Fie, fie to obvious questions!

I don't believe in favorites.

Correct me if I'm wrong, but favorites, to me, implies that you will always choose that favorite thing over everything else. And I'm just not like that.

The most irksome comment I hear from people when you choose something unexpected is "But that one's your favorite!" What's wrong with liking things equally? Why is it, as humans, we must place everything on a vertical hierarchy?

I like variety in my life. I like trying different things, and I like different things for different reasons. No need to get exasperated by my inability to choose because "favorites" tend to change with mood. I'm simply acknowledging that. You have your way, I have mine.

Restriction may be the kindling of creativity, but it is the bane of imagination.

I do have things that I tend to choose over others. And there are definitely things I like more than others. But Life has taught me that the more I proclaim my favorites, the more evidence I can provide on the contrary.

Now, if you want to know what I take pleasure in more than others, that's a different and much more notable question.

I could only get halfway through "King Kong"

I like kids.

There is something about spending time with kids that reminds you about how simple life can be. If you listen, really pay attention to them and let their hearts sink in, you can see how wonderful water feels caressing your skin or just how awe-inspiring the mechanics of an old carousel is.

I went to the water park with my cousins today. Being so small, they had to wear life jackets. It made it a bit easier to keep track of them, as you didn't spend the whole time worrying whether or not they were going to drown among the many other children. What you did have to do, however, was to bring your patience level. Kids like to do the same thing over and over. They continually delight in the same thing over and over. And over. And over.

This exploit was to ride the current of the river around and around. There were jets that pushed you forward, a purely ecstatic occurrence that happened when the water was churning.

At first, it was annoying. But you agree because you're older and for some reason, the added years mean you are supposed to give up what you want to do for the sake of the little ones. (It's one of the most decisive reasons one doesn't want their own kids just yet.) Then, to keep your sanity, you remind yourself that you used to be like this.

And then you really think: I still do this. I watch movies over because there is always something I missed the last time. Or I think about the message a bit differently and compare what you used to think to what you think now, leading to pondering who you are now from who you used to be. And maybe THAT will help you pinpoint who you want to be a month from now, or three, or even five years from now. Ten years. Twenty.

But let's not get ahead of ourselves.

On our fifth time around, Daphne was on my back, racing her mom and sister. The finish line, unfortunately, was blocked by an older large lady. Pushed by an inner tube, my head struck her ass. In a very noticeable fashion.

It was so horrifying, I couldn't help laughing even after my stomach hurt.

The art of getting lost 2.0

I get a bit confused with a GPS. Without it, though, I'm a complete mess.

I should disclaim this segment with a little factoid about driving in America. In Texas, we have these convenient little roads by the highway called "feeders" that "feed" you onto the highway. They are also known as access roads, frontage roads, and what-have-you; each region has their own name. That is, each region that HAS them in the first place.

For a person who has grown up driving with feeders that allow you to u-turn underneath highways when you go the wrong direction, not having feeders is...not easy. Having to drive on freeways that form clovers, however, is just an exercise in validating the 8th amendment's existence. Needless to say, freeways are not so well marked for your average non-Virginia/DC/Maryland-er.

Which is my explanation for how a 15 minute ride home turned into 2 hour debaucle depositing me in Accokeek, MD, where the first sign of civilization I saw was the B&D Tavern, which touts the coldest beer in the area (where there are no other bars).

It's okay, though, because inside this peopled oasis was a taxi driver who gave excellent, if somewhat patronizing directions (which I welcomed at this point), and a subsequent game of pool with him and his friend, Omar. Omar enjoys this place so much he drives 30 minutes out of his way to be there (he used to live in the area). Everyone there knew each other, probably better than their families waiting for them at home. There were 3 pristine pool tables and a room full of ye-olde computers with which to play things like poker and trivia with pixels the size of your fist. What else could you possibly ask for in a bar?

Sometimes, you just have to get really, really lost before you can find what you are looking for.

Disclaimer: it ain't pretty

There are just some ideas that smack you so hard in the chest it becomes difficult to breathe.

In the past, I've looked over the Grand Canyon, overwhelmed that anything could be that big, and thought about myself, "How could something so small mean anything in this vast, vast world?" I was fifteen. Later, I was to rediscover theatre and realize that, as small and insignificant as a human is, when you put us in a group, we can move something. And something isn't nothing.

Or when I was 11 and noticed that my life's choices probably didn't mean much, as life moved on whether you were prepared or not. I had a bit of a identity crisis at that point, which has since turned into a curious pattern of being able to redefine myself in different environments.

I've gone through the phase where I thought that everything I've ever believed in is wrong, and I've done the "whatever I do, it doesn't matter, nothing really matters" moments. I won't bore you with details. Suffice to settle the scores with the simple fact that I've come out of these mind-f**ks altered, and yet the same.

Now, living with the presence of a happy couple who has shared over 50 years of their lives together, I wonder, when did I stop believing in love? Did I ever?

As a child of divorced parents, I got a first-hand account of how love between a couple can fail. I've watched it fail parents, I've seen it fail siblings, I've felt it fail friends. Lord only knows I've failed it and it has failed me. So why do we trust in this concept that continues to fail us? Why do we hope for better when precious few of us have ever seen, much less experienced, it succeed? What am I missing?

The subtext to all this is that as of late I have reason to believe that, while it's no picnic, it does have a way of existing in a strange, inexplicable way.

Cognitive dissonance all over the floor!

Grrrog!

I was out with buddy Whitney last night, who was in tune enough to take me to the local pirate bar. Kitsch doesn't begin to cover it. With flags on the ceilings and skeletons and swords and olde maps on the walls, it looked like a dressed up storage facility for the Renaissance Fair. There was even, I kid you not, a fully garbed pirate, complete with an eye patch sitting atop his pirate 3-corner hat. I think there was a feather involved.

Sitting outside with some cheap grog (pirate's ale, definitely worth the money if you're looking for a reeling good time), the discussion of what one puts one's faith in came up. Whit had a customer the previous week ask her what she put her faith in. She replied, with a bit of trepidation, that she didn't believe in religion.

"That's not what I asked," he said. "I asked what you put your faith in."

Now THAT'S an interesting question. She has come to the conclusion that she believes in art; the ability to look at a sculpture or painting or what-have-you and see something personal, something inside your soul, at any given moment. She can explain better than I can.

I, on the other hand, have since worked out that I believe in (da-da-da-dah!): Narrative. I believe in stories, in metaphors, in comparing something to another and linking them with yourself. I believe in books, episodic TV, films, theatre, people's ideas in written form. I believe that all these things come together to help you understand the world a bit better. Or at least, manifestations of the world through the eyes of different perspectives. How you see the story, what you take away from it, is yours and yours alone.

There may be nothing new under the sun, but there's always that rock that no one has looked underneath yet.

The art of getting lost

Today, I set out for the local library with my trusty GPS system. I ended up at a park. It's official - I am so bad with directions, a GPS can't even help me.

But that's another blog. Because I'm rightly glad I stumbled upon this Great Falls Grange Park. The last two vehicles had just left the parking lot, leaving this land of wonder deserted. Up I went on a slide, which, incidentally, is not a good idea in flip flops, according to my right knee. Ah well, that's why they get caps.

Down the slide awaited the the pearl of all playgrounds, by which I judge such monuments: four light plastic swings. For 26 years, swings have been the pinnacle of any playground experience. The perfect swing is set just high enough from the ground to drag the toes of your feet and supple enough not to make your butt hurt as you fly through the air. The chains neither pinch your hands nor stand too close to your face, and they are just long enough and free enough to be on the same plane as the bar should the swinger be brave enough.

For just a moment, your problems slide off and you can feel your stomach dance with delight.

There's no remote for life

In Reston, VA, I've gotten a chance to get to hang out with my long-distant cousins. They love Disney. A LOT.

So it has come to pass that I've been catching up on my princesses and Pooh Bear, making sure to fast forward through the "scary" parts. Namely, any scene that looks a little gray - Maleficent from Sleeping Beauty is blackish, some dude from a Barbie movie is a pallid smokey color, they won't even watch Mulan for fear of the unknown. Thus, it becomes not so much about what is going on that is scary, but the color factor. This is best illustrated by the simple observation that the 3 year old loves heffalumps and woozles (for those of you who did not grow up watching the "Many Adventures of Winnie the Pooh," heffalumps are the stuff of Piglet's and Pooh's nightmares, while woozles are just going along for the scary ride). She is not afraid of them because they are colorful. And they dance.

Plus, there's the sweet innocence of knowing that if you don't want to see the bad stuff, you can just have your big cousin fast forward it. Dad's trying to break this habit, "Just hold on to my fingers," but it's Mom who has to spend all day with them.

Oh, to be young again...full stop. I threw away my remote control a loooong time ago.

Lest we forget...

Ok, so admittedly, that last blog was a bit of a cop-out.

Yesterday, I was walking along the Mall, which is the area between the Capitol building and the Washington Monument. By chance I looked up and something occurred to me. With cotton candy clouds against a baby blue backdrop, I couldn't remember the last time I saw that much imposing sky. If I closed my eyes, I could've reached out and touched one of those clouds.

For a moment, it reminded me just how innate our bond is with the earth, how fragile it is, and how much we take it for granted.

No, I'm not really sure how to say what I'm saying. Just do me a favor and look up.

Synthetic Happiness

I've been thinking about this idea a lot lately, found here in this clip:

http://www.ted.com/talks/dan_gilbert_asks_why_are_we_happy.html

Go ahead and watch, this blog will still be here when you get back.

Done? Good. Because I think Glinda (a.k.a. Kristen Chenoweth) captures the essence of what has been bothering me so much about the argument:

"...Getting your dreams,
It's strange, but it seems
A little - well - complicated.
There's a kind of a sort of : cost,
There's a couple of things get: lost;
There are bridges you cross
You didn't know you crossed
Until you've crossed.
And if that joy, that thrill
Doesn't thrill you like you think it will;
Still -
With this perfect finale,
The cheers and ballyhoo,
Who wouldn't be happier?
So I couldn't be happier
Because happy is what happens
When all your dreams come true...
Well, isn't it?"

It makes more sense if you hear how she sings it.

Anyways, it's been on my mind lately.

Though mountains divide and oceans are wide...

Last week, while at a party of a rooftop, I inadvertently won four comped tickets to come back.

So it was that Whitney, Ross and I ended up atop one of the highest points in Rockville, MD. Maybe. We stood for a while regaling stories of Southeast Asia. Like soldiers in a war, our stories are usually "had to have been to that country to find it funny" moments, like funerals hosted by midgets and transvestites or bar girls named "Bobo" or sharing your bus with chickens. Sure, the lead-ins tempt you with excitement, but in order for your eyes not to glaze over, you had to have lived there before.

Collectively, we met a guy named Armando, who called me a squeaky toy and boasted being about to help us out in Nicaragua, Hong Kong and Colombia (the next countries we three respectively set our peepers toward). Then, we added on a guy named Tim, a Vietnamese American who is cousins with a girl whose wedding was attended by Whitney. Also, he knew Whitney's last bosses, Victor and Vincent.

THIS is how small the world is.

Nuoc mam: a briny metaphor for people

When one hears, or smells, the word "fish sauce" there is usually a crinkled nose somewhere. However, for people in the know (who may refer to it as "nuoc mam), their eyes will smile with only a touch of trepidation. In pure form, no one likes going near this stuff. But, when used properly, this smelly, salty, unsavory brown sauce can transform the most humble dish into a mouthwatering masterpiece.

Soup too bland? Put some fish sauce in it. Fried rice too eggy? Put some fish sauce in it. Is your dish missing something? Fish sauce! It is one of life's curious mysteries that a liquid made from salting and fermenting layers of fish would 1) be discovered and 2) be the most important ingredient for Vietnamese cooking. The Thais, Laotians and Khmers like it, too.

The truly unique quality of this stuff is its multifaceted nature. Leave it alone and it is like Lot's wife (i.e. salt pillar). Cook it and it becomes sweet or savory. Mix it with lemon and sugar, and it becomes a delicious dipping sauce. Marinate with it. Stir fry with it. Dump it over noodles or meats or vegetables. Use it boldly or go for a most subtle flavor.

Either way, while cooking with my grandmother, I learn: this stuff fixes everything. Not too shabby for something people fear when they don't know any better.

Just don't get any on your clothes.

Washington D.C. and Co.

I have now been in the U.S. for two months. I came back on May 4 from a three year adventure in Asia. Two months in, I still miss the other side of the world.

I'm currently sleeping in and around Washington D.C. Houston was nice because I had lot of family and friends to see, but it was still Houston. I tried to leave Houston for 18 years, and even the idea of going back causes elevated stress levels. There are just some places, no matter how gussied up with amenities and perks (free rent, run of a big kitchen, good old friends), that don't speak to you. They don't inspire your soul or spark your spirit. Rather, they are a marker to remind you of where you've been, to help you take stock of how far you've come, and to push you into your next adventure.

So I flitted off to D.C. for a spell. So far, it's pretty eye-opening. I've been delving into long-held family secrets, finally putting a very tumultuous chapter of my life to rest. The chapter of finding out where I come from started three years ago in Saigon and has ended up in Virginia. I am learning something new everyday, still, but the big ones are being laid to rest.

Like how poverty and war and separateness do not doom a marriage. Resentment, lies, and power struggles do. Or how it's not about what you're fighting about, but how you dealt with the other person that really matters. And sometimes getting what you want may not be a good thing; while other times, it's everything. You just never know with the future.

On a different note, friends from Vietnam have found their way to D.C. and it's nice to see someone smile while they are encouraging my wanderlust behavior. After all, they're nurturing their own.

Freedom comes with Wheels

Today is Independence Day. Today is the day that a bunch of guys got together and decided to lay out all their grievances and declare that they weren't going to take it anymore.

So the rhetoric goes. Really, they just didn't want to argue with someone thousands of miles away. And they didn't want to pay taxes to England.

Today, I helped paint my cousin's room (which is very apparent from all the light pink paint branded on my feet), had dinner with my family in northern Virginia and shot off some very tame fireworks. Little kids' ears, you know. After all this, I was exhausted. I no longer wanted to go out or do anything.

Enter one Ross Tabak, who called with one irresistible proposition: ride around the D.C. on a motorcycle? I threw in a "Let's go see Whitney, our ever-grumbling waitress friend, at her work."

And done.

There is something about riding around freely on a motorcycle in our nation's capital on our day of declaring our independence. The wind is on your face. Hundreds of cars are either staring at you in a mix of wonderment and resentment or trying to avoid killing you (but usually both). People shooting fireworks off in the street stop to look. Some even comment out loud.

There's just nothing like it. Freedom, it seems, is not feeling boxed in by a metal frame or four walls. Freedom is the ability to purchase a mode of transportation to take you anywhere your heart desires. It may not be pretty, it can sometimes get lonely. But it gets the feeling done.

And having like-minded souls to join you in your endeavours? Well that's just swell.