Monthly Archives: March 2004

Zen Litter

Went to Tom and Mel’s pot luck yes­ter­day, which end­ed up being a fun way to end an oth­er­wise very long day. I had the chance to use their minia­ture zen gar­den, and my god was it relax­ing. There must be some­thing in the sand or some­thing. I’d def­i­nite­ly con­sid­er get­ting one now if I ever found out what makes it so relax­ing, but I’d be scared of Dolores poo­ing in it.

Double Dipper

So here I am, stand­ing at a table in the meet­ing room with my two slices of meat lovers, one slice of assort­ed, a bot­tle of Coke, and my Pizza Pizza gar­lic dip­ping sauce. I’m talk­ing to some­one, and my dip­ping sauce is on the table, since I always save it for the crust. This ran­dom guy walks by the table, sees my sauce, and dips his slice in it. Not only that, but he DOUBLE DIPS IT.

I had to stop for a few moments to under­stand what had just hap­pened. I was com­plete­ly tak­en aback, about how some­one could just do some­thing like that. Did he think that there was some sort of com­mu­nal sauce or some­thing? WHO THE FUCK DOES SOMETHING LIKE THAT?

There are few­er things more inti­mate than the dip­ping sauce. Sharing dip­ping sauce is as inti­mate as shar­ing bod­i­ly flu­ids, and this man, this black-beard­ed, incon­sid­er­ate man, just stuck his slice in my sauce.

He might as well have slapped his dick on my fore­head.

We Call Ourselves Chiggas

I went to buy some wrist­bands, because rule num­ber 3.4.4.1.2 of the 2004 ITTF Handbook basi­cal­ly states that peo­ple can only tow­el off once or twice a game. I look around for some Adidas wrist bands, since I usu­al­ly play in Adidas trunks, but unfor­tu­nate­ly, every place I look either has no Adidas wrist­bands, or they have the Adidas non-rac­quet-sport wrist­bands, the ones that are twice as long and con­strict the wrist. There was a set that was some brand I nev­er heard of, but it was half price and the logo looked like the skip but­ton on an MP3 play­er so I decid­ed to buy it any­way. Turns out that this brand is actu­al­ly Karl Kani, a brand name in urban fash­ion.

Let me back things up for a sec­ond here.

I’m pure Chinese by blood, raised in a neigh­bour­hood of sub­tle fam­i­lies who paid off their mort­gages, bought mini-vans to dri­ve all their kids to hock­ey prac­tice, and spent the week­ends plant­i­ng new sets of flow­ers in their gar­dens. I went to a high school for the sons of rich cou­ples and gov­ern­ment offi­cials. MY FREAKIN NAME IS JEFF. I’m prob­a­bly the last per­son who should be wear­ing “urban fash­ion”.

So yeah.

wut wut.

The World, Chico

So today I woke up at around eight, checked my dai­ly blogroll, found out that I have $6 in my bank account, cooked some break­fast, went back to bed. I got a call let­ting me know that I’ve been hired for a new job, my high­est pay­ing one to date, end­ing to my four­teen month unem­ploy­ment stretch. Got dressed, bought a bus pass, went to school, ate lunch, skipped the last half of class. On the way home I bought a book, looked for a wrist­band, fin­ished read­ing a chap­ter from my eco­nom­ics text­book. Got anoth­er call, let­ting me know that my appli­ca­tion with Trolley and Wheaties into a beau­ti­ful 16th floor apart­ment has been accept­ed. And here I am, sit­ting in my fur­nished apart­ment next to my cat, watch­ing peo­ple improv char­ac­ters on a GO train.

I start work tomor­row. I’m sched­uled for a table ten­nis marathon with Pat this month. My pork chop defrost­ed in time for din­ner. Things are get­ting even bet­ter.

More than 170 peo­ple were killed today, in a war I know noth­ing about, con­cern­ing things I don’t under­stand, with peo­ple I’ve nev­er met, at a place half the world away.

This is the first time that I’ve ever felt guilty to be hap­py.