December 18th, 2014 § Leave a Comment
Some things I’ll never understand: techno music, men and plastic surgery and the comb over. The comb over. Why? Has anyone ever seen a comb over and thought, “That’s a good idea”?
Last night, at my daughter’s orthodontist office, I saw one of the greatest comb overs of all time.
I know. I’m not saying that lightly … of all time. And trust me, I’ve had my run ins with the comb over. An image I can’t get out of my head is of one of my Dad’s best friends, a summer afternoon and ping pong. He was short and stocky, tidy and proper with a classic, well matured comb over. There was a heated ping pong match. The shirts came off and the sweat flowed. With the lunging forehand, the comb over slid off his wet, slickened dome and hung shoulder length to one side of his head. Instantly, this man who’d been up to that point the picture of restraint and propriety transformed into a crazy dwarf who works in underground dungeons. It left an impression.
But what I saw last night … I was standing in the waiting room, holding our foster child who’d had enough of waiting, when walked in an older Chinese gentleman – trust me, us Asians can tell. Taking notice of the unhappy child in my arms, he walked over with a kind smile in what I could only assume was an effort to cheer the kid up. The man, already of diminutive stature, bent slightly to get eye level with the kid. By so doing, he basically shoved his comb over in my face. I was frozen.
Turn away man!
It wasn’t your standard “Bring it over and lay the wet strands across” comb overs. No. This comb over borrowed from every side of his head. A little from the east, a bit from the west. Pull some forward from the back. The fine mesh gathered was spun, patted and held in place like a thin swath of jet black cotton candy laid over shiny flesh. I’ll never forget it.
I suppose the only explanation for it is that of evolution. No one goes bald overnight. The thining and retreating happens gradually. I suppose one can be forgiven for combing a bit over to cover a thining patch. After a decade of “little here, a little there” and you have it – the comb over. Hey, you didn’t plan to end up here. It just happened. So, in a way, your loved ones are as much to blame as you are. Has no one to told you, “Enough’s enough”?
Well, enough’s enough. You’re not fooling anyone. Combing over is not a good idea.
December 8th, 2014 § Leave a Comment
If Star Wars was what made an otherwise happy outing into something despised – I still can’t stand that damn dragon – what does this enduring memory from my childhood tell me about myself? What does it tell me about the difficulty of maintaining a thankful disposition? What does it say about discontentment and the anger that so often accompanies it?
The only reason Star Wars came to bear on that afternoon was because I believed I was getting it instead of Pete’s Dragon. Falsely, but believed whole heartedly nonetheless. If I don’t see that poster on the way in, Pete’s Dragon might be one of my all time favorite movies … ahhh, maybe not, but you get the point. When I expected one thing and got another, I was pissed. This was an isolated incident, so how does it translate to an overall state of ungratefulness? Do I live with a general belief that I deserve something more? My life is Pete’s Dragon when it should be Star Wars. There’s a word for this. Entitled. It’s an ugly word. It’s what gets some turning to an absurd line when special demands are denied: “Do you know who I am?” Yeah yeah, I know who you are. Now, get your ass back in line like everyone else.
And so what is at the root of Do you know who I am guy? The question itself is revealing. Isn’t it what we believe about ourselves? More specifically, our belief in the self-aggrandized version of ourselves. An inflated sense self-importance? Somehow, we’ve gottin’ it in your heads that we are more important than others standing in line. And as deplorable as that sounds, isn’t this more or less the default setting for all of us?
I got news for you self, and it’s not really news: You’re not that important. One day, sooner than you think, you will be no more. And when that day comes, if you’ve lived well, a few will cry for you. And just as their tears dry, so will the memory of you evaporate. And if you understand this, you’ll know this isn’t sad. It’s not tragic. You’ll let go of self-importance. Cease from asking, “Do you know who I am?” You’ll not need a lifeless statue erected in your name to realize that you are far more valuable than you’ve ever dared to believe. Nor will you need the idiocy of a discolored, bronze image, staring blankly into nothing, a glorified perch for birds to be comforted by the reality that you’re far less important than your fragility has demanded. And maybe, forgetting that you deserve anything, forgetting that you’re entitled to more than they, you’ll sit back and be thankful for Pete’s Dragon.
And c’mon really, how much better is Star Wars than Pete’s Dragon?
December 3rd, 2014 § Leave a Comment
Pete’s Dragon was one of the great disappointments of my life. The partial animation, musical of a jolly dragon frolicking with a couple of kids. Really. I’m not making that up. It’s what I remember, at least. Look, it was a long time ago. And at the time, I could barely speak a word of English, let alone follow a full length film. And even if I could, I was too bent to make an effort.
I’m pretty sure it was a field trip. I don’t remember anything leading up to it. I don’t remember looking forward to it. The bus ride. Nothing. The first thing I remember of that day was seeing the Star Wars movie poster outside the theatre. My brother was with me, and I remember turning to him, wide eyed, “StaaAAH WaahhSSEH!” We were straight outta Seoul, but we weren’t living under a rock. In 1977, there wasn’t anything bigger than Star Wars. And as far as I knew, we were walking into a theatre to watch it. I wanted to run around in circles, jumping and screaming.
Barely able to contain myself, I took a seat in the theatre. The lights finally dimmed. “StaaAAH WaahhSSEH.” Into this space of unparalleled anticipation entered a fat, green, stupid dragon. “Huh? Okay, this must be … wait. What? No. No. No. No!” In the first thirty minutes of Pete’s Dragon, I went through my own stages of grief: Shock. Question. Denial. Anger. Resignation.
Pete’s Dragon was one of the great disappointments of my life. But it shouldn’t have been. I was at the movies! First time ever. And not on any day, but on a school day. Any movie is better than a day at school. There were plenty for which to be thankful, and yet it was one of my greatest disappointments. Why? Star Wars, that’s why. When I thought I was getting something better, the good I got was worse than nothing.
After a weekend of pondering the act of giving thanks, I wonder if the ease of it eludes me because I still think I should be getting Star Wars instead of Pete’s Dragon.