INCIDENTALS . . .

Arnold Schwarzenegger is now governor of California. What the f*ck!?!?!?

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Margaret Cho is hilarious. She is smart. She is real. Hate her or love her (I would prefer that you love her), but read her blog. It's linked to your left.

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ALCS, GAME ONE. I'm so sorry, did we freakin' LOSE to the RED SOX?!?!?! Oh. My. Gawd. Still, as always, there were highlights:

-- on the train heading down to the city yesterday, I drifted in and out of sleep while listening to a mother of 3-year-old triplet boys (WOW!) give instructions over a cell phone to her mother about how to set the Sony Playstation to DVD mode so that the boys could watch a movie. It was painful. "Mom. Mom. Mom. MOM! Press the GREEN X. No, the GREEN X. Yes, the X." It went on and on and on, until finally, the grandmother got so confused that her daughter ultimately told her, "Don't worry about it. Just turn it off and tell the boys the movie is broken." Oy, pass the Excedrin!

-- at the 125th Street Metro-North station, so many white folks got off the train and streamed out onto 125th Street, heading a block east to catch the 4-train up to the Stadium. I bet the local denizens are thinking to themselves: "Hmmmm, tons of white folk getting off at 125th Street and Park Avenue. There must be a Yankee game going on tonight." And then there were JC and I. We're Asian, but we belong there. Hee, hee.

-- it took for-freakin'-ever to get inside and to our seats. But, as they broadcast the opening ceremonies over the loudspeakers, we -- the chumps still standing in line to be frisked and admitted -- learned that 2 Air Force fighter jets would be doing a flyover after the National Anthem was sung. The Anthem ended, and all of us -- ALL of us -- tilted our heads back and looked up at the sky expectantly, in silence, if you can even imagine such a thing. Seconds ticked by, nothing happened. We saw commercial airplanes' lights flickering against the night sky, paper scraps fluttering around in the breeze over our heads. Nope, those aren't the fighter jets. But then . . . then they came. The loudest, most impressive screech of trembling sound, two humongous jets, flying low over the Stadium, noses pointed in perfect parallel lines, fire blazing like the devil out of their engines. They zipped by us in one incredible, resounding, earth-shaking roar. It was so quick, in the aftermath, we wondered, "Did we really see that?" But yes, yes we did. It was AMAZING.

-- Boston fans really do suck. Are you all really SO insecure that your only recourse, sitting in Yankee Stadium, watching the most evil and contentious rivalry in baseball, watching a GREAT baseball game, is to say to me and my friends and family "Chinks, can you even see that far?!" WHAT THE FUCK? Dude. FIRST OF ALL, we are KO-FUCKING-REAN, so the proper term is GOOK. Secondly, maybe that kind of BULLSHIT is acceptable in BOSTON, but you're in NEW FUCKING YORK now, so BACK THE FUCK OFF. How you like me NOW?! YEAH. You know it. The best part was, when I turned around and gave them the evil eye, only one of the assholes had the BALLS to look me in the eye, and even he blushed and turned away, turning his face into his beer. Come on, if you're gonna be an asshole, at least BACK IT UP, JERK.

-- to my great and deep satisfaction, these particularly heinous and evil Boston fans got KICKED OUT. All their jawing, all their inability to take some good-natured-though-heated ribbing about their team, all their drunken stupidity got them involved in a humongous fight with one of our own, a particularly tanked Yankee fan (we were sorry to see him have to leave, of course). Aside from a barroom brawl incident in college, this was the closest I've ever gotten to a real live fight -- three seats away! WOW. I don't know why fights excite me; it's like hockey -- I LOVE the smashing players up against the glass and all that. But I digress -- people got thrown out of their seats and launched on top of people three or four rows down; we were splashed with beer; we were absolutely enthralled. WOW.

-- the 7th inning ROCKED. Rejuvenated after the Stretch, the Stadium, the ENTIRE FREAKIN' STADIUM, got on its feet. All of us, chanting, clapping, stomping our feet, screaming ourselves hoarse. THERE IS NOTHING LIKE IT. You haven't seen baseball, you haven't LIVED baseball, you don't KNOW baseball at Yankee Stadium until you have seen and felt something like this. Granted, we only managed two runs then, but the energy . . . words cannot describe. I love it. I love my boys. WE love OUR boys.

-- Dad and I had to leave about a half-inning early to catch our train back home. Dad -- he's just about the sweetest, cutest thing alive. Taking the subway, which he rides maybe once a decade, was such a pleasure for him. Walking down 125th Street at midnight, the same street that he only remembers from the 1980s, when it was still "dangerous," he breathed in the fresh air and marveled at the community, the commerce that has cropped up since he last saw it live. Hopping onto our Metro-North commuter train, relaxing into our seats, handing our tickets to the trainman -- Dad was smug as a bug. It was such a pleasure treating him to the evening.

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Every once in a while, things happen in a particular order, in a particular sequence, in a particular way, that stuns me and makes me fall down and wonder, "WHY is this HAPPENING and HOW did it HAPPEN this way?!" I am then wounded, shocked, hurt, left wondering if I will recover, and if so, when, and if I will recover to the fullest, and go back to being me as I knew myself. This happens most when I have to say goodbye to something or someone, when I have to let go of something in my life that I have adored and still do adore, when I have to adjust and readjust and keep on adjusting into the unforeseeable future, when I have to shift my world view and my view of myself just a little bit.

At times like this, I become a different person, a bad person, a person I don't like very much. I become morose, wallowing and even taking pleasure sometimes in wallowing in self-pity and sadness. When people tell me "chin up" and to take heart and to look for the hope, the good, the positive potential in front of me, I reject those possibilities. I become angry at myself for having landed myself in a particular situation to begin with, and start mulling over all the what-ifs that would have transpired had I been smarter, wiser, more considerate, a better person, a more trustworthy friend. I become fanciful, wishing for things that can't be, wishing for alternate endings, wishing to turn back the clock with some amazing time machine, wishing that everything -- my entire life -- had worked out differently, and I lose all of my abilities to think rationally and be calm and be me, just me. I become a big ball of worry and stress, wondering how things will turn out, if they will turn out the way I want them to, if everything will be okay, if I will be okay, wanting to see what my life will be like 1, 5, 10, 30 years from now (if I live that long) so that I can plan accordingly. I become very defensive, lashing out at those who love me most, at those whom I love most, driving them away because it hurts too much to have them near me. And then of course, I become a split personality: constantly being apologetic for my behavior but unable to stop acting the way I'm acting; wanting to drive people away and longing for them when they are not with me; wavering between the far extremes of "p'shaw, of COURSE I'll be fine" and "I will NEVER be fine again;" sliding between the bases of "I am a big mushball, do with me what you will" and "don't you tell me what to do, I stand on my own" (of course I had to get a baseball reference in there).

This is one of those inexplicable, weird, formative, character-building (I hope) times. Words cannot describe.

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I normally detest bumper stickers, even school-related ones. Who really cares where you went to college? I don't, although my college is better than yours.

But I saw a funny one today:
"Where there's a will . . . I want to be in it."