Monday, September 11, 2006

Saturday nights are usually invested in stock far less weighty than complex interracial relations at the local Pei Wei, but come to think of it, I haven’t purchased enough delicious lettuce wraps either. I was identified as a “real Asian man,” which was certifiably fortuitous coming from a real Hispanic boy, and I don’t see many of those around these parts.

Now, there was a time when this would’ve fired a minor crusade, rioted upon my holy city of Asian awareness in a dangerous clank, but that time was back around high school or something, maybe on a Wednesday afternoon when I very nearly cared. On this night, I was dismayed by the sheer inaccuracy of it all because–holy shit, incidentally–I’m white. It’s been confirmed.

You’d think for every dozen restaurants there would exist a single gym with a good indoor track, and I’d nod vigorously to your grand ratios. There should be one, wouldn’t you think? Not in this time-space continuum. I don’t want a high-tech elliptical contraption equipped with a Calorimetertator and dried sweat from a thousand woeful souls. A round plot of floor will do just fine. It’s time to look harder.