Like the French aristocracy just before the fall, this blog has grown decadent and self-absorbed. It leaches off its former glory and offers nothing new, only pathetic self-references--such as this post--the blogging equivalent of masturbation.
Happy 2008 everybody.
I have a hate-hate relationship with my car. A hate-hate relationship is like a love-hate relationship, except we both hate each other. All the time.
Glove compartment: doesn't open.
Right front tire: no rims, kind of flat
Rear view mirror: falls off at inopportune moments
Air bags: nonexistent
CD Player: doesn't work, makes terrible grinding noises
Radio: Antenna is stuck, vibrates the car as it tries to extend, like an earthworm wriggling toward the surface during a storm.
All this is to say nothing of the alignment and suspension. To tell the truth, I don't really know what "alignment" and "suspension" are, but it's safe to bet that they're screwed up on my car.
Everyone with a Facebook profile should add the Purple Square application. You might say, "Oh, but Jerry, the Purple Square doesn't DO anything! It just sits there, ugly and totally useless!"
The underlying assumption of that statement is that other Facebook apps ARE useful, but this is the very attitude that Purple Square calls into question. Do your interactions with (Fluff)Friends or SuperPoke! actually mean anything? Do you really need "Free Gifts"? Didn't Facebook work fine without them? Fundamentally, aren't ALL Facebook applications just "purple squares?"
For that matter, didn't PEOPLE work fine without FACEBOOK? Herein lies the essential significance of the purple square--as a postmodern commentary on the role of technology in modern America. In the end, Facebook, MySpace, and all the others, are just giant purple squares: distracting for the moment, but ultimately inert. It reminds us what it means to be human, and that real relationships transcend electronic mediation.
Jokes I thought of during Computer Graphics lab
Q. Which country has the most most sick people?
A. Germ-any.
Q. Which country has the largest breasts?
A. Bra-zil.
Q. Which country has the most pirates?
A. Arrr-gentina.
Q. Which country is the most capable?
A. Can-ada.
Q. Which country is most concerned about metaphysics and the nature of existence?
A. Is-real?
Q. Which country has the most Chinese people?
A. ...China.
In a simpler era, you would just slap someone in the face with a white leather glove when you felt he had personally affronted you. Years later, with the invention of the telephone, you gained the option of hanging up on him, mid-speech.
One fishbowl: Three dollars and seventy-four cents.
"I knew I shouldn't have gone out today," he says.
"We went to Target to buy water! That doesn't count as going out!" I reply incredulously.
"I foretold this. I knew I'd go buy cigarettes if I left the house," he explains. "And I was going to try quitting today, too."
The bump-bump of the tires going over the curb punctuates this statement, as if the universe is saying, 'Yeah, right.'
"Charlie, that's stupidest thing I've ever heard. If you can't drive past 7-11 without buying cigarettes, how do you expect to stop smoking! C'mon, let's just go home," I say. "Is it really that hard to quit?"
"Yes. And if you ever start smoking, I'll fucking kill you."
I grasp for an eloquent way to express myself, but it's like trying to catch a football (I have never done this successfully). We pull into a parking spot. So I just say it.
"I just don't want you to die of lung cancer, because I'll feel like it's my fault for not doing more to stop you."
"You don't understand, Jerry. There's nothing anyone can do to stop someone from smoking, so there's no reason to feel bad," he throws back.
"What is it, like the Dark Side or something?" I mutter after he gets out of the car.
Is it a strange role reversal. Charlie was supposed to be the protective one, not me. Growing up together in a tensely dysfunctional family, my older brother by five years had been my best friend and constant guide. He gave me piggy back rides simulating the Death Star trench run, and once risked life and limb to pull me out the path of a van backing out of a driveway while I was obliviously playing with worms in the gutter.
The sudden thump of car doors unlocking interrupts my reverie. Charlie's back already? He must have been gone less than half a minute.
Certainly too little time to buy a pack of cigarettes. I smile.
"Why'd you changed your mind?" I ask, when he opens the door.
"Um, can you hand me my wallet?"
the radio sings to me, hears the end of the world
between the stabs of needles and powder,
I have set sail on a river paved south
riding down a little notebook life
of ambiguity and fog.
flying down interstate five, I leave my life
to the ice pick tongues of dead men,
packs and bags, deadweights and deadwants,
crumbling into a sea of diamonds
and blinking out like last year’s christmas bulbs
remember:
write me a letter sometime
when I’m in that cubicle of infinity,
that desert life of dry tongues
and powdered words,
when I’ve become an afterthought
a home lost in the hills
of ambiguity and fog.
the radio sings to me,
catch me, oh spiral arm of galaxy.
- my brother
1. First Name? Jerry.
2. Were you named after anyone? No. Asian parents name their children arbitrarily.
3. Do you wish on stars? Srsly, what the fuck kind of question is that?
4. When did you last cry? I don't remember.
5. Do you like your handwriting? Likeable handwriting is the first casualty of an Architecture education.
6. What is your favorite lunch meat? You said meat.
7. What is your birth date? 5 November 1986
8. What is your most embarrassing CD? Command and Conquer: Red Alert 2 soundtrack. TBF, it was packaged with the game.
9. If you were another person, would YOU be friends with you? If I were another person, *I* wouldn't exist, so it would be impossible to be friends with *me.* I hate this quiz.
11. Have you ever told a secret you swore not to tell? No one tells me anything.
12. Do looks matter? Of course. Hence the design industry.
13. How do you release anger? Self-destruction.
14. Where is your second home? My summer residence is on the Spanish Riviera.
15. Do you trust others easily? Stupid question.
16. What was your favorite toy as a child? My tricycle.
17. What class in high school do you think was totally stupid? 9th grade English.
18. Do you have a journal? I have one of those new-fangled "blogs." It's kind of like a journal, but I write it on the "Intarwebs" instead of on paper.
19. Do you use sarcasm a lot? No.
22. What are your nicknames? Jerry.
23. Would you bungee jump? No, I would not fuck your mother.
24. Do you untie your shoes when you take them off? Yes, otherwise I can't take them off. Isn't that what shoelaces are for? I hate this quiz.
25. Do you think that you are strong? Why is this question qualified with whether I "think" I'm strong?
26. What is your favorite ice cream flavor? Vanilla with pokies and fudge.
28. Shoe Size? 7.5
29. Red or pink? Red is my favorite color. Pink comes in at 4th.
30. What is your least favorite thing about yourself? My hair. Yes, I'm shallow. I'll deal with that after I fix my hair.
31. Who do you miss most? Hmm...sigh. I don't want to think about it.
32. Do you want everyone you send this to, to send it back? I will not be inflicting this upon anyone else.
33. What color pants and shoes are you wearing? Stupid question. Who the fuck cares?
34. What are you listening to right now? Someone is mowing his lawn outside my window.
35. Last thing you ate? Tuna, from the can, with hot sauce.
36. If you were a crayon, what color would you be? Communist Red.
37. What is the weather like right now? Stupid question.
38. Last person you talked to on the phone? The Office of Academic Records.
39. The first thing you notice about the opposite sex? That she is of the opposite sex.
40. Do you like the person who sent this to you? Sure.
42. Favorite Drink? Water.
43. Favorite Sport? Butt sex. I hate this quiz.
44. Hair Color? Brown, but my roots are showing.
45. Eye Color? Brown.
46. Do you wear contacts? No.
48. Favorite Food? French fries and ice cream...together.
49. Last Movie You Watched? Music and Lyrics. C-
50. Favorite Day Of The Year? Year - noun - a period of 365 disappointments.
51. Scary Movies Or Happy Endings? When did you start capitalizing every word in the question? I'll take the "happy ending."
52. Summer Or Winter? Autumn.
53. Hugs OR Kisses? Butt sex. I hate this quiz.
55. What Is Your Favorite Dessert? Butt sex. I hate this quiz.
56. Who Is Most Likely To Respond? N/A. cf. 32
57. Who Is Least Likely To Respond? N/A. cf. 32
58. Living Arrangements? Yes, I am living. But it is not arranged.
59. What Books Are You Reading? If Nobody Speaks of Remarkable Things, Generation X, Sputnik Sweetheart.
60. What's On Your Mouse Pad? My mouse.
62. What Did You Watch Last night on TV? Jeopardy, half of Wheel of Fortune, Newshour.
63. Favorite Smells? Chanel no. 666
64. Favorite Sounds? Silence.
65. Rolling Stones or Beatles? Eeny meeny miny...Beatles.
66. What's the furthest you've been from home? Italy.
67. Do you have a special talent? No. I hate this quiz.
It is always a rude shock when I feel that sudden wet warmth in the back of my pants. After twenty years of mortal existence, with all the attendant functions of a mortal body, I still can never tell if my next fart will be just a puff of effluvium--noxious but ultimately transitory--or whether it will be one of those farts.
Like restless ghosts with such burning animus that they will themselves into physical existence, some farts abandon their ethereal form for a single dreadful purpose. Namely, they exist to ruin my afternoon, not to mention a pair of perfectly good boxer-briefs.
My first memory of such an occurance was formed on the second day of pre-school, at the tender age of four. Pre-school was a confusing place, full of yellow-haired giantesses, paper-maché dinosaur eggs, and the acrid scent of Play-Doh.
It happened during recess, while I was standing in the playground. I don't remember the cause; too much breakfast perhaps--or perhaps too little. In any case, I quickly retreated into a bathroom stall. I pulled down my adorable corduroy pants, then my tighty-whities, and THERE was the tell-tale brownish orange streak. Quite small actually, but, like transistors, underwear are binary. One or zero. Soiled or unsoiled.
And mine were soiled. Even at that age, I knew they could never be worn again. Sitting on the toilet, with my pants around my ankles, all I could do was wait.
A bell rang, signaling the end of recess, and the sounds of the playground were gradually replaced by a deafening silence. My entire universe was reduced to the four walls of the bathroom stall, the cold tile floor, and my poopy pants.
I started crying--just sniffles at first, then small tears that slowly rolled out of the corners of my eyes and down my cherubic four-year old cheeks. Life sucked.
And then, in a miraculous deus ex machina, a teacher lady opened the stall, took in the situation with one look, and then sprang into action like only pre-school teacher can. She cleaned me up, and helped me change into the fresh pair of undies that all the kids at the pre-school bring with them every day, in a red plastic basket.
And then she hugged me for what must have been at least five minutes, and everything was OK.
Later on in that day, the same lady who rescued me led a lesson on sea creatures, and taught me about the fearsome "Great White Sock." It was one of the first English phrases I ever learned.
When my mom picked me up that afternoon, and as we drove past the eucalyptus trees that line half the streets in Irvine, I still thought the day had been pretty horrible. It is only with the special perspective (or revisionism) that comes with age that I saw something more in that day. During my year at pre-school, I learned plenty of vocabulary and simple grammar. But there are other ways speak than with words, and in the end, it was that hug on the second day, from a complete stranger, that said the most.
Dear Reader,
It is widely known that only the most intelligent and perceptive elements of society read my blog. As a member of this august group, you will have noticed the column of advertisements in the sidebar of this blog. Indeed, owing to your great observational prowess, you will have noticed that it was not there two weeks ago.
Rest assured, I am not exploiting your kind indulgence of my periodic ramblings to make a quick buck. To date, my account with Google has accrued $0.41 from this venture. That is to say, I am exploiting your kind indulgence to make a very very slow buck.
As per the terms of the ad hosting agreement with Google, I am not permitted to offer any incentive for clicking on the ads.
Thank you,
The Management
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About a week ago, I was standing on a street corner waiting for the light to change so I could walk across. I leaned idly against the stoplight and pressed the crosswalk button over and over again, out of habit. I don't think this makes the light change faster, but until the relevant government agency finally issues a Public Service Announcement to that effect, I'll have to give it the benefit of the doubt.
svelteDR: you were sitting on the couch hugging alex
svelteDR: it was cute
svelteDR: ...until you started puking on his sweatshirt
I may just be puerile, but it seems like the turkey recipe I found online contains subtle homoerotic undertones. It tells you to hold the legs apart while you butter up the hole...and then to fill it with stuffing. Okay, maybe not so subtle. My poor Victorian sensibilities were scandalized, to be sure.
It also didn't help that the turkey baster made the most ridiculous noise when squirting its juices.
It was like the scene in Return of the Jedi where Princess Leia strangles Jabba the Hutt with the very chain that was meant to prevent her escape. Imagine that Jabba the Hutt had explosive diarrhea as he was dying, and that there was a chihuahua stuck in his butt, gasping for air. That's pretty much what the turkey baster sounded like.
This post is about a month late, but before we left for Thankgiving break, my roommate and I bought a 15.92 pound turkey from Ralph's. There was still about five pounds left when we were cleaning out the fridge before leaving for Christmas. We got the idea when Ralph's was having a promotion whereby turkeys were only four dollars (normally $17) if you spent twenty-five dollars on other shit in the store.
We beat the system though, by buying a box of laundry detergent with the turkey to meet the quota, and then immediately returning the laundry detergent! HAHHAHAHA, take THAT, Ralphie.
I let my roommate do the honors of preparing the turkey, since he's white and has more experience in that regard. My duties were to stand back and snicker uncontrollably while reading the recipe, and to man the turkey baster.
The final product was tasty, but a tad gamey since--contrary to the post title--I am not a master baster.
“I am emotionally unstable,” he says, on freeway 5, “And I’m going to therapy.”
“What?”
“Don’t worry, I’m not going to kill anyone."
I may just be puerile, but it seems like the turkey recipe I found online contains subtle homoerotic undertones. It tells you to hold the legs apart while you butter up the hole...and then to fill it with stuffing. Okay, maybe not so subtle. My Victorian sensibilities were scandalized.
It also didn't help that the turkey baster made the most ridiculous noise when squirting its juices.
It was like the scene in Return of the Jedi where Princess Leia strangles Jabba the Hutt with the very chain that was meant to prevent her escape. Imagine that Jabba the Hutt had explosive diarrhea as he was dying, and that there was a chihuahua stuck in his butt, gasping for air. That's pretty much what the turkey baster sounded like.
I let my roommate do the honors of preparing the turkey, since he's white and has more experience in that regard. My duties were to stand back and snicker uncontrollably while reading the recipe, and to man the turkey baster.
The final product was tasty, but a tad gamey since--contrary to the post title--I am not a master baster.
Strawberry...
Banana...
Strawberry-banana...
Each box was color-coded by flavor, and they marched along in a syncopated rainbow across the shelf. Damn RiteAid, I seethed bitterly. Why do there have to be so many choices? I've always been horribly indecisive when it comes to choosing just one item out of an assortment of substantially similar things...
You can often find me standing in the middle of The Avenue with 85 cents clutched in my fist, staring blankly at the doughnut wall. During those moments, my mind is actually awhir with fruitless calculation and countercalculation, like when the CPU usage suddenly jumps to 99% for no discernible reason and my computer freezes. I'm thinking things like, the glazed donut has fewer calories than the jelly-filled, so I should buy it because its healthier. On the other hand, the jelly has a higher calorie/cent ratio, so doesn't that mean its a better deal? But then again... and so on, ad infinitum, or at least until someone takes the last glazed doughnut.
As embarassing as doughnut induced paralysis is though, it's not quite as humiliating as standing in front of the counter trying to decide which pack of condoms to buy while the pharmacist watches me with beady eyes.
Why couldn't I just choose? To make it worse, flavor was just one consideration out of a million others...
Trojan or Lifestyles
Nonlubricated or lubricated (spermicidal, "warm and tingly", both, neither)
Unribbed or Ribbed For Her Pleasure™ (ribbed, ultra-ribbed, or ultra-ultra-ribbed)
And the sizes...
And the colors...
In the end, I just snatched up an economy pack of 12 something-or-others. It rang up at the counter at around 20 bucks, which seemed a tad expensive. I wasn't about to raise a ruckus about it though, and figured I must have misread the box. When I got home and looked more carefully, I realized I had bought 36, not 12...
Great.
I wonder whether the cashier thought I was a total stud, or a complete whore.
At 6:15 AM on the morning of my birthday (last Sunday), I was stirred awake by the crowing of an emphysematic rooster. This was odd--considering I was in a room on the fourth floor of the Hilton in Woodland Hills--but I didn't think much of it. The previous night had been a blur of a blur, and nothing would have surprised me. Eventually, the irksome noise stopped, and I dozed off.
Strange things written on scraps of paper around my desk: 
I once surreptitiously watched my mom type in the password to her email account. She had told me to close my eyes, but I only pretended to (this is easy when you're Asian).
