Getting Shit Done

Everyday when I sit down at work, I think that, yep, that's it, this is the day, today's the day I'm gonna get some shit done. Then some jackass decides to interrupt me as I am settling down to write on my blog. What? Does he think his report is more important than the blogosphere? The world will not end if he does not get his quarterly sales report, but if I don't put a post up, some kid out there is going to decide that he's going to end his life and become straight. We have a freakin' gay agenda to take over the world by recruiting young teens into our ranks. The world has not yet seen the strength of our wills, the firmness of our resolve, or our fearsome, killer outfits. We have the ability to cut you down from twenty feet away with a devastating, hurled insult.

At first I tried to get some blogging done over the lunch hour, thinking that this would be a good way to be a conscientious worker while using company property for my own private use. I figure they cancel each other out. However, this plan backfired because people seemed to think that even though I had a sandwich in one hand, since I was still sitting at my desk, I was fair game for more of their bullshit work.

To disguise my activities at work, I type my posts into a Word document and then cut-and-paste it into Blogger later. I will usually also have a fake spreadsheet up on my screen so that the combination Word-Excel documents on my screen makes it look like I am hard at work crunching numbers, even though I'd much rather be crunching my abs.

I've had to do this at work because my boyfriend doesn't like how much time I spend on my blog at home. He complains that sometimes he feels that I am not paying attention to him, especially when he's giving me blowjob and I am typing at the same time. What? I'm multi-tasking! Once, he got so angry that he walked away before I came--that was just petty.

He told me that I didn't know how to prioritize. He said, "We're gay, sex should be all-consuming to us. What's next? Hair care products? I'm putting an end to this now."

Contrite, I went over to him on the couch and put my arms around him. "I will love you for as long as I live," I said, "but the love I declare for you in a blog post will live forever in cyberspace. Think about it." I am usually not so mushy, but I really, really wanted to come very badly; my blue balls were killing me. But he didn't buy it.

So now I am forbidden to blog at home. Occasionally, I would try to sneak in a couple of comments in my friends' blogs while I am taking a crap. Once, I even pretended that I was taking a shower just so that I could write down an idea I had for a blog post before I forgot it. But more or less, I don't blog at home anymore.

At least my boyfriend hasn't forbidden all use of my laptop computer. I can still use it for legitimate purposes like surfing for gay porn.

Thank God for small miracles.


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If you're blogging from work, don't get dooced.


Technorati Tags: Humor Gay Queer

Stolen Car

Check out my new remix:



Stolen Car
(DJ Evil Twin's East Meets West Remix)
Beth Orton
DL here (right click, save as)
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DL these:

Sinead O'Connor - You Made Me The Thief Of Your Heart (DJ Evil Twin's Celtic Magic Remix)
Janet vs *Nsync - That's The Way Love Goes (DJ Evil Twin's 2005 Remix)
Everything But The Girl - Single (DJ Evil Twin Remix)
Annie Lennox - Step By Step (DJ Evil Twin Remix)

Guess you didn't know: I Am The Evil Twin

Thanks to Paul Pellerito from In My Own Words for hosting.

I Carry Your Heart

It must be some kind of defect in my tear ducts that the moment the sappy string music is cued in a dramatic movie scene, they start flowing.

Granted, I am emotionally vulnerable, having just left my family behind in the Philippines. Add to the fact that I am afraid that the plane must crash because I am in it. God cannot possibly allow me to continue living, being in a happy well-adjusted homosexual relationship, it would make Pat Roberston a liar and rock his brand of Christianity to the core. All these factors have combined to make me a wreck on the flight home.

In the crowded flight to Chicago, I tried to stay awake as long as possible so that I can sleep through the night when I get home. Consequently, I watched all the movies that the airplane's personal video screen had to offer. By coincidence, these seem to be all the movies that my boyfriend Brian refused to go see. Dreamer, Pride and Prejudice, Just Like Heaven, it's a chick flick film festival and I've got free tickets. What could be better? I've got dinner, a movie and no obligatory blowjob afterwards.

At first, I had been surreptitiously dabbing at my eyes whenever the tears started to fall. I mean, even though I am a homo, it is kind of embarrassing to be crying in public. It's so freaking unmanly you know, to have your mascara running. Plus, red-rimmed eyes and a runny nose are just not pretty anywhere outside of a coke binge.

But by time Dakota Fanning and her horse Sonya in Dreamer were separated, I was bawling openly. The guy sitting next to me was clearly getting uncomfortable, especially when my snot rags started overflowing into his tray table. I was at the point when I had already used up all my tissues and was now blowing my nose into the used wet ones, creating huge holes in them.

We encountered unexpected turbulence. It was very rocky. The captain had put up the Fasten Seat Belt signs. I was sure that was it, my final hours. I was praying that it would all be over soon so I don't have to endure Jennifer Lopez anymore in An Unfinished Life. I had often hoped that if I were to die, at least I would've been watching an artsy, foreign film with subtitles, so I can die with some dignity.

Fortunately, Satan was on my side and I continued to live.

The last movie I saw before the plane landed was In Her Shoes. Loved, loved, loved the movie. I will list all the things I love about this movie and you can call me a fag because it's true and I don't care: superb Toni Collette; boozy, sexy Cameron Diaz; Shirley Maclaine in an old folks home; Mark Feuerstein, the sexiest Jewish actor ever--I would so like to make out with him; strappy Jimmy Choos; poetry by e.e. cummings and Elizabeth Bishop.

The only thing that was bad in the movie, and I am nitpicking here, is that I didn't love the way Cameron Diaz read e.e. cummings' "i carry your heart with me" in the final scene. I don't think she gave it the gravitas that it deserved. I mean, this poem is one of the most beautiful love poems ever and I just didn't feel it coming from her. You know who would do this poem justice? Alec Baldwin, whose narration in every movie I've heard him in is just fucking perfect. You should watch Prelude to A Kiss and listen to his narration. That man has a gift; he can make the word 'diarrhea' sound sexy. He could read this poem and make me swoon and lick his thick, hairy chest.

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
                                    i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

There is truth in this poem, because no matter how far I go, the people I love are always with me. The words to the poem were still in my head when I got home to my boyfriend Brian and afterwards, when I was e.e. cumming on his face...


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Another poem from In Her Shoes: "One Art" by Elizabeth Bishop, which is about loss, also touched me. Boy, you guys must think I am a real faggity-fag-fag.

Also in the movie: "Let Evening Come" by Jane Kenyon

My favorite e.e. cummings books

This is part of a series of posts about my vacation in February of '06 in the Philippines. Read the rest here:

Part 1: The Long Way Home Part 2: Starvation Part 3: Fake Plastic Food Part 4: My Old Room Part 5: Autopilot Part 6: Jetlag

Part 7: A Conversation with My Father Part 8: Archeology Part 9: A Conversation with My Mother Part 10: Redeye Part 11: I Carry Your Heart Epilogue: Fun with Fake Poop

Technorati Tags: Humor Gay Queer Books Movies

Redeye

9am. The last day looked liked any other day except that the sun phoned in the sunshine and the heat, a mustered effort. The humidity struggled to rise, while the clouds layed about in the sky trying to catch some rays. I noticed one of them, a paunchy, grayish white cloud wearing a tiny silver lining of a thong bikini. The other younger clouds pointed and giggled, whispering among themselves.

I am myself today, although somewhat lighter, hollow. We went about the day as if this was just another day, rather than the day of my departure. Our smiles stretch the husks of our face. I imagine this is what botox must feel like.

Noon. The camera is now a part of my limbs; a protuberance, an extra thumb or finger. I am taking pictures almost desperately, trying to capture the would-be memories: my father in the kitchen; my mother sewing a pillowcase; my brother trimming his toenails. Will I ever see them all again like this? Should I tell my brother to stop smelling each toenail before throwing it in the trashcan?

6pm. My sister brought her brood of four to see me one last time. By next February, my little nephew will be ten, my niece six; their minds would've grown by lightyears. The toddler will have learned to talk, whole words where now there are only the sound of words. Will you remember me, I asked him with my eyes. I was the one who gave you the Lego blocks ten days ago. I will surely remember you, little one, especially when I open my Visa bill this month. I gave them all big hugs and loud, wet kisses.

For the preemie, the tiny baby born with a hole in her heart, a soft kiss on her tender, downy head.

8pm. I have packed the night before. I picked up the luggage from my old room and loaded them into the trunk of my dad's car. The bags should be lighter, the gifts I brought from Chicago for my nephews and nieces have all been given away. Yet, I feel like I am going home with baggage, heavy and full. My shrink in Chicago will be happy to see me, a late, late Christmas bonus.

At the airport, as we were saying our goodbyes, my father went gay and gave me a hug and a small kiss. He slipped me $200. For the trip home, he said, buy yourself a little something. That amount can feed a small shanty town for a month, according to Children International; I could blow through it in one drunken night in a gay tavern.

See? He's not a heartless ogre. He chose to sustain my alcoholism instead of some poor child with a swollen belly and a mosquito for a pet. He's not the villain in the piece, I just painted him that way, just like my mother is a not the martyr and a saint and I am not a blameless innocent.

11:55pm. My eyes tear up as I board the flight to South Korea, connecting to Chicago, the redeye. Red eye, I thought to myself, how appropriate!

I found my seat and buckled in. I leaned back into the headrest with my aching eyes closed, my head throbbing...


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This is part of a series of posts about my vacation in February of '06 in the Philippines. Read the rest here:

Part 1: The Long Way Home Part 2: Starvation Part 3: Fake Plastic Food Part 4: My Old Room Part 5: Autopilot Part 6: Jetlag

Part 7: A Conversation with My Father Part 8: Archeology Part 9: A Conversation with My Mother Part 10: Redeye Part 11: I Carry Your Heart Epilogue: Fun with Fake Poop

Technorati Tags: Humor Gay Queer

NMP, in the news

After years of aiming for some level of blog fame, this blog has finally been noticed by the media! Leave it to the folks from Down Under to recognize this blog for its incredible contribution to the community. I think that they realized that without this blog, the world wouldn't know that this amazing level of mediocrity can somehow exist.

The Melbourne Community Voice, a GLBT newspaper in Australia, has written a few nice words about this site. MCV must have a ton of readers because in the three-odd weeks since the article has been published, this site has garnered exactly two clicks from there. I know this because like everyone else with a site counter, I obsessively review the stats every fifteen seconds.

The article also mentions a few other blogs, but who cares about them? It's all about me, me, me!

Surprisingly though, Technorati somehow managed to miss this particular mention of my blog. Is it possible that there were others that were missed? Shock! Blogs are probably being mentioned and their owners are completely oblivious. This is an outrageous breach of the public's trust! Should we throw a collective hissy fit? Let me know and I'll organize it.

Check out the article!

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If you're having difficulty retrieving the article, here's a screenshot.



Technorati Tags: Humor Gay Queer

A Conversation with My Mother

"Don't you ever think about leaving all of this?" I asked my mother.

"Where am I going to go? I am sixty-three, an old woman with no job, no career," she replied.

"Do I find a new husband, go out on dates?" She laughed bitterly at that. "I am an old woman," she repeated. "Who wants an old woman?"

"Am I to live on my own? Am I to live with my children, who've made lives on their own?"

She paused, "Am I to live with you?"

It was a rhetorical question, or so I hoped.

Then.

"Yes," I said. "Come and live with me." It was the right thing to say, though I was afraid she'd take me up on it.

She looked at me, reading my heart.

"No, this is my lot. This is where I belong," she said. "Thank you for the offer, you are a good son."

A good son. Those three leaden words hang heavily around my neck.

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All About My Mother - Think you can handle it?

This is part of a series of posts about my vacation in February of '06 in the Philippines. Read the rest here:

Part 1: The Long Way Home Part 2: Starvation Part 3: Fake Plastic Food Part 4: My Old Room Part 5: Autopilot Part 6: Jetlag

Part 7: A Conversation with My Father Part 8: Archeology Part 9: A Conversation with My Mother Part 10: Redeye Part 11: I Carry Your Heart Epilogue: Fun with Fake Poop

Happy Birthday To Me

These are ten presents I gave myself today:

1. Squeezing the toothpaste from the middle of the tube.

2. Not cleaning the litterbox.

3. Not throwing out the garbage.

4. Not shaving. My legs.

5. Wearing jeans to work (because I can).

6. Coming half an hour late to work.

7. Not returning any phone calls.

8. Ignoring the jammed copier.

9. Reading your blog.

10. Leaving half an hour early from work.

Technorati Tags: Humor Gay Queer