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May 21, 2001, 9:38 p.m.

Weekend tally: scandal in the bookstore, reading out loud from V's stockpile of romance novels, all "pale mounds of woman flesh" and "powerful manhoods" thrusting; scandal in the hallway outside of the women's studies office, M quoting from a '70s gay porn novel, all "fuckpoles" and "ass juices" dripping; a long, warm drive to Dixon with Mark and Randy, slipping five dollar bills to the young ticket sellers of the Boys and Girls Club to play otherwise free pinball in an un-air conditioned fairground building, crowded with older men reliving their long-gone years of adolescence, those uninterrupted afternoons spent at arcades and pool halls, and the odd group of teenagers, giggling and shoving before the Guns 'N' Roses machine; horror at the Jelly Belly factory's new installation of Ronald Reagan memorabilia, glass shelves of Air Force One playing card decks, White House cigarette packs and The Quotable Ronald Reagan; coffee with Rachel at the Wall Berlin, catching each other up on where we're at as academics and activists, wondering how we might balance political efficacy with representational responsibility, and later, lying on my living room floor, watching videos of our own long-gone youth as punk rockers who once believed.

I'm going to be gone for the next week, traversing the Midwest. I'll catch up with e-mail and zine orders and zine making when I get back. Meanwhile, check out Pollentext. 

May 17, 2001, 7:00 p.m.

Presented at last night's womens' studies graduation ceremony, I now am the proud owner of a gold-plated letter opener (in its own red velvet pouch), a heavy crystal keepsake box embellished with the University of California Berkeley seal, and a plastic-framed certificate "in honor" of my achievements as an Outstanding GSI for women's studies.

This was only the second women's studies ceremony I'd been to, including my own six years ago, but I imagine the jokes and the assurances, sometimes made both at once, have been the same in the interim: "No doubt your parents worried that you'd never be able to do anything with a women's studies degree," or "Trust me, they can still get all kinds of jobs with this degree!"

Sitting toward the back V and I noted that of the twelve graduating seniors, ten were women of color. We muttered darkly about the erroneous and muck-headed sentiment --still strong in our ethnic studies department-- that women's studies is "white women's studies."

6:34 p.m.

Paperson passed! Congratulations!

3:34 p.m.

I seem to believe that my free time should be spent reading all the books I have not managed to read in the last nine months, including Imagining Vietnam and America: The Making of Postcolonial Vietnam, 1919-1950, and The Nation's Tortured Body: Violence, Representation, and the Formation of a Sikh "Diaspora."

May 15, 2001,11:08 p.m.

On the 51 we sat behind an Asian girl in black, with one-inch punk rock buttons pinned on her black sweatshirt. She was reading the latest issue of Punk Planet, and I tugged on Mark's sleeve and pointed as she skimmed through the columns. I felt like a spy, watching her flip pages even as I tried to look elsewhere, out the window, at my mail. Mark, who for two years wrote a weekly column for the Indianapolis Star, whispered, "At least your photograph isn't in the header. People used to recognize me all the time."

She seemed absorbed, and stopped to read my column, which mentions Berkeley in the very first sentence. I fidgeted in my seat. Would it have been odd to say, "Hey, I see you're reading Punk Planet. That's my column, I just wanted to say 'hi' because I was feeling weird sitting behind you, watching you read my column, watching for a reaction, like I was stalking you or something, but of course, I'm not, I just sat down behind you, it was a total coincidence, and I'm not looking for props or anything, um, it's just that I'm a bit goofy and I like meeting other Asian girls in punk rock, well, actually, I'm a punk rock expatriate, but anyway, so, I thought I'd say 'hi.' So, er, hi."

1:58 p.m.

In all the turmoil I forgot to mention that the anthology Technicolor: Race, Technology, and Everyday Life is finally out. My essay makes me cringe, especially since: 1) I wrote it four years ago, and 2) at the time I'd never even considered doing scholarly work on digital space. I also hate my writing "voice" but my editors wanted me to let go the academic-ese and be more "personable." Nothing I say is much of a revelation, but check it out and cringe along with me.  

12:48 p.m.

Thanks for all the "good lucks" and "congratulations," everybody, I really appreciate them! (I'm blushing as pink as that bikini over there.) And Tait, everything but the Pumas was had for under $15, so no, I will not be visiting Jill Sander's boutique with you.