It’s all about the D-N-A, baby!

[This is probably going to sound like an insensitive and elitist post.  Sorry!]

So some movers, who shall remain nameless so my stuff does not “accidentally” fall into the Pacific Ocean, came over to pack up The Franksabunch™’s stuff to be shipped from California to Hawaii.  (If I shipped things myself I would not reimbursed, so I had to go with the contracted 3^rd party.)  Things went okay until the head packer picked up The Wife™’s bead box (she makes her own jewelry), which had all the assorted beads and trinkets separated into 25 different compartments.  I watched in horror as he then proceeded without hesitation to dump the entire contents into one big pile onto some wrapping paper, with at least 30 pieces of those millimeter-sized ornaments spilling onto the garage floor like ants running away from a misanthropic kid with a magnifying glass.

My first thought was to immediately hide any sharp objects to prevent The Wife™ from creating the packer a new orifice and then coming after me to convert our relationship into a same-sex marriage, but instead I took a deep breath and watched what he would do next.  Would he realize his move lacked more common sense than an Olympic gymnastics judge and apologize?  No.  Would he make an attempt to pick up the jewelry pieces he had spilled everywhere?  Double decka hecka no.  He just proceeded to throw what didn’t fall on the floor into a box and kept moving, not uttering a single apology as Dr. and Mrs. ‘Bunch spent the next twenty minutes combing the floor for the lost pieces.

My irritation burned like the urine of a Las Vegas stripper, but as time passed I began to feel sorry for him.  Later he had to ask his partner how to spell the following words: over, chair and shoe.  He did not smell of dyslexia or have any dysmorphic features that would suggest certain developmental problems.  His verbal English was normal, social mannerisms stable and his writing was fine (without spelling errors) when he’d copy things.  He was capable of getting a driver’s license, operating a Bluetooth device and holding down a job and a marriage.  I just think—may the Lord above forgive me for saying this—that he simply was…not smart, to put it lightly.  That is why he didn’t take 2 seconds to think that perhaps dumping over 100 pieces of already separated items into one big pile went against common sense.  (The fact that he made no move to pick up what he spilled and let his nasty sweat drip all over our stuff reflected that he didn’t care about the quality of the job, but just finishing.) 

This is going to sound really insensitive but perhaps because I was still a little upset at what happened, my next thought was that I felt sorry for his present/future kids, because they’d inherit his DNA…and subsequently his brain.  I always joke that I married my wife because I think she’s hot and cooks a mean bulgogi, but one thing that I found extremely sexy was that she scored a perfect on her math SAT (I think she beat me on the verbal, too) and compiled a GPA >3.8 during graduate school.

Back in the day when a certain xangan and I were both single I used to joke with her that we were perfect together because we both have good DNA being tall, smart and, well, awesome.  But when you think about it, isn’t DNA just another form of estate inheritance?  Would not inheriting DNA that leads you to be smart and tall (and awesome) give your children as much of a head start as bequeathing them 100,000 bills in your will?  A long time ago I wrote that people should marry nerds because “while you can buy your children plastic surgery, you can’t get them a brain transplant,” and I wrote that only half-jokingly.  I thought about this as I contrasted my wife with the packer who occupied a space residing on the wrong side of the bell curve.

But therein lies the problem.  Just as his DNA differs from my wife’s and mine from his wife’s, so does how we choose to love and be loved.  I didn’t marry my wife because she fulfilled some sort of eugenic checklist, and the packer’s wife didn’t marry him because he did not.  And if I have a child who is not smart, would I love him any less than the others?  Of course not.

Love, you see, is not about who you should or could be, but rather is about who you are.  You cannot fashion yourself to become more loveable any more than you can mold another into someone you can love more, because once you reduce love into a form of currency, you rob it of its value.

So yeah, though I still think the packer is a few eggs short of a dozen and I’m still irritated at what he did, he still deserves the best love and I honestly hope that he has it. 

But that doesn’t mean I’m not going to claim damage for the lost beads, though.

Have a great week!

—————

California, you’ve been great, but I’m moving back to Hawaii TOMORROW!  I’ll miss you dearly, but nothing beats being home…

And don’t forget to vote for SoReal Cru in to win it all in America’s Best (Rigged) Dance Crew!  Super Cr3w’s members already are well known in their community, so I want SoReal to win.  My wife wants Super Cr3w to lose because she thinks that in the Planet Bboy documentary Mike Murda was too arrogant and was acting salty after they (Knucklehead Zoo) placed lower than the Last 4 One and Gamblerz crews.

Edit:  What’s up with this?  For the past week I’ve been getting these phone calls with increasing frequency from the 702 area code, and the always hang up as soon as I answer.  I used the reverse directory on the internet and they’re from some sort of sales group in Vegas.  (So much for the efficacy of donotcall.gov.)  Anyway, if you get a call from any of these numbers (3x today alone!), don’t answer: 702-966-4135, 702-953-2422, 702-968-2942.  Maybe they’re mad that I just left Vegas and actually won money, the stinkers!

Sunshine.

Recently, after spending 3 hours hiking The Franksabunch™ and The Wife™ went to gas up at Costco…and by “gas up” I mean the car got cheap(er) gasoline while I got a cheap $1.50 polish + drink combo…Huzzah!  I love America!  Anyway, after a brief discussion about how much cheddar Costco churns in its bank account a day she asked me if I had the opportunity to own and run a Costco, would I quit my job as a physician?

Her question made me think about the movie Sunshine, which stars one of my favorite actors, Cillian Murphy (the other favorites being Jessica Alba, Jessica Alba, and, well, Jessica Alba).  [I’m not copying the Revelife post—which I honestly didn’t read and only went to so I could leave a, “I love that movie” comment—I’ve been meaning to write about this movie for quite some time.]  The movie is set in a future where the sun is dying and the earth along with it as collateral damage.  To save mankind, a group of astronauts (biologist, pilot, engineer, physicist, etc.) on board the spaceship Icarus head to the sun to deliver a nuclear payload the size of Manhattan to reignite it.  Don’t worry, I won’t reveal the ending, but I don’t think that I’d be ruining the movie for everyone if I told you that at least one person dies during the movie.

There is a *deleted* scene where the psychiatrist asks Capa (Cillian Murphy), who created the bomb, if he’s okay with going on a mission where he might die.  In return, Capa says that if their mission is successful, he’ll witness the equivalent of the big bang—creation—and with that he’d be okay with not returning.

With the recent death of “The Last Lecture” professor, there have been a lot of existential 911 calls made over the internet, and what I would ask of you, dear reader, is that since you are on a voyage that you will not be returning from (unless Obama finally decides to reveal to us that he’s the second coming of Jesus and takes us all up in the rapture…hey, I’m just reporting what I read in the papers!), are you okay with who you are and what you are doing?  Is it worth the one-way trip you are taking through this world?

What is your passion?  Are you living it or still dreaming it?

Like Icarus, we all fly through this world with wings of wax, but what separates us all from one another is how high we are willing to fly.

One thing I appreciated about the movie was the way it flipped the previously irrevocable dichotomies we have in this world.  On earth light saves and darkness kills, while in space the light kills and darkness is safe.  Mankind’s apocalypse is prevented by a nuclear bomb, rather than started by it.

Life is the same way.  If you do not work towards your passion you’ll find yourself looking back one day full of resentment, but on the other hand if you work too much towards your passion you may find that the collateral damage is failure in other areas of your life.

I went into medicine with the intent to be the best physician I could, and what I lacked in science I planned to make up for in art.  It is my passion to be the first person that comes to your mind when you are in that hospitable bed, wishing for someone to hold your hand to guide you through, whether through recovery or into the next world.  It burned at me whenever I felt I was not good enough and I would stay longer to get better, but at the same time I knew that the 100-hour weeks were eating away at everything else in my life.

There are two types of jobs in this world

1. Jobs you do because you love to do them
2. Jobs you do because they give you the opportunity to do the things that you love outside of work

Though it is hard trying to find the right balance, I’ve been blessed that I have a job that is both #1 and #2.  There have been multitudes of bumps in the road, but it has been a road that is well worth it.  But to get back to my wife’s question, though the thought of making tons of money for less work (9 years of training vs. owning a Costco) and having unlimited access to the $1.50 polish combo, the answer is no, I would not trade an easier and more financially fruitful life for the one I have lived so far.  Why?  Because…

Like Icarus, we all will fly through this world with wings of wax and we all will eventually fall, but what separates us all from one another is how high we flew before we fell.

So remember, dear subbers and stalkers, you are on a one-way trip, and with that there is no such thing as flying too high.

——–

Have a great week!  Sorry, it’s not the most refined thing I’ve written, but I’m busy packing and moving!

Edit: When did xanga start counting views? It’s obviously not retroactive, as I checked an old post with >100 comments and it only has 50 views.  And here is my favorite song from the Sunshine soundtrack.

My First Massage.

Nothing says, “YOU’RE FAT!” like a massage.

This past weekend The Franksabunch™ had his first ever massage.  Oh, I’ve had people give me back rubs in the past but prior to Saturday the closest thing I had to a real massage was at the state fair, where The Wife™ paid $20 so I could sit in a chair while a Chinese guy basically practiced Jeet Kune Do on me like I was Chuck Norris and he was Bruce Lee.  But that was shortly after we got married and I had been working out until that point, so I didn’t mind someone doing the 36 chambers on my back.  I actually think the guy had fun massaging me since I actually had muscles and wasn’t shaped like a Krispy Kreme, unlike everyone else there.  (I’ve never been lean and ripped like ibizajb…just thick with some extra love handles, two all-beef patties, cheese and special sauce.)  However, after a year of not lifting weights and bomb diggity cooking, Franksabuff™ turned into Franksablob™. 

The Franksabunch™ is here for my massage!  Get in mah beeeeellllllyyyy!!! 

The Wife™’s friends had generously cut a big slice of cheddar to get us a certificate for a couple’s massage as a wedding gift, so we finally cashed it in this past weekend.  I went into that place with much trepidation since I knew that my body was no longer in shape.  After seeing the shape—or rather misshape—of some of the other male customers and their abundance of chest and back foliage I didn’t feel as bad, but the embarrassment still hit me like a frozen herring seconds after they told me to get butt nekkid and under the sheet.

The last time I found myself butt nekkid under a sheet with a strange woman touching me was when I had my appendix taken out.  Unlike the appendectomy this moment wouldn’t leave me with a bill of $16,000, but it also wouldn’t give me any Fentanyl or Versed for sedation!

This massage revealed to me that I have fat tissue of Biblical proportions…and by Biblical proportions I mean the lady’s hands were like Moses and my adipose was parting like the Red Sea.  If it wasn’t for the new age music softly blaring in the background and my own silent screams echoing in my ears, I could’ve sworn that I heard some slurping sounds when she ran her hands down my back.

But that, my friends, was not the worst part.

I had no idea that the lady was going to actually massage my buttocks!  (Isn’t that illegal?!?!?!)  I almost screamed out, “OH NO YOU DIDN’T!” when she folded the sheet into a thong and started squeezing my poi bags, but I was too busy praying to God:

“Dear God, please don’t let me fart right now.  I promise that I will never ever tell a lie or vote Democrat again.  Just please keep me from farting on her.”

I felt more violated than a sumotori whose mawashi was 5 sizes too small and dipped in poison ivy. 

It’s time to hit the gym again.  Anyone with me?

But being in that vulnerable state (one swift hammer movement and the Netherlands would’ve been reduced to Luxembourg) got me thinking about how vulnerable the patients I take care of are.  Anything I do places me in a position of power over someone who has none, even if no nudity is involved and over the years I’ve become very nonchalant about it (still respectful, though!). 

Physicians are not the only ones who induce vulnerability in others.  We had lunch with Junshien the next day (for the record, Junshien was NOT there at the massage!) and we talked about how even in his job as a photographer he places people in vulnerable positions they may not feel comfortable with.  As a counselor you have the ability to bring healing where there had previously been hurt.  As a financial planner you can be the difference between spending the golden years on a beach in Hawaii or in a trailer on the river.  And as a mother you have the ability to shift the world’s balance in favor of love instead of hate.

We should always have pride in whatever jobs—big or small—that we have, but we should also have respect for the responsibilities imbued upon us for we all at one time or another will find ourselves at the mercy of another. 

I just would appreciate that we leave out the thong and poi bag squeezing part next time.

——

In case any of my wife’s friends are reading this, I really do appreciate the gift.  I’m just still recovering from it physically…and mentally.  Bwahahaha!

For those of you BSG fans, everyone’s favorite Cylon Grace Park’s new series The Cleaner (starring the ex-Mr. Julia Roberts) starts tonight!  But did they have to describe her character as an “exotic” beauty?  Oh goodness.  Edit #2: Looks like AngryAsianMan and I have similar thoughts about this.  I didn’t copy him, I promise!

Edit: One thing (out of many) that was weird about the whole massage day was that I had called in stating, “I’d like to make an appointment for me and my wife to get a couple’s massage” but when we showed up together the girl at the counter asked 1) if we’d be getting the massage together or separate and 2) if we’d like to split the remainder of the gift certificate into two different cards, one for each of us.  The first question I can understand, but the second?  Did she think that we were just friends or something?  Sigh.  I guess that’s what happens when your wife is 3 moogabillion times more attractive than you are.

Seducing the married man.

So last Thursday The Franksabunch™ was at the Vbar lounge at the Hotel Valencia at Santana Row hanging with one of my friends while The Wife™ was outside waiting for someone else.  At one point I randomly turned and saw this girl a few feet away who looked as if she was coming up to say something to me but upon finding herself inauspiciously ensconced in my visual field suddenly turned and walked back to her group of friends.  A minute later she pulled the let’s-walk-by-him-and-I’ll-pretend-to-talk-to-you-so-I-can-turn-my-head-to-get-another-look move.  Twice.  My suspicions were confirmed when a few seconds later my friend proclaimed, “Dude, that girl was totally checking you out, she did the double-take.”  “Sure she wasn’t looking at you?” I said.  “Hella no,” came his reply.  “She was looking at YOU.” 

This was also not some seedy place and she was not some, well, seedy woman.  This was Santana Row, where the ballers come to bling and the wahines wear Seven Jeans to match their $7,000 butt lipo.  This particular wahine, though cute, smelled more of Stanford graduate student than platinum digger, however.  There was no way she could’ve guessed that I was a doctor because in a South Bay sea of men adorned in Armani and Affliction I was wearing the $5 shirt I bought on sale from H&M.  (Can I get a woop-woop from all the Taiwanese in the hizzouse?!  Represent!)  Like I said in my Googlie Eyes post, I can count on one hand the number of times in my life that I’ve had a wahine give me the googlie eyes.  I’ve always been unattractive—think Rosie O’Donnell except male and Asian and with a brain—and having been to 24 hr fitness only 3 times since getting married, even my adipose tissue has developed adipose tissue, thereby relegating me to HMS (Heinous Male Status).  Knowing this I felt puzzled that she was checking me out instead of my single friend who is 300x more attractive than I am.  (I’m sure she saw that my ring finger was lit up since I was holding a drink in hand and it’s the first thing you look at when scoping someone out.)

Like the Loch Ness Monster, fat-free pizza and the ugly Korean girl, I always thought that the tale of women wanting married men was a myth.

I’m not sure if it is simply a matter of wanting something that you cannot have or if there is something more to it.  Perhaps it is also a matter of wanting something that is already packaged and polished instead of something that has to be built from scratch.  Relationships take work.  To be more specific, men in relationships need a lot of work with our manners, hygiene, wardrobe, commitment (or lack thereof), flossing…you name it.  So perhaps part of the allure of the married man is that you can get someone who has shown that he is capable of commitment and molding and that part of the domestication process has already been done by someone else.

Is that such a stretch to believe?  In this day and age of instant gratification we have microwaveable everything, NY Times up-to-the-minute updates on our Blackberry phones and wrinkle-free pants.  We want the finished product but don’t want to put the work into making it. We want to be hired as a full partner without being an associate first.  We want abs of steel but don’t want to diet and exercise.  We want the happily-ever-after with the white picket fence but are unwilling to negotiate the space between selfishness and compromise.

We forget that sometimes it is the journey that creates and necessitates the destination and not the other way around.

That happily married man that you see and desire to steal away…  Perhaps he is happy because the trials and tribulations he and his wife have worked through together have brought them to a place where understanding and desire can truly meet.  That full partner in your firm you wish you could be?  If you climb up the ladder to get there you’ll find yourself always looking up but if someone hand picks you and plops you at the top you’ll find yourself always looking down.

You can have your cake and eat it, too, but you have to bake it first.

Relationships, as with everything else in life, take work, but that work makes the finished product all the more enjoyable.

Even for us men with Heinous Male Status.

Have a great weeeeeeeeek!

———-

I saw Wanted last night.  At the beginning of the movie I thought it was going to be a rip off of Fight Club, but it turned out to be a lot better than I thought it would be and the last 10 minutes were off the hizzook!

Edit:  Someone typed in on AOL search, “how to seduce my married doctor” and it led them to this post… @_@

Coffeehouse Weirdos (and extra post about Obama below).

After 4 years of med school, 3 years of residency and 2 years of fellowship it has all come to an end.  Today is the last day of fellowship!  Woop-Woop!  Okay, now on to the post…

In preparation for my final research presentation I spent countless hours at coffee shops sifting through journal articles, data…AND all the weird people that came through.  After all the time I spent there I came to the conclusion that most frequent customers of coffee houses who are not normal fall into one of 5 categories.

The Baristaphile

I never knew whether I should regard the Baristaphile with pity or irritancy, but I have to admit that it’s quite amusing listening to him trying to finagle a date from the workers.  Baristas, you see, are paid to smile, flatter and converse with you, which for most men = “she likes me, she really really likes me!”  As a result you have men all over the country afflicted with a penchant for flirting with baristas.  (One loser even took a barista’s photo off of the employee wall and took it home, the super freak!)  It’s a win-win situation for a single man.  With the captive audience it’s kind of like speed dating, except there’s no time limit and she’s forced to listen to you blabber on and on and in the end you’re buying a drink for yourself, and not her.  (Genius!)  Just be careful, young hustla, since the place is napalmed with the smell of all things coffee, you have no idea whether the wahine on the other side of the counter has breath that smells like rotten gouda cheese and you won’t find out until you lean in for the win and pass out from the noxious fumes emanating from her mouth.  As Plato once said, if her breath is so stink that you can see the words coming out of her mouth, it’s time to make like a tree and leave. 

The Cheapskate

Similar to the loser in the booth next to you at Red Lobster who instead of paying 99 cents for lemonade tries to make it himself by mixing lemons and sugar packets in his water, the Cheapskate in the coffee shop tries various tricks to get more out of his dollar dollar bills y’all:

• Orders a small coffee in a large cup in the hopes of getting extra
• Brings in his own bagel, asks the barista to toast it and then pays 25 cents for a single serving of cream cheese
• Orders a shot of espresso in a medium cup and asks to top it off with hot water or orders coffee topped off with hot milk, thereby avoiding paying for a café americano or café misto.

I guess the Cheapskate forgot that buying a drink at a coffee house—whether at Starbucks, Peet’s Coffee or The Coffee Bean—is a luxury and not a basic need.  It’s like going to Chinatown and buying a pair of Kalvin Clein jeans or a Caoch bag.  If you’re too cheap to buy the real thing, don’t try to be a faker!

The Eye of Sauron

Nothing weirds me out more than those people who purchase a drink and sit there with their pedophile sunglasses on, doing nothing but staring out into space for 60 minutes.  It gives me the heebie-jeebies.  What are they thinking about?  Reaganomics?  The identity of the 5^th and final Cylon?  Roseanne Barr in a speedo?

The JABBER-wockeez

I don’t know whether it is out of loneliness or a pathological need to use their mandibles, but the JABBER-wockeez just won’t stop jabbering on and on with random victims sitting next to them.  Once he made eye contact with me and asked, “excuse me, are you Oriental?” I knew that I was in trouble.  Despite seeing that I had a stack of journal articles and was furiously typing on my laptop, he persisted in talking to me for 15 minutes.  Being the passive-aggressive person that I am, instead of ending the conversation I began asking him how he liked growing up in the 51^st state, since Canada isn’t a real country.  He left shortly after that which was good for him, because The Wife™ was about to give him the HAI-YAH karate chop to the frontal lobe.

The Verizon Tireless

One cousin removed from the JABBER-wockeez, the Verizon Tireless person seems to forget that brevity is the soul of wit and that the person s/he’s talking to is not hard of hearing.  I know that talking on the phone is a ploy that wahines do when alone at a bar to look busy instead of lonely, but yapping loudly and incessantly on your cell phone in a coffee shop is just plain rude and makes me want to get all Cobra Kai up in here and sweep the leg. 

Use your cell phone at Starbucks and we’ll put you in a body bag, yeeeeaaaahhhh!

So if any of you fit into the above categories and catch me in a coffee shop, please do America a favor and don’t sit next to me so I can do my work.  In return I’ll buy you a small coffee in a large cup topped off with hot milk.

Have a great weeeeeeeeeek!

——

Bonus post about Obama:

Obama and the Race Game.

Some of you may have seen the post I briefly had up about Barack Obama’s appearance on the Jimmy Kimmel Show where he basically said that people of Asian descent are short.  I was upset when I wrote that post, so I took it down and am writing about it again now that I have had time to chill and think about it.

I had written that Obama was in err to propagate a racial stereotype about the height of Asian Americans, to which some people replied, “well, Asians are short.”  I’m sure that you could produce some statistics that the average Asian American is shorter than the average white American, but does that justify what he said?  Consider this…  There are statistics out there showing that African Americans score lower on IQ tests than their white counterparts.  If John McCain was questioned about being a fighter pilot and responded with, “well, I was competing against African Americans who statistically have lower IQs, so it was easier to beat them out to become a fighter pilot,” would everyone reply to that with, “That’s RACIST!” or “He’s right, African Americans do have lower IQs.”  When the Bell Curve was published, it was immediately received with accusations of racism, but if someone makes a crack about Asian Americans being short, everyone simply nods and accepts it as fact.

I’m Asian American and from Hawaii (the population Obama was referring to) and I’m 6’1”.  I have patients from all walks of life of all colors, and I can assure you that the overwhelming majority of my patients are shorter than me, be they white, black, yellow or brown. 

“But Franksabunch™,” you say, “you’re just an exception to the rule because you’re tall.”  Well, how would African Americans feel if John McCain said that Barack Obama managed to graduate from an Ivy League law school because he was an exception to the rule because he’s an intelligent black man?  (For those of you who are going to argue that IQ is not the same as a physical trait, do you think it would be any less offensive to African Americans for someone to go on David Letterman and make comments about an inordinate amount of African Americans having large noses or nappy hair like Don Imus?)

I find it ironic that someone who has run his whole campaign as if race shouldn’t matter and severed ties with the pastor who officiated his wedding and baptized his children because of racist comments he made would go on a a national television program and propagate a stereotype about another minority group.

I find it sad that he said this despite the huge support he has had from the people of Hawaii (I think he had 75% of the vote) and from certain prominent, nationally known Asian Americans.

I find it disappointing that the media and everyone else are so enamored of him that they are essentially giving him a free pass over this.

Yes, Barack Obama has Asian American (and Asian Canadian) members in his family.  But that excuse is the same as someone saying, “I’m not racist, I have friends who are Latino,” while tagging “Mexicans are fat” at a wall outside of Taco Bell. 

Yes, John McCain used the word “gook” years ago when referring to the Vietnamese people who imprisoned and tortured him.  It took a while, but he eventually apologized and to my knowledge hasn’t used the racist epithet again since.  Obama made his “Asians are short” comment in the middle of a presidential campaign and has yet to apologize for it (as far as I know).  This was not a comment made by someone drinking at a bar or some disgruntled shopper at Target, it was made by a man who may very well be the next president of the United States.  Ask yourselves, is it okay for the president of the United States to affirm a negative stereotype about a minority group?

I don’t necessarily feel that people should not vote for Obama simply because he made that remark on the Jimmy Kimmel Show.  However, Asian America should still hold him accountable for it and ask for an apology, otherwise we are doing nothing but laying down and accepting the fact that at least in one respect Obama’s campaign for “change” is not change at all, but rather a preservation of the racial status quo where yellow is the lowest color on the rainbow.

My children deserve a future better than that…and so do yours.

—-

Edit: I actually think that being labeled “short” is a negative thing, statistic or not.  I can’t remember the last time someone called someone “midget” or “Frodo Baggins” to compliment them.  I am also very well aware that there are multiple factors that influence the results of IQ testing besides race (i.e. socioeconomics, etc.) just as with height.  My dad was 5’4″ and grew up in rural Taiwan eating fish and noodles while I grew up in America eating chicken katsu plate lunches and Quarter Pounders.

Edit #2: These xanga popups are killing me. (“Would you like to subscribe or get email updates?”)  Anyone know how to turn them off?  I don’t think xanga will stop those popups until we all agree to get microchips implanted in our brains notifying us of subscription updates.  @_@

Secondhand Lions.

Your heart is only as good as what you would sacrifice it for.

I wrote a few years ago after my father passed away that time doesn’t heal all wounds, it just makes it easier to forget.  Another Father’s Day has come and gone, with the father I am supposed to celebrate it with no longer here.  The wounds have healed, but not because of the time that has passed.  Perhaps you could say that the salve was one part Jesus, one part the love of my wife, one part the love of my family, and one part finally growing into the skin of the man my father wanted me to be.  Time is a trickster, though, a chronological Loki wreaking mischief in our memories.  I spent most of my Father’s Day forgetting that it was Father’s Day, only remembering later that night, spurring a phone call to my mom to see if she was handling things okay.

I watched Secondhand Lions with my wife earlier today [SPOILER ALERT, however this movie is from 2003] which is about a young boy who is raised by his two granduncles on a rural property.  2 important scenes occured with one where the boy is saved by an old lion finally realizing its true nature after being raised in captivity, its heart giving out in the act of rescuing him and the other when he receives the “How to become a Man” speech from his granduncle.  We don’t hear the talk in its entirety but I think the point is not what is in the message, but rather that there is someone there to give it.

After the movie was over I thought about the conversation I had with my dad that day when he decided to go to hospice.  For almost a year he had been battling a cancer that most succumb to in 3-6 months, his will to survive partly influenced by his desire to keep his practice around long enough for me to inherit, leading to painful trips to see his patients, the piercing side effects of chemotherapy and an extra surgery which I felt at the time was unnecessary and almost led to his early demise due to a complication.  Though his spirit was indefatigable, his body was not.  Things were progressing the wrong way.  The surgery did not serve to grant him significantly more time, the standard chemotherapy regimens had failed and yet he was still willing to fight, still willling to drag his feet to work, one excruciating step at a time.  I never asked him for any of it yet there he was, a Secondhand Lion willing to give his heart out for his boy.  After he was hospitalized again he mentioned to me that he was considering an off-label chemotherapy agent but for the first time I could tell in his voice that instead of telling me, he was asking.  I pondered my answer, the silence over the phone masking the maelstrom of emotions within me.  How do you tell your own father that it is okay to die?  Though the wounds have healed, the pain from that day still remains and will never leave me.

I never really had the specific “How to become a Man” talk with my father, but the point is not what he would have told me, but rather that he was there to show me. 

I thought about that as I went outside to the porch, as I am wont to do on the nights that I try to find somewhere I can be closer to him.  I gazed at the night sky, the first in a long time where the stars were visible due to the fires burning in the distance.  It was there only for an instant, but a falling star made its presence known, flashing brilliantly as it faded away, as if the world beyond was winking to tell me that everything is okay, and on the inside I heard his voice again.  “Your heart is only as good as what you would sacrifice it for…and being willing to give it for your family is how you become a man.”

I went in and woke up my wife, telling her that I had just seen a falling star for the first time since college, when I was lying at Sandy Beach in Hawaii next to a girl I had a crush on watching the heavenly tapestry being woven above.  She laughed and asked me if I made a wish.  I lay there and watched her as she went back to sleep, the look in my eyes telling her that my wish had already come true, because I have something truly worth sacrificing my heart for.

Happy Belated Father’s Day, Dad.  I miss you.

—–

Edit: It’s currently available free on Comcast on Demand in the TBS section!

Everybody loves a Kaba Modern girl.

Literally. 

[Disclaimer: I do not know these girls in real life, neither do I claim to know who they are as people, this is based on the perceptions engendered through the media and America’s Best (Rigged) Dance Crew season 1, which is what all the boys are basing their crushes on, anyway.]

So The Franksabunch™ was at the Glas Kat (aka Tabu) this past weekend rollin’ with my VIP wristband and a gangsta lean (did you expect any less? ) where the main draw was a midnight performance by Kaba Modern.  Suffocated by all these Asian boys screaming out, “Yuuuuurriiiiii!” I wondered why so many guys were genuflecting to her—or rather, the person they think she is—as opposed to the other two, and it hit me…it’s because she fits the ideal woman to them.  The three Kaba Modern girls, you see, fit the three categories of wahines that all men, even if it is the end of them, pursue. 

The Cindy aka the Mysterious Girl.

Picture stolen from jonasapproved.  

Her image: Cindy was given a lot less exposure on ABRDC than the other two.  In fact, I don’t think I remember her being interviewed until the end of the season.  Why?  Was it because she had a really bad FOB accent (not true), was ditzy (not true) or unattractive (mos def not true).  Whatever the reason, she had less exposure, which only served to leave more to the imagination and the imagination, as you can certainly surmise, fills the gaps with things attractive and promising.  She’s certainly no window dressing as she was a leader for the UCI campus KM, but she’s not the type of person snobby enough to tell you she was.  Shrouded in secrecy, the less you know…the more you want to know.  Unlike everyone else out there, I found her image the most alluring, even above that of Yuri. 

Typical occupations: artist, writer, girl across the [fill in the blank] counter, speech therapist.

Guys she attracts: Innocent nice guys who are afraid to admit it, nerds who play World of Warcraft and have never been on a date, and bad boys or rico suaves looking for a challenge.

The Jia aka the Independent Girl.

Her image: Strong and accomplished (currently or previously was the director for KM), Jia was clearly one of the leaders and choreographers.  She also threw in the occasional wisecrack, throwing an element of Sara Silverman into the mix (except Jia doesn’t look like her grandfather was a descendant of Mr. Ed), and had the most spunk.  Self-assured and capable of running a house or Fortune 500 company, beauty is an accessory and not a weapon for her.  I’ve always been attracted to the Jia type, figuring that if I can find a wahine who can take care of herself then our relationship would be centered on something else than her needs.

Typical occupations: lawyer, surgery resident (in which case, run for the hills, young hustla, don’t date a girl who can filet you in 30 seconds flat), high-powered businesswoman.

Guys she attracts: Guys who like having the woman run the marriage (i.e. Chinese/Taiwanese guys…hey, I’m just telling the truth, homies), starving artists.  (What is the difference between a pizza and an artist?  A pizza can feed a family of 5.)

The Yuri aka the Girl Next Door

Her image:  From her tears and “I love you, Umma and Appa!” in the 1^st episode to her, well, tears after making a mistake in the Thriller Broadway episode (after MTV changed their music the night before, mind you) Yuri emanates through her million-dollar smile the image of the sweet, compassionate and emotional flower, the girl next door that you want to roll up your sleeves and protect from the world, come hell or high water or Randy Jackson.  Others just like her because she’s drop-dead gorgeous.  She may not need to be rescued, but you think she does, and that’s why you can’t escape.  In the end, she’s probably the most wanted girl because all men like rescuing wahines and want a girl they think will take care of them.  I’ve always had a soft spot for the Yuri type because it kills me to see a wahine cry.

Typical occupations: Teacher, nurse, social worker.

Guys she attracts: Boys with KGF (Korean Girl Fetish…don’t lie, you have it, too!), churchgoers, everyone else with a Y chromosome.

And for me?  How did I end up falling for my wife?  When we were both single she was inundated by a lot of date requests because as someone who was cautious with what she would reveal and to whom, she gave off the Cindy vibe.  People thought she was mysterious.  At work she’s definitely Jia and can crack the whip, but at home I’m the only one who gets to see her Yuri side.

I guess you can have it all, after all.

Have a great week!!!

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For those of you with a facebook and rep Fear to Faith gear, don’t forget to join their group! 

Googlie Eyes.

So the other day The Franksabunch™ and The Wife™ are shopping at the 99 Ranch near Berzerkeley and we separate so I can go to my section (meat) and she can go to hers (fruits and vegetables).  Later on she comes up to me and says, “there’s this white guy following me around, smirking and staring at my booty!”  It turns out this guy was giving her the googlie eyes.

Oohhhhh…..you so pretttttyyyyyyyy….

It being 99 Ranch, only 5% of the shoppers were Caucasian, 1% being us, and the rest being Chinese people with flat butts (I’m sorry, young hustla, but the truth must be told!), so I figured it wouldn’t be hard to find the BootyPeeping Tom.  However, of the 3 other white males we ran into later, none were the offending miscreant.  Me thunketh that once he saw her walk up to me that he made like Google stock and split.  Good thing for him, because I had some verbal projectiles I was going to send his way…

• I’m sorry, sir, but Yellow Fever is actually stocked in aisle 12.
• Welcome to Ranch 99…how about a serving of kung POW chicken? *fist of Thor upside the cranium* (Just kidding, children, The Franksabunch™ does not condone violence.)
• Jesus loves you, even though I don’t.  *Single-leg takedown and rear-naked choke*  

Now, look…I’m a man.  I understand.  When we cross paths with an attractive wahine, it’s only natural to notice.  Two-second googlie eyes are one thing, but smirking and stalking are another.  For women, googlie eyes are like a meeting with David Hasselhoff, cool for the first few seconds, but sketchy and gross if it lasts any longer. 

Don’t Hassel the Hoff…or else he’ll show his chest afro again.  (If there is any justice in this world, the dog pooped on him.)

But what about men?  How do we feel when we get the googlie eyes from women?  Back in college there was this girl who would always give me the elevator eyes when we’d see each other at our group gatherings.  Did I enjoy it?  Honestly…yes!  She was this pretty hapa girl who had a BF but couldn’t resist giving me the googlie eyes.  In retrospect the fact that she had a BF should’ve bothered me, but growing up I never—nor currently ever—considered myself as being physically attractive, so the number of times (I can count on one hand, even if you cut off a couple fingers) I got the googlie eyes I thought, “wow, maybe I’m not so repulsive after all.”

(Or perhaps I am and that big booger sticking out of my nose just topped it all off.)

It’s all relative, I imagine.  Had all those googlie eyes in the past not come from bootiful hapa wahines but instead from those simian armpit women who live near Haight & Ashbury, I probably would’ve run home, exfoliated myself with an SOS pad and hid in the closet with a bottle of Jack.  As someone who is no longer single, there is no particular joy to be had from being the victim of googlie eyes, so, in a sense, all women except for my wife have developed simian armpits.  I still recognize beauty when I see it, but I really get no ego boosts from female attention.

Nowadays the only googlie eyes that matter are from my wife, which is usually a mixture of bemusement and horror whenever she catches me trying to Kaba Modern in our apartment or purposely singing the “$5 footlong” Subway song out of tune or in arpeggio fashion.  And you know what?  I’m okay with that.

So the moral of the story?  Googlie eyes can sometimes be unavoidable, but be respectful to the wahines, young hustlas.  Don’t linger or stalk them.  (For the wahines, the googlie eyes can be an important tool if you want to score a free drink at the club.)  And Mr. Pervert-Following-My-Wife-Around-99-Ranch?  I forgive you this time, homie, but do it again and I’m going to tap you out with a banana split.

——-

Have a great rest of the week!

Edit:  I posted this youtube video a loooooong time ago.  It turns out this guy was hired to be one of the new American Gladiators.  Wow! I guess youtube is good for something after all!

Edit 2: I can’t believe they didn’t send Lisa home on Top Chef!  Gah!

What is love?

If you asked The Franksabunch™ a year ago what my greatest fear in life was, I probably would’ve told you that it was dying young before I could accomplish my goals.  Ask me right now and I’ll say that it is losing my wife.  It’s not being alone that I fear, it’s not having her by my side.  Despite the fact that I’ve written about love in different ways many times already, marriage can certainly change a man and has taught me a few things in the short time that I’ve been enslaved married.  She has become such an integral part of my life that I find it hard to function without her (and get grumpy when she’s not around).

Love is always having to say that you’re sorry.

One of the things that marriage has done is to make me more aware of my mortality.  I actually think about my own death almost every day.  I think about it because I worry about who will be there to take care of my wife when I am gone.  I am no fool.  I know that the men in my family have a history of dying before their wives, which is why I always tell my wife that we’re going to have lots of mini-Franksabunches™, so that when I am gone there will still be a part of me here to watch over her.  But along with the realization of the light at the end of the tunnel, I am also more cognizant of the tracks that lay between then and now.  Every second is precious, every moment gold.  As I said in my anger post, no amount of pride or anger is worth increasing the space between you and your loved one.  Do you truly want the last memory your loved one has of you to be one of anger and separation?  But I also ask you this—do you want *any* memory your loved one has of you to be one of anger and separation?

Love is leaving a legacy.

Whose legacy do you think will survive longer, Bill Gates or Mother Teresa?  The legacies that endure are not fashioned with cold steel or purchased by coin, but rather are those that leave an indelible impression on the hearts of others.  When my time on this earth has reached the end of its days, I don’t want to be remembered by my children only when they glance upon a monument.  Instead, I want to be remembered by the way I taught them how to love and to live. 

Love is never having to say goodbye.

Love is the closest thing to immortality there is on this earth, for if you truly love someone, that person will never leave you and neither will you ever leave her, even after you have passed from this earth.  The beauty of love is that no matter what wounds are hurting, what walls are falling and what dreams are fading, your beloved’s warmth will always be there to carry you through to tomorrow and beyond.

I used to think that in order to have lived a good life that I had to do accomplish something extravagant, like discovering a groundbreaking new medical therapy or winning some distinguished writing award.  But after being with my wife (or, as I sometimes call her, “My Rib”), I’ve come to learn that if I live a life where I am well-loved and have loved well, then I have indeed lived a good life.

My life is far from over, My Rib, but if God decides to take me tomorrow I would be okay because through you I have lived a good life.

————

Bonus post for all you unmarried male subscribers and stalkers!

What love is not.

Love is not dating someone who shops at Hot Topic.

Alone I sit in my suffering darkness…want to go to Burger King after I finish sticking needles in my voodoo doll?

Like squeezing your buttcheeks together before you cough, avoiding girls who wear black lipstick is something you should have learned in elementary school.  You want a wahine who can be a good mother to little kids, not scare them away!

Love is not being able to eat what you want.

Watching the UFC and Battlestar Galactica are the only things I can claim as my right of being the man of the house.  And for The Wife™?  She exercises the right of portion control.  So eat what you can now, homies, because after the wedding it’s all about the calorie count!  (I have no counterattack when she states that she does it because, “I just want you to live longer.”)

Love is not flashing your money to impress a girl.

You know what Franksabunchism #2,951 is, don’t you?  “Money can’t buy you love, but it can certainly buy you herpes!”   Be careful, young hustla.  Once the money is gone, she will be, too. 

Love is not wearing a pair of butt-huggers.

Apparently, I’m not the only one.  I was talking to my friend who told me that he, too, has a wahine in his life who constantly tries to get him to buy tight jeans.  Homies, as it is with tofu hot dogs, Celine Dion, apricot facial scrubs and Korean soap operas, there comes a time when you just have to put your foot down and say NO!  If not for yourself, then do it for America.  And besides, wahines like it when you say no once in a while.  If you always say yes they think that you don’t care.  Confusing, huh?  Women are like lightning storms…don’t try to understand them, just learn how not to get hit!

———–

Have a great week, everyone!  For those of you who haven’t seen Iron Man yet, stay until the end of the credits, there’s an extra scene with a special guest appearance.  (I really liked Iron Man, but I thought Gwyneth Paltrow was miscast for that role.)

Edit: Sorry if this song will be stuck in your head the rest of the day.  (Qumquat, you crack me up!)  If any of you feel emasculated, you can listen to this to get Haddaway out of your system. 

The Franksabunch™ World News in Review 2

Sorry, I didn’t have time to finish my intended post on the “L” word, so here’s a brief review of recent events in the news, with apologies to SNL and Jay Leno…

Hillary Clinton’s story about a pregnant woman dying after being turned away from a hospital was refuted by the hospital in question and was proven to be untrue.    In response, the Clinton camp says that the way the pregnant lady really died was because she came under fire from a Bosnian Sniper, and that Barack Obama was the sperm donor. 

In northern India a rural village made international headlines when a child with 2 faces was born there. Hours later, Indian authorities blocked Barack Obama’s attempt to adopt the child and rename her, “Hillary Clinton.”  [Get it?  Two-faced?  Nevermind...]

Facebook has just unveiled its new instant messaging option, Facebook Chat.  Facebook founder Mark Zuckerberg admitted that he did this because he was tired of reading status updates from people who “just saw corn in my doo-doo!!!”

The celebrity world was abuzz about the rumored wedding between Jay-Z and Beyonce.  Beyonce’s mother denies that part of the prenuptial agreement is that their children would not inherit Jay-Z’s nose.

Soju was poured like rain all around South Korea this week as the first Korean astronaut, Yi So-Yeon, lifted into space aboard a Russian rocket. Celebrations were cut short when the cosmonauts turned the rocket back around when they discovered that Yi smuggled a jar of kim chi on board, causing the co-pilot to faint from the pungent fumes. 

Go Kaba Modern!  I love you Ummah and Appah and Tag Yuri-aaaaaaaahhhhh!

Battlestar Galactica made a triumphant return to cable TV for its 4^th and final season last Friday.  In a related story, World of Warcraft reported a significant decrease in online receipts because 30% of its players spent Friday night arguing whether the Battlestar Galactica could beat the Star Trek Enterprise in a head-to-head battle.  [Any guess on who the 12th cylon is?  Check my facebook!  And why is it that the only 2 Asian characters are Cyons?!]

A Shaolin Temple in China recently spent $430,000 (US) to upgrade its bathroom facilities, with a diaper changing station, uniformed attendants and LCD televisions.  In order to acclimate Chinese monks used to squat toilets, the Shaolin have added a trifecta to their teachings – Buddhism, Kung Fu and…wait for it, wait for it…DUNG FU!  

Navy SEAL Michael Monsoor was posthumously awarded the congressional medal of honor for sacrificing himself to save the life of his fellow comrades.  Well done, good and faithful son.  Well done.  Rest in peace.

——–

“L” word post next week!  (I hope!).   And the winner of the Franksabunch Xanga Final Four Pool is…..ME!  Woop!  I guess ibizajb owes me a pinch of his left buttock.  Haha!

Have a great rest of the week!  Eat your vegetables!