My 3.20.14

The smell of Old Spice body wash reminds me of summer camp. I was 14. My body had just started changing and I got contacts just before school let out.

I brought my guitar just like the year before. That was my thing. My favorite website was Newgrounds and I still secretly loved pro wrestling.

When I got to Kentucky, I decided that I liked a girl, Kelly, who had red hair. At least I thought that I did. Until she showed no interest. So I moved on and liked Leah instead. No luck there either, but I kept trying anyway. I didn’t talk to Kelly for the rest of the time there. On the last day right before my best friend’s mom picked us up, Kelly passed me a note and told me to read it only when her hockey player brother had picked her up.

Her handwriting looks like Helvetica’s fat second cousin. The dots weren’t hearts, in case anyone was wondering. But in pink gel pen the note said, “I liked you all throughout camp.” I threw it away. I wish I had saved it. It would make a good keepsake for my kids, especially if I end up having a son.

My coworker Josh walked by me today and whatever cologne he was wearing took me back to Camp Ernst. I decided to write it down because maybe the next time I remember will be when I’m thirty-four. And I think by then I would have forgotten that I had thought of it today, and will have tried to pass it off as something I had not thought of before. Well, maybe it’ll mean something a little bit different by then.

I really want to be a bit more honest. Maybe straightforward is the better-suited word but I think that ladders up to honesty. I haven’t been lying, but I feel that I’ve existed in a limbo that hasn’t produced anything of substance. A thought has crossed my mind that this is a quarter life crisis, but then I realized I haven’t the slightest clue what that means.

My Invitations

A thought has been lingering, “Whose weddings would I be invited to?” At my age, it’s a fair question to ask.

Spoken to a couple of people before about my tendency to section off parts of my life somewhat arbitrarily. It’s unlike me, the part about these boundaries being defined without a set of rules, because I typically like to operate in a system with patterns to note. But I think this was developed out of necessity given that the only constancy that I have known is change.

For illustrative purposes, I imagine this to be like when steel doors on the Titanic begin to descend, locking the watertight chambers and sectioning off the flood. It might be because my older sister loved the movie and I watched it many times when I was far more impressionable (side note: To this day, I could still probably freehand Kate Winslet’s breasts with a pen) but there is a shot from it that still stays with me: the back of a crewmember left behind, sealed is the chamber and his fate. I imagine the immediate seconds of his life after James Cameron has already cut to the next scene. What he must feel. Certainty. Helplessness. And what he means cinematically. A tribute. A forgotten, secondary dramatic device. A necessity.

Like so, I have compartmentalized the past in messy little packages—sectioning off the people, the words, the thoughts. Unbeknownst to them, or anyone really, I am in a constant state of retrospection. Reliving and reimagining moments. Things that were said, weren’t said, and things that should have been said.

I am constantly thinking of you, friends. And I would really like you to know that. 

It would be nice to say that this is as if the crewman had never died. It’s left ambiguous and you never do see him drown in the movie. But just because you’re the type of person to look back as you walk forward, it doesn’t mean what you’re looking for is still there, or was ever there.

So back to my original question on whose weddings I would be invited to.

The ones that matter, I think.

My Zuckerberg Moment

I had a Zuckerberg moment… back in 2001.

I didn’t know it, but I did.

It was just before what we would call our daily morning meetings. As sixth graders, we started our school day sitting together in a circle as a class, Indian style. I guess sitting like that in itself is worth commemorating because I’ve just been made aware that style of sitting apparently no longer exists. It’s now called criss cross applesauce now, which sounds all sorts of absurd to me.
A morning meeting is pretty straightforward. Instead of talking non-stop about the N Sync VMA performance from two months ago or if you were like me, the Newgrounds assassination short that let you shoot up all the Gap kids, we would share somewhat more intellectually engaging stories on topics decided by our teacher Mrs. Stephens. This was a pretty good way to jump start our day before going off on a rigorous academic day of watching Bill Nye the Science Guy.

The dynamic of that classroom was as you would imagine. Kids had their cliques and there was a definite hierarchy of who was considered cool and who wasn’t. I’m sure that you’re well aware of how sixth graders— or rather kids in general—can be pretty shitty. But now that I reflect back on it, the kids in my class weren’t the shittiest in the world on the shitty scale. I mean yes, the guys gave each other bro nods and snickered when Mrs. Stephens’s nipples poked through her dress and girls… okay I had no idea what girls were doing or thinking about then. I even had to make up that N Sync example at the beginning of this paragraph. My point being that kids didn’t know much better, and to our credit, Mrs. Stephens was pretty bangin’. Nevertheless, I’m still surprised that how well received these morning meetings were.

The staple of the morning meeting was the agenda: the plan for today’s meeting was written on a 22” x 28” flip board, usually with a question with empty space bubbles underneath for kids to respond to. Sometimes it would be something along the lines of, “If you could have dinner with anyone alive or dead, fictional or real, who would it be?” (Alfred Pennyworth) Other times it would be a simple poll like “Pizza vs. Fried Chicken” (Fried Chicken.) Interactivity and engagement in the analog age! One day, I asked Mrs. Stephens whether I could do it for a particular meeting. I wrote the shit out of that agenda. Injected energy and liveliness into the words, decorated the board with different colors and even included an inspirational quote from Chicken Soup for the Preteen Soul. I would frame that fucking poster if I still had it.

This is the prestige… The question I wrote down for the day?

“What is your AIM Screen Name?”

I wrote the agenda because I wanted to holla at the girls in my class but had no idea how to get in contact with them. I knew that I had game (I didn’t) and if only I could get them to talk to me, I would be able to charm their face off (I couldn’t). I think at that time, I had maybe five people on my buddy list. The “Shoutoutz” section of my info was pathetic with or without sticky caps. This was the perfect ploy. I wasn’t going to be the most popular class, but you bet your sweet ass I was going to have more people to chat with while I surfed the web and watched WWF (second screen experience, anyone?)

Does the perfect ploy ever go well? Maybe I was too obvious, writing the screen names down blatantly in front of everyone, but my question were met with little enthusiasm with a low response rate—and worse yet, I got people’s AOL screen names. You know even if they had AOL that people still downloaded AIM for all the extra cool features.

At that point, I thought, “The world would be better if people and things were more accessible and transparent.”

Okay, that wasn’t exactly it and I merely thought “lol” after every sentence written in green font was going to charm the person at the other end of the screen but the sentiment was there. I felt the need tell stories, no matter how nonsensical they were. I wanted to share and had no one to share it to. If I were a brilliant twelve year old, I would have conceptualized Facebook right there… or less brilliant, MyFace (trademarked TacoCorp.)

There’s that quote about luck, opportunity and preparation that has been plastered on corporate posters around the world and passed around more often than the Michael Jordan urban legend on being cut from his high school JV team. The reason why I decided to rehash this story is to remind myself how the really good ideas solve the really simple, and thus most important problems. More importantly, to keep looking at the problems that need solving.





As a side note, a big shoutout to E.H. Greene Intermediate School class of 2001. It’s been a while.  Hope everyone is doing well. The last time I checked (read: stalked), a lot of you are republican and married.

My Connection

At what point is someone worth listening to? What is the scale of measurement to gauge the validity or relevance of someone’s perspective? It’s strangely refreshing when another living and breathing human being echoes your own sentiment. The connection… it’s a straight shot that punches you in the chest, resonating with you and makes you feel like you’re not alone. That’s the ticket.

I long for the day to come when my words, whatever form they decide to take, to transcend the human touch. For each sentence to feel like a hand on your shoulder on the worst day of your life—words colliding together, friction from which creates heat to create warmth. I want the serifs of the typography to dance with you in moments of ecstasy. Enjoy your youth together in a grand crescendo and in silence when you don’t want to give single thing to the rest of the world. I want my words to be indirectly responsible for your sorrow. 

It’s all because I recall memories not by events, but rather in glimpses of imperfect recognition when feelings just barely begin to register. I don’t remember the restaurant where we ate or the time of the reservation, but forever ingrained is how comfortable it felt to be uneasy because I was able to share something that I never have before. I couldn’t tell you the color of the dress that you dieted for a week to fit into for the wedding, but the smirk on my face when I held your waist in elation as you posed like a flamingo? I still have that same smirk right now. My life is measured in heartbeats, not locations and possessions.  

I want nothing more than to communicate in feelings.

My Aphasia

It seems to me that the Broca’s area of my brain is damaged, if not underdeveloped.

Words coming out of my mouth are jumbled, crude arrangements of the thoughts that reared them. I want to be articulate so damn bad, but the sentences escaping my tounge lack any trace of structure and it’s every word for itself. Instead of forming a cohesive whole, the nouns and verbs fight each other in epic battles to destroy any traces of meaning. It really is madness. Each time I try to verbalize what’s running through my mind, I unleash a terrifying flood of undecipherable, yet relatively well-annunciated mumblings. I just picture a little kid barely tall enough to ride a Disneyland roller coaster standing in front of a giant claw machine, picking the words I’m about to gift to the world, hooking little blocks of lazy transitions and unclear subjects.

Well, I guess I would be that little kid then… which might just sprinkle a bit of tragedy on this bit. I think if word bubbles appeared every time I talked, “their” and “their” would somehow be used interchangeably. 

This might be why I’ve always preferred writing. On a blank piece of lined paper, I can cross out and restructure. I have the luxury of staring at a blinking cursor on my screen as I take my sweet time in constructing anything resembling to something that I feel or wish to convey (The two things are not one of the same at times.) I love the freedom and the ability to erase. Nothing is of permanence, unchanged indefinitely. I am at my own pace and if I remember my grade school education correctly, they taught me that slow and steady wins the race. If need be, I am welcomed to take a sip of my red wine blend straight from the bottle. No one is waiting for my thoughts because no one knows that I have anything to say. Honestly, sometimes I really don’t have anything to say.

Asdfjkl;.

And I’m back. 

My Pretty Weather Days

A great deal of my time is spent on recalling past events.  I'm always making reminder lists of action items to follow up with at work. I constantly try to remember how I felt at particular times in life. Something that I don't do often is think about how others remember me. I'm not sure whether this is because I am afraid that it may be in a negative light (I'm sure there's plenty reason for some people to) or just because I simply don't remember. I think the truth is that I really don't know.

Egotistical or ignorant... I can't say.

I do wish that others think fondly of memories created with me-- that when they piece the individual bits together, it assembles into something of beauty. Cohesive or fragmented. at least worthy of being remembered for that moment in time. When a familiar song that you haven't heard for so long comes on, a violent storm of emotions hits you. For a couple of seconds, there is confusion and uncertainty as to why you feel that way. You sit there stunned because your brain hasn't quite processed logic or reason. Frozen, you are a blank slate splashed with instincts and physical responses. I hope that it's that if I somehow have the privilege of being the reason for that short moment of bewilderment... that it's a good one.

I've had the good fortune of having so many good memories that I can call my own, bestowed upon me by the people who I have had the pleasure of knowing. Some are fading and others stored away in some hard-to-access areas of my brain, but each shape the way I perceive the world. It bothers me that there are so many things I can't remember even though I know they happened (not in terms of alcohol, because that grief is more often than not self-inflicted.) It's strange because at one time it was the present. It's even more troublesome that some still hold me hostage emotionally even though I can't even get everything straight.

I have a soft spot for Hollywood because there's narrative closure at the end of every movie. I've been reminded from my experiences and those of others that this isn't how life works. I hate that French expressionists were right. All you can hold onto when the lights come on are the feelings elicited. And even that's being a little generous. You have to be able to hold onto them. I hope that the ones you held onto were the good pieces of us.

My Neverland

“I mean, they say you die twice. One time when you stop breathing and a second time, a bit later on, when somebody says your name for the last time.” - Banksy

If that little piece of pseudo-introspective bullshit bit was true, I would make it my life's goal to whisper the name of every person who has ever lived at least once. I thought about this while laying in bed a couple of weeks ago and did the math. Let's say I can say one name every two seconds. Multiply it by thirty and and then by sixty. I'd be at 3,600 names an hour. Multiply that by nine and a half hours a day because I am have the reputation of a hard worker to maintain and five days a week because we're in America and I'm not working in a sweat shop. We're at 171,000 a week. How many people have lived on this earth? God knows I will probably butcher their names considering all the languages that I'm not familiar with. Hell, I'm considered bilingual and I can't even read half of the names in those languages correctly. How many Alan Lins will I come across? I'll read it for the kid who dominates Google when you type in my name. I'll read it for all of them.

Do you remember wanting to grow up so bad? By old I mean 12, obviously, because being in your 20's meant that you're ancient. How are the 90's not ten years ago? When I was in my teens, I watched so many films. Are there better breeding grounds for drama than celluloid strips? Plot lines weaving through each frame, intertwining with each other through themes and motifs. Some end up resolved while others don't. I remember thinking, "Damn, people are fucked up. Is that how adults are?" Then I would scoff and turn the movie off as soon as the credits start. These days, I sit through the credits-- and it's not because I have suddenly found an appreciation for the production assistants or grips (even though I really should, considering I majored in Film & worked on High School productions.) These days, I stare blankly at the screen with my eyes unfocused as the credit roll because everything is so relatable. You know you're in trouble when movies speak to you just a little bit too much. When the drama becomes yours to live, you know you're in it thick.

So many aspects of adulthood were thrust upon me this year, and it's every bit as vulgar as the innuendos that you can come up with. Too many deaths, too much responsibility and transitions and rites of passages. Wait. So how deaths qualifies as "too many?" Well, I guess one is enough and more just kind of overdoes it, no? In the cultures that I've been raised on, there's no defining event that declares you a man. Especially not Taiwanese culture for that matter, which is why you have so many kids still latched on (the teet, duh.) Is that why thirteen year old Jewish boys have Bar Mitzvahs? That way if the Mom and Dad come across a shitty blog entry that their kid posted to deal with growing up, they can say "Hey, you got a Bar Mitzvah. Shut your mouth and deal with it." I think they're onto something, this four-thousand year old religion. Who would have thought?

My Grandfather

My mother's father, which I guess would make him my Grandfather, passed away on January 9th, 2012.

Honestly, I wasn't close to him in any sense of the word. In fact, I can probably count how many times I have seen or spoken to him with just one hand. I'm not very close to anyone in my either of my extended families. While I might have looked up to a cousin or two back in the days when my thumbs blistered from trying to hadoken on Street Fighter II, to me it has always been my nuclear family against the world. A "I'm sorry for your loss" or "Are you okay?" really is not in order here. There arn't any flowery adjectives or metaphors that try too hard to be humorous in my words to hide behind because there just isn't much emotion to disguise. There's only disconnection. I can't even say whether he had a good life or not-- because I don't know. There's just a looming fear of major life events taking place. Birth. marriage. Death. But where is the adventure?

On a more joyous note, my sister who is four years senior, is getting married. As delightful as this development is, somehow it just adds more anxiety to someone working a full-time job who doesn't feel (or look, for that matter) a day older than fifteen-- a man-child struggling with adulthood.

I'll never get to say goodbye to my Grandfather. With all the family values-- what should and what shouldn't be-- ingrained in our minds, the sentence sounds much more sentimental, more impactful than it really is. If he sat next to me, Nu'er-Hong (Chinese Wine) in hand, I'm not really sure what I would say. I'm sure he would sit there with a smirk, thinking about all the things that I've yet to learn and accept. The man lived to be 100. I just know that I would thank him for giving birth to my Mother.

Earlier tonight, I spoke to my Mother for the first time since I found out he passed away. This is the woman who always seems to know what I'm thinking. The woman who with a singular glare could stop any words of protest from coming out of my mouth. The woman who I inherited my exceedingly good looks from. The woman who I will lose too, some day.

It was a mere three minute conversation. Suddenly the Alan Lin who could talk someone's face off at will became the little boy who couldn't form any words. It was like trying to wake up Snorlax without a PokeFlute... No can do, baby-doll. My Mandarin became even worse than usual, and nothing came out right. All I could muster was something along the lines of "We are here for you" and "stay strong"-- all the things that no one really wants to hear. I realized that there wasn't much to say. Sometimes words (especially when you are at a loss of them) won't do the trick. This seems to be a reoccurring theme of late. I can't begin to comfort those that I care for because I'm not there.

She sounded rushed and winded. The rhythm to her voice and the way she was breathing was unsteady. I can tell that her mind is at so many places at once because it was as if she had to remind herself that she was on the phone with me. It's disheartening because she's trying to give off the impression that everything is business as usual when in fact, my presence is just another place that she had to be. I didn't realize that this was her father when I never felt like I had a grandfather. This is the man who fed and raised her to be the woman that I love.

I guess that's the funny thing about family. We're all connected by the same tendencies, traits and deficiencies in the blood flowing through our veins. We're manifestations of history. Through our breaths, maybe all those who were once loved continue to breathe. I'd like to believe in this. I really would.

阿公安息
懇請阿彌陀佛接引林火土先生到西方極樂世界