Final post of the amazing street food scavenger hunt.

It has been more than 4 months since I started it. In it, I exhausted my creative reserves for the better. At the time, I had been considering changing my career path because there was a need inside me for “pure creation”. I couldn’t find a way to get it fulfilled. Yet with the challenges of the scavenger hunt, I was able to exercised the pent-up creative energy. Like a monster, it was released.

There have been things that the entire thing has taught me. Despite my usual quiet demeanor and incredible social anxiety, I do love performance. I love being the center of attention for better or worse. I seek for it, perhaps for this drive to be noticed and remembered.

Yet when I am aware of this sudden moment, I am unfortunately very self-conscious. I want to immediately dive for the closest dark corner and not bear witness to what I often believe (though logically not) is an embarrassment of myself. If only I could separate those two parts of me.

In the fourth grade, there was a class presentation about some historical topic. I decided that acting it out—a monologue would be the best idea. I had rehearsed and it was fine when I was alone in my room. But suddenly in front of the class, I was in panic as I walked to the front. I don’t remember doing the presentation, but I could only remember the many many many eyes on me. But I really wanted to do it—I really wanted to be a performer, being able to influence people in ways I could quietly sitting at my desk.

I am thankful that technology has allowed us to somewhat time-shift performance so that we don’t have to endure the performance and viewing at the same time.

And thus finally a trailer that I created using the new iMovie! This sums up everything that went on in the month of August!

I have never been a fan of the horror genre. For years, all that it spoke to me…was jumpy scares, cheap tricks, and gore. Growing up, I was horrified by movies like Critters and Chucky (now how did I ever watch those—to this day, I am not sure).

But there was this Chinese Hong Kong movie that my grandmother was watching (back when she was ok living with my parents, possibly to share in child care). There was a guy walking like a zombie…but there was comedy slapstick. I dd not enjoy it all.

But years later, the zombie genre warmed up to me with Shaun of the Dead…then finally 28 Days Later. Then I realized. It’s not about zombies at all. it’s about the people who are dealing with the zombie apocalypse. It’s about THEM. The remaining humans.

A nytimes article put it together nicely:

Zombie love, however, is always communal. If you dig zombies, you dig the entire zombie concept. It’s never personal. You’re interested in what zombies signify, you like the way they move, and you understand what’s required to stop them. And this is a reassuring attraction, because those aspects don’t really shift. They’ve become shared archetypal knowledge.

There’s something so concrete and easy-to-grasp about zombies. Usually, you can outrun them. And it’s an easy shot (if you have the right tools and equipment). You know how they will infect you. And you know how you can hear, smell, spot them. They aren’t mischeievous. They don’t analyze problems and solve them. They cannot communicate (at least in most genres). They are…simple.

But when overwhelmed or being unprepared, that’s when they are dangerous. Sure, zombies may be a metaphor for disease such as AIDS (and it’s just this fear that got me a super-expensive vaccine for yellow fever). But it’s the simple concept coupled with the survival genre that is so intriguing.

In elementary school, I often was the last player on my team to get hit out in dodgeball. I was always that good at hiding and being passive in the background. Unfortunately, I could not throw or hit. To this day, I am always good at dodging balls. And like the previous story of this year’s Journey to the End of the Night, I can out-survive the masses. But in truth, could I survive once I am with others like me?

Goodbye Chicago.

Goodbye Los Angeles.

Having had so many experiences, I know that most people do not want to know what others really think about them. As an adult, it’s easier to compromise and accept. In an effort to attain happiness.

Every so often, it surprises me when a friend asks so bluntly. For the tricky questions that I used to love in college. The questions that would end up into long discussions, hurt feelings, unwanted emotions, insecurity, vulnerability.

Not many people have thick skin.

Back then. I used to:

Now…it has transitioned into “normalcy”! I have found different avenues to fill my needs of companionship, of relationships, of…being needed, of being useful, of being a real person and a friend.

Roger Ebert describes it accurately in a recent post.

I was in all words then lonely. Social anxiety, sheltered-ness, lack of social skills, word fumbling kept me from interacting with the real world. There was a horrible moment that I had at my high school reunion on Saturday that made me realize that yes, I had came a long way, but it was so easy to slip back to who I used to be. A lonely soul that only wanted to be recognized and most importantly, accepted.

I had sought the internet and it satisfied me. It still does. Like the way I write now. I place the words in this box—sometimes I have my music on, usually to soundtracks as of late. I think now about the moments now when I am lonely. It’s less. When I am alone, it’s not that I think of how I am missing out…or how I was cruelly rejected. Rather, I am preparing for something—cooking, cleaning, sleeping…writing. Or I am sending an email, making a comment on Facebook, or sharing something on Twitter.

There will be one day though in the future though…that I’ll remember that feeling of loneliness again.

Because my Canon Powershot S90 can take photos like this!

In a place with dim lighting.

On Auto.

With no flash!

Granted, it’s somewhat grainy and low resolution. But still! You can see how Lele is quite expressing a i-do-not-know-who-these-people-are sandwiched between yours truly, Cheez, Shroom. The names mentioned here are not even their real names. The end!

When I moved to San Francisco, the idea of owning a car was ludicrous and absurd. But here I am four years later with one. Initially, it was for taking advantage of that short opening, but when my roommate changed her mind about getting a car, I kept my car around. Well, because, why not?

My hassle of getting the caltrain was appeased. Plus the huge crisis of how I could get anywhere in the city quickly without transferring multiple times on the MUNI…was resolved. And groceries, oh lovely groceries!

Yet there are times when after work, I want to go downtown and suddenly I do have a struggle. Do I drive the car back to my place and hop on public transit? Or do I drive downtown? That’s what I did today when I needed to get to First and Mission right after taking the train from Palo Alto.

But how would I have known that there would be traffic on the 280 in the 2 mile stretch from the Potrero Hill entrance to the 4th Street Exit? I didn’t. And I didn’t understand bus only lanes up 3rd street (I was driving for awhile wondering why there weren’t any cars in the lane). And how would I have anticipated all the traffic on Mission, Market…that area? I didn’t know that it was shopping season already on a Wednesday evening!

Regardless, I spent 20 minutes circling, but found spot half a block from the building. I struggled multiple times to get into the HUGE spot, but with backing up and moving forward, I got in. I was so proud of myself. I have become a real city adult…with a car!

Driving down 280 last Tuesday, I hear a small thud. Immediately, I saw it. It was a nice spherical dime-sized crack on the brand new windshield on the passenger side.

Let me say that again. A brand new windshield replaced less than 25 days ago.

After fretting about the dime-sized crack for several days, I finally found the gump to call the auto glass repair that did my earlier windshield replacement.

Does the limited warranty cover this crack? I timidly asked.

No. the CSR responded.

Ok, thanks. I timidly said and hung up. I hate making phone calls like this.

About 6 hours later, I returned to my car parked on Alma Street in Palo Alto. My car honked back at me when I unlocked it. It meant only one thing. That something happened to the car—something or someone had tripped off the security system.

The last time that this happened was when the windshield broke in early October. As I got into the driver’s seat, to my horror, it was exactly that.

The windshield was cracked. Again. Nearly in the same place, but close to the windshield wipers in a great spider web bigger than a dollar bill. I wanted to laugh in irony. Of course, the windshield would need to be replaced, eliminating the dime-sized crack.

I grumbled as I called my parents…and my insurance company.