Canh Than’s “Di Voi Toi Den Chon Troi Xa” gets a good ol’ “wah wah” treatment. The musical accompaniment is actually pretty. Not bad for an old lady at all. Should record more tunes like this mama.

With the weather plunging to 100 degrees, iced coffee is taking off as well. Dunkin Donuts started it, and now even McDonald’s and Burger King are jumping on the bandwagon. My recent regular is Burger King’s IC, which taste like chocolate milk but the location is convenience for my way to work. IC in the morning helps keep me stay awake while IC in the evening helps me clean my system. Whenever I get constipated, IC unclogs everything. Too much information for you? My bad.

Being a keloid former is a bitch. A little cut could turn into a big scar. Surgical remove is not an option because the scar will grow back even bigger. After years of continuous growing, acute itching and sharp agonizing, I decided to seek treatment.

After reading, researching and consulting, the best way to cure keloid is cortisone injections. The dermatologist warned that injection is a bit painful, which translated to: sting like a motherfucker. And I have to do it every month until the scar gets flattened. Dr. Uyttendaele who is very nice and patience injected on my chest and back, but not on my neck. I can’t even imagine how intense that would be.

I am here bitching about my little keloid while the little boy Hoang Son Pham has a huge tumor on his face. What I am going through is nothing compare to what he will have to go through, yet he’s only three. But God bless the child thats got his own. I sincerely wish him all the best.

Air traffic as seen by the FAA:

The Flight Patterns visualizations are the result of experiments leading to the project Celestial Mechanics by Scott Hessels and Gabriel Dunne. FAA data was parsed and plotted using the Processing programming environment. The frames were composited with Adobe After Effects and/or Maya.

“What Kinda King? (I Smell Pussy)“

Admire me or despise me, deep down you can’t forget me. The more you think about me, the more difficult for you to get rid of me. Like a ghost, you creep up once in a while to let me know that you’re still around. I wish I could bring you back, but I couldn’t. You’re…

So do you like my review?
What review?
Paris By Night 88
You call that a review?
Why not?
You didn’t really say anything except you didn’t fall asleep.
That’s not enough? What do you expect me to do? Go through track by track like she looks amazing, he did a great job on this song, and this one is a skipper.
No, but say something about the show.
Like what? All the chicks looked lovely in ao dai, and there was Ha Tran looking like she just got out of an institution.
You’re so mean.
I know
That’s why no one reads your site anymore.
That’s not true. You and I read it.
How do you know I do? I am not you.
Look in the mirror, fool.

An interesting conversation on rock music came up last Friday while two of my colleagues and I were having lunch outside where we heard a band practicing some rock tunes. Just when one of the guys complimented how decent the band sounded, they messed up. Speak to soon, I told him. That was how the discussion started, and I was surprised that these two white guys who listen to rock all their lives concurred that you can’t take rock any further than what it already is. A musician’s skill doesn’t have to be superb to play rock. In order to play like John Coltrane, however, one would need tremendous technical skills. One of the things the guy pointed out was that drummer Tommy Lee tried out for the college band in a reality show, and couldn’t make. He simply couldn’t play and read what the band required even though he is one of the most popular rock stars. He concluded that rock musicians might be good at what they know, but can’t move beyond that. In general he is probably correct.

In his latest piece for The New Yorker, David Sedaris describes his character:

From a distance, her hair looked white, but now I could see that it was streaked with yellow, almost randomly, like snow that had been peed on. If she seemed somewhat mannish, it was the fault of her clothing rather than her features. Both her jacket and her blouse were kitted out with shoulder pads, and when they were worn together she could barely fit through the door. This might be a problem for others, but Rosemary didn’t get out much. And why would she want to?

Tom Bachtell’s portraits of George W. Bush.