magtonic : i don't wax poetic, i rant with precision

First Impressions: Your Kicks Say Whassup

nobody@vox.com(magtonic) — Fri, 11 Jul 2008 10:56:50 -0700

So I've reached a new stage in life. I'm officially a grad student, working in urban education reform and have tried chocolate covered bacon. But one thing hasn't changed, there are just some things I need to hate on.

Though I mean well, I’m a pretty judgmental bastardess. I can’t help it. I’m a hater by nature. Without meaning to I defy laws about first impressions. I judge books by their covers — I’m a sucker for good packaging— and I make snap decisions about people based on first impressions. Don’t worry, its not that deep. A few short moments after meeting someone I start filing people into my mental Rolodex.

In all sincerity, it’s really just a two category sorting system: “research further” or “return to sender, not interested in your offer, please don’t call again.” A perfectly reasonable system if you ask me. Though many people agree these two categories, and this thought process are real talk, my criteria used to divide and conquer the personalities I come into contact with, raises eyebrows.

Lots of people have rules used to do this type of cataloging— never trust a person with thin lips, never trust someone whose eyes are too close together, never trust someone who is a close talker, won’t look you in the eye and so on.

But my judging doesn’t stop with people I am actively chopping it up with or when meeting my homey’s homies. Sadly, whenever people ask stupid questions like “what do you notice first in a guy?” I’m ashamed to answer, because on one hand its what I notice first in people in general, and on the other, to many it’s as shallow as you can get.

No, its not eyes, smile, bods or booty. My judgment isn’t based on shit people can’t control, at least with out a plastic surgeon or behavior modifications. To me, it tells full stories about people, and rest assured, if we were face to face, I’d be judging you by it too. In fact I do it all day, everyday, at the nail shop, on the bus, in the grocery store, even at home. Trust me when I say that it’s all I need to know about people at first glance. I learn more about someone in my small little tidbit-sized deduction than I can learn from being given your name, business title and hometown. (I’m not gonna lie I can also deduce a lot from where you fall in your family’s birth order, but that requires investigating and hella work.)

Sam_flores

So when I say its someone’s shoes that I notice first, know its not because I’m some stiletto obsessed, fashionista clamoring for Jimmy Choos, knock off Ma-No-No Blahniks or Louboutins— don’t get it twisted, once in a blue moon I dream about my own pair of classically designed red soled French heels. That’s the wrong girl, and those are the wrong shoes. Hear me out when I say my shoe of preference is, and has always been, the sneaker. Somewhere deep in my heart the teenage hip-hop-head just can’t let go of gloriously fashioned retro kicks in new and exciting colors.

Perhaps after years of conditioning- straining to get a peek at others to see if they out did my own kicks, my eyes instinctively go to shoes first. No, I’m not some submissive bitch looking down because culture tells me I can’t look you in the eye, I’m peeping the shoes you decided to wear today, and getting your story.

The ground rules to my game are few, and only a handful of people have ever proven me wrong. The shoes I tend to hate, often belong to ladies and fellas I wouldn’t want to break bread with in the first place, and as such my check plus check minus system saves me the pain of weighing through hours of conversation and annoying personality traits.

First no-no’s include: dirty, painted on or marked up kicks of any kind, but in particular, Chuck Taylor’s and shell toe adidas fall under most commonly mistreated shoes. In my opinion a Chuck’s rubber toe should be white— not yellow, not brownish, not covered with angsty words or doodles.
To some degree I get that certain populations want interactive shoes, so once every trillion or so pairs I’ll except an “enhanced” all star, but never should someone draw on a leather shoe like a shell toe. It’s just not cute and, if you’re too busy to clean the wear and tear off the rubber parts of your shoes I’m sharing a not so secret-secret from the sneaker head handbook… Fantastic and an old toothbrush, nuf said. And folks, there is such thing as beyond repair, something to be noted for any piece of apparel. If your possessions have holes bigger than a pencil eraser and cannot be repaired even with the most simplistic pocket sized sewing kit, its time for that item to be buried. It lived a good life, served you well, but duct tape and gorilla glue or fabric patches can only work in a few instances.

Scratch that. Duct tape should never be used to fix apparel.
Return that shit to sender. It tells me you don’t know how to take care of your shit and while I get money’s     tight (recession and all) when you walk up to someone with grimey shoes that look like they far predate this     little economic crisis, I really have no sympathy.

Now Chuck’s and shell toes can be cool, when kept clean and treated like shoes with their historical importance in American culture should be, but what I really can stand and is almost never excusable, is combat boots worn, well just because— not because you know, you’re combating or anything— as well as creepers or any other shoe sold almost exclusively at hot topic.
    These shoes are often treated as an emo version of a pissing contest. I’m talking the “I’ve had my doc (martin)s for 5 years!” — “Oh yeah! I’ve had mine for 10”.
    No. All you have is a festering ground for foot fungus and bacteria. Trust me. I worked in footwear, creating custom sneakers at a certain major athletic store for a minute. No shoe worn day in and day out for that long of a period of time could ever be bacteria or fungus free. It’s just not possible. Shoes worn every, or nearly everyday, or for heavy activity tend to have a six month life span— Proper foot health tidbit #1.
    Back to the boots. I feel these shoes scream douche, or lack of an ability to embrace change. We aren’t in 1980s London, and the Ramones dead or geriatric. Truthfully most of the jackasses who sport these shoes are too young to even know where this shit comes from. And if you used to rock em’ that’s cool, but you don’t need some clunky ass platform loafers in plaid or gold toed boots (because you enhanced them yourself) to prove something. Not interested in your offer.
    My hatred of boots, creepers and the like segways nicely into my hatred of clunky shoes in general. Long have gone the days of clunky heeled or soled shoes. Ladies, if you’re intimidated by heels, as am I most of the time, there are shoes out there that give you a lift with out the impending fear of breaking your neck. Wedges for example, are cool. Low heels are in. But clogs and three in by three-inch square heels do not scream office professional. Like the orthopedic 2 in soled boots worn by men, they scream, “I am in desperate need of a reason to care!” CARE PEOPLE.

Just slightly less sad than the two sort of categories listed here are those people who care enough to own more than one pair of shoes and take care of them to a certain degree, but don’t know how to branch out. I.E. Men who own black or white K-Swiss, New Balance or Nike’s. It says, I’m sort of up on what’s not ugly but I’m boring and predictable. Women are victims of this as well but often to a lesser degree.
        Why are people so afraid of color, texture and laceless shoes? When did classic Timberland boots become a shoe for all seasons? On the female tip, I understand the appeal of Ugg’s— I won’t front I own a pair of soft soled Ugg slippers, that sheepskin shit is no joke, but those things shouldn’t really venture out of the house. Don’t give me that “they’re good for winter” bullcrap. They aren’t waterproof and have no traction. Frankly they’re the female preppy douche calling card. (Men= dock shoes. For more info, google that bitch.) They’re a fad that needs to die.
    Ditto for Crocs. I get the appeal— ergonomically correct, easy to clean, lightweight but they are GOD AWEFULLY ugly. Grandma’s, grandpa’s and people with bad backs, may the crocs be with you, but please make those bitches your house shoe.
    Being up on trends or at least owning up to more recent to date sneaker-boot slipper hybrids and neon foam rubber clogs is understandable as they’re all designed for comfort or easy, but they really are so common now they’ve been promoted to annoying. They say absolutely nothing special about you. Frankly I think that’s what shoes should do, say something special about you.

____

No, you don’t need to wear Nike Court Force Hi-s with paisley blue uppers a magenta swoosh and silver details, though those are a current personal fav. Nor do you have to sport red and white Chinese brocade adidas sleek series flats, though I can pull those off at work. What I’m arguing isn’t just a matter of me being judgmental; it’s a matter of presentation. Shoes say everything about you. Not because of the brand or how much they cost you, or the image they give you. The condition of and amount of time you spent picking them out says to me, how much you care about yourself. Plenty of people spend money on clothes, gadgets, personal care products gym memberships and botox to show the world their own self worth. Shoes aren’t that complex and your feet deserve to be remembered.

Happy_feet

No your shoes don’t need to be the highlight of your outfit each day, but I believe they can seal the deal. So here’s my brief guide to what I think one’s shoe wardrobe should contain at the most basic level.

One pair of shoes only to be worn in the house. This can include slippers, those unmentionable clogs and fur lined boots, slides, your favorite sandals from Chinatown, or any other easy shoe designed for comfort not fashion, though they can be fashionable if you like. Wear them in the yard out back, but no further out in front than your doorstep. They can have holes, be dirty (buy not to the point of bacteria developing) whatever you want or need them to be. Only hear is the realm of ugliness, comfort and function, limitless.

Seasonally appropriate shoes: one for summer, one for winter. Summer shoes take form in slides or sandals and do not require sacrificing comfort for fashion in most cases. Basic leather or solid colored rubber will do, no bells and whistles necessary. Winter shoes require simple, waterproof boots with traction. Fur feather tassels and other foot accessories not necessary. But please, keep each to their own season. Flip-flops + snow = absolute idiocy. Snow boots (or my favorite fur lined ones) + so hot outside you could fry an egg on the street temperatures= cut the fashion umbilical cord. Anna Wintour would not approve.

   For Athletics: Now I say this with the utmost respect for folks who regularly engage in sports or going to the gym or other major physical activities as I suck at keeping up with any one thing— I am sans car so I do walk everywhere. But please folks, please wear the appropriate shoe for your activity of choice. Wearing the wrong shoe can do some GNARLY shit to your body.
   It is with that that I as the following:
                     If you run, do not run in Converse All Stars. If you ball, don’t hit the court in running shoes.
These shoes are not designed to support the impact these activities have on our bodies. That’s why they make different shoes for each of them— Proper foot health tidbit #2. Do your research, and don’t stray from what your body actually needs.

For work, like athletic shoes, they should obviously match your game. However, for anyone working from a desk, or in a desk related facility a simple business casual (for the most part) shoe is all you need. They should be sleek.. Work shoes, unless your personality and industry allow, should say only that you’re confident and know what you’re doing. A simple but strong leather shoe in black or brown says this, and I know there are plenty of these out there.

Lastly, at a basic, and I mean basic minimum, lock down one pair of go anywhere, do anything sneakers/ flats/ casual shoes, that make you happy. For the more conservative types this can be the one colorful shoe in your collection. For someone like me it’s the sunset print slip on Vans or Nike Dunk Lo-s in grey & dark purple with a polka dot toe box. This pair of shoes should make you smile. Happy feet make happy people.

Happy people, get filed into “Research Further.”

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This is Somethin' I Been Waitin' Fah

nobody@vox.com(magtonic) — Wed, 30 Apr 2008 07:59:31 -0700

About to wrap up my first semester of grad school, hence the MIA-ness of it all. But yesterday the new Roots album dropped and well, as they are possibly my favorite thing ever, I'm geeked. That being said I have this to share. The Roots "Rising Up" on Letterman Monday night.

The Roots - Rising Up (live on Late Night w/David Letterman)

Watch for the following things:

a) ?uestlove is wearing a "not guilty?!!!!" shirt is this about the sean bell verdict?

b) Watch quest and the other drummers in sync, completely nuts and their stick work is tight. This is coming from the daughter of drummers.

c) Favorite part: the dude play the tuba/sousaphone is off the hook i LOVE it. this may be the most gangsta I have ever seen a tuba look.

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The Good the Bad and the Ugly of it all: A recap of 2007

nobody@vox.com(magtonic) — Sun, 17 Feb 2008 11:07:22 -0800

Originally written in January of 2008…
2007 is out, and 2008 is in, and I can honestly say I’m firmly trying to stay on the sunny side of life this year — That being said, I’ll work through my poorly chosen metaphor in reverse to set the tone for 2008.

The Ugly:
The ugly truth is that up until the very last few seconds of 2007, shit wasn’t in my favor.

December started where I left off. A surgery for pops, that although it went well and complications were inevitable, Momma Magtonic and Poppa Magtonic spent a Saturday afternoon in the ER… Seizures, there are at least 10 kinds, and they can happen to anyone for no reason at all was what my cousin told me as my man and I sat at home, post 911 call waiting for MommaTonic to give us the go ahead to meet her at the hospital. On the real, his brain basically said “what’d you do to my home?” So seizure/ PoppaTonic watch began for the rest of the month. He’s the type who can never sit still, MommaTonic Jokes that he probably has undiagnosed ADD because back in his day no one knew what it was.

I’m not gonna lie, it wasn’t easy but it wasn’t all bad. My sister came home, though loaded with her own levels of college related drama. The extended fam was supportive as hell, but it sure wasn’t a walk in the park.

The anniversary of the shit that nearly started it all —tragic accidents, traumatic death and what not— passed, everyone in my house too wrapped up in worrying about Pops. And that seemed to be a good thing, though don’t get it twisted, the waiting for the coming and going of it all was almost too much for me. Wrapped up in retarded levels of anxiety it slipped by and life continued.

Playing caretaker, and watching everyone I know go through it, in one or more senses of the phrase, was rough. And jokingly, on New Year’s Eve, standing in the kitchen surrounded by some family, we laughed at how it would soon be over. I’d be blessed with the ability to take care of myself again no more work, (more on that later) that I’d be hopefully starting that grad program in a few weeks (more on that later) and that thankfully we were in the clear so far as we knew in regards to having to RSVP to any funerals.

Though we were all in it, everyone knew the toll it took on me was a bit fierce. There was a mutual agreement that I had to let go, and everyone was down to support me in getting that shit done!

So 3 minutes to New Years there’s a knock at the door, a kid my sister has invited into our home every New Years for the past few. She told me to lie and tell him she wasn’t home b/c she was exhausted —weren’t we all? So I did, feeling as heavy as I have the entire year, it all sort of converging upon me at once. He passed me a bottle of Jack Daniel’s to give her and parted wishing us all a Happy New Year. I walked back upstairs and she had a second thought. She ran after him phoning him to come back that she had “just gotten home.” With just seconds to spare he flew through the door right at the countdown, hopping off the bus he’d been on by screaming, “STOP THE BUS! HAPPY NEW YEAR” and running to our place. She went into the New Year with a clear conscious, and I with a goal to be happy.

The Bad:

The bad began on January 2nd. A phone call from my grad program where I’m told that they never got my letters of recommendation. WTF? Two months after the deadline, one month till school starts and You’re telling me now? And then I remember I’m talking about a public University in California, what a priviledged life I lead attending one of those private east coast liberal art schools, where the financial aid office knows me by my first name! Scoff!

I should have known. I’m told to have the letters emailed in, then through secret messenger a week later am told that didn’t work. That I need that shit OVERnighted and a friend in the know will hook it up. Back and forth, back and forth loads and loads of crap. Financial aid. Ah yes bearaucracy. My favorite! And so with a week into the school year, I can say I was admitted just a day or two before classes began, no time to register just beg profs to let me in their classes, and with the fortune of receiving a grant. It’s settled but it was unecessarily chaotic.

The Good:

The good is so good. The good is better than good. The good is hella/mad good. Not that the news is all that exciting, it’s just better than it’s been.

I had been creating space between the difficult work place I’d been in, and difficult work related situations by backing off, getting paid a nominal fee to do work from home twice a month, and through mutual agreement was let go. So I am jobless but in a much better space mentally and emotionally. It’s not terrible, to be broke as shit right now, I mean broke as shit… just temporarily that is, but my dream of doing the whole Victorian home in the Sco thing is on hold even longer (though I joke it wont happen till I retire anyway).

And the year set off right. After the New Years and Rec letter debacles, I managed to enjoy the shit out of myself for the first time in months. Early January marked one year since my sister’s best friend passed, though her first memorial had been beautiful and full of laughter, the second had a more symbolic purpose —closure to those most in need of it.

Letting shit go. Native American singers and drummers were to be present, and my sis was to sing a song in her honor, first time with the Native singers ever. I however wouldn’t make it on time as I was too busy at the airport waiting for the arrival of one of my college best friends, one half of my dynamic concert promoting duo, someone who knows me like no other. And so we whisked him back to the memorial and with in seconds we were doing a round dance around the gym. He looking at me like “it’s so good to see you, but this woman is pulling me and I have no idea what beat we’re on.”

Though shit had changed in the two years since we’d seen each other we were still the same. Still functioning the way we did in school. For a week he immersed himself in my life. The one that created me, the one that, as of late had aged me. And it worked in such a way that I finally felt refreshed. On his last night, though his trip was by no means free of obligatory drama —Or in the words of my best friend of almost 20 years, “Girls just hating on other girls”— I felt some strange feeling of regeneration. Went to a club, well no. A lounge in atypical SF style— relaxed environment where I could wear my sneakers (whoot whoot) full of Asian cats donning sideways tilted sf caps (surprise surprise) and the average height there had to be 5’ 7’’. A show homey of 20 years was somehow connected to, his DJ crew. So I danced. For the first time in over a year I danced my ass off, ran into friends from yesterday that I totally missed but had no idea I did. And even when college friend left to meet up with another homegirl from college (who chose not to meet up with us for whatever reason) I kept on going. Stayed out till 3:30. Loved every second of it. Truthfully loved most of the time he was here, when he left, and reality set back in, that moms dad and I were back to being a solo trio, that school wasn’t set in stone and that I had no income.

I finally felt like I was back. Maybe not strong, but on an upswing for the first time since it all began. For that, I can truly say I was thankful.

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And that's when I said 'Oh Lawd'

nobody@vox.com(magtonic) — Thu, 14 Feb 2008 09:53:19 -0800

It's been a minute, I just started grad school but this is too ridiculous.

Obamaones

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In Memorium

nobody@vox.com(magtonic) — Thu, 15 Nov 2007 08:12:45 -0800

The lull between Halloween and other fall and winter festivities always presents a rut of sorts for me. Halloween is by far my favorite holiday. I’ve developed a love for disguise, perhaps it also has something to do with the fact that I love playing characters, and my venture into comedy was the only other venue where I could do such a thing. Now my only opportunity to do so, that is in the real world, is on October 31st and the festivities surrounding it.

The other advantage about Halloween for me is that two days later, Dia De Los Muertos is celebrated, a tradition my family has, for nearly all 24 years I’ve been alive upheld. To memorialize those we’ve lost, welcome their spirits back for a few days. We leave them a customary glass of water, a piece of pan de muerto or piece of fruit; display their pictures and maybe a favorite trinket or two. We also celebrate the art associated with this holiday by either making or buying beautiful cut out papel picado, and on a few rare occasions I make crape paper marigolds that I was taught to make upon a chance meeting with one of the geniuses of the genre when I was only 10.

This year however we did not do these things. As I’ve explained in several posts, its not been an easy year for the Magtonic family. Death has been something we’ve confronted almost monthly. Death, something we’ve never really been the type to be afraid of, has shown its face in so many ways that I sometimes feel desensitized to it.

It begs the question how much can one person face his or her own mortality in such a short period of time?

8 losses — 2 amazing celebrations of life, filled with music, speakers, beautiful art, dancers love and laughter. One traditional Irish Catholic funeral bagpipes included. 2 traditional Filipino Catholic weeklong wakes, rosaries followed by a funeral and luncheon. One private family ceremony we were not invited to, though they were our family. One 40 days after death rosary, Filipino Catholic style.

To say I haven’t thought about how I’d like to be remembered, that it doesn’t cross my mind a few times a month, would be in vain. I think about it often.

As we approach December we also approach other news. My father’s impending minor, but also unpredictable surgery. It’s on his skull. He feels no pain; it’s merely a precautionary measure his doctors are taking. Though he is the king of comedy, albeit his own corny variety of the “weird uncle” sort, he has faced it with grace. He’s embraced the humor in it, but is inevitably scared, nervous and unsure. The months of diagnostics, waiting, and arriving at this surgery, though it has little to do with why the diagnostics began, have finally caught up with him. He had the “if I die” talk with us.

His demands were sweet, funny and saddening of course, but he was just being real. It is a minor procedure, he just wants everyone to know he appreciates them and that he takes nothing for granted so this speech has been given to all he loves, and reacted to in different ways.

He requests:

That no one wear black at his memorial celebration. If anyone does, the must go home and change into a bright color.
That everyone pick his or her favorite funk song to play in his honor at said memorial.
That my best friend of 20 years continues to come over to eat and torture the women in my family about how hard it must be to live with all three of us.
My mother does whatever makes her happy.
That I am kind to my sister and continue to make him proud.

In light of how much I have displayed my appreciation for those I love, my bouts of nostalgia as of late, I have also been asking myself:
So how do I want to be remembered?

I concur with Poppa Magtonic. No one wears black. I would prefer everyone wear orange or purple.
I want a mariachi band, and kulingtan drummers to play.
Video, embarrassing photos and stories are absolutely and 100% welcome as an homage to my insanity.
Something to do with peacock feathers and papel picado as far as décor. I have a peacock feather tattoo; I wouldn’t say I’m obsessed I just find them exceptionally beautiful.
Lastly a buffet or some extreme sort of meal is mandated. Food, good music, and laughter are what I’ve always been taught are the sources of life, so thusly that’s how I want to be celebrated.

Morbid or not having to face this sort of thing only brings back to reality how much we need to live out each day, and as pessimistic as I may be, I’m really working on that one. I can’t complain too much. The beautiful things about life, have truly shown themselves, I've seen birth, I've seen love (I have not seen fire and rain though I am about to break out into song, and I am by no means a James Taylor fan), it’s just been an excruciatingly difficult terrain to navigate as of late.

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Signs You're No Longer A 'Youth'

nobody@vox.com(magtonic) — Fri, 12 Oct 2007 09:13:51 -0700

For those who've seen my ~~rant~~ post about the whole "Hyphy" generation, you know that this quarter-life-ian missed the hyphy boat and is feeling like current teenagers are on some other planet. I've officially crossed the line between adult and youth. The generation disconnect between myself and current college sophomores and below, is now visible and feels like its spans eons. But (!) I'm not the only one who feels this way. Peep this spoof on hyphy my cousin-in-law, a man of 32, put together. He's a dad so pardon the material. I find it, hilarious.

hyphy TMX

Although this didn't help either of us understand things better, satire is a lovely thing.

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Desperate Times Call For Desperate Measures

nobody@vox.com(magtonic) — Mon, 08 Oct 2007 17:11:13 -0700

Although I have been lamenting on this blog, about my inability to do anything for myself, about not taking care of myself, I've continued to practice behaviors that are contrary to any change in that manner.

But, I finally hit a wall. Two weeks ago I finally made a decision instead of using the age old "deciding not to decide now, is making a decision" excuse.

I am applying to graduate school. For me. Yes the desperation got the best of me.

The desperation for a change.
The desperation for rigidity and structure.
The desperation to be appreciate for my work, and love my job simultaneously.
The desperation to be self-sacrificing by means which I determine not by someone else's.
The desperate need to follow what I always knew I wanted to do. To take charge!

And so it is with this, that I say I am submitting my application tonight. With the hopes that as of January, I will finally get that fresh start I've been asking for.

Academia best be ready fah me.

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Correspondence in the Digital Age

nobody@vox.com(magtonic) — Thu, 20 Sep 2007 21:06:33 -0700

I spend all day instant messaging, "chatting" and emailing people whom I left out east.

I get my news from race & pop culture blogs daily, between the hours of 7am when i get up because my body won't let me sleep any later than that and 10:45am when I have to be at work.

Once at work I instant message my co-workers, the owner and other people related to the business for questions, troubleshooting or general "a dude just ran by with no pants on" types of conversations.

I have put certain friends on a ban from text messaging me because I only get 50 per month and some will text a whole conversation, or text just to say one word.

At work we rely on computers to keep track of our inventory, our register is a program on our computer and we have a excel document that lists every item we sell each day as a back up.

When I get home, I talk to friends in the same ways as I did all day, who live on the west coast and are in grad

Tech

school, my sister who is trapped in So-Cal and has classes until late in the day. I write my vox posts, write for myself and depend highly upon the keyboards of my lap top and my parent's computers to get me through all the words in my head, stress in my brain, and put it out onto the screen, recorded somewhere.

I have a confession: I am too dependent on technology. In the last few months I have depended upon it to find out if a loved one was alive, I have killed the disk drive in my lap top because I used it too much for work. I have lost my ipod and been left with out an alternative means of travel music as I no longer have simple cds, tapes or devices to play them in (ipod was found nearly 2 months later). Today I managed to loose an entire data file at work and had to redo nearly 200 entries using a back up that was made in August of last year. I have been phoned by my boyfriends parents because he didn't show up for a family function he had intended to attend and neither they nor I knew what was going on beacuse no one could get a hold of him for a few days. To be truthful, he has horrible signal and was working an an important and timely project all day.

The frustration of not knowing where he was, or being able to get a hold of him, for me was impacted by the loss of that data file. It was impacted by a situation a few months ago, nearly a year, where people I have almost daily correspondence with were unreachable for over a week. Several people (and i wrote a private post about this when I was really and truly frustrated a few weeks ago that I then deleted whence I knew what was going on) have been M.I.A. for a few months, the only evidence that they were alive was the "Last Log In" tally on their various web profiles.

And here I now am, writing about this as we speak, on a computer, to be posted on the web, while chatting with people who are away, at work and so on, wondering when I, when we, got to be this way.

The answer is really that we have no choice. I never write letters to anyone anymore. What for when I can email, text, call, or leave them a message somewhere. I did for a while write with an actual pen, and actual paper, those stories, feelings and moments I have wanted to give extra privacy to, extra work to before publishing them elsewhere, but have gotten out of that flow.

Today however, made me truly question what was going on. There is no way to get away from it, but perhaps it means I need a different grasp of reality. Perhaps I should get a piece of paper and write someone. I can't avoid the use of the computer at work, I can't avoid the phone calls, unless I get a carrier pigeon or two. But I could start reading the newspaper. I can back up every file I can. And, I can hate this dependency all I want, but obviously, there's nothing I can do about the fact that this is just how it is. I'm not really advocating that we go back to horse drawn carriage messenger services, but perhaps I can get over the instant gratification of typing "www.___________.com" and getting exactly what I want at my fingertips.

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Marc Ego, I mean Ecko buy's Bond's 756 Ball

nobody@vox.com(magtonic) — Mon, 17 Sep 2007 08:20:42 -0700

So all my San Francisco loving aside, this weekend, Barry Bonds record breaking 756th homerun ball was sold at auction for $752,467.

Today, whilst watching the Today show, I discovered that the owner of said ball is Marc Ecko owner/designer of the falling off Hip Hop brand of clothing Ecko Unlimited. His plans for the ball were what caught my attention not his celebrity.

In what I believe to be a really weird, but not nearly shock inducing enough publicity stunt, the man has created a website, to encourage the public to decide the fate of the ball. Saying he wants to "democratize" the debate surrounding what to do with this ball, that some believe is an "embodiment of cheating culture- not just in baseball."

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Since when have sports ever been a democratic issue? Of all the issues in the world, this dude is worried about what is fair and true when a homerun baseball is concerned?

I hardly feel like this is a battle worth fighting, Mr. Ecko. To be quite frank, if you want to talk about a cheating culture, yes sports should be considered but your methodology is quite flawed.

To encourage this debate and "democratize" the fate of a piece of sports memorabilia he asks people to choose one of three options.

1. Bestow it: Return the ball to the hall of fame where items like it can be found.

2. Brand it: Burn an asterik into the ball, so we all remember it's not just a homerun ball but has a more deeply seeded history.

3. Banish it: Knock that shit into space.

I see the effort to be adult and political but wonder how much of it is being a sour sports fan by contrast, in fact when I tried to find another stock image of Ecko, or even something related to his clothing line and its sub brands, the only site it would link to was this voting site of his. Recently I've seen quite a few celebs in the news making an effort to be relevant and this just seems like a weird attempt to get out there again.

Barry or not, SF or not, just give the man a break and either give the ball to Cooperstown, or back to him.

UPDATE: I forgot to mention the real reason I find this weird. THE MAN PAID over $750,000 to engage the US in some sort of "thought provoking" debate? Really lame. He could have just written an article.

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My Soul Lives in SF: I lied, sometimes I do wax poetic

nobody@vox.com(magtonic) — Thu, 13 Sep 2007 10:59:48 -0700

The area of San Francisco that I live in was an area inhabited by working class families from all over the globe. WAS: as in it was that way until I left for college. We had seen the number of school age kids decreasing as I moved further and further away from being that age, but by the same token there were always families like mine in the area.

Then, as expected, Gentrification hit my area as it did most others in San Francisco. It was happening while I still lived at home, before I ever ventured east for college but even still, it was always a weird thing to come home and realize, we were one of a few brown families in the area, and one of even fewer “original” residents in our hood.

Somehow in the years after adolescence I developed certain, aversions to different parts of the city. At one point I

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found Chinatown so incredibly difficult to deal with because I worked there for 3 summers while home and grew sick of the hustle and bustle, the atmosphere and general attitude. Similarly I started to hate certain parts of the Mission district, which I began to correlate with memories of middle school, that painful time I don’t really think anyone wants to remember, now inhabited by tight jean wearing, Pabst Blue Ribbon swigging, anorexic hipsters/scenesters and recovering emo kids who make me feel like an alien in my own land.

My own neighborhood now inhabited by upper middle class white families, white/Asian families pushing babies with classically Asian eyes, but that are blue or with moppy blond heads, provokes similar feelings of estrangement. I get eyed at sometimes like, “who’s she?” It was frustrating at first. Why did I feel disconnected from this place that I so desperately needed when I was out east? Why did I feel this strong need to be here after living elsewhere, to return, but feel so far from it all?

I guess I didn’t expect the change, I guess I didn’t know how to reintegrate myself back into this community. How hypocritical of me. I had changed, expected people to understand was my city not allowed to do the same? Granted, it was a different kind of change, sometimes for the worst, but still, I was this city, this city was me.

But recently, on my way to the bank before work, I suddenly felt a strong appreciation for this place again. I don’t know if it was that I was walking a path, where things hadn’t changed much. Al’s Diner was still there, something about the sidewalk it self seemed unchanged. In classic San Francisco fashion we still had our Donut/Burger/Chinese Food joints, as much as some things change, some things stay the same. I can count on the Joe’s scramble at Al’s, or Vietnamese sandwiches at Little Paris in Chinatown and the awful smell of Durian fruit at the corner of Pacific and Stockton there.

On my way home, I passed the home my father first lived in when he came from the Philippines, just a block or two from where we live now. His cousins all stood outside as it’s still their family home, waiting for a limo to take them to a funeral for one of their siblings. Not as sad of a moment as one might expect, she lived a good long life. There they stood, my extended family, still in that building after all these years, still the church going folk they’ve always been. I felt a moment of awe. They were still there, we were all still here. The aunties and uncles still dressed to the nine’s carrying rosaries, a few with canes now. The teenage girls, still acting like any event is a fashion show wearing completely matched outfits of black and white, even down to the sunglasses and purses. I wouldn’t be attending the funeral, as I was just 10 minutes away from a shift at work. Dad would go, and I would tell him what I’d seen and he’d laugh because indeed nothing had changed. I’d walk up the stairs into the living room where he sat, waiting for his brothers to arrive as the church where services would take place is around the corner from our house. I’d enter a usual Magtonic style rant about the teens and their materialistic weird Filipino-ness I’d just passed. He laughed, said, “You’re that way too sometimes,” I guffawed. “You’re wearing an adidas Philippines track jacket Nic,” he said. And that, I could not deny.

And while it’s true there’s this eclectic mix of change and past in my life I have to say I’ve become grateful for it all.

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