The kid started school the other day so, as a last hurrah – and because both my kid and the Firecracker’s kid love trains – we went on a train adventure the other day.
NJ Transit has been having alla these issues lately so, as a mea culpa, they offered free train rides all week last week.
Now, my kid was already at my in-laws so, bright and early one day, I went to get him.
But not before fueling up with some empty carbs.
Carbed-up, we hopped the train…
…transferred to another train, and then got off at Journal Square.
It was super cute, when he saw the Firecracker, he like RAN to give her a hug.
They both played at the playground for a bit…
…before we went in search of food.
We found this cool little joint called White Star and ordered a ton of food and drink.
We continued our train adventures by hopping the light rail to see my SIL.
Her: Can you help me bring a rug to my basement? Me: Sure!
It was a HUGE rug so I should really ask details before I agree to stuff.
Afterwards, she gave us a lift to the local pier…
…where the kids had more fun.
And then we walked through Hoboken…
…to get to Benny Tudino’s for one of their obnoxiously huge slices of pizza.
It was actually his second time there – I told you about the first time we went back in 2021.
Bellies full, and fully exhausted, we headed back home.
All-in-all, it was a good way to end out the summer.
Him: I’m a little worried about school. Me: You’re always a little worried about school. That’s normal. But, every year, it turns out ok, right? Him: I guess so. Me: You’ll be fine. You gotta trust me here.
My kali class used to be a half-block from my pad for decades but then we moved it to my last gym.
After everything went down, we had to move our class again and, this time, the Frenchman did all the heavy lifting along with our buddy Prin and got us a new joint in Koreatown.
Even managed to get the Firecracker to take a few classes as well.
After every night class, they all end up heading to Koreatown to get some late-night fare.
We usually don’t join them but we did this past Friday just because the kids were starting school soon.
It’s also nice because they try and support Pak‘s mom at her restaurant, Noona Noodles – I’ve told you about it before, more than once.
After we left, I saw Pak’s mom, so I said hi and asked for a pic.
She was pretty adorbs because she flashed a big smile but then refused to allow for photos without fixing her makeup and hair a touch.
That’s one of the best things about living your whole life in the same small town; the people and places you know around the way that change but are still, somehow, somewhat ever the same.
My fave local dive bar put in a kitchen not that long ago – I think they did it over COVID, maybe?
But it really doesn’t offer much. Historically, it was a BYO food joint, with a ton of people, myself included, that used to order pizzas and stuff to the bar itself.
Well, the Firecracker wanted to hang out at a bar the other night, but she also wanted a banh mi while I was kinda in the mood for a gyro.
Me: I know! We can each get exactly what we want and bring it over to the dive bar. Her: That works for me as long as we get to sit outside and enjoy the weather. Me: Done!
So, we did just that.
Ended up sitting next to these three young British sailors that were in town until 3AM.
Me: Oh, fellas, you’re in the wrong bar. You should be at Tiki Chik or someplace like that. Her: Yeah, there are no women here, but there’s definitely gonna be girls there.
They appreciated the suggestion and left.
We were happy to have done a good deed and had a nice dinner with drinks for ourselves.
There’s a lot to be said for a simple life.
On that note, the kid just got back to start school.
I’m super excited but also a bit sad in that the years seem to be sprinting by.
If only I could keep him my little boy just a little bit longer.
Years ago, I was chatting with a female friend of mine and she said that she and her parents were having a bit of a disagreement.
Her parents wanted her to stop bringing by every guy she ever dated home.
Me: I would think they’d wanna meet who their daughter is dating. Her: They do. The issue is that they end up liking them and then they disappear and are never seen again. Me: Well, stop being such a tramp. Her: (laughing) Logan!
Me: I often look at couples and have a hard time figuring out if they’re dating or father-daughter. Her: I wonder if people look at us and think that. Me: With my youthful looks?! Her: I’m obviously joking since you’re Chinese and I’m not. Me: That PLUS my youthful looks, yeah? Her: OMG, how are you this vain? Me: Practice, really.
There’s this song I’ve been talking about with you for close to two decades now – Starsailor’s Good Souls.
We have our issues, of course, but even there, she’s uniquely kind.
For example, after a major fight we had, she bought a couples counseling session and followed up with an assignment for both of us to read: Talk to me like I’m someone you love, which is honestly a great book for any couple to read.
I mean, even that title alone would be an amazing thing to say in an argument – I know this because she has with me.
Aimer, ce n’est pas se regarder l’un l’autre, c’est regarder ensemble dans la même direction.
To love is not to look at one another: it is to look, together, in the same direction.
It’s surprising how much an old Chinese man from NYC and a much younger southern belle from North Carolina sees the world in the same way.
I suppose that is a great foundation for any good relationship.
Her: Do you love me? Me: Come on, I sweat you like a summer day. Her: I don’t know what that means. (thinking) I wish you’d say it sometimes. Me: (laughing) Sure thing, Firecracker. Of course I love you.
If you’ve never been, you should stop by – it’s part of the NYC Public Library System and free.
So, bright and early on Saturday morning, we went there.
There was almost no one around when we got there.
It was gorgeous – both the place and the weather.
But, unfortunately, we could only stay for a little over an hour because there was so much construction going on around there.
This is what it used to look like, ages ago.
We were planning to walk down to Koreatown to get some Korean fried chix, but we didn’t make it too far because we took a detour at West 37th Street to check out Reichenbach Hall, a beer garden.
We got a liter of hard cider to split between the two of us…
…and ordered some brats and a schnitzel.
It was perfect.
Afterward, we went back to the main library on West 42nd.
Me: When I was studying for the bar, I came here a few days and just spend the day studying here. Feels like a million years ago. Her: It’s gorgeous here!
I sat, roughly, where I sat some 28 years ago when I studied to pass the LSAT.
Afterward, we decided to try and walk home, which was good because we ran smack dab into a street fair.
Unfortunately, one of the pigeons took a liking to the Firecracker.
Her: I think it pooped on me. Me: Sorry, baby. (brightening) Wait, we should buy a lottery ticket!
So, we walked over to Columbus Circle, where she got cleaned up, and then we took the train home.
Another year and another May 24th to August 24th, done.
I think it’ll always be hard, but that’s not necessarily a bad thing.
I’ll tell you why sometime but not today.
My brain and heart are tired.
Location: videochatting with the Professor, refusing to believe we’re in our 50s
Mood: better, thanks
Music: you and I will be alright (Spotify) Subscribe! Like this post? Tell someone about it by clicking a button below.
The other thing about my dad/family was something else that I also learned in Cornell: When I took my first Chinese language class, the teacher asked how to say “maternal grandmother” in Chinese.
I confidently said, “阿婆 (ā pó)” but was corrected, it was “外婆 (wàipó).”
I’d never heard of 外婆 (wàipó) before, we never used that term nor had I ever heard it before.
Me: I was so embarrassed that I got that wrong. Why didn’t we use the right way of saying it for [mom’s mom]? Father: Do you know what 外婆 means? It means “outside grandmother.” That’s what you call the wife’s mother because, in Chinese culture, the mother’s family and side doesn’t count – they’re outsiders and not really part of the family. That’s wrong, I think, and offensive. Your mom’s family is as much a part of our family as mine is.
For all my dad’s traditions and pressure, he was a decent and fair man and that story perfectly encapsulates him.
It was a simple but profound thing, which makes sense as he was both a simple and profound man.
And I think that a major reason the three of us – my sister, brother, and myself – have been so successful in life.
Moreso than the education and the accolates.
Because I suppose we always knew that, no matter what, our parents loved us and always would.
Yeah, if there’s one thing that I’d like to pass on from my dad to my own kid, it’s that.
My dad died August 24th, 2017, seven years ago this week.
I love him every bit right now as I did seven years ago and always will.
Even though, at times, I wonder if he knew.
Me: (angrily) Yeah, well, you wait. My kid is gonna be successful and happy. It won’t matter to me if he goes to an ivy league or not. Him: You’re threatening me with a happy and successful grandkid? (laughing) Go ahead. Because that’s exactly what I want too. When you’re a dad yourself, you’ll understand. I’m trying to keep you all safe.
And, of course, I totally care if he makes it into an ivy league or not.
Just maybe – maybe – not quite as much.
Did you know that no two tigers have the same stripes?
A tiger’s pattern is as unique as human fingerprints AND not only is a tiger’s fur striped, but its skin is also striped as well.
It has hidden beauties you wouldn’t know about while it was alive.
This also means that every tiger is different from every other tiger, despite all outward appearances.
My dad may have been Chinese, but he was so different in many ways and uniquely mine.
I wish he was still here.
But I suppose you already knew that.
The picture above is the day my parents met my son.
It’s one of only a handful of pictures I have with all three of them.
The main picture is another of the few – precious – images I have of my father with my son.
I have none with him, Alison, and my son. Zero fucking pictures.
Not a single goddamn one.
And everything went to shit after that picture.
But, for a moment in time, that was the happiest I ever was because my entire family was alive and happy for five days.
I didn’t yet know that would be all I would ever get. Ever.
My 20s and 30s were particularly acrimonious and again when he died, just because I loved him so and yet we were at odds over so many things.
I also wasn’t exactly right in the head back then, but I’m guessing you knew that.
Both my parents were stereotypical Tiger Parents in that we never played sports – ever – and instead spent every single summer and afternoon studying; we studied for school, for the SSHATs, then the SATs, AP classes, whathaveyou.
Me: That was crazy that all we did was study. Him: When you have three kids that made it into Stuyvesant and an ivy league, then you can tell me that I did something wrong.
Having a kid of my own, I realize how impressive what he did was. After all, he came here not speaking the language, with almost no money, and – within a generation – had three ivy league-educated Stuyvesant grads.
That would be an accomplishment for everyone.
This picture was taken a half a century ago when I had just turned two.
But in two distinct ways, he was radically different from most Chinese fathers.
The first was when he dropped me off at Cornell and both he and my mom told me they loved me and were proud of me.
After they left, my Chinese roommate came up to me.
Him: Were your parents born here? Me: (laughing) What? No, they’re both from Taiwan. Him: I’ve never heard of any Chinese parents that told their kids they loved them. (thinking) My parents have never told me that. (pause) They’ve never told me they were proud of me.
Didn’t know what to say.
If anything, my parents would go out of their way to scream that they loved me on the top of their lungs when they dropped us off someplace just to embarrass us.
This is such a stereotype that this Asian comedian has a whole bit on the subject:
But that wasn’t my experience at all.
I’ll tell you the second thing that made him very different – at least to me – on Monday.
Her: What’s wrong? Me: I got a letter from the city. Her: And…? Me: That’s never a good thing. (opening it) Annnnd…it definitely isn’t.
Looks like it’s gonna be bread and water for me and the kid for the forseeable future.
That’s not entirely true.
He’s back at his grandparents, my in-laws, for the last couple of weeks of summer.
So, he’s probably eating like a prince.
Which is not to say that things are that bad around here.
Her: The kids are away and the weather’s beautiful, you wanna go for a walk? Me: [After that letter] I could use a drink. Her: What about The Wallace? Me: That works for me.
So, off we went.
The place was perfect; we were early enough that there were only a few people there.
The waitress was sweet and comped us some fries.
Me: So much for me trying to avoid carbs. Her: Just don’t eat them. Me: We both know that’s not gonna happen.
And then afterward, we took a leisurely stroll back.
Her: Well, there’s shampoo, conditioner, leave-in conditioner, pre-heat treatment spray, anti-UV spray, dry shampoo, hair oil, mousse, and hairspray. Me: I have a single bar of soap.
I’m pretty obsessed with cancer, for obvious reasons.
Don’t know what is leading to this huge rise in cancer cases in our lives but I gotta think it’s a combination of lifestyle and environment.
And for men, a report just came out this week that by 2050, the cancer rates will double. That’s insane.
It’s tough not going off the deep end on this kinda stuff, but one thing I try to do is check my household products against The Environmental Working Group’s website.
Since Alison and my dad died, pretty much the main soap that I use in the house is Dr. Bronner’s Castile soap, which are so safe that they’ve all earned EWG’s coveted “verified” rating – their rating system is basically from 1-10, where 1 and 2 are super safe and 10 is decidedly not.
I try not to get anything above a 2 in the house where ever feasible but EWG’s “verified” rating is essentially a 0, meaning it has absolutely nuthin of concern.
Unfortunately, Dr. Bronner’s bar soaps are like $4.50 or so, which is 3X the price of a normal bar of soap and I take up to three showers a day in the summer if I’m hitting the gym.
Still, it’s a small price to pay for safety.
Having said that, I was searching for something else when I found out that Irish Spring Icy Blast is – somehow – a 1 on the EWG rating chart and costs exactly the same as any other mass-market soap, about $0.66 a bar.
I do note that it seems to contain titanium dioxide, which I’m not a fan of, but that’s pretty much it.
So, while I still have Dr. Bronner’s pretty much everywhere here, I’ve been showering with the Irish Spring for the past month, which has been pretty nice, I gotta say.
Her: You smell great! Me: Don’t I?! Her: (rolling eyes) Sohumble, Logan Lo. Me: The humblest, even.
Location: W 63rd, picking up a white printer for the kid
Mood: irritated
Music: They say it’s our fate and we’re too late, I know (Spotify) Subscribe!
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Almost exactly 11 years ago, on August 6th, 2013, I went with Alison to a cafe a few blocks south of me called Pier 72.
We went there a couple of times but, really, hardly ever went there because it was a bit older than other joints in the area, but the food was good, the people nice, and the prices pretty cheap.
I don’t think we went there again after that; well, she didn’t, for reasons you already know.
I did because, when she was sick and losing all that weight from the chemo, she turned to me one day and said, randomly, “I could eat a patty melt.”
So, I asked her what that was and she told me.
Then I ran to Pier 72 because it was certain it would have it.
I was wrong.
Him: Sorry, we don’t sell that here. Me: Please. It looks like this (shows him a picture). My wife…she’s…sick. She hasn’t eaten in days and I’m worried she’ll die. I can pay whatever you’d like for it. Him: (gently) It looks like a cheeseburger on a sliced bread. I can do that for you. Me: Yes. Please. I mean, thank you. I’ll pay whatever you think is fair. Him: (shaking his head) It’s a cheeseburger on toast with onions. Just pay what we charge for a burger. Don’t worry about it. We’ll make it for her.
Went there a few times after that, always getting a patty melt and maybe a Reuben for me. Alison only ate a little each time.
It was a kindness I’d never forgotten. It was one of the only things Alison would agree to eat.
The kid’s been asking to go for ages, and I finally brought him the other day.
We couldn’t sit where Alison and I last sat when it was Pier 72 because that became the cream cheese display.
So, we sat across from it and I looked at the corner of where we sat, almost exactly 11 years earlier and I could hear her voice in my head.
Something about the fact that I was sitting there with her son but not her hurt me in ways I can’t fully express nor explain.
Then the boy’s voice cut through my thoughts.
Him: I love the everything bagel! Can we come back here again? Me: (distracted) Oh…sure. Of course. Him: What’s wrong? You look like you’re crying. Me: (clearing throat) Oh, it’s the summer. Allergies, you know… Him: I’m sorry you have allergies, papa. Me: It’s ok. I’m always ok when you’re around. Him: Yay! Me too!
