donger need food.

Ernie's (in)Famous Car (mis)Adventures

2010-09-20T16:55:00.000-07:00

No matter how much I attempt to educate myself on a given procedure, a successful outcome is for the most part heavily dependent on past experience. A couple of decades making foolish mistakes and learning about the strange workings of the automobile are invaluable to my current car hobby. Every now and then, while navigating my lithe 2 ton barge through traffic on the 880, I have a flashback to simpler, younger times...So, just for fun, I decided to travel back in time and compile a list of some of the more memorable auto-related mishaps in my life.

The case of the flying oil filter. It is sometime earlier this decade; I've gotten bit by the autocross bug. I was beginning my quest for a trophy in the bottom-rung H-class with my (kick-ass) 1995 Infiniti G20t (limited slip, 140HP 7500RPM SR20DE, front suspension from a 300ZX, HELLZ YEAH!). It was a nice and breezy Sunday afternoon at the North parking lot in Golden Gate Fields. I had arrived at the grid late (they run in reverse order so that the early gridders benefit from a nicely scrubbed surface) so I ended up being the first one out on the pristine course. A stranger asks for a ride-a-long (a customary practice to gain some advantage -- they are rewarded with an early look at the course from inside the car). Course walk: check. Tech inspection: check. Seatbelts: check. Helmet: check. Proper seating position: check. Proper staging in the gate: check. I tach up to 4500RPM for a perfect launch, and the flagger drops the green. I'm off to a great start, really in the zone. About halfway through, I notice something funny with the rear end which is fishtailing abnormally. My passenger yells, "Red Flag!" pointing at the course worker frantically running toward me furiously waving his flag. "Pull off course, kill the motor!!" I proceed off course, and when I see the white smoke coming from the motor it starts to sink in: I dumped oil all over half of the autocross course before ANYONE (and I mean like 50 cars) has had a chance to run. Needless to say, the rest of the attendees were amazing (even though I'm sure they were cursing me under their breath): they spent about 30 minutes scrubbing the oil off the track and helped me push the car back to the paddock (and even offered me oil!) My passenger was not as forgiving (he was giving me bad looks and never really said a word to me).

Lesson learned? Never have Jiffy Lube change the oil in your car...I had given the oil change monkey the wrong oil filter, which blew off the housing at high revs. If I done the oil change myself, I would have realized it didn't fit properly and would have sought the right oil filter.

The aspiring parking attendant. Before I was in high school, my father trusted me enough to move the car in and out of the garage to wash them. Back then, we had three cars: a 1979 4-cylinder Ford Mustang coupe a 1981 Ford Fairmont station wagon, and a 1984 Dodge RAM 250 custom conversion van. I was the oldest of 3 kids, so I was a bit ambitious when it came to doing things by myself. I think this comes from my Dad -- case in point: he and my Mom thought that a water softener was a neat little product. However, the cost of installation was a bit high. So my father decides to embark on installing the entire water conditioner setup himself with me as his trusty assistant (he was quite the handyman). He and I spent several nights installing the piping on the system. There was a big tank outside the garage wall which held the salt water, and then there was the conditioner hardware on the inside of that garage wall right next to the water main. I helped him measure and cut the mass of jumbled pipes, even got my hands pretty darned hot holding the pieces of copper tubing while he soldered them using a propane torch. All in all, it was quite educational.

But I digress.

So on said day, the Fairmont was in the right side of the garage, and the Mustang was behind it on the driveway. For some silly reason (that I can't remember anymore), I thought that I could pull the wagon out of the garage without moving the Mustang out of the way from behind it. I remember standing there, surveying the situation, and coming to the conclusion that, "hey, I could do this...I have enough room!" I proceed to back the wagon up, cranking the steering wheel (it had no power assist), then creeping it forward, then backing it up, then creeping it forward, slowly making progress. Then something happens and the car lurches forward...right smack into the water softener. Pipes break and water is spraying EVERYWHERE. I forget what exactly happens next, but my Dad ends up removing the water softener system (by this time we had had it for a while and learned about the ill effects of running salt-treated water through home pipes, so my parents were already thinking about getting rid of it -- my mishap just accelerated the process)

Lesson learned? Yes, there *are* easier ways to do things, you idiot.

Mods! The first new car I ever purchased on my own was a 1999 Nissan Maxima SE. Oh, what a blast that was to drive...the 190hp VQ30DE when hooked up to the 5-speed manual was a shining jewel of a motor. The motor was silky smooth and delivered so much torque from right above idle all the way to redline. It was in the Maxima that I have driven the fastest (~130mph) and set a personal speed record from San Jose to San Diego (6.5 hours) that I've never broken. If I remember correctly, I racked up about 60K miles in less than 2 years.

When I was still living in San Diego, a few months after purchasing the car, I was reading up on some performance mods that others have done. Back then, there were no automotive forums like there is an abundance of now; I was on an email-based mailing list of Maxima owners, and folks were sharing tips on modifications they made to their cars. One of them was a stiffer rear anti-roll-bar, which would "improve handling". I was quite new to the physics of car handling, but I relished the thought of a better handling car. After installing the bar, the improvement was noticeable. Turn-in was quite responsive. I was out on a drive one late night westbound on Miramar Road, approaching the 805. Those of you familiar with this section of road back then should remember that once you clear Camino Santa Fe, there's a fairly decent stretch of asphalt that leads into La Jolla. That night, I decided to nail it. On these late night drives, I never really have a direction, I just went wherever I felt like. And on that night, I decided to take the 805 Northbound. The freeway onramp was coming up *fast*. So I took a glance at my speed: BIG MISTAKE. The speedo registered about 105, which sent me into freak-out mode...if I remember correctly, that onramp was a posted 45mph right hander. The worst part, it had an elevation change (down). Even worse, I decided to lift the throttle and steer right, at the same time. And even worser: the rear anti-roll-bar was at full stiff. Say it all with me now: S-P-I-N. Luckily there was no one around, and the only thing hurt was my ego and a blown passenger side tire that nailed the sidewalk. Make no mistake...doing two full rotations in a 3200lb 4-door at over 90mph is NOT fun. I was darned lucky to walk away from that one.

Lesson learned? DON'T LIFT.

And for those of you who think I didn't learn my lesson: "you shouldn't be driving that fast on the street!" Don't worry, I eventually learned that and toned done my driving quite a bit. But I will tell you this: not dropping throttle mid-corner or in a panic situation is one INVALUABLE piece of learned behavior...throttle management and managing the traction circle is central in accidence avoidance maneuvers.

It's late.
I'll have to continue this in another blog posting...

Procrastination

2010-02-13T21:39:00.000-08:00

Over 30 years now and I still haven't broken this habit. :( But I'm keeping my fingers crossed that we won't run out of time to complete our search by May. Hopefully the right house is out there somewhere. Having Monday off will be good; we can go for a drive and look for neighborhoods that we like.

Today's outing was good, though, despite the let downs...we now have a better sense of what we want, and it will help us focus our search.

That's Why They Play The Game

2008-11-24T23:45:00.000-08:00

A friend of mine has been sharing with me (through e-mail) his views on college football in direct comparison to the NFL. He has many good points, most notably the player commitment to a given team; the long history (some go back almost a hundred years); the intense rivalries... All of which make college football an intriguing sport for me. But it will forever remain that: a curiosity. No, I had the misfortune (luck?) of going to a nerd school. Instead of a Division I-A football program with rabid fans, intense marching bands, and packed stadiums, our school was instead burdened with a Supercomputer program, an annual watermelon drop and a library that was featured in the opening credits of Simon & Simon. Nope, UCSD was not the school to go to if you wanted to have a good football team. And how silly would I look rooting for a college football team if I never went to that college, let alone live in the same town?

But the handful of lengthy e-mails did get me thinking...why do I watch football? My hometown team hasn't won the big one since before the AFL-NFL merge (I wasn't even born yet). And this past Sunday I was let down yet again with another lost postseason. So why bother? Why root for a team who in 2005 blew (what will probably be) its best chance in my lifetime to win it all? You see, I was never really a fan of the Chargers. Heck, I was never a fan of anything, really. (Well, except for those few years in college when I rooted for the Cowboys - damn what a great team). It was only after moving up here to the bay area that I began to root root root for the home team. Maybe it was just a way for me to connect to home...like that 5th grade picture of me standing next to Gill Byrd when he presented for the Citizen of the Month awards. Whatever the reason, I rooted for the home team. Because it was the right thing to do. I didn't watch every single game, read every single article, go to training camp, get autographs of players, bitch and scream at owner decisions, want to fire the coach, stay grumpy all week when they lose on Sunday, no. That wasn't me. But I watched the games when I could. And I believed that they would win. Every time. And when they lost, I believed that they'll bounce back and win next week. I never said they sucked. I never hated them.

But this past couple of weeks, going to my first college football game (ever), reading my friend's e-mail thread, and believe it or not, watching tonight's New Orleans game, it came to me what it really is all about: I just love to watch good football.

It is one of the most amazing things to watch. Forget all that fan bullsh*t or dynasties or marching bands or new stadium proposals or what have you. The football players you are watching on that field, whether they are a 2-12 team or a 14-2 team, are the absolute best players in the country. Of the 100,000 high school seniors who play football, only 215 ever make it to the NFL. Only .02% of the 9,000 college football players will ever play in the NFL. And that's what a lot of my memories about football are filled with... Watching Dan Marino leave the Jets stunned by faking a spike in the waning moments and throwing a touchdown. Seeing Tony Romo botch a field goal hold, try to run it in for a touchdown, and then bounce back to be one hell of a quarterback. Or seeing LT run; it was like God himself commanded that no one shall ever get a clean hit on him. Or laughing as Barry Sanders made Pro Bowl defenders look like 5 year old kids on a Pee Wee field. And it's not just individual performances, it's the whole game... Seeing ever changing defensive schemes, halftime adjustments, coaches' play calling strategies, pre-snap audibles, unspoken QB/WR communications...it's just so much fun to watch. (Now if only the stupid directors will utilize more wide angle shots of the entire field pre-snap instead of zooming in on the ball I'd be in absolute heaven)

The sad thing is that this is what modern-era football has reduced the sport to - individual performance. I think the league has achieved that goal of making football more popular: Less dynasties (well, except for maybe those @*!&@*&# Patriots) and teams with equal shots at the title (an expansion team making a Superbowl bid after less than 5 years? It took the Bucs 20 years to do it) have made the sport more accessible to a larger audience. They claim it's all for the fans, but the cold hard truth is that it's all for the money (more competitive teams means more people to watch means more $$) but that's a topic for a different discussion.

It's too bad, really. Those days of head coaching "legacies" and team "dynasties" are long gone. No longer do you have those teams that everyone hated for years because they were so good. So root for your team while they're winning. Because they won't be winners for long. Me? I'll continue to root root root for the home team and love watching football.

Stagnation

2008-09-19T16:46:00.000-07:00

It’s been a while since I’ve taken a ride on Caltrain. Bouncing along on the northbound line on a Friday afternoon, I find myself with a bit of downtime to try to break new habits and rejuvenate old ones.

(Holy crap it stinks in here…I think someone just farted. Why couldn’t they let it out before getting on the train? How hard is that?)

This first year of married life so far has been quite amazing. Despite the high points and the low points, there’s a fundamental calming effect that can only come with the knowledge that my wonderful wife will be there for us through it all. And yet this comfort, this security, has its drawbacks. I can see how easy it is to fall into that rut. That day-to-day monotony that has the incredible ability to change days into weeks, to bleed weeks into months. If you aren’t careful, you’ll blink your eyes and it’s 20 years later.

So here I am, enduring the abhorrent smell of intestinal gas in an effort to fight the monotony. “Shake things up”, if you will. I refuse to lose sight of those things that I enjoy doing, despite what the pressures & realities of life dictate. Next month, I’ll check off box #12 and #15a on my list: Monument Valley, Bryce Canyon. And with a little perseverance and a whole heckuva lotta work, I’ll check off box #2: a 32” waistline.

Until then, I’m keeping tabs and refuse to let life beat me into submission.

Perspective

2008-06-07T01:03:00.001-07:00

I fell into that trap again...watching the news media fan the flames for greedy commodity speculators to cash in.

I gotta stop watching TV.

A Blaze Of Glory

2008-02-25T21:31:00.000-08:00

If I were lucky enough to choose how I would leave this earth, it would be in one big blazing ball of glory...blowing my super high-tech multi-million dollar Formula 1 race car into a gazillion carbon-fiber-laced bits in front of my hordes of fans across the world. It would be at the peak of my professional racing career, after stunning the world in amazing feats of car control that defy reality. My legacy would then be left echoing for generations, with children shuddering in fear at the sound of my name, and grown men caught weeping when witnessing my exploits on the track. Ah yes, that would be the only way to go.

But if only we were so lucky.

No, us mere mortals are left with the ultra terrifying realization that our time will eventually come. I've been fortunate(? - if you could call it that) enough to not have to confront the big finale...but being there, witnessing for the first time someone close to me face the cold dark truth of it all humbles me to no end. Seeing him look at it square in the eyes in all its bare essence, shows me just what it really is all about. And it left me with a strange conflicting sensation: on one hand, of utter sadness...with the notion that the "clock" that one used to measure on the order of decades and years has now come down to much, much smaller and much, much more precious units of time; while on the other hand, of tremendous respect...seeing the courage and the strength to continue fighting through it all despite all the setbacks and be at peace knowing that you have the love of family by your side through it all and the life you've lived has been a good one.

Yes, it's a gentle nudge in my back...
It's a reminder that I do get too caught up in the frivolities of it all. That having the coolest car or traveling the globe to all the most beautiful places or having the hottest body or having the most money doesn't really mean jackshit in the grand scheme of things. No, when it really comes down to it, the only things that truly count are the people that are going to be there for you at the very end, how much of their love they will return to you, and just how much of a difference you have made in the lives of others (if at all). Children may not shudder in fear at the sound of your name and grown men may not go weeping when hearing of your exploits, but if you lived your life well, at the very least, they'll have a smile when they retell stories of their fond memories of you...

I can live with that.

If You're Lookin For The Goodies...

2008-02-19T12:26:00.000-08:00

...keep on lookin' cuz they're stayin in the jar

Mawage...

2008-01-29T23:36:00.000-08:00

...That bwessed ewent.
It's wat bwings us here toogeder, today.

I knew something was amiss when after the loud bang I calmly kept the pedal down and eyes down the dark road known as the PCH. It was like a flash...a little yellow flash in front of the passenger side headlight on my pride and joy; no time to react, except let out a girlish yelp knowing that I sent that poor little fox to its untimely demise. We were late, and I was hustling a bit on the stretch of Highway 1 just out of Manchester, CA, only a scant 10 miles south of our destination on Irish Beach...a quaint private rental tucked away in the windswept cliffs above the crashing waves of the Pacific.

A few minutes after the incident, I found a safe spot to pull over and braced myself for the inspection of the damage...surprisingly, nothing too severe: a broken high beam lens, a cracked bumper cover, a chip on the plastic passenger door sill lower extension, and the pièce de résistance: a big freakin' dent on the fender. It could have been much worse...a busted oil cooler, bent control arms, etc. Luckily for me, it was relatively manageable. But it appears that the terms "matching VIN" and "original paint" are now officially lost forever...

Not wanting to dampen the mood of our mini-honeymoon, I (uncharacteristically) locked this incident away in that growing file cabinet of "little things in life that are really annoying but don't mean a damned thing in the grand scheme of things". It was wise, too, for our little private getaway was incredibly relaxing. So much so that despite the grandiose plans of driving up the coast to see Mendocino, hiking the various trails, eating at fancy little restaurants, we elected to stay indoors our entire time there. With a room like this:

and the non-stop sound of waves crashing in the distance while I tended to the wood-burning stove (some day I'll have one!), it was a no-brainer. After a mad few months of planning a 275-person event and seeing all those wonderful friends of ours celebrate the big day with us, the quiet solitude was a refreshing change.

And the it didn't stop with the fox incident...The next morning, we decided to hustle into town for some ingredients for dinner (they had grass fed steaks!!) So we hop into the car parked out front on the dirt driveway, and I proceeded to turn the car around in a 3 point turn to head on up the access road...

If you look closely, you'll notice something a bit strange...the back end of the car is just a little too close to the steps to the house... Being the proud city boy, I had neglected to realize that the ground had indeed been soaking in rain the night before. And covered in moss. And sloping downhill in that area approaching the house. Needless to say, those all-season Michelins gave all their might to will my 4000lb german slug up onto higher ground. It was no use.

All I could do at that point was look at my lovely bride sitting in the passenger seat and just laugh.

One phone call to AAA and 40 mins later, we were back in business.

So I think that's what marriage does to you...beats you into submission, forces you to think bigger than just you. Let all those silly little things go, and enjoy the true happiness that life has to offer, revel in the new perspective that someone can offer you for the rest of your life...

Yeah, I think I just might enjoy this.

Waiting In The Wings

2007-10-22T00:27:00.001-07:00

It was sometime near the end of the 2PM show that I realized it was hopeless. I realized that I had run out of talent as a photographer...As much as I tried, I just couldn't achieve the shots that I wanted to. It was yet more proof that as much as I keep trying to convince myself otherwise, photography for me will simply be a fun little hobby, nothing more. So I put the camera down and told myself to get my mind back in the game...focus on playing the bass without screwing up again.

I had been a member of a Filipino Folk Ensemble, playing music (primarily the upright bass) for a few years. Through those years, the majority of my Sundays were spent with my "second family", providing musical accompaniment to the practicing performers. My tenure included performing for several small "gigs" and a few annual "big shows", culminating in a wonderful trip to the Netherlands where I was given a chance of a lifetime - to join my peers in performing in a foreign country. This past year, however, I had purposely taken a step back in an attempt to reassess my priorities, question my motives, and in the process reclaim a part of my weekend (and maybe try to work on that long-term goal of joining club racing. The club racing "thing" has not materialized - yet. But that's a whole 'nuther story).

Due to a lack of commitment on my part and the aforementioned "break", I neglected to develop my skills on a second instrument (the Octavina) so I was in no shape to perform for this year's performance commemorating 15 years of the group's existence. You see, joining your fellow musicians on the stage is a privilege offered only to a chosen few. As with any musical group, the rondalla only works as a cohesive whole. Any weakness by any single member is revealed for everyone to hear, disappointing the entire group that have invested hundreds of hours of preparation for one performance. You invest the time. You hone your craft. You put on an exceptional performance. You earn the respect and admiration of your peers. From the intricate melodies cranked out by the 1st bandurria to the harmonic counter-melodies offered up by the laud and octavinas to the rhythmic foundation laid down by the guitars and bass, it all comes together to produce that wonderful tapestry of sound.

And so I was honored to have been asked to play for the show -- even if it was to fill a last-minute change in personnel. The guilt was there...I didn't go to any practices, I didn't invest the time, I didn't commit the effort. What right did I have to be up there on stage with my peers? And to top it off, I found myself distracted, hastily trying to put together something that I had been wanting to do for a long time...

Back in college one of my film professors mentioned in his lectures that one of the hardest things he had to do was film musicians. No matter how hard he tried, he just couldn't capture "it". It's even worse in still photography, let alone moving film. There is an ever elusive dynamic that takes place within a group of musicians that a still image could never quite capture...those unspoken changes in volume and timing; those minute little tweaks executed through the tendons in your hand after processing a million little feedback loops entering your ears, your body, your soul. But the challenge of capturing the intangible was so enticing...

Waiting in the wings for my brief big moment (I was playing for only a small part of the show) I found myself with plenty of time on my hands to watch the show unfold. It was my opportunity to have a crack at capturing that "essence" and sharing the story of our annual performances from a musician's point of view. Armed with camera in hand, I reflected on all those little things that the musicians cherish so much about performing on stage...

That struggle to synchronize timing and rhythm with an ever fluid group of dancers.
The pressure to perform in front of an audience of heartless critics, knowing that one wrong note would ring through the rafters, forever haunting your history and invalidating the months of tireless practice and effort you put in. And you could never take those mistakes back. No, there are no mulligans.
Then there's that constant battle...letting the music flow through you -- getting lost in the moment and "feeling" the music -- but at the same time, not losing track of where you are, what's the next cue, what's the order, and asking yourself, "were we supposed to repeat that measure or skip to the next one?"
And then you make eye contact with a fellow musician, and you know that you're on track.
Or you realize that scowling look your director gave you was because you're horribly off: too fast, too slow, wrong note, wrong section...and you better fix it. NOW.
No, you can't get distracted. You need to focus on this piece, and this piece only. You can't think about that song you screwed up 12 minutes ago, or that really difficult one coming up in about 9 (err, 6) measures.
It's the ultimate expression of living in the moment. Even if you absolutely nail a piece without flubbing a single note or missing a single decrescendo, you can't waste time to revel in the here & now...you're too busy worrying about the start of the next song...2-note pickup or none? How did this song go again?
The percussion pieces present an even bigger challenge by being largely unscripted. It is entirely up to you and that tiny little brain of yours to remember the multitude of rhythms and melody changes and make sure they're fired off by very subtle but distinct cues within each piece.
You're constantly fighting to maintain that balance between the four or five other musicians while at the same time keying on the variations in tempo with the dancers.
And you can't afford to be distracted by the next costume change, or which instrument will I need to carry off after this set ends. Or what will the crowd think about the song that I wrote, that I poured all my heart and soul into?
On top of all this, there's all the history and "drama" that accompanies any group dynamic in a pressure situation. Nerves are wracked and patience is pushed to the absolute limits as individuals cope with varying degrees of strong and weak personalities & levels of commitment.
I struggled to capture it. To capture that feeling of what it means to be a musician laying it all out on the line on the stage for all to see. And I failed. Instead of putting together a flickr book of images as a gift to my peers, I relegated the project to another one of those "something to work on in the future" things. I set the camera aside and sat back. I stood in the wings of that later evening show and just let it all unfold.

And then it happened. Sometime during the first half of the show, a group of dancers came off the stage and couldn't contain their excitement. They fought to hold back the screams of joy of getting a dance done right, and KNOWING that they did it right. Their faces were beaming with bright smiles, they were high-fiving, hugging, jumping up and down.
I stood there in the wing with a slight grin, soaking it all in. The music echoing through the rafters in sync with the rhythmic stomping of the dancers' feet. The joy of seeing it all come together. That's really what it's all about... getting the job done right and performing perfectly with people who have made the exact same painful journey with you. Having been away from performing for so long, I had forgotten what it was all about. I'm glad to have had an opportunity to be reminded of it.

Congratulations LIKHA on a wonderful show and a job well done.

Brevibacterium Linens

2007-10-18T09:05:00.000-07:00

It's no secret...I love cheese.
And every so often while perusing the cheese aisle and sniffing a variety of molded creations, soft & hard, stinky and sweet, I happen across one that I've always wanted to try.
But instead of walking by and choosing the goat or brie or cheddar made from raw milk, I picked up the package and said to myself, "why not?"

The seeds of curiosity were planted when I was years younger, watching old cartoons. Every so often they would make a reference to this stinky cheese called "Limburger". And so I finally get to explore that unknown...it can't be that bad, right?

Well, I've smelled some pretty awful food before, and I go ga-ga over durian, but this takes the cake. Opening the package revealed this unforgivable stench of pure B.O. that just made my stomach churn and my nose shrink. Holy crap, it was foul. And I mean stinky. Like panghi stinky. Like Seinfeld B.O. episode that messed up his BMW stinky. Seriously...it smelled like the underarm sweat of a really fat stinky sweaty hairy man in his fifties after walking 50 flights of stairs in a crowded building in New York in the middle of July in 100% humidity and 80 degree heat.

OK, if it smells bad, it can't taste bad, right?

WRONG.

The rind had this texture like it was dragged through sand, and the center was bitter & squishy. I didn't mind the squishy texture, but that taste...blech.

I guess it's an acquired taste.
So digging through the internet more I stumble upon some interesting things. Like the fact that the bacteria used to grow the cheese is the same bacteria found on human skin (thus the smell of putrid B.O.) And that they use Limburger to practice isolating bacteria. And that there are recipes out there for a really interesting limburger and onion sandwich on toasted pumpernickle. Hmmm...I wonder if that's any good?

Call The Doctor

2007-10-16T10:09:00.000-07:00

So to celebrate the anticipated can of whoop-ass that the Chargers were to hand to the Raiders this past Sunday, we decided to abuse our bodies with one of the most wonderful concoctions known to man...

Duck Fat Fries

To make duck fat fries, you obviously need duck fat. Problem is, none of the stores carry this gelatinous mound of goodness anymore (I tried Draeger's, Mollie Stone's, Whole Foods). There are places online that sell rendered duck fat, but at a wallet-smacking $7 per 8oz, I opted for the more labor-intensive and oh so much more interesting route... After a bit of perusing on the good 'ol internet, I ended up with a Firefox tab in the Sonoma County Poultry website along with several other tabs earmarked on a few suggestions on how to render fat...

1a. There are several methods to render fat. One method I tried was to chop the fat and throw it into a skillet, sauteeing over medium heat.

This took waaaaaaay too long, so I opted for...

1b. Throw the fat (without chopping) into a pot with some water (I had about a 1/2" in there). Boil the fat, and then drop temperature to medium after quite a few minutes. Cook until steam stops. The best part is the sound it makes when you're stirring the mixture. (Shirley: "Oh god, I could hear the fat!")

2. When it stops steaming and most of the fat has been removed from the solids (what's left are pieces of skin), strain liquid into a container and let it cool.

3. Don't throw away those solids!! Throw 'em on a skillet and fry 'em up to desired crispness. (Don't overcook 'em, they'll get too dry and gross.) Eat if you dare. Duck chicharon!

4. Let the warm bowl of melted heartattack cool before chilling in refrigerator.

5. Wake up the next morning, open the refrigerator door, and spend 5 minutes admiring the fruits of your labor. Go ahead, touch it. Squishy? Smell it... Mmmmmmm...

6. Wash and scrub russet potatoes, then slice into steak fries

7. Put fat into deep fryer and heat oil to 265 degrees (we added some canola oil to fill fryer to correct level)

8. Blanch potatoes at 260 degrees until soft (about 10 minutes). You're basically cooking the potatoes until tender. Check the potatoes every few minutes, once you can poke them with fork, take them out and let them cool. You do not want to brown the potatoes.

9. Let cool to room temperature

10. Reheat oil to 375 degrees, then recook fries to desired crispness.

11. Add seasonings (sea salt & pepper, or fresh garlic & parsley)

12. Enjoy with mayonnaise, a freshly grilled burger, and a nice glass of Belgian white ale (not necessarily in that order). Relish in the wonderful aroma. Savor the out-of-this-world flavor. Brace yourself for the impending coronary.

13. Sit back, drink in hand, and watch LT run for a touchdown against the Raiders.

14. Grab more fries.

15. Repeat steps 13 & 14 three more times.

The Land Of The Setting Sun

2007-10-09T16:05:00.000-07:00

I really miss sunsets at the beach.
I don't think I've ever watched one up here in the Bay Area.
I could rant off a thousand excuses on why that is so.
But the truth of the matter is that I've fallen into the trap of daily life:

Wake up.
Get through the morning calls.
Binge on oatmeal
(and Sportscenter).
Weave through mid-morning motorists on the Nimitz.
Churn away at work.
Hustle back to the house.
Force myself to work out.
Cook a quick dinner.
Get through the evening calls and churn away at more work.
Sleep.

It's just that every now and then (quite possibly linked to some strange lunar cycle or the wussie angst filled soft adult contemporary music that I'm listening to) I reminisce about the rays of yellow-orange warmth battling the darkening sky, the foul smell of a receding tide filling the cooling late afternoon air, the brownish muck wrapped around the tiny three pronged feet of little hurried birds scavenging the wet sand, and that fading sound of millions of gallons of salty brine crashing against the rocks... I recall the strange soothing effect this all had on my troubled psyche, easily dispelling (distracting?) me from all those foolish stupid mistakes we all make as humans... Like never saying the right words until it was too late. Or saying all the wrong words. Or missing out on a $100 IPO. Or thinking that you could be/do/have

SO
MUCH
MORE

I guess it's never too late to change....there's plenty of places up here to enjoy a 20 minute break from the realities of being trapped in a life of mediocrity. Yeah, sunsets at the beach really aren't all that they're cracked up to be. You get sand in your shoes, the water smells stinky, and there's a bunch of mosquitos.

"Cursed." Or: Stupid Things You Should NOT Do In The Kitchen

2007-09-20T19:19:00.000-07:00

I think my kitchen is cursed...First the exploding baking dish, and now this:

With my brother in town, I figure we'd have sauteed pork chops for dinner. So, like I always do in the past, I pull out the big heavy cast iron skillet, turn the stove to "Hi" and let it sit there. I let it sit. And sit. And sit. It gets white hot, but I'm busy chopping onions for the red wine reduction sauce. So I let it sit some more. It's there twice as long as I usually put it on there, but I figure the hotter the better! When ready, I slice a couple of pats of butter and throw them in there...

Bad Move.

They start smoking like a V8 in an old El Camino after getting a SeaFoam treatment....plumes of white smoke instantly fill the kitchen.

The fire alarm goes off.

I try tilting the pan to spread the butter around, but one of them pops with a loud "bang" and hits me in the arm. I'm staring at these little pats of butter, watching the neat streams of white smoke pour out from them (how could a 1.5" square of fat generate so much smoke?), and then it happens...

The skillet bursts into flames.

Not one to panic, I ignore the fire extinguisher on the floor next to the stove (I really like my skillet!!) and reach for a cover. I throw the lid on it and put out the flames. Thinking that the worst is over and I could *finally* throw those big thick juicy pieces of pork on there, I lift the cover and it's fine.

For about 30 seconds.

And then "poof"...more flames. With the bright yellow fingers of fire reflecting in my eyes, I abort the mission by replacing the cover and waiting. I switch to another pan. And finish the dinner.

Cursed, I tells ya.

It pays to read

2007-09-05T10:31:00.000-07:00

After having such a wonderful Labor Day weekend cleaning and working on cars (ah, the joy of having a garge!) I decided to treat us to a nice halibut dinner. Looking to my trusty Fish: The Basics book, the recipe called for broiling: highest heat possible, with the fish as close as possible to the top of the oven. So I poured some cheap white wine to a depth of an eighth of an inch in the glass baking dish, set the fillet on top, and stuck it in the oven.

About five minutes into the cook, I realized I had forgotten to baste the fish with some butter. And there was a weird funky smell emanating from the oven...no matter. So my face gets hit with a furnace-like blast of heat as I pop open the oven door (mental note: don't stick your face near oven when you open door). And I reach in there with my neat-o black Neoprene oven mitts. Grab the dish and proceeded to take it out and place it on the stove. But it never makes it...

With a loud "pop" sounding like someone dropping a 50 pound sledgehammer on a car window, the dish (literally) explodes into a billion glass fragments. They all rain down across the stove top and the oven door, with my poor little (expensive) piece of fish plopped on the stove filled with glass. Luckily, we escaped major injury. But that fish was done. What a way to end a weekend: more cleaning. I was too much in shock to think about taking any pictures, but just imagine a bunch of smoke-colored glass covering a black stovetop and all over the open oven door, with yours truly standing in disbelief with his black neoprene gloves on.

The next day I was rereading the recipe and it states: "place the fish skin side down in the metal pan".

Right.

I want one

2007-08-22T17:32:00.000-07:00

I'm struggling to find time to write. But in the meantime, here's a quick and dirty find that is just too cool. What will they think of next?

Change Management

2007-08-05T12:13:00.001-07:00

For some, change is something to run away from, something to despise and loathe with every waking breath. It’s something that causes them to tremble in fear and lay awake late at night filled with worry. Not for me. It’s what makes life worth living. Despite the temporary trepidation that change would bring me, I don’t turn my back…instead, I embrace it. And as a manager, one of the “soft skills” that you get paid for is the ability to manage change: things like getting employees to perform better, dealing with shifting project deadlines and slipping schedules or maybe ensuring that the team remains productive in the midst of ever changing company directions. Thus was one of the themes for this sixth or so hop over The Big Pond. But as much as I look forward to dealing with change as part of my job, jetlag is something that I still can’t seem to deal with. I absolutely dread that eastbound lag that leaves me in this zombie-like state. And so here I am, halfway into this 12 hour flight, somewhere over the middle of the Pacific; it’s 6:30 in the morning and I just spent the past 4 hours tossing and turning in a futile effort to kickstart my body into the right timezone. So I’ll pop in Fake Plastic Trees on repeat (for as long as I can stand it) and jot down some little tidbits for this old man to look back on, years from now, and get a little snapshot on what life was like in the last week of July at 37 years old…

Singapore is a wonderful city to live in. One of the things that I’ve wanted to experience was fresh Durian. (In the states, you can only get it frozen) So my gracious host took me to Geylang where (among other – cough – “activities”) they have this large Durian stand on the side of the road. It was a unique sight. It was about 11 at night, and in the middle of this business district glowing under the bright fluorescent lights was a wall of Durian fruits. Approaching the stand from across the street, the smell was quite abundant. However, it wasn’t as repulsive as I had hoped…it was a subtle, tropical aroma. You simply walk up and ask the guy to pick you one. He cracks it open expertly with his knife – watching him, I realized that you only need to make a circumferential incision, splitting the fruit in half instead of slicing open each chamber as I do – and you reach in with your finger and have a taste. If it’s suitable, you bring it out to your table where you eat it. That’s right, just like your local Alberto’s or the neighborhood Denny’s. You sit there, picking at your “King of Fruits”, with cars whizzing by and a gentle cool breeze easing the humidity along. It was awesome. And even better, I was introduced to the Mangosteen fruit (“Queen of Fruits”), the natural complement of the Durian. You peel away the thick purple rind (don’t wipe the juice on your clothes, you’ll never get rid of the stain!), exposing these soft white chambers resembling garlic cloves. The Durian was surprisingly bittersweet, and the Mangosteen countered this with a cool, almost sour-like taste. I can’t explain it – just that it was a delicious and unique experience. It totally explained why the locals refer to the Durian as “heat” and the Mangosteen as “cool”. That is the one thing that I found surprising…the Durian fruits that I get in the states were extremely sweet, almost like eating pure caramel syrup. But these roadside fruits had quite a bitter kick that was backed up by a subtle sweet undertone. I was told that there were different types and gradings of the fruits. The ones we had were graded “D-4” whatever that means. I wonder if it’s because the ones we get in Ranch 99 were from Indonesia? Regardless, I was able to check off another box on my list of hedonistic desires: eat fresh Durian.

(It’s time to move on to another audio track....man, The Bends is actually a pretty decent album. Wonder why it took me so long to really listen to it)

And I actually like the humidity. For some reason, it isn’t unbearable like that nasty, sticky grimy stuff that I went through in a hot New York City July several summers ago…no, it’s a bit different here. My skin was soft and supple; that dry itching eczema was non-existent. But I did sweat a lot. A 20 minute walk from the hotel to a local Hawker center at 10PM had my grey t-shirt soaked in sweat (bad color choice to wear, by the way – you could see the pool of sweat clingin’ to mah fat ass).

The one thing that is the absolute deal breaker for me is that a car is a prohibitively expensive luxury. A Subaru WRX: SGD120,000. A Mitsubishi Lancer Evolution: SGD180,000. A Honda Civic 4-door: SGD70,000. Since Singapore is a tiny island, the government puts strict controls on how many cars are on the road. The way they do this is through high prices, high taxes (you are taxed on engine displacement – which explains the prevalence of BMW 7-series cars equipped with the tiny motor and the absolute lack of the 760Li). In addition, you can only drive for a maximum of 10 years. After which you have to reapply for a license, with its associated fees (I forget how much, I think it was SGD10K or something like that). Also, being a small island, there roads are few and far between, under heavy enforcement through speed cameras and such.

If I could manage to deal with not having a car, it is a decent place to live. They have schools populated by children of “ex-pats”. The public transportation system is superb. The city is amazingly clean. (Imagine sidewalks and streets with no gum!!!) There are no homeless people on the street. Malaysia, Indonesia, Thailand, Vietnam, Cambodia, are all close by. (One of my co-workers spent 6 years there and was able to take his entire family on visits to all of South East Asia)

And then there’s the food. Singapore is a city that obviously cherishes food. It’s amazing…they have everything. Literally. And they range from the ultra cheap to the ultra swank. My favorite dishes: Hainanese Chicken, Char Kway Teow (when done right), Singaporean Chili Crab, and Otak-Otak.

Too bad I wouldn’t be able to drive a car there.

Sydney has quite a strong resemblance to two of my favorite cities: San Francisco and Vancouver. The way people dress, the diversity in cultures, and just the overall “vibe”. The only thing that is noticeably different is that it seems “louder”. It could be the narrow streets and tall buildings amplifying the sounds. Or it could be the prevalence of some really cool cars (like the Nissan Skyline and those Holden/Commodores with the rip-roarin’ V8s). Whatever the case, the city was small, with all the big tourist spots within walking distance. 3 days in the town crammed with a busy work schedule filled with meetings was barely enough time to get a sample of the city. I definitely need to come back on a non-work-related trip and truly explore Australia: climb the Harbour Bridge; explore the Blue Mountains; drive the Gold Coast… And I have to come back when the US Dollar has a bit more value behind it. Everything was really expensive in Sydney.

Though my visit was brief, I was able to enjoy some amazingly good seafood. At the Golden Century Seafood Restaurant, they brought out the seafood in plastic bags to your table for you to approve of their choices. The Parrot Fish was still flipping and the lobster was still moving. And the abalone was huge. Although the seafood was cooked in heavy sauces, they did not overpower the flavor. The restaurant was extremely expensive (lobster was AUD175/kg!) so I assumed was strictly for special occasions – Happy Birthday blared loudly on the overhead speaker several times through the night we were there. On the other end of the spectrum was The Fish Market, where fresh seafood was abundant. You simply picked out your food, and it was prepared to your liking (the oysters you ate raw). Prices were much better at this place, with lobster at AUD50/kg and oysters at AUD20/kg. Although in most major coastal cities you could get fresh seafood that tastes as good, you just can’t find it anywhere else presented in this unique fashion.

Other tidbits:

Water drains counterclockwise out there.
G’day Mate sounds like G’day Mike. (and no kidding…everybody says it).
The co-workers in the office kept cracking me up when they would say “Way way way way way way” a-la the seagulls in Saving Nemo randomly in the middle of a conversation.
I spent half an hour watching a game, but I could not figure out the rules for Australian Rules Football.
If there’s one thing that is common between San Francisco and Sydney, it’s just how many people ignore the pedestrian controls…everyone crosses streets whenever they feel like it, refusing to wait for the signal to walk.

I really had high hopes for this post, somehow tying change management into some insightful observation about life. But instead it just turned into a rambling account of my past week... Oh well. It’s 10 to 8AM and I touch down in about 3 hours. I might as well try to get some sleep before they serve breakfast.

Vote Yes!

2007-07-31T22:01:00.000-07:00

For the Racing Network.

Found On The Road Dead

2007-07-27T03:57:00.000-07:00

This past weekend, I found myself needing, once again, to enlist the services of the local car rental facilities. It was MotoGP weekend. But faced with the prospect of cramming 4 grown men into the tiny confines of my little red 2 door with ailing suspension (the Beast was sadly out of commission with a corded rear tire) and with the other passengers equipped with a modded out M3, a 2-passenger pickup truck, and a pristine lowered 4-door turbo car, I had no choice. Luckily for us, Hertz had a special…full-size for two days for a measly $110 with tax+fees. Not bad.

“Full-size” meant one big hunk of sheetmetal: a gleaming Ford Taurus.

Having spent a total of about 300 miles and 10 hours in the car (Saturday qualifying and Sunday race) it’s easy to see why US domestic automakers are ailing, with the bulk of their vehicles being relegated to fleet (i.e. rental & commercial) status. It only takes ten minutes looking at the cars on the road around us to realize that no one is buying domestics anymore. Save for maybe the Corvette and ummmm… well, the Corvette.

Sure, the machine didn’t fail us once. But after spending almost 14 years now in imports, it really is sad to see the current state of hardware being produced by those folks in Detroit. The entire weekend I was fighting the car, which tramlined like crazy on stretches of the 101. And the willy-nillyness was amplified by the car’s propensity to flail wildly in the mild crosswinds. Inexcusable. Sure, it could’ve been attributed to the ridiculously cheap Continental tires with sidewalls of jelly, but this is the company’s bread-and-butter sedan. Couldn’t they source a better quality OEM tire for not much more $$?

And then there was the god-awful antiquated power train. It felt exactly the same as that old tech iron-block 3.8L 90-degree pushrod V-6 that was in my Mom’s old Thunderbird. Which was made in 1989. Anemic throttle response, moderate torque off line, and out of breath at anything above 3000RPM. Head up a road resembling any bit of a hill, and you’re forced to punch a hole in the firewall with your right foot. But all you get is a lot of noise and no power.

The puny excuse of a transmission didn’t help either. Downshifting with a huge lurch about 30 minutes after you pressed the gas pedal, it did nothing to instill confidence. And unbelievable…it’s the same P-R-N-OD-D-1 sequence on the shifter. That same sequence which refuses to let you choose 2^nd gear. So why bother?!? Is it so hard to fit a “2” in there? They might as well replace the letters on the shifter console with: L-A-M-E

For brakes, the big blue oval decided to eschew the norm of four-wheel-discs and go with drums out back…Horrid. Absolutely horrid. With pedal feel that ranged from squishy to mushy, I had zero faith that I could stop this behemoth of a car (oh, it was huge) in time. And worse yet, as you slowed down, while maintaining the same pressure on the pedal, the brakes grabbed even harder! Aaaargh! So I had to back off the brakes as I slowed down. Is it that hard to design linear brakes?

The list goes on and on and on: numb steering; windows that constantly fogged up; seats that hurt your butt and back after only 30 minutes; front doors with bottom corners that had a nasty habit of taking out big fleshy chunks of your shin; no PRNDL position indicator in the instrument panel; an emergency brake release handle situated perfectly inline with the hood release lever; back windows that refused to go below halfway; non-folding side mirrors; lame excuse for a stereo; no separate recirc button on the climate control; a monstrous B-pillar that blocked my view of blind-spot traffic…

It does sadden me to see the company where Quality was once “Job 1” producing pieces of junk like this. The competition is light years away in technology and materials. I sure hope they aren’t charging folks an arm and a leg for this thing. You see, our family used to be a Ford family. I learned to drive in a 1980 notchback Mustang and a 1981 Fairmont wagon. I tried to impress girls I liked by taking ‘em out in my parents’ ’86 Mustang hatchback with the big torquey V-6, with power windows and bucket seats (ooooooh). I went to prom in a Mustang GT convertible, storming the streets of La Jolla with the top down and V-8 muscle under my right foot. I lusted after the hot-rod Taurus SHO equipped with the magnificent 220hp 24-valve 3.0L Yamaha masterpiece. I convinced my friend to buy a Probe GT Turbo.

But after making the switch to Nissan in 1993, I never looked back. Great handling, amazingly stout and peppy powertrains, and reliability that blew all those domestics out of the water (nothing major after 230K miles in the 240, 160K miles in the G20, 200K miles in the Altima, 150K miles in the Maxima). I was convinced…the imports got it right. And caught the domestics asleep at the wheel. One thing that impresses me to this day is changing the oil in my Mom’s Maxima. The oil filter and drain plug are situated close together at the front passenger corner of the car. So you only need one pan. And, you didn’t need to jack up the car. You basically got on your knees, reached under there, and presto, the oil filter and drain plug were RIGHT THERE. The best part? The filter was screwed in vertically…so no mess. And the Thunderbird? Well…the oil filter was situated right above the front suspension crossmember. This crossmember has a little lip molded into it, like a channel that runs from from left-to-right underneath the motor. So, when you pulled the filter, all the oil dripped into this channel where it pooled. And you had to take a towel and push all the oil out of this channel through the sides. You did have multiple pans ready, right? It was a million tiny little details like this that convinced me to never go back to domestics.

…Regardless, some of my fondest memories growing up as a kid were in the family Fords. One that does come to mind was from the passenger seat of that big brown Ford Fairmont Station Wagon. Being the oldest automatically entrusted me with the huge responsibility of navigator for those big week-long driving adventures throughout the west. At the impressionable age of 10, I regarded this responsibility as superior to all passengers except for the driver, of course. A veritable Number One to our Captain Jean-Luc Picard, if you will (much to the dismay of my younger siblings). In addition to the typical duties of calculating alternate routes, determining times to next destination, and looking out for cops, I managed the tape deck, provided refreshments for the Captain and ensured that he remained awake at the wheel. These lengthy road trips revealed a side of my father that I never knew before then. Usually strict and overbearing, often doling out stiff punishment for our shenanigans through a belt and/or a stick, we were downright terrified of the wrath that our father can bring. But with the rest of the car asleep, I had the privilege of spending a few hours with my Dad, where he taught me the fine art of passing and other driving techniques that stick with me to this day. He spoke of fond memories of adventures in Spain and picking up hitchhikers on Highway 1. It was a side of my Dad that I never knew about, and will never forget. And it was the first time that I heard about what “Ford” meant: Fix Or Repair Daily. Found On the Road Dead.

There’s a sentimental part of me that hopes Ford will come out of the ashes and start making cars that are worth buying again. But then there’s that part of me that realizes sentiment and hope is one thing, but reality is something quite different.

Disneyland For Gearheads

2007-07-23T18:03:00.000-07:00

I refuse to grow up.

For a brief two days out of the year, I make the annual trek south and subject my aging body to an assault of the senses to witness the lightweight jockeys work their god-like feats of magic atop unbridled two-wheeled mayhem machines. As they circled the newly paved 2.238 miles of asphalt at speeds that put us lowly mortals to shame, I occasionally dared to dream the wannabe fantasy that some day I might manage to cut my (not quite the same thing) S2000's two minute lap time down to something respectable...but then Casey Stoner goes ahead and does the amazing: blow away the track record with a 1 minute 22 second performance. That quickly puts to rest those foolish aspirations of mine.

And the fantasy continues...peppered throughout the weekend are up close-and-personal photo opportunities with gorgeous eye candy,

both two-wheeled...

...and high-heeled

Sure, the crowds are annoying, the sun is scorching, your feet hurt, the food is unbelievably expensive (nine dollars for a scoop of rice, a piece of teriyaki chicken and a bbq beef stick??) and you got a farmer tan lookin' like you done plowed the back forty, but where else can you ditch the S.O. (temporarily!!!) and be a 10-year-old-kid all over again?

I can't wait for next year.

The Funk Of 40,000 Years

2007-07-20T12:37:00.001-07:00

Someone, please tell me that this is real.

So goes prison life in Cebu.

God Bless The USA

2007-07-19T19:00:00.000-07:00

What other country will let you publicly (and proudly) proclaim your ignorance?

Larger photo here.

Good Sushi in Santa Clara

2007-07-06T13:46:00.000-07:00

If you ever happen to find yourself in Santa Clara, go to Hoshi's. Very, very good sushi. Perfect balance of rice and fish, with the rice at the right temperature, texture and flavor. Good selection and fresh fish. Highly recommended.

The Land Of The Automobile

2007-07-06T11:53:00.001-07:00

Los Angeles: picture millions of tiny little rodents scurrying around hundreds of miles of concrete paths in the middle of a parched palm-tree-lined desert.

I guess you could say I've had a love-hate relationship with the city. Growing up in her small-town neighbor to the south, I always looked to L.A. as this immensely huge uncharted land of opportunity. She beckoned with temptations of vast single screen movie theaters with unbelievably good sound systems (not just loud, but high fidelity!), the original Cheesecake Factory, Sunset Blvd, Santa Monica Pier, and absolutely geeky things like the Nakatomi Plaza & Bradbury Building... It was little anyone can do to contain my frustration stuck in the confines of middle-class suburban life south of The 8.

The fascination started way back in high school. Senior ditch day had me hopping in the big brown pimpmobile for a two hour trek to see what that whole town is all about. It continued on, with more-often-than-not-day-trips for a slice of cheesecake, watching a big movie, Tommyburgers... But sometime late in college it eventually wore off. I think I could pinpoint it to a single event: a Cisco training trip I took back in 1997, which had me staying downtown near Union Square. I absolutely fell in love with San Francisco.

Eventually the novelty of L.A. wore off...all I see now is a barren wasteland infested by hundreds of billions of cars. It's unbelievable how bad it's gotten. Over the course of 10 years, the city has managed to choke its infrastructure with the automobile. Pick a day. Any day. Any time. There's traffic everywhere. And the cars aren't just on the freeways, they're even on the tiny side streets. Everywhere you look, there's *somebody* driving a car. It really is quite a weird feeling. And the pollution collects in one place: Riverside. I remember one business trip had me out in Loma Linda...I looked up and all I saw was this putrid black smoke in the air all around me. It was depressing.

And it's so freakin hot. The ozone depleted atmosphere conspire with millions of tons of concrete & asphalt to form a ground-level oven that melts the shoes beneath my feet and cause beads of sweat to pour from my face. And where are the trees? Those 50 foot palm trees sprinkled throughout the city are at best a humurous attempt at vegetation.

But then there are the hot dogs.

And those incredibly hot, gorgeous, and oh-so-fit pretty people. They're everywhere!. Materialistic, shallow and mean as they may be -- who cares, as long as they look good!! (Sorry, no pictures...but trust me, they ARE everywhere)

And then there's the absolute best Korean BBQ I have ever had.

And then you find yourself with the windows down, driving down a street for what seems like an hour now and not hitting a traffic light. That's right...if you time it right, you can hit every single green on a 7-mile stretch of road. After the sun sets, the city comes alive and the heat no longer rains down UV terror. With the windows down (or if you're really lucky, the top down), you can cruise for hours listening to music, watching people, chit-chatting with your car mates, letting the wind going through your hair, wearing shorts & a T-shirt, and never have to turn on the heater.

Maybe Los Angeles isn't so bad after all.

First In Line

2007-07-02T12:06:00.001-07:00

I know I told myself no more lists this year, but I couldn't help it. Here is my list of small $600 electronic devices that I would wait 5 days in July heat for:

A Canon SD400 with full, intuitive and simple flickr support. It will have GPS (so photos can be geotagged), EDGE, UMTS (both 2100 & 1900 bands!), HSDPA, wCDMA and seamless WiFi support. And of course, quad band support. It will have a no-brainer interface that will allow me to tag photos and upload to sets. Uploads of each 10MP photo will take no more than 45 seconds, and it will gracefully recover from failed uploads. It will make and receive phone calls. And it will have a Z3 form factor (big and chunky) for that nice solid feel. And it will be available in gunmetal. This is just the ticket to nurture my addiction to flooding my flickr account with snapshots. (Less photos, I said? Bah! I'll hit 20K photos in no time soon with this puppy!!)
A little tiny device for the car that can tell me when traffic incidents occur *the moment* someone reports it into 911. This device has to be conscious of all incidents within a 100 mile radius of my present location, and must also give me an instant overhead view of the incident. [Oh wait...I should utilize the techniques I learned from my requirements management class...] This device shall present no more than five alternate routes around the highlighted traffic incident. A destination ETA shall be recalculated and displayed on all routes to the user in no more than 60 seconds... It took Shirley and I EIGHT HOURS to get back from L.A. yesterday. Being stuck in a car in 95 degree heat for an hour really blows. And this happened twice in one day.
An mp3 player that can play any song I ask for within 5 seconds. And I mean ANY song. This device will respond politely to my voice using any one of 30 pre-selected voices from real-life actresses. The sound quality of the mp3 player will exceed that of any CD player (and blow away that pitiful excuse of an audio section found in the iPod). This mp3 player will be small and flat enough to carry in my front pocket and will have tactile buttons. The battery life on this device will be 48 hours of listening time, and it will support bluetooth headphones.
A real-time language translator. This device will be worn around my neck, and will instantly capture everything I say and broadcast in the language that is currently being spoken. It will support every language known to man. It will also support Binar, Romulan and Klingon at no additional charge. It will also scan and translate written material without any errors.
A device that does all of the above in one compact and attractive unit.

Ode To A Risotto

2007-06-29T12:26:00.000-07:00

It's easy to forget how good life can be.

I'm prone to waste time & energy dwelling on a lot of annoying little things... places I wish I could go to, things I want but can’t afford, the person I could have been. But there's times when I usually catch myself, even if for a brief window in time, and realize some of the little wonders my relatively short existence on this good green earth can bring.

And so there I was…outdoors on a rather chilly Tuesday night smack dab in the middle of a tourist trap. I was a handful of bites into my seared ahi tuna on shrimp risotto when I caught myself in a moment of bliss…the tuna wasn’t as firm as I had expected (a bit more overcooked than I would have liked), but that risotto. It took me by surprise…I wasn’t expecting much out of this restaurant trying to recreate the European experience… but the smooth & soft texture (but not mushy!) of the risotto made for a delightful combination with the snap-crunch of corn kernels and the tender-pop of little green peas. The flavors blended beautifully. On top of that would be the sweet juicy morsels of tiny shrimp, adding yet another layer of contrast. Granted, I’m a sucker for risotto (and the late dinner made me a bit hungry) but I truly enjoyed the dish.

The evening was filled with wonderful conversations with my young cousin and her new husband about trips to Alaska & Whistler and life as newlyweds. And somewhere in between bites of my risotto and the occasional momentary bouts of laughter, I saw glimpses of the happiness that currently filled her life. Having known her pretty much since she was born, it was an amazing thing to witness.

I savored every last bite of that risotto.

Buy A Prius, Please

2007-06-28T15:06:00.000-07:00

Everyone, please, please go run out and buy yourself a Prius. Or a motorcycle. Or a Smart Car. Stop guzzling my gas.
I want to still be able to drive a dyno-juice-consuming, ultra-high-compression, open-piped, normally-aspirated internal combustion straight six motor 20 years from now. Even if it'll cost me $100/minute to run...

Read this for more.

Indiepop

2007-06-27T12:09:00.000-07:00

I happened to stumble across these old CDs. I'm totally diggin' the sound...time to do more research into the artists.

Stripped

2007-06-22T00:22:00.000-07:00

On my drive home from work on the 101 Northbound, I marvel at the huge hunks of four-wheeled technological wizardry all around me. People must find me a strange occurrence...a thirty-something Asian careening down the highway in a bona-fide death trap. Armed with a 17 year old air bag, bald and crackly-dry tires, blown shocks, loose steering rod ends and a hollow 2.5 inch thick door, they must wonder what psychopath dare blow by them at eighty-something in the number one lane.

So be it, I like it.
Life on the edge.

(Now if I can only figure out how to disable that pesky airbag)

All around me, folks are tootling around in cars twice as heavy and ten times as complex as mine. In-dash navigation systems. MP3 players. DVD players. Active restraints. 10 airbags. Active steering. Active suspension. Active braking. 50 cubic feet of cargo space. Full time four wheel drive with active torque-biasing differentials. Seven speed automatic transmissions. Rear facing cameras. Sonar-equipped bumpers. Cruise control with automatic distance control. Headlights that turn when you turn. Integrated bluetooth handsfree devices...

All crap, I tell you.
Useless features invented by genius marketing weenies to keep costs low and profits high, all the while maintaining the bigger, better, more advanced mantra.

No, I want basic. The stuff that matters: Good motor, good brakes, good suspension. Comfort be damned. I want to feel it shake, I want to feel the road rushing below me, feel that motor winding itself out straining to haul me faster. But most of all, I want to feel that fear. The fear that you just don't get in an airbag-laden-ABS-equipped-dead-silent-luxo-barge until you've nudged the 100mph mark: "Holy crap, I'm going way too fast".

Well, thinking about it now I suspect it's just me subconsciously seeking solace from all the clutter I've accumulated. For years, I blew my disposable income (and more) on stupid stuff. Stuff that I just don't have the time for anymore. And just imagine what it would be like with a wife & kids in the picture? Heck, I was just going through my mp3s the other night. Two hundred fifty freakin' gigabytes. It would take years of listening 16 hours/day to be able to listen to it all. And that doesn't even include the 400 or so CDs sitting in the CaseLogic binders. And then there's all those random files that I've packratted away in various forms: old resumes, old school papers, old archived usenet discussions from college... And that's just two hard drives.

I haven't even touched on the useless car parts I've accumulated over the years and all the other random stuff...a box of laserdiscs, golf clubs, game systems, old magazines...it just goes on and on.

Yeah, it's definitely time to slow down, purge and focus. Strip my life to the bare essentials:

A strong motor.
A good suspension.
A winding road.
A beautiful traveling companion.

And try not to blow past all the wonderful things happening in my life haulin' ass in the number one lane while talking on the cell phone.

Jooolai

2007-06-19T00:03:00.001-07:00

Woo hoo!!!

Wth the summer heat comes the summer activites...
July: MotoGP (I hate to say it, but Hayden won't win this year...I predict a dominating Rossi victory), AIDS Walk and Chevy RevItUp
August: Trip to Australia & Singapore, Vegas bachelor party (yay-oh-yay)

And in other news...the big event is now a couple of steps closer to reality, with a church booked last week and Save The Date cards on their way to the apartment as I type. Next steps - find a freakin' photographer.

It would be, it would be so nice

2007-06-19T00:03:00.000-07:00

If we took a holiday...
Took some time to celebrate
Just one day out of life
It would be, it would be so nice

You can turn this world around
And bring back all of those happy days
Put your troubles down
It's time to celebrate

Let love shine
And we will find
A way to come together
And make things better
We need a holiday...

Why I Like Ranch 99

2007-06-17T20:14:00.000-07:00

Frozen Durian
StroopWaffels
Rice crackers
Dried Cuttlefish
Black Apple Tea

Only in America

2007-06-14T14:10:00.000-07:00

My mom forwards me e-mails every now and then, things ranging from cute little jokes/anecdotes to try to brighten my day to religious stories to provide some spiritual solace. Today she shared a bunch of pictures, one of which I got a chuckle out of, so I thought I'd share.

I'm guessing it's a Photoshop job, but eh...whatever.

Takes A Lickin'

2007-06-11T10:34:00.000-07:00

And just keeps on tickin'...

Inspired by the creative transgressions of one Texan restaurant, we decided to embark on a project this past Friday night:

Hoooooieeeee! Tasty like a kick in the head. I can still hear the faint echoes of those delectable sounds of fat.
Dipped in fat.
Fried in fat.
Then dipped in fat.

Yummmm.

I was wholly disappointed at the fact that the only time that I'll ever do this in my life, I screwed up the country gravy recipe. The bacon really needs it, as the batter is a bit plain. And you need the gravy to offset the slightly salty flavor. It pays to not do things in parallel sometimes, or risk leaving your gravy on the burner and letting it burn...turning it into a thick concoction resembling mashed potatoes.

Another lesson learned: buttermilk was a poor choice for the batter...it made it too hard. I should've stuck with regular milk.

Hmmm....I wonder how it would've tasted if we used Crisco instead of canola oil? Or hell, if we deep fried it in bacon grease? I may never know...

But talk about meals on the cheap!!!
A pound of bacon for $5, buttermilk/milk for like $0.50 (you don't need a lot), flour for pennies, and a few more bucks for oil and you got a meal!

I Need a Flush

2007-06-06T14:38:00.000-07:00

Aaaaargh. People on the street must be laughing if they could see me through the office window...My head tilted to the right, hand slamming my ear, mouth yawning, trying to get that freakin' annoying sound out of my ear. Aaaaaaaaaargh!!!!

If only someone made a portable flushing unit that the professionals use in the hospitals. That was such a wonderful feeling the last time I got my ears cleaned...after the initial pain of a warm jet of water slamming against my eardrum the entire world was just pure clarity. The brush of my arm against my shirt, the sound of a strand of hair landing on the desk, the crunch of tiny pebbles underneath my rubber shoes...

Miscommunication

2007-06-03T02:46:00.001-07:00

So driving back up from San Diego on this past Mother's Day, Shirley was driving a Jeep Grand Cherokee rental on the 5. She had agreed to take the first half (I absolutely hate driving through L.A. traffic, even with an automatic). The trip was pretty much uneventful until we reached the uphill portion of the 5 as it went straight up into the Castaics, just north of Magic Mountain. We were in the #2 lane, with a slower car up ahead in the #3 lane. Fast approaching behind that car was this red Buick SUV, and from my passenger vantage point I can see that she was going to have to make a decision: brake or switch into our lane. But, with the steep hill, our rental started to slow...so naturally, Shirley dug her toes into the go pedal, forcing a downshift on the automatic...VROOOM! The V8 blatted out a throaty roar and we picked up speed. I'm sure Shirley didn't plan on it (she's not an evil driver like I am), but by speeding up she ended up narrowing the gap to that slower car in the right lane, causing the Buick to have to abandon a lane change into our lane and hit the brakes.

Well, that lady sure didn't appreciate the move...not one bit. We didn't intend to cut her off, but she misinterpreted the speed-up as some piss-off maneuver and began to beep her horn, yell at us, flick us off from behind...and when she passed us on the right, she "maintained international relations" (you know, the bird), allowing me to snap her wonderful portrait you see up above. With her young son in the passenger seat. On Mother's Day.

Kinda gives you the nice warm and fuzzies inside, don't it? Hope for mankind and children are our future, right?

And she followed us for miles... MILES. All the way to Gorman. That's thirty minutes, folks.

Renewal

2007-06-03T02:15:00.001-07:00

I absolutely love working on cars. There's something so relaxing about tearing apart something mechanical, tracking every screw, nut & washer and ultimately putting it all back together again. Not only that, but that tiny little victory dance upon seeing what was once broken start working again. Last weekend I was able to knock off some long awaited projects:

Clear the Check Engine light on Shirley's Accord: replace EVAP canister valve...no return yet of the light after a week (knock on wood)
Upgrade her out of the 90's with a real stereo that has an aux input on the front
Replace plugs, distributor cap, wires, valve cover gasket seals on her car (there was a ton of oil in the plug holes)
Fix broken speedometer on the red car: broken drive gear
Fix that annoying MPG gauge on the red car that kept sticking at 20mpg: cracked gear, causing teeth to not mesh properly - shifted gear counterclockwise, works like a charm now!
Replace all the seats in the red car with neat-o sport seats (the old ones were naaaaaaaaaasty! The previous owner tried to cover up 17 years of neglect with a cloth. It was gross.)

Now if only I can manage to keep the maintenance up on my aging body... I'm coming up on ten months of neglect now, and my feeble attempts at jogging are doing nothing to battle this ever burgeoning gut. And the 24 ounces of Prime Rib (with seconds!) earlier tonight isn't helping neither. It sure was damned good though!!! So now I'm down to only 7 months for me to look freakin' hot for the big day. If that's not motivation enough, maybe an 8x10 of my last pile of fat clothes will suffice (before they get hauled off to Goodwill).

Sweet Nectar From The Gods

2007-06-03T02:15:00.000-07:00

it's 2AM, I can't sleep, and I'm digging through my blogger account and realized that I had a few posts sitting in draft mode, one of them from 7/22/2006...

Ahhh, alcohol…you sweet elixir from the heavens. What magical powers you possess: the ability to make all things right; the wonderful prowess to transform those preconceived notions from ugly to “do-able”; the innate ability to make a twelve hour flight zoom by in an amazing hedonistic experience of gluttony and wretched excess..

Here I sit, soaring through the wild blue yonder in seat 22H at some 500+ miles per hour, twenty-four thousand feet above solid wet ground, on my third glass of cabernet (some cheap Napa valley concoction chosen by some United Airlines desk-jockey). Thank God for business class upgrades and the requisite alcohol companions: 2 glasses of Dewar’s finest, 3 glasses of some aforementioned cabernet, and 1 glass of port; not to mention a tummy full of filet mignon,
crab salad, and some weird quiche thingy.

It seems like ages ago, but only 2 hours earlier I was standing in line at gate G98 dreading the prospect of being stuck in middle seat 43B before popping into line and inquiring about my standby upgrade status. Spread on the desk in front of the incredibly busy employee, like lottery tickets to a mystical world, were the magical cards that granted access to a better life… “Ah, yes…here you are.” Thirty thousand frequent flyer miles was a small price to pay for the comfort and convenience of the plush pleasures that come with a business class upgrade.

Change… It’s interesting that last night’s dinner conversation at Meze’s centered on the whole notion of change. 2006 has definitely been a year of metamorphosis for me; taking quite dramatic leaps of faith in my life. Regardless of the pain I caused, of the pain I felt, and the multi-year repercussions of said actions, I don’t regret them…

“Everybody needs change to grow”

I wonder if years from now, when I’m old, gray and crusty, those unknowing people in my life realize the impact they’ve had on me. I wonder…

Wow…this liquor really hits hard at twenty four thousand feet.

What To Do In Texas When You're Not Dead

2007-05-31T15:09:00.001-07:00

Chicken Fried Bacon!!!

I'll have mine with a 64oz side of bone-in ribeye, please.

Call Me Old Fashioned...

2007-05-31T13:52:00.000-07:00

But there is just something fundamentally wrong with buying an automated room deodorizer like they use in public bathrooms. Is it that hard to keep your house clean??

Eating My Cake...

2007-05-23T14:55:00.000-07:00

I thought you could have it all.

But for the past few months I've slowly come to grips with the reality that the path to home ownership is paved with the gold bricks of hundreds of materialistic sacrifices. Things that I just need to learn how to live without.

I don't know what happened along the way that threw my economies of scale so far out of whack from the $7/week allowance of 20 years ago. I guess I just got suckered into it all. Years of continual:

I want.

...I need.

Like the 17 years of aged and cracked registration stickers piled on top of my license plate, it's time for renewal. Feel the blood ooze from under my fingernails as I chip away at each hardened metallic decal...given enough time, I'll eventually strip away the rotting epidermic excess down to the bare metal and start anew.

and finally realize the dream

Yum Yum Dim Sum

2007-05-21T18:47:00.001-07:00

For those of you San Francisco-ites, this place on Geary has the best Dim Sum I've ever had so far (excluding Hong Kong & Taiwan). The place is small, so lines are long but the dishes are made to order. Everything is super fresh - and the best part - super cheap. They have a special grilled oyster that is superb. I was suprised at the calamari, the freshest and with the lightest batter I have ever had (no kidding) - only problem was that it was a bit too salty. Good jellyfish, good buns, good steamed dumplings...you get the point.

Garbage Fruit

2007-05-21T18:26:00.000-07:00

Sharp thorny frozen shards of wooden shrapnel fly across the kitchen floor with each forceful swing of the shiny steel cleaver. That distinct foul odor, although dampened by a frozen journey across the pacific, wafts throughout my apartment.

I wonder what this thing smells like in the wild? Imagine the words that the first humans uttered after stumbling upon this wonderful work of mother nature: "holy @#*^! What is that gawd-awful smell! It smells like ass!!"

For nearly 45 minutes I struggle to release the bounty buried within, cutting my fingers on the sharp needles covering the hardened exterior and making an absolute mess in the process. But the journey proves worth it... A plate full of stinky goodness with the consistency of fibrous melted yellow brain, sweet as liquid sugar. I'm in heaven.

Damn, I want another one...I wonder if Ranch 99 is still open?

Pop Quiz

2007-05-17T20:54:00.000-07:00

It's 8PM. You just started an hour-long conference call with the China team where you're presenting an important slide deck. Five minutes into it, your stomach starts grumbling. You have to use the bathroom.

Do you:

Tell everyone to call back later
Put the phone on mute before meeting starts and run to the bathroom hoping no one hears or asks you questions
Hold it and hope to high heaven that you can finish the meeting early
You need a new chair and pants anyways...just let it go

The Seventeen Dollar Sandwich

2007-04-30T11:30:00.000-07:00

It was worth every penny. If you're in Redwood City, and have a yuppie dollar burning a hole in your pocket, try to find this gem hidden in a non-descript strip mall off Veteran's Blvd. I can't describe how good the bread was...Supposedly, this is the same stuff that they use for hot dog buns in Boston.

Gods and Clods

2007-04-26T23:21:00.000-07:00

There was this old episode of South Park were Kyle's Dad mentored his son about the roles that people played in life. He spoke about those smart people (Gods) destined to be doctors and architects, and went on to describe how they need those not so successful (Clods) to pump their gas and clean their toilets.

I still find it odd how my mind manages to dig up arbitrary memories like this in the middle of dinner conversation... Several weeks ago I was enjoying a rather pleasant meal with a couple of friends who suggested dinner at the Poleng Lounge in Western Addition. It turns out that one of them went to college with one of the co-owners, so I had a rare opportunity to get a glimpse into the world of restauranteurship.

Interspersed between delightful bites of creamy sweet buttery beef marrow and crispy fries dipped in sweet banana ketchup, I managed to learn a little bit about the triumphs and tribulations associated with the business side of things. For years, I struggled to be one of those "Gods"... smart with money, business savvy, and full of the entrepreneurial spirit. This country is built on making people rich and making the wealthy people even wealthier (go here for proof), but for some reason I always managed to find myself in that bumbling group of "Clods". Forever doomed to be terrible with money, no matter what the income level, no matter what the advice given throughout the years.

And it was during this dinner conversation in a dark yet hip new restaurant filled with hot (white) late twentysomethings that I realized why: I don't have "it". Something wired in my being precludes me from making the smart moves in life, almost always opting for instant gratification instead of a 500% yield amortized over 30 years. Talking to this co-owner of the restaurant, listening to all the difficulties in securing good marketing, building permits, decisions about location, angel investors, scrounging for funding, I realized that there's an entire world of knowledge and experience that I was never a part of. Three cheers to you, the small business owner. The risk taker. The money savvy. The budding young capitalist.

Walking out of the restaurant into that chilly evening the day after I had turned a hearty 36, the sweet burst of Cool Green Apple Extra gum finishing off the delightful ginataan dessert, I quietly gave a silent sigh... Acceptance that I was destined for different things. Acceptance that fame, wealth and power were reserved only for those Gods whose pocketbooks us Clods were more than happy to keep filled.

Wednesday

2007-04-11T17:10:00.000-07:00

As flowers spring forth,
the dark memories passing.
Her life fills with smiles.

Let Your Fingers Do The Walking

2007-03-29T12:25:00.000-07:00

Oh how I miss those thin yellow sheets of paper bound into 1000 page books... Capitalists everywhere must absolutely love DARPA's military-born contribution to society.

Then:

Idea pops in head to print panorama shot and mount on foam core
Reach for thick bound yellow book sitting atop refrigerator.
Struggle 5 minutes thumbing through the book to find the right category - photo finishing? photo lab? photographic equipment?
Spend another 15 minutes reading through pages of varying sized ads with no real help on what's better than the other
Call your photographer friends and see what they recommend
Spend next 30 minutes calling different locations, gathering pricing, comparing services, turnaround times, etc.
Decide on service providers and deliver finished product

Now:

Idea pops in head to print panorama shot and mount on foam core
Google for "panorama prints", five minutes later find EZPrints. Cha-ching. (For you photo geeks out there, this is a GREAT shop. You choose 6 or 12 inch height, width depends on size of print. They charge by the foot.)
Google for "foam core mounting san francisco", 30 seconds later come up with Oscar's photo lab. Place a call, three minutes later get referred to BPS Repro.
Google for BPS Reprographic, get phone number, place call, five minutes later get price quote and 1 day turnaround time. Cha-ching.

The internet: the ultimate tool for draining bank accounts of shopaholics everywhere.

Now to go find those polyurethane control arm bushings that I've been "needing".

Bye Bye Chevron

2007-03-27T09:53:00.000-07:00

Hello, Shell.
Dear sweet jeezus, what a kickass commercial.

I will drive a 288 GTO and a 250 Testarossa before I die.

Half My Age

2007-03-27T00:10:00.000-07:00

It's hard to believe that I'm now twice the age of the average college freshman... Sitting there on the edge of the stage watching young people try to pull of the spectacle that is the Pilipino Culture Night, I suddenly come to grips with the fact that I am now considered old. [One of the singers in the opening act said, "some of you may remember the group Xscape?"...Jeez, I was in college when they came out. I wonder if these singers remember Seduction? Or The Cover Girls? Or Sweet Sensation?]

Well, watching an episode of SpeakOut on TFC (where they talked about the pros/cons of the "Culture Night") got my blood flowing again about PCNs. During the USF show, I had inevitably checked myself out and started daydreaming...

The PCN is a wonderful concept, but (in my not so humble opinion) has lost focus in the years since its inception. My interpretation was that it is a forum through which ideas and topics can be presented to spark discussion among the audience about things that don't normally receive media attention. Like, say, domestic violence - that deep dark unspoken secret within the Filipino (Asian?) communities - for example. The efforts year-to-year are laudable, some more than others, but it seems that a few important factors prevent the shows from getting any better and maintaining consistency with the original concept:

No real guidance: when I was a participant (jeez, decades ago), there was no real framework with which to base your goals & mission of the show. It really was all dependent upon the intent & motivation of the core group of creators. Personally, I watched other colleges do it and tried to one-up 'em. But just imagine if there was a resource - in whatever form - through which the purpose and guidelines for such a show would be available?
Amateurs: being a school production put together by volunteers that ran the gamut from nerdy bio majors to wannabe art students, the presentation was quite honestly... a glorified high school play. (Hell, my first skit looked like sh*t. Are they in the living room? Oh, it's the kitchen!) Imagine the power that a glossy, full-on production replete with props, stagework and real acting skills would bring?
Kids: face it, the people on stage and the people in the audience are all a bunch of kids. And with the "shout out" name-calling, I can't see the PCN elevating itself to the level that it deserves to be. I admit it, this is me; grumpy old gray-haired man, bitter at the youth wasted on the young and the fact that those glory days of getting a group of actors to successfully execute the script that you wrote are now long gone.
No continuation: The efforts from one group one year are largely thrown into a closet and locked away. I'm guessing that subsequent "batches" start from scratch, instead of building on the legacy of shows gone past.

I guess I'm just frustrated that after over 10 years, the PCN hasn't really changed. It's still the same crazy glorified talent show that I remember, with students still putting their academia on hold for something they honestly believe is making a difference. Only this time, there's more hip hop dancing and more singing. And the shows are 50% longer. A GMA Super Show for Filipino Americans, if you will. Imagine if there was, say, some type of "reference implementation" or a book of guidelines for what makes a good show, what makes a bad show and why. And maybe a group of advisors that can help achieve consistency and a level of quality within the various programs among the Universities?

I must say this, though...regardless of all my complaints, "The Show" was the jumping off point for a not so insignificant chapter in my own life, a prerequisite for growing up. Not only did I learn valuable lessons in group dynamics, managing personalities, and what it really takes to complete a huge project, I opened the door to discovery about a part of my culture, my people, and where I come from.

And heck, I ain't gonna to deny it...for a short proverbial 15 minutes of my life in that dimly lit Mandeville auditorium, this wannabe was able to shed that nerdy computer engineering facade and pretend that he could write & direct in front of 500 people.

No one can ever take that away from me, no matter how insignificant of an accomplishment in the long road of life...

I Think I Can...I Think I Can

2007-03-21T00:35:00.000-07:00

It was like a scene out of a TV commercial. You know, the kind where the car stops in the middle of the road and there's like rocks and pebbles frozen in time and the narrator walks around this frozen scene and talking about how safe and smooth and ultra rad his company's snazzy car is? Well...I was sitting there near the front of the northwest corner conference room, with 15 other peers/bosses/subordinates staring at the powerpoint training presentation, when my cherished half-full and lidless grande Americano decided to leap to its misery, washing the table in a sticky but oh so yummy smelling mess.

"Ernie, that's it, you're cut off", whimpers a heckler from the back.

And I predicted it too. All the factors were there, like some bermuda trianglish combination of events that intersected in some weird aligned-plants-cosmic-ray-star-crossing thingy:

It was raining today, so I couldn't drive fast enough for my usual 3PM run to Starbucks down the street in the allotted 15 minute break.
Because of #1, I had to resort to coffee from the cafeteria Starbucks...skeptical of the Barista talent, I passed on the usual and opted instead for the fallback safety drink: Americano with sugar and cinnamon.
Because of #2, the drink was too hot to use a lid, so I took the lid off

It was at that moment that I envisioned myself spilling my drink. "Wouldn't it be funny (sad)", I thought. 5 minutes into my caffeine high and right on cue...sticky keyboard, nearly shorted cellphone, and a nice brown memento on my jeans.

So it must be a hidden power. The same thing happened when I was eating my mac-n-cheese. And countless other times that I fail to recall...but I swear, it's there... I envision it, and next thing you know, it happens.

I just have to work on this power.

Concentrate.

And practice...

Then, the next thing you'll know, I'll be throwing that perfect 15 yard fade pattern off a naked bootleg into the back corner of the end zone.

(raaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhh. the crowd goes wild.)

Expect More, Pay Less

2007-03-16T21:24:00.000-07:00

The brainwashing is working.

With Target's new media blitz fresh in my brain cells, I approach the monumental light-colored building, bright neon red glow casting it's sensual spell over my Etnie-donned thinning head of hair. Half expecting a chorus of scantily-clad women dancing to the beat of a funky "hip" tune, the bright red doors swing open, revealing the newly modeled interior of the beast. Tons of bright greenish-white (not that I'd recognize green, but whatever...fluorescent is supposed to be green, right?) lights thrum overhead, photons sinking into my exposed dark brown arms. (I bet the evil geniuses behind this big capitalist behemoth figured out a way to program subliminal messages within the 60Hz cycle of those thousands of fluorescent tubes overhead.)

I love this store.

You say Targay, you say Tarjay, whatever. I say one stop shopping at it's finest. Especially with two-dollar jars of pasta sauce (cheaper than Albertsons!) only a short 5 minute walk away in this wonderfully warm spring night... Maybe my brain is still recovering from the pounding of a caffeine-laden grande extra hot no whip soy mocha (is it technically cheating if I drink a mocha when I'm not supposed to have chocolate?), but I really dig the new look. Bright, clean, everything I need for reasonable prices.

I'm sure gonna miss this convenience when I move.

Bistro Luneta

2007-03-15T22:41:00.000-07:00

Appetizer: I had the wonton soup. Good tasty broth with a few wontons. Shirley had the Botchay soup, basically Visayan style egg noodle soup. Heavy in garlic, it was REALLY good.

Main Course: I had beef kaldereta, and Shirley had the chicken adobo. Dramatically different presentations of food that Mom used to make. Although the presentations were totally different, the core flavors of the original dishes were there. Nice touches: waiter asked how I wanted my beef done, and the chicken adobo came with a head of roasted garlic. The dishes were great.

Dessert: Turon. I like Mom's better. :) But not bad, definitely not as unhealthy as Mom makes. I like the presentation but they could've done better with the sauce. I'm just sentimental for the super sticky and ultra sweet version from dear ol' Mom.

All in all, a pleasant dining experience. Although $18 for beef kaldereta would have my Mom & Dad screaming in protest, it's a nice "once-in-a-while" treat. Service could have been better, ambiance could have been more "Filipino", but I'd go back... to try the kare kare.

I still would like to see someone take it to the next level like someone I know has been wanting to do for 10 years now.

The Art of Falling

2007-03-12T09:24:00.000-07:00

My body hurts.
It hurts so bad, I figure that being hit by a Mack truck and then getting pounded on by Manny Pacquiao in 10 rounds toe-to-toe would be easier. My brother took Shirley and I up to Sierra at Tahoe for a fun-filled adventure in snowboarding. Being my first time ever on a board, I prepared myself for a lot of falling. But jeez...I didn't realize I'd be falling that much. On my ass, on my wrists, on my back, on my face, on my knees, tumbling downhill, careening end over end, flopping forward... the fun never ended. But eventually, the 5th time up the hill (after spending 5 hours there), I finally got comfortable enough that I made it down the rookie slope falling only thrice.

Man, it sure was GREAT fun. Can't wait to get back.

And to top it off, we made a stop for some really really unhealthy food during the 3 hour trip back...

Lightly Nerdy: 49

2007-03-12T09:22:00.000-07:00

If I took this test 10 years ago, I probably would've scored a lot higher.

Fattinence

2007-03-09T21:46:00.000-08:00

The joy about a community-based knowledge base is that you get things like this...

A page about a wonderfully indulgent dish, at the bottom of which is a link to another totally outrageous snack.

Both of which are highly recommended. :)

Feed A Cold

2007-03-08T13:05:00.000-08:00

Why is it that you have to feed a cold? I'm battling the onset of a potential cold, and for some reason every time I eat I feel worlds better.

Or maybe it's just because I'm a fatass and I love food.

Ferris Bueller, You're My Hero

2007-03-07T09:14:00.000-08:00

Captain America, Dead at 66.

Comic books have just never been my thing, and to this day I still don't know why. (Although my parents tell me that at the ripe old age of seven, I used to fawn over their old tagalog comic books -- but that doesn't count, I was in post-Philippine-visit tagalog->english translation mode.) But seeing that headline kind of struck a chord in me. In a world where Jordan is retired and wandering through some grassy field whacking a tiny white ball around, the city's mayor had an affair (oh God forbid!), astronauts wearing diapers are the butt of late night comedian jokes (I counted at least 10 minutes on Leno), and this nation's President has the lowest approval rating ever, where is that one enigmatic force that unifies us, that binds us together?

Sometimes I want to blow up the television for revealing the truth about life, about our so-called heroes. Let me be the ignorant child, foolishly following his immortalized heroes... (All shall rue the day if Primetime Live ever does an expose on Optimus Prime, the greatest transformer ever.) I realize that no one is perfect, that there is

Don't get me wrong, the everyday heroes are in every one of us. Your neighborhood schoolteacher arming children with the equipment to face the world; the commercial jet pilot, safely getting me to where I need to be; the faithful parent, dedicating their life to keeping their daughter "off the pole", there's a little "hero" in each of us. But I ask you...where is that single unifying force...where is that Ferris Bueller of this High School?

Personally, I say screw Captain America... I want to be Jack Bauer when I grow up. Tortured soul, insanely selfless, and fearless in the presence of bad guys.

Tinto Campesino

2007-02-28T15:19:00.000-08:00

Coffee, brown sugar, cinnamon... Oh how I wish Juan Valdez will open a shop in California.

Half Life

2007-02-27T23:32:00.000-08:00

In about a month I turn 36. When I was about one half that age, in the summer of ‘89, my wonderfully generous parents sent me on a 4 week summer vacation to New York City as a high school graduation gift. It was an amazingly eye-opening experience, giving me my first taste of life outside of home, sparking the fire that burns within me today…that restless need for roaming beyond the confines of a simple boring life at home, a quest to experience the great unknown.

And so to start off this year of the Boar (completing the end of another 12 year cycle), I find myself sitting in United’s “Economy Plus” section, speeding toward the Atlantic seaboard. If I look hard enough at my faint reflection in the window of seat 17F, I can still barely see that young, excited (and sheltered) punk kid wearing his trusty Avia tennis shoes, Minolta Maxxum 7000 in hand, nervously eager to face the big city (and his cousins from the east). But this time, it’s an old and graying punk kid wearing his beat-up K-Swiss, a Nikon D70 in his hand, and a diamond solitaire set in a 2.5mm comfort band stowed in his backpack.

Eighteen years sure is a lot of time. The city is cleaner, my hair is a whole heckuva lot thinner, and I’m about 70 pounds (no wait, make that 75 pounds now) heavier. Armed with Google Maps, 2 guide books, and a salary from a project management job, the trip takes on a different form where I formulate a game plan for each valuable PTO day, like every hour was lined with gold. Compare that to a 4 week vacation fresh out of high school with only a handful of cash? Well…let’s just say my priorities were quite different – rest and relaxation, with no real need (nor desire) to see anything, just “hang out”. I was quite content with laying awake on those hot summer nights in that brownstone in Queens soaking in the sounds of a city so alive.

This short four day (oh wait, make that four & a half day) trip to the Big Apple was off to an incredibly wonderful start, with my beautiful traveling companion passing a major test…roaming the icy frigid cold streets of New York in search of Soup Kitchen International, only to find that he has now branched out, with a location just down the street from our original starting point at the Mariott East Side hotel. Despite the grumbling bellies, despite the endless dead ends and vague instructions scribbled on a piece of paper on the old location, she forgave all upon tasting the amazing soup (it really is pretty darned good)

The night was topped off with the soaring voices of the Soweto Gospel Choir uplifting my soul (and I’m sure hers). It was an incredible night of celebration, an awesome display of vocal and musical talent. Words do no justice to describe the emotion I experienced witnessing a group so committed to the performance. I remember a while back, someone saying, “Leave it all onstage”. I now know what that means.

The cold blast of a 24 degree ambient temperature (Yahoo Weather said: “feels like: 6 degrees”) was not enough to deter us from a late night feasting on Whitecastle burgers. Thank God for thermal underwear.

Thinking back to that sweltering heat in the summer of ’89, I often wonder if I could tolerate life back east. As a foolish child, I couldn’t wait to get back to the moderate climate of sunny San Diego. I remember walking through the annals of Union Station, being flabbergasted at the sight of grown men in full business suits, strolling through the underground oven (it literally felt like an oven in there) while I was sweating bucketloads in my T-shirt and shorts. And after experiencing twenty degree weather, I’m inclined to say that…well… weather alone does not a life-changing decision make.

The entire trip so far was working like clockwork, with nary a hitch (except for the mistakenly cancelled dinner reservations at One If By Land, Two If By Sea that I quickly remedied before boarding the plane – phew…near-disaster averted). The Gray’s Papaya Recession Special lived up to expectations, bursting in flavor with a nice “snap”: fabulous. The Lion King ended as planned, with us out on 46th street about 15 minutes before 5, leaving us plenty of time to hustle to Rockefeller for a view of the city before dinner in Greenwich Village. And an incredibly beautiful view it was, with unbelievably lucky weather (visibility out to about 90 miles)…the Empire State Building highlighted by the sun setting off to the west and all of Manhattan sprawled 70 stories below us. Not that I noticed much, really, being in my nervous-wreck state of mind, until after she said the word I hoped she would: “Yes”.

We were such an (emotional) mess that I completely lost track of time and ended up being 15 minutes late for our reservations. But our table was ready, and our celebratory dinner was wonderful (the Beef Wellington was excellent!). It’s still debatable whether the romantic ambiance of a candlelit dinner in an old carriage house was worth the (in my opinion) overpriced Prix Fixe menu, but she enjoyed the night – and that’s all that mattered.

Although Saturday was definitely the highlight of this short little getaway, Sunday wasn’t too far off, starting with lunch at Katz’s deli. The corned beef was excellent, I just really wished they grilled my Reuben. I would have loved to try the pastrami but in the bewilderment upon entering the place, I wasn’t thinking right and we both ordered the Reuben. (The place is bustling with people, multiple counters, and a strange payment system – all that we soon figured out, thankfully) Definitely go for the experience, it’s quite fascinating. The nice touch: the “cutters” give you a taste of the meat while they make your sandwich.

We spent the afternoon taking a nice stroll in Central Park. And how great is this – a large park in the middle of the city that never sleeps, with all the hustle & bustle fading away in the background, just the clunking sound of your heavy boot-laden footsteps on the concrete path below.

The dinner at Saigon Grill was fantastic, wonderfully fresh ingredients prepared just the way I like it. The company was even better – a reunion of sorts: my cousins older, wiser, but still the same good times that I remember fondly…only now with kids. Leaving the restaurant that night we were treated by a delightful snowfall. I wish the night didn’t have to end.

And so it didn’t…cooped up in the hotel, we were restless (and I wanted redemption for the bad pizza choice I made earlier on Friday) So off we ventured in the wee hours of the morning, in the freezing cold of sleet & snow in search of a good slice of pizza. Half an hour of stumbling around on the snow covered streets, in midtown Manhattan, I had a bout of inspiration and directed us toward the bright lights of Times Square, where we came across an older gentleman carrying a small white pizza box. Score! It must be great to be single in the city that never sleeps…

Our last full day in Manhattan had us (what else?) eating more food. Based on recommendations from my cousin, we opted to cancel the lunchtime reservations at Peter Luger’s steak house (in Brooklyn) for a dinner at Old Homestead steakhouse. For lunch we instead dropped by The Burger Joint in the posh Le Meridien hotel: fantastic. (LaraG, thanks for the recommendation!!) Hidden in the swanky marble-floored, high-ceilinged lobby was this brick & wood paneled back room of a dive. It’s amazing how the wonderful smell of juicy burgers grilling on an open flame fails to make it out into the stuffy and pretentious lobby.

Dinner at Old Homestead was, well, fantastic. Because I’ve been plagued by a string of disappointments, I recently made a switch back to ribeye from my favored NY Strip. Definitely a mistake this time – Shirley’s NY strip was magnificent. Although my 36oz bone-in ribeye was no slouch in the flavor department, the strip was sweeter, and definitely a better steak. I’ll have to come back for the Japanese Kobe (the real thing, imported from Japan!) but at $195 for 10 ounces, definitely something to savor on a most special of special occasions.

And so, 18 years later, my focus has degenerated from ambitious endeavors of photography, music and expensive stereo equipment to the most basic of needs: food. Whereas my last visit had me filled with angst and anticipation for the upcoming college years, this visit to New York again finds me looking forward with nervous excitement to the next chapter of life. But this time, I won’t be alone.

How Not To Grow Old

2007-02-02T10:10:00.000-08:00

The other day, on my way northbound on the 101 after a late night at the office, I realized that my refrigerator was running low on the essentials. So I decided to take a detour and restock at the local Albertson's. It was oh, around 10PM. The strip mall parking lot was pretty much deserted, with a few cars scattered throughout dimly lit by the few overhead lights that were working. I pulled into a lonely spot several spaces away from the entrance, for the (false?) sense of security provided by the lampost above. Stepping out into the crisp night air, I cinch my trusty wool jacket tight (I really need a new jacket) and start the stroll toward the entrance. It's a clear night up above. Up ahead near the entrance I noticed an elderly man just finishing up the loading of his groceries into the trunk of his silver Cadillac coupe parked in the handicapped spot just next to the entrance. "It sure is a nice evening", I thought. The moon was bright up above, and I was still reeling from the excitement of completing that massive 12 hour timing belt job over the weekend. I was excited for the upcoming time off from work and the prospect of competing in an autocross soon.

As I walked closer to the entrance, I started to hear a strange sound...like the sound of a garden hose left running, dribbling a stream of water onto the pavement below. I look to my right, and noticed what appeared to be water splashing on the asphalt near that old guy's open driver door. It took a few seconds for it to click in, but this guy was taking a piss! He was hiding behind his open driver side door and urinating. Pissing. Draining the weasel. Shaking the dew off his lilly.

Sadly, my first instinct was to whip out my pocket camera and start shooting (what is wrong with me!). But instead, I decided to not make a big fuss and move along. He could have a medical problem that precludes him from controlling bodily functions. He could be in the early phases of senility. Whatever the case, it's not something that would've been helped by me screaming out, "Hey! This guy's taking a leak out here!"

So I continued into the store and looked for my turkey, swiss, 12-grain Orowheat, baby spinach, Lactaid, and alfalfa sprouts. And hoped & prayed that I never have to find myself in a situation where I was forced to urinate outside my car in the handicapped space in an Albertson's parking lot.

I really hope the fact that I walked the office that day after forgetting to zip up my pants isn't a precursor of more things to come.

Isn't there some magical pill I can take?

The Truth About Dieting

2007-01-25T11:30:00.000-08:00

...It's freakin' hard.

Cursed by the fat gene, each meal for me is a painful struggle over that sweet joy of fat melting on my tongue or the parched deserted wasteland of a tasteless calorie-less fat-less affair. Why oh why couldn't I be blessed with the skinny gene?

Why must my happiness be dictated by food?

What is it about a bloody rare piece of marbled USDA Prime that makes my knees tremble and a smile of glee form on my face?

And it's not just the type of food too. It's the quantity. Cold tofu for lunch is healthy, but 20 pounds of it in a week doesn't really do me much good.

Someone asked me the other day, "what's your secret?" Honestly, I really don't know. But I do know that there is no "magic bullet". I didn't just wake up one day and bam -- fifty pounds gone.

Nope, it took years of a steady increase in weight, and relentless nagging by your closest friends and family. It was the embarrasing snoring problem that kept getting louder and louder. It was the frustrating pain of a more frequent and increasingly acute gout condition, hobbling my ability to walk for weeks at a time. It was my father's diagnosis of adult onset diabetes. It was the automatic self-deprecation every time I saw myself in a photo. It was hearing of an old coworker's sudden death by massive heart attack (sitting at a traffic light!) at only thirty something years old. It was the constant worrying that I was not healthy, and definitely not happy. And so I made that commitment to myself, quietly: No more Doritos. No more chocolate. No more breads. No more beef (err...not as much beef). Shop right, buy the right foods in the first place. Hit the gym.

...Commit to the lifestyle changes.

And so after a now six month hiatus (damnit!) I'm faced with those daily (same) battles once again. The constant struggle to quit procrastinating and force my lazy ass into the gym. The never ending fight against the desire to eat "just one more piece", "just one more bite". And that's how it all started in the first place. All those little decisions you make all add up, and pretty soon you find yourself with a six inch bigger waist.

You want to know what the secret is? Someone has to kick your ass. And it's not going to be your family or your friends, it has to be YOU.

Filipino Foods

2007-01-24T13:01:00.000-08:00

My cousin sent me this interesting article on Filipino food. It's a worthwhile 10 minute read.

Goal #13: Build A Race Car

2007-01-22T20:02:00.000-08:00

Let's see how far this (mis)adventure goes. Follow the story here.

You Don't Have To Be Rich.

2007-01-22T00:18:00.000-08:00

During our outing to the fancy shmancy Westfield San Francisco on Sunday, I was reminded of an old Prince song... Sure, you don't have to be rich to be my girl, but wouldn't it be loads of fun?

That world of the ultra rich is just so foreign to me. Especially looking at the price tag of a simple cotton/polyester zip up hoodie at (teenagers really buy this stuff?):

Riiiiiiight.

Or that Omega watch that James Bond wearsDoes the two grand buy you the debonaire looks and Walther PPK pistol too? The best part was after a failed search for the Hamilton watches at that Tourneau store, the attendant politely put us in our place: "Oh, we carry that in our back store. Go to Watch Gear, right next door." Nevermind that my cherised Christmas present cost someone quite a pretty penny.

Right.

Or how about that nine dollar bag of Cocoa Bella chocolates (that's FOUR pieces of chocolate for those keeping score at home):

And the chocolates weren't all that great.
All complaints aside, it was kinda fun playing rich and famous on a relaxing Sunday afternoon.

4 In The Morning

2007-01-19T09:27:00.000-08:00

Man, I'm really digging this song right now.

DA BOMB

2007-01-18T15:30:00.000-08:00

I've been locked away in my dark room working all morning. My only entertainment is wasting time in conversations over IM. In one of these fascinating exchanges of useless information, I started to rant off a bunch of -isms (not sure what to call 'em?) and thought I could probably make a list:

Rad
Hip
Pimp
Phat
Fresh
Off the hook
Off the chains
Awesome
Dope
Da Bomb
Sick
Neato
Cool
Bad ass

The thing is, I know there's got to be a lot more out there that I'm missing. But I can't think of 'em right now.

Suggestions? Anyone? Bueller?

The Power Of White Sauce

2007-01-17T13:09:00.000-08:00

I've always been a sucker for fat. Packaged in little rectangular boxes of yellow sweetness that melts into a hot pan for shrimp scampi, or sitting in between the crunchy skin and dry meat of lechon kawali, the stuff just makes me go crazy. So standing in line at the cafeteria for my boringly usual routine of a Chicken Caesar salad (with extra anchovies, please) my attention was diverted by that fantastic sound of fat sizzling on hot pans over open flames. Or maybe it was those 3 young attractive women standing in front of the food stand? Whatever the case, I couldn't help but investigate the commotion...two chefs banging steel pans against the heavy wrought iron stove top grates, yellow flames erupting 2 feet into the air as the grease spilled onto the stove. "Pasta Bar," the sign read. "Choose your pasta, protein, and sauce". Hmmmmm... I better get in on the action before it got too popular. Penne or bowtie pasta? Bowtie, definitely. Chicken, sausage or veggies? Chicken. No, wait...sausage sounds SOOOOOO good. Sausage it is. Sauce: white or red? That white sauce must have cream. And you KNOW where you'll end up, you dumbass lactose intolerant asian. Stop fooling yourself that you can eat more dairy, I don't care if you could eat little scoops of ice cream without the magic pill, your late thirties tummy won't be able to handle a full on dish of cream sauce. And aren't you supposed to be on a diet? "White sauce, please"

The worst part is that I told myself long ago to not waste my calorie allowance on mediocre meals and bland food. Oh, temptation...when will I ever learn?

And so not more than two hours later did my body pay the price.
What blows me away was the dude in the stall next to me was talking on the phone!!! Naaaasty!

Hold your wee for a wii

2007-01-17T11:27:00.000-08:00

It's really a sad state of affairs when someone dies trying to win a game console for her kids.

Farewell My Sweet

2007-01-13T23:32:00.000-08:00

Nine Thousand Revolutions Per Minute. That's how fast the forged crankshaft spun around its tiny little bearings in the motor when that red band reached the far right of the digital tach. At those speeds, the pistons in that tiny Honda moved faster than the slugs in a Formula 1 race motor. And to this day, that banshee wail of an unmuffled intake tract reverberating off the walls of a canyon road in the hills above San Joaquin Valley still sends shivers down my spine. BwwaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!

I still love that amazing precision of the rifle-bolt-action shift mechanism (once the oil got warm) ... So buttery smooth and snickety snick snick short even when toddling around town at a Civic-like pace.

And the tail-out, full lock-counter-steer shenanigans of the last few weeks knowing that the end was near.

Yes, I will miss thee, oh gold-digging topless black mistress. It was fun while it lasted. I hope (pray?) that your new (inexperienced) 18-something-year-old owner takes care of you well.

Bliss...

2007-01-04T21:54:00.000-08:00

...thy name is Stewed Beef and Tendon Noodle Soup. Queen's House in Mountain View officially has the Soup that I've craved for ever since Beijing. Big huge tender chunks of fatty beef, rich & dark broth, and thick & chewy hand made noodles. Yummy. Next time I'm bringing the camera. And 3 friends so that I can order a whole lot of the other Taiwanese food.

Post # Three Hundred

2007-01-04T10:19:00.000-08:00

Hm... A new year.

Seeing as how my year isn't coming for another six weeks or so (Year of The Boar, woo hoo!!), I thought I'd mark blogger post #300 with a commemorative list for 2007.

List Of "Top Twenty Or So Things That I Really Should Do About Myself In 2007 Because Heck, It's 2007 And One Can Never Have Enough Lists Of Things To Do" List

Stop writing so many lists
Eat more sugar (because sugar is good, and you can never get enough!)
Drink more Scotch (because Scotch is good, and you can never get enough!)
Say "I am a size 32 waist" without actually lying through my fat teeth
Take less pictures - I have now hit 7,237 photos. SEVEN THOUSAND PHOTOS. I ask you...how the @#$(*! am I going to find enough time to see 100 pictures, let alone sevnen thousand?
Drive 150mph. Not sure if there's a track where I can do this, but the thought of it gives me the willie nillies. That's over twice the speed limit on the 5.
Ride a bike.
Ride a snowboard.
Ride a .... oh wait, I already did that.
Order a Five by Five at In-N-Out. Because you can.
Be nicer to nice people
Be meaner to mean people
Use the bathroom in at least 5 continents. I'm almost there
Listen to an F1 race for 20 seconds with no hearing protection
Go to the park and learn how to properly throw a 10 yard fade route on a three step drop. I tell ya...One day this will come in handy, and you'll kick yourself for not knowing how.
Do a big fat smoking burnout. ...Cuz burnouts are hella cool.
Learn CPR
Spend more - oops I mean "less"... LESS!
Work less
Love [food/chocolate/people/life/cars/music] more
Live life to its fullest. Because stupid is forever but forever can stop at any time (saw this in an e-mail the other day)

You'll Put Yer Eye Out!

2006-12-20T22:13:00.000-08:00

Call me slightly insane, but there's one peculiar thing that I love about the mall... I love that roar that comes from an open area tiled by marbled checkerboard flooring amplifying the thousands of footsteps and hundreds of conversations whispered between shoppers. Whenever you step into one of the little stores, it's like a sanctitude, a den of iniquity, where you can concentrate on getting your "shop on". The sound of the crowd changes into a quiet hum...there's only a handful of people in the store. So you slow down and search anxiously and diligently for the target prize. And upon approaching the exit of each little cave -- victorious -- your fabled treasure in hand, you step out back into the din of a relaxed (and slightly hurried) crowd of holiday shoppers... You soak in the wonderful cacophony of a five year old screaming for his little toy pop gun and the teenage kids arguing over the video game to get this year and the young couple gently walking through this year's Christmas lists...

It is now less than four shopping days until Christmas, and I'm still not finished. I thought that I would do it all online this year, but where's the joy in that? There's something to be said about taking a short "time out" from our daily lives to walk around the neighborhood mall, and spend a little time thinking of goodies to give to those near and dear to your heart. One thing that does happen every year around this time though, is I think about all those people that have been a part of my life at one time or another, remembered or forgotten...like that punk ass 9 year old kid that pissed me off in the third grade playground and got me in trouble in the principals office; or all my old coworkers from eons ago that I've lost touch with; or my old compatriots from the Filipino social club in college... just so many wonderful people that have contributed to making me who I am.

To all of you, wherever you are... Happy Holidays

(Thanks for the picture, Gary)

Rubbernecking And The Side Effects Of Uncontrolled Rage

2006-12-12T00:33:00.000-08:00

For a few years now I have managed to train myself to exercise peace and tranquility in my driving through traffic. Someone riding up on my ass? Move over and let them through..."old me" would've sat there and initiated confrontation (for whatever reasons) by boxing them in and driving slower than all hell. A minivan dragging their feet in the #1 lane? Slow down, move over and go around. The philosophy has managed to keep me out of trouble and avoid those highly confrontational (and actually quite dangerous) situations that I used to find myself in during my previous life as an idiotic road-rage-filled driver.

But for some reason that I still can't quite explain, I found myself smack dab in the middle of road rage (and paid the price)...

This past Sunday night was quite enjoyable, celebrating a holiday dinner with the LIKHA family at the Grand Oaks Grill & Bar in Oakland, a place that had somewhat decent pork ribs (definitely pass on the roast beef, but go for the BBQ pork). Calling it an early night at 8PM (work beckons!) I found myself rolling down the 880 southbound on the usual route home from Oakland. A few miles before the San Mateo bridge, the sight of flashing red lights caught my eye... hmm, an ambulance decided to hop on freeway; I wonder where he's going? I'll keep my distance...

The alarm bells didn't quite register as the ambulance in front of me took the same exit I took -- 92W San Mateo Bridge. I took interest watching the emergency vehicle breeze through the toll plaza while I prepared my three dollars. It's been a good drive so far, not too much traffic and no rain. A good drive, that is, until a sea of red brake lights filled my vision.

Oh oh.
The alarm bells were sounding off now.

Looking ahead, I noticed traffic was absolutely NOT moving. And Shirley noticed emergency vehicles on both the left & right side of the freeway about a quarter mile ahead. Hm...might as well kill the lights and shut off the car. Fifteen minutes passed and so I decided to enjoy probably the only moments I'll ever have walking on the #2 lane of a 65 mph freeway sitting 10 feet above the cold and murky San Francisco Bay.

Twenty minutes later and two lanes were reopened. So we hopped in the car and got rolling again. Just five minutes away from home. Or so I thought...

Traffic accidents provide curious insight into human nature. I think it's the same motivation that attracts people to Rated R films: "I'm going to see some blood and guts!" Whatever it is, it's infuriating. Drive on, people. And no one seems to grasp the concept that the very fact they are looking at the accident is what's at the root cause of traffic jams! Like the minivan driver in front of me. Crawling along in the #1 lane at (I kid you not) 2 miles per hour. Nevermind the fact that the accident was over on the right shoulder and that all the cars in front of him/her had already accelerated miles ahead of us...no, the car just creeped on by. For an eternity. And I'll never quite understand what the exact chemical reactions are that get triggered in that part of my brain in the span of about 10 milliseconds, but something snapped. All emotion took control and I found myself in the emergency lane, passing the retarded minivan.

Yes, it's illegal.
And yes, we were passing an accident that had lots of highway patrol cars there.
Hey, it's road rage. Throw logic out the window.

Soon enough, my rear view mirror filled with the sight of a quickly approaching late model Ford Crown Victoria. With pretty flashing lights. Needless to say, the night ended with me facing the prospect of spending eight hours of a Saturday listening to someone lecture me about drunk driving, how speed kills, and (I'm sure) the ill effects of road rage. I just wish they would teach people about the real damage that rubbernecking causes.

Squeeze Me

2006-12-05T22:16:00.000-08:00

That's it.

This little bumpstop in the vast internet landscape has finally degenerated... The demands of a workaholic life and the desire to spend my time with Heroes, BSG, and football on my DVR have reduced my contributions on this weblog to useless bits about stupid mp3s on the laptop and materialistic pursuits of useless toys like the Squeezebox.

Dear Santa...all I want for Christmas is one of these.

Spicy Just Like Hot Sauce

2006-12-05T18:29:00.000-08:00

Ciara's song has such an addicting beat.
Yes, it's dark outside. And I'm at work. And I'm dancing in my cube.

Songs like this make me really want that JL Audio 12W3 in a bandpass setup. It would be so much fun to haul down the 101 with this song.

Sweet Sensation

2006-12-01T11:20:00.000-08:00

I love sugar.
Especially when it comes in little chewy wafers.

These Trader Joe stroopwaffles aren't too far off from the Dutch variety. They manage to pull of the same consistency, but the sweetness is not as prominent.

Regardless...mmmm, mmmm, good!!

Thank You, Have A Good Night

2006-11-30T22:28:00.000-08:00

I don't know what I remember most from dinner at Santa Ramen...the hot bowl of yummy soy sauce flavored roasted pork ramen or the waitresses saying "Thank you, have a good night" five times in the 20 feet that Shirley and I walked from the table to the door.

The best part...all three of them said it exactly the same way.

Too bad they ran out of the soybean flavor soup.
Oh well, next time. If the lines aren't too long.

Houston, wii have a problem...

2006-11-30T08:42:00.000-08:00

Whatever you do, don't let go...

Manual Labor

2006-11-25T02:08:00.000-08:00

I love working on the car.

I haven't been able to pinpoint exactly what it is. Maybe it's the getting down and dirty part of it -- laying on the garage floor, having bits of grease & dirt fall on your face, having blackened fingernails, breathing in the carcinogenic fuel and oil fumes that are spilled everywhere, and that black dirty bathwater that always manages to impress me whenever I take a shower. Or maybe it's the cool toy factor -- playing with air tools, open end wrenches, ratchets & 6 point sockets, pickle forks and manual-advance timing lights. And then there's the problem-solving part of it; trying to figure out why the !@#^%$& someone would use a torx bit sunken in a plastic well (so you can't get a bit driver on it) to secure a microfilter cover behind the mass of wires behind the dashboard hidden behind the 3 layers of interior trim; or how to remove an oil return pipe that's buried way up in there between the (huge) header secondaries, the firewall, and the back of the engine block (I gave up on that one, by the way).

No...I think what it is all about is that wonderful quiet "alone time". Just you, the garage, your baby, and the challenge: something needs to be done on your car, and it's up to you (and only you) to figure it out. And so you apply all the knowledge you've gleaned over years of watching Dad scream and yell over busted knuckles & broken bolts; you summon up all those myriad hours of bench talk with other car guys over bottles of beer. You spend hours scouring forums and Ef-Aye-Kyewes on the web, read shop manuals, and formulate a game plan. You get your errands done early, and make sure everyone knows that you'll be incommunicado for the entire day. And while you're in there, diving into it full-on, you methodically keep mental notes of every nut and bolt you pull, snap mental pictures of every plastic cover and removed part so that you can reassemble properly later on. You find yourself immersed. No e-mails. No conference calls. No deadlines...

Just you, your car, and your wits.

I Love Japan

2006-11-23T10:59:00.000-08:00

Where else would you have the opportunity to use a beer dispensing machine?

Needless to say, I had to go back and get another beer from this thing. :)

Chicken Noodle Soup...

2006-11-04T09:07:00.000-08:00

...with a soda on the side.
Chicken noodle soup, with a soda on the side.
Chicken noodle soup, with a soda on the side.
Chicken noodle soup, with a soda on the side.
Chicken noodle soup, with a soda on the side.
Chicken noodle soup, with a soda on the side.

Taiwanese Beef Noodle Soup

2006-11-02T21:00:00.000-08:00

Woo hoo!!

A local place that sells a pretty good rendition of the stuff! (Although I would love it even more if it had the hand-cut noodles).
And for the authentic Taiwanese experience, order the Stinky Tofu. Just make sure to prepare the olfactories for a wonderfully accurate depiction of street food in Taipei.

Now to continue the quest for some place closer than downtown Oakland...

Car Wash

2006-11-01T13:22:00.000-08:00

Do-overs. As a naïve child in elementary school, I used to take advantage of this rule, like some God-given right to appease for mistakes I made. Bad kickball pitch? “Do-over!” Bad four-square bounce? “Do-over!” And those that were smart enough wisely set the ground rules before the game: “No do-overs!” But as the years moved on, the reality immediately sank in that life has no do-overs. As much as I wished that I could invoke that magical rule like a secret weapon out of my back pocket, the harsh reality is that you have to own up to your decisions and live with your mistakes.

Instead, a do-over lives in concept only, relegated to only those most simplistic things like an overcooked dinner (eat out); an erased file (undelete); an ugly dress (go get a refund). But those big things in life, with far-reaching consequences…those are permanent. And you have to live with them for the rest of your lives.

Sitting here on this yellow bench outside Ducky's Car Wash in San Carlos, underneath grey clouds on a chilly Wednesday morning, I revel in the thought that for fifteen bucks I can cleanse my car of a month's worth of grit and grime, and start fresh - anew...shiny and sparkling for another month's worth of duty.

If only life were as convenient as a fifteen dollar car wash.

Pop Quiz

2006-10-31T13:30:00.000-08:00

Which mayonnaise packets does Ernie use for his steak fries: the soft squishy ones on the left or the firm puffy ones on the right?

A. The ones on the left
B. The ones on the right
C. Neither, you fat ass!! You shouldn't be eating mayonnaise!
D. None of the above; everyone knows that you eat ketchup with fries!

Save The Cheerleader, Save The World

2006-10-29T17:35:00.000-08:00

Like any skilled drug dealer peddling his product, my brother said, "Just watch the first two episodes...if you don't like it, then don't bother". And like any good habitual user, I conceded. "It can't be as good as BSG. It can't be as good as Lost", I thought.

I was wrong.

This is a good show!

My Four Wheeled Steed

2006-10-24T03:32:00.000-07:00

Ah, the automobile...

For the past 19 and a half years, it served not only as a means for me to get to work, but it was my refuge: my means to an escape from the harsh realities of life, my own little fortress of solitude hurtling my lonely soul through space. Limited only by endurance, the presence of another uncharted road not taken, and the money in my debit card, I whimsically burned through fuel and rubber on a moment's notice, whenever frustration inspired. Here's to you, oh wonderful hunk of metal, for filling that corner of my life with memories... (and thanks Mspot for sparking a fun little exercise!)

1981 Ford Fairmont (1987-1989)
Brown Four Door Station Wagon
3.3L Overhead Valve Straight Six, Carbureted
3-speed column shifted automatic
90-something horsepower
Memorable moment: Brake failure going downhill into a stoplight after did-it-myself rear drum brake job
Other tidbits: fantastically accurate but incredibly heavy "powis" steering; speedometer needle that bounces +/- 10mph as it approached 80mph; manual windows all around

1986 Ford Mustang LX (1990-1991)
Grey two door hatchback
3.8L OHV V-6, Central Fuel Injected
3-speed floor-shifted automatic
110-something horsepower with gobs of torque
Memorable moment: Wrapping the speedometer needle around back to 0
Other tidbits: Steering so overassisted you could drive with your pinky; seats that didn't sit upright; crappy front brake caliper bolt design (easy-to-strip torx bolts facing into the car!); first did-it-myself suspension job (rear shocks)

1984 Dodge RAM 250 (1992-1993)
Beige/Brown Custom Van Conversion (with mag wheels!)
5.1L Overhead Valve V-8
3-speed column shifted automatic
? horsepower, adequate torque
Memorable moment: Evacuating the family in a Safeway parking lot one night in Mission Viejo upon realizing the van was dumping gallons of fuel through a hole in the fuel pump
Other tidbits: After 10 years in the family, van was sold with only 25K miles; I pulled my one and only Jerry Rice rookie card from a pack while sitting in this van.

1993 Nissan Altima SE (1993-1999)
Blue Jade 4-door Sedan
2.4L 16V Dual-Overhead-Cam Inline Four
5-speed manual (with limited slip diff!)
150hp, 150ft-lbs torque
Memorable moment: the rhythmic crashing of the snow chains slapping the driver side fender (and chipping paint!) because I couldn't figure out how to secure the loose end with my frozen fingers
Other tidbits: One of the best braking distances of its time...110-feet 60-0; I was actually supposed to get a Black 1993 Sentra SE-R instead of this grocery getter; car is aerodynamically speed limited at 115 MPH

1999 Nissan Maxima SE (1999-2001)
Charcoal 4-door Sedan
3.0L Dual Overhead Cam 24V V-6
5-speed Manual
190hp, 205ft-lbs torque
Memorable moment: Spinning out at 80+ mph because of recently installed rear anti-roll bar combined with abrupt lift-throttle on entry to freeway onramp
Other tidbits: 60K miles in 2 years, and original brake pads (if *that* doesn't say highway miles, I don't know what does). This car was deceptively quick, equipped with one of the most amazing V-6's ever made...too bad it was front wheel drive. First car to ever scare the hell out of me, chickening out at 130 on a stretch of I-8 (it could've gone faster). Only car to make San Jose to San Diego trip in 6.5 hours. Hm, I just realized I never got a ticket in this car.

1993 Nissan 240SX SE (2000-2005)
Aztec Red 2-door Hatchback
2.4L Dual Overhead Cam 16V Inline Four
5-speed Manual
150hp, 150ft-lbs torque
Memorable moment: The very first time I felt the 4-wheel steering kick in...the coolest thing ever.
Other tidbits: I really miss this car.

1995 Infiniti G20 (2001-present)
4-door Sedan
2.0L Dual Overhead Cam 16V Inline Four
5-speed manual
140hp, 132ft-lbs torque
Memorable moment: First car out on the first race of the season, and dumping oil all over the first half of the autocross course because the wrong oil filter was installed, blowing off at high RPM.
Other tidbits: The race-inspired SR20DE powerplant is totally out of steam lugging around the 3200lb chassis. No other FWD four door comes close to the handling prowess of the P10...underpowered but nimble, with a tendency to slide the tail out, this car is an absolute sheer joy to toss around the corners on the way to work.

2003 Honda S2000 (2004-present)
Berlina Black 2-door Convertible
2.0L Dual Overhead Cam 16V Inline Four
6-speed Manual
240hp, 152ft-lbs torque
Memorable moment: Spinning out on turn 11 at Laguna Seca, and stopping 2 feet from the pit wall
Other tidbits: Hitting 9000RPM in second gear with the AEM CAI borders on a religious experience

1991 BMW M5 (2006-present)
Silver 4-door Sedan
3.6L Dual Overhead Cam 24V Straight Six
5-speed manual
315hp, 286ft-lbs torque
Memorable moment: Sitting in a motel room in Denver and hearing fiftynormal shout, "you asshole!" over the phone when he asked if I bought the car.
Other tidbits: The car leaks oil so bad it smokes when pushed hard and smells of burning oil when sitting in the parking lot; the motor idles rough and the transmission is noisy; it gets 11mpg in the city; the bad fan clutch causes the temperature to run a little hot; the steering wheel makes a loud groaning noise when you turn it; the clutch is stiff and the gear throws are long; the leather is old and worn and needs refinishing... But there was nothing sweeter than listening to that motor howl through 3rd gear up in central Oregon with the setting sun warming my face through the open windows...

I'm sure that eventually the realities of life will take hold and force me to choose a wife, kids, soccer practice and Saturday trips fetching steer manure at Home Depot over a senseless blast wasting gas down the 280 with the top down, but I'm going to try my darnedest to postpone the inevitable. In the meantime, I'll keep praying that someday the car gods will find a way to make a car that does an 80mph slalom, hauls 2.5 kids in comfort, does 0-60 in 4 seconds, has room for a 4-by-8 sheet of plywood, and screams to 8000RPM in a voice that makes the hair on your neck stand up... Maybe...one day...

Open 'til Midnight, 364 days a year

2006-10-17T05:44:00.000-07:00

I still remember seeing those words stuck on the double glass doors of the Tower Records on Sports Arena Blvd, etched into a corner of my mind, marking a significant part of my childhood in San Diego. The Tower Records building stood across the street from the aging San Diego Sports Arena for as long as I could remember, and became the centerpiece of my short life as a young adult in Southern California. There really wasn't much to do back then as an underage teenager except pile into my 1981 Ford Fairmont Station Wagon (with column shifted 3-speed automatic backing the 90HP 3.3L 12 valve straight six) and make the arduous 20-minute journey northwest from suburban Paradise Hills, with the weekly ten dollar allowance burning a prodigous hole in my pocket... Back then, LPs cost seven bucks (if I was lucky) and cassettes were somewhat cheaper. My memory fails me, as I eschewed those crappy plastic boxes of ferro-magnetic tape for the ultra-chic and higher audio-quality 12" vinyl record. (That I subsequently transferred to tape anyways)

Although I'm guilty of not buying anything from Tower for what seems like years now, hearing the news last week that they were closing their doors for the last time, I couldn't help but reminisce of those times long since gone, of a place that was such a part of my life...

...Back in high school, I had this thing about wanting to drive as many cars as I could. Maestro2b wasn't keen on driving back then, so I had the pleasure of piloting his 4-door Chrysler Reliant K-car to Tower one day. If you're familiar with the parking layout, there are 2 spaces out front that are parallel to the sidewalk, lined by tall steel yellow poles (I guess so you park straight?) Backing out of one of these spots, I really wasn't paying attention, cranked the steering wheel to the right, and heard this loud bang. Turns out that one of those big yellow poles felt the need to crush the driver side fender of Bryan's car. Red-faced and utterly shamed for years to come, I hesitated to drive his car from that point forth...

...I used to attend CCD back in high school, requirement for all good Catholics to receive their Sacrament of Confirmation. Frustrated at the thought of having to spend a few hours out of my precious weeknights listening to nuns and deacons teach us about the power of the Holy Trinity, I chose to flee the scene on several occassions, convincing my godsister and a couple of friends to come with on a trip to Tower. One of these nights was a rainy night, and back then I was your typical teenage driver: speed and tailgating (although many would argue that I haven't shaken these habits). My typical approach to Tower involved approaching from Sports Arena Blvd and taking a left onto Kemper street. Around this time, the horn on my trusty station wagon wasn't working very well, and would make this weak and barely audible "bleeeeehhhhhh" noise. So anyways, we were sitting there at the light behind this old orange Toyota Corolla. I see the reverse lights come on, and so I panic...I lay on the horn (and in that old Ford, they had this weird design where you push in the turn signal stalk to blow the horn -- crazy ergonomics) and slamn the column shifter in reverse. But I was frozen, not letting my foot off the brake to back the car up. Needless to say, she barrelled into my beloved station wagon, climbing the steel bumper and cracking the plastic grill. It seemed to all happen in slow motion, and I couldn't figure out why my stupid foot was pressing the brake pedal so hard instead of moving to the accelerator pedal and backing up the wagon. I had a great time explaining that one to my parents...

...There was a short point during high school when I hung out with a totally different set of friends; one of them owned an old Pontiac Grand Prix equipped with a small block V8. One night he and a friend decided to make a trip out to Tower, bringing me along. I'll never forget that night, for the simple feeling of that moment he slammed the throttle on the Plaza Blvd. onramp to 805 North. I was leaning forward at the time, and it literally threw me back into the seat. We were doing a hundred in no time flat. The funny thing is, I have never felt that kind of torque since. Not in the 300hp '91 300ZX turbo that I was to test drive years later, nor the 302 c.i. Mustang GT that I rented for prom that year. There really is something to be said about old muscle cars... So anyways, we show up at Tower, run around the store lookin' for things to buy, and return to the car. The driver says to us, "I'm never coming back there". "I think they saw me steal that cassette on video". He had shoplifted Body Count's album (the one that had "Copkiller" on it). Nice. Oh yeah, and I hear that album's a collector's item now...

I've made that Tower trek so many times through the years, I can still picture the route...Woodman St and then a right turn onto 52W (where you could practice your 0-60 sprint), then catch the 805N connector, then up and over the freeway on 94W, then that long right hand downhill sweeper to 5N, then Pacific Highway as it crosses over through an S-curve and barrels down near the airport (a great stretch for nailing the throttle), then left hand exit onto Midway Dr, a poorly maintained and pothole stricken road, past the pizza place on the right with the bigger than life pizzas, past the post office on the left (open 'til Midnight!), then right turn onto Kemper... I know that times change, things move on, and all good things must come to an end. Still, it'll be sad to drive by the corner of Kemper St. & Sports Arena Blvd. the next time I'm in San Diego and not see that big yellow sign with the big red letters.

So does anyone remember which day Tower was closed?

Sushi Monsterrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr

2006-10-15T22:58:00.000-07:00

I just have to say...Sushi Monster is the absolute best sushi I have had to date.

Shirley and I sat at the sushi bar and chit-chatted with the young sushi chef who goes by the name of "BJ". He suggested the toro and uni, which I promptly ordered.

And he was spot on...

If you notice the Toro on the right, it's not the dark pink/red that I'm used to from other restaurants. BJ tells us that this is the color it's supposed to be...and that in Japan, it's even better. And holy smokes, this thing was amazing...literally melting in your mouth like a big piece of fish fat. MMMMMMMMmmmmmmmmmmmmm.

And that Uni was the first piece I've had in about 7 years now, after being gunshy from the really gross piece I decided to try at Todai's. This piece here was absolutely fresh, as BJ assured me from behind the plastic counter holding the glimmering pieces of fresh fish. It still has that strange texture that's quite offputting to a large number of folks, but that flavor...mmmmmmmmmm.

If you happen to be in Belmont, give Sushi Monster a try.

Fooosball

2006-10-15T18:40:00.000-07:00

Touchdown #4 for Mr. Tomlinson.

Had a great day at 3COM/Candlestick/Monster Park... It's been so long since I've been to a Charger's game where the offense was firing on all (well, almost all) cylinders. If only we had a pickup and grill (and managed to show up 5 hours earlier), us fat boys wouldn't have to resort to such delectable fare as Double Six-Dollar Western Bacon Cheeseburgers...

(Yours truly instead opted for the simpler combination of a Six-Dollar Guacamole Burger and a Spicy Chicken Sandwich. With Fried Zucchini. And House Ranch. And a side of Belgium beers - three of 'em)

And I just have to say...there sure were A LOT of Chargers' fans in the stands. I was actually quite surprised, expecting us to be 4 spots of blue within a vast sea of red. Boy was I wrong.

And we were really disappointed at some of the other Charger fans there, completely obnoxious and just plain a--holes... There were niner fans sitting in front of us, and they were really friendly. But these two Charger fans made it a point to harass and pick out one of the niners fans for no reason at all, cussing him out and making threats. Unbelievable...really made me embarrassed to be a fan.

Regardless, it was great being able to root with other fans, even high-fiving the complete stranger behind me.

All in all, a good time for all.

Ernielicious

2006-10-14T17:51:00.000-07:00

So Friday was my first day back at the office. I checked my voicemail and received this one on October 11 (the day of my return flight):

"Hello, this is XXXXX from Cathay Pacific Airways baggage services. We wanted to notify you that we have your passport here, please call us at XXX-XXXX."

Nevermind the fact that I didn't even realize my passport was missing.

And then later that night, as I was leaving the office, I had a small panic attack as I patted down my empty right pocket (where I usually have my cellphone). Walking back to the cube, I couldn't find it...until I looked into my left hand, where it was sitting, flip open, because I was reading news stories on it.

I hear it only gets worse from here.
Hell...One of these days I'll probably show up at the office without any pants.

The Heat Is On In Singapore

2006-10-08T02:07:00.000-07:00

From World Weather Server:

Current Conditions in Singapore
Broken Clouds	88°F / 31°C
	Feels like 99°F / 37°C UV: 11 (Extreme)

Maybe I'm walking too fast.
Maybe it's that choking, smoky haze covering the city from those yearly massive slash-and-burn fires raging in Indonesia.
Or maybe it's the huge masses of people swarming the Orchard Road shopping district.

...Or it could just be that I'm too fat. Whatever the case, I can feel that warm sticky sweat soaking off my back into my red Gap classic fit tee, on my arms, on my forehead. The thick air is filled not only with the sounds of a dozen languages, but my nose picks up the unique acrid smell of dried meats, fish sauce, smelly armpits, and fresh fruits. The $1SGD ice cream stalls and the occasional cooling from open shop doors provide some relief from the heat, but I still clamor to hustle back to the room... My lonely solace perched high above the craziness below.

I'm sorely disappointed at the shopping out here...it's a far cry from my joy in Hong Kong at finding not one, but four different stores that actually had a Nikon 18-200 in stock! And at an excellent price to boot. It could be the sharply falling conversion rate (only 4 months ago, it was up near 2.8SGD to 1USD). This are is definitely a shopper's paradise. Everything can be had here, from mega-expensive Cartier jewelry to el-cheapo fakie-fakie stuff. There's a Border's, Coffee Bean, Apple Store, and look out...a GAP store is opening soon. There are no deals to be had, with most everything hovering around the same price range as stuff in the US.

At least I got to see some cool cars.

So I duck into the lobby of the Grand Hyatt, the warm sticky sweat immediately turning into a coating of ice as my body is blasted by the sub twenty degree air conditioning. The noise of the crazy crowded streets quickly fade away as I recede into the depths of the marble floored hotel and scurry into the dark elevator dimly lit by a flickering LCD display advertising the hotel's restaurants. As I slip the key into the energy conservation slot near the door, lights flood the empty living- and bed-room while the AC roars to life, clearing out the stuffy air.

As Damien Rice starts up on my iRiver, a quiet thought crosses my mind...

I miss home.

HKG TPE SGP

2006-10-05T09:17:00.000-07:00

What a wonderful day... Autumn is definitely a good time to visit Taiwan. There’s hardly any rain, and the breaks between the occasional drizzle reveal blue skies above the cloud cover. The proximity of the hotel to the Motorola office affords a nice (although at a moderately brisk pace for my impatient soul) stroll through central Taipei, beneath the looming presence of Taipei 101. The structure dominates the landscape, a behemoth monument in the shape of a bolt of lightning standing over 400 meters tall dwarfing the buildings around it. Nothing nearby comes close in height. The observation deck is usually covered in clouds, swaying with the strong breeze.

But back to our intrepid explorer far below… coping with three and a half hours of sleep, working around the clock for the past few days dealing with buggy software and incredibly aggressive schedules, he uses this weekday morning ten minute walk to get some fresh air and take a break from the hectic regional demands…

For some reason this morning, I decide to navigate to the folder on my trusty iRiver labeled “VOICE” and surprise myself with some recordings from a Rondalla practice session months ago that I had forgotten to offload. Listening to the multiple takes and occasional laughs, the missed cues and erroneous notes, I find myself, remembering how big the LIKHA Rondalla was – is a part of my life. It was easy for me to forget how those weekly Friday night rituals of food, friendship and music always seemed to be just the fitting end I (and I’m sure others) needed to cap the rigors of a hectic work week. As a horde of scooters roars away from the plethora of yellow cabs in front of me, I hope that one of these days I figure out that ever-so-elusive balance that lets me enjoy even just one more night with my old wacky musical compatriots…

But I digress.

Taiwan is just the second leg of this two-and-a-half week revisit to Asia, and so far it’s been quite a busy effort. But I’m grateful that a weekend in Hong Kong afforded me a half day of downtime to put on my trusty Saucony running shoes, backpack in tow, and explore this crowded harbor city on the edge of Kowloon bay.

Dense... If I had only one word to describe this place, that would be it. 70 story apartment buildings are the norm, crowding the skyline with vertical structures of glass, steel and concrete. The town is much more westernized than I had expected; odds are in your favor that you’ll run into someone who speaks English. And in tourist-ridden Lang Kwai Fung, you’ll be hard pressed to find an Asian face in the overpriced bars and restaurants – $120HKD for 3 bottles of San Miguel beer!!! A far cry from the P22 bottles at the 7-Eleven in Rizal...

Navigating the streets of the Hong Kong island side of the city proved difficult (and often dangerous) with the combination of left-side driving and streets that (due to the edge-of-a-hillside topology) were forced into a non-grid layout. The Filipino presence here is quite strong; but interestingly almost all women…On one of my strolls I found myself lost in a mall where literally a hundred Filipina women were sitting on the railing, chatting, relaxing, and eating Filipino food. The mall was peppered with remittance shops and Filipino stores selling such goodies like chicharon, palabok, adobo, etc. And amidst all the 5 foot and under (and honestly quite fresh off the boat) women was this severely out of place gap-shirt-wearing overweight and obviously-tourist guy that looked like a Mexican.

Anyways, while riding along the world’s longest escalator, I happened to stumble upon an interesting landmark:

The Kowloon side (where the hotel was) is much more scenic, with a dramatic view of the Hong Kong skyline and Kowloon bay. The 15 minute ferry ride between the two islands was extremely cheap, at $2.20HKD and very scenic. But bring your seasick pills for the choppy ride across the bay. Traffic was a nightmare, so take the subway whenever you can. And I was disappointed with the food…maybe I was hoping for less westernized tastes, and cheaper menus. One highlight though was the duck tongue, a really interesting experience. The best part though was the look on my boss’s face when the dish came out. Slightly slimy with lots of bone and cartilage, it actually turned out to be quite good.

All in all, I definitely need to revisit Hong Kong on a personal non-work visit. Heck, I need to go visit all of China on a vacation! There’s so many places I’d love to see out here. Like Gangjin. And supposedly there’s a 10-story statue of Buddha on Lantau island that you can see from the plane.

All Work And No Play...

2006-09-30T17:03:00.000-07:00

...make Ernie a dull boy.

Too bad I wasn't at one of these gigs.

Home.

2006-09-15T01:23:00.000-07:00

The internet is an amazing little thing. Who would've thought that a tiny little twisted pair of copper wire possessed the power to not only catapult you into the farthest reaches of the universe, but also make you feel like the loneliest place on earth. Bouting insomnia resulting from a severe workaholic episode that's already lasted a week (and counting), I decided to wield this utlimate social tool and take a tour of the world around me.

And I felt utterly alone.

My face lit by the dim glow of a million liquid crystals, I clicked. And read. And clicked. And scrolled... I reveled in Ms Luzon's newfound kitchen prowess; I drooled over tabachoy's images of fat-filled Baja style goodness; I pondered over damoomoo's interesting observations about money dances (hey...if I get married, I'm havin' one -- who's gonna pay for the open bar?!?!?); I found myself peering into crisperville's accounts of a fabulous european romp; I sat perplexed by laragitara's snippets on life... And for some reason, I started to think about "Home." Maybe it was the thoughtful little note that popped into my mailbox today, handwritten, from a good friend clear across the country who wrote just to say, "hello". Or maybe it was the fact that this stupid Beta Blogger upgrade has yielded any form of friendly commentary on this page to be highly ineffective.

So what does home mean to you?

I imagine it to be a wonderful thing. Like silencing a packed house of 1000 people in a darkened auditorium with the sound of your pick as it strummed steel strings. Or reading a good book in front of a cozy fire, your feet cuddled by warm cottom slippers and the heat from your labrador retriever resting quietly on the floor. Or sitting in the cockpit of your four-wheeled racer, screaming into a decreasing radius corner, executing yet another perfectly rev-matched heel-toe downshift, nailing the apex, and exiting in a beautiful four-wheel-drift. Or standing in the arms of the woman you love in the middle of a crowded dance floor, not a care in the world. Or the roar of laughter as your friend of 20 years decides to recall a fond memory of your childhood long since forgotten... Or for some lucky few, coming home everyday to the sight of a wonderful bundle of joy not unlike the one pictured above.

Ah yes...I really am a sentimental old fool.

Thank goodness for the internet! For without you, I wouldn't be able to spend yet another darkened hour of a sleepless night throwing words into the ether and looking back at a collection of memories sixteen months in the making.

SUPER HICAS

2006-09-12T00:50:00.000-07:00

Every now and then I am reminded of a very tiny place in a dusty corner of my heart vacated by an old friend.

Slower than a constipated snail crossing a puddle of molasses and muddled by a U.S. spec drivetrain that contradicts its birthright, my little old red two door hatchback still holds a special place in my stockpile of memories. Maybe it's because of all those grandiose plans that I had in store for her. Or maybe it was because of all those times I've spent underneath her ten year old California-bred undercarriage, in dirty apartment parking stalls, in greasy stadium parking lots, in cold garage floors...Whatever the case, sometimes I find myself remembering old times like it was yesterday.

Like that chilly Saturday spent in a back parking lot in a Redwood City office park. I'm sure passers-by probably found it odd to see a weirdo computer professional hunched over a dusty red car, the sweet smell of radiator fluid spilled on the ground, a water pump in his greasy wet left hand, a 10mm socket in his right, and curse words emanating from his mouth as the stupid bolt refused to line up with the housing.

Or that wet and windy day in Willow Springs (my first track event ever), haulin' ass into turn three on the fastest track in the west, learning a little too late the consequences of being unprepared when my heavy right foot falls effortlessly to the floor while pressing the brake pedal. I tell you what...there's not many feelings quite like the feeling you get when you're doing 80 miles an hour, the corner in front of you is coming up awfully fast, and your car isn't slowing down.

Or the way you feel when you approach her from a certain angle, when the lines look just so right, when the setting sun casts a special glow on the upper half of the side panels, and you just can't bear the thought of selling her.

And I can still remember that unique way that old interior smelled, the heavy action of the short shifter kit that made your arm sore, the incredibly harsh & bouncy ride of the worn AGX suspension, the imprecise (and kinda weird) feel of the rear end's SUPER-HICAS effect, the gouges in the leather steering wheel right above the 10 o'clock position, that obnoxiously loud roar of the clutch-activated fan when the temperature got hot outside, and all the shortcomings of that craptastic lazy-to-rev rough-past-4000RPM monster-torque-low-power built-like-a-tank KA24DE motor... yet somehow, anger and resentment are missing from my memory. No, I instead have a strange longing for days gone by, to long drives on the coast in that hunched down 2+2, the first used car that I had ever bought.

I think maybe it all boils down to that unique relationship a man develops with his automobile. From the months spent scouring classified ads for a pristine example optioned just the way he wanted (with the somewhat rare four wheel steering and correspondingly unique faster steering rack), to the long drive down to San Diego to go buy it from a young high school student drafted to the University of Arizona on a baseball scholarship, to the four plus years of his life dedicated to its maintenance...Spark plugs, oil filters, headlights, suspension bushings, struts, sunroof latches, stereo upgrades (with requisite large bloody cuts), water pumps, thermostats, radiator hoses, clutch slave cylinders, brake fluids/pads/rotors, trunk struts... Or maybe it was the way I studied the lines of that car when I used it as my first drawing for the very first time I used an AutoCAD program waaaaaay back in 1990.

Whatever the case, I'm hopeful that one day when I'm more settled in my life (and equipped to execute all those big modification plans) I can be reunited with yet another fine example and renew a relationship long since suspended but not yet forgotten.

State of Disrepair

2006-09-06T17:20:00.001-07:00

Funny how things happen in "clumps".

My VCR fails to respond to certain commands from the remote control, preventing me from recording any programs (like when the stupid Comcast company fails to update their programming, invalidating that whole DVR feature).
My el-cheapo telephoto lens got infected by mildew again.
My DSLR broke a few weeks ago. It struggles to power on with this blinking thingy and the meter readings go all haywire.
Last night while trying to watch Wowowee footage (thanks Gary and Bev's Mom!!) my camcorder refuses to charge the battery, and then just goes completely kaput.
The fan clutch on the M5 needs replacing. And it's now leaking oil onto the exhaust so under some hard runs, it'll smoke.
I woke up this morning and my cable modem went out (it fixed itself a couple of hours later though)
While checking the router in the closet for the cable modem problem, I accidentally stepped on my toolbox latch, snapping it clean off. My toolbox won't lock now.
There's a short somewhere in my brother's Sentra that's draining the battery dead in about 3 days.
To top it all off, my jeans are getting tighter.

You know, maybe it's time I purged my life of all this excessive crap.
Or maybe I should eat more chocolate ice cream.

And Larry’s Getting La-a-a-arger

2006-09-04T14:09:00.000-07:00

He motions to the few remaining dark-colored and exquisite slices of roast duck sitting on the plate…“Hey Ernie, here, come ‘on have some more!”

For a long time now I had exercised self-discipline, in a desperate ferocious attempt to achieve goals that eighteen months and sixty pounds ago seemed wholly unrealistic. Under 220 pounds, I convinced myself. I want to jump out of an airplane. My uphill trek had taken me through continual battles with carnal desires for utterly sinful pieces of chocolate, bouts with the ever present “I’ll work out tomorrow”. I fashioned hair-brained theories to help me through it all

Inventing a “quota” approach: with my ever-increasing age, my daily food allotment drops and drops – so why waste time on such low-quality foods like that utterly tempting bag of Doritos or that mouth-watering masterpiece Bacon Ultimate Cheeseburger
Misery: it’s widely known that unhappy people are skinny and happy people are fat
Half of me: Regardless of how hungry you are, despite that inner voice beckoning you to take another bite, stop at the halfway point for all your meals. Stop worrying about waste and “finishing all your food” and just throw it all way. Let it go to waste. It’s OK to waste.

But the fact of the matter is this…

Energy in = Energy out

Plain and simple.

And yet, staring at those delectable morsels of heaven, facing yet another in a long never-ending series of crossroads, I falter and reach over with the glazed plastic chopsticks to take another bite. And so has the story been for the past couple of months…only the food has changed. So instead of wallowing with self-loathing at a job not done and pondering the very disheartening prospect of returning to my unhappy and unhealthy ways, I might as well spend the next few posts recapping the wonderful culinary journey I’ve had to date, and make a promise to set a new goal for the coming year.

(for a pictorial tour, go here)

Ang Sayaw Ng Buhay Namin

2006-09-02T11:57:00.000-07:00

There's something kinda weird about sitting 8000 miles away from home in a Singapore hotel room watching a Malaysian-subtitled Tagalog movie about overseas workers.

Although it was hella cheesy, it was actually quite good. It told an interesting story that was just plain jacked up. I missed some of the beginning, but due to my rusty tagalog skills, the story goes something like this: Mom (Vilma Santos) gets a good gig working in Hong Kong. Husband can't stand her being away from home, so she comes back and they try to make things work. Family struggles to make ends meet so she makes the tough decision to go back to work in Hong Kong as a live in housekeeper/nanny. Now here's where it gets crazy... The family she works for totally bails on her for a 4 week vacation, forbidding her to leave, locking her in the house (there's bars) and straight up taking away her passport. And get this -- they also took the phone cord! While she's shut in, her husband dies tragically in a construction accident. She has no idea about this until the family returns and hand her a FedEx envelope that was sitting in the pile of mail outside the door. She comes back to her family, and oh Nellie... Abandonment issues abound. The eldest revolts with drugs, cigarettes and abortions, the son becomes a total anti-social loner (ends up losing his scholarship at school), and I forget what happens to the youngest kid.

Crazy, eh?

But what I really liked about the film was how the themes were so fundamental to the family unit... I've seen situations where parents work their butts off to make loads of money to provide a good life for their kids -- but at what sacrifice? Not being there for your kids? How do you define success? How do you know if you've done a good job with your kids? There was a conversation in one part of the movie that I couldn't get the full gist of, but she basically said how some people see the good life that you've provided for your kids -- a house, food, education -- and say, "Wow, she's a good mother to her kids". But the reality is that her kids are jacked, so is she really a good mother?

I gotta say, though... Vilma sure can turn on the water works.

All The Leaves Are Brown...

2006-08-29T03:34:00.000-07:00

...all the leaves are brown

So after a month of being haunted by that incessant beat thumping through the PA system at the MegaMall, Mall Of Asia, and now Suntec City, I finally did myself a favor and YouTube'd the song: talk about cheesy, but yet, strangely fascinating...

Like a car wreck on the Nimitz Freeway.

On a winter's day.

When the sky is grey.

Not For The Faint of Heart...

2006-08-27T00:26:00.000-07:00

Check this out.