FYI, Salvation Army Doesn't Take Rifle Cartridges

A few months ago Regina the professional organizer came over and spent most of her time separating out stuff into neat donation categories. The kitchenwares and sporting goods would go to Salvation Army, the clothes to the Jewish Women's Council (they give itemized receipts, wonderful for deductions) and the buckets of paint to Habitat For Humanity. She assured me there was a place for every kind of item, even the crappy Ernst and Gallo Rieseling vintage '84 or the stacks of pink marble leftover from tiling the foyer. I then showed her the box of cartridges. 

“I have never ever seen these in a house.” This was America. How would no one else have guns? I almost felt proud that our things stumped the professional. 

She texted her organizer friends and Googled on her Blackberry on what to do, to no avail. I suggested giving them to the police since didn’t they take guns for money, pr was that just in the ‘hood? I posted them here as Mystery Object #7, hoping someone would know. Allen, the only Democrat I know who owns guns, said they were for rifles. When I offered to give to them to him he suggested that we go shoot them in the Angeles National Forest instead. 

I’m finding a kind of symmetry using the things my parents left me. It’s an act of recycling, and I don’t have to spend money. They'd be happy to know I wear my mother’s Chanel pumps and used up the stockpile of Whole Foods Napkins (per my cousin’s suggestion, they came in handy for wiping down the kitchen countertops). Doing so, it proves their collecting might have been for some end. 

My dad was really into guns. NRA member, owned rifles, shotguns, a Beretta, and a Colt 45 to name a few. He lived in his multipocket fishing vest which made him always look like he had just come from the range. He went every week with his old Chinese man friends and sometimes my mom. One time he was super excited coming home because he had seen a young girl who was a perfect shot. She was trying out for the Olympics, he said, you should come to the range too! I was 14 at the time and wasn’t into the whole violence of firearms. I wanted to be left alone to sulk to my Cure albums. 

Now I had a chance to redeem myself. I met Allen and our other friend Bradley in Pasadena and drove past the Valley. Allen are Bradley are both scientifically oriented men in the their late 30s with multiple degrees from MIT. I figured I was in good technical hands. Allen explained that what I found weren’t bullets but cartridges, as I had been saying all week. This common misnomer bothered him. Bullets were the things inside the cartridges. They contain gunpowder so when the trigger comes down on them, the powder ignites and it shoots out. I was glad to get his Guns 101 since everything I knew I had learned from video games. 

Left, Bradley. Right, Allen.

At the range we put on giant earmuffs that turned on the mute button to our voices. The shots were intensely loud. The air vibrated. I felt my bones vibrate from the inside.

We walked past five old Korean dads in multipocketed vests and fishing hats, dressed like my dad. This confirmed my belief this that the vest was the uniform of hobbyist Asian dads or all kinds, Chinese or Korean.

I started off with the WWII carbine, the sort of gun that has a slot for a bayonet. Allen showed me how to load the cartridges one by one. I just aimed for a few minutes, wondering if it was going to explode in my face. When you don’t know about guns, you think they will just blow up like Malatov cocktails and kill everyone nearby. Once I pulled the trigger, it wasn’t so bad. There was shudder, a release, and then the back of the gun pushed into the flesh under my collarbone. It felt like a force of nature even though I knew this a manmade device. It felt like I was harnessing a lightening bolt. Sort of thrilling.

I graduated to the AR-10, a minimal black metal rifle that looked straight out of Halo. I finally loaded my dad’s cartridges. Black rubber coated the outside just like on my dad’s Zeiss binoculars. It was mechanical, or dare I saw it, beautiful. I felt guilty thinking it looked cool, like I was betraying my gender and morphing into a Republican. I looked through the rifle scope and fired. Shooting it seemed was all about aiming and looking. It wasn’t about the deed. It’s the meditative state you reach after focusing so intensely that the rest of our world disappears. I could see why my dad would have wanted to do this. My mind washed clean. Of all the stuff, the house, and the past for a moment. Weirdly, it was thanks to guns. 

I tried the assassin's rifle that broke down into five parts, the Windrunner, which fit into a small backpack. I finished off the rest of my dad’s rounds, hitting the center of the plate every time. It turned out we were shooting at 100 yards with rifles meant for 500. That explained why were all awesome at it. Afterwards Allen and I walked across the sandy mounds of the range. The florescent orange skeet plastic crackled beneath our feet. We took photos with our target, a giant manhole cover on a stick. 

The three of us capped off the afternoon with glasses of Old West Whiskey. It seemed the right thing to do after shooting guns in the forest with men. I wondered if this activity made me an instant Republicans. Allen assured us that we could redeem ourselves by starting a Democrats for Responsible Gun Use club. Either way I felt guilty.

The guilt wore off with few sips of whiskey, but I was just glad to finally find the best place for my dad's cartridges.

The Uniform

The blue nautical dress from Talbot's was my mother's favorite for almost two decades. She wore it so often that my young cousin Patty asked her mother if the dress was auntie's uniform, as if she were a private school student or an officer. The dress does have a military vibe with the flags.

When my cousin and aunt would see my mom, they'd exclaim "Auntie is wearing her uniform today!"

The uniform became a family joke. We all found it comical that she was so reliant on this one article of clothing when she had more clothes the average Talbot's store. But at least it was one thing never changed about her.

She loved the dress because of the comfy elastic waist in case she went to Grand China Buffet, and the wrinkle-free polyester which made it easy to pack. She believed the dress was so universal that she bought ones for my aunts and grandmother. But they didn't take to it like she did so she kept them all. I read Karl Lagerfeld also buys four (I think it's four or more!) of every item of clothing but it's because he keeps identical closets in every city where he has a home.

When clearing out the garage with Geneva, I was reluctant to let go of the uniforms. They were my mother incarnate. Geneva suggested I use the fabric to upholster a chair. Then mom will always be with me in a permanent but more silent way.

Seeing the uniforms billowing off the garage door comforts and unnerves. It reminds me that my worst nightmare is an army of mothers in the dress, telling me to put on a sweater and to call more often.

Party Rock and Other Jams

My favorite... mystery boxes! Previous ones have yielded glow-in-the-dark shoelaces, bullet cartridges, and 25 year-old Riesling. This one wasn't packed but something substantial was shaking around inside. And it wasn't an Aragon 004 amplifier.

Records! They are my favorite kind of find. Much better than a case of Numero Uno casserole dishes or a collection of string. I can pretend I'm a college radio DJ again. 

Party Rock with Little Eva and the Shirelles. They do make the party!

My parents listened to "Off The Wall" when I was barely in first grade.

 

And lots of Chinese hits...

Umbrellas For Sun-Phobic Asian Goths

It rarely rains here in Southern California. But that doesn't mean we don't need umbrellas. I always have one in the car, not because I think it's going to rain but because I've become one of those sun-phobic Asian ladies. You know the type-- the grannies in Chinatown who use umbrellas in the summer sun and the Korean moms on the golf course with the giant UV visor welding masks. I am totally like that now and I'm not even that old. 

While most of my Asians friends understand my umbrella toting, giant floppy hat wearing ways, the non-Asians and male friends think I'm bizarre and even embarrassing. To make them feel more comfortable about hanging out with me in public, I'll first tell them that I'm just deeply goth. I'm allergic to the day and my skin might sparkle like diamonds, and you don't want to see that! Then I'll try to convince them that it's a medical thing. I'll get sunstroke and wilt like the delicate flower that I am. If that seems too hokey, I break down and tell them the truth. I hate getting freckles! My skin is so defenseless that if I stay in the sun I will turn into Asian Carrot Top. Also, freckles aren't cute on Asians like they are on white people. Don't argue with me on this one. 

Even with my sometimes debilitating Asian vanity, I know I don't need all of these umbrellas. I found them in my grandfather's boxes from Taiwan. It rains there all the time. 

Are you an aspiring sun-phobic goth? You can totally have an one. 

Me and Viv at FYF last summer in our Asian lady hats. Everyone tried to get under my umbrella that scorching 100 degree day, even the dudes. No one dared ridicule me after that. Photo by Patrick Pattamanuch.

I'm Not A Hoarder, The Documentary

"I'm Not A Hoarder" could have been the name of the short documentary my friend Derek Kirk Kim made about my garage. He splices together a montage of me saying those words like five times. Gah! I'm obviously sensitive about this.

The short shows garage in all it's former glory and me talking like a valley girl. For the record, the garage is mostly cleared now. So if you dream of walking through the houndstooth labyrinth, the dream is over.

Sorry, the video gets cut off here. Watch "Raina Lee vs. The Infinite Garage" on youtube.

The Incidental Money

In a very safe place I found a packet of cash. I was about to transfer the cash into my wallet when I saw a curious note from my mother.

"Dear Raina, Don't use this cash. These cash is antie (antique?) dollar can sell more value than its face value."

Good thing she told me because I was going to buy an iced latte and do some damage at Forever 21. Under her message was a sticker listing the amounts of European currency the envelope was once contained. Francs, Marks, Sterling, and Lire. 

I took out the $42 in USD. Nothing unusual except the $2 bill and some dollars with gibberish typed on them. Lines of XXXXXs and MMMMMMMs and stamped in caps, "ENCORE INCIDENTALS TAX EXEMPT." 

What makes these ones tax exempt and what kind of incidentals (lattes and Forever 21 purchases)? Why vandalize the money? I did some Googling on combinations of the words tax exempt antique money but not much came up. I wish my mom had written me an explanation. 

The End Of Infinite Christmas

The year my mom got sick she still was able put up the Christmas tree all by herself. I don't know how she did it, being so skinny and weak. It was probably a superpower that Chinese widows develop.

We had one of those artificial trees with the lights built-in from Costco. The itself tree was giant, 8 or 9 feet, and my mom would single handedly assemble it every year. I was out of town for a few days in December and when I came back she surprised me. She had put up the tree and decorated it with all the ornaments that we had kept since my childhood. The mice sleeping in the matchbox, the straw scarecrow doll in a red flannel dress, the plastic Bambi, the clay ceramic music note from my piano teacher, the glitter covered red and green ball ornaments. I was happy to see that we had them all still.

That year we didn't have the energy to take the tree down. We were the sort of people who leave the tree decorated far into January anyway. I at least took the ornaments down, but we left the tree in the same nook next to the pink marble fireplace in the living room into spring, then summer, and then fall. It just become the giant fake tree we had in our the house, the way Chinese restaurants have fake orchids. When friends would come over they'd be shocked.

"Is that a Christmas tree?" one friend asked. I couldn't even see it anymore.

"Yeah, yeah, it's just a fake plant!" I'd reply. It lived there for three years.

Last weekend John came over to help me dismantle the tree. We had to tie straighten out the wire branches, which were as prickly as real pine. I had to put on work gloves. Then we tied each layer of branches with the string my grandfather had collected in Taiwan. I guess I'll never mock grandpa's string collection again.

Below, the hole where the tree used to be.

John asked me why there was a bucket behind the tree. I explained that because the base was broken and the tree was on the brink of falling over. My mother filled a bucket with water and placed it on the base to keep the whole operation upright.  

Notice the stray pine needles I'm gonna have to vacuum! Also, watch John's new awesome show on Cartoon Network.

Infinite Trash To Treasure

One woman's infinite trash can truly be another man's treasure.

"Can you zip me up?" said Mariosh as he fidgeted in my mother's gold charmeuse blouse. Well, it was polyester with a silk charmeuse sheen. A stockier Laurence Fishburne, his muscular arms were too tight to reach the zipper on the back of the neck. It stretched snug across his chest but if he raised his arms he'd burst like the Incredible Hulk. He saw the doubt in my face. I'm not a very good shopgirl.

"I wouldn't raise my arms anyway!" He lifted his arms to reveal a soft abdomen. The gold actually looked good against his tanned skin.

It was a thrill to watch this man preening himself in one of my mother's silky business blouses. She had dozens of business tops to match her hundreds of business suits because she had fashioned herself to be a serious business woman. From sorting through her suits, sequined dresses, and floral Easter dresses in the past year, I've come realized that the clothes we wear are aspirational. Whether we pursue those aspirations is another matter.

Mariosh, the gay Latino actor/ model from Norway told me the blouse would be perfect to wear to parties. His parties were probably the farthest thing from the business meetings my suburban Chinese mother envisioned herself attending in the blouse. Maybe she'd wear them to a church meeting or a trip to the accountant. This is why I love seeing who buys our clothes. It gives me to chance to see both scenarios on a split screen in my head.

Occasionally I work at my friend's vintage store, where I get to see people try on, get excited about, and take home our things. Sometimes I tell them about the Garage, but then I wonder if it's TMI. Strangers might not want the weight of your family history in their impulse buys.

Item: Ralph Lauren Polo Country chambray print shirt
Belonged to: my dad
Purchased by: works at The Hundreds

Item: Forenza cardigan from The Limited
Belonged to: my mom
Purchased by: Kelly, teenage tourist from Vancouver

Item: Francois (?) button down 

Belonged to: my dad

Purchased by: Nathan, works at Scout

Item: Michelle Stuart blouse from Casual Corner

Belonged to: my mom

Purchased by: Mariosh, actor/ model from Norway