To My Unsatisfied Reader

It has been brought to my attention by an "anonymous" reader that I failed to mention one of my nicknames in my first post "Welcome to the Freakshow". Please allow me to remedy this omission. Well, my sweet little "anonymous" reader who happens to love the band The Schwag, stands about three apples high, and has an incredible talent at hoola-hoopin' ... not because I know who you are or anything ... *wink wink* ... This post goes out to you, my tiny little hippy girl (oops, did I give it away).

Ah well, let's go back in time, say about 18 years ago. Crap! My fellow Henderson Junior High alumni throw your Hawks up!! I can recall what HJH meant to me. I had just escaped the clutches of the parochial school system and fell into the life saving arms of the Little Rock public school family. So as not to get too wordy (ya right) I'll list the things I recall most about my experience of switching to public school.

• I had no idea that kids didn't carry their bibles and rosaries to class with them. I probably looked like a total freak.


• It was IMPOSSIBLE for me to foul out of a basketball game. Awww, yeah! Now this is basketball! A whole new world of athletics just opened up to me. I no longer had to worry about the whining of an opponent about how I played "too rough". Granted, my coach was a rather tough white woman with the unfortunate monogram KKK (I'm serious people). Regardless, public school ball knew how to get down!


• Lockers that actually locked?? What the ....? Search me? What for?


• We didn't have to talk to Jeebus before lunch, or before the Pledge of Allegiance, or ever for that matter. Methinks my knees (church pews with kneelers are a bitch on the knees) will be better maintained at a school where mass attendance isn't mandatory ... or hell, isn't offered!


• Damn, I have to think about what to wear to class. Uniforms, though ugly and boring, had their perks at the Catholic schools.


• Woo Hoo! The Dance Team / Cheerleaders can do routines to Rob Base and BBD rather than be forced to display spirit hands to the likes of lyricless poppy techno of the decade.


• Security guards and Vice Principals with walkie-talkies waving metal detector wands were a new concept to me as well. I remember thinking my handy dandy compass was at risk of confiscation. Did you know that taking away an Asian kid's math paraphernalia can potentially cause panic and a mild seizure? I swear to god, if they took my TI-81, I might have hyperventilated.


• I see BROWN people! Am I in heaven? Is this what the real world is like? Oh My God! I'm not the only Asian in Little Rock!!!!

Okay, back to the nickname, after all this was supposed to be a post for the unsatisfied reader, not just a rehashing of my "awakening". So there I sat in English class in front of a Patrick Swayze obsessed teacher who talked to her plants ... or was it algebra class in front of a pleasantly plump teacher with overactive sweat glands ... no, wait, maybe it was civics class in front of a very tall nicotine-addicted teacher with those glasses that make your eyes look itty bitty. Dude, this WAS 18 years ago, I'm allowed to have forgotten some things. Besides, the specific class and quirky teacher who commanded it are unnecessary details anyway.

Damn, there I go meandering again. I was never diagnosed with A.D.D., though I often wonder. Soooooooooooooo ..... there I sat, the innocent (shush, this is my blog) little private school doe, and behind me sat the "Unsatisfied Reader" to whom this blog is directed. We became friends because she was one of the most genuine and kindest people I had met at the school. We shared similar interests, including TV programs. Does anyone remember the show Dinosaurs? It was a puppeteered sitcom on ABC about a dinosaur family. I would liken it to the Flintstones or the Honeymooners. At any rate, there was a baby dino named Baby Sinclair whose tag line, "Not the Mama!!" was heard every time Baby Sinclair smacked his dad over the head with a frying pan. I don't remember for sure if it was a physical similarity between ole Baby Sinclair and I, or if it was my distinct loud cackle of a laugh much like the baby that caused my three-apple high hippy friend to begin calling me simply "Not the Mama!!". Ah yes, hats off to you, my "anonymous" reader, for reminding me of yet another fine nickname and another trip down memory lane. Peace.

Isn't it appropriate that in my ears right now is the album "Eat A Peach" by the Allman Brothers. Cheers, to all you hippies and deadheads out there who can appreciate the genre that encompasses classic southern rock jam bands!

You Don't Know Me ... Don't You Know Me????

So I'm sitting here at Damngoode Pies on Kavanaugh, which I must say is the best location in Little Rock simply for nostalgia's sake. I sat down here to simply enjoy a couple of beers on my own, just to chill. Then Little Rock showed its happy face just as it does every time I come home. My refuge away from my folks house quickly turned into a barrage of "Don't I know you?"'s and "Do you know [fill in the blank]?"'s. I call this the beloved Arkansas "yackity-yack". You know it when you encounter it. And you encounter it before you even get into town. It usually starts on the flight into town. The simple question on a Southwest flight, "Are you going on to Dallas or stopping in Little Rock?", depending on the answer, will inevitably lead into an hour long conversation about someone's cousin you went to school with. I always forget how warm and fuzzy that feels, or how intrusive and annoying it can be.

For the most part, I LOVE the Yackity-Yack and welcome it at any time and any place in town. But is there some strategy that one can employ to avoid the Yackity-Yack without coming off as rude or without avoiding leaving the house altogether? I think there should be an understood code word that you can use so that approaching Yackity-Yackers get the drift and don't get insulted. Because headphones and a laptop don't seem to cut it in Little Rock. Hmmm, any ideas?

In my ears at the moment is the album So Jealous by Tegan and Sara, and unfortunately, it doesn't seem to be Yackity-Yack resistant.

All I Want ... at 30,000 Feet

So here's the deal. What have you done at 30,000 feet? I've done just about everything from joining the mile high club to tripping the light fantastic. Tonight is different. I'm adding listening to Joni Mitchell's Blue album and contemplating my world to my list of things done at 30,000 feet. I don't think I can take enough anti-depressant medication to make me numb to this record. I can run through a million thoughts in my head during track 1 alone.

"I am on a lonely road, and I am traveling, traveling, traveling .... looking for something, what can it be?" Go on, Miss Joni! She starts the album with a sentiment like that. Wanna glimpse into my head during track 1? Of course you do:

• I'm having thoughts of splitting open the gut of my ex-girlfriend with a serrated blade. It's been almost a year since she cut me to pieces (which are, by the way, being mended back together just fine), and everyone says to me, "You gotta get mad, Jen! Be angry at her, and let yourself expel that anger." Okay, damnit! I AM pissed! I was filled with expectations of a future, of a family, of a life with someone I thought was "the one." Then that "One" decided to take it all back. She took all of it back, everything! Damnit, I wanted that future with her and I thought she did too. But no, on Thanksgiving of all days, while my brother and her mother left to get butter at the grocery store, my world was flipped by the words from her lips, "I'm seeing someone else...." I wanted to curl up and die, or at least throw up. Fuck it! I'm not feeling sorry for myself anymore. I refuse to shed another tear for her! Bwaahahahaa, the guts shall be spilled!
  


• Hmmm ... I miss my bike. I'm so happy on it. Pure and simple blissful thought. I need it after turning my ears red about my ex. Nietzsche was right... "The best way to reap the most joy and happiness in life is to live dangerously." Fuck Yeah! I can't wait to get home and hit the road. I'm takin' my happy ass to Graceland this weekend. There's nothing like a visit to the King's crib and the sweet sexy sounds of Memphis. It's always amazed me how the blues can evoke such happy feelings, but Beale Street sure gets my feet to tappin'!
  


• Okay, so adrenalin is pumping at this point, what next ... debauchery of course. Memories of the mile high club have led directly into a fantasy involving this cute little brunette two rows in front of me. It's hard not to smile when thinking about sex. I'll spare you all the details of my fantasy scenario, but I will say it involved rows 26 through 29 seats D-E-F ... aww yeah! Of course, in my fantasy the damn coach seats recline a lot more than than the centimeter and a half they bless us with in real life.
  


• What's better than sex? Not much I suppose, but suddenly work has re-entered the brain. For money's sake, my job is alright. But I know as well as my co-workers that I would probably be more satisfied at a different company. It's not like I haven't already begun looking. I just need to buckle down and get serious about it.
  


• Whoa, holy buzz kill! Let's get back to happy thoughts. I could use a drink, and lucky for me American Airlines takes the company card for booze! I'm feelin' like it's a whiskey night. I don't think I have ever pushed the call button on an airplane. I usually just wait until the airline attendant makes his or her way down the aisle. Hell, I'm feeling fiesty ... I'm gonna push the button ... wait, is it rude? Why does it seem rude to me? The button is there. I should be able to use it, right? Maybe I feel rude pushing the button to summon alcohol service. Naw, I think I just feel like an alcoholic if I push the button for alcohol service. Okay, fine, I'm not pushing the damn button. A double Jack and Ginger can wait until I finish this blog.

*Whistles impatiently*

AHA!! Here she comes! Adios, readers. Blog complete. I have a date with Jack, and I don't wanna be late.

Not-So-Easy Rider

The last couple of days has been a time where everything wants to go the wrong way. Karma is dealing me a hand I must be deserving of at this point because I cannot explain why shit piles so high in a single 48 hour period. It can only be attributed to the fact that I was able to experience such incredible bliss during the 48 hours prior to this last 48 hours of craptastic circumstance. So before I dribble on about the shit, it's only fair to speak of the bliss.

Nietzsche and I took a glorious ride from St. Louis, through the Ozarks, down through central Arkansas and into Little Rock for a brief weekend of family freak outs and kickin' it with friends. The ride was perfect, sunny, fresh, changing leaves, and wicked "twisties" to navigate. Nietzsche and I were in the zone. But the even more fabulous part was my time with people I love. I was able to have a couple of beers and some tasty Arkansas BBQ with my newly wed best friend and her husband. My father, who I NEVER had a communicative relationship with, ended up bonding with me over my Harley. Seeing my mother, after the panic of the bike went away, smiling and talking with me is always a treat. I even got to have a beautiful night with a dear friend and people who are close to her. So my family was there for me, my friends were loving as always, and my fabric of people was strengthened with the addition of more hearty souls.

But, ahh, here comes the shit pile. Can you smell it? ... Leaving Little Rock on Sunday, I had planned to take highways home to save time. And actually, I couldn't have felt better, even though leaving friends and family is always a bit bittersweet. To me it's all about who says goodbye to you last, and my last goodbye that day before Nietzsche and I hit the road is one I will never forget :-) That final precious moment of bliss will live on forever in my mind as the calm before the storm that would be my ride back to St. Louis.

Okay, okay, I know I tend to babble, so I'm getting to the shit pile now. Allow me to make it into a list. The mileages are the number of miles away from Little Rock I had gotten:

• 30 miles -- The shift rod mechanism on Nietzsche detached itself from the main body of the control. I noticed when my shift peddle was lying loose on my left foot and I was creating pretty sparks behind me as the rod whipped the highway. So onto the shoulder I go, dig through my tools, lay on the pavement (scary as hell by the way with cars whizzing by at 70+ mph), reattach the rod, and merge back into traffic. Time Delay = 45 minutes.


• 80 miles -- I get pulled over by Searcy, AR, finest. Garnishing a ticket for improperly passing an officer while performing a traffic stop Time Delay = 30 minutes for the stop + 30 minutes on the phone with a friend to calm me down.


• 150 miles -- I make an off the route stop in Jonesboro, AR, to the only Harley shop anywhere nearby to obtain a tailight that worked. I knew I'd never make it to St. Louis before dark, so the tailight was a necessity. Time Delay= 40 minutes to include purchase of light, bullshitting with the shop dudes, talking to the chicks in the front, and installing my new taillight. I left with a smile on my face. Unfortunately the smile didn't last.


• 175 miles -- I decided in Jonesboro that rather than backtrack my way to the interstate, I'd try to take state roads in the direction of my destination and eventually meet up with the interstate. Bad idea, because I ended up lost. The only cool thing that came out of this lostness was the drive through areas of blooming cotton fields. First of all, I'd never seen a blooming field of cotton anywhere except in movies, and second of all, I never expected the smell that came from them. I can't even describe it to be honest. Anyway, Time Delay = 1 solid hour.


• 280 miles -- By the time I was good and going back onto the interstate, it was getting dark and friggen cold. I was nearing the town of Cape Girardeaux, MO, and with 120 miles left to ride, a wreck involving a trailer hitch and a mini-van which I was behind luckily, and the fact that my extremities were getting numb from the cold, I thought it best to pull into a hotel and leave in the morning.

So here I am frozen and exhausted in a town all the locals simply called the Cape. I saw that I had 2 options at this point. I could either settle in the room and get some work done or I could go out and peruse the Cape's nightlife. I can't let my peeps down, so of course I went out to see if there was anything to do. The decision was quickly and easily made that there really was nothing and no one for me in The Cape, so back to the Mo-Mo I go for much deserved rest and warmth after having some fried chicken and a 24 ounce beer.

I had to work in the morning, so I woke up at 5am, repacked Nietzsche, and departed once again. I have never been soooooooo in a hurry to see a sunrise in my entire life. My brown ass was freezing! I was stopping like every 25 miles just to regain feeling in my limbs. When the sun finally showed its face, I almost shed a damn tear I was so happy.

It was like instant warmth ... oh and instant light to see what I thought I would NEVER see in my life. I've seen tons of dead deer on the side of the highways in my lifetime, and I've known people who have said they've even hit a deer crossing the road. But dude, there is nothing like seeing a deer take 2 graceful leaps over a 2-lane interstate right in front of you on a motorcycle. It was like slow motion! It looked so damn fake to me that I thought the deer was photoshopped into my scenery. But it was definitely NOT fake as I used every ounce of stopping skill I could muster to bring Nietzsche's speed down from the 85 mph we were traveling. The deer was bigger than Nietzsche and I, and I knew that if a collision would have arisen, the deer would've won. After it scampered away, I gave a little kiss to Nietzsche's tachometer and accelerated away. If anything, it got my blood flowing and body warm. I managed to roll right into town just in time to get to the office.

Talk about a long day at work! The only thing that could get me through the day was a little Jimi Hendrix ... shout out for one of his best albums "VooDoo Soup"

And I must have looked a hot mess, because my teammates looked at me like I was the living dead. What it was, I still had black raccoon rings around my eyes from the goggles. Doh! It's not the first time I'd had to wash my face in the bathroom at work.

Regarding National Coming Out Day ...

I've been out to my friends and immediate acquaintances for years now. But it's really only been a handful of weeks that I've been out to my parents. Having grown up in a strict Roman Catholic (by the way, I respect this faith as much as any other, and I have no intention of shedding poor light on anyone's religious beliefs) and Filipino household, all of the feelings I'd had since I was very young were considered unnatural. I never understood how the attractions and feelings I had at such a young age could be anything BUT natural.

However, I had no choice but to discredit all of those things that made up a very important part of my core. I grew up struggling with the teachings that I was wrong, fighting myself, trying hard to understand why, and hiding my shame. Basically, the wall around my soul was being built faster than I could break it down with my own devices.

Brick by brick, I've been working that wall down:

• Convincing myself it is okay to be attracted to women


• Letting my friends know who I am


• Answering someone, “Yes, I am a lesbian.”


• Seeing that I am not really alone


• Knowing that I can be me and that's just not wrong

Life continues to be a discovery of who I am, especially now that I am out and open. My attitude had to change in order to be able to come out to my parents. I had to be sure I was coming out for ME and not for them. And I must say, coming out to them was like taking a wrecking ball to the wall around my soul. I felt like I could breathe for the first time, despite the not-so-positive reactions I received. I didn't expect them to open their arms and just accept me, and I know that they may never truly understand it. But again, I did it for ME.

I envy anyone who grows up in an environment where you're not left to your own devices. When I have a family of my own, I want my home to be like a toolbox. Hopefully, this type of exposure can help to make open and accepting environments more of the rule rather than the exception. Because we can all be wrecking balls.

All Hands On the Bad One

I just thought I'd share a little story about my day today. It's all about how just when you think you are cool, something or a series of events reminds you that in fact your NOT. So I'm gonna talk about myself in third person because I'm just that freakin' cool.

Jen notices that today is fucking gorgeous, and so rather than do the piles of laundry that are staring her in the face, she decides to take a couple of rides. First ride: Jen hops on her mountain bike and pedals away into Forest Park. The sun is shining, the birds are chirping, and little kiddies are playing in the grass. Sounds good, huh? Right, that was all until Jen hears her name being yelled, turns her head as she is traveling downhill along a bike path, hits a big ole rock in the path, loses the bicycle out from under her and lands flat on her brown ass. So the park isn't exactly empty. And, as it turns out, the kind voice that hollered my name was of course directing their yelp to a completely different Jen altogether. Bravo, Jen!

Second ride: Jen dusted herself off as she usually does, and pedaled home with nothing but her ego a little damaged. Luckily, she was wearing those butt padded bicycle shorts, so that padding plus her natural padding resulted in nothing more than a temporarily sore bottom. She puts up her mountain bike and decides that it's Nietzsche's turn to come out and play. To save daylight, she goes upstairs to her apartment and throws on a pair of baggy pants over her butt padded spandex, grabs the rest of her gear, and returns to the garage to crank up the old Vroom Vroom. Jen's smile is fully engaged as she winds along new roads and takes in the air around her. About 20 miles into the ride, she needs to stop for gasoline. Nietzsche gets thirsty about every 100 miles. Aha! A BP lies ahead! There is just one problem. The left turn she needed to make into the BP was on a crooked incline. Note: Don't try to stop a 550 lb. motorcycle on a crooked incline. The motorcycle stopped just fine, but as Jen put her feet down to balance the bike before making the left turn, Nietzsche thought it would be a great idea to lean. Oh Fucking Hell! Down they went, like slow motion. Neither Jen nor Nietzsche were hurt in the situation. But since Nietzsche doesn't have arms, Jen had to lift his heavy ass off the street. He was quiet, and I hugged him to make sure he felt okay. Add one more chip in the ego.

So, as dinner approached, Jen thought a good cure for the mental damage of the day would be her favorite sushi joint! She parked Nietzsche in his new free spot provided to Jen by her lady in the parking lot who thinks Jen is the shit... aww yeah! Anyway, her dinner was fabulous and it was time to head home. Now recall Jen's choice of clothing. Mountain biking shorts under baggy pants. That outfit coupled with a belly full of sushi obviously results in embarrassing moment number three. Jen walks up to Nietzsche and begins to strap on her riding gear (helmet, goggles, gloves, etc.). The entire process only takes a couple of minutes, however it takes less than a second for Jen to make a complete fool of herself. Just as she was swinging her right leg over to mount Nietzsche, Jen realized that her leg would not rise. Why, you ask? Well, her baggy ass pants are down at her ankles! Bravo, Jen! Beautiful encore for the evening of entertainment she regularly provides to her friends and cohorts in the neighborhood. Note to self: Those baggy pants are obviously too baggy ...

Today, despite my moments, I'm listening to some rockin' jams. Have a listen to the album All Hands On the Bad One by Sleater-Kinney.

This Is No Mix Up, I'm Wide Awake

Sleepless, once again. What is up in my noggin tonight? Honestly, I'd love to just jump on my Harley for a night ride. Hmmm, maybe I will if this blog doesn't put me to sleep. A kind voice commented on my last entry and said to me, "Happiness is a journey, not a destination." I have no idea if that is an original quote or not, but it makes total sense. I've always been the kind of person to throw caution to the wind and go for shit if I think it'll make me happy. So why not this time? Is it because being older has made me wiser? Obviously not, since I did buy a motorcycle. As a side note, I find it quite ironic that while this new found joy of riding without a cage has made me feel as wild and free as I did when I was five years old, I just sat here thinking that maybe I have gotten wiser with age. Wow, I'm getting really good at bullshitting myself.

Okay, so "back to the lecture at hand. Perfection is perfection, so I'm 'a let 'em understand. From a young G's perspective ..." *cough cough* Pardon my slight Snoop Dogg deviation. Where was I? Oh, right, what is it that holds me back from taking action this time? Is it because I fear the consequences of acting on a passion? Or is it because I just don't believe that what I want right now is real? I've never questioned my passions so meticulously before. I've always had a "balls-to-the-wall" attitude, even in matters of the heart. What is it that scares me this time? I think maybe I fear not that what I want isn't real, but that it is very real. With that, I'm torn. I don't know how to act, if at all. "Sippin' on juice and gin. Everybody got they cups, but they ain't chipped in." Okay everybody, friends and randoms, join me in my sleepless confusion. What are you passionate about, but are afraid to act on? And does that make it a true passion if you are honestly afraid to act on it? Should passion be defined by a desire upon which one is not afraid to act? Think about that over your coffee and bagel and hit me up.

In the meantime, check out this Beastie Boys release. It's an instrumental album called The Mix Up. Ahh, true Beastie form. Enjoy! I love me some B-Boys!