No Milk Please

Style Icon

2011-11-27T15:11:00.001-06:00

Improbable as this sounds, one of my style icons is Woody Allen. The thick black frames, the corduroy pants, the white shirts. It evokes in me the image of intellectual sophistication. Urbane yet accessible. Condescending but amiable in a way that makes you feel grateful for being looked down on.

You don't think that there's a look to this but there is. Among others:

White oxford shirts
Glen-plaid jackets
Herringbone overcoats
Black turtlenecks
Loafers
Cableknit sweaters
The aforementioned corduroy pants

All of these I love and cultivate to shore up my crushing insecurity and doubt.

If I had more confidence, maybe I could happy in lowbrow sweatpants or plain old unintellectual Henleys. I wish I could be that carefree guy-next-door who doesn't care what he wears. So beautiful in his carelessness. I wish I could be that guy. I really do.

And Now A Joke...

2011-08-15T08:28:00.001-05:00

A baby seal walks into a club...

Defending Lady Gaga?

2011-08-12T10:18:00.009-05:00

I don't know why I am defending Lady Gaga.

I am a fortyish man who should be waaay beyond having heated discussions about pop stars.

However, when I mentioned that I was enjoying the new single Yoü and I from her new album, my friend D said that it sounded too much like Shania Twain. Now, ever since the song Born This Way was widely criticized to sound too much like Madonna's Express Yourself, there seems to be a major backlash going on against Lady Gaga.

For the general public, I get it, we always want to tear down our idols, especially when they get too big, probably because maybe we can't give our love to someone and then have them be a happy, successful millionaire. We want them all to ourselves, poor, hungry and coke-addicted, preferably in Alexander McQueen.

However, I don't understand how gay people could be tearing down such someone who has been a trailblazer for GLBT rights. Especially one who is clearly talented. I mean, NOBODY, not even the holy Madonna has ever put in the words "no matter gay, straight or bi / lesbian, transgendered life / I'm on the right track baby / I was born to survive."

I particularly see this in gay men of a certain age (read: old middle-aged queens) who are constantly comparing Lady Gaga to Madonna. Seriously? First of all, Madonna didn't even write Express Yourself by herself. Stephen Bray probably wrote the song and Madonna hummed along and got a songwriting credit. Don't get me wrong. I LOVED Madonna. I was CRAZED about her. But even I can see that her songs are collaborations with whomever producer/songwriter she is working with.

Yes, I can also stand back and suspect that Lady Gaga is exploiting us and our culture, but to be honest, I don't see how putting her neck on the line so overtly sounds calculated. If anything, I am sure her managers are screaming at her to tone the gay down.

Madonna, who mined gay culture for years never actually put the word "gay" in her songs. She never championed for gay rights in a nationally televised HBO show explicitly, without talking between the lines. So while giving Madonna her props, I think that Lady Gaga has far exceeded Madonna here. Lady Gaga has done something nobody has ever done at this level: push GLBT rights and made it the #1 song in America.

I could write more about the music itself, Lady Gaga's originality etc. etc. but I'll be more honest and just include the e-mail I sent D. This was my response when he said Yoü and I sounded like Shania/Mutt Lange. It's rambling and somewhat pointless, but that's really me. Please also note that I typed this out in my ipod and I hate typing in that shitty thing.

Are you talking about the melody or the production? ;) I think that her singing sorta sounds country in this song but that's what's unique about the record : it is 80s rock with 2012 dance sensibility. Nobody said she was the most original songwriter (or imaginative). The chord progressions are pretty standard dance or rock progressions. So yes you can practically sing any song on top of them :) but she is very entertaining. Before this record nobody ever said that this or that song sounds like something else, but if you think about it the whole record is a throwback and sounds like a whole genre. I think that ultimately is what is new with this: it takes a whole stack of 80s records and remixes it for this generation but then adds Jesus, opera, glbt, metal influences and blends it together. If you sit back and listen to it, the whole thing makes sense. This is what I love about the record, it "recalls" something else while being about millenial themes. However nothing will save the unicorn song . It has the stupidest lyrics in the world no matter how catchy. The only person who can sing about unicorns and pull it off is rainbow brite. My favorites are government hooker and scheisse because that is what metal/grind/dance should sound like. Against this backdrop born this way and judas fit amazingly well. If you listen to the Bollywood remixes of her songs I challenge that they sound like anything else. This is because stripped of the familiar 80s production they sound pretty original. J and I were saying how we can listen to the whole record over and over and see how the whole concept goes well. It isn't perfect but the great thing about it is that she tried to do something completely different instead of doing exactly what was expected. That's ultimately what I can respect. Word to your mother. :p

Check out the Bollywood mixes of Lady Gaga's songs @ DJ Evil Twin.

UPDATE: Lady Gaga premieres the video for Yoü and I. Check it out at DJ Evil Twin.

Universal Math

2011-08-10T13:26:00.006-05:00

From my brother's secret blog:

When you're studying Math, you're not studying "1 + 1 = 2"; any calculator can do that. When you're studying Math, you're studying "2 = 1 + 1". They are not the same thing.

Sometimes, my brother's writings are very inscrutable. Does he mean this literally, or is there a deeper meaning? What is he studying? The transposition of the equation does seem profound.

One thing that I have come to learn ever since I started stalking my brother's blog is that his inner life is very deep and complex. I suspected it, of course. He is very literate, with a deep love of storytelling, music and art. When he was a teen, he used to draw reams and reams of manga-style comics on those long yellow pads.

Like me, my brother has a network of blogs. Some are public, where he has shared their URLs with me and others. Others are hidden away in the 'netverse. I found this one, after idly clicking through some links in his profile. I think that this blog is like an easter egg--something he left behind for someone to find.

This blog is much darker than his other writings. It is like this blog is the long shadow of the other blogs, if you step into it, you fall into the rabbit hole...

Love Letter

2011-07-18T10:08:00.007-05:00

I had been looking through my e-mail, combing through my past. I saved some of them unconsciously, as if I knew that one day I would revisit them. This one brought a smile to my face.

Tuesday, May 21, 2002 11:12 am

Hey baby,

Dinner and a movie sounds terrific. Getting to spend time with you before I leave for a week is all I want, no matter what we do!

I have to tell you that I was feeling pretty good last night after I dropped you off. I spent the whole drive thinking of how lucky I am to have you in my life, and how much I have grown to love and cherish you. I think of you not only as my boyfriend, but a very good friend as well. I love you to death. And then, when I had just turned on to Harlem, I finally got to the hidden track. I almost burst into tears. You had put "Something like you" on the CD, and that meant a lot to me that you remembered.

I had always thought that I would like to find someone who that song reminded me of, and you are the one. Sorry if i sound sappy, but I was in a weird mood last night, and you made me so incredibly happy last night. I can't thank you enough for being so good to me, and loving me, and just being you.

I look forward to many more nights of passion, of warmth, of holding you, and many more days filled with your humor, with your intelligence .... with YOU!!!

I love that there were three exclamation points here in this last line, each one fraught with meaning.

I want to remember that there was a time when love was young, it was amazing. That this shining moment can live forever, in me.

What Is The Use?

2011-07-12T09:25:00.008-05:00

An excerpt of an e-mail from my mother to my twin brother (on which I was copied), on June 4, 2001:

Dearest,

I am feeling very dizzy recently, and am in very bad mood with all the things not to my liking. I hope you and Paul will take good care of yourselves, learn to help & care for each other. Father and I were very happy to know that Paul was very supportive and generous to offer his help when you were out of job. Siblings ought to support and love each other and not to fight among themselves .

What is the use of being brothers and sisters if there is no love with one another?

My parents have planted suspicion and selfishness to us their children, that one suspects the other of double-crossing each other, of greediness with the inheritance, kicking the daughters out of the inheritance,and criticizing the daughters for not helping out with their problems, that Love is not cultivated within the family. I hope this will not be the case with you.

Also, I hope one of these days, the 3 of you will find a partner to begin your life with. My heart aches with all these unhappiness.

It is hard when you have to take care of the others, when you yourself are not in very good condition. But as the host, I want them to feel that they are welcome in our house.

Love,
Mom

I found it very interesting that my mother used the term "partner" instead of "wife" in the second to the last paragraph. I believe that in 2001, I was only gay to her through innuendos. I think that this was a signal to me even then that she knew about me and my brother, and in a way, was accepting that this was the way things were.

Even though I never outright lied to her about my sexuality since I moved to Chicago, I never said out loud "I am gay" (even now). Because I haven't said so, I feel that I can't share my life fully with her.

Isn't it strange that that my reticence is what prevents us from being completely open with each other? I used to think that she has to accept who I am before I could share everything with her, but looking back now, she was open, but I wasn't.

Maybe I was (am) still ashamed of who I am. The roots of shame are very deep and hard to untangle...

Scruff

2011-06-20T13:44:00.003-05:00

Scruff, if you didn't know, is a gay hook-up app for the iphone. It's pretty interesting to me because I don't know anybody who's hooked up on it. I am sure people do, but like everything online, it's all just posturing and shit like that.

Personally, I've never been successful with hooking up online, probably because people see "Asian" and immediately think "bottom," "small dick" or "prissy" which is quite puzzling to me. Why would they think that when I lie about it in my online profile? They must have internet telepathy or something. Anyway, I know it's because I'm Asian because I created the same exact online profile as a white dude and you wouldn't believe how many guys wanted to fuck me. Whatevs. Online, people want/need/have to rely on stereotypes because the reality is, you can't really tell what a person is like based on their online profile, no matter how long you've been texting with them. In fact, the longer you've been texting instead of meeting, the more likely the other guy's a complete troll, despite their picture.

There is actually another app just like Scruff and it is more popular, but I got banned from it because of my "suggestive" profile. Seriously? It's a fucking hook-up app. What fantasy land were they living on? People aren't going to become friends using this app. Don't they know that gay men don't become friends unless they have sex first?

Anyway, to prove to you that it doesn't matter what's in your profile, it's your picture that counts, the following is my actual profile on Scruff.

Username mankini

What I Do
In my head I like to think that I am a little like Paul Rudd, charming, sensitive and maybe just a little dopey. But nope, I'm just a scumbag.

I don't have hair on my face, my chest or around my sphincter. It's not a character flaw--it's just my own brand of super power. I have a beard though. Her name's Suzy. She's awesome in family gatherings, but less awesome at Steamworks.

I'm the kind of guy that will turn my underwear inside out when I run out. They are $50 each please.

I used to lie in my online profiles and feel guilty about it. But then I got laid so I got over it.

Activities and Interests
Books Beats Comics Vids 6string Apms Manga Pr0n Weights Rock Tats Roofies Coq (au vin) Alcohol

Super friendly
but only when I'm drunk. Otherwise, I'm a super friendly douche.

Been known to use drills, hammers and wrenches, you know, like an interior decorator. Hey those Elfa closet shelves aren't gonna put themselves up.

Life's a box of chocolates, then you eat them and get fat and depressed and you eat another box. I'd rather snort coke.

Let's play. Guitar.

What I'm looking for
Friends--somebody to do jeagerbombs with after dumping the body in my rape van.

I know this sounds all snarky and maybe even brainy but that doesn't mean that I'm not shallow. Which means I have very low standards. And herpes.

You would fuck me, right?

No Milk Please 360º

2011-06-17T10:56:00.003-05:00

No Milk Please has been going through a lot of changes. The site has been re-vamped with new templates. I have been spending time tweaking the template to make it more streamlined and coherent. I have also been trying to integrate my ancillary sites the NMP SideBar and DJ Evil Twin in here. The site is now compatible with mobile devices.

No Milk Please will be the site to contain my personal blogging and Twitter status updates.

NMP SideBar will contain news, gossip and culturevomit and my running commentary. I have been spending a lot of time on this site posting and blogging. Please check it out.

DJ Evil Twin will contain my musical tinkerings and other music-related bits.

You should be able to get a glimpse of everything that's happening with me through the main site, but feel free to jump directly to any of the other sites.

A Letter From My Sister (in Haiku)

2011-06-09T10:36:00.005-05:00

even if i'm sick
   or Depressed--it is not a
                        choice, this Lazyness.

i tell you the truth:
i would have killed all my kids--
   myself--
               without God.

you, him, me--we four--
        we are all hard-headed and
                        so emotional.

i understand him,
         his depression and my own.
then jesus healed me.

if you cannot stay
                          and follow-thru with your plans,
DON'T SAY ANYTHING.

he has to do it
                     all on his own now. he has
                                                             your father's blessing.

From My Brother's Secret Blog

2011-06-08T12:41:00.000-05:00

"Friends"

"Sigh. A woman's Friend Zone is a very cold place. You're not really friends because she holds you constantly at arm's length and she automatically shuts the door when you try to get closer. I am forever frozen out, outside of Paradise."

"The Part Of You I'm Most Familiar"

"When I look back at my life and remember the part you played in it, I will look at you and realize that the only thing I remember about you, the part of you that I am most familiar, is your cold shoulder.

Sometimes, I can't really understand why. Why I foolishly hoped that there could be more between us. Why you mattered so much to me. Why I couldn't turn away from you. Why, why, why....

So you turn your back on me again and the silence once again fill the space between us. Yeah, I'm also very familiar with your back and with watching you walk away."

Sidebar Action

2011-06-06T09:40:00.000-05:00

Hmmmn. It seems that the NMP SideBar is getting a lot of action.

Body Building

2011-05-04T10:51:00.000-05:00

When I was 21, I weighed a painful 108 lbs. I had a 26 inch waist. I could not buy anything off the rack unless it was in the Boys department, which I refused to do. It was just embarrassing.

You know how when you're a teenager, all you wanted was to grow up as fast as you could, so that you could live your own life? I wanted it so much, but my body fought it the whole time, resisting each inch, each pound, as if it was some burden to carried, like a humpback, club foot or a heavily jeweled tiara.

Shortly after I turned 21, I made plans to move to a Big City. I didn't know where, but I didn't care. Any Big City with a vibrant scene will do: Chicago. New York. Cincinnati. I didn't care. Get me out of the sticks. I wanted to hear music. I wanted to see the bright lights. I wanted to use a glory hole.

I wanted to get laid, but I found out that my appeal only went to a subset of the gay population that saw M. Butterfly and subsequently fetishized Asians to be some docile, delicate, dramatic diva. Notice the alliteration.

In the Big City I started working out, lifting weights. I ate a lot of eggs, chicken breasts, nuts. Taken pills, supplements and other fart-inducing protein powders. On the outside, my body had gained forty pounds of muscle. But in my head, I didn't gain a ounce. Like a funhouse mirror, the reflection of me was that of a beanpole.

But my wrists are still relic; as if the rest of my body grew up, but my wrists are still that of that an awkward teen. I buy chunky, metallic watches to counter the flimsiness of my wrists. Even now as I type this, my wrists mock me.

Sometimes, in brief flashes of the mirror, I will see the image of myself that others see. But in a blink, that image is gone.

I Understand If You Don't

2011-05-03T01:00:00.003-05:00

When I read your latest post, I thought about calling mom. Do you even know that I read your blog?

It sounded desperate: Sometimes I really don't know if I can hold on much longer. I’m tired and I just want to die. Then, you wrote that you were willing yourself to hold just a little longer, just until you are too tired to stay awake.

You’ve been going through depression for such a long time and I don’t know if you’ve just given up on the meds or given up on life and the possibility that it won’t get any better than it is now for you.

I know what it was like, when death seemed preferable than going on. For me, the choice was to have the strength to leave everything and go somewhere and start over, to be the "real me."

I don’t know if running away from home like I did would help you. I don’t think so.

Maybe you don’t need to run away from home. But maybe talking with other people who are going through the same thing would help. I don’t know. Maybe you need different meds.

For a few days, I was afraid that I would get a frantic call from J in the middle of the night. I left my cellphone on instead of turning it off like I usually do. When I saw your facebook status--just a cellphone pic of a half-eaten hamburger--I was relieved. I know it doesn’t mean a thing, but maybe you found a way to hold on just for another week, just another month.

Please hold on. But I understand if you don't.

Downlow

2011-05-02T09:21:00.002-05:00

This time it will be for me. This time, only you who are still here will know.

He Is Risen

2011-04-22T18:25:00.005-05:00

Pics from the Ecce Homo series by Elisabeth Ohlson Wallin

Dusty

2011-04-21T14:38:00.003-05:00

Dusting off this thing.

Been poking around the site and checking out what I had written before. It's a bit strange looking at these posts, these memories.

I updated the template, customized it a bit. I had a lot of great ideas for the blog which I still may yet do. Maybe. I don't know if I have the time to devote to it this time. I know this about myself: my projects start with a small burst of energy which sometimes will snowball into something big. I don't know if this small burst is that. I guess you'll have to see...

Sorry

2009-04-01T19:52:00.008-05:00

Hey guys, sorry I haven't posted for awhile. It's not that I haven't thought about it, I have, but every time I start to write something, it's just been too depressing.

I have come to the conclusion that for me, blogging is not something I do when I feel like I am in a precarious situation at work.

While I am not imminently in any danger of losing my job, I feel like somehow it is, even though it's irrational. Yes, yes, in this economic climate, we are all in some danger and I acknowledge that. But in my case, it's my new-ish boss, who has made the work environment really toxic. I feel like every day, if I screw up just one time (and everybody screws up, let's face it) I will get shit-canned.

In a different economy, I would've already left. But right now, I gotta keep my head down and be unobtrusive. Being a star can go both ways--people notice you and then they notice you screw up. This is extremely hard for me because one, I like to do good work and two, I am a stah goddamn it--I need the spotlight.

So, blogging has not been a priority. Nor has remixing. Or even updating my Facebook status. I would Twitter but I just can't find the energy to integrate it with this site.

I just wanted to update this so that when people get here, the last post isn't about some fucking toilet paper roll.

That's it for now. I hope you are doing well. I hope you are working. And if your last post was about something stupid, think about it, you probably want to update it with something, anything or maybe even with nothing.

Toilet Paper Roll

2009-02-03T09:41:00.009-06:00

When a toilet paper roll is yet to be unfurled, its direction is unknown. Like cellophane tape, you see the edge, the line, but you don't know its direction. Clockwise, counter-clockwise, it's a mystery. Until you pick at it and then suddenly, you know, and the toilet paper knows, its direction.

I had put in a new toilet paper roll yesterday. As I sat on the toilet, I started picking at the end of the roll and found that it rolled backwards. Now I have an existential dilemma: do I take out the roll and re-install it the correct way, or just just wait for the roll to run out in a couple of weeks?

I left the toilet roll as it is. There are about 250 sheets in a roll. I already used about 14 sheets.

Does what I do tell me more about who I am as a person, a human being? Does it speak about my personal habits? Does it illuminate the frequency in which I take a dump?

Why do I think these thoughts when I am sitting on the toilet?

Chicago Missed Connections

2009-01-29T11:12:00.012-06:00

As seen on Chicago's craigslist:

FFC E Lakeview - m4m - 29 (Stairs)
We past each other and I glanced down the stairs and saw you looking up. Was around 7:30 I think. I think we have a future together.

Straight (?) guy at my gym... - m4m - 26 (Chicago Park District)
You: Tall, muscled white guy at gym in tight black tank top and red shorts. You looked hot benchpressing 220. Me: also tall, white muscled guy who spotted you. Tell me where my mole is located on my face and how many hairs are sprouting from it.

Sidetrack Sunday - m4m - 38 (Sidetrack)
I was there with a bunch of friends, you were there with your tall friend. We were in the glass bar chatting. We headed to eat dinner and I left without getting your number. Tell me what hat you were wearing and what you do for a living so I know it's you. I'm very interested in your tall friend.

nice guy in a blue blazer suv - m4m - 28 (franklin park)
u used to pick me up and take me to your place. I miss you would love to hear from you again but you have a restraining order against me.

looking for charming ace - do you know him? - m4m - 31 (Lincoln Park )
i don't know your real name. you are persian and everyone called you ace. you are gentle, handsome, polite and smart. i'm sure that you meet a lot of people but hopefully you can guess who this is. we met at a birthday party last week, i was wearing glasses and a brown shirt, but you were too busy being popular lol. i wanted to talk to you more but you didn't come back from the bathroom after i told you about my herpes. your big eyes and smile are unforgettable. what are the chances that i can see you again? Matt

Burning - Redux

2009-01-28T16:27:00.005-06:00

Remember back to when I first reported a burning sensation I had back there? You don't? I don't know why you would forget such an important event in my life that involved my butthole. I question your loyalty.

Anyway, once in a while it flares up and I wondered why I am suddenly plagued by this when I am pretty hygenic in that area, as you never know when somebody will have to come by and kiss my ass at work.

But newsflash, I read on the internet that using the 'personal moist wipes' instead of toilet paper can cause anal itching due to the excessive moisture and/or the chemicals or perfumes that are in the wipes.

I was aghast. This was a paradigm shift for me. That this could be the cause of itching is quite distressing as the moist wipes are very very comfortable. The idea of going back to my old way of butt cleansing, you know, with leaves, is troubling. I will have to research this further and report back to you...

Recession Depression

2009-01-27T09:28:00.006-06:00

It's really not that easy to stay upbeat in this recession. Some of my friends here at work have lost their jobs. The worst part about it is the Survivor's Guilt that I am feeling, that I am still here and they are gone. I mean, would it be better if there was an Elimination Ceremony, complete with tiki torches? It's hokey but I suspect that it would be better than this emptiness, this sudden vacuum. I'm sorry it was them, but at the same time, it's like, better you than me, better you than me...

In With The New...

2009-01-20T14:27:00.005-06:00

With the Inauguration of our new President, the White House website has been updated.

I don't think I had expected to see LGBT issues to be front and center at the new website, but I was totally surpised and delighted to see it. Here's the Agenda for Civil Rights at whitehouse.gov:

Support for the LGBT Community

"While we have come a long way since the Stonewall riots in 1969, we still have a lot of work to do. Too often, the issue of LGBT rights is exploited by those seeking to divide us. But at its core, this issue is about who we are as Americans. It's about whether this nation is going to live up to its founding promise of equality by treating all its citizens with dignity and respect."

-- Barack Obama, June 1, 2007

Dumpster Diving

2009-01-15T12:59:00.009-06:00

I knew, of course, that one day this would happen to me, that I would end up in the dumpster, though the mere idea of it tickles the vomit-trigger in the back of my throat. I mean, it's irrational I know, but for some reason, I always knew that I would actually end up in a dumpster at some point in my life. I don't know why, I don't have a fetish for it or anything.

I've fished things out of the dumpster--I mean, who hasn't? Lamps, home accessories, a half-eaten hamburger--but you don't get in the dumpster for that. Most of the time, like the lampshade I found, it's barely even touching any garbage or rotten food in there. And although there may be a few flies hanging on it, one can easily shake them off.

Also, it seems that these days, people in our neighborhood will just set the things out beside the dumpster instead of in it, as a form of recycling. I fully subscribe to this. I believe that by recycling, we can lower our carbon footprint. So, when we had decided to get a new living room set, I took the old sofa, the end tables and a few old knickknacks and left them by the dumpster in our back alley.

In order to encourage someone to take them, I even arranged the furniture and things in such a way that they could imagine how this stuff would look like in their own living rooms. I draped a throw blanket casually on one end of the sofa. I angled the end table to create interest. I was tempted to run upstairs and get a small votive candle which would be great for this look, but I stopped myself. This was junk after all. I didn't want it to look perfect.

The finished look, with the brick wall of our building as the background and our gritty alley, was not unlike some urban/derelict/loft look that I see in CB2 catalogs. In fact, I think I did such a good job, that I checked the CB2 catalog afterwards to see if they had a dumpster in there for me to buy and put in my own living room. Maybe a smallish one, painted a bright distressed orange or something.

But this morning, I had been in a hurry to get to work and I had hooked my car keys on one finger along with three bags of trash. As I threw the trash into the dumpster, the key fell off my finger.

At first, it was just sitting on top of one of the garbage bags, but as I leaned into the dumpster to try to reach for it, it slipped further down. I had only one chance to get the keys as it would be out of my reach if it moved one more inch.

But as I stood on tiptoe to reach for the keys, the dumpster moved and there it went--my keys slipped to the bottom.

For a few seconds I wondered if I really had to go into the dumpster, especially since I was wearing a nice jacket and I had a cute tie on, ferchrissakes. But, you know, this is like when some dude asks you when you're giving him a blowjob if "it isn't the biggest fucking dick you've ever seen", it's rhetorical. It isn't the biggest dick you've ever seen, but why blow the moment? So you just nod your head and wait until he's asleep and then steal his wallet.

There's only one thing that comes to mind when you're standing in the middle of a dumpster, pushing garbage around, fishing for your keys, and that's "how pathetic am I for being in here and what a fucking ass of a boyfriend do I have that I have to throw out the garbage and make me drop my keys into this shit."

It doesn't matter that it was my fault that the keys fell in, and the three bags of garbage are all filled with empty beer cans and wine bottles that I'm mostly responsible for. He's the one to blame for me standing in there, with some clammy wet thing oozing into my shoe...

Ghosts of Chicago

2009-01-05T13:37:00.000-06:00

John McNally, ever the self-promoter (just like moi), had sent me a copy of his new book and asked me to write a review of it in Amazon. Honestly, I try not to write the straight review, because that's just not me, but I don't think the readers on Amazon would get my usual style, so here I am.

To his credit, John didn't say that I had to write a good review, but he did sweeten the pot by offering me his autograph. Anyway, I read the book, which is a short collection, and I enjoyed it immensely. In my review below, I talked a little bit about my favorite stories in the collection.

John McNally's new story collection Ghosts of Chicago is full of portents, mysterious circumstances and haunted people. McNally has the ability to get to the essence of his characters and allow them to live their stories. And just like real life, they are full of unexpected events and comic turns. There is ravaged beauty, bits of magic and hopefulness in these stories.

The book opens with "Return Policy," a very affecting story about Mark Timbers, whose wife had left him after 18 years of marriage. Mark gathers up all the items in his house that were given to him as wedding presents and sends them back to their givers, because he felt that he no longer deserved them. Along the way, he attracts a stray dog, a dead cat, a deadbeat neighbor and the sales girl from a department store that was going out of business. How the story ends, demonstrates how people come together in times of grief. It brought tears to my eyes.

In "I See Johnny," a young woman, known to us only as Miss Betsy, is the host of a successful local children’s TV show. The titular Johnny is the boy Miss Betsy dated when she was 16, who was killed in Korea. The title refers to a segment in her show where she holds up a hand mirror (with the mirror removed) to the camera, and calls out the names of the children who have written letters to the show, "I see Martha! I see Jim!" What seemed strange to Miss Betsy is that even though there are lots of mail, she never sees Johnny. There are no little boys named Johnny. Every week she looks for Johnny, whose very name evokes some nameless longing in her.

Who hasn’t tried to play detective and try to track down somebody from their past? In "The Immortals," Rudy is sitting in an El train when he glimpses a woman standing outside who he recognizes but whose face he can’t place. The woman sees Rudy, recognizes him and calls out to him as the train leaves the station. Too late, Rudy remembered who this woman was: Leila, his ex-wife whom he hadn’t seen in 15 years. Leila took all their photo albums when they divorced after a brief marriage, telling him that it will be easier for him to forget her if he couldn’t remember what she looked like. A year after this chance encounter, Rudy picks up another lead on the whereabouts of his ex-wife, who is rumored to have been decapitated...

In “Men Who Love Women Who Love Men Who Kill,” Brandon Dawson is dating a girl who is in still love with a man in Death Row. Today, however, is the day that man is to be sent to the electric chair and Brandon goes out to buy an engagement ring. However, the fates are conspiring against him...

The Silverfish is the unlikely superhero in "The Remains of The Night," but this story is about his butler. Crazy.

Author James Frey was crucified by Oprah for not being completely factual in his biography, A Million Pieces. In a similar fashion, in "The Memoirist," an author may have fudged his facts a little too far, and his readers are going to give him a taste of his own medicine.

In "Contributor’s Notes," what seems like a straightforward biography about the author John McNally, turns into a hilarious romp with the type of punch-in-the-gut writing that shows us McNally’s mastery of the short story form. I loved this story! And what’s even better is the twist in the ending which was so unexpected that I was frickin’ amazed at McNally’s inventiveness. It's the perfect story to end the collection. And as I turn to the backflap, and there is this photo of John, in a Chicago Bears cap, scruffy beard, peering sexily above his dark frames...

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Related posts:

Author Stalker - How does it feel to stalk one of your favorite authors?

Interview with John McNally - If you like 'em rough, troublemakers are his specialty. Check out The Book of Ralph.

Responses

2008-12-30T14:11:00.007-06:00

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

2008-12-23T12:30:00.004-06:00

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

2008-12-19T12:00:00.017-06:00

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

2008-11-06T10:18:00.002-06:00

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

2008-11-04T06:00:00.008-06:00

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!

2008-10-30T18:52:00.004-05:00

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

2008-09-10T09:22:00.003-05:00

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

2008-08-11T20:02:00.025-05:00

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

2008-07-19T09:50:00.002-05:00

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

2008-07-03T08:46:00.015-05:00

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

2008-06-30T10:06:00.001-05:00

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

Get UR Pride On

2008-06-25T16:18:00.011-05:00

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

2008-06-20T10:03:00.004-05:00

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

2008-06-19T16:11:00.008-05:00

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

2008-06-04T07:00:00.002-05:00

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

2008-05-29T16:55:00.001-05:00

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

2008-05-25T23:00:00.000-05:00

I found this in an alley near Wrigley Field.

It's IML weekend here in Chicago. Coincidink?

Open Thread #2

2008-05-20T16:29:00.001-05:00

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!

2008-05-07T14:47:00.031-05:00

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

2008-05-02T09:00:00.004-05:00

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

-----
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

2008-04-30T15:10:00.000-05:00

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.

Burning

2008-04-28T22:52:00.005-05:00

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!

2008-04-18T05:23:00.026-05:00

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

Melodrama

2008-04-16T15:12:00.008-05:00

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.

-----
* 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

2008-04-12T21:04:00.001-05:00

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.

Wading Pool

2008-04-07T20:23:00.027-05:00

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.

Heart

2008-04-03T11:13:00.007-05:00

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

2008-03-28T09:27:00.028-05:00

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.

-----
Related posts:

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

Open Thread #1

2008-03-26T10:17:00.012-05:00

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.

-----

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

2008-03-24T10:32:00.003-05:00

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

2008-03-20T09:49:00.002-05:00

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

2008-03-17T11:47:00.006-05:00

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?

2008-03-11T17:07:00.012-05:00

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

-----

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

2008-03-11T11:47:00.006-05:00

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.

That Just Happened to Me

2008-03-06T08:45:00.006-06:00

Has this ever happened to you?

You are stark naked in your closet, balancing on one foot, trying to put on your underwear, when instead of going through the leg hole, your foot gets stuck in the crotch and you fall down on your knees, bringing down a row of clothes with you as you tried to grab on to something?

That just happened to me. I had to blog about it.

Thank you. You may proceed with your day.

High

2008-03-03T11:01:00.001-06:00

You know, I am truly envious of these people at the gym who run on the treadmill and they look like they are enjoying it. There's even some sort of peace in their faces which is almost beatific, this look, as if they are in some sort of high, or they are in some otherworldly plane, or they've just given their ex gonorrhea. I wish I could have that.

The only time I even come close to this kind of feeling is when I am eating an Otis Spunkmeyer double chocolate chip muffin and bag of potato chips. The marijuana helps just a teensy weensy bit too.

But on the treadmill, I am all blood and lungs. My head's detached from the rest of my body, my arms are dead branches, my legs are unruly children in the backseat whining, "are we there yet?"

I have to fight through every second as if it's a world war. It bugs me that after two months of running thirty minutes on the treadmill every day, I still can't seem to get that 'high.'

I feel like if I don't, I will never be able to keep this up and Otis Spunkmeyer will settle permanently on my ass...

-----

Tribes - My observations of the denizens of the gym.

All My Children

2008-02-26T16:37:00.003-06:00

If you have kids, you probably know what I mean. You try to not play favorites among your children, but the fact is, you do, even if you don't tell them. And you know what? They probably know too, but it's ok to keep the fiction that there is no favorite.

But now and then, you may 'switch favorites' for awhile and it's not for any reason, but truly because you love them all. But maybe one week, one of them comes up and has a hold on your heart, or needs your attention, or has a knife at your throat and you spend more time with that one.

This past month, DJ Evil Twin has been my favorite child. I should be spending time writing my novel, or writing stuff for No Milk Please, but Tracey Thorn's CD Out of The Woods has really inspired me to remix some really great songs in the album to dance greatness. Tracey is the vocalist of the group Everything But The Girl and as usual, she sings with emotion and depth. But underneath the subdued production, I hear the notes that are the bones of a soaring dance anthem.

The album already has a few singles out that have been remixed like "Grand Canyon" (amazing mixes!), "It's All True," and "King's Cross" so I am concentrating on the other album tracks. Of course, I also enjoy designing the graphics that go along with the mixes. I imagine that I am designing the CD covers of these songs if they were released as singles.

Along with the ones I already mixed below, I am planning to do a couple more mixes from the album, probably "Nowhere Near" and "Piccadilly Station." The keys in those songs are itching to be sampled and looped. Stay tuned.

Each mix can take up to a month to do. So if there is no new post here, check out DJ Evil Twin and see what's happenin' there.

-----
Tracey's CD:

Oscar Hangover

2008-02-25T09:28:00.007-06:00

I lost 5 pounds over the past two weeks and I still wasn't able to wrangle an invite to those damn f*cking gay A-list Oscar parties, so I spent last night gaining all the weight back by ordering a couple of large pizzas (sans cheese) and guzzled it down with some box wine from Franzia.

Is it just me or did Javier Bardem get hot?

Oh Squiggly Line

2008-02-23T21:30:00.001-06:00

oh, squiggly line 
    in my eye fluid
i see you there 
             lurking
on the periphery of my vision

but when i try to look at you
                 you scurry away

are you shy, squiggly line?

why, only when i ignore you
                 do you return 
to the center of my eye?

oh, squiggly line
                 it's alright,
you are forgiven.

- Stewie Griffin, Family Guy

-----

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

Tribes

2008-02-18T17:30:00.001-06:00

Waking up is an ache, eyelids ebb to darkness. The sheets tangle my legs like tall weeds, the blanket a weight. This is the first battle of the day, 6 am, mid-winter morning. If I can get out of bed soon enough, I have time to go to the gym. Thirty minutes of cardio, a quick shower and then, I am off to work. I am hoping that this will shave off a few pounds.

It's only been a couple of weeks since I started going to the gym in the morning. More than anything, starting a new routine is the most difficult. Mentally, you fight it, you just want to just sink deeper into the couch and reach into a bag of potato chips for comfort. But today, the imaginary sound of jeering at my lumpy abs pushed me out of bed.

The gym in the morning is not a pretty sight. The people here stumbled out of bed in their rumpled shirts, ponytails, stubble and beards. I call these folks The Determined. They include people who are generally optimistic: people who are determined to stick with their New Year's resolutions; 40 year-old guys determined to lose weight faster than losing their hair; brides who are determined to fit into their wedding gowns by June.

There is hardly any talking; people are either in the zone or they have morning breath. I'm of the latter.

The only people chatting are the ones lifting weights. Weirdos. Who lifts weights in the morning? Besides, it's hard to be chatty first thing in the morning, especially after you just woke and realized that your body has gone to shit and unless you can come up with $5,000 for lipo, you have to be on that damn treadmill.

After my run, I don't dawdle in the locker room. For gay guys, the locker room has sort of a languid effect: we take like 30 minutes to put on a sock when it normally takes seconds. I shrug it off, I can cruise the showers when I come back later after work.

Come back later? Yes, you heard me right. After work, I head back to the gym to do some weight lifting. My biceps cry when I neglect them.

The gym in the evening is a totally different scene. The regulars--the ones who have managed to stick around after their trial membership was over--are a very peculiar bunch. I call them The Deranged: homos in our standard lung-crushing outfits; women in full make-up and hair; businessmen in pit-stained undershirts. Some are multi-taskers, combining their work-out with reading a book, catching up on the news or twirling an imaginary baton.

There are also the American Idol hopefuls, who sing along with their iPods, melisma included; the ones who do little dance moves as they go from machine to machine; and my personal favorites, the rapper wannabe's who rap under their breaths, throwing arms and hands as if they were on BET.

Then, there is Lance. Lance is a tall black guy who does the most insane dance moves on the elliptical machine. He puts on his tunes, then does full-on dance routines as if he was auditioning for Bruno and Carrie Ann. I serious. He crank dat and superman dat ho the whole 30 minutes on the machine. I don't know whether to laugh or give him my phone number.

(And listen folks, just because we have our tunes on, and we can't hear you fart, doesn't mean we can't smell you. So please, at least move to a corner or stand next to somebody really annoyingly skinny before releasing your fumes.)

But I try to avoid going to the gym at lunch time. The people who work out at noon are whom I call The Desperate: brides one week from their wedding day; bridesmaids who don’t want to be the 'fat one' in the party; Adnan Ghalib. These are the people who have the motto "Starvation = Hope," sort of ironic, I think in these post-Katrina times.

I understand completely of course, if I don’t lose 5 pounds before the Oscars, the superbowl of the gays, I'll just die. You know there will be a bunch of A-list parties that won't let me in because I will flunk the body fat detector machine they put by the door.

But I am of The Determined; this is my tribe--for now. It's already working: I pulled out a pair of jeans that I used to wear 5 years ago and I can almost snap the button around my thigh. Pretty soon, I will be able to put both legs in. I still have just a leeetle bit of time to lose some more weight before I have to start working out at lunch...

First Love

2008-02-13T14:49:00.001-06:00

I was blind to you when you loved me long ago.
I switched you for another, like Isaac,
for a smell, and a taste, and an appetite for meat,
for a fragrance of the field, and a house, and a little heat.
I have forgotten the words
of the only letter I wrote to you.
All that I remember is the taste of the glue of the stamp
on my tongue.
The fate that determined us was not really
destiny,
but it was as strong and sure as the finger of the violinist
that determines the fate of a note,
though it, too, is as final and as decisive
as death.

- Yehuda Amichai
(translated, from the Hebrew, by Leon Wieseltier.)

For all lost loves.

-----
Related posts:

Where My Feet Once Walked - Also by Yehuda Amichai

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

Logo Madness

2008-02-11T22:18:00.002-06:00

If you haven't noticed yet, the blog has a new temporary logo which will be up until Valentine's Day.

In a fit of creativity, I had created a bunch of new logos for No Milk Please which I intend to put up during the holidays and maybe when I'm feeling bored with the standard logo. But I'm impatient and I don't think I can wait a whole year to unfold these, so I decided to post them now as a little preview.

Seasonal

Non-seasonal

Some of them will be up for only a day, others I may keep for the duration of the holiday. I haven't decided what to do about the non-seasonal ones. I thought they were cute, but I can't really have a different logo every week. I thought they were fun to make though.

If you have any concepts you can think of, put them in the comments. Maybe I'll be inspired by them. I think I've exhausted all the evil cow/poisoned dairy themes. You can also send me pics that could be interesting to make into a logo.

If you want to try your hand at a No Milk Please logo, please feel free to send them to me, maybe we could get a contest going. Winner gets to do my laundry.

Also, if you haven't visited the Sidebar lately, this past weekend, I have re-designed the template so that it was more cohesive with the main site. :)

Thinking the Unthinkable

2008-02-05T11:00:00.000-06:00

He said, She said. Annie and Paul went to Lynda Barry's writing workshop Writing The Unthinkable. Paul thinks it's changed the way he views writing; Annie is a happy puppy. Read on!

I know there’s a level of trepidation one must feel when signing up for a writing workshop called "Writing The Unthinkable," but if you’re seriously considering it, let me allay your fears: it is not scary, it’s not stressful and it’s not going to be like going to the principal’s office. In fact, instructor Lynda Barry, would probably be sitting next to you getting reamed by the principal.

Yes, it is writing intensive: you will be writing at a level and speed of which you’ve probably never experienced. It’s going to be emotional, because the workshop will be accessing your memories, your deepest feelings and imagination in a very connected manner.

There were a couple of times that I felt choked up during one of the writing exercises. I was writing and trying to hold myself together at the same time because I didn’t want anybody to think what a wuss I was, especially after I took the time to wear a football jersey to convey my masculinity.

Kelly Hogan, our class monitor, thoughtfully pointed out at the start of the class the various locations she placed boxes of Kleenex, probably because she knew from experience how some Asian in a football jersey may need it.

I think that starting out with what the class isn’t may be easier for you to understand what it is. It is not going to teach you grammar, or how to find an agent, or how to write dialogue or plot. It’s not going to teach you how to become a famous author.

read what He said.

The nearer this class got, the more my excitement became nervousness, which then became scared shitlessness. Now that it’s over I want to live there, leaving only for lemon and brown sugar crepe breaks.

Even though "Writing the Unthinkable" was "marketed for 'non-writers' like bartenders, janitors, office workers, hairdressers--anyone who has given up on 'being a writer' but still wonders what it might be like to write," it wasn't until reading Anne Elliott’s blog describing the not just encouraged but mandatory anonymity that I said, "Sign me up!"

And I don't just mean no-last-names anonymity. We're talking Deep Throat anonymity, the kind that allowed you to read your work out loud and be nothing more than a disembodied voice to your classmates. Not that this was enough to get me to participate; some of us require an anonymity of even greater depths. I call this nirvana state annienymity.

Regardless, I still managed to freak myself into a panic attack: What if the rules changed? What if reading out loud is now mandatory? What if it always was but my subconscious desire read the word "voluntary" simply as a coping mechanism? What if my high school nemesis is there, or worse, my WBF (work boyfriend, people--don’t pretend you don't have one)? What if someone writes about their childhood abuse and it gets all group huggy except the girl with the dead heart looking for a way to escape this freakshow? What if everyone writes about their childhood abuse and I write about my cat?

read what She said.

-----
More Unthinkable:

Recommended books by Lynda Barry:

Patience

2008-01-30T12:12:00.000-06:00

When I was four, I witnessed something quite horrible, though at that time it seemed curious as well.

I know that in these YouTube days, horror mingled with curiosity are quite pedestrian, there's someone posting a horrifying video that you can't take your eyes off right this minute. But in those days, the mixture of horror and curiosity was something you can only experience first-hand.

Let me step back a bit and paint you a picture of that beautiful early summer, in my hometown in the Philippines. The temperature was mild and sunny almost every day. In a month, the sun will turn treacherous and burn your skin in a minute, but right then, it was just perfect. You could run around for days and not break out in a sweat.

Our dog, Patience--Pasensiya in Tagalog, was pregnant. Patience was a mutt, with creamy short hair. Her face and legs were often caked in mud, as if she just came from nosing around somewhere in the garden.

You know how all your pets in your childhood seemed larger than any animals later in your life? Patience was like that for me when I was four. When I hugged her, she filled my arms. Her head was the size of my head. When she licked me with her warm, wet tongue, it felt like the little washcloth they give you in Japanese restaurants to wipe your hands (although I like to wipe my face in it too because it is so refreshing).

When I sit back and think about it now, rationally, she must've been just an average dog, maybe even on the small side. Even in the few seconds of this rational thinking, my memories have been altered, split into two parallel universes; Patience's bigness/smallness now co-exist in my mind. It's a bit jarring, like fun house mirrors.

Patience was lean, as most dogs were in the Philippines, as she was fed only rice and scraps, whatever she can manage from under the table. My two cats these days are spoiled gluttons compared all the pets I had in my youth. Patience's leanness only emphasized the size of her pregnancy. When I touched the skin on her gravid stomach, it felt tight, hot.

It must be said that I didn't really understand that Patience was pregnant. I'm sure somebody explained it to me, but even then, so what? Even though my vocabulary was expanding by the minute, comprehension was limited to things my child's mind was occupied with. Some words only strike a hollow fear: 'Death,' 'Divorce,' 'Donnie Osmond,' they didn't hold any true meaning.

I remember up until the day Patience was to give birth, she was playful and exuberant. I don't know if this was the case with most pregnant dogs; Patience was the only pregnant animal that I had ever been in close contact with. That made her disappearance so odd.

I looked for her all around the house, looking under couches and behind shrubs. I found my brother's chewed up plastic truck--but no dog.

I went to my mother then, who was sewing something, maybe another pair of pajamas pants. My siblings and I wore them all day in those days. She helped me look.

Eventually we found Patience in the garage. She was hiding in a corner behind a old spare tire, lying on her side, panting. She looked at us disinterestedly, saving her energy.

My mother said, "Patience is about to have babies, it looks like."

I was excited, even though I didn't know what to expect. We stood looking on for a few minutes. But then suddenly, it started.

Swoosh! Out came a little fleshy thing, then another, and another. And swoosh! Two more! But the little things didn't look like a dog, or a puppy or anything like Patience. The little things looked like fleshy Vietnamese spring rolls. They were were small, pink and translucent; they didn't move.

After the last one came out, Patience stood up and smelled the little spring rolls and then, to my horror, ate them all up. She wolfed them down, each with a single bite.

I was stunned, but also totally mesmerized and confused. I asked my Mom if Patience took a shit and ate them, she's done that before. I backed away just in case Patience wanted to lick me.

Mom explained that Patience must've sensed something wrong with her pups.

I was skeptical, I thought maybe she was just hungry and just not very discerning. Shit, food, little fleshy spring rolls--it's all the same to her. It made me kinda grossed out.

Thinking back, if I hadn't been standing there, I would've missed it. I wouldn't have known that Patience given birth to stillborn pups. I probably would've thought that she just lost weight or something. I probably wouldn't have noticed even that.

But god, when I think about it now, I really, really wish that I could've YouTube'd that.

When I was about seven, Patience died. Then we ate her. Part of her will always be with me. But there was a part of her that was gone forever, the next day, after I took a dump.

-----
Other pet posts:

Morning Routine - A surprise greets me at lunch for my haste getting ready for work.

Confessions of a Broken Cat - A feline emergency in 3 parts. Drama guaranteed.

Meeting The Family - It was an inauspicious beginning: Rusty knocks me down when I first meet my BF's family.
Bite Your Tongue - Mythbusting. Do dogs bite their tongues? Find out.

What Your Remix Says About You

2008-01-24T10:00:00.000-06:00

When our new neighbor downstairs moved in, Brian and I were very excited. This was because the guy was HOT. When he was looking over the place, we ran into him in the hallway and we prayed--prayed--that his credit check was good so he would get the place.

He is a tall, trim black dude with nice broad shoulders, very Tyson Beckford in those old Ralph Lauren ads. I looked forward to fantasizing about him when I'm having sex with my boyfriend. What? It's true.

We speculated whether or not he was gay, which for you two straight guys that read this blog, is a compliment, because we would never speculate if someone was gay if he looks like he could have skidmarks in his underwear. If we fags like you, you should have no trouble picking up girls, and if you do, then what the fuck's the matter with you? Get it together, or get a gay guy to give you a makeover. Every dude should have a good gay friend.

Anyway, Satan answered our prayers and a few weeks later he moved in. However, we couldn't determine our man's sexuality because he didn't really have a lot of furniture. Apparently, he just moved into the city from Denver or DC or something, I don't know, I was distracted by his gorgeous brown eyes when he was telling me this.

The following weeks, there were noises indicating industry beneath our floors. We would peep into his back window to see if we could get a glimpse of his decorating style, thinking we could figure out his sexuality pretty easily that way. Thank God he hadn't bought any window treatments yet although that would've answered this question right then and there. Window treatments inevitably speak louder about you than anything. If I were a shrink, no treatment would start without visiting my patients' homes and checking out the window treatments.

However, all questions were settled last Saturday afternoon when loud music filtered through our floor. It had a nice thumping groove and immediately made me want to shimmy. We tried to place the song because it was so familiar, but it took us a few long minutes because the melody was muffled. Then suddenly, it came to us--Deborah Cox! Nobody's Supposed To Be Here, the Hex Hector remix! He's gay! He's gay! Hurrah!

If it had been Whitney Houston or even Mariah Carey it wouldn't have been as definitive, but it was Deborah Cox and the dance mix! He's sooo definitely gay. Mystery solved. We congratulated ourselves on our excellent CSI skillz.

In the next episode, we try to find out what that funky smell coming out of the place inhabited by the couple two floors below us. Is it kimchi or boiled cauliflower? Stay tuned.

-----
Related posts:

Tug of War - What our decorating says about us.

DJ Evil Twin - My alter-ego. Totally eeevil and remixed for your pleasure.

Jimmy

2008-01-17T21:00:00.000-06:00

This is probably the only thing I will ever write about my Uncle Jimmy.

My Uncle Jimmy is my mother's youngest brother. My mother is thirteen years older than him. She helped raise him since my mother is one of the oldest children out of a brood of nine.

Jimmy is just Jimmy. It's not James. Not Jim or Jay. Just Jimmy.

My grandparents, as the new fashion was in the Philippines in those days, wanted to give my Uncle an "American-style" name, out of bourgeois aspiration. Until then, it was very common to give children Spanish names. In fact, all the older children had Spanish names: Juanito, Macària, Miguela. However, starting with my Aunt Elizabeth, the younger kids had English names.

But maybe out of naiveté or artlessness, instead of giving my Uncle the proper name of James, they settled on "Jimmy," probably because they liked the sound of it better, not knowing it was a nickname, a name for a little boy. This is the name that ended up on his birth certificate.

The idea of this sounds horrifying to me now, like if somebody's name was really Bob instead of Robert, or Dubya instead of George. But I never thought about it then. He was just my Uncle Jimmy, my favorite uncle.

In my mind, he will always be a boyish twenty year-old, eight years older than me, a sophomore in college, still living at home. He was slightly overweight, which exaggerated his boyishness and youth. He was quick to laugh and had a tendency to giggle.

I remember vividly how I used to spend a lot of time in his room, watching TV and reading magazines. It's usually a Saturday afternoon; my mother was very close to her younger siblings and would visit their home often, bringing us along.

I was twelve, maybe thirteen, and I thought that he was the coolest guy I knew. He was well-dressed and always had these great magazines to read: GQ, Esquire, People. I would often sit on his floor, leafing through them slowly, with the TV on, while he studied or lay in bed, reading a novel.

His room smelled musky, like lingering cologne or aftershave. Once, I went into his bathroom where I examined his collection of colognes, in deep-colored bottles with silver caps and amber liquid; dark gemstones, lined up against the wall on his counter.

I tried smelling each of them, wrinkling my nose at the stronger ones like Grey Flannel. But most of them smelled the same to me, just in different bottles. I dabbed some on a spot on the inside of my wrist, like they said to do in novels. It felt cool on my skin, and as the alcohol evaporated, a little sizzle. My uncle never seemed to mind, even though I came out smelling like a bordello.

I would just hang out in his room even when he wasn't around. He never seemed concerned about what I was doing, it seemed to me.

My Uncle is gay. This wasn't something I knew about him then, or myself.

I didn't know what that meant. I didn't even know what sex meant, even though we talked about it in sixth grade Biology. What does it mean 'to reproduce'? And what is a 'vagina'? And what? I'm going to grow hair where?

But it was there, our sexuality, in that room. It floated above us like mist or fog, swirling around like wraiths.

Later on, when I understood, when I learned to apply the word to myself, it was like a string of lights lit up. I'm gay. My uncle is gay, Merv Griffin is gay. And oh! Charles Nelson Reilly. And Ernie and Bert! It was quite amazing, this burst of knowledge. Suddenly, I knew what it must've been like for Adam, when he ate the forbidden fruit from the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil and found out that Eve was a lying bitch.

It was also inevitable that my Father found out that my Uncle Jimmy was gay.

I remember my father angrily arguing with my mother in the living room. By then, I had this automatic shut-off to the sound of my parents fighting; it was very painful to listen to. It made me afraid, the sound of their raised voices. I just kept watching TV in the next room.

My ears perked up when I heard my father screaming about Uncle Jimmy, telling my mother to keep me and my brothers away from him. My mom defended her little brother, denying he was gay. I remember hearing something something something about magazines my father saw in my uncle's room.

Then my father burst into the room, in his oversized boxer shorts and wifebeater--his preferred loungewear--and told me, "I don't want you to hang out with your Uncle Jimmy anymore. Bakla siya! He is gay!"

I nodded silently, not really comprehending what he was saying. But I dared not disobey.

I always thought that I grew apart from my Uncle Jimmy because I was afraid of my Dad. Or that I grew up, because I became interested in other things, you know, like Drama Club.

But in writing this, I realized that I distanced myself because I was ashamed of this thing that my father saw in my uncle. The thing that was in my uncle, the thing that was also in me. I didn't want to be like my uncle. I didn't want to be him.

I think my uncle saw what I was doing and let it be.

The last time I saw my Uncle Jimmy was a couple of years ago. He is nearing fifty now. His faced is lined, his waistline thicker, his eyes a little droopy. But the boyishness is still there, a little tired, but there.

Even though I am comfortable with my own sexuality, I still feel that distance between us. I even felt a vague sort of disapproval of him, as if I was still that boy thinking, "I don't want to be you, I don't want to be you..."

Uncle Jimmy, I'm so so sorry for staying away. I am like you.

I am you.

-----
Note: I wrote the original draft of this at the Writing The Unthinkable workshop. We were all given the word "Relatives" and seven minutes to write about the images that came to mind. Most of the elements of this story was written then. See WordFlame! for a 'taste' of this technique.

Live Wire

2008-01-14T08:45:00.000-06:00

Electricity freaks the fuck out of me, man. It's a fear that has been with me for a long time, almost to my earliest memories. I think it stems from the time when I got shocked from the refrigerator, when I was growing up in the Philippines; when I was a little tyke of seven sporting a homemade bowl cut.

The refrigerator was old even then. I wouldn't be surprised if my dad found it in an alley somewhere and took it home. It was a faded yellow GE, chipped in various places and it had a metal handle. I don't know how long, but for a little while, it was poorly grounded such that sometimes when you touched the handle, you'd feel a very mild current.

I know I know, that's weird, but I don't think that my parents had the money to have it fixed. Maybe the cord was frayed, maybe there was something wrong with the electrical wiring, I don't know, but when you're a kid, even though it was mild, it sorta freaked me out.

This worried me whenever I wanted something from the fridge, which was rare, since there were never any snacks or ice cream or anything to munch on. The selection was limited, since the meagre income that my dad made as a taxi driver went to buying the essentials: vegetables, some meat and cheapest fish from the market.

If I went to the fridge for anything, it was probably for cold water, since I spent a lot of time running around in the year-round 80 degree weather. I think there was one time that I remember when my mom bought some freezer pops for my brothers and I, it was like the most exciting thing that happened that whole year.

I had to psych myself to open the fridge, slowly reaching for the metal handle and praying that I wouldn't get shocked. Later on, I learned to wrap my hand in the bottom half of the t-shirt I was wearing to prevent getting shocked. Even after the fridge was fixed, I still wrapped my hand in my t-shirt for a long while, just in case.

I remember one time, after a big storm where there was a lot of flooding, I went to get some water from the fridge, not really thinking and reached for the handle. I got a big shock, stinging me more than normal. It startled me so much tears welled in my young, tender eyes...

I think that experience scarred me for life. I didn't touch the refrigerator for a month afterwards.

It made me so wary about electricity, I don't even like how sometimes in the winter, you get shocked from static electricity when you touch metal or skin. After walking on a wool carpet, I would often try to de-static myself my touching some insulated material. I hate wool sweaters even though they are often the ones that look luxurious. Like a poor relation, I have to settle for plain, crude cotton sweaters.

This past weekend, I had to install a fancy ceiling fan to replace the dingy white fan we had in our living room. My boyfriend had refused to install it since he got shocked when he installed our new pendant lighting in the dining room.* He thinks it's because the previous owners of our place didn't wire the lighting correctly.

I guess I was going to have to hire an electrician until I remembered one important thing: I was a cheapskate. I am so cheap that yesterday, I ate a brown, mottled banana and I'm not talking about my boyfriend's penis. The instruction manual seemed simple enough, so I girded my loins. I was going to try to do it myself.

Even though I had turned off the main electrical source, I still felt enormous trepidation as I climbed the ladder and reached out to touch the exposed wires. I steeled myself as my finger neared copper, sending out a silent prayer.

When nothing happened, I felt a huge relief! I still live, I still breathe--which meant that I still needed to avoid running into my creditors. I put together the rest of the ceiling fan and finished the installation.

Later, I stepped down and surveyed my work. I felt so proud of myself. My heart was bursting with pride so much, it was like Pamela Anderson bursting out of her bra. I feel like I do can anything now--anything: spackle holes in the wall, fix leaky faucets, steal cable service--as long as it is nowhere near wool carpets in the winter.

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* You can actually see the pendant lighting that Brian installed in the background of the picture.

Workshop

2008-01-12T08:00:00.000-06:00

These are the photos I took at Lynda Barry's workshop Writing The Unthinkable. Here you will find pictures of Lynda Barry, our esteemed instructor; Kelly Hogan, our cool class 'monitor'; and various anonymous participants. And of course, pictures of yours truly, retouched within a pixel of its life.

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More Unthinkable:

Science

2008-01-09T18:11:00.000-06:00

(c) 2008 The New Yorker

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

Rule of One Hotter

2008-01-07T07:00:00.001-06:00

Have you ever heard about the "Rule of One Hotter?"

Patricia Marx, in a column for The New Yorker wrote that on one cold, brisk day, she was trying to persuade her nine year-old niece to put on a warmer coat and possibly a hat. Her niece refused, invoking the Rule of One Hotter:

Kids are one hotter than grownups, so if a grownup is hot, a kid is very hot, but if a grownup is very, very cold, a kid is only very cold.

Instinctively, I thought that while this had the ring of truth, there are probably a lot of exceptions to the rule. Kids are sort of self-absorbed that way, they can't possibly think of all the possibilities like neurotic adults can.

Menopausal women and Excessively Fashionable Gay Men, for instance, are prone to be warmer than normal. Menopausal women for obvious reasons, and the E.F.G.M. because they control the weather through sheer mind control, since a bulky overcoat will simply ruin any sexy, skin-tight outfit they just put on. Hookers too, may be exempt, although I would think that crack cocaine only has the heating power to protect to -10 degrees. Any colder would require a heat lamp, which I don't think is likely unless the Prostitutes' Union get together and picket City Hall.

I, on the other hand, am always cold in the winters. Like Patricia, I am probably four colder than most people. In my head, I have invented many a garment to insulate myself from the cold, most of it involving sewing on a Prada label to bulky, winter clothing. I don't know any haute couture designers that design for cold Chicago winters. When a designer has a winter collection, they mean winter in Florida, where their customers have a pied-à-terre. A typical winter item: a see-through cover up for a bikini.

I don't know why it is that winter clothes are always so bulky. I didn't starve myself to a 30 inch waist so that my down jacket would visually add forty pounds to my frame. Thinsulate, that mainstay of winter clothing should be called Fatsulate, for how unflattering it makes anything.

My solution is to wear long underwear so that I can wear more fashionable items without too much bulk. The only problem is, they also friggin bunch up in your pants. Why are they always made with like a 50 inch inseam? Every time I put one on, the elastic band comes up to my armpits. Haven't they heard of low-rise? They are also hellishly hot once you are indoors.

It makes me wish that I was young again, so that I can be one hotter--in more ways than one.

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Related posts from the archives:

What Does It Say About Me? - Matt offers No Milk some fashion advice.

Exhale - True Love expands all waistlines.

Tales of Gay Shopping - Two men + shopping together = gay.
Death of the Circuit Boy - A quaint, long-winded essay I wrote waaay back in 2001. Boooringg!

A Different Place...

2008-01-06T19:21:00.000-06:00

Annie and I have completed Writing The Unthinkable and the world is now a strangely different place: the unthinkable is now thinkable and all we have to do is let it write itself. Lynda personally awarded all the class participants A's for a job well done. I don't know if there is an A in my life, that I have cherished more.

I am exhausted. Annie and I will write about our experiences (and maybe even samples of our writing) soon.

Writing The Unthinkable

2008-01-02T20:35:00.000-06:00

What does that mean, writing the unthinkable?!? Is writer-artist Lynda Barry going to sequester all 45 of us aspiring writers up in a tiny room with no bathroom and not let us out until one person writes something that halfway decent? Do we have to use our own blood for ink? Do we have to smell each others' armpits for inspiration? This is totally freaking me out and you can totally tell because this sentence has three exclamation points after it!!!

I was so scared that I had to get Annie to sign up for the writing workshop with me. She didn't really want to do it, but I reminded her that deep inside of her, there is someone waiting to emerge and write better love letters to prison inmates.

We will be spending this first weekend of 2008 writing. I am hoping that this workshop will help me become a better writer or at the very least make me lose ten pounds trying, since I will be writing instead of snacking constantly.

Either way, it will be $200 well spent. And after six years, at an 22% APR when I've paid it off on my credit card, it would only be about $6,021.19. That's sooo totally reasonable. By then, I would be a famous author looking back at how one workshop in 2008 was the beginning of my writing career...

LISTEN TO THIS: An NPR interview with Lynda Barry where she talks about how anybody can be a writer or an artist or an musician. How if we never edit ourselves and give in to our fear of sucking, we could be good at it, whatever it is. "What's the point of art?" Lynda once asked her mentor. The reply, "That sounds like a question you can ask only when you're not doing it." Wow.

READ THIS: Thinking the Unthinkable

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More Unthinkable:

Annie has written for NMP. Check it out.

Books by Lynda Barry:

Happy New Year

2008-01-01T10:41:00.000-06:00

Overheard on January 1st, 2008, about 1:30 a.m., on a snowy street corner on Ontario and Orleans.

Woman in stilettos, a silver sequined dress and a black overcoat to the occupant of a cab pulling away from curb:

"That was my cab you bitch, I was here first! HAPPY FUCKING NEW YEAR!"

The Orphanage

2007-12-29T22:36:00.001-06:00

Just a quickie. Caught The Orphanage tonight and it blew me away.

The movie is about a woman, Laura played by Belen Rueda, who returns to the orphanage where she was raised, along with her husband Carlos (Fernando Cayo) and their precocious little boy Simón (Roger Princep). The orphanage is now abandoned and empty and Laura plans to re-open it as a home for disabled children.

But soon after they arrive, Simón makes some new invisible friends. Laura and Carlos don't make much of this as Simón has a history of having invisible friends.

On the day of the re-opening of the orphanage, Laura sees a mysterious child whose head is covered with a burlap sack. Then Simón disappears...

The movie was produced by Guillermo Del Toro, who was also the director of the beautiful and dark adult fantasy Pan's Labyrinth, another excellent movie. It has a similar tone to The Sixth Sense and has some twisty and jumpy parts. The movie scared the shit outta me and I even screamed like a leettle gurl at one point and had to slide down into my seat out of embarrassment. The Orphanage is in Spanish with English subtitles. There's still time for this movie to make it to your list of best movies of 2007, so go check it out!

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Mosaic

2007-12-27T11:14:00.002-06:00

This is it; this is my life. These are my thoughts, my hopes, and my fear of Miss Piggy. These are the things I like, the things I hate, and the things I've jerked off to.

These are the stories of events momentous or inconsequential. This is my biography or a facsimile thereof--cerealized. This is my life packaged into bite-sized pieces, ready for consumption.

These are the tall tales, anecdotes, vignettes broken and re-arranged into mosaic.

Squint and see the bigger picture.

Explore more Mosaic

Merry Christmas

2007-12-24T12:39:00.001-06:00

First Snow

2007-12-17T11:18:00.000-06:00

Like a child, the earth’s going to sleep,
or so the story goes.

But I’m not tired, it says.
And the mother says, You may not be tired but I’m tired—

You can see it in her face, everyone can.
So the snow has to fall, sleep has to come.
Because the mother’s sick to death of her life
and needs silence.

- Louise Glück

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Poetry - Schmoetry. Stuff that rhyme and shit.

Slam

2007-12-13T21:00:00.000-06:00

When we talk about the future, my boyfriend and I have started saying things like "when we have kids..." or "when junior comes along..."

I don't know exactly when this started, but I suppose that after almost six years of being together, thinking of the future in terms of vacations to take, or appliances to buy, or bankruptcy hearings to attend--it starts getting old, you know?

Both of us have our favorite names for our imaginary kids, of course, who doesn't? For any gay male couple, it's harmless, since it's unlikely that anything would come of it unless we take extraordinary measures to have a kid, like going to boring fundraising dinners and joining political rallies. Boy, I wish all I had to do was to masturbate into a cup.

I mean, when I am at The Gap, I would often 'accidentally' walk into the GapKids section, stage-project my voice, 'oh my! I didn't know it was the kids section!' before looking through all the cute outfits designed to stir your homoternal instincts. I would pick up a cute preppy outfit and think 'this is sooo cute! I have the perfect outfit that will go with this!' and imagine myself holding my little boy's hand walking in the park, playing football or putting together a killer hors d'œuvre tray.

Sometimes, these feelings are so strong that if The Gap had a pet store, I would've walked out with a puppy. I am not kidding. If I were a savvy businessman, I would put a pet store next to a designer kids clothing store because you know, all the gays with their unfulfilled homoternal instincts will walk in and get a new kitten or puppy without even knowing why.

Sometimes (and I know I've said this many times in this blog), I wish I were a lesbian, particularly Kim Stolz from America's Next Top Model. I am actually going through a phase right now where I am copying Kim's cool, casual androgynous style: vests, ties, white shirts, but I digress.

If I were a lesbian with homoternal urges, I would go to a bar when I'm ovulating, challenge a cute guy to a drinking game, coz you know I would need to get drunk to do the deed, and he needs to get drunk so he won't remember my face and my address, and so he won't notice my hairy legs or armpits when I take my shirt off--no way I'm shaving just to please a man--uh-uh. Rinse (my privates), repeat until pregnant.

In the breeding hierarchy, gay men are below straights (obviously) and lesbians, but just above Magic The Gathering tournament players. It's sad, I know, but I've accepted my lot. I've channeled all my energies into my two cats. I can't wait to put them in these cute Holiday outfits I got for our next cocktail party.

All these feelings have come back to the fore as I read Nick Hornby's latest novel Slam. The book is about Sam, a fifteen year-old boy who loves to skate. Sam, in first person, spends a few minutes to tell us, somewhat defensively, that skating means skateboarding, not rollerskating or ice skating, which apparently are lame. He talks about the dangerous stunts that skaters do and about Tony Hawk, his idol, whose biography is alternately Sam's bible and advice column.

Personally, I am not sure why Sam thinks ice skating is so lame. I'd like to see him do a triple lutz or triple salchow and see if he doesn't fall on his ass. As for dangerous, I am not sure if there is anything more dangerous than having to sew your own sequined outfit and wearing it to the local ice skating rink.

Sam lives with his single Mom who got pregnant with him when she was sixteen years old. Sam spends his spare time doing fifteen year-old things, learning new skate tricks until he meets Alicia, a beautiful girl at a party whom he gets pregnant.

The title of the book, getting slammed, refers to a bad spill from doing a skate trick. Metaphor for teen pregnancy, I get it. The book is published by Penguin's Young Readers imprint, which I hope won't prevent adults from reading this excellent novel. I am convinced this is one of Hornby's best novels, possibly just below About A Boy. The voice is that of a teen, but the themes are universal: growing up or coming of age, whatever, this is a lot of book for a slim volume. I was hooked into it fairly quickly and couldn't put it down. If you loved Stephen Chbosky's amazing 'young adult' novel Perks of Being a Wallflower, this book is for you.

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A Long Way Down - Annie and I review Nick Hornby's last novel.

Mind Control

2007-12-10T07:00:00.000-06:00

I do have super powers! This year I was able to convince my boyfriend, my friends and family that the most important thing this holiday season was that we share good times together, instead of spending our money on gifts.

Since October I had been focusing all my mental abilities on my friends and family to bend them to my will. Sure, it took a lot of time, skill and effort to collect enough blackmail material to control their minds but it worked! I am buying absolutely no presents this year. None!

It's like a domino effect: no presents means no last minute shopping, no last minute gift wrapping and no last minute visit to my shrink. Black Friday? I spent it at home watching porn. Cyber Monday? Ditto. If everybody doesn't somehow break free of my mind control, 2008 may be the first year that begins with no crushing holiday debt...

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Holiday posts from the archives:

Holiday Mixtape - Cheese rules in the holidays.
Pretend Holiday - Remembering the true pronounciation of Hanukkah and Christmas.

Merry War (Christmas Is Over) - The depression that comes after the holidays.
Baby's First Christmas - Jordan's nephew Justin becomes a mouthpiece for his disgruntled aunt.

One-Brunch Stand

2007-12-08T13:00:00.000-06:00

One always has high hopes when one finds a new restaurant. We do, don't we? I had that feeling when I first walked into Orange in Roscoe Village for brunch.

However, the feeling quickly dissipated when I found that the restaurant is not equipped to seat any party larger than four and we had to wait like 30 to 45 minutes to get seated. I don't know about you, but brunch is not a meal where people like to wait to get seated: they're hung-over, they're starving, they've just got out of bed with a complete stranger. Plus, the hostess told us with her snooty attitude that she won't seat us unless everybody was there, which is understandable, but fuck, brunch is a group thing and gays are almost always running on gay time.

If you're a gay couple, a group of six or more is practically de rigeur. We almost never go out to the bars anymore, so brunch is the only way we get to see our friends. By the time our group of six was ready to be seated, our friendship was hanging by a thread.

The food was supposed to be interesting but poorly executed. If I were a judge on Top Chef, I would say that the flavors weren't balanced and overwhelming in some cases. Sure, a Chai Latte sauce sounds good, but drowning your pancakes in it isn't too appetizing. I love duck as much as the next guy, but duck sausage for breakfast is a bit much. Nothing is simple, everything is exhaustingly complicated. I think it's a case of the menu being in love with itself more than anything else.

Also, on the menu it said something to the effect of "if you're looking to build-your-own-omelette, you should go to somewhere that has 'golden' or 'nugget' in its name." Haughty much? Trust me, I've been to the Golden Nugget many times and their service, attitude and my omelette was better than Orange's Omelette #4. What's that? Omelette #4? I looked for #1 to #3 but apparently the chef is a math retard and doesn't know how to count as it was missing from the menu. I know, I know, there is no Chanel No. 1 to 4 either, but this is brunch, not a perfume campaign ad.

I know that I'm just a stupid blogger, and I don't usually write restaurant rants in my blog--after all, I'm a crazed food-schizo, but as we were leaving, my friend Annie said to me, "I'm saying goodbye to this place because it's the last time I'm coming here." The rest of us agreed, which is really unusual, because we all came to this conclusion separately. So, I guess this is it, this is a one-brunch stand.

I feel dirty. Dirtier than Paris Hilton with a hamburger in her mouth.

I think that I will just stick where I know I will get a great brunch: Kitsch'n which is literally right next door with its friendly atmosphere and fun food, run by my chef-crush Jon Young, who is always down-to-earth and approachable. Plus, they will make your omelette just the way you like it. Word.

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How Does It Work? - A brunch conversation about those mysterious artifacts called 'tampons.'

Finders Keepers - A near brunch catfight averted.

Off The Wagon

2007-12-04T12:46:00.000-06:00

While I was off 'pursuing other interests' I was able to completely cut myself off from the blog. I wasn't checking comments, I wasn't looking at my site stats or checking Technorati for updated links. It was a sort of heaven.

One of the things I had planned to do when I came back was to have a more laissez-faire with this and just do the more traditional blogspew that most people do, just to keep up with the habit of writing. I was going to keep any mispelled words, not put any links or add pictures or do any re-writes. I was going to write whatever and publish it and let it be.

But just one week into my supposed new attitude, I've fallen off the wagon and back to my old habits checking comments obsessively and stuff. I would've answered some of your comments sooner but I didn't want to have a reply two seconds after you posted yours, because I was afraid that would seem too needy.

Just this morning I must've checked sitemeter once every hour. And I'm in a training class. I am trying to hide my site-checking activites from my instructor and seatmates, which is pretty hard to do. I feel like I'm back in grade school, hiding a comic book in my textbook.

I'm itching just to go over the site stats for the last 15 minutes, but I gotta go, the instructor is walking around the room. I don't want to get caught.

(But I'll be checking for your comments when I get back in a few minutes)

UPDATE: I knew I couldn't stay away. I updated this post with links and a photo.

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Blog Advice - Advice to a fellow burned out blogger, Jase.

Food Freak-out

2007-12-02T13:00:00.000-06:00

Because I'm fucked up, a complete food schizo, with my various food phobias and aversions, I'm literally a nightmare to have dinner with. You would hate to have me as a dinner guest. And much as I try not to get freaked out, the slightest thing would set me off.

This is why I am usually very careful with my food choices. I usually stay away from exotic recipes, unfamiliar ingredients or anything that looks like it could have a creamy base or dairy. I am a creature of habit by need. I eat the same kinds of things all the time and the only way I come upon new cuisine is by grilling the waiter to the nth degree or by stealing morsels from another person's plate. Even then, I am always wary and will order my food explicitly with no cheese or such. This way, I minimize the food tantrums and trips to crazyville.

But inevitably, there are food freak-outs.

In my last food freak-out, I was at Tapas Barcelona, located in Evanston. Spanish food is something I enjoy a lot, particularly because I am very familiar with its cuisine and can predict what dishes I will enjoy and which ones to avoid. This made my last freak-out even more tragic, because it could've been avoided with such ease.

The great thing about tapas is that if you don't like something, it's ok, there's always the next dish. But for me, going to a tapas restaurant gets me going because in my mind, it's like coming home. And coming home isn't complete without an order of paella, a delicious rice dish cooked with saffron, seafood and chicken or chorizo. It takes at least twenty minutes to make, so servers usually warn you about it. In my opinion, it's worth the wait, I love it.

So here I am getting sloshed on sangria, nibbling off the dishes that the others have ordered, saving my appetite for my special dish. When the waiter finally arrived, carrying the large flat iron pan over his shoulder in one hand, my mouth watered like you wouldn't believe. A drop of saliva actually dripped out of my mouth, I kid you not. If somebody invented the pharmaceutical version of paella, menopausal women around the world would make that person the president. Hell, if Clinton became president, she would abdicate for this person.

However, when the waiter set the pan in front of me, I was shocked. In my mind, there was a collective gasp! around the table. But later, I was told it was just me.

The paella was covered with cheese. Now, who the fuck would put cheese in paella? You cannot, cannot put cheese on paella and still call it paella. Ok, I'm tired of italicizing the word paella, so from now on I won't, even though it looks more exotic when I italicize it. Just continue imagining that it is italicized.

I mean, this is like putting pepperoni and mozzarella on a tortilla and calling it a pizza. Plus, nowhere in the menu did the description say that there was cheese in the dish. I think that if you were going to fuck with the traditional paella recipe, you should say so. People expect that there is no turkey in their lasagna, no pineapple in their chili con carne, no crabs in their one night stands. Right?

My dinner was ruined. I picked around the dish the best I could, but it was over. Until we got the check, I couldn't stop complaining about it. My friends commiserated for awhile before finally getting tired of my tirade. It's just food you know. Whatever.

I don't like myself when this happens, but you know, I can't help it. I wish I was the type of person who could take these unexpected events with poise, but I'm not, you know, I'm not.

Writing this post really got me going again. I was planning to just write a couple of sentences about this but the length of this post really shows you how upset I was and what a total freak I am.

Now, would you still want to go to dinner with me?

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Burnt Lunch - A food mishap.

Epilogue

2007-11-28T11:17:00.000-06:00

Once upon a time, there was a very very beautiful girl who wanted to kill herself. It wasn't clear why she wanted to do so, but from the outside, she had everything to live for. She was young, beautiful, desireable.

Once, there were three men who were good friends: musicians--no, traveling minstrels. One of them was my friend Doug: thin, with soft brown hair and a goofy grin. We had been talking about work, our favorite bands, the kind of comfortable things people talk about when they're at ease. Just before noon, he took his leave, promising to come back later to continue our discussion.

One beautiful summer day, the girl was driving out her demons at 90 miles an hour, her blonde hair flying. There may have been tears--despair or rage, we will never know. The light burned in her eyes, her mind blank.

The three men were off to lunch, their car at an intersection. The light was red.

Then suddenly, a crash from behind. Their car flew into the air, suspended for a few seconds, just enough time for a sharp intake of breath--life defying gravity.

Metal, plastic, bone crumpled together. The car, a paper ball in the hands of a furious child.

The broken glass turned red, the ground turned red. The stoplight with its red eye, stared at the scene, the strewn bloody bodies, the distraught girl. It hesitated for another second, blinked, then turned a somber green.

It is two years later. Yesterday, the girl was convicted in court for a botched suicide attempt. Her sentence: 8 years for reckless multiple homicide. With time served, she could be out in 18 months.

Anger? Sadness? Indifference? What should I feel?

Numbness. Is that a feeling?

Suicide blonde, got some revelation, put into your hands? Did it save you from your misery?

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Hardly Knew You - The Last Day of Doug.

Break

2007-11-27T12:17:00.000-06:00

Rumors of my demise were greatly exaggerated, but I'd like to thank Michael Guy for his concern, but I'm doing well, taking a bit of a break from the blog to focus on other interests.

I finally finished a new remix that I have been working on for a few months. This is a remix to Tracey Thorn's Raise The Roof, which I had started working on when I first bought the CD. Go check it out at the DJ Evil Twin site. I love Tracey's album Out of The Woods, but I almost feel like I need to do a remix project with it like I did with Beth Orton and Sade because I feel that it has the bones for it.

I finished my art class, and I've come to realize that I like to paint more than I like to draw. I've also realized that no matter how I try, all the noses that I draw are reminiscent of Bea Arthur. I am thinking about taking a painting class at Lillstreet Art Center.

I have also finished these books in the past few weeks: Haruki Murakami's Norwegian Wood, John Irving's The Fourth Hand, Meg Gardiner's China Lake, Jonathan Safran Foer's Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close. I am currently reading Nick Hornby's Slam.

Jade Park had inspired me and I am working on an outline for a story I've been thinking about for a while. I also signed up for a writing workshop with the incredible Lynda Barry, author of Cruddy and One! Hundred! Demons! this coming January. So I know I'll be doing some more writing. The question here is, what to do with the blog? I feel that an evolution is coming, though I am unsure of the direction. I guess you'll have to tune in to find out.

One more thing, I have decided to stop sending out e-mail notifications of updates just because I think that it's probably getting annoying and subscribers just don't want to hurt my feelings and tell me to unsubscribe them from the mailing list. You can still subscribe to my RSS feed y'know. :)

Up for a challenge? Read this: Jonathan Safran Foer's "About The Typefaces Not Used in This Edition" (PDF). You can also read "The Sixth Borough" which JSF expanded into Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close.

Exhaustion

2007-10-22T09:09:00.000-05:00

Week 5 of Art Class. At this point I am exhausted. Not because I have been painting non-stop or anything like that. I am exhausted of trying to figure out how to tell the art instructor that he and his Badtz-Maru pencil case sucks. Ok, maybe not the pencil case, but he definitely sucks. The pressure of trying to paint or draw something decent, something to bring to class, with his shitty instruction is going to kill me.

The guy is never prepared. I doubt if he even has a lesson plan on what activities we are going to be doing and how to build up our skills for these eight weeks. He never even bothered to give us a list of supplies to bring. On the first class, he came in and said "We're doing collage!" and then looked at us, as if his proclamation is all we need to get started.

All the students, who did not bring ANY kind of supplies: brushes, glue, magazines, looked at each other and knew that it was going to be a long eight weeks. The instructor had two X-acto knives that the class had to share, which he pulled out of the Badtz-Maru pencil case.

The pencil case is basically the only thing that is only thing that is letting him hold on to any sort of good will from me. If he ever comes to class without it...well, let's just say nothing, not his lip piercing, his vintage bowling shoes or his cool hair will save him from my glorious wrath. That pencil case is like the Anti-SeaBear circle protecting him and his skinny Squidward legs.*

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*According to the Spongebob Squarepants mythology, an Anti-SeaBear circle is the only thing that will protect you from a vicious sea bear attack--especially when you are out camping in the backyard of your pineapple.

Wao! Wao! Oscar Wao!

2007-10-06T13:18:00.000-05:00

I don’t know about you, but as a reader, I have very high expectations. I expect that a novel have characters that are real, complex, tangible, that they are just one step away from being my own friends. I mean, if I wanted just any friend, I’d go hang out at a gay bar and buy drinks. I’ve never had as many friends as when I’m at a gay bar with an open tab.

If you’re author Junot Díaz, you’ve already gotten this down pat. Your skill as a writer is evidenced by the fact that your characters are not people I would normally associate with, whom I would totally shun, but am somehow drawn to and maybe even hang out with, if they bought me drinks.

Especially if your character is the titular Oscar, an overweight Dominican nerdboy with bad skin, bad hair whose glory days have passed him by at the age of seven, when he had yet to become a torpid teen, when youth was his ally and he had been the smoothest cat on his block. The apex of this period occurred when he had a three-way kiss with two girls at the bus stop, pre-dating The Real World hot tubs. Then it was downhill all the way. There are rumors of a weird curse--a fukú--on him, his family, possibly dating back to his ancient ancestry.

The story is narrated by Yunior--Oscar's sister's ex-boyfriend (wha...?), who tells the story in an epic mash-up gangsta cholo slash Lord of The Rings style, in an effort to divine the source of the curse or ward it off, I'm not sure. Then Oscar's troubled sister Lola jumps in and puts in her two cents into the boiling cauldron. Just when you're ready to write off some evil character, some truth is revealed and you go on hating the character but not without heartache.

Junot Díaz keeps all your senses occupied with his strange patois: a mixture of English, Spanish, Klingon, moving the story forward with an urgency and casualness which would’ve been at odds itself, if it had been written with less skill, throwing in pop culture references at you, like Donkey Kong throwing barrels at a befuddled Mario. At the same time, he peppers the story with footnotes explaining obscure customs or personal histories--short stories really--in three, five or ten sentences.

The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao is Díaz’ first novel, although I had been first introduced to his work by way of Drown, his debut book of short stories in 1997. I normally don’t read short story anthologies because it’s usually one or two great stories, two more middling ones and then filler.* But I bought Drown because as I read the first paragraph at the bookstore, Díaz’ voice grabbed me with both hands and almost like he yelled, "It’s clobberin' time," I was drawn into the melee. Just like that. Check out his books.

Read this: "Homecoming, with Turtle" by Junot Díaz

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*There is only one exception to this rule and that’s Stephen King’s book of novellas Different Seasons, which spawned not one, but three feature films including Shawshank Redemption, Apt Pupil and Stand By Me.To this day, this book rules this category for me.

Other great writers I recommend:

Pulp Fiction - David Schickler is no namby-pamby, sensitive, wryly comic author. I predict he's your new fave author.

Interview with John McNally - If you like 'em rough, troublemakers are his specialty. Check out The Book of Ralph.

Get the books:

Birth

2007-09-27T20:42:00.000-05:00

So, I'm sorry that I haven't been around. I have been hiding from you, if you want to know. Part of the reason being that I had been trying to learn how to paint, or more precisely, create Art. Yes, Art with a capital "A." Not some piddling little watercolor of a tidy little cottage, but a grandiose dream of paint smears and wild colors, of Big Statements and Bold Moves.

I'm sad to say that I have always been one of those people that looks at some abstract painting, like maybe a Mark Rothko or the graffiti of Keith Haring and say, that's wonderful, but really, I could do that, even though deep inside I knew that there was something about those works that was elusive, trapped on a canvas--pinned down really, like a butterfly on a collector's board.

I would look at Piet Mondrian's "Broadway Boogie Woogie" and think, I love this painting, how he conveyed the excitement of Broadway, the movement and flashing lights with just lines and squares. I've always thought, hey, I want to do that. I was sure that I could think of some way to distill the essence of a city into a few lines. I was sure I could--all I had to do was to get a paint set and my walls would be dripping with my masterpieces. I really thought I did--just put a brush in my hand.

And because I had this huge, huge feeling, I had attempted to blog about it because I wanted to write about something and it was either this or another post about farting, which would've been appropriate since just before I sat down, I had farted. I'm in fact, still in the midst of its lingering stench.

I had written the following:

Art is daunting. It wills a person to create it, no matter how unsophisticated the hand. And then it is out there, for everyone to judge.

It scares me because sometimes, I feel that there is picture in me that needs to be conceived. I don't know the implement; a brush, a pen or knife. Sometimes, I am overwhelmed by the lines of a bus. Sometimes, I am suffocated by the color of rain, or the look in a man's eye.

I wish, often, forever, I could give birth to an image--a pink squalling babe would spring forth from me--with a moon for an eyebrow, a caterpillar for a finger, a penny for a navel.

At first it sounded good to me. Then it just felt atrocious, so much so that the next word I wrote was "fuck." And then,

fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck
fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck
fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck
fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck
fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckFUCK

I'm such a fucking tool. I decided not to post it and left it in draft mode.

However, I did go online and signed up for a class at the Evanston Art Center thinking that despite my bravado, I really needed some basic instruction. I wanted to do it right. If one had something important that they wanted to do, ideally one should consult an expert, say an astrologer, you know, to see if the stars are in alignment. I gazed at the night sky looking for signs of a twinkling conga line.

A few days before the class, I checked my blog and revisited what I had written. It had not gotten better and was more and more like the literary version of the guy you brought home at the desperate hour of closing time. Since it had taken me like, over an hour to write this shit, I attempted to salvage what I wrote, sort of like pretending that the whole night never happened, I'd never met that closing time guy even though he won't stop texting me and calling me up crying in the middle of the night.

I deleted the fucks and wrote sort of an apologia for this treacle, an "i'm not taking myself that seriously" bullshit that I am wont to write:

I hired a midwife. I signed up for an art class. For the next 8 weeks I'll find out whether I suck, or I just suck dick.

I am very nervous about it. Eight weeks is a long time, especially if the rest of the class was wildly talented. What if we had to draw from nude male models? I am afraid my drawings would all have beautifully detailed dicks hanging on stick figures.

I am hoping to snag a corner where I can work privately and not draw attention to myself. Do you think wearing a velvet smoking jacket is ok? Or is that not artsy enough? Or maybe an all-black ensemble and a beret? This is just totally freaking me out. I may have to go buy a totally new outfit for the class. I want to make sure, you know, that I fit in.

I'm scared shitless.

I wasn't happy with that either. But the last line was true: I was scared shitless. I clung to that. It's kind of like that moment when you realize, yes, I am gay and I am going to have to take it up the ass. Ouuuuuuuchhhh. I used to think: why couldn't I have been born a lesbian? Until I saw the size of the dildos they used. There was one that was the size and shape of a fist. Lesbians mean business, man. You know that vibrator they call The Rabbit? The lesbian version is a real fucking rabbit, stuffed, with beady glass eyes.

That's how scared I was. What if my masterpieces turned out to be the barbecue sauce kind, you know, from KC? What if my attempts are not even worthy of the bathroom wall at the Sistine Chapel. Can I live with myself? Worse, can I live with myself after I told everyone and you that I am taking the class?

Fuck it then. I have written this post long enough to abandon it forever. You know how it is. You've posted something just for the sake of posting something.

Please don't ask me to post any pictures of my work.

P.S. There is barely any stench left from the fart at the start of this post. But if I concentrate hard enough on the scent, it maybe enough for me to start another blog post...

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The amazing art of Chuck Close.

Books about the artists:

Throw It Away

2007-09-21T09:00:00.000-05:00

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

The Deep South - My comic strip blog that rips off works of art. Now on haitus coz I'm lazy.

Scar

2007-09-14T12:44:00.000-05:00

This is my scar. It was a result of a surgery performed earlier in March.

It travels down my stomach like train tracks. It starts two inches above my navel, runs down, circles half-way around my navel as if it were a rotunda, then trails away another three inches before ending abruptly, abandoned, just near my treasure trail, as if treasure hunters abandoned the train and set off on foot to find the family jewels.

I rubbed the scar absentmindedly, tracing its rickety path, feeling twinges in spots--ghost pains, particularly in the darker knots. I imagined the sharp scalpel cutting through my skin as I lay unconscious on the operating table. I imagined the skin separating, slowly, like petals blooming open, a bloody rose; the separated flesh revealing the wetness of my organs.

I had never had been cut open before. I thought that all my firsts were over: my first kiss, my first job, my first pre-mature ejaculation. But I realized afterwards that those were the firsts that I had looked forward to--goals to be achieved. I didn’t know that as life went on, there were firsts that would come unbidden, sprouting underground, like sleeping cicadas: my first grey hair, my first lay-off, my first tumor.

In the minutes, the seconds before going under, I told Brian that I was going to be ok. “I’ll see you in a couple of hours,” I said, hoping my voice was confident, even. But I guess it wasn’t, because his eyes watered. And suddenly, I felt my own tears fall, our bodies heaving silently before we calmed ourselves down.

I was afraid. Meredith Grey’s stepmother went in for a routine procedure and died on the operating table, never knowing her own life was ended by Fate and/or the Nielsen ratings. My recent Google Page Rank or Technorati Authority were low enough to not tempt a dramatic turn, but I was nervous nonetheless. If this blog were Pink is The New Blog or Towleroad, I’d be afraid to cross the street. There is an out-of-control bus with their URL on it, waiting to make a sensational story in the blogosphere. My traffic is hopefully small enough not to tempt Fate, even if s/he had a fetish for Asians with lactophobia. Fate is a capricious tranny.

Anesthesia is not sleep. When you sleep, you toss around, your body moves; turning, like fallen leaves. Your body retreats into a nook; you dream, you moan. Anesthesia is blackness; it is nowhere, nowhen. There is no memory of it.

The surgery was exploratory. I was admitted for another bout of small bowel obstruction, something clogging up my plumbing. It was painful. They couldn’t explain why this is happening to a young, healthy guy with such a great manicure. When this happened to me before, they thought it unusual, but a fluke--the human body is mysterious and sometimes, like Fergie’s songs, you don’t need to look too deeply into it. Sometimes, the human body fails, like a celebutante and a breathalyzer test. You stay a few days at the L.A. County jail, you move on, you go on Larry King.

But a second bout in a relatively short time was unusual. They wanted to rule out certain things.

I didn’t want to think about these certain things.

When they cut me open, they found adhesions: strips of fleshy tape, like plastic wrap, that wound itself around my intestines. They told Brian when I went in that the surgery would be a couple of hours. It took twice that amount of time to cut away the adhesions. If I had been Brian, I would’ve been crossing nerves, climbing walls, compiling dust.

I woke up stapled. The skin on my stomach was gathered together, like continents colliding. The staples were uneven all along the incision, as if these train tracks were built in the old Wild West, rickety and precarious. They were the only thing that kept my guts from spilling out. I pictured my innards packed haphazardly, like a suitcase after a vacation, filled with jumbled dirty clothes.

I wondered idly if I they could’ve taken a kidney or half a liver--that would’ve brought me closer to my goal weight of 150 lbs. But it’s too late now, I have to lose weight the normal way, by abusing laxatives.

It’s been six months, the scar is no longer an angry red. It is maybe, just a little sulky maroon. Very slowly, like Pluto contemplating its orbit, the scar is fading away.

I’ll always remember that moment when I was scared and Brian was scared. It’s terrifying, this synchronicity. I always thought that when one of us was scared, the other would be unscared. I place my palm on my stomach, covering the scar.

But the scar peeked out from between my fingers, like flashes of an old memory; the memory of my fear.

-----
Check these out:

Today I Am Happy - A message for my future self to read.
A Sense of Impending Doom - An overwhelming sense of dread engulfs me.

Rollercoaster - My mom warned me that the good times will not last forever.
Revisionist History - In this blog post, I am all-powerful, bending the universe to my will.

Driving Home

2007-09-11T08:00:00.000-05:00

Minister of our coming doom, preaching
On the car radio, how right
Your Hell and damnation sound to me
As I travel these small, bleak roads
Thinking of the mailman's son
The Army sent back in a sealed coffin.

His house is around the next turn.
A forlorn mutt sits in the yard
Waiting for someone to return home.
I can see the TV is on in the living room,
Canned laughter in the empty house
Like the sound of beer cans tied to a hearse.

- Charles Simic

Godspeed, soldiers.

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The Day After - A post I wrote the day after the Sept 11 attacks.
Poetry - Schmoetry. Stuff that rhyme and shit.

Stone - Another awesome poem by Charles Simic.
Back On The Bus - After the London bombings in 2005, I brave public transportation.

Books by Charles Simic:

British Invasion!

2007-09-10T09:20:00.000-05:00

Catch up on the magic! Adventures awaited us in the busy streets of Soho, in the grand city of London. Where can you find the best Gay Food Porn? How can you discern a gay Londoner just by looking at the back of his head? How do you avoid Voldemort who apparently works in a booth in the Tube? Click on the icons above to navigate through the posts and find out!

Mystery Location!

2007-09-07T22:48:00.001-05:00

PREVIOUSLY: Notes From The Underground

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Seen in Soho: 7 Meard St., Soho, London

UPDATE: More info about the owner of this door.

Notes From The Underground

2007-09-03T20:00:00.000-05:00

PREVIOUSLY: The Harry Potter Experience

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The world is my oyster, proclaimed Shakespeare, but that was because he didn’t have to travel via the Underground, or the Tube, as the locals affectionately call it. And by affectionate, I am referring to the feeling one has for that relative that comes to every family get-together and causes fights, eats all the food and brings no presents; the one you wish you could invite to your mother-in-law’s parties.

Well, Shakes wouldn’t be able to get around London these days without a pre-paid fare card called the ‘Oyster card.’ Any one-way fare within a zone was £4. With an Oyster card, it is £1.50, but you have to shell out a one-time, refundable £3 deposit for the card. Easy enough decision, as any Asian can tell you. If you don’t understand the math, pull a nearby Asian aside and they will be able to assist you. We’re very helpful.

On day 7, we had decided to take the tube to check out the Notting Hill area, sort of a dry-run for our return trip to Heathrow, since we’ve previously decided not to take a taxi to avoid getting killed by the nefarious, you know, currency exchange rate, which right now is at about £1 to $2.

The trip started easy enough. After being in London several days, we had reached a level of comfort that allowed us to expertly count out foreign coins, bravely explore neighborhoods and confidently pee into bushes when we couldn’t find the loo.

We boldly went to a ticket counter and got ourselves Oyster cards, loading it up with £3 pounds each, enough to get to Notting Hill Gate station from our station, Tottenham Court Road, and back.

We quickly arrived at Notting Hill and spent a couple of hours in the area, shopping and exploring the pretty neighborhoods so that when we come back later that evening, we know which houses to break into. Shopping and casing out homes are two of my favorite hobbies, next to knitting.

Then disaster strikes. First, on our trip back, my Oyster card wouldn’t let me in at Notting Hill Gate station, even though there should be enough fare left. After several tries, I went to a ticket agent who took my card and told me that I didn’t swipe my card when I left Tottenham Court Road (I did, I swear) and now I am short. But my ticket agent, a nice young woman, after reviewing the activity on the card, decided to fix the situation by reloading my card with £1.50 so I can enter. Problem solved, Brian and I entered the station.

However, when we arrived back at Tottenham Court, Brian's card wouldn't let him get out. We thought, well, the ticket agent here can fix this. Boy, we were wrong.

The agent, an older dude, told us that the balance on the card was negative £1. After arguing with the agent about how we had loaded enough cash for our little round trip, he accused Brian of following someone in and not touching the entry gate reader with his card, even though we both did.

First of all, we were obviously tourists due to our expertly coordinated outfits, and since we took the effort to buy the damn card and then asking for help, wouldn’t you think we were on the up-and-up? Plus, if he reviewed the history of the card like the woman at Notting Hill did, he would’ve come to the same conclusion as she did, that this was an unfortunate mix-up.

But the old guy wouldn’t budge. The vein in Brian’s neck was just about ready to bust. But seeing as we weren’t getting anywhere, Brian paid the damn £1. That should’ve been the end of the story, but oh-ho, we found that he still couldn’t get out. We went back to the old guy who told us that the reason was that now the balance was £0 and we had to pay another £1.50 just to get out. We were outraged! We threw hissy fits! But apparently the old guy was immune to our gay super powers so we begrudgingly paid the extra £1.50.

All in all, Brian paid £5.50 for the trip, which pissed us off, especially since the old dude could’ve fixed it, if he so wished.

After we had calmed down, back at the hotel, we discussed how this could’ve happened to us, since we made sure to touch our cards to the reader. We concluded that the first entry gate had a faulty reader and didn’t trigger our cards. We also remembered that this entry didn’t close after every person passed, remaining open. Of course, we didn’t think anything of it then, but in hindsight, we should’ve paid attention to that oddity.

Mystery of the Blimey Oyster Card solved.

Gentle reader, I pray that you don’t encounter this old guy at the Tottenham Court Road station, whom I didn't summon by uttering Voldemort's jinxed name. I pray that if you travel to London, you have better luck than us with the Oyster card.

NEXT: The Final London Post. Mystery Location!

Tired of waiting for new posts? Join the mailing list!

The Harry Potter Experience

2007-08-29T20:12:00.000-05:00

PREVIOUSLY: Slideshow

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SPOILER ALERT! Just kidding, there are no spoilers here. This post is not about Harry Potter and The Deathly Hallows although I am currently reading it, which by the way, is fucking heavy. You almost have to be a bodybuilder to lift this book which is ridiculous because we all know that bodybuilders don’t read. Well, except the label of their food supplements, which they do very carefully with the help of somebody reading it to them.

This post is about our second hotel in London, the one I booked just in case our first hotel was a fleabag hotel. Believe me when I say that I didn’t expect this new hotel, The Hazlitts, to be a Harry Potter experience at all, but it did.

First of all, after checking in, we were led down to a room under the stairs. For a few seconds I thought that the door was going to open into a cupboard. But to my relief, it opened into the dungeon, ehem, basement. The stone walls were painted a bright yellow, I think to distract you from the quaint shackles hanging from the wall and the mace.

The room was called the Thomas Archer room, after some famous person I've never heard of. The color scheme looked like Colonel Mustard came in there and shot his load all over the walls. Ok ok ok, I exaggerate, as you can see in the pictures below, it wasn’t quite that bad, but boy, it was what Michael Kors would call ‘matchy-matchy,’ which is Korspeak for ‘burn the thing down.’

The room was dark. The window only provided a sliver of light from the street above. It was small, but you know me, I'm not a size queen. Ok, I am, hel-looo! but the size of the room was ample. At least the bed was comfortable and clean. The worst part about this room was the bathroom, which was only had a bathtub. I don’t know about you, but the last time I took a bath, I was still playing with rubber duckies, you know, when I was thirty-two.

There was no shower, but there was a hose with a shower head. However, since there was no shower curtain, you could only crouch in the tub to ‘shower’ unless you wanted to make a huge, wet mess. Plus, I sometimes pee in the shower and the first time I used the tub, I accidentally relaxed my bladder and peed in the tub while I was sitting in it. Peeing on someone else--sexy; peeing on yourself--not sexy, unless of course, you're being paid to do it, then very very sexy. Hazlitts, if you're reading this, you could install a shower curtain here and it would go a long, long way.

You know, I'm sure that the other rooms in this hotel are grand, light and beautiful and charming, just like all the pictures in Expedia, but not this room.

But I suppose, it wasn't too bad. Though I think, they should've thrown in an owl in a birdcage, a Nimbus 2000 and a house elf, and then called it the 'Harry Potter' room...now that would've been an experience...

NEXT: Notes From The Underground

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Explore Harry Potter's house.

Slideshow

2007-08-25T09:00:00.001-05:00

PREVIOUSLY: Gay Food Porn

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Heyyyy, come in. Thanks for coming. We’re going to be starting very soon, but here, sit down. There’s chips and dip, some other little munchies over there.

Donnie, Aimee and Rob are already here. So are Joz, Michael Guy and Matty, they’re over in the sidebar chatting and commenting. Jade Park and Violet should be here shortly. Of course the always vocal, always crazy Jeremiah. I’m glad you made it though, the weather has been really bad, hasn’t it? You tell me--I stepped into a puddle with my favorite shoes, you remember, that brown pair with the stripes and the nice pink bow? That just blows, because it was a very very very expensive pair...that I shoplifted from Prada. Now it’s ruined. Oh well.

Sorry, the place is a bit of mess--we just got back from London you know--so the blog’s just a bit dusty, but we should have some new posts up soon. I have a new one ready to go--what’s that? Oh, yeah, London! It was wonderful!

I would totally live there! I would totally fit in because I totally love royalty, I totally love Stella McCartney and I totally feel superior to dumb American tourists, you know, like my boyfriend Brian.

We’ll get started with the new blog, but first, you should see the pictures we took! No no no, it won’t take long at all! Just sit down, it’ll be over before you know it! I promise!

click.

...and this one was when I was at G-A-Y club, completely drunk out of my mind--what? You have to go? But we haven’t even gone through the pictures from the second day!

Ok, come back again soon, I’ll have a new post up by then.

...aaaaaaaand we can go over Brian’s pictures!

NEXT: The Harry Potter Experience

Gay Food Porn

2007-08-21T21:30:00.001-05:00

PREVIOUSLY: The Tipping Point

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On the bustling streets of Soho, the restaurants beckon you, tempting you, flashing their fare with displays in their windows, menus of their exotic specialties, and signs calling out their two-for-one deals: hey you, and your buddy, together--!

Like a sailor on shore leave, we were eager to sample what the city had to offer. No limits, save what our (designer) purses can bear.

Balan’s Café on Old Compton had a good deal on a great English breakfast: eggs, rashers, sausage, grilled tomáto, toast, sauté mushrooms and potatoes, nicely presented, all for £5.25. Watch out for their gregarious and friendly waiter, only known with the mysterious moniker “Babe.”

Just a few steps away, The Stock Pot, had a set English breakfast for £4.50. The set consisted of one fried egg, sausage, rashers, toast and baked beans. Coffee or tea is included. Serviceable, but nothing to blog home about, but a good alternative when you’re low on cash after binge-drinking. By the way, ‘rashers’ are not some sort of VD, but a sort of thick-cut bacon, more ham than bacon really.

We had some of the best Indian food ever at Punjab Restaurant on 80 Neal Street. Punjab specializes in north Indian cuisine, which is rare in Chicago so we had to try it while we were here in London. We started with Punjabi Samosa, which is a fried, crisp pastry filled with spicy potatoes. For my entrée, I had the Chicken Madras, a hot and spicy tomato based curry. Brian had the delicious Chicken Jalfrezi, with pieces of chicken cooked in ginger, tomatoes, onions, green pepper and other spices.

Our other Indian experience at the Palms of Goa on 4 Meard Street, wasn’t as exciting. The restaurant served south Indian food and boasted Goan specialties. We were eager to try this new Indian cuisine from Goa. For our starter, we ordered the Batata Wada, a bland variation of the familiar samosa: mashed potatoes, green chili and green peas fried in a gram flour batter. I ordered the Pork Mas, a Goan specialty of diced pork, cooked with vinegar, ginger and garlic and spices. I was pretty excited about it because I had never seen pork in an Indian restaurant before, but it turned out bland and the pork tough. Brian had the Chicken Tikka Tandoori, served on a sizzling plate. Tandoori is a style of cooking that involves barbecuing in a clay oven. This Goan variation seemed more lemony than similar dishes I’ve had and was pretty good.

We also had a chance to go to a couple of Indonesian/Malaysian restaurants, which is also pretty rare in Chicago. Indonesian and Malaysian food are the most similar to the type of food that I grew up with in the Philippines, due to its proximity. I was very excited to find these. I could hardly keep my knees together, I was about to come with excitement.

Melati on 30-31 Peter Street was the better of the two. We tried the Mee Goreng Istimewa, which is fried noodles with squid, beef and prawn, served with a fried egg on top and two skewers of satay covered in peanut sauce. Awesome! Brian had the tasty Ayam Rendang, which is chicken cooked in a hot spicy coconut gravy with lemon grass. The other restaurant was Bali Bali on 150 Shaftesbury Avenue. We started with the Udang Goreng Tepung, which is delicious prawn fritters served with chili sauce. I ordered the Nasi Goreng Special which fried rice with eggs, shredded chicken, king prawns, vegetables and chili which I enjoyed. Brian ordered the Semur Daging, which is beef slices cooked in Indonesian soy sauce. Brian loved it, but I thought it was a tad too sweet.

We had to try some English food so we stopped at this pub called Old Shades on Whitehall just south of Trafalgar Square. I had the fish and chips, which was beer battered fish and french fries. However, under the batter, the fish still had the skin on. I wasn’t sure whether this was a British thing or not, but it made me sorta gag, like a vagina. Brian had better luck with his sausage and mash.

Viet Noodle Bar on Greek Street had decent Pho Tai, a traditional Vietnamese beef noodle soup with fresh greens and are you still even reading this b.s. or did you just skip to the end of the post. I thought so.

Then, there was this encounter with an enormous sausage, a twelve-incher on Charing Cross--after a night of heavy drinking at G-A-Y club. I was lured by the smell of sizzling meat. The smell led me to a street vendor grilling pale sausages, already turning a nice caramel brown; grilled sweet onions waited in a corner to be used as condiments. My mouth watered at the thought of that sausage at the back of my throat. With the munchies clouding my judgment, £3 had seemed reasonable. But I was quickly disappointed. The meat was tasteless, the skin was dry, and the bun, cold and doughy. It reminded me of my ex-boyfriend, but that's another story.

Finally, there’s Caffé Nero, a coffee shop, the one on Frith and Old Compton, smack in Bent Central is a good spot to boy-watch and while away some time, where I wrote this post. But beware of the back of the shop, where the acrid smell of piss wafts up whenever somebody leaves the loo, which is located downstairs.

Unless, of course, you’re into that sort of shit.

There were several other places we went to, but I started feeling stupid taking notes on all of them. I felt like I was blogging about my vacation instead of taking it. The short of it is that Soho had a lot of great food, all within a short distance from the two hotels we stayed in. Gays, you should definitely stay in this area.

NEXT: Slideshow

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MapEasy's Guide Map to London was essential to our trip! It gives you a bird's eye view of a city and makes it easy to figure out what places to go. It shows detail maps for Covent Garden/Soho, Greater London, Out-of-Town, and Underground. It is a location map and guidebook in one. Each hand-drawn Guidemap contains useful facts on hotels and restaurants, as well as information regarding shops, museums, and attractions. Plus, the map is made of a waterproof, tear resistant material. Check it out!

No Milk Please

Style Icon

And Now A Joke...

Defending Lady Gaga?

Universal Math

Love Letter

What Is The Use?

Scruff

No Milk Please 360º

A Letter From My Sister (in Haiku)

From My Brother's Secret Blog

Sidebar Action

Body Building

I Understand If You Don't

Downlow

He Is Risen

Dusty

Sorry

Toilet Paper Roll

Chicago Missed Connections

Burning - Redux

Recession Depression

In With The New...

Dumpster Diving

Ghosts of Chicago

Responses

Personal Ad

Last Will and Testament

A Brief Note

Election Day

Get out and Vote!

Will

Wedding Day

Garbage Island

Single/Bilingual

*groan*

Get UR Pride On

Facebook

Evil Videos

Installation

Podcasts

Spring Showers Bring May Flowers

Open Thread #2

Another Super Power!

Birthday Card

The Bowerbirds

Burning

Earthquake!

Melodrama

Things I Think About On The Treadmill

Wading Pool

Heart

Jacket Days

Open Thread #1

Lo Siento

Starbucks

My Writing Life

How Many More?

Hacking Up a Lung

That Just Happened to Me

High

All My Children

Oscar Hangover

Oh Squiggly Line

Tribes

First Love

Logo Madness

Thinking the Unthinkable

Patience

What Your Remix Says About You

Jimmy

Live Wire

Workshop

Science

Rule of One Hotter

A Different Place...

Writing The Unthinkable

Happy New Year

The Orphanage

Mosaic

groan