A Smoker’s Paradise, Davis Is Not

Generally, it’s cool to smoke.  That’s the idea at least. You’re standing outside enjoying your cigarette, but really what you’re doing is looking like a badass and you love it.  You’re edgy and cool and you don’t give a damn about the establishment.  The years of anti-smoking rhetoric, the pictures of black lungs up on the transparency machine?  They don’t matter.  You only live once, so you might as well enjoy it while smoking a death stick.  

Here in Davis, it’s still cool to smoke, but it’s not cool to be cool… at least not the James Dean, rebel without a cause type cool.  Here, the “cool” thing is to be healthy, eat organic food, buy fair trade coffee and hit up happy hour at a lame cafe.  It’s cool to speak several languages, ride your bike, drink out of a thermos instead of a paper cup, wake up early and exercise, and to go out drinking with your TA.  And that’s just what people do during the weeks at Davis.  On weekends, it’s cool to kayak or hike or do something active.

Most smokers are either really skinny hipsters or foreign exchange students… they’re not badasses, just people who didn’t get the memo about health being a status symbol.  I don’t blame them, since being healthy seems like a personal thing that really shouldn’t affect others’ opinions.  Maybe Davisites are just extremely sensitive to the social costs of caring for sick people who haven’t previously taken care of themselves.  Actually I have no idea how health became so cool.

How does one distinguish the badasses in Davis if they’re not smoking?  One thought is that there exist no badasses…  after all, the most hardcore shit I’ve heard about is a stolen bike and public urination.  Another thought is that Greek life will come through with some James Dean types…  but they’re all automatically disqualified for their annual display of gayness in the Arrowjam variety show. [much love, jeff!]

This thought experiment isn’t really going anywhere, except to say that the badass has definitely left Davis, if s/he was ever here to begin with.  So the question then becomes, why?  What is it about Davis that makes being a regular joe cool?  Here are my offerings.

I’ve heard that Davis cops have the city on lockdown, issuing citations for biking on an unregistered bike and other small misdemeanors.  Just yesterday, a cop was yelling at this guy on his bike, telling him (over his car’s loud speaker) to walk his bike across the street instead of ride it.  I suppose they give tickets for such bad behavior.  Maybe that keeps the punks away.  Or maybe truly cool people will have nothing to do with a city that closes at 8pm, save the college bars and pretentious restaurants.  Maybe it’s the lack of culture, or the separation of the arts from everyday life.  

Who knows what it is.  But being here, living in this Lego land, I’ve got to say that I want to contaminate mine and everyone else’s lungs.  And this is coming from someone who’s never smoked a thing in his life.  Maybe some smoke will kick some life in this city.  

Asians Everywhere

I’m Asian, but I grew up in Cleveland, Ohio. That pretty much translates to me growing up as a normal American kid, for the most part. Middle school and junior high were all about being popular and getting invited to the hottest bar mitzvahs. High school was about finding someone to take to the next school dance, playing after-school sports and getting pimples. Sounds pretty white american to me. The only exposure I had to asians was my korean-american church, which was filled with korean-american kids just like me, most of whom couldn’t speak korean (like me). It was a tight-knit circle and everyone was connected by no more than two degrees of separation. If you passed by a random Korean American in Ohio, you not only had an instant connection, you probably knew each other’s friends. Actually, you probably just knew each other to begin with.

So one aspect of Davis Life that still throws me for a loop is the inordinate amount of Asians that traverse through campus anonymously, speaking perfect English. At first, they all looked the same, or at least a transformed version of someone I knew from before. I’d turn the corner and there would be John Shim or Ann Oh or someone else. So yes it is true, all Asians do look alike. I felt like I understood why my high school teachers always mistook me for Tony Hwang.

But with time I began to see the subtle distinctions and social lines that made each Davis Asian (somewhat) unique. That being said, I have for you a list of all the different Asians one might find at UC Davis.

- The White California Asians, who are notably different from White Cleveland Asians or any other white variant of asian, are at once a pain and a pleasure. They’re really cute, a feature almost always noticed first by the big white guys they’re holding on to. It usually goes like this: I’ll pass by a cute girl wearing $200 sweatpants that hug low on her hips, and when I glance at her face I’m shocked to find that she’s a cute ASIAN girl, just disguised as a rich jewish girl. Or I’ll overhear one side of an irritating cell phone conversation, turn to sock the girl in the face and find that she’s actually asian and actually super cute. I said cute 5 times in this paragraph.

- The Too Cool For Asians Asian. These guys and girls are the hipster asians that work at the coffeehouse (the davis food place that only employs good-looking hip people). They wear hightop converse and thrift store t-shirts. They usually look like they just woke up, but really they spent all morning perfecting that Derelict/Zoolander look. And since they’ve taken such pains to rise above their Asian brethren, they feel no need to socialize with them. They’re usually surrounded by white people, and the occasional hip black guy. (To be honest, I’m pretty much describing myself here. I’m not above categorizing myself.)

- The Generic Asian sits outside of the MU with about fifty other Generic Asians. He promotes his Asian frat and bakes under the California sun in his black Armani shirt. His overworked biceps can’t hide his otherwise skinnyass frame. He is loud and annoying, but he only finds strength when he’s with his fellow Lambdas. Left alone, he reverts back to the awkward, geeky Asian who runs home and levels up his Druid in World of Warcraft.

- Annoying Asians Playing Online Poker At Cafes – If you are reading this, I want to kill you. You and your friends take up precious space at Mishka’s to feed your gambling addiction. You think that buying one cup of coffee gives you the right to take up an entire section for hours on end. You give Asians a bad name. Please leave campus, then drive back to see that giant billboard that gives information to help gambling addicts.

- The Random Fobs. These types pretty much dominate all Asians in Atlanta, but they’re a nonfactor here in Davis. Like in Atlanta, they isolate themselves, but since there’s only like 20 of them on campus I run into them just once in a blue moon. When they do emerge, I spot them from a mile away. Something about how they walk and talk, and that they’re all ghostly pale. Unlike in Atlanta, they don’t make a big enough social dent to warrant a unique stigma amongst nonasians. They’re just random fobs.

My mission in life for the next week will be to take pictures of these different kind of Asians to help you, my beloved reader(s), to see what I’m talking about. Or i’ll just search for them on facebook or google. But until then… which kind of Asian are you? (for nonasians, just think of it as a “what kind of color are you?” test)

edit:

I captured two asians on camera that I think are ilikedavis worthy.

dan ra, this one is for u

this guy is my hero

Driving in Davis

Everyday, I commute to Davis. And everyday, I almost kill a bicyclist.

The Davis emblem or whatever is a giant old-fashioned bike, and a few years back I went to this strange sister-city ceremony between Davis and some Japanese city that also valued biking above all else. In fact, the Japanese delegation said they were looking for a sister-city in America, so they googled “bike friendly city” and got Davis as their first result. They visited Davis, rented a few bikes and took a tour around town, and they found that yes, Davis is bike-friendly and therefore worthy of city-sisterhood. This story is somewhat pointless.

What I do want to say is that Davis is overrun by bikers and bikes to the point where it’s dangerous to drive. I’m almost positive that by the end of the quarter I will seriously injure someone by accident. Especially at night, I’ll be making turns without giving the necessary 360 degree check and I’ll almost kill some 90 pound asian girl zipping by on her flaming pink cruiser. And besides those close calls, I’ve heard at least one store from every bicyclist in Davis about how they had a “hella” bad wipeout, some involving third degree burns, asphalt stuck underneath skin, skidding across pavement, etc. Actually that was all from the same story, but really almost everyone has wiped out at least once, and most of the wipe-outs involved cars.

I’d also say that cars are generally not in vogue here at Davis, given the whole green revolution that holds captive this town. I got an email early in the year, asking me to take a campus-survey about driving habits. Usually I like to scrutinize the questions so I can find out where they’re going with the survey. But these questions were pretty directed. I remember, “do you pollute the environment by driving to school everyday?” I might be misremembering the wording, but that was the general vibe I got from most of the questions.

So really my daily goal is to drive into school without killing anyone, compete for a parking spot and then join the ranks of pedestrians who own the Davis roads. I can walk around without fear of being called “not-green” or whatever derogatory term a green person might use, and I won’t go to prison for killing a poor girl or boy on their bicycle. And Davis, being the small, green-belted city that it is, is walkable from relevant end to end in about ten minutes.

In short, driving in Davis sucks.

Mishka’s Cafe

The crux of my account of Mishka’s cafe relies on knowing that coffee is a diarrhetic, meaning that it makes you pee and poo. Because of this, having a workable, clean bathroom is crucial to a good cafe experience. All coffee drinkers can understand coffee-induced peristalsis.

So naturally, a good place to start my description of Mishka’s is the bathroom. The bathroom door is tucked away in the back by the employee parking lot. It’s painted purple, or mauve. I can’t remember. A laminated sign informs the patron that the door is locked, and then instructs him/her to hunt for the bathroom key, which is hidden by the front counter. And by the way, laminated instructions are ubiquitous throughout the cafe, so get excited for more of that in this account.

The key is attached to a giant plastic cup which becomes a great inconvenience if, for some reason, you wanted to steal Mishka’s bathroom key. Actually, I’m thinking more along the lines of high school hall passes here, where the teachers would attach spatulas, footballs, whatever it took to keep the hall pass conspicuous. But the giant plastic cup does serve its real purpose, which is to constantly remind you to put the key back. It also serves as an excuse to not wash your hands after you pee. Follow my logic: If my hands are going to touch that nasty cup anyway, what’s the point of getting my hands wet? (I did wash my hands, I’m speaking hypothetically)

So after a little trouble, I unlock the door, and to my surprise what I find is not a bathroom at all, but a dungeon. Lit with the equivalent of a single candle, the room is small and frightening. The walls are the same purple/mauve color as the door, but in the dark everything looks like blood. A viscous musk, reminiscent of feces and decay, wafts me in. I can barely make out a toilet with the dim light, which seems absorbed by the thick air. I take a breath and go in to do my business. I almost don’t make it out, since I’m determined not to breathe again till I’m safely away from this harbor of death. I flush and… ok, I didn’t wash my hands. I got the hell out of there.

The whole point of describing the bathroom is this: That Mishka’s, an otherwise good place to have a chat over coffee, and an excellent place to park yourself to study for hours on end (they hate that), That Mishka’s has a torture-chamber for a bathroom speaks volumes to the gilded experiences I had at this cafe, though most of them were not their fault. Let me explain. The clientele at Mishka’s ranges from seasoned cafe-goers to annoying college punks, and the Mishka’s experience that their staff hopes to provide excludes the latter group. That leads to some awkward rules that Mishka’s has established in order to preserve that “natural” cafe vibe.

Mishka’s staff strictly enforces the no-study zone, which is the 6 tables in the front of the cafe, and their first line of defense against offenders is a sign, laminated onto such tables, detailing the decree. It ends with a snobbish remark: “Those who have finished reading this and are still studying here will be first warned, and then banished from Mishka’s and will forever be relegated to Starbuck’s Coffee.” I understand where they’re coming from, but as a sensitive asian man, I’m not feeling the cool cafe vibe with threats like this.

Just if you were wondering, there’s another set of laws at Mishka’s which is posted arbitrarily along the walls. They are more or less reminders of common etiquette a cafe-goer should already have. That these laws are plastered all over the walls says one thing: Get The Hell Out, All Ye Students Ruining The Cool Cafe Vibe!

And here’s a bit of irony. The staff at Mishka’s treat their customers with this strange indifference that betrays the warm, cafe feel they mean to promote. Maybe there’s just too many customers to smile at each one. But to me, their cursory interactions are like the branded orange and red seats at McDonalds, complete with the hurried music, that makes you want to eat and leave. Maybe that’s the whole point – after all, I made most of these observations while I studied there for like 5 hours, so they probably hate me.

A note about the music – I appreciate that Mishka’s doesn’t go overboard with it, because half the people there would rather listen to their own music anyway. Curiously though, after long spans of silence, they’ll play random ethnic music for a little while. Then silence, or normal mellow cafe music, and then some Indian or West African complication. It’s just a funny little peculiarity you’d almost expect at a place as ethnic-sounding as Mishka’s.

So there’s Mishka’s. Definitely go there to study or grab some coffee. Even smile at the barista if you feel so brave. Just don’t use the bathroom. I beg you.

Varsity Theatre

Going to the movies alone only makes sense, right? I mean, when you go with friends, you’re still just there to watch the movie. Going to movies alone is cool. Some people go to movies alone all the time. I like movies.

I told myself these things as I walked up to the snack booth inside Varsity Theatre. Their box office outside was empty, so I approached the blond girl behind the register who was chatting with a patron. He already had his popcorn and was ready to go. I stood their awkwardly, waiting for them to finish their conversation. He looked like a college student, and he kept leaning to the left and right as I tried to make eye contact with the girl. My head in sync with his sway, I couldn’t get the girl’s attention. Needless to say, I felt dumb.

“Is this where I buy tickets?” I finally asked.

“Yes,” she replied. “How many?”

Ashamed, I mumbled for one ticket and hurried into the theater. the theatre.

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This is a picture of Varsity Theatre:

If you live in Davis, you’ve probably seen this theatre every day. It’s been around since 1921, has been closed and reopened on several occasions, and is now playing your favorite semi-indie films for $6.75.

I, however, am much more familiar with a different kind of Varsity:

This is the Varsity restaurant in Atlanta, Georgia. It’s known primarily for the massive amounts of grease they put in their food. Could the Varsity Theatre look any more similar to this dingy restaurant? In Atlanta, on North Avenue, cars are stopped at the massive intersection in front of the Varsity. You feel a deafening roar as a motorcycle gang collectively revs their engines at the BP across the street. You curse three cars that cut in front of you and you miss the green light. No matter. There’s a logjam at the intersection ahead, and the cars in front are now blocking traffic. If you’re from California, you’d expect T.I. and Young Jeezy to saunter out of their Bentleys and start shooting. The gunshots’ echoes would blend into the Outkast song blasting nearby from some white kid’s ride. They’d get back in their giant cars, ram through the bloody mess in front of you and go on their way. The rumors about Atlanta, that it’s a dangerous city full of Black rappers, havebeen proven true.*

I almost expected the inside of the Varsity Theatre to smell like gasoline, blood and grease-seared burgers.

The Theatre smelled like popcorn, mostly.

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Varsity Theatre is enchanted with a magic that makes the inside a lot bigger than what its inconspicuous exterior would suggest. Unfortunately, it wasn’t given the same special powers of Good Audio. The sound wasn’t something to be desired, but everything else was impressive. The seats were plush and spacious. Velvet curtains hung next to the giant screen, which played ads for local businesses before the movie.

It was almost a perfect way to spend my first movie alone, but as the ads rolled, a particularly annoying college punk was making wisecracks to impress his girlfriend. He had no volume control and no powers of inner monologue. Mostly, he would repeat whatever the ad said in a stupid voice. “Mishka’s Cafe. Imported Coffee Beans. Ha!” Sometimes, he would try to ad a little quip, but would fail halfway through. “Sandra Black Burton, Real Estate Agent? Black Burton! Sounds like a medieval…. person who… did bad things.” Luckily, he shut up when the movie started. It was either the fact that there were no more words on screen for him to read off, or because the short prologue to the Darjeeling Limited had Natalie Portman walking around a hotel naked.

**********

The movie was enjoyable.

**********

I left, but not before using the bathroom. I took up the middle urinal, which happened to be the cleanest. Also, I didn’t wash my hands, at least not with soap.

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fin

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* The first things Californians have asked me about Atlanta is if there really are a lot of black people, and if it’s dangerous. It’s like they’ve been lied to about how horrible the rest of the United States is in order for them to forever remain in Cali. Also, it’s like they’re really racist.