In lieu of my non existent music blog.

Not only does his name consist of my last name (brownie points x a million) but Dam Funk from Stone Throw Records is coming to Southeast Asia. Short notice but I just saw glanced over my email and thought I would let my bloggy friends know for the sake of knowing. Asia Airlines should have some flights left.

Aug 27: Solo Set @ Zouk, Singapore 

Aug 28: Solo Set @ Capocaccia Jakarta

on another note my mother calls me today to ask me where the flea market was that I took her too. She lost her beanie which she bought from a Chinese lady that hand made them. She wants to go back and get it.  

I really like to talk on the phone.

I just have no one to talk with. The kind of phone with a cord. Not this wireless disconnected wireless crap. The kind of phone that you can twist your fingers around, that leave you tied to a room so you can't do anything else but talk to that person. That's what I like. I like to talk to people on the phone and commit my full attention to them when I talk. One of my biggest pet peeves is talking on the phone with someone in the room, with someone listening the conversation it's never the same.

Today my mom called me, and while I listen to her tell me her stories about Brisbane to Malaysia to her cruise from Canada back to southern California I couldn't help but smile and think how much I miss the phone. Miss my mom. I travel because of her.  Maybe that's why watching scenes pass by on a bus or train puts me at ease. If I can't see the window or road I feel uneasy.

Anyways not cellphone. The phone with a cord where you can wrap your fingers around. My office has one, and I'm dying to find someone to talk to on it for hours. I used to talk to my best friends in high school for hours, in fact I think I made best friends through the phone. It was my way to the outside world, because I when I was younger I wasn't allowed to go outside too much. I remember very clearly this pair of hand made pajamas I wore all the time. They were white with navy blue stripes made by my mom's hands. I liked the tough cotton feeling of them. I wore them with my red shoes. Sometimes my gold shoes. And if I couldn't find another pair I would wear one gold shoe and one red shoe.

"why she wearin' two different color shoes?" said the neighborhood girl.
"my mom couldn't find the other one" I said.

I would make things up. I really wanted to play with them. I followed them until they all dashed into a house I was scared to go into or maybe they wouldn't let me in, I don't really remember. I do remember a boy who use to bully me a bit but I think I had a crush on him. My two color shoes. He played ding dong ditch and I told him to stop it. That we would get in trouble. I remember falling once from my bike when I was with him. My dad told me to stop playing with him and I never knew where he went.

And so that is what my memory wants to recall today. I am still in Vietnam. My aunt and cousin from America are coming tomorrow to Long Xuyen and I'm excited. Time to bike ride.

Mekong stories stream through me.

And for the most part I forget to transport them onto paper or another medium where I can remember them. But sometimes by happenstance they come across my mind and I am forced to reflect on them. For work today I have to find quotes from our program, from what people have said to me under their tin roofs as the sweat drips down our faces, as children swim in the muddy rivers of the Mekong, and as life moves on unaffected by my presence in their homes.

This reminds me of a grandma who sat in her home when I walked in. She welcomed us. Everything we saw was probably everything she had. Her eyes were not teary because she was crying but they were teary because of her declining health condition. Her grandchild was a scholarship recipient of my organization. We were visiting in one of our bi annual house visits we make to check up on the family and the recipient. A young boy who seemed to be her grandson lingered in the background going about his business. The young girl was skinny, enough to squeeze between me and the driver on the motorbike. She listened to her grandma, and she went to help us get gas for our motorbike without a complaint. The sun was scorching but I suppose she was used to it. Everything I saw was everything they had. She rented out the other half of the house and lived in one half. Tin lined the walls and roof. Rust draped where it could. There was a tv to my right, near the pots and pans. The grandmother sat on her bed. And as the girl went away for a bit, she told us that the girl was not really her grand daughter, but she didn't have parents, so she took care of her.

This must of slipped my mind as I recall it sitting in my air conditioned office with my wireless keyboard and mouse. Necessities that suddenly seem unnecessary. What a small fact that I let register in the back of my mind. Secrets kept from someone just to let them live an unknowing life. Her tears were real regardless of what caused them.

One headphone down, one more left to go.

 As a person with strange shaped ears my dreams of sharing headphones with a potential lover are far reached. There is something strangely romantic about sharing music with another person, even if it never amounts to anything. Strangely romantic. Strangely friendly. Sometimes I can fall for someone just by seeing what they listen to. Just by the sounds they introduce me to.  It doesn't help that you like music too. Moments encapsulated through lyrics, memories surface through melodies.

However since my ears cannot hold onto earphones I remain in bittersweet lonesomeness. I brought two pairs of my favorite headphones with me, simple and light. Although augmenting my awkwardness, my trusty Sony (MDR W08) headphones have amazing sound volume keeping me company for many years now. I once found someone who totally agreed with me that these were amazing headphones too! I forgot who this person was, but when I found him I was happy.

I live by them. I first found them when I was wandering somewhere in a basement store in Berkeley. I bought them for about 10 dollars. Last month an old pair broke. I knew one was bound to break and out of precaution I had a back up. The left side is blown out and I am left with just one pair.

And to think of the time that passed by as those headphones filled my mind with the ability to forget. And as time passed the wires grew strained and somewhere too many snapped. But while those wires were strained maybe I felt nervous, anxious, or sad. Nestled between notes, its scary to think that I only have this one left. That if this one pair breaks I must go search for another one. Another that will make me just as happy as the previous.