Hungry Ghosts Club 餓鬼會 | Volume 1 | Views from the 626 | Winter 2018

Volume 1

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Views from the 626

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Winter 2018

hungry ghosts club

“For those who pass it without entering, the city is one thing; it is another for those who are trapped by it and never leave. There is the city where you arrive for the first time; and there is another city which you leave never to return.”

Italo Calvino, Invisible Cities

Disclaimer: we recognize that most of the experiences we write about in this zine are specifically East Asian, and as much as we’d love to explore the experience of all Asians, we simply don’t have the background or context to do other racial narratives justice. Rather than try to halfheartedly attempt total inclusion, we’ve decided to write what we know best, and we hope that those of other Asian backgrounds continue to contribute their voices to the ever-changing Asian American narrative. Thank you for understanding.

To our kind readers, At one point or another, each person in this group has felt the pull of the world beyond the 60 freeway, free from the oppressive mugginess of San Gabriel Valley ennui. There was an essential something that we’d never find here. Just like the hungry ghosts of Chinese mythology, we unwittingly departed from Rowland Heights, neglecting and deserting our ancestors in anticipation for a new life that we could call our own – a rebirth of the soul.

Little did we know that the outside world wasn’t so great. Blinded by our fever dreams, we set out to discover the essence of life as we’d imagined it: indie movie theaters, overly eccentric people, magical live music venues that thrived on word-of-mouth. But years later, we eventually found ourselves once again roaming the earth with mouths hanging open, in search of some Paradise we could consume.

Was this all there was to it?

This wouldn’t do. The constant flow of the new couldn’t satiate our greed for the experiences we thought we should be having. Stuck in this cycle of existential malcontent, our minds meandered their way back to memories of home. After all, it was here that we grew into ourselves at Garden Cafe and Yes Plaza, where our youth was articulated in the hilltop conversations of midnight suburbia, where we refined our values in the tug-and-pull of passion and responsibility when confronted with our immigrant parents’ expectations. It was here that we grew into everything we are.

Now, some of us hungry ghosts have returned to the mortal realm of Rowland Heights, suddenly aware that all the things we’d been searching for could be found right where we started. The physical, material things that we thought were the foundations of eternal happiness weren’t as essential as they appeared to be.

It doesn’t mean this place is perfect and it doesn’t mean we’ll stay here forever. But it does mean that this place is home, and that’s something worth getting nostalgic over, don’t you think?

Welcome to the Hungry Ghosts Club.

We hope you enjoy your stay.

Table of Contents

5

Strangely enough...

On home, part 1 by Kelvin

6

And...we’re back

11

Songs from the 626 (A-side)

The soundtrack of our youth

12

rwlnd hts.

A photo story by Kelvin

An annotated and illustrated map by Waverly

14

A city to call home

On home, part 2 by Waverly

15

A sonnet trio

by Jason

17

Fish guts

On home, part 3 by Allan

20 A sea of poppies

A short story by K. K. Mai

3

25 Songs from the 626 (B-side)

The soundtrack of our youth

26 A tribute to Li Bai

A photo story by Waverly

27

Radio days

On LA by Allan

29 Gazing at the moon

On home, part 4 by Jason

30 Credits

4

Strangely enough...

On Home, part 1 by Kelvin Mak be pissed if you ate mapo tofu or nasi goreng without opening the windows, but that doesn’t mean I’m not going to want some.

Strangely enough, when people talk about LA, the San Gabriel Valley is almost always absent. It’s a mysterious expanse that exists only in the murmurs of urban planning departments and dedicated foodies. Most Angelenos don’t get to hear the crackling musicality of its languages, or drive past its billboards in everything but English, or listen to the staticky voices of Cantonese grandmothers debating the best way to make a soup on 1430 AM. But for those that do, they know what a special place it is.

Most of all, the 626 is the one place where Asians don’t have to pretend to be anything other than themselves. So I won’t question you when your family speaks Cantonese at home instead of Vietnamese because you’re Teochew Vietnamese huaqiao. I won’t question you when you don’t speak or understand Chinese because your mom is from Hong Kong but your dad is from Taiwan so you all ended up speaking English. And I might ask you again on which island of the Philippines you were born, but I want to make sure I remember where you grew up. The Asian-American experience is something that has shaped every part of our lives; we all get it.

Navigating face culture, lighting incense for Taoist gods your parents can’t even explain – you name it.

It’s a place where Asians don’t have to curate their behavior because the weight of cultural representation doesn’t hang over their heads.

Where they don’t have to do a goddamn lion dance every time someone asks them where they’re from.

There’s no need to defend Taichi grandmas in the park, tapping for tea, emotional indirectness, the dogged pursuit of financial stability, navigating face culture, lighting incense for Taoist gods your parents can’t even explain – you name it. There’s an implicit understanding that these practices belong here. In the San Gabriel Valley, we can both celebrate and criticize our food without “betraying our race.” I’d

Whether you think you’re too Asian or not Asian enough, you’ll find a home here. █

Luv Sic Part 3 – Nujabes ft. Shing02 Nujabes’ “Luv (Sic)” was music unlike anything else we’d heard before; a jazzy beat that danced with this unrelenting patience, and a clean organic instrumental that contrasted with the electronica slipping into the mainstream. Though Nujabes was an underground artist, “Luv (Sic)” showed up everywhere: boba shops, restaurants, even the weekly Mustang Update at school. The beat had this elusively familiar piano loop and clunky drums that produced a calming, hypnotic vibe. It was the music that got us through marathon homework sessions and long talks on AIM deep into the night. - AP

5

and...we’re back

by Kelvin Mak

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Photo by Mason Chan

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8

9

10

Songs from the 626 (A-side) For some people, it’s swaggering 90’s hip-hop that textures their childhood; for others, it’s the emo maximalism of AFI and My Chemical Romance. For us, the mismatched concoction of pre-Soundcloud chill-hop, Taiwanese love ballads, and the burgeoning Asian-American scene would be the soundtrack to our youth.

Baby – Cathy Nguyen, Legaci and Traphik Whenever you heard a group of friends singing “Baby” at school, you always knew that they were emulating the Cathy Nguyen version of “Baby,” and not the teeny-bop original. Up until March of 2010, Justin Bieber was the ultimate signifier of bad taste in the 626, but then Cathy Nguyen dropped this schmaltzy, acoustic cover, and “Baby” suddenly became the perfect, heartfelt ballad to sing to your 626 crush. The abrupt change in consensus was weird and kind of silly, but it was also kind of endearing to think that this local Vietnamese girl who worked at Boiling Crab could have such a powerful sway over the young Asian-Americans in our area. - JC

I’m Yours – Jason Mraz “I’m Yours” dropped in late 2008, but I got the sense that half of Walnut had found the demo before it was even officially released. This was the song that every Asian guy with a guitar knew how to play: our original “Wonderwall.” It shows the uncanny way we’d always have a finger on the pulse of pop music. When the official single dropped, we recognized it as an overproduced, manufactured shell of the song we’d known from years before. - AP

Haruka Kanata – Asian Kung Fu Generation (Naruto, Season 2 Theme) Every ridiculous stereotype about nerdy Asian kids wearing ninja headbands and running with their arms pointed straight back can be traced back to how fucking bomb this song was.

It conjured up vivid images of jumping up trees, making hand seals, and performing the kage bunshin no jutsu. And as the singer comes screaming into the chorus, you felt like sprinting down the street just like Naruto, and imagining that you could one day become Hokage. - AP

Simple, Starving to be Safe – Daphne Loves Derby I once played “Simple, Starving to be Safe” for this senior girl I’d met in the parking lot while waiting for a football game, and I swear that, just for a split second, I felt a sort of connection, as if we could’ve just ditched the football game, wandered with each other out into the streets, and talked until the end of the night. Play “Simple, Starving to be Safe” for any millennial who grew up in the 626, and you’ll awaken the same memories of a simpler, more nauseatingly precious time in our lives, when we believed that a special someone could be wooed by the finger-picked chords of an indie-pop song. - JC

Nobody – Wonder Girls If you’re trying to forecast the next big K-Pop phenomenon in the United States, you’d probably want to head down to Rowland Heights. Way before “Nobody” topped the charts in the U.S., every single teenager in the 626 — and their teachers too — was already dancing impeccably to the tune of this glitzy, Temptations-inspired track. Back then, a finger-wag was never just a finger-wag: it was the beginning of a school-wide dance mob. - JC

11

rwlnd

hts. an annotated and illustrated map waverly chao

99 Ranch

Cue!

The Vons and Stater Bros. were foreign to me in comparison to 99 Ranch and HK Supermarket. Even today, grocery shopping at 99 Ranch brings me comfort.

I cannot think of a single thing we collectively wasted more allowance money on in our pre-teen years than those purikura photo booths.

Tenju Tea House Trending boba stores come and go, but this will always be our dependable, go-to place.

When the karaoke bug bit, it bit hard.

My friends, my parents, and I would belt out lyrics to Mandarin and English songs alike.

AMC 20 @ Puente Hills Mall

Yi Mei

If you were 13 with no car, what else could you do but movie-hop to kill some time at the mall?

In Rowland Heights, eating “Taiwanese Breakfast” means eating here. You can always find a nice bowl of soymilk and a 飯糰 (fantuan, sticky rice roll) to go with it.

New Capital Restaurant What’s more quintessential for a Chinese Saturday morning than a noisy brunch at your local dimsum restaurant?

Karaoke Music Box

Garden Cafe This now-closed place was the ‘93 Camry of HK-style diners: their lukewarm wonton noodles and mediocre chicken steak always got the job done. (Cream soup squad or die!)

12

Yes (夜市) Plaza

Before Yes Plaza there was only Banana Bay – since then, it’s become a bustling plaza that lives up to its real name, “Night Market.”

Class 302 I could go on and on about 台灣小 吃 (taiwanxiaochi, Taiwanese street food) but I’ll cut to the chase – Class 302 is where it’s at for mango shaved snow. It’s always sure to sell out on hot summer afternoons. (I’d take this over bingsoo any day.)

The 60 Freeway This freeway was the vein that carried you into the heart of Rowland Heights.

Snow Creek - friend’s house I must have been the anomaly who had never played video games up until 7th grade. I guess you could call me a late bloomer.

13

A city to call home On Home, part 2 by Waverly Chao “I can still see you guys sitting out there sometimes, eating together,” she says.

Thrust into the shiny, self-parodying, coffeeloving, urban tech culture of San Francisco, I still find myself driving to the shopping plazas of South City2, yearning for free parking lots and the familiarity of suburban SGV. I must not quite feel at home yet if I’m still looking for it everywhere I go. But is present-day 626 really the home that I think of ? My thoughts are stuck in the past. I’m not thinking – I’m reminiscing about what it used to be.

My mom is talking about the courtyard where my high school friends and I used to eat lunch. It’s been years since I’ve left.

And yet it doesn’t take much for the memories of my adolescence to come floating back in a thick, rosy, pastel haze – the memories of the place I will always think of when I think of home.

My thoughts are lost in time, stuck in the past. I’m not thinking – I’m reminiscing.

Home – it’s the standard I have been subconsciously using to understand and evaluate my present. Let’s take grocery shopping for example. I could never forget the fragrant smells of a freshly fried fish at 99 Ranch1 or the excitement of having successfully snuck a Japanese snack into the shopping cart without my parents noticing. I’ll never let the convenience of digital shopping carts rob me of the joys of shopping in person, however ephemeral.

After a year of living in The City3, I realize that in order to truly call a new city your home, you need to make space for it – and for me, that requires letting go of the 626. The 626 – my 626 – is frozen in time and nostalgia. It’s where the days of our youth, the afternoons in that courtyard, and the ghosts of my past remain. I can never return to it, but the Hungry Ghosts Club – they’re trapped in that city, and on and on they’ll roam and play. █

Or what about the feeling when, after a long and rainy day, with your socks thoroughly soaked through, you finally see the familiar shape of your parents’ car pulling into the school parking lot?

That sense of relief and satisfaction when you run into the warm car interior and peel your socks off is something denied to those taking BART, MUNI, or another form of public transit.

1. Yes it’s 99 Ranch, not Ranch 99. Confirmed by the founder of 99 Ranch. 2. South San Francisco 3. When you say “the city” in the Bay Area, it can only mean one city: San Francisco

She Was Mine – AJ Rafael and Jesse Barrera Of course, if you wanted a playlist to recreate San Gabriel Valley in the 2010s, you’d have to include a song by AJ Rafael. With its light, jazz piano and its bossa nova beat, “She Was Mine” was our introduction to both a slightly more mature AJ and the complex, mature emotions that came with adolescence. The beauty of nostalgia, longing, and unaging devotion – I don’t know how you learned about these experiences, but we learned about it through “She Was Mine.”

- JC

14

aa e s f o nce e l i s u h h g 1

A sea of silence, rioting at night: The Hungry Ghosts Club ambles through the yard Of sleeping men, who waste away the light That gilds their dreams, which like those tarot cards That circulated town some yonder years Ago, could grant admission to the soul, If one but offered one’s most genuine tears Contained within a simple, wooden bowl.

The hungry ghosts, though, they are in the know About this light — those tarot cards as well — And so they’re searching, restless, for some glow To tip them off, so they can cast a spell: A spell extracting all the light we waste, A drop of which they’ve waited years to taste.

2

Had I but time to do the things I want: To trample through the mountains, lonely, free, My voice unheard, my song a song for me — How rich I’d be! Of life I’d ever vaunt!

Yet, as of now, those dreams, they only taunt, For rarely do I even have the luxury Of tending to the things I need. To be But free to sweep away the dust that haunts The curtains, walls, and corners of my home; To water all my wilting plants; to sleep Just well enough to face the fearsome day; Even those tasks I fail to meet. Like foam, The seconds pass, and nothing do I reap.

And, as they’ve passed, I’ve watched my hair turn gray!

15

a sonn et t r i o e thgry n u s t s ho b jason

chen

3

Rapunzel learned about the world from books.

Old, tattered tomes that told fantastic tales Of faeries, imps, gargantuan beasts that shook The earth, with bellies that could swallow whales.

So, as she galloped with her knight, she felt A painful shock: the world was so mundane.

No magic, no strange beasts, just silence dealt In heaves, and rocks strewn ‘cross a humble plain.

Her knight was slouching, burnt out by a deed Heroic, desperate for some kind of break, And as she watched her tower’s shape recede, She wondered if she’d made some huge mistake.

She sought adventure, but she found instead, A world of boredom, and a life of dread.

16

Fish guts

On Home, part 3

by Allan Peng

Restaurant. You only ever see your hometown mentioned in a few terrible news shows produced in Taiwan. The result is an uncomfortable dissonance where you consume a lot of American culture, but can’t seem to recognize yourself in it. As an Asian American, you worry that your world somehow isn’t real, or that your parents are keeping you from living a real American life.

Hong Kong Supermarket never got the memo that grocery stores were supposed to be boring. Maybe no one bothered to tell them. While the Albertson’s and Safeways down the street were these soulless environments with ugly hospital lights and layouts planned by some data-driven business analysis, HK Supermarket was a mess of different ideas. It was a symphony of pungent spices and free samples of sizzling potstickers. Of jars with mysterious sauces and buckets with chirping frogs and squirming turtles. It was a place where you could buy rare herbs and watch impatient Chinese men slaughter and gut an entire fucking seabass in front of you while Kenny G blared from the speakers. The produce there was cheaper than anything you’d find elsewhere, and stocked without any regard for seasonality or locality. It chugged along, unaware of the neuroses of the outside world.

It means that no one will ever think the food you eat at dimsum is gross.

But though you feel isolated from a mainstream American ideal, you get the freedom to not be a part of it. This isolation from the outside world means that you learn to be fiercely proud of your East Asian heritage. It means that no one will ever make fun of you for speaking a foreign language, but rather will correct and encourage you when your putonghua sucks. It means that no one will ever think the food you eat at dimsum is gross. You learn that it’s fine if you’re not sure where you’re supposed to be yet, and that it doesn’t really matter anyways. The 626 chugs along its own path, uncompromising and sure of itself. I think that’s kind of wonderful. █

This was emblematic of the neighborhood in general. Rowland Heights always goes on at its own pace, preoccupied only with its own idiosyncrasies.

The indifference goes both ways. Local radio stations and the LA Times still don’t seem to care about what happens here – The DJs on KOST 103.5 don’t remind you of the weather in Diamond Bar, and I suspect even Jonathan Gold never experienced the seafood specials at Newport 17

18

19

A sea of poppies a short story k. k. mai

I can’t recall. I only remember an overwhelming weightlessness, and all my senses blanking out one by I told him I’d be waiting outside his house at 2:00 AM one. A blinding white light — and just like that, it was sharp, but I don’t remember when he was ever actually over. Maybe this amnesia was my mind protecting me on time. It always irked me when people did that. “I’m from reliving it. But, whatever had happened, it was buried in the deepest parts of my subconscious, just like giving you time! Please remember to water it or it might wilt!” I wanted to get this feeling across to him, for everyone else. That’s what I told myself, at least. but I knew it would come out a jumbled mess.

I surfaced out of my thought spiral as soon as Orange’s Through the light rain, behind the second-story blinds, shadow put on his hat. I knew it was the orange one Orange’s silhouette flitted back and forth like a shadow without needing to see it; his hat was one of the few consistencies that stayed with me after the Dreams. And undecided on its form. Ever since the Dreams, I couldn’t stop seeing things like that. That all the people besides, you can sense these things when you spend enough time with someone. At 2:33 AM, his wide eyes I knew were just pretending to be people, that I was observing myself observing others, that it had all been peeped out at me in the drizzling night. He pulled the door handle twice, and when I unlocked the car he some elaborate, solipsistic ruse. Maybe the shadow wasn’t Orange, and whoever I was staring at, the black bounced in with the usual grin.

Orange was late tonight.

corporeal shadow elongating as it pulled a shirt over its spindly limbs, wasn’t a part of this world. I don’t mean that in a sinister, out-to-get-me way. The shadow was just passing through this reality for a change of clothes, and soon he’d be leaving. Nowadays this was more believable.

I don’t know how to talk about what happened to me during the Dreams. Like everyone around me, I lived an eternity in a day. But what happened exactly

“What’s up?”

“Let’s head out,” I said. “I’ve been waiting 30 minutes already.” He was bent over in the abyss of the car floor, dredging its depths for the aux cord.

He came up. “Here, play something,” Orange said.

I squinted at the glow of his phone’s maximum brightness, but his owl-like eyes stared back at me.

20

eyes on the road. The green sign hanging on the overpass read “Los Angeles, 15 Miles.” I hated that anger was so easy, and I hated that it was the only thing that made “Sure.” I finally said. I took his me feel safe. I turned my attention phone and pulled up King Krule’s La Lune. It’d been stuck in my head to the rain. The wipers, like for a while. I pulled out of Orange’s metronomes, flicked the water off my windshield. It was the first time street and drove towards the 60 in a while that the grime and dust West freeway, leaving Rowland of Los Angeles would be washed Heights in the dark behind me. away.

King Krule’s soft, somnambulic lullaby carried me into the night, “Nah, it’s all good,” I said. the guitar twinkling like a star underwater.

“If you need to talk...” he trailed off, letting me complete the thought The shovel tumbled around in in silence. “So where are we the trunk, clanging like a temple heading?” bell. As the music blended with the chattering rain on the roof, Orange kept on humming, kept “To the desert,” on shaking his leg, and kept on I said. “I had a pissing me off. He’d taken the dream.” liberty of removing his shoes, and his curled feet left heat prints on the glass. I was irritated as hell but In fact, my mind didn’t seem to I kept on driving, because the Los rest since the Dreams. Recently, Angeles raindrops sliding across the I’d been dreaming nonsensical windows weren’t stopping either, things intertwined with memories and I thought I should try and be unrecalled for years. I could never more like them. remember the dreams themselves; they would melt away into my “Hey, is there something you subconscious, seeping back into wanna talk about?” the primordial sea of wherever thoughts and dreams coagulate I shook my head. What could I even from. But the dream I had of the say when, on the surface, life had desert was different. It was more remained exactly the same? How vivid than any other dream I’d had could I say that I wasn’t sure if my in months, and one that I had to body was my own? How could I hold on to. explain these feelings to you, of all people, who can move on from “Hm? A dream?” he asked, his things as if they were nothing? I body turned towards the passenger took a deep breath and kept my window. With his face rhythmically They were always brimming with expectation, and I’ll admit I was a little jealous of that.

21

lit up by the incandescent freeway lamps, I had that peculiar feeling again — maybe Orange was still that shadow from before, hitchhiking his way with me into the next reality.

“Yeah, a dream,” I said. “I’m in a desert that I somehow know is near home, and I just keep on walking aimlessly for what feels likes forever.

I look down and I’m surrounded by orange poppies in every direction, and when I see all those flowers blowing in the wind, I just start running for as long as I can. A black dot appears on the horizon, and I remember a huge sense of relief washing over me, and when I get closer I feel this warmth spread through my entire body. It’s almost unbearable how beautiful it feels.

When I’m finally closer I realize it’s a small alleyway of Beijing hutongs, so I wander around these hutongs trying to figure out who would build them here in the middle of the California desert, when I see one with an open gate.

“I step into a courtyard and in the center, there’s a patch of dirt. But there’s the softest light illuminating the ground, so soft that you might almost miss it, and somehow I know there had to be something underneath. Instinct hits me and I dig and dig until my fingers are bruised and bleeding, and finally I find a black box. But just when I remove the lid, I wake up.” I glanced at Orange and I saw him staring back at me intently.

back to reality… well, I didn’t want “Mmm… I hope we’ll find what you’re looking for. Sounds promising, to think about that. to say the least.” He grinned at me.

“You know, the Dreams changed everybody. You’re not alone. It’s okay I nodded. What I left out was that to think the world is a strange place this dream had struck me like right now.” a thunderbolt, obliterating the fogginess of my mind; for a brief “There’s nowhere to go back to. moment, I could remember who I All those emotions that used to be was, where I lived, where I came from. I’d returned to my own body. there, the warm memories I could find shelter in. They’re gone. Wiped I knew I had to chase that feeling clean. A tabula rasa.” down.

Ever since that moment of clarity, a tremulous energy pulled me towards somewhere out there. It was vibrating my subconscious free from my skull, and as soon as I arrived at the place I needed to arrive to, I knew my mind would breathe in the intensity of the living world again.

Only at night could my mind latch onto that glimmering lure. Only at night was the world small enough to make my pilgrimage.

“I know. I had that panic for a while too,” Orange said. “But if we’ve learned how to live like this, there’s no reason we can’t learn to start again, right? If there’s nowhere to go back to, we just have to move on.”

Again with the moving on, huh?

The rain had stopped, and King Krule had disappeared backstage a long time ago. Only the muffled sound of the road broke the silence.

The sky was a black pond, and deep in its depths, away from the city For some reason, I couldn’t bring lights, I thought I would see stars. myself to tell Orange all of this.

But there was nothing. Just black, Filtered through the inadequacy of spoken language, I knew the feeling black all the way to the ends of the would dissipate the moment I opened earth. my mouth. I had to keep the feeling safe. I wouldn’t let my lantern go out, “Do you know about regression towards the mean?” Orange asked. not now.

“It’s this idea in statistics. After an extremely random or chaotic event, “You still seem worried though.” the next event is much less likely to Orange said. I didn’t think it was that obvious, or maybe I’m unaware be random. Over time, the overall trajectory of events gets closer of my facial expression when I’m and closer to the average, even if thinking about things like this. individual events along the way He wasn’t wrong. If whatever I are more chaotic than expected. was trying to find wasn’t there, if whatever I found wouldn’t bring me Basically, we’re gonna reach 22

equilibrium. I think you should have faith in that, at least. Time will take care of us and make sure we’re alright.”

As much as I hated to say it, deep down I knew we did have to move on. Time wouldn’t stop. It would nudge each of us firmly, but gently forward with its wornout broom, as if it were sweeping mice out the front door. All we could know for sure was that we weren’t stopping, and that’s the way it’s been since the beginning of it all.

Antelope Valley California Poppy Reserve, Up Ahead.

I was glad to see the sign. Wherever this magnetic force was pulling me, I needed to reach it soon, or something inside me would go out for good. I stopped beside a field where the pull was strongest. We emerged from the edge of night. The sky had softened into a drowsy lavender.

I handed Orange a cigarette, and the flickering light lengthened the contours of his face. The flame went out and there he was again, motionless and silent, a one-eyed shadow suspended between heaven and earth. I took the shovel out of the trunk, and we began to wade through the poppies in front of us.

It seemed as if the poppies would never end. Somehow they kept appearing in the horizon, and had grown all the way up to our knees. The rain had done them good. As we walked, the poppies, one by one, were set ablaze by the dawn. In the soft, pink light of the rising sun, rolling hills of orange and green unfurled for miles in all directions. In the distance was

a hill that seemed different from the rest.

Whether it was actually different or not wasn’t important. It only mattered that I had a direction I could move towards. I guess that’s what they call intuition, and there was nothing else I could do but believe it.

Just as we started up the hill, doubts flashed in my mind. What if I didn’t find anything? What if my intuition was wrong? What reason was there to trust myself if the Dreams had completely fractured everything I knew and was, sundering me from myself and myself from the world? Was there anything I could trust? Why did I even bring this shovel? Nothing made sense and nothing felt right and― “Hey. If it’s not happening now, it’s not happening.” Orange was staring me straight in the eye. “Let go. That’s all there is to it.”

He was right, again. I’ll never know how he always knew when to say something, but that’s one of Orange’s talents. I took a deep breath. Together, we reached the top of the hill. The sun had brought the flowers fully to life under the blue expanse above us. If only I’d seen this before the Dreams, it would’ve been ― no, there was no point in thinking like that.

A small gray dot formed on the horizon to the east, and I felt my body pulled towards it. There it was, that unimaginable warmth, concentrated by the morning sun. With shovel swinging in hand, I flew towards that gray dot. I was the signal of a lost satellite trying to communicate to Earth, a signal that 23

had travelled through the endless black vacuum of space to reach mission control. Was anyone still listening, or had everyone gone home for the day?

When we got up close, it became clear: a run-down Rotten Robbie’s gas station, with the windows boarded up and roof fallen through. No hutong here.

I felt a lump in the back of my throat, but when I looked at Orange he was smiling at me. “I knew we’d find something,” he said. “Not the hutong we were expecting, but still a place to rest along the journey.

You gonna go in?”

I opened the door with care. For the most part, the gas station had been cleared out. Rows of dusty, empty shelves lined the store. The register had been left open. The ceiling had fallen in, and a grid of bare, rusting wires hung silently below the rafters like a worn-out fishing net. One part had fallen through completely, revealing a patch of blue sky.

Under it was a small dirt plot illuminated by a stream of sunlight. If that wasn’t a sign I don’t know what was. I planted the shovel into the ground and put all the weight of the past on it.

I’d live. I’d live.

I dug with everything I had. Three feet down, my shovel struck something with a hollow thump, and a shiny corner peeked out at me from underneath the dirt. I unearthed an ornate wooden box, tracing its gold floral pattern with my fingers.

The lock clicked open and a blast of fragrant steam escaped. I reached inside and my fingers met two hot mantou.

24

We each took one and watched the waves of orange poppies blow back and forth in the wind. The impossibly vibrant orange crashed against the shores of our tired eyes.

“This is the grand prophecy, huh?

Breakfast buns?” Orange took a bite.

“I guess so,” I said. “I don’t know what I was expecting.”

We ate in silence. The brilliant sun shone over the hills, and the poppies smoldered across the desert. I still didn’t know who I was, but it didn’t really matter. I was here.

“It’s really orange out there, isn’t it?” I said.

“Yeah, it is.”

Orange took off his orange hat, and flung it as hard as he could into the sea of poppies. It sailed through the sky before disappearing beneath the sea. I thought I would feel lonely, the kind of feeling where you lose something you hadn’t known was worth anything until it was gone. But it wasn’t like that at all. I had no doubt that this person next to me was Orange. The shadow had made its leap to the next reality, leaving only my friend beside me.

Mouth full of bread, hat hair, and his wide, wide smile. It would be okay because there was no other way it could be. Time was a janitor, helping us sweep up all that cosmic dust. █

Songs from the 626 (B-side) 1901 – Phoenix “1901” came out freshman year of high school, and my favorite memories of the next three years are of slowly but surely falling in love with this song. It was, lyrically and musically, a reflection of coming-of-age. Thomas Mars’s wavering voice sang of idyllic Parisian summers that seemed so distant from the drab strip malls of Rowland Heights. The summer before college, when we were finally free to face the world on our own, we chased the image of youth that he painted with the chorus – “Lie down, you know it’s easy like we did it all summer long / I’ll be anything you ask and more.” - AP

童話 (Fairy Tale) – 光良 (Michael Wong) Nothing created a stronger bond over our shared cultural heritage in the early 2000’s than this song. Perhaps it was the simplicity in lyric or the memorable tune, but before this song, not S.H.E. nor Jay Chou could captivate the masses of middle school ABC’s with Mando-pop. Mix together equal parts teenage angst, limited Chinese fluency, and a yearning to play piano not for our parents but ourselves – and you got us, singing and wishing for the fairytale ending the song promised. - WWC

Us – Regina Spektor (500) Days of Summer was the most important movie of our time — our generation’s Annie Hall.

It shaped our views on relationships and puppy love, for better or worse. It introduced us to a new world of unpolished indie music. And for those who looked past Tom’s immaturity to his earnest sketches of the Los Angeles skyline from a rooftop or a downtown park bench, it gave us a guide on how to explore and discover LA. It taught us to see the city as our home. - AP

Wedding Dress – Taeyang If you went up to any 626 boy back in high school, you could probably ask him to perform the choreography of “Wedding Dress” flawlessly. At first, you’d wonder if he was dancing like that ironically, but then you’d look into his eyes and see that, no, he just had a sincere, burning desire to be as cool and stylish as Taeyang. His voice, his moves, his signature fauxhawk — back then, we wanted it all. For all intents and purposes, Taeyang, in the 626, was our generation’s Michael Jackson. - JC

Pursuit of Happiness (Steve Aoki Remix) – Kid Cudi Steve Aoki’s remix of “Pursuit of Happiness” was exactly what you’d be listening to late at night while speeding down Pathfinder Road. At a red light, you’d get strangely emotional when you heard the lyrics, “everything that’s shine ain’t always gonna be gold,” and you’d wonder if all your other friends were feeling that same, unexplainable twinge. But then the light would turn green again, the song’s drop would rattle the speakers, and your thoughts would get lost in that sudden burst of wind as the car returned to 60 miles per hour. - JC

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床前明月光 疑是地上霜 舉頭望明月 低頭思故鄉

A tribute to Li Bai

靜夜思

趙偉如 李 李

李

白

白 荣

浩

要是能重來 我要選李白 創作也能到 那麼高端被 那麼多人崇拜

Photos by Mason Chan

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around town, I could piece together a patchwork understanding of the city and how it all worked. On early morning commutes down the 60 West, I listened in to sports talk

by Allan Peng radio and learned the machismo and bravado of hyper-masculinity.

I spent most of my childhood And on longer trips, I’d switch over driving across LA, watching my to an FM station and listen to the mom run errands. My parents tune of people calling in from all both worked and didn’t believe in Chinese school, so they plopped me over town to banter with the DJs, in the back of a minivan where I’d talk about their weekends, and rock out to a mix of modern hits and 80s spend hours staring blankly at the dance music. We got through the brick walls lining the 60 freeway until everything became a beige blur work day together. ― there were no people to watch, Looking back, I realize that the nowhere to escape to. I was bored out of my mind. And then I turned shared culture and community 8. I was finally allowed to sit in The space in Los Angeles were built through the radio. Because of Front Seat, and there I discovered its sprawl and car culture, LA the radio. never developed geographic social The radio gave me an escape from centers ― we’re too spread out to ever have a Central Park or Cafe the dreariness of the suburbs and an introduction to a world that my Hawelka. But we do have the radio. parents couldn’t show me. It showed In the hours spent driving around the city, we formed a community me that LA was more than the in the airspace we shared, and it concerned Asian parents on AM connected us all.

1600 after all. There were sports

Radio days

fans from Culver City who’d call in to XTRA Sports and debate whether Kobe would re-sign with the Lakers, and classical musicians on KUSC who were constantly campaigning for public donations.

By listening through the static of the radio to the conversations held

of this, I feel less connected with my community. I don’t get to hear local residents calling in and talking about their weekend plans, or ads promoting whatever events are happening in the area. I don’t have a feel for what type of music defines the Bay Area. I don’t even know where Hayward is. I’ve given up an understanding of my neighborhood to live in a bubble of curated and personalized music, where I don’t share anything with the people living in Elmwood, Richmond, or Chinatown. In a way, I’m stuck in the back seat again, trapped in the beige walls of my own mind, nothing new to see.

Once in a while, when I go back and visit the 626, I’ll turn off my phone and take a long drive going nowhere on the freeway, listening to KOST 103.5. As night settles in and the street lights flicker on, the peppy dance music fades away, and I’ll hear the familiar, four-part harmony intro to Love Songs on the KOST with Karen Sharp. I listen along as people from all over town call in to spill their hearts out, and share Today I live in Berkeley and I’ve stories of love and anguish. Karen, stopped listening to local radio. in her infinite optimism and with a With Spotify and YouTube, I smile in her voice, reassures us that control what I listen to on my everything will turn out okay. I’m commute and no longer need to surf across different stations looking home again. █ for something I like. But because

Sunday Morning – Maroon 5 I first discovered Maroon 5 one hot afternoon in third grade outside the dry cleaners on Colima and Nogales. They started off with “Songs About Jane,” a string of sunny jazz hits that cut through the bubblegum shit on KIIS FM. “This Love,” “She Will Be Loved,” “Harder to Breathe,” and suddenly – “Sunday Morning.” As we grew up and matured, they did too — from “She Will Be Loved” to “Never Gonna Leave This Bed” to “Hands All Over.” But though time would pass, we always seemed to go back to “Sunday Morning,” the purest of love songs. It was the song we sang together at prom, at the local charity concert, and on lazy afternoons. - AP

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Gazing at the moon On Home, part 4 by Jason Chen While growing up in Rowland Heights, I couldn’t help but focus on the ugliness of the whole place – the strip malls, the desert hills, the lifeless, sun-bleached asphalt. I fantasized, back then, of hitting the road. I wanted to be like my heroes, Bob Dylan and Jack Kerouac, two men who had successfully transcended their small-town origins.

Everyone in the world seemed to have forgotten that Bob Dylan was ever from Minnesota, or that Jack Kerouac was ever the son of Quebecois parents. I wanted the same kind of shrouded past. There was more poetry in being from nowhere at all than in being from Rowland Heights.

There was more poetry in being from nowhere at all than in being from Rowland Heights.

These days, I am more willing to embrace my hometown, despite its dullness and its flaws. I see more poetry in such an embrace than in a life of endless wandering. If high school me aspired to be a Bob Dylan or a Jack Kerouac, young-adult me aspires to be something more ancient. A Li Bai or a Du Fu, perhaps. Back then, I saw Rowland Heights as a place to run away from. Nowadays, if you were to ever ask me about Rowland Heights, I would tell you that it is the place that I think of whenever I am gazing at the moon. █

That was me in high school. Six years have passed by since then. In those six years, I’ve seen the world beyond my sleepy little town – experienced the bustles of San Francisco and Beijing, was dazzled

by Seoul, Sydney, Reykjavik and Madrid. I kept searching for worlds that were more vibrant than my own.

Yet, something curious happened. I saw that, even in Beijing, I couldn’t find a dalumian as hearty as my mom’s, and I could never find friends who would talk Ozu with me like my friends back in SoCal. I started to miss that gentle evening breeze that one feels in Rowland Heights during the summer.

Rowland Heights was a beautiful place, after all.

月亮代表我的心 (The Moon Represents My Heart) – 鄧麗君 (Teresa Teng) I can say with 85% certainty that this is the first Mandarin song I could sing along with – or at least, attempt to sing along with, in my haphazardly pieced-together ABC Chinglish. I remember hearing it in our awkward talent shows at Chinese School and at the extravagant 8-course wedding banquets as a kid. This song marked a small step into the complex world of my Taiwanese-American adulthood – the weight of love represented by a moon not fully comprehensible to my 11 year old mind, but a little more so as a woman in my mid 20’s. - WWC

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the team Editor in Chief

Kelvin Mak

Content

Allan Peng Jason Chen Kelvin Mak Waverly W. Chao

Design

Waverly W. Chao

Illustration Jenny Yu

Photo

Allan Peng Kelvin Mak Mason Chan

Contact

hungryghostsclub@gmail.com

hungry ghosts club All rights reserved. Don’t reproduce this without prior permission from the creators unless you want to get haunted by Chinese poltergeists. (Good luck finding a Taoist exorcist.)

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餓 鬼 會