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.

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.

;)

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.

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? ;)

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

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!

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

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!