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Monday, 12 November 2007

The dangers of rhythm

I was reading a section in my Pathology textbook (yes, I read books now) on how people become anemic. Sure, there's all the crazy medical stuff, like how you can become anemic when your DNA gets all deranged, or when parasites starts growing their eggs inside your red blood cells, or when your own immune system goes wild. But of course, you can't forget about mechanical trauma, like stab wounds, gunshot wounds, bear trap accidents, Japanese ritual suicide, etc.

That's when I read this sentence: "Mechanical injury caused by...repetitive physical trauma (marathon running, bongo drum beating) can physically lyse red cells."

???

So, bongo drum beating can destroy red blood cells. And unfortunately, because I have the attention span of a very young goldfish, I couldn't help but imagine a poor bongo drummer doubling over in pain at the conclusion of an especially rhythm-heavy song, moaning, "My cells... My beautiful, beautiful cells... Momma was right--dis drum be de end o me" (incidentally, my imagination thinks all bongo drummers are Jamaican). I wonder if bongo drummers have higher insurance premiums... Plans are already in place for the first ever Bongo Anemia Center, dedicated to serving these poor, underperfused rhythm junkies and getting them off their self-destructive bongo habit.

::sigh:: I really need to pay attention when I read.

Wednesday, 10 October 2007

If I had known you were coming...

...I would've cleaned up the place a bit. Maybe taken down some of the green wallpaper and possibly put up a better profile picture (the one I have now is not all that...inviting). But you're here now, so great! I don't really know what proper Xanga etiquette demands for this situation, but I feel it's downright impolite not to give guests a proper welcome. So welcome!

I can't hope to respond to all the comments you all have left, so I'm just going to respond to one of the more common comments:

A lot of you have surmised that perhaps Alanis Morissette was trying to be ironic by presenting unfortunate circumstances and asking, "Isn't [that] ironic?" as if asking us if we knew how to properly define irony. If that's the case, she sure has gotten a lot of flak for trying to provide what (I think) would be a fantastic public service. For sure, "Isn't it ironic?" is much easier to sing than "That thing I just told you ISN'T irony". In the end, there's only one person who can truly answer the question of whether or not Alanis Morissette was keeping her tongue firmly planted in her cheek when she wrote "Ironic", so ask her ;).

Well, I've had a blast reading all you've had to say, everywhere from your compliments to your staunch defenses of Alanis Morissette's honor to your totally understandable queries as to whether or not I'm a guy*. Thanks for stopping by! I'm out.

*To be absolutely clear, I'm a guy. But of course, there really was no way for you to know. I really don't think there's a "masculine" way to write (you know, without excessive profanity).

Wednesday, 26 September 2007

Unholy Matrimony

Don't get me wrong: I have countrymen who find disgusting foods like stinky tofu, fetal duck eggs (feathers and all), and pig feet to be delicacies. I always thought my Chinese-Vietnamese heritage gave me a monopoly on all foodstuffs that humans classify as barely edible. Obviously, I'm not as worldly as I think I am.

Clamato is apparently a favored drink in Hispanic countries. From what I can gather, Clamato is tomato juice fortified with reconstituted clam juice (which forms a worse mental picture than regular, fresh clam juice). Budweiser, in an effort to expand its market to Hispanic immigrants, has added one more player in Clamato's sinister tango of clams and tomatoes: Beer.

This seems like one of those drinks that a burly man (of any ethnicity, mind you) will slam on the table, clap you on the back, and tell you, "it'll grow hairs on your chest" (or some other statement verifying your manhood) with a deep, uproarious laugh.

I don't know how this drink was invented in the first place. I mean, did people already have a passing fancy for beer mixed in tomato juice when they thought, "this is pretty good and all, but MAN, it needs more reconstituted clam juice"? What were they thinking???

I don't know.

These things that Budweiser has put together, let no man separate!

Saturday, 23 June 2007

Point, counterpoint

I think I want a foosball table.

Nothing says "bachelor and extremely unattached" quite like an expensive piece of game room equipment. Foosball tables aren't cheap. What a person is saying when they buy a foosball table is, "I have no intention of spending this money on anything productive or meaningful. Because I have nothing else in my life to which I can direct my income, I'm going to spend it all on a wooden table with little plastic men inside."

But I miss foosball so much. If I had a table, foosball could become a creative outlet. I'd give each of my players outrageous names and backstories, like:
--Rooster Jones, a 3-time Micronesian street fighting champion who lost the use of his arms and legs in a freak paragliding accident.
and
--Boxer Davy, a tortured alcoholic whose only joy in life is to play foosball but can only be straight and rigid enough for the game when he's sober.
And so on and so forth. You would never be able to do that with someone else's table.

As if I don't have enough human, non-plastic friends to talk to.

But they don't have outrageous backstories like...

NO FOOSBALL TABLES

Yeah, everybody has to grow up sometime...

Saturday, 09 June 2007

The $1 Couch

Ash has left our apartment. We're ::choke:: not quite a family anymore...

Actually, everything's pretty much the same, except where there were things before, there are no things anymore. And this is fine. The place just echoes a lot more when I talk.

Take, for example, the living room. We used to play video games, watch TV, have unannounced Bible studies, sleep, eat, talk, and put our mail in the living room. After Ash left, there was none of that anymore. We had no TV to watch, no couches upon which to sleep, eat, talk, or discuss the Bible, and essentially no raised surfaces to put our mail. It was interesting how many of our apartment activities necessitated the presence of stuff.

As much of a minimalist as I'd like to be in life, I think I'd always want a specific piece of furniture for my mail. It feels like I'd have to take a step down on one of the rungs of society to be the kind of guy that throws his mail on the floor. Med students aren't necessarily big-wig, monacle-wearing socialites to begin with.

The good thing about having a place devoid of stuff is that it gives you the opportunity to recreate the apartment according to whatever whims blow your way. Should we paint a mural on every painfully white wall in the living room? Sure!! Should we plop down an insane amount of money for a foosball table? Why not?! Should we consider turning the basement into a dojo/breakdancing arena? We'd be fools not to!

Thankfully, we never took these opportunities seriously, so no, we don't have murals, a game room, or even a dojo (we could've really used a dojo). BUT we do have a $1 couch!

Yes, Toby and I rented a truck and picked up a blue leather couch from some guy in Bucktown. It may refuse to match any color in the room, but consarnit, it's comfortable and it's free (the guy didn't even ask for the dollar). On the same run, we picked up my family's old couch, effectively ending its retirement. This couch may possibly be older than I am, but I'd say the ol' fussbag tweren't no more'n 45 year (in couch years, of course).

...And the more I start to sound like I should be panning for gold and asking fine ladyfolk to local barn dances, the less I should write.

In conclusion, the void is closed until it decides we need more stuff. And of course, we all miss Ash: The Person much more than we miss Ash: The Guy with All the Stuff. Farewell, Ash!