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Dat 653: Only words
Aug. 7th, 2008 10:35 pmGetting closer and closer to that magic journal entry number.
I don't think I did anything special when I reached 555.
But I'm getting off track. Tomorrow is my last day at work. It pretty much marks the end of my summer (although I started counting down once we hit Dark Knight). Tonight I took pictures for my thank-you letter for my scholarship and cleaned out my car. Now it was to be washed and waxed and have an oil change, and it'll be good to go.
My hankering for random hardcore Christian Bale movies goes unanswered, as the sullen adolescents who work at my local branch of Hollywood Video can't be bothered to help anyone properly. In a fit of desperation and I don't know what, I rented The Crow. Because I love that comic and I love Brandon Lee. I watched the extra thing on James O'Barr (and now I can spot him doing his cameo in the movie in the background) and holy hell, I wanted to give the guy a hug. Today at work Kacee told me that she thinks one big reason the Dark Knight is so creepy is that we're watching the Joker and knowing that the man underneath the paint is already dead. That's not why the Crow creeps me out. It's Brandon Lee. Because he manages to be cruel, evil, manic, funny, and utterly, utterly heartbroken all in one person. Best moments ever in that film: delivery of the line "Victims, aren't we all?" and his conversation with Albrecht at Albrecht's apartment. Brandon Lee wasn't just all kickass, he was a damned good actor, and, I think, under-appreciated for his awesome comic timing. Not that Bruce Lee didn't occasionally have some seriously awesome comedic timing either. And let's not forget Jackie Chan's talent for slapstick.
Some moron on YouTube wrote something really stupid the other day. (Not that YouTube is known for its examples of stellar literacy.) He (or perhaps she) wrote "I hate that people think of Bruce Lee as a china [sic] man. He was American." First of all, the miscapitalized "china man" is a pretty horrific slur. And second, while Bruce Lee might have been born in America and lived his entire life as a natural-born American citizen, he wasn't American. He was a rampant Chinese national and proud of it, especially in his films. English was all kinds of NOT his first language. He was raised in Hong Kong. People's races and nationalities are not what we think they are, and I was appalled that some random fanboy would have the gall to attempt some sort of vague cultural appropriation based on a passport. Even though I've had an American passport for pretty much my entire life, I didn't know the Star-Spangled Banner until I was in an American high school and when most people start singing "My Country 'Tis of Thee" I jump up, put my hand over my heart, and proudly belt out "God Save the Queen." I am the way I visualize myself, not the way others visualize me. At work the other day, Torrey and I were joking around about rappers (because Diane was singing and doing a vague attempt at rapping) and saying that white males had Eminem and we needed a female to represent. We. I thought the word "we" before I even realized how that had processed out. And guess what? Torrey didn't notice that I'd used the word "we," didn't call me out and remind me that I don't have white skin. Of course, I also use "we" when referring to Chinese, and Filipinas, and Brits as well. Because, in some small way, I am all of them.
And I'm galled when anyone tries to tell me I'm something different.
On the other hand, it drives me flippin' barmy whenever some white-bread Utah kid grins and tells me he's Swiss (there is a Swiss Days parade in a neighborhood around here every year) when he's never been to Switzerland, can't pick out its flag, doesn't know what its capital is, what its official languages are, and has no concept of Swiss culture or traditions. If he wants to self-identify as Swiss, well, that's his deal, but that sort of smacks of another type of ignorance about identity. I am not my blood. Yes, it makes me who I am in one very limited sense - it governs the color of my skin, eyes, hair, how tall I am (not), but it doesn't give me culture or traditions. My parents give those to me. So when people ask me how I remember the colors of the rainbow, I don't know who the hell Roy G. Biv is, but I sure do remember that Richard of York gave battle in vain. The assumption that a name and some blood give someone an identity seems ignorant to me, unless that name and blood spawn some sort of interest in one's own cultural history. Just because his last name is Swiss doesn't mean he's Swiss.
So that's been bothering me for a while.
Chani pulled a Delirium on her journal.
I'm not quite that tired yet.
I don't think I did anything special when I reached 555.
But I'm getting off track. Tomorrow is my last day at work. It pretty much marks the end of my summer (although I started counting down once we hit Dark Knight). Tonight I took pictures for my thank-you letter for my scholarship and cleaned out my car. Now it was to be washed and waxed and have an oil change, and it'll be good to go.
My hankering for random hardcore Christian Bale movies goes unanswered, as the sullen adolescents who work at my local branch of Hollywood Video can't be bothered to help anyone properly. In a fit of desperation and I don't know what, I rented The Crow. Because I love that comic and I love Brandon Lee. I watched the extra thing on James O'Barr (and now I can spot him doing his cameo in the movie in the background) and holy hell, I wanted to give the guy a hug. Today at work Kacee told me that she thinks one big reason the Dark Knight is so creepy is that we're watching the Joker and knowing that the man underneath the paint is already dead. That's not why the Crow creeps me out. It's Brandon Lee. Because he manages to be cruel, evil, manic, funny, and utterly, utterly heartbroken all in one person. Best moments ever in that film: delivery of the line "Victims, aren't we all?" and his conversation with Albrecht at Albrecht's apartment. Brandon Lee wasn't just all kickass, he was a damned good actor, and, I think, under-appreciated for his awesome comic timing. Not that Bruce Lee didn't occasionally have some seriously awesome comedic timing either. And let's not forget Jackie Chan's talent for slapstick.
Some moron on YouTube wrote something really stupid the other day. (Not that YouTube is known for its examples of stellar literacy.) He (or perhaps she) wrote "I hate that people think of Bruce Lee as a china [sic] man. He was American." First of all, the miscapitalized "china man" is a pretty horrific slur. And second, while Bruce Lee might have been born in America and lived his entire life as a natural-born American citizen, he wasn't American. He was a rampant Chinese national and proud of it, especially in his films. English was all kinds of NOT his first language. He was raised in Hong Kong. People's races and nationalities are not what we think they are, and I was appalled that some random fanboy would have the gall to attempt some sort of vague cultural appropriation based on a passport. Even though I've had an American passport for pretty much my entire life, I didn't know the Star-Spangled Banner until I was in an American high school and when most people start singing "My Country 'Tis of Thee" I jump up, put my hand over my heart, and proudly belt out "God Save the Queen." I am the way I visualize myself, not the way others visualize me. At work the other day, Torrey and I were joking around about rappers (because Diane was singing and doing a vague attempt at rapping) and saying that white males had Eminem and we needed a female to represent. We. I thought the word "we" before I even realized how that had processed out. And guess what? Torrey didn't notice that I'd used the word "we," didn't call me out and remind me that I don't have white skin. Of course, I also use "we" when referring to Chinese, and Filipinas, and Brits as well. Because, in some small way, I am all of them.
And I'm galled when anyone tries to tell me I'm something different.
On the other hand, it drives me flippin' barmy whenever some white-bread Utah kid grins and tells me he's Swiss (there is a Swiss Days parade in a neighborhood around here every year) when he's never been to Switzerland, can't pick out its flag, doesn't know what its capital is, what its official languages are, and has no concept of Swiss culture or traditions. If he wants to self-identify as Swiss, well, that's his deal, but that sort of smacks of another type of ignorance about identity. I am not my blood. Yes, it makes me who I am in one very limited sense - it governs the color of my skin, eyes, hair, how tall I am (not), but it doesn't give me culture or traditions. My parents give those to me. So when people ask me how I remember the colors of the rainbow, I don't know who the hell Roy G. Biv is, but I sure do remember that Richard of York gave battle in vain. The assumption that a name and some blood give someone an identity seems ignorant to me, unless that name and blood spawn some sort of interest in one's own cultural history. Just because his last name is Swiss doesn't mean he's Swiss.
So that's been bothering me for a while.
Chani pulled a Delirium on her journal.
I'm not quite that tired yet.
