And now, as I hit thirty, my life has slowed down to a pedestrian level of emotional and physical jogging. This could be attributed to the breakthrough I had in therapy two years ago  where I worked through mommy issues and learned how to regulate my emotions from being a yo yo to a bland piece of slightly browned piece of bread. I’m not sure if that analogy worked, but you get the picture. I’m boring now. Or what I consider to be boring. 

Wagamama

You will never be happy if you continue to search for
what happiness consists of. You will never live if you are looking for
the meaning of life.  – Albert Camus… taken from DarkPanda’s xanga site.

Is there a profound importance in owning one’s experiences? Is it
even possible to have “control” over one’s life in order to
find a sense of identity through fleeting, yet life-altering, happy
moments – hoarding it entirely to oneself like a leprechaun over his
pot o’gold?

The happiest moment in my life occurred on the steps leading to the
dance floor of the “Funky Buddha Lounge” in Brighton, UK. I did a study
abroad program
my sophomore year of college at this beach town located on the southern
coast of England. This particular happy moment concluded six months of
carefree, drugged-up debauchery. It was a moment of
clarity. Brighton rocked. And as my friends were swept away by the
redolent sounds of music, drunken laughter, and youthful reverie that
particular night, I savored the moment with silent praise. It was
like one of those season finale’s on a melodramatic television
drama where everything is in slow motion… the camera zooming in on
the smiles of the supporting cast while the main character stands
solitary, absorbing the scene with a voice over saying something like,
“Those were the days.”

Yes… I was that main character that stood on those sticky steps
and inhaled the sights and sounds of youthful energy. Yet, instead of
ending that particular season of my life with a cheesy, overly dramatic
statement saturated with bittersweet brouhaha, I thought – in a Gollum
sort of way – “This is mine. It’s all mine… and no one can
rob me from this (precious) experience.”

I’ve been trying to duplicate that feeling ever since.

The Christian religions says that one should put God on their throne
of life, while the individual should bow at His feet and allow life to
continue on the path that
has been already laid out. Hmm… been there, done that. For a time I
attempted to live how “God” wanted me to. I was proud to have
sacrificed myself to live a “pure” and “holy” life. When that didn’t
work, I took charge and sat on my throne in life and found myself
looking out into the world and its beautiful imperfections. I’m not
saying that religion doesn’t have any merit. Sometimes I wish I could
return to that frame of mind where I felt unconditional love and hope.
It’s for some people, but just not for me. So… I decided to become
selfish.

According to Webster, it appears that the word selfish
is a person who is “seeking or concentrating on one’s own advantage,
pleasure, or well-being without regard for others.” Now, I wouldn’t say
that I have complete disregard for others… especially since I’m a
teacher that actually enjoys educating little runts. Yet… sometimes I
wonder how much of a prick I am. I mean, the mere act
of questioning whether I’m somewhat selfish most likely means
that I am to some degree. Doing something selfish probably means free
from most familial/social/contractual bindings. After all, I’m not
little Zhao Zhexiao living in rural China selling chicken feet to
support my family. At least I have the choice to be selfish… which probably means I’m doing a whole lotta thinking for no lotta reason. I digress.

Perhaps this happy busines, for me, is having control over my own
experiences to reap the benefits of its results because it’s a form of
accomplishment. I admit, I’m anal – I fold my toilet paper
for Pete’s sake (I must say I’m quite disappointed about my recent
survey. I only got three proper responses and one racial slur).
However, sometimes I feel that my “selfish” decisions make me a bad
person. But aren’t we all, damnit?! So… here’s a question to y’all…
How do you personally define happiness? Can happiness, in a way, be a
selfish act? And, if you want, what was (one of your) happiest
moment(s) in life?

Survey

I’ve decided to take a survey after a long debate with my friends.

After completing a toilet session, do you crumple, fold, or roll your toilet paper? Please explain your reasoning.

Danke.

Happy Days

My birthday was last Sunday. Although I’m now the ripe age of 23, I can’t help but feel like a wee little school girl ready to embark on the path of womanly pleasures… armed with sultry curves and pheromones. I’m a transvestite in the making. Nevertheless, getting another year older has surprisingly been accepted with open legs. This could be in part that I celebrated the BIG B-DAY in Tokyo, or, I’m just beginning to feel comfortable in my own skin.

I thought I was going to kill myself on my 21st birthday. Merely two years ago I suffered a bout with depression, occassionally tracing the thin, blue lines on my wrist with an X-acto knife. Days prior to my birthday, I toyed with the idea of pressing harder, ending torturous months of loneliness, emptiness, and paralyzing hopelessness. Luckily on the eve of my 21st birthday I was poisoned by a Mexican eatery.

The night before the big 21, I ate a chicken enchilada at “Chano’s” kiosk located beside the beloved campus of USC on a ghetto-fabolous street, otherwise known as Figueroa. I woke up 5am my birthday morning to find myself bowing to the porcelin god and spewing refried beans, sour cream, and chicken bits. Barf. For the next eight hours I was chucking every hour on the hour – projectile vomitous erupting from my mouth and nostrils like a congested camel in heat. Needless to say, I wasn’t in the state to kill myself.

I figured that this food poisoning was a blessing in disguise. If I wasn’t poisoned, I’d probably have died by either: 1. the hands of my X-acto knife; or 2. exploding from alcohol. As most Asian’s know, we lack an enzyme (specifically alcohol dehydrogenase) that breaks alcohol down properly, causing one to appear like they’re dying, or ready to spontaneously combust. This phenomenon is commonly known as “Asian blush/glow.” It’s an allergic reaction to alcohol. Therefore, if I had partaken in what usually occurs on a 21st birthday – binge drinkin’ debauchery – my liver would have probaby begun to bleed. Therefore, the South of the Border cuisine was an early birthday gift; I made it past my 21st birthday not dead.

Six months after my birthday, with the help of a good friend and a great counselor, the hazy, depressive veil that covered my eyes had finally been lifted. A year and a half later, I feel like I’ve grown well into my own skin.

There’s a sense of peace that I have turning 23. I no longer feel the 22 “in limbo” what-the-hell-am-I-gonna-do-with-my-life age. Sure, I still have no idea what I’m going to do and where I’m going, but istead of working myself to an ulcer, I’ve come to accept the things I don’t have complete control over. Moreover, there’s a better understanding in regards to my normalcy, insecurities, and existance on this planet. With that understanding, there’s a sense of quiet confidence. Perhaps all this optimism is due in part to my epiphany that I wrote about in my last entry. Or maybe it has been taking a year out and living in rural Japan the past 9 months. Or maybe it’s swallowing and digesting what Life has given me so far. Whatever it is, I’m able to look at the long road ahead of me, filled with childlike excitement to take the world head on; I’m happy to be alive.

For those who’ve battled clinical depression are aware that “hopelessness” is a huge weight which can lead one to do what they may do. Those who are currently suffering from depression may take this “testimony” and tell me to shove it up my rectum. Sure, I’ll do that… but what I’ve come to realize is that much of humanity is linked by this thought or idea of loneliness, when, in reality, we’re sharing a lot of these feelings than we let on. There’s probably somone you know who is going through the exact same thing, but masks those feelings with, say, Max Factor or Armani Gio. If you ever find yourself completely lost, there’s always at least one unbeaten path leading towards hope. Sometimes you just need one listening ear and a little bit of help to point you in the right direction.

In other words, don’t kill yourself. Two years later you could possibly be the happiest kid on earth.

I’m not the one to say that I’ll never relapse into the same self-depricating hole two years from now. Hell, 6 months from now I could very well take a butcher knife to my own wrist. Life is unpredictable. That is what makes it frustrating yet tittilating at the same time. If anything, I believe that one can find happiness by pursuing that of which makes one happy. It can be that easy sometimes. This could be jerking off, kicking puppies, or taking on the world with whatever. All ones needs is just a smidgen of hope, a listening ear, and some confidence.

So, for a melodramatic ending, Happy Day. Happy Birthday to those who are living and are continuing to live throuhg peace, pessimism, and pain. Happy Birthday to those whose wished have or haven’t been granted on that cake of theirs. Happy Birthday to you, to me, and to all those wee school girls (and boys) ready to embark on that path of womanly pleasures… otherwise known as life.

That’s Life.

The meaning of my life is scrawled out onto one piece of paper.

At a weed induced state of mind, I found the meaning of life… well, for me that is. And I realize that this is entirely a presumptuous statement on my part. I suppose this ties in with my previous entry of “Less Than Ordinary.” This entry may sound more self-righteous than normal… but,  I think I’ve figured it out. So hear me out, and give me some of your own thoughts.

There is nothing. But because there is nothing, it is everything. *life is Life.

The Earth has existed for over 3.5 BILLION years. Our human existance is merely a fraction of the Earth’s life. In fact, dinosaurs lived on this planet longer than humans. The dinosaurs eventually went kablooie and mortal lives returned to Earth in the form of neanderthals, rabbits, and manatees. And sorry to break it to y’all… humanity will eventually sputter out – whether by the hands of Bush or natural occurrences. But when the human race ends, something will probably take our place… I’m imagening 7 foot roaches. Anyway, life on this planet will continue with or without us. But the Earth has a life of its own. I won’t even attemot to dip into lives in other galaxies far far away. On second thought, lets just think about that for a moment…. WOW…

Life (an explanation in the macro-sense): Life is everything beyond anything, which makes it nothing. There is no past, present, future… beginning, middle, end… the glass is neither half-full or half-empty… there is no glass. There is only vacancy; there is space within  space.

Our individual lives are litreally one grain of sand on Santa Monica beach; a speck of dust in an abandoned wine cellar; a scary looking microscopic creature you see in National Geographic living in your eyebrow. From a purely cynical viewpoint, life is pointless; humanity has no significance. The human constructs of religion is used to give meaning, a sense of validation, a point to life. But there really is nothing; everything we know has been constructed by men. I reiterate… there is nothing… nada… nai.

life (an explanation in the micro-sense): Here’s the uplifting part. There is still a significant importance to life. Our individual existence is important because it’s the only thing we know and try to understand. Our lives are mere vessels used for digesting what Life throws at us: emotions, changes, rotten food. Yet since there is nothing, that means that nothing is everything in regards to our individual, independent lives. For example: in high school I was Homecoming Prince. I got a crown and everything. It was grande… it meant something to me. But when you really thinkg about it and how it fits into the larger picture of Life, it means shit. I might as well been a mollusk wearing a fucking tutu. It means nothing, but wearing that stupid crown constructed by a third-world sweatshop worker meant something to me.

Humanity will always seek something when it’s really nothing. Homosexuals will fight for gay marriages, Christians will continue to evangelize “the word,” Fratboy Greg will try to sleep with as many women as possible……. and all of this means NOTHING to, say, wifebeater Joe Shmoe. Poppycock, in fact… Hmmm, but these nothings are something, if not everything, to many individual lives. Whether if this is “sad” or “beautiful” or both is your call. It’s humanity.

So, in an attempt to make something out of nothing, I made a list of things I want to accomplish in life (I did this at work, and for those who are on the JET program, you are well aware how much time we have on our hands). Here are a few I care to share with you:

1. Positively influence the lives around me.

2. See the Aurora Borealis.

3. Have sex in a gondola (and yes, I’m serious).

This list, according to me, is the meaning of my life. In this life I will seek happiness through what makes me happy. Although it effects how I live my life, human constructs will not tell me how I should live in order to attain happiness. Sure, I gotta work with what I got, but nobody has gotten it entirely right.

As for making sense out of macro-Life, we won’t know the answer until we die… and why think about it? Why ask questions such as “is their life after death” when we will never know the answer in our mortal lives? People can say there’s a heaven and hell… but how the hell do they know that? I guess that’s where faith fits into the picture, but it still means nothing to those who don’t believe in a god. I suppose one can only have an understanding of Life, life, and the lives that surround you.

Conclusion: the life we decide to live is the meaning of Life… but only to our own lives. Yet we are still a part of the bigger scope of Life. This is only a part of what we can do as individuals to understand Life. I can have as much control as I can over my own destiny. If I can’t have control, it’s nothing anyway. The great thing, to a certain degree, is that we have the power to make an event mean something only if we want it to; a level of understanding is necessary to make nothing into something or vice versa.

Um… yeah… so, that’s that. But here’s a question for you: what is the meaning of your own life? What do you want to accomplish before you die? Make a list… it’s fun.

Eat It

Yeah… things need to change.

I Left my Heart in San Francisco

I’ve been tittilated. The friends who I met at the San Francisco JET orientation, but currently living in in Osaka, came to visit me in inaka (the Japanese countryside) among the wild monkeys and boars. There’s a sense of pride showing my rural way of life and the simplicity of it, being completely immersed in this poduck town the past 7+ month with a port-o-potty for a toilet and a high-powered hose to blast away shit streaks. Yeehaw. Yet my drama free existence had rarely been stimulated; my mind had taken the form of large, gray matter also known as rotting elephant dung. And like my other friends I made in the second least inhabited prefecture in Japan, our current state of mind had begun to (de)evolve into the simple minded folk of our villages… awaiting for the next binging session with sake, shochu, and bad Japanese beer. I don’t even like alcohol. My face turns red like the rear of a baboon’s butt. Moreover, the processing of any type of auditory, visual, emotional stimulation had begin to converge to the aching area known as my loins. My life has begun to reflect an x-rated version of the hick-ville syndicated TV show Dukes of Hazard… minus the car chases, wheelie’s, and white folk. Actually, I don’t even think I watched Dukes of Hazard. In other words, I became Japanese trailer trash and I didn’t even know it – until ‘dem city folk arrived.

It was a girly weekend. My four fabolous gurhlfrens arrived bright and early in the morning, marveled by the abundance of trees, mountain, and the ocean. After all, Osaka is known as a complete concrete jungle, lacking any sense of lush greenery that only the countryside can provide. And let me say that these women are beautiful. Not only aesthetically, but in the emotional, intelligent, intangible sense of beauty only attained through colloquial exchanges revolving around social constructs, the search of knowledge, and human understanding.

I am utterly enthralled with these people… and they are all from the Bay Area.

San Francisco, the “City by the Bay” goaded by the imperfections of the rest of the nation in order to right the wrongs, or improve, for that matter, the desultory vision of conservative activists led by Bush. The epitome of America’s melting pot, the city spattered with a cornucopia of underground cultures and cuisines – one of the best in the world. A respective city with respectable inhabitants… almost rightfully maintaining an elitist, almost snobbish, air. The beach and redwood forests are at the city’s doorstep; the mountains and the deserts are its next door neighbors; its vineyards, hot springs, and fog are its lifeline. San Francisco, the most “European” looking city in the states which embodies the architectural charm and history despite its young age. San Francisco, the home of the “rogue governor,” the gays, the movers & shakers, the hippies, vegans, feminists, surfers, writers, artists, musicians, and Robin Williams. San Francisco, my home… and where my heart desires to return.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not taking my time here in Japan for granted one bit. If anything, it has only made me appreciate my home more… to know I can continue to search for onsens, Shinto Shrines, and Japanese gardens within the city’s core.

My god… I’m not the biggest fan of America, but I am in love with San Francisco.

Forty-eight hours with people you respect and admire can put a complete spin on one’s life. These four friends that I have just started to get to know, and will continue to know after this Japan business is over, have instilled a sense of wonder to explore my adult life in a city where I know I will thrive in. They have helped me realized that I am but a mere 22/23 kid ready to embark on my actual adult life with stimulating, intellectual, like-minded San Franciscans. I am so excited that I have mild diarrhea. And although I never really thought life as bleak, although I can usually catch myself brooding in a corner and hating everyone, my new life long friends have given me hope in life. Before they came to visit, I felt myself being swallowed and digested into a country bumpkin. But I’ve been purged… and now there’s only four more months of riding this tsunami before I reach that Golden Gate.

A Little Kerouac for You

There will be a brief intermission… I’ve been SWAMPED this week. So here’s a bit of Kerouac.

“A kind of lyrical ecstacy possesses certain young Americans in the springtime, a feeling of not belonging in any one place or in any one moment, a wild restlessness longing to be elsewhere, everwhere, right now. The air is balmy and springlike, redolent with so many musics from everywhere, everything seems to describe dizzy circles, there are illimitable thoughts of long spaces and long voyages, it is a strange, maddening but still as yet ecstatic feeling of irresponsible wanderlust of the the soul, responding to everything at the moment – ‘I don’t give a damn!’”

And here I am in Japan… feeling exactly the same way. What’s wrong with me?! And that’s a rhetorical question for you smartasses.

Less Than Ordinary

I’m taking a survey…

Would you rather be really really… like really good looking that whenever men and women gaze at your formidable beauty, they have an uncontrollable urge to jizz in their knickers? This, of course, would include a multi-million dollar modeling contract and the power to control the “common people” to bend to your every whim. Not to mention an amazing sex life. But once you get older, your beauty will soon be forgotten… resulting in spending shitloads on botox injections and the longing for the glory days of your youth. Then on your death bed you die realizing that people only liked and respected you for your looks, but nothing about the true “essence” of you… whatever that may be. 

OR… would you rather be a misunderstood genius who is constantly tortured by the frivolity of life, resulting in awkward social situations and emotional detachment to all but two other equally pretentious, yet highly un satiated individuals? This, of course, would include a Pulitzer/Nobel prize and the prestige of ultimately making a positive impact on modern society. Unfortunately, your impact will never be truly recognized until after your death… and your only image of happiness is that of a mere childhood memory… looped over in black and white, artsy framing, and speckled with reverberating laughter.

I am, undeniably, neither.

Both seem like pretty lonely lives, to be perfectly honest. But both lives seem so interesting… so completely above average than, well, the average shmoe. Perhaps this is all stemming from a dream that I had last week. My father was grabbing me by the shoulders, shaking me like a doll and yelling, “Who do you think you are?! You’re not special. You’re NOT SPECIAL…” and then I abruptly woke up with a cold sweat and the idea that will forever remind me that my life will be unmistakably “ordinary.” (I actually have a good relationship with my pops… so don’t worry.)

I became frazzled. I have only been a college graduate since last May… and my stay here in Japan is but a mere interlude before I return to the unstoppable force of emotional/physical/spiritual aging. At this ripe age of 22, I believe that many of us are filled with ideals, hope, and aspirations to be something. I, for one, would like to appear with a golden halo by the age of 35. Those around me will weep with adoration as I pass by on a frilly float down Main Street. My epitaph will read a credulous statement like “Jason was the closest thing to perfection.”

Realistically, on the other hand, I’ll most likely end up being an ordinary person whose ideals had been lost in the decades of work… work… and work. I’ll be attending dinner parties only to find myself discussing about the market economy or being completely floored to hear how ”little Davy” successfully took a shit alone in the family pot. Then I’ll return home bitching about how fake everyone was at the party when I, myself, was equally a two-faced shmuck with a Rolex and a million dollar estate. My Beamer, my platinum bidet, and all my other material items will then be mistakenly valued as some kind of self-worth. I’ll then suffer from a heart attack by the age of 64 from high cholesterol from the lavish life I had been “living,” and everyone will make those “tragic, he was so young” comments… But then I’ll be there – rotting away 6 feet under with my million dollar death costume, an ivory casket, and an epitaph that now will read: Our beloved Jason Chan. He was a good fellow, but unmistakably ordinary.

Fuck that shit. I’d rather be the botched up botox has been or the existential depressed ridden snob than be an ordinary Joe-Shmoe.

Yet alas! My caffeine induced state of motivation is fizzling out as we speak. My arch-nemesis, by the name of “Lazy Ass” has reared his ugly head, quashing my attempts to be the godsend I deserve to be. Am I destined to be ‘ordinary?’

Actually, what’s the meaning of life?

I’ve been wondering what you people… people of xanga… people of the world, really…. think your purpose in life is? (Feel free to post your thoughts in my comment box.) For me, I believe my calling is to undeniably be neither a model nor a genius. I’ve decided to be both.

Enuf of this ordinary (bull) shit.

 What is love… baby don’t hurt me.

I wrote this entry a year ago… (man, was it that long ago?) and thought that many of my beliefs back then are the same today in regards to VALENTINES DAY… Without further adoooo,

How many people actually know the story behind Valentines? Well… according to a recent radio commercial and some research on the history channel website, I learned that back in the day (3rd century) there was a bishop/priest dude by the name of Valentine who worked for Emperor Claudius II. Well, Claudius was an ass and forbade young, strappling studs to get married. He believed that these youthful bucks made better soldiers than married ones. Afterall, who would really want to be tied down to a nagging wench at that age anyway? Just kidding. Anyway, Valentine thought this practice was banal, so he aided marrying these hunks to their supple breasted fiances… but in secret. But someone obviously couldn’t keep a good secret, and Claudius became royally pissed off. He sentenced Valentine to death.

Yet when Valentine was in jail, he fell in luf (love with a Chinese accent). It’s expected that he fell head over heals for the jailor’s buxom daughter. The day of his execution he wrote her a love letter ending with the words… “From your Valentine.” Then he was probably skewered, burned at the stake, or subjected to some other horrible way of dying during those evil evil days. Tragic indeed.

I swear I have a point to all this.

So… with a story like this, I suppose this holiday is celebrating the drama of unattainable love… or something like that. But lets honestly think about this in modern times… What has ever happened to the St. Valentine, Romeo and Juliet, Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon type of love? You know… the type of love you would die for. Perhaps I’m being completely cynical about the matter, but is there anything left of this type of love in modern times, or have we Americans been subjected to the overdramatic social construction of undying, dramatic, hardcore romance depicted in movies, plays, and holidays such as Valentines?

I believe a good reason why 50% of married couples get divorced in America revolves around this ridiculous, overdramatic, notion of unattainable love. It’s the concept of love I feel people are caught up in… People are in love with love… Sure,  it’s a good reason to get married to someone, but it shouldn’t be the only reason.

The other day I heard an old man, who was married to his wife for like 74 years, say that the trick to a happy marriage is “Total dedication to an imperfect person.” I believe it’s more about respect which keep people together.  I don’t believe anyone would actually say “love is the answer.” I mean come on. Psha…

You know what they say though… “Love is Blind.” You may be marrying a wifebeater who probably doesn’t wipe his ass after he takes a shit. Is this what you want “love” to be all about? I suggest you take that blindfold off and really think about your relationship with that person. Are you in love with love, or are you actually in love with that shitfaced wifebeater?

Happy Valentines Day