Turkey Day: What I am Thankful For

Having just woke up, I'm a little woozy. So forgive me if this post is a little strange and rambling, but I still have "just woke up" disorientation. Plus, I had a dream that I was blogging, and I now have to act out my dream. Be glad that I was just dreaming of blogging. Gobble, gobble, gobble.

Today is the great Turkey Day. Gobble. I remember hearing many times the story of how the pilgrims landed on plymouth rock, how they made friends with the native Americans, and how they learned to use corn and other "exotic" native plants for food. I used to be good at history, but as you can tell, it (as well as multivariable calculus) has tucked itself into some corner of my brain labeled "trash." Problem is, that "trash" doesn't empty. It just takes up space, giving me less of my measly brain power to combat the downfalls of everyday life. Gobble, gobble. In reality, Turkey day for our family has dwindled down to a great excuse to eat recklessly and to gain weight. "Man, you put on some pounds since I saw you last week." "It's okay, it was Turkey Day." Even worse, my family has no idea who the pilgrims are, where plymouth rock is, or even that there were native Americans before the mean and bad white people came and overran our country like out-of-control popup windows. Note to the white people in my audience: I love you all, I'm just being poorly sarcastic.

The last two years, I've been on call at the hospital on my Turkey Days. So I haven't been able to get my gobble on. (By the way, Turkey day has been forever tainted since J. Lo uttered that stupid line in Gigli - turning the pure and innocent Turkey Day into some weird bisexual Bennifer fetish) I also haven't been able to think what I was thankful for, as usually I'm getting yelled at, getting paged, or getting verbally (sometimes physically) harassed by patients who think that doctors are here to serve them hand and foot. I'm not too thankful at that point. Gobble. Gobble. (That was my curt and terse gobble if you didn't know)

But today, I have the luxury of sitting here in my scrub pants and T shirt and blogging about how grateful I am for the positives in my life. Here is my list of people/things I am thankful for in no particular order. I just put numbers in front to confuse people.

1. The 80's: for showing me how not to dress when I grow up. However, I do have the urge to put on my Michael Jackson 200 zipper red jacket a few times to see the reaction I get.

2. Old School: for giving all of us post college guys a ray of hope that the drinking, partying, hottie ogling and stupidity inherent in our Y chromosome cannot be suppressed.

3. Keyboard shortcuts: for letting me close my AIM or web browser windows faster than my boss can say "You're fired."

4. Reese's Peanut Butter Cups: no explanation necessary.

5. Bruce Lee: for giving all asian boys hope that they can actually be considered anything more than a math-friendly, asexual (well, Terry reproduces by budding), sports challenged pussy. Because of him, people avoided me because they thought that Kung fu is as ubiquitous as the Asian blush. I just had to demonstrate one fake kick and one high pitched variable pitch whine and they were afraid.

6. My best friend's brother: for having those pornos available when I came over at young age. Best sex education ever. Tell him I said thanks Jimmy!

7. Bert and Ernie: for showing me that homosexual relationships are okay, broadening my horizons and acceptance parameters at an early age. I never really thought about it until I was grown up. But if you think about it, it was subtle, yet there. Brilliant psychological manipulation by the folks at Sesame Street.

8. Master P: for turning me off to commercialized rap and on to underground hip-hop and Trance music.

9. The Thong: every guy likes it, no matter what they say. Sisqo was ahead of his time.

10. Man friendly women's stores: if every Ann Taylor, Express, or Nine West store had a nice, comfortable chair and male-oriented magazines, men would love shopping. If they put in a TV with ESPN, than we could spend a whole day in those stores.

There are many more things I am thankful for, but I guess that they are too racy, too controversial, or too damn sappy to write down. Of course, there is one person I am most thankful for, and she knows that I will forever be grateful for her. So I'll leave it at that and say two words to some up my feelings for today: GOBBLE GOBBLE!!!

SF Auto Show: Some Observations

I had all the intentions in the world to be asleep right now. But staying up late is an addiction for me. Maybe it's that late night Arby's run we made. I figured I might put myself to sleep blogging about my weekend. Well, I'll probably end up putting the readers to sleep first.

Friday night we watched Finding Nemo. The animation was absolutely stunning. Not much else to say on that, other than Nemo is the cutest f**kin' fish I've ever seen. I've neer seen baby clownfish before, so I'll just have to assume all baby clownfish look like Nemo. Just let me have my magical thinking for a moment.

Saturday night was a little mix of new and old. We ate Sushi at our favorite establishment, Marina Sushi on Lombard, in SF. There are other nice and probably more fun sushi restaurants in the Marina district. However, we frequent Marina Sushi the most for a few reasons. One, their Sushi is consistently good and comforting. Second, they play true trance (not the crappy cheesy kind). Third, we always get a table. Fourth, they know my order by heart. Fifth, it's Vietnamese run! I like to support my Vietnamese brothahs and sistahs when I have a chance.

After a good helping of sushi, we moved onto Jaime's (a work friend of Chi's) birthday party at Soltice in Pacific Heights. It's a Tapas (I think that's how you spell it) bar and was quite crowded. For you single guys, Chi and I tried to scope out the goods. The female talent there was pretty good, although the lights were way too dim to differentiate decent from worse. I am still not taking to alcohol well on account of my drunken stupor from a week before, so I drank minimally. What's wrong with me? I blame it all on Terry.

Sunday was my annual trek to the Moscone Convention Center for the SF Auto show. Chi was wonderful in going with me. She always is the best person to go with, since she likes looking at cars. Also, she doesn't know about them as much, so I get to act like I know something and explain things to her. Well, key word being "act." Anyways, I love her for going and playing along. Plus, maybe if I show her the convertibles enough, she might be convinced to buy one! Highlights:

1. Ferrari Enzo - Incredibly beautiful car. Wow. It looks better in person than in photos on account of how low it sits and how amazing the engine bay looks. It has back that J. Lo would be jealous of... which on this car is a good thing.

2. Ferrari Strasdale and 575M - Both wonderful cars, but without much crowds around them. I think they're getting old and also we see them quite often around here.

3. Aston Martin Vanquish - Looks better in pictures than in person I think.

4. Bentley Continental GT - Looks classic but massive. It just needs some spinners and it'll be in a rap video. Kind of intimidating looking actually.

5. Lamborghini Murcielago - Everytime I see this car, I am amazed. It looks nice from every angle, and it is low and wide. It looks like something that wouldn't be out of place in Robb Report or Batman. One thing that annoyed me. They let some dude sit in it because he probably faked like he had money and was thinking of buying it. The rest of us stood outside the roped off area looking at him smiling and saying "This is a really nice car." Dumbass. How sad must you be to think you're cool sittin in Lamborghini's at auto shows? If you're going to buy one, you must have money so go to Italy and test drive it over there! Or just go to the damn dealership.

6. Lamborghini Gallardo - Definitely the baby Lambo. But good looking nonetheless. I would buy this if I were limited to 170k (yeah right, like I'd ever have the chance).

7. Mini Cooper S (John Cooper Works Modified) - I loved it. And so did Chi. But sort of like how one loves a puppy. No other reason than they're, well, cute.

8. Mercedes CLK500 Cabriolet - It's incredibly nice inside. Chi wants one. I'll do my best to stop her if she goes and tries to buy one.

9. BMW 5 Series - Ugly. If fugliness were bricks, the BMW 5 Series would be the projects. How they messed this up I don't know, but I could swear the tail end looks like a Suburu WRX. The front is cartoonish.

Well, sorry again for the long blog. That's what happens when I'm bored. But if I'm correct, you all are bored to tears right now reading this, so I'm not alone.

Giant Pandas: A Way to Calm Your Sexual Tension

Since I've started my blog down the luridly indecent expressway to XXX-dom, I figured I'd see if I could calm the raging libidos that have taxed my comment system. It's sort of a Sisyphian (I don't think that's a word) endeavor, but necessary nonetheless. Hopefully, I can introduce a warm, fuzzy feeling in our ambiguosly named tummies, allowing a weekend of sin-free bliss. Why would I do that? Well, raging hormones and a weekend can be a bad mix. And my naive, prude angel on my shoulder says I should inspire halo deserving behavior. Well, you can't say I didn't try.

There are times in life where that angel needs to take over and wrest control away from our sex drive and place it into our brain. That's assuming that some of us have cerebral function above the belly button. Wanton, careless sex always sounds good, but can be a socially frowned upon sometimes. Essentially, you need to distract yourself from feeling horny.

I mean, who doesn't want to have sex at the top of the Eiffel Tower on a beautiful non-humid, 78 degree evening? Nor would any person worth their gonads turn down "sand be damned" coital behavior on a Carribean beach with a beautiful sunset. And would any Dramamine taking adult turn down a boat rocking, whoopi-making romp through Venice?

Of course, those fantasies may be too lofty for some of us. Some wouldn't mind alchohol aided, behind the building, age be damned vertical sex. A few would even make do with a sweatin' to trance music, fully clothed, "we're just dancing" copulation at the local rave. Or how about the "hurry up I can see squad car lights" quickies? You all know who you are. I'm anonymously calling you out, if there is such a thing.

All this concludes with me saying that there are times where making love or having sex (whatever you decide to call it) just isn't socially acceptable, lest you fancy being name called, don't mind circulating internet photos of your goods (or lack thereof) , or like being arrested for indecent (or for some of you horribly indecent) exposure. Who knows? Maybe one day you'll walk into your boss' office and lo and behold your "identical twin" is on his or her browser. Releasing your pent up frustration is wonderful, but sometimes we don't want to see it. Just like drinking-induced public urination.

Oh, and for those of us who have two golf balls and a club (or two peas and a toothpick for that matter), it's okay to have blue balls. Don't persuade yourself into believing it's a medical condition or some brain scarring, pyschiatrist needing event. You will have sex again, whether it be with a woman or your friends with the initals RH (NO - NOT ME, REPEAT NOT ME) or LH.

For the ladies, it must be nice not to have to hide an erection. I guess some guys don't have to since its barely evident. Sort of like coach airplane seats, reclined vs upright - no difference. But that's another blog topic to be discussed at another time.

So what does one do when your sexual hormones override your brain's moral neurotransmitters? I mean, you can't stop it, but only hope to contain it right? The temporizing answer is all I can offer here. And that is to think about something incredibly tame, and completely unrelated to sex. This may tell you more about your personalities than you think, sort of a Rorschach test of your sexual brain lobe (whether it be below or above your belly button). Right now, I am wondering if maybe I'm revealing too much, sacrificing my standing as a good, moral, salt-of-the-earth individual. Oh well.

To tame your sex drive effectively, you need to think of something entirely non-sexual, but not gut-wrenchingly so. Too visceral a reaction will cause your partner to accuse you of strange fetishes or even worse, prosecute you as an "early arrival" when you haven't. It must be a pleasant, naive, pure, and completely nonsexual image (or sequences of). Let it slowly bring down the tension without distraction, giving yourself at least a chance at a rain check.

Now, I don't really care to know what constitutes a solution in everyone's minds. However, those astute readers have already figured me out. That is that I think about Giant Pandas, as the thought is as nonsexual as I can get when I need to calm down any sexual tension. And for those with any reading comprehension, if you think my solution sexual in any way, you are really sick.

BDS

You know when I have to start my blog with a warning, there is a strong possibility I will offend someone. So I warn anyone with a fragile mind, a pure heart, or a prude spirit to STAY AWAY from the following blog.

Last year, while I was on a particularly grueling rotation at the hospital, my chief, my intern, and I were sitting outside at a table post-call, hoping that somehow we could make it home before evening. Despite our fatigue, our ability to appreciate good looking women was not in any way decreased. From our left came an incredibly attractive twentysomething year old female walking down the street right in front of us. KY (initials, not the lubricant), my intern, nearly fell off his chair. HM, my chief, just stopped talking. I just started laughing as the two "single" men were reduced to silent, wide-eyed, clumsy children. Then, as the shimmering day (inside joke to Chi and Chris) enlightened her blond hair and engaging smile, we noticed a fast moving object coming from the right. This object was a disheveled, unshaven, entirely out of shape (not slightly, but very), funny-lookin' guy. To the horror of HM and KY, he hugged and kissed her right in front of us!

In addition to the the unsightly display of PDA, the befuddlement of HM and KY was directed towards the contrast in appearance between these two individuals. "That's some f**ked up sh*t man," exclaimed an obviously perturbed HM. "I know, see, something is wrong here Rich," observed the slickly astute KY. "How does a guy like that end up with a girl like her?" asked the now stumped HM. "BDS," I replied curtly. "What's BDS Rich?" asked a quizzical KY. "Big Dick Syndrome."

What's BDS? Crudely put, its when a guy has a big dick, or just knows how to use it real well. Let's deal in hypotheticals (as I know that both Chi and Dawn love hypotheticals). Take a man and a woman and make all other things equal except in appearance. Money, power, life outlook, personality, etc. are not widely different. If the man looks to be an "average joe," while the woman is an absolute stunner, the guy has BDS. It can even apply to personality. Maybe the guy is an absolute asshole, looks decent and the girl is a sweetheart. More likely than not, the guy has BDS.

Before people pound me by critiquing my shallowness, crudeness, and paucity of decency, I must clarify that having BDS doesn't necessarily mean that you are at the high end of the anatomical bell curve. More likely than not, having BDS means that your brain was fortunately programmed with the correct instructions on the usage of your anatomy. You got the program that was written by women. The male written version of that program is about two lines of code (speed = fast, time limit = 1 minute), with no looping. The female version of that program is quite long, with a million parameters, and loops constantly. Unfortunately, the older you get, the harder it is to hack the female version of the instructions into your brain, so learn it at a young age.

The corollary of this is that one can have TDS too. If you've ever seen a heterosexual guy who is nice, good lookin' (of course I am talking to the women now, I know you guys aren't looking at other guys), intelligent, and wealthy and he is single or never with someone? Tiny Dick Syndrome must be his ailment. Well, either that or just a real bad case of halitosis. TDS refers to in part to small anatomy but also to the inability to use normal or even large anatomy. The architect forgot to program the female written instructions into their brains.

Through all of this, I am not implying that this should be the first thing on a woman's list of features to shop for. The size of anything (feet, knees, toes, earlobes, eyes, boobs, elbows or even belly buttons) should not be the deciding factor in who you end up with. If you do find the right person and are in love with them, having TDS or BDS shouldn't really matter (if you haven't already picked up, this is the "disclaimer" paragraph - I seem to need that more often these days) Really, BDS/TDS Theory is just an observation of sorts and an attempted explanation for all those seemingly odd couples.

Debauchery Revisited (Guest Blog by Chi): A Sober Perspective

Richard requested that I “guest blog” on his site because he’s still pretty woozy and hazy about the whole evening. As the lone sober wolf in this outing, I have to say that intimate knowledge (and photographic evidence) of this sordid tale will keep me a wealthy woman for years to come. Why? Because I will need to be bribed heavily should anyone in the group have political ambitions in the future. I have a memory like an elephant and the soulless nature that would use it to further my own agenda without the weight of a guilty conscience. It’s best to read this in conjunction with the photo album

Part I: Hello Kitty!!
It began with an auspicious get together consisting of massive quantities of food (beef, shrimp and butter) and alcohol. Terry, the birthday boy (aka Queen Kitty), was the guest of honor. Being the adolescent girl that he is, with a secret passion for Sanrio products, I felt it was best to have a pink Hello Kitty theme (although Richard coaxed me into skipping on the giant pink balloons, the pink Hello Kitty scented candles and the Hello Kitty piñata). I completely underestimated Terry’s love of all things pink and Hello Kitty. I have never seen anyone more excited than Terry when he opened his Hello Kitty gift bag to find a box of Hello Kitty cookies – and then to discover that they were individually wrapped sent Terry into fits of enchantment and wonder.

Richard manned the meat station and kept everyone well stocked with buttered beef and shrimp. He would douse himself in eau de buttered beef cologne if it were socially acceptable. After all the food, beer, cake, Alex’s dangerous alcoholic concoction and many silly group pictures later, the group harnessed their energy and headed out to Palo Alto F&A’s to look for trouble. Christine felt inclined to seek revenge on Terry for all of her previous forays into the dark underbelly of Terry’s alcoholic world. She was spurred on by Terry’s pathetic plea to take pity on him because Minna was visiting for the weekend and he did not want to overindulge. He should have kept quiet… Christine’s famous last words, “Let’s get Terry f*cked up cuz it’s PAYBACK time!!!” Ah, little did we know how true those words rang… Unfortunately, in the process of getting Terry messed up, they undid themselves as well…

Part II: Tomfoolery and Shenanigans!
Upon arriving at the bar entrance, I was outraged at the prospect of being forced to pay a $5 cover charge per person. Summoning the rusty (yet tried and true techniques perfected in my college days) persuasive skills set I’ve accumulated over the years through various means, the bouncers were duly convinced that at the very least, the women should not be required to pay the cover charge. We were promptly invited to enter at their pleasure. The boys, on the other hand, were left to their own devices.

Immediately upon entrance into the bar, the boys (i.e. Alex) set off to obtain enough alcohol to irrigate the entire Saharan desert. Within the first 15 minutes, they had downed enough hard liquor shots to make me comatose (but I’m a lightweight, so I guess it doesn’t count). It was a bad premonition of things to come… Since Richard often accuses me of being longwinded (and with good reason), here are the highlights: Terry acquires an entourage of (old and haggard-looking) married ladies (very convincing in his baby blue hoodie and beads); everyone takes turns calling Terry’s friend Bae to rub it in that we were getting Terry completely f*cked up; Christine calling Terry’s brother Albert to tell him that she wears Spider-Man underwear (oh wait, that was a different night); some strange, freaky-looking chick flashing Terry her boobs in exchange for his beads; Terry telling Richard repeatedly that he loves him; Christine and Vicky putting on their beer goggles and beginning the mating ritual with two tattooed and pierced young boy toys on the dance floor; Richard explaining to Chris how to earn a man card, even though Richard himself does not possess one (his is safely tucked in my purse); and the group consumption of massive amounts of alcohol.

Part III: Beer Goggles On!!
By midnight, everyone was well on their way to being wasted. All those hard liquor shots finally caught up to Richard and smacked him. After taking him home to start the suddenly too familiar ritual of praying to the porcelain god (direct quote: “just let me nap here… the porcelain is so cool on my hot skin”), I drove back to the bar to pick up the group. As I was rounding the corner, a flurry of activity caught my eye. At first glance, I didn’t think much of it—just another drunken, horny couple making out on the side of the building. Then I did a double-take. Oh my GOD!! It was Christine—sucking face with one of the pierced and tattooed young things!!! I pulled up to the front of the building and in my best drill sergeant imitation, ordered everyone to get in the car. Alex and Chris extracted Christine from the octopus-tentacles of her boy toy and forced her into the car. Terry and Minna went off in search of Vicky, who was re-enacting the same scene I had just witnessed with Christine with her own pierced and tattooed boy toy.

After getting everyone back to my house, I could hear Richard still waking up the dead with his puking noises in our bedroom bathroom. Christine promptly passed out on the living room floor (and eventually made it into Richard’s music listening room); Vicky made a beeline for the other bathroom to do her own purging (aided by the benevolent Minna); Terry was so hammered he couldn’t see or walk straight and continuously apologizing to me, telling me he was getting all choked up, that he loved Richard so much, and making flowery speeches to me in Korean; Chris being resourceful and finding an alternative urinal in the form of my front bushes; and Alex doing his best to keep everyone hydrated by constant offerings of water.

By 6am, I had not yet slept a wink and I was exhausted. It was certainly an interesting experience, having adopted 7 drunken children. My neighbors in this hoity toity neighborhood are quite horrified. I find it incredulous that three of these drunken buffoons are actually doctors. Note to self: never get sick and never require medical attention from my husband, Terry or Christine. All in all, I hope Terry found it a memorable way to celebrate his 30th birthday. Unfortunately, after that night’s antics, it has guaranteed him permanent bachelorhood.

Terry's night of debauchery...er... I mean Terry's Birthday

Well, I can only confess to know most of what happened. My guest blogger (Chi) will fill you in on what really happened. My account of what happened starts out accurately, but then becomes an alcohol induced haze near the end. All I can say is, prepare yourself if you expected naive banter and saintly behavior. I can only hope that Minna (Terry's visiting friend) comes away remembering the first part of the evening. We're sorry Minna about the second part (he had it coming).

I can honestly divide the night into two parts. Part I can be appropriately labeled Terry's Birthday Party. Generosity, caring, good food, light alcohol, and good cheers were had by all. Chi and I (okay, Chi mostly) prepared a traditional Vietnamese buttered-beef fondue dinner to be enjoyed by all. Chi decorated our place with a Hello Kitty theme, since we all know how Terry loves Hello Kitty. I told him to buy a pink Audi and put a Hello Kitty decal on! Girls love that! Throughout it all, Terry was pretty happy. His most excited moment, though, was discovering that the Hello Kitty cookies we bought him were individually wrapped! What sophistication!

If the night had ended there, we would have been happy. Terry would have been validated in Minna's eyes. More of our beef fondue would have been consumed. Most importantly, I wouldn't have been sick two days afterwards. But, alas, the night was meant to disintegrate into a morass of alcohol consuming, breast revealing, nipple tweaking, alley kissing, and porcelain god praying memories.

So begins Part II: Terry's (and friends) night of debauchery. Now, Terry set himself up for failure the minute he walked out the door as we headed to Palo Alto's F&A's. Instead of his usual braggadocio, he tried to play the pussy card, and said "Hey man, Minna and I have to go home early... so I might not drink so much." What?! To which Christine replied, "No way Terry! I'm gonna get you f**ked up!" See Terry, if you had displayed your normal pseudo-machismo, you may have gotten off the hook. But you challenged us! I think Terry had the last laugh though.

At F&A's bar, we had planned to go slow. Somehow that plan disintegrated and soon we were popping hard liquor shots every 15 minutes. From there on out, it became a blur. Some highlights are as follows. Terry hit on married women. He got a woman to flash her breasts in exchange for his beads. Terry called his friend Bae to tell him how f**ked up he was getting. Married women kept following him (constant theme throughout the night). Christine and Vicky did some dirrrrty dancing with some new friends. Now, that was about it for me. I'll leave the rest to my wife (she was the only sober one and she has a sharp memory).

At that point, all the hard liquor hit me, and my very tolerant wife took me home and straight to the porcelain god. I think I died in there that night. Or at least I wished I did. I was still hungover Sunday, that's how bad it was. I also woke up to see that quite a few of the entourage had stayed at our place.. too sick to drive home. Our neighbors must think we're in college or something.

All in all, we had a good time. The pictures tell a sordid tale, that I don't necessarily remember. Rather than blog about rumors and hearsay, I'll leave it up to the drunk people enforcer (Chi) to tell the true anecdotes of debauchery. Right now, all I can think is: when will this headache go away?!

Bad coffee

How hard is it to make coffee? Especially when you're an established franchise that specializes in overcharging the general public for extract from a bean? Well, one particular Starbuck's establishment seems to mess up my coffee every time. Especially this morning.

All I ask for is their bold blend coffee with vanilla syrup and room for cream. Sounds easy doesn't it? Well, every time I go there, they mess it up. The most common mistake is not putting in the vanilla syrup. It happens 2 out of every 3 visits. All it requires is three squirts from their syrup bottle. So usually I sip it first to make sure. And when I ask them to add it when they didn't, they look at me as if I need anger management.

The second mistake that is always made is not giving me room for cream. They fill it up to the brim. I bring my own cup (as a favor for my tree huggin', oatmeal eating friends), which is designed with a 1" high brim to keep from spilling in my poorly designed car cupholder. However, it needs about 1 cm or so room beneath it since it dips low into the actual cup. Well, one out of three visits they fill it up to the brim. So when I add my non-fat milk (which tastes and looks like water with white food coloring) I'm at the limit. At the condiments (I guess you call it that) stand, I sit there for a minute trying to decide, "Should I risk the two packets of sugar.. that might put it over the top." I add the sugar everytime, but I'm indecisive like that sometimes (funny I'm decisive about life or death situations... but sugar stifles me). After getting in my car, another decision awaits. Should I poor out some or just try to drive REAL slow (ie simulate driving a tree huggin', oatmeal eatin' friend's favorite car - a supersubcompact 15hp car that gets 50mpg). Depending on the day, I go 50/50 either way.. but I feel horribly guilty about dumping that precious 20 mL of coffee.

The last coffee serving infraction involves caramel syrup. Every other coffee place I know gets it right when I say, "Grande coffee with caramel syrup and room for cream." Of course this particular one gets it wrong. They actually put in one squirt of real caramel. Which is great if I was eating ice cream, but adds no flavor to the coffee. So when I come back saying, "Could I get some caramel syrup, I think you forgot to add it." They say, "We did already." I say, "No you didn't, you added caramel SAUCE." Again, they look at me like I forgot that I am in THE Starbucks and drinking THEIR coffee and how dare I even suggest that they can't serve it right.

So why don't I go to another Starbucks you ask? Well, I like driving an extra 5 minutes in the morning. Let's my engine warm up. Gives me a chance to catch an extra 5 minutes of Trance. But I think the biggest reason is so I can have hope in the morning. Just hope that they do it right for once. Just ONE TIME... help a brotha out!

For awhile, I thought it might be because I gave them the "I don't like change in my pocket" tip. You all know what I mean. So a couple of times, I gave a whole dollar to the same person... hoping that they'd notice and that the next morning, they'd get it right. Nope. Didn't matter. So now I go no tip at all, which means I don't get the "Have a nice day" that everyone else gets. Plus, why should I tip a place that serves overpriced coffee to chain store lovin' fast wallets like me? I really should make my own coffee. But I convince myself every morning that those retards at Starbucks put more TLC in their coffee than I would.

Maybe they just have the "you didn't buy the 1000 calorie, overpriced by 3 dollars, coffee" haterism. I think they're mad that I don't support their struggling franchise by buying Vente Vanilla Quadruple shot Mocha's everyday. Then again, they'd just mess that up too.

Degrees of Hotness

This should be short. Well, at least that's my intention. Seems like I get longwinded with every topic I bring up. Maybe its just the way I think, because I don't really talk a lot.

Anyways, my friend Terry had a good story to tell one night about some hot women he was with. I had to stop his storytelling midway to clarify a point he made. I asked, "How hot?" Little did I know, but he says there are subcategories of hotness... or degrees of hotness.

Before I continue on, I should say something about superficiality. Now, I know that personality is an important aspect of a person's whole being. Describing someone as beautiful implies not only a high level of physical attractiveness, but it also suggests a compatible personality and a unique relationship history that adds to the appealing visage and familiar curves. But we are talking about degrees of hotness here, more useful in the clubs, bars, or Audi meets. Plus, we'll talk about personality another time. So here goes:

1) Virgin Hot- hard to define, but you know it when you see it. But I'll take a stab at it. The Virgin Hot woman has a sense of naive honesty that defies the cynicism around her. Her dress and figure are more tasteful, allowing the imagination to develop what's underneath. Not quite hard to get, but looks like she is very selective. She is the one guys want to take home to mom... and his friends.. well, to everyone.

2) Business Hot- easy to define. The Business Hot woman looks incredibly sexy in her work attire. The clothes themselves may be extremely conservative, but often they are tailored and fit the woman well. Imagination plays a part here, but it is this type of woman that most men are curious about. How is she at the club? How is she at home? How is she in bed?

3) Porno Hot- very easy to define. The Porno Hot woman looks, well, like she should be doing pornos. Clothing is present, but not necessarily required and little is left to the imagination. Big breasts and big buttocks are important, but not a requisite. The smile is noticed last. She is the one that every guy wants to go home with for a few nights, but not longer.

4) F**kin' Hot- hard to define. The F**kin' hot woman is actually the one that the guy is dating at the time. The characterization of hotness is entirely dependent on the man. Instead of physical attributes that correlate to a certain degree of hotness, F**kin' hot really is the whole package, tailored to the likes or dislikes of the man. To best describe it, I'll leave it to a description by Terry (the most romantic thing he has ever said I believe): "The f**kin' hot girl is the one that when you're on a date, and she leaves to go to the bathroom, on the way back when you see her, but before you say anything to her, you realize that she's F**kin' hot and she happens to be with you." Sorry for the string of grammatical errors. It's okay, he's from MIT.

So there you have it. Degrees of hotness. I'm sure there are plenty more, but my brain just pooped out and I can't remember. I think its on account of the fact that Healthy Choice is only healthy because there's none of it. "Lemon Herb Chicken with vegetables and cherry dessert" sure sounds good, but it taste like leftover school cafeteria food. Just more salty. I have to stop writing when I'm hungry.

Audizine GTG aka Norm's Sendoff Party

I suck at drinking these days. It seems like ever since my 18 beer night at Palo Alto's F&A's a month ago, I haven't been able to drink more than 6 beers without feeling a little faded. What happened? Not that I'm seeking to get drunk, it's just strange to hit a wall.

Last night was a sendoff party for Norm, one of the longtime regulars on Audizine.com. I met Norm only a couple of weeks ago at Hooter's. Norm is a good guy it seems. He apparently does some extra parts in movies here and there. To Terry and Christine's delight, he also has met Ashley Judd and Keanu Reeves, thus solidifying his status as a deity to Terry and Christine. Outside of that, he's a very down to earth guy.

The party was held at Rawlin's, a sports bar in the bay. It is the best sports bar I've been to recently (but I haven't been to ESPN's yet), as it had huge screens and screens everywhere. 20 Audiziner's showed up. Funny, I plan a GTG and only 6 people show up. Dawn plans one, and 20 show up. Not only that, I planned one for Hooter's, so the venue can't be the scapegoat!

All in all it was pretty fun. Chi got a kick out of finally meeting/seeing all these people we hear so much about. Which brings up something else. If a woman were to want a good male to female ratio, she should buy a "performance" car, join that particular car's internet forum, and attend their events. It's a good bet that she'll face a 1000:1 male to female ratio. Not only that, if she buys a more expensive car, there's a good likelihood that the guy will be wealthy (or that they live with their 20 brothers and sisters). Also, the range of personalities makes for a good selection. I'm just surprised more women haven't figured this out!

Of course, if you are a woman planning to infiltrate this testosterone laden realm, you should at least know what you're talking about and have a passion for your car! Expressing a need to learn about your car will surely garner you some dates. Okay, I'm really being sarcastic, as joining such a group just to meet guys would be phony in my eyes. But if you do like cars, it would be the place to go.

Which brings me to my final point. This particular blog sucks big time. Being bored and waiting for my PF Chang's to get cooked, I had some time to fluff the pages of my blog a little. So I took advantage of it. Hopefully, the three of you who actually interact with and read my blog won't be offended. For those others who just "lurk," I don't even know you're reading... so I can't possibly offend you right?!

Disclaimer: blogs written while in a fatigue laden, hunger stricken state cannot be taken seriously.

Acquaintance-ship

I thought about titling this blog friendship, but that was too cliche. And then I wanted to call it acquaintances, but that wasn't what I was going for. Acquaintances implies two strangers who happen to know each other. But what happens when its two friends who act like acquaintances? So I ended up with acquaintanceship (a-ship from now on). It's an amorphous state of a relationship that is less than a friendship, but more than just being mere acquaintances. It needs to have been borne out of a good friendship (or even a great friendship). It cannot be attained by mere strangers. It implies a lost friendship more than anything.

All of us have gone through this. Think about a friend that you barely know or see anymore. At one point, the two of you might have been the best of friends, sharing all of your hardships, your tears, your laughter, and your loyalty unconditionally. At one time, the two of you might have thought that there was nothing that would stand in the way of your friendship. And at one time, you thought that this person was your savior, the one who would take the hit for you. But then, at some point, the friendship loses its way, and you find yourself wishing for it to come back again.

The signs are clear.

Reciprocation is the first thing to go. You find yourself always making the effort to contact your friends. Yet, they barely do the same. You feel as if you were to catch the next flight to Bora Bora, they wouldn't even know you were gone until you came back 6 months later and called them about it. Left to their own devices, they wouldn't even call you unless something necessitated it.

Conversation depth is out the door too. When you finally do make contact, all you hear is, "So how's your job going?" Or "How's the family?" Or "The weather over here is sure cold." Or "How about them Yankees?" What's worse is when they get the information incorrect. "You still working at ACME?" "No man, I quit that like 2 years ago, I told you that when I was back there last summer." The conversations become no different than those you would have at the office cooler. Nothing deep, nothing controversial, all too safe, and all too distant.

Reliability and loyalty is lost in transformation also. The person who used to defend and advocate you suddenly became a new critic. The person that showed up at every outing you planned developed a horrid case of flaking. You used to count them in automatically, but now you have to kiss their ass to get them to attend. Even more maddening is when you have to counter the lame excuses they give. "I can't come man, I've got to spend some time with my wife." "What are you talking about? I haven't seen you in 2 years, and you can't spare 2 hours?"

Finally, they lose all interest in your identity. They used to listen to you ramble on about your favorite music, movies, books, etc., but now, they prefer to talk about themselves. They used to be able to finish your thoughts, but now they can't even let you finish your sentences. You feel as if they don't even know who you are anymore, or even worse don't even wish too.

I'm sad to have lost some friends to a-ship. Luckily, I've found new friends who hopefully won't. Maybe it's true that friendships are there only when you need them at a certain time in your life. But I guess I'm not pragmatic like that.

When things come together

Chi and I went out today to do some much needed shopping. We normally go to Corte Madera to go shopping, as more of our sizes are available there. To get there, we had to take the 101 up, go through SF, and cross the Golden Gate. It seems like such a long way to go, but it worked out perfectly today.

In October, the fog abates, and the incredible beauty of the Bay Area takes hold. Normally, Chi and I talk quite a bit during our drives. As we came upon the Golden Gate, the view was breathtaking. As clear as I have ever seen it, the ocean was daunting and the shores powerfully lucid. The bridge's red seemed more reassuring than I had ever experienced.

Adding to it all was the song that came on right at the time we drove on the Golden Gate. I was playing a Trance mix recorded from BBC Radio's Essential mix. This set was done by Josh Gabriel and Dave Dresden (of SF and LA respectively), which I loop constantly. The song was Beautiful Things, performed by Andain and remixed by Gabriel and Dresden. My wife also likes this song quite a bit. So much so, that we both were silent listening to the deeply thoughtful lyrics, immersed in a supportively rich trance beat and melody, all the while driving on the Golden Gate bridge. Life was right.

The lyrics:

Got up early, found something's missing
my only name.
no one else sees, but I got stuck.
It seemed forever came.
Stop pushing, move for just a second.
then nothing's changed.
Who am i this time, where's my name.
I guess it crept away.

No one's calling for me at the door.
and unpredictable wont bother anymore
Silently gets harder to ignore.
Look straight ahead, there's nothing left to see.
What's done is done,
This life has got its hold on me.
Just let it go, what now can never be.

I forgot that I might see,
so many beautiful things.
I forgot that I might need,
to find out what a life could be.

Beautiful Things

Take this happy ending away, it's all the same.
God won't waste his simplicity on possibility.
Get me up, wake me up, dreams of feeling,
this, trace of blame.
Frozen still, I thought I could stop.
Now who's gone away?

No one's calling for me at the door.
and unpredictable wont bother anymore.
Silently gets harder to ignore,
Look straight ahead, there's nothing left to see.
What's done is done.
This life has got its hold on me.
Just let it go, what now can never be.

So many beautiful things.
So many beautiful things.

Now what do I do?
Can I change my mind?
Did I think things through?
It was once my life.
It was my life I wanted.

The angelic voice behind this song belongs to Mavie Marcos, a classically trained singer. The song has been thought to be about suicide, but Dave Dresden himself has said that it is a reflection on a past partially wasted, on a present needing attention, and on a future undetermined. No matter, the song is a must hear for any music fan.