bowl-o-blau

Morning

When you graduate, you’ve got this list of amazing stuff that you expect to do: travel the world, go on a cruise, hike Mt. Whitney —

“22 miles round trip? That’s nothin’. I’m gonna do that shit in a day.”

Today, I’m having breakfast with my dad.

…

In San Francisco, you can’t ever really tell if it’s early morning or mid-afternoon; there’s just this cloying, ubiquitous blandness. The characteristically foggy weather is like that piece of gum that came with the baseball cards you bought when you were a kid: there’s not much flavor to begin with, but for some reason, you stick it in your mouth and chew on it until it’s insipid as all hell. You don’t even know why you keep chewing, there’s just a certain, odd, saccharine element to this gum that came with your Matt Williams card.

“Great weather, huh?” my dad says. “Not too hot, not too cold.”

I need a morning. Lately, I’ve kind of felt like an urban raccoon that can’t tell if its night or day; I just sort of wake up and half-consciously rummage through my refuse for something edible. But not today! Because today, there’s going to be a story. And for every story, there’s a beginning. And every day, there’s a morning. And today, well… good fucking morning.

About a block down from my house, there’s a Chinese bakery my dad took me to when I was a kid. That’s where we go, for old time’s sake — or is it new time’s sake? Sure. There’s a Starbucks down the block with those double-shot whateverthefucks and a donut shop in the other direction, but my dad insists on going here.

Now, there isn’t any Coltrane in the background nor is there a welcoming ambience, but its still oddly pleasant. For some reason, my dad always thought it was appropriate to take me here, even though I was the only one who was under forty — hell, under ten years old; it felt like I was Sir Gawain at the Round Table, sipping hot milk tea out of a goblet shaped like a paper cup. This kid? This kid here? He was a part of the discussion. But today, I’m not a kid, nor am I retired — just kind of post-grad.

If you just sit there and listen, you pick up on the unique charms of the Chinese language: it’s dressed up with accents and tones that always makes it so animated and exciting. However, it’s also probably the least romantic language you can possibly hear. I’d prove it by trying to pick up some ladies with a Chinese accent, but we already know how that would end.

But anyways, my dad asks me about the job search, and I tell him about an unappealing job offer: low pay, long commute, utterly mundane.

“There’s a saying that people used to have back in China,” he says. “Ride the cow until you find a horse.”

I think back to the time when I told him I wanted to go to art school — most Asian parents would probably blow their lids. But him, he didn’t really say anything. The next day, he bought an easel and placed it in the garage. From that moment on, I always thought that he was smarter/wiser than I’d ever really admit. Still couldn’t figure the whole thing out, to tell you the truth. I always expect some weird Yogi Berraism out of his mouth, like “Baseball is ninety percent mental and the other half is physical,” or “I never said most of the things I said.” Huh?

But this one makes sense. Ride the cow. Sure. I guess. Maybe. Maybe not.

Then we move on to the next typical topic of conversation: women. Are you dating anyone? What happened to that other girl? Who was that girl from the other day? Do you still talk to so-and-so?

Nothing interesting going on, I tell him. Well, there was, but right now… not really, nope. He thinks I’m too idealistic about romance. He’s probably right.

“Well, its like I said earlier,” he says. “Sometimes, you just have to ride the —”

“OKAY DAD. I’m just gonna stop you right there.”