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naeglerian
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Name: Naegleria
Country: United States
State: California
Gender: Male
Interests: Eating Thai food, being in Thailand and speaking at a 2nd grade level in Thai (I can imagine the throngs of insulted 2nd graders in Thailand, waiting to pummel me with those heavy leather bookbags for the unjust comparison), languages, being outdoors, especially in the mountains or by the ocean, cycling, grand old literature, history, writing letters - yes, those things where you take a stick and make marks on a piece of reformed cotton fibers and wood pulp, and did I mention Thai food?
Expertise: Slouching, evading work and responsibility. Efficient DREs. Disability forms and the co-dependent malingerers who love them. Comprehensive narcotic therapy for that scourge of human existence, the New Plague -- Low Back Pain (don't ask for scripts, just respond to the million spam e-mails you receive for pain meds and Men's Vitamin V.) Meningoencephalitis.
Occupation: Medical
Industry: Medical
Message: message me
Member Since:
9/19/2003
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| In the wake of a news report that Thailand remains the number one destination in Asia travel, I have a completely tangential question that came out of nowhere but now begs to be aired, like my warm weather clothes that have languished in a suitcase for months.
Does anyone actually buy those velvet paintings you see in every marginally touristy area in Thailand? You know the ones I'm talking about: airbrushed neon villages, long-necked Karen women, Britney Spears, perhaps separate, perhaps all on one big piece of black fuzzy cloth, next to the pencil sketch of a Geronimo and the requisite naked chick.
The following is not on black velvet, but is representative of what I'm discussing. The website from which this image hails states, "The glorious hues of orange and red seen in the sky of this painting
evoke a feeling that the work of the day is done and evening is coming.
Another stunning Oriental landscape piece, this painting is well-suited
for any room." That includes rooms with padded rubber walls.
The purveyor of this art, who is collecting baht to be able to display his masterpieces in a summer exhibit at the Met, invariably looks like a member of Carabao, preferably that one who played the girl's dad in "Fan Chun." Indeed, he's the only type of person who can and does keep afloat the other Thai institution that somehow exists beyond all rational measure, and that is the Western-themed bar. I know when I think of cowboys, I think of a hot, tropical Southeast Asian country, and cheap, nasty drinks.
I really should go to sleep. Good night.
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| I will first sum up my experiences over the past year:
Ate
Worked
Slept
OK, there were other things, but perhaps I will write about them at some other time.
Last weekend was rife with excitement, though. In my infinite wisdom, I decided to fly to a friend's wedding in LA and take the red-eye back, then hang out with other friends in the Windy City the following day. I seem to have survived to tell the tale, no?
First, I woke up at some ungodly hour and drove at some likely illegal speed to the monstrosity that is Chicago O'Hare International Airport. I was by no means late, but I thought I should err on the side of caution - I suppose there is a side of caution that ignores posted speed limits. Since I actually made it to the airport well in advance of the time I thought I'd be arriving at, I parked in the crappy outdoor long-term lot, saved my money, and took the little shuttle train into the airport proper. It was like going to Disneyland, but without the opportunity to eat popcorn and churros and take photographs with people dressed as cartoon characters.
 Somewhere along the interstate, while the cows were still sleeping.
I then spent about 20 minutes waiting in agony to clear security. Who would have thought that the lines would be so long at 7AM on a Saturday? But they were. After passing their thorough screening, where it was determined that I was not carrying any dangerous contraband, such as drinking water, I marched down into the now all-too-familiar Tunnel of Light and Mystery that connects terminals B and C. The 70s will never die!
I then boarded my crowded United flight to the West Coast. I had ample time to perfect my technique of ignoring my neighbor, such as by intently scrutinizing the filled-in crossword puzzle in my inflight magazine - the same one with grease stains and some child's scrawl in Chinese that said, respectively, "fart," and "poop." To which, some accompanying adult wrote "monkey child," but then wrote next to it in English, "knight." I'm so disappointed I missed out on that conversation.
Having landed uneventfully at LAX, I took the shuttle to the rental car lot, where a fabulous compact car awaited me. Just as I got to the aisle, though, the last Corolla was taken, and I was left with an uninspiring choice of the Chevy Cobalt vs. the Saturn Ion. Having heard that Saturns were sort of respectable, as far as any vehicle out of Detroit could be, I picked the Ion, which was a horrid mistake. If I learned anything at all last weekend, it was: don't buy an Ion, ever. That being said, I managed to drive in a large circle around the airport before finding the appropriate freeway and making my way to a place almost as important to Chinese folks as the Yellow River Valley in China, and that would be the San Gabriel Valley.
Once there, I was profoundly starving. Initially, I was planning to go to Shinsengumi Ramen, but couldn't find the place (stupid Google Maps, you let me down), so I ended up walking past a typical nondescript Chinese minimall, where all the signs are in Chinese and there's a chronic shortage of parking. Then I saw the magic sign that said (in Chinese, of course) "Yonghe Doujiang," and I knew I was set. Apparently this is some sort of international chain of grubby Taiwanese/Northern Chinese restaurants, that makes its own soy milk, which is one of my favorite things of all time, in combination with you tiao, aka patongo. I ordered in butchered Mandarin, which probably pissed off the waitress, but I was rewarded with an unhealthy yet comforting repast that I cannot get out here in the great Midwest.
I then made my way to the infamous Hsi Lai Temple in Hacienda Heights, where then-VP Al "Are you feeling warm?" Gore attended a fundraiser back in the mid-90s. It's a shame that it is probably best known for that, as it really was kind of a neat place, and entirely unexpected, perched on a hill in some random LA suburb.
I then made my way back to attend the wedding proper. It was at a local hotel, and the ceremony and reception were outdoors. Thankfully, the rains that had passed through the day prior were long gone, and now it was typically bright SoCal sunshine that smiled upon everyone. The ceremony was nice, but with a very Californian, non-denominational, all-inclusive feel to it.
Afterwards, with a little milling about during the reception, we all headed downstairs for the banquet. There was another wedding banquet down the hall; our theme was pink, and their was purple. Our was better. We had two singers, who were quite good, singing plenty of Mando and Cantopop ballads, with a few Taiwanese and English songs for good measure. The food, being in the San Gabriel Valley, was predictably awesome. And my friend and his new bride were, putting aside the usual superlatives, truly radiant with happiness.
And then the lion dancers came out. Yes, there were Chinese lion dancers. This was a first for me; I'll have to add that to any potential wedding plans I might have in the way distant future.
With the festivities over, I made a mad dash through traffic to get back to LAX, return the car, change back into normal clothes, and squeeze into a tiny Airbus (how appropriate a name) for the return to Chicago. There were several people from the motherland on board; I assume they had come over on the direct Thai Airways flight earlier ( I admit, I was sort of excited when I saw the huge plane parked at a gate while going to the terminal ). It now was midnight local time, and I settled into an intermittent sleep next to some large guy in the middle seat that would not stop talking to the fellow on the window...who was from Australia...Melbourne, to be exact...and going to a business conference at Case Western University in Cleveland...and I know all this because the lame guy in middle seat wouldn't stop talking.
On a final note, I forget to relate the story of my friend and his wife. They had met in college over ten years ago, dated for a while, then went their separate ways for six years, until somehow they got back together again and carried on a long-distance relationship for the past four years. It's nothing short of amazing, especially in this day and age. | | |
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toothpastefordinner.com
When your computer starts talking to you, bad stuff is going down. I know, I've seen 2001: A Space Odyssey. Well, the end anyways.
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| Oh no! Warning! Achtung!
It's Cute Overload! It's too much for me to handle. I need some insulin. And I need to brush my teeth to stave off the dental caries. Yep.
It's supposed to hit 47 degrees later today. I am inexplicably drawn to the tropical print shirt buried somewhere in my closet.
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| I shouldn't, but I will.
I hesitate to write about this, now that Google is reporting 34,800 sites with the infamous phrase, but since it is relevant to the rest of this post, I will go along with the flow.
This first came to my attention via a morning radio talk show as I drove my sleep-deprived self to work. The hosts were commenting on the first candidate dropped from the newest iteration of "The Bachelor," or more specifically her use of choice phrases, like "quite frankly, my eggs are rotting," and that she was entering her "reproductive phase." Apparently, she is a 32 year old oncologist who had grown tired of failed attempts to find the One. But, Dr. Bachelor did not extend her any professional courtesy.
I sympathisize with her 100%. She later explained the unvarnished logic behind her rhetorical gems:
'Let's say she meets Mr. Right. They'll date for a year. Be engaged
for another year. Then get married. Wait one or two years. Then have a
baby. By then, "I'm 38 years old and my eggs really are rotting," she
says.' I surely can't argue with that. But my goodness, I can't imagine a reference to rotting eggs ever being the centerpiece of a conversation. Ever. In her defence, the decaying ova speech was apparently given to the other women, not to the man, but...wow. ********************
I had an extended conversation with a friend the other day. Actually, we've had this conversation on more than one occasion. To understand it requires some background. First, she is in the final year of internal medicine residency at a painfully frustrating county hospital. Second, my brother works in finance in Hong Kong and meets with plenty of bankers and politicos throughout Asia. Third, he had a friend from his old workplace stateside who had a Mercedes with a license plate that prominently included '888' - these supposedly lucky digits being near and dear to most people of southern Chinese extraction. I am inclined to view this as unrepentant FOBdom, but who am I to comment?
Her: I am sick of work.
Me: Everyone gets sick of work. You're almost done with residency.
Her: I don't want to work.
Me: Then how are you going to survive? I mean, what do you want, some 888 husband to fend for you?
Her: Yeah, tell your brother to hurry up and find my 888 husband.
Me: Yeah sure, but are you willing to move to the Motherland? I seriously doubt that the 888 husband wants to camp out in the vicinity of Monterey Park and Alhambra.
Her: I'd go to Hong Kong.
Me: No, I mean, the Motherland. Would you go to Shanghai?
Her: No.
Me: Well, then....get back to work.
Her: I don't want to work anymore. I want to be a kept woman.
Me: ?
Alright, it lacks the vivid imagery of "my eggs are rotting," but she is applying for oncology fellowship too.
******************** Friday afternoon. The snow has begun to fall quite heavily, ending our three week reprieve from the cold crunchy whiteness. We are bored witless at work (I am on research, so have no fear about negligence and malpractice), and having exhausted enough time actively watching the clock, we turn back to the Internet to alleviate the tedium. After checking our respective multiple e-mail accounts about 50 times, rechecking the weather, the horoscope, the stock ticker, and the predictions for the upcoming football games, it is time for deeper pursuits. The hour is ripe for...Yahoo! Personals. More specifically, looking for friends/colleagues who may have posted their personals. I didn't see any familiar faces from my old haunts. Among the three of us (fellow and two administrative assistants), only one friend was found. Her ad was quite normal, so we moved on. One of the girls started looking up guys in the area. Some of those ads are just completely bizarre. Why would your profile pic for a personal ad feature most prominently your flared nostrils, three inches from the camera? Is your hobby really Tae-bo? And then, when looking up women...why would you post pictures of a well-known Korean actress to represent yourself?
Speaking of which, I recently burned 16 hours of my life away watching said well-known Korean actress and one of Pam's boyfriends spar on "Full House," a Korean series from a few years back. I understand that this was shown on Thai TV last year and was quite popular in the LOS, but I watched it in Korean, subtitled in English. It was funny, and I give double-props for the utter lack of car accidents and cancer (at least involving characters in the actual show - back history is another matter entirely) from the storyline. Now I can't get the stupid soundtrack out of my head. Gah. My brain is rotting. Have a good weekend.
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