I can be your wingman but it will be Rico Suave Style

photo: press-enterprise

When I am fired from my current job: see here. I am considering being a professional wingman but I do not mean the typical wingman who jumps on the grenades for the team and takes the fatty on the right all the time (Yes, everyone is beautiful in God's eyes but I am not God).

You see, my version of the wingman involves a programmed attrition to dull the target's senses over time. For example, yesterday culminated in what one can call a month's worth of a programmed Rico Suave Stud Assault (or RSSA*) (*acronym made up just now) by my friend to win the hand of the girl of his dreams (or at least the girl of his dreams this month) and it worked.

It was like that movie "Hitch" but much better and more manipulative. I cannot take all the credit for this miracle as my former roommates and I (all four of us) were called to be this friend's wingmen, his bro-mantic posse, his instant party in a can, and his joint chiefs of relationship strategy, on call 24/7. Not that this friend needed us to help, we just were bored and intrusive. He already knew of the girl and their venn diagram of friends intersected somewhere with Kevin Bacon as the unifying piece. Also, let us not mention that out of the four of us, our relationship qualifications were collectively dry, barren, and non-existent and is telling if I am the only one married as even then, my wife can attest to my idiocy in these affairs of the heart. Not to say that we were trying to fool anyone, we just wanted to enhance the features and perks of the product (our friend) and/or sometimes created an artificial demand, limited supply shock scenario every time this so-called dream girl was in the cross-hairs.

Yes, sometimes we had to entertain some of her friends but we quickly dismissed them so that there could me more one-on-one action for our buddy. We devised a plan to create the perception that he was always attracting a crowd (namely us and sometimes strangers we pulled in) because he was the center of attraction and because he was fun and loved by the masses (his mom and us). So what if we broke into random, boisterous and yet intriguing laughter about nothingness or proclaimed aloud about the friend's 'riches' and philanthropic heart when the girl was within earshot and then immediately quieted down when she left the room? That's not fake, sometimes such is the flow of the conversation.

So after a week or two of being seen and looking cool, our friend engaged the girl in conversation and invited her to group events that we created on the spot: ad hoc parties at my apartment (the wife did not like those that much), concerts we didn't have tickets to, lunches and dinners when we had already eaten. All this work to create a fun context and a comfortable scenario for the magic to happen between the two because we were sure that if they really got to know each other, it would work. Not to say we didn't help: along the way, I muscled up on and edged out competitive suitors who were hovering around the girl, other roommates distracted some of her girlfriends who were acting as gatekeepers in order to make way for isolated conversation between our friend and the girl.

The upshot: they did connect and they did have chemistry and they are together as of last night (an old-fashioned going steady type of thing)! It probably could have happened all on its own and perhaps our antics were detrimental more than a positive but I know that my buddies and I were pretty proud of ourselves and giving high-fives, fist pounds and chest bumps for a good 10 minutes after we heard the news. So if this union lasts for a week, we will deem it a success and perhaps what will be scary moment for the girl is when she realizes that when she said yes to our friend, she also acquiesced unknowingly to us as well. Welcome to Hell!

The Jerry Maguire of Dry Cleaning

Yesterday, I took my relationship with dry cleaning proprietors to a new global and complex level. Not only am I a consumer (read this as "charitable benefactor for the college education of dry cleaning owners' progeny") but now I have become an arbitrator and/or mediator between shop owner and the common (wo)man. One colleague here at work was caught in a bit of a pickle a couple of days ago that ended with a screaming match with the owner and the threat that she would not get her clothes back. The issue was that the friend brought in pants where she had pen marks and some food stains that she wanted the cleaners to help remove but when she came to pick it up the next day, she found that the stains were still there and that some of it had bled into a larger area. Unfortunately, this friend was someone who had been visiting from our Japanese office on a bit of an exchange program for 3 months and surprisingly, the owner of the dry cleaners was a Korean immigrant (yes, Korean-owned dry cleaners, a rarity in America). Needless to say, English as a second language contributed to this communication disaster. So what probably was intended to be, "Miss, I am sorry to trouble you, the stains are still present on this article of clothing and I wonder what you think can be done about this," got lost in translation and came out as, "Expletive, expletive, your mama!" Thus, I was called upon to talk to my peoples and reconcile this clothing fiasco using my subpar native tongue skills. One of my colleagues told me to come with guns 'ablazin' and was trying to razz me up and asking me if I was ready to spew Korean profanities but I knew better: my mom has told me that honey attracts bees more than vinegar does. So I went into the war zone yesterday prepared to face the devil incarnate but I saw a 4'11" Korean woman who smiled when I came in. I conversed with the shop owner about the situation, translated the events from my colleague's side and the upshot was that we got all her clothes back, and after going through the different options, we settled on not paying for the pants still with stains and it was fine. Maybe it was my proper Korean greeting initially, my height perhaps,or maybe my extremely pink shirt (it's quite persuasive) or in my diluted mind, maybe it was that my neighborhood dry cleaners put out a global message to all dry cleaning networks about how much of a 'cash cow' and friend to the 'family' I am, but we all hugged it out with apologies exchanged on both sides. The funny thing is that before I left, the shop owner told me to talk to my colleague about being careful with stains and told me to take a look at her pants even now. As we walked away, I looked closely and saw that she had all these pen mark nicks all over her pants and some marinara splooshes on her blouse. Before she leaves back for the Japan office, I might need to buy her garbage bags or potato sacks to put on over her clothes to protect herself from her own hand. Help me, help you, help yourself!

Jonah, Big Fish, Costco, Oh my!

Hope everyone had a happy holiday. The wife and I got back from visiting Mamaboo in Chicago and it was as if we were transported back to the dark ages; to the sweet lands of dial up internet, no cable, and VHS VCRs. Despite our suspicions that my mom is the second coming of the anti-technology Unabomber, Babyboo and I were just happy that we could sleep in the same room this time (my mom runs the household like a dorm nazi). The cabin fever relegated us to tap our evolutionary survival instincts: store up fat and hibernate. All we did was eat, sleep, eat, eat, sleep and eat some more such that the wife's face broke out like a teenager and I increased in flesh, gaining 7 pounds in 5 days. Putting on my pants was difficult but with a new layer of stomach to fold over my waist, they have never felt so snug and secure such that a belt was unneccesary (I am trying to patent the process; we can live belt-free peoples!). The highlight of suburbia was going to Costco. Costco is a suburban oasis of joy and excess and we went there about six times (almost everyday) through rain, sleet, snow, etc, nothing could stop us. There were times when the weather was so violent outside that I wondered how many years the shoppers could survive if trapped in the store (you really have everything there!). FreePhil spent quality time attacking the food sample stations with vigor and tenacity and his appetite had no prejudice; he voraciously filled his belly with narsty, half-baked (still frozen) pastries, gross nutrition bars and digestive friendly yogurts (Activa) (thankfully, in that order). The fruits of our plunder was extensive and my mom gave me a bodybag to take back to New York filled with a year's supply of toilet paper, socks, fruit snacks, and even turkey bacon. Needless to say, there was much embarrassment at the airport when the bag check-in people asked to inspect the bag. "I need to be ready for any natural disasters," I defended sheepishly. Despite this shame, the holidays were good to our family. The best gift received besides a Roomba was a brand spankin' new nephew on Christmas Eve (I really should not compare the miracle of human life to a robotic vacuum). My brother and sister in law were juggling different names and for a while we were singing Happy Birthday to 'Baby No-Name'. I suggested 'Jesus' to go with the holiday but apparently blasphemy is only funny never. Along the same Biblical lines, they went with Jonah and we got him a stuffed Nemo fish to be ironic.

Feeding an army

Yesterday, I went to dinner with my wife's family. It was supposed to be just a casual breaking of bread with some of her immediate family, whom I've met on many occasions. There was nothing unusual about that as on a given Tuesday, families get together to eat. Except that as I waited in the lobby of the restaurant, it became very evident that this dinner was going to be feeding a crowd and/or a complete genealogy of Biblical proportions. Suddenly, that light, intimate, get together that was supposed to be, was transforming into an instant family reunion as my wife's extended family did just that: extend. Seemingly out of a puff cloud in the sky, it seemed to be raining aunts and uncles and hailing golf-ball sized grand kids and great grand kids. You see, my mother-in-law is one of nine children and all of her eight siblings live in New York as do their offspring and to that end, also several multiples and layers from that same gene pool. I am pretty sure that if the family was provoked, they could assemble into a fully functional militia regiment on the spot with full infantry and cavalry. My babyboo was seemingly swallowed up in the the surprise herself but the sheepish look in her eyes confessed of an ambush! Apparently everyone was assembled to send off one the cousins who was going to work abroad but the wife failed to mention that I was also going to be meeting half of the Korean population in Queens, NY represented via her family, who (conveniently) knew that I was going to be there. Needless to say, I was both anxious and taken aback as I stumbled through greetings in my choppy Korean tongue (my mom would not have been proud) and strained my back as I bowed several times in deference to my elders. I should have just stayed down and feigned possum waiting for the dinner to end. It seemed as though it was an endless assembly line of family to meet and I was on the conveyor belt getting sized up, judged, sometimes pinched (by her grandma) along the way. So 15 minutes later, after all the introductions were made, we finally all sat down to eat and I could just sense a large gastric undertaking would be taking place in the hours ahead. Luckily, we went to a buffet restaurant and I thought I wouldn't see the day, but I saw the fear in some of the hosts' eyes as they wondered if a buffet could be eaten out of food and business in one fell swoop by one family. I did not back down myself and despite the unexpected audience, free Phil did not let his fans down and showed an Olympic-caliber performance by ravaging several plates of king crab legs. My focus was unconscionable and Machiavellian (ends justifies the means) as I ate those legs with no mercy and no etiquette with shell pieces flying here and there and with crab juice spitting upon the faces of several relatives. Whoops! But I was in the zone and could not be shaken. I got up to empty some dead wait so that I could go another round the buffet but as I proceeded forward through one of the unmarked doors, I was greeted by a strange, foreign land with no urinals and the faint murmur of high pitched, soprano like voices, which was a tell tale sign that I was seconds from being outed as a pervert in the women's bathroom. D'oh! As I walked out of the door trying to be stealth and hoping that no one saw that misstep,I would not be so lucky and was met with laughter and pointing by my wife's family who had witnessed the whole thing. I was about to moon walk back into the women's bathroom and maybe hide in one of the stalls for the duration to quell the tangible shame I bore when I saw the waitress and sprinted to talk to her. I did what anyone would do in that situation to save face, be the hero, and justify himself to the family on solely his character and merit alone: I paid to play baby. Grip it and rip it, I took out that whole family last night and I, personally, will not be able to afford to eat for a month but at least I have the clothes on my back. :(

Talk to me for five minutes and you will go deaf

Picture this: A family of five having dinner at a restaurant on a given Monday, enjoying an engaging, intimate conversation amongst one another. Then they hear a tremor; it echoes, and booms and reverberates again until their conversation grinds to a halt and they grimace in confusion with searching eyes, trying to locate the source of this unrelenting dissonance. They peer over behind them and they see some big-headed dummy almost yelling at his dinner companion, although not in anger. The shrill sounds continue and make ears bleed and make dogs bark in heat as if responding to an animal mating call or the pangs of a wounded soul. Hello, my name is 'big-headed dummy' and I lack depth perception and am prematurely senile. At work, my loudness is tolerated to a certain level and often brushed off as a 'sales guy technique'. Some of my clients are able to preemptively lower the volume of their phones, if they know that I am calling in (no harm, no foul). In public, however, I have learned that at times, my voice elevates to certain volumes above and beyond that which is accepted socially as polite or normal, but I, however, am the last to know about such social idiocy and continue on. In a mono a mono situation (such as dinner), the individual trapped in my point blank range tends to get absorbed into my context and begins to elevate their everyday conversation voice as well to match mine and are befuddled when the next day they experience that their ears are muffled and their voices shot from yelling too much. ["Did I go to a concert last night?" They confusingly ask themselves to make sense of their impaired physical state. "No, I just had dinner with Phil, oh!" Its an insidious undertaking and a brutal rude awakening.] Well, that being said, yesterday I went to dinner with a longtime friend and we went to a cozy Korean restaurant to catch-up and be merry and it usually gets raucous and bubbly as it is. Perhaps it was the enclosed space that magnified my booming laughs but I guess our conversation was echoing over every other conversation that was occurring in that restaurant, as if we were two deaf/dumb fools trying to understand each other. In hindsight, maybe I did see some of the dirty looks from the other dinner guests and from some of the restaurant personnel but their glower power could not pierce through to this thick skull at the time. And maybe I should have noticed something when the kid at the next table continued to stare at me but it all didn't register until at the end, the family next to our table got up and left and the mother tapped me on the shoulder. In broken English (I could barely hear or understand her at first), she said meekly, " You...you are too loud. We hear whole conversation. Just so loud. My son, my son was disturbed." Whoops! Although I think we laughed even louder after they left at how loud I must have been to prompt that conversation. Only a real oblivious jerkface can bring out such emotions. Love me or hate me, you will have some kind of emotional response. This is my formal apology to ears around the world. Sorry.

Ugly Sweater Party! Get your gag reflex on!

How do these theme parties get started? There are 80's parties, Star Wars appreciation shin-digs, Redneck "I heart Billy Ray Cyrus" bashes, and anything else you can put on an Evite. The wife and I went to an ugly sweater party this weekend and it was all the rage. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder but as you can tell from the pictures above, the eye that is beholding my 'beauty' is bubbling with a burning infection. I apologize if they fill you with a broken, 'humanity is lost' emptiness and provoke you to lose your religion. They are real and raw. We went to the local thrift/consignment/bring out your dead/Salvation Army store to pick up those gems and were so glad that we had beat the rush for such items. Looking for that truly ugly, wretched clothing piece is as difficult as finding amazing couture in a highend place. One has to find a certain 'peacock' wow affect that makes the item standout from the rest of the ugly ducklings. It is that unattainable blend of terribly conceived designs, puke like color schemes, and absurdly ornate dressings that induces the dry heaving in onlookers but a deeply haunting satisfaction in the wearer. I do not know if I achieved that repulsive nirvana with the items above, but I think it was a great effort, especially with the Cincinatti Bengals themed mess that was so tight on me that I could not physically bring down my arms. The funny thing is that when we went to the party, we were greeted by all these ugly sweaters but they were ugly, 'Christmas-themed" sweaters! When we took our coats off, people looked at us in their blinking lights sweaters and their jingle bell outfits and shook their heads in disgust. I did not think that one could be so shamed at such a party but it turns out we were both ugly and illiterate as we were the only ones who misread the Evite. Let me tell you though, we wore that Shame boldly, with a capital 'S' and all the bengal stripes in the world could not blot out our leper status. Fortunately the booze, (ahh the sweet booze) makes everyone beautiful, so to speak and we even got a bag of coal (really! a legit bag of coal) as a prize for completely misunderstanding the whole concept of the party. So the sweaters look ugly now, but as this recession deepens and gets worse, these sweaters might get enveloped into my regular fashion rotation. These are 'business casual', right?

Head up, no shame, no mo'

Sometimes, a blogger doesn't have to spew out the funny. Some items are just stand alone funny as it is. This would make me giggle like a school girl at any season of my life. It is almost a caption out of the Onion but no, it's legit. I love that this company is primarily one that 'straightens out' problems so to speak but also helps with hand lumps. I think there is some correlation here. Enjoy! it makes me so happy on so many levels: head up, no shame, no mo'!

That's what she said. (I'm not sure if that joke really works here on this situation but Ms. Catherinette from the Catherinette Chronicles could make it work).

Crooked-Penis Drug Developer Rises After Pfizer Deal
2008-12-18 21:19:55.668 GMT
By Catherine Larkin and Rob Waters
Dec. 18 (Bloomberg) -- Auxilium Pharmaceuticals Inc., the
biotechnology company developing a drug to treat penis curvature
and hand lumps, rose the most in seven weeks in Nasdaq trading
after Pfizer Inc. bought the rights for as much as $485 million.
Auxilium, of Malvern, Pennsylvania, gained $3.39, or 15
percent, to $26.28 at 4 p.m. New York time in Nasdaq Stock Market
composite trading, its biggest jump since Oct. 30. Auxilium said
late yesterday that New York-based Pfizer, the world’s biggest
drugmaker, would help develop the shot Xiaflex for 46 European
and Asian countries.
The medicine targets Peyronie’s disease, a curvature of the
penis, and Dupuytren’s contracture, a growth of hard tissue in
the hand. Both conditions are caused by the buildup of collagen,
or scar tissue. Xiaflex is a biotechnology drug made up of three
types of enzymes that can break down collagen.
“We continue to believe that Auxilium shares are positioned
to outperform the market by more than 25 percent over the next
12-18 months as Xiaflex’s development progresses and investors
better appreciate its opportunity in Dupuytren’s and
Peyronie’s,” said Eric Schmidt, an analyst at Cowen & Co. in New
York, in a note to clients today.
In Peyronie’s disease, the buildup of collagen on the shaft
of the penis reduces flexibility, causes pain and can interfere
with sexual intercourse. It affects an estimated 1 to 3 percent
of men, according to Weill Cornell Medical Center in New York. In
Dupuytren’s contracture, which is found in 3 to 6 percent of
Caucasians, especially those of northern European descent,
collagen buildup in the palm can contract the fingers and impair
use of the hand.

$75 Million Now

Pfizer will pay Auxilium $75 million up front, $150 million
more if the drug meets regulatory goals and as much as $260
million if it reaches sales milestones, the companies said.
Auxilium will remain primarily responsible for developing and
making Xiaflex, though Pfizer may help with research in the
countries where it has marketing rights.
BioSpecifics Technologies Corp., a Lynbrook, New York-based
company that licensed the enzyme product to Auxilium, said in a
statement today that it will receive 8.5 percent of the money
paid by Pfizer. That’s enough to fund operations through the
first half of 2012, BioSpecifics said. The company rose $3.05, or
18 percent, to $20 in over-the-counter trading.
Auxilium said it expects to file an application with the
U.S. Food and Drug Administration early next year for the drug’s
use in treating the hand condition. The medicine is in the second
of three phases of testing usually required for FDA approval for
the penis-curvature condition and another illness known as frozen
shoulder syndrome.

I am an ATM with a pretty face

One of the by products of being a slob: piles of dirty laundry. I threw a blind eye to it since we got back from Chappaqua when I dumped my bag o' narsty on the floor of our apartment and crashed into bed to never look back. But it seems that the pile had a raucous party and melded together with the pre-existing piles of clothing. This organism morphed into a godzilla-sized behemoth as I tripped on it last night and it sucked me into its nether world of soils, smells and sin! I also knew I was in trouble and in need to do the wash when I saw that my undergarment supply was low and may need to resort to leaves or towels as surrogates or else go commando! When the ant hill of clothes become a mountain, I prepare two bag fulls (almost like body bags) for the local cleaners to pick-up, take care of and take off my hands. The only disturbing thing is that when I call in, the tone of the owner goes from curt and almost belligerent at first to overtly ecstatic at the mention of my name. Even my wife is not THAT happy to hear from me. "Oh 11D (they don't know my first name, just the apartment number and the last name on my credit card which to them, is synomous to them as the sound of money ($cha-ching$)? How are you? You got big bags?". But my friends, who also go to that cleaners tell me that the owners are rude and unruly when they drop off clothes, so it makes me think that I am single handedly paying for their kid's college education and other luxuries each month with my laundry. Come to think of it, they are wearing fur coats, have gold capped teeth and are salivating when I drop in. Used again; I am just an ATM with a pretty face.

Will the real John Oklahoma please stand up?

Have I told you how it irks me to know that there are other Phil's with my last name in the world? Growing up, I was the only 'Phil' that I knew from kindergarten through high school . I felt pretty special and unique and really thought that I was the one to literally "phil" the void in the lives of the masses (excuse me, I caught some narcissism recently with the changing weather and all). I have been humbled since entering the workforce. Ever since working at my company, not only were there multiple Phil's, there were multiple one's with my last name. Even less probable, they were in the same building and one was an IT guy on my floor such my name would get shouted out on the floor from furious people having system issues and my heart would sink each time. Damn that Doppelgänger! I have had confrontations with my bizzaros before (none friendly); we have taken each other's building ids; I have intercepted their emails and phone calls and sometimes have even replied as if I were them. We are differentiated in the directory by our middle initials which is how we differentiate each other in communication: T, K, and J (me). Even such classifcations are confusing and I have offered that we should change our names to our psuedo pornstar/code names using the simple formula of Middle Name + Childhood Street Name on which one grew up. Mine would be "John Oklahoma" of which I am absolutely proud and obviously, have received no response from that email pitch to them. In due time, because there is justice in the world and because I won the popularity contest, Phillip T's and Philip K's were pushed out of the company and equilibrium was reached again. I realize that this is a sick account of my need to be loved, to be precious and rare which underlies some deep insecurities and a needy complex but at least you are not married to me. The reason why I bring this all up is that I went out for drinks with some of wife's high school friends, most of whom I have met before. Usually, I am good with faces and names but there was one guy who seemed familiar but we did not introduce ourselves or anything, we just struck up a conversation as if we were old friends, and all I could do was tag him with generic monikers like 'bro', 'dude', 'dawg', and 'hoss.' After having a ten minute conversation with the guy, I went to the missus to get some info only to find that I was dancing with the devil incarnate himself and the "missing link" in the evolution of my species. He was slightly taller, had puffier hair, sweat a little less than me, but was as gregarious (but not as funny) version of me and his name was the same: Phillip John. Okay let the record show that I have the most common Asian last name but shut your face. In that moment, I do not know how we or the world did not blow up right then and there but it was surreal. How does that happen? Now, how do I get rid of him? Will the real slim shady John Oklahoma, please stand up?

What is your pornstar/code name (formula of Middle Name + Childhood Street Name) ?

Monopoly Manwhore

Monopoly: Recession Edition

Courtesy of MPP

This weekend we went to our friend's house in Chappaqua (where the Clinton's live). There were about eight of us and we did everything together from cooking dinner, cleaning up, and creating the next Partridge Family via RockBand. It was magical, really, as if we had created our own commune like utopia that was aiming to be self-sufficient. After the first day though, it was clear that we only knew how to consume rather than contribute anything into the pot and if I had put my money on it, I would say that we would end up starving and in the poor house by early next week. With that dream foiled, the missus and I turned to looking desperate and pathetic enough to negotiate a potential adoption situation whereby we could become dependents of our hosts. I have no issues acting like a 3rd World Asian adoptee a la Brangelina's Pax or Maddox, if all the benefits are included. Also, Babyboo is not a problem as she is so tiny that I can tie a string to her and wear her around my neck like a charm, only enhancing my overall appeal. If anything, I think I could be the house's court jester or if asked (nicely), a concubine. The weekend was fun though and culminated in a grand game of Monopoly. But the way we played was not your Dad's version of the game. I can confidently say that within 2 hours, we, as a group had mimicked all the bubbles and shortfalls of our current economy and flushed it down the pooper via a complicated web of ponzi schemes, moral bankruptcy and Wall Street leverage shenanigans such that the game became a Great Depression scenario. The tip of the iceberg involved selling off tranched cashflows from properties to several players on the board who really had no right to the underlying. One could own risk weighted shares if someone landed on Marvin Gardens for example but had to take on losses of the player selling the tranches, if applicable. With such idiotic schemes, our games always end in bitterness and personal attacks, so the standard flipping of the board in frustration by a player was the sign that we should stop. I was down to my last couple of dollars and had mortaged my properties, my future, my wife, and my soul. I was so ready to offer my body for liquidity but to my surprise, there was no bid out there for my 'product.' What's a manwhore like me supposed to do?

Proof that God Exists! I have a picture

Today marks the one year anniversary of when I asked a special lady to take me in for a lifetime and when she said no, I went to the next name in the directory and my current Babyboo said, 'Why not, I'll give it a go?' See? Miracles happen and God exists. That day, pigs flew, hell froze over, and I made the biggest sale of my life: the sale of me! We got married a couple months later. As you can tell from the picture, her face utterly reeks of 'unbridled, orgasmic, euphoria'. I can remember how it all went down: there were teary eyes, heavy hearts and a deep gnashing of teeth that resonated the night. Some had lost bets, some, their lunch, and others, their hero* (*hero* here, is an embellishment). What am I talking about here? I am talking about the day when some brave soul chose to it take upon herself to play Jesus for the masses and take this behemoth (me) off the market and save some of her female sisters from my predatory advances. In other words a year ago today, I proposed to my boo and after she said 'yes' to the ring, she said 'yes' to me too! Prior to taking the dive, I remember getting a lot of dudes hating on the whole marriage thing. They could not understand this move on my part, because they thought that I had so much going for me: good looks (like Richard Simmons), success (? HA!), wealth (come on, I'm Free Phil), a harem of ladies (maybe a harem of dudes). I had to lock this puppy in before she knew that she made a pact with Satan's spawn. After I did it, I remember receiving a large number of conciliatory (NOT celebratory) messages to pass onto my girlfriend/fiance saying that they feel sorry for her but are glad that its her who is playing charity and not them and that a support group would be forming on her behalf (I seriously got more than three texts like that). It had all went down in my hometown of Chicago and involved some overly complicated plan of surprise and subterfuge that worked out in the end with deafening screams and severe crying (I was very emotional). Afterwards, we went to a celebration dinner where my family was waiting and to her surprise, her family (flown secretly in from Queens, NY) was there as well. If you look at the picture above, you will see my usually gorgeous girl in some 'roid rage happiness (she was so happy that she beat me up later that night). To be honest, the best excitement that I remembered about the whole night came when we changed our relationship status on Facebook to 'Engaged'. Happy 1y Babyboo! Please don't leave me.

Selling my body to stave off the recession

Yesterday, I went out for client drinks for the first time in a long time. I am in sales (and if this story is any indication of the future, I will be selling my body soon). Since the economy has decided to home itself in the pooper, there has been a marked decrease in the entertainment situation at work and I think everywhere at companies. The pinching of expense budgets renders us as impotent sales eunuchs, forcing us to further leverage our extremely good looks and devastatingly charming personalities (I am leveraging negative yields on the good looks and charm area, so I am screwed). It is so bad that I do not think my company is even having a Christmas party, much to the dismay of FreePhil. Anyways, I do not know if the client was showing me charity, but he picked a run-down dive bar to go watch the Bears/Saints game and that was win-win situation for me: cheap drinks/go Bears! We drank and drank, and ate and ate, drooled and drooled, talked shop and rooted the Bears onto victory. When the time came for the bill to be paid, I loosened the old purse strings, blew off the dust and slapped down the old corporate card. Then it happened: CARD REJECTED! That is a nightmare situation for any salesperson and I had to check that I did not wet myself as sometimes happens when I am deeply embarrased or okay, just in general. "All right," I said to the customer, "pony up what is in your pockets." But yes, I took care of the bill with my personal credit card and some of the customer's pocket lint. Yet, the paranoia was strong in me with newspaper headlines screaming of layoffs and unemployment everyday and so, you can believe that I was on the phone with the credit card company to find out what they know about my future employment outlook. Also, it did not help my psyche that my company keycard to the front door did not work this morning either. Someone had to vouch for me to get in. I do not plan on leaving the building today and will probably crash here under my desk for the weekend. They must have mistaken me for another Free Phil ( my company has four people with my name in the directory), right? Please? Anyone?

Free Phil and Franzia

There is an axiom, a gospel, if you will, that I know with certainty in my heart of hearts...say it with me, "Free Phil (that's me) loves Free Food." It's the best tasting. Actually, let me be honest, Free Phil loves free anything. Like a self-established charity, I will take in anything you will give me with no judgment or prejudice. That hideous hawaiian shirt that is in my regular wardrobe rotation? Free. That box of old Franzia wine that someone didn't take home from a party? Mine and free! Don't hate on the box wine. Yesterday I went to a Knicks/Nets basketball game, it wasn't a company event but rather, a (forced) donation from one of my good friends, who is a sports reporter for a local NY sports network. I don't like the Knicks/Nets necessarily, but I sniffed out the existence of the tickets and was motivated by the potential aromas of deeply fried Aramark concession foods warmed by steam tables. I figured it was a good payback for helping him with all the witty signature sayings that we have tried to come up with together for things he would say on the air when going through the highlights of the games he covers.

Basketball:
"I want to lick you up and down until you say...Diop (Maverick's Desagana Diop, that is)"
Baseball:
"David Wright hits this ball into 'Section C U Later Baby'."

Okay, so those were terrible and he owes me nothing and I probably need to support/care/nuzzle him should he get eliminated from his job for such asinine sayings. All that being said, the action was intense last night in the network box with an overtime type of marathon affair: Chicken Fingers with Fries, Nacho Supreme, Buffalo Wings, Sushi, Pizza, Cotton Candy, Italian Sausage and enough beers to stew them in. I was so bloated and sweaty that my body was making its own gravy. I was so distracted, I don't even know what happened at the game.

"Who let this guy in here?" I heard the network people say.

Cleaning before the Cleaning Lady Comes

Now you see it (and a lot of it!)


And now *POOF* you don't have to. OMG! Where did it go?



We had some friends over yesterday for a little get together at our place. This was something that we had marked on our calendars weeks in advance but the only problem is that we are lazy bastards and had not cleaned our place since Thanksgiving. As the law of entropy says, everything moves towards disorder and our place was cluttered with laundry, garbage, bodies (maybe) and definitely the strong stench of human brokenness. We had two hours to clean up the place or at least create the semblance of cleanliness before the show must go on. This mission impossible was going to be a test of our marriage and trust in each other for a common goal: avoid public shame to and judgment on the good Selfdeprechaun name. This was going to be a cover-up, a spin situation, a tail that wags the dog scheme. I'm not talking murder or politics here. I'm talking about hiding, boxing, throwing away, putting a blanket over evidence of anything unsightly in order to create this 'Mr. Clean' fantasy world that guests are supposed to believe we live in daily. The audience will see a sparkle from the floor and think, 'wow we can eat off these floors' but the reality is that just an hour before, we actually were eating off the floor and the sparkle comes from residual pizza grease. This is some of the same shame-motivated actions that drive people to frantically clean before the cleaning lady arrives (I've done it, you've done it) or the same risk/rewards that children weigh when asked to clean their rooms: instead of really cleaning their rooms, they stuff all their toys, junk, clothes, etc in their closets or under their bed in a half @$$ed attempt at the task. If I have been blessed with any gifts from the powers above it is in pulling these situations off. I can pile puddles of pants, Us Weeklies, loose papers, and stuffed animals (don't judge) in one pile and put a blanket/towel (several) over them like covering a corpse so that it looks non-descript. I can stack several bags of junk high into a closet (pyramid style) so it stays balanced. I wanted to put our trash in there too but the wife would not let me. Unread mail, bills, and newspaper articles that I will read someday are stuffed under the couch and under the bed to make nice with the dust bunny colonies. Our dishwasher was full, so I did a cursory wash (meaning, I just turned on the water) of the dish piles in the sink and just stacked them where the clean dishes were (we still don't know which is clean or dirty) in the cupboards. For her part, I showed Babyboo how to 'clean' the bathroom: Step1: douse the place with bleach; Step 2: Put bottles, lotions, and everything else in the tub; Step 3: to make the mess magically disappear, pull the shower curtain closed (TADA!) and Step 4: for the final touch, light a candle. We got it all together before the guests arrived and the placed looked pretty good. Deep down, we knew that the place was really on the verge of falling apart but good enough to get us through a couple of hours. Does anyone else go through this circus? Apparently they do. An hour into our get together, one of our friends went into the bathroom and came out and remarked how clean it was gagging from the strong bleach fragrance. We smiled nervously and then in a whisper & wink to me, he said, "from one bathroom cleaner to another, the tub is my favorite place to hide stuff as well." At least there was not a dead body in there.

I heart Padma Lakshmi

Everyone gets starstruck now and then, and I think its fair to say that everyone has had a mini-obsession with someone (perhaps a television or rock star) who seems extra dreamy or a little bit larger than life. To be clear, this is not an account of my obsession with myself, although I can see how I could be the apple of many people's eyes, including my own. I will not deny that I have three personal mirrors on my computer monitors that are strategically angled to capture an almost panoramic ME-fest each day. Pardon my narcissism please. On Saturday night, I met up with my wife to walk her to a dinner to which she was supposed to go before we parted ways, as we both had separate plans for the night. It felt like any given night, but when she asked me what I was going to be doing, I mumbled something vague about this and that but could not look her in the eyes. A drop of sweat trickled down my forehead, despite the cool NY temperatures. I felt guilty and a little sheepish as if I was a little child trying hard to keep a secret and yet, could taste the imminent sweetness of getting away with something unbeknownst to his parent's knowledge. She looked at me suspiciously as if she knew what I was up to, but I was calm, cool, collected and quickly gave her a 'Judas' kiss and scurried off to do what needed to be done. I was late for my secret rendezvous but hurried to the Whole Foods downtown. With great anticipation and a singular purpose, as this was something I had circled on my calendar, months before, I took my seat and was there and ready:

What? To stalk..er, I mean, meet my obsession

Who? The lovely Padma Lakshmi, who is the host of "Top Chef," a reality TV show

How? At a book signing for her new cookbook. I confess that I have been to two other book signings for her. I impulsively bought her new cook book again (I now have three).

Unfortunately, each time, without fail, when my turn comes up to lock eyes and start a witty conversation with her, I somehow become an ESL (English as a Second Language) student and pure nonsense drools out. In defeat I walk out with yet another 45 dollar cookbook. Also, I had to confess all this to my wife later.

**I did not have my phone with me this time but this is a picture from one of the other signings. See that she has a nice even tan and I look like a corpse. Also, if you look in the picture, our hands are almost touching on the table. I wanted to take a picture closer to her but her people's told me just to lean in where I was.

Victoria's Secret? Bait and Switch

Despite the recession and all the somber news that is out there (I weep and hold myself every time I email/read a doom and gloom story), the highlight of last week was that my Babyboo (self-proclaimed greatest wife in the world) let me watch the Victoria's Secret Fashion Show with her on Wednesday. This seemed too good to be true and a trap about which my buddies had warned me since getting married. I tried to tread lightly, getting assurances that there were no strings attached, that there would not be divorce papers after I turned on the TV or that I did not have to pay some upfront pay per view fee to her that night. It was legit: she said that she just wanted to watch 'slammin' bodies and the new fashions that they were wearing' and I concurred with equal but mutual interest asserting that I strictly wanted to see how the 'slammin' new fashions wore the super models' (see the logic spin there?). During the show, Babyboo proved to be my soul mate as we tried to outmatch each other with our witty, shallow judgments upon each runway model and how ridiculously thin they were (they must have had a rib removed at their waist and they look like they weigh as much as my second chin). But she was wowed by the different fashions and trendy styles and kept on asking me if I liked everything. Deeply distracted, I said I did and played off any of my obvious lusting as an objective love for haute couture and how such art adorns some of God's creations. Well, the night ended with her making me practice my catwalk (in an "I'm too sexy" fashion) and yes, I kind of liked it. Here's the rub though: this weekend, Mrs. Deprechaun came home with a couple bags from the V. Secret store saying that she was so inspired by the show and by my enthusiasm for the styles/fashions the other day that she thought I would not mind these purchases. Essentially, she is saying she is 'too sexy' for this recession. Foiled again by Babyboo! But, as long as I don't have to wear what's in the bags, I guess it was all worth it.

"If at first you don't succeed, buy her another beer!"

On the weekends I have been mentoring at a school tutoring program in Harlem. Now, I am no saint but just another ridiculously handsome, deeply compassionate and strapping Korean man. And, as I have said before, deep down, in fact, the motivation for volunteering has been more preemptive and sinister: I figured that I would probably have to do community service at some point in my life for my sins and perhaps, I will be able to cash these credits in at the time of sentencing. Ironically, on a personal growth front, I have found fulfillment in the fact that I have been able to better relate to those on par with my emotional and intellectual capacity: Kindergarteners. We share common traits: equal parts shouting, crying, dangling snots, and attention deficit disorder. What usually happens during the session, however, is that I will lead the kids in some school lesson and then arts and crafts activities. In response, they give me no respect, no one really listens and most of the time, the kids throw rolled up paper balls at me while laughing at my expense (really, this treatment is no different than what I get at home or work). Then I go home exhausted and thankful that the session is over, but while undressing at the end of the day, a deluge of little paper balls that have accumulated in my shirt crevices shower the floor for the final mock. Yet, masochistically, I go back week after week. This week, I wish I had not gone, however, because we had a field trip to a local state park and in short, it was a mob scene of hyper kids all out of control and running around in 15 degree weather (even our granola bars were freezing rock hard). I tried to think of all ways to calm down (tire out) the kids: we went through the trails, we went to the zoo there, we ran around here and there and yet, the kids seemed to be gaining in energy and were still climbing all over all the mentors. So it was that much more satisfying when the mentors suggested playing dodge ball with the kids and with great joy and enthusiasm, we channeled our stress and frustrations into soft, spongee balls and pegged down all the kids a la Billy Madison. Game after game, I liked targeting this one kid who had this bright orange hat that read (the kid did not even know how to read) "If at first you don't succeed, buy her another beer." Ahh so classic and that was my star student! I do not know what is scarier: the youth of America or the youth of America under my mentorship. You would trust me with your kids, right?

Loving the Deprechaun

I guess I can see that being married to me is not necessarily the 24/7 tropical paradise of sweet lovin' and unending happiness that I contextualize it to be in my head. I got married at the end of May and was so euphoric that someone would take me in and am continually amazed, happy that she has not runaway from me since. I roll over in bed and she is still there! So it turns out that sweet, lil' ole' me may, on those rare occasions, be quite exasperatingly annoying. My wife, my 'Babyboo' gave me a good talking to yesterday of some of my adorable quirks inflicted on her, my destiny. Maybe it is my constant prodding and reminder about how great and amazing she must feel everyday to be married to me and how I would love to be her to be queen for just one day out of the eternity with which she has been blessed. I defend those gushings as uncontrollable outbursts of my self-diagnosed narcissism similar to the reflexive cursings of tourette's. She pointed out how she is perturbed when we are experimenting in the kitchen with cooking and I proclaim myself executive chef and her the intern. But then again, I do not really have a hand in the cooking but rather just taste, overseason and criticize but come on, that's what the Anthony Bourdain's do these days though. And maybe this is going overboard but please understand that my fault is that I care maybe too much. Perhaps, during the night when Baby Boo is sleeping, I will apply Clearasil to some of her troubled, oily spots on her visage. I realize this is how you say, 'interesting', but I think the results of magically clear pores in the morning are well worth the creepiness. And if that was not enough, the straw that broke the camel's back is apparently my proclivity to do a little special dance in public places, for no reason, a la the old school pro wrestler, Ravishing Rick Rude where I put my hands on my head and swing my hips in a gyrating movement. It is objectively stunning, really, so there is no reason for her to hate. Well anyways, she is a patient woman and I gave her some perspective to give her some relief: while she must spend the weekends with me and maybe 4 waking hours on the weekdays, it is no match for the 12-13 hours of awesomely bad Philness that my co-worker Dana (my work wife) must deal with everyday. And with that faulty logic, the wife actually felt better about it all.