poorer, but for the better

So, dude, I am like, so poor.

I was bad today. I bought myself a bunch of stuff I didn’t really need—like an extra sandwich and a $5 JambaJuice smoothie, not to mention a busload of concert tickets. David fronted me for Stars, which I am (finally!) going to go see in mid-October, but out of sheer indignation and overexcitement I also bought tickets to Rilo Kiley in September and Old Springs Pike at Joe’s Pub on October 29.

Just so people know (not that they will, since those of you who read this will probably not be in NYC at the time of the shows), I bought TWO tickets each for Rilo and Old Springs Pike. This means, if I can’t find people to go with me, I sell it at the venue door for an extra twenty bucks. It’ll work for Rilo, at least. OSP is relatively unknown, unless you’re a mega-geek like me.

I first discovered OSP because John Gallagher (my favourite person ever, remember? from Spring Awakening) sings and plays guitar in it in his spare time. You know, when he has any. Despite the 90% of Spring Awakening cross-over fans, OSP is actually really good. Their biggest selling point—the vocals are spectacular, harmonies tight. They’re twangy with some attitude, soft-spoken but know how to rock out. They make the kind of music I like to drink to—just listen to “I Shall Be Released“, as dedicated to Bob Dylan.

Today, David and I decided to be cultured and go see “Dark Matter,” the centerpiece of the Asian-American film festival. Before I make any splash about the film, I just want to say, walking into the Upper East Side is like entering a foreign territory. It makes me appreciate the West Side (yo) so much more—it’s just so chill and unpretentious, contrasted with the gazillion mega-designer stores parading down Fifth Avenue and the Prada-heeled women with chihuahua totes walking along them. UES is also excruciatingly dull, the said designer stores and museums encroaching on the mostly snooty residential area, with bare sidewalks and a wayward pharmacy.

“Dark Matter” had the misfortune to be released near the time of the Virginia Tech shootings. I honestly hope people do not caustically dismiss it for that reason alone, but I am probably putting too much faith in the human race. “Dark Matter” tells the story of Liu Xing, a young cosmologist who graduated first from the Beijing University (which, my father will tell you, is the best university in China). He is accepted to help Professor Reiser at a midwestern university to help research and model our universe, and how it may have evolved since the Big Bang. Initially, Liu Xing is idealistic, innocent and exceptionally eager, but when his “dark matter” ideas contradict Reiser’s own work, he is told that he is “in way over his head…[he] must pay [his] dues.” Insert more political maneuvering, cultural commentary, and social expectation—bam! There’s a bang. Literally.

See, I hate watching films like this. There are two reasons why I hate watching them, but the underlying arc is that I saw a lot of truth (perhaps exaggerated truth, but truth nonetheless) in this film, and it was extremely painful to acknowledge. I just sat there cringing, clutching the folds of my dress, wishing I hadn’t shelled out the money to see this. “Dark Matter” told two stories—one of blatant racism and discrimination, the other of the contrived game of science currently being played by important people everywhere.

“Dark Matter” did flashbacks very well. The director was spot on depicting Chinese immigrants’ behaviour after first arriving (flocking to the free food, using church as a means of transportation, that sort of thing) as well as the professions of Liu Xing’s parents back in China—his father was a factory worker, his mother was a laundress. Their house in China is exactly like my grandmother’s, before her children bought her a better one: bins all over the house, everything squeezed in one room, large thermoses to hold hot water when it was shut off, fold-up chairs. And also spot-on for showing how Asian-Americans are abused by employers—cheap labour all over again, Reiser at one point actually utters, “I love Beijing… students.” “He’s working for me.”

Now, the game of science, along a similar vein, directly coincides with part one through one of Liu Xing’s lines. He says that, in China, a graduate student would never challenge a professor’s views, because he has so much respect for the professor. This view is definitely the norm in China, but I think “respect” isn’t exactly the right word. It’s more “fear.” Liu Xing then goes on to state that, in science, this is a gigantic problem, because only through challenges and improvements can there be progress.

I’m working my way through Chris Mooney’s The Republican War on Science, which is definitely not just about Republicans, as the title so avidly claims (it’s more of a catchy marketing tool). The book is more about how politicians completely disregard scientific evidence, or use the “research” to buttress their already extant political agenda. But that’s another entry. On the first page is a quote by Steven Pinker:

The success of science depends on the apparatus of democratic adjudication—anonymous peer review, open debate, the fact that a graduate student can criticize a tenured professor. These mechanisms are more or less explicitly designed to counter human self-deception. People always think they’re right, and powerful people will tend to use their authority to bolster their prestige and suppress inconvenient opposition. You try to set up the game of science so that the truth will out despite the ugly side of human nature.

The scientific process is abysmally slow (hell, it took until 2007 for the IPCC to verify—with near certainty—that humans played a role in climate change). There’s a lot of tugging and debate, but eventually it turns out all right. That quote, however, sums up “Dark Matter” to a tee, without the racism bit. “Dark Matter” is based on the real events surrounding Gang Lu, who shot his advisors, two other senior faculty, and a fellow Ph.D. student. The true story is uglier, I admit, but the director took inspiration instead of making a documentary.

I always have more to say than I thought. Bedtime…

I should really get my driver’s license

Sometimes my parents drive me up the wall.

Don’t get me wrong, I love them, I really do. But I really believe that they aren’t familiar with what most people call “normal parent behaviour.” Or maybe they are long-suffering from “eldest-child-syndrome” or have just gotten so used to me doing things for myself.

I had called my mother during my 4-hour layover at Dulles, comfortably propped up next to an airport outlet and $10 poorer for paying for wi-fi, with lightning flashing outside and splattering rain abusing the windows. I told her, “Mom, I’m going to be late, my flight’s been delayed.” She, quite curtly, asked what time I’d be landing at LaGuardia, and I told her, “oh, probably after midnight.”

And after that, I’d known it would be a mistake to call. She flipped a shit and actually said to me, “You’re going to be in the city all by yourself after midnight? That’s so dangerous!” I explained, in a low, soothing-voice emulated from those self-relaxation tapes, that I had a friend who was willing to come pick me up, and I had a friend who would let me stay in her dorm room on campus. If worse came to worse, I would take a cab. After hearing her rant and rave for 10 more minutes, I was just like, “if you’re so worried, why don’t you come pick me up from the airport?”

Oh—but, your father’s out—it’s so last minute—if you’re going to be arriving from the airport this late, you need to let us know in advance—my car is broken again—why didn’t you fly back on Sunday, or earlier—but I’ve never been to the airport, I’ll get lost—blather, blather, blather, let’s make up another excuse here!

Sometimes I just don’t understand—I have friends, people who no blood relation to me, that I may have met on the INTERNET, who would come get me from an airport upon arriving. I know at least three people who would come pick me up at LaGuardia in the middle of the night if I was in trouble and really needed them to (though I would feel terrible for inconveniencing them).

It’s been like this ever since early high school—I’ve always had to find my own ride. At first I thought it was tacit unapproval if they refused to drive me anywhere, but I later learned it was out of sheer laziness. They chauffeur my brother around to—let’s see: boy scouts, tae kwon do lessons (which is around the block, I swear, only 500 feet away! oh, but he has—stuff—to carry…), summer camp, Pennsylvania. And let’s face it, it’s because my brother is practically an idiot savant with the social talents of a doormouse.

So she stormed on, and threatened to never let me fly alone again, so I just couldn’t help myself anymore, and seethed, “Since we’ve already established that you are NOT coming to pick me up, let me do it all my way.” Like I planned having this flight delayed! That wasn’t even the start of it, but I plead irrelevance. I thought to call, you know, just being the dutiful daughter to let her know where I was, but next time I know just to keep my mouth shut.

We won’t mention that I woke up sick, am a week behind on work, and am madly and utterly exhausted from carrying a 40-lb duffel bag around the city all day that I slept 4 hours passed when I was supposed to wake up. Not that I blame them at all. As I said—I’m used to this.