Epic on Fridays and Chrome on Saturdays

I have had many friends over the years tell me of their experiences with nightlife racism, hearsay claims that this bar is racist or that club hates Asians. I never took them to heart, mostly because I rarely fell victim to such crimes of ignorance on my nights out. I figured most of it likely stemmed from our own heightened sensitivity to being rejected as Asian men. I certainly agree that racism lives on, but to me, it was the subtle kind of racism, longer waits at the bar or slower service at a restaurant. Surely, it could not be so blatant as what some of my friends had claimed to encounter. This was, after all, America, home of the civil rights movement, where all men are created equal regardless of the color of their skin or the preference of their brew.

It was not until senior year of college that I saw with my own eyes, the intense gut-wrenching ugliness with which some establishments overtly practiced this type of racial discrimination. I remember that first moment clearly, as I do every such incident thenceforth. The words reverberate in my skull for a few minutes in a constant state of anger, sadness, and confusion. Eventually, they are removed from my conscious thought, only to be kept away in some overstuffed chest in back storage, filled with all the things I wish to forget but cannot.

The business in question was the former Bar Austin on 6th street, a favorite hangout amongst the University of Texas Asian crowd. The bar had switched management a few months before and word had gotten around that the new guys in the office wanted to rid their venue of Asians. Again, I did not believe this, thinking it to be nothing more than a few half-told isolated incidents involving drunken college students.

One night, as a friend and I walked out of The Library, another popular 6th street bar, and got ready to make our way to the Bestwurst cart for a late night snack, I decided that I would test the rumors out for myself. Setting my sights on the entrance to Bar Austin, I could see already that the doors were being guarded by two males of Caucasian descent, one of which, as is usual with bouncers, was bald with a goatee. As I made my way up the sidewalk towards the two hardened looking guardmen, I saw that many others less fashionably dressed than I was were being let in seemingly without harassment. Therefore, fearless that I would be rejected on account of my dress, I reached into my back pocket and pulled out my wallet in gesture of confidence. But just as I was about to prove to them the authenticity of my age as a legal consumer of alcoholic beverages, I met the hand.

"Sorry, private party tonight."

Oh.

"But I just saw some other people get in."

"They were with the party."

Bullshit alert.

At this point, an acquaintance of mine emerges from the door with his girlfriend.

"Hey Jake! How's it goin' dude?"

"Hey man, what's up!"

"Say, is there a private party up there or somethin'? This guy won't let me in."

"What? No, I don't think so. They let us in."

"How come you let them in?" I protested to the bald guy.

"I didn't let them in, must have been someone else."

"Did he let you in?" I asked Jake.

"I think so."

"It was definitely him." said Jake's girlfriend.

"Wow, I had heard this place was racist but this is ridiculous!"

"Sorry man, that fuckin' sucks."

I remember every syllable that was exchanged in that brief ten minute ordeal. It was haunting.

Is this why every Asian person in Houston goes to Epic on Fridays and Chrome on Saturdays?

Tonight, as I stood in line at Pub Fiction, at the mercy of its bouncers, I felt once again that boiling sense of anger bubbling inside me. I had foolishly ignored the warning of a friend who had told me earlier tonight that Pub Fiction was a reputedly racism establishment. Without fail, my friends and I were rejected outright. What made it most infuriating was that they made no effort in hiding it. Whatever excuses they felt like spouting, expired license, improper dress, it was clear to all what was really being said beneath the thin veil of political correctness and feigned civility. We were not wanted here.

There were no protests on our behalf, not one person appalled by the gross injustice that had just taken place. Heels clicked past us and were waved through with thoughtless approval.

Living in the South, I have encountered innumerable incidents of racism. I have been called a "chink" by bands of drunken men as they roar by on the bed of their pickup trucks. I have been accosted in curious wonderment as to determine whether or not I really knew kung-fu. And I have suffered, though not so silently, through ignorance enough to suck men dry of their belief in mankind. Yet still, I refuse to accept such as my fate, for doing so would be to die a slow and purposeless death.

Racism cannot be eradicated overnight, for that, having much to do with the rearing of individuals, is done on the time scale of generations. Anything short of an educational overhaul and a rapid increase in minority reproductive efforts will not do the trick. So what are we to do in the mean time? Machiavelli once offered the advice below:

Upon this a question arises: whether it be better to be loved than feared or feared than loved? It may be answered that one should wish to be both, but, because it is difficult to unite them in one person, is much safer to be feared than loved, when, of the two, either must be dispensed with. Because this is to be asserted in general of men, that they are ungrateful, fickle, false, cowardly, covetous, and as long as you succeed they are yours entirely; they will offer you their blood, property, life and children, as is said above, when the need is far distant; but when it approaches they turn against you. And that prince who, relying entirely on their promises, has neglected other precautions, is ruined; because friendships that are obtained by payments, and not by greatness or nobility of mind, may indeed be earned, but they are not secured, and in time of need cannot be relied upon; and men have less scruple in offending one who is beloved than one who is feared, for love is preserved by the link of obligation which, owing to the baseness of men, is broken at every opportunity for their advantage; but fear preserves you by a dread of punishment which never fails.

I am not suggesting here that we strike fear into the hearts of racists through violent or otherwise illegal scare tactics. What I am suggesting is that we exert what power we have over these people. By power, I mean of course, the power of money. Vote with your dollar. Boycott racist establishments and make an issue of it. Demand public apologies. Do not passively let the offense slide by while you retreat to your neighborhood ethnic-friendly bar. Silence is acceptance in the most helpless sense. Racists everywhere need not like us for who we are, but they must respect us for fear of punishment, for fear of public scrutiny, for fear of going under.

Spread the word.

Bounded by Bones

All this talk of neuroplasticity and the limits of the brain has left me pondering as to the boundaries of human ability. Personally, on a deeper level, I simply don't believe in this stuff. Before you ask, no, I am not rejecting science. But when it comes to the brain, I think science is in over its head. If the brain does indeed control our consciousness, our logic, and is the unquestionable source of our sentience, then where are we to search for true objectivity? Will not our judgment be clouded by the very subject we are attempting to understand? The whole thing is circular. To understand something, we must be able to exist outside of its environment. We must be able to control it. As it is, we are bounded by the limits of our own awareness. The important questions will never be asked because we will never think to ask them. Furthermore, I am of the opinion that the price of the truth will be no less than a sacrifice of individual sanity. You will be rewarded a brief glimpse within Pandora's Box, immediately after which the spongy clump of a hundred billion neurons inside your skull will fry from information overload, effectively rendering you the most clairvoyant vegetable in human history.

Another reason we will never fully realize our species's capabilities has naught to do with cognitive limitations but rather with our social nature. Human beings are naturally communal animals. We construct ideas such as civilization and view ourselves as members of such populations. We bound ourselves with laws and taboos such that we ostracize the nonsubscribers and punish those who are different. It is no wonder then, that we show nearly identical boundaries in our mental capacity. If our neocortex is indeed an undifferentiated sheet of neurons capable of processing any regular signal, then perhaps we are crowding out potential novel abilities with socially dominant ones such as langauge and music. With similar stress and practice, could one not learn to appreciate with equal sensitivity the likes of temperature, pressure, or even radio waves? The line between fiction and potential reality has never been very clearly drawn. Sadly, if given the choice, I suspect that few of us would choose to be a living satellite dish over our coherent, though less impressive selves. To agree to this would require a selflessness that is, ironically, inhuman.

A Yelp of Inspiration

Writing is difficult when inspiration has fled you like an abused pet. You try time and again to coax its return, waiting by the same peeling IKEA desk at the same time each day, hoping for a mere glimpse of its scared little face. You say to it "Juss' come back home, boy. Everythang's gon' be alright." You resort to buying its love with moleskin notebooks, fancy fountain pens, and slick-lid laptops. But finally, when all else fails, you just have to hunt the little bastard down. Here is how you do it.

Be still as ice. Any noisy disturbance and you will have scared it off. Do not speak, do not think, only breathe, very softly. You are a trapper and like the finest of them, you must have patience enough to out-wait the end of the world. Soon enough you will feel its presence, not quite in the room, but no doubt lurking just outside the walls. You must await its approach as you would a curious sparrow examining the bait hidden under a twig-supported Huggies box. It will nuzzle your neck and sniff your rear. Do not break pose. Allow it to first attain a sense of ease and safety around you. When the moment finally comes to make the grab - you will know instinctively like the imminence of a bowel movement - do not hesitate. Shoot out. Grasp its neck with your strong hand and quickly call the other to meet it. Wring the beast dry of all that is rightfully yours. Wring it like a two dollar hand towel.

When you are certain that it has given up the last ounce of the muses' ink, set it free. It will flee with its tail between its legs and yelp of its bruised ego, but fear not. It cannot long keep away from here. Like the scribbling right hand that pivots upon a writer's rising callus, inspiration is a glutton for punishment.

Living

I have never felt more alive than when watching the droplets of my own blood pool into a dark crimson puddle on sun-crackled asphalt. I know that sounds incredibly dark and morbid, but who among us does not hold at least a small token of the sinner's sensibilities? Life and death are so intricately intertwined, it is impossible to clearly demarcate where one begins and the other ends. It is a snake devouring its own tail.

Modern life takes place in a padded room. We are pelted with helmets and knee pads and endless varieties of signs directing us away from the path to self-destruction. What reference then do I have to measure the extent to which I have lived? I am plagued by neither cancer nor mental illness. An outwardly healthy male of twenty-four in reasonbaly decent shape, I am in no position to cherish that which I have never feared of losing.

What is it to me that this reddish ink should leak from my right palm and left wrist and that the cut of my elbow is white with exposed fatty flesh?

I am neither indestructible nor shaped by Fabergé.

There is no life without a little dying.

Trying to get this all down before it goes away

Did things a little differently today. Something called for change.

Woke up with a hangover mirroring the intensity of several large-scale construction accidents. I haven't gotten that disgustingly drunk in a while, or so I was told by a series of early afternoon text messages. At least I didn't vomit. Not that I can recall, anyways. I shall not here expound upon the sordid details of whys and hows, which on their own could constitute an entire entry.

Smoked about four cigarettes last night. Had to bum them off of Dan. I never make it a point to buy cigarettes because I don't ever smoke alone. (Was I smoking alone in front of a Whataburger last night?)

Mental Note: reduce self-destructive behavior

Went to lunch with my mom and my brother at Yan Sushi. The service was slow but the food wasn't bad. Wing-Ho grew out his hair. He's looking more and more like the older brother whenever we go out together.

I left after lunch to go get a hair cut. I usually go to this place called Lucy's Salon. The salon is owned by a Cantonese couple. The husband cuts my hair and we chat casually about our lives, mine mostly, although I do make it a point to ask about his son who is also medical school bound. He goes to Baylor for undergrad and is on a full scholarship. Smart kid as far as I can tell, but I've never met him so I really don't know. Some people sound good when being described by others but fall short of expectations upon a face-to-face meeting. Sometimes I'm afraid that I'm one of those people.

The man who cuts my hair is not a particularly gifted hairstylist. In fact, he takes close to 45 minutes to cut my hair which I would like to think of as relatively low maintenance. But what he lacks in skill he makes up for in personality. We always speak in Cantonese, which is fine with me since I need the practice. He's in his early fifties with a head of thin white hair, a hunched back and a ventral abdominal protuberance typical of most men whose earlier years were marked by copious consumption of malted beverages. He looks much older than my own dad who is similar in age but has stayed comparatively in shape due to the manual labor required of his job. Sometimes I feel like the talks I have with my barber border on the nature of conversations that fathers and sons should be having. My dad is visiting in two weeks.

Today, I did not go to my usual barber for my monthly hair cut. Instead, I went to another nearby hair salon called 明利 (Ming Li). Adam had recommended it to me a few months ago but in misinterpreting his directions, I had discovered Lucy's Salon instead. Yao Ming apparently gets his haircuts at this place. Not that Yao Ming has a particularly envious head of hair, but it's just something interesting about the establishment.

As soon as I entered the store, I immediately noticed the distinctive nature of this place. The hair stylists were all young and Chinese with crazy off the wall hairdos. Many of them look like they had not long ago moved from a more fashion forward Taiwan or Hong Kong. If you live in Houston and you've gotten your haircuts from Supercuts or Visual Changes your whole life, you probably wouldn't be able the appreciate the strangeness of the situation. Chinese haircutting establishments are nearly always staffed with middle age Chinese women, reason being that the majority of these places are made FOR middle age Chinese women. On the whole, the idea is very similar to that of the FUBU clothing brand "For Us By Us". Young Chinese people in Houston simply do not cut hair, they go to medical school or fiddle with plasmids in a lab at Rice or trade energy stocks, or otherwise move to New York or California. To see this team of seemingly well-seasoned young hairstylists in a Chinese hair salon in Houston made me think that someone had imported these kids here for the express purpose of employing them as hairstylists, an act not entirely distinguishable in my mind from the contract labor camps of California during the construction of the Central Pacific Railroad. But needless to say, these guys looked a lot happier.

Walking into this hair salon in which the employees basically double as models of an unpublicized hair show, I felt deeply embarrassed as I defiled the sanctity of the place with my crumpled blue baseball cap and matted clump of slowly thinning hair. It was like being a godless sinner at Sunday mass with a scorching pentagram branded onto my forehead.

I was asked if I had made reservations. I had not. I was asked if I had a specific hair stylist. I did not. These answers drew long sighs and looks of displeasure from the front desk staff. Eventually, I was assigned to a hairstylist who wore dark-rimmed glasses and a pony-tail of no excessive extravagance. She looked to be in her thirties and rather than sporting the conventional all-black attire subscribed to by hair-stylists worldwide, she wore a white spring dress. It was almost as if she had been on her way to meet her boyfriend for a date but had stopped by just to cut my hair. Nevertheless, I appreciated her willingness to fit me in considering I had neither a reservation nor her regular service - after all, her date was probably waiting alone in a cafe somewhere wondering if he had been stood up, the poor guy.

Rice gave me a great haircut. Technically speaking, it was the best haircut I've ever had. Fast, precise, pinpoint attention to detail. I mean, I'm not saying I look like Fabio now, but like any great artist, she made the best out of the material that she had on hand. The one strange thing about the entire experience was that she never once smiled. I consider a smile to be very important in relationship building because it conveys a sense of goodwill beyond words. Of course, she wasn't curt or rude to me in the slightest. In fact, I could tell she was trying to make conversation by asking me questions about myself now and then. But the truth is, the conversation just never took off. With that being said, I would gladly allow Rice to lay her sheers on me at my next monthly grooming session, but it doesn't look like we'll be sharing stories of weekend debaucheries any time soon. I guess sometimes you just can't have it all.

I'm considering writing a short story that takes place in a 7/11. I've always wondered about the lives of people who work in 7/11s. Not Circle Ks or Stop and Gos, but 7/11s, specifically.