like the letter g

The French-Asian Connection

2011-12-29T09:46:00.004-06:00

Hello again! Long time, yes?

I've been suffering from a bitter ennui, not unlike those suffered by young male antagonists/foils who have not-very-attractive-but-devastatingly-smart-governesses who are remarkably similar to the intended readers of such novels. Confused yet? So am I! Victorian novels a la Bronte and Austen are the Dickens! And Dickens is the Dickens too!

To the heart of this post: so I meet this moi qua* girl at a random event and we eventually agree to exchange emails because she's interested in applying to pharmacy school. Before anyone gets their hopes up (mines included) that this is going to be some sordid, embarrassing tale in which I perform an auto-foot-in-mouth procedure, I must say that I only go for the girls who have the keen sense to not go for me. That is, I want what I can't have, and don't want what I could have. However arrogant that may sound, it is the truth, and it probably applies to a whole lot of folks.

Anyway, as a test suitability or a test of curiosity (or a lapse in judgment), this girl sends me an email in Vietnamese. I take my time reading the Viet without the diacritical marks, which I suppose is how Viet people email each other since it would suck to stop every other letter to insert a symbol. And as I near the end, I see some intelligible words! English, alas! Who other than an English-speaking person would ever call English intelligible?**

[paraphrased] "Please let me know if you can't read it. I'll send it again in English."

Oh how you underestimate the virile, semi-intelligent man. I would have learned Swahili by how if there were fine Swahili chicks to ogle outside my door.

end what g thinks is humor, and start what g thinks is educational and insightful

So in Vietnamese, it is vitally important that one address another person with the proper title. It is a sign of respect and gives context to the situation. Using the equivalents for 'you' and 'I' is highly disrespectful, and if there's a familial relationship, it denotes ignorance since you didn't know how he/she is related.

Not very important for our American tourists, but probably important for someone who wants to marry into this crazy culture.

To be safe, most MQ who are learning to use the concept of 'you' and 'I' simply use the English 'you' and 'I' instead of the Vietnamese equivalents. For example, ten cua you la nguoi doc chu, ten cua mi la g.***

But to be safe (and cute), some girls use the term title em, and address the guys as anh. Which can mean simply that she is younger, but also implies that you may have a chance to be more than that (because she could have used some other title instead)!

Do I overthink things? Most deftly and definitely. But the punch-line of this super long and boring setup is nigh, the reason for the 'French-Asian' part of the title.

Instead of using anh throughout the email, she shortens it to a simple A. near the end. It reminds me of the single French M. as the abbreviation for monsieur. So in addition to the French baguettes, those colonists also gave the Viet people the idea for abbreviating titles. Or perhaps it's the modern American influence: Anh makes 141 characters, A. makes 140!

I know, the punch-line, set-up, and everything in between were terrible!

*MQ, moi qua, Viet for 'just came over'

**Say 'car' and then say 'cat.' Why is the 'ca' in both words not sound the same? There you go.

***Your name is readers, my name is g.

Convalescence Week 2

2011-09-05T21:13:00.003-05:00

To the recovering,

The first time I heard the word 'convalescent' that I cared to look up the meaning** was in 2pac's I Ain't Mad At Cha.

'Til God return me to my essence

Cause even as an adolescent, I refuse to be a convalescent'

It's a killer rhyme, but even in context, I still doesn't make sense to me. So even as a kid, he'd rather die than to be holed up in a hospital recuperating?

I have a peculiar tendency to turn ever so mildly into a seething psychotic when my sleep gets out of whack. But I am Asian (and DSM-IV-TR is as real to us as Snooki's* tan), and we hold and bottle our problems only to vent them in a self-destructive cataclysm of drinking and gambling-- at least that is what the Viet do.

But I've grown increasingly unaccustomed to alcohol, as the two bottles of premium single malt that have remained half-empty for a nearly a year can attest. And I've never been much of a gambler, since I think it's really silly to play something for the long-term that probability states I will lose in the long-term. So it builds and it swells until it can no longer be ignored.

And after the sound and the fury, there came a darkness upon the land. And in the cool, drizzling breeze of the night, the parched earth was flooded then rejuvenated with life-giving waters. And when the ground was quenched of its drought, it was ready to approach the light of day with renewed vigor.

Very poor imagery aside, I must have slept for about 60% of last week, which is absolutely amazing for the mind but terrifically terrible for the lower back, especially on a faux memory foam mattress topper. I did some golf and fishing. I tried reading a little bit, but my attention waned in favor of serial watching of anime. But most importantly, I did not do what I didn't want to do or have to do.

I am an invisible man not because people refuse to see me, but because I refuse[d] to see myself. More on this and other thoughts/ideas later.

I was taught as a child that I must do what is necessary***. That 'necessary' was to redeem some archaic notion of family honor. It's a story taken straight out of a cheesy Chinese Kung Fu flick complete with bad voice dubs. Though I have (for the most part) shed the burden of hundreds of years of tradition, that mantra still remained: to do what is necessary.

Except what was necessary did not include my own well-being. It should always include one's own well being, or there should be a damn good reason it doesn't.

But there is no use in armchair psychology-ing yourself all the time. We should all all take it easy, be the optimist hole mole, and get tatted up with 'THUG ANGEL' on a whim. Because it is 'pretty cool'!

by Austin Havican, from UH's Daily Cougar. Sadly, holemoles.com doesn't exist anymore.

(I would be concerned about the scattered thoughts, but it makes perfect sense [to me] how this bit about hole moles connects to 2Pac, which connects to the rest of the stuff because of the convalescing thing. And besides, I can't exactly end on such a dreary note!)

*I cannot stomach Jersey Shore, and I am bemused that so many of my FB friends keep up with that show.

**When I read novels, I skip most unknown words since the context usually gives the meaning.

***"It is no use saying, 'We are doing our best.' You have got to succeed in doing what is necessary." - Winston Churchill

A New Dawn... in 4 hours

2011-08-28T02:40:00.003-05:00

To insomniacs,

All bleeding stops eventually: the blood manages to clot, the docs figure out the source, or you bleed out. In any case, all bleeding will stop and it's just a question of when. You just hope that you don't have to die before that happens.

The figurative bleeding has subsided. I don't know if it has stopped, but I feel better. But I just can't seem to sleep for more than 4 hours without an OTC sleep aid, and those make me feel like I haven't slept when I do wake up.

Life after an epiphany should not be so eventful. When I jumped ship to Dallas, I thought I had finally escaped from a nightmare. But I have found that my salvation eventually morphed into my new captor. What irony: to blow a wall in your jail cell to find fleeting freedom only to realize that you're still in a greater prison!

But the new dawn approaches in less than four hours. And I think I will be better. I have spent so many years becoming wrong. Now is the time to get right, whatever right is.

'Dig me up from under what is covering

The better part of me.'

A Sometimes Love But Mostly Hate Relationship

2011-05-19T07:45:00.001-05:00

To the disenchanted and never-enchanted,

Not sure if I ever posted this (perhaps in my previous blog): No matter how much you love your job, you'll always love your paycheck just a little more.

I said this to a gentleman when I got my first paycheck as a pharmacist a little less than 2 years ago. It was a relatively massive payday for a formerly Ramen-eating college student without much money to his name. I had just moved to the Dallas area, signed a 1-year apartment lease on the fly without looking at any other places, and survived my first week as a night pharmacist.

I had a stupid, toothy grin on my face, and the cash office manager made a note to tell the technicians when I left. 'So [g], I heard you were pretty happy this morning...,' my coworker teased with a devilish smirk.

Those were happier times. And though it was a difficult at first, it's turning out to be the best job I've had thus far. And I was so ready to commit to it, to being a night pharmacist, to living in Dallas, to a white picket fence, 2.5 kids, being a big disappointment* to my parents, everything.

But I guess it just wasn't meant to be.

Less than two years later, I'm still a night pharmacist, but things are different. It's unlikely I'll settle in a college town, let alone commit to a company whose business model relies heavily on Eli Whitney's interchangeable parts.

And this being my 3rd workplace thus far, I've grown dissatisfied, remembering all the good times and none of the bad of my previous two.

So I've been thinking about what I want to do with my life, because this doesn't feel like it. This no longer feels right. This relationship has stagnated and the end seems inevitable. But what will come when daylight finally breaks? Why am I so terrified of waking?

Is the known darkness preferred over the unknown light? Or will the light simply illuminate the cliff's edge where my un-derail-able train is heading?

But a check is a check, even if it's direct deposit. And although those electronic numbers don't hit my online savings account until tomorrow, I got to view the paystub online, and it reminded me of that first morning when I had that several thousand dollar check in my hand.

Too bad every payday can't be like the first time.

My solution for happier employees: Pay everyone his/her earnings right after their shift in cash. Better hope there's not a 'gentlemans' club near by.

*I've become less of a disappointment to my parents, but it's only because they've warmed to the idea that I've refused to become a medical doctor :)

Blown Fuse & Healthcare Reform

2011-05-04T09:10:00.003-05:00

To Current Events Buffs,

Do you seriously watch CNN/CSPAN? I understand why people leave news networks on the in the background but that stuff is strangle-yourself boring/depressing. Unless it has a chance of affecting me somewhat indirectly, I don't really care. My political view is that if it gets so bad in the U.S., I'll move to Canada or some other English-speaking country.

Though healthcare reform does affect me a little, considering I'm a drug dealer, I could care less about the whole debate and the death panels, etc. It's not like I can really change much (please don't get P Diddy to text me with, 'Vote or Die!'). Like one vote matters anyway. Incidentally, I did register to vote when I renewed my driver license but that's in the off-chance that I meet some girl who'd find my non-voting an issue.

So let's make light on the whole healthcare issue by relating it to a practical problem: The AC in my car went out last August. In the Texas heat. 120 miles southwest of Houston, which meant that it was even hotter. And it wasn't fixed until 2 weeks ago, when my mom finally visited my uncle to get it check out.

The problem? A blown fuse, probably costing less than $10, for which I spent the better part of 8 months sweating away whilst driving 2hrs to and from Victoria (TX). And suffering on drives around Houston, sometimes in dress clothes. I'd have to hold the steering wheel in such a way that the fan blowing warm air would reach my axillary cavities* so as to not have pit stains by the time I got to where I needed to be.

Why didn't I just visit a body shop just to see what was wrong? Well, that's pretty good 20/20 hindsight you have there! I should have done that very thing when the AC went out, but you see, my uncle is a Toyota mechanic and being the younger sibling, he's obligated to do pro bono work for his older siblings, namely my parents. Thus, my parents always take it to him to check it out. That is when they have the time.

The great thing about my beater of a car is that the only thing I pay for is gas. It's in my parents' name and they pay the insurance. It's been paid off. And until recently, I've done zero maintenance on it. It's like borrowing your neighbors' tools: you can abuse it and run it to the ground without a second thought.

But when it's broken, you have to wait for them to get it fixed. So August passed, and so did September. And the weather was cool some weeks, so Mama put off getting the car checked out. Then it was winter during which some freak 85-degree days ruined some shirts. Then I stopped working, so there was really no point in getting it fixed since I was no longer driving to Victoria anyway.

But then I started working again in April, at another place 2 hrs away from Houston. Twice I had to drive in the hellish heat. No more! After much pleading, threats**, and guilt trips, she finally took that damn car to my uncle's shop.

A. Blown. Friggin. Fuse...

Mama made it sound like something expensive and magical. She popped the hood and the fuse box to show me what had been wrong, and the 'expensive' $10 replacement fuse. I should've simmered over in the boiling blood of all those stupid 100-degree drives, but it was my fault too. If I had gotten it checked out (and possibly invested in the beater), I wouldn't have suffered.

So it is with the new healthcare reform, supposedly. In the U.S. you can get the best healthcare in the world so long as you have the greenbacks or greenback equivalents to pay for it. With the new socialized medicine, you might have to wait to see a specialist or spends months on a waiting list for a 'life-saving' procedure. Again, I don't care either way. When I get sick, I'll put more thought into it. After all, that's the American way of thinking.

The car story parallel explained: Free uncle fixing car = socialized medicine. Paying some random auto-mechanic who could price gouge me and find 'other problems' = non-socialized medicine.

But I would've gotten AC much quicker the second way.

Moral of the story: Get a free estimate somewhere, then get the free uncle hookup.

Thanks beater, for burning me up with your [lack of AC].

*armpits

**'Just watch! I'm going to buy a $40k car just to show you!' One of my mom's worse fears is that we waste money.

De-Gentrification of Golf

2011-04-13T09:00:00.000-05:00

to weekend hackers,

Don't play golf on weekends, silly people! You can get a noon tee-time during the week for $20 tax included with a cart. That is if you can off work/school during the week to enjoy this new trend in sport/leisurely activity.

(playing here sometime this week)

If you had told me 10 years ago that I'd actually sorta/kinda like golf when I got older, I would've made a pity-filled half-smile/frown I reserved for people I thought were mentally/physically challenged (there were 3 slashes in that last sentence, which is/are a bit much).

But here I am today, hacking away at a stationary white ball like millions of people across the world, doing my figurative part to pay back for years of oppression by the chang** men. And now that I can actually hit the thing with some consistency, it is actually pretty fun. It is honestly a really stupid game made by rich people in developed countries who have no worry about food, clothing or shelter, but when you have no frustration in your life, you have to make some or else you die or cheat on your wife. So wives, be thankful that your husbands' mistress is the fairway wood and not another kind of wood.

But besides thinking every once in awhile that the white golf ball is the head of some colonist a hundred years ago who came and raped Vietnam, it's a plus to see the irritated faces of the my chang when my friends and I invade their little side of paradise. Fourteenth Amendment! You lost the Civil War and the Vietnam War--them's the spoils of victory/defeat.

If it's convenient, we'll replace the divot and perhaps a ball-mark if it's nicely in our path. But we're here to play a cheap, fun round of golf, not pay homage to hundreds of years of upper-class snobbery. We're here to de-gentrify golf, just as rich folks are tearing down projects to build $3 million houses next to run-down shacks on MacGregor near Univ of Houston. Because more than a few people in the 15% tax bracket knew that Rory McIlroy choked horribly at that Master's.

But I guess in a way, the de-gentrification of golf and the gentrification of urban slums are moves toward a more homogeneously heterogeneous middle, a death by entropy. It is not combative or controversial, it is simply natural and eventual.

That is until the robots take over, either those that we create now or those that come back from the future to make us their slaves. And I, for one, welcome our new robot overlords. But we'll assimilate robot parts and be like cyborgs or something, so it will be cool until the aliens come, and then they'll eventually mate with us after all that probing is done so we'll be one species. Punctuated equilibrium to dynamic equilibrium, rinse & repeat ad infinitum.

Yes, I just moved from golf to a broad generalization and trivialization of gentrification to a shout-out to Terminator/Watson, IBM's new supercomputer, and then stuff about aliens and equilibrium.
--

*I don't know the number, just throwing this out there
**white

Two Overlooked Reasons for Needing a Girl

2011-04-12T09:00:00.000-05:00

to the single,

Guys really just want one thing from women, and that--as we all know--is the thoughtful conversational skills that they offer that other dudes simply cannot supply unless horrendously drunk. Oh, and that other thing too.

But besides those two things, there are two very overlooked reasons for needing female companionship, and those are as a supplier of nail polish remover and conservative country fodder.
--

In Texas, we have our vehicle registration sticker on the driver side windshield, generally above the inspection sticker. In the past, it used to be a couple of laminated, heavy stickers put directly on the license plates.*

(not my stickers, not that I'd have any stalkers, but you never know)

And because they're stickers, they come with an innate problem. They're sticky. And they leave that awful sticky residue after you remove them, which is a serious problem for people with mild OCD. Global warming almost compares to this problem since there is still some doubt about its verity (those people likely also doubt evolution), whereas you can clearly see the mildly sticky contamination on your windshield not unlike spots on Monica Lewinsky's wardrobe circa 1996: not blaringly obvious, but they're there if you look.

Usually tape will take care of most stickiness, the stronger the better. Double-sided is the best; duct tape usually makes it worse. Adhere to the sticky spot and quickly tear it off like a Band-Aid. The stickiness should come off eventually. It's best if the sticker was recently removed, but if the residue is old, you're really SOL.

That is unless you have acetone. But if you don't have access to a variety of flammable organic solvents (a la trailer in the country which has a nasty tendency to blow up), the next best thing is nail polish remover. Which if you don't have a female presence in your life, you'd have to buy it at the store which would be awkward since why would a guy need nail polish remover. 'Dude, I swear it's for that residue left on the windshield after you remove those stickers, and not for the black nail polish I use when I'm feeling noir-ish'.

No problem since I'm at home, and Mama's medicine cabinet is stock full of random stuff, including a bottle of nail polish remover probably older than me. Which was a deep violet color, which I wondered was intentional or a product of degradation. But it's not as if solvents expire (and those drugs that have an '09 expiration date are probably still good, but I can't legally recommend you take it, so use your common sense there).

The sticker came off easy enough, and the tape trick took off most of the fresh gunk left behind. But last year, Dad wasn't as OCD about removing the residue, so that was still left on there. After the tape failed, I soaked some napkins with the sweet smelling solvent. *Wipe...

*sigh, [Fine Needle Aspiration..**]

It just pushed the muck around, and it now had brown specks since I used a brown napkin (those ones you get at fast food restaurants).

I've made a huge mistake.

After calming down a bit, I realized some of the glue was now on the napkin. So after another intensive 5 minutes, the rest of it came off the glass. And I stickered the new vehicle registration in place very analytically with the next 5 minutes.

I still can't diagnose myself with OCD since I only spent 35min doing something a sane person would do in 5. Only 30 more minutes of craziness to reach the 1hr daily cutoff.
--

The great thing about road trips to and from my workplace are that I get to see the local fauna and flora, the fauna mostly being the cattle which would end up as steaks across Texas. And the flora from March to May is the state flower, the Texas bluebonnet.

(It resembles those hooded old-fashioned headwear worn by women in the past and they're blue, hence bluebonnet)

And if you permit me this loss of a man-card, bluebonnets are simply magnificent! Maybe it was all the brainwashing in 6th grade Texas Social Studies when they taught us about all the state symbols, like the state bird and tree which I think are the roadrunner and magnolia, respectively***. But the only thing I remembered from all that nonsense (anything that doesn't exist in and of itself and requires documented history is too much information for me. With science, all that was discovered and will be discovered is already present [or omni-present], whereas history could be altered if someone were to wipe out history books and alter human memories) is the bluebonnet, because I think they were the coolest thing when I was growing up.

But they're weeds, and you would hate for them to be in your yard, and you'd mow the heck out of them and litter pesticides that will run off into the Houston Ship Channel. But when they're in the median between two unnatural concrete/asphalt monstrosities criss-crossing this great state of Texas, they're damn beautiful.

And you (and by you, I mean me) just want to stop by the side of the 70mph interstate like some idiot to take a Zyrtec and roll around in those damn weeds, except you're a single guy, and that'd be really weird. And you're in a conservative part of Texas, and they don't take kindly to men who'd make real that awful perversion (in their minds) of Brokeback Montain.

But if you had a girl, that'd be totally cool. You'd just have to nudge and manipulate her, and then say stuff like, 'Really, you want to stop by the side of the road to take a picture for your Facebook profile? Seriously?' when you're absolutely giddy beyond words.

I'm only half joking. But there were quite a few couples last year when I was driving to and from Dallas who stopped in a field of bluebonnets to take pictures. I did want to stop, but it was like Frost's Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening: no reason to stop and many miles to go, both literally and figuratively.
--

*I remember because my dad used a chisel to remove it, which I thought was the coolest thing in the world. I was 9.
**F'n A
***wrong and wrong, supposedly it's the mockingbird and pecan according to Google

ETA < 1week

2011-03-16T13:47:00.003-05:00

to the anxious,

This feeling never gets comfortable, the anticipation before the start of a new day, a new chapter, a new phase, a new unwarranted melodramatic noun. There's a reason why most rollercoasters make you clang clang clang up a steep incline before they drop you precipitously down to your possible, though however unlikely, death. That feeling of dread, both frightening and pleasurable, is what we humans crave in this age of minimal threat of mortal danger (at least in developed nations).

This is the third time in less than 2 years, and the nervous churning in the pit of my stomach is still as strong as that week before I started my first job. Like the first two jobs, I'll probably do fine. There's nothing to be scared of. It's not like I'm going to the African savannas to battle ferocious beasts or even handle biological hazards in a lab. Sure I can kill someone with a misfill, but the human body is a very resilient thing (and it's not me who is at risk). So why the anxiety?
--

I recently watched a Nat. Geographic special entitled 'Stress: Portrait of a Killer' on Netflix. Some of the cool things mentioned were that humans still experience the same fight-or-flight response in modern society as we did in prehistoric times. The problem is that we don't or can't turn off this response. The result is that this sustained stress damages our health and shortens our lifespans. There are plenty of confounding variables, but I do buy into their whole conclusion that stress kills.

Though we're taught by popular culture, comedies, and horror flicks that we should never ask the question, 'What's the worst that could happen?', it is my primary mode of stress relief. If a situation were to descend into a Murphy's Law marathon, what really is the worst that could happen? Death?

'What to do if you find yourself stuck with no hope of rescue: Consider yourself lucky that life has been good to you so far. Alternatively, if life hasn't been good to you so far, which given your present circumstances seems more likely, consider yourself lucky that it won't be troubling you much longer.' - Douglas Adams

Is it that modern & prehistoric humans need to respond to a proportional level of stress lest we become incapable of running when something nasty decides we look mighty tasty? Perhaps it's like Steve Carrell's character's question in the '40-Year Old Virgin': Is it true that if you don't use it, you lose it?
--

Whatever the truth (or best thought out theory) may be, I can only lessen the stress I feel through my slew of Jedi mind tricks. Though I know everything will probably end up better than okay, I consciously and subconsciously keep that little bit of anxiety ready to respond if need be.

And if psychobabble isn't enough, there's always chemical means in the form of a half bottle of MacAllan 18-yr and nearly full bottle of Glenfiddich 12-yr. Maybe it's not coincidence that once man discovered agriculture (and thereby decreased their need for hunting-gathering), they discovered fermentation.

The Point of Diminishing Returns (PoDR)

2011-03-02T15:08:00.005-06:00

to Freakonomics subscribers:

I've been meaning to write this post for a long while now, and I've actually had a couple longish discussions with friends about this concept of diminishing returns. It is my absolute favorite concept I learned from high school economics, and I find it to be the most practical to daily life. Sure, supply and demand gets all the fanfare and has a two line graph showing the point of intersection where suppliers and demand-ers should meet for sheer nirvana and such, but it doesn't really do much for people who aren't in the business of supplying or demanding. Well, a whole bunch of us are in the business of demanding lots of things, but it doesn't correlate as nicely or as quickly as those textbook graphs. Examples: the cost of the original PS3 or the current iPhone--it takes a while for supply & demand to take over to find the magic $299 and $199 price points, respectively.

But diminishing returns, now that you see everyday. You see it in my blog (I posted a lot, got fed up with it, and stopped, and now I'm doing it again). You see it in reality TV (Survivor comes out, then Idol, but after the 25th season of Idol, you just stop caring). Wikipedia-ly stated, 'In economics, diminishing returns (also called diminishing marginal returns) refers to how the marginal production of a factor of production starts to progressively decrease as the factor is increased.' Simply stated, after a certain point, the more you put in, the less you get out.

Ex. At a fast food joint, the more labor you hire, the more burgers you can push out. Let's say you originally had 4 employees working who churn out 80 burgers an hr which is 20/person/hr. You hire another person, and now you can do 100/hr (given that you have the demand for it). You hire another person, but now you can only get an extra 15/hr.

What happened? Well, there's not enough grill space anymore. Eventually if you keep hiring more workers, you get to the point where people just get in the way, and you actually lose production for each additional unit of labor. To maximize efficiency, you'd want to add inputs until you get to the point of diminishing [marginal] returns, that is the point where the next unit would start to have less production value (the 15 burgers/hr person). To maximize total production, you'd want to add inputs until the total production starts to turn south (where the next person hired would contribute nothing or take away from the total production).

Of course there's a whole bunch of factors in determining how much inputs you should use. But it's all very academic and boring, and doesn't have a popular iPhone app for it, so who cares?

I promise, it's really useful in figuring out why you and people around you do things! Maybe..
--

My idea of diminishing returns doesn't concern inputs and outputs. It deals with the net gain/pleasure per additional unit of stuff.

Mama told me this about my favorite dish when I was a kid: 'Eat one day, you desire for more. Eat two days straight, you grow tired'*. Turns out to be very true. I'm so glad I live in Houston where there's such a diverse and vibrant culture of obesity which means there are diverse and vibrant restaurants. The point of diminishing returns (PoDR) depends on how much you like the food, but everyone has a point. Incidentally, my PoDR for Tex-Mex is significantly higher than for Viet food probably due to Mama's psycho-babble.

And now for a visual:

Ex. The smartphone craze:
Blue phase: first couple hours after getting the phone activated and recovery from sticker shock. 'What's the big deal with a touch screen phone? Texting while driving is even harder now that I have to peck at those virtual keys! And it can't even make calls without a special cover on it!'
Green phase: 'OMG, there's an app for that? So friggin awesome!'
Yellow phase: 'o...m...g..., there's...an...app...for...that...haven't slept in days...eyes are fried by super AMOLED or whatever screen...'
Orange phase: 'cell phone bill is over $300, but my life had been incomplete before the advent of fruit ninja and his comrade apps which mimic bodily functions.'
Red phase: 'I have terminal brain cancer and crippling arthritis of the thumbs. If I had to pick one to be cured, it would have to be the arthritis so I can live out my last moments on this earth yelling sweet nothings to my smartphone because of its poor call quality.'
--

Okay, seriously now. I did not think there was a point of diminishing returns for money, but I have sadly reached that point. Let me explain before you break out the world's tiniest violin. My hourly rate working in a small town a couple hours outside of Houston was outrageous. And the work was pretty chill, and there was ample opportunity for extra hours (not time and a half, but with extra pay on top of a ridiculous rate). And so I worked 23 12-hr shifts straight. Not once, but twice.

I figured it was just money sitting on the table, and I might as well pick it up while I still have the stamina to work all those hours. But when I paid off the debt that had any interest, the desire to work all those hours faded. Nothing had changed much except I had no reason to make money anymore. That extra dollar had diminished in value to me, especially since the gov't took a hefty chunk before I even saw it.

If I had a family or kids or a car or house, then things would have been different. I would have remained in the green phase of the DR curve since I had a reason to work. So when that job ended and I was offered a relief job, I decided to take a few months off since I was well into the yellow phase and rapidly approaching the orange.
--

It was at this point that I embarked on the longish green phase of the PS3/Netflix DR curve. I finished the 80ish episodes of the Battlestar Galactica series (a really great drama, and not just for nerds/sci fi folks) and started on the first season of the X-Files before I again reached the PoDR. This was also after I spent 129 hours to get the Platinum Trophy in Final Fantasy XIII (totally worth it!).

So after a couple of months of not working much (I put in a couple of shifts here and there), my work DR curve has finally been reset, and I am ready to start working regularly again. And I'm glad to say I haven't suffered much vision loss or thumb muscle hypertrophy from the PS3/Netflix addiction.
--

I can't think of anything that doesn't in some way follow my loose interpretation of diminishing returns. Drug addicts who reach a point of tolerance (yellow) consume more and more to get the same high (orange), ultimately resulting in their death (red). But for most things, when a person or thing gets to that yellow or orange phase, they back off until that thing or activity feels good (or tolerable) again. One just has to figure where that point is before they surpass it and have a hard time getting back to the green phase. Or one can find ways to shift the curve by finding reasons to continue an activity, such as making money to pay for kids' tuition.

Even studying for classes which rapidly reaches the PoDR, you can shift the DR curve by thinking about the reasons for your current state of torture. Like the cash you'll make when you graduate, or the lives you'll affect, or that general feeling of satisfaction of accomplishing something really big.

But sometimes, regardless of how good you determine your point(s) of diminishing returns, you just need a break. So take that break. The world and its problems will still be there tomorrow. And you'll be in a better mindset to take on those challenges.

I apologize for the sappy ending. It really isn't like me to be all inspirational and non-sarcastic/satirical.
--

*It's much more poetic/sparse in Vietnamese: an mot ngay, them, an hai ngay, chan. Literal: Eat one day, hunger; Eat two days, tired.

forever, forever, ever, forever, ever? Forever never...

2011-03-01T10:43:00.004-06:00

to snail mail mailers:

Do you even exist anymore? With the advent of email, Twitter, Facebook, and their ilk, who actually sits down to type a letter to be printed out, enveloped, and stamped? let alone actually hand-write some epistle?

The only things I can think of that warrant envelopes and stamps are holiday cards, bills from companies which don't accept online payments (stuck in the dark ages much?), and job-related stuff. For me, the only thing for which I use an envelope and stamp is the latter, and for this career trade of pharmacy, it's usually for thank you letters after interviews and letters of acceptances.*

And thank goodness for the Forever Stamp, since I only use one of these things like once every 4 months (if that often). I think I paid $8.40 for a 'book' of 20 stamps, which comes out to $0.42 a piece. For you non-letter writers, the forever stamp is good forever as the name implies. It doesn't have the value printed on there, so it's good for any normal letter you send. I think I still see a few stamps with the value printed on there, which would suck for those people since they'd have to buy 1-cent, 2-cent and 3-cent stamps for when the US Post Office inevitably increases postage rates.

And all those extra stamps look tacky on the envelope. And they don't have the 'USA...FIRST-CLASS...FOREVER' printed on it. A little arrogant subliminal message**, I suppose, but it does make me feel all subconsciously warm and fuzzy about this land of milk and honey (and processed meat and China-made goods).

When the forever stamp first came out, I thought about stockpiling them since the price of the stamp will probably vastly outstrip inflation. But I realized it'll be like SPAM and Twinkies in a bomb shelter: they'll still be there when you're long dead and gone, and you won't ever get the chance to use them all up. (and if you do use them all, there's something really wrong happening).

So out of 20, I still have 15 stamps left, which will probably last me a whole 7-10 years, if people don't bum some off me. I will, of course, charge a nickel-surcharge fee on top of whatever USPS currently charges. I will promise to pay an extra $0.02 in taxes on that nickel, because by that time, my marginal tax bracket will definitely be in the 40% range, and it won't be because I'm making significantly more (though I'm all for social programs, I secretly delight when Republicans win so I can get tax breaks...and I like the right to bear arms even though I don't have a gun). I'm going to get a sizeable refund this year, but the gov't still took 2/3rds of my dough after accounting for all the FICA and other taxes.

Oh, and I'm writing a letter of acceptance. So I should be on an more even keel now :).

--
title from lyrics from Outkast's 'Ms. Jackson'
*Since it's a licensed profession, there are generally fewer applicants so pharmacists generally don't mass-mail inquiry letters. There are exceptions like residencies and such.
**That the USA will be FIRST-CLASS FOREVER

The Perks of Mania

2011-02-18T03:58:00.003-06:00

To those with cool diseases/conditions:

Like synesthesia, which is probably the coolest thing in the world! Imagine viewing letters and numbers as colors and sounds--your own personal continuous trippy episode sans the paranoia. There was NOVA scienceNOW episode on how the brain works where they explained various cute things like optical illusions, switching actors who didn't look similar at all and people didn't notice (which has been done on other shows too, like an ABC primetime special, etc), and the aforementioned synesthetes. Why study a cool, but, at my initial thought, pointless condition (it's not like those affected are suffering much)? Because, as the show explained, it is theorized that synesthesia is possibly caused by inappropriate connections between contiguous parts of the brain. If that can be elucidated, then it could possibly lead to breakthroughs in other psych research like schizophrenia and ADHD. All really exciting, to me at least.

On a sidenote: When I watch science-y programs, I feel like Peggy Hill 'appreciating' the nuances of the Spanish language--that is, someone who has a bare-minimum understanding of a particular subject but projects grand comprehension of the whole field (one of the reasons why I hate King of the Hill). There was a time I could have been one of those string-theorists or neuroscientists, but that naivete is gone. And so are a bunch of brain cells experimented on with certain beverages. And in their [naivete & brain cells] stead are loosely veiled arrogance and contempt of all those successful labcoated guys and gals saying the really smart stuff on the tube. But I wouldn't trade it for the world, because this* is the only thing I know, and the grass is pretty green on my side.

So hopefully they'll come up with a reason for my mood changes besides labeling it manic-depression, and then renaming it bipolar I and bipolar II. I know there's that whole med student syndrome where you learn about stuff and then suddenly find yourself experiencing the exact same symptoms you're reading about. And it may very well be that, since I've never been to a psychologist/psychiatrist. The reason for that is simple: hypomania (a less severe form of mania in which the person is fully-functioning), if I do indeed have bipolar II, is awesome!

I remember a period of a couple weeks before 8 AP tests when I think I cycled out of depression to digest massive quantities of text to pretty much pwn what high school students think are really hard tests. Without that possible hypomanic episode, I wouldn't have bypassed a year of college.

(if I had fudged this image, would I have left the sole demerit, a 4 on the English Language & Composition? My excuse for the 4 is I am ESL.)

And from what I learned in school about bipolar II (which could be outdated by now), the aim of treatment is mood stabilization, basically lithium/valproic acid to control the mania and behavioral therapy for the depression, because antidepressants can trigger a full-blown manic episode with delusions and hallucinations and such. So I figure, what's the point? It would be taking away the only good thing about this disorder leaving me with all the lows and none of the highs. And it would cost time and money.

So over the years, I've dealt with really screwy & racing thoughts like a whole night learning everything there is to know about UCSF Med School or playing FFV for the 5th time repeating the same boring battle countless times to level up characters or cleaning excessively even though I was tired or tearing through the entire house looking for some insignificant item.

But sometimes the mania is really cool and practical (to me at least), like a business accounting application to personal finance or a calendar in eighths rather than months or relation (or rather, comprehension of existing texts) of statistics to economics and social sciences. And I can study/read as if I were prescription-only pharmacologically enhanced without all the messy amphetamine derivatives.

It's great, except there's no on or off switch. And it is past 5am, and the switch is still on. And it may be so for a while. That's okay--the off switch really, really sucks, which partially explains my MIA status for the past few weeks...
--

[end pretend-melodrama and pity-induction]

Actually, all the above is pretty over-blown. I do have highs and lows, but so does everyone. Labeling it some disease/condition which doesn't have a palatable treatment is pointless, loosely analogous to telling a Jehovah's Witness that he is bleeding to death. Likely my main disorder is a weird sense of hedonism (non-sexual) with poor self-control and a body that can withstand sleep deprivation. And I couldn't sleep (I'm pretty sleepy now) because I took an unplanned nap too late in the afternoon.

About the MIA, the real truth is the PS3 is such an addicting piece of Satanic machination! And I was lazy about blogging because it pisses me off that nearly every time I turn on my laptop, there's another stupid Windows/Antivirus/Java/Flash update that insists on happening automatically and practically freezes my computer for several minutes. And it's not like I install crapware either (well, Windows is debatable).

But the good news is that I have had lots and lots of thoughts. Some really good ones, and some not-so-good, but the not-so-good ones are funny.

So here's the main-idea/take-home-message/what-is-the-author-trying-to-say/gist/epiphany of this early morning post: Don't label something just to label it. Even if you do label it correctly (which is usually not the case), the thing you named still exists in and of itself (Romeo would still be Romeo were he not Romeo-called). And that thing, if it were a problem, would have the same solution regardless of whether you named it.

Real-life example. My chemistry prof in undergrad called a concept the Henderson-Hasselcrap equation since you have 90% solved the problem by the time you get to plugging the numbers into the 'magic formula.' And instead of understanding the concept, students try to memorize 4+ versions of the same stupid equation.

So if it were true that I had a mild or raging form of bipolar II, what is the sense in pigeonholing this constellation of symptoms to a name?

I guess there are exceptions like someone, suffering from a House-MD-incurable disease, finding relief after hearing the name of one's afflictor. Or like when possession movies have a set of rules which state that if the demon's name were known, it would be exorcised. But usually names are bad--that's why they call it name-calling! Cue rim-shot a la Eminem's window pane lyric.
--

Some nights I have thoughts like this which keep me up until I think it out or do some other stuff until I get tired. And usually the next day, I forget all about it. But I think I'll start recording them in the same place (here) so that I won't repeat the cycle of forgetting, remembering, and spending a sleepless night working out all the kinks. Sorta like New Year's Resolutions.
--

*at this point, I make a grand yet awkward gesture with my hands and arms about all the stuff around me and in the ether and my various electronics and books and general personage

Of Mice and Men

2010-12-31T12:07:00.002-06:00

to New Years Eve revelers,

If you don't want to kill your joy, avoid Steinbeck's novella of insight on this last day of the year. Avoid Grapes of Wrath too; that ending was more than a bit weird. I'm all for depressing novels, but they can sometimes be a bit too much at the wrong moments or the wrong moods.

According to Wikipedia (which is still asking people for donations when all it needs to do is add one small little adbar to reap beaucoup revenue), Steinbeck took the name of the novel from a Robert Burns's poem, To a Mouse. Which makes perfect sense, and I've used that tidbit of information to inflate my ever large hubris many a time to the right people. The original line from the poem reads--

The best-laid schemes o' mice an' men
Gang aft agley,

Reversioned into coherent English by a Wikipedia author who, supposedly, doesn't get paid--

The best laid schemes of mice and men
Go often askew,

But I much prefer my version: The best laid plans of mice and men go oft awry. 'Schemes' has a bad connotation, and I don't consider myself much of a 'schemer'. 'Oft' sounds kind of sexy in an archaic way. It's a word that most people can define using context clues skills they learned in 5th grade, but still adds a mystique to the conversation. That or they'll start considering you a pretentious ass who uses thesauri or Google to make yourself sound [even] smarter than you are. Either way, it is a win-win.

Though I confess I do use thesaurus.com and Google plenty of times to clean up my diction (poorly, I might add), the bit about 'go oft awry' dates back to 12th grade when I was still confined to rules of proper English in order to vanquish the English Literature AP test. On a tangent, I like blogs because the sheer amount of daily writing involved almost excuses wordiness, my prime offense.

English Lit class involved reading dry, supposedly wry texts from masters whom I wished the editors modernized to something readable. Not dumbed down to Jersey Shore level, but at least to a style you might see in Times magazine. Being in class also meant being a complete failure at trying to impress girls with my use of the English language. Besides the relatively large but slowly shrinking size of my savings account, my command of this mutt-language is the best thing I have going for me. Pretty sad, I must admit.

Anyway, it probably happened like this, the 'go oft awry' bit: We read stuff in class, probably pieces like the Burnsian poem. The teacher in a more optimistic mood asks a bunch of seniors 2 months from graduation, what a particular line means. After being beatdown with glares and sneers through most of my pre-adolescent and pubescent life, I'd learned not to raise my hand as often. But since the guy was in such a pleasant mood, I threw him a bone.

'That's nice, Mr. Nguyen. Though would you really choose to use "oft"? It's a bit archaic, isn't it?'

It's a peeve of mine when teachers address students by their last name. They try to elevate you to their level, yet this oddity (since every other teacher calls you by your first name) reminds you that they hold the superior position in the relationship. It is utterly condescending. Don't pretend I'm not your b--, smiley face.

'Yes, I'd rather stick with my choice of "oft", though I very well know that it is likely an old-form of "often" and though my classmates probably don't know that, I do, and I'm kind of the only person that matters to me.'

Okay, the story went nothing like that. In my lukewarm quest towards complete Advanced Placement domination, I deferred learning the important material by reading pleasurable stuff. Before this potent Netflix addiction, my past vice was reading for hours on end until the wee hours of the morning. And when I got to a particularly savory bit of writing, I'd write it down to pwn for my own use later. So was born the 'go oft awry bit'. Mr. Optimistic assigned us texts to read, and sat down to whatever he wanted to read, and if you wanted to learn, he was there to teach. Those teachers were swell.

Excuse the long, pointless story.
--

Last New Year's Eve, I was stuck in Dallas, down and out with a cold for the nth time. And I did nothing but attempt to console myself with largish quantities of cough syrup (sadly, it wasn't purple). In my drug- and cold-induced stupor, I thought about resolutions I had made. I was going to start setting down, find a nice girl, have her try to change me for the better as girls are wont to do, etc. Probably that summer, I would start looking at condos in the Addison area and join some book club or something. Start to put down true connections and such. My friends would have started their rotations by then in the Dallas area, and I'd have some people to help me meet new people. It was going to be all good and swell.

Then a month before Easter, the 'go oft awry' bit happened, and I was informed I would be 'displaced' which was the HR-approved term they used. Though it put me in a tailspin, I thought I was pretty well qualified to try to do non-retail stuff, like hospital or long-term care.

No dice. I spent the better part of three months depressed that employers refused to acknowledge my existence simply because I didn't have the 'experience' they were looking for. So I gave up going for hospital/clinical jobs.

Shortly after that decision, I landed a job doing the same work with more pay (the rate was pretty sick) and closer to home. The first cut is the deepest, as Sheryl Crow croons. I worked all the extra shifts possible since I felt the job wouldn't last all that long. And sadly, I was right.

So this is where I am today, chillaxing, figuring out my next move, wondering how many hours of Netflix I'll watch tomorrow when I'm hungover from tonight's festivities. I say 6-8 hours, and that's probably an underestimate.
--

Recently, I gave some advice to the newest brothers in my pharmacy fraternity. The first bit when like this:

Firstly, ‘things fall apart.’ Things Fall Apart is a book written by Chinua Achebe about a tribal leader in Africa who resists the change in his community by the white men. But by being so steadfast in his ideals, he eventually becomes frustrated and commits suicide, which is one of the chief sins in his belief system. It is a very sad irony. What does this have to do with...pharmacy? Things will change, for better or for worse. You must learn to cope and deal with all types of circumstances. Things will not always turn out as you expect them to, but if you realize this early on, it will not be as hard to handle when things do not go your way. Bend, but do not break. [end]

I thought about titling this post 'Things Fall Apart', but that's such a dreary opener. And it's not completely encompassing of my life this past year. I'm not dead, and I'm very much the better for my experiences this past year. I've paid off all my debt, and I finally have a virtual tabula rasa, a clean slate. I can do or not do whatever the hell I want. It's like ice cold lemonade sweetened with real sugar on a hot summer day when you're inside with the AC blustering hard to keep it a cool 68 degrees, after you've spent 2 hours mowing and edging the lawn of a house on the corner lot. Utterly magnificent.

Though I won't go so far as to say 'Things Fall in Place', I will say this past year has been more constructive than destructive. The most fitting epitaph for this year is, therefore, 'the best laid plans of mice and men go oft awry.'

Should old acquaintance be forgot, and never brought to mind? Never.. 2010, what a wondrous year!

Job Search Begins in Earnest

2010-12-16T09:00:00.000-06:00

To the pharmacy job-seekers,

Would you mind ever so nicely to forward me your contacts? Especially the really good sounding ones with hefty pay and minimal stress? Thanks in advance!
--

The Vegas chronicles can get a bit dreary for the non-poker folks, so I'll intersperse them with the regular dreary stuff. I promise at the end of the Vegas posts, there will be something about a 5-10, 6-4 in stripper heels, platinum blonde 'exotic dancer'. But it will likely be at least a week before then. I can be a tease, I know.
--

After getting back from Sin City, I reconciled my losses and partitioned my poker bankroll from my regular cash stash. Both were dismally low, so I supplemented with a drive-up ATM withdrawal which took more than 10 minutes because some lady in an SUV was having a pleasant conversation with the machine which included about 10-15 hand motions. Honestly, if you need more than 5 minutes at a drive-up ATM, do everyone a favor and go inside. There are actual human beings paid to service you when you need that many transactions, and they won't be snide and say stuff like, 'Did you know you could deposit your check at the ATM outside?'

When I got to the machine, it took me less than 2 minutes to get my dough, even without the quick-cash option.

With that little windfall, I paid back my bankroll for the night at the Spearmint Rhino, then paid my parents for the DSL and phone service. And then my cash was once more depleted. Though my credit cards, bank & saving accounts are relatively solid, it's the cash that makes me happy or depressed; if I had a $1000 in cash in which to roll around, I'd feel momentarily richer than if I had $10 with $10,000 in the bank. It's pretty stupid, my sense of wealth, but I digress.

On the last night in Vegas, I had come to a conclusion (more on this later), that poker would be, at best, a side-gig for me and that I should suck it up and go find a real job with a 401(k) and benefits. Because you can work an entire week as a poker player making all the right decisions and still lose money, whereas the worst pharmacist in the country is pretty much guaranteed at least $50/hr. But I still think poker is my lottery ticket to the big-time, especially tournament poker. I found out that cash game poker isn't my cup of tea since it can be static and boring, eventually shifting my play to autopilot which isn't winning poker.

I checked if this job in Houston was still available and it was. Reposted after a month in fact. That's always a good sign. Unlike poker, second-best is still pretty good if it treats you right.

But sleep can cure insomnia and cause amnesia, so I sequestered all the icky job seeking notions as soon as I touched down in H-town. You know, because I had to clean up and stuff, and reconcile bills, and wash clothes, and play on my PS3, and finish up the Battlestar Galactica series, and start on the X-Files, etc. And it's not like I wasn't still completely solid. The way I lived my life as a college student, I could go 4 years without seeing another red cent in earnings. Old world Asians are the camels of the money world--there is no such thing as interest and credit because we can do without. Except those degenerate gambling ones; they're like reverse camels, 'Spend it if you got it!'

So after initially planning to submit my resume on Sunday night, here I am on Wednesday, still messing around, wondering if I'm up to scratch to start a brand new career, preferably non-retail. A few years back, I had deluded myself into thinking it was a fear of success (if I succeeded, then there would be a longer path ahead) that handcuffed me from doing what I really wanted. Most assuredly it is a mortal fear of failure. Perfectionism, ironically, is a major flaw.
--

The PS3 game I've been playing lately is InFamous, a sandbox-style game where you take the reigns of Cole MacGrath, a guy with newly donned superpowers courtesy of an electrical explosion that wipes out half a borough. Funny how you never play the role of a Dwight from the Office. You choose to be good or evil, and the storyline progresses depending on the path you take. It's a pretty novel concept, I think, perhaps one of the first of its kind to take it that far.

The cool thing about the game is that there is almost no penalty for dying. You start off at the nearest checkpoint, and progress with a full energy bar to boot! So much for those Contra days when you had 3 lives to beat a near impossible game without the cheat code (or use a computer emulator with save states). After the first couple of missions, I got over my fear of simulated heights, being shot, and dying multiple times. And it's pretty fun to electrocute, sticky-bomb, and fry your enemies with lightning storms.

I would say that's the new culture of video games. Continue where you left off, with perhaps a slap on the hand. Even on hard difficulty. And that might be the new culture of this era. It's okay to fail, so long as you try. It's the quitting or not trying that's punishable by mediocrity.
--

And so this old dog (at heart) must learn some new tricks, must put aside all those messed up thoughts of superiority and/or inferiority, don the devil-may-care attitude of the new generation, take some lumps, and keep on moving towards less imperfection. Because perfection is a false idol and prophet which will lead all souls to mire in their illusions of grandeur.

But my resume/CV will still be grammatically perfect!

This time will be the last time
That we will fight like this..

Vegas Day 1, Part Deuce: The Donks Come Out At Night

2010-12-15T10:56:00.004-06:00

To the donks who call to the river with middle/bottom pair,

Thanks!
--

So the soul crushing began at the Wynn poker room, a nice little place adorned in leather and wood and lace and sugar and spice. I really could care less as long as the action was good and the players next to me didn't smell. According to the Poker Atlas, the Wynn has a swank 26-table room that treats lower-limit players like crap (in terms of chip runners & cocktail waitresses, etc), which wasn't really a problem. It's not like I wanted some fruity 4-ingredient cocktail. Anyplace can pop the cap off a cold Heineken.

I look at the LCD screen at the entrance displaying the games available and found one to my liking: 1-3 NL, no limit with a $1 small blind and $3 big blind. Kind of strange since usually the big blind is twice the small blind, but Vegas is trying to appeal to lower limit players while still making a profit.
--

Session 1.0: Know When The Relationship Is Over

'Do you have your red card sir?'

I hand the dealer the red Wynn card I got an hour earlier. He scans it right there using a machine that sits on the table itself. Vegas is advanced with their comps.

My chips arrive, 40 reds, $200, the standard amount in a 1-2 NL game if you're looking to limit losses while still getting good implied odds to stack* another player. I figured a 1-3 NL game would be similar.

I toss away the first couple hands without a second thought. In cash games, one has to play super-tight, only staying in with the nuts. For new players, if you don't think you're absolutely good, toss that mess away, even if they're two face cards--you'll save yourself a lot of misery. The third hand of the session I would receive the second best hand in holdem: KK, which I like to refer to as Action Jacksons, since those old fellas look a lot like dead President Andrew Jackson on my favorite US bill. The cutoff had raised to $15, and I re-popped it to $45 to go. I get a caller and the initial raiser calls: 3 to the flop. Good start, playing against 2 players with a monster hand and an already monster sized pot over $130.

Flop comes Ad, 6c, 4d. F-- the Ace.. I remain nonchalant, and check to one of the two aces that were sure to be in the hands of my opponents. The first bets, the second calls, and I get out of the way, folding my monster pocket pair which I was certain was no longer good. Two more diamond rags come on the turn and river which would have made me the nut flush with my Kd, but I couldn't have stayed in. They turn their cards: 66 (flopped a set) and A6 (flopped 2-pair), the 66 won with the diamond flush. It sucks to be right sometimes.

The players to my right and left automatically read my hand from the action. 'You had Kings, right?' I laugh, 'Am I that transparent?' They also read me as a dangerous player since I laid down Kings without hesitation knowing it wasn't good. It's nice to have the good opinions of others, but it's nicer to have their chips.

A few hands later, I called a small raise with K9 on the big blind against 2 players. A king and some rags came on the flop to which I bet out on the flop, turn, and river. The guy to my left called me twice, but folded the river.

'I think you have the king, but I just can't call it.' I looked shocked as it dawned on me that there was a draw on the board, and I had given the guy good odds to draw out on me. It's not whether you're behind or ahead, it's whether you're getting a good price to draw.

After the fact, I put the guy on a medium pocket pair, maybe 9s or Ts with a 4-flush** to the hearts. I got lucky there even with my bad play. I stack the chips and came out about even. About 10 hands later the table broke since only 4 of us were playing and the action was literally raise, fold, fold, fold for a whole orbit around the table.
--

Session 1.5: Hand Caught in the Cookie Jar

Myself and another player were relocated to an uber-aggressive, uber-action table, playing automatic straddle and 7-2. The straddle is when the person to the left of the big blind raises blindly in order to get position preflop; the net result is that it's $6 to call instead of $3. The 7-2 game is if a player wins with 7-2, the worst hand in the game, everyone will award $5. Myself and the player from the last table refrain from their chicanery.

'How much will it take for you to take a 20-minute break?' one of the action-junkies ask. The players there didn't quite like our aversion to risk. I pretty much ignored them, passed the buck to the player from my table ('I'll take whatever she wants'). But eventually I start to straddle as well since the action wasn't too hot to handle, and I wanted to loosen up my image so they wouldn't auto-fold when I'm in a hand.

But I get nothing good, and I pretty much fold every hand dealt except my small and big blinds. On one of the big blinds, I get the Doyle Brunson***, T-2, to which I thankfully checked. Flop comes T-8-3. I check to see where I am. I flopped top pair but someone could have me outkicked. Two players check behind me, and the button makes a weak $20 bet at the $24-30 pot.

A semi-bluff if I ever saw one. Maybe he flopped middle pair or had a small pocket pair. With that much hesitation when betting, my Ts were definitely good.

'Raise..' I take a few seconds to calculate how much it would be to punish this guy for his lame attempt at my pot. '$50 more to go.' I casually lay out the chips in front of me in neat stacks of 4 and 10. He takes a Hollywood half-minute, and lays it down. I think to myself, 'That's right punk! That's my pot!' But outwardly, I breathe a fake/genuine sigh of relief, stack my chips, and tip the dealer. It was the epitome of the hand-caught-in-the-cookie-jar situation.

That pot left me about even, +$2 for the session. I stick around for another orbit and get up right before I had the play the big blind.

On a sidenote, I think there was a good loose-aggressive (LAG) player at the table. This player will be an action junkie but has supreme hand-reading skills and post-flop skills to bet with the thinnest of edges. He won quite a few small pots and seemed to know when to get out of the way when his hand definitely wasn't good and he couldn't force the other players out. Needless to say, I got the hell out of his way.

Session 1, Wynn, 12/7, 5-630p, 1.5hrs, 1-3NL, +2
--

Penn & Teller started at 9p, but doors opened an hour early, and there was the Mike Jones Jazz Duo, unfortunately not the Mike Jones from H-town though. Plus I needed time to record my notes from the action at the Wynn and reflect on my play. I think it was solid, leaning towards the conservative side. There's nothing wrong with that style, but you can feel like you're not doing anything for a long time while waiting for those premium hands.

The flaw I could see in my game was that the money definitely mattered to me, and I was under-bankrolled for that limit. When I considered making a move, I couldn't because I was handicapped by the weight of the chips in my hand. The nagging thought in my mind was, 'This is real money you're betting!' And so I might have played sub-optimally. Oh well, I came out $2 ahead, that works out to be $1.33/hr. A few dollars more, and I could be making minimum wage!

The Jazz musicians were good and my seat was even better. It was about 6 rows from the stage on the aisle seat of the left hand section. Penn & Teller were pretty cool, like their specials on TV. There was something very clean and crisp about their illusions, though their libertarian soapbox-ing got a little tedious. They debunked a lot of the cold-readers and other magicians and assured us that there is no such thing as real magic. Their magic reminds me of my teaching style: practical yet elegant.

I definitely would recommend the $100 price of admission. Totally worth it that close to the stage! The recession is good for some things.

The show ended at 1030p. Most Vegas shows are 1.5 hrs long. The trip back to the strip from the Rio was a bit harrowing. It was late at night, and I had to cross a couple of big intersections. I thought more people would be around walking back to the strip, but no dice. The solitary walk with only street lights to guide my path was disconcerting, and I kept my hands in my pockets, touching the several hundred dollar bills in my wallet.

I got to Caesar's Palace, the closest casino to the Rio, stepped to their poker room, and asked if there was a 4-8 Limit game available. 'There isn't, sir, but we can start an interest list for you.' 'Thanks, and could you put me down for 1-3 NL as well?' I hang around the sportsbook area looking at the pretty LCD screens with the multitude of sports. When that got tiring, I ogled the fine women walking in and out of Pure, the casino's nightclub. Somehow that 1.5 hrs at the Wynn made me immune to the bevy of skin that's endemic to the Vegas strip. I'd rather see some other ladies, QQ, that is.

A half hr later, I glanced at the wait list which hadn't moved. And so I moved out of the casino and to the Venetian. The Venetian is the second northernmost casino of interest for my poker playing. 'Do you have 4-8 limit available?' She looks at the computer for a moment and says, 'We do, that table over there.'

The chair had a premolded ass-print and was made of that fine material you'd see on furniture in Buckingham Palace except these were used by degenerates like me. It was remarkably comfortable, and I pulled out my cash to dominate this limit game. I figured since this was limit, I would have less problems playing under-bankrolled, since you can only bet a certain amount each round anyway. But the game is entirely different than no-limit. It is perfectly acceptable, even correct, to chase draws all the way to the river given sufficient odds. I can adjust, even though this is my first time playing limit holdem.
--

Session 2: The Donk Tipper

Donk, short for donkey, is a pejorative term for bad poker players who make the wrong plays frequently usually using aggressive bluffs with second or third-best holdings. Which is fine by me because these are the players who make poker profitable.

In limit holdem, the bets are structured. Pre-flop and on the flop, you can only bet/raise the small bet amount. On the turn and river, you can only bet/raise the big bet amount. In 4-8L, it is $4 and $8 respectively.

A guy had a couple of racks**** ready to leave the action, so I just buy my chips off of him. 'This money is good, right?' I respond, 'Of course, you can always trust a poker player.'

First hand, KQs with 4 callers to my raise. Good start. Flop comes Q, rag, rag. Even better, top pair, with second-best kicker. Nothing scary comes on the turn or river, and I get 2 callers all the way. Man, I love these donks! I flip over the goods and rake in the ~$50 pot. The guy whom I bought the chips from leaves, saying, 'Did I mention those chips were lucky?'

The guy to my right is drunk off his ass with a nice Irish red glow. Needless to say, his chips flowed my way more than a few times until he left, down probably a couple of bills but happy nonetheless. I suppose that's what Vegas does to you, even to the locals.

I managed to donate ~$30 twice to this lady 2 seats to my left when she caught trip queens on the turn (AQ starting hand) to my pocket Kings and once again when she hit a draw. It's not like I didn't respect her play, but I was playing loose surrounded by a sea of money ready to come my way. But I quickly fixed that chip leak.

Another player across the table, Middle Eastern or Indian, called me several times with second best holdings just to 'see what I had.' Bless his soul and his chips! For some reason, I thought he knew what he was doing because of his ethnicity, but after he bought in a second time, I figured him for what he was, an ATM. I kept the fish happy, and said stuff like, 'Man, you had to call with that,' and 'that was a really good draw, it was a gutshot but to the nuts!' But he left too around 330AM citing that he had a convention meeting that morning, 'I'm going to be sleeping on the desk..' That may be me as well in less than a year.. We'll see.

And then my luck started to turn south. My loose play caught up with me as I tried to part this other fool from his money, a Hispanic man who looked like a mustachio'd Edward James Olmos. Even after being told 5 times that he couldn't string bet, he still couldn't raise properly, and had to be reminded that the turn and river are $8, not $4.

The good Dutch player to my left and I marveled as he sucked out about 5 rivers against the varying decent-good players at the table. And after losing most of his $100 buy-in, he was now up a chip rack. And then he racked up again after he caught a miracle 4-outer to boat up (full house) against my top 2 pair. It's a good thing the price of tilting in limit holdem is cheap, since I called a preflop raise from the small blind with J2s, just to see if I could bust the guy. But when the flop missed me completely, he continuation betted. I folded and started to fume even more.

After the remaining bad players called it quits, I took up my chips and left too. Down $132 on a table rich with donks. How does that happen? So about $60 was just my bad play calling to that lady with my inferior holdings, but that meant I lost $72 somehow to horrible players. My goodness that river was beastly at the Venetian.

You're taught to grind when you have the best of it, to prop up your eyelids with toothpicks when there is money to be had. My friends, Mr. Olmos who racked up over $300 in profit was dying to give it all back, but the cards just wouldn't do it for me. Poker is a b--!

Session 2, Venetian, 12/8, 12-430a, 4.5hrs, 4-8NL, -132
--

That morning was the mass of the Immaculate Conception, so I had to get some rest to not sleep through service. I trudged the 10min back to the Imperial Palace, dumbfounded at how the cards had turned so bad. I showered only to discover that the drain was stopped up, so I MacGyver'ed by rinsing off my feet as I got out of the tub. It's a damn good thing this trip was solo!

Day 1, 6hrs, -$130
--

*go all-in, win, and get a stack of chips from your opponent
**4 of the same suit, 1 more for the flush
***He won 2 World Series of Poker with that hand, but that was in heads-up tournament conditions. In cash games, you throw that mess away with no doubt in your mind.
****A rack is 5 bays of 20 each, so a rack of $1 chips is $100.

Vegas Day 1, Part 1: Objects Are Farther Than They Appear

2010-12-14T12:35:00.004-06:00

to Vegas Strip map-makers,

Vegas was fun, not amazing or great, just fun. Like the Wii which you play around with for a few months (if that) but inevitably put away because the novelty wears off and the graphics are subpar compared to the PS3. I seriously needed a vacation even before the job loss, and this had been planned for one of my off weeks.

But like the procrastinator I am, I didn't cram and memorize all the poker theory from the 9 poker books I have (no joke). And so the night before the flight out to sin city, I was still washing clothes and figuring out what to pack. I did take Caro's Book of Poker Tells, Sklansky et al's Small Stakes Holdem, and Jones' Winning Low Limit Holdem. They did help take me off tilt a few times during the trip and might have plugged some chip leaks, but weren't the boon to my small-stakes game as I thought they would be.

So thus begins Day 1 of 4, part 1 of 2, the chronicles of the destruction of my poker bankroll...
--

The flight out of Houston was at 10:30AM. Mama dropped me off at 6:30 on her way to work, so I had a good couple of hours at the airport with my poker books. But I didn't want to be a cliche, the hapless fool who thinks he can beat Vegas with his 'How to Win at Blackjack' or 'How to Count Cards', so I refrained and caught up on some NPR podcasts. Like the day before the big test, I normally defer all studying to the absolute very last moment. As a sidenote, poker is a beatable game since you're not playing against the house but against (as I would find out) idiots, who should hemorrhage chips your way but don't, and cause you to tilt even at limit holdem.

The flight was nice except for this one lady who kept recounting her story of her trip to Houston for some Catholic retreat with her sister. Along the way, she told me about how expensive her Lantus was (after I let slip that I was a pharmacist). I let her know about Victoza and Byetta since she asked, but wondered silently why she wouldn't just try something cheaper instead of the regimen of metformin and Lantus. Patient assistance programs are like drug dealers: the first hit is free.

Looking out the window at the vast shades of brown of sand, rock formations and canyons, I wondered who in their right minds would build a city in the middle of a desert. And then again once more in Dubai. Oh well, don't question, just enjoy.

The plane touched down shortly after 11:40AM. Walking into the airport terminal, I was greeted by the siren sounds of slot machines--sorry babes, you're not my type. McCarran is a thoroughly confusing airport, but I eventually made my way to the entrance where the prepaid shuttle sat outside. My plane ticket, shows, and shuttle were all prepaid online, which is nice not to shell out any dough but they all made it distinctly clear that gratuity was not included. I prepped a $3 tip, which was 50% of the $6 ride, but didn't give it to the driver because I had taken care of my own two small bags. Would you tip a carryout place? Perhaps I should've tipped considering the lukewarm luck that ensued.

Becky at the check-in counter at Imperial Palace was nice enough. She seemed like Harlequin from Batman except with dirty blonde curls. Most of the Vegas employees I met had this affected smile plastered on their faces, just glad to have a job. But I don't care if people fake it so long as they have the decency to fake it. As she handed me the room cards, she pointed the way to the elevators with her off-hand.

I passed by some cocktail waitresses on the way to the lifts (there were quite a few Brits there). Damn, black thong underneath see-through negligee! I lament, 'I'm just here to play poker, but they make it so hard..to keep focused!' Vegas is most assuredly not for the weak-minded..

The digs were nicer than I expected. Imperial Palace is a cheap place smack in the middle of the strip. Room rates for weekdays with all their deals can be cheaper than a motel in Victoria, TX. I flipped through the coupon books and trashed most of it, unpacked, washed up, and got ready to walk to the Rio to pick up the ticket for Penn & Teller.

If you've never been to Vegas, just be aware that all strip maps should include a disclaimer, 'objects are much, much farther than they appear!' I knew this since this was my second time, but I figured I was going to sit down to a buffet later that afternoon, so I'd need some exercise. A mile and a half later, I was at the Rio, navigating the maze of a casino to the theater, which was closed. Apparently I could've gotten the tickets at the front desk which was right at the front entrance. Great.

I trekked the 1.5 miles back to the strip and thought, 'Hell, might as well go to the very north of the strip and get it over with on the first day!' As far as I'm concerned, the very north is the Wynn, since I'm pretty sure the poker action at Riviera, Sahara, or Circus Circus would not warrant the time spent walking there.

So after 45 minutes from the Rio, I got to the Wynn. It's really good this was a solo trip because my friends would have been hating me at this point. I signed up for their club card to get the comps I would never use this trip (just for practice), and headed my way to the buffet.

As would happen frequently during this trip, I was just 2 minutes too late for the lunch price. It was 3:32... Oh well, it's Vegas baby! What's another $10?

The menu was exotic. There was some amazing Mediterranean dishes. I figured out that the yellow type of Indian curry was pretty much the same as Vietnamese curry (I think we borrowed that one). Everything was good, but nothing spectacular. As I would find at other buffet places, the sushi is seriously lacking. Midway through, I discovered that after walking a 5k, you really shouldn't sit down at a buffet. But for $35, I packed away the one meal of day in the mythical second stomach.

I tipped the lady $6 for having a less fake smile and headed to the poker room, satieted and ready to crush some souls.

The CAGE Test

2010-12-10T16:00:00.002-06:00

to alcoholics, again,

In school, they teach us about the treatment for alcoholism, which is (long story short) to stop drinking. Acute and chronic alcoholism can lead to liver failure, heart failure, and other things which I wish I had a pharmacist-intern to look up and do a report for me.

Once the liver is affected, there's not much treatment except to stop drinking, take some meds that may or may not work (pentoxifylline, steroids) and pray for the best. If the person has been clean long enough, they may qualify for a liver transplant, but I think most people feel shady for giving a liver to someone who lost the original of his/her own free will. Alcoholic cardiomyopathy mimics symptoms of traditional heart failure where the patients can feel like they're drowning when laying down. They're both crappy ways to go. If it was up to me, I'd want to OD on this new street drug called 'cheese'*.

So after a casual wondering and joking about my own drinking habits, I remembered there was a questionnaire to see if a person may have a problem. When I first learned about it in 1st or 2nd year of school, I answered 0 out of 4, but let's see how the hands of time has corrupted this once innocent soul:

C - Have you ever felt you should cut down on your drinking?

Sure, because it gets damn expensive. When you start your alcoholic career with the top shelf stuff that costs >$35/750mL, it adds up. And these single malt scotches, which are my new drugs of choice, are even more expensive with age. But the 18yrs are so smooth and leave the most delicious lingering vapors on the tongue long after the first dram.

A- Have people annoyed you by criticizing your drinking?

Not really, because I usually beat them to the punch by telling them jokingly that I'm an alcoholic. And alcoholics of a feather flock together, so there would be some serious pot-calling-the-kettle-black action going on if that were to happen.

G - Have you ever felt bad or guilty about your drinking?

Only the two times when I woke up still drunk from the night before. Oh, and the time I 'redecorated' my friend's digs...twice..

E - Eye opener: Have you ever had a drink first thing in the morning to steady your nerves or to get rid of a hangover?

I can honestly say never to this question. I believe in rehydration, bland carbs, and non-thought-provoking comedies like Scrubs or Chappelle's Show. And I never like having the same food or drink two days in a row, so I couldn't possibly imbibe the same vile poison the morning after.
--

So in short and honestly: yes, no, yes, no. But one must factor in the healthy dose of guilt that is cultured in every non-doctor** Asian male who is almost inevitably considered a failure in the eyes of his parents, myself not excluded.

But no, I don't truly consider of myself an alcoholic. I am a binge-drinker with a weak will, a hardy liver, and a short memory. And if I am to die anyway, I might as well die having a good time never feeling like I was deprived of anything again. [A higher power] knows I've long lived a life engineered for the joy of the progenitors and not the progeny.

--
*You must go to that link--I couldn't stop laughing the first time I heard it on This American Life!
**Only M.D. counts here. D.O. need not apply, so forget about my Pharm.D. meeting my parents' expectations!

Radio Silence

2010-12-08T16:00:00.001-06:00

to unanswered/unresponded comments, etc,

This will be my second day in Vegas, and though I have an internet capable phone with a relatively full-service web browser, it is surprisingly difficult to do anything with notes on Facebook or comments on Blogger.com. It may be my failing as an Asian male to know all things computer-related, but I'm simply not that guy. And if I am to answer this question of playing poker for a living (or as a side gig), I must devote time to the tables and not complain about how some programmer hasn't solved the issue of the missing scroll bar in a frame within a webpage*.

When I come back, I will boast... ahem, fill you in on all the details of my victories for your poker edification. And if I lose, I will gently sweep that fact under the rug as former President W. Bush tried to do with 'Mission Accomplished.' And hopefully noone will call me out on it. But if they do, it will be good for me to motivate me to hone my skills further or push me off the precipice of the 'this is a really stupid, inefficient way of making money' cliff.

--
*A real issue on the default browser on the Moto Droid. It won't display anything to scroll within a frame, and I haven't been pissed off enough to Google for a solution.

Vegas (and work) manana!

2010-12-06T20:08:00.004-06:00

to the gamblers,

If you've never read the Theory of Poker, please sit at my table and buy in for the cash that you would have lost at the blackjack table anyway. If you can explain and apply 'reverse implied odds'*, then kindly look for your fish at other tables, because mine are spoken for. And I sure do hope there are plenty of fish in Vegas this week (in contrast to 'sharks' which is really a mispronunciation of 'sharps'), because I'd like to pay for this vacation I planned before my job loss.

During the 20+ straight nights of work a few weeks back, I had booked a trip to Vegas for one of my off weeks, and this is that off week. I had a show planned for each night to reward myself for the many hours of Hold'em I was going to play. And if I totally killed at the tables, I would go support some students and single mothers at the Spearmint Rhino, against my rule of never going to a strip club alone**.

But things change, and so if I do win, I'll put it towards my bankroll to support my second (and possibly primary career). If I lose, the experience will let me know if this plan to play cards for a living is a pipe-dream or if it is a truly serviceable option for making a decent wage.

Because I do think I have the potential to be a winning player. My mathematical skills are still prime, when I tilt*** it is almost always to the conservative side, I have a reserve of cash on hand, I can augment that cash if necessary by working crazy shifts, and I don't particularly need the money which would allow me the time to develop the textbook tight-aggressive style.

The question is if I can sit and grind all day long, no sexual innuendo intended. To play poker until the point of physical fatigue and mental exhaustion. Can I do it? This trip will tell.

Poker, shows, poker, eat, poker, sleep, poker, poker, poker...

Don't ask me if I planned to go to Pure, Jet or any other exotic nightclubs on the strip. First of all, I don't have any arm candy to get through the door. Secondly, I'm not going to Vegas to f-- people, I'm going to f-- them over, which is a subtle but important difference. The first instance generally involves hemorrhaging money (if not on escorts, then on the insane cost of drinks at these clubs), while the second involves parting fools from their money.

And I very much would like to be the hand of destiny which fulfills that proverb. Wish me good decision-making and a run of good cards. Or just luck--luck works too!

--
*A real concept: When the odds appear better than they really are and your hand can only get worse as the play progresses, which should generally lead you to fold since you won't be getting sufficient odds.
**Never have gone solo because late one night, at almost 2am last call, my friends were at the bar getting drinks, and about 3 'dancers' came by one after another to asked if I was alone and if I'd like their services like I was a defenseless mark in a dark alley!
***When emotions take over after a bad run of cards.

Good Old Times

2010-12-04T02:49:00.003-06:00

to the alcoholics,

There are two signs you need to look out for if you want to know if I've reached my 'buzz point': 1) I start getting real philosophical and honest to the point of political incorrectness, and 2) I start using the F-word as a noun, verb, adjective, adverb, pronoun, and even conjunction, preposition, and interjection. It's really quite extraordinary as I try to use correct grammar as I modify all the different forms of the F-word. In high school, my peers used to ask me calculus questions after I polished off a fifth of a fifth of Patron, and yes, I could still do calculus after all that. Now that I forgot all that calculus nonsense (which is good for nothing except telling people who know or care that you 5'd the Calculus BC AP along with 7 other tests), all I can do is tell you random stuff that doesn't really matter all that much but makes you think that I kind of know a little something about something.

But since I'm still slightly inebriated, I'll be a bit honest with you: Truth is I don't really know all that much about stuff that really matters (in my opinion). And it scares me. It is a wholly unsettling feeling that I'm not the badass I pretend to be at the important sh--.

At the 'buzz point', the next alcoholic beverage will send me straight to the porcelain god or passed out with a future trip to the aforementioned god (which likely has more followers than the traditional Dude whom* people praise). I feel completely honest with myself which is sad considering it takes a foreign substance to make me face up to my most protected thoughts. It is a precariously golden moment of [false?] enlightenment.

I tell people the honest truth about how my latest job got cut, and how I kinda expected it to happen and how I kinda wished it would happen.

I tell people that my job made me feel dishonest while I smiled and told customers I wished they'd come back when I secretly deplored them for ever gracing my sight.

I tell them that I have done absolutely nothing in the past 2 weeks and how it feels absolutely amazing to not have to work, disregarding the fact that they have to cram for finals in the next couple of weeks.

I abhor and then console myself for assuming the professional pharmacist role while giving a mini-speech to pharmacy students: I mustn't tell the kids that Santa Claus and the Easter bunny aren't real--they will find out for themselves soon enough if they don't suspect already.

Because who the f-- cares! I've paid my dues in time and money and mental health. It is the time for rebirth into the new me or the old me or the better me (or worse me).
--

Sometimes I think of myself as a broken man with no purposeful intention except the innate desire toward self-preservation through food, shelter, water, and sex. And is that all life amounts to for a young adult male? Food, shelter, water, and sex, and not necessarily in that order?

It is abysmal sometimes when I go out and get to that wasted, veritable state where I look at other guys and think that if they could get with that one girl they were staring at the whole night that their life would be magically cured, that somehow the other flawed human being would make them perfect. But sadly it likely isn't true. Two wrongs don't make a right, and two imperfect persons do not make a perfect one.
--

'I had a good time tonight.'

'Yea, it was kinda like old times a couple of years back when we were in school, when I was driving you around from place to place.'

'Yea, kinda like the good old times, bro..'

With that, my friend exited the car at the University parking lot. I checked the door locks manually to make sure it was secure (can't be too careful in the ghetto), made a semicircle out of the parking lot and onto the road to the freeway..

Cruising down Gulf Freeway, I activated the cruise control at 60 mph to take the speed variance out of the equation for the Friday night copper. But the folks in the right lane were moving at an even slower pace, so I disabled the crutch and took over completely.

And I started to think about my life and how it isn't really all that bad in perspective and how I can really start digging the person I am or will be. So after all the years in between high school and now, I've arrived at the same point where I've started, just a little different, hopefully a little more grown and a little less green. And you know what? That's okay..

With that, I cranked up the pathetic speakers in my ride and faded into suspended consciousness while navigating the miles of concrete, passing the familiar food dives and sleazy strip joints, past one of the adult video stores where that priest got caught for 'public lewdness' for touching himself, to mi casa in the suburbia boonies..
--

Don't live life on autodrive; don't live life like your choices don't matter. Because

'lately I, am beginning to find that I,
should be the one behind the wheel.'

..and when you feel inspirational (through natural or chemical means), write it down, because you'll forget it the next day when you're looking at the receipts and wondering how the f-- you spent so much the night before..

..but I suppose you got to pay tuition for those life lessons..

--
*yes, that is the correct use of the word 'whom', so I think..

Juiceless

2010-12-03T13:12:00.003-06:00

to the exhausted,

'Juice' has a variety of dirty meanings, none of which I will reference any further than this point. If the title had been related to those dirty meanings, then this post would have been more appropriately named 'Juiceless & Happy'. But as it is, it is more like 'Juiceless & Even-Keeled' or 'Juiceless & Eh..' or 'Juiceless & I-could-go-for-some-lunch,-but-I'm-not-all-that-hungry.'
--

My first memory of 'juice' being anything other than fresh-squeezed* and pulpless** was when my older brother first described to me the intricacies of sports betting. In most sporting contests, there's a favorite and an underdog. If given even odds (1:1), most people would bet on the favorite and would therefore win more than 50% of the time. Bet enough money (or cycle your cash enough times), and you wouldn't have to work.

This would, however, bankrupt sportsbooks and bookies. So somewhere down the line, someone invented the idea of a spread, where you give points to the underdog to make it fair. In theory, the number of points or 'line' should match the final score. A line (or spread) might read 'New England vs Houston, Houston +5' which would mean that if you bet on Houston, you get 5 points toward the final score: NE 20 - Hou 21(26 with spread), win; NE 20 - Hou 14(19 with spread), loss; NE 20 - Hou 17(22 with spread), WIN. In the last case NE wins, but 'did not cover the spread'. A few years back in their nearly undefeated season, NE was crushing opponents, covering all kinds of ridiculous spreads like -14 (when you bet on the favorite, points are taken away, which is the same as giving points to the underdog). In football, anything over 6 points is likely a lopsided game.

In actuality, the sportsbooks don't care what the final score is or if the line even comes close to it. What they want is a line that will induce bettors to bet both sides equally, so that in the long run, they'll break even no matter the score. But how do they get their money then? One word: juice. The odds may seem close to 1:1, but it's usually 110:100 against. In order to win $100, you have to bet $110 and the $10 difference is the juice money which makes sportsbooks profitable in the long run.

In order to get even betting on both sides, the line or spread will move to entice future bettors. So if the line was initially Houston +5, and a lot of people like Houston, then the line might decrease to Houston +4.5 and so on until the bets balance out, but at whatever line you place your bet, that's the line you're stuck with.

There was a whole movie called 'Two for the Money' devoted to sportsbooks starring Matthew McConaughey (who shirtless for a good part of the show, which may qualify it as female porn) and Al Pacino. It's a horrible movie, except if you know about sports betting and want to impress a girl while she's mesmerized by a sweaty, ripped Matt. I've never tried, but in theory it should work.

So juice is that little extra bit at the end that might make a whole venture worthwhile when the initial work seemed arduous, awkward, mostly unpleasant***.
--

In non-jargon use, 'juice' usually refers to energy or electricity and the like. And I am wholly drained of all juice at the moment. And I've been drained for the past two weeks. The R&R hasn't spiked my energy or motivation one bit. There was that one Black Friday morning where I waited about 15minutes for my gaming system, but since then it's been all Netflix and shifting around to different parts of the sofa so the ass print doesn't become permanent. All this is actually pretty great, but I am concerned that I haven't grown tired after 2 weeks which is normally the breaking point.

It is like when the non-replaceable battery in my iPod nano gets entirely drained, and I plug it into the USB port of my computer (because it doesn't come with a wall charger****) and for about 5 seconds, nothing happens. Then the white apple with the bite mark comes on (for how much it costs, can't we get a whole apple?), followed by the little flashing green battery icon to which I greet with a sigh of relief.. and shame that I'm an addict to Apple juice*****.

--
*,**,***,***** - okay, I lied about the dirty meanings thing :)
****Seriously Steve Jobs-- $160 and you can't include the wall adapter which costs another $30?

Face Down

2010-11-23T08:01:00.005-06:00

Smartphone users,

It's hard to imagine that I've only had my Moto Droid (original) smart phone for just under a year. Before that, I was still pimping the Verizon Moto Razr which after 3 years could literally only make 2 calls or 10 text messages before the battery would alert that it was near dead (but would make a ding sound for a day before it would actually die). And just forget about accessing email or the internet on the minuscule pixelated screen, let alone pay Verizon for access to their crappy VZW Navigator program.

And I wasn't going to get into the whole phone craze (maybe just a newer, thinner clamshell), but my uncle kindly commented/insulted that my swag didn't quite match my salary. And so began this unholy tethering of myself to a 3.7 touchscreen device.

For a reasonable price of $200 for the phone and $50/month paid out to my parents on or around the first of the month (they comp my minutes, but not my data plan), I get unlimited internet and email pushed to my phone via Google's relatively seamless system. Which would be great if it hasn't turned me into a email-seeking fiend.

The Droid alerts me to my Gmail messages with a windchime-like noise (I couldn't find a decent copy of the Razr default windchime) and a fluorescent green, blinking LED light in the top right corner. The green, blinking LED light also alerts me to weather alerts, alarms, Facebook stuff, and a variety of other things. Sometimes when I don't see that green light for a few hours, I start to get depressed* and wonder why the world ignores me.

But then I just force the world to pay attention by posting random status updates and updating my blog (sorry for the long absence, but I have my reasons). Or I read Ball Don't Lie or poker articles or check stock quotes. All the while waiting for that little green light to turn on to signify that someone in the ether has initiated contact and wants to talk to me. Pretty sad, I know.

Most of the time, it's just Overstock.com or Southwest.com, but it's still nice to know you're appreciated, even if it's just for your money.

So this morning, when I woke up at 4:30AM to take care of bodily functions, I noticed my favorite green, blinking light sitting on the desk. Though I passed it up the first time, I couldn't resist the second time upon returning from the bathroom: it was nowhere in my line of sight, but the temptation of its sitting there waiting for my response was irresistible.

After two random emails and a few minutes of Facebook newsfeed, I was wide awake and lusting for more contact with the outside world even though I only had 6 hours of sleep after being awake for over 24 hours.

In the subsequent 4 hours, I set up my old DSL modem/ wireless router combo only to learn that AT&T has LoJacked their DSL service to possibly only allow their current hardware to work, saw my parents off the work and harassed them for the new hardware that was sent in the mail, set up the new modem/router device, used up a week's worth of 4-letter words when the 'easy to follow instructions' were easy to follow but just didn't work, got the easy to follow instructions to work after a cooling off period, got on the internet using WiFi instead of PDAnet, forgot my password to my email account because I don't type it anymore since I get my email through my phone, used some more 4-letter words, remembered the password, saw that there were no new messages because I had seen them all on my phone, and finally composed a long-winded blog entry.

And now I think I might go back to sleep with the rising sun, which I'm used to since I work nights. But before I do that, I think I must turn my phone face down so the green light can tempt the wooden desk, which has far more staying power than me**.

*Not really, because that would be sad.

**Ever so subtle double entendre :)

Wasting My Time

2010-10-02T09:00:00.001-05:00

Procrastinators Non-Anonymous,

There's only a few people I know who aren't major procrastinators. I'm sadly not one of them. And I would bet even they are closet procrastinators and are simply good at putting up a diligent front. Or they're aliens. Yes, either they're closet procrastinators or they're aliens. There's no other logical reasoning. Book it!

However, there is one defense for procrastination: if your problem may go away by itself in the future, then it is logical to put off addressing it now. One application of this is to wait out the common cold. There's no cure anyway, and the doctor to justify a copay will just prescribe some new formulation you could get over the counter anyway (yes, this particular formulation of a decades old antihistamine and decongestant is sooooo much better than Claritin-D or Zyrtec-D). If you can't tell, I have a serious aversion to drug companies.

But for the most part, procrastination is a vice that many of us try to purge ourselves of and frequently end up unsuccessful. But we manage, either by the carrot (incentives) or the stick (punishment). The problem grows fierce when there's no carrot nor stick, as in my case now.

On my work week, I delay everything to my off week because it's direly important that I get enough sleep so I'm alert and focused so I don't make a misfill and get my pants sued off of me. On my off week, I go out carousing and making jolly, killing brain cells and spending 5-10 hours straight reading fine literature. All the while the to-do-list piles up in the corner, ignored the like red-headed step-child, who is soulless and therefore undeserving of love. And then the end of the week arrives, and the bill comes due.

And so here I am scrounging about for Form 4868 to file an income tax extension*, to do more work than is necessary if I had done it right the first time around.

Oh, I'll never change.
--

During school, there were reset switches. Let me explain: When making the most of life not studying for a test, the elapsed time until the test doesn't change. The test will still be in 2 weeks whether you like it or not. And I really don't understand why people assumed that I studied all night and day for stuff. I didn't and I don't. It's a gift to guess between A-B-C-D-E a little more than 90% of the time.

So the day before the test like every other super-studious student, I crack open my notes to page 1 of 1,000 and curse the day I was born into this world which has tests and isn't just a whole Montessori-it's-okay-just-try-your-best-you're-all-winners delusion. But my test-taking skills prevail, and the procrastination is reinforced instead of punished: if I can study just a day before a test and still make the same grade, then what is the point of studying in advance. Hate me; you know you want to.

But then the situation is reset: that test is over, and then there's the next one which you have 2 weeks to study for. It's like a 2-player Halo game: when your partner gets to the next checkpoint, you get to go along for the ride even though you hardly did any work. And at the end of the year, there's a giant reset button and you get the summer off to do whatever the hell you please.
--

When you beat the game (grade school & college), however, the resets and checkpoints mostly disappear. That same task you wrote down to clean out your notes and have a huge, purgative bonfire will remain there until you actually complete it. Your dumbbell set stares at you condemningly when you don't work out ('I worked out yesterday!' 'But you didn't work out today...FAIL'). The stuff you said you'd sell on eBay remains unsold. Etc, etc ad nauseam.

Okay, so today, I'm going to listen to some music, reconcile some receipts, and clean out my room. I predict I will complete just 1 out of 3, and that would be the listening to music task.

Queue Default's Wasting My Time.
--

*Not really--the government owes me a fat check every year since they take out 1/3 of my income, and I file my taxes as early as possible so those bastards can't get more interest off of MY money.

Pre-Filled Flu Syr

2010-10-01T07:00:00.000-05:00

Dear new techs,

The bad part about working at a brand new store is that you can hardly find a pharmacy technician with any experience. All those AIU, Remington, ITT tech places promising thorough training and career placement have fine print saying jobs aren't guaranteed. The reason being that employers want people with real-world understanding of the job. But when you open in a brand new market, those trade school grads are the ones you can find with some exposure, however minimal.

Though you can find a truly remarkable individual once in a while who ends up being really great but didn't have any experience initially, that is the exception. Experience matters, period.

But luckily for me, the techs at my store have a good attitude towards learning, which is really the most important characteristic in my opinion.

With new techs, you do see some pretty funny situations such as a tech saying that we were out of stock of albuterol MDI ('Dude, there's ProAir, Proventil, or Ventolin...pick one') or ordering Indocin suppositories because that's all that was pulled up in the computer when they typed 'Indocin' (brand for Indomethacin, which we had 10 bottles on the shelf).

But the one that took the cake, which I could see myself doing if I had a brain fart, was this:

I came in one night and noticed that we had low-dose heparin syringes, the kind that they used to clear out or push through medicines in IV lines in hospitals. It's pretty common in hospital pharmacies which usually carry several cases of them. But not in a retail pharmacy--if you have an IV line, you should probably be in a hospital or a long-term care facility. And IV drugs are probably not going to be covered under prescription insurance anyway.

Anyway, I laughed at it, chalking it up to ordering error, which happens a lot. The syringes came in white boxes with about 50 in each. In turn, the 4 white boxes fit inside a large cardboard box, which had the label: BD Pre-Filled Flush Syringes.

My goodness, so that's the reason! BD Pre-Filled Flush Syringes. I guess one of the techs thought that the 'BD Pre-Filled Flu Syr' in the wholesaler catalog was the pre-filled flu syringes that we've been using like warmcakes*.

And we can't return it because it's 'generic', but at least it's cheap. So if you need some flush syringes, get a prescription and then holla at yo boy.
--

*Flu shots haven't exactly been flying off the shelf. Maybe 10/week if that?

The Ambien Prior Authorization

2010-09-30T09:00:00.001-05:00

Dear new RPh's and techs,

A post for my retail pharmacy people and those insomniacs whose insurance refuses to pay for sleep pills.

Just about the middle of last year, I started to notice that refills for zolpidem, generic Ambien, was being rejected for a prior authorization. This means that the insurance company wants to talk to the doctor to make sure that the patient really, really needs the medicine. What it really means is that insurance companies are the spawn of the devil and don't want to pay for anything.

A quick note about insurance companies: their business model is to take regular premiums from their customers and find ways to NOT pay out claims. One of the sneaky ways they do this is to send out brand new cards every year so that they can expire the old ones and hopefully not pay for a refill. In doing so, they make my job sucky for a few months out of the year, even more than usual with having to deal with insurance.

Most of the time though, their prior authorizations (PA) are well founded: rejecting an ADHD med for a kid who is 4 years old (my goodness, are we going to pump 1 year-olds with Ritalin next because they cry too much? wait a minute, we do! *sad face*), rejecting Cambia(R) because it's glorified ground-up diclofenac*, and rejecting Nexium(R) because it's basically rehashed omeprazole whose patent had run out**.

To these situations, I must say to the insurance co's, 'Nicely done. If I had more time to talk to the doctors to convince them to use medicines judiciously, I'd do the same. But since I'm here to dispense drugs pursuant to a prescription, I'd really wish that you'd make my life easier and just approve the medicine for a $200 copay so I can tell the patient to take it or leave it or take it up with their insurance/doctor. Because a PA makes it look like the pharmacy is being withholding, when it is in fact, you who are the angry wife (who is withholding of the marital obligation). Thank you.'

But I just don't understand when they reject meds which are comparatively dirt cheap (in the $40 range). Branded Lamisil tablets used to be prohibitively expensive, but the generic isn't too bad. Come on, guys! Let the old dude have it for his onychomycosis! Or when they rejected generic zolpidem when they had paid for it the first couple of months.

But then I remembered the lecture I gave on sleep disorders shortly after I graduated***: Ambien is FDA-approved for 'short-term treatment of insomnia characterized by difficulties with sleep initiation. Ambien has been shown to decrease sleep latency for up to 35 days in controlled clinical studies.'

Bingo! The resident medical 'expert' at the insurance department picked up on the little bit of important information (the package insert that accompanies the drug bottle), and found a great reason to reject refills of Ambien. 'Dear Dr. so-and-so: As you can see from the package insert, Ambien (Zolpidem) is not approved for treatment lasting longer than 35 days. Thank you.'

Anyone with any bit of reason (even insurance companies) knows that Ambien doesn't simply stop working after 35 days because the drug isn't approved for long-term treatment. It simply meant that Sanofi-Aventis didn't have the money to run the trial longer or were afraid that the sleep-inducing effects would wear off after 35 days and would lead to not-so-good-looking clinical results. As such, the drug is FDA-labeled for short-term treatment and now insurance companies have a perfectly valid reason to reject a claim using a prior authorization.

They could run longer trials now, but they won't because Ambien is generic, so they couldn't re-coop their expenses.
--

So why know all of this? Because it is always better to explain to customers how it really isn't your fault. When you pass the buck to other folks, preferably drug or insurance companies, customers can get angry at them instead of at you. By the way, don't pass the blame to their doctor, because they may really like their doctor or their doctor may call and chew you out.

'Why is my insurance not paying for my medicine?'

*Smile* 'Well, sir. Ambien is not approved for long-term treatment of insomnia. Though I realize that you've been using it for years now, the original studies approving the medicine was only for short-term treatment. I think the insurance company wants to run this by with your doctor and make sure that there isn't a better way to treat your insomnia.'

Congratulations! The customer is no longer angry at you, and thinks you're pretty swell for your insurance knowledge. He shakes your hand, happily pays the ~$40 for the cash price of Ambien, and will take it up himself with his doctor/insurance.

Based on a true story.

Incidentally, you could also recommend the customer to get a prescription for Temazepam (generic Restoril) which is only about $20 per month without insurance.
--

*I wanted to tell the patient to get a prescription for diclofenac 50 mg, buy a mortar and pestle, grind the pills up herself to put in water, and save $200 for 5 friggin packets!

**Please explain this to me: Omeprazole 20 mg and Nexium 40 mg are the most commonly dispensed strengths. We are made to believe that the S-enantiomer is supposedly the more active (or only active) component of the racemic mixture, and/or that it has less side effects. Therefore, if Omeprazole 20 mg contains 10 mg of the S-enantiomer (Nexium) and 10 mg of the R-enantiomer, wouldn't the equivalent strength of Omeprazole 20 mg be Nexium 10 mg?

So why does AstraZeneca market Nexium 40 mg which would be in essence, a four-fold increase in strength vs Omeprazole 20 mg (Prilosec, which they made)? Don't give me some BS about how there are fewer side effects so you could give a higher dose--show me a person who was taken off omeprazole for side effects and I'll show you a hypochondriac.

***Excuse the not-so-subtle reference to my genius :)

Death of AIM

2010-09-29T09:00:00.000-05:00

Dear harried folks,

The truly wonderful thing about being done with school is the freedom to do and not do whatever the hell you want. If the only thing I do besides work is to sleep all day and night on my 7 off, I could very well do that. It's not at all productive, but who cares? Sleep to me is akin to another activity that starts with 's', which is to say it's immensely pleasurable.

And being virtually stress-free, I've begun to understand the ideal of single-tasking, that you do best when you focus your entire attention on a single task at a time. It is a luxury that I daresay few people have in the workforce when most have to bring their work home. At the pharmacy, you multitask for your whole shift, but when you leave, you get to leave everything there. And thankfully your salary isn't tied into your performance (there is incentive pay, but it pales in comparison to the base salary and for the most part isn't worth stressing over*). That's one of the greatest perks of my job: when I leave, I leave.

Related to this myth of multitasking, which you can read a review of the book here by Dave Crenshaw, is that I've pretty much stopped using AIM, or AOL Instant Messenger. I found that the people I really wanted to chat with aren't on there, and the ones that I don't want to chat with would annoyingly pop in ('hey wats up?' 'nothin much, chillin' ...5 minutes pass, aZnHaVoc04** has signed off ) when I'm reading my favorite blog, Ball Don't Lie, which introduced me to my favorite NBA comic-strip blog, Garbage Time All-Stars***. I think most of the screen names I had on there were from high school when instant messaging was the rage.

The last time I signed on was probably over 6 months ago, and that was because I was helping a friend shop for something and we needed to paste links to websites. People whom I talk to on a regular basis have my phone number and they have phones which are capable of making phone calls and sending text messages. Some also have the ability to send email on their devices, which is even better. When I do get messages and calls, I know that the person on the other end really wants or needs to communicate with me and isn't simply bored and I'm 'available' because I'm signed on.

When I talk to someone now, I try to put effort to connect to what they are trying to say as much as possible (but I can't help it sometimes if I'm distracted because they're hot). Because no one really listens anymore. Not really. But everyone wants to talk.

My feeling is that all this new media has created more noise instead of more communication. We cannot decide what is important or we waste too much time parsing through all the nonsense.

It'd be cool if we were to write letters using quill pens and inkwells on unlined parchment and sealed our letters with hot, red wax using our crest and gave the mailboy a shilling or shekel to hand deliver to our closest friends and mortal enemies. And we'd wait patiently the next day and wonder ever so heartbreakingly why she hasn't responded yet to our latest sincere behest. To only receive a note two days later from the fair maiden's womanservant that 'the lady has gone out riding (horseback, not bareback) with Sir what's-his-face and won't be back for a fortnight.' To which you'd respond with, 'Ah, the tiresome wench! How she irks me so!'

I swear I haven't been watching the x-rated remake called Mr. Prejudice's Pride. These are some of the random thoughts that float through my head on a daily basis.

But the point I'm trying to make using a poor metaphor of Victorian novels is that people really cared and put thought into what they're trying to say (at least I would hope so). They had writing desks, a piece of furniture designed for just writing! They didn't use crackberries to tweet while on the john in 140 characters or less.

So along with eliminating all the empty calories in my diet (with the exception of tasty single malt scotch, which no one should define as empty simply because it is alcohol), I am eliminating the empty communication in my life.

It reminds me of one of the closing lines from a Supernatural episode: 'You're all so connected...but you've never been so alone.'

How true.
--

*Imagine if bonuses were large like those finance CEOs: there might be misfills everywhere when pharmacists are pressured to increase numbers. But corporate execs would never do that because retail pharmacist salaries are insane as it is.
**Not the actual screenname, but pretty close. Not mines of course. I'm too classy for that.
***This was when Tracy McGrady was out with 'back spasms' and Von Wafer was actually a decent stand-in.

Po-po Predicament

2010-09-28T16:38:00.004-05:00

Dear 5-0,

I have to think that the only people who love (traffic) cops are friends/family of cops. And even they only love the cop(s) that they know. Because people usually dislike those who have authority over them.

And cops can pull you over for any reason, and are in fact pressured to pull you over to increase their numbers/metrics. That's not cool, but This American Life is cool, liberal-ish cool. This 'cold front' hitting the Gulf Coast is mildly cool, but Ira Glass & crew are uber-cool. Anyway, check out their weekly podcast.

Not like it matters to me much. Since I hardly speed because I find my Corolla sitting on 14" starts to creak and shake above 70mph. And I find the gas mileage is insane when put on cruise control at 60mph (yes, I'm the jerk in the right hand lane chilling at 60mph, listening to podcasts on long drives because I like to not have to be on the lookout for cops sitting under bridges or just over hills).

But when I start to hit the greater Houston metro area, I turn off my cruise control and start driving attentively aggressive like everyone else. Because if you're doing 60 on a Houston freeway and it's not rush hour, you're bound to almost get slammed by some large truck bearing the flag of Texas and/or Mexico. Or an old caddy driven by grandma. Or a Lexus LS driven by Asian grandma. Or Charger/300 driven by middle-aged African-Americans. Or Infiniti Gs/Nissan Zs driven by Asian males. Of which, the latter two groups are rolling on glimmering dubs or dubs+.

But at least you don't have to worry too much about the nicer sports cars because the drivers care too much about their whips to get into accidents with your jalopy. When they cut you off, they know that they're not in any risk of messing their paint job--if you get distracted/pissed and wreck your car, then that's your fault. That's just my take, since I'm hopefully going to be upgrading my vehicle soon.
--

So when US-59 turns into 3 lanes somewhere around Grand Parkway, I turn off the aforementioned cruise control, because [stuff] starts to get stupid with these idiot drivers. I caress and careen the steering wheel and the car, respectively, to avoid the speeders and the tortoises. I check out the cop sitting under the bridge in his light-grey 'POLICE' on white cruiser--Impalas (and moderately priced American cars) without rims are dead giveaways. I take the Beltway exit and check the rearview to make sure the 'Scalade behind me slows down a bit while he's checking out his shades in the mirror. Some people can be so narcissistic, not that I'd know anything about that (end sarcasm).

Then I take the first exit off the Beltway because it's the last free exit. I still haven't gotten the EZ tag yet, which I really should, considering I'm not poor anymore and can afford the couple bucks to avoid those atrocious Beltway feeder lights (which are synced so that you hit every damn one no matter how fast/slow you drive). My parents paid upwards of $10 to cross a bridge in NYC when we lived there; I should feel thankful to pay a buck-fifty to avoid some traffic lights.

And then just after the Hwy 288 intersection, I get a bit of amusement. Just some background about this tollroad: the Beltway 8, aka Sam Houston Tollway, completely encircles the greater Houston Metro. It costs about $1.50 to make it through an 1/8 of the circuit which is around $12 to make a complete revolution, which would take you a couple of hours (though I don't know why you'd do that except if you were a Nascar fan). The feeder, or frontage road, which runs adjacent to the tollway, is completely free, but depending on the section can have a crapload of lights. With the exception of going over the Houston Ship Channel and some other spots (I assume), you can use the frontage road and just pay with your time wasted on the lights. That is, it's free if you've got some time to kill.

Houstonians have made it a habit of killing time and the environment to save some coin. So the Beltway feeder can be packed at times. And it's only 2 lanes which wouldn't be a problem if people followed the generally accepted rules of a 2 lane highway, which the Beltway feeder mimics: slower traffic to the right, left lane for passing only.

I think in smaller towns and country roads, left-lane-for-passing-only is a law and you can get ticketed. But not in Houston of course. So all the time I see jerks driving the speed limit in BOTH lanes next to each other, not letting people pass for a good couple of miles. I've decided that it's usually because they're not paying attention to their surroundings, and not because they're vindictive a-holes. Chalk it up to my naivete or hope for humanity.

So when it happened this time around, I wasn't surprised. I just turned up Katy Perry's Teenage Dream on the radio ('yea girl, I think you're pretty without any makeup on, now can I put my hands on you in your skin-tight jeans? ;)') to turn down my frustration. But then I noticed the cause of this vehicular rudeness: a cop car.

I pass by a speed limit sign: 50 mph. I look at my odometer: 50 mph. I look at the cars: 50 mph, deduced by using relational physics. In redneck speak: 'He goin 50 cuz I'm goin 50 and I ain't passin em like Dale Earnhardt.'

And the cop just tailed them for a few miles, and finally got to his turn off the feeder. He seemed pissed because he got halfway into the left lane, but then decided that the other car wasn't going to speed up or slow down either. And it's not like he could pull them over for any moving violation: they were obeying the law--50 mph. But the cop knew and the two cars in front of him knew and I knew that everyone drives 65 on the feeder if they're under 65 (years old).

That's that. I guess this would be a Seinfeld-like post, an episode about nothing.

Esquire Survey of American Men

2010-09-17T09:00:00.001-05:00

Dear the metrosexual,

A shorter post today.

A couple of years ago, I had a discussion with a good friend of mine about which magazine subscription to get for general manliness (as in how to be man, not how to get men). In a way, it reminded me of the Superbad opener where Michael Cera and Jonah Hill describe the perks/downsides of subscriptions to particular porn websites. Except ours was a serious discussion and not a debate between the post-pubescent absurd. (Since we all know that [website expunged] has the best stuff for free!)

We narrowed down the choices between GQ, Esquire, and Men's Health, all very nicely put together magazines. Maxim et al did not make the cut since we're classy guys.

'Men's Health has articles on workout regimens and stuff. It also has some nutritional primers in addition to how to dress.' 'Yes, but GQ and Esquire go into more detail about fashion and accessories.' As you can see, the conversation was graduate level in its complexity and simplicity.

I'm not quite sure how we manage to not drown in the reflecting pool while admiring our Narcissus-ine qualities. He got married, and it's working for him. I drink, and I guess that helps.

Joking aside, those magazines really have some good articles in addition to the stuff pandering to men's baser instincts. There was a Fall guide in GQ I recently perused about the closet essentials. I knew most of the stuff on watches (I prefer slim and elegant vs the cheap, chunky monstrosities that some guys choose to sport), but the guide on mixing & matching colors and textures was truly enlightening. It takes confidence to fly in the face of the color wheel once you've learned what colors work and don't work together.

And at least for guys, you can get a few essentials in high quality and then mix everything else in. There's almost no need to redo an entire closet; just pick a staple, add some flair, and walk confidently knowing that you're worth a million bucks. Because at least to some girls in the world, you are worth that or even more. Excuse the hopeless romantic. -5 man cards.

This morning on the Today Show, there was a segment about a survey done by Esquire of 20 and 50 year old men. Of course they hyped it up and advertised it for about 2 hours before actually getting to the interview with the editor (or whomever), and it was almost kind of worth it.

On the segment, they played up how it seems that 20 year olds may have a more conservative lean towards relationships and such. They cited 2 survey questions in which more 20 year olds than 50 yo said that 'divorce was never an option' and that they (20 yo) preferred their wives to be stay at home moms. After reading through the survey myself, I think the subtle difference was overdone. People love to cite proof which contradicts common opinion/knowledge (that 20 yo are out sticking their members in anything that moves).

But weak evidence aside, I've noticed personally that in my generation of early 20 year olds, there seems to be a higher frequency of commitment vs the dudes in their late 20s. Five of my friends are married, and more are dropping like flies. One of them is even having a kid. (This is a sample size of college graduates or soon to be college graduates in the South). If this trend continues, the CDC will have to get involved.

It is all quite a bit upsetting to me, as you can well imagine. Even if one feels that one is making a good decision by being promiscuous (or, more accurately, having the option to be promiscuous), when one's friends are all enjoying (or succumbing) to the married life, one starts to reconsider one's lifestyle.

Don't hate me, but I think the only mistake Tiger Woods made was to get married when he wasn't ready. If he was single, who would care about his multiple sex partners and his slight deviance towards sadism? And it's not like he had to get married to get action--this dude's going to be worth a billion bucks by swinging at a stationary object.

So I'm guessing commit if it works for you? Otherwise, hold off until you're sure? I am Catholic so there's the whole if-you-divorce-you're-going-to-hell-because-of-the-hardness-of-your-heart thing.

Anyway, read the survey if you're bored. Chime in if you're irate at my Tiger Woods' comment.

Luxury of Portability

2010-09-14T22:13:00.006-05:00

Dear pocket pooch owners,

There is something to be said for being so portable that you can carry all your life's possessions on a handkerchief tied to a pole set on your shoulder, like in those old cartoons of Tom & Jerry.

In the modern era, there's so much that is put on possessions. I fantasize that in the olden days, people didn't have much stuff so they could literally pack up like the guy in the picture and move on to the next town to work for their daily bread.

But it has become almost impossible to do that comfortably in the latter part of the past century. You have to have identity documents, Social Security number, birth certificate, a mailing address, past references, more than a couple of outfits, etc, etc. Then there are the computers and TVs and other creature comforts to bring along.

But in this century, everything has been downsized to the point that it has become almost practical to live off the clothes on your back and your smartphone in your pocket. I would know: I live out of a suitcase with just my dress clothes for work and my trusty Droid smartphone which has me eternally linked to the outside world.

Most of the furniture I had bought for my apartment in Dallas sits disassembled in various closets at my parents' house. The only recurring bills I have are that of the extended stay hotel I frequent every other week for work and the $50 I give my parents monthly for being on their phone plan. Everything else has been virtually distilled to online access, like email, work stuff, banking, investments, etc. Pretty much the only physical mail I get comes from my alma mater asking me for money. (Sorry school, now that I've crossed the economic chasm, I'm trying to widen it, not close it!)

This past week, I didn't use my laptop once since I didn't have to. The web browser on my phone is capable enough to do pretty much everything I need except play Flash* videos and print documents. And I can even track my fantasy football team! If the next iteration of the iPad is good enough, I may even be able to dispose of my laptop (though it would be hard to touchtype reliably on a non-physical keyboard).

And it is so refreshing to have become so portable since I've always hated to move. My parents and I moved around so much as a kid that I've grown to despise the sight of Uhaul and Ryder trucks. It meant that we'd have to pack and carry all the junk we've accumulated to another place, unpack the junk, accumulate more junk, and rinse & repeat. And it would always be stupid stuff like an old mattress that would give me back problems or a pieces of scrap wood and tubing that Dad thought might be useful in random situations. In our garage right now, there are about 15 motors from old scrap washing machines that my parents thought can be sold eventually, dozens of boxes from old appliances of which some of the appliances are gone, medical textbooks from the 1980s that Dad thinks might still be useful (as if there have been zero advances in the last 30 years), and several pieces of broken lawn equipment among many, many other things worth hardly nothing. I'd estimate that everything sitting in the garage right now would be worth less than $500 altogether. But they refuse to let it go, and they pawn it off on each other: 'It's your mother who wants to keep all the stuff.' 'It's your father. If I throw it away, he'll be mad.'

I think it is because they're packrats that my brother and I became anti-packrats. My brother was first--he boasts he can put everything he really needed in his car and would be good to go in a day or so, and I believe him. And I think I can do the same now. I have realized the error of my ways when I unwittingly and prematurely committed myself to living in Dallas.

It took me 3 trips with my car and once with a friend's pickup truck to move all the stuff I'd accumulated in my 6 months there, and I honestly didn't think there was all that much to bring back. But there was. And it was all very depressing to see the trophies of my independence being raked back to pile up in my parents' house.

The dining/living area during my last week in Dallas. Not usually this messy! Notice empty bottles of Patron and Goose sitting by the fireplace :)

But that's life I suppose. The original title of this post had been, 'Have Gucci and Prada, will travel,' but that's not true. I don't travel with them (watch & wallet, respectively) because I'm afraid I might lose them or attract the wrong attention. Instead, I have my keys, a Slimmy wallet with bare essentials, phone, a Citizen Eco-Drive, and a suitcase with just enough clothes. On longer trips, I bring a laptop, but that's pretty much it.

I go in, do my work, get out, and get paid. Almost like a professional mercenary. And it is so liberating not to be tied down to physical things.

If the job goes south and I lose my job again, no worries. It will take me less than an hour to pack up and go. I'm already torn. (Excuse my penchant for female pop ballads. I promise I'm straight!). And I don't believe in the born-again movement--Innocence once lost can never be reclaimed.

--
*seriously, what's this deal with Flash not supported on most smartphones? Is it the phone OS programmers or Adobe that's holding up progress?

Practicing Scared Pharmacy

2010-09-14T21:05:00.004-05:00

Dear poker degenerates,

About a month ago, I was playing 1-2 No Limit Hold Em at Winstar, a casino just a few miles north of the Texas-Oklahoma border. The Winstar poker room happens to be one of the few redeeming things about the Okie state*. The deck was hitting me in the mouth that night, meaning I was catching everything. On one hand, I flopped a boat, sixes over jacks, when my opponent flopped trips (6-6 vs J-9, flop J-J-6), and I proceeded to take the guy’s money. On another, I flopped top two-pair and made a really stupid all-in move out of turn, raising an additional $160 on a $100 bet ($260 total). Fortunately, the guy behind me folded a flopped straight because he respected my tight-aggressive play, and the initial raiser didn’t hit his draw. That sent the folder on tilt, and he berated me with stuff like, ‘I really hand it to you…not many people would have had the guts (sarcasm for ‘stupidity’) to raise all-in with two-pair.’

Then a few hands later, I completed a nut straight draw (Broadway) against the tilter’s flopped set and took the rest of his stack, sending him out the casino door. I had started the night losing my initial $200 buy-in, but scrambled up to $560 with my last bill. But with the cards I had that night, a better player would have made so much more. I was playing scared poker, and it cost me additional winnings.

This was the microcosm hand for the night: I was dealt J-9s on the button with two horrible players sitting to my left in the blinds. The first guy played loose-aggressive slop poker, pretty much continuation betting with any 2 cards after the flop. He bet and folded out of turn, insulted the dealers, and even folded a few hands when he could have checked his cards. The guy to his left was pretty much an open book: he bet his made hands, called his draws, and folded his mess. Easy pickings: I raised to $7 pretty much every time I had the button, and this time I had my favorite hand.

They both call as I lick my chops. The flop comes, and it takes all my power not to drool all over the cards: Q-10-8 rainbow. I flopped the nuts with my J-9, which is the best 5-card hand given the cards on the table. My brother calls it the hon bi, which is literally translated from Vietnamese as ‘the marbles’. They both check, and I make a sizeable value bet, about three-fourths of the pot, hoping that one of them would call. They both do, which made me a little anxious. I put the loose guy on a draw, and the tight guy on top pair, overpair, or a set. A 5 came on the turn. They check, I bet more this time, and they both call again. Now I’m thinking that one of them likely had a set on the flop. The river came. Another 5, a scare card for me. Again they check in front of me. Amateurs love to slowplay. They love to reveal the winning hand and rub it in your face. And I had a belief that at least one of them had turned his set into a boat with the river 5, and this was enough to make me check behind them.

I turn over my flopped straight, and they both muck their hands. Though I don’t know what they truly had, I’d probably say the loose guy had a busted draw (K-J) and was paying me off, and the tight guy had top pair, top kicker (A-Q). And somehow I didn’t make more money after flopping the nut straight. While I was replaying the hand in my head, reviewing all the action, the guy on my right, a solid 19-year old Asian (it’s an Indian casino with a lower gambling age) with a diamond stud in his left ear, needled me with, ‘Dude, why didn’t you bet the river? You had it!’

‘The 5 was a scare card. I thought at least one of them made a full house.’

He considers, agrees silently to himself, and then tries to set me on tilt, ‘So what? Are you playing scared poker?’

I shrugged and smiled. I was winning, and I didn’t care. Looking back, I realize that I had given them odds (at least one of them) to draw out on me. And the odds of them having the boat were slim since they both would have raised (or check-raised) me if they had flopped a set.

Scared poker is my current M.O., and I'm working hard to change that. To triple barrel your nothing against an opponent's something; that is mostly genius and sometimes gross stupidity.
--

Poker is simpler than life in that poker boils down to the chips in front of you. A correct decision nets more chips. A correct decision could also mean less lost chips, which is equally as important. Like life, it is a game of incomplete information; we have to make decisions based on what we know, however little that is. And if we consistently make good decisions, we will make more money in the long run. It is a game which rewards good play and punishes bad play. Therefore, it is a just game. People who complain about bad beats and others' poor play are just not applying themselves.

But life is far more difficult than poker, which is itself an extremely complex game. And it is fraught with injustice: how is playing professional sports worth 100x more than teaching kids how to read and write. Or how is rapping/singing about degrading acts which are performed with semen rewarded better than doing research which paves the way for the cure for HIV/AIDS?

And to set ‘justice’ even more off kilter, we have allowed frivolous lawsuits to dictate our lifestyles. It’s common sense that your coffee should be hot; do you need a warning saying that it could cause you injury if spilled?

What affect me personally are all these inane commercials with ambulance chasers asking people if they’ve suffered injury from medicines. If people read the warnings, there really shouldn’t be anything to complain about: there are risks inherent with any medicine. If Accutane(R) can cause DEATH (suicidal ideation), why are people suing about upset stomachs and diarrhea? As such, there is tremendous risk of not covering your backside as a healthcare professional.

And for myself at least, there is little upside to exposing yourself to liability. In the past 10 years or so, there was some study done in some pediatric journal which purported that common over-the-counter remedies were useless for kids under 6 years. Since then, most manufacturers have removed the dosing for kids under 6. Some pediatricians will swear at you up and down for recommending those medicines while other peds docs will call you an idiot for refusing to recommend them. PharmDs are technically doctors and self-proclaimed ‘medication experts’, and so I guess we do have authority to supersede drug manufacturer labeling. But it's not like I get paid any extra when I make a recommendation which might expose me to a lawsuit if something bad happens.

I know if I recommend common OTC remedies for kids outside of the packaging recommendations (which is ill-advised), most kids will probably end up fine. Their parents will have the placebo effect of giving their kids something to help with the sniffles even though those medicines may not have any effect at all (so the study says) and has absolutely no effect on the curing the true sickness. But heaven forbid if one of those kids decompensates and croaks. Then the parents, their lawyers, and the late local news will be on my ass for recommending the damn drug.

‘We have here ‘doctor’ Nguyen who had recommended a medicine which specifically said not to be used in children under 6. ‘Doctor’ Nguyen, what do you have to say for yourself now that this innocent child is irreparably injured?’

‘You are all absolute idiots. Thank you malpractice insurance for covering my behind. You asked for my professional opinion, and I gave it, and now you're suing me for it. Next time, go Google it, and then sue yourselves.’

No thanks! What do I say on a daily basis? ‘There is nothing labeled for kids under 6 (or 4 or 2 years, depending on the medicine). You can ask your physician about it, and if they recommend it, then I can show you where it is. But I cannot recommend anything outside the package recommendation as I could lose my license.’ If you’re not comfortable doing something, say that you could lose your license--that works pretty well.

One of my friends says that I’m being a coward, that he’d rather help 100 people in need while exposing himself to potential liability, than intentionally being unhelpful like myself. And that’s fine. To each his/her own. I personally like having a license. And it’s far less likely that I’d be sued for refusing to recommend something than for recommending something off-label.
--

In real poker played in casinos, you can only bet and lose what is in front of you. If some guy bets $1,000, and you only have $200 on the table, then you can go all-in to win the $200 part of his $1,000 bet. You don't have to fold or throw in your car keys as they do in the TV shows and movies. In the case of my flopped straight, it would have been the right move (in hindsight) to go all-in as those players had a history of calling with second best hands. In the unlikely case that one of them had the full house, I would have only lost a couple hundred.

In life you can lose so much more, your entire livelihood depending on the lawyer who's suing you. My friend can go ahead and bet all-in with his weak straight. Eventually, one of his opponents will have made a boat and take away all his money, the clothes off his back, and the food from his kids' mouths.

Me? I got bills to pay, and so I practice scared pharmacy.

--
*Why is it that neighbors are so mean to each other or are deemed ‘rivals’? Is proximity like when your bro/sis invade your personal space while in the backseat on long roadtrips?

[Buttocks] Out of You and Me

2010-09-05T20:47:00.002-05:00

Dear cliche users,

If I ever hear someone say that stupid phrase, 'Don't assume: you make an ass out of you and me,' I'm going to advise them to put on their most expensive outfit, go to the bad side of town, and walk from liquor store to liquor store flashing $100 dollar bills. See how far that gets them. Or they just can assume that it would probably be a bad idea.

You have to assume, you have the right to assume, and you have to take things for granted. You don't wonder in the middle of the night whether the sun will come out tomorrow or if the sky will be blue; you naturally assume it to happen because it's always happened that way. For those philosophers out there, you're not going to question every damn little thing; you'd go absolutely insane! If you have to question whether each table exists in and of itself, you'd end up eating your lunch on your lap (or does that exist? or does your lunch? or do you?).

Okay, I'm reaching the point of hyperbole. Fine. But I do get tired of people saying I generalize too much or assume too many things. That, I would contend, is the essence of my efficient thought process, the source of my intelligence. I ignore things which I feel don't matter, and I assume things which I judge can be assumed to be true. Then I distill the facts, and make a decision which happens to be correct more often than not. If I ignore what shouldn't have been ignored or assume that which should not be assumed, then I factor it in the next go-around.

People go wrong when they assume things incorrectly, thus leading to false conclusions. Or they assume racist/prejudicial ideas and voice them and get in trouble, ie Michael Richards & Mel Gibson. Caution: link contains excessive use of the n-word.

Good assumption: If you must have racist ideas, it's generally not a good idea to say them in public where people are videotaping you to be put on Youtube.

The more things that can be assumed and the more things that can be ignored, the better and more efficient the decision will be (and the more decisions you can make). That does not necessarily mean that the decision will be more accurate, just more efficient. I don't strive to be perfect in my thought; my quest is to be right the vast majority of the time. I quit going for 100s on grades a while back because perfection hindered progress.

I don't bring this up because I'm irritated that someone attacked my mode of reasoning and logic (to be right a lot of the time rather than all of the time); I bring it up because my OCD has recently flared up rather unexpectedly, and it has been quite frustrating.

To explain, I don't touch light switches or wash my hands to an excessive amount. I do like my things to be clean, in right angles, undamaged, orderly, controlled, etc. But that makes sense to me because it's efficient; I don't have to search for things because I know where they are because they have a place. Moving my stuff or damaging it will certainly piss me off, but it won't be the end of my world.

The weirdest thing, until recently, was that if I was uncertain whether I had locked my car, I'd walk back to check even if it was an entire parking lot. This only happens once every few months. And it is really just paranoia from living in Houston rather than OCD.

The truly OCD thing that has come up deals with the verification of prescriptions. For non-pharmacy folks, pharmacists get paid primarily to verify that a prescription has been filled correctly and that there aren't any major/severe interactions. This is required by law, but the law does not dictate how you're supposed to do it. You can make some hand gestures or pray or chant or trust that your techs did everything correct, but ultimately if the prescription is wrong, you're liable.

Depending on the error, you can be fined, your license can be reprimanded, you can be put on probation, and in the most severe of cases, it can even be revoked, though I've only heard of revocations for unethical things like stealing narcotics or deliberate falsifications (insurance fraud), not for an error in good faith. It's not like in It's a Wonderful Life where the druggist* becomes a bum because he misfilled a prescription for the little kid; if you make an honest mistake, they're probably not going to take away your livelihood. Probably not (again with my assumptions).

But people are another thing. They will sue sue sue like there's no tomorrow. Lawyers find ways to sue for stupid stuff that is already on the drug information sheet. Reglan: 'May cause tardive dyskinesia'. Lawyers think, 'that sounds really bad, so I can probably sue for it!' Accutane: 'May cause death, among other things'. The ambulance chasers, after reviewing the 10 pages of side effects: 'Aha! You didn't say GI side effects! Gotcha!'

So don't misfill. Because it can be potentially bad for the patient as well as very bad for you.
--

Over the past year of being a pharmacist, I've developed my own process for verification. And fortunately, I have not misfilled of my own accord as far as I know. For me, the last step of verification is to make sure that what is in the vial is what it is supposed to be. This means opening the vial and comparing it to the picture on the computer screen or with the stock bottle it came from.

This usually isn't a problem because I fill most of the prescriptions I verify since I work alone at night. And so that last step of comparing pills is generally trivial for me since I trust in my work.

Until now. Nothing has happened; there hasn't been a misfill or even a close misfill. I have found that when I have too much time on my hands, I start to doubt in the certainty of my efficient process. In my thoughts and decision-making, I aim to be most efficient, not most accurate. But as a pharmacist, I aim to be most accurate first, since they don't take your license away for being too slow. When there are several prescriptions waiting, I temper my obsession with being 100% accurate with the necessity to get them out quickly.

On the final step, I check about 3 tablets directly, and then make sure all the rest have the same relative shape and color. Then I close the vial and shake the bottle to see if it's about the right quantity (30 vs 90-day supplies). Easy peasy.

But in the dead of night, I've spent up to 2 minutes doing that last check which should only take 5 seconds max. Open, check, close, shake. Open, check, close, shake. Repeat until I get frustrated.

It's like turning a light switch on and off. It is safe to assume that when you flick the switch, it will work (even though it may potentially not work); you don't have to check 10 million times. I tell myself the same thing with the verification, and it's gotten better. It seems to be really bad when I'm tired, which will happen when you voluntarily work 23 12-hr shifts in a row.

All logic fades, and I'm left with my basest instinct to be right.
--

*not to be confused with a date-rapist, this is the old-school term for pharmacist

Music for Any Occasion

2010-09-01T03:15:00.002-05:00

Dear Hooked-on-Phonics,

I can never be too confident when I spell 'occasion' (see above title). I rely on Firefox's trusty spell-check feature to put red squiggly lines when I'm being ESL* which I catch myself doing more often then I'd like, such as dropping the 's' off of verbs when the subject is singular and dropping prepositions, ie 'she like the way mi** sound like F-O-B.' But even with technology, the trend is going more towards Jersey Shore and less towards proper English. Oh well.
--

The great thing about working in Victoria is that it's only a couple hours away from Houston. 97.9 the BOXX extends to just about 30 miles out of town, so I have to endure just half an hr of Victoria Top 40 before I heard Bun B's hot new single: Trillionaire (Explicit). Damn Bun B hits it hard, even without Pimp (RIP). T-Pain ain't no slouch neither. When I got to town I heard a screwed (slowed up) version of Twista, but even at half-speed he's still unintelligible to me. So what is this? Have I abandoned my 2pac for some club trash (not saying Bun makes club trash per se, but most of the stuff on the radio is club trash)? Neva homey!

Just things are different now. I'm out of poverty. I'm out of the prison of my own mind. Life could be better, but life is good. I can complain but that's only because complaining comes naturally to our species. So when I bang 'Me Against the World,' it's just not the same anymore. Because it's not me against anybody; it is just me against the imagined boundaries I've put up for myself. Of course I'll never play pro basketball, but everything else is within the realm of possibility.

So I'm starting to listen to more rainbows, sunshine, and honeydews. More Sheryl Crow, less Eminem (who was sorta depressing to listen to). More Colbie Calliat, less Bone Thugs. Etc, etc.

And I guess that's just growing up. And I guess that's why successful musicians make so much money (even more than me!): they create mirrors for emotions, to help clarify and resolve ephemeral thoughts into the spoken and sung word.. (put more words here...)
--

I woke up after 5 hrs of sleep, and since I didn't have any sedative/hypnotics that I dispense on a regular basis, I was forced to find non-pharmacological ways to get tired again. And after that last little bit about music as mirrors to focus thoughts, I'm mentally spent. So good night (again)!
--

*English is Second Language
**mi is a pronoun for 'I' that Viet people came up with because the original pronouns had more emotional connotations. The Viet language is very relational (as in pertaining to relationships) and to use the pronoun 'I' without relating it to the person you're speaking to may mean that you're pissed off at them. Same with the word 'you.' In a way, it's kind of like speaking in the third person: So to say 'I love you' to Mama, it would be literally translate to 'Child loves Mama.' To say it to a girl, it would translate to 'Man loves woman.' Don't ask me why.

$20 Lines

2010-08-27T11:03:00.003-05:00

Dear tabloid readers,

I've been following the P-- Principle to the very letter. In the past 6 weeks, I've only had 5 days off from work, and I spent those driving back to Dallas to return my apartment keys (I also won a few bills playing Hold'em in Oklahoma, but that's another story). During this time, I've made a crapload of money and lost a crapload of sleep. 'You gotta get it while the gettin's good,' as the saying goes. Fortunately (or unfortunately), I won't have the opportunity to work extra hours in the future because they hired another night guy. In a way, it's kind of like a buffet line: all that money lying there looks good, but you know it's going to be the death of you if you get too much (or you'll just get filthy filthy rich!).

So writing has been put on hold for now. I plan to post more during my next week off, but you can't ever trust me to follow through. My excuse is that I was raised that way: my parents never kept their promises. That's okay; I'll wipe away my tears with Benjamins.
--

During the week before I started my new job, I read a fantastic line in Robert Penn Warren's All the King's Men that I've kept with me whenever I've felt depressed or tired. To be vulgar, it was orgasmic except there wasn't a mess to clean up afterward. And you didn't feel guilty or dirty. Okay, maybe a little dirty like joking with coworkers about the hot girl who just got a prescription for Valtrex 1gm TID ('suuurrreee it's for chicken pox!').

I was going to write about 5 more paragraphs about pretty much nothing, but I'm tired and I'm working tonight. So here is the premature 'grand finale'*.

"Lois looked edible, and you know it was tender all the way through, a kind of mystic combination of filet mignon and a Georgia peach aching for the tongue and ready to bleed gold."

When I read it, I thought, 'That was so much more satisfying than a lap dance, and I didn't even have to pay $20 for it!'

And that's why I read classics instead of the NY Times Bestseller stuff.
--

One of the techs figured out my age (early 20s) from when I got my annual flu shot (Go get your flu shot!) and said, 'Wow, you are really mature for your age.'

I laughed and responded, 'Nah, I just keep my professional side real professional. I'm as Jersey Shore-ish as they come.' I proceeded to joke about how people think I'm good at math. It's likely something about the squinty eyes that make us see numbers better.

--
*euphemism for ejaculation

Handwritten Menus

2010-07-22T11:21:00.005-05:00

Dear plastic users,

One of my favorite things to do in life is eat. It shows, unfortunately--my metabolism and exercise habit (or lack thereof) haven't kept pace with my increasing tendency to try out new places. Thankfully, my food choices in the early morning (after getting off work) is limited to IHOP/Denny's/Jack-in-the-Box/Whataburger type fare, and I've gotten plenty tired and instead chow down on whole wheat turkey sandwiches (sans mayo), and plenty of fruit. Healthy food is bleh--Lipitor will be generic when I get older, and Viagra will be too (did you know CV diseases increase risk for a malfunctioning jimmy?)

So after getting disgusted of the turkey & cardboard, I googled for some good breakfast places a few days ago and found one I really wanted to try. However, it was only open Wed-Sat, 5:30a-1p. What? So I had to wait :(.

El Pico de Gallo, 609 E Rio Grande, Victoria, TX, 77901

Of 31 folks on Urban Spoon, 90% like it. The 31 responses is a pretty good indicator of the popularity, since I've found that people don't review restaurants much in smaller cities/towns.

I totally missed it the first time I tried to look for it, and it was closed the second time I passed by (after Sunday mass). But I'm not one of those crazy people who wait night and day to see Eclipse (how is pasty Robert Pattinson attractive, or are the girls just envious of how he gets his hair to stay that way?) or get the new iPhone 4 (my Asian card should be revoked!).

I waited until I had that itch in the stomach which can only be scratched with something greasy and/or spicy, preferably both.

The place was tiny, and I nearly missed it again even when I knew exactly where it was. The 10-car parking lot was packed, and the 4 tables in the place were all occupied. I ordered the 'Pico Special' because I'm one of those who like to order the signature dish of the place, and not insist on ordering the same damn thing at every place (like people always getting the barbecued pork banh mi at every Viet sandwich shop). And since I'm not a terribly picky eater, I've never gone wrong with the signature dish and today was no different.

The Pico Special was a 'taquito' (there was nothing small about it!*) with an amalgam of chorizo, chili, potato, and deliciousness wrapped in a thick, warm flour tortilla that melts when you bite into it. The provided 'pico cup' added a freshness of tomato, onion, and lime to the tasty filling.

It was great, and I'll definitely go there again.
--

When I was there, I noticed a sign saying 'No Credit or Debit Cards', which got me to thinking about the indications of a good hole-in-the-wall place:

1) Cash only. Vendors pay a few percentage points for each transaction, and it can really cut into profits. Plus, cash is always easier to deal with, except if you're an airline. And it's nice to help Mom & Pop stick it to the IRS.

One time in New Orleans, I was about to make a grand gesture by taking care of my group's meal at Cafe Du Monde, but it was a cash-only place and I had spent all of mine on strippers**. Fail.

2) Handwritten signs. The people care about food, not graphic design.

3) Lack of waitstaff. Less people to pay, less overhead, cheaper prices, more focus on a solid menu.

4) Diverse clientele. When you have people in work boots with paint stains along with folks in suits, then you know the food is good. Douchey college know-it-alls and 5-0 are also good signs.

5) Tiny, pot-holed, un-lined parking lots. Don't bring your dropped S5 on dubs.

My favorite hole-in-the-wall is most definitely Thiem Hung Sandwich shop in downtown/midtown Houston, across the street from the Kim Son. You can read the other reviewers' recommendations, all of which are spot on. My favorite is the large banh mi thap cam, which is a combination of all the ingredients. I'm addicted to the greasy, juicy pate (chopped liver); the influx of French cuisine almost makes up for their major rape-age of Indochina.

--
*Please excuse the double entendre
**And 80-proof booze, which I bought at a pharmacy (Nawlins is amazing!)

Dream Walking

2010-07-21T09:00:00.000-05:00

Dear Inception-lovers,

Wasn’t that a terribly great movie? DiCaprio turned out to be an amazing actor after that brief stint of his being a teenage heartthrob in Titanic. And I didn’t know Ellen Page or Marion Cotillard were so attractive (oh that accent!). And did you notice they kept on flashing to the scene where the sleeping Arthur character (Joseph Gordon-Levitt) in the van had that stupid grin on his face--I bet the movie guys had a kick each time they inserted it into the flick. Go see it in IMAX; it’s the only way to go.
--

So the last dream that really stuck in my memory was one where I was on a cruise ship. Nothing particularly special, just one of those big eyesore ones you see in the commercials on TV trawling the now oily waters in the Gulf of Mexico for some fantastic location with turquoise waters and snow-white sand which singe the toes a bit at first but then immerse the entire body in comforting warmth while you’re drinking some fruity adult beverage served up by a nice islander.

As a sidenote, I lived in the Caribbean (St Lucia) when I was younger, and the people were extremely nice, and it wasn’t just because my folks were tourists.

Anyway, on this particular ‘day’ in the dream, the weather was downright dreadful in hindsight. There were bunches of clouds, not a spot of sunshine, and it was unclear whether the water hitting my face was from the surf or from the pregnant cotton balls in the air. But I was cheerfully nervous. Because I was going to jump off the cruise ship into the ocean. And this other guy was going to do it too. And it was all perfectly normal--there were lines of people jumping into the sea.

While we were walking to get to the multiple diving platforms on the wet sundeck, the guy psyched himself up with false bravado and though I tried to do the same, I grew more terrified with each impending step.

We got to the area and my vision became jittery because I couldn’t keep my knocking knees still. The signpost delineated the levels of bravery like the yardage markers at the tee box at a golf course: the lowest level was for the ladies and kids, the second for the teens and seniors, third for guys, and fourth for the truly macho. But even the lowest level looked terrifyingly high. The girls had one-piece swimsuits with hair caps from the 80s like the pool scene in Caddyshack. They were giggling and tittering and were not in the least bit attractive. At least not at that point because I was deathly and deftly afraid.

Then I thought about how I had never dived into a pool, let alone from any significant height. And after some deliberation, I told the guy I wasn’t going to dive which he was okay with. It seemed like he didn’t give me grief because he was scared too, but he wasn’t going to admit it. No one seemed to notice my cowardice, and as I walked away, I woke up.

And the funny thing was that I felt I made a conscious, half-awake decision not to jump. Psychoanalysis aside, I’ve been trying to consciously affect my dream states by learning to recognize what is a dream and how to purposefully explore my unconscious. To talk to the projections of my friends to get a sense of what I think about them (and why I would dream about them in the first place). To get a sense of my true reality in suspended reality. To figure out what my goals in life are, to find one’s dreams within one’s dreams as it were. To find happiness perhaps, to see if I can’t re-dream that one with the girl in the white dress at the church, where I’m unconventionally walking to meet her at the altar. All I could tell is that she’s a brunette (maybe that’s why I prefer blondes?).

And unlike the movie Inception where if you die during the dream state (under light sedation apparently), you just wake up, I have a feeling that it’s very unlucky (for lack of a better word) to die in your dreams or come close to dying like jumping off a cruise ship.

Though we can experience things in our dreams we wouldn't dare to do in real life, I’ve actually come closer to death in real life through my seemingly reckless driving (oh those Asians… what will we do with them?) and my bacon cheeseburger habit. I'm so glad Catholicism doesn't prohibit delicious, tasty pork!

The Alliterative P-- Principle

2010-07-20T11:40:00.002-05:00

Dear myself,

After all, who else is reading now since I haven’t posted in centuries? When I am killing time, one of my favorite activities is reading up on random blogs about people’s thoughts and such. Some are entertaining, others are sad, others are cleverly stupid and addicting like TMZ. But a common thread is that there sometimes seems to be an awkward silence at the end, as if the person just decided to quit with little explanation. Except the stuff with ads; those always seem to last forever like daytime soap operas! (a foreshadowing perhaps?)

In books we read, we expect a satisfying conclusion to a story: there is a beginning, middle and an end (otherwise, the book wouldn’t be published we should hope). But a blog is an organic, continuous thing written in real-time by people who cannot make their lives into solid beginnings, middles and ends.

For myself, I cannot make some grand statement that I was on sabbatical meditating on the deeper meaning of life. In truth, I was a bit depressed that I couldn’t get a foot into hospital pharmacy because of the experience Catch-22 (we won’t hire you without experience, and since you don’t have experience, you’ll never get any). Because I was raised in a household which had inordinately emphasized money, a big part of my self-worth is linked to the size of my bank accounts, which had been dwindling as of late. And as the dollars and sense [sic] faded, so did my fervor for everything else.

The solution: get a job, any job. As luck (or fate or destiny) would have it, when I found out that even staffing agencies (middlepeople* who get paid tens of thousands of dollars by employers to hire pharmacists) could only get me retail jobs, I began to apply for the dreaded things myself. Dreaded because I knew how bad a situation could be when you don’t have adequate support and are expected to fill hundreds of prescriptions a day, all the while people are yelling at you for something you can’t control. Then people sue you for misfilling (filling a prescription incorrectly) which is the ultimate kicker; it didn’t happen to me, but a friend of mine happened to dispense Nexium 40mg instead of 20mg which in the worst case scenario might have caused the guy to suffer some more severe placebo-like side effects.**

But if that’s the only gainful employment I can get, then so be it. I’m thankful for a college degree which pretty much guarantees a job; maybe not the most rewarding one, but certainly a stable and high paying one.

So I had sent a few interest requests to some of the better prospects. A central fill facility (assembly line work where you sit and verify all day, because they’re required to have warm bodies licensed by the Board of Pharmacy), which ultimately hired another pharmacist. And a 7-on 7-off overnight position, which had been unanswered for 2 weeks. Then I got an email on Sunday right after mass (believe in God much?) seeing if I was still interested. It was followed by a phone call the next day and an interview that same week. When it rains, it pours, as the cliché goes.

Fast forward a bit: Two weeks ago, I started my new job at the same work schedule, with a better computer system, a newly opened pharmacy, and probably most importantly with an $8/hr pay increase over my last job. Joking aside (though money is apparently dreadfully important to me), I’m just glad to be working again.
--

So the title of this post, the ‘Alliterative P-- Principle'. What is the p--? I’ve taken a liking to how Hemingway’s books were censored with the first letter of the naughty word followed by an indeterminate dash representing the rest of the foulness, so I will flatter his censors with imitation. It’s a 5 letter word that little kids may use to describe their feline friends, and it also happens to be the first name of a Bond villainess.

After a quick Google search, I’m terribly surprised that the P-- Principle is not mentioned anywhere, not even on Urban Dictionary, which has several entries for ‘robocop’ as a perverse [post] coital act but not the p-- principle, a fundamental, unconscious driving force for human males***.

So the P-- Principle as simply defined is this: men choose to do the things which will give them the greatest benefit in the greatest frequency. This is more in depth than the pleasure principle in that it takes into account the probabilities of the ‘benefit’. Most guys would kill for a chance to ‘benefit’ women like Megan Fox, Emmanuelle Vaugier, or that milkaholic Lindsay in her pre-alcohol, pre-druggie days, but it’s simply not going to happen. So instead of stalking impossible marks, most sane men go after (and expend resources on) those of the opposite sex who are more within their league.

In mathematical terms (because I’m a dork), the estimated probability of an event multiplied by the perceived benefit of the event equals the weighted benefit.

%Occurrence x perceived benefit = weighted benefit.

And most men (and women) will usually pursue the action with the greatest weighted benefit. I would argue that the sane always pursue the greatest weighted benefit; the changes in their decisions are due to the changes in their perceived probability of success and/or perceived benefit. Eg, when you fall in love and decide to propose, the perceived benefit of spending the rest of your life (or the next 5 years) with the same person eclipses the benefit of random fornication.

So what’s with all this nonsense? Well the P-- Principle applies to career decisions as well. Though I really like the reading and writing bit and find it terribly fulfilling (high perceived benefit), I don’t have faith that I can be successful or profitable at it in the long term (low probability of occurrence). Making large sums of money now as a pharmacist has a higher weighted benefit since paying off student loans is a b--. And I scratched the casing on my Gucci watch, so I have to get money to get it replaced.

In the three months of unpaid vacation, I never once seriously considered writing to be a viable primary income source because I knew I could make significantly more as a pharmacist and I knew I had a higher probability of finding solid, stable work as a pharmacist. ...though this could change in the future...

In short, the P-- Principle prevailed.

--
*not trying to be PC, just thought ‘middlepeople’ was a funny word
**First off, why the hell would you prescribe the 20mg instead of the 40mg (a practical reason, not an academic theoretical one), when the side effects are minimal at best? As a reference, a majority of the other drugs in the same class only come in a single strength. Secondly, though you aim to not make any mistakes, this is as tame a mistake as it comes.
***And if the p-- were altered to another 5-letter word, then it would also apply for some human females, though the Prada Principle usually applies in more cases

Nguyen the Patriot

2010-06-11T14:44:00.005-05:00

Dear comrades,

Don't believe me when I promise you things, like follow-up posts and such. Whilst reading some of my blog, I've realized that I've failed to deliver worse than your run of the mill politician, which is really saying something unsavory. Incidentally, I think that Obama is doing a great job considering the circumstances. I don't quite understand why people are fed up about the incumbent Democrats; you knew what you were voting for: a bunch of liberal tendencies with no consistent consensuses. At least with the GOP, you're guaranteed a fight for small government, and small-minded social policies no matter what the economic/social/environmental climate. They will fight for oil companies' rights to 'drill, baby, drill' and 'spill, baby, spill' even in the aftermath of the Horizon Rig fiasco, if somewhat silently.

I must apologize for my last post. Reflecting on the mercurial climate that is my family dynamics, I've realized that our dysfunction is nothing particularly special in America. My parents aren't divorced, they aren't physically abusive (though psychological abuse is their specialty), they aren't drunks, they gamble (as is required of every Asian, especially Viets) but not to excess like some of our countrymen laying down stacks of Benjamins at a baccarat table when they only make 30k/yr, they lay some serious guilt trips but not anything more than any other parents. And on the whole, I've turned out remarkably well adjusted though this point is more than debatable. Well, I've turned out remarkably well on the surface, which is what most Asians hope for, to save face and present an outward appearance of solidarity.

And I guess that's the difference between myself and those comics on Last Comic Standing who poke fun at Mom & Pop: I am not 'allowed' to criticize or poke fun of my family because family is all that is important. And because the frustration can be so great, it erupts into a tirade against something well meaning. So I guess I'm sorry. That's a really pathetic apology, but it's the best and most sincere one I can make. Next time, I'll be sure to laugh a little at myself and my situation and my family. Because I'm not six feet under, and I don't mean that I'm not in some basement because basements are non-existent on the Gulf Coast (because of hurricanes and such). Just don't bother me when the NBA Finals are on, since it makes me resort to the baser male instincts of rooting for inconsequential displays of athleticism.

So comrades, my blood does not bleed red; it bleeds whatever color capitalism would be, which I imagine would be like the pastel green on the front of the new $20 bill. After I purchased my bed sheets, I found it looked a lot like that color which helps me sleep well at night.

Though socialism and communism and all the left wing stuff seems great and all in theory, it falls apart because of the human weakness (or strength) toward self-preservation and self-advancement. (I'm going to make a whole lot of sweeping generalizations based on what I feel at this very moment is 'truth' or 'near-truths'. Tomorrow I may abandon everything I say today; this is supported by my history of Benedict-Arnold-ing on my views). I very much doubt all those Communist leaders would be content to live in the same shacks as the glorified worker--they must, after all, present a strong, dignified front when greeting foreign dignitaries.

Maybe I'm misunderstanding the Red theory, but it would seem that the Commie leaders are capitalists because they get to live in all those fancy mansions and such at the expense of the working class. Then there's the lack of incentive for working hard when you're going to get compensated the same no matter what your work. Why be a doctor when a street cleaner gets paid just as much? Humans are not much more evolved than Pavlov's dog or that mouse with the pleasure bar; we will tap that bar that releases dopamine into our brains until we die of starvation with a smile on our faces. Without reward, what is the impetus to do anything? Even a sense of satisfaction in 'doing good' is a type of reward.

So yeah, I think the Commies have it wrong, because I am a loyal American and thus obligated to say so. But being an American, I am also entitled to a minimal amount of dissenting views, the more 'popular' these dissenting views, the better. Wearing a t-shirt with an impression of Che Guevara is cool if a bit common; wearing anything associated with Ho Chi Minh is generally frowned upon by nearly everyone in the U.S. Let me explain.

First of all, Uncle Ho (I'll call him that from now on but I mean it in an endearing way) looks kind of like Master Splinter from the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. And though Splinter is cool, you wouldn't wear a t-shirt with him on it. Second and more seriously, the Vietnam War is one in which the U.S. 'lost'. You can argue that there wasn't an official declaration of war and that it was simply a support of the Western-loving South Vietnam. You can argue that you couldn't declare war without erupting the Cold War between the States and the Reds. And you can argue that we could have napalmed the whole countryside (even more than we did) to eliminate the hiding places of the guerrillas, but we mercifully chose not to. All very true and all excuses. The States lost. And you're not allowed to support the enemy. Even now, there's still some tension between the U.S. and the U.K., like as if we had hooked up and left on less than amicable circumstances one time long ago, and met again at a wedding.

And third, the Viet expats who live here will pretty much firebomb your establishment if you raise the Communist Viet flag, the one with the single yellow star in the red background. You can raise the Confederate flag and be scoffed at as a hick, but you will be murdered (possibly) for raising the traitorous Commie flag--that's one thing you can trust Viet people to do (aside from gambling of course). Why? Because the expats believe Uncle Ho stole the land from them. When we talk about the Fall of Saigon in 1975, we refer to it as the year we lost our country. But you contest, 'The country is still there!' No, it's the Socialist Republic of Vietnam. And that's not the same.

But I am thankful for Uncle Ho. When I remember to give thanks to people, he's always on the top of my list. That's because without him, I would be stuck in some developing country toiling away for less than minimum wage, whether it be a democratic capitalist society or a socialist one. Because of the war, pretty much all of my family got green cards to come to America, the land of milk and honey. And I was born on this great, free soil and was granted automatic full citizenship. Man, what a deal! Give up some podunk, yellow-fever-mosquito infested, tropical hell adjacent to the South China Sea for the privilege of living in air-conditioned paradise of America. I bet people from developing countries would want to get a piece of that action.

I told my parents that, and they agreed and laughed. They said that Vietnam was one of the poorest countries, even poorer than St. Lucia, an island in the Caribbean which we lived in when I was younger. 'You couldn't be anything or anybody unless you were rich or famous or connected.' And that was that, a de facto caste system. But their laugh was mixed with a hint of pain and loss of a land once theirs. I guess even though they've moved on to an objectively 'better' place, there's the regret of a loss of innocence. Would you know you were naked unless someone told you? Would you know you were poor unless someone told you? If that was the only Vietnam they knew, what would be the difference?

So when I put it like that, I think a lot of Viet expats would have to agree with me (if begrudgingly) that it turned out pretty well, this Vietnam War thing, as long as you got to America (or Australia or the UK or any Western country). Those people who missed the last helicopter out of Saigon are still pissed to this day. Note to people of countries subject to impending collapse: get to the coast and have a big boat.

Besides the fact that I owe my U.S. citizenship to Uncle Ho, I also admire him as an intellectual and as a patriot. Some of the salient points of the Wikipedia article on Uncle Ho (which is probably written by the most well English spoken Commies in Vietnam) are that he studied and worked in the States (Harlem, NY), France, Russia, and China and was fluent in each country's language; he had petitioned the U.S. referencing the Declaration of Independence to help get rid of the French influence in favor of a nationalist government; and he had pretty much removed the French and Americans from Vietnam and unified it under a single government. Before he adopted the name Ho Chi Minh, he had been Nguyen Ai Quoc, or 'the Patriot'. 'It was patriotism, not communism, that inspired me.' If the Americans had responded to his petition, maybe we would have had a 51st state by now...

I think that's pretty cool to defeat a couple of western powers, don't you? It's the classic David v Goliath story. Except since America was Goliath, we can't join in David's victory. And David's country wasn't vastly improved under Communist/Socialist rule.

After reflecting a bit more before writing this, my liking of Uncle Ho isn't akin to liking Hitler or Mussolini or Stalin or such who were all nationalists at core: there wasn't any genocide to my knowledge; there were only the typical casualties (if casualties may be deemed 'typical') of war.

But again, you can't say you like the enemy, and when the Jefferson Scholars Committee had asked me whom I admired, I said Uncle Ho, for I owe the fact of my even being there to his vision of an independent Vietnam. Uncle Ho had probably cited Jeffersonian ideals in the Declaration of Independence. But as I think about it now, I'm pretty certain that the committee considered it in 'poor taste'. I probably should have picked one of the white guys in U.S. history, or one of the African-Americans that have gained enough popularity to be quoted by the white guys in Washington (think Martin Luther King, Jr, not Malcolm X).

Oh well.

Family Shackles

2010-06-03T21:36:00.003-05:00

Dear involuntary wedding guests,

I'll get to my Commie-leaning stance tomorrow. Today's post is about a random sore subject endemic to my immediate family, and possibly other Viet Catholic or Viet or Asian families: the obligation to go to family events.

Mama came up to my little den area, my brother's old room which I had redecorated with my TV, sofa, and weight set. There is a 2nd floor communal area which would probably be a more appropriate area for a TV, but it is visible from the street. Though we're in the suburbs and the street does have a moderate traffic flow (unfortunately with some idiots banging their muzak or revving their crappy midlife-crisis bikes), you can't have anything nice and visible in a major metropolitan area. Even in the suburbs. 'If people weren't poor, they would not need to steal.' Not true: poverty and theft are not perfectly correlated.

Some neighborhood kids broke into one of our cars to steal floor mats. Floor mats! So no, my TV is not to be visible from the street.

Mama has never understood the concept of privacy or of respecting personal space. When my bedroom door is locked, she jimmies it until it opens, thinking it must have been a ghost who moves the knob from horizontal to vertical. But the door was open this time, since you have to let the heat dissipate from the room when the thermostat has a hard-floor of 83 degrees.

She's smiling. She's always smiling whether she's sad or happy, whether she's angry or elated, whether she wants to put a kiss on the cheek or the switch to the backside. She disarms a lot of people but not me. Beware of Greeks bearing gifts.

'Oh, you have the internet on?' She doesn't wait for my answer; she sees the USB cord hanging from my laptop to my phone. 'Hey, my friend from work told me about this 18-month old who smokes 2 packs a day. Can you search for it?' She knows I can search for it, not because I'm some tech nerd but the fact that I'm under 25.

So I search for the stupid thing which had been on the news all the while thinking, 'Who the [copulate] cares?' and found the kid's name, then youtubed it: Ardi Rizal. 'Haha,' she laughs. 'Do you think it's real? Do you think he's 18 months?'

'Sure it's real.' I refrain from a metaphysical explanation of the reality of things shown on Youtube. 'They show it on TV; it must be real.' I pick the simplest, albeit fallacious, explanation to facilitate my ends: getting her to stop bothering me while I'm watching the NBA Finals.

'It's not in the U.S. right?' she asks.

'No, it's in Indonesia,' I respond easily, taking the word of some uncredited source on the internet. 'You can do whatever you want there.' I continue to leave my critical thinking on cruise control; ignorance is bliss as they say. It's easy and pleasant to be ditzy, and I can turn my hair blonde on-demand.

She watches me a little further, while I continue paying my bills online. She glances at the TV, hoping I'd say something more, to continue a dying conversation. But I had learned to be withholding from the pro sitting to my left.

She buckles, 'Hey, there was that news story about my workplace. Can you pull it up?'

I search grudgingly, then earnestly as I wonder if it was possible to find the news story. But I lost interest, and made up an excuse, 'It was a news story?'

'Uh huh, they came to the company and we had to wear uniforms. We never wear uniforms.'

'What happened?'

'Nothing, just something to get attention I guess. My friend had found it on the internet after they showed it on TV.'

Like that means anything. I make some more faux searches, and then point at the TV. 'You see that commercial there? You see it now, and you can probably see it online somehow, but it's going to be difficult.' She senses my irritation. She's really good at sensing non-verbal cues, but she's even better at ignoring them.

But she gives up this time. She starts up from the couch and probably caught my half-smile that signified my victory. Halfway to the door, she casually asks, 'Did you find those car rental prices?'

'No.' I might as well get it over with. To delay something that may take care of itself tomorrow is a potentially profitable way to procrastinate. But to delay something that will only come back tomorrow is plain lazy especially when the tools to do the job are in your hands. I should follow my advice more often.

alamo...national car rental...avis, et al all go one by one into Google's omniscient, omnipotent bar. Then I get smart and do a Priceline search to show all the rates at once. Channeling the voice of an old African-American sage playing dominoes at the park, 'Think long, think wrong.'

'Bossman, two out of three ain't bad.' (the one out of three being my inefficient searching).

I imagine him responding, 'No it ain't, son, nah it sure ain't,' while wondering if he thought what had been the two out of three I had gotten correct.

'Mama, you can save $5 if prepay now, but if you cancel you have to pay $5 cancellation fee.'

We get into an discussion about the prepay discount. 'When your aunt reserved it, you can cancel anytime you want.' 'I understand that, but I'm trying to save you some money.' 'What about the others?' I echo, 'What about the others?'

She continues to waste my Lakers vs Celtics time. 'You're not going to cancel, right? You're going, right? So it'd be cheaper if you prepay.'

'But I might not go or she could find someone else to bring her.' Finally, the crux of the matter. My family has a habit of complaining (as you can see from my own belly-aching).

'Don't go then. Why do you have to go?'

'It's your grandmother's brother's kid, Dad's cousin. Your grandmother has to go, and I have to go because none of your aunts and uncles want to drive her there [New Orleans].'

'Who cares? The groom or bride won't care, probably won't even remember Dad even if he were to show up. All they want is your money [Viet wedding gift], so send it and be done with it.'

'But they invited your grandmother and Dad, because he's the oldest child. Your great uncle felt obligated to invite them because it wouldn't be right if he hadn't. And it's not right if we don't go.'

'What? You couldn't just lie and say you're not in town? It's not like you've never done that before. See? Easy.'

She's frustrated. As independent of a woman she is, she is still shackled by the conventions of family and family obligations. I had thought about how we didn't have grandfather's portrait on the wall of the house, and thought how unconventional the absence had been. Then I realized that it was because we just haven't hung it up post-Ike; it had been in the living room of our old condo. The Catholic missionaries had not squashed our ancestor worship, and the somber black-and-white portraits in every older Viet Catholic's home is ever present next to the Christian altar.

She backtracks, using ad hominem attacks, 'Your aunts and uncles are disgraceful. None of them will go, and so I have to go.' I sit in silent agreement. 'Your brother would go. He said he'd drive as far as Lake Charles and stay there while I drove on to New Orleans. But not with your grandmother in the car, never with your grandmother.' Grandma had called my brother a 'gangbanger' and had basically disowned him once grandfather died.

Mama says that last bit to try to cajole me to offer to drive her and grandma to N.O. Nice try.

We talk some more about the prepay discount, and then she drops the car rental subject. 'Maybe someone will be going there too, and I won't have to drive.' Not likely.
--

It will be the death of her, this family business thing. America is not like Vietnam. In olden Vietnam, there's nothing to do but live in your little village doing your bit of subsistence farming, while enjoying the little weddings and such that intersperse the daily drudgery. But these things are only grudging obligations in this fast-paced society of Google, Facebook, iPhones, and silly videos of an 18-month old smoking on Youtube.

You can't live in two different worlds and maintain consonance. You cannot serve both God and Mammon, except in this case you don't know who is God and who is Mammon (though a bunch of people think us Americans as Devil spawn).

Well, she'll go to that wedding and I won't. And the next. And she'll smile all the while hating that she had to be there. And I'll smile sincerely as I sleep away that free weekend.

Six-Years Hence

2010-06-02T14:55:00.004-05:00

Dear patriots,

This past Memorial Day got me thinking about all the men and women overseas (and at home) fighting so that we can be free. Free to be what we want to be. Free to think our perverse thoughts. Free to be unpatriotic if we wanted to. Free to practice any religion we wanted. Free to be of any sexual orientation or any sexual distinction (unless you're in the South of course). And even free to criticize even the very fact of their being over there killing so that we have our own right to kill here in the States. I, for one, am extremely proud to be an American (though I've mentioned the fact that I'd pull out my Viet card when traveling overseas to get friendlier treatment). And I am extremely proud of all our armed forces, even if I don't know any of them personally.

But though this great nation gives you many freedoms to be what you want to be, as Emerson wrote, 'For nonconformity the world whips you with its displeasure.' I've since learned this lesson and bridled my temper and strange thoughts though with varying success; I present exhibit A: this blog, a collection of my boons and banes.

One of the first hints of this displeasured nonconformity was when I began to reflect on why I was not selected to be a Jefferson Scholar, an honor which amounted to a full ride to one of the most prestigious public universities, the University of Virginia. On a sidenote, it's funny how people compliment things by comparing them to something else, as if to say, 'Look, this is just as good as so-and-so!' when by contrast the thing being compared to is even more praised by the glancing mention. Example: 'The University of Virginia is one of the eight original Public Ivies.' So what you're saying is that it's good and it might be as good as a private Ivy, but it probably isn't better than an Ivy. Nice back-handed compliment; probably should avoid qualifiers next time.

Just like a certain school being complimented as the Harvard of the South. I agree with the author's sentiment: 'Rice is one of the best universities in the country and doesn't really need the comparison.' Gosh, it's not like you're buying store-brand, one-ply toilet paper! Do they even make one-ply anymore?

Incidentally, I was accepted to both Rice and UVa despite the rampant, openly secret, reverse discrimination of Asians (through no fault of our own, except maybe the Japs and WWII) in higher education. In a extremely joking tone: at least the white folks got some free labor before they were presented with an overdue bill which some have debated whether they have paid, will pay or will ever be able to pay fully with or without the use of reparations. And as proof of the discrimination, my high school counselor commented that had I been Hispanic, I'd have been nominated for a National Merit Scholarship, but as it was I needed an additional 30 points on my PSAT to qualify because I checked the 'Asian/Pacific Islander' box. Hey, at least I wasn't toiling in 110 degree sauna fishing the South China Sea or wading through the rice paddies while my sister (because my parents would have had more than 2 kids) exclaimed at the waterfront resorts, half-saying, half-asking the male tourists, 'Me lub you long time!' Funny, sad, but likely true.

But they (those universities) had proffered letters of acceptance despite my lack of musical aptitude, tennis-playing abilities, ability of my parents to pay the tuition, or pleasantly broken Engrish [sic]. I don't fault them even if they hadn't accepted me: it's tricky this 'non-use' of quotas in higher education. I guess if you were to shaft anyone, it would be the Asians because they'd be least likely to pitch a fit. Please refrain from sending threatening emails and/or hate letters: I jest, but even jokes have roots in truth, yes?

But you really can't ignore machine-like precision on standardized tests: a 760 on the Verbal portion of the SATs from a kid who was pigeon-holed to the English-is-Second-Language section of school because his last name was foreign, and 800s (twice) on the Math section (he's Asian after all, and any less would have been a disgrace) along with some other odds and ends like perfect SAT IIs, perfect AP tests, etc. Thankfully I fit neatly into the rarefied tier: those you accept indiscriminately simply on high aptitude for selecting an arbitrary permutation of As, Cs, Ds, Bs, and sometimes Es.

But I'm getting off on a severe, self-righteous, if-you-kiss-your-ass-any-further-your-spine-will-be-stuck-that-way tangent. [insert smiley face]

Backtracking a bit:

Universities weren't exactly the problem, not the main problem at least in my situation. I wouldn't have even applied to these universities had it not been for my guidance counselor and the incessant insistence of a couple of English teachers (If either of you are reading: Look! I'm using my limited Language Arts skills after all, if rather dismally and with numerous syntax and grammatical errors and abuse of commas, semicolons, parentheses and brackets). And this would explain the lack of any mention of true Ivys: I simply didn't apply to any. It would be nice to have acceptance letters from Harvard and Princeton, but I'm not that vain.

No, in the context of my world, any school which didn't have a pharmacy program was simply out of the question. And I wasn't the one who was in love with pharmacy; it was my parents, and they weren't really in love with pharmacy either. But you see, the girl's parents were utterly stinking rich, and it didn't matter what the girl looked like or even if she was a girl. As rebellious as I wasn't, I took the sad truth of my parents' ultimate disapproval, made a last ditch effort to run away with my love (with my Rice financial aid letter as an unsigned marriage certificate), but was corralled into a pleasant relationship with a nice university (of Houston) who was both low maintenance and accommodating, ambitious but not psychotically driven, intelligent but didn't one-up you in front of your friends: the girl next door who you propose to once that French filly dumps you for the next guy in pearl snaps and a cowboy hat (what I'm going to wear on my trip to Europe complimented with a phony East Texas accent).

And now I'm 23 and I command a six-figure sum per annum. Though I know and feel my parents are and were 'right', especially in this economic climate, I lay at night thinking of the vain self I might have created with all my liberal learnings and snobbery and wondered how that alter ego would have fared in the year post-graduation.

Would he have even cared to write? Would he think of what I'm doing as bourgeois or pedestrian? Would he have some girlfriend's mother to take to Sunday brunch, drinking mimosas whilst flattering away the crow's feet from her eyes and wonder if his girl would look that way in the smooth white sheath dress with oversized buckle some 30 years into the future? Would he be dead, physically, emotionally, mentally, and/or spiritually? Would he think me dead?

Would he still be enslaved incurably to the desires and wishes of two people who happened to have given him some genetic material in the distant past, the act of which, he had found out, wasn't exactly difficult.

But I try not to think too much. Dad had said that 'if' was a dirty word, though he lives it every day like a father who lectures his son on alcoholism while he enjoys several cold ones with Sportscenter each night: 'If only I can pass the medical boards, then I'd be happy.' But would he be happy?

Am I happy? Can I be happy? I don't know. But I definitely feel a whole lot better than I did last year. That much is certain.

I'll finish up the Jefferson Scholar bit tomorrow. As a preview, I told the selection committee who was dispatched to find young adults who epitomized Jeffersonian ideals (of course excepting the sexing the slaves bit) that I had admired a Commie, which was probably comparable to partaking in gas station sushi.

Lockboxed Raincoats

2010-05-24T13:38:00.005-05:00

Dear email inboxes,

I'm back after a 19 day absence from the land of lollipops, video games, and frequent naptimes! At heart (or at a tangled mass of grey* matter in my noggin), I am a hopeless addict with many vices. Fortunately, I also have the attention span of a 9 year old without ADHD meds, so my addictions don't last long because I forget about them. Two negatives do make a positive! Cue Wyclef Jean.

In my last post some 19 days ago, I promised something funny. And unlike the politicos you see on the tele, I do deliver on my promises, if somewhat vastly late. With much ado:

(If you don't know what raincoats are, please ask your little brother or any adolescent male for that matter)

(overshare alert)

So my friend, who overshares quite frequently (which I am never guilty of!**), told me a few weeks ago about her raincoat buying experience. Apparently in downtown Houston, prophylactics belong in Gore's lockbox along with the nicotine supplements, razor blades, OTC antacids (the fancy PPI ones), and diabetes kits. Being that it was nighttime literally and in the economic proverbial sense (I'm still out of work, btw), the establishment only had a person working the front register with a throng of people in line trying to get things not usually meant to assist in getting one's 'swerve on.'

My friend fully intended to get those raincoats that night because it was going to rain very soon, and she didn't want to get caught unawares. So after waiting several minutes in line she stepped up to the counter to semi-discreetly mention that she needed the raincoats which were lockboxed. The clerk, swamped with customers, paged the manager who promptly showed up more than several minutes later 'after finishing a solitaire game' as managers are apt to do when no one is making sure they're working.

In the manner of one intending to protect someone's privacy while inevitably revealing an embarrassing fact, the clerk informed the manager of 'assistance in aisle 8' with a sheepish grin/frown.

So after more than a half hour affair, my friend finally left with her 12 or 24-pack of raincoats in assorted pigments and/or flavors.

'Ha, I have no shame!'
--

I, on the other hand, have lots of unhealthy Catholic guilt in buying prophylactics. I remember the traumatizing experience buying the damn things for the first time. I casually entered the OTC section of the store, pretending to look at some antacids (I did need Pepcid for my Asian flush) while truly surveying the dizzying array of colorful water balloons (some 'ribbed for pleasure') with my peripheral vision. After making sure everyone had vacated the area, I quickly turned my sights on my mark, walked confidently but a bit hurriedly to the area, and picked the moderately sized pack (12) of the brand name I knew (the one with the Greek helmet, though the story behind the name doesn't exactly inspire confidence: after the horse gets into the fortress, all the seamen evacuate to pillage the town).

With the merchandise in possession, I extended my fingers to obscure the face of the product. I walked to the front of the store, wondering if I had aroused the attention of the shrink cop with my furtive movements. Of the 5 open lines, I went to the shortest one with the guy who would be least likely to make any comment; the 2 with the pretty girls were absolutely out of the question--I felt that would have been like shooting Bambi's mother for some reason.

When it was my turn, I placed the product slightly more than halfway up the conveyor belt, so that it wouldn't take too long to reach the checker. I heard the total and handed a $20, with only a brief glance at the dude's face which was thankfully expressionless. Taking my change, I wrapped my purchase tightly in an upsettingly translucent plastic bag. I walked out feeling the same guilt as if I had stolen the thing(s).

I made a promise then and there ('Never again!') which I soon recanted after I made use of the merchandise ('But this is way too much fun!').

Nowadays, I do feel a slight bit of shame but there are stores with a self-checkout line. And I make sure those lines are open and sparsely populated before I make my purchase.
--

A random memory: Some girls in high school had asked a male teacher about the sinfulness of prophylactics (the school was like 90% Catholic because it was 90% Hispanic). He responded, 'If you're going to do wrong, do it right.' Then he smiled in a way that male teachers weren't supposed to smile at underage girls. He was an English teacher, and we had just read Bless Me Ultima, which was the first time I had ever seen the F-bomb in a legit novel.

And a random thought: I wonder if Mama has ever found my stash. I know she knows what they are, because I unfortunately stumbled upon her cache while searching for the TV remote. I think she follows the U.S. military's stance: don't ask, don't tell. And we all know the results of that program are simply fabulous.
--

*one of my friends (a dude) and I have agreed that the proper and English way of spelling 'grey' is with an 'e'. 'Gray' is drab and boring and has a thudding sound when you say it. 'Grey' on the other hand, has a delightful ring and reminds me of the hue of certain pants women wear which makes me swoon.
**What is a blog without oversharing?

Tender is the 2am Insomnia

2010-05-12T01:20:00.003-05:00

Dear the not-forgotten,

A few of my friends had very nicely reminded me of my absence from my blog. So this is for you. My excuse this time is that I didn't want to distract my schoolmates from their studies. Hope you all passed with flying colors, or at least C's for "continue."

The nighttime is when I have my deepest thoughts. It is also unfortunately when I go to sleep, so I lose (or return) those thoughts to my subconscious. If there was a woman who would listen to my nonsense and play it back to me in the morning and make me sound really smart and froody, I'd marry her this instant! But I should think such an angel would be driven mad after a short while. I might just learn to use the recorder function on my phone, and it would likely be much cheaper than buying a shiny bauble.

Tonight (or this morning) I'm reflecting on the tumult of emotions during the past fortnight (and considering how to bring back the word 'fortnight'). And I'm realizing that such heady reflections are best done without the backdrop of South Park on the CW at 1:30AM. Though some television is art, even high art at times, syndicated reruns of pre-pubescent bathroom humor probably doesn't make the cut. And that's not an insult of South Park; it's just a statement of general truthiness.

One of the few good things about Twitter is that it limits your narcissism to 140 characters or less, so even Ashton et al are forced to curb their self-enthusiasm (though I don't see why you can't just serialize your tweets, but I have a feeling multiple tweets in rapid succession would somehow violate Twitter etiquette if there happens to be one). I am thankfully not bounded by such artificial caps though I probably should be, considering the length of some of my posts.

And tonight there's a jumble of things in my mind I need to straighten out. There are some good ideas, some random ones, some stupid ones, some funny ones, and even some romantic ones. And by romantic, I don't mean the stuff that leads to the horizontal tango.

So here's something 'romantic' I'll put out there, which hopefully won't cause me to lose too many man cards:

Tender is the Night by F. Scott Fitzgerald is rapidly becoming one of my favorite novels. At times my homophobia flares when I think about how a dead man can move my emotions so much through clever placements of words. It's sickening how good the prose is. Sure, Jane Eyre made me tear up a little (-1 man card), but Bronte was like one of those really good one-pitch pitchers: elicit sadness, elicit joy, and repeat with increasing levels of absurdity* (think about the overall plot of Jane Eyre and tell me that isn't as contrived as Days of our Lives).

And as I think I might have written previously, I enjoy books which I can relate to (and thus, I'm writing my memoirs because I think many people can relate to my story). The more the story resonates with my own, the more it enthralls me into submission. And I am completely under Mr. Fitzgerald's mercy in a romantic but hopefully not a horizontal-tango kind of way; I am in love with Fitzgerald as the male characters are in love with Dr. Diver (who is a dude) in the novel.

My favorite paragraph thus far:

The truth was that for some months he had been going through that partitioning of the things of youth wherein it is decided whether or not to die for what one no longer believes. In the dead white hours in Zurich staring into a stranger's pantry across the upshine of a street-lamp, he used to think that he wanted to be good, he wanted to be kind, he wanted to be brave and wise, but it was all pretty difficult. He wanted to be loved, too, if he could fit it in.

That describes my last few weeks perfectly: figuring out what is truly important in my life, the clarification of wants vs needs, whether or not my values are my own or have been borrowed from others, the nature of love and if I am capable of it, and the realization that I will fall short of my grandiose expectations of myself. But I shouldn't ruin perfection with my further commentary, so I'll leave it at that.

I'll try to be humorous the next few posts, but no promises. Please excuse my nonsense--it's late and I haven't found the one who will make me sound good. I'm taking applications for the position, but the job pays very poorly (and may come with a prenupt unless the applicant makes more than me of course).

--
*not used in a derogatory sense

Free to Be You and Me

2010-04-27T20:34:00.003-05:00

Dear old(er) folks,

The great thing about the internet and Google (I like how the Google search results page isn't littered with ads; compare this with Yahoo and Bing's) is that when there's an obscure or old reference which you're not sure about, you can just Google it. That's partly why I love my Droid which has a nifty Google omnisciently omnipotent widget that will almost read your mind to figure out what you want. In return, it just needs a few moments from your eyes to display some relatively unobtrusive ads. So Google, you deserve the $500+/share that you command on the stock market. I'll have to buy a share one of these days and frame it. On a sidenote, if I were to be able to go back in time, I'd snap up shares of Microsoft, Apple, and/or Google when they were cheap; that way, people wouldn't suspect as much and wouldn't hassle you for your dough like if you had won the Powerball. I feel sorry for that Missouri dude for the constant hand-out requests he's about to receive.

Anyway, the obscure reference is the title of this entry, 'Free to Be...You and Me.' The first time I saw the title was as an episode from Supernatural. I knew it to be one of those things I should probably know, but didn't. The old fogies would scoff, frown, and make a face that expressed both pity and condescension. The intellectual/music elitists would as well. But I'm not that smart, and the world is so overloaded with information that it would be impossible to know everything considered 'common knowledge.' That's why Google is so wonderful! Someone buy me a share for my birthday; it's coming up you know. I'll also take cash, and it would be a very personal gift since you realized my Vietnamese inclination toward Mr. Franklin. Stuff that you made from macaroni will be frowned upon; it won't even elicit my fake gratitude.

You'll have to get used to my random preambles to my topic at hand (see the two paragraphs above). When last we met at my last entry, we found a very depressed me. Actually an agitated me to be more correct. There's a reason why people pay so much to live in temperate SoCal and not in the Houston sauna. And on half the mornings I'd wake up with severe nasal congestion due to the tree pollen. Trees, please don't [sexual reference deleted] all over my car and my house; it's quite inappropriate and immunogenic.

But I got over it. I turned the fan on the high setting (and if it broke down I'd give Dad money to fix it). For boredom, I finally got back on that reading track I promised to do last year. Pretty easy fixes now that I think about it in my dreary apartment in Dallas, with the minimal decorations taken down. In the past few weeks, I've been slowly moving my stuff back to Houston which is probably where I belong (at least for now). Still searching for a job, by the way.

The drives to and from D-town to H-town are the moments when I have my greatest thoughts (I'm stuck on one highway for 4.5 hours; it's either think or sleep or jam to Miley Cyrus, and I'd rather die via DWS* than purchase a Miley album). And this last trip I thought about how it wouldn't be all that terrible to live with my parents again.

Because this time, I would be choosing to live with them rather than being forced to live with them. And that is a profound difference. Being forced to return home because you can't afford to live on your own due to downsizing etc is sucky. It's like being imprisoned. Come to think of it, prison wouldn't be all that bad if there wasn't rampant sodomy and if you had a option to leave. The problem is you can't leave, and that's why it's punishment.

So I'm choosing to return home for now because it is a sound economic decision. My decision to not save the world (which I couldn't do anyway) was a sound economic decision. I had told Dad recently that I wouldn't go back to school--he took it surprisingly well, like a parent whose kid comes out of the closet after it is painfully obvious that he's gay**. If you think I'm making light of the gay revelation, you don't know my dad's obsession with my going to med school.

In a way, I still resent my parents for forcing me to go to pharmacy school, even if it did turn out for the best: I'd be racking up massive debts in med school right now to make pennies under Obamacare.

I'm surprised to find that I'm learning the power of choice now considering about all the coming of age novels I've read about the exact same thing. But I guess in most of those novels, the heroes and heroines were inevitably forced into doing 'what was best' for the world. To die to self, to save the world. How trite! Make way for the bad guy. Hey, at least I didn't start the subprime meltdown, though that was likely because I didn't have a choice.****

*Driving While Sleepy

**I'm not gay, not that there's anything wrong with that***

***What's the deal with all these disclaimers nowadays?

****Kidding, I hope

The Vacation Breaking Point

2010-04-21T11:13:00.004-05:00

Dear Fall Holiday Lovers,

After about the second week of Rachel Ray and Days of Our Lives (like sands through the hourglass...), one starts to go crazy. Even F. Scott Fitzgerald's masterful prose could not get me out of the doldrums unto depression.

And staying at home because 'I have nothing better to do' (according to Mama) is wearing thin my limited patience. There's a reason why I fled Houston, and I'm sadly reliving the experience of 85 degree nights in a steaming bedroom on an insanely lumpy bed with the neighbor's dog barking outside the window. I think they keep prisons cooler than my parents' house. And they feed you better too.

I might have to return to Dallas soon, and wait out purgatory there. She wants me to move all my stuff back, as if my material possessions would gravitate me to staying at home. No thanks--one visits Hell if one is curious; one does not choose to stay in hell. And I possess my possessions; my possessions do not possess me.

Distance makes the heart grow fonder, and proximity makes the mind descend into madness.

Another Benefit of the Roth IRA or a Miscalculation

2010-04-19T09:39:00.002-05:00

Dear Tax-haters,

So maybe you’ve read up on the Roth IRA like I suggested. But probably not. Money is interesting in that it’s a made-up idea yet it consumes so much of our thoughts. I'm beginning to understand that when you have a sufficient amount of money, any extra is just gravy. But a lot of gravy is nice. So skip to the next section to get to the Roth IRA stuff if you want to bypass an embarrassing story of my miscalculation.
--

Back in high school I was captain of the science bowl team (go ahead and snicker), and our team made it all the way to nationals. Though I was proud, the qualifying regional was like playing in Conference USA; it wasn’t much of a challenge to get an automatic bid to the show. It was a several day affair in D.C. at a place that had dorms to sleep in and ballrooms in which to display our math and science prowess. I wonder how far it would set back American technology if something were to happen to that place during nationals; some of those kids were extremely bright yet extremely dull (myself included). Out of the 10 round robins, my team won a grand total of zilch. Needless to say, we didn’t advance.

Besides the main event of science bowl, there were side competitions like designing the best hydrogen fuel cell model car. The hydrogen fuel cell in my view at the time, was redundant. The reaction that powers the system is the combustion of hydrogen to make water and energy. Chemically, hydrogen + oxygen = water + energy. Though containers full of hydrogen is undoubtedly a very safe thing*, the way we got the hydrogen to fuel the model cars is via a hydrolysis reaction (water + energy = hydrogen + oxygen) powered by alkaline batteries. Then to power the car, they’d just let the reaction go in reverse; there wasn’t an internal combustion of hydrogen which was quite a disappointment.

A younger, more naïve g: ‘I think it’s stupid that we’re using a battery to power another battery. I don’t see the point in this experiment. I mean, if we were combusting the hydrogen, then I can kind of understand the idea somewhat.’

The thing I learned a little later is that a reaction produces the same maximal amount of energy, no matter the way in which it occurs. Therefore, the same amount of hydrogen and oxygen would produce the same maximum whether you lit the hydrogen and let it blow or stuck some wires to make a boring battery. In fact, the battery method is a much more efficient in harnessing the energy than the internal combustion of hydrogen, so it would be preferable to have the controlled reaction that you see in the developing hydrogen fuel cell cars. And there's the benefit that your car won't blow up, but that's a minor advantage.

As a sidenote, the controlled electric reaction of hydrogen and oxygen is still considered combustion since it is defined as the reaction of a fuel with oxygen. Are you still awake?

Thinking about the comment I made to my fellow competitors, I wonder how many of them thought I was a complete idiot. I totally missed the point: Making hydrogen requires energy, whether it be renewable or fossil fuel, but if we were to somehow make that process more efficient, we’d have a clean ‘burning’ fuel with only water as an emission. The internal combustion engine is a relatively inefficient (something like 33% gets converted to mechanical energy). To get the hydrogen in our particular exercise, we used batteries (redundant), but if it were a more efficient conversion of fossil fuels to get hydrogen like 45% instead of 33% at a hydrogen plant, then we’d possibly reduce emissions.

But money talks and so far, the money isn’t in hydrogen fuel cell cars. Earth, sucks to your ass-mar**.
--

After reading some more stuff about investments (I want to retire when I’m 40 and become a decrepit degenerate), I thought about the tax advantages of a Roth vs traditional IRA.

The common consensus among investors is that the Roth is the preferable vehicle if you can contribute to it, which I wholeheartedly agree with for the many important reasons reported repeatedly across the internet. (if you don't believe me, google it yourselves)

But there was one more thing I thought about, which may turn out to be another miscalculation of mine. Even if it isn’t, this advantage is so minuscule that it really doesn’t matter unless you make frequent trades in your taxable account.

Let's start with a truism: If the current tax rate and your retirement tax rate were the same, then the Roth and traditional IRA would have the exact same return, assuming the same annual rates of return, investment amount, and length of investment. Some website had a pretty graph, but I'll prove it to you mathematically:

Roth -
principal x (1 - present tax rate) = investment amount
investment amount x (1 + annual rate of return)^length of investment = net value at retirement
P x (1 - tax%) = I
I x (1 + ARR)^n = net value
therefore, P x (1 - tax%) x (1 + ARR)^n = net value

Traditional -
principal = investment amount
investment amount x (1 + annual rate of return)^length of investment = pretax value at retirement
pretax value x (1 - retirement tax rate) = net value
therefore, P x (1 + ARR)^n x (1 - tax%) = net value

So Roth would win if the retirement tax rate were higher than the present tax rate, which given the state of our national debt, is likely. Traditional IRA proponents argue that you'd be making less money when you retire than at present, so you would be in a lower tax bracket. I wouldn't count on that--40 years is a long time from now.

There's a lot of advantages/disadvantages I'm ignoring, and financial websites do them justice. I'm purely focusing on the numbers.

Finally getting to my point. Let’s assume some numbers:
Bank account/income for last quarter = $10,000
Roth/Traditional contribution limit = $5,000
Marginal tax rate = 25%

Average annual return in stock market mutual fund = 7% (that’s a nice, round lucky number)
Returns are based on dividends/interest and growth. Dividends and interest get taxed yearly, but growth isn’t taxed until it is realized via capital gains. So let’s assume that 2% is attributed to dividends/interest and 5% is attributed to growth, and you invest your taxable account in a buy-and-hold strategy.

Qualified dividend/capital gains rate = 20%
Length of investment = 35 years
No further investments in future years
Invest remainder of bank account in a taxable investment
Taxable investment return = 5% + 2% x (1 - 0.2) = 6.6% return (accounting for the tax on interest & dividends)

Roth IRA
Contribute $5,000. Pay marginal tax of 25% on $10,000 which is $2,500.
Ending balance = $2,500 in bank account and $5,000 in Roth

Traditional IRA
Contribute $5,000. Pay 25% on $5,000, which is $1,250.
Ending balance = $3,750 in bank account and $5,000 in traditional IRA

In the Roth:
IRA: $5,000 x (1 + 0.07)^35 years = $53,382 tax free
taxable acct: $2,500 x (1 + 0.066)^35 years = $23,412
after capital gains tax = $23,412 x (1 - 0.20) = $18,730
NET = $72,112

In the Traditional:
IRA: $5,000 x (1 + 0.07)^35 years = $53,382, taxed at 25% marginal rate
after tax = $40,037
taxable acct: $3,750 x (1 + 0.066)^35 years = $35,118
after 20% capital gains tax = $28,095
NET = $68,132

Difference of $3,980. Small change considering inflation and what-not 35 years from now. The difference is attributed to the fact that you're putting 'more money' into the Roth, since those dollars have the tax rolled into it. With the traditional, the investment dollars haven't been taxed yet and those would be 'worth less' than the Roth dollars. To get the same IRA return from the traditional IRA, you'd have to invest $6,666 initially:

IRA = $6,666 x (1 + 0.07)^35 = $71,170
after 25% tax = $53,378
taxable acct: $3334 x (1 + 0.066)^35 = $31,223
after 20% capital gains tax = $24,978
NET = $78,356

So in this hypothetical scenario (the contribution limit for both IRAs is a meager $5,000), you'd be up $6,244 over the Roth.

Long, long, convoluted story short: With the Roth, you're investing a higher initial amount. But in reality, that little extra amount may not mean much if you're disciplined in you manage your taxes in your taxable accounts. You also aren't tempted to spend that cash you have lying around in your bank account.

In my opinion, the true advantage of the Roth IRA is that you're locking in your tax rate now. And although your tax bill may have seemed heavy, it's nothing compared to the 70s which had top marginal tax rates of 70%.

Why did I go through this whole ordeal to prove (possibly) a minor point, which probably isn't worth mentioning? Because it's good practice. And it doesn't even require calculus.

A quote from Warren Buffett: Investment must be rational; if you don't understand it, don't do it. From what I hear, he does pretty well for himself.

--
*come on, Hindenburg was a fluke!
**Lord of the Flies

The Rotation Files, the rotation schedule

2010-04-16T02:19:00.003-05:00

Dear taxpayers,

The deadline has deemed and passed. I hope you didn't put up the frivolous argument that you weren't obligated to pay your taxes because you are a resident of the great nation of Texas and not of the United States. The tax-man wouldn't like that very much. There's a whole friggin section on the IRS website about arguments that won't fly, and I think I'd tango with Satan before I'd ever mess with the IRS.

Did you follow my money-making scheme about the IRA? Sure, millions of people could be wrong in using it, but then maybe you could be the wrong one in not using it (I'm sure this is a logical fallacy, but I can't quite put my finger on it). Don't worry--you can contribute for 2010 while the pretty graphs on morningstar point to the up and right, which is generally regarded as a good sign. Even though the money behind it is just a figment of our imagination, it's always nice to have pleasant dreams instead of nightmares.
--

Right about this time, my comrades have received their rotation schedules for their final year of pharmacy school (Woohoo!). The elation or pain of having received or not received their first picks have set in. So here's a couple of thoughts I have about the schedule, now that I've turned my vinyl over to the B-side:

Things change. Don't get too attached to your schedule if you're loving it. Don't start making babies with that piece of paper, because after all, it is still a piece of paper. And paper has a habit of changing on you (think about the varying value of the US dollar). Preceptors leave their jobs, they have babies (not with paper), they decide they don't want you*, etc. I think it might be safe to make living arrangements, but that's as far as that goes.

Things don't change except for good reason. Rotations can break up with you; you cannot break up with rotations. It's like the biblical days when the man could give his wife a certificate of divorce but not the other way around. Sorry--you're pretty much stuck with the cards you're dealt (excuse the cliche). Crying has helped in rare occasions, but it's generally regarded as a bad move.

The retail giants for the community rotation aren't automatically bad. Some of the best preceptors work in the busiest stores. And some of the worst preceptors work in the slowest stores. It depends more on your preceptor than the company you're stuck with.

Be careful when discussing your experiences. More for later once after you had a few rotations, but never ever speak ill of any preceptor even in confidence with a friend (saying a rotation is difficult is okay; saying a preceptor is difficult is frowned upon). Pharmacy is a very, very small world, and mouthings-off have a habit of being passed around like nosocomial infections, and like nosocomial infections, they're hard to get rid of.

You can be as clinical (or unclinical) at any rotation. You get what you put into it. Preceptors are disposed to teach you (preceptor certification is voluntary after all). I used a tacky Chinese proverb (don't you find that fortune cookie stuff horribly trite?) in a high school speech: Teachers open the door, but you must enter by yourself. It applies here even if the quote has the consistency of Cheez-Wiz.

Finally, it will all work out for the best. And if it doesn't, it's only six weeks of your life. To paraphrase another oft-quoted expression**: that which does not kill you only makes you stronger. If you don't learn anything, you will at least learn another method of patient assessment.

It will be okay. Trust me--I'm a doctor.

--
*that story is pretty sad. On a sidenote, the Washington Times has a surprising number of ads including distasteful pop-ups.
**Nietzsche

[rooster]-sure and the Extra Jackson per Month

2010-04-15T11:16:00.004-05:00

Dear new readers,

It would appear that there has been an influx of people to my blog, of which I am very welcome of the company. Perhaps after one publishes over 50 entries, Google increases the exposure? Or perhaps I need to write about more seedy topics. Or sex and relationships--that always gets people reading. Actually maybe just sex: So this one time, this girl and I were in...[CENSORED--pick up a dime novel off the racks at Walmart and flip through it until you get to the good stuff, or sit through the unedited version of Sons and Lovers by DH Lawrence to get to the part where Paul 'bent forward and kissed the two white, glistening globes she cradled'--no wonder it had been banned!]

Anyway, I finished Wharton's The Age of Innocence, and it was far more tragic than Romeo & Juliet could ever be. Had Romeo just thought with his head (no pun intended), he would have just waited until the next pretty girl walked into the picture and fall in lust with her. After all as the Friar said, 'Young men's love then lies not truly in their hearts but in their eyes,' which I wholly agree based on personal experience. I love Shakespeare, but the character development of Juliet did not make me fall madly in love with her; it made me feel like a pedophile since she seemed so immature.

But the Countess Olenska... I won't ruin Wharton's masterpiece (which might end up on Oprah's Book Club if it isn't already) by telling you any more than that this piece of art is utterly magnificent. My favorite scene:

She started up, and freeing herself from him moved away to the other side of the hearth. "Ah, don’t make love to me! Too many people have done that," she said, frowning.

Archer, changing colour, stood up also: it was the bitterest rebuke she could have given him. "I have never made love to you," he said, "and I never shall. But you are the woman I would have married if it had been possible for either of us."

Most pieces of literature from the early 1900s are a tad difficult to get into at first because of their circumlocutory prose, but they are well worth the trouble (perhaps excluding Ulysses?), and The Age of Innocence is no different. It is still relevant in modern society as marriage and relationships are still (relatively) influenced by race and religion (instead of the social class in the book). As an example, when I get angry at my parents, I threaten to marry a non-Viet girl, which is pretty effective.

So read the book (or any book for that matter) won't you? And it won't cost you a dime at the library.
--

Edith Wharton also shocked me with use of a slang I didn't realize was existent back then: [rooster]-sure. [rooster] is a four letter word starting with a 'c', which I find even more offensive (when speaking in a woman's presence) than the F-word. In my mind, the C-word exists only in pornography and has no place in civilized culture (I'm kind of old-fashioned).

Surprisingly still, Wharton uses the expression in the same way my male friends would use it. But after a quick google search of the term, I find that it has been existent long in the past, and that there is even a Merriam-Webster entry for it (link above). Blah--I thought I was on to something.

When I rented my apartment, there was only one available with the floor plan I wanted, and it happened to be poolside, which costs an extra $20 a month. Whatever, I was banking and I didn't really care either way since my mind was on other things at the time (like getting away from Houston). Though as the winter tolled and the spring came with the pool cleaner (a middle-aged Hispanic man with neatly trimmed 'stache, not a stylized cabana boy--sorry ladies) who used a water hose to pump the pool thus causing moderate gurgling from the pipes next to my apartment building, I grew irritated at deriving absolutely no benefit from the pool which I happened to pay extra to be near by.

That was until a fortuitous Wednesday afternoon. While reading, I like there to be nearly complete silence, with perhaps a bird or two chirping in the background. No human talk--human talk ruins the delicious voice in my head who reads to me with a generic American accent (I imagine my narrator to be like a Mrs. Robinson-type, but with blonde hair). But the incessant noise came from the streets below, and I shook my fist like an elderly gentleman who says stuff like, 'Back in my day, youths kept their mouths shut!'

But being a non-confrontational type, I soon got over it. Being entirely absorbed in my book, I neglected the lunch hour and at about 3 in the afternoon, I became peckish. After shining the Prada logo on my wallet, I meticulously dropped it into my pocket in a 'careless' manner (one mustn't try too hard). And after getting into the stairwell but before locking my doors, I notice the cause of the commotion: a delightful brunette in a bubble-gum-colored bikini, and her quite undelightful significant other. I attempt my best nonchalant walk down the stairs, and gave a shy smile with a, 'Hi.'

The brunette looked distrustful, and her guy friend looked even more so. There's only one thing on a guy's mind when he sees a bikini, and that is who made the swimwear.* They had keyed into my thoughts, and they casually hid their designer's labels.

I came back an hour later, and a pretty blonde had joined the pretty brunette. I smiled and gave a quick greeting while dashing up the stairs, entirely un-C-sure of myself. Believe it or not, I didn't even take a look out my window to ogle the poolside attractions--I was nearing the end of the book.

But as I thought more about the situation, and how I could have done things differently, I figured my approach was far too direct. They knew and I knew that I wanted to meet them and start a conversation, and so the smile and 'Hello' was quickly rejected by their B(ikini)-shields.

What would have been better? Perhaps a smile and a casual, 'Amazing afternoon today, huh?' And then completely ignore them and use all my imagery to describe to them the magnificent weather as if they had been Helen Keller's schoolmates.

And with that thought, I regained my C-sure self, and went on about my evening.

--
*That's the real reason why dudes buy the SI Swimsuit Issue--not because of Marissa Miller, but what Marissa Miller is wearing.

Sunday Afternoon

2010-04-14T12:32:00.003-05:00

Dear Freedom of Speech Advocates,

Yes, comments have been removed and/or rejected. Keep it friendly, yes? Please, no emails/phone calls/letters threatening to take away my Prada; if I had a little dog, then I'd be okay if you took that away, but not the Prada!

I do agree with the notion that comments of a blog entry are like the final bouquet of a fine single malt scotch (to continue with your analogy), and by that same reasoning, I could not publish said comment. But tyrants should have no need to explain themselves. :)

If you're still looking for some excessive violence (of the physical kind) to divert yourself, please rent Ninja Assassin now available at Redbox (my goodness that was a lot of blood!). It was quite interesting how many ways a ninja could kill you. Is it wrong that I found myself laughing at the most gruesome parts (whilst exclaiming, 'Wow, they did not just do that!') instead of cringing with nausea?

But I digress.
--

Yesterday, I woke up in a bit of a haze. As this was supposed to have been my week to work, my body rebelled against my desire to stay awake in the daytime and subsequently succumbed to slumber (practicing alliteration) after a moderate lunch.

I woke up in the tepid 80 degree bedroom a few hours later with the fan set on low and my comforter draped lightly over my mid-section. The light shone through the plastic white window blinds as the sun lowered itself to blaze directly into my retinas, as if to say 'Peek-a-boo'. It's like when people notice someone sleeping and instead of letting that person dance with Morpheus, they insist on poking them incessantly with a sharp object.

That's alright: I needed to wake up to get some work done. But after I used a washcloth to remove the gunk from my eyes and a few mints to freshen my breath (as I refuse to brush more than twice a day), I fell languidly face-down on my bed on top of my pillow and covers.

'[Verb form of expletive deleted, (which also happens to be the noun)] the light. I commiserate with vampires, as long as they're not the incredibly dull, excessively melodramatic, ironically holier-than-thou ones in the Twilight saga.'

As luck (or sheer laziness) would have it, my quarter-finished novel laid silently on the floor, with its provocative artist's rendition of the Countess Olenska with eyes that know too much staring off into the abyss of the desperation of her lot.

(okay, since I'm reading her characterization in the book, she is much more attractive than this portrait of her)

I resumed my role-playing of Newland Archer, the story's protagonist, in the midst of his growing passion to his betrothed's cousin (the Countess), who happened to be married. And so my afternoon went. And so did my evening. And so did my night.

At the conclusion of Book 1 (which ended on a delightful cliff-hanger), I paused to reflect with the warmth of the setting sun on my face. 'How great it is to wile the time away with a great piece of literature on a Sunday afternoon!'

Except it was Tuesday, and I was still jobless.

But as my reading had reached critical mass, I could do nothing but continue with another chapter. And another. But men don't last all that long (even with the aid of pharmaceuticals), and I stopped for the night.
--

My few pieces of materialism aside (a few watches and a wallet), I would hope that Edith Wharton would consider me in the 'no one who loved ideas need hunger mentally.'

One of the first things I will do once moving to a new city to a new job is to get a library card. Why NetFlix when I have all the divertisement of hundreds of years of fine writing at my disposal for free? (Okay, I'll have to NetFlix too, since I can't do without my Grey's Anatomy!*)

--
*joking, of course

Nightmare Recursion

2010-04-10T09:00:00.001-05:00

Dear Magic: the Gathering (MtG) duelists,

Don't try to deny that you played Magic during middle school! It's okay; we were all a bunch of nerds, dorks, and geeks. Embrace the inner outcast. I had the privilege (or lack of sense) to play MtG for a good 3 years from 7th through 9th grades. Then I moved back to Texas where we played with cowboy boots and guns and capital punishment. Isn't Texas grand? We should definitely secede from the United States!*

Anyway, during my Magic playing days, there was a deck, a collection of cards with a game strategy, called nightmare recursion, which employed the card Recurring Nightmare to reanimate creatures from the graveyard. So creatures which you had seemingly defeated would be resurrected all over again to your dismay. I swear it isn't as silly as Yu-Gi-Oh or Pokemon or any of those other collectible card games. Though better (more expensive) cards meant a better deck, a better strategist would win over a weaker player.

And Magic would have cool names for cards like 'Ill-Gotten Gains', 'Wheel of Fortune', 'Cursed Scroll', 'Force of Will', 'Morphling', and 'Fact or Fiction'. I could use a card name for 50-75% of my posts if I so chose, and it would fit quite nicely.

Back to the topic at hand: What was the subject of my nightmare recursion? Well, there were two instances. The first was relatively innocuous: one of the numbers on my W2 form happened to match my birthday.

The second and creepier one happened at Easter Sunday mass. I sat at the back of the church, planning to slip out after the final blessing since I was driving back to Houston that day and didn't want to deal with the post-Easter parking lot apocalypse.

As always, people came in late, and for whatever reason, this parishioners at this church had a habit of doing so on a regular basis (and always the same folks). On Easter Sunday, it's even worse as more folks attend who don't usually go on a weekly basis. About 5 minutes into mass, a family slips in a few pews in front of me. Of course, I notice the blonde in the airy, sheer, white blouse with matching white pants. Oh, how I adore springtime when pretty girls reclaim their sundresses from the recesses of their closets!

So as I proceeded to steal furtive glances at all the bare-shoulders adorned with yellow or white or pink dress straps, my eyes inevitably returned to the blonde in front of me. Now, she wasn't gorgeous, and she didn't even have the decency to have on the aforementioned sundress (the outrage!), but for some reason, she caught my attention. But about midway through the mass, I figured out what it was.

Is she my ex? Is it possible that my ex is here in Dallas?

Being analytical, I parsed through what I remembered of the girl I knew. The family didn't match (there were 3 brothers instead of 1), and my ex wasn't Catholic. And I was relatively sure that the girl in front of me was about 3 inches taller, and girls stop growing by their 20s, so the anatomy texts preach.

But the mannerisms were uncanny: the same child-like smile, the blue-green-gray eyes, the frayed blonde hair, the playfulness, and even the ticklishness. A replica! A doppelganger! Or perhaps the same person?

The other thing people are wont to do at mass is leave early, and this girl and her family were no exception. I left a few minutes later, and rapidly opened Facebook on my Droid to check status updates to see if my ex was in Dallas for some reason. Seeing none, I sent off a nonchalant wall inquiry, 'You in Dallas for Easter?'

She commented back a few hours later. It wasn't her. And that sickening feeling got even more nauseating.

What is that sickening feeling? Well a crazy, philosophical thought of mine is that this world is a product of my own imagination, kind of like the Matrix but without Keanu Reeves. And when there are deja vus or doppelgangers or stuff like the recurring numbers on my W2 form, I start to freak out as it lends credence to that unlikely theory. The reason why I believe the world does exist in and of itself (and not as a product of my mind) is that there is so much natural beauty that would be impossible for the human mind to create. That is why I also believe in God, because so much good could not just happen. I know that's not a logical argument, but it's what I believe. (On a sidenote, so much evil is entirely within the realm of the fallen human mind).

But when stuff starts happening like I see the same person in two different places or see repeated numbers, I start wondering if I'm not just trapped in a massive 50th iteration of Grand Theft Auto on the PS9.

And that was my nightmare recursion: the possibility that this world truly doesn't exist, that the glorious bluebonnets I saw growing on the side of I-45 as I drove back to Houston are just a bunch of weeds in a deranged person's mind.

Heineken & Patron, say it isn't so.

--
*said with the sincerest sarcasm.

Increase your... by 25%!!!

2010-04-09T16:24:00.003-05:00

Dear ED sufferers,

I hope this email finds you well if you have subscribed to my blog. I wonder if gmail will spam filter my own writing due to that title; that would be absolutely hilarious if they did.

So what is the ‘…’? That would be the size of your tax return* if you happened to have graduated this past year and are stacking that 'paper'. The federal government has also stacked your change for you, and has assessed a hefty bill, which you have prepaid via ‘federal withholding’.

‘Hold on, g, did you just trick me into reading a post about taxes with false promises of male augmentation? That’s bait-and-switch!!’

Yes I did, and that’s why you listen to my nonsense: I attempt to elevate the mundane to the exciting (and vice versa). To be truly technical, this blog post can increase your return by $1,250 and set you on your way to retirement…if you act within the next 5 days before the April 15 deadline.

Really quick summary, by setting up a traditional IRA you can save $1,250 in taxes if you have $5,000 to invest to max out your 2009 contribution. This is aimed at graduates from 2009 who made below $82,250 in 2009 (more on this in a bit). If you already know about Individual Retirement Accounts and the tax benefits, then please ignore my redundancy. If not, read on to pry back $1,250 from Uncle Sam’s warm, non-dead fingers.

If you’re still on your way to making the big bucks, then just remember to earmark this post for the future.
--

First off, mo money mo problems. The finances of getting through pharmacy school meant taking out enough loans and learning to stomach enough ramen and low-priced energy drinks to survive from financial aid check to check. It was a simpler time. When you graduate and get a job (if you get a job**), you’ll be inundated with more money than you’ve ever thought possible. You might be tempted to withdraw $1,000 in Jacksons, put the paper on your bed, and wallow around in the cocaine-dusted, sweet perfume of the U.S. banknote like Scrooge McDuck.***

Fine, but after you have an orgy with that money, calmly collect them all together and redeposit them back at your bank; if the teller gives you a dirty look, tell him/her that you deal drugs for a living and show your RPh wallet card.

It is ridiculous that some pharmacists are in debt (of their own design) when they make six-figure salaries. Sure, loans are expensive, but you can knock them out in 5 years and still live well. If you don’t have a clue how to manage money, a good place to start is to find a financial planner. Make sure they’re fee-based (not commission-based) since those planners would probably be the most unbiased.

But in the meantime, you can start your own brokerage account online (I recommend Vanguard for their rock bottom expenses ratio and their user friendly site) and fund your IRA, which you still have until April 15 for the 2009 tax year.

So what about that $1,250? Well if you’re single (as in not married) and made between $33,950 and $82,250, then you fall into the 25% marginal tax bracket, which means you only get to keep 75 cents of every next dollar you earn. After $82,250, you only get to keep 72 cents (28% marginal bracket). It kind of makes you empathize with the Republicans****.

The traditional IRA allows you to fund pre-tax dollars into a retirement account, which means that you don’t have to pay tax on that money. $5,000 (the max contribution for young folks) at a marginal rate of 25% means $1,250 tax relief. The tax on that money and its earnings is deferred until you take them out when you retire so you’ll eventually have to pay taxes on them. You can never escape death or taxes.

So I kind of fibbed a little bit; you’re dropping $3,750 in your bank account (liquid) to gain $5,000 in a retirement account (non-liquid). You’d transfer $5,000 to your retirement account, but your income tax return will increase by $1,250, thus a net decrease of $3,750.

Confused? I am not a certified financial planner, and it’s hard to both stir up interest and tell you everything about an IRA. Take my word for it: forego the Audis and Beamers and Benzs and fund your retirement NOW. The stock markets are on an upswing.

Personally, I fund a Roth IRA rather than a traditional IRA. Roth IRAs are funded with post-tax money, but the earnings are tax-free. In my opinion, this is the better of the two options if you’re eligible for the Roth. The only reason why I tout the traditional IRA in this post is because it’s easy to see the immediate tax benefit, and most young people are all about instant gratification.

So if you’re interested, google ‘IRA’ and read away. Then google ‘Roth vs traditional IRA’ and read that discussion. Then pick one and invest. Afterwards, find a reputable financial planner and have a sit-down conversation to discuss finances. Though it can be pricey at first ($300-500 per session), it can literally net you hundreds of thousands in your lifetime.

Make sure you do your research well and do what is best for you. Don’t buy anything you don’t understand; you can be sure there will be thousands of people out there ready to sell you financial snake oil (reference: 2AM infomercials).

Please consult with a financial adviser before investing. Stock markets earnings are not guaranteed. Of course the world could end tomorrow, and you could always get a big mattress and stuff your greenbacks in it or dig a hole in your backyard and bury your stash there.

--
*guys, sorry to disappoint; I have some Extenzze and Viaggraaa emails that I can forward to you if you like
**methinks the pharmacist demand bubble is about to burst in the next 5 years
***I considered doing this, but I thought it might be a bit weird.
****I don’t describe myself as Dem, Rep, or Ind. I follow what I think is best for me and society.

Whoa whoa whoa...

2010-04-09T15:00:00.003-05:00

Take it easy…

First off, I hate censoring people. I hate censoring myself, but there’s stuff you don’t want people to read about you (stuff like how I think Leprechauns are real and that if I find one, I would trick it to show me where its pot of gold is so I’d never have to work). Whoever seen the leprechaun say yea!

I am a non-confrontational kind of person, and when I see or hear gunfire, I instinctively run the other way. That’s what real people from the ghetto do. So if there’s a squabble, I like to get as far away as possible, get some popcorn, pull up a chair at a safe distance and enjoy. But as this fight has broken out in my own house (aka blog), I have to respond. On a sidenote, don’t let people get plastered in your own house (thank you to all the people who have cleaned up after me! I owe you one!).

The one lesson I’ve learned as a retail pharmacist is that getting angry with people does absolutely nothing to help with a situation. You only irritate them more and you expend a lot of energy by having to quell your emotions after the confrontation. Don’t do it. Step back, breathe, and relax. There’s absolutely nothing anyone can do to you that will hurt you if you don’t let it affect you. Take their weapons away from them, and they will have nothing with which to fight. Some lady called me ‘withholding’ because I wouldn’t let her touch the tablets, another guy said I didn’t do my ‘due diligence’ because I neglected to process his discount card, a third called me ‘racist’ because I didn’t ring up her OTC med immediately because I was busy with hospice prescriptions. Whatever. Go on and brush your shoulders off.

A battle not fought is a victory won.

So to directly address the situation: did eggs’ comments affect me? Sure, but I have built my foundation upon my own self belief, that what I do and write is my true self (excluding stuff that would be TMI). And though that true self may be narcissistic, prejudicial, superficial, and arrogant, it is also humorous, light-hearted, deep-hearted, middle-hearted, and educational. Though I do not know if I am ‘good’ (or if human beings can be ‘good’ or if there is such a thing as ‘good’), I try to be ‘good’. Therefore, when anyone makes ‘attacks’ on my character, whether real or imagined, I have confidence in my attempted goodness. Thus, nothing anyone can say or do will have power over me (up to a limit, of course).

Upon this rock of my self-worth, I have built the temple of my mind.

So I shrugged off the ego-deflating comments. I cannot control others’ thoughts; I can only control my response to them. And when the comment feud broke out, I found it insanely comical because it was a (relatively) unnecessary fight.

But since peoples’ feelings have been hurt, and I foresee some escalation, I’m going to end it. I don’t trust that people have my prodigious fortitude (don’t you dare make a comment about my weight!) to deflect criticism. Because after all, we all know that I’m pretty much a big deal. :)

So keep enjoying my blog. Keep commenting on what you like or what can be improved. Posts are also forwarded as boxes on my FB page, so you can just hit the ‘LIKE’ button there. After all, I live off of comments because I am a narcissist, but do keep them positive or playfully insulting. Anything else will be removed. Call me an idiot but do it with a smile and temper it with something like how my tie has the most perfect dimple and drops exactly to mid-belt buckle or how you’d have to sue me for retinal damage because my Gucci is so sparkly.

Life is too short to live it angrily. If anything I say comes off as vaguely insulting, understand that I do it with a smile, and that I aim to offend everyone equally and myself especially. After all, the story of blonde 9.7 was not my proudest moment, but I shared it with you all (and you must admit that it was a pretty funny story at my expense).

People should die with stupid grins on their faces. That’s how I want to go, facilitated with loads of friends (and morphine). It’s a celebration! Enjoy yourself.
--

On second thought, this isn’t Cuba or China. There is free speech after all, and you can do whatever you like (insofar as it is what I like). But as Catch-22 says, I have the right to do anything you can't stop me from doing. I am a delightful tyrant, but still a tyrant in the tradition of Nero (except without all that in-bred perversion), and this blog is my despotic realm.

So keep it above the belt or you’ll find your comment trashed. And don’t recruit people in your fights. Agreed?

Tea Leaves, Crystal Balls, and Astrology

2010-03-25T05:50:00.005-05:00

Dear loyal readers,

I sincerely apologize for my absence this past week. Things have been changing in terms of my professional career (i.e., the job that pays), and I am devoting my time and energy to figure out my near future.

Life moves to the beat of its own drums, and I'll have to dance the foreign rhythm or be left in the corner kicking sand over my shoes and wondering why other people are having so much fun.

So I bid you adieu for a brief while. My posts will be fewer and farther in between until I resolve my career path.

As weird as it sounds (like someone speaking about himself in the third-person), I wish myself all the best.

In the meantime, won't you read my past posts? If you've already finished all of them, let me say that I adore you (but not in that way if you're a dude). I recommend checking out the comment war between Anonymous and eggs; it is quite delicious!

Arrivederci and sayonara.

The Rotation Files, the Dreaded Eval Form

2010-03-17T09:00:00.001-05:00

Dear Rising Seniors,

During the summer betwixt my junior and senior years in high school, I did this nerdy summer program at Rice University (the ‘Harvard of the South’, not a school for yellow-folk) where we attended some seminars and got to stay at the dorms. It sounded a lot better than it really was; I spent the majority of the day trying to stay awake while suffering from a horrible case of ennui (boredom). Having no TV at the dorms, I finished Ellison’s Invisible Man while attempting to keep warm since my dorm-mate insisted on keeping the place at a toasty 60 degrees (Fahrenheit).

It was at the beginning of this program that I first heard the phrase ‘rising senior’. And it sounded really cool, like if I was a piece of dough almost ready to be baked. So I’ll use that term to describe my buddies who will be incarcerated at various hospitals/pharmacies starting in May. If they do well and heed my advice, they’ll be let out at just under a year for good behavior.

So this is the long awaited continuation of the Rotation Files. Today’s introductory topic is the Evaluation Form.

Aim to improve in all attributes. There was some famous study that concluded that when things improved to a high point, people liked it better than when things started and stayed at the same high point. A quick simple example: When you start out at $13/hr and they give you a $1 raise at 6 months and 12 months, it feels better than if you start out at $15 and stay that way for a year. It seems like you made progress.

Similarly, when you first meet a person and you think s/he pretty much sucks as a human-being, but then find out later that s/he really doesn’t suck all that much, then you will probably like her/him better than if you didn’t think s/he sucked in the first place. This, as it turns out, is the plot of Pride and Prejudice. It, as it also turns out, is also the plot of Twilight. Bam! And that’s why teenage girls swoon over pasty Edward and his 4-inch bird’s nest hairdo! (I happen to like chick flicks, but Twilight was a bit much).

So with your self-evaluations, always mark yourself low initially, and aim to increase at the midpoint and final.

Humility is golden. Some Christian high-ranking official, possibly a pope, said that the three best virtues are humility, humility, and humility. Most likely you’re not going to know a lick about the rotation or the drugs. And even if you did, your preceptor is the ‘expert’ in the material because s/he has been working at it on a daily basis. Rotations will be a humbling experience.

Eventually (around the 4th rotation), you’ll get to a point where you feel comfortable to mark yourself a 3 or 4 on the initial evaluation. DON’T! Even on the 5th and 6th rotations, I never marked myself above a 3/5 for the knowledge and skills attributes.

Different types of attributes. There are some exceptions, as hinted in the previous paragraph. On most evaluation forms, there are attributes which I categorize as knowledge/skills, attitude, and integrity/character. These should all be handled differently.

Knowledge and skills – these are the attributes that pertain to the subject matter of the rotation. They are the ‘proficient in topic discussions,’ ‘able to assess patient information,’ ‘able to develop follow-up plans’, etc. This is what you should learn during the rotation, so it would make sense to mark yourself low initially and improve at the midway and final evaluations. I would say 1 or 2, depending on your comfort level with the rotation; 3 if you’re feeling ballsy.

Attitude – These are the ‘follows directions,’ 'is a team player,' ‘is willing to learn,’ ‘expresses intellectual curiosity’, etc. I would generally mark myself at least a 3 on these attributes, because these are independent of the rotation. You should come in with a positive attitude, so mark yourself decently. This signals that you’re open to learn.

Integrity/Character – These are the ‘displays strong moral character,’ ‘possesses high integrity,’ ‘is honest,’ etc. Again, these are independent of the rotation, but unlike attitude attributes, these are somewhat immutable characteristics. You either have it or you don’t. There’s not really much of an in-between. So rank yourself at least a 4, because some preceptors frown upon students giving themselves 5’s on anything at first.

Self-evaluation = what you think your preceptor will give you. Although you should aim to improve your evaluation scores, try to mark down what you think your preceptor will give you. It is a self-evaluation, but you can make a bad impression if your preceptor thinks you’ve over- or under-estimated yourself. But when in doubt, always guess under. At worst, it shows lack of confidence; at best, it shows humility, which is a good thing.

One neat thing you can do is underestimate yourself for the midpoint so that your preceptor evaluation will be higher than your self-evaluation. Then on the final self-evaluation, just copy your preceptor’s midpoint evaluation.

I know some people feel that the self-evaluation should be a SELF-evaluation, but some students are just too arrogant or too humble to be left to their own devices.

Get a pre-evaluation. To get a feel of what your preceptor will give you, ask how you are doing and how you can improve at the end of each week. Ask more often if you can get away with it. Usually if you’re casual about it, they will let you know. But try not to be annoying.

You know that guy/girl who repeatedly asks, ‘where is this relationship going’? Don’t be him/her.

Give your preceptor the form a week ahead and remind periodically. You are ultimately responsible for completing and turning in the evaluation forms. Preceptors are real people and have lives outside the pharmacy. Don’t give an evaluation form to them on Friday and expect them to complete it by the afternoon. Even if they do finish it, they will probably mark you lower because of your poor planning.

Sometimes preceptors forget to do your evaluation. Give them subtle reminders a few days beforehand like, ‘How’s the evaluation going?’ or ‘Did you get a chance to look at my evaluation?’ But avoid being confrontational.

Be prepared to explain yourself. A vast majority of preceptors will talk to you about the evaluation. If you’ve been getting informal pre-evaluations, then nothing should come as a surprise. They may ask you why you marked yourself the way you did, so be prepared; don’t use the reason that g-said-so.

The reasons don’t have to be spectacular; just something to back it up. If you had followed my advice, most of the questions will be, ‘Why did you rank yourself low?’ Say something that accentuates humility.

Lastly, evaluations should not be scary. Think of them as a learning experience, not as a way for some horrible preceptor to crucify you for your lack of knowledge. But ultimately, there is no substitute for knowledge. These tips won’t save you if you epic fail in presentations and pimping* sessions.

But even if you end up with a poor evaluation, it shows great character and attitude if you respond well in the second half of the rotation.

I will end by repeating that there is no substitute for knowledge. Rotations are meant to be a learning experience, so don’t cheapen them by trying not to learn.

The rest of this week will be dedicated to rotation stuff, since I feel guilty for ignoring my blog.

--
*Pimping happens when preceptors rapid-fire questions at you until you mess up. It’s an utterly frightening experience for students and an utterly delightful experience for preceptors. Like the ‘now-defunct’ hazing in fraternities, the students who survive and become preceptors get to torture the next batch of pledges (interns).

Expired Milk: Where's My Money?

2010-03-16T09:00:00.001-05:00

Dear yogurt lovers,

Let me preface this post with a description of a very common annoyance that has been happening to me this year. As a strapping single bachelor with no one to care for except me-myself-and-I, I have been remarkably good at not taking care of my sole ward. Sure, I handle the major things like keeping a roof over my head, wearing a seat belt and protection, etc, but diet, exercise, and sleep have been woefully neglected, like the red-headed step-child.

So I buy a gallon of non-organic (I like it hormone-laced!) fat-free milk about once every two weeks, resolving to have my daily 2 glasses of leche like the really smart people on TV suggest. But eventually, at the end of those two weeks, I’ve had about 2 glasses total and only because I felt like having something to go with my Lucky Charms. And at the end of those two weeks, I’ve felt really bad about eating Lucky Charms, so I get the 100%-daily-vitamins-and-minerals cereal which has about the consistency and taste of soggy cardboard. But where I epic-fail* is that the milk is two days past the ‘BEST BY’ date. Have you noticed that it’s not an expiration date, but a ‘BEST BY’ date?

Anyway, I pop the plastic cap and brush off the dried white flakes from around the rim of the bottle. A quick sniff reveals a faintly acidic odor not unlike the smell of plain yogurt. The milk flows freely when I shake the plastic jug, and there’s not much sediment; I think those are good signs. The cardboard cereal is already in the bowl looking very unappetizing, and it would be a chore to finagle the damn thing back into the box.

Oh well. I tip the container of fermented milk, watching it slosh gently over the wheat flakes. Thirty seconds pass, and I take another whiff wondering if letting the milk rest would improve its bouquet as if it were some fine wine. But like Olde English**, it’s best to hold your nose and gulp it while it’s still chilled.

I didn’t know what was more revolting, the milk or the cereal. But like a kid being forced to eat his vegetables, I willed my way through, spoonful by spoonful. After what seemed like torture comparable to water-boarding, I make it through the ordeal somewhat intact. And I felt good about doing well for myself and for not wasting milk.

But the warm fuzzy feeling subtly morphed itself into ominous gurglings and severe abdominal cramps. It felt like the time I had the ‘bottled water’ in Mexico. But the pain subsided, and being a stupid male, I sloshed another glassful of that drank down my throat instead of into the sink. But it wasn’t all that bad. The natural acidity of age added character to what would otherwise be a boring beverage.

So this post is like my expired milk. It doesn’t quite fit into the time frame, but it’s still good, and if you drink it with an open mind, it is quite palatable and surprisingly tasty! But don’t sue me if you get an enteric infection.

DISCLAIMER: g neither recommends nor condones eating or drinking of expired foods and/or medicines.
--

Chuc mung nam moi! I’m too lazy to put all the Vietnamese diacritical and accent marks on the greeting. And if I did, it may not display correctly on your computer screens anyway. Basically it means, ‘Happy New Year’ in Vietnamese. February 14 this year happens to be the lunar new year as well, so the Asian folks in red garb are pulling double duty with VDay (red is a lucky color). There will be plenty of new years to come, so I’ll defer the description of the festivities as next year’s will likely be similar to this year’s. In Vietnamese, the word for new year is ‘Tet’.

Suffice it to say that there is plenty of booze, gambling, and luck-mongering. And for most kids, plenty of red envelopes, known in Vietnamese as li xi, filled with crisp, nice-smelling bank notes. There are a lot of traditions around it, but the only important one is that old(er) people give money to younger folks as long as the recipient is unmarried.

According to the repository of all knowledge***, both good and poorly-sourced,

‘In Vietnam, lì xì are typically given to those who are younger as long as they are bachelors’

Damn straight! I’m a bachelor and will remain so for the foreseeable future. So where’s my money!?

Now my extended family isn’t rolling in dough like some Asian folks are, but I’ve managed to scrounge up at least $100 in past Tets. Just for comparison, some of my friends rake in $500. I’m not that greedy; I just want a little something--It’s incredibly satisfying to not spend your own money.

So what was the count this year? A bill? $75 or $50? Nope, not any of the above.

It was a measly $35, and $20 was from Mama since she was in a giving mood this year. I can’t even get a shirt at Express for that amount!

I blame the recession! Young Asians everywhere should lobby to siphon CEO bonuses to compensate for the slimming of red envelopes around the nation. It is all very unjust! I am outraged and appalled that Obama would let me suffer a loss of ~$65. My new job and the fact that I don’t really need the money have nothing to do with it. The United Auto Workers didn’t stop fighting for higher wages when GM was going under, and I won’t either!

I’m just being facetious as always. My indignant resentment is all in good fun. I had a great time hanging out with the family, and that is far better than any amount of money.
--

*epic-fail – the (bastardized) verb form of ‘epic failure’
**what do you know about that malt liquor?
***Wikipedia

Tres Semanas en Paradiso

2010-03-08T09:00:00.001-06:00

Dear apologia fans,

An apology and an apologia are not the same things. Well, they're quite similar except 'apology' is generally taken to mean that you're sorry. But according to Merriam-Webster, it also means (definition 1a) 'a formal justification.'

So here's my not-so-formal apology for my absence from my blog. I was in paradise (I know the Spanish word for 'paradise' is 'paraiso' and not 'paradiso', but doesn't 'paradiso' sound so much better?) Besides, February is a short month!

What is paradiso, pray tell? The cool sea foam of the French Riviera? The hot winter days in Espana? The dry heat of the Aussie summer? The detestable 'food' of Londoners? Sorry, I don't kiss-and-tell. Not right away at least--give me some time, okay?

So here's my week in review, which is naturally a backpost.

Tue, Feb 9 - Please, please tell me now...
A rundown of this particular blog's features. It's very dreadfully plain right now, but as I get more famous (in my delusions), I might hire on a web-designer. It will be my part to get us out of this recession.
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.

Wed, Feb 10 - Are Phone Holsters Douche-y?
After a whopping one response to this question (which, as it turns out, is a very large sample size*), I have come to believe that everyone in the world thinks that phone holsters are not douche-y! In actuality, I've come to realize that it's how you wear it; when you feel secure about it, it's actually quite nice.
Is the Razr so thick that it couldn't fit in your pockets?

Thu, Feb 11 - The Rotation Files, Pt. 1
So I got a lot of heat from my friend about this post, accusing the post of being sexist and what-not. Surprisingly it was on this entry and not some of my (in my opinion) more offensive ones. But it is what it is. I'll write with a cleaner, more-PC prose next time, okay eggs?
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.

Fri, Feb 12 - Dry Skin, Expensive Salt, and Evy from Israel
A reflective post on my transformation of self and self-image, tempered with some humor from a failed pick-up attempt of the cute sales girl at the mall.
Evy gets hit on innumerable times every day and has developed a smooth sidestep, like a Spanish matador

Sat, Feb 13 - DacBiet
The trick to using a thesaurus to elevate the vocabulary in your writing without being caught is that you have to be selective, hence the lone fancy word sobriquet (found after a google search for 'nickname synonym'). I'm like Rasheed Wallace when he saves his post moves for the post-season ('I told my buddy to look at it like a kung fu teacher. I might teach you the lotus and I might teach you the tiger, but I'm not going to teach you the crane, because the crane can beat both of them')
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.

Three weeks in paradise ensues. Then the sad return to normalcy :(

Sun, Mar 7 - Sanofi Aventis's RockBand Title
I apologize to all the lawyers for using a whole bunch of trademarks/copyrights/sue-able infringements. All names are properties of their respective owners, etc. Have some fun, will you? Don't take my Gucci and Prada away from me! I'd absolutely die a non-fabulous death!
Sometimes you should keep your random thoughts to yourself.
--

Random thoughts/occurrences of the past few weeks

My Droid phone has protested my attempt at photography by crashing after I try to take a picture. Am I the only Asian without a functioning camera? I wonder when they'll revoke my Asian card...

I spent half a day searching for a mythical D&G wallet. On my side-quest of the RPG of my life, I visited the Galleria, the Shops at Willowbend, and finally NorthPark. None had the Dolce&Gabbana boutique I was searching for and none had my bi-fold with the interior money clip. And none of the men working at Saks/Neimans seemed straight.

And I won't link you to the wallet, because I want to be the only one to have it! It is what is called a Veblen good.

I've quit trying to reread all my posts and editing out grammatical/spelling errors. For a blog with minimal revisions before/after posting, I think I do fairly well. My diseased writing style, unfortunately, is incurable.

Related to the last 'paragraph', is an article in the Wall Street Journal I came across while cruising the stupid stories on Yahoo's homepage. A non-health professional (I'm assuming) gets it surprisingly correct. MRSA isn't really as bad as people think. There are worse things to be infected with.

My day and night reversions are happening much more smoothly now. I do get a little disoriented when I wake up, as I never know whether to expect the sun or the moon to alight my eyes.

I've been trying to find a few uninterrupted days to read Tender is the Night, but have been unsuccessful. F Scott Fitzgerald writes beautifully, and that's not just my fawning over him because Gatsby is 2nd on the top 100 novels of the 20th century. I can point out things about his writing style that I like (such as it has just the right amount of flourish).

I'm starting to pay attention to footwear. There's a popular notion that the first thing a woman notices about a man is his shoes. If it's true, I got a few pairs of eye candy.

Though this will be posted under 'Monday, Mar 8', it is actually Wednesday morning. And since I said that bit about how my day/night reversions are happening more smoothly, I've jinxed myself into somnolence.

And so after 2 hours of 'work', I think it is nigh** time for a nap.

--
*kidding
**not a typo

Sanofi Aventis’s RockBand Title

2010-03-07T09:00:00.000-06:00

Dear Guitar Hero/Rockband recovering addicts,

The other day while dispensing a prescription for an insulin analogue (an insulin that has been modified to alter its pharmacology), I had a quick musing about the brand name on the box. This particular insulin-analogue has been around for a few years now; I’ve dispensed it as an intern when I was in school. But I think the development of this particular delivery device is a (relatively) new thing.

Just a quick background: Insulin in the olden days would just come in vials and would need to be drawn up in a syringe separately. Most insulin still comes this way, and most customers will have a prescription for both the insulin and the syringes (I like to tap the sign that reads 'NO SYRINGE SALES WITHOUT PRESCRIPTION'). But a few drug companies had the smart idea of making pre-filled syringes and packaging those in boxes. Voila. The insulin pen (so-called because it looks like a pen) was born.

Diabetics would just need to attach a needle to the device and inject themselves. And since the pen could control the amount of insulin injected, there wouldn’t be need to draw up each individual dose. I’m not insulin-dependent, but I’d bet it would suck to have to draw up each dose of insulin and stick yourself several times a day, so at least these pen devices make it mildly less inconvenient. And I think you could tote around a pen without having to refrigerate it. I wish I had an pharmacist-intern to look up the answer, because that's what they're for (besides fetching coffee).

And the boxes the pre-filled pens come in are fairly large, so I like being able to stick the label on it without having to fold it around the box. If you’ve labeled a Novolin insulin box, you know how irritating it can be to have a flap of prescription label hanging around the edge of a box (or is it just my being anal?).

Getting back to the product, I’ve dispensed this particular pen device quite a few times, but for some reason I was thinking about old-school rock and the now ubiquitous RockBand/GuitarHero/Clone games.

I waxed silently in my head, ‘Lantus Solostar. That sounds a lot like a title for one of those video games!’

Then I said it aloud, causing the (pharmacy) tech to give me a funny look that implied, ‘WTF are you talking about?’ Sometimes you should keep your random thoughts to yourself. But then again, silences can be awkward.

DacBiet

2010-02-13T09:00:00.000-06:00

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.

Dry Skin, Expensive Salt, and Evy from Israel

2010-02-12T09:00:00.002-06:00

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

The Rotation Files, Pt 1

2010-02-11T09:00:00.000-06:00

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

Are Phone Holsters Douche-y?

2010-02-10T09:00:00.001-06:00

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

Please, please tell me now...

2010-02-09T09:00:00.000-06:00

...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):

It's Dom Perignon, it's supposed to bubble

Just be like that sometimes

*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'

Week of Repressed Frustration

2010-02-08T09:00:00.001-06:00

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.

SPIDER: Would you like some fresh breh-ade?

2010-02-07T09:00:00.001-06:00

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.

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.