Just Some Sunday Thought...

please be philosophical please be tapped into your femininity please be able to take the wheel from me please be crazy and curious papa love your princess so that she will find loving princes familiar papa cry for your princess so that she will find gentle princes familiar please be a sexaholic please be unpredictably miserable please be self absorbed much (not the good kind) please be addicted to some substance papa listen to your princess so that she will find attentive princes familiar papa hear your princess so that she will find curious princes familiar please be the jerk of my knee I've fit you always you finish my sentences I think I love you what is your name again no matter i'm guessing your thoughts again correctly and I love the way you press my buttons so much sometimes I could strangle you papa laugh with your princess so that she will find funny princes familiar papa respect your princess so that she will find respectful princes familiar papa love your princess so that she will find loving prices familiar papa cry for your princess so that she will find gentle princes familiar please be strangely enigmatic please be just like my

The Trouble With Sandals

For as long as I can remember, I have always been a socks and shoes kind of a guy. The thought of wearing a pair of shoes without socks? I'd rather eat your grandmothers lacy panties than ever entertaining the thought of wearing a pair of trainers or dress shoes without socks. And it is for this very reason why I have for the longest time in my life avoided wearing sandals, or any kind of footwear that involves open feet.

Well, I do have to say that there was a brief moment in my early adult life that I actually wore a special kind of sandals, which was all strappy; one that had multiple straps that go over your foot from either side. Nothing got in the way between my toes. But even then, and my friends from that era of my life can fully attest, I still opted to wear socks along with that strappy sandal. Thank God I was nowhere near the fashion police. Was it fear of my feet getting exposed to the elements, like say, air? I don't know. Was it my desire to keep my feet nice and smooth to the touch, so that there aren't huge calluses built up on top of the sports calluses I had already built up in high school varsity basketball years? Not sure either.

But in either case, I have always avoided sandals. A hot August day in extreme humid Chicago? Socks and shoes. A stroll down the beach in Florida with my friends while vacationing in the summertime? Socks and shoes.

Until...

Well, some time near the end of last year, a friend and I were strolling through a running expo when we encountered a booth run by Crocs. Unlike myself, I'm sure most of you have heard of and bought Crocs years ago before they became a fad among teens and mothers unwilling to let go of their yuppie youth. Much like how I joined MySpace and Facebook only after they were no longer the in thing to do.

Anyway, I finally gave a pair of Crocs sandals a shot, and oh my gosh!!! They were scooshy and comfortable. They were nothing like the sandals I have ever owned as a kid, or the one and only kind I had in my young adulthood. Despite its exorbitant sticker price, I bought a pair! Only to sit in my plastic bag for months on end...

But when the day finally came for me to wear my new Crocs sandals, I began loving it. By then, it was already winter, so my chance of wearing them were as frequent as giving your little kitties a bath. But for every moment when I had to wear them, such as going down to the laundry room, or a brisk walk here and there, they worked marvelously.

Of course, sometimes I forget things given the span of time. Until today. I knew after running my half marathon, my feet would want to do some sort of rest and relaxation. What better way to pamper my own feet after they had helped me accomplish what I did than by going through the travel day wearing the Crocs I had bought the previous Fall?

Everything was hunky dorey. The drive from Fredericksburg to Baltimore was comfortable. The ride from the airport rental car station to the airport terminal was not so much comfortable. As the shuttle turned a corner, a luggage tipped over towards me. As I would usually do as if I was wearing regular shoes, I used my feet to prop the luggage back up. Only problem now was that when the heavy luggage got on top of my feet, it crushed a couple toes. And boy, did it hurt!

But that alone wasn't the problem. After snaking through the dumbest bright idea TSA came up for BWI's security checkpoint, I decided to head to the restroom and rid myself of some liquid that I had held in for hours. There were about six urinals open, and a guy was already using urinal number two. So being the smart gentleman, I went to urinal number four so as to give him some space. You know, this is a silent code of conduct that every man knows in regards to urinals. But as soon as I began letting my stream go, an old man (which, by the way, I have nothing against old people; it was simply an observation) came up to the bank of urinals and picked urinal number five, which was right next to me. When of all other urinals, he could have still maintained his code of conduct without being next to me.

Urgh!!! I mean, that bothered me somewhat, but not nearly to the extent of what happened next. I don't understand this, as urinals typically have a drip lip at the bottom, but sometimes I have always wondered why there were so much pee on the floor despite the innovative urinal design. And this old bugger somehow managed to splash his pee all over the place! And being right next to me, guess where some of that splatter landed?

On my exposed right foot. Which happened to be wearing my Crocs sandals. Open... Feet...

My jaws dropped to the ground. I was in shock. I was in utter disgust. I have never for once splattered myself while using the urinal, but how the hell did this old fart manage to pee and splatter onto me? As I muttered a muffled "mothereffer" and shook my head, I was then reminded of a similar incident over a month ago when I wore the Crocs to a movie theatre.

God, I need to remember lessons like this. So yeah, the trouble with wearing sandals is that although they are comfortable as they expose your feet to the elements, they also expose your feet to the unwanted elements, such as other peoples' pee. Or if you wear them to a bar, other peoples' drinks. Or the hot drunk chick's puke, whom you've been bumping and grinding the last half hour. Of course, other than the pee incident, the other scenarios are simply conjectural in nature. But one cannot help but imagine...

So yeah, I'm not sure if wearing sandals really suit me anymore. Of all the benefits I get from wearing them, I think the thought of being peed on is quite a rather turn off. Not even if I got stung by a jellyfish, which would necessitate someone peeing on me.

So yeah, that's the trouble with sandals.

Hot Steamy Shower Sex

Sometimes when I stay in a hotel with thin walls, it can be extremely disturbing when I have an eight o'clock meeting in the morning while my neighbors next door knock the uglies shortly after midnight. As if the banging of the headboard wasn't enough, sometimes I get the loud moaners. Or rarely, I'll get the businesswoman who doesn't realize exactly how loud her "partner" can be. Because of that, I've always been cognizant about the noise I produce within my own walls.

This morning, after waking up, I stumbled my way to the window with all my morning glory and opened the curtains. I stared out at the I-5 traffic, sighed at the fog that still lingered around Seattle. Then I started making my way towards the bathroom. Along the way, I stripped down my boxers without breaking a stride. And in one swift motion in mid-stride, I kicked off my boxers into the laundry bag in the closet nearby.

I looked in the mirror, as always, and let out a sigh in slight disgust at the little belly (okay, maybe not so little) staring back at me. Somehow, I always think that all my hotel rooms have defective mirrors, because in my mind, I always sport six-packs for my abs.

I turned on the shower and let it run for a few seconds till the frigid water started steaming up into a nice warm steady stream. I ran my hand through the streams, and felt ready.

I lifted my right leg into the bathtub and planted it solidly. The last thing I wanted was to slip while getting into the bathtub and cracking my head open while fully nude. Housekeeping wouldn't be pleased. When I felt I was good to go, I picked up my left foot to step completely into the shower.

But in the middle of the swing, the big toe on my left foot caught the edge of the bath tub rim, essentially tripping me. As my body lunged forward, my right knee slammed into the ceramic soap holder thingy. As pain shot up, I reached down to rub it, whereby I slammed my forehead into the marble wall of the shower. All this in a lightning-fast two seconds!

First came the loud Oh! from the toe stub. Next came the loud thump! (knee meets soap holder). Followed by another loud Ooooo!, before another bump and rattle on the wall (from the head smashing the wall). Before long, I was moaning in pain loudly.

As adrenaline rushed all over my body, I started grunting "Ugh" loudly and moaning, "Oooh God, oh God, ooooooh God!" while I leaned on my left arm while rubbing my right knee. Then the toilet in my neighbor's bathroom flushed, and I heard some giggling come across from the common air vent in the bathroom.

Damn! My neighbor probably thought I was having a hot steamy sex in the shower!!!

No Sense of Identity

It's not that I'm a contrarian, but I'm simply flexible. Ask me any question, and unlike the general populace, my answer will almost always be, "It depends," regardless of the question you have asked. Naturally, this has more than angered some of my friends, and frustrated many of my clients. Life, it seems, does not always trek its way through the same predictable course. And I hate the overly generalized questions. Overly generalized questions deserver the overly generalized answer of, "It depends."

You see, my life has never been polarizing one way or another. I was born to a father from Taiwan, and a mother from Malaysia. And on top of that, I grew up in predominantly Muslim country of Indonesia, while attending an American boarding school for missionaries. And to make matters all the more complicated, my parents weren't missionaries, much less Christians! I grew up as what most of us call third culture kid. I don't have a readily and unmistakably cultural exuberance indicative of my being Taiwanese. But neither do I have an Indonesian or American cultural radiance. But if you don't know me, you'll automatically assume that I'm Chinese. Until I open my mouth, because I have a hint of a weird accent that is not identifiable.

Not only is my background a big middle-of-nothing-ness, so is my personality. I know extremely well all things technology, especially computers and the likes. I was the ace programmer in all my programming classes in college, and I'm very good at what I do for a living. In a sense, I'm a super Geek, based purely on my knowledge, skill set and career. But if you were to meet me for the first time, or tenth for that matter, you'll never hear me bring up the question, "Have you heard that AMD announced the first ever triple core chips that can do this and that?" Things like that do not interest me. I'm simply analytical, comprehensive, and smart. And all I do is apply those into a job that I don't exactly love, other than treating it as a means to an end.

Many people who come across me will always think that I'm slightly off. And to an extent, I am kind of weird. Yes, I do march to the beat of a different tune in life. I used to be really funny and be the class clown, and once in a while, that side of me shows up in my adult life. But for the most part, I've become a very serious person, especially at client sites. But then, once in a while, my clownish side will mysteriously pop up in client settings. Instead of being the 29 year old professional, I would become a crazy 15 year old. And of course, this typically will have dire consequences, such as creating the permanent image for my client that I'm just a goof who went too far.

So as I sit on this flight back to Chicago, I've been doing some thinking. Why did I become a technical person? Why didn't I go into acting? I sometimes think my life would be better suited to being a comedian. I have never gotten to work at eight or nine sharp with any regularity. My personality is better suited to being a starving actor with multiple side jobs. I think I would be way happier that way, instead of being tied to the constraints of corporate America.

I'm 29 now, nearly hitting 30 in a few short months. A quick look back through my last six years and some months revealed good times and bad. Despite all that, they were mostly all moments which I'm grateful for. I mean, I never had to worry about not having money to pay the rent or food. But at the same time, I'm not exactly content. Maybe I should consider a totally different career path at this juncture in life.

I don't know... Is this sense of identity loss a symptom of the 30 year life crisis?

I hope not. But as cool as it sounds to marry a wealthy girl and be done with the rat race, I know with a hundred percent certainty that I will be bored and unhappy with such arrangement.

Sometimes I wish I am more naïve and just be willful and polarized without too much thinking, instead of living a it depends kind of life. =)

Twilight Zone

Oh, other than the fact that I just had quite arguably the worst day/night at work where the "project manager" failed to coordinate and communicate, it seems like I was doomed from the beginning to be in this twilight zone.

After working 12 hours straight, I finally got things done despite said "project manager's" shortcomings. So I headed home around four in the morning. Although we are in the dead of summer, I couldn't believe that I had to turn on the heated air vents AND the butt warmers in my car! The last time my butt saw such fiery action was back in early March! Hello, it's almost August!!!

Then luck would have it, I was forced to stop by the oasis along I-90 to get gas, as the empty fuel tank indicator started blinking. It's just fate's way of tinkering with my sleepy head. Seeing how there was a McDonald's right there, I decided to swing by the drive through window after filling up.

Worn-out John: Hi there. Are you serving breakfast?
Barking Intercom: No! We're only serving breakfast right now!

Wait... What...? Hey, stop screwing with my fragile mind! I'm tired! I'm hungry! I'm sleepy! It literally froze my mind for a few seconds before I could even respond and order a McMuffin.

Dumbass!

And fate has a poor sense of humor, I tell ya!

RTFM

I have spent a considerable portion of my career writing clear and concise documentation for projects that I have completed in the past, status reports and specially commissioned reports. As I'm rather anal about my written skills, I typically don't throw together a piece of junk like so many people do. Believe me, most people in the IT field tend to enjoy doing the technical work and loathe all other aspects of it, such as documentation.

I get especially annoyed when after spending so much sweat and blood in an important document, the person for whom the report is intended for comes to me and ask a bunch of basic questions, all of which are included in the report AND in the executive summary portion as well. Or when I wrote a instruction manual on how to make use of a relatively simple product with a table of contents, someone comes up to me and asks If I want to do this and that, how do I do it? My response has always been unequivocally the same: RTMF. Or in laymen's terms, read the fucking manual. Of course, if the person is someone important or my manager, I'll actually spend the time answering him/her, while hoping I don't Freudian-slip the choice words floating concurrently in my mind about him/her.

And I've been like this forever. And it seems so funny and ironic that today, I realized that I have been the kind of person I loathe so much for quite a long time now. You see, there is this really awesome image viewing application tool that I have been using for over five years now called IrfanView. It is simply the best, with so many things you can do, and it loads images the fastest of any other image viewing applications out there. Best of all? It's free. Of course, the purpose is not intended as something like, say, Adobe Photoshop, but provides quick and easy image and file manipulations typically desired by those who take lots of pictures and want some easy way of organization.

Anyway, for the longest time, I couldn't figure out how to crop out a section of the image and still maintain a desired standard width to height ratio typically found in standard prints. The typical standard keyboard/mouse combination methods employed by many other applications didn't work in IrfanView. And to work around that, I have been using other applications to do just that, and it was a pain in the ass. But this time, since I have recently reinstalled everything on my computer, I have yet to reinstall some other applications other than the critical ones. And I need to do a special cropping with a fixed ratio. But I couldn't find the other application to install, so I was a bit irritated.

Then the unthinkable happened. I opened up IrfanView, went to the Help manual, and did a search on keyword "crop". And what do you know?!? Number two in the hit list was the instructions on how to do the common standard ratio-locked cropping. Although it may not be the same procedure as other applications, it is quite intuitively simple. This feature has been there all this time, yet I have never used it for years. Or simply put, never bothered to spend 30 seconds to look up how.

Then I shook my head in disgust and whispered to myself, "Read the fucking manual; read the fucking manual."

Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix

Have you seen the new Harry Potter film? I have. It was pretty decent, except for the fact that I had no idea about who all were, except for the obvious three stars. Having not read any of the books, I have throughout the entire anthology of the Harry Potter misjudged who the antagonist was, until it was revealed way later.

At one point, and I don't remember which year, I honestly thought that Professor Severus Snape was a bad guy. After all, he looks pretty menacing, especially when he is a tough teacher who was not kind and constantly suspiciously looking. And I've always thought Draco Malfoy was an important antagonist, causing bewilderment on my part as to why he was still a Hogswart student. Now I understand he is just a pain in the ass at school.

All this time, I never really realized that Lord Voldemort is the big, bad evil guy in the whole thing. And I just learned exactly what the hell a Dementor is! I think... And all this time, I had no idea that Patronus is some kind of an all-powerful magic, or charm. I thought it was the Hogwart's version of the Patron vodka. But can someone please explain what the hell are Muggles and Death Eaters? My friend Sabine talks about Harry Potter as if I should already know what these or who they are.

Oh, and one final thought. Was it just me, or did anybody else notice lots of similarities of cinematography or dialogue or situation between this and many other popular movies? Not sure what I'm talking about? Let me elaborate:

ONE: Doesn't the opening scene with the dark clouds coming over remind you of that Psycho Tom's movie, War of the Worlds?

TWO: When Harry Potter was rescued by Advance Guards from Privet Drive, they all got onto their magical brooms and started flying. Didn't that scene look reminiscent of the opening sequence of the original Walt Disney's Peter Pan?

TWOpointB: Why do magical brooms make sounds akin to turbocharged, fossil fueled engines? You'd think magical brooms would be quiet like the stealth planes, instead of loud, crude engines that go vrrrooommm.

THREE: When Harry was roaming about in the headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix, he happened upon a little housekeeper. As soon as I saw that little hunched fella, I immediately thought of the little scary looking fella who always say, "My Precious" in the Lord of the Ring movies.

FOUR: Seriously... For those of us who are older, did Rubeus Hagrid's "big" half brother strike a similar resemblance to Alfred E Neuman from MAD? Honestly! Just take a look!

FIVE: Were you just like me, when during the climax (hee hee, I love the word climax) of the whole movie, did the whole mind thing between Potter and the Dark Lord remind you of Star Wars theme?

SEVENminusONE: I thought a franchise as popular and profitable as Harry Potter would not need to depend on product placements. But did anybody else notice in one scene in the mess hall or cafeteria a box of cereal called Cherri Owls, with colors that are strikingly similar to that of Honey Nut Cheerios?

Yeah, call me weird... I may not understand the big picture of the story and lack the skills to follow who is who, but I notice silly little shits like the things I've mentioned above. Sheesh...

What Not To Do When You Have To Work At 21:00 On Friday

Knowing that I have to work on Friday night, I decided to sleep in and go to the I B M office at 13:00 for my client’s conference call. Although it was supposed to last an hour, I didn’t even leave the I B M office till 17:45. And the worst part about it? Despite the fact that I have created a calendar marking all the dates for which all the servers I was supposed to work on as well as created a spreadsheet inventorying all said servers along with their dates, someone dropped the ball and forgot to get the final approval in for an activity that was scheduled for this coming Monday since June 15! Despite sending out email after email, as well as the said documentation, someone on the client side dropped the ball. As a result, the activity is now postponed.

I was so frustrated by this lack of dedication on the client part, that I wanted to scream at the office. I’d be lying if I wasn’t banging on the desk during the call, smashing my head on the table, and muting the telephone just so I can get out of the chair and start jumping up and down while pulling my hair. I even went as far as slamming shut the screen of my laptop so hard that I had to check and make sure that nothing broke. Aarrgghh!!!

After hanging up the phone, I wrote a politically-correct way of expressing my frustration. I have learned early on in my career that in order to get what you want, or to express your frustration without putting people in a defensive mode, you simply have to play with words. I hate to say this, but I’m really good at it, even though in real life when it comes to interacting with my personal relationships, I’m not a bull-shitter. I say it just as it is. Anyway, this is the email I sent out:

Guys, what can I do to ensure things like this don't happen again? I have created the spreadsheet with the dates discussed from the 06/15 meeting we all had with [client manager], as well as created the calendar indicating which servers had been approved/agreed to and which ones are still needing approval with several icons/markers, and continually updating them and sending them out. The spreadsheet has buttons that will let you sort by proposed dates so we can see what's coming and pressing. I have also sent out emails with a summary of upcoming servers for the week that are in question, as well as discussing them during the Wednesday status meeting. If there is anything I can do to help you out and make this more streamlined and helpful, please do let me know. If the documents I've created and sent out are not meeting your needs, please please do not hesitate to let me know what I can do to improve them. I'll do my best to enable all of us to see this project through completion with as much ease as possible.

Of course, anybody who knows how to play corporate politics will see through the smoke that this is extreme frustration in disguise. I was so pissed that after doing all the project management work for the project manager, shit are still not getting in order. So in my need to let steam off, I called up Rosa, Sabine and Cesar. The plan? Go to Rivers Bar and Grill by the River at the Mercantile Exchange, and drink our frustrations away. After all, Sabine had a shitty day at work as well.

We all convened around 18:00, and began relaxing. The first round? I had a Miller Lite, while the others had a Screw Driver. The second round? We all had the 24-ounce Fat Tyre beer, save for Rosa who can’t drink beer. Another glass of Screw Driver for her. The third round? Another round of said Fat Tyre except for Rosa, who I suspect is a super light weight. By the time we downed our drinks and food, it was already 20:15.

Nothing wrong, right? Except I still had to go home, get in my car, and drive to Schaumburg, which is a cool hour away and work at 21:00! Remember that I had to work overnight, thus the sleeping in? Yeah...

Kids, here are the two things you shouldn’t do if you are pressing for time and have to go to work.

ONE: Try not to have a massive “happy” hour immediately before you have to go to work. And if you absolutely must have “happy” hour to release the pressures of work, don’t go for three rounds of drinks in a matter of two hours.

TWO: If you know a few days ago that you have to work overnight on Friday, fill up the tank before waiting till the hour when you are leaving for work. On Wednesday after work, although my tank was running low with the empty indicator light turned on, I decided to postpone filling up my tank till the day I go to work. So naturally, while on my way to work tonight, I was getting really nervous. Not only was I really, really late, I was tempting the devil much like Kramer did when he took the used car out for a test drive, checking to see how far they can go with the empty indicator light being on.

By the time I got to my favorite, and pseudo-closest, gas station, this is what it looked like on my instrument panel (note the needle on the gas gauge):


So kids, take my two lessons and file them in your little head for future reference. Lucky me, I’m not fired (yet), and I didn’t get stranded on I-94 without a portable gas tank in my vehicle. =)

Update (2007.06.25): Thank you to those of you who felt concerned about my well-being. Apparently my statement on lesson number one was concerning some of you. And I admit I did not elaborate as much when I wrote this entry, and due to readers' concerns, I have to clarify a few things.
1) I wasn't drunk after the happy hour, despite the fact it was 3 drinks in a little over 2 hours.
2) I cheated. I actually gave half a bottle of my last beer to Cesar at the tail end, because I knew I had to go to work.
3) After the whole happy hour thing, I did have to walk to the Metra station, wait for the train, ride the train, walk a while to find my friend's car, catch a ride from her who supposedly parked near(?) the Metra, etc before I myself got into my car and drove to work.

The whole point of lesson number one was not about how one should not get smashed immediately before leaving for work, although that is actually good advice for anybody. In my context, it was more about having a longer-than-planned happy hour till 45 minutes before having to be at work, when you know it will take you about an hour to drive there, and another half hour to get to your car at the very least.

In any case, I really appreciate your concerns.

Damn Neighbor!

The good always comes with the bad, as I’ve been told many times before. And in this present situation, it is no more different than two peas in a pod. One of the benefits of living in a high rise condominium is that you don’t have to do awful and menial tasks such as lawn mowing. Unfortunately, one of the downfalls, which I can count beyond my fingers and toes can keep count, is that you have to share about fourteen washers and fourteen dryers with over 300 owners/renters. And on any given Sunday afternoon, the laundry room at my high rise building can be easily mistaken for an all out bake sale. Yeah, that’s how busy it can be.

Unfortunately for my neighbors, and myself included for waiting this long to do all my laundry, I had six loads to do in the afternoon. And since we have a first come, first serve policy, I grabbed six washers the second I got to the laundry room. One for the technical clothing (cold wash, gentle cycle, very light on the detergent); one for the undies, socks, undershirts and towels (warm wash); one for the duvet cover alone, as it is one humongous piece of fabric; one for the bed sheets and cover; one for the pillow cases, both the functional ones as well as the fancy ones that I never really sleep on; and one for the shower curtain, bathroom rug, and other miscellaneous crap.

For some odd reason, I left a pillowcase upstairs in my unit, as well as the detergent. Duh! So up I went to retrieve said items, and back down I went to start all my washers. Just then, an athletic neighbor was loading her laundry onto the remaining two free washers, with one load to spare. I paused briefly and wondered if I should feel guilty for “hogging” up six of the fourteen washers. A second later, I shook my head and went on with my business without remorse. After all, it was first come, first serve.

Since dryers take longer to complete than washers, it is inevitable that whenever the laundry room is busy around the clock, people eventually will have to wait for some dryers to free up for a good fifteen minutes or so. Some people camp out in the hot and musty room with magazines or portable DVD players. But me? I set the alarm on my cell phone exactly five minutes before the end of my first load’s completion. And seeing that I kicked off all my washers about two minutes before said girl, I thought I had a good chance of grabbing the first available (if any) dryer I see.

Predictably, the girl was down there the same time I was when it was time to transition from washer to dryer. But since these are front loading washers, the doors stay locked until their cycles are complete. With just two minutes to go, I was eyeing some rare, empty dryers. I caught my neighbor looking at me, then frantically scoping out dryers for herself. Then I glanced at her washers; four minutes left. Yeah, I get to be a hog again! But apparently, this girl was smart, because not only did she remove someone else’s laundry from the dryer which had completed its cycle but not yet completely dry, she actually slid in her smartcard and activated the just emptied dryer. All without her laundry! Damn!!! I briefly thought, “Isn’t there a policy against squatting?” But I quickly realized that it didn’t matter, as some old lady took her dried laundry out from two other dryers. Perfect number for me!

As I loaded my loads of wet laundry to the dryers, I kept count. Then I suddenly realized that I was missing all my pillowcases! It turned out that I had forgotten to even start the washer, much less pour in the detergent in the proper spout. Damn!!! Now I am definitely a horrible neighbor for squatting unnecessarily for the last 42 minutes. And now my laundry chore suddenly lengthened itself another hour. All because of a washer I forgot to keep count of.

After several trips on the steamy elevators, I finally began to take out and fold my dried laundry. Seeing that the girl was quite on top of her time on the whole process as well, she was busy herself nearly mimicking my activities. Thinking about what she had done earlier of removing other people’s damp laundry from an expired dryer, I wondered why she didn’t just reach into this one particular dryer that had been sitting idle for a while, especially when she still had a wet load to do. But I didn’t care so much, and we did our thing barely speaking a word to each other.

Finally she put in her final wet load into the dryer she had previously used, and left. And then I started thinking, “Well, that was weird that she didn’t just do what she did to obtain her first dryer almost an hour ago. Regardless, what an ass hole of a neighbor to just leave their clothes in there without coming down to retrieve it for such a long time. Ass hole!” I couldn’t believe I was actually being sympathetic to this girl who I had been competing for washers and dryers earlier on.

As I finished folding all my stuff, I looked back at that one dryer with clothes in there. Then I thought to myself about how inconsiderate some people can be, never mind the fact that I was inconsiderate myself with hogging so many washers. But I justified my actions as within policy, whereas leaving your damn clothes in the dryer without so much as coming downstairs to retrieve it was more of an ass hole-y thing to do. As I was musing about all these thoughts, something caught my eye. Hmm... That’s interesting. This person has a few yellow shirts. Wow! And this guy wears boxer briefs too! And look! Nike socks as well!

Then I froze. A sense of stupidity overwhelmed me.

That ass hole was me!

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...

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!

Randy's Dream

If you have never seen My Name is Earl, poor you. Why bother with your existence? ;-) Just kidding. It's a good show, but not good enough for making it a prerequisite for everyone in order to breathe the precious air on this planet.

Last night I watched the newest episode of My Name is Earl, and Randy brought up a good point during the opening scene. He was dreaming that he was having a hard time falling asleep, and he tried to fall asleep in his dream, but the problem is that he was already asleep really. It totally knocked the socks off of me! Have you ever had something similar happen to you? This kind of dream happens to me all the time!

The most common dream I have like Randy's has always been the opposite. And it always occurs at the tail end of my sleep, as opposed to the start or midst of it. Every time the alarm goes off in the morning, I would hit the snooze button on my alarm clock several times, until the fourth and final one. And sometimes, after hitting snooze for the final time, I would have this vivid dream where I actually got up and prepared for the day.

There had been a couple times where it was so wickedly real that I would totally sleep through the day. When that happens, I would actually dream of shaving, jumping in the shower, lathering up my face, and eating breakfast. The dream would be so detailed, even down to switching radio stations in my car while driving to work! Only has my dream once gone so long as having me getting to work, where I began tackling actual tasks.

Then I would suddenly wake up to my cell phone vibrating next to me, with some angry manager barking into the earpiece. Nothing will wake me up faster than the irritated voice of my manager or a client. If the public addressing system had gone off even with the voice of a hot chick or the barking of a army sergeant warning of imminent danger, I wouldn't have been able to wake up to save my own life. Strange, huh?

Of course, whenever I sleep in that late by accident, my mind has been sharp and quick enough to come up with a convincing, excusable reason. Never have I been inclined to tell the truth, like, "Uhm, I'm so sorry! I got totally wasted last night when I celebrated my buddy's unexpected pay raise." But now that I'm getting a bit older, I've begun worrying about my mind's sharp acuity. What if I totally slip? What if I tell the honest truth while slurring in my half-sleep? I think that would suck.

But for now, I suppose I'll just have to deal with it when I cross the bridge. Till then, I'll take my chances in being sharp.

Feet Up!!!

If you are one of those people who subscribe to the notion of a slightly (or much more) powerful being, like say, God perhaps, then you might also be one of those people who might proclaim, after walking in my shoes the last two days, "God! Why have you forsaken me? Do you hate me?"

Of course, I'm not making such a claim, but more like hypothetically speaking for you. If you were me, that is. Or something like it. My last two days have been filled with so much horridness that I don't even know where to begin. I suppose I can start with Tuesday morning.

Like any other normal Tuesday morning, I woke up and stepped into the shower so I could get dressed for breakfast and then work. Nothing unusual happened during probably the first half hour, which was good. As I dried myself off after stepping out of the shower, I said that it was going to be a glorious day out loud, as if my girlfriend of numerous months was there in the bathroom with me, prettying herself up in front of the vanity mirror.

I quickly realized that I was being silly for talking to no other but myself. I've never been known to talk to myself out loud, so I kind of chuckled at that. But it was such a beautiful day, I thought. I even hummed to tune of Time of the Season by the Zombies, which by the way, is a totally awesome oldie. [Yes, I listen to the oldies once in a while. Get used to it!] In my cheery mood, I walked out of the bathroom in my glorious birthday suit so I could air dry certain crevices in my body.* I bent down to pick up the fresh and crisp newspaper from under the front door of my hotel room, all excited to see what developments may come of that jackass Don Imus.

As I unfolded the crisp newspaper and slowly walked into the bedroom, I breathed in deeply so I could smell the freshly pressed ink from the paper mill while scanning quickly over the headlines. And then, BAM! I felt a sort of a sharp pain on my torso. What the hell?!? It turned out that I somehow managed to give myself a paper cut on my right nipple!!! I looked closely and gently rubbed my right headlight. Ouch. Who would've thought that something as soft as a newspaper can be so sharp along the inside corner where they are folded? Damn!

Nevertheless, I wasn't going to let some silly nipple slicing ruin my day. So I went about my business of getting dressed. Then something else began to bother me. No, not my nipple. I had an excruciating pain that was unexplainable as far as reasons go. At first the pain would come every ten minutes or so, while lasting slightly less than a second each time it came. And in between episodes of pain, I was fine and dandy. But I thought maybe it'll go away on its own. After all, I've had similar experiences like this about five other times in my life.

Ouch! As the day wore on, I realized I was actually saying ouch out loud every so many minutes. And then sometimes, my whole body would flinch in synchronization. No worries, I thought, even though I was now getting into uncharted territory, unlike the previous five experiences. Slowly later, I realized that whenever I had an episode while walking, sometimes my vision would get blurry and I would lose balance.

Shit! This is not good! But I debated whether it was bad enough to merit a declaration of health emergency.

Then around 14:30 Pacific Time, another first came. I was frequently getting these episodes twice in a row within two seconds! Holy molly! I decided that this wasn't funny anymore, so I quickly sent out an email to all pertinent managers that I had to leave. I rushed to the closest hospital in Hollywood, which was the Cedars-Sinai.

At 21:00, I finally left the Emergency Department. Unfortunately, the bouts of pain were still there, with no diagnosis. I was asked to follow up with more tests by specialists as soon as possible in the next few days, as all the machines at the ED's dispose came up negative to explain what I was hurting from. So off I went... I hoped none of the bouts I was going to experience while driving from the hospital would be bad enough that would cause me to lose control of my car. I know, scary, huh? Good thing nothing horrible happened while I was operating a vehicular machinery last night while driving back to the hotel.**

I woke up today hoping that the glass of Merlot and plateful of Tiramisu I had as part of my healthy [wink, wink] Italian dinner the night prior would have cured the ailment that has so eluded modern medical devices and a seasoned emergency doctor. I stared blankly at the ceiling, wondering if over the next few minutes I would have another bout of the debilitating pain. It started out fine, until I thought maybe the worst was over. Bam! I whimpered a little. Sigh...

As it had been a long day and night yesterday, I chose not to get showered when I got back to the hotel. I usually do so after visiting the hospital, which is one of the ickiest places in my opinion. For crying out loud, as I waited in my emergency room during dinner hours, I could not even muster up the will to open the pack of Rice Krispies® I had gotten from the vending machine seconds before triage called out my name and escorted me into the heavily guarded fortress where all the pretty nurses and coffee-laden doctors mingled. That's how much of a germaphobe I am. But I was too tired to even get in the shower last night.

So as I stumbled into the shower this morning, I turned on the shower after opening the floodgates of my bladder. Seconds went by. Seconds turned into minutes. Wait a minute! Why am I standing naked next to the shower for so long? The water didn't warm up a bit. Ugh! A quick telephone call downstairs revealed that there had been a problem with the water heater, but that it was fixed and would take about fifteen minutes for it to get warm and reach all the way up to the twenty-second floor. Double ugh! And I was sure as hell not going to work smelling like dead people, which I was convinced I brought that deathly smell back from the hospital the night before. So I decided to go eat breakfast while looking like a total scrub and hair that was as wild as a wild bush.

After dealing with yet even more kids than any previous day, I was a little bit annoyed. I couldn't help swearing in my mind a little bit at the chubby little girl who had cut me off at the Danish line just so she could stick her dirty little hands into the basket, totally bypassing the humongous pastry thong lying right in front of her like a rather obvious third nipple staring right back at you when you first undressed the girl of your dreams. And she grabbed three cinnamon rolls, all the while touching the last croissant in the basket, which so happened to be the one I wanted. Damn! "Now I have to resort to the bagel," I thought.

Then later on, when I went back up to get a plateful of fresh cut fruits, the same girl happened to be at the line as well. As I stood behind her, I heard mumble in a poor, sad voice: "Aww, they're out of the cinnamon rolls..." She promptly returned to her table with something else. I spoke to her in my inner voice, "Thank goodness they're out, because I don't think your huge rolls could handle another cinnamon roll!" God bless her heart; she was probably thirteen years of age, and probably still innocent and not so self-conscious of her weight and body image. I gave her kudos for that.

Anyway, after returning back to my room, I ran the shower yet again. Oh no! It was still cold! After a few minutes, I finally resorted to just washing my face, suck it all up, and just go to work feeling all icky with the smell of death looming all over me. I prayed to God that I wouldn't get hit by a train in the middle Los Angeles. Not that there are any trains to be seen running about Los Angeles like it is known for. But just as I was about done with rinsing off the last bit of the lather from my facial scrub, I felt the water get warm. Hooray!!! I could shower!!! But it was already nine in the morning. Ah, what the hell! I may be late for work, but by golly I'm going to smell fresh like a baby's pampered butt freshly cleaned and powdered!

Although my pain was still jibbing and jabbing all day long, I thought the worst has passed. But no, no, no! The deity that is sitting up in the heavens sure is a funny guy, if not funny looking. You know how much I hate the restrooms at work, in particular this very client site that I'm at? Well, unfortunately, my body was simply not having any of my strict instructions to hold out till I get off work before dropping the kids off at the pool in the comfort of my own plush hotel. So off I went...

Three stalls. The closest one to the exit was occupied, leaving me with just the middle stall and the one designated for the handicapped. Being the nice person that I am, I went to the middle one. After meticulously cleaning the toilet seat and laying down two entire rolls of toilet paper on it just so my bare smooth ass skin wouldn't touch any part of the nasty toilet seat, I finally unbuckled my belt and removed my slacks and shorts. Never have I ever felt so exposed and insecure, but whatever. I had some bratty kids to drop off at the pool anyway.

As I sat there, not even a minute had past my own private nirvana, I heard the door slam open and a set of rushed feet running into the handicapped stall. I thought, "My goodness, this guy really had to go!" Before long, I thought I heard the all wind instrument orchestra come alive, as if I was right at the Hollywood Bowl right by my hotel. But I realized that I was still in the bathroom, somewhat far away from the orchestra pit. Then the stench floated about, followed by what I could only imagine as his carpet-bombing his entire porcelain throne! And he had a lot of spraying going on, which almost made me gag.

Just as he had quickly entered the restroom, he quickly wrapped up his business to much of my pleasure. Then he flushed the toilet. At first, I thought I heard someone out at the sink had spilled his drink, as the bathroom was echoic, and thought it strange. Then the very same feet hurriedly rushed out of his stall and shook the thin walls separating us while he slammed his stall door open. Bizarre, I thought.

Since all this had happened just within a couple minutes of my planting down my ass, I had not really had the chance to really get in the motion of doing my business. Then perchance I looked down between my feet while resting on my own porcelain throne, on top of inches of padding made from toilet paper. I yelled out a hushed "fuck!" as I realized what that splashing sound truly was. Tainted water was slowly flowing under me from the stall next door! The jerk that came and left in a blitz had clogged up his toilet! And now that I was in full swing of my own business, I was so unable to retreat and get the hell out of there!

As the puddle grew bigger and inched closer to my shoes, I slowly inched my feet backwards. And I did so until I my feet was spread far apart and behind me as if I was straddling a horse for dear life, all the while ensuring none of my skin and slacks touch the side of the toilet. Asshole!, I muttered. Couldn't he at least have given me a "heads up" warning, or rather something closer to perhaps "feet up"?!? Nosireebob! He had to let the slow moving water do the shocker for me, which was totally late like "warning" a girl after he had came inside her instead of before!***

Fortunately, the puddle didn't inch towards me past the initial five inches of advancement in my direction. It continued flowing past me to the stall to the other side of me. As that guy had been there for a while and reading his newspaper, he quickly packed up and hit the road as soon as the river reached him. Great! Now he thinks I'm the one who overflowed the toilet!

As I sat there, all helpless because I didn't want my shoes to touch the tainted water with floaties, I thought to myself, "My God, what have I done to deserve such a cruel hardship?!?" Like an acrobat, I had to precariously wipe my ass without losing balance, and all the more carefully to pull my shorts and slacks up without touching the toilet. After all was said and done, my legs felt like I had just ran a marathon.



God, I hope tomorrow is a better day!


* I was talking about my elbows. What the hell did you think I meant? Sicko!

** Sorry if I chose not to divulge any details of my medical condition. In this regard, patient privacy is paramount for yours truly.

*** Boys and girls, this was used as a reference of sarcasm to make the story funny. Pulling out is never a viable safe sex practice. Always use condoms if you absolutely must have premarital sex! ;-)

Masturbation with Splinters in My Palm

This is the eighth night in a row for being in the City of Angels. It has been a tough time at work that I did not have a chance to do much personally as far as writing anything interesting. But I have had some random experiences over the course of the time I've spent here so far, that instead of writing real shortly of each individual random thought, I've decided to spend some time on Monday evening to just lump it all together.

Call this the summation of random crap from over the last few days, if you will. =)

But where the hell do I start? I guess I can start with my flight to Los Angeles from Chicago, where I last left off over a week ago.

While I was experiencing the other kind of the mile high club, I got to enjoy a pleasant view that is the Grand Canyon. See exhibit to the left. Yeah, the one with the Tonka Honk of a jet engine smack in the midst of a scenic shot. In the many years I have done the transcontinental flight between the west and east coast, I have been blessed to see beautiful marvel from miles high in the sky. But not once have I gone and seen it on the ground. Each time I fly over the Grand Canyon, I told myself that I should go out there on a vacation that summer. And each summer came and went without a trip to the Grand Canyon. Maybe this summer...

This time around, instead of staying at a hotel in Beverly Hills, I chose to stay at the posh Hilton Towers at Universal City. Only because this time around I actually had some lead time to book myself at this hotel before it got sold out. This Hilton is especially nice, because with my Diamond status, not only do I get to enjoy staying at the Executive Floor, I get automatically upgraded to a corner room with a killer view. I have access to the Executive Lounge that serves complimentary breakfast in the morning and hors d'oeuvres and drinks in the evening. On top of that, I also get a fruit basket in my room every other day. How sweet is that?

But don't let such nice comforts and luxury fool you. There are certain some things amiss here. Late last week, I have been feeling a bit of a pain in my right shoulder, especially when I twist my right arm in a certain way. I couldn't figure out what caused it for the life of me! Thinking it was the bed as I usually sleep on my side, I began sleeping on my left side and give my right shoulder a break from the crushing pounds that I have been packing on.

Unfortunately, my attempt to alleviate my pain only exacerbated the situation, it seemed. What the hell?!? Then I had an epiphany one morning. I was reading my fresh, crisp newspaper on the toilet, and everything was honky dory till I reached to the side to get a piece of toilet paper for some body maintenance. OUCH!!! There it was, the pain came rushing back on my right shoulder. The epiphany? It was the freaking interior design of the bathroom! Take a look at the layout! The roll of toilet paper was installed so far behind and so close to you that you have to have dexterity of an acrobat to safely maneuver the retrieval of those precious two-ply ass-wipes! Holy mother of God! Of course once I realized that, I have been more careful during every morning ritual, and what do you know? My shoulder pain has been subsiding significantly!

But that wasn't the only negative thing about this hotel though. Because we are in the middle of Universal Studio's City Walk, this hotel is full of freaking tourists. And given that it is Spring Break, the hotel is jam packed with families and their loud, annoying, and bratty kids. Each morning, kids would cut me off while getting some fresh fruit, only to watch the kid touch the fresh fruits with their snotty, germ infested hands. Ugh!

And worst of all, at any given night, I could hear one of my many neighbors screwing his wife, girlfriend or mistress's brain out like it was the fuck of the century. Seriously, I've been with girls who know how to moan semi-quietly, but do they feel the need to unleash the cougar just because they are in public, miles away from home? And to make matters worse, after five minutes of their mind-blowing sex, I would enter what I call the calm in the eye of a storm. Because before I could finally get some peace and quiet, their shower would come on seconds after the last and only audible grunt from the dude. C'mon! I'm trying to sleep here! If this was the designated smoking floor, I'd imagine that I could have fallen asleep while they pulled a couple drags on their Marlboro fags for a few minutes after bursting the joy fountain in the honey pot. But too bad I have asthma... And some serious blue balls to go with my insomnia as I lie awake at one in the morning with nobody by my side.

But not all is bad. Did I mention I have a killer view? Right now I'm enjoying the scenic view of the hilly Hollywood Hills, where a few celebrities live. It's strange though, that I have not run into a single celebrity while running around Lake Hollywood, as the Runner's World magazine have previously reported as a possibility on any given day. The closest excitement I had was a sighting of Bambi. Baby deer in Los Angeles? That's like finding a girl in the midst of an all-boys high school!

I have previously mentioned here and there how much I dislike Los Angeles. Well, nothing has happened to compel me to change my mind. But I did have some interesting experiences that I thought were funny, given my open mind. At the client building where I work, there are an unusual number of Indians and Chinese employees. White people is a rarity here. Their number is so great in number that you would think I would fit right in as a majority. Yet, I felt like a minority, given my background and how I was raised. That really didn't bother me much though, because something else really did bother me...

Judging from their lackluster verbal English skills, I was tempted to think that these are fresh workers embarking on their new journey in the land of new opportunities. And as such, I suspected that they have yet to realize some common American etiquette. For example, when you are walking down a narrow aisle and someone is walking towards you, it is common courtesy to follow the common traffic law: move to your right. But nope, they don't even do that. They move to their left, forcing you to stop in front of them and engaging in what I'd like to call synchronized randomness. I move to my side, and he does the same, so we can't walk past each other. Then we would move to the other side together, again blocking each other. It's not that we gave it much forethought into seeing how much time we can waste of each other in the hallway, but synchronized randomness is quite irritating. I have found that the best solution to synchronized randomness is to just stand still to your right like a statue and stare blankly ahead. Force the other party to look at you, and walk around you. It worked like a charm each and every time.

And another thing about these fresh migrant workers is the fact that the male enjoys doing something that really bothers me. When I'm peeing at the urinal, the guy next to me would always lean over and look at my package over the partition. It has not occurred just once, or merely twice, but almost every single time I go to the restroom to visit the waterfall. [God forbid should I have to drop the kids off at the pool at those nasty restrooms at work.] I mean, what is up with that? With the white people in the Midwest, the most they would do is turn their head and look at your face and say, "What's going on." No leaning over. No looking down at my other leg. I really, really can't get used to that. I mean, it might have been comical if he added, "Nice package," after the lean-and-look, but nosireebob! They just turn back and continue with their business! I've been tempted to return the favor just so I can force them into a stage fright like they did me, but I'm not curious enough to see what their hairy crotch looks like.

But being in a place where Asians reign supreme in mere numbers is kind of good. You know how stadiums or cafeterias or areas of mass gathering tend to be named after white people like Hammons, Hancock, or Jackson? Well, here in Los Angeles where Asians overrun the city like a bunch of cockroaches, I was ecstatic to find the cafeteria where I eat daily named after my very own last name! The Ho Cafeteria! If that doesn't set a Chinese, even a half-baked one like yours truly, with a sense of ethnic pride, I don't know what will. You definitely don't see that often in Chicago, excluding places in Chinatown. Sweet!

Now, being at the hotel where tourists from all over visit, I also get to observe something funny that reminded me of my very own F.O.B. moments when I landed in the great U S of A many years ago. One morning I saw an Indian teenager grab a croissant, flip the entire thing over, and started spreading butter and jelly on the bottom and ate it like that without slicing it open. Then there was this Chinese guy who got a big plowl (combination of a plate and a bowl), filled it with slices of melon, cantaloupe, watermelon and grapes, and proceeded to fill it up with milk like he was eating cereal. Whoa! I wanted to say something to help these poor souls, but I feared my offer to provide advice would be viewed as discriminatory, as it may very well be that people from where they came from ate their croissants and fresh fruits just like so. And I remembered the first time I encountered a public water fountain: I thought it was there to wash my face and hands, until I noticed a bratty, white kid drinking out of the shorter water fountain next to mine. A quick look around to see if anybody else noticed me, I shot back a glare at that kid that sent him scurrying off crying. That was the beginning of my years-long lesson of "In Rome, Do What Romans Do."

Now that we're back to my hotel, I should probably add at this juncture that no matter how nice this Hilton hotel is, I got to witness firsthand what funny thing can happen when you have housekeeping staffed with migrant workers. Don't get me wrong, I'm not a racist. If they can work here legally, I'm all for it by all means, as I myself am a migrant worker. But language can be a bitch when communicating with migrant workers.

One evening after returning from work, I noticed that they did not replenish a certain item in the bathroom. Namely, a pack of Q-tips, cotton wipes and the likes. The label on this pack read: Vanity Kit. So I promptly called down to Housekeeping and requested for a Vanity Kit. Then I waited, and waited. Then I got a follow-up call from Housekeeping asking if I received what I had requested. "No, nobody has come up here with anything yet." Then she asked what it was that I wanted. Again, I repeated, "the Vanity Kit." She was confused, so I elaborated: "The box that includes Q-tips and cotton wipes for makeup removal." She sounded even more confused. So I finally said, "I just need some Q-tips. Will you please send me just some Q-tips?" She responded with a Sure!

About half an hour later, I heard a knock on my door. When I answered the door, I was greeted with someone from Housekeeping with a rather large bag. I wondered, "Did they just go and buy me a 2,000 count pack of Q-tips from Costco?!?" I accepted it and said a quick thank-you. Curiosity got the best of me, so like a little girl overjoyed by the return of her mother bearing gifts in a snack pack from the Russian tea room, I rushed over to my bed to empty out the entire bag. Holy shit! They got me two tubes of toothpaste, two packs of shaving kit, two disposable toothbrushes, two combs, two bottles of hair conditioner, two bottles of mouthwash, two packs of moisturizing soap, and four bottles of lotion. But no Q-tips. I promptly stuck my hand in the bag and made sure that the Q-tips weren't glued down to the inside. No luck. I was fuming, and eager to call down to Housekeeping. But I chose to see the funny side of this idiocy. Who the hell sends up bottles of conditioner without shampoo?!?

The phone rang again. It probably was Housekeeping, asking to see if I have received what I requested. Instead of answering, I chose to remain in a good mood, bewildered with amazement at the assortment of crap they sent up without what I needed. It so reminded me of Alanis Morissette's Ironic song, where part of the lyrics went like so: It's like ten thousand spoons when all you need is a knife. Sigh, that's the story of my life. Immortalized by songs written and sung by male-bashing female singers.

Of course, all the randomness in the past eight nights doesn't just end there. But seeing that this has turned into a lengthy four page mini novel, I best try to conclude this random mumblings.

So on Saturday, I had some legendary buffet for dinner with my sister, her husband and a friend here at the Hilton. They had everything, from snow crab legs to raw oysters to split lobsters to prime ribs to shark fin soup to caviar to sushi to Italian pasta to Chinese food to chocolate fondue to endless kinds of dessert. All for just fifty dollars a person. They also had many other stuff which I thought was a waste of my precious tummy space, so I didn't bother remembering what they were. I just had to try this buffet out, only because everybody talks about it whenever I bring up the fact that I was staying at the Hilton Towers at Universal Studios. And it didn't help that I walk by it almost every evening when I return from work.

This is where I ran into trouble. I was easily jaded by the prettiest disposable chopsticks I have ever seen when I went for buffet round number three, which was my sushi trip. The first thing a typical Chinese person would do before utilizing disposable chopsticks was to rub them together to get the loose wood off. But because they were of high quality with beautiful etchings much like those found on reusable plastic ones, I quickly thought that such nice disposable chopsticks that cost more than a happy meal at McDonald's probably won't have any loose wood.

Boy, was I so wrong. I had to find out on Sunday morning when I grabbed the stick shift in my car while driving that in addition to the pain in my right shoulder, I was experiencing random pangs of pain on my right palm! I found out later that I had seven splinters! I was able to get two out with my bare fingers, but seeing how I brought with me the plastic case for my tweezers and conveniently left the actual tweezers at home, I guess just have to survive till Friday when I return to Chicago so I can get the remaining splinters out, and clean up my uni-brow. I guess masturbation's out of the question for this week... ;-)

I guess I'm such a nice guy that I don't want you leaving my blog with a bad taste in your mouth, such as the last thought of "masturbation," whether it was used with poetic license without much success to make this post funny or not. So I'll leave you with a picture of the fruit basket I get every other day. Think happy thoughts. Think of newborn babies. Think of freshly laundered underwear and how fresh they smell. Think of a fruit baskets...

Is that chocolate?

Have you ever dreamed something so real, that you actually believed that every figment of your imagination was real occurrences? I sure do; plenty of time. But this weekend was kind of weird. Everything felt like a dream, except I was pretty sure that everything that passed by was real. Everything was a huge blur.

It all started with Friday evening. Instead of the ritualistic drive home, I mysteriously found myself still sitting in front of my laptop at work, pecking away. If you didn't know me, or realize the department I was sitting at, you would have thought that I was a code breaker or something, all hunched over a tiny electronic gadgetry with earphones fitted snugly into my ears.

Throughout the day, everybody treated me as if I was stricken with advanced stage cancer, ready to go off into the sunset and die the next day. Quite honestly, it was a strange feeling, for technically it wasn't my last day there. Sure, I was going to Los Angeles to their other office to lead the project there just like I had kick started the now-undergoing project at their Chicago office. "I'll be back once in a while, no worries," I'd say.

Truth be told, I wasn't quite sure. But just in case it was as certain as there are twenty-four hours in a day, I was going to wrap things up. Document everything that has been saved in my little head, and do as much as possible so that I would leave them well prepared and organized. Much like your mother did when she overstuffed your lunch box with too many snacks, various assortment of writing utensils in your school bag, on your way to first ever day of school. Not that I did it because my partner was came with some tools missing in his toolbox, but that I was heavily relied on to keep things in order. I was worried that the fruits of my labor would not ripen in my absence.

When all was done and squared away, I noticed there was light. I shot a quick look at the direction of the clock hanging off the ceiling far away. The short hand hovered near 8. Damn! And I thought I was going to leave work around midnight to join some friends at a bar. I took stock of how time passed, and I realized that I haven't had dinner, except for a couple bottles of Diet Pepsi and a half-eaten birthday cake.

Here I was, starved and tired, stumbling down to the garage so I could drive home feeling relieved. The highway was fine, but once I got off to head down local streets, all hell broke loose. Apparently there are a lot of people meandering around nine in the morning on a Saturday. Typically you would find me fast asleep still at that hour. I have never seen the world hustling and bustling on an early Saturday morning.

While I was suck behind a traffic light, my friend called. A short exchange later, I was going to meet her for breakfast. With my clothes having been worn for two days now, and my mouth tasting worse than a cat's. If I can taste the unpleasantness, I wondered how it would smell. I quickly cupped my left hand to my mouth and breathed out slowly. I almost fainted. The driver in the car next to me was amused to my random behavior. I swore she kind of laughed. Or it was quite possible her smile and laughter were the creation of my sleepy imagination, which was an attempt to make me feel good after realizing how amazingly cute she was.

Now, come to think of it, I'm not even certain if she was cute to begin with! Could it have been a man?

Anyway, breakfast was delicious. In my current state of affairs, a piece of old, dried leather would have tasted mightily fine as well. Just as long I was supplied with ground pepper and a large bottle of Tabasco sauce. I swear, Tabasco sauce makes everything taste better, despite my general distaste for vinegar, commonly used in spicy sauces produced in, and for, the United States.

I enjoyed the company, but was in a hurry to get home. After all, I felt a thin and sticky film glazing over my eyelids. With every single blink, I struggled to peel back my eye lids. So I dropped my friend off, and hurried home. The clock read 11:15, and I debated if I should just stay awake so that my sleep cycle doesn't get screwed up. Needless to say, I tore off my clothes like a young man getting ready to bed an unbelievably hot girl for the first time as soon as I stumbled into my bedroom. Unlike said young man, I fell asleep as soon as part of my torso hit the bed.

Saturday was a blur. Someone called in the midst of my deep slumber, and I vaguely remember talking on the phone, with the clock flickering 15:30. Before I knew it, I roused myself up around six in the evening, despite the fact that I was still dead tired. I think I somehow managed to tackle my biological experiment in my kitchen, which I have procrastinated again and again, for almost three weeks. As I ran hot water over a stack of dishes and bowls, a strong and interesting scent came off. Damn! I'm never letting dishes pile up for so long, I thought. Even though I have scrapped the dishes after each use before leaving it in the sink, they still managed to sprout out different kinds of fungus and mold. Each plate had a different kind. I thought to myself, this must be the Korean mold from when I ate Korean food on this plate, and that must be the Iranian brethren of similar living microbes on that plate. There were a few I couldn't quite identify, and I was quite certain I must have created a whole new bacterium.

Eww!!! I thought to myself in disgust. Then, being the always reasoning person that I am, I quickly brushed aside my recent thought and said, "You know, I could be a Nobel Laureate, for I could have somehow discovered, no, created, something that could fight off incontinence in old people. What a shame that I had to wash it all down...

Because of my insane obsession with cleanliness, it took me a couple hours to do the dishes, when normally it would have taken far shorter. Somehow, I managed to muster up the will and motivation to work on this little chore. Maybe because I would hate the idea of coming home next weekend from Los Angeles finding some giant walking spore of a mold smoking a cigarette on m couch, watching the Learning Channel on television.

The rest of the evening after my cleaning bout was rather uneventful. I watched The Chronicles of Narnia on Starz! HD before packing my suitcase and heading to bed for the second time that day. I had something to go and do on Sunday morning, as it related to the call from some stranger while I was sleeping in the afternoon earlier.

The alarms were blaring, and I hurried to get ready. I can't be late for this thing, as it was going to be my first. Besides, they were going to provide free breakfast. Nothing motivates me more than the promise of free food. Never mind the fact that I make enough money to have breakfast delivered to my doorstep through one of those gourmet food delivery companies, which I liken as the middlemen of restaurants all over Chicago and lazy consumers like myself. Even the threat of missing my flight if I had an early morning flight was no match to free food, as witnessed by the fact that I have overslept and missed my Monday morning flight maybe three or four times in my career.

While I stood there talking with the stranger who called me the day before, I apologized profusely if I sounded like I was drunk or high like a drug addict on a Saturday afternoon. Of course, my apologies were barely there, because there was free food to be had, and this guy looks like the uglier version of Edward Norton. When I moved down the aisle to inspect other foods on the table, I stared at the tray of bagels. There were two distinct kinds; one with all kinds of scary looking seeds, and another with brown dots spotting all over the culinary delights.

As I studied the second batch of bagels, a lady from behind chimed in, as if she was reading my mind: "You suppose those are chocolate chips or raisins?" I thought she was so brilliant, as I was wondering whether they were clusters of rat shit or just bad flour. Her options made it more edible than mine, that was for sure. So I picked one up, and started chatting.

When I finally got to my table and took a bite of said bagel, I almost gagged. My first instinct was to spit it out, but for one, I was starving, and second, it wouldn't have looked good for me to hurl the meshed bagel bite onto my plate in front of people I have never met before. Chocolate chip, I like. Raisins, I hate, but if they were baked into the bagel, I could learn to tolerate it. But of all the real plausible choices, it was neither, and I secretly wished I was eating a bagel full of rat shit. Of all the things a baker can make bagels with, he had to choose clusters of cinnamon!

Great! What a way to die on the plane en route to Los Angeles. This was certainly not the mile high club I had planned to join so soon.

Is There a Full Moon?

Okay. This week sucked. On Tuesday I worked till Wednesday morning at 03:30. Last night I worked till 20:30. Today? It is now 21:12, and I'm still at work. At least I'm now done with work and doing some writing, as I would imagine that I don't want to touch another computer the minute I get home. =)

So I'm working late right? The doors to the stairwell are locked. The air-conditioning units are slowly being turned off. The whole building is getting a little warmer. And the cleaning crew are out and about making noise pushing industrial-sized rolling trash bins and wearing huge vacuum cleaners strapped to their backs like a Rocketeer.

As usual, I try to be courteous to the cleaning staff. For without them, my daily morning ritual to the restroom would certainly turn unpleasant with the aroma of fresh ammonia replaced by the scent of years-old piss. When one of the crew cleans out my trash can, I'll say muchos gracias and smile. For the most part, they try to say you're welcome in some form of English. I like it when they put the effort to speak English.

I thought I have seen most of the cleaning crew here at this particular client site, but today there must be someone new. Either that, or someone I have not seen before. But in any case, he is a little, short, skinny Hispanic dude. At first glance, he seemed nice. But when he came by to pick up my trash can, I thanked him and smiled. He in return smiled.

My heart skipped a beat.

This guy, despite the impression he casts with his small frame, had regular teeth, except for his sharp, cutting molars. They were brighter and whiter than the rest of his teeth! And they were unusually longer too!

I didn't think vampires existed, but he made a very good case that they might exist. Sure, he may not have leaned over and tried to bite into the side of my neck, but the second he turned around and moved on down to the next cube, I promptly looked out the window to make sure a full moon is not in bloom!

Then it dawned on me... It is only werewolves that are affected by the moon. Doh!!!

This so totally blows...

It is now 03:55. In the morning.

I just got home. It rained. Hard. But traffic was barely existent. Nevertheless, the drive home didn’t suck any less. On the bright side, with the non-existent traffic, I didn’t see a single driver read a book while driving. Safer for me that way.

I left work at 03:10. I noticed that of all the people who dropped their cars off for the free valet, I was the one of the two who were still burning the midnight oil. I didn’t so bad. Until my mind started wondering off. Like this:

That final key that had yet to be claimed probably belonged to some hot executive or vice president. She may have some years on her, but she has learned to keep herself in great health. I would imagine her cholesterol to be below the average percentile for her age group. But she wasn’t at work. She had simply called her husband at home to tell him that it was going to be another long night. It didn’t matter much anyway, as her two kids are now in high school; pretty well-grown to be self-sufficient, sort of.

The plan was to go have drinks with this young, studly guy who reports to her. New to the company, new to the job. But he was eager to do whatever it takes to move on up on the fast track. And somehow, one thing led to another, and before long, they ended up going to a nice hotel nearby. Eventually, they had a late dinner ordered in from room service.

Meanwhile, I was still working back at the office. Dinner consisted of a cup of hot chocolate, a pack of expired Strawberry Pop Tarts with a broken safety seal, and two bags of animal crackers. Oh yeah, and two 20 ounce bottles of Diet Pepsi. {What kind of vending machine holds three fourths of the buttons for either Diet Pepsi or Pepsi, with the remaining for yet more Pepsi in a can for 25 cents cheaper? Why don’t they add one button for something like, say, water?!?} Anyway, dinner was not great, but not indulgent either. I’d say it fell within my own guidelines for this diet I’m on now. Maybe it was probably high on the sugar and low on protein and fibre. Oh well.

As I approached my car at the garage, I thought about how by now the lustful couple had finally caught their second wind after a delicious, gourmet seafood dinner and were at it again, while my tummy grumbled in the cold.

I quickly snapped out of it in an instant.

Why do I have to torture myself with such fantasies?!? The appropriate thing would have been dreaming of me being the guy with that executive!!! I’m pathetic...

Oh, Humor Me!

Having not felt like being totally adventurous, I settled for a smashing time at the hotel bar. The plan? Talk to whoever is next to me at the bar and be humored.

I've always wondered why it is human nature for people to lie. Especially men. Every time I engage in social interactions with another man, it always turn into a pissing contest. All I know is that every time I'm the loser, because I tell the honest truth about myself. But the other guy? He always got to one up you one way or another.

So I was talking to him. I kept the identity of my company hush-hush for a very long time. I let him talk up a storm, bullshitting left and right. And my favorite moment? The instance I reveal who I work for. Then all of a sudden, a little bit of humility wraps around them. Score! That's what I wanted to see.

Of course, I'm rather wasted right now. Maybe one of these days, I'll learn not to mind fuck others with honesty. Perhaps I may learn to play with people like them with outrageous lies. =)