Dear Guitar Hero/Rockband recovering addicts,
The other day while dispensing a prescription for an insulin analogue (an insulin that has been modified to alter its pharmacology), I had a quick musing about the brand name on the box. This particular insulin-analogue has been around for a few years now; I’ve dispensed it as an intern when I was in school. But I think the development of this particular delivery device is a (relatively) new thing.
Just a quick background: Insulin in the olden days would just come in vials and would need to be drawn up in a syringe separately. Most insulin still comes this way, and most customers will have a prescription for both the insulin and the syringes (I like to tap the sign that reads 'NO SYRINGE SALES WITHOUT PRESCRIPTION'). But a few drug companies had the smart idea of making pre-filled syringes and packaging those in boxes. Voila. The insulin pen (so-called because it looks like a pen) was born.
Diabetics would just need to attach a needle to the device and inject themselves. And since the pen could control the amount of insulin injected, there wouldn’t be need to draw up each individual dose. I’m not insulin-dependent, but I’d bet it would suck to have to draw up each dose of insulin and stick yourself several times a day, so at least these pen devices make it mildly less inconvenient. And I think you could tote around a pen without having to refrigerate it. I wish I had an pharmacist-intern to look up the answer, because that's what they're for (besides fetching coffee).
And the boxes the pre-filled pens come in are fairly large, so I like being able to stick the label on it without having to fold it around the box. If you’ve labeled a Novolin insulin box, you know how irritating it can be to have a flap of prescription label hanging around the edge of a box (or is it just my being anal?).
Getting back to the product, I’ve dispensed this particular pen device quite a few times, but for some reason I was thinking about old-school rock and the now ubiquitous RockBand/GuitarHero/Clone games.
I waxed silently in my head, ‘Lantus Solostar. That sounds a lot like a title for one of those video games!’
Then I said it aloud, causing the (pharmacy) tech to give me a funny look that implied, ‘WTF are you talking about?’ Sometimes you should keep your random thoughts to yourself. But then again, silences can be awkward.
Sunday, March 7
Saturday, February 13
DacBiet
Dear sobriquet detractors,
I like my name. In Vietnamese, it means ‘bright mind’, which is a bit of a presumptuous name to call a kid, especially when you’re not sure if he will turn out to be all that smart. But since it’s a nice name with a nice ring to it (in Vietnamese at least), Viet people will insist on calling their kids ‘Minh Tri.’ And since it can seem that more than half of Viet people have the last name ‘Nguyen’, more than several will have my exact same first, middle, and last names. Actually, a quick search of Facebook for ‘Tri Nguyen’ will yield 3,300+ hits (before the vilified FB update).
It makes a fella feel real special. What also makes a guy feel special is when he gets a text message likely intended for someone else.
Me: uh…this is tri. wrong number?
Friend: hahahha, sorry tri!! i have another tri on my phone. i had made dinner plans and i had to cancel
Great. Even amongst friends, I’m not the only ‘Tri’ they know. But I do think that my unique Americanized pronunciation (like the letter ‘g’) sets me apart from the other Tri’s. And I do sign my posts with a lowercase ‘g’ to further my identity building. But sadly, for legal documents and other stuff like Facebook, you have to use your real name.
But I am special! (and not in a special needs way, not that there's anything wrong with that). I demand that I be the only person with my name! I’ll eliminate the rest of the poseurs one day, but in the meantime to set myself apart, I have donned a moniker which describes my uniqueness: DacBiet.
It means ‘special’ in Vietnamese. Most commonly, you might have seen it as one of the options for your pho, as in pho dac biet. Though dac biet is used like ordering the ‘special of the day’, it also has the meaning of ‘unique’.
And if you’ve managed to put up with my writing and rambling thus far, you will undoubtedly agree with my claim to being different than the rest, that I’m one of a kind. If not, you will.
Already people have taken notice of the identifying ‘middle name’ on Facebook. When new friends send requests of amity, they won’t be bewildered by the numerous impostors. They will simply have to search for ‘dacbiet’ (without a space), and they will find moi.
Notably, I had thought about using the title dai ca, meaning big boss or captain, but some guy had already snatched it up. In his about me description, 'Tri Dai Ca Nguyen' referred to himself as a ‘...pretty hard n*gga to be with' and states that 'If i'm goin forward, and you can't keep up, you gon be left behind.'
How brash! And it's a bit offputting that a non-my den* person would refer to himself by the N-word. Some people are just so full of themselves. Thankfully I’m not like that**.
--
*African-American or black
**On second thought, I probably need gastric bypass surgery because I'm so full of myself.
I like my name. In Vietnamese, it means ‘bright mind’, which is a bit of a presumptuous name to call a kid, especially when you’re not sure if he will turn out to be all that smart. But since it’s a nice name with a nice ring to it (in Vietnamese at least), Viet people will insist on calling their kids ‘Minh Tri.’ And since it can seem that more than half of Viet people have the last name ‘Nguyen’, more than several will have my exact same first, middle, and last names. Actually, a quick search of Facebook for ‘Tri Nguyen’ will yield 3,300+ hits (before the vilified FB update).
It makes a fella feel real special. What also makes a guy feel special is when he gets a text message likely intended for someone else.
Me: uh…this is tri. wrong number?
Friend: hahahha, sorry tri!! i have another tri on my phone. i had made dinner plans and i had to cancel
Great. Even amongst friends, I’m not the only ‘Tri’ they know. But I do think that my unique Americanized pronunciation (like the letter ‘g’) sets me apart from the other Tri’s. And I do sign my posts with a lowercase ‘g’ to further my identity building. But sadly, for legal documents and other stuff like Facebook, you have to use your real name.
But I am special! (and not in a special needs way, not that there's anything wrong with that). I demand that I be the only person with my name! I’ll eliminate the rest of the poseurs one day, but in the meantime to set myself apart, I have donned a moniker which describes my uniqueness: DacBiet.
It means ‘special’ in Vietnamese. Most commonly, you might have seen it as one of the options for your pho, as in pho dac biet. Though dac biet is used like ordering the ‘special of the day’, it also has the meaning of ‘unique’.
And if you’ve managed to put up with my writing and rambling thus far, you will undoubtedly agree with my claim to being different than the rest, that I’m one of a kind. If not, you will.
Already people have taken notice of the identifying ‘middle name’ on Facebook. When new friends send requests of amity, they won’t be bewildered by the numerous impostors. They will simply have to search for ‘dacbiet’ (without a space), and they will find moi.
Notably, I had thought about using the title dai ca, meaning big boss or captain, but some guy had already snatched it up. In his about me description, 'Tri Dai Ca Nguyen' referred to himself as a ‘...pretty hard n*gga to be with' and states that 'If i'm goin forward, and you can't keep up, you gon be left behind.'
How brash! And it's a bit offputting that a non-my den* person would refer to himself by the N-word. Some people are just so full of themselves. Thankfully I’m not like that**.
--
*African-American or black
**On second thought, I probably need gastric bypass surgery because I'm so full of myself.
Friday, February 12
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
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
Thursday, February 11
The Rotation Files, Pt 1
Dear rising 4th year pharmacy students around the country,
You don't have to resort to feel-good posts written by idealistic fourth-years who are going to do a pharmacy residency and are afraid for their scholarly lives of ruining a reputation they have yet to make. You get the low-down g-style that you're used to and love.
Unfortunately, like Mystery and Mystery's Lounge, you'll only be privy to the deepest secrets if you're in the inner circle of friends, who are basically people I trust not to reveal my secrets to the unworthy. Most of my tips will be hum-drum stuff, but I will attempt to point out stuff that other people may not have noticed (but are within tasteful reason and don't seem manipulative).
Let me first start off by saying that, 'Impressing preceptors is a lot like picking up chicks, except it's much easier.'*
The reason why I'm drawing the parallel between how to impress preceptors and how to pick up girls is that the concepts are fairly similar (as I am figuring out reading all these PUA material). Though I'm not a natural pickup artist, I was decent on rotations and my preceptors all liked me (so I hope!). I think pickup artists would rock rotations given some pharmacy knowledge.
I'll also frame the teachings by progressing from beginnner to intermediate to advanced lessons. Let me make the disclaimer that these posts will be about how to interact with preceptors, not about what you should read for such and such rotation. Evidence and literature change every day, and I don't keep up with that stuff.
In a way, if I had done the residency route and became a preceptor myself, this is how I'd like my interns to act.
Part 1 - Newbie Lessons: Mostly common sense, but needs to be said.
Teachers and professors like me because I'm intelligent. I slept in Org Chem every time at 6PM (5:30-7PM, TTh classes), but Dr. X never called me out on it because I made 100s on his tests. Same thing happened in pharmacy school with my sleeping. Intelligence is like money and power; it is intrinsically attractive to most teachers as the dollar bill is intrinsically attractive to a majority of women**. But if you weren't a studious worker bee, no matter. Rotations are about interpersonal communication. Note that you will not get away with sleeping on rotations, no matter how good you are.
Lesson 1: Show up on time and properly dressed. This is how you make a good first impression. When you contact them ahead of time (email is fine but make sure your email address it's not something like vietballa27@gmail.com) to learn of the time and place to meet up on the first day, be very professional. Err on the side of being uptight. One of my mantras is you can always dress down when you're too professional (by taking off the coat, removing tie, etc).
A friend of mine got slammed for asking the, 'So what is the dress?' question. Here's how to phrase it: 'So, just to confirm, the dress is professional, is that correct?' It makes you sound somewhat intelligent while confirming the required apparel. If they say you can wear scrubs, then great. But don't buy scrubs beforehand, because some places restrict the colors.
For the gents, always wear a tie (and not of Playboy bunnies, go to Ross/Marshalls and get some conservative ones for $10) on the first day. After a week with a tie, you can calibrate your look to the rest of the men on the ward. Stick to solid blue or solid white button-downs. For the ladies, wear comfortable shoes and know that this is not the club; even if you want to attract the cute resident physicians, this is not the place nor time.
Lesson 2: Be enthusiastic and open to learn. And smile; that's important. Attitude matters a lot. You will undoubtedly suck during your first couple of weeks on rotations. Most preceptors know that, and they're usually okay with your not knowing much to start. But they're not okay if you seem uncooperative or unreceptive to their teaching (which you may feel is more criticism than lessons). If you need a confidence boost, think about the weakest student in your class (hopefully you're not that guy) and know that even he will make it through rotations.
Lesson 3: Write down everything and review it daily. Preceptors are a little like women in that they expect you to remember everything they said even if they didn't emphasize that it's important. Whereas a 'you should have known that fuchsia is my favorite color!' from a girl may mean a few minutes of tongue-lashing, a preceptor saying, 'I had told you to follow RG's potassium counts, and you didn't do it?' may mean a lower grade. Note: It's a bad sign when people use rhetorical questions.
On the flip-side, if you did something that they had mentioned, be sure to bring it up. To a girl, 'I know your favorite flower is a tulip***, so I got you some for no reason except to put them next to you and show you that you're vastly more beautiful than nature's best attempt at perfection.'**** To a preceptor, 'You had mentioned that when patients have DKA, I should monitor potassium when try try to correct it, since K + Glu go together. SY's potassium level is 4.0, which is normal.' Major brownie points!
Lesson 4: You will be overwhelmed. There is no doubt in my mind to this truism. When you feel lost, ask your preceptor nicely something like, 'I know this is all important, but what do you feel is most critical that I look up and follow?' If you don't put the first disclaimer, they will usually retort with, 'It's all important!' But when you take someone's argument away from them (by acknowledging it), they won't have it to use against you.
Whatever they say next is extremely important (because they themselves probably follow it), write it down and make sure you follow those on a daily basis. You can't ask, 'So Dr. XYZ, what's going to be on the test?' when you're in an auditorium, but you can certainly ask it when on rotations. Ask the 'what's really important' question during your first week.
So that's 4 quick lessons for today. I'll try to do these posts on a weekly basis, but just remember that preceptors are real people and you can get away with a lot of things while on rotations than you couldn't in a classroom.
--
*my response back to my friend who asked me on tips for rotations
**excuse the generalization, but I've never met a girl who said some guy she's dating made too much money.
***I think tulips are beautiful, especially the deep purple ones, so close to noir, that are full of foreboding wonderment and mystery
****Feel free to use this line, but don't be this cheesy
Wednesday, February 10
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
Tuesday, February 9
Please, please tell me now...
...is there something I should know?
Dear Duran Duran groupies,
For what inane reason(s) am I listening to Duran Duran? Well, I kinda like androgynous 80s boy-ish rock bands. And Amazon MP3 had their greatest hits CD for $5. And I just like the song Come Undone (the girl underwater in a straight jacket thing is haute*, but I could have done without the dude in a corset putting on lipstick). And I think that coiffed collars should make a comeback in a huge way!
And I don't believe that my listening to Duran Duran makes me any less of a man; my many posts about women should be plenty proof of my orientation, though some may say I'm overcompensating. Trust me, Melanie Laurent can turn any questioning man straight. An aside: all the good allusions to foreign languages are either in French or Latin...I should have reconsidered my choice of Spanish as my high school elective.
Anyway, getting to the subject of today's post: tell me what you like (and dislike) about my blog! In the past few weeks, liketheletterg.blogspot.com has undergone a facelift without looking like a face-snatcher a la Joan Rivers.
So I'm going to run down my blog's many features. The main one is that it's free without any hint of advertising. All it costs you is the time it takes to read my stuff, which I think is pretty fair. To patronize the author, please send him bottles of single malt scotch, preferably 18 years or older. Pictures of Melanie Laurent will also be accepted. VISA, Mastercard, and AMEX pending approval.
Avant-garde Conservatism
Labels, lables, laybells: When dreamersson got to around 50 posts, I had a difficult time remembering the names of old posts to reference. It would take me a few minutes just searching through my blog, so I used blogspot's label feature to help organize the subjects of my blog. Some of my favorite labels are not-so-tongue-in-cheek (meaning very blatantly humorous) and love lust and/or passion fruit.
Blog Google search: Along the lines of labels, blogspot also had a gadget to allow Google to crawl over my blog (eeeewwww, it is like when the attendants started licking the oracle in the movie 300). In return, I get to search for things I've mentioned in the past like references to Marisa Miller (I'm so over her) and Melanie Laurent (totally in love with her). Unfortunately, the search feature doesn't work all that well.
Subscribe via Email (delivered by Feedburner): A good friend commented that it would be awesome to have my posts delivered to his email. Wish granted! g is for genie, apparently. This Google gem was a bit more difficult to find and implement, but I aim to please. I subscribed to my own blog to make sure it works and isn't too intrusive. It passes on all marks.
If you want to subscribe to liketheletterg, just enter your email into the first box on the right hand side and follow the directions in the confirmation email that will be sent to you. I don't know who is subscribed to my blog, so I won't be spamming anyone.
RSS Feeds: Apparently, Feedburner runs off of things called RSS feeds. I'm guessing Feedburner snips the changes in the RSS feed at the end of everyday and sends it via email. When I set up Feedburner, RSS feeds were already set up on my site. *shrug* I'm guessing it came included with the blog? I'm not that big a techie; I'm just a boy from the ghetto.
Facebook notes: Facebook is starting to become like a creepy Big Brother + Soma rolled into one, like the dystopian novels 1984 and Brave New World. It monitors all kinds of people's activities at all times of the day and offers a fix via it's news feeds and farmville apps. I refuse to be a slave! But they have a cool feature of checking a blog and posting new entries as notes, so I couldn't resist the crack. I know that some people refuse to click on links, so I'll bring my writing a little closer to them.
Weekly Table of Contents aka g-Style: I came up with weekly summaries of my posts with some of my more random comments. It's development can be read here. If you don't read anything else during a week, if you read the TOC on Monday, then you'll be caught up and can figure out what you want to read, like a magazine table of contents.
Shorter posts: My old blog had some really long posts. People can't be bothered to read really long stuff; there's a reason why War and Peace isn't more widely read. So my posts became shorter as I became lazier. It is what it is.
The title by-line: 'the coming of age, bildungsroman-esque blog of an American-born, Vietnamese Catholic male.' It had been really long with stuff like 'ghetto-raised' and 'fresh out of school' and 'doctor of the highest honors', but I decided that it would be best to be short and sweet.
Oldies but goodies:
Blog archive: A list of my old posts organized by month and year
Followers: A collection of my true friends who took the few seconds to click the 'Follow' button on the right hand side of the screen. All it takes is a gmail account. It's not that important to me anymore; I haven't found it to be a useful feature except to placate my ego.
About me: A brief description of the identity I'm trying to create. I'll post a picture of myself soon.
Comment boxes: As monologue-y as this blog is, it is truly a dialogue. If you comment, I will respond. And I'll try to be speedy about it, but I am kind of a big deal after all.
Lasty, my favorite part of my blog: links to UGK clips via Youtube. I've been listening to Supertight while typing this entry, so you get to listen to an all-time classic (if you wish):
--
*French for high fashion, as in haute couture. Though pronounced with a long 'o' as in 'oat', I think it's a very haute way to say 'hot'
Monday, February 8
Week of Repressed Frustration
Dear g-Style table of contents lovers,
More on the title in a bit. Without little ado, here are the posts from this past week in review:
Tue, Feb 2 - The Writing Bit
An update on my memoirs. It hasn't been going too terribly well, but hopefully the changes will help.
'But as a narcissist of the nth degree, I must insist that I should be the thing that matters most in a story of my own life.'
Wed, Feb 3 - The Wise Man
A bad joke opens an entry about a lesson from a wise man: always look for the hardware; don't assume that a girl is married.
'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.'
Thu, Feb 4 - Tri, Try Harder
The blonde comes back, and what ensues is one of the most awkward interactions I've ever had with a woman.
'She continued her coy smile, as pretty girls are wont to do when they’re teasing you. She wasn’t really sorry.'
Fri, Feb 5 - Night at Ra, Pt. 1
Guys say some stupid things when they're wasted.
'You know I like that dark meat, right?'
Sat, Feb 6 - Brotherly Love Amongst Ourselves
A reflection on the relationship of the Winchester brothers of Supernatural and my relationship with my own brother.
'He is probably the coolest guy I know and became my role model when I lost faith in my father.'
Sun, Feb 7 - SPIDER: Would you like some fresh breh-ade?
A short re-release about Sam's Restaurant located in Fairfield, exit 197.
'Beans so soaked in butter that it's questionable whether the main ingredient is butter or beans.'
--
The Week in Review + random thoughts that are like American Idol rejects: good, but not quite good enough.
There is an understanding in the retail pharmacy sector that customers can hassle us all they want at the beginning of the week, but in return they give us some rest at the end of the week to recover. No dice. I'm still decompressing with my bottle of Tylenol (generic, of course) and Shiner Black. Hepatitis is overrated. Besides, I'm already yellow.
Pharmacies should be provided with caller ID with the option to label certain phone numbers with ‘troublemaker’. Pharmacists should also have the option to screen their calls.
A relief pharmacist commented on my style of wearing a hoodie over my dress shirt and tie: ‘It’s odd you have on a shirt with a nicely matched tie and then throw on that.’ I said I was going for the I-wear-a-dress-shirt-and-nicely-matched-tie-because-I-have-to look. I also cited that the manikins at ExpressMen seem to blend the preppy with the caszh* all the time. Of note, I thought about unbuttoning the top 2 buttons of my shirt (like at the club), but reconsidered since it would look a bit silly with a tie.
I had outdone myself that day with a blue shirt and green checked tie that had a hint of blue at the criss-cross junctions (that’s how it matched). If you were wondering why I didn’t objectify the relief pharmacist, it was because she broke out the ‘my husband’** routine within 5 minutes of meeting me.
The old lady in the apartment downstairs moved to a senior independent living center. She couldn’t stand the noise from the guys in the apartment adjacent to mine (they insist on making a raucous running up the stairs) and the poor insulation. She had complimented me a few months ago on my quietness (‘It’s like there’s hardly anyone living up there!’), so I felt obligated to tip-toe around in my apartment. But now that she’s gone, I’m free to break out a home theater system and get my groove on (in more ways than one).
The bank of one of my savings accounts charged a ‘statement printing fee’ of $10, which is more than I ever got from them in interest. Sneaky, spoony bards!
I couldn’t stop humming INXS’s Not Enough Time. There’s something classy and dirty about serenading a woman with a line like, I want to be inside you.
I kept on typing 01 instead of 02 for the month when filling prescriptions. I can’t believe it's February already! Time flies by when you’re not stressing over tests. I’m starting understand Ponce de Leon’s mad search for the Fountain of Youth.
Making Magic Mouthwash makes me feel like a bartender. Equal parts lidocaine, benadryl, and Maalox. Layer benadryl, then lidocaine, then Maalox in prescription bottle (you put the benadryl in first so that the lidocaine doesn’t stick to the bottom of the bottle). Shake well, label, and garnish with a sprig of mint and lemon peel.
Justin Bieber has probably gotten more action at 15 than most men will have in their lifetime. It’s pretty sad.
Conan O’Brien must be pretty confident in his manhood to wear the nickname ‘Coco’ proudly.
It’s awkward addressing people in their 20’s with the terms ‘sir’ or ‘m’am’. I still do it anyway to unnerve them.
I saw the first woman who I would label as a ‘plain Jane’: neither attractive nor ugly, neither petite nor overweight, neither pleasant nor rude--just wholly unremarkable. Her insurance card wouldn’t work = troublemaker.
Many comedians link subsequent jokes to a beginning one. I refuse to admit that I do anything as tacky as that technique. Don't you dare do CTRL+F for 'troublemaker'!
A woman in her 50s asked where the condoms were. I refrained from asking why since I didn’t want to know.
You know you’re in the boonies when you hear ‘Mr. En-guy-yen’, or ‘New-gen’, or ‘Nu-gent’, or ‘Na-goo-yen’. Hooked-on-phonics doesn’t work on ‘Nguyen’. If you don’t know how to pronounce it, ask.
The Game has some amazing stories. It would be awesome to meet some of the master PUAs and learn in-person.
Congrats to the Saints on their Super Bowl win. According to Wikipedia, you can tote around a plastic cup filled with your favorite beverage (sans absinthe) on the streets of New Orleans. Glass bottles are no bueno. I’m really looking forward to Bourbon Street in a few weeks. Laissez Les Bon Temps Roulez.
This past week, I saw two women who did the black skirt with black, opaque stockings and black boot heels thing. I swooned. A co-worker caught me looking, but I wasn’t that embarrassed, surprisingly.
Lastly, I asked my dad when I was younger, ‘Why do women wear heels if they hurt so much and are so uncomfortable?’ He responded, ‘You’ll understand when you’re older.’ If I have sons, I’ll be sure to tell them the exact same thing.
--
*my way of shortening ‘casual’
**when women consciously (or subconsciously, but this is highly unlikely) mention their significant other for no identifiable reason but to say, ‘Don’t bother hitting on me. I’m taken.’ Like we can’t spot that huge (or sometimes miniscule, given this economy) rock on their finger.
More on the title in a bit. Without little ado, here are the posts from this past week in review:
Tue, Feb 2 - The Writing Bit
An update on my memoirs. It hasn't been going too terribly well, but hopefully the changes will help.
'But as a narcissist of the nth degree, I must insist that I should be the thing that matters most in a story of my own life.'
Wed, Feb 3 - The Wise Man
A bad joke opens an entry about a lesson from a wise man: always look for the hardware; don't assume that a girl is married.
'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.'
Thu, Feb 4 - Tri, Try Harder
The blonde comes back, and what ensues is one of the most awkward interactions I've ever had with a woman.
'She continued her coy smile, as pretty girls are wont to do when they’re teasing you. She wasn’t really sorry.'
Fri, Feb 5 - Night at Ra, Pt. 1
Guys say some stupid things when they're wasted.
'You know I like that dark meat, right?'
Sat, Feb 6 - Brotherly Love Amongst Ourselves
A reflection on the relationship of the Winchester brothers of Supernatural and my relationship with my own brother.
'He is probably the coolest guy I know and became my role model when I lost faith in my father.'
Sun, Feb 7 - SPIDER: Would you like some fresh breh-ade?
A short re-release about Sam's Restaurant located in Fairfield, exit 197.
'Beans so soaked in butter that it's questionable whether the main ingredient is butter or beans.'
--
The Week in Review + random thoughts that are like American Idol rejects: good, but not quite good enough.
There is an understanding in the retail pharmacy sector that customers can hassle us all they want at the beginning of the week, but in return they give us some rest at the end of the week to recover. No dice. I'm still decompressing with my bottle of Tylenol (generic, of course) and Shiner Black. Hepatitis is overrated. Besides, I'm already yellow.
Pharmacies should be provided with caller ID with the option to label certain phone numbers with ‘troublemaker’. Pharmacists should also have the option to screen their calls.
A relief pharmacist commented on my style of wearing a hoodie over my dress shirt and tie: ‘It’s odd you have on a shirt with a nicely matched tie and then throw on that.’ I said I was going for the I-wear-a-dress-shirt-and-nicely-matched-tie-because-I-have-to look. I also cited that the manikins at ExpressMen seem to blend the preppy with the caszh* all the time. Of note, I thought about unbuttoning the top 2 buttons of my shirt (like at the club), but reconsidered since it would look a bit silly with a tie.
I had outdone myself that day with a blue shirt and green checked tie that had a hint of blue at the criss-cross junctions (that’s how it matched). If you were wondering why I didn’t objectify the relief pharmacist, it was because she broke out the ‘my husband’** routine within 5 minutes of meeting me.
The old lady in the apartment downstairs moved to a senior independent living center. She couldn’t stand the noise from the guys in the apartment adjacent to mine (they insist on making a raucous running up the stairs) and the poor insulation. She had complimented me a few months ago on my quietness (‘It’s like there’s hardly anyone living up there!’), so I felt obligated to tip-toe around in my apartment. But now that she’s gone, I’m free to break out a home theater system and get my groove on (in more ways than one).
The bank of one of my savings accounts charged a ‘statement printing fee’ of $10, which is more than I ever got from them in interest. Sneaky, spoony bards!
I couldn’t stop humming INXS’s Not Enough Time. There’s something classy and dirty about serenading a woman with a line like, I want to be inside you.
I kept on typing 01 instead of 02 for the month when filling prescriptions. I can’t believe it's February already! Time flies by when you’re not stressing over tests. I’m starting understand Ponce de Leon’s mad search for the Fountain of Youth.
Making Magic Mouthwash makes me feel like a bartender. Equal parts lidocaine, benadryl, and Maalox. Layer benadryl, then lidocaine, then Maalox in prescription bottle (you put the benadryl in first so that the lidocaine doesn’t stick to the bottom of the bottle). Shake well, label, and garnish with a sprig of mint and lemon peel.
Justin Bieber has probably gotten more action at 15 than most men will have in their lifetime. It’s pretty sad.
Conan O’Brien must be pretty confident in his manhood to wear the nickname ‘Coco’ proudly.
It’s awkward addressing people in their 20’s with the terms ‘sir’ or ‘m’am’. I still do it anyway to unnerve them.
I saw the first woman who I would label as a ‘plain Jane’: neither attractive nor ugly, neither petite nor overweight, neither pleasant nor rude--just wholly unremarkable. Her insurance card wouldn’t work = troublemaker.
Many comedians link subsequent jokes to a beginning one. I refuse to admit that I do anything as tacky as that technique. Don't you dare do CTRL+F for 'troublemaker'!
A woman in her 50s asked where the condoms were. I refrained from asking why since I didn’t want to know.
You know you’re in the boonies when you hear ‘Mr. En-guy-yen’, or ‘New-gen’, or ‘Nu-gent’, or ‘Na-goo-yen’. Hooked-on-phonics doesn’t work on ‘Nguyen’. If you don’t know how to pronounce it, ask.
The Game has some amazing stories. It would be awesome to meet some of the master PUAs and learn in-person.
Congrats to the Saints on their Super Bowl win. According to Wikipedia, you can tote around a plastic cup filled with your favorite beverage (sans absinthe) on the streets of New Orleans. Glass bottles are no bueno. I’m really looking forward to Bourbon Street in a few weeks. Laissez Les Bon Temps Roulez.
This past week, I saw two women who did the black skirt with black, opaque stockings and black boot heels thing. I swooned. A co-worker caught me looking, but I wasn’t that embarrassed, surprisingly.
Lastly, I asked my dad when I was younger, ‘Why do women wear heels if they hurt so much and are so uncomfortable?’ He responded, ‘You’ll understand when you’re older.’ If I have sons, I’ll be sure to tell them the exact same thing.
--
*my way of shortening ‘casual’
**when women consciously (or subconsciously, but this is highly unlikely) mention their significant other for no identifiable reason but to say, ‘Don’t bother hitting on me. I’m taken.’ Like we can’t spot that huge (or sometimes miniscule, given this economy) rock on their finger.
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