Bucketlisting: #42 Backpack Europe, almost check!

This morning, the sun and heat creeped through the blackout curtains in my room, jarring me out of my strange visions of Supernatural-esque motel-hopping in which my father and I connected over our experience of watching Lost. We both thought Locke was badass and hoped that Kate would just die already, knowing full well that she would never be killed off. As of late, probably secondary to my increased health & metabolism, I can't sleep-in after waking up. It is an unwelcome side-effect that I'll just have to get used to. Small price to pay for my future 8-pack.

Part of my morning ablutions includes a cleansing of overnight emails via my smartphone. But today, I chose to turn on the TV to view the Today show (no ESPN in my room). And a quad of metrosexual guys* greeted me with talk of their bucketlist. The coolest item was to hoop it up with the Commander in Chief, President Barack. Part of the inspiration behind the endeavor was they felt inundated by the random stuff that just didn't matter. They were lost; they lacked direction. The list was the cure. Or something like that. I am a guy after all, and I am not immune to that male-centric disease of only hearing what I want to hear.

I've been trying to find direction in my life too. Most of it had been appropriated as an outgrowth of my father's desire to become a medical doctor. And when it wasn't him, there were (and are) plenty others willing to chip in their unwanted 2-cents. But I am the master of my domain, in the narcissistic, non-autoerotic way. When I realized that, my outlook changed. No, I can't be whatever I want to be (such as a PGA tour golfer), but I have the power to do what I want to do, and inversely and perhaps more importantly, not do what I don't want to do.

So a bucket list would be perfect to progress this do-or-do-not-there-is-no-try mentality.

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#42 Backpack Europe. I've kinda been wanting to do the Euro-trip thing, complete with hostels, tattered foreign language dictionaries, friendly & unfriendly locals, and sexy females with exotic accents. During my experiential training, my classmate and the professor casually suggested that I should backpack Europe, in a tone which you might use to suggest to the naive guy that he should experiment a little before proposing to the first girl who would have him. At the time, I didn't think I'd have the chance, given the rigid, unwavering path my parents had laid out for me. But "behold, now is the accepted time" with two good friends, a big guy noone would mess with and the other with little hesitation for chatting up new folks. BTW, I'm leaving next week for a month, so you may not hear from me besides posts like "Such-and-such is amazing!"

#15 (quarter) Cross-country road trip. The bad part about having stable, responsible guy friends is that they're highly desirable to stable, responsible women. My friends' wives are awesome, and they probably wouldn't stop the dudes from having a grand adventure to Vegas, but my friends aren't going to neglect their duties for a spontaneous weekend getaway. But a perfect excuse will be when some chick finally bags herself the big one, moi. And by "big one" I mean my enormous melon of a head. The Hangover, part g, anyone?**

#69 Nookie in 15 different countries, preferably with local(s). But taking the same girl to multiple countries would still count in my book. So to all the sugar mommas out there, baby I'm still free, take a chance on me. Planning to make progress on #69 while on #42. This is dedicated to a fallen comrade who recently proposed. His noble dream was to father a child in every country and name the kid after himself, boy or girl. As of this post, he has zero kids (that he knows of).

#23 Apply for the Amazing Race with one of my best friends. We will be billed as the two doctors who somehow manage to do an inordinate number of stupid things because that's just good TV. He has the planning, leadership and determination, whereas I'll bring the muscle and indestructible stomach. And if I succeed in #8 (below), I will try to spend a large amount of screentime doing my best emulation of Daniel Dae Kim with his shirt off. I say apply only because I'm not leaving my Bucket List up to chance--it's not my fault should they fail to recognize greatness when they see it!

#4 Bungee jump, then skydive. Fear of heights is a good thing. Stretchy things have stretchy limits, and parachute packs are sometimes filled with silverware. But I will do these one day, alive or dead. My last will & testament will have a clause stating that to release funds, my heirs will have to tandem jump my putrid corpse gently (or ungently, for that matter) back to earth before putting me six feet deep.

#16 Complete the Big Texan 72-oz steak challenge in Amarillo, TX. I know it's a spectacle and gluttony is a deadly sin, but I'm an exhibitionist and steak is delicious. It isn't a nicely marbled ribeye, but we're going for quantity over quality. My only food challenge thus far was a 4-lb bowl of pho which I demolished in 45 minutes at Pho 24 in Houston. The largest steak I've had was 32-oz, and I felt I could easily pack away an additional 8-oz.

#73 See a live performance & get a kiss from Iliza Shlesinger (a comedienne--get your minds out of the gutter!). The goal is a peck on the cheek, but if the lady should opt for a full French connection, a gentleman should always oblige. She's another blonde-haired, blue-eyed piece of kryptonite, a weapon of my destruction. And I'm a sucker for sharp wit, snarky comments, dirty jokes & killer legs. I almost forgot about her if not for Excused, a spiritual successor to Blind Date. I also want to see Daniel Tosh, Mike Birbiglia and Demetri Martin one day. (Thanks to the commentator who posted about Martin. His comedy has that intelligent word-play I crave!)

#8 Get an 8-pack & benchpress 2 plates or 225-lbs (1-rep max). My current workout regimen is intense, and I'm sad I'll have to put it on hold for a little bit while in Europe. I didn't think a 6-pack was possible for me, but my faith is growing. Besides, if those meathead drunks on the Jersey Shore can do it, certainly I can! Thus the 8-pack: set 'dem goals high, big swhoal***. I've maxed out at 185-lbs in high school when I was a scrawny 155. So 40 extra pounds should be within reach.

#100 Finish the Modern Library's top 100 novels of the 20th century, whether I understand them or not. I've read about 25 so far, including everything in the top 10 except for Ulysses. It will be my capstone and is the reason for the condition "whether I understand [it] or not." Portrait was difficult but intelligible. Ulysses must be some odd mixture of Greek, Esperanto, Elvish, Klingon, and Na'vi with a light smattering of English to gel it all together. Damn you Joyce! I'm sure I'm not the only one to curse your masterpiece of literary masochism.

The numbers on the list have been brought to you by Lost, Sheldon Cooper (73), and a well-known position. Disclaimer: Numbers shown may not actually reflect the numbers on g's list since said list has yet to be fully written.

-g

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*I think all these guys are straight, but I wouldn't be surprised if all swung the other way (not that it matters, of course).

**At this rate, I'll never sucker anyone into marrying me! :D

***my version of swoll

The Long Dark Tea-Time of the Soul

The prodigiously prodigal blogger returns!

This time, he has forced himself to write at least one post of explanation before pretending that the long absence hasn't happened. Boyfriends who are okay boyfriends (based on the fact that they're still boyfriends) frequently ignore their girlfriends. So who am I to question this logic? Distance--and silence--make the heart grow fonder as the drivel goes. Oh how I love the silent treatment when Sportscenter is on! DUH da DUH, DUH da DUH!*

Posts will continue more or less sporadically, though it is unlikely that readers still check for new posts on a daily basis (and have resorted to the Feedburner link which I am not sure still works).

So the explanation? 1) Better things to do, 2) sloth, 3) increased reliance on smartphone and less on actual PC and 4) less instances of being drunk. You can't imagine the number of almost drunk posts that I've had the wherewithal to coitus interruptus to prevent their existence. I'd say one out of every 4 drunk posts slips through. The truly drunk ones don't have their time-stamps doctored. (the previous is mostly facetious).

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I thought tablets (iPads et al) were stupid. I realize now that they do fill in the void between the smartphone and full-fledged PC/Mac. An instant-on device with sizable real estate was a largely undiscovered niche that needed filling**. But a tablet would have the same effect on my blogging as those silly ab-belts would have my my one-pack. Web-surfing would be helluva more enjoyable though.

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Sloth. Lazy. Done.

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Better things to do? Highly debatable. I finished all 120 episodes of Lost; about 5-10 anime series (about 24-26 25-min episodes each); thought about working out; read zero books; platinum trophy'd Tiger Woods 11, Resident Evil 5, Heavy Rain, Infamous, God of War 1 & 2; thought more about working out; had GOW 3 but thought platinum-ing it would count as a sign of impending gaming addiction; actually started working out again; picked up golf again; cursed golf's very existence; liked golf; hated golf, repeat; and really got into working out again.

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Long Dark Tea-Time of the Soul is a comedic-mystery novel by Douglas Adams, probably one of my favorite authors. He may not be as deep as those literary figureheads, but I'd like to think it was because he was too light-hearted and self-conscious to express his inner Fitzgerald (one of my other favorite authors***). You may know Adams more from the Hitchhiker's Guide, but the Dirk Gently series is more satisfying plot-wise: each novel is complete in and of itself.

The title of the book suggests a somber story ("dark") coupled with reflection ("of the soul") set in a rather drawn-out ("long") English afternoon ritual ("tea-time"). And it is. And it isn't.

And so this little absence of mine is a long, dark tea-time of my soul. It is what it sounds like, but then it isn't what it sounds like.

The story of such events (if I can find the motivation to blog about it) may be 1) silly, 2) stupid, 3) enlightening, 4) humorous, 5) all of the above, or 6) a grand waste of time. Hope it will be 5, but it will probably be 6.

-g

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*Some people leave on CNN/news while doing stuff around the house. I leave on Sportscenter. Much less depressing.

**A less refined blogger would exploit this easy double entendre. I will merely point to its existence.

***My literary taste has lost some of its diversity as of late, but Fitzgerald is a fine if common choice.

The French-Asian Connection

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.

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

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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!

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*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

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?

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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.

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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!)

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*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

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

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.

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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.

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*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

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.

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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].

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*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.