Triscribe

“Star Trek: Enterprise” – last week, I noted that I’m still looking for more from the series. This week’s episode, “Proving Ground,” seemed just a bit closer to the “more” – although, I’m still not sure how to articulate what this “more” is. Commander Shran of the blue Andorian aliens arrives to help Captain Archer and the Enterprise crew in getting info on the Xindi weapon. Shran, played by actor Jeffrey Combs, was quite good; he’s conflicted by his genuine interest in helping and respecting the humans and yet is obligated toward the Andorians’ own interest to get the weapon for themselves.

Combs is a recurring Star Trek actor, most well-known as the villainous and slimy Weyoun of “Star Trek: Deep Space Nine.” He’s so convincing as Shran, someone you’d like to trust but know that you can’t. I got into it by yelling at the tv, “Archer, don’t listen to him; he’s Weyoun in a prior life and he hasn’t exactly been that trustworthy with you in the past two seasons anyway!” Archer, played by Scott Bakula, still needs work – I may never know if it’s because of the line reading or the script writing (without stronger writing, even Bakula, who has been a better actor in the past, can’t milk all that much). More Shran/Combs please!

Captain Kangeroo, aka Bob Keeshan (who I most remember as the host of the CBS Saturday morning Storytime show), has passed away. Yahoo.com – why are they posting a picture of Keeshan and Howard Dean? (besides the fact that Keeshan’s home was in Vermont; there were probably other heartwarming pictures of Keeshan to show). Anyway, the point is, Keeshan is a sad loss, much like with the passing of Fred Rogers. What are kids watching these days without such figures? They are missed.

“Brooklyn Nets”? For real? I don’t know what to make of it; while it’s great to see Brooklyn get revitalized (and unfortunate that Newark hasn’t been able to do it), I feel for those people whose homes are going to have to be put out of the way unless the designs and plans get tweaked. I’m not necessarily anti-development, but I’m hardly pro-development either.

Bacon taste testing in the NY Times! Bacon is good, even if I am one of those people who’d look for the least fatty one in the supermarket.

Slate.com has a good article on the real story behind “Cheaper by the Dozen.” (I liked the original movie; the original book was also good; not touching the current movie).

Slate.com’s Michael Kinsley says he has figured out what “Compassionate Conservative” means. Hmm. The article’s worth a look just to help one figure it out.

Last night’s “Angel” on WB – quite good. Angel and Spike, Spike and Angel – two vampires with souls who may or may not have destinies to fulfill. In last night’s episode, Spike’s on a path that paralleled Angel’s path of four years ago when Angel began the path of the champion in Los Angeles. Meanwhile, Angel’s feeling sicker and sicker (literally) over whether he’s looking less like a champion and losing meaning in his work. Yet, who’s playing conquer and divide between Spike and Angel? Are the Powers That Be still involved and who are Wolfram and Hart’s Senior Partners? Who is good, who is evil, and what does it mean when you’re in the gray? Is it okay to be in a blurry world, or better for things to remain strictly black and white? Will Team Angel figure it out, before they get sucked into oblivion??? And, oh yeah, the classic take on a favorite favorite sci-fi/fantasy plotline, wherein parasite suck one’s mind. Kudos. You can never get away from parasites.

In the middle of all this, the “Angel” episode (directed by Angel star himself, David Boreanez) injected some good humor. Angel’s dream sequences are remarkable (good dream sequences are always hard to beat – funny yet filled with Freudian analyses type of questions). There was one moment that made one wish that the producers had been able to get Sarah Michelle Gellar back as Buffy, but what they did instead was funny enough (her voice and a blonde stand-in would have to do, apparently; it seemed like Angel and Spike were going to have to take that as it was).

Earlier this week, in a review in the NY Daily News, tv critic David Bianculli thought “American Idol” was still as good a watch as ever – although he seemed to think that judges Randy Jackson and Paula Abdul seemed meaner than they have in the past, he pointed out that the contestants haven’t exactly made it any easier. Simon Cowell thought an immigrant contestant couldn’t have even won “Kosovo Idol.” Randy and Simon snickered like junior high school boys at a bunch of losers when they were left to judge with Paula gone. Too many contestants had serious tin ears, refusing to acknowledge that they so cannot sing. Did they realize that the line between karaoke (singing for one’s own pleasure, by the way) versus the big time (where, you know, you’re supposed to be serious) is not that big a blur, really?

Anyway, “American Idol” still a fun watch, especially if one likes watching people get punished (fairly or not) like this. But, it’s sometimes scary or hard to watch – when the sore losers get too sore and then I get to feel the voyeur for listening to them rant about Simon or the other judges; when the sore loser then causes a tortious assault (you know, the kind the tort law professors would teach) on Simon (throwing water at Simon); and so on – it almost makes me wince. The Chinese guy in Houston, who aimed to be the Hong Kong flavor of the “American Idol” – umm, okay – so he forgot that one needed actual talent, not just a desire, to be on tv. I figured some contestants were intentionally bad, to get on television; but, it’s hard to tell sometimes. It should get more interesting when the good singers come on.

Wait, You’re Not Chinese?

May 30, 2002
By PARI CHANG

I RECENTLY married and took my husband’s name: Chang. I am
white and I am Jewish and now I am Chinese – at least on
paper. I grew up on 1970’s feminism; I went to law school,
became a professional, and always imagined I would keep my
birth name to celebrate my selfhood. Yet when I married a
Chinese man, I realized that I could support our marriage
best by changing my name to his.

Hyphenation was an option, but hyphenated names often
create a cumbersome jingle. In my case, Berk-Chang. It
sounded like a stomach ailment (“I’ve been in the bathroom
all night with the Berk-Changs”). I thought of keeping my
birth name but did not want the burden of repeatedly
explaining, “My husband is Chinese, you know.” As my
wedding day approached, I decided to take Chang as my last
name and, by adding “Asian” to “woman” and “Jew,” represent
three groups at once.

People sometimes take offense when they discover that I am
not Chinese, as if I were engaged in a form of false
advertising. Friends recalled the “Seinfeld” episode in
which Jerry speaks to a woman named Donna Chang after
dialing a wrong number, asks her out and is disappointed to
find she is a white woman from Long Island. She had
shortened her name from Changstein.

When a group of women friends from out of town unexpectedly
visited me in Manhattan, I called a popular Chinese
restaurant and asked if it could possibly seat eight people
that evening. “You need to call further in advance for a
party that large,” the hostess told me. “I have only 11
p.m.” I asked to be put on the waiting list and gave her my
name. Then I heard the rustling of pages. “Well,” she said,
“I could squeeze you in at 8:30.”

When we arrived, I announced my name. “Chang party? You’re
the Changs?” the hostess said. I imagined her in front of a
mirror, rearranging an awkward ensemble. Open the button?
No. Belt it? Still wrong. “That’s us,” I said. I felt
guilty as she begrudgingly led us to our table, but what
are we Donna Changsteins of the world to do? Should I have
interjected on the telephone that afternoon, “Incidentally,
ma’am, I am not Chinese – but my husband is”?

I also unwittingly confused the personnel department at the
law firm where I practiced at the time of my wedding. After
I notified it that I had changed my name from Pari Berk to
Pari Chang, a switch was made in the company directory and
on my office door. I quickly learned that this meant the
assumption of a completely new professional identity. I
received the following e-mail message from a work friend
the next day:

1. Who the heck is Pari Chang?

2. Does she count in the firm’s minority statistics for
recruitment purposes?

3. Do the Asian attorneys now view her as competition for
the partnership?

During recruitment season, people in the personnel
department, not having met me, must have assumed I was
Asian, and asked me to interview anyone who was of Asian
descent. No doubt some of the candidates I interviewed were
perplexed. I noticed a few sidelong glances that suggested
“Is she half?” I steered the conversation toward the tired
matter of balancing a legal career with a personal life so
that I might interject that I was recently married and
offer a clue to the mystery of a white girl named Chang.

I do not blame people for assuming that I am Chinese – my
name is Chang; it is a fair assumption. Responses sometimes
go beyond surprise, however. Acquaintances often boldly
announce their approval of Geoffrey as my husband. “I think
it’s wonderful,” they comment. Then they add that he is
handsome and “so tall!” Those of the more boorish variety
shout, “Pari Chang!” when they see me, as though my name
were some kind of verbal high-five.

As time passes, I feel emboldened by my new identity.
Losing my birth name, ironically, has been for me a matter
of self-definition. I am tickled by the irony of having
made a modern decision by doing the most traditional of all
things wifely: taking my husband’s name.

We were lucky, because both sets of parents approved. They
met for the first time before the wedding at an authentic
Chinese restaurant chosen by Geoffrey’s dad. My dad thought
he would wow them with his affinity for moo shoo chicken,
his confidence in the wisdom of fortune cookies. My mom
asked me if Geoffrey’s parents were aware that Jews love
Chinese food. But I couldn’t help wondering what my father
would say if the duck was presented with its neck intact.
He is a steak-and-potatoes man, a Hebrew Tony Soprano
without the mob, owner of a wholesale meat business in
Brooklyn. Geoffrey’s dad, Julius, is a physicist.

At first, my dad spoke slowly and clearly when addressing
Julius. Had I not popped a sedative before dinner, I might
have snapped, “Dad, he speaks English.” (Geoffrey’s father
moved to the United States in the 1950’s.) My parents
relaxed as Julius told stories of his teenage years around
the Jewish neighborhood in Skokie, Ill., where he went to
high school. They even tasted the whole-fish soup with
enthusiasm. We drank wine and discussed pop culture,
gossiped about celebrities.

“So, who is Chinese in Hollywood?” my father suddenly
blurted. “What about Mista Miyagi, from `Karate Kid’ – is
he Chinese?”

Julius, bless him, answered my dad with grace. “Miyagi?
Japanese.”

“Oh! How about Odd Job, from James Bond – is he Chinese?”

“Odd Job? Supposed to be Korean, but it’s a Japanese
actor.”

In his unorthodox way, my dear father was trying to cozy up
and learn. Julius knew this; he could feel the effort at
connection beneath the impropriety. In fact, both of my
parents and my extended family have welcomed Geoffrey (and
embraced my decision to change my name) – and vice versa.

Still, they try to weave tapestries from stray threads. It
so happens that Geoffrey’s first cousins are half Jewish.
Their name is Gottlieb. My grandmother, during our Sunday
telephone chats, never fails to ask, “And the Gottliebs,
how are they?” The Gottliebs, Grandma, are agnostic. “Doing
well,” I tell her.

The Chinese are not unlike us, my family likes to say. They
joke that Chinese and Jewish women both play mah-jongg. And
they think of Chinese and Jewish families as close-knit.
Don’t they both value good educations and have children who
are diligent students, superstars at math?

When Geoffrey laughs, his eyes are smiling moons. When he
sleeps, his lashes are like caterpillar legs, straight and
stiff. I hope our children will have caterpillar-moon eyes
and will know Jewish culture.

We had a Chinese banquet for a rehearsal dinner, and a
rabbi officiated at our wedding. We live on a continuum,
hovering between East and West. I took Chang as my name to
honor this blend, and our choices.

http://www.nytimes.com/2002/05/30/fashion/30CLOS.html?ex=1023963532&ei=1&en=3298f90b59efbff6