Sometimes I really want to stop blogging. I just don’t see the point.

It’s super vein. It’s slightly time consuming. And it’s killing my chances to win the Iowa primary in 2032.

Other times, however, I really see the benefits. Id est, a tool for creation, self expression, communication, and also a way to take a trip down memory lane.

I received an email Monday morning from an old, dear friend named Dylan. Let me tell you about “D-Nasti”, as I dubbed him after we met. Dylan was the first friend I made after I entered University. Somehow, I guess it was a gift from God, I managed to secure a spot in Scott House, the dormitory for students majoring in anything agricultural (”ag”). That meant a couple of things - up before the sun, check. Carhart overalls, check. Tons of cheap beer, check. A dude that got too close to a sheep, check. Tracking mud/manure combos into the hallway, check. Confederate flags, check. Overt use of the N-word (the one that ends in “-er”, not “a”….is there a difference?), check. Guys who called MLK day “James Earl Ray Day”, check. Writing racist and homophobic slurs on the white board in the hallway, check. Hall directors who would take no action against the overtly racist and homophobic behavior, check. Hall directors that did take action when I left a profanity-laced voice message…check. I could go on, but you get the point. This place was crazy. Why these guys weren’t feeling my recitation of Nas lyrics and greeting everyone with “What’s up, Dawg?” was beyond me.

Despite all the madness, this experience was one I wouldn’t trade for anything. Namely because of the few friends that came out of it. Dylan was the first of those friends. Well, technically speaking, Nick - my roommate - was first, but Dylan was the first friend that I MADE. I was in room 220. Dylan stayed in the on the opposite side of the hall, the first/last room in the hall, just across from our RA, Chris, who Nick nicknamed “Chief”.

I can remember the first night we met like it was yesterday. I had promised myself not to party during the first quarter of University (I wanted to focus on my studies), so I was at home on that Friday night. I went to the lobby to get a drink from the vending machine, I think a cup of hot chocolate (it might have been November by this time, so the temperature was cool). There was a guy, maybe slightly inebriated, in the lobby. As I make my selection, I felt his presence behind me, but hadn’t planned to acknowledge it until he spoke to me - “What’s up dawg?”. Man, I thought, is this dude mocking me? I’m not in the mood for any more confrontations. I gave a “Hey, how are you?” to be polite. Dylan responds with some pleasantries and small talk, and somehow we end up talking about how to hack computers. Well, I didn’t know shit. I had hard enough time checking email. But Dylan seems to be an expert. Next thing I know, we’re in his room hacking porn sites. Anyway, that was the beginning…
Dylan was like a big brother to me the rest of the year and throughout our time at OSU. Not only was that my first (and last) time hacking, but it was also my first (and almost my last) time on a porn site. I also watched my first DVD (American Pie) in his room. Burned my first CD on his computer (which I was always using to check my email). Drank my first full beer (a Corona) in Dylan’s room. The next year, I had my first DJ gig at Dylan’s house. Dylan even gave me a place to stay when I was homeless for 2 week period between leases. We lived together for a summer and ate tons of mac and cheese…and oatmeal…You get the point…a great friend
Oh, wait, how could I forget - my first strip club…Dylan. I went in that joint…super scared. I forget the name, but it was just on the side of the highway. Corn fields and neon lights. It was BYOB which, in the midwest at least = all nude. Oh man, I didn’t know this type of stuff goes on in Ohio. We walked in there…sat down. A stripper sat next to me. Dylan tells her it’s my first time in a joint. She’s wearing a shiny silver two piece (I can’t forget that), turns to me and says: “So this is your first time, huh?” I nod, trying to keep eye contact. Then she says: “Then you’ve never seen t**s this big?” and totally flashes me. I’m glad it was dark in there, because my face must have been super red. Well, I’m not at all shy about a woman’s body, but such directness was a first for me. Usually I have to say something. This time I just paid the $10 cover.

Anyway, Dylan is the type of friend who just wants you to enjoy yourself. He’ll go out of his way to make you comfortable. I knew this, so I told him: “Dylan, don’t buy me any lap dances”. I said it sternly and he agreed. Later, the DJ announces a 2 for 1. 2 songs for the price of one. Dylan tells me he is gonna get a couch dance in the back room. Cool. One song passes and someone taps me on the shoulder and I turn around. It’s Dylan. What’s up? “Your turn, bro.” “What?” You guessed it, he was giving me the second song. A great friend. So I went back there, on the couch, next to some other guys, and the stripper just….just…stripping…and stuff….I was frozen…I was too nervous to be turned on. I didn’t know where to put my hands, so I think I ended up sitting on them.

Anyway, the feature for that night was crazy - the show put that stuff in Thailand to shame…
Anyway, I have a lot more to write about Dylan, Nick, and the dorm life, but I’ll take a きゅけい “kyukei” for now

Listening to: “Best is Yet to Come” by Frank Sinatra

I’ve been hearing that everyday from my Mother since I was in elementary school. That and “get some clothes that fit”, both to which my standard reply was, “don’t hate, Moms. Chicks did dudes with a big inseam”. 噶!

Today, for the first time, if Big Worm was here to see me, she wouldn’t have to waste her breath, except to shower me with compliments of how well my jeans and Ts fit.

If I had snapshots, you might think my style changed dramatically, but in fact, the fundamentals haven’t change a bit - it’s still jeans, Ts, and sneakers everyday of the week! Comfort is my style. My smile is my style. Cheap (except sneakers, and even those sometimes) is my style. Call it ghetto casual, big money grin, poor boy ¥en.

Lemme take you on a trip.

It all started with those Winnie da Pooh pajamas with the white feet. Even when I was too big for them, the feet broken out, I would still rock ‘em. Then it was Aaron Spelling (RIP) inspired - white T to show my pre-pubescent guns. I remember jeans with holes in both knees so big that even my teachers were asking if we had enough money to buy clothes. Fast forward and I remember hitting up Value City and TJ Maxx for the cheapo Cross Colours, Damage, USED, and Karl Kani brands. Then it was Tommy and Polo partial and full button ups. Onto FUBU and Phat Farm. I switched it on ‘em before the Hot Boyz were hot and came through with the plain white (among other colors), no brand Ts. Them cuffed Girbaud jeans had the Frenchies lovin’ me. My crib got robbed and they left me only with the clothes I was wearing. I took it as a sign and got grown up with dress shirts over a self-designed, iron-on pattern T, and now onto those joints from HellaPaul. For the past year I was rockin’ the same Old Navy jeans that Maggie bought me in Dallas. I wouldn’t wear dress shoes with jeans ‘cus it was against my principles. They wouldn’t let us into the club because of me. Maybe I’ve relaxed a little now, but I still stand behind the belief that such policies are discriminatory against poor people who don’t own a pair of shiny shoes. Besides, who wants to dance in some dress shoes?

Hoodies and long johns were like hot chocolate in the winter - a staple. The boots were Timbs and, after hittin’ a lick ($20), Columbias. Of course I was rockin’ Jordans with the best of ‘em. I wasn’t a sneaker freaker, but I did the dew when it was do. I skipped school, waited in line at 0630 AM to get the Js. I was late with the AF1s, but still rocked’ ‘em steady. I had them Huaraches, those Pumps, some Threaks, New Balance, Luggs, LA Gear, British Knights, Reebok Classics, etc..

The hair went from thick and slick (90210), a little short on the sides (Saved by the Bell), to a full-blown fade every week that gave me an excuse to skip class. I grew the curls down my back. Braiding it went from gully to pretty (note: Marc Allen was doing it it before Iverson and everyone else). That, coupled with the high maintenance, lead me to rock the PT (pony-tail). Got that job after I felt it was time to stop the Samson Sestito era, and went DIY-style for a while. Was in NYC, so I had to get it in Little Tokyo where they play dance music and talk about snortin’ coke. They love their blow more than their blow dryers. They’re always tryin’ to put some jiz in my hair, so I had to cool it. I try for the standard Chinese cut, but I keep gettin’ their interpretation of Tom Cruise in Top Gun. aaaaaaahhhhhhhh!!!!!!!!!!!! I don’t want that blow-back look!!!!!

And today. It’s no secret I hate shopping. The only shopping I have ever enjoyed was as a DJ. Outside of records, I despise shopping, even for food. I usually depend on someone else (a girlfriend or other concerned, fashion-conscious individual) to supply me with the inspiration (read: force me) for a trip to the store. So, today, Xiang Wen, Liu Yiming, and I went to Chunxi Lu and some other place (I forget how to call it) that is just a bunch of small stalls full of clothes, young girls, and HEAT!!! I have been there quite a few times before, but not out of want. This time we did it nice and, I must say, it was the most pleasant shopping experience of my life. The company was great. We took our time. We ate and hit the second half hard. We mixed up the styles, brands, and pricing.

I came out with 2 pairs of jeans, 2 pairs of shorts, 3 Ts, and 10 pairs of socks (what? I didn’t tell you I love socks?)….and they all fit. No, really Mom, they all fit. I mean, yes, my crotch feels tight and if it were cold, you might see a nipple pokin’ out!

In High School, a friend and I made a trip to the suburbs to visit his girlfriend. All the houses looked the same, and all the streets had a name that could be mistaken for a aromatherapy candle, like Fragrant Orchard Lane or Happy Grove Place. We called after reaching her street.

“Which house?”, we asked.

“The one with a basketball hoop, Mercedes in the driveway, and trash cans out front”, she said.

“That’s all of them!”, we said in unison.

I don’t have a problem with any of them. You all know my fondness for t-shirts. In fact, I helped lead the proliferation of plain, white-ts in Cincinnati. While everyone else was paying out the wazoo for Phat Farm and Fubu, I was rockin’ steady with no-brand ts in a rainbow of colors.

Tats? I don’t have one, but I can certainly appreciate the art form.

Aprons? I’ve been known to put one on.

But do the three mix? Well, if there’s a grill and meat involved. But when there’s not? Listen up.

I’d had the same family dentist, Dr. Wittenbrook, for a as long as I could remember. It was my junior or senior year of University, and I needed to get a couple of cavities filled. I asked my Mom to schedule me an appointment. She said okay, but informed me that we had new insurance, so Dr. W. would no longer be my dentist. Fine with me, I thought.

A few weeks later, I made my way to the new dentist, located in Western Hills Plaza. Do you know what a “plaza” is? It’s an outdoor shopping mall. Maybe some people are into the one stop shopping thing, but not me. Steak? Check. New CDs? Check. Clothes? Check. Fillings? Check??? It’s just not right. I need separation of tooth and steak.

Inside, there was a not so sexy receptionist. She said there was a problem with my insurance. I flirted. Nothing. I waited for a while. Finally, the dentist came out - white-t, tatted arms, and a white apron. Can I at least get a white coat or a pair of blue scrubs?

I’m an eternal optimist, so I thought they might have a cafeteria in the back. I remembered that Dr. W. always gave me a toy when I visited. Maybe this place cooked burgers for their grown up patients. But I didn’t see a spatula in his hand.

My insurance still wasn’t registering, so I used the opportunity to excuse myself. I called my Mom: “Yo, have you been there?”. Turns out she hadn’t. Beware of the dentist who looks like a Waffle House chef, I warned her.

“I’m bringing Racists back
Them boys don’t know how to act
Come let me make up for the things they lack
Cause your burning up I gotta get it fast”

So here I am, Ohio born and raised, sitting in China, eating gai jiao fan (with chopticks). Chairman Mao is outside waving to us. I’m walking the line with Johnny Cash on my iTunes, while chatting with my Filipino born friend about a Japanese website. We’re trying to get this money - Yen, Yuan, Dollar, Euro, Rupee, you name it. And I get a call from an AP reporter asking me to comment on this “Why I Hate Black People” thing. I told her I had no idea was she was talking about, so I had no comment, but asked her to explain. She did and this is my comment, my remix of all things sex(y) and racist. Quote me.

This blog is so provocative. It must be the MSG. My “ABCs” post actually started a National controversy. On the heels of that blast, Asian Week, “The Voice of Asian America”, published a response by writer Kenneth Eng titled, “Why I Hate Blacks”.

Check it out, below:

==========================================
“Why I Hate Blacks” by Kenneth Eng
Here is a list of reasons why we should discriminate against blacks, starting from the most obvious down to the least obvious:

Blacks hate us. Every Asian who has ever come across them knows that they take almost every opportunity to hurl racist remarks at us.

In my experience, I would say about 90 percent of blacks I have met, regardless of age or environment, poke fun at the very sight of an Asian. Furthermore, their activity in the media proves their hatred: Rush Hour, Exit Wounds, Hot 97, etc.

Contrary to media depictions, I would argue that blacks are weak-willed. They are the only race that has been enslaved for 300 years. It’s unbelievable that it took them that long to fight back.

On the other hand, we slaughtered the Russians in the Japanese-Russo War.

Blacks are easy to coerce. This is proven by the fact that so many of them, including Reverend Al Sharpton, tend to be Christians.

Yet, at the same time, they spend much of their time whining about how much they hate “the whites that oppressed them.”

Correct me if I’m wrong, but wasn’t Christianity the religion that the whites forced upon them?

Blacks don’t get it. I know it’s a blunt and crass comment, but it’s true. When I was in high school, I recall a class debate in which one half of the class was chosen to defend black slavery and the other half was chosen to defend liberation.

Disturbingly, blacks on the prior side viciously defended slavery as well as Christianity. They say if you don’t study history, you’re condemned to repeat it.

In high school, I only remember one black student ever attending any of my honors and AP courses. And that student was caught cheating.

It is rather troubling that they are treated as heroes, but then again, whites will do anything to defend them.

==========================================

It’s funny that he referred to the Japanese as “we” when referencing the Russo-Japanese War. The name “Eng”, if I am not mistaken, is Chinese (originally from Guangdong province, but just a guess). I’m (no history) buff, but I do believe it was the Japanese who SLAUGHTERED the Chinese. Besides, it’s no secret that Japanese are admired, hated by all other Asians because of their economic and cultural superiority, so why he tries to align “we” with them, when “they” couldn’t be any more different than “him”, is a mystery to “me”. Got that? By the way, do the Japanese even consider themselves “Asian”?
Actually, I don’t believe Asian Week should retract this article, issue an apology, or suspend this writer (or anyone). Why? Well, because true to Asian Week’s motto, they are “The Voice of Asian America”. And, in fact, I believe what Kenneth Eng wrote is, generally speaking, the Voice of so-called “asian-Americans (aAs)”.
Note: Small ‘a’ because maybe they are a little Asian. Big ‘A’ is reserved for the real ones, as you’ll read later.

It has long been FACT that Asians are used as a tool against Blacks and Latinos in America. My girlfriend in college, an “aA”, introduced me to a book by Vijay Prashad titled, “The Karma of Brown Folk”. Here’s a copy/paste summary:

“How does it feel to be a problem?” asked W. E. B. Du Bois of black Americans in his classic The Souls of Black Folk. A hundred years later, Vijay Prashad asks South Asians “How does it feel to be a solution?” In this kaleidoscopic critique, Prashad looks into the complexities faced by the members of a “model minority”—one, he claims, that is consistently deployed as “a weapon in the war against black America.”

Mr. Eng’s comments, essentially, are the same as those Whites make. These are just reflections from his rice bowl in Chinatown, while those from Whites come via the plate of a Hungry Man dinner. Read the book, it has some good arguments, but this is my blog, so I’m gonna put forth a different perspective.

Mr. Eng’s article is not about Black and Yellow. It’s about Pink. This is about Pussy.
The truth is, “aAs” are scared of Blacks. Not because the Black guys can knock them “the f@$$ out” (after all, these guys know Kung Fu, Tae Kwon Do, and Karate, right?) but for the same reason White guys are - because chicks dig Black guys. That is why Mr. Eng is verbally assaulting Blacks. My guess is that Mr. Eng’s nice, suburban-bred “aA” chick left him for better endowed, city-bred Black guy. But I gotta say, be cool homey, my girlfriends have left me for an assortment of men (and women) - Black, White, Indian, Chinese, mixed, etc. If you ain’t packin’, they got procedures for that. Or just work on your technique. I’m an average dude, some say below average (lol), but my technique is flawless. Ask “your women”.

Which brings us to a personal story:
When I was in High School, the majority of my girlfriends were Black. I had Black friends - you know who you are - who almost exclusively dated White girls. But I can never recall serious mention about it between each other, and certainly never any protectionist policies. But with “aAs”, it’s completely different. I have countless stories from University, when I was dating an “aA”, where I experienced blatant, aggressive racism at the hand of “aAs” (not Blacks, not Whites, not Latinos). But maybe this recent, more passive encounter is the funniest because of how my friend broke the psychology down for me.

I had an Asian girlfriend in NY. Not American at all. Born and raised somewhere else. One day, we were at her apartment. She is on MSN messenger with one of her “aA” friends. I’m sitting right beside her, and her friend, who I’d never met, starts to go off like, “I don’t like the idea of them taking our women”. I had to give him a big ’sad-face’ emoticon for that. What is this guy talking about? First of all, his parents were not the same type of Asian as my gf. Second, he is not Asian at all (he’s American). And third, most importantly, can he really monopolize all Asian women? If so, does it include “Cauc-Asians”? If guys like this had their way, Blacks,White s, and Latinos would be without sex altogether. And if he thinks people making fun of him now is bad, wait until he meets some horny White guys who want to be his “friend”.
I was pissed, perplexed, so I told one of my “aA” friends about this story and he said, quite candidly, the following:

“Jesse, let me teach you an important lesson about the mentality of Asian guys in America. The truth is, most of these guys can’t get with any girls, except Asians. Well, not that they can’t, but they don’t try. They don’t have the game. Look at me, I’m the ghetto Jackie Chan, so I’m rockin’ four at a time, all from different continents. My only limitation is the population - I’m just trying to find a chick from Antarctica to make it complete. So, if they see a White guy or a Black guy with an Asian girl, they feel threatened. They think you are taking from their (limited) pool of options. Why do you think they have their own parties, organizations, etc.? It’s not a culture thing - it’s not that they have some special way of partying - a native music or way to drink - special needs or concerns. Don’t believe that ‘community’ crap. They want to hoard all those hot chicks.”
Yo, I wanted to laugh, cus I thought it was soooo phunny, but he was dead serious, so I just nodded my head and appeared to be in thought. But on the inside I was exploding, because I knew two things that he didn’t. First, that there are actually 7 continents. And second, if you’re really into Asian women, the USA IS NOT the place to find one.
But the oddest thing is that this phenomenon only exists in “aAs”. All my A (big A = Authentic) Asian friends seem overwhelmingly supportive if I am dating someone from their country. I’ve been told, on multiple occasions, by different people, “I think this is a great way for you to understand our culture better. By dating a (enter country here) woman, you and I can build a better friendship, because now we share the same painful experience!” Now, that is the spirit. That is the American spirit. And it is coming from non-Americans.
Another odd thing is that Mr. Eng is in NYC, “the melting pot of the world”. In fact, the biggest shock I encountered in NYC was the fragmentation of races. In my opinion, people in the mid-west are way more open-minded than those in the so-called “international” cities. But maybe I’m just bias.
I’m so Gwen Stefani right now, so let’s Wind it Up!

1. Real Americans aren’t hyphenated. We’re all the same. We’re all from somewhere else. That’s what makes us Americans. We share a common identity - as foreigners. I really don’t know any Blacks or Whites that are crying to be called “African-American” or “European-American”, respectively. We’ve put in our time, we founded this country, together (albeit not voluntarily on the part of Blacks). Our people have assimilated. Pay your dues, and your taxes (yes, I know why no one in Chinatown takes credit cards). Don’t give me the talk about culture or ethnicity versus nationality. It’s absurd. Being an American is more than a nationality. It’s not just about holding the passport. Truthfully, you’re not racist, you’re ridiculous, ignorant even. Do we really want to go there? If we do, I’m gonna have to bust out all my “ethnicities” and you can no longer refer to me as “White”. It will be something like, “Italian-French-Canadian-Irish-English-Native-and maybe a little Appalachian-American”. Why “aAs” avoid it beats me. Are they really Asian first and American second? What happens if/when we go to war with China? N. Korea? Japan? To be an American, simply an American, is the highest honor afforded any human being. Give it up or get out!!!
OR
as J Timb says, “Get your Racist on / Go ahead, be gone with it”

2. You can date beautiful White, Black, and Latina women too, if your game is tight and you just try. Don’t limit yourself. Take me, The Ambassador, for example. I’m in Chengdu, home to the most beautiful women in China…but I can’t speak Chinese. Well, I know how to order food, but the girls might get offended if I keep asking them for chao fan. Besides, they heard that in America, the guy either cooks or takes the woman out to eat, so that would not be a good image for me to present. Anyway, I don’t get mad when I see some dude with funny hair walking past with a Lucy Liu x 2 on his arm. I just know I have to step up my game. I was lost for a minute, but SbookP straightened me out. He said, “Focus on your competitive advantage, young grasshopper. Turn your weakness into your strength. You’re an American godammit, use it. Take them to Pizza Hut.” This guy is a genius, because here Pizza Hut is high-class shit, and the menu has pictures.

3. You’re White, you’re really White, you’re really really White. Yes, you are an ABC - Asian But Caucasian. You’re in the BURBS, watchin’ Friends, ghost-ridin’ through the culdesac, drinkin’ lattes. Me, on the other hand…

4. I’m in your Parent’s country. I’m rockin’ on your dimez!!!!

P.S. Nothing gets me more pumped up than race. I really love talking about it. In America, you can tell more about a
person by discussing race than anything else.

P.P.S. I would have still wrote this post if I was at work in NYC. Thankfully, I’m not, so the client isn’t being billed hundreds of dollars for the time. I’m so economically rational.

As a freshman in college I joined the American Marketing Association. It was comprised of mostly upper classmen - Juniors and Seniors - looking to fill their resume with extracurricular activities. I was trying to gather information on choosing a major. We would meet once a week and a member of the local business community would come speak to us about various Marketing related topics.

On one occasion, an employee of the Columbus Dispatch, the cities largest newspaper, came to visit us. She asked for a show of hands of how many people read the newspaper on a daily basis. Everyone’s hand shot up like the head from a Jack in the Box…except mine. I was sitting in the front row, XXXL hoody, jeans saggin’, shaggy hair, and a scruffy beard. You know my style - low key. But it was the truth, so…

She called on me: “Well, young man, you don’t read the newspaper?”

“No, ma’am, not outside of the sports section.”

“Why not?”, she asked.

“It’s too depressing. Just a lot of bad news that doesn’t add any value to my life”.

Ms. Empiricism resorted to the facts: “You know, studies show that people who read the newspaper on a daily basis are, on average, more successful than those who don’t”.

Maybe she thought I wasn’t going to respond. But at that time I had a reply for everything, and it usually came in the form of lyrics from a rap song.
I winded up, and let go the pitch - “I’ve never been average. And in the words of one of this great country’s founders, Thomas Jefferson, ‘The man who reads nothing at all is better educated than the one who reads nothing but newspapers’”.

Well, it wasn’t the latest from Jay-Z, but indeed a classic combo by T. Jizzle and Jesse. Holla!

As a young boy, I was always worrying. Not about any one thing in particular, but generally everything. I remember that I used to worry myself to the edge of sickness every Sunday because I dreaded going to school the next day. I would get these terrible stomach aches. Thinking it was a result of all the candy I had eaten (I was a voracious candy consumer, especially of Boston Baked Beans, Mike n’ Ikes, Hot Tamales, Chic-o-Stics, Jaw Breakers, Air Heads, etc.), I’d go sit on the toilet and pray to God that if he took away the pain, I would never curse again, always believe in him, and not fake sick when it came time to attend church.

But one day, I must have been 13 or so, my Dad and I went to pick up my Brother from his job at Rally’s Hamburgers. We were waiting for him in the parking lot, sitting in my Dad’s Suburban. Now this ain’t the Suburban your thinking of. My Pops had a thing for the old school Suburbans. His first was Big Bird yellow, with holes in the floor. I mean, I was so embarrassed by that thing. I know everyone thought we were like the Flintstones. Hell, even the doors didn’t work. We almost lot Grandpa one day while taking a sharp corner.

Anyway, my Pops had long gotten rid of that one and upgraded (?) to this fire engine red one. He had these rainbow (yes, rainbow) suspenders that he would wear with his jeans
I mean, he was classic. When I saw “Friday” and old dude was like, “You’ve got to coordinate”, I was like, ‘oh, shit, this character is based on my Dad’. Anyway, the rainbow pattern is not what made these suspenders so bad; it was the fact that they were 3 inches thick! Like the perfect accessory. And he wouldn’t wear any shows when he was driving; just socks. No, I don’t mean slipping the shoes off, I mean no shoes in the car. There is a reason the convenience stores in my neighborhood have signs on their doors reading, “No Shirt. No Shoes. No Service”.

I know I am digressing, but if you don’t care about this, then just read the post backwards. Anyway, I remember one time he came to pick me up from a Skating Party at Western Roll-a-rama. We had our times crossed up, so he came earlier than expected and I wasn’t outside waiting for him. I had given him strict orders to stay in the car, but Parents just don’t understand. He rolled up in that joint with no socks on like, “Let’s go”. I was thinking, ‘Damn, Dad, you’re ruining my rep. I’m king of the third grade and trying to get a slow skate, hand-holding and all with this Debbie Gibson look-a-like fifth-grader’. Man, don’t get me started. I can go on about the nose-picking, the farting, etc. I mean, no filter whatsoever. Taking casual to a new level. LOL. Back on track. Back on track.

So we are sitting there and he says something that changed my life in an instant. Mind you, my Dad is not the preaching type. He never dished out advice in an effort to teach us the right and wrong way to live. But lucky for me he chimed in on that night. He said, simply, “If you can’t control it, don’t worry about it. If you can, make the right decision”. Obvious, right? But for whatever reason, it really resonated with me and from that moment forward, I started to live my life anew. Not to say that I stopped worrying altogether. I certainly didn’t, haven’t. I think worrying, pressure, stress, at some level, are necessary for survival, success.

But only in moderation, which is different for each of us.

A wise Chengdu ren once said…

“This is the life. Back in the States, the only entertainment I have is going to the grocery store.”