Why I am a Vegetarian

People always ask me - and I use the word ask loosely, as it is more a statement of disbelief - "You're a vegetarian!?"

"Yes, I am."

This answer, of course, immediately begs the question of

"Oh my God, why?"

"I don't know"

I knew.

I just prefer not to waste my time explaining it because when I did, people didn't seem to understand anyways. The responses had always ranged from the tactful acknowledge of "Oh, that's nice..." to the eye-rolling, condescending chuckle of "O-kay...".

I don't need that.

No, I'm not doing it for religion. Yes, I like the taste of meat. No, I do not eat fish - look up "vegetarian" on www.dictionary.com and you will be strangely surprised.

So why am I doing it?

Well, it all started off with a pop-up ad - yes, those things do work - for a website called www.goveg.com. I explored the website at length and found out more things than I ever wanted to know about the animal farming indsutry. While ultimately, its PETA propaganda was not the main reason for my new lifestyle, it did mark the beginning my pursuit for the answer to why people "go veg". After some research, here are a few facts that I found particularly interesting - but of course, you may very well already know this and just don't care.

Contributing to Diease

Animals are injected with antibiotic cocktails that are suppose to prevent disease, as a result, you're downing a dose of those very same antibiotics every week on pork chop night.

"Isn't that good? Antibiotics prevent me from disease."

Sure, that may be true, but if you know anything about evolution, you'll know that the widespread presence of antibiotics in our diet actually causes the emergence of super-strain viruses that are immune to antibiotics. It's called selective pressure, and what it means is that when you really do get sick and go to the doctor, the medicine he prescribes for you won't do diddly squat because both your body and the viruses invading it have already developed immunity by means of the chicken fried steak on your plate.

What is humanity?

To act in accordance with humanity is to act out of human nature. Obviously, the definition will vary from person to person. Some believe human nature is primal and animalistic due to our biological instincts for survival. Others believe that human nature encompasses the more spiritualistic side of man and appeals to the ethos. While I am hardly a fanatic of ethics, I am no beast either. There is something about being human, a quality, elusive to perhaps only man himself. It is a trait that has taken form in the multitude of gods and deities hovering over the primordial skies above. It elevates and separates us from our beastial biological counterparts and makes possible the rise of civilization.

What I am talking about is our ability to live and let live.

Now you may ask "What about wars?". Allow me to clarify that I consider war to be not a part of humanity, but rather the primitive manesfestation of our instinctive need to protect territory. The fact that it has been the norm throughout history in no way makes it humane to war.

So why kill sentient animals if you can live without doing so? The mere fact that they cannot protect themselves from you does not make it right for you to kill them. Vegetables provide enough of every type of nutrient found in meat. It nourishes without increasing the risk for heart disease and to top it all off, it's easier on your wallet. So go ahead, eat an artichoke today. I did.

Humans are not in the food chain

The zebra eats the grass, the lions eat the zebra, the hyenas eat the lion, and the man eats the hyenas. The fish eats the algae, the bird eats the fish, and the man eats the bird. The cow eats the grass, the man eats the cow.

The man eats everything.

This is not a chain. In order for a chain to exist, we would have to connect to something else. Something would have to eat us. Here are a couple of things that have been proposed to possess the ablity "eat" humans, followed by my explanations of why they really don't.

1. Decomposition upon death.

While decomposition is helped along by the work of microorganisms, it is in essence, merely the return of the body to an equilibrium with the environment. Chemical reactions begin upon death to break down the matter composing your body. Microbes only help the process along, and wouldn't even be able to do so if the body were preserved. Besides, it's not like it matters, you're already dead.

2. Disease through bacteria and viruses.

Yes, these can kill you. Some strains can even literally "eat" your flesh - look up necrotizing fasciitis. We are, however, far from being at their mercy. Not to mention, we wouldn't be trying to kill these tiny bastards - consciously, at least - had they not threatened our well-being in the first place. Most viral infections have effective treatments and bacterial infections can be treated with antibiotics - unless of course, your love of bratwurst has caused you to develop an immunity towards your only hope for a cure, in which case, you're just plain SOL. Our relationship with bacteria and viruses is not one that fits within the food chain. We eat them (think Odwalla juices and yogurt) and they try to eat us. On the contrary, I've never seen a zebra eat a lion nor a fish eat a bird.

So if your reason for eating meat is because the food chain says so, as inane as that justification is, you would be wrong because the food chain really has nothing to do with you.

San Antonio Interview

Not that anyone cares, but I think I'll review my interviews at each school from now on. I don't know why. I'm just that bored I suppose. Let us begin.

The trip began with a drive to Austin to drop off my mom - we were planning to attend my brother's white coat ceremony on Monday. We arrived in Austin around 2:00 PM and manuveured through the throngs of incoming Fish flopping about the drag - you can always recognize them by the distinct look of "freedom vs. fear" in their eyes, which consequently, makes them look a bit like lost cattle grazing the fields. The herds of college students were everywhere, walking about aimlessly, touring with parents that they secretly wish would go home, chatting freely with friends as if their world faded quietly away outside the 4o acres of burnt-orange bliss. I was lime-green with jealousy.

After grabbing a bite to eat at Kerbey Lane, the 24 hour queso fountain of my heart, I drove to San Antonio at 3:30 PM.

I was staying at Sibo's place for the night. She lived in a charming little townhouse near the medical school. The complex seemed to be inhabited by families, as there were groups of Hispanic children staring into my car as I drove by. Her house had two floors and was, in my opinion, a very large place for just one person. I could imagine one getting quite lonely there, so it was a good thing she had a dog. Personally, I think I would need a place small enough to where the sound of the television could reach every corner of the walls. The noise would be soothing.

We went to eat at Macaroni Grill for dinner. It had been so long since the last time I had eaten Italian food that I ended up finishing everything on my plate. Now I can go another 4 months without eating Italian food and another 6 without eggplant parmesean. Still, full as I was, I had to have a Shiner when we arrived at the "Pre-interview social". Group social situations are no longer comfortable for me without a beer in my right-hand, and sometimes my left as well. The people there were friendly and looked much more relaxed than the ones at UTSW. I also bumped into my old Captain from the Marathon Team, whom I hadn't seen in about 2 years - not that I ever saw much of him other than his back. I could never keep up with Dave after around 2 miles. The bastard has the stamina of a Saharan camel.

And so came interview day, suit, tie, dress shoes, the works. I donned my battle gear, had a quick breakfast with Sibo, and together we left for school. I sat in on her morning lecture that showed a movie on "The Right to Die", a documentary on the Nancy Cruzan case. Most people weren't really watching, but I've been told that it's a blow off class. After the lecture, I headed out to the foyer to register and lo' and behold, I see Jocelyn Liu. As can only happen by sheer coinidence, we have had every single interview together this year. From Houston on 8/2 to Baylor on 9/8, we had seen each other everywhere and always in the same set of clothes. The universe is bizarre that way.

The pre-interview tours and lectures were very well organized, although the Q&As were a bit overdrawn, if you ask me. The dean made it very clear that they chose their students based on personality and the potential ability to make great doctors someday. Obviously, that's what all schools say, but for some reason, I was actually convinced here.

My first interview was a Ph.D. I was SOL and was scheduled with two doctors instead of a doctor and a student. This Ph.D, like most, was a stiff fellow. Rarely cracking a smile, he proceeded to pick his nose and yawn while I spoke. He drilled me with a list of questions and didn't seem to be at all interested in my answers. I'm not even sure if he fully understood my answers, as he was not an English speaker of the native level. So what could I do? I just kept up a smile and asked him about his research, which he seemed at least remotely interested in discussing. In hindsight, I also should have asked him about his kids. Old people love to talk about their kids, where they graduated from, what rank, that Ph.D in quantum-physics, and their dissertation that should have won the Nobel. Old people love that stuff, especially old Asian people. It's all about the face.

The second interview I had was a trauma-surgeon who had been stationed in the Far East during the Vietnam War. In his words, "I love the Far East". His wife and he spent their honeymoon in Hong Kong. My immediate diagnosis: this was a man with a war-induced case of the "Yellow Fever", which so many old Vietnam/Korea vets seem to be suffering from. He also noted to me that he loved to "help those people", which he later clarified as being the Vietnamese. I asked him how medicine had changed since he had been in school. He told me that the training had gotten longer but that it would change in a few years. I asked him why and he said that part of the reason was because "The ladies are coming to town". The male-chauvinistic pig in me couldn't help but laugh a little. Overall, during our conversation, I tried not to judge, as we're obviously individuals from two different generations with very different ideologies. He was a good guy. One of the few that really seemed to love what he was doing because he chose to do with he loved. I admired that about him. Maybe that'll be me in 35 years.

The Magic is Lost Upon Me

I made bread the other day. It was 100% whole wheat, in case you were wondering. I waited an entire three hours and forty-five minutes for it to knead, rise, knead again, rise a second time, and finally bake. The whole time I was sitting upstairs, anxiously anticipating the taste of freshly made whole wheat bread shmeared with peanut-butter and topped with banana slices, it's aroma lingering in my nostrils long after the contents have made their way down my gastric tunnel. Well, let's just the aforementioned imagery was never actually realized. What instead arose from the arid abyss of my Magic Chef bread maker was a loaf of undeniable monstrosity. It was rock hard on the outside, hard enough to knock out a camel, in case you were looking for a rough frame of reference, but there was nothing on the inside. And I do mean that in the very literal sense, none, nada, zilch, mei you, mu (for those of the Final Fantasy persuasion). What I found, after cracking the crust with a two-story drop (hurl is more like it), was a very large hole occupying the center of my loaf surrounded by a layer of dough that didn't look so dissimilar from the matter occupying the machine an hour ago. So I suppose the real mystery to the Magic Chef is how they get a huge ass hole into the middle of a shell that's harder than space-grade titanium-alloy. But being the forgiving and inquisitive fellow that I am, I wanted to stop bitching and find out how I could correct this situation, or at the very least prevent history from repeating itself. So I looked to the instruction manual. After flipping to the FAQ section for troubleshooters - that would be me, yours truly - I found the passage that finally explained the causes for my culinary catastrophe.

Or not...

Large hole in center of bread
Gas bubble got trapped inside. Rare.

Fucking Monkeys! Rare!? I'm sorry, is this not the FAQ? Short for Frequently Asked Questions? If it is so rare, then why do people ask about it so damn frequently? A gigantic hole in my bread seems like a pretty big problem to me. Can you not at least use complete sentences to explain this?

I am honestly baffled, frustrated, and genuinely saddened by the stupidity of Corporate America. If I ever meet the technical writer that authored the FAQ to the Magic Chef, I'm going to put my foot up his ass. And when he asks me why my foot is up his ass, I'm going to tell him "My foot got trapped inside. Rare."

Dumbasses.

I've Always Wanted

I've always wanted to be a writer of life,
but I could never capture it
quite quick enough.
It always slipped out
through the cracks of my fingers or the
space between the thin blue lines.
So instead I thought,
fine. I'll become
a photographer of life,
but the shutter speed of my Canon K2
could never quite catch up
to the speed at which eternity seemed to move.
Even on the newer models,
one over infinitude was
never an option.
So I thought about hauling a
video camera atop my shoulders to
suck in the life through my lens's
widest aperture,
but like a Dustbuster sweeping
across the Sahara
she could hold only a tiny grain
of what I was after.
I mean, I could paste together the frames
and attempt to create some primitive slideshow
but it would never fully capture
those moments hidden
between guilt and excitement,
pride and shame,
joy and joylessness,
the instance bridging death and eternal peace,
and the
billion silent pauses piercing life, love,
and everything in between.

Red Bartlett Pears

It was just as I stood before the speckled red faces of the Bartlett pears, two rows down from the jackfruits imported from Honduras, that I suddenly realized, I am an idiot. The idea washed over me like a waxing ocean tide over some primitive unsuspecting crustacean scavenging for his evening meal. I began to stare at the pears intently, as if my gaze would somehow change their material composition, as if the price would change from $0.99 to $FR.EE. At one point, I completely failed to recognize that they were even pears. And for a split second, I disacknowledged their existence. My mind was a complete blank save for the horde of neanderthalian imbeciles temporarily pillaging my body and soul. Perhaps that would explain the moment of complete mental retardation I experienced at the fruit section of my neighborhood HEB. In any case, the entire occurrence lasted around ten to fifteen seconds, and I don't think I drooled or groaned so at least I didn't freak out any shoppers around me. Chuck it up to another mystery of the universe.

Don't do this to yourself

Staying the night alone at a Super 8 Motel is probably one of the worst things you can do to yourself. In addition to that fact that travelers staying at these places are often susceptible to rape, murder, and STD contraction via contact surfaces, the rooms themselves are also extremely hideous. I was sitting alone in my room (202) last night and felt hungry, so I drove around looking for something to eat. Needless to say, vegetarian fare is a bit lacking in Dallas. I ended up going to Sonic's and getting a fudge brownie sonic blast and a large order of onion rings. On the way back I stopped by a Shell and picked a pack of ramen and a bottle of water. When I got back to my room, I realized that I had no fork. So I went down to the lobby and picked up two coffee stirrer straws, attempting to use them as chopsticks. It was precisely at the moment when I tried, unsuccessfully, to eat my noodles with my two limp straws that I realized how truly pathetic my situation was. Surrounded by the tasteless decor of a Super 8 motel room, the stench of cheap sex mercilessly attacking my olfactory senses, the excessive placement of mirrors on every possible wall reflecting the various degrees of my inadequacy, I thought to myself, "This is what destitution must feel like".

The soup was also ridiculously hot and had burnt my lips.

Ignorance

I've realized that the more education I receive, the more ignorant I feel. It's this dwelling sense of uncertainty you possess for the world once you know that nothing ever stays the same with time. The other day I read this article about how AIDS might not actually be caused by HIV, and after reading the evidence and arguments by various authorities, I could see their point of view. Who knows, maybe after a decade or so it'll be the accepted norm amongst the scientific community.

I got back from Dallas today. The interview went fairly well. The first lady was really nice and pretty much said "Welcome to UT Southwestern." The second guy was friendly, but a bit intense. He kept asking me these deep probing questions like "When do you feel most alive?" The interesting thing was that he was also into spoken word poetry and had been a fan back in the days in San Francisco. I don't want to move to Dallas, but I suppose if I don't get into Baylor I'll probably have to.

It's funny knowing your future is set, that you'll have 2.5 kids, a six figure salary, be upper-middle class and have your self-worth be completely dependent upon the frantic consumption of goods and services. On my drive back today, I kept day-dreaming about my life in ten years. Where I'll be. Who I'll be with. What I'll be like. I suppose some things are forever up in the air no matter how concrete your plans are.

As much as I say I dislike Dallas, I don't particularly enjoy Houston either. It's not home anymore. My dad is gone, my brother is gone. It's just my mom and I. Friends are hard to make. Life isn't a sit-com, but I think I already knew that, even in grade school.

I use to hate the fact that my blog entries are always so damn morose, but I suppose I've gotten quite use to it by now, accepted myself for who I am. You'll never catch me writing in my blog on a happy day. Well, maybe on a really happy day.

The death of a yeast cell

Speckles of powdery yellow spots
sink solemnly into the lukewarm deep
drowning like champagne bubbles dying
sucked dry of the will to rise
they lie atop one another
their bodies decomposing
recomposing the solution around them.
The chunks of their flesh wash onto
the crisp'n clear sides of the glass
like beached shells from the wading tide
hidden by the glorious morningside
like a dying message etched
into the condensation from one's last breath,
some signs of temporary permenance
vanishing down the sides of my glass.

My Sim is lonely

It occured to me last night during a game of Sims 2 that I did not particularly enjoy the social interaction aspect of the game. I mean, my Sim - also named Peter - isn't an anti-social fellow by any meaning of the term, but being the Chief of Staff at the Sim City General Hospital doesn't exactly leave him with a world of free time. Yet, in order to keep his job, he has to constantly maintain a social circle of at least 12 "friends". Peter does this in order to keep his job. He doesn't really like it when Bob Newbie or Mortimer Goth comes to visit. In fact, most of the time Peter just let's them roam around the house and eat his food while he goes about his own business, brushing up on his mechanical skills and what not. But somehow, they're considered his friends just because they happen to occupy the same vacinity in the space-time continuum.

Oh yeah, the other day, Peter saw an Extra-terrestrial through his telescope and he was so excited that his aspiration meter went platinum. As a result, he was able to purchase the anti-aging water cooler which delayed his meeting with the grim reaper by a couple of Simdays.

Anyways, back to my point. Peter is unhappy with the fact that he must rely on superficial relationships in order to make a living. Sometimes he lays next to Liz at night and silently hopes that the kitchen would burn down so that she would stop throwing all those annoying dinner parties with all the people he doesn't know. They all know Liz though, everyone in Pleasantville knows and loves Liz. She's the source of the family's friends. Cathy has a couple of friends, but they're mostly annoying little brats from school who run around like headless chickens and can't seem to pee straight - or so Daniella the Maid tells Peter. These people are all friends of the family, but Peter has rarely ever spoken to any of them, much less utilize other more sophisticated social options such as play, appreciate, or God forbid - dance. In the end, these so called "friends" are really just strangers that Peter tallies up to meet a quota for his job. Peter is lonely and he wishes that they would make friendships more accessible and less mandatory in the next installment of the game. Lately, he has even considered moving to Strangetown, but the thought of leaving his job just seems a bit too risque for now, what with little Parker on the way and all.

Familiarity

I'm not use to this blog. I'm even tempted to say that I don't like it. There's an annoying delay in time between when I publish and when the post actually appears on the page. It's only a matter of minutes, but nevertheless, it's a genuine nuisance. I've considered going back to Xanga, but for a multitude of reasons, I hesitate. There is nothing horribly wrong with Xanga. It's simple, it's easily customizable, it has a larger community, but the idea of going back to it just seems to strike me as a step backwards in the course of life. I suppose it's because life tends to presents itself to me in distinct stages rather than in the strict one-way continuum that it really is. I wonder if my dissatisfaction with this blog is in some way a manifestation of my reluctance to let go of college. My friend just moved from Shanghai to Chengdu for work. She has no friends there and complains of the strangeness and loneliness of living in a foreign city. I told her that familiarity doesn't come in a day and that human beings as creatures have a very strong sense of adaptibility. Just give it time, I said. Following your own advice is often times the most difficult.

What does it mean to be courageous? What is it to be brave? I've always believed it to be the sheer will of being able cast aside the warm and familiar for a journey into the cold and foreign, to step foot into an echo-less cavern and to hold at once, both hope and hopelessness in the palm of your hands. If you're lucky, there'll be light at the end of the tunnel. If not, well, I think we can all imagine what happens there.

The saying goes "A thin line exists between courage and foolishness." As in the case of genius and insanity, I believe they are one and the same.

My dad added me on MSN

It's just an awkward feeling when you receive a pop-up notifying you that your own father has added you onto his MSN Messenger Buddy List.

This is not good. Worlds are colliding!

You're considered cool in my book if you know where that came from.

I just got an e-mail invitation for an interview at Baylor on the 8th of September. Cross your fingers people!

There and Back Again

Needless to say, after 6 years, I was quite surprised to find out that I still had this blog. I had completely forgotten that it existed. Imagine my surprise as I read my last post from 6 years ago. Suicidal embarrassment doesn't even begin to describe how I feel.

So I'm living in Houston now, suffering silently from the shame of having to live with your parents after college. This indigation is multiplied by the fact that I have no steady job and rely upon writing articles with no literary value for a living. I still can't believe people will pay me to write. The job sucks, but the concept is fantastic. I want a steady job and I want to move out, but a small part of me, the Chinese part no doubt, still believes it to be wrong to leave my mom to live alone while my dad is away.

I'm going to try out this Google AdSense thing to see how much money I can make. Please help me out and click on them.

I'll be leaving in about 4-5 months for China again. Very much looking forward to it. For now, I feel utterly alone in this city in which I've spent the past 15 years of my life. The city hasn't changed so much, perhaps it is I who have changed.

Wish I had someone I could go with to the National Poetry Slam in Austin this week.

Maybe I'll check out the Southmore House here in Houston since apparently that's the local watering hole for Spoken Word Artists.