So I been a New Yorker long enough to know better than to talk about anyone on the subway, today it was the Bulgarianess of our math coach and claims of nonexistence rooted in American educational neglect of that part of the word, entirely and my complete geographical ignorance of its location on two seas, when of course a tall Bulgarian reminds me of his and his nation's existence rather defensively, of its founding since A.D. 861, which would incidentally be about 50 years into the T'ang.

So these two articles are of direct import to both my pastoral and political goals.

So one thing about working which I notice and forget continually, is dates. You remember dates: you can tell what next Monday will be, when it will be the thirtieth, and in my case at work you are the steward of the date, as it is something which your students will ask you about as they mechanically head their notepapers which like as not they will never look over again, this of course the more true of Rob Chin, who yesterday had a printout of his schedule for the week down to the quarter of each hour: his unnamed double-jew investment bank company owns him. And they pay by the hour, in a way, which as we figured, as actually less than my hourly rate, but then again, we are both worth less than the only Asian so far I've seen so far on Queer as Folk, namely the big-jawed Jap overly made-up and fobby-thin with velly few Engrish skills at all, though it is not quite understood by his um, client, that he is not for free. Of course, all we Asian-Am bois should make it clear that we are not free.

So there might still be metaphysilogical doubts as to cause-and-effect, but one inevitable effect of $1.50 drafts at the Japanese restaurant and Rob Chin is unaccountably sweaty summer drunkenness, the pass-out-on-subway variety, which also leads to such hyperbolic exclamations as, "I'll do anything that I can do straight!".... "I mean sober!" but that is all in good fun, even if that fun is just another bump before pounding before the long wait for deliverance into the promised future.

So this is what I read about the Democratic National Convention today:

"You're going to see more veterans, more patriotism, more talk about protecting our country," said one senior Democrat who insisted on anonymity in discussing the details of the convention. "You're going to think you're looking a Republican convention."

Mmmm-hrmm...

So in contrast to my far more active past two days, I've been at home all day, waking late after an allnighter, catching up on enews and the like, and wondering where the political conventions of a year ago have gone. Granted, I am now much more domesticated, and of course my more bodily forays into leftism were motivated, as I must recall, by the desire to meet like-minded attractive gay leftists. Yeah... as I found then, all the leftists were balding and married. So I've gotten rustier, though in one of my more frantic dreams (many involving the overskimpiness of my swim trunks appropriated from Joephet (they show off the bottoms of my impressive-ish thigh muscles), new Targets being opened up in Harlem, and snowball fights with the Hargeys) or dream sequences I remember becoming suddenly paranoid (or maybe this was not a dream but a realization forced by Harry Potter and the amount of growth that he's experienced in the four years since the first book (friendship, respect within a community, more spells, pubes) about how far I've come periodically, every four years, as this is also one of those moments when you can't lie to yourself anymore--you're picking a career now, and it's for reals, and there's no real turning back. Then again, I'm a prick: I look at Joephet, who's doing just fine at another one of those check-in points, and I realize there's no real rush: I've somehow internalized some sort of Protestant hastiness in achieving this goal or that: I should slow down and take a breath: for all my anti-establishment skepticism, I've done a little too well to have much credibility.

So Cho Chang is a horribly emotional and hysterical Asian British girl. Or something. See, it's not clear why she's Asian. It's not precisely clear what kind of Asian she is, though she's not 'Asian' in the British sense--that's left to Parvati and Padma. Sure, she breaks out crying all the time at the loss of her white boyfriend Cedric (which is odd, as I only know black people named Cedric these days, so maybe he was--maybe with the last name of Diggory he's actually Aborigine (in the British sense)). If I ever had a daughter, I would not name her Cho. That is because in Chinese pinyin or whatnot, it sounds kind of like her name is Smelly-Dirty (it is actually Wade-Gilles, but who's keeping track?). Still, it's unclear why Harry misses the Cho Chang boat, and why indeed the Cho Chang boat feels obliged to sail: maybe it's the away-from-homeness, but most AA girls I know at least had the decency to wait until college before exclusively dating white guys. Of course, I've yet to spot any Chinabois at Hogwarts.

Finally, if you were forced to name a black wizard, I suppose Kingsley Shacklebolt is as good a name as any. Still, I will welcome submissions via the comments page for names for a black wizard (it might help to note that he is dark-skinned, tall, bald, and has a gold hoop earring in one ear. Like Black Mr. Clean, but magical.)

So I may have missed a day, or maybe not. Today at the beach jellyfish babies (not yet tasty. like baby lychee nuts) were afloat. Last night was the kickoff to the Socrates Sculpture Park movies, an exercise in Greek vitality and so on. I am reasonably pleased and tan, and cutting this short to read some Harry Potter, despite the imperialism issues and so on.

So the "Socratic Method" has been bothering me. In numerous interviews this is mentioned, and while certainly some technique of questioning and interaction with students is far more superior and admirable than the technique of high-powered presentation of theory, procedures, and on occasion examples followed by "practice," it is not clear that our poor applicants--some of whom have the bloody gall to explain said method to me--know what they're getting into. My point does not, however, rest upon the idea that the term "Socratic Method" has some fixed historical meaning which is tied to the practices of either the historical or the literary Socrates. But I think it is helpful to consider how Socratic arm-twisting can lead to such absurd claims as the a priority of knowledge in the Meno, in which he, funnily enough, demonstrates to his interlocutor that mathematical knowledge is a priori even slaveboys (so too their bondage). This foundation is shakier still when you consider the ethical and moral tenor and implications of his theses beyond the somewhat more plausible mathematical claims. And so my point is that a Socratic method is still teacher-centered and arm-twisty, while susceptible to the attack that it ludicrously expects students to already have knowledge of empirical facts. It will be recalled that Socrates' interlocutors (slaveboys aside) tended to be older men of some worldly experience and even waning libido. It's hard to see how we can use this as a firm basis for the education of our youth. But then again, the Greeks are supposed to teach us about democracy, so who knows?

So it does quite look like Lostin's theory about the extinction of the Asian American male is not that far off the mark. I was at Woo Ri Jip today for a lunch, one of those premade fast food Korean places which while cheap is not terribly good, but this is what you get for impersonal service. Still, there was a rather chubby Asian guy next to me with a much more attractive and lithe Asian girl, and they were having a conversation which went pretty much like:

Chub: {Evasive denial that repetitive tasks at work are worthwhile of dignity}
Chick: {Half-hearted agreement}
Chub: {Enthusiastic acknowledgement of half-hearted agreement}
Chick: {Vaguely relevant mutterings about own work}
Chub: {Pointed inquiries, interrupting}
Chick: {Satisfaction at "fineness" of diversity of projects assigned at work.}
Chub: {Compliments}
Chick: {Questions about "everything else"}
Chub: {Assertions of "fineness"}
Chick: {Acknowledgment of fineness}
Chub: {Thanks for acknowledgment of fineness, trailing off}
Chick: {Awkward pause}
Chick: {Statement of need to return to the office, else there be trouble}
Chub: {Gallant questioning about nature of trouble}
Chick: {Downplaying of trouble, acknowledgment of need to stay on good side}
Chub: {Clumsy busing of Chick's tray}

From what I've seen, the best strategies to undertake on a crypto-date situation such as this one would be to tell charming, disarming but vaguely self-deprecatory anecdotes about one's adventures. This tack is the charming-amusing tack, and will at least assure that your companion will enjoy herself. Certainly one or two of these stories would complement any of the other strategies, all of which involve some form of personal storytelling. For that is how the female sense of humor differs from the male--the female sense of humor is more concerned with stories and situations than male wit, puns, and so on. But I suppose I should polish a bit more before unveiling all the other date-strats I've found. But another tip: to be an attentive listener, you need not interject or intersperse "yeah"s or "right"s in the middle of every last utterance.

So I would like to thank you for your interest in the vacancy we have in our math department, but regretfully must inform you that given our unexpectedly talented applicant pool, we cannot offer you a position at this time.

I have, however, a few pieces of friendly professional advice to share with you that your continuing search might soon prove more fruitful.

First, while repetition and detail may serve to emphasize a particular selling point of yours, it is not, strictly speaking, necessary to repeat the sequence of exams you will be taking with precise timelines when questioned about the status of your license. Certainly further mention is unnecessary when the question is about something else altogether, and taking certification examinations is neither a classroom management technique nor a discipline policy.

Further, while it is nice that you do approve of collaboration and interdisciplinary collaboration in particular, it is unclear whether students will be motivated to study and master freshman algebra by the need to study and master physics. Further claims as to the indispensability of mathematical study might be instantiated more carefully.

Finally, and this is a delicate point, I would suggest that you not close out the interview experience with extended mention of how gently you have taught your Asian wife of thirty years whom you acquired in Asia and consequently "did not grow up in this country" English grammar to the point where she has not only mastered the definite-indefinite article distinction but also the "that"-"which" distinction well enough to correct her native-born American supervisors. While surely inspirational, this particular anecdote may not succeed uniformly in currying favor with all interviewers.

So I am far out enough to be out of it thoroughly, not even sure when it was that I last posted: I went down to visit Lostin and my brother, both summering in some scientific capacity down in Jersey, and I have realized that grad student bars aren't hopeless, but my brother is deeply so a frat boy with all the macho-het slapdashery that comes with being white and of a certain age, and that Lostin is probably right when he claims that the Asian-American male is doomed to extinction. But no--it was a very pleasant drunk with Lostin, which is probably because it was entirely on Asian beers until the end, while means that it was a cleaner, lighter drunk, and having not been in the dating game for quite some time, it was more than a little odd to be in the zone again with charming political commentary and the like--no offense to Alric, but we know each other's moves well enough that much can be syncopated. But it's always odd, as I don't know what it's like to be white anymore, though of course Joephet claims that in my desire to trim down and bulk up I'm deeply white, as also in my work ethic which isn't some sort of Polynesian-laidback. It's not offensive really, just different, and deeply past, though I suppose my own version of college debauchering was much more selective and snobby. Other than that, I have little to report, beyond the oddness of returning to Robert's familiar co-op quarters, and my enjoyment and frustration in reading Foner's Reconstruction and comparing that era of promise and revolution to our reactionary times. But that's too harsh and I don't really know anything.

So I have not yet managed to post today, today which has been consumed mostly with nappery but also catching up on my leftist readings and my Reconstruction history, eating then overeating Salmonburgers, hanging out with old school friends, catching up with comics, and vomitting horribly, for some unspecified reason probably rooted in the bleu cheese or the goat cheese or something like that... then several fits of passing out, but in all another great day on summer vacation.

So I am mad at grayscale. I am mad at grayscale because it has made me seethe at the wrong sell-out racial group for some time now (indeed, in my post minutes ago I was trying to remember some feminine outrage I experienced on the subway, but couldn't, quite). This is because I had thought that Michelle Malkin in her little grayscale glamourshots was some sort of black traitor to her race, which, given her stands against affirmative action I found offensive enough. But no, she's a Filipina, as she declares in her most recent column, "The Mollycoddling Milksops of Manila", or rather the Jersey-raised descendant of Filipino immigrants, which makes her xenophobia the greater hypocrisy, though of course it's always ironic when an archconservative Connie Chung clone is against affirmative action. Because really, now, how many ugly old Asian women are now on TV, network, cable, or otherwise? Yet, of course, that's not affirmative action but the furtherance of a whole other agenda: what I mean to point out is that the conservative anti-affirmative action argument of a person's inherent qualifications rather than any checkbox status is something that is inconsistent with her very existence as a syndicated columnist. And if that's not true, then why include ethnic headshots with your columns? If we value your ideas and not your background, the ethnically-zero byline would be enough.

My point here isn't to weigh in on the internal politics of the Philipines or to fact-check her article. I'm more concerned about the ethos with which she so vehemently likens President Arroyo to a fried lumpia wrapper. It's this self-representation and this self-granted authority to speak for an entire nation which is problematic: if you're living in Maryland with your two kids and husband (is he Filipino? do you make lumpia for him? or only on special occasions?) and you sound otherwise just like any of your other Fox News Channel buddies, at what point do you remember your heritage, so obscured by surname, to make a dig at a thrice-imperialized nation fighting its own civil war against Muslim insurgents and separatists and still dependent on US military aid? The transformation is from Filipina woman to white man, as is evident in the deeply chauvinist, homophobic language around mollycoddle and milksop.

And this last is perhaps a cheap shot, but I love the matter-of-fact absurdity of her bio, including such lines as "Covered school board meetings and pole sign ordinances. Exposed Rep. Maxine Waters' gang-infested job-training center boondoggle. Received a death threat from the Mexican mafia. Moved to the Pacific Northwest..". I wonder what my bio on my blog ought to look like.

So maybe I'm paranoid, gay, and Asian, but it's a bit much when the AIM headline is "William Tops?" with subtitle "See if Hung can hold the No. 1 spot." But apparently, Usher's nickname is "Mr. Entertainment," which is rather impressive.

I wish I could have reported more from my past few days, spent going into work to discover that no one else had bothered to show up and then enjoying yet another Thai meal with Wanda, preserving a rather ludicrous three day streak continued with Joephet over dinner. My ambitions have been on the decline, I must admit, but it's deeper than work-related idleness--talking to Crody, I'm reminded of my boundless ambitions of just one year ago. And now.. Well, now I just wait and read more history, and bide my time before I am free enough to make a trip to Hargey farm.

So I'm pretty sure that the little kitten in the West Village pet shop window which was an off-orange color was actually dead, as the Asha-resembling (Asha pissed on my phone case the other day) baby kittens (their ears apparently stay the same size their whole lives, or something disproportionately cute like that) were doing their best to what looked like nursing but really was more like gnawing, now of course perhaps the kitty cat was asleep, but asleep kittens (I've watched Asha carefully) tend to breathe and twitch spastically when touched or gnawed at.

So I have missed my first bloggiversary, and have been outblogged (but not outstripped) of late by Mister Lostin Yee but am home now briefly, having already completed an application and finished the Monday incarnation of a rather strenuous and sweaty workout, and now about to jet to meet with Kenta for lunch, which I think is the first time we have eaten in each others' presence, some odd pieces of pecan pie notwithstanding.

I have been more productive that I give myself credit for, even if Saturday was consumed by frolickery in Astoria Park with shirtless Joephet and substantial quantities of wine and mummery (this is a metonymic crypto-euphemism for everyone's favorite non-Sadat Egyptian). Somehow I did manage to touch base with all the relevant non-fraternal Asians in my life yesterday, and they were all generally displeased, except for Alric who was actually pretty content now in the middle of Brooklyn and our joint discovery that the Jetsons' maid Rosie was probably black, the transplanted brain into bosomy toaster, said brain abducted from the groundlings, and Kenneth who may no longer be debeboied. Rob Chin, however, is adjusting to the big city and cohabitation with Huge Chin. I was also consumed last night with what felt, briefly, like mathematical discovery once again, strangely enough, as connected with geometrical interpretations of Gaussian elimination, even though Joephet was skeptical and pooh-poohed my self-importance and absorption well into the night past our viewing of Underworld, which continues the theme in Van Helsing of werewolf-vampire conflict, something which either did not exist or which I was not aware of when I was a schoolkid reading black and white books about black and white movies. Still, that level of excitement I miss from my mathery days, though probably more my high school math days when I still thought that there were elementary solutions to the Twin Primes Conjecture, and indeed elementary solutions which I could master.

So I am actually rather pleased with the Allen Choice novel Fade to Clear by Leonard Chang--it's absorbing without being self-absorbed, even if it's completely unclear why the protagonist is Korean American. One of those crypto-chins.

Further, the chicken wingbone (vaguely buffalo-flavored) which Joephet threw on my floor last night is still there. He has yet to remove it.

So the hiring process at school has been moving more slowly than the federal investigation into Ken Lay. Ha. No, that's not funny, actually, as it means I'm still listless, waiting for news one way or the other about whether or not I have a career ahead of me in teaching proper, as I just don't see myself happy another year at this here school where nothing ever quite gets done, and we wait for better candidates, letting slip the decent ones, and end up hiring in utter desperation.

I've been trying to get back into shape and puttering around in the kitchen: only Joephet would be able to completely reject a dish cooked for him, all for the heterodox sin of mixing savories with sweets, even as I am frantically trying to juggle roommate interviews (I think we've signed a Greek opera singer) with a broiler and downplaying the presence of a Chun-Li-playing squealing Pilipino clad only in boxerbriefs behind the curtains. My former academic and artistic ambitions have dwindled considerably, and I have been trying to figure out which matinees to go to in my freedom, but find that there are none actually suitable, as somehow the Notebook seems like something to take Joephet along for, though it's not clear what he would actually find acceptable, as he has rejected every movie in creation and my limited bargain-basement collection as boring and too slow-paced.

So this can be late only because of Rob Chin's actual arrival and my frenzied desperation just over a week ago:

Asianboi Roundup

Alric has moved. He's moved to a much better neighborhood to finish out his time at his particular hedge fund and then hit upon fame in the five months left to him at that point.

Joephet has been working, and not on his tan: he finds helping those much less fortunate rewarding and flattering of him and his godlike powers.

Kenneth has been hard to find, but I've also not been looking hard enough. There is indeed life after Bob, and actually-bad is not the same as actuary-bad, unless you're a fob.

Lostin has been bored, bored by plasma and by physics, but mostly be southern Jersey and the impossibility of stalking his past elusive partners.

Rob Chin has finally arrived, though we have not started Kendoing in the least, that's just a matter of time. He seems rather more overwhelmed than a Saigon whirlybird circa 1975.

So it's been a while: yesterday I watched the unfurling of the pageant that is daily beside Northern Boulevard across from Best Buy at the shopping complex where John and Alric I used to do our weekendly grocery shopping at the Stop&Shop, but where I was now with Joephet as he went into Old Navy to get flip flops, but I continued my protest against that family of companies, even as I marveled at the irony of little boricuabois wearing Old Navy 2004 Puerto Rico shirts as waves of boys a bit too old to still be boys walked by with their aged mothers, both eating the same ice cream or sipping the same can soda through a straw, the halter tops in all pastels, the beadedness which makes both tops unattractive and slippers unlikely to cushion adequately much less shield from flying dirt, the flabbiness and the aged delicately picking their ways across, the bedecked families ethnic in ethnic garb, amid the honkings of the livery cabs, and the inexplicable wavings of passersby to workers within Old Navy, as if they would be seen, the couples that from a distance seem quite mismatched, but as the details and the chemistry fill themselves in make rather more sense, waiting impatiently until Joephet emerges after a full twenty minutes to digging with an armload of flipflops like a catch of fish or a bunch of bananas.

My schedule's been off and I've not been home and Joephet's wireless piracy days are pretty much over, I fear, and so I've been short on bloggery. This period is still one of just waiting, I'm afraid.

So I have been a busy little bee, even though I'd forgotten that John's enchilada recipe requires spanish olives, which was of course key, making the finished dish, while good, not as good as back in the day. Now I've got way too much chocolate-pepper sauce for my own good, and there will be plenty of leftovers for tomorrow when it comes time to have my scrambled eggs and omelettes and so on. The pupusas were a bit too mushy to begin with, but I have a better sense now of how that dough should turn out, and by the end they were crisp and great in just the right way. I was disturbed to discover that D actually was outeaten by me, and I think that I was just a bit overzealous--that really was John's signature dish, though of course there was also the ridiculous osso bucco and so on--I just have issues with bujii Italian cuisine, and of course am picky about my rice preparation, though I suppose I am a hypocrite given my fondness for arroz con gandules. Of course, then, it's not difficult to consider the class-considerations for different cuisines, which of course is very much cultural and hard to pin down, as there is also very high-class Chinese, and even imperial Korean (which seems somehow an oxymoron).

Beyond that, it's not clear what my plan ought to be for the next cookery expedition, and I suppose I would appreciate suggestions, but the bottom line is also the healthiness, which isn't so bad when the main source of fat is the cheese.

So the point now is this that I am still waiting around like Penelope (only she's successful) for my new roommate who has yet to show or respond to all but the most perfunctory of phone inquiries. And so I'm giving up, having already passed up a Brooklyn jaunt to Coney Island, after much mirth drinking rubbing alcohol last night with Bessie and her crew from all corners. I have been feeling the urge to cook more, and much of this is just cheapness, as eating out is robbery, out and out, and I have found that Hebrew National's nearly fat-free franks are quite acceptable at only 50 calories a frank and kosher, no less, as a meat source that requires minimal effort. Beyond that, I should choose a type of cuisine to specialize in, and while the Joephet might demand French, I feel as various Latino cuisines would have the most to actually teach me. I feel as if pupusas are something I definitely should know how to make.

So my trackrecord of late with notebooks has not been in the least good. Volume 2 of my Prose Poetry and Comics Notebook was stolen on the train in mid-March along with my bookbag. The relaunch, in a different format, of that same notebook, is thrown out into the trash by a vengeful Joephet. And most recently, I have somehow lost my Professional notebook with my math-related scribblings and plans. I really don't understand how I got to this point, and it's been already relaunched--all have been. Still, I feel behind with no deadlines.

So the last roommate interview of the season, perhaps, was a whole lot like a bad date. That is to say, he just kept on talking about all manner of things, he was rather unattractive, he had no ideological beliefs discernable beyond the blanket approval for Fahrenheit 9/11 of the modish, disaffected, and half-read, he kept on talking, he would find ways to digress from the given topic to some general invective, he disapproved, he made coded statements which could construed to be racist, or at least classist, he did not punctuate, he talked about himself by talking about others, he gesticulated, he wanted more than he could chew, he was disinterested in anything I had to say, he would not leave. Still, that's pretty much par for the course, and it could be much worse, and often is.

So my Gogolian torment now can be related. Waiting at the Regional office yet again, one must, as before, be as quiet and cheerful as possible; hardball can be played later, but a winning smile sways more hearts and minds than a concerned grimace, but that is not the thing of it--the thing of it is that you do not know who you will be meeting. You do not know if that there person, now, walking by, will be making the decision about you and your future, so you shield your book Class, by Paul Fussell, cursing yourself for not having brought something else, while wondering whether any of these walkersby actually look like the name you've been given to wait for. Of course, it's also not clear what all this walking to and fro is all about, but still you straighten yourself up at every turn.