Failed Pickup in Prague

Oh man, Prague was ridiculously fun! But the best parts are secreted between my travel companions, my journal, and myself. If you want to read about a fun Prague experience, go yourself then write about it. Trust me, it will be so much better that way.

I'm healing (hopefully) from this objectification-of-women disease I've been suffering from as of these past couple of years. Well really I've probably had it my whole life--I just didn't realize it until a couple of years ago. To be fair, I objectify dudes too, just not in a sexual way (though one could doubt that considering the Nice post). It's so much easier to view people as a collection of traits: physical, mental, and material. But that's wrong. I don't want to be viewed as some muscle-bound (getting there!) smart dude who makes a six-figure salary. While those things do describe me, I am so much more. And people are so much more. Please excuse the armchair psychology/philosophy.
--

So I did intend to meet people on this Europe trip. If it was a bad experience, it's not like I'd ever see them again, which took away from the awkwardness of talking to random strangers. It was surprising the number of cool people (men and women) whom I didn't keep in touch with through Facebook or other means. It made me realize that there are nice, friendly people everywhere if only you were nice and friendly. As the saying goes, "It's nice to be nice."

But of course I am a dude, and try as I may, there is always that undercurrent sexual tension whenever a man talks with a woman. And that undercurrent becomes a raging river once a little alcohol gets in the way. One bit of advice for Prague: try not to get too drunk off of the really good $1.50 beers.

Fortunately, concurring with my desire to not be that guy anymore, I won't go into the blow by blows. I hesitated to write this post, but I just had to immortalize the stupid drunken notes I made on my phone while on the Drunken Monkey Pub Crawl. It's 400-500 Czech kronas which translates to $20-25. Do it! If the fellow pub crawlers suck, then drink some more until they don't suck or until you just don't care anymore. Disclaimer: g does not advocate drinking as a way to solve problems, though it can help immensely.

(I'm surprised I actually don't have a pic from the place, so this will have to do. Notice the dude rocking the Astros cap in the bottom right pic. H-town represent!)

Note 1 (on Reminders iPhone app): Oh snap theyre playing dreamland!

After playing beer pong the weird UK way (bounce-ins only, no shooting directly into the cup) and the American (the real) way at the opening bar, I was sufficiently sauced when we started to crawl. And in one of the other bars, they played a song from Robert Miles's Dreamland. Really trippy when you're not expecting techno/trance/New Age, but oh so welcome. I really dig chill-out music.

Note 2: Don't call a Brit an ahole for stealing a Finn :(

By the third or fourth bar/pub, I slowed down the alcohol consumption to practically nil. The power-2.5-hour was over, and I didn't quite feel like paying for drinks that I wouldn't remember, even if they were only the equivalent of $3. With increased sobriety, I also gained increased wherewithal to notice all the hot girls all around me. Again, go to Prague!

So I approached a few of them sitting on a nice comfy couch, with the excuse that I was just resting. Struck up a conversation, then encountered the dreaded s-- test: "You know I'm not going to sleep with you tonight."

Casually, smiling, "I don't want to sleep with you either. I'm here for the culture. Besides, I'm not an easy guy; you have to work to get me into bed!" With that, I did a takeaway to talk to the other girl. But a couple minutes in, I see the first girl making out with a skinny Clark Kent looking jerk replete with large, black wayfarer-like glasses. Totally distracting, and upsetting to me since I was still buzzing hard.

A while later, we all make our way outside, and I complimented the guy on his victory by calling him an a--hole, which apparently to Brits is a severe insult. Guy was about to start a fight then and there. Being a lover and not a fighter, I offered a defusing apology and stepped away from the pugilist. Not worth my time.

Note 3: Don't drink when you're running game especially when you have a chance

The next place I was still distracted from the earlier proceedings. That's my excuse for fumbling through conversations, etc. The other pub crawlers bought me a drink which helped ease the pain and frustration. Again, alcohol does not solve problems! :)

Note 4: Being drunk and or buzzed makes you vulnerable to old habits

We eventually called it quits and walked along the main thoroughfare of Prague, to enjoy really delicious  drunk junk food from street vendors. I had a fried cheese sandwich with a Duff beer*. It was like a giant mozzarella stick garnished with a tartar-like sauce and encapsulated in a hamburger bun. And if that sounds utterly amazing, it's because it is! Kind of like having a Spicy McChicken & Double Cheeseburger after a night out, except I washed it down with more booze.

When we got back to the hostel, I apparently recounted the Brit/Finn story a number of times to my bunk-mate, because a couple days later when I told the story, he shook his head saying, "Dude, you're still on that?"

And so that is hopefully the last time I tell that story. For all I know, the Brit and Finn could have came together and I was the jerk for trying to make a move. Oh well, I had a great time regardless. Her loss, yes?

--
*The beer was awful even after a night of drinking, so I can't imagine how much it sucks when sober

The French-Asian Connection

Hello again! Long time, yes?

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

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

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

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

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

--

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

--

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

--

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

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

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

Two Overlooked Reasons for Needing a Girl

to the single,

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I've made a huge mistake.

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Esquire Survey of American Men

Dear the metrosexual,

A shorter post today.

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

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

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

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

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

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

--

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

Lockboxed Raincoats

Dear email inboxes,

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

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

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

(overshare alert)

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

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

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

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

'Ha, I have no shame!'
--

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tender is the 2am Insomnia

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

[rooster]-sure and the Extra Jackson per Month

Dear new readers,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dry Skin, Expensive Salt, and Evy from Israel

Dear shoppers,

This past week, I’ve turned into a mall-walker. I hadn’t spent a dime on clothing or apparel (excluding a very inexpensive* watch) this year until just today while shopping for some new threads. I figured once I got to my physical fitness goal, I’d get some new clothes to fit my new physique. But things always seem to take a little longer than you expect, and I was fed up with not having a nice black jacket/coat, which was the first thing I had planned to get once I was down to my ideal body weight.

After a few department stores, I found one that I liked for a decent price. Also during my trek through the mall and surrounding stores, I found a nice chunky belt to go with jeans and an amazing pair of Steve Madden dressy-caszh**, subtly shiny, soft leather shoes. I would have never thought I’d swoon over a pair of men’s shoes, but it was love at first sight, and my love was cheap: $35 at Ross.

A lesson I learned while shopping is that you should probably do a bit of research before you lay down major paper on an outfit. After trying on a few blazers priced at $150+, I felt woefully bewildered at my lack of knowledge and thus fiddled on my Droid to find a decent article on outerwear selection. Though useful, the Droid was not meant for serious internet surfing. The cute salesgirl was helpful when I asked her opinion on a particular coat, though she seemed more interested in the jacket than in me. Bummer.

I’m thinking about having a recurring series on practical knowledge of men’s fashion written for regular Joes in contrast to the men’s fashion magazines aimed at flaming metrosexuals (even though I do aim to be a flaming metro myself).

While gleaning the windows at Baybrook Mall, I checked my posture via the reflection in the glass. I felt like I was growing into my new self. My reputation had preceded me while in school (as that smart guy who tutored peeps in obscure apocrypha***), but now my sphere predominantly contained complete strangers who know nothing of me. My confidence is steadily improving as I begin to feel again that I am wanted and needed by others.

Some of my female friends had said to me a while back that I was a ‘catch’ and that they’d set me up with their friends except none of them would have been worthy enough. It was like a scene out of Sex and the City where the girls try to comfort Charlotte in a dry spell. But like Charlotte and many poor souls who are forced to listen to that same consolation speech, I didn’t think I was worth all that much. Without my intelligence that people could pawn, why would they want to be with me or around me?

There are countless articles aimed at the fairer sex to explain the lack of manly interest in their feminine wiles. Some of these articles purport that once you figure out who you are, you will become irresistible to the opposite sex. Though I thought that was a load of crap at first, I am starting to feel the transformative power of my own self-knowledge and self-belief. In the crisp reflection in the looking glass at ExpressMen, I saw myself as attractive and as handsome as those manikins in their XS shirts & skinny ties and 29x32 slacks.

My back has straightened, my head is held high, and a smile is ever present on my lips. My stuttering has improved as I feel that people respect what I have to say. I feel absolutely great.

I don’t know what exactly has changed in me. But recently I’ve come to realize that I am my own best advocate. Who best to take care of me but me? Who will make me better except myself? Who can I always trust to seek out my own best interest? I guess the problem was that I wasn’t caring for numero uno the past couple of years, and so I distrusted myself, thus shredding any kind of self-confidence.

No matter. g is back and better, like the building of the uberman.
--

So naturally, when the mall kiosk girl, Evy from Israel, smiled her delicious smile and pestered me to allow her to put some all-natural vegan salt scrub (from some remote, fantastic place) on my hands, I deigned to grant her wish. We talked about her wares, and as she used the water bottle to spray away the salt and the dead skin cells from my hands, I stared deep into her hazel eyes (hopefully in a non-creepy way) to try to disarm her and convince her of my newfound awesomeness.

During the conversation, she said that I was cute and had great skin likely in an attempt to manipulate me into buying some really overpriced lotions and hand scrubs. And maybe just a couple of months ago with my new wealth, I might have indulged her. But if I had given in, I don't think she would have respected me.

After she said her whole spiel about how great the cucumber-honey-fusion-exfoliating-lotion-with-extra-moisturizers was, I attempted to number-close.

Me: So, if I get these things, can I get your number with it? [I wasn’t going to buy the stuff to get her number. It’s the first line in the number-close routine I’m developing]

Evy: (non-hesitatingly with the same smile) Yeah, I can give you the number to the booth. I’m here 12 hours a day. [Evy gets hit on innumerable times every day and has developed a smooth sidestep, like a Spanish matador]

Me: Your home number perhaps? [But I am persistent]

Evy: (makes a cute frowny face) I am too old for you! [She’s in her late 20s at most. She had asked my age during the attempted sale probably as a tactic to build rapport and was now using that knowledge illicitly to reject my advance. There has to be a law against that!]

Evy continued with more reasons, i.e. excuses.

Me: (seeming dejected, considering a neg, but thought better of it) Oh, I suppose you’re right. I appreciate your time and for moisturizing my hands.

As I gently extricated myself from an awkward situation (two people trying to sell something to each other) and left the stand, I furtively peeked back. Evy looked like a fisherman whose catch had just gotten away.

Evy, I’m sorry to disappoint, but I had a far better chance of getting your number than you did of getting me to buy your product. You didn’t know that you wanted me, but that’s okay. It’s really my fault for not being able to convince you. Give me a couple of months, and I’ll remedy that. :)
--

*$85 for a Citizen Eco-Drive
**caszh = ‘casual’ in g-speak
***knowledge of no use to anyone except research scientists

Brotherly Love Amongst Ourselves*

Dear Supernatural fans,

I’ve been dreading and fiending for this last season of Supernatural starring Jared Padalecki as Sam Winchester and Jensen Ackles as Dean Winchester. The first time I saw it a few years back, I thought it was a cheesy spoof of the Buffy and Angel series (David Boreanaz as a repentant vampire is a great premise): Every week, the two brothers would hunt down monsters and the eponymous supernatural.

Though after being sucked in by a few episodes with very hot actresses (Supernatural’s formula = 2 strapping guys, a baddie, and the inexorably smoking-hot damsel in distress), I began to love the story arc. Sure there were monster-of-the-week episodes a la Buffy et al, but most of the episodes revolved around a particular season’s theme. This season, that theme is the impending apocalypse inadvertently started by the two brothers. Oh, and hot girls; that’s this season’s theme too. Coincidentally, hot girls also happened to be a co-theme for seasons 1, 2, 3, and 4.

And did I mention hot girls? I did? It bears repeating though. Some memorable ones were Tricia Helfer, Sarah Shahi, Taylor Cole, Katie Cassidy, and Emmanuelle Vaugier (*swoon*).

Jared Padalecki is the stereotypical morose, tall, dark, and handsome, with a physique rivaling those of male strippers on the Vegas Strip**, while Jensen Ackles is the womanizer with the drop-dead gorgeous looks. Together, they travel around the country chasing down ‘bad sons-of-bitches’ and saving everyone they can. And they do it in a classic ’67 Impala tuned to old-school classic rock.

Each week is like a one-hour horror flick, replete with CGI effects, action, drama, and surprisingly tasteful humor. It blows my mind how the writers manage to be funny and scare you at the same time without it being too artificial. They’re just that damn good.

But CGI effects and hot girls aside, what keeps me coming back is the brother-brother relationship between Sam and Dean. Sam is the intellectual younger brother, bound for Stanford Law School when a horrible tragedy causes him to rejoin the ‘family business.’ Dean is his cool older brother who protects Sam as much as possible, even at the cost of his own [spoiler deleted]***. Their mother died when they were children, and their father raised them to be crazed paranormal hunters. Season 1 starts with their father missing, and so the only family they have left is each other.

If you love something, it is very likely that you see some of yourself in it. People love their mates because they find something akin to their own values; sure opposites attract, but the last time I checked, we don’t mate with primates. I love my Droid phone because it feels very utilitarian and business-like, though very deftly cool. I associate with loyal and honest people, because I consider myself loyal and honest. I enjoy classic novels because I aim to be classic. Etc.

And I love Supernatural because its main theme of brotherly love mirrors my own relationship with my older brother. He is probably the coolest guy I know and became my role model when I lost faith in my father. I am the little brother he took care of when our parents were sometimes not emotionally or financially or physically there. And being brothers, he teased me incessantly, though he never tried to hurt me intentionally.

Whereas Dad selfishly and blindly pursued pipe dreams, my brother used his own money, the little that he had, to buy me school supplies and clothes when I was in high school. Whatever I needed, my brother would try to provide. It’s rare to see a perfect foil in real life; the hero and anti-hero only appear next to each other in fiction.

And the thing about Sam and Dean’s relationship is that though they never say it explicitly, you can tell by their actions that they love each other. And so it is with my brother.

You can watch the current season of Supernatural online here. The quality isn’t all that great though, but it’s good for catching the episodes that you missed when you’re working graveyards.

--

*an inside allusion

**this is not a first-hand observation

***I don’t want to ruin it for you

Night at Ra, Pt. 1

Dear stand-up eaters,

A few weeks back, I did the Happy Hour + Rockets game with my older brother and his friends. Usually, they go to Kona at the Galleria, but this time, they decided on Ra. It's nice to try new things, but you should probably avoid popular places on a Friday night.

Ra Sushi was packed like the Superdome after Katrina. It probably violated the maximum occupancy limit, but as it was an Asian place, the establishment ignores safety in quest for deeper profits.

After I scaled the stairs to get to the main dining floor, I found a mass of humanity trying to get a bite of Ra fish. There was a superfluous amount of attractive women who were attempting to upgrade to better boyfriends (by flaunting their assets), but were currently accompanied by the douche-bag starter model, the kind that emulate the Jersey Jagger Bomb faux-celebs.

I’m still refining my pick-up line. So far, I have ‘Hi, my name is g. I’m a doctor, and I make six figures. Do you want to get on this?’ (patent pending). It’s a work in progress. It currently has a zero success rate, but like the search for weapons of mass destruction, I swear that line will hit paydirt one day.

Being Asian, I don’t have the trouble of differentiating between groups of the yellow-skinned folk, and I spot my brother and his friends fairly quickly, as they were standing a little past the hostess’s station. Okay, so I guess instead of being like the rest of the suckers standing in the lobby, we’re going to have some Kirin beer while we wait at this area where there is an overhang that acted like a makeshift table.

I didn’t care as long as there’s a place to rest my drink. The server comes by with massive bottles of Kirin and delicate porcelain curved flutes of warm sake. Like good alcoholics, we pound some sake bombs and toast the Rockets good fortune against the Heat. Then another dude comes by with some plates of sushi. At this point, I became mildly confused, because as far as I know, sushi isn’t served dim sum-style where they wheel around carts, asking you what you want.

The confusion cleared up when one of the guys said that it was our order. There weren’t even chopsticks or napkins at the little overhang area, not to mention the lack of any kind of chairs or chair-like objects. Though we do look a little F-O-B, we’re decent enough to use utensils. Some of the guys shrugged, and grabbed the food-art with their thumbs and index fingers. I shrug too, and grabbed a pork dumpling.

The silverware and woodware and napkins came by later, but as we were well on our way to being so far gone, we ignored them for the most part. The alcohol coursed through bodies which weren’t well equipped to handle such poison (aldehyde dehydrogenase mutation which leads to poor metabolism and subsequent ‘Asian Flush’), and the already uninhibited became even more dis-inhibited.

One of the guys said to a group of fun black girls, ‘You know I like that dark meat, right? I’ll get you a bucket of fried chicken, but only on a Tuesday. 99-cent special at Popeyes. Nah mean*?’

As it turns out, you can say a lot of things if you can say it confidently and playfully. Rather than getting slapped, the guy got a bunch of laughs (along with him, not at him). One of the memorable things one of those girls said was, ‘Nuh uh, you couldn’t handle all this woman.’ Very true. I doubted if anyone could handle all of her.

After a couple more sake bombs, I began feeling like I was in Vietnam, even though I’ve never been there.

me: ‘Damn. We eatin’ like we in Vietnam, all standin’ and squatin’ and sh*t.’

guy: ‘How you know what we ate like when we in Vietnam?’

me: ‘I saw some pictures on some travel ads. Looked like people be eatin’ and tryin’ to take a dump at the same time.’
--

After several more rounds of rice wine, we left of our own free will and on our own sets of legs; I was a bit surprised we hadn’t been kicked out. And we got to the game perfectly fine**, though I soon passed out on the seat as the Heat proceeded to pound on the Rockets.

--
*you know what I mean?
**there was a DD, natch

Tri, Try Harder

You must excuse me for yet another post about yet another woman, but this 2-part set was already typed up, and I’d hate for it to go to waste.
--

Dear follow-up readers,

...continued...

The pretty blonde did not have a ring, just as that gentleman had said. I need to improve my ring-spotting skills.

She came by the next night, and I remembered her name and her prescription not only because she was pretty, but because she was a troublemaker. People with any kind of insurance or attitude or other problems get that label, which means that I spent, or will have to spend extra effort on their prescriptions. Like in public schools, only the problem-children get any attention. Note to pharmacy goers, if you pitch a fuss, the pharmacy will take extra care of your prescriptions just because we want to limit the face-to-face time as much as possible.

Hers was a weird issue which I had figured out overnight using some knowledge and intuition. She was not impressed that I remembered her name; she is probably used to people going out of their way to know her name and fawning at her every desire.

I explained what had happened to her prescription the previous night, and she nodded reassuringly, confirming what I thought had happened.

Blonde 8.5: ‘Yea, I had left because I saw how busy you were. I wanted to give you a break.’

At some point in the will-call to register to signature capture, she glanced at my name tag.

Blonde 9.5: ‘That’s an interesting name. How do you pronounce that?’

I said my name, wishing that she would do the same. My wish was soon granted, but not in the way I had hoped.

Blonde 9.0: ‘Tri, try harder.’ A subtle grin appeared on her rose-colored lips.

‘Wow. I haven’t heard that since high school. You’re bringing back horrible memories.’

Blonde 9.3: ‘Oh, I’m sorry. High school sucked for everybody. But look where you’re at now.’

She continued her coy smile, as pretty girls are wont to do when they’re teasing you. She wasn’t really sorry.

Me: ‘Well actually, it wasn’t all that bad.’

At this point, I should have just reflected her smile and stopped talking. When I get nervous or flustered, I start talking random gibberish to fill the silences, and the stuff that comes out oftentimes isn’t favorable. So to try to impress this girl, I rambled on and on about AP tests and how I became a book hermit to get out of school a little quicker.

It was like a scene out of a chick flick where the nerd thinks that explaining the difference between speed and velocity* would somehow make him devastatingly irresistible to women.

I guess I had made some stupid comparison to jocks, and so to humor me, she said something like, ‘where are they [jocks] now?’ Thinking on that question, they are still probably scoring, but to a lesser extent (the player-hater side of me hopes so). Jocks are like American light beer: they're best when they’re fresh. I hope I’m like premium wine: better with age.

So after I had sufficiently stuffed both my feet in my mouth with talk of my nerd-dom, I ended with my customary, ‘Have a great night!’ The awkwardness was painful to endure on my end, though I’m sure she’s used to it because she has caused many a man to find himself speechless.

One thing I’ve learned in my interaction with people is to never read too much into things. You’re not that important for people to prepare themselves to talk to you. Most people just say the first thing that pops into their mind, and you should just take it at face value.

Was Blonde 9.7 (her score increased from 8.5 to 9.7 for teasing and humoring me) interested in me? No idea, but my bet would be on ‘no’. Face value: she asked how to pronounce my name and made a cutesy jest out of it.

As I grow less socially awkward, I hope I can parlay these very minor indicators of interest into some digits without violating HIPAA.

--
*speed is distance per time and is scalar, whereas velocity is displacement per time and is a vector; velocity takes into account the initial and final position of an object. Example: if you made a complete revolution around the earth in an hour, your velocity would be 0 m/s, because your initial and final position would be the same. In contrast, your speed would be a value larger than the number of Charlie Sheen's horizontal tango partners, which is a lot.

The Wise Man

Dear joke-tellers,

So a priest, a blonde, an old guy, and a rabbi walk into a pharmacy. The priest says to the pharmacist, ‘I know you dispense Plan B, but everyone can be forgiven.’

Then the priest sees the blonde and again addresses the pharmacist, ‘You can be forgiven for your next couple thoughts as well.’

‘What?’ The pharmacist was confused, but then sees the blonde and grins involuntarily. ‘Oh, thanks.’

The rabbi said some things too, but since I’m not Jewish, I’ll have to refrain from saying something possibly non-PC.

The priest and rabbi leave, thus ending a bad joke.
--

There were some issues with the blonde’s prescription, as is likely to happen in a pharmacy which obeys Murphy’s Law to perfection. It was a Friday, but instead of people getting their groove on with their paychecks and paid companions, they wanted to keep the pharmacist (moi) company, though their presence was like that of bad in-laws who think you stole their son/daughter.

As there was a line of customers and several waiters (and not the kind that could have served me the adult beverage--single malt scotch--I so desperately needed), I used one of my patented delay tactics, ‘There were some issues with the prescription (such as I haven’t had 2 seconds of peace since I’ve been here to fill it), but I’ll get to yours next if you give me but 5 minutes.’ I hoped she didn’t have a watch.

So she left, but more people in the store started queuing up like it was the evacuation out of Houston when Hurricane Rita graced the third coast. One of the customers asked another guy, ‘What’s the fuss all about?’ The other dude responded, ‘I don’t know, but since there are a lot of people here, it must be important.’ And they both proceeded to honk their horns and wondered why it took so damn long (11 hours+) to get out of Houston and why it takes someone more than a minute to lick and stick* a prescription.

But the next gentleman in line, a bespectacled sage with adroit eyes, was quite understanding and made a comment which made me smile.

‘You know, I wouldn’t have minded if you had taken time to fill that blonde’s prescription.’

I laughed. ‘I think she’s married. I’m sure I saw a ring.’ It seems that all the women who frequent the pharmacy who are even just somewhat attractive are the ones who sport a shiny bauble on the left ring finger. And so I’ve just stopped trying to spot the circlet of death.

The elderly gentleman paid for his prescription and then let a coy grin slide to the left-most edge of his lips from the expertly hidden, sex-filled part of the brain that all males possess, no matter how old. ‘No, she didn’t have a ring. Trust me, son.’ He winked and was gone.

That little interchange got me through the rest of the night, but the blonde did not return, much to my chagrin and dismay.

But she did come back the next evening...

To be continued…

--
*in the olden days, prescription labels had to be licked to activate the adhesive, hence the phrase, ‘lick and stick’. In the modern era, ‘lick and stick’ has come to mean other things entirely unrelated to pharmacy practice.

Shopper at Walmart - m4w - 22

'Dear cute brunette in the black designer frames and wool sweater,

'Did we have something going on at the Walmart on [address deleted]? I had passed you while going to electronics the first time and you looked at my face, and then you did the thing that most guys normally do, that is look down and check the package.

‘Were you looking at my Droid which I had holstered, or was it something else? Like my watch, perhaps? Or something more central? Just letting you know that I caught you looking!

‘A few minutes later, I came back to frozen foods because I forgot to get something. And when that box of indeterminate-ness (I forget what it was because all I could think about was you) dropped from the shelf, it was entirely by accident, but my subconscious may have had something to do with it. I leaned over to pick it up, but as I don’t have eyes in the back of my head, I couldn’t tell if you were checking me out again. If you did sneak another peek, did you like what you see?

‘If perchance, you were thinking, “wtf is this douchebag doing in a white tee and hoodie with pulled-up sleeves with some brick hanging off his right hip,” then please ignore this message.

‘Otherwise, call me at (832) 555-2134*. It’s a Houston area code, but I’m all Dallas, baby.’
--

I’m almost tempted to post this on missed connections via craigslist. As you might know from wasting time reading the posts, they're not all entirely serious, like this one, where the poster writes

You live 3rd Floor at Seville Lofts, Uptown/Oaklawn. Saturday Jan 23 around 3:30-5pm, I saw you blowing someone then he [expletive deleted] you for about an hour. You were right in front of your window, patio door and on your couch the entire time. Thanks for the great show! Tell me something about what happened. I'd love to watch you two go at it again.

I googled Seville Lofts, and it's not that far away (I'm hoping the 'm4m'** in the title was a typo). Then I realized I have internet... and I searched for ways not to be a creepy (and possibly gay) stalker.

And about the white tee and hoodie, in my defense, the Redbox finally had Inglourious Basterds and Burn after Reading in stock, so I had to haul ass to get there before someone else got it. Inglourious Basterds was amazing. I absolutely love Quentin Tarantino, but not in a m4m kind of way. In contrast, I love Melanie Laurent in every kind of way possible. I must learn French!

--
*a real number, just not my number.
**man for man

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?

SPIDER: Creepy Customer Service

SPIDER Re-Release, part two of ?

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

--

Sep 4, 2009

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

--

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

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

---

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

One Less Woman and Change (Resolution) #2

Dear Romo wannabes,

A couple of years ago, I was at a wedding for a daughter of one of Mama's friends. It wasn't anything remarkable; it was a typical Viet wedding in most respects, including the obligatory bottle of cognac. The bride and groom were Buddhist, so there wasn't a church ceremony (not that I would have attended had there been one).

During the reception, one of the guests made a comment which I'll always remember.

'Weddings always make me sad. It means that there is one less woman in the world for me.'

Although it was an intelligent wisecrack, the gravity and beauty of it was compromised by the fact that the guy happened to be the bride's brother. And if he had meant what he said, it would be a bit icky to say the least.

Well friends, today is a very sad day for me. I report that some lucky guy named Mike Fisher, a hockey player from Ottawa, has proposed to Carrie Underwood, and she has accepted. It is a black mark in what would otherwise be a joyous Holiday season. I think I may have to buy myself another watch to get me out of my dysphoric anguish. Why, Carrie, why? Tai sao (Viet for 'why')!

I've never been much of a Carrie fan until I heard the single Cowboy Casanova from her new album Play On. It has a real catchy tune and in my tamer dreams, I envision myself to be that cowboy Casanova, even if I don't have blue eyes (I can always get colored contact lenses). I liked the fact that in Cowboy Casanova she doesn't say what she'd do to 'suped up 4-wheel drives' or what she'd carve into 'legacies' (leather seats). Not that I'd have anything to worry about since I'm still balling in a dinged up '03 Corolla for the time being. I hope Tony Romo's ride is doing okay (was the car-hate song before or after their relationship?).

I think it is easy for people to idealize celebrities. They're beautiful on the surface, and the media digs a little bit to get you some feel-good stories about their personalities while they're snooping around for the trash. And you know you probably have a hydrocodone tablets's chance in an opiod-addict's medicine cabinet (my version of a snowball's chance in hell) of getting with them. So it's easy to say you have a thing for Carrie Underwood, Marisa Miller, Jessica Alba and the like (or Brad Pitt, Johnny Depp, Ryan Phillippe for the gals) and then just forget about them until you gawk over the latest red carpet photos or Maxim spreads.

But with women in day to day life, the ones I might have a chance with, I dismiss them rather offhand without a much thought. Like the cute blonde with blue eyes in the Arkansas hoodie (I'll forgive her choice of schools) who was walking around the OTC section of the pharmacy counter. I made up some BS in my head about how it would be frowned upon to hit on customers (one sitting through the sexual harassment seminar at orientation was enough). And that was that. Now a few hours later, I sit thinking about how big of a coward I am.

I'm still pretty nervous about the company policy thing, so I guess I'll have to get out more and be braver. Plus I have a leg up on other guys since I can always resort to using the I'm a doctor line. That's bound to get some digits, right?

Guys, what are your patented pick-up lines? Girls, do you think pick-up lines are cheesy? Do you really go for pick-up lines anyway, or is it only with guys who you would have gone out with in the first place no matter what they had said?