Friday, January 30
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Come Snow, Come Restaurant
[journal] The Lunar New Year came about and Brian came home to celebrate it with the family. That night smoothed some of the family tensions, including the sordid business with the restaurant. Now Brian is back as the co-owner of the restaurant (Nina is the other) and he even opened it up last Tuesday. Tuesday was the day a psychic told Brian to open the place up and Tuesday was the day of the huge snow storm. What a good psychic eh? The snow storm did little to stop a handful of curious people to drop by the restaurant and buy some body warming Pho (Vietnamese noodle soup). The location (St. Claire and Yonge) is so good that without advertising, with no store sign, with missing menu items and the terrible weather, people are still coming. I think a few months from now when the weather perks up he is going to do quite well. Right now however Brian can only think of his fatigue. He tells me that there is so much work to do during these early stages that he eats and sleeps very little and he is so tired that he feels like puking all the time. |
Tuesday, January 27
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The Walls Must Go Up
[journal] There was an incident at college today that involved the resignation of one of my teachers. He was a very good teacher. Not your typical teacher, but one of those who made you question and think. One of those who strayed from convention and made connections on a personal level. But I believe most importantly he had a hell of a time teaching and for most of the students, they had a hell of a time learning. This year, his last, I am once again in his class. In a moment of weakness -- or a plea for consolation -- he explained his unfortunate predicament. His strengths I thought he had as a teacher led to the unfortunate situation he is now in. During the in class evaluation, one student from our class attacked everything that he believed that he and I believed enhanced the class: the well placed swearing, the Tai Chi during the breaks, the day off he gave us and the explanation of the survey. She had said that he forced people to participate in the Tai Chi when really it was voluntary and many people did indeed sit out. She had said that he took days off when it was the class that literally begged and made votes on a day off. She had said he coerced us to mark him well when he was just explaining the procedure. She even went as far, I believe, that he went past sexual boundaries with another student in our class when he was just showing us self defence moves. This is where I take a momentary digression to emphasis that I am attacking the actions and not the student herself. Obviously this commentary is proliferated with biases: mine and especially his. This particular student, in my opinion, grossly misinterpreted every thing the professor dictated, however, I will reserve my holier-than-thou lashing because 1. I haven't heard her side of the story and 2. I don't know her and where she's coming from. My inclination is that she had a very negative opinion of the teacher based on her pious religious beliefs that conflicted with his (and he was very vocal about what he believed) and because of that, every action he performed was overshadowed with the black brush of I-want-you-fired. This upsets me because I looked to this professor as an example that you can teach and have fun. You can do cool things like Tai Chi or have coffee with a student to talk over problems. But we live at a time where success demands that you watch out for yourself. It's just so damn disappointing. You have wonderful teachers like this resign and then you hear all kinds of stories about truly awful teachers that are still working. |
Monday, January 26
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One Day of Celebration
[journal] A paragraph from Jonathan Kozol's expose that depressed the hell out of me: Students begin Bethune in kindergarten and remain here through eighth grade. Eighth grade graduation, here as elsewhere in Chicago, is regarded as a time for celebration, much as twelfth grade graduation would be celebrated in the suburbs. So there are parties, ball gowns and tuxedos, everything that other kids would have at high school graduation. "For more than half our Children," says the principal, "This is the last thing they will have to celebrate." |
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I Dream Not of Genies
[journal] I'm on my way to the earliest class in the world, but before I leave I wanted to write my dream before I forget it. I've been reading a book called Savage Inequalities by Jonathan Kozol and it is about the economic depravity of some American school children. The true stories are difficult to read because children -- of all people -- should not be subjected to the gross inequalities that are depicted in this novel. My dream takes place at a college situated in said depraved location. The dream is set at night for the same reason that horror movies are always foggy or rainy. I'm running to school because I'm being chased by a guy with a gun. The field is muddy and strewn with garbage. At one point I'm on my stomach crawling because I don't want to be seen and killed. The wail of sirens inform me that the perp was captured and I feel more safe when I reach the light of the city. I have only moments to recover before I'm approached by a man, sickly, unshaven, asking me for money; he doesn't literally ask me but it looks like his intention. I ask him how to get to school and he tells me that I need to take so-and-so bus and as he does this he puts money in another beggar's hat below him and then gives me a Toonie and says, "Here, you'll need this for fare." I'm so touched by his kindness that I pull out my wallet and give him five dollars. Suddenly I realize that his toonie is fake toy money and so was the money he put in the beggar's hat, and I get the feeling I was not only tricked, but set up for something else. Another dude comes roaring by and tries to snatch my wallet that's in my hands still and I spend the next unpleasant moments wrestling with my grip on the wallet while being kneed in the groin and kneeing back. In mid crotch attack my alarm wakes me up. Okay I'll admit, now that I read the dream it sounds lame, but I assure you that if you had experienced the dream you would have been at a constant state of alertness and stress. There was nothing in me but the feeling of fear and the instinct of survival. I did not feel at all in control of my situation, rather the situation felt like my owner. I can easily imagine how children living in similar cities as mentioned in the novel must live like. The thing that peeves me off more is that I've been to schools like Yale and seen how excessive their accommodations and amenities are . If they only shared a fraction of their wealth, less fortunate students could have heat in their classes, toilet paper for their rolls or water in their fountains -- or hey maybe if they are really really lucky they can get garbage pick-up.
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Friday, January 23
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 You've Got Read Mail [journal] I like how my parents read my mail before I do. It's one of those treasured joys of living at home. This time it was my marks at school. The first time my dad mentions it to me, of course, it isn't to compliment, but to ask why or how: "So how come only A s and no A pluses?"
"I got all A s, A s are the highest you can get. I got the equivalent of a 4.0." Maybe he'll say "Good work" now right? Wrong.
"So with those marks you're gonna do your Ph.D right?"
I've come to learn that my dad doesn't compliment me even though he's proud. It'd be nice to hear it, but ultimately I'd rather have him feel it and not say it than say it and not mean it.
On a related note, when I went to pick up my assignments at the school office I came by that Spanish girl's (the girl that I was supposed to go out with but didn't) essays and saw her marks. If you think looking at her marks was an unmoral thing to do click here. It filled me with petty glee to see that she only got an A- and a B+.
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Thursday, January 22
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Celebration [journal] Sorry Minho. I was in Buffalo, so this very special wish is belated: Happy birthday, you're a quarter century old now. Does that not sound wonderful?
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Tuesday, January 20
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World War Vu [journal] The past few days resembled a battlezone. The weapon of choice, however, were words, and I think they did a good a job as any bullet. Brian has moved out temporarily and soon to be permanently. My parents took Brian and Nina's name off of the ownership of the restaurant and now they hope to sell it off ASAP. Brian still hasn't talked to Mike and one may have to add my mom to that list. It has been a nasty nasty week with too many unneccessary tears shed. What an awful way to start the new year. Boo!
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Monday, January 19
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Japanese Shopping [link] I think Brian must be Japanese because it seems to be a country completely fascinated with shopping. The only difference however is that they are willing to pay a fortune while Brian likes to look for deals. A good snippit from the article: A couple of years ago, Yakuza Kickz, a Tokyo rock band, began wearing clothes that nobody in Japan had seen before. Despite a lack of advertising, word soon filtered down that the clothes were by a new label, Revolver, and that they were on sale -- if you could find the shop, which most couldn't. A friend took me there. The store was in an ordinary house, down a side alley a few twists and turns away from the trendy Harajuku district. There was no sign on the front door, which was closed, so we stood outside. After a while, it mysteriously slid open. One other part I found particularly outrageous: Service is traditionally a big deal in Japan. Customers expect their goods to be beautifully gift-wrapped, and want mailshots to keep them in touch with what is coming in and when -- and, if they are regulars, birthday and Christmas cards, as well as gifts when they visit. Welcome, and here is a box of Godiva. [read article]
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Sunday, January 18
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'Til Marriage do we Speaketh [journal] There was a big inner-family argument recently with Mike of course spear-heading the accusations of the persecution. Brian was the lone man on the defence and I tried to stay as Switzerland as possible. I won't go into detail since it was family stuff, but the gist of it was that Brian wasn't putting enough effort into his restaurant that is costing 200 dollars a day due to rent. The other alleged failing was keeping my parents out of the restaurant loop when they invested the money. Late that night when the voices died down a very haggard Brian stepped out of his room and hissed my name, clandestine-like, "Joe, I need to ask you a question." I tip-toed into his room, stealthy, only once peering back to see that Mike had caught my ninja escape. "Close the door," Brian told me. So I did. "Joe, you're pretty neutral about things so I want to ask you a question and there are only two choices. Not three or more. Only two." So in my head I was thinking Brian would say something along the lines of, "One, I get money from anywhere, bank loans, friends etc... such that I pay off mom and dad and I do this on my own without all the hassle. The second option is that I quit and I let them run the business and see how easy it is." Well these were the two no-win options I thought he was going to give me, and I was even mentally preparing answers, so I was quite startled by his curt unpredictable scenarios: "Either I kill Mike or I never talk to him again til -- say --- you get married. This is when I scrunched my face pretending to weigh both choices equally. I was about to tell him my answer to his rhetorical question when he interrupted by saying, "I just can't take him anymore, and you know when I say I'll do something, I do it." Then he referred to how I stick to it when I say I won't talk to Mike. I was just about to go on a spiel that would shorten the never talk til marriage deal but my dad kept yelling my name like a madman. Since then Brian hasn't talked to Mike, we'll see how long it'll be.
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Saturday, January 17
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Weight Gain
[journal] One week ago I set out to eat well and gain weight. I promised I would put my progress on this webpage in order to motivate myself to do well. So after a week of blood, sweat and tears, a week of four full healthy meals and seven glasses of water a day, I am x + 1. I've gained a measly pound after revolving my entire day around eating. I literally spent hours buying groceries and preparing meals only to gain a snake eye. This was entirely discouraging on two points. The first is apparent. It's the one pound gain. The second point disturbed me more. If I had gained one pound in my 5th week I would not be so alarmed. I had assumed that my sudden increase in calorie intake would give me a staggering 2-4 pound gain before my metabolism compensated and the gain would incrementally decrease, eventually leveling. But to gain only one pound in my first week gives me little hope for the weeks to come.
My one explanation for the phenomenon is that in the past I did eat as many calories, however, they were fatty calories. So even though I only gained a pound, it was a pound of nutritious good-for-you weight. There may be no difference on the scale, but my body and mind are probably thanking me. So you're welcome body, but that ain't make me feel no better.
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Thursday, January 15
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Doctor Doctor [journal] It's both a blessing and a curse having your dad as a doctor. One good point: getting shots. One bad point: getting shots. Karen got it in the arm ( arm pic one and arm pic two) and I -- the lucky man that I am -- got it in the ass ( ass pic one).
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Tuesday, January 13
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Claim This [journal] I went to the claims office with my dad yesterday and there were so many misunderstanding. First we met a lady with an Indian accent and my father couldn't understand her. She asked him what colour the car was and he answered, "Lexus R4 2002...." She cut him off and asked again. He returned the question with a blank 5-year-old face, his mouth slightly ajar. I had to answer for him. Later when my dad and I were handing in our form to a police officer, a guy with a camera tapped me on the shoulder and asked, "Can I take a picture?" But I thought he said, "Can you take a picture." At the time I was thinking that the claims office is a bizzare place to take family photographs but maybe he wants to be nostalgic about the accident. I reluctantly followed him outside because I was also thinking that it was sort of rude of him to ask me to take a picture when I was in the middle of something. It wasn't until he said "Which one is your car?" til I realized he was taking a picture for my dad.
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Monday, January 12
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The Elderly
[commentary] This is my dad's second accident in such a short time. This reaffirms my belief that old people, just like young people, should be evaluated on their driving skills. Their lack of speed is as relevant a danger as another's overabundance of speed. Their slow reflexes have no generational parrallel. Now when I say they, this sounds very much like an overarching generalization when my intent is not to say all old people are bad drivers. Similar to how I know that not all young drivers are reckless, nevertheless they are tested. I say this not to persecute the elderly, who have too many problems already. I say this for the benefit of safety. Crap, did I just make a speech?
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Friday, January 9
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Collectibles [commentary] While Tommy and I are collecting action figures and comic books, sports stars will be collecting something altogether different. There is a contract being written and targeted for sports stars. A consent form prompted by the recent Kobe Bryant case. The idea is to whip out the contract just before you have sex and ask your soon to be bed buddy to sign on the dotted line. This way there can be no ambiguity to the consent. If this actually becomes popular with sports stars, inevitably, competitions will follow with signatures as the goal. To me it almost sounds like making a pact with the devil. The sports star owns a piece of your libido instead of your soul. Not only did he have sex with you, but he now has, to put it bluntly, your pussy on paper. With all the progressive strides our society has made in equality, this is evidence of the devolution in feminism. Two words: sex object.
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Thursday, January 8
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New Year's Resolution [journal] I am going to try to change the way I eat. The first step was buying a food count and a nutritional eating book. Starting tomorrow I'm going to try to eat more calories and better calories. Every week I'll force myself to put up my weight on this blog as a way to motivate myself to gain some weight. Of course I'd never tell anyone my actual weight so we'll call my current weight "x" and I'll give the gain/loss relative to "x." I am hoping to gain x + 20 in 3 months which is somewhat less than 2 pounds a week.
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Wednesday, January 7
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Call me Joanne [journal] I feel like such a girl today. It's my first day back at school for my German class and I know it's going to be one of those fake "How'd your holidays go?" fests. But the thing is, as much as I don't like doing it, if no one asked me how my holidays went I'd be sad. You just can't win with me.
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Monday, January 5
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About Me Section [website] I'm done the ABOUT ME section. In that section I've included under the Brian profile some of his artwork so I hope everyone checks that out because he is really talented.
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Friday, January 2
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Suicide [journal] I just heard news that a family friend committed suicide. When I lived in Winnipeg my dad socialized and lived near one of his closest highschool friend from Vietnam. This guy had two sons that were near my brothers' ages. Naturally my brothers and his children grew up together as playmates. When we moved away we didn't hear too much about them except the occasional visit. The last time they visited, about two years ago, the sons were doing very well. They had dropped out of school and started an internet business that was sort of the Yellow Pages for businesses on the internet. The idea was genius. They soon had 50 employees working under them. They had to expand to Montreal. They became millionaires. They were the Canadian dream. Nick (let's call him Nick) came to town showing off his beautiful wife, talked about his beautiful new car (close to a hundred thousand) and tipped the bouncer at the club (Meow) a hundred to let us all by-pass the line. He was living the privleged life. He seemed high on it. Suddenly I hear he's dead and by his own hands. Jumped out of the hotel window, plummeting many stories. See the thing with money is, once you have it, you want it even more. You combine that with a gambling habit and you've got a millionaire that owes more money then he's worth. If you and I were compulsive gamblers we would only have the assets to lose thousands. When shit hits the fan we could probably pool the money from family and friends, but when you're a millionaire, who do you go to for money? Billionaires? He probably killed himself--at least he thought--to help his family. The creditors probably threatened to kill or maim them if he didn't pay. And when I say them, I don't mean just Nick and his wife. He had a baby, and another on the way. It's probably the saddest thing that's only one degree of separation from me. My brother tells me that after two years of life insurance you still get the money even if you commit suicide. Fuck, that's just wrong. To believe that money is worth more than yourself. I still don't understand it all. It feels very surreal. I never see him. As I said, last time I saw him was about two years ago. To me, nothing has changed. My day goes on as usual. Because nothing is different, it's like he's still alive in Winnipeg or Montreal working away at his businesses. He must be. All I've heard is words. People mouthed the words "He committed suicide," and now I'm supposed to accept he's dead and somehow mentally change my schema of him. No, he's still alive, eating, sleeping, crying, loving, being. He can't be dead because he was too young, too rich, too happy. Look at me: I'm a sickly, 50-pound weakling, free-loader---but I'm alive. Too surreal.
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Thursday, January 1
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Happy New Year [website] I'm working on a few new things for the new year. First I want to update the ABOUT ME section with the other people in my life and snazz the whole page up by adding pictures. After I finish that I want to get some pictures of my dad's new year party up.
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