Love and marriage, love and marriage, goes together like a...

I love this book I'm reading by Elizabeth Gilbert called Committed. she basically does all the hard work for you when it comes to scoping out marriage, giving it a hard and long investigation (research and all), from every angle, every facet. and in doing so, wondrously unravels precious gems of unconventional wisdom that are decades more refined and tried than the mere two and a half ones i've been privy to. i'll take that, thank you very much. as an almost 26 year old coming-of-age woman (wow, woman), i am precisely in gilbert's shoes. wanting to find matrimony with that one single person (and not of the short-term wedded bliss variety, either) and to find true love, true compatibility with another human being. i've understood and lived the realities of failed expectations. i've experienced the setbacks of love, exploring harsh realities (in my suitors, to be clear) early on in my adulthood such as incarceration, mental illness, instability, depression, post-traumatic stress, possible infidelity and unmentionable compulsions to certain tendencies and predilections. in this process, i've uncovered a lot of who i am, in that i tend to attract the guys with the brooding good looks, but an additional caseload of drama and vitally tragic circumstance.

so dear liz, as i affectionately call her, boils it down for me, all the facts, all the inglorious and unromantic things one would prefer to glance over when they meet a person, because, as her dear felipe (as a jewel merchant) expounds, we are so blinded by the gemstones in a person that we tend to over-look the entire parcel that comes in a shipment, ones which may very likely contain a whole load of irreconcilable crap. and so it has been with me, the girl who meets boy and then goes love-blind, gaga like lady gaga, so wrapped up in my glorious halo of soaring butterfly wings and titillating ruminations that i insist, to myself, in some stupor-like funk, that this is looove. when in fact, it's infatuation, and the olympic games of love triages and pullings of heart-strings have just begun. truly. time after countless time with me, i've met these strangers, poured my heart empty, thinking they would find my sincerity, my passion, my soulfulness as whimsical, refreshing, even endearing, coming to find out i shoveled out the loot so fast, they could hardly swallow, much less taste the valuable and priceless parts of me. and in doing so, i found myself, at the end of a very short yellow brick road, with fissures and cracks in my heart once again, disenchanted with love, men, and the possibility of finding true and meaningful companionship with the opposite mate.

well, gilbert says that in her explorations of love and marriage, she decided that honesty was the best policy and quite literally broke it down for her husband-to-be. rather than feather and fluff all the good stuff (that people unwittingly do in unencumbered pre-marital bliss), she decides to enumerate a list all of the character and personality flaws and potential things things that her betrothed is sure to run headlong into. sounds romantic, eh? ohh, think of the list that could add up! "Honey, I have psoriasis." "Sweetheart, i snore louder than a pack of wildebeests at the heyday of deep winter slumber." "Babycakes, I have a predilection for S&M bondage and expect you to take full role in carrying out my deep-seated fantasies."

Such things should probably be discussed before we do the jig down the aisle. and while i am all for self-restraint (come on, some things you've just got to keep on the temporary DL!) i also love the brutal self-inflicting honesty; it's sheer brilliant. why package ourselves into versions of something we're really just not and then begin the downward descent into woeful disappointment? wouldn't you rather adopt that fine old mantra and just "save (most of) the best for last"?

look, im not saying that we should go around with a post-it note on our foreheads saying, "Look at me. I am a loser. I have hairy toes. I carry a tire around my waist. And I am an over-compulsive spender whose dream job is laying away on gilligan's island smoking a pack of marlboros." that would surely not work. can you imagine the scene? it would surely send our species into immediate extinction. but rather than paint glossy images of ourselves on a canvas where the sun always shines and butterflies and daisies abound, how bout we just keep it real? how bout we practice a little self-deprecation (there's a difference between self-deprecation and self-loathing, by the way) and humility instead, eh? and i'm talking about it from the perspective of marital prospectiveness here. fall in love, by all means, but do it gently, slowly and with the cranial cavities somehow wedged into the mix rather than being sold by just the sizzle and not the whole daggone steak! you've got to be practical, sometimes. falling in love, if done foolishly, is equivalent to falling smack-down into a pile of concrete. love should never be employed in the same sentence as "eat dirt", my dear.

so gilbert has inspired me. rather than sit and wait for the incipient list of provincial do-wrongs and unforgiving grievances to appear, i plunge head first, feet second and offer up my heady list of misdemeanors and potential deal-breakers:

1. being the gemini that i am (or silly girl), i tend to be very flighty and have a hard time finishing the shit i get started. prone to dreaming up ideas and visions, i seldom carry to term these nascent ideas, and this bleeds into vital aspects of my personal life, im afraid: lack of follow-through, despite the best of intentions.

2. a wild temper when inflamed. now, if i converted all the jalepenos and spicy what-have-you's consumed over a lifetime into subatomic energy, you'd have an atomic bomb waiting to take out the entire human race. meaning, spicy may be a bit of an understatement with me, literally and metaphorically. i'm korean. we suffer fits of explosion and then we get over it. if you're patient enough to suffer a 5 minute scream-a-thon (my family sometimes practices this in the car, windows closed, all of us firing off expletives and roars strong enough to shoot missiles from 20 feet away), then, well, you just may be the one. or jesus christ himself.

3. i am a selfish. i like things to be done MY way and this may come across as bossy and domineering. really, the thing is, if i managed to meet a man who wasn't so overcome by his own napolean complex and need to exercise his manly machismo with full authority, you'd see that i mellow out. quick. in fact, you could easily parlay this no-nonsense, my-way-or-the-highway into a meek, agreeable little purring kitten. ok, maybe meek is not the word, but most definitely, compromising.

4. i buy waaay too much shit online. wait, i buy way too much shit period. now my debt is really quite manageable, and according to suze oreman, of the healthy variety (hah! as if you could convert debt into spinach and foie gras fillets and organic endives). that means a bit of college debt and a minimal amount of credit card debt somewhere in the low 3 digits. but i like stuff and money is not that important to me. meaning, my philosophy is rather laisezz faire when it comes to the 'chedda'- it comes and goes but it will never rule my life or send me into a tail-spin. life is too short to be controlled by the stuff.

5. i curse a good amount. in fact, profanity is a bit of a sport for me. for instance, how many ways can you creatively say the word "fuck" in a sentence? don't let me get started.

6. i sometimes forget to brush my teeth when i get really tired. i don't shave my legs in the winter (really, i could care less). i'm a bit of a feminist (treat me as your equal or ELSE) but somewhat contradictory to that, find chivalry and gentlemanly-ness to be really sexy. i burp out loud. a lot. umm, let's see, what else. i tell really lame jokes; wait, i really don't have jokes. i like reality tv (and if i still had cable, would probably have E!, Vh1 and MTV on constant rotation) and sometimes read shit like US weekly (god, my most embarrassing confession of all). I'm a bit messy; I throw my towels on chairs rather than hang them up like a good girl and you'll often find my bed unmade- oh the thought!

7. i can be narcissistic; i like attention just as much as i have an aversion to it- you'll find that i'm deeply contradictory and paradoxical. i am sensitive, emotional, opinionated, and bitingly honest. I am, in fact, quite the COMPLEX woman.

And there pretty much goes it...feel free to add to the list (call to all exes, i repeat, open casting call to all exes-NOT) if you'd like. not bad, a bucket list of 7 items (well, let's count #6 as just one) that might very well tend to throw a pursuer off my course. and i'd rather you know now, than find out years later, spent and bitter. (Who's still willing to hang?) In enumerating my less than pretty character traits (and then broadcasting them for the world to see, no less), i realize i am neglecting all the juicy and brilliant bits of my ever-expanding and multi-faceted self, qualities and such things that may quite defy the laws of gravity and empty yourself of all the aforementioned lines above (hah- there goes my entitled sense of narcissism!). but the point is, that's neither here nor there, and i'm certainly not going to sell you on it. you'll just have to find out for yourself.

because, quite simply, like i mentioned before, i'd really rather just save the best for last. ;)

ON TO THE NEXT ONE...

This vid has to be ranked as one of my top faves of all time, and it comes from none other than one of the most influential, most deft, skilled and versatile rappers of all time, Jay Z Pimpin Sean Carter. DAYYMMN!! I could go on and on about the high-concept artistic scheme and direction and originality of the vid, the lush visual imagery, the dexterous use of symbolism and irony, the seamless infusion of motion and neurosis weaved in with your classic hip hop quintessence, and the fuckin superb aesthetic quality and BEAUTY of this vid (not to mention the sick ass beat and his usual delivery of nimble, hard-hitting lyrics), but I think i'll let the walkin do the talkin.. Young Hovaa!!

VIVA-LA-DIVA

In a brilliant sort of way, I allowed myself to bathe in the glow of being a woman today. As I walked down that slab of concrete in the outdoor shopping plaza on manhattan boulevard, drenched in the glorious rays of the incandescent sun that hung above me, i felt seraphic, powerful, goddess-like. it was a feeling i could only describe as celestial, otherworldly in such a way i felt i would rise and levitate at any given moment. perhaps it was the first heavenly departure from cloudy days and an arresting bone-reaching chill in eons; perhaps it was the fact that "buyer's high" had descended upon me in an intoxicating state of purchasing bliss...

Or maybe the fact i had never before felt so comfortable in my own skin at that very moment, in that very small space of time. It is a sense of unbridled independence, in the truest sense, from the trappings of the diffident mind and body where Self and Ego collide, where merit and value are enhanced somehow through outward appearances, validation through others, self-seeking praise and confirmation. It's something that happens when you know, inwardly, that you are your truest friend and that happiness is something you create rather than find, and that nothing more beautiful or profound exists outside of that.

Being a woman is fulfilling the things your mother was too busy raising you to complete. Being a woman is taking all the pain and anguish you've ever felt and translating it into beauty. Being a woman is knowing when you're broken and finding the tools to put yourself back together again. Being a woman is remembering how to love yourself when the man you gave everything to... FORGETS..... Forgets.... forgets.

-Mystic ("Cuts for Luck and Scars for Freedom")

Confectionary Wanderlust.

the irresistible, tongue-in-cheek comedy starring Hartnett

the telltale signs of long-withstanding sexual absence

Inordinate disgruntlement mixed with piquing curiosity- that's how i feel right about now, less than 24 measly hours into subscribing to the Catholic holiday of Lent- a tradition i never really understood much less heretofore followed.

don't ask me how it all got started; something about spending a merry Mardis Gras weekend cavorting about the city in reckless debauchery with nearly 800,000 fellow New Orleanians ignites the urge to book an impromptu confessional. or maybe just subject oneself to mere self-denial for the next 40 days and 40 nights. immediately, i think back to the movie, that one with the cutie, josh-what's-his-face who gives up coitus for the month+ of Lent. he dreams of boobs and ass, his nightly incubus and day-mares hallucinating rampant images of carnal lust and desire. and i wonder, myself, as i embark upon this crazy yet very (questionably) reasonable sojourn of my own, whether or not i'll be dreaming up visions of behemoth hamburgers sitting atop skyscrapers and pyramids or maybe, like the femme-bot version of the movie, strip- teasin' bananas, gyrating cukes and other phallic images of the sort.

While 40 days of Lent is a long, withstanding Catholic tradition (where by way of practice, marks the 40 days leading up to Easter, the celebration of the resurrection of Christ and involves fasting, both from foods and festivities, and other acts of penance) I decide to give it a go and try my first hand at it, seeing if I can, possibly, just maybe, deny myself the hedonistic pleasures of the flesh and bone for a finite period of time. Before setting forth on this seemingly simple task, I confer. What shall I give up? Alcohol? Nah, I immediately nix the idea; too easy. Meat? Rubbish! (I just want to exercise a little temporary forbearance here, not back-breaking purgatory, he-llo!) I finally settle on the in-between, which also just happens to be the bane of my fool-hardy existence- doces amores, Brazilian Portuguese for 'lovely sweets' (for all you Engrish kinfolk). My heart putters a bit, and then slightly chasms, releasing a pained moan, and I know I have arrived at a suitable fit. Lust-worthy, D-vine, decadent if not the appropriate bit of nefariousness! It's perfect, and before I know it, I have sold my soul to the Pentecostal devil.

I settle comfortably into the stretch, maintaining a marathoners stance, arms at side, fists clenched, nary a sweat drop or rivulet in sight. we're good, in fact, we're better than good, we're GOLDEN. i get right to it, diving into the kitchen like a whip-sawed maniac, as if cookin' up a hundred other things will distract me from that inanely sweet "ushy gushy". Keeping my hands busy in my palatial cornerstone, i sift and pour, mix and pat whilst maintaining a sunny disposition. my Thai creations are spot-on; the indelible mix of savory and sweet (just a dash of brown sugar; surely that doesn't count!?) with a touch of the requisite thai galangal bitterness to even the stew. i'm pleased with the outcome.

my lovely cohabitator, sarah, works alongside me in good humor, throwing a mishmash of ingredients together to make a whaaaa??? a COFFEE CAKE??! but i haate coffee; i never drink the stuff! or so i think. all of a sudden, her drool-worthy creation imbibes my immediate attention and my higher consciousness jettisons all good sense and rationale. i am besotted: the cake (or rather, the gooey beginnings of it) becomes my paramour, my siren song as the incipient quell rising to my chest sputters like the guttural rumbles of a rabid Harley machine.


all of a sudden, i get it, the obsession, the hyperbolic mania. even the leftover mardis gras king cake (which a day earlier, had practically been my nemesis as I complained about its overpowering cherry-filling center and frosting-laden exterior) belabors at me, its bedeviling frosty goodness sending my head into a Loony Tune head-spin. i open the freezer and all i see is Dutch-chocolate Blue-Bell brand icecream; i walk into the living room and see remnants of Valentine's Day choco-palooza aftermath sitting on the fireplace mantle, beckoning to me like the polymer-constructed, pneumatic women of Fox's Temptation Island.

Lest I give in to my rapacious urges and harangue myself from the abject humiliation and public scorn of unencumbered failure i shall surely be issued, i pause, seeking refuge in the blog. the blog, right, the bloogg. oh what have i done, what have i done! i say as i pace across the narrow diameter of my bedroom, wringing my hands with great self-affliction as i contemplate my self-imposed conundrum.


Four hours and 3 cocktails later, i sit, zombied out on my buttock-straining futon of a sofa, haunches sore from the coiled tension of unrequited desire. wondering, in all earnestness, if i have just traded one vice in for another. suddenly, i call to mind that brief stint of abstinence from all things carbs and the resulting overdrive that followed, + a hefty 4 or so pounds. i cajole myself only momentarily, reassuring that this time, my motivations are purely virtuous and ecclesiastical, right? RIGHT?

And then i shrug, surrendering myself to the overhaul of a stretch that awaits me; 12 hours down, 39 1/2 days to go. now THERE'S a struggle worth fighting for, even if i do end up in a catatonic state of headiness. my insides suddenly glow phosphorescent amber from the challenge as i paint on an invisible samurai warrior face. Let's Go.

BLACK MAN.

There's something about you, oh Black Man, i find peculiarly tantalizing. and yes, i've seen you, lived amongst you, danced and celebrated with you...so this is no novelty piece or phase begging temporary marvel (check it.); it's more like a sista who just wants to take a minute to appreciate a brotha- now is that okay?

now living in the south, there's something about you that invites me to pause, Black Man, and ponder Just. What. Is. It. that gives you that X factor, causing me to dedicate an ode to your elegant and sensuous constitution. maybe it's just the way you walk down the street like a sip of a long, cool drink, that gleam in your eye, the curve in your smile, the arch of your neck, that magnificent strut in your gait. brilliantly, sensationally, phenomenally you- in every motion of your body, vibration of your words, echo in your laughter, strut in your step... maybe it's the way you love life to the fullest; how even a glass of lemonade or iced tea is the goblet containing life's finest, how you ooze love in every murmur, every breath, every expression of your grief, your sorrow, your joy, your jubilee, your tragedy... Black Man, is it the way you make life a nonstop party, bringing festivity to every street corner, even with a bucket of boiled crawfish standing at your feet? Is it the way you hug me something fierce after a saints super bowl win, going "mama, we didddd it!" Or how about the way you look so refined and dignified when you put on that sunday suit, even atop parched cement amid the sweltering mid-day heat, hmm? No, maybe it's just the way you live life, Black Man, unleashed and unafraid to be unapologetically you. maybe it's your candor, your honesty, your power, your ESSENCE.


and this aint no fetishized shit! (don't let me essentialize the black man now) While yes, there is something distinctly sexually forthcoming about you (a woman cannot lie), it's more than a bar of godiva milk chocolate that im talking about, or some exotic excursion or foray im dying to 'try out'. it's more like the fact that you mesmerize me in some unbeknownst way, your laser-like eye lock leaving me immediately demure and short-stopped... or the fact that i think your confidence is emboldening and suddenly, you allow me to see my own "flaws" as my strengths- my hair, my lips, my eyes, my thighs...


i could go on, but doust might scoff at the forwardness of my words (on a blog, no less!). But like someone once said to me, "gotta give props where props is due." and Black Man, TRUST- you are very deserving. so though this temporary detour of thought-aside is coming to a close, just remember that someone is, indeed, taking notice. and as you're walking down that pavement, that bend in the road, whatever...remember to look up. And say "Hi."


I promise i'll say hi back. ;)

And the Saints come marching in....

In a dubious attempt to capture some of the undulating fever and post-orgasmic glow that sits like black and gold stardust upon the rim of the world's most probable renowned 'fish bowl', i now write, dedicating an ode to thee city, MY city... oh, New Orleans, how i love thee!

it's practically impossible to capture, in words, the purely indescribable rapture of having secured a spot in a metradome of a city where history was re-written merely hours ago... you can transpose your thoughts into words, but they fall short from the live and visceral experience of having BEEN there..and until you've walked hand in hand with people, who before, you may have only considered to be stranger, sharing unanimously in a joy that transcends mother of all joys, exchanging a gusty laugh bellowing from a cavernous place deep within, tears streaming forth with no mention or apology, you can, in effect, only take your place as surveyor or bystander at best...

dramatic? hell yes. because it was, in every sense of the word, a scene, a spectacle to behold. driving home on the freeway today from a hazy if not frenzied day of school, i literally felt the goosebumps rise on my arms as i drove past Louis Armstrong International airport and saw throngs of people (an understatement, really, as more than 10,000 people were reported to be in attendance) gathering around the homestretch, waiting anxiously to greet 'the boys.' my eyes flailed wildly over the crowd, which in and of itself appeared as a packed football stadium, standing devoutly and loyally to sing their praises and offer their warm salutes.

post-game, that's where i'm going to begin, because the game in an of itself was a bit of a dream. the big plays, the touchdowns, those were all elemental parts of the game that cemented a big finish, but what new orleanians will forever remember is not the game itself, but the swell of emotion, the enormous reception that followed thereafter... the whoops and exclamations that swung up and down st charles and carrollton, the wrap-around of cheers zooming past poydras and loyola. the mountainous rumble bellowing from the belly of the French Quarter as Bourbon Street capped off an avalanche of roars reaching nearly cataclysmic proportions. you name it, i saw it. men and women in their full regalia dancing atop cars as if Jesus Christ himself had come in the flesh, pre-mardis gras beads flailing from outdoor balconettes and rooftops, fire engines zooming down streets with lights heralding 'thy kingdom come', cops removing their shirts and helicoptoring them around their heads like it was their God-given duty, megatrucks and four-wheelers blasting the Who 'Dat national yin yang anthem as people perched precariously from moon-roofs, stuck their bodies out of cars, exploded from streetcars and pregnant businesses by the bucket.

in a city that already claims more 'brotherly love' than Philly (and trust me, Philadelphia can take firm stake in their mantra), i profess that there is nothing like the city of New Orleans in the world. Sure, we've been through some tough times in recent years, and surely, little else could have roused more cheer and applause than a Super Bowl big win...but there's more to it than that. i could feel, even in the brevity of my stay so far here in the Big Easy, a kind of strange camaraderie, a kinship almost alien to my dispersed Los Angelino birthhood... a coming together of a city, a community of gatherers and dwellers who, for them, expressing emotion comes as naturally as breathing. holler if ya wish. hoot if ya wish. break down and cry, say it with me now- THANK YA, JESUS! if you damn well wish. no holds barred, beautiful, pure Louisiana. the place where people from around the world flock to, the city that wears it's banner so proudly, cars adorned with the bumper sticker reading, "New Orleans: Proud to Call it Home."

Every city wears its badge proudly. And I have been privy to experiencing just a few: Los Angeles, San Francisco, Philadelphia, Seattle, Chicago, New fuckin' Yorrrk..even the beloved mecca of futbol worship, Rio de Janeiro. But indeed, New Orleans will take its place in my heart. In fact, it already has. As home for now, but more... A city that teems with the dragon-breath of life in its every reach and corner..the city that mingles with the brilliant expectancy and hope for a beautiful tomorrow, but always, ALWAYS blazes with the curious promises of a luminous today...

BLESS YOU, BOYS.

And I lay to rest the iniquities in my bosom...

ok, so the title has nothing to do with my post, but i liked the way it sounded... interestingly enough, the other night i had an epiphany evincing the power of words. growing up, i lusted after divining some great talent (like the Daedalus of Joyce's Portrait), especially when it came to the performing arts...God, i thought, if only i could carry a tune like mariah or whitney, or if only i could mesmerize people through dance or art or in acting. and i realize i may be no superstar at it, but writing is something that comes somewhat naturally to me. words just give release- I LOVE WORDS. i love reading spectacular writing; it's like poetry. it hits every sense, every nerve in me. it's like this kaleidoscopic rush of color and warmth, like climaxing to orgasm. i know it's taking it far, but there are few things that cause me to sigh with pure rapture. anyway, what i realized is that writing is such a pre-historic thing; cavemen were attempting to form letters and pictures with an enduring quality.


even now, we read these classic greats- the works of plato and aristotle, socrates and the greek classics. you read these amazing 18th and 19th century works of literature like balzac and austen and dickinson preserved over centuries. what confounds me, amazes me is the timelessness of these works. literature bears a certain immortality succeeding even the highest works of art like painting and sculpture, which are subject to decay and erosion. even musical compositions are just recordings, mere copies of original pieces that once filled the halls with their aromatic symphonies. but words... WORDS, they ALWAYS have the supreme power to stir the human heart, stimulate the human mind. they have the ability to stay current even if their visages are thousands of years old. you can read the Bible and feel God speaking to you in the present or tune into the words of frederick douglass or dr. king and nearly inhale the fire in their words; words can come alive with such velocity and magnum, at least, to those receptive to them...


it makes me ever so much more aware of the enduring and evocative quality of words, more so than any piece of music i have the potential to create, any painting i conjure from imagination or any dance performed. its brilliance is something to be recognized, fed and cherished, though it appears to tread ground more softly and quietly than any of the aforementioned...


i don't have anything else of significance to say, except that it's super bowl sunday and im happy to be part of new orleans at this historic time...