Pet Peeves A.K.A. Things I Hate: Part 1

When "Foreign" is listed as a genre. Please don't list "Foreign" as a genre, as it is healthier for my blood pressure, and healthier for your face.

Pangea Day

I was recently introduced to an amazing event called Pangea Day, which is basically a world wide film festival, where various short films by of all kinds from animated to documentary, made by all kinds of interesting people, are broadcast simultaneously at various places in the world. My friend Hanna was invited to attend because his thesis film was selected for the festival, and you read about his amazing experience with the festival at his blog.

Pangea Day is the brainchild of Jehane Noujaim, director and film maker behind Control Room, as the result of her wish come true for winning the TED prize in 2006. She managed to inspire thousands if not millions of people around the world to embrace each other culturally while raising awareness of many global issues. This woman is my hero. Here is her TED award acceptance speech.

I recently realized what it is I truly want to do with my life. I developed a love for film in my college years from my experience with theater, improv, and mostly sketch comedy. I have always had a strong desire to pursue these things as a hobby, but only recently have I accepted taking these hobbies seriously enough that I may have a chance at creating something meaningful with them. And as far as I can remember I have always had a desire in me to believe in the positive aspects of compassion and common good. Now I would like to seek ways to pursue both, and perhaps even find a way to bring them together.

This is already being done by some excellent organizations like Witness and Just Vision. I have a strong desire to be a part of such a wonderful thing. I would love to hear ideas that would build on this premise.

You can watch the entire Pangea Day 4 hour broadcast in 20 minute increments, or you can watch a 1 hour condensed version on the website as well. Please do, it is worth it, and you will be glad you did.

Month Of Hell And Ecstasy

I have honestly intended to update this blog more often, but April happened. It was a whirlwind of a month comprised of incredible highs and soul crushing lows. The following is an anti-climatic understated recap of some of the events and latest happenings, which is an understatement in and of itself. I will most likely elaborate on each of these things in separate posts.

Love:
My definition of it changes relative to my experiences, and I experienced love like I never have before. My preconceived notions of the pragmatic nature of love have been shattered. I never believed in love at first sight, but I guess this was the closest thing to that. The truth is, I'm not sure what being in love is, but this was the closest thing I have experienced to that. How do I know? I couldn't think of anything, I couldn't focus, I couldn't even function on a basic day to day level because she was in my thoughts all the time. I felt something that I had not felt since I was a teenager; butterflies. I would get butterflies in my stomach at the mere thought of her. Fucking butterflies. I felt like I was fifteen again. It was pure bliss while it lasted. It didn't last long. In fact, it was over before it even started. I will spare the details, but suffice to say that I knew it was a dangerous thing to get involved in, and that it would likely end soon... but I couldn't help myself from following my heart. I wanted to fall, in the back of my mind hoping against all logic that I would be caught. Instead I was crushed.

Despite the pain, longing, and pathetic self pitying that followed the two to three weeks thereafter, I have no regrets. I fet more alive in that time than I have in years. From the sweet bliss in that moment of perfection of being in someone's arms, to the draining feeling of having lost something precious and the self questioning that followed... I needed it. It was an example of interesting timing: myself desperately needing that spark to jump start my life-my soul-again, and having found it and lost it so quickly. The residual effects of that spark are not lost, however. I feel alive again, and I'm out to live my live to the fullest. This was one of the most productive sessions of self reflection I have had in a long time...

Sickness:
I am not down with it. Something is wrong with my body. I have always been a pretty healthy person. I never used to worry about what I eat thanks to a fairly decent metabolism, I have always been a fairly athletic person, and I never used to get sick that often. I have had a smattering of health issues this year that have driven me to the brink of madness. I'm not used to it, which makes it that much more difficult, worrying, and frustrating for me. Sports related injuries are not the same, but they contribute to the pain and frustration when compounded with being ill. I took the broken fingers and toes, bruised ribs, and twisted ankles in stride, even wearing them as honor badges. But knee surgery is on another level. 5 months out from what was supposed to be a simple orthroscopic surgery and I am still struggling with rehab. I have only recently been able to jog again, but even that is very taxing on my knee. I still have to ice it every day, and though it is improving, I am far from being able to do full contact sports again. I discovered by accident this part weekend that I still can not do a full squat, as by attempting one searing pain shot through my knee. What is really troubling is the fact that I have small tears in the meniscus of my left knee, which I will have to operate on in the future at some point. I am dreading going through this process again. Only recently have I started to accept the possibility that I may never be able to do the sports and activities that I love. And that is depressing beyond what I show.

As for my immune system, well let's just say I'm pissed off at my white blood cells. Who's in charge of that group? Those fuckers get all the Vitamin supplements, good food, water, antioxidants, and exercise they need, yet I have gotten sick more times this year than I ever have before. I remember getting the flu on three separate occasions, sore throats or colds here and there, and most recently a sinus infection, which I have never had before. I am still battling that fucker, having taken every god damn prescribed drug, antibiotic, and treatment short of frying my sinuses with radiation. I am much, much better than I was a couple of weeks ago, but I still cough frequently, I still hawk up gross amounts of phlegm, and my nose still runs like a faucet. I have a feeling that the sinus infection developed into a case of strep throat when it was at the peak of thoat pain and swelling, but the doctors couldn't tell because I had already started taking antibiotics. I think that is officially called the lazy approach to medicine; "well since the antibiotics take care of that anyways, what's the point of testing for it?". As if the frustration of dealing with my surgeon wasn't enough... with all due respect to the many wonderful and brilliant doctors out there, I have not been a fan of them lately. Not to mention the ultimate cruel joke that my body played on me: about two months ago I somehow got this absurd throat infection. My neck ballooned and I looked like a human toad. The infection was painful, and I developed a fever that put me out of work for a week. Bless having health care coverage, and bless my work environment for being patient with me during my health problems. Now that Rosie Grier is gone, I wonder if he will ever pop back out again, like a dormant infestation waiting for the right conditions to swell up and say hello.

Vacation:
I plan on taking a personal vacation on my own for the first time. I was originally set on doing the European backpack thing, particularly Spain, France, and Portugal, but I think I will wait till I can take more than 10 days to do that. Plus, I am in the process of my citizenship application, so it will be a hell of a lot easier to travel with an American Passport, not having to worry about Visas or getting my colon fingered in the name of patriotism.

Alas, Europe will wait another year. Instead, I plan on going to the desert. The Black Rock desert to be precise. For this. I am really excited about the prospect of going, and having learned a lot more about it, I became genuinely excited.

Future:
I think in the back of my mind I always knew what I wanted to do. The problem with not knowing what you want to do is sometimes a case of not being able to admit or accept what you want to do. I have been researching graduate programs, specifically MBA oriented programs because that seems to make the most sense for what I want to do. I could never fully commit to going to grad school before I was 100% sure I knew what I wanted to study, so I kept debating the idea of an MBA. However, I'm pretty sure I want to be a film maker. I've never really pursued that desire seriously, even marginally entertaining the idea that it could simply be a fun hobby. Though the chance that it will end up being a hobby remains, I know at least it will be a very serious hobby, and it will be something that I pursue with a lot of effort and determination.

Nutshell!

Furrowed Orbs Of Courage

Balls.

Time to grow a pair.

I consider myself to be a fairly adventurous person; a reasonable risk taker if you will. If given the choice between ordering a familiar item on a menu or trying a highly recommended ethnic dish that smells like a shit smoothie, I would be willing to try shit smoothie. If given the option to embarrass myself in public via drunken Karaoke, I would gladly offend the patrons’ ears. Hell, sometimes I am daring enough to look a homeless person straight in the eyes and firmly say “Sorry, no”, when begged for loose change. But to approach a beautiful stranger for casual conversation? Let’s just say I would never earn my red badge.

I flirted with the idea that I might have a genetic condition; a Pretty-Woman-Phobia of sorts. This was a comforting idea because it meant I could blame my parents for my social incompetence. I racked my brain, but I can’t come up with a better explanation for why it scares me less to step into a ring across from an unreasonably aggressive pugilist who would love nothing more than to cause me physical harm. On blessed occasions when the God I don’t believe in sends a gift my way, I find a way to give the impression that I am a slightly more professionally dressed version of Rain Man. On a typical weekday commute home, I bought a Street Sheet from the homeless guide to San Francisco’s public transportation, justifying that “at least he’s working for it”.

“You find anything interesting in the Street Sheet?”, said a friendly voice behind me.

“Oh it’s riveting”, eliciting a hearty laugh from the stunningly gorgeous face behind me. Laughter is always a great way to break casual conversation into the comfortable zone, and for a while it was good. Then it dawned on me that this lady is actually flirting with me. The mild schizophrenia kicked in at the sudden realization, and the shy awkwardness dropped like a bomb on the conversation. The change in attitude was startling to notice; one moment it’s as if I was having a fun conversation with a friend, the next it’s like I am having a cavity search at airport security.

I thought about incidents from my childhood that have made me this way; what is it about me that makes me automatically aim so hard to please everybody, especially people that I want to like me? A friend once said that my underlying problem is I don’t know how to be myself in these situations, and that is probably the most accurate description of the problem. The very thing that my friends like about me_my absurd goofiness, is precisely what I censor in public.

Case in point, this past weekend. A friend of mine tried to set me up with a very hot lady friend of his. In fact, he didn’t have to do any setting up. She stopped short of writing it down on my forehead that she was into me, and I still wouldn’t have gotten it. It’s not that I didn’t notice the subtle hints of her attempting to make conversation with me several times and putting her arm around me, it’s that I understood that too well. And I drew blanks.

Ah Balls. Time to grow a pair.

A Complex Clash Of The Napoleons

When someone is described as having a Napoleon complex, I can’t help but think how much of an asshole Napoleon truly was. I figure Napoleon’s buddies came up with the phrase one night during a poker game where Napoleon was conspicuously left off the invite list. Claude would throw a tantrum because Pierre forgot to bring the butter for the croissants, then Jean-Jacques would berate Claude for being such a Napoleon. Everyone would laugh as they puff the last drag of their cigarettes before a sudden hush falls over the group and eyes dart back forth from each others’ gazes.

The Napoleon in question came in the form of a diminutive Puerto Rican who, when every time he spoke, gave the impression of an irritated chihuahua. It came as no surprise to me when he marked his territory on several occasions as we were making our way back from the bars to the apartment. He reaffirmed his newly claimed ownership of the patch of urine stained sidewalk: “Yeah that’s right mother fucker”. Looking down at his crotch, I wasn’t sure what he was referring to as mother fucker, taunting the concrete corner of the building that has silently accepted its domination, or complimenting his diligent penis for following orders.

Apparently unsatisfied with dominating inanimate objects, the Latino Napoleon, who I shall name Napoleon 1 to avoid referring to him in amusing racial expressions, sought bigger conquests, or at least as big as his 5′2″ self. The victim was a middle aged Filipino man (Napoleon 2) who I estimate about 5′3″ tall, the one inch advantage probably being the source of jealousy and conflict. Napoleon 2 drew attention to himself by yelling at a second floor apartment which clearly must have upset him somehow. This was good enough reason for Napoleon 1 to start a fight. Besides, he had already claimed the building as his own.

With neither one backing down, the clash of Napoleons was under way. People stood around and watched as Napoleon 1 beat down Napoleon 2, wondering when their popcorn was going to arrive. I thought this would be a good time to interject before Napoleon 2 would require a rhinoplasty. My mistake was assuming there is some room for reason in these situations. Call me crazy for thinking there is no need to prove a point by repeatedly ramming a fist into someone’s face. Having interrupted his fun, Napoleon 1 took issue with me. “What, you wanna fight too?” has asked, and I thought my response was appropriately easy to understand, “No, I’m trying to calm things down”. Something about his response told me that he didn’t quite understand: “Oh so you wanna fight me bitch?!?”.

I should have realized that I couldn’t trust someone who when asked what his favorite color was, responds belligerently as if he was told his mother was a whore, even though she probably was. I thought things had calmed down, and I made the mistake of turning away to help the bleeding Napoleon 2. Next thing I knew my glasses had inexplicably exploded off my face, and the first thing I thought was “oh no, not again”. I am notorious for finding the most creative ways to break a brand new pair of glasses, one of which includes washing my hands and not even touching my glasses. So it is no surprise when my glasses just happen to fall apart on my face.

Then it dawned on me that I had been punched in the face. Coming to this brilliant realization, I turn around to look for my assailant who may be looking to throw a second cheap shot, but Napoleon 1 had now set off running. I wasn’t so much upset at getting hit in the face, though it would concern me more if the puncher was someone who could actually crack an egg with his punch. What pissed me off was that my glasses were dented, and yes, this was a brand new pair. At least I can add another creative method to my list of “How to break a brand new pair of glasses”.

At The Top Of The Bell Curve Of Statistical Rages

I had an episode last night. This hasn’t happened to me in a while, but I am genuinely concerned that it happens at all.

What was supposed to be a low-key, fun night out with friends took a turn for the ugly. The Dutch brothel of a club was appropriately named ‘The Cellar’, probably for the aromatic impression one gets that someone’s grandmother was locked down there for the better part of two weeks with no food. We arrived early enough that the make shift closet of a coat check room was closed and unattended (I assumed to remove the neglected grandmother), so we had no other option than to put our coats down on the couch we claimed to ourselves. When large groups of inebriated people congregate in a dark room with music playing loud enough to make a dog’s brain bleed, it is customary for said people to dance in close proximity of one another, mostly alone, but occasionally close enough to accidentally rub crotches. “Oops, hey there, sorry about dry humping your leg, it’s crowded. Hey wanna dance?”. Of course, not many people in their right minds would subject themselves to such self deprecating acts of unnecessary physical exertion without the prerequisite three or four drinks to remove any left over shred of common sense. At this point in the evening I had aspired well beyond completing my prerequisites, so I was dancing. We managed to have a good time as we know how by being silly and pretending to be above the people who are actually enjoying themselves. One of my friends and I would eye each other from a distance, stare intently, walk up to each other menacingly in mock pre-fight intimidation, and just as we were about to throw down we would break out the fancy dance moves. We did this more times than anyone needed to see, well past the point of it being funny anymore. Being drunk is fun like that. When we found it difficult to entertain ourselves anymore, we figured this would be a good time to grab our things and leave.

My jacket was gone. There in its place was the shiny red plastic cushion of the couch which once served as our home base. Our base had been invaded, the spoils taken. I instantly go into panic mode at the thought of a lost or stolen jacket, because this is my only winter jacket, and it’s pretty new, and not exactly cheap. I really like that jacket damn it, and I was determined to find it.

The first logical place to check is the coat check, which half way through the night is now open. No luck. The attendant didn’t know of any large brown jacket in the coat check that resembled what I described to him. He would have been more convincing had he actually looked for it. Next up in questioning were the bartenders, who had perhaps picked it up from the couch and taken it to the back. They were too busy pretending to be busy taking people’s beverage demands. Finally, it was the bouncers turn. Surprisingly, they were the friendliest and most helpful. Then they became extremely helpful.

At this point, something happened inside me that I can not explain. I don’t understand the mechanism behind leaving my conscience self, but in this one flash of an instant I was no longer myself. I snapped. It was as if someone had pressed a big red “rage” button and instantly triggered the fury within me. I like to think that I was so consumed with the troubling idea that someone could be so despicable as to steal a precious belonging of mine. And I was. But that was not it. The prerequisites to having a good night out were now very quickly turning it into a bad one. Apparently, one good way to attract the attention of bouncers and security guards is to below obscenities at the top of your lungs. One bouncer was actually nice enough to come over and calmly ask me what the problem was. I was in mid sentence explaining my situation, and as if on queue, a rather large man with a backpack sits down on the couch wearing what appears to be my jacket. MY FUCKING JACKET. The bouncer man was wise enough to keep me away from the guy; “I’ll work on him” he said. Alright bouncer man, you go work on him. I will sit in the wings and observe how this plays out from a distance. This was a good plan until I stopped following it. I described to the bouncer the contents of my pockets, so that was the first thing he was going to check. As soon as I recognized the physical therapy diagrams he pulled out of the jacket pocket, I did my best Tasmanian devil impersonation and blazed my way over. When someone is consumed by irrational anger, they can sometimes do some really stupid things. Sometimes they can also say really funny things. I don’t remember what I said exactly, but one for certain is that it wasn’t comprehensible English. At least, not English spoken at an adult level. My phrases consisted of the words “how”, “why”, “steal”, “fucking”, and “my shit” intermixed with garbles of nonsense. The frothing at my mouth made annunciation a little more difficult. The next thing I knew the blood in my left arm had stopped flowing to my hand, and I was moving backwards against my will. Another bouncer with hands the size of a small dog had already convinced me to step outside. I pleaded my case, but the general success rate of arguing with a mobile refrigerator is fairly low.

At this point I was outside, pacing back and forth, patrolling the entrance. Luckily, no innocent passers by accidentally startled me, otherwise there’s always the chance of snapping their necks. The bouncers were taking their time with the jacket stealing bastard who was actually trying to convince them that my jacket, with receipts bearing my name in the pockets, was his. My friends who were still inside had the good sense to explain to the bouncers how to put two and two together. Finally relief, one of the bouncers comes out and hands me my jacket. Right behind him comes out the girlfriend of the jerk who thinks my jacket is his, and apologized explaining that her boyfriend has the exact same jacket, but she had checked his in to coat check earlier, so he mistook my jacket for his.

Then something funny happened involving the look on my face while shitting myself. The weight of the guilt instantly hit me like a ton of bricks. Her boyfriend comes out behind her, bouncers wisely separating the two of us as tensions are still very high. The best I could muster up of an apology was to shake his hand, very, very tightly, staring into his eyes unflinching, and say “it’s ok, it was a misunderstanding”. Despite crapping myself with a fecal brick of guilt, I still hated this man and felt intense anger towards him.

After we went our separate ways, the guilt was eating at my insides like a flesh parasite, but at the same time their explanation seemed to make less sense. Three things in particular didn’t make their case any more believable: 1. when I had checked the coat check, there was no jacket like mine in there. 2. Why would the guy defend himself when the contents of my pocket were pulled out? Does he not realize that now there’s suddenly new items that magically appeared in his pockets? Does this guy simply not put his hands into his jacket pockets ever? 3. Neither the guy nor his girlfriend had a similar jacket when they came out of the club. Did they think after this whole fiasco that it would be the wisest decision to leave that jacket unattended in the club? This all smells really fishy to me, but I’m not sure if the guy and his girlfriend were telling the truth. “Why would I take you jacket?!?” he had asked me. Funny enough, that’s my exact same question, seeing as you’re wearing it.

Regardless of whether the guy was stealing or not, I reacted very badly to the situation. Even if there was every shred of proof that he was a thieving prick, the situation was being taken care of by the bouncers. There was no need for me to lose my temper uncontrollably. I would have gotten my jacket back in any case, except this time I assumed the guy was guilty until proven innocent. What concerns me most is that I know I would not have reacted this way had I not been drunk. This has genuinely made me question and be more cautious of drinking in public. As rare of an occurrence as this is, it troubles me that it happened at all. Though this incident was certainly at the top of the bell curve of my statistical rages, I can only take so much solace in mathematical rationalization.