Doesn't it feel good to pay less?

No matter how hard I try, I never retreat on the holiday spending. Even in such years as this one, where I don't have a girlfriend to focus my chi and checking account on, I still find a way to give myself a migraine by Dec. 23 when I'm done shopping and say "Did I honestly just spend all that money?" Of course, all that frantic evaluating and when it comes down to the exchange, you don't have a care in the world and everyone enjoys themselves. I guess my question lies there in, why do we have to spend so much money? Is it possible to have a nice Christmas anymore without spending money?

I don't know a single person that doesn't feel overextended or even annoyed at how they had to get someone an ipod nano on Black Friday because someplace gave you free gift wrapping with it... or maybe wait in the Build-a-Bear line for 2 hours and spend a cool hundred bucks because their bear needed Juicy Couture booty sweatpants. I guess I've noticed how my Christmas shares the same foundation as my childhood one, focused on giving and getting gifts for people so you can see them smile and give you a hearty hug to finialize how much love is shared between the parties involved. I believe though that some people never get over that child's mindset of how you make a list of gifts that you want, without substitutes and if they aren't delivered under the tree before the stroke of midnight on Dec. 24th, the procedure of disappointment, pouting and disownment kick in.

I think that there is a very distinguished line between wanting to GIVE expensive, lavish gifts and EXPECTING rediculous things. I don't know where that turnover comes into play exactly. I mean, for most sensable people they usually reach adulthood and realize that your list of Transformers, Barbies, Red Rider beebee guns turns into work clothes, gift cards or ...well, I guess an ipod. This ramble really just started after my co-worker told me she heard some woman bitching out her man yesterday, saying that she wanted not just the $700 Louis Vutton bag, but also the matching boots and the belt... but if it doesn't have the $75 complimenting belt buckle, then forget it. He can sleep on the sofa till 2020.

I can't really tell if its just the cost of living and where I live by NYC, or if it's just people living on the account that the ones with the most toys win. All I know is that I really could go every Christmas from here on out without spending my money on anything but friends meeting at dinner, going out to the bar on my days off to catch up and getting the following days to sleep in. To each their own, but I think that's why the joke goes "the holidays bring out the best and worst in people."

I'm a firm advocate that if you don't know what to get someone, or they never seem to give you any suggestions, just pay for a night out. I mean ACTUALLY go out and pay for an evening with dinner, a game, a show, a movie... not the gift card route where you think you get off the hook and the receptee can use them for whenever. I promise if you give your time, initiative, attention and priority... enjoy the occasion and then let the bill be the last of your worries, you'll have a memory, not a boxed-up talking bass that sings "Rollin on the river".

Taylor made.

Well, with the conclusion of today's Sunday football games, there was 14 moments of silence and a memorial defensive play that only featured 10 players to honor the death of former Redskins' safety Sean Taylor this past week. Taylor, 24, was gunned down in his home during an attempted burglary. Unless you don't follow sports, current events, or sunlight doesn't reach under your rock, you have probably heard about this because of the nature and publicity the crime received. Surviving his death were his fiance' and 18-month old daughter, who resided with Taylor in his Miami-suburb home.
Now that your caught up to speed, there has been a lot of talk from so many angles as to how and why Taylor died or if it could have ever been avoided. Taylor, who was black and raised in the Miami area, also was the son of a local police officer. With a middle-class upbringing, and law enforcement father, Taylor still had a pretty awful rap sheet that included an armed assault arrest in 2005. Taylor was supposedly involved in a crime that included a stolen SUV, sprayed with bullets in Miami.
So far, your probably thinking this guy is another black thug, who plays a pro sport, makes millions and had a non-surprising death. But two of my favorite sportswriters did pieces this past week on Taylor's death; Jason Whitlock of the Kansas City Star and Michael Wilbon of the Washington Post. Both black, both highly respected, award-winning journalists touched on the subject that it's not white-on-black crime people have to fear anymore... but black-on-black that is the 800lbs. gorilla in the room. Whitlock's article talks of the "black KKK." Wilbon's piece is titled "Dying Young, Black." I suggest you read both to gain some perspective why I'm writing this blog.
I'm as much a sports fan as anyone, but there is so much that these athletes deal with that is magnified because of the limelight, pressure and worst of all, money that comes into their lives. But it's any pro athlete's responsibility to know that if you have family and a life that you wish to protect... you have to do everything within your power and resources to do so. That means maybe not living near the same hood or rough neighborhood that you grew up near. Yes, he has the liberty to do so, but your name or money is never going to keep people at bay that have nothing to lose, like burglers or robbers or even murderers. If you look at black icons like Jay-Z or 50 Cent... they had come from very low-income, poor projects within NYC to lead music and pop culture into this century. But you ask them if they would have still lived in Bedford-Stuyvestant, Brooklyn or South Jamaica, Queens with their new found fame and money, I don't think they would have had to think twice about it. They got the fuck out.
I'm agreeing with Wilbon and Whitlock that being black, young, famous and desirable in America is not only a lifestyle many seek, but often times hard to be. At least it seems that way from where I'm sitting. As a father, future husband, provider and role model, he owes it to himself and other people to be as much of a noble professional as possible, representing black people in the best of his ability.
But the tragedy of Sean Taylor isn't going to be the first or the last of its kind. That means there's still lessons to be learned.

Sean Taylor 1983-2007

The Giving Hoop.

Nostalgia always strikes when you least expect it sometimes. Sometimes, just whiffing an old smell or seeing someone in a crowd that jogs your memory will send you back into the musty, stagnent archives of memories that helped make you the person you truly are. For me, I got struck last night as I came up with the bright idea of playing basketball outside at the park in the 40 degree weather. Also, the court lights were out, so, all I had to guide by was the overhead softball field lights. I'm not sure if it was the solitude, or the dim lighting but I started to mimic all the same shots and routines that my driveway hosted for the largest chunk of my life.

My basketball hoop, that sits perched on it's aged stem on the bank of my father's driveway. To even try and count the hours I spent playing games or two-on-two or HORSE with anyone who would give me the time of day would be impossible. Even before the house in Campville, that came from my parent's divorce, that basketball hoop had a spot in the backyard after it was given to me for my 7th or 8th birthday (sorry, the memory is faded). My dad showed me how to shoot, despite the fact I could barely heave a full-size ball far enough to NOT call it a layup. I make myself laugh as the court didn't even have pavement, but worn grass and a giant tree stump that was my favorite spot to shoot from.

Fast forwarding to the previous timeframe, during my teenage years I used to practice trick shots, free throws and of course, since Dad upgrade to the adjustable setting pole, we could DUNK like any superstar that wore Nike's from 1991-1995. I would even spend the first few snowfalls shoveling the driveway just so I could practice out there, layed up like an onion in sweatshirts and thermal underwear. Come to think of it, if that backboard had eyes and a soul, it would have seen me at my happiest with all my childhood friends, screaming for the ball and stretching our nights of play into prime-time groundings from our parents. It also would have seen me when I was isolated and distant... just looking for the immediate satisfaction of a ball going through a hoop that I had done a thousand times. Maybe it was the consistency and knowing that each time I did it, no matter how creative or difficult, it always ended with the same goal: the ball going through the rim.

As seasons pass and generations of siblings, neighborhood kids that grew up together, my sister's high school basketball career, the one-on-one games my dad punished me with to show me fundamentals and values... all these have come and gone. You see the hoop now, caroded and weathered from lack of attention and care. In a crying manner, streaks of rust run down the backboard from the screws that once supported a childhood. The fresh black paint on the pole has turned to a shade of grey that mirrors many a cloud that roamed overhead. It sits perched over the driveway, tired and beaten. The only means of light for years was a lamppost on our driveway corner that never had a bright enough bulb in it. Now that tarnished lamppost sits with missing panes of glass from reckless basketball games of old as it too rests next to the hoop; two retired veterens who speak of their hayday, starting every sentence with "Those were the days...".

Much the same way author Shel Silverstein wrote of "The Giving Tree" and how it spent its life helping a boy become a man who became an elder and eventually had only it's stump for him to rest his old body on. I never really considered how that hoop was there everyday for decades; watching me get on and off the bus, drive my first car, bring home tons of shit from college every year and watching me pull in the driveway on the rarest of occasions now.

So, as I shot in the dark at Cantiague Park last night, somewhere between here and yesteryear, I was rewinded to my own giving tree that will be waiting for me when I get home this Thanksgiving.

Happy Halloweener

Well, another year in the books. Plus, a few more million brain cells killed due to binge drinking and the bar continues to be raised by my friends with their costume creativity. Even though it's not till Wednesday, the celebrating for Halloween was done on Sat. night in Wantagh.
Pee Wee Herman, the Flintstones, a blow-up doll and pretty much anything else that involves showing skin for women and showing no dignity for guys was worn. But I would like to thank Kim and Keefer who hosted it and everyone else who added to the debauchery. See for yourself...

Use a #2 on the sides and blend it as you go up...

Sometimes a compliment or random act of kindness can turn around a piss-poor day. Even just treating yourself to a favorite meal or reading in the park during an hour-long lunch can turn anyone's attitude and highlight the week. For me, I love getting a haircut. Yes, the clippers and scissors to the scalp, followed by a nice rinse create a rebirth that I'm kept, sharp and finally presentable for the first time in weeks. Seriously, nothing puts a smile on my face like a well-orchestrated trimming.
However, the polar opposite can have the same identical backlash, as someone who butchers my head will make me feel like the Hunchback of Notre Dame; squatting and shying away from anyone who dares to look at me. Not only does the burden of ugly grooming curdle my day, but also the fact that 20 bucks (always $17 plus tip) was spent to someone that didn't care to if my head looked like Kid or Play.


Anyways, in recent months, I'd been disappointed time and time again as each haircut (all purchased at Supercuts) continually grew worse. I stuck with one lady most of the last year, and then I bounced from one after another until my last Supercut resulted in me coming home and FINISHING THE HAIRCUT MYSELF.
So, this past Tuesday, I took it upon myself to find someone without a trademarked sign and some steady-handed clippers who qualified to operate on my flowing black locks. "Nicks Barber Shop." I was approached by a dark-haired, well-aged woman who screamed of spanish features and she took me right away. Sat me down, asked for my instructions and proceeded to break the ice with me and my overgrown hair.
Fast forward 50 minutes later, and with 20+years of experience behind her guided hand, she got every last short hair and edged every side of my fauxhawk. Mint. I was really impressed. The she put a headrest on the retro-adjustable barber's chair and told me to lay back. I didn't argue because she already won my trust with the haircut. She then sprinkled some cologne-esque liquid on my profile and proceeded to massage my forehead and cheeks. Obviously, I'm nearly unconscious at this point because of the royal treatment. Just when I was about to prop my posture and get ready to leave... she whipped a hot towel from the sink basin and wrapped it on my face for two minutes, that could have fooled me for 2 hours.

"How does that feel?"

"Um... amazing. Best haircut ever."

How much would something like this cost, in all the places like Long Island, and how many mortgages do I have to sign to begin payment?

"16$."

For the best haircut I've ever had?... keep the $20. I'm having a good day.

Have a nice trip, See ya next fall.

Finally. I think it's almost safe to pull the covers from over my head and peer out. The leaves are starting to change, the air has that crisp bite to it, and baseball playoffs are here. Oh yes, Virginia. It's definitely Fall.

Big deal your probably saying, because everyone waves at the smokescreen that is the current season, knowing that the brick wall known as Winter is waiting in the background, post-Thanksgiving.

For me, I had a very cool, calm, collective weekend and really enjoyed just how friendly the weather was. I am one of the minority that really gets tired of summer because of the intense humidity, served with a healthy portion of unnecessary perspiration. Also, there's just a decadence of food that comes with the Fall... a majority of it apple and pumpkin based.

I know this entry sounds pointless and mundane, but I think people just get busy with preparing for the upcoming holidays (e.g. Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas) as Fall gets swept under the rug and takes a brunt of the grumbling that we dish out for using our oil heat or scraping frost off the car windshield.

Do yourself a favor and do something you haven't done in years or maybe never, like go apple picking. Or make a day to the pumpkin patch. Even rake some leaves and/or if your outside city limits, have a late-night campfire that people can hang out at. If you really wanna get specific, go look into the local haunted house/scarefest and grab a group of friends who especially have nothing to do. Sadly, I know I won't be able to do all these things because of my work schedule and new home in Long Island. But as long as someone else is taking my place and enjoying the weather, then I'm happy.

Sorry guys, I know this blog doesn't have much substance, but I was thinking how nice it would be to do these things this weekend. Guess having a blog and free time isn't always the greatest combo...

End of my rope...

Before you read today's post, you should probably get caught up to speed if your life consists of being under a boulder in the middle of some desert... you know, the one where a half a human skull sticks out of the sand and a buzzard is perched on it.

As I was checking my e-mail this morning, I saw the unfortunate headline of a Columbia University professor who's door was home to a noose that was anonymously placed there. The broad focus is that people can't believe in such a diverse place like Manhattan, or the upper west end for that matter, being home to a racist hate crime.

Jog back a number of weeks to another headline that you should have at least gandered at. The Jena Six court trial, that made nooses back in fashion, has fueled a new term of endearment to the Ivy League happening. "Jena at Columbia." Of course, the usual recoil of student protests, instant e-mails regarding the situation and vague answers from the school president and faculty followed. Even a friend of mine who attends the college said it was pretty awful how the campus felt today. Like a cat stroked against the fur. Irritated, coarse, unsettling.

I guess my POV comes in that it's a damn shame it happened. But it's also a shame that people feel like they're outraged by such a thing. In the realm that people want to know if it was a fellow professor... a grad assistant... a random freshman... even the night janitor, I doubt they will ever find out. Even the other events that have reared their ugly head this year on the school's campus, showed that hate and division are not parked on the other side of Morningside Park.

Whoever the culprit is, obviously has an opinion that was meant to be heard nationwide. But that person also is a pure coward, through and through. A mousey, slithering imp that wanted to let a piece of rope speak instead of personally calling the professor a "nigger" to her face. I'm not antagonizing that people should use that kind of slur, but whenever you heard of burning crosses left in yards, or tagged/spray painted buildings that no one would take ownership to it, it's a display of the utmost cowardice.

So, pray tell, what is the answer? I personally don't know if there is a real answer. I mean, you can propose cameras in all the halls... rooms... offices... dorms... maybe increase police patroling? All those things sound like one more step towards becoming cell block D at 'singsing. So, when the dust settles, who wins in the end? People who were made aware of the mayhem at Columbia and want to prevent any future hate crimes? Maybe someone read into the Jena Six case as a result of hearing the Columbia nickname and they want to help below the Mason/Dixon? Or is there a person out there that can cut out the headlines and smile when they're on the subway, or even pass by you on a stroll through Central Park with a friendly gesture because they stirred up a campus, city and country for a hot second without even saying a single word.

Since I don't think there's a 100%, fill-in-the-blank answer to the situation, I propose that we all just keep trying to be nice to each other and use our mouths to voice how wrong something like this is. The more we talk about it and keep it as common knowledge, the more that infects people into knowing and believing it.

The irony lies in that Columbia's mascot is the Lions. A courageous, vocal, proud animal that stakes it's claim and rules until the day it dies. The speechless mouse can have his fun for now...

Isn't it time for Arby's?

"Can I help you?"

"Yeahhh... uh... Number four please. Make it big. You know... bigger."

"Is that all?"

"Yeah."

"For here or to go?"

"For here please."

"Your total is $7.03"

(Money exchanged, cue the intermission while my tray is being stacked with napkins, arby sauce, an oil tanker of carbination with corn syrup and what looks like a half gallon of milk, but there's no top and curly fries are crawling out of it.)

"Anything else sir?"

"No, I'm good."

"Have a good night sir."

"Thanks."

Another senseless, unthoughtful dinner in the books. Welcome to my Tuesday night. Please pull up to the second window...

Don't they all eat cats?

Well, I've finally lost my last strand of patience with myspace and it's spam-filled cyber-annoyance that fills my inbox and really keeps me from wanting to write in the blog often. So, to take matters into my own hands, I took on the alias "Bloggish McBloggerson" and am going to start reporting for duty here.

Now to the meat of the meal. I will start this post with some real shit. I mean, tangible, real-world, cross-culture shit. The fabric that really makes Oprah's shot successful day-in-day-out. Starting with FINALLY having a parent/blood relative visit me in Long Island this past weekend. My mom and stepdad, Tom, made the dissent downstate to deliver some long-distance love, groceries and to partake in the annual Korean-American Parade Day in Manhattan on Saturday. For the 27th time, thousands of Koreans and non-Koreans gathered for food, entertainment, and unexpectedly hot weather.

But somewhere in the first 15-20 min. of the parade, my family and I lined 32nd and Broadway with all the spectators. I looked down at my mom who was covering her mouth and turning away from parade, as if she had a nosebleed. However, she was actually crying and for a few moments, she realized this slice of Korea that was transplanted in mid-town NYC was too close to the real deal. The people, the camaraderie, the urban closure and business-as-usual attitude of everyone there but with only Korean spoken drove my mom to tears. As the parade marched on for an hour and a half, everyone from R.O.K (Republic of Korea) veterans of foreign wars, local high schools/academies, even the Korean members of the NYPD were all equally represented because they belonged. There was no standard to age, as seniors walked the 20 block distance, often proudly strutting hand-in-hand with toddlers and children who only knew to wave back to the crowds. And the drums? Oh, the traditional attire and dancing that came with one drum corps after another... it was almost too much stimulation. Just the colors and movements that made people clap insatiably, waiving their paper American and Korean flags. I finally realized something that I might have pushed into my mental subconscious closet for 28 long years; packed away because I never thought it was a part of my life or identity.

Being Korean means a lot. In New York, even more.

For as long as I can recall, I've always made jokes about being half Korean, half white (And yes, in my world, you can use the term white without stepping on toes). Whether its cause it makes for an easy ice breaker with strangers in a party or people see the contrast in my height with a shorter asian race, I really wanted nothing more in my life than to be as un-Korean as possible. Just like any other ethnicity, there is unkind stereotypes that always came with being Asian-American:

"Don't they all eat cats? Or they all know kung-fu? Why do they all work in nail salons and of course, all the women love sucky-sucky. I know all those guys have small dicks... or you can say whatever you want to them cause they don't fight back. They're all pussies."

I realize that stereotypes are often rumors and misnomers that are created because of ignorance. But the whole point of this blog entry lies in what I saw this past weekend and how there wasn't any division among people within a culture, but even more so, the backbone of BEING a Korean-American lies in celebration, pride, respect and how you have the best of both worlds. I have been neglecting a very huge part of who I am for so long because I thought it only came with baggage that I didn't want. But being a second-generation Korean-American bears so much more history and depth than the U.S. can even begin to offer.

I'm referring to thousands of years of culture, folklore, food, traditions, holidays and respect. There is such a high standard that comes with being a Korean-American, and it's always seen when you cross someone who is also the same. I also believe that in the Korean way of life, just as things are here in the U.S., the pace of society and how one generation's norms and status quos change the next at such a rapid rate these days makes for an impromptu understanding of something "old school" and "new school." But when I was hugged by a elderly man and his wife during the parade this weekend and he said it in the poorest annunciation, "I love you, I love you. Korea! Korea!" he knew that what we were a part of is what allows us to embrace as strangers, but still be bound by a common bond of sharing Korean tradition in this wonderful American country.

To wrap it up, I don't want people to think that I'm going to start eating my morning cereal with chopsticks or wearing traditional gowns instead of polo shirts. You won't even find me standing on a soapbox, preaching about how awesome Hyundai cars are. But I felt ashamed on 32nd Street at that decisive moment, that I host myself to jokes and VALIDATE that each one will someday lead me to a perfect world where I won't be judged on my straight black hair and narrow eyes because being Korean isn't serious. Instead, I'll still keep my sense of humor, but personally I want to learn more about how I got to be who I am. When I meet/greet other Koreans, i want to be able to speak to them just as well as any other person can in English or try to someday see South Korea for myself so I can see what made my mom want to leave 30 years ago, but also, what makes her cry when she's reminded of it.



Kings used to roll in this kind of entourage.



R.O.K. Veterans who served in foreign wars.



Traditional musicians marching down Broadway.