracket, but did briefly consider the bobble-head.

After my warm carcass began cooling down and they realized they couldn’t get much more out of me, I walked out of there admittedly feeling a little bit ravaged. Well, at least delivery was free.

Unfortunately, I’m just not that good at bartering. In fact, not only did I pay full price, they up-sold me on a 5-year extended warranty plan for my couch (which I love). I also bought two memory-foam pillows for another two bills and a dust-mite killing mattress cover. It’s no secret that I will go to any lengths to kill dust mites.

I suppose there is a course I can take that will arm me with negotiating skills when embarking on purchasing outings. I don’t know how my parents could be proud of me without these skills. How could I ever face them, knowing I have been paying full price for big ticket items all my life? Luckily, I’m very good at hiding things from them.

In various caricatures of McCain and Obama, they are often depicted as the erratic Captain Kirk, and the logical Dr. Spock. Its uncanny how the similarities stack up, from their prose, their personalities and their actions. Did Gene Roddenberry have a brief episode of clairvoyance and see this election coming? How could it have been foretold in such eerily accurate ways?

When Captain Kirk noted in quiet reflection his feelings towards the Klingons, he said, “I’ve never trusted Klingons, and I never will.” This quote was used to convict him of murdering the Klingon Chancellor and he was exiled to a frozen wasteland. Nearly a decade ago, John McCain was quoted as saying something quite nearly as despicable towards the Vietnamese people. ”I hate the gooks,” McCain said in response to a question from reporters aboard his campaign bus. “I will hate them as long as I live.” Supposedly, he is allowed to do this because he was a POW.

He qualified his comment by saying, he only meant his captors. As one reporter noted, what if he had been captured by Nigerians? Would he call them “niggers” and then explain that his derogatory slander applied only to those Nigerians that captured him? How would that have gone over with the rest of the country?

His ignorance is further revealed in his choice of slur. The term “gook” is a bastardization of a racial slur against Koreans who in their native tongue refer to themselves as “Han-guk saram.” The bigotry in the USA continues to defy all intellect and reason without reprimand. All of this passes by without notice because of the passivity that minorities have afforded to their taskmasters coupled with the moral values that a nation of supposed Christians promotes. 

My family came across the waters on a boat, hounded by Thai pirates, chased out of country by our own people. Japanese war machines ravaged China and did unspeakable horrors to millions of muted victims of my own race. Yet we continue to rise above and become better humans for it. We don’t spread hatred, we don’t pass generalizations on a race and incite further violence. We evolve.

“What we need in the United States is not division; what we need in the United States is not hatred; what we need in the United States is not violence and lawlessness, but is love and wisdom, and compassion toward one another, and a feeling of justice toward those who still suffer within our country, whether they be white or whether they be black.” Robert Kennedy: Delivering News of King’s Death (NPR)