Matt Chung's Site

Author: mattchung

  • Blistered fingers

    When I first started playing ukulele, about six months ago, I would occasionally wince when lifting my fingers off of the nylon strings.  Because in the beginning, the flesh of my fingertips were fresh, no callouses. But slowly, over time, after repeatedly striking down on the strings, my fingers gave birth to a new layer of skin, a thick coat protecting them from the piercing pain caused by the strings.

    And now my fingers are repeating the same painful cycle.

    About a week and a half ago, I started playing my new guitar that’s strung with steel strings, thin and sharp. And last Saturday, I lost track of time, jamming away for a little over an hour. The next morning, my index finger was throbbing, a blister forming at its very tip. As a result, I’ve been unable to play any of my instruments, giving myself a week to let the blister heal (and hopefully develop into a callous). Even now, as I type this up, I twinge in pain every time my left index finger strikes the keyboard.

  • Lessons learned coding the quicksort algorithm in assembly (i.e. MIPS)

    About six months ago, I enrolled myself in a computer organization (i.e. CS1410) course offered by University of Northern Iowa and I’m taking it remotely from Seattle, where I work full time as software engineer at Amazon (Web Services).

    I’ve completed about two thirds of the course, which consists of sixteen homework assignments and three proctored exams, my most recent homework assignment requiring me to code in MIPS, a low level programming language known as assembly. More specifically, I’m tasked with implementing the quicksort, a recursive algorithm, to sort a sequence of integers.  This homework assignment targets teaching two important computer science concepts: the run-time stack and calling conventions.

    Normally, I complete one homework assignment per week. However, this homework assignment was extremely challenging, taking roughly two and a half weeks to complete. The first couple days I dedicated to drilling the quicksort algorithm into my head, ensuring that I could visualize how the program actually sorts elements in the sequence, reading article after article (and sections from the books that have been collecting dust on my bookshelf); the remainder of the time I spent deep diving into writing the assembly code, typing code and executing in a MIPS simulator.  I cannot explain the number of times I grew frustrated, banging my head into the keyboard, because of program crashing.  At one point, I was stuck — for three days straight. None of my troubleshooting skills pinpointed me to the root cause.  After three days of staring at the code, I finally discovered the problem: I was corrupting the run-time stack.  After modifying one single line, updating the instruction to subtract 24 instead of adding 24 to the stack pointer (i.e. $sp register), the quicksort program ran flawlessly.

    All in all, I found the homework assignment as challenging but rewarding.

     

     

     

     

     

  • Dog palace

    On Saturday, just before the sun began to rise, Jess and I began loading our luggage into black Mazda hatchback for our Christmas trip from Seattle to Los Angeles. Normally, when packing, we haphazardly shove our suit cases into the trunk and squeeze bags between the front and back seats. But this year, we decided to leverage the installed roof rack, purchasing a black cargo bag capable of storing up to 15 cubic feet.

     

    Roof rack from Amazon basics
    Roof rack from Amazon basics

    Storing all our luggage — two ukuleles, a carry on suit case, Christmas presents for family, dry freezed raw dog food-— overhead freed up the entire rear of the car, allowing Jess to set up what she calls the dog palace:

    Metric sprawled out in the dog palace
    Metric sprawled out in the dog palace

     

  • Reading my first science fiction book

    I just finished reading my first science fiction book!

    Up until three years ago, I really only read non-fiction books (e.g. The Power of Habit, Outlier) with the single purpose of expanding my intellectual knowledge.  I read to increase my depth in a subject (e.g. programming) or read to pick learn about an entirely new subject (e.g. locksmithing). However, I’ve come to realize, after my wife pursuaded me to read the Harry Potter novels, that I can read for fun — no pressure to soak in new information.

    So, about six months ago, my Italian colleague (who wears a heavy beard) from Dublin flew over to Seattle, where the Amazon headquarters lives.  While he was in town, I suggested that, since he’s an avid reader, we swing by my favorite local, Seattle book store: The Elliot Bay.

    Elliot bay bookstore in Seattle
    Elliot bay bookstore in Seattle

    So after work one day, we made plans to hit the book store so I launched the Lyft app (sorry, no Uber for me since reading Susan Fowler’s post that revealed the company’s rampant misogynistic culture) and popped in the destination address.

    When we arrived at the bookstore, we scattered in different directions. While mindlessly sauntering, I recalled a memory of me visiting (about 8 months ago) my team’s office located in Dublin in order to ramp up as a new hire.  One afternoon, I was sitting next to my colleague and on next to his laptop sat a thick, six inch novel — a science fiction book, the front cover painted with emerald green.

    So, back to the book store. While we were walking up and down the various aisles at Elliot Bay, I leaned over and asked him if he could recommend me a science fiction book, a genre I was unfamiliar with and a genre that, up until that point, I had zero interest in. As if he was born for this very moment, he scuttled over from the poetry aisle over to the science fiction section and began scanning the shelf, his index finger running horizontally along the books, his focused eyes rapidly reading the titles. And then, he stopped.  He gripped a tiny blue paperback, the title boldly printed with: Caves of Steel.

    Front cover of Caves of Steel
    Front cover of Caves of Steel

    I ended up purchasing the book but maintained my low expectations.  I had always imagined that science fiction was too abstract, a genre rammed with plots and story lines that disconnect from anything resembling reality.  I preferred literary novels — To kill a mockingbird, Boys in the boat; novels that capture the human struggle.  Science fiction is just unrealistic, right?

    I couldn’t have been more wrong.

    I absolutely fell in love with the book (and the genre) and blasted through it within a couple days.  Although the book centered around robots, the plot was not so farfetched. In fact, reading page after page, I found myself empathizing with the main character, Elijah, a police detective who laments working with his robot partner and who fears that one day, he’ll be automated out of a job.

    The book was written and published in the 1950s and the author — Asimov, the defacto father of robots — paints such a realistic picture of the dystopian future, a future not so out of the question, considering that I currently live in a modern day dystopia: net neutrality was killed in the US today. Furthermore, after finishing up the first book in the series — I’m now on to the second book, The Naked Sun — I can better understand how Elon Musk’s vision (immigrate to outer space) was shaped by Asimo.

    In short, if you think that science fiction only appeals to a certain group of people, do yourself a favor and go pick up one of Asimov’s books (e.g. iRobot, Caves of Steel) and I promise you that you’ll lose yourself in the plot, in the writing, in science fiction.

     

     

  • Dog done run & pool party

    Last Saturday, I woke up at 06:00 AM (about 30 minutes later than I normally wake up on weekdays) and slipped into a striped, cotton t-shirt that my sister bought from target for my last birthday and my favorite knee length corduroy shorts, dressing myself in preparation for a 2 mile, dog friendly run in Tacoma, a city 45 miles south of where I live in North Seattle.  I found this event advertised in the pet connection magazine, a free and well circulated newspaper that’s often laying around in the local coffee shops and I decided that, since my wife was gone for the weekend on a women’s retreat, me and our two dogs would kick start the morning off with some exercise.

    The night before: eating sorbet ice cream with the dogs
    The night before: eating sorbet ice cream with the dogs

    In addition to the 2 mile run, the event included exclusive access to a city owned swimming pool that was opened up for pet dogs.  The pool was to be drained and emptied out since summer was coming to an end, so the parks and recreations center decided to allow, for a small fee, owners to bring their dogs in for a swim.

    So after getting dressed, I loaded the two dogs in the trunk of my ford escape, fired up the engine, popped the address of the parks and recreation center into Google Maps and then hopped on the I-5 freeway.  I had left the house an hour and a half before the event started, leaving myself 45 minutes of buffer; I did this for two reasons: I hate being late and I almost always get lost despite having directions.  And good thing I did, because the latter proved true once again, because when I arrived at the destination that I had initially keyed into Google Maps, I found myself pulling the car into an empty parking lot, a clear sign that I was in the wrong place. While idling in the parking lot, I opened up my phone’s browser and began typing away, searching for the correct address.  Eventually I landed on the event website, which had the address plastered across the front page.  So I took this new address and proceed to hop back on the freeway.

    After driving 10 minutes back in the direction I came from, I eventually made it to the right location.  I was certain I was in the right place this time but not only was the parking lot packed like a can of sardines, but when the drivers (dressed in running clothes) opened up either the doors of the backseats or trunks, their dogs would leap out.

    Now that I was in the right place, I harnessed Metric and Mushroom, and the three of us sauntered over to the center of the park that was bustling with people and dogs, finalizing my registration under registration canopy and then pinning my micro-chipped racing tag to my chest.  I then stepped over to the next canopy, where grocery sized bags, filled with goodies sponsored by Mud Bay, were laid out in rows along a table.  I grabbed two bags, one for each dog, and then returned to my parked car, where I locked all my belongings (e.g. phone, wallet) into the glove compartment.  With my pockets empty and with the two dogs amped up, ready to go, I proceeded to the starting line.

    Two canopies, one for registration, the other for gift bags
    Two canopies, one for registration, the other for gift bags

    A crowd of us runners and our dogs huddled around the starting line, where the event coordinator, a tall man with the voice of a lion, was making some announcements, primarily house keeping items like thanking the sponsors of the event and directions on how to navigate the course.  While he wrapped up his speech, I snaked my way to the front of the line, a leash gripped in either hand.  After his final announcements, he announced that the race was beginning and counted down, ending with “Go!”

    And we were off.

    I began jogging at a reasonable pace, a pace of about 9 minutes per mile.  But after the first mile, Metric and Mushroom were no longer bolting in front of me.  Initially, they were galloping like horses, practically dragging me to the front of the race. But they slowly began to run out of steam, their tongues flopping to the side of their mouth, panting louder with every step.  And even though I wanted to power through and maintain my position in third place, I decided (after realizing that I was damn happy that the dogs were healthy enough to run this race with me) to reduce my jog down to a walk, stopping at the next check point, where bowls of water were laid out for the dogs.  Metric and Mushroom practically slurped up the entire bowl.

    We ended up finishing in 4th place, both dogs completely drained and ready for their nap.  But as soon as I walked them over to the swimming pool, they were suddenly filled with energy, as if they didn’t just run 2 miles.  I unleashed them from their harnesses and the two of them dashed into the water, spending the next hour paddling in the pool, constantly fixing their gaze at me, their way of signalling me to toss a tennis ball for them to fetch.

    I really enjoyed the event—running 2 miles and letting the dogs to swim—and will definitely return to Tacoma next year for round two.

    Metric and Mushroom staring me down, saying "THROW THE BALL!"
    Metric and Mushroom staring me down, saying “THROW THE BALL!”

  • Practicing my ukulele

    Over the past month, I’ve been investing more time in learning the ukulele, sitting in the office area in the morning, strumming and picking my soprano ukulele for at least 30 minutes either in the early mornings or just before hitting the sack.  In addition to my daily routine, I’ve not only been taking weekly, 1 on 1 lessons from a local instructor in Seattle but I’m also reading books (favorite one so far was a short, 40-page book on music theory) and watching videos, playing along with the instructors from The Ukulele Underground.  I find this website very impressive not only for the content itself, but how well organized it is, breaking down the website into different levels: beginner and intermediate and advanced.  The organization of the website allows me to find exactly what I’m looking for. And when I cannot find the content I’m looking for, their staff is very responsive, replying to my messages.

    In addition to my practice routine, where I drill scrumming patterns and drill my understanding of music theory, I make sure to carve out time (even if it’s just a few minutes) to just enjoy the instrument, playing songs that I like.  Isn’t that the whole point—enjoying the beauty of music?

    Speaking of songs that I like, here’s a video of me practicing the introduction to the song Stand by me. If you watch the entire 20 second video, you’ll be blessed with the special cameo appearance.

  • Returning to social media?

    For the past year and a half, I’ve disconnected myself from all my social media accounts: Facebook, Twitter, Instagram.  Those platforms still presumably store my data (e.g. posts, images, chat logs) but I no longer log into the system, neither consuming or contributing any content. This disconnect was motivated by several reasons.

    First, I had originally cut myself off from social media because I found myself mindless scrolling through the posts, spending an hour here, an hour there.  This would happen multiple times throughout the day; anytime I needed to occupy myself with something.  I felt as if I losing what I consider the most valuable currency: time.

    The second reason is privacy.  It’s not that I’m looking to retreat into a hole, never to be seen, hiding from the government.  If that was the case, I wouldn’t be posting on my blog.  But I do struggle with the idea that these organizations (e.g. Facebook, Twitter, Instagram) mine my data, applying algorithms and selling my behavior to other organizations, other organizations that then, in turn, shove unsolicited advertisements down my throat.  But I’m not surprised: these organizations are in the business of selling information. You and I are not the customer; we’re the product.

    But, despite my long absence from social media, I’m reconsidering using these platforms.  Because during lunch this past weekend, my sister’s 11 year old step daughter shared a different perspective, a glimpse of the value of social media.

    Since she lives in southern California, only able to visit my wife (who she absolutely adores) and I about once every few months, she stated that with social media she was able to “stay connected … the only way [she] could see what’s going on in [our] lives.”

    Touché.

    Unless I’m blogging, unless I’m sending them direct e-mails, nobody has a damn clue what’s going on in my life. So, she’s got a point.

    Unfortunately, I tend to forget that other people (i.e. close friends and family) might be interested in what’s going on in my life, just as interested as I am in theirs.

  • A sneak peak of my wedding photos

    Although Jess and I legally married six months ago (February) in King County Court, a municipal court in Seattle, we threw our wedding ceremony just three weeks ago.  The Saturday ceremony was held in Malibu at Great Spirits Ranch, a ranch that overlooks the Pacific Ocean and Ojai mountains.  Most importantly, this venue was dog friendly, allowing our two dogs—Metric and Mushroom—to roam free throughout the entire day.  It was at this spiritual ground where 120 of our closet friends and family from all over the world—New Zealand, Texas, London—gathered around to celebrate our special day.  Below are a sneak peek of some photos, while I draft up another post on lessons learned from being married.

     

  • Caretaking

    Every Wednesday morning, I attend therapy. Not the physical kind, where one goes to rehabilitate some injury afflicted by blunt trauma. Rather, I sit in a cushy sofa chair that’s positioned six or so feet away from Roy, my psychotherapist, and I voice not only what I’ve been thinking—the primary focus of cognitive behavioral therapy—since the past week, but most importantly, how I’m feeling.

    Oh yes, the feelings.

    After listening to countless stories, week after week, Roy discovered a recurring pattern, a behavior of mine that tends to bleed through my day to day life: taking on the role of a caretaker.  From speaking up to my co worker when they are unable to speak for themselves, to feeling embarrassed for someone when they feel awkward. And for the last six months, I had assumed that role was a positive characteristic—something to be proud of. Something I should pin to my shirt and flaunt to others. But recently, just a few days ago, I looked up the definition, searching Google and I eventually stumbled upon an article that defines caretaking as:

    Caretaking is a dysfunctional, learned behavior …

    Wait—what? A dysfunctional, learned behavior? How in the world can caretaking be a dysfuntional behavior, let alone a negative trait?

    As it turns out, my definition of caretaking is diametrically opposed to the real definition. Caretaking is one of many behaviors that fall under codependency, a group of behaviors that causes us to have unhealthy relationships. Someone who exhibits these behaviors is called a codependent, who may exhibit one or more of the following:

    • think and feel responsible for other people—for other people’s feelings, thoughts, actions, choices, watns, needs, well-being, lack of well-being, and ultimate destiny
    • anticipate other people’s needs and wonder why others don’t do the same for them
    • feel safest when giving and feel insecure and guilty when somebody gives to them
    • find it easier to feel and express anger about injustices done to others, rather than injustices done to themselves
    • abandon their routine to respond to or do something for someone else
    • not know what they need and need or, if they do, tell themselves what they want and need is not important
    • feel different from the rest of the world
    • fear rejection and take things personally

    This is not a complete list. Those are just a few codependent characteristics that ring true for me, characteristics of mine that I’ve always considered part of me.

    Can you relate to any of them?

    If so, I recommend you pick up this book: Codependent No More – How to stop controlling other sand start caring for yourself

    Coupled with therapy, reading the book has really helped me not only better understand and become aware of my anxieties and angers and frustrations, but also the source of all those feelings; taking care of everyone around me instead of taking care of the person who needs it the most.

    Me.

     

  • Be a man

    He wears a mask, and his face grows to fit it – George Orwell

    Are you a masculine man?

    How does one even define masculinity?  By the American, western definition, a masculine man is someone who carries a heavy beard on his chiseled chin, speaks in a deep Clint-Eastwood voice, commands respect from those around him, seductively winks at women from across the bar, enjoys drinking a six pack of Pabst Blue Ribbon, controls and suppresses his emotions, never revealing his feelings.  An alpha male.  A homophobe.  By those standards, I rate pretty low on the macho scale:  my chin grows two whiskers about every three weeks, my tone of my voice falls within the falsetto range, when I wink it looks like a nervous tick, I quit drinking beer and hard alcohol for close three years (part of my recovery), and since I started seeing a therapist (apparently, still taboo these days), I’m much more in touch with my emotions, crying more than all my childhood years. Combined.

    But what made even think about masculinity?

    To be honest, I’ve never really paused and contemplated my masculinity, let alone put words on (digital) paper.  However, I recently streamed a movie on Amazon Prime called “The Mask You Live In,” a documentary recommended by some of my wife’s friends from the “Viets who give a shiet” group, who joined us in our home for dinner a few weeks ago, when several deep conversations surfaced, one of them being on masculinity.  I had opened up to them, revealing my battle and recovery from addiction, a shameful part of my life that I had hid from everyone for many years. Including myself.  But that part of my life was something I came to terms with three to four years ago, when I began confronting my demons, facing them head on. Instead of dodging them. Cause you can never really quell your demons.  You cannot silence them through sheer force.  You can try and push them down, but like a slinky, it’ll eventually spring out.

    And this lead me to thinking about my future children.

    When I listen to my parents—divorced since I was a young age, about the age of three or four—share their view on having kids, their words basically boil down to “It’s love you cannot describe … it’s conditional.” They see how much I love the dogs, how I take them for walks every day (no matter the weather), how I feed them the ideal canine diet (all raw baby), how I sprawl on the carpet and smother them with kisses—but still, they say “Imagine that feeling, but 100 times more.”

    The fact that I’m thinking about kids makes me chuckle because I never imagined having kids until recently, now that I’m in my late twenties (I tell everyone that I’m 30 now, to soften the blow for future Matt).  And when I think about kids, I deeply think about how I (along with my wife) am going to raise them.  If we have a son (and I hope we do) I think about my future conversations with him, how he’ll repeat the words that flow from my mouth and mirror my behavior.

    What message do I want to send to him?

    Well, I suppose a few things. First, I want to teach him that it’s okay to cry.  Really, it is.  I’ll encourage it.  I’ll actively fight the words that have been inculcated through society and media, words like “man up” or “be a man.” What do those words even mean?  At best, they hold no value, at worst they’re damaging, teaching him that a masculine man swallows his emotions, instead of understanding and most importantly, honoring them.  I want him to be in touch with how he feels, allowing himself to just “feel” (that’s probably the biggest take away that I learned from therapy).  Second, I want him to feel comfortable under his own skin, never carrying an ounce of shame, which is different from guilt.  Guilt is feeling bad about something you’ve done, and shame is feeling bad about who you are.

    You see, I was never comfortable under my own skin until the last few years, and that lead me to adjusting my external, physical appearance—like tattooing my entire arm, from shoulder down to the edge of my wrist—to mask an internal insecurity, hoping people would perceive as some type of person that I’m not.

    But most importantly, I want to be there for my children, physically and emotionally.  I want to show them that I’m not only listening with my ears, but with my eyes.

    So, what message do you want to send to your children?

    What mask do you wear?