Musical Discovery: Welle: Erdball

It seems if I so choose, I can see these guys live in Berlin at K17 on Dec. 30. I think I would like to. People ask me why I'm so infatuated with Germany, and I think Welle: Erdball sum it up nicely by combining elements of nerdy electro beeps and boops (pioneers of 8-bit), EBM/synthpop vibe, and a touch of retro/steampunk for good measure. It helps that their style is fucking fabulous and they create music about computers. One more "I'm such a doofus for not acknowledging the existence of such excellence years ago" to add to the big pile.

산해경/Mungunghwa

Something big is happening in Korea now. The North has attacked the South and the world is on alert. I have no idea what's to come - how many will end up dead, how many other nations will end up getting involved, what it means for the future of the Korean Peninsula. I do know that when I read news of the attacks, my heart sank into my stomach.

I was born in Gyeongsangbuk-do in the east of South Korea. My birth certificate just lists the county so it's possible I could hail from a tiny fishing village, or from Daegu which is one of the biggest urban centers in the nation. Anything is possible, and it's the uncertainty of it that makes me a bit sad sometimes.

I'll never know who my biological parents are. I sort of envy "homemade" people who can look at their parents and know with absolute certainty that they have their mother's nose, their father's eyes, and facial bone structure just like Grandpa's. On the other hand, it's nice to know I dodged the bullets of wavy/curly hair and ahem "strong" noses that both my adoptive/real parents have. I don't have to shave my legs, my hair is effortlessly straight and manageable, and I have a symmetrical face with small features. Thank you, blood-mom and blood-dad.

I applied to donate eggs for money in college, and was turned down because of my lack of family history. While it's probably not a bad thing that I didn't go through with the egg donation, it was brought to my attention that I don't know if any of my blood relatives carried hereditary conditions or illnesses that could spring up later. I'm not bipolar or an alcoholic or diabetic and I never get sick. Despite having abused my body for years stuffing it with junk food and wasting 4 years smoking cigarettes, I am proud of my health. Thank you, blood-mom and blood-dad.

"The story" is that my birth mother couldn't take care of me and gave me up so that I would have a better life. She was 40 years old when I was born and I have a feeling she and my birth father were not married and possibly not even together as a couple. Maybe he raped her. Maybe she gave birth and thought I was ugly or something. I don't know. I'll never know. But I do have a pretty darn good life and I'm proud of her for giving me up. I got to grow up with loving parents who planned for my existence and wanted me in their lives. They raised me well and taught me that it's okay to live your entire life with split identities.

People give us shit for being white-washed as if it's our fault, something we did wrong. As if looking Asian but being raised by non-Asians is somehow criminal and inferior to a "real" Asian-American upbringing. Sometimes "real" Koreans look at us and feel pity, like we've been cheated out of our destinies. I feel humble and lowly in a room full of bilingual Korean-Americans as if I am an impostor. It's irrational and it shouldn't be, but it is. Just in my few experiences on flights and layovers in Korea or on Korean airlines, I feel nothing but idiotic talking to Koreans who could be my fucking cousins or something in English, Japanese, even German. I haven't been traveling in Korea because I am terrified of how stupid it feels to be in your birthplace and not be able to understand anyone or speak the language. It's a two hour boat ride away and I've used every excuse in the book not to make the journey. I don't think I'm ready.

A weekend getaway

A few good friends and I took a road trip to Aso-Kuji National Park in the rural mountains of Oita. Perfect clear skies, mountain and volcano views, mini-hikes, and natural hot springs. I won't be forgetting this adventure any time soon.

A Parisian life

I made an omelette for Walter for his breakfast yesterday and he was flabbergasted that I can cook. It's not unreasonable; up until just a few months ago I ate out or bought 90% of my meals from convenience stores like a Japanese bachelor.

Now that I'm cooking and packing my own lunches for work, life feels different. I don't make anything too gourmet or complicated since my love of eating is equally rivaled to my disdain for cleaning up. But coming home and seeing the fridge full of vegetables, tofu, eggs and yogurt reminds me that I am far more in control of things than I used to be. My simple concoctions are healthy and I know exactly what goes into them. I try to buy groceries from the nice little old ladies on the corner instead of at the gigantic corporate Wal-Mart clone.

Paris is a famously thin city. Factoring out heavyset tourists, it is rare to see French women bigger than a size 8 in any given street scene. It is normal to buy your groceries in smaller quantities several times a week and to walk everywhere since public transit is good. People complain that the French must be superhuman in order to eat all that bread and croissants and raclette and duck confit without getting fat. A diet book, "French Women Don't Get Fat," became an overnight sensation in obesity-ridden America. A study comparing fullness signifiers was conducted in Chicago and Paris. Chicagoans said they were full when their plates were empty or when their TV shows were done, and Parisians said they were full when their stomachs felt full.

I am working on the last bit. I still have issues with leaving food on a plate since for whatever reason I feel like "wasting food" by throwing it in the garbage is worse than putting it in my body even if I'm already full. But other than that, I think I have almost successfully achieved what some people would call a Parisian life. I walk everywhere: to work, to the train station, to the supermarket. I buy groceries for 2-3 days at a time instead of trying to load up for a whole week in one go. Produce is always fresh, never canned. I cook in single servings because I don't trust myself not to peck at leftovers once one plate is finished.

And I am sincerely worried that I won't be able to maintain this lifestyle when I move back to the U.S. in the summer.

***

The easiest thing ever...

-Spinach (any amount will do - the more the merrier)
-8-12 shiitake mushrooms
-Some sort of cheese - I use individually wrapped Camembert
-Garlic
-Soy sauce

1.) Boil the spinach and sautee the shiitake mushrooms in soy sauce in a pan.
2.) Cut spinach into sections of 2-3 inches.
3.) Cut cheese into tiny cubes.
4.) Throw it all in a bowl and sprinkle garlic on top.
5.) Eat with a fork.

Peeling back the layers

Different shoes in each shot, all brand new.

Cool!

Today was an incredibly clear day, not a drop of humidity in the air. Made for perfect visibility (as pictured) and beautifully vivid cloud formations that I forgot to photograph. This picture was snapped from my phone as I walked home.

I set a new running record for myself. Perhaps I was fueled by my unsightly peanut butter feeding frenzy when I got home from work, but whatever the cause I was able to maintain a pretty good pace for over an hour without slowing down or walking. That probably means I should be pushing harder, but damn! Only a few months ago I thought it was a physical impossibility to run for longer than five minutes at a time.

Two stylish Finns

Inspirational. Looking forward to payday. The peacock tights in the second photo are particularly great. Ganked from Hel Looks.

Epic Hike: Hikosan

japanese weekend

Really chill weekend. I went down to Kumamoto to hang out with Walter like I often do. We mostly just ate ice cream and pizza and junk food to counter our futile attempts at healthier living. We also saw a nice little lantern festival downtown. There were thousands of candles lit by Kumamoto Castle and in a park nearby, most of which containing wishes and hopes penned by school age kids. Everything from "world peace" to "more money."

Sinnocular (Walter's band) was scheduled for a regular gig on Sunday at Drum Be Nine club downtown, but the drummer got hit by a car and was unable to perform (he's okay, just a bit banged up). Impromptu unplugged show!

While Sinnocular practiced, I played dressup with the girls. In loose conjunction with the lantern festival, there was a daytime festival by the International Center and one feature was free kimono fittings! Teams of ever so patient little old ladies and eager English speaking young women dressed us and primped us just so we could take pictures of ourselves. Among the hordes of Malays and Indonesians combining kimono with hijab, this Korean-American felt a little conflicted - but mostly just vain and peacocky prancing around in the kimono equivalent of a Big Gay Rainbow.

Drag queens, you're jealous. Happy National Coming Out Day!

Too much nostalgia.

Related to the last entry about cataloguing one's life experiences using playlists and albums and songs: when is nostalgia detrimental to living in reality?

It occasionally occurs to me that everything I get excited about falls into one of only two categories: remembering something epic from the rose-coloured days of yore and getting emotional about how great it was, or anticipating some major event in the future such as major weight loss or a vacation and counting down the days. What's so unbearable about the present that daily life revolves entirely around time traveling to better times? Everyone says it's better to have goals and aspirations so that you don't stagnate entirely and flounder aimlessly through life, which I can't disagree with, but I do wonder sometimes.

I suppose these are the things you think about when you live your life on autopilot from weekend to weekend. I'd like "LIVING IN JAPAN" to become magical again, please.

Music fanaticism.

I love music. I obsess over my "currently listening to" like a teenager. I play the violin whenever inspiration beats laziness. I am going to play creative nu-metal covers at an upcoming gig. I take karaoke ever so slightly too seriously and get mad when people ruin the vibe of the song in question. I would actually commit murder to see Kraftwerk perform in a live setting. Perhaps most importantly, I may never outgrow the adolescent tactic of using songs to define moments and emotions in my life.

Everyone has different methods of cataloguing their highs, lows and middle grounds. I just happen to rely primarily on the dates on digital photos to keep accurate timelines, and on songs and bands that feature prominently in remembering.

The Horrible First Heartbreak was "Cut Here" by The Cure.

My First Scandalous Affair was "Beating Heart Baby" by Head Automatica.

The Great Pants-Peeing Psilocybin Adventure of Boxing Day 2008 was "Electric Feel" by MGMT.

Stupid Bout of Really Awful Depression in Japan was "In der Palästra" by Sopor Aeternus and the Ensemble of Shadows.

etc forever.

My mother doesn't give a rat's tail about music. While she is familiar enough with relevant songs so as to narrowly avoid the "pop culturally autistic" moniker, she has no interest in music as a form of entertainment on a daily basis. There is never, ever music playing at my parents' house. Music is just something dad does when he's driving solo. I had to find the joy in enjoying and obsessing over and loving music independently of my family, though I give them lots of credit for encouraging me to pick up violin.

On the "fandom" end of things, it all started with Limp Bizkit. Arguably the worst band ever to become even marginally popular. I fell in love with Wes Borland, but I would have let Fred Durst take me to bed if he'd asked. I obsessively read fan websites about Wes Borland - the best was "Obsessy With Wessy," hosted on Angelfire - memorized his favorite food, color, shoe size, all this stupid bullshit. I actually think I cried once or twice thinking about how frustrating it was that we might never meet and he would certainly not fall in love with me. I was just an overweight teenager with acne, had no boobs to flash at concerts like some of the other female fans did, but I loved him with all my heart and then some. With this unstoppable love came a fervent fanatic addiction to Limp Bizkit as a musical entity. I owned every album up through "Chocolate Starfish and the Hot Dog Flavored Water" (which was obviously bought the day it was released) and I memorized the chugtastic guitar riffs, lead AND backing vocals, and the ins and outs of every song. I went to the bathroom six times before the opening act came on the one time I scored arena tickets to see them (I remember the date - it was December 11, 2000). This went on for some time.

Ten years later I look back on how silly it was to be so obsessed with Limp Bizkit and feel jealous of my younger self! If I were that passionate about anything, at this age I could conquer the world.

Shrinkage

Wicked! Down from a US 10 to a US 6.