My Fiscal Year

Hails of 'happy new years' are being casually thrown about this week like George Bush and his claims of victory over terrorism. I've even tossed out a few myself.

But sometimes I feel like my year isn't over. There are many things I've planned to get accomplished this year that I haven’t gone around to yet. Cleaning the oven, throwing out old condiment packets from ten years ago, telling my boyfriend that I'm really nine years older than he is rather than the two I said I was.

Lying about your age is easy when you're Asian like me because my delicate features easily camouflage any signs of aging. I just have to stay away from any direct sunlight.

We Asians age very, very gracefully. Did you know that Lucy Liu is 37, BD Wong is 43 and Pat Morita is dead? I didn't think so. However, I think my boyfriend may be starting to suspect something. He's made comments about my chronic deafness, driving in the middle of the lane, and my insistence on wearing my ratty pajamas and slippers out to get Starbucks.

I mean, why does the year have to be over? I'm pissed.

I don't like it when people tell me, it's over, that's it, times up, another year wasted on spinning on my wheels. It's like the time when my ex Jim told me that our relationship was over after he caught me fucking his roommate. I was indignant. I told him it wasn't over until I fucked his other roommate too. I was just waiting for the other roommate's cold sore to clear up before I went for him.

Where was fame? Where was fortune? Where's my fucking blog award? I thought I'd be the most famous gay, Asian, dairy-phobic person on earth by now. Instead Sulu from Star Trek has all the glory. If I had a phaser right now it wouldn’t be set on "stun." He'd be burned to a crisp like peking duck and I'd be eating him rolled up in mandarin crepes, scallions and just a tiny little bit of duck sauce.

Sometimes, I wish that we can all live in our own little fiscal year, like the company I work for. Our fiscal calendar started last June and ends in May of next year. Living in a fiscal year could mean the difference between a good year and a fucking great year, especially if there was lots of fucking.

There are still so many things I should've done this year.

I've lied to you all. When I said I was 'out' to my family, I meant that I have said everything but "I am gay" to my mother, my father and my sister. I thought that telling them I could name all the Best Musical Tony Award winners since 1968 was exactly same thing.

When I told my mom that I was gay during that trip to Florence, Italy four years ago, I should have said that in English. I thought that since we were in Italy, saying "Sono frocio" would be more glamorous than plain ole "I am a big fag." She smiled and patted my arm as we sailed on the gondola.

I thought, years ago, when my mother asked when I was going to settle down and getting married and I replied, "Mom, I am never getting married, I will never have any children without adopting them, and I am settled down..." my voice trailing away, that I was telling them I was gay. I thought that by saying Brian and I were living together made it clear.

My mother, who would try to cram all the gossip about each cousin and high school acquaintances without taking a breath during our long distance phone calls, was silent for nearly three minutes before she continued talking. I thought that meant she understood.

I thought it meant she accepted me.

But in a phone call I had with her last Christmas, she casually asked if there were any girls I was interested in. I said no, there are no girls. Again, she was silent, but only for a few seconds before moving on to a story about my darling nephew, who is now in third grade.

Maybe next year I’ll definitely tell her, in no uncertain terms.

Maybe next year.


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Check out these posts:

Coming To Terms - nate, a visitor, mongers hate and flings curses. All About My Mother - Mom schemes and plots and becomes a Master Spy.

...and a happy new year - A phone call to my father where we grunt, hem and haw. Machinations of My Mother-in-Law - My evil MIL uses her powers to control her children.

Brokeback Mountain

When it comes to male-to-male sex in movies, I am completely jaded. The problem is that when filmmakers make these movies to cater to gay audiences, they think that all we want to see is the nudity. I think they really totally missed the point. We want to see ourselves portrayed just like real people. We want to see homos to meet, fall in love, and live happily ever after with as little clothing as possible.

Brokeback Mountain is not that movie. First of all, they wear plaid. Second of all, the movie is set in Wyoming. Everybody knows that any gay kid over eighteen moves to a city where they have at least one gay bar that plays Madonna remixes. Third of all--did I already say they wore plaid? I mean, I don't think it would have bothered me so much if it was at least accessorized with Irony. A little ironing might have helped too.

But for what it is, Brokeback Mountain is an excellent movie. I am not going to extol its virtues here because frankly, I'm sick of reading about this movie in blogs. There's so much gushing about this movie, it could sweep away an entire village. If this happened in Asia, it would trigger a tsunami. The Red Cross would have to provide relief by killing the victims. Besides, the last time I heard so much gushing was at a Beverly Hills colonic spa.

However, I do have to say that the best thing about the movie is Heath Ledger and all the mumbling he does in it. I can't wait for him to be nominated for an Oscar for Best Performance by a Mumbler. He totally made me cry even though I couldn't understand a word he said. Now, that's acting. I can't wait for the inevitable gay porno version of the movie (Bareback Mountain--what else) where the bottom mumbles his way through an orgasm. It would be a welcome change from all the excessive moaning and groaning they do in porn.

I do remember getting a boner during the movie. But you don't really want to hear about that, do you? Yeah, I'd rather you see it. It's a beaut.

At some point during the movie, Jack Twist (Jake Gyllenhaal) tells Ennis (Heath Ledger) that after 20 years of being together, having sex three times a year wasn't enough for him. Then he cries like a leeettle guurl. He's lucky he even has sex. After being with my boyfriend Brian for four years, the only thing we do in bed now is fight over who's in charge of the TV remote.

What did Jack expect? That gay sex is eternal, a continuous neverending chocolate fondue fountain? Gay sex is just like straight sex, except without the designer bedsheets, the twelve pillow shams and the stubborn lube stains.

But this movie isn't about sex. This movie is about True Love. And True Love can't be about sex can it? Because all this time, we've been telling ourselves it's the relationship that matters. And if it wasn't about sex, well, then we're totally fucked.

I don't think this movie is gonna change anybody's mind about gay people. It may change people's mind about Anne Hathaway though. Lovely, innocent, pristine Anne Hathaway, the star of the Disney movie The Princess Diaries blinds us with ten seconds of her smooth, milky white boobs. I think if I were I a straight guy, I would sit through two hours of True Gay Love just for a glimpse of those boobs. God knows, I sat through two hours of A Home at the End of the World for two blurred seconds of Colin Farrell's balls.

What will change the minds of people is if this movie makes money. Because that's all people really care about. That's all politicians and businesses care about. It doesn't matter what the fucking right wing conservatives think. They don't matter.

The good news is that this is a really good movie, maybe even a Great Movie, so you don't have to suffer through it or anything. I'm sure you've suffered through a really, really bad two-hour dinner just because you wanted to fuck the brains out of some really hot dish and I'm not talking about a warm apple pie. So go watch the movie already. Merry Christmas, you big homo.

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Washer and Dryer in Unit

When I saw the listing a couple of months ago for our apartment, there was a long list of upscale features and amenities, but I couldn't read past the words "washer and dryer in unit." It was like the words were a roar in my ear: washeranddryerinunit, jumbling all over themselves in tumble dry low.

Up until now, I had to take our laundry out to the local laundromat where Brian and I would meet up with a group of other non-washeranddryerinunits. We are the Laundry Gang, as if making a name for ourselves makes us more cool and exclusive. We would drink coffee and lament our washless, dryless station in life as we looked enviously at other individuals who were obviously doing shopping, laughing, enjoying life and definitely not doing laundry.

These are people who put their dirty, soiled clothes directly into units in their homes when they are otherwise unoccupied: watching tv, washing dishes, crank-calling their grandmothers. They probably have so much time, they are the people that chat with those pesky telemarketers. I mean, somebody must talking to them otherwise, there would be no money to be made in telemarketing.

They probably have no use for a gigantic laundry hamper, needed to store a weeklong pile of soiled clothes. We have three. They are blue, cylindrical and made of a tough vinyl cloth. If you tip all three of them on their side, it makes our place look like a hamster habitrail.

But ever since I moved in with the washer and dryer, I no longer had to hang out with the Laundry Gang, those pathetic, deprived individuals. But I will anyway; I like to feel smug.

I felt like I was the United States and they were the Third World, their mouths hanging and their eyes round as if our new appliances were hot, buttered loaves of bread. I want to tell them about all the advanced features just to be cruel. I'm just human.

The first week, I did laundry every night. I separated the cold wash from the hot wash, the delicates from the perma-press. I got excited at the sorting possibilities, I no longer have to throw everything in the same load to save money at the laundromat. I grew creative with my sorting: work clothes, formal attire, casual sex clothes. I sorted whites, colors, my glow-in-the-darks (which are perfect for the backroom at The Ram).

I remember once, I had thrown in a single pair of white briefs with the colors because I had already started the load of whites. I could make a joke about white loads here, but that's why the briefs needed to be washed.

Anyway, the briefs must have decided to elope with my red sweatshirt while it was in there because when it came out, it was pink.

I still wear that pair of now-pink briefs as a reminder of my folly, my ineptitude, and because it was quite lovely. You could never buy pink briefs because they don’t make 'em that way. And even if they did, I wouldn't have the nerve to buy them.

I wish I could 'accidentally' drop my red sweatshirt along with a white silk handkerchief and a doily into the washer and it would magically come out as a pair of lacy, pink silk panties. I would be so giddy with joy.

But even if I don't need to go to the laundromat ever again, I don't think I could stop going. These poor washeranddryerinunit-less people who I hang out with have become my good friends. Our weekly laundry sessions are just a reason for us to get together, enjoy each other's company and to be friends.

For that, I would gladly trek across town to do laundry, have coffee and pretend to not have washer and dryer in our unit.

Bubbling

You know, an automatic seat warmer in a car is a wonderful thing--except if you have bubbling super-explosive diarrhea.

I mean, I love my trusty Jetta. It has all sorts of handy dandy little features like the seat warmers; power windows and doors; the automatic gay announcer. It’s peppy, it’s cute and so convenient for carting a bunch of fags around town.

Today is Casual Friday and it is always a dilemma for me. This is the one day I get to express my individuality. So, this morning I was running late because it took half an hour for me to decide whether a thong was too dressy for Casual Friday.

As I was putting the final touches to my outfit, I felt a little twinge in my stomach that by experience I know is a precursor to SCB--Super Colon Blow, the deadliest of diarrhea. It must be the tacos I had from that neighborhood Mexican restaurant last night.

But I was running late and it was just a twinge. Maybe it'll go away. I'm always optimistic in the morning. It is only after I wake up that my whole world turns to crap. I just hoped that today it wouldn't be literal. I forgot to bring any reading material.

Freezing today, I turn on the seat warmers. Big mistake. Eight minutes after I drive away, the warmth emanating from the seat traveled from my ass to my stomach, like the flame under a wok, a wok which I’d like to use to brain the guy at the gym who keeps cruising my boyfriend. I clench my butt together in an effort to staunch the impending eruption and exercise my glutes at the same time. If I could hold on for another twelve minutes, I would be at work and relief. A little later, you could probably bounce a quarter on my ass from the exercise.

It was the longest twelve minutes in my life, bar none. It reminded me of the shortest twelve minutes of my life when I met the love of my life whom I had met online and was feverishly exchanging gooey instant messages. It ended when he sent me his picture.

I could also tell you about the longest eleven minutes of my life, except it doesn’t really count because it was more like a series of 20-second intervals of holding my breath while giving a blowjob to a one-night stand who had serious body odor. I’m sure the guy had put on deodorant, but after hours of dancing and sweating, it wore off. It was BAD, but I bravely blew on--I had to be true to myself and my reputation as a slut.

You know how when you’re trying to hold off the inevitable, how excruciating it is, just like that time when I had to tell a guy I wasn't going to bed with him after he bought a $200 lobster dinner? I didn't know how to tell him I already had crabs...

When I finally got to work and dumped my load, it was like salvation or an enema, I don’t know which. Either way, I was 0.73 lbs lighter.

All I can say is thank God for butt-wipes, you know, those "personal moist wipes." I’m glad we figured out that not only babies needed those wipes. They came in handy today. I felt fresh as Daisy Fuentes afterwards.

I think that the Mexican restaurant I went to should really provide single-use butt wipes along with their take-out food, like wet-naps, you know, as a service to their customers.

I know I would’ve appreciated it.

You Made Me The Thief Of Your Heart

Check out my new remix:



You Made Me The Thief Of Your Heart
(DJ Evil Twin's Celtic Magic Remix)
Sinead O'Connor
DL @ bestsharing*
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*If you are using Firefox, the song downloads, but may need to be renamed to a .mp3 extension.



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