Charm swathed in strange

I drove home to Gainesville this weekend. I would have pictures but when I took out my camera's battery to charge, I forgot to replace it when I left Atlanta. Classic. So this entry is just one big wall of text. I'm sure you'll deal with it.

The trip down I-75 was relatively uneventful; traffic was nearly nonexistent due to the holiday. But then I passed Macon and out of nowhere, I realized I was driving side-by-side with a black Toyota Tacoma. At first I thought nothing of it, but after awhile I noticed that we were still driving parallel. It was a three-lane stretch of highway and we were in the left two. It makes sense assuming that we're both using cruise control and just happen to have selected the same speed. But that doesn't explain how we ended up like that to begin with.

We continued toward Florida like that until the highway narrowed to two lanes. Amazingly, our concert of automobiles was undisturbed by other traffic, namely because there was so little. I looked over at one point just to check if I knew the driver and he/she was madly beckoning in my direction, or if it looked like an ax murderer. None of the above, the occupant looked like some normal guy, the kind you wouldn't even notice when walking down the street. I thought we would've split up at that point, because driving side-by-side would mean no cars could pass us. I was right; we ended up driving front-to-back, as if one of us was following the other. And this alternated depending on if there was slow car in the left lane; the car behind would pull ahead and pass first, followed by the next one. I spent so much time behind this guy that I memorized his license plate numbers (Tennessee plates, by the way).

Crazy right? Eventually this system of driving seemed like second nature. We reached the part of Georgia where I-75 starts to expand and contract rapidly due to the amount of road work being done. Three lanes would become two, and then three, and then two again. What did we do? We stayed parallel, and the one in the middle lane would anticipate the road merge and shift into the right lane.

I know, I know. Sounds a little gay. And I have no comeback.

Around Valdosta, cars began pouring onto the road, and alas, we got separated. I slipped into "Florida-driving" mode and immediately started weaving in and out of traffic. My driving buddy opted to drive defensively and lagged behind. By the time I had crossed the border into Florida, there were no cars once again. It was a little sad, believe it or not. I had spent the majority of my 5+ hour trip with a companion of sorts, and now I had none. The hour from the border to Gainesville seemed longer than the previous four.

I was about ten miles from my exit, and it was about 8:30pm. It was near dusk, and the sunset was brilliant. I was (remarkably) still feeling a little down about my lonesome driving. Then all of a sudden, bursting forth from down the road came the black Tacoma. And while we didn't end up driving parallel to each other again, he maintained a three car-length distance behind me, one lane over. And then before long, I pulled off the interstate as he continued on his journey deeper into Florida.

As I lose sight of him, I think to myself, "Mr. Black Toyota Tacoma from Tennessee, thanks for keeping me company."

Say what you will about my experience. It was serendipity; it was kismet; it was an affirmation of the human condition.

Staying with my parents was what it usually is. Lots of good food, lots of stagnant boredom.

I met up with Andrea on Saturday night to go have dinner and play catch-up. Bitch has her own apartment finally! Hallelujah for cutting the cord. She feels the same way, more or less. We went to Harry's, which was as delicious as I remember it being. (Note to self, by the way: you are so predictable.)

And then before I knew it, it was time to come back to Atlanta. I didn't meet as many people as I would have liked to. Apparently Belle lives here now, and Jenn came through the city at some point. Didn't find out till yesterday.

I guess that's life.

Delving into deeper districts

So I was instructed to continue the trend of posting pictures of food. How can I say no?

But first things first. My parents drove up from Florida again on Saturday, and we spent our time together doing the usual things: exploring Doraville's immigrant haven. I stupidly forgot to bring my camera along, but toward the end of the day I remembered that I still had my phone. And thus, after months of gathering dust, I polished off that once-fabled camera function and snapped the first picture that phone has seen in months.

That's kind of sorta completely not really weird. I just thought it was worth taking a photo of, at the time.

Ok I can't stand it anymore. Onward to the food!

So as I said, I didn't actually have my camera with me all day. And by the time I thought of my camera, we had left our restaurant already. It was some hole in the wall Chinese place with the cutest and most awesome staff. The mother worked the kitchen, the father worked the dim sum cart, the daughter waited tables, and the son was the busboy. This picture is just some of the leftovers that I ravenously crammed down my neck earlier today for lunch.

Starting at the top and going clockwise, this is what I had. Green beans stir-fried very simply with garlic, shoyu, and pork cracklin' (I don't know the technical term for that stuff) and awesomely delicious. Next, after the patch of barely visible white rice on which everything is resting, is something that can only be described as the pinnacle of Szechuan cooking. What you can see is the white fish pieces (it was either tilapia or Dover sole, or perhaps flounder), napa cabbage, and tons of red pepper flakes. What you can't see completely is the deliciously saffron-hued broth that had made its way into the nooks and crannies of the rice bowl. When my parents and I divvied up the leftovers, I thought I had the better end of the deal when I got most of the fish. But I took that broth for granted as I ate my meal and realized how lacking my rice bowl was without that fish broth soaking every single grain of rice. My parents called me when a couple hours afterward and described the soup they had made by recycling the broth into a concoction of cod fillets, winter squash, and more napa cabbage. The bastards. Anyway, rounding out this bowl is something that looks like spinach, but isn't. They're actually the greens of the soy plant. I like to think of them as the collard greens of Chinese folk, though I'm sure some people would smack me in the face for making such a comparison.

Aside from what you see there, we also got some amazing little wontons of shrimp, pork, and leek that were eerily reminiscent of dimsum, but served cold in a bowl, drenched in a hot-and-sweet sauce that can only be Szechuan. There was also the ubiquitous Szechuan eggplant that we always get, and some fried rice noodles that managed to keep their crispiness despite the pool of sauce that they were sitting in. We snapped up that junk like we were starving, so there are no leftover pictures of them.


But of course, my parent's are not to be outdone by restaurants, no matter how authentic.


I don't know what else to call these except buns. But they're not buns, though my grasp of Mandarin tells me that the literal translation of what my parents call them is buns. In any case, these are filled with pork and some vegetables that (to this very day) I don't know names for. All I know is that I saw a lot of them while growing up. Normally, you would eat these right as they came out of the steamer, and you'd have to be careful because the juices inside from the meats and veggies would squirt out and dribble down your chin if you bit into it too eagerly. But alas, these had been sitting into an icebox and all the juices had soaked into the dough part of the bun already. Still, awesome.

Don't be fooled by the shadiness of this shrunk-wrapped pork. It's remarkably delicious. My mom (in her infinite wisdom) bought a vacuum sealer off of QVC and has been using it on everything. The only reason you don't see it in any of the other pictures is because those items contain liquids or necessary air pockets. In any case, if you've ever walked around in a Chinatown, you've seen those stores with the ducks hanging in the window. That's what they're famous for. Equally delicious but often ignored by the masses are the cuts of crimson pork that are produced from the same venues. Think of these places as Chinese charcuteries. It's not quite ham, not quite barbecue. But they're very noticeable and very distinctive. I don't know how my parents found the time to make all of this, but I'm glad they did. I shall eat well for weeks. I'm sure if I did some research I could find out what they're called in English or Chinglish. But take note: study the red hue of this pork and keep an eye out the next time you're in the neighborhood.

TEA EGGS!! These require no further introduction or explanation. They are little bundles of delicious craziness.


The end.

Ravages of distance

When I think about all the times in the past when I'd wax philosophic about the effects of time, location, and circumstance as the pivotal dynamic between individuals and groups, the historic trend of my output strikes me as something approaching absurd. And when I say absurd, I say it because I have yet to discover a word that can completely and successfully encapsulate my feelings on the matter. I can only step out of myself and look on in wonderment.

Each time, my vantage point changes. The permutations of time, location, circumstance, and people are never the same, and it's only now that I realize duplicity is virtually impossible. Consequently, anxiety about these differences becomes ridiculous, so I think I'll be easier on myself. All that's left is to consider each situation as a unique, separate entity.

Still, it seems inevitable that I'll repeat this cycle ad infinitum until the day I die. And I don't know if I'll ever reach a suitable conclusion to satisfy my need for rationality. For now, I'm still telling myself that it's all research for potential literary ambitions in the future.

On Christmas Eve, there was a party at one of the neighboring houses. It was the old school Chinese crowd from the past decade. It was an odd experience. I hadn't seen everyone in nearly a year, at least not all gathered into one house like that. All the parents seemed to have shrunk, while all the kids became veritable goliaths. All the parents simpered over me like some communal prodigal son, even though in reality I'm now not any better than the other children. In grade school, they all fawned over me because of my affinity for the piano and my enrollment in magnet programs. Compared to the 9 year olds still learning long division and the socially awkward, pubescent 12 year olds, I'm sure they thought I was the second coming of Asian Jesus. But now? Some of those kids are being courted by Ivy League schools, some are more musically talented than I ever was, and I'm sure they're more driven than I am. But that's how the Chinese mindset works sometimes, I guess. In their minds, I'm still the paragon of filial excellence, regardless of the truth in front of their faces.

Sometimes I think that's why Asian cultures produce such motivated, passionate, and unhappy people. They spend so much time trying to achieve a state of faultlessness and still never seem to satisfy their parents. It creates a quagmire of festering bitterness, directed to all fronts: their parents, their perceived rivals, and themselves.

Walking home from that evening presented myself with even more food for thought. There's nothing more startling than the realization that your grief, no matter how anguished and sincere, is merely a smokescreen for something else that lies beneath. I came upon this epiphany when I passed Seymour's house for the first time since I last blogged about him. I hadn't mustered up enough courage to ask his other students where his grave was, and it seemed reckless to ask his family direction. As I gazed at the quaint house, similar to mine but wearing a different coat of paint, I was inundated with a flood of memories that I wasn't prepared for. I never expected to react that strongly to his memory, and I didn't. What surprised me was everything else that rushed into my consciousness. Middle school anecdotes, feelings of inadequacy, all of the inner turmoil associated with those teenage years. They had snuck out and into the forefront of my mind hiding under the memory of my former history teacher. I still don't understand why all these things correlate in my unconsciousness. And I don't know if I want to know.

Speaking of death, it turns out one of our nicer neighbors is beset with prostate cancer. I never really took the time to get to know him or his family, but as I drove my mom home from work today, she rattled off the entire history of his illness. To be honest, I didn't catch all of it because I had instinctively started to tune her out; she can be really long-winded sometimes. But what I did hear was heartbreaking. He'd be fighting his diagnosis for years, probably ever since he had his house built across the street from us and moved in. I never saw much of his wife, but according to my mom, she was always working as a waitress somewhere to supplement their mounting costs, even though they'd retired long ago. Apparently chemotherapy is really expensive, even more so than I had ever thought.

Anyway, for years my parents swapped produce with Jack and his wife. My parents grew prize greens and various other vegetables in their garden, and Jack had an orange tree and banana tree. Over time, my parents had planted an orange tree of their own, and Jack had started his own modest garden under my mom's supervision. My mom is especially proud of this rapport. Our other neighbors only trade furtive looks with each other, ourselves included. Every chance she gets, she sighs and laments the poor sense of community that surrounds us. But I digress. This past fall, my parents' orange tree yielded no fruit, and they had none to share with Jack. In response, he sent over nearly all of the oranges from his own tree, but he had to ask his daughter to deliver them. When my mom started talking to her, she found out that he had decided to stop his treatment before his illness completely drained the money that he had saved with his wife. He didn't want to leave her destitute and dependent on their daughter, who had flown in from Alaska to spend time with him in his remaining days. He was so weak he couldn't even walk across the street with a bag of oranges. My mom told me that he probably won't survive past this winter.

My mom has already offered to teach Jack's wife how to maintain the bed of leeks, bok choy, and Chinese broccoli that Jack had so lovingly maintained. She declined, and my mom can't figure out why she'd let it go fallow. I have a hunch though, and it has nothing to do with an interest, or lack thereof, in gardening.

I finally got my hair cut on the 28th. I went back to Scissors and, hilariously enough, got attended to by the same nice lady that cut it back in August. She seemed to remember me and we had a nice chat about what we did in fall. She tried to convince me to grow it out again and come back in a year, when I had another ponytail to donate to Locks of Love. She even promised to style my hair for free. She almost had me convinced, but the thought of maintaining a wild mane for another year scared me into demanding that she give me the cut. As I left, she called out after me, "See you again in 4 months!" Who knows? Maybe I will.

To end things on a much lighter note, DEATH TO YOUTUBE AND THE WRITER'S STRIKE. I've lost too many hours of my life in the viewing of reality TV.

A ceremony erased

Sometimes I love those damnable online networking services. Below is an example.

Dxxxx Gxn down south chillin. 11m ago
Dxx Jxxxxxx is chillin.' 18m ago
Kxxxxx Rxxxxs is in Entre Lagos, Chile. 36m ago

I went to Facebook just now and saw that in my "Friend's Status" box, or whatever it's called. Obviously I doctored the names for anonymity. I realize that the third one is, at the same time, a match and a mismatch. But the entire thing is still creepy and hilarious.

As you've probably guessed, dear reader, I am still without much to do around the homestead. (I love how I phrased that last line, it's as if I'm just bursting at the seams with traffic to this pretentious little blog.) I will admit, however, that I had the opportunity last night to go up to Melrose for a party at Courtney's. But it was not to be. Quite frankly, as much as I miss the lovably kooky Courtney, her house would have been about an hour's drive away, and I would have only known two people there (three by association, long story). I'm not one to avoid meeting new people, but generally I try to make it happen on familiar territory, and Court's abode in the-Middle-of-Nowhere, FL doesn't fit those parameters.

All was not lost, however. I turned yesterday into a productive one, and verily so. I finally managed to put a sizable dent into the monstrous issue of my sleep schedule. I got up today at 5am! Quite a step up from previous wake-up calls of midnight and 1am. I think I can manage staying up later than 5pm today. Hopefully this trend will effectively die when I start driving myself home.

I've been taking pictures at home. Here's kitty #1!



Lazy bastard. We have a second cat but she's outside all the time. Originally I was going to follow them around and try to catch them in funny poses, but then as it turned out, one slept all the time and the other never was around.

Also, I realize how ubiquitous my use of the word "ubiquitous" is lately. Oh won't someone please save my redundant soul and buy me a thesaurus?

Anyway, ubiquitously enough, when I got bored for the first time, I launched into more high-flying picture poses... similar to what I did in the AIESEC office.



I'm quite proud of the air I got in that pic.



Check out that HEINOUS double chin.


Bo and Andrea tomorrow!!! YAYY!!! (... and Katie)

Query the monolith

Being at home as been so boring. I am, alas, without car due to the seasonal rambunctiousness of Florida drivers (someone rear ended my dad) and have been forced to spend the days sequestered in the house. The 'rents need my car to commute to work. I guess it can't be helped.

I've been watching a lot of DVDs, writing a bunch of pensive and brooding blog entries (just you wait until they've all been proofread to perfection) to unleash unto the world, and otherwise occupied with becoming slovenly and unkempt.

Luckily, there's a bunch on my plate for next week. Example? The annual outs and abouts with Andrea, Bo, and Katie. I've missed my dear Andrea quite ravenously.

Reason why Andrea is awesome:

Andrea: "Oh Natey, please forgive me. I didn't buy you a Christmas gift. So just let me pay for the movie ticket or lunch or something."
Me: "Oh you don't have to do that!"
Andrea: "No, no. I insist. I'd feel bad if I didn't."
Me: "Well, if it makes you feel any better, I didn't get you anything either."
*laughter all around*
Me: "So yeah, you really shouldn't feel guilty at all."
Andrea: "Well, when you put it that way..."
Me: "Tell you what. Let's pretend that we both got each other the greeaaatttest gift we could ever ask for. But we were so infinitely gracious and humble that we weren't able to accept them."
Andrea: *laughter* "So basically we both come away empty handed."
Me: "Exactly. And we both get to feel good about ourselves because we gave such wonderful gifts."
Andrea: "*more laughter* "You know, this could work."
Me: "Also, we get the added bonus of good vibes because we turned down our own gifts. It doesn't get much more selfless than that."
Andrea: "Oh Nate, I couldn't have asked for a better gift! Thank you so much!"
Me: "Me too! I've always wanted one of these!"
*hilarity all around*
Andrea: "How awesome are we?"

Well, needless to say, I took some artistic license with the specific semantics of our conversation. But still!

Resolution #2: Sleep on a more regular schedule. No more of this sometimes-a-vampire, sometimes-an-alcoholic style of sleeping.
I just thought I'd sneak that one in there.

In other news, I've been feeding the embryonic leftist revolutionary within myself. Here is said fodder. Feel free to check out the provocative article featuring the poor Icelandic woman too.

Man, the distance we've gone in the past 7 years is just staggering. And yet, I think we could probably measure real progress since then with two fingers. Can I get a witness?

My makeshift safari

Went out on the town last night with Gina. Ran into Sumeet, Saie, Nick, and Naya. Good times.

However, being in such a provincial town as G'ville made me really appreciate the AIESEC way of life. I couldn't wait to get back to Atlanta.

But! Some interesting things I ran into that night.



Guess who. And it was handcrafted too. We ended up at Saie's friend's apartment watching Superbad, and this was right next to their front door.




I feel like I could create a lawlcat caption to go with that. This was at the next house we went to. The guys there got a kitten and let it run around on their couches. The above pic is the result of kitty exploration.

Choke it down

Black Friday, y'all!

So I went to set up camp outside the mall this morning at 4am with my girl Gina. They had their yearly Black Friday give-away at 6am. When we got there, there were only about 20 people waiting already. However, as we sat there and chatted away about nothing in particular, the bodies just started to pour in like little kids to the sound of video games. By the time 6am rolled around, the people behind us were pushing into the glass double doors like we were waiting in a Soviet line for bread. I, however, got the last laugh, when I yanked away a bag and it contained a $50 "shopping spree"... basically a fancy name for a nameless credit card with a $50 line of credit.

Hells yeah.

I immediately yanked that heavenly piece of plastic from the receptionist's hand at Customer Service and hightailed it to Express. They had a sale going: 20% off everything in the store, and an additional $20 off all jeans. So what did that net me?

Factoring in the $50 from my depleted gift card, I basically spent about $25 on two pairs of really, really nice jeans. Tag price? $59.95 each.

I freakin' win. The tiny little consumer whore inside of me nearly died from the orgasmic bliss.

Afterwards, we wandered around and had some overpriced pretzels, but it was ok because we had BOGO coupons for them in our bags. And then it was off to Best Buy!

God forbid Best Buy actually has some nice deals in their damn sales. But check this shit out:

7.5MP Fujifilms digital camera. Retail price: $179.99.
What did I pay? $89.99.

I'm not even going to comment on the greatness of that find. And I didn't even get there until 9am. The doors opened at 6am.

And finally, a little @ news to validate my prior raving. The LC nomadlife address is finally up! Links to the right. Soon, it will be chock full of precious tidbits and testaments to our greatness.

In other news, I finished Cat's Eye. Full review coming soon.

Millions of photos incoming later from my brand spankin' new cammie.

A spaghetti bomb

My attempts to work on the banquet video from home have been foiled. If you've not yet had the torturous pleasure of trying to browse through a clusterfuck of facebook photo albums whilst on a dial-up internet connection, save yourself the hassle and just spring for the noose.

On that note, my trip home has been about as predictable as can be. It's too close to the holiday season, so my eldest of friends are separated into two categories. They're either 1) spending that time with family, or 2) living it up on the dubious Gainesville club scene. Obviously, there's not much I can do about #1, and I'm just not pretty enough (or loose in the pants enough) to go after #2. Fortunately, Black Friday will provide some necessary distraction. I don't even care if I don't buy anything, though my cumulative lack of holiday shopping indicates that I should plan on it.

So what am I doing until then? A lot of reading.

I brought down my self-assembled Atwood anthology, knowing that I would lack theftable internet and cable television. The included novels are as follows: Oryx and Crake, Cat's Eye, The Robber Bride, and The Edible Woman. In a matter of about 24 hours, I've managed to plow my way through Oryx and Crake and about 300 pages of Cat's Eye. Meanwhile I'm reminded of my high school english teacher who used to brag about being able to put away one of these books every night, and considering her advertised bed time, that means she read them from cover to cover in about 2 hours. 3 hours tops. I need to work on my reading velocity. Speed? Whatever.

In the process, I've downed countless bottles of Crystal Light Raspberry and crammed an entire tin of Planter's Cashews down my neck. I feel like a fatty.

The title is homage to some crazy bitch in Cat's Eye who threw a paper bag filled with cooked spaghetti and meat sauce onto her boyfriend and his mistress. Obviously, hilarity ensued.


More updates from the homefront later in the week!