The New York Public Library was closed due to the Gay Pride Parade. We watched the parade for awhile from the front steps and witnessed the Starbucks float and the Flaggots, and Queer Asians gainst War. Then we went to to David Chan's office (thanks!) in the Grace building. I have looked at that building a million times because it is the most striking from Bryant Park. Apparently it was building of the year in 2003. Anyway we chatted and then wrote and then read and discussed. Til next month!

We talked about the SAWCC festival. Tsz and I went to the panels entitled "The Business of Writing" and "Making a Writing Life"

highlights from Writing Life:
What I got from this was impressions what a freelancer reporter must be like, what an academic/ professor must be like. I thought this was the better panel and yet I couldn't say now what it was about. I missed the first hour, so I didn't hear the autobiographies they said of themselves at the beginning.

highlights from Business of Writing:
Ayesha Pande, the agent there, conveniently outlined the "steps" you must take before getting an agent:

1. create a body of work, MFA optional


2. establish a publishing history


3. write a collection of stories and a novel


4. get an agent


1. read acknowledgments of books you can position yourself next to, find the name of the agent there.


2. online research

Then the panel discussion hovered around the publishing company and book covers. Surprisingly, Barnes and Noble can have a say in about the cover of a book. Mostly it is up to the publisher and author (or the agent speaking on behalf of the author).

We wrote for an hour, then Chee-Ming and I read.

"Are you going to write up a report?" said Tsz.
"I always write something," I said, half-muttering the last words. It happens if you start to think before finishing the sentence.

And now I am trying to remember what we talked about... one of the topics was endings.

A list of endings:
• hollywood ending: protag overcomes adversity
• surprise: a twist, an epiphany
• sequel: hint of what will be in the next book or chapter
• "years later": flashforward to what happens eventually
• floating: the characters will continue on in this situation forever

I hated "2046." I don't know if it's okay to feel this way, given all of the praises from some top critics... and every Asian I have ever met, ever. "You don't like it?" one Chinese girl asked me. "But... you're Chinese. Why don't you like?"

Maybe I had missed something in the film that should have resonated with anyone who understands the existence of tofu that smells like poop as a delicacy.

But I only saw the movie once, while I was trying to sew a button back onto my wool coat (yes it took me that long), on a bootlegged version of the film from China (I saw the film a year before it hit American theatres). The quality of the DVD wasn't bad, just the content sucked.

These days, I judge a movie from it's first pass. I wanted to be in "Jurassic Park." "The Muppets Take Manhattan" took me away. I never wanted the story to end in "The NeverEnding Story." Even if these films don't hold up afterwards, if I liked it then, I'll give it the a-okay.

But with "2046" I will never feel this way.

The movie follows the life of a huge Hong Kong movie star (I can't seem to get the thought of this out of my head) attempting to play a writer who gets his material from the other Chinese movie stars he has sex with. Some of the scenes are actually quite hot, in a non-pornographic way. I normally don't see flicks of Asians getting it on, so it was a nice change of pace for me.

Yes, there is an emotional aspect to the film, and a deep philosophy behind love and time. But it was reaching... and after twenty minutes of watching this drag on, I was tempted to fast forward to the "good parts."

You have to hand it to the director, Wong Kar-Wai, for making the movie as elegant and easy-on-the eyes as can be (and just short of the soft lens that Barbara Walters uses obsessively in her annoying "10 Most Fascinating People of the Year" programs). Wong consistently does this technique with all his other films. I could barely concentrate on my button-sewing project as I watched the film, feeling like it would be nice to be in that dreamlike world of the future. Or maybe I was just feeling tired.

My general impressions of the film, aside from not liking it, are as follows, in no particular order:

- If that's what the future looks like, I don't want any part in it. It's like "Blade Runner." Way too congested. I wouldn't mind visiting there for a few days, but then I'd have to get out, and back to more peaceful surroundings, like Nova Scotia, or Queens.

- Wow, that Japanese guy is strangely good-lookin. HE should star in the picture, and switch roles with Tony Leung, whose face gets leatherier with every new film.

- The writer's entries (or inner voice) is lame. I could care less what he wanted to say. I just wanted to see him make it with Zhang Ziyi, or Ziyi Zhang, or whatever the hell she wants to call herself these days.

But I couldn't get into the characters at all. They bored the hell out of me. The dialogue was so-so at best, forgetful at worst. Ultimately, 2046 was so artsy I wanted to take the DVD out and wash it down with "Shallow Hal" or any other Farrelly Brothers film that isn't "Stuck on You."

I don't think it's just me. I've seen many Asian movies in my time and I've liked some. In the realm of Wong Kar-Wai, "Happy together" was good, "Chungking Express" was great. But "In the Mood for Love" sucked. And since "2046" was intended to be a follow-up to that piece, my reaction is, at the very least, consistent.

I think he's trying too hard. I think he should keep it simple. And stop hiring the same damn Asian actors. They're already in 1,500 other films. Unlike "independent" Hollywood, there are rarely fresh faces in Hong Kong independent cinema. With Wong's talent potential, he could really make something here work. Until then, the 2046 DVD goes into the junk pile, along with the latest CD sent from America Online.

-----------------------------
Chee-Ming Hung has published three books within the past two years, is a regular contributor to Slate, Esquire, and Highlights for Children, and is a complete and utter liar. His lives in New York where his pants are currently in flames.

Directions:
From the main foyer, take the stairs to the left. Go up one flight of stairs only. There is a hall to the right with open arches facing the front of the building. In fact if you look up as you walk in you will see these arches.

In the middle of this hall on the left is another hall, marked by a sign that says "Asian & Middle Eastern Division." There are tables visible from this junction, and that is where the meeting will be.

We hung out and chatted about the non-participating members (i.e., people who are on the yahoo group but have never come to a meeting).

Details: 7:00 pm, Space Cafe, on 32nd Street by 5th Avenue, northeast corner.

A.

I live in a part of the Manhattan’s West Side that time has forgotten, a tough knuckle that has resisted the booms and busts of the economy, that has been ignored by politicians and avoided by those seeking coolness and fashion. This forgotten part of a neighborhood known by many names including Clinton, Midtown West, Chelsea North, the Wild West and, of course, Hell’s Kitchen.
I’ve named this piece of it DULTO. The acronym stands for the District Under the Lincoln Tunnel Overpass, in reference to the overpass above Ninth Avenue and Fortieth Street upon which commuter busses rumble across to get directly into the mouth of the Lincoln Tunnel from the Port Authority terminal and avoiding the noisy clutter of rush hour traffic strangling life below.
The name is my little joke because this place is nothing at all like the other trendy neighborhoods in the city that have earned an easy acceptance to be nicknamed with more clever acronyms like TRIBECA, like DUMBO, like NOLITA, NOHO, and so on. These once dark, uninhabited valleys now overcrowded for its cutting-edge restaurants opened by rising-star chefs and for boutique shops to purchase five-hundred dollar shirts and thousand dollar shoes.
In contrast, this part of town, DULTO, is resistant to change. The city wanted to build a football stadium here for the New York Jets and the Olympics and they failed miserably.
The reason for this, as many property investors who have passed over the area know already, is the Lincoln Tunnel traffic, an impenetrable moat of steel and rubber that locks in the land from Forty-second to Thirty-fourth Streets between Eighth and Eleventh Avenues, four times a day, morning, lunch and after work and then late evenings when the theaters let out.
Even Starbuck’s won’t come here.
And lately, it seems like the rest of the city beyond DULTO has become a completely different world. North of Forty-second and south of Thirty-fourth, and east of Seventh Ave., the lights are brighter, the sidewalks are smoother, the stores are cleaner, and the people are much, much more attractive to look at.
The people of DULTO, are not so attractive. Or maybe they are where they originate from. This is still an immigrant working class neighborhood, one of the few left on the island of Manhattan, and fashion is simply not at the top of lists around here. Or maybe it is and just simply unaffordable to maintain. I am very much a citizen of DULTO for these very reasons.
My name is Vincent Yoo and I am an American, New Jersey born and raised, though this is never the first impression people have of me. If I’m riding on a bus or waiting for a subway, waiting on line at a Duane Reade’s for shampoo and shaving cream, or watching a movie at the AMC theater, or having a burger at a diner, if I am doing any of these things, and I am not speaking, I am often mistaken for a from any Asian country. Sometimes an immigrant.
My parents moved to Clifton, New Jersey from Seoul, South Korea in the Sixties. I was born after they arrived, born a citizen, the first American after how many generations of Korean births, an interruption in a long family line, a historical birth. But you wouldn’t know I was American unless you heard me speak because English is the only language I speak. American English. I do it fluently and after a few alcoholic beverages, beer, wine, whiskey, a strong Jersey accent comes through loud and clear.
But if I don’t say a word and simply look out into the world, it is just assumed that I am not from around here. That my home is far, far away and that the expression on my face is that of loneliness and longing. I do have a sad face which is also an inherited trait, something brought over on a strand of DNA from the old country, and I can have this sad look even as I am deciding what to have dinner or what to watch on TV.
It’s harder to know where I’m really from even more so now that I’m older. I am in my thirties and way beyond society’s tolerance for rebellious, identity establishing, outer wear which quickly and easily places one in a tribe to the casual observer. I would look silly in a Metallica t-shirt at my age. These days, Dockers and golf shirts are what I feel most comfortable in both physically and psychologically, even though it means stepping back into obscurity and letting my face misinform everywhere I go.
I am unmarried and currently without a girlfriend. I don’t think I ever really had a girlfriend. And this has my mother and father worried and frightened beyond words. I almost had a girlfriend once when I was in college. I met her my freshman year. She wore black from head to toe. Her hair was colored orange and green and she painted her face white and she talked about how much she hated other people. We were friends. We studied in the library together. We went to see movies together. And then one night after a party where we had both gotten drunk she said she felt sorry for me and then she kissed me. And then after that, there were some awkward moments we were never able to move past.
Of course, I have argued with my parents about not being married or having a girlfriend, uttering predictable lines claiming ownership of my life and all its consequences, good and bad. Like so: “It’s not your problem so don’t worry about it. It’s my life and if I don’t get married, that’s okay. I enjoy my independence. I am not willing to give it up. I prefer being alone. For some people, like me, it was just never meant to be so stop worrying so much about it. You’ve got your own life to live. Leave me alone. My love life has nothing to do with you.” These arguments began to sound more ridiculous the older I got.
Eventually, it occurred to me how upsetting my situation could be to a mother and father like mine and how it could be that my life may very well belong to them as long as they are my parents. I’ve imagined conversations among their Korean friends about the progress and well being of their children. By this time, they have passed the point of conversation regarding profession (doctor or lawyer?), just as they have passed the point of talking about what colleges they had gained admission to (Harvard or MIT?). At their stage of parenthood, talk of marriages and weddings have also waned, (Korean or American?). And now they must be chatting about grandchildren (boy or girl?). And I have imagined my parents, since I am the only child, sitting quietly and sadly at a gathering of friends, utterly silent and pathetic. Tears have welled up at the thought of it.
I am sure they have wondered if I were “a gay”, without ever saying anything of it aloud to each other or anyone else, arriving at the possibility separately, on their own and only for split seconds at a time. Such an unspeakable idea that would be. Unthinkable yet forced to think it. As long as their fears go unspoken, I have no opportunity to assure them that I am not. At least until I can provide physical sexual proof. A girlfriend. A wife. A child.
I prefer to believe in a more blunt, straight forward truth, as to the reasons why I am unable to meet the woman I am supposed to meet and fall in love with, live the rest of my life with, buy property and parent children with. Or any woman for that matter, which I have accepted more recently in life along with my age, my Dockers and my golf shirts.
A truth that has liberated me from a suffocating existence of labor intensive maintenance and exhausting never-ending assessments of my place everywhere I happened to be. All of it based on a false sense of self. A series of games I had no idea I was playing but continually felt the sting of disappointment with every loss.

After a late start, we had a writing session, and then Tsz and Charles read. I worked on a rewrite of a scene from Catcher in the Rye for homework. This inspired a discussion about serial killers.