The Stalk of the Town

I knew it would pay off somewhere down the line.

Twenty-nine months searching for fresh freshman girls on facebook to bump into on campus and "help." Five years browsing through Xanga blogrings to find someone who has similar interests as me. Tracking down junior high school crushes by finding a copy of their class schedule -- suddenly finding myself on the 3rd floor laboratory when I should have been in the basement gym. Finding every Kelly Kapowski (Tiffani Amber Thiessen is still the fat girl from 90210, so I will use Kelly Kapowski) photo through magazines, TV Guides, and newspapers to stare at (this was before I understood what the "O face" meant).

Before, I was a poor stalker who never got action, much less laid. Now? I'm a fantastic reporter who can investigate and dig stories better than the New York Times can lie and FoxNews can sugarcoat. I am quickly becoming this century's Richard Ramirez of cable news networks -- without the killing and raping.

I've been in somewhat of a CNN slump. Blame it on the poker playing. Blame it on the 3 movies a night. Blame it on the 5 South Park episodes a day found on www.allsp.com. Blame it on a lack of motivation. Blame it on an unpaid internship. Blame it on women (for the same reason women blame everything on men). Blame it on A-Rod or global warming for all I care. But I've just been struggling at work. I'm not coming up with the material we need. I'm not writing my best reports or stories, neither am I making my deadline -- the ultimate sin of any sort of journalism.

But today, my producer told me that we need to find someone who lives in Louisiana, is eloquent, has AllState insurance, hates AllState insurance, was screwed by AllState insurance, and was screwed by Katrina. Twenty minutes, later I found him. Then, the ultimate stalker assignment. Find his home phone number and call him. Ten minutes later, I did one better. I found his cell number. How did I do all this? A master never reveals his secrets.

He must have been a little freaked out when I call, but then again if someone called me, and said something like "Hey Yih? I read your blog. Would you like to be on national television?" I wouldn't be so sad. Long story short, my reputation was redeemed and handshakes went around the room.

So next time I'm looking through your Christmas photos or finding out your ex-boyfriend's phone number, just remember. It's not pathetic stalking. It's brilliant reporting.

Bitter Confidence

I was waiting for my lunch today when I saw her. There's overweight. And there's obese. And then there's Damn! So after I uttered the "first curse word" ever, I noticed she was reading one of those shirts that you laugh at on www.bustedtees.com, but no one ever buys.

"LIFE'S TOO SHORT TO DATE UGLY MEN."

She then stared at me and sneered like a beast. If it wasn't for my cheap instincts of getting the food I paid for, I would have been frightened enough to take a flight out of NY (to Orlando for Andrew WK one-time only concert). But I stayed there and sneered back.

But in between frightening glares from one to the other, I thought to myself: Gee, I wish I had her confidence. I know that there can be many attractive larger-than-life women out there, but trust me...she was not one of them. Nevertheless, she has to come to the point that she believed she could hit in the big leagues when she could barely bunt.

But then I thought again...There's confidence and then there's a way to make yourself feel better. Because even though both men and women are attracted to confident people, there is a thin line between confident and bitter. The former? You can get the job done at an extroadinary level while most others are simply ordinary. The latter? Everyone else sucks and by default, you win.

While the former will lead to endless possibilities, the latter only reaches the pit of your bed, eating bonbons, watching Dr. Phil, and wearing bad t-shirts.

So good luck to bitter lady, a microcosm of too many bitter ladies I've met in the past week. I used to sympathize with most of your emotions mainly because I've grown up with these ideas. Men rape. Men kill. Etc. But for the first time, I'm starting to realize that women are just as screwed up in the head as men are. In some cases, a little bit more. The subtlety in how they do it makes more disturbing in fact.

I'm not bitter. I'm just looking for equality of treatment. But I'm not bitter. If I was, I would be ordering a shirt that says something like "THE BEST PLACE TO BUMP INTO YOUR EX-GIRLFRIEND" with a picture of a tombstone.

Feelings And The Such

I admit it. I have absolutely nothing to write about. While a relief to some, I'm sure the lack of fullfillment to a 4 o' clock yih blog high was disturbing for others.

But I have learned something this past week, day after day staring into this computer screen searching for some inspiration that is my own. Neither mad about anything or in love with anyone, neither ecstatic about an event or disappointed in myself, I am stuck in the writer's nightmare, the poet's purgatory, the artist's dilemma.

I feel nothing.

And in moments when I feel nothing, I must think like a naked Greek philosopher (and I heard they raped boys). Unlike the Greek philsophers, however, I have no great mystery or solution to announce to the world. I am merely a set of lines connecting points in outer space, a dead mind calculating the years of my own life.

And to be honest, no one wants to hear me think. Why? Well, for one thing, even I have no idea what I am talking about. For another, the "You think too much!" complaint rings true in dozens of minds, especially mine.

There's a precise and unquestionable mystery and greatness to what one feels. Because in a time when we feel our heart the most during the last movie we watched, feeling something in real life is special. Somtimes, I am even quietly excited to feel rejected -- it makes me feel human and secures the fact that I need to need.

So how does one feel? After this past week -- I think I may have figured it out. One must live. One must go to the streets of the slums, the lights of the city, the backs of the moutains, and the dunes of the dessert. Exploring the world through Google Earth like I did does not count.

So when I live, I shall feel. And when I feel, I shall write.

Write well, that is. Till then, you have semi-profound crap like this.

Pushing Buttons

I was talking to RI today, and she said something along the lines of, "I mean, could you blame people (for them being mean to me). You're really good at pushing buttons." And to that comment, I pulled out defense mechanism numero uno to the forefront: DENIAL.

But after hours of thinking about it -- okay, seconds of thinking about it -- I realized that RI was completely right. I have been known for pushing buttons. Blame it on NES or Sega Genesis, but I like to push buttons.

Could you blame me though? I mean -- if you've got a KICK ME sign, I'm going to -- you guessed it -- kick you.

The following isn't exactly the top of my game, but it's just a few things on my mind the past few hours.

#1) I know you claim to be very open-minded, but I'm not sure the belief that "There are many roads that lead to the Lord Jesus Christ as our personal savior" is exactly...religious tolerance. When you're not condemning gays, Jews, and Mexicans (does it sound like the return of the Aryan race), while you're at it, burn the "Happy Holidays" winter trees because if there's one thing Jesus cared about that he showed by his death on the cross, it's semantics.

#2) I understand you went through a couple hundred years of slavery and too much discrimination to this day, but is there anyway that you could stop calling me chink? I mean...I'm sure that someone who has been through as much crap as you -- being whipped by your master...wait no, that was your great-great-great grandfather, I meant hailing down a cab, no wait, that was your father, well, whatever you deal with -- someone who has been through as much crap as you have learned the sensitivity not to make a CHING CHONG CHING joke while walking outside the korean grocery. Yes -- that is the strong black man or woman who have always said -- "I've known the bottom so long that if when someone else is there, I will never ever leave him to suffer like that." And then 9/11 came. "Wait I'm not suspect #1 anymore? See ya later Abu Habib!"

#3) I know that you were cheering to number 2, but if you're white. Stop laughing. Please go to the rodeos and avoid the clubs when you awkwardly have to sing "nigga". Please reserve your laughter at raical jokes for when watching BET ComicView alone at home. And please stop whining about you're losing everything. As Chris Rock said, "If you losing, who's winning? It ain't us!"

One more...

#4) Women -- if you want a guy that is passionate, that is a leader, that loves without bound, that respects your life and body, and gives you the space you need without forgetting your beauty -- the least that we ask of you, is that once in a while. Just once in a while. Stop being a bitch.

And with that, I think I have pushed enough buttons to leave me alone with non-Christian Asian men.

Which explains Tran, Lum, Lee, Oh, Wang, Mi, and others with one syllable.

And...this leaves me at the same level of Lou Dobbs and Bill O'Reilly. So I was right about my calling -- I REALLY AM SUPPOSED TO BE A JOURNALIST.

Rocky Balboa

No seriously. We've joked about the release of this movie for like 15 years. It's finallyhere.

Rocky VI or Rocky Balboa

Poetic Trips Down Memory Lane

Poems Written By An Angrier, Younger, Dramatic and More Talented Yih-Kang Lee
Spring '03

"Love's Bitch"

I'm trying to write a love poem
but I can't
cause all I can think about is myself.
trying to write about the one who got away
or the one who was supposed to call yesterday
or the girl who liked my friend instead of me
or the girl with the nothing much up there but with the biggest breasts I've ever seen.
Their faces cloud my mind like
some fantasy gone mad into nightmare-mode,
haunting my pride and my pants
as if they knew my pain of not being able to love
I dont' know if I can
for I have no more love to give.
spent on every digit I've pressed
every minute i've invested
and every tear I shed
into the silent abyss I call the past
leaving memories of loneliness into the noisy traffic jam I call my mind.
I feel like an Alzheimer's patient from time to time,
getting attracted to one girl after the next as if I have forgotten the bruise on my chest.
But I ain't FedEX, I can't get over it overnight,
I am love's play toy that has lost its elasticity
becoming the Etcha Sketch of today,
thrown around by love, leaving me in the silent corner
of the storage room next to old Elvis love records,
living my Heartbreak Hotel.
So I lie on my bed, waiting for my glass slipper,
and my Prince Charming
Oh wait, I'm not a woman, I'm a man. I can't just
wait, but I have to go out and do something about it,
but without Cinderellas or Kristen Krueks as incentive
for me to risk my life,
I will wait instead of love.
So here I am, watching women fall for fakes in life and on FOX, wondering when women will fall for me, wondering when I can fall in love,
but I realize I can't
till I stop falling in love with myself.

"Not"

We are not a laborer laying railroad tracks across the continent, not a gardener trimming the shrubs while secretly planting a bomb,
not a saboteur before the day of infamy at Pearl Harbor, signaling the Imperial Fleet,
not a kamikaze pilot donning his headband somberly, screaming "Banzai" on the way to my death,
not some peasant with a broad-brimmed straw hat in a rice paddy on the other side of the world, stooped over to toil in the water,
not an obedient servant in the parlor, a houseboy too dignified for my own good
not a washerman in the basement laundry, removing stains using an ancient secret,
not a tyrant intent on imposing my despotism on the democratic world, opposed by the free and the brave,
not a party cadre alongside many others, all of us clad in coordinated Mao jackets,
not a sniper camouflaged in the trees of the jungle, training my gunsights on G.I. Joe,
not a child running with a body burning from napalm, captured in an unforgettable photo,
not an enemy shot in the head or slaughtered by the villageful,
not one of the grooms in a mass wedding of couples, having met my mate the day before through our cult leader,
not an orphan in the last airlift out of a collapsed capital, ready to be adopted into the good life,
not a black belt martial artist breaking cinderblocks with his head, in an advertisement for Ginsu brand knives,
not a chef serving up dog stew,
not a bad driver swerving into the next lane,
not a horny exchange student here a year, eager to date the blonde cheerleaders,
not a tourist visiting, clicking away with his camera, posing my family in front of the monuments and statues,
not a ping pong champion, wearing white tube socks pulled up too high,
not a violin prodigy impressing the audience at Carnegie Hall
not a teen computer scientest, ready to make millions on an initial public offering before the stock crashes,
not a gangster in sunglasses, embroiled in a turf war with the Sicilian mob,
not an urban greengrocer selling lunch by the pound, rudely returning change to the black patrons,
not a doctor, trained in a foreign tradition with anatomical diagrams of the human body through colored points,
not a calculus graduate student with thick glasses and a bad haircut,
not a teacher's assistant with an incomprehensible accent,
not an illegal alien crowded into the cargo hold of a smuggler's ship, finding life as a work slave in a slaveshop.
And we are definitely not black
And we are definitely not white.
We are yellow,
a color that no one understands,
sadly,
not even by those who are.

"The After-Climax"

Life was perfect
but then I watched the giants
Life sucked
Life gained hope
but then I watched the jets
Life sucks yet again
Now I look forward to the knicks
O God
Does life suck

*By the way, this was written three years ago. Not much has changed I guess.

"Writer's Wish" By: Me

I want you to be the writer and
I to be your motivation.
I want you to understand how necessary I am
when you cringe in frustration.
To acknowledge that I'm the reason for your fame
the shadow of your pain
To realize i'm the boxer knocking-out your block
saving you from the never-ending potent sounds of tick tock tick tock
Your frigid mind and frozen eyes
gives white space a dark stare
Wondering when inspiration will take over
and give you an answer to why you should even care.

"Poet's Resignation"

I am sick and tired of staying up till three in the morning
trying to chase my subconcious designs to the corner of my mind
with an AK and force itself out like a bad case of diarrhea gone insane
into the World of Who the Fuck Cares.
Spending countless hours dreaming up ways to use
fuck
in a poem and call it art
is not worth decayed and delayed snaps and claps
from an under appreciative audience,
a New York Times crowd that years for
anti-war poems and anti-Bush poems,
a lowlier than Thou crowd that needs the
rhyming poems and Rated NC-17 Dr. Seuss poems,
a poetry club crowd that desires the
poetic-device-filled poems and sip your martini and say "Huh" poems.
Cause when all is said and done,
I need more than the assurance that
my creative words on mass-produced paper
has a connection to my inner-spirit
that no one else comprehends.
But I dont know how to rhyme like Saul,
and I dont know why people draw their jaw when I utter, war
and I dont know how to reach those who don't want to listen or read
a piece of writing that doesn't make sense
to them,
like a dumpling stuffed by a turkey.
There seems to be no room for life in a poet's world
after six months of regurgitated words, styles, themes, and words
have begun to surface on the red dirt near the crossroads
between pleasing one mob and the next.
Someone better get me a Zeugma patch
to cure my poetry addiction,
cause on writer block nights like these,
I still find myself a slave to the hope
that my blue ink can reach another poet's black ink out there,
who is going through the same artistic nightmare as me.

For The Lonely Hearted

Girlfriend Pillow

Don't have the real thing? Cuddly pillow is a real "friend."

Lay your head on your "girlfriend's" lap. Soft plush pillow comes complete with red miniskirt. Great for bachelor parties or actually quite functional for reading in bed. Polyester velvet with plump polyfill. 23x13x13".


You have got to be kidding me!

But just in case you're still interested, it's on sale.

How I Spend My Sunday Nights

I'm going to admit it. I do not know what the hell women are thinking. I try to pretend I know what they're thinking. I try to ask them what they're thinking, and they expect to THINK I know what they're thinking. But I give up. I'm done. Finito. Finsihed, man. It's over. Hang it up. Throw in the towel. Ring the bell. They call men stupid for not understanding. I call women crazy.

And tonight, I had my proof. In the SHIT (i was trying to free-write this entire post, and was trying to think of something poetic to say describing the boringness of the weekend night...but all I got was SHIT...and yes, I am a Christian that's "not supposed to say" SHIT, but when you're a writer, trust me...you say SHIT a lot. Ask Anne Lamott and Donald Miller, but like I was saying), in the SHIT of the night, I was surfing through the Internet, and I remembered an interesting ad in Columbus Circle's train station.

It was secrets women have written into Secret.com (the women's deodorant) that were all pretty entertaining. Though I have forgotten what any of them said (which is fine -- since i can laugh at the same jokes each night on the train), I went to the website, and picked some of my favorites.

-- My fiance thinks I'm 8 years younger.
-- I secretly hope my child will be goth.
-- I think my husband is a closet gay.
-- I'm really a man.
-- Sometimes I just pretend to pick up the dog poo.
-- I pooped in a lake.
-- I'm madly in love with the one person I hate.
-- I called the cops on my own party because I wanted to go to sleep.
-- My first biological son has no idea I'm his real mother.
-- I go to AA meetings not because I am an alocholic, but to see him.

Everything else seems to be about women telling the world how they still love their EX, how they dont love who they are currently with, or how they are truly lesbian.

But in any case -- proves my point that they're crazy.

(By the way, I know it is the same concept as the entertaining music video, "Dirty Little Secret" by AAR, but I don't feel like attributing this post to being EMO right now.)

So in the spirit of secrets and being completely unknowable and secretive and mysterious and all that other junk -- here are a few of my own. But crap! If I say them, they will not longer be secrets. So some of them will be pure lies, and other, completely true. How will you know? Well, if you're a guy, you're used to this. If you're a woman, welcome to the world of guessing what FUCK (sorry, writer's block again) you think.

-- I kissed a man when I was eight.
-- I am still afraid to speak in public.
-- Despite what I say, I really hate the poor. And I really hate minorities, unless they're family.
-- I pee in the shower...even when it's not my shower. In fact, I have never not peed in the shower, when I shower.
-- I farted at least 15 times that night with you.
-- I was so ashamed to kiss you, but if I had a chance to go back and do it again, I would've done it longer.
-- Christians piss me off more than non-Christians.
-- If I could have a superpower, I would have Zack Morris' freeze time thing, and punch you in the face.
-- Those deep things I say -- those heart wrenching I love you moments that I say -- I never mean them. I am just a drama queen that watched too much 90210 growing up, hoping to recreate those moments.
-- I do not work out for myself. And I honestly believe anyone who says that is full of crap.
-- I wish I was white.
-- I wish I was Republican.
-- I forgot my mom's birthday, my dad's birthday, my bro's birthday, and my sister's birthday at least once each.
-- I am really pissed when people forget my birthday.
-- ORGIES!
-- I touched my teacher's breasts when I was 12.
-- I tried marijuana the night before going to church.
-- I went to church high one week and hungover the next, and went to the altar before going back and do some more.
-- If killing wasn't a sin or a crime, 100 people would not be enough.
-- FAGS!
-- When I say, I like all music except country, I lie. I love Garth Brooks. I really really really despise Christian music.
-- I have spend more hours watching MTV than in front of the Bible in my life or in any stretch of time.
-- I fantasized of my friends' mothers at least once a year.
-- None of these are lies.
-- None of these are true.
-- Nothing pisses me off more than people who think I am better than I really am.
-- I crapped my pants over 5 times in college. And didn't clean up once.

That was a nice eclectic group of lies and truths...maybe. Nonetheless, that was fun, and I have a feeling like previous posts -- this might be the one that:
1) helps me lose friends
2) helps me gain some friends I dont want to have in the first place
3) someone copycats the post without giving me credit
4) I will have people pray over me or something like that.
5) people will have a bigger problem over the fact that I said shit and fuck, and do not like Crowder music than the fact that I have a supreme hatred for at least 100 people in my life.

...that's if they were true...

Whatever

Not even halfway into my internship, and I have lost all focus.

Blame it on a great season with the New York Mets. Blame it on friends that make weekends funner than they should be. Blame it on free housing and homemade meals. Blame it on girls. Blame it on employee appreciation days with free massages. Blame it on poker nights. Blame it on the laziness.

But now, I find myself watchcing Saved by the Bell, E! True Hollywood Story, and dare I say it? The Hills. That's even worse than Laguna Beach!!! I bump into old women in the street -- twice this week -- because I was busy thinking about other things. I was trying to act cool on the train by standing without holding onto anything today. I was facing the door and the G-Force caused my head to bang against the glass window. Still trying to look normal and cool, I just let my forehead stay on the glass door, pretending I was in deep thought. I upset my boss twice this week, but gave an innocent puppy-face look to get his approval and I quote him: "I can't get mad at you, Yih."

I want to be in boxers, eat Cheetos, play XBOX, and watch every chick flick made in the past 10 years just to say, I have watched every chick flick made in the past 10 years. It is only through this way that I will begin to find a reason to live again, to work again, to not be a bum again.

Friggin Awesome

A Hoosiers Moment

Put on the orchestral music. Get me a bunch of sweaty, down-and-out, men in the room. Cue the slow clap. Cue the slow clap, goddammit.

Maybe we could blame it on Al Pacino's inspiring "inches speech" in Any Given Sunday or "the slow clap" in Not Another Teen Movie, but we long for those moments of eureka -- where one special word in an extended monologue changes the face of the game, the tune of the meeting, the meaning of life.

If you are the person delivering the speech, you have an attentive audience captivated by your every word. For once, your mundane experiences through your tenure finally has some worth. In that moment, you feel like God -- or at least a messenger of God. On the other hand, you can be in the audience, pretending to be captivated by this man or woman who is saying the same thing your gut has told you all along -- but heck, his resume says he's more important than you -- so listen up this time around.

I've been to internship seminars, megachurch conferences, guest speaker meetings, small fellowship retreats, and everything in between. These motivational speakers (they would hate to be seen as motivational) have ranged from my best friends to leaders of the free world, from celebrities to complete strangers. The bottom line is the same: They all tell me the same thing I was thinking anyway.

A week ago, the CNN interns were given the chance to hear American Morning co-achor Soledad O'Brien speak about her experiences in the work field. You could easily see in the eyes of the other interns how little they were actually asking questions to find the answers -- they merely asked a question to get her attention, so that by some long shot -- Soledad could offer them a job on the spot. Sure, why not?, they imagined her saying. But all she offered was a smile and a predictable response.

My beef really isn't with the speakers, the people who put on these speakers, or the people who spend money to see them. I've been in all three positions before -- in the past year in fact. But I've come to the point in my life where I've given up these motivational spots for us "young people." I'm done with people telling me and my colleagues how much potential we have, and if only we did steps 1,2, and 3, we would be where they are.

When I hear success stories, I rarely hear how this person or that changed the route of how they were shooting for success. They usually are shaped by the environment they grew up in and the hard work they apply to the passions they were given. So why don't they just cut the "give-me-the-glory" crap and just tell us that.

So if I were invited to be at one these things to tell the people of the future something, here is what I would say. And just in case a poor junior high school boy is reading this, read closely: Look, if you are not passionate about something, it does not matter how many advantages you get along the way. It does not matter how many self-help books you read or how many self-help speakers you pay to go hear. It does not matter that you are the best looking guy with the thickest wallet or the nicest guy with the most expensive clothes. You are not going to make it. But if you are passionate about something, nothing can stand in your way. In fact, you are wasting your own time listening to me. Nike said it best: Go out there and do it. I'll see you on the other side as we leave the others in the dust.

Too freaking long. By the end, I sound like every other speaker I was making fun of.

Take 2: Do it.

Bay Best Friend Blogging

I have never been a fan of posts that merely recount the events of their day, as if the blogosphere is the gay best friend their father never gave them. I read blogspot and xanga to escape that role, not to relive it.

Nonetheless, I offer a few highlights, for those who care, of last night -- a night that really should not have been as fun as it wound up being.

--Football Tossing = knida fun. Playing basketball = kinda fun. Eating burgers = kinda fun. Playing basketball with the football while eating burgers at the same time = Now we're talking.

--I don't care how many times I have changed to a more confident, mature, intelligent, young man. Your friends who have known you since you were six will never let you forget that time you crapped your pants or the girl you idiotically gave too much of your time, money, and energy into.

--How does one have Mediterranean and Reading Railroad, then wind up with Hotels on the Mediterranean, Baltic, Oriental, Vermont, and Connecticut, as well as both utilities?

--Why do 7 grown college students choose to play monopoly above everything else, and are perfectly fine with it? I mean...we're not even a Christian youth group.

--One of my dreams in life is to break down every Asian stereotype, but no matter how hard I try, Asians will always and forever be loiterers. It's in our blood.

--Five single guys in one car. Two cute girls walk by the car.
BT: Dah, too bad we have no seats left in the car.
Yih yells out: YEAH, TOO BAD FOR YOU GIRLS!

--With most barss too far away and clubs near closing time, we go to the only place open the night before a holiday. SEVEN ELEVEN! (P.S. How I wish thee were there with me in ATL). With Big Gulps in one hand and Doritos in the other, we see lottery tickets. Lights go off in our minds, and we know what we must do. Each spend 20 dollars in lottery tickets and split the earnings. Or losses. But we are optimistic. We return to BT's house and begin the scratchoff ritual. The likely wins and more likely losses occur. But then in one of my winning cards, it turns out I matched the "5" and the "7" as the winning numbers. We finish scratching, before we reveal the prizes. For the 7, we won 5 dollars. Okay, good good.

For the 5? Oh...my...God...25 dollars! No wait, I didn't finish scratching! Two hundred fifty freaking dollars!!! 2-5-0!!! 250!!! The five of us jump around like German school girls watching Hasselhoff (Am I obsessed with him? Yes! But really, can you blame me). I hit my head and lie back in the sofa realizing we just made a profit of nearly 37 dollars from the night. GO begins to scratch off all the tickets to make sure we didn't win any more.

Two minutes later, he yells, Freaking Yih!!! It turned out that I didn't scratch all the way, and the number was in fact a 15, and not a 5. Ouch. The pain of losing the 250 dollars we never won left us laughing harder than before -- laughing harder at our/especially my own stupidity. We went from a gain fo 37 dollars each to a loss of 13 each.

But at the end of the day, it was worth it...well at least, it was worth a post on my blog. Cheers.

Oops...He Did It Again

David Hasselhoff - Jump In My Car

That's it! I am naming my son Hasselhoff

One, Two, Three, Four, Five

Sometimes, I really do not want to work out. Every step I take in my 30-minute run is painful -- it's like taking out the trash when you're perfectly comfortable naked -- so I've heard. It's not that it is hard to do, but gosh -- do I really have to put on pants?

The commercials do not help either. By the way, quick tangent. Has anyone seen this head-on commercial. Apparently, they pay big money to CNN, because it comes on every 15 minutes, and it drives me insane. I bet the business school graduates are laughing to themselves in heaps of cash because of their "genius." And you know what? They deserve it, because I can't get that commercial out of my forehead -- I mean, my head.

Back to working out, commercials do not help. Radio commercials are possibly the worse. Not to mention horrible pop songs -- from Paris Hilton to Jessica Simpson, Kelly Clarkson feels like a breath of fresh smog compared to them.

But then, the greatest moment encapsulated in the greatest tune came alive -- and I came alive with it.

Ladies and gentleman, THIS IS MAMBO #5!

Yes!!! I woke up like a madman on the treadmill and began dancing wildly, making exaggerated foot motions and twisting my hips in mid air before placing one foot in front of the other. My arms swung emphatically in the air to the beats of the trumpet, getting ready to recite Monica, Erica, Rita, Tina, Sandra, Martha, and Jessica. Crap! It was Mary, not Martha...oh Mary. I always forget Mary.

I think it's for little eruptions like this that make people watching at the gym the closest thing to great entertainment ever since David Hasselhoff left America for Germany.

Letter of Recommendation Part II

For the first part of the story, please click this link. Nothing as epic this time around.

After I told my professor that some of the information was "inaccurate," he sent back an email really confused -- almost putting the blame on me in his own hoity toity sort of way.

He then sent me a "revised version" and his excuse was the following: "Sorry, I sent you the first draft."

What?! Who in the world write their first draft in a different gender. I've heard of people who write with music on and off, people who write using the computer or by hand, and every shade in between. But who exactly -- writes in the opposite gender first before changing it?

For a professor with over ten years of experience in handling horrible excuses from BSing students, you would think that he would come up with something like -- "I saved the letter of recommendation under your name by mistake."

What did I do? I graciously accepted the letter of recommendation, and wrote a reply that said something along the lines of -- "Haha, it's alright. Mistakes happen. Thank you so much. You are amazing."

Because if I've learned anything from not having straight As on the tests or triple Cs on my chest, it's this: If you want to stand on the shoulders of others, you must start by kneeling behind the asses of others.

Pucker up.