Rockin' Me Baby.

You remember how, most everyone between the ages of 3 and 12, thought they were gonna grow up to be a rock star?  But then, years went by, you grew up, wised up and got over it?

That last part never happened for me.

I grew up worshipping the stage; staring agaped-ly at the kids on the Mickey Mouse Club, staying up too late to watch the Grammys, memorizing classic musicals, and sneaking music videos on MTV (my parents didn't understand the songs, but I wasn't allowed to watch them on the basis of musician's apparel and attitude. ahem.)

I did grow up a little, and channeled by exuberance into musical theatre, band, drama, choir, piano lessons, and eventually, karaoke bars.

But here's the thing:  I just really need to know how to play the guitar.  Being who I am and loving creative outlets as I do, it's just STUPID that I don't know how to do it.  Music is so dear to me, I want to be able to have it in my hands, whenever I want.  iPods are not the same.  At some point, Lord willing, I will have a beach house somewhere.  So much of my annoying future antics revolve around forcing my guests to sing around the bonfire!  Im serious.  We're learning harmonies.

So after a year of 'research' (read: dragging my feet)  I finally just dragged Ashley into the music store yesterday.  We had some time to kill before our comedy show, and I was just gonna "look and see if they have the one I want".  Uh huh.  Of course, they had the one I wanted, a Baby Martin, but I ended up with an upgrade, this 7/8 size Taylor.  What's funny is, the gentleman who sold it me was really against that one, but admitted that the two of us just look right together.  Well, I quite agree.

So today, after work, I went and picked up my new pear-shaped friend.  I hunkered down on YouTube and started the guitar playing portion of my life.  I mean I've now been playing for 90 minutes and I'm pretty sure I've got it:

Tomorrow I learn to play without making those faces.  Never too late!

Love Love Love. 

So. Af.

(I taught her everything she knows.) 

Butthead Baby Sister is studying abroad in SOUTH AFRICA next fall.  As can be expected, I am totally going to show up, steal all her thunder, and make her do all of the things I want to do.  She's already all hot and bothered about making a plan, and I'm allergic, so she's just gonna have to deal with my tendency to just decide when we get there.  It's really just the way our relationship works.  I'm thinking 3 or 4 weeks in December.  I will hug a giraffe to celebrate the Birth of Christ.

 I Just Gotta Do:

-Hike up Mt Kilamanjaro
-Swim up to the edge of Victoria Falls
-Be scared by wildlife.  Stampede, anyone?
-Ride a bike through Capetown
-Volunteer either on Mercy Ship or with another org I believe in.
-Is So. Afr.  where you can dive with the great whites?  
-Play and run with many, many African children.  I want to chase them down dirt roads.

Wanna come with??

This Thing On?

Alright, so a few of you know that I did my first stand up last week.  This was something that I had put on my bucket list many years ago, and I finally grew some balls and just did it.  A friend of mine from my first UCB class is a hilarious comedienne and she inspired me to just dooooo it.  I was preeeetty nervous the 30 minutes before went on, but as soon as the guy announced my name, I felt great.  Man, I just love the feeling of a mic in my hand.  Always have.  Are you shocked??  Thankfully, all went well and people laughed.  It was perfect for my first time.  There were only about 25 people in the room, it was a happy hour, and it was mostly other comedians.  Well, this is a little clip of the PG portion of my 3 minutes.  If you would like to see the full version, I'm going to need a written paragraph detailing your most vivid memory of riding the bus to school as a child.

Mine was when I made Trevor Baker cry for making fun of me in the 4th grade.  He was sitting in the seat in front of me, taunting and making racist comments.  I told him to shut up, reached over the seat, and yanked his ear so hard he stood up and turned around, trying to punch me.  I dodged and he missed.  Embarrassed, he sunk back into his seat, red faced and with huge crocodile tears in his eyes.  I actually kind of felt bad when I saw that, but there was no way I was gonna let him know.  8 y.o. me was a thug.  When I later told my parents about it, I got a very stern and mortified talking-to from my mother.  That was completely unacceptable behavior for a young Asian flower.  My dad took me out for ice cream.  Guess whose message rang louder.


Don't resort to violence.  Talk it out.  Hug each other.  Love Love Love.

Rolling. (my eyes)

I mean, does she know about YouTube kitties?  Surely they can lighten her up.

So has it been long enough?  Can I talk about Adele yet?  I mean, I love the girl but may I just say.  She is twenty one.  What the hell could have happened to this girl before the age you can rent a car that causes such deep and gut wrenching inner turmoil?!  She has a beautiful voice and undeniable talent but PLEASE.  Every time I listen to her record, I am stricken with unbelievable anxiety because..... I have no idea what she's talking about.  My palms start to sweat and my heart pounds into my throat.  Shit.  I haven't lived.  Man, this girl is really feeling something and just don't know what she means.  Am I the only one missing out?  Do people of the first world really feel such profound emotional crisis over an ex-boyfriend getting married and not being invited?!  What does "Rolling in the Deep" MEAN?  To my knowledge, to be "in deep" is usually followed by shit.  Which has nothing to do with the song.  Psht, woman please.  The only people who should identify with this level of torture are holocaust victims and the Invisible Children.  Here in the first world, its like:

 "AH!  My facebook friend didn't guess my Draw Something depiction of Usher!"  

Closely followed by:

"♫ We could have had it AAAAAAALLLL ♫......."

Oh, go slap yourselves.

No Business

I took this photo inside of a restaurant in the Venetian.  At first it  just disheartened me, now there's a poignancy to how miserable a place Las Vegas is.  Bah Humbug.

Every time I go to Vegas, I swear I'm never going again.  But then, someone that I like goes on vacation there and I am lured by the proximity and the prospect of fun and fellowship with a friend I don't see often.

WELL THAT'S JUST QUITE ENOUGH.  I am making this declaration that the city of Las Vegas is now blacklisted.  I refuse to pour any more funds into plane tickets and gas to get there or otherwise support their local industry in any way.  LET'S LEVEL IT AND BUILD A WILDLIFE RETREAT.

Don't believe me?  Well, allow me to present my case.

TOP TEN REASONS TO HATE VEGAS.

10.  Well crap, it's dirty.  Is this still even America?  This city is not 200 years old, and why would I believe that raw sewage once flowed from those streets?  If I wanted to contract a skin infection from a sidewalk or door handle, I could go visit Mumbai, thankyouverymuch.  Risk of illness must come at the reward of experience.  Vegas gives the bad end of both. 

09.  Well crap, it's bright.  Yes, the lights are spectacular.  Yes, they're obnoxious.  Get your message across, marketers.  Don't punch me in the cornea with your show poster.  Also, aren't we in a recession?  Who pays for all of this?  Don't we need the water you've chlorinated and pumped into your cheesy Euro-trash fountain to water fields for growing produce?!  

08.  Well crap, it's slutty.  I know it's commonlaw, but people be acting crazy there.  Oh, so being within the confines of city limits makes it okay to touch people in inappropriate places on the street?  It makes it okay for 120 ft tall posters of busty blondes wearing an extension cords to be draped over hotel buildings?  No wonder we have such a 'prosti-tot' epidemic with children today.   

07.  Well crap, it's drunk.  There. are. no. limits.  No bartender ever cuts anyone off, drinks get cheaper as people get drunker, open containers are displayed proudly, and no one gets apprehended for any misbehavior short of assault.  I was literally seen at the Palms Lobby vomiting into a trash can, lifting my head only to run my fingers through the "sparkly black sand" (ahem, ashtray) in the top of the receptacle.  No one batted an eyelash.  Really?  I deserved to be thrown into the drunk tank, and yet just  carried on.  

06.  Well crap, it's needlessly stuck up.  Well doesn't Vegas just think it's so hot?  Everywhere you go, the environment just oozes over-confidence and status.  Well ooouuur hotel places you in the lap of luxury.... dont weeeeee look hot because our receptionists are dancers...... don't yyoooooouuuuu aspire to seem as beautiful and virile and rich as weeeeeeee do?  Snort.  Get over yourself.  You have no local culture except the sex trade.  Shut up. 

05.  Well crap, it's BORING.  So what the hell do you do there other than get drunk at night and sleep it off all day?!  Geez.  We had some free time in the afternoon the day we left and seriously couldn't think of anything to do.  We left for the airport early.  I can only sit by the pool for an hour, tops.  I bring books, magazines, music, snacks, and whatever else I can think of to occupy my time.  After about 20 minutes, I want to get in the water because I'm so bored of sitting there.  After that, I want to leave and find a real interactive activity.  My dad calls the event of ladies by the pool a "Pork Roast" and I guess I have to agree.  I just feel like a burnt pig, slapped over a lounge chair. 

04.  Well crap, it's cheesy.  Not the good kind, like when I get smushy about singing love songs.  It's dirty cheesy.  Cheap nonsense being sold everywhere, bad clothes, fake plants, real implants, climate controlled, and excessive.  There is no character to the culture there, nothing to warm the heart.  I need that in a place.  More than I need a plastic long necked souvenir drink holder.  Way more. 

03.  Well crap, what do I eat?!  It's either disgusting buffets, overcrowded greasy chain  restaurants, or stupidly over-swanky 'hot spots' (see item #06).  I don't like any of those options.  No fresh salads, no grocery stores in sight, not even a taco truck for the love!  I just want a little bistro where I can have a salmon salad with fresh cucumbers.  I ended up with froyo and food courts.  Yeeeuuuuck.

02.  Well crap, it's loud.  Perhaps it's my increasing age but I am just as sound sensitive as ever.  Do ALL of the slot machines have to make noise?!  Do they HAVE to make THOSE noises?!  Do these people know they're all in the same room?  WHY IS THAT BILLBOARD YELLING AT ME.  Does that band playing in Margaritaville know how bad they are?  

01.  Well crap, it's fat and lazy.  I'm just gonna say it.  Vegas is for people who don't know how to really be humans.  They sit idly by the concrete and tile pool.  They sit idly indoors in front of the slot machines.  They sit idly at the bar drinking sugar-laden preservatives and artificial colors.  They sit idly in strip clubs watching someone else exert themselves on a shiny pole.  They sit idly in buffets and gorge themselves on horrendous food.  I almost lost it while walking down the strip.  You have to go over skywalks to cross a lot of the streets; there are stairs and there are escalators.  Wanna guess how many people were on the stairs?  Mostly just me.  In contrast, people were lined up at the bottom AND TOP of every escalator.  Seriously!  In line!  Waiting!  People with no luggage, fully functional legs, and no screaming children in tow.  EVEN GOING DOWN.  All I could think about was my patient I had just left in LA, confined to bed because he was paralyzed.  Oh, what he wouldn't give to run up those stairs.  This was the defining moment for me; I just can't invest time and money in a place where people go to just be lazy pieces.  I just plain have no business there.  

Go love on all of the wonderful places in this world that love back.  I'll meet you there.

Love Love Love. 

Say it Thrice.

Photo Credit

People ask me sometimes about my signoff.  There's no soul-shatteringly profound story behind it; it just suits me.  I first heard the phrase first way back in high school, from the Tristan Prettyman song.  She has such an easy breezy way about her, and I was drawn to this word said thrice.  Since then, I have come upon two other songs of the same name from Of Monsters and Men, and also Avalanche City.  I like to think someone else out there feels like I do about it.  They say if you mean something, you should say it twice.  Well, I am a girl of my word and when I do something, I gotta really do it.  So for me, three times will do.  I like the way it sounds aloud, and I like the way it looks typed at the end of emails and blog posts.  I love handwriting it on notes and greeting cards.  It feels like more of an effort to say/type/write, and therefore holds more potency.

So trust me, friends!  When I say it, I mean it!

Watch Tristan's video:

And Of Monsters and Men:

And Avalanche City:

Cut to What?

(My 201 class after our graduation show)

photo credit: John Haegle

After the holidays, I started classes at UCB, the improv and sketch theatre/school here in LA. If you don't know about it already, you should definitely read about it.  There are so many improv schools/methods/shows/etc here in town, and deciding which to study is definitely enough to induce mind spinning psychosis.  Every single one boasts a great reputation and a roster of known talents to lure young hopefuls.  However, I encourage anyone interested to decide as I did:  I study at the school whose shows I enjoy the most.  Makes sense eh?

Confession:  when I first started taking classes here in LA, I didn't make improv study much of a priority.  I mean, it's just making shit up as you go, right?  Hell, I did that today when talking to parents at work.  I had no idea what was going on with their child; they just needed some reassuring words and I made them up.  So thus I put improv on the back burner and threw myself into scene study, convinced that was going to make me the best actor possible, and that improv is for silly actors who just want to laugh and have fun.  Honestly, I thought I would be naturally good at it; and it wouldn't take long for me to acquire the skill.

So I 'got around' to taking my first improv series in January, all bright eyed and ready to take my rightful place as teachers pet.

(SHOE DROPS)

We open on Mingni leaving improv class, staring blankly out into the parking lot, unable to use her brain because it hurts.

Guys.  Improv is hard.  Anyone can stand up on a stage, act like an idiot, and get some cheap laughs.  Improv actors take an idea, start with a statement, and create a comedic game that can be played and heightened for extended scenes, making laughs infinite.  There are so many tools and concepts to remember; and it all has to be done on the fly.  I can't tell you how many times I stood up in class, mouth agape with completely no idea where to go from where I was.  Improv forces you to be at the mercy of your other players, and thrive.  I am completely in love with this paradigm of improv acting: it's actually so structured.  There are clear rules and strategy to every scene.  At the same time, ANYTHING can happen.  Isn't it just wonderful?!  I have never been so challenged, frightened, and stressed.  Nor have I ever been so inspired.  Cheesy!  Fantastic!

We All Do; Do You Whoo?

Confession:  I have been whoo-ing.  Yes, whoo-ing.

You know.  We all did it in college.  Newly developed alcohol tolerance and summer camp antics, mixed with the stupidity of young adulthood.  It happens.  You whoo.

Remember the booze, giggling, heels, and self loathing in the morning hours?  The new faces, electricity water spent on bar tabs, the sad photos and the raging cigarette headaches?  (I know, they kill people.  But when I whoo, it's something I do.)

Since graduating from college, I have turned my nose up to the whoo.  The scene is just too scene-y.  It's so contrived; spending way too much money and effort in earnest for attention.  I mean, really.  Aren't all clubs just full of overdressed people; looking over their shoulders at who else might be there?  I get tired.  First of all, I hate getting ready.  I have about a 15 minute window of focus to direct toward preening.  I hate choosing clothing.  I hate wearing heels.  I hate club music.  I hate low lighting.  I hate fruity drinks.  I hate hangovers. and I hate the coordinating.  I WILL DRIVE.  I AM SOBER AND TIRED.  GET IN THE CAR.  DONT YELL OUT MY WINDOW. NO, I AM NOT TAKING YOU THROUGH TACO BELL.

Well friends, I find myself as a hypocrite, and last month was the Month of Whoo.

First of all, I have had a lot of house guests recently.  According to my knowledge of hostess manners that I acquired from Sunday cartoons and 90s TV shows, the polite thing to do when entertaining is to do as your guests like to do.  They all wanted to whoo, so I did too.

..... and then it was my birthday.  Now, mind you, I'm not a huge birthday fanatic.  Growing up, one was not encouraged or even allowed any kind of sense of entitlement surrounding this anniversary.  According to my father, all I ever did on my birthday was pee my pants and cry.  Any request for lenience of any kind in relation to a "but it's my biiiiiiiiiiirthday" whine was quickly nipped, and never uttered again.  In my house, birthdays are not earned.  You don't accomplish anything just by existing for another set number of days.  So as a result, you will never catch me in any sort of sparkly head adornment or sash, screeching at my friends to make that day a categorical priority over everything else they may have going on in their lives.

But this year, I whoo-ed.  I had previously said that I just wanted to go to the movies, but upon further thought decided that a nice casual beer somewhere would be just as acceptable.  Cut to my girlfriend, telling me that she just got us on the list to some glitzy Hollywood nightclub.  I had to draw the line.  But still:

 .... and then my recent bestie Ashley had a bunch of visitors in town to play.  I like new friends so I shoehorned into the action and they were here to whoo.  Well, we had to accommodate them, as well, right?  So the whoo continued:

...and then, to really drive the Month of Ridiculousness home, I booked a last minute flight to Vegas to meet TL and her crew for one night of whoo.  I hadn't seen her in a while and we need quality time, so I went and I whoo-ed. 

 

Listen.  I'm not saying I didn't have fun.  I'm not saying I don't have some really delightful (albiet fuzzy) memories to giggle about later.  I'm not saying I'm ever going to stop thinking young and chasing joy like mad.  I'm definitely not saying this blog wont benefit from this step out of character and reasonable thinking.  Oh trust me, tons of blog fodder for y'all to look forward to.  

I'm just saying I'm still tired.  Debauchery just isn't for me.  Sometimes I act like it's so fun to be bad, rebellious and disregarding.  I like the element of surprise and shocking people just as they think they have me figured out.  So, I overcompensate and behave, well, childishly.  Think I have authority issues?  Fortunately, I came out of the cloud relatively unscathed, but definitely unfulfilled.  Lessons I keep learning.  Guess what?  26 year olds still act like 6 year olds.  Betcha didnt know!

Seek real interaction, my friend.  No need to spenf your life over-sauced and understimulated.   Love Love Love.