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The brag list for “Avenue Q” reaches farther than its city limits. Firstly, it beat out fan-favorite and bandwagon magnet “Wicked” for Best Musical at the Tony Awards in 2004. Secondly, it writes a fictionalized Gary Coleman and versatile puppet sex into the same scene. And thirdly, it’s the fast-selling
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Whom you lose in death is one thing. How you lose them is another. For symbolic loss and pet loss, my grief fixates on the individual and our relationships — dad, cat, father, companion, family. For expected loss and sudden loss, my grief fixates on circumstances and causes — natural,
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“Dear Wong family, “Despite how quickly she got sick, I know you did everything you felt was right to give her a chance without causing her any suffering. I hope you take some comfort in all the wonderful, good memories you shared with her before her peaceful passing. “Yours truly,
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I can’t tell you what kind of person my dad was. As a teenager, I’d count with tally marks the memories I still had of him. I remember Laker games and canned Budweisers, but not his voice or facial expressions. To find out what kind of person my dad was,
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If you’re lucky, summer means warm weather and free time. It is a season during which the bold hearted experiment and the romantics invent epic medleys of unlikely compassion. Ewan McGregor once sang, “Love is a many splendored thing” atop a 150-feet-tall elephant hotel. We want the stories of those
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Nobody thinks grief is a thing we have an opinion on. But we do. We believe that grief’s most acceptable time and place is around the event of death itself. Grief is legitimate in the immediate aftermath of loss, and ever afterward is irrelevant, excessive and unwelcome. Indeed, death is
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On behalf of China, I’d like to apologize to all the rest of Asia for Shanghei-ing the Western image of “Asian.” Really, truly sorry. You see, rest of Asia, a solid geographical understanding is hard to come by in the States, and the resolve to get one on your own
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The most consistent thing about my habits is that I am always late. I have trouble internalizing that time moves in only one direction and that the future will ask for me whether I am ready for it or not. I am a late bloomer in every way.
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I wouldn’t be a sex writer if it weren’t for the day my role model called me a hooker. Last year, Meg Elison, a former Daily Cal staffer, and I took Asian American literature together. One day, she sashayed into lecture and said, “Hey, hooker.” At that moment, fireworks replaced
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In my old creative writing group, I volunteered to read the stage directions for someone’s screenplay. The writer had us read through a surrealist, alleyway dumpster scene that was part courtroom flashbacks and part drug-induced club ruckus. Of all that setup, this is the one line that stayed with me:
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