Lost In Translation

Picking my father up from SFO is a biannual Olympic event. For some reason, he likes to fly in on Fridays, and I still can't figure out why. It’s certainly not any cheaper, and the airport is always an absolute madhouse on Friday evenings. Considering that he only shows up twice a year, he might consider doing the rest of us a solid by not picking days when my mother and I have to operate a truly Olympic-gold-medal-worthy act of coordination. The event, aptly named RunSnatchCallGo, looks like this: somebody (usually ME) runs out of the car and snatches my father while my mother circles around the loop at just the right speed so that she’ll pull up to the terminal door at exactly the right moment so I can call her and frantically scream, “HE’S HERE HE’S HERE HE’S HERE WHERE ARE YOU OH MY GOD.” We then all hop in while implementing a number of group triple axels and backflips. I think we averaged 9.2/10.0 in the past. (Thanks to our many years of forced practice, I can proudly claim that the last time my mother was on the receiving end of senseless screaming from one of those people they hired from the mental asylum to run airport traffic, I was 12. Maybe.)

My mom likes to make sure that this ceremony of dealing with idiotic drivers and insane people waving their arms becomes a family affair (unless my sister is working late on Fridays, something all-too-common nowadays).

That brings us to the evening of February 12th. Since my poor sister was once again working late into the night (we’re talking 9:00pm on a Friday, a time which typically marks the 8th beer of the night for me), my mother and I picked up my father from the airport first, then headed south to pick her up from work.

Sorry about this, folks, but I need to go on yet another tangent here for background purposes.

My father is a huge film buff. The size of his VHS, LaserDisc (think big-ass DVD), and DVD collection at home is mind-boggling, made all the more impressive considering most of it is hidden in various nooks and crannies so that it just looks like we don’t have ANY movies in the house. That is one of the qualities I inadvertently picked up from my father, the whole film-lover thing. Our standards for what ought to be considered a “good film” are surprisingly close. In fact, I’ve come to notice that, for a man I’ve seen about twice a year for most of my life, I have grown up to have his personality almost exactly, including the penchant to be a physician and our senses of humor. The best part about it? I’m allowed to make dirty jokes in the house, because he has no right to disparage something I do when he does it five times more often. Apologies: the point is that my father actually knows what’s going on in the film world.

Back to the story.

We picked up my sister and instantly the whole family engaged in a gigantic bitchfest about the state of the American economy. The statements “America is no longer tops” and “immigrating to this country was a mistake” were my father’s new catchphrases. (Used to be “OH GOD why is Taiwanese baseball so crappy now?”)

After all of us got our ya-yas out, there came the inevitable awkward silence. To break that silence, my sister asked me an absolutely bizarre question:

“Have you seen Evita?”

I flashed back to my childhood. Evita. “Don’t Cry For Me, Argentina.” 1996. Madonna. Antonio Banderrrrrrras. FOURTH GRADE. My introduction to the shaky genre of musical-to-movie adaptations.

Why the hell would she ask me this now?

“Evita? Did you just ask me if I’ve ever seen Evita?”

“Um, I THINK it’s called Evita. Or maybe ‘Evinta.’ I’m not sure.”

“Let me get this straight. You’re asking me if I’ve ever seen the 1996 film adaptation of the Andrew Lloyd Webber classic musical, Evita, starring Madonna. The movie that won the Academy Award for Best Original Song that year. A movie that I know WAY too much detail about for being nine years old at the time. EVITA.” (And if you’re wondering, yes, I knew all those facts off the top of my head.)

“No! I’m talking about that new movie that everyone is talking about with all the big blue people. The one my friend invited me to watch in 3-D.”

Wait. But that sounds like she’s talking about Avatar. Last I recall, Madonna was definitely not in Avatar.

Because my father is a huge film buff, he frequently watches the big blockbusters right when they come out in theatres in Taiwan. Avatar was no exception. Good thing he was there to save the day, because Lord knows I had no idea what anybody was talking about:

“In Chinese, the transliteration for Avatar is ‘Ah-Fan-Dah.’”

So that’s where she got “Evita” or “Evinta” from.

I cracked a Coors Light as soon as we got home with the hope that the alcohol might revive the neurons I lost while trying to figure out that conversation in the car.

The John Smith Incident

This blog is mostly a chronicle of stupid and unfortunate incidents that, for whatever reason, happen to yours truly. (Sometimes I think it’s because the Great Oski in the Sky has been crying so much recently that he needs to pick on me for occasional comic relief.) Then there are stories like this – stories of a truly and uniquely Berkeleyan nature. It’s a story that I like so much and is so memorable that it deserves its own timeless moniker.

1770 gave us the Boston Massacre, the spark that ignited the volatile powder keg culminating in the American Revolution. 1982 gave us The Play, a series of events so zany and improbable that a name so simple would suffice. 2009, appropriately, gave us The Pick, one of the most exciting single plays in Big Game history. Now, I give you The John Smith Incident, admittedly an event nowhere near a tier of importance high enough to warrant uses of definite articles nor unnecessary capitalizations. False advertising? Perhaps. If you have a problem, take it up with HR.
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TheYoc, Teeks, EZ-E, BarackObinna and I went to one of the local cheap-o college student eateries in the Asian Ghetto, Thai Basil, to celebrate our men’s basketball team’s victory over that ketchup-and-mustard school in South Central L.A. There’s nothing unusual about a group of college-age friends grabbing some late-night grub. Once you add one cup of Berkeley crazies, stir in two teaspoons of irreverent and misdirected anger, broil at 400 degrees, and garnish with a sprinkling of crack, though, you’re playing in a whole new ball game.

The five of us, jolly and hungry from the excitement of the game, were sitting around the table in the restaurant, minding our own business, eating away, when somebody brought up the film Avatar. Time for a “Ugh, I HATE it when Gordo gives these snobby film snob opinions” moment:

I did not like Avatar.

There, I said it. The visuals were certainly stunning and provided for three hours decent entertainment – a hallmark of James Cameron films. The plot, however, was unoriginal and the acting shoddy at best – the other major hallmark of James Cameron films. As far as I’m concerned, a pretty face does not a good mother make. The plot devices were serviceable, but I was pretty bored by the one-hour mark. Also: sorry, Sigourney, you know I love ya, but even your star power couldn’t overcome one of the absolute most poorly attempted American accents in the history of film. (Apparently, Jake Sully is a cross between a paraplegic American soldier and a half-Australian, half-British man with a speech impediment.) Honestly, if you’ve seen Dances With Wolves or Disney’s Pocahontas, you’ve seen Avatar. Still don’t believe me? Boom.

During the heated discussion between EZ-E and myself regarding the quality of Avatar and why Zoe Saldana is still smoking hot whether she plays a hot college cheerleader, a hot intergalactic linguist, or a hot big blue cat-Smurf-thing, I brought up the parallel between characters of Pocahontas and Avatar. While I was emphatically comparing Jake Sully to John Smith, characters so similar that Cameron did not even bother to change their first initials, a bystander chimed in:

Guy: “Y’all talkin’ ‘bout John Smith?”
Us: “Ummm…yeah?”
Guy: “Yeah, that guy needs to DIE.”

The five of us sat there, dumbfounded, while this guy went on and on about how John Smith was basically evil incarnate, raped or murdered or otherwise destroyed all of this guy’s Native American ancestors, and led the movement for the modern social imprisonment of all American minorities today.

To be fair, this guy had a few valid points – the Europeans were no saviors to the Native Americans by any means, and the forced removal of Native Americans from their homeland is still a major stain upon this nation’s history. The beautiful First Thanksgiving that we all learn about in grade school was a rare face of mutualism. BarackObinna even spoke up in support of this guy’s opinions.

At this point, I was thinking, Okay, this guy’s just opinionated about social issues. We’re in Berkeley – probably shouldn’t expect any less. He’s right in some respects, but I hope he stops talking soon - I really want to finish my meal in peace.

Then things got WEIRD.

He started talking about how any minority in America who owns and operates a corner grocery store or a laundromat is stuck in that unfortunate predicament because of John Smith and every negative racially-linked social issue in the United States is John Smith’s fault. Of course, in between each sentence, he always encouraged John Smith to go die. At one point, I quietly suggested that John Smith is, in fact, already dead and therefore cannot die again. He suggested that I go look up my genealogy and that I should be angrier at the Europeans who raped my ancestors and ruined my potential future. Apparently, no thanks to the entire continent of Europe, I am destined to be a poor owner and operator of a shady store-laundromat hybrid with an income ceiling of $25,000 per year.

I honestly wasn’t offended by anything he was saying, because I knew he was either delirious or just full of crap. However, I was really hungry and his incessant rambling was keeping me from my delicious, rapidly cooling Pad Thai. So I called him out on it. He told me to go fuck myself.

BarackObinna, the glorious future lawyer, stepped in and talked some sense into the situation. He told the crazy man to go research his own genealogy  more closely. Crazy Man retorted with a “fuck you, you KNOW you have some Native American blood in you” and left us with what I guess was an American Indian tribal middle finger greeting.

We sat there, speechless. The looks we all exchanged said but one thing: WHAT ON EARTH JUST HAPPENED?

EZ-E broke the silence in as perfect a 1980s sitcom way as possible: “BUT WE WERE ONLY TALKING ABOUT AVATAR.”

BarackObinna made a suggestion that we all decided was the best way to settle this: “He’s probably on crack. There’s no other explanation.”

Consensus made, we happily went on with our meal and laughed off the whole thing.

Yeah, this story really isn’t that good. But if you want to see societal problems in America, once again, let Berkeley be your guide:

I guess “Brita” is a nickname I’m never going to have

I’m back. Don’t ask me where I’ve been or how it went, and I won’t ask you about those Facebook pictures you took with those two dudes and that horse in that barn on New Year’s Eve – pictures I’m sure your boss would love to see. Fair? Deal.

Just like last year, I have made no new year resolutions. I can’t keep them, and I’m not going to lie to myself year after year. It seems to me that the only thing new year resolutions do is make the gym impossibly crowded for the first few weeks of January, no thanks to all the folks who say to themselves, “I SWEAR I’m going to lose these 50 pounds this time” or “Why did mom have to put so much damn butter in the stuffing?”

We all caught up now with the mushy stuff? Good. On with the show.
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I’ve done a smattering of publicly embarrassing (a redundancy, I suppose) things through my adult life up to this point. Ask any of the Cal Band alumni in my time, and probably the first story they will tell you is the Middle School Boys’ Basketball Incident at a Cal basketball game during my first year in college. (If you really want to know, I’ll write it later. Just take my word for it that it’s a strong enough story with enough cheap thrills and shocking laughs to have tainted my good reputation for the past five years and likely for the rest of my unfortunate life.) There was, of course, the Tucker Max At Work Incident from last year. This incident is the first one of the new year, and if destiny has ever meant anything, this event will set the tone for the rest of the year.

This is a story about my first eviction notice, blame placed entirely upon my filter-lacking brain-to-mouth neural connections. My co-worker, AsianShaq, has described me as him, but drunk, meaning that when he loses all inhibition and says whatever he wants to without consideration of consequence, that’s just me ALL THE TIME. You know how Robin Williams can’t ever seem to “turn it off” because apparently he broke his “Funny” dial years ago? My “Inappropriate” switch is similarly broken. I’m guessing both he and I were brought to our mommas by storks from Acer Computers, because our warranties sure didn’t last very long.

As college rivalries go, Cal-Stanford is relatively tame. Yet every time any sports event poster branded with “CAL VS. STANFORD IN THE BIG [insert creative synecdoche],” you see the inner blue-and-gold flames flare up as Cal fans young and old show up to support their teams, no matter how obscure the sport or how bad the teams. I mean, how good can West Coast college hockey teams be?

Being a big money sport, the twice-yearly Cal-Stanford men’s basketball game always draws a full house. Being a Cal Band alumnus, we like to use our former powers and get into basketball games for free wielding nothing more than our trusty instruments, oddly decorated straw hats, and our annoyingly loud vests. And here…we…go:

Vegas had us favored at something like 13.5 points, and thank the Great Oski in the Sky that it turned out that way. In the final two minutes of the game, we were up by around 15 points when the referees started calling really bizarre phantom foul calls. Immediately I thought that they were pulling a Tim Donaghy, trying to throw the game in favor of the spread. (I guess since being a college sports referee is a part-time gig, they need all the extra pocket change they can get their grubby, incompetent little hands on. Yeah, I’m looking at you, Pac-10.)

Those of you who know me well know that I sometimes have difficulty controlling my emotions in the heat of the moment; consequently, the phrases that fly out of my mouth could be rated anything from a gentle PG to a blasphemous R. Let me tell you, those inexplicable foul calls elevated me from a nice “awesome, we’re going to win this game easily” Disney movie mood to a “2.23 uses per minute of the word ‘fuck’” mood a la the 1995 classic Casino. My brain had no filter of any sort, not even a sieve or a collander. It was a just a straight cannon.

I can also tell you that there is a difference between the entire arena booing loudly and a single loud, poignant opinion in the silence of dead air. Instead of choosing to yell profanities under the cover of ubiquitous noise, I accidentally called the ref a “stupid bald motherfucker” as soon as the arena noise died down. It wasn’t my fault, mind you. Who knew dissenting noise could die down so quickly?

No sooner had the words left my lips did a Haas Pavilion official take a quick skip and hop up to where I was standing and told me to go with him. We strode to the lobby of the pavilion. It was actually a really calm, amicable conversation:

“Am I being kicked out of the game?”

“Yes, you are. I need you to leave the premises. Come on, man, there are kids here. You have to come up with insults more creative than that.”

“Fair enough.”

He kindly showed me the door.

I think he only got pissed at me because he was bald too.