I finally replaced the Flying Eagle wheels (66mm/90a) with Them wheels (58mm/90a). The original wheels were badly out of shapes when I learned to do the power brakes. They were to the point where I could feel the wobbling, which made dropping in a bit scary. I took a while to do the research because I didn’t know if all the aggressive wheels were compatible. In addition, aggressive wheels were so expensive. A pack of 4 wheels cost $40. For 8 wheels, I would spend $80 and I didn’t know if the wheels would be any good. I was also contemplating on getting a new pair of aggressive skates for $150.

A few weeks ago, I found special deal on Roller Warehouse: $20 for a pack of 4 Them wheels. With free shipping, I ordered 2 packs. Replacing the wheels were easier than I had imagined. I am loving the new wheels. They are smoother. The wheels are also smaller, which made skating more stable.

With the new wheels I am holding off on buying another pair of aggressive skates unless I find a good deal. I still am loving my Flying Eagle Enkidu even though the H-block is a bit too small, which makes grinding and stalling harder. I am just going to spend more time working those skills.

Jami Attenberg writes, “To fuck was divine, but to write was eternal.” In her breathtaking memoir, Attenberg shares her remarkable journey to be a writer. Even though her first few books didn’t do so well, she didn’t give up. She reflects:

Now, nearly twenty years later, I fully understand what the words do for me: when I write, it’s a place I can go to feel safe. It has always worked that way for me, ever since I was a child. The safety of a sentence. The sensation when I push and play with the words is the most pure I will ever feel. The calm space of my mind. I curl up in it. I love when sentences nudge up against each other, when I notice a word out of order and then put it in its correct spot. I can nearly hear a click when I slot it into place. I love making a sentence more powerful, more dramatic or moving or sad. Or when I make a sentence quiet enough that I can almost hear the sound of my own breath. More than anything, I love when a sentence makes me laugh. The words light up for me on the page, showing me what to do, where they want to go. They have always been my best friends in the world. All I need is for a few of them to show up. To soothe me.

In addition to writing, Attenberg reveals personal and intimate details of her life. I appreciate her honesty on friendships, relationships, and self-consciousness. I have to quote the following section in full to remind myself that no one is perfect:

I thought I would be happy by now. I am, for periods of time. I don’t know why I think I deserve to be happy. I’ve done so many things wrong in my life. I’ve lied to protect myself, or for my own benefit. I’ve been mean, said mean things, hurt people’s feelings, and felt justified doing it if I felt they hurt me first. I’ve been selfish, emotionally, physically. I’ve taken what I’ve wanted without asking for it. I’ve been grabby. I’ve taken the last bite. I’ve committed crimes, minor ones, and I suppose it depends on how you feel about the laws of the society anyway, but nonetheless I’ve done these things, knowingly. Stolen things, broken things, vandalized. Consumed illicit substances on both a regular and irregular basis circa 1990 to 2004, and also sometimes still during Carnival season. I’ve cried to get out of a situation. I’ve been grouchy. I’ve yelled at people, lost my temper. I’ve been unfair. I’ve had bad days and taken it out on people, strangers, and loved ones alike. One is no worse than the other. No one deserves any one else’s bad day. I’ve judged people silently and out loud. I’ve taken things in bad faith. I’ve been jealous. I’ve blamed a lot of it on drugs and alcohol, but that’s not an excuse. I have to own up to my faults.

Why do I deserve anything good at all? Is this a question I should even be asking? Why do I deserve happiness? I don’t—not more than anyone else, anyway.

But still, I want it.

I’m a better person now. I’ve grown up, I’ve wizened, I’ve matured. It is time for me to behave well. I still have to live with my guilt for the rest of my life, but the rest of my life is a long time, and I can use what’s left wisely. It is important to me to be of service to my community as best I can.

This doesn’t mean I am perfect now. I will never be perfect. This doesn’t mean I won’t still get things wrong. I have acquired too many scars to be fully healed. I have broken so many bad habits but not all of them. Even the experience of writing a book is just making one mistake after another until you’re not anymore. Every day we sit down to work we swim in a sea of our own fuck-ups. On the shore is one good sentence.

But it does mean I am trying, that I have to try every single day. I am obligated by my beliefs and the lessons I have learned to wake up and consistently try to be a good person. Even if it is not inherent within me, it doesn’t matter. I can still try. And there is no guarantee of happiness to come from this. I don’t have any control over that. I only have control of what kind of person I can be in this world.

I admire this memoir. It’s an invigorating read.

How do you become an out-law?

When you’re no longer an in-law.

This morning, I tried jumping into the quarter pipe, fell down, and hit my head on the metal ramp. Fortunately I had my helmet on. I still felt the impact. I left the skate park and sat on the bench to make sure I could drive home. I took off my helmet and realized I lost my glasses. I looked everywhere, but couldn’t find it. I can’t recall what I did with it.

I had been rollerblading almost everyday for about half an hour. I used the quarter pipe the most to pump forward and backward. I also got a hang of the 180 turns on the pipe. I learn how to stall as well as how to grind. I still have a long way to go, but I am taking my time and being more cautious. I just want to use aggressive skating as a form of exercise.

I haven’t set my foot in the ice rink for a long time. I need to pick up figure skating again. Once the summer is over, I hope that public sessions at the ice rink near my workplace will change so that I can take my lunch break and hit the rink.

I can’t wait for the winter to ski again. I bought a used snowboard. I might give snowboarding another try. It looked fun, but I couldn’t get a hang of it. We’ll see.

Friday was my remote working day; therefore, I took Xuân and Vương to Jolly Yolly Kids Indoor Playground near our house. I wanted them to run around the playground instead of sitting still in front of their screens at home. They loved this “beautiful playground,” as they referred to it, and it had decent Wi-Fi for me to do my work.

We were there for about two hours when Xuân came up to tell me, “Someone just bit me.” He showed me his back and I saw teeth marks. I asked him if he was OK and if he could point out to me who bit him. Both Xuân and Vương pointed to a boy in an orange shirt. He was a big boy, but probably was a bit younger than Xuân. I asked around to find out who was the parent of the kid. I finally approached a man who was gluing to his phone. I asked, “Is he your son?” When he replied yes, I followed up, “Did you know that he bit my son?” He replied, “Yes, I am so sorry. I told him to apologize.” I said, “Why did he bite my son? Was there a conflict?” He responded, “No, he wanted the balloon and he shouldn’t have bitten.” Then he turned to his son, “Preston, say sorry.” His son said nothing. He went on, “If you don’t say sorry, you will get time out.” The kid ran off and continued to play. I turned to the father, “I guess that didn’t do it. You better make sure he doesn’t bite my son again.”

I took my kids away and I told Xuân, “Thank you for telling me what happened. What that kid did was wrong. He should have said sorry to you. I am going to make sure that he won’t do it again.” Instead of getting back to work, I had to watch them play until closing time.

The father didn’t even come to me to tell me about the incident. I had to approach him about it. The kid didn’t even get a fucking time out. He kept on playing like nothing happened and the father went back to his phone. That was some shitting-ass parenting.

I slept with a sore throat last night; therefore, I couldn’t get up early. I got out of bed around 10 am, grabbed a quick bite, and headed to the skatepark. Half an hour later, I headed to Home Depot to pick up a vinyl siding and ready-mix concrete patch. The Home Depot I went didn’t have the vinyl siding; therefore, I had to drive to another Home Depot. Luckily, someone just returned a piece for $10.

I went back home and replace the cracked vinyl siding. It was easier than I had imagined. The house’s foundation had a big crack somehow I hadn’t noticed. I just patched it up with ready-mix concrete. Then I washed the front siding and windows. I used a rag mop with a bit of detergent to wipe down all the green molding from the tree instead of using the power washer. I just sprayed off the soap with a regular hose.

After that I went up the roof to hammer in the nails that held the gutters. For the trims, I used screws years ago to make sure nothing would fly off anymore. It was so hot up there and I am definitely an acrophobia, but I had to do what I had to do.

It was quite a productive day. Now that all the works are done, I am now heading to the skatepark for the second time to relax.

Life has calmed down a bit, but far from back to normal. My wife hasn’t talked to me much. She is still very unhappy with me since I had put her in awkward positions. I know exactly where she stands on the issues. Anything I say to her now only makes the situation worse.

I can see the disappointments in her eyes. After fourteen years and four kids together, I have failed to bring her happiness. Her love for me has diminished. I no longer deserve her, but I can’t imagine my life without her. After I lost my mother, she is all I have left now that I burned bridges and fucked up relationships.

I don’t want her to be miserable. I should find different ways to fight my battles. Instead of speaking out, I just hold them in. Instead of addressing the issues directly, I write on this blog just like what I am doing now.

Bill Burr’s latest Netflix Special clocks in an hour and a half, in which he turned misogyny on its head. He knew how to talk shit about women and lesbians without getting cancelled. Even though he came off erratic, his jokes were carefully calculated. He pushed the button, but he knew his limitation. He took a different angle on issues including women sports and abortion. Burr has mastered this comic game. I enjoyed his performance.

I woke up this morning, drove to the nearest Toyota dealer to get an old change. Toyota Sienna 2011 is clocking in at almost 160,000 miles. Because I didn’t have an appointment, I would have to wait for three hours. No big deal. I could work remotely.

I told the service rep about the alarm blaring off at random time and he said they would charge $189 to diagnose the issue. I told him the air conditioner isn’t producing cold air and he told me another $189 to diagnose the issue. Not even fixing anything, I already have to pay them $378. Sure, they would waive the fees if I make the repair, but they will charge me an arm and leg.

I am OK with the AC not blowing cold air. I apologize to my neighbors if the alarm goes off at night. I was not going to fix these issues. I left and headed back to work. The price we have to pay to maintain these cars is just ridiculous. I am going to use the smaller shop for the jobs.

A couple of weeks ago, the speaking on the sliding door on the passenger side produced static sounds. My kids kept asking me to replace it. In order to replace it, I have to rip open the panel. I kept pushing it off. Yesterday Xuân told me the static had gone. It had, indeed, gone. I supposed it fixed itself. I hope that would be the case with the alarm and the AC.

With Portada, ​​Veronika Burian and José Scaglione set out to create a serif family that’s as clear and readable as a sans family in digital environments. Portada is designed specifically for user interfaces as well as long reading online. Portada has extended its support for Vietnamese. In working with Vik and José on Vietnamese diacritics for Portada, I caught a glimpse of how the two talented designers collaborated. They lived up to their foundry’s name: TypeTogether.