Franksabunchisms 2007

It’s that time of year again, when the turning of the calendar brings the hope of things brand new…and the past year’s Franksabunchisms!  Going through the past year’s posts looking for –isms, I’ve found that 2 of my favorite posts are here and here.  The last 2 Franksabunchism collections from 2006 and 2005 can be found here and here.  Don’t know what a Franksabunchism is?  Read on!

Franksabunchism (frahnc-sah-bahnch-iz-em) –  A sometimes meaningful but usually meaningless literary morsel about life taken from the xanga blog of The Franksabunch™, quotes guilty of lyrically performed armed robbery (that’s a Wu-Tang Clan line) with the aid of gallons of Diet Pepsi.  Should he ever find someone that steals a Franksabunchism (without crediting him) for their own writing, he will go ninja style one time for your mind and drop E. coli in their coffee when they’re not looking so they will get explosive diarrhea. Cha. Cha. Cha.

There are a lot fewer this year as I’ve been a lot busier, you know, getting married and all.  Also there haven’t been as many comical posts because after 3 years I’ve run out of people to make fun of!    Posts are not linked because I’m too lazy and too short on time!

• Love, you see, is an act of grace, caring or forgiveness that is imparted upon you when you do not deserve it.  Anything less and love is rendered to a simple act of quid pro quo.
• Women don’t fart…they perfume!
• In Europe personal space is like intelligence on The View…it doesn’t exist!
• Patience is like algebra…it’s not fun but it’s something that will help you in the long run.
• The malodorous fruits of impatience are not worth ruining the one trial run we have in this life.
• Getting married for a guy is like upgrading your flight to first class…you have the best seat in the house, it’s cleaner, the food and service are better, but you still have the woman in the skirt telling you when you can sit down, stand up, eat and go to the bathroom.
• When you are arguing with your Happily-Ever-After, it is no longer about winning or losing…it is about trying what is best for the other person.
• They say that beauty is only skin deep.  They really should say that beauty is only skin shallow.  Beauty fades.  And if your love is based on beauty, it will fade as well.  Wrinkles and gravity will not keep you warm at night 30 years from now.
• True love is the simple act of giving yourself away to another.
• The past, like regret, is something best left behind.
• But money isn’t everything, is it?  If it is everything to you, then in reality all you have is nothing.
• Beauty does not have to expose itself to be so.  And modesty, like the Coast Guard, is both underrated and underappreciated.
• Don’t do drugs, people, look what happened to Hillary Clinton…she turned into a man!
• Lesson number one of being a writer…let your writing speak for itself.  It’s not about loving the craft, it’s about crafting something you love.
• Pride is like a date on eHarmony.com…easy to get, but still ugly at the end of the day.
• Love and forgiveness are stronger deterrents than loathing and fear.
• In this world while there are none that are infallible, there are also none that are undeserving of love.
• The bouquet toss should be like a bad first date…short, simple and with no memory of who was involved.
• Like Berkeley and men with long hair, the Electric Slide should have never survived past the 70s.
• Wedding roasts should be like an Ashlee Simpson concert…everyone is a victim!
• Like a dingleberry, the DingleClubber is annoying, smells bad, and spends all night hanging onto your okole.
• The world is filled with hate, sadness, frustration, love, joy and peace with or without us.  I cannot change the past nor can I prevent the future, but I can do my best to fill the world with more love, joy and peace than hate, sadness and frustration…because I have to believe in something.  And if that will be my downfall, then I will fall clutching hope instead of despair. [Written in response to the VTech shootings.]
• The strength of a heart is in its vulnerability.
• It takes more bravery to let someone in than to cowardly shut out the world, more resilience to heal from the times you’ve been burned than to go through this world unscathed…and unloved.
• To place someone else’s needs above your own, to put their heart in your heart, your mind on their mind, and their soul in a place where it will never be lost or forgotten…that is what it means to be family.
• If Michael Jackson tries at first to be black but then gets accepted only by white people, isn’t he just like any other Asian guy?
• Even the strongest of heroes need to be rescued sometimes.
• Saliva is like your secret that you have a 3^rd nipple…it should only be shared with your future wife!
• Boogers are like having an emo cousin…it’s necessary for good health to occasionally bring the out into the sunlight, but better for society if you hide them from everyone.
• Sweat is not like Hillary Clinton in an election year…it’s not meant to be left behind!
• Poop is like a Backstreet Boys CD collection…no one else should know that yours exists!
• In a world designed for entropy, you cannot win every single time.
• Kim chi fried rice is like a first kiss…keep it simple and it will be worth the bad breath.
• Remember, homies, mixing ingredients is like farting in front of your GF for the very first time…make sure that the first one is dry, and not wet.
• Love remains, though we do not.

——-

Some reflections on my trip to Vegas for NYE:

• Unless you have a body like Jessica Alba, those velvet sweats (pants and hoodie top) that are all the rage right now are a bad choice and should be illegal.  Why because they lead to camel toe and wedgies!

Please, let’s make America a better place by banning these outfits!

• Gambling is the strongest addiction out there.  Think about it.  I’ve never been in a strip club before, but I can’t imagine seeing people on home oxygen in wheelchairs going there for fun, while on my flight to Vegas I was accompanied by…

Say goodbye to great-grandjunior’s college fund!

• Old people can shake, shake, shake…shake, shake, shake…shake your booty!  Shake your booty!  At the NYE ball I attended with the Mrs. the old people were rockin’ on the dance floor, including this man of Medicare age who came back sans shirt and coat and was stripping off his undershirt until his wahine gave him the smack down one time for your mind.

Needless to say, the Mrs. wasn’t very happy her hubbie tried to play male stripper.

And lastly…

Only in Vegas. Tsk-tsk!  And after rotating through OBGYN when I was a med student…trust me, boys, it’s not that glamorous.

Have a blessed 2008, everyone!  Follow the Franksabunchisms and you’ll be alright.

Early NY Resolution.

My early NY resolution is to start posting more on Xanga after the ball drops in Times Square.  But I have some upcoming trips:

• Me and Mrs. Franksabunch™ will be ringing in the new year in……VEGAS BABY!
• Mid-January…CANCUN BABY!  Well, this one won’t be as fun since I’m going there for a research conference (on someone else’s credit card…hehe) and I’ll be going by myself.    Anyone have any tips on restaurants (that won’t give me diarrhea) or things to see (that won’t get me arrested)?

To tide you over (unless I get the sudden urge to release my mental diarrhea in a post) here are some pics from my NY trip a looong time ago I never got around to posting…

Got to watch the legendary Conga Kings play!  Here is a vid I took of Carlos Patato Valdes shaking his tailfeather.  Unfortunately, he passed away earlier this month. 

I found a cure for iron-deficiency anemia…the Brooklyn Bridge

Pizza at Lombardi’s.

NY is the only place where trash is charming.

What the pho was I eating?  Late night eats in K-Town.

Read the sign closely.  This place was closed by the commissioner of health and MENTAL hygiene.  Mental hygiene?   I guess bad kim chi drives you insane.

The only thing in NYC I wanted to buy but didn’t.  Why?  Because he probably makes more money than me!

Mmmmmm…..too bad this set me back $100!  Chikalicious near the Village.

What I saw my first day of the subway, compliments of someone who probably just watched 2girls1cup (do NOT watch that video…I didn’t.)

Everytime I’m in NYC I eat one of these or else I get moody like a wahine with what’s at the end of this sentence.  (I kid!  I kid!)

With my bootiful niece!

Korean food with the fam.  This is the place right on the corner at the beginning of that one street with Baden Baden NY (B.B.N.Y. has some killer Korean fried chicken), a little overpriced but good taste.  (We went to K-Town–more like K-Block–to eat a lot because my wife in her KP glory wanted to “support her people.”)

Outside the MET with my younger sis, my other bootiful niece, and twin sis.  Inside we saw…

The one knight in Europe who couldn’t catch a cab.

The one knight in Europe who was born in San Francisco.

This is the actual armor of one of the princes, the little gremlin.  If I lived back then I would’ve been their version of Andre The Giant (minus the pituitary problem…anybody want a peanut?).

Pastrami at Katz Deli.  Hands down the best in the world.  That’s my wife’s hand (pre-wedding), for those of you who are screaming to see a pic of her.

The Tasty Dumpling on Mulberry Street south of Canal.  5 potstickers for $1!!!!!!!  You can buy a bag of 50 frozen for $8 (but the frozen ones are smaller).

I couldn’t stop laughing when I saw this…it looks like the guy is breakdancing.

Bathroom at the McD in Times Square.  I waited 20 minutes for this homeless guy to come out and this is what I saw when I walked in.  Lucky for me I’m a man so I just aimed and did #1.  Bwahahaha!  I told the guy behind me afterwards, “sorry, there’s no way I was touching that.” 

Dessert in Little Italy.  In my opinion Little Italy lacks good service and the food isn’t that great.

Went club/bar hopping with the most dangerous Asian on earth…Weezguy!  (Sorry, like his recipe for making all the wahines fall for him, his identity must remain secret.)

39th and Prince in Flushing with the man who put the Fat in Fat Nation (jus’ kiddin’ mang)…Azriha.  He with the NYC salute and me with the Hawaiian one.

Switching roles, after we ate….

Xiao Long Bao, BABY!  More juice inside than Barry Bond’s locker!

My attempt of being a photog like po0piE.

The truth hurts.  (Tapioca place near the Village.)

Bomb diggity sweatshirt I bought in Chinatown that still hasn’t lost it’s red yet.  (Amazingly.)

Only in Manhattan.

Have a blessed Christmas!  Stay safe and remember the Reason for the Season!

Update:  Conversation of the week happened this AM…

• F.Bunch: Why didn’t you accompany the patient down to his test?
• Nurse: Well, if he didn’t want to go he’d just run away from me.
• F.Bunch: But he only has one leg.

I don’t know how I still get paid less than some of the people I work with. Bwahahaha!

Dear Kengi.

Sometimes we are reminded that life is beautiful.
Sometimes we are reminded that life is sacred.
Sometimes we are reminded that life is too short.

And sometimes we are reminded of all of the above at the same time.

I don’t know why you died so young, Kengi.  But I do know why you lived.  You lived to remind us that life can be beautiful and sacred, no matter how short it is.

When I am back home in Hawaii I will think of you on every Sunday we get together to play football…without you there in person, but always with you there in memory.

Leave a light on for the rest of us in Heaven.

God bless you, dear friend.

(Fellow Wellspringers, service at Hosoi Mortuary behind Vineyard Zippy’s next week Tuesday, Dec. 11, at 6 pm.)

Sunday Best.

She was wearing her Sunday best. 

Only, it wasn’t Sunday morning that day I walked into the room.  But there she was in her Sunday best, with a blouse and pearl necklace covered with a black coat that was sewn by a fading generation’s hands, her face adorned with bright red lipstick contrasting against the wrinkles fashioned through years of toil yet proudly displayed as symbols of engendered wisdom. 

But the tears are new.  They always are, aren’t they?

If all the world is a stage, as was once said, then there is nothing like the rawness of emotions being played out when tragedy befalls us and the curtain begins to drop and the lights begin to dim. 

She was wearing her Sunday best.  Perhaps it was to make herself feel better.  Or perhaps it was to make him feel better.  If only he could see her, sitting there in her Sunday best, then he could know how much she loves him and maybe that is enough to will him to be better.  But he can’t see her at this moment.   He’s resting amidst the hustle and bustle and bells and whistles of a new hospital morning, so he doesn’t see her holding his hand, the tears flowing down as if they too are seeking to follow the same path as the heart that produced them.

The Good Book tells us that we only need to look at those around us to see God. I would also add that to see ourselves we only need to look at those we choose to circle around our lives. The company you choose to keep is often a reflection of your wants, your needs and that which you strive to attain, whether it be a character trait, career goal, or something as simply complex as the type of heart you hope to possess.

I don’t know this man.  I have been helping to take care of him, of course, but I don’t know him.  I have never heard his voice and what facts I do know I learned from a computer screen which displays numbers that I try to fix on a daily basis.  But seeing her sitting there in her Sunday best has told me all I need to know.  He is a man worth saving, a man whose life is worth living.

When I had emergency surgery one of the few memories I have of that night was waking up frequently due to pain or some noise and each time I looked down and saw that she was there, head resting on her hand in my hand, staying up the whole night to watch me sleep.  In that moment I realized that I must have done something right in my life to deserve that. 

I thought of that moment as I walked out of the room, leaving the woman in her Sunday best so she could have a moment with her husband without me there.  I also thought of that moment later that day in the market as my wife was giving me a lesson on how to pick the best apples and it struck me… 

Sunday best cannot be earned, neither is it deserved.

Love, you see, is an act of grace, caring or forgiveness that is imparted upon you when you do not deserve it.  Anything less and love is rendered to a simple act of quid pro quo. 

So as we sorted through the apples I thought about the woman in her Sunday best watching over her beloved and the other woman who watched over me when the curtains came close to falling and the lights came close to dimming.  And I just watched and let her do the picking, because I knew that I had already picked the best one.

The one who is my Sunday best.

—–

Congrats to the only undefeated team in the nation, the University of Hawaii Warriors!  Sugar Bowl, baybeeeeee!!!!!!  The whole BCS system is incomprehensible.  I don’t see how Missouri can go from being ranked #1 and then being shut out of a BCS bowl after losing in the Big-12 championship while Kansas, the team they beat earlier, gets a BCS nod.  And a 3-loss Illinois in the Rose Bowl?  Ai-ya.

Edit:  I can’t stand research.  I became a doctor to treat people, not crunch stats.  Just thought I’d say that to make me feel better.  Haha…

Have a great week!

Fart Ninjas.

So the other day the elevator doors open and as I start walking in I almost ran over a nurse.  Mildly attractive, she looked up at me with startled eyes as wide as Rosie’s butt, and with a shivering voice spurted out, “excuse me!” and hurriedly (as in, “it’s touching the cotton!” hurriedly) walked away like someone in search of a bathroom.  As soon as the elevator doors closed the miasma embraced me and mildly attractive suddenly became funk nasty.  SHE FARTED!  Apparently, it being a rather slow weekend day in the hospital, she was taking her chances that no one would walk into her elevator, so she played fart ninja and then made like Bennifer and split.

I know how the sayings go…  “Horses sweat, men perspire, women glow!”  “Women don’t fart…they perfume!”  Trust me, any nubile notions of the angelic properties of female incandescence were shattered once I did my obgyn rotation in med school, but the truth of the matter is that I fart, you fart, she farts, we all fart!  Despite the inexorability of this gaseous phenomenon, people still greet flatulence with petulance, making it no wonder that we often play fart ninja to hide our passing of gas.  There are some situations where being discreet is not an option–lunchtime in a Japanese high school cafeteria that serves milk comes to mind–but for the most part, fart ninja is the way to go, or else you’ll be committing social seppuku when you emanate the methane.

I’ll be honest.  The Franksabunch™ is guilty as well and has been known to surreptitiously play fart ninja in an ICU room (usually those places already smell bad, the patients are unconscious and can get blamed for any malodorous, well, odors) when no one else is around.

So what kind of fart ninja moves are there? 

• The Jesse Jackson Ninja Fart Move.  Blame the nearest white guy.  Heck, white people are already responsible for Michael Jackson’s enduring popularity!
• The Shock-N-Awe Ninja Fart Move.  Make it loud but(t) proud.  Like you mean it.  Then people usually will laugh and let you off.  Unless you’re a girl, in which case that’s just gross like Tila Tequila’s saliva.
• The Whodunit Ninja Fart Move.  When being silent but(t) violent, instantly accuse someone else in the room.  By serving as your own witness, you automatically absolve yourself of any culpability.
• The Canine Ninja Fart Move.  Blame it on the nearest dog.  That’s what OJ did before paying off the lawyers and figuring out that the glove was a human one.
• The View Ninja Fart Move.  If you’re a wahine, just blame it on the nearest man.  That’s what the ladies on The View do when they’re not busy debating whether the earth is flat or not.  (Further proof that Darwin was wrong like celery in fried rice.)
• The 8-Ball Ninja Fart Move.  My personal favorite when you have to pass gas at the gym.  Walk to the nearest corner pocket pretending that you’re looking for a piece of equipment, then drop it like it’s hot.
• The Leprechaun Ninja Fart Move.  Like the nurse in the elevator, crack one in an enclosed space and then run with the doors closed behind you, leaving your pot of, er, gold for someone else to find.  Then curse Warwick Davis for continuing to make Leprechaun movies after Willow.
• The Nuptual Ninja Fart Move.  Get married…then it doesn’t matter anymore.

So there ya go, subbers and stalkers.  Emancipate and emanate!  Like you mean it.  Just don’t blame it on me.

Bonus mini-post!

The Power of the Ring.

No, I’m not talking about the Ring of Mordor.  I’m a dork, but not that big of a dork.  Anyway, one thing I have recently been able to surmise is that girls love bling.  Okay, that much is obvious, but I’m talking about a more specific bling…  The bling of the wedding ring. 

I’m pretty good at keeping eye contact with those I talk to everyday at work (but not in a creepy-bug-eyed-serial-killer kind of way), so if people look at a certain part of me I can pretty much guess where they are looking with 95.3% accuracy.  And one thing I’ve noticed is that many women will glance at my wedding while most men will not.  (This didn’t happen when my ring finger was empty.)  If you’ve been a longtime subscriber of mine you know that I’m not the type to think that wahines are attracted to me and far be it from me to think that I’m somehow physically desirable, but without fail even the married/engaged ones will hazard a quick look!

Does that add credence to the belief that men are more desirable when they have a wedding ring on?  Or are those wahines simply wondering, “how in the world did this guy fool someone into marrying him?!?!”  On second thought, don’t answer that.  Bwahaha!   But maybe you wahines out there can explain why.

—–

Hope you all had a great thanksgiving!  Mine was filled with deep fried chicken (without batter, Korean style), stuffing, mashed potatoes with ‘shrooms, sliced ciabatta bread pan fried and drizzled with port and olive oil, corn fritters and a trio of dessert with pumpkin custard, ice cream and a chocolate chip cookie, all courtesy of my happily-ever-after.  I think my ring finger is tighter now.    And congrats to the Hawaii Football Team…only undefeated team left in the country!  Woop!  Here’s my video of their haka after the Reno game the other weekend (some Nevada fans were sore losers, giving me the finger…haha).

Have a great week!  (Big hug to ya, Roji.)

EDIT:  Oh my goodness.  www.youtube.com/nigahiga  bwahahahahahaha!

Personal Space Invaders.

Don’t touch me, you freak!

Okay, it’s not exactly the phrase my superego was trying to suppress, but it was close.  This past weekend I attended the largest conference in the world for my specialty (lucky for me it was in SF!) and as you can imagine it was quite crowded, with people from East and West setting the Guiness world record for the most people fascinated with urine gathering under one roof (the medical community’s version of “yellow fever” har har).  And with large crowds comes more invasion of personal space than the welcome line in Sing Sing prison.

At 6’1″, 225 lbs. with shoulders as wide as the gap between the leader of Iran and his sanity, I know that I’m not exactly Olive Oyl or Clay Aiken (Popeye or Ruben Studdard are more like it).  So when I’m in a conference hall (or plane, bus, train, etc.) I try my best to contract and contort my body to keep from cavorting outside my designated space.  I hoped that others would extend me the same courtesy, but like a chess team captain asking out the head cheerleader I came away disappointed.  Almost every time someone else plunked their okole down next to mine I would shrink back from the edge of the seat and that person would take it as an invitation to fold his or her arms and lean back like Fat Joe, taking up 10% of my space, not to mention brushing up against me constantly.  Any slight movement to the right or left and I would find myself touching more elbows than a UFC fight or inhaling from an armpit whose pungency was second only to the BART train on the way back from the Garlic Festival.  (This one old lady almost fell asleep on my shoulder, channeling Aunt Jemima as she almost slathered my shirt with drool like syrup on pancakes.)

But here’s what really marinated my meatloaf…the ones invading my personal space were invariably attendees from Europe!  I guess in Europe personal space is like intelligence on The View…it doesn’t exist!  I should not be surprised, however.  Europe, after all, is the place (according to myth, legend, rumor, the Washington Post, Dead Sea Scrolls and my cousin’s piano teacher’s former roommate) where families will go butt nekkid to the sauna together, French people are still, well, French, and parents are still unafraid to let their children hold Michael’s hand when he sings “Heal the World.” 

Now don’t get me wrong.  I’m not a schizoid person who avoids all human contact.  I’m from the Aloha state and with those that I care about I overwhelm with hugs and other displays of physical affection (well, the wahines…the men I still do the fist tap).  But not with strangers.  Especially strangers who don’t bathe or shave their pits!

This reminds me of the different types of Personal Space Invaders:

• The Booty Snatcher.  A distant cousin to the sleazy guy who creeps up behind wahines on the dance floor, this miscreant is known to frequent ATM machines and grocery stores.  Whenever you’re in line s/he stands close enough so you can feel his/her breath on the back of your neck. 
• The Spread Eagle.  Typically of the male species, this guy sits with his legs spread more open than a 7-Eleven, resulting in more touching than an episode of Oprah.
• The Brad Pit.  Like the Spread Eagle, this person gets comfortable by leaning back and spreading…his/her arms, exposing the pits.  In this age of Old Spice and Right Guard it’s usually not a cause for sinus concern, unless it’s a hirsute German woman with 2 beards, but not on her chin, if ya know what I mean, jelly bean.
• The Leaner.  I always wondered why some people when they talk to you choose to lean in close enough to kiss you.  If someone does that to me once I’ll make sure I eat kim chi before I see them again.

Just remember folks, my personal space is like my honeymoon.  You are not invited!

——

Some boring pics from the conference (click to enlarge):

At the conference I realized that if I was going to have to practice standard of care medicine in my specialty, I will have to do it with a balding head.

I was severely underdressed like high school cafeteria salad.  Most were wearing business suits while I wore jeans, the shoes you can see here and a top from Gap or H&M (bought on sale…Taiwanese represent!).

Doctors are people too.  Hand out free pens and we will stand in line!  There was a lot of “industry” representation there.

This was some ridiculous virtual reality roller coaster thing one company had.  Of course, only the Japanese doctors took it for a spin.

——

I have to emcee a wedding reception on Monday.  Yikers!  Any advice?  And have a great rest of the week.  I know I will because I’m on vacation in Hawaii! 

Edit: Oh my.  If you have little kids, read this about poisoned toys.  Is anyone going to hold China accountable for these products that can kill?

eHarmony.bomb

It’s true what they say about married people.

Once you get married, you live vicariously through your single friends, playing matchmaker like Tom Brady plays quarterback.  *Raises hand to admit guilt*  It’s not a hard thing to do, what with eHarmony.com commercials playing every 5 minutes on TV.  (If I have to see another Yahoo Match commercial with Dr. Phil I’m going to flagellate myself with a frozen herring.)  My friend once told me that eHarmony is not for attractive people and is instead marketed towards the “average” American.  The proof for this pudding is in the aforementioned commercials…how many of the testimonials come from mujeres y muchachos muy caliente?  And this got me thinking…

How often does an eHarmony.com match turn into an eHarmony.bomb?

Online dating no longer carries the stigma it once did—a prowling ground for possessed and repressed librarians with horns and horn-rimmed glasses, men with more nipples than nostrils, wahines with more nostrils than nipples, and that poor guy from Total Recall with Kuato growing in his belly (free Mars…for all the mutated single people!)—and is now socially acceptable.

Don’t get me wrong, there are a lot of people who found their happily-ever-afters (HEA) through online dating, but is it any easier?  The problem with the butterflies stage online is that we miss out on 80% of who that other person is…the real person hiding behind instant messenger away messages and xanga comments, and as a result we fill in the gap with romanticized idealizations which are, more often than not, more fiction than fact.  But that’s not the real reason why I think eHarmony.com in 10 years from now will turn out to be eHarmony.bomb when a lot of those marriages fail.

If you are single, there is a reason why you are single.

No, this does not mean all people who are single are that way because they are ugly, smell like wet dog or have a gap in between their front teeth that would make even Old Testament Moses proud.  Sometimes people are too busy, picky, career oriented, or have certain nonnegotiables like race or religion.  And sometimes they or their potential HEA candidates possess certain quirks that cause a split of Steinbrenner-Torre proportions.  I was single for a long time before finding the one who would loves me for who I am and not who I am supposed to be, and it wasn’t because I was a weirdo.  (Okay, maybe just a little weird, and she hasn’t found out about my third nostril yet. )

It’s a brave, new world, dear subbers and stalkers, but the barriers that were there before the foray into casting an inter-net in the proverbial sea for the proverbial fish are still there today because, after all, people are still people.  If people who meet in traditional ways get divorced, then so will those who meet on MyDesperateSpace.com, INeedAFriendster.com, ScaryFaceBook.com, AsianHoochieMamaAvenue.com and, yes, eHarmony.bomb.  (Please don’t try the faux websites I wrote, they may not be real or might lead to something sinful!)  It may have expanded your options for searching, but hasn’t necessarily made it easier.

So what is the solution?  I am not saying that meeting potential HEAs online is a bad thing.  I need more than two hands to count the number of xangans I have met in real life, some of whom I count as good friends and would be there for them if they needed me, but they became that way because of who they are, and not how we met.  Likewise, the secret to preventing an eHarmony.bomb is written in bold two paragraphs before this one, no matter how you meet them.

Oh, and don’t forget to google their names to make sure they don’t have 3 nostrils or 3 nipples.

——

And another thing about getting married is that it ruins your xanga mojo.  Since I got hitched my comments have dipped about 50-75%.  My wife calls me an ajushi (Edit: I think it means “old man” in Korean, prob spelled it wrong) now that we’re married…I guess she’s right in more ways than one…bwahahaha!   

——

Go Hawaii Warriors!  One of 5 college football teams still undefeated!

Patience.

Patience is a virtue, possess it if you can.

Never find it in a woman but always in a man.

I’ll never forget my intermediate school band director saying that to me.  Hahaha!  (He also told me, “Don’t worry, Frank, one day you’ll lose all that baby fat.”)

Having run around being on call for the past 56 hours at the hospital, I was quite fatigued when I showed up at Sunday afternoon volleyball, which is weekly and consists of level B and C players.  And when I’m tired, my tolerance for poor play weakens while my competitive nature does not.  So as you can imagine, I was a little grrrrumps at times.

I’m not a great player.  On my best days (which are few and far between) with a lot of leniency and loose definitions, I am a level B player.  But my competitive spirit is AAA.  I hate losing like butt nekkid men running around hate cactuses.  I am also harder on my own play than I am with that of the others. 

So it drives me double decka hecka craaaaazy up in heeeyah when I make a good play (pass, dig, set) and for lack of skill or effort the other person muffs the ball, or when I’m hitting left side and someone on my team thinks that we’re playing tennis.  When that happens I get a feeling in my stomach like I just ate some undercooked kal bi and a look on my face that I just snorted some Taiwanese bitter melon juice into my left nostril.  

In this situation (casual open gym with B/C players), however, I simmer down.  I give constant encouragement (nice try!  you got it next time!) and high/low fives.  But when I’m tired for non-athletic reasons the invertebrate brain takes over the vertebrate brain and I get frustrated.  And it came to a boil Sunday when I was in the setter spot and for nine straight serves I had to yell out, “help me!” because the passes never came within 15 feet of me.

I was basting in my own private cauldron of loathing and misery when I looked around and saw that everyone on the court was smiling…except for me. 

Patience is like algebra…it’s not fun but it’s something you learn that will help you in the long run.  At that moment I started to remember times when others were patient with me.  My father when I woke him up at 2 AM to listen to my heart because I thought I had one of the arrhythmias I read about earlier that day…  My resident when I was a struggling intern… My wife when she has to endure my sasquatch snoring…  I realized in that moment that I was allowing my impatience to prevent me from enjoying myself.  The malodorous fruits of impatience are not worth ruining the one trial run we have in this life.

So when the guy next to me line-drived the volleyball right into my forehead, instead of being irritated like a bug had just crawled up my butt and died, I simply smiled and enjoyed the moment. 

My bad, guys.  I’ll be my old, encouraging self next time in order to prove my band director right.  But that doesn’t mean that I’m going to spike softer.

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BONUS FEATURE!!!!

Xangans separated at birth from their twins?

Misstease (XC from back in the day)                 Hyoyeon from SNSD

Jonasapproved aka stinker who parties w/actresses!  Down Lo Mein from NotoriousMSG 

Junshien  aka wedding photog superstar        Yi Jianlian from the Milwaukee Bucks

Bobashop aka brightest smile on xanga        Cheshire Cat from Alice in Wonderland

Ibizajb aka Luscious Love Potion #7            David Hasselhoff

Bwahahaha!  Radjbo told me that she looks like a certain “adult” actress, but since The Franksabunch™ is a family show, so you’ll have to figure that one out yourself!

I’ll be at the San Jose State – Hawaii football this Friday in Man Jose, so look for the tall superhero on ESPN waving the Hawaiian flag!!

If you hate traffic court, raise your right hand!

I used to think that Starbucks was the Evil Empire.  You know, with their Age of Aquarius-ish mermaid logo, workers so intensely happy that you wonder if they take laxatives for breakfast and ubiquitous-like-foot-fungus-in-the-24-hour-fitness-locker-room presence in every city (by the way, if they ever come up with a Jim Jones Kool Aid Latte…don’t drink it!).  

But I was wrong.  They’re not as evil as the California Traffic Court System and its Beelzebubblish cousin, the California Department of Transportation.  Remember the traffic ticket I got a while ago?  I felt it was my duty as an American, Republican’t, follower of Jesus and spam musubi maker to tell them that they assigned my case to the wrong court.  I was rewarded with a new trial at the correct site…and a fine that was $30 higher. 

But that’s not what bothers me.  What bothers me is that the whole system is set up to screw the average citizen over.  When I got a ticket in high school (Hawaii), the judge introduced the policeman to everyone there so they knew he was present.  Here in NorCal, the judge in a stern, almost rude manner, began running everyone through a single file line as you walked through the door without giving you a chance to catch your breath.  I looked around, wondering, “when are the cops going to show up?”  I wanted to explain things so a court appointed lawyer pulled me outside to talk.  I was going to ask where the cop was, but figured that they all checked in earlier.  Certainly the lawyer would say something when he looked over my ticket, right?  But he didn’t and just advised me to pay up and go to traffic school.  So I ended up paying the fine plus whatever traffic school will charge me.  After I paid the fine I walked through the cashier room exit and saw all the cops were hanging out away from plain view, chatting with some of the other traffic attorneys.  Of course, the one who gave me the ticket wasn’t there.

Great beard of Oprah!  I just got screwed over more than Hope Solo in the World Cup.

The lawyers knew which cops were there.  They were taking breaks together, for cryin’ out loud.  But foolish me to think that the lawyer the court provided would actually care and help a yellow yet fabulous brother out.  I was stupid to think that he would be on my side given who was paying his salary.  I help my patients find ways to reduce needless office visits and procedures to save them money, even if it means my department makes less, because it’s the right thing to do.  I guess not everyone else operates that way.

Yes, in the end it was my fault for not speaking up and asking where the cop was, but I just think that the whole system is set up not to help us, but to make us pay.  Which in my case was over $200 + traffic school.  Oh well. 

I guess my only vengeance will be next year when I’m making $xxx and the traffic lawyer is still making beans.

For those of you who have been maimed by the traffic Gestapo like me, I raise my drink (Diet Pepsi) to you as a fellow victim.

Edit:  I’m doing the online traffic school and you have to check out these question/answer options:

All of the following are examples of driving courteously on the road EXCEPT:
trying to signal to someone that there is something wrong with them by waving your middle finger

Defensive driving means:
taking the football from the offense, which starts a long drive deep into your opponents’ territory

Hahaha!  It almost makes the $200 fine worth it.

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Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate the hard work those in law enforcement and the courts do to keep America, well, America instead of Liberia.  (So don’t kill me, Bipolarmeow, Sherwood, Fatitude and Kamilotte! )  But if I had an ounce for every way the traffic court system sucks I’d have a behemoth that weighs more than all the former hosts on The View combined (before gastric bypass).  And for those of you who pass through toll booths, take my advice and GET A RECEIPT.  My wife got a $25 ticket for not paying a toll.  Of course she paid the toll fee, but we had no proof.  (I’m wondering if it’s a scam…pocketing the cash for every 30^th car and giving them a ticket is a lot of cheddar!)  To show our appreciation of the California D.O.T., the next time we passed through we paid the entire $4 toll in dimes.

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And lastly, since she gave me a holla at the end of her column, give some aloha to the one and only Hollypoop!  She has writing I look forward to reading and she’s one of the few remaining fellow English majors I know on Xanga that are still active!  (Besides my Muse, who doesn’t post much anymore…boooo, woman, booooooo!)  I’m going to stop being nice now before I barf.

Have a great week!

War of the 300 Thread Count Roses.

My wife is a thief. 

A dirty, rotten thief.  I did not know this before we exchanged our forever vows, but how well can you truly know someone before you promise to spend the rest of eternity with her?  Of course, in the beginning everything is all nice and La-La-La-La-La-La-La-La-La-La , but eventually the truth comes out like a lion with a tattered wedding veil leaping out of a cave at you with fang and nail aiming for your left jugular, and then Smurfette turns into Gargamel on a Monday morning without a venti.

You married men know what I am talking about…

In the beginning when I would get the cold shivers around her I would shrug it off as nothing and press on, but incidents soon turned into coincidence which turned into the absence of innocence once I figured it out…

BLANKET WARS 2007!

The reason why I would get the cold shivers is because while sleeping she somehow would always end up with the whole blanket, giving me the eskimo oven.  (I’ll take that over a dutch oven, tho!)  Feeling more frigid than a Canadian’s buttcheek on a cold December morning, I would wake up shaking like Beyonce on Red Bull, curl into a fetal position like Britney in rehab and go back to sleep.  After I figured out that this would be an almost nightly fight, I told her about it one morning.  Being the sweetheart she is she apologized profusely and asked why I don’t simply pull the blanket back or wake her up.  But what would you do?  I’m lying there watching my wife warm and wrapped up like a–excuse the expression–kim chi burrito sleeping (and dreaming of me, of course ) and I am thinking…I can’t steal blankie from her!  I don’t think I could ever take comfort away from my wife to increase my own.  (Well, unless you’re talking about the last piece of extra crispy KFC.) 

It’s all a part of being married, I guess.  The more I think about it, being married is like being on an airplane.  Getting married for a guy is like upgrading your flight to first class…you have the best seat in the house, it’s cleaner, the food and service are better, but you still have the woman in the skirt telling you when you can sit down, stand up, eat and go to the bathroom!  Bwahaha!

So sorry to disappoint you, dear subbers and stalkers, no “real” fight between me and the Happily-Ever-After, but it made me think about the nature of our relationship and how it has changed.  Like any other couple we have our fair share of fights (and by fights I mean arguments/disagreements).  Previously my pride would always take over (I am always right, you know ), which inexorably led to an incessant barrage of logic on my part until I thought that I had presented sufficient evidence to win.  (Arguments to me are like intellectual enemas…satisfying but not always pretty.)  But now it is different.  Don’t get me wrong.  We still have discussions in which we disagree and I still try my best to get my point of view across, but if I elevate myself to the point where I’m right but pushing my wife away, I haven’t really won anything.

When you are arguing with your Happily-Ever-After, it is no longer about winning or losing…it is about trying to find what is best for the other person.  Because, really, if that’s not what you want, then why are you with that person?

So waking up once in a while in an eskimo oven and looking over to see her safe and warm?  That’s a fight I’m okay with losing.  

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Sorry to those of you on facebook (especially those who super poke me, etc.).  For some reason on my computer all the advertising links are superimposed on the applications/icons so if I try to do something I get sent to the ad link.  So I don’t really do much on that site or respond to things.  (I still haven’t figured out what are the benefits to having a facebook over myspace?)

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Once in a while I feel the urge to take an intellectual enema and write about something going on in society, but I avoid doing that on this site (it decreases the amount of Haterade being served).  So I made another xanga that I’ll splatter my cognitive diarrhea on once in a while.  You can find it here if you’re bored.  

Have a great week!  I’m out like Notre Dame football! 

Edit: And this week’s sign that the apocalypse is not upon us….it looks like karma is a biyatch, which is what OJ will be in prison!