A. Adams's Blog, page 5

The Dream vs. The Reality

“Wide awake, wide awake, wide awake, no lie.” –Kim Seokjin

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It’s that time of the year where we “honor” Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.’s legacy by taking off a day from work (if you have the “right” kind of job) and school (though with the high rates of illiteracy in our country today, Dr. King would probably prefer kids be in school learning rather than staying at home playing video games or on social media; at least make them go to school for half a day to present their views on the state of education–since they are the ones impacted the most by piss-poor management and budgets–and their future in a digital backwards society).

And, if his “birthday”–today is his actual birthday (usually the holiday falls on whatever third Monday that exists and is left at that)–is a federal holiday, shouldn’t his death, which was planned, practiced, and played out as if it had been set to sheet music, be one as well?

Shouldn’t a day be taken off to commemorate how much we f*cked over this man (how many of us are actually making the dream into an reality?)?

The death has so many more teaching points than the birth.

People come from the ends of the earth every January and August for one man also dubbed “King,” and though neither his birth nor death are national holidays, they may as well be, because he is treated with a reverence that I have never seen lended to King, even in droplets.

I don’t see people descending on Atlanta in droves every January and on Memphis every April–of course, they will this year because it’s 50 years/a half a century since his death, so it’s newsworthy–a good photo-op for individuals to show how “down” they are/how “woke” they are–to pay their respect, to remember, to know from whence they came, and to gauge how much further they have to go.

We’re all great pretenders.

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If we truly believe in the MLK ideology, laws would change and not be made to entrap; the prison system would only contain real criminals instead of being a “pen” to breed them; shelters would be fully funded and thus, no one would ever starve to death, die from the elements, or have their life beaten from them; learning would not mean “taught to pass (cheat) a test”; sex trafficking would not be laughed off as prostitution–something these victims “want” to do; companies wouldn’t be able to overcharge poor people for services that barely cost them $10 to oversee; the N-WORD, no matter the motherf*cking spelling, would never be considered a term of endearment or socially acceptable… (an ellipsis because I can go on and it’s a tragedy to be able to).

Stay woke. They are creeping.

They will find you, and they will definitely try to catch you sleeping.

If you’re a dreamer, dream on.

I, my friend, am on high alert.

Peace.

Slave Auctions in Libya, BTS in the U.S., and Why Show Luo Can be My First, Second, Third, and Fourth Husband

“My p**** feel like a lake; he want to swim with his face”–Cardi B.

In 1817, it is imperative we petition President Monroe about the peculiar condition we call slavery. How can we ignore human beings chained, put on display, and sold to the highest bidder?

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Yes, the slave trade is lucrative and essential to the ecomomy, but as we progress to industrialism, our mindset has to innovate with our 19th century progression, so…

Hold up. What are you talking about? It is the 21st century; 1817 was 200 years ago; Donald Trump is President of the United States (still can’t say that sh*t with a straight face; it is like in Back to Future when Marty told Doc from the 1950s that Ronald Reagan was president, and he says, “The actor?! Ha! Then who’s the Vice President?! Jerry Lewis?!”); and slavery has been banned for two centuries (a century and a half for the U.S.).

Yet in 2017, in Libya, a country in northern Africa, where Muammar Gaddafi (here’s a reference for you young’ems, in Next Friday when Craig’s father on his way to the restroom sees the the “Arab” looking man, he says, “Say hello to Gaddafi for me”) ruled with an iron (nuclear) fist and died, gruesomely, for it, people, mostly young men and refugees from a country in political and economic turmoil, are being sold for “as much” as $400.

WTF!

You know how people escape to the U.S. for a better life, or now due to changes in immigration laws, use the U.S. as a passageway to Canada? Well, instead of letting them find their own way in the U.S. until they are caught by ICE agents, or deported upon immediate detection, imagine if we trapped them here and then sold them to farms and other industries that needed free labor?

That is the situation in Libya: entrapment abuse, and thrown into that peculiar condition called slavery, and the world, less than a month ago, just become “woke” to it.

All these unfortunate souls wanted to do was make it to Europe–to try to make a better life for themselves–but the Libyan government has roadblocked them, further oppressed them, and stripped them of something that may never get back: their right to choose.

We’re always “go funding” for matters like bullying, medical bills, homelessness, etc., but what about funding to save a race of people from serious human rights violations? Can we fund that? Or is this another case of it’s “their” problem?

But isn’t any problem that causes hurt and harm to people, all OUR problem?

I say yes, yes, it is. So, let’s fix it.

…

I never wanted to join the ARMY. The Navy has always been my thing (personal reasons and logic: they survive longer in times of war–Pearl Harbor doesn’t count).

But, these seven little bastards (see pic below) from Korea (South not North, of course), the Bangtan Boys, known primarily as BTS, have changed my militarial (if that’s a real word) allegiance with their cotton-

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-candy colored apparel (including hair), their robotic synchronicity (a bunch of cloned Asian Michael Jacksons), catchy lyrics (goddamn, if I don’t know Korean now–well, I can say “I’m drunk” and “the sh*t”–however, people can tell the latter just by looking at me…hehehe *cover mouth coyishly).

New Kids on the Block, N’Sync (which means no sync in comparison to BTS), 98 Degrees (guess I’m telling my age with this list), Backstreet Boys, and for you tweens, One Direction, HAVE NOTHING on BTS. They are not even in the same league. Look at their practice videos on YouTube–these motherf****** “practice” looks like a real concert. Who gives a pay-per-view level performance at practice?!

Everybody knows you half-do that sh*t. But no, not my BTS soldiers; they run their shit like a well-crafted drill. They put in work and it shows. And there are so many of them…how can you get seven adrenaline-filled 20 plus-year-olds to do the same shit at the same time, the same way, and not one of them f*ck it up?

Damn, we can’t get three students to read the same one sentence in unison in the reading circle in an elementary school with the teacher guiding them word for word.

And, they spend actual money on their videos; reminds me of the old days of MTV–*tear, *sniffle.

And, yes, they have followers, MILLIONS of them, and they are called A.R.M.Y (Adorable Representative M.C. for Youth). These b*tches (genderless) will cut you if you utter an X and an O (you will get it if you do your A.R.M.Y research).

I’m sorry, A.R.M.Y, but that other group with nine members (damn, Korea, every music group can’t be the size of a small country; nobody has all that stage room) that shall not be named can sing. “Monster” is my sh*t, and D.O. can sing his face off along with being a good actor.

I love my K-dramas. Don’t interrupt me when I’m in the middle of a good one; you will turn to dust. Anyway, D.O. plays a young serial killer in Hello Monster (or I Remember You), and he is creepy as f*ck, especially when he smiles. I mean, he actually made you believe he was a teenage serial killer–one that you would never be in a room with by yourself–the kind that needs to be behind that Hannibal Lecter glass.

To go from watching him in that to see him harmonizing (and dancing like a well-oiled machine) with the group that shall not be named, it was a total mindf*ck, but one I gladly accepted.

I already thought about moving to Korea to pursue Hyun Bin (he has dimples and got into the Marines when he did his mandatory military service, so that explains it all), but now, I’m motivated mainly to attend concerts and watch TV–their dramas are the bees-knees–but with Hyun Bin, mind you–even if it’s a cut out.

Damn you, BTS…

for being so GOOD!

Recruiter: What branch are you interested in joining?

Me: [sigh] ARMY.

…

On to Taiwan, now I don’t mean to offend anyone, but my baby said that even if you are Taiwanese, you are all Chinese (at the end of the day you speak Mandarin and Taiwanese Mandarin is verbatim the same sh*t, just saying; but I get it, they speak English in the U.K., but that sh*t ain’t the same and we ain’t all British–point taken Taiwanese people).

And Jackie Chan is from Hong Kong and indeed Chinese, but he doesn’t look like Show Luo (or Joe Cheng, or Mike He, or Lego Li–my other Taiwanese baes).

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*Look at that pic; what an amazing “show.”

Anywho, Show Luo, who has a new sci-fi movie coming out with Jackie Chan (now you get the connection) this month in Asian outlets, is an actor, singer, dancer, tv host, etc. I shouldn’t even call him a dancer. He is dubbed “Asia’s Dancing King.”

Do you know how many people are in Asia? And he is considered the best dancer on the entire continent.

*Swoon. *Pass away. *Resuscitate. *Okay, back to life.

Watch “Let Go” (Guo le) official dance version on YouTube, his dance breaks on his show “100% Entertainment,” and his Pink Panther dance in the drama Hi, My Sweetheart (boy, he can act); his Facebook page also has many gems of hilarity.

Did I mention he has his own clothing label called STAGE?

He even had his mama decked out in STAGE, which can only be described as streetwear for those too cool for school.

He’s 38 but looks 28; he’s never been married though he’s dating a younger THOT (a fashion blogger who is constantly ridiculed for her plastic surgery; they have good plastic surgeons in Asia–because the b*tch looks like a whole nother person); he’s an excellent boss (employees constantly praise him for his giving nature); he doesn’t have any kids; he’s absolutely beautiful inside and out; he’s clearly a kid at heart; and he loves his mama–you can’t beat that.

I am learning Mandarin (f*ck Korean) dilgently just for him.

Sh*t, I’ve always been down for a good “show.”

Taiwan is an island. Call me the Pacific–and Show can swim, surf, and sail it anytime.

Happy Holidays, everyone!

How to Deal with the -isms of Today

“I don’t know karate but I damn sure know [k]razy.” –Sheneneh

It’s 2017, you know, the future–the “Jetsons” age; however, a young woman was plowed down at a rally opposing white supremacy, and several people died, and hundreds were injured, in Spain this past week just doing their everyday thing: minding their own business and walking down the street of a marketplace.

The media like to call anything violent that’s connected to “foreigners” “terrorism,” but any act of violence committed by a good old “all-American” (usually a boy)–Timothy McVeigh, Dylann Roof, the police, those of you who voted for Donald Trump based on the “make America great again” premise and build a wall to keep “bad hombres out”–as “domestic” terrorism, or “a random act of violence.”

Is it “domestic” because it’s in-house, or is it “domestic” because you can’t trace the terrorizer to the usual scapegoats: not born in the United States, connected to Islam, and even if he/she is not connected to Islam, that name of his/her sure sounds like it, and skin’s not brown enough to say it was “one of them”?

Terrorism is terrorism–no matter who does it or where it occurs.

Anyone or anything that attempts to mentally, emotionally, socially, economically, and physically harm individuals because they are viewed as “less than,””inferior,” or “insignificant” is a terrorist point blank–no “domestic” needed.

So, when you are–though it is sad to say this in the 21st century–faced with racism, sexism (including harassment and other infractions based on preconceived notions about your gender), genderism, classism, and any other -ism designed to make you feel lower than low, don’t be stunned into silence, or reduced to violence–if it can be helped.

What I want you to do is use your voice…so at the top of your lungs, to draw attention to the clear violation of your human rights, scream:

OH, YOU DID THAT? OKAY, THAT’S WHAT I WANTED YOU TO DO! THAT’S WHAT I WANTED YOU TO DO!

Start walking around in a circle, clapping your hands–applauding their ignorance–and keep in with your chorus: THAT’S WHAT I WANTED YOU TO DO!

Yeah, security may be called and people are going to think you are a raving lunactic, including your terrorizer, but who cares?!

You are going to draw the necessary attention to this wrong that cannot continued to be ignored.

We don’t have to know karate–violence is not always necessary–but we all damn sure need to go a little crazy–fight with our ultimate weapon: our mind.

 

 

 

 

Mr. Sandman

“I got mind control over Deebo. He be like, ‘Shut the fuck up.’ I be quiet. When he leave[s], I be talking again.”–Smokey, “Friday.”

I like music. All kinds. No one–no matter how hard he/she tries–can influence who I listen to. Connection knows no color or chord. So, “Sex and Candy” still gets me and I could listen to my Linkin Park boys–Mike rapping and Chester screaming–anytime and let them pace my heartbeat.

Music–well, the lyrics–can change a person’s mood, circumstances, and, ultimately, life. It’s that powerful…and just that dangerous.

Before there was Justin Bieber, there was Vanilla Ice. Though Biebs has more hits, fans, and hair (you’re right, I’m tripping; I take it back: slashed eyebrows and a blond pompadour…sh******t…you can’t touch it), he is on the same “I don’t like myself, I’m trying to find myself and become a true artist, though I can’t really sing, No one understands” road to nowhere, sans the “Five Heartbeats” hang his ass over the edge of balcony to get his royalties scene, Ice found himself on.

But Ice survived–a tattooed “soccer” dad who successfully flips houses–and actually seems, dare I say, happy.

With TMZ, social media, and increasing innovation in camera/video phone technology, will the Biebs be able to adjust as well with his age?

We hope–some of us anyway (we don’t call people trolls for nothing).

Logically, fame and money should equal contentment, if not sublime happiness.

What Lil Kim say, “Money, power, respect, what you need in life. Money, power, respect, you’ll be eating right. Money, power, respect, help you sleep at night.”

However, Childish Gambino said, “Stay woke. They [though he didn’t use this term] be creeping.”

And damn if he isn’t right. “They” will get you and your mind–if you aren’t vigilant.

“They” got to Chester (Bennington), who hollered me through many a breakup.

“They” got to Hendrix. “Foxy” makes me shiver.

“They” got to Lennon. I “imagine” a lot, and hence these blog posts.

“They” got to Sam Cooke. So much in life can be a “long time coming.”

“They” got to Elvis. I’m from Memphis.

“They” got to literary greats Hemingway and Plath. I rather have their reverence for their work while alive, but none of the notoriety.

“They” get to a lot of people, because every “popular” song laments over lost love, having someone who only wants them for their things, and using a substance to ease the pain and loneliness, which, sometimes, translates into real tragedies.

A song is not just a song anymore. It is a cry for help, a PSA set to a melody.

I’m a writer, and I would love to become uber rich and lukewarm famous for doing something I love to do.

I like to eat right, and I want to sleep well at night; however, Mr. Sandman, I want a dream that doesn’t turn into a living nightmare.

***This post is dedicated to…everyone.

World, Get Off Roger Federer’s N*ts

If you don’t watch tennis, this post is not for you.

When Wimbledon, you know, that place in England where players wear all white and run around on a f*ucked up grass court–I don’t know about you, but my mother always warned me to never play in my white clothes–dirt and grass stains were the devil to get out–started a week later than usual, I knew some weird sh*t was going to happen–like Rafael Nadal losing to comic-book body made (big top, little bottom) Gilles Muller–who has been on the tour long enough for us to see his hair change colors and reduce dramatically–13-15 in the 5th; Sam Querrey beating the defending champion and GB’s hope, the hobbled–I played too damn much in the last year–Andy Murray–to make it to the semifinals–the first American man to achieve any such feat since another Andy: Roddick.

Speaking of Roddick, you don’t turn 35 until next month, and Tommy Haas, who should have went to the house five backward baseball caps ago (you will only get this reference if you are a long-time tennis fan), is still playing, so you may as well come back to the court, because the current crop of American male players should be replanted–really, raze that shit and start over.

…like I don’t care what her first name is and I’m probably about to spell her last name wrong Rybarikova–the girl with the mole–made it to her first, and last (yes, I am making the claim for her), Grand Slam semifinal as number 5,589,000 in the world–yeah, I am exaggerating, but that’s how unpredictable women’s tennis has been since Serena Williams announced her pregnancy and left us fans counting the days on the calendar for her return; Maria Sharapova got banned for doping and seems to have stage fright now that the ban is over; Petra Kvitova got stabbed in the hand by an intruder; and Victoria Azarenka dropped baby Leo last December.

Women’s tennis gives us storylines that rival that of the most titillating soap opera that used to dominate our VCRs then DVRs back in the day. As the media keeps saying, they can’t believe Venus Williams’s old ass made it to her second Grand Slam final of 2017, in spite of suffering from, well, old age, and an energy sapping auto-immune disease. The bottom line will be that she lost to her much younger opponent in straight sets. But the real takeaway should be that a 37-year-old with an auto-immune disease outplayed several players her junior, even the eventual 2017 Wimbledon champion, Garbine Muguruza, for a set (had two set points to take the first set, mind you), and it was wa-aay more exciting than the Wimbledon Men’s Final, where Roger Federer, who is just as old as Venus, turning 36 next month, but no one says anything about it, winning Glam Slam number 19, handedly beat Marin Cilic in straight sets.

Federer did not drop a set the entire tournament, proving his “dominance and return to the top.”

Bullshit!

Cilic showed his usual supreme weakness in his semifinal against Querrey (Querrey could have won, but what would have been the point? The result still would have been a win for Federer) and a couple of weeks ago when he lost a grass court tournament, that he should have won, to Feliciano Lopez, who ended his Wimbledon journey in a retirement.

Federer didn’t have to knock down the Crotian giant’s beanstalk; he did it for him.

And those who could have taken Federer out and exposed the defects that still exist–no one goes five years without winning a major and all of sudden is perfection again after having major injuries and surgeries–didn’t have the pleasure of skipping the French Open and picking and choosing the tournaments they played before it, and after it, like Federer did.

Nadal just had another great clay court season and won a record 10th French; he didn’t expect much at Wimbledon, but he could have gone to the end if hadn’t underestimated Muller, his arsenal of aces, and hadn’t served second every time in their 5th set battle, which is being called the “match of the tournament.”

Murray and Novak Djokovic’s bodies are finally saying “no mas”; these two battled the entirety of 2016 for the number 1 spot, with Murray finally coming out on top. Now they are both paying for it in injuries, fatigue, and pregnant wives.

Outside of Nadal, Djokovic, and Murray, the rest of the men’s field are pansies: punks kowtowing to the most popular kid on the playground.

How many times has Roger Federer has to come back from the brink? Pushed his body to its breaking point to gain victory? Sacrified his pride by going forward and ignoring the naysayers who said he was “done”? Played the most thrilling matches in tennis, no, sports history?

Pete Sampras was the first to break the record of the most Grand Slams in men’s tennis (the women had long broke that paltry number of 12 slams), and he did it before 30. Sampras was the “best,” but never given the reverence (respect) that is given to Federer. He was lauded as “boring and consistent.” And when he had a bad stretch of play after the 2000 Wimbledon, every single time he sat down in front of the media, “When are you going to retire?” was asked. After almost two years of streaky play and a record Grand Slam number 14 win at the 2002 U.S. Open, Sampras finally retired–at the ripe old age of 31.

Soon to be 36-year-old Federer had a five-year stretch of bad play and has won two slams due to a unsure, on the comeback Nadal, and a clueless Cilic…yet he’s the GOAT?

Bullshit!

Will Roger Federer win the 2017 U.S. Open?

It’s possible.

It’s highly likely.

Why?

Somebody has to do it. And Federer, this year so far, just happens to be that somebody.

However, don’t get luck confused with real competition. Federer hasn’t faced any this year. When he does, then ya’ll can blow smoke up his ass.

Until then…world, get off Roger Federer’s nuts.

Jesus Came Off the Cross, So Why in the Hell is He Hanging Around Your Neck?

This is not a religious-based post. One, anything can become a religion–like Sunday Night Football; millions “religiously” watch it and get fanatical about their teams. To speak against the Cowboys is indeed blasphemous. Two, there is a logical, scientific explanation for everything: rain, thunder, lightning, hail, snow, earthquakes, tsunamis … Donald Trump.

Last, people hate and kill in the name of religion. So, I’m more of a spiritual being: The f****** sun is the sun in the day, and moon at night, and it hasn’t dropped out of the sky yet. Also, I have had some close calls in life that could have easily gone the other way but didn’t. Now if that doesn’t hint that there’s a greater power beyond what science can explain, then…

While I was raised a certain way, my opinions about life in no way reflect that of my parents’. Yes, I carry some of their values and traits, but only the ones that seem reasonable to me.

My mother doesn’t understand why I like vampires. Because that sh*t is sexy, Ma! Super strength, healing on command, colorless eyes, long hair-don’t care, reading people’s thoughts, and living–as long as you can avoid Van Helsing and Buffy–forever–ooh, shivers.

Still, I know not to go around biting people and drinking blood. Yet when I go to church I can drink wine–no matter my age (everyone doesn’t use grape juice)–because it is representative of the “blood of Christ.”

So, it is okay for us to drink Christ’s blood, as if we are vampiristic, but not Chris’s or Christine’s, which would be viewed as somewhat cannibalistic and morally bankrupt?

Huh. Isn’t that a contradiction; isn’t that illogical?

And isn’t that what we do all the time–f***** up sh*t and justify it with religious doctrine?

In spite of the bullsh*t I have heard from the time I was able to comprehend, there has always been this thing in my head telling me to come to my own conclusions about the events that occur in life.

I observe. I rationalize. I decide. I share. And that type of intervention can only be described as divine.

So, if Jesus came off the cross (didn’t want to be put on it in the first place), and was burdened to wear it when he did, why are many of you gladly sporting this symbol around your neck when it is not yours to bear?

I heard someone say that knowledge is knowing a tomato is a fruit, and wisdom is knowing not to put it in the fruit salad.

Well, knowledge is you have a brain. Wisdom is to use it.

 

Mother, Mother

You work with me 24 hours a day, sometimes with no sleep and definitely no pay.

Your benefit, in the end, is if you molded me into something worth bragging about, especially to your friends.

Or did I turn your hair gray, pack on the wrinkles, and make your nerve endings fray? That some past sin you ignored coalesced into the monster–the piece of shit–keeping you on the edge of your seat from day to day.

See, Dad and I, no matter how hard he tries, will never have the bond we have; he never protected me inside his body and volunteered to give up his life so I could have my first cries.

This is but the smallest token of my gratitude; how can I truly thank you for my skin, my blood, my breath–the very life within?

My devotion to you does not end with just this day–it goes into tomorrow, the next day, the day, week, month, and year after, and beyond the grave.

People ask me time and time again how do you spell love? M-o-m; M-a-m-a; M-o-t-h-e-r.

–For my mom

Happy Mother’s Day to everyone.

The Takeover: Asian Dramas, Hwaiting, and Me

I’m back b******!

Yes, it has been nearly three months since I posted anything to enlighten (entertain) the world, and for that, I sincerely apologize. However, I won’t apologize for the reason I have been MIA (no, not the rapper).

No, it’s not from shell shock from having a president with a spray tan and a “rug” that changes in length and color from week to week, but it’s all “his.” Though I must say, the fact that he’s living up to his word to “bomb the sh**” out of people, and projected the sentiment that he will never be afraid of someone who is shorter–by a foot or more–(talking to you North Korea; him not me! I like my house and hometown, so direct that missile somewhere else–when his ass is on vacation, which seems to be every other week, golfing) than he is.

Nevertheless, it must be kismet, because I recently finished the Korean drama (K-drama) “King 2 Hearts,” which is about the king of South Korea attempting to unify with North Korea by marrying its top female military officer. Sounds farfetched, but damn it was good. The tactics used in the show may actually help the world’s strained relations with the “Red” nation; after all, love (more like self-preservation), supposedly, conquers all.

Speaking of conquering, if you haven’t heard of, or seen, “Strong Woman Do Bong Soon,” you just don’t know how unfulfilled your life currently is. The best way to describe this thriller: the hero, because that’s what SHE is, is a “peanut-sized King Kong,” meaning she’s barely 5’1 and kicking ass and taking no names. If you are raising a daughter, or any young woman, download the DramaFever app, find “Strong Woman Do Bong Soon,” and push play.

For months, I have been binge-watching dramas from Taiwan, to Korea, to Japan–I’ll be fluent in all their languages by the end of the year–and have learned quite a bit:

1. There’s always a love quadrilateral–some bitch trying to steal the main male character from the main female character, and some bitch trying to steal the main female character from the main male character–oftentimes, the second, sometimes third, male lead is better for our “girl on fire.”

2. None of the men or women are afraid to show or express their emotions: They will actually say, “Yes, I want your man (woman), and what the f*** are you going to do about it?” Never have I ever seen the phrase “I ain’t never scared” play out so torturously beautifully on the screen before.

3. When a man says he’ll take “responsibility” for you, pass out right then and there. That means he will take care of you and your needs for life–you literally don’t have to ask anyone for sh**.

4. Hwaiting! There isn’t an “f”–f*** me–in many, if not all, Asian languages, so I just spelled “fighting” above, which sounds like “hoy-ting” in Korean. When you tell someone “hwaiting,” you are giving him/her the ultimate support and courage to overcome any obstacles.

5. Engagement rings come in sets. You both wear one, and engagements are almost as sacred as marriage, and it doesn’t take years to get married. The marriage happens almost immediately–unless it’s arranged and you really don’t like his or her ass–after the engagement is announced.

6. Somebody–usually a pregnant woman–is getting hit by a car and will more than likely die from the injuries. I promise you, I have watched over 10 16 plus episodic dramas and every time somebody got hit by a car.

7. The stereotype of the submissive, passive Asian woman is dead. They are slapping hos (usually their husbands) faster than 1970s pimps.

8. Food cures all ills. But if I see one more person eat Ramen, I am going to create a PSA on the dangers of this sodium-filled, stomach-ruining staple.

There’s more, but I am more than likely going to write an article about it. I’m all about spreading knowledge, building self-confidence, and going after your dreams.

And it all started with a kiss.

Actually, the first Asian drama I ever watched was the Taiwanese version of “Fated to Love” followed by the Korean version of “Fated to Love”–highly recommend doing both and in that order.

However, what drama changed my life and perception, and understanding, of love is the Taiwanese version of the Japanese manga (most dramas originate from this medium)–“Itazura na Kiss”–“It Started With a Kiss” (ISWAK) and its sequel “They Kiss Again” (TKA), whose ending is left open-ended because its creator, Japanese artist Kaoru Tada, never finished the series due to her death in 1999 from a severe head injury she sustained from a fall in her home.

If you want to really gauge how much someone truly loves and values your present in his/her life, watch ISWAK and take notes, then test his/her possibly sorry a$$. If he/she is just in it for the lifestyle, get rid of ’em.

Life is beautiful. Time is precious. Neither are meant to be wasted, especially on individuals who are not worth your time or worthy of having a place in your life.

Join the Asian drama takeover. You won’t be sorry.

Until next time…hwaiting!

Finding Oppa: Innocence and the American Girl

Girls mature faster than boys. Granted. They don’t have a choice. When boys hit puberty, they get a growth spurt and a voice change; girls get breasts, curves–a look that is too womanly for someone who hasn’t reach high school–and cramps. All “Billy” can do is laugh at you in gym class because you “jiggle” when you run, making you self-conscious about your body, making you hate the way you were made.

“William”, on the other hand, praises your “lady lumps,” moves your hands away from your face in your bashfulness, telling you your smile is as radiant as the sun–it should never be hidden. Imbued with such false flattery, it isn’t a wonder why girls disappear into sex trafficking every day, or that girls between the ages of 11-21 find themselves under the thumb of men (and women) decades older than them.

With the incineration of landlines–by parents and not necessarily by technology, cell phones and social media have made it even easier for hunters to seek out their prey. A core rule of hunting is to use a decoy to trick your quarry: “Hi, I’m Sam, and I just want to be your friend. You could use a good friend, right?”

If all I will have to eat for the day is my school lunch, yes, a “friend” will come in handy.

If I don’t have money to purchase personal items, yes, a “friend” will come in handy.

If I can’t stand seeing that leering look in my mother’s boyfriend (husband) one more goddamn time, yes, a “friend” will come in handy.

If I can’t feed my little brothers and sisters, and my favorite one just came up to me to lie her head in my lap due to starvation, yes, a “friend” will come in handy.

That dress. Those shoes. That hairstyle. That game. That dance. That ride–yes, a “friend” will come in handy.

We live in a world where people swap videos of underaged sexual activity (crime is what it really is) as if they were business cards; where boys think it’s okay to physically restrain girls and molest them without toting the label of sex offender; where girls have to “do” the entire crew to “get in”; where “passed out” means a free pass to use girls as a sanitation dump.

I was recently told by a 19-year-old that rape wouldn’t be the worst thing that has happened to this individual, shrugging it off as if it would be a slight fist to the face in comparison to the things this person has already endured.

Can you imagine? Besides someone trying to murder you, and you surviving it, what more of a violation can one have done to him/her that rape would be considered a walk in the park?

Damn.

Where has the innocence gone? And what if some never had it to begin with?

–This post is dedicated to victims of sex trafficking.

The Takeover: Asian Dramas, Hwaiting, and Me

I’m back b******!

Yes, it has been nearly three months since I posted anything to enlighten (entertain) the world, and for that, I sincerely apologize. However, I won’t apologize for the reason I have been MIA (no, not the rapper).

No, it’s not from shell shock from having a president with a spray tan and a “rug” that changes in length and color from week to week, but it’s all “his.” Though I must say, the fact that he’s living up to his word to “bomb the sh**” out of people, and projected the sentiment that he will never be afraid of someone who is shorter–by a foot or more–(talking to you North Korea; him not me! I like my house and hometown, so direct that missile somewhere else–when his ass is on vacation, which seems to be every other week, golfing) than he is.

Nevertheless, it must be kismet, because I recently finished the Korean drama (K-drama) “King 2 Hearts,” which is about the king of South Korea attempting to unify with North Korea by marrying its top female military officer. Sounds farfetched, but damn it was good. The tactics used in the show may actually help the world’s strained relations with the “Red” nation; after all, love (more like self-preservation), supposedly, conquers all.

Speaking of conquering, if you haven’t heard of, or seen, “Strong Woman Do Bong Soon,” you just don’t know how unfulfilled your life currently is. The best way to describe this thriller: the hero, because that’s what SHE is, is a “peanut-sized King Kong,” meaning she’s barely 5’1 and kicking ass and taking no names. If you are raising a daughter, or any young woman, download the DramaFever app, find “Strong Woman Do Bong Soon,” and push play.

For months, I have been binge-watching dramas from Taiwan, to Korea, to Japan–I’ll be fluent in all their languages by the end of the year–and have learned quite a bit:

1. There’s always a love quadrilateral–some bitch trying to steal the main male character from the main female character, and some bitch trying to steal the main female character from the main male character–oftentimes, the second, sometimes third, male lead is better for our “girl on fire.”

2. None of the men or women are afraid to show or express their emotions: They will actually say, “Yes, I want your man (woman), and what the f*** are you going to do about it?” Never have I ever seen the phrase “I ain’t never scared” play out so torturously beautifully on the screen before.

3. When a man says he’ll take “responsibility” for you, pass out right then and there. That means he will take care of you and your needs for life–you literally don’t have to ask anyone for sh**.

4. Hwaiting! There isn’t an “f”–f*** me–in many, if not all, Asian languages, so I just spelled “fighting” above, which sounds like “hoy-ting” in Korean. When you tell someone “hwaiting,” you are giving him/her the ultimate support and courage to overcome any obstacles.

5. Engagement rings come in sets. You both wear one, and engagements are almost as sacred as marriage, and it doesn’t take years to get married. The marriage happens almost immediately–unless it’s arranged and you really don’t like his or her ass–after the engagement is announced.

6. Somebody–usually a pregnant woman–is getting hit by a car and will more than likely die from the injuries. I promise you, I have watched over 10 16 plus episodic dramas and every time somebody got hit by a car.

7. The stereotype of the submissive, passive Asian woman is dead. They are slapping hos (usually their husbands) faster than 1970s pimps.

8. Food cures all ills. But if I see one more person eat Ramen, I am going to create a PSA on the dangers of this sodium-filled, stomach-ruining staple.

There’s more, but I am more than likely going to write an article about it. I’m all about spreading knowledge, building self-confidence, and going after your dreams.

And it all started with a kiss.

Actually, the first Asian drama I ever watched was the Taiwanese version of “Fated to Love” followed by the Korean version of “Fated to Love”–highly recommend doing both and in that order.

However, what drama changed my life and perception, and understanding, of love is the Taiwanese version of the Japanese manga (most dramas originate from this medium)–“Itazura na Kiss”–“It Started With a Kiss” (ISWAK) and its sequel “They Kiss Again” (TKA), whose ending is left open-ended because its creator, Japanese artist Kaoru Tada, never finished the series due to her death in 1999 from a severe head injury she sustained from a fall in her home.

If you want to really gauge how much someone truly loves and values your present in his/her life, watch ISWAK and take notes, then test his/her possibly sorry a$$. If he/she is just in it for the lifestyle, get rid of ’em.

Life is beautiful. Time is precious. Neither are meant to be wasted, especially on individuals who are not worth your time or worthy of having a place in your life.

Join the Asian drama takeover. You won’t be sorry.

Until next time…hwaiting!