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State of my fellow Asians address

There are at least two new Asian families in the neighborhood.  It brings great cheer to my heart to see fellow Asians swimming in the local sea of whiteness.  The one family is championship material.  Their kindergarten son wears impossibly perfect layered clothing and appears to be loved and revered by his peers.  Grandpa walks him home.  Grandpa wears fine threads as well, and always wears a Pittsburgh Pirates hat.  Nothing says local like a “P” hat.

It’s the other family I worry about.  Every morning Mom and son wait for the school bus across the street from my house.  Mom has sonny wearing a mask, as is the custom in smoggy Asian cities:

Downright fashionable!

This may not be child abuse in the strictest sense, but it’s a heartbreaking sight nonetheless.  Poor kid!  It’s a magnitude of obliviousness that is difficult for the local observer to process.  It reminds me of a time in high school when I was in much the same situation.

During homecoming spirit week, one particular day was college spirit day.  Or something like that.  Basically we were supposed to wear a University of Illinois, Notre Dame, Northwestern, Depaul, etc. shirt.  Sure a few kids wore Northern Illinois, or God forbid an Iowa Hawkeyes shirt, but they probably had good reason for their actions.  What did I wear?  The one college t-shirt I owned: The University of Western Ontario.  It was a shirt that did more than just confuse my friends.  It was simply not possible for them to process such a shirt or the existence of such an institution, or why anyone would knowingly or unknowingly wear such a shirt.

So, my fellow Asian friend, I wish you the best of luck with that smog filter.  May you find a place in this world.  If you stick around the hood, may you learn the unwritten rules of American culture.  I pray that one day you will heal, as I have, from the wounds caused by those unappreciative of your blissful ignorance.

The Special Diet™

So I’ve invented a new diet.  I don’t know much about diets, having never before been on one.  Actually, I didn’t even realize I was on a diet until I thought about it and decided to name my diet.  With no further ado, I present the Special Diet™:

I eat/drink things that contain refined sugars only if they are special, and I only drink booze if it’s special.

It turns out that most sweet or boozy things just aren’t that special.  Have you sampled the chocolate from Aldi?  It’s a steal; 5½ oz of dark chocolate made in Austria for $1.50.  It tastes fantastic too, nothing like that beeswaxy Hershey’s crap.  In fact, it’s so fantastic that I was up to a bar and a half every day!  But you know what?  It’s from Aldi.  So if you think about it, it’s just not that special.  No more unspecial Aldi chocolate for me.  If my daughter were to bake a cake from scratch, by all means I would load up, because that would be special.  But alas she almost never does.  Restaurants that have a particularly famous dessert?  Special enough for me!  Too bad I almost never eat out anymore.  As far as beer goes, as long as I am in the company of good friends, it qualifies as special.  Hmmm, I could see the Special Diet™ ending in disaster if you are an alkie.

But back to sugar.  I’d wager that the average plus-sized American would drop 10% of their body weight just by not drinking pop.  Mind you, I’m basing this on the anecdotal evidence of my sedentary nephew who slimmed way down from porky to husky just by swapping soft drinks for water.

If the only take away here is that Aldi sells good chocolate, then this is what you’re looking for:


The latest from West View

Every day I walk the Katt.  As long as I jam a constant supply of ice cubes in her mouth she is oblivious to the great mysteries of West View.  So it is up to me to report what is happening on the streets of my beloved borough.

Two days ago a van carrying four tweekers, sporting an I heart SCRAP bumper sticker sped past the Katt and I.  At each stop sign the driver slammed on his brakes, screeching to a halt.  In response, the passengers shouted in unison “THIS WAY!”.  The driver would then peel out, zooming toward the next stop sign.  So there’s that.

Yesterday, down by Bronx field, I witnessed a lone octogenarian smoking a cigarette.  In his possession were three plastic grocery bags filled with 12″ softballs.  One by one, he pulled out each ball and threw it as far as he could (which was not far at all).  Then he retrieved the balls and started over.  So there’s that too.

Curvy road trippin’

On last week’s drive to Vermont, Google insisted we drive through the Adirondack Mountains.  Who am I to argue with Google?  Pretty stuff, but it rendered us a bit car-sick with all the twists and turns.  Along the way, baby Katt learned a new word – FLOWERS, which she now says at every opportunity.


Asia resting her weary stomach.

In Burlington, we went to K-art.  We didn’t buy much of anything artistic, just diapers and dish washing detergent.


I was too cheap to rent bikes in Burlington, so the kids spent many hours rollerblading along Lake Champlain.  I attempted to keep up while pushing Katt in the stroller.  It was the first time in my life I’ve ever jogged.  Let me tell you, jogging blows!

Along the path I saw raspberry-like fruit growing out of control.  I wasn’t sure if they were poisonous or safe, so I only ate a few.  They were strangely fuzzy, sort of like eating sweet tart cotton balls.  I lived, so next time I’ll gorge myself!

Zach obtained a busking permit and played some Tango, Klezmer, Irish fiddle, and Old-time fiddle on the streets of Burlington.  He made almost 20 bucks for his 30-40 minutes of effort.

Straight fiddlin’