Restraining Order

Well, Yuan Yuan's parents are in town now so there's basically a restraining order against me. Yuan Yuan called me a few hours ago when her parents went to the bathroom, which was both hilarious and scary. How do we keep them going to the bathroom at the same time? If you have any ideas, by all means email me or comment.

Anyway, this might end up being a 30 day trial of the low-Yuan-Yuan diet, which is certainly something no-one's tried before...one of the very few things going for it. That is if I don't get broken up with instead, which seems to be in quite a high percentage of parallel universes at this juncture.

The rest of the world is still turning; I bought a chicken today and devoured half of it without even trying. Obviously there's a severe lack of genetic engineering going on this side of the Mississipi. I also made some pancakes for the first time in a year and a half. They turned out a little dense, and a couple didn't cook all the way through, which was pretty awesome actually. Pancake on the outside, creamy dough on the inside. Clap your hands if you believe in salmonella. You won't see any Chinese people clapping I can assure you.

New Year's is coming up, I might have to think of some good resolutions. Maybe my students will have some good ideas.

The Klemheist Knot:


image borrowed from animatedknots.com

I think after the 30 days are over I should review for a day or two.

Lies

I finally shaved today, mostly hair off of my face, but also about about 10 years worth of appearance. I am now smooth as a freshly flogged bottom, and finally less hairy. I can almost understand why Mario wants to get a Brazilian wax so badly, smooth skin is fun. Unfortunately, other people know it's fun too, and I'm starting to feel a little bit like one of those greasy goats at the petting zoo.

The sugar low is still killing me. I haven't started dreaming about chocolate yet, which means the worst is yet to come, but they sing to me from every cabinet in the kitchen, every bookshelf, every desk drawer, from under every upturned bowl. Yes, this is a very loaded house for a person in my position. My dental floss lies right next to a big jar of Jolly Ranchers that scream "Eat Me!" I almost accidentally strangled myself the last time I flossed.

Still, I lucked out. No sweets is a trifle compared to what could have been. You have to know Gene a bit to understand what I'm talking about.

Gene is a fan of drastic measures. If you say "let's take a vacation" and then pop a Honey Nut Cheerio, before you can crack it open he's already found a buyer for the house. If you suggest a half-hour meditation, you get put in the meditation stocks for three hours. When I naively released "let's not eat sugary foods for a month," just before I decided whether or not it was meant rhetorically, Gene was already pitching his own version: "That's ridiculous! Just give up sweets? That's way too hard. We're not eating at all."

Fortunately I have a mother who still has residual maternal instincts.

More polls below. Can you believe these are people's actual responses? Me neither.

If someone says/does something and you have the urge to feel offended, what do you do?

Mark: impossible situation. I'm always offended to begin with, saves me the trouble.

Ellen: impossible situation. I never leave the house and I screen my calls.

Mario: impossible situation. The urge to get offended? I've definitely never felt that...until now! How dare you accuse me of such a thing!

Gene: oof, that's a tough one. On the one hand, if I get offended, I get to skip today's movie according to the rules of the no-getting-frustrated 30-day trial. On the other hand, if I don't, I'll miss out on the 3 hour meditation to surrender the offended feeling to Buddha. Ah, never mind, impossible situation! I'm on a 30-day trial of not having any urges.

Chun: I keep on writin' that med school essay. It's not going to write itself! Although...maybe the tear stains on the paper will get me some bonus points! You think?

Pei: they will apologize. I will provide dirty looks and the silent treatment as hints.

Lucy: you ever seen Oldboy? I wouldn't do a damn thing differently.

Perry: make up sex usually solves the problem. Sometimes you need a stand-in though. Sometimes both of you do; wouldn't want to exacerbate the situation. God, people are ugly!

Igor: why would Renata say/do something like that?

Madelyn: get offended. Then buy lots and lots of shoes. Then take slow and painful revenge. First I play mind games with them until they beg for mercy, then I shoot them in the back of the head, 1984 style. HAHAHAHA!

Funny:

Mark: when do you want to go? (to the grocery store)
Gene: never
...
Gene: but in 30 minutes is fine

Coming Soon To Your Friendly Nearby Internet

I've been writing and recording music lately, trying to get enough songs together to get an album up on iTunes. Quantity has finally reached its goal, and I've been sneakily testing quality on various so-called friends and family. The reviews/reactions so far have been pretty mixed. My friends in China generally give me at least one thumb up, partly because their culture doesn't allow them to voice criticism, and partly because of the One-Person-One-Thumb policy in China.

My family is generally supportive, though they express this support in very different ways. The "generally supportive" average is reached primarily thanks to my sister, who lavishes praise with a heavy hand regardless and especially irregardless of quality. (Somewhere Perry is getting very very angry about my word usage. Lucy, do what you can for him). "Mark! You wrote that!?" she shrieks. "It's soo good! You're amazing!" My guess is that up till now she thought I was clinically retarded, because I can literally play one chord and elicit that response.

My mother, the most musically inclined of my subscribers, is eager to listen to my creations but only has time to do so on the 32nd of every month. Never fear, my supreme patience is holding stong.

Gene, who now runs out of the house if you call him "Dad," gives a two-for-one deal: reserved praise and vague criticism. "Hey! That's...pretty good...but something's missing...I don't know what," is his well-rehearsed response. He is as consistent and oblivious to quality as my sister, though in a different slice on the spectrum.

Grandma and Boris never say a single word about the quality of the music. They react, but I haven't decided how to interpret their reaction yet. Usually it goes something like this:

(a three course meal is shoved down Mark's throat to lull him into a false sense of security and a very real sense of nausea)
Grandma: sing us one of your songs! You never sing to us!
Mark: ugh...I only sing to my microphone. But you can hear my computer imitate me. Want to?
Grandma: you didn't eat anything today! Do you want some strawberries? Plums? Chocolate? Herring? Pickles? I know! Let's drink a shot together!
(If you're wondering about the exclamation points, Grandma lives at around 130 decibels)
Mark: no thanks, I only drink with Michelle.
Grandma: well at least have some bread. Nuts. Potatoes. Want me to make you a steak? Pancakes? Why aren't you playing your song to me!?
Mark: uhh...good point. (Turns song on)
Grandma (listens for 5 seconds): BORIS! GET OVER HERE, MARK'S PLAYING US HIS SONGS!
Boris (from the kitchen): meh? You say something?
(They arm themselves with megaphones and yell into each other's earpieces for the next three songs. Boris finally comes over. Mark writhes in pain on the carpet; he is congenitally incapable of habituating to sonic warfare)
Grandma: is that your song playing?
Mark: ye...e...e...s.
Grandma: Boris, listen! Don't fall asleep, you old goat!
Boris: I'm not sleeping, I'm listening!
(5 seconds pass)
(Mark quietly gets up, negotiates the two blissfully snoring geezers, packs his things and drives himself to the hospital)
(scroll down three days and repeat)

Neither Grandma nor Boris has stayed awake for the duration of a single song, which is 3.5 mins on average. Good? Bad? I don't know but I'm going to be optimistic. At their age, if they don't die of something, it's probably really really really ridiculously good.

Mario is the only one who gives constructive feedback. Unfortunately, by some crazy coincidence, he's the one person whose advice I never listen to. Can't do anything about it, the decision was made a long time ago.

Chun is busy 758 hours a week so she has no time to give feedback. My turn to be the object of her attention was coming up, but then a little thing called Daylight Savings Time stole my spot. Now she's back in her exercise wheel, dancing her way into medical school. Don't stand in her way, she has a mean left pirouette.

And finally, there was one person outside the usual circle who got a taste of this album (that's coming soon to your friendly nearby Internet). That was my aunt. Around Christmas, she demanded I send her a song. Being an obedient little nephew, I obliged...and that was the last I heard from her. I should really go check if she's OK. Hmm...nah, I'll just wait till next Christmas. If she doesn't show up, then I'll know something's wrong. Never too late to call 911.

An Argument for Contraception

Got back from the awards ceremony barely alive. It is definitely going high up on my experience blacklist, right next to the Happening. The awards ceremony is a species of revenge against parents - a hybrid of PTO meetings, school concerts, and Nazi concentration camps. Parents are herded into the bleachers of the gymnasium, shoulder to shoulder, so as to promote rapid sweat gland activation. The room is then heated to 400 degrees. Flesh eating bacteria are deployed from ceiling vats. Six-inch knives are passed out - small intestines and kidneys are removed and passed down the aisle for holding. No bathroom breaks. Then the ceremony commences.

The teachers hold all the power. Figuratively, and literally, because they're walking around with coolers on their heads and little battery-powered fans in their hands. They have a small table stacked with awards, but don't be fooled, it's the most misleading table in the world. Every plaque is really a 500-sheet ream of certificates, every certificate is perforated and turns into 50 ribbons, and every ribbon has 100 stickers on it, to be handed out individually.

The awards start out auspiciously - band, chorus, biggest nerd. You think - this can't take much longer, everyone's already gotten at least three. I was particularly deluded - my sister had the best spot due to her last name - Vayngrib. Applause was requested to be held till all names were called, and for each group, she was almost always the last one. Thus, applause invariably occurred right after her name, which I'm sure has completely corrupted her ego.

Musically talented, artistically talented, dance troupe...on and on, and they all sound reasonable, and they all sound like they're nearing the end. In the back of the gym, you can see some of the teachers playing a drinking game - whenever students from their class receive an award, they take a shot. By now you can hear them too. Most parents are still fighting - cheering and pretending to be happy to not give the teachers the satisfaction - but many have already zombified.

Then it gets ridiculous.

Biggest Jew-fro, Ugliest Girl, Student You Didn't Know We Had, Biggest Bully, Most Hopeless, School Slut, Most Awards This Year, Biggest Asskisser...The parents are losing hope, who makes these up? I can smell fear, or is that the rapidly spreading pitstain of my neighbor?

Finally...after an eternity of sadism, the teachers have had their fill. The parents of the children who received less than 20 awards are called up, and stoned in front of everyone. By this time, no one cares, and are just thankful for the extra breathing room. The bell finally rings, and everyone who's still alive exits with their heads down. A few are carried out on stretchers.