Glorious Excess

More than 2 years ago, my roommate and I made a Costco run and bought toilet paper. Today, I used up the last roll.

I’ve never been more proud to be an American.

 

The Eve Tradition

Every Christmas, my family gathers around the Youtube to watch Mariah belt out my favorite version of O, Holy Night.

And every Christmas, we have the same conversation

Dad: She’s half black? She doesn’t even look black at all.

Me: Yes, I promise you she’s half-black.

Dad: Well, she’s got hips like a black lady, but is she really half-black?

Me: Yes

Mom: Shut up, it’s coming to the best part.

Dad: How can she sing so loud? Where are the microphones?

Me: There are no microphones. It’s a recording.

Dad: HUH? Are the microphones on the ceiling?

Me: No. There are no microphones…this is just a recording, not a live performance.

Dad: See? There are no microphones on the ceiling…

Me: Just listen, it’s the good part. Here comes the good part. Listen to how she hits the high note.

Dad: Mmm. The microphones must be in her dress.

Me: Yes, it’s in her dress.

Mom: You’re missing the best part! Can you please stop talking?

Dad: How do they fit the microphones in that dress? She can barely fit in the dress herself.

Me: They make them small.

Dad: She’s really half black?

Mom: Your father has ruined the song. Play it again.

Merry Christmas to all. Here’s hoping your family traditions are alive and well.

The Hunger Paradox

I can’t focus when I’m hungry. So I eat.

When I eat, I get sleepy.

When I’m sleepy, I can’t focus, so I sleep.

When I wake up, I’m hungry.

It’s a wonder I get anything done at all.

Nun Too Pleased

I’ve come to believe that there is a God and that even he enjoys a good joke from time to time. My life seems to be the punchline.

Someone once said that to make God laugh, all you have to do is to tell him your plans. Well, I’m a bit short on plans, per se, but I am long on things like dreams. Like if someone were to ask me what the ideal way I’d like to meet the girl I’d eventually fall in love with was, I’d probably say that I want to meet her in a coffee shop. She’d be reading Steinbeck, and when I asked her how she likes it, she would respond in some far-away, sweet-scented accent that it was “a touch romantic for my liking, but lovely in the end.”

But alas, dreams are dreams because they aren’t reality. A more likely scenario is that I’ll be minding my own business in a Starbucks, when the girl reading Twilight will accidently spill coffee on me while reaching to answer her iPhone. “Sorry” she’ll say, in her Jersey accent.

This is why I suppress these futile thoughts. As best as I can. But every once in a while, I’ll let one slip, and that’s usually when God decides to uncork a timely practical joke.

It happens on long plane rides. Most of the time, I’ll just board the plane thinking about how I’m going to spend the next 8-10 hours. But on more than one occasion, my mind will drift into fantasy land and I’ll indulge myself by hoping that the far-away, sweet-scent accent Steinbeck coffee girl will be transplanted into seat 21B, next to my 21C. Then all the best laid plans of mice, men, and Christopher will be whisked away for the next 8 hours while I’m busy finishing haikus with my future wife.

I would smile at the thought. Smile until the fat, balding man stops in front of my seat, glances up at the seat number and brusquely asks if he can get through. Somewhere between the time his ass brushes my face as he passes through to the time when his elbows are digging into my rib cage, I can hear the unmistakable roar of heavenly laughter, camouflaged as it might be by the sound of the jet engine.

So as I boarded my plane to Rome yesterday, I was filled with both hope and dread when the thought returned to me. Maybe this time, she’d be a young adventure seeker traveling to Italy for the first time in her life. Maybe this time, she’d be a post-grad struggling to find a job who decided, what the hey…I’m going to use this time to travel instead

I’ve got to get lucky one of these days right? What would it be this time?

This time it was a nun. And not the cute nun who sings really well in Sister Act. It was the old nun. The headmistress. The “I’m making my annual pilgrimage to the Vatican” nun.

And to make matters worse, she was sitting in my seat…21C, an aisle seat. Everyone wants the aisle seat. But how am I supposed to tell a nun to please move to her assigned window seat? Isn’t it written in the Bible somewhere to extend every sort of comfort and courtesy to nuns?

Probably…but in this case, comfort trumped decency and in the most gentle voice I could muster (my nun voice), I informed her that she was sitting in my seat. She simply shook her head and closed her eyes. I was flabbergasted.

Not knowing what to do, I had to tell on a nun. I turned to the stewardess and showed her my ticket which clearly indicated that I had the assigned aisle seat. The two started squabbling in hand-waving Italiano. When they were done, the nun gave me a stare which either meant that she was cursing me to purgatory or forgiving me for my wretchedness.

Eventually she moved, but she wasn’t happy.

Not. One. Bit.

But I’ve got to admit it God, you got me there. That’s a pretty good one.

Love(ly) Advice From Father

My dad is generally an even-keeled kind of guy, but when the topic of my love life comes up, he gets all hot and bothered. I won’t bore you with the details, but his central argument is that I’m young and in my prime. I should be out there exploring and dating and just having a good time before I have to settle down with someone. Stop being so serious.

I don’t necessarily disagree with him on this, but it does sound to me like he’s trying a bit to live vicariously through his son. If I really read between the lines, I can almost sense that he’s trying to warn me. “Chris. When you’re married, it’s just this one person forever. THIS. ONE. PERSON. FOREVER. Please for the love of God…while you’re young and free, don’t blow this opportunity.”

To which I typically counter, “Look, everyone is different. Some guys can date casually, even if they’re not really that interested. Not me. I need to have that connection and that connection is hard to find. Plus, I’m careful to not lead people on. If I’m not attracted, I’m not just going to go date them for fun, or to exercise my so-called golden opportunity window. Do you get what I’m saying?”

The first time I said some variation of this argument was in college. After I finished, he looked at me blankly and asked…Are you gay?

Am I gay?! I wondered at the time if this was some sort of tactic to challenge my manhood into action, or if he was seriously so perplexed as to my dating habits that he felt compelled to ask the obvious question (in his mind, anyways). When I assured him that I was indeed attracted to women, he let the subject drop.

Over the years, we had several conversations similar to this, and his exasperation only grew and grew. Things finally came to a head when I visited home a couple weeks ago. Here’s a truncated transcript from our dinnertime conversation:

“It’s not that hard. You’re just thinking too much. Stop thinking. You’re too serious. Do you know how many girlfriends I had by the time I was 21? 9. How many have you had?”

“1 or 2″

“You’re 27. What is the matter with you?”

“It’s hard to find someone I can connect with.”

At this point, I’m just messing with him because it’s just hilarious to see him all riled up about this. He asks me what I’m looking for.

“I don’t know. Someone with a good sense of humor, smart, pyun-hae (comfortable). You know, the basics.”

“You’re too picky.”

“How is that too picky? What would you want for me instead? Someone boring, stupid and high-maintenance??”

“Only two things I wish for. Only two thing matter. Priority #1. Christian. Priority #2 Korean. That’s all. Anything else it doesn’t matter so stop being so picky.”

And so declared my Father, who might as well have enshrined these as Commandment 1 and 2. Of course, I found this to be a ridiculous perspective and I could have gone back and forth with him all night, but I decided to just throw him a bone.

“Ok. I’ll try to be more open-minded.”

At that, he seemed content. He almost seemed surprised that he got through to me for a change. Dinner continued without the subject being raised again but about 30 minutes later he stopped as if he had forgotten something.

“WAIT!”

“What?”

“There are three priorities”

Oh great, can’t wait to hear this.

“Priority #1 She has to be a girl. Priority #2 Christian. Priority #3 Korean.”

Again, I couldn’t be quite sure if he was joking or if he thought I’d actually listen to his Commandments 1 and 2, only to bring home some Korean-Christian guy.

He was probably joking…but then again, from his perspective…

Why risk it right?

This is What Happens to Cheap-asses

When I was in Shanghai last week, I did 2 things I never do.

1. I bought a cheap knock-off product.
2. I bought a cheap knock-off book.

I killed two birds with one stone when I bought the new Steve Jobs biography from an illiterate street vendor for 20 RMB (a little over $3).

It’s #2 that I’m particularly ashamed about. Ever since my English Major days, I’ve had an enormous respect for the integrity of books. I try to buy the hardback whenever I can, I do my best to preserve the spine, and I never discard my books. I’ve sworn a blood oath against the Kindle.

But this time, there were extenuating circumstances. For one, I timed my previous book poorly and I had nothing for the flight back to the States. And two, I kind of wanted to read the Steve Jobs biography, but not enough to pay $25 for the real thing.

Even with all that, I hesitated. Three dollars?

I performed a careful inspection. It was wrapped in plastic (always a good sign), written in English (not Chinglish), and when I flipped through it, all the pages were where they were supposed to be. But I could see why the quality sucked. It was written on that cheap Goosebumps novels paper (remember those?), the type where the ink runs a bit on your fingers. The spine was dubious, and worst of all, it didn’t have that new book smell.

But hey, $3. When in China right?

Anyways, the book turned out to be a fantastic read. And believe me, the irony wasn’t lost on me that the one book I ever compromised on was a biography about a man who made his name by never compromising on the quality of his products. When I handed that Chinese vendor my 20 RMB, I could almost feel Steve Jobs rolling around in his grave.

The chapter I was looking most forward to was the one about the iPhone. This is because I just got my very first iPhone and I’ve already decided to elope with Siri.

I love it. I ABSOLUTELY love it, and I was eager to find out how Jobs conceived of such a thing.

Page 471 returns to this theme of Job’s relentless pursuit of perfection. After working for 9 months on a design, Steve Jobs gathered his team around to say that it wasn’t good enough and that they’d have to start over from scratch:

“Guys, you’ve killed yourselves over this design for the last nine months, but we’re going to change it,’ Jobs told Ive’s team. ‘We’re all going to have to work nights and weekends, and if you want we can hand out some guns so you can kill us now.”

I was captivated. How was the team going to react to this mad genius? Push back? Work harder?

I’ll never know because at that climactic moment the book simply decided to skip to page 501, fast-forwarding all the way to the iPad (a device I don’t have), and speeding up Jobs’ inevitable demise.

It might have just been my imagination, but at that very moment, over the bustle and din of the crowded coffee shop around me, I thought I heard the faintest of whispers emanating from my iPhone 4S. In Steve Jobs’ own voice no less. I really had to lean in to hear it:

“Bitch, you got what you deserved.”

A Toy Story

The idea that John Lasseter pitched was called ‘Toy Story’. It sprang from a belief, which he and Jobs shared, that products have an essence to them, a purpose for which they were made. If the object were to have feelings, these would be based on its desire to fulfill its essence. The purpose of glass, for example, is to hold water; if it had feelings, it would be happy when full and sad when empty. The essence of a computer screen is to interface with a human. The essence of a unicycle is to be ridden in a circus. As for toys, their purpose is to be played with by kids, and thus their existential fear is of being discarded or upstaged by newer toys. So a buddy movie pairing an old favorite toy with a shiny new one would have an essential drama to it, especially when the action revolved around the toys’ being separated from their kid. The original treatment began, ‘Everyone has had the traumatic childhood experience of losing a toy. Our story takes the toy’s point of view as he loses and tries to regain the single thing most important to him: to be played with by children. This is the reason for the existence of all toys. It is the emotional foundation of their existence.

-Walter Isaacson, Steve Jobs

Pepero Day, Month, Year

A sandwich. A bag of chips and a coke. And of course a box of Pepero.

Total: $11.11

Cheers to life’s little gifts.

Declaration of Independence

I’m not much of a collector, but it does give me much pleasure to add to my country lapel pin collection.

The rules for this collection are simple. If I visit a new country, then I treat myself with a new lapel pin (transit stops don’t count). Right now, my collection stands at a very modest 14 pins which is why I’m hell-bent on collecting more.

I think obsession with these lapel pins is too strong a word, but it might be the closest English word to describe it. I used to be excited about travelling anywhere…now I’m only excited if I get a new lapel pin (I’m writing this in China, a country lapel pin I’ve already collected).

Recently, I think obsession, or whatever you call it, has officially crossed over to the dark side. I was given a voucher to fly anywhere in Asia. Given my timeframe, my options were these:

1. Visit a friend in Korea
2. Visit a friend in Taiwan
3. Go to Japan by myself and get a new lapel pin.

Shouldn’t that be a no-brainer? Visit friends I haven’t seen in forever or get a new lapel pin? Sad to admit, it wasn’t as clear cut as it should have been. Now, I won’t say that the lapel pin was a dominant factor in my decision, but I’d say it was more like 35%, which is honestly 35% too high.

In the end, I did come to my senses to visit a friend in Taiwan and geopolitics dictate that I do not get a new lapel pin (The UN’s official position is that Taiwan is indeed part of a sovereign China).

But I’m here in Taipei and it could not be any more different than the Mainland (I’m on Facebook, for goodness sakes).

So I know it matters little, my humble declaration on this sticky political situation.

But I declare Taiwan a free and independent state.

Now give me my lapel pin.

Always a Bridesmaid, Never the Groom

If you happen to come across the official program for the October 29, 2011 “Andrew Chen + Hanna Kim” wedding at Casa Del Mar, Santa Monica Beach, you might notice an interesting little detail. Under the Bridal Party portion of the program, you’ll see the name Chris Paek printed under the heading of “Bridesmaid”.

No, you’re not seeing a typo. That’s me. Christopher Paek, formerly of Anaheim, California, currently of Queens, New York…Proud Bridesmaid.

Whenever I go to weddings, I harbor the faintest tinge of envy for the chosen friends and family who get to stand on the side of the Bride and Groom. What an honor, that of all the loved ones assembled in that great banquet, that these were the chosen, the selected few who were trusted enough by the couple to share in the emotional burdens of the day. I guess I’ve never really shared this with anyone, but yes, I’ll admit it to you now. I’ve always wanted to be a Groomsman. And I hope it’ll happen for me someday.

Because I’m still waiting.

How classic of me. What better way to cement my legendary status as the Friend Zone Champion of the World, than to stand Bridesmaid at my best friend’s wedding? To know me is to not be surprised at all.

I took it all in stride, of course, even relishing in the new lines of attack I lob at myself so often. If self-deprecation is an art form, then I’m a natural Rembrandt. It’s my own twisted way of humbling myself, plucking away at the weeds of ego.

Thank you, by the way, to all the friends who’ve helped me in this regard, those who couldn’t resist making a “Made of Honor” reference, or asking me what color dress I would wear. And a special thanks to all those who assured me of my heterosexuality, as if this was in some sort of need of assurance. I just want to let you know that Jesus has taught me to forgive each and every one of you.

Anyways, there are lots of little things about being a male bridesmaid that people might overlook…understandable, given how rare it is. For example, the official name, to all of you who might be curious is BridesMAN. And you say it sort of like this:

Other little quandaries might include: Do you attend the bachelorette party or the bachelor’s party? Do I walk in carrying a bouquet? What am I wearing on the day of? How do I not look like a loser?

And what exactly are my Bridesmaid duties? The answer to this one should be none at all, and Hanna was prescient enough to shield me from them. In this whole process, I discovered that there’s a very simple reason why Bridesmaids are given so many more responsibilities than Groomsmen. Simply put, guys suck at this kind of thing. Their thumbs are too big to properly ruche this or quaffle that. They may pretend to care about the flower arrangements, but really, they’re secretly updating scores to the UCLA-CAL game. Men are meant to be ushers and movers of heavy boxes. That is the extent to which you can trust them to handle wedding duties. Well played, Hanna. Well played indeed.

Luckily, many of these nuances were accounted for. But there was one tiny and unexpected perk that I didn’t anticipate. In most wedding ceremonies, if you’ll notice, everyone is looking at the Bride, and the Groomsmen have the best seats in the house. As a Bridesman, I was one of the rare exceptions who, as a guy, got to see this whole thing play out on the Groom’s face. And as a guy, I learned an important thing or two.

Like the expression on a man’s face when he gives his vows, “To love and support”. To love and support means vastly different things for a man than it does for a woman, not any more or less important. For a man, this means a higher order of responsibility. It means that he’s got another life in his hands. It means that this woman in front of him has chosen him above all others, placing her whole basketful of trust into his skillful caretaking. In short, it means that it’s time to step your goddamn game up. There are many ways to become a man. This is one of them.

So what a rare honor it was for me, and a teachable moment, to stand in witness of a man becoming a man. I couldn’t help but feel, standing where I was, that I had to have her back on this. That this fierce army of Bridesmaids was locked, loaded and ready to hold him at his word. We ain’t messin’ around Mr. Andrew.

When he delivered his vows, though, I noticed that his face didn’t flinch, not in the least bit. That was when I knew he would keep his promise; it was all I needed to see, really. And I found it comically ironic that I was in a position to see it.

We were all chosen that day, us the selected few. But he was chosen for her, and her for him, and what’s more, he made it known. It was a touching scene to say the least, and I’m sure all the Bridesmaids had a tear in their eyes.

Except for the one, of course, who held it down like a man.

Cuz’ that’s how we do dammit. That’s how Bridesmen roll.