He was part of that neighborhood boy gang. My sister and I had just moved to the area, the newbies on the street and also, the only girls around their age in the neighborhood.

Back in the early nineties, we actually went outside to play. Our parents forbade television during school nights and so we had to come up with our own devices for entertainment. My sister and I would play in the “river”—the stormdrain that often had flowing water after rain. The playground in the private elementary school across the street that we didn’t attend. And the secret passageway through shrubs, only big enough for someone our size.

Then there were the boys. They were annoying on bikes and the things that boys do.

One time, all three of them (plus the youngest brother of one of them who was 5 years younger) chased my sister and me into our garage. We closed the door on them and laughed in relief.

A few hours later, the doorbell rang. My dad answered and said that it was for me. He went back to the dinner table while my sister and me went to the door wondering what it was.

The younger brother stepped out from hiding and held a plastic bat. One that couldn’t have done anything. My sister and I screamed and we slammed the door shut. After that day, we avoided the boys and even as we grew older, we always regarded them as the bullies of our street.

So earlier this week, I heard from my dad that one of the boys—the chubby one—had just died. Not from natural causes. It was sad as I heard the story from my parents. I never really did exchange any words with any of the boys. Even though we were in the same grade through elementary school, middle school and high school. But childhood is childhood, not predicting the future…at alll.

Whenever I hear a friend lose their phone and their cries of agony as they try to recover numbers, I hold my tongue in. They moan about how they didn’t charge their phone and now the battery is almost dead. They borrow a phone and call it, hoping that someone hears it. Silent or not?

I am super-anxious about losing such information because I am a caller, not person who receive calls. And so every time I hear the loss, I immediately go to my computer and anally enter the numbers, names into my address book. The address book that syncs automatically with my ipod. And the address book that I sync up occasionally with my yahoo address book. Oh that reminds me that I should do it again.

And I charge my phone regularly. Two bars of battery? That means that I should find a charger soon.

Even as much as I can be messy, every time I walk out my door, I immediately stick my hand in my bag to make sure I have 3 things in my bag. My wallet. My phone. My keys. And on other events, my camera.

In some way, that saves a lot of grief.

Or in some way, I am just lucky…

In the dark parking lot of Rainbo Bread on 16th, they projected several films. I walked there after grabbing dinner at home, trying to think of something to do and found this film fest on Laughing Squid.

I had expected the crowd to be…a closeknit tribe, all knowing about the films made. But surprisingly, there were wanderers of all sorts. A man carried a cardboard box of snacks. Bread, sliced fruit, etc. As he walked by, I could smell the baked goods, but like everyone else, I shook my head politely. Don’t take food from strangers especially in a dark parking lot.

We stood in a group—of about twenty or so—watching the film on wall of graffiti. A film satire about technology for the hooker—a gps device that could be embedded in the hooker’s shoes so that she could find friends and protect herself if ever needed. Then a film about sex workers in South America. And another about the trade between United States and South Asia. And yet another about a prostitute that was progressive and bought a new wave of thinking.

It was all interesting standing there at 9:30 pm in my flip-flops. Most were in couples. Some curious. Some knowing. Many had arrived by bike or foot. Holding hands or hands to their sides. The hipster outfit. The outfit from a fancy dinner—a girl hanging onto the guy.

The film editing was somewhat awkward and clumsy. Shots that lingered too long and cuts that should have been more smoother.

Eventually I did leave…adding another experience to my book.

Visit ted.com if you haven’t already.

It was designed by the firm where I work. I arrived after I could get on the project.

Like many people, I never knew what TED was besides the “discount” united airlines version. At first, it seems like a site with little engagement. A bright red logo and lots of white. But on closer inspection, it’s a site subtlely laid in media and commentary. And the content is all well thought-out accentuated with high-quality videos. There’s little forgettable commenting.

And check out the navigation. Oh yeah.

I never liked chubby fingers. If you asked me, what I find the most appealing (physical) aspect of the opposite gender, it’s the hands. Specifically fingers.

A friend rationalized my reasoning for me. If someone had chubby fingers, they obviously had some health issues. Overweight. Ungainly. Pleasantly plump. And perhaps, I can rationalize my superficiality.

But right now, I have a chubby left pointer finger due to my allergic reaction to an insect bite conveniently on the inside of my pointer finger. The typical folds I have in my fingers leading to my usual double-jointedness are gone and filled with tautness. All is replaced by this finger that can barely bend at 45 degree angles and itches like crazy.

Early this morning, I stumbled out of bed groping for my Benedryl cream and smeared it all over my finger. Then I curled back into a ball with my finger spread out, far away from my right hand. The right hand that so desperately wanted to rub and scratch that annoying itch.

In late May, the Smashing Pumpkins concert in late July went on sale. I tried to get tickets, having my sister try to buy them on her computer exactly at 10 am.

Unfortunately, by the time she was able to click the buy button, the tickets had sold out. Nothing left.

I was dismayed, but hey I only liked a few of their songs during the nineties era.

And fortunately, I wasn’t that deluded to go on craigslist to buy tickets. Unbeknownst to many people (and myself), the concert was lackluster and overly gratuitious. Their weeklong stint could not have possibly been worse according the SF Chronicle article.

I told a friend about this and she seemed to have been all-knowing about it—saying that of course she knew that the members of the band weren’t really there. And that the band wasn’t real.

And so the search continues for the next greatest concert to attend.

Nielsen highlights the 10 usability bloopers in film.

I am surprised I didn’t find it earlier. As a human computer interaction practitioner, I now am bothered by the glaring mistakes in film.

One thing that had always surprised me was how people remembered phone numbers so quickly. Tell Jack Bauer a 7 digit phone number once, and he’ll get it right away. He’ll be dialing that number an hour later, two hours later and even the whole day later. Without any rehearsal. While if someone told me a number, I’ll have to ask them to repeat it…not once, not twice, but thrice…or even more. If I didn’t have paper or some other recording material. Then I’ll forget it not in 10 minutes or 5 minutes, but 10 seconds after being told.

Nielsen says that movies encourage people to think that they should be like the characters onscreen—to perfectly get the interface the first time…and everything should work perfectly.

But it’s all entertainment. Right?

“Damn, what are you taking off?” the dishelved man exclaimed, leering toward me.

The sun beated on me and I finally relented to the discomfort as I was passing a few of the society’s unwanted. Without thinking of the consequences, I took off my leather jacket while walking.

I raised my eyebrows in anguish slightly, but kept looking straight ahead. Don’t make eye contact. And I continued into my building relieved to see fellow coworkers in sight.

It’s really not the first time it happened to me. With being female and an asian body frame, I receive many comments from time to time. It’s the sacrifice I make for living and working in the city. But for some reason, this time, I was steamed. I didn’t ask to be treated like an object. And even underneath my jacket, I wasn’t wearing anything ostentatious. It’s unfair. So there are times that I want to understand why comments like this are made.

A few months ago, a man tried to put his face toward me making kissing noises and saying some racist comments. My Caucasian friend who was walking with me was more offended than I was. At the time, I accepted it as the things I had to encounter in life. They don’t understand. They don’t have the education to understand diversity and equality. Like rude people in stores who don’t apologize when they accidentally get in my way. Or the people in line who save spaces for friends and you have to wait an additional 20 minutes to get in because of them.

Perhaps, I take certain things less seriously. However, today, I just couldn’t stop thinking about it. Granted, I work close to the Tenderloin—a neighborhood known for a seedy reputation. But I have moods.

In some sense, I am angry at myself for deciding to take off my jacket while passing the men. I could have just waited the extra 30 seconds to take it off. But misinterpretations abound and I was reaching the peak of my discomfort from heat as I passed them.

In some way though, isn’t it supposed to be a sign that you’re still young and looking good? I just wouldn’t want those kind of people making such comments. I am not that desperate.

What really is the difference and origins of ^_^ and :)

I know the latter was invented at Carnegie Mellon, but the former?

Studies show that Japanese and Americans but some people have other ideas.

Because Americans perceive thoughts from people’s smiles since moods are transparent here, they have smilies that focus purely on the mouth. Because Japanese perceive thoughts from people’s eyes, since moods are hidden and eyes can’t lie, they have smilies that focus on the eyes.

Which make sense.

I was born here in the US and still believe a lot of emotion is hidden. In some way, it’s not emotion. It’s people’s intent. There is a reason why I don’t wear sunglasses (typically) when talking with someone regardless of whether in the light or not. I am willing to let my eyes show and they should too.

I use the smilies provided by adium.

48 photos taken. Of what I may say is a lazy Sunday.

On July 1, 2007, this is what I did.