1968 Mercury Cougar

This was one of the first cars my dad purchased after moving to America. We were at dinner the other night and somehow ended up on the subject of cars. Who would have thought my dad loved American Muscle cars? "This car would inch up a hill without a foot on the petal." My dad doesn't speak too much about the past unless prompted, so whenever it happens I listen up b/c I usually learn a few things. This was a gem.

Back in the day dad was a bartender. He would always get home at 3am and there would never be parking in Chinatown - where he lived at the time. He didn't want to park too far away from his apartment b/c the walk would almost guarantee a mugging or worse (remember this was 30+ years ago when coke fiends and gangs roamed free). So he just pulled up to his building and parked in front of a fire hydrant with the intent to walk up early the next morning to move the car. But more often than not he didn't wake up in time. Back then parking tickets were about $5 to $15 depending on the violation. After a while dad had compiled a very impressive $4,000 worth of parking fines.

One day, he was in a rush to visit his mom at the hospital and decided to illegally park near a hydrant again. After his visit he walked out onto the street only to find his car missing. Naturally, he thought someone stole his baby. So he walked 3 blocks to the local police station and reported it. After a week or so there was no news of his car. Then the phone rang. It was a friend of his who told him, "Hey Andy, you're in the Times - your care is being auctioned!"

Apparently the police had his car, but never connected the dots back to my dad's police report. My dad, after some careful deliberation went to the auction and outbid a couple of would be deal seekers to buy his car back for $900 (under a different name of course). He really liked this car. As far as he was concerned, he made $3,100 because he got out of paying for the parking fines.

The moral of the story is: true love always defeats municipal ineptitude.

The End is Nigh?

Have any of you heard all about the hubbub of 2012? Apparently there is a huge Apocalyptic Mythos surrounding this year - which is right around the corner. Well if you haven't heard yet you will. There is a major motion picture starring John Cusack set to release in the near future called - you guessed it - 2012. And in the spirit of Y2K I am sure we will be bombarded with new reports, TV shows, Discovery Channel documentaries, T-shirts etc...

Here are a few helpful links for you to prepare yourself with the next time one of your nerdier friends starts off a conversation with, "Hey what are your thoughts about the completion of the thirteenth B'ak'tun cycle in the Long Count of the Maya calendar?"

First and foremost wikipedia: 2012

If you are interested in attempting to survive the end of days, please check out Survive 2012. Personally I am going to treat dying in the Apocalypse as a mark of distinction. Fuck cancer, old age, poisoned milk, or traffic accidents... it's gonna be the mother-effin' Apocalypse that takes the Kauboy out! If I plan it right, it's gonna be me, a lot of whiskey, and 13 top of the line Vegas strippers that will march me into the next world.

Here is a more graphic depiction of what we can expect... I could not have picked a better soundtrack. Sleep tight kiddies!

Kauboy out

How the US-Bailout Works

Props to my cousin Jason who uses his time at work to give me great satire spam!


How the US-Bailout Works

Young Chuck moved to Texas and bought a donkey from a farmer for $100.
The farmer agreed to deliver the donkey the next day.
The next day he drove up and said, "Sorry son, but I have some bad news, the donkey died."

Chuck: "Well, then just give me my money back."

Farmer: "Can't do that. I went and spent it already."

Chuck: "Ok, then, just bring me the dead donkey."

Farmer: "What ya gonna do with him?"

Chuck: "I'm going to raffle him off."

Farmer: "You can't raffle off a dead donkey!"

Chuck: "Sure I can, watch me! I just won't tell anybody he's dead."

A month later, the farmer met up with Chuck.
Farmer: "What happened with that dead donkey?"

Chuck: "I raffled him off. I sold 500 tickets at two dollars a piece and made a profit of $998."

Farmer: "Didn't anyone complain?"

Chuck: "Just the guy who won. So I gave him his two dollars back."


Chuck now works for Goldman Sachs...

EZ TV

A couple of months ago my buddy, Stu, turned me on to a great site called EZTV. It is basically a Torrent Library that archives and updates all the hot TV shows. This is money for an expat such as myself. Instead of having to really on the paltry cable options that HK offers I know get the latest programing from the US the same week they air.

My Current lineup includes:

Chuck
The Unit
Entourage
House
True Blood (I highly recommend)
Dexter

So if you miss your old TV shows I suggest you check this site out!

The Pac is Back

That's right people, the world's most awesome video game is now on my blog. Delight slackers!

God Doesn't Do Taxes

To quote one of my favorite contemporary social commentaters, Deniis Miller, "I don't want to go off on a rant here but...."


Recently I was offered some tickets to go see Nick Vujicic's Testimony that is taking place at teh HK Expo center for a limited time only. It was an innocent gesture, but it got me thinking...

Some of you may have noticed Nick's posters at the MTR stations. It is basically a story of a young man with a huge disability who manages to keep on keeping on with some help from the Big G.

Now do I think Nick's story is inspirational? Of course. Do I think Nick's disability is tragic? Certainly. Do I think it is absolutely wonderful that he can take such a positive point of view regardless of his physical conidtion? Definitely. I would go so far as to say he is a better man than me, as I doubt I could deal with it in the way he has.

His solution? How'd he do it? Good ol'God. He comes in handy when we are faced with tragedy and hoplessness. I'd be hard pressed to come up with any other solutions to situations like Nick's.

Do I want to go see him talk about it? Do I think I will gleam some greater understanding from what he has been through and his relationship from his lord and savior?

Hell no. (Poor choice of words - sorry!)

Listen, religion is awesome for helping people during those tough times where you feel like you just couldn't go on with your life. There have been times in my life where I wished I was religious so I'd have a support system for which to rely upon. But please don't, for one second, think that hearing about one specific persons way of coping can somehow help you with whateer problems you are facing today. Unless of course you find yourself in a position simial to Nick's.

What I am trying to say is, there is no need for the average Joe/Jane Doe to go see Nick speak. For the average person all this amounts to is proselytization. And quite frankly, we're all brainwashed enough.

If you have had your legs shorn off at hip from a shark attack and don't kow how to go on with your life go see Nick.

If your entire family has died in a horrible train wreck and no amount of therapy has helped, go see Nick.

If you're having trouble finding a mate, a job you like, a circle of friends... get off your lazy ass and help yourself.

Take your mundane, non-interesting, everyday issues and do what everyone else does: Deal with it. Don't lay it all on God. He's got better things to do (e.g. Nick).

In fact, the only people other than the tragic cases that I have been alluding to who have any sort of reason go see Nick are aspiring Christian Rock musicians.

Ok so to recap the only people who should go see Nick are: The Tragically Hopeless and the Tragically Hopeless musicians.

God doesn't do taxes.

Random Movie Quotes that Have stuck with me for some reason

some are pretty well known, others you'll have to google.

"I know what you're thinking. Did he fire six shots or only five? Well, to tell you the truth, in all this excitement, I've kinda lost track myself. But being as this is a .44 Magnum, the most powerful handgun in the world, and would blow your head clean off, you've got to ask yourself one question: 'Do I feel lucky?' Well, do ya punk?"

My father was a relentlessly self-improving boulangerie owner from Belgium with low grade narcolepsy and a penchant for buggery. My mother was a fifteen year old French prostitute named Chloe with webbed feet. My father would womanize, he would drink, he would make outrageous claims like he invented the question mark. Some times he would accuse chestnuts of being lazy, the sort of general malaise that only the genius possess and the insane lament. My childhood was typical, summers in Rangoon, luge lessons. In the spring we'd make meat helmets. When I was insolent I was placed in a burlap bag and beaten with reeds, pretty standard really. At the age of 12 I received my first scribe. At the age of fourteen, a Zoroastrian named Vilma ritualistically shaved my testicles. There really is nothing like a shorn scrotum, it's breathtaking, I suggest you try it.

Well, I believe in the soul. The cock. The pussy. The small of a woman's back. The hanging curveball. High fiber. Good scotch. That the novels of Susan Sontag are self-indulgent, overrated crap. I believe Lee Harvey Oswald acted alone. I believe there ought to be a Constitution Amendment outlawing Astroturf and the designated hitter. I believe in the sweet spot, soft-core pornography, opening your presents Christmas morning rather than Christmas eve. And I believe in long, slow, deep, soft, wet kisses that last three days...Goodnight.

So there's this guy Walsh, do you understand? He's tired of screwin' his wife... So his friend says to him, "Hey, why don't you do it like the Chinese do?" So he says, "How do the Chinese do it?" And the guy says, "Well, the Chinese, first they screw a little bit, then they stop, then they go and read a little Confucius, come back, screw a little bit more, then they stop again, go and they screw a little bit...then they go back and they screw a little bit more and then they go out and they contemplate the moon or something like that. Makes it more exciting." So now, the guy goes home and he starts screwin' his own wife, see. So he screws her for a little bit and then he stops, and he goes out of the room and reads Life Magazine. Then he goes back in, he starts screwin' again. He says, "Excuse me for a minute, honey." He goes out and he smokes a cigarette. Now his wife is gettin' sore as hell. He comes back in the room, he starts screwin' again. He gets up to start to leave again to go look at the moon. She looks at him and says, "Hey, whats the matter with ya. You're screwin' just like a Chinaman!"

I did have a test today. That wasn't bullshit. It's on European socialism. I mean, really, what's the point? I'm not European, I don't plan on being European, so who gives a crap if they're socialist? They could be fascist anarchists - that still wouldn't change the fact that I don't own a car. Not that I condone fascism, or any ism for that matter. Isms in my opinion are not good. A person should not believe in an ism - he should believe in himself. I quote John Lennon: "I don't believe in Beatles - I just believe in me." A good point there. Of course, he was the Walrus. I could be the Walrus - I'd still have to bum rides off of people.

Prince Humperdinck: First things first, to the death.
Westley: No. To the pain.
Prince Humperdinck: I don't think I'm quite familiar with that phrase.
Westley: I'll explain and I'll use small words so that you'll be sure to understand, you warthog faced buffoon.
Prince Humperdinck: That may be the first time in my life a man has dared insult me.
Westley: It won't be the last. To the pain means the first thing you will lose will be your feet below the ankles. Then your hands at the wrists. Next your nose.
Prince Humperdinck: And then my tongue I suppose, I killed you too quickly the last time. A mistake I don't mean to duplicate tonight.
Westley: I wasn't finished. The next thing you will lose will be your left eye followed by your right.
Prince Humperdinck: And then my ears, I understand let's get on with it.
Westley: WRONG. Your ears you keep and I'll tell you why. So that every shriek of every child at seeing your hideousness will be yours to cherish. Every babe that weeps at your approach, every woman who cries out, "Dear God! What is that thing," will echo in your perfect ears. That is what to the pain means. It means I leave you in anguish, wallowing in freakish misery forever.
Prince Humperdinck: I think your bluffing.
Westley: It's possible, Pig, I might be bluffing. It's conceivable, you miserable, vomitous mass, that I'm only lying here because I lack the strength to stand. But, then again... perhaps I have the strength after all.

We're the middle children of history, man. No purpose or place. We have no Great War. No Great Depression. Our Great War's a spiritual war... our Great Depression is our lives. We've all been raised on television to believe that one day we'd all be millionaires, and movie gods, and rock stars. But we won't. And we're slowly learning that fact. And we're very, very pissed off.

Let America Be America Again by Langston Hughes

Let America be America again.
Let it be the dream it used to be.
Let it be the pioneer on the plain
Seeking a home where he himself is free.

(America never was America to me.)

Let America be the dream the dreamers dreamed--
Let it be that great strong land of love
Where never kings connive nor tyrants scheme
That any man be crushed by one above.

(It never was America to me.)

O, let my land be a land where Liberty
Is crowned with no false patriotic wreath,
But opportunity is real, and life is free,
Equality is in the air we breathe.

(There's never been equality for me,
Nor freedom in this "homeland of the free.")

Say, who are you that mumbles in the dark?
And who are you that draws your veil across the stars?

I am the poor white, fooled and pushed apart,
I am the Negro bearing slavery's scars.
I am the red man driven from the land,
I am the immigrant clutching the hope I seek--
And finding only the same old stupid plan
Of dog eat dog, of mighty crush the weak.

I am the young man, full of strength and hope,
Tangled in that ancient endless chain
Of profit, power, gain, of grab the land!
Of grab the gold! Of grab the ways of satisfying need!
Of work the men! Of take the pay!
Of owning everything for one's own greed!

I am the farmer, bondsman to the soil.
I am the worker sold to the machine.
I am the Negro, servant to you all.
I am the people, humble, hungry, mean--
Hungry yet today despite the dream.
Beaten yet today--O, Pioneers!
I am the man who never got ahead,
The poorest worker bartered through the years.

Yet I'm the one who dreamt our basic dream
In the Old World while still a serf of kings,
Who dreamt a dream so strong, so brave, so true,
That even yet its mighty daring sings
In every brick and stone, in every furrow turned
That's made America the land it has become.
O, I'm the man who sailed those early seas
In search of what I meant to be my home--
For I'm the one who left dark Ireland's shore,
And Poland's plain, and England's grassy lea,
And torn from Black Africa's strand I came
To build a "homeland of the free."

The free?

Who said the free? Not me?
Surely not me? The millions on relief today?
The millions shot down when we strike?
The millions who have nothing for our pay?
For all the dreams we've dreamed
And all the songs we've sung
And all the hopes we've held
And all the flags we've hung,
The millions who have nothing for our pay--
Except the dream that's almost dead today.

O, let America be America again--
The land that never has been yet--
And yet must be--the land where every man is free.
The land that's mine--the poor man's, Indian's, Negro's, ME--
Who made America,
Whose sweat and blood, whose faith and pain,
Whose hand at the foundry, whose plow in the rain,
Must bring back our mighty dream again.

Sure, call me any ugly name you choose--
The steel of freedom does not stain.
From those who live like leeches on the people's lives,
We must take back our land again,
America!

O, yes,
I say it plain,
America never was America to me,
And yet I swear this oath--
America will be!

Out of the rack and ruin of our gangster death,
The rape and rot of graft, and stealth, and lies,
We, the people, must redeem
The land, the mines, the plants, the rivers.
The mountains and the endless plain--
All, all the stretch of these great green states--
And make America again!

End of the Lane

You sit there slouched, looking at the other rollers from under the brim of your cap. You note their faults as there are many, but you look away before long, hoping your mind did not subconsciously make one of them your own. You hear the rumble and the pop of twenty odd lanes in the packed house; the occasional bang when a ball is dropped. You are restless so you stare at your shoes instead - Rentals with orange stripes, and you tell yourself you aren't good enough yet for your own pair. You tell yourself that 190 will beat ninety-five percent of the people you face, but is it good enough? If you stick with it long enough there will be a day where ninety-five percent is meaningless. You look up at the fat man in lane 5, already on his eight strike; bowling probably the only thing keeping his arteries from fully clogging. He bowls to live, how can you beat that? Then you see the small Asian woman, a mother of two, a south paw with the most obscene form you've ever witnessed; until you notice the screen: 255 with one frame to go. So you nod to your rentals, knowing you won't dare slide before you correct your own faults. You need to beat them. You'll never admit it to even your closest of friends, but these people, routinely disregarded on the streets of this busy metropolis, have become your most worthy of adversaries.

Before your thoughts turn too dark you feel a tap on your shoulder. It's your turn, and with that all thoughts vacate your mind. You are a robot. You recognized long ago that the power to be constant, to be able to repeat, was the key. If you weren't strong at anything else, you knew your mind was, and that was good enough in this sport. You're either smart enough to recognize and adjust or dumb enough to be good. Those that fall in between consign themselves to frustration and move on.

So you flow through the process: Wipe down the oil your ball gathered from the previous roll; Set yourself up on the lane; Right foot left of center and left foot two dots over; Bend your knees and present your ball to the target.

There they are, gleaming in their white innocence. But you know otherwise. That shine, that red choker, so clean, so obnoxious, so... false. You know that there is only one truth and that truth is about to accelerate down the pine, and with the proper spin coefficient, display to all onlookers what that truth really is.

You exhale, and with bent knees approach the line. Four steps, release, turn of the wrist and the universe goes silent. Time slows as you watch the revolutions spin down the lane. You are at the end of your stance, a speed skater making that final turn to glory. Impact. Time stops and you see the pins rise, all of them, at haphazard angles and you know, you know... It's that moment you live for. It's in that instant you see him in all his perfect chaos. That first millisecond after a car crash, after a bomb detonation, after dish hits the floor, after the big bang. Boom. You smile and nod to him, thank him for this life and this world and turn back around to reality, find your seat, slouch, and begin to brood again.