There is no doubt that airport security is getting weirder and weirder these days. We could sit and debate all of its flaws and hypocrisies like why it's okay to bring aboard unlimited amounts of K-Y Jelly or say a pair of knitting needles, but not 3.5 ounces of SPF 30 sunscreen. Or we could talk about how awesome it is to get off a long-haul and let loose on Ms. Pac-man. That's right--the next time you're flying into JFK Terminal 8, save a couple quarters and energize yourself while everyone else is going numb at baggage claim. The consoles are all over the place. They even have The Fast and the Furious, Galaga and Cruis'n Exotica -- where you can be a martian, a baby or even a cowboy driver. Watch out for the stiff joysticks, in which case the giant tube of K-Y in your carry-on might help.

On rainy days, I hitch a ride to work from The Juliet Kilo. Sometimes I come offering a coffee from the local Dunkin Donuts; occasionally, the car leaks from the ceiling, both sides; and often, the “check engine” light is on. He knows the best routes to go, so I just sit back and ask him silly questions like:

How did you get that name? (The FAA alphabet, you know, Alpha, Bravo, Charlie, Delta...),
What is a good dessert to make for a six-person dinner? (A custard-filled fruit tart in a pie shell)
Or what is Kaiju Big Battle? (People wrestling in giant foam costumes).

The other day, he mentioned he'd be performing so I went to check out his show. Sometimes you go to these things and then feel, like, Oh shit, this sucks and have trouble making eye-contact with your pal the wannabe-musician ever after (Or worse, say, "I really liked...your tattoo." True story, for chrissakes.) Fortunately, it was a great show. It's a bit Icelandic static electricity with a glacial melt into Elliott Smith, may he rest in peace. Anyway, The Juliet Kilo does this multi-media thing where along with his solo guitar, singing and pre-recorded digital back up, he projects short video clips of interesting things, like a traffic tunnel as you're speeding through it or monkey-masked children wreaking havoc on bikes. I told him the audience doesn't need the extra stimuli, and that it actually distracts from the fun of watching a real person a few feet away from you sing and sweat and strum. But that's just me. I don't get out much anymore. Listen to his music here while staring at this photo and imagine it's live.

It rained most of the train ride down to New York City this past weekend -- an appropriate gesture for the sad occasion prompting my sudden trip. On November 9, Ellen Willis died of lung cancer.

When I applied to the cultural reporting and criticism program at NYU, which she founded and directed, it was the only one of its kind. And still is, I'm pretty sure. Other J-schools had your typical newspaper/magazine/broadcast sub-divisions, but it seemed only Ellen-- one-time New Yorker rock critic, Rolling Stone and Village Voice writer, pro-sex feminist-- understood that there were young journalists out there who were interested in covering more than the usual; that, as her 22-year-old daughter Nona puts it, "pop culture, politics and national identity were all inextricable." In my application essay, I wrote that I intended to report on Asian, Asian-American, and youth popular culture: how rock 'n roll affected gay politics in China, punk subculture in OC, the films of Wong Kar Wai. A couple months later, she called offering me a spot in the department.

Once, at a party, Lou Reed walked up to her and said, "So, this is what Ellen Willis looks like." She stared back at him with her deep, sleepy eyes and nodded, "Yep." I imagine she must have intimidated him just like she intimidated many of us grad students with her infinite brilliance, halting speech, and constant contemplation of ideas.

We should only be so lucky to be so fierce.

Speaking of bald and brilliant, I went to a lecture by Beijing artist/architect Ai Weiwei a few nights ago. He spent several years living in the Lower East Side of Manhattan, honing his counter-culture craft, before returning to the motherland. When he petitioned his government to establish his architectural firm, they asked for three names. So he gave them the English words "Dick", "Pussy" and "Fuck." The oblivious officials went with the latter, and asked for a transliteration, which ends up being the Chinese characters fa and ke; therefore his company, Fake Design. Cheeky little fucker/faker, ain't he -- hm, maybe it makes more sense if you understand Mandarin.




(That's a Han Dynasty vase, in case you're wondering...er, was a Han Dynasty vase.)

Anyway, I'm trying to get an interview with him, but if it doesn't happen, he is speaking at 7 p.m. tonight at AAP in NYC and then again at Cornell on Monday, Nov. 6. He'll show you slides (some silly, some amazing), make funny jokes, and then you can tell all your friends how friggin' cultured you are.

p.s. this is his girl at the Gate of Heavenly Peace. nice underwear.

My favorite thing I've heard all week, from my friend Goo, I mean John, who is planning on moving to Chile in 2008: "You can eat the local sea bass and feel guilty about it afterwards. The high mercury content will also make you lose your memory and your hair. I love how nature has a sense of revenge."

However, what I love more is Nature's will to live. This tenacious little lithop survived my big move, short-term foster care in the company of one particularly mischievous kitty named "Baby" whom I like to refer to as "monster," and the recent 30-something degree weather hovering around the Northeast. Up until this morning, she was just green and bald.