In response to “You can Finish this Later” - probably not your #1 Fan, but one nonetheless

Dear Glob,

Before he became a member of the “Superfriends of South Beach,” I was mildly obsessed with Dwyane Wade. Overshadowed by the plethora of talent available during the 2003 NBA draft, Wade had a relatively quiet rookie year in Miami, where I watched him develop into my ideal athlete: unselfish yet always competitive, amazing game changing fourth quarter/playoff style play, and, conveniently, incredibly easy on the eyes.  During Wade’s Sophomore year Shaquille O’Neal arrived with one of the biggest trades in NBA history.  Naturally the media hooplah that followed cast a bright spotlight on the Heat, and though more people finally began to truly appreciate Wade’s talent, it wasn’t until the 2005/2006 season, when the Heat won the title with Wade named MVP, that he was cemented with bonafide Star status. Case in point: I was down in South Beach for New Year’s Eve 2004 (soon to be 2005) celebrating at some big trendy club.  Sometime after midnight, a mob excitedly formed as Shaq and his entourage entered the club.  I briefly joined in on the catcalls for autographs and pictures, though didn’t follow the masses as Shaq was ushered into the private exclusive area reserved for Very Important People.  Next thing you know my friend is rushing towards me, exclaiming that she heard the entire Heat team just arrived.  Brushing off her excitement citing I had already seen Shaq, she ignored my disinterest and pointed to a certain fellow, discreetly standing to the side of the dance floor.  It was Dwyane Wade, hanging out in the midst of an unnoticing crowd surrounding him.  Completely flummoxed, I followed my friend as she coolly introduced herself and gave a witty remark on the triple-double he had scored during the previous night’s game.  As soon as my initial shock wore off, on cue the word vomit began.    My friend thankfully cut my overly enthusiastic reign of praise short, requested a picture (where I smiled stupidly as Wade put his arm around me), then lead me away and promptly yelling at me for ruining a chance of a lifetime. Had I not spent the entire flight to Miami dreamily (though half jokingly) plotting out how I was going to meet Dwyane Wade in person? What the hell happened to me?  

 

This was my first poignant experience with my personal expression of Fandom.  Note: This is not to be confused with being Starstruck; au contraire  - I’m usually the New Yorker nonchalantly brushing off the James Franco and Derek Jeter sightings. But when it comes to someone who I genuinely admire, I regress into a wide-eyed school girl, blowing all chances of being “cool” in front of a person who I so desperately don’t want to think I’m a complete moron. Sadly, after a handful of similar pitiful chance meetings with people of my highest esteem, I am resigned to this sorry fate. Ironically enough, this behavior is not only reserved for people who have garnered widespread fame. I’ve also made a fool of myself in front of a musician who opened for Kid Koala whose performance I wholeheartedly enjoyed despite never previously hearing her music, a girl whose food blog I religiously read and recommendations I unwaveringly trust, a bartender whose cocktail I sampled at a Bacon and Bourbon expo, a member of the Mark Morris Dance company, a barista who makes beautiful Cortados, etc.  In each of these situations, I’ve been unable to express my admiration in a non-stalkerish eloquent way.  Perhaps my own self deprecating image of myself cannot fathom socializing or, as an even more deep seated desire, to somehow become friends with the aforementioned people.  Wow, that’s depressing - I should work on that, huh?  But to those people who have yet to be recognized by the masses (as in my mind you rightfully should), may you garner some delight from this one girl’s incredibly awkward hum of praise... and her unavoidable geeky requests for a high-five before she runs away in embarrassment with the realization that she has inevitably once again botched her once-in-a-lifetime first impression.

Testing, testing, 1 2 3...

Dear Glob,

Wow, its been awhile, huh? Just dipping my toes in the water to see if any of my loyal readership are still plugged into this forum - all 2 of you lovely people, who for some reason liked reading my attempts at globbing.

Regardless - I'm back and this post marks the beginning of my efforts to write again... Muhahahha!

A Plea Letter

Dear Brooklyn,

Stop being so distracting!!! My readership demands it so!

Oh dear... I love it here!

Y.A.P.W.C.T.M. Part Deux

Dear Glob,

Please give a warm welcome to outofspin.blogspot.com - the newest addition to the blogosphere.

I am already a huge fan and am anxiously awaiting future posts.

THUNDEROUS APPLAUSE!

Yet another person who's cooler than me...

Dear Glob,


And he's not even 3 months yet... Gah, I need some street cred and fast!

CURSE-ive Writing

Dear Glob,

Growing up, I perpetuated the “hardworking studious Asian” student stereotype, always the super nerd who excelled at every subject… except for 1 - handwriting. Back in the day when grades only consisted of O’s (Outstanding), A’s (Average) and P’s (Poor), my report card always donned straight “O’s,” with the occasional “A” borderline “P” for Phys Ed.* Then came 3^rd grade along with 2 big writing milestones: 1) We were making the transition from baby-like pencils to grown-up pens (albeit erasable pens) and 2) Learning how to write in cursive. But, of course, there was a stupid little catch – you weren’t allowed the cross over from pencil to pen until you proved your penmanship to the teacher. I always thought handwriting was a joke, needing no real effort or brainpower. Who cared about nicely dotted I’s and crossed T’s when you were leading long division study groups and reading at a 5^th grade level by the age of 8?

In 3^rd grade, afternoons were spent completing assignments from the morning’s lessons. Once we finished and were cleared by our teacher, it was on to the best part of the day, playtime. Naturally, the first kids to finish not only had more free time to run amok, but also had first pick of all the toys, and the coolest of the toys were hands down the big cardboard bricks. Nothing was more satisfying than building a big castle with your friends, hanging out inside while maintaining a strict door policy of who was cool enough to gain admittance, and, best of all, violently knocking it down at the sound of the dismissal bell. I held a scared truce with the other 2 smart kids in the class: whomever finished first would claim the blocks and always allow the others in our fellowship of 3 to partake in the exclusive rebuilding and demolition of the cardboard brick castle. This cycle was flawless… until one fateful day when the cursive writing handbooks were distributed.

I remember this day vividly. After our teacher showed us how to execute the flow-y forms of a capital and lower case “Aa,” we were assigned to complete the first section of our new workbooks before our afternoon playtime. This was easy chump work I thought as I quickly and carelessly traced and wrote lines of cursive “Aa’s.” I triumphantly finished well before all of my classmates and happily skipped over to my teacher, expecting another gold star for my excellent work. But to my utter dismay, my teacher abruptly returned my workbook, sans gold star, and began to reprimand me for my sloppy handwriting. Surprised by her reaction, I dejectedly sat at my desk trying to make my “Aa’s” a little rounder and even. After one row of painfully slowly executed cursive “Aa’s,” I decided that was enough to clear me for playtime, but was once again ushered back to my desk. How unfair and unreasonable my teaching was acting! I coached other kids through remainders, read quietly and competently when my teacher struggled with other reading groups and here I was being punished for not caring about something as stupid and useless as cursive writing. Freakin' waste of my time! This attitude stubbornly stuck with me through “Bb” and “Cc,” and I gladly gave up half of playtime refusing to try harder in protest against the faux importance of cursive writing.

B is for BORING... and, not so coincidentally, Boston

It wasn’t until “Dd” did my teacher up the ante. After this particular lesson she circled the classroom handing out blue pens to students she deemed had perfect penmanship. Although I was still scrawling away in chicken scratch, I was shocked when I was not awarded a coveted blue pen. What was happening here? Wasn’t I in the fellowship of 3, who were always “O”utstanding? As I watched the lucky few write their “Dd’s” in blazing blue script, I decided now was the time to sell out and conform to cursive writing society. Easier said then done - For the first time in my life something school related did not come easy for me. Even if I concentrated extremely hard on forming each letter, I could not rise myself up to the elusive pen level. I was sick of having to sharpen my pencils as everyone else whizzed along with their never dull pens. My dull grey lettered work looked inferior to others penned beautiful sapphire blue ink. Just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse, then came the moment of truth – Report cards. Marring my wonderful streak of “O’s” was a red “A” blazing next to Handwriting. All my drive and ambitions flew out the window and I slowly began to deteriorate in all my subjects. My teacher was alarmed by my sudden academic decline and called me to her desk in order to determine the source of my undoing. Like a rushing flood, I lamented all my handwriting woes and despite my best effort was still stuck writing in boring old pencil. My teacher looked at me and reflected on my plight, and to my great surprise, she decided to take a gamble and promoted me to ink. I carried my precious new pen back to my desk and, lo and behold, beautiful lines of perfect cursive script flowed effortlessly onto the paper. When I finished my assignment, I brought it up to my teacher, who was floored by the progress I had made after a simple switch from pencil to pen. Inspired by my change of heart, the next day she promoted everyone else still struggling in pencil to pen and finally leveled the playing field. Although I enjoyed a brief season of lovely penmanship, the novelty soon wore off and I reverted back to the messy combination of print/script I use today.

Now basking in the age of technology and, more significantly in term of this particular post, word processing, I wonder if they still push penmanship in elementary school. Reflecting back to the days of pens, cursive writing and scarlet letters, I scoff at everyone who has ever dissed my handwriting. Provided you are not a teacher, who still has to write on blackboards for the benefit of their students, when was the last time in your adult life you had to write more than 2 sentences for someone else to read? Yeah, I thought so…

*Yes, I also fall into the girl wuss stereotype that stands in the back corner during dodgeball.

My Dad is so cool!

Dear Glob,

I wish I had cool pictures like this of when I was a "rebellious young teenager."

Too bad the majority of my adolesence was spent with weirdly splotched bleach blond hair, braces and green/ox blood Doc Martins... Sigh, will I ever be cool?