Dirty Dancing

As I was driving to the gym in the butt crack of dawn earlier this week, I heard over the radio about how some Chicagoland school district canceled the remaining school dances for 2008 because of "dirty dancing." At first I chuckled, but then the radio DJ's said something about how the middle school students were bumping and grinding and showing too much skin.

It's funny, because the night before that, I was actually screwing around on YouTube, and watched a few videos. Then I came upon this funny video of three dudes lip syncing to the song, Barbie Girl. Then at the end, I got curious as to what YouTube suggested you should also watch that are related.

I was shocked to see that someone had put up a video of a fifth grade talent show! I wasn't necessarily shocked at the mere fact that someone posted this video on the Internet, but that three fifth graders were doing a dance to the Barbie Song as a talent show! I want to know who the dumb ass teacher who approved the use of this crap music, especially when the lyrics include: "You can brush my hair, undress me anywhere; imagination, life is your creation;" "Kiss me here, touch me there, hanky panky;" and "You can touch, you can play, you can say I'm always yours."

Seriously!!! As if the song wasn't crappy to begin with, it is riddled with crap lyrics, and degrading to women. And some dump ass teacher thought that the song is appropriate for use in a talent show? WTF?

So yeah, in a nutshell, I wasn't really that surprised to hear about the canceled dirty dancing. Kids nowadays are so much different than when I was in fifth grade. Or middle school...

Link to the news article about the Frankfort Park school district dirty dancing.
Link to the stupid talent show video.

A Cheerleading Injury You Rarely See...

Alternate Title: How To Bang A Cheerleader!

Sangria Flavored Skewered Shrimp Wrapped in Bacon

Alternate Alternate Title: I'll Never Drink Again

BLOG MA: This blog entry has been rated BLOG MA. It is intended for mature audiences. Or anyone who can withstand a little graphic discussion.

A sudden blurred image came to view. It was bright. A blink. Still bright, but clearer. The Royal White-painted ceiling lit up by the strong rays of sunshine was all I could see on this bright Saturday morning. Then suddenly, I gasped for air, and shot straight up into a sitting position. I was in pain. I felt like someone had knocked me unconscious.

As I slowly stirred out of my sleep on my couch, I tried to piece back together what had happened. A quick glance at the clock revealed that it was 10:50. I tried to return to sleep, but it was useless as the sun wouldn't have any of it. Or it could be very well possible that I was at one time a cheapskate who bought blinds that aren't good at blocking out light.

On Friday evening, I took the subway after work and headed over to my friend Matt's place. The plan? A bunch of guys were going out to celebrate his last weekend as a bachelor. Because I didn't have enough time to go home and drop off my laptops, Matt said I could first meet up at his place so I can drop off my bags before heading out to the first resto-bar. (That's Toronto-speak for any bar that also serves food.) My plan was simple: Hang out with the guys for a little bit like a couple hours tops, celebrate, then head home at a decent time. I wanted to return to playing football with this really good group I had met before beginning my marathon training in the summer. Somehow, judging by the situation I found myself in this Saturday morning, I realized that my game plan went by the wayside. Like way the f**k in Egypt kind of side.

You see, I kind of had a really shitty two weeks. Don't get me wrong, as my weekend in San Francisco was mostly fun peppered in, but without going into details, fate seemed to designate for the most part of the last couple weeks as hell week for me. Instead of moping around in my own sorrow, I decided that the wife of Dog the Bounty Hunter may be right when she said, "When going through hell, don't stop." So I decided to ride on through hell. With the aid of liquid poison which we shall name Miller Lite. And to-kill-ya. And whatever the hell shots the guys bought throughout the night.

Anyway, it all started simply enough. Spanish tapas dinner and drinks at Moe's Cantina. Along with their fabled sangria. The food was delicious. The drinks even sweeter and palatable. It became quite obvious that the bacon-wrapped shrimp skewers were the group favorite, because we ordered six skewers of it, two at a time. Not so favorite? Vegetable skewer. Apparently we were all members of PETA; people eating tasty animals.

As the night was still young, the bar wasn't exactly hopping, but with the eight of us, we managed to be the loudest bunch drawing attention from the many other patrons. Of course, the fact that Matt was wearing all kinds of colorful beads helped a lot. But not as much as the good looking fellas that we were. =)

As we bar-hopped around Wrigleyville, things started becoming a blur. Instead of pacing myself slowly, I managed to consume two drinks at each bar, along with shots people bought. And at each bar we stopped at, we had a rule to this game. We had to, uhm, smoke a fag (that's British talk for a cigarette) before hitting the next bar.

Well, all I can say is that after several bar-hopping and smoking fags, the group of eight slowly dwindled down to four. In the end, I found myself hitting on girls waiting in line at the famed Taco Hell (which always happens every time I go to that Taco Hell across from Wrigley Field), while Matt and the crew enjoyed (albeit briefly) my drunken stupor. I don't remember how we got there, or which bar we had left prior to getting there, but here we were, at Taco Hell. As usual, I ordered a Southwestern Bowl. Not quite sure which kind, or how I paid for it, but after all the flirting at the line, I managed to take pictures with seven hot girls. (I later had to delete pictures of four of them, because I later discovered that they weren't exactly hot when I was sober, if you know what I mean. Thankfully, the other three turned out exceptional, with one standing out like a girl in bikini in a corporate boardroom full of suited chicks.)

After remembering that much, I decided to get off the couch. I had to pee real bad. But I also had a mouth of parched leather, so I took a detour into my kitchen. I downed a big bottle of Strawberry-Kiwi flavored Propel as if I had just been rescued from the Sahara Desert. Feeling partially satiated, I walked through the hallway towards the bathroom. What laid before me was trail of artifacts. The hallway starting from the front door turning right into the bathroom was first my belt. Then my jeans. Then my underwear. What?!? I quickly looked down at my crotch to make sure I had not been sleeping commando. Strangely enough, I had on a pair. Where I had gotten it, I wasn't sure.

Right through the doorway into my bathroom, my work bag was sitting down there, next to my Chicago Marathon jacket that I had worn on Friday evening. This trail from belt to jacket led from the front door to the edge of the toilet. Then I suddenly remembered partially what happened when I got home. I had this nagging urge to take a huge dump, and couldn't wait to get out of the cab! I must have started undressing before even dropping off my heavy bag while rushing into the bathroom. I chuckled at this sudden remembrance.

When I lifted the toilet seat, the sight before my very eyes made me gag before muttering, "What the... NAA...ASTY!!!" Then I looked around the bathroom floor, and the tornadic arrangement on the floor jogged my memory even more. I don't remember the cab ride from Matt's place to my home, but I remembered falling down the final flight of stairs at Matt's apartment complex and thinking subsequently that my ankles better not be jacked up because I was going to run a few miles of the Chicago Ultra Marathon later that day, and hit the Trick or Treat Trot 5K on Sunday. I certainly don't remember flagging down a cab, but I do remember paying the cabbie when I got home.

Because I had not taken a dump all Friday long, and with having had a huge lunch and a relatively large and festive dinner with the guys, I couldn't hold it in much longer. But as I sat there on the toilet and squeezed my abdominal muscles, I remembered feeling relieved. I also remembered that after I wiped myself, I suddenly had to puke because I had squeezed my tummy too hard. Being bent over on the toilet certainly didn't help, and I felt the food coming upwards. It came out so fast and sudden like Mount Santorini when it devastated the Minoan civilization. It was so sudden that I had to jump off the toilet (thank God I wiped!) and stick my head in the toilet! I thought my response was lightning quick, but apparently not, because on Saturday morning, I could see that I had missed my aim on one of my hurls.

To make matters worse, I definitely did not remember the toilet clogging up after I had done puking when I flushed. So here I was, on Saturday morning, with my head hurting in pain, I was staring at the nastiest thing I had ever done in my own home. A mix of fecal matter and pieces of shrimp, bacon and cilantro caked into the toilet bowl. Great! I don't have much time before I had to go run Elaine in on her final two miles of the Chicago Ultra Marathon, and I have to pee! As a germaphobe that I have always been, I couldn't possibly leave this mess alone. I had to clean it, as much as I didn't want to.

Thinking that maybe after all night of sitting there, my crap might have softened up enough for it to be flushable. I pulled on the flush lever, and hoped for the best. Unfortunately for me, all that nastiness filled up nearly to the brim. Luckily, nothing overflowed. Damn!!! Because I have never clogged up my toilet before, I never had the need to own a plunger. So I went down to the building engineer's office and borrowed his industrial plunger.

As I sat there and plunged away as carefully as I could without splashing all that e-coli tainted water, I got tired pretty soon. After all, I had to pee, and I was hungry too. What I needed to do right then was to eat a hot, soupy noodle meal and pee, not wasting my time plunging. But I just had to clean this mess before starting out the day, because I was sure that once my sinuses had cleared out after the Zyrtec pills were popped, I would really know how bad my condo smelled. Bathroom cleaning became priority number one.

After plunging for almost half an hour to no avail, I began panicking. I washed my hands, got onto the computer, and looked up Elaine's time at the 2006 Chicago Marathon to see what her long distance pace was, so that I could calculate and see how long it would take her to complete the 31 mile ultra marathon. A quick calculation revealed that I had to be on the course by 14:00 or else she would have finished since the race started 08:30. I looked at the clock, and it was already 12:45. Not good.

Then I suddenly realized that I had never used a plunger before, so it could be possible that I was doing it all wrong, considering that I had been plunging away for over half an hour. I Googled for "toilet plunging tips", and was pleased at the few professional advice available on the interwebs. I was even more pleased that all recommended several do-it-yourself procedures before calling in the professional, as I thought I was nearing that point.

After watching diagrams of basic toilet designs, and how plungers work, I suddenly realize that the word plunger was very misleading. I thought as a device to plunge things, you're forcing the culprit of the clog to be forced through the toilet by the air pocket trapped in the cup of the plunger. It turned out that the cup at the end of the plunger was designed to create suction, because you're pulling the questionable debris back into the toilet bowl so that said debris (or shit, as I call it) can begin flowing in pieces instead of one large clump. Aha! That explains why a bowlful of shit along with puke certainly was the right recipe to create a clog! I also learned that the number top culprits for clogged toilets are usually: 1) toys or missing makeup, 2) humongous hard turd, and 3) cat litter. Really, people dump cat litter in the toilet?!?

But before I could begin practicing my newly acquired housekeeping skills, I had to do something else as explained by the online advisors. Find a plastic cup and a bucket, and empty out the toilet bowl to just an inch or so above the normal resting waterline after a normal flush. And thankfully, the whole procedure was accompanied by a video instruction! As much as I hated this, I had to do what it said. I know this is kind of gross, but I decided to mention the whole process in my blog because I found this newly discovered skill extremely helpful. And it will be helpful to you too, because like me, you will one day be a homeowner.

As I began plunging away with a bucket full of shit, puke, and food particles beside me, I started to get disheartened. Because after fifteen minutes of plunging, I got nowhere. And it was already 13:00. And why was I holding onto the bucket of shit water? Apparently, modern house plumbing designs have separated the line from the toilet from the line in our sink. The online instructor mentioned that dumping fecal matter down the kitchen sink will make it all the harder to process into drinking water. And since I'm a big fan of tap water, the bucket of shit remained next to me. Oh, how I wished I lived next to a farm...

By now, I had gotten desperate. I looked online again to see what other professional tips could help. And this final one held the magic key. You're supposed to plunge the toilet with fast up and down strokes, with no more than three seconds apart between each stroke. Damn! Is this guy for real? Toilet plunging somehow managed to turn from a simple household activity into a procedure as complicated as giving CPR! I was just glad that mouth-to-toilet resuscitation was not a prerequisite. And after another 15 minutes of plunging to no avail, I decided that I should feed my starving tummy and find a way to pee.

While the Korean noodles cooked, I couldn't hold my pee in any longer. A light bulb suddenly came on. I looked at the empty half liter Propel bottle sitting on the kitchen counter, and thought that maybe I could just pee into the bottle. After all, I doubt my bladder could hold onto half a liter of pee. So there I went. Now, if you were wondering why I didn't just pee in the sink, I actually had thought of that. My rationale went like this: I didn't want pee splashing anywhere onto my kitchen counter. End of story with that one. But as the waterline (really, peeline to be exact) neared the top of the bottle, I began to panic. Shit! What if I can't stop midstream?!? With about two inches to go, I squeezed as hard as I possibly could. My first pee of the day after a long night of sleep; could I possibly do this?

Even to my own amazement, I stopped just in time!!! Hallelujah!!! With just a quarter of an inch to go! After carefully pouring it down the sink right into the hole so as to have zero splash, I peed the rest into the now empty warm bottle. Holy shit! I filled half the bottle before completely emptying out my bladder. Can human bladders really hold 750 ml of pee?!? And if you're wondering about pee being recycled back into drinking water, take heart that pee is sterile. Mine just might taste like Miller Lite or tequila.

Glad as I was that I solved my pee problem, I washed my hands and sat down to eat my Korean noodles. Then suddenly, I began to whimper. Like a stupid girl who suddenly got really emotional over nothing, like eating a bowl of spicy noodles. My thoughts? Here I am, a young man of great talent, who has always been nice and good to his friends, who was successful with a flowering career, and suddenly fate gave him two weeks of pure hell! And I was reduced to scooping shit and puke out of a toilet into my nice bucket reserved only for mopping my floors, and peeing into a bottle like an uncivilized caveman with absolutely no manners. And worst of all? In my drunken stupor, my Nokia N95 was stolen the night before by the time when I returned home.

As if fate didn't have enough of this mockery, I was also given the pleasure to be stuck with the whole toilet plunging business. Such a simple household chore, and a man with a degree who works for a great technology company such as IBM couldn't freaking figure out how to plunge his own shit through the toilet! Then I cried just a little harder, like a poor helpless girl who suddenly realized later the consequence of sugarless nights after the initial outcry when discovering somebody had stolen her bucket of candy the morning after Halloween.

Yeah, it was that depressing. As I wiped away my tears and began forcing food down my throat as I no longer was hungry while feeling all sad for myself, I then decided that it would be best that I just stay home and not go run Elaine in on her final two miles of the Ultra Marathon. But after a couple bites of the Korean noodle, I suddenly realized that I might just had hit rock bottom. I know, so cliché, isn't it? And things suddenly got clearer, after I thought things through with my hungover mind and put things in perspective. Elaine's grandfather's health had suddenly deteriorated at a greater pace, and she had been a mess since Friday. She couldn't finish the Chicago Marathon, especially when she was running for charity for her grandparents who suffered Alzheimer's. This Ultra Marathon was to make up for the botched Chicago Marathon. The sudden news that her grandfather may pass any minute soon really made me realize that what I was going through was pee-nuts compared to what Elaine was going through.

So I wiped up my tears, and finished my Korean noodles as fast I could. I began laughing like a 14 year old girl, because I realized that however horrible my life had briefly been, and however terrible my current situation was, it was all funny in retrospect. I won't laugh now, but I sure will next week. And of course, this could be very blog-worthy. For me, at least.

After putting my empty bowl in the sink, I attacked the clogged toilet again, but with determination this time. Come hell or high water, I was going to be out there cheering and running Elaine in. I sat on the brim of the bathtub, next to the bucket full of liquefied shit, and plunged away. Twenty minutes went by, but I pressed on. Then suddenly, the little bit of mess started going down. I lifted the plunger to make sure. And it did, slowly. I waited, and then cautiously flushed. The water swirled around and rose up. But it continued to swirl. Then voila! The whole thing swirled down the toilet!

Hallelujah!!! Allah be praised! Baby lord Jesus be praised! My combo number 9 (shit and puke) went down! Then I poured the bucket of shit down the toilet, and flushed. It all went down too!!! Then I began cleaning my toilet and bucket. I looked at the clock, and it was 13:50. I guess I had no time to shower, and no point to do so when I'd be sweating again when I run Elaine in later on.

I made it down to the race course on time, and she was very appreciative of my support. I just didn't tell her the hellish morning that I had to go through that morning. At that point in time, I reprioritized things. The Halloween Pub Crawl on Saturday afternoon will have to wait, or skipped altogether, even though I had spent $50 working on my dorky costume. I had to go to the Nokia store and see if they had a registry for stolen phones just in case if the new owner decided to take it in for warranty support. And I also had to go to the AT&T store to get a new SIM card so I could at least reconnect to the outside world with my older Nokia N91 phone. I also wanted to see if they have a registry of stolen devices, and if they can block stolen devices from connecting to the network. The guy said it was possible, but that I had to call Customer Service for that and provide the IMEI code. This looked promising.

While I sat there plunging my toilet, a thought did occur to me, because in the middle of it all, I felt a bump in my forehead and tried to figure out why I had a particular sharp pain over my left eyebrow. I suddenly remembered why I missed my first hurl at the toilet after I shat. With my Chicago Marathon jacket on the bathroom floor, the fleece on tiled floor just made for a slippery condition. And when I jumped up, I had slipped and fell. And on the way down, I slammed my forehead on the corner of my bathroom sink. I guess in retrospect, I should be thankful that that was all it was. I mean, I could've cracked a tooth on the toilet bowl! Or worse, stuck my whole arm into a toilet full of shit as I came crashing down. And then I thought, oh my goodness, what if I had the cell phone in my jacket all along, but because I was tearing off my clothes so fast that it dropped out of my coat pocket and fell into the toilet, thus the clog?!?

Now that would be an interesting turn of events if that had been the case. But in the meantime, I've left voicemails with the Yellow Cab of Chicago after reviewing the security video of my condo to determine that it was in fact a Chicago Yellow Cab. But no cab number, unfortunately, due to poor video quality... But that's a good start. And I'll been monitoring eBay for any new posting of a used Nokia N95 without the charger within 100 miles of Chicago starting October 27.

Certified Ass Hole

I have no idea how many weddings I have been invited to, but I'm pretty damn sure that I have gone to a lot of them. As usual, whenever I get the invitation, I automatically check yes for "will attend," and mark two for "number of guests" in the Répondez, s’il vous plait card. Maybe it is out of habit, but whether or not I'm dating anyone, I will always bring a companion. And I have done this for every single wedding I have ever been invited to in my life.

Until now.

You see, this past weekend, I got a little bit of a shocker while I was chatting and catching up on things with a dear friend of mine, whose wedding is coming up soon. I haven't really opened the invite yet, as it is stuck somewhere in between stacks of bills and junk mail I have neglected to attend to for weeks. It's not that I wasn't excited to receive a suspicious-looking, odd-sized, girl-colored, love-stamped letter in the mail. Simply put, I got it just as I was returning home to pick up my luggage and run out the door for the airport some time ago.

Anyway, while chatting with her, I asked who were invited to the wedding, because I was going to bring a mutual friend who I'm sure would liven up the reception. [Or I hope.] And in an instant, I was quickly snapped, "You can't bring anyone!" At first, I was taken aback, before feeling a little bit insulted.

A quick look-through of some psycho books that target brides-to-be in such a huge profit-making industry, there are so many rules, manners and etiquettes surrounding the simple act of getting married. My favorite? Chapters based on the number of months till the wedding. [Read Emily Post.] But most of these books spent quite a lot of words and chapters geared towards the marrying couples. There isn't any chapter, much less an appendix, for wedding guests-to-be to read.

This invariably forced me to extend my research to the world of the interweb. And of course, the search was far and wide, as everything again was geared towards the marrying couples. After nearly half an hour, I finally discovered a few targeted hit results. Turns out, and all you boys out there better pay attention here, that there is an unwritten rule out there in the world of etiquette that dictates how you can respond to wedding invitations.

If the wedding invitation is addressed to you alone, then that means you are only allowed to arrive unaccompanied!

Yeah, Holy Shit! was what I said too!

If this hidden rule is supposed to be widely known, then why don't I know about this? Of course, I polled a lot of my friends about this, and no surprise here, but most guys save for one didn't know about this. They all have made the same mistake that I have done over and over. As for the girls out there, half of them knew about this unwritten rule. I even went so far as to ask my client employees!

I think that in this day and age, especially in America where it has been touted repeatedly as a country of melting pot [or at least layered oils of different viscosity], are all Americans supposed to automatically know this rule? Obviously the marrying couples will know them after reading so many different wedding books, but I doubt the general populace will know this.

And it was especially misleading when the typical RSVP card will have these three lines:
M______________________
Will __________ attend
_____ Number attending

For the most part, most guys will automatically write down just their name, and two for the number of guests. They all assumed that they could bring a date or companion. Apparently, that is a social faux pas in the world of American aristocracy dictated by the obsessive compulsive, linear folks like Martha Stewart and Emily Post. I mean, Emily Post's Etiquette isn't exactly a book I recall having to read in any of the mandatory literatures in secondary school years (i.e. high school for you Americans). Likewise, I wasn't required to attend any kind of charm schools while growing up. So how am I supposed to know this sensitive manner? If the guest list must be limited, then help me out by writing "one" for me in the blank next to the "Number attending" field.

More importantly, people with different cultures may have different expectations. As a friend of mine pointed out, my default response to a wedding invitation will gladly be accepted by a Chinese American couple, because it simply means that they will get more gifts. Of course, in contemporary American culture, shaped by the likes of Post or Stewart and actively practiced by the snooty 10% of our society who are wealthy and have the power to influence, this isn't the case!

Oops!

Apparently, I have been a certified ass hole so many times in the past, save for one wedding which I recall having such wedding invitation addressed to "John and Guest."

Here's my real beef. If what I had done was such a faux pas, then why didn't any of my previous friends warn me about it? After all, most of my friends who got married were women! They could have taught me an invaluable lesson and save me from the embarrassment of being labeled The Guy Who Sucks Your Wedding Funds Away. I can only imagine one married friend telling another female friend of mine who is about to tie the knot: "Watch out for John. Not only does he eat a lot, flirt with your mom, be the crowd clown, but he brings dates just to drain your money away!"

Instead of the confusing RSVP cards with the standard fill-in-the-blanks, why not make it more straight-forward. If the size of the guest list is tight, spell it out. If standard RSVP cards must be used in a limited wedding reception, I for one will volunteer to send out the invitations, while manually writing the number of guests for that targeted invitee. That way, the point is made across loud and clear. And I blame anal-retentive folks like Post and Stewart for creating this mess, because they want your invitation to come across as tactful, so they leave out important things which may in fact be useful.

I guess in a way, I'm glad for the hotly-debated conversation I had with my friend this past weekend, because it is better to be late in knowing this than never at all. And if, God willing, I'm blessed with the opportunity to find the right girl and if, God willing, marriage is in the cards, my wedding invitations will be done entirely over the Internet! Screw Peggy Post and Martha Stewart. No more confusing RSVP cards with underlines here and there. And when invitees get to my website to respond, there will be a grayed out field labeled "Number of Guests," and it will indicate a solid number pre-determined. If I want Emily Stewart to come unaccompanied because I hate her boyfriend, then it will just read a big ol' UNO in that field. And if I want a married couple with kids to come sans noise-makers, then that field will read a big ol' DOS.

That's just me. =)

Dead or Alive in Seattle?

So yeah, I have neglected my blog for a while now. And it should not come as a surprise since once in a while, I am simply swamped. But it should come as a surprise that this time I really have no excuse, as I am not swamped.

I am in Seattle this week, being a total slacker despite the fact that I just started my new project. Why, you ask? Well, the client doesn't yet have the proper authorization and approvals needed for me to touch their systems. Sweet!

So why haven't I blogged anything, you ask? Well, as silly as it sounds, I think I may be afflicted with Carpal tunnel syndrome. About a couple times a year, the joints from my left wrist to my left thumb would hurt real bad when I use it, be it holding onto a bottle of water, typing on the keyboard, scratching my back or masturbating. Okay, totally kidding on the masturbation. Because I'm right-handed! ;-)

Anyway, I ended up going easy on the typing all week. And I can't figure out why it would hurt. One would think that if anything, it would be the right thumb to be affected considering the fact that I use the right thumb to hit the Space button on the keyboard. Weird.

Here is just a quick recap. I flew out on Monday. What a way to spend the holiday. And this time, I brought a friend with me, as a birthday present to her. Never mind the fact that I was kinda reverse-psychologically forced and coerced by my other friends to do so. [Yeah, you know who you are!] And I believe one of them did so just so he could get away from his nagging wife for a week, and leaving me stuck with her. =)

Back to the point. On Monday, I went for a leisurely five mile run after arriving in Seattle. After a quick shower, I took Sabine to the International District for my favorite cheap dinner. You see, I had been to Seattle for almost half a year for another project years ago, so I kind of knew my way around. If you ever want some good Cantonese noodles, go to the Canton Wonton House. I've experimented with many Cantonese noodle inns in Seattle, and none has come close to my designated favorite.

On Tuesday, I went to work, while Sabine stayed in the downtown area. I'm sure she told me all about what she did that day when I returned from work, but I'm also pretty sure I applied my well-practiced selective hearing skills during that time. In any case, I dragged her along with me to the renowned Green Lake, where I did my nine mile run, or a little over three laps. After my run around the gorgeous lake filled with many equally gorgeous girls running there, we went to Cedar's restaurant for some quality Lebanese/Mediterranean/Indian food, and unlimited home-made Chai tea full of explosive spices. The Tandoori chicken was so moist and juicy! Other than the fact that they spent a lot of money renovating the place and Walgreen's totally took over block and Cedar's parking lot, the food was awesome, just as I remembered it years ago.

On Wednesday, I took a break from running, so I was able to return to the downtown hotel quite early. After a quick stop at the Executive Lounge where we enjoyed some hors d'oeuvres and free alcohol, we went over to Pioneer Square and partook in the Underground Tour. To my amazement, I did not realize that Seattle had once burned to the ground just like Chicago did in 1871, only 18 years later. And just like Chicagoans, the Seattlites literally raised the city! Who would've known that, if they had not gone to the cheesy Underground Tour? As a silly goose that I am, I was suckered into buying a couple Seattle history books at the souvenir shop at the end of the tour, much not dissimilar to the gift shops you see at the exit of a rollercoaster ride in the overpriced amusement park.

Then we walked to the Fish Club, where a friend had recommended having good seafood. Initially I was not attracted to the restaurant as we walked closer, because I have a very distinctive taste in food. No national chain restaurants and I definitely avoid hotel restaurants at all costs. The Fish Club just so happened to be the restaurant underneath the downtown Marriott. It was too late. But to my surprise, the food and service there far exceeded my expectations. I treated Sabine to dinner, because we were celebrating her belated birthday. But she didn't know that. =) I wouldn't be opposed to returning there in the near future. If you ever go to Seattle, I highly recommend getting the Pasta Fra Diavolo by this fine establishment by Todd English.

Last night, after work, we decided to not splurge on any high ticket restaurants. Besides, with just less than a month to go till the Chicago Marathon, I didn't think it would be wise to treat my body to good wine, good food laden with sticks and sticks of butter, and dessert. So we went to yet another establishment as recommended by my friend, Sandie's Gourmet. As there is no Taiwanese restaurant in all of Chicago, I absolutely had to go there. It was like a hole in the wall, but I assured Sabine that it is totally fine. For appetizers, we got the traditional "cold plate" stuff like sliced seaweed, simmered eggs, and dried tofu. I also went so far as to get green onion pancake and traditional Taiwanese stinky tofu for appetizers too. The stinky tofu wasn't stinky enough. Maybe they made it more palatable to the Americans. Oh well. And for our entrées, I got the traditional Taiwanese beef noodles and the Taiwanese rib noodles for Sabine.

It was all good! And although I promised not to reveal to anyone, Sabine's pants' button popped! And the restaurant owner laughed at her! My friend who recommended Sandie's Gourmet often patronizes this establishment, so much so that she gave him a nickname: Old Baldy. And his girlfriend: Big Eyes. And I simply had to tell her how I found this little restaurant. And now I'm afraid to know what nicknames she would give my French friend and me.

So that brings to today. I don't have to go to work, so I slept in. I think my Carpal tunnel syndrome has improved slightly, so I figured that I could squeeze in a blog entry before having to jump in the shower and head home on my flight. So far, so good.

Basically, for me, all I did was work and eat, with a bit of running in between. I'm not quite sure what Sabine did all week. My selective hearing wasn't great, so I vaguely remember her going on and on about walking around downtown, wanting to watch the whales, pretty flowers at the market, wanting to watch the whales, space needle, and not being able to go watch the whales. Other than that, I have absolutely no details as to each of those things that she did.

I definitely look forward to working in Seattle in the next three months!

Uh... Cum Again?

Why is the guy holding the microphone fighting to keep his laughter contained?!?

Just a Bit Rusty

It has been ages since I last flown. Dubya was the President of the United States. Oh wait, he still is. I guess it just seems like forever in the life of a road warrior. If not for the perception of the ocean of time, then at least I know for sure it has been a while since I last flew on a non-Southwest Airlines flight.

You see, as a road warrior, I know many tricks here and there to allow for efficiency so as not to waste any time idling around. For example, how to time things just right so that when you finally get to your gate, you only have to wait five minutes before you board your flight. Of course, several of my friends have told me in the past that this kind of planning greatly increases one's stress level exponentially. For me, it isn't all that particularly more stressful, other than the fact that there is an element of gambling involved in the whole process.

Mind you, I only have less than the count of my fingers in a handful when it comes to the number of times where I have completely missed my flight. Other than the one time where I went to the wrong terminal at Denver where the now defunct Kansas City based Vanguard Airlines printed the gate information misleadingly. As for the rest? I slept through them all. Yeah, that's why not even a full 12 months have passed before I started avoiding Monday early bird flights, opting instead for Sunday evenings.

So on Thursday night, I got a call telling me that I might have to go to New York City on Saturday. The client needs someone there at 16:00. But I also had Garth's bachelor party to go to that day.

Side note. So I have an aisle seat on my flight, and across me is the fold-away seat used for flight attendants. I just noticed that she is actually cross stitching. I thought sharp objects like an inch and a half needle is not allowed on flights?End of side note.

Where was I? Oh right... A full day of bachelor party festivities for Garth. If I had to make it to Manhattan by 16:00 local time, I would have been forced to totally miss out on the entire thing. And seeing how I have been on the bench for almost a full month without any billable hours or viable project, it wasn't exactly in my favor to tell my manager that I turned down a billable project, despite the fact that it is only for five hours. So I played the work-life balance game. Namely, compromise. It was either that, or handing my employer another bullet on a silver platter that he can use to lay me off.

I told them that I couldn't possibly miss out on my good friend's bachelor party, but I would be willing to enjoy half the festivities. After all, I couldn't really drink any alcohol since I've been on the marathon training schedule, so I didn't really need to go bar-hopping later on. The best I could make it? 21:00 local time. If the client didn't like that, then they will have to find another person. This strategy has the benefit of not having another reason to lay me off in light of my shortage of billable hours, as well as having a 50-50 chance that I might be entirely off the hook. It was a gamble...

Since I'm writing this on the plane, you may as well guess that I'm en route to La Guardia. After only spending a meager three hours at the Arlington Park. For the brutal near two hour sitting in traffic getting there and the $10 valet parking fee, all I got to see was just four races. Oh well. At least I made an effort to spend some QT with Garth and his friends.

Anyway, back to the whole original point. Whenever I fly, I always patronize Southwest Airlines. I can't even tell you when the last time I had to fly a non-Southwest Airlines flight. So it has been a long, long while since I went to O'Hare International. And instead of the smart road warrior, I blindly drove into the daily parking garage while totally ignoring the five big signs a quarter mile prior that indicated which terminals serviced which flights.

I turned into the ramp for parking, and let out a loud, "F**k!" There were six gates to the humongous parking facility. Terminal 1, Terminal 1 & 2, Terminal 3 & Hilton, Hilton, Terminal 4 & 5, and Terminal 5. And that was all they said. Shit, what terminal is American Airlines? After sitting by the side of the road with my hazards blinking away for a few minutes, I decided that the parking facility for Terminal 1 would be a good choice, because there was a good likelihood that at least three terminals service American Airlines.

So I went in and parked with confidence. I got into the elevator, went up the escalator, then noticed the wave of United Airlines logos all over. F**k! I totally zoned out and thought that American Airlines was based at O'Hare. Funny thing is, as a Chicagoan, I already knew that O'Hare is a United Airlines hub. What was I thinking?

While walking the miles of underground tunnel to Terminal 3, I thought to myself that a rational road warrior would have picked Terminal 3, because if it wasn't the right one, then I could easily go in either direction. I don't know why I didn't think correctly. After all, I learned this little lesson when I was trying to fly home from Dallas Fort Worth, which ironically is the American Airlines hub. But given the fact that I had given myself plenty of time, I wasn't in a hurry. I enjoyed the humid, hot and damp air in the underground tunnel for a good 10 minutes, before getting to my destination.

Man, I'm getting rusty at this traveling, with only half a year of hiatus! But then, I kind of got my mojo back. Since I rarely fly the major carriers, I have absolutely no status with them. And hating to wait till the plane was almost full to board the plane, I sneaked onto the plane with the boarding group who has Platinum privileges. And the girl checking us in didn't even bat her eye when she scanned me in. My secret? Eye contact. A sweet smile. Say hello. Ask how her day has been. She was too busy telling me how long her day had been to even notice that I didn't have that special logo on my boarding pass. When she returned my boarding pass, I said, "Thank you, and have yourself a nice day!" She smiled back.

I'm kind of glad I still have it in me to work the magic. But before I get too confident, I have to tell you that a cat got my tongue when I tried to talk with the cute girl sitting next to me. C'mon! She had a little cage with a two month old Japanese Chin puppy. A practical golden ticket into an easy flirt. Yet, I somehow managed to screw that up. Yup, I definitely am way out of practice, at least when it comes to flirting with strangers on planes. =)

I Screwed a Fat Chick!

Earlier today, my friend called and asked if I could go help her out. Of course, being the nice guy that I am, I gladly offered my assistance. So she came and picked me up, and we drove around.

Finally, we got to this one place, and we waited in the heat for a little bit. After a while, money was exchanged for the services requested. Then I asked her, "Do you have protection?" Her response was resoundingly instantaneous with conviction: "Of course!"

Unfortunately, it was a little small and too tight for my head. But seeing that it was all she had, I simply had to make do. Not knowing what she was like, I was quite surprised that she purred up like a little kitten just getting out of a peaceful nap. Her engine got started right away, all nice and warm without the "warming up."

Then I began to ride her. At first, I went gently. I wanted to break into her slowly, you know. But I soon realized that she didn't need any breaking in at all. Every time I turned up the heat, she reacted right away with equal amounts of exhilaration. It felt as if I had wind blowing in my hair, but my hair was just there, simply stationary.

I rode her for a while... Going fast at times, as well as going slow. I had to stop and let her catch her breath a couple times too. But when I made a fast go at it, her response was instantaneous with all the eagerness a guy could ask for. I couldn't even let anything slip by her!

Unfortunately, all good things had to come to an end one way or another. After about a half hour, she slightly complained about running out of gas. But it didn't bother me, because I myself have reached my intended destination. With no serious accidents, if you know what I mean.

Then I began feeling a little down, because I had such a great time during the last half hour. My friend finally asked as she was getting up, "What did you think?"

I gave her a resounding approval. "Your moped rode just fine! They did a good job replacing the carburetor! But my hair is all messed up though, cos your helmet was way too small."

Oh, did you think I was talking about sex? No... The entire time I was riding my friend's moped back from the shop; I was hoping nobody I knew saw me riding a tiny 50 cc moped through town. But it sure was fun as all hell though!

In case you didn't get the blog title, I was making fun of the popular American joke that went like this: Screwing a fat chick is like riding a moped; it's fun to ride one until your buddies see you doing it. Of course, I don't mean to make fun of bigger girls, because I myself was way bigger a couple times in my life. I'm simply making fun of an American joke by turning things around. That's all. =)

Oh, and my friend isn't fat. In case if you're wondering.

Spanish Inquisition

I just got off the phone with my parents. I haven't spoken to them in almost three weeks. But it wasn't entirely my fault, you see, because I didn't know they took a couple weeks off to do some vacationing. And of course, despite the fact that I have had my current email address since 1999, my dad always seem to send me emails to my MSN account, which is used only for chatting online with my parents, while the email feature is blocked. Never mind the fact that I have told him for the better part of the last three years to get his address book updated. Aarrgghh!

So anyway, it was quite inevitable that the subject of a steady girl came up. While I was on the phone with my dad, he didn't want to rile up my mom so he broached the subject by asking, "Do you have a friend yet?" (Note, the underlined part was in English, whereas the rest of his question was in Mandarin.) I replied to his question with a question, "What do you mean by friend; I have lots of friends," knowing full well what he meant. Then my dad complained about how he couldn't hear me.

The next thing I know, my mom was talking. The first words out of her mouth? "You know, 30 is a good age to get married." What the... "How come you don't have a girlfriend yet?"

Great, here comes the Chinese Inquisition. Again. Maybe I should have waited another week before deciding to give them a buzz.

As I failed to make them understand that I had to work weekends on this project, I simply started thinking about that Spice Girls song. I think it's called either Be My Lover or Wannabe. Whatever the title is, I began mouthing the words: "So tell me what you want, what you really really want." And before I could restrain myself, I found myself asking her, "So what do you really want? A wife or a baby?"

Of course, in her excitement, she revealed that she wanted a grand kid. But instead of telling her that Szu and her husband have been trying this year, I simply responded, "Well, in that case, I can make it happen without a wife. All I need is to give up something to protect me (as I didn't know the Mandarin word for protection as a noun), and you will have a baby in nine months or so. But you have to be willing to put up with some random girl whose beauty may be questionable to you."

My mom obviously got embarrassed, and laughed it off. All of a sudden, instead of wanting a grand kid, she decided that she wanted me to have a proper wife.

Sigh... Any takers out there? This will purely be a matter of practicality just so I can get my parents off of my back. I'll even pay you! I'll even be willing to lie to my parents that I shoot blanks! Please, someone put me out of my misery.

Zigazig ha!

Say It Ain't So!

I suppose I have to face the music sooner or later that my little love affair with a mistress would end abruptly. And it has been a good two years affair. It is just so sad that the inevitable had to happen. Two years is such a short, short time, in my opinion.

It all started on July 14, 2005. My love for running that day got extended to include Fun Runs hosted by Momentum. Yes, the guilty mistress is Momentum. Ever since that day, my running fix has never been the same. She has taken good care of me from time to time. Ridiculously early morning pancake runs, where we were always rewarded with home-made pancakes and mimosas; wickedly fun evening runs capped with beer, pizza, or other foods that match the themed runs. It was also that day that I got to meet the people who have later became my friends: Erin M, Myke K, Amy R, Chris R, Liz H and Amy H.

I suppose I may have burned a bridge with my mistress at the last visit. Instead of showing up on time for the Mardi Gras Fun Run, I waltzed right into Momentum a day later, all decked out in winter tights and Mardi Gras beads. (Full story here.) As if the embarrassment itself wasn't enough, I swear I could've heard the crickets chirping loudly throughout the rather empty store, save for the owner and an employee.

And I'm sure I didn't make matters better with the mistress when I continually get bogged down with work, thus unable to attend other fun runs. And before long, it has been five months since I last saw Momentum. Like any neglected mistresses, she finally decided to break the sad news by email. And it came untimely today with "Over and Out" as the main title.

Sadly, the final Fun Run will be this Thursday, which I think the proper thing to do is go. After all, the mistress has been good to me many times before. Besides the beer and mimosas, she has routinely put me on the local running crowds' radar by using my picture in several magazines and newsletters year after year. Granted, I may not have won any raffle prize in the many times that I have gone to see her, she still treated me well, despite my lack of patronizing her. After all, she did sponsor my team for the Hustle up the Hancock climb this year.

Better yet, many of my friends and I were featured in her Fun Run promotional video that was posted on the Momentum website. You may recall my mentioning about it a year ago. And before she shuts her doors, I decided to copy the video so that it will live on forever. Why don't you try and find out how many times I popped up in the video?

I guess this is my way of saying goodbye to a great love affair. I'll continue to run, of course, but after this Thursday, probably without my mistress ever again. Sniff, sniff.

I'm Moving to Memphis! Buying a House With a HUGE Front Yard!

So I decided on a whim today to sell my condominium here in Chicago, pack up my shit, and just move on down to Tennessee. Memphis, to be precise. And I'm looking for a house with the biggest front yard there possibly can be had. Preferably with a nice front porch with a great view overlooking said yard. I know I hate doing yard work, let alone lawn mowing, but it is not gonna matter in Memphis.

Why? About twice a month, I'll just make myself a nice, spiked pitcher of lemonade, pull on some bad ass looking sunglasses, and lounge out on the porch. And watch other people do my lawn. To be precise, the fine employees of Tiger Time Lawn Care business!

I almost shat my trousers when I read the news about Tiger Time lawn Care... And I was definitely paying attention when I watched the news clip from WMC-TV Memphis! Just watch the news below for yourself!!!


After all, who wouldn't mind watching a little bit of this?


Seriously though... Who the hell rides a lawn mower while squeezing her boobs together?!?

Alarming Japanese Birth Rate Decline Discovered!

All Boys Are Stupid?

As a dude with many female platonic friends, I have heard over and over about how stupid boys are, and how much men suck. What irks me the most is that these girls feel like they have the authority to make such blanket statements just because A) they continue to pick up the wrong guys (c'mon, making out with random dude in a bar and expecting him to be marriage material?!?), and B) sometimes they are mostly at fault when they don't know how to play the dating game (calling him ten times a day after just having met the guy on the subway?!?). What's that say about the girls, especially the ones I know? And since I'm constantly outnumbered, I can only rebuke for my gender so much before being shut up by several high-pitched whining. And of course, they send out all these emails where the men are the butt of jokes, be it text or a series of images.

Well, today I briefly proclaim, NO MORE! Thank God for the Internet and blogosphere, where the whining can come days, if not hours, later! =) A friend sent me this joke. Take that, men-hating unreasonable girls!

How many men does it take to open a beer?
None. It should be opened when she brings it.


Why is a Laundromat a really bad place to pick up a woman?
Because a woman who can't even afford a washing machine will probably never be able to support you.


Why do women have smaller feet than men?
It's one of those 'evolutionary things' that allows them to stand closer to the kitchen sink.


How do you know when a woman is about to say something smart?
When she starts a sentence with 'A man once told me...'


How do you fix a woman's watch?
You don't. There is a clock on the oven.


Why do men pass gas more than women?
Because women can't shut up long enough to build up the required pressure.


If your dog is barking at the back door and your wife is yelling at the front door, who do you let in first?
The dog, of course. He'll shut up once you let him in.


What's worse than a Male Chauvinist Pig?
A woman who won't do what she's told


I married a Miss Right.
I just didn't know her first name was Always.


Scientists have discovered a food that diminishes a woman's sex drive by 90%.
It's called a Wedding Cake.


Why do men die before their wives?
They want to.


Women will never be equal to men until they can walk down the street with a bald head and a beer gut, and still think they are sexy.


In the beginning, God created the earth and rested.
Then God created Man and rested.
Then God created Woman.
Since then, neither God nor Man has rested.

Aliens!

Alternative Title: Why I'm glad I don't have a womb!

Please don't ask me why, but I woke up this morning and decided to watch some YouTube to kill some time. Then I came across some aliens...





This mother is getting her ass kicked; and she's in pain! Yuck! I think the baby is trying to say, "Don't f**k with me!"

The Most Legal Porn at Work?

Once in a while, I'll scan the headlines at Google News. And today, I saw something new that is interesting: It is quite possible the gene responsible for breast cancer may come from the paternal parent as well, not just maternal. Interesting.

But then, the report on this subject matter on eCanadaNow.com had a rather revealing graphic to go along with it. The image is more revealing than any US news outlet will allow. But since this is news, it cannot be censored at work right? So does this mean this is the most legal form of porn that we corporate American citizens will get to see without reprimand? You decide; click here for the article, or scroll down below for the image:

What's a Box?

BL: MA

READER DISCRETION ADVISED

This blog has been rated MA for mature audience.


Okay... So I admit to reading at least once a week a blog written by a cool, independent woman, for women. She calls herself This Fish, in which she refers to Irina Dunn's famous quote, an analogy of how a woman needs a man: like a fish needs a bicycle.

Anyway, This Fish recently wrote an entry titled Box. Please excuse moi, as I'm simply an ignorant foreigner. [Let's see how many years after becoming a United States citizen I can still play the foreigner card.] I didn't know what a box was, but judging by the context of her blog, I quickly figured it out. But wanting to be 100% certain, I consulted my trusty Urban Dictionary.

Yup! Now I know exactly what a box is. But what really bothered me was the realization that I knew only a fraction of the popular synonyms of box. I knew of the vertical smile from watching Knocked Up, but not as comprehensive as other references as indicated in the Urban Dictionary:

alcove, bat cave, bear trap, bearded clam, bearded taco, beaver, bermuda triangle, bucket seat, cake, chuff box, cockpit, cooch, coochie, coochie-pop, coose, cooter, cooze, crack, crawl space, cum depository, cum dumpster, cuntcake, cunt, cunny, donut, dripping delta, felted mound, fillet-o-fish, finger hut, fish, fish taco, front bum, fly catcher, fuckhole, garage, gash, gates of Heaven, golden doorway, Grand Canyon, growler, hatchet wound, heaven's door, hole, honey cave, honey pot, hot box, jaws of Hell, lobster pot, loins, loose meat sandwich, lotus, love box, love canal, lower lips, meat wallet, muff, nooch, nook, nookie, peach, pearly panty gates, pocket, poon, poontang, purse, pussy, quiff, quim, rat trap, scratch, sheath, slash, slit, snapper, snatch, space, split, stench trench, tampon socket, temple, thingy, tool shed, tuna, tunnel, twat, undercut, vagina, vertical smile, wishing well, whisker box, womb, x, yoni

Confessions of a Confused and Bored Flight Passenger

I finally boarded a plane and left Los Angeles yesterday, much to my relief. Sort of. I mean, I'm not one to celebrate after staying at a place with great weather for the past three weeks, only to return to the still chilly Chicago that is having an identity crisis with Spring.

I had brought my four DVD movies from NetFlix with me to Los Angeles when I flew out there the Sunday before last, and I tried to milk them out to keep me entertained after work each day. But I simply had to return them on Saturday, because for one, I had already watched all of them by Friday evening, and another, I wanted to have some fresh movies waiting for me when I returned home.

Let me preface the whole confession thing with a pseudo confession before getting to the root of the main confession. On Friday night, I watched Bandidas, starring Penélope Cruz and Salma Hayek. I'll admit, these two Latina chicas were smokin' in the film! Va-va-vroom! Hubba hubba hubba! I don't know if this is racist of me to say, but I really had a hard time keeping the two characters apart! At first I thought I could use the visual cues that the girl with the curliest hair and red costume was always Hayek, and the other was to be Cruz. But I keep on forgetting who is who! I had to pause the movie no less than ten times just so I could figure out who was the poor farmer girl, and who was the rich orphaned girl. It was extremely frustrating, considering that they looked alike and sounded so alike with that accent they had!

Anyway, back to the point.

Because I had already returned the four movies I brought with me, I was dying with boredom on the flight home yesterday. Sure, I had the novel Love Walked In in my case, but somehow, I just couldn't get into the story. It may have something to do with the fact that it was a girly novel. So I kept it stashed away in my bag.

I then decided to write a new blog on the plane, so I took out my laptop from the overhead compartment. With Microsoft Word up and running, I began to type out my first line. Sensing that the big guy next to me was kind of nosey, I decided not to write. Instead, I somehow found another movie I had downloaded onto my laptop a long time ago. I thought, "What the hell," because, it sure beat doing nothing on a plane instead, right?

I gave it a second serious thought, before I hit the Play button. The movie? Confessions of a Sociopathic Social Climber starring Jennifer Love Hewitt. As the prelude rolled and the opening credits scrolled by, I began having second thoughts. After all, any movie that had bright, girly pink fonts with girly icons used for the opening credits is definitely bad. I debated in my mind whether or not I should continue with the movie, especially after a few minutes into the prelude, Jennifer Love Hewitt's character busted out dancing and prancing like a girly girl in her bra and panties while getting dressed.

I became extremely embarrassed, and felt like all eyes were on my screen, with giant thought balloons hovering above my fellow passengers' heads with: "What the hell is this guy doing watching a teeny bopper movie?" I weighed in the gains and consequences. If I stopped the movie now, then people might thought I was too weak of a man to be willing to watch an uber chick flick. Furthermore, if I was to cease and decease on the full length feature, I would have to find ways to fill the void that is the four hours flying across the country. And I wasn't about to start a conversation with the big dude sitting next to me reading some Christian-y novel that was bigger and heavier than the King James Version of the Bible. All I knew was that he was deeply engrossed in some novel about some silly rapture. In fact, I kind of secretly hoped that the rapture would occur during the flight, just so that he could disappear (hopefully) and leave me with ample room for my arms in my tiny space. Of course, unlike the book my neighbor was reading, I also hoped that my pilots were all heathens so they wouldn't disappear into thin air while I was still on the plane.

So I continued watching the movie. My jaw dropped quite a few times, because the entire screenplay was worse than lines written by a fifth grader, and the plot was entirely gaggy pukey! And I felt extremely self-conscious whenever shots of Hewitt's cleavage or ass were strategically placed throughout the movie. The entire movie seemed to revolve around Hewitt's assets while being half naked, acting all Valley girl-ish. And the plot? Give me a break! How can a girl who was always about being with the right crowd, shallow as a dried up pond, and conceited like a total bitch, ended up making the hot dude who was way too good for her fall in love with her? No wonder so many dumb bitches in real life love this movie. They actually think this crap happens in real life!

By the end of the movie, I felt like I lost a few IQ points, was about to have some cramps, and hurl into the air sickness bag in front of me. I could not believe I watched the entire movie, from start to finish! I had perhaps six chances when I told myself, "This is utter bullshit, I'm turning this crap off," yet I managed to withhold myself from pressing Stop. Now that I have watched that crappy chick flick, I felt like my manhood has decreased slightly.

So there you have it: Confessions of a confused and bored flight passenger on a beautiful Sunday afternoon. And I still have the shivers! I should have spent the entire flight studying the emergency procedures of a Boeing 737-700 plane instead, while laughing at the diagrams that always showed the passengers with ten inches of extra leg room, and everybody being super calm while a plane was illustrated falling out of the sky in a thick, black smoke.

I'm Not Hongkie. Or Metro.

A girl I briefly dated earlier once insinuated that I was gay, or at the very least a metrosexual, based on a few premature judgments of me on her part. The tight fitting clothes? The nice winter coat? Me talk proper English? And hair? Yes, that's right. Hair. If I have to take a stab at the situation of the whole dating dynamics with this girl, I'd say that she may have been a little bit homophobic. But what do I know? I hardly know her well. In any case, this isn't about how brokeback I may be perceived. It's about, uhm, hair. And the defense on my masculinity. =)

Recently I went to Los Angeles for work, and visited my sister, family and friends. Upon first seeing my sister, I was asked if I was trying to emulate a Hongkie. I had no idea what she meant, but further investigation revealed that only Asian men from Hong Kong would highlight their hair, other than the Japanese. At least in popular culture in the West Coast scene. The longer I stayed there, the more I observed as such of the majority of Asians around me.

When we met up with a college friend for dinner, her first reaction was, "Wow! I didn't know you are the type to highlight your hair." Her lack of saying whether it looked good or bad was suspect. I'll assume that she didn't like it. And then yesterday, we went to lunch with a couple of high school friends before I flew back home. Being blunt and immature as she always has been, she asked, "Wow, have you been hanging out with a lot of Hongkies in Chicago?"

Hmm... Never in my life would I stop and think that my hair would become a great conversation piece. My hair stays highlighted for about six months a year. I would highlight it, and then let it fade back to black, which usually takes about six months, before going back in for a completely new highlight with different colors. So basically, my hair undergoes two cycles of being colorful to solid black a year. Never in my mind would such an act cause a girl to take pause and question whether I was date-worthy. I'm pretty sure that I am not the only straight guy who highlights his hair.

And speaking of sexual orientation, I can attest to you that I am straight. Why? It all comes down to the hair. A gay guy, or metrosexual for that matter, will always keep his hair properly manicured. I, on the other hand? Despite the fact that I don't go to a barber but to a hair stylist in a salon, I only get my top mop trimmed once every three months. I enjoy the three month cycle where I look like a clean cut soldier boy to a guy mistaken as a GQ model to a sloppy hippie with long moppy hair that goes in wild places. My sister, being ever so critical since her birth, would not stop pointing out that my hair looks like an umbrella while I was in Los Angeles.

And adding to my defense, someone who is brokeback or metrosexual will never dare let his roots clash in contrast with the highlights. Nor will he let the highlights turn into a different, unintended color. For the latest splash of art, I had two tones added back in December. Some dark brown scattered all over, in addition to some hue of red layered in. Well, three months later, the dark brown is still there, but somehow the red no longer exists. In its place, I now sport a skanky bleached color. I have finally come to a sad realization that I lack the dedication needed to maintain color, despite even purchasing shampoo and conditioner geared towards color guarding. (By the way, don't bother buying those Color Stay stuff from Pantene. It doesn't work.)

So there you have it. I'm still the same Asian American dude as before. In fact, I don't hang out with, much less know, anybody from Hong Kong. And I sure as hell am not gay, because I lack the many rudimentary skill sets to be even a metrosexual! Just look at my hair!

I guess this just reminded me that it is now three months, and I so totally need to get back into my soldier boy look soon. I'll just buzz my hair stylist later in the afternoon and schedule an appointment. Tee hee.

Another misguided day for the enamored...

What was that famous quote? "You are your own worst enemy." Do you really believe in that? Better yet, do I believe in that? I don't know. I have been doing a lot of thinking lately. Yes, it is yet another Valentine's Day for which I'm single, or happily single as Amber would always proclaim, but I'm not in some kind of a VD funk. After all, I have grown quite accustomed to not celebrating this day glorified by corporate empires to churn out higher profits, especially when it is a day to remember a martyr from the late third century whose story has nothing to do with amor. After all, its association with romantic love was invented in the fourteenth century, now aided with the catalyst of modern American economy and the rise of Hallmark Cards.

History of Valentine's Day aside, I am experiencing something though. If not funk, then some kind of a strange feeling. {Or could it be a mental feeling manufactured with the aid of tannin?} It has been looming for weeks now, only to be amplified hundredfold this past Monday. You see, I have been reduced to this in a single moment of weakness. Instead of the usual self-confident, uppity John that night, I somehow became a nervous wreck. And it didn't help with my hour-long commute to and from work each day. Instead of being able to read a book or article, or simply relax like I typically would while flying on a plane, I'm now stuck in traffic over two hours a day with my own thoughts. If that is not mental self torture, I don't know what is.

So a battle loomed in my mind on Monday night. The war strategy has not worked before. After all, the score has been 0 for 1 in my life. But that night, I was thinking of the new battle. I know persistence and perseverance have worked for a few people in this world, and emphasized and romanticized to no ends in fiction. But should I go down a similar path for which the once employed strategy failed miserably before years ago? I don't know.

I gathered myself together. I stopped thinking too hard. And I decided to just put everything out there. Lay it all out on the table. No games. {Note of sarcasm: As if I have ever played games before.} I was scared and nervous. It reminded me of the time when I was in high school, when I decided out of the blue to join the drama troupe all for the sake of impressing a girl. But unlike my huge ambition in high school, which I not only just joined the drama club but went so far as to audition for (and subsequently get) the lead role, the delivery was far short of a stellar performance when I finally did what I set out to do. In an instant, I felt like this was the final tipping scale, not knowing which side that one grain of sand will fall on the scale of equal weights.

Panic ensued immediately. In stress, I called a friend right after the execution of my poorly thought out decision. To my surprise, she answered the phone for the first time ever. We talked for a long while. And something she said struck me. She said something to the effect of this: "Dating isn't what it used to be. Whatever happened to people calling each other and talking on the phone? Now it's email and text messaging!" I realized right then and there that that is the reason why I often neglect my paid Match.com subscription so much. But more than the realization, what she said brought me back to my younger years.

You see, back when I was way younger, flirting wasn't just stealing glances at a girl between classes near the lockers. It involved talking for a long time about absolutely nothing for hours at night. I also remember writing five or so notes a day in school, the careful smiley faces we'd draw at the end of our signed names, and the intricate way we'd fold our notes before nonchalantly walking by each other's locker in between classes to pass our secret notes. After I hung up with my friend, I immediately found myself a piece of paper and attempted to fold it like I used to in an attempt to test myself if I remembered how my secret love notes were folded from memory after not having done so in over 10 years. Surprisingly, it was like getting back on a bike after not riding one in years. Memories started to flood in. Me.Ss. Je.Br. Da.Sl. Wow...

Yeah, my friend has a point. Dating today is no longer what it used to be. I miss the good old days when I'd struggle to stay awake in the middle of the night whilst fighting to keep my phone glued to my ear to hear her talk, or when we'd find time after school to go for a walk in the field to talk about practically nothing important. Whatever happened to the old fashion way of impressing a girl? It's no longer how well you played at the basketball game against a huge rival. No longer showing how strong you are in front of her when you got hurt. It's no longer doing something klutzy intentionally in front of a girl and pretending to be embarrassed about it. Now, especially with my self-imposed rule of not dating people at work, impressing a girl in an otherwise grown up world is different.

I hate to brag, and I have never been the one to play that angle ever. But some of my friends have told me that I should mention who I work for, or how much I make. To this day, I don't know if it was a mistake on my part when I was with Ke.Ng. for not ever bringing her back to my place for fear of her realization of my lifestyle. For some odd reason, I've always tried to find ways to make sure that a girl likes me for the content of my character, not just what I am capable of. I'm smart and a huge nerd, but I always play the I failed calculus three in college card despite the fact that I'm insanely successful at the nerdy job that I do. The failing math card? Completely true. But somehow I always emphasized that more than my successes.

So I'm still single on Valentine's Day. Am I in a funk? Sure, you can say that. But is it due to the fact that it is February 14th? Definitely not. I am in a funk because I have suddenly become that silly boy in high school who has this serious crush on a girl. It's like all my improvements, maturity and self-confidence have suddenly been tossed out the window. I hate it that a girl can reduce me to this in an instance with the moment she smiled across the room, after years of self-restraint and growth.

Some friends said I'm too picky with girls. Some of my other friends said I'm always dating everybody. Some even nearly accused that I never date for fun, but rather looking for a relationship. Truth be told, none is accurate. I've given some girls the benefits of doubt. I have passed over girls I thought I would like. Of the girls from whom I successfully gotten their numbers, I only follow through with less than half that number. And I'm not out there looking to get married. Sure, settling down is a goal, but it has no timetable associated with it. If it happens, it happens. But how often does a pretty girl from across the room captivate you with a single smile? And for it to get better when she opens her mouth thus revealing a beautiful voice that draws you into her world? And only for it to get even better when you realize that she is extremely funny and quirky in the way that makes you want to be with her even more just so you can know her a little bit more? Especially one who makes you behave like a crazy kid, throwing calculated caution in the wind, acting like a little child? I can only tell you honestly that in my 29 years of living, only three girls have done that to me. The first one is now a close friend of mine. The second one was lost without closure. And now, the third one is making me beg to learn about her more. To understand her. For all I know, in all the attractive qualities that make her up, she could be a psycho girl like a few of the ones I have dated before. But something is telling me to take a blind chance. Jump off the cliff into the ocean unreservedly. And I don't know why!

If I pursue this, will it be 0 for 2? I don't know. A friend once told me an interesting story. She observed and asked why it was cute and hot when an attractive guy approaches her uninvited and starts flirting, but considered it creepy when a not so attractive guy does the exact same move on her? Well, I'll know soon enough if my atypical move will be perceived as cute, or sadly creepy. And for not knowing that, or perhaps my refusal to know what she thinks, I probably should finish the remaining last glass of wine in that bottle I have slowly been killing all night. Yes, I'll be looking forward to a wonderful headache come the morn. And I shall chuckle at what I wrote so far when I'm at work, and debate whether or not I should simply delete this writing. =)

I Need to Sweat More

I have been lucky enough in my life in the sense that I don't ever wear antiperspirant deodorant. It is not because I'm a cheap bastard who can't afford a can or tube of the bad odor fighting chemicals. For one, cans of anything contain aerosol, which is an environmental irritant. Secondly, those deodorant sticks either leave some mark on your clothing, or contain extra chemicals if it is claimed to stay on clear. Finally, all antiperspirant products contain aluminum-based compounds. If I remember the element chart correctly from my high school physics class, aluminum is a metal. No thanks for me!

Don't get me wrong. I have used antiperspirants in the past. Just not here in America, but only when I lived in Indonesia. Indonesia is a tropical country, and temperatures there tend to get really warm year round. Because I'm a tropical boy, I have gotten used to the heat that when I moved to the United States, I don't sweat as much anymore. To me, the temperatures are typically too cold. Yes, I like my place a toasty 75 degrees. I will never crank my air conditioner to temperatures colder than 75 degrees even in the summer time! The only time I sweat a lot is when I am running or playing some sort of a physical sport.

Why am I talking about sweat? Well, I think I may have found the root cause, or at the very least, a major contributing factor as to why I'm not successful at dating. Never mind the fact that I sign on to Match.com maybe once a month, and on average email about three people every two months through that online dating site. {Yeah, I pretty much kissed my six month Match.com guarantee goodbye after my first month.}

Anyway, back to the point. I think the reason why I'm not attracting women (actually, just women who I dig) is because I don't perspire enough. Even without wearing antiperspirant products, I don't give off a musky scent {or odor, whichever you prefer} that supposedly attracts women and causes them to be sexually aroused. Hey, I'm not making this up! Apparently researchers at the University of California Berkeley discovered that women who took a whiff of male sweat experienced improved mood and higher sexual arousal!

That's it! Screw the whole showering and putting on cologne thing before a date. From now on, I'll just run a mile on the treadmill immediately prior to picking up my date. Whoever the lucky girl is will be all over me before we get to dessert! =)