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 Spikey-Haired Asian Chicks

 Author:  Topic:  Posted:
Apr 25, 2002
We can no longer avoid something this obvious if we are to be diligent in our role as avid monitors of mainstream media. We are quite simply being overrun with spikey-haired Asian chicks. I bring up this topic because I feel that its import on our culture - and what it portends for our future - is being ignored, and not because I may have had a bit too much to drink tonight.

More diaries by zikzak
My espresso machine is broken
Art House/Indy Films: Going too far
Gin and CHiPs
Talkin 'Bout My Generation
Old Friends
Shapes, colors and textures
What am I supposed to do with all of this?
Oh blech.
The evening ended...
A thought from today's activities
Fundamental lifestyle change
Confessions of an editorial tyrant
I'm bored
Trouble with my thumbnail
Weight Loss
Sad realization
A request (and warning) to our readers
Time for festive Holiday tunes!
Further adventures in late night television
Just curious
Exciting new diary
Saying Goodbye
Breaking News
Who are we?
Sure, spikey-haired Asian chicks have been around for years. We've all seen them in clubs and at coffee shops. Our youth share college classes with them. Some of us may even know a spikey-haired Asian chick personally. Their mere existence is not the issue, it is their unfettered spawning that generates so much unease.

Spikey-haired Asian chicks have in the past always been unattainable for the common man. Their hair, carefully arranged in spikes, and their undeniable Asian-ness, sent a broadcast message to the rest of us. The message said, "I am Asian and I have spikey hair. You can't have me."

We plebeians never had cause to contest this message. The underlying meaning behind it was quite clear: They were spikey-haired Asian chicks, and thus were not attainable by folks like us.

But all of this is starting to change. Spikey-haired Asian chicks are advertising cars. And mobile phones. Cable TV, clothing stores and feminine hygiene products, too. They are multiplying at an alarming rate, and the message is changing.

Now, after years of complacent acceptance of the status quo, we find ourselves re-evaluating our previously held dogma. Can we really have our own spikey-haired Asian chick if we drive the right car? Will one of them deign to notice us if we conspicuously used the right mobile phone in their presence? Will cable TV and the right wardrobe help? Should we men, as a group, consider the use of feminine hygiene products?

These questions and others now plague our collective subconscious. There are several obvious conclusions to draw, among them the very real possibility that the mainstream media is callously lying to us in an effort to sell merchandise.

But there is another possibility: What if each and every one of us could have had our very own spikey-haired Asian chick all along?


Aren't they... (none / 0) (#1)
by The Mad Scientist on Thu Apr 25th, 2002 at 09:31:52 PM PST
...all psycho?

Discombobulated (none / 0) (#2)
by Anonymous Reader on Thu Apr 25th, 2002 at 09:44:44 PM PST
I think you might have had a tad too much to drink.

Yeah, you can. Sure. (5.00 / 1) (#3)
by elenchos on Thu Apr 25th, 2002 at 10:00:32 PM PST
I mean it. I have. Why not you? Want a spikey-haired Asian chick? Well, then go get one already. Really, there's plenty and they are totally reasonable, in every way I can think of. They want you to have a job, and perhaps a car, but that's all.

So? Go ahead.

I do, I do, I do
--Bikini Kill

Supply (none / 0) (#4)
by First Incision on Thu Apr 25th, 2002 at 10:05:59 PM PST
Could each of us have a spikey-haired Asian chick? I'm not sure, it depends.

The supply of Asian chicks is defintiely not the problem. China is a large country with over a billion people, and the other Asian countries are quite crowded. Any of these 500,000,000+ women could quite easily be given spikey hair by any scissors-jocky at the local Head-Start.

Yet, would these women truly be "Spikey Haired Asian Chicks?" I'm not sure. It seems that one would have to have more than just Asian ancestry and a short coif full of heavy-duty styling gel. At least to me, it appears that the full spikey-haired Asian chick persona requires additional things like style, attitude, clothing, and the right personality. If this is true, all you would be left with, after importing your Bejing factory-girl, is a confused, spikey-haired poseuse.

Nevertheless, this sounds like a good experiment. If you know of somewhere that I can obtain a willing generic young Asian woman (preferably 16-26 years old and fresh off the boat), I will personally pay for her haircut and record the results.
Do you suffer from late-night hacking? Ask your doctor about Protonix.

Question. (none / 0) (#8)
by hauntedattics on Fri Apr 26th, 2002 at 06:02:49 AM PST
In the midst of Operation Enduring Uptime, do you really have time to deal with a confused, spikey-haired poseuse?

I only ask because I have your best interests at heart, dear.

yet to be determined (none / 0) (#18)
by First Incision on Fri Apr 26th, 2002 at 02:33:57 PM PST
Of course I would not have time during a test week. I would probably not have time for a poseuse, either.

But if the factory girl became a real, live Spikey-Haired Asian Chick, I would make time. Besides, they seem like they would be low-maintainence.
Do you suffer from late-night hacking? Ask your doctor about Protonix.

fools! (none / 0) (#5)
by nathan on Thu Apr 25th, 2002 at 10:21:59 PM PST
Trust me, it's not worth it. Your hearts will all be broken! BROKEN!

Li'l Sis: Yo, that's a real grey area. Even by my lax standards.

My heart was broken (none / 0) (#9)
by jvance on Fri Apr 26th, 2002 at 09:05:26 AM PST
by a stylish Asian chick years ago. She worked in a trendy furniture store and was into Milli Vanilli for the irony when they were still popular.

I'll bet she had spiky hair three years ago. God knows what she has now.
Adequacy has turned into a cesspool consisting of ... blubbering, superstitious fools arguing with smug, pseudointellectual assholes. -AR

I thought my heart was broken once. (none / 0) (#19)
by nx01 on Fri Apr 26th, 2002 at 04:26:06 PM PST
But it turned out to be the Kung-Pao Chicken.

"Every time I look at the X window system, it's so fucking stupid; and part of me feels responsible for the worst parts of it."
-- James Gosling

Rinse and resubmit. (none / 0) (#6)
by tkatchev on Thu Apr 25th, 2002 at 10:39:12 PM PST
The quality of your diary is very, very low! It almost reads like something out of the World's Largest Intellectual Garbage Dump.

No offense. :)) But you really need to get rid of the white-trash MTV cliches.

Peace and much love...

no way, pal (none / 0) (#7)
by nathan on Fri Apr 26th, 2002 at 12:51:08 AM PST
It probably hasn't hit Moscow yet, but spiky-haired Asian chicks are all over America's larger cities. (Cheap Hong-Kong knockoffs are to be found in smaller centres.)

Anyway, transmitted by such foul things as Sex and the City and Cosmopolitan magazine, the spiky-haired Asian chick cliché has gone from being something seen on TV to an identity that real people take on. As such, it is an extremely appropriate thing to write about. Spiky-haired Asian chicks are now an artifact of American reality.

Li'l Sis: Yo, that's a real grey area. Even by my lax standards.

You misunderstand. (none / 0) (#10)
by tkatchev on Fri Apr 26th, 2002 at 11:02:44 AM PST
I was objecting against the writer's poor writing style, reminiscent of the way MTV "v-jays" talk to disadvantaged white kids.

The media is the message, etc. you know the rest.

In other words, the diary should be rewritten in a neater, slimmer style and resubmitted.

Peace and much love...

I'm not sure (none / 0) (#11)
by nathan on Fri Apr 26th, 2002 at 12:34:56 PM PST
What if it's a brilliant work of postmodern art satirizing literary conventions?

Li'l Sis: Yo, that's a real grey area. Even by my lax standards.

In that case... (none / 0) (#13)
by tkatchev on Fri Apr 26th, 2002 at 12:54:36 PM PST
...I'm all for it.

My bad.

Peace and much love...

Yeah! (none / 0) (#16)
by zikzak on Fri Apr 26th, 2002 at 01:07:08 PM PST
See? I'm postmodern! Maybe even brilliantly so!

careful... (5.00 / 1) (#17)
by nathan on Fri Apr 26th, 2002 at 01:22:27 PM PST
So is Stanley Fish.

Li'l Sis: Yo, that's a real grey area. Even by my lax standards.

Perhaps you would prefer James Ellroy? (none / 0) (#12)
by zikzak on Fri Apr 26th, 2002 at 12:48:17 PM PST
Here's an excerpt from the first chapter of his most recent book, The Cold Six Thousand.

- - - - - - - - - -

Wayne Tedrow Jr.
(Dallas, 11/22/63)

They sent him to Dallas to kill a nigger pimp named Wendell Durfee. He wasn't sure he could do it.
The Casino Operators Council flew him. They supplied first-class fare. They tapped their slush fund. They greased him. They fed him six cold.
Nobody said it:
Kill that coon. Do it good. Take our hit fee.
The flight ran smooth. A stew served drinks. She saw his gun. She played up. She asked dumb questions.
He said he worked Vegas PD. He ran the intel squad. He built files and logged information.
She loved it. She swooned.
"Hon, what you doin' in Dallas?"
He told her.
A Negro shivved a twenty-one dealer. The dealer lost an eye. The Negro booked to Big D. She loved it. She brought him highballs. He omitted details.
The dealer provoked the attack. The council issued the contract-death for ADW Two.
The preflight pep talk. Lieutenant Buddy Fritsch:
"I don't have to tell you what we expect, son. And I don't have to add that your father expects it, too."
The stew played geisha girl. The stew fluffed her beehive.
"What's your name?"
"Wayne Tedrow."
She whooped. "You just have to be Junior!"
He looked through her. He doodled. He yawned.
She fawned. She just loooooved his daddy. He flew with her oodles. She knew he was a Mormon wheel. She'd looove to know more.
Wayne laid out Wayne Senior.
He ran a kitchen-help union. He rigged low pay. He had coin. He had pull. He pushed right-wing tracts. He hobnobbed with fat cats. He knew J. Edgar Hoover.
The pilot hit the intercom. Dallas-on time.
The stew fluffed her hair. "I'll bet you're staying at the Adolphus."
Wayne cinched his seat belt. "What makes you say that?"
"Well, your daddy told me he always stays there."
"I'm staying there. Nobody consulted me, but that's where they've got me booked."
The stew hunkered down. Her skirt slid. Her garter belt gapped.
"Your daddy told me they've got a nice little restaurant right there in the hotel, and, well . . ."
The plane hit rough air. Wayne caught it low. He broke a sweat. He shut his eyes. He saw Wendell Durfee.
The stew touched him. Wayne opened his eyes.
He saw her hickeys. He saw her bad teeth. He smelled her shampoo.
"You were looking a little scared there, Wayne Junior."
"Junior" tore it.
"Leave me alone. I'm not what you want, and I don't cheat on my wife."

1:50 p.m.
They touched down. Wayne got off first. Wayne stamped blood back into his legs.
He walked to the terminal. Schoolgirls blocked the gate. One girl cried. One girl fucked with prayer beads.
He stepped around them. He followed baggage signs. People walked past him. They looked sucker-punched.
Red eyes. Boo-hoo. Women with Kleenex.
Wayne stopped at baggage claim. Kids whizzed by. They shot cap pistols. They laughed.
A man walked up - Joe Redneck - tall and fat. He wore a Stetson. He wore big boots. He wore a mother-of-pearl .45.
"If you're Sergeant Tedrow, I'm Officer Maynard D. Moore of the Dallas Police Department."
They shook hands. Moore chewed tobacco. Moore wore cheap cologne. A woman walked by-boo-hoo-hoo-one big red nose.
Wayne said, "What's wrong?"
Moore smiled. "Some kook shot the President."

Most shops closed early. State flags flew low. Some folks flew rebel flags upright.
Moore drove Wayne in. Moore had a plan: Run by the hotel/get you set in/find us that jigaboo.
John F. Kennedy-dead.
His wife's crush. His stepmom's fixation. JFK got Janice wet. Janice told Wayne Senior. Janice paid. Janice limped. Janice showed off the welts on her thighs.
Dead was dead. He couldn't grab it. He fumbled the rebounds.
Moore chewed Red Man. Moore shot juice out his window. Gunshots overlapped. Joyous shit in the boonies.
Moore said, "Some people ain't so sad."
Wayne shrugged. They passed a billboard-JFK and the UN.
"You sure ain't sayin' much. I got to say that so far, you ain't the most lively extradition partner I ever had."
A gun went off. Close. Wayne grabbed his holster.
"Whoo! You got a case of the yips, boy!"
Wayne futzed with his necktie. "I just want to get this over with."
Moore ran a red light. "In good time. I don't doubt that Mr. Durfee'll be sayin' hi to our fallen hero before too long."
Wayne rolled up his window. Wayne trapped in Moore's cologne.
Moore said, "I been to Lost Wages quite a few times. In fact, I owe a big marker at the Dunes this very moment."
Wayne shrugged. They passed a bus bench. A colored girl sobbed.
"I heard of your daddy, too. I heard he's quite the boy in Nevada."
A truck ran a red. The driver waved a beer and revolver.
"Lots of people know my father. They all tell me they know him, and it gets old pretty quick."
Moore smiled. "Hey, I think I detect a pulse there."
Motorcade confetti. A window sign: Big D loves Jack & Jackie.
"I heard about you, too. I heard you got leanings your daddy don't much care for."
"For instance?"
"Let's try nigger lover. Let's try you chauffeur Sonny Liston around when he comes to Vegas, 'cause the PD's afraid he'll get himself in trouble with liquor and white women, and you like him, but you don't like the nice Italian folks who keep your little town clean."
The car hit a pothole. Wayne hit the dash.
Moore stared at Wayne. Wayne stared back. They held the stare. Moore ran a red. Wayne blinked first.
Moore winked. "We're gonna have big fun this weekend."

The lobby was swank. The carpets ran thick. Men snagged their boot heels.
People pointed outside-look look look-the motorcade passed the hotel. JFK drove by. JFK waved. JFK bought it close by.
People talked. Strangers braced strangers. The men wore western suits. The women dressed faux-Jackie.
Check-ins swamped the desk. Moore ad-libbed. Moore walked Wayne to the bar.
SRO-big barside numbers.
A TV sat on a table. A barman goosed the sound. Moore shoved up to a phone booth. Wayne scoped the TV out.
Folks jabbered. The men wore hats. Everyone wore boots and high heels. Wayne stood on his toes. Wayne popped over hat brims.
The picture jumped and settled in. Sound static and confusion. Cops. A thin punk. Words: "Oswald"/"weapon"/"Red sympath-"
A guy waved a rifle. Newsmen pressed in. A camera panned. There's the punk. He's showing fear and contusions.
The noise was bad. The smoke was thick. Wayne lost his legs.
A man raised a toast. "Oughta give Oswald a-"
Wayne stood down. A woman jostled him-wet cheeks and runny mascara.
Wayne walked to the phone booth. Moore had the door cracked.
He said, "Guy, listen now."
He said, "Wet-nursing some kid on some bullshit extradition-"
"Bullshit" tore it.
Wayne jabbed Moore. Moore swung around. His pant legs hiked up.
Fuck-knives in his boot tops. Brass knucks in one sock.
Wayne said, "Wendell Durfee, remember?"
Moore stood up. Moore got magnetized. Wayne tracked his eyes.
He caught the TV. He caught a caption. He caught a still shot: "Slain Officer J. D. Tippit."
Moore stared. Moore trembled. Moore shook.
Wayne said, "Wendell Durf-"
Moore shoved him. Moore ran outside.

The council booked him a biggg suite. A bellboy supplied history. JFK loved the suite. JFK fucked women there. Ava Gardner blew him on the terrace.
Two sitting rooms. Two bedrooms. Three TVs. Slush funds. Six cold. Kill that nigger, boy.
Wayne toured the suite. History lives. JFK loved Dallas quail.
He turned the TVs on. He tuned in three channels. He caught the show three ways. He walked between sets. He nailed the story.
The punk was Lee Harvey Oswald. The punk shot JFK and Tippit. Tippit worked Dallas PD. DPD was tight-knit. Moore probably knew him.
Oswald was pro-Red. Oswald loved Fidel. Oswald worked at a schoolbook plant. Oswald clipped the Prez on his lunch break.
DPD had him. Their HQ teemed. Cops. Reporters. Camera hogs all.
Wayne flopped on a couch. Wayne shut his eyes. Wayne saw Wendell Durfee. Wayne opened his eyes. Wayne saw Lee Oswald.
He killed the sound. He pulled his wallet pix.
There's his mother - back in Peru, Indiana.
She left Wayne Senior. Late '47. Wayne Senior hit her. He broke bones sometimes.
She asked Wayne who he loved most. He said, "My dad." She slapped him. She cried. She apologized.
The slap tore it. He went with Wayne Senior.
He called his mother - May '54 - he called en route to the Army. She said, "Don't fight in silly wars." She said, "Don't hate like Wayne Senior."
He cut her off. Binding/permanent/4-ever.
There's his stepmom:
Wayne Senior ditched Wayne's mom. Wayne Senior wooed Janice. Wayne Senior brought Wayne along. Wayne was thirteen. Wayne was horny. Wayne dug on Janice.
Janice Lukens Tedrow made rooms tilt. She played indolent wife. She played scratch golf. She played A-club tennis.
Wayne Senior feared her spark. She watched Wayne grow up. She torched reciprocal. She left her doors open. She invited looks. Wayne Senior knew it. Wayne Senior didn't care.
There's his wife:
Lynette Sproul Tedrow. Perched in his lap. Grad night at Brigham Young.
He's shell-shocked. He got his chem degree-BYU/'59 - summa cum laude. He craved action. He joined Vegas PD. Fuck summa cum laude.
He met Lynette in Little Rock. Fall '57. Central High desegregates. Rednecks. Colored kids. The Eighty-Second Airborne.
Some white boys prowl. Some white boys snatch a colored boy's sandwich. Lynette hands him hers. The white boys attack. Corporal Wayne Tedrow Jr. counters.
He beats them down. He spears one fuck. The fuck screams, "Mommy!"
Lynette hits on Wayne. She's seventeen. He's twenty-three. He's got some college.
They fucked on a golf course. Sprinklers doused them. He told Janice all.
She said, "You and Lynette peaked early. And you probably liked the fight as much as the sex."
Janice knew him. Janice had the home-court advantage.
Wayne looked out a window. TV crews roamed. News vans double-parked. He walked through the suite. He turned off the TVs. Three Oswalds vanished.
He pulled his file. All carbons: LVPD/Dallas County Sheriff's.
Durfee, Wendell (NMI). Male Negro/DOB 6-6-27/Clark County, Nevada. 6'4"/155.
Pander beefs-3/44 up. "Well-known dice-game habitue." No busts outside Vegas and Dallas.
"Known to drive Cadillacs."
"Known to wear flamboyant attire."
"Known to have fathered 13 children out of wedlock."
"Known to pander Negro women, white women, male homosexuals & Mexican transvestites."
Twenty-two pimp busts. Fourteen convictions. Nine child-support liens. Five bail jumps.
Cop notes: Wendell's smart/Wendell's dumb/Wendell cut that cat at Binion's.
The cat was mobbed up. The cat shanked Wendell first. The council set policy. The LVPD enforced it.
"Known Dallas County Associates":
Marvin Duquesne Settle/male Negro/Texas State custody.
Fenton "Duke" Price/male Negro/Texas State custody.
Alfonzo John Jefferson/male Negro/4219 Wilmington Road, Dallas 8, Tex. "Gambling partner of Wendell Durfee."
County Probation: (Stat. 92.04 Tex. St. Code) 9/14/60-9/14/65. Employed: Dr Pepper Bottling Plant. Note: "Subject to make fine payments for term of probation, i.e.: every 3rd Friday (Dr Pepper payday) County Prob Off."
Donnell George Lundy/male Negro/Texas State custody.
Manuel "Bobo" Herrara/male Mexican/Texas State custody.
The phone rang. Wayne grabbed it.
"It's me, son. Your new best buddy."
Wayne grabbed his holster. "Where are you?"
"Right now I'm noplace worth bein'. But you meet me at eight o'clock."
"The Carousel Club. You be there, and we'll find us that burrhead."
Wayne hung up. Wayne got butterflies.
Wendell, I don't want to kill you.

Neato. (none / 0) (#14)
by tkatchev on Fri Apr 26th, 2002 at 12:57:24 PM PST
Except that it should be formatted so that the subject-verb-object sentences line up in an orderly fashion. (i.e. a line break after each sentence.) I am perfectly serious, I think it would make reading this thing much easier.

Peace and much love...

You can read 100's of pages of this if you like (none / 0) (#15)
by zikzak on Fri Apr 26th, 2002 at 01:03:26 PM PST
The actual book was double-spaced where I've posted a simple <BR>.

I simply copied and pasted the above haphazardly because I'm lazy.

And stuff. (none / 0) (#20)
by nx01 on Fri Apr 26th, 2002 at 04:39:44 PM PST
What if each and every one of us could have had our very own spikey-haired Asian chick all along?

Or what if we all have had our very own spikey-haired Asian chick all along... and just never realized it.

Yeah, you see her. She's the one across the room.

I think she smiled at you. No. Seriously. And as we all know, that means she wants you.

Go get her, tiger.

"Every time I look at the X window system, it's so fucking stupid; and part of me feels responsible for the worst parts of it."
-- James Gosling


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