A friend recently told me that she lost a job. Again. So I asked what she wanted to do in her next job. That probably what she was doing wasn’t interesting enough or challenging enough for her. Or perhaps, it was only a stepping stone on her career path.

To my surprise, she said she didn’t care what the job was…as long as it paid the rent.

Coming from a background where everyone had lifelong career goals…that was a surprise to me. There was always something I wanted to do. No matter what, it was only within two steps. Or the path to the goal was clear. I started early.

But then what if the goals are so farfetched now that you forget to even speak of them anymore? To be a dancer. To be a jewelry maker? To be a movie director? To be a screen writer? To be a pilot?

Or if something unexpected came in the way in your path. A sick relative. The birth of a child. The major loss of property. A death in the family. Illness. Trauma. And resulting in a reorganization of priorities to say goodbye to that dream that you forget that is what you once wanted to do.

But then again, I have often mentioned how I wanted to be a BART operator.

For some reason or another I chose to continue my blogging ways. Back in the day, I used to blog every day. Not because I always had something to say, but because I spent 3 hours a day idling on the computer. And then within my social network, blogging was a big thing.

It was a focal point for posting webcam pictures, a place to share memes, to attack and start drama…a place to vent. Basically the equivalent of MySpace.

And now, it’s almost…simply a method of self-perservation. Don’t forget me, I think from time to time, because the worst feeling of all is to be forgotten.

I look at the long list of links I have on the right. From the twentysomething active links I used to have, it has nearly dwindled to only 5 blogs that are regularly active. But really, what is active anyway? Every few days? Every week? Every other week? Every month? Every few months? And sadly, the bloggers who have become inactive…there’s little there and as time passes on, their presence decreases..and I forget. And they are almost forgotten unintentionally.

So don’t forget. Yet.

Yesterday at the Of Monteral concert at the Great American Music Hall, I found myself toward the front. And as usual, somehow a tall guy squeezes in front of me, blocking the entire view of the stage. He was oblivious to all the short people behind him. The short people that were basically moving to the left and right trying to get a better view instead a long back.

But this time, it was a guy alright. A guy in a red dress covering his broad shoulders. Ok barely covering, stretched almost to pity around him due to the lack of a chest. With his long hair messily pushed aside.

Fortunately he wasn’t wearing perfume.

And fortunately, his 3 other friends (1 of which actually looked like a hot girl) were not as tall.

With sound on (no it’s not one of those scare you types), hear the tune for Danny Devito’s Limoncello.

A catchy tune for the limoncello. That of which I have only had in as a flavor for gelato!

If my life was captured by cameras, it would be boring. Me going to work. Me seeing friends. Talking about nothing too compelling. Eating. Sleeping. Rinse. Repeat.

So is that why the drama in the Hills seem contrived and scripted? Because normal people aren’t that ambitious…of drama and success?

We want to watch a main character that reaches for success and jumps at every opportunity. We don’t want to watch someone who constantly fail. In some sense, we want to live through the main character to achieve the dreams that we are afraid to reach.

Several weeks ago, I asked a friend to drive me to the grocery store. Then another friend asked if I wanted observe the flash mob in Civic Center. Torn, I asked the first friend to come. And I randomly txted a few people in a flash mob fashion. And it’s interesting how in that very one night, a change of events occurred.

If I didn’t demand a ride to Safeway that night…some people wouldn’t have met. Some people would have never learned a new lesson. Some people wouldn’t have begun a new chapter. Some people wouldn’t have moved on. And some people may not have been assured of their role.

I used to always say no. Out of fear. Out of anxiety for what would happen if I was caught in anxiety or awkwardness. But now I say yes even though 90% of the time, it will be awkward. I swallow it, knowing change is better than none at all.

Yesterday, I randomly asked a friend I have only recently gotten to known downtown to use my last Jamba Juice buy one get one free coupon. It was nice. Even though we’re from different worlds. Me from that educated, goal-directed background and she from a struggling background. All but the same. We both don’t like chocolate with nuts.

A diagram of all instances of is the new phrases in the recent years

A few are enlightening of the culture highlighting historical changes and present events. Some state the superficiality. Others state quirky trends. And even a few state the alarming rate of change.

I haven’t figured out rationale for the layout and grouping of certain elements though.

Some examples based on the diagram:

Yellow is the new red.

Red is the new green.

Green is the new pink.

Pink is the new black.

To text is the new sex.

Sex is the new sleep.

Supporting our troops is the new AIDS.

Gadget bag is the new man purse.

Mental illness is the new normal.

When I was young, my sister and I would venture out into the “wilderness”—the outside of our suburban house. Hike the trails of the building housing development. Or dive into the berry bushes in a nearby elementary school. We would play near the gutter of the street that looked like a river where we would float things down…leaves, a plastic shovel…and try to catch it before it went to the drain. Or ride our bikes to the bike trail, exploring the neighborhood looking to secretly pick fruit off neighbor’s trees—plums, loquat, guava. And sometimes in angry angst, I would take a shovel from the garage and dig a hole to China in our backyard wanting to get to the other side of the world.

Our parents left us primarily unattended as we explored the world. My parents seem to have a philosophy that children will learn as they grow. I never recalled a moment that my parents said “no, you’re too young for that” or anything visibly protective. Perhaps it was because they are foreigners. In Chinese school, I remember the teachers would let us run wild…during recess…nobody telling us to stop and pay attention. Freedom. My dad liked watching movies and he never censored anything. Although to this day, I question whether I should have watched that eye-stabbing scene in Demolition Man when I was…too young???

It seems that kids the current generation are different. They are surrounded by technology that guarantees safety. Are parents becoming too protective?

Today I read about a recent move to censor The Giver in East Bay schools. I barely remember what the book was about. But what happens if everyone is protected? Are people cultivating a generation of kids who don’t know the world beyond their room? That they are safe because they’re in their room with a computer outfitted with all the latest firewalls and blocks to dangerous sites. Like the movie Idiocracy, is
a generation of idiots growing?

When I was 11, 12, 13, I wouldn’t say that I was the brightest of the lot. But like many others, I believe I came a long way.

Every so often I attend an event that is popular with the hipsters and the twentysomething crowd in San Francisco. There I recognize at least one person. The name escapes me. Is it someone that I abhored? Someone I stared at, possibly admiring her shoes but never had the guts to cross the room to compliment her? And perhaps she stared back at me with a nasty glance that said why are you so weird? Or was it someone that I spoke with while standing in line giddy with sugar that exclamation marks were coming out my head? Or was it a friend of a friend that I met at a party where I cowered behind my red Dixie cup of water and mumbled some coherent small talk?

And I spend the rest of the time fishing for the name. Fishing for the moment. Like, dislike, friendly or not friendly…

There was once that I saw someone afar. I spoke outloud and said to my friend, “I can’t remember him…I don’t remember where he’s from…is he from a movie?”

And my friend laughed and dragged me over…turns out it was someone who I had stared at because he was talking with the birthday boy for awhile…at a recent dinner. The staring akin to a movie star.

Today at the Spark: Sugar Rush event (which had fabulous desserts…most unfortunately were chocolate), I saw some people I knew. There was an Asian girl. I knew she probably didn’t recognize me since we met only once, but when we did meet…I felt like we had clicked and were buddy buddy. But that was in February. And here we were and I couldn’t remember her name.

I lightly waved to her once, but she didn’t blink. And I kept racking my brain trying to remember her name so that I could approach her and say “Hey [insert name here]. We met at [insert event].”

Then when we were about to leave, I looked down at my phone, almost intent on logging onto to my social networking websites to find her name…when it suddenly hit me. Nance. I spun around on my Brazilian shoe heel that pinched my toes…and she was gone.

A face and a name. All very the same. And losing once again the game.

It’s the return of the guilty indulgence. After all, it’s the day after Halloween. And this year, I didn’t do anything…too related to the holiday.

The Hills.

It turns out not “real”. As in, some plot lines are contrived. Sure it’s what they said, but who told them to say it?

Quite often watching these shows, I start to believe I am being watched by cameras. A slight awareness. We probably all would behave differently if there was a large audience who watched us, judged us…gossiped about us. And we learn to be…like the reality people who the audience forgets.

The only celebrities I ever ran into in the Bay Area on the street were former cast members of Real World. Those who attended Berkeley the same years as I did. Oh and William Hung.