H. Hsu Word Salad

What do you think of when hear those whupping blades, a sound poundingly loud yet blurry?  When you see that hovering helicopter overhead? I had choppers on the mind as I drove to work Tuesday morn.  News came over the radio of a big wreck on the San Mateo bridge. "It’s bad." "don’t take westbound San Mateo-ALL lanes closed, entire westbound direction closed."

Well, that sure sucks for a workday, I thought.  I fiddled with the ipod and worried if the back up from bridge would spill over to 880 and cloud my commute too.  "Eastbound side may be closed to allow ambulance as this is an injury accident
with 3 big rigs" KCBS reported.

Wow. Goddamn I have always hated those bigrigs, those giants on they way to Port of Oakland that fling rocks at my windshield, pit craters into the roads, and once almost ran me off the road and mushed me. Their sheer size are a certain death guarantee if one collides.  The well known fatigue of their drivers is always a looming liability, like the guy who brought down a section of freeway just a few months ago.

"…we previously reported that eastbound side may close for medical access but that is not the case. They are bringing in the life rescue helicopter."

I glanced up. Saw a chopper making its way south. I know that it is NOT a good sign if they feel the need to bring out the Heli.  Someone must really be in bad shape.  I start thinking about how fortunate I am to live in a place where no one questions the value of a medical Helicopter.  Where if someone is grievously injured, this immense expense and effort will be made.  I always think of stuff like this, like when whole teams of people go searching for those who get lost hiking.  How lucky we are. 
In a place like Nicaragua where we visited, or most of China, I think if one has a horrific accident…well, tough luck.  You’d probably die on the road as has always been just the way things work in most of the world.  No one could afford a helicopter rescue or search team.  Then again, I guess they might, solely due to the fact that I am an American. Which also makes me sad that one’s life is valued so differently based on things like citizenship and credit records.  My country and my credit cards could cover a medical evac.  Thus, some effort would be expended to not allow me to bleed to death on a road somewhere…

I think for many Americans, especially of my generation (read: non-veteran, post-Vietnam) they think of a helicopter as being a cool prop when they went to the theater and enjoyed Miss Saigon. (which, although I loved many of the beautiful songs, I do not care to patronise, because I am sick and tired of idiot plots featuring "how beautiful it is for a woman to sacrifice herself for love". Pah. Beautiful, my ass. I’ve no patience for romanticizing tragedy/callousness ) I’ve known friends and colleagues who remember the real helicopters over Vietnam. Who can remember bombs falling from planes, families fleeing on boats, or on a chopper if one was lucky.

Helicopters occasionally appeared over our apartment in Los Angeles. That was 1995.  Sometimes our hair stood on end, rendering us fearful to go outside.  Directly around the corner, on the same block was the home of Vanessa & Anthony.  A place I often hung out.  But the choppers made us wonder who they were in pursuit of. What felon, escapee, or suspect could be hiding in the bushes of a backyard, staying out of the searchlights? Even V & A’s house seemed too far to venture alone on a night the helis were out.   We’d laugh, all cynical and tough, "L.A., man" and shake our heads.  But it’s not so funny to feel like you’re living in a movie sometimes, especially a crime movie.  Us law-abiding types hope that Smokey tracks down the ones he’s tracking.  But I also feel a twinge of empathy, for how it must feel to be hunted by this machine.

In the year 2000, I lived alone, again in L.A.

One night the helicopters buzzed by. I shrugged. Had become accustomed to this sort of thing.  But then, it circled back. and again. and again. more than twenty minutes later, it was still cruising overhead.  My pulse went up, and I stepped quietly into the apartment and slid my doors shut. locked.  I had a big glass door I liked to keep open, to enjoy cool breezes and the fragrant jasmine plant I tended on the teeny patio.  Now it just seemed like an entryway for a fugitive. I called P.  "This helicopter has been circling my neighborhood, like RIGHT over our complex…!"  We talked ’til it flew away. I wonder if they found what they were looking for.   

I rode in a FEMA Helicopter over New Orleans, November 2005.  It was only my second day in a 2 week deployment that later stretched longer into Thanksgiving.  The exhaustion of our 14 hour days hadn’t quite caught up yet, and I felt so proud to wear my orange "SAMHSA EMERGENCY RESPONSE TEAM " shirt.  Initially, we were excited, smiling with my new comrades, we took photos of one another inside the chopper.  Most of us had never been inside one of these bad boys before.  Darrell had, as a young Marine in Vietnam, many moons ago.  We put on enormous ear coverings, those chopper blades are LOUD!  We gave up trying to speak, although at times we scribbled on a little notepad and pointed.  I was handed little notes like: "there is the 9th ward" and "she said that used to be a marsh."
We became grim and serious.  Felt compelled to document, photograph the truth.  We pressed ourselves into chopper windows and I strained the focus on my camera. We felt this desperate inability to convey the scope- the wide, wide views of devastation.  The rows of home foundations left bare, little squares there had been communities.  boats on top of houses, cemetaries flooded, buildings flattened and drowned.  We started to succumb to heat and grief and fatigue. Another note came scribbled on a pad: "that’s where it broke".
One of the levees.  I shook my head and we all had the same sentiment, "that’s it?!"  that teeny ‘ol levee was supposed to preserve all these swaths of homes?   We got off the chopper with an odd mix of determination to work our asses off, and a sense of futility at the enormity of the situation.  About a week later we were told that FEMA was no longer taking new SAMHSA volunteers up on helicopter rides to survey the damage.  They said it cost them about 10 grand each time they did.  I don’t want to seem ungrateful…I did learn a lot from that heli ride and it helped me understand what I was getting into…but I hope to hell FEMA did not really spend that much! 10 grand was something the people desperately needed for things like clothes, medical supplies, and home rebuilding.  The first FEMA trailer homes arrived around Thanksgiving.  It’s unacceptable to me that so many families are still living in them now.

Helicopters now fly over Richmond.  I got a call to please do an urgent debrief/assessment this week.  I talked with a child who had survived many rounds of gunfire the night before we met.  Here eyes stunningly beautiful, like a cat. But full of dissassociation.  She smiled when I commended her instincts, explained how our bodies act sometimes faster than our conscious minds think.  As in NOLA, I know my skills are limited.  Sometimes all we docs can do is provide education and provide witness, and a receptacle of acceptance for the fear, pain, anger.  I am unable to remedy it, take away her pain and fear.  But I refuse to accept that we are powerless to change it.  It’s this myth of powerlessness that fuels the complacency which sickens our communities.  I felt an urge to take that teeny body in my arms and bring her home with me. To live in a city where 99% of us never worry about gun toting thugs guns tracking our trip to the mall or grocery store.  Where we currently live, the only helicopter I’ve ever seen, has been the one that provides my morning traffic report.

A very handy dandy resource list for you to de-clutter your space while reusing, reducing recycling:

http://www.coopamerica.org/pubs/caq/articles/21Things.cfm

One of my favorite things is our seasonal Women’s exchange party where we book and clothes and kitchenware swap.  It was a pleasure to see a friends’ beautiful teen daughter walk away with big bags of stuff she can wear, things that we 30+ women are now too modest or just too tubby for!   
I’ve sent formal dresses & purses to the Princess Project that outfits low income girls like princesses for prom (for free) and the Co-op America link features dress for success which outfits people who need interview or job clothes as they work their way out of social services.

I am a recycling fanatic. We had a big dinner at Texas Roadhouse last night comprised of giant platters of red meat, some of it smothered with cheese and mushrooms,others slabs with BBQ sauce & huge yams and potatoes drowned in butter. It was damned tasty but obviously not my selection. (It was my big bro’s 39th birthday, and he’s always been a hearty eater).  Every time we eat there I know for sure there will be leftovers. So I busted out the Tupperware I had prepared and brought along in my canvas, not plastic Trader Joe’s bag.  This seemed so shocking to our young waitress, who bless her, seemed younger than my shoes.  I hope someday soon more people will come with their own bags and tupperware.
I don’t like the idea that the bag I used for 15 minutes of the box for 1 meal is gonna be on this earth taking up space longer than either myself or the toddlers & babies I love.
One caveat folks, try not to recycle relationships. Meaning, if it didn’t work after 2 tries, (one second chance allowable)it probably ain’t meant to be. Let it go. Ex sex is trouble. Toxic friends stay toxic if they haven’t gotten worse.  Drama is over rated!

We’d planned to spend a day in

Santa Cruz

to celebrate our 4^th
wedding anniversary. I had bought a new
red bikini which I hoped would be a hit. But that morning we awoke to miserable drizzle. Spent the day in

San Jose

instead, making computer scans of
our heads, e-mailing geneticists, and racing simulated wheelchairs at the Tech
museum.

Four months later – we decided to try again. Labor day was
nigh - ‘twas past due time to hit the beach. By the time we navigated highway 17 and shoehorned our way into parking-
We needed to feed ourselves. Standing in
front of Café Violeta, we stopped. Hmm. Gyros and onion rings sounded good to
P, and falafels beckoned me. A handsome
teen with sandy tousled, hair and gentle eyes took our orders. He reminded me
of Paul McCartney. 

A piece of paper was taped to the cash register. I chuckled and pointed it out to P. In marker, someone had crookedly written
“Thai Iced tea.”

“Are the owners Thai?” P burst out.

“Yeah,’ said the McCartney boy at the same time I had
muttered, “I doubt it.”

“Oh! In that case I want one!” I added. 

God knows I’ve learned never to order Thai iced tea anywhere
but a Thai establishment. We whipped our
heads around the premises and finally noticed the preponderance of Asians
working the grill, scooping ice cream. 
”That’s a man,” P said of the person at the grill.

S/he had an adrondgynous haircut, long for a guy, short for
a gal. Nondescript loose navy polo shirt. Pleasant features- a bit rough for a
woman, a bit rounded for a man.

“I don’t think so.” I said.  “She’s got a beautiful necklace on, definitely
Thai.”

It looked like the heavy, 24K jewelry P’s mum gave me at our
wedding. 

Above the navy shirt shone the thick gold necklace (you
can’t call it a chain when it’s almost a collar) with a golden, ornate puffed
heart dangling at the gender neutral throat. Who cares about gender so long as s/he can cook?

We at the windows, orange paint and white trim.

I love it. Mediterranean food and Thai iced tea and Turkish
coffee ice cream in the same establishment.

We ate overlooking the busy intersection. Cyclists.
Motorcycle groups. Families holding grandmas’ elbows and toddlers hands’ all
headed to the beach. Parents towing
plastic wagons loaded with children and beach chairs.

“Too bad Asian parents don’t really spend this kind of time
together.” P said.

There were some Asian families there, but not many. P said that his mum’s adverse relationship to
sand rendered beachgoing an uncommon childhood activity. My parents sent me to swim school a lot but I’ll
be damned if one could get them ever into a swimsuit to take us to the
beach. Besides, we lived all my life in

N. Cal

.

Dad did take me to the beach a lot-but it was to watch
hangliders or throw rocks only since the water was so damned cold our feet went
numb instantly the one time we tried to wade in. Half Moon Bay and that little
sandy cove by

Daly City

were great for explorations but it was permanently shrouded in fog.

Finishing off the falafel, I glanced out our window and
noticed a nice Asian family. Parents in
sporty clothes, 3 children wearing shorts, all headed for the beach to sit
awhile. How nice, I thought, they
disprove P’s theory…

Then I saw it.
The oldest daughter looked about 15 years old. She had that cute, gangly look of a gal just
starting to grow into her new young body. Tucked firmly under her arm was the
beach reading material of Asian choice: The SAT Vocabulary Workbook. 

While everyone else is reading a mystery or romance
paperback on the beach our young sister is cramming her way into a good college
like we’ve all been so trained to do…

Took mum to See

Jersey

Boys
last night & I’ve got massive Frankie Valli and the four Seasons on the
brain.  I sound like such a geezer, but seriously, we ain’t got much music like that
these days.  What passes for song writing these days is sheer monotony,
and there are few entertainers who can pass the acapella/ no re-mix, no –lip sync
test. Valli was no handsome beefcake, and
that uneducated

Jersey

pedigree nothing to
write home about, but those songs were so catchy, the voice so original and
clear, the lyrics identifiable with the hearts of millions.

We came bopping out of the theater to the tune of big hits like
"Sherry", "Oh, What a night", "Big Girls Don’t
Cry" and "Walk like a Man".  Woke up this morning to P
singing a snippet of "You’re too good to be true"…Hmm. I imagine my
disposition in life in general would be much more pleasant if each morn were so
musical.  Heck, everyone could use a dose of that song and sentiment in their lives.   Alas, it’s a work day and he’s dashing off to techieland, affection has to
be packed along for him in organic cantaloupes and whole foods sandwiches.

But one song that haunts my head is “My Eyes Adored you”.
There’s a place in all our heads haunted by the loves that never bloomed
anywhere, or died on the vine, no? The
melancholy and adoration of that song is sweet suffering…
I had to take a break from my research on mental health
stuff (lest I become depressed myself a the disjointedness of the health care system), so I set off on Youtube to find it. Of course Valli was on on the guy in an age
where folks didn’t make glossy videos for every hit. What I found was a hilarious mishmash of
homemade videos. People like me who loved the song made their own video versions featuring: Ugly Betty & Henry, Pacey and what’s her face from

Dawson

’s Creek, Some
Pilipino Soap stars (featuring an 85 lb. woman who’s supposedly S.W.A.T.
riiiiiiight), the one sung on the Grease casting reality show (You’re the one
that I want) and my personal totally odd fave: one featuring Captain Janeway
from Star Trek
http://youtube.com/watch?v=08Kty21IPTs&mode=related&search=

Rock on Frankie. Four seasons music crosses cultural boundaries all the way into outer space onto the Starship…

I saw a truck on 880 - "Shorty’s Meat Co. & Catering". Hmm. Would I ever hire a meat company for a caterer? Maybe if it was some kinda cro-magnon, hunk ‘o meat BBQ event…but then why would I want a caterer rather than have guest hunt stuff down themselves? "BYOC-Bring your own catch" or maybe "BYOK - Bring your own kill" Not sure if that kinda party would catch on.
But I like Shorty- he’s got a sense of humor that made my drive.
Under the smiley cow cartoon it read: "No mad Cows, only Happy Cows" and better yet, as I passed him I noticed a second slogan:
"You may beat my prices, but you can’t beat my meat."
Priceless.

last night discovered Hobnob in Alameda. Yet another one of the 150 or so
very cool businesses that have opened there AFTER I moved away, in line with Murphy’s Law. "American tapas" it said. What, pray tell, is an American tapas joint? Well, it’s a roomy place around the corner from the yoga studio I attend, and U can get miniature burgers, teeny carrot cupcakes, giant truffle oil french fries and artichokes with aioli (not quite as good as Newsroom in L.A. but the closest I’ve had in N. Cal.).  The Pear drop cocktail and Sunday brunch "Bloody Mary bar" sounded SO excellent. Alas, I don’t drink post-yoga nor pre-drive home, and my dining and yoga partner is pregnant so I can’t mooch a sip of her either- so the alcohol sampling will have to be another night…but there is Connect Four at almost every table and a rack full of other board games for your inner child.

Stopped at whole foods today for the usual staple goods, then noticed little flags on items in the deli case that read: Rosh Hashanah - September 13.
HEY! Rock on, that means potato latkes and noodle kugels!!
I mean, my apologies, I know it actually means  "La Shanah Tova", Happy new year to all. But I am no expert on this, for the proper info please consult Judaism 101 (yes, it is a real website, a spiffy one at that).
But for me, a Jewish holiday means nifty stuff at Whole foods one can’t get all year.
Kugel is a very Jewish thing, yet it always reminds me of my year at La familia, when we had rotating brunch responsibilities to make or 5-6 hour trainings and meetings tolerable.  That year everyone made or bought things from their home cultures and it’s given me so many pleasant memories about great people bringing new foods.  Kugel was a huge hit.  We made her bring the recipe. We almost had a heart attack merely by reading how much butter and ricotta was in that thing!
So I never made kugel at home. For the same reason I don’t make rice krispie treats at home or cream cheese cake icing, though I know how to make all these things; I don’t do it since I will consume about 85% of the batch myself, and even if by some miracle I didn’t, P would accuse me of plotting to fatten him up as he constantly does. What am I- the little old witch trying to fatten up Hansel and Gretel  properly before I eat them?

I’m off. Taking mum to Lark Creek Steak and then to see Jersey Boys…