My father forced me to go to the polling booth with him every year. Dressed in my Catholic school uniform, I would walk with him to the local polling station, where he would force me to stay in my spot as he moved towards a heavy apparatus that looked like an essential part of Frankenstein’s laboratory.
(This guy sometimes seemed to fall asleep while playing in the OF)
I developed my love for baseball over long summers sitting inn the upper deck at Candlestick Park, where Willie McCovey seemed to stand a few city blocks away, a miniature figure among other miniature figures in a massive, mostly empty stadium.
On a recent job interview with a local bank, the Vice President spent close to five minutes expressing her surprise that I was Japanese. “You look Chinese..,” she kept saying, as if waiting for me to get on my knees and confess that I lied. “Your skin is so white!,” she would continue, “and Japanese are so brown.”
I once dreamt of being an airline hostess for Japan Airlines, and even wrote them a very complimentary letter as part of a class project.
I watch my SF Giants game on TV (except the ones v. the Dodgers because of TWC) because I live in Southern California. With the exception of Amy G, I enjoy my games and looking at the beautiful stadium. It is a source of civic pride, especially to this native San Franciscan who weathered so many seasons at Candlestick Park.
I have always loved the story of the 47 Ronin, or Chushingura. We were told of it somewhere in our Japanese school lives, a classic heroes tale in which a vassal of loyal warriors to one particular Lord sought to avenge his wrongful death. It is a story of honor triumphing over corruption, also highlighting a team spirit that is so important to Japanese culture.
When I offer film reviews through this blog, bear in mind that I do it for short films that I find appealing. In presenting these reviews to the reader, I do it with the intention of inspiring the individual to watch the movie. I am not offering film commentary.
If there is one thing I have learned while living in the suburbs, it is that people will find 101 uses for an empty uterus.
Remember those old posters about footprints in the sand? I hated it back then, and I have equal contempt for those postcard images on Facebook.
Hit and run is the new black
Published by Anna Pirhana on January 22, 2015On my second full solo outing with my husband’s Lexus, a charcoal grey car that he cherishes and cares for as a child, I had the misfortune of having some young punk’s motorcycle leave a giant dent followed by a trail of a long, deep scratch on the front end of his car.