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Reality check
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Sep 16, 2008 9:12 am
3470 Views
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I just have to tell this story.
People tell me I look young for my age. I must say that I agree with them. Once in a while, I look in the mirror with completely objectified mindset, and I do see that I do not look like a 47 year old man. This is crazy but last year, I was in Korea having a typical barbecue and soju dinner with a bunch of lawyers (man, lawyers drink like fish), and one of the junior guys was asked by my friend to guess my age. The junior lawyer (perhaps he had a little too much soju) believed that I was about his age but that perhaps I was a little younger than him. So I asked him, “How old are you?”. “27” came the reply.
A few months ago, when my daughter was a college student at UCLA, she asked me if I wanted to go to this breakfast café in West Hollywood with her. The pancakes there are ridiculously good ‒ one of the defining moments of my culinary experience ‒ the place is called Griddle Café. You must visit before you die.
My wife was out of town, so the two of us drove over there for a nice father-daughter bonding brunch on a rainy Saturday morning. We were feeling relaxed and enjoying each other’s company and talking about this and that. We arrive, find parking, which is not easy and walk up to the place. Outside, there is a crowd of people waiting to be seated. This place is known as a celebrity hang-out, also a place replete with wannabe actors and screenwriters who are waiters.
My daughter saunters up to the counter, and this is how the conversation went.
Head Waiter: How many?
Daughter: Two, please.
Head Waiter: Oh, you and your friend?
Daughter: Who, you mean him? No. He’s my dad.
Head Waiter: (looks at me, does a double-take and triple-take ‒ walks up to me, thrusts his hand out, and pumps my hand vigorously)Congratulations, sir! I can’t believe it. You are her father!? Hey, Bill, (pointing to another waiter) can you believe this!? He’s her dad. (Turns to me) I can’t believe how young you look. What’s your secret?
Me: Haha. Okay. Thanks.
By this time, I notice that the noise level of this raucous Saturday morning crowd had died down significantly. It felt as if they were wondering who this celebrity is? Why is the waiter shaking this man’s hand so vigorously? He must be somebody. Who is he? I can hear some of the whispers. I am feeling very self-conscious and embarassed now. We step outside to wait our turn and wade into the crowd who have no idea what just occurred inside. For one brief moment, I was afraid the paparazzi would be after me.
Later, on the drive home, I turned to my daughter, “Can you believe all that commotion? I must be really young-looking.”
The reality check daughter’s reply, “No, dad. It’s not about you. It’s more a reflection of the fact that I am looking older.” I suppose everything is relative.
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Sophomore year
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Sep 10, 2008 6:09 pm
2597 Views
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By our standards, he had made it through 9th grade. We talked about how he wasn’t going to be lonely again. He had made it through his freshman year in school, and that he had gotten used to the system. He felt more assured about himself, but at the same time, very respectful of the achievements and abilities of his peers at school.
When our son Isaac left our home for boarding school last year in August, my wife and I were beside ourselves with worry and sadness. We did not know what to do with all the time we had on our hands. No more rides to tennis, hag-won, or anything else. No more shopping for him. No more driving to and picking him up. We merely talked to him on the phone and had offered up support and encouragement. This is all we could do for him from so far away.
But soon, we got used to him not being around. We became accustomed to the freedom that comes with being an empty nester.
His schedule was packed when he came home for the summer. His mother saw to that. Golf lessons, tennis lessons, hag-won, SAT lessons. The boy was busier than ever, and the rides and scheduling as efficient as a military operation. Although we loved this boy to death, it was a chore.
The summer was now over, and it was now time to head back to campus. We enjoyed having him here. We could see that he had grown physically, mentally and emotionally during this one year. And we could see the outline of a man that he will be and we are proud of him.
Last week, we flew to New Jersey. We unpacked his things. Dragged up his stored items from the basement of his dorm, worked up a sweat in the New Jersey humidity, met his roommate ‒ a Taiwanese boy, remarkably similar in physique to Isaac, tall, lanky and a little goofy, Isaac’s best friend.
Convocation was on Sunday. We waited outside in the courtyard, as we saw the stream of students dressed in their formal attire moving toward the chapel. We saw a line-up of faculty as they slowly marched into the chapel from the side. A couple of straggler students ran into the chapel ahead of them. From afar we could see the ushers manning the doors waiting for them all to enter. Soon, we heard a sudden wild roar from the students inside, and the ushers deliberately and slowly closed the door behind them.
My eyes reddened at the sight of those heavy white doors to the chapel closing, as this event truly signaled the beginning of our son’s sophomore year, safely ensconced once again into this privileged but difficult school. And we had to let go of our son for another year, into the guiding hands of this school in which we have placed so much trust, knowingly or unknowingly. Could we have done it better? I asked.
After the convocation, we meet up with Isaac and said our good-byes and hugged. It was not sad at all. After all, we had been through this once before. As we left the campus, my wife and I gave each other a high-five. We were happy for him. We knew he will grow. We had faith that all will be well.
Late at night, on this same day, we received our nightly call from Isaac. “Dad, I never thought I would say this but . . . I am kinda lonely.”
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25th Anniversary
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Sep 2, 2008 12:29 am
2887 Views
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August 12th was our 25th wedding anniversary. For months, we wracked our brains trying to figure out how to celebrate it.
Should we have a big party?
Should we simply have a dinner - just the two of us at our cozy little hideaway Italian restaurant?
Should we go away for a few days to wine country perhaps?
Should we have a small gathering at our home just our immediate family with catered food, with my father Rev. Kim presiding over a special worship service for us?
Thoughts kept milling and twisting in our heads, and then I got too busy with work, so she settled for a dozen roses, a Hallmark card with heartfelt condolences from me, and an evening of intimate sushi.
We then scheduled an afternoon of outdoor photography with our favorite photographer who took us and our kids to Pasadena, Walt Disney Concert Hall, where he and his assistant let loose roll after roll of shoots. A family photo album should be coming and it will be an everlasting reminder of how we all looked at our 25th. It would be especially meaningful on our 50th I believe.
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A little bit more
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Sep 1, 2008 11:02 am
2629 Views
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It has been a year since my last post. I started on that cross country trip with my son, and I never finished . . . at least not in the blogs. We traversed Arizona (Sedona), New Mexico (Santa Fe (reminded me of a luxury shopping mall - is this all there is?), Taos (a beauteous place), Texas (speeding ticket in Amarillo, the chimney stack of Texas), Oklahoma (Oklahoma City - the Murrah Building memorial - very moving, very well done must see memorial), Arkansas (Little Rock - amazing that a president of the most powerful nation in the world could come from a hole in the wall place as this), Alabama (Birmingham - civil rights, not just for blacks I realized, but because of their heroism, I enjoy my freedom today - I was moved to tears and I resolved to lay a wreath on Martin Luther King’s grave one day as I walked the Freedom trail in the dowtown park famous site of the firehouse and police K-9 brutality ‒ the desire for freedom cannot be sqashed), Tenessee (Memphis - The Firm, my wife and I retraced the steps of Mitch McDeere - secret rendezvous along the Memphis river), Mississippi (Tupelo - Elvis, Elvis, and oh, did I mention this is the birthplace of Elvis?), Georgia (Savannah - wonderful coffee in the drizzle of the morning, a beautiful few blocks of historic worth and total decimation surrounding those precious few tourist blocks), Hilton Head (relaxation - I wanna go back), Jamestown (history lives), New York (reunited with my sister and her husband - so good to see them again. New Yorkers walk everywhere - took a harbor cruise around Manhattan. Neat. Passersby were commenting to my sister how beautiful she is. I don't get it. I tease her about it.
It is registration day at his boarding school. We unloaded his life possessions however that a 14 year old boy could come to own, in his cramped dorm. We met his roommate's parents, nice people, exchanged phone numbers for moral support.
He is confused . . . this is all too new to him.
He digs into the boxes and first pulls out our family portrait and other framed photos of his sisters and places them gingerly on his desk. I teared up momentarily. I needed to hold back. I could not break down now. I'd be a fool.
My wife rebukes him and tells him - you are here to study and focus, don't be looking at these pictures all day.
We did the best within our power to make the room as comfortable for him as possible. And now it was time for good-byes.
We shuffled out of his room, and he followed us. We hugged. He was brave. We drove all the way across this great nation to attempt to give him the opportunity at the best form of education ever created for man. He wanted it so badly.
Now as we drive off I see a solitary figure in my rear view mirror waving to us . . . a brave boy.
I turned the corner, parked, hunched over the steering wheel and wept like I never had before . . .
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Cross Country Diary 8-28-07
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Aug 28, 2007 11:15 pm
4264 Views
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We were supposed to take off early Tuesday morning, but alas, true to form, it was 11 am before we could leave. Last night, I was to help my son pack for this long trip, but I came home a little late, and my wife was pissed. She was pissed all the way through this morning because I was still not done with last minute work related things. It is a miracle for me to get away. It is always a production preparing for a trip like this. Why couldn‘t I have finished all this yesterday? She was now sarcastic, “Why don’t we leave tomorrow morning so that you can get all of your work done?” Thanks, but I don’t need any sarcasm please. Not now.
Last night, after helping Isaac with his packing, I went to his room, sat at his desk, and a wave of emotion swept over me. I teared up. He was leaving. We were letting him go. What happens if he fails Chemistry? How am I going to help him? Is he going to meet the right set of friends without us being there? Are we releasing him too early into this rough tough world? I was going to miss this kid. Lately, he has matured so much that he was becoming my friend. And now, I was sending my friend away. I wanted to do something special for him, but I couldn’t think of any.
This morning, we packed the rented mini-van. Tennis racquets, golf clubs, clothes, a cello, food were loaded ‒ we were ready. Grandma and grandpa came over. They all hugged him and cried. My wife cried. I tried not to cry, but cried privately. He took videos of his old room and the house, and he did not come out of the house for awhile. I think he cried in there. We waited for him.
I prayed ‒ “Lord, bless Isaac as he heads to school. May you guide him in everything he does. May you fill him with your Spirit so that he will have the strength and wisdom to fully take advantage of this education that he is about to receive so that he can be a great man and a man of great influence. . .” Yada yada yada.
We get on I-210 E and head for Barstow, we grab a hamburger, and head on to 40E, and we cruise the highway at 80 miles per hour. My wife drives while I am on the phone for about an hour with a client trying to sort through a problem. Someday, I would love to disappear for a month and just be missing so that nobody could find me. It is 3 pm and we land at Needles, CA, last city before crossing into Arizona. It was a scorching day. You could no doubt fry an egg on the sidewalk - easily over 100 degrees, but for some reason, I have a craving for hot coffee. We stop at a McDonalds, and I order coffee, and she asks me, “hot coffee?” I answer, “Yes. To go please. Need it to warm me up.”
6:30 pm, we arrive in Sedona. Magnificently scandalous red rocks. What a beautiful place. Carol greets us in a parking lot of a nameless mall. She wanted to know if she could help, seeing that we were holding up a map of Sedona trying to figure out what to do and where to go. Pretty soon, we were talking about her college at Boston University, living in New York, housing market out here ‒ did you know it is buyer’s market these days? You could score big if your credit rating is high enough ‒ between 750 and 800. Told us we will never make it to Albuquerque tonight. Take a motel in Flagstaff. She was a realtor. We had inadvertently parked in front of a real estate office. For dinner, we ended up going to an organic grocery store, bought a sandwich and salad, and ate in the car. It was pretty good ‒ and cheap. Kind of reminded me of my younger days, when this was the norm because we couldn’t afford to eat at a restaurant. Very much enjoyed our dinner in Sedona.
We followed Carol’s dictates. So here we are. 9:30 pm, we are checked into the luxurious Travelodge with a triple A discount in Flagstaff. Actually, of all the economy type motels, my experience has been the Travelodge is pretty solid and dependable. So I am happy and I have free wireless internet connection. But alas, my wife was pissed off at me because I accused her of asking too many questions without digesting the answers to her previous questions. She didn’t like that. I am in the dog house now. This is not how I wanted things to go. Before we left, we had promised to each other that we would not fight. But I guess promises are meant to be broken. Things will be alright tomorrow. We will forget everything. We always manage to patch up. I felt sorry for my son though that he had to see his parents bicker. Why must there be so much cruelty in the world? Can’t there be lasting harmony?
Tomorrow ‒ Santa Fe. Looking forward to it.
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The cattle kennel
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Aug 24, 2007 12:02 pm
4612 Views
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My son came back from Korea last week after a month. As of today, we now have only few more days to spend with him before he packs off to boarding school. He is such a lovely kid. He arrived last Saturday. My wife, number one daughter and I went to LAX to pick him up. We waited nearly an hour and a half for him to come out of the cattle kennel that is known as the international arrival section.
I thought it interesting that at least 3 minutes of Andy Warhol’s 15 minutes of fame are realized as one passes through customs upon arrival, gathers the bags and pushes through the heavy doors into the airport concourse where you are greeted by the throngs of masses waiting in eager anticipation crowding around the exit doors ‒ but none came for you because you will be taking a taxi home. This is an awkward moment. All eyes are glued to you as they hope that their loved one appear through that door next. I think we all experience this when we arrive at Incheon airport or LAX when you step into the spotlight only to disappoint somebody for not being her husband, friend, or son whom they came to pick up.
It is also amusing to see the expressions of the people who emerge from those heavy doors. 95% of Koreans are skinny (some even anorexic) and 65% of Caucasians are overweight. Some walk fast, like I would. There are people with a truckload of bags, and others with just a brief case. Some actually have a suit on. Others look like they are sleepwalking. Some laugh and look easy-going, and others are clearly uncomfortable with so many eyes transfixed on them ‒ like deer in front of headlights.
My son, tall and scrawny, walks out. I spot him. I call out his name. He turns to me and waves and self-consciously puts his head down and continues to walk to our family. We ask him, what do you want to eat? My wife was wanting to take him to a Korean barbecue place to beef him up. Instead, he wanted Thai. Over dinner, he talked about his trip to Korea, spending time with uncle and cousins, and he mentioned how he couldn’t get any sleep on the plane. I asked him why? He has long legs, and he was sitting on an aisle seat, and the Korean lady sitting next to him asked him if he would exchange his seat with her son who is several rows behind her. Without thinking, he agreed, and it turned out that her son was sitting in a middle seat. I got very upset. How could this Korean woman do this to my son? And I gave my son a tongue lashing. You should not have given up your seat. The Korean lady should have asked a flight attendant for assistance. Aisle seats are coveted. Nobody wants to sit in the middle. How could this woman have the gall to even ask - to take advantage of this good-natured kid and take away his aisle seat to give to her son? She should have known better, and she should have asked a flight attendant to arrange something so that my son would end up sitting in an aisle seat. I told my son that he should have thought about it before agreeing. I did not know if I was more upset at the woman for asking or my son for agreeing. My son got upset at this sudden outburst towards the end of a rather quiet dinner. He thought he was just being a good person by giving up his seat. But I told him that you must look out for yourself first, and know what you are getting into. Giving up your seat to an elderly person on a bus is one thing, but being taken advantage of by a Korean woman to give up a comfortable seat for the duration of a 13 hour flight is a completely different thing. Perhaps I overreacted, but my brother was like that. He was always very nice to people, and people took advantage of him, and as a result, I sometimes overcompensate.
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Road Trip
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Aug 20, 2007 2:21 pm
4198 Views
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In exactly one week, the 27th, my wife, my son and I will be embarking on a cross-country road trip. It will be fun, I think . I have never driven cross country before. I went to AAA today and got a Triptik. The mini-van has been rented, return airline tickets booked, and we are all set. We will likely take Route 40, with a stop in New Mexico, but also take a side trip to New Orleans, but people are recommending against it. We will also likely spend a couple days at Myrtle Beach in South Carolina, and then on to New York. Drop off my son in New Jersey, and fly back. Whew! Makes me exhausted just describing it. And this is supposed to be our vacation for the year. I think I am going to need a vacation from the vacation. Any suggestions from anyone on what to see and what to do?
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August 15 - Significance
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Aug 15, 2007 4:45 pm
4332 Views
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Today is August 15, 2007. I mark this date. On August 15, 1970, I stepped on the hallowed soils of America in the City of Brotherly Love. I was mailed to U.S. via PanAm, with an address label attached to my chest. I was 8 years old then.
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My Own Funeral
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Aug 15, 2007 12:36 pm
3844 Views
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I went to a funeral of an 82 year old Korean woman last night. She married when she was 18, had three children and six grandchildren. Her husband passed away fifteen years prior. End. This is her life. And the funeral had this cheesy organist, and an equally uninspiring solo singer, and a bunch of tacky flowers surrounding the casket, in an equally unbeautiful funeral parlor.
There were no tears in the funeral parlor, perhaps because she was old, and she had not suffered very much. I’ve been to two other funerals last month. One for a 90 year old woman. Tears were shed by all. Emotions were charged in that funeral, especially by the granddaughter. I felt bad for her. I went to another one, the man was 50 years old, leaving behind wife 42 years old, and kids 7 and 3. He died after a long, drawn out bout with cancer.
Fragility of life, and what happens to us when we die? Of course we cannot focus on death while we are yet breathing and trying to make it in this world, but sometimes, I pause to think, what it would be like when I am not here. Who would remember me? Who would cry for me, and who would secretly rejoice that I am now dust?
For my funeral, I would like not there to be any flowers, especially the god-awful standing wreaths with long ribbons on them sent by Korean businesses. I think they are very, very tacky. I would like a band playing spiritual songs. The band should be properly engaged and planned and the songs rehearsed. I don’t want some tacky band they put together at the last minute. I want them to sing songs I like. Nothing heavy. I would not like there to be a service. I would just like people to come and the people to socialize. I would like someone to write something about me, or maybe, I will write it myself. Perhaps a dozen typed 12 font pages, single spaced. Someone will read, preferably my son, things that are truly in my heart, things that I could never say in person, but that now I am gone, I can say. It may be long, but hey, the people are gathered for “my” funeral, and this would be the last time they would ever hear from me, so pay attention. I would have many things to say - whom I have loved, whom I have hated, whom I have wronged, my vision, and so on.
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Our wedding anniversary
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Aug 13, 2007 12:18 pm
3856 Views
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Yesterday, August 12, was our 24th wedding anniversary. I think this one was the best of all. Last year, we celebrated it in Laguna Beach. But this year . . . where to ‒ to Madkore’s house? No. Likely his house is a mess from the raucous GTG the night before.
Instead, I made a reservation at Briganti, an Italian restaurant in South Pasadena. My wife and I had been eyeing this place for some time. Typically, my kids jumped the gun. They brought up the subject discreely on Saturday morning ‒ “So dad, what are your plans for your anniversary?” “ Well, I thought I would take her to Briganti.” “ Have you made a reservation yet?” “No. Not yet.” “Ugghh. Really? I don’t know. They fill up pretty fast.” My two kids are social coordinators extraordinaire of our house. My second left for Chicago on Sunday morning to go back to college, but before she left, she charged her older sister with “helping dad” with the planning for the anniversary activities. I thought it was funny that all of a sudden, I had turned into this socially inept pumpkin simultaneous to my kids entering college. My eldest told her, “But it’s their anniversary. Why do I have to get involved?” “Sarah, just help dad, will you? He needs it.” I appreciated the gesture.
Sunday afternoon, the eldest and I strategized. She asked if I wanted her to get the flowers and the card. And defiantly, I stated that of course, I would pick the flowers and the cards myself. While she kept mom occupied, I went to Vons got the red roses with large and thick petals, because the idea was to splash petals on the floor leading up to our bedroom and on to our bed (this was her idea ‒ I thought it was kind of cheesy, but hey, she is willing to “help” me ‒ let her). I also got a funny card ‒ the one with a roller coaster on it ‒ and I wrote “this is our 24th ride.” This card is so symbolic of our life. We have had so many ups and downs, and my wife knew instantly when she opened the card, what it all meant. But the cutesy part of the card was on the inside, which showed a couple in one of the cars of the roller coaster ‒ “as long as you are beside me” ‒ in other words, even thought there may be ups and downs in our relationship, we can weather it so long as we are together and talking to each other. My wife stared at the card for a moment and pointed to the girl in the car, and observed, she looks happier than the guy.
I gave the roses and card to my eldest. I began to wash my wife’s siver BMW to prepare for our night out. There is a night and day difference in Southern California between driving a gleaming clean car and a grimy, dusty one. Perceptions and style are important here. We are now ready. After a few pictures, and with a last knowing glance between my eldest and me, my wife and I take off. It was a beautiful dinner. Great food, wine (perhaps a little too much for me), and espresso to end it. Mid-dinner, I get a telephone call from the eldest indicating that the house was now ready for us, and that she was now on her way to her apartment near UCLA. I give the phone to my wife, and they chat it up a little bit. We were in the midst of a deep conversation, and rather than go home, we walked to nearby Starbucks, and discussed serious issues within our family and extended family. It was a great cathartic moment for both of us.
We drove home. As soon as we opened the door, long stemmed roses greeted her on the credenza in the foyer. She yelped. “Whaaat? How did this get here?” She looks on the floor covered with red petals. “Whaaaat?! Did you do this? When did you do it? Did Sarah do this?” I kept my mouth shut. We both followed the trail, which led to our bedroom. A bottle of champagne and chocolates waited, and rose petals dispersed in the shape of a heart on the bed. I thought ‒ well, this is pretty good. My card was neatly placed in the center of the heart. My wife looked at the card, which had my handwriting, of course. “Did you do this?! How?! When?!” She was by now a thoroughly confused woman. We uncorked the champagne bottle, and enjoyed each other’s company until the bottle was finished, and we drifted off to sleep.
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