Bienvenido, Gustavo!

Classical music needs to change with the times.

And the LA Phil is doing just that in the hiring of Venezuelan superkid Gustavo Dudamel. Tonight, in a spirited performance of Beethoven's Ninth Symphony, along with performances by Youth Orchestra LA and various other student groups throughout the city, the LA Phil demonstrated its commitment to investing in the future of classical music through reaching a broader demographic of audiences than ever before. At a free concert at the Hollywood Bowl sponsored by none other than my favorite superstore, Tar-jay, 18,000 Angelinos gathered to hear the new young maestro lead the city's finest.

Sitting around me, I gazed at the various snippets of the population that were enjoying the sound of the Philharmonic in the cool evening air. To our left, a Latino family of four, with two small children huddled in blankets. To our right, a group of young professionals, UCLA grads based on my skilled eavesdropping of their conversation, kind enough to let us borrow their bottle opener for our four-buck chuck. Two rows in front of us, some older Caucasian ladies bouncing their heads along to Beethoven's every beat. On the stage some thousands of rows in front of us, some of the world's best musicians in their summer garb white-jacket attire. Above the stage in the hills, the iconic Hollywood sign; to its right, a cross planted on the hillside and brightly lit, and directly above us all, a full moon.

Dudamel's conducting was shown on four large screens directly on both sides of the stage, which was a good thing considering how far back we were. I took note of some of the more unusual forms of his conducting, all of which had a tinge of mischieveousness and flair about them- a shoulder roll here, an extended fist pump there, a sidelong glance and surprise cue to the brass section. Mouthing the words of "Ode to Joy" to the choir, never was a cue out of place or without a burst of energy that radiated throughout the entire Bowl. Always a steady beat, his left hand full of expressive gestures, and his curly hair dancing on the podium.

There was an excessive amount of hype leading up to Dudamel's arrival in Los Angeles. The city has been plastered with posters of his face everywhere, on buses and benches, always with an open-mouthed expression, his hair flying and "Pasión!" or "Vibrante!" in big capital letters next to him. So far was the reach of his PR that I even found myself reading an interview with Dudamel in my September Vogue magazine. (Yes, there are articles in Vogue- good ones too, once you get past all the ads.) New York music critics lamented not having a hip, young conductor of their own at the time of his hiring. But was all this hype just a marketing ploy? Was Dudamel being used by the forces that be as a poster boy for the Philharmonic, a mere tool to bolster ticket sales? Because it's cool to be young, artsy, passionate, and, dare we say- ethnic?

But tonight's performance was no let down, nor was the young maestro's ease with the orchestra and impeccable execution of a masterful work. The excitement was palpable. After a three curtain-call standing ovation, Dudamel tried to say a few words to the public. Stumbling through his English, he eventually transitioned into Spanish, with cheers erupting through the audience. "Today I am proud to be Latino. I am proud to be South American, and I am proud to be Venezuelan. But most of all, I am proud to be American!" More cheers, more curtain calls, more unifying language - "No North America, South America, but one America!" His words feels appropriate for the age of Obama, an age built on a vision of America without red states and blue states. As Adam Green says so poignantly, if Bernstein was a symbol for the Kennedy years, then surely Dudamel is a symbol of the Obama era.

I thought about the words from the Spanish subtitles of Schiller's poetry on the big screens: "Abrazos, abrazos, el millon!" A fitting message for the arrival of a conductor bringing new energy to classical music, one that is not only fresh and hip, but fueled by the enduring message of great composers like Beethoven. Vibrante indeed.


Encore! The final movement of Beethoven 9 played again with a chorus of fireworks.

Writer's Block

It is now October 1. Did I really just not blog for the entire month of September? I am probably losing readership by the second. Hi, I missed you. I haven't had a free second to collect my thoughts in awhile. Anybody out there?

Here's the brief update on what's happened since the end of August. Started a new job at the Pasadena Conservatory in which 19 guitar students were thrown in my lap. Starting another new job today working for the Guitar Foundation of America doing membership/development stuff. Teaching two adult group guitar night classes back to back in Culver City on Wednesday nights after being in class basically from 11-5 straight. Taking three classes and prepping for a duo recital in December.

By far the most exciting thing this semester is my Arts Writing class at the journalism school. Unfortunately, I think that has actually contributed to my writer's block this month. I have been totally in awe of the people in this class, so much so that I haven't really felt like writing much. I guess I didn't feel like I had any interesting to say, and wondered if I could say anything very well at all. Introducing ourselves on the first day, we went around and said what who we were and what we do. Half the people in the class had written for newspapers and cultural magazines. Meanwhile, I wondered what a lowly musician like myself was doing in a room full of journalists who can claim pieces from the Village Voice and LA Times as their own! I felt like a total shmuck. Most of the students are in a specialized program at the journalism school for covering the arts, and they have some sort of artistic interest or experience- fashion, dance, photography, reality TV production, acting, you name it. A truly amazing group of people.

Every week, we are given an assignment, we read our work aloud for the class and everyone critiques it. It is sort of like a master class for musicians except your performance is you reading your writing, and thankfully that can be done ahead of time. I am getting really great feedback though, and am so blown away and touched by a lot of my classmates' writing. Some of it is so beautiful, witty, or clever that I often can't believe we are writing about the same topic.

So I'm going to continue to write, now that I've gotten over my cold feet, and received a boost of confidence from class yesterday and from a brief office hour meeting with my Pulitzer prize-winning professor in which he really encouraged me. The most important thing is that I keep doing it, without the self-imposed pressure that it has to be brilliant or profound every time. I am going to try to blog even more frequently just to help me process everything that is happening this year. Next week's assignment is to see a really disturbing film and give a 500 word review about the separation between art and message. We'll see how that goes.

Guitar Heroes

There is something about having a space set apart for your work that makes it easier to go to with the intention of working, and easier to leave with the satisfaction of having completed something meaningful.

In our little apt, we have a dressing room closet that has a built in vanity. When we first moved in, P was working from home and set up his office in this little area, using the built-in shelves to hold his various monitors and stock ticker screens. After that job was over, I claimed the vanity for myself and the closet became a mish-mash of unorganized storage. In doing a little redecorating this weekend, I realized that this little space could actually become a very sufficient practice room for me. As a small space, the sound is great in there as everything I play bounces right off the wall and I'm able to listen in a way that has eluded me while practicing in the living room or bedroom.

In my dreams, we have a detached studio from our house that is soundproofed for recording, has tons of beautiful guitars, is perfectly cooled and humidified, and decorated with concert posters and pictures of famous guitarists. Well, that day has not come yet, but this little space is more than satisfactory, and I dug up these photos of my own personal "guitar heroes" to keep me company in my new little studio.


Agustin Barrios Mangore (1885-1944), Paraguayan guitarist and composer who wrote beautiful 19th century sounding music during the 20th century. Also incorporated South American folk dances into his compositions and introduced European audiences to elements of his culture.


The great maestro himself, Andres Segovia (1893-1987), also referred to often as the grandfather of classical guitar. The first musician of the 20th century to bring classical guitar to the concert stage throughout the world. Without his work and life, there would be a huge gap in the repertoire and stature of the guitar.


Francisco Tarrega (1852-1909), great Spanish composer of the 19th century who wrote original music for classical guitar and was a great pedagogue of the instrument. He was in the "no nails" school of thought and history says he got a really beautiful sound out of his animal gut strings.


Ida Presti (1924-1967), my personal hero as of late. I think this photo is so beautiful- the elegance of the lace on her dress, her incredible focus, the perfectly poised hand position. She was one of the only women of her generation to play the guitar, and to play it extremely well. Part of the famous Presti-Lagoya duo, she died tragically at the age of 42 and had she lived longer, her virtuosity would have been given its proper place in guitar history. I also believe she would have inspired many more women to play the guitar.

I have a lesson tomorrow with Pepe Romero, another guitar hero of mine. He is larger than life as a teacher, with the wisdom of a sage and the warmth of a close relative. There is philosophical meaning hidden in every carefully worded statement he says in his thick Spanish accent. Surrounded by the spirit of all these heroes, I am hoping the motivation will run strong throughout this new semester.

The perfect summer meal

Out of all foods, there is only one thing that I crave, at least once a week in the incessant dry heat of a Los Angeles summer. Withholding it from me for any amount of time leaves me dazed, lethargic, and completely incapacitated. Without a mid-week charge of it, I simply can't make it until Friday. I have developed a serious addiction this summer and with good reason- it's refreshing, affordable, blends a perfect combination of a variety of flavors, and maybe even sort of healthy. This incredible food is a bowl of Korean buckwheat noodles in ice cold beef broth known as naeng myun.

For the virgin naeng myun eater, the temperature of the dish may be a bit startling at first. There are few foods that I know of across all cuisines that are served as cold as naeng myun. Yes, cold soups exist as do cold appetizers, but cold entrees that are this cold are few and far between. Often, naeng myun is even served with a heap of shaved up ice on the top of the soup, and though it may sound strange at first, I assure you there is no better treat on a 90 degree day. Typically, naeng myun comes in an ice cold stainless steel bowl, the lump of long chewy buckwheat noodles usually cut in half for you by your sever, the tangy beef broth enveloping julienned cucumber, daikon, and if you're lucky, Asian pear, half of a hard boiled egg, and thinly sliced pieces of sirloin to top. Naeng myun is often eaten after a Korean BBQ meal as a sort of palette cleanser (because what better way to polish off a a few pounds of meat than with a pound of noodles?), but for a warm summer evening it is a most perfect stand alone meal.

Two main varieties exist: mool naeng myun and bibim naeng myun, the latter of which is coated in a sweet and spicy red pepper paste instead of a beef broth like the former. Some restaurants make a happy combination of the two by putting just a dab of red pepper paste into a bowl of mool naeng myun, which is becoming a fast favorite of mine. Another great innovation is the 50/50 bowl with a metal divider in the middle and a portion of the two varieties on either side.

The consistency of the noodles is of utmost importance and can really make or break a naeng myun dining experience. The noodles are thinner than Japanese soba noodles, and should be soft, but have a bit of chewiness at the first bite, vaguely similar to the way Italian pasta should be served al dente. (In Taiwanese the word for this is kew, but I'm not sure there is really an English equivalent.) Some restaurants here in LA also use a noodle that is made out of what they claim is a healthier starchy plant called arrowroot, which is black in color has a bit of a thinner and even softer consistency than buckwheat. As with all varieties of soup noodles, also of incredible importance is of course, the broth. Traditionally, vinegar and mustard are available at the table so you can mix the acidic, sour, and tangy content of your broth to your palette's exact pleasure, but at a few places in this fine urban playground, the broth is so perfectly sweet and zesty with the addition of the chef's secret ingredient (rumored to be Sprite) that absolutely nothing is needed.

The best part is that my current summer addiction will not break the bank. Quite the opposite. After trying dozens of hallowed naeng myun shops in the largest concentration of Korean businesses outside of Seoul itself, we have now discovered the best deal in all of Koreatown to be at a hole in the wall joint that offers two huge bowls of naeng myun for $10. Add a plate of marinated short ribs and the bill becomes a whopping $14. Why things are so cheap in K-town we just don't understand; these deals are only known by Korean people and thankfully my husband has enough proficiency to be able to read the signs. At moments like these, I am so glad I married Korean, although he feels the great injustice of having to speak Korean to the servers in order to get the special deal while I smile and remain mute. But we keep going back because we really don't want them to go out of business, and at this price, we just don't understand how they won't.

Come visit and we'll take you to our secret haunt.

On wanting to become a Rock Star.

My new fascination as of late is electric guitar. I have long been a purist, sticking staunchly to my professed identity as a classical guitarist and guarding my fingernails with my life. I gave my acoustic guitar to my brother long ago, deciding it was time to streamline and focus on the style of guitar playing that I would be building a career around.

Now as I've spent a few years specifically honing my classical technique, I've suddenly become fascinated with the world of electric guitar which I've neglected to take an interest in because it was perhaps too loud, too masculine, too different than what I've been training my fingers to do since I was five. During a class I took last semester on British Pop Music Since 1970 (yes, that is actually a class at USC, and it was so fun I didn't want the semester to be over!) I was introduced to the stylings of electric guitarist Vini Reilly of the post-punk band, The Durutti Column, which is still going strong today. I'd never really heard electric guitar played the way he does. He plays without a pick and does little strumming, and his right hand technique makes it obvious that he's had some classical training. He's got this great atmospheric sound that shifts effortlessly between keys with bits of melody floating about that always have a sort of haunting flavor to it. (Check out this video if you're interested; the viola and brass instruments are also a nice touch.)

There is a burgeoning scene for electric guitar in the art music world, and many electric guitarists are starting to bridge the gap between their instrument and classical music. There are even concerti being written for orchestra and electric guitar, an unlikely combination, but almost more practical because of the advantage in projection that electric guitar has over classical. And as classical players deal with issues such as finding authentic sounding methods of amplification or sticking to the traditional belief that a classical guitar should not be amplified at all, it is hard not to admit that the instrument has limitations in its use in many arenas of its own genre, especially in the orchestral and chamber music world.

I've had my electric guitar for about 7 years now (I got it for my 21st birthday as a fun gift from Paul) and can probably count the number of times I've fiddled with it. In wanting to expand my musical abilities this summer, this was one area I have been increasingly intrigued in and decided I would see if I could try playing electric in the band at church. Our band is not an easy band to play with, at least for me, as we generally do lots of gospel-style songs that are always in flat keys, a deterrent for any guitar player. Go figure why many contemporary worship songs are written in very basic diatonic keys like G or D; most guitar players dislike any mention of E-flat since our instrument is tuned to E.

So in my time last week playing with my electric and the awesome experience I had this weekend playing with the band, I discovered something I should have realized a long time ago: it's the same instrument! I can sort of play this thing already. In fact, a lot of stuff is even easier than it is on classical. The upper positions are way more accessible because of the cutaway, hammer-ons, slurs, trills and licks take way less effort to make audible, and changing the quality of sound is possible by the flip of a switch. How about that for technology? I guess sometimes I'm scared of things that are unfamiliar to me, and now I feel strangely liberated from the classical pedestal that I've stood on for awhile.

The nice thing about LA is that there is music absolutely everywhere. We saw a fantastic show this weekend by singer-songwriter Priscilla Ahn, who has a voice like a bell and a girly personality that makes you feel like she's one of your best friends. She also plays a mean kazoo. And I opened my window about an hour to hear my neighbor across the street shredding it up on his electric guitar. I'm listening intently to see if there are any riffs I can pick up. Mixed in with the trumpet playing of another neighbor down the street, I smile knowing that I am in a mecca for the creative- and I love it.

Now, to find myself a distortion pedal.

5000

Sometimes it is easy to believe that God can't do the impossible. I believe this quite often and ironically, it takes faith for me to believe that God can't do certain things because I have seen him do amazing, miraculous things during my lifetime. Yet my memory is short and I forget to attribute so many blessings to Him. In times of need, I am like a whining, crying child.

In John 6, I relate to the character of Philip. When Jesus asks him how they could feed the crowd of 5000, he responds that even 8 months wages would not be enough to feed the entire crowd. To disprove Philip's cynicism, Jesus takes five loaves of bread and two small fish from a boy and feeds the entire crowd. And as for the leftovers, he tells his disciples to gather them up so that they will not be wasted.

God wastes nothing in our lives, even when it is things that flow out of his abundant provision. I have been seeing this happening in my own life lately and I am so incredibly grateful. In just a few weeks, I have seen him suddenly provide for my every need- from selling my car, to being able to pay my tuition, a summer job, and finding part-time teaching work for the fall.

I can't believe that there was a point where I forgot that our God is in the business of miracles- miracles that meet our every human need and waste absolutely nothing.

For the hatred of money...

"For the love of money is the root of all kinds of evil..." -1 Timothy 6:10

I usually picture greedy people with money signs for eyeballs when I hear this, or imagine fast-talking Wall Street bankers from the 80's with big hair and mustaches, expensive suits, and rolls of $100 bills in their pockets.

But do you really have to be greedy to let money get the better of you?

It is tempting for anyone to believe that your income is reflective of your self-worth. And although our society pays engineers more than teachers, bankers more than artists, this should never be taken as an assessment of one's worth. It is much easier to measure an engineer's output and utility to society than a teacher's; however, the impact that a teacher can make is immeasurable and largely unknown to anyone but the student. A banker's profit can easily be counted, but the impact that art has on those who experience it can only be sensed within the heart and soul of the viewer or audience member.

I have never thought of myself as a greedy person, but sometimes I become so acutely aware of the "injustice" I see in artists' paychecks, or lack thereof, that the danger of loving money easily preys on me. But it takes a sort of opposite form, actually. I find myself hating money, its very concept, and the fact that I as a human being can be enslaved to it even if in my heart is not greed, but bitterness. Disguised in this bitterness is a multitude of ugly things that exist because I somehow deem them to be more acceptable than greed: pride due to an inflated sense of self-worth, jealousy that artists do not produce capital easily assigned value by society, and the allowance of money as a concept into the crevices of my heart and mind where I want only God to live.

The danger in the love of money lies largely in its control over one's thoughts and actions. Ironically, my own innocent attempts to be frugal can allow it to do the same thing.

Here is an excerpt from New York artist Makoto Fujimura's Refractions, a newsletter he sends out monthly that is chock-full of wisdom and beautiful writing:

"So, if Joshua Bell with his 3.5 million dollar Stradivarius cannot stop people, none of us who creates music, art or work in iambic pentameters should expect much. But then what good are the arts? Why would artists spend time collaborating, spending days working on something that would not be well paid, or pay nothing at all, without anyone to stop to take it in? But we should note that this wasteful excess is being exercised in many hidden places, in homes where a child protégé plays his violin, on the canvases of self-taught artists, or on a humble square table filled with poetry. They may or may not turn out to be Joshua Bells, or Grandma Moses or Emily Dickinsons, but the prerequisite for the arts never seem to be a guarantee of an audience, or income. Artists are clearly not driven by mere monetary capital, but they are driven by another form of capital - creative and relational capital, the discovery of new ideas and thoughts and cultural geography."

Judith Hill

You might recognize this gal from the Michael Jackson memorial- she was one of the Jackson's backup singers for his upcoming tour who was featured singing "Heal the World." I was struck by her because of the soul in her voice and the fact that she looked part Asian. I guess I wasn't alone in my curiosity because since the memorial, her website, myspace, and youtube videos have been getting a record amount of hits and comments. She's half black, half Japanese, and she loves Jesus. Prior to getting chosen to tour with Jackson, she was a local gigging studio musician like so many others here in LA. With over 30 million people watching the memorial and wondering who that girl was, I hope she'll be recognized for her talent and have no doubt that her career has now been launched. I think the world's ready for a new diva of mixed race. Here's Judith Hill singing "One Love Forever" at Temple Bar in Santa Monica.

And I'm off!

The past month has been quite an exercise in discipline, obedience, and perseverance, and it's been fun to share about the progress I've made as a result of preparing for this competition. Yesterday, as I was running my program for the umpteenth time, I had a moment after I played a piece and said to myself, "Wow. That was fun!"

To be able to play something difficult without the burden of difficulty is one of the most joyous things I've ever experienced as a guitarist. I imagine it feels like being on the course of a marathon and not feeling fatigued, skipping and jumping to the finish line.

God continues to affirm me through this process. This morning, our pastor talked about David, a harpist whose skill, heart, and character led him to play music with healing power and be called "a man after God's own heart." I was reminded that with this investment in my skill, God will continue to open doors in my career, and that he is satisfied with me right here and right now, before I have even set foot onto the competition stage.

"Do you see a man skilled in his work? He will serve before kings; he will not serve before obscure men." -Proverbs 22:29

La Joia by Vicente Asencio

"La Joia" means "the joy" in Catalan, the native language of Vicente Asencio, an obscure Spanish composer whose music I have come to adore. His music is filled with rich French Impressionist harmonies (a la Debussy and Ravel) mixed with the valor and precision of Spanish flamenco rhythms. You can almost hear the castanets, imagine the dancers on stage, and feel as though you're observing a private moment of romantic tenderness in the melodic interludes. This is not a perfect take, but just wanted to share. It's the last piece on my preliminary round program.

When I first learned this movement I didn't feel much joy due to its difficulty. It seemed more to me like the joy that results at the conclusion of some sort of crucible, hard-earned and not flippant or happy-go-lucky at all. This has really made me reevaluate the real meaning of what joy is- that it is something that does not come easily, but is the result of one sacrifice that was made for us on a cross long ago. The result is a blissful freedom that is sweet and exhilarating all at once.

An exercise in tenacity

I suppose there is no point in setting a goal for yourself if you don't really go for it and do everything that you can think of to get yourself there. I read the pianist Lang Lang's autobiography earlier this year, and the determination that he exhibited to get himself into the best conservatory in China, albeit forced by his obsessive and domineering father, included practicing into the wee hours of the night with no heat, living in poverty to pay for piano lessons, and being separated from his beloved mother from early childhood to live in Beijing near better teachers. I found it hard to fathom wanting anything that badly in life. Some consider me a pretty hard worker, but my work ethic is nothing compared to his story and the story of so many other determined musicians out there.

With less than two weeks left until my competition, I am struggling with staying motivated and inspired. It comes and goes, varying with factors as arbitrary as my mood, the weather, the condition of my nails, and what I ate for breakfast. For the time being, I'm making my own efforts to do prepare my best, which includes slow practice, mental practice, small sections, running the pieces in their entirety, videorecording and critiquing myself, and scheduling extra lessons with my teacher, who was kind enough to see me all the way until next week. This week, I'm giving a few informal performances to friends who are willing to sit through 12 minutes of guitar music and hopefully make me a little nervous so I know what to expect when the pressure is on.

Undoubtedly one of the harder things about this competition is that the preliminary round is in front of a jury of about 5 judges in a normal classroom where you can see their faces and expressions and hear them writing stuff while you play. This can be really nerve-racking for me. Ironically, I'd much rather play for an audience of 1000 people where you are alone on a stage, there is physical space to separate you from the audience, the world can disappear, and the crowd at least appreciates your effort even if you make mistakes. With competitions, there is very little grace in that regard and it is harder to focus on simply expressing yourself through the music because you know that their only job is to critique you and determine whether you deserve to get to the next round.

So today I did a funny exercise. I turned the iMovie camera on, and staged my entrance into the room 7 or 8 times. I imagined how I would feel right before walking into the room and tried to make myself a little nervous. This actually worked as I felt a little more tense and noticed my heart beating slightly faster. I walked to my chair, sat down, got settled, closed my eyes and took a deep breath. I started the first piece and stopped after about 10 seconds. With an instrument as naked as the guitar, any tension caused by nervousness in your hands can really alter the sound of your playing. Tensed right hand fingertips will lead to a harsher, thinner sound and less accuracy in plucking the correct strings at the right time. Tension in the left hand can make you buzz, slide off a string by accident, make your stretches less flexible, or cause you to completely forget where you are going. These are things that have all happened to me before, and the goal of this exercise was to help train my body to deal with it better. Though I felt silly imagining the judges sitting in my living room and giving a fake hello and smile to them, by the last time I went through with the exercise, I felt a good rhythm and played the first 10 seconds with much more ease than I did the first time. My dog found this whole shenanigan to be very curious, lifting her head and perking up her ears whenever I would walk out of the room, and going back to her nap on the couch whenever I started playing.

I will probably never run a marathon during my lifetime, nor do I have the desire to do so, but this certainly feels like a marathon- and right now I feel like walking. Which is perfectly fine, right? Maybe for just one mile?

Segovia Therapy

On a particularly hot day in Los Angeles, the air is stuffy in our small apartment, the dog restless from being cooped up with me all day as I sit on my red stool practicing the day away. I keep the windows closed to keep her from barking and the neighbors from hearing the tedium of my daily routine. Every so often I open them while I rehearse a score mentally or file my nails, enjoying the breeze and the sounds of the neighborhood. And sometimes when I just don't care, I open them and let my practicing flow out the window to whoever passes by and let the dog bark if she feels like it.

At around 2 o'clock every day, it gets too hot to stay at my seat near the window even with the fan on, so in several trips I move all my things into our tiny bedroom, shut all the doors, and turn on the AC unit. A new wave of concentration develops, only to turn into a wave of lethargy, the temptation of lying down too great to bear. I grab my score and study it lying on my back on the bed, inevitably falling asleep. Awaking with a start after about twenty minutes, I return to my seat and get back to work. I've practiced nearly five hours total and my fingers are fatigued and sore, the callouses peeling off on my left hand and the nails on my right hand starting to chip.

At 6:30pm, I've not accomplished anything close to what I had hoped for at the beginning of the day. I'm starting to doubt myself and wonder if I'm in over my head. I take a break and shift my energy into making dinner, taking care to make it taste exactly so, as if preparing something satisfying for my stomach will somehow make up for what I have not been able to create for my ears to hear.

After a long dinner break, I put in a recording of Segovia and lie down on the floor with the windows open once again, enjoying the cool breeze of the summer evening. A sound that I haven't heard for awhile overwhelms my ears: the round, sweet sound of the guitar as I once fell in love with it. I've been so wrapped up in my details that my insides nearly hurt from craving this sound for such a long time.

Lying there on the floor, with the breeze flowing in from outside and the soft sound of Segovia's guitar washing over me, I remember again why I started all this in the first place. I remind myself not to stop loving this process, despite the occasional day in which the labor of love is merely just labor.

The Airborne Toxic Event

While playing a lunchtime gig today at a hotel restaurant in downtown LA, I ran into a violinist that I performed with once while I was at Juilliard. He now plays in a LA-based cutting edge string quartet that commissions tons of new music and experimental stuff called The Calder Quartet, although they play Mozart just as well. He mentioned that they had taped for Jimmy Kimmel last night, and in checking out the quartet website, I discovered that they are actually playing with the indie rock band The Airborne Toxic Event. His sister plays viola/keyboard for this band- and they totally rock! (Incidentally, she went to Columbia and was class of '04.)

I checked out The Airborne Toxic Event on myspace and I can't stop listening to them. Depressing, poetic lyrics are covered under an upbeat, guitar-driven texture with occasional richness added by strings a la Belle and Sebastian. They hail from Los Feliz, a Los Angeles area adjacent to ours that, along with Silver Lake, is the bastion of numerous indie bands, many of which make it to the top.

I love the role that the quartet plays in this version of "Sometime Around Midnight," bow hairs flying and everything! The string sound in the rock genre is usually reserved for more melancholy, plaintive, slow songs, but here is proof that classical musicians can totally rock out.

The technology bandwagon

I'm usually not the first to jump on the bandwagon about anything. Especially things media related, like TV shows, big movie openings, the latest gadgets, and popular internet tools. I sort of take my time, see what sticks and what doesn't, and get into something like four seasons (i.e. 24) or two years later. Sometimes I just crave the bliss of quiet after a busy day.

As an aspiring artist, it's now more important than ever that I keep up with media trends and utilize those which can help my career and put me on the cutting edge. This is where I often fail. I'm not great at promoting and marketing myself, but I've gotten somewhat comfortable with the concept. My problem is now that the tools by which one does so are changing so quickly that once I settle into a groove with one thing (like having a functional website), the next thing is taking off.

Well, here are some ideas that I thought about today which have been brought to my attention by various media-savvy friends of mine.

1. YouTube. Upload current videos of various pieces to amass a following and therefore publicize your name for concert attendance.

2. Twitter. Tweet your current musical endeavors, upcoming concerts, and latest musings to help people get to know you as a person.

3. Blogging. Clearly, I'm on this one! But I never meant for it to be read for the general public. That is, I choose the setting where it doesn't come up on google searches, although of course I know that everything on the internet is fair game. At least to my knowledge, it is mainly read by my circle of friends and family. Making it a public blog linked to my website where I continue writing about my current range of topics (the intersection between my spirituality and my life as a musician, funny or important personal anecdotes, particularly interesting encounters with art/food) has been suggested and I'm still not sure about that. (If you are a stranger reading my blog, please speak now or forever hold your peace.)

4. Facebook. Yeah I'm on this one, isn't the whole world? But the more that my social circles collide on it, the less I want it to reveal about myself personally. And granted, if someone sees you perform and actually bothers to look you up on facebook, I suppose this means they want to be a part of your network in a more personal way. Connecting with your audience is a goal held by most musicians, so in theory this would be a great thing. I even asked a stranger in the audience at one of my concerts in NY how he heard about the event, and he mumbled quietly, "Facebook." But, I still don't feel that comfortable adding people as friends who I don't know personally. I once attempted to create a fan page for myself but felt completely narcissistic.

5. Instant Encore. This is a cool site where you can allow your audience to relive a concert experience by punching in a code and listening to a recording of the concert after they see it live. I don't think it has a critical mass following in the general public though. But it wouldn't hurt to try it.

Anyway, I'd love feedback from you lovely readers about how you think any of these tools might help enhance the career of an artist you might follow (actors, writers, singers, etc.) Are there any other mediums that I'm missing here? This summer I'd like to get my website overhauled and try to tap into more of these tools, so the question is not so much if, but really to help me understand how media is changing the nature of music's accessibility and the persona of any given musician. Do the latest internet tools provide a more personal interaction between artists and their audience, or does it merely give a facade of connectivity? Is there any reason to circumvent the latest innovation, or must one inevitably change with the times? What's next? Thoughts welcome.

The Competition

In about six weeks, I am going to Ithaca, NY to enter the Competition to Become the World's Best Classical Guitarist of the Entire Universe.

Ok, so it's not really called that. There are lots of competitions that take place throughout the year, but this really is the only one that matters, in my opinion. The winner gets not only $7500 and a CD recording made by Naxos, but a fifty city concert tour of America! For any classical guitarist, it's an absolute dream come true. Basically, they hand you an international concert career on a silver platter. I've had the privilege of studying with three former winners of this competition, all who were brilliant artists and phenomenal teachers as well.

It's a stretch, and I don't honestly believe that I will win this competition this year. My goal really is to make it past the preliminary round and onto the semi-finals, and I would be surprised, ecstatic, and terrified if I actually made it to the finals. But if I go and play my best and still don't make it past the first round, I will be totally fine with that because if everybody else is just better, then that's totally fair. If I go and don't play very well, I honestly will still be ok with that because just entering this thing is taking a giant step of courage for me. I even signed up last year and then withdrew my name partway through. So basically, I'm looking at it as I have nothing to lose. I am going to work my tail off for the next six weeks, and then just let things go how they go.

But why not believe that I could win this year? Confidence, at least verbalized in such a way, has never been my strong suit. I tend to think of myself more as a "realist" (or to an optimist like my husband, a pessimist) and my first instinct with things that I really, really want is to say, "Pshhh. Yeah right. That would never happen to me!"

It's time to let go of negative thinking. I want to believe that I can win, and not feel like I'm on some sort of ego-trip or that I'm being ostentatious about anything. It's time to stop embracing false humility and believe that God can do anything through me because doubting the possibilities is in essence doubting his power.

The other day, the parking shuttle driver saw my guitar case and asked what it was. I told him it was a classical guitar.

He said, "No kidding! Are you good?"

I paused. Then, a sudden surge of confidence. "Yeah! I'm good!" I replied enthusiastically.

Usually I wouldn't say something like that. I might typically say something like, "I'm alright" with a chuckle, or "Uh, I guess.." but for the first time that day, I decided to give confidence a shot.

This summer I am giving confidence a shot in my own small way.

Compadre by Astor Piazzolla

A first take on the required piece for a competition I'm doing this summer. I'm giving it a run tomorrow for a concert in Orange County. Sorry about the barking. Aiko has impeccable timing. (I didn't actually kick her at the end, although I wanted to- it was just a nudge...)

Declaration of Attempt to Become a Writer

Can the dancer be a photographer, the potter a musician, the actor a sculptor?

Perhaps one language just isn't enough. Sometimes, the things that want to be said exceed their medium. I have a general sense of restlessness that goes through its peaks and valleys of activity. In the past, I've attributed it to too few amounts of meaningful personal interaction, general mental boredom, and lack of intellectual stimulus.

But what if it is really none of those things, and instead, the restlessness is an uneasiness created by potential for another form of expression that hasn't yet been realized? A medium that has been under my nose for my entire life, but not honed into a craft, not refined in the fire, not given the chance to speak much of the heart?

I really believe that there's an artist inside of everyone, and that connecting with this part of yourself is an essential aspect of understanding the Creator and yourself as a work of art. I gravitated towards the guitar at the age of five, for some reason unbeknownst to me. It pulled me and called me, and I was given the means with which I could answer. But I've always hungered to do more than just that; ironically, speaking without words has not always satisfied me. After much pondering, I'm going to take some of my friends' encouragement seriously and give writing a real shot. I just got the green light to do a minor field for my degree at USC's journalism school in arts criticism. We have a phenomenal Pulitizer prize-winning visiting professor on faculty right now who used to be the music critic for the Washington Post. And, his approval of my writing was a huge boost to my confidence. I sent him an academic research paper and to contrast, of all things, my blog entry about ramen- and he said he liked it enormously!

I'm really excited about this opportunity and have no idea what will come out of it. I don't even promise that I'll write anything good, or that I'll have the guts to share it. But, if this works out, I'll be taking his writing workshop in the fall. I'm not a natural critic, and am hoping that delving into the world of arts criticism will help me begin to articulate the nuances that make any work of art excellent, moving, shocking, or beautiful. I believe this will make me a better musician as well. I'm craving a new set of weapons to wield, and thinking about the possibilities unleashed by the power of the pen has me incredibly inspired.

Oh, the humanity

Today, I got rear-ended on my way to school. The damage was not that significant- a displaced bumper and a small dent. But I was pretty upset, only because the guy apologized to me, told me he would pull over, and then drove away speedily.

This threw my day into a bit of a haze, until a friend brought to my attention another hit and run accident that happened near campus last night. A driver ran a red light and hit two USC students while they were walking in a crosswalk, proceeded to stop only to remove the body of one of the victims from the hood of his car, and drove away. One of them died- an undergraduate student that was only 19. I can't imagine what her family is going through. I saw an interview with her mom on the news and it was so devastating. Read the story here.

Are we so numb to the well-being and livelihood of others that walking away is the easiest thing to do? Even if they are strangers? I put myself in the shoes of either driver from the above accidents. The temptation exists to just drive away, pretend not to notice, put it in the back of your mind and move on so you don't have to "deal" with the repercussions of your actions. And though my first instinct is to say that behavior like this is sickening with no regard to human life or decency, I know that I have done this in some form or fashion so many times when I have walked by someone who is hurting, hungry or broken, or run away from the consequences of my own sin. The choice is the same. The condition of sin runs deeper than we know. But the great tragedy of being human is that we are capable of so many things beyond our comprehension. We are capable of death, destruction, beauty, and compassion all at the same time.

More than ever, this realization makes me want to live my life loudly, with fierce passion for what I do, not letting anything stop me from expressing that there is always something worth living for, that people are worth caring about, and that humanity has always and will always be in need of a Savior.

Ramen inspiration.

It's hard to keep blogging when you haven't had a profound thought in awhile.

And then, out of the blue, inspiration comes. Ever had one of those meals where you just couldn't stop thinking about it afterwards? That whatever you ate brought your taste buds such sweet pleasure that you felt like you'd just discovered a new addiction and were teetering in a hazy area between enthusiasm and obsession?

Well, I had one of these moments this weekend in the food court of Mitsuwa supermarket in West LA. An unassuming place for an amazing meal? You bet. Usually, this is also the best kind.

This ramen turned my whole perception of the art of Japanese flavors upside down. Santuoka, a Japanese ramen chain, exists at three different Mitsuwas in southern California and I feel blessed with good fortune. A salty pork-flavored broth with just a hint of sweet seafoodiness to balance. Perfectly chewy noodles that curled so beautifully in my spoon. Rich and fatty slices of pork to top, along with some pickled seaweed, fresh scallions, and (could it be?) fish cake that actually tasted like fish. I was floored by this umami perfection, and ended my meal by verbalizing this to my husband who was in an equally dumbfounded stupor. "It's perfect," I said. He nodded in between slurping, causing several drops of the precious broth to alarmingly fall to the table. Not wanting to tolerate any more waste, I picked up my bowl and drank every last drop of the sweet soup afterwards and considered ordering another, so delicious was this incredible nectar. We barely said two words during this meal, usually a sign that the food is good- especially when the two words were the ones I mentioned above.

But this was not just a fleeting moment of bacchanalian satisfaction. I felt inspired from this ramen. It made me believe that I could do anything. My perspective on the world began to shift. In a moment while slurping down noodles with my burnt tongue, I had an important realization. Thoughts become things. This ramen was once a thought. Now it is a thing. I'd just had a week where I wasn't doing much, feeling uninspired and lazy from an uneventful spring break. But this superhuman food brought me to my feet, recharged and ready to take on the world as a new woman. I can do anything. Thoughts become things. My thoughts can become things, too. I CAN DO ANYTHING! SLURRRPPPP!

To top it all off, they have double matcha green tea soft serve in the same food court. I haven't been this happy in weeks.

Ode to Unemployment

Well, it's nearly official- Paul received an offer package from his future employer this morning!

We are excited that a new chapter is beginning. I've read in the news recently about how stressful unemployment is for so many people- particularly for men when the burden of provision in our culture is still heavier upon them. But not for this one. I suppose Paul and I are different in that I always need something busy and "productive" to do, and he is content and cheery whittling away the hours on various other types of activities- including, but not limited to, playing fetch with the dog, video games, reading random things on the internet and then telling me about them, writing music on Garage Band that sounds like electronic eurotrash, putting that music to a slideshow featuring pictures of our dog, playing basketball with the Filipino high school kids in our neighborhood, doing transcriptions on Sibelius for me, listening to audiobooks, and today, the most bizzare thing of all time: he voluntarily went shopping for me.

I have a concert this weekend in New York for which I've been picking an outfit for. I bought a new top at a sample sale last week and was having second thoughts about it. He wasn't totally sold on it either, but I decided I would just wear it since it was a sample sale and I can't return it anyway. I like it just fine and I really don't care all that much. I also don't have time to hit the mall between now and Saturday and things approrpiate to wear for a performance are hard to find for me.

So he insisted this afternoon to head to Macy's and basically raided the women's department. I told him my sizes, and that I generally like long-sleeve tops that have some sort or sparkle or interesting sleeves or something a little flashy for the stage. What did he bring home? About 20 different tops with some sort of sparkle or interesting sleeves in more colors than the rainbow can hold, including mustard yellow, pale gold, and magenta. He said he would return whatever I didn't want. Unfortunately, after trying on these nearly 20 different tops that were all pretty unflattering, I have decided to stick to the original top that I bought at the sample sale and fire him as my personal shopper.

Well, I was pretty blown away at his willingness to subject himself to the mall in an effort to help me, and we had a pretty good laugh when I tried on the mustard yellow top that made me look like a Star Trek character, the pale blue frilly top that should have been part of a clown costume, and the magenta top that I am convinced was some sort of maternity wear. All I can say is that I am excited for his new job to start and I am certainly glad that it's not in the fashion industry.

Satisfied and dreaming

I have to say that I love my program. Lately I've been thinking that I think I would have been a much better guitarist had I come to USC earlier in life, like for undergrad or masters. It's a combination of the amazingly supportive guitar faculty who have the sharpest ears and most intelligent musical insight while being articulate enough to explain kinesthetic concepts and technical ways of playing the guitar easier, more efficiently, and more beautifully. I already feel that in the last 6 months of being here, I have learned more about how to be a better guitarist than I did in the past 6 years of schooling.

Which does not make me regret the decisions I made earlier in life, because I know that without being in those places, I would not be in this place. I also feel that with this degree, many aspects of my education are coming together in a way that weren't ready to be cohesive until now. In some way or another, it's all sort of coming together. A friend once told me that God doesn't waste anything. That is, the reason I majored in history, or played the cello, or ran for student government in high school will all come to fruition even if it doesn't look like it from the outside.

I also know that there is a reason I spend hours investing my time in playing the guitar better. I'm starting to feel immense satisfaction in even the smallest of improvements. There are many more to be made, but at the end of each day I have begun to feel that I am reaping some sort of fruit in a way that I have never felt before. At Juilliard, I mostly practiced out of fear of getting yelled at, or embarrassing myself in front of my peers. I was insecure and treaded carefully, trying to do the right thing, look altogether on the outside, and not rock the boat too much. I think I've needed to get that out of my system and although I still feel insecure at times, I don't work because I'm scared. I work because it is a choice I make every day out of pleasure, calling, and passion.

At the end of it, I don't believe that my destiny is to be a performer primarily. I've always liked to wear many hats. I have been dreaming lately about other things I'd love to do- like teaching guitar to adults in all walks of life, being a music history professor, mentoring students through the relationship between faith and music, organizing festivals, becoming a dean at a music school, working for the NEA. I feel great audacity in being able to even type these words because in the past I never verbalized what I really hoped for from life because of the fear of disappointment. It just occurred to be that I'm not afraid if I fail. I am satisfied even being able to just dream. God doesn't waste anything and I know He'll use me somewhere.

My husband (a hopeless dreamer) must be rubbing off on me.

21 days of consecutive practice

Today, I had a two-hour lesson at school with my guitar teacher. I wasn't feeling all that prepared going in because we had driven up to the Bay Area this weekend for a wedding, and though I brought the guitar with me, I didn't get nearly as much time with it as I would have if we had been at home for the weekend. But it was the first weekend traveling where I had to be sure to fulfill my New Year's resolution to practice every day this year. So on Friday, I made sure to practice before we left for San Jose- got about 1 1/2 hours in, on Saturday, I practiced about an hour before we got ready to leave for the wedding, and on Sunday, I practiced after the 5 hour drive back to LA when we arrived home at around 11pm. This one was a hard one. I wanted so badly to crawl into bed, but Paul reminded me of my resolution and helped me build the resolve to sit myself down. He also told me that if I practiced, I could have the sour gummy worms that we had bought for the road trip but had forgotten to bring with us. I jumped up- this was just enough motivation for my tired body to get on my red practicing stool. (I love sour candy.)

At the very least, I got some affirmation today at my lesson. Yesterday I barely got an hour in between cooking for our small group dinner, teaching my fifth-grade guitar class in East LA, getting a run in around the lake, finishing some reading, and being glued to the election coverage. But I did get about 1 1/2 hours in at the end of the night, and today after I played my piece, my teacher said these words:

"Wow! You've been working your ass off."

I beamed. He has never said this to me. In fact, I've never had a teacher say this to me in recent memory. It's usually, "Ok, good." Or, on a bad day, "Good piece, huh?" For someone that gets bored pretty easily, I've never been one to practice enough, ever. But I suppose the consistency is a great start. I've been working. And it feels good.

What's in a name?

Lately, I've been contemplating my name.

When I was a kid, I got made fun of. I got lots of Shoe jokes. There was a brand of shoes at the local mall called Connie and it was perfect fodder for a whole onslaught of Shoe jokes. Some kids got creative and thought up variations on that, like Connie Sock or Connie Boot or Connie whatever. After awhile I didn't care. I tried to use it to my advantage. When I ran for Junior Class President in high school, my friend designed a campaign tag that was shaped like a shoe and said "Connie for Prez" on it or something. They were super cute (I think they were designed to look like Converse shoes, which were in at the time and incidentally in right now) and I won that election.

I thought things would only get better when I got married and had the opportunity to change my name to something easier to spell, know how to pronounce, or not make fun of. But the other thing I used to get called when I was a kid was Connie Chung. As in the the first major Asian American news anchor who is married to Maury Povich. Little did I know that I would marry into a name that was so similar to this one. In fact, after two years I'm still not used to it. When I hear people call me Connie Chun I often think they are mocking me. In fact, I gave the guy who changed my oil the other day a dirty look when he said, "Connie Chun? Your car is ready." And when I hear them call me "Mrs. Chun" I often look around for Paul's mom.

Well, when we got our marriage certificate I remember the moment when I fiilled out the form and wrote that I intended to change my surname. Paul looked at me sympathetically and asked, "Are you sure? You don't have to." I responded that I wanted to, and that I wanted our names to symbolically reflect that we were becoming one family and I wanted our kids to have the same last name as both of us. At the time, I worked in a school where there were a lot kids whose moms had decided to keep their maiden names and I guess the traditionalist in me wanted it to be different than the kids whose last names were different from their mom's or who had hyphenated last names. But I also felt bound by a sort of duty or desire to partake in this rite of passage of for a married woman to change her name, though I later discovered what a pain it was (and still is) to fulfill this process. After this process, the feminist in me has often been bitter that this is still an understood social norm in our society for the woman to go through all that trouble and confusion. I mean, why can't we just decide based on which name sounds better for both people? I think Paul Sheu is pretty good.

So our solution was for me to keep my maiden name as my "artist name" as Paul calls it, and to use my legal last name (now Chun) for other circumstances, which was nice when we moved to a new place and people didn't get confused that we were married, and they know us lovingly as "the Chuns." I think that's kind of fun. It means to me that we are our own household and family, a concept that we spent a lot of time contemplating during our engagement. And I also get to write "Paul and Connie Chun" on things like address labels, Christmas cards, bills and such. That's kind of fun too, I suppose.

Well, now that I am in school again and most of my professors know my last name to be Chun, since that's what I put on my application and that's what they have on their roll. But the guitar faculty all know me by my "artist name" and it sort of feels like I have two identities. Part of it makes me feel special, a little bit like having an alter ego or being a superhero. But on the other hand, it is just plain confusing. So sometimes I resort to putting my full legal name down on papers, and in my email too, and for people not familiar with either name sometimes they get the vowels and syllables mixed up so that it becomes "Connie Shun Choo" or something stupid like that. And you would be surprised at the amount of people that pronounce a name like Chun to be "chooon." Because "fun" and "run" aren't good enough examples of a short U sound? Add on the mixed up consonants I become Connie Chu Shooon. I mean, come on people!

I thought seriously about hyphenating recently, and going through all the trouble of changing my name to something that would help people understand that it is a married name and to just simplify things and just use both all the time. This was because I recently got a teaching job in which the administration put "Shu-Chun" down as my last name. They apparently assumed that it was hyphenated (though they didn't spell it all correctly, but I'm used to that), though I never indicated anything of the sort. But then hyphenating wouldn't really help with the pronunciation, though it might aid in the confusion of knowing which name to use. However, one syllable Asian last names don't really sound that good hyphenated. I think that more than one Asian sounding last name for one person may be too much for the American general public at large. Paul told me he was sorry that he's not a Kennedy. Ooh, I thought to myself. Now there's a name I would have been ecstatic about. But alas, I shall remain Connie Chu Shun for the rest of my life.

Enter 2009

Every New Year's, Paul and I take a little day retreat to recount everything that happened in the closing year and set a list of prayer requests/resolutions for the coming year. This year we decided to check out the Griffith Observatory and take a little hike in the surrounding hills in the balmy and perfect 70 degree weather.

Aiko dreams of being a movie star as she overlooks the smoggy view of the Hollywood sign.

We found a bench and sat down to have some water and apples after our not-very-strenuous hike. Here we took out my journal and jotted down all the things that happened this year. Some highlights:

• Fasting meat for 40 days and subsequently having to go on a diet
• Gaining a job extension, losing a job
• Saying our goodbyes to San Diego after a short year in paradise
  
• Starting my DMA
• Settling into a new church
• Seeing Paul's dad again after two years
• Releasing my first CD
• Paul joining/managing an adult baseball league
• Moving two times in one year
• Going to France at the last minute with my sister
  
• Waiting and waiting and waiting on God
• Enjoying whirlwind trips to New York
• Discovering that we like LA- who would have thought?
  

It's been a year full of changes and looking back now, full of blessing. We took a minute to watch the sunset over the hills and said goodbye to 2008.

Looking forward, I have a few hopes for 2009.

Practicing every day this year. Yep, that's right. 365 days of guitar. No two week breaks after a concert. No taking holidays off. Making it a part of the rhythm of my lifestyle. Seeing if it can become as second nature as eating or brushing my teeth and discovering what comes out of that. Which makes me think that I need one of these babies:

It's a travel guitar that my former teacher endorses called the SoloEtte. The wire edges come apart and they zip up into a portable bag. It has the feel of a normal guitar so you can keep your hand muscles in shape even while you're on vacation. It even has a headphone jack so you can hear yourself practice on the thing while you're traveling. I have never cared enough about playing that I thought I would need one of these. But I think its time to up the anti. Alas, this baby retails for a whopping $850 and I don't have any vacations planned right now. Oh well.

Taking better care of my body. I don't know why I've been feeling the signs of aging lately (being tired without fail at 11pm, seeing a few wrinkles around the eyes, feeling like its harder than ever to get back into shape), but I've been reminded of how much I should cherish my health and take care of my body- not only because these are the last few years of my 20's, but also because if we have kids in a few years, I know that my body will never be the same again. So I'm going to try to do more jogging, yoga at home, and get back into lap swimming, something I did briefly in college and learned to love at one point. USC has a gorgeous heated pool and a jacuzzi that I should take advantage of while I can. This also includes taking better care of my skin and cutting back on things like beer and fried food for sure. (Not so easy considering who I'm married to.)

Learning to live with little and seeing how God multiplies it. Right now we are doing our best to live more frugally. We've thought about some ways to save money during this season of unemployment, and have wondered why we can't make that a normal part of our lifestyle even after a job comes a long. God is really showing us that He can make so much out of so little. And life is all the richer for it.

Case in point: Korean BBQ at home! When you have all-you-can-eat BBQ in K-town here, it's about $17 per person, which is pretty cheap for the amount of food you get, but still runs a little over $40 after tax and tip. So instead, for our first dinner of the year we grabbed some thinly sliced sirloin from the Korean market (disturbingly cheap at about $2.50 a package) and all the coordinating veggies (green leaf lettuce, sesame leaves, thinly sliced scallions with red pepper flakes, and a Korean herb called ssuk) and whipped out the tabletop grill we got as a wedding present. So instead of $40, we managed to spent less than $10 with the stellar prices at the Korean market. Add an $11 bottle of champagne from Costco, and we were pretty happy.

The new year brings many unresolved challenges, but much excitement for what God has in store. As I've learned to say in Korean, seh-heh bock man-ee bahd-euh-seh-yo! Happy New Year!