Chronicling Kyle

   There were a lot of gems hidden inside of my old desk top that's been sitting there for the past year without any usage. Here's a paper I found that I wrote at the end of my senior year in college that reflected my development as a history major and as a person. 

Chronicling Kyle:

A reflection on how my life has affected my development as a history major.

            I am sure both of my parents shed a slight inner tear when I told them that I would be majoring in theatre arts. It was a dominating and time confiscating thrill that I felt I could not continue to exist without. I thought I had found what I “wanted to be when I grow up.” Obviously, events have transpired much differently now. The stage was responsible for diverging me away from math and the sciences that I adored throughout elementary school, but it allowed me to shed my shyness. I was so afraid of the world. My parents over sheltered me and even banned me from watching Married with Children. Perhaps a greater abuse was not to have cable in the household. Growing up without cable not only humbled me, but I was left to be raised by The People’s Court and Levar Burton. How does this have anything to do with my progression as a history major? As of writing this right now, I do not know, but eventually as you read on, it will make more sense.

            In the third grade, I claimed that I wanted to be a “rock-iologst,” who would be leaving home on lengthy rock hunting missions. This was the same year that I first tasted the limelight on the multipurpose room’s stage, doubling as the cafeteria where I resented sloppy joes whole-heartedly. Fittingly, I portrayed a character named Chang, complete with an unrelated karate suit in a reading of Tiki Tiki Tembo. My best friend at the time, Miguel, played Tiki, Chang’s brother. In the fourth grade, while others wrote a biography on the likes of Pocahontas, George Washington, and Michelle Kwan, and other true American heroes, I wrote mine on Louis Pasteur. The fifth grade saw greater cognitive self-awareness as my teacher pushed for me to join the GATE program. I declined because that meant I would have been separated from the love of my forbidden life, Cindy. Two months later, she moved away. I was such a “schoolie” whose nourishment comprised of not only getting good grades, but also getting the best grades in the entire class. I functioned only to see my name on the board as “The Student of the Week.” This mentality pushed me so much that by middle school I was severely burnt out.
            At the end of the sixth grade, I made a drastic life choice that no sixth grader should ever make. Instead of following a certain path, I elected to get a transfer and attend a school where I could start anew and to be away from so many Vietnamese students who were as competitive as I was. This decision was perhaps the best one in my entire life, because it allowed me to see that random choices can have a positive outcome, to welcome the unknown, and to put myself in uncomfortable situations. Unfortunately, middle school proved more challenging than I had thought. I have to thank my pre-algebra teacher for introducing me to Japanese music, which motivated me to be different from others, first by listening to different music. Sadly, this was his only positive. Not only did he fail as a teacher, but also I blame him for steering me away from math because he was ineffective, even though I did pass with a B. This taught me that letter grades did not equate to comprehension. In the eighth grade, some friends invited me to try out for the school play. This arguably changed my life for the next few years than my trip to Virginia and Washington DC that same year. I was the only student not to sell any Sees’ Candies to fund my trip- a future sign of my future laziness to come.
            I was consumed by the joyous feelings of working in a production, which waged on throughout high school. I did not care as much about the rest of my schooling as I should have. I was devoted and dedicated to something that I felt so passionate about. It bordered an obsession that caused me to neglect math and the sciences. The arts ruled my life and fronting the meager theatre department gave me purpose and a role within the compounds of a place that can often be so cruel. By the culmination of my high school experience, I continued to get good grades, good enough to be accepted into my number one school of choice, Long Beach State, so perhaps not even that good. I wanted to go there ever since I knew it existed. I was not caught up, like other students, desperate to go to a UC, so I never even applied to any UCs. By then, I was fed up with the public school system. I disliked being desperate over a letter grade that others worshipped, so I studied and did school work for myself and not for a report card that never fully justified my knowledge or understanding. I tried to circumvent and bent the rules on how I deemed fitting. I especially rejected worksheets meant to delude students from a teacher’s unpreparedness, in other words, “busy work.” Being smart to me never meant getting good grades, being smart was being aware of myself and aware of the positives and negatives of a system. Perhaps, this entire role reversal resulted from the strains adherence to the grading system at an early life or perhaps, the Japanese music was getting to my brain.
              This different approach on education persisted as I entered college. Continuing with my usual fears, I was petrified of the thought of college. I doubted my abilities at being successful, especially at orientation, where the dropout rate was given to place doubt in my young freshmen mind. Fortunately, for me, I got out of the theatre program as quickly as I got into it. I still loved theatre and thought that I needed it and I do miss it to this very day. However, I realized that I had to do something else because theatre in the end would not be practical. No production of Miss Saigon would ever run long enough to feed and support a roof over my head. Maybe I gave up because I never progressed past the first stages of callbacks during auditions or maybe I wanted to get away from the poisonous theatre kids. Though, I do admit that some of my best friends are theater kids and not all of them are that bad, but the competitiveness of that department reminded me of how competitive I was in elementary school, and I knew I did not want to experience those feelings again.
            So some might say that my selection of history as a major was a last ditch effort because it was familiar to me. This was not far from the truth. My first history class was Early US History and I wanted to change my major. I received a disappointing B and I was only taking three other classes during my first semester. Similarly, lower division proved challenging for me. Bs and even a few Cs lay scattered across my transcripts. Oddly, I have been rather successful in upper division, and after a two-year absence, I finally started to receive awards again, even if they were lackluster Deans’ or other honor rolls. The problem here was that lower divisions offered survey style classes, too similar to the ones in high school that I had no faith in. I remember how I used to ask myself what was the point of memorizing these facts that seldom led to nothing. Why was I taking a class that I had no interest in? Why was I getting a C in Intro to Ethics, when the immoral person sitting next to me was getting an A? Upper division acted like fresh air after breathing underwater through a tube. Finally, my chance to pick what I wanted to learn and what I was interested arrived. I tried my best to be studious, but at the same time not desperate. Though at times, I did resent assignments that I felt led to nowhere, like group work when no one did the readings, or following too distinctive models of research, such as in 301 or 302, which failed at accompanying different approaches to the same results. Flexibility was what I believed in and restrictions caused my mind to close up.
            I used to jokingly say that I wasted four years of my life as a history major on a road to evidential unemployment. The unemployment might still ring true; however, I am now proud to say I that majored in history. This field has taught me to develop my writing and more importantly, it made me aware of my identity and appreciation for my existence. I also do not want to give it full credit because my upbringing and the decisions throughout my life that led me here were as important, if not more important. I would like to believe that I came into the department as a disorganized and lost individual; however, that was not the case. My abilities were there, but the field just tuned it to a wider and more flourishing approach. Even though, the tediousness of 301 made me think many times why any of this was even worth the time. At times, I felt like I was wasting time writing drafts and following specific examples when I knew so deeply within that my way or a different way was fine too. My frustrations resulted from being successful in upper division classes prior, so I sensed that I was backtracking in progression.
            The methodology class did not teach me methodology. Taking all the upper division classes and having to write papers and actually doing research provided me with hands on learning as I barehanded each assignment. With little doubt, my writing’s organizational aspects have greatly improved. As a history major, I found myself with such an upper cutting advantage in my other non-history classes. For example, I excelled in the academic portions of theatre classes, finally making a name for myself in the department where I eventually received a minor in. Other majors in capstone classes found it challenging to write, but it was a breeze for me. In addition, interestingly enough, people have relied on me to proof read their papers. My cousin who graduated from USC Pharmacy School begged me to read her internship proposal and I respected her so much less. Despite how high her prestige is on my family’s totem pole of “success,” her writing was appalling. It was beyond bad. Yet most people do not care about that. In fact, most Vietnamese people often change the subject when they ask me what I was studying. History just does not seem that impressive. If they only knew how truly intricate writing can be and that some form of intelligence has to be present in order to pull and express cohesive words out of thin air. Though, I do not admit that I am currently a good historic writer, but I have to toot my own horn and say that I have matured to be far superior now than just a couple years prior, and that can be attributed to taking history classes.

            Finally, I am thankful that I selected history because learning about the past has allowed me to appreciate the contemporary. As Confucius once said, “A man without history is like a tree without roots.” Appreciation of the things around me and the awareness of who I am and how I came to be have defined who I currently am and will continue to be. Washington DC and the East Coast were only special to me back in middle school because I knew why there were so many black people there. My knowledge of the history of slavery made what I saw more meaningful, even though Busch Gardens Williamsburg reminded me of Disneyland but full of black people. Another prime example is my relationship with Vietnam. My first trip to Vietnam at the end of the ninth grade left me with an indifferent tone. I was excited that I was going to meet my grandparents and cousins for the first time, but because I did not understand any Vietnamese history, the trip was nothing special. In fact, the highlight was standing on the Red Square in Saigon, entirely because the Amazing Race had one of its clue boxes placed there. My second trip to that far away- yet so mentally close country, occurred five years later and just two years ago, once again proved to be not as special as it should have been. By this time, my knowledge of Vietnam increased; however, this trip was filled with more questions on why and how. I was able to utilize what observation methods that I learned to inquire about things. I remember distinctly that I wondered why a street in Saigon was named Pasteur, while other streets has more Vietnamese names, like Nguyen Thi Minh Khai, Pham Ngu Lao, or even Bui Vien. Obviously, I failed that biography assignment in the fourth grade. 
            If one year could truly change a person, the third year of college and the third time I returned to Vietnam confirmed that history has changed and improved my life. I prepared by reading up on specific cities and overall history. This made me value my time there in improved depths. There was a purpose in wanting to see specific things. Reading up on it and then finally being there excited me and made me yearn for more. After this trip, I loved Vietnam thoroughly and it was not because I tasted freedom for the first time without my parents. Being fascinated with Vietnam opened up doors to my heritage and who I was and still am. Understanding the past certainly without any doubts has improved my character and sense of entitlement. It has shaped my perspectives and unlocked a rather conventional mind. However, I will not attribute this affair with a country and its culture entirely to history. I have always been mentally aware of Vietnam, living in an in between environment where the concept of Vietnam was always made apparent. But my ability to emphasize it as an essential part of my life because of its personal importance, was largely because of my study of history.

            The more and more I know about history the more I will be able to be grateful for my current state. Vietnam, this fourth time around, will be so different and mean so much more than the third time, thanks to my research in 499. Aside from Vietnam, I am also grateful for my current state in other areas. I am proud to say that I do not walk around like most other Vietnamese Americans unaware of my heritages and resenting my parents. In fact, history has taught me to love my parents even more because I am able to comprehend their struggles. In addition, being preoccupied with Vietnam has made giving up theatre that much easier. For the first time seven years I took no theatre classes and participated in no productions. At one time, I bet I would have died from such a thought, but I am glad to be able to let go of things that I thought I once needed. In actuality, I do not need anything.
            So to conclude, but not really conclude, since there really is no conclusion to my development as a history major. History has helped shaped me to my current state of being, which is the most vital aspect of my life. The past was important too, but the past is the past and sometimes it is best not to recollect it at all. The only worth the past has to me is being able to reminisce now on how life could have been different if the past was different. If theatre had never discovered me, if Cindy had not moved away, if I never went to Washington DC, if I grew up with sleazy cable television, or if I had not wasted all my money on my slow car, but that is another paper… I will continue to grow and appreciate history in my own way. I want to see the sights and sounds on my computer screen or pictures in books. I want to actually be there and not sit around and writing about something that others can do too. I want to strive to be uniquely different while approximately conforming, because I do not want to be hammered down. I want to own a snapping turtle. I want to share Vietnam with others through YouTube. I want to be able to time manage better and not have to wake up too early or sleep too late while typing reflexion papers, such as this one.
         

Smart phones and nice pants.

   I left Saigon in mad frantic because a few friends came over last minute and I was forced to entertain them while packing at the same time. I forgot to bring back a few items back home thanks to their sudden arrival, but I was still glad they came over. Thanks to them I look forward to my return more than ever now. Let’s just say there was a lot of making out. Hahaha.

None of us are Korean. 

     It took about 30 minutes to get to the airport with 40 minutes left before my flight and I made it through the minimal lines and minimal security as the final people were boarding. I hadn’t had a proper dinner and hunger crept up rather suddenly without warning. I was tired but sudden stress rushed over me as I boarded. I’m afraid of tight spaces. I easily suffer from motion sickness. I can’t stand the taste of airplane food. I can’t sleep in an upright position because I drool. I have a strong dislike for flying. As I found my seat after being forced to witness the rich people and their comfortable fully reclining first class seats, I realized that there wasn’t any room left for my tiny backpack in the over head compartments. I hate Viet kieu travelers. They bring too much shit back to Vietnam and they bring too much shit back to America. They generally ignore carry on size rules and try to bring as much as they can. It disgusts me to see a family traveling together with a suitcase and a “handbag” crammed with worthless crap.  There’s few consideration for others as people from one end of the airplane would try to put their bags in whichever empty compartment. I was the last person on board and there wasn’t room left for my backpack. A flight attendant flagged me down and motioned me to give her my bag. This was pretty inconvenient because my laptop was in my case and I was planning to write this entry in flight.

     I landed in Seoul and a few elder Viet kieu travelers tried to follow me thinking I was going through transit. They wandered around like headless chickens unsure where to go after the plane landed. I motioned them through the transit line as I continued straight to the arrival area. These people reminded me of my parents and their relative cluelessness. These are what Viet kieus are like at times. Not everyone is comfortable in their own shoes, not certainly traveling abroad like this and certainly those who have adapted to American culture might be interested in other countries besides their homeland. The real Viet kieus might only go to Vietnam once and that’s it. Maybe twice if they have family connections. The world is vast and Vietnam is a tiny piece of the pie. I should tell myself that because I should be going someplace else besides Vietnam, but noooo. I’ll come back for another year in the fray. It was really hard to write that because it’s almost noon and I’m sitting outside and I’m forehead isn’t sweating and my body isn’t soaked with sweat. It’s actually chilly here in Anaheim and I’m wearing a comfortable track jacket. Going through customs was a breeze. The customers officer behind the counter was very kind and even suggested that my tenure in Vietnam caused my weight lost. The truth is that the passport photo was taken during a time of relative obesity for me. Even though I never weighed more than 135 lbs at any given time, I still considered myself relatively fat. A low carb diet helped me shed a lot of the weight but I’ve managed to gain most of it back thanks to the bitchin’ rice and lard diet of Vietnam. I figured I’ll gain a pound or two in America and starve again in Vietnam. 

       A few first impressions of Korea that I had included how everyone had smart phones and nice pants. People were tall and well dressed. Not everyone looked like they could star in the next hit Korean drama, but their wardrobe and style definitely surpasses the typical American and far exceeds anything a Vietnamese community might have. There were so many beautiful girls with tall legs. The best part was that they were shaven! But not all of them were hot. In fact many of them were pretty hideous, but even the fat girls were cute because they knew how to dress and their makeup was great. Nevertheless, it was a nice day to be in Seoul. The air was crisp and the sun was bright but not scorching like in Saigon. I was comfortable. The subway to Hongdae from the airport was fast and efficient. From the airport just take the elevator down to the basement and you’re literally there at the station. Buying my ticket with my recently exchanged Korean Won was a hassle at first because I was clumsy and the Korean machine was futuristic. I wasn’t even sure how or where to swipe my card for entry and exit at first. The Koreans were patient about it. Unfortunately, for those horny guys who come to Korea thinking it’s easy to get with a girl like in the rest of South East Asia then you’re wrong. The Korean culture is very homogenous and they prefer to get involved within their own cultures. There are plenty of white men who marry and settle in Korea, but there are likely a lot less mixed marriages in Korea than there are in Vietnam. Certainly for Southeast Asians like myself, it would be such an uphill battle to even dream about dating a Korean woman. Looks are important to Koreans. There are mirrors everywhere and I saw many fake noses, but the truth is, don’t go to Korea expecting to get romantically involved with a Korean woman. Don’t get your hopes up. You’ll end up disappointed like me. 

        I got off at Hongkik Station in Hongdae about 30 minutes away from Incheon International and waited for a friend. I planned a high school reunion in Seoul with friends Vicky, Judd, and Hop, who were either teaching or studying in Korea. I hadn’t seen them in a while and it was excited to see them in a foreign place. Overall the trip was pretty fun as we ate a delicious and authentic Korean BBQ lunch and went to visit some important King’s palace and then sealed the deal with live octopus. There was plenty of walking in between. My legs were worn and I was exhausted from the flight. I hadn’t slept all night nor walked all year. The Korean BBQ really was good. The live octopus was interesting too—tasty but I ate it for the camera. In summation, I don’t think I would ever return to Seoul. I’ve seen it. It’s like a modern Los Angeles with nice cozy streets. It was clean and the people were nice. An old woman actually offered me her seat because I was carrying a load on the subway. The subway system is efficient though it can be pretty crowded. The sheer amount of smart phones blew my mind away. Some people had Iphones and SIIIs… old people, young babies with tablets. It was pretty trippy. It seemed like there weren’t any poor people around, but of course this wasn’t true. There are poor people everywhere, not just in the country side. After about 13 hours in Korea I made my way to the airport for my long flight to LAX. A special thanks to Hop, Vicky, and Judd for their time and generosity. The next time I go to Korea, it’ll be North Korea. 

Yeah, nice to meat you. 

At 30 dollars for an octopus, Korea is actually comparable to America when it comes to prices. 

Wassssup K pop

To be continued.

        I'm in Korea right now and my internet availability will be pretty sporadic when I go back home. Hang in there. Check back soon for more.  - Your friend, Kyle. 

Sidewalk affection.

 

       In America we often squirm at the idea of bicyclists riding on the sidewalks. In Vietnam, motorbikes and cars drive on the sidewalk. I'm fascinated by the mentality of gaining a few seconds by jumping the curb without any care for one's suspension. The streets aren't safe and the sidewalks sure aren't either. All I can do is LOL and snap some pictures.

Good eatin'

       Bo la lop has to be one of my favorite Vietnamese dishes. It's surprisingly very simple. Beef and some mystery spices wrapped in a mystery leaf that is semi-bitter and then it's grilled over charcoal and served with rice paper and rice noodles along with an assortment of veggies like herbs, starfruit, and unripened bananas. Oh! Don't forget the fat and lard too. It won't be a good Vietnamese dish without fat and oil. Hehehehe. On three say fat stomach everybody! 1,2,3...  It's affordable and it's filling. It can be a pretty messy experience too. Some places will offer "nem" or a kind of grilled pork sausage to accompany your other fillings. The best places to eat bo la lop are outdoors makeshift sidewalk establishments with the tiny plastic chairs. This is the bomb if you can handle a little bitterness.

Mad props to Uncle 7 for reintroducing me to bo la lop the last time I was in Bien Hoa. 

Fragments from visiting T.

Don't choose rush hour to ever have to use an ambulance. You'll perish in traffic. 

    Another rainy afternoon in Saigon. Work transpired and once again no rain coat could be found anywhere on me. Without much of a care due to the fact that I'll be changing clothes anyways, I headed back for the drive up from Huynh Tan Phat and made a left on Nguyen Van Linh to go home. My wet clothes thudded on the bathroom floor like a wet fish and I got into new clothes while toweling off. Wet. I was wet. And I would just get wet again because I decided to fetch a xe om instead of a taxi all the way to Binh Thanh District. Yikes. Nice drive in the rain. Except for the traffic. Cars on left lanes making right lanes. Blocking traffic here and there. Motorbikes abound as the rush hour just started. People had to go home to eat some porridge. An ambulance stuck in the middle of the raging yet stand still traffic. The patient... likely dead from a traffic jam because nobody would move or could move. Nobody's moving. Bridges crowded. Perhaps mirroring every other bridge in this city of many rivers. The smell of fumes rages on. My face beneath my mask perspires despite the heavy rain. I'm breathing on myself. Mud and road debris kick up and little specks bounce off my temple. As soon as I stepped off the rain came down harder and harder. A white out. I hid across the street from the scheduled restaurant meet up. The tiny awning above barely protected me. Standing there next to other random people trying to take cover. Thoughts of my trip to Vietnam with my parents flung into my mind. To escape similar rain we ducked and waited. I miss my parents a little bit. My phone got wet. I saw her approaching under an umbrella. Had dinner of some pretty decent oc (shell fish and snails) and conversations lead to no where. I feel empty. Oc is great but it will hurt tomorrow. It's not filling. I'm still starving. Even after 400,000 Dong (20 bucks). I didn't order beer. She had a surprised look. Does that make me weaker? Less "man" in her eyes? Who cares. I don't drink. So STFU Vietnamese people who criticize my manliness for not drinking. Bid her farewell and found myself back at Dong Khoi St. Waited. And waited some more. Where was that shuttle back to Phu My Hung? What time did it even ran? 9:00 or 9:30? Who cares. Two prostitutes came out of a hotel on the back of two motorbikes. The rain is coming down. I cross the street to shelter myself. Bright LED signs flashed before me. White tourists walking back checking me out. I'm on my phone wearying about the next fuckers round the corner who could potentially jump me. A xe om guy is close by and gestures at his bike. No. I thought. I'll wait. Save a few dollars. Xe Om there around 80,000 or so during this time of night. A shuttle ticket is 15,000. Must save. Two gays riding on a bike hugging each other. Wow, why can't I have that? Just substitute one guy for a sweet girl and the bike for my car and I'd be in heaven. But oh well, Vietnam's streets will kill my Civic. Never mind. The shuttle's here. Stupid old women hurry as if there's no seats left. Stop being so stingy even though your husband makes thousands and thousands. Just take a damn cab back to Phu My Hung- it'll only cost like eight bucks. The shuttle's here. No one's exiting so we can pile on. I await until the mob clears up. I don't like shoving and losing personal space. So I wait. There's one seat left and I took it. I'm quiet. The trip home took about 30 minutes from Dong Khoi. Passing through District 4. Long fluorescent lights shined through the rain under a bridge. My throat's sore. Oh no. The next few days will be intensive. Shit, why didn't I hand the ticket taker my worthless 500 dongs. 500 dongs are like the pennies of Vietnamese currency. I'm drained. I'm moderately wet. I feel very little with T, but it takes time. She's enthusiastic about me to some degree, so I'll give her a a chance.

Students who might read this, please note that the bulk of this was written as fragments and not complete sentences or anything remotely grammatically correct. Do not emulate this style.

Karaoke is kool.

         Some co-workers at the language center that I work at decided to go out on a Saturday night (even though we all had to work the following morning) and the first part of the night's events included a plentiful meal of goat and seafood (what a combination huh?) at everyone's favorite place to dine on goat  out doors at my old stompin' grounds in Trung Son. For those of you who remembered, Trung Son is where I used to live and it's also known as a desolate area with nothing to eat on Sundays.

        These lively outdoor places where you're pretty much dining with every other patron and their cousins due to the proximity of all the low tables can be pretty overwhelming. At times it reminded me of a chaotic market scene where bidders hurriedly attempt to purchase the previous night's catch. The waiters run back and forth obeying every other command. I haven't gotten a clue how everything can be calculated precisely because orders from every tables are shouted randomly at times as items are consumed and more plates are brought out. The waiters in these establishments are not known for their service. The chaos of a constant, "Em oi...em oi..." can be annoying. I love how some people just shout out orders and demands without confirmation that anyone even heard their order. When something doesn't come out because it wasn't heard, then the patrons whine like milk deprived babies or get upset like spoiled brats. Overall the food wasn't very good.

        After dinner, an unscheduled karaoke event took place in a room properly dubbed The Japanese Room where everyone convened and without proper adjustments, the singing began. Now karaoke never fancied me in the past. I never understood why my cousins came to Vietnam and would lug home some karaoke equipment. I had difficult times fathoming why the Tay girls from Lang Son would spend their hard earned penis tugging money on a cheap machine. Some people really love to sing and the Vietnamese are definitely one of them. I mean, even Cuc Phuong National Park had a karaoke establishment within the park boundaries. I never really understood why though because when I think of karaoke in America, thoughts of scary fat Asians dance around my mind. Something always doesn't sound right because the audio mixing is like shit- usually the vocals are overbearing.

         And then it hit me like a house of bricks. It's pretty simple why Asians love it. It's just fun. When you get a good group of people with half decent singers and a few bad ones thrown in with a little alcohol it can lead to a rip roarin' time. I don't drink yet I still had a good time. For those of you who don't enjoy it, you might want to consider why. Perhaps try unclenching the rim around your asshole and just let loose and enjoy yourself. I don't mean let loose a loose stool, but I mean just don't be embarrassed and let your inhibitions reign free over the microphone. Make sure you stand up and give a small performance too. Don't just sit there because then it will surely be boring and even unbearable.

       If you look closely, you can see me laying on the table just because ... BTW- for those of you wondering, three hours spent in this room resulted only in about 25 dollars worth of damage - divided up by 10 people and it wasn't much at all.

         Now many of you are wondering just what kind of a singer I am... well... I know very very few Vietnamese songs... perhaps just two or three and my problem is that I can't really read Vietnamese perfectly so I have to rely on making assumptions and memory. I'm familiar with at least the chorus of "Dong Toi Gian" and I picked up "Cau Vong Kuyet" pretty easily and sang my hearts out. I'm not a good singer. I'm a border line horrific ear drum fracturing blood gushing punishment of a singer. Just borderline. But anyways, in summation, karaoke was excellent. I'll definitely be doing this again. I went home with a few new songs stuck in my head and practiced "Cau Vong Kuyet" all night long. The second half of the chorus has this line that reads, "Đến bao giờ mời được có em...."  This line has been stuck in my head for the past few days now and I can't seem to get it out of my head. I'm still not over that girl. I still think about her all the time even though I hate to admit it. Seeing other girls after her haven't been much fun because I'm still not over her. The entire night I kept thinking that things would have been more fun with her around. With that being said, this time next week, I'm going home- hopefully I'll really be over her when I'm busy. Lol, I had my roommate smack me each time I would mention her and lets just say, I took a beating. I have girls who want me yet all I can think about is the one who doesn't want me. Lol. I'll take out my frustrations on the microphone from now on, it'll help me get over her. 

The one about a farm.

    Not too long ago when I was in Bien Hoa I had a chance to visit a plot of land designed to look like a well maintained farm. The origins of this spot went along the lines of something like this: Some landless people decided to go out in the jungles and claimed a random piece of land and once civilization started to expand development came to them abruptly. In the mean time, their existence is still reminiscent of a simpler time when people grew their own vegetables with their shit water and urine. Like much of Vietnam, the wannabe trendy and the impoverished coexist along fine lines that bother sensitive people like me at times.
A bag full of leafy greens ended up being a mere 10,000 dong- not even 50 cents- it seems like the costs of watering alone might actually be costlier. Oh, the life of a small scale farmer- planting seeds- relocating the seedlings- watering- fertilizing- and sitting back and waiting for time to transpire some something will grow. I'm not sure if I have the patience to be a farmer. The lack of mechanization means I would have to squat over to tend to my plants. Sadly, the lack of squat shitting means my legs are built like that of a white person's. Oh well, not all of us are cut out to do certain things even though I had a green thumb growing up. I used to plant everything I could get my hands on. I used to find wild grasses and tried to re-pot them so I could have a bit of nature. I grew tomatoes and sunflowers too. Before I left America I had started to develop a fetish for lucky bamboo and miniature cacti. I think I'm going to go pick up some cacti soon.
And a special thanks to Jacob and Kim for their recent donations.

What is this shiz?

     I caught this insect recently and I have no idea what to even call it in English. It brought a familiar childhood memory that deserved an entry of its own. I used to find these guys all over the place back home in my backyard. The Vietnamese name for them is "chop wood" as their heads supposedly are able to chip away at bark. The cool thing about these critters is that they sort of play dead with their legs folded back and their heads will actually flicker rather aggressively. I'm not sure what they eat. Probably shit. Tell me the common name and the scientific name if possible. Thanks.

The past week part 7: No more past weeks please!

    This is the last installment of what was supposed to be a long ass post that began with the termination of perhaps the most trivial yet serious "relationship" I've had in ages in which I thought some potential long term aspects could have been achieved, but I was merely clouded by hazy smoke. She had good genes, but  supposedly I wasn't good enough for her in her delusional sunshine fairyland world where elves idolized her like some kind of angelic entity who couldn't even see her own two feet because her head was above the clouds. Enough of this person for now. Let's flip the page, turn the chapter, and fire up the coal-powered engines forward.
    A day after meeting T, I was sore and exhausted. I had caught some kind of flu-like symptoms that left me sleepless and saggy. For whatever reasons against my better judgement, I decided to routinely ask a friend named H out. When I asked her, I was half kidding because I never thought she would say yes on such short notice and while it was raining. I asked her what she has been craving lately and she wanted frozen yogurt. I picked her up and found myself smack dabbed in District 4. I liked the ghettoness feeling once in a while and District 4 is known for being definitely dank- especially compared to District 1 right across the river. So we walked and talked and walked some more and talked some more. Several times I would grab her arm or hand in "fear" of crossing the street. Perhaps, I was just taking advantage of her? hahaha. I'm kidding. Not really. I was really scared. No lie. But it was nice that sometimes our arms would bump into each other by "accident".

           We walked so far and without realizing it we found ourselves crossing the Ong Lanh Bridge over to Tran Hung Dao St. This was my first time crossing a bridge on foot and yes, I did felt like a cheap 15 dollar hooker, but being with H made me generally happy. There's nothing to complain about H, except the fact that she has a curfew and she mentioned how she has had a bad impression of Viet kieus. This was fine, I'm not worried at all. The weather has been generally less humid and very mild at night now. I guess it's the luxurious cooling off period that we have right before the summer scorch that will surely cause us to want to strip down to our birthday suits even in the middle of the night. By the way, it's 2 AM right now, and I'm sweating profusely and need to turn the damn AC on. So we finally made it to a frozen yogurt place and I opted to get coffee instead of yogurt. This decision kept me up all night thanks to the caffeine. I haven't had coffee in ages. I don't recall the last time I even had coffee in Vietnam. What do I drink at cafes? A fresh coconut. A young fresh coconut. That's how I bang fooooz. Young fresh coconut styyyyyle.
         Hanging out with H confirmed to me that I need to stick with people closer to my age or at least college students. I know I've trashed the Vietnamese education into the ground and I'm sure universities here are crap too, but at least they help expand and open up the potential for more intelligent conversations. Frozen yogurt here is similar to back home. You have your conventional flavors. Nothing too fancy and nothing too exotic. There's certainly no canine flavor---- yet. I noted that the prices were slightly more expensive than back home, but the roaring AC made up for it.

        After a sub-par drink, for whatever reasons we decided to go check out cheap knock off sunglasses and watches on a specific street. I love how the locals set up and sell the same stuff next to each other for the "conveniences" of the customer. Makeshift stores were set up along public streets and walls. Fake sunglasses ranged anywhere from four dollars a pop to even 10 dollars. It was kind of fun checking out all the designs and such after being handed a mirror. It was a good activity for flirting. I never thought I liked shopping all that much. Maybe I just like being around H? I ended up buying a pair of clear sunglasses that made my eyes hurt, so I stopped wearing them after a day. I tried to look for quality fake G-Shocks, but they sure weren't worth it. Even Vietnam has bad knockoffs of knockoffs.

I dropped her back home at around midnight and that was that. I don't know how I feel.

   

The past week part 6: On top of the world

Perhaps the best view of all. 

        I've always wanted to do this. I've always wanted to go on top of the Bitexco Financial Tower because it's such an iconic building in this city and I've yearned to do something exclusive and luxurious for a change. I couldn't dream of affording dinner up there and I heard there was a cafe up there so instead of forking over 200,000 dong (10 dollars ish) just to go to the observation deck to look at the glory that is Saigon underneath, why not use have a place to sit and sip on some coffee? The librarian at my school suggested that a coconut might cost 300,000 up there, which made me balked at the initial idea. However, I couldn't back down because I had already asked a girl out on a date there! So meet T, introduced to me by a friend and follower of my content. This date was meant for someone else, someone who told me I wasn't worthy of being their lover, so instead I ended up sharing this special moment with someone else might have appreciated it more.
        The Bitexco Tower sits in the heart of the commerce area of District 1 over looking the Saigon River and some of Saigon's most expensive real estate on Dong Khoi and Le Loi Streets. It's the second tallest building in Vietnam and the tallest building in Saigon. Supposedly, it's shape was inspired by a lotus, but I'm thinking the penis part of a lotus with a disc jammed into the head.

      With that being said, there's 68 stories and the observation deck is located on the 49th floor while Strata, the cafe, is located one floor above. Now, the observation deck allows for a 360 degree view of the city, while the cafe offers views of District 1, 2, 3, and maybe 5. In a sense, it was definitely worth the price. Drinks weren't even all that expensive. For two people, including smoothies and ice cream with mineral water served from a glass the bill came out to be around 24 dollars. I don't know where else in the world you can get such service and luxury on top of a city's tallest building for that amount. It was well worth it. Even coming into the tower was a grand ordeal. Mechanical doors and service from girls who pressed the elevators for you made the whole thing felt so upscale. Of course, I had to walk in and ask the receptionists how much coffee actually cost up there. I was worried that a cup of coffee might cost a million dong or something, so asking for the price made me seem a little bit ignorant and perhaps a cheap ass, but at the end of the date, I spent close to a million anyways. After the tower, we taxied over to Tokyo Deli on Dien Bien Phu for an awesome sushi dinner that was under 25 dollars for two. Once again, you can't beat these prices. On normal dates, I wouldn't spend this much, but first impressions are key and T is something I see some potential with. We're different, but she has an open mind and I would like to see her again. And I'm pretty sure I will. She's a charming girl with a laid back personality and perhaps most importantly, she wants to improve her English and expand her horizons.
     I definitely recommend coming to Strata. It's an awesome place. The views are nice around dusk to sunset. The prices are affordable factoring the location and service. I mean, we were so high up so quickly that my ears popped. I feel rejuvenated. I wouldn't be able to do something like this in America.  Enjoy the pictures.