Swim with Condoms?

Okay... So I was screwing around on MySpace today during an I B M All Hands conference call. It was something about organization restructuring or something else. Funny, as I have been with I B M three weeks shy of a year, and we had undergone a couple reorganizations during my still-short tenure. Naturally, I was bored during the call because I kind of got the gist of it by skimming ahead on the PowerPoint presentation. So what did I do while some vice president was talking? I logged into MySpace.

Whoa! One of the dynamic advertisement banners on the top of my MySpace page was for an event benefiting the Manhattan Island Foundation. The actual event itself? Open water swimming in the waters of New York City. This, of course, caused some curiosity on my part on a couple points.


First point. MySpace has always been a huge assault on localized advertisement for a long time now. When I traveled to Los Angeles on business, it seemed like MySpace knew I was in LA, because all the adverts were related to the greater Los Angeles area. Find Singles in L.A.! Live Chat with Singles in L.A.! And likewise, when I’m back in Chicago, different adverts would pop up, all relating to the Chicagoland. Given that, why the hell am I being shown a New York advert?

Second point. I got to thinking more in depth about this particular advertised event. When my friend Katie was kayaking the Chicago River, she expressed fears of turning over and falling into the river not because she couldn’t swim, but because of the filth she had to paddle through: a used condom floating here and a dead rat floating there. And add to the misfortune I had of growing up along with popular culture as portrayed on television shows, like The Soprano’s and CSI: NY. And what kind of imagination do you get of swimming in the open waters of New York City? Trash, used condoms and dead mafia mobsters all floating around! Not to mention Godzilla lurking unsuspectingly underneath!

Those thoughts simply gave me the chills! I’d like to see what kind of turnout that event will have. I for one will be hesitant to go swim in the open waters of New York City!

Scientific Thought for the Day

This just goes on to show who weird my psyche can be. As usual, I had to drive through Edgebrook Woods in the Edgebrook Neighborhood of the northwestern edge of Chicago to get to Schaumburg. As the day was warm, driving down Devon Ave by the woods was kind of nice. If it wasn’t for the warm weather, one might accidentally mistake what beheld before my very own sight as light, fluffy snow.

But seeing that I was really smart in not taking my Zyrtec pill before heading out the door, my body was definitely trying hard as can be to tell me that I shouldn’t have such an active imagination. I started sneezing, and my sinuses began to swell up while I stumbled around the center stack for the button to activate air recirculation mode.

Yeah, you guessed it. Pollen. A normal person would have had two mental thoughts at that point, with the first being somewhat similar to this: “Oh, look how pretty it is with the wind blowing!” If not for that, then the other mental reaction would have been: “Damn the plants and Spring!” But yours truly? A totally different thought process was definitely going through my weird mind...

Check this out! I’m driving through Mother Nature’s menstrual discharge! Lovely...

I know this is strange, not only because my client told me so after I shared my thoughts with him, but additionally I have long realized that I am a rather factual person in nature. I’ll read up on crap that concerns me little, like medical journals, biology, psychiatry; all of which has nothing to do with my field of work or much less actual interest. Yet the breadth of topics that I deep dive myself into are so varied that people wonder why I enjoy immersing myself in knowledge. And it is from this that gave birth to the whole menstrual discharge analogy.

Just think of it. And try to remember what you learned from botany class in high school. Fruits like apples and oranges of a plant are nothing more than the herbal equivalent to the human uterus. Strange as it sounds, the functions and purposes are analogous with striking similarity in human biology. In fact, such analogies serve the purpose of easily understanding the different things that surround us in this world.

So if I was to analyze further, then the pollen that are scattered in the air are nothing more than a plant’s way of menstruating. But here lie in the problem. The process may be similar, but the functions are completely different. In humans, the purpose of menstruation is to discharge unfertilized eggs. But in plants, the purpose is quite the opposite, as the discharge serves the purpose fertilizing by “spreading your seeds” as far and wide as possible.

Wait a minute!!! Maybe I was wrong all along about menstruation! Perhaps all those pollen floating around are nothing more than a plant’s ejaculation...

Okay, I think I’m getting sick now. Enough scientific thoughts for the day...

Man Scents...

If you can believe it, I actually went past a week without posting a single blog entry. Oh, the horrors! And the subsequent withdrawal... Well, not that bad, actually. Really, I had a lot of good thoughts and ideas I wanted to share with you, but unfortunately, time was simply not on my side. Throughout last week, I slept only about four hours each night. I was kept busy with rebuilding my home computer, “researching” on a Mac with my new Mac Mini, playing lots of basketball games till the cows came home, and working late. It all added up to coming home near midnight, and hitting the sack around 02:00 after the dinner and shower were said and done.

Last week was definitely not a way to lead a life. But I’m looking forward to this week. Kind of. I don’t foresee much in the way of working late every night, or playing basketball every time I have the chance, or a game of pick up football here or there. In fact, because it is Memorial Day weekend, the basketball league I’m in does not have any scheduled games this coming Saturday. Yay!

So anyway, my hectic life zoomed by pretty quickly with lack of sleep every night for ten straight days, all ending with yesterday’s 10K run. I don’t know what overcame me in signing up for this 10K race, but one can venture to say that I did it because of the implied promise of food at the end, considering it was staged by the National Restaurant Association’s convention in Chicago. Funny though, as there was no food to be had at the end. Effers! And funnier still, was my friend who just started running this year. Rosa claims to be a slow runner, enjoying a leisurely eleven minute mile whenever she runs, yet she was leading me the entire race. I could barely keep up with her, much like a fat dog on a leash being dragged by his swift master. [That mental picture was not meant to show I’m subservient to my friend; on the contrary, I was just... Never mind.] How pathetic, considering my average pace for most races is ten minute mile or faster.

My excuse, of course, was the near thirty pounds I added on since the end of running season last year. Well, more like fifteen pounds from Thanksgiving and winter, and another fifteen pounds for eating out like a starved kid whenever I traveled. Anyway, at the end of the race, I made the comment that despite my friends telling me I look fine and “still skinny,” I actually could feel the weight dragging me down during the race. Funnier yet, was the fact that we all decided to go to Duffy’s for a brunch buffet. That’s as pathetic as a girl proclaiming in despair, “I’ve had enough of hooking up with random guys at the bars every weekend!” followed by saying a sweet hello to the hot guy [like me, for example] walking by so she could hook up that very moment.

After a made-to-order omelet, strawberry-filled crepe, eggs Florentine, scalloped potatoes, cheese and broccoli, a couple slices of roast beef, a bagel with lox and capers, scrambled eggs, a dozen giant cocktail shrimps, skirt steak with spicy sauce, snow crab legs, and five mimosas, we decided to skate. On the way to the corner to hail a taxi cab, I saw a scraggy looking guy holding up a sign facing away from me. I thought it was some bum warning us of an impending doom, until he swiveled it around. Holy mackerel! Tweeter® on Clark St is closing down! 20 to 60% off; everything must go! I thought to myself, I gotta go there! Once I got home and showered and all.

Realizing my other friend who has been needing a combination DVD and VCR player for months since last year when her individual entertainment machineries died, I gave Erin a call to see if she’d be interested in tagging along. Besides, I have not seen her in ages after she got her new job and began training in earnest months ago.

After getting lost in trying to find this “shopping centre,” it turned out to be a tiny and intimate neighborhood shopping bazaar. We went up to the third floor where Tweeter was located, and was promptly disappointed by the remaining stock that was for sale. It was an utter waste of time, it seemed. So what’s a boy and a girl to do in situations like this? Okay, we didn’t go into the little theatre on the fourth floor to escape the downpour and make out. After all, we’re friends, and it would be weird. Instead, we walked into Bath and Body Works® on the first floor. Erin needed hand soaps, and so did I. What a pleasant idea, it seemed!

Of course, it quickly became apparent that as the only male in the store, my presence was making a few other female patrons uncomfortable. And I lavished at the situation I have created for the other shoppers, much like a little boy enjoying the first time ever he took a goldfish out of the water just to see what would happen. When we finally found the hand soap section, I was overjoyed to see they were on sale, three for $10! That’s a good deal, my friend, as each was regularly $4.50. We proceeded to open each bottle for every scent: Erin at the foaming types, and I at the regular moisturizing types. Hey, I have delicate skin, okay? Some I liked, some I didn’t. The conversation went something like this, as we poured over every scent for nearly fifteen minutes:

John: Well, this smells good.
Erin: What was that?
John: Tropical Passionfruit™.
Erin: You know what my friend really likes?
John: What does she like?
Erin: [She mentioned something that didn’t register in my mind as I went on to take in the aroma, I mean stench, of Cotton Blossom™.]
John: Yuck!
Erin: Okay...

I turned around, and I could see that she already had two bottles in her hand. And I was still searching. Damn, I’m slow! Shortly afterwards, she came over with three bottles in her arms, while I searched through the three hundred scented soaps they had on display.

Erin: Check this out! They even have scented Purell®!
John: What? They have scented hand sanitizers? I gotta get some of that!
Erin: [As she rubbed some in her palms...] Dang! That smelled strong!
John: Uh-huh... [I was still busy with finding my own damn soaps!] You know what? It’d be great if I remembered which scented soap the girl I used to date before I moved here always had at her house. I loved her smell so much!
Erin: ...
John: [As I unscrewed the Coconut Lime Verbena™…] Dang! This is such a girly girl smell! No way for me!
Erin: They are so good, you’d think that they would have scents for men!
John: What could possibly be considered man scents? Can you imagine: armpit scent, athlete’s foot scent, and jock strap scent?
Erin: Eww!

Then we busted out laughing in our own little corner of the store, tears in my eyes, trying hard as can be to prevent drawing attention to ourselves. Even though they didn’t have any man scents, I finally decided to get Country Apple™, Cucumber Melon™ and Warm Vanilla Sugar™ scented hand soaps. Of course, being the germaphobe that I am, I couldn’t resist grabbing a Mango Mandarin™ scented hand sanitizer before heading towards the checkout counter.

Performance Anxiety Exacerbated

This past Thursday, I had the pleasure of finally not working too terribly late. And as an added bonus, I had the opportunity to go watch Spiderman 3 with a friend. On an IMAX screen at Navy Pier, no less! Talk about double bonus... Because the 19:00 show was sold out, we decided to watch the next showing at 21:45, which meant we had several hours to kill. Normally this would have been an ugh, but since I was with a friend whose company I actually enjoys, it wasn’t too terribly awful.

Since the both of us had not had any dinner yet, we decided to walk around the touristy Navy Pier to see what kind of culinary temptation it has to offer. The one I wanted to go turned out to be pricey, so we settled for the second choice, Bubba Gump, a restaurant inspired by and licensed from Forrest Gump. Let’s just put it this way... The food wasn’t awful, but it wasn’t great either. For the price I paid, I definitely would never ever go back there again. Not only was it a tourist attraction, but it certainly was a teeny bobber magnet.

Even the thought of a high-pitched teenage girl’s annoying voice that mimics those of Valley Girl’s accent just utterly want me to gag right now.

Anyway, after dinner, we sat around and killed the time till a line began to form for the movie. Interestingly, I don’t understand the purpose of why people would form a line fifteen minutes before the show was to begin, especially when everyone had assigned seating. But like that psychological experiment done in some university years ago on peer pressure where the lone true unknowing subject was forced to conform to agree with the others’ response of five to the question of two plus two, I convinced her to wait in line as well.

The movie was decent. Nothing to brag home about. Kirsten Dunst looked marvelous as usual, but I thought I’m beginning to not like her as the damsel in distress character. Yet again. But then, it was a Spiderman movie after all. I did like her a lot in Elizabethtown though. And then Eric Forman as a villain... That was quite funny. The whole time I was secretly hoping that Donna would pop up somewhere in the movie and make some slapstick comment about his new black suit. Sigh... My fantasy never came to fruition. I guess I had to settle for the totally predictable ending with a kiss between Spidey and MJ. I would have much rather preferred that the movie ended with them in a fight, which would have been a great cliffhanger for Spiderman 4, seeing how Sony Pictures have confirmed at least three more Spiderman movies at least.

On a side note, is this corporate greed that I smell? I don’t really want the Spiderman franchise to go down the toilet just like the Batman franchise did from 1989 through 1997, which by the fourth installment had turned into a rotting piece of human excrement from the donkey.

End of side note. As I had been drinking a kind of pina colada beverage at dinner, I had to go to the restroom a lot. Even while waiting on the bench for over an hour before we could single file ourselves into the theatre, I went to the restroom twice. Although I was thirsty during the movie screening, I forced myself not to drink any water because I didn’t believe my bladder could withstand two hours and twenty minutes with the addition of liquids after I had broken the seal.

Surely enough, not even a sip of water in me, by the time the movie concluded, I was making a mad dash for the restroom. I was lucky, as there were five free urinals next to the lone guy using the sixth one. Having had the golden urinal rules committed to memory, I went for the third urinal. (Actually, in this scenario, the correct choices could be either the first or third. Don’t ask me who came up with this shit, but the point is that you want to pick the urinal where the next guy won’t have to stand immediately next to you.) But as I headed towards the urinal I had already claimed in my mind, the guy at the sixth urinal ripped a huge one. Loudly. And stinkily, I must add.

Oh. My. God. I tried my best not to laugh, as it was kind of funny. But I didn’t want this big guy to confront and punch me, as I wasn’t keen on letting anybody touch me after their hands had held the little package down there. So as I stood at my urinal, I stared blankly ahead at the tiles, and bit my lips not only to prevent from laughing, but to relax myself so I can actually pee. After a few seconds, the crowd from the theatre began to pile into the restroom. And just as I was mentally calm and ready to open the floodgates, a guy took the remaining free urinal to my right.

No big deal, right? Except this guy bumped into my right foot when he took position, which totally ruined my relaxation process, thus bringing back my performance anxiety. And as if that wasn’t enough, he had the audacity to actually turn his head and tell me he was sorry! I mean, saying sorry was perfectly okay, but according to the man laws pertaining to urinal etiquettes: One shall not turn and face another person when both are standing next to each other at the urinals. One can only communicate with each other when both are facing forward. Damn! Now my pee would never come out, despite the fact that my bladder was about to explode! Effer!

Didn’t he realize the faux pas he had just made? The etiquette has the same effect to which if a guy agrees to his girlfriend’s request to have a threesome with another man, both guys can never look each other, especially when one is about to ejaculate. Or that neither guy can touch the other, for otherwise it would just kill at least one erection. What a dumb ass!!!

Backstreet Boy No More!

What else would you do when you’re stuck at work on a Tuesday night at 22:06, courtesy of the EPM’s parting gift to me before he was “let go?” Why, you ask your compadre to take a picture of you with your worn shirt all wrinkled, your eyes all puffy, and a face with a forced smile like kidnapped victims sport when asked to show when shooting an evidence-that-you-are-alive picture to send to your loved one!

This story started almost nine months ago, when my favorite (and Erin’s, and Christine’s) hairstylist had the luck of the draw getting pregnant while bumping the uglies with her husband. That led to May 5th as her last day at Mario Tricoci before taking a maternity leave for twelve weeks. Twelve weeks!!! That is like a whole three months! And of course it totally sucks, because May 5th did not coincide with my haircut schedule, which has always been every three months in the year (December, March, June, and September). But seeing that I did not want to look like a scrub for almost five whole months while wearing a mop on my head with dying highlights, I decided to go in for a cut out of my regularly scheduled three month interval. After all, the last cut was performed barely two months ago!

Seeing as well that it was time for me to get a whole new color, as I typically would color my hair every other visit (six months), I decided not to get any highlights this time! Besides the fact that it was getting kind of expensive highlighting my hair twice a year, it also seemed like the Pantene® Color Stay shampoo and conditioner did nothing to prevent the beautiful brown and light blonde colors stay that way. My top mop had turned into this washed out copper top and shiny bronze colors, typically found in colored hairs of sketchy older ladies you would see screwing around the beach begging for money or free beer.

My hair wasn’t exactly long enough, as the last haircut was only back in March, but my hairstylist didn’t want me leaving the salon like a spotted cheetah. So she cut my hair short. Waaay short! So short that my hair stood up, and not even my trusty hair clay could do to keep them down and styled. But that was the least of my worries, though. Because now, I’m sporting a whole lot of jet-black hair!

Like a normal Asian.

I no longer look like a Backstreet Boy!

You Better Burn That Tampon!!!

What really tickles me fancy red is the Christian right. People from this group generally tend to be wealthy and quite hypocritical. If you look at the popular Christians who have the ability to influence public policy, they are extremely wealthy and prefer laws or policies that will help them stay rich. {Read: Always pushing for lower taxes for the wealthy.} Not that I am envious of their wealth, but I do believe that the wealthy should be able to contribute to the betterment of society at large, not just themselves. {Read: John leans towards socialism in the political spectrum.}

Then there is the hypocrisy. Prime examples of our time? (1) Ted Haggart having a steady male prostitute and pot, while preaching that homosexuality is wrong and influencing public policy surrounding it. (2) Rush Limbaugh fighting tooth and nail to stay out of jail for his illegal Oxycodin addiction, after years of repeatedly preaching that illegal drug users should be sent away to jail. (3) Bill O'Reilly, who I consider an extreme right-wing conservative pretending to be independent, and his sick, sexual fantasies involving loofah. C'mon! Don't get me wrong; everyone has a skeleton or two in their closet, myself not excluded.

What really bothers me about Christians and their doctrines dolled out left and right is the hypocrisy that wraps around the crap they sometimes preach. {That is not to say that I disagree with all their preaching.} How many Christians have you come to know personally, including preachers who claimed to have graduated from some yada yada seminary, who actually consume shellfish like shrimp, lobster, scallops, and the likes on a regular basis? Quite a lot, I'd imagine. Hmm... Interesting how the Bible explicitly states that it is a sin to eat shellfish.

Why don't churches preach that men (or boys) who masturbate and waste their semen are subjected to eternal damnation, and that if semen were to leave the body (except in sex between married man and woman), he must get rid of his clothes and bathe with water, and be declared unclean and untouchable by a woman (or girl) till the next evening? Likewise, why don't churches preach that women (or girls) be deemed unclean and untouchable by a man (or boy) during the seven days of her menstrual discharge, and that she must burn her menstrual cloth (or tampon or pad in today's world)? Holy crap! I think I shook hands with a female executive, and now I wonder if she was on the rags or not, because I may be totally unclean!

To me, it seems like Christians pick and choose their sins. Isn't it in the Bible that states that all sins are sins, and that God does not declare one sin to be greater than another?

And why the hell is John going on and on about this?

What got my panty all scrunched up was the fact that these very Christians are "mobilizing" their brain-washed troops to oppose and fight a hate crimes bill that just passed the House of Representatives. With that, our idiot of a president Dubya is vowing to veto the bill should it reach the White House to be signed into law. Basically, this bill extends the coverage of victims of hate crimes to include those with sexual orientation and gender identity or disability. {Funny how Dubya is starting to get into a veto frenzy as soon as the Democrats won the Congress. So much for trying to go through two terms without a single veto.}

Now, don't get me wrong. I am not gay and particularly fancy of gay practices, although I at times do enjoy a little bit of girl-on-girl action, if you know what I mean. But I don't believe in dictating how others should live their happy lives. And I also believe that all people, gay or not, "are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights, that among these are life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness." If a black person's rights are infringed upon because of his skin color, it is perfectly okay to go after those attackers under the hate crimes law. But what I don't understand is why we can't apply the same legal obligation when hate crimes are committed against those people who happen to gay.

Are these Christian evangelists trying to teach that hate is wrong, with the exception of hating gay people? Seriously! How f**ked up is that point of view? Why can't these haters just love one another, just like what Jesus taught? Who are we to judge other people? I guess I'm going to the depths of hell because I routinely wear clothes made with mixed fibers, especially when I run or participate in sports. Damn! In that case, I guess I better swing by Red Lobster® for their unlimited shrimp dinners before I kick the bucket just for good measure.

That's Clever!

It should come as no surprise to those who know me that although my command of the English language is pretty good, there are instances where I simply don't understand certain vocabularies. I used to bring with me a compact electronic dictionary wherever I go, but as times has changed, so has its usefulness morphed. Just like carrying a knife about two centuries ago would be fine as self-defense, but in today's modern world of thuggish life, it simply won't do. You simply must pack a nine and perhaps a couple clips of ammunition.

Anyway, I digressed. I was searching and reading news of the widely unpublicized update on Jessica Lynch's testimony last week before Henry Waxman's House Committee on Oversight and Government Reform. Apparently this is just another example of how the media censors the news and controls public opinions. How can something so paramount like the United States Army's repeated acts of cover-up and lies be not widely reported? It seems like the U.S. Army has been on a public relations campaign to fix its poor image time and time again after the Abu Ghraib scandal. Funny, for you would think that they should have learned that honesty instead of cover-up is the best policy.

Sorry. I digressed again. The whole point of this cleverness that I am referring to is about a vocabulary. In one of the news commentaries that I read, I came across a word which I have no idea what it meant. Fungible. What the hell? I would have expected a word like this would come up in articles that sound more like Biology Monthly, or Biochemistry Journal, or in Sports Illustrated's reader section on athlete's foot. But no, it appeared in a political article. So I looked it up on Merriam Webster's online dictionary.

Now, please explain something to me. Why was I smacked around with a two feet ruler by my English teacher whenever I used the same vocabulary in defining the word? If that was such a faux pas, then I can't see how Merriam Webster was able to provide a recursive definition. Especially when I'm left still bewildered and not any smarter than before looking up the dictionary. Take a closer look: