12/27/09
12/28/09
12/29/09
#47 The Ninety-Nine Percenter Pipedream
14 years ago
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Monday, December 21, 2009
Bon Voyage
TAM - Asian edition. The life of outsider in his own native land.
As many of you have heard (or not depending how closely you keep up with my facebook updates), I'll be in Asia for the next month. I'll be going with my two partners in crime and my new toy, a flip ultra hd camcorder. Depending on available internet access, uncensored raw footage of our shenanigans will be broadcasted through this blog with my running commentary. Warning: This will not be a journey of self-discovery. TAM does not believe in any of that emo crap. It will not be a trip to expand my horizons. TAM has already seen it all on the discovery channel. This trip is for one thing and one thing only. For three guys to tear shit up on the other side of the Pacific!
The shit hits the fan tonight at midnight when I board China Airlines Flight #3. Stay tuned for what will surely be an odyssey of epic proportions.
TAM out!
As many of you have heard (or not depending how closely you keep up with my facebook updates), I'll be in Asia for the next month. I'll be going with my two partners in crime and my new toy, a flip ultra hd camcorder. Depending on available internet access, uncensored raw footage of our shenanigans will be broadcasted through this blog with my running commentary. Warning: This will not be a journey of self-discovery. TAM does not believe in any of that emo crap. It will not be a trip to expand my horizons. TAM has already seen it all on the discovery channel. This trip is for one thing and one thing only. For three guys to tear shit up on the other side of the Pacific!
The shit hits the fan tonight at midnight when I board China Airlines Flight #3. Stay tuned for what will surely be an odyssey of epic proportions.
TAM out!
Friday, December 18, 2009
TAP That!
A lot of people often dream about owning a time machine. To be able to go into your past and correct mistakes or make better decisions armed with knowledge from the future is a much sought after ability. After all, they say hindsight is 20/20. But more so than reliving your past, I believe that the draw of owning a time machine is looking to the future and seeing what lies ahead. With the endless possibilities of life, I would love to see what route I take and whether or not I'm happy with the choices I make. In the second entry of the TAMMIE series (Typical Asian Male Mutual Interest Enterprise) we have the opportunity to peek into the not too distant future of TAM. Where will I be a couple years down the line? Well ladies and gentlemen, to answer that question, I give you TAP. Brian is my alum from Beta Alpha Psi and is a couple years my senior. Where I am, he's been. Where he is, I hope to be. He has his own blog (www.xanga.com/chumeister) and graciously offered to write a guest entry for me. The following is a sneak peek into what could be the next step for TAM (maybe).
_______
I have a sinking feeling that when I someday have kids, I'm going to be a typical Asian parent (a.k.a. a TAP). I'm fighting so hard against it, but somehow I just know that at some point, my Asian parenting gene will kick in and I'll start sending my kids off to violin practice, tennis lessons, and ballet classes. They'll learn to do multiplication by five, algebra by ten, and heaven forbid they be unable to take a first derivative by the time they hit puberty. And all the while, I'll be kicking myself for turning into the kind of dad that I don't want to be. The one that watches his son pick up a Playskool golf club at 10 months, and suddenly sees the next Tiger Woods in front of him. Nevermind the fact that the only thing that was probably going through my son's mind at the time was, "Oh, look at the pretty multicolored stick!" The next thing you know, it's personal training sessions with a golf coach that specializes with two-year olds, hours at golf courses practicing driving and putting, and entries into youth tournaments before they've lost their first baby teeth.
I like to believe that I'm trying to do my kids some good. And that they'll "thank me later". In Malcolm Gladwell's latest book, Outliers, he describes something known as the 10,000 hour rule. Essentially, he states that in order to become an expert at anything, it requires 10,000 hours of deliberate practice. Outside of maybe sleeping, eating, and watching TV, I can't imagine having spent 10,000 hours doing anything. And yet, to truly be world-class at anything, that's exactly what it takes. So maybe it's too late for me to become a world-famous chess player. And maybe my NBA aspirations should be put on hold. But if I want my kids to reach that point, then I have to push them. Right?
Yet a part of me feels conflicted over becoming the type of parent who hires foreign language tutors for their children before they turn three. After all, there's something to be said for the simple pleasure of enjoying childhood. The truly ironic part is that my parents, God bless them, were never the pushy type. Sure they wanted to see all of their kids succeed. But when my sister wanted to stop playing the piano at 12, they never pressed the issue. And when I chose to watch Animaniacs
over taking Chinese lessons in the afternoons, they were amenable, if not openly supportive. But there are also times, especially as I struggle to communicate with my relatives in Mandarin, that I wish they had pushed me a bit more. Forced me to drag myself out of bed for Chinese school on Saturday mornings so I could learn to say more than, "The book belongs to Mr. Lee" or "I would like the Chicken Fried Rice, please." Not that I blame my parents for my own laziness. It's not like I was particularly thrilled to study when more entertaining options were available to me. And my argument of “Why would I ever need to learn Chinese? I live in AMERICA!” seemed reasonable at the time. In my defense, who would have expected China to go from Communist home of cheap labor and goods into Economic Superpower in less than two decades?
I think my compromise will be to cultivate talents that my kids show an interest in, rather than forcing them to do things that I think would be “best for them”. Admittedly, that’s not an easy task. Even as a kid, I went from wanting to be an astronaut, to a CEO, to a basketball player to a fireman in a span of roughly 10 minutes. So I can appreciate the difficulties of trying to determine what a child truly shows a passion for and what is just a passing fancy. Yet kids still need assistance to help them develop the talents that they do possess. Their talents and passions won’t simply progress through dumb luck.
But at the same time, I truly appreciate the fact that my parents let me spend my childhood being a kid, rather than a vicarious vessel for them to pour their own hopes and dreams into. So I’ll do my best to be a “good” dad. One that nurtures my child’s predisposed talents and creates opportunities for them to succeed. But if their talents aren’t what I expected, that’s fine. Or if they aren’t particularly “gifted” at anything, that’s okay as well. I don’t need my daughter to be the next Marie Curie. Just as long as she’s not the next Amy Winehouse.
_______
I have a sinking feeling that when I someday have kids, I'm going to be a typical Asian parent (a.k.a. a TAP). I'm fighting so hard against it, but somehow I just know that at some point, my Asian parenting gene will kick in and I'll start sending my kids off to violin practice, tennis lessons, and ballet classes. They'll learn to do multiplication by five, algebra by ten, and heaven forbid they be unable to take a first derivative by the time they hit puberty. And all the while, I'll be kicking myself for turning into the kind of dad that I don't want to be. The one that watches his son pick up a Playskool golf club at 10 months, and suddenly sees the next Tiger Woods in front of him. Nevermind the fact that the only thing that was probably going through my son's mind at the time was, "Oh, look at the pretty multicolored stick!" The next thing you know, it's personal training sessions with a golf coach that specializes with two-year olds, hours at golf courses practicing driving and putting, and entries into youth tournaments before they've lost their first baby teeth.
I like to believe that I'm trying to do my kids some good. And that they'll "thank me later". In Malcolm Gladwell's latest book, Outliers, he describes something known as the 10,000 hour rule. Essentially, he states that in order to become an expert at anything, it requires 10,000 hours of deliberate practice. Outside of maybe sleeping, eating, and watching TV, I can't imagine having spent 10,000 hours doing anything. And yet, to truly be world-class at anything, that's exactly what it takes. So maybe it's too late for me to become a world-famous chess player. And maybe my NBA aspirations should be put on hold. But if I want my kids to reach that point, then I have to push them. Right?
Yet a part of me feels conflicted over becoming the type of parent who hires foreign language tutors for their children before they turn three. After all, there's something to be said for the simple pleasure of enjoying childhood. The truly ironic part is that my parents, God bless them, were never the pushy type. Sure they wanted to see all of their kids succeed. But when my sister wanted to stop playing the piano at 12, they never pressed the issue. And when I chose to watch Animaniacs
over taking Chinese lessons in the afternoons, they were amenable, if not openly supportive. But there are also times, especially as I struggle to communicate with my relatives in Mandarin, that I wish they had pushed me a bit more. Forced me to drag myself out of bed for Chinese school on Saturday mornings so I could learn to say more than, "The book belongs to Mr. Lee" or "I would like the Chicken Fried Rice, please." Not that I blame my parents for my own laziness. It's not like I was particularly thrilled to study when more entertaining options were available to me. And my argument of “Why would I ever need to learn Chinese? I live in AMERICA!” seemed reasonable at the time. In my defense, who would have expected China to go from Communist home of cheap labor and goods into Economic Superpower in less than two decades?I think my compromise will be to cultivate talents that my kids show an interest in, rather than forcing them to do things that I think would be “best for them”. Admittedly, that’s not an easy task. Even as a kid, I went from wanting to be an astronaut, to a CEO, to a basketball player to a fireman in a span of roughly 10 minutes. So I can appreciate the difficulties of trying to determine what a child truly shows a passion for and what is just a passing fancy. Yet kids still need assistance to help them develop the talents that they do possess. Their talents and passions won’t simply progress through dumb luck.
But at the same time, I truly appreciate the fact that my parents let me spend my childhood being a kid, rather than a vicarious vessel for them to pour their own hopes and dreams into. So I’ll do my best to be a “good” dad. One that nurtures my child’s predisposed talents and creates opportunities for them to succeed. But if their talents aren’t what I expected, that’s fine. Or if they aren’t particularly “gifted” at anything, that’s okay as well. I don’t need my daughter to be the next Marie Curie. Just as long as she’s not the next Amy Winehouse.
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
It's all a Con
Ever since I was small, I've had an obsession with 007. I've seen every Bond movie to date. I've looked up to his humor, his cunning, his fighting expertise, his charisma, and his ability to 'get the girl'. 007 is a jack of all trades and a master of infiltration. He can manipulate the situation using his innate knowledge and quick wits to turn the tide on any criminal mastermind. With a bit of luck and ingenuity, he can topple entire evil organizations within the span of a few short hours. This always amazed me as a child. More than his slew of gadgets and exotic cars. More than the harem of broken hearts he left in his wake. It was his skill in controlling others' perception of him that won him my lifelong admiration. But now I realize that it's not all that hard. In fact, we see it happen everywhere, all the time. I'm talking of course about the way women use makeup, accessories, clothes, and 'trickery' to make themselves look hot. The extent of the change varies from girl to girl but whenever I see a girl take off her makeup it always reminds me of that scene from Mission Impossible. The scene where the old guy takes off his face to reveal Tom Cruise underneath. Except in the movie, the mask is uglier than the face...
The average guy is very visual. We're not the brightest creatures on the planet so what we see plays a huge part in how we feel. Knowing this, a multi-billion dollar fashion and cosmetic industry has cropped up and been built around how to get a girl to look more appealing to men. The number of steps involved to achieve this is absolutely ridiculous. It's akin to the Navy Seals suiting up for a black op. The average time it takes me to get ready for a night out? 10 minutes (shower included). The average time it takes most girls? 2 hours. As one of the privileged few (boyfriend status for 5 years), I earned a backstage pass to the rodeo that is "Vegas club prepping" so let me drop some knowledge and expose what I like to call, Operation Gaga.
Girls have 5 major areas where they apply makeup to elicit that 'second look' from a guy. From top down, they are:
The hair. This encompasses the day to day routine on top of the game day prep. The daily regimen includes conditioners ($20 conditioners like Biolage), leave-in conditioners, hair treatments, hair-dyes, anti-frizz, shine serum, and brushing (typically 100 times a night). Game day prep is even more extensive. Girls use all sorts of add-ons in addition to the traditional hairspray, mousse, volumizers, blow-dryers, straighteners, and curling irons. There are Bump-its, hair extensions, hair pieces, and even straight up wigs to top off their look.
The eyes. Personally, I feel like this is where the biggest change occurs. It might be because eyes are my favorite feature on a girl's face, but I feel that having pretty eyes is critical. Subtle changes make a huge difference. There are so many cheats and hacks that I can't name them all but I'll try to cover a few and highlight the ones I think are the most interesting. Besides the typical eyeliner, mascara, eye shadow, and eye lash curlers there's a whole slew of 'advanced' techniques available to make their eyes pop. In what I dubbed 'the war room' (the girl's bathroom in a Vegas hotel), I've seen fake eyelashes, double eyelid tape (some sort of adhesive that gives you double eyelids for the night), color contacts, black lenses (they make your pupils appear larger and supposedly make guys more attracted to you), and stickers. Yes, stickers. To this day, I still don't understand why girls put those damn star stickers at the corners of their eyes. They make you look like a cartoon character. See video. 'Sailor Moon Transformation'.
The skin. This includes the moisturizers, facials, face masks, and billions of other products that are available to clean, cleanse, exfoliate, balance, soften, hydrate, replenish, and revitalize. I'm all for the natural, glossy sheen of healthy skin, but it's when the girls put on foundation, cover-up, powder, blush, concealer, bronzer, and that damn glitter that things turn sour. If I touch your cheek and you can't feel it, that's a deal breaker. I hate it when girls cake that stuff on and end up looking like a Korean mom.
The boobs. This is definitely an area of great importance. And along with its throne at the top of the male visual hierarchy, it comes with the ability to make the most drastic changes. While makeup as a whole typically follows the theme of subtlety (for the most part), bras are on the opposite end of the spectrum. This is where Asian girls shine. With all the wonder bras, push up bras, padded bras, water bras, silicon inserts, gel inserts, and breast reshapers, they can work wonders with their cleavage. There's even a technique where they gather up fat around their chest and back and push it into their bra to achieve a natural addition to their boobage (don't ask how I figured this one out...) Needless to say, the typical Asian male is usually sorely disappointed when it comes time to unhook that clasp.
The poses. Last but not least, we have the way girls carry themselves. They wear high heels to naturally stretch out their calves to make them appear slimmer. They pose with their elbow out and their hand at their waist to make their arms look slimmer as well. And of course, every girl knows exactly which side and how to angle their face in pictures so that they look the hottest. Exhibit A
It's almost unfair how much girls have at their disposal to look hot. And if all else fails, you still have the abnormally large sunglasses. Those huge Old Navy Grandma shades are the modern day equivalent of a paper bag. They cover half your face! Guys on the other hand are an open book. We bare ourselves for the world to see, unimpeded by the least bit of trickery. We don't have any shortcuts or backdoors (don't be dirty). If we want to look better, all we can do is go on a diet and hit the gym. Girls... what you see is what you get. When the sun sets, we're still Shrek. But Princess Fiona on the other hand...
The average guy is very visual. We're not the brightest creatures on the planet so what we see plays a huge part in how we feel. Knowing this, a multi-billion dollar fashion and cosmetic industry has cropped up and been built around how to get a girl to look more appealing to men. The number of steps involved to achieve this is absolutely ridiculous. It's akin to the Navy Seals suiting up for a black op. The average time it takes me to get ready for a night out? 10 minutes (shower included). The average time it takes most girls? 2 hours. As one of the privileged few (boyfriend status for 5 years), I earned a backstage pass to the rodeo that is "Vegas club prepping" so let me drop some knowledge and expose what I like to call, Operation Gaga.
Girls have 5 major areas where they apply makeup to elicit that 'second look' from a guy. From top down, they are:
The hair. This encompasses the day to day routine on top of the game day prep. The daily regimen includes conditioners ($20 conditioners like Biolage), leave-in conditioners, hair treatments, hair-dyes, anti-frizz, shine serum, and brushing (typically 100 times a night). Game day prep is even more extensive. Girls use all sorts of add-ons in addition to the traditional hairspray, mousse, volumizers, blow-dryers, straighteners, and curling irons. There are Bump-its, hair extensions, hair pieces, and even straight up wigs to top off their look.
The eyes. Personally, I feel like this is where the biggest change occurs. It might be because eyes are my favorite feature on a girl's face, but I feel that having pretty eyes is critical. Subtle changes make a huge difference. There are so many cheats and hacks that I can't name them all but I'll try to cover a few and highlight the ones I think are the most interesting. Besides the typical eyeliner, mascara, eye shadow, and eye lash curlers there's a whole slew of 'advanced' techniques available to make their eyes pop. In what I dubbed 'the war room' (the girl's bathroom in a Vegas hotel), I've seen fake eyelashes, double eyelid tape (some sort of adhesive that gives you double eyelids for the night), color contacts, black lenses (they make your pupils appear larger and supposedly make guys more attracted to you), and stickers. Yes, stickers. To this day, I still don't understand why girls put those damn star stickers at the corners of their eyes. They make you look like a cartoon character. See video. 'Sailor Moon Transformation'.
The skin. This includes the moisturizers, facials, face masks, and billions of other products that are available to clean, cleanse, exfoliate, balance, soften, hydrate, replenish, and revitalize. I'm all for the natural, glossy sheen of healthy skin, but it's when the girls put on foundation, cover-up, powder, blush, concealer, bronzer, and that damn glitter that things turn sour. If I touch your cheek and you can't feel it, that's a deal breaker. I hate it when girls cake that stuff on and end up looking like a Korean mom.
The boobs. This is definitely an area of great importance. And along with its throne at the top of the male visual hierarchy, it comes with the ability to make the most drastic changes. While makeup as a whole typically follows the theme of subtlety (for the most part), bras are on the opposite end of the spectrum. This is where Asian girls shine. With all the wonder bras, push up bras, padded bras, water bras, silicon inserts, gel inserts, and breast reshapers, they can work wonders with their cleavage. There's even a technique where they gather up fat around their chest and back and push it into their bra to achieve a natural addition to their boobage (don't ask how I figured this one out...) Needless to say, the typical Asian male is usually sorely disappointed when it comes time to unhook that clasp.
The poses. Last but not least, we have the way girls carry themselves. They wear high heels to naturally stretch out their calves to make them appear slimmer. They pose with their elbow out and their hand at their waist to make their arms look slimmer as well. And of course, every girl knows exactly which side and how to angle their face in pictures so that they look the hottest. Exhibit A
It's almost unfair how much girls have at their disposal to look hot. And if all else fails, you still have the abnormally large sunglasses. Those huge Old Navy Grandma shades are the modern day equivalent of a paper bag. They cover half your face! Guys on the other hand are an open book. We bare ourselves for the world to see, unimpeded by the least bit of trickery. We don't have any shortcuts or backdoors (don't be dirty). If we want to look better, all we can do is go on a diet and hit the gym. Girls... what you see is what you get. When the sun sets, we're still Shrek. But Princess Fiona on the other hand...
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
The Greatest Equalizer
There are a great many things in life that have leveled the playing field between men. Public education, golf handicaps, Shaq Vs., and what some have called "The Great Equalizer", Samuel Colt's six round revolver. These things all have one thing in common. They strip men of their strengths and leave them to compete in one area and one area alone. However, in a recent turn of events, I discovered an even greater equalizer. One that strips men of all strength and even saps their very desire to compete. For the last couple days I've been experiencing this equalizer first hand. The common cold. I've been sick at home, miserable. My entire body ached. I had a fever of 103⁰... and my head felt bigger than the size of my ego. Being sick sucked.
It saps all your strength and leaves you whimpering under your covers. It reduces you to a blubbering four year old and you end up curled up in the fetal position all day, crying for help. In my fever-induced hallucinogenic state, I distinctly remember calling out for my mom as I tossed and turned. I called out for her, my step-mom, my roommate, Eliot from Scrubs, and during an especially horrific hot flash, the blessed Virgin Mary. At the very height of my misery, I was begging for someone, anyone... to come rub my back and reassure me that it's physically impossible to cough up a lung.
Being sick is disgusting. Your body starts morphing into the monsters from Aliens. You cough up that toxic green, acid phlegm. You start making weird noises. Grunts, hacking coughs, retching, and your voice turns raspy. Your vision blurs, your body is constantly sweating, and you cringe at direct sunlight. If I'm sick for longer than two weeks, my transformation will be complete and you should send for the Predator to put me out of my misery.
Looking back at these tumultuous 48 hours, I realize that when I get sick, I get really sick. And I don't get sick very often so I feel like when I do, it's the biggest and baddest buggers that get to me. I've read magazine articles saying that women deal with sickness better than men, and that men over exaggerate their symptoms. Wholly untrue! (at least for me). That may be the case for married men or guys in committed relationships who use sickness as an excuse to be pampered and cared for (pansies), but as a man standing alone, unattached and unencumbered by nagging spouses, I have no reason to exaggerate or fake symptoms for empathy. I have no one around to make me soup, buy me medicine, cook for me, feed me, tuck me in.. hug me.. hold me... tell me everything's gonna be alright.... Damn, being sick when your alone really sucks.
It's actually quite a humbling experience. It was the first time I've been sick since my break up a year ago and the first time that I really missed being in a relationship. Not back with the ex mind you, but just having someone around that you can depend on. Being strong and independent all the time gets tiring. I'm sure even Atlas loved it when Hercules stopped by and they passed the ball around. But at the same time I learned something about myself. I learned that I can stand strong in the face of adversity. That at a time when I felt I was down and out for the count, I was able to pull myself up by the bootstraps... and make a damn good chicken soup from scratch. Not to shabby for the typical Asian male. Chicken soup for the jaded and lovelorn soul!
It saps all your strength and leaves you whimpering under your covers. It reduces you to a blubbering four year old and you end up curled up in the fetal position all day, crying for help. In my fever-induced hallucinogenic state, I distinctly remember calling out for my mom as I tossed and turned. I called out for her, my step-mom, my roommate, Eliot from Scrubs, and during an especially horrific hot flash, the blessed Virgin Mary. At the very height of my misery, I was begging for someone, anyone... to come rub my back and reassure me that it's physically impossible to cough up a lung.
Being sick is disgusting. Your body starts morphing into the monsters from Aliens. You cough up that toxic green, acid phlegm. You start making weird noises. Grunts, hacking coughs, retching, and your voice turns raspy. Your vision blurs, your body is constantly sweating, and you cringe at direct sunlight. If I'm sick for longer than two weeks, my transformation will be complete and you should send for the Predator to put me out of my misery.
Looking back at these tumultuous 48 hours, I realize that when I get sick, I get really sick. And I don't get sick very often so I feel like when I do, it's the biggest and baddest buggers that get to me. I've read magazine articles saying that women deal with sickness better than men, and that men over exaggerate their symptoms. Wholly untrue! (at least for me). That may be the case for married men or guys in committed relationships who use sickness as an excuse to be pampered and cared for (pansies), but as a man standing alone, unattached and unencumbered by nagging spouses, I have no reason to exaggerate or fake symptoms for empathy. I have no one around to make me soup, buy me medicine, cook for me, feed me, tuck me in.. hug me.. hold me... tell me everything's gonna be alright.... Damn, being sick when your alone really sucks.
It's actually quite a humbling experience. It was the first time I've been sick since my break up a year ago and the first time that I really missed being in a relationship. Not back with the ex mind you, but just having someone around that you can depend on. Being strong and independent all the time gets tiring. I'm sure even Atlas loved it when Hercules stopped by and they passed the ball around. But at the same time I learned something about myself. I learned that I can stand strong in the face of adversity. That at a time when I felt I was down and out for the count, I was able to pull myself up by the bootstraps... and make a damn good chicken soup from scratch. Not to shabby for the typical Asian male. Chicken soup for the jaded and lovelorn soul!
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Bay Area Fail
As a person who regularly frequents the SF club scene I've come to notice a couple of recurring themes that always seem to pop up wherever I go. The hot girl bartender always seems to have an attitude. The bouncers are all horribly overweight black guys. And.. the average male club rat is completely inept when it comes to approaching girls. I can't help but notice this because after I get shot down, I look around and see countless other poor saps get rejected as well. We're like moths to a flame, masochists who never learn and always come back begging for more. We just don't seem to have the intangibles required to charm and beguile women. Frustrated, I decided to venture away from my usual haunts and observe men that are more successful in their amorous endeavors. Thus, I took advantage of a weekend jaunt down to LA and slipped my notepad into my back pocket and headed out for a night on the town in West Hollywood.
The LA player. Cocky, stylish, rich, tan, and full of swag. These guys look good and they know it. They banter, they tease, they neg, and before the girl knows it, she's caught in their web. The LA player oozes confidence and has a trophy shelf of past romantic trysts reminiscent of Matthew McConaughey's from Ghosts of Girlfriend's Past (I watch chick flicks, get over it).
The SF hipster. Ambitious, driven, capable, intelligent, and socially awkward. It goes without saying that San Francisco has more than its fair share of eligible bachelors. Countless specimens of the brightest and most creative minds call the bay their home. However, looking over this impressive population, I can't help but see thousands of Howard Wolowitzs from The Big Bang Theory scurrying about. The reason being because Wolowitz's stats read eerily similar to the average SF male's.
1) He's smart
2) He's fluent in 6 different languages
3) He has 3% body fat
4) He works for NASA
His accolades read like an Asian mom's wet dream. He's got almost everything she could ask for, except for the fact that any child he fathers should be put to sleep out of mercy. If you click on his profile, you'll see that he, like most SF guys, is utterly unattractive, overly confident, horribly dressed, and... just plain disgusting.
Great on paper, horrible in person. It's the nightmarish reality of the SF (sexually frustrated) girl. The men of SF seem to only come from two ends of the spectrum. I'm not sure if it's because of our proximity to the mightiest nerds on earth (Silicon Valley) or that we hail from two of the most prestigious alma maters in the west coast. We are either extremely cocky, over compensating for our awkward adolescence, or pathetically passive, stemming from our tormented childhood. Ladies... you have my utmost condolences. The bay has nothing to offer you except the intellectually agile, but emotionally stunted, sickly specimens of the penile gender. Maybe that's why the lesbian population has flourished in the bay.
The LA player. Cocky, stylish, rich, tan, and full of swag. These guys look good and they know it. They banter, they tease, they neg, and before the girl knows it, she's caught in their web. The LA player oozes confidence and has a trophy shelf of past romantic trysts reminiscent of Matthew McConaughey's from Ghosts of Girlfriend's Past (I watch chick flicks, get over it).
The SF hipster. Ambitious, driven, capable, intelligent, and socially awkward. It goes without saying that San Francisco has more than its fair share of eligible bachelors. Countless specimens of the brightest and most creative minds call the bay their home. However, looking over this impressive population, I can't help but see thousands of Howard Wolowitzs from The Big Bang Theory scurrying about. The reason being because Wolowitz's stats read eerily similar to the average SF male's.
1) He's smart
2) He's fluent in 6 different languages
3) He has 3% body fat
4) He works for NASA
His accolades read like an Asian mom's wet dream. He's got almost everything she could ask for, except for the fact that any child he fathers should be put to sleep out of mercy. If you click on his profile, you'll see that he, like most SF guys, is utterly unattractive, overly confident, horribly dressed, and... just plain disgusting.
Great on paper, horrible in person. It's the nightmarish reality of the SF (sexually frustrated) girl. The men of SF seem to only come from two ends of the spectrum. I'm not sure if it's because of our proximity to the mightiest nerds on earth (Silicon Valley) or that we hail from two of the most prestigious alma maters in the west coast. We are either extremely cocky, over compensating for our awkward adolescence, or pathetically passive, stemming from our tormented childhood. Ladies... you have my utmost condolences. The bay has nothing to offer you except the intellectually agile, but emotionally stunted, sickly specimens of the penile gender. Maybe that's why the lesbian population has flourished in the bay.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Bromance
It's universal. Shunned, exalted, glorified, or ostracized. Homosexuality has been a part of our society since the first time the people of Sodom misinterpreted 'Love thy neighbor'. The Greek even believed that the love between two men was of a higher order than the love between a man and a woman. Personally, I can't imagine why men would lust after penii (penises?) and man boobs. Why seek out stuff you already have? The only time I'll ever check out another guy's body is to look at his abs and arms and think, 'Damn, how the hell can I get mine to look like that?' The discipline it takes to obtain the 'cut' look that women swoon over is ridiculous. You either have to have the dedication and focus of a Tibetan monk, or be obsessively compulsive and narcissistic. Hailing from neither of these, I am constantly jealous and secretly bitter whenever I go to the gym and see guys with 5% body fat. It's not that I don't work out, it's just that I love eating too much. You can take away my gadgets, my car, or even beloved 'shiao shong shong' (the scruffy teddy bear perched on my dresser that I've had since I was two years old), but threaten me with 'No more double-doubles!' and I'll crack faster than Rosie O'Donnell on the South Beach Diet.
I have no qualms about one man loving another... as long as it's the legit kind, 'Agape'. But for one reason or another, guys of my generation have all become... 'homo'. The homophobes are out, and the homophillics are ubiquitous. It's ridiculous how many pictures of ugly hookers I see on Facebook. If Halloween is an excuse for a girl to dress slutty, it's also the only time it's acceptable for guys to embrace their inner tranny. Nowadays, everywhere I go I see reenactments of Brokeback. There's a lot that can be said about present day social norms when vibrant young men in the prime of life routinely molest each other. There was a time when I absolutely refused to even hug another guy. But I've long since shed such inhibitions and embraced bromance to the fullest. If you can't beat them, join them, because the gay hetero movement relentlessly surges forward like the unforgiving flood waters of Hurricane Katrina, forever changing the landscape of male bonding.
Sometimes I feel like we're disrespecting the proud men that are truly gay. What with our loose use of the word 'fag' and all its creative euphemisms.. (sausage jockey, fudge packer, bone smoker, rump ranger, turd burglar.. and the list goes on). But thankfully I've found that, since some of my best friends are of the dual sword discipline, as long as they know you fully support their lifestyle, you're usually allowed to use the word 'gay' in everyday life. (It's similar to the use of the word 'nigga'. 'You gotta check with your nigga consulate' for when you can use it, see Chris Rock's Kill the Messenger) The other terms, well... use at your own discretion.
But on the subject of straight men acting gay, I say if I'm comfortable enough with my sexuality to slap my buddy on the ass, then who are you to judge? In the words of the 644 crew, 'It's not gay if you don't fall in love.' Girlfriends be damned. Leave room in that bed for one more. I'll join u right after I'm done hugging it out. But don't worry... No homo.
I have no qualms about one man loving another... as long as it's the legit kind, 'Agape'. But for one reason or another, guys of my generation have all become... 'homo'. The homophobes are out, and the homophillics are ubiquitous. It's ridiculous how many pictures of ugly hookers I see on Facebook. If Halloween is an excuse for a girl to dress slutty, it's also the only time it's acceptable for guys to embrace their inner tranny. Nowadays, everywhere I go I see reenactments of Brokeback. There's a lot that can be said about present day social norms when vibrant young men in the prime of life routinely molest each other. There was a time when I absolutely refused to even hug another guy. But I've long since shed such inhibitions and embraced bromance to the fullest. If you can't beat them, join them, because the gay hetero movement relentlessly surges forward like the unforgiving flood waters of Hurricane Katrina, forever changing the landscape of male bonding.
Sometimes I feel like we're disrespecting the proud men that are truly gay. What with our loose use of the word 'fag' and all its creative euphemisms.. (sausage jockey, fudge packer, bone smoker, rump ranger, turd burglar.. and the list goes on). But thankfully I've found that, since some of my best friends are of the dual sword discipline, as long as they know you fully support their lifestyle, you're usually allowed to use the word 'gay' in everyday life. (It's similar to the use of the word 'nigga'. 'You gotta check with your nigga consulate' for when you can use it, see Chris Rock's Kill the Messenger) The other terms, well... use at your own discretion.
But on the subject of straight men acting gay, I say if I'm comfortable enough with my sexuality to slap my buddy on the ass, then who are you to judge? In the words of the 644 crew, 'It's not gay if you don't fall in love.' Girlfriends be damned. Leave room in that bed for one more. I'll join u right after I'm done hugging it out. But don't worry... No homo.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
My Affliction
There are very few things that we can count on in this day and age. What with the tragic downfall of so many household names in the last year like Circuit City, Lehman Brothers, GMC, and... Cafe Intermezzo (apparently the Intermezzo that I knew and loved while a student at UC Berkeley got bought out and renamed to Cafe Mattina, but no worries, everything is still the same. Right down to the overly pierced and tattooed, transient delicatessens that man the sandwich counter. I swear the only differences between the people behind the counter and the bums sitting on the sidewalk are the blue aprons that they wear.) But in my life I've discovered a few things that I can definitely bank on. Math will never be fun, I'll always spill or splatter food on myself whenever I'm wearing white, my mom will invariably show my naked baby pictures to anybody I bring home, and... I'll always be crushing on some girl. It's as regular as clockwork. This week it's Miss Farrell from Mad Men. Last week it was the girl who helped me at Bloomingdales. The week before, Olivia Wilde.
This affliction started one crisp autumn day almost two decades ago when I was sitting at my little square desk listening attentively to Miss Kawaratani explain the difference between numerators and denominators. Then out of the corner of my eye, I saw a flash of gold disappear under the adjacent rows of polished maple. My curiosity piqued, I turned my head just in time to have my breath taken away by the vision in front of me. Goldilocks, sans porridge, was sitting not 6 feet away from me twirling the No. 2 pencil that she had just bent down to pick up. I was mesmerized by the simple motion of her agile fingers and sat there gaping at the blue-eyed maiden in wonderment for a full minute before a switch clicked on in the back of my head. I realized that girls, were different than boys. And not because they have long hair or because they can twirl and flip on the pullup bars during recess (I tried it once... but even in my undeveloped state, it still hurt to have a metal bar there). Girls, I realized, are pretty. Prettier than the way my mom tied the frilly ribbons around my birthday gifts. Prettier even, than the ninja turtle figurine perfectly sealed in its plastic case that was inside the box. Lauren, the little blond haired girl, captivated me, and, for the first time in my 8 years of life, I was 'in love'.
That was the moment I started liking girls. I started looking at the world through a completely different set of eyes. All girls intrigued me, but I paid special attention to the pretty ones. Though my bumbling advances weren't well received since I was 'Jason chubby fatso' (my nickname in middle school). Lauren told me to 'go away!' and broke my poor little prepubescent heart. But my recovery was swift and it didn't take long before I latched on to my next crush, Judy, a tomboy with a pretty smile and long flowing black hair. Since then, countless crushes have come and gone. And as the ladies around me drift in and out of my life, I've come to terms with their ephemeral presence. They thunder in like a 1,000 year storm and leave with but the trace of a fleeting kiss. Oh Alba... we could have been something wonderful together. But you, like all the others, left me to marry the rich guy.
And now, after a year of being single, I ask myself, am I in a rut? Two decades and a five year relationship later, I'm back splashing around in the same wading pool of love that I was in when I was 8 years old. The only difference is that I've shed my bright yellow water wings and replaced it with a sleek, slim-fitting black life vest (Dolce?). Is it time to once again tiptoe towards the deep end of the pool where the possibility of drowning is much higher? Diving head first into the murky depths of love is terrifying. I tried it once and barely made it out with my heart intact. But when are we ever 'ready' for love? Doesn't it just hit you when you're least aware and drag you away kicking and screaming? With all these uncertainties floating around in my head, I fell back on the reassuring lyrics of my favorite lullaby as a child. ‘Que sera, sera. Whatever will be, will be.’ All we can do is to take deep breaths and try not to be stressed out by life's problems. Settled, I decided that I’ll just have to wait and see what tomorrow... night brings.
Carpe Noctem Biatches!
This affliction started one crisp autumn day almost two decades ago when I was sitting at my little square desk listening attentively to Miss Kawaratani explain the difference between numerators and denominators. Then out of the corner of my eye, I saw a flash of gold disappear under the adjacent rows of polished maple. My curiosity piqued, I turned my head just in time to have my breath taken away by the vision in front of me. Goldilocks, sans porridge, was sitting not 6 feet away from me twirling the No. 2 pencil that she had just bent down to pick up. I was mesmerized by the simple motion of her agile fingers and sat there gaping at the blue-eyed maiden in wonderment for a full minute before a switch clicked on in the back of my head. I realized that girls, were different than boys. And not because they have long hair or because they can twirl and flip on the pullup bars during recess (I tried it once... but even in my undeveloped state, it still hurt to have a metal bar there). Girls, I realized, are pretty. Prettier than the way my mom tied the frilly ribbons around my birthday gifts. Prettier even, than the ninja turtle figurine perfectly sealed in its plastic case that was inside the box. Lauren, the little blond haired girl, captivated me, and, for the first time in my 8 years of life, I was 'in love'.
That was the moment I started liking girls. I started looking at the world through a completely different set of eyes. All girls intrigued me, but I paid special attention to the pretty ones. Though my bumbling advances weren't well received since I was 'Jason chubby fatso' (my nickname in middle school). Lauren told me to 'go away!' and broke my poor little prepubescent heart. But my recovery was swift and it didn't take long before I latched on to my next crush, Judy, a tomboy with a pretty smile and long flowing black hair. Since then, countless crushes have come and gone. And as the ladies around me drift in and out of my life, I've come to terms with their ephemeral presence. They thunder in like a 1,000 year storm and leave with but the trace of a fleeting kiss. Oh Alba... we could have been something wonderful together. But you, like all the others, left me to marry the rich guy.
And now, after a year of being single, I ask myself, am I in a rut? Two decades and a five year relationship later, I'm back splashing around in the same wading pool of love that I was in when I was 8 years old. The only difference is that I've shed my bright yellow water wings and replaced it with a sleek, slim-fitting black life vest (Dolce?). Is it time to once again tiptoe towards the deep end of the pool where the possibility of drowning is much higher? Diving head first into the murky depths of love is terrifying. I tried it once and barely made it out with my heart intact. But when are we ever 'ready' for love? Doesn't it just hit you when you're least aware and drag you away kicking and screaming? With all these uncertainties floating around in my head, I fell back on the reassuring lyrics of my favorite lullaby as a child. ‘Que sera, sera. Whatever will be, will be.’ All we can do is to take deep breaths and try not to be stressed out by life's problems. Settled, I decided that I’ll just have to wait and see what tomorrow... night brings.
Carpe Noctem Biatches!
Thursday, October 15, 2009
My Family Heirloom
My dad came up to me one day and said, "Son, lemme fuck you up with some knowledge. Read this book."
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
SWF: On Meeting Men
As part of a reader outreach program I dubbed the Typical Asian Male Mutual Interest Enterprise (or TAMMIE for short) I asked several readers if they would like to contribute to this blog and received a surprising level of interest. So thus the writer becomes the editor and I present to you SWF, single white female, the author of what I hope will become a series of entries that will run parallel to my own and inject insight from the opposite end of the spectrum.
__
SWF: On meeting men.
Personal ads. Most of us are probably too young to remember a time when the Desperate turned to the awkward, cryptic, acronym-ridden Penis Wanted ads in the local newspaper.
“S/W/F looking for S/W/M, employed, likes long walks on beach, romantic getaways. Oh yea, must love dogs.” Early 90’s throw-back: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=krzCeKZxfQ8... yea you girls remember this song!
I’ve always wondered, how much those ads cost. They couldn't have been any more expensive than joining Match.com. (Which btw, Glamour Magazine described as “Baskin-Robbins’ 31 flavors: blondes, redheads, Egyptians and probably a set of Siamese twins if you were to search long enough.”) These days, it’s all about SEO (Search Engine Optimization). Don't lie... you know you've Googled yourself! There are blogs all over the net providing hot tips and tricks to increase your twitter traffic (even.. dare I say it, blog traffic?), to ensure that you’re getting your message out about who you are, what you stand for, and… what you had for dinner last night. Let's face it ladies, social media branding isn’t just for entrepreneurs. While branding yourself may have initially seemed like it was career-oriented, nothing is ever quite so simple. I, for one, have had enough with the endless void of shameless self-promotion and cyber dating space.
Most recently, my girlfriends and I have been discussing the more traditional ways in which we meet men--and that goes beyond the bar. There's nothing tackier, or riskier than meeting a guy in a bar or at a club. No one is really there to meet someone worth starting a lasting, serious relationship. Your TAM said it best, we're there to dance and score free drinks. So where are the best spots to meet "The One?" Here are my top 5 alternative real world hotspots for women to meet men.
1. Probably the best place is Home Depot... or any hardware store. You just walk up to the cutest guy you see and say "Do you know where I get nailed? I mean nails? Pardon me, I've been drinking all afternoon." And that way he knows: one, you're easy, and two, you like to drink.
2. The grocery store. TIP: Ladies, you see a man walking around with a list in his hands. Move on. He’s most likely married, or gay if you’re in SF. Instead, you'll catch the one with a basket in the frozen food aisle. Accidentally bump into him while reaching for a bag of frozen margarita mix and BAM--Instant conversation starter! Personally, I like to hang out by the fruits and vegetables, there's a better chance of getting a guy who's health-conscious.
3. The Gym. This piggy-backs on the fruits and veggies guy. You know he’s healthy, or at least active, as well as how much he sweats. Just start a conversation by asking him to help you with your form.
4. A Concert in the park. This is particularly true for women in San Francisco. You’ll know right away if you share a love for the same music group/genre, as well as whether or not he showers regularly.
5. The Office. Ok… so, tons of people say don’t dip your pen in company ink. But, the fact of the matter is that we spend more time with folks on the job than with anyone else. (See: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B9JGq-q63rU). And while I don't recommend starting anything too serious with a co-worker, I wouldn’t frown upon meeting your cube-mate's hottie roommate.
So what's the bottom line? It's all about your approach. Reserve the hooker boots/heels for the club. Save beer pong for Cal Game days. And most of all, be open to the possibility that maybe, just maybe, the cute guy squeezing peaches a couple feet away could be your next boyfriend.
What are your favorite unconventional places to meet men?
__
SWF: On meeting men.
Personal ads. Most of us are probably too young to remember a time when the Desperate turned to the awkward, cryptic, acronym-ridden Penis Wanted ads in the local newspaper.
“S/W/F looking for S/W/M, employed, likes long walks on beach, romantic getaways. Oh yea, must love dogs.” Early 90’s throw-back: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=krzCeKZxfQ8... yea you girls remember this song!
I’ve always wondered, how much those ads cost. They couldn't have been any more expensive than joining Match.com. (Which btw, Glamour Magazine described as “Baskin-Robbins’ 31 flavors: blondes, redheads, Egyptians and probably a set of Siamese twins if you were to search long enough.”) These days, it’s all about SEO (Search Engine Optimization). Don't lie... you know you've Googled yourself! There are blogs all over the net providing hot tips and tricks to increase your twitter traffic (even.. dare I say it, blog traffic?), to ensure that you’re getting your message out about who you are, what you stand for, and… what you had for dinner last night. Let's face it ladies, social media branding isn’t just for entrepreneurs. While branding yourself may have initially seemed like it was career-oriented, nothing is ever quite so simple. I, for one, have had enough with the endless void of shameless self-promotion and cyber dating space.
Most recently, my girlfriends and I have been discussing the more traditional ways in which we meet men--and that goes beyond the bar. There's nothing tackier, or riskier than meeting a guy in a bar or at a club. No one is really there to meet someone worth starting a lasting, serious relationship. Your TAM said it best, we're there to dance and score free drinks. So where are the best spots to meet "The One?" Here are my top 5 alternative real world hotspots for women to meet men.
1. Probably the best place is Home Depot... or any hardware store. You just walk up to the cutest guy you see and say "Do you know where I get nailed? I mean nails? Pardon me, I've been drinking all afternoon." And that way he knows: one, you're easy, and two, you like to drink.
2. The grocery store. TIP: Ladies, you see a man walking around with a list in his hands. Move on. He’s most likely married, or gay if you’re in SF. Instead, you'll catch the one with a basket in the frozen food aisle. Accidentally bump into him while reaching for a bag of frozen margarita mix and BAM--Instant conversation starter! Personally, I like to hang out by the fruits and vegetables, there's a better chance of getting a guy who's health-conscious.
3. The Gym. This piggy-backs on the fruits and veggies guy. You know he’s healthy, or at least active, as well as how much he sweats. Just start a conversation by asking him to help you with your form.
4. A Concert in the park. This is particularly true for women in San Francisco. You’ll know right away if you share a love for the same music group/genre, as well as whether or not he showers regularly.
5. The Office. Ok… so, tons of people say don’t dip your pen in company ink. But, the fact of the matter is that we spend more time with folks on the job than with anyone else. (See: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B9JGq-q63rU). And while I don't recommend starting anything too serious with a co-worker, I wouldn’t frown upon meeting your cube-mate's hottie roommate.
So what's the bottom line? It's all about your approach. Reserve the hooker boots/heels for the club. Save beer pong for Cal Game days. And most of all, be open to the possibility that maybe, just maybe, the cute guy squeezing peaches a couple feet away could be your next boyfriend.
What are your favorite unconventional places to meet men?
Thursday, October 1, 2009
My... Game?
Everybody has things they'd rather not have other people find out about. Whether it be the 8 year relationship the South Carolina governor had with his Argentinean mistress or the fact that I use Shiseido products (don't hate... my mom started me on them years ago and I got hooked). The truth typically comes out sooner or later. So fueled by this realization I've decided to come out and admit to my friends that I've been living under false pretenses. Some of you may already know. Some of you may have already guessed. The douchey asshole you see at clubs with the horrible lines and cat calls is merely a cover-up and an overcompensation of sorts. My metrosexual tendencies should have been a major tell (my closet is organized by color and I cried in the first ten minutes of Up.. all three times I watched it). But I figure it's time to come out of the closet and tell the whole world. After all, we live in SF and I'm definitely not the only one in the city with this affliction.
So therefore, I am somewhat embarrassed to admit that I am... a hopeless romantic..
Recently, in a bout of extreme loneliness, I succumbed to a romantic movie marathon complete with Ben and Jerry's ice cream. Sprawled on my couch amidst a sea of empty candy wrappers and half full cups of hot chocolate spiked with Baileys, I had a moment. In an estrogen and chocolate filled epiphany, I reconnected with my inner romantic. It was beautiful. An Amazing Grace, lost but now I'm found kind of moment. For those of you that know me, you know that this is a huge deal. Over the last couple years I've become more and more cynical and jaded about my perception of love. Gone was the wide-eyed youngster with dreams of fairytale romance. In his place, a battled-hardened Spartan rose like a phoenix from the ashes that once was that naive little boy. For the last year, I became love's vigilante, scouring the night for slighted men to offer my services as wingman and combat the evil ladyfolk that lurk in the dark corners of the night... clubs.
But I've since hung up my mask and cape. Clubbing no longer appeals to me. Girls at clubs aren't looking for a Mr. Right or even a Mr. Right Now. All they want is to dance away their troubles and possibly get a free drink. Men are optional. (See Object of the Game for more on this). Watching Definitely, Maybe by myself on a Friday night (pathetic, I know and worse, my Netflix recommendations now consists solely of chick flicks) made me realize that love is still out there (along with the fact that guys should never watch romance movies alone. It's like instant emo, just add scotch. We need to institute a buddy system for chick flicks. Leave no pansy behind!). If you didn't find the right girl the first time, or the second time.. or the tenth time, it's no reason to throw in the towel. If Rocky Balboa can make six boxing movies while fighting the onset of arthritis, there's no reason why I should lose hope at my age... or even at his age. I just need to tweak my outlook and rework my approach.
But until I formulate a workable game plan, I'll continue overcompensating and strutting around the dance floor grinding up on girls and spilling drinks on unsuspecting prey. Holla! After all, it's a proven fact that girls like assholes and nice guys finish last. I'll just have to quench my yearnings for a happily ever after through yet another Rachel McAdams movie marathon. So... anyone free next Friday?
So therefore, I am somewhat embarrassed to admit that I am... a hopeless romantic..
Recently, in a bout of extreme loneliness, I succumbed to a romantic movie marathon complete with Ben and Jerry's ice cream. Sprawled on my couch amidst a sea of empty candy wrappers and half full cups of hot chocolate spiked with Baileys, I had a moment. In an estrogen and chocolate filled epiphany, I reconnected with my inner romantic. It was beautiful. An Amazing Grace, lost but now I'm found kind of moment. For those of you that know me, you know that this is a huge deal. Over the last couple years I've become more and more cynical and jaded about my perception of love. Gone was the wide-eyed youngster with dreams of fairytale romance. In his place, a battled-hardened Spartan rose like a phoenix from the ashes that once was that naive little boy. For the last year, I became love's vigilante, scouring the night for slighted men to offer my services as wingman and combat the evil ladyfolk that lurk in the dark corners of the night... clubs.
But I've since hung up my mask and cape. Clubbing no longer appeals to me. Girls at clubs aren't looking for a Mr. Right or even a Mr. Right Now. All they want is to dance away their troubles and possibly get a free drink. Men are optional. (See Object of the Game for more on this). Watching Definitely, Maybe by myself on a Friday night (pathetic, I know and worse, my Netflix recommendations now consists solely of chick flicks) made me realize that love is still out there (along with the fact that guys should never watch romance movies alone. It's like instant emo, just add scotch. We need to institute a buddy system for chick flicks. Leave no pansy behind!). If you didn't find the right girl the first time, or the second time.. or the tenth time, it's no reason to throw in the towel. If Rocky Balboa can make six boxing movies while fighting the onset of arthritis, there's no reason why I should lose hope at my age... or even at his age. I just need to tweak my outlook and rework my approach.
But until I formulate a workable game plan, I'll continue overcompensating and strutting around the dance floor grinding up on girls and spilling drinks on unsuspecting prey. Holla! After all, it's a proven fact that girls like assholes and nice guys finish last. I'll just have to quench my yearnings for a happily ever after through yet another Rachel McAdams movie marathon. So... anyone free next Friday?
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
It's All an Act
What will you be when you grow up? People have been asking me that for as long as I can remember. And for as long as I can remember my response has always been a slight head tilt, a shrug of the shoulders, and a lackadaisical 'I don't know.' But recently I've reached an epiphany. My greatest aspiration in life is... to be a dad. (pause for effect) Ok no, though I'd like to think that I'd make a good dad some day. But as for what I say when I'm asked what I'll be when I grow up, I look the person straight in the eyes, throw my shoulders back, puff out my chest and say, 'a grown up.' I've got all the ingredients to be one, just haven't quite got the recipe down pat (How much is a splash of dependability? Damn these ambiguous measurements!) I know I need to be ambitious, successful, and responsible. And I can just about manage the first two, but that last one is a doozy. My career is on track. I have lots of healthy interests and hobbies. I set goals, I make plans, but at the end of the night, I always seem to have trouble beating the onset of the alcohol-induced haze and taking off my shoes before passing out in bed.
When I was small, I often looked up to my older cousins thinking wow... they're in their 20's... so old and wise and mature. Then as I grew older I found out. 26 is the new 15. Talking to them now, I find that they're pretty much just kids with work experience. The only difference is that they're capable of 'talking the talk' and using buzzwords like 'streamline deliverables' and 'operational paradigm' to sound like they actually know what they're doing. Thus, I've come to the conclusion that no one really matures, we just get better and better at faking it. We become masters at bullshitting and are able to pull off acting grown up to the casual outside observer. But put us in a bar with three or four of our close buddies and you'll see us quickly regress to daring each other to drink that horrible concoction of tabasco, mustard, coke, and mashed up french fries that we've been making since the third grade. Our banter of potty jokes certainly hasn't developed much since then either and I definitely still giggle whenever I hear someone say, 'boobs.' (hee hee)
Hopefully one day I'll be able to walk the walk instead of just being able to talk the talk. Especially after I actually become a dad and have another human being looking up to me and depending on me to teach him and guide him. But even if I don't, I plan on marrying someone who can so I can just tell him to 'ask your mom.' Because I'll be the one in charge of ordering that extra side of french fries and horseradish that will go into the cafeteria deathmix that my kids and I will be daring their Uncle Calvin to drink.
When I was small, I often looked up to my older cousins thinking wow... they're in their 20's... so old and wise and mature. Then as I grew older I found out. 26 is the new 15. Talking to them now, I find that they're pretty much just kids with work experience. The only difference is that they're capable of 'talking the talk' and using buzzwords like 'streamline deliverables' and 'operational paradigm' to sound like they actually know what they're doing. Thus, I've come to the conclusion that no one really matures, we just get better and better at faking it. We become masters at bullshitting and are able to pull off acting grown up to the casual outside observer. But put us in a bar with three or four of our close buddies and you'll see us quickly regress to daring each other to drink that horrible concoction of tabasco, mustard, coke, and mashed up french fries that we've been making since the third grade. Our banter of potty jokes certainly hasn't developed much since then either and I definitely still giggle whenever I hear someone say, 'boobs.' (hee hee)
Hopefully one day I'll be able to walk the walk instead of just being able to talk the talk. Especially after I actually become a dad and have another human being looking up to me and depending on me to teach him and guide him. But even if I don't, I plan on marrying someone who can so I can just tell him to 'ask your mom.' Because I'll be the one in charge of ordering that extra side of french fries and horseradish that will go into the cafeteria deathmix that my kids and I will be daring their Uncle Calvin to drink.
Monday, September 21, 2009
America's Favorite Past Time
As a bona-fide, card-carrying member of the male species, it is a given that I love playing with my balls. Sometimes when I'm bored and home alone, I find myself playing with them without even realizing it. Just absentmindedly stroking them, squeezing them, and rolling them around. It's like my hand has a mind of its own. It's amazing how guys can derive so much pleasure from something so simple. Balls. Big ones, little ones, white ones, black ones, I don't discriminate. As long as they're round and bounce, sign me up. Also, if you can get more people involved, so much the better. The fun you have is directly proportional with the number of guys you're with. Though my own personal limit is nine other guys. Any more and it just gets weird. I mean... who's ever heard of 6 on 6 basketball?
I love basketball. To me, basketball is THE sport. It's full contact without it being overly physical. You can have one on one showdowns despite it being a team sport. You can have set plays, but it's okay to deviate if inspiration strikes. And best of all, it's everywhere. You can go anywhere in the nation, walk two blocks, and hear the sound of that brilliant orange ball striking the pavement. The only real drawback is that.. well.. Asians just aren't that good at it. I mean... we're just not genetically wired to be tall. At 6'-0", I already tower over most of my friends. (According to wiki, the average male height in China is 5'-8".) But besides our 'shortcomings', Asians LOVE the sport. My fobby cousin in Taiwan knows more about my beloved Kobe than I do. He can rattle off stats like he was reciting his ABC's. Too bad he can't dunk to save his life.
But basketball isn't the only sport I like. Now that football season is kicking off, I've found my 'idle hands' reaching for the ol' pigskin as often as it does my basketball. Despite it being the most complicated sport known to man, (there's got to be a million different penalties in the game. Sometimes I feel like the ref's are just making shit up because they're angry they have to carry around a little yellow hankie) it's still the most satisfying sport to watch. There's just something about a 300 lb linebacker laid out completely horizontal in the air, decking an unsuspecting quarterback, and knocking his helmet clean off that just brings a smile to my face. Ah... the joy of seeing another man doubled over in pain.
There's just one sport I can't seem to get excited about. Baseball. I'll watch soccer (though more for the awesome Spanish announcer than for the actual sport). I'll watch hockey (it's like having a full on brawl every game is required by their contracts!) Heck, I'll even watch ping pong (there's just something soothing about watching that little white ball bounce back and forth). But honestly, if it weren't for the beer and the drinking games involved, (drink every time the pitcher throws the ball is NOT a good idea) baseball would be dead to me. It's unbelievably slow. Ridiculously slow. Mind numbingly slow. It's so slow that they don't even have timeouts because well.. there's really no point. They stop after everything. A pitch.. A hit.. a bird flies by.. The only reason I respect the sport is because... have you ever tried hitting a 100 mph fastball? It's damn near impossible!
I can't explain why guys are so infatuated with balls. But we are. If there's a ball involved, you can bet that we're on that shit like white on rice. We're like Dug, the dog from Up, that way. If I see a ball bouncing by, you can bet your ass I'm chasing after it.
Sports transcends all cultures and crosses all borders. I believe that playing with balls will some day bring an end to all wars. Balls are God's gift to man. For bringing about world peace and of course... the next generation. I do it for the kids... literally. After all, we all know what I was really talking about at the beginning of this blog.
;)
I love basketball. To me, basketball is THE sport. It's full contact without it being overly physical. You can have one on one showdowns despite it being a team sport. You can have set plays, but it's okay to deviate if inspiration strikes. And best of all, it's everywhere. You can go anywhere in the nation, walk two blocks, and hear the sound of that brilliant orange ball striking the pavement. The only real drawback is that.. well.. Asians just aren't that good at it. I mean... we're just not genetically wired to be tall. At 6'-0", I already tower over most of my friends. (According to wiki, the average male height in China is 5'-8".) But besides our 'shortcomings', Asians LOVE the sport. My fobby cousin in Taiwan knows more about my beloved Kobe than I do. He can rattle off stats like he was reciting his ABC's. Too bad he can't dunk to save his life.
But basketball isn't the only sport I like. Now that football season is kicking off, I've found my 'idle hands' reaching for the ol' pigskin as often as it does my basketball. Despite it being the most complicated sport known to man, (there's got to be a million different penalties in the game. Sometimes I feel like the ref's are just making shit up because they're angry they have to carry around a little yellow hankie) it's still the most satisfying sport to watch. There's just something about a 300 lb linebacker laid out completely horizontal in the air, decking an unsuspecting quarterback, and knocking his helmet clean off that just brings a smile to my face. Ah... the joy of seeing another man doubled over in pain.
There's just one sport I can't seem to get excited about. Baseball. I'll watch soccer (though more for the awesome Spanish announcer than for the actual sport). I'll watch hockey (it's like having a full on brawl every game is required by their contracts!) Heck, I'll even watch ping pong (there's just something soothing about watching that little white ball bounce back and forth). But honestly, if it weren't for the beer and the drinking games involved, (drink every time the pitcher throws the ball is NOT a good idea) baseball would be dead to me. It's unbelievably slow. Ridiculously slow. Mind numbingly slow. It's so slow that they don't even have timeouts because well.. there's really no point. They stop after everything. A pitch.. A hit.. a bird flies by.. The only reason I respect the sport is because... have you ever tried hitting a 100 mph fastball? It's damn near impossible!
I can't explain why guys are so infatuated with balls. But we are. If there's a ball involved, you can bet that we're on that shit like white on rice. We're like Dug, the dog from Up, that way. If I see a ball bouncing by, you can bet your ass I'm chasing after it.
Sports transcends all cultures and crosses all borders. I believe that playing with balls will some day bring an end to all wars. Balls are God's gift to man. For bringing about world peace and of course... the next generation. I do it for the kids... literally. After all, we all know what I was really talking about at the beginning of this blog.
;)
Friday, September 18, 2009
The Object of the Game
Guys my age have very limited interests. Sure, some of us might branch out and have hobbies like playing the guitar, running triathlons, or training goldfish to swim in synchronization (wonder how many hours of his life that Japanese dude wasted doing that). But there is without exception one thing that every guy in the world spends at least half his day thinking about. We are constantly pondering the many layers and intricacies that shroud the mysterious and fascinating creatures that are... boobs... and to a certain extent, the girl that comes with them. Which I'm sure all you girls are flattered (or slightly disgusted) to hear. In our pilgrimage to obtain that pair of motorboat-able holy grails, we've developed many techniques and skill sets that are often amusing and entertaining to watch. I'm not going to bore you with any of my lame lines (well... maybe just one... 'My penis is like Gatorade... is it in you?') but I will say this, lines don't actually make a difference whatsoever. Sure it might break the ice and get you a foot in the bedroom door, but if you aren't a genuinely interesting and sociable person, it's all for naught.
I wish guys didn't have to play this game. Sometimes I want to just go up to a girl and just lay it all on the table for her. 'Hey, you seem like a pretty cool girl, I think you might be someone I'd like to get to know. I have these redeeming qualities, these minor faults, and the following interests/hobbies.' But alas, that just isn't the established social protocol for courting girls. Despite everything they say, they will immediately shoot you down and stomp all over you if you ever bare your heart from the start. They require that you jump through the hoops, play the game, flirt, and banter with them before they'll give you a chance to show just what a nice guy you really are. And you have to do it all without them realizing it. You have to hit on them… without actually hitting on them. You have to compliment them, by insulting them. No... I haven't been smoking... It's just the way it is. According to The Game, you have to nonchalantly approach a girl from an angle (apparently girls are like bambi, they scare easy if you face them head on), engage her in conversation in a seemingly harmless manner, throw in a time constraint to further disarm her, and then lower her self-confidence through compliments aimed at her flaws.
Wow, what a mouthful. ('TWSS' heh heh, sorry... I swear I'm not always this dirty.) No wonder so many guys strike out. And the worse part of it is, in SF, there's an additional obstacle that is the phenomenon called 'The Bitch Guard.' Where you take any nice girl off the street, throw her into a club, add alcohol, and booty shake. You get instant bitch a la mode. Once girls put on the heavy eye shadow, it's like billionaire playboy, Bruce Wayne, putting on his Batman cowl. They become all spice and no sugar. Apparently girls in SF go to clubs NOT to meet guys, but to just dance and hang out. Sorry, I'm dressed in horribly suggestive clothing not for the guys who are desperately vying for my attention, but for the two other girls here with me. I'm here purely to take self-portraits with my fellow scantily clad sorority sisters and post them on Facebook, and have people tell me how hot I am. Yes ladies, I said it. You girls SUCK!
So at the end of the night as I trudge home, head down, wallet empty, spirit broken, and companion-less, I tell myself, it's not the end of the world. You're a catch, one day your princess charming will come along and recognize you for the nice guy that you are. And if not, well... there's always Vegas.
I wish guys didn't have to play this game. Sometimes I want to just go up to a girl and just lay it all on the table for her. 'Hey, you seem like a pretty cool girl, I think you might be someone I'd like to get to know. I have these redeeming qualities, these minor faults, and the following interests/hobbies.' But alas, that just isn't the established social protocol for courting girls. Despite everything they say, they will immediately shoot you down and stomp all over you if you ever bare your heart from the start. They require that you jump through the hoops, play the game, flirt, and banter with them before they'll give you a chance to show just what a nice guy you really are. And you have to do it all without them realizing it. You have to hit on them… without actually hitting on them. You have to compliment them, by insulting them. No... I haven't been smoking... It's just the way it is. According to The Game, you have to nonchalantly approach a girl from an angle (apparently girls are like bambi, they scare easy if you face them head on), engage her in conversation in a seemingly harmless manner, throw in a time constraint to further disarm her, and then lower her self-confidence through compliments aimed at her flaws.
Wow, what a mouthful. ('TWSS' heh heh, sorry... I swear I'm not always this dirty.) No wonder so many guys strike out. And the worse part of it is, in SF, there's an additional obstacle that is the phenomenon called 'The Bitch Guard.' Where you take any nice girl off the street, throw her into a club, add alcohol, and booty shake. You get instant bitch a la mode. Once girls put on the heavy eye shadow, it's like billionaire playboy, Bruce Wayne, putting on his Batman cowl. They become all spice and no sugar. Apparently girls in SF go to clubs NOT to meet guys, but to just dance and hang out. Sorry, I'm dressed in horribly suggestive clothing not for the guys who are desperately vying for my attention, but for the two other girls here with me. I'm here purely to take self-portraits with my fellow scantily clad sorority sisters and post them on Facebook, and have people tell me how hot I am. Yes ladies, I said it. You girls SUCK!
So at the end of the night as I trudge home, head down, wallet empty, spirit broken, and companion-less, I tell myself, it's not the end of the world. You're a catch, one day your princess charming will come along and recognize you for the nice guy that you are. And if not, well... there's always Vegas.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
The List
Shopping lists, guest lists, playlists, blacklists. Lists are an integral part of our lives. Whether it's our emergency contact list or that asshole's list who's standing outside the club with a clipboard not letting us in, lists pop up everywhere. Sometimes we write them down, sometimes we ask our friends to help us remember, but most of the time they stay floating around in our heads.
As a twentysomething male, I am extremely interested by one list in particular. It's rarely written down and only revealed to a trusted few in oral tradition. It's closely guarded, yet ubiquitous by nature. It's an all-powerful list that separates the haves from the have-nots. It takes enormous amounts of time and patience to uncover its exact makeup. I'm like Indiana Jones looking for this shit. Constantly probing and manipulating conversation to learn more about this infamous list, 'What women want in a guy.'
Every girl has the list but no two of them are alike. When they're young the list may seem irrational and arbitrary, but they're ironclad nonetheless. As they grow older, it changes from having a tattoo to having a nice car. Then it slowly evolves to include having a good job and a caring family. Then, in a few rare cases when the girl gets a lil too old, everything flies out the window and the list rapidly dwindles to just 'must have hair and good teeth.'
But through it all I have discovered that there is a constant. One intangible attribute that every man needs to be 'the one' but the kicker is that you could satisfy it on one list, but not on another. It's downright frustrating. I can't say how many times I've heard, 'he just has to make me laugh.'
Humor. The ability to appraise the situation at hand and comment in such a way that appeals to the woman's interests in an amusing manner. (FYI.. potty jokes don't cut it. Take it from me.)
Call me cynical but I say bullshit. Throughout the years I have found just one other constant. Appearance. Girls are just as shallow as guys are. Whether it's slightly veiled or blatantly obvious, it's there. If he's hot, he doesn't need to be funny. Actually, scratch that. If you're hot, you're already funny. Scarlett Johansson once told Jay Leno that Brad Pitt was one of the funniest men alive. Bullshit. What she's really saying is that she finds his chiseled abs hilarious. That his playful smile is scintillating. And that his baby blues make her giggle. Girls don't really need to laugh, all they want is someone who can get their panties wet. So armed with this new epiphany, I now confidently strut around the dance floor. Wielding my goose on the rocks and carefully selecting my next victim, I bump and spill my drink all over her. 'Oh shit! Sorry girl. I was just trying to make you wet.'
So... did I? ;)
As a twentysomething male, I am extremely interested by one list in particular. It's rarely written down and only revealed to a trusted few in oral tradition. It's closely guarded, yet ubiquitous by nature. It's an all-powerful list that separates the haves from the have-nots. It takes enormous amounts of time and patience to uncover its exact makeup. I'm like Indiana Jones looking for this shit. Constantly probing and manipulating conversation to learn more about this infamous list, 'What women want in a guy.'
Every girl has the list but no two of them are alike. When they're young the list may seem irrational and arbitrary, but they're ironclad nonetheless. As they grow older, it changes from having a tattoo to having a nice car. Then it slowly evolves to include having a good job and a caring family. Then, in a few rare cases when the girl gets a lil too old, everything flies out the window and the list rapidly dwindles to just 'must have hair and good teeth.'
But through it all I have discovered that there is a constant. One intangible attribute that every man needs to be 'the one' but the kicker is that you could satisfy it on one list, but not on another. It's downright frustrating. I can't say how many times I've heard, 'he just has to make me laugh.'
Humor. The ability to appraise the situation at hand and comment in such a way that appeals to the woman's interests in an amusing manner. (FYI.. potty jokes don't cut it. Take it from me.)
Call me cynical but I say bullshit. Throughout the years I have found just one other constant. Appearance. Girls are just as shallow as guys are. Whether it's slightly veiled or blatantly obvious, it's there. If he's hot, he doesn't need to be funny. Actually, scratch that. If you're hot, you're already funny. Scarlett Johansson once told Jay Leno that Brad Pitt was one of the funniest men alive. Bullshit. What she's really saying is that she finds his chiseled abs hilarious. That his playful smile is scintillating. And that his baby blues make her giggle. Girls don't really need to laugh, all they want is someone who can get their panties wet. So armed with this new epiphany, I now confidently strut around the dance floor. Wielding my goose on the rocks and carefully selecting my next victim, I bump and spill my drink all over her. 'Oh shit! Sorry girl. I was just trying to make you wet.'
So... did I? ;)
Monday, September 14, 2009
Comments
Hey all, thanks for all the words of encouragement I've received from this blog. It's great to hear feedback from you guys. Feel free to leave a comment about how you might relate to anything I've written or what you agreed with or disagreed with. Also, if you have any suggestions for blog topics, I'm open to any suggestions that you might have.
Cheers!
Jay
Cheers!
Jay
Cooking
I recently hosted a potluck between a couple of friends and neighbors and was pleasantly surprised by the level of culinary expertise exhibited. I'm impressed by anyone who can do more than stir-fry and knows the difference between rosemary and thyme. But it also got me thinking. My friends have to be the exception, not the rule. Twentysomethings don't generally know how to cook. We break a sweat trying to figure out whether we should microwave hot pockets for 2 or 3 min. (There's actually a yahoo answer on it and it ranges from 1:30 to 4 min.) Though in my case, necessity and an overbearing mom has taught me how to stir-fry, bake, and follow most recipes provided that they have lots of pictures and detailed instructions. It's when the instructions are vague that I have trouble. What the hell do they mean when they say season to taste? I'm an engineer. I need exact measured quantities. Teaspoon? Tablespoon? Got one of each. Quart, pint, cup? Check, check, and check. But dash? Sprinkle? Pinch? Let's get real here. Those sound more like Santa's reindeers than how much pepper I should be putting in. And dollop? Really? Come on... Whenever I see those words I just grab whatever it is I'm suppose to be adding and just close my eyes and 'shake it like a polaroid picture'. Hopefully the 'splash' of salt that I threw in is less than the tidal wave that I just spilled all over my counter. Any more than that and I'll be leaving this world by way of high blood pressure.
Cooking at home is supposed to be healthier than eating out. Possibly. But at my house, cooking may be hazardous to your health. Burns, cuts, scrapes.. hot liquids splattering. And that's all from me trying to heat up a can of Campbell's soup! But all jokes aside, I do feel that I've moved up on the culinary step ladder. Gone are the days where I survived off of ramen and lean cuisine. I've since retired my George Foreman grill and moved on to my propane BBQ grill on the balcony. Goodbye hamburgers, hello T-bone steaks. Prego is gone, replaced by my new love. Everyone, I'd like you to meet... Lee Kum Kee.
Herb rack? Don't have one. Spices? Don't even know what they are. (The extent of my using herbs and spices is putting oregano in my grilled cheese sandwich. It's heavenly. Makes you say.. 'Orega-what? Orega-YEAH!!') But I do own Lee Kum Kee's entire line of marinades and sauces. Garlic black bean, satay, coconut flavored curry, chicken marinade, teriyaki, and just to show I'm not a complete fob... I have Lawry's seasoned salt for grilling meats and poultry. But when it comes to Chinese food, these sauces are amazing! They're like Asian ketchup. Good with everything. Chop up some veggies, throw in a lil meat, and let Lee Kum Kee's expertise take care of the rest. Garlic Black Bean... you reign supreme!
Cooking at home is supposed to be healthier than eating out. Possibly. But at my house, cooking may be hazardous to your health. Burns, cuts, scrapes.. hot liquids splattering. And that's all from me trying to heat up a can of Campbell's soup! But all jokes aside, I do feel that I've moved up on the culinary step ladder. Gone are the days where I survived off of ramen and lean cuisine. I've since retired my George Foreman grill and moved on to my propane BBQ grill on the balcony. Goodbye hamburgers, hello T-bone steaks. Prego is gone, replaced by my new love. Everyone, I'd like you to meet... Lee Kum Kee.
Herb rack? Don't have one. Spices? Don't even know what they are. (The extent of my using herbs and spices is putting oregano in my grilled cheese sandwich. It's heavenly. Makes you say.. 'Orega-what? Orega-YEAH!!') But I do own Lee Kum Kee's entire line of marinades and sauces. Garlic black bean, satay, coconut flavored curry, chicken marinade, teriyaki, and just to show I'm not a complete fob... I have Lawry's seasoned salt for grilling meats and poultry. But when it comes to Chinese food, these sauces are amazing! They're like Asian ketchup. Good with everything. Chop up some veggies, throw in a lil meat, and let Lee Kum Kee's expertise take care of the rest. Garlic Black Bean... you reign supreme!
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Budgeting
So the other day... err... night, I made a huge impulse buy (bought a 50" plasma at 1 am on a Tuesday night) and it got me thinking about how twentysomethings spend money. Wall Street Journal says we should have enough in our savings to be able to live 3 months without any additional income. My mom says I should be saving to buy a house. I say... there's too many bright, shiny toys out there for me to buy. She used to tell me that my name in Chinese phonetically sounded like 'Jeh-sun' which means thrifty in Mandarin. Go figure. (That's not the reason they named me Jason though. No.. I'm not named after the Greek hero. My dad's name is Jay and since I'm his son... Jay's son... Jason)
The typical Asian kid is raised to be frugal and value the almighty dollar. Rarely do you see an Asian kid throwing a tantrum to get some video game. Cuz they know... 1) It ain't happening... our moms are immune to that shit. They grew up in China where they got an apple for Christmas and had to split it 8 ways with their brothers and sisters. (I later found out that this was my grandma's generation not my mom's because my mom totally got called out for it by my grandma. Hilarious! My mom's family apparently was pretty well off... but she was stone cold nevertheless) 2) We know that after pulling a stunt like that, we were gonna get the butt-whupping of our life once we got home. We were gonna get hit with the bamboo 'gaimoso' (feather duster) while listening to her screech, 'how can you shame the family like that?' and have an ass that looked like we sat on a waffle iron for the next week.
The lesson learned from that experience was... stfu at toy stores... and white people live life by a totally different set of rules. Whether it's talking back to parents, or having run in's with the law. The tantrums and puppy dog eyes just never work for us. Probably because our chinky eyes just aren't genetically capable of conveying deep-seated remorse.
So driven by my revelation, I logged into my credit card account and started categorizing all my expenditures. (I always seem to find something I just HAVE to do late at night instead of sleeping. I really wish my bouts of 'genius' struck me at a more reasonable hour) So with a couple of clicks I had a summary of everything I spent money on in the last 3 months. There was even a nifty pie chart available. 30% went to mandatory spending like bills and rent. Which means the rest went to food right? Wrong. What it actually breaks down to is Invisalign... 10%, gadgets/toys/clothing... 10%, restaurants and alcohol... 50%. WTF?!? Expanding that piece of the pie, I see that 99% of all my expenditures happen during the weekend. Why is it that I'm so frugal during the week but once Friday night hits, I'm like Luda and Chris Breezy. Making it rain and ballin' out of control. Goose all around! It's so bizarre. Going from clipping coupons to getting crunked the moment work let's out? Priceless. Every time the clock strikes 5 it's like the beat drops. The DJ Quik in my head starts spinnin', 'It's gonna be a good night...' as I get ready to go out. Then moment the boys meet up, it's 'Shots! Shots! Shots! Shots! Shots! Shots! Shots! Shots! ' Budgeting is a lost cause. Guess I'm doomed to live the life of a Greek hero. LML
The typical Asian kid is raised to be frugal and value the almighty dollar. Rarely do you see an Asian kid throwing a tantrum to get some video game. Cuz they know... 1) It ain't happening... our moms are immune to that shit. They grew up in China where they got an apple for Christmas and had to split it 8 ways with their brothers and sisters. (I later found out that this was my grandma's generation not my mom's because my mom totally got called out for it by my grandma. Hilarious! My mom's family apparently was pretty well off... but she was stone cold nevertheless) 2) We know that after pulling a stunt like that, we were gonna get the butt-whupping of our life once we got home. We were gonna get hit with the bamboo 'gaimoso' (feather duster) while listening to her screech, 'how can you shame the family like that?' and have an ass that looked like we sat on a waffle iron for the next week.
The lesson learned from that experience was... stfu at toy stores... and white people live life by a totally different set of rules. Whether it's talking back to parents, or having run in's with the law. The tantrums and puppy dog eyes just never work for us. Probably because our chinky eyes just aren't genetically capable of conveying deep-seated remorse.
So driven by my revelation, I logged into my credit card account and started categorizing all my expenditures. (I always seem to find something I just HAVE to do late at night instead of sleeping. I really wish my bouts of 'genius' struck me at a more reasonable hour) So with a couple of clicks I had a summary of everything I spent money on in the last 3 months. There was even a nifty pie chart available. 30% went to mandatory spending like bills and rent. Which means the rest went to food right? Wrong. What it actually breaks down to is Invisalign... 10%, gadgets/toys/clothing... 10%, restaurants and alcohol... 50%. WTF?!? Expanding that piece of the pie, I see that 99% of all my expenditures happen during the weekend. Why is it that I'm so frugal during the week but once Friday night hits, I'm like Luda and Chris Breezy. Making it rain and ballin' out of control. Goose all around! It's so bizarre. Going from clipping coupons to getting crunked the moment work let's out? Priceless. Every time the clock strikes 5 it's like the beat drops. The DJ Quik in my head starts spinnin', 'It's gonna be a good night...' as I get ready to go out. Then moment the boys meet up, it's 'Shots! Shots! Shots! Shots! Shots! Shots! Shots! Shots! ' Budgeting is a lost cause. Guess I'm doomed to live the life of a Greek hero. LML
Friday, September 4, 2009
Parental Matchmaking
Why is it that Asian parents have that one girl from your past that they're stuck on? That ex that they compare all subsequent girlfriends to? It doesn't matter that you guys broke up over 6 years ago, that they hated her while you were dating, or in my case, her being my bio lab partner that my mom only met twice during my sophomore summer. Every time I go home it's, 'How tha plitty Jahpunee gull? Tha one so wall-mannuh.' (haha alright, my mom doesn't talk like that. But it would've made the many times she yelled at me a lot more bearable growing up) So then, invariably, the same barrage of questions starts flying my way.
No, mom I don't know how she's doing. Yes, she was a very good girl. Yes, I think she's very pretty too. No, I don't know when I'll see her again. Yes, I'll find out where she works. Omg mom! I don't think we'll be needing a babysitter anytime soon! And this is where I typically cover my ears and run away yelling, 'La-la-la-la-la I'm not listening anymore!'
Then the next day I get a call from my mom telling me that her hair dresser asked her about her 'hansum' son and would love to set me up with her daughter, who according to my mom is skinny, pretty, and smart. And.... oh yea.. 16.
16? Wow mom... just.. wow. She's jail bait!
Then inevitably my mom hesitantly asks me what jail bait means...
As I mentally smack myself in the face and hastily stumble through the explanation I realize.. shit.. I just admitted to my mom that I was thinking about banging a 16 year old girl! (and bear in mind that my 'sex talk' consisted of her telling me 'don't do it!!' in the sixth grade). The contemplative silence of my mom during the next ten minutes was one of the most awkward moments of my life. Should have just taken her up on the babysitting offer yesterday. Fuck me!
No, mom I don't know how she's doing. Yes, she was a very good girl. Yes, I think she's very pretty too. No, I don't know when I'll see her again. Yes, I'll find out where she works. Omg mom! I don't think we'll be needing a babysitter anytime soon! And this is where I typically cover my ears and run away yelling, 'La-la-la-la-la I'm not listening anymore!'
Then the next day I get a call from my mom telling me that her hair dresser asked her about her 'hansum' son and would love to set me up with her daughter, who according to my mom is skinny, pretty, and smart. And.... oh yea.. 16.
16? Wow mom... just.. wow. She's jail bait!
Then inevitably my mom hesitantly asks me what jail bait means...
As I mentally smack myself in the face and hastily stumble through the explanation I realize.. shit.. I just admitted to my mom that I was thinking about banging a 16 year old girl! (and bear in mind that my 'sex talk' consisted of her telling me 'don't do it!!' in the sixth grade). The contemplative silence of my mom during the next ten minutes was one of the most awkward moments of my life. Should have just taken her up on the babysitting offer yesterday. Fuck me!
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Screen Names
Isn't it weird that when we were young all our screen names had azn or lil or swt in them? Like every guy was lilgangstah17 or azianboi8 and every girl was aznbaby6 or swtdoll414? Despite Asians being the most populous people on the planet we somehow all managed to have unique screen names that sounded and looked exactly the same. Scrolling thru my old buddylist (I was aznknite24) I realized that if I sorted them all alphabetically (shout out to excel for training me to automatically sort everything) they would all start with 'A', 'L', 'S', or 'X'. The 'X' were for those that couldn't get the 'AzN' screen name that they wanted and all the subsequent variations of pager code substitutions were taken, so they just added more and more X's at the ends. ie. 'xXAzNBoIXx' or 'xoxoStaRgu12Lxoxo'.
Also, I guess we were all a lot more trusting back then because the numbers at the end of our screen names were without fail, our birthdays. Because face it, at age 13 our birthday was the most important number in our lives. We didn't have anniversaries or deaths of loved ones to worry about, and mom's phone number was just too long to tack onto the end of our screen name. BabYcaKes4438035 just didn't quite flow. Hence I now only remember my friends' birthdays through their screen names. swtdoll414? E-card sent on April 14th. lilmel56? text message sent at midnight May 6th. Count on it. But to the friends that I've made since high school I apologize. I'll never be able to wish you a happy birthday because of our transformation from our baggy pants wearing, Marvel vs. Capcom playing selves to the express 1MX shirt wearing, happy hour going yuppies we are now. Gchat just doesn't quite encourage anything less than our given names. Instead of choosing between 'AzN' and 'swT' it's a '.' or '_'. Even our AIM profiles have been limited to gchat statuses. So as homage to our yesteryears I shall sport 'AzNKniTe24' as my gchat status. At least until it once again reverts to 'Ugh.. need coffee.. hungover...'
Also, I guess we were all a lot more trusting back then because the numbers at the end of our screen names were without fail, our birthdays. Because face it, at age 13 our birthday was the most important number in our lives. We didn't have anniversaries or deaths of loved ones to worry about, and mom's phone number was just too long to tack onto the end of our screen name. BabYcaKes4438035 just didn't quite flow. Hence I now only remember my friends' birthdays through their screen names. swtdoll414? E-card sent on April 14th. lilmel56? text message sent at midnight May 6th. Count on it. But to the friends that I've made since high school I apologize. I'll never be able to wish you a happy birthday because of our transformation from our baggy pants wearing, Marvel vs. Capcom playing selves to the express 1MX shirt wearing, happy hour going yuppies we are now. Gchat just doesn't quite encourage anything less than our given names. Instead of choosing between 'AzN' and 'swT' it's a '.' or '_'. Even our AIM profiles have been limited to gchat statuses. So as homage to our yesteryears I shall sport 'AzNKniTe24' as my gchat status. At least until it once again reverts to 'Ugh.. need coffee.. hungover...'
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Working out
So there's this new craze that’s catching on like wildfire. Half my friends are either on it or talking about getting into it. P90x. Funny thing is… it actually came out a while ago, but didn’t hit my social circle until somebody uploaded it onto the web. I guess we still haven’t abandoned the poor college student mentality of ‘why pay for it when someday it'll be uploaded and you can download it for free?’ (along those lines my own personal culinary maxim still stands strong, ‘the best food is free food.’)
So back to P90x where the ‘X’ stands for extreme! What's the deal with this? Is it really that effective? What makes it so different from all the other "8 Minute Buns of Steel" or “Billy’s Tai Bo to the Max Bootcamp” dvd's? So I checked it out for all of 10 minutes. This includes the stretching and stirring the pot exercises where I thought, ‘Man… I’m like almost halfway done and I haven’t even broken a sweat. My friends are all pansies for saying that this workout is intense!’ Then about 6-7 minutes later the real work out started. Needless to say I didn’t make it all the way through. Sidebar, is it just me or does friggin Tony piss you off? He starts off telling everyone to do some extravagant weight or number of reps and then does two and, ‘gotta check out what everyone’s doing’ and friggin just talks for the rest of the time! Honestly, channeling my anger towards him actually helps me finish the set of 25 that he tells me I should do.
My typical workout:
I’m the kind of guy that goes to work out at the gym and tells himself, ‘I’m gonna do 3 sets of 10’ and about 2/3 of the way thru the second set, decides he’s gonna have to take a 10 min water break before he can finish the last set, knowing full well that as a member of the ADD infused generation born in the eighties, our threshold for walking away from something and actually coming back… all of 2 minutes.
It’s not like I’m lazy in terms of my work out. I just get a little overzealous with what I think I’m capable of. It's probably a result of our Asian mom's brainwashing us to score higher, study harder, and generally be better than we can. Besides, it’s not like any Asian male really works out to get strong. There's always gonna be a black guy that can lift twice as much as you... with one hand. Our muscles are purely for show. Ladies, take heed. We'll open that jar for you no problem (just heat the cap over a stove, and it'll pop right off) But if u need a car pushed outta a ditch. I hope you're a AAA member.
Also, half the time I’m working out I’m just admiring myself in the mirror. Guys, there’s no need to hide it. No need to sneak furtive glances at yourself or pretend to lift up your shirt to wipe your brow when you and everyone around you knows your checking out how your keg->six pack is coming along. I know we’re all ingrained from a young age to be modest but hey. If I’m gonna take time away from watching reruns of Entourage and How I Met Your Mother, I’m gonna be watching something equally as satisfying. Me. Muscles bulging, veins popping, sweat glistening… lifting that awesome 15 pounder as I watch myself in the mirror. Sometimes I pretend like I’m Mr. Incredible and curling a locomotive in each arm. Trust me it helps. So does counting out the number that it actually feels like you’re doing... softly of course... ‘1,240… 5,022… 1,800,003..’
Intro
This blog will be a collection of anecdotes derived from the lives of the people around me and myself. Shenanigans that the boys and I somehow find ourselves in. Some might have a moral... a lesson learned... others.. just plain hilarious. It'll also be a collection of observations and ponderings of the world that we twentysomethings live in. Occasionally I might even dabble in providing advice, but be forewarned, it will probably get you into more trouble than it's worth.
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