ScribblePOP 3.0

1. learn French.

2. shave head.

3. design t-shirts.

4. read read read.

5. write write write.

6. party.

When I was in third grade, I used to stand next to my homeroom teacher, Mrs. Wong, during every recess. I jabbered on about my thoughts and my minuscule world of adventures. Words flowed out of my mouth endlessly until Mrs. Wong would peer over at me, lower her glasses, and with an exasperated smile, ask me to leave her alone so she could grade papers.

I was a very eager and happy child.

My best friend in High School, Yanfei, was a quiet and sweet girl. She giggled at little jokes, connected with everyone across class (High School paradigm and the real world), and was just all-around a NICE girl. Every night, we would spend hours on the phone…our conversations usually went in the veins of this:

Me: “How is it going?”

Y: “It’s going okay. And you?”

Me: “Let me talk about myself for the remaining 99% of the conversation, where you gladly listen to me, until I realize how self-absorbed I am, apologize, and get pardoned by you.”

My father passed away when I was 18. This silenced me quite a bit. There was very little to say about the matter. And for a year, Yanfei had a much better time with college than I did. I couldn’t stand my old friends’ happiness in light of my misery. I couldn’t make new friends, either.

Then I found filmmaking. Shooting a story reconnected me with the outside world. It gave me back the control I lost. Most importantly, it gave me a reason to make anything – an audience. Except now, unlike Mrs. Wong and Yanfei, I consider an audience a luxury, a good-fortune, a gift from the divine. It is precious mind time taken from others, who are busy with their own life experiences, with stories to tell of their own.

But I also realize, with great help from recent loss, that I thrive on that audience, that reception, that feedback. That is where anything I do gain meaning. It’s a pretty post-modernist art way of considering work. Creation is love, love must be shared, otherwise, what is the point, really?

This mode of thinking renders several living scenarios unimaginable:

1. Solitary confinement.

2. Bomb shelter

3. Desert island.

4. The beach. Everything is vast, and never bounces back. Unimaginable after 3 hours.

is how I cope.

1. Browse through all new themes online.

2. Download as many choice themes as possible.

3. Apply every theme.

4. Realize that WordPress has updated itself, yet again. Update WordPress.

5. Resume applying new themes.

6. Struggle with new post. No avail.

7. Continue to browse, download, and apply new themes.

8. Finally, something sparks. And it’s this pointless list. I guess I’m stuck with this theme for a while. It will be mustard yellow soon.

I was in grad school. I was in Taipei. I was with my mother. She wanted me to live at home with her and commute to school. I refused and moved into the dorms. The dorm was sun drenched and very large. There were at least 8 people living in there. Someone made a lot of pies in the kitchen. I arrived at my bed, which was a mess. I also found two freshmen rummaging through my belongings. One of them, a scrawny Asian girl, held up a piece of post-it note with a signature and a string of monetary numbers of it and said “he died recently!” It was an autograph by a close friend of mine, a recently diseased actor from Slumdog Millionaire. I tried to get the post-it back from her, but couldn’t.

Cut to the inside of a train car. The train car was very minimal. It was uniformly painted dark brown, lined with benches. I saw Jo, a friend from High School, in a bonnet and a black dress, sitting at the far corner. She smiled at me. The conductor announced over the PA system that our train car was to be disconnected from the other two ahead of us, that it had to do a turn, and that the passengers had the choice to stay on or get off. Otherwise, we could also ponder over the giant cat graffiti at the station (a Chris Marker reference, a cat labeled Chat). Most passengers left. I stayed. The roof of the train car was lifted off as the car started to turn. It was a misty cold day in the 1920s, somewhere in the South of France. The car turned. Jo got up and ran across the tracks, paved with pebble stones. She climbs onto the platform on the other side and enters a cafe, where a young man was sitting at the door. The cafe was called “Gingersticks Cafe.”

I sat in the car as it pulled into a roofed station. Across from me sat Maralie, a friend from RISD, and an mature professor-like man. Maralie ran off, there was a girl sitting next to me (but I can’t remember who she is). Maralie ran back, excited, said “there’s a painting over there by the 1600’s painter Janice *something*…”

I woke up.

I went to watch Sasha Baron Cohen in Bruno Friday night at BAM (Brooklyn Academy of Music).

I was skeptical before going. I did not enjoy Borat nearly as much as the rest of the world. There is a fine line that Cohen toes between subversive comedy and negative attack, and for someone who is more drawn to dramatic films and a more subtle sense of humor (the British would called it witty), I found Borat quick to bore, schticky with the same trick performed ad nauseam.

But I wanted to check out Bruno. I know that now he’s toeing against a very sensitive and personal line for me with the portrayal of a flamboyantly gay character. I wanted to see if he can pull it off.

It’s a little difficult to review this film, I have to confess – since the meat of it cannot be described by traditional cinematic tropes. In short, it’s a journey film. Bruno loses his popularity with his character flaw – his eccentric, illogical flair outcasts him from the fashion world in Europe. To reestablish his place in the world, he travels to America and fights for fame. The trials and tribulations that ensue push him down a spiral, until he is faced with the ultimate challenge, the changing of his gay identity. And of course, despite the temptation of fame and social acceptance, his identity triumphs in a farcical but glorious slow-mo sequence. The audience cheer.

It shouldn’t surprise anyone that Bruno’s character hyperbolizes gay stereotypes. Nor is it news that during his quest for fame, he manages to confront and offend Asians, African Americans, Africa, Terrorists (?!), Hillbillies, Army Men, Women, Hollywood Parents…some of these offenses are jabs at our cultural exotification of marginal groups, our fears of outsiders, and our adherence to institutions, some makes us question how the character made it out of these meetings alive during filming. We all knew what we were in for before we stepped into the theatre, those were the promised laughs for which we paid 10+ dollars. So let’s go back to the gay issue.

It would’ve been difference had Bruno been straight. It would’ve been different he had ever caused harm to anyone by being gay. It would’ve been different if there existed any gay character in the film that was an antagonistic force against our hero’s quest. But no. Bruno is unapologetically himself. With the many ill judgments he makes throughout the film, may it be the velcro jumpsuit that destroys his career in Austria or the shipping of a swapped African baby via airplane check-in luggage, he never used uses his homosexuality as a point of exotification, nor can he abandon it to get to that final goal of fame and success. It is the one thing that he holds as the core of his identity. With the ending, it is easy to see the film’s point of view on what is the most pivotal topic surrounding gay politics – that it is not a choice. I enjoyed this film tremendously.

So, lighten up, GLAAD.

Being a good (and fast) cook is definitely one of them.

Scapes have been huge around the city – lots of garlicky greens, actually. I’ve been addicted to them. Here’s a little pasta I whipped up with a whole clove of Rocambole (a variety of garlic). And plus some other things…with hand-made pasta. Ben came over and had lunch with me.

I’ve designed a few shirts to promote COLAB, the new design laboratory over at Syracuse University. The shirts are meant to attract attention, not necessary carry the most orthodox function of “here’s the logo and I’m wearing it to represent.” The designs, in turn, are only peripherally relevant to the organization, their relationships with it more perplexing than obvious.

On organic heather blend

In Detail

We tested this one out first because I wanted to do a discharge on a blend – which, since discharge is a bleaching ink, can be unpredictable (compared to 100% cotton fabrics). We tested it on several different fabrications, in case the heather blend did not work. Sure, the organic 100% cottons came out crisp, white, and contrasty, but the blend has a vintage, semi-worn out quality that hints this new shirt 30 years of history and street life. How cool is that?

I know. There is no Illustration today. It’s been a pretty full day (had insomnia, woke up and hop the train to Huntington to get my missing tooth replaced, then followed by work and meeting). No excuse, though. Maybe I will post 2 tomorrow.

Copping out a little bit with a self-portrait. My fake front tooth fell out this past Friday while I was watching a tennis match. Granted, it was already fake (a goofy accident 5 years ago in Prague was responsible for its initial damage). The tooth snapped off where it originally did. Thankfully, it was already root-canal-ed, and I was spared the pain.

I walked around New York City like a pirate this entire weekend, and can’t say it didn’t make me feel extremely self-conscious, even embarrassed. The dentist squeezed me into his schedule tomorrow. Downside? I don’t have dental insurance. All part of perks of being a freelancer.

Here is my only voluntarily posted visual evidence of the missing tooth.