SPIDER: Signs

A few weeks ago, I had remembered some word or phrase I felt I had written somewhere. I had hoped it had been on this current blog, but it wasn't. So I searched through the archive of my past one that I saved on my desktop.

I didn't find that word/phrase, but I did spend more than several minutes reminiscing about the moments in my life which was the genesis for those words. And I came upon the introductory post of the Dreamer's Son which is as follows:

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Tuesday, July 28, 2009

After a little more than a month after coming to the realization that I wanted to become a writer and that I would become a writer, this is the first thing I've written. This blog will be my canvas and easel as I attempt to compose my first work, the story of my life.

I've always had this vague notion, a semi-conscious desire of writing of my life, if only just to sort out all the details that I've managed to repress. The personal journals that were started and stopped lay in the wayside of my closet or in the recess of my filing cabinet or in password-protected files whose passwords are long forgotten, held in secret because of their contents as well as the poor prose. Those aborted media may come back to become integral parts of my novel/memoir as I explore myself, my innermost workings, my long-held secrets. This time, there will be no lies, no dishonesty, no shame; only truth shall remain.

Back in senior year of high school, I was faced with a decision between following my parents' dream for me and my English teachers' dream. The English teachers saw some potential in my writing skills, though these skills were incomparable to my math/science skills. I ultimately chose to follow my parents' dream. In English Literature class, the teacher would put up daily prompts for us to write a page-worth of words of what we thought it meant. Before coming to the decision, and after the decision, I felt that those quotes were meant to persecute me. They came in the form of 'you are a poor show of character if you can't handle a little adversity,' 'the best things in life don't come easy,' 'it is not good enough to say you are doing your best; you have to succeed in doing what is necessary,' and the like. Thinking back, these were some random, inspirational quotes, meant to kick us lazy seniors from our reverie, but I felt they were aimed at me.

Oftentimes, I think we observe things in nature, in our school, in our work that seem to remind us of what we need to do or what we have done wrong. I felt that I was the subject of inquisition because of that gnawing feeling that I was wrong in following my parents' decision for me. I saw signs everywhere of my betrayal to myself, my passion. Words became bland, authors mocked my cowardice, teachers glanced askew.

This time around 5 years later, I feel the world around me telling me to write my story; in reality, it is really me telling myself to bear and bare my soul. Recently, a band called Shinedown wrote a song called Second Chance in which the chorus goes

Tell my mother, tell my father I've done the best I can

To make them realize this is my life, I hope they understand

I'm not angry, I'm just saying

Sometimes goodbye is a second chance

What really got to me is this line in the book The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter by Carson McCullers that reads 'Because in some men it is in them to give up everything personal at some time, before it ferments and poisons--throw it to some human being or some idea.' This is my chance to tell the truth, to tell my parents I am an individual, and to apologize to myself for the sins I have committed against myself.

This is my story; this is my truth; this is my soul.

--

That was 2009. This is 2015. What has happened in these six years? Well, I don't think I'm nearly as melodramatic (hopefully). And I have gained a sense of perspective. Those words had been written in a fervor of woe-is-me mentality. Though that past self did possess a vague notion of responsibility, he seemed to only acknowledge said responsibility because he felt it was the "right" or "appropriate" or "accepted" thing to do.

He did not feel it in his heart, that "[t]his time, there will be no lies, no dishonesty, no shame; only truth shall remain." Since ultimately, as I came to find out, truth did not remain. Just another form of rejection of past, rejection of self, rejection of soul.

I cannot claim that only "truth shall remain" going forward. I can only say that I will try my best to live life today how I feel it should be lived. I am learning to accept myself for who I am and for what my past has been. One cannot erase one's past, and neither should one attempt to. To negate the bitterness is also to negate the sweetness.

So I embrace the thorns of my soul. This fleeting pain will remind me that I am alive at this minute, in this hour, on this day.

SPIDER: Would you like some fresh breh-ade?

Dear Fairfield visitors,

Where is the town of Fairfield anyway? It is near the halfway point between Dallas and Houston at milemarker 197, and is notable for the fact that yours truly stops there on his trips to and from Dallas. Otherwise, it is wholly insignificant. The fields aren't that fair, though the girls sure are adorable with their East Texas accents.

One of my friends didn't have the chance to read this post before I shut down my old blog. He had mentioned that he stopped at the McD's in Fairfield frequently. So yet another re-release is inspired by him.

--

Sep 11, 2009

me: 'What? Breh-ade?'

'Yes, breh-ade.'

me: 'Oh, bread! Sure, I'd love some.'

About 25 miles out from Dallas, I spotted a sign for Sam's Gift Shop & Restaurant, breakfast, lunch, burgers, buffet, dinner, exit 197, Fairfield. Only 70 miles away. An eternity. Then 65 miles away. Stomach wrenches on itself. Fifty miles. Maybe I should stop by McD's...

Billboards, milemarker 243+0.5 miles, 'Stop the Porn, be Reborn, JOHN 3:3'.

Milemarker 243, 'DW's Adult Video Store, Fleshlights, Extenze Rise here!' Hilarious.

46 miles left... 'Forty-six legs of chicken on the plate, 46 legs of chicken, if g were to grab a leg, wolf it down, there'd be 45 legs of chicken left on the plate.' Delirium sets in.

Milemarker 200... Just a couple more miles. Then, the cruddy sign for Sam's appears on the horizon, like the White Castle sign for Harold & Kumar. Exit, skid around a few turns, park, enter.

The best country fried steak I have ever had. Brisket that falls off the fork and into my coronary arteries. Beans so soaked in butter that it's questionable whether the main ingredient is butter or beans. Fried chicken surprisingly subpar, but that's okay. Waitress gives me funny look. She probably thinks, 'Why is this China-man in East Texas?'

Then she asks, 'Would you like some fresh breh-ade?'

East Texas, where bread is a two-syllable word, and the food takes off 5 years off your life. Fair trade.

--

Deluxe, super-stupendous, superfluously supplicated commentary on the Surreptitiously Post-modern Imbued, Duplicitously Engaging, Rehashed re-release (if you were wondering, a 'rehashed re-release' is possibly redundant):

I'm sure my friend won't have any problems keeping his eyes to himself. And since his wife will be probably with him on their trips back to North Texas, it would behoove him to do so.

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.

SPIDER: In New York, concrete jungle where dreams are made of

Dear cold weather lovers,

I'm starting to hate the cold weather; the dormant Viet genes are starting to kick in. Notice that all the major settlements of Viet people in the U.S. happen to be in the more tropical regions. So this re-release is inspired by my crappy heater that I probably won't ever be able to get fixed properly. The problem is that about every 5th time it turn on, the air conditioner also kicks on with it, canceling the warmth. The maintenance guy can only see that the heater is working when he comes out to try to fix it.

Even if he were to try to fix the odd times that the AC turns on with the heat, there would be no way to see if his work was successful, since the heat comes on 4 out of 5 times, and he would leave when he feels it blowing hot air. So I've resorted to manually turning on and off the heat, checking after each time that the air is warm.

Anyway, the other reason for this specific re-release is that it mentions my brief, 3-year stint in Brooklyn, NY. A friend had just posted a picture of her sixth grade class on Facebook, and had tagged me as an MIA. Rightly so, because I wasn't in Brooklyn for 6th grade; I was there for 7th through 9th.

Also a couple of peeps from middle school added me on Facebook. So if you're reading this, cheers. This was the secret I've been keeping from you all those years.

--

Tue, Nov 7, 2009

I hate Jay-Z by the way. Every time I hear his voice, I change the radio station. Except when it's Big Pimpin because my favorite group from the South, UGK, are on there too. So I'll quote a couple of lyrics when it serves my purpose even if I think he is overrated.

This morning was the first time my heater turned on. I woke up when it felt like icicles were dangling off that special place underneath my blanket. The apartment's old, and the central heating is even older. The thermostat read '65'. My ass--it was like more like 55. Though cheapness has been ingrained and beaten into me by my parents, I'm not that cheap; I had set the temperature for 70. I had to hit the wall around the heater to get it to turn on. Corporal punishment does work.

The heat was on for 2 hours and still the thermostat didn't increase but 2 degrees. My apartment is about 850 sq ft, but it still shouldn't take that long.

And so it reminded me of my internment (imprisonment) in New York (because it's cold as hell there, if hell is cold). I won't go into detail about how it came about, but long story short, it was because of Dad.

New York in TV is nothing like it is in real life. It sucks to live there when you're poor. It sucks when you're poor and you came from Houston, where the cost of living is so much less. It sucks when you're 12 and going through puberty and you're forced to endure, 'Where are your cowboy boots?' by a bunch of idiot Brooklyn kids.

'If you don't like it so much here, why don't you go back to Texas?'

'MF, I would if I could. I didn't choose this f--king life. I didn't choose this f--king city.'

Those words were to foreshadow the internal conflict I had experienced a few months back. But at least this time around, I did have a choice, and I chose to leave. That's why I'm in Dallas. I love Houston, but you have to leave things that cause you to die inside, even if they are your blood.

In New York, they don't have central air conditioning or central heating in residences. Only large supermarkets have central temperature control. For people not in Texas and its neighboring states, what is 'central temperature control'? It's where you have a thermostat that you set to control the temperature (both hot and cold) for the entire apartment or floor. It is an utterly foreign concept for New Yorkers.

So what does New York do for temperature control? They have radiators and window units. It's the dark ages up there. Apartments with central temperature start at 2 million, because the ones that cost 1 million are still 600 sq foot sh-tholes.

Window AC units are the same ones you see in the ghetto part of Houston, like on those wooden houses on Wheeler facing the University of Houston. Radiators? I've never seen a radiator south of the Mason-Dixon line. It looks like many loops of cast iron that are connected to two hot water pipes. To turn the sucker on, you actually open the 'faucet' to let the hot water flow into the loops. Then the heat starts to 'radiate' into the room.

As antiquated as it sounds, it actually works well, except that it's an extreme safety hazard. It would certainly heat up a room in less than two hours. Just don't try to cook an egg on it, as you'll get your daily requirements of iron and lead from the paint that keeps peeling off.

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My time in Brooklyn was probably one of the most difficult times of my life. Going through puberty is unquestionably not very fun. It's doubly difficult moving to another place, trying to start a new group of friends when you are an outsider and people laugh when you say ya'll (it feels odd to actually type ya'll, but I say it all the time). It was a very socially awkward time.

Most would argue that I'm still socially awkward, which I won't entirely deny. But I'll use my patented feel-good mantra (that I say in my head), 'Shut up, I'm a doctor, and I make more money than you do.' And if I make less, I'll say, 'Shut up, you bourgeois trash,' and run home with my tail between my legs. The mantra only works if you make a salary in the upper quartile.

SPIDER: Shooting Pool & Playing Poker for a Living

Dear Dreamer's Son followers and those who would have followed,

This is one of the weekly Stupendously Pimped-out Industriously Delineated Extensively Reinvigorated Re-releases. It gets confusing to remember what SPIDER stands for, so I'll just make it up as I go along. This one is about my two dream jobs. If I ever make as much scratch doing either of these things, I'll kindly give up my day (night) job.

--

Nov 19, 2009

Before I started college, I had said to some teachers and friends that if I could shoot pool and play poker for a living, I would in a heartbeat. It was in a joking manner, but I meant it. Thankfully before I bought a ticket to Vegas, all the years of Asian guilt started hurtling back to the present. You can't ever escape your past. Here's a bit of the litany of Viet Catholic woes:

'If you don't become a doctor (an M.D. doctor, not those other 'doctors'; D.O. doesn't count either), then I will disown you.'

'If you don't marry a Vietnamese Catholic girl, I will disown you.'

'If you don't have lots of grand kids, I will disown you.'

'If you don't let me live in your house when I'm old and wrinkled, I will disown you.'

'If you even think about playing poker or shooting pool for a living, I will disown you.'

'If you don't play blackjack and baccarat (WTF is poker?), you are a traitor to your gambling heritage.'

And so on. I guess I've been disowned. Oh well, that's life I suppose. Things fall apart. At least I didn't kill myself; then God would have disowned me, which would be the ultimate disowning.

--

Melodramatics aside, I did think about shooting pool and playing Texas Hold'em for a living. But there were some issues with that career path:

Firstly, you can't make money shooting pool anymore. Big tournaments only pay out 25k to the winner, and these guys make me look 150,000,000 times worse than I make you all look. If you've seen me shoot pool, you may think I play pretty well, but compared to money and tournament players, I pretty much suck. After the fundamentals of pool (stroke, bridge, balance, etc), there comes the strategic side (cue ball control, table position, defense), then the mental side which I think of as being able to win when you should win. Finesse (the name of my pool cue) and I have been at this for quite awhile, but we're still nowhere being near the caliber of people who make money from this game. Plus, people don't let themselves get hustled anymore.

Now with Texas Hold'em, the only things that kept me from it was the bankroll and my age. Over 21, check; one roadblock unblocked. A bankroll is the money you set aside to fund your poker ventures. Inevitably, you're going to lose in more than a few sessions (sittings at a poker table), but in the long run, your bankroll should increase, allowing you to move up to higher limit games.

The concept of a 'bankroll' was invented, in my opinion, to allow players to track their winnings and losings and to play games within their means.

The problem with chronic gambling at regular casino table games is that you're going to lose in the long run, even with perfect basic strategy in blackjack (the casino game with the lowest house advantage). You can't bankroll that because your bankroll would always decrease. That's why people (of the Viet persuasion) who plop down hundred dollar bills at the baccarat tables are idiots--you can't win in the long run.

The beauty of poker is that you're playing other people. And the better player will win in the long run. Yes, the river is going to burn you a few times and you may lose with pocket rockets and big slick, but if you get your money in when the cards are in your favor, eventually you'll make money (hopefully).

Once I pay off my student loans, I'll start to build my bankroll to fund my second job. What am I going to do in the meantime? Read books on poker theory and start to develop some catch phrases.

My favorite one so far is from my uncle Scotty Nguyen:*

'You caw, it gon be aw over, baby!'

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Platinum-limited, invitation-only to purchase, super-exclusive commentary:

Last week, I got to hang out with the guy who single-handedly got me through pharmacy school by waking me up for the sort of important tidbits, the stuff where if you mess up, the state board of pharmacy will send you a mean, threatening letter and then change your ‘Prior Disciplinary Order(s)’ to ‘Yes’. It’s as bad as your mother pulling down your pants and spanking you in public. You might also kill someone, but that’s not nearly as important as avoiding becoming the laughing stock of your pharmacist friends.

So we had lunch and played a few games of pool in which I thoroughly excel amongst my friends. He surprisingly won a game by sinking the 8, and another by my sinking the 8 before its time (which I refer to as 'committing statutory’). The side pocket ‘t*tty f*cked’ a couple of my balls, performed ‘rim jobs’ on a couple of others, and disappointingly ‘spit’ out a masterful bank [shot], but on the whole, the table was pretty accepting to my gentle, finesse-imbued touch, which was a little surprising given my lack of recent practice.

As soon as I get a table of my own, I might actually try to pursue playing in tournaments and such. The potential is there; just the work and dedication (and resources) are lacking.

In the meantime, I’ll have to learn some trick shots, because for whatever reason, women seem to like the grandiosely impractical (where the hell are you going to perform a trick shot in an actual game) over the masterly fundamental (Tim Duncan-like boringness).

*not really my uncle, in case you were wondering.

SPIDER: Running on E(mpty)

Re-release #5, a little serious this time:

I think I was feeling a little depressed at the time. Sleep deprivation will do that to you.

--

Oct 14, 2009

What ever did happen to 'E' as in 'Ecstasy'? Did the rave fad die out with all the swirling lights and $15 bottled water? Haven't heard too much dance/trance/house music lately; a few dance/trance songs manage to break the Top 40 every now and then but none recently. Maybe the DEA finally cracked down on the import/export business. Probably, it just got old.

Well, this isn't about that 'E'; it's about the 'E' you see on your fuel meter in your car, the one that when you see the needle point to it, you exclaim 'F--k, I need to put $2 worth of gas (0.25 gal) if I'm going to make it home,' and you pray that you're not in the ghetto. But when you're in Houston, you're mostly in the ghetto, so when it happened to me, I just prayed I wouldn't sputter out on the freeway (which would have meant nearly certain death in Houston traffic). Also, Mama gave me her credit card to pump gas while I was in school, so I'd always hold out until I got home.

Aside from the literal, I've run on E in the figurative sense since 11th grade of high school. Back in the day (all 6 years ago), I thought I still had a chance to get into an Ivy or a prestigious private/public school (until it was snatched from my grasp by well-meaning parents, which will be a major focus in the book I'll never finish). I was (and still am, maybe?) very intelligent as measured by standardized tests. Absolutely zero common sense, but very knowledgeable about test-taking. In fact, 40 points away from a perfect 1600 on the SAT, and those 40 points I blame on my being ESL (Engrish is Second Rangrage)*. I also got all 5's on the 8 Advanced Placement** tests I took my senior year. I was a junior when I entered college. Major nerd? Head buried in books?

Nerd, absolute yes, book burying, no. I played Starcraft and random online games up till about 2 weeks before all the tests. And then I crammed hard like trying to stuff that last crab puff at the end of a Chinese buffet orgy. But unlike the people hopped up on Red Bull, Adderall, Ritalin, meth, or E, I did it with natural adrenaline, the adrenaline that comes from the fear of bringing shame upon your family.

Mama's guilt-trip is the most potent stimulant known to man. And I pulled it all off. Scot free. Nearly perfect on all accounts, except it came with that gnawing hollowness of getting something you didn't feel you deserved (or that you didn't want).

Friends and classmates jokingly ask to trade brains with me for a day or for a test. Trust me, you don't want this flaming ball of madness in your head. All the Xanax, Lithium, Effexor, Prozac, Ritalin, Adderall, Zoloft, Wellbutrin, Depakote, Cymbalta, and Ambiens in the world won't save you from going stir crazy. How did I do it? On the fact that I couldn't fail, that I wasn't allowed to fail.

It wasn't just the typical Asian guilt-trip, about bringing honor to your family and such so that Mom and Dad can say to Aunt and Uncle about how good their son is. No, this is redemption for all the mistakes your father had made.

The soul that sinneth, it shall die. The son shall not bear the iniquity of the father, neither shall the father bear the iniquity of the son: the righteousness of the righteous shall be upon him, and the wickedness of the wicked shall be upon him. -Ezekiel 18:20

But iniquities were heaped on me. And being a faithful son, I bore them. I bore them almost to death by my own hands (read my book if I ever finish it!). But no matter how hard I rebelled against doing what was expected of me, I eventually did do what was expected of me. And I did the expected and more. The model student, the perfect front, all shattered inside.

All the time I felt empty, but I could always seem to pull off that one test, and then the next one, like Elijah in 1 Kings 19 (I'm in no way calling myself a prophet). But I made it through all that, hollow and broken, but the shell of myself still existed to walk up the steps to get my diploma, the one that was forced on me.

More was (is) expected of me. But having thoughts like 'I think I would rather die' flash almost as frequently as thoughts of sex made me change my mind. So f--k the world and its cancer and its swine flu and its AIDS and global warming and the quest for world peace; I'm not the hero you were looking for. Find some other martyr to stone, one who will willingly give up his life. Me? I want what's coming to me.***

Take me as I am.

(next post will be a funny post, I promise)

--

*Viet people don't juxtapose R and L

**Advanced Placement earns college credit at most universities; 5 is the highest score

***'The world, and everything in it.' -Al Pacino, for all you Scarface fans

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Deluxe commentary: I'm having the time of my life! And with the new healthcare reform, I probably make as much now as a pharmacist as I would have made as a doctor 7 years from now.

It doesn't pay (moneywise) to do good for society. Think about it: all those investment bankers are probably geniuses compared to that idiot doc who prescribes the newest fad drug because of the pretty drug rep.

SPIDER: Viet Lesson - What's in a Name?

SPIDER Re-Release, part fo'

Would g smell just as sweet? Perhaps if I dab on a 'vile' [sic] full of Cool Water like back in high school. You know you still have some Cool Water left. Don't lie!

--

Sep 12, 2009

Google 'Tri Nguyen' and you'll find an attractive actor (Johnny Tri Nguyen), a graphic designer with a micro-blog, a bunch of docs, a few architects, and mish mash of others. Search on Facebook and you'll find 20 or so folks with the name, and most with question marks where their faces should be. We're a distrusting bunch. Neither of these searches will find me, as I am set on super private because of all you creepy stalkers that I'll get once I become rich and famous, even more so than Johnny Tri Nguyen.

A quick history about why half of Viet people have the last name Nguyen (and a third have the last name Tran). We're all related. We lie when we say we don't know that other 'Nguyen' who goes to school with your younger brother. It's all a large conspiracy, and we don't want to be jailed for committing incest. My mom's maiden name is Nguyen, and it partly explains why I'm strange (and why I never use the security question 'What's your mother's maiden name' in case you wanted to identity-thieve me).

Joking of course. Though some incest has been committed in the past, I'm sure it's no more frequent than what you would see in the South. Truth is we're all cowards. When the Nguyen dynasty came and conquered the landmass which is geographically smaller than Texas, all the common folk switched their names to 'Nguyen' to escape retribution. When the Tran's did it, people switched to Tran. And then they switched back to Nguyen, because we all know that Nguyen's are 'Nguyen-ers.' (Nguyen is pronounced like 'win' or 'nuwin.')

Last names mean nothing in our culture for all intents and purposes. People are identified by their relation to each other. I would be the youngest son of the oldest son of Mr. Tu (notice it's the first name and not the last name). It didn't really matter what my name was--what was important was my pedigree. And Viet culture dictates using pronouns which relate your position to the person you are speaking of instead of first names. In the old country, I couldn't call my uncle by his first name but by the pronoun that designates that he's my maternal uncle who's younger than my mother. And I would refer to myself as 'nephew' instead of of the pronoun 'I.' Don't marry into Viet culture; it's not worth the trouble for all the pho and spring rolls in Vietnam.

Lesson over. So it doesn't bother most Viet people that there are many others who share their name, because we're defined by our families. Would Romeo be just as sweet if he wasn't Romeo-called? In Vietnam, yes, he'd be just as sweet since no one would call him Romeo anyway. In America, no, because a name is something very personal. I won't ever change my name. 'Minh Tri' (we say our names backwards) means 'Bright Mind.' It's also the name of a popular jewelry store in Houston; Mama says she got the idea from there, 'but it's still a pretty name.'

How is it really pronounced? 'Nguyen' sounds like 'win' or 'nuwin' if you want to be fancy. Most people can't sound the 'ng' properly so we don't bother. There's also an accent mark, but that's just asking too much. 'Minh' is easy. In my dialect, I say it like 'ming,' but the more common dialect pronounces it like 'min' without the 'g.'

And 'Tri'? In my head, it sounds a lot like 'dree' with the 'dr' slurred as much as possible so it sounds like a hard 'ch' or a 'g.' At work, I go by 'try' because I don't care to go into a long explanation to different customers every day.

'So it's spelled T-R-I, but it's pronounced like the letter "g"? What?'

'Yes, now take your drugs and leave.'

--

Bonus extra material on the 2-disc Widescreen version:

I've turned off super-secret lock. Feel free to add me on Facebook if you want. You won't be privy to any incriminating photos or anything.

SPIDER: Just throw it in the bag

SPIDER Re-Release, part tres

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

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

--

Sep 10, 2009

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

sales lady: 'So what do you think?'

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

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

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

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

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

--

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

SPIDER: Creepy Customer Service

SPIDER Re-Release, part two of ?

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

--

Sep 4, 2009

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

--

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

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

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

SPIDER: Mutton Chops

SPIDER Re-Release, part one of ?

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

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Aug 6, 2009

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

SPIDER: Top 10 Reasons to Read this Blog

Dear Letterman watchers,

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

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

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

Enjoy!

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Oct 23, 2009

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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