Responses

Hmmmn. Not the avalanche that I expected, but here are a couple of responses I got for my Ad on craigslist:

This one seems to be from some girl who thinks I have drugs.

Hay, I use to be a lesbian, but now I am with a guy. (Don't worry we are 100% drama free no one thinks you are gonna put your eg roll anywhere!) But I was just wondering if you played guitar? I have been looking on craigs list for a gay guy to just hang out with. I had a best friend who was gay in Cali but then I moved here to Chicago and miss that best friend relationship between a guy and girl with out sex. I got a guira for christmas and I am not good at all but I am trying. I have asked for one since I was like 7 and they finally get me one when I am 19. Ha, anyways I too am way into comic books (LOve YOU BATMAN!), music, love hip hop and other verious things. If you don't mind a beginner to just kick it with then get back at me.
Also 420 friendly 8)

-kaitlyn

This one just wants to give a shout-out and also brag about the fact that she has a band.

I thought your ad was funny incidentally.

I'm not gay, but I like guys as friends. Unfortunately, guys only pretty much want women friends they want to sleep with.

i started with guitars years ago--who didn't? and moved into vocals and drums, along with keys and bass. I have a band of my own--huge Journey fan. To the point of tattooing.

I laughed twice reading what you wrote: the Dolce thing, and the eggroll line. You must know 99.6 percent of what's up here is barely literate, much less cleverly funny.

Michelle

Curiously, no guys have tried to hook-up with me. What? Did gay guys suddenly develop modesty and chastity this new year?

Sigh. I guess I will have to find some new guitar friends in my class, the old-fashioned way, by pretending to be somebody completely different from myself...

Personal Ad

You know, when I was single, I hated personal ads, primarily because I thought that most of them were deceitful, if not outright lies--or at least the ones I wrote were.

I mean, it suited my needs pretty well: I exaggerated my physical appearance to the point that I might've been describing Colin Farrell, even to the point of posting a candid shot of a younger Colin.

That people tended to be surprised when an Asian guy opens the door didn't bother me; everybody knows the biggest hurdle you have is to get the guy off the computer and out of his house. After that, it's a downhill ride, because once the guy took the time to meet you, more than likely they'll just say: fuck it, I'm already here, I might as well get a blowjob from this Asian guy, maybe I'll get a fortune cookie afterwards. Do you know that you can get a bag of fortune cookies for $2.50?

It's been a long time since I've thought about putting up another personal ad. And the some circumstances have changed as well: I'm no longer single; I am a decade older, but I still want to meet new people, particularly ones that can play guitar so I can improve my own skillz.

However, I've had to think long and hard about what to write in my new ad so that I don't, one, sound like some pathetic loser; two, creepy non-stop masturbating perv; three, fresh-off-the-boat Asian. And I have to do this, even though I am all three. I feel like it would be easier to just show up and bring a fortune cookie--I still have half a bag full.

But after some serious heart-searching, and using the creative definitions of "normal" and "sane," I posted the following ad on craigslist.

Gay Guy seeks Guitar Grrl

i'm looking to improve my barre chords, so would like to find a gay girl(s) to hang out with and play guitar. i'm a gay guy living in rogers park, chicago, 30s, asian. i'm not a straight guy impersonating a homosexual and to prove that, i can tell you the first names of dolce & gabbana: domenico and stefano. there's no way a straight guy would know that.

why a lesbian? because i really don't want to deal with guys thinking that this is going to end up with some hook-up. ok, i do, but i already have a separate craigslist ad for that--look for the one where it goes "asian guy looking to deliver thick and meaty eggroll".

we could also talk about comic books, the films of charlie kaufman and my obsession with this hot guy i work with and why he doesn't know that i'm crushing on him. then you and i can abduct him and throw him in the back of your pick-up truck. i'm just kidding. we won't do anything of the sort, we can just talk about ways i can stalk him on the internet.

we could meet at the Old Town School of Folk Music on Lincoln where i am going to take an indigo girls guitar class in january. here's the set list i prepared for our first meeting:

1. brian wilson - barenaked ladies (to break the ice)
2. limp - fiona apple (getting a bit serious and deep)
3. hold on - wilson phillips (to end on a happy and hopeful note)

you can propose an alternate set list as long as fiona apple is in it.

I purposely wrote in smallcaps to lend an air of playfulness coupled with an underlying pretentiousness and condescension. I am expecting an avalanche of responses.

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Related posts:

Wanted: Friend - What's the price of friendship?

#1 Single - Lisa Loeb and I are this close. The unlikely friendship of a popstar and a blogger.

Last Will and Testament

In the past few months, I have thought a lot about my Will. I've talked to my boyfriend about what to do in the event of my death.

My death. Sounds sad, melancholy but also, strangely erotic. I know some people prefer the word 'passing' or 'passed' as a euphemism for death, but I don't. It sounds like I died and was farted into oblivion. I can just hear some old biddy saying, "he's passed from this Earth." When I'm dead, please feel free to use 'dead' or even 'kicked the bucket. Or better yet, you can use 'bought the big one' to honor my life as a Size Queen.

Also, I have to do this in case my boyfriend and my mother have a fight about what to do with my heavily muscled cadaver. She's a traditionalist. She believes that I should be laid in state, in a frilly coffin with heavy make-up. I absolute forbid any make-up on my person, unless manufactured by Christian Dior. Also, it must be completely and utterly hypo-allergenic, as my dead skin will break out. Please also consult my color chart as I am an Autumn.

Now, how do I sign this to make it legal and binding? I can't use a pen--writing on my screen will ruin my internet porn-viewing activities. Okokok, here's what I'll do: I'll use a word that I don't normally use in conversation and I'll designate that word to be my signature. The word I choose is 'tittyfuck'. Henceforth, when you see this word on this site, it is my de facto signature, ok?

So here goes:

I, Paul a.k.a. "No Milk," solemnly swear on my stack of Honcho magazines, that this is my Last Will and Testament.

Please do not procure a coffin or plot or funeral services other than that to cremate my heavily muscled body. I do not want to waste any money on such frivolous activities to mourn my passing. Please cremate my remains. However, do not call the leftovers as "cremains." I don't think it makes it more palatable, just like "craisins" doesn't make dried cranberries less icky.

If a memorial is to be held, please gather in some suitable karaoke bar and sing my favorite lesbian songs. Rob! has free rein to sing any song a la Fred Schneider of The B-52's. Somebody will have to do a Michael McDonald impression, since I will not be present to do On My Own (duet with Patti LaBelle). If possible, I'd like Annie to play a cover of a Chris Mills song on her guitar. Annie, start practicing now. By the time I'm dead, you should be able to manage it.

As to the disposal of my ashes, please spread them in some location that is appropriate to my memory, like the Belmont Harbor, Wrigley Field, or the alley behind the Lucky Horseshoe where I got my first blowjob. Please save a small amount to be kept in safe place until such time that it can be thrown into Ann Coulter's face, hopefully in her next book signing.

Financial arrangements will be handled in a separate document, but please transfer all my substantial credit card debt to Elisabeth Hasselbeck. I want her to remember me every time she opens her mouth on The View.

I hope you all will remember me when I am gone as the cultured, funny, wise and good looking friend who loved you. And if you can't do that, just super-impose George Clooney's face on your memory of me.

I love you all,
tittyfuck
(signature)

A Brief Note

On the passage of California's Proposition 8, the constitutional amendment to define marriage as between one man and one woman:

This is a setback, but we have time on our side. I truly believe that we are moving ever closer to gaining equal marriage rights. Don't believe the right-wing. We are winning. Remember when we were in the closet? When coming out as gay was the big hurdle? People don't even care about that anymore.

Here's why I think we are going to win:

We are coming out with our relationships. We are having commitment ceremonies, and we are inviting the world to attend them. We are having children and sending them to schools and having play dates. We are coming out as families.

This is the most important thing: we are coming out as people.

When the world sees that our homosexuality doesn't define us as persons, that we are just the same as anybody else, then they understand that it shouldn't be the reason for denying us our fundamental rights.

Here's my call to action: you've already come out to your friends, family and co-workers. Now, when you have a party, a play date, a ceremony, a shower, a performance, a sports event, anything that you may invite just your gay-affirming friends to, invite someone else you may haven't thought of as accepting.

Let them see us. Let them see how we are just like them, and it will chip away at their resistance.

And having a great hors d'oeuvre plate and fancy cocktails can only help.

Election Day

It's 6am right now and I've been awake since 5:15am. I am anxious, nervous, paranoid but then I remembered to take my Xanax. Ten minutes later, the anxiety and nervousness melts away leaving just the paranoia. Now, I feel normal again.

Brian is still sleeping, softly snoring next to me, dreaming of a Democratic party win, an Obama win.

I lay in the dark planning the Election Day. Should I put on all my Obama campaign gear just in case it might sway a wavering voter? Or should I wear my usual slutty Saturday night outfit since it's been known to sway many a wavering guy? I decide to wear the slutty outfit, but put on an Obama button, pinning it on the fabric on my crotch just in case.

The polling location is just down the street from me. Four years ago, when I voted for John Kerry I was in and out in about 10 minutes. I remember the feeling of satisfaction I had entering the booth, which surprised me because I don't normally feel this way about a booth unless there was a glory hole somewhere in there.

This year could be different, there may be a line, which is both exciting and daunting. I can cruise the men and perform my civic duty at the same time.

When I became a citizen of this country, the last thing I was thinking that I was going to be able to vote. I was only thinking about how it would be easier to find a job, get credit. But now I realize how it has become this important privilege, to be able to elect this country's officials; far far more important than the ability to charge my purchases at Barneys.

I hope we can change the course of this country. I hope we win.

Get out and Vote!

I am hereby interrupting the silence on this blog to call on you to VOTE next Tuesday, November 4th.

If you're a gay, lesbian, bisexual or transgendered person, it is your duty to be counted every single time there is an election. If we don't vote, then we will never be heard. If politicians know that we are a mobilized group, then they can never put us in the margins or leave us out of the conversation!

If you're in California, you must Vote NO on Proposition 8! On Election Day, use your "I Voted Today" sticker as a pick-up line and get laid later. It works! I promise you.


Vote for Barack Obama!


Vote NO to Proposition 8!

Will

Sorry about my lack of blogging. My job is taking up a humongous amount of my time. I think of it as the evil penis vacuum pump that is slowly sucking out my will to live.

I'll be back soon.

Wedding Day

So, while I was at this reception for this gay wedding I attended this past weekend, a friend of mine asked me how my novel was going. I was shocked that my friend was asked me this question, since we were both totally drunk and I once slept with his boyfriend.

I keed, I keed, I didn't sleep with his boyfriend, because I don't think that dozing off for a few minutes after sex constitutes 'sleeping.' Plus I thought that none of my friends actually read my blog, so that it was sort of gratifying to have someone mention it.

Even though gay people have been getting married for a while, this was the first reception I was invited to and truly I was looking forward to see the total freakshow I thought it would be. Which of the grooms were going to wear white; who's going to throw the bouquet; was somebody going to use their teeth to take off the groom's jockstrap. I don't know.

Because the whole thing is sort of new ground, gays can either go totally traditional, which I think would be sort of a joke, or we can make up our own totally new, innovative, but equally tacky traditions. Gay people will totally rise to the occasion and then go overboard. You've seen what we've done to Sarah Jessica Parker. Nuff said.

But the reception was actually quite tasteful and restrained and there were genuinely touching moments, like when they ran a video tribute of some of the guests and family members who looked like they were either struggling with their emotions or there was a gun pointed at their head off-camera. There was also a short video of the actual ceremony (which took place in Toronto) and one of the grooms choked up as soon as it was his turn to recite his vows. I can imagine how it must've felt, like maybe when a tic tac gets lodged in your throat. The thought brought tears in my eyes.

I was also unsure on what to wear to the event, whether it was black tie or casual. And when Brian called our friends up, their answer was, 'wear what you would to a cocktail party,' which made me even more anxious since I had gained some weight since I last went to a cocktail party and I couldn't possibly fit my designer assless chaps without major crisco.

In the end, I wore a charcoal gray suit from the Men's Wearhouse, subdued and demure, in case they needed somebody to valet park cars. I figured I could make a few bucks, and then slip it in an envelope as a wedding gift along with whatever's left from a Starbucks gift card I got for my birthday. I think there's a few bucks left in there. I could throw in a coupon for free tampons, which should bring the total up to $20, the universally accepted wedding gift amount.

If you have the opportunity to attend a gay or lesbian wedding, I am telling you, GO! Support your friends! To me, gay marriage is the most important issue to the gay rights movement, because this is the most basic of rights. You watch, when this issue is decided, all other gay issues like discrimination, immigration, equal access to cosmetic surgery--all will fall in line.

And it's totally heartwarming to see that gays and lesbians everywhere are ready, willing and able to perform one of the most sacred rites in front of all their friends: the Chicken Dance.

Garbage Island

I haven't been able to stop thinking about this since I first heard about it on NPR, this 'Garbage Island' twice the size of Texas which is floating in the middle of the Pacific Ocean.

The island is made up of toxic materials, primarily of plastic and other non-biodegradable material. The reporter likened the currents in the ocean like a huge toilet bowl where water from the various places sweep plastic debris and end up all tangled up, floating (because plastic floats) and trapping all sorts of shit in its wake. Fish and other marine animals eat this shit up which then enters into our food supply.

Folks, that Ahi tuna steak that you are eating probably has been contaminated by our trash.

I have been thinking about this so much that it has knocked off my other obsession of googling my co-worker/crush Todd's name to see if perchance he had ever had naked pictures taken. I don't know if I am the only person who does this, but every time I have a crush on somebody at work, I have to see if I can find naked pictures of them on the Internet. You hear about how people moonlight in gay porn, maybe Todd has a cocaine habit to support. In my mind, I walk into his office and sit on the corner of his desk, and provocatively ask him how big his hard drive is. Pow-chicka-pow-pow.

Anyway, I digress, the idea of an island of trash is just mind-boggling. I have yet to wrap my mind around Temptation Island, an island of skanks. And now this.

Remember that scene in American Beauty where the guy shoots a movie of a shopping bag flying in the wind? I can't stop thinking that that shopping bag is going to be eaten by some fish and end up in my stomach. Long John Silvers serving breaded plastic shopping bag sticks. With tartar sauce.

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WATCH: Garbage Island on YouTube

Single/Bilingual

Here's an interview I did with my friend Joe, who is writing a paper for his English class about bilingual people. I thought I'd share it with you guys.

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When did you start learning your second language?

I grew up in the Philippines. In true over-achieving fashion, I was taught three languages simultaneously - Chinese (Fukien), English and Tagalog (Pilipino), probably because my parents thought that by learning these languages, they could have the tools to mould my character, primarily by swearing at me in different languages. This continued on in my formal education, where the three languages converged into what I call The Perfect Storm of Torment: can you imagine having to learn to read "See Dick Run. Run, Run, Run." in three languages? Boooring! Would it be more interesting if it was "See Dick Slurp. Slurp, Slurp, Slurp." I don't know.

I learned to speak a variant of Chinese called Mandarin when I went to grade school at 7. I was taught some Spanish in high school and college. When I moved to America, I learned the mother of all languages, Pig Latin.

At what point could you say that you were truly bilingual?

I don't know. It's a hard question to answer. It's like trying to answer the question, "when did you realize you were in love with your boyfriend?" The answer that keeps coming to mind is "when he paid for dinner" even though I know it must've been earlier than that, when I first followed him home without his knowledge.

However, I think I understand this question to be the moment when I knew that I had mastered a language. For me, that was when I was having dinner somewhere in Chicago and I overheard someone in the next table say to the waiter, "Ixnay the epperpay" and I understood. It was a great moment.

Did your parents encourage your bilingualism?

Bilingualism sounds like something nasty, like something somebody might have to douche. I don't think they would like that word, I have trouble enough with the word "inheritance". They totally flipped out when I asked them about mine.

My parents encouraged anything that they think would help me get ahead in life. However, they did not encourage my homosexuality, even though it helped me get head in my life.

Is everyone in your family bilingual?

Bilingual, yes. Do they douche? No.

Was there any sort of stigma involved surrounding your second language? first language? Especially from those friends or family who may not have understood the importance?

The only stigma I experienced was that I learned that in whatever language you speak, affecting a lisp was not something you want to do in gym class unless you wanted a wedgie. But it was de rigeur in Drama Club.

Interestingly, since only people of Chinese decent in the Philippines learned to speak Chinese, it was sort of off-putting for non-speakers when Chinese people spoke it among themselves. But I am sure it's not as annoying as when Americans go to Mexico and ask "Where-o is the bathroom-o?"

Growing up, was your classroom or any part of your education Bilingual? Explain to what extent.

Everybody was at least bilingual. My community was multilingual. I went to a private school run by Southern Baptist missionaries, which was where I learned my formal English. People always look at me funny when I say that I am a Southern Baptist, but it's true, I am a true-blue, dyed-in-the-wool, South-of-the-equator Baptist.

Is your comfort level the same for both languages? For reading? writing? speaking?

I feel comfortable reading English the most, Tagalog to a lesser extent and Chinese only when I am taking a shit in the bathroom. Paradoxically, it doesn't matter what language something is written in as long as there is a picture of a penis accompanying it, I totally get the message.

I am most comfortable in English because I think, that just like transgendered people who feel that they are trapped in the opposite sex's body, I was like a rude, loudmouth American trapped in a Chinese delivery guy's body.

Any hesitation in doing any of the above in front of others?

I don't have any hesitation at all, unless I have to do it naked. I am currently fifteen pounds overweight and would have to request, at the very least, a thong to do to it in front of others.

What was the most difficult part for you about learning your second language? Grammar? Nervousness? Intimidation?

Probably the desire to go out and cut class. I figured after I learned the word "shit," all the other words are just stand-ins for this very powerful word.

Do you feel like reading in your first language helped you at all when learning your second?

There are concepts that once you learn it, it crystallizes in your head: the concept of nouns and verbs, the parts of speech, being careful of your teeth when you give head; it helps in the next language.

Briefly tell me your parents and grandparents education level.

My parents were college drop-outs. They learned from the school of hard knocked-up. My grandparents were peasants, salt-of-the-earth kind of people, the kind that could stick their finger in a soup for that added flava. My grandmother invented the salt lick when she went down on my grandfather.


END OF INTERVIEW

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Check out my other interviews

*groan*

I'm still nursing a hangover. Leave me alone.

Get UR Pride On

Some gay people think that Gay Pride should be where we show the world that we are just like your next door Stepford neighbors: harmless and totally benign. Some people think that we should not flaunt our differences, if we want to have total equality.

I totally disagree with this because I believe that we want acceptance on our terms, not on how society views how we should behave. The whole reason we are in the margins is because of our so-called "behavior"--we are deviants. So to want to be accepted as somebody else is just disingenuous to me.

Our identity is wrapped up in our sexuality, our sexual orientation, our politics, our culture and our expression of gender. In my mind, it is the "normies" (nod to Peter Griffin), that need to learn from us and our differences and that can only happen when we can show the world that we can be outlandish, outrageous, out-of-this-world and it's ok, it's normal. For gosh sakes, take that stick out of your ass. Besides, they do it too--Halloween, Mardi Gras, St Patrick's Day, the only difference is, we just tend to have better outfits and better lipsynching abilities.

This weekend, I plan to be hanging out with the rest of my peeps and getting as drunk and crazy as any straight person would be in a parade. I hope to see you there in Chicago Pride!

Facebook

I thought that I was done with these stupid social networking sites, but I guess my desire for Internet Fame is still there. So now, you can friend me on Facebook.

If you don't friend me, I may have to eat a boxful of Entenmann's Little Bites. That won't be pretty and I'll look like this:

Evil Videos

Hey there, I just wanted to post here because while it may seem that nothing's going on, in fact a ton of stuff has been happening at DJ Evil Twin.

First, I have been learning to use MovieMaker to make music videos to accompany my remixes and I've made YouTube videos of all the Tracey Thorn mixes that I've created as a way to promote them. A couple of the mixes have been very well received, but I've also had some people exclaim that they totally suck.

In the past, I would've totally stewed on this and it would be such a blow to my self-esteem that I would be driven to drinking and lowering my standards for one night stands, just to re-assure myself that I am a decent human being.

Has that happened to you? Someone disses you online and it cuts you to the core?

But with the wisdom I've gained through many years of blogging, I've learned to cope with this and take criticism in a stride. I do this primarily by hiding in a closet and smoking a joint.

Check it out below. You can download the mixes here.

  
  
  

Installation

What I feel, when I am at an art gallery, is a feeling of inspiration coupled with a opposing force of jealousy. I marvel at the creativity and the ingenuity of some of the pieces, such that it sparks in me the desire to create as well. But then it also makes me feel totally inadequate and that anything I do will be a pale shadow of these masters. I try anyway, optimism and pessimism co-mingling into one thick soup.

This past weekend, on a trip to Seattle, I visited the Seattle Art Museum, I had a chance to see the original of Mark Rothko's #10. It seemed even more luminous than any reproduction of it I've seen. It seemed simple, yet complex and completely assured. It would be the type of art that some clod would say, "That's art? My two year-old could paint that!" and if I were to be honest, I would also add, "I could do that."

But of course I can't.

In one of the rooms was an installation by Eli Hansen and Oscar Tuazon, called Kodiak. In the stark white room, there is a log which is installed across the room, like a low beam. You had to duck a little to get underneath it. There is a partial staircase and a couple of other small pieces. It is an "architectural fragment" which references and evokes a log cabin or similar structure. The card on the wall said some bullshit about how just these few pieces in the room transports one into the woods and be in an urban setting at the same time.

Then, I had an idea for my own installation. It would be a smaller room, maybe like the size of someone's sewing room, painted white and brightly lit. All the walls will be blank except for a small white card in the far end of the room, which would have the title of the piece. The smell of fart would be piped in intermittently. The title of the piece would be "Silent But Deadly."

I got the idea when I inadvertently farted at Kodiak installation. I had Indian for lunch, sue me. Good thing I was the only guest in there. But as I quickly tried to escape the room, I thought that what could be more transporting to the reality of something such as the smell of fart? Imagine the people visiting my installation, walking in, smelling fart, thinking about the nerve of the person who farted, then walking to the card and reading the title.

It's totally immediate, visceral and profound.

I could even do variations of the piece, like maybe "Smelly Cab" with a fare meter on the wall and the smell of sweat, patchouli and ass piped in...

Podcasts

Add podcasts to my list of time-wasters.

Even though I've had an ipod for a couple of years, I'd only started subscribing to podcasts recently. I'm not really sure why, since I'm such an early adopter--I had gonorrhea of the throat looong before it was fashionable to get it. And the podcasts I'm currently subscribing to have had offerings for quite some time.

What's even more puzzling about this is that these podcasts are free. FREE. I'm not one to refuse a freebie. I send postcards to get free movie sreenings, take home the free shampoo from a hotel, even take a free sample of tampons. I know I know, but I'll find a use for it somehow, maybe fix a leaky roof or something.

This was what ultimately made me finally get on the bandwagon: once, when I was in my car, I had to cut off This American Life on NPR because I had arrived at my destination. I would miss the last part of the radio show. So when I found out about the podcast, I downloaded it.

I only listen to the radio in the car. I find that there are certain things that I do in a car that I don't normally do outside of it. Listen to country music. Have long political discussions. Swallow.

There's something about the enclosed confines of a car that seems to cocoon you from the rest of the world, suspending reality. Calories consumed are not absorbed into the body; ova are impervious to sperm; doing the chicken dance is not embarrassing. This probably explains the abundance of fat, hick parents.

In fact, I was recently listening to a BBC podcast Thinking Allowed, a science talk show that explored how it seemed that people talk more honestly and are more receptive to communicating in a car. This is probably because of the block of uninterrupted time coupled with the seating configuration, which lessened eye contact, making people more honest and apt to listen.

They said that if you wanted to tell someone something important, something you want them to listen to, you should tell them during a trip. It will increase the chances of it sinking in. So I am going to take a trip and tell my boyfriend something important: he does not do a good Barry Manilow impression. I hope he will stop singing Barry in the shower. God, I hope it works.

Anyway, I'm not really a science geek, but listening to BBC podcasts makes me feel more sophisticated. I feel that when I listen to it, I should have some wine and cheese and a side order of mad cow disease. Plus, English accents make everything sound smarter and funnier. I mean, you could yell out 'I'm having massive diarrhea!' and everyone would nod and clap and hand you a lace doily to wipe your ass. Go on, say it out loud in an English accent. See what I mean?

And because you want to be me (c'mon admit it), I'm going to list down what podcasts I'm subscribing to. Bloggers like lists because it's an easy way for us to paint a totally false impression of our personalities. I don't know if there is a way to paint an honest picture of someone except through careful, meticulous and painstakingly applied torture. So here it is, my list, check it out. It's free.


This American Life (Chicago Public Radio)
Wait Wait...Don't Tell Me! (NPR)
This I Believe (NPR)
11 Central Ave. (PRI)
Story of The Day (NPR)
StoryCorps: Recording America (NPR)
Science Friday (NPR)
What Would Rob Do? (NPR)
Youthcast (NPR)
Friday Night Comedy from BBC Radio 4 (BBC)
The Music Week (BBC)
Hmmmn...Krulwich on Science (NPR)
Fresh Air (NPR)
Driveway Moments (NPR)
Design For The Real World (PRI)
Satire from The Unger Report (NPR)
Thinking Allowed (BBC)

Spring Showers Bring May Flowers

I found this in an alley near Wrigley Field.



It's IML weekend here in Chicago. Coincidink?

Open Thread #2

You know what a Dead Pool is right? It's when you bet that somebody that you've put on your list is going to die this year. You do this with a group of your morbid yet fun-loving friends.

Anyway, in celebration of Cher's 62nd birthday today, I am putting together my own less cruel, but still amusing version of the Dead Pool. I'm calling it the Hip Replacement Pool. The way it works is this, whoever's list has somebody in it that gets a hip replacement this year, gets a customized No Milk Please guitar pick AND a DJ Evil Twin CD. But to win, you have to join.

Cher's on my list because I predict that with her Las Vegas show, she's bound to break a hip or something, it happened to Prince.

Here's my Hip Replacement Pool:

1. Tina Turner
2. Cher
3. Michael Jackson
4. Michael Stipe
5. Steven Tyler
6. Mick Jagger
7. Iggy Pop
8. Tom Jones

Add yours in the comments. The more names in your list, the better your chances of winning!

Another Super Power!

Just today, another super power had revealed itself to me, one that I've probably always had but didn't really acknowledge, kinda like like how I knew I was always gay but never acknowledged it until I realized one day I didn't want to fuck my high school girlfriend, I just wanted someone to help me make my audition tape for MTV's The Real World.

My power manifested itself when I walked into the men's room and I realized I could identify every single guy who was taking a shit in the stalls just by looking at their shoes peeking underneath the walls. The guy with the black Sketchers in the first stall was the IT guy Jared; the guy with the loafers who was multi-tasking by also reading a newspaper (I heard the rustle of the pages turning) was Bob, another IT guy; the guy peeing in stall three wearing a pair of Reebok sneakers was an engineering temp--I don't know his name, but he has cool hair.

Is it just me? Am I the only one with this awesome power? I feel powerful and all-knowing! What would my superhero name be? Toilet Oracle Man? Magic Toilet 8 Ball Kid? Diaper Genie?

Should I go out and buy a cape and tights? None of the capes I currently own would do, for instance, I have a black silk cape with a red lining that goes with a tuxedo. It makes me look like a vampire. I wear it on halloween, Buffy conventions, Red Cross blood drives. It's always a hit.

But much as I enjoy having this power, like any other person, I wish my super power was more practical, you know, like having the ability to make anybody shit in their pants at will.

I know I know, you were expecting something like invisibility or flying right? Whatever. Trust me, those abilities will only get you into trouble and you'll probably end up being locked up in maximum security weirdo jail.

But having the ability to make people shit in their pants? Dude, you can bring down world leaders with this power. With one thought I can change world history by making Padma Lakshmi on Top Chef take a shit in her panties and make Antonia win. I fucking hate that smug Dale and the know-it-all Richard. If I had my super powers Ryan would still be on the show even though he can't cook shit. I'd keep him around coz his dimples are sooo adorable.

And imagine what I could have done if I invoked my super power during a Supreme Court confirmation hearing. I was too young to do anything about Scalia, but Justices Alito, Thomas and Roberts would never have been confirmed.

Think about it.

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My other super powers:

Mind Control - I used my powers of the mind during Christmas

Super Powers - These were the powers I wished for when I was young

Birthday Card

I had sent my dad a birthday card last week.

In my card, I had written something different than the usual best wishes, thanking him for all the hard work he's done over the years to support our family, trying to make ends meet. I wrote that even though I am not the son that he might have wished, it didn't change anything, he's done well by me.

Here's my mother's e-mail to me reporting on my dad's receipt of my card. It is interesting (at least to me) to step back and read it objectively; my mother's cadence and use of language is very interesting. I can see my own style in hers.

My sister is going through a rough time right now and my dad has been very worried about her situation, which explains some of the dramatics.

Here is her e-mail, in a largely unedited form.

Dear Paul,

The birthday card you sent I put it on the table in the sala for your Dad to see this morning after he talked with [your brother] Peter over phone.

He was surprised when he saw the card, he seemed happy after reading. You wrote so well and touching.

I am glad you took the steps to heal after all that had happened. It had hurt him so much all these years, I have not wanted to talk about this with you before, although he always tried to show a sunny face when talking with you kids. I could see his agony, his struggle with his emotion. He had always felt so proud, because he thought he had provided us well. He started from scratch to provide us a financial well-to-do life, your grandfather, your uncle Q, his cousin uncle W all gave him nothing but debts to pay back.

He had his weaknesses, your paternal side of family had given him too many troubles, but he cared so much, and tried to help. They betrayed him, lied to him, but still he could not abandon them. On top of that, my too much unreciprocated love to my side of family caused resentment he felt towards them, there was also inferiority complex unconsciously hidden deep inside him too because of his humble background. He felt slighted when my relatives said or did something unintentionally, thinking they were looking down on him.

His voice broke when he talked with Peter [about your sister's] family. Father and I are both 65 years old now, no longer young, and the state of family we are in, I Pray God to have Mercy on us.

Take Good Care of yourself and Peter there.

Love,
Mom

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Other posts:

A Conversion With My Father - Only a computer program can save my relationship with my father. Melodrama - The dramatic letter before this one.

My First Beer - My father told me that this was the only way I could grow hair on my chest. Shame - My father told me not to embarrass my ancestors. Yes, my dead ancestors.

The Bowerbirds

As if we were leaving
the small forest tower that we built,
with a moss carpet and mosquito chandeliers,
and laughing at it.
I can't believe you used that word--
in an argument, no less.
But we would never break this way,
loose, affectionate, wry.
You straighten,
add an ornament.
This is somehow part of our staying.
If you left, a black cape would flap
like a crow winging,
and I would make a hundred harried calls.

- Dana Goodyear

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Poetry - Schmoetry. Stuff that rhyme and shit. Some of my favorites.

Burning

If you're havin' butt problems I feel bad for you son
I got 99 problems but my butt ain't one.

- cribbed from Jay-Z's "99 Problems"

You know how when your ears are burning, somebody you know is thinking about you? Well, my butthole is burning, do you think that somebody I know is jerking off about me? I hope so. I need to tell him I may have given him VD.

Or maybe it's hemorrhoids. That would be embarrassing. Can you imagine that? I would have to use Preparation H on my butthole instead of my eyebags? That's like the world has turned upside down.

That's like, if somebody told guys that women's vaginas were for shitting and assholes were for fucking. There would be an angry mob. Men would be so angry and upset, because, you know, somebody could have told them that sooner. Assholes are sooo much tighter.

TMI? Too much information? Sorry, I was going to blog about Step It Up and Dance, but that was less compelling than my burning butthole. Besides, it's not too much information unless somebody writes a wiki about it. By the way, that is a pic of my butthole in there, I posted it for your reference.

I leave you with this ditty from Midnight Oil, which I hope will keep repeating in your mind, so you can think about my butthole all day.

uhh, uh, UHHH!
How can we dance when our earth is turning
How do we sleep when our butts are burning?

(repeat forever)

Earthquake!

Did you feel it? Did you feel it? I had been having a restless sleep, when at 4:45am, Brian and I were woken up by shaking. Brian thought I was humping the bed. When it was clear that I was not humping the bed or otherwise masturbating, he left the bed and put his ear down to the floor. He thought that our annoying neighbor downstairs was doing something stupid, like maybe humping his bed. Huh???!? That's what I thought.

We were still disoriented from waking up, but I immediately knew it was an earthquake. I jumped out of the bed just to make sure. When I stood up, I relaxed a little bit because it wasn't as strong. However, when I sat back down on the bed, I felt it again. The shaking had turned our bed into a waterbed.

The tremors lasted for more than 30 seconds. I felt that we needed to leave the building; but I didn't want to overreact. The last time I did that, I bought a pair of shoes because they were 40% off and two sizes too small. I should've kept my head and waited a week for it to be at least 50%.

I didn't know how old our building was; whether it was up to code for earthquakes. And I still had my doubts. What if it was just the train nearby?

I was scared. I had been in a massive earthquake nearly 18 years ago in the Philippines* that caused two hotels to collapse, killing nearly 2,000 people. In that quake, the tremors were so hard, the walls shook a foot. I was at work, on the seventh floor of an 8-story building. We all went under our desks. I could see people crossing themselves, which was crazy, because they were visiting hare krishna's. A pregnant woman in her third trimester who was in cube next to me was in tears, praying, mumbling something about 'he said he was going to put it in for just one minute.' I assumed she was talking about putting a piece of bread in the toaster. Maybe he liked it medium like I did.

But here in Chicago, earthquakes are extremely rare. The last earthquake in this area was at least 10 years ago, which I only found out in the news after I woke up in the morning. I think it was a 2. I've had orgasms stronger than that.

We turned on the TV to see if there was any reports. But since it just happened, the folks on Channel 5 didn't seem to have felt it. Then about 5 minutes later, people started calling into the station to tell them of the quake. It was a 5.4 magnitude earthquake (5.2 if you're optimistic or General Petraeus), epicenter in West Salem, Illinois close to the Indiana border. We were relieved to know that we weren't crazy. Isn't that weird? Even though we figured it was an earthquake, we still had to be validated. It's like, one time when I knew I had a cold sore, I still felt that I had to ask somebody about it, after I made out with them.

It's about 5:30am right now. I am still a bit hunted, nervy. But maybe I'll relax after I watch some porn...

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* I researched this, it happened 07/16/1990 with a magnitude of 7.7, killing 1,621 people

Melodrama

Today, I got an e-mail from my mom that seemed a tad melodramatic. I had casually mentioned that I had planned to visit home this year. Granted, my family back home is having a bit of a crisis with some financial trouble that my brother-in-law got in, but I'm convinced that if someone in my family had a splinter, my mother would still write me this e-mail:

Dearest,

If you plan to come home, just let us know when. It has been chaos here for all the happenings, and it is not nearing end yet. But you are always welcome to come back home. I am glad you know we can not afford to entertain you very much, but to be together again is great happiness for us already.

Dad and I are 65 years old. I hope God will take pity on us to let us not suffer more, Jon* has been trying his best to help out, it is a real consolation with him around, but it is also hard on him too.

Take care.

Love,
Mom

You know, how in old movies they used to superimpose the image of the letter writer over the reader, narrating the contents of the letter, as if the writer is standing right there? Well, as I read this e-mail, I had sort of that moment. The image of my mother in the Philippines, standing there, hands together, narrating this letter while she is wringing the blood from a chicken she had just slaughtered for dinner. Hey, this is the Philippines, you know, they have real chicken instead of the zombie chicken slurry we have here in the U.S.

I thought that if I had a child who never came home to visit, I would totally send this e-mail. I can't wait to put in my name on the list to adopt children, wait for the Supreme Court to give me the right to be a parent, raise it and then send this e-mail to him or her when they've moved out of the house.

This one is so good, it's going into my saved e-mail folder, along with the one I got from an ex-boyfriend who broke up with me, writing 'It's not you, it's me.' What? That was an apology? Of course it's you, you sniveling, egotistic asshole.

My mother, with her passion for dramatics taught me--even though she didn't know it--everything I knew about being gay and slaughtering a chicken. She even gave me this valuable tip: don't wear white after Labor Day. This tip applies to both being gay and slaughtering a chicken.

Besides, I wasn't sure what she meant by entertaining us, because I was planning to come for a vacation, not sit in a production of Hairspray. I just want to have dinner, not dinner theatre. I don't want them to put on a production for me. Granted, nothing's more interesting than watching my Dad yell at the TV with a chicken leg hanging from his mouth, but I'd rather not have to pay for it. I mean, I'm their kid, my tickets should be comped. And Ticketmaster charges exorbitant fees these days.

Anyway, I am still planning to visit as soon as I can get the money together and some time off from work. I am planning to go later this year because my parents are getting old (65!) and I would like to spend as much time as I can with them while they are still around and can teach me how to skin a cow.

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* My older brother

Letter From Home - I come across a letter from my mother which tugs at my heartstrings.

Things I Think About On The Treadmill

Why am I here?

Showmeshowmeshowme how you do that trick, the one that makes me scream she said.

How can I get rid of my mortal enemy?

I'm going to die alone.

That guy is running very awkwardly. How would I describe that in a blog post?

. . .

A duck with a limp! Must write that down after this.

My leg hurts, is it cancer?

This is so fucking useless.

Mamase mamasa mamacusa.

I'm going to die alone.

And fat.

Fuck. Is it over yet?

I hate working out.


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Related posts:

Tribes - My observations of the denizens of the gym.

High - The treadmill is torture without a runner's high.

Wading Pool

You fellow writers probably know what I mean. After starting my novel in January, I should be well into depths of the plot instead of kicking around in the wading pool, but that's where I am.

I have written thirty pages in long hand, as I learned in my writing workshop, and it has been a very successful method for me.

When I am scratching my words on paper, the story feels more organic, like it moves on its own. I don't try to correct myself during this phase of the writing. If some thought comes to me after I have moved on to another scene, I would simply write in between the lines and margins, sometimes cramming words and sentences like intestines overlapping internal organs.

I spend a few hours a week, usually on weekends, squeezing in my writing life in between the laundry, brunch with friends and drinking binges. I feel like there isn't enough time to devote to writing even though I love it, those moments when the words flow like when you piss on a wall in an alley and it flows down and pools between your feet and you have to widen your stance so your shoes won't get wet. It's like that. The characters take form and run run run as if they have stolen somebody's purse. Even though it's wonderful like that, life interferes and I have to go back and do the totally mundane like giving blowjobs to my boyfriend. I wish I could stay suspended in that mode, but my boyfriend will just keep hounding me until he gets his rocks off.

Back to those thirty handwritten pages begging to be transcribed on to my computer. This does not flow as easily. If creatively, writing on paper is pissing on a wall, typing it up is like a hard piece of shit that is lodged in your anus: your body knows it's coming out, you want it to come out, the shit itself wants to come out, but somehow, something is holding it up. It's laborious and yet there is some bit of creativity, some flash of brilliance, a tin can catching the sunshine on the beach. I type anyway, because I am afraid that I will lose these handwritten pages on a bus, or if somebody breaks into my car and steals them. Ask any writer, they will all tell you that they are all afraid that somebody will steal their pages or accidentally use it as fishwrap. Go on, I'll wait.

I have typed up three chapters, the fourth is waiting after this post to be typed. Even now, I know that I have a lot of work to do later in terms of editing. I need to fill in descriptions, clarify points, and a "voice." Ask JadePark and she will also tell you that while it seems to come easily in my blog, this "voice," it is very much labored in my novel. It's a balancing act of being there and being unobtrusive at the same time. Since I am writing in the third person omniscient, my narrator shouldn't be conspicuous, otherwise, I should change the point of view. Besides, I don't want my novel to sound like my blog, because it's not about me. Just characters based on me.

Even this blog post feels like an affair in a seedy, damp smelling motel room. I feel that every word I am typing right now is a betrayal. I must go back to writing. I must.

I must get out of the wading pool.

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Related posts:

Thinking the Unthinkable - He said/She said things about Lynda Barry's writing workshop.

My Writing Life - Starbucks is the only place I can write. God help me.

Heart

Is it just me? I had always thought that the emoticon <3 was a penis.

I've always thought that "I <3 You" meant "I want to fuck you."

The 3 looks like an ample pair of balls, don't you think? I mean, I much prefer it to be <======3 of course, helloooo, I'm gay and gigantic penises are all that's important to me.

(But you know, privately, if I was stinkin' drunk at 2am at Roscoe's, a little <3 wouldn't be so bad specially if there was $50 at the end of it.)

Anyway, it finally dawned on me that I had it wrong when I was reading the Sarah Marshall Fan site and I saw that they had colored the emoticon red like "I <3 Sarah Marshall" and then I got it--it meant a heart as in "I Heart Sarah Marshall."

Frankly, I liked my version better. When I read things like:

Mom <3 Tabasco

Kevin <3 Cucumbers or,

Condi <3 Bush (you can take that in sooo many ways)

it always made me giggle a little. I think the world is a duller place now that I have this knowledge...

Jacket Days

You know, the day before yesterday, I had put away all my bulky winter coats because I thought, hey, finally! spring has arrived. I was so excited and I took out all my spring jackets and stuffed them into the hall closet. I love jackets because I love the whole layered look. Layered. Listen to me. I'm gaaaaay.

Some people are shoe-aholics, I am a jacket-aholic. I have so many jackets, that I can't wear them all more than once in short time in spring when it is between 38 to 50 degrees, when I can wear a jacket without sweating my smooth, hairless balls off.

Sometimes, I wear them inside the house even though I am not going anywhere.

Sometimes, I am jealous of homeless people because they get to wear a jacket everyday, sometimes two at a time. I could never pull off that look though. The homeless look, I mean. Too baggy.


So yesterday, I put on a new Converse One Star Poplin Hoodie Jacket that I had bought from Tar-zhay, along with my distressed jeans, white shirt and preppy tie and was feelin' really totally stylish and then bam! whadayaknow: fucking heavy, wet snow starts to fall and suddenly it was frickin 20 degrees. I froze my ass off. I had prematurely put away my winter jackets.

Don't you hate that? When you put something away, you don't expect to have it make a comeback. The last time this happened, my great-aunt Sophie woke up after we thought she had passed away. It was totally unexpected because we had just smothered her with a pillow. We needed her bedroom because we had just bought a pinball machine and needed somewhere to put it.

Anyway, I dug one of the winter coats out back out last night, just in case this freeze lingered on. But I am not putting it on unless it's like zero degrees or something. Time's running out before it's too warm to wear a jacket and then I have to start wearing something more appropriate to warm weather: a thong.

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Related posts:

Rule of One Hotter - I've always wanted to be hotter than I am. Don't you?

Open Thread #1

Blaine Fridley over at Diary of Fools had the balls to say what most people only think: The New Yorker cartoons suck and are "consistently lame." Interestingly enough, that's what my BF also thinks about them.

This open thread asks you:

1. What do you really think of The New Yorker cartoons?

2. Optionally, how would you describe the people who read The New Yorker?

Go ahead, put in your two cents.

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Cartoons - Check these out to refresh your memory of all the years of pointless The New Yorker cartoons here at No Milk Please.

BONUS: Try your hand at captioning a cartoon at TNY. See if you are funnier than they are.

Lo Siento

Hey.

I'm sorry.

I heard that something I wrote hurt and embarrassed you. I read it again and honestly, I never thought that it would cause anybody consternation. I thought I was being careful by changing your name.

Yes, I used a quote directly from you. It was the jumping off point, but it's there, that point. Because this person I wrote about used your words, it sounded like I was talking about you. It sounded like everything I made this person think or say afterwards, were things you thought or said.

I read it and re-read it and I can see how it sounds like that. That second line hangs heavy, like a judgment. But it was about me, when I was in that situation. If you substituted my name in there, maybe you can see that I was speaking of myself.

In Spanish, lo siento which is commonly used to say "I'm sorry," literally translates to "I feel it." It seems appropriate here. My feelings and your feelings entwined.

Gomen na.

Starbucks

(c) 2008 The New Yorker

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Related posts:

Cartoons - The New Yorker cartoons slay me. These are ones which have appeared in this site over the years.

My Writing Life - Starbucks is the only place I can write. God help me.

My Writing Life

Writing a novel has got to be one of the hardest things I've ever had to do in my life, harder than the time I had to take off a pair of tight rubber pants I had bought to go clubbing.

They never tell you, but rubber pants are a bitch to take off and I got rubber burns all over my thighs. It also makes you sweat like a motherfucker. I danced all night in that outfit. I was dressed to kill, especially those who were close enough to smell my b.o. Seriously, by the time I got home, I smelled like my armpits, crotch and Amy Winehouse's hair went to hang out at a homeless shelter. I still got laid though.

Anyway, since the January, after I went to the Writing The Unthinkable workshop, I had started writing a novel. This is the first novel I have started writing since I was in college. That last one was a Harlequin Romance-type novel because I thought that I could easily make some money churning out book after book of the same story, just changing a few things here and there, along with a new title. Wrong. I got totally bored after chapter three and the heroine had twelve orgasms the first time she had sex with the hero and his nine-inch throbbing manhood.

It was really hard to sustain interest in that kind of fiction writing for me because there really wasn't that much drama I could muster, especially since I couldn't possibly give the heroine gonnorhea. No publisher would've touched that.

But writing this new novel, has brought back a lot of the anxieties of writing and creating fiction, mostly because I have a tendency to use real life events as a basis and I worry about how my friends would react if they read about it. Would they think I really thought the way I did about a certain event? Would they understand that writing fiction is like trying on different points of view in an event and just because I may have a character react one way, doesn't mean that I would do that myself? But I thought it, therefore it must be true.

The other problem is that writing is such an intense activity that my daily life just interferes with this process. The last thing I want to do after making dinner and doing dishes is to sit down and write. I would much rather do something less stressful and intense like mixing music or writing blogs or crank calling my grandmother.

I have an almost physical need to go somewhere else to write, like Starbucks, except I hate the fucking pretentiousness of writing a novel at Starbucks. It's like so fucking cliché, you know. There I am, with my laptop, looking so fucking smug, typing away, as if I were so much better than everyone else. But I brush it off. Besides, nobody would think that of me, especially since I am going to be wearing my beret. I pack my shit up and head over there.

I am totally productive when I am at Starbucks. I don't know what it is about the place, but I am able to get a lot of writing done there. It's just amazing that I could sit there, elbow to elbow with fifty other hacks, working on our novels that will never be published. I feel a sense of camaraderie in our shared experience. Soon, all our efforts will end up in a publisher's recycle bin. It's sort of comforting to think that I'm not alone in world in this.

It's crazy I know, but the urge to write and create something is stronger than this knowledge of the futility of it all. Even if nobody ever reads my novel, I can take heart in the fact that somehow, somewhere, I can pay $2 at an open mike night and inflict my writing on people.

How Many More?

How many children have to die before stupid lawmakers like Sally Kern (R-Oklahoma) realizes that attitudes like hers is what creates violence against gay people. Kern was quoted saying "the homosexual agenda is just destroying this nation" and poses a bigger threat to the U.S. than terrorism or Islam. Then, she refused to apologize for her offensive remarks.

In recent news, Larry King, a fifteen year-old kid in California, was shot to death by another 14 year-old kid allegedly because of flirting with him; Simmie Williams, a transgendered 17 year-old, was shot down by a group of young men; gay teens in Iraq are being executed.

In my mind, these people justify their beliefs by saying "gay people brought this on themselves" which is so disingenuous to me because it is clearly the actions of others that cause these violent acts.

Kern is supposedly not against individuals, but of the "homosexual agenda." Oh right, our agenda of wanting to live without people encroaching on our rights.

Yes lady, we have an agenda. Our agenda is "STOP KILLING US." Your words and actions might as well put the gun into the hands of the next person who kills a gay teen.


WATCH THIS: Sally Kern's hate speech.

WATCH THIS: A tearful Ellen DeGeneres discusses the shooting of Larry King.

UPDATE:

CONTACT SALLY KERN
Capitol Address:
2300 N. Lincoln Blvd.
Room 332
Oklahoma City, OK 73105
(405) 557-7348

District Address:
2713 Sterling Ave.
Oklahoma City, OK 73127

By E-mail:
sallykern@okhouse.gov
srkern@cox.net

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Turnabout - Harriet interviews No Milk about Gay Rights and blogging. Why Change? - Tortured homos find their way back to heterosexuality.

Lucky - I was lucky to survive my tumultous teen years. Bill wasn't. The Gay Experience - Gay rights are fabulous and hard to contain.

Hacking Up a Lung

Sorry people, but I am sick today and I don't have the energy to be witty or funny or do anything other than just sit here and numbly take whatever concoction Rachael Ray is bludgeoning me with on TV, screeching "yum-o, yum-o, yum-oooo!"

Have you ever noticed that despite the humongous amounts of EVOO (extra virgin olive oil) she uses in her food, she still calls every dish "figure-friendly"? I am assuming that she means the figure of a manatee. There are 120 calories in one tablespoon of EVOO and 14 grams of it are FAT. When I work out on the treadmill for 30 minutes, I only burn off 450 calories. I am sure she uses more than one tablespoon when she puts in "a few turns" in the pan.

I am hungry and not hungry at the same time, how is that possible?

I am hacking up a lung. Gross.

If I were in the Philippines, I could hack up a lung, chop it up, sautee it with onions and make it into a dish called bopis. Curious? Check this out.