Yesterday on my facebook feed, I spotted a new photo from a friend. A friend I had met at SXSW 2007 and then saw her again at the Web conference last year. She was nice, although I think she realized that she was significantly older than me.

We barely kept in touch. I being in San Francisco and she begin in San Francisco. Yesterday night however, I noticed that…her last name was different. I clicked on her profile. On her wall, I saw notes of “congratulations!” and “i love you!” It was full of happy tear-streaked shrieks and pleasant greetings—the things that happen after a perfect wedding.

How could I have missed it? I am a person who keeps tabs on people—some people would say almost to the point of stalking. And yet, I have fallen in my obsessiveness. It gnawed at me even after I posted an obligatory congratulations and how much I would love to see her if I ever come to the east coast.

And even so, I only had emailed a friend recently when our mutual friend mentioned she was engaged. Engaged since April and I wasn’t even aware! I had been very surprised since she and I went through a phase of “He’s not into you” right after graduate school. I remember a moment at a friend’s birthday that…we had indulged ourselves silly with waffles and ice cream for breakfast. Who cares when there’s not a single boy! we had declared.

I find out in the last few months that another friend is married, another engaged, another broke up with a significant other. It’s all happiness. But the thing is…I keep tabs on those who are close to me. Those I choose to be involved with nearly every other day, every week. I know the secrets, the whispers of betrayal, the indecisive moments.

Brad Pitt recently advised never broadcast relationship status. I agree. I plainly and purposefully do not broadcast my relationship status. I prefer people to ask me and find out. I have a preference of male friends and don’t want an attachment to cloud the potential in this heterosexual world.

I don’t like feeling out of the loop. But somehow I am glad that I have yet to receive a wedding invitation this year. (Oh except you, Karen, but I haven’t received a card yet). My sister has been invited to more than 6 weddings in a span of one year. I am glad that I am not obligated.

I wish there was a way to filter friends by relationship status. And then find the ones who choose not to. Do they think like me? Are they less desperate?

(guest post by Chris after watching The Rock, of course!)

Hearing Sean Connery spout expletives was like a symphony in my head. This was truly the highest of high art. Action in the movie is fellatio for the eyes.

An all-star cast.

There’s not much to be said about a movie that is perfect as it is. No excess. I almost want to say that there is no wasted dialogue. The movie is action is distilled to its purest form.

*some more mumbling*

Special.

So far in my 2 week experience of having a car in the city, I have been pleasantly surprised by the comfort and versatility in driving. In being the hipster and frugal person I am, I had never really had a car since high school. Sure there were spurts of going home and driving my parents’ car, but the idea of having a car always never sat with me. Over the years, I had increased skills in making puppy dog eyes to get rides and mastered the public transit system.

But there was the pain of dependency and uncomfortable seats (and fellow passengers). In my 2 years of working in the city, I could bear the 20 minutes or so sitting next to loud, obnoxious people and the smells of a bourbon snuck on in a paper bag. The unfair offenses of someone getting on for free or the conversations I overhear that yanked on my morality and beliefs were sometimes too much.

I liked having someone drive me everywhere. That was ideal.

But in the last 2 weeks in driving around by myself, I have finally mastered the feel of the driving. I drive well in the city, anticipating other cars and making the turns efficiently. Parallel parking is embarrassing.

But there was this comfortable feeling as I drove. This is my space. Pump up the Handsome Furs or ABBA. Nobody would mind. Nobody can tell if I am staring at them or picking my nose. Nobody says…anything. Because we are in our pods, our own environments in motion. I loved it.

On the way up from the South Bay today (while “beating” traffic and driving up 101 at 10 pm), I zoomed in the far left lane. Little traffic. I enjoyed the flow of cars, passing by me. It was easy. Just straight up the freeway and a few turns to my apartment (but difficult parking).

In front of me, I saw a van. At first, it swayed into my lane and then back into its lane. Then it steadied for a few moments and swayed again. I saw other cars around me…almost part as if the swaying van was parting the seas. I would rather be in front than in the back, I thought as the van swayed completely in my lane. No signals. It stayed there for a few moments, then swayed into its former lane as if it had never intended to change lanes in the first place. The van scooted left, then right.

When I was younger and perhaps more of an inexperienced driver, I would have many near death experiences…the near misses of barely scratching a car or almost losing control. There was this unexplainable anxious feeling I would get. An incredible fear that tensed every muscle in my body, my eyes alert, the adrenaline so incredibly high. Then the danger passed, but I hated the feeling.

There was once someone who said, “A drive that is uneventful is the best drive of all.” I disliked that someone for so many years, who had insisted that I should not be driving and recommended that I stay off the streets. My resentment had built up for many years when I would almost not drive anyone any around. And yet driving was so freeing—I could go anywhere.

On the 101 tonight, I gripped my wheel as I passed the van. Pushing the gas all the way down. Chris said that I should have reported the van, but I didn’t know how. I hated the fear that my death could come any moment. I would rather lay the responsibility elsewhere. As I sped toward the city, I saw the fog rise above the freeway in the partially moonlit night.

In my quest to find a route to the caltrain, I debated endlessly about biking, driving, barting, busing…it was a combination of comfort, cost and efficiency. I couldn’t figure it out.

But Chris brought up a good point. That if he was in my position, he would have already been biking the entire time. Fearlessness.

When I do bike, I notice that all the bike commuters around me are male. The hipsters with tight pants and fixies. The old grayed hair commuters with a mirror on the helmets and folding bikes. Then the yuppies with the timbuk2 bags. And of course the facebookers with jack spade bags with the imprinted facebook logo. All male.

Where were the people like me?

Then even on the caltrain. I would lie back in my seat settling into my pseudo-nap. But I would have to always catch myself before falling onto a guy next to me. It was always usually a guy. Today, I scanned the train and the people who got off at 22nd and Pennsylvania. Predominantly male.

What is going on?

I thought maybe there were several factors:

1. Females are not daring enough to take a job south of the city or out of the city. Like many of them, I am willing to sacrifice greatness for proximity.

2. Females prefer driving. Having a car this week has made my life easier (getting to places).

3. Females are a little more sensitive about shared spaces. Sure, I hate sitting in a warm seat, because I automatically assume there are cooties present.

4. Females don’t like biking because not only does it get in the way of the day’s outfit, the shoes don’t work, and who wants to carry 10 lbs on their back. I know I don’t.

So what is it then…a delcration of feminism that I bike, take the caltrain, and do this “reverse commute” from the city? Am I trying to be different, breaking the ground? Or in the end, am I just like the guy on the macbook pro next to me typing furiously with headphones plugged in from his iphone. I can’t help but look at his screen.

Near midnight, I heard the ping sound on my phone indicating a new text message. Was it Jeff or Beverly? Maybe I had left something at their place.

Then I read the long message:
“I didn’t realize you were trying to get with people on some of these websites. All the way back in may and June. Great job u had me completly [sic] fooled I’m glad I know now that all your affairs I finally surfaced and just by reading your email that u had left this marriage years ago. Thanks for breaking my heart and balls for the last few years I appreciate that you are a lair and a cheater, it’s strange that u blame me because of your own guilt. Well I’ll keep reading and see what else you forgot to tell me.”

Then a minute later as my inbox was full, I received another text:
“I don’t want to fight or argue I want to grab some things so at least I can be comfortable sleeping in my car, or can you throw them out the door please”

At first, I was worried. Would this be a repeat of last year’s incident when a wife called me accused me of sleeping with her husband, thinking that I was the other woman? Last year, it had been amusing, but I came to my senses quickly wanting to spare the woman anguish. Then there was the mike fernando incident (meeting someone randomly on the phone) and other various crazy situations.

I immediately googled the number, wondering if I was being tricked. A telemarketer? Probably not. The phone number was very close to mine, so it was likely someone from the East Contra Costa area. I actually thought it was a woman…and thought about how I would respond. So without much hesitation, I called back. Mostly because I didn’t want text messages waking me up all night long.

I heard a voice answer, “Hello?”

Immediately, I was confused. It sounded just like my dad and I was about to say something along those lines. I stuttered for a moment as I tried to find the words to say something…I didn’t want to stay up too long. “Uh well…I just received text messages from this number.”

“Oh…sorry…those meant for my wife. She’s crazy…”

“Oh that’s ok. I hope you were able to send the messages to the right person. I hope you were able to resolve the issues…” I paused for an awkward moment.

“No not really. I have this scar on my head from the keys she threw against me.”

I winced and responded, “I hope things work out.”

“Thanks, good night.”

“You too”

UPDATE AT 12:48 AM

I received another text (all this time I am somewhat angry that my inbox is filling up and hope this guy stops sending my texts)
“Whoever u are i apoligise [sic] for the text u were not supposed to get. I found out my ‘wife’ was and is cheating on me with a 70year old man, and after she beat me in the head with some keys and after i called the cops im the one that gets asked to leave and check out for the night. So she has a total of 3 affairs which were men all over the age of 60yrs old. So thanks for being a nice voice to hear for once today. I again thank u and have a great day in whatever u do tomorrow. Aaron”

Then another because one is just not enough:
“It must have been a money thing”

I am tempted to respond out of curiosity. I was so tempted to play out the drama and poke my nose where it doesn’t belong. I am curious, so horribly curious. But then I realize how little sleep I have been getting the last few days and don’t want to bother myself with it. So instead, unlike my former immaturity of my early twenties, I resist the temptation and close my phone.

Like many individuals of these times, we can’t help but stare as cars crash. Or as celebrities fight. Or as families break apart. We follow the drama more than we follow the global wars, the strife in politics, the new diseases. We wait in anticipation for next week. The reality show, our own voyeurism is driven by our yearning of knowing are we as good as we think we are?

My dad once explained why he watched the Jerry Springer show, “It makes me feel good about myself.”

I started watching Road Rules and Real World in high school. As I grew older, I could see how everything, everything in public tore these people apart.

More than 8 months ago, I saw a call for a diary-like project. One where you track your day and then post it. For everyone to see. I applied out of spite angry at how people had written theirs. I wanted to show the world how unique I was. But I didn’t think about it for months until a few days ago when I got a response.

“Are you still interested? Please let us know” the email said.

Of course, I had first thought. Then I glanced back at the entries. The angry, unjustified comments. The people tore everything apart on shallow judgements.

Would I be strong to bare my soul online? Could I survive it without coming away with a nasty bite? Or was it shameless promotion of myself? My desire to be heard…and understood. The driving force behind this blog.

There was a call once for MTV’s True Life for I live another life on the web. I missed it. But maybe I am glad that the only person looking at my life is me.

Guilt is like a crushing boulder upon your head, squeezing you down and down. Shame is like that, but worse, because you could feel distrust coming from all sides and that what others feel is caused only by you.

Where you want to find a hole and bury yourself in it. For a bit. Just until it goes away so that you can return to your former comforts of simplicity and predictability.

But of course, you can’t. Because if you were looking at yourself from the outside, you would not look at the behavior in a positive light. In a scornful voice, you might even say, “I would never do that”. And you laugh at the wimp, the coward, the meekless soul.

And because you think of that, you bite your lip and face the world headon. Because of course, you know that everyone forgets. Often too quickly.

During dinner with my roommate, he noted the obvious: “I have a new girlfriend.”

I laughed, since he rarely made declarations like that. He was more of a talker of interesting thoughts and philosophy. As we ate at The Broken Record through our foreign-tasting sausages, he mentioned that he was going to Peru within the next week. And he reflected for a moment. “It’s like a test…when I first date someone, I like to ask them to go on an international trip with me.”

After the dinner, I kept thinking…it is really a test of compatibility. Traveling together. Not only can it be a stressful situation, but it can be relaxing and wonderful. During my Thailand trip, I was surprised that drama didn’t spill and we didn’t end up hating each others guts. We were all civil people. And the same from before.

But things you learn about the other person (and these are things you often can only learn when living with the person):

When the feel that beat, we’re going to ride that boogie…I am going rock with you. All night. I am going to rock the night away.

I bounced across the street as I heard the music to the outdoor plaza for the evening movie. Kids were manning the snack stand and I immediately headed there. As I bought $1 popcorn and a $1 cupcake, I heard a familiar song come on. In the back, there were kids dancing and laughing. They were loving the music.

But then I realized who it was…after several more tracks was played. And then I realized…of course. It was the first time I had heard his music being constantly played in San Francisco without any complaint. The kids…being from the low-income housing and predominantly African American…was that the reason why? They danced like nobody watching. Or if someone was, they tried to get someone to dance with them.

I was almost tempted to dance with the kids. But ironically, I felt out of place as a twentysomething Asian American…obviously from the middle class with money. The only thing I could have in common was growing up with Michael Jackson.

“Could you date someone who doesn’t use Facebook, txting, and all that kind of stuff?” I asked last Sunday during dinner with two girlfriends. “Could you be with someone who doesn’t communicate the same way you do?”

It’s self-centered, but I couldn’t be with someone who does not use email or cell phone.

Someone who does not use Facebook or Twitter…perhaps that’s ok. But at the same time, what’s the fine line? After so many years of being online, I am comfortable with sharing parts of my life online. I blog, I tweet, I play four square…all these things that broadcast so many things about me.

At some level, it’s a nice way to draw lines of privacy.

I knew someone who “hacked” around the Internets and found all my blogs, my social media accounts, my private journals, my non-private journals. It was as if he found my entire identity. To some level, that’s not what I want. But I want someone to be able to share…be interested in the activities I partake in.

What if there is someone who reads blogs…the kind that appeal to a wide audience like TMZ and follows tweeters like THE_REAL_SHAQ? But not mine, because like many people would say, “I would rather ask you in person.”

And there’s the rub. All this digital media is meant to be temporary…something that substitutes for the lack of real-person interaction. I do want to tell people of the great moment I had last week, the accident of yesterday, and share the photos of my dinner. But it’s because people are not there, people cannot be there, people’s schedules don’t match mine.

In the end, I’ll remember what I post in my blog and at the dinners that we have, I might just repeat what I just wrote 15 hours, 23 minutes, 10 seconds ago.