On Friday, I was feeling artsy and cheap, so I went to the Museum of Modern Art with a friend. We meet a few of her friends there and we walked around, getting lost in art I did not understand but thought was incredibly creative and generally useless. After a couple hours, I was still feeling artsy and cheap, and when one of the new acquaintances mentioned the words "art exhibit" and "free snacks" I was immediately interested.
After a little nap in the A train, I arrived to a Harlem townhouse that was rented for the occasion. A lady welcomed us into the house. "Hey, I'm Narissa," she said, after a polite hug, "nice to meet you." The five of us proceeded to state our names and, with a very big smile and holding a glass of wine, she said "don't test me on this later; I'll let you go around and introduce yourselves to the rest," and left to mingle with the crowd.
I looked at the paintings by Raquel Ríos and pretended I liked some of them. I might have even liked them at the moment, after consuming my fair share of cheese cubes and wine glasses. When my friends were done eating and throwing grapes in my wine, we headed out. Narissa was there, and we said goodbye to her. "It was nice meeting you," she said, and we returned the niceties. "I'll see you around," she said, and none of us tested her on our names.
Sunday, May 25, 2008
Friday, May 16, 2008
White Man in Chinatown
The other day, I met up with some friends in SoHo. Our limited budget and ethnic alliances ended up leading us to Chinatown. We walked and my friends were being loud and giggly, like high-school girls on Ecstasy, and eyes kept turning to us as we walked by. We made occasional stops at interesting shop windows, blithely blocking the way of people 5-times our age, stopping them from being functional members of society.
As we kept on walking, we passed an old white man -- the only one I remember seeing in Chinatown. "Stay in highschool," he said, "so that you can do something with your lives." I stopped walking and corrected him. "We're actually all college students," I said, "we go to school upstate."
Mr. white man looked happy about it. His white biker beard morphed into a grin, and he told me to then stay in college. His two daughters did, and now they are nurses, "so stay in school," he said. "That's some solid advice," I replied, and left.
As I caught up with my friends a block away, I thought, "This guy fathered two nurses: He must know what he's talking about." I mean, nurses are awesome. I've always liked nurses. They're hot.
As we kept on walking, we passed an old white man -- the only one I remember seeing in Chinatown. "Stay in highschool," he said, "so that you can do something with your lives." I stopped walking and corrected him. "We're actually all college students," I said, "we go to school upstate."
Mr. white man looked happy about it. His white biker beard morphed into a grin, and he told me to then stay in college. His two daughters did, and now they are nurses, "so stay in school," he said. "That's some solid advice," I replied, and left.
As I caught up with my friends a block away, I thought, "This guy fathered two nurses: He must know what he's talking about." I mean, nurses are awesome. I've always liked nurses. They're hot.
Thursday, April 17, 2008
My Conversations with Strangers: First Post
Hi. My name is Jin. This post is the first of many conversations I will have with strangers throughout this summer. To make it special, I thought, why not make it with you, readers? I don't know you, but I would certainly like to get to know you better. If you don't mind me asking, Why do you think we do not talk to strangers in real life?
When I was a little kid, the kindergarten teachers used to tell us not to talk to strangers, because they were bad. Nobody ever told me why, but I assumed it was true. As I got a little older, the explanations became a little more elaborate, and strangers became potential rapists, con-men and internal-organ salesmen. But they don't convince me anymore.
I think there are some very amazing people out there that I still don't know. I'm sure I can have some very nice conversations with some of them. Some might be nasty, but the vast majority of people have some degree of inner good and intelligence.
Of course it would be easy to try this in places like suburban Ontario or the metro in Paris, but what better place to try this than New York City? I've heard that people over there don't stop for anything and push old ladies to the ground just for fun. I have to see that for myself.
I'll get back to you soon and will let you know how things go.
Is there anything you would like to know about the people over there?
When I was a little kid, the kindergarten teachers used to tell us not to talk to strangers, because they were bad. Nobody ever told me why, but I assumed it was true. As I got a little older, the explanations became a little more elaborate, and strangers became potential rapists, con-men and internal-organ salesmen. But they don't convince me anymore.
I think there are some very amazing people out there that I still don't know. I'm sure I can have some very nice conversations with some of them. Some might be nasty, but the vast majority of people have some degree of inner good and intelligence.
Of course it would be easy to try this in places like suburban Ontario or the metro in Paris, but what better place to try this than New York City? I've heard that people over there don't stop for anything and push old ladies to the ground just for fun. I have to see that for myself.
I'll get back to you soon and will let you know how things go.
Is there anything you would like to know about the people over there?
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