faulty vision

The Guy was sick during the first week of December, a minor illness that took him out of the hamster ball of work for a grand total of two days. It goes without saying that shortly after he recovered, my tender solicitude for his well-being and every comfort was punished by contagion: thus, an entire week went by in which I managed exactly three hours of face time in the office.

Three poorly chosen hours, as it happened. The strain of coming into the office and facing the purple monkeys initiated a vicious relapse, which sent me back to my bed for another three days.

Things I did while I was sick:

1. Watch West Wing Season 2, half of West Wing Season 3, Fellowship of the Ring, Blade, and the first half of Pride & Prejudice BBC.
   
2. Read American Gods by Neil Gaiman, Sunshine by Robin McKinley, Monstrous Regiment and Interesting Times by Terry Pratchett, an innumerable list of books by Georgette Hayer, Rumpole and the Primrose Path by John Mortimer, several Agatha Christies, King Hereafter by Dorothy Dunnett.
   
3. Eat instant soup.
   
4. Drool.
   
5. Cough.
   
6. Clean drool and instant soup from kitchen floor.
   
7. Whine.
   
8. Daydream about jabbing Bush with the business end of an empty flu vaccine syringe.
   

I didn’t get the flu vaccine, which seems — in retrospect — to have been a bad idea. Then again, a few months ago they were saying in the news that the federal government was asking people not to get the flu vaccine unless you were over the age of 206, due to critical national shortages. Why I should have chosen this particular moment to attend to an announcement from a government I loathe and disrespect, I have no idea. All I know is, that’s the first time I’ve done anything Dubya asked, and look how well that turned out. We’ll be revisiting this subject come tax time, President Wanker.

“Give me your money.”

“Say you’re sorry first.”

In the 2nd grade, I played Lucy in my class production of You’re A Good Man, Charlie Brown.

My memories of the occasion are vague; however, I seem to recall that our teacher asked for volunteers to play Lucy, and the entire class shouted my name. It was a unanimous decision on the part of my classmates. Apparently, even at that early age, I projected the right degree of menace to play the neighborhood bully. At the age of 6, I was already being typecast. This is the sort of thing that scars one for life.

Children that age don’t really understand the concept of acting. Given a character, they instantly select the person who already best fits the role. I was, it seems, a formidable 6 year old. Personally, I thought I was better suited for the role of Schroeder,

I’ve only had three brushes with the theater as anything other than an audience member. Drama as a subject has never seriously interested me; in my youth I was something of a drama queen, but then, most children are. Drama queens are, by nature, self-serving and self-engrossed: narcissists in the most annoying sense, but even in a sea of irritation there is variation. On the one hand, you have drama queens who prefer to hoard their angst by making private exhibitions of themselves to their closest and most martyred friends. This is the stuff that I was made of. On the other hand, you have generous drama queens, who prefer to share the blazing pimple-riddled pestilence of their personalities with the world.

This is the stuff that my high school drama class was made of.

In my senior year, I found myself one class short in my fine arts requirements. At 16 years old, I’d been playing piano for 13 years, performed with the Berlin Symphony, toured the US for 6 years doing concerts, performed in NHK Hall, Japan, was a member of a semi-professional piano trio–

–and I was one class short in my fine arts requirement. The public school system in America is baffling. This is how I ended up playing the piano in my high school’s production of Grease, my third brush with dramatic greatness.

It was all very embittering. I do not care to revisit that memory. Let us just say that your average American high school is not a hotbed of talent.

Moving on.

My second experience with theatrical stardom was in middle school, when I was (for whatever reason) inspired to audition for the local theatrical production of Ozma of Oz. I auditioned for Ozma.

I landed the part of a Munchkin. Hindsight suggests I would’ve made a great Belinda the Chicken. Opportunities missed. (Alas.)

This brief fling with the great stage was notable for three things.

1. I was an adorable Munchkin. Bite me.
   
2. I had a single line: “Oh, no!” I imbued that line with a pathos unmatched by your most tragic Shakespearean character actor. They took it away from me and gave it to someone else. I was devastated.
   
3. I got back at the director by falling down on opening night and squashing my hat. In fact, people still remember my stunning performance as the last Marx Brother. “Remember when I was in Ozma of Oz?” “Oh yeah. You were that smurf that fell down.” Which just goes to show you that some lights can’t be hidden.
   

My mother had to make my costume. She did so without much complaint, an act of self-restraint which she compensated for by inserting commentary instead. “This is a very big hat,” for instance. “You have a very big head.”

“Why does the big hat fall off your big head? We will have to staple it on.”

“Are you wearing underpants? Make sure you wear underpants. This costume does not have a bottom.”

“Don’t make the other children cry. It is very rude.”

“What did I tell you about making the other children cry?”

“Your legs are so round. It is so cute!”

“This is very much work. I am very glad you are not the chicken. I think it would be very difficult to make a chicken costume.”

“That girl looks very nice in the chicken costume.”

“For Halloween this year I think you should be a chicken.”

“Ask the nice chicken girl if you can borrow her costume.”

“Please do not sit on your hat, Yuhri. It is very fragile and pointy.”

You get the idea.

We’re headed to Seattle tomorrow night for a week-long visit. Wish me luck. I leave you with the following: a picture of my sister climbing a cliff in Joshua Tree. Please note the pink spangled leotard she’s wearing. And the … other thing.

“Why’re you wearing a pink tutu?”

“I was depressed.”

Note: I have been suffering from spammers in my comments lately, an intensely irritating assault by texas casinos and ‘online gaming!’ which has bombarded all of my comment-enabled posts. IP banning will not work, as they seem to be spoofing any number of unrelated IPs. To add insult to injury, they seem incapable of spelling their comments right, repeating the same misspelling numerous times in numerous comments.

As a result, I have been forced to close down my comments to approval-only. I apologize for the inconvenience. I’m hoping this will persuade my spammers to go away. Or at the very least, buy a dictionary.

I frequently tell visitors that we live in the ghetto, and though to a certain extent it is meant in jest, the reality is that we do — suspension of belief unnecessary — live in one of the less desirable parts of town. Rent is depreciated where I live, and dog poop replaces concrete as the sidewalk covering of choice; the police maintain a twenty-four hour presence in the area, despite which the residents contrive to give the city a bad name, and the local Safeway puts up a yearly poster reminding people not to fire their guns in the air because Gravity — which actually exists and is therefore not to be confused with Evolution — will make those bullets come back down again.

There are those amongst my friends who will not be convinced. “You have two Starbucks within walking distance,” they say, flatly. “What the hell kind of ghetto is that?”

To which the only reply is that poor ghetto trash need coffee as much as the rich suburb trash, and Starbucks is democratic in its patronage: they will addict anyone, regardless of race, creed, or religion, while always maintaining a minimal povery standard.

We live in a uniquely Silicon Valley ghetto, which perhaps explains the large Whole Foods grocery that opened up just a block away. When I say ‘a block away,’ I mean this in a very literal sense; to get to it, you walk out of my apartment, turn right at the corner, walk down the block, then cross the street and voila! Epicurean delight.

Thus far, Whole Foods is an object of momentous excitement for the neighborhood, which (as a whole) tends to stare longingly at the Mecca of this colossus, without ever coming close enough to risk purchasing something. The rest of the city is not so hesitant. The Guy and I have spent more hours — and cash — than we are really willing to acknowledge in Whole Foods since it opened.

Our ghetto has a gourmet grocery. Only in California. These are the things that excite us when we are older. Grocery stores. The greater the age, the greater the madness.

Consider.

The Guy has a friend from England who has moved to Vancouver, Canada. Christmas for us will be spent in Seattle, which is how it has almost always been; though we are ready and eager enough to ignore the majority of holidays, Christmas has a sentimental value in that it is one of the few times of the year when work offers us time off. It is the Guy’s notion that we should invite his friend down to Seattle to share some of The holidays with us.

Why the Guy should consider this a good idea is a mystery. He has already become acquainted with the Hirata family’s concept of merrymaking. I would feel more sympathy for the as-yet unmet friend if I were not more occupied in bemusement over the Guy’s benevolent delusions about my mother.

“Will your Mom mind?”

Mom didn’t mind. Mom was delighted. Two days after I’d asked for permission — and been granted it, with enthusiasm — she called me at work to tell me about her trip to Whole Foods. “Yuhri, it is so big. You can find so much there! I was so exciting!”

“Excited,” I corrected, absent-mindedly.

“So excited! I liking it–”

“Like it.”

“–like it so much! All day, if I having time, I spending at Whole Foods. You can finding so much! It is so big, you cannot finding anything! So many interest things.”

At some point, even the most enthusiastic linguist will surrender. “I like Whole Foods,” I said.

“And I am thinking,” bubbled Mom, “I will taking Yan’s friend to Whole Foods. He will love it.”

Small pause here. Even for me, this was a little confusing. Seattle has a few tourist sights, many of them famous: Pike Place Market, the Space Needle, Skid Row. Whole Foods is not one that leaps readily to mind.

“Why?”

“There is not being Whole Foods in Canada. He will being so exciting!”

This is debatable.

“Does your friend know what he’s in for?” I asked the Guy. Mom was still chirping happily about Whole Foods when I hung up with her.

“Why?”

“Mom wants to take your friend to Whole Foods.”

“Why?”

“She thinks he’ll find it exciting.”

The Guy opened his mouth — no doubt to ask ‘Why’ again — then closed it. He has known my mother for four years now. Clinging to the illusion of sanity can only carry you so far. “I should probably warn him what he’s walking into,” he supposed.

“Yeah,” I said. “You might want to do that.”

My mother is not the sort of thing you should spring on an unwary person. That’s just cruel. A real friend wouldn’t do that.