Twenty-something guys in the almost-identical striped shirts piling into the South Beach-bound van cab, I hope you all get laid tonight. I really do. In a rare fit of compassion, I am beaming positive vibes to you, the strangers whom I watch from my window. I wish you a champagne-drenched night, and orgiastic threesomes with pouty Columbian models and their ilk. I hope you wake up on Monday morning with a hangover the size of Texas, a shit-eating grin, and the girl's number scrawled on a cocktail napkin, wadded up by your bedstand.

I hope your boy texts you a wry one-liner the next morning, one that makes you laugh out loud, and feel good, really good about being young and alive and wanted and vibrant.

I wish you all these things, knowing that there is a more than 90% chance that you will completely strike out tonight. You, an average looking guy, will be treated like shit by the doormen on South Beach, and spend exorbitant amounts of money for cover and $16 drinks - swill that tastes like turpentine, really - and slowly gather up the courage to talk to a group of girls, only to have them completely shun you, and you look down and it's 3:00am and you're shoveling Pizza Rustica down your throat while drunk texting your ex-girlfriend, when you know she said to NEVER. TEXT. HER. AGAIN. PERIOD.

That must suck. So, you know what? I'm on your side tonight. Sending some hope and positivity your way. You're 22 and grasping at anything which hints at the multicolored life which they told you you were meant to live. Maybe tonight, your new striped shirt will work. Good luck.

Dear Kid,

You don't exist. You may never, as your dad and I are very content newlyweds, happier planning trips to India, deciphering what kind of toilet porcelain feels better on our butts, and dreaming up insanely funny sketches. Underneath all that spontaneity, however, are two people that crave stability, predictability, and a quiet night's sleep - unfettered by poopy diapers or little grumbling bellies. So you see, there is a good chance that you may never come into being.

But in case you do, I know you would be angry as hell at your parents for not documenting what is arguably the most significant historical event of their generation. You would accuse your parents of depriving you of "the meta-narrative that typifies The MySpace Generation" - or whatever two-dimensional label the pundits decide to stick on us in ten year's time - and then sulk and play Guitar Hero* or something.

So here goes.

Kid, by the time you read this, you will hopefully have learned that $8 is how much we pay you to mow the lawn (inflation adjusted, of course), $800 is monthly rent for a rat-infested studio in the worst part of Miami Beach, and $8,000 is about 1/13 of the top prize money on "Survivor." Now, close your eyes and imagine $8 multiplied many, many times over. Keep on going until you reach $800 billion. Mom can't tell you how many zeros this takes. She's the only Asian person in this world who is bad at math. Anyhow, just trust me when I say this. $800 billion is something that middle-class taxpayers like your mom and dad can't afford. And we are sorry to have stuck you with this debt, even before you were born. So, lesson #1: If you hear anyone talk about free markets as the solution to all of society's problems, feel free to punch them in the face. Mom and dad give you permission.

Also, you might find some weird anomalies in our family photos, like dad squinting into the sun without an over sized visor on, or mom actually walking barefoot on what looks like...sand! That isn't trick photography. In our day, there were still vast, blue oceans, majestic redwood forests, imposing glaciers, and the sweet smell of wet earth after the rain. Your dad and I are happiest when we're out in the open, wordless, at one with Nature. We want you to share in the wonder of our beautiful earth too. So, we walk whenever we can, and try not to buy stuff that we don't need. Dad even drives a hybrid. But our efforts may be too little, too late .You may now be suffering from melanoma, empheseyma, and and lingering cataracts. Lesson #2: Any politician who says "Drill, Baby, Drill," doesn't think that global warming is man made, and disregards the advice of climatologists and environmental scientists, is not only irresponsible and selfish, but a complete friggin' whack job to boot.

"How did this happen?" you may ask. "Why are we here?"

The long answer is, a Connecticut-blueblood-turned fake-Texas-cowboy stole the election on November 8th, 2000, thereby sticking your parents, and all their loved ones, with 8 horrifying years of right-wing demagoguery. The short answer is, Kid, we just weren't listening. And because we didn't listen, we didn't see how a select elitist few were stealing away the country that we love, right before our very eyes.

During Bush's 8 year tenure, you dad and I would read the daily newspapers, and feel alternately helpless and furious. Guantanamo Bay, the erosion of women's right to choose, unfettered cronyism, Intelligent Design, reduced stem-cell research funding, middle-class tax hikes. And two senseless, bloody, ill-conceived wars. The degree to which our country has become spiritually ravaged, while driven further and further apart by wedge politics, is something that we haven't begun to comprehend yet. When Bush vetoed the water boarding ban in March of this year, citing torture as "one of the most important tools on the war on terror," good Americans everywhere realized that we had indeed destroyed our moral standing in the eyes of the international community.

But kid, if there is one thing that you should know about our country - it is this: our burning desire for progress and self-invention may be temporarily stifled, but never snuffed out. In a rag tag nation of WASP country clubbers and Chinese busboys, of beleaguered Hatian mothers and Irish union members - dissent is not only expected, it is mandatory. Your mom was born and raised in a country where a free press was unheard of, where people were terrified of speaking out against the government. When she emigrated to the United States, the liberty was intoxicating. The notion of each individual's inalienable right to speak, read, and think of her own accord was at once simple, yet incredibly profound.

This uniquely American covenant is predicated on trust. Trust that each person seeks truth. Trust in the citizenry to intelligently weigh the needs of the individual versus the community, and trust in the fair, and even-handed application of laws. This trust has been besieged and eroded by the Bush administration. But not eradicated. Never.

In October of 2008, your mom and dad joined millions of Americans throughout the United States to vote early for Obama. We didn't mind the wait, the hot sun, or the long lines. We knew, deep in our bones, that this historic turnout was to be expected for a historic Presidential candidate. Where McCain trotted out more of the same GOP-patented fear, hate, and vitriol, Obama offered answers, healing, and unity. When an increasingly inter-connected global community demanded sophisticated solutions to complex problems, McCain offered anger and flippancy, Obama, reason and dialogue.

In just 2 days, a new leader of the free world will be unveiled. Your mom and dad plan to ring in this joyous, historic occasion with their friends, mom yelling not-so-niceties at the red states on TV, while dad mocks Sarah "Mooseburger" Palin incessantly.

As with everything else, November 4th will come and go. The passage of time and history may yet judge our candidate and his policies unfavorably. But whatever happens, know that your mom and dad were part of a great national dialogue, a respite from the hate, a moment larger than themselves. A coordinated, national effort between black and white, between young and old, between the haves and the have-nots, to put aside our differences, and stand together as one.

And that, kid, is what it means to be an American.

Love,
Mom

ps. Dad wants to note for the record that at this time, we are really into "The Wire" and "MadMen."

psII. Um, you're not going to turn into Michael J. Fox's necktie-wearing, Reagan-loving character on "Family Ties", right?

*Guitar Hero: Caveman-like video game that simulates guitar playing with an accompanying glam-metal score, usually Aerosmith or Guns N' Roses.

I'll admit it. I have an unyielding obsession with anything 80's. Sour Patch Kids, Soap-On-A-Rope, Alf lunchboxes, The Cosby Show - you name it, I probably spent a good portion of my measly $20/week allowance on it.

It goes without saying that when Rock the Bells blew into Miami's Bayfront Park Arena, I was happier than Angela Bauer when she walked in on Tony Danza, wet, lathered up, and showering on "Who's the Boss?" This year's lineup featured a unique hybrid of old skool denizens: Mos Def, Kidz In The Hall, The Pharcyde, and headliner A Tribe Called Quest. The New Regime received equal billing with the likes of Nas, Raekwon, Ghostface, and Philly ingenue, Santogold. But, it was De La Soul that had me turning cartwheels. In the three days leading up to Rock the Bells, I practically danced all the way to work with the best of "3 Feet High and Rising" blasting through my headphones. De La, you see, represents much that is cyclical in this world - the youth and vigor of D.A.I.S.Y, the rampant, viral social dillusionment in "De La Soul is Dead," and the Walmart-friendly McRecord that was "The Grind Date." After months of sieving through tired Billboard chart toppers on the radio, I was antsy. Rabidly hungry, in fact, to sink my teeth into some good music.

On Saturday afternoon, The Israeli Princess and I pulled up to a veritable explosion of politically high-minded rhymes. By the time we scrambled onto Bayfront Park's grassy knoll, M-1 and stic.man had launched into "It's Bigger Than Hip Hop." Saying that the crowd was pumped would have been a gross understatement. Even the Heineken beer guy had spontaneously hiked his shirt up to waist-level, and was chanting along with the crowd, "One thing about music, when it's real they get scared/Got us slavin' for welfare/Ain't got no food, clothes, or healthcare."

Indeed. All around me, young city hipsters with asymmetrical bangs were looking bored and sardonic, while the South Dade contingent thronged the grounds with easy grins and warm beers. I blinked. Were those....J Crew couples, with starched cotton shirts and khakis, bopping to "Till We Get There?" Check. And was that an overweight goth kid with nose-to-navel piercings, ala Wichita, Kansas, sharing a j with a Mr. T lookalike? Check. The crowd was clearly as diverse as one could get, and yet, the common denominator at this show turned out to be neon Converse high-tops. Everyone was rocking them. I looked at my feet, then over at The Israeli Princess'. Flip flops. Ruining Presidential elections and street cred since 2004.

Next up was Brooklyn hip hop impresario, Mos Def. He took the stage to thunderous applause, wasting no time in informing the crowd that "Corporate forces is runnin' this rap ***/Old white men is runnin' this rap ***/Viacom is runnin' this rap ***/Mos Def is runnin' this rap ***." And run the rap *** he did. The former Black Star frontman launched into his sleeper hit, "Brooklyn." The rhymes were the same - a trip down memory lane, the recollection of Izod shirts and his childhood in Bed-Stuy. But gone was the steely, sometimes hard-edged inflection in his voice. Mos Def seems to have embraced his status as one of the Founding Fathers of Hip Hop, and as a result, has emerged as a seasoned performer who is finally comfortable in his own skin. Nearly ten years later "New World Water" was just as fresh as I remember it. The quirky, tinkling riffs actually sounded better than when "Black On Both Sides" hit record stores in '99. To my right, the girl with the long pink dreads sighed, closed her eyes and leaned back on her beach towel, soaking it all in. It made me think of a conversation that I had with my nine year old nephew.

"Mos Def? Who's that?"

"Only one of the most gifted hip hop artists, ever."

"I don't know him. He must be old. I like T Pain."

I watched the 16 olds around me dance barefoot, toes curling in the grass, while Mos Def ripped on contemporary rappers "moving fast, but thinking slow" in "Close Edge." Mos Def may be old, but that cat gets better with age. Take that, T Pain.

The high point of my day arrived when De La Soul took the stage. They opened with "Rock Co. Cane Flow", the wryly sardonic ditty about a hip hop act that achieves and super-stardom, only to be dogged by "news vans" and the folly of "lights, camera, action", until it's "too old to rhyme, too bad, too late." For anyone else who wasn't there to witness the magic, De La Soul was anything but too old, or too late. Alongside Ghostface, they killed with "He Comes" and "Shopping Bags (She Got From You)." Next to the frozen lemonade stand, a two year old girl was firmly esconced in a spirited pop and lock showdown with her father, while Black Sheep belted out the immortal lyrics that everyone born before 1980 knows:

"Engine engine number 9/On the NY Transit Line/If my train goes off the track/Pick it up/Pick it up/Pick it up!"

Watching them, I realized that this was how the gift of good music gets passed down, from generation to generation. Not through slick marketing campaigns, or viral Youtube videos. Not through celebrity endorsements, or the latest focus groups. Not even through us. Good music lives on through two year old kids, who, on a hot Saturday afternoons, decide to kick off their sandals, let the breeze run through their hair, and dance unashamedly to That One Great Song. And in the summer of 1989, wasn't life a lot simpler?

"You can get with this/Or you can get with that."

See, kids? This is the infallibility of good music - it actually makes sense.

Who needs the United Nations, anyway? Of what use was the U.N. , when Bush basically steamrolled over Herr Whathisname, and unilaterally invaded and occupied a (curiously oil-rich) country in the Middle East? You *know* those U.N. diplomats are only in it for their nifty NYC parking stickers. To hell with the U.N. My friends, if you really want to learn about how the peace process is conceived and executed - marry outside of your culture. Here are my empirical research findings from 6 months of being married to a Nice Jewish Boy: Step 1. The global peace process should begin with China and Israel agreeing to mutual arms disarmament program. Step 2: To end the conflict over "Who has a longer history?" both countries agree to split the difference between their respective calendar years (5768-4706 = 1062) Step 3: China agrees to provide Israel with 4,000 years of heartburn inducing Szechuan chicken. The Jews agree to not complain and send their entrees back. Step 4: Israel agrees to supply China with sub-par discount electronic items. The Chinese agree to not sigh loudly and shamelessly haggle. Step 5: There will be an exchange of intellectual property. Chinese moms will teach Mossad agents on how to inflict real torture. Israelis will introduce post-Communist China to even worse disco music than the Chinese are accustomed. Step 6: Both countries agree to uphold their time-honored national policies of guilting their children into grad school. Step 7: China and Israel must unite against the common enemy that is infiltrating their homelands - Miley Cyrus.

A month ago, I got an email from a very nice man named Ed, who owns Just Add Coffee, an indie cafe in Salt Lake City, Utah. He had read my HuffPo piece about Why I Fucking Hate Starbucks, and wanted to share his story with me.

For the past 5 years, Just Add Coffee has been chugging along as a popular, well-liked hang out in SLC. 2 years ago, a Starbucks opened up right next to it. Instead of losing business and hanging up his hat, as many others have before him, Ed's business has actually enjoyed a spike in popularity. The story about The Little Indie Cafe That Could made the local ABC news, as did its controversial merchandise.

I'm not just writing this plug for Ed's cafe because he was cool enough to send me a box full of religiously irreverent t-shirts, bumper stickers, bracelets, and a cease and desist letter for using the image of The Angel Moroni in an ad (image copyrighted by the Church of Latter Day Saints). I'm writing this in hopes that if any of reading this are in SLC, you HAVE to get your ass over there and order up 10 lattes, pronto. And buy a t-shirt while you're at it. Because any independent business that operates in state which frowns on caffeine consumption, with a behemoth chain store RUN NEXT DOOR to it, deserves all the kudos it can get.

Here's to you, Ed. And here's to all of you nervous, jittery, conflicted BYU-ers who are lining up for your very first cup of coffee. Don't ask. Don't think. Just plunge wantonly into it's hot, steaming, illicit sweetness. And since you are now forever condemned to a lifetime of sin and blasphemy, you may as well go ahead and have premarital sex and a big glass of scotch on the rocks afterward, and maybe rob a bank on the way out, THERE IS NO DIFFERENCE IN THE EYES OF GOD.

Just do yourself a favor, kids. Your first time with coffee should never be at a Starbucks. Go here instead. And don't forget to tell your friends.

Anyone who has ever loved the 1995 cult classic, "Friday" can recite Smokey's immortal words, "Puff, puff, give. Puff, puff, give. You fuckin' up the rotation."

This time around, it is Hillary who is fucking up the rotation. If there was ever more a tenacious, stubborn, hang-in-there-while-the-chips-are-down politician - it would be our woman, Hillary. And oh, how I love her for it. When I was 16 and living in Singapore, my classmates were asked to each do book report on a political figure whom we admired most. Most girls at my (very Catholic, very Confucian) school chose Lee Kuan Yew. Others were inspired by the plight of Burmese dissident Aung Sun Suu Kyi. One unashamed Anglophile picked Winston Churchill. I was the lone schoolgirl who dove into All That Is Hillary Clinton with relish. So you see, my love for Hillary runs deep.

So deep, in fact, that I was willing to ignore the warning signs that would mark the beginning of her campaign's end. Nothing was going to get in my candidate's way. Not the exclusion of Florida and Michigan by the DNC, not her 10-state losing streak, not even her ridiculously nascent jabs at "always having to go first" during national debates. But the day that I read about her $5 million personal contribution to her own campaign, was when I got the distinct feeling that, in Smokey's parlance, shit be goin' down.

Shit is going down, and in a big way. When you have to fire your campaign manager midway through a very crucial race, because your coffers are hemorrhaging money - the words "JOHN SNOW" should start flashing in big, red, neon letters. Sound familiar? Hillary is doing in a microcosm, what Bush has been doing throughout his tenure: desperately salvaging her ailing campaign, by shooting into her own rank and file. If you're a Harry Potter geek like me, this is part where Harry finds out that he and Voldemort (Bush, natch) aren't as dissimilar as they think are. Both share a stubborn, systematic refusal to acknowledge inadequacies within their own shop. Both promote nepotism by delegating hands-on operations to their trusted, and untried, cronies. Both have lost substantial goodwill and political capital as a result.

It is time for we Democrats to take a long, hard look at our options. Is it mathematically possible for Hillary to pull ahead of Obama? Probably not. In order for her to clinch the nomination, she needs to lock up at least 60% of all the remaining votes in the last 10 states. Hillary's Big, Fat Anticharisma will unfortunately prevent this from happening. And that's the thing about Americans. When faced with a choice between an unlikeable, but supremely qualified candidate, and the guy that you can have beer and pizza with, we will always pick the second .

So, my friends, after much agonizing thought, I am jumping on the Obama bandwagon. It will be a bumpy ride. Nothing irritates me more than a lemming, and The Cult of Obama is chock full of them. But I am resolute. I will ignore the rants of loud-mouthed, slogan-spouting "Yes We Can"-ers. I will send Obama's nth You Tube video to my spam folder. I will resist the urge to punch the self-righteous Gap storegirl who likens Obama to "like, the next Martin Luther King, Jr." While the thought of having a first-term senator at the helm of our great nation scares me, the threat of another geriatric, war-mongering, Republican nut-job like McCain gives me instant explosive diarrhea. The longer this race drags on, the more likely we'll be stuck with more bloody years in Iraq. Hey, maybe a 100!

It's been great hanging with you, Hillary. I know that certain officers at the DNC love you. But sometimes, there's just not enough beer and weed to go around. Maybe in 2012. Time for you to puff, puff, and GIVE.