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 :(

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.

--

*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 :)

De-Gentrification of Golf

to weekend hackers,

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


(playing here sometime this week)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

--
*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?

The Alliterative P-- Principle

Dear myself,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

%Occurrence x perceived benefit = weighted benefit.

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

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

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

In short, the P-- Principle prevailed.

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

Family Shackles

Dear involuntary wedding guests,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'What happened?'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Six-Years Hence

Dear patriots,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

--

Backtracking a bit:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tender is the 2am Insomnia

Dear the not-forgotten,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My favorite paragraph thus far:

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

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

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

--
*not used in a derogatory sense

Free to Be You and Me

Dear old(er) folks,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

--

*Driving While Sleepy

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

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

****Kidding, I hope

Nightmare Recursion

Dear Magic: the Gathering (MtG) duelists,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Heineken & Patron, say it isn't so.

--
*said with the sincerest sarcasm.

Whoa whoa whoa...

Take it easy…

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

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

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

A battle not fought is a victory won.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Writing Bit

One of the things I wanted to avoid with this blog that I didn't avoid in my last one was that I was going to be less negative concerning my family. I had gone through the 5 stages of grief (denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance), but it seemed like I kept reverting back to the anger stage time and time again when I think about my past. My goal for writing a memoir, which may never be published, is that I can finally put that part of my life on paper and get past it. Though as I sit now in my Dallas apartment with my family and my history 300 miles away, I am starting to grow numb from the literal and figurative distance of my present self from my formative self. And I'm starting to grow numb from this cold weather. It should be against Texas law to have the weather be anywhere near freezing!

And I've started to write the memoir many a time, but I eventually get to a sticking point: I can't express fully my thoughts as a 6-year old in the Caribbean without stealing the Joyce's technique in Portrait of an Artist whereby he writes as if he was the child in his earliest memory. If my memoir were to be a satire, then sure, I could blatantly copy all of the great artists' techniques and say that it was an homage and a poke at the dreariness of my development. But I don't wish my memoir to be a satire. I don't wish my story to be nothing but a comedy. Comedy is created as an antithesis, a foil to tragedy, hence the comedy & tragedy juxtaposition. Comedy was my defense against the hopelessness I saw as my future. But when the hopelessness was abolished by the light of epiphany, the comedy still remained. Hence all the jokes and puns and sexual innuendos you see in my blog and writing today.

An aside: I've noticed that the better comedians started out with a sucky life.

And I guess the other sticking point I've experienced is that I feel the writing isn't good enough. My thoughts run rampant when I'm thinking about the actual events of my past. But a memoir is not supposed to be a chronicling of events, a history book of one's life. I believe it to be a selection of the more salient points of one's life intended to provide some message, as cliched as it sounds. The actual person and the actual events should be secondary to the feel-good message. But as a narcissist of the nth degree, I must insist that I should be the thing that matters most in a story of my own life.

One good thing that I've learned from writing this blog is that I've grown less wearied about my frequent use of the word 'I'. When I began writing the stereotypical 'Dear Diary' or 'Dear Journal' entries as a youth, I would become incensed at my predilection to begin a sentence with 'I'. Though this blog is decidedly in a first person point of view, the writing has grown to be more than a collection of simple sentences starting with 'I' followed by a verb and some objects and other choice words which form a predicate. 'I', though it remains a majority of the subjects of my sentences, it is by no means the only subject.

Being a solution-oriented, type-AAA kind of guy, I've devised solutions to my sticking points. I will start from my time in Brooklyn when I was around 12. This should be infinitely easier to write about because some of my most painful memories come from that time, and it wasn't just because of being an overweight nerd who was forced to endure puberty in a foreign place with an entirely new set of friends (though that did pretty much suck).

And the second sticking point, about how my writing isn't good enough? Well I guess the readers of my blog will have to endure my non-comedic writing as well. I guess I might have to supplant my weekly musings on women because as my friend very pithily put it, 'You need to get laid!' As my alma mater's motto goes, 'In Time.' But I fear that there's not enough time for all that I want... Mortality is a mother[expletive deleted].

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.

---

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.

I'sa Playa

Misogynists anonymous,

That is the title of the track. It happened to be on a solo album by Pimp C back in the day and was re-released in a Greatest Hits CD, which thankfully was available in Amazon's MP3 store. The reason why I couldn't find it was because the original track had some girl singing the hook, while the more popular version (the only version I've heard) was with Z-Ro's killer hook.

The lyrics of more obscure songs follow the theory of cancer: lyrics websites copy other websites carelessly without considering the actual song, and eventually all their lyrics end up the same and flawed. So I searched for the hook, the only thing I remembered, but I couldn't find it because no website had the current hook. That is until now.

So after listening to the hook about 20 times, this is what I believe it to be:

Z-Ro

I'sa playa, I'sa mac

I love gettin [with] these ladies with not more than my paper stash

Now rule once, get your cash on, M-O-B

Less paper in my pocket, my n*gga P-I-M-P

Homie don't hate me mayne*, just hate the game

The only reason your woman diggin me cuz I play with thangs

Don't take it personal, my n*gga, I don't love her, I'm a playa

She just gonna keep me company while get nipped it(?) as I lay her

I'm still not entirely sure about the last line. You can listen to the complete song via Youtube (which is how I found the song). And the chopped and screwed version too. Notice when Twista is screwed (slowed down), he sounds like a normal person.

My favorite verse of the song (Pimp C):

But me, I lick ya where he don't, and suck real hard on yo nipple

My game is sharp as a sickle, she love my pickle

And if you gave her a dime, n*gga she gave me a nickel

It is almost a limerick! Okay, maybe not.

--

The unfortunate thing that happens to me when I listen to rap is that I feel slightly guilty. It isn't because of lack of entitlement. I moved to the suburbs but I'm from the ghetto, so I do relate to the songs from personal experience. And it's not like I bought a grill from Johnny Dang** and Paul Wall and am out pimping a throwback jersey and Astros ballcap with all white Air Force Ones; I know my place and the only person I try to emulate is the man I aim to be.

The guilt is that some of these songs are so misogynistic, or hateful of women. At the very least, they idealize women as objects of conquests. And when conquered, the women become immortalized as the losers in 'Playa' Ballads, such as the above.

So here's another bit of cognitive dissonance of mine (though significantly less dissonant than the hate-yourself-for-sake-of-family variety): How can I be the man I want to be when I listen to music which are not of my values?

Right now, it appears that I'm ignoring the songs' messages while mellowing on the throwback beats. But I think there may come a time when I retire all my UGK and Tupac. Some evidence to this prediction is that I'm beginning to enjoy classic light rock because I'm beginning to relate to it more.

--

*stylized southern spelling of 'man'

**Johnny Dang is hilarious, a jeweler to the stars. Someone (not me) needs to write a Wikipedia article on that guy. And to clarify the 'oriental', he's Viet and might be my cousin.

Hotdogs and Eggs

Dear ghetto brethren,

‘Tomorrow when you’re home, you can fry up some eggs and hotdogs. There are some tortillas too.’

Stacking bread* means never having to eat hotdogs ever again, except at sporting events where you’re charged $8 for something you could have made yourself for 25 cents. Hot dogs on sale typically cost a buck for a generic pack of 8. Mama usually buys several packs like she was at Costco and freezes them in the refrigerator. She thaws them out when necessary and adds one to her ramen as a source of protein. That’s her dinner. People would be shocked to know that Dad is a pharmacist when we live like we’re below the poverty line.

But Dad wasn’t always a pharmacist, and when he was chasing after his dreams, he was hemorrhaging the family’s assets like a gunshot wound to the abdomen.** Before he became a professional student, Dad had owned a washateria (the southern word for laundromat; everyone in Houston calls it ‘washateria’ and would make a confused, frowny face if you used ‘laundromat’). It was fairly successful, but he sold it in the early 90s to go back to school to become a ‘real doctor.’

It was right after he sold the business that I started becoming conscious of my surroundings (around 5-ish). Mama still worked, but Dad was using the monthly payments from the sale to pay for tuition. And so to save some money, Mama bought stuff like ramen, hot dogs, eggs, and generic cereal. A couple nights a week, Mama would cook some Viet stuff, but it would be mostly white rice, some broccoli with not-so-select cuts of chicken, and simmered fish that had a plethora of tiny bones that lodged in the back of my throat.

I preferred the coronary-artery-thickening American trayf to the stuff she cooked. Don’t tell me that one of the advantages of living at home through college was that I had some of Mama’s fine home-cooking; I frequented Taco Hell more times than I ate at home.

She’ll probably never change her eating or buying habits. I think she could live off of $20 a week in groceries if she had to.

The next day instead of following her suggestion, I drove to Fuqua and Sabo and had some traditional Viet beef noodle soup at Pho Saigon. It is ironic how home cooking means hotdogs and eggs while traditional Viet food can only be found at the local eatery.
--

*one of the many ghetto slang for that ‘paper’, as in the paper on which rests dead presidents, Ben Franklin, and Alex Hamilton. Isn’t it funny how when people talk about dead presidents as a placeholder for money, they don’t realize that Ben Franklin wasn’t a president? And Ben is probably the most important dead white guy.
**one of the focuses of my book that I’m actually starting to write

Blue Eyes

Most nights when I’m working, I want to holler and scream the staff at the two emergency care centers across the street for sending me so many new customers. There’s another repeat offender 10 miles up in Plano which also sometimes incurs my wrath. But a couple of times a year, I’m blessed by the presence of beautiful blondes with devastatingly deep azure eyes, liltingly pained dulcet voices (because they’re sick), and the patience of a third grade school teacher when Barr runs a mass recall on generic Adderall.

One such heavenly creature came by recently, but unfortunately, it was during a time of abysmal turmoil: three insurance problems all at once, and all of those customers were there waiting. No tech, no problem; I am g, after all (excuse the arrogance, when you work this job, you have to have some confidence so that people don’t walk all over you). A couple of 1-877 numbers later, I got everything resolved, got those scripts out pretty damn quick, and even added some patient counseling in there (may cause drowsiness, take with food, this is my cell number in case you need to reach me for any reason, wink* etc).

When the night slowed down a few hours later, I felt haunted by those cobalt gems that rested underneath the shock of honey wheat bangs. I don’t really obsess over girls anymore (those restraining orders became troublesome**), though this girl did warrant some stalker-ish action. But thankfully the trance, caused by the iridescence of the windows of her soul, tapered off over the remaining hours of my shift.

Though I confess to be equal opportunity when chasing after the fairer sex, I have such a weakness for blue eyes, the true blue eyes that shine without need of refraction from pieces of plastic. That pretty much all but precludes women of negroid or mongoloid descent. The pretty Chinese girl that came by earlier with the blinging watch (my Gucci’s relative?) did absolutely nothing for me; I might have been more turned on by the watch. But the girl with skin the color of pale amber makes my spine tingle just thinking about her.
--

There’s a line in a song by Tupac that reads

Lately, I’ve been really wanting babies
So I could see a side of me that wasn’t always shady

Around the start of the third year of pharmacy school, I started to dislike myself. It was the time when my classmates were thinking about what they would do after pharmacy school (residency, retail, hospital, or other), while I was stuck contemplating the MCAT that I was about to take to apply for 4 more years of floggings, plus 3 years of being an attending physician’s man-servant (aka internal medicine residency).

I think that was the time when I started growing the fat tire around my waist and started drinking more. And over those final two years, I wished that I was someone else or that it would all be over, including my life at the depth of my despair.

I had told my ex during one of my vulnerable moments that I hated myself. Thinking back on the reasons she cited for breaking up with me, I think it was my own self-worth issue that was the problem. I don’t blame her: Most people think I was well-adjusted when in reality I was a couple steps away from six feet under. (Note to the guys: saying that you don't like yourself is generally considered a bad move. No one had told me.)

During orientation for new pharmacy students the year prior, I had said something which I had forgotten in the madness: ‘Some of you will fail; it happens to the best of us. But no matter what, you’ll always have your life and your health; school is secondary to those things.’ For myself, I would add God in there as well. But in the course of my misguided quest to redeem my family, I had lost all those things, like Okonkwo in Achebe’s Things Fall Apart. And I began to loathe the man in the mirror.

So it was this time that I began to look for things which were dissimilar to myself, since I hated myself. It was about the time I started digging vanilla and whitemeat, and the blue eyes that I would never have, in an attempt to see the 'side of me that wasn’t always shady' in my future kids, who hopefully wouldn’t look similar to me. Otherwise, I might grow to hate them as well for being so much like myself.

But alas, blue eyes are recessive, and unless I have some French blood in me from when France raped Vietnam in the mid-20 century (instead of cab-fare, they gave us French bread and pate), my kids are condemned to having earthy-colored eyes. But I’m starting to like dark colored eyes again.

And I like myself too, even with the 30 extra pounds and diseased liver***.

[I have intentionally not used the phrase ‘brown eyes’. If you don’t know, don’t ask; it’s a disgusting metaphor.]
--

*joking, of course
**again, joking
***joking…hopefully?