Growing Up SUCKS

There were fish in here before, I SWEAR.

East coast winter is here. Granted, I wasn't here for SNOWPOCALYPSE '09, but being a spoiled Californian, it's pretty miserable. Even the fountain right behind the medical school agrees. If you can't tell, most of this fountain is frozen except for where the water is being forcibly moved by the pump. Waste of money to keep the pump going, if you ask me. Just let the whole damn thing freeze so I can buy skates and learn to stand on ice without breaking my nose.

I don't get why Gluttony is a sin

Yesterday was my first Thanksgiving away from home. Considering that 3/4 of my family are Taiwanese immigrants (the remaining 1/4 still living in Taiwan), we're not a particularly American group. Traditionally, my mother invites a couple of my cousins who also live in the area over to our house for dinner, and we have a big hot pot. For those of you unfamiliar, "hot pot" is a style of eating common in east Asian countries where everyone sits around a central pot of broth and everyone dips in various raw meats, frozen foods, vegetables, etc. to cook and eat. Think of it as fondue but without all the cheese clogging your aorta.

Simply Taking Up Space So You Don't Think I've Abandoned You

I eagerly await the day that it actually gets colder outdoors than the temperature inside our refrigerator so we can save some electricity. We can just put all our food in buckets and hang them out our window. I fully expect this to happen in, oh, two weeks. Frozen milk homemade ice cream for everybody!

One Mississippi, Two Mississippi (Or Alligator)

At least it's not like walking into a sauna anymore.

The walk from my house to school is lined with trees starting to turn. I suppose this officially means that autumn has begun. There have been a couple nights cold enough to make me think about wearing a scarf and my gloves outside. I was dissuaded by the thoughts of ridicule coming from, like, everybody else in my class calling out a spoiled, pussy Californian. I do have to admit, though, that I've never seen such a beautiful scene in the fall. Despite what my father insists, watching the seasons turn here is most decidedly not like watching paint dry. Knowing that I'll FINALLY have an excuse to blow money on fall and winter clothes is exciting, no?

The Reasoning of FOOTBAW

Just because you're going to trust us with your health doesn't mean we have to make sense.
  
(5:11:17 PM) Gordo: holy crap. go bruins. [on UCLA leading Texas AT Texas at halftime]
(5:11:38 PM) RoPo: tellin you bro
(5:11:49 PM) RoPo: it's gonna be a good day for California
(5:12:30 PM) RoPo: California schools will go 4-0 today
(5:12:34 PM) RoPo: ;)
(5:12:42 PM) Gordo: ROSE BOWL
(5:12:45 PM) Gordo: THIS IS OUR YEAR
(5:12:55 PM) Gordo: i am going to throw around the R word as much as possible now
(5:12:59 PM) RoPo: no
(5:13:07 PM) Gordo: i've had such a superstition of never saying it the past 5 years, and it never worked
(5:13:12 PM) Gordo: why not just try the opposite
(5:13:18 PM) Gordo: if it works, i'll look like a genius
(5:13:26 PM) Gordo: if it doesn't, then i'll look like an asshole, but i'm already an asshole anyway
(5:13:39 PM) RoPo: alright, i see your logic

QED, son.

Hit Me Baby One More Time

Having been public-schooled all my life, there are a couple things that I found out about attending a 1) private 2) Jesuit institution that threw me for a bit of a spin.

• A hallmark of major research universities: genius professors who are horrible lecturers. Just because I'm paying 4.5x more tuition doesn't mean the quality of teaching is that much better.
• Getting way more days off that a public school would never even think about giving its students. Columbus Day? Good Friday and Easter Monday? What on Earth are those?
• Crucifixes. Like, everywhere. Almost makes me feel guilty about swearing under my breath every time a prof goes over a really dense topic really fast (which, incidentally, is practically every single lecture.)
• Corollary: boldly walking into Dahlgren Chapel of the Sacred Heart without use of holy water nor making the sign of the cross. People definitely shoot me funny, irreverent looks.

Seeing that it is once again exam week (but then again, when isn't it exam week), I left the library at a rather late hour, somewhat delirious from cramming eight different metabolic pathways within the span of six hours. I have this bad habit of reviewing things and talking aloud to myself while walking to fight the goddess Athena trying to taking my hard-earned wisdom away from me. Unfortunately, I also love to blast Ke$ha while walking. This is clearly detrimental to me on two fronts:

1) Facts like "proteins are built from amino acids" become "proteins are built me up you break me down my heart it pounds yeah you got me."

2) Pumping loud dance music means that my hearing, one of the five senses key to human survival, is eliminated. This becomes a huge issue when crossing the street.

I saw the little white walking man and eagerly bounded across the asphalt when a gray Camry screeched to a halt, six inches from obliterating every last bone in my body. "Deer-in-headlights" would be the understatement of the year. I looked at the driver, expecting it to be a tiny Asian lady. Instead, the driver and her companion were both old, wrinkly nuns, wearing their full habits and looks of terror on their faces. Any desire I held to curse out the driver and all her ancestry dissipated. How terrible of a person do you have to be to yell at a nun?

The irony of almost being slaughtered by some of the kindest people on Earth is still beyond me.

DML Runs On Dunkin'

We've only had two exams thus far, and already I've developed the terrible habit of restricting myself to 15 minutes of daylight during the review day before the exam. I get to the library by 9:00am or so with a packed lunch and what ought to be an illegal number of Red Bulls. I then have passionate, 14-hour-long romps in beds of roses and honey with my notes and PowerPoints. The only fun I have during these marathons is stress-eating, but that's not a thing to complain about because it's just…fun. It's a terrible, disgusting lifestyle, and I wish I had more discipline to study regularly.

Gunner Palace

The first definition of "gunner" on Urban Dictionary defines the term as "A person who is competitive, overly-ambitious and substantially exceeds minimum requirements. A gunner will compromise his/her peer relationships and/or reputation among peers in order to obtain recognition and praise from his/her superiors."

Murphy's Law Says: Welcome to The DMV

Because we have no internet at the new house yet, I'm currently sitting next to Carter Pewterschmidt at a Starbucks on Wisconsin Ave., about a five-minute walk from the house. (Seriously, this guy looks and sounds just like him, except in New Balances and a Microsoft tee instead of loafers, ascot, and silk robe.) I'm furiously scratching my 18 mosquito bites while cooling down with an iced latte and Starbucks' full-blast A/C, listening to Mr. Pewterschmidt wax poetic on the perpetually unruly state of his dog's hair.

The Best Little Whorehouse in Palo Alto

When I was little, my sister used to tease that my mother actually found me in a dumpster and raised me as her own. There are a couple of surprisingly plausible reasons to support this claim:

• My mother was 40 years old when she had me. The fact that I didn't turn out with an arm coming out my face or as a musical genius-idiot savant is a medical miracle.
• I am practically the only dog person among my family members and many, many relatives.
• Corollary: I am deathly allergic to cats. Nobody else in my family is.
  
  
  
  

Asian moms are hardcore/confusing

I was at Elegance Hair Salon, waiting to get my usual cheap-o haircut from my man Jimmy, when I witnessed the pinnacle of a cultural  phenomenon I have grown up observing.

What is this I don't even.

No es frio, D.C. NOT COOL. NOT COOL AT ALL.

“Everything the light touches is our kingdom.”

This is another one of those stupid end-of-an-era moments that I really hate. My apartment is cleaned out and I’ve moved out of the hobbit-hole apartment in Berkeley, my fifth place in five years. I was feeling pretty depressed yesterday about moving out of my favorite city and, more importantly, moving back in with my mother for a month. Then came a series of unfortunate unbelievable events that somebody up there tied together into a nice little package for me. I don’t think I’ve ever been more in love with Berkeley than I was yesterday.

Murphy's Law Strikes Again

Considering that I pay $80 per month for a gated carport in our apartment building, you'd expect some kind of security. I found my car, which was parked in my carport, ransacked.

This one was my fault completely for trusting the people in my apartment building and being too lazy to lock my car doors. Good thing I didn't leave anything really sentimental in there, like my iPod or laptop. But I lost my GPS, GPS charger, cell phone charger, auxiliary cable, and cheap-o sunglasses case from Daiso. Net loss of about $300. No broken windows or broken locks. So I'm thankful for that.

I guess this is what I get for cursing Sasha Vujacic during last night's game. The Machine clearly has friends in powerful places.

Thank heavens I'm moving home after this weekend.

God Bless Wikipedia

Saw this at 9:23PM PST, right after the Lakers beat the Celtics:

Remember the Apple Newton? Didn’t think so.

Sorry to get all sentimental on you guys. This one’s going in a different direction (think Friends 5th season).
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I’m 23 now.

Many of you withstood me bitching and whining all day long about taking yet another step toward the inevitable. I was trying to be facetious about the whole aging thing, but the more I joked about it, the more aware I became of the passage of time. It did not help that my birthday coincided with my last day at the greatest job I’ve ever held.

23. So what? I’m still in the early 20s. I’m still young and my liver is still invincible. My whole life this year will be a tribute to Michael Jordan (HT: Calvin). Sounds pretty good, actually.

Well, there’s ONE career I know I won’t have

I like food. A lot. That should come to no surprise to any of you who have spoken to me for more than five minutes. As a result, I spend a lot of my time and visiting websites and watching movies and TV shows related to food. I’m not a picky man; my tastes in food entertainment range in everything from haute cuisine (Good Eats, TasteSpotting, Serious Eats, FoodPornDaily) to the exotic (Anthony Bourdain: No Reservations, Bizarre Foods with Andrew Zimmern) to the morbidly grotesque (Super Size Me, This Is Why You’re Fat, Supersized Meals, anything from Paula Deen). I am a huge fan of the TV show Man vs. Food. Honestly, Adam Richman has the best and worst job in the world all rolled into one delicious, steamy tortilla. The man gets paid to go around the country and eat at some amazing restaurants with Herculean challenges, but the nature of the beast rears its ugly head when he has to actually undertake the challenge. He then inevitably fails miserably, whether it’s trying to shove far too much food for his gut to hold or to eat something so spicy that it makes him bleed out his pores. He then takes pounds of Metamucil and/or laxative to get it all out of his system later.

Brand Loyalty

“The relationship between a man and his barber…that’s sacred.” – Barack Obama
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When my family and I first crossed the Pacific on a raft made of chopsticks Boeing 747 in 1992, we settled in an upper-middle class suburb in south San Jose. Five years passed without much note. Other than learning English (and speaking it better than my American-born peers), being whipped into playing piano and violin like a good little Asian boy, and becoming overweight thanks to a steady diet of high-fructose corn syrup and avoidance of physical activity, nothing of significance really happened during my years in the ‘burbs. Life was quiet, slow, and full of sunshine (most it wasted on me, since I spent my life in front of the TV, playing remarkably bad video games). I was a happy boy.

Mussorgsky’s Great Gate of…uh…China

I can’t think of a good way to describe the scene we saw that day. I guess the closest would be that we were staring at a solid sea of heads and sound. Either side of the parade route was overflowing with outstretched arms reaching toward something unseen. Most of the folks looked like locals, but the crowds were notably diverse. I couldn’t help but wonder just how far some of these people came to see these sights. We were so far back in the crowd that our line of sight was completely obscured. What were these people reaching for? What powerful force would drive them wild like this? Somewhere in the deafening commotion, they called some name over and over, made indistinguishable by all the background noise of explosions and constant screaming.

"You get that Blue Shell away from me, asshole!"

We all know about Berkeley's strong history of open political dissent and public protests (and counter-protests) of issues ranging from budget cuts to property rights of sewer rats. What you may be less familiar with is how much the City of Berkeley hates cars and the people who drive them. The sheer number of inexplicable one-way streets and phantom alleys is enough to extend a simple five-minute drive across town into an epic three-part journey involving answering the Sphinx's questions and throwing a ring into the heart of an active volcano.

More pleasant surprises

Reason #1,034 why it is awesome having a mother who barely understands and speaks English: I can play Robin Thicke's "Sex Therapy" with her in the car and the only response I get from her is "Hey, that's a nice-sounding song - it's much nicer than that really loud obnoxious stuff you normally listen to."

Dulles Airport sucks for not offering free Wi-Fi

It’s been a fun week on the bEast Coast, but I’m sobering up at Dulles right now while waiting for my evening flight. This post won’t be funny or sarcastic or witty. Skip it if that makes you uncomfortable, but no torches or pitchforks, please - I just redid the kitchen.

I’ve seen old Boston, the birthplace of liberty, I’ve walked the Infinite Corridor at MIT, I’ve touched the golden pee-toe of John Harvard, I’ve struggled along the hobbled brick sidewalks up Beacon Hill, and I’ve seen the Fenway Fanatics REALLY up-close.

I’ve also seen northwest and central DC, I’ve strolled ‘neath the blooming cherry blossoms in front of Healy Hall at Georgetown, I’ve judged far too many students for wearing the entire catalogues of J. Crew/L.L. Bean/Burberry, I’ve walked the entire length of the National Mall in 85-degree weather, I’ve eaten at the history-laden Ben’s Chili Bowl (WAY overrated), I’ve tasted Five Guys Burger (I’m really torn between Five Guys and In-N-Out), and I’ve experienced what REAL subway systems should be like, thanks to both these cities.

I’m going to Georgetown. I had already kinda sorta maybe-ish made up my mind a week ago about which school I wanted to attend, but this little vacation really set everything into stone. I was a little wary about picking Georgetown before really walking in and seeing the campus and The District. Now, I’m more sure than ever that I’m making the right decision. Hell, I even found the house that I’ll be living in next year. GIANT BACKYARD PORCH FOR BEER PONG WOOOO oh wait I mean uhhh relaxing open-air study/dining environment!

Hoya Saxa, Go Bears, and the Nats suck.

(Your regularly scheduled programming will resume when I get back into good ol’ California.)

Go Go Power Illusions of Grandeur

T^3, a highly valued friend of mine since sixth grade, showed me this hilariously adorable little Japanese dollar store down in the South Bay called Daiso. Ok, I guess it's not really a dollar store; Daiso is "Japan's #1 ranking livingware supplier" according to their website, but the sheer variety of odd knick-knacks and the extremely low prices at which the products are offered means that, really, it's Japan's #1 ranking overseas dollar store. Anything authentically Japanese, from bowls to backscratchers to candy, can be found in that little store.

T^3 decided to take me to Daiso because she had found the oddest, most specific piece of livingware I've ever seen: a $1.50 banana keeper. As you can see from this image (HT: LunchInABox)...

...the banana keeper is a hard carrying case made specifically for bananas or plantains. Actually, not a bad idea, especially if you are a frequent consumer of bananas and you don't want them to get smushed in your bag. I, however, subscribe to Alton Brown's philosophy of "the only uni-tasker in the kitchen should be your fire extinguisher." If we take a look at this thing when it's closed up...

...well, you get where I'm going with this. The banana keeper is clearly NOT a uni-tasker. For only two buckaroos, it's the cheapest date a lonely girl can get OH! Ummm but I'm totally sure that T^3 bought it SOLELY for the purpose of keeping her bananas in good shape.

"Gullible" is TOTALLY in the dictionary

When it comes to April Fool's Day pranks, I've never been the successful aggressor. In middle school, you could probably find me hiding in the boys' bathroom, scared to initiate any human interaction lest they give me some terribly unfunny news like "your mother was in a car accident in the parking lot and both her legs are broken!" or "oh wait, just kidding, she actually has cancer." (You understand WHY I believed that car accident story - my mother is female, Chinese, and above the age of 60, which legally qualifies her as a road hazard, required by law to maintain an empty radius of 50 feet around the vehicle.) Of course, the jokes were always innocuous, released by a simple "April Fool's!" Unfortunately, by that point I would already be screaming and crying about which hospital my mother was in or how far the cancer had metastasized. The horrified look on those kids' faces were priceless, especially the always awkward, always embarrassing "holy crap, does his mother ACTUALLY have cancer?" look. Yeah, I didn't make many friends in middle school. Shut up.

NO MORE. This year's April Fools' Day will go down in my books as the Glorious Victorious. Since none of my students read this blog, I'm going to reveal my genius plan of action and you will revel in my glory. Tomorrow, I'm going to teach all my students incredibly wrong formulas and concepts. That way, when they come back to me in a week or two with tears on their faces and F's on all their tests, I'll clear the air with a jovial "April Fools! Haha, see, now wasn't that hilarious?"

I was BORN to be a mentor.

Save me, John McClane and/or Batman

If you take a look at timeline of my recent writing history, you’ll notice that I was MIA from October of last year to January of 2010. Those three months were an adventure not unlike an oddly eerie, opium-fueled thrice-international trip you’d expect from Lewis Carroll. (…or Chris Farley TOO SOON?)
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I met them on a website. These four ladies were always together, attached at the hip, closer than sisters. Each of them was uniquely different, yet all of them were irresistibly sensual. One was quick-witted and filled with facts; another had a slow-brewing mind and was highly analytical about everything around her. I especially liked this one – she was simple on the surface, but I had a feeling that she would be frustratingly complex once I got to know her better. Of all four girls, only one of them was short and seemingly mentally challenged. Must be all that acetone and ethanol she has with her all the time, I thought. But, my word, she was gorgeous. It was hard to compare them all, so I decided that I must have all of them.

I sauntered over, nervous yet confident, and slapped down $230.

“Hey girls, how’s about all y’all hangin’ with me for the next few months?”

The first couple weeks were filled with simple flirting beneath the sweet caress of fluorescent light from the study carrels at the library. Eventually, I felt comfortable enough to bring them out to my favorite fine dining establishments. At the beginning of this thrilling courtship, I’d take them out for a night on the town and show them what the odd sides of Berkeley offer in the dark of night. After a couple weeks of playing this game, we finally engaged in a passionate hours-long orgy, complete with chocolate, caramel, strawberries, bowling pins, and Mike Tyson’s tiger.

That night – oh, what a night – locked us within each other’s destinies. Eventually, I became a disciple of Senator Bill Henrickson, the tragic yet hilariously fortunate protagonist in HBO’s Big Love. I took the dive and married all four of them.

Four dresses, four rings, four vows, four wedding parties, and one big honeymoon later, we started having marital issues. Just as well, I figured. Over 50% of marriages in the U.S. end in divorce anyway. If I’m lucky, at least two of these money-grubbing whores will be gone by the end of January.

No dice. As the weeks went by, the fights got worse, the yelling got louder, the bottles and beer cans emptied faster. Pretty soon, I was abusing them so badly, both mentally and physically, that Joe Jackson would have been proud of my work. I had no regrets. None.

I woke up one morning and found all four of them gone. Like a lone feather in a harsh winter gale, they were nowhere to be seen. I looked high and low for them, but to no avail. I returned home, exhausted but feeling an odd sense of relief. That’s when I saw the divorce papers on the kitchen table. The date of separation was set for January 31, 2010. It finally hit me – this relationship had been doomed to fail from the very start. Who the hell has enough time and energy to split among four wives, anyway? (HT: Mormon Fundamentalists.)

I picked up the nearest pen and scratched my John Hancock on those papers with zeal. “My pleasure, ladies. My total god-damn pleasure.”

The big day finally came. I made my way to the address on the divorce papers, deep in the heart of the San Francisco financial district.

What an odd little building, I thought. It was the right place, but almost TOO right. It was just so…sterile. No matter. I walked in and checked myself in. Twenty minutes later, I was asked in.

There was no judge, no jury, no mediators. The ladies weren’t even there. Instead, I proceeded to answer a series of computer-given multiple-choice questions tangentially related to my marriage for the past three months.

11. How many ATP are required to transform pyruvate into glucose?
A. 5
B. 6
C. 7
D. 8

“How in the hell am I supposed to know this?”

But wait. Mrs. MCAT Biology had told me this on the first day we met. If I just think back hard enough, I can answer this. The test went on and on, asking me everything from my sexual history with Mrs. MCAT Gen. Chem. to a criminal report about Mrs. MCAT Physics. I took my time, swiftly yet surely answering each question the glaring screen threw at me.

Five hours later, it was all over. Divorce finalized, I breathed a sigh of relief. I haven’t seen those soul-wrenching succubi since, and I could not be happier. Turns out that those three months were handy, seeing how my MCAT score actually turned out to be pretty respectable.

Moral of the story: studying actually paid off. Also, butt cheeks can’t have freckles – wear a condom.
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If you’ve hung out with me at all, you know I like to use any stupid little reason to celebrate, so long as drinking is involved. The minute I finished my MCAT, I whipped out the flask of Jameson I had kept in my bookbag and started my night off right. I ate like a king at Zabu Zabu on University Ave. Suffering those three months of abuse and crappy late-night sushi was worth every single delicious bite of quick-boiled meats.

Of course, no night of decent celebration could be complete without my favorite watering hole, Beta Lounge. The whole gang was there, including my fellow MCAT war survivors, PermaRA, TheYoc, and Teeks. (Interestingly enough, I’ll be going to school on the bEast Coast this coming fall with Teeks, while TheYoc is staying here in THA BAY to attend UCfreakingSF. If you know who he is and you see him, congratulate him, then do me a favor and punch him in the face for being too smart.)

$180 of drinks later, I wandered back to my apartment along with $R$, BestBruinEVER and PermaRA. Considering my lack of fine motor skills, I thought I’d take the crappy excuse for an elevator up one floor to my unit. The three decided to come with.

We got in, pushed the “2” button, and…nothing.

“Uhh…are we moving?” $R$ questioned warily.

“No, I don’t think we are.” PermaRA made the executive decision to just take the one flight of stairs up. I vehemently (read: drunkenly and foolishly) refused. “I am taking the elevator if I damn well please! I LIVE HERE! WOOO RICKAY BOBBAYYY!!!!”

So the three of them stood outside and watched me through the three-by-six-inch window of the elevator door. I pushed “2” again. This time, the sliding door moved…then got stuck 90% of the way before fully closing. Crap, I thought. I could’ve just walked the one flight of stairs. What am I doing?

I jammed on the “Door Open” button. No response.

I looked all around the panel to see if there were other buttons I could push to rectify this situation. I looked up and saw the City of Berkeley Elevator Permit taped up top. The permit expired in April 2008. Scenes of the terrible horror movie Final Destination started to flash before my eyes.

I’m the kind of guy who has no problem drinking expired milk or eating expired processed meats. I guess an expired elevator license shouldn’t be that much worse. Boy, was I ever wrong about THAT assumption. Neither the “Door Open” nor the “Door Close” buttons worked. I started to panic, but that panic quickly turned into excitement.

“Oh my God, it’s like I’m in some awesome Hollywood movie.” See what a little booze does to your judgment? This is your brain on drugs, kids.

“I’ll try going upstairs to call the elevator to see if that’ll make it move!” Thunk thunk thunk went PermaRA’s quick steps. I waited. And waited.

“Did you push it yet?”

“Yeah. I guess it didn’t work.”

Panic set in once again, and much like pre-labor contractions, this one hit me harder than ever. Enter Bruce Banner. With sheer frustration and for lack of a better plan, I gripped my sweaty fingers onto the sliding door and pushed it right as hard as I could.

Ka-THUNK. “Oooooh holy CRAP it’s moving!”

An elevator ride that normally would have taken 45 seconds turned into eight minutes’ worth of a story I can tell for the rest of my life. Nobody was hurt, and I didn’t even have a hangover the next day. Go me.

Thank heavens I got out of that elevator when I did. I’m pretty sure that if I had been stuck in there for just another five minutes, this would’ve happened:

That would NOT have been good. Bruce Willis is WAY too old to save me from life-threatening situations like that.

30% irony, 100% coincidence

I can’t tell how much of this is irony and how much of it is plain dumb luck: watching an episode of Trauma on Hulu, thinking that it’s crappy and poorly written (there’s no way a person with claustrophobia could make it as a paramedic – the back of an ambulance is TINY), and then personally requiring emergency medical assistance a mere two hours later due to hypoglycemic shock at the gym. They sent six - count 'em, SIX - paramedics (okay, really 5.5, because one of them was a Basic on observation only) to take care of one little ol' me. And all I really needed was a can of Mountain Dew to get my blood sugar up.

The lesson of the day: EAT before you work out. Don’t be in a hurry/stupid like me.

“I am your density.” – George McFly

There are various cheesy motivational posters put up around my workplace. If you’ve seen them, you know what I’m talking about. The posters have some inspiring HD photograph of a majestic bird in flight or a majestic stone arch or the majestic ocean or some other majestic crap in the middle. Written underneath it is some big key word in all caps, key words taken from the glossary of the American Standard Guidebook of Boring Corporate Motivational Team-Building Exercises. Underneath the key word is some short adage meant to inspire you and make you feel better about contributing to your team. A simple gigantic banner asking “Is this good for the COMPANY?” might be more cost-effective.

I hate these motivator posters with all my heart. How effective could a $20 poster really be in order to get employees to stop dicking around for five hours a day playing paper football or throwing paper clips at each other?

Today only further cemented my disdain for these motivator posters. The one I saw today said the following:
“DESTINY: The choices we make, not the chances we take, determine our destiny.”

I looked at this and I felt my neurons set on fire, one by one. Isn’t the act of taking a chance a conscious, self-made choice in and of itself? Furthermore, isn’t destiny defined as an inevitable conclusion regardless of actions taken? So even if the choices we make were the true drivers of our immediate direction in life, how can they DETERMINE our DESTINY if the very definition of destiny is founded upon PREdetermination?
There were so many things self-contradictory with this statement that I had to sit down for five minutes to collect myself before moving on with my day. Someone should thank me that I didn’t have a lighter to set the damn thing on fire.

By the way, my favorite Demotivator of all time, courtesy of Despair.com: “BLOGGING: Never before have so many people with so little to say said so much to so few.” The wordplay makes me giddy like a schoolgirl.

Lost In Translation

Picking my father up from SFO is a biannual Olympic event. For some reason, he likes to fly in on Fridays, and I still can't figure out why. It’s certainly not any cheaper, and the airport is always an absolute madhouse on Friday evenings. Considering that he only shows up twice a year, he might consider doing the rest of us a solid by not picking days when my mother and I have to operate a truly Olympic-gold-medal-worthy act of coordination. The event, aptly named RunSnatchCallGo, looks like this: somebody (usually ME) runs out of the car and snatches my father while my mother circles around the loop at just the right speed so that she’ll pull up to the terminal door at exactly the right moment so I can call her and frantically scream, “HE’S HERE HE’S HERE HE’S HERE WHERE ARE YOU OH MY GOD.” We then all hop in while implementing a number of group triple axels and backflips. I think we averaged 9.2/10.0 in the past. (Thanks to our many years of forced practice, I can proudly claim that the last time my mother was on the receiving end of senseless screaming from one of those people they hired from the mental asylum to run airport traffic, I was 12. Maybe.)

My mom likes to make sure that this ceremony of dealing with idiotic drivers and insane people waving their arms becomes a family affair (unless my sister is working late on Fridays, something all-too-common nowadays).

That brings us to the evening of February 12th. Since my poor sister was once again working late into the night (we’re talking 9:00pm on a Friday, a time which typically marks the 8th beer of the night for me), my mother and I picked up my father from the airport first, then headed south to pick her up from work.

Sorry about this, folks, but I need to go on yet another tangent here for background purposes.

My father is a huge film buff. The size of his VHS, LaserDisc (think big-ass DVD), and DVD collection at home is mind-boggling, made all the more impressive considering most of it is hidden in various nooks and crannies so that it just looks like we don’t have ANY movies in the house. That is one of the qualities I inadvertently picked up from my father, the whole film-lover thing. Our standards for what ought to be considered a “good film” are surprisingly close. In fact, I’ve come to notice that, for a man I’ve seen about twice a year for most of my life, I have grown up to have his personality almost exactly, including the penchant to be a physician and our senses of humor. The best part about it? I’m allowed to make dirty jokes in the house, because he has no right to disparage something I do when he does it five times more often. Apologies: the point is that my father actually knows what’s going on in the film world.

Back to the story.

We picked up my sister and instantly the whole family engaged in a gigantic bitchfest about the state of the American economy. The statements “America is no longer tops” and “immigrating to this country was a mistake” were my father’s new catchphrases. (Used to be “OH GOD why is Taiwanese baseball so crappy now?”)

After all of us got our ya-yas out, there came the inevitable awkward silence. To break that silence, my sister asked me an absolutely bizarre question:

“Have you seen Evita?”

I flashed back to my childhood. Evita. “Don’t Cry For Me, Argentina.” 1996. Madonna. Antonio Banderrrrrrras. FOURTH GRADE. My introduction to the shaky genre of musical-to-movie adaptations.

Why the hell would she ask me this now?

“Evita? Did you just ask me if I’ve ever seen Evita?”

“Um, I THINK it’s called Evita. Or maybe ‘Evinta.’ I’m not sure.”

“Let me get this straight. You’re asking me if I’ve ever seen the 1996 film adaptation of the Andrew Lloyd Webber classic musical, Evita, starring Madonna. The movie that won the Academy Award for Best Original Song that year. A movie that I know WAY too much detail about for being nine years old at the time. EVITA.” (And if you’re wondering, yes, I knew all those facts off the top of my head.)

“No! I’m talking about that new movie that everyone is talking about with all the big blue people. The one my friend invited me to watch in 3-D.”

Wait. But that sounds like she’s talking about Avatar. Last I recall, Madonna was definitely not in Avatar.

Because my father is a huge film buff, he frequently watches the big blockbusters right when they come out in theatres in Taiwan. Avatar was no exception. Good thing he was there to save the day, because Lord knows I had no idea what anybody was talking about:

“In Chinese, the transliteration for Avatar is ‘Ah-Fan-Dah.’”

So that’s where she got “Evita” or “Evinta” from.

I cracked a Coors Light as soon as we got home with the hope that the alcohol might revive the neurons I lost while trying to figure out that conversation in the car.

The John Smith Incident

This blog is mostly a chronicle of stupid and unfortunate incidents that, for whatever reason, happen to yours truly. (Sometimes I think it’s because the Great Oski in the Sky has been crying so much recently that he needs to pick on me for occasional comic relief.) Then there are stories like this – stories of a truly and uniquely Berkeleyan nature. It’s a story that I like so much and is so memorable that it deserves its own timeless moniker.

1770 gave us the Boston Massacre, the spark that ignited the volatile powder keg culminating in the American Revolution. 1982 gave us The Play, a series of events so zany and improbable that a name so simple would suffice. 2009, appropriately, gave us The Pick, one of the most exciting single plays in Big Game history. Now, I give you The John Smith Incident, admittedly an event nowhere near a tier of importance high enough to warrant uses of definite articles nor unnecessary capitalizations. False advertising? Perhaps. If you have a problem, take it up with HR.
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TheYoc, Teeks, EZ-E, BarackObinna and I went to one of the local cheap-o college student eateries in the Asian Ghetto, Thai Basil, to celebrate our men’s basketball team’s victory over that ketchup-and-mustard school in South Central L.A. There’s nothing unusual about a group of college-age friends grabbing some late-night grub. Once you add one cup of Berkeley crazies, stir in two teaspoons of irreverent and misdirected anger, broil at 400 degrees, and garnish with a sprinkling of crack, though, you’re playing in a whole new ball game.

The five of us, jolly and hungry from the excitement of the game, were sitting around the table in the restaurant, minding our own business, eating away, when somebody brought up the film Avatar. Time for a “Ugh, I HATE it when Gordo gives these snobby film snob opinions” moment:

I did not like Avatar.

There, I said it. The visuals were certainly stunning and provided for three hours decent entertainment – a hallmark of James Cameron films. The plot, however, was unoriginal and the acting shoddy at best – the other major hallmark of James Cameron films. As far as I’m concerned, a pretty face does not a good mother make. The plot devices were serviceable, but I was pretty bored by the one-hour mark. Also: sorry, Sigourney, you know I love ya, but even your star power couldn’t overcome one of the absolute most poorly attempted American accents in the history of film. (Apparently, Jake Sully is a cross between a paraplegic American soldier and a half-Australian, half-British man with a speech impediment.) Honestly, if you’ve seen Dances With Wolves or Disney’s Pocahontas, you’ve seen Avatar. Still don’t believe me? Boom.

During the heated discussion between EZ-E and myself regarding the quality of Avatar and why Zoe Saldana is still smoking hot whether she plays a hot college cheerleader, a hot intergalactic linguist, or a hot big blue cat-Smurf-thing, I brought up the parallel between characters of Pocahontas and Avatar. While I was emphatically comparing Jake Sully to John Smith, characters so similar that Cameron did not even bother to change their first initials, a bystander chimed in:

Guy: “Y’all talkin’ ‘bout John Smith?”
Us: “Ummm…yeah?”
Guy: “Yeah, that guy needs to DIE.”

The five of us sat there, dumbfounded, while this guy went on and on about how John Smith was basically evil incarnate, raped or murdered or otherwise destroyed all of this guy’s Native American ancestors, and led the movement for the modern social imprisonment of all American minorities today.

To be fair, this guy had a few valid points – the Europeans were no saviors to the Native Americans by any means, and the forced removal of Native Americans from their homeland is still a major stain upon this nation’s history. The beautiful First Thanksgiving that we all learn about in grade school was a rare face of mutualism. BarackObinna even spoke up in support of this guy’s opinions.

At this point, I was thinking, Okay, this guy’s just opinionated about social issues. We’re in Berkeley – probably shouldn’t expect any less. He’s right in some respects, but I hope he stops talking soon - I really want to finish my meal in peace.

Then things got WEIRD.

He started talking about how any minority in America who owns and operates a corner grocery store or a laundromat is stuck in that unfortunate predicament because of John Smith and every negative racially-linked social issue in the United States is John Smith’s fault. Of course, in between each sentence, he always encouraged John Smith to go die. At one point, I quietly suggested that John Smith is, in fact, already dead and therefore cannot die again. He suggested that I go look up my genealogy and that I should be angrier at the Europeans who raped my ancestors and ruined my potential future. Apparently, no thanks to the entire continent of Europe, I am destined to be a poor owner and operator of a shady store-laundromat hybrid with an income ceiling of $25,000 per year.

I honestly wasn’t offended by anything he was saying, because I knew he was either delirious or just full of crap. However, I was really hungry and his incessant rambling was keeping me from my delicious, rapidly cooling Pad Thai. So I called him out on it. He told me to go fuck myself.

BarackObinna, the glorious future lawyer, stepped in and talked some sense into the situation. He told the crazy man to go research his own genealogy  more closely. Crazy Man retorted with a “fuck you, you KNOW you have some Native American blood in you” and left us with what I guess was an American Indian tribal middle finger greeting.

We sat there, speechless. The looks we all exchanged said but one thing: WHAT ON EARTH JUST HAPPENED?

EZ-E broke the silence in as perfect a 1980s sitcom way as possible: “BUT WE WERE ONLY TALKING ABOUT AVATAR.”

BarackObinna made a suggestion that we all decided was the best way to settle this: “He’s probably on crack. There’s no other explanation.”

Consensus made, we happily went on with our meal and laughed off the whole thing.

Yeah, this story really isn’t that good. But if you want to see societal problems in America, once again, let Berkeley be your guide:

I guess “Brita” is a nickname I’m never going to have

I’m back. Don’t ask me where I’ve been or how it went, and I won’t ask you about those Facebook pictures you took with those two dudes and that horse in that barn on New Year’s Eve – pictures I’m sure your boss would love to see. Fair? Deal.

Just like last year, I have made no new year resolutions. I can’t keep them, and I’m not going to lie to myself year after year. It seems to me that the only thing new year resolutions do is make the gym impossibly crowded for the first few weeks of January, no thanks to all the folks who say to themselves, “I SWEAR I’m going to lose these 50 pounds this time” or “Why did mom have to put so much damn butter in the stuffing?”

We all caught up now with the mushy stuff? Good. On with the show.
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I’ve done a smattering of publicly embarrassing (a redundancy, I suppose) things through my adult life up to this point. Ask any of the Cal Band alumni in my time, and probably the first story they will tell you is the Middle School Boys’ Basketball Incident at a Cal basketball game during my first year in college. (If you really want to know, I’ll write it later. Just take my word for it that it’s a strong enough story with enough cheap thrills and shocking laughs to have tainted my good reputation for the past five years and likely for the rest of my unfortunate life.) There was, of course, the Tucker Max At Work Incident from last year. This incident is the first one of the new year, and if destiny has ever meant anything, this event will set the tone for the rest of the year.

This is a story about my first eviction notice, blame placed entirely upon my filter-lacking brain-to-mouth neural connections. My co-worker, AsianShaq, has described me as him, but drunk, meaning that when he loses all inhibition and says whatever he wants to without consideration of consequence, that’s just me ALL THE TIME. You know how Robin Williams can’t ever seem to “turn it off” because apparently he broke his “Funny” dial years ago? My “Inappropriate” switch is similarly broken. I’m guessing both he and I were brought to our mommas by storks from Acer Computers, because our warranties sure didn’t last very long.

As college rivalries go, Cal-Stanford is relatively tame. Yet every time any sports event poster branded with “CAL VS. STANFORD IN THE BIG [insert creative synecdoche],” you see the inner blue-and-gold flames flare up as Cal fans young and old show up to support their teams, no matter how obscure the sport or how bad the teams. I mean, how good can West Coast college hockey teams be?

Being a big money sport, the twice-yearly Cal-Stanford men’s basketball game always draws a full house. Being a Cal Band alumnus, we like to use our former powers and get into basketball games for free wielding nothing more than our trusty instruments, oddly decorated straw hats, and our annoyingly loud vests. And here…we…go:

Vegas had us favored at something like 13.5 points, and thank the Great Oski in the Sky that it turned out that way. In the final two minutes of the game, we were up by around 15 points when the referees started calling really bizarre phantom foul calls. Immediately I thought that they were pulling a Tim Donaghy, trying to throw the game in favor of the spread. (I guess since being a college sports referee is a part-time gig, they need all the extra pocket change they can get their grubby, incompetent little hands on. Yeah, I’m looking at you, Pac-10.)

Those of you who know me well know that I sometimes have difficulty controlling my emotions in the heat of the moment; consequently, the phrases that fly out of my mouth could be rated anything from a gentle PG to a blasphemous R. Let me tell you, those inexplicable foul calls elevated me from a nice “awesome, we’re going to win this game easily” Disney movie mood to a “2.23 uses per minute of the word ‘fuck’” mood a la the 1995 classic Casino. My brain had no filter of any sort, not even a sieve or a collander. It was a just a straight cannon.

I can also tell you that there is a difference between the entire arena booing loudly and a single loud, poignant opinion in the silence of dead air. Instead of choosing to yell profanities under the cover of ubiquitous noise, I accidentally called the ref a “stupid bald motherfucker” as soon as the arena noise died down. It wasn’t my fault, mind you. Who knew dissenting noise could die down so quickly?

No sooner had the words left my lips did a Haas Pavilion official take a quick skip and hop up to where I was standing and told me to go with him. We strode to the lobby of the pavilion. It was actually a really calm, amicable conversation:

“Am I being kicked out of the game?”

“Yes, you are. I need you to leave the premises. Come on, man, there are kids here. You have to come up with insults more creative than that.”

“Fair enough.”

He kindly showed me the door.

I think he only got pissed at me because he was bald too.