The Point of Diminishing Returns (PoDR)

to Freakonomics subscribers:

I've been meaning to write this post for a long while now, and I've actually had a couple longish discussions with friends about this concept of diminishing returns. It is my absolute favorite concept I learned from high school economics, and I find it to be the most practical to daily life. Sure, supply and demand gets all the fanfare and has a two line graph showing the point of intersection where suppliers and demand-ers should meet for sheer nirvana and such, but it doesn't really do much for people who aren't in the business of supplying or demanding. Well, a whole bunch of us are in the business of demanding lots of things, but it doesn't correlate as nicely or as quickly as those textbook graphs. Examples: the cost of the original PS3 or the current iPhone--it takes a while for supply & demand to take over to find the magic $299 and $199 price points, respectively.

But diminishing returns, now that you see everyday. You see it in my blog (I posted a lot, got fed up with it, and stopped, and now I'm doing it again). You see it in reality TV (Survivor comes out, then Idol, but after the 25th season of Idol, you just stop caring). Wikipedia-ly stated, 'In economics, diminishing returns (also called diminishing marginal returns) refers to how the marginal production of a factor of production starts to progressively decrease as the factor is increased.' Simply stated, after a certain point, the more you put in, the less you get out.

Ex. At a fast food joint, the more labor you hire, the more burgers you can push out. Let's say you originally had 4 employees working who churn out 80 burgers an hr which is 20/person/hr. You hire another person, and now you can do 100/hr (given that you have the demand for it). You hire another person, but now you can only get an extra 15/hr.

What happened? Well, there's not enough grill space anymore. Eventually if you keep hiring more workers, you get to the point where people just get in the way, and you actually lose production for each additional unit of labor. To maximize efficiency, you'd want to add inputs until you get to the point of diminishing [marginal] returns, that is the point where the next unit would start to have less production value (the 15 burgers/hr person). To maximize total production, you'd want to add inputs until the total production starts to turn south (where the next person hired would contribute nothing or take away from the total production).

Of course there's a whole bunch of factors in determining how much inputs you should use. But it's all very academic and boring, and doesn't have a popular iPhone app for it, so who cares?

I promise, it's really useful in figuring out why you and people around you do things! Maybe..
--

My idea of diminishing returns doesn't concern inputs and outputs. It deals with the net gain/pleasure per additional unit of stuff.

Mama told me this about my favorite dish when I was a kid: 'Eat one day, you desire for more. Eat two days straight, you grow tired'*. Turns out to be very true. I'm so glad I live in Houston where there's such a diverse and vibrant culture of obesity which means there are diverse and vibrant restaurants. The point of diminishing returns (PoDR) depends on how much you like the food, but everyone has a point. Incidentally, my PoDR for Tex-Mex is significantly higher than for Viet food probably due to Mama's psycho-babble.

And now for a visual:


Ex. The smartphone craze:
Blue phase: first couple hours after getting the phone activated and recovery from sticker shock. 'What's the big deal with a touch screen phone? Texting while driving is even harder now that I have to peck at those virtual keys! And it can't even make calls without a special cover on it!'
Green phase: 'OMG, there's an app for that? So friggin awesome!'
Yellow phase: 'o...m...g..., there's...an...app...for...that...haven't slept in days...eyes are fried by super AMOLED or whatever screen...'
Orange phase: 'cell phone bill is over $300, but my life had been incomplete before the advent of fruit ninja and his comrade apps which mimic bodily functions.'
Red phase: 'I have terminal brain cancer and crippling arthritis of the thumbs. If I had to pick one to be cured, it would have to be the arthritis so I can live out my last moments on this earth yelling sweet nothings to my smartphone because of its poor call quality.'
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Okay, seriously now. I did not think there was a point of diminishing returns for money, but I have sadly reached that point. Let me explain before you break out the world's tiniest violin. My hourly rate working in a small town a couple hours outside of Houston was outrageous. And the work was pretty chill, and there was ample opportunity for extra hours (not time and a half, but with extra pay on top of a ridiculous rate). And so I worked 23 12-hr shifts straight. Not once, but twice.

I figured it was just money sitting on the table, and I might as well pick it up while I still have the stamina to work all those hours. But when I paid off the debt that had any interest, the desire to work all those hours faded. Nothing had changed much except I had no reason to make money anymore. That extra dollar had diminished in value to me, especially since the gov't took a hefty chunk before I even saw it.

If I had a family or kids or a car or house, then things would have been different. I would have remained in the green phase of the DR curve since I had a reason to work. So when that job ended and I was offered a relief job, I decided to take a few months off since I was well into the yellow phase and rapidly approaching the orange.
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It was at this point that I embarked on the longish green phase of the PS3/Netflix DR curve. I finished the 80ish episodes of the Battlestar Galactica series (a really great drama, and not just for nerds/sci fi folks) and started on the first season of the X-Files before I again reached the PoDR. This was also after I spent 129 hours to get the Platinum Trophy in Final Fantasy XIII (totally worth it!).

So after a couple of months of not working much (I put in a couple of shifts here and there), my work DR curve has finally been reset, and I am ready to start working regularly again. And I'm glad to say I haven't suffered much vision loss or thumb muscle hypertrophy from the PS3/Netflix addiction.
--

I can't think of anything that doesn't in some way follow my loose interpretation of diminishing returns. Drug addicts who reach a point of tolerance (yellow) consume more and more to get the same high (orange), ultimately resulting in their death (red). But for most things, when a person or thing gets to that yellow or orange phase, they back off until that thing or activity feels good (or tolerable) again. One just has to figure where that point is before they surpass it and have a hard time getting back to the green phase. Or one can find ways to shift the curve by finding reasons to continue an activity, such as making money to pay for kids' tuition.

Even studying for classes which rapidly reaches the PoDR, you can shift the DR curve by thinking about the reasons for your current state of torture. Like the cash you'll make when you graduate, or the lives you'll affect, or that general feeling of satisfaction of accomplishing something really big.

But sometimes, regardless of how good you determine your point(s) of diminishing returns, you just need a break. So take that break. The world and its problems will still be there tomorrow. And you'll be in a better mindset to take on those challenges.

I apologize for the sappy ending. It really isn't like me to be all inspirational and non-sarcastic/satirical.
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*It's much more poetic/sparse in Vietnamese: an mot ngay, them, an hai ngay, chan. Literal: Eat one day, hunger; Eat two days, tired.

Death of AIM

Dear harried folks,

The truly wonderful thing about being done with school is the freedom to do and not do whatever the hell you want. If the only thing I do besides work is to sleep all day and night on my 7 off, I could very well do that. It's not at all productive, but who cares? Sleep to me is akin to another activity that starts with 's', which is to say it's immensely pleasurable.

And being virtually stress-free, I've begun to understand the ideal of single-tasking, that you do best when you focus your entire attention on a single task at a time. It is a luxury that I daresay few people have in the workforce when most have to bring their work home. At the pharmacy, you multitask for your whole shift, but when you leave, you get to leave everything there. And thankfully your salary isn't tied into your performance (there is incentive pay, but it pales in comparison to the base salary and for the most part isn't worth stressing over*). That's one of the greatest perks of my job: when I leave, I leave.

Related to this myth of multitasking, which you can read a review of the book here by Dave Crenshaw, is that I've pretty much stopped using AIM, or AOL Instant Messenger. I found that the people I really wanted to chat with aren't on there, and the ones that I don't want to chat with would annoyingly pop in ('hey wats up?' 'nothin much, chillin' ...5 minutes pass, aZnHaVoc04** has signed off ) when I'm reading my favorite blog, Ball Don't Lie, which introduced me to my favorite NBA comic-strip blog, Garbage Time All-Stars***. I think most of the screen names I had on there were from high school when instant messaging was the rage.

The last time I signed on was probably over 6 months ago, and that was because I was helping a friend shop for something and we needed to paste links to websites. People whom I talk to on a regular basis have my phone number and they have phones which are capable of making phone calls and sending text messages. Some also have the ability to send email on their devices, which is even better. When I do get messages and calls, I know that the person on the other end really wants or needs to communicate with me and isn't simply bored and I'm 'available' because I'm signed on.

When I talk to someone now, I try to put effort to connect to what they are trying to say as much as possible (but I can't help it sometimes if I'm distracted because they're hot). Because no one really listens anymore. Not really. But everyone wants to talk.

My feeling is that all this new media has created more noise instead of more communication. We cannot decide what is important or we waste too much time parsing through all the nonsense.

It'd be cool if we were to write letters using quill pens and inkwells on unlined parchment and sealed our letters with hot, red wax using our crest and gave the mailboy a shilling or shekel to hand deliver to our closest friends and mortal enemies. And we'd wait patiently the next day and wonder ever so heartbreakingly why she hasn't responded yet to our latest sincere behest. To only receive a note two days later from the fair maiden's womanservant that 'the lady has gone out riding (horseback, not bareback) with Sir what's-his-face and won't be back for a fortnight.' To which you'd respond with, 'Ah, the tiresome wench! How she irks me so!'

I swear I haven't been watching the x-rated remake called Mr. Prejudice's Pride. These are some of the random thoughts that float through my head on a daily basis.

But the point I'm trying to make using a poor metaphor of Victorian novels is that people really cared and put thought into what they're trying to say (at least I would hope so). They had writing desks, a piece of furniture designed for just writing! They didn't use crackberries to tweet while on the john in 140 characters or less.

So along with eliminating all the empty calories in my diet (with the exception of tasty single malt scotch, which no one should define as empty simply because it is alcohol), I am eliminating the empty communication in my life.

It reminds me of one of the closing lines from a Supernatural episode: 'You're all so connected...but you've never been so alone.'

How true.
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*Imagine if bonuses were large like those finance CEOs: there might be misfills everywhere when pharmacists are pressured to increase numbers. But corporate execs would never do that because retail pharmacist salaries are insane as it is.
**Not the actual screenname, but pretty close. Not mines of course. I'm too classy for that.
***This was when Tracy McGrady was out with 'back spasms' and Von Wafer was actually a decent stand-in.

[Buttocks] Out of You and Me

Dear cliche users,

If I ever hear someone say that stupid phrase, 'Don't assume: you make an ass out of you and me,' I'm going to advise them to put on their most expensive outfit, go to the bad side of town, and walk from liquor store to liquor store flashing $100 dollar bills. See how far that gets them. Or they just can assume that it would probably be a bad idea.

You have to assume, you have the right to assume, and you have to take things for granted. You don't wonder in the middle of the night whether the sun will come out tomorrow or if the sky will be blue; you naturally assume it to happen because it's always happened that way. For those philosophers out there, you're not going to question every damn little thing; you'd go absolutely insane! If you have to question whether each table exists in and of itself, you'd end up eating your lunch on your lap (or does that exist? or does your lunch? or do you?).

Okay, I'm reaching the point of hyperbole. Fine. But I do get tired of people saying I generalize too much or assume too many things. That, I would contend, is the essence of my efficient thought process, the source of my intelligence. I ignore things which I feel don't matter, and I assume things which I judge can be assumed to be true. Then I distill the facts, and make a decision which happens to be correct more often than not. If I ignore what shouldn't have been ignored or assume that which should not be assumed, then I factor it in the next go-around.

People go wrong when they assume things incorrectly, thus leading to false conclusions. Or they assume racist/prejudicial ideas and voice them and get in trouble, ie Michael Richards & Mel Gibson. Caution: link contains excessive use of the n-word.

Good assumption: If you must have racist ideas, it's generally not a good idea to say them in public where people are videotaping you to be put on Youtube.

The more things that can be assumed and the more things that can be ignored, the better and more efficient the decision will be (and the more decisions you can make). That does not necessarily mean that the decision will be more accurate, just more efficient. I don't strive to be perfect in my thought; my quest is to be right the vast majority of the time. I quit going for 100s on grades a while back because perfection hindered progress.

I don't bring this up because I'm irritated that someone attacked my mode of reasoning and logic (to be right a lot of the time rather than all of the time); I bring it up because my OCD has recently flared up rather unexpectedly, and it has been quite frustrating.

To explain, I don't touch light switches or wash my hands to an excessive amount. I do like my things to be clean, in right angles, undamaged, orderly, controlled, etc. But that makes sense to me because it's efficient; I don't have to search for things because I know where they are because they have a place. Moving my stuff or damaging it will certainly piss me off, but it won't be the end of my world.

The weirdest thing, until recently, was that if I was uncertain whether I had locked my car, I'd walk back to check even if it was an entire parking lot. This only happens once every few months. And it is really just paranoia from living in Houston rather than OCD.

The truly OCD thing that has come up deals with the verification of prescriptions. For non-pharmacy folks, pharmacists get paid primarily to verify that a prescription has been filled correctly and that there aren't any major/severe interactions. This is required by law, but the law does not dictate how you're supposed to do it. You can make some hand gestures or pray or chant or trust that your techs did everything correct, but ultimately if the prescription is wrong, you're liable.

Depending on the error, you can be fined, your license can be reprimanded, you can be put on probation, and in the most severe of cases, it can even be revoked, though I've only heard of revocations for unethical things like stealing narcotics or deliberate falsifications (insurance fraud), not for an error in good faith. It's not like in It's a Wonderful Life where the druggist* becomes a bum because he misfilled a prescription for the little kid; if you make an honest mistake, they're probably not going to take away your livelihood. Probably not (again with my assumptions).

But people are another thing. They will sue sue sue like there's no tomorrow. Lawyers find ways to sue for stupid stuff that is already on the drug information sheet. Reglan: 'May cause tardive dyskinesia'. Lawyers think, 'that sounds really bad, so I can probably sue for it!' Accutane: 'May cause death, among other things'. The ambulance chasers, after reviewing the 10 pages of side effects: 'Aha! You didn't say GI side effects! Gotcha!'

So don't misfill. Because it can be potentially bad for the patient as well as very bad for you.
--

Over the past year of being a pharmacist, I've developed my own process for verification. And fortunately, I have not misfilled of my own accord as far as I know. For me, the last step of verification is to make sure that what is in the vial is what it is supposed to be. This means opening the vial and comparing it to the picture on the computer screen or with the stock bottle it came from.

This usually isn't a problem because I fill most of the prescriptions I verify since I work alone at night. And so that last step of comparing pills is generally trivial for me since I trust in my work.

Until now. Nothing has happened; there hasn't been a misfill or even a close misfill. I have found that when I have too much time on my hands, I start to doubt in the certainty of my efficient process. In my thoughts and decision-making, I aim to be most efficient, not most accurate. But as a pharmacist, I aim to be most accurate first, since they don't take your license away for being too slow. When there are several prescriptions waiting, I temper my obsession with being 100% accurate with the necessity to get them out quickly.

On the final step, I check about 3 tablets directly, and then make sure all the rest have the same relative shape and color. Then I close the vial and shake the bottle to see if it's about the right quantity (30 vs 90-day supplies). Easy peasy.

But in the dead of night, I've spent up to 2 minutes doing that last check which should only take 5 seconds max. Open, check, close, shake. Open, check, close, shake. Repeat until I get frustrated.

It's like turning a light switch on and off. It is safe to assume that when you flick the switch, it will work (even though it may potentially not work); you don't have to check 10 million times. I tell myself the same thing with the verification, and it's gotten better. It seems to be really bad when I'm tired, which will happen when you voluntarily work 23 12-hr shifts in a row.

All logic fades, and I'm left with my basest instinct to be right.
--

*not to be confused with a date-rapist, this is the old-school term for pharmacist

Nguyen the Patriot

Dear comrades,

Don't believe me when I promise you things, like follow-up posts and such. Whilst reading some of my blog, I've realized that I've failed to deliver worse than your run of the mill politician, which is really saying something unsavory. Incidentally, I think that Obama is doing a great job considering the circumstances. I don't quite understand why people are fed up about the incumbent Democrats; you knew what you were voting for: a bunch of liberal tendencies with no consistent consensuses. At least with the GOP, you're guaranteed a fight for small government, and small-minded social policies no matter what the economic/social/environmental climate. They will fight for oil companies' rights to 'drill, baby, drill' and 'spill, baby, spill' even in the aftermath of the Horizon Rig fiasco, if somewhat silently.

I must apologize for my last post. Reflecting on the mercurial climate that is my family dynamics, I've realized that our dysfunction is nothing particularly special in America. My parents aren't divorced, they aren't physically abusive (though psychological abuse is their specialty), they aren't drunks, they gamble (as is required of every Asian, especially Viets) but not to excess like some of our countrymen laying down stacks of Benjamins at a baccarat table when they only make 30k/yr, they lay some serious guilt trips but not anything more than any other parents. And on the whole, I've turned out remarkably well adjusted though this point is more than debatable. Well, I've turned out remarkably well on the surface, which is what most Asians hope for, to save face and present an outward appearance of solidarity.

And I guess that's the difference between myself and those comics on Last Comic Standing who poke fun at Mom & Pop: I am not 'allowed' to criticize or poke fun of my family because family is all that is important. And because the frustration can be so great, it erupts into a tirade against something well meaning. So I guess I'm sorry. That's a really pathetic apology, but it's the best and most sincere one I can make. Next time, I'll be sure to laugh a little at myself and my situation and my family. Because I'm not six feet under, and I don't mean that I'm not in some basement because basements are non-existent on the Gulf Coast (because of hurricanes and such). Just don't bother me when the NBA Finals are on, since it makes me resort to the baser male instincts of rooting for inconsequential displays of athleticism.

--

So comrades, my blood does not bleed red; it bleeds whatever color capitalism would be, which I imagine would be like the pastel green on the front of the new $20 bill. After I purchased my bed sheets, I found it looked a lot like that color which helps me sleep well at night.

Though socialism and communism and all the left wing stuff seems great and all in theory, it falls apart because of the human weakness (or strength) toward self-preservation and self-advancement. (I'm going to make a whole lot of sweeping generalizations based on what I feel at this very moment is 'truth' or 'near-truths'. Tomorrow I may abandon everything I say today; this is supported by my history of Benedict-Arnold-ing on my views). I very much doubt all those Communist leaders would be content to live in the same shacks as the glorified worker--they must, after all, present a strong, dignified front when greeting foreign dignitaries.

Maybe I'm misunderstanding the Red theory, but it would seem that the Commie leaders are capitalists because they get to live in all those fancy mansions and such at the expense of the working class. Then there's the lack of incentive for working hard when you're going to get compensated the same no matter what your work. Why be a doctor when a street cleaner gets paid just as much? Humans are not much more evolved than Pavlov's dog or that mouse with the pleasure bar; we will tap that bar that releases dopamine into our brains until we die of starvation with a smile on our faces. Without reward, what is the impetus to do anything? Even a sense of satisfaction in 'doing good' is a type of reward.

So yeah, I think the Commies have it wrong, because I am a loyal American and thus obligated to say so. But being an American, I am also entitled to a minimal amount of dissenting views, the more 'popular' these dissenting views, the better. Wearing a t-shirt with an impression of Che Guevara is cool if a bit common; wearing anything associated with Ho Chi Minh is generally frowned upon by nearly everyone in the U.S. Let me explain.

First of all, Uncle Ho (I'll call him that from now on but I mean it in an endearing way) looks kind of like Master Splinter from the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. And though Splinter is cool, you wouldn't wear a t-shirt with him on it. Second and more seriously, the Vietnam War is one in which the U.S. 'lost'. You can argue that there wasn't an official declaration of war and that it was simply a support of the Western-loving South Vietnam. You can argue that you couldn't declare war without erupting the Cold War between the States and the Reds. And you can argue that we could have napalmed the whole countryside (even more than we did) to eliminate the hiding places of the guerrillas, but we mercifully chose not to. All very true and all excuses. The States lost. And you're not allowed to support the enemy. Even now, there's still some tension between the U.S. and the U.K., like as if we had hooked up and left on less than amicable circumstances one time long ago, and met again at a wedding.

And third, the Viet expats who live here will pretty much firebomb your establishment if you raise the Communist Viet flag, the one with the single yellow star in the red background. You can raise the Confederate flag and be scoffed at as a hick, but you will be murdered (possibly) for raising the traitorous Commie flag--that's one thing you can trust Viet people to do (aside from gambling of course). Why? Because the expats believe Uncle Ho stole the land from them. When we talk about the Fall of Saigon in 1975, we refer to it as the year we lost our country. But you contest, 'The country is still there!' No, it's the Socialist Republic of Vietnam. And that's not the same.

But I am thankful for Uncle Ho. When I remember to give thanks to people, he's always on the top of my list. That's because without him, I would be stuck in some developing country toiling away for less than minimum wage, whether it be a democratic capitalist society or a socialist one. Because of the war, pretty much all of my family got green cards to come to America, the land of milk and honey. And I was born on this great, free soil and was granted automatic full citizenship. Man, what a deal! Give up some podunk, yellow-fever-mosquito infested, tropical hell adjacent to the South China Sea for the privilege of living in air-conditioned paradise of America. I bet people from developing countries would want to get a piece of that action.

I told my parents that, and they agreed and laughed. They said that Vietnam was one of the poorest countries, even poorer than St. Lucia, an island in the Caribbean which we lived in when I was younger. 'You couldn't be anything or anybody unless you were rich or famous or connected.' And that was that, a de facto caste system. But their laugh was mixed with a hint of pain and loss of a land once theirs. I guess even though they've moved on to an objectively 'better' place, there's the regret of a loss of innocence. Would you know you were naked unless someone told you? Would you know you were poor unless someone told you? If that was the only Vietnam they knew, what would be the difference?

So when I put it like that, I think a lot of Viet expats would have to agree with me (if begrudgingly) that it turned out pretty well, this Vietnam War thing, as long as you got to America (or Australia or the UK or any Western country). Those people who missed the last helicopter out of Saigon are still pissed to this day. Note to people of countries subject to impending collapse: get to the coast and have a big boat.

--

Besides the fact that I owe my U.S. citizenship to Uncle Ho, I also admire him as an intellectual and as a patriot. Some of the salient points of the Wikipedia article on Uncle Ho (which is probably written by the most well English spoken Commies in Vietnam) are that he studied and worked in the States (Harlem, NY), France, Russia, and China and was fluent in each country's language; he had petitioned the U.S. referencing the Declaration of Independence to help get rid of the French influence in favor of a nationalist government; and he had pretty much removed the French and Americans from Vietnam and unified it under a single government. Before he adopted the name Ho Chi Minh, he had been Nguyen Ai Quoc, or 'the Patriot'. 'It was patriotism, not communism, that inspired me.' If the Americans had responded to his petition, maybe we would have had a 51st state by now...

I think that's pretty cool to defeat a couple of western powers, don't you? It's the classic David v Goliath story. Except since America was Goliath, we can't join in David's victory. And David's country wasn't vastly improved under Communist/Socialist rule.

After reflecting a bit more before writing this, my liking of Uncle Ho isn't akin to liking Hitler or Mussolini or Stalin or such who were all nationalists at core: there wasn't any genocide to my knowledge; there were only the typical casualties (if casualties may be deemed 'typical') of war.

But again, you can't say you like the enemy, and when the Jefferson Scholars Committee had asked me whom I admired, I said Uncle Ho, for I owe the fact of my even being there to his vision of an independent Vietnam. Uncle Ho had probably cited Jeffersonian ideals in the Declaration of Independence. But as I think about it now, I'm pretty certain that the committee considered it in 'poor taste'. I probably should have picked one of the white guys in U.S. history, or one of the African-Americans that have gained enough popularity to be quoted by the white guys in Washington (think Martin Luther King, Jr, not Malcolm X).

Oh well.

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.

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

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?

My Country Tis of Thee

Dear Expats and 1st Gen Americans,

I've ceased becoming irritated when people asked me where I hail from. Just to piss them off, I say I'm from Houston. I know they're asking me of my ancestral origin, but I tell them what country I associate myself with, and that country is the United States of America. The U.S., where dreams are made, broken, and remade with only a blatant hint of racial, socioeconomic, and religious prejudice.

On the U.S. Census, I would put myself into the category of Asian/Pacific Islander and the subcategory of Vietnamese if they have that. Most people would consider me Vietnamese-American, but I think of myself as American Vietnamese. After all, I was born and raised in the States; why would I put first the name of a country I've never even seen except in internet ads? If I were adopted, would I not take the last name of my adopted parents rather than that of my blood parents?

Recently, I've noticed that it's the expatriates that have a somewhat higher tendency to ask about nationality. In their eyes, I see a sadness of a forsaken or lost country, the same sorrow I see in my grandmother's eyes as she dotes on her grandchildren who can't even speak the language. It's a similar lament I see in my mother's eyes as she recounts the stories from her teens. It is a tear that has yet remained unshed from my eyes.

One such expatriate came by the pharmacy the other day. After the transaction, he asked the question I've heard 756 times:

Expat: So where are you from? Korea? [I do not look Korean at all]

Me: I was born and raised in Houston, but my parents were from Vietnam. They came over after Saigon fell.

Expat: And when was that?

Me: In '75, a few years after the Tet Offensive.

Expat: Have you ever been back there?

Me: No, never been. I don't have any plans in the near future.

Expat: Why? Are you scared?

Me: It's just the lack money and the work schedule.

--

But truthfully, I am a bit scared of what I'd find. Sure, people will try to swindle and charge me a lot more for something than it's worth, but I can afford to pay $1.50 (converted to Viet currency) for a bowl of pho even if the locals only pay $0.25. That's not the reason.

I am afraid that I'd see the land I had lost, my birthright, and break down crying. I'm afraid that I'd return and my ancestral home would reject me as foreign, something that is not part of itself. I'm afraid to look upon the 4 and 5-star resorts that grace the shores of a land once blasted by B-52s and razed by napalm flamethrowers. I'm afraid I'd look upon at my distant cousins and they'd laugh at my broken Vietnamese. And I'm afraid that the country I would be visiting is not that true Vietnam that my parents fled from.

And Vietnam no longer exists; only the Socialist Republic of Vietnam does. Saigon no longer exists; it is now Ho Chi Minh City. And it's not minor quibble about proper names; if you fly a Communist Viet flag on any expatriate soil, you will have a small uprising on your hands. The yellow star on a blood red field is an insult to all those refugees who braved the Pacific on fishing boats and helicopters. In our hearts, only the yellow flag with three horizontal stripes exists even if no country will claim it as its own.

I know what my ancestral country is; I don't want to go there only to find it gone, like that waif who finds the address of his birth parents only to discover that they have long passed away.

And so I abstain from returning to delay the realization of the truth that I already know: The country of my fathers is gone.

I will always love America, and I wear the badge of 'American' proudly (though I may neglect to mention that fact if visiting a hostile country). But there will always be that part of me that longs for the rice paddies that are no longer there, the talk of the brash fishermen chewing on tobacco and pickled-dried fish, and the pretty girls in ao dai who tease me in my dreams.

[I'd marry the girl on the left, but I think the one on the right could teach me some things]

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

SPIDER Re-Release, part fo'

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

--

Sep 12, 2009

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Yes, now take your drugs and leave.'

--

Bonus extra material on the 2-disc Widescreen version:

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

So What?

A couple of years ago, I was accompanying my friend's “friend”'s sister in the back seat of his ride while we were driving somewhere to get something to eat. I don't remember how I was invited, but I was pretty sure it was not a double date. I was, however, supposed to keep this girl company, which wasn't a problem; I've been a designated not-so-pretty friend fodder in the past (aka, wingman).

Although I'm not terribly attractive, I do think I have a winning personality when I'm on my psych meds (just a bit of alcohol, no SSRIs). I can listen like the best of them, nod my head, and say stuff like 'uh huh' to pretend like I'm interested. It's all in a day's work. Like a good medical professional, I don't ever come across as surprised or shocked (you can't imagine the weird things people call about in the middle of the night).

So this friend's friend's sister (let's abbreviate with FFS from now on) was absolutely gaga over something on her iPod. Respectfully, I asked her what all the rage was. She gave me the headphones, turned it to this genius's best track and told me to listen. FFS went so far as to shove the left headphone into my right ear. Again, I handle it in wingman fashion and give her a stellar smile.

'What am I supposed to be listening to?'

'Just listen! The first part isn't that great, but the good part is coming up. Do you hear it?'

'Uh... yea. This part right here?'

FFS nodded her head. I nod my head too to mirror her body movements (working on my 'game').

'Yea, it's really uh... great...'

'I know, right?!? He's like a genius. I want to have his love-child!'

She did say the world 'love-child'; I'm not exaggerating. I was obviously cut off from the land of the mentally stable and sane. I picked out some stuff from the 'music' and asked questions to try to get her to talk (this is an intermediate gaming technique).

'The sound of the baby crying. What do you think he means there?'

FFS said some incoherent stuff which I have forgotten.

'And the...what do they call them? Cymbals?'

'Like oh my gosh, you heard those too? Those are a representation of his blah blah blah...'

Utter, unadulterated refuse. Garbage. Stuff that the Oscar the Grouch on Sesame Street wouldn't allow in his abode (which is a trash can), and she thinks it's genius. I don't remember the artist's name (and I use the term 'artist' quite liberally), but I probably wouldn't want to name him, just to avoid any libelous lawsuits. I'm sorry, but mixing together clips of babies crying, doors closing, people screaming, together with some cymbals and percussion and woodwinds do not make a good song.

What is good music? Peoples' tastes vary dramatically. In my iPod, I have an eclectic mix of decades old rock (Eagles, Kansas, Journey, Pink Floyd, etc), hardcore gangsta rap (Tupac, Snoop, and the like), southern 'country rap tunes' (aka UGK), some contemporary pop (Taylor Swift & Colbie Caillat), and my first jazz album: Miles Davis's Kind of Blue [Legacy Edition]. Art and music are whatever you make them to be. I won't like everything the next person likes, and he/she won't like everything I like (especially when it's Pimp C telling a girl to 'get her knees dirty' and do stuff with his 'pipe'). I certainly didn't enjoy that gibberish that girl pumped unconsented into my ears.

I used to be quite close-minded in my choice of music. Being an inner-city kid, I've always enjoyed the heart-skipping bass of a good beat, interlaced with words of violence and desperation against a life we didn't choose to live. The rap I listen to makes me think about the human condition, how to rise up, how to succeed, or simply how to live in all this madness. That's why I listen to Tupac and not this modern drivel about doing the 'stanky leg' or 'soulja boy'. Most popular music nowadays (stuff that gets serious airtime) seem one-dimensional, choosing to focus on the materialism, money, and fame to block out the realities of poverty, ignorance, and hopelessness. But that's a diatribe for another day.

What opened my mind out of my monopoly of rap was a National Public Radio (NPR) segment about Miles Davis. It played a clip from 'So What', the iconic track from the iconic album 'Kind of Blue.' The first couple of trumpet blares seemed to ask 'so what?' And it repeated asking 'so what? So what? So what?' Then another trumpet (or the same trumpet) went on a solo to answer the question, in a deeply melodic fashion. Although in answering, it seemed to even evoke the same question, 'so what?' Then there was the backdrop of the bass and piano, both keeping time and complementing the horns.

I know I'm such a jazz newbie, but there was something so magical about that first time I listened to Miles Davis that made me want to confess my undying love to the genre. The music seems to take a collection of the problems of society today, put them in concert seats, and play them a chorus of 'so what?'

When I listened, truly listened, to jazz for the first time, my inner soul said to me, 'So what about violence and oppression? So what about poverty and ignorance? So what about people dying? As long as you're alive to recognize the problem, there is still hope. But you mustn't let the thoughts of all the evil in the world crush you under its weight. And if you need a moment to forget the problems and scream out “So what?”, it will be alright.

'Tomorrow will be another day. Tomorrow you will resume to fight, whatever the 'fight' may be. If you're a little tired today, go rest and regroup. You are not giving up; you are simply taunting death if but for a moment, for no one gives the reaper the slip. But you won't die today, and hopefully not tomorrow.'

So if you've never sat down to listen to Jazz, I challenge you to turn everything off, all your phones and other electronic knick-knacks, silence the rumble of your many thoughts, click this link (Miles Davis's So What) and experience an other-worldly experience. What does jazz have to say to you? What does your soul have to say to you if you only but stopped and listened?

If you don't like it, so what? Not everything is for everyone. But if you do like it, don't keep the secret. Go tell it on the mountain.