On a Moment of Transition

So, for a second there, I was re-posting "lighter" posts from my old blog, one I wrote mostly for entertainment purposes. Since I've been slow on the new posts lately, I thought I'd post another one. This one isn't one of my more entertaining ones, but it pretty much pinpoints the moment when I decided to stop blogging to "entertain," and decided it was time to just start sharing my real thoughts.

(The little gimmick here is that it's written as a letter, so you must substitute all the "yous" with the subject of the post to make it make sense . . . )

This was posted last January:



Dear What I Really Think,

Before I even start writing this letter to you, What I Really Think, I just want to warn you that it's not going to be particularly funny. Yeah sure, I'm a hilarious guy, so some of it might be accidentally hilarious - I just can't help it sometimes - but that won't be the over-arching theme of this letter. Just wanted to give you a heads-up on that one, What I Really Think. Although you should have probably already known that. And are probably pretty used to non-hilariousness.

Right. In my letters, I don't really censor myself (outside of keeping my language mostly clean). I choose something to write to, and then I let it know exactly you about it. I'll rip on it a little bit, or shamelessly worship it, and then thank it for some sort of life lesson at the end. That's how it usually goes. And it's all pretty much you about the whole matter. No making things up here. I'm not so into that.

However, in CHOOSING the concept or thing to write my letters to, I DO end up holding back a bit. I'm not really going to choose to write a letter to something that I get particularly angry about (in a real way). Or sad about. Or other such strong emotions. Why is that?

Well, first and foremost - I have a Readership to entertain. If I was to tell them you about every major issue in the world, I would likely lose them quite quickly. Because it's great to have strong feelings about things, but it's quite another thing altogether to make other people share in those strong feelings on a regular basis. I have seen far too many blogs in which the blog-runner writes all sorts of heart-felt, emotional tirades about injustice and world issues and the like - only for me to stop reading about halfway because I get tired of it. There's a REASON most people only have a few close friends with whom they share their intimate secrets - because only a few people really want to hear it. And I'd even argue that maybe even less than that (most times).

Second, most of that sort of writing ends up coming off as whiny, melodramatic, and/or pretentious when spit profusely on a regular basis. None of us listen to the "God Guy" who yells at people in public parks about how they're going to Hell. I, for one, think it's likely true for most of them, but I STILL ignore him. And that's because nobody really wants to listen to a man (or woman) on a soapbox for more than about five minutes uninterrupted. People are made to enjoy frivolous pursuits that keep our minds OFF all those serious issues out there, so the last thing we want to do with our free time is get reminded of it all. Too much of that kind of writing starts to feel like reading somebody's diary, and that just feels creepy and a little bit sad.

Third, it's not much of a writing challenge. It's easy to spit emotions into a vat and call it "writing." Anybody can write "Dear World Hunger" and come off feeling like a Poet Laureate because nobody is going to dare critique that with anything but an over-arching, "That's deep." Or - even worse - "I KNOW, Man!!! That just SUCKS!!!" It's more difficult to try to write something entertaining on a lighter level while still giving a little bit of insight into you, What I Really Think. Deep writing - if done right - is meant more for lyrics and novels, in my opinion.

Fourth, I don't feel up to it. Most of my Readership knows me. And therefore most know that I don't particularly like to share the innermost workings of the CVT on a large-scale level with people that matter. I want to say it face-to-face, so I can read the reaction in somebody's face. If I'm going to say something about you on a serious level, I am not about to give the person I'm sharing that with an opportunity to ignore it and pretend that it didn't happen. I'm obnoxious like that. If I'm going to spit fire, I want to be able to see the look on the face of the person I singed.

And finally - because it's scary to share you with people whose opinions that matter because they might not like it. And that is sucky.

So why did I feel the need to address you in this letter, What I Really Think? Because I've been distracted from writing letters recently because I've been busy doing other things in which I share you. Writing music. Having conversations with people. Doing my job and planning for it. And it seemed odd that that should keep me from writing in this. That it should make it hard for me to come up with a "good" addressee for my letters. Because it would seem natural that I should just write to whichever concept was occupying my mind at the time. But when that concept had something to do with you, What I Really Think, I would balk.

Odd, and yet not odd at all (due to the previously-stated five reasons). And writing this letter isn't going to really change all that. Just thought it was a good idea to address it. And that's you about that.

All that said, I still thank you, What I Really Think, for all the creative inspiration you give me and all the great conversations I've been having lately. It's been grand.

Really Thinking About Eating Some Dried Mango Slices,
CVT

On Walking in a Snow Storm - Literally

I keep putting off that "Invention of Race" post I promised, but . . .

It's snowing outside. Real snow. Big, fluffy flakes of snow that are actually sticking to the ground. SNOW.

In Portland, Oregon.

That doesn't happen very often.

And I have this giddy-as-a-schoolboy feeling about it. I keep standing up on my chair (I live in a basement) to look out the window at the falling flakes, and the white sky beyond. I have a park across the street from me (I like to call it "my park"), and it's so exciting to see the grass replaced by a covering of snow. The white clumps sticking to the trees - the cars slowly disappearing under a fresh coat.

I'm planning out the rest of my day as I write this: DEFINITELY going to throw some wood on and have a nice, crackling fire. Going to snuggle up and do a whole lot of reading (George R.R. Martin, for those curious - this faux-radical wannabe emcee likes his fantasy) and - at some point - I'm going to go walk around a little bit.

I'm going to bundle up like crazy, throw on some boots (if I have any that can withstand the snow) and go run around in the park like I'm 5 years old. I'll probably throw a snowball or two (maybe even try to build a little snow-sculpture). And once I'm all tired-out from that (and soaking wet and freezing), I'm going to run back inside (right across the street - brilliant) throw off my wet clothes, and warm back up in front of the fire with a mug of hot tea (or maybe cocoa). And read some more. And not leave my house for the rest of the day.

And then, tomorrow morning, I'm going to cross my fingers and hope against hope for . . . a Snow Day. Again - I'm a teacher, so if I am lucky enough for the snow to stick and make travel difficult, I could get a free day off of work - and how could I use it at this point in the year.

So that's how I'm going to spend my day. Cheerful and cozy and light - because, somedays, there are other things to think about than race. And I'm going to take advantage when I can.

Have a great day.

Wednesday Respite

And now for my weekly "blast-from-the-past" quasi-cheekiness:



MONDAY, APRIL 16, 2007


Dear Pho,

This is a perfect letter to be writing after waking up from a nap. I'm all groggy and cloudy-headed, and the words "Dear Pho" kind of just fall out of my mouth like cotton balls after I was anesthetized by the dentist (for those of you who don't know, "pho" is pronounced like "fuh"). But I guess this probably isn't the first time somebody has been amused at the pronunciation of your name at your expense. Sorry about that.

Anyway, I'm sitting here at the computer with a steaming bowl of you right in front of me. It's leftover from dinner a few nights ago, but it still seems to be perfect for the moment: I look out the window directly in front of me to see one more overcast, rainy, cold Portland day, and my body is just trying to shake off a nap, making my slowed metabolism cause me to feel a little colder than normal. The steam from you is dancing right in front of my eyes as I write, and it seems very reassuring.

It's funny that I'm happy to have you in front of me right now because I used to talk so much ish about you, back in the day. When I first moved to Portland, I noticed all sorts of places that specialized in you around town, and it piqued my curiosity. So I did a little research to find out that you were basically just beef broth with noodles and some other crap thrown in. That's it. So when random Portlanders kept telling me about how a specific restaurant "had good pho," I couldn't help but scoff: stupid Portlanders.

It seemed so perfect for this town full of hippies and cultural appropriators (everyone being so proud in their proper pronunciation of your name) to talk about "good pho." I mean, how could there be anything but one version of you? Beef broth. With noodles. That was like saying that Safeway sold some "good Cup o' Noodles." As if one cup tasted different than another cup. Couldn't I just cut the top off a Swanson's beef broth container, throw some veggies and crap in it and call it "good pho?"

But in spite of my best contempt, people continued to talk about you and order you for dinner and talk about good places to get you. And so - about a year ago (and two years into my time in Portland) - I found myself on a crappy, overcast day at another Pan-Asian restaurant (that's another thing Portland specializes in, so-called "Chinese" or "Vietnamese" restaurants that actually serve dishes from all over the Continent, furthering white people's beliefs that we're "all the same"). I was hungry and feeling dark because of the weather, but I wasn't REAL hungry, and I was craving veggies. And - suddenly - you became the perfect option (this, of course, coming about a year after I finally relented and decided that soup was - indeed - food). And so I ordered you.

And when you were served to me, all steamy and hot in your bowl, I actually salivated. Diving in with my chopsticks first, I scooped large clump after large clump of soft noodles into my mouth to kill my initial hunger. Then, less desperate to fill my belly, I chose out some veggies to eat - and they still crunched. The basil gave you a nice, fresh taste and mouth-feel, and the chunks of meat gave you substance. Finally, I lifted the giant bowl to my lips and drank down your salty, oily broth, which coated my stomach like a warm, satisfying blanket. My body comfortably warm and my hunger and cravings thus satisfied, I declared, "That was some GOOD pho." And I haven't looked back. I get it now - you're not popular here because of Portland culture, but because of the crappy weather. Your warmth and perceived freshness in the midst of the Season of Seasonal Affective Disorder are a ray of hope in a sky of gray.

Now, I still sniff with a bit of contempt when somebody recommends a "good pho" place, but then I take note and try it the next time I have you for dinner. Because you really do hit a very specific spot a lot of the time. Not to mention that a lot of places that have you also serve avocado shakes or home-made lime-ade. That fact alone kind of makes you cool.

And so I acknowledge your special goodness. I thank you for the times we've had and how you opened my eyes, and I will definitely share you with any outsiders who come to visit me. But now, you're getting cold, and I need to eat you.

Be careful on the way down,
CVT

Tuesday Levity

In general, this blog can cover some pretty frustrating and depressing topics. Not a bad thing, really - because these things need to be mentioned and/or discussed, but I thought I should get some regular levity in here to show any readers that I'm not always "so serious."* So I've decided that I'll do some blast-from-the-past posting once a week, putting up a past post from my now-deceased "entertaining" blog. The concept is explained in this one, but in summary: they are letters to inanimate objects meant to express my appreciation for the "little things." See? I appreciate things . . .

* It probably also shows how "American" I really am.

Without further ado, the CVT's Past Presents:


SUNDAY, APRIL 1, 2007

Dear Coconut Cream Pie
So my friend, A, gave me a little critique on this crappy blog, and she had a great idea. She told me that it might be a little more interesting ("a little," mind you, she's smart enough not to make big promises for this blog) if I wrote my posts as letters to various people/things. I thought that was a pretty good idea, so I've thrown out the "Theme of the Week" idea (which, if you've been reading, I actually threw out the day after I started it), and I'm going to go with letters.

Today's letter: Dear Coconut Cream Pie,

I ate a lot of you today. A's dad gave her a big piece of you yesterday, and she decided that I should have it (not knowing that you are my favourite dessert in the world). I ate the whole chunk in one sitting as I watched the beginning of "the Scorpion King" on tv. Unfortunately, it turns out that "the Scorpion King" is one of the worst movies ever made (it reminded me of the Conan the Barbarian movies, but much worse for having been made in the modern era), and the piece of you I was eating wasn't so terrific, either.

You see, I'm spoiled. My mom happens to make a really kick-ass coconut cream pie, and I've never met another's pie that has ever come close. It all started with the crust: today's piece of you had an awful crust. I'm not sure if it was burnt, or if it was supposed to be that way, but it was dry and had a definite charcoal taste to it. Nothing like mom makes it.

Now, don't get me wrong - I enjoyed you today. I really did. It's just hard not to get my hopes up when somebody gives me a bakery-box with you in it. Something about that pink box makes me think of my youth when only exciting treats came in those cleverly-folded containers: cupcakes, birthday cake, donuts . . . All generally signifying some fun event (usually a birthday).

So when a pink bakery box is combined with coconut cream pie, I'm expecting something really special. Something that is going to make me forget all about how horribly bad "the Scorpion King" is. Something that will throw me straight into the land of Eating Bliss no matter what else is going on. But when I opened up that magical box and began eating you today . . . well, I was thinking about how bad that movie was.

I know this is pretty hurtful to you, Coconut Cream Pie. That's why I wanted to address it clearly and immediately. We've had some amazing times together. All those birthdays when my mom makes you for me, and I eat you (nice and cold out of the fridge - the best way to enjoy you) for breakfast . . . The moments of hesitation when G asks for a slice of you, and I have to be polite and say okay. Today's little incident will never erase those memories or make them less special for me. I just figured that - if I was thinking it - I should say it.

So here it is: I think I would have preferred a big chocolate chip cookie this afternoon.

I'm so sorry.

Sincerely,
CVT