Drift Reality

I remember when we sat together on the dock of my friend’s river house in Annapolis and drank wine and read Kundera and basked in the warmth of summer’s death.

I looked into your eyes and saw my reflection. Then, I said something very cheesy that I sort of pulled out of my ass.

I said, “Native Americans believe that when you look into the eyes of your soul mate, you should be able to see seven generations into your future.”

I don’t know if that is true or not, but I think I heard something like that once, at a conference somewhere. I guess I always felt like things sounded more spiritual if Native Americans once believed in them.

I don’t know exactly why I pulled this little morsel out of my ass, I think it was because I was nervous, and you know how I can get when I am nervous. I just start saying anything that comes to mind – I will pull a nugget of something from out of my brain, and slap some grease onto it, and mold it into whatever suits the contours of the present.

Then, I’ll spit it out and you will laugh at me for sounding like an idiot, and tell me I am full of shit and I will remember why I love you.

Only this time, I think you didn’t listen to the words and what they meant for the first time in your life, and you only listened to the harmony of what I was saying, and looked at my eyes and by doing so, let my eyes add truth to the transaction. For the first time in your life, you didn’t listen to the words in the song and just listened to the song and then you understood me.

When I saw the recognition in your eyes, I said, “I see my reflection in your eyes,” and I paused for a moment before continuing. “I think I love you.”

Only the moment I said it, I realized the audacity I must have had to use the word “think.”

“I think I may go to the supermarket later on,” or “I think that I may have done well on my test,” are acceptable statements.

“I think I love you” is an oxymoron.

“I think I love you” is the plea of a weak individual yearning to live.

Or maybe “I think I love you” is the gibberish that comes from a bottle of wine and several hours in the sun with Kundera.

Whatever it was, I remedied the situation by steeling myself, looking into your eyes, and saying,

“I love you.”

And after I said it, I realized I meant it.

And after I realized I meant it, you realized what I had said and you grinned your lip curling, jaw widening, smile.

And your eyes glowed with my reflection.

This is what was in my mind when I told you, when we were saying bye for the last time, that I still see my reflection in your eyes.

And now, I have promised not to contact you, so it is all I can do to contact no one.

And tell them about my reflection in your eyes.

I was at the gym earlier today when I couldn’t help but notice the steady torrent of crap coming out of the television, otherwise known as Gold’s Gym music programming.

Let me preface this by saying this isn’t the first time I’ve gotten irritated by the shit music I am forced to listen to at the gym. Back in the spring, I wrote an essay where I criticized the pop music at Gold’s, mostly focusing on teenybopper music.

In the past six months, for whatever reason, there has been a shift from the teenybopper crap to rap crap. I use the term rapvery loosely because I’m really not sure what the hell it is I’m watching anymore.

Basically, the thing that set me off was when I saw a video that I could have sworn to be satirical. When I realized the video’s intention was to be taken literally, I almost had a heart attack.

As I watched in disgust, a moron danced around with about fifty slutty girls at a mansion (one of them was Paris Hilton by the way), and rapped about money, clothes, cars, and pussy. I use the term “pussy” because using the term “women” would imply some sense of a legitimate and respectable approach to heterosexual relationships, which is simply not the case in the hip-hop ideology.

It irritated me so immensely I immediately stopped my workout, ran home, and began typing.

The first thing I did was to check The Billboard Hot 100. A quick glance at the chart reveals that almost all of the top 20 singles are from the likes of rap artists like Snoop Dog, 50 Cent, Lil John, and Ja Rule. A quick visit to the Recording Industry Association of America’s Web site confirmed that in the past 10 years, the market share of the rapindustry has increased from 7.9% to 13.3% while rock music has decreased by almost the same amount.

What strikes me about this trend, is that although rap has been increasing in prevalence, I would argue that the quality of its most prominent artists has been drastically decreasing.

Take for instance, the following passage from Grandmaster Flash’s “The Message”:

Standing on the front stoop, hangin’ out the window
Watching all the cars go by, roaring as the breezes
Blow
Crazy lady, livin’ in a bag
Eating out of garbage piles, used to be a fag-hag
Search and test a tango, skips the life and then go
To search a prince to see the last of senses
Down at the peepshow, watching all the creeps
So she can tell the stories to the girls back home
She went to the city and got so so so ditty
She had to get a pimp, she couldn’t make it on her own

While it isn’t exactly brilliant prose (despite what Berkeley Literature Professors might thinkg), I think there is something poetic about the language in the verse and something vividly gritty about the images that the writer conjures. For me, this represents something meaningful, a social commentary about life for an alternative American demographic.

Now, contrast the message with the following lyrics from Busta Rhymes’ Pass The Courvoisier, featuring P. Diddy.

Busta: Give me the Henny, you can give me the Cris
You can pass me the Remi, but the pass the Courvoisier
Diddy: Give me the ass, you could give me the dough
You can give me ‘dro, but pass the Courvoisier
Busta: Give me some money, you can give me some cars
But you can give me the bitch make sure you pass the Courvoisier
Diddy: Give me some shit, you can give me the cribs
You can give me whaever just pass the Courvoisier

Okay, first of all, it took me about 45 minutes to try and translate enough of this verse into English so that I could attempt to analyze it, and here is what I came up with:

Busta: I like many types of alcoholic beverages, but Courvoisier is my favorite.
Diddy: I have affinities for many things: women, money, and marijuana; but Courvoisier is also my favorite.
Busta: I like money and cars, [I did not understand the syntax in "you can give me the bitch make sure you pass"] please pass the Courvoisier.
Diddy: [Once again, I got confused here - what does he mean when he says "give me some shit?" Does he literally want shit?] Give me the homes. Actually, give me just about anything, but please pass the Courvoisier.

For me, the contrast between the two of these lyrical passages is so extreme, that they should not even be considered the same genre. I think that while rap refers to a form of music, there is nothing musical about the crap coming out of the mouths of “artists” like P. Diddy.

What is even more disturbing is the lack of thought put into the messages that are being propagated through this “music,” and the wide traction that these messages are receiving amongst an audience that is predominantly young and impressionable.

What is the solution, that might save us from a generation of children wearing their collars “popped up”?

STOP BUYING RECORDS PRODUCED BY SHITTY RAP ARTISTS!!!!!!!

Thank you and good night.

After living in DC for so long that it hurts, I’ve realized a few things about the city. One, there are not a lot of very good-looking people here. Although this sounds like a superficial thing to say, no one can ever criticize me for being superficial because I actually left one of the more attractive cities in the United States - San Diego - to come back to this cesspool of homeliness. The reason I did, was because people tend to be pretty savvy about what’s going on in the world around them, unlike San Diego, and I appreciate that. Would you rather have beautiful vacuous people or sharp unattractive people?

At any rate, not only have I learned many things about the type of people who live in DC, but I’ve also learned quite a bit about the everyday trivial little details that go along with living in DC.

Now, I’ve already talked about my intense hatred for meter maids in the city. Today, I’d like to discuss something less infuriating, and more ridiculous: parking in DC.

Not only is parking in DC difficult due to the intense automotive congestion downtown, which must be in the same ballpark as Manhattan, but it is made more difficult by virtue of the fact that for every space there is available on the street, there are EIGHT MILLION FRIGGIN’ SIGNS YOU HAVE TO DECIPHER.

I was trying to park in Dupont the other day, and I was confronted with the following:

Sign 1: 2 Hour Parking; 10:30AM - 3:30PM; Monday-Friday
Sign 2: No Parking or Standing; 8:30 AM - 10:30 AM; 3:30PM - 5:30PM; Monday - Friday
Sign 3: No Parking; Street Cleaning; Wednesday Morning; 5:30AM - 8:30AM
Sign 4: No Parking; Special Event; January 20; All-Day
Sign 5: No Parking; 5:45PM - 6:30PM; If Driving Blue Honda ‘92-’95
Sign 6: No Parking; If Uncle’s Neighbor’s Brother is Gay; Or if Your Name is Harold

Okay, I threw in those last two, but do you see what I’m saying? It is absolutely ludicrous. Not only does it take 30 minutes to find a goddamn spot, but also it takes 15 minutes to sit and figure out the stupid GRE analytical problem, that is understanding the parking signs.

I’m sure that half of the reason there is so much damn traffic in this city is because people are sitting in their cars like a bunch of morons, trying to understand street signs.

If I were the mayor of this city, I would utilize a new approach to street signs. It would involve the following two signs:

Sign 1: NO
Sign 2: YES

Should I be mayor? What do you think?

Yesterday, I saw a crazy guy at Starbucks.

I had been doing some work there with a friend of mine, and had taken a quick break to go eat free samples at the WholeFoods next door. My friend was watching my laptop.

As I walked into the Starbucks, I saw some crazy old man yelling at my friend: “You have a real fucking attitude, that’s what I think.”

I walked up to him and he looked at me, apologetically, and said, “I’m sorry, did I take your seat?” I nodded my head and he quickly got up and sat at the far end of the table.

“What did you say to him?” I asked my friend.

“I just said that you were sitting there, and that you would be getting back soon,” he responded, completely flabbergasted.

I sat down and watched as the crazy old man started mumbling something incoherently. He then looked over at us and shouted, “God damnit, they want to knock me off, but I’m not going to tell them how to do it.”

I looked down at my computer and tried to ignore him.

“You all are from Bush’s office,” the man continued. “I know it. I’ve seen you before.”

It was at that point that I decided an action needed to be taken. He was clearly insane - as I was very much a liberal and disagreed with Bush on many policy decisions.

I got up from my seat, walked outside the Starbucks, and stared back through the glass front entrance at the crazy old man.

I stood there until the man realized that I was staring at him from outside.

When I knew I had his attention, I slowly curled the bottom three fingers of my left hand in, while leaving my index finger pointed firmly out, creating an imaginary gun with my hand.

Maintaining eye contact with the crazy old man, I lifted the imaginary gun to my head and watched as his jaw dropped open.

With my index finger pressed against my temple, I pulled the imaginary trigger and rolled my eyes upwards.

When I turned back to look at the man, I saw him frantically gathering his stuff.

He ran out the door, right past me, keeping his eyes directed down at the ground.

“We’re watching you,” I shouted at him as he ran by.

Happy New Years to everyone! My New Years Resolutions are to try and pick up the violin again; learn how to speak korean; and kick my crack-cocaine habit.

To usher in the New Year, I’ve completed a new clip that is part of a Wandering Bridge, entitled The Soccer Game.

Vace, located at 3315 Connecticut Ave in Cleveland Park, has the best pizza for miles. The ingredients are extremely fresh and the slices are a perfect size. Compared to the crap that you get in Adams Morgan, Vace’s slices are on another level. Granted, you probably couldn’t wrap Vace’s slices around you like a cape in case you were cold like you could with slices from Adams Morgan, but who the hell would do something disgusting like that anyway?

According to the homosexual bartender at Mie N Yu, the proprietors (who are the same family who have brought us Cities and a host of other trendy clubs in the area that I don’t know) traveled around Asian and spent millions of dollars purchasing what would eventually be the decor of Mie N Yu.

I would describe it as a trendy restaurant/club with an exotic international flavor in Georgetown. When you take into consideration that the last bar to hold the title of “most exotic and international” restaurant/club in Georgetown was probably Champs, I think you’ll agree that Mie N Yu is like a breath of fresh air on M street.

Also, it’s right down the street from Old Glory, so if you were thinking about going and grabbing a drink at Old nationalistic bordering on jingoistic Glory, forget it. Go to Mie N Yu instead.

Each section of the club/restaurant is sectioned off from the other has a distinct ambience, giving you the distinct impression that you are wandering from bar to bar - all within the confines of the same venue.

There is a unisex bathroom, a DJ behind the bar, a big birdcage (where you can be served a set menu for something ridiculous like $500 per person), and all sorts of exotic accoutrements throughout the place.

So if you find yourself in Georgetown on a Friday or Saturday night, chances are you are a mindless automaton prepster who is in serious need of developing your own style. Just kidding. If you find yourself in Georgetown on a Friday or Saturday night, do yourself a favor and forego Rhino and instead, try Mie N Yu.

Mie N Yu is located at 3125 M Street in Georgetown.

Between stuffing my face with turkey, I’ve managed to edit a clip using footage from Iran and the copy I wrote titled The Last Supper. The clip has been aptly named The Last Supper as well.

“Hey!” the husky bouncer shouted as my friend and I walked into Nick’s Riverside Grill. “You have to stand in line like everyone else!”

The Caucasian boy looked like he was about twenty years old, with shaved hair, cargo shorts and a bright yellow t-shirt.

Turning around I looked back towards the spot from where we had just entered into Nick’s Riverside Grill and saw two groups of people milling around next to each other.

“What line?” I asked.

“The line that’s at the front,” he answered in a combative tone that made me wonder if he was about to try and start a fight with me due to the fact that I had failed to recognize his “line.”

We followed the man back to the entrance, where we took out our IDs.

I handed mine to the bouncer, who held it up and began scrutinizing it as though he were the gatekeeper to the Pentagon and I was an Arab, wearing robes and a turban.

“What is your date of birth?” he demanded.

It had been around five years since I’d been asked that question and I balked for a moment as a grin appeared on my face.

“Date of birth?” I asked. “Umm…March 10, 1978.”

He must have construed my bemusement for doubt, for he then asked me for a “second form of ID.”

Looking through my walled, I pulled out a credit card.

“I have a CVS card also, in case you’re interested,” I added.

He began glaring at my credit card with the same piercing gaze he had used on my drivers license.

Looking at his arm, I noticed he had a tattoo of the ‘ol red, white, and blue. Turning back up towards me, he handed me the ID back and turned to my friend.

“You,” he blurted to my friend.

After this initial irritation, we actually settled down and had a fairly nice time at Nick’s Riverside Grill, which is a pretty decent place if you can get past the people who work there on the weekend nights.

Gazing around, I couldn’t help but note the yellow t-shirted bouncers dispersed throughout the crowd, all sporting shaved heads and cargo pants - as if they were co-marketing for Abercrombie and the Aryan nation.

Later, while grabbing a drink, I noticed as my bouncer friend from before approached the bar and began jovially telling one of the bartenders about how he had “beat the hell” out of some poor jerk the previous night.

Shaking my head in disgust, I turned towards another bartender and asked for my tab. “Wei,” I said in response to his inquiry for my last name. A short while later, he returned, holding my bar tab.

As I scanned it, an Asian guy standing next to me asked for his tab. “Yang,” he stated when the bouncer asked for his last name.

I just gave you guys your tab the bartender responded, nodding towards me.

“He said Yang,” I stated. “My last name is Wei.”

Realizing his mistake, the bartender went to retrieve Yang’s tab.

“This guy’s getting his Asian last names confused,” I said, turning towards the Asian guy standing next to me.

The bartender returned shortly with Yang’s tab, turned towards the two of us, and said, “So, where are you guys headed?”

“We’re not together,” I responded. “You’re getting your Asians confused.”

He looked at me blankly, as if not sure what to make of what I just said, and walked away bashfully.

I turned towards my check and signed, when all of a sudden, the bartender returned and shot back, “That’s a pretty stupid thing to say.”

“Yeah, it is a stupid thing to say,” I answered and walked away from the bar.

I hadn’t sat down for two seconds when one of the Aryan nation members walked up to our table and said, “You guys have to get out of here. Now.”

We downed our drinks and left.

The moral of this story is that the people who work at Nick’s Riverside Grill on the weekends are morons. Weather permitting, the waterfront is an amazing place to go out in DC. Just make sure you have no expectations of polite service before you go.

In the wake of the elections, most democrats are experiencing a myriad of emotions: depression, anger, bitterness, and most notably, surprise. I’ve heard countless people say how they simply could not believe the outcome, when everything around them seemed to be pointing to a Kerry victory.

But sure enough, when the final votes were counted, Bush’s 59.7 million votes had not only handily beaten Kerry, but had also broken the all-time popular vote total. This fact begs the question, “Who the hell are all these morons who are voting for Bush?”

In one of the most polarized elections in our nation’s history, it basically came down to the Northeast, the West Coast, and most of the Great Lakes states on one side; and the South and Midwest on the other.

There are many ways to look at these geographic dilineations. By now, I’m sure most people have heard about the infamous table that presents state vs. average IQ vs. electoral vote, which was purportedly attribute to a book called “IQ and the Wealth of Nations,” and referenced in the St. Petersburg Times and the Economist (who later retracted the story).

On the other hand, the US Census Bureau’s account of high school graduation rates last year reveals that 7 out of the top 10 states were red. Although I acknowledge the fact that this represents a miniscule percentage of the voting population, I think there is a fairly direct correlation to be drawn between the average intelligence in a given state and the high school graduation rate.

I think that the bottom line is that we need to start insuring that only intelligent Americans vote.

I think this can be accomplished by administering the following five-question quiz to all voters on election day:

1) Is it acceptable to have sex with your sibling?

a. Yes
b. No

2) What is the capital of France?

a. London
b. Berlin
c. Paris
d. I don’t care about no darn terrorists.

3) Who was the first president of the United States?

a. Thomas Jefferson
b. Abraham Lincoln
c. George Washington
d. Jesus Christ, our savior

4) What would constitute a satisfactory first date?

a. Dinner at a nice restaurant followed by a movie.
b. Grabbing drinks at a nice cocktail bar.
c. Seeing a broadway show.
d. Downing an $8 fifth of whiskey and heading to the local Walmart.

5) What was the worst part about the movie “Deliverance?”

a. A grown man gets ass-raped by a redneck.
b. A young inbred defeats one of the main characters in a game of dueling banjos.
c. Burt Reynolds’ acting.
d. Rude city folk disrupt a tender moment between someone who looks like your cousin Billy Bob and a plump piece of ass.

Basically, if you answered “yes” to question 1, or “d” on any of the following four questions, you automatically lose your right to vote.