Blogspot, masked dyer of Merv.

Having eaten a wide range of foodstuffs throughout my life, the link between my imagination and taste buds has become sophisticated in a dimension undreampt of by mortals. When I try to think of a description of the texture closest to a Chipotle burrito tortilla, I think of Joan Rivers' forehead. Meanwhile, the green salsa in a Chipotle burrito has the tang of her skin's palpable botulin load. Of these two I can only say: immaculate.

Blogspot, pirate widow.

Through Mother's eyes I am a loser in the game show of life. She is reminded of this every time she sees me.

My coat is forever falling apart.
I smell like old ladies because of the Fung Wah Bus.
I still kiss a boy on a regular basis.

When I leave, she always packs me food. The parting gift always feels like a consolation prize though, like her own version of a Huffy bike or a microwave. It's a real shame I'm not a winner. Food, while super, still isn't an all expense paid trip to Nickelodeon Studios at Universal Studios, Orlando, Florida.

A month ago it was a bucket of ginger barbequed lamb. This time it was peppercorned drumsticks and boiled shrimp. The shrimp confuse my roommates because the shells are still attached. I eat them like pink, chitinous potato chips. They are delicious.

Blogspot, King of the Dancing!

The last time I got worked up about a song was about ten minutes before my MCATs. It was eleven hours of wanting to dance and answering hard questions and I was gassy. In other words: unmitigated disaster.

The last time I tried downloading a major pop song was in the year 2003. The RIAA had flooded Kazaa with nonsense versions of Miss Independent. Along the way, the song's coding mutated itself to become malignant, either spontaneously or with the aid of a Taiwanese hacker. Three days after I started scouting for functional copies of that song, my old computer detonated.

This brings us up to the present day--Madonna's completely awesome Hung Up (she samples ABBA!): Worth the risk to laptop (Skzsp) and iPod (Wanda)? Or should I just watch the video online over and over for my gay to get its fix?

Last night Justin and I did google image searches on abstract words like "freedom", "majesty" and pandas.

Blogspot, dark-skinned, quick-witted Indian whose gifts are practicality and sensibleness.

Last weekend, driven by the ecstacy of St.Thankgiving, Joe baked a pumpkin pie. When it first came from the oven, sectioning it into discrete pieces was like dividing up Jello, mucus or magma. I respected The Pie, for it was a clever strategy for avoiding consumption, but now the jig is up. Having spent some time in the cryo-slammer, it has become easy to cut discrete pieces out of its cinnamon-laden body. In fact, its surface has acquired such a perfect texture that it almost fractures into flawless slices the moment the knife touches it. From the top it resembles a Powerpoint pie chart, or a textbook illustration of the fraction.

I thought about how a baked goods problem might appear on a math test:

(10 points)
It is one in the morning and Byron is hungry. He notices a partially eaten pumpkin pie in the refrigerator. 3/8 of the pie have been already been eaten by raccoons. Byron cuts a quarter slice for himself and browses Allrecipes. When he finishes, he finds that he is still hungry. Sneaking back to the refrigerator like a bandit, he cuts off 1/3 of the remaining pie and eats it while updating his blog. What fraction of the original pie is left?

Extra Credit Bonus (5 points): Prove Fermat's Last Theorem

Next weekend, God-willing, Joe will make a baked Alaska cake. It will present an opportunity to teach the classroom in my mind the dynamics of phase change as the creamy vanilla ice cream melts in my mouth.

Blogspot, I wrote this entire entry completely wasted.

Several days ago, I had a dream where a medical school admissions committee asked me which flavor of dork I respected most. My subconscious gave an ultra-cogent argument in favor of Sci-Fi geeks. I know some of these people from high school and they are, as a generality, DESPICABLE human beings, but it requires palpable brainpower to think through the plausiblity and ethics of a good space-novel. I respect that, maybe.

When I was twelve years old, TBS acquired the rights to the movie version of Carl Sagan's Contact. In trying to wring the maximum benefit from this investment, the Superstation showed the movie at 8PM at least three weeknights in a row. My mother and I watched it every single night with rapt fascination that, to this day, has yet to be observed again. Despite well-documented inconsitencies in her logic, she was born bound to the romance of science, and I think 1998 have been the last time we ever saw eye to eye on the content of a movie. We fell so deeply in love with Jodie Foster that either of us would have gladly shot Reagan to get her autograph.

(Last year, Leigh and I founded a Jodie Foster Facebook group.)

Since time immemorial, my mother worked at a pharmaceutical company in nearby Summit, NJ. As a responsible member of the immigrant middle class, she was unable to pick me up from school until five. This was not a problem in elementary or junior high, when school was a short hike down a tree-lined street or up a shallow hill, but when I was fourteen years old, I started hanging out in the Ruth L. Rockwood Public Library, a five minute walk from Livingston High School, a forty minute walk from home. There, on the second tier of the fiction mezzanine, I found the book version of Sagan's masterpiece novel. While the movie was Jodie-tastic, the book was so much more.

When I was fourteen years old, I experienced my own geek-analog of awful teenage poetry. While others were beginning to discover the artistic horror of prog-rock and emo, the book spurred my personal infatuation with mathematical coincidence in numbers both rational (Divide one into 243) and irrational (pi/4 = 1-(1/3)+(1/5)-(1/7)+(1/9)...) in the same way that an element might trigger an infatuation in normal kids with, say--Satan. Among the craziest suggestions Sagan made was that pi, by virtue of its ceaseless coda of numbers, would eventually come to represent some sort of message (presumably encrypted by God). So you see how stupid 9th graders are.

It literally took me half a decade to figure out that ANY irrational number (not just pi) will eventually encode some sort of message. Furthermore, a particular irrational number will eventually encode ALL possible permutations of ALL information. Nevertheless, for the five year gap when thoughts concerning unknowably complex mathematics popped into my head, I would be keenly aware of this bizarre quasi-emotion called wonder.

Yay, Joe is back. Let us sleep.

Blogspot, chocolate meltdown!

So my non-secret is that I have this huge boner for the well-dressed. Tonight's party at the Met suggested black and white attire, so this particular trip to the museum was satisfying in a way a normal excursion to a Calatrava exhibit could never be. The dress code was intended to mirror a black and white photography exhibit. We never found it, so we ended up wandering the modern art section noting things likes how a Miro painting called "The Potato" may actually have nothing to do with food.

Among the non-art attractions was a set of Christmas trees upon which you were supposed to hang your deepest wish, written in 1998-era silver gel pen on a black card. It had a very Postsecret feel to it, and the trees became rife with wishes ranging from the enchantingly hopeful (I wish Perry would notice me) to the creepily hopeful (I wish Leila would do me) to the insipid (I wish for world peace) to the misspelled (I wish Carl Rove would get indicted) to the hilariously desperate (I wish I wasn't so fat) to the gross (For great head, call me: 646-798-5555).

The bartenders only served juice and sodas. I ordered a ginger ale so that on the way back to Joe's, I took my first ever sober taxi ride. The driver had AM radio on, and we were amazed that the pundit was liberal. Now that the country is falling apart and Kansas has redefined science, I figure it's the stylish position to take. As three New Yorkers decked in monochrome, having just eaten truffles in an art museum, winding through the mean streets of the Upper East Side, we felt weird. We were so haughty, elite and out of touch with the retarded redneck on the radio that for a fleeting moment we felt like those born of privilege. Then we got to Joe's apartment and people were playing beer pong. What a drag, eh?

Blogspot, faceless blog in a sea of blogs.

So I'm on line to buy a Chinatown Bus ticket on Friday afternoon and there's this black lady in front of me handing the cashier $20. Ok, so I was going to describe the situation in great detail, but what happened was that I, being Chinese, got shuttled onto the bus before this woman who clearly bought her ticket first. In the absense of any mitigating circumstances that I could see, I'd like to say that Fung Wah is blatantly racist and I am not using them again. What's really galling is that Rosa Parks had her funeral yesterday and that sort of shit still goes on. I am pissed off.

I came back from Boston with two buckets of meats (no lies) and I'm going to go downstairs to feast and watch TV.