H. Hsu Word Salad

Artist Chris Jordan has used small tangible items to construct visual representations of everyday aspects of our American lives.  He calls it "An American Self Portrait".
It renders stuff that is impossibly difficult to calculate in our heads (the number of dollars for one hour of war, the thousands of children with no health care as well as the thousands of breast implansts in this great land). It’s weirdly beautiful, and totally overwhelming.
For example, the very idea that 32,000 women purchase potentially harmful, definitely painful, breast augmentation EVERY month while something like 9 million children survive without basic health insurance is obscene. Seriously, where are our priorities?! Have we forgotten, against all evolutionary sense, that breasts are for nurturing life, that they are living tissue not decor to be remodeled (whilst using resources that could go to needy children?
Then there are the photo collages of aluminum cans used per second or paper bags and airplane cups…I’d say about a third to a half of the time I go out, I remember to bring my reusable canvas grocery bags or bring tupperware for take out.  I am a fanatical recycler who will carry recyclables on my person until I find the proper receptacle.  But gazing at the endless, slinky lines of disposable cups in his photos, I get the sinking feeling that this ship has already been sunk in excess.

http://www.chrisjordan.com/current_set2.php

One of my interns sent the news article discussing how the United States now incarcerates about 1 out of every 100 people here, the highest ratio in the world (and we’re the "land of the free"??). Goodness we have enough people in the clink to create another small country. Hmm. Sorry, Australia is already taken…
Anyways, the Chris Jordan prison uniform piece is illustrative of this.

Ah art, not just to be aesthetically pleasing (although these works are that), but to make you feel, help one think…

http://www.chrisjordan.com/

Tucked within a homely Asian dominated strip mall in modest Milpitas, is Bleu Ginger.  Yes indeedy, a San Francisco caliber dining establishment nestled within our ‘burbs.  Tired looking Abel plaza holds a gem of an establishment.
You can park in this tacky little strip mall, with its tight squeeze parking spaces.  You may, as we did, venture into the Indian grocery store for cheap Palak Paneer, fake henna tattoos,and spicy Indian cheeto-like snacks.
Then the heavy glass doors of Bleu Ginger open, and it’s a sanctuary.  Muted, artful glass lighting, hostess in a slinky silk ao dai, bamboo and orchid all over.  There’s a stage where jazz artists perform on Friday and Saturday evenings.
And the food?
Appetizers included shitake spring rolls, and deep fried taro rolls for the vegetarians.  For carnivores, duck spring rolls and crab cakes with cool aoli.  After a day of bouncing around like maniacs, we all felt like we were on sea legs, hence, no boozing.  Didn’t get to sample the pomengranate martinis or "Interesting Reds" wine list.
Dinner entrees were consistently FABULOUS.  Strawberry rack of lamb over mashed taro and julienned veggies at the ideal intersection of tender yet crisp. Sea bass 2 ways, either carmelized over bok choy, or wrapped in an origami of banana leaf and steamed with glass noodles.  Passion fruit glazed pork chops with daikon cake.  Niman Ranch steak with yam fries. Shitake and portabello ravioli in tomato cream sauce.  Duck and edamame fried rice served in a "package" made of fresh egg crepe.
Being Asian, the minute our plates were set down, we all set upon them with knives to carve little bite sized sharing bits for all our neighbors.
As I attempted to be graceful in hacking lamb off the bone, small servings of sea bass, pork chop, and steak materialized on my plate rim. Times like this I am SO thankful we were all raised eatin’ family style.
Some of our post bounce party had to depart for the Contra Costa Chamber orchestra performance, featuring our friend KE,(that’s MR. Concermaster to you).  Those of who remained, just had to sample the dessert menu.
We were not dissapointed.  Mango Panna cotta with fresh fruit. Molten chocolate cake, caramel chocolate pyramid dusted with cocoa, Vietnamese coffee creme brulee, Paradiso tropical mousse sponge cake. Yummy indeed.  Not a single note too sweet, nor too bland. No one was being polite here-not a speck was wasted or left over on any of those plates.
This meal was manna for those of us who normally have to endure the mediocre selections of suburbia.  Bleu Ginger is the antidote to wanna be Mexican food, wimpy pasta, greasy cheap Asian food, and those endless damned chains that dominate my home city.
Next time you deserve an upscale dining experience at the end of a dreary work week, in the midst of a workday (they serve lunch as well), or to take refuge from the (Not-So-) Great Mall:

http://www.bleuginger.com/index.html

Every birthday I like to haul friends with me to some kind of active play.  But February is always a crap weather month to even attempt an outdoor event.  Such as my Saturday morning run with B this week, which was rained out.
Some years ago I had a birthday party at City Beach featuring basketball and indoor rock climbing.  This year, P mentioned that they took my Oyster teammate TK for some male bonding via a bachelor party outing. 
"We’re actually not doing go-karts, he reported that night, we’re playing dodgeball…trampoline dodgeball."
I flashed back instantly to windy Daly City playgrounds, running like maniacs on the blacktop and catching playground balls squarely in the chest with a satisfying "Boom!" before hurling right back at classmates.  I made a mental note to self - gotta try that sometime. 
Thus, today a bunch of us thirty-somethings stood in the crayola blue lobby of Sky High Santa Clara and prepared to regress to elementary school.  We tittered as the teenager yelled rules out to us: "NO profanity, NO double-bouncing, No chewing gum, No cell phones or cameras…"  I fueled up on Inteligentsia coffee.  Friends shared Advil.  P massaged my knotted neck. Good lord, could a bunch of overworked Silicon valley adults survive this place?  Kids scampered around, and literally bounced off of trampoline covered walls.  We pestered P jokingly for Dippin’ Dots. Put our big purses in the lockers.  Several of our men had brought gym bags and changed into serious sweats…and the game was on.
My first impression: Dang. Takes a bit ‘o quad strength to bounce on these giant trampolines!  This is much more of a work out than it seems!
Next: it takes only 2 minutes for us to regress to elementary school and start winding up balls and pelting them at people…and yes, we had no qualms about aiming at the children.  After all, they had no reservations at all about throwing balls at our big ‘ol bodies.  It as a total crack up to listen to the children organize themselves against us "that guy there throws really hard" ,"let’s all throw at the guy in the hat at the same time."
Within the next 2 hours, we all earned some serious sweat, and while taking breathers from flying, bouncing, dodging, I hooted and hollered at my compadres.  As they tripped over little girls. Ganged up on opponents in hails of red and blue balls. Talked smack.   Crowed with horrified glee as we took out 8 yr olds and they took us down too.
We realized we could perform near split jumps on the huge trampolines, feigning a level of cheerleading worthy fitness.  I once found myself sole survivor on my side of the dodgeball game, throwing balls out in trios, hollering "what kind of game is this!?"
After an hour and a half, we were (if not for our size) I dare say indistinguishable from the munchkins.  The teens were targeting us, and we were after them too.  We’d share balls, handing them to little ones so they had a chance to throw, and not aim for their heads…but other body parts were fair game.
One loquacious blue eyed boy chatted us all up, helpfully informing us that birthday cake was being served.  We explained that our cake would come after dinner, and inquired as to his friends’ cake. We got a report from a future foodie, "Well, she’s my sisters’ friend, it was a red velvet cake. AND it was decorated with a line of reese’s pieces down one side. AND it had like those red licorice trim, like the BIG ones, very chewy, I’m chewing one right now, AND I got a corner slice so I got extra candy…"
"So basically," I said, "you’re totally amped on sugar right now and ready to bounce off the walls in there?"  His response was a wild eyed grin, and he cut ahead of us in line.
Our 5 year old niece avoided the total bedlam of the dodgeball court, but entertained herself spinning and bouncing in the foam pit room. And, lo and behold - her parents entered the game and endured ball assailment with great cheer.
2 hours later, we were breathless, sweaty messes with giant grins.  A high point of my day was our friend V, whom we initially had to practically force into the pit exclaiming "That was fun!! What a great idea!"
We exchanged dodgeball stories from childhood, the same crazy, easy game-from all our hometowns. In Kentucky, Ohio, Orange county, Georgia, L.A….all the same prep for this nutty, bouncy, 8 balls flying simultaneously game.
One friends’ smiling, parting comment:
"We’re still young."
And off we headed to a lovely, fancy dining establishment for dinner-hungry as wolves and disheveled as all get out.  What can be better?! We’re young enough to fly through the air and pummel strangers and friends, but old enough to own credit cards, wave wine bottles around at Sky High, and dine at Bleu Ginger.
Muchas Gracias, Amigos. Re-match, anytime.

P notes that meatloaf is the much-maligned subject of many a sitcom complaint. As in, "Oh no, meatloaf again?"  Yet for an immigrant like me, American style meatloaf has always been a rather unusual treat. Almost exotic really. 
Never, ever did my parents prepare a drippy, ketchupy, BBQish slab of cow bits.  It was something only to be obtained at professional sandwich shop.  Or, it would appear on certain menus, always accompanied by mashed potatoes and a pool of gravy.  Like other junky Americana food (think Mac n Cheese or Spaghetti-O’s) meatloaf (and it’s messier cousin, Sloppy Joe) made my mouth water as a kid.  It was stuff we feasted upon maybe a handful of times per year, like grape soda, grilled cheese, tacos. All stuff my parents did not appreciate.   
Apparently angel food cake, Sara lee pound cake and cheesecake, rice pudding, fried and rotisserie chicken, string cheese, Enlgish muffins, split pea soup, New England clam chowder, and BBQ ribs DID overwhelmingly pass the Chinese parent approval test.  Mom never fancied spaghetti, but pasta shaped like seashells became a fave.  Dad forbade fruit loops and gatorade in the house, but made up for it by introducing us to French and Danish cheese.  I am not sure if my Dad has ever set foot inside a Taco bell to this day, but he did bring Ben and I to the Mission in San Francisco for the best carnitas and burritos in the region, followed by those fabulous Mexican popsicles Sandia? Pina?Fresa? Todas bien.
Fast forward 28 years or so, and the only lonely cans of soda in our house are to appease guests.  After glutting on cheap grayish meatloaf in delis and residence halls for years, I had sworn off it again, basically forgotten it existed.  Who eats meatloaf when there are tofu pad thais, lobster ravioli, pear salads, and honeyed ribs to be made?  Korean stews and gumbo to be bought.  Who eats meatloaf when living as a vegetarian (as I once was)?
P’s friend makes a mean, muy popular meatloaf that  he brought to some of our picnic parties.  But it is practically the size of a human toddler and bathed in enough honey and BBQ sauce as to almost qualify as a high protein dessert rather than an entree.  Damn, it’s good. But I bet insects and garden mulch would taste real good with BBQ sauce ‘n honey too.
Recently I was flipping through Men’s health, hoping it would inspire me to get all buff for the looming spring race season.  I noticed the ABS Diet recommending a recipe for a healthier meatloaf. Hmmm. That looks good…replace the cheap ground beef with superior lean and half with ground turkey. Instead of white bread crumbs use oatmeal or whole grain crackers. Toss in some eggs and herbs - voila! Lean protein with fiber (one can even hide some ground flaxseed in there).
As I mixed all the stuff together, I meditated on food. On mad cow. Back to food…remembering that mom used to make a Chinese "meat pie."  In a round steel pan she’d mix ground pork with scallions, ginger, wine, season it simply and steam it solid in the rice cooker.  Nothing at all like the red, baked, loaf shaped things from American establishments..but fragrant, simply yummy alongside one’s rice and veggies.
Tonight’s Abs diet inspired meatloaf dinner was more turkey than cow, partially organic and free range, and baked in the oven within a muffin pan.  This reduces the baking time, but also produced a dozen cup like mini-meatloafs to sit neatly beside the beet salad.
Now if only I could come up with a simple way to make Mom’s exquisite "Pearl style meat balls"…

January 2008 found me having some deep conversations with my Dad.  Grandma and Uncle had just passed away, and he wanted to talk about his wishes for when his time would come. Heavy talk, but an important one that we know must be had while we are all still cognitively clear.  We discussed neccessary details with grim efficiency. Practical. Calm.
Then he perks up, "hey, did you know that you aren’t allowed to donate your body to science and donate organs too?"
Apparently when he thought he might die in Berlin back in the 90’s, he had asked to be donated twice, and was chagrined to find that was not an option.
"They told me that if you donate the body to science for medical school or whatever you have to be entirely whole. Huh, Isn’t that a bummer? Ya can’t donate organs if you want to go to medical school or university as a cadaver. Bet you didn’t know that."
I had to smile to myself. Oh, Dad.  Surely most normal people would be mortified at such conversations, but apparently I get this from you.  Always directing P to make sure my organs are donated even though that damned pink dot keeps slipping off my ID card & even though my mum is much against the idea.
When we were vacationing in Cambodia-I noticed the sign at the children’s hospital
" Severe hemaroaghic dengue - please donate blood".
Looking at the sign, I said, "I want to donate blood here." P looked at me and didn’t bother to reply. Nor did any of my vacation companions.  I considered pressing the issue, but decided that making everyone else take our vacation vehicle and time for the purposes of my donation would probably be viewed as "not fun" and slightly creepy.
Last week I made cheery plans to attend the See Jane Run blood drive. How fantastic, my favorite women’s sporty store was handing out free shirts to donors. I made plans to give my pint ‘o red and then go refill with a Barney Burger and maybe a mocha milkshake.  But upon calling blood Center of the Pacific, I was informed that my blood is quarantined.
"Really!?"
"Sorry. did you go anywhere in Cambodia outside of the capital?" the operator asked.
"Uhm, well…" I thought about lying.
Decided that was bad form.""Actually we didn’t go to the capital at all, I was at Angkor Wat."
"When did you return to the U.S.?"
"January 11th"
As a regular donor they have me in their computer system. I was informed that a note would be entered on my file.
"We’ll call you to come  back sometime around January 8 next  year."
So there you  have it. Dad and I both miffed that we aren’t allowed to violate bodily integrity for the benefit of our fellow humans.

Lunar New Year has begun, as of last Thursday. I look at my clients & students, and prod
them for goals and outlines. Not rigid, slave-driving ones, but a sketch of
what WILL be accomplished in this next 366 day cycle. Yes indeedy, we even get a
bonus day.

One little experiment, is that I am swearing off retail therapy, or at least
apparel therapy for the year. If you must ask what retail therapy is, you
obviously haven’t done it. It’s the
little mood lift one obtains from buying the new jacket, shiny gadget, sparkly
earrings. The trouble is that retail
therapy grows faint, or worse, sour, in your mouth soon after the initial
thrill. It’s not much different than the binge drinker (liquid therapy, make
mine a Grey Goose and tonic) or compulsive gambler who enjoyed some hours of “Whoo-Hoo”-but
wakes up to the mother of depression and remorse the next day.

At least shopping for a new cute dress won’t land one in the creditor’s
hitlist, into a gutter, paddy wagon, or stranger’s bed the way liquid/gambling
might…but still. After ruminating over
the families I have visited in Nicaragua and Cambodia,
I realized something had to be done about my exploding closets. I had to increase the steps I had been taking
to reduce/re-use/recycle. Sure, the past
two years I co-hosted numerous clothing-exchange parties. I sold things at
Buffalo Exchange and I donated countless bags of stuff and dollars to my favorite
charities.

This year, I decided it was time to be more mindful. I pride myself on being a bargain shopper,
but the fact is that I indulge in retail therapy excessively. Embarrassingly
so. Bad day? Let’s get a new top. Bored and stressed off my ass? Hmm. Good time
for a new dress. Unmotivated? New
swimsuit or yoga gear may do the trick. I almost never pay full retail for anything…but that cute sun dress could
have fed a family for a week. These two
sweaters are practically indistinguishable. That new suit has sat in the closet with tags on for months now that my
mood funk passed.

So, a simple experiment/vow. No new clothes shopping for me this year. At
all.

The exceptions? (yes, there are
exceptions, this isn’t some kinda religious endeavor). Shoes and undergarments
are allowed if needed because come on, one can not compromise there. If I need new running shoes that can not wait
‘til next year. I can buy, of course, a
bridesmaid dress as duty calls this year. But otherwise I am to resist the siren call of Nordstrom, Marshall’s,
even REI. I will learn to sit and
tolerate my boredom or dissatisfaction without wandering into a soothing forest
of garment rounders, whilst being lulled via Muzak.

Heck, the best part about
this is that I should wind up with a net gain of time for reading &
running; as well as and money for living & donating. I’ve read 3 novels in like the last month already. So perhaps consuming less this year will result in a better-read Helen.

My Sweetheart once joked about going “Butt-wild Nekked”. Which was doubly
hilarious because she is such a sweet, anti-GirlsGoneWild kinda woman. I like how the term brings to my mind a
certain sense of exuberance.

Who needs
clothes? Who am I without all these fashionable props? Why am I so lame and brainwashed that I feel
like a (less confident) different person on days without my cosmetics and the
right outfit.  In reality the most
present and free I have felt in all my days were in actual Butt wild naked
moments (no, not like THAT ya damn perverts. Lovemaking is off the topic here. I refer to my 2 skinny dipping
expeditions in heart-stopping snowmelt accompanied only by strong, funny, and
smart womynfolk).

Pish-pah with all that. I own enough
clothing right now to keep me not-nekked for a good 5 or more years. A few days into this experiment, I am already
surprised at how frequently I am being tempted. Each Sunday I look through the paper, and I think, “Oh, cute, I should swing
my Macy’s and get one of those…” My e-mail flashes pictures of hip women in
their new spring gear. I think of
Valentine’s day and plan to go buy a new dress for date night-‘til I remember
the pact.  As consumers, we truly do live
within a constant deluge.

My office spouse gave me a birthday
gift today- a yoga top and yoga stretch Capri
pants! Yay! I smile. P looks at me. “Isn’t it cheating if people give you
clothes?” I say no. So long as I don’t go around asking them to give me
clothes. Besides, who in their right
mind (besides someone who knows me as well as my office spouse and sweetheart) would
buy me clothes anyway? The only no –fail
gifts for me are either a donation to a better world, or anything that
originates from a bakery or bookstore! Besides, the best part of the gift was the warm-hearted writing within
the greeting card. (and muchissimo
gracias again to my sweetheart for that gorgeous, delicious tiramisu, sculpted
chocolate surprise! You are the bomb.) 

I am not ballsy enough to join the Freegans or the Compact. But this is a baby step toward there…

The Compact:

http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=/c/a/2006/02/13/BAGH3H7DH71.DTL

Freeganism:

http://freegan.info/