Tribute to Hip Hop

One of the assignments in my senior year English class was to define a great work of fiction, and I remember writing it should have something compelling to say about the human condition but should also be an interesting story. The reason is that no matter how profound and original a theme may be (and some themes are better than others), it cannot hit the reader in the heart unless the plot, characterization, and stylistic techniques make it accessible - and worth caring about at all. I think defining great hip hop music is more or less the same. There is the lyrical content (theme), and then the different elements that comprise its presentation (words, flow, delivery, production). The analogy loses some traction here because our ear is naturally better at picking up the way things sound rather than what the sounds mean. How do I know this? When Lil Wayne's "Every Girl" starts playing at the club, get a head count of the girls who leave the dance floor in disgust. None, you say? Not even at the chorus? It happens at Harvard, too. I will always remember the mob of girls at Kid Cudi's performance shouting proudly in unison, "Poke her face!" Our great leaders of the feminist movement are turning in their graves.

Anyway, I have taken some time to look through my favorite hip hop tracks, seeing whether they fit my definition of great hip hop. Some don't, and the ones that do could be better. My reason for liking and disliking a particular track isn't always sufficiently good, either. But who am I to act like a connoisseur of fine hip hop when I have never rapped (more on that later). With no further ado, I present my 20 favorite hip hop tracks of all time, my tribute to a music that has accompanied me in the best and worst of times and a life mentor that has taught me to be brutally honest, appreciative of change and diversity, and proud of who I am. Thank you, hip hop, for helping shape the Min Lee state of mind.

20. Asheru and Blue Black- Theme Music



The two MC's compare themselves to Don Juan and Don Genaro, the two Indian shamans made famous by author Carlos Castaneda. Castaneda alleges to have met these figures who mentored him in an unconventional lifestyle obtaining higher truths using uh, interesting external aid. Anyway, song has a nice Gabriel Marquez vibe. Third verse is horrible.

19. Snoop Dogg- The Next Episode



Have you ever had a sudden urge to buy a bazooka and shoot zombies? What about a sudden urge to hop out of your car and refer to strangers by that word that should never be uttered by non African Americans? Too much swagger in this song for one man and his right hand. Should be considered an adjunct therapy for treating depression.

18. Chali 2NA- Righteous Way



Heartfelt, personal song about parenthood. Makes me try harder to respect my parents.

17. K-OS feat. Fashawn- Sunday Morning



Liquor and shallow relationships can't buy lasting happiness. Song somehow captures the loss of control we feel when we rely on these to compensate.

16. Ice Cube- Today Was a Good Day



Not the most upbeat instrumental considering the title but it's appropriate for the song as a whole. Make sure to give a good day the credit it deserves. Great video with a Kobe cameo.

15. K'naan- Take a Minute



Still not a big fan of K'naan but I dig his humble attitude and optimism here.

14. J-Live- School's In



A tribute to my first black friend who introduced me to underground hip hop. I still remember walking into the Amoeba Store in Hollywood and listening to his scholarly analyses of underground artists down each aisle. That day he picked up an album by J-Live and let me listen to it. Ridiculous flow in this song.

13. Lupe Fiasco- Sunshine



There are surprisingly many hip hop songs about falling in love with strangers. "Sagaba" by Blue Scholars and "Woman With the Tattooed Hands" by Atmosphere, for instance. I think love at first sight is really just projecting our ideal visions of the significant other onto an attractive person and falling in love with those visions but I guess you have to start somewhere. Also, finding love at a club is probably easier if your name is Lupe Fiasco.

12. Murs- 18 w/a Bullet Remix



"You gotta learn your sound and love your voice, go with what you feel, don't regret your choice."

11. Nas- The World is Yours



You can make the argument that Nas's lyrical content is not as deep as Common's or Kweli's but it is a terrible mistake to compare Nas to today's mainstream artists with crappy lyrical content. Because even though themes of sex, drugs, violence, and personal success abound in Nas's music, he sounds a lot cooler than anyone else who talks about them. Kid Cudi says he is on the pursuit of happiness; he doesn't care, his hand on the wheel, driving drunk, doing his thang. Instead, Nas sips the Dom P, watching Gandhi till he's charged, and then writes in his book of rhymes, throbbing like that understandable smooth shit that murderers move with. Drake says he's swimming in money and the listener should come and find him like Nemo. Meanwhile, Nas is profiling wild, stash through the flock wools, burning dollars to light his stove, walking the blocks with a bop, checking Danes plus the games people play, busting the problems of the world today. See the difference?

10. Black Star- Thieves in the Night



Black Star at its best, calling out all that is fake and delusional. Mos Def's verse is probably one of the best standalone verses of all time.

9. Brother Ali- Babygirl



Ali changed things up a bit with his new album, going with a less aggressive and more preachy feel, and the reception has been mixed. I personally like it, and this song shows his storytelling ability remains intact.

8. Common- Love Is



Common broke up with Serena Williams something like two weeks ago. I'm not too worried.

7. Cunninlynguists- The Park



A phrase often used to talk about works of literature describing regional lifestyles and cultures or written in regional dialect is local colour. This song about a peaceful day at the park has a lot of that.

6. Nujabes- Aruarian Dance



My favorite producer ever. He has done collaborations with rappers like Shing02, Cise Starr, and even Pete Rock, but no words are needed when instrumentals are this good. Aruarian Dance is just one of his many tracks to help the restless and tired soul get through the day. R.I.P Nujabes.

5. Kid Headphones feat. Lax Tha Rippa- Live, Learn, and Grow



All the credits go to my resident adviser at summer COSMOS program for introducing this song to me. I have not heard another song featuring either artist but this is a classic. We live, learn, and grow.

4. Metermaids- Think About It



This track has indie written all over it. I think I like it because the idea of living in a one bedroom apartment with a significant other and having a job that I enjoy really appeals to me. What else could you want?!

3. Talib Kweli feat. Hi-Tek - Memories Live



Life is hard but once we get through the tough times and allow ourselves to reminisce, their sharp edges have worn off. And then there are those positive memories that gleam brighter than they should. Taking the time to remember is good.

2. Common- I Used to Love H.E.R.



I changed some of the lyrics around and "rapped" the first verse in front of my AP US History class to ask a girl to junior prom. The title of my blog comes from the chorus. Yeah, I like this song a lot. I know it's about hip hop but there is just something about the phrase, "I used to love her." When you've loved a girl, you know you loved her and no one can take away that truth from you.

1. Cunninlynguists- Hourglass



A lyrical masterpiece.

Sex

This may be just me, but Viagra and Cialis commercials give me a lot to think about, and none of it's very pleasant. I mean I don't blame their advertising department because I doubt I could do any better. In fact, they do a pretty damn good job. Old white folks hugging each other at sunset is perfectly innocuous and sometimes evokes in me a strange sense of assurance that the world is ok. On a good day, it is cute and makes me proud to be an American. As President Obama would point out, they must have held a meeting before the first ever commercials were launched where they brainstormed possible ideas and then formally voted for the one that is broadcast in our televisions today. Can you imagine being present at that meeting? Each employee would have been asked to bring a sketchbook with ideas, and I get the feeling at least one person must have thought of hiding a phallic symbol in each image of the commercial. In each successive image, the phallic symbol would grow in size, paralleling the desired therapeutic effect of the drug. Ok, that would have been my idea. So I'm glad they have smarter people on board. But even after they cemented a successful series of commercials all echoing the theme of vague intimacy and romance, they dared to be innovative and avant-garde. Take the above picture, for example. It's infused with so much abstruse symbolic meaning that I am blown away every time. Why are they in separate bathtubs and not the same bathtub? Why is the bathtub located on a wooden plank in the middle of wilderness? There is definitely an element of academic rigor in analyzing these images, proving that Viagra and Cialis are committed to providing more than one type of rigor.

So why I do not find these commercials very pleasant? They've conditioned me to associate old couples I encounter in reality with bedroom passion. I mean I've come to accept that humans at all stages of life - growth, decay, and even the subsequent wrinklememlossgnarliation - want to experience pleasure, and they should have the right to. Sex happens to be a very rich source of pleasure, and I give all the credit to older couples with a healthy sex life for identifying their needs and obtaining the resources to address them. But that doesn't change the fact that now when I see an elderly woman calmly watering her lawn, checking her mailbox, or whatever else old folks do, I shudder at the thought of her going back into the house and giving her man a Viagra pill to take with his coffee as he reads the Sunday paper. Shit is crazy! You know those conversations you have with your friends about the perceived character of another mutual friend? You say so and so would not have been the one to steal the ipod or so and so is a more caring person than so and so. Here's a good test to prove to yourself that you don't know shit about other people: think of an adult you deeply respect and imagine that person having passionate sex. Yeah, totally mind-blowing, brah! Only problem is I've practiced this exercise so much that every time I meet someone, I am imagining that person having sex. It's worse when I meet a parent with a baby because I can be sure that what I feared has indeed transpired.

This confirmation usually triggers another set of responses, and I have to make conscious efforts to not reveal them in public. You know, you are chilling on a park bench and you spy a pretty attractive woman, oh let's say a Latina in her late 20's, taking a phone call on a lonely swing. She gets up, heads to a stroller with a baby under the supervision of some random guy and then when you connect the dots, you think to yourself, "How the hell did he get with her?" But I am a man who has to get all the details - right or wrong - so my imagination pushes on and my mind floods with other profound questions. Consider this example: you know a quiet, dignified male with a decent sense of humor who has a job working for some humanitarian NGO (this is NOT meant to be my future self). He is an idealist with a passion for helping others, a very hard worker, and has the kind of confidence to ask a question in a large classroom but normally keeps to himself. His wife is a good-natured, pleasantly rational, and calm but slightly vivacious high school teacher. She smiles a lot, but her words carry a certain gravity and she is deeply contemplative when people let her. Can you imagine how they would initiate sex? What kind of dialogue would take place before, during, and after? How does each deal with the refractory period? This world is so full of wonderful mysteries.

But you know what, those commercials also disturb me because I am not entirely comfortable with the idea that people need sex so much. It's a little pathetic, in my view. I mean as long as you don't cheat on your partner, I don't harbor any moral compunctions about it but must we really depend on sex so much? Are we so powerless in the face of our primitive instincts? If I measure up what I have said and thought about relationships in the past against what I would honestly want in a relationship, I would admit that I have downplayed the power of physical connection. There's something incredibly comforting about holding hands and exchanging hugs with people you care about. But I am not so sure if sex operates on the same principles. I think this because establishing a physical connection with someone is a form of loving and being loved, and if this were true about sex, people wouldn't find sex truly fulfilling unless they did it with those they loved. I mean, it would be one thing if say, you develop such a rapport with your girl's booty that others just don't do the trick anymore. You appreciate that booty for its unique contour and morphology and blessing it is in effect, loving your girl the way no one else can. But the reality is, we guys can tolerate variability in design as long as the function remains intact. Just ask Tiger Woods. He's been playing golf so long that every hole looks the same to him. Katt Williams would agree.

Sex, as ostensibly intimate as it is, does not derive its appeal from a special bond formed between two people. That's probably why Holden Caulfield in the Catcher in the Rye decides not to have sex with the prostitute. It's phony love. So being the idealist that I am, I am a huge fan of the intimate mental connection. But really, it's quite orgasmic. There is nothing quite like sitting next to the girl whose every idea and thought delight you, and listening to her voice breathe life into them, into the room and the moment, into you. Then she'll pause because she has finished her sentence and you haven't said anything but you are still listening, just in a trance-like state, because her presence renders everything else in your life insignificant that moment. You allow yourself the leisure to drift away and be carried away by the glory of that moment, a kind of lurid tranquility palpitating with your steady desire to live, until another single word or gesture lands on your consciousness like a raindrop and seeps into your memory, and now you are a time-traveler, experiencing separate encounters with her beauty all at once. I'll stop because I am about to climax.

Hm Love Pt. 3

Thank God it's over. The freshman year passed by pretty fast but time seemed to grind to a halt during finals. I've been trying to engage in some meaningful reflection about this past year, but I can't say much about it, unfortunately. I came in with few expectations about college and wasn't too pleasantly surprised or disappointed. I got to meet lots of interesting people, which mostly means I got to know few people well. The year had its ups and downs. (As I am typing this, something ridiculous just happens, which I will explain later.) Schoolwork was tedious for the most part, and I worked hard to keep my grades up. So to sum it up, just another tree ring for the ancient redwood that I am. No big.

I've had a chance to talk to a few friends about their college experiences, and I am happy to hear many of them tell me they've grown as human beings and learned important life lessons. Sadly I can't testify to the former (in fact I may be more sinister than before) but I do think I learned an important life lesson. If you've had the misfortune of hearing me discuss topics of any discernible significance in the past, you may be familiar with my diatribes about love and those who believe in it. I used to argue that love and lust were not the disparate entities people made them out to be, that love is merely a construct borne from the human penchant for attaching higher significance to simple infatuation. I also examined what authors and thinkers had said about love and took particular fancy to the notion that love is a spiritually transformative experience in which deep respect for another offers the opportunity to reconcile with one's own shortcomings in character. Blah blah blah. The only analogy I can think of to describe these terribly pretentious and inane endeavors is a baby that refuses to walk unless it can figure out why it was born with two feet. I've learned this past year that love exists no matter how elusive its definition. The sooner you discover this truth, the better. So how did I, a self-proclaimed skeptic of love, come to accept it? When it happened to me, I demonstrated a number of symptoms that were so unusual and unprecedented that they could not be attributed to anything else. For example, I gained a sudden increase in appetite and ate platefuls of food at the school cafeteria I detest. I genuinely savored the taste of food during this period; I wasn't eating just to get through the day or to stop my hands from shaking. I developed a sense of confidence about the person I was. It was not swagger but a feeling of pride and contentment about my identity. It's not as though I had harbored insecurities or found faults with myself before. But I had never fucking reveled in being me. The most telling sign was that I was happier than ever before. The competition's not even close. And you know, I was there when Robert Horry hit that three against the Kings in 2002. I did not think I had it in me to feel the kind of sustained intense happiness that I did. My friends commented on how ridiculously happy I looked when they ran into me between classes. I had an immense desire to live and goddamn it felt so good. So good.

But as most people know, if you don't fold your cards early in this love game, your only option is to go all in. And when you lose, it wreaks absolute havoc. This is the dark side of love. When you wake up in the morning, it's the first thing that comes to your mind and the last thing to leave before you go to sleep, and all the time in between is completely consumed by misery and disappointment. I don't know how I got through finals period in this state of mind. I wish I could think of apt metaphors without trivializing suffering I haven't experienced, but failed love should feel very much like Jose Aldo kicking your balls over and over. The worst part is that even as you are getting kicked in the balls, you don't quite have the self-discipline to throw in the white towel because you have this tiny bit of hope that somehow the reality you are experiencing is not really how it is, and it could all change for the better at an instant. Love, and failed love, fully exploits our lovely capacity to believe what we want even as we know our thinking to be false. Personally, I have found that these moments of intense agony are also the moments when I turn into an absolutely horrible human being. I wallow in self-pity and self-loathing, and allow jealousy, malice, and irrational thinking to color my actions. I isolate myself from rest of the world and become unusually aggressive, almost like a cornered animal. And really, I am speaking only for myself. I have no clue if other guys have heartbreaks this bad because as Common says, we are taught to hold it in and not talk about it. Sometimes I wonder if girls even know about it.

After having experienced this prolonged suffering twice, I feel I've lost a little chunk of me each time. And every time I hear their names or see their statuses pop up on Facebook, there is an immediate gut reaction I can't quite describe. My mind recoils as though I am confronting my phobia, and all the pain comes rushing back again, not in vivid memories but a dull bleakness. But at the same time, I remember the purity of the love I experienced and somehow, that will make me love them for the rest of my life.

So what is my conclusion after all this? Everyone has a fundamental need to be loved. It is as fundamental a need as food or shelter. But the dynamics of provision are complex. We can love others but we can't force them to love us, and it is crushing when those we love don't return it. Our ego can't stand it. So we try to make others love us and fail, or run away from it, telling ourselves we don't need love. But eventually, it will either make or break us, I think. We have many avenues for feeling loved - or simply distracting ourselves - along the way but they are rarely as fulfilling or long-lived as that soul connection with the significant other. I'm not sure if followers of religions would ever be satisfied only with love they receive from the divine creator. Buying fresh clothes and a nice car can boost our ego, but even if they serve as expedient means for reaching out to prospective love interests, they ultimately can't buy us the special mental connection we desire. I'm sure Lady Gaga will want to settle down with someone (with all her poker-facing and muffin-bluffing, who knows if it'll be a guy or a girl) even as she continues to produce music and get a lot of love from fans. Krump dancers who go hard get pumped up by the homies but my man Solow will eventually look for a soulmate too. As for me, I have finally found what makes me happy and jolts me out of my apathy. But even if I tried, I couldn't force myself to love for the hope of being loved in return. Only thing I can do is wait patiently for the years to pass and the pain to wash away, and I might allow myself to catch feelings again. For those of you who are in relationships and happy, make sure to treasure that shit! I can't tell you how hard it is for two people to agree on anything.

Hm Love Pt. 2

One night, God came to me in a dream in a white coat and stethoscopes and announced in Morgan Freeman's voice, "Son, your time is here." I stepped into the blinding flash and cupids took me by my arms, one whispering in my ear it was not too late to turn back and the other, promising the concoction of a most powerful poison for the point of his next arrow, but I gave back a meek smile and shook my head, my hands, feeling under the chest pocket of my hoodie, the outlines of my two scars, the only time I would touch the faces of these precious ones. Higher and higher we soared, and memories flooded my brain, of times I leaned back against my pillow and with Kweli and Hi Tek in the air like Mary Jane, dreamed of this ascent over and over except I wasn't flying to meet God but flying with his Dear Creation, and reality or dream, I was going all in like that Harrison Bergeron shit. But my wings were not of metal that gleams like the smile of mysterious men but of paper plastered with wax, and the descent was agonizingly slow, the melted wax running down my cheeks, the cupid's arrow in my chest spinning in all directions, and my mind recoiling at the thought of landing. Yet even through the free fall, I could close my eyes and with the artifice of reasonable doubt, spirit of exhaustive scientific inquiry that doesn't take maybe, perhaps, or probably for an answer, conjure up the hope of anti-gravity and give contradicting testimony against my own witnesses of senses and soul like I was taking Stanley Milgram's test. Then the ground finally hit me, the hallucinations disappeared, and I stood up bruised and maimed, feeling lucky to have made it, then inspected the new scar my arrow had scrawled on my skin, crooked caricature borne from my very own Pandora's Box, but a man does not lie to himself about the purity of the past and no amount of distortion could repress the scent of her perfume or the glory of fated nights when the alignment of three dimensions blessed me with chance encounters, the kind where the gravity of the moment and sacredness of the world cheapen any physical interaction so you let your spirit leave your body and embrace her. But that was then and I finally arrived at the operating table of heaven with no fear of death, cupids securely strapping my arms and legs and God offering the anesthesia of graphic visions of Mary Magdalene and lonely men, which I refused of course, and as His swift hands of creation set about replacing my old-fashioned heart once and for all with man's new clever invention that pumps and does not feel, I felt the surge of empty mirth filling my veins again and chuckled to myself that deep down inside, I just wanted to be Harrison Bergeron.

Chipotle and Love

Before you read further, please understand that as someone who has consistently failed to appreciate complexities of human existence such as religion, love, and happiness, I have developed a coping mechanism in the form of sensibilities. These make me inclined to attach higher significance to simple everyday events and apparently, keep me alive.

March 17, 2010 was a Wednesday, St. Patrick's Day, and the best day of my life, all in one, and it lasted between 7:20 p.m. and 8:45 p.m. I had just called my friend to confirm a dinner appointment, and he wasn't coming. I looked out the window of my bedroom, judged the darkness, and took out my blue jacket from the closet. I remember walking down the stairs of my dorm very slowly and playing in my head the scene of me pushing the front door before I got there. Then I finally got to the door, pushed it open, and felt as though the world had stopped. The night air was not only warm but charged with some invisible energy that crept up my skin. Warm days in Boston are rare occurrences (though more frequent nowadays) but I could recall only one other day that had stimulated this sensibility of mine. It was after a rainstorm during the first semester, when I, bracing for temperature equally cold as the days before and grumbling about puddles , walked out the front door and stopped in mid-air, startled. The familiar signs of wetness and cold - puddles deposited under trees, muddied leaves carpeting the ground - were accompanied by an electrifying warm air that blanketed my body. The air carried its own pungency as though it were revealing its breathing, living self for the first time. The reason I remember this day so well, aside from the strange warmth, is that it was the weekend of Harvard's 30-year Reunion, and walking out, I ran into a white man standing outside the front doorsteps peering at the top of my dorm building. A bachelor with signs of white in his hair and a former Harvard student who had lived in my dorm, he shared some of his most treasured college experiences thirty years ago. He was particularly fond of memories of midnight water hose fights with members of the rival dorm. Then he confided to me the secret that haunted him behind his noble face: he had come from a poor family, spent much of his life chasing money, made a lot of it, and was still not happy. When I told him I wanted to work for a NGO, he smiled and said cheerfully, "You are a do-gooder, eh?" He told me to do whatever makes me happy, and I said I would. But I remember thinking to myself nothing in the world could make me happy.

With this vibrant memory recovered and stowed away in my subconscious backpocket and the mysterious night air sloshing the living energy of all things against my cheeks, I made my way out the campus gate. For a Wednesday night, streets were crowded but it was a gentle, muted din that permeated the sidewalks. There must have been a lot of tourists because every time I crossed the street, I always caught a foreign accent approaching me from the other side. People were in good spirits and seemed modestly dressed up for some occasion, not clad in any showy party attire but confident, wholesome, and warm. They were gathered around every streetlight, it seemed, maybe having that occasional profound and slightly confessional conversation that gets elicited when you are in a group of friends. The guy selling magazines at the newsstand was even chatting it up with a customer away from his merchandise. I remember feeling slightly overwhelmed by the mirth everywhere but the dizziness may have come from not eating all day.

I was heading straight for Chipotle, and the sign shone out like a beacon even among an array of other street signs. Harvard Square has at least three other burrito restaurants - Qdoba, Boloco's, and Felipe's- but Chipotle easily tops them all. You get bigger burritos for the buck and more and fresher ingredients, not to mention the animals in Chipotle Farm are free-range. The vibe, though, is what really does it for me. Whoever makes the Chipotle Mixtape is a fan of quiet indie and soul, and I am a convert.

With a chicken fajita burrito in hand, I made my way to my favorite seat in the restaurant, a stool in a two-seat arrangement near the waiting line that when properly positioned, faces the large window left of the main entrance. The seat is far away enough from the window that I can see the people walking outside but they don't see me. When they turn toward my direction, their eyes are naturally drawn to the three parallel stools right up against the inside of the window. The stools are well lighted, even by Hemingway's standards I think, by small bulbous studio lights directly overhead, kind of like products on display inside a shop. I say the pedestrians normally see the stools because they are hardly ever occupied. It's awkward to be stared at. But that night, two of the three stools were taken by a young couple. The guy, maybe in his early 20's, had a hoodie on and was enjoying what appeared from the reflection on the glass to be either a carnitas or barbacoa burrito. The girl, also in her early 20's, was making good progress on an unidentified burrito. I am not sure why I was so drawn to this couple, but I think I was intrigued that they had chosen to sit parallel to each other facing right up against the glass. Couples normally sit where I sit, a table for two where they can look at each other and make conversation. One explanation is that they had tried it before, spotted tortilla stuck in their lover's teeth halfway through a conversation, and not repeated the experiment again. It sounds silly but that's actually why I would not take a girl to eat Chipotle with me. The burritos are stuffed, cheap, and delicious but downright unromantic. But what about being displayed in front of the glass? As I wondered this, almost out loud, I spotted the guy's free hand not holding the burrito moving toward the girl's lower torso. I telegraphed its trajectory and forecasted its stop at her thigh, at the same time awed by this amazing display of balance and audacity. Keep in mind that this guy was holding a ginormous burrito in one hand and making the delicate maneuver with the other. So anyway, I prepared to witness what I would call a bold double-dipping in pleasure, but then I saw his hand instead land at her kneecap. The whole movement, if you can call it that, was a gentle sweep that carried his hand to her kneecap, and it rested there lightly and innocuously. The gesture was so natural and soft that the girl didn't notice. Moments later, I saw them exchange a few words in between bites, their heads facing each other at an angle. I can't explain it but seeing that gesture made me want to fall in love. I wanted to be that guy, stoic as can be, holding a burrito in one hand and laying the other on a girl's kneecap. Nothing sensual, nothing suggestive. A comforting touch, a simple appreciation of the patella, and yet a reminder of the special connection you share. They were sitting up against the glass so the whole world could see they were in love. In love, the boy and girl were negotiating with the world on their own terms. They made a Chipotle meal romantic. They made a sideway conversation romantic. They made me romantic. And I did.

After I finished my burrito, my state of mind was considerably different from before. Usually when my creature comforts are satisfied, I allow myself the leisure to drift from myself and live vicariously through the pedestrians, imagining the kind of day they had and the kind of lives they led. But that night, it wasn't possible. A new excitement ran through me, and I hate to say it but I felt as though a belljar had been lifted from my head. I was alive and in love with a girl, a feeling I had never believed or understood. I was wondering what to do with myself and had not made up my mind to go back to my room just yet so I decided to walk down the street until I figured it out. Suddenly I heard behind me a familiar voice calling my name. It was my teaching fellow for inorganic chemistry, a sprightly young lad with a friendly disposition (he's actually 24). Based on his attire and a hint of hair gel new to his appearance, I knew what was up. We exchanged some small talk and he went into a restaurant saying he was "meeting someone." I was damn proud of him. When your spirits are high, it's easy to feel generous.

After running into my teaching fellow, my mind was made up. I was walking down to the Charles River. I wove through the streets, never staying on the same road for too long and taking random detours I never took. I passed by the homeless shelter where I volunteer and re-read the Biblical verse from Psalm 46 engraved on the stone panel near the entrance, "God is in the midst of the city." The other Biblical verse that was on my mind was "Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself." I was giving myself a lot of loving that night, and I think it was only then that I could reciprocate the love to others, and to the girl on my mind. For a while, I had desperately hoped I could love, even pretended I could, but had lacked something. I found that something that night, the way vulnerable Cathy in East of Eden elicits love from Adam. I can't explain or justify what that something was. I can't explain or justify anything from that night. But at the time, I could be hardly bothered. I enjoyed the warm orange glows of streetlamps as I made my way to the river. Finally I reached the road that stretches around the Charles River, stepped over the ledge that lines the curb, and stood in the darkened grassy grounds before the river. There is a rumor that Charles River was once so polluted that it was unfit for swimming but at night, it's as beautiful a river as any other. The lights from Harvard Business School dorms and high-rise buildings on the other side of the river are reflected like crystal stalactites across the waters, and when you are lucky, you can make out the small figures of late-night runners and bikers far away. I sat down on a bench close to the outskirts of the river, feeling exhausted but ridiculously happy. There was a couple biking together on the circular path around the river who stopped where I could see them. The girl took out a cellphone and took a picture of the two of them, faces meeting each other to get in the frame. I was willing to try out that Chipotle experiment with a date, but not this frivolous activity. Still, I was feeling generous and smiled.

As I walked back through the streets, still bathed in the glory of the night and the thrill of love, I wondered if I would wake up the next morning and have this feeling again. I did. Up ahead, I saw the flashing sirens of a fire truck and took another street. Nothing was going to ruin my mood that night.

Ramen, 20th Birthday

Spring break! I somewhat regret not going home for the week because all campus cafeterias are closed and I will be shelling out $7 for steak fajita burritos at Chipotle on a daily basis. But aside from the expensive airfare and my general dislike for dragging luggage around, what really convinced me not to go home was the dread of taking the depressing 6 hr plane ride back to Cambridge in another week. It's a long, psychologically debilitating return to reality as reminders of work left unfinished and midterms untaken resurface. They say power is work over time, but when you are talking about the power of mental distress, extended time kills. Besides, eating Chipotle burritos won't be bad at all. It'll be a nice preparation for my bachelor lifestyle that lies ahead.

Technically I am already well prepared because I have been consuming loads of Korean cup noodles throughout this first year. It's a shame because cup noodles are unhealthy in so many ways, and they don't even taste as good as ramen cooked in the pot. In fact, I take great pride in making non-instant ramen because I can actually pretend I know how to cook, and over my many years of experimentation, have developed a unique recipe and technique tailored to my emotional needs. The ingredients, time, and vivacity required for this art are difficult to find in college experience, though, so I settle for the more convenient alternative. The only inconvenient part is that I have to make a bus trip to a nearby Korean grocery store about every three weeks to restock my arsenal. And once I have purchased the stockpile, I leave myself vulnerable to the judging eyes of society as I clamber up the bus for the return trip. One time, I was getting on the bus with three boxes of cup noodles, two of them for my entrymates who had become addicted (with no small contribution from me) when the middle-aged Asian bus driver, upon noticing them, engaged me in an annoying exchange.

"You must really like cup noodles," he postulated.

Some white folks in the back of the bus laughed and began taking notice. Why this Asian man chose to make public service announcements about me and my noodles, instead of announcing the bus stops as he was supposed to, beats me. It is probable that he, too, once shared my passion for gourmet spicy, and I politely explained I was selling two of the boxes to my entrymates. But then he proceeded to ask whether I was making a profit, to which I replied no, and then pried the exact pricing of the noodles from me. The most annoying part of the conversation came when he ridiculed me for paying 90 cents for each cup of noodles. He advised me to visit some store in Chinatown where each cup costs only 25 cents. The fact that he had the temerity to publicly challenge my ramen expertise and to espouse purchasing inferior, probably carcinogenic noodles thoroughly pissed me off.

So I simply replied, "Sir, these are not your ordinary noodles."

Since two weeks ago, I am 20 fucking years old. That's two solid decades. A lot of people say I am silly, but I really feel as though I have reached the prime of my life. Where did all those years go? Now there are only three significant "age markers" waiting for me, and none of them is pleasant: 25, 30, 40. I say 25 because when I play the franchise mode on NBA Live, I always trade away players who turn 25 for younger prospects, no matter how good they are.

But anyway, I got a very nice surprise the midnight I turned 20. I was chilling out in my bed, listening to "Life is a Bitch" by Nas (which references his 20th birthday), when I heard a knock on the door. I assumed it was one of my roommates who had forgotten his key so I yelled, "I'm coming" and then opened the door to the sight of my friends holding an ice cream cake with lit candles. They began singing Happy Birthday. I was genuinely, pleasantly surprised. The problem was, my face expression had hardly changed, and I knew I wasn't looking surprised at all. So when they started singing Happy Birthday, I desperately told myself to somehow snap out of my fucking complacent, stoic, unperturbed countenance, to manifest some visible sign of humanity. Hilariously, my first instinct was to widen my eyes and smile but the appropriate timing had passed and I think I appeared slightly intoxicated. Then about halfway through the song, I made a pathetic attempt to emulate the socially acceptable gesture of laying one hand on my heart region, to indicate I was truly touched by the surprise, which was true. But because I was performing this gesticulation for the first time and doing it rather spasmodically, the shit came off wack and I looked like I had angina. When they were done singing, I welcomed them into the room and had to explain I was indeed surprised even though I didn't show it. I have only three or four different face expressions, and clearly they are extremely versatile.

Don't think I'm entirely horrible about social conventions, though. I've been practicing the side hug for a while now, and I am now at a point where I don't look like I'm initiating hydrogen bonds with people. But I still prefer the full interlocking hug, especially when the girl has nice perfume on. God, a whiff of good perfume makes me feel young again.

Hot Latina Waitress Redux, 500 Days of Summer

Well, 2009 came and went. It was one of my favorite years in recent memory. First, there was the second half of senior year, a pretty relaxing stage because college applications were done, and all there was left to do was attend senior events, hang out with friends, and wait. Then I was blessed with a chance of a lifetime to spend my next four years at my dream school. I had the most fun summer of my life: reading East of Eden, going on a road trip with friends, and not doing summer homework. The Lakers reclaimed the throne and Dodgers gave us a thrill. Oh, and I got to meet one of the most beautiful women in the world. Yeeeup.

That reminds me - I went to Katsuya again about a week ago for my friend's birthday. I really didn't have a clue what I would do if I met the waitress again. For some reason, I envisioned sitting down at a table with her and chatting for a couple minutes about our life histories if the business was slow - a scenario not feasible even with divine intervention. In any case, she wasn't there the second time around. So as of now, there is no "Hot Latina Waitress Pt. 2." Although, I must mention that a rather miraculous event happened three days after the fruitless outing. As I was eating dinner, I flipped the channel to KCAL9 News for the first time in months and caught the tail end (I just laughed) of the coverage on the New Year's festivity plans in NY Times Square. And guess which pedestrian had been selected by the news team for a brief six-second interview? Yup it was her. That's probably why she wasn't at the restaurant that night. I hope I am wrong because I don't believe in fate.

Many people have asked me what I hoped to accomplish by flirting with her in the first place. My answer is nothing. I've come to realize that you gotta give girls credit when credit is due. We all want to look good, but girls are arguably more insecure about their appearances than guys. So when I spot a choice of apparel or make-up that is particularly effective, I compliment the girl. I look for innovative hairstyles, subtle gradations of color in dresses, T-shirt designs, hoop earrings, etc. Well that night, her overall presentation was fantastic and I communicated that by asking for a picture with her. Of course, girls often take my praise the wrong way. But I can't give my compliment along with a disclaimer that I am not romantically or sexually interested in her.

I've been watching quite a few movies over this winter break, and I happened to watch 500 Days of Summer and Forgetting Sarah Marshall back to back. *Stop reading if you don't want spoilers.* I have to say I enjoyed the latter much more. I liked 500 Days of Summer 20 minutes into the movie when I was first introduced to Summer's disillusionment about love. She asks Tom the same question I have: "What does love even mean?" But from there, it really went downhill for me. Summer orchestrates one of the most heinous heartbreaks I've ever seen. I will concede that Summer told Tom early on she just wanted them to be friends. But shower sex? That sends mixed messages. She toys with his heart to her heart's content and once she is bored with him, she lets him go. Then after they've broken up, Summer tantalizes him again by dancing with him at a friend's wedding. Finally, she invites him to a party celebrating her engagement - without telling him about her engagement. What a maddening plot. If that was a true story, Tom would've never recovered from such a blow. What pissed me off the most, though, was Summer saying she believes in love again after falling for a guy at first sight. She's smoking some of that Pineapple Express shit.

The closest thing to love I've seen is parents who live their lives for children. Parents who do not enjoy their jobs, who do not have access to the American Dream, who do not have the financial stability to do what they enjoy, who know their own lives aren't going to get much better as long as they are alive. But somehow they find the incentive to keep living because they live vicariously through the pleasures and successes of their children. I don't think I am capable of such love.