Drift Reality

When I was about three years old, my parents decided to take me to a nearby petting zoo. As is the case with most children that age, I was absolutely enthralled with the strange creatures that I had never seen before. There were a herd of relatively domesticated deer that were all gathered in one spot, and I decided to it would be good to get a closer look.

So ice cream cone in hand, I approached the herd of deer and began attempting to communicate with them. It soon became clear that their interests were non-social and rather selfish, as one of them decided that it would take advantage of its superior size and bully me out of my ice cream cone.

Deer 1 / Jiyan 0

That was a traumatizing day for me.  I agonized over my emasculating defeat for some time until it dawned on me that I would not be able to progress in my development towards manhood unless I had my revenge. 

I hatched a plan and convinced my parents to take me back to the petting zoo several days later.  I decided that if they were going to take something of mine, then I would reciprocate and take something of theirs. Unfortunately, deer don’t tend to carry a lot on their persons, so my choices were limited.

Taunting a deer with my conquest

It was an important lesson for me to learn as a young child: it is not the size of the dog in the fight but the fight in the dog.  If you are bullied out of your ice cream cone by a larger creature, you need to pick yourself up of the floor and come right back at that bully even if the bully is a domesticated deer and ‘coming back’ means stealing that deer’s pebble-sized droppings.

I was lying in bed last sunday afternoon when I suddenly realized that I had several friends coming over that evening with the expectation of being fed.  I began thinking through the work it would take to insure that when they arrived, there would be some sort of food available and became very tired in a short amount of time.  It then dawned on me: What are two things that people love in the summer?

#1 - Barbecue

#2 - Not doing anything

Consider this: you are sitting on your couch on a sunday afternoon at 5PM and hunger starts to set in.  Suddenly, you hear a jingle from outside that can only mean one thing.  You rise from the couch, grab for your wallet, and rush outside.  On the street, the intoxicating aroma of burning pork greets your nostrils and you begin to salivate onto your sweat stained t-shirt. 

In front of you is parked a thing of beauty:

“Good Day sir,” you utter to the fat man in the driver’s seat, head adorned with a large white bbq-stained chef’s hat. 

“Top of the morning,” he responds back with a grin that reveals flecks of ribs embedded between his teeth.

“I will have four ribs, a half-chicken, and two hot dogs,” you respond back to him.

“That will be $32.23,” he fires back while digging in the back of his truck for your order.

Absolute perfection.

Disclaimer: If anyone steals this or any of the other brilliant business ideas I come up with then I expect a 10% ownership stake.

I was having dinner in downtown Bethesda yesterday and found a parking space on Bethesda Row, right across from the restaurant.  Unfortunately the meter would only take enough change for 60 minutes so I figured that because I was across the street I would be able to easily feed the meter after an hour or so, or that at least I would see the parking demon if he/she came to ticket me.  I was being optimistic: I sat down and became engaged in my meal and by the time I looked down at my watch, 1 hour and fifteen minutes had passed.  I popped up to go feed the meter and suddenly found myself face-to-face with the parking demon, who was making his way through Bethesda Row.  I rushed to my car only to find that it was too late, I had gotten slammed with a ticket for $35.  I thought about trying to say something to the parking demon but those guys are thick as mules so figured I’d just take this one on the chin and blog about it later. 

I also thought of a new tactic for dealing with these vultures: one weekend, I’m going to drive down to Bethesda with a bag full of change.  I’m going to track one of the parking demons down and then follow them as they make their rounds.  I will proceed to preemptively feed every meter where there is a car that is about to get ticketed.  After each car I save (and ticket that is avoided) I’m going to stare down the parking lot attendant and make the ’slit throat’ gesture. 

It just struck me: AJ is going to kill Tony in the final episode.  You heard it here first.

Nam-Viet is a great Vietnamese place in Cleveland Park with really tasty pho (if anyone knows the accurate pronunciation of this word please let me know), good prices, and friendly service. I ordered a beef dish once and regretted it when it came drenched in a slimy glaze that reminded me of cheap Chinese food. I often go with a friend who lives in Cleveland Park and she normally orders the grilled shrimp and scallops on skewers and although I have never tried them, they look pretty delicious.

Actually, that’s all I have to say about the restaurant. The reason I’m even writing about the restaurant is because of an experience I had the other day when we ate there before heading to the gym.

We entered and the host promptly seated us at a table near the front window. The restaurant was absolutely packed, a situation my friend believes can be attributed to a recent positive review of the place in the Washingtonian magazine.

At any rate, my friend immediately noticed a young boy who couldn’t have been older than three, seated at the table directly adjacent to ours. We both were tentative on whether or not to sit near the potential threat of a screaming, unhappy kid, but he looked rather calm so we decided to take our chances.

The meal passed without any incident and as we were finishing up, I looked over to see that the young boy was standing right next to me and staring at me intently, with his Mother standing several feet behind.

“Hey buddy,” I blurted to the boy. “What’s going on?”

In response, the young boy put his arms out.

Then, a very strange thing happened.

A voice inside my head began whispering a quip to me, but I brushed it off and instead leaned forward and picked the boy up, placing him so that he was standing on my lap. He promptly sat down and made himself comfortable while his Mother giggled a bit.

He then swiveled in my lap, so that he was facing across the table at my friend.

“I think he is trying to move in on your date,” his Mother said.

Again, a voice inside my head began to formulate an explanation of how it wasn’t a date, but simply dinner with a friend, but somehow the words just dissolved as I instead addressed the boy.

“Hey buddy, are you moving in on my date?”

It was strange, like there was some sort of emotional gravitational field around the kid and in the face of this field, my normal personality just dissipated and it became completely about the kid.

He turned away from my friend and I could tell that he wanted to go, so I helped him to the ground and he headed towards his Mother.

My friend and I both smiled at him and his Mother as they returned to their table and I couldn’t help but be thankful that we hadn’t decided to sit elsewhere out of fear of a crying, screaming kid.

When I was about five my parents must have realized that I was part Korean because they suddenly decided that I should start learning how to play the violin. After all, most virtuoso violinists started at a very young age, so if I was to ultimately become a concert violinist I would have to start young. I actually wasn’t terrible, although I still contend that the whole institution around learning how to play the violin could use a lot of work, but this isn’t a diatribe about the violin; it is about an experience I had when attending orchestra camp.

The Orchestra camp that I attended was located somewhere in the Shenandoah Valley, located between Virginia and West Virginia. Actually, it was probably one of the best things I could have done as an angst-filled insecure adolescent, because it was an opportunity to socialize in a completely new environment where I couldn’t possibly be branded as a nerd because we were all nerds - again, we are talking about orchestra camp.

At any rate, I recall one particular day when we had all taken a break from our nerdalizing and all headed to the field to play a game of soccer. There were actually quite a few decent athletes and we had ourselves a pretty good little game. Towards the end of the game, one of the players on the other team, Mark - a cellist with a trash ’stache - broke free in the open field and was promptly slide tackled from behind. Suddenly, the game stopped as everyone collectively realized that the cellist was writhing around the ground in agony, clutching his thigh.

“Ow, my thigh,” he whined, in a tone of voice unbefitting his manly trash ’stache.

Everyone gathered around while one of the camp counselors leaned over him and tended to him. It was then that I remembered that before I had left, my Uncle had given me a few packets of Icy Hot, a therapeutic gel, before I had left for camp.

“Hold on everyone,” I declared before running off to my room to get the Icy Hot.

I returned about five minutes later to find Mark limping away from the field, being helped by one of the camp counselors, with a small cadre of camp attendees in tow.

“Mark,” I said. “Try this Icy Hot my Uncle gave me.”

He took the packets and began examining them gingerly. He turned one over in his palm and examined the back carefully for several moments before looking me in the eye. His gaze was 25% gratitude and 75% trepidation when in all sincerity he asked, “This isn’t some sort of ancient Chinese medicine or something like that, is it?”

Shocked, I looked into his hands, at the packets labeled “Icy Hot,” and then looked him in the eye.

“Err…its Icy Hot,” I answered lamely.

He nodded, assured that I wasn’t attempting to poison him with some ancient Chinese poison, and then headed off on his merry way.

After two and a half years in DC, I’m finally off.

For the second time in my life, I am headed to London for a one-year academic program.

It has been a really memorable time in DC and I like to think I have been able to share some of my experiences with you, through Drift Reality.

Some of the highlights include: producing a series of public service announcements for the National Iranian American Council; producing 1/2 of a documentary focusing on the lives of two Persian immigrants to the United States; writing an essay on my evil roots for Namak Magazine; producing a few short films; transcribing some of my Father’s childhood memories from North Korea; and spewing endless gibberish on what it is like to live in DC.

More importantly, I have been fortunate enough to meet some truly incredible people who I hope I will hold close throughout the rest of my life.

Okay, enough cheese.

In the wake of completing an extended video project, I’m going to be taking some time off from the video production to focus on writing.

Please continue visiting the site. Seeing as how the writings in Drift Reality are primarily fueled by my irritation and angst, I am sure I will be typing up a storm in London.

I am pure evil.

I am not evil in the way that some people experience unfortunate circumstances and gradually become cold and embittered, resorting to devious methods in order to sustain their malevolent lifestyles; I was born pure evil.

That’s what happens when your parents are from the axis of evil.

Rewind twenty-three years to 1982.

The first time I realize the darkness that lives in my soul I am four-years-old, and the diabolical altar at which I come to this epiphany is the dinner table.

My Mom would spend the entire day in a sweltering kitchen, slaving over an oven in order to prepare an elaborate dish of ghormeh sabzi and ashe.

She would set the table, laying all the dishes out meticulously with her razor sharp talons, and then call to my Dad in a banshee-like shriek.

“Bobbie, dinner is ready.”

After a few moments of silence, I would hear my Dad lumbering out of his cave in the basement and I knew he would be clutching a bottle that contained a most malevolent substance - Kim Chi.

Fast-forward twenty years to 2002.

I am watching Bush’s state of the union address and he has just referred to my parents’ countries as being members of the “Axis of Evil.” Granted, his speechwriter made an attempt to differentiate between these countries’ regimes and their people, but somehow I wonder if this will make a difference.

I can’t help but think about the subtlety involved with differentiating between an Iranian and the regime in Iran, and wondering if it is possible that not all US citizens will fully understand this subtlety. This is a country that demonizes the enemy; not one that criticizes its regime while embracing its people. This is a country of McCarthyism, My Lai, and Japanese Internment Camps.

Perhaps using the word “evil” to describe Iran, Iraq, and North Korea might not hit people quite the right way.

In fact, White House speechwriter David Frum might have realized this when originally putting the speech together, for he had initially conceived of the term “axis of hatred.” The word “hatred” had been changed to “evil” by Frum’s superiors in order to match the theological language that Bush had used in the wake of September 11.

If the word “evil” had the same effect on me that seeing my Father put Kim-Chi on ghormeh sabzi had on my Mother - righteously furious - then the word “axis” had the same effect on me that my Mother’s anger had on my Dad - bemusement.

See, “axis” implies a sense of collusion.

Rewind sixty-six years to 1936.

Political representatives from Italy and Germany sign an alliance treaty, which prompts the Italian fascist Benito Mussolini to state that Europe will eventually revolve around an axis formed between Rome and Berlin.

See, this claim makes sense because an axis is literally a straight line about which a body rotates. Obviously, Mussolini was paying attention in geometry class. Unfortunately for him, Japan’s entrance into the alliance pretty much destroyed the linguistic accuracy of the term. Unfortunately for most of Europe, grammar was the least of Mussolini’s concerns.

The linguistic massacre would continue, as Bulgaria, Hungary, and Romania would also join the axis powers. I guess “Hexagon powers” just doesn’t have the same ring.

Despite the geometrical inaccuracies involved, the saving grace of the term is that unlike the “Axis of Evil,” there actually is collusion between the countries involved.

If GW had only seen what went down at my dinner table every night, he would have realized there was never any way that sane citizens from these two nations would ever have anything to do with one another.

Fast-forward 46 years to 1982.

As my Dad unscrews his bottle of Kim Chi, one can practically see the odor creeping out and falling onto the table and over the food like a terrible plague.

As my Mom watches in horror, my Dad proceeds to layer Kim-Chi over her kubideh, rice, and ghormeh sabzi. On special occasions (like full moons), he even brings a bottle of gochujang (Korean chili paste), which he proceeds to mix into his ashe until it is the color of blood.

I watch as my Mom begins to shake in her seat at the site of this culinary massacre.

Before too long, her shaking grows into full-blown convulsions as he began to slurp his gochujang-flavored ashe.

“Bob!” she would growl, the volume of her voice increasing precipitously as she continued. “What do you think you are doing? You are RUINING IT! And STOP making that awful noise!”

Growing up in a household like this, is it really such a surprise that I am pure evil?

I’m a big fan of ESPN.com, but if they keep playing that stupid Coke Zero advertisement, I’m going to swear off sports and pick up knitting just so I won’t have to hear a bunch of clowns singing, “I’d like to teach the world to chill,” when I’m trying to read about how Sean Taylor (the Washington Redskins starting free safet) ripped someone’s head off in a football game.

Coke commercials have always really perturbed me, but this one takes it to masochistic levels.

The commercial starts with G. Love, who has apparently decided to become Coke’s man-whore, playing guitar and rapping on a Philadelphia rooftop. Then, we ostensibly go back in time and watch as G. Love walks the streets of Philadelphia with a black male companion.

Suddenly, his companion points up to rooftop, as if to say, “Hey G. Love, maybe if we go up to that rooftop we will find a multi-racial gathering of people drinking Coke Zero and you can sing and rap about how great it is and how people should chill out.”

Suddenly, we are transported back to the rooftop where we find out what happens if you mix the following together:

Ingredients for chilltop (Coke’s terminology) aka. rationale for making me want to scoop my eyes out with a spork (my terminology):

• One white male with brown dreadlocks.
• A black guy with a stupid gas station hat.
• An Indian guy with a big afro.
• A bi-racial black/white girl.
• Another white male with short brown hair.
• A white male playing the guitar.
• An East Asian girl who hasn’t showered recently.
• Another black guy who hasn’t showered recently.
• A white girl with brown hair.
• A white girl with red hair.
• About four more people who are spawned from interracial sex.
• I’ve been told that G. Love’s whore band is also in this commercial, which gives a whole new meaning to the name, “Special Sauce.”

Before I continue to lambast both Coke and G. Love, I’d like to note one glaring omission: I didn’t see any Latinos in this video. Do Latinos not deserve to drink Coke Zero? Is Coke saying that Latinos are fatties who don’t care about their weight? I hope someone who reads this works with a Latin-rights advocacy group and they start a campaign against Coke.

So while head toobag G. Love, “raps” and plays the guitar - and I use the word “rap” loosely because before I knew this was G. Love, I thought Donnie Wahlberg had died his hair dark-brown and was making a comeback - this creamsicle of morons sings:

“I’d like to teach the world to chill, take time to stop and smile. I’d like to buy the world a Coke and chill with it a while.”

When I first heard the lyrics to this song, I was literally shocked. First of all, I literally felt physically ill at the usage of the word “chill.”

The word “chill” makes me want to bitch-slap whoever has just had the nerve to use it in everyday speech, so imagine the effect that an entire rooftop of idiots, all singing “chill” over-and-over in perfect harmony, has on me.

It made me want to sprint through my TV and onto the rooftop, grab the guitar out of G. Love’s little claws, and go Belushi on everyone on that rooftop.

What does “chilling” have to do with drinking Coke? Nothing! It has absolutely nothing to do with drinking Coke. Actually, the defining ingredient in Coke is caffeine - a stimulant. Are you telling me that a kid who has had three or four Cokes in the span of one hour wants to chill? Maybe you could ask him if you could get him to stop running circles around his block and screaming the words to the “Star-Spangled Banner” for ten seconds.

If someone wants to “chill,” they should probably smoke pot or take a xanax; not chug down a drink that contains a stimulant.

And why does Coke have to be so blatantly PC with their casting (again, with the noted exception of any Latinos)? Do they really think that some Indian guy is sitting at home, watching this commercial and thinking to himself,

“Hmm..don’t like Coke Zero…

No…

Still don’t like it…

Not yet…

[sees an Indian guy on rooftop]

There it is! Mom! I’m going to the store to buy a six-pack of Coke Zero.”

It gets worse.

When I decided I needed to actually watch the stupid commercial again before blasting it, I visited the Coke Zero Web site and was privy to a load screen that stated “He who is the most chill wins,” and a navigation system that contained a link to “chillosophy.”

I don’t want to chillosophize, and I don’t want to win if winning means being the most “chill.”

I want everyone on that rooftop and everyone involved in the production of this advertisement to be sent to a deserted island with nothing to eat or drink except Coke Zero.

I want there to be large speakers placed throughout this deserted island that play their stupid chill song infinitely, until they all go insane and begin chanting the word “chill” repeatedly while deciding who will be the first “rooftopper” to be eaten.

You know what the ironic thing about this all is? I actually like Coke Zero. If only Coke hadn’t gone and ruined a perfectly good thing by being Coke.

About one month before Siavash stepped foot in the United States, hundred of demonstrators had gathered in front of the Capitol to show their support for democratic change in Iran, marking the fourth anniversary of student protest in Tehran, which had ended in violence.

As the protesters chanted in unison, a man stepped forward onto the podium and began to speak about freedom and democracy.

About one month before this demonstration, Senator Sam Brownback, a Kansas Republican, had introduced a bill he called the “Iran Democracy Act” into congress, asking for fifty million dollars to promote democracy in Iran and to fund Iranian opposition groups.

Brownback explained how the Iran Democracy Act aimed to “support Iranians seeking to create a democratic, secular government which respects human rights, abandons state-sponsored terrorism and rejects the possession and use of weapons of mass-destruction.”

It was interesting to note that the National Iranian American Council - a non-partisan group aimed at promoting Iranian-American participation in American civic life, had reported that 80.3% of the users of their Legislative Action Center had sent messages to their lawmakers opposing the act, while only 19.7% were in support of the Act.

Why would Iranians be against a bill that aimed at promoting democracy in Iran?

The most commonly cited reason amongst those opposing the act, was that history had repeatedly shown that US intervention wasn’t always the most suitable medicine for a foreign national ailment.

They pointed to the toppling of the popular nationalistic Prime Minister Mohammad Mossadeq in 1953 as one example of how U.S. intervention in Iranian affairs could have deleterious effects.

Democracy, it was argued, cannot be imposed from the outside.

It’s interesting to note that supporters of the Iran Democracy Act included the advocacy groups like the American Israeli Public Affairs Committee (AIPAC), and the Jewish Institute for National Security Affairs (JINSA).

The altruism by these groups is not surprising in light of the fact that Brownback is a noted pro-Israel ideologue.

Earlier in the year, he had even worked with another senator, Rick Santorum, to introduce legislation that would create a federal commission (which some critics referred to as a tribunal) that would investigate anti-Isreali sentiments on American campuses.

If American colleges and universities were found to be permitting professors, students, and student organizations to make statements against Israel, the affiliated institution could have their federal funding cut.

Senator Brownback is more than a politician. He portrays himself as a man on a crusade - to help spread democracy, liberty, and freedom throughout the world.

His idealistic vision is probably largely the result of his deep faith and his affiliation with the religious conservatives in this country.

Two years ago, Brownback converted to Catholicism under the supervision of a man named Father McCloskey, one of the more influential priests of Opus Dei, an ultra-conservative offshoot of the Catholic Church.

Opus Dei was founded by the Spanish priest Josemaría Escrivá de Balaguer, in 1928 and has been criticized for antiquated practices such as self-flagellation; wearing cilicios, pointed chains which dig into the thigh; mental and emotional manipulation of recruits and disciples; and religious intolerance.

Therefore, it was a bit surprising to hear Brownback talk about intellectual freedom in Iran, considering the founder of his religion once wrote, “You shall not buy books without the advice of an experienced Christian. It is so easy to buy something useless or mischievous. Often people believe they are carrying a book under their arm … but they only carry a load of mud.”

It is interesting to hear Brownback talk about his love for the Iranians, considering the founder of his religion uses the names of battles fought by Christians against Muslims as a synonym for victory.

It is interesting to hear Brownback talk about freedom of choice considering the founder of his religion once write that “The holy coercion (to Opus Dei) is necessary, compelle intrare the Lord tells us.” And, “You must kill yourselves for proselytism.”

It is a pleasant surprise to see a man who is affiliated with such a fanatical religious organization as Opus Dei, lend his heart and soul to a vision of secularism in a country he has never visited.