Dear plastic users,
One of my favorite things to do in life is eat. It shows, unfortunately--my metabolism and exercise habit (or lack thereof) haven't kept pace with my increasing tendency to try out new places. Thankfully, my food choices in the early morning (after getting off work) is limited to IHOP/Denny's/Jack-in-the-Box/Whataburger type fare, and I've gotten plenty tired and instead chow down on whole wheat turkey sandwiches (sans mayo), and plenty of fruit. Healthy food is bleh--Lipitor will be generic when I get older, and Viagra will be too (did you know CV diseases increase risk for a malfunctioning jimmy?)
So after getting disgusted of the turkey & cardboard, I googled for some good breakfast places a few days ago and found one I really wanted to try. However, it was only open Wed-Sat, 5:30a-1p. What? So I had to wait :(.
El Pico de Gallo, 609 E Rio Grande, Victoria, TX, 77901
Of 31 folks on Urban Spoon, 90% like it. The 31 responses is a pretty good indicator of the popularity, since I've found that people don't review restaurants much in smaller cities/towns.
I totally missed it the first time I tried to look for it, and it was closed the second time I passed by (after Sunday mass). But I'm not one of those crazy people who wait night and day to see Eclipse (how is pasty Robert Pattinson attractive, or are the girls just envious of how he gets his hair to stay that way?) or get the new iPhone 4 (my Asian card should be revoked!).
I waited until I had that itch in the stomach which can only be scratched with something greasy and/or spicy, preferably both.
The place was tiny, and I nearly missed it again even when I knew exactly where it was. The 10-car parking lot was packed, and the 4 tables in the place were all occupied. I ordered the 'Pico Special' because I'm one of those who like to order the signature dish of the place, and not insist on ordering the same damn thing at every place (like people always getting the barbecued pork banh mi at every Viet sandwich shop). And since I'm not a terribly picky eater, I've never gone wrong with the signature dish and today was no different.
The Pico Special was a 'taquito' (there was nothing small about it!*) with an amalgam of chorizo, chili, potato, and deliciousness wrapped in a thick, warm flour tortilla that melts when you bite into it. The provided 'pico cup' added a freshness of tomato, onion, and lime to the tasty filling.
It was great, and I'll definitely go there again.
--
When I was there, I noticed a sign saying 'No Credit or Debit Cards', which got me to thinking about the indications of a good hole-in-the-wall place:
1) Cash only. Vendors pay a few percentage points for each transaction, and it can really cut into profits. Plus, cash is always easier to deal with, except if you're an airline. And it's nice to help Mom & Pop stick it to the IRS.
One time in New Orleans, I was about to make a grand gesture by taking care of my group's meal at Cafe Du Monde, but it was a cash-only place and I had spent all of mine on strippers**. Fail.
2) Handwritten signs. The people care about food, not graphic design.
3) Lack of waitstaff. Less people to pay, less overhead, cheaper prices, more focus on a solid menu.
4) Diverse clientele. When you have people in work boots with paint stains along with folks in suits, then you know the food is good. Douchey college know-it-alls and 5-0 are also good signs.
5) Tiny, pot-holed, un-lined parking lots. Don't bring your dropped S5 on dubs.
My favorite hole-in-the-wall is most definitely Thiem Hung Sandwich shop in downtown/midtown Houston, across the street from the Kim Son. You can read the other reviewers' recommendations, all of which are spot on. My favorite is the large banh mi thap cam, which is a combination of all the ingredients. I'm addicted to the greasy, juicy pate (chopped liver); the influx of French cuisine almost makes up for their major rape-age of Indochina.
--
*Please excuse the double entendre
**And 80-proof booze, which I bought at a pharmacy (Nawlins is amazing!)
Thursday, July 22
Wednesday, July 21
Dream Walking
Dear Inception-lovers,
Wasn’t that a terribly great movie? DiCaprio turned out to be an amazing actor after that brief stint of his being a teenage heartthrob in Titanic. And I didn’t know Ellen Page or Marion Cotillard were so attractive (oh that accent!). And did you notice they kept on flashing to the scene where the sleeping Arthur character (Joseph Gordon-Levitt) in the van had that stupid grin on his face--I bet the movie guys had a kick each time they inserted it into the flick. Go see it in IMAX; it’s the only way to go.
--
So the last dream that really stuck in my memory was one where I was on a cruise ship. Nothing particularly special, just one of those big eyesore ones you see in the commercials on TV trawling the now oily waters in the Gulf of Mexico for some fantastic location with turquoise waters and snow-white sand which singe the toes a bit at first but then immerse the entire body in comforting warmth while you’re drinking some fruity adult beverage served up by a nice islander.
As a sidenote, I lived in the Caribbean (St Lucia) when I was younger, and the people were extremely nice, and it wasn’t just because my folks were tourists.
Anyway, on this particular ‘day’ in the dream, the weather was downright dreadful in hindsight. There were bunches of clouds, not a spot of sunshine, and it was unclear whether the water hitting my face was from the surf or from the pregnant cotton balls in the air. But I was cheerfully nervous. Because I was going to jump off the cruise ship into the ocean. And this other guy was going to do it too. And it was all perfectly normal--there were lines of people jumping into the sea.
While we were walking to get to the multiple diving platforms on the wet sundeck, the guy psyched himself up with false bravado and though I tried to do the same, I grew more terrified with each impending step.
We got to the area and my vision became jittery because I couldn’t keep my knocking knees still. The signpost delineated the levels of bravery like the yardage markers at the tee box at a golf course: the lowest level was for the ladies and kids, the second for the teens and seniors, third for guys, and fourth for the truly macho. But even the lowest level looked terrifyingly high. The girls had one-piece swimsuits with hair caps from the 80s like the pool scene in Caddyshack. They were giggling and tittering and were not in the least bit attractive. At least not at that point because I was deathly and deftly afraid.
Then I thought about how I had never dived into a pool, let alone from any significant height. And after some deliberation, I told the guy I wasn’t going to dive which he was okay with. It seemed like he didn’t give me grief because he was scared too, but he wasn’t going to admit it. No one seemed to notice my cowardice, and as I walked away, I woke up.
And the funny thing was that I felt I made a conscious, half-awake decision not to jump. Psychoanalysis aside, I’ve been trying to consciously affect my dream states by learning to recognize what is a dream and how to purposefully explore my unconscious. To talk to the projections of my friends to get a sense of what I think about them (and why I would dream about them in the first place). To get a sense of my true reality in suspended reality. To figure out what my goals in life are, to find one’s dreams within one’s dreams as it were. To find happiness perhaps, to see if I can’t re-dream that one with the girl in the white dress at the church, where I’m unconventionally walking to meet her at the altar. All I could tell is that she’s a brunette (maybe that’s why I prefer blondes?).
And unlike the movie Inception where if you die during the dream state (under light sedation apparently), you just wake up, I have a feeling that it’s very unlucky (for lack of a better word) to die in your dreams or come close to dying like jumping off a cruise ship.
Though we can experience things in our dreams we wouldn't dare to do in real life, I’ve actually come closer to death in real life through my seemingly reckless driving (oh those Asians… what will we do with them?) and my bacon cheeseburger habit. I'm so glad Catholicism doesn't prohibit delicious, tasty pork!
Wasn’t that a terribly great movie? DiCaprio turned out to be an amazing actor after that brief stint of his being a teenage heartthrob in Titanic. And I didn’t know Ellen Page or Marion Cotillard were so attractive (oh that accent!). And did you notice they kept on flashing to the scene where the sleeping Arthur character (Joseph Gordon-Levitt) in the van had that stupid grin on his face--I bet the movie guys had a kick each time they inserted it into the flick. Go see it in IMAX; it’s the only way to go.
--
So the last dream that really stuck in my memory was one where I was on a cruise ship. Nothing particularly special, just one of those big eyesore ones you see in the commercials on TV trawling the now oily waters in the Gulf of Mexico for some fantastic location with turquoise waters and snow-white sand which singe the toes a bit at first but then immerse the entire body in comforting warmth while you’re drinking some fruity adult beverage served up by a nice islander.
As a sidenote, I lived in the Caribbean (St Lucia) when I was younger, and the people were extremely nice, and it wasn’t just because my folks were tourists.
Anyway, on this particular ‘day’ in the dream, the weather was downright dreadful in hindsight. There were bunches of clouds, not a spot of sunshine, and it was unclear whether the water hitting my face was from the surf or from the pregnant cotton balls in the air. But I was cheerfully nervous. Because I was going to jump off the cruise ship into the ocean. And this other guy was going to do it too. And it was all perfectly normal--there were lines of people jumping into the sea.
While we were walking to get to the multiple diving platforms on the wet sundeck, the guy psyched himself up with false bravado and though I tried to do the same, I grew more terrified with each impending step.
We got to the area and my vision became jittery because I couldn’t keep my knocking knees still. The signpost delineated the levels of bravery like the yardage markers at the tee box at a golf course: the lowest level was for the ladies and kids, the second for the teens and seniors, third for guys, and fourth for the truly macho. But even the lowest level looked terrifyingly high. The girls had one-piece swimsuits with hair caps from the 80s like the pool scene in Caddyshack. They were giggling and tittering and were not in the least bit attractive. At least not at that point because I was deathly and deftly afraid.
Then I thought about how I had never dived into a pool, let alone from any significant height. And after some deliberation, I told the guy I wasn’t going to dive which he was okay with. It seemed like he didn’t give me grief because he was scared too, but he wasn’t going to admit it. No one seemed to notice my cowardice, and as I walked away, I woke up.
And the funny thing was that I felt I made a conscious, half-awake decision not to jump. Psychoanalysis aside, I’ve been trying to consciously affect my dream states by learning to recognize what is a dream and how to purposefully explore my unconscious. To talk to the projections of my friends to get a sense of what I think about them (and why I would dream about them in the first place). To get a sense of my true reality in suspended reality. To figure out what my goals in life are, to find one’s dreams within one’s dreams as it were. To find happiness perhaps, to see if I can’t re-dream that one with the girl in the white dress at the church, where I’m unconventionally walking to meet her at the altar. All I could tell is that she’s a brunette (maybe that’s why I prefer blondes?).
And unlike the movie Inception where if you die during the dream state (under light sedation apparently), you just wake up, I have a feeling that it’s very unlucky (for lack of a better word) to die in your dreams or come close to dying like jumping off a cruise ship.
Though we can experience things in our dreams we wouldn't dare to do in real life, I’ve actually come closer to death in real life through my seemingly reckless driving (oh those Asians… what will we do with them?) and my bacon cheeseburger habit. I'm so glad Catholicism doesn't prohibit delicious, tasty pork!
Tuesday, July 20
The Alliterative P-- Principle
Dear myself,
After all, who else is reading now since I haven’t posted in centuries? When I am killing time, one of my favorite activities is reading up on random blogs about people’s thoughts and such. Some are entertaining, others are sad, others are cleverly stupid and addicting like TMZ. But a common thread is that there sometimes seems to be an awkward silence at the end, as if the person just decided to quit with little explanation. Except the stuff with ads; those always seem to last forever like daytime soap operas! (a foreshadowing perhaps?)
In books we read, we expect a satisfying conclusion to a story: there is a beginning, middle and an end (otherwise, the book wouldn’t be published we should hope). But a blog is an organic, continuous thing written in real-time by people who cannot make their lives into solid beginnings, middles and ends.
For myself, I cannot make some grand statement that I was on sabbatical meditating on the deeper meaning of life. In truth, I was a bit depressed that I couldn’t get a foot into hospital pharmacy because of the experience Catch-22 (we won’t hire you without experience, and since you don’t have experience, you’ll never get any). Because I was raised in a household which had inordinately emphasized money, a big part of my self-worth is linked to the size of my bank accounts, which had been dwindling as of late. And as the dollars and sense [sic] faded, so did my fervor for everything else.
The solution: get a job, any job. As luck (or fate or destiny) would have it, when I found out that even staffing agencies (middlepeople* who get paid tens of thousands of dollars by employers to hire pharmacists) could only get me retail jobs, I began to apply for the dreaded things myself. Dreaded because I knew how bad a situation could be when you don’t have adequate support and are expected to fill hundreds of prescriptions a day, all the while people are yelling at you for something you can’t control. Then people sue you for misfilling (filling a prescription incorrectly) which is the ultimate kicker; it didn’t happen to me, but a friend of mine happened to dispense Nexium 40mg instead of 20mg which in the worst case scenario might have caused the guy to suffer some more severe placebo-like side effects.**
But if that’s the only gainful employment I can get, then so be it. I’m thankful for a college degree which pretty much guarantees a job; maybe not the most rewarding one, but certainly a stable and high paying one.
So I had sent a few interest requests to some of the better prospects. A central fill facility (assembly line work where you sit and verify all day, because they’re required to have warm bodies licensed by the Board of Pharmacy), which ultimately hired another pharmacist. And a 7-on 7-off overnight position, which had been unanswered for 2 weeks. Then I got an email on Sunday right after mass (believe in God much?) seeing if I was still interested. It was followed by a phone call the next day and an interview that same week. When it rains, it pours, as the cliché goes.
Fast forward a bit: Two weeks ago, I started my new job at the same work schedule, with a better computer system, a newly opened pharmacy, and probably most importantly with an $8/hr pay increase over my last job. Joking aside (though money is apparently dreadfully important to me), I’m just glad to be working again.
--
So the title of this post, the ‘Alliterative P-- Principle'. What is the p--? I’ve taken a liking to how Hemingway’s books were censored with the first letter of the naughty word followed by an indeterminate dash representing the rest of the foulness, so I will flatter his censors with imitation. It’s a 5 letter word that little kids may use to describe their feline friends, and it also happens to be the first name of a Bond villainess.
After a quick Google search, I’m terribly surprised that the P-- Principle is not mentioned anywhere, not even on Urban Dictionary, which has several entries for ‘robocop’ as a perverse [post] coital act but not the p-- principle, a fundamental, unconscious driving force for human males***.
So the P-- Principle as simply defined is this: men choose to do the things which will give them the greatest benefit in the greatest frequency. This is more in depth than the pleasure principle in that it takes into account the probabilities of the ‘benefit’. Most guys would kill for a chance to ‘benefit’ women like Megan Fox, Emmanuelle Vaugier, or that milkaholic Lindsay in her pre-alcohol, pre-druggie days, but it’s simply not going to happen. So instead of stalking impossible marks, most sane men go after (and expend resources on) those of the opposite sex who are more within their league.
In mathematical terms (because I’m a dork), the estimated probability of an event multiplied by the perceived benefit of the event equals the weighted benefit.
%Occurrence x perceived benefit = weighted benefit.
And most men (and women) will usually pursue the action with the greatest weighted benefit. I would argue that the sane always pursue the greatest weighted benefit; the changes in their decisions are due to the changes in their perceived probability of success and/or perceived benefit. Eg, when you fall in love and decide to propose, the perceived benefit of spending the rest of your life (or the next 5 years) with the same person eclipses the benefit of random fornication.
So what’s with all this nonsense? Well the P-- Principle applies to career decisions as well. Though I really like the reading and writing bit and find it terribly fulfilling (high perceived benefit), I don’t have faith that I can be successful or profitable at it in the long term (low probability of occurrence). Making large sums of money now as a pharmacist has a higher weighted benefit since paying off student loans is a b--. And I scratched the casing on my Gucci watch, so I have to get money to get it replaced.
In the three months of unpaid vacation, I never once seriously considered writing to be a viable primary income source because I knew I could make significantly more as a pharmacist and I knew I had a higher probability of finding solid, stable work as a pharmacist. ...though this could change in the future...
In short, the P-- Principle prevailed.
--
*not trying to be PC, just thought ‘middlepeople’ was a funny word
**First off, why the hell would you prescribe the 20mg instead of the 40mg (a practical reason, not an academic theoretical one), when the side effects are minimal at best? As a reference, a majority of the other drugs in the same class only come in a single strength. Secondly, though you aim to not make any mistakes, this is as tame a mistake as it comes.
***And if the p-- were altered to another 5-letter word, then it would also apply for some human females, though the Prada Principle usually applies in more cases
After all, who else is reading now since I haven’t posted in centuries? When I am killing time, one of my favorite activities is reading up on random blogs about people’s thoughts and such. Some are entertaining, others are sad, others are cleverly stupid and addicting like TMZ. But a common thread is that there sometimes seems to be an awkward silence at the end, as if the person just decided to quit with little explanation. Except the stuff with ads; those always seem to last forever like daytime soap operas! (a foreshadowing perhaps?)
In books we read, we expect a satisfying conclusion to a story: there is a beginning, middle and an end (otherwise, the book wouldn’t be published we should hope). But a blog is an organic, continuous thing written in real-time by people who cannot make their lives into solid beginnings, middles and ends.
For myself, I cannot make some grand statement that I was on sabbatical meditating on the deeper meaning of life. In truth, I was a bit depressed that I couldn’t get a foot into hospital pharmacy because of the experience Catch-22 (we won’t hire you without experience, and since you don’t have experience, you’ll never get any). Because I was raised in a household which had inordinately emphasized money, a big part of my self-worth is linked to the size of my bank accounts, which had been dwindling as of late. And as the dollars and sense [sic] faded, so did my fervor for everything else.
The solution: get a job, any job. As luck (or fate or destiny) would have it, when I found out that even staffing agencies (middlepeople* who get paid tens of thousands of dollars by employers to hire pharmacists) could only get me retail jobs, I began to apply for the dreaded things myself. Dreaded because I knew how bad a situation could be when you don’t have adequate support and are expected to fill hundreds of prescriptions a day, all the while people are yelling at you for something you can’t control. Then people sue you for misfilling (filling a prescription incorrectly) which is the ultimate kicker; it didn’t happen to me, but a friend of mine happened to dispense Nexium 40mg instead of 20mg which in the worst case scenario might have caused the guy to suffer some more severe placebo-like side effects.**
But if that’s the only gainful employment I can get, then so be it. I’m thankful for a college degree which pretty much guarantees a job; maybe not the most rewarding one, but certainly a stable and high paying one.
So I had sent a few interest requests to some of the better prospects. A central fill facility (assembly line work where you sit and verify all day, because they’re required to have warm bodies licensed by the Board of Pharmacy), which ultimately hired another pharmacist. And a 7-on 7-off overnight position, which had been unanswered for 2 weeks. Then I got an email on Sunday right after mass (believe in God much?) seeing if I was still interested. It was followed by a phone call the next day and an interview that same week. When it rains, it pours, as the cliché goes.
Fast forward a bit: Two weeks ago, I started my new job at the same work schedule, with a better computer system, a newly opened pharmacy, and probably most importantly with an $8/hr pay increase over my last job. Joking aside (though money is apparently dreadfully important to me), I’m just glad to be working again.
--
So the title of this post, the ‘Alliterative P-- Principle'. What is the p--? I’ve taken a liking to how Hemingway’s books were censored with the first letter of the naughty word followed by an indeterminate dash representing the rest of the foulness, so I will flatter his censors with imitation. It’s a 5 letter word that little kids may use to describe their feline friends, and it also happens to be the first name of a Bond villainess.
After a quick Google search, I’m terribly surprised that the P-- Principle is not mentioned anywhere, not even on Urban Dictionary, which has several entries for ‘robocop’ as a perverse [post] coital act but not the p-- principle, a fundamental, unconscious driving force for human males***.
So the P-- Principle as simply defined is this: men choose to do the things which will give them the greatest benefit in the greatest frequency. This is more in depth than the pleasure principle in that it takes into account the probabilities of the ‘benefit’. Most guys would kill for a chance to ‘benefit’ women like Megan Fox, Emmanuelle Vaugier, or that milkaholic Lindsay in her pre-alcohol, pre-druggie days, but it’s simply not going to happen. So instead of stalking impossible marks, most sane men go after (and expend resources on) those of the opposite sex who are more within their league.
In mathematical terms (because I’m a dork), the estimated probability of an event multiplied by the perceived benefit of the event equals the weighted benefit.
%Occurrence x perceived benefit = weighted benefit.
And most men (and women) will usually pursue the action with the greatest weighted benefit. I would argue that the sane always pursue the greatest weighted benefit; the changes in their decisions are due to the changes in their perceived probability of success and/or perceived benefit. Eg, when you fall in love and decide to propose, the perceived benefit of spending the rest of your life (or the next 5 years) with the same person eclipses the benefit of random fornication.
So what’s with all this nonsense? Well the P-- Principle applies to career decisions as well. Though I really like the reading and writing bit and find it terribly fulfilling (high perceived benefit), I don’t have faith that I can be successful or profitable at it in the long term (low probability of occurrence). Making large sums of money now as a pharmacist has a higher weighted benefit since paying off student loans is a b--. And I scratched the casing on my Gucci watch, so I have to get money to get it replaced.
In the three months of unpaid vacation, I never once seriously considered writing to be a viable primary income source because I knew I could make significantly more as a pharmacist and I knew I had a higher probability of finding solid, stable work as a pharmacist. ...though this could change in the future...
In short, the P-- Principle prevailed.
--
*not trying to be PC, just thought ‘middlepeople’ was a funny word
**First off, why the hell would you prescribe the 20mg instead of the 40mg (a practical reason, not an academic theoretical one), when the side effects are minimal at best? As a reference, a majority of the other drugs in the same class only come in a single strength. Secondly, though you aim to not make any mistakes, this is as tame a mistake as it comes.
***And if the p-- were altered to another 5-letter word, then it would also apply for some human females, though the Prada Principle usually applies in more cases
Friday, June 11
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.
Thursday, June 3
Family Shackles
Dear involuntary wedding guests,
I'll get to my Commie-leaning stance tomorrow. Today's post is about a random sore subject endemic to my immediate family, and possibly other Viet Catholic or Viet or Asian families: the obligation to go to family events.
Mama came up to my little den area, my brother's old room which I had redecorated with my TV, sofa, and weight set. There is a 2nd floor communal area which would probably be a more appropriate area for a TV, but it is visible from the street. Though we're in the suburbs and the street does have a moderate traffic flow (unfortunately with some idiots banging their muzak or revving their crappy midlife-crisis bikes), you can't have anything nice and visible in a major metropolitan area. Even in the suburbs. 'If people weren't poor, they would not need to steal.' Not true: poverty and theft are not perfectly correlated.
Some neighborhood kids broke into one of our cars to steal floor mats. Floor mats! So no, my TV is not to be visible from the street.
Mama has never understood the concept of privacy or of respecting personal space. When my bedroom door is locked, she jimmies it until it opens, thinking it must have been a ghost who moves the knob from horizontal to vertical. But the door was open this time, since you have to let the heat dissipate from the room when the thermostat has a hard-floor of 83 degrees.
She's smiling. She's always smiling whether she's sad or happy, whether she's angry or elated, whether she wants to put a kiss on the cheek or the switch to the backside. She disarms a lot of people but not me. Beware of Greeks bearing gifts.
'Oh, you have the internet on?' She doesn't wait for my answer; she sees the USB cord hanging from my laptop to my phone. 'Hey, my friend from work told me about this 18-month old who smokes 2 packs a day. Can you search for it?' She knows I can search for it, not because I'm some tech nerd but the fact that I'm under 25.
So I search for the stupid thing which had been on the news all the while thinking, 'Who the [copulate] cares?' and found the kid's name, then youtubed it: Ardi Rizal. 'Haha,' she laughs. 'Do you think it's real? Do you think he's 18 months?'
'Sure it's real.' I refrain from a metaphysical explanation of the reality of things shown on Youtube. 'They show it on TV; it must be real.' I pick the simplest, albeit fallacious, explanation to facilitate my ends: getting her to stop bothering me while I'm watching the NBA Finals.
'It's not in the U.S. right?' she asks.
'No, it's in Indonesia,' I respond easily, taking the word of some uncredited source on the internet. 'You can do whatever you want there.' I continue to leave my critical thinking on cruise control; ignorance is bliss as they say. It's easy and pleasant to be ditzy, and I can turn my hair blonde on-demand.
She watches me a little further, while I continue paying my bills online. She glances at the TV, hoping I'd say something more, to continue a dying conversation. But I had learned to be withholding from the pro sitting to my left.
She buckles, 'Hey, there was that news story about my workplace. Can you pull it up?'
I search grudgingly, then earnestly as I wonder if it was possible to find the news story. But I lost interest, and made up an excuse, 'It was a news story?'
'Uh huh, they came to the company and we had to wear uniforms. We never wear uniforms.'
'What happened?'
'Nothing, just something to get attention I guess. My friend had found it on the internet after they showed it on TV.'
Like that means anything. I make some more faux searches, and then point at the TV. 'You see that commercial there? You see it now, and you can probably see it online somehow, but it's going to be difficult.' She senses my irritation. She's really good at sensing non-verbal cues, but she's even better at ignoring them.
But she gives up this time. She starts up from the couch and probably caught my half-smile that signified my victory. Halfway to the door, she casually asks, 'Did you find those car rental prices?'
'No.' I might as well get it over with. To delay something that may take care of itself tomorrow is a potentially profitable way to procrastinate. But to delay something that will only come back tomorrow is plain lazy especially when the tools to do the job are in your hands. I should follow my advice more often.
alamo...national car rental...avis, et al all go one by one into Google's omniscient, omnipotent bar. Then I get smart and do a Priceline search to show all the rates at once. Channeling the voice of an old African-American sage playing dominoes at the park, 'Think long, think wrong.'
'Bossman, two out of three ain't bad.' (the one out of three being my inefficient searching).
I imagine him responding, 'No it ain't, son, nah it sure ain't,' while wondering if he thought what had been the two out of three I had gotten correct.
'Mama, you can save $5 if prepay now, but if you cancel you have to pay $5 cancellation fee.'
We get into an discussion about the prepay discount. 'When your aunt reserved it, you can cancel anytime you want.' 'I understand that, but I'm trying to save you some money.' 'What about the others?' I echo, 'What about the others?'
She continues to waste my Lakers vs Celtics time. 'You're not going to cancel, right? You're going, right? So it'd be cheaper if you prepay.'
'But I might not go or she could find someone else to bring her.' Finally, the crux of the matter. My family has a habit of complaining (as you can see from my own belly-aching).
'Don't go then. Why do you have to go?'
'It's your grandmother's brother's kid, Dad's cousin. Your grandmother has to go, and I have to go because none of your aunts and uncles want to drive her there [New Orleans].'
'Who cares? The groom or bride won't care, probably won't even remember Dad even if he were to show up. All they want is your money [Viet wedding gift], so send it and be done with it.'
'But they invited your grandmother and Dad, because he's the oldest child. Your great uncle felt obligated to invite them because it wouldn't be right if he hadn't. And it's not right if we don't go.'
'What? You couldn't just lie and say you're not in town? It's not like you've never done that before. See? Easy.'
She's frustrated. As independent of a woman she is, she is still shackled by the conventions of family and family obligations. I had thought about how we didn't have grandfather's portrait on the wall of the house, and thought how unconventional the absence had been. Then I realized that it was because we just haven't hung it up post-Ike; it had been in the living room of our old condo. The Catholic missionaries had not squashed our ancestor worship, and the somber black-and-white portraits in every older Viet Catholic's home is ever present next to the Christian altar.
She backtracks, using ad hominem attacks, 'Your aunts and uncles are disgraceful. None of them will go, and so I have to go.' I sit in silent agreement. 'Your brother would go. He said he'd drive as far as Lake Charles and stay there while I drove on to New Orleans. But not with your grandmother in the car, never with your grandmother.' Grandma had called my brother a 'gangbanger' and had basically disowned him once grandfather died.
Mama says that last bit to try to cajole me to offer to drive her and grandma to N.O. Nice try.
We talk some more about the prepay discount, and then she drops the car rental subject. 'Maybe someone will be going there too, and I won't have to drive.' Not likely.
--
It will be the death of her, this family business thing. America is not like Vietnam. In olden Vietnam, there's nothing to do but live in your little village doing your bit of subsistence farming, while enjoying the little weddings and such that intersperse the daily drudgery. But these things are only grudging obligations in this fast-paced society of Google, Facebook, iPhones, and silly videos of an 18-month old smoking on Youtube.
You can't live in two different worlds and maintain consonance. You cannot serve both God and Mammon, except in this case you don't know who is God and who is Mammon (though a bunch of people think us Americans as Devil spawn).
Well, she'll go to that wedding and I won't. And the next. And she'll smile all the while hating that she had to be there. And I'll smile sincerely as I sleep away that free weekend.
I'll get to my Commie-leaning stance tomorrow. Today's post is about a random sore subject endemic to my immediate family, and possibly other Viet Catholic or Viet or Asian families: the obligation to go to family events.
Mama came up to my little den area, my brother's old room which I had redecorated with my TV, sofa, and weight set. There is a 2nd floor communal area which would probably be a more appropriate area for a TV, but it is visible from the street. Though we're in the suburbs and the street does have a moderate traffic flow (unfortunately with some idiots banging their muzak or revving their crappy midlife-crisis bikes), you can't have anything nice and visible in a major metropolitan area. Even in the suburbs. 'If people weren't poor, they would not need to steal.' Not true: poverty and theft are not perfectly correlated.
Some neighborhood kids broke into one of our cars to steal floor mats. Floor mats! So no, my TV is not to be visible from the street.
Mama has never understood the concept of privacy or of respecting personal space. When my bedroom door is locked, she jimmies it until it opens, thinking it must have been a ghost who moves the knob from horizontal to vertical. But the door was open this time, since you have to let the heat dissipate from the room when the thermostat has a hard-floor of 83 degrees.
She's smiling. She's always smiling whether she's sad or happy, whether she's angry or elated, whether she wants to put a kiss on the cheek or the switch to the backside. She disarms a lot of people but not me. Beware of Greeks bearing gifts.
'Oh, you have the internet on?' She doesn't wait for my answer; she sees the USB cord hanging from my laptop to my phone. 'Hey, my friend from work told me about this 18-month old who smokes 2 packs a day. Can you search for it?' She knows I can search for it, not because I'm some tech nerd but the fact that I'm under 25.
So I search for the stupid thing which had been on the news all the while thinking, 'Who the [copulate] cares?' and found the kid's name, then youtubed it: Ardi Rizal. 'Haha,' she laughs. 'Do you think it's real? Do you think he's 18 months?'
'Sure it's real.' I refrain from a metaphysical explanation of the reality of things shown on Youtube. 'They show it on TV; it must be real.' I pick the simplest, albeit fallacious, explanation to facilitate my ends: getting her to stop bothering me while I'm watching the NBA Finals.
'It's not in the U.S. right?' she asks.
'No, it's in Indonesia,' I respond easily, taking the word of some uncredited source on the internet. 'You can do whatever you want there.' I continue to leave my critical thinking on cruise control; ignorance is bliss as they say. It's easy and pleasant to be ditzy, and I can turn my hair blonde on-demand.
She watches me a little further, while I continue paying my bills online. She glances at the TV, hoping I'd say something more, to continue a dying conversation. But I had learned to be withholding from the pro sitting to my left.
She buckles, 'Hey, there was that news story about my workplace. Can you pull it up?'
I search grudgingly, then earnestly as I wonder if it was possible to find the news story. But I lost interest, and made up an excuse, 'It was a news story?'
'Uh huh, they came to the company and we had to wear uniforms. We never wear uniforms.'
'What happened?'
'Nothing, just something to get attention I guess. My friend had found it on the internet after they showed it on TV.'
Like that means anything. I make some more faux searches, and then point at the TV. 'You see that commercial there? You see it now, and you can probably see it online somehow, but it's going to be difficult.' She senses my irritation. She's really good at sensing non-verbal cues, but she's even better at ignoring them.
But she gives up this time. She starts up from the couch and probably caught my half-smile that signified my victory. Halfway to the door, she casually asks, 'Did you find those car rental prices?'
'No.' I might as well get it over with. To delay something that may take care of itself tomorrow is a potentially profitable way to procrastinate. But to delay something that will only come back tomorrow is plain lazy especially when the tools to do the job are in your hands. I should follow my advice more often.
alamo...national car rental...avis, et al all go one by one into Google's omniscient, omnipotent bar. Then I get smart and do a Priceline search to show all the rates at once. Channeling the voice of an old African-American sage playing dominoes at the park, 'Think long, think wrong.'
'Bossman, two out of three ain't bad.' (the one out of three being my inefficient searching).
I imagine him responding, 'No it ain't, son, nah it sure ain't,' while wondering if he thought what had been the two out of three I had gotten correct.
'Mama, you can save $5 if prepay now, but if you cancel you have to pay $5 cancellation fee.'
We get into an discussion about the prepay discount. 'When your aunt reserved it, you can cancel anytime you want.' 'I understand that, but I'm trying to save you some money.' 'What about the others?' I echo, 'What about the others?'
She continues to waste my Lakers vs Celtics time. 'You're not going to cancel, right? You're going, right? So it'd be cheaper if you prepay.'
'But I might not go or she could find someone else to bring her.' Finally, the crux of the matter. My family has a habit of complaining (as you can see from my own belly-aching).
'Don't go then. Why do you have to go?'
'It's your grandmother's brother's kid, Dad's cousin. Your grandmother has to go, and I have to go because none of your aunts and uncles want to drive her there [New Orleans].'
'Who cares? The groom or bride won't care, probably won't even remember Dad even if he were to show up. All they want is your money [Viet wedding gift], so send it and be done with it.'
'But they invited your grandmother and Dad, because he's the oldest child. Your great uncle felt obligated to invite them because it wouldn't be right if he hadn't. And it's not right if we don't go.'
'What? You couldn't just lie and say you're not in town? It's not like you've never done that before. See? Easy.'
She's frustrated. As independent of a woman she is, she is still shackled by the conventions of family and family obligations. I had thought about how we didn't have grandfather's portrait on the wall of the house, and thought how unconventional the absence had been. Then I realized that it was because we just haven't hung it up post-Ike; it had been in the living room of our old condo. The Catholic missionaries had not squashed our ancestor worship, and the somber black-and-white portraits in every older Viet Catholic's home is ever present next to the Christian altar.
She backtracks, using ad hominem attacks, 'Your aunts and uncles are disgraceful. None of them will go, and so I have to go.' I sit in silent agreement. 'Your brother would go. He said he'd drive as far as Lake Charles and stay there while I drove on to New Orleans. But not with your grandmother in the car, never with your grandmother.' Grandma had called my brother a 'gangbanger' and had basically disowned him once grandfather died.
Mama says that last bit to try to cajole me to offer to drive her and grandma to N.O. Nice try.
We talk some more about the prepay discount, and then she drops the car rental subject. 'Maybe someone will be going there too, and I won't have to drive.' Not likely.
--
It will be the death of her, this family business thing. America is not like Vietnam. In olden Vietnam, there's nothing to do but live in your little village doing your bit of subsistence farming, while enjoying the little weddings and such that intersperse the daily drudgery. But these things are only grudging obligations in this fast-paced society of Google, Facebook, iPhones, and silly videos of an 18-month old smoking on Youtube.
You can't live in two different worlds and maintain consonance. You cannot serve both God and Mammon, except in this case you don't know who is God and who is Mammon (though a bunch of people think us Americans as Devil spawn).
Well, she'll go to that wedding and I won't. And the next. And she'll smile all the while hating that she had to be there. And I'll smile sincerely as I sleep away that free weekend.
Wednesday, June 2
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.
Monday, May 24
Lockboxed Raincoats
Dear email inboxes,
I'm back after a 19 day absence from the land of lollipops, video games, and frequent naptimes! At heart (or at a tangled mass of grey* matter in my noggin), I am a hopeless addict with many vices. Fortunately, I also have the attention span of a 9 year old without ADHD meds, so my addictions don't last long because I forget about them. Two negatives do make a positive! Cue Wyclef Jean.
In my last post some 19 days ago, I promised something funny. And unlike the politicos you see on the tele, I do deliver on my promises, if somewhat vastly late. With much ado:
(If you don't know what raincoats are, please ask your little brother or any adolescent male for that matter)
(overshare alert)
So my friend, who overshares quite frequently (which I am never guilty of!**), told me a few weeks ago about her raincoat buying experience. Apparently in downtown Houston, prophylactics belong in Gore's lockbox along with the nicotine supplements, razor blades, OTC antacids (the fancy PPI ones), and diabetes kits. Being that it was nighttime literally and in the economic proverbial sense (I'm still out of work, btw), the establishment only had a person working the front register with a throng of people in line trying to get things not usually meant to assist in getting one's 'swerve on.'
My friend fully intended to get those raincoats that night because it was going to rain very soon, and she didn't want to get caught unawares. So after waiting several minutes in line she stepped up to the counter to semi-discreetly mention that she needed the raincoats which were lockboxed. The clerk, swamped with customers, paged the manager who promptly showed up more than several minutes later 'after finishing a solitaire game' as managers are apt to do when no one is making sure they're working.
In the manner of one intending to protect someone's privacy while inevitably revealing an embarrassing fact, the clerk informed the manager of 'assistance in aisle 8' with a sheepish grin/frown.
So after more than a half hour affair, my friend finally left with her 12 or 24-pack of raincoats in assorted pigments and/or flavors.
'Ha, I have no shame!'
--
I, on the other hand, have lots of unhealthy Catholic guilt in buying prophylactics. I remember the traumatizing experience buying the damn things for the first time. I casually entered the OTC section of the store, pretending to look at some antacids (I did need Pepcid for my Asian flush) while truly surveying the dizzying array of colorful water balloons (some 'ribbed for pleasure') with my peripheral vision. After making sure everyone had vacated the area, I quickly turned my sights on my mark, walked confidently but a bit hurriedly to the area, and picked the moderately sized pack (12) of the brand name I knew (the one with the Greek helmet, though the story behind the name doesn't exactly inspire confidence: after the horse gets into the fortress, all the seamen evacuate to pillage the town).
With the merchandise in possession, I extended my fingers to obscure the face of the product. I walked to the front of the store, wondering if I had aroused the attention of the shrink cop with my furtive movements. Of the 5 open lines, I went to the shortest one with the guy who would be least likely to make any comment; the 2 with the pretty girls were absolutely out of the question--I felt that would have been like shooting Bambi's mother for some reason.
When it was my turn, I placed the product slightly more than halfway up the conveyor belt, so that it wouldn't take too long to reach the checker. I heard the total and handed a $20, with only a brief glance at the dude's face which was thankfully expressionless. Taking my change, I wrapped my purchase tightly in an upsettingly translucent plastic bag. I walked out feeling the same guilt as if I had stolen the thing(s).
I made a promise then and there ('Never again!') which I soon recanted after I made use of the merchandise ('But this is way too much fun!').
Nowadays, I do feel a slight bit of shame but there are stores with a self-checkout line. And I make sure those lines are open and sparsely populated before I make my purchase.
--
A random memory: Some girls in high school had asked a male teacher about the sinfulness of prophylactics (the school was like 90% Catholic because it was 90% Hispanic). He responded, 'If you're going to do wrong, do it right.' Then he smiled in a way that male teachers weren't supposed to smile at underage girls. He was an English teacher, and we had just read Bless Me Ultima, which was the first time I had ever seen the F-bomb in a legit novel.
And a random thought: I wonder if Mama has ever found my stash. I know she knows what they are, because I unfortunately stumbled upon her cache while searching for the TV remote. I think she follows the U.S. military's stance: don't ask, don't tell. And we all know the results of that program are simply fabulous.
--
*one of my friends (a dude) and I have agreed that the proper and English way of spelling 'grey' is with an 'e'. 'Gray' is drab and boring and has a thudding sound when you say it. 'Grey' on the other hand, has a delightful ring and reminds me of the hue of certain pants women wear which makes me swoon.
**What is a blog without oversharing?
I'm back after a 19 day absence from the land of lollipops, video games, and frequent naptimes! At heart (or at a tangled mass of grey* matter in my noggin), I am a hopeless addict with many vices. Fortunately, I also have the attention span of a 9 year old without ADHD meds, so my addictions don't last long because I forget about them. Two negatives do make a positive! Cue Wyclef Jean.
In my last post some 19 days ago, I promised something funny. And unlike the politicos you see on the tele, I do deliver on my promises, if somewhat vastly late. With much ado:
(If you don't know what raincoats are, please ask your little brother or any adolescent male for that matter)
(overshare alert)
So my friend, who overshares quite frequently (which I am never guilty of!**), told me a few weeks ago about her raincoat buying experience. Apparently in downtown Houston, prophylactics belong in Gore's lockbox along with the nicotine supplements, razor blades, OTC antacids (the fancy PPI ones), and diabetes kits. Being that it was nighttime literally and in the economic proverbial sense (I'm still out of work, btw), the establishment only had a person working the front register with a throng of people in line trying to get things not usually meant to assist in getting one's 'swerve on.'
My friend fully intended to get those raincoats that night because it was going to rain very soon, and she didn't want to get caught unawares. So after waiting several minutes in line she stepped up to the counter to semi-discreetly mention that she needed the raincoats which were lockboxed. The clerk, swamped with customers, paged the manager who promptly showed up more than several minutes later 'after finishing a solitaire game' as managers are apt to do when no one is making sure they're working.
In the manner of one intending to protect someone's privacy while inevitably revealing an embarrassing fact, the clerk informed the manager of 'assistance in aisle 8' with a sheepish grin/frown.
So after more than a half hour affair, my friend finally left with her 12 or 24-pack of raincoats in assorted pigments and/or flavors.
'Ha, I have no shame!'
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I, on the other hand, have lots of unhealthy Catholic guilt in buying prophylactics. I remember the traumatizing experience buying the damn things for the first time. I casually entered the OTC section of the store, pretending to look at some antacids (I did need Pepcid for my Asian flush) while truly surveying the dizzying array of colorful water balloons (some 'ribbed for pleasure') with my peripheral vision. After making sure everyone had vacated the area, I quickly turned my sights on my mark, walked confidently but a bit hurriedly to the area, and picked the moderately sized pack (12) of the brand name I knew (the one with the Greek helmet, though the story behind the name doesn't exactly inspire confidence: after the horse gets into the fortress, all the seamen evacuate to pillage the town).
With the merchandise in possession, I extended my fingers to obscure the face of the product. I walked to the front of the store, wondering if I had aroused the attention of the shrink cop with my furtive movements. Of the 5 open lines, I went to the shortest one with the guy who would be least likely to make any comment; the 2 with the pretty girls were absolutely out of the question--I felt that would have been like shooting Bambi's mother for some reason.
When it was my turn, I placed the product slightly more than halfway up the conveyor belt, so that it wouldn't take too long to reach the checker. I heard the total and handed a $20, with only a brief glance at the dude's face which was thankfully expressionless. Taking my change, I wrapped my purchase tightly in an upsettingly translucent plastic bag. I walked out feeling the same guilt as if I had stolen the thing(s).
I made a promise then and there ('Never again!') which I soon recanted after I made use of the merchandise ('But this is way too much fun!').
Nowadays, I do feel a slight bit of shame but there are stores with a self-checkout line. And I make sure those lines are open and sparsely populated before I make my purchase.
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A random memory: Some girls in high school had asked a male teacher about the sinfulness of prophylactics (the school was like 90% Catholic because it was 90% Hispanic). He responded, 'If you're going to do wrong, do it right.' Then he smiled in a way that male teachers weren't supposed to smile at underage girls. He was an English teacher, and we had just read Bless Me Ultima, which was the first time I had ever seen the F-bomb in a legit novel.
And a random thought: I wonder if Mama has ever found my stash. I know she knows what they are, because I unfortunately stumbled upon her cache while searching for the TV remote. I think she follows the U.S. military's stance: don't ask, don't tell. And we all know the results of that program are simply fabulous.
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*one of my friends (a dude) and I have agreed that the proper and English way of spelling 'grey' is with an 'e'. 'Gray' is drab and boring and has a thudding sound when you say it. 'Grey' on the other hand, has a delightful ring and reminds me of the hue of certain pants women wear which makes me swoon.
**What is a blog without oversharing?
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