Dear sobriquet detractors,
I like my name. In Vietnamese, it means ‘bright mind’, which is a bit of a presumptuous name to call a kid, especially when you’re not sure if he will turn out to be all that smart. But since it’s a nice name with a nice ring to it (in Vietnamese at least), Viet people will insist on calling their kids ‘Minh Tri.’ And since it can seem that more than half of Viet people have the last name ‘Nguyen’, more than several will have my exact same first, middle, and last names. Actually, a quick search of Facebook for ‘Tri Nguyen’ will yield 3,300+ hits (before the vilified FB update).
It makes a fella feel real special. What also makes a guy feel special is when he gets a text message likely intended for someone else.
Me: uh…this is tri. wrong number?
Friend: hahahha, sorry tri!! i have another tri on my phone. i had made dinner plans and i had to cancel
Great. Even amongst friends, I’m not the only ‘Tri’ they know. But I do think that my unique Americanized pronunciation (like the letter ‘g’) sets me apart from the other Tri’s. And I do sign my posts with a lowercase ‘g’ to further my identity building. But sadly, for legal documents and other stuff like Facebook, you have to use your real name.
But I am special! (and not in a special needs way, not that there's anything wrong with that). I demand that I be the only person with my name! I’ll eliminate the rest of the poseurs one day, but in the meantime to set myself apart, I have donned a moniker which describes my uniqueness: DacBiet.
It means ‘special’ in Vietnamese. Most commonly, you might have seen it as one of the options for your pho, as in pho dac biet. Though dac biet is used like ordering the ‘special of the day’, it also has the meaning of ‘unique’.
And if you’ve managed to put up with my writing and rambling thus far, you will undoubtedly agree with my claim to being different than the rest, that I’m one of a kind. If not, you will.
Already people have taken notice of the identifying ‘middle name’ on Facebook. When new friends send requests of amity, they won’t be bewildered by the numerous impostors. They will simply have to search for ‘dacbiet’ (without a space), and they will find moi.
Notably, I had thought about using the title dai ca, meaning big boss or captain, but some guy had already snatched it up. In his about me description, 'Tri Dai Ca Nguyen' referred to himself as a ‘...pretty hard n*gga to be with' and states that 'If i'm goin forward, and you can't keep up, you gon be left behind.'
How brash! And it's a bit offputting that a non-my den* person would refer to himself by the N-word. Some people are just so full of themselves. Thankfully I’m not like that**.
--
*African-American or black
**On second thought, I probably need gastric bypass surgery because I'm so full of myself.
Saturday, February 13
Friday, February 12
Dry Skin, Expensive Salt, and Evy from Israel
Dear shoppers,
This past week, I’ve turned into a mall-walker. I hadn’t spent a dime on clothing or apparel (excluding a very inexpensive* watch) this year until just today while shopping for some new threads. I figured once I got to my physical fitness goal, I’d get some new clothes to fit my new physique. But things always seem to take a little longer than you expect, and I was fed up with not having a nice black jacket/coat, which was the first thing I had planned to get once I was down to my ideal body weight.
After a few department stores, I found one that I liked for a decent price. Also during my trek through the mall and surrounding stores, I found a nice chunky belt to go with jeans and an amazing pair of Steve Madden dressy-caszh**, subtly shiny, soft leather shoes. I would have never thought I’d swoon over a pair of men’s shoes, but it was love at first sight, and my love was cheap: $35 at Ross.
A lesson I learned while shopping is that you should probably do a bit of research before you lay down major paper on an outfit. After trying on a few blazers priced at $150+, I felt woefully bewildered at my lack of knowledge and thus fiddled on my Droid to find a decent article on outerwear selection. Though useful, the Droid was not meant for serious internet surfing. The cute salesgirl was helpful when I asked her opinion on a particular coat, though she seemed more interested in the jacket than in me. Bummer.
I’m thinking about having a recurring series on practical knowledge of men’s fashion written for regular Joes in contrast to the men’s fashion magazines aimed at flaming metrosexuals (even though I do aim to be a flaming metro myself).
While gleaning the windows at Baybrook Mall, I checked my posture via the reflection in the glass. I felt like I was growing into my new self. My reputation had preceded me while in school (as that smart guy who tutored peeps in obscure apocrypha***), but now my sphere predominantly contained complete strangers who know nothing of me. My confidence is steadily improving as I begin to feel again that I am wanted and needed by others.
Some of my female friends had said to me a while back that I was a ‘catch’ and that they’d set me up with their friends except none of them would have been worthy enough. It was like a scene out of Sex and the City where the girls try to comfort Charlotte in a dry spell. But like Charlotte and many poor souls who are forced to listen to that same consolation speech, I didn’t think I was worth all that much. Without my intelligence that people could pawn, why would they want to be with me or around me?
There are countless articles aimed at the fairer sex to explain the lack of manly interest in their feminine wiles. Some of these articles purport that once you figure out who you are, you will become irresistible to the opposite sex. Though I thought that was a load of crap at first, I am starting to feel the transformative power of my own self-knowledge and self-belief. In the crisp reflection in the looking glass at ExpressMen, I saw myself as attractive and as handsome as those manikins in their XS shirts & skinny ties and 29x32 slacks.
My back has straightened, my head is held high, and a smile is ever present on my lips. My stuttering has improved as I feel that people respect what I have to say. I feel absolutely great.
I don’t know what exactly has changed in me. But recently I’ve come to realize that I am my own best advocate. Who best to take care of me but me? Who will make me better except myself? Who can I always trust to seek out my own best interest? I guess the problem was that I wasn’t caring for numero uno the past couple of years, and so I distrusted myself, thus shredding any kind of self-confidence.
No matter. g is back and better, like the building of the uberman.
--
So naturally, when the mall kiosk girl, Evy from Israel, smiled her delicious smile and pestered me to allow her to put some all-natural vegan salt scrub (from some remote, fantastic place) on my hands, I deigned to grant her wish. We talked about her wares, and as she used the water bottle to spray away the salt and the dead skin cells from my hands, I stared deep into her hazel eyes (hopefully in a non-creepy way) to try to disarm her and convince her of my newfound awesomeness.
During the conversation, she said that I was cute and had great skin likely in an attempt to manipulate me into buying some really overpriced lotions and hand scrubs. And maybe just a couple of months ago with my new wealth, I might have indulged her. But if I had given in, I don't think she would have respected me.
After she said her whole spiel about how great the cucumber-honey-fusion-exfoliating-lotion-with-extra-moisturizers was, I attempted to number-close.
Me: So, if I get these things, can I get your number with it? [I wasn’t going to buy the stuff to get her number. It’s the first line in the number-close routine I’m developing]
Evy: (non-hesitatingly with the same smile) Yeah, I can give you the number to the booth. I’m here 12 hours a day. [Evy gets hit on innumerable times every day and has developed a smooth sidestep, like a Spanish matador]
Me: Your home number perhaps? [But I am persistent]
Evy: (makes a cute frowny face) I am too old for you! [She’s in her late 20s at most. She had asked my age during the attempted sale probably as a tactic to build rapport and was now using that knowledge illicitly to reject my advance. There has to be a law against that!]
Evy continued with more reasons, i.e. excuses.
Me: (seeming dejected, considering a neg, but thought better of it) Oh, I suppose you’re right. I appreciate your time and for moisturizing my hands.
As I gently extricated myself from an awkward situation (two people trying to sell something to each other) and left the stand, I furtively peeked back. Evy looked like a fisherman whose catch had just gotten away.
Evy, I’m sorry to disappoint, but I had a far better chance of getting your number than you did of getting me to buy your product. You didn’t know that you wanted me, but that’s okay. It’s really my fault for not being able to convince you. Give me a couple of months, and I’ll remedy that. :)
--
*$85 for a Citizen Eco-Drive
**caszh = ‘casual’ in g-speak
***knowledge of no use to anyone except research scientists
This past week, I’ve turned into a mall-walker. I hadn’t spent a dime on clothing or apparel (excluding a very inexpensive* watch) this year until just today while shopping for some new threads. I figured once I got to my physical fitness goal, I’d get some new clothes to fit my new physique. But things always seem to take a little longer than you expect, and I was fed up with not having a nice black jacket/coat, which was the first thing I had planned to get once I was down to my ideal body weight.
After a few department stores, I found one that I liked for a decent price. Also during my trek through the mall and surrounding stores, I found a nice chunky belt to go with jeans and an amazing pair of Steve Madden dressy-caszh**, subtly shiny, soft leather shoes. I would have never thought I’d swoon over a pair of men’s shoes, but it was love at first sight, and my love was cheap: $35 at Ross.
A lesson I learned while shopping is that you should probably do a bit of research before you lay down major paper on an outfit. After trying on a few blazers priced at $150+, I felt woefully bewildered at my lack of knowledge and thus fiddled on my Droid to find a decent article on outerwear selection. Though useful, the Droid was not meant for serious internet surfing. The cute salesgirl was helpful when I asked her opinion on a particular coat, though she seemed more interested in the jacket than in me. Bummer.
I’m thinking about having a recurring series on practical knowledge of men’s fashion written for regular Joes in contrast to the men’s fashion magazines aimed at flaming metrosexuals (even though I do aim to be a flaming metro myself).
While gleaning the windows at Baybrook Mall, I checked my posture via the reflection in the glass. I felt like I was growing into my new self. My reputation had preceded me while in school (as that smart guy who tutored peeps in obscure apocrypha***), but now my sphere predominantly contained complete strangers who know nothing of me. My confidence is steadily improving as I begin to feel again that I am wanted and needed by others.
Some of my female friends had said to me a while back that I was a ‘catch’ and that they’d set me up with their friends except none of them would have been worthy enough. It was like a scene out of Sex and the City where the girls try to comfort Charlotte in a dry spell. But like Charlotte and many poor souls who are forced to listen to that same consolation speech, I didn’t think I was worth all that much. Without my intelligence that people could pawn, why would they want to be with me or around me?
There are countless articles aimed at the fairer sex to explain the lack of manly interest in their feminine wiles. Some of these articles purport that once you figure out who you are, you will become irresistible to the opposite sex. Though I thought that was a load of crap at first, I am starting to feel the transformative power of my own self-knowledge and self-belief. In the crisp reflection in the looking glass at ExpressMen, I saw myself as attractive and as handsome as those manikins in their XS shirts & skinny ties and 29x32 slacks.
My back has straightened, my head is held high, and a smile is ever present on my lips. My stuttering has improved as I feel that people respect what I have to say. I feel absolutely great.
I don’t know what exactly has changed in me. But recently I’ve come to realize that I am my own best advocate. Who best to take care of me but me? Who will make me better except myself? Who can I always trust to seek out my own best interest? I guess the problem was that I wasn’t caring for numero uno the past couple of years, and so I distrusted myself, thus shredding any kind of self-confidence.
No matter. g is back and better, like the building of the uberman.
--
So naturally, when the mall kiosk girl, Evy from Israel, smiled her delicious smile and pestered me to allow her to put some all-natural vegan salt scrub (from some remote, fantastic place) on my hands, I deigned to grant her wish. We talked about her wares, and as she used the water bottle to spray away the salt and the dead skin cells from my hands, I stared deep into her hazel eyes (hopefully in a non-creepy way) to try to disarm her and convince her of my newfound awesomeness.
During the conversation, she said that I was cute and had great skin likely in an attempt to manipulate me into buying some really overpriced lotions and hand scrubs. And maybe just a couple of months ago with my new wealth, I might have indulged her. But if I had given in, I don't think she would have respected me.
After she said her whole spiel about how great the cucumber-honey-fusion-exfoliating-lotion-with-extra-moisturizers was, I attempted to number-close.
Me: So, if I get these things, can I get your number with it? [I wasn’t going to buy the stuff to get her number. It’s the first line in the number-close routine I’m developing]
Evy: (non-hesitatingly with the same smile) Yeah, I can give you the number to the booth. I’m here 12 hours a day. [Evy gets hit on innumerable times every day and has developed a smooth sidestep, like a Spanish matador]
Me: Your home number perhaps? [But I am persistent]
Evy: (makes a cute frowny face) I am too old for you! [She’s in her late 20s at most. She had asked my age during the attempted sale probably as a tactic to build rapport and was now using that knowledge illicitly to reject my advance. There has to be a law against that!]
Evy continued with more reasons, i.e. excuses.
Me: (seeming dejected, considering a neg, but thought better of it) Oh, I suppose you’re right. I appreciate your time and for moisturizing my hands.
As I gently extricated myself from an awkward situation (two people trying to sell something to each other) and left the stand, I furtively peeked back. Evy looked like a fisherman whose catch had just gotten away.
Evy, I’m sorry to disappoint, but I had a far better chance of getting your number than you did of getting me to buy your product. You didn’t know that you wanted me, but that’s okay. It’s really my fault for not being able to convince you. Give me a couple of months, and I’ll remedy that. :)
--
*$85 for a Citizen Eco-Drive
**caszh = ‘casual’ in g-speak
***knowledge of no use to anyone except research scientists
Thursday, February 11
The Rotation Files, Pt 1
Dear rising 4th year pharmacy students around the country,
You don't have to resort to feel-good posts written by idealistic fourth-years who are going to do a pharmacy residency and are afraid for their scholarly lives of ruining a reputation they have yet to make. You get the low-down g-style that you're used to and love.
Unfortunately, like Mystery and Mystery's Lounge, you'll only be privy to the deepest secrets if you're in the inner circle of friends, who are basically people I trust not to reveal my secrets to the unworthy. Most of my tips will be hum-drum stuff, but I will attempt to point out stuff that other people may not have noticed (but are within tasteful reason and don't seem manipulative).
Let me first start off by saying that, 'Impressing preceptors is a lot like picking up chicks, except it's much easier.'*
The reason why I'm drawing the parallel between how to impress preceptors and how to pick up girls is that the concepts are fairly similar (as I am figuring out reading all these PUA material). Though I'm not a natural pickup artist, I was decent on rotations and my preceptors all liked me (so I hope!). I think pickup artists would rock rotations given some pharmacy knowledge.
I'll also frame the teachings by progressing from beginnner to intermediate to advanced lessons. Let me make the disclaimer that these posts will be about how to interact with preceptors, not about what you should read for such and such rotation. Evidence and literature change every day, and I don't keep up with that stuff.
In a way, if I had done the residency route and became a preceptor myself, this is how I'd like my interns to act.
Part 1 - Newbie Lessons: Mostly common sense, but needs to be said.
Teachers and professors like me because I'm intelligent. I slept in Org Chem every time at 6PM (5:30-7PM, TTh classes), but Dr. X never called me out on it because I made 100s on his tests. Same thing happened in pharmacy school with my sleeping. Intelligence is like money and power; it is intrinsically attractive to most teachers as the dollar bill is intrinsically attractive to a majority of women**. But if you weren't a studious worker bee, no matter. Rotations are about interpersonal communication. Note that you will not get away with sleeping on rotations, no matter how good you are.
Lesson 1: Show up on time and properly dressed. This is how you make a good first impression. When you contact them ahead of time (email is fine but make sure your email address it's not something like vietballa27@gmail.com) to learn of the time and place to meet up on the first day, be very professional. Err on the side of being uptight. One of my mantras is you can always dress down when you're too professional (by taking off the coat, removing tie, etc).
A friend of mine got slammed for asking the, 'So what is the dress?' question. Here's how to phrase it: 'So, just to confirm, the dress is professional, is that correct?' It makes you sound somewhat intelligent while confirming the required apparel. If they say you can wear scrubs, then great. But don't buy scrubs beforehand, because some places restrict the colors.
For the gents, always wear a tie (and not of Playboy bunnies, go to Ross/Marshalls and get some conservative ones for $10) on the first day. After a week with a tie, you can calibrate your look to the rest of the men on the ward. Stick to solid blue or solid white button-downs. For the ladies, wear comfortable shoes and know that this is not the club; even if you want to attract the cute resident physicians, this is not the place nor time.
Lesson 2: Be enthusiastic and open to learn. And smile; that's important. Attitude matters a lot. You will undoubtedly suck during your first couple of weeks on rotations. Most preceptors know that, and they're usually okay with your not knowing much to start. But they're not okay if you seem uncooperative or unreceptive to their teaching (which you may feel is more criticism than lessons). If you need a confidence boost, think about the weakest student in your class (hopefully you're not that guy) and know that even he will make it through rotations.
Lesson 3: Write down everything and review it daily. Preceptors are a little like women in that they expect you to remember everything they said even if they didn't emphasize that it's important. Whereas a 'you should have known that fuchsia is my favorite color!' from a girl may mean a few minutes of tongue-lashing, a preceptor saying, 'I had told you to follow RG's potassium counts, and you didn't do it?' may mean a lower grade. Note: It's a bad sign when people use rhetorical questions.
On the flip-side, if you did something that they had mentioned, be sure to bring it up. To a girl, 'I know your favorite flower is a tulip***, so I got you some for no reason except to put them next to you and show you that you're vastly more beautiful than nature's best attempt at perfection.'**** To a preceptor, 'You had mentioned that when patients have DKA, I should monitor potassium when try try to correct it, since K + Glu go together. SY's potassium level is 4.0, which is normal.' Major brownie points!
Lesson 4: You will be overwhelmed. There is no doubt in my mind to this truism. When you feel lost, ask your preceptor nicely something like, 'I know this is all important, but what do you feel is most critical that I look up and follow?' If you don't put the first disclaimer, they will usually retort with, 'It's all important!' But when you take someone's argument away from them (by acknowledging it), they won't have it to use against you.
Whatever they say next is extremely important (because they themselves probably follow it), write it down and make sure you follow those on a daily basis. You can't ask, 'So Dr. XYZ, what's going to be on the test?' when you're in an auditorium, but you can certainly ask it when on rotations. Ask the 'what's really important' question during your first week.
So that's 4 quick lessons for today. I'll try to do these posts on a weekly basis, but just remember that preceptors are real people and you can get away with a lot of things while on rotations than you couldn't in a classroom.
--
*my response back to my friend who asked me on tips for rotations
**excuse the generalization, but I've never met a girl who said some guy she's dating made too much money.
***I think tulips are beautiful, especially the deep purple ones, so close to noir, that are full of foreboding wonderment and mystery
****Feel free to use this line, but don't be this cheesy
Wednesday, February 10
Are Phone Holsters Douche-y?
Dear commentators,
This is a question of vital importance! Are phone holsters douche-y? What about the horizontal ones? Here's a post by some guy with a crackberry whose ass has done incoherent things with his phone, so he's wondering whether he should get the holster that automatically locks the phone when it's in its sleeve.
(let's ignore the debate about whether crackberry's are douche-y)
A little background:
I have always had a flip phone, so ass-dialing has never been a problem for me, especially since I've always kept my phone in my front pockets. My first phone was a clamshell monstrosity, complete with grayscale screen that came prepacked with a cheesy plastic holster which I didn't even remove from the wrapping. I had baggier jeans in high school, so it wasn't that big of a deal.
Two years later, I upgraded to the trusty, ubiquitous Motorola Razr, which after almost 4 years has finally crapped out on me (I take care of my stuff well). The sight that turned me off of cell holsters was when I saw some Asian middle-aged man with work boots, button down striped shirt tucked into faded jeans, and a plastic holster with a Razr attached.
I felt like screaming, 'WTF? Is the Razr so thick that it couldn't fit in your pockets? It's called the RAZR!!! How big of a douche are you?'
At times, I wished that my Razr was thinner, especially considering that its counterpart in the other front pocket is a svelte Coach Leather card case barely reaching 0.4" thick when fully loaded. Why I haven't had more compliments on my taste is beyond my comprehension.
But my current phone, the Motorola Droid, though a very sleek and sessy* beast, is decidedly heftier than my previous cells, like the fuller women in Renaissance paintings. And though it will fit in my pocket, there is a very noticeable bulge. And just forget about using the front pockets of a pair of slacks.
Before I bought my phone, I had come to the decision that I'd have to holster it, preferably horizontally. The guy at the store made some suggestions about possibly trying out the Droid Eris which is cheaper and thinner, but I wanted a physical keyboard for all my writerly thoughts.
The sales rep also shot me a look when I went straight for the leatherette side-holster. I thought to myself, 'Whatever dude. You're a sales rep at Verizon, and you're probably still in high school.' Though logically flawed, ad hominem attacks make me feel better.
But since I do care very much what my friends think, I'm going to put this out there: Pertaining to men, are side holsters douche-y even if the phone bulge would be a bit awkward? Are there better options for my Droid?
This question is of critical importance to national security and more importantly, my 'action'** rate!
--
*my stylized version of 'sexy'
**'action' is a euphemism of a somewhat dirty word that little kids use to call their feline pets
Tuesday, February 9
Please, please tell me now...
...is there something I should know?
Dear Duran Duran groupies,
For what inane reason(s) am I listening to Duran Duran? Well, I kinda like androgynous 80s boy-ish rock bands. And Amazon MP3 had their greatest hits CD for $5. And I just like the song Come Undone (the girl underwater in a straight jacket thing is haute*, but I could have done without the dude in a corset putting on lipstick). And I think that coiffed collars should make a comeback in a huge way!
And I don't believe that my listening to Duran Duran makes me any less of a man; my many posts about women should be plenty proof of my orientation, though some may say I'm overcompensating. Trust me, Melanie Laurent can turn any questioning man straight. An aside: all the good allusions to foreign languages are either in French or Latin...I should have reconsidered my choice of Spanish as my high school elective.
Anyway, getting to the subject of today's post: tell me what you like (and dislike) about my blog! In the past few weeks, liketheletterg.blogspot.com has undergone a facelift without looking like a face-snatcher a la Joan Rivers.
So I'm going to run down my blog's many features. The main one is that it's free without any hint of advertising. All it costs you is the time it takes to read my stuff, which I think is pretty fair. To patronize the author, please send him bottles of single malt scotch, preferably 18 years or older. Pictures of Melanie Laurent will also be accepted. VISA, Mastercard, and AMEX pending approval.
Avant-garde Conservatism
Labels, lables, laybells: When dreamersson got to around 50 posts, I had a difficult time remembering the names of old posts to reference. It would take me a few minutes just searching through my blog, so I used blogspot's label feature to help organize the subjects of my blog. Some of my favorite labels are not-so-tongue-in-cheek (meaning very blatantly humorous) and love lust and/or passion fruit.
Blog Google search: Along the lines of labels, blogspot also had a gadget to allow Google to crawl over my blog (eeeewwww, it is like when the attendants started licking the oracle in the movie 300). In return, I get to search for things I've mentioned in the past like references to Marisa Miller (I'm so over her) and Melanie Laurent (totally in love with her). Unfortunately, the search feature doesn't work all that well.
Subscribe via Email (delivered by Feedburner): A good friend commented that it would be awesome to have my posts delivered to his email. Wish granted! g is for genie, apparently. This Google gem was a bit more difficult to find and implement, but I aim to please. I subscribed to my own blog to make sure it works and isn't too intrusive. It passes on all marks.
If you want to subscribe to liketheletterg, just enter your email into the first box on the right hand side and follow the directions in the confirmation email that will be sent to you. I don't know who is subscribed to my blog, so I won't be spamming anyone.
RSS Feeds: Apparently, Feedburner runs off of things called RSS feeds. I'm guessing Feedburner snips the changes in the RSS feed at the end of everyday and sends it via email. When I set up Feedburner, RSS feeds were already set up on my site. *shrug* I'm guessing it came included with the blog? I'm not that big a techie; I'm just a boy from the ghetto.
Facebook notes: Facebook is starting to become like a creepy Big Brother + Soma rolled into one, like the dystopian novels 1984 and Brave New World. It monitors all kinds of people's activities at all times of the day and offers a fix via it's news feeds and farmville apps. I refuse to be a slave! But they have a cool feature of checking a blog and posting new entries as notes, so I couldn't resist the crack. I know that some people refuse to click on links, so I'll bring my writing a little closer to them.
Weekly Table of Contents aka g-Style: I came up with weekly summaries of my posts with some of my more random comments. It's development can be read here. If you don't read anything else during a week, if you read the TOC on Monday, then you'll be caught up and can figure out what you want to read, like a magazine table of contents.
Shorter posts: My old blog had some really long posts. People can't be bothered to read really long stuff; there's a reason why War and Peace isn't more widely read. So my posts became shorter as I became lazier. It is what it is.
The title by-line: 'the coming of age, bildungsroman-esque blog of an American-born, Vietnamese Catholic male.' It had been really long with stuff like 'ghetto-raised' and 'fresh out of school' and 'doctor of the highest honors', but I decided that it would be best to be short and sweet.
Oldies but goodies:
Blog archive: A list of my old posts organized by month and year
Followers: A collection of my true friends who took the few seconds to click the 'Follow' button on the right hand side of the screen. All it takes is a gmail account. It's not that important to me anymore; I haven't found it to be a useful feature except to placate my ego.
About me: A brief description of the identity I'm trying to create. I'll post a picture of myself soon.
Comment boxes: As monologue-y as this blog is, it is truly a dialogue. If you comment, I will respond. And I'll try to be speedy about it, but I am kind of a big deal after all.
Lasty, my favorite part of my blog: links to UGK clips via Youtube. I've been listening to Supertight while typing this entry, so you get to listen to an all-time classic (if you wish):
--
*French for high fashion, as in haute couture. Though pronounced with a long 'o' as in 'oat', I think it's a very haute way to say 'hot'
Monday, February 8
Week of Repressed Frustration
Dear g-Style table of contents lovers,
More on the title in a bit. Without little ado, here are the posts from this past week in review:
Tue, Feb 2 - The Writing Bit
An update on my memoirs. It hasn't been going too terribly well, but hopefully the changes will help.
'But as a narcissist of the nth degree, I must insist that I should be the thing that matters most in a story of my own life.'
Wed, Feb 3 - The Wise Man
A bad joke opens an entry about a lesson from a wise man: always look for the hardware; don't assume that a girl is married.
'The elderly gentleman paid for his prescription and then let a coy grin slide to the left-most edge of his lips from the expertly hidden, sex-filled part of the brain that all males possess, no matter how old.'
Thu, Feb 4 - Tri, Try Harder
The blonde comes back, and what ensues is one of the most awkward interactions I've ever had with a woman.
'She continued her coy smile, as pretty girls are wont to do when they’re teasing you. She wasn’t really sorry.'
Fri, Feb 5 - Night at Ra, Pt. 1
Guys say some stupid things when they're wasted.
'You know I like that dark meat, right?'
Sat, Feb 6 - Brotherly Love Amongst Ourselves
A reflection on the relationship of the Winchester brothers of Supernatural and my relationship with my own brother.
'He is probably the coolest guy I know and became my role model when I lost faith in my father.'
Sun, Feb 7 - SPIDER: Would you like some fresh breh-ade?
A short re-release about Sam's Restaurant located in Fairfield, exit 197.
'Beans so soaked in butter that it's questionable whether the main ingredient is butter or beans.'
--
The Week in Review + random thoughts that are like American Idol rejects: good, but not quite good enough.
There is an understanding in the retail pharmacy sector that customers can hassle us all they want at the beginning of the week, but in return they give us some rest at the end of the week to recover. No dice. I'm still decompressing with my bottle of Tylenol (generic, of course) and Shiner Black. Hepatitis is overrated. Besides, I'm already yellow.
Pharmacies should be provided with caller ID with the option to label certain phone numbers with ‘troublemaker’. Pharmacists should also have the option to screen their calls.
A relief pharmacist commented on my style of wearing a hoodie over my dress shirt and tie: ‘It’s odd you have on a shirt with a nicely matched tie and then throw on that.’ I said I was going for the I-wear-a-dress-shirt-and-nicely-matched-tie-because-I-have-to look. I also cited that the manikins at ExpressMen seem to blend the preppy with the caszh* all the time. Of note, I thought about unbuttoning the top 2 buttons of my shirt (like at the club), but reconsidered since it would look a bit silly with a tie.
I had outdone myself that day with a blue shirt and green checked tie that had a hint of blue at the criss-cross junctions (that’s how it matched). If you were wondering why I didn’t objectify the relief pharmacist, it was because she broke out the ‘my husband’** routine within 5 minutes of meeting me.
The old lady in the apartment downstairs moved to a senior independent living center. She couldn’t stand the noise from the guys in the apartment adjacent to mine (they insist on making a raucous running up the stairs) and the poor insulation. She had complimented me a few months ago on my quietness (‘It’s like there’s hardly anyone living up there!’), so I felt obligated to tip-toe around in my apartment. But now that she’s gone, I’m free to break out a home theater system and get my groove on (in more ways than one).
The bank of one of my savings accounts charged a ‘statement printing fee’ of $10, which is more than I ever got from them in interest. Sneaky, spoony bards!
I couldn’t stop humming INXS’s Not Enough Time. There’s something classy and dirty about serenading a woman with a line like, I want to be inside you.
I kept on typing 01 instead of 02 for the month when filling prescriptions. I can’t believe it's February already! Time flies by when you’re not stressing over tests. I’m starting understand Ponce de Leon’s mad search for the Fountain of Youth.
Making Magic Mouthwash makes me feel like a bartender. Equal parts lidocaine, benadryl, and Maalox. Layer benadryl, then lidocaine, then Maalox in prescription bottle (you put the benadryl in first so that the lidocaine doesn’t stick to the bottom of the bottle). Shake well, label, and garnish with a sprig of mint and lemon peel.
Justin Bieber has probably gotten more action at 15 than most men will have in their lifetime. It’s pretty sad.
Conan O’Brien must be pretty confident in his manhood to wear the nickname ‘Coco’ proudly.
It’s awkward addressing people in their 20’s with the terms ‘sir’ or ‘m’am’. I still do it anyway to unnerve them.
I saw the first woman who I would label as a ‘plain Jane’: neither attractive nor ugly, neither petite nor overweight, neither pleasant nor rude--just wholly unremarkable. Her insurance card wouldn’t work = troublemaker.
Many comedians link subsequent jokes to a beginning one. I refuse to admit that I do anything as tacky as that technique. Don't you dare do CTRL+F for 'troublemaker'!
A woman in her 50s asked where the condoms were. I refrained from asking why since I didn’t want to know.
You know you’re in the boonies when you hear ‘Mr. En-guy-yen’, or ‘New-gen’, or ‘Nu-gent’, or ‘Na-goo-yen’. Hooked-on-phonics doesn’t work on ‘Nguyen’. If you don’t know how to pronounce it, ask.
The Game has some amazing stories. It would be awesome to meet some of the master PUAs and learn in-person.
Congrats to the Saints on their Super Bowl win. According to Wikipedia, you can tote around a plastic cup filled with your favorite beverage (sans absinthe) on the streets of New Orleans. Glass bottles are no bueno. I’m really looking forward to Bourbon Street in a few weeks. Laissez Les Bon Temps Roulez.
This past week, I saw two women who did the black skirt with black, opaque stockings and black boot heels thing. I swooned. A co-worker caught me looking, but I wasn’t that embarrassed, surprisingly.
Lastly, I asked my dad when I was younger, ‘Why do women wear heels if they hurt so much and are so uncomfortable?’ He responded, ‘You’ll understand when you’re older.’ If I have sons, I’ll be sure to tell them the exact same thing.
--
*my way of shortening ‘casual’
**when women consciously (or subconsciously, but this is highly unlikely) mention their significant other for no identifiable reason but to say, ‘Don’t bother hitting on me. I’m taken.’ Like we can’t spot that huge (or sometimes miniscule, given this economy) rock on their finger.
More on the title in a bit. Without little ado, here are the posts from this past week in review:
Tue, Feb 2 - The Writing Bit
An update on my memoirs. It hasn't been going too terribly well, but hopefully the changes will help.
'But as a narcissist of the nth degree, I must insist that I should be the thing that matters most in a story of my own life.'
Wed, Feb 3 - The Wise Man
A bad joke opens an entry about a lesson from a wise man: always look for the hardware; don't assume that a girl is married.
'The elderly gentleman paid for his prescription and then let a coy grin slide to the left-most edge of his lips from the expertly hidden, sex-filled part of the brain that all males possess, no matter how old.'
Thu, Feb 4 - Tri, Try Harder
The blonde comes back, and what ensues is one of the most awkward interactions I've ever had with a woman.
'She continued her coy smile, as pretty girls are wont to do when they’re teasing you. She wasn’t really sorry.'
Fri, Feb 5 - Night at Ra, Pt. 1
Guys say some stupid things when they're wasted.
'You know I like that dark meat, right?'
Sat, Feb 6 - Brotherly Love Amongst Ourselves
A reflection on the relationship of the Winchester brothers of Supernatural and my relationship with my own brother.
'He is probably the coolest guy I know and became my role model when I lost faith in my father.'
Sun, Feb 7 - SPIDER: Would you like some fresh breh-ade?
A short re-release about Sam's Restaurant located in Fairfield, exit 197.
'Beans so soaked in butter that it's questionable whether the main ingredient is butter or beans.'
--
The Week in Review + random thoughts that are like American Idol rejects: good, but not quite good enough.
There is an understanding in the retail pharmacy sector that customers can hassle us all they want at the beginning of the week, but in return they give us some rest at the end of the week to recover. No dice. I'm still decompressing with my bottle of Tylenol (generic, of course) and Shiner Black. Hepatitis is overrated. Besides, I'm already yellow.
Pharmacies should be provided with caller ID with the option to label certain phone numbers with ‘troublemaker’. Pharmacists should also have the option to screen their calls.
A relief pharmacist commented on my style of wearing a hoodie over my dress shirt and tie: ‘It’s odd you have on a shirt with a nicely matched tie and then throw on that.’ I said I was going for the I-wear-a-dress-shirt-and-nicely-matched-tie-because-I-have-to look. I also cited that the manikins at ExpressMen seem to blend the preppy with the caszh* all the time. Of note, I thought about unbuttoning the top 2 buttons of my shirt (like at the club), but reconsidered since it would look a bit silly with a tie.
I had outdone myself that day with a blue shirt and green checked tie that had a hint of blue at the criss-cross junctions (that’s how it matched). If you were wondering why I didn’t objectify the relief pharmacist, it was because she broke out the ‘my husband’** routine within 5 minutes of meeting me.
The old lady in the apartment downstairs moved to a senior independent living center. She couldn’t stand the noise from the guys in the apartment adjacent to mine (they insist on making a raucous running up the stairs) and the poor insulation. She had complimented me a few months ago on my quietness (‘It’s like there’s hardly anyone living up there!’), so I felt obligated to tip-toe around in my apartment. But now that she’s gone, I’m free to break out a home theater system and get my groove on (in more ways than one).
The bank of one of my savings accounts charged a ‘statement printing fee’ of $10, which is more than I ever got from them in interest. Sneaky, spoony bards!
I couldn’t stop humming INXS’s Not Enough Time. There’s something classy and dirty about serenading a woman with a line like, I want to be inside you.
I kept on typing 01 instead of 02 for the month when filling prescriptions. I can’t believe it's February already! Time flies by when you’re not stressing over tests. I’m starting understand Ponce de Leon’s mad search for the Fountain of Youth.
Making Magic Mouthwash makes me feel like a bartender. Equal parts lidocaine, benadryl, and Maalox. Layer benadryl, then lidocaine, then Maalox in prescription bottle (you put the benadryl in first so that the lidocaine doesn’t stick to the bottom of the bottle). Shake well, label, and garnish with a sprig of mint and lemon peel.
Justin Bieber has probably gotten more action at 15 than most men will have in their lifetime. It’s pretty sad.
Conan O’Brien must be pretty confident in his manhood to wear the nickname ‘Coco’ proudly.
It’s awkward addressing people in their 20’s with the terms ‘sir’ or ‘m’am’. I still do it anyway to unnerve them.
I saw the first woman who I would label as a ‘plain Jane’: neither attractive nor ugly, neither petite nor overweight, neither pleasant nor rude--just wholly unremarkable. Her insurance card wouldn’t work = troublemaker.
Many comedians link subsequent jokes to a beginning one. I refuse to admit that I do anything as tacky as that technique. Don't you dare do CTRL+F for 'troublemaker'!
A woman in her 50s asked where the condoms were. I refrained from asking why since I didn’t want to know.
You know you’re in the boonies when you hear ‘Mr. En-guy-yen’, or ‘New-gen’, or ‘Nu-gent’, or ‘Na-goo-yen’. Hooked-on-phonics doesn’t work on ‘Nguyen’. If you don’t know how to pronounce it, ask.
The Game has some amazing stories. It would be awesome to meet some of the master PUAs and learn in-person.
Congrats to the Saints on their Super Bowl win. According to Wikipedia, you can tote around a plastic cup filled with your favorite beverage (sans absinthe) on the streets of New Orleans. Glass bottles are no bueno. I’m really looking forward to Bourbon Street in a few weeks. Laissez Les Bon Temps Roulez.
This past week, I saw two women who did the black skirt with black, opaque stockings and black boot heels thing. I swooned. A co-worker caught me looking, but I wasn’t that embarrassed, surprisingly.
Lastly, I asked my dad when I was younger, ‘Why do women wear heels if they hurt so much and are so uncomfortable?’ He responded, ‘You’ll understand when you’re older.’ If I have sons, I’ll be sure to tell them the exact same thing.
--
*my way of shortening ‘casual’
**when women consciously (or subconsciously, but this is highly unlikely) mention their significant other for no identifiable reason but to say, ‘Don’t bother hitting on me. I’m taken.’ Like we can’t spot that huge (or sometimes miniscule, given this economy) rock on their finger.
Sunday, February 7
SPIDER: Would you like some fresh breh-ade?
Dear Fairfield visitors,
Where is the town of Fairfield anyway? It is near the halfway point between Dallas and Houston at milemarker 197, and is notable for the fact that yours truly stops there on his trips to and from Dallas. Otherwise, it is wholly insignificant. The fields aren't that fair, though the girls sure are adorable with their East Texas accents.
One of my friends didn't have the chance to read this post before I shut down my old blog. He had mentioned that he stopped at the McD's in Fairfield frequently. So yet another re-release is inspired by him.
--
Sep 11, 2009
me: 'What? Breh-ade?'
'Yes, breh-ade.'
me: 'Oh, bread! Sure, I'd love some.'
About 25 miles out from Dallas, I spotted a sign for Sam's Gift Shop & Restaurant, breakfast, lunch, burgers, buffet, dinner, exit 197, Fairfield. Only 70 miles away. An eternity. Then 65 miles away. Stomach wrenches on itself. Fifty miles. Maybe I should stop by McD's...
Billboards, milemarker 243+0.5 miles, 'Stop the Porn, be Reborn, JOHN 3:3'.
Milemarker 243, 'DW's Adult Video Store, Fleshlights, Extenze Rise here!' Hilarious.
46 miles left... 'Forty-six legs of chicken on the plate, 46 legs of chicken, if g were to grab a leg, wolf it down, there'd be 45 legs of chicken left on the plate.' Delirium sets in.
Milemarker 200... Just a couple more miles. Then, the cruddy sign for Sam's appears on the horizon, like the White Castle sign for Harold & Kumar. Exit, skid around a few turns, park, enter.
The best country fried steak I have ever had. Brisket that falls off the fork and into my coronary arteries. Beans so soaked in butter that it's questionable whether the main ingredient is butter or beans. Fried chicken surprisingly subpar, but that's okay. Waitress gives me funny look. She probably thinks, 'Why is this China-man in East Texas?'
Then she asks, 'Would you like some fresh breh-ade?'
East Texas, where bread is a two-syllable word, and the food takes off 5 years off your life. Fair trade.
--
Deluxe, super-stupendous, superfluously supplicated commentary on the Surreptitiously Post-modern Imbued, Duplicitously Engaging, Rehashed re-release (if you were wondering, a 'rehashed re-release' is possibly redundant):
I'm sure my friend won't have any problems keeping his eyes to himself. And since his wife will be probably with him on their trips back to North Texas, it would behoove him to do so.
I'm sure my friend won't have any problems keeping his eyes to himself. And since his wife will be probably with him on their trips back to North Texas, it would behoove him to do so.
About the date, I didn't feel like writing anything about 9/11 on September 11th. I figured there would be plenty more people with better writing skills doing in memoriam pieces. And so I did what I do best: write a bit of comedy.
Saturday, February 6
Brotherly Love Amongst Ourselves*
Dear Supernatural fans,
I’ve been dreading and fiending for this last season of Supernatural starring Jared Padalecki as Sam Winchester and Jensen Ackles as Dean Winchester. The first time I saw it a few years back, I thought it was a cheesy spoof of the Buffy and Angel series (David Boreanaz as a repentant vampire is a great premise): Every week, the two brothers would hunt down monsters and the eponymous supernatural.
I’ve been dreading and fiending for this last season of Supernatural starring Jared Padalecki as Sam Winchester and Jensen Ackles as Dean Winchester. The first time I saw it a few years back, I thought it was a cheesy spoof of the Buffy and Angel series (David Boreanaz as a repentant vampire is a great premise): Every week, the two brothers would hunt down monsters and the eponymous supernatural.
Though after being sucked in by a few episodes with very hot actresses (Supernatural’s formula = 2 strapping guys, a baddie, and the inexorably smoking-hot damsel in distress), I began to love the story arc. Sure there were monster-of-the-week episodes a la Buffy et al, but most of the episodes revolved around a particular season’s theme. This season, that theme is the impending apocalypse inadvertently started by the two brothers. Oh, and hot girls; that’s this season’s theme too. Coincidentally, hot girls also happened to be a co-theme for seasons 1, 2, 3, and 4.
And did I mention hot girls? I did? It bears repeating though. Some memorable ones were Tricia Helfer, Sarah Shahi, Taylor Cole, Katie Cassidy, and Emmanuelle Vaugier (*swoon*).
Jared Padalecki is the stereotypical morose, tall, dark, and handsome, with a physique rivaling those of male strippers on the Vegas Strip**, while Jensen Ackles is the womanizer with the drop-dead gorgeous looks. Together, they travel around the country chasing down ‘bad sons-of-bitches’ and saving everyone they can. And they do it in a classic ’67 Impala tuned to old-school classic rock.
Each week is like a one-hour horror flick, replete with CGI effects, action, drama, and surprisingly tasteful humor. It blows my mind how the writers manage to be funny and scare you at the same time without it being too artificial. They’re just that damn good.
But CGI effects and hot girls aside, what keeps me coming back is the brother-brother relationship between Sam and Dean. Sam is the intellectual younger brother, bound for Stanford Law School when a horrible tragedy causes him to rejoin the ‘family business.’ Dean is his cool older brother who protects Sam as much as possible, even at the cost of his own [spoiler deleted]***. Their mother died when they were children, and their father raised them to be crazed paranormal hunters. Season 1 starts with their father missing, and so the only family they have left is each other.
If you love something, it is very likely that you see some of yourself in it. People love their mates because they find something akin to their own values; sure opposites attract, but the last time I checked, we don’t mate with primates. I love my Droid phone because it feels very utilitarian and business-like, though very deftly cool. I associate with loyal and honest people, because I consider myself loyal and honest. I enjoy classic novels because I aim to be classic. Etc.
And I love Supernatural because its main theme of brotherly love mirrors my own relationship with my older brother. He is probably the coolest guy I know and became my role model when I lost faith in my father. I am the little brother he took care of when our parents were sometimes not emotionally or financially or physically there. And being brothers, he teased me incessantly, though he never tried to hurt me intentionally.
Whereas Dad selfishly and blindly pursued pipe dreams, my brother used his own money, the little that he had, to buy me school supplies and clothes when I was in high school. Whatever I needed, my brother would try to provide. It’s rare to see a perfect foil in real life; the hero and anti-hero only appear next to each other in fiction.
And the thing about Sam and Dean’s relationship is that though they never say it explicitly, you can tell by their actions that they love each other. And so it is with my brother.
You can watch the current season of Supernatural online here. The quality isn’t all that great though, but it’s good for catching the episodes that you missed when you’re working graveyards.
You can watch the current season of Supernatural online here. The quality isn’t all that great though, but it’s good for catching the episodes that you missed when you’re working graveyards.
--
*an inside allusion
**this is not a first-hand observation
***I don’t want to ruin it for you
Friday, February 5
Night at Ra, Pt. 1
Dear stand-up eaters,
A few weeks back, I did the Happy Hour + Rockets game with my older brother and his friends. Usually, they go to Kona at the Galleria, but this time, they decided on Ra. It's nice to try new things, but you should probably avoid popular places on a Friday night.
Ra Sushi was packed like the Superdome after Katrina. It probably violated the maximum occupancy limit, but as it was an Asian place, the establishment ignores safety in quest for deeper profits.
After I scaled the stairs to get to the main dining floor, I found a mass of humanity trying to get a bite of Ra fish. There was a superfluous amount of attractive women who were attempting to upgrade to better boyfriends (by flaunting their assets), but were currently accompanied by the douche-bag starter model, the kind that emulate the Jersey Jagger Bomb faux-celebs.
I’m still refining my pick-up line. So far, I have ‘Hi, my name is g. I’m a doctor, and I make six figures. Do you want to get on this?’ (patent pending). It’s a work in progress. It currently has a zero success rate, but like the search for weapons of mass destruction, I swear that line will hit paydirt one day.
Being Asian, I don’t have the trouble of differentiating between groups of the yellow-skinned folk, and I spot my brother and his friends fairly quickly, as they were standing a little past the hostess’s station. Okay, so I guess instead of being like the rest of the suckers standing in the lobby, we’re going to have some Kirin beer while we wait at this area where there is an overhang that acted like a makeshift table.
I didn’t care as long as there’s a place to rest my drink. The server comes by with massive bottles of Kirin and delicate porcelain curved flutes of warm sake. Like good alcoholics, we pound some sake bombs and toast the Rockets good fortune against the Heat. Then another dude comes by with some plates of sushi. At this point, I became mildly confused, because as far as I know, sushi isn’t served dim sum-style where they wheel around carts, asking you what you want.
The confusion cleared up when one of the guys said that it was our order. There weren’t even chopsticks or napkins at the little overhang area, not to mention the lack of any kind of chairs or chair-like objects. Though we do look a little F-O-B, we’re decent enough to use utensils. Some of the guys shrugged, and grabbed the food-art with their thumbs and index fingers. I shrug too, and grabbed a pork dumpling.
The silverware and woodware and napkins came by later, but as we were well on our way to being so far gone, we ignored them for the most part. The alcohol coursed through bodies which weren’t well equipped to handle such poison (aldehyde dehydrogenase mutation which leads to poor metabolism and subsequent ‘Asian Flush’), and the already uninhibited became even more dis-inhibited.
One of the guys said to a group of fun black girls, ‘You know I like that dark meat, right? I’ll get you a bucket of fried chicken, but only on a Tuesday. 99-cent special at Popeyes. Nah mean*?’
As it turns out, you can say a lot of things if you can say it confidently and playfully. Rather than getting slapped, the guy got a bunch of laughs (along with him, not at him). One of the memorable things one of those girls said was, ‘Nuh uh, you couldn’t handle all this woman.’ Very true. I doubted if anyone could handle all of her.
After a couple more sake bombs, I began feeling like I was in Vietnam, even though I’ve never been there.
me: ‘Damn. We eatin’ like we in Vietnam, all standin’ and squatin’ and sh*t.’
guy: ‘How you know what we ate like when we in Vietnam?’
me: ‘I saw some pictures on some travel ads. Looked like people be eatin’ and tryin’ to take a dump at the same time.’
--
After several more rounds of rice wine, we left of our own free will and on our own sets of legs; I was a bit surprised we hadn’t been kicked out. And we got to the game perfectly fine**, though I soon passed out on the seat as the Heat proceeded to pound on the Rockets.
--
*you know what I mean?
**there was a DD, natch
A few weeks back, I did the Happy Hour + Rockets game with my older brother and his friends. Usually, they go to Kona at the Galleria, but this time, they decided on Ra. It's nice to try new things, but you should probably avoid popular places on a Friday night.
Ra Sushi was packed like the Superdome after Katrina. It probably violated the maximum occupancy limit, but as it was an Asian place, the establishment ignores safety in quest for deeper profits.
After I scaled the stairs to get to the main dining floor, I found a mass of humanity trying to get a bite of Ra fish. There was a superfluous amount of attractive women who were attempting to upgrade to better boyfriends (by flaunting their assets), but were currently accompanied by the douche-bag starter model, the kind that emulate the Jersey Jagger Bomb faux-celebs.
I’m still refining my pick-up line. So far, I have ‘Hi, my name is g. I’m a doctor, and I make six figures. Do you want to get on this?’ (patent pending). It’s a work in progress. It currently has a zero success rate, but like the search for weapons of mass destruction, I swear that line will hit paydirt one day.
Being Asian, I don’t have the trouble of differentiating between groups of the yellow-skinned folk, and I spot my brother and his friends fairly quickly, as they were standing a little past the hostess’s station. Okay, so I guess instead of being like the rest of the suckers standing in the lobby, we’re going to have some Kirin beer while we wait at this area where there is an overhang that acted like a makeshift table.
I didn’t care as long as there’s a place to rest my drink. The server comes by with massive bottles of Kirin and delicate porcelain curved flutes of warm sake. Like good alcoholics, we pound some sake bombs and toast the Rockets good fortune against the Heat. Then another dude comes by with some plates of sushi. At this point, I became mildly confused, because as far as I know, sushi isn’t served dim sum-style where they wheel around carts, asking you what you want.
The confusion cleared up when one of the guys said that it was our order. There weren’t even chopsticks or napkins at the little overhang area, not to mention the lack of any kind of chairs or chair-like objects. Though we do look a little F-O-B, we’re decent enough to use utensils. Some of the guys shrugged, and grabbed the food-art with their thumbs and index fingers. I shrug too, and grabbed a pork dumpling.
The silverware and woodware and napkins came by later, but as we were well on our way to being so far gone, we ignored them for the most part. The alcohol coursed through bodies which weren’t well equipped to handle such poison (aldehyde dehydrogenase mutation which leads to poor metabolism and subsequent ‘Asian Flush’), and the already uninhibited became even more dis-inhibited.
One of the guys said to a group of fun black girls, ‘You know I like that dark meat, right? I’ll get you a bucket of fried chicken, but only on a Tuesday. 99-cent special at Popeyes. Nah mean*?’
As it turns out, you can say a lot of things if you can say it confidently and playfully. Rather than getting slapped, the guy got a bunch of laughs (along with him, not at him). One of the memorable things one of those girls said was, ‘Nuh uh, you couldn’t handle all this woman.’ Very true. I doubted if anyone could handle all of her.
After a couple more sake bombs, I began feeling like I was in Vietnam, even though I’ve never been there.
me: ‘Damn. We eatin’ like we in Vietnam, all standin’ and squatin’ and sh*t.’
guy: ‘How you know what we ate like when we in Vietnam?’
me: ‘I saw some pictures on some travel ads. Looked like people be eatin’ and tryin’ to take a dump at the same time.’
--
After several more rounds of rice wine, we left of our own free will and on our own sets of legs; I was a bit surprised we hadn’t been kicked out. And we got to the game perfectly fine**, though I soon passed out on the seat as the Heat proceeded to pound on the Rockets.
--
*you know what I mean?
**there was a DD, natch
Thursday, February 4
Tri, Try Harder
You must excuse me for yet another post about yet another woman, but this 2-part set was already typed up, and I’d hate for it to go to waste.
--
Dear follow-up readers,
...continued...
The pretty blonde did not have a ring, just as that gentleman had said. I need to improve my ring-spotting skills.
She came by the next night, and I remembered her name and her prescription not only because she was pretty, but because she was a troublemaker. People with any kind of insurance or attitude or other problems get that label, which means that I spent, or will have to spend extra effort on their prescriptions. Like in public schools, only the problem-children get any attention. Note to pharmacy goers, if you pitch a fuss, the pharmacy will take extra care of your prescriptions just because we want to limit the face-to-face time as much as possible.
Hers was a weird issue which I had figured out overnight using some knowledge and intuition. She was not impressed that I remembered her name; she is probably used to people going out of their way to know her name and fawning at her every desire.
I explained what had happened to her prescription the previous night, and she nodded reassuringly, confirming what I thought had happened.
Blonde 8.5: ‘Yea, I had left because I saw how busy you were. I wanted to give you a break.’
At some point in the will-call to register to signature capture, she glanced at my name tag.
Blonde 9.5: ‘That’s an interesting name. How do you pronounce that?’
I said my name, wishing that she would do the same. My wish was soon granted, but not in the way I had hoped.
Blonde 9.0: ‘Tri, try harder.’ A subtle grin appeared on her rose-colored lips.
‘Wow. I haven’t heard that since high school. You’re bringing back horrible memories.’
Blonde 9.3: ‘Oh, I’m sorry. High school sucked for everybody. But look where you’re at now.’
She continued her coy smile, as pretty girls are wont to do when they’re teasing you. She wasn’t really sorry.
Me: ‘Well actually, it wasn’t all that bad.’
At this point, I should have just reflected her smile and stopped talking. When I get nervous or flustered, I start talking random gibberish to fill the silences, and the stuff that comes out oftentimes isn’t favorable. So to try to impress this girl, I rambled on and on about AP tests and how I became a book hermit to get out of school a little quicker.
It was like a scene out of a chick flick where the nerd thinks that explaining the difference between speed and velocity* would somehow make him devastatingly irresistible to women.
I guess I had made some stupid comparison to jocks, and so to humor me, she said something like, ‘where are they [jocks] now?’ Thinking on that question, they are still probably scoring, but to a lesser extent (the player-hater side of me hopes so). Jocks are like American light beer: they're best when they’re fresh. I hope I’m like premium wine: better with age.
So after I had sufficiently stuffed both my feet in my mouth with talk of my nerd-dom, I ended with my customary, ‘Have a great night!’ The awkwardness was painful to endure on my end, though I’m sure she’s used to it because she has caused many a man to find himself speechless.
One thing I’ve learned in my interaction with people is to never read too much into things. You’re not that important for people to prepare themselves to talk to you. Most people just say the first thing that pops into their mind, and you should just take it at face value.
Was Blonde 9.7 (her score increased from 8.5 to 9.7 for teasing and humoring me) interested in me? No idea, but my bet would be on ‘no’. Face value: she asked how to pronounce my name and made a cutesy jest out of it.
As I grow less socially awkward, I hope I can parlay these very minor indicators of interest into some digits without violating HIPAA.
--
*speed is distance per time and is scalar, whereas velocity is displacement per time and is a vector; velocity takes into account the initial and final position of an object. Example: if you made a complete revolution around the earth in an hour, your velocity would be 0 m/s, because your initial and final position would be the same. In contrast, your speed would be a value larger than the number of Charlie Sheen's horizontal tango partners, which is a lot.
--
Dear follow-up readers,
...continued...
The pretty blonde did not have a ring, just as that gentleman had said. I need to improve my ring-spotting skills.
She came by the next night, and I remembered her name and her prescription not only because she was pretty, but because she was a troublemaker. People with any kind of insurance or attitude or other problems get that label, which means that I spent, or will have to spend extra effort on their prescriptions. Like in public schools, only the problem-children get any attention. Note to pharmacy goers, if you pitch a fuss, the pharmacy will take extra care of your prescriptions just because we want to limit the face-to-face time as much as possible.
Hers was a weird issue which I had figured out overnight using some knowledge and intuition. She was not impressed that I remembered her name; she is probably used to people going out of their way to know her name and fawning at her every desire.
I explained what had happened to her prescription the previous night, and she nodded reassuringly, confirming what I thought had happened.
Blonde 8.5: ‘Yea, I had left because I saw how busy you were. I wanted to give you a break.’
At some point in the will-call to register to signature capture, she glanced at my name tag.
Blonde 9.5: ‘That’s an interesting name. How do you pronounce that?’
I said my name, wishing that she would do the same. My wish was soon granted, but not in the way I had hoped.
Blonde 9.0: ‘Tri, try harder.’ A subtle grin appeared on her rose-colored lips.
‘Wow. I haven’t heard that since high school. You’re bringing back horrible memories.’
Blonde 9.3: ‘Oh, I’m sorry. High school sucked for everybody. But look where you’re at now.’
She continued her coy smile, as pretty girls are wont to do when they’re teasing you. She wasn’t really sorry.
Me: ‘Well actually, it wasn’t all that bad.’
At this point, I should have just reflected her smile and stopped talking. When I get nervous or flustered, I start talking random gibberish to fill the silences, and the stuff that comes out oftentimes isn’t favorable. So to try to impress this girl, I rambled on and on about AP tests and how I became a book hermit to get out of school a little quicker.
It was like a scene out of a chick flick where the nerd thinks that explaining the difference between speed and velocity* would somehow make him devastatingly irresistible to women.
I guess I had made some stupid comparison to jocks, and so to humor me, she said something like, ‘where are they [jocks] now?’ Thinking on that question, they are still probably scoring, but to a lesser extent (the player-hater side of me hopes so). Jocks are like American light beer: they're best when they’re fresh. I hope I’m like premium wine: better with age.
So after I had sufficiently stuffed both my feet in my mouth with talk of my nerd-dom, I ended with my customary, ‘Have a great night!’ The awkwardness was painful to endure on my end, though I’m sure she’s used to it because she has caused many a man to find himself speechless.
One thing I’ve learned in my interaction with people is to never read too much into things. You’re not that important for people to prepare themselves to talk to you. Most people just say the first thing that pops into their mind, and you should just take it at face value.
Was Blonde 9.7 (her score increased from 8.5 to 9.7 for teasing and humoring me) interested in me? No idea, but my bet would be on ‘no’. Face value: she asked how to pronounce my name and made a cutesy jest out of it.
As I grow less socially awkward, I hope I can parlay these very minor indicators of interest into some digits without violating HIPAA.
--
*speed is distance per time and is scalar, whereas velocity is displacement per time and is a vector; velocity takes into account the initial and final position of an object. Example: if you made a complete revolution around the earth in an hour, your velocity would be 0 m/s, because your initial and final position would be the same. In contrast, your speed would be a value larger than the number of Charlie Sheen's horizontal tango partners, which is a lot.
Wednesday, February 3
The Wise Man
Dear joke-tellers,
So a priest, a blonde, an old guy, and a rabbi walk into a pharmacy. The priest says to the pharmacist, ‘I know you dispense Plan B, but everyone can be forgiven.’
Then the priest sees the blonde and again addresses the pharmacist, ‘You can be forgiven for your next couple thoughts as well.’
‘What?’ The pharmacist was confused, but then sees the blonde and grins involuntarily. ‘Oh, thanks.’
The rabbi said some things too, but since I’m not Jewish, I’ll have to refrain from saying something possibly non-PC.
The priest and rabbi leave, thus ending a bad joke.
--
There were some issues with the blonde’s prescription, as is likely to happen in a pharmacy which obeys Murphy’s Law to perfection. It was a Friday, but instead of people getting their groove on with their paychecks and paid companions, they wanted to keep the pharmacist (moi) company, though their presence was like that of bad in-laws who think you stole their son/daughter.
As there was a line of customers and several waiters (and not the kind that could have served me the adult beverage--single malt scotch--I so desperately needed), I used one of my patented delay tactics, ‘There were some issues with the prescription (such as I haven’t had 2 seconds of peace since I’ve been here to fill it), but I’ll get to yours next if you give me but 5 minutes.’ I hoped she didn’t have a watch.
So she left, but more people in the store started queuing up like it was the evacuation out of Houston when Hurricane Rita graced the third coast. One of the customers asked another guy, ‘What’s the fuss all about?’ The other dude responded, ‘I don’t know, but since there are a lot of people here, it must be important.’ And they both proceeded to honk their horns and wondered why it took so damn long (11 hours+) to get out of Houston and why it takes someone more than a minute to lick and stick* a prescription.
But the next gentleman in line, a bespectacled sage with adroit eyes, was quite understanding and made a comment which made me smile.
‘You know, I wouldn’t have minded if you had taken time to fill that blonde’s prescription.’
I laughed. ‘I think she’s married. I’m sure I saw a ring.’ It seems that all the women who frequent the pharmacy who are even just somewhat attractive are the ones who sport a shiny bauble on the left ring finger. And so I’ve just stopped trying to spot the circlet of death.
The elderly gentleman paid for his prescription and then let a coy grin slide to the left-most edge of his lips from the expertly hidden, sex-filled part of the brain that all males possess, no matter how old. ‘No, she didn’t have a ring. Trust me, son.’ He winked and was gone.
That little interchange got me through the rest of the night, but the blonde did not return, much to my chagrin and dismay.
But she did come back the next evening...
To be continued…
--
*in the olden days, prescription labels had to be licked to activate the adhesive, hence the phrase, ‘lick and stick’. In the modern era, ‘lick and stick’ has come to mean other things entirely unrelated to pharmacy practice.
So a priest, a blonde, an old guy, and a rabbi walk into a pharmacy. The priest says to the pharmacist, ‘I know you dispense Plan B, but everyone can be forgiven.’
Then the priest sees the blonde and again addresses the pharmacist, ‘You can be forgiven for your next couple thoughts as well.’
‘What?’ The pharmacist was confused, but then sees the blonde and grins involuntarily. ‘Oh, thanks.’
The rabbi said some things too, but since I’m not Jewish, I’ll have to refrain from saying something possibly non-PC.
The priest and rabbi leave, thus ending a bad joke.
--
There were some issues with the blonde’s prescription, as is likely to happen in a pharmacy which obeys Murphy’s Law to perfection. It was a Friday, but instead of people getting their groove on with their paychecks and paid companions, they wanted to keep the pharmacist (moi) company, though their presence was like that of bad in-laws who think you stole their son/daughter.
As there was a line of customers and several waiters (and not the kind that could have served me the adult beverage--single malt scotch--I so desperately needed), I used one of my patented delay tactics, ‘There were some issues with the prescription (such as I haven’t had 2 seconds of peace since I’ve been here to fill it), but I’ll get to yours next if you give me but 5 minutes.’ I hoped she didn’t have a watch.
So she left, but more people in the store started queuing up like it was the evacuation out of Houston when Hurricane Rita graced the third coast. One of the customers asked another guy, ‘What’s the fuss all about?’ The other dude responded, ‘I don’t know, but since there are a lot of people here, it must be important.’ And they both proceeded to honk their horns and wondered why it took so damn long (11 hours+) to get out of Houston and why it takes someone more than a minute to lick and stick* a prescription.
But the next gentleman in line, a bespectacled sage with adroit eyes, was quite understanding and made a comment which made me smile.
‘You know, I wouldn’t have minded if you had taken time to fill that blonde’s prescription.’
I laughed. ‘I think she’s married. I’m sure I saw a ring.’ It seems that all the women who frequent the pharmacy who are even just somewhat attractive are the ones who sport a shiny bauble on the left ring finger. And so I’ve just stopped trying to spot the circlet of death.
The elderly gentleman paid for his prescription and then let a coy grin slide to the left-most edge of his lips from the expertly hidden, sex-filled part of the brain that all males possess, no matter how old. ‘No, she didn’t have a ring. Trust me, son.’ He winked and was gone.
That little interchange got me through the rest of the night, but the blonde did not return, much to my chagrin and dismay.
But she did come back the next evening...
To be continued…
--
*in the olden days, prescription labels had to be licked to activate the adhesive, hence the phrase, ‘lick and stick’. In the modern era, ‘lick and stick’ has come to mean other things entirely unrelated to pharmacy practice.
Tuesday, February 2
The Writing Bit
One of the things I wanted to avoid with this blog that I didn't avoid in my last one was that I was going to be less negative concerning my family. I had gone through the 5 stages of grief (denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance), but it seemed like I kept reverting back to the anger stage time and time again when I think about my past. My goal for writing a memoir, which may never be published, is that I can finally put that part of my life on paper and get past it. Though as I sit now in my Dallas apartment with my family and my history 300 miles away, I am starting to grow numb from the literal and figurative distance of my present self from my formative self. And I'm starting to grow numb from this cold weather. It should be against Texas law to have the weather be anywhere near freezing!
And I've started to write the memoir many a time, but I eventually get to a sticking point: I can't express fully my thoughts as a 6-year old in the Caribbean without stealing the Joyce's technique in Portrait of an Artist whereby he writes as if he was the child in his earliest memory. If my memoir were to be a satire, then sure, I could blatantly copy all of the great artists' techniques and say that it was an homage and a poke at the dreariness of my development. But I don't wish my memoir to be a satire. I don't wish my story to be nothing but a comedy. Comedy is created as an antithesis, a foil to tragedy, hence the comedy & tragedy juxtaposition. Comedy was my defense against the hopelessness I saw as my future. But when the hopelessness was abolished by the light of epiphany, the comedy still remained. Hence all the jokes and puns and sexual innuendos you see in my blog and writing today.
An aside: I've noticed that the better comedians started out with a sucky life.
And I guess the other sticking point I've experienced is that I feel the writing isn't good enough. My thoughts run rampant when I'm thinking about the actual events of my past. But a memoir is not supposed to be a chronicling of events, a history book of one's life. I believe it to be a selection of the more salient points of one's life intended to provide some message, as cliched as it sounds. The actual person and the actual events should be secondary to the feel-good message. But as a narcissist of the nth degree, I must insist that I should be the thing that matters most in a story of my own life.
One good thing that I've learned from writing this blog is that I've grown less wearied about my frequent use of the word 'I'. When I began writing the stereotypical 'Dear Diary' or 'Dear Journal' entries as a youth, I would become incensed at my predilection to begin a sentence with 'I'. Though this blog is decidedly in a first person point of view, the writing has grown to be more than a collection of simple sentences starting with 'I' followed by a verb and some objects and other choice words which form a predicate. 'I', though it remains a majority of the subjects of my sentences, it is by no means the only subject.
Being a solution-oriented, type-AAA kind of guy, I've devised solutions to my sticking points. I will start from my time in Brooklyn when I was around 12. This should be infinitely easier to write about because some of my most painful memories come from that time, and it wasn't just because of being an overweight nerd who was forced to endure puberty in a foreign place with an entirely new set of friends (though that did pretty much suck).
And the second sticking point, about how my writing isn't good enough? Well I guess the readers of my blog will have to endure my non-comedic writing as well. I guess I might have to supplant my weekly musings on women because as my friend very pithily put it, 'You need to get laid!' As my alma mater's motto goes, 'In Time.' But I fear that there's not enough time for all that I want... Mortality is a mother[expletive deleted].
Monday, February 1
This Week at the North Pole
g-Style Table of Contents
Tue, Jan 26 - Senior Rings
A discussion about the not-so-cool dying trend of guys with class rings. Also a defense of the superficial.
'I am simply stating that people develop preconceived notions because of a generalized perception of truth, which may or may not be ultimately true.'
Wed, Jan 27 - The Finger Snap
The celebration of an archaic yet still extant gesture amongst peeps of various ilk. Also included is a quote from Romeo et Juliet, but it isn't my favorite line: O, wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied? (II, 2, 976)*.
'I haven’t grown to think that this is childish just yet, though I do try to keep my finger snaps private as much as possible.'
Thu, Jan 28 - Shopper at Walmart - m4w - 22
A missed connections (a la craigslist) stylized entry where I caught a girl do a stereotypical guy move.
"'I had passed you while going to electronics the first time and you looked at my face, and then you did the thing that most guys normally do, that is look down and check the package.'"
Fri, Jan 29 - Do You Know This Song?
An homage to my favorite group from the South: UGK. I was frustrated that I couldn't find one of their songs.
'There’s nothing like Pimp C’s nasty lyricism ('Take it off, chick, bend over, let me see it...') which are rapped country-style in tune to some bad-ass old-school beat.'
Sat, Jan 30 - I'sa Playa
I find the title of the track, but I start to realize that I am not entirely of the opinion of the rappers. Is it misogynistic to listen to misogynistic music?
'How can I be the man I want to be when I listen to music which are not of my values?'
A comparison of temperature control in the Northeast vs Down South. Also a brief exposition of my time in NYC.
'Apartments with central temperature start at 2 million, because the ones that cost 1 million are still 600 sq foot sh-tholes.'
--
Thoughts that didn't quite make the cut to be blog entries:
Welcome new readers! If you would kindly click the 'Follow' button you see to your right, you will very happily appease my ego, which has grown quite large over the years, hence the massive melon-sized head. If you wish, you can also have my somewhat daily blogs delivered to your email compliments of Feedburner, which you also see on the right hand side. It works; I tried it myself.
I woke up this morning, and the thermostat read 50! Not Celsius, but Fahrenheit, the temperature scale of the greatest country in the world. So what if nearly everyone else uses Celsius? They're just wrong, because as a rule, Americans are always right! Cue up Proud to be an American. Sorry, that's a bit of North Texas brainwashing for you.
I thought about using Calculus to calculate the rate of temperature change in my apartment, but realized it would be incredibly nerdy of me. I'm pretty sure it is possible to do so. If you're thinking about the numerous variables like the 1 millimeter thick insulation or the shoddy non-weather-proofed windows, then that would be very intelligent observations. My answer to that? Simply bundle all non-critical variables into a catchall 'C', for constant, assuming that all those variables are constant. The actual contribution of each variable doesn't matter; you're simply concerned about the effect of all the variables in relation to the temperature. Physics and Calculus are very beautiful, elegant, and paradoxical sciences: though they analyze some things in such minutiae, they're remarkable at ignoring a bunch of other things. I think I would have liked being an astrophysicist, since I enjoy talking about things that matter not a bit to the rest of society. I apologize for the headache.
I have such a crush (mostly platonic) for Colbie Caillat. I don't know, but I think I may be fallin for you... She reminds me of Sheryl Crow. The music video is a bit wrong as it would purport that supplication works. It doesn't (reference: 22 years of my life).
I've stylized my name to be the lowercase 'g'. So if you ever see a book signing event and see just a lowercase 'g', well then that would be moi (still working on my French in desperate hope of meeting Melanie Laurent).
The bits about my night out 2 weeks ago at Ra Sushi: those are en-route. I'm still working on them, because they're bound to be packed with pretty heady stuff, as deep and philosophical as I am (which is to say, not so much).
Darkness Consumes You. That is the title of my book about my entering into the PUA (pick-up artist) society after reading The Game by Neil Strauss. I'm starting to believe that the stuff works; I've already come up with some openers and routines which I will field test on my next break. Unfortunately, as I am a private person (when it comes to personal relationships), you won't hear anything about it. Darkness Consumes You won't sell, because the topic (the not-so-secret PUA society) is played out.
My Droid phone is draining all my free time. When I see it's green LED light flashing, I have no recourse but to satiate my curiosity, even though I know it's just another email from Buy.com, Overstock.com, or Amazon.com. The bundled Facebook app isn't helping either.
A friend from NYC tagged me as an MIA in her 6th grade class pic. The problem with that is I was still in Houston in 6th grade. It was a pleasant picture (because I wasn't in it) nonetheless, and a few of my acquaintances added me on FB. If you're reading this, Hello!
I've come to the realization that I'm a degenerate, but I'm proud of it. I've forgone video games and women and society and alcohol just to get to this point: a doctor (of pharmacy) at 22. I'm cashing in my chips and walking out of the casino while I still can. Maybe in a different life, things would be different, but as I can't travel between parallel universes, you're stuck with this version of me.
It is extraordinary how a week can fly by without a person doing anything productive. And it takes a a very smart person to realize that wasting time is a decidedly delightful choice. If you haven't done it, try sleeping for 16-24 hours straight, and you'll understand what I mean. The REM-ing is magical. (When you wake up after 8 hours or so, just visualize a hot summer afternoon in Madrid or a cool breezy dusk on the French Riviera, and fall gently back to sleep).
Did I mention Melanie Laurent? I think I have, but I'll talk about her again. She has officially supplanted Marisa Miller as the object of my idolatry. Oh if I could but tap into the French bastardry of my ancestry. Those blue eyes... Were that I never saw her face in Inglourious Basterds...
No need to roll your eyes or make a face of disgust at the last paragraph. As always, I am just kidding.
And finally, don't place glasses of water on the carpet when you can't find a coaster (or are too lazy to look for one). Otherwise, you might relive the wet carpet feeling you felt post-Hurricane Rita when the wind nearly blew your roof off. 'Human beings, who are almost unique in having the ability to learn from the experience of others, are also remarkable for their apparent disinclination to do so.'**
--
*I forgot how to cite literature that isn't in NEJM or JAMA or Arch Intern Med. I'll relearn eventually.
**Douglas Adams
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