sữa mẹ dúng:
mother's milk is like
dúng trái cam like oranges
dúng trái dâulike strawberries
dúng sà láchlike lettuce
dúng cà rêmlike ice cream
Showing posts with label childhood. Show all posts
Showing posts with label childhood. Show all posts
Friday, March 4, 2011
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
growing pains
Babies are very smart and every thing they do has developmental purpose.
Having an experienced family chiropractor who worked with pregnant women and babies was my maternal salvation from the first time parent anxiety. My chiro mentioned to me how much the cranial plates shift in the first few years as babies' heads make fantastical growth. Sometimes, the cranial plates get a little stuck.
Ever notice how one eye seems smaller than the other at times? It's because the cranial plates near the ear of the smaller eye are a little stuck. Creating pressure in the cranium helps to alleviate the pressure and move the plates--so breastfeeding/nursing/sucking is physiologically and developmentally critical for babies in their cranial development. Sometimes when cranial plates get stuck and sucking doesn't help, the pressure of those cranial "growing pains" causes them to bang their heads or suck on random things or other "odd" repetitive behavior that the medical profession dismisses as phases or meaningless. So headbanging can sometimes help get the cranial plates get unstuck as a last (frustrated) resort.
Teething can also cause similar behavior. If you have access to a craniosacral therapy (chiropractor or massage therapist) it is very gentle and can really help babies to transition through all those growing pains without banging their heads in frustration. I highly recommend going at least once with your infant and asking them to show you how to do some of the techniques if you can't afford to go alot.
If you don't have access to craniosacral therapy, try giving her/him a light scalp/cranial massage. Feel for the grooves between the cranial plates above the ears, around the fontanelle (soft spot in back of head) and with your two thumbs gently gently move them apart. It won't feel like anything is happening or actually moving, but can help get it unstuck. Letting baby suck on something while you do this helps baby to move those cranial plates. I would do this while breastfeeding. There are other specialized techniques as well (like the ear tugging thing which I've been shown how to do but don't really know how to do so I leave it to the trained expert).
Having an experienced family chiropractor who worked with pregnant women and babies was my maternal salvation from the first time parent anxiety. My chiro mentioned to me how much the cranial plates shift in the first few years as babies' heads make fantastical growth. Sometimes, the cranial plates get a little stuck.
Ever notice how one eye seems smaller than the other at times? It's because the cranial plates near the ear of the smaller eye are a little stuck. Creating pressure in the cranium helps to alleviate the pressure and move the plates--so breastfeeding/nursing/suck
Teething can also cause similar behavior. If you have access to a craniosacral therapy (chiropractor or massage therapist) it is very gentle and can really help babies to transition through all those growing pains without banging their heads in frustration. I highly recommend going at least once with your infant and asking them to show you how to do some of the techniques if you can't afford to go alot.
If you don't have access to craniosacral therapy, try giving her/him a light scalp/cranial massage. Feel for the grooves between the cranial plates above the ears, around the fontanelle (soft spot in back of head) and with your two thumbs gently gently move them apart. It won't feel like anything is happening or actually moving, but can help get it unstuck. Letting baby suck on something while you do this helps baby to move those cranial plates. I would do this while breastfeeding. There are other specialized techniques as well (like the ear tugging thing which I've been shown how to do but don't really know how to do so I leave it to the trained expert).
Sunday, June 15, 2008
father's day
father's day has always been something of a mystery to me.
my first memory of father's day is in the kindergarten because school is where one acculturates to holidays when you come from an immigrant family. my parents had just separated and mom & us kids had moved to the mainland from honolulu before the school year started to be closer to my maternal grandparents and motley aunties, uncles, cousins, malteses, zebra finches & seahorses crammed into a three-bedroom across the street. mom was working in a factory job. i played store with food stamps. i had hot cocoa for the first time and burnt my tongue. and i think my dad was going to visit us that summer. my teacher was Mrs. Alexander and at that time, single mothers were still very uncommon. for father's day Ms. Alexander had us twist two strands of yarn around a wire hanger to make a padded hanger for our fathers. well, i chose green & black. camouflage colors. for the jungle. because my dad was in the army. and a whole lot of jumbled things about international politics, smuggled black & white documentaries, war, patriotism, and sacrifice that my 6-year-old brain could wrap itself around. i vaguely remember explaining this to Mrs. Alexander and her assistant. i also faintly remember Mrs. Alexander coming to a home visit with mom though the timing isn't clear and me having some trepidation about it as i played on rusty-nail planks in the backyard of our first apartment on Reynard Way. i know that since that time it was verboten to mention my father for various reasons. i didn't stay long at that school.
i don't know what happened to that hanger. our inheritance consisted of abstruse heartaches and a couple of briefcases of scattered contents that we siblings have secretly pilfered over the years. my brother has the flag; my sister the passport; myself the news clippings. i remember seeing only one token of father's day in there. a construction paper card from my sister that resembled a button-up shirt & tie--the quintessential symbol of a white white-collar father. i guess elementary school indoctrinates kids to be upwardly mobile (teleology of the nation-state blah blah). our father went bare-chested, he wore aloha shirts, tight butterfly blue-collars, formal khaki guayaberas, bộ áo bà ba đen with hierarchically-knotted keffiyeh, and camouflage.
so since my dad was an ocean away, father's day has been rather disconnected and enigmatic to me though i did learn rather quickly and shrewdly how the refugee-single-mom-absentee-dad thing garnered lots of sympathy partic when i flaked on some homework (see bright but does not apply herself for more on that.) my friend's fathers and their relationship to them were all intimidating, baffling, and inexplicable to me.
of course, i make an effort on father's day for my stepdad; at least, i have since i stopped being angry at the world for my laissez faire-latch key childhood and angsty adolesence, ceased being resentful that he wasn't my real father, and finally accepted the unconditional love he always gave us kids (i'm probably the only person who got all misty-eyed when phillip "he's not my father"stepfather became a zombie in Shaun of the Dead. that scene gets me everytime.) still, it is an effort, not burdensome mind you, but something that doesn't come easily to me, like a favored ballad that i can only hum and sing the chorus and occasional odd word or lyric. perhaps i still take him for granted.
so this father's day is the first that i have felt freed of all those past memories, forgotten memories, and lack of memories. the first that i have felt the simple gratitude and love that makes this a holiday. and all for my daughter's father. it is said that having children is healing; through them you remember the magical wonder in Life and through them you re-live your past hurts and hopefully learn, and forgive, and heal. and so, this is the first father's day that i know what it is to feel gratitude for a father, to have a loving, engaged, and present father. one who stays up til the wee hours cooking & cleaning that i may be with our child.
thank you, my love.
my first memory of father's day is in the kindergarten because school is where one acculturates to holidays when you come from an immigrant family. my parents had just separated and mom & us kids had moved to the mainland from honolulu before the school year started to be closer to my maternal grandparents and motley aunties, uncles, cousins, malteses, zebra finches & seahorses crammed into a three-bedroom across the street. mom was working in a factory job. i played store with food stamps. i had hot cocoa for the first time and burnt my tongue. and i think my dad was going to visit us that summer. my teacher was Mrs. Alexander and at that time, single mothers were still very uncommon. for father's day Ms. Alexander had us twist two strands of yarn around a wire hanger to make a padded hanger for our fathers. well, i chose green & black. camouflage colors. for the jungle. because my dad was in the army. and a whole lot of jumbled things about international politics, smuggled black & white documentaries, war, patriotism, and sacrifice that my 6-year-old brain could wrap itself around. i vaguely remember explaining this to Mrs. Alexander and her assistant. i also faintly remember Mrs. Alexander coming to a home visit with mom though the timing isn't clear and me having some trepidation about it as i played on rusty-nail planks in the backyard of our first apartment on Reynard Way. i know that since that time it was verboten to mention my father for various reasons. i didn't stay long at that school.
i don't know what happened to that hanger. our inheritance consisted of abstruse heartaches and a couple of briefcases of scattered contents that we siblings have secretly pilfered over the years. my brother has the flag; my sister the passport; myself the news clippings. i remember seeing only one token of father's day in there. a construction paper card from my sister that resembled a button-up shirt & tie--the quintessential symbol of a white white-collar father. i guess elementary school indoctrinates kids to be upwardly mobile (teleology of the nation-state blah blah). our father went bare-chested, he wore aloha shirts, tight butterfly blue-collars, formal khaki guayaberas, bộ áo bà ba đen with hierarchically-knotted keffiyeh, and camouflage.
so since my dad was an ocean away, father's day has been rather disconnected and enigmatic to me though i did learn rather quickly and shrewdly how the refugee-single-mom-absentee-dad thing garnered lots of sympathy partic when i flaked on some homework (see bright but does not apply herself for more on that.) my friend's fathers and their relationship to them were all intimidating, baffling, and inexplicable to me.
of course, i make an effort on father's day for my stepdad; at least, i have since i stopped being angry at the world for my laissez faire-latch key childhood and angsty adolesence, ceased being resentful that he wasn't my real father, and finally accepted the unconditional love he always gave us kids (i'm probably the only person who got all misty-eyed when phillip "he's not my father"stepfather became a zombie in Shaun of the Dead. that scene gets me everytime.) still, it is an effort, not burdensome mind you, but something that doesn't come easily to me, like a favored ballad that i can only hum and sing the chorus and occasional odd word or lyric. perhaps i still take him for granted.
so this father's day is the first that i have felt freed of all those past memories, forgotten memories, and lack of memories. the first that i have felt the simple gratitude and love that makes this a holiday. and all for my daughter's father. it is said that having children is healing; through them you remember the magical wonder in Life and through them you re-live your past hurts and hopefully learn, and forgive, and heal. and so, this is the first father's day that i know what it is to feel gratitude for a father, to have a loving, engaged, and present father. one who stays up til the wee hours cooking & cleaning that i may be with our child.
thank you, my love.
Wednesday, January 2, 2008
silly games to whilst away
when i was just a little girl, my sis, cousines & i would make up satirical skits and perform them for the phamily or just for ourselves, especially the ones with foul language. A-S-S. oh and "slut makeup." think judy blume meets wierd al yankovic meets saturday night live.
this propensity to parody manifested in my successful, albeit brief moonlight run as a playwright in high school. my one act, tongue-in-cheek comedy "on the side" was a hit at the high school variety show and made it as far as the citywide performances. it had a lifespan briefer than my thespianism (i have a Best Actress "Oscar" to show for that though. actually my mom does. along with all my diplomas and report cards.)
last night, wakeful from one on my wee hour weez, i thought up a fun parody for a PSA and thought it'd be just the thing to fill up space. see if you can guess which commercial i plagiarized. the first person to guess wins a Sock Blocker(TM)--a draft preventing sock filled with that awful dry-supposedly-jasmine-but-really-long-grain-brown-rice-that-i-didn't-like-the-taste-of-but-have-20-lbs-of mixed with lavender. mmm.
SCENE 1
A pregnant woman late in her third trimester sits on the pottery barn couch next to her dude. They are the picture of suburban domestic bliss. She is watching a TV offscreen.
Cut to DUDE getting behind the wheel of his car when his cell phone rings. He answers.
Cut to PREGGO opening the bag and pulling out a stack of bestseller books--mystery, thrillers, literature.
Cut to title
this propensity to parody manifested in my successful, albeit brief moonlight run as a playwright in high school. my one act, tongue-in-cheek comedy "on the side" was a hit at the high school variety show and made it as far as the citywide performances. it had a lifespan briefer than my thespianism (i have a Best Actress "Oscar" to show for that though. actually my mom does. along with all my diplomas and report cards.)
last night, wakeful from one on my wee hour weez, i thought up a fun parody for a PSA and thought it'd be just the thing to fill up space. see if you can guess which commercial i plagiarized. the first person to guess wins a Sock Blocker(TM)--a draft preventing sock filled with that awful dry-supposedly-jasmine-but-really-long-grain-brown-rice-that-i-didn't-like-the-taste-of-but-have-20-lbs-of mixed with lavender. mmm.
SCENE 1
A pregnant woman late in her third trimester sits on the pottery barn couch next to her dude. They are the picture of suburban domestic bliss. She is watching a TV offscreen.
PREGNANT LADY: (pensively) hmmm... i want something... savory...At this, DUDE promptly gets up and dons a baseball cap. He is a man on a quest. He pauses as she adds additional descriptors of her whimsical cravings.
PREGGO: and salty... and juicy.He pauses on cue and waits for her tone of finality before valiantly heading off into the night.
Cut to DUDE getting behind the wheel of his car when his cell phone rings. He answers.
PREGGO: and meaty.DUDE groans perplexed. Cut to DUDE happily getting his card back from the worker at a counter and carrying away a bag of goodies.
Cut to PREGGO opening the bag and pulling out a stack of bestseller books--mystery, thrillers, literature.
Cut to title
Think Inside the Book
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
profundity
there are two valuable lessons i have learned over the decades upon entering the real contradictory grown-up world that requires one to wear non-wrinkled clothing and simultaneously textiles that encourage wrinkles. so i thought i would share them for your enlightenment.
1. Don't iron naked.
2. Don't iron clothes while you are wearing them.
there are other rules doubtless like "don't iron on the $1.99/sf cheap carpeting" (it melts). but these above are far more significant.
and if you do ever happen to ignore those rules, Traumeel homeopathic cream will heal without blistering.
1. Don't iron naked.
2. Don't iron clothes while you are wearing them.
there are other rules doubtless like "don't iron on the $1.99/sf cheap carpeting" (it melts). but these above are far more significant.
and if you do ever happen to ignore those rules, Traumeel homeopathic cream will heal without blistering.
Monday, September 10, 2007
robotech is dead
nonono! they are bringing 80s classic anime Robotech to the silver screen as a live action flick. starring Tobey Maguire. so sorry, this is not a joke. the Rick Hunter-Minmei-Lisa Hayes love triangle will be played out by (unpudgified and unsexy) Tobey, an underage overly sexualized barbie ingenue and a overly serious and sexually repressed brunette starlet.
Another winter day
Another grey reminder that what used to be
Has gone away.
It's really hard to see
How long we have to live with our insanity.
Another winter day
Another grey reminder that what used to be
Has gone away.
It's really hard to see
How long we have to live with our insanity.
We have to pay for all we use,
We never think before we light the fuse.
Look up! Look up! Look up!
The sky is falling.
Look up! There's something that
You have to do.
Before you try to go outside
To take in the view,
Look up because the sky
Could fall on you.
Sunday, September 9, 2007
fifteen
i was a trifle disconcerted last month by the idea, but discussing with our midwife Selena my moon cycle journal, LMP, spin, factoring in my bà ngoại's stroke, the womb blessing, my emotional/spiritual state at the probable times of ovulation & conception, and the location of my fundus (top of the uterus), i'm not as far along as previously thought. it had thrown me for a loop earlier because i had gotten so invested in the progressive week-by-week pregnancy/baby descriptions. i surprised myself how much of the pregnancy i was still externalizing to some western "authoritative" scientific text in spite of eschewing at least some of the unnecessary interventions of technology. shows you how much we internalize the western production of knowledge and the cartesian body-mind binary. i do have a cerebral tendency. earlier this year, i saw my sister's acupuncturist-chiropractor Dr. Dawn and she diagnosed my pulse and told me that i live in my head too much. she also surmised that i was the youngest child, and independent/headstrong/slightly rebellious. that wasn't from my pulse though, that was from the tattoos.
so now we collectively estimate that i'm 15 weeks along, making our due date March 1st. (this means Liz, that i wasn't pregnant yet when we saw you at Yan's 100 days.) Selena suggested i consider continuing hypnotherapy with Nancy (herself a former midwife) since emotional state profoundly influences birth and Anabelle's anniversary may jumpstart or stall labor. but between my out-of-pocket costs--prenatal bellydancing, tai chi class, going to chiro, childbirth preparation class, baby CPR certification, acupuncture co-pays, maternity clothes (!) and compensating the midwife (who is worth so much more than we can afford)--we can't afford it.
though my Uterus has obligingly cooperated by moving to the center of my abdomen, off of my herniated disk/sciatic nerve, she still is tilted way back. Selena palpated and faintly heard/felt bé's heartbeat with a fetascope. i couldn't hear it for my own pulse and T. thought he might have heard/felt it too. so Selena lent us the fetascope to try at home til we hear it since i don't want to use the doppler (a smaller portable ultrasound device).
we met Sarah, our midwife's assistant and our childbirth prep instructor, and her 6 month old daughter Samaya and her husband Daoud (sp?), who is Cham Vietnamese. as it turns out, his sister works for a sister-organization of mine. small small world. have i mentioned how loving our midwife is? our birth team is coming together and it's comforting to feel the relationship is grounded in community.
last night, we hung out with T's family (ba mẹ mợ 2 má 4--just got here from VN again--anh chị họ) and i was happy to confirm that chị Trinh, his cousin Hoàng's spouse, is very close to me in pregnancy. yay! somemama to share with! she's 17 weeks along and her due date is mid-February. we traded some pregnancy stories. they recently moved from Union City to down the block from Trung's parents. in addition to having more family in walking distance, it helps to normalize pregnancy with his parents. there haven't been many babies in this generation just yet, just T's mini-me who is 10 now. so it was a happy time. and i got to hear lots of T. & siblings' babyhood stories and discovered the origins of his affiinity for thịt kho chuối chín|pork stew with ripe bananas. and má 4 kept squeezing my forearm in the way vinamese female elders do she was so happy. we introduced the idea that we have a doctor (sorta) and a bà đỡ đễ or bà mụ|midwife (also means the Goddess believed to give shape to and protect babies. cool!). we haven't decided yet how much to reveal, though i'd like to avoid more anxiety on their part, i'm disinclined to lie. at least, so far my má who will be there for the homebirth has been accepting of all our decisions especially b/c i take care to ground them in our cultural-historical context and her own experience with natural birth (bro & sis) and medicated birth (me)--though she did scoff a little about going diaperless at least in the US context. it seems that his parents would be receptive and their thinking isn't all that far off from our own, but doctors have a social significance and it may be hard for them to accept that we aren't going that route... we'll see.
apparently the acceptable mốt|môde for Vinamese pregnancies is the muumuu or the empire-waisted muumuu that btw is hella not flattering and makes you look far larger (which is what chị Trinh was wearing, so she looked way bigger than me for all that she is only 2 weeks ahead). and it makes sense that in the tropics you would want to wear something very loose fitting since you are generating your own thermal nuclear source of heat. but we're not in the tropics and the weather has turned cool at night. and, i don't own any muumuus except for the A-line housedress my mama just gave me. [ i recently tried it on for the first time. it's a muumuu. sigh.] so everyone except mợ 2 & má 4 commented on my fitted tshirt & pants. (fitted clothes have the optical illusion of making you seem smaller than the empire waisted loose waist ones.) so i had to show each one of them the elastic waistband to convince them that it was maternity and comfortable. and still they felt i should really be wearing a muumuu. later chị Trinh asked me where i got my pants. so at least the other bà bầu doesn't think muumuus are de rigeur.
i know. this blog has become less sardonic, ironic, pop culture-tinged commentary and more pregnancy journal. at least i'm still sardonic & ironic about the whole thing.
so now we collectively estimate that i'm 15 weeks along, making our due date March 1st. (this means Liz, that i wasn't pregnant yet when we saw you at Yan's 100 days.) Selena suggested i consider continuing hypnotherapy with Nancy (herself a former midwife) since emotional state profoundly influences birth and Anabelle's anniversary may jumpstart or stall labor. but between my out-of-pocket costs--prenatal bellydancing, tai chi class, going to chiro, childbirth preparation class, baby CPR certification, acupuncture co-pays, maternity clothes (!) and compensating the midwife (who is worth so much more than we can afford)--we can't afford it.
though my Uterus has obligingly cooperated by moving to the center of my abdomen, off of my herniated disk/sciatic nerve, she still is tilted way back. Selena palpated and faintly heard/felt bé's heartbeat with a fetascope. i couldn't hear it for my own pulse and T. thought he might have heard/felt it too. so Selena lent us the fetascope to try at home til we hear it since i don't want to use the doppler (a smaller portable ultrasound device).
we met Sarah, our midwife's assistant and our childbirth prep instructor, and her 6 month old daughter Samaya and her husband Daoud (sp?), who is Cham Vietnamese. as it turns out, his sister works for a sister-organization of mine. small small world. have i mentioned how loving our midwife is? our birth team is coming together and it's comforting to feel the relationship is grounded in community.
last night, we hung out with T's family (ba mẹ mợ 2 má 4--just got here from VN again--anh chị họ) and i was happy to confirm that chị Trinh, his cousin Hoàng's spouse, is very close to me in pregnancy. yay! somemama to share with! she's 17 weeks along and her due date is mid-February. we traded some pregnancy stories. they recently moved from Union City to down the block from Trung's parents. in addition to having more family in walking distance, it helps to normalize pregnancy with his parents. there haven't been many babies in this generation just yet, just T's mini-me who is 10 now. so it was a happy time. and i got to hear lots of T. & siblings' babyhood stories and discovered the origins of his affiinity for thịt kho chuối chín|pork stew with ripe bananas. and má 4 kept squeezing my forearm in the way vinamese female elders do she was so happy. we introduced the idea that we have a doctor (sorta) and a bà đỡ đễ or bà mụ|midwife (also means the Goddess believed to give shape to and protect babies. cool!). we haven't decided yet how much to reveal, though i'd like to avoid more anxiety on their part, i'm disinclined to lie. at least, so far my má who will be there for the homebirth has been accepting of all our decisions especially b/c i take care to ground them in our cultural-historical context and her own experience with natural birth (bro & sis) and medicated birth (me)--though she did scoff a little about going diaperless at least in the US context. it seems that his parents would be receptive and their thinking isn't all that far off from our own, but doctors have a social significance and it may be hard for them to accept that we aren't going that route... we'll see.
apparently the acceptable mốt|môde for Vinamese pregnancies is the muumuu or the empire-waisted muumuu that btw is hella not flattering and makes you look far larger (which is what chị Trinh was wearing, so she looked way bigger than me for all that she is only 2 weeks ahead). and it makes sense that in the tropics you would want to wear something very loose fitting since you are generating your own thermal nuclear source of heat. but we're not in the tropics and the weather has turned cool at night. and, i don't own any muumuus except for the A-line housedress my mama just gave me. [ i recently tried it on for the first time. it's a muumuu. sigh.] so everyone except mợ 2 & má 4 commented on my fitted tshirt & pants. (fitted clothes have the optical illusion of making you seem smaller than the empire waisted loose waist ones.) so i had to show each one of them the elastic waistband to convince them that it was maternity and comfortable. and still they felt i should really be wearing a muumuu. later chị Trinh asked me where i got my pants. so at least the other bà bầu doesn't think muumuus are de rigeur.
i know. this blog has become less sardonic, ironic, pop culture-tinged commentary and more pregnancy journal. at least i'm still sardonic & ironic about the whole thing.
Friday, September 7, 2007
salt fiend
it's my kryptonite.
for those of you who met my brother in 200X you already know that i used to drink soy sauce. more accurately, Maggi. the saltier french version. used to swig it straight from the bottle.
for those of you who met my brother in 200X you already know that i used to drink soy sauce. more accurately, Maggi. the saltier french version. used to swig it straight from the bottle.
Friday, August 17, 2007
life lessons... with a breakbeat
have you ever had to sing "the wheels on the bus go round and round, round and round, round and round.. (from the top)" or "we just got a letter, we just got a letter, we just got a letter, wonder who its from?" or "hot dog hot dog hot diggety dog hot dog hot dog hot diggety dog!" or "We're gonna do the monkey (oh oh ah ah oh oh ah ah), Do the monkey (oh oh ah ah oh oh ah ah), Monkey, Monkey (oh oh ah ah oh oh ah ah), That's alright" or heaven forbid, the barney song?
you ever notice the only way to dance to those folksy songs is to rock from side to side or do the knee bend squats and maybe, if the kid is coordinated enough, clap in unison. odd pre-eminem white people dances that don't involve the hips, the shoulders, fluidity, sensuality (in its least erotic sense). without a rump-shaking bassline, how's a kid sposed to get any sense of rhythm and learn to dance? i've wondered. in white bread SD north county-burbia, i've seen the product of those breakbeat-less songs--i had to sit though Ms. Jamie's dance studio recital in may just to see Lily boss the other girls and yell-sing doing their little butterfly ballet performance for three minutes, and i witnessed Ms. Jamie's teen kids breakdance and weo,... they have timing, but they ain't got rhythm. the other product of those bassline-less songs is the noodle dance (no relation to the chicken noodle soup dance) usually performed by a barefoot white girl with fake-dreadlocks, multiple piercings, midriff baring halter top, and a gypsy skirt (african or indian), which involves pseudo-tribal writhing hips shoulders arms and a lack of sense about personal space. give wide berth to the flailing body parts. it really is an under-studied phenomenon; they congregate at Burning Man.
then i meandered across this new kids show with a breakbeat, Yo Gabba Gabba! clearly it was
created by someone who grew up in the 80s. (click on Foofa, the pink flower bubble to check out the videos). okay so the characters cant breakdance worth shit (or even do a credible version of the cabbage patch or the running man or the snake--and why cant Plex the robot actually do The Robot?--but then they are wearing bulky fuzzy costumes that render subtlety a moot exercise in futility. i'm not sure what DJ Lance's excuse is), but then neither can a 2 year old. i guess it's a good thing they aren't introducing downrock, headspinning, butterfly kicks or other power moves to your toddler b-boy/b-girl -in-training. now, the lyrics are still silly kid-friendly with a moral, but at least the beats are fresh & tight.
check out biz's beat of the day. learn to beatbox kids!
i am a big fan of saving money over proprietary licensed merchandise because paying over $25 for a onesie is outrageous (though i do secretly want a Baron Davis baby jersey) so i like that they have DIY YGG! iron-ons.
i like free even better than bootleg.
you ever notice the only way to dance to those folksy songs is to rock from side to side or do the knee bend squats and maybe, if the kid is coordinated enough, clap in unison. odd pre-eminem white people dances that don't involve the hips, the shoulders, fluidity, sensuality (in its least erotic sense). without a rump-shaking bassline, how's a kid sposed to get any sense of rhythm and learn to dance? i've wondered. in white bread SD north county-burbia, i've seen the product of those breakbeat-less songs--i had to sit though Ms. Jamie's dance studio recital in may just to see Lily boss the other girls and yell-sing doing their little butterfly ballet performance for three minutes, and i witnessed Ms. Jamie's teen kids breakdance and weo,... they have timing, but they ain't got rhythm. the other product of those bassline-less songs is the noodle dance (no relation to the chicken noodle soup dance) usually performed by a barefoot white girl with fake-dreadlocks, multiple piercings, midriff baring halter top, and a gypsy skirt (african or indian), which involves pseudo-tribal writhing hips shoulders arms and a lack of sense about personal space. give wide berth to the flailing body parts. it really is an under-studied phenomenon; they congregate at Burning Man.
then i meandered across this new kids show with a breakbeat, Yo Gabba Gabba! clearly it was
created by someone who grew up in the 80s. (click on Foofa, the pink flower bubble to check out the videos). okay so the characters cant breakdance worth shit (or even do a credible version of the cabbage patch or the running man or the snake--and why cant Plex the robot actually do The Robot?--but then they are wearing bulky fuzzy costumes that render subtlety a moot exercise in futility. i'm not sure what DJ Lance's excuse is), but then neither can a 2 year old. i guess it's a good thing they aren't introducing downrock, headspinning, butterfly kicks or other power moves to your toddler b-boy/b-girl -in-training. now, the lyrics are still silly kid-friendly with a moral, but at least the beats are fresh & tight.check out biz's beat of the day. learn to beatbox kids!
i am a big fan of saving money over proprietary licensed merchandise because paying over $25 for a onesie is outrageous (though i do secretly want a Baron Davis baby jersey) so i like that they have DIY YGG! iron-ons.
i like free even better than bootleg.
Wednesday, June 6, 2007
food stamps
Congresswoman Barbara Lee (California 9th District) is living off of $21 a week.Did Congress suddenly decided to rollback on their self-determined wealthy wages of $165k/yr starting salary plus lifetime pension?
nope. she is taking a House Hunger
Caucus' "Food Stamp Challenge" because the program is up for re-authorization this summer. $21/week is the national weekly average benefit for a family on food stamps. it's not the first time that Congresswoman Lee has subsisted off foodstamps. so she's keepin' it real.my family was on food stamps play money after my parents split and we moved from waikiki to san D, trading ma'ona pua truck, sho pao & li hing mui for public assistance, while my mom worked at the Cannon towel factory, and up until my mom got her GED, some english language skills, & a clerical job where she's been underpaid for the last 25+ years. this challenge reminds me of all the crappy processed poverty food (velveeta, powdered milk, uncle ben's, instant macaroni & cheese, spaghetti, margarine, jelly, genero-genero) that was my introduction to mainland american cuisine back in the day before there were vinamese groceries in 'Dago. and creating unhealthy childhood nutrition patterns that i'm still trying to unravel in my adult years.
now see, this integrity and Congresswoman Lee referencing the Tonkin Gulf resolution in her sole (and vindicated) opposition vote against the Authorized Use of Military Force resolution (2001)
is why i actually go to the polls after a five year boycott of the Nation-State's dog & pony show
Tuesday, June 5, 2007
thunder-thunder-thundercats
Variety has sounded the deathknell for Thundercats. at least it will be CGI.
pray that it is nothing like this nightmare parody. yes, that is McConnaughey.
Friday, April 20, 2007
grade school blues
in grade school, back in my day, when we would get report cards, the teacher would handwrite your grades in scholarship and citizenship and then, make an earnest snippet of character appraisal of each pupil in neat, post-WWII babymaking boom-era cursive penmanship.
stylized pigeonhole judgements--made when you were 9-years-old and your personality was emerging into its destined formation while you played Foursquare, Dodgeball, and Unicorns with reckless abandon on the liminal cusp of tween-hood, a blink before adolescence and a semi-forgotten dream away from childhood--those reportcard judgements contain raw truths waiting to be unhusked and polished into a pearlescent grain of rice with your name improbably imprinted on it.
is one's destiny written in the stars by celestial beings and ancestral spirits? or is your destiny sincerely scripted on canary cardstock by pretty Mrs. O'Neill of the overflowing sympathy and coiffed ringlet mullet while you sat with your desk facing the wall on Movie Friday puzzling over a weeks' worth of overdue homework?
[Mrs. O'Neill if ever you come across this, i own up to being a delinquent GATE kid. as my sister said, it was challenging carrying around that big brain o'mine. so i have to admit to the petty theft of books. The Yearling and Professor Diggin's Dragons, i believe. i spose i ought to feel remorseful and ought to send you a copy, wherever you are, but ehhh, i don't and i won't.]
sigh. as ever...
stylized pigeonhole judgements--made when you were 9-years-old and your personality was emerging into its destined formation while you played Foursquare, Dodgeball, and Unicorns with reckless abandon on the liminal cusp of tween-hood, a blink before adolescence and a semi-forgotten dream away from childhood--those reportcard judgements contain raw truths waiting to be unhusked and polished into a pearlescent grain of rice with your name improbably imprinted on it.
is one's destiny written in the stars by celestial beings and ancestral spirits? or is your destiny sincerely scripted on canary cardstock by pretty Mrs. O'Neill of the overflowing sympathy and coiffed ringlet mullet while you sat with your desk facing the wall on Movie Friday puzzling over a weeks' worth of overdue homework?
[Mrs. O'Neill if ever you come across this, i own up to being a delinquent GATE kid. as my sister said, it was challenging carrying around that big brain o'mine. so i have to admit to the petty theft of books. The Yearling and Professor Diggin's Dragons, i believe. i spose i ought to feel remorseful and ought to send you a copy, wherever you are, but ehhh, i don't and i won't.]
sigh. as ever...
Bright, but does not apply herself.
Saturday, March 10, 2007
of innocence and dogshit: A Parable
when i was a kid, i would jackrabbit and cavort everywhere with sheer innocence and delight in life. out of the car. across the yard. on the sidewalk. on the playground. y'know, human kid places.
in time, as i segued to adolescence, i began to notice a pattern and a certain mmm je ne sais quoi, shall we say, capricious humor from the Heavens Above. because it seemed everywhere i would jackrabbit and cavort with innocence and delight, my waterbuffalo-ish peds would land squarely in a pile of DogShit. now this may be cosmic retribution for our childish games inflicted on the string of dogs we had that all seemed to mysteriously disappear. but that is another scooby story for another day.
now DogCrap, as it is well known, is nigh impossible to remove from the treads of one's shoes. wiping the soles of one's sneakers on grass or concrete does not suffice and point of fact only serves to streak the shit and work it in deeper. grinding your shoe soles in a puddle while hoping you don't backsplash any sludge on yourself is equally ineffective.
while the labyrinthine tread of your shoes is great for say running on asphalt and skidmarking wood floors, it is the cu chi tunnels for doggy doo. the festering substance is well and good squished up in the intricate crevices requiring a toothpick or some such to diligently furrow it out while freaking out about having to be millimeters away from bane fecal matter expurgated from the anus of a foul omnivorous slavering beastie, gagging from the offensive malodorous goo, and wretchedly indignant from the whole experience and now everyone's looking at my feet and knows i wear pro-wings. if the free lunch pass hadnt already given it away. damn. entire psychotherapy sessions could be based on such a thing.
while divested of my innocent delight and seeking preventative measures, i prevailed upon myself to develop my own defensive strategy which entailed diligent observance of where i set foot since the sneaks had to last til my next growth spurt. this preoccupation-from-necessity of mine in time became a subconscious habit of mine like a virus software unobtrusively scanning one's hardware for imminent threat. having this in the startup files of my operating system efficiently diverted me (and my companions) from further crapulent contamination. and the fortuitous incidental side effect of shit-radar is finding wadded up money in random places where some foolish wallet-luddite had creased their hip pocket just so like manna falling from heaven into my deprived little hands thus rectifying adolescent cosmic imbalance.
ah, but a lifetime of looking out for shit is just that. a lifetime of seeing shit. i literally see (and avoid) shit everywhere i go, because dogs, being dogs, shit everywhere their cussed owners let them. ("walking the dog" really just means befouling someone else's yard/public space. a selfish transference of responsibility. it is the American Way.) i oftimes don't notice the wildflowers or breathtaking horizon because i'm holding my breath scrupulously avoiding the fetid mound despoiling the earth (because when you smell something you are actually ingesting particulate molecules of that substance. shudder.) and simultaneously derailing my companion from meeting that fate with a luchador-worthy fullbody check. and if its not Feces, then it's its nasty cousin Vomit or Gum or anything Undesirable to get on One's Sole.
so here we come to the Moral of the Parable:
weo, this aint jonathan livingston seagull's blog.
shrimpy says "truuue story."
in time, as i segued to adolescence, i began to notice a pattern and a certain mmm je ne sais quoi, shall we say, capricious humor from the Heavens Above. because it seemed everywhere i would jackrabbit and cavort with innocence and delight, my waterbuffalo-ish peds would land squarely in a pile of DogShit. now this may be cosmic retribution for our childish games inflicted on the string of dogs we had that all seemed to mysteriously disappear. but that is another scooby story for another day.
now DogCrap, as it is well known, is nigh impossible to remove from the treads of one's shoes. wiping the soles of one's sneakers on grass or concrete does not suffice and point of fact only serves to streak the shit and work it in deeper. grinding your shoe soles in a puddle while hoping you don't backsplash any sludge on yourself is equally ineffective.
while the labyrinthine tread of your shoes is great for say running on asphalt and skidmarking wood floors, it is the cu chi tunnels for doggy doo. the festering substance is well and good squished up in the intricate crevices requiring a toothpick or some such to diligently furrow it out while freaking out about having to be millimeters away from bane fecal matter expurgated from the anus of a foul omnivorous slavering beastie, gagging from the offensive malodorous goo, and wretchedly indignant from the whole experience and now everyone's looking at my feet and knows i wear pro-wings. if the free lunch pass hadnt already given it away. damn. entire psychotherapy sessions could be based on such a thing.
while divested of my innocent delight and seeking preventative measures, i prevailed upon myself to develop my own defensive strategy which entailed diligent observance of where i set foot since the sneaks had to last til my next growth spurt. this preoccupation-from-necessity of mine in time became a subconscious habit of mine like a virus software unobtrusively scanning one's hardware for imminent threat. having this in the startup files of my operating system efficiently diverted me (and my companions) from further crapulent contamination. and the fortuitous incidental side effect of shit-radar is finding wadded up money in random places where some foolish wallet-luddite had creased their hip pocket just so like manna falling from heaven into my deprived little hands thus rectifying adolescent cosmic imbalance.
ah, but a lifetime of looking out for shit is just that. a lifetime of seeing shit. i literally see (and avoid) shit everywhere i go, because dogs, being dogs, shit everywhere their cussed owners let them. ("walking the dog" really just means befouling someone else's yard/public space. a selfish transference of responsibility. it is the American Way.) i oftimes don't notice the wildflowers or breathtaking horizon because i'm holding my breath scrupulously avoiding the fetid mound despoiling the earth (because when you smell something you are actually ingesting particulate molecules of that substance. shudder.) and simultaneously derailing my companion from meeting that fate with a luchador-worthy fullbody check. and if its not Feces, then it's its nasty cousin Vomit or Gum or anything Undesirable to get on One's Sole.
so here we come to the Moral of the Parable:
- if you look for Shit, inevitably, you will find it.
- concurrently, if you traipse about Life Unaware, you will step in Shit and defile yourself.
- penultimately, Shit Happens.
- and lastly, i'm a great person to walk with when you have Shiny New Kicks.
weo, this aint jonathan livingston seagull's blog.
shrimpy says "truuue story."
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