My Taste in Women

I've noticed that when I watch a movie or TV show or read a book, and I choose a favorite character, I have a trend. Most people like to root for the underdogs, those characters that deserve more respect than they actually get. The underdogs, in our minds, "deserve" more happiness than the other characters and their success is more important because they generally are fighting more unfair odds. In addition, we like to relate to them because that means if they succeed, we too can succeed despite the odds stacked against us, and if there's one thing I know about people, it's that they love their own success.

Most people root for the underdogs, and I am no different. I like to root for those most maligned and oppressed. However, in many cases, I find myself rooting for strong female characters.

For example, after watching Game of Thrones, I love Arya and her willful disinterest in all things "ladylike." In Avatar: The Last Airbender, I root for Azula, who is definitely not the underdog in traditional terms since she's the villain, but is definitely the most independent female character. While many odds are stacked in her favor, many more odds are stacked against her. I won't spoil the plot details for those of you who are going to watch the show (and seriously, watch the fucking show). In reading Harry Potter, I always admired Luna Lovegood. It's easy to say that Hermione is the independent woman of the series, but she's always limited by her need to do things correctly. She only transcends this with the help of her friends, which is certainly admirable, but does Luna Lovegood need other people to know who she is? No, Luna doesn't give a fuck that you don't believe in Crumple-Horned Snorkacks.

The point is that I love female characters that completely think on their own, that display a level of complexity equal to their male counterparts. We've grown up with strong male leads, but strong female leads, while more common now, are harder to find. In essence, strong female leads in general start off as underdogs. They have to fight for equal representation in media as men continue to display the necessary bravado. That's why Arya is so amazing, that she knows so surely at such a young age what she wants and who she wants to be. It's why Azula is so complex, a true prodigy but still harbors the need for attention. It's why Luna is the anti-Hermione, and perhaps the anti-heroine, because she isn't at Hogwarts to preach her beliefs, but rather, only to believe unwaveringly in them.

It's also why Sansa will never be loved by anyone other than her family. It's why Katara, while definitely a strong female lead, will always be a beacon of good and justice, which isn't a bad thing, but in a way it's a simple portrayal of "good women." It's why Hermione will always need a man in her life to be defined.

I will always root for the woman because it's women who need equality, even in modern media. And I will always judge and be biased against those characters and those women who align themselves with their traditional gender roles because that's how they've been brainwashed to be. It's that they align themselves in those roles. That's okay, even it if it's a bit limiting, but rather, it's that they're passive when it comes their own identity. If you don't work at who you are, then who you are just won't work for me.

Be yourself, regardless of gender. Don't be afraid to like and do "manly" things or "girly" things if you're not a male or female. Who the fuck cares?

Thanks for reading. I gotta catch up on My Little Pony now.

Andrew's Short Story (Part 2)

You can and should read Part 1 here.

“I have the most unique experience reading this,” Andrew’s brother, Matthew, said. Andrew was sitting next to Mat, as he liked to call him, the next day in order to present his short story. Mat took Andrew’s phone from his hand and checked his messages. Sure enough, Mat thought, it’s that girl again.

Andrew blushed as Mat did this. He shouldn’t have included that texting tidbit in his story. It was too transparent. He looked down at his food to hide the redness of his face. Pasta never looked so interesting.

They were at Olive Garden for lunch. It was that time of the year when Olive Garden offered unlimited pasta for $8.95, which was an unseemly deal for the two brothers, especially considering they offered unlimited breadsticks and soup or salad as well. It was the third time they were there that week. Some of the staff had even started being recognizable at that point.

“It’s not bad,” Mat said, closing the laptop to continue his meal. He didn’t like Mat’s paltry response at first, but Andrew knew that was the most analysis he could expect from his little brother. He supposed that they were close enough for brutal honesty. If it were terrible, Mat would have said something to the effect. “Not bad” all of a sudden looked not bad after all. It was also not finished yet.

“Hey,” began Andrew a few minutes later, his mouth partially filled with alfredo-blessed linguini noodles. “When do you think the First Lady stopped being a Lady and started being a political hand for the President?”

Mat paused, so Andrew continued.

“Well, I guess Jackie Kennedy was the first really public First Lady, but she was known for her fashion sense and stuff, right? And Reagan’s wife did the “Just Say No” campaign for drugs. So somewhere in between, something happened.”

“Dude, I don’t know.”

They continued eating, peppering the meal occasionally with tidbits of conversation only brothers can maintain comfortably. At one point, Andrew mentioned he would totally sleep with Hillary Clinton.

“And Chelsea Clinton, too,” he said. They laughed as he continued, poorly mimicking Chelsea Clinton. “‘Oh, mommy, daddy cheated on you.’ ‘Looks like you need a new daddy, Chelsea.’ ‘Oh, Senator Andrew! What are you doing here?’”

“Wait,” Mat laughed, interrupting. “Senator Andrew? I can’t tell what’s more ridiculous, that you’re a Senator in this twisted fantasy or that they don’t call you by your last name.”

They laughed some more at the idea of a threesome with Chelsea and Hillary Clinton. They weren’t even old enough to have voted for Bill Clinton. The former Arkansas governor would have been offended on many different levels.

When it was time to pay, they weren’t greeted by their original waiter.

“Hey, Andrew!” a melodic voice piped.

“Oh, hey, Vivian. You’re not Dustin,” Andrew replied, smiling. Vivian laughed.

“Nah, Dustin’s taking his break. I was told to take care of your desert or any refills you wanted on the pasta.”

Mat and Andrew looked at each other, unreadable to Vivian.

“Can we get refills on the pasta to-go?” Mat asked Vivian, smiling.

“Sure,” she replied with a smile of her own. “And then the check?”

“Yes, please,” Mat said. Vivian turned around to leave.

“Wait,” Andrew said before she could get far. He put his hand lightly on her arm, and she turned around.

“What’s up?” she asked. Andrew smiled mischievously.

“When we tip, who gets it? You or Dustin?”

“Dustin does, I’m only doing him a favor,” she said.

“Well, damn,” said Andrew. “Looks like I have to tip now.”

Vivian pretended to gasp in shock. She playfully hit him on the shoulder and laughed, saying as she walked away, “Remind me never to wait on you.”

When she was out of earshot, Mat and Andrew resumed their playful banter.

“Smooth,” said Mat. “Why don’t you just tell her, already?”

“I did. I told her real good.”

“Don’t be an idiot. I think she likes you.”

“I think she gets hit on a lot, and she’s either oblivious to the guys that flirt with her or she knows and sees everything and refuses to acknowledge it.”

“Whatever, dude. All I hear are excuses.”

“Eat your fuckin’ pasta,” Andrew retorted uncleverly. He thought about it. It had been three years since he had met Vivian, and he had always had a crush on her. He knew that some guys may have asked her out, but as far as his knowledge went, she had never had a boyfriend. Perhaps he had felt guilty about asking her out because he met her through their local church. Their parents had actually met at first at a funeral of one of the pastors, but it was not until after the funeral reception, which Andrew’s parents had graciously hosted, did Andrew meet Vivian.

She was stunning in black, Andrew’s favorite color at the time, and her hair was wavy and blacker than her outfit, the embodiment of regal. He and Mat were guiding the mourners to their kitchen, where they mourned some more before they feasted. There was always food at the Tran house, people said. Actually, I’m the only one who says that. The Trans are a very wonderful family, and every time I’ve visited, there has always been food. It’s a wonder Andrew and Mat aren’t obese. Andrew’s gained some weight over the years, but that’s probably more from his appetite for beer than his appetite for food.

That day there was extra food. Vivian, however, wasn’t hungry. She never could eat after a funeral. Andrew, of course, being the gracious host he was taught to be, refused to see a guest not enjoying the post-funeral festivities.

“Really,” he told Vivian, sitting down next to her on his couch. “Father Joe would be sad if you didn’t eat. I swear. He just told me in a vision.”

She laughed, less at the declaration and more out of the nervousness she felt at being put on the spot. She was too polite not to laugh, as most people are when Andrew approaches smiling.

“A vision. Really? How come he doesn’t tell me himself?” she asked, meeting his smile with one much more winning of her own.

“God gave him a vision quota, and he used it on his family, and then on me. He’s all out for this month. Jesus is gonna charge him extra if he goes over,” Andrew replied, stifling his own laughter.

Vivian, however, did not stifle her temporary enjoyment. She loved Father Joe, who had baptized her 22 years ago, and joking about his death seemed wrong somehow. Still, she couldn’t help but laugh.

“That’s terrible. His body’s not even cold yet, and you’re joking about it!” she said, shaking her head and smiling widely.

“The food, however,” replied Andrew without skipping a beat, “is definitely getting cold. Please, have some.” He offered her an empty plate.

She obliged.

“Fine, but only because you’re being blasphemous,” she said coyly, getting up.

“My name’s Andrew, by the way. The heretic. Andrew the Heretic.”

She laughed again, turning around to the now-standing host.

“I’m Vivian. Father Joe baptized me.”

They shook hands. When Vivian shakes hands, she makes a point of having a firm grip. She is usually too engrossed to notice the other person’s grip, which, in this case, was also firm. Andrew does the exact same thing. This similarity, sadly, will never be known by either of them for as long as they live. It’s just one of those things that never comes up. There are lots of them among you and your friends or acquaintances, actually, but obviously, you wouldn’t know. Some facts stay hidden, and our lives can never be changed by them, just as some diamonds aren’t meant to be discovered. I should take back what I said about it being sad. It’s not sad at all. It’s just a fact, bereft of emotional connotation on its own.

Andrew's Short Story (Part 1)

If I told you that I thought the funniest shows ever were 30Rock, Community, Arrested Development, Cheers, Three’s Company and The Simpsons, in no particular order, you would probably say that I lived in the first or second decade of the 21^st century. This is because you would know that some of those shows began and ended in that decade, or this decade, depending on when you read this. However, the presence of shows like Cheers and Three’s Company would imply that I was either very old during that or this decade, or that I enjoyed my teenage years during the first decade of the 21^st century and somehow had access to those earlier shows. And if you knew enough about television to place a timeline and use that kind of logic, you either looked up those shows or would assume that if I was younger, I would have watched those shows on the Nickelodeon channel programming Nick at Nite.

In fact, you can rest assured that all those assumptions are very brilliant, so if you were able to deduce my age at all, you deserve the highest of praise. I’m not going to tell you how old I am, because that’s not relevant. In fact, the shows I’ve mentioned I have just selected randomly as popular comedy syndications. None of that is relevant, but you can’t know that. You don’t know what I’m talking about, so you can’t decide if it’s relevant or not. You have absolutely nothing to start with. How is it fair for you? Tell me. How?

Of course you don’t have to tell me. To expect an answer from you would be ridiculous, and even if I did get an answer from you it wouldn’t make sense to me. By the time you answer me, I will probably have no idea what you’re talking about. I’d have forgotten the whole matter altogether.

I mean, it would be ludicrous to receive a call from a stranger, or friend who happens to be reading this, at a random hour saying, “It’s not fair, Andrew. It’s not.” I do not expect it. Well, now that I’ve mentioned it, maybe I will. I don’t know.

It isn’t fair, though. You’re right. You can’t be held accountable for what is relevant and what is not relevant when the subject of this tale hasn’t even been established yet, has it? Don’t answer that.

“A wise man once told me that putting quotations or italicizing words gives a phrase added credibility. This wise man was me, and I told myself.” – from Putting Things in Quotation Marks or Italics Adds Credibility.

Usually this credibility is unquestioned because as long as the quotation or the phrase in question is relevant, people just go with it. The show must go on, after all.”

That’s what he had so far. Sorry, I forgot to add the opening quotation marks to signify that everything you’ve read until the sentence before this one was part of a fictional short story the main character of this short story was writing.

It was what he had so far, and he was ready to send it off into the abyss of the Internet. People don’t really know how the Internet works, really, and if we’re still supposed to capitalize such a common word now. Internet. internet. Either way looked fine to him. It wasn’t a word he was putting into his short story. Even if the word were to come up later, he would decide then. Take life as it goes, he thought.

Oh, I’m such a terrible host. The guy I’m talking about is Marvin. No, never mind. His name is Andrew. I’m going to go back and bold his name now to avoid confusion. There. I’ve done it. I’m sorry I haven’t introduced you two earlier. I’m really usually good with introducing people to each other. I apologize.

Andrew was writing a short story. He’s a very weird thinker, as you’ve probably gathered, and sometimes people don’t follow him. It’s okay, though, because in Andrew’s mind, those who do follow him are lead to treasure troves of knowledge and thought. They are treasures because they are rare. Thoughts in general aren’t rare, but specific thoughts are unique. Any thought could be a thought no one else has thought, and that thought is therefore the rarest thought to exist. If there was a list for “Rarest Things Ever,” it would be tied for first with all the other unique thoughts and other super-unique things. For simplicity’s sake, Andrew called them sunique things. He’s weird. I don’t get it either.

Andrew also didn’t mind his weirdness because he was also very self-aware. In fact, he knew his short story started off terribly because it was too self-referential and went nowhere. As the author of the short story, Andrew knew he was much too involved. It’s best to let a story tell itself, he thought.

I’d like to take this moment to interrupt Andrew’s thoughts. It will only be a moment, I promise. I think he’s wrong. I think an author has every right to get involved with his own story. It is his story after all, and he can do whatever he wants with it. Or should I have italicized the other word. Let me try again. It is his story, after all. Maybe it’s smoother if I contracted the beginning. It’s his story, after all, and he can do whatever he wants with it. Yeah, that sounds better. Did that take long? It was really unfair of me to promise it’d take a moment when reading is such a different experience for all of us. I shouldn’t have presumed. I apologize. Anyways, back to Andrew.

He didn’t know where he was going with his short story, but he knew that he wanted romance to be involved. Just then, the girl of he had a crush on texted him, breaking his train of thought. It was worth it, he thought after he read and replied to the text and got back to his short story.

“Wait,” he said aloud. Did I come off too strongly with that last text? It was a worry he would never admit to harboring, but felt often. Texts are serious little messages sometimes. Per character, Andrew and I both think that they have the highest efficiency at conveying emotions. You can understand, then, why Andrew was worried about his text. I share his worry, but I’m not important.

Did I? Andrew thought. Maybe I used too many happy emoticons. She hasn’t texted me back yet. Oh, never mind. I can’t wait to read this one.

He had not come off too strongly. She replied as if nothing was out of the ordinary. Andrew breathed a sigh of relief. If there’s anything that would make Andrew uncomfortable, it would be making the girl he likes think he likes her. This makes no sense to me, of course. If you like someone romantically, you should let them know. There is no sane reason to hold back. The only thing you have to fear is rejection, but if you are a good person, then that rejection could mean more romantic possibilities or better yet, establishing a strong friendship with your crush.

I’m joking of course. “More romantic possibilities” is way better than “establishing a strong friendship with your crush.”

Andrew’s crush had not crushed him yet. He got back to his short story and began to develop the romantic storyline he knew he wanted in it.

#2

Every time I enter a relationship, and for me, that necessarily means "long-term," I set my girlfriend on speed dial. She's always #2. #1 is my voicemail, and even if it hasn't always been the default setting, I'd probably still make it dial to myself for convenience and arrogance's sake. I digress.

#2 is always my girl. I like to think that my speed dials are in increasing order of people whom I call the most, but really, it's a combination of those most important in my life and those whose numbers I most dial.
#3 is my brother.
#4 is Helen, who has become my most reliable friend in times of emotional distress.
#5 is my father and #6 is my mother because my dad used to work in a 510 area and my mom's number ends in 666 (of course). It was just convenient to associate their numbers with those numbers respectively.
#7-#9 have changed throughout the years, but it's usually Sean in there somewhere, who, other than Helen, is probably my best friend (it's a tie!).

And when I am single, #2 is open. To be my #2 means that your survival is second only to my own, that if there was any physical way to put you ahead of me, I would. #2 means that I care for you deeply, that my phone, which I have on my body at all times, is ready to connect to you at a moment's notice. #2 means that you are first on the list of people I want to talk to, to see and to be with. All clause-ending prepositions and cliches aside, there has always been something odd in the way we show that we care about people, and speed dial is definitely one of them.

As always, I'm accepting applications for #2 on my speed dial. If anything, it's less than 3. tehehehe.

The End of a Generation's Fantasy

What do you say after almost a dozen years of fandom “officially” closes? How do you say goodbye to the characters with whom you’ve literally grown up? How much emotion are you allowed for characters who, while fictional, show real strength, real courage and real care? These were among the questions that haunted me on my drive back from the Harry Potter 7.2 midnight premiere. Actually, I didn’t think of these things at all. I just thought of them now. I was too busy trying to focus on staying awake for what was supposed to be a 2 hour drive.

My brother Matthew was asleep in the passenger seat beside me, and my friend Andy aka Leroy (long story) was sleeping in the back seat. We were driving back from Woodland, about 15 minutes north of UC Davis, where my brother goes to school. Even though it’s summer, my brother’s Lion Dance Club meets weekly, and in his two weeks back from Vietnam, he asked me to drive him to both meetings.

For convenience’s sake, we decided to watch the midnight showing in Davis, since seating would be nonexistent in San Jose if we decided to drive back after his meeting was over at 10. Naturally, we bought our tickets about 48 hours before the showing, which turned out to be “last-minute” because almost every theater within 100 miles of San Jose was sold out. Luckily, we were able to find tickets at a 5 theater cinema in Woodland, which after some Googling, we decided was convenient enough for us.

The tricky part was that we couldn’t stay in Davis for the night, like Mat and I did the week before, since Mat needed to catch a flight to Spain the following afternoon. Friday flights are always hectic, but as is my filial duty, I knew I had to agree, at least in order to spend time with my brother before he leaves for a 5 week pilgrimage to Europe. It was especially difficult for my mother, having raised two college-aged boys. She rarely saw her children during the school year, and now one was perpetually abroad for summer as well.

Indeed, the two weeks in between my brother’s Vietnam trip and his Europe trip seemed more like the vacation than the homestay. But this isn’t about that. It’s about our midnight showing trip with our childhood friend, Andy.

The reason why the Harry Potter characters are so indelibly ingrained into our emotional psyche is that they are the loyalest friends we have. From ten years ago, I can probably only count one hand’s worth of close friends who maintained their closeness throughout the time. But Hogwarts housed all our friends, some of whom left, but most of whom stayed with us. Even when the books ended, we still had the movies to watch, to meet again our old friends, who have never, ever let us down, unlike many of our “real-life” friends.

That’s why we’re so obsessed, see? We call ourselves the “Harry Potter” generation. We put each other in different Houses (even though no one really wants to be in Hufflepuff, which I never understood). We dress up and we daydream about the wizarding world, bask in both its perils and luxuries. We do it because of the people, who are at once so intrinsically different yet so instantly and believably similar to how we are and most importantly, how we want to be. They are our friends, and have been for far longer than most of our “real” friends.

So when I drove home, with Mat and Andy sleeping in the car, I felt a certain love I reserve for very few people in the world. Andy and Mat are two of only a few people whom I can call lifelong friends, though in Mat’s defense, it wasn’t by choice. Regardless, though, it’s these kind of relationships that are the most important. They are not the bright flashes of brilliance you see in a firework, bursting into blinding colors, but fading quickly, making the night seem darker somehow than it was before. No, these relationships are the sun and the moon, steady and unyielding and reliable, no matter the time of day and the distance. They will always appear.

And in a way, Harry and his friends were the same. They were always reliable, and we love them for that.

So when I dropped Andy home, what he said and how we responded was both poignant and hilarious.

“Mat,” he said with his door ajar, facing the walkway into his home. It was 4:35, and certainly his parents were asleep.

“Mat, I won’t see you for 5 weeks, so be safe in Europe, okay?”

“Yeah…” Mat muttered, still half-asleep. They hugged despite the passenger seat’s backrest obstructing them. The hug lacked awkwardness only because of how long they had known each other, a feat you can’t do with an acquaintance.

“Take it easy,” I told Andy, and offered my hand for a shake.

“Yeah, I’ll see you around.” He took a step outside and paused.

“Oh, yeah,” he paused. “Mischief managed.”

“Mischief managed,” we both replied in unison without skipping a beat. He closed the door, and walked toward his house.

Mischief managed.

Thanks, Harry. Thanks, friends.

Mischief managed.

Goodnight.