One-Brunch Stand

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.

-----

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

Finders Keepers - A near brunch catfight averted.

Exhaustion

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.*

-----
*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.

I Know.

I know you're reading this, you motherfucker.

You liar, betrayer, boyfriend stealer.

You guiled your way into my life, pretended to be my friend, then fucked my boyfriend behind my back.

My site logs have captured your IP address, your google search terms: I know it's you, fucker. I've hidden your name in this blog with white font like this: ASSHOLE, a white word. Highlight it and see what I think of you. I've hidden it for the search engines to mine, to excavate. It's all out there.

I KNOW.

You think I've forgotten? I've got a long memory and I've got a blog. You can read about the hurt that you've caused me, it's in here, it's all in here, among the archives. Read it! READ. IT. Giggle at how stupid I was. Snicker at my trust. Go on, laugh at me.

It was shitty for a long time, but I got over it. I moved on. I fucked other people. I fucked other people's boyfriends. I just had to know what it was like. I just had to get into your head, because I couldn't get into your head with a hammer.

You can keep coming back, but that white word? It'll be here forever, a nugget of iron pyrite in an ore of gold. I hated you. I forgave you.

I don't forgive you.

-----

Self-Googling is Masturbation - It's compulsive, I know, but I do it too most nights when I'm lonely.

Blog Gimmickry - Without putting up naked pictures of yourself, nobody will your blog.

The Assassin, Part 1

I had a feeling of déjà vu when I was waiting in line to get into the Chicago Theatre to see Margaret Cho’s “The Assassin Tour” last Friday. Maybe it was because I bumped into four ex-boyfriends, the most I’d ever run into at the same place outside of a gay bathhouse.

You can always count on running into a few exes in a gay bathhouse. Anonymity in there is like Beyonce and good taste, two things that never go together.

Going to a bathhouse is like going to church, you spend a lot of time on your knees and calling out to God, "oh God...oh God...oh my Goddddd!!!" But unlike in church, you don’t call the stalls “confessionals,” unless you're really kinky, a priest or both.

That’s not even counting the tricks and one night stands I ran into at the show. There were so many of my tricks that if I pulled a bunch of fake flowers out of my ass, I could charge a cover and a two-drink minimum.

Of course, it’s awkward. These people can expose your deep, dark secrets in the bedroom, like when you sewed on that Ralph Lauren label to that comforter from Target. I can imagine the viciousness of the queens at the local gay bar:

Gurl, didja hear about hur and hur comforter? I knew it! I. Just. Knew. It! I knew that bitch could not possibly afford all that shit working retail. And I just knew those curtains were not from Restoration Hardware! Mm-mm-mm. Nobody can pass off that shit on this queen!

But the worst was when I ran into “The One.” The one who broke my tender, young heart.

Everyone has one of those, you know, when you were young and full of trust, and you didn’t know how another person could break your heart or hurt your dick with their teeth.

It was at the merch counter. I was second in line when I saw Fabrice walking towards me. Yeah, I know, how can a guy named “Fabrice” break my heart, right? It’s ridiculous. A “Fabrice” would likely be someone who would freshen up your clothes after a night at a smoky bar, not wreak havoc on your emotions.

I looked around frantically for some big and tall guy to hide behind or, pretend to be my boyfriend in case Fabrice saw me.

No such luck.

How I wished Brian wasn’t already at our seats. The last thing you want an ex-boyfriend to do is to find you standing by yourself, like that one time he found you in the middle of his bedroom with the spare key that you never returned and the “present” you left in the middle of his bed. Doing number two had never been so gratifying.

Just as I approached the counter, Fabrice caught up with me and introduced his Asian-of-the-month. When meeting a fellow gay Asian, I followed the traditional Asian custom of greeting where we check out each others’ outfits, give a combination smile/sneer, and turn away.

I didn’t know what he wanted, but I wanted to get away as fast as I can. So I paid for the first thing I saw. That’s how I ended up with a t-shirt in XXL, three letters that never appear together in my closet’s plane of existence. I thought the only letter that went along with “XX” was another “X”. I don’t know what “L” could possibly mean. “Lesbian,” perhaps?

I made my excuses and hurried away. The crowds were a blur; their bulk, a tide slowing my progress. I prayed my ex-boyfriend’s seats were not anywhere near my line of sight.

I found Brian just a couple of minutes before the light dimmed. I slumped into my seat and held on to his hand just as the applause rose, roaring like waves in my ears.


Next: More Assassin

Blue Pencil

It feels good to wield a blue pencil, ennit? The power to tear people down, pronounce their feelings and thoughts ridiculous, reduced to a treacle. It is inevitable that some people will not like what I write. Most of the time, I don't like what I write.

I write it anyway. It has been a lifesaver, a little sweet diversion through these days of unemployment. I write because I like the process of writing, the words formed from synapses of the brain traveling down the nervous system, to the tips of my fingers, then making that jump to a keyboard and a screen.

One unfortunate reader had been so incensed that I have written such trite passages that he wrote an entry in my guestbook, crowing of his intent to blue pencil me into oblivion. When I deleted it, he returned and decried my deletion of the original malevolent entry, contemptuous of my lack of mettle to withstand his challenge. I am not sure why he felt that I should leave it up. When you have a rabid dog in your house, you don't just sit there and drink tea, do you?

I guess he has been having an extra bad day at the office that he felt compelled to complain that I wasted his time reading my unfortunate prose when he could be doing something productive like surfing porn. Maybe his boss told him that he needed to sharpen his blue pencil on literary low-lives like me because he's not ready to edit a real manuscript.

Ok, I get it; I am not a million-selling author. If you're reading this, Mr. Guestbook, I would encourage you to move on with your life already, but I suspect you won't. You're like me: easily riled up, quixotic, impetuous. I spent two days spamming Celine after she kept putting meaningless Portuguese quotations in my comments. It was futile, she didn't know any English. But you, you got to me. You got me to write this post. Bet you're itching to blue pencil this comma right here,

If I had a blue pencil, Anne Rice would not have a career. After reading ten-odd books filled with excessively florid passages, I think that I have had enough. Never has there been such swooning over blood flowing than a group of Tampax executives.

If I had a blue pencil, I would remove entire periods from my memory, events from which I physically flinch when I remember them.

If I had a blue pencil, I would tell my friend Julie Harris that I am sorry for hurting her, for writing that damn e-mail, the one she wept over.

Where were you when I could have used your blue pencil?