The Trouble With Romance is like the Benneton Ad of romance movies. Like a rainbow of diversity or something.
31
Jan
The Trouble With…
On the way home from work today, I was waiting at the Broadway-Lafayette station for the D train. Anyone who goes on the D/F/V line and gets off at Bway-Lafayette will know that there’s an old flute player who stands there and plays for hours. He’s become something of a monument. You will know when you hear the sound of a flute that your day is over, and you can finally go home and relax (or slave away at your art homework). And for that, every salaried worker, every student - every pedestrian pays a mutual respect for this bearded man with his flute. A little tip of the hat in the less-judging confines of your own psyche.
Today was different. Walking down the stairs, I saw the flutist (floutist? flounderer?) holding not his flute, but a postcard - something along those lines. That struck me as odd, and when I turned back to look, he was gone. Perplexing. I shrugged it off as the F train on the opposite track did the usual rumble and squeal into the station. That’s when the bright coat caught my attention from the corner of my eye.
Ahah! There you are, bearded enigma of a flute player. As if it weren’t remarkably strange that he wasn’t playing the flute tonight, he was boarding a Brooklyn-bound F train. And not just any train, the DEVIL’S F TRAIN.
Well, not really.
There was a man/college student dressed in a devil suit, all red. Of course, being New York, we don’t fuck around with just any devil suit. This suit came with flashing horns, promising not only a fiery afterlife, but one with epileptic seizures. Hardcore. Naturally, the devil-suited man started a conversation with the flutist. Naturally. And the train rolled out of the station.
The flutist consorts with Satan.
17
Jun
Walks on Water
I never thought I’d be old enough to say this, but: Kids say the darnedest things. There, I said it. I’m officially a geezer. It’s even better when kids say things that make it impossible to reply without feeling incredibly awkward.
From work:
S.:(looking at a colouring book about Jesus) Look, Jesus is magic!
Me: I…uh…Is that right? I…didn’t know that.
S.: He is magic! He told the dead girl to wake up and she went back to life!
Me: Um… That’s a little bit different than magic.
S.: But he is! I had 11 jacks before in my cup, and when I checked before, I only have 10!
Me: …Are you sure you didn’t lose them? I don’t think Jesus would take your jacks
S.: THE DEVIL TOOK THEM!
Me: I… don’t think he’d need them either.
J.: I DON’T BELIEVE IN THE DEVIL.
E.: (from out of nowhere) JESUS LIVES IN THE SKY
I had a nervous giggle-fit by the end of this. And it gets better! I checked boingboing(or was that gothamist?) when I came home and found this talking Jesus figure. I actually kind of want one for the novelty of it. “LET ME TELL YOU ABOUT THIS ONE TIME I WAS JUST SITTING THERE ON THE SIDE OF A MOUNTAIN!”
P.S:
My Metal Gear Solid PS3 Bundle is coming in a matter of hours! I AM ATWITTER WITH GLEE.
10
Jun
Enchanted Down-Under
New York is an undeniable concrete jungle. Manhattan is a land of spires, buildings that threaten to tear the sky asunder. The windows of the aforementioned reflect most everything - save for the extremities of the soul. As much as the smooth crystalline sheets become the surface water of the soul, there is a jarring jaggedness to their shapes. For those seeking soft, silent reprieve from the stiletto-staccato walks of the city, we seek out the outer boroughs.
For the longest time, I’ve regarded Brooklyn, Queens, and the Bronx as mere environs of the city proper. (Staten Island isn’t a borough no matter what people say. Sorry.) Actually, I still think that. Whoops.
Yet, there is truly something remarkable about the character, the feel, the ambiánce (stress the accent mark, it makes it classy) that can be found beyond asphalt roads. In this case, the roads are lined with stone.
DUMBO is a cobble-lined oasis of a neighborhood.
Continue reading ‘Enchanted Down-Under’
28
May
Digital Graffiti
This was just too fun to pass up posting about.
Backstory: An Rong posts on a mutual friend’s facebook wall, declaring his love for her. I step in shortly after. Hijinks ensue. For those unfamiliar with facebook, posts are reversed chronologically (newest on top).
29
Apr
Ron English in L.A
A quick little snippet: Hi-Fructose Magazine (I’m a happy subscriber) has a first-look at several of Ron English’s latest work in Los Angeles.
29
Apr
Regular
Apparently I update on a bi-weekly basis. That’s really scary.
Debby
heyy!
yesterday was supposed to be your biweekly blog update XD
Allen
Really?
Do I do that?
Debby
yeah! :O
yeah, hahah XD
Allen
Holy crap
Wait no
Today is
Oh my god
My calendar is red the whole way down this month
So yeah, this is my last week of class, and I don’t have time to sleep starting tonight. Can I pull 3 all nighters in a row? Find out, in the next chapter!
15
Apr
Washed Ashore
Recently – really, for a long while now, I feel like I’ve lost the flow of things.
This past Saturday, I attended NYCAASC as a volunteer, since I had a blast the previous year. I had a blast this year as well, with familiar faces, and so many more unfamiliar ones. I mean: I had fun, I learned a lot and I met more great people. But NYCAASC means a lot more to me than an Asian American Conference.
To be honest, I’m extremely wary of ‘community’ events. Race centric? Exclusive? I’ve seen the “Angry Asian Man” fiasco far too many times, to be frank. NYCAASC was my first, and I have been spoiled by it. Hosted by NYU and Columbia’s respective Asian-American student organizations, we’re so liberal, we’d give Dick Cheney another 5 heart attacks. My points of view have been forced way open since last year. And let me tell you, having your fragile beliefs trampled on is so fucking gratifying. Pick up the pieces, and put them in their respectable places in a more open mind.
What if we had the ability to begin anew every year? To take our worn out sneakers, wipe off the dirt and grime and all the paint stains, place them back on our weathered heels, and march off in a slightly different direction: wouldn’t that be great? Maybe. Maybe not. I’m only human anyway, so all I can do is look back.
Mornings. Consciousness ebbs like a wayward tide. Sights, sounds, feelings; they all blur together and serve to bludgeon my already numb mind.
It’s some sort of vicious cycle, really. The late night sessions into the 4A.M territories, and the 7A.M alarm. It’s always the same, the procrastination, drunken orgies of lonely complatency – prodding the puddle, but never mopping the mess till the end. Is it just some sort of masochistic tendency both we and I have? Is there something fetishistic about stretching the limits of our bodies, and torturing ourselves with caffeine and all night jam sessions of the studious kind?
You bet. We’re college students.
Last Friday was one of the coldest days in recent memory (which isn’t saying very much at all, frankly).
Of course, being such a blistering and unnatural day to be anywhere other than the the warm confines bedding, An Rong needed to come back to the city and get his photo framed for an art contest somewhere in Long Island. I know what you’re thinking. Who the hell goes to Long Island any way? I couldn’t agree more. So instead of roughing it out for 2 hours in the cold, I went to the school library (we have nice sofas there). Art school students never read anyway, so it’s genuinely quiet inside - not to mention cosy.
Think back when to when you were three years old, 6 inches of alabaster dusted wool lay thick on the ground: You’re in the family den, the embers in the fireplace still smoldering and warm, and your mother held you close to her bosom. You feel the warmth through the fabric on her chest, the faint drum of her heart beating…
Not like that at all.
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