Wednesday, April 30, 2008

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

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

Monday, April 28, 2008


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)

Friday, April 18, 2008


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...

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

Wednesday, April 16, 2008


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:


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.


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.

* My older brother

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

Saturday, April 12, 2008

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.

Related posts:

Tribes - My observations of the denizens of the gym.

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

Monday, April 07, 2008

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.

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.

Thursday, April 03, 2008


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...