Burning Man

Been feeling down all day. Tried to shake it off with a morning jog. Didn't work. It's about needing someone to hold. I've been yearning for affection all this year. Finally met a nice girl, Carly, in Colorado Springs. We had something nice there I believed. I did something and now she doesn't want me anymore. Romance can be so good, then incredibly disappointing. Well, I won't choose to hold on. I just need somebody to hold. It's never about the girl, and always about the relationship. My stupid mouth. Tonight, I hold myself.

One Way or Another

I owe A LOT of money. In response to my predicament, I have been pulling weeds at a lady's house to make extra cash and pay back my creditors. So it's Sunday and I've been breaking my back since the crack of dawn. Around 4 P.M. she decides to go over grandma's for dinner, counting on me to continue the yard work. That translates as trust and makes me feel good. Right after she leaves, however, I start getting the runs. And I mean REAL BAD.

I've felt the need "to go" before but, this time, it is serious shit. You know, the conversation to crap where your sphincter calls for your attention but all you want is for it to shut the shit-shutter. I pray on a limb that she left the back door open. No luck. Plan B is to make a miraculous drive to the nearest gas station or grocery store before the shit hits the fan, or (in this case) my pants. In the process of taking a step, my a#shole, (we'll nickname him "Fiesty" to keep it PG) interrupts my intention.

Me: "Whoa. Wait a moment, “Fiesty”. It's not time for you to talk yet." But, you see, at this moment "Fiesty" doesn't seem to care what I think. With each step, Fiesty insists on spilling his guts out, literally. I figure out real soon that this was going to be his conversation. My Vietnamese instincts immediately kick in. I know what I need to "do-do". There was no arguing with “Fiesty”. He would have his way with me regardless of how I felt about hearing what he had to say.

In the jungle land we are taught the "communist squat" at a young age.  We become experts before we learn to walk. HOW TO DO THE COMMUNIST SQUAT. 1. Get in a horse stance position. 2. Squat, with authority. 3. Stay flatfooted in perfect balance. 4. Let her rip. And boy, did Fiesty have things to say. Never had I experienced a one-way conversation with such ferocity. On a related subject matter. I called my mother and had a heart-felt conversation letting out all my anguish and frustration over a rotten childhood. Boohoo me. One way or another, it always comes out.

"Big Words"

Things I learned today at...
L. Work: Fort Carson, Co Military Base
1. In the BEL (Big Engineering Leagues), if I want to pass as a competent colleague, I must catch on to the onslaught of acronyms and abbreviations. I have to remember that when my boss says that I am working for SES, he is referring to the umbrella company that this project in under: Sempra Energy Solutions and not that I am a man-whore. When, in mid-sentence, he asks me to hand him that "spec", that means a specification report, and not the little mark I accidentally made on the wall.
2. The engineering career ladder is full of fascinating opportunities to which I am not the least bit fascinated. Meet Wally the Welder. He's a nice guy, you know, but it's a challenge relating to him. He's actually sitting right next to me on his lunch break, sharing his world of welding with me as I am typing this. I don't have the heart to tell him to stop, he reminds me of Bubba in "Forest Gump" describing all the wonderful dishes you can make with shrimp. "I inspect all kinds of welds. Pipe welds, structural steel welds, joint welds." For taking his job seriously, I give him the sincerest respect. At this time, I would like to make a toast. "Here's to Wally. For a job weld done."
3. When I use Microsoft Word, I prefer to turn off the automatic spell check. It's not that I mind being told that I'm wrong, but can't it just wait til I'm done completing my sentence? Its lyke beeing intearrrupeted wile your trieng to mak a points.

University North Texas Denton, TX - "Bumworker"

I have this "thing". This "thing" creates a lot of trouble for me in the working world but, on the other hand, also provides for some very interesting life episodes. The "thing" is my allergy to work. My friend Lan once told me that she has never met anyone so reluctant to get a "real" job...I told her that I would take that as a compliment.

The truth is I don't mind working hard, taking it for the team, breaking a sweat, whatever words you want to use for labor. The labor just has to continue to provide interesting experiences. Try feeding that "excuse" to the average boss. And I know that I am not alone on this matter. I'm just the type that would rather eat crackers and potted meat and live freely than enjoy a steak dinner provided by earnings via reluctance. I've been generously called "free-spirited" by some but sometimes feel like a complete bum. Then again, I cannot be accurately labeled a bum for I am largely self-sufficient with the occasional filler met by my awesome big brother, Sage, but by and large, I am self reliant, therefore I register, by class, in the nebulous land between the working class and the bum --- the bumworker. No, not a working bum. A working bum is one who hustles people of their hard-earned money. I am a bumworker. I work just enough to cover my ass.

University Towers -- Austin, TX

Well, I made it down here in one piece. I am grateful to have this chance to pursue a dream, a dream I cannot exactly define, but it borders along the lines of making money as a music performer. Just now I ran into a celebrity impersonator/vocalist named Mark Danube. See, what he does is use his voice to mimic stars...like Elvis, Madonna...yes, Madonna (he's got a 7-octave voice apparently). I think that's pretty neat. I bet he gets a kick out of doing his job.

Before I left from Dallas, my older brother, Dzung, sat down and said that he was not convinced that going down to Austin is the best choice amongst my choices. I tell him that I did not make the decision to move down here rashly; that I have thought about this a lot and, most importantly, that I am following my heart. He asked me one question I will try not to forget. It was, "How long will it take for you to get really good (at your craft)?" I respond, "my entire life." He says, "good, that is the answer that I am looking for."

What we were talking about here is not the likelihood of me succeeding in music, rather, how long it will take. I assured him that I am past my nai$B!/(Jve days of believing that success comes overnight. We reiterated my need for self-discipline and for a mentor; one who has "hit the ropes" so to speak. If you know anybody: a friend, an uncle, a co-worker, who is pursuing music as a career, please let me know. Perhaps, I could benefit from knowing what it takes to succeed at this game. Well, comrades, it's time for me to go to bed. I will catch you, again. Laters.