[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

$20 Lines

Dear tabloid readers,

I've been following the P-- Principle to the very letter. In the past 6 weeks, I've only had 5 days off from work, and I spent those driving back to Dallas to return my apartment keys (I also won a few bills playing Hold'em in Oklahoma, but that's another story). During this time, I've made a crapload of money and lost a crapload of sleep. 'You gotta get it while the gettin's good,' as the saying goes. Fortunately (or unfortunately), I won't have the opportunity to work extra hours in the future because they hired another night guy. In a way, it's kind of like a buffet line: all that money lying there looks good, but you know it's going to be the death of you if you get too much (or you'll just get filthy filthy rich!).

So writing has been put on hold for now. I plan to post more during my next week off, but you can't ever trust me to follow through. My excuse is that I was raised that way: my parents never kept their promises. That's okay; I'll wipe away my tears with Benjamins.
--

During the week before I started my new job, I read a fantastic line in Robert Penn Warren's All the King's Men that I've kept with me whenever I've felt depressed or tired. To be vulgar, it was orgasmic except there wasn't a mess to clean up afterward. And you didn't feel guilty or dirty. Okay, maybe a little dirty like joking with coworkers about the hot girl who just got a prescription for Valtrex 1gm TID ('suuurrreee it's for chicken pox!').

I was going to write about 5 more paragraphs about pretty much nothing, but I'm tired and I'm working tonight. So here is the premature 'grand finale'*.

"Lois looked edible, and you know it was tender all the way through, a kind of mystic combination of filet mignon and a Georgia peach aching for the tongue and ready to bleed gold."

When I read it, I thought, 'That was so much more satisfying than a lap dance, and I didn't even have to pay $20 for it!'

And that's why I read classics instead of the NY Times Bestseller stuff.
--

One of the techs figured out my age (early 20s) from when I got my annual flu shot (Go get your flu shot!) and said, 'Wow, you are really mature for your age.'

I laughed and responded, 'Nah, I just keep my professional side real professional. I'm as Jersey Shore-ish as they come.' I proceeded to joke about how people think I'm good at math. It's likely something about the squinty eyes that make us see numbers better.

--
*euphemism for ejaculation

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.

Are Phone Holsters Douche-y?

Dear commentators,

This is a question of vital importance! Are phone holsters douche-y? What about the horizontal ones? Here's a post by some guy with a crackberry whose ass has done incoherent things with his phone, so he's wondering whether he should get the holster that automatically locks the phone when it's in its sleeve.

(let's ignore the debate about whether crackberry's are douche-y)

A little background:

I have always had a flip phone, so ass-dialing has never been a problem for me, especially since I've always kept my phone in my front pockets. My first phone was a clamshell monstrosity, complete with grayscale screen that came prepacked with a cheesy plastic holster which I didn't even remove from the wrapping. I had baggier jeans in high school, so it wasn't that big of a deal.

Two years later, I upgraded to the trusty, ubiquitous Motorola Razr, which after almost 4 years has finally crapped out on me (I take care of my stuff well). The sight that turned me off of cell holsters was when I saw some Asian middle-aged man with work boots, button down striped shirt tucked into faded jeans, and a plastic holster with a Razr attached.

I felt like screaming, 'WTF? Is the Razr so thick that it couldn't fit in your pockets? It's called the RAZR!!! How big of a douche are you?'

At times, I wished that my Razr was thinner, especially considering that its counterpart in the other front pocket is a svelte Coach Leather card case barely reaching 0.4" thick when fully loaded. Why I haven't had more compliments on my taste is beyond my comprehension.

But my current phone, the Motorola Droid, though a very sleek and sessy* beast, is decidedly heftier than my previous cells, like the fuller women in Renaissance paintings. And though it will fit in my pocket, there is a very noticeable bulge. And just forget about using the front pockets of a pair of slacks.

Before I bought my phone, I had come to the decision that I'd have to holster it, preferably horizontally. The guy at the store made some suggestions about possibly trying out the Droid Eris which is cheaper and thinner, but I wanted a physical keyboard for all my writerly thoughts.

The sales rep also shot me a look when I went straight for the leatherette side-holster. I thought to myself, 'Whatever dude. You're a sales rep at Verizon, and you're probably still in high school.' Though logically flawed, ad hominem attacks make me feel better.

But since I do care very much what my friends think, I'm going to put this out there: Pertaining to men, are side holsters douche-y even if the phone bulge would be a bit awkward? Are there better options for my Droid?

This question is of critical importance to national security and more importantly, my 'action'** rate!

--

*my stylized version of 'sexy'

**'action' is a euphemism of a somewhat dirty word that little kids use to call their feline pets

SPIDER: Would you like some fresh breh-ade?

Dear Fairfield visitors,

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

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

--

Sep 11, 2009

me: 'What? Breh-ade?'

'Yes, breh-ade.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

--

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

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

About the date, I didn't feel like writing anything about 9/11 on September 11th. I figured there would be plenty more people with better writing skills doing in memoriam pieces. And so I did what I do best: write a bit of comedy.

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

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.

Senior Rings

Dear Saved By the Bell fans,

Balfour’s business model depends primarily on school pride and the popularity that exists only amongst seniors during their last year in school. Fortunately for them, it works enough to pry a couple hundred from enough cash-strapped students to make it somewhat profitable. They did not get anything from me; all my cash went to one of the only two adornments a guy can wear without question: the wristwatch. The other adornment is the circlet of death typically worn on the finger next to the pinky on the left hand. Let us have a moment of silence for our fallen comrades. May their mates forgive them their foibles and not nag them too terribly much.

I had recently watched an episode of Saved by the Bell where Zack (Mark-Paul Gosselaar) gets tricked into buying fake rings for the entire school. And it seemed like the entire school got a ring. Honestly? Was it just the times (a 90s era sitcom) or do most people at predominantly white schools buy rings?

As a male in the real world (i.e. out of school and working), I find that tailoring first impressions is a must to be successful in any venture. The clothes someone chooses and the expression someone wears on his face tells a lot about the character, even if I don’t know a shred of the ‘personality’. The exterior gives an impression of the interior. Always. A man who doesn’t take care of himself externally likely doesn’t take care of himself internally. And the converse is mostly true as well, except in the case of depressed narcissists, which is fairly common (a psychologically tortured person with a show-stopping exterior)*.

This is not in defense of people who are shallow. And I'm not saying that the 'inside' doesn't count. I am simply stating that people develop preconceived notions because of a generalized perception of truth, which may or may not be ultimately true. As one of my favorite authors** wrote, 'If it looks like a duck, and quacks like a duck, we have at least to consider the possibility that we have a small aquatic bird of the family anatidae on our hands.' If you see what looks like a car but you've never actually seen the model before, would it be prejudicial to think that it has four wheels, a steering column, a gearbox and brakes?

(Finally getting to the point of this post) So in my opinion, a man who wears a class ring is stuck in the nostalgia of former days long lost. Or he is still a boy in the midst of getting some serious poo-tang as a high school/ college senior. (Maybe I should have gotten a class ring). A class ring is like a letterman jacket, an article that is only attractive to pre-pubescent girls and those under the tender age of legal consent. Whereas my Gucci has turned heads from 12 to 21 to 51 to 71.

Thankfully I haven’t seen a letterman jacket except at church, worn by obvious teens. And fortunately, the class ring is starting to phase out among the younger crowd, though it seems that Aggies and Longhorns still have a tendency to pimp the right ring finger.

[insert one of 10,000,000 Aggie jokes here]. Half my high school who went to college when to A&M, so I think I can say this. If they're insulted, they can always point out that my alma mater's website is www.uh.edu (double-u double-u double-u dot uh dot com.

I can’t say anything about women with class rings since I clueless about women fashion. All I know is that some Manolo Blahniks and Jimmy Choos cost as much as my entire watch collection, and my watches never touch the pavement.

--
*reference: all the people who end up on TMZ.
**Douglas Adams, author of the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy

Hickville 5-0 at 3 AM

Speeders anonymous,

Some 40 miles outside Dallas at 2:30 in the morning, I saw a Crown Victoria creep up from the left on-ramp on I-45. I didn’t have my nightvision goggles (I had left those at Marisa’s condo), but I knew the look of that most despised of American cars. Most minorities and speeders know the look of that ugly mass of metal from far away even in the pitch of night. I had passed by its younger brothers, the Impala and the Charger at 30 minute intervals parked under overpasses all along I-45, both with their headlights off.

But I’m too smart to even have to slam on the brakes; I was cruising at a blistering 64 mph (in a 65 mph speed limit zone). Sure I almost get flattened by large 18-wheelers all the time, but I haven’t gotten a ticket yet in the dozen or so times I’ve driven back and forth from Dallas.

The regular payoff is the gas mileage. It takes only about 7.5 gallons to get to Houston in my trusty Corolla with cruise control activated. At a higher speed, it would probably be about 9-10 gallons. So that’s $3-5 dollars I’m saving so far (4 trips and I get a free lapdance, like the defunct Subway sandwich card).

The not-so regular payoff is the lack of tickets and the lack of fear of being pulled over by Hickville 5-0. I don’t know about you, but I am deathly scared of smalltown cops who might pull me over and call me ‘son’ and say stuff like ‘you’re not from around here’ or ‘chai nee boy’. Granted, I’m a natural born Texan, but Sgt Prejudice doesn’t know that. All he knows is that I’m disrespecting his little speed trap of a town in my Jap-made car. And that I’m another victim in the monthly quota that he swears he does not keep.

I’d pay $200 or whatever the cost is for a speeding ticket, but I just dread the thought of the whole ordeal of being pulled over in the middle of nowhere.

What made this Hickville 5-0 so annoying was that he also cruised at 64 mph just 3 car lengths behind me to my right hand side (I-45 is 3 lanes at this point). And he stayed there for what seemed like 5 miles. Sgt a-holio never gained nor lost ground on me; he just waited for me to break that magical 65 barrier where he can turn on the sirens and belittle me. But a little under 5 minutes later, he exited at another insignificant exit out of my life.

I guess I’m being a little prejudicial myself, having judged this cop before I even got to know him. But honestly, have you ever seen a cop drive the speed limit? He was just hankering for some of my cash.