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.

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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.

Paper Chasing

Tomorrow I will get something I haven't had in over 9 months. Don't queue the porn music; it has nothing to do with that. I'm getting paid, son! The news was very good, and I started my new career this past weekend and worked into this Tuesday. Days off are so much sweeter when you have to work the other days. And this Wednesday was wonderful and certainly needed.

I tried to sleep in after coming home from work around 2AM. But antsy to start the day, I woke up after only 6 hours. Got a bunch of stuff done that I've been putting off like cleaning my room, paying bills, and organizing files. It's probably a bit weird to be excited about being able to put things in their right place, but I'm a bit strange after all. Also got in a little gunpowder therapy* followed by some country fried steak.

Helped Kratos savagely rip the legs off of Hermes to steal his winged boots, then settled in to PC time cleaning out emails while drinking a beer and watching the Thunder take down the Spurs.

And did some laundry.

It's boring, but a little boring is good sometimes.
--

Not sure what I'll do with the money, but daddy does need some new kicks.

(Reebok realflex)

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*just a 9mm, but it makes a nice bang

Roller Coaster of Emotion

As logical and rational as I appear to be most times, I am a swirling vortex of wild emotion. It's like I'm Spock in a way. These past few days, I've been facing off with the latest bouts of inadequacy but like all things, it came to pass. This time was because a waitress was extra nice, and I probably could have gotten a date. But she was not my type at all. It's like how my married friend, a skinny Anglo with light blue eyes, is catnip to thick African-American servers at Popeye's. We're just fishing with the wrong bait!

And just this morning, I received news that the trajectory of my life may finally be heading in the right direction. But even if that doesn't pan out, I am confident there will be brighter days ahead. Not to say that these are dark days (I mean how can a month in Europe be dark? Well besides those crappy days when it was cold, wet, and overcast).

This afternoon, I'm turning in the 60-day notice for the apartment which was witness to possibly the darkest time in my life. In a way, it was the necessary year of purgatory needed to rectify many of the issues I had put off in a fool's quest for fame and fortune, such fickle and fleeting mistresses.

All I want now is a sense of wholeness, of the pieces finally fitting together to make the Picasso-portrait of my self-image. Though I am not where I want to be, I know that I can and will get there. It has become no longer a question of "if?" but "when?"

(if things turn out well, I may have to wait 2-3 hours on a weekend to ride this again)

So here is to the roller coaster ride that is my life and my psyche. Hopefully the peaks and valleys will be much less pronounced from here on out. I'm getting too old for this mess! I just realized I can no longer classify myself as "early 20s" anymore :(

Summer is Blazer Prepping Season

Okay, transferring pics from the iPhone isn't as bad as I made it out to be. It is definitely more difficult than it should be, but it's probably because I'm used to picture files appearing as an external hard drive rather than a camera wizard. If that sounded confusing, it's because it is. Anyway.

So when I came back from Europe, I weighed in expecting about 5-7 lbs weight gain from all the booze, carbs, lack of protein, and messed up sleep patterns. But it was only 2 lbs! We did walk a lot, which probably resulted in the loss of a couple of inches around the waist. I almost fit into my favorite bootcut jeans that I had to retire back in 2nd year of grad school. And it turns out that I fit into my cream/beige blazer that I bought around that time!

(me, 25 lbs lighter)

I never got the sleeves fitted because I have never worn it outside. It is physically impossible to wear a blazer for 10 out of 12 months in this Texas heat, and so there was never the occasion to pimp this rocking jacket with the salmon/red/pink shirt.

And if you look really closely, that pocket square is made from a very thin piece of 8.5"x11" printer paper. We met this very metro Swede on our eurotrip who reportedly spent the equivalent of $40 on a hot orange pocket square to complement his blue blazer. And though I almost vomited at the thought of spending that much on a piece of hemmed fabric, I must admit that combination looked spectacular.

So when I do get my jackets altered (I also have a blue blazer with brass buttons), I'm getting a few pocket squares to go with them. I'm thinking white, blue-green or turquoise, orange, and pink.

I saw this outfit while window shopping in France:

I dig the waist-hugging fit, but this jacket is a bit more white than cream; cream allows for more combinations in my opinion. Plus, I only spent $40 on my jacket in 2005; the price for this French one is obscene!

Not Top 100 Bucketlist

More posts on Europe, I promise! ...maybe :)

First off: the cleansing of random notes I've had before the Eurotrip. Whilst making the pseudo bucketlist, I also came up with some other goals which didn't quite make the top 100. Since there aren't even 100 items on the list, these just sucked for one reason or another. Without ado. (Note: these numbers are also made up)

#115 Get a 15-star rating on PlayStation Network. I currently have an 8-star rating after completely beating 7 games. This was during my slight video game addiction phase. I'd play about 4 hours a day and would think about playing for the other 20 hours (sometimes I'd even dream about game sequences). Eventually like with most things, I got bored and stopped. Another 7-stars may not seem like a lot, but the system is progressive: I'd have to beat another 25-ish games in order to get to 15-level. I may get there in the end, but it's definitely not a goal I strive for.

#108 Qualify and play in the U.S. Open (of golf). I'd have to get ridiculously good or all other golfers have to get ridiculously bad. I'll definitely try, but items on a bucketlist should be reasonable. My first golf goal is to break 100. Then it will be to consistently beat my brother.

#118 Become a competitive eater. On Sundays I eat whatever and however much I want to reset my metabolism (aka a cheat day). And the meal can get pretty massive. Emboldened by these epic pigouts, I attempted and completed a 4-lb pho challenge. While initially delicious, it started becoming work and eventually started to hurt. Don't do it. Not worth a free gigantic bowl of pho, which was my prize. Maybe worth the picture on their wall of fame though :). After that experience, I gave up on considering competitive eating.

#132 Finish the Star Trek series on Netflix. For awhile, I was also hooked on Netflix streaming. It was disgusting: I'd wake up, and the first thing I'd do was watch a couple episodes of series XYZ. While some were worth it (like Lost and Battlestar Galactica), others were definitely a waste of time. Currently progressing through Scrubs now, but only a couple episodes here and there. When Netflix announced their partnership with Star Trek, I was initially excited, but there's absolutely no way I could watch that and the other things in my queue. So Star Trek, live long and prosper without me.
--

On a sidenote, I'm going to try to treat this blog like she being brand new:

"i was back in neutral tried and
again slo-wly;bare,ly nudg.       ing(my
lev-er Right-
oh and her gears being in
A 1 shape passed
from low through
second-in-to-high like
greasedlightning)"

Taking it slower, steadier, and consistent-er. Versus my track record of being quick, labile, and capricious.

So I say.

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.

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?

--

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

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.

--

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 :)

The Point of Diminishing Returns (PoDR)

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.

The Perks of Mania

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

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

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..

The CAGE Test

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!

Good Old Times

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..

Wasting My Time

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.
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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.
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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.
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*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.

Death of AIM

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.
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*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.

Luxury of Portability

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.

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*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?