My First Anniversary

Well now. One whole year. Does June 22nd ring a bell?

That’s the day I boarded a plane bound for the US. Left Kuching, home, family (everyone’s family by now), food, the rain and the humidity, the beaches and the jungles, the chocolate skin and the straight black hair (cause that’s all there is), the laksa and the kolo mee and the tandoori and the teh and the kueh and . . . all that jazz.

 

Dallas was alright. Ups, downs, in fact the greatest extremes I’ve probably ever experienced.

School was waaaaay better than I expected. Almost creamy smooth–comfortable routines, not excessively difficult homework, A-OK teachers. No speech codes! Free weight room. I’m proud to say I successfully avoided the vending machines. Seriously, they oughta be sued for credit card fraud. You buy one drink, they suck you dry.

Weight training teacher was a great intro to Mountain View, um, academics. Fellow by the name of Battles. Bald and round, thick Texas accent. Wannabe Michael Jackson. He’s got the best workout mixtape ever. Or worst, depending on how many times you repeat the class and how much you like Michael Jackson.

Speech teacher was on speed.

Photography teacher was entertaining to talk to, but then that’s about all we did all year. But then again, it was more enlightening (and fun) than actual work would probably have been. There was usually cookies, sometimes films, always conversation. Cool magazines, laptops all over the place, cameras always in hand. Yeah.

Physics teacher was from Iran. 2/3 scale lady with waves of silver hair. Dreadfully serious. Illustrated her atoms with smiley faces for protons (positive, you see), sad faces for electrons, and meh faces for neutrons. Had some strange classmates, namely Gene Chapman. When the prof walked in one morning with bed hair, Gene’s first question was “You smokin pot?” He also tried to recruit me as a founding member of his new venture AMTVN: the Anti-Marxist Television Network, or some such. Wanted me to direct the technical side of things, or at least help him upload the programs to Youtube. Also thought I had bad hair and offered me twenty bucks to get it cut.

 

It wouldn’t be right to neglect a shoutout to Mr. Timn. Duitsman, that is. You sir, are a lifesaver. The summer of 2010 was epic. Soccer at dawn, class in the morning, lawn mowing in the afternoon, running in the evening, pool at night. Kicked off our shoes after we finished our 5k loop every other evening and dived into the pool for an hour and talked about nothin. Real good times.

Anyhow, it’s time to quit and hit the sack; there ain’t no way I can cram an entire year into one post. All I know is, God is wise and people are lousy, but you need them both, even if all you get is a crappy mess.

 

Here’s to a new year. Live long and prosper.

Take Me Out

So, the Rangers have won the ALCS. Hello, World Series!

It’s been a wild ride so far, especially behind the scenes. A couple weeks ago Tim and I joined the Deals (the Bible Club people) to man concessions stands at Ranger Stadium; they had worked a number of games already, but we jumped in at an especially good time: the first game we worked was the first game of the ALCS playoffs, and our most recent game was the clincher that sent the Rangers to the World Series. It’s been crazy awesome to be a part of it, to help make it happen (if so feebly). What’s also awesome was that God planned it all; no one else could have, least of all me. Lately he’s arranged for me some fantastic experiences, particularly this one, and it shows at every little twist and turn.

See, I like to fantasize about the future: what could happen if I got some opportunity, if I could achieve this, if I could have that. But nothing in my wildest dreams comes close to the amazingness of the adventures God has planned for me, some of which are unfolding right now. I could never have imagined getting to work at the World Series under these present circumstances; I could hardly have planned it. I had no part in lining up this opportunity or anything that has happened because of it, and it has been all the more fun for it.

If my life had panned out according to my dreams and desires, it wouldn’t be nearly as much fun as God’s way has been.

Anyway, the last game was a blast. For a normal evening game, we arrive at the ball park at 3:00 sharp, but we don’t leave until 12:30 am or so (and we ain’t even the last ones there). Still, working till we’re limp noodles has never been so much fun; we so totally feel the part of the teenagers working summers at the ballpark.

The stall we work sells Cracker Jacks (of course), peanuts, ice cream sandwiches, bottled water, lemon chills, and plain ole’ ice cream. For the most part Tim and I work the ice cream: in the middle of the game we’ll get a made rush for the ice cream, and we’ll be scooping it for an hour or two until our forearms are cached in it and our wrists are on fire. Darn that vanilla. I swear they mix concrete into it. Forget turning off the freezer, we need a furnace.

In the middle of the last game, I and one of the other church members helping out (he goes by Gilly and is the spitting image of Brian King of Kuching) were drafted to work in the kitchen of one of the restaurants serving nachos, burgers, drinks, and dogs. For an hour or two we worked at assembling hotdogs and hamburgers; we probably processed 10,000 of em. At one point in the game, when we were trapped in that stuffy kitchen, there was a run on dogs, burgers, and nachos; we were pumping like made for an hour, trying to satiate the ravenous appetites of all 60,000 fans in the stands. At least it felt like it. The best part of working in the kitchen was our direct access to the soda fountain. Even if we didn’t get paid, at least we got free drinks.

The weird part of handling concessions is everything is prepackaged – some of it precooked. Every 5 min someone will yell for another case of hotdogs or chicken tenders or lemon chills or nacho chips or burger buns. The way that stuff is mass produced, you’d think every burger would be cheaper than dirt (they sell for $5 – *gulp*).

All the low-class workers (like us) wear blue, and the supervisors wear red. One red-shirt lady overseas the floor our stand is on. She’s a testy one, believe you me. At the end of the game she caught some blue shirt eating something out of the garbage, and we could hear her yelling at him “Spit it out! Spit it out!” Our style is, at the end of the game when everyone is cleaning up, to fish the nearly empty ice cream containers out of the garbage and scoop out as much goodness as we can salvage. We also like to roam around the other stalls and see what delectable morsels haven’t been sold and are destined for the dumpster (or, us).

At the end of that last night the Rangers finally won, and it boy was it spectacular. Smoke, red and blue confetti, the deafening roar of the crowd in the sold-out stadium, and the light from 50,000 camera phones lighting up the night. It’s funny to think that 100 years ago you were lucky to record the final moments of a game on one B&W, hand-cranked, silent-movie camera (if that); now we have Youtube, which will soon be inundated with HD video of the game from every third person in the stands.

Before we packed up, Tim and I managed to snag some sweet swag: red pompons (they make good ponytails); stylish beer bottles (aiyo, empty wan!), and lots of pictures. And how about some stories? We’ll be sure to make some this Saturday. The Rangers are going to the World Series, and by golly we’ll be there!

Big Brother’s World

George Orwell, 1984.

According to the Party, “Reality is not external. Reality exists in the human mind and nowhere else . . . whatever the Party holds to be truth is truth.”

Orwell points out, “If this is so, then by controlling men’s minds the Party controls truth.”

Fallacious, if anything. Such a viewpoint rejects absolute truth, of which there is plenty. Simply because someone claims a thing did not happen does not mean it did not happen; they only deceive themselves. Obviously, the Party believes men to be the top of the global food chain, which is true. But they have forgotten the universe. No propaganda the Party can produce can alter the course of a meteor bound for earth. No propaganda can alter the composition of the earth’s crust. No propaganda can wipe out the instincts of man; the Party can purge them from a man’s mind, as can be seen from the example of Winston Smith, but it cannot completely erase them. It can destroy the minds of every person on the planet, but it will have to operate afresh on every newborn. Every new person will have the same basic human nature, whether the Party approves or not. The Party did not create man, nor did it create the universe. It is not all powerful, as much as it would like to think so. He who created the men composing the Party is all powerful, and he controls truth. Ignoring him and erasing every memory of him from the earth will not erase him. Should the Party attempt it, I do not think he would be very happy. Too, I do not think the Party would last long. It should remember the story of the Tower of Babel. If it hasn’t already rewritten it.

The Garage

Culture Shock is cool, except when it’s more shocking than cool.

While working in the garage the other day, I noticed the garage. I mean: the American garage, and all that that implies. What Malaysians consider a garage is more of a carport: a place to hold your car and your Southeast Asian swiftlets (and all that that implies) and not much else. A few potted plants maybe, or a shoe almari, but that’s about it.

On the other hand, an average American garage contains hundreds of odds and ends . . .

Yard care equipment: lawnmowers, weed whackers, bush trimmers, shears of and clippers of all sizes, etc.

Home improvement equipment: paint cans, drills, pneumatic nail guns, hand saws, table saws, sledgehammers, rakes and brooms, innumerable spray cans and bottles, etc.

Household junk that requires carbon dating.

Usually a collection of bicycles, the occasional go-cart, possibly an extra freezer or two for all the deer you shot last fall, maybe an old car.

You get the picture.

I suppose there is an explanation or two for such cultural oddities and disparities, but any cultural element is connected to and dependent on any number of other elements; thus the inexplicable insanity of the world as we know it. The United States is certainly insane (well, comparatively). Here are some of the insanities:

The roads: most of the streets feel like runways. Every lane could probably hold two of the Malaysian size completely within itself (at least 1.5). They are also flat: humming along the freeway at 75 mph from Albuquerque to Dallas rarely stimulated more than a creak or quiver from the van–contrast that with the corduroy alleys zigzagging through Kuching. On the freeway I can read a book in peace and quite, something I could certainly never do back home.

The cars: they are big, and they are solid. Rock solid: see the above description of the roads. Half of their silky smoothness stems from the build quality of the automobiles that traverse them. Slam a door and enjoy the satisfying clunk. Close all the doors, hit the gas, and try your best to hear the sound of the wind or asphalt.

The houses: the best feature of the American home that every Asian home desperately needs is the fan in the bathroom. Most private bathrooms here in the US feature a small fan installed in a duct in the ceiling that simultaneously provides white noise and ventilation (you know what those are for). It’s amazing, that’s all I can say.

The food: EXPENSIVE. Have only eaten out once in the last month. GIVE ME LAKSA.

The stores: you can never find thrift stores in Malaysia, for easily apparent reasons. American affluence allows foolish people to throw/give away or sell still-useful items. Went to the used bookstore and found all kinds of awesome music and books for dirt cheap. Went to a thrift store and found a KJ-52 cd for $1.50. Why not? Went to a certain grocery (my now-favorite store in Dallas.) that sells surplus food the larger grocery stores can’t handle or don’t want: they have more stuff than any Western supermarket in Malaysia and almost everything is half-off the normal price–the American price, not the Malaysian. Also, food is cheap in the normal stores. At Walmart I can buy me six Snapples for five bucks (or, RM15). In Malaysia it would cost me RM12 for one. Crazy.

Anyway, I’m rambling. Suffice it to say, the differences in standards and conventions of living between the US and Malaysia have to seen to be believed, and not all of them are good. More later.

Bye-bye, I’m going to eat some Americana.

In Rainbows

Colors - by Whitni Thomas, MK (1991)

I grew up in a Yellow country
But my parents are Blue.
I’m Blue.
Or at least, that is what they told me.
But I play with the Yellows.
I went to school with the Yellows.
I spoke the Yellow language.
I even dressed and appeared to be Yellow.
Then I moved to the Blue land.
Now I go to school with the Blues.
I speak the Blue language.
I even dress and look Blue.
But deep down, inside me, something’s Yellow.
I love the Blue country.
But my ways are tinted with Yellow.
When I am in the Blue land,
I want to be Yellow.
When I am in the Yellow land,
I want to be Blue.
Why can’t I be both?
A place where I can be me.
A place where I can be green.
I just want to be green.

I love being green. Especially, being no one shade of green. In blue land I’m a sort of deep sea green; in yellow land I’m more of a bright grass green. I may have a base of blue, but I love the yellows just as much as the blues. I do love the blue culture; I love to drink it in, to savor each element unknown in the land of yellow. Incidentally that is what everyone expects: they know I’m blue and they expect me to remain blue; blue land is my home, right? Ah, but I’m green. I began blue, but I have been marked permanently by the yellows, and so many transitions between blue and yellow has left me in between. Thus I am no longer only blue and not completely yellow. I cannot afford to call any one place on earth “home;” I have no deep roots. Instead I take my home with me wherever I go. Now I have too many roots. No, I cannot have too many roots. Too many friends, too many connections, too many homes? Not possible. It would be nice to have a Friend, or a group of Friends, or maybe several unrelated Friends in different places; Friends like Danny Saunders and Reuven Malther. Friends who understand what it means to be Green and are cool with it. I do have One Friend like that, but . . . huh, are there any buts?