It sucks to be an Asian guy.

Well, if you believe everything you read.  Just the other day there was a post on Datingish talking about why Asian guys lose their women to other races.  I rolled my eyes like Cypress Hill does a joint in anticipation of yet another post filled with negative stereotypes about Asian men.  (I come back from vacation and that’s what I see on featured content?  Oh, Xanga, how far you have fallen!)

Just to get it out of the way, I’ve never had a problem with Asian women dating Caucasians, Blacks or Latinos.  If I’m not interested in that particular girl, why should I care who she dates?

The main reasons why the writer of the post believes that Asian men can never get girls are:

1)  They lack initiative

2)  They do not follow up

And per routine the lemmings came out of hiding to reply, “Like, OMG, I knew an Azn guy just like that.  He was a black belt too!”  But isn’t that a little, uh, RACIST (if not just ignorant and stupid) to stereotype all Asian men as Long Duk Dongs?  Think about it.  What if tomorrow on featured content there was a post saying:

1)  African American men lose their women because they are too aggressive

2)  Latino men lose their women because they are lazy.

Is that so different from the post in question?

Of course there are Asian guys who lack initiative, along with many other African Americans, Latinos and Caucasians.  Of course there are African American men who are too aggressive, along with many other Asians, Latinos and Caucasians.  Of course there are Latinos who are lazy, along with many other Asians, African Americans and Caucasians.  Negative attributes are a monopoly of mankind and not one particular kind of man.  I’ve heard and read it all.

Asian men are not supposed to be well versed in English and the arts.  

Asian men are not supposed to be good athletes.

Asian men are not supposed to be tall. 

Asian men are not supposed to be good looking. 

Asian men don’t know how to dance.

Not taking the initiative or not following up are things that can be found in any random guy off the street and why the writer chose to make it an Asian phenomenon is beyond me. 

Don’t put me in a box just because someone rejected you in the past.

The whole issue of the three date rule changing from sex to a kiss for Asian men isn’t necessarily a bad thing, either.  Ever consider the fact that no one wants to date an ambulatory petri dish?

What does that post infer about the Asian and non-Asian women who date Asian men?  Are they somehow degrading themselves by choosing Asian men?

I don’t buy the “It’s not racist because I said that this post is not about ‘every Asian guy’ [despite the title]” defense.  It’s like saying, “I’m not racist, I have Latino friends and I watch the Cosby show.”

I am tired of reading blogs by girls who incessantly complain that guys don’t take the initiative or call back fast enough, as if their mere presence in a room should demand that all the single men get down on one knee and beg for a date like she was Jessica Alba.  If you want to work at a Fortune 500 company, do you think just sitting outside the entrance sucking in your gut and on a breath mint will get you a job?  Double decka hecka no.  You send in your resume and harass HR until they offer you an interview.  Likewise, if there is a guy you fancy, don’t just sit and whine about being ignored…go get him.  The thought that men should do all the chasing (i.e. “work for it” as if the girl is a piece of meat at Whole Foods) is as antiquated as the thought that a woman should put out on a date because the guy took her to Applebee’s and pretended to listen to her drama.  If women want to be treated and respected like equals, they shouldn’t act like damsels in distress when they are not.  The beginning of a relationship sets the tone for the future.  No guy wants to be in a relationship where he always has to jump through hoops to prove to a girl that he likes her.  (Only insecure women ask for that.)  Honey, the real world isn’t like Super Mario…no one wants to date a princess.

If you choose not to date someone because he lacks initiative or does not follow up that’s fine by me.  Just don’t assume that because I’m Asian that I’m weak sauce like that.

(For the record, I took the initiative to ask The Wife™ out and when she gave me her number I followed up and called her.)

Merry Christmas, everyone!  Many blessings to you and yours.  Happy birthday, Jesus!

Toilet seat: up or down?

So the other day The Franksabunch™ was at Starbucks doing some reading–venti iced green tea with three splenda and no attitude, please!–when my bladder told me that it was time to empty that which is full, so I sauntered over to the unisex bathroom.  Occupied!  Well, if there’s one thing I learned during medical school years ago it was that my bladder could hold urine like a mother.  (There’s nothing like holding your pee during an eight-hour esophagectomy to show your bladder who is the man in the relationship.)  So I waited.  And waited.  And waited.  And waited.  I think almost 7 minutes had gone by before I heard a flush and out walked a wahine who scurried past me with her head down.  I walked in and then….what da double decka hecka?  The toilet seat is UP!  Why did she lift it up?  (And no, she was not a tranny!)  Far be it from me to assume anything about the other sex, but I know very few wahines who are charitable enough to lift the toilet seat up in a public restroom.  (And besides, the girl didn’t know that I was waiting outside.)  Women are a privileged bunch.  They expect toilet seats to be down when they walk in to, ahem, “powder their noses,” just as much as they expect men to understand what they’re saying when giving them the silent treatment.  I know that this wahine obviously used the toilet.  The proof was in the pudding…left behind in the toilet bowl.  Without giving it much thought I filed it, along with Ryan Seacrest’s popularity, in the “Things that exist but The Franksabunch™ doesn’t understand why” file and went about my usual business.  (You know, saving the world and all that.)

Today The Wife™ was at a place with a unisex bathroom and she tried to open the door but it was locked.  Ten minutes later a man in an expensive, suave suit walked out avoiding The Wife™’s eyes, but what he left behind hit her in the nose like a farting bat out of hell.  100% genuine funk nasty.  But here’s the funny part…he left the toilet seat UP!  Homie was trying to be all ninja about it, dropping a numero dos and then lifting the toilet seat in a futile attempt to make her think that he didn’t just empty his large intestine into the Pacific Ocean.  Now this all got The Franksabunch™ thinking…

Do we go through life leaving the toilet seat up or down after we drop a numero dos?  Do we always put up a happy facade or do we let others peek into the maelstrom that lies beneath?

It’s no secret that we all go through, uh, crap in this life, and whether out of pride, shame or what have you, we often put up a facade of happiness to convince others that we are in fact okay.  In other words, we leave the toilet seat up to prevent others from knowing what just happened.  But in doing so, are we hurting or helping ourselves?  I remember after my father passed away that I tried to be stoic, to be strong for everyone else, but everytime someone out of courtesy asked and I replied with, “I’m okay,”  I felt the hole within me getting larger and burrowing deeper.  It kept eating away at me until one day it just all came out.  “I’m so sick and tired of having to be the one that is strong for everyone else,” I screamed at my friend.  “What about me?  Who is there for me?”  And it was then, and only then, that my healing process could begin.

Neglecting the hurt in your life only serves to make it hunger for you more.  And denying others a chance to peek into the maelstrom that lies beneath your happy facade only serves to isolate yourself further to a place where only you and your pain reside.  All wounds will leave a scar, my friends, but how big that scar gets is entirely up to you.

So the next time you find yourself dropping a numero dos, whether literally or figuratively, just go ahead and leave the toilet seat down.  I’ll be here for you.

Have a great week!
———
I wanted to get tickets to go watch BJ Penn vs. GSP at UFC 94 (since I’m already going to be in Las Vegas then), but at this point I don’t want to pay $200 (plus whatever ridiculous fees they add on) per ticket to sit in the nosebleed section.  It’s too bad, I was going to go all moked out with a BJ Penn shirt waving a Hawaiian flag, haha!  Anyone got the hook ups?

Edit: Did I just see a post on healthkicker about drinking urine?!?!?!  What’s next?  Peanut butter and poop sandwiches?

Xanga Theme Songs.

On election night I watched Obama’s acceptance speech and saw the emotions and hope splattered across the faces of the audience and thought…  What’s missing?  A theme song!  I thought it would’ve been perfect at the acceptance speech if Obama had LL Cool J come out and rap, “I’m gonna knock you out.  Obama said knock you out!  Don’t call it a comeback!”  (I wish I could say that I came up with this on my own, but I saw the “Obama said knock you out” on a t-shirt 6 months ago.)  For McCain, I think an appropriate song for election night would’ve been, “Grandpa got run over by a reindeer,” with the reindeer being—who else?—Sarah Palin.  But all this got me thinking…why don’t xangans have theme songs?  I’ve gotten to know a lot of xangans over the years, so here are some songs I think that fit them well.

PetiteTokyo.  “Because I’m a girl,” by Kiss.   Why?  Because dongseng is a worthy girl looking for worthy love from a man who will be honest, noble, caring…and willing to cut his eyes out for her.  Korean women are cuuuuurraaaaazy!  (I should know, I married one!)

LA2SF_HWY.  “Insane in the membrane,” by Cypress Hill.  Why?  Because this person is flat out nuts.  As in Jack Nicholson Cuckoo’s Nest nuts.  Reading his/her site is like following the stream of consciousness of someone who is oxygen deprived and snorting sriracha hot sauce.  (I got aloha for you, homie, I just don’t understand you!)

SwB.  “Anything,” by SWV.  Why?  When I first saw her xanga name I thought she was just another bimbo flashing her body for eprops.  However, I discovered that in addition to being SwB she’s actually quite articulate and well read.  I cracked up when I learned the reason why she created SwB.  (Sorry, I can’t tell you.)  She has her share of admirers who will do anything for her, but the main reason why this song fits is if you tilt your head the right way you can just hear Method Man introducing her, “KABOOM, guess who stepped in the room?  The S-S-Double-Double-U-to-the-B!” at the 3:00 mark. 

Whonose.“It’s raining men,” by the Weather Girls.  Why?  Do you even have to ask?  Whonose is the most famous xangan from the other side of the pond (who probably invests more effort into posts than the rest of us)!  I think this guy must be SAS, otherwise how in the world does he spend all his time traveling the globe AND have good dental hygiene?

korean_biyatch.  “p.i.m.p.” by 50 cent.  Why?  Yatch has had my back since day 1 (long story) and she has always kept the pimp hand way strong. 

Ibizajb.  “Thong song,” by Sisqo.  Why?  I’ve seen his nekkid butt more than my own!

TheBlackSpiderman. “Ante up,” by M.O.P.  (The best rap song ever recorded, IMHO.)  Why?  Spidey subscribed to me a few years ago and I thought he was just another regular guy on xanga and then all of a sudden—huzzah!—I woke up and discovered that his blog blew up and homie stole all of our eprops!  The scoundrel!

Kbabe44.  “Party ain’t a party,” by Queen Pen.  Why?  I don’t think I’ve seen a post where this wahine isn’t tearing up the SoCal clubs.  (I think she singlehandedly kept Le Prive in business for a couple years!)  What?  You can’t see because you’re not on her protected list?  No soup for you! 

JonasApproved. “Straight out of Canton,” by The Notorious MSG.  Why?  Jonas can hook you up with all the best Chinatown eats in SF…he also bears an uncanny resemblance to group member Down Lo Mein from the biceps to the jeri curls.  (J/K about the jeri curls part.  Maybe.)

Winspark.  “Coconut Girl,” by Brother Noland.  Why?  Winspark has always been an island girl trapped in the high fashion world of Manhattan.  Hurry up and move to Hawaii, ‘Spark.  The shave ice in NYC just doesn’t cut it!

Chinkzilla. “No handlebars,” by FloBot.  Why?  CZ is a Kaba Modern-grade dancer.  Film producer.  Iron chef of Chinese food.  Photographer.  Supporter of Taiwanese independence.  Is there anything this guy can’t do?  Can he fix Medicare for us?  Can he teach The Franksabunch™ some lateral movement on the dance floor?

Weezguy.  “Thriller,” by MJ.  Like I’ve said before, Weezguy is the only person on xanga trying to simultaneously save and destroy the world with his annual halloween costumes.  Anyone who will dress up as a pregnant hula dancer is tres frijoles short of a full burrito! 

Edit: Jigg.  “Hey Ladies,” by the Beastie Boys.  Why?  Jigg is smooth, man.  He has the looks, charm and Brooklyn swagger…and based on his profile pic looks like he’s ready to give a prostate exam with his left hand.  (Haha!  J/K, man.)  Keep this guy away from your wahines, homies, otherwise they won’t be yours anymore.

And here are some theme songs for all the xanga sites that are proliferating like nuclear arms on the Russian-NATO border:

• Momaroo: “Billie Jean,” by MJ because we all know who momaroo is, but what about popparoo?
• Datingish: “Poison,” by Bell Biv Devoe because the best dating advice is to never trust a big butt and a smile.
• Healthkicker: “Ya Mama (so fat),” by the Pharcyde because you can always blame it on bad genes (and the fact that ya mama got a peg-leg, with a kickstand) instead of the ultimate cheeseburger and curly fries you just ate.  (Just kidding, The Franksabunch™ always encourages exercise, responsible eating and avoiding people who don’t wear deodorant to promote a healthy lifestyle.)
• Dollarish: “C.R.E.A.M.” by the Wu-Tang Clan, because while cash rules everything around me, I’m ruled by The Wife™ (hey, I ain’t gon tell no lie).
• Lovelyish: “If you wanna be happy,” by Jimmy Soul, because learning how to cook can always make up for your bad aesthetics!  Seriously, people…beauty fades.  Chicken katsu donburi Love is forever.
• Revelife: “I will always love you,” by Whitney Houston.  Yes, Revelife, we’ve had our ups and downs, but keep fighting the good fight.

So what’s your theme song?

My apologies.  I wanted to do more for the xanga peeps I’ve known since back in the day (as a shout out to everyone who’s made xanga fun for me, since my blogging days are winding down) but I’m studying for my boards.  Have a great week and big ups to the veterans out there who have served us honorably!

Franksabunch™…keepin’ it real and evidence based since 2004…out!  Have a great week!

——–

Congrats to Obama.  I will stay true to my word.  Even though I didn’t vote for him, I will hope and wish the best for him and his family as he leads our country for the next 4 years.  (Just pwetty pweeeeze leave widows like Nancy Reagan out of your next press conference!)

——-

As part of The Wife™’s quest to convert me from a Half-Awesome-Half-Taiwanese-from-Hawaii boy into a Korean, she’s been making me watch Korean movies.  (I draw the line at Korean soap operas…double decka hecka no!)  For those of you who are fans of kim chi cinema, check out this blog article about Hollywood remakes of Korean movies.  Will Smith getting jigae with it as Oh Dae Su from Old Boy?  Worst. Idea. Ever.  It’s like casting Jean Claude Van Damme to play the lead in a romantic comedy.  I would, however, like to see Matt Damon, Ben Affleck and their 2 buddies in Good Will Hunting remake Guns & Talk.  And I think Angelina Jolie (or Grace Park) would make a perfect Geumja in Sympathy for Lady Vengeance.  Oh, and if you’re squeamish, I would avoid Old Boy.  It’s more disturbing than Saw I or Seven.

Obama in Hawaii.

Obama is in Hawaii now, visiting his ill grandmother.  Here’s a picture:

Look at the slippers!  Hahaha!  Awesome!  I vote more Republican’t than Democrap, but I like the fact that he’s wearing slippers with his polo shirt and jeans.  (It’s a Hawaii thing.)  I remember strolling through a neighborhood just like that to visit my grandmother for the last time.  I wish him and his grandma the best.  We all love and lose in this lifetime, and it is my hope that we do the former as much as we can before the latter comes to pass.

Stop staring at my butt!

 

So the other day The Franksabunch™ and The Wife™ were walking through the mall and we decided to drop into MetroPark (I’m always looking to add to my Affliction collection).  Just for kicks she asked me to try on a pair of True Religion jeans so I went into the dressing room, exhaled, sucked my belly in like a contestant on Paris Hilton’s new BFF and pulled up the jeans.  I came out of the dressing room and tried to be ninja about it, but the moment I stepped in front of the full-length mirror, 2 young, attractive wahines who worked for the store swooped in for the kill like pharm reps at a surgery conference.

 

They stood behind me (positioned at 9:00 and 3:00) and one of them said, “Wow, I really like those jeans on you!” while they both stared at my, uh, butt.

 

Now anyone who has been following my xanga since its nascence knows that I have a complex about my butt…or rather a lack thereof.  My butt is flat.  So flat that when I turn sideways I become invisible.  Flatter than Roseanne Barr’s rendition of the national anthem.  And like I’ve said time after time…flatter than the world before Christopher Columbus.  I was irreparably crushed years ago when lying prone next to a girl I liked—just watching TV, nothing else, Mom!—she turned her head, peeked at my booty and yelled out, “damn, Franksabunch™, you have a flat butt!” 

 

Anyway, I have always felt that my Bisquick Butt was my worst feature, so to have two young wahines staring at it felt awkward.  In fact, I came this close to blushing.  One of them waited for me to try on the second pair and followed me around the store, asking if she could hold the pants for me or do anything else.

 

I had no intention of buying these jeans (heck, all my Taiwanese ancestors would turn over in their graves and flash a peace sign minus the index finger if I bought a $268 pair of jeans!), but with these young, attractive wahines telling me how good I looked in them and following me around the store I felt almost obligated to pretend that I was………..so I did.  I asked The Wife™ within the earshot of the employee which pair I should buy and when said sales girl wasn’t looking I put it back on the rack and ran out of there like a cat in a Chinatown restaurant.

 

I explained that I was trying to be polite but she shook her head and accused me of falling victim to the attentive guiles of a young woman.  “Wow, even my husband is guilty of being a man!” she said.  (Needless to say, I then took her to a nice restaurant for dinner and let her order whatever she wanted.)

 

Is that true?  Do all men turn into mice when subjected to the conjuring affections of women?

 

Another day I needed a haircut so we tried out this barbershop next to a Korean market we frequent, and though I thought I was paying for a simple $13 cut-and-move-your-butt experience, they took me to a dark room, washed and conditioned my hair and gave me a head and neck massage…twice!  With all the attention they paid me I felt obligated to tip more than usual.   Bamboozled again by those nefarious women!

 

But is it just a simple matter of men liking the attention of women or is it rooted deeper in the earthen fabric of what it means to be human?  When I was a 1^st-year medical student I met an elderly patient who lamented to me about how she didn’t have anyone in her life that cared for her and when I placed my stethoscope on her chest, she reached up and placed her hand over my hand over her heart and closed her eyes like someone embracing a long-lost loved one.  I didn’t think for a second that she was being improper in some perverse way…just that she felt so unloved in her life that she yearned for a few seconds worth of attention and the touch of another human.

 

We all feel the need to be significant in someone else’s eyes and sometimes that which lies within the space between love and trust is a simple act of kindness.  Don’t underestimate the power of a gesture of compassion, friendship or affection because what may seem to be a few seconds to you may fulfill the needs of what someone else has been waiting years for.

 

So when faced with the choice, always choose to reach out to someone near you…unless it’s a sneaky wahine trying to get you to buy $268 jeans!

 

Have a great week!

——-

I may not always agree with Obama’s political views, but I wish his grandma the very best and a speedy recovery.  Maybe I’ll run into him on the street on Thursday, eh?

 

Edit: Nice piece by Kelly Tsai.  For something not so serious (especially for you MMA fans mourning the fall of EliteXC).

Xanga Trolls.

 

So the other day there was this post on Revelife asking if marijuana should be legalized, and as part of the discussion the writer mentioned that alcohol was legal and dangerous, blah, blah, blah.  I made a brief comment that the alcohol example was a red herring and was saturated with faulty logic, thereby enraging all the white-boys-with-dreadlocks-who-play-the-bongos.  Someone then responded to my comment, calling me “stupid” and “dense.”  Wow.  (Please excuse me for a moment while I go cry in the corner.)  While I’ve never considered myself to be the smartest person on xanga, I would reckon that since I beat 97% of all medical students—not general population, but medical students—on a national exam during school, that I’m probably a little smarter than the average joe.  (I’m not being arrogant…just stating the obvious.)  So unless that guy can prove to me that he is capable of beating 98% of all American medical students on an exam, if I’m stupid and dense, then he’s stupidererer and densererer. 

 

Which brings me to the subject of internet trolls.  Me thunketh that The Franksabunch™ could be considered an old man on xanga since I’ve been around since the end of 2004, and I’ve encountered more than my fair share of trolls since then.

 

By definition, a troll can be:

1. An ugly, nefarious mother of a creature seen in places like Middle Earth, Krynn and World of Warcraft
2. Someone who takes great joy in leaving inflammatory comments on blogs
3. Rosie O’Donnell without makeup on

Ching-chong! Ching-chong! Ching-chong! Belly. Needs. Tasty. Baby. Now.

 

So for those of you who are new to xanga, let me introduce you to some of the different types of Xanga Trolls that are out there. 

 

The Wayward Jesus Troll

While going around and dropping, “Jesus loves you!” comments on random posts is harmless and—who knows!—may actually lead someone to the faith, there are some who use religion as a vessel to express their personality disorders.  Going around and saying things like God hates gays! God hates Jews! Starbucks is the Anti-Christ! is not cool (well, maybe the Starbucks one is) and is not what the New Testament is about.  There is not one person who is unworthy of love and forgiveness.  Yes, even the troll on Revelife.  (Drat!)

 

The Atheist Troll

The yin to the Wayward Jesus Troll yang is the xangan who makes it his mission to go to all the religious-themed xanga posts to say things like God is dead! Marilyn Manson is cool beans!  and usually has a screen moniker like EmoBoy666 or Jesusisnotmyhomeboy.  (Apologies if those are actual screen names.)  But I guess having them drop Nietzsche comments is a good way of occupying their time so they won’t cut themselves.  Just remember, homies, you may not believe in hell, but hell believes in you!  (That’s actually a line from Hellraiser…minus the homies part.)

 

The Misanthrope Troll

The most common and well known troll out there, the Misanthrope Troll goes around calling other people names, insulting their looks and often tries to engage others in intellectual arguments to prove that the other person is dense or stupid.  I don’t know what this pathology of misanthropy is rooted in—Was he not breastfed enough by his mother?  Was he rejected too much by Asian girls in college when he used his, “Are you Asian? OMG, I looove California rolls!” line?—but he somehow finds the need to put others down to make himself feel better in regards to whatever inadequacies there are festering in his personal life.  Homies need to realize that people who are all that and a bag of chips don’t go around trying to knock other people down because they don’t have to do that to feel secure in their own skin.  It’s one of the idiosyncracies of life that the insignificant are always the ones trying to prove that they are significant.

 

The Political Troll

Whether coming from the Left (McCain is so old, when he farts dust comes out!) or Right (Hillary Clinton is like Sara Palin…except she’s scooby snacks!),

 

Whoa!  Someone better call Constantine and return that one back to sender!

the Political Troll tends to come out of the cubicle cave every 4^th year.  I’ve never understood why people can’t disagree and be cordial about it, but I guess when you’re in a business where doing the right thing is often the wrong thing and vice versa, anything goes!

 

The Very Single Troll

What this guy comments isn’t so much offensive as the fact the he himself is, well offensive looking.  I actually feel sorry when I see these guys try too hard to woo women on xanga, especially one well-known xangan who, despite being old and married, goes around making borderline salacious comments on female sites, especially the Asian ones.

 

So there you have it, subscribers and stalkers.  If you find yourself being victimized by a Xanga Troll, just remember…  Internet trolls are like the large intestine…they may make lots and lots of noise, but at the end of the day they’re still full of crap.  So don’t worry, just kill ‘em with kindness! 

 

And to the troll on Revelife, remember this: Sticks and stones may break my bones…but that still doesn’t change the fact that you’re an idiot.  Ouch!  Just kidding, Jesus loves you!

 

Have a great week!

——

Tagged by m_tastic, idashling and spiritedsherry (a modified version of these tag things):

 

4 things I did recently

• Rounded with my residents and students
• At a Korean restaurant called out, “chogio!” to get the ajumma’s attention
• Daydreamed about being a backup drummer for the Blue Man Group
• Kissed The Wife™ 5 times on the cheek while she was sleeping before I left for work at the buttcrack of dawn

4 things on my “to do” list

• Pick up my guitar again
• Get my flight to !VEGAS! for an upcoming conference
• Study for my “bored” exam
• Buy a house/condo/townhouse

4 of my guiltiest pleasures

• Cleaning my ear canals with Q-tips (don’t do it, children, it’s against medical advice!)
• Those bomb diggity Cocoa Puffs from Liliha Bakery 
• Coke icees/slurpees
• Listening to Laura Pausini and the Wu-Tang Clan (not at the same time, of course)

6 random (xanga-related) facts about me

• I don’t miss the nearly three-year run of being on FC before they changed the format (honest!)
• I always wonder what happened to xangans like IUsedToLoveHim and ZFunkmonkey, and whether inactive xangans still read my posts in their email digests
• I’ve met a lot of xangans.  Not counting those I already knew IRL, I’ve been lucky to have met:
  • AkikoKim, AngelChica, Azriha, bipolarmeow, blahblahfishy, BobaShop, Camillegal, Dieselgrrrrl (who I found out is a distant cousin!), fatitude, fufuberi, GERKshinobi, iluvconverse, Jean888, JonasApproved, junshien, My_notes_to_self, nomuskles, OCRosie, peachmentos, radjbo, saphoto, SFGeckos, s1LLyAngel408, summ3r21, TeaEvolutionMay, weezguy, winspark, wutuwaitn4, two other xangans whose identities I cannot reveal, and a few more I met incidentally.  No, I will not give you any of their phone numbers!  And no, just because they met me doesn’t mean that they will meet you! 
• I have a secret, protected post only xanga site that only 20 or so of you have seen (it’s inactive now)
• At one point early on, probably 35% of my subscribers were Korean women
• The Wife is not on xanga and thinks the whole blogging thing is weird

Edit: P.S.–I’m not mad at the guy or anything…that experience just sparked the idea for this post. 

 

Edit #2: Ah, I knew it was inevitable, that someone would comment on the whole marijuana thing.  (I originally wrote an explanation for my comment, but deleted it, so as not to prolong this post too much.  Anyway….)  I don’t think having graduated from medical school has anything to do with, well, anything.  (It just makes me smart, not arrogant. )  The thought is that if alcohol is dangerous and legal, then marijuana should be legal as well.  I still think that is a red herring.  If you want to talk about it further…  More people die annually from Tylenol or aspirin when compared to isolated marijuana use.  If the “alcohol is bad, so marijuana should be legal because it’s safer” theory applies here, then we should make Tylenol and aspirin illegal.  The problem with that is that the amount of cardiovascular deaths that would arise from eliminating aspirin from circulation would far exceed the number of lives saved from aspirin overdoses.  I will have NO problem prescribing marijuana if it becomes standard of care or if there is further evidence that reveals that its efficacy and risk profiles make it an acceptable alternative or adjunct to therapies currently available.  (I believe the AMA in the past year or two made a push for marijuana to be considered as a mainstream therapy.)  I prescribe narcotics and chemotherapy class medications to patients.  Why would I be afraid of prescribing marijuana, if indicated?  All things can potentially kill if used the wrong way and the core issue is whether or not American society would benefit from the legalization of marijuana, and simply stating that “alcohol is bad” is an argument that is insufficient at best and misleading and weak at worst.  Nobody owns The Franksabunch™.  Well, except The Wife™.

The man that I will become.

 

They say that when you get older that you will become like your parents, that sons will turn into their fathers and daughters their mothers.  If what they say is true, then I’m looking at the man I will become.

 

It is one thing to think that you can see into the mind of your father.  It is another to actually look at his brain.  Having moved back to Hawaii, The Wife™ and I are staying in my old room at my mom’s house while we look for a place of our own and scattered amongst my old possessions are things that belonged to my father, a cruel reminder that we will not outlive our material possessions.  (Fitting, is it not, that as I grow closer to being the man my father was as I age that my father spent the last few months of his life living in my room?  He was too weak to go up and down the stairs at that point.) 

 

I combed through his things, discarding the old and meaningless, but saving things graced with his touch like his signature or handwriting, if only to prove to my future children that God really does provide angels unaware to walk among us.  When I came to some medical records my first thought was to place them in the shred pile, but then I realized that they were his.  My father, it seems, requested copies of all of his imaging studies and here I am, looking at the CT scan used to rule out metastatic cancer to his head and neck.  The scan was negative, but it seemed surreal to be looking at pictures of his brain, straddling the line between doctor and son.  I chuckled slightly as I thought wistfully about the irony of being able to look inside his brain and still not know what he was thinking at the time.

 

They say that the eyes are the window to the soul.  I would add that your memories are the reservoir from which you draw upon to create the essence of who you are.  Your memories are what fashioned the personality you have today and are the basis from which you formed your hopes for tomorrow.  I have always felt that losing your memory is worse than suffering a stroke or heart attack, because though you can lose function or dignity with the latter two, you lose who you are with the first.  Be careful of what memories you choose to endear yourselves with, because if you hold on to the ones filled with anger, jealousy and hate, those are exactly what you will become.

 

So what memories am I looking at, I thought, as I looked up and down the scans.  Did you hold on to the happy ones and let the sorrowful go?  Or did you use the sorrowful to strengthen the meaningfulness of the happy ones?  Was I a good enough son?  Or was simply being your son good enough for you?

 

They say that when you get older that you will become like your parents, that sons will turn into their fathers and daughters their mothers.  I find that as I get older I am repeating my father’s nuggets of wisdom to those around me more often.  Be more generous!  Don’t put banana in the pork egg rolls!  I also find myself with the same responsibilities—a wife I have pledged to care for, serving the patients in my community, maintaining a household and making sure that my mother/his wife is always without want or need.  Even the creation of my franksabunchisms are rooted in a desire to dispense wisdom like prescription medicine, the same way my father did. 

 

I searched the scans, seeking something that would tell me how to grow into the man I am supposed to become.  The Wife™ interrupted me then, asking me what I was looking at, and at that moment I found my answer while I watched her packing up my father’s memories while unpacking new ones we brought with us from California.  My father became the man that he was because he chose to love those around him.  He chose to forgive those around him.  The memories from those experiences became the man that he was and the man that he was became the memories that exist today.  (I cannot go to any hospital without someone telling me how nice my father was and how they miss him.) 

 

I looked at her and made the decision that I will live a life choosing to love and forgive those around me.  And by doing that those memories of love and forgiveness will be formed and create the man that I will become.

 

They say that when you get older that you will become like your parents, that sons will turn into their fathers and daughters their mothers.  And if that is the man that I will become, I would not have it any other way. 

 

Except I’m tempted to try the banana in the pork egg rolls thing…just once.

 

Have a great week!

———–

Could someone explain to me the significance of points in housing loans?  For example, the loan is a fixed rate, 5.5% with 2 points.  What do the 2 points mean?  (Sorry, I’m an idiot in all matters outside of the hospital.) Edit: Thanks!  I feel guilty about possibly getting a better deal out of this mess when I buy a place (hopefully) soon.

Everything I need to know I learned at the symphony.

 

So this past weekend The Franksabunch™ took a break from being ghetto fabulous and took The Wife™ to watch Peter Cetera perform with the symphony and as The Franksabunch™ is wont to do, I made some observations about the night and somehow managed to subvert it into a post for xanga.  Hahaha!  So, subbers and stalkers, in honor of Peter Cetera and the Honolulu Symphony, I present to you…

 

Everything I need to know I learned at the symphony!!!

 

A’ight, homies, it’s time to get crunk all up in heeeeyah!

 

Remember those books about how everything you needed to learn in life you learned in kindergarten/dodge ball/jiujitsu class/Starbucks?  Weak sauce, every single one of them.  The symphony is where you can learn how to, ahem, face the music in life.

 

There’s a little bit of bad ass in all of us

While the symphony was warming up I gangsta leaned over and whispered to The Wife™: “Do you think the 1^st chair violin player thinks he’s bad ass because he gets to press the piano key to tune everyone?”  To which she replied in the affirmative.  You see, when I was in band there was a hierarchy of testosterone.  The cool cats played percussion, and from there the hierarchy descended to the saxophones, trumpets, etc. all the way to the male flute players, who were all but guaranteed 3 wedgies a week in P.E. class.  The male violinist?  He’s just like the male flute player.  It’s a double whammy.  It’s like being Ashlee Simpson with her original nose.  (I used to torment this violin player in high school by asking him, “Sooooo…how does your G-String fit today?”  I know, I know…immature.)  The Wife once told me that 4% of the population are responsible for making the world go around and that the rest of us are just along for the ride.  Now that male violinist who gets picked on vehemently, who do you think he will grow up to be?  Do you think Bill Gates was the starting quarterback at his high school?  Not everyone has a passion that sprouts popularity, but just keep your chin up and work hard, son, because one day you just might wake up and discover that through your passion you have become the bad ass that the rest of the world has to tune to. 

 

Humble pie…it’s good for you…and us.

Remember who stands at the top of the testosterone hierarchy?  The drummers!  One thing that never ceases to crack me up during the symphony is watching the percussion section.  Why?  Because you have these world-class musicians who will spend the next 90 minutes holding the triangle going *ding*……….*ding*………..*ding*……….[wait for it, wait for it]………*ding*.  Now I’m sure that these fine men and women would like nothing more than to grab the sticks and go Winona-Ryder-in-the-mall crazy on the tympanis, but for the greater good, sometimes it’s better to swallow your pride and just, well, *ding*.  As a physician, sometimes nurses/patients/families may recommend for me to do off-the-wall things, but instead of going Lil Mama on them with, “What, you IS crazy.  You better pick it up!” I reply with, “thanks for letting me know, it’s a good idea, but how about trying it this way first?”  Humility is like Metamucil…hard to swallow, but it makes everything smoother in the end.  (Sorry, I couldn’t think of a non-scatological analogy.)

 

There’s beauty in even the smallest job.

Besides the male flute players, I always made fun of the guys who played oboe.  I mean, how could I not make fun of the skinny dude playing an instrument that sounds like a constipated baby duck?  But over the years I’ve come to appreciate even the smallest of parts.  Sure, the verse, melody, chorus, etc. are important, but the space between good and great music is filled with those subtle additions that you won’t pick up unless you’re looking for them.  Think of the cello in a Jars of Clay song or the cowbell in a Beastie Boys song.  When listening to classical music, listen for the oboe, it’ll serve to elevate the sound of the whole orchestra.  Remember, while 4% of the population is responsible for making the world go around, the other 96% can still make it a better place. 

 

So whatever your passion, trade, interest, hobby or instrument is…do it well, my friend, for in this symphony called life, you only have one chance to be heard.

 

——–

Have a great week!  I highly recommend seeing Peter Cetera if he comes to perform with your local symphony.  There’s something about hearing him sing “You’re the inspiration” and “Glory of Love” live…they don’t make ‘em like that anymore.  His daughter even came out and sang a couple songs with him.

——–

Bonus Post!

 

Christmas in August.

 

Ever since I got married, The Wife™’s KP has been on overdrive and she has been forcing me to do more “Korean” things, like eating kim bap, cutting my hair at Korean barbershops and watching Korean films.  I think she’s trying to turn me into a Korean!  (Oh shush, dongseng, I know you’re going to accuse me of wanting to be Korean!)  So at Blockbuster she picked up yet another Korean film, “Christmas in August” for tonight.  [Warning: plot and ending spoiler, but this movie is a decade old.]

 

This film centers around a photographer with a terminal disease who falls in love with a wahine in his last few months of life and finds himself faced with the dilemma of whether to tell her about 1) his love for her and 2) his impending death.  In the end he chooses to tell her about neither until he is already dead.  I thought it was stupid of him to not tell her because he robbed himself of the chance of being fully loved by her.  The Wife countered that the ending was perfect, that it was, simply, “the Korean way.”  I mockingly made the half-gagging, half-hissing sound that Koreans from the rural south do and waved her argument off.  I’ve been thinking about it the past couple of hours, though…  The Wife™, you see, left her home, family and friends in NorCal to follow me to Hawaii.  She spends most of our time together making sure that I’m okay even though I’m trying to make sure she’s okay.  I never understood why she always says that if I die she’ll soon follow afterwards (broken heart, not suicide), but after seeing this movie I now understand where she’s coming from.  

 

Sometimes, it is more important to love than to be loved.

 

Because he died with his love for her in his heart, for him, in that moment his love for her in his heart would endure forever.  (Kind of like the ending of Natural City, when the cyborg Ria pulls out the……never mind, go watch that one also.)

 

I guess being Korean (or marrying one ) isn’t half bad after all.  (I still can’t eat kim chi raw, though.)

——

Edit: Any of you people watch I Love Money on VH1?  My bet is on Hoopz to win it all in the season finale this Sunday!

Right or wrong.

We don’t always get along, the two of us.  Sure, we have our times where I enjoy the company, feel passionate about her and couldn’t more proud of all she has achieved, but there are also times when I disagree with what she wants and also times when her actions hurt me like a hemlock-laden dagger to the right ventricle.  But despite the bad or hard times that may befall us, despite our different views and origins, I made a commitment to her and I am going to stand by her side come what may.  I am not going to desert or impugn her just because I feel slighted.  Who am I talking about?  My wife?  No.  I’m talking about my country.

America is my country, right or wrong.

Throughout the past couple of presidential elections I have been amazed at how rotten things have become in the hearts of many Americans.  Patriotism, though not dead, is certainly gravely ill.

I can only shake my head in shame when I observe the social thuggery, bullying, slander and “swift boat” tactics that are being used by BOTH the McCain and Obama campaigns/supporters.  But that does not bother me as much as seeing all the people burning flags, hoisting the Stars and Stripes upside down and shouting slogans that basically say, “America sucks!”  Add to that the celebrities from the last election who said they’d move out of the country if Bush won again.  (Interestingly enough, all those celebrities with ricepaper morals are still living here, collecting their millions and storing up treasures on earth that won’t go with them into the next world.)

I’d like to see all the aforementioned people try to do those same things in Myanmar, North Korea, China or Iran and see if they will still go home to their children without two to the chest and head.

The vitriol is unbelievable at times.  I wrote a post about how I thought that it was inappropriate when Obama went on national television and generalized that Asians from Hawaii are short and I received messages from people saying that *I* was the one being racist and judgmental.  (Imagine that.  I guess they forgot that I ragged on McCain for saying “gook” on a prior post.)

This is America.  This is still the best damn country in the world, and, honestly, if you are the type that would seriously threaten to leave or think our country sucks just because McCain wins or you’ll retreat to the hills and think that the country has gone to the crapper if Obama wins then do us all a favor and just leave now.  You are not part of the solution.  This does not mean that we should not hold our government accountable.  This does not mean that we should not be critics and call out our leaders for the injustices that we see.  This does not mean that we should not protest (nonviolently) in the streets when the spirit of the law has gone awry.  No.  This just means that after all is said and done, remember that all of us, Democrats and Republicans, are all Americans living in the same house dealing with the same problems and fighting against the same enemies who rejoice at the thought of seeing our freedoms destroyed.  (Don’t forget…the World Trade Center was bombed twice…once with Bill Clinton as president and once with George W. Bush as president.  Do you think they care who is in the white house?)  This is your country and you should stand by it.  If you don’t agree with the leadership then go out and work and make a difference in your community instead of whining and complaining while reaping the benefits of our free and secure society.  You don’t have to like your country, but you should respect it.

At this point I’m not too enamored of either ticket, but I am leaning towards voting for McCain (the reasons why are irrelevant to this post, though I’m sure someone will try to make it relevant), but if Obama wins I’m not going to move to Canada (despite how good the dim sum is in Vancouver).  I’m not going to post “Obama Nation sucks” comments all over the internet.  I’m not going to refuse to participate in a particular charity or community service event just because it was sponsored by Obama’s representatives.  What I’m going to do is pray for him and wish only the best for his health and wisdom because he will be my president, right or wrong.   

America is my country, right or wrong.  When it is right, I will rejoice.  When it is wrong, I will fight to make it right.  But no matter what happens, I won’t desert or dishonor it. 

I hope that you would do the same, regardless of who wins this November.

———-

We’ll return to your regularly scheduled Franksabunch™ programming soon!  Don’t unsubscribe, Obama supporters!  Haha!  Have a great Thursday and a wonderful weekend!

———-

And just to show y’all that I’m an equal opportunity critic, check out this family picture from People Magazine.

Notice how they put the brown-skinned daughter (I believe she was adopted from an orphanage in Bangladesh?) in the bottom corner, almost out of view underneath the prettiest daughter with the big gazongas?  What’s up with that, homie?!?! 

Edit: By the way, I didn’t come up with that “my country, right or wrong” line.  I stole it from the song “My Country” by Midnight Oil.  (They’re one of my back in the day faves…a sociopolitically conscious group from Australia…kind of like U2 before Bono smoked too much hashish and started thinking he was the 2nd coming of Jesus.)

Taking one for the team.

 

So the other night The Franksabunch™ and The Wife™ went out for Sex…and the City.  (There is a theater here that shows semi-recent movies for $1—can I get a woop-woop from all the Taiwanese in the hizzouse?!)  As much as I abhor chick flicks, I abhor a pouting wife even more, so I agreed to go, hoping to fool others that we were going to watch Iron Man.  Inside the theater there were only 2 other males, both of whom were also there with their respective ball-n-chains dates.  As each passed by we exchanged the knowing look that said, “Dude, I’m not gay or European, I’m only here because my woman is forcing me to.”

 

People think that John McCain is a hero for surviving torture, broken limbs and a bayoneting during his stay at Hanoi Hilton during the Vietnam War.  People think Barack Obama is a hero for rising up from humble roots to become the first minority nominee for president of the United States.  Hogwash.  McCain and Obama aren’t the heroes.  The true American heroes who bleed red, white and blue are the ordinary men who take one for the team every day by doing the tasks needed to placate their women (to avoid having a nation of 200 million angry women roaming the streets).  Things like…

 

Chick Flicks

Whoever came up with the concept of chick flicks is a genius, because not only will it draw wahines to buy tickets, but also the men they drag with them.  Men hate going to these things, but they also fear the aftermath of not going even more.  For men, going to chick flicks is like wearing a jockstrap during football…it’s uncomfortable during the time you’re there, but it also prevents permanent testicular injury.

 

Carrying the bag

I think that there is some unwritten rule in the universe that the size of a woman’s bladder is inversely proportional to the size of her purse…or at least it seems that way when I’m at the mall.  Being twice the size of The Wife™, I have twice the bladder capacity, so I often find myself standing outside the women’s restroom holding her bag when we’re shopping.  You might as well put a big neon sign that reads, “I’m whipped!” above my head because the bag attracts more stares than Yuri from Kaba Modern at an Asian Engineering Club meeting on campus.  (Boooo to Fanny Pak!)

 

The incredible shrinking pants

All girls like to play with dolls.  All women like to play with dolls.  The problem is that it’s not kosher for adults to play with dolls unless you’re weird or, well, weird.  (I always know I’m in trouble when I walk into an adult patient’s room and she has a teddy bear in her hospital bed.  I call it the “positive teddy bear sign.”)  So what do they do instead?  Instead of dressing up dolls, they dress their husbands and BFs.  I’ve always rolled through life with a gangsta lean so my pants and scrubs rock baggy.  But for my wife, tight = right, so I’ve been forced to “exchange” (throw away) all my loose clothing for tops and bottoms tighter than Jean-Claude Van Damme’s butt in 1989.  Like I’ve said before, a pair of jeans should be like your teenage daughter’s first date…no butt-hugging allowed! 

 

Gossip girl…er, guy

Besides rendering you asexual and less of an inconvenience, getting married also makes you one of the girls, so to speak, among your better-half’s friends.  Once taboo whenever your wretched Y chromosome was in the room, conversations about all things female—menstrual cramps, who is dating who, who cheated on who, whose girlfriend is scooby snacks ugly and scatological things that make me shudder in the night—become fair game when you have to accompany your wife to her female outings…and guess what…you’re the only loser!  Seeing into the minds of women is like staring at the sun…the more you see, the more it hurts! 

 

I thought about these and other painful things that are included in the package of marriage as we watched Sex and the City together, but I also thought about the things that she has to endure with me—the snoring of a very large mammal, college football, hours on some weird thing called xanga—and realized something…

 

Sometimes the best thing about love is having someone who can shoulder your worst.

 

Now that, Darren Star, is something that never goes out of style. 

——-

Have a great week!  Best wishes to Tom Brady for a full recovery.

 

Edit:  I didn’t think there was anything special about the SATC movie.  It just seemed like one long episode on HBO, with a highly predictable ending.  My wife had this smirk on her face the whole movie, so I guess there’s something about it that appeals to women (and European men).  I’m mad at whoever spread the rumor that someone dies…because no one did!  Haha…