1st New Year's Eve Post Graduation

Dear drunkards,

I hope you are all enjoying the end of the year festivities while I'm stuck at home battling off yet another head cold. That makes like 3 viruses I've accumulated this season; I'm starting to dislike all the sick people who come in trying to fill their prescriptions. Maybe I should start wearing a facemask like the Chinese when SARS broke out.

The aforementioned bastard virus had dissuaded me from going back to Houston. So on the 31st, I thought about just trucking over to the Flying Saucer in Addison a few miles away, but I reconsidered since I'd be going by myself. I also didn't feel like hitting on the sad single ladies (who had no one to kiss) since I might've sneezed a whole bunch of green and yellow gunk on them.

All things considered, I went to bed 3 hours before the turn of the decade. The blanket wrapped around me like a burrito seasoned with generous amounts of loratadine, dextromethorphan, guaifenesin, and phenylephrine.

Blah. I feel old. What 22 year old skips out on a New Year's bash?

SPIDER: Just throw it in the bag

SPIDER Re-Release, part tres

About the first piece in my watch collection. I've stopped at three because I haven't found anything else I really like (I think Rolexes are ugly...). If I were to win a Rolex, I'd sell it and get nicer looking watches.

Number 2 was a Gucci with 12 diamonds, and #3 was a Movado.

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Sep 10, 2009

There's a new hip-hop/rap song on the radio with the hook (chorus) being Just throw it in the bag. It's a pretty trashy song, but it's catchy. I can't really see myself saying that line out loud, but I did say it in my head yesterday.

sales lady: 'So what do you think?'

me: silently, 'Just throw it in the bag.' Spokenly, 'I absolutely love the piece. I'll take it.'

What did I buy? My first watch as a pharmacist. And it's pimp, and 'overdone but nice' in the words of my trusted friend who knows how to dress well. Decide for yourself:

It's from the Raymond Weil Parsifal Collection, and it looks a whole lot better in person.

There's a phrase my brother taught me: 'I don't know.' It is used in response to a question which the questionee knows the answer, and the questioner knows the questionee knows the answer, but questionee refuses to acknowledge the question. Ask me how much I spent on it.

'I don't know.' *pause a moment, and then smile*

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Superfluous commentary: I did not pay sticker price for it, and I would not spend that much on a watch. But there is an odd appeal about of wearing a month's rent on your wrist.

SPIDER: Creepy Customer Service

SPIDER Re-Release, part two of ?

Just a bit of background: I had recently started my new job, and it was a few weeks after orientation.

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Sep 4, 2009

Multiple Choice: What would be appropriate in providing superior customer service?

C) If a customer is not looking your way, you should look continuously into their eyes until they notice you. (not the right answer, also notice pronoun-antecedent disagreement)

I changed around some words, because I signed away my soul and the souls of my unborn children saying I would not reveal any proprietary information. I signed something that bound my ‘heirs’ to something or another. I wonder if anyone actually refuses to sign the 1000 documents HR puts on the desk. What about lawyers--do they really read what their comrades have written?

Anyway, during the obligatory online training course, I came across the top line. I stopped and laughed. And laughed again. And continued laughing. That’s awesome. It gave me ideas about what to do the next time I saw an attractive girl. Stare continuously into her eyes until she notices me. Perfect! Unfortunately, after she makes eye contact, her face contorts into a look of disgust, then fear. Then she informs her hulking mass of a boyfriend of that creepy guy that stared into her eyes, whilst I stand dazed as if blinded by the life-giving rays from the stars which are her eyes that are miraculously outshined by the opalescence of the beauty of her face. Then I proceed to get pounded. That’s how that would end. Oh bitter pain, thy name is LUST.

The thing I like about growing older is that I think I have a more realistic expectation of relationships and of women. I used to think back in school that if I were to be able to talk to that one special girl, all the pieces of my life would fall into place. We would date, we would be intimate, we would start living together, and we would get married. Simple as that. The semester would pass, and then a new girl would replace my idol. And another semester and another girl. On and on, ad infinitum*.

Then I grew up. It’s a bit too long to put down in an entry, but I hope I can make sense of it in a chapter in my book. As a little kid, I thought people grow more mature as they got older. One of my sayings is, ‘As men grow older, they don’t become more mature; they simply grow better at hiding their immaturity.’ I think most women would agree in principle, if only for a laugh.

But in all honestly and seriousness, I think something just happens in person that makes them want something or another. Development in homo sapiens male does not happen via drift, or gradually; it happens via shifts, or dynamic changes. A man can go from wanting a relationship to wanting flings to wanting to bang teenie boppers or cougars. I want to be a man who accepts and embraces his own ideas and thoughts because they originate from him. F--- everybody else. How very Emersonian**, eh?

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* Latin for ‘to infinity’? If it isn’t, then I mean to say ‘to infinity’ but in a smug way via use of a foreign language.

** Emerson didn’t literally say ‘F--- everybody else’ in ‘Self-Reliance,’ but he might as well have. He tried not to associate with anyone who didn’t ‘f--- everybody else.’

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Director's Cut Commentary: One of my friends liked the line 'whilst I stand dazed as if blinded by the life-giving rays from the stars which are her eyes that are miraculously outshined by the opalescence of the beauty of her face'. Reading my post again, I really dig it myself. Excuse the ego.

Changes Continued (Resolution numero tres)

Dear resolution-breakers,

It seems I may have already violated my rule about consistent writing. Technically, I haven’t because I had already composed my post but just forgot to publish it. Part of the reason for my forgetfulness is change number 3: regular sleep.

Over the past few weeks, I’ve waken pissed off at myself for only getting 4 hours of sleep before working a 12-hr overnight shift. That’s a recipe for ramen noodles (something that’s just not healthy). It would always be something like a streaming episode I had to watch or bills I had to pay, etc. Other times, it would be just googling to see whether there were unopened wired PS2 Guitar Hero controllers available (there are but they’re expensive). Basically I did a whole bunch of random crap that doesn’t amount to much. One of my new mantras I chant when I get home is, ‘Sleep is king.’

So yesterday morning, I got home with a plan. I drank of glass of V8 to get some energy, pumped some iron, got a protein shake, showered, and checked my email. When it was all said and done, I was 30 minutes past my scheduled bedtime. So I blocked out all the noise and went to sleep. I’ve learned that there are very few things you have to do immediately that can’t wait for the next day.

And it’s a good thing I got my rest, because the days leading up to holidays are terrible. People want to get their prescriptions all at once and are angry that you stand in the way of their holiday preparations. Unlike Macys or FedEx, we don’t get extra help around the holidays--it’s just me back here.

Working out helped too (change #4), because my sore muscles remind me that I’m doing well for myself.

I thought that my disordered thinking was a product of still living at home post-graduation. It was nice to have something/someone else to blame, but it was my fault. Mea culpa.

Hickville 5-0 at 3 AM

Speeders anonymous,

Some 40 miles outside Dallas at 2:30 in the morning, I saw a Crown Victoria creep up from the left on-ramp on I-45. I didn’t have my nightvision goggles (I had left those at Marisa’s condo), but I knew the look of that most despised of American cars. Most minorities and speeders know the look of that ugly mass of metal from far away even in the pitch of night. I had passed by its younger brothers, the Impala and the Charger at 30 minute intervals parked under overpasses all along I-45, both with their headlights off.

But I’m too smart to even have to slam on the brakes; I was cruising at a blistering 64 mph (in a 65 mph speed limit zone). Sure I almost get flattened by large 18-wheelers all the time, but I haven’t gotten a ticket yet in the dozen or so times I’ve driven back and forth from Dallas.

The regular payoff is the gas mileage. It takes only about 7.5 gallons to get to Houston in my trusty Corolla with cruise control activated. At a higher speed, it would probably be about 9-10 gallons. So that’s $3-5 dollars I’m saving so far (4 trips and I get a free lapdance, like the defunct Subway sandwich card).

The not-so regular payoff is the lack of tickets and the lack of fear of being pulled over by Hickville 5-0. I don’t know about you, but I am deathly scared of smalltown cops who might pull me over and call me ‘son’ and say stuff like ‘you’re not from around here’ or ‘chai nee boy’. Granted, I’m a natural born Texan, but Sgt Prejudice doesn’t know that. All he knows is that I’m disrespecting his little speed trap of a town in my Jap-made car. And that I’m another victim in the monthly quota that he swears he does not keep.

I’d pay $200 or whatever the cost is for a speeding ticket, but I just dread the thought of the whole ordeal of being pulled over in the middle of nowhere.

What made this Hickville 5-0 so annoying was that he also cruised at 64 mph just 3 car lengths behind me to my right hand side (I-45 is 3 lanes at this point). And he stayed there for what seemed like 5 miles. Sgt a-holio never gained nor lost ground on me; he just waited for me to break that magical 65 barrier where he can turn on the sirens and belittle me. But a little under 5 minutes later, he exited at another insignificant exit out of my life.

I guess I’m being a little prejudicial myself, having judged this cop before I even got to know him. But honestly, have you ever seen a cop drive the speed limit? He was just hankering for some of my cash.

The Godiva Quandary

When I reached Houston and got up to the front doorstep of what had been my home for the past 3 years, I saw a gift bag with a card and candy cane attached. The wind had blown the doormat against the door, and the gift was held delicately between the two, like a stuffed pita bread sandwich. I had a feeling of who it was from, and I also had a feeling of excitement of what my parents would inevitably fret about. What were they going to do? Let the fun commence.

‘Mama, Lisa from next door got you something.’

Rather than be excited about getting a gift, Mama’s face contorted into a look of concern, wondering what the gift was, how much it cost, and what would be a commensurate gift. Oh well, Mama’s problem, not mine. Apparently, it was Dad’s problem too (he had gotten off his contract work for Christmas).

Dad: ‘What did they get us?’

Mama: ‘Candy. They have 2 kids. It’s probably just something they normally buy for themselves, but they just gifted us one of them.

Last year, Lisa had given us some scented candle, an obvious regift. This year, I think Mama was wrong: our neighbors aren’t rolling around in money to buy their young kids Godiva truffles. By the way, Godivas are an easy gift for any woman in your life. And if she’s allergic, she can always regift it. Who doesn’t like chocolate? Stockpile them and ‘I’m sorry’ cards, and be sure they’re not expired before you give them.

After I got my luggage upstairs to my old room, I headed back to the railing overlooking the living room. Dad and Mama had finished a light argument about why white people are compelled to give gifts. The only clear thing to do is to give them something back; too bad they couldn’t just rewrap the chocolates and give it back to Lisa.

Mama had pulled out some rectangular object with a clear plastic window from her closet. It was beige, and looked like a boring version of some gift package you would get at Bath & Bodyworks. She deftly took some wrapping paper and covered the thing in 3 minutes flat. Mama took out a card from her cache of thoughtful thoughtlessness (cards for people you didn’t plan on giving a card) and harassed Dad to come up with some Christmas-sy message.

The whole scene was so worth the missed rerun of Two and a Half Men.

Although we are Catholic and celebrate Christmas, we don’t do that much gift-giving (Vietnamese people like money, and it’s a bit strange to exchange $100 bills for each other). The funny thing is that the awkward situation was probably shared by families of all races and creeds, not just my stingy Viet parents.

At least they got Lisa and her family something.

Holiday Muzak

If I have to hear one more cover version of ‘Last Christmas, I gave you my heart, but the very next day, you gave it away…’ I will have to pull a Van Gogh on both ears. Cover versions are new renditions of classic songs, especially holiday trash. It is absolutely atrocious. I love Alicia Keys and Beyonce, but I refuse to listen to any of their holiday stuff (not that they play the Alicia Keys or Beyonce versions). It seems that artists are compelled to release holiday albums because they sell well. It came as a huge shock to me.

Why do people buy this stuff? Is it for their kids? Do they actually sit and listen to rock versions of Christmas carols? Sure it’s all happy and cheery when you walk into a retail store to be greeted by some jingle about Jolly Saint Nick, but being forced to listen for 12 hours has to be something that violates the Geneva convention.

The sound of madness has improved over the past few nights, but I really hope once Christmas comes and goes, they’ll replace the soundtrack. The other song I’ve grown to loathe is ‘I’ll be home for Christmas…if only in my dreams.’ It will be only in his dreams because I’ll strangle the life from him if I ever meet that guy.

And I’ll be home for Christmas, for real and not in my dreams. Don’t jack my TV while I’m gone!

SPIDER: Mutton Chops

SPIDER Re-Release, part one of ?

For the first set of re-releases, I'm going to post a few of my favorites that somewhat outline my former blog. After this series, the re-releases will come singly and periodically; I'm just trying to catch up on a whole bunch of back-posts, as you can probably tell.

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Aug 6, 2009

The sucky thing about trying to grow out your hair is that the world always seems to be conspiring against you. I know for a certified fact that the reason why Houston is in the midst of 95 degree+ heat wave is because I'm trying to grow out a long, thick head of hair, sans mullet. I wake up fresh and neat, with little product on my head, because I'm going for the natural look, and by mid-afternoon, a thin film of oil and disgusting-ness seems to accumulate, partially seeping out from my scalp but mostly from the dreadful humidity. And even when it rains, it is no relief; what we get is an unwanted free sauna in the rain shower. Silvered drops of intended heat-relief drop on the cement pavement and sizzle and fade away, only to leave the taste of polluted steam on our tongues.

But enough of the weather--that's what you get for living in the South (or whatever region would encompass Texas). Back to the story at hand: So I haven't had a haircut in maybe a month and a half. For women, I don't think this is a big problem, but for guys who get fades, it feels like wearing two caps on your head all the time. The only relief happens in the midst of an ice-cold shower. So why all this inconvenience for hair? Is it for fashion/looks/etc? No--it mostly looks like a dead possum, with some tones of light brown when the sun hits it a special way. It looks bad. Really, really bad.

Have you ever watched those Chinese movies with the martial arts and actors/actresses flying around aided with invisible ropes (eg, Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon)? Well in those movies, the guys had even more luxurious head fur than the ladies. It is downright hot (well, in a weird movie kind of way). It would be awesome to have that kind of hair for a day truly growing from my scalp, but I doubt I could stand the maintenance. People would look at me weird at first, but then think about what I put in my jet black locks to keep it so shiny and flowy. Nothing at all, folks, nothing at all. All naturale. I jest, I jest.

In all seriousness, I've had a fade for the past ten years or so, ever since my brother discovered the wonders of an electric clipper. Mama and the rest of the old-folks thought it was traitorous and a disgrace to the family, and warranted death to have short hair. 'You're just like those bui doi (literally translated, dust of life) and the cu li (coolie or cooly, a low-class day-laborer in Asia) on the streets.' 'Ok, Mama, I'll grow it out.' But we never did grow it out, and Mama eventually learned to use the electric clippers too.

Today she complains that I need a haircut, that I look 'bright and smart with when your hair is short.' Strange how things work out. So why the change? Why not? My life was built on reason and logic, a suppression of all feeling, an eunuch of emotion. Now that the levees have broken, levees which were stronger than those in Nawlins, the floods have come. One of those floods is impulse, and this is an impulsive decision, to let the locks flow. With some mutton chops too, to help frame the gorgeous jet of hair once it grows out, a reflection of the abysmal depths of my soul, and all that good nonsense that incites emotion and helps sell books.

Finished The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter, will start on Slaughterhouse Five by Vonnegut

Hopefully I'll finish a few more of Emerson's essays and O'Connor's short stories before these two weeks are up.

A few points on McCullers's style that I like on the next post

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Interestingly, The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter was the last novel I read. Then life got interesting with the move to Dallas and the start of a new job and all. But recently, I've started on Don Quixote, something I always wanted to read. I'll let you know how it turns out.

In case you were wondering, I shredded those mutton chops before I went on my interview for my current job.

SPIDER: Top 10 Reasons to Read this Blog

Dear Letterman watchers,

Periodically, people will re-release some of their hit CDs/DVDs in an improved format. They will pick a precious metal or a fancy word to prefix or suffix the rebundling. Some of the gibberish include the super deluxe edition, the gold edition, the platinum edition, the greatest hits, the greatest-er edition, the double remastered super-secret version [limited], etc.

Let's call it for what it is: a ploy to gouge loyal fans. But since it costs you zilch to subscribe to my blog (Click the 'FOLLOW' button on the right hand side of the screen!), my gambit to re-release my old posts from my previous blog will be met by zero criticism. If not, send me a complaint and I'll reduce your monthly subscription charge by half.

So here's the first in the Super Platinum Improved Diamond-Enhanced Remastered edition, which shall be henceforth known as the SPIDER re-releases.

Enjoy!

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Oct 23, 2009

I had told some pledges in my fraternity to go visit my blog. And they best do what I tell them, lest they desire some more physical/psychological...ummm... education? No, 'education' still sounds kind of bad. Don't worry--hazing went the way of Lindsay Lohan (where is she now by the way? I saw a really bad picture of her in STAR magazine that I happened pass at the grocery stand). Don't call the university police on us--we swear they do stuff of their own free will.

...although being forced to read my blog may constitute hazing...

Anyway, if you weren't 'requested' to visit my blog, here's the top 10 reasons to stick around and feast on my wordplay (or lack thereof):

10) I asked you to come to my blog. And if you're my friend, you would do what I ask. (sounds like I'm channeling the logic of last girl I went out with)

9) You really have nothing better to do. Would you rather be studying? And I write good-er than most of that crap on the racks. (start groveling) Note to editors of the crap on the racks: I love your selection, please let me be a part of your genius. (end groveling)

8) I'm an attention whore, not unlike Paris Hilton. If you don't read and think about us, we fade away like Santa Claus or the Easter Bunny. And you wouldn't want to be responsible for killing off Santa or a bunny, would you?

7) Seriously, I'm trying to develop a sense of style in order to write a book that would be publishable. I'd like feedback on what you like, don't like, and what you think is 'overdone.' Stuff sounds good in my head, but people tell me differently (oftentimes).

6) This is like my diary posted to the world. You get to see the inner workings of a madman before I become one of those street hustlers with a sign that reads 'The End is Nigh' with a subtitle that reads " 'Nigh' is old-school for 'Near'... go read a f--kin book!" I hope the world doesn't end in 2012--I would only get through 0.00005% of the girls in the world.

5) I think my story is truly unique. There's plenty of Asians who are forced into the medical profession because of trying to bring 'honor' to the family similar to Amy Tan's Joy Luck Club. But I was supposed to be 'redemption' for the 'sins' of my father. I've also lived in the Caribbean (St. Lucia), Brooklyn, and El Paso.

4) Though I hide it very well when I'm trying to be professional, I'm ghetto-made. You get to read about a rags to riches story. I grew up in the project housing of Houston, I went to inner-city schools, I ate bologna and ramen before college because 'we was po', and I listen to hardcore gangsta rap because I truly relate to it. If I'm not a rose that grew from concrete, I'm certainly at least a dandelion.

3) Reading my stuff will hopefully inspire you to read some of my favorite all time classics like Ellison's Invisible Man, Joyce's Portrait of the Artist, or Lawrence's Sons and Lovers. Put down this modern era drivel (except my book when it comes out--my stuff will be like instant fine wine), and pick up Salinger's Catcher in the Rye. That book's accessible enough and is a pretty quick read.

2) If I get at least 5,000 followers, I'll take 20k out of savings and go to the Bunny Ranch outside Vegas and have a menage a quatre with blond triplet bombshells. And I'll give you all the sordid details! If I don't get 5,000 followers...I'll do it anyway, but you won't get to hear about it.

...who am I kidding? What guy can keep a menage a anything a secret?

1) I write for you all, people like myself, or those who can relate in some minute way to myself. I figure as long as you take care of yourself and your family and you don't hurt others, you can go follow your dreams. And you shouldn't let people tell you otherwise. Go write a book, go become an actress or model, go become a player or pimp (okay that hurts people, so don't do that), go buy a nice car, go splurge on a purse, whatever. Just first remember to bury your dead (Matthew 8:21), i.e., fulfill your obligations.

That's that. Read my blog. Keep me alive. You can tell people one day you read 'g' when he was just a lowly blogger in the vast oblivion of the internet.

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Commentary: Like any good Widescreen Deluxe 2-disc edition, there are obligatory extra features on the second disc which generally includes poor commentary overlaying one of the cast's favorite episodes. Only the film nerds enjoy it.

...until now! You will definitely get a kick out of my off-color commentary of my already off-color posts.*

*These words have not been verified by the Food and Drug Administration for accuracy. Don't sue g like they sued Airborne.

One Less Woman and Change (Resolution) #2

Dear Romo wannabes,

A couple of years ago, I was at a wedding for a daughter of one of Mama's friends. It wasn't anything remarkable; it was a typical Viet wedding in most respects, including the obligatory bottle of cognac. The bride and groom were Buddhist, so there wasn't a church ceremony (not that I would have attended had there been one).

During the reception, one of the guests made a comment which I'll always remember.

'Weddings always make me sad. It means that there is one less woman in the world for me.'

Although it was an intelligent wisecrack, the gravity and beauty of it was compromised by the fact that the guy happened to be the bride's brother. And if he had meant what he said, it would be a bit icky to say the least.

Well friends, today is a very sad day for me. I report that some lucky guy named Mike Fisher, a hockey player from Ottawa, has proposed to Carrie Underwood, and she has accepted. It is a black mark in what would otherwise be a joyous Holiday season. I think I may have to buy myself another watch to get me out of my dysphoric anguish. Why, Carrie, why? Tai sao (Viet for 'why')!

I've never been much of a Carrie fan until I heard the single Cowboy Casanova from her new album Play On. It has a real catchy tune and in my tamer dreams, I envision myself to be that cowboy Casanova, even if I don't have blue eyes (I can always get colored contact lenses). I liked the fact that in Cowboy Casanova she doesn't say what she'd do to 'suped up 4-wheel drives' or what she'd carve into 'legacies' (leather seats). Not that I'd have anything to worry about since I'm still balling in a dinged up '03 Corolla for the time being. I hope Tony Romo's ride is doing okay (was the car-hate song before or after their relationship?).

I think it is easy for people to idealize celebrities. They're beautiful on the surface, and the media digs a little bit to get you some feel-good stories about their personalities while they're snooping around for the trash. And you know you probably have a hydrocodone tablets's chance in an opiod-addict's medicine cabinet (my version of a snowball's chance in hell) of getting with them. So it's easy to say you have a thing for Carrie Underwood, Marisa Miller, Jessica Alba and the like (or Brad Pitt, Johnny Depp, Ryan Phillippe for the gals) and then just forget about them until you gawk over the latest red carpet photos or Maxim spreads.

But with women in day to day life, the ones I might have a chance with, I dismiss them rather offhand without a much thought. Like the cute blonde with blue eyes in the Arkansas hoodie (I'll forgive her choice of schools) who was walking around the OTC section of the pharmacy counter. I made up some BS in my head about how it would be frowned upon to hit on customers (one sitting through the sexual harassment seminar at orientation was enough). And that was that. Now a few hours later, I sit thinking about how big of a coward I am.

I'm still pretty nervous about the company policy thing, so I guess I'll have to get out more and be braver. Plus I have a leg up on other guys since I can always resort to using the I'm a doctor line. That's bound to get some digits, right?

Guys, what are your patented pick-up lines? Girls, do you think pick-up lines are cheesy? Do you really go for pick-up lines anyway, or is it only with guys who you would have gone out with in the first place no matter what they had said?

Pre-New Year's Changes #1

Dear repentant revelers (in 2 weeks time),

New Year's resolutions never work out for most people. If you want to guarantee something not happening, then make a resolution about it. By that logic, the Republicans should resolve to pass a healthcare reform bill, and the Democrats should resolve to curb deficit spending.

There's an all or none mentality; if you cheat and eat a cookie, then you're condemned to eat the whole box. And you can't make another resolution to quit eating until next year. It's a vicious cycle, one that gyms and diet gurus exploit yearly.

So I'm not going to make a resolution to start effective January 1st; I'm going to make a couple of changes effective immediately. The first will be to write regularly, even if the writing sucks. Back in high school when I was taking the Advanced Placement tests for English Language and English Literature, our slavemasters would beat us mercilessly with red ink and stares of disappointment, driving us to write until our fingers bled.

The main tyrant was a 6-foot plus, blonde-ish (her hair was going gray) former army vet. She ruled with a sharp wit and tongue, crushing elevated egos and rebuilding solid (if boring) writers. Twice a week or so, she would cruelly force us to write about some boring prompt for 20 minutes.

'Novels and plays often depict characters caught between colliding cultures -- national, regional, ethnic, religious, institutional. Such collisions can call a character's sense of identity into question. Select a novel or play in which a character responds to such a cultural collison. Then write a well-organized essay in which you describe the character's response and explain its relevance to the work as a whole.'

Blah, like eating cardboard or whole wheat toast.

I could never tell whether my stuff was any good until I got the paper back emblazoned with a score from 1-9, 9 being the highest. As the year progressed, my writing improved as evidenced by the increasing marks for the timed writings; I started with a smattering of 4s and ended with mostly 8s and even a 9. But I wasn't sure whether my writing truly improved or whether Ms. H was just padding my confidence for the real AP test.

Nevertheless, I made 8s and 9s on the essay portion of the real thing. It translated to a score of 4 out of 5 on the AP test. A mark of 3 would warrant college credit at a vast majority of universities. I also had a 5 on AP Chemistry that year, but that was more of an afterthought--anything less than a 5 in Chem would have been a disappointment. But the 4, the 4 was my love-child with that part of me I had never known to exist (is that autoerotic or just narcissistic?)

The writer extraordinaire continued with a 5 in English Literature the next year, as if to reprove any critics who would say the 4 was by luck. And it was all due to practice. Hours and hours of being stuck at school in that room on the second floor with a window facing the patch of grass bordered on four sides by the concrete of the building.

I had told myself that I was getting the English out of the way so I didn't have to take it in college (mission accomplished, btw, I came in with 52 hours of college credit, 9 of which were English related). Little did I know that I would come back to it.

And so I will return to the writing days of old, with daily practice in a craft I hope to call my own. To slightly alter Gandhi's quote, I will be the change I want to see in myself.

To my readers, what are the changes you want to make this coming year? Or better yet, what change can you make this very moment? Look at the swoosh mark on your shoes and just do it!

'Fuzzy Numbers', Asian Moment & Fantasy Football

Dear Watchdog groups,

If you've been patiently tuning in to my blog every day, you will have known that there weren't any posts for the past 2 days. It was not because I had scoped the location of Marisa Miller's whereabouts by hijacking a Google Earth satellite and was flying to meet her and confess my undying love for her. As mentioned on Thursday, Dad had disconnected the DSL so I had to resort to schlepping over the library to bum their WiFi. On Friday, I got lazy. On Saturday, I was sleeping. Ironically on Sunday, the traditional day of rest, I finally got to crackin' on the keys (ie, typing on the keyboard).

But I decided to fudge the dates because I'm obsessive compulsive about trying to have a post on each date, even if it's not entirely true. Can a person be both OCD and lazy? Is that somewhat of an oxymoron? Whatever. Mission Accomplished!

[imagine a pic of me making the 'V' for victory sign with both hands]

I'm finally back at my apartment after another epic 4.5 hour drive where I nearly died a couple of times by not having a ready source of caffeine. I thought I had weaned myself off from the energy drinks, but I'll definitely have to buy some before I become another cross on I-45. It will read 'drink Monster Lo-Carb energy drink so you don't fall asleep at the wheel and die, and make sure you don't combine it with vodka even though it's bound to be loads of fun.'

--

At around milemarker 140 and 210 on I-45, there are rest areas. For the interstate highway uninitiated, rest areas are public places where truckers have clean places to fellate each other. That's why there's a separate area for 'trucks.' I'm kidding, but I would not be surprised if my educated guess is really true. Rest areas have relatively clean restrooms and some vending machines. And you don't feel awkward for using the facilities and not buying anything (like you would at a gas station). There are also cameras posted nearly everywhere, even if they may or may not be connected to anything.

After a couple of trips to and fro on I-45, I had noticed 'WiFi available' signs on the sliding glass doors of the rest stops; Texas is not as backwards as Californians and New Yorkers may think, even though it may have produced the 'Dubya.' I had not connected to the 'outside world' since Thursday, and I was fiending to check my email and the latest news on the Tiger Woods's scandal (not really). So after using the facilities at milemarker 140, I went out to my car, calmly took out my netbook (the ever sexy ASUS 1101ha) and pressed the power button.

A minute later, I checked the WiFi signal only to find a single hotspot with 1 bar. In my intuitive Asian computer wisdom (we're born with kung fu skills and the skills to fix your home computer), I know that a single bar is pretty much a [male member]-tease. It's like going to a strip club--you know that the WiFi is within reach, but you can't touch or do anything about it. Then I had an Asian moment: I really really needed to check something (if Marisa replied to my email), so I balanced my netbook in my left hand and opened the door and started walking to the building, hoping that I would get more bars.

The metaphoric bouncer kept me from getting closer to the stripper; I got no more bars. I just looked like an idiot. An Asian guy walking around with a laptop. How common.

In all reality, it's probably uncommon since the majority of Asian males (excluding newcomers) probably have smartphones with internet service.

What was so important that I had to risk looking like an idiot? Fantasy Football. It separates the men from the boys, because boys are too busy playing actual sports. And my kicker was injured and I didn't have a chance to replace him, so if I lose by 10ish points, I will be disgusted.

Flirtation Success?

Flirters Anonymous,

My current view on relationships is reflected by my Facebook profile:

Relationship status: [blank]

Interested in: women

Looking for: [blank]

Though I joke about how attractive women should look me up and prey on me before I get any better, I am simply not looking for anything right now. That's pretty blasphemous, considering the propaganda and brainwashing, thought-purging stuff that the powder-plastered men and women on TV and magazines purport to be happiness. I think it's okay to be alone for a short period of time (or even an extended period) while you recollect yourself and organize your thoughts. People are dissuaded from pursuing rebound relationships for that very reason; you just need time for yourself after any major change.

I haven't broken up with anyone, but I've recently underwent a life-changing event: I saved lots of money by switching to Geico...jk. I stopped doing everything that my parents told me to do (that is go become a medical doctor to redeem Dad's mistakes). Such a dynamic shift from years and years of indentured servitude (or slavery) requires at least a few months of reflection. Plus, I don't want to go from one state of bondage to another state (ie, being dominated by a woman's whims and wiles).

But that doesn't mean that I'm not going to develop my flirtation skills for when the time comes to update my Facebook profile. So a couple of days ago I was at the Houston Galleria with a few friends just to hang out like mall rats. One thing I really enjoy about the Dallas Galleria vs the Houston Galleria is that Dallas's is significantly smaller with the same anchor stores (I can do without all the fem boutiques). Also, the traffic around the area is not as bad; the Westheimer area is absolutely atrocious! Dallas +2.

In case you were thinking about going to the Bailey Banks & Biddle in the Houston Galleria because of my post, I would recommend against it. They've liquidated their good inventory, and the salespeople there are pretentious asses. I walked in there, did a couple of loops around the watch counters and didn't even get a single greeting; this is the 'subtle prejudice' I'm talking about in my profile. It feels like I have to be 'fresh dressed like a million bucks' to get any recognition, while some 20 year-old in a fitted Abercrombie and ball cap can get instant attention because of what his parents make. Prejudice is as ubiquitous as iPods.

After a little more window shopping and another greeting-less entry at another jewelry store, we decided to get some ice cream at Marble Slab. There was a cute girl behind the counter scooping up the ice cream. After my friends ordered, I got myself a couple scoops of vanilla in a white chocolate dipped cone (boring choice, but I simply love classics). I gave her my plastic, beamed a smile and strategically positioned the 12 diamonds in my Gucci watch to blind her. She just smiled back. Success! Success?

My friends did a little good-natured ribbing. 'I think that girl liked you. Did she give you a special discount? An extra mixin' for free?'

I just laughed. It was just her being nice, but it was enough; it's nice to be nice. And if I had been in the right state of mind, I would have more likely asked for her cell number than the numbers of any of the haughty debutantes prancing around on daddy's checkbook. At least I know this girl works for a living.

A smile goes a very long way. You open up so many doors, and you can diffuse a lot of bad situations too, like when the customer's prescription won't go through insurance. There's an old, trite expression that goes, 'Fake it til you make it.' Being nice is the same way: even if you're not a nauseatingly nice person to begin with, by forcing yourself to smile to each customer, you will eventually improve your outlook on life.

Plus cute guys/gals will flirt with you more.

Great [Excel] Skills

Dear techies and technically-challenged,

There was a cult-classic film some years back about a dorky, lanky, awkward teen who was talented only in drawing animals and warriors and stuff. He lacked good skills, 'you know, like nunchuck skills, bow hunting skills, computer hacking skills.' And it is very apparent that 'girls only want boyfriends who have great skills.' No, Napoleon Dynamite wasn't in the Redbox, and I hadn't started Netflix yet. I have to thank IMDB for supplying me with the memorable quotes.

I, like Napoleon, do not possess nunchuck skills, bow hunting skills, nor computer hacking skills. Though I do pretty much excel in everything else [and this isn't a gross exaggeration], which includes Excel. That is Microsoft Excel.

I have come to understand the term 'end-user' as a somewhat derogatory term after having introduced one of the old-timey pharmacists to Microsoft Excel. In this electronic age, there is very little reason to hand-type in calculations, especially those that have to be done repetitively. Case in point? Balancing a checkbook by hand instead of using a spreadsheet. Quicken was designed for idiot end-users (I hope none of my friends are Quicken users--they're wasting their money); Quicken is simply a bunch of glorified spreadsheets designed for people who can't make their own spreadsheets.

I don't pretend to be an amazing techie (unlike the stereotypical Asian male, I don't have Photoshop skills, gamer skills, car mod skills, or godly electronic skills), but I do well enough for myself to understand how Excel, Powerpoint and Word work. I may not know all the features and macros, but I can whip out a spreadsheet to illustrate the federal income tax's marginal tax rate (the tax on the last dollar you make). After learning a few lessons in the features of a spreadsheet and learning how to tell the computer what you want it to do, the computer will do it for you, faster and more accurate than you would have been able to do it yourself.

Side note: In my opinion, knowing how to balance your checkbook and do your taxes is much much more important than hacking a computer to output an additional 0.5 ghz out of a microchip to increase World of Warcraft's FPS (frames per second) by 3.

All it really takes is a Google search (something like 'excel basics' or 'excel tutorial' will get you this really good tutorial, which unfortunately does not sell fake pharmaceuticals) and a couple of hours. Considering you probably have a copy of Excel bundled with your Microsoft Office suite, the spreadsheeet program is pretty much free to you. If not, you can actually download a fully functional office suite that's very similar to Microsoft Office 2003 called OpenOffice (I'm actually using OpenOffice's Writer application right now) that's entirely free. It costs you the time it takes to download and install. And OpenOffice is pretty much fully compatible with Office 2003 for most of the basic functions; there's no real need to shell out $200+ for the trendy makeover design of Office 2007. And people won't email you back constantly saying they can't open your file because it is a .docx instead of a .doc file.

Do yourself a favor. If you've never spreadsheeted in your life, go read up on the tutorial. Then spend half an hour creating a spreadsheet to balance your checkbook for the last month. I promise that if you keep up with it, you can better manage your finances and feel good that you learned an important skill that will never become outdated. Photoshop skills (chunky jewelry) come and go, but spreadsheet skills (diamonds) are forever. Just ask the Lotus 1-2-3 users of the 1980s.

Excel made my wildest dreams come true. Of course that isn't saying much, since one of them was calculating what percentage of my paycheck to contribute to my 401(k).

So What?

A couple of years ago, I was accompanying my friend's “friend”'s sister in the back seat of his ride while we were driving somewhere to get something to eat. I don't remember how I was invited, but I was pretty sure it was not a double date. I was, however, supposed to keep this girl company, which wasn't a problem; I've been a designated not-so-pretty friend fodder in the past (aka, wingman).

Although I'm not terribly attractive, I do think I have a winning personality when I'm on my psych meds (just a bit of alcohol, no SSRIs). I can listen like the best of them, nod my head, and say stuff like 'uh huh' to pretend like I'm interested. It's all in a day's work. Like a good medical professional, I don't ever come across as surprised or shocked (you can't imagine the weird things people call about in the middle of the night).

So this friend's friend's sister (let's abbreviate with FFS from now on) was absolutely gaga over something on her iPod. Respectfully, I asked her what all the rage was. She gave me the headphones, turned it to this genius's best track and told me to listen. FFS went so far as to shove the left headphone into my right ear. Again, I handle it in wingman fashion and give her a stellar smile.

'What am I supposed to be listening to?'

'Just listen! The first part isn't that great, but the good part is coming up. Do you hear it?'

'Uh... yea. This part right here?'

FFS nodded her head. I nod my head too to mirror her body movements (working on my 'game').

'Yea, it's really uh... great...'

'I know, right?!? He's like a genius. I want to have his love-child!'

She did say the world 'love-child'; I'm not exaggerating. I was obviously cut off from the land of the mentally stable and sane. I picked out some stuff from the 'music' and asked questions to try to get her to talk (this is an intermediate gaming technique).

'The sound of the baby crying. What do you think he means there?'

FFS said some incoherent stuff which I have forgotten.

'And the...what do they call them? Cymbals?'

'Like oh my gosh, you heard those too? Those are a representation of his blah blah blah...'

Utter, unadulterated refuse. Garbage. Stuff that the Oscar the Grouch on Sesame Street wouldn't allow in his abode (which is a trash can), and she thinks it's genius. I don't remember the artist's name (and I use the term 'artist' quite liberally), but I probably wouldn't want to name him, just to avoid any libelous lawsuits. I'm sorry, but mixing together clips of babies crying, doors closing, people screaming, together with some cymbals and percussion and woodwinds do not make a good song.

What is good music? Peoples' tastes vary dramatically. In my iPod, I have an eclectic mix of decades old rock (Eagles, Kansas, Journey, Pink Floyd, etc), hardcore gangsta rap (Tupac, Snoop, and the like), southern 'country rap tunes' (aka UGK), some contemporary pop (Taylor Swift & Colbie Caillat), and my first jazz album: Miles Davis's Kind of Blue [Legacy Edition]. Art and music are whatever you make them to be. I won't like everything the next person likes, and he/she won't like everything I like (especially when it's Pimp C telling a girl to 'get her knees dirty' and do stuff with his 'pipe'). I certainly didn't enjoy that gibberish that girl pumped unconsented into my ears.

I used to be quite close-minded in my choice of music. Being an inner-city kid, I've always enjoyed the heart-skipping bass of a good beat, interlaced with words of violence and desperation against a life we didn't choose to live. The rap I listen to makes me think about the human condition, how to rise up, how to succeed, or simply how to live in all this madness. That's why I listen to Tupac and not this modern drivel about doing the 'stanky leg' or 'soulja boy'. Most popular music nowadays (stuff that gets serious airtime) seem one-dimensional, choosing to focus on the materialism, money, and fame to block out the realities of poverty, ignorance, and hopelessness. But that's a diatribe for another day.

What opened my mind out of my monopoly of rap was a National Public Radio (NPR) segment about Miles Davis. It played a clip from 'So What', the iconic track from the iconic album 'Kind of Blue.' The first couple of trumpet blares seemed to ask 'so what?' And it repeated asking 'so what? So what? So what?' Then another trumpet (or the same trumpet) went on a solo to answer the question, in a deeply melodic fashion. Although in answering, it seemed to even evoke the same question, 'so what?' Then there was the backdrop of the bass and piano, both keeping time and complementing the horns.

I know I'm such a jazz newbie, but there was something so magical about that first time I listened to Miles Davis that made me want to confess my undying love to the genre. The music seems to take a collection of the problems of society today, put them in concert seats, and play them a chorus of 'so what?'

When I listened, truly listened, to jazz for the first time, my inner soul said to me, 'So what about violence and oppression? So what about poverty and ignorance? So what about people dying? As long as you're alive to recognize the problem, there is still hope. But you mustn't let the thoughts of all the evil in the world crush you under its weight. And if you need a moment to forget the problems and scream out “So what?”, it will be alright.

'Tomorrow will be another day. Tomorrow you will resume to fight, whatever the 'fight' may be. If you're a little tired today, go rest and regroup. You are not giving up; you are simply taunting death if but for a moment, for no one gives the reaper the slip. But you won't die today, and hopefully not tomorrow.'

So if you've never sat down to listen to Jazz, I challenge you to turn everything off, all your phones and other electronic knick-knacks, silence the rumble of your many thoughts, click this link (Miles Davis's So What) and experience an other-worldly experience. What does jazz have to say to you? What does your soul have to say to you if you only but stopped and listened?

If you don't like it, so what? Not everything is for everyone. But if you do like it, don't keep the secret. Go tell it on the mountain.

Doctor's Note

To Whom It May Concern:

Please excuse g from any and all activities he may or may not have missed yesterday. He appears to be suffering from a mild case of a head cold (mostly stuffy and runny nose). Though he has some body aches, it appears to be secondary to the epic drive between Dallas and Houston, not the hallmark of flu-like symptoms (like a good boy, he got his seasonal flu vaccine, but is holding out on the H1N1 for those who really need it). He took an antihistamine and acetaminophen, so he should be okay for whatever lies ahead of him today, like a not-so-epic essay on Jazz.

He wanted me to let you know that he would have posted an entry yesterday, but his dad decided that $15/month was too much to spend to add DSL on top of home telephone service, so he will be trucking over to the local library to make use of their WiFi. He also wanted to sarcastically thank his dad for giving him so much free time to do worthwhile stuff like watch daytime TV (how does Wendy Williams have a talk show?) instead of cruising the internet to look for ways to improve his writing.

To those friends who were expecting him to show up to the Christmas party last night, he had taken a nap and woke up only to find that he still felt crappy ('crappy' is a legitimate medical term). He promises a handle of Crown or a fifth of Patron in the near future when he will be better able to partake of the gift. I can tell he was really under the weather because he had an expensive Gucci watch he wanted to show off, but the recurrent need to wipe his nose far outweighed any solicited praises he might have gotten on his watch that has 12 diamonds to mark the hours. On a side note, I've already treated his left wrist for frostbite.

For those people wondering if I'm really a doctor, I reply by saying that my diploma from the University of Houston does say 'Doctor' on it. Even though it is succeeded by 'of Pharmacy' I am enough of a doctor to recommend over the counter medicines and such. And in some states, I may even suggest cough medicines with small amounts of codeine; unfortunately, those 'some states' do not include Texas.

g wishes you did all the best on your tests and such, and will celebrate with some adult beverages soon. Just not last night.

Best regards,

Dr. T. Nguyen

Paying My Fair Share

Dear P2P programs,

As I have recently come into a little pile money (via an email from a very legitimate-sounding source in Nigeria), I have decided to spend some scratch on the stuff I like and to distance myself from stuff I've gotten for free by 'non-legitimate' sources. Mostly music and movies; I'm not that big of a gamer.

Most of this morning and afternoon was spent watching movies from Redbox (Ghosts of Girlfriends Past [Jennifer Garner is hot!], Miss March [Miss March was not], Wanted, and Fast & Furious) and ripping music from CDs I actually purchased. It took several hours since I've started using a program called Exact Audio Copy which purports to produce near perfect copies since it goes over each section of the CD several times to check for consistency. It amounts to 30 minutes to rip a CD compared to 12 minutes with Windows Media Player or iTunes, but it satisfies my obsessive-compulsiveness.

I've also downloaded a couple of mp3s from the Amazon mp3 store, which was remarkably easy. Most songs are only a buck and download directly to your desktop. Some new releases are only $5 for the whole virtual CD. I haven't done the iTunes thing yet, but someone had recently got me an iTunes gift card. It feels so good to play music guilt-free, even if it wasn't pocketbook friendly.

I think I've tapped out most of the Redbox rentals so I'm considering starting a Netflix subscription. I had been intending to get the entire series of Angel, which would have been in the $70 range for a used set. But considering I probably would never watch the series again, Netflix seems to be a better alternative.

The thing that killed bootleg movies for me was the quality compared to actual DVDs. Even 700mb avi files looked like crap when scaled to a 24" monitor. I'd hate to see what it would look like on my widescreen TV. Even DVDs played on my PS2 don't look that great (I'm trying to find an excuse to get Blu-Ray).

The days of Morpheus, Kazaa, Limewire, iMesh, and most recently Azureus (now called Vuze) are over. At least for me it is.

Would I pay a premium to listen/watch high(er) quality stuff? Yes, now that I'm cashing in on the investment opportunity of a lifetime. It was as easy as emailing those guys my bank account number and routing number so that they can route some money out of the country. In return, they promised me a share of the account. I'm still waiting on my first deposit--it should be any day now!

Manhandling the Fruit

Dear politically-correct advocates: Relax. ‘Fruit’ is meant in a literal sense.

Dear gutter-minded individuals: No, this post is not about using the ‘western grip’ or the ‘reverse stranger.’ Sorry to disappoint.

Today’s post is dedicated to that special man-girl at the large discount-box retailer that formerly used a yellow smiley face animation to market its steep discounts. This man-girl had manhandled my bananas (not in a good way) a few months ago while she was checking out my groceries. I am forever scarred. Every time I see her there, I shudder at the memory of the experience.

How did (s)he manhandle my fruit? Well, let me first start by describing her appearance. Shall I compare her to a summer’s day? I think not. I’m not too terribly superficial, though I do consider myself as deep at 3 feet (aka shallow). Her face was attractive enough and was hard to miss as she towered head and shoulders above her female companions.

Being an Asian male at a generous ‘5-8’ on my driver’s license, I can’t help but be shorter than two-thirds of white folks, but man-girl eclipsed me by at least 6 inches. That’s usually not a problem as I really dig supermodels who are all 6-ft gazelles, 6-4 in heels. But the only thing aroused was my fear of her clubbing me with a blunt instrument and carrying me off to do cruel and unusual things to me, a la caveman style (again, not in a good way).

Why all the fright? The hands. Jerry Seinfeld had a similar experience, and I imagine that it is not an uncommon experience for guys. In comparison to her thickly built fingers all calloused from chopping down trees in her second job, my hands could be used to sport the most feminine of female watches and rings. The rest of her was well-proportioned, but unfortunately it was well-proportioned to her hands.

When I got home a little later, I noticed that one of my soup cans had a dent curiously shaped as if imposed by a human hand. But my bananas were surprisingly unbruised, and the berries were fine too, despite my memory that she grabbed all the life out of them (yet again, not in a good way).

From then on, I have used the self-checkout line. The only people manhandling my bananas will be me and/or that cute female manager I saw stocking the candy.

Have you noticed that their managers have started wearing professional attire? Or is it just my pretentious neighborhood?

-g

Luxury Line of Generics

Friends, possibly Romans, and countrymen,

Very recently, Valtrex turned generic. The days of paying $250 for your 'cold sore' medicine are over! Hail the days of paying only $200 for it. Expensive drugs rarely drop precipitously during the first 6 months of going generic. It usually takes a second generic manufacturer to start making the stuff for people to start seeing a real price drop, and even then it's still in the hundreds. All are cash prices, btw.

One person was more than happy to support the decrease in U.S. healthcare costs ('generics are great'), while another chose to 'stick with what I'm already taking.' That's understandable: it recently went generic, and maybe they might find some stuff wrong with it. Who knows? I don't blame her much.

What was outrageous was someone asking for the 'real stuff' on an antibiotic which has been generic for hundreds of years (okay, maybe 20-30 years; it's not as old as penicillin, but it might as well be.) I didn't even know the brand name of the thing.

In my relatively brief stint as a real druggist*, I've noticed one particular generic manufacturer with the iconic 'GG' label on a vast majority of their meds. I didn't know that Gucci made generics! I wonder if 'GG' had made that particular antibiotic, would that person have taken it. Another question which shall forever remain unanswered; it will remain up in the pantheon of the chicken or the egg debate.

'I don't have the brand, sir, but I do have the luxury line of generics. Some would say it may be even better than the original. There's even a rock song about it**.'

Want to take a guess at who's rocking the Gucci label? Answer below.

-g
--
*old school for 'pharmacist'
**Girl Named Sandoz

Too Tired to Talk

Dear future loyal readers,

I had an entry composed about 3 days ago, awaiting submission once I got home from work. But as of yet, that post will be yet unpublished for one more day. The reason this time is that an apology will take its place.

As much as I hate to admit it, working 12 hour nights (8p-8a) is physically and mentally draining. When I get home, all I want to do is eat something, watch a little TV, and fall asleep with the light of the rising sun beaming through the shades. It's not a terribly difficult shift since not many problems arise overnight, but the demand of staying awake in the dead of night when others are fast asleep just messes with you over time. I guess I'm still adjusting to it even after 3 months on the job.

So I apologize for stranding you procrastinators out in the abyss while you scrounge for something to read instead of studying for your finals. I hope you all did well on your finals thus far and wish you all the best this next week. I promise the start of my essays on heady topics by then. But by then, you may have long forgotten about me, like that significant other you dumped right before the holidays. It's alright; I forgive you in advance. But 'if you change your mind, I'm the first in line...take a chance on me.' :)

If you're looking for something to read in the meantime, I recommend what I have been reading for the past few weeks: Maura Kelly's blog, 'A Year of Living Flirtatiously.' She's a New Yorker in her 30s who hasn't found 'true wub.' Because of that, she's trying to live more flirtatiously to try to hook a keeper. It's kind of like a chick flick except you're not absolutely certain that it's going to end up all puppies, roses and Antonio Banderas as Puss in Boots. And I guess that's why I like it. Plus there's interesting stuff about cougars, baby firemen, and important questions like 'Is a drunken 1 AM text automatically sexual?'

And I'm going to stop here as I may have lost all credibility with my guy friends by admitting that I sing along to ABBA and that I'm entranced by a blog in a womens magazine.

To motivate me to become a better writer (or at least a more consistent writer), I'm going to post this on my wall, similar to what you see on a workplace accident placard:

Consecutive days with a post: 1
Last time since break in posting: Dec 11

-g

Recession Hits My Jeweler

Bailey Banks and Biddle, the jewelry store chain, is going out of business. I had purchased my first luxury watch (a Raymond Weil Parsifal) there back in September from a very nice woman. I saw the same lady this weekend after viewing a TV commercial advertising the steep discounts (50-70% off). I initially did not plan to buy anything since I recently spent several paychecks on new furniture, but the silvery, concave applique at 12 o'clock of a Movado caught my eye and opened my wallet.

I know, I know, I'm so utterly superficial and addicted to luxury watches. But besides getting a second piece of bling, I left with another satisfying morsel. Some guy was looking at my Movado (he didn't realize it was going to be mine) and said to the salesman, 'I know you're giving me a good deal on this timepiece, but I'll have to think about it.' A few moments later while the guy looked at other watches (which he probably couldn't afford), my saleswoman picked up the Movado and calculated the price with 60% off.

It was just too good to pass up. 'I think the word I'm looking for is "Sold!"' The guy furtively glanced my way with a mixture of contempt and jealousy. He probably thought, 'Asshole, throwing money around like that!' And rightly so, but if he had uttered an anathema*, I would simply have responded, 'You pay the cost to be the boss.' But he didn't, and so I just grinned.

Then my grin faded as I noticed his cute girlfriend, who had brown Shirley Temple-like curls and sky blue eyes, give him a conciliatory look and squeeze of the hand. On my end of the counter, there wasn't a person there to share in my purchase except the saleswoman, who is only happy because she got another commission.

Oh well, I suppose that's life. I walked out looking at the renewed smile reflected from the face of the sapphire crystal. I'll just have to be happy that I'm at a point where I can buy a watch worth several hundred dollars with no regrets.

There's a Bailey Banks & Biddle in the Houston Galleria, and there's a chance you might get your very own luxury watch for under 5 bills. Just fyi.

--

*anathema - a curse, insult

Ode to Scotch Whisky

The thing about growing up and being out of school is that there is no longer any good excuses for not doing stuff. I can't use the default, 'I would, but I really have to study.' Noone would fault someone (not as much) for flaking out in order to study. That's understandable; school is expensive and is even more expensive if you have to do it over involuntarily.

But people wouldn't be so understanding if you say you have to do your taxes. Given that there is no longer a good excuse (i.e. studying), I will refrain from making crappy excuses to avoid trying or doing new things. However, if I grow out my hair, I could use the excuse that I will be washing it.

So today I am trying out poetry again. Most of my poetry in the past (pre-college days) were mostly forced and very manufactured. I would literally add A through Z to a predetermined suffix to find a rhyme. 'age, bage, cage, dage, fage [phage], gage [gauge], hage...' etc. I hope my verse this time will be slightly better than Vogon poetry.

Here's my first poem in 5 years:

Ode to Scotch Whisky

Icicles dangling off tip of nose
Wintry blustering wind outside blows
Broken heater flows cold air
Curled with liquid fire, not a dram to spare.

Amber distillate, the angels' wine
or at least the devil's drink.
A taste of which gives man the spine
with which to do and think

Of the madness of this age
of all the wars we wage
of this failing economy the sages
warned us about.

But alas, not to worry.
The second and third [drams] bring comfort and solace,
respectively.
Swirl the glass, breathe the Scot's gold and sip
And all life's problems become but distant memory.

The Finality of Glued Wooden Dowels

One day, I want to have a nice house in the country 'burbs where I lounge about in the sunshine with a cool glass of sweetened iced tea (with real sugar) while I smile lazily at my good fortune for having such a beautiful wife and a beautiful life all paid for by writing. Until then, I'll toil away in almost sub-arctic temperatures (it's only supposed to get to 40 F today) hammering away at the keyboard. And also, as of late and much to the annoyance of the elderly lady downstairs, I've been hammering away at wooden dowels. No, that's not some weird metaphor for sex; it's the wooden dowels you find in IKEA-like do-it-yourself furniture.

Overstock.com has amazing deals on furniture, stuff that is respectable and will last for a good year or two (unlike IKEA, which may last a month or two). I kid, but the furniture I've recently bought have been top notch. Looking at the pieces, I feel my abode has dramatically improved, quite on its way to those male bachelor pads you see on chick-flicks like He's Just Not that Into You or I Love You Man (I swear Redbox didn't have anything I wanted to see!).

Assembling furniture is really awesome when the pieces fit together. When that last little cam lock twists into place, the feeling is like when you answer that last question on a test. Click. The disquieting thing about this kind of furniture is when they don't fit. And even if it hasn't happened to you, that little golden oval sticker 'made in China' doesn't inspire confidence in that it will all work out in the end. And then if the piece has wooden dowels that you have to glue, then it becomes a little more upsetting, because if it doesn't fit all the way correct, then you can't take it apart and fix it because they're glued together. The anxiety is almost enough to warrant a prescription for Xanax.

But that last little piece did slide into place. I almost felt like serenading those bits of wood with e.e. cummings's she being Brand-new but I thought better of it. Although the lady downstairs put up with my hammering, I doubt anyone can put up with the cacophony of the noise coming from my mouth as I try to recite poetry.

Frozen Flurry Irony

Dallas is some 250 miles north of Houston. That means it's 250 miles closer to the North Pole, which is generally regarded as a cold place. Logic follows that Dallas would be generally colder than Houston. In fact, New York City is even closer to the North Pole than Dallas, which is likely the reason why NYC is generally colder.

The thing about the word 'generally' is that it doesn't apply all the time. Example being today when it snowed in H-town and not a spec of the white flurry stuff fell on my new home city. I would be disappointed except I'm not that much of a snow person, and it may be kind of strange to have a snow ball fight by yourself. And aiming for the neighborhood cats is difficult as cats are smaller targets and then there's the unwanted attention from PETA enthusiasts. So I chilled at home, figuratively and literally.

That doesn't mean that Dallas any less cold. The temperature will plummet down to 26 F tonight, which is 6 below freezing. Hell would freeze over at 26 F (and Marisa Miller would show up at my doorstep in a trench coat). But that's okay. I have a warm blanket and about 1/3 of a bottle of single malt scotch. The pulsation of blood that will inevitably flow to my face after a dram of that excellent amber liquid will give me the false sensation of warmth which makes me smile even while icicles grow from the tip my nose.

And I'll smile because of the irony that it's snowing 250 miles south of here.