Tasteless Proposition

I want to continue this streak of writing short and anchoring my newsletter in shirtless pics, which are known less redundantly in my household as just pics. There is a wonderful vanity blossoming within me as I approach middle age, yet refuse to put on the easy weight even though no one’s looking.

That is an admirable form of narcissism, to compulsively ogle myself in the absence of any kind of encouraging feedback. The pretty ladies at the beach don’t overtly check me out or flirt. My bros mercilessly ridicule me for having a small frame, which is imprecise. I actually have a broad frame and base but neither muscle nor functional strength.

When I ask my wife how shredded I am, she answers the way I do when she asks me do I love her: mechanically, without breaking concentration on the current task, a chore to be disposed of while expending as little energy as possible. I perked up when she said an NFL player on TV had the same frame as mine and then saw it was an effing kicker. He did boot a 66-yarder, but she could have picked a jacked coach like Playboy McVay at least.

So no one cares about my bod, I get it. No one’s impressed. I’m at the age when it should start to seem impressive though. Being 37 with a 2-year-old and usually visible six-pack are numbers that don’t go together for people who make their living at a desk.

I have earned the credibility to lecture on my method. There is one overriding principle more powerful than any diet or workout regimen. It’s so stupidly simple, more of a realization than revelation, yet I don’t believe I know anyone who thinks this way.

Ready? This could be life-changing if you can brush off my self-righteous tone.

Not every bite of food has to taste good.

Every weekday I listen to my coworkers deliberate on where to spend $15 to pump sodium into their bodies. My wife often struggles to figure out what kind of food she’s in the mood for.

How your taste buds tingle need not always be the No. 1 priority. There should be more diversity in the reasons you eat.

Sometimes, if not most of the time, you should eat vegetables because that’s what you bought at the grocery store and they shouldn’t go to waste. Sometimes you should eat for convenience. Sometimes you should finish leftovers. Sometimes you should eat what was planned. Sometimes you should eat because it’s free. Sometimes you should eat for nutrition. Sometimes you should eat to not be hungry. Sometimes you should eat for fuel. Sometimes you should eat to be social.

Taste is not everything. Eating is not always about feeling good, just like life isn’t always about feeling good. That kind of attitude is just begging for a drug habit.

Most folks drink plain water every day. It’s not an orgy in your mouth, but you’re not looking for one in that particular moment of the day. You just drink water because it’s water and then move on with your life.

Why does food have to be a thing always? People think I’m some kind of freak because I eat steamed vegetables and unsalted chicken or lentils for lunch almost every day.

If we compare the ingredients to those in your processed meal, I would argue you’re the freak. Do you live in a test tube?

Vegetables are the most sensible way to regulate weight. They don’t taste bad or good. They taste like nothing because they’re mostly water. If you think water tastes bad, man, biology has some challenges in store for you.

By no means do I dine exclusively in the no-fun zone. I am a formidable binge eater and once tied with a bro at 92 Chicken McNuggets (minimum one per minute) in a spirited contest — yet another reason to add for eating.

I probably enjoy decadent food more than most because my baseline is lower. If I eat lentils all week, the In-N-Out on Friday is even more heavenly. Everyone’s had those stretches of eating gluttonously for meals on end. They start to blend together, and you don’t appreciate the indulgence as much.

You should try to reset the baseline to zero, cleanse the palate if you will, with neutral meals as often as possible. It will make the good ones taste better.
My Double-Double in the picture is dwarfed by a plate of raw spinach and chunks of red pepper and carrot that I wanted to get rid of. This is a handy corollary/trick/hack for my main principle.

Every fast food or takeout meal is an opportunity to sneak in vegetables. American restaurants put so much salt and stuff into their food that pairing it with a neutral vegetable creates a nice balance, almost like diluting the overstimulation.

Order less and replace the difference with vegetables. Just eat them. Don’t be a child. They won’t kill you. The other stuff might in the long run.

And I want you to increase the quality and longevity of your life, so you’re in a good place to compliment how I’m doing the same with mine.
Writer’s note: If you spend any amount of your finite time reading the absurdities in this blog, we are either friends or highly compatible strangers. Thus I feel close enough to ask for your email address below. The only email you will ever get from me is one blog post per month until I die or you click Unsubscribe. Thank you.

Father of All Hangovers

I touched my prime again Saturday, sitting on a curb in L.A. past 1 a.m. drunk, disheveled, alone, stranded and making unanswered FaceTime calls. I had been warned that if you decide to party as a parent of a toddler, the punishment comes the next day in the form of a little human tornado indifferent to how you feel.

This is especially risky for me because in addition to any physical hangover, I have to recover from such a huge delta in emotions. After two and a half IPAs, I feel like Superman and fly on the magic carpet until passing out like a child who doesn’t want Christmas to end.

When I wake up to reality way too early, the self-loathing settles in insidiously with the fatigue. My mind races with discomfort, and I’m exhausted but can’t sleep. I invariably picture a bullet going through my temple, which sounds disturbing but I think can safely be categorized as a weird imagination tic rather than suicide alert.

So Sunday morning should have been absolutely awful with my wife needing to head out for a birthday brunch. (This wasn’t the most Covid-careful weekend for us inconsistent liberals… sorry.) But my 2-year-old was actually like a balm for my emotional comedown. I can’t pinpoint why he had this soothing, almost restorative effect.

Snuggling him against his will made me feel loved, or at least in control. His sincerity with every action and facial expression never gets old. Watching him frolic on the playground — mostly by himself but also with some endearing, unsure interactions with other kids — was just beautiful and nourishing.

I love him so much it’s overwhelming. I want to eat him and hug him and teach him and protect him. He inherited his mother’s sweet temperament and my risk aversion. He says hiiii to every stranger and then outsources the rest of the conversation to me, an introvert, until his arbitrarily timed buh-byeeeeee.

He presses down on my back during push-ups and stoically sits on my shoulders for squats, sensing my need for added resistance during a three-year hiatus from the gym. If it weren’t for Covid and anti-Asian hate, hot chicks would be flocking to us at the park dropping digits and DM’s left and right.
He took an adult-sized crap on the bathroom floor and then was afraid of it. He refuses to sit upright when playing horsey, preferring to maximize graspable surface area lest he fall two feet.
And I know this isn’t woke-compliant to say, but I just love how he has his mom’s brown hair and white skin, yet his face is Chinese AF and looks like he just stepped out of a rice paddy and into one of Chairman Mao’s propaganda posters.
The poor kid was already behind on his language development and now confuses Mandarin and English. When searching for squirrels, he sings “Song-su [squirrel] are you?” It melts my heart.

When he thanked his mother for a toothbrush with “Shih-shih [thank you] mama”, we were both exhilarated to the brink of tears. I am aware there was a time when I would ridicule parents for celebrating their mundane children, but the cognitive development here is miraculous. Who taught him to put together a noun, mama, with the act of thanking? Is my boy the next Steinbeck, yes or no?

I am not shy about expressing good thoughts and bad thoughts about parenthood. I don’t want my shtick to be the grumbling dad who’s always talking smack about his kids to be funny or self-deprecating, but then lives for them behind closed doors.

My frustrations and meltdowns are real. But clearly kids aren’t all that bad if we’re having another one on purpose, due around Christmastime.

On paper, the logistics and lifestyle impact of a second child don’t excite me. It’s going to be good though. That’s kind of the mindset I’m settling into with raising children. I almost put it in the same bucket as exercise. Many if not most days, it’s hard to get up for it. But I do it because I want to, and over the aggregate I reap many benefits.

I think of wellness in four quadrants: physical, mental, emotional and financial. I am fairly disciplined in training for three of them, but only beginning to explore emotional health.

When I was sheltering at home during the first Covid peak, struggling to be productive against the unrelenting tide of a baby waking up to the world, I naturally assumed it was parenthood causing emotional distress. I had never felt this kind before, and it seemed like a pretty linear trail to the source of the problem.

Slightly wiser now with a long, long way to go, I concede maybe all parenthood did was expose previously existing emotional weaknesses. They were trivial or at least ignorable when single and unattached, but I’m better off for working on them now.

So it appears my boy has helped me with one of my enduring passions in life: getting better at stuff. And although I don’t know parenting will ever be a passion in and of itself for me, I sure do treasure my little guy, my hangover balm, key to my tortured or wannabe tortured soul, handy bodyweight workout resistance, icebreaker for conversations I don’t want to have… and soon to be big brother with a big heart. He’s going to be a fantastic sibling when we “double the fun” in December, which my wife says ironically and truthfully.


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Plausible Immunity

Vaccines are fun to talk about. I’m still mustering the motivation to educate myself enough to have productive conversations about them. But a lack of knowledge shouldn’t keep me from talking loudly. That would be crazy.

“Follow the science” seems to be the mantra. Roger that, captain. Like, down to the protein level? I haven’t been in a lab since AP Chemistry.

The way I remember school, if it wasn’t your strong subject or you didn’t do the reading, the strategy was to stay quiet in class. No sudden movements or eye contact, lest you get called on and look like you rode the short bus.

It’s the opposite in social media-warped adulthood. Some folks you can just picture as B-minus students in their prime. They haven’t read anything longer than a tweet in 15 years, yet feel comfortable shouting into public discourse like valedictorian debate champs. I wish we could listen to only extremely smart people argue and then form our conclusions.

But I get it. It’s hard not to have an opinion in this environment, regardless of your qualifications. I, for one, am a sheep when it comes to the Cove. I trust the nebulous “They” — faceless experts at the government or official-sounding organizations. Fauci sounds like a vanilla sports commentator to me, emphasizing syllables authoritatively without really saying much. But I presume he represents a strong team.

They tell me I don’t need to wear a mask… good riddance. They change their mind a couple of months later… OK. Making adjustments based on new information or circumstances can be a sign of trustworthiness, putting effort over ego. They’re trying. This is a novel virus. We don’t know what we don’t know.

They told me to get the vaccine, and I put some Pfizer in me. I even waited my turn like a good sheep and didn’t end up with the second shot until May 17. Somehow all of my friends in equally white-collar jobs classified themselves as essential workers.

The truth is I know next to nothing about vaccines, let alone the implications of those pushed into market so miraculously fast. To blindly inject is actually quite contradictory to how I live. I trust my body, diet and exercise. I don’t even take Tylenol and find it bizarre how quick people are to use medication for every ailment or need (for a two-hour flight, really?).

Yet I have no qualms about these shots, even though on paper the concept is absolutely wild. Vaccination trains the immune system to recognize and destroy infected cells. In my supple imagination, that’s one wrong line of code away from a manufactured autoimmune disease that essentially forces your body into suicide.

So I try not to hate on vaccine haters. Probabilities are hard to comprehend; bodies are not public property; and everyone should be entitled to some fears and thoughts scattered along the logic spectrum.

As a matter of self-interest, it would be nice if folks got vaccinated because I have a 2-year-old who takes his sweet time learning all basic functions. We likely won’t figure out how to keep a mask on him until deep into his teens.

But I don’t know that it’s fair for me to tell someone to take a shot I wouldn’t give my son. Even if he were 12, I would have my hesitations based on vague instinct, bias and innuendo. It would just feel uncomfortable to me. It would feel uncomfortable pumping myself with a booster or variant shot every few months for the next five years. Even sheep have limits to tractability.

Our science sometimes borders on science fiction, but we are not god. Again, we don’t know what we don’t know. As much as the sensible majority wants to credit human efforts to end the pandemic, there is a lot of god-like mystery to the ebb and flow of infections.

In my little bubble, I only know of two vaccine skeptics. There have to be more, but I don’t get out much.

One is a dear friend who struggled to come to terms with getting it in late June before a wedding, for which guests were asked to have completed at least one shot. He had vaccine misgivings based on his research and the uncertainty around such a compressed timeline.

I can understand that. It’s kind of like zooming in too far on a stock chart. You’re looking at what appears to be a clear trend, but only a longer time horizon will truly tell how it’s going to go no matter how much testing and prognostication.

In any case, my buddy got his shot. And he did not get Covid despite traveling through the third-world airport that is Newark International and partying for two days at an Indian wedding, which offers the highest concentration of dancing and shared food outside of Utopia.

The other skeptic is also smart, kind and dear to me. I urged her to be careful before a happy hour on a Friday because of the Delta variant headlines. On the ensuing Monday, she left work feeling sick and tested positive for Delta. On the Monday after that, she said she felt like she was dying. She still had a brutal cough on the phone almost two weeks later.

I eventually will ask her, tactfully, if her view on vaccines has evolved. If not… while acknowledging her right to follow her own comfort and risk level — I will do some more talking without a lot of knowing.
Writer’s note: If you spend any amount of your finite time reading the absurdities in this blog, we are either friends or highly compatible strangers. Thus I feel close enough to ask for your email address below. The only email you will ever get from me is one blog post per month for the rest of my life, until you click Unsubscribe. Thank you.

Uncle Rico’s Mountain Range

I got a nice little raise last week without asking for it. Like intercourse, the unsolicited kind is always more meaningful. It was an appreciated form of validation six months into a new job and career.

Still, my entire salary as a Salesforce admin is probably a healthy year-end bonus for some of my friends and definitely a fraction of the annual stock compensation of those in big tech.

That sounds like jealousy, but it’s not. I would rather my friends be rich than poor. I would rather just about anyone in the world be better off than not, unless you’re orchestrating a genocide or touching a screen that’s not a touchscreen instead of using your words.

My — condition, let’s call it — has always been a pliable imagination. It’s too easy for me to visualize my success in other paths or circumstances. Call it Uncle Rico Syndrome.

When I was the same age as Uncle Rico in his prime, the public education system was structured a certain way: ballpoint pen and paper, Scantron tests, more Dewey Decimal System than World Wide Web. If you were good at writing and multiple-choice tests, the system would make you feel smart.

At one point in junior high, I remember my class rank was 7 out of 777. I ended up in the teens out of a graduating class well over 1,000. At Northwestern, there was some regression to the mean, but I still got two challenging majors and felt above average entering the world outside of syllabi and exams.

Fifteen years later, I’m on my fourth career (fifth if you want to bifurcate journalism into newspaper reporting and television production). I am enjoying the first technical job of my life and being valued for some of the analytical and logical parts of my brain that had been underused while on the clock.

The reality though is I could have gotten a job like this a year or two out of college. It’s hard to start over when you’re 36. Well, not really. You just do it. It’s hard to live in Tigray right now.

My mental hurdle is a heightened awareness of opportunity costs. I’m at the age now when the benefits of sticking within one field, industry and/or company would be compounding into bigger titles and money.

That’s probably the No. 1 career advice I will give my son when he enters the workforce in 20 years to compete against cyborgs. If you want to try different things, I wholeheartedly support that. I’ve met numerous people jaded or underwhelmed with their professions, but they could never find a good time to reset. It’s kind of like the inverse of my path: I haven’t been able to grasp the right rung to start climbing.

I would never tell my son to cling to a five or 10-year plan while batting away what-if questions at night. Based on my experience, however, I would make him aware there are what-ifs on the greener side of the mirage too.

Suppose I spent the first 10 years out of college in corporate communications. Maybe I’m not shaking with excitement every Sunday night, but I build expertise and enjoy my colleagues.

Meanwhile, all sorts of companies that didn’t have a booth at the career fair senior year are launching or catching fire: a search engine freakishly good at answering any curiosity, a media aggregator that brilliantly tasks users with creating all the content for free, a DVD rental shop that suddenly decides to stream shows over the internet, software that transforms people’s houses and cars into hotels and taxis.

These businesses weren’t anywhere near my myopic radar in 2006… but they need corporate communications now. And suppose my linear resume lines up with a job at one of these companies, and doors open like dominoes within that company because the space is so dynamic that roles I never heard of, let alone considered, are invented all the time. These might be the very opportunities I was scared to miss if I stayed in corporate communications.

Whoa there, Uncle Rico. The mountain is farther away than it seems. There are infinite paths to infinite peaks. I’m not trying to tell my son the best or only way to a standing desk at Google is to play in one sandbox, or that Google should even be his goal.

I just feel it’s his old man’s responsibility to make a lesson of himself and offer some perspective. Especially in the find-your-passion-YOLO climate, recognizing the opportunity costs of not making a change is pretty easy. You can see other options.

What might not be as obvious are the opportunity costs of making a change. Some of those options aren’t in plain view yet, just over them mountains.

Writer’s note: If you spend any amount of your finite time reading the absurdities in this blog, we are either friends or highly compatible strangers. Thus I feel close enough to ask for your email address below. The only email you will ever get from me is one blog post per month for the rest of my life, until you click Unsubscribe. Thank you.

Warmer Pastures and Waffle Fries

Our rent is $2600 for a two-bedroom, two-and-a-half-bathroom townhouse in Newport Beach, Calif. If you live in a flyover state, you might think this place must be next door to the Bryant estate at that price. If you live in Manhattan or the Bay Area, you might feel compelled to start a GoFundMe to get my family of three out of the slums.

The reality is somewhere between, as reality tends to be. It’s a nice home much closer to the highways than any beach, and a world away from the opulent Newport where Kobe lived. Overall I think our month-to-month lease is a pretty good deal relative to Southern California.

Anchoring reality in the Southern California housing market, however, can be more like floating away from reality. I told you three years ago about the dream house in a suspect L.A. neighborhood that inspired us to include a creepy Photoshopped letter with our all-in offer, which got buried. And the Kevin Durant house two years before that.

Now consider the market today, even higher and climbing against low interest rates and inventory. The severe supply and demand imbalance out here is not new. Ever since my risky roommate-for-spouse swap, I have been acutely aware how much further a mortgage goes in my home state of Texas.

Non-native Texans, particularly those who grew up in L.A. like my wife, typically find the idea of living in suburban Dallas to be untenable. I can be empathetic to that. I loved spending my 20s in an epicenter of beach, city, geographic and demographic diversity, entertainment and culture.

I am almost 37 now. My kid is almost 2. (We could have had the same birthday, but he blew it.) My target bedtime on weeknights is 9:30. My target bedtime on weekends is 10. These numbers do not comprise the stat line of someone in his prime.

Even well before Covid, my Google Maps history included no Hollywood comedy clubs, downtown speakeasies, secret surf spots, museums or food truck chases. My pace is more like grocery stores, parks, work, kid’s school and chain takeout. With a toddler and two working parents, even Netflix-and-chill sounds like two separate pipe dreams.

At a certain point, which we passed a long time ago, it no longer makes sense to pay the premium to live here. La La Land can be a paradise for the young, single or rich, but I am none of the above. I am willing to rent instead of own and absorb a higher cost of living – as long as it yields a higher standard of living.

So this isn’t really about market analysis as much as life design. The question I need to answer is what am I doing here that I can’t in Texas, often at lower cost and higher convenience. Keep in mind In-N-Out Burger arrived in the Lone Star State years ago, bringing critical feature parity akin to the camera on the iPhone that made digital cameras obsolete.

Any trip to In-N-Out or Chick-fil-A is a vivid illustration of the gap between infrastructure and population in Southern California. Cars are piled out 360 degrees like an overturned Ferris wheel, and your table-stakes dilemma is to block the right lane of a busy road until you can inch into the parking lot… or come home with Jack in the Box, a greasy participation ribbon dripping with a loogie from the first-place winner.

To bring home the fresh-cut waffle fries, I have to channel my inner Chris Hemsworth in Extraction, an Oscar snub about a hostage rescue that turns into basically two hours of kill-or-be-killed. Hems called it survival mode, and that’s exactly what going to the Chick-fil-A by South Coast Plaza at 6 p.m. entails. My heart rate doesn’t slow to normal until the fries have long gone cold.

This one time at In-N-Out, the guy behind me got out of the car and stood in front of a woman in an SUV trying to merge in front of me. She either innocently or rudely considered it an ancillary merge lane; he thought it was clearly cutting in front of a long line. While he tried to wave me forward, she released the brake against his body. There were f-bombs, picture-taking of a license plate, a call to the police and retort of being married to a sheriff, and a sheepish teenaged employee trying his best to keep up that impeccable In-N-Out cheery service. People can be animals when Animal Style fries are on the line.

It’s just harder out here overall. My wife drives 80 miles a day to shuttle our child to Mandarin immersion school. The highways are so dangerous it’s almost comical. There is such a stupid variance in speeds people choose, and Orange County is the best place to go if you want to practice switching three lanes in 40 yards to make your turn.

Take me back to the suburbs. I am a suburban guy. And although my wife wouldn’t admit it, she’s even more suburban than me – same static group of friends, same orders at Starbucks and McDonald’s, afraid of sand and cold Pacific water at the beach, eight Target trips in seven days.

We do not need to be in L.A. or anywhere near it. It’s like we’re waiting in line and paying cover to get into a club, only to hang out in the lobby. For what, to hear about other people having fun (and to a small degree, subsidize it for them)?

I have routinely dropped probing half-jokes about moving back to Texas over the years to my wife, with only eye rolls in return. A few months ago, I said the desire to relocate had reached a different kind of gear, not urgent but definitely more real. To my shock, she responded with nonchalant agreement.

There are some moving parts to align. I started my new job five months ago. During a chitchat trading life stories, my boss asked if I would ever want to move back to Dallas. I played it off with an “Oh I hadn’t thought about it but sure,” and without skipping a beat, she said “Well you let me know and we’ll wire you in remote.”

It could have been just a flippant remark on a late Friday afternoon, and I would still need another layer of approval. But overall the women in my life are stepping up big to make this happen.

We’re not rushing right now, mainly because our Harry Styles concert from last year was rescheduled to Aug. 27 at the Forum. I didn’t hang in the lobby this long to not at least squeeze in a song.
Writer’s note: If you spend any amount of your finite time reading the absurdities in this blog, we are either friends or highly compatible strangers. Thus I feel close enough to ask for your email address below. The only email you will ever get from me is one blog post per month for the rest of my life, until you click Unsubscribe. Thank you.

Saturday Night Fever

Last week, accountability for deadly police misbehavior notwithstanding, was tough for our little household. My wife and I wanted to dig ourselves a hole as soon as possible with a monster Monday morning fight, the kind in which both parties dip into reserve ammunition from tangentially, even distantly related grievances.

We quarrel so rarely it’s kind of scary when we do, like the person who never farts but when it happens, intensity compensates for hiatus. I feel like our fights always end up with version 2.0, 2.1, etc. of the same resolution: We are fundamentally different if not opposite in some ways, and that’s just the way it is. In a small and surmountable way, it can feel kind of demoralizing.

But we got past it 12 hours later with a fluid discussion on the couch while watching The Voice. There is no situation my Black doppelganger John Legend cannot solve or at least improve.

I can’t go into details about the fight because I’ll end up presenting my side, and the way I write is not conducive to making the other side look logical. Frankly I want to keep both this marriage and the possibility of having intercourse within it.

Let me just say one thing related to the fight. Parenting, we’ve both concluded independently, is harder than we thought it would be — and we thought it would be extremely hard. Neither of us had any illusions about what was coming, yet our expectations for rest and headspace were still too high.

So we put the fight to bed and cuddled that night, the equivalent of makeup sex at our age and energy level. Tuesday was fine until I got a call from our son’s school saying he needed to be picked up due to a fever. This would be the domain of my wife, who handles the lioness’s share of school stuff because she works from home and is the better parent by far.

But I couldn’t reach her for 15 minutes and decided to leave the office without a car seat or defined plan. As I was walking out the door, I found out from my boss the unfinished thing I had been working on was time-sensitive. And of course, almost the instant I merged onto the 55, my wife called ready to head to the school.

I know that was a boring sequence to follow, but it was a telling start to our first foray with a feverish child. We both tried to work from home Wednesday, and it was so challenging I took Thursday off. I can’t recall taking a sick day from school or work in the last 30 years or so. Of course as a gritty young professional, I occasionally napped in my car at lunch when hung over AF. But requesting a sick day because someone else was sick felt foreign.

Our boy’s temperature kept spiking inversely to his appetite, and he’s not exactly an early adopter of language at age 21 months. It sucked.

Covid’s overbearing reach didn’t help. To bring a sick child to the doctor’s office these days, we were instructed to pull into a spot in a dark parking garage and dial a number. This is how I purchased opioids last time. The nurses had a makeshift cart set up, and I wondered why they didn’t use a more pretentious cooler than the exact same red-and-white Coleman we’ve been bringing to campfires and ballgames since the beginning of time.

To enable the scary masked practitioner to check for an ear infection, I essentially had to put my toddler in a half nelson in the trunk of our RAV4 while he frayed an impressive decibel range for an impressive amount of time.

The week just sucked, man. If you’ve been there, you know. If I were a soulless small business owner who cared only about extracting the most output per employee, I would not hire a parent of young children ceteris paribus.

This might infuriate the supermoms out there. You can rightly talk about being great at prioritizing and efficiency and project management, but compare your day to when you didn’t have kids and give me a break. There’s a reason why tech companies pay for employees to freeze their eggs, and why women have left the workforce in disproportionate numbers during the Cove. Giving 100 percent of the same energy reserve to two different things violates the law of conservation of energy.

My wife, selfless as ever even when driven to tears, spotted an opportunity to give me a vacation after our rite-of-passage week. She would take the child to her vaccinated parents’ house well before her sister’s birthday dinner and sleep there Saturday night.

The objective was to give me 24 hours alone. She kept calling it a “vacation,” which I bristled at because it’s so depressing for an introvert to consider this natural liberty a luxury. But wow she was right. I almost get teary-eyed myself thinking about that special Saturday night.

I didn’t even indulge in any adult content. My wife made sure I didn’t need to before leaving, if you catch my drift. Sexy time. I really appreciated both that experience and the bonus of saving me potentially hours out of my vacation.

Good god what an evening. If my long-lost bros had assembled around Southern California and showed up on my doorstep with a few 30-racks of B.L. and jars of natural peanut butter and said let’s turn back the clock… I would have taken the peanut butter, patted a 30-rack on the head, and responded, respectfully, let’s catch up on Zoom in the next few weeks. Then I would shut the door and lock it.

During my vacation, I cleaned the house, caught up on administrative tasks dating back three months, made a six-ingredient salad, and watched a little bit of the Mavs’ win. I won’t keep you in suspense: The six ingredients were kale, lentils, carrots, beets, walnuts and mozzarella cheese. The plan was to add a seventh, baked sweet potato slices, but I elected to save them as a side for a future meal.

Not coincidentally, my abs looked fantastic. I texted this lighting-and-distance-aided shot to my wife just in case she and her sister went out and met some d-bags with better paternal instincts than mine. That wouldn’t be too hard to find, but she’d be thinking of these peaks and valleys while nestling in a doughy dad bod (which doesn’t sound terrible depending on the temperature).


Feel free to pinch and zoom, especially on mobile – that’s what it’s there for. It is precisely what the product manager intended for the functionality, to give you a closer look at things that merit a closer look.

Flexing abs and reveling in solitude is probably easier when you know a wonderful family is coming back to you soon. That said, I was by no means excited to see them again. Even less so when my wife FaceTimed Sunday morning while I was writing the initial draft of this post. Surprise, they were coming home early and 10 minutes away at the doctor’s parking garage office to check out a rash that turned out to be related to the fever.

My 24 hours was truncated. That’s OK. I love my boy. He is so sweet and cute. He slept on my chest for hours during his fever bout, while I tried to stay in the moment against my wandering mind.

To paraphrase Sam Harris, every little thing we do is finite. There will be a last time I pick him up, feed him, wipe his snot, kiss him on the mouth like the G.O.A.T. Taaaahhmmm Brady even when it might appear curious to outside observers.

In a moment of exhausted bittersweet optimism, my wife thought of this amazing quote. We were trying to pinpoint the source and resolved it to be from a song, until later my brother stepped up and realized it was from Andy Bernard’s endless treasure trove in The Office:

I wish there was a way to know you’re in the good old days before you’ve actually left them.
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Asian Matters

My wifey told me the Stop Asian Hate movement, or whatever you call it, is blowing up, and I should write about it this month. Is it blowing up? Are the woke digital hall monitors swapping black squares for yellow circles, at least until the George Floyd verdict? I check social media so infrequently my reality is different from most.

Facebook should offer a Switch Realities feature on the news feed. Every time you tap the toggle button, instead of languishing in the same echo chamber, all your friends are swapped for random users who opted into the feature as well. The privacy waivers would be messy, but sign me up King Zuck the Omniscient.

All I know is obviously limited to what my brain takes in: super friendly white neighbors and strangers in Orange County, Calif., The New York Times, CBS This Morning, CBS Evening News, Netflix, NBA on TNT.

You might find this offensive or betrayal of tribe, but I don’t have a strong opinion yet on the broader significance of the Atlanta spa shootings or reported uptick in anti-Asian racism. Sorry my mind doesn’t work that way. Emotion is meant to be felt. Logic is meant to be applied.

We had a running joke in marketing when trying to show incrementality about what can, in good conscience, be considered “stat sig.” Generally you can find and/or massage the data points needed to back up whatever you want to say, but that doesn’t mean it’s true or statistically significant.

Wide-ranging percentage increases in wrongs committed against Asian Americans are being tossed out like GameStop stock prices. I appreciate the attention for a glibly marginalized minority and a president who can express compassion. But I don’t know what to make of the perceived swell of COVID-related xenophobia yet.

No doubt Wuhan was short on Christmas cards from U.S. zip codes last year. Suppose, however, COVID never happened. I’m not so sure someone capable of ambushing an old lady today wasn’t going to do something heinous anyway, pandemic or Trump or Hillary.

And by the way, more than a few of these subhumans attacking elderly Asians were Black. If the goal is productive discourse about race… Do we want to go there, leftward echo chambers? It’s much less cumbersome to use Trump and white privilege as a catch-all reason and shoehorn something as nuanced as race in America into monolithic narratives. Yeah let’s save the inconvenient stuff for another hashtag.

Marky Mark Wahlberg was beating helpless Vietnamese men with sticks 30 years ago. If we had ubiquitous camera phones and addictive media platforms back then, I surmise there would be plenty of cases similar to the ones going viral now.

This one of a lady my mother’s age should evoke in you the same heartbroken rage the Floyd video did. I could easily work myself into a frenzy, imagining if it were my mom and then realizing it was somebody’s mom.

But you can find something like that every day. In a country this big, even a low baseline of crime will yield some awful stuff. I refuse to model my reality on which videos are fed to me and which emotions and biases they feed.

The guy who attacked this woman was homeless and on parole for stabbing his mother to death. Not to downplay very real anti-Asian racism or homogenize these incidents, but I don’t consider this vile assault a symptom of anything systemic or institutional or widespread.

There are sick and evil people. They are rare if you can pry yourself away from screens and look around (preferably not NYC or SF).

Increased awareness is beneficial for sure, especially for people like me whose empathy muscles are prone to atrophy living year after year in a bubble of privilege. I am just hesitant though to declare a crisis across large swaths of America and join the hand-wringing and chanting slogans. It wouldn’t be honest coming from me at this point.

Overall I believe if you zoom way out on the Twitter timeline — and think in larger time increments than the rabid minute-to-minute electronic hunt for dopamine — being Asian in America was better for me than it was for my parents, and it will be better for my son than it was for me. He’ll have his own challenges, like coming up with retorts to the inevitable coronavirus and Communist China remarks on the playground. But he also will grow up in an America with a ton more Asian representation and inspiration in politics, culture, entrepreneurship, sports, everything.

I had the same kind of anti-knee-jerk reaction to Charlottesville, Va., and don’t want to conveniently abandon the mindset just because we’re talking about my skin color now. Tough-to-watch videos do not signify the end of humanity. Good overwhelmingly outnumbers bad in the world in everything except attention.

Of course race is an ever-present thing. The Atlanta gunman said he acted out of a desire to eliminate temptation for his sex addiction, not racism. OK maybe he wasn’t thinking explicitly I hate Asians, but he doesn’t get to make the call to so neatly extricate race from pain. If he shot up a Black church and said he wasn’t racist, that he just hated religion, no one could accept that.

I am going to botch the correct sociological terminology, but with Asian women there is this sordid fetishization-sexualization-objectivization-submissive-stereotype-military-history-massage-parlor-happy-endings-me-so-horny-love-you-long-time component. Race was a part of what happened in Atlanta.

That said, I don’t know that it was a watershed moment in a crescendo of anti-Asian behavior in our country. I am zero percent scared to walk outside or for my parents in Plano, Texas, where they’ve lived for 32 years. Anyone with the capacity to blame a random Asian individual for a novel virus probably wasn’t too far from being a bigot before March 2020.

It’s not the worst thing for them to reveal themselves now and see what numbers they have. I’ll take the under.

Writer’s note: If you spend any amount of your finite time reading the absurdities in this blog, we are either friends or highly compatible strangers. Thus I feel close enough to ask for your email address below. The only email you will ever get from me is one blog post per month for the rest of my life, until you click Unsubscribe. Thank you.

Baby Steps from the Brink

Even though this blog enlists only readers of the finest character, I sense it resonates the most when negative. It’s an unintentional service provided by the candor.

Take, for example, sharing about my near meltdown as an unhappy parent. If you chose not to have kids, it helps stave off regret or second-guessing. If you have kids and struggle at times, it makes you feel better. If you have kids and never struggle, it makes you feel grateful or capable. If you’re trying to have kids unsuccessfully so far, maybe call it a wash between being annoyed at my whining and soothed by sour grapes.

This isn’t quite a retraction of the meltdown post I wrote to commemorate his first year. It’s more like an I’m-trying-and-evolving reflection. My deep reservations about raising children remain. They crystallized into a tidy acronym, CLOT: Clutter, Liability, Overhead, Tasks.

Clots prevent optimization and efficiency. They can be thought of as slow death. I will elaborate at a future time, maybe for his second birthday.

For this update, I want to revisit how I feel about parenthood. In short, it’s really no different than committing to anything big – career, relationship, geographic move. You give up a lot, and you get a lot.

Where do kids net out? I don’t know, but I want to bring up three positives. Experienced parents told me these were coming, but I just didn’t see how they would apply to me. It’s a bit humbling when you feel like you’re different – “I swear, I’m just wired differently” – and then you end up following the same steps everyone else does.

No Longer Just a Blob

Everyone said it would get better after the pooping paperweight stage, when you start to get some feedback and interaction. But I have zero interest in engaging with a toddler with a canine’s personality or really anyone below college age. I tried making small talk with a high school freshman the other day and felt like a dentist.

It does feel good though when I walk in the door after work, and my boy instantly transforms into a quarter-man pep rally. Even if we’re apart for a short time, his baby Alzheimer’s kicks in. At Sprouts, my wife took him to the car while I waited in the checkout line. He likes to hang out in the trunk with the hatch open.

When my son spotted me approaching with the shopping cart, he lost his mind hooting and hollering and stomping his feet. I felt like J.T. walking into a millennial-age bachelorette party to the beginning melody of God Must Have Spent a Little More Time on You.

Can this be true, tell me can this be real…

Had my boy been more aware of his opposable thumbs, he might have stripped off his Hello Bello diaper and helicoptered it around his giant head. My man, I love celebrating the little things too but I just saw you seven minutes ago.

Watching Them Experience Things for the First Time

This one has brought some unexpected joy. It doesn’t make much sense to me why. I feel visceral emotion watching my child process the world around him. I remember his first smile literally took my breath away. His first bite of broccoli made my face feel warm with pride.

He is mesmerized by trucks, planes and just about any moving thing larger than a RAV4. This month we put him in an open-air tour train, and when it started rolling… The shades of wonder, nervousness and happiness on his face were the highlight of my week if not year.

On Valentine’s Day, we expressed our love for the boy by introducing hallowed In-N-Out. This was a profoundly special moment for me, although I recently decided if I could have only In-N-Out or Chick-fil-A for the rest of my life, the latter would narrowly win due to the variety of sauces.

My boy rose to the occasion in navigating to the proper bun-to-meat ratio:



Not that I’m a model of selflessness, but I think the most rewarding part of having a kid thus far is the impact on grandparents. My parents both turn 67 this year. It’s not unreasonable to say they’re in the last 15-20 percent of life. An hourglass or pie chart representation of this stage also takes my breath away.

Heck, my dad almost died before knowing a grandkid would ever exist. I don’t have a mushy relationship with my parents, but my overriding feelings toward them right now are a) show gratitude and b) soak up remaining time.

Living in different states during COVID has not been conducive to acting on these feelings. But even with only FaceTime and storage-eradicating text threads as the medium, the effect of my child on my parents has been transformative.

They are the ones ironically reduced to a childlike state of wonder when processing their grandchild. They watch every video multiple times, sometimes more than 10, and pinch-and-zoom beyond a pixel’s usefulness.

My brother recently discovered our dad set his phone background to the little boy, and it’s such a surprising, incongruous, heartwarming thought if you know my quirky dad. He does not know how to express sentimentality.

But now he always seems to be within arm’s reach of an assortment of props — squeeze toys, pineapples, bike helmets — to assist his desperate attempts on FaceTime to draw a laugh from the child emperor. One time his buffoonery kept escalating as the emperor appeared to remain indifferent. My father kept working harder and harder, frantic, until my mother informed him she was watching a video, not FaceTiming.

Thank you for listening to that riveting story. It remains a consistent source of uncontrollable laughter for my mom, while my dad insists the narrative is overdone and his antics only lasted a few seconds.

My parents don’t have a lot of hobbies outside of traveling. Even when that becomes available again, they can only go on so many cruises. Their grandson gives them something else. Call it purpose, new energy, even just a diversion with end-of-life planning no longer in the “rainy day” pile.

Perhaps I’m stretching here, but having a kid kind of feels like a way to pay back my parents in a small way. It brings them a joy and vigor that I’ve never seen in them before. I even wonder if this will extend their life along with enriching it.

This isn’t to draw any universal conclusions about how people want to age or filial duty to provide grandchildren. I very hypocritically love how our birth rates are in decline and do not believe everyone should reproduce. I just understand a little better why people do.

Writer’s note: If you spend any amount of your finite time reading the absurdities in this blog, we are either friends or highly compatible strangers. Thus I feel close enough to ask for your email address below. The only email you will ever get from me is one blog post per month for the rest of my life, until you click Unsubscribe. Thank you.

My Other People’s Republic

Here goes an attempt to paint a geopolitical assessment of China in 900 whimsical words using lazy broad strokes. If you’re an Asian friend, it should hold your attention OK. If you’re not, just stick with me as long as you can. Surely you have Asian friends. Or I’ll bet a few shares of Alibaba stock you have some white friends who love Asian women.

Note I’m putting China and the rest of Asia in the same bucket. Chinese, Japanese, Koreans generally don’t want to sit at the same Benihana table to discuss imperial history. But no one else can tell the difference among us or cares to try. Public service announcement: If some racist hooligans are about to rough you up for starting the kung flu, clarifying you’re Vietnamese isn’t going to elicit an apology and send them on their merry way.

I’m intrigued and slightly nervous about how being Chinese in America will look and feel in the back half of my life. China wants a shot at the title from the back-to-back World War Champions (still the best Fourth of July shirt out there, especially when cut into a midriff).

A brief history of China in my mind would read like this… Beast Mode since basically the beginning of civilization. Absolutely flourishing while thumbing noses at the pagans in the rest of the world.

Then 100 years of humiliating decline starting in the 19th century. Everyone just kept nutting in their rice Chex cereal for a century, like the time I hustled back to defend a two-on-one break in a Riverside rec league and got dunked on with such disrespect I kept imagining the sensation of a ballsack resting on my forehead for weeks afterward.

There is an inferiority complex when that happens and an intensity behind the comeback. China is ready. China is coming. Our back-to-back impeachment champ was right to confront the surging Beast of the Far East if Uncle Sam still wants to play uncle and alpha to the rest of the globe.

China is going to be right up in our face for a long time. It’s hard to care much right now when the folks rampaging through the Capitol don’t look very Chinese. But there will come many times when what that Capitol stands for clearly is being challenged in a superpower standoff.

It was a peculiar and telling episode when NBA general manager Daryl Morey tweeted support for pro-democracy protests in Hong Kong. The Chinese government was furious, and the NBA cowered with a lucrative ecosystem of sponsorships on the line. LeBron said Morey was misinformed and not educated on the situation at hand.

Now, LeBron got an education like none other growing up in front of 300 million people waiting to pounce on every misstep. But I doubt he joined the U.S.-Sino relations committee at St. Vincent-St. Mary High School. Morey went to undergrad at The Northwestern University, 2021 Citrus Bowl Champions, and then business school at MIT, where he made Hong Kong friends.

I’m not overly informed about China either and only as knowledgable as the Western media in my chosen reality. It doesn’t feel like QAnon’ing though when I say China is doing things at scale to the Muslim Uighurs that the most indignant BLM marcher or election protester couldn’t even comprehend happening here.

The Trump administration called it genocide this month, and the Biden crew is backing it up. That’s kind of a big deal. We should probably do something about it. But human rights issues have a way of detaching themselves from economic ones, especially when talking about a market of 1.4 billion people.

We can’t live with them; we can’t live without them. My 36-year-old former roommate appears to have developed an addiction to a social media platform for infants called TikTok, given the volume of content he puts on our group text thread that no one wants to click. If TikTok were shut down as a trade war casualty — which almost happened last year — I don’t see him getting up from that knockout. Better than opioids I suppose.

Things could get really weird at the top of the GDP food chain this decade. China’s No. 2 economy was the only major one to grow in 2020, which sounds awkward when the virus that decimated everybody else’s started on your watch.

Trump certainly wasn’t bashful about straight-up blaming the commies, and only about 74 million Americans voted for him. You figure if even 0.1 percent of them line up with the liberal-drawn caricature of hillbilly racist in camo, that’s a football-stadium army in America who won’t be holding the door for the Asian American walking into Walmart behind them.

Like I said, I’m only slightly nervous. All I see every day in this country is people who live by common decency, no matter what overconsumption of media would lead you to believe. Plus there is a much larger army produced by the aforementioned banana-vanilla love swirl, which really does create ethereal-looking babies.
But it’s only a matter of time before my son has his first moment feeling conspicuously Chinese in America, whether overt racism or just a little clumsiness in the crossfire of us-against-them. As the last four years have strikingly displayed, we do not excel at absorbing and expressing nuance.

My perspective has evolved a bit after 2020 and that fun first week of January. I still indulge in beautiful American condescension and just don’t see how any place on earth can be as good. However, I am more open to criticism.

I can see how an authoritarian government might deal with a pandemic better. I can see how the freedoms we enjoy might be more difficult to scale in a country with quadruple the population.

We try to slap at the heavy hand of the Chinese government. But given our Capitol was just overrun by — I don’t know what to call it, a mass — imagine if there were four Americas to govern. Maybe some narrower guardrails backed by force would be better than the alternative chaos.

When a U.S. State Department spokesperson crafted a flowery Twitter statement heralding the Hong Kong protests, her counterpart in the Chinese government replied with three poignant words: “I can’t breathe.”

Hey every country and person selectively overlook some degree of double standards, and I would rather take ours over China’s any mother blankin’ day.

I hope they do well though, and they do good. I have national pride, and I have ethnic pride. They are intertwined, just like the fortunes of the United States of America and the People’s Republic of China.

Writer’s note: If you spend any amount of your finite time reading the absurdities in this blog, we are either friends or highly compatible strangers. Thus I feel close enough to ask for your email address below. The only email you will ever get from me is one blog post per month for the rest of my life, until you click Unsubscribe. Thank you.

Just Beat the Countdown

I had a job interview this morning, New Year’s Eve, and accepted this afternoon. If you’re a friend, you’ll forward this HR-eyebrow-raising blog along with a couple of nudies from my 20s to my new employer. If you’re a true friend, this will be done quicker because the nudies are saved in your Favorites. Given the amount of work I put into my body, I would be offended if it didn’t occupy at least one filled-in heart icon on your iPhone.

It’s a career change from business development to Salesforce administration, roughly speaking sales to IT. Back in 2008, I left sportswriting for startups. Basically anytime a massive recession challenges all that we know in America, I feel it’s the right headwind to spread my wings.

There is a lot to unpack here. The new salary is less than half of the old one. Although to be fair, I was unemployed. Glass half full, this is technically a raise of infinity percent.

I spent an unhealthy amount of time on LinkedIn in 2020. It is the best tool for career discovery, connections and jobs. This stimulating opportunity to completely own a Salesforce instance — and play admin, consultant, architect, developer — seemed to happen by chance when I caught the listing on LinkedIn 38 minutes after it was posted. In reality, I was simply checking at short intervals because the platform offers so much value.

But it’s still social media, and an even more crafted one at that. Scroll too deep on LinkedIn, and your model of America’s workforce falls into a twilight zone where everyone is so proud and humbled to be named to the regional 27 Under 27 list.

Social media feeds always will skew toward what is notable. In this year of record economic upheaval, seemingly every other LinkedIn post was an announcement of losing or getting a job. Neither makes you feel particularly good when unemployed yourself.

What has been nice to hear as a 36-year-old with a 1-year-old perusing entry-level positions… are other stories of nonlinear paths. My old roommate has some big balls, which I saw so many times during our spectacular year living together that they still make cameos in my bittersweet dreams.

He’s walking away from trillion-dollar Microsoft (which owns LinkedIn) and its zero-cost health insurance for his family of four and moving out of their house in Philly to build the largest vacation rental company in Jersey Shore.

In the big ovaries category, my cousin went to Harvard Law — and Macedonia this year to teach English. My old coworker just quit her job at a tech unicorn whose stock price has looked like Covid graphs. She enters the raging tail end of the pandemic with no plan.

I hope she doesn’t mind my linking to the first post of her newsletter, which is just gold. It’s like Tony Romo’s goodbye press conference times 1,000. It also links to some deep and useful thought around work fulfillment.

Like I said, there’s a lot to unpack. Read those fantastic articles. I’d like to write more about this, but only two hours remain in December to finish my monthly post and I want to start a long countdown to the end of the longest year with the best part of my year (wife).

I haven’t written on this tight of a deadline since covering high school football games in ’08. Then and now. I am proud and humbled for the opportunity of 2021.

Writer’s note: If you spend any amount of your finite time reading the absurdities in this blog, we are either friends or highly compatible strangers. Thus I feel close enough to ask for your email address below. The only email you will ever get from me is one blog post per month for the rest of my life, until you click Unsubscribe. Thank you.