“The feeling of unresolved resentment against injustices suffered, a sense of helplessness because of the overwhelming odds against one, a feeling of acute pain in one’s guts and bowels, making the whole body writhe and squirm, and an obstinate urge to take revenge and to right the wrong — all these combined.”
– Han, Wikipedia

Han is described to me as our heritage. It’s what describes the low smoking point of our blood, the way it seethes in our veins, behind our skin, away from others’ eyes. It makes you understand why so many drunk Korean guys on 8th and New Hampshire burst into flames and throw hands at each other at the slightest sign of disrespect.

Before Ta-Nehisi Coates established the plunder of African-American bodies as American heritage, Koreans had a word for the subjugation they’ve been submerged under for centuries. It goes back to the deference paid to the Chinese in the 1400s. It crested in the Japanese annexation of Korea. Throughout Korean history, bodies weren’t just burned as fuel for the economy like the Transatlantic Slaves, they were broken for sport and impaled for comfort. You can see our Han manifest in the ham-fisted way our parents discipline us, the kimchi-slapstick of our melodramas, or the high-octave heartbreak in our ballads. It feeds into the common joke among Koreans to never date another Korean, because we’re all fucking crazy.

As I’ve read into Han, I’ve concluded that it isn’t a uniquely Korean experience. Like I mentioned before, there’s ample evidence of the African-American experience being much the same. Han is a theorization of bloody heritage rising from the ground to grasp onto its living children. It’s not exclusive to the boiling sanguinity of Korea’s continued survival despite its history. It’s not exclusive to the long dark night of slavery and the grey twilight of redlining and Jim Crow. It’s not exclusive to the smoldering genocide of Europe’s Jews in the name of purity. This historical rage is not exclusive to a singular people. We all bleed the same blood, the only difference is the shade of the skin from our split foreheads.

Ultimately, that’s what piqued my interest in Han. Within its fluid definition lies a statement on history, that it has the power to follow us like a curse.

The shitty thing about history is that people think it’s malleable. You’re all familiar with people mushing historical facts and narrative into the holes of their arguments. Established history is as ironclad as law, but there are those who crop and cut established history to buttress their own narratives. This is not exclusive to any one ethnic group, every group does this. There are those who try to present a bucket of broken facts as historical evidence, and they come in all colors and stripes. But it’s a disservice to ignore crucial elements of history if we are to gain any value from it.

It’s easy to believe that historical events that fall outside of our lifespan have minimal effects on us today. It’s why a common racist argument that’s lobbied against African-Americans is: slavery was centuries ago, and you people still haven’t gotten your shit together since.

But I believe that the biggest issue with all this racial tension is the idea that one history has merit over another. The history of an African-American and an Anglo-American is markedly different, yet African-Americans cite the injustices of their history to ears deafened to the sound. It’s not my history. I can’t understand and empathize with something I don’t know, even if it was taught in half-awake stares in high school history class. So why is it a surprise that some Americans don’t empathize with the African-American struggle? They don’t understand or believe in their history, and they can’t justify their Han…which is the luxury of someone who doesn’t feel any burden from that history.

And for those whose present is still tangibly weighed by that history, like African-Americans or Turkish Kurds or Korean War veterans with long memories, Han makes a ton of sense.

“Han is sorrow caused by heavy suffering, injustice or persecution, a dull lingering ache in the soul. It is a blend of lifelong sorrow and resentment, neither more powerful than the other. Han is imbued with resignation, bitter acceptance and a grim determination to wait until vengeance can at last be achieved.”
– Han, Wikipedia

I used to chafe at the idea that I’m saddled with Han because I have Korean blood. I’ve always said that being Korean affects me the way any ethnicity affects a person. It’s from the outside-in, not the other way around. I don’t want to justify stark irrationality with an easy label or excuse. Han is more than a word used to explain emotion, it can also be an ill-fitted justification for selfish and wild behaviors. I refuse to believe that my destiny is to be an irrational, cynical, and disillusioned asshole because my ancestors were getting pegged by their geopolitical rivals.

I try not to attune an emotional profile to an ethnic group, because it’s that kind of thinking that breeds racist thought. I try to treat everyone on an equal plane, regardless of race or gender. The deeper, underlying core principle of that egalitarian thinking is that we are all human beings, and thus, we are all equal and deserving of respect and dignity. We are all subject to the same primal needs and desires to live, breathe, eat, drink, piss, shit, and succeed by our own individualized terms. We all want to find happiness, and we all want to avoid tragedy. There are things I am better at than other people, but that’s not evidence that makes me a better person than anybody on this Earth.

Maintaining this principle is tough, and it can be disproven in so many ways. There are so many different things that elevate ones over others. As a truth, it doesn’t survive. The evidence can be seen on a stroll through Market Street. You can see how some people are elevated over others, how they’re treated as superior or inferior to others.

Still, it’s my principle. It’s something that nourishes my ego, which helps it prevent the darker engines of my id. I am not better than you, and you are not better than me. I don’t care if you make more money, if you’ve lifted more weights, or if more people on this earth want to fuck you. We are equal, and if we’re on that level, it’s much easier to empathize and be compassionate to each other.

Another origin story for Han was the burdensome resentment of Korean peasants towards the caste system of the times. The yangban ran everything, while the peasants created everything. The daily oppression is bound to ferment the soul until its resultant gases push against the ribs. Again, this caste system and resultant Han is not something that’s unique to Korea. But if heritage has more power over me than I believe it does, it might go some way towards explaining why I have this principle of equality, and why I hate condescension so fucking much.

It feels like a stone is being suspended in your chest. It’s held up by wires that pulls upon your chestplate. It weighs and jiggles every time you take a step. You feel unnatural, like some alien body is inside you. When I have it, I want nothing else but to remove that stone, and it feels like the only way I can is to forcefully expel that stone at the people responsible for putting it there. But I can’t.

That’s what makes it deeper than a simple grudge. Han is specifically painful because of the underlying helplessness to take immediate action to resolve it. You resign yourself to it, you wake up with it, walk with it, feel it against every breath you take. Until one day, maybe one fateful day, it makes sense to unleash it to those responsible.

It’s based on the violation of that equality, that a human being who is subject to the same fragility of life as me, could treat me with such utter disrespect and condescension. And what better way to enforce the purity of that equality than to strike out and punish the person that stepped out of line?

Still, I’m reminded of a key truth before I take up arms against my “oppressors.” What’s fair and unfair to me is only true to me. Fairness and equality can be broadly defined, enough to the point where most of us can agree on what it is as a society. But fairness and equality will always be unique to the perception of the person who doles out the judgment. Think on why the cycle of urban violence is at once understandable yet illogical. Man avenges his friend by killing his killer. The killer’s friend kills the man or the man’s family to avenge the killer. On and on it goes. Each act made in faith towards “making things right.”

And so I have to resolve my Han, and remove my stone, in a way that doesn’t involve vengeance or balancing my personal scale of justice. To let go of this feeling, even as it seizes up my insides like an emotional cramp. To realize that a healthy, happy life is one that allows me to control my emotions regardless of whatever historical weight or cultural conditioning may be behind all this.

Heritage and history can go a long way towards explaining action. But action is the only thing that defines a person, not the heritage and history behind them.



The Last Year.


Shit. I’m almost 30.

It’s a popular age to gutcheck our expectations against our realities. 30 might represent different things to different people, but it generally marks the entryway into middle-age as we close out the eventful drownage of mistakes, booze, and uninhibited fun that is our 20s.

Am I doing what I set out to do when I graduated college?

Hell fucking no. I had delusions of grandeur. I remember telling my roommate Brian that I wanted write a version of Ulysses that was based around San Jose. Now, I can barely finish a chapter or a short story without throwing it into the digital recycle bin. I’m currently on the fast-track to become another marketing monkey who uses metrics to quantify why blog posts matter. I’m not even close to writing anything that resembles the next great American novel I strove to write in my college years.

But being a monkey pays the bills, and I realized that my passion for words doesn’t outweigh my passion for living independently and paying bills on time. It’s still a passion, which is why I update this blog sporadically, or poke dusty manuscripts with the brand new idea stick from time to time. My love of writing is deep, slow, passionate, sensual…wait, what? Anyways, I hate the idea of living with my parents more than I love to write. So that’s that.

Am I where I wanted to be after I graduated college?

Well, I expected to move to Seoul to teach English after college, since I graduated in ’09 and the job market was swirling in the shitter at that time. That fell through because there wasn’t much demand for Asian-American Males in those schools. It was a little insulting, knowing that my ethnic motherland was acting so much like a white girl on Tinder.

Then when I was around 22 or 23, I was steeling myself to move to Portland at a moment’s notice. Not much to say about that, except I was being a supremely naive idiot. Thankfully, life stepped to slap my head from the clouds back down to San Jose.

Then around 24 or 25, I fell in love with New York and tried desperately to find an excuse to live a torturous spartan life within its high rises. I wanted to eat chicken and rice, teach English in the hood, find a bohemian girl who reads more than I do. I wanted to live that varnished romance that’s sold wholesale over TV and movies, that New York was the mecca of all culture. To sleep in its tenements was to be blessed by the most exciting and interesting lives. But no, the school thought I wouldn’t made a good teacher. And in retrospect, I wouldn’t have. I probably would’ve hit a rowdy student out of frustration, and then gotten shot by his angry older brother or father.

Now, I’m in San Francisco. I didn’t expect to be here when I got my shiny new diploma, but I’m here now. And here is what I appreciate, because on varying levels of consciousness, I valued being home over being somewhere else.

Don’t get me wrong, I want to go find myself in Europe like white people do. But I’m like that Atmosphere song, the one that us emo-thug kids played in 2004 or 2005. No matter where I am, no matter what I do, I’m always coming back home to you. The Bay is an inextricable part of who I am, and that part will always nourish and strengthen me whenever I can feel its breeze. Of course, I don’t imagine I’ll live here for the rest of my life. Maybe I’ll meander back to Los Angeles, or uproot and move to Chicago, or finally grasp the brass ring of Manhattan. But I do know that wherever I go, wherever I end up, I’m coming back to settle down in the Bay. I wouldn’t want to shortchange my children by living somewhere else, because to me, this place is the best place on Earth.

Am I the person that I strove to be after I graduated college?

I don’t know. I like to think I’ve grown more confident. I like to think that I’m a good person who wants to be compassionate and funny. But I also know that I’ve failed to be those things in regrettable episodes. I’ve blown up at people who didn’t deserve it. I’ve rejected people in colder ways than I should have. For every moment that I know I’ve upheld my own standards, I can name another episode of complete selfishness that flattens them. I like to think I’m a good person, but I’m sure you can gather a big portfolio of evidence that proves me wrong. I can be narcissistic*, I can be wrathful, I can be prideful, envious, greedy, lustful, and I can most definitely be fucking lazy.

*Evidence: this blog post.

But I suppose as I cross this event horizon of manhood, when hangovers become harder, clubs become unwelcome, and youth becomes more annoying, it’s enough to be self-aware. To know limitations. To work on them. To improve. Treat every day like you’re getting a new dealer at the table. The cards might fall in your favor, or they might not. The point is to improve how we react to them, how we’re molded by them.

Sometimes, I feel like adulthood is defined by the moments we continuously look for. We search for these moments assuming that the adults before us experienced them, learned from them, galvanized their own adulthood through them. But it’s only by experiencing my own life that I realize, most of these moments never existed for anyone. There are no benchmarks or certificates to collect in order to finalize our adulthood. We wander into it like infants walking like drunks. We grab our own personal lessons and allow them to harden us into the stubborn adults that eventually vote Republican.

30, 30 is just a number. A number like any other. It can be a benchmark, or it can be another excuse to drink and be merry with friends.

At least, that’s what I keep telling myself as I dreadfully get closer to this black hole when my back disintegrates, my memory disappears, I start sleeping at 9 PM, and I hate everything and anything that represents the wasteful youth I just lost.

Fuck man. I’m almost 30.

60 and 73.


I fucking love this game.

Of the things that have passed last night, you can see two opposite poles of basketball in its two brightest games:

  • Stephen Curry and the Golden State Warriors broke the Bulls’ record of most wins in the regular season at 73 wins by beating the Grizzlies in Oracle.
  • Kobe Bryant capped off a 20-year career by winning one last time in the most Kobe Bryant fashion ever, by going 22-50 from the field and 10-12 from the line to drop 60 in his final game in Staples, for the Lakers, for his career.

Basketball is not the ultimate team game. It’s not like football, where every player is dependent on his teammate to stop an opposing force from winning. In football, the quarterback will get mauled if his offensive line does not protect him. The middle linebacker will get eaten alive by the offensive line if his defensive line does not engage them. It’s impossible to play football without the team. But in basketball, there’s a tiny sliver of room for one player, one transcendent player, to raise above his teammates and carry his team to victory on his own.

Growing up, that player was Michael Jordan. Then it became Kobe Bryant.

However, let’s not give the wrong impression. In a season of 82 games between 30 teams, with a playoff structure of 4 rounds with five to seven games a piece, a team needs to have chemistry in order to win. Disparate talent, no matter how transcendent, will not win championships. Even Michael and Kobe needed Pippen and Shaq (and later, Pau Gasol) respectively. The Golden State Warriors can be considered to be the best regular season team of all time, not because Curry is the best shooter the game has ever seen, but because that team was built to maximize the strengths of each member. 73 wins is impossible for one player to achieve, it’s truly a team effort.

Stephen Curry might be the best shooter this game has ever seen, but the Golden State Warriors were built to be the best team in basketball. It’s not just Curry, it’s Draymond Green’s ability to guard every position on the floor, it’s Klay Thompson’s killer scoring, it’s Andre Iguodala’s ability to be a playmaker on the 2nd unit, it’s Bogut, it’s Barnes, Barbosa, Livingston, even our red-headed stepchild in Mo Speights played a key role in this historic season.

There’s only one player who can put the ball in the hole, so it stands that one extremely talented player can win games on his own. To see that player score despite the efforts of five men dedicated to stopping him, it’s the closest we can get to watching a Greek myth or a comic book hero in action. It’s a pinnacle of athleticism and talent that only a select few in history have ever achieved. It is the athlete in his finest form.

But when you see five players work together to put that ball in that hole, it’s almost synesthetic in how poetic and harmonic it is. You’re watching a beautiful symphony play itself out, with players cutting, screening, switching, and hitting that open jumper as a reward for completely bamboozling the best efforts of the defense. That’s basketball in its finest form.

And for one night to contain both ends of the pole – one player willing his team to win, and one team dominating the other as a collective – it truly exposes the unique beauty of basketball. One is not better than the other. Both sides won last night. Basketball won last night. To live through and see both extremes of its beauty – the invincible hero and the unstoppable team – reminds me why I fucking love this game.

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Requiem for a Laker: Or How I Stopped Worrying And Learned to Love the Mamba


Let me start off by saying this.

I grew up hating the Lakers, and even now, I don’t like them much. I hated the Lakers the way any self-respecting American hates the Yankees, the Cowboys, the Red Wings, or any other egregiously successful franchise that dripped with arrogance. We fetishize the underdog in this country, and the Lakers were anything but when I was growing up. I hated the Lakers because of their bandwagon fans running wild in their heyday and making Oracle sound like a proxy for Staples. I hated hearing crowd noise for every Laker highlight during Warriors games. And because I hated the Lakers, I hated Kobe Bryant. I hated the way he chucked the ball with impunity. I hated the smug dominance he had over games. I hated his cockiness and the ease he drew whistles from refs who were clearly on the take. Kobe winning was like Megatron beating Optimus Prime. Every year during the Laker’s threepeat felt like the bad guy was winning and laughing at everyone’s face every fucking time.

The height of this hatred began to crest during those awesome Kings and Lakers battles when I was in high school. That Sacramento Kings team laid the blueprint for a lot of amazing teams that came after it. The Seven Seconds or Less Suns, the Weak Motion Spurs, and the Small Ball Warriors all drew from their concepts. More importantly, they were considered to be the scrappy upstarts that would challenge the establishment. A Rebel Alliance of Bibby, Peja, and Webber going against Emporer Shaq and Darth Kobe. For a moment, you felt that they would channel all of their collective talent to topple the Evil Empire of Basketball.

It took a Montreal Screwjob of a Game 6 to propel those Lakers into the NBA Finals, which only solidified my hatred of everything Purple and Gold. They were anointed because the game was tilted in their favor. Kobe is just a glorified chucker. Shaq is just a freak of nature. Fuck the Lakers. Fuck LA. Buncha bitches down in Socal. Fuck em all. Basketball is stupid anyway. My team sucks and the team I hate most is winning.

It wasn’t until I transferred into UCLA that my opinion of the Lakers began to shift. That year, the Lakers had a truly middling team outside of Kobe. Shaq was gone, Gary Payton was gone, Karl Malone was gone, and there was nobody to fill the talent void they left behind. I remember Vladimir Radmanovic and Sasha Vujacic playing meaningful minutes. I remember Smush Parker running the point. Memories of Kwame Brown and Luke Walton fill in there as well. This was when the Lakers were still making it to the playoffs, only to get bounced by the SSOL Suns in those years. I remember smiling as my friends were screaming at the TV because of another Smush boner on the court. This is the indisputable proof that Kobe was never good enough to carry his team to the promised land by himself. He was never as big of a star as he carried himself as.

Of course, with the Lakers being the Lakers in those years, Pau Gasol got traded for what looked like a half-eaten Filet-o-Fish and Marc Gasol. I can tell you with confidence that everyone felt the Grizzlies got absolutely fleeced on that trade when it went down. At the time, it was just further evidence that the bad guys would always win. The Lakers would always manage to draw some kind of talent to LA to keep their championship machine running. Kobe would win again. Life remained unfair.

But there was no way you could take a good, hard look at Kobe and feel like he was overrated. The more I watched the Lakers in college, the more I began to realize how dominant Kobe actually was, and how rare he was as a player. Keep in mind, I watched the Warriors when Derek Fisher was our franchise player. I knew what a shitty team looked like, and the Lakers without Kobe were undisputably a shitty team. The fact that he dragged a starting five of him, Smush Parker, Lamar Odom, Luke Walton, and a rookie Andrew Bynum to the playoffs one year is a testament to how good he actually is. Switch in any other superstar into that team, and you’d bet your house on the Lakers playing for a lottery pick. Of course Kobe would start winning rings when Trevor Ariza and Pau Gasol came onto the Lakers. He made the fucking playoffs with Smush Parker as his point guard. You know damn well you ain’t gon’ win nothin’ with a dude named Smush.

As the years went by, and I watched more Laker games on TV, my distaste for the Lakers and Kobe began to subside. There’s a certain beauty in his killer instinct, in his ability to break down any defender and find a way to score. Not just once, but drive 10-0 runs by himself. There were countless instances of Kobe putting the team on his back and clawing the Lakers up from huge holes. The way Harden gets superstar calls on every drive to the basket, he probably got that from Kobe. The way Westbrook wants to demolish the rim on every play, that’s from Kobe. The way Curry pulls up a contested jumper off the dribble from 30 feet, vintage Kobe play.

I learned that to hate Kobe would be to hate on talent. You can only have a blind hatred towards Kobe Bryant if you don’t know much about basketball. Yes, he’s a volume shooter who can shoot his team out of games. He’s a selfish player who rarely gives up the ball in lieu of a contested turnaround jumper. He’ll elbow people in the face to prove a point to the NBA. He’s a documented cheater and was once accused of raping someone. To the casual basketball fan who loves the underdog, he’s such an easy fucking target.

But to someone who learned to love basketball for its manic poetry and amazing athleticism, Kobe is someone I don’t have to love, but he’s someone I have to respect. You have to respect his drive, his work ethic, his 81 points against Toronto, his vintage off-the-backboard-alley-oop-to-himself play in the low block, his once unstoppable turnaround, his loyalty to a single franchise. Kobe Bryant will go down as one of the most gifted scorers to ever lace them up. When you’re thinking of an all-time Laker squad, with all those championships, all those legends, and all those wins, it’s not even a debate on who to pencil in at the 2.

Because at the end of the day, no matter how much we fetishize the underdog and the lovable loser, sports exist for the victors. We don’t watch to further a narrative, we watch to see our heroes win. Kobe wasn’t my hero, but he definitely was a winner, and he’s undoubtedly one of the best to ever do it.

Farewell, Kobe Bryant. At the end of it all, it was a pleasure to watch you play.

When Life Gives You Lemons.

Life: Hey Daniel, you know what’s fun that you haven’t done in awhile? Teaching your parents how to use government websites.

Me: Actually, that’s not fun at all. It’s exasperating for everyone involved.

Life: Well lucky for you, the City of San Jose just put their entire bidding system onto a terribly built website and your father needs your help to navigate the entire thing!

Me: But…wait, that’s..

Life: As a bonus, we’ve added 15 more useless steps to the process that you’ll have to explain in detail, in Korean!

Me: What the f…

Life: You’re still terrible at Korean right?

Me: I mean…terrible is kinda harsh…

Life: And you’re still working in San Francisco so you’ll have to do everything over the phone, right?

Me: Umm…

Life: Oh my god, I can’t wait. I just have to make you do this RIGHT NOW. It’s just too much fun!

Me: But I have to go to wor-


I’ve Never Been Here Before.


I woke up this morning with a couple of war wounds on my wrist and a 20-pound dumbbell bouncing around my skull. There were drunk dials from the night before, because of course.

Last night was amazing. I was in the company of old and new friends, surrounded by a city who’d been waiting for this moment since 1975. It makes my 28-year long wait seem a little short. In the midst of high-fiving strangers and yelling out nonsensical obscenities, I managed to start bleeding from my wrist. C’est les champions.

My friend, who is a die-hard Laker fan, saw my joy in the middle of the 2nd quarter and grabbed my shoulder to calm me down.

“Hey man, act like you’ve been here before.”


I’ve never been here before.

During the last few minutes of the fourth quarter, I was breathing the dead air of anticipation, waiting for an outcome that would reinforce my doubts or shed them forever. That point in time when you’re confident about the future, but there’s still a nagging voice deep inside. While the bar was going crazy around me, I was dead silent. I wouldn’t dare jinx my team by celebrating too early. They were so close to achieving something that hasn’t been achieved in my lifetime.

Then J.R. Smith hit a three. And another three. Hit an inbound pass away. Hustle was coming back. The Cavs came within 4 with a minute to go.

Then LeBron clanks a shot to keep the run going. I see Steph and Draymond beginning to celebrate. I start to release some of the tension in my shoulders.

The clock hits zeroes.

For the first time in my life, the team I loved the most won everything.

I want to say that I immediately lost my shit and started hugging strangers. I want to say that I broke down in tears as years of waiting were finally justified. In the moments after the game ended, I just stood there, hands to mouth, putting all my focus into breathing. With each passing breath, the truth of the moment began to pass into my lungs, radiating out to the rest of my body, finally making its way to my vocal chords.

We are championship.

As we walked to my friend’s car, we ran across a fellow fan who held out his hand for high fives and yelled:


You damn right. We are championship, bruh.

Before the Precipice, I Stand.


It’s common sense to avoid counting your chickens before they hatch, yet here I am, one day before Game 6 clutching onto a handful of eggs.

You’ve heard the narrative before, especially if you’ve lived in the Bay Area for the last few years. Every Bay Area native is a long-suffering Warriors fan who fuels themselves on blind loyalty and knowing more about basketball than your usual NBA front-runner. We know what a pick-and-roll defense is supposed to look like, because for the best part of the last two decades, we’ve seen how badly it can be executed.


It’s become a sort of badge of honor to remember the bad old days. Fanhood is only affirmed by continued loyalty through the rough patches, so it’s become a sort of a name game with fellow long-suffering drunkards at the bar, watching the same transcendent Warriors as I am.

I love playing the name game too. We’ve had some amazing names attached to mediocre basketball players, so tallying Vonteego Cummings and Adonal Foyle from my painfully funny memories is almost an exercise in poetry.

Bimbo has the ball.
He raises up with two hands.
Bimbo airballs. Shit.

At first, invoking Bimbo Coles was like showing your official ID of Warriors fandom, someone to separate you from the bandwagon fan who was rooting for the Heat just a year prior. But of course, if you drunkenly bellow esoteric names for too long, people won’t think of you as a part of a loyal vanguard that’s desperate to maintain the integrity of the Warriors spirit. They’ll just think of you as an overbearing and pretentious asshole, like the guy who wrote that last sentence.


You’ll have to excuse the way most Warriors fans will sell this though. We are used to seeing the Warriors in a humorous light than an awestruck one. Nobody knows what to make of this newfound juggernaut. It’s like we’re living out every nerd’s fantasy, where we get beat on for 10 years, go through puberty, hit the gym, and get fucking jacked. Now who’s giving out the noogies, you pricks?

But that opens up a narrative of “deserve” that I’m beginning to find problematic.

I’m not going to argue that Warriors fans deserve this more than Cavaliers fans. This isn’t a twice-told tale of the historical David going up against the established Goliath. Both teams have suffered long-running droughts of championship joy. There’s no reason to favor one or the other in terms of “deserve” or “dues paid.” If you want to discuss the depth of misery between the two fanbases, have at it with someone else. I’d rather not familiarize myself with the taste of a historical pissing contest. And in any case, “deserve” has nothing to do with the outcome of this series. Suffering and patience aren’t accepted tender for championship rings.


This is no reparation for Bimbo Coles. I see this upcoming Game 6 as the penthouse in the casino of sports. This is the high-stakes table of Finals elimination games, where all who enter have to put down the chunks of themselves as the minimum.

In the past, when the stakes weren’t so high, every loss felt normal after awhile. Yeah, some were more painful than others, but losing at that cadence resembled normal manly wear-and-tear, the stuff that character and stoicism is made of. To me, losing was so far from the soul-wrenching rip that most athletes and sportswriters describe losing to be.

But as both the Warriors and Cavaliers have climbed to the pinnacle of the league, it’s occurred to me that my well-practiced rationalizations just don’t apply here. The gravity of the situation is so much heavier than it ever was. This is uncharted territory. This is outside my comfort zone. This is like looking down the cliff and seeing nothing but blackness.

Of course this is all overly dramatic. It’s just a game. It’s just sports.

I just don’t want to us to fall. Not here. Not this high up.

A Few Minutes for Baltimore.


Affirmation is narcotic. Having your thoughts cosigned by like-minded people sparks a warmth inside that can’t be replicated. Not even with the cheapest bourbon on the shelf.

This must be why the majority of commentary on the Ferguson riots last year and the Baltimore riots this year sounds so uniform to me. It feels like I’m hearing two distinct voices coming from millions of people. All those beautiful snowflakes in the world, and they’re beginning to sound like each other.

The coverage on both Ferguson and Baltimore is more of an indictment against our mainstream media, especially our major news outlets that operate on 24-hour cycles and pander to the lowest common denominator. I can’t trust every alternative news outlet either, because who knows how drunk they are on their own personal agendas and beliefs. When it feels like both CNN and MSNBC are coming from one echo chamber, and Fox News and Breitbart are coming from the other, It’s extremely hard to get reliable information on the ground.

I’ve only found a few commentators who are coming from a place of sanity. David Simon is one. Ta-Nehisi Coates is another. They’re not prophets scribing down gospels, but they take more care to consider the other side and present honest arguments in an event where spitting passion sells more ad space than nuance.

Behind all the slapfighting and bar noise of the punditry on Baltimore, there are only a handful of truths I’ve managed to boil down*.

(*Disclaimer: I’m no more qualified to speak on this matter than anybody else. I’m a functioning alcoholic in San Francisco who’s never visited Baltimore and grew up in a middle class suburb in Silicon Valley.)

1. Freddie Gray died in police custody. He was arrested over a “humble,” which is Baltimore parlance for a minor charge that others would recognize as a citation. In this case, this “humble” was running from a police officer after he made eye contact with him*.

(*I know it’s natural to fall back on the argument of “But why did he run? Of course they’d chase him down and arrested him if he ran.” All Gray had on him was a pocketknife, and there isn’t a shred of evidence or testimony that says he was doing anything suspicious or illegal outside of running away from a cop. I think that says more about the current state of affairs between Baltimore’s inner city and the Baltimore Police Department.)

2. In the last few years, the Baltimore Police Department has paid out over $5.3 million dollars in settlements towards complainants of police brutality. Another truth is that this number is not definitive of the entire scope of police misconduct in Baltimore during the same period.

3. The BPD (and for that matter, the Ferguson and St. Louis County Police) is not wholly representative of every police department in this country. On the same note, the actions of the rioting minority are not representative of Baltimore’s inner city. You can paint with a broad brush in any color, but if you only use that broad brush, you’re going to come out with a shitty picture.

4. Despite all the documented injuries against Baltimore’s inner city by the BPD, there is absolutely no justification for angry protestors to devolve into looting rioters. It’s understandable that there is rage. I too have read MLK’s quote that’s being bandied around, where “riots are the language of the unheard.” But that doesn’t excuse ruining the lives of innocent people to get a message across. That also doesn’t excuse the damage being done in the name of their neighbors and their community. I understand why the riots have happened, but they’re still a crime that deserves investigation and prosecution, the same way that Freddie Gray’s death deserves*.

(*Spare me the cynicism of “Well Freddie Gray will never get justice.” Despite the overwhelming amount of evidence that points to the contrary, justice is blind. If we accept the skewed rules of American justice that are currently in place, then we’ll never return to the actual standard of American justice we should be abiding by.)

I understand that the deep underlying issues behind this mess will require extremely dedicated and passionate people to fix. The riots were definitely unfortunate, at the same time they’re an unmistakeable signal that things have been broken for a very, very long time. Like every riot before this one*.

(*If Baltimore needs a template for reconstruction, look no further than LA’s Korean population. They just celebrated 23 years since the Rodney King riots leveled their neighborhood. Visit LA’s Koreatown now, and you’ll see that it’s become a hipster destination.)

We’re decades away from the kind of social progress that can end riots like these forever. But it’s my hope that Baltimore can rebuild itself and lead the way for the rest of us.

That’d be a story that I’d like to see on my Facebook feed.

Four Days in Los Cabos.

This past weekend, I had the privilege of joining with some good friends to celebrate one of our impending nuptials. My friend Chris was gracious enough to invite me for what is traditionally supposed to be his last hurrah as a restricted free agent. The celebration where his fiancee matches terms and locks him down on a lifetime contract will be another bash of titanically alcoholic proportions, but that’s a story for another time.

I won’t go into many specifics or details about the goings-on of the trip, lest I violate several statutes of the bro code and the unofficial corollary to the Vegas rule (what happens in Cabo should stay in Cabo).

But I figured I’d share a few things about my short jaunt to paradise.

1. Party With The Locals

While Mexico is clearly its own country with markedly different customs and culture from America (exception: South San Jose and/or East LA), Los Cabos can feel like a quasi-extension of America and American culture, specifically for its reputation as a vacation resort and Spring Break destination. I feel like the entire town runs on tourism money, which makes the entire town cater to the foreigners instead of operating as a wholly independent and indigenous place. Visiting Los Cabos feels closer to weekending in San Diego than Mexico City.

I’m not saying that it’s like going to America Jr. for a vacation, but it’s a lot easier to get tunnel vision and party the American way in a town that encourages you to do so.

But the places and events I enjoyed the most involved the locals. There were a few fun episodes where we intermingled with fellow Statesiders, everything else was at the hands of natives with limited English skills and worse English jokes*.

*My favorites were “Watch out for Ricardo. He gay. HAHAHAHA.” and “50 dolars for taxi.”

You can always go to the hot spots where you can find familiar travelers getting down to a top 40 playlist from a year ago. You’ll have fun at those places. You might even find a fellow traveler who’s #downforwhatever and make messy memories together.

Or you can befriend some locals. A dude who thinks it’s ok to twirl other dudes on the dance floor*. A group of dancers who actually battle other passersby like they just saw You Got Served. A boat captain with a gold tooth and a penchant for luring sea lions. A majordomo who’s the smiling MVP of any party lucky to stay at the villa she works.

*I might be mediocre at basketball, but at least I got a legit spin move to slide the fuck out of that awkward sitch.

It’s a little more fun, and maybe a little more dangerous, to do as the locals do.

2. Play Your Position

Every individual on a large trip has a specified role to play. Of course, there was the “The Bachelor” AKA “The Liquor Receptacle.” Then there was “Expired Passport Guy,” “The Cleanup Hitter,” “The Only Kinda White Guy,” etc. I was “The Blitz.”

Seriously, I felt like I was in an episode of a terribly-written sitcom about five friends living in New York. Every time I would go to sleep or go off on my own to take a ddong, the rest of the group would experience something amazing.

For example, while I learned that I can indeed get motion sickness (fuck you, age) and went to go sleep it off, a sea lion just happened to jump onto the boat. It was close enough to touch and make arfy sea lion noises, to the delight of everyone else on board. Meanwhile, I was laying on a shitty boat bed with bubble guts barely being suppressed by unconsciousness.

Another time, I go to take a dump on a relatively uneventful booze cruise. After relieving myself of 2 days worth of tacos, I step out to find everyone with jaws agape and eyes lit with natural wonder. I ask “the hell are you guys looking at?” One friend turns around and says, “DUDE? YOU DIDN’T SEE THE WHALE?”

“What whale?” I ask.

“There was a fucking whale! It came so close to the boat!”

“Dude. Doh missed the fucking whale.”


Everyone laughs.

I thought that I held latent reality-bending powers. Anytime I went to sleep, my dreams would manifest themselves into our world and epic scenes and memories would be shared amongst my friends. Then I realized that most of my dreams are made up of either beautiful women or sports highlights.

Maybe if I slept one more time, the rest of the bachelor party would’ve hung out with Rihanna and LeBron at the villa. Then when I wake up and go to join, LeBron would dunk on me from a basketball hoop that would magically appear from thin air, laugh at me while I’m crumpled on the floor, and then walk away with two hoes on both arms. At first, I would’ve thought that would’ve been horseshit. But now, I know I would’ve done it, because I now understand.

Gotta play your position. Because playing your position pushes your team to success.

3. Get a Majordomo

Words can’t express how clutch our majordomo Karime was on our trip. Just trust me on this one. Unless you’re all about that booze cruise life and you need to share a resort with other drunk Americans, splurge a little more and rent out a villa for your party. Find one with a majordomo. I guarantee that it’s worth the investment.

The food alone makes any thought of reserving at Wyndham Resorts a basic bitch move.

4. Mexico is Where Brackets Go to Die

This one is self explanatory. Every single man who filled out a bracket in that villa got busted within the first two days. One guy got wrecked while waiting for the plane to Cabo.

I’m never coming back to Mexico during March Madness.

Fuck you Virginia.

5. Don’t Eat Tacos 4 Days In a Row AKA Adulthood is Natural

It’s a common sight on reddit to glorify shitty eating habits, like eating fried chicken a week in a row because I’m an adult technically but not really because I’m eating fried chicken all fucking week don’t judge me bro.

Not to say that there aren’t people my age or older that can stomach a whole week of fried chicken. I mean, how else would you explain the scooter-level obesity in your average Alabama Walmart?

There might’ve been a time when I would’ve jumped at the chance to eat tacos for four straight days. Especially native Mexican tacos.

But I realized that maturity and adulthood isn’t a conscious decision to abandon all childlike things, it’s a naturally built understanding of consequence.

When you’re a kid, you can’t wrap your head around the consequences of eating tacos for four days straight. And why should you? You have a robust digestive system that could get nutrients out of mud.

But now? I scarf down a taco-based diet for 4 days, I end up trying to break the siege in my colon as soon as I get back into my apartment. That’s consequence. I’m not even out of my 20s and my body is telling me to grow the fuck up.

So when I say something so buzzkill and boring like “don’t eat tacos for 4 days in a row,” I’m honestly trying not to reach back in time and slap the Chalupa out of 15-year old Daniel’s hands. I’m simply processing the consequence that comes with such an action.

All part of being a grown-up, I suppose.

6. Treasure The Moment Before You Ca….Aaaand It’s Gone

It’s an obvious lesson, but I’m never able to internalize it.

The first day is underlined by the wonder and record-breaking relief I feel as soon as I crack open a beer and lay down my bags. The potential of four days…FOUR DAYS…of uninterrupted freedom and fun is so large and so fortuitous, I could barely wrap my head around it.

Then, at the snap of a finger, it’s already a week since my flight into Cabo and I’m sitting in my apartment trying to sift through work emails. Somehow in between then and now, I was able to squeeze in four amazing days with equally fantastic people in a destination that’s aptly named paradise. It’s almost unfair how quickly it all went.

I believe the groom said it best when he said that while the events of fishing, clubbing, and snorkeling were amazing, it’s really the small moments that are easiest to hold onto. Like the time when Clarence was so…well, I can’t get into too many specifics.

It doesn’t happen every day, and I’m glad I was able to experience it all, even the epic moments I never got to experience at all.

English, Mothafucka!


I don’t see racism play itself out as starkly as it does in movies. I can count on my hand the number of times someone threw a racial slur at me, and each time, the situation didn’t call for the automatic ass whipping that we’d assume would happen when someone crosses that line. One extremely angry Mexican called me and my group of friends chinks once, but we were outside of a wake for our just-deceased little homie. I’m not sure about you, but I don’t really support jumping someone outside a damn wake.

I can’t understand why I thought so level headed then, but I got into a fervor about an wayside statement in a Polk Street bar. I think I was pontificating on something about the Niners, something along the lines of “Mofuckin’ Culliver sucks muhfuckin nutsack,” which an acquaintance then asked me “why do you talk like you’re Black?”

The fuck do you mean “why do you talk like you’re Black?” This how I fucking talk.

Of course, it’s unfair of me to assume that it was coming from a strictly prejudicial place. Maybe the guy was wondering why someone who’s so obviously middle-class Asian-American would be talking in a way reserved for people who grew up in the hood. Maybe he thought I was being a poser.

Still, it brought to mind something that I’ve been finding problematic.

If you can’t speak “properly,” there’s less of a chance of people taking you seriously. It’s a common argument to throw out against people who’ve never been schooled in proper grammar and syntax. “I can’t even understand you right now. Your English is so bad.”

It’s the debasing of someone because they’re not well-versed in the ways of the majority. The way most white people have talked has been the official way of speaking in America, but I can’t help but think that the ebonics and slang that continues to cultivate itself in America’s ghettoes is just as legitimate of a dialect.

It’s just language, a means of communicating with people who’ve grown up just like you. It’s not inherently better or worse. But since our brains work to create prejudices and discrimination for things we’re either too lazy, too stubborn, or too scared to find the truth behind, we judge the way others talk.

“Jesus Christ…nobody can understand you. SPEAK ENGLISH.”

It’s those last two words. “SPEAK ENGLISH.” As if their way of speaking the language is the right way.

This might be blasphemous coming from a lifelong adherent to the English language, but there is no right or wrong way. To judge someone’s English by its proximity to the ironclad rules of grammar and intonation would bleed the legitimacy from all the localized dialects and tongues that give the language its cultural spirit. Even the broken English of my parents carries valuable lessons and insights that I wouldn’t hear from anyone else. There’s just communication and a willingness to listen and understand beyond what’s easy to process.

But as evidenced by the expansive divide between ethnicities and economic classes in this country, I don’t see much effort from many people to reach beyond their own cultural upbringing to grasp things outside of their common understanding.

Since it was Martin Luther King Day this week, I figured it was appropriate to quote a good passage from “I Have a Dream”:

I have a dream that one day, down in Alabama, with its vicious racists, with its governor having his lips dripping with the words of “interposition” and “nullification” — one day right there in Alabama little black boys and black girls will be able to join hands with little white boys and white girls as sisters and brothers.

There is no footnote saying that little white boys should continue to act and talk like little white boys and little black girls should continue to act and talk like little black girls. Dr. King didn’t say that we all had to stay strictly faithful to our cultural norms to connect with each other. Yet we expect everyone we meet to speak in the same way as we do, as if that was the prerequisite for connecting with them on some intellectual level.

To me, Dr. King’s message is evident in the imagery – that we all look past everything: skin color, linguistic keys, fashion, etiquette – to hold hands with someone. To get to the core of a person and unite with the precious few commonalities that all of us share as humans.

The one thing that unites everyone in America is that English is the lingua franca of America. When you get all of these different people and different cultures together, that English will mold and evolve to fit the needs of each community. The ebonics of the inner city, the Spanglish/Konglish/etc. of immigrants, the proper English of the educated class, they carry the same potential for nuanced thought and insight that you’d expect from someone speaking your own preferred English.

Even if the words that come out are unintelligible, I would think that Dr. King would agree with me when I say that intelligence and insight are universal.

I’ll conclude with a story I’ve told before. When I brought up my girlfriend at the time to San Francisco to show her the city that I love, I witnessed a conversation between what seemed like a well-to-do white man and a working-class black man.

They spoke in the way that was comfortable for them. The white man spoke “properly,” the black man spoke “ghetto.” And yet, they connected on a level that almost any American can relate to – how shitty their in-laws could be. There was no judgment from one person against the other, it was two men speaking on the same level and granting each other the respect despite their differences in speech and appearance. It was pure communication, despite the divergently different styles of English.

“Man, this mofuckin brother of mine, this bitch ass ***** always tryna take mine, you feel me?”

“I totally understand. But family is family, right?”

“Yea, yea you right. Family is family, but sometimes you just gotta look out for you and yours, right?”

“You’re right. Sometimes I want to punch my brother-in-law in the face too.”

“SEE? I know this dude gets it. Sheeeeeit.”

This was in 2008. I haven’t seen anything like that since.