Gay Food Porn

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!

The Tipping Point

PREVIOUSLY: Counter-clockwise

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“Whatever you do, absolutely, do not, leave a tip,” advised my friend and sometime guest blogger here at NMP, Matt.

I was starting to think that he was having a laugh at our expense when I gave our taxi driver £60 for a £58 fare. The taxi driver’s eyes looked menacing as he bit out, “Is that it, then?”

“Uhh, okay,” I managed. I was actually expecting my £2 back, but his accent combined with his sharp tone confused me. It also made me pee a bit in my britches.

I did a quick mental calculation, converting the pounds into US dollars. The fare with my begrudging tip, was $119.4929 to be exact, or roughly $120, or $2 for every £1.

If you didn’t get any of that, it’s ok, I understand. This calculation only took 1/10th of a second for me because Asians are equipped with a built-in calculator in our brains, which is useful. Although I wished my parents opted for the upgrade package when I came out of the Asian Baby Factory and installed a vibrator in my penis as well.

After checking into our hotel, I quickly went on the Internet to check up on the local tipping customs.

What I found left me a little perplexed and unsure, but it seemed that there are three main rules: you do not tip a bartender or at a bar, even if there is food served; you don’t have to tip a waiter if a service charge is already added to your check; you do not tip the taxi driver, if you can run very fast and you’re not carrying any luggage, otherwise, it’s 15%.

Granted, the currency exchange rate is not exactly an enticement to tip, when everything you buy is implicitly double the listed price. When there is a choice between a nice Indian restaurant or, that place with the big yellow M where they serve 113.45 gram (1/4 lbs) hamburgers, served with chips (french fries) and medium drink for £4.45, VAT included, well, I’m lovin’ it...

Yes, if you do the math, that’s still $8.90, which is ridiculous. But what can you do? You make the most of it, try to skimp on some things, and on others, you just have to bend over and take it from The (British) Man. You just hope he’s kind enough to use some lube.

After spending $119.4929 getting to the hotel, I doubt if we would be taking a taxi back to the airport later this week. The tube will have to do. The money saved will go towards a noble cause: my vibrator implant fund.

Huzzah! Our hotel didn’t turn out to be a fleabag hotel at all! The Radisson Edwardian Mountbatten was located at the Seven Dials area, in the fashionable Soho district. It had free wireless Internet, which came in useful to do travel research. The room wasn’t huge, but it has nice decor, clean, comfortable and even had a gym equipped with treadmills, a step machine, a rowing machine and free weights. I booked it from Hotels.com. Location was amazing as we were within walking distance to West End, the theatre district, Leicester Square and other attractions. Lot of great shopping too!

Alas, because I wasn’t sure that it wasn’t going to be a fleabag hotel, I only booked it for half the trip. We will be switching to another hotel for the other half. More on that later.


NEXT: Gay Food Porn

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We will be heading back to Chicago tomorrow. Watch out for more posts about our London vacation and pictures!

Counter-clockwise

PREVIOUSLY: Packing Heat

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There’s a lot of free time waiting at airports. They tell you to be prepared for very long queues, because of the high state of you know, bitchiness, from the airline employees. You go a few hours early so you don’t miss your flight.

I find that there are two things you end up doing at airports to pass the time: one is eating and the other, people-watching. Since I didn’t bring my girdle--I was on vacation after all--I decided to do the latter. Time enough to gorge later when there aren’t so many people around. Also, I like to set the mood when I eat; I prefer a darkened room, softly lit by the lightbulb in the refrigerator, a gentle cool air wafting out of its open door.

So, I people-watched. I turned on my gaydar by flipping the switch hidden behind my ear, to try to figure out who’s gay, who’s straight and who’s simply given up on life. I know, I know--how boring. I don’t know why this is still so fascinating in this day and age of total gay world domination, but I find that it is. Maybe if I found one (i.e. a gay), we could go to the loo and do some clandestine, you know, gossiping.

But apparently, based on new and advanced, ground-breaking scientific research, it has been found that you can tell if somebody is gay or straight by the direction of their hair whorl. I had recently learned that if a person’s whorl goes clockwise, they are straight; otherwise, they are gay. This research was leaked to me from a top secret gay laboratory where they wear impeccably tailored white labcoats and use designer test tubes and beakers.

Brian and I checked the top of our heads and found that we both have counter-clockwise whorls. It must be 100% true with two snaps. I used this arcane knowledge on the people passing by: Straight. Straight. Gay. Straight. Total Beyonce-singing, Shakira rump-shakingly Gayyy.

However, this is very hard to do on people who are much taller than me. I tried standing on tiptoe to get a better view. If they turned around while I was on tiptoe, I innocently pirouetted away, throwing in a grande plié and a jeté to make it convincing. But being on tiptoe was useless, so I had to rely on more common methods, such as looking for signs of excessive dry clean-only fabrics or a garment bag.

This information comes at a very opportune time because it’s hard for a foreigner to discern if a Brit is gay because their accents make them sound swishy. And I’m talking about the women. The men sound like they are total flamers. It wasn’t hard to imagine them all having a collective hissy fit over converting their currency to Euros. It must have been pretty fearsome, since they’re still using the pound sterling. Plus, they have a queen on all their currency, how fabulous is that?

I hoped that this new whorl research would aid me in my search to connect with my own highly moisturized tribe.

But I am wondering if the research is flawed and the Brit whorls are reversed, like how in Australia the water flushes down counter-clockwise to our clockwise. There are signs of this: the Brits drive on the left side of the road; the steering wheel is on the right side of their cars; they think Victoria Beckham is a fashion icon. What? You’re not a fashion icon until the paparazzi have taken a photo of your pussy when you get out of a limo. In the U.S., Victoria Beckham would be like Ruth Bader Ginsburg. And, she’s a mother of three; one more and she could start an orphanage.

On our flight, our gay flight attendant Curtis’ whorl was clockwise, which would indicate that he was straight. He was definitely gay because I totally, absolutely, do not find him attractive. I am attracted primarily to guys who look like they sweat for a living, you know, like aerobics instructors.

I am sending an e-mail to our top secret gay laboratory in hopes that they send me a solution to my dilemma spit-spot. I have a brewing emergency, something that only Gay Brits can help with, something that could be a life-or-death situation: I have forgotten to pack my moisturizer.

God save this queen.

NEXT: The Tipping Point

Packing Heat

If you don’t hear from me in a few weeks, then I would have been a victim of terrorism.

Brian and I are headed towards that hotbed of terrorist activity, that center of political unrest, that city of miscreants: London. Yes, tomorrow, we are headed to the United Kingdom, hopefully to meet royalty, the beloved leader of her people, whose profile adorns a multitude of official gear, Dame Graham Norton.

We had made our vacation plans before the latest bomb scare this past June and it was too late to make any changes; we would just have to pray that we would not witness anything scarier than poor dental work during our trip. I light a candle to all the saints that protect me, including the capricious saint of all vertically-challenged dancers, St. Elton John.

To be honest with you, until recently, I have never been particularly afraid of bombs since I am quite familiar with the workings, the recipes of various cocktails: the Irish Car Bomb; the Cherry Bomb; and the most dangerous of them all, the Jägerbomb. I know, because there have been many times I’ve barely made it home with my shoes on after imbibing these drinks. I prefer that when I am bombed out of my mind, that my skull remain intact during the process. Besides, I hear that blown-out brains stains like a motherfucker; it would totally ruin my carefully selected vacation outfits.

This is on top of the fact that I have acrophobia--a fear of heights, and by extension, I am deathly afraid of flying, you know, coach. I get a skin rash from the fabrics they use in Economy. Also, I need wine and caviar immediately served to me upon embarking to calm my nerves.

But since I am not flying business class, I am resigned to squeezing myself into a small compartment, with little leg room. It’s a good thing I am limber enough to fold my legs behind my head, which I gained from years and years of ballet, gymnastics and turning tricks. But let me tell you that it is extremely difficult to hold in a fart in this position. For an eight-hour flight, this will be a challenge worthy of a Ninja Warrior.

Brian and I have started packing for the trip over a week ago. It’s hard to decide which items to bring for a nine-day trip, since we are only planning to bring a minimum of luggage: two large suitcases, two smaller ones, a backpack and just a teensy weensy cosmetics case weighing 15lbs. I intend to use it for arm curls during the long flight to keep my muscle tone. Bonus: my skin will be flawless.

It’s hard trying to anticipate all the different outfits that I would need for the different situations I may find myself in. For example, I hear the Brits have this custom of getting together in the afternoon. I believe it’s called high teabagging. What do you wear for that? Normally, my outfit is the last thing I think about when somebody puts their balls in my mouth, but tell me, do you think I should pack a bonnet? Or a bib?

Thankfully, it’s also summer there (unlike freaky Australia where it’s like freaking WINTER) so packing for the heat means only one thing: I have to bring a swimsuit. To save space, I am trying to decide whether I should bring a pair of thongs or a pair of band-aids. I think the band-aids are more modest, so I decide to bring those.

And just the shoes alone can fill up a suitcase: black shoes, brown shoes, sneakers, sandals, flip-flops and that’s just what I need during the day. For the evening, I have similar items but more formal and tasteful, you know, with rhinestones.

Then, there’s also the uncertainty of the quality of the hotels. I hear that the star ratings of London hotels are wildly different from U.S. hotels. TripAdvisor.com had some very dire descriptions of the hotels. Whereas a five-star here means an Olympic-sized pool, in London, it could mean that they don’t have a pool of, you know, piss, on the carpet. We just have to bite the bullet, pick one and hope that even if it turns out to be a fleabag hotel, the British fleas won’t bite us out of disdain for Americans.

But joking aside, we’re pretty excited. We are totally looking forward to it. It’s going to be a totally different culture and they even speak a totally different language. I'm just afraid that if someone asks ‘you gotta fag?’ whether he wants me to give him a cigarette or an impromptu dance number.

However, just in case, I’ll pack some Marlboros, a lighter and of course, my tap shoes...

NEXT: Counter-clockwise

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Other places I've been:

Warmth - I slid into the warmth of Montreal. Thank God I brought lots of lube.

Wedding Party - We arrive at the City by the Gay, San Francisco, our capital city.

Giving Up

by Rob!

Sometime in the 80s. Lost in Space reruns. The show would be much better if Major Don West would take off his shirt. I bet he looks like the guys in the JCPenny catalog. You know, in the underwear section. I'm not quite sure, but I am thinking he may be a better "actor" than Burt Ward of TV's Batman. Although Robin does wear tights. Hmmm.

I wonder if my mom is buying my whole "I hate it when you watch Days of Our Lives" routine. The truth is, I love it. I wish that show was on 24/7. Billy Warlock as Frankie Brady. Billy Hufsey as Emilio Ramirez. And of course, Steve Burton as Harris Michaels. Too bad there isn't some way to pause the TV. Those hot, steamy scenes go by way too fast!

School sucks. I hate it when we play kickball. Four Square is way better. And why can't everyday be gymnastics day in P.E.? Football bites.

I can't wait for Saturday! Grocery shopping day. While mom goes looking for the best price on generic pop, I've got to get caught up on my Teen Beat. I'm way behind on the news. I've got to find out what Kirk Cameron did on his summer vacation, what Joey-Joe McIntyre's favorite Jelly Belly flavor is, and which actress Chad Allen is dating. Chad is so dreamy. It sucks that he has a girlfriend. Too bad we don't know each other. I bet he'd want to hang out. Play Chinese jump rope or something.

I hope I have enough allowance saved up to get that Samantha Fox 45. I don't see why the guys at school think she is so hot. I think it's disgusting that she did porn. Why would anyone pay money to see her Virginia? I do love lip syncing to her songs, though. Naughty girls need love too!


20 years later. Crap. They're gonna be here in 20 minutes. Hide the Wizard of Oz box set behind the Godfather trilogy. Swap out the Bath and Body Works soap with some Dial. Put the candles away. Let's make this place macho! Too bad I don't have any Traci Lords posters to hang up on my bedroom wall. Is she still popular? Is she still alive?

Am I walking too gay? Talking too gay? What will he think? What will she think? Maybe it's a phase? I'm sure I just need to meet the right girl. Yeah. That's it. The right girl. How about the blond at work? I suppose I could convince myself to become attracted to her. Maybe I should think about her as I drift off to sleep...I'll have one of those 'dreams' they talk about and when I wake up...I'll be in love! Yeah! That's it!

Don't get too excited when Regina's "Baby Love" comes on the radio during the flashback hour. Don't let it slip that you saw the New Kids, Paula Abdul, Lisa Lisa and Milli Vanilli back in junior high. Embarrassing! Don't wear that lavender shirt to work, even though it does compliment your skin nicely...people will talk. Life sucks.


2007. Looking back...I can't believe how ridiculous all of that masquerading was. All the anxiety. All the depression. Tons of stress. What a waste.

I must have been about 25 when Danny Roberts and his fine ass were on the The Real World-New Orleans. Talk about dreamy. Here's this guy, coming out on national TV, a masculine guy dating a soldier. If this guy can say 'fuck it,' then why can't I? Why must I live in constant paranoia?

You're taught by your parents not to give up. But giving up was one of the best things I ever did.

I gave up pretending to be someone I wasn't. It was too much work. I hate hassle. I'm sure that in all my efforts to be more masculine, I probably came across as some sort of joke. Like when Scooby Doo would dress up in that trench coat and pretend to be human...with his tail wagging out the back. Stupid stoner dog.

Besides being constantly paranoid, I was hurting those close to me. There were a couple of times in high school that I had been asked out by girls and had to politely decline. Without being able to tell them the real reason, they'd often go away crushed; feelings hurt. Some of those friendships were never the same again. I was sick of hurting my friends, hurting myself, and being alone.

Falling in love is not a choice. Being attracted to someone is not a choice. It just happens. I just don't understand why people can't get that through their heads. It's not about having mother issues, no father, too much estrogen, not enough Jesus. None of that matters. We are attracted to different people the same way we are attracted to different colors, different music, foods, TV shows, colognes.

I don't mean to put one plight above another. Yet it's hard to hide the fact that you are a Black. Or an Asian. Or a woman. But hiding your homosexuality? It's pretty easy. In fact, even if you are a nelly straight out of Paul Lynde's closet, just keeping to yourself should do just fine. No one will ask...for fear that they might catch a case of the gay. Or AIDS! Yikes! It's the ease of hiding that makes it so hard for us to tear down the wall.

I'm glad I was able to see a role model in some two-bit reality star. We need more role models. No one has anything to be ashamed about. Get out there and be proud. You don't have to be famous. You don't have to be the Grand Marshall of the Pride Parade. You don't have to be the poster boy for some smutty bathhouse. You just have to be yourself. Go and show others that being gay isn't about being dressed in pink and listening to Barbara Streisand (although she is divine, isn't she?) And not every gay likes to get it up the tush.

We all need to stop acting like someone else and start being ourselves. And I'm not just talking about the gays out there. This message is for everyone. Be who you want to be, dammit! Do what feels right. Don't try to live according to someone else's rules. Who cares what a book or a celibate man has to say? Do what feels right. Be happy. Make yourself happy. Love yourself. Love each other. Respect.



Our guest blogger Rob! writes that superfab pop culture blog Welcome To The Bloghouse. His current favorite TV show is So You Think You Can Dance and he will give you a blow-by-blowjob account of Wade Robson's tight ass. Make sure to check out his archives.


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Other really gay posts:

Coming To Terms - nate, a visitor, mongers hate and flings curses.

My Fiscal Year - I already came out to my family--sorta.

Burnt Lunch

I swear I didn’t do on purpose! How was I to know that nuking a Leona's take-out was going to cause a small fire?

It was only leftover penne arrabbiata, from a week ago. I figured it’s the oldest thing in my fridge and I better eat it before it started growing fungus. That would be bad because I don’t have any good recipes for mushrooms. I’d have to throw it out and as I’ve said before, that goes against everything I’ve been taught in Sunday School by Sister Mary Giada De Laurentiis.

What? Turning on the Food Network on Sunday counts as Sunday School. It’s a deeply religious experience: first I turn on the serene, beatific Giada, then I tune in to Tyler’s Ultimate and imagine myself prostrate on the altar of Chef Tyler Florence, naked, writhing on a bed of romaine, covered in his special brand of thick Italian dressing. The thought of it makes my bread rise. Soon enough, it is warm, thick and splay--ready for eating.

My penne arrabbiata was in a Chinese take-out container, which is weird, because Leona’s is an Italian Restaurant/Pizzeria. You’d think that the container would be something more fitting for Italian food, like maybe, you know, a gondola. But I can see why they opted for a Chinese take-out container. It’s cheap, just a piece of cardboard folded into a container--ingenious, really. It’s just one of those things that the Chinese have graciously shared with the world, like the fortune cookie, tofu and the classic ‘me rove you wroooong time!!!’

Most days, I half-expect not to find my food in the office fridge. Has someone ever stolen your lunch? Have you thought about taking somebody else's lunch?

Once, I had half a steak sandwich gone missing. This troubled me greatly. I wished that I had a photo of the sandwich so I could put up a “Have You Seen This Sandwich?” sign with the photo of my young, innocent sandwich and my phone extension on it. Instead, I had to settle for a description: ‘6 day-old steak sandwich, medium rare on foccacia, light mayo--no cheese, last seen lovingly wrapped in a pale yellow wax paper.’ They say that by individualizing the victim, it humanizes them to their captor.

This person had to be stopped. I mean, who who who but a sinister person would take some unknown co-worker’s food from the fridge and eat it? This person had no morals whatsoever and should be stopped before they molested some child like they molested my poor steak sandwich. Did they rub it on their privates before consuming that tender, seasoned flesh? My stomach turned at the thought.

It’s totally insane, just the idea of eating somebody else’s food. What if the person didn’t wash their hands after going to the bathroom before making the sandwich? What if it was made by a vengeful wife who peed into the spaghetti sauce after finding lipstick on her husband’s underwear? And oh-dear-god-in-heaven, what if it was a salad that had ICEBERG LETTUCE. Shock!

But my food was there, so I took the take-out container by its aluminum handle and put it in the microwave oven. I don’t know about you, but I like my food piping hot--scalding, if possible. I like to feel the sizzle; it’s more appetizing that way. I hate eating through my food and finding a cold middle. It’s almost like dating a Korean guy and finding out he can’t do calculus or my laundry. It’s annoying and somewhat disappointing.

I figured that five minutes should do it. Since I am always afraid of bacteria, I add an extra minute to kill off those tiny little buggers. 6-0-0, I punched into the keypad. Start.

I settled down with my current book, a real page-turner: Soon I Will Be Invincible, so I am quickly absorbed. The lunch room was empty so it was pretty quiet save for the low, steady hum of the microwave.

Then suddenly, a few minutes in, I smelled smoke. Looking up, I saw wisps of black smoke seeping out of the sides of the microwave’s door. I jumped up and flew across the room to shut it off.

The door of the microwave sprung open. Inside, the white container was black where the handle was attached, small embers forming around the super-heated aluminum. I grabbed the hot container and threw it into the kitchen sink, burning my fingers. I turned on the water.

The inside of the microwave was sooty. Panic rising, I close the door, took the wet container from the sink, threw it into the trash and ran out of the lunch room. I felt a bit like a criminal leaving a crime scene. I wished I had time to wipe down for fingerprints. Everybody’s a fucking CSI these days; forensics is the new porn.

An hour later, I passed some people in the hallway jabbering about the lunch room. I kept quiet, avoiding eye contact. I was afraid that my guilt, combined with my now-acute hunger, would show on my face.

Inexplicably, at around 330pm, I found myself back in the lunch room. The counter where the microwave sat, was bare; only a smoky outline the evidence of its existence. What was it they say? A criminal always returns to the scene of the crime?

My stomach rumbled and churned.

I was drawn to the refrigerator. I opened the door, staring at the contents. Now, my colleagues’ food are somehow different: enticing--sexy. With nervous fingers, I picked up somebody’s Gladware, peering inside. It looked like pad thai; bits of peanut clinging on the pale, translucent noodle strands.

I struggled briefly, then I put it back. Right then, I was that person who stole your lunch. A foodnapper. A snack pirate. A hamburglar.

Right then, I didn’t even care that there could’ve been, you know, pee in the pad thai...



I finished reading the book Soon I Will Be Invincible by Austin Grossman and I loved it. This book is about a super-villain Doctor Impossible who escapes from a maximum-security prison, who despite several failures to take over the world, compulsively plots to do it again, like it was a tic. At one point, he finds himself blurting out “I. Am. A. GENIUS!” and then kicking himself afterwards for being so stereotypical. Meanwhile, his ex-girlfriend Lily (good? evil?) joins the equivalent of the Justice League. She, who has intimate knowledge of his personality. Would she help bring abut his defeat or is she a plant? This book is for you geeks. It’s funny, exciting and it fucking rocks.

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Other posts about work:

Things That Might Drive Joe To Crazyville - Guest blogger Joe rants about work. Flying Toasters - It is just another cruelty that there is no free coffee at work.

Solitary Confinement - My assignment honed my skills at goofing off. Three Hours - That's how long my commute was, each minute closer to my demise.

Check out my other recommendations, including "Books You Must Read" and "CDs for a Desert Island" here.

This Is Where I Self-Destruct

This is when I let my doubts, my insecurities into the room. Doubt sits at the foot the bed and Insecurity lies beside me, its head nestled on my stomach.

My boyfriend is asking me why I'm quiet. If I were trying to talk things over, if I were trying to make this right, I would answer him instead of giving him the silent treatment--my favorite argument tactic--because it's the only way to I know to resolve conflict in relationships in a totally, you know, mature way. I would make an effort to communicate and tell him why this bugs me and maybe we could come to an agreement.

In the early days of our relationship, I would've been more forthcoming, probably because I was afraid he would break up with me, which scared the shit out of me, because I was barely hanging on to 155 lbs. If he had broken up with me, it would've sent me in a tailspin and I would’ve ended up rock bottom, at bottom of a bag of potato chips, party size, for my party of one.

Why is it that when I am happy, I can't just be happy? I have to think about why I am happy, how much longer I will be happy and whether I should buy some more lube just in case this happiness last longer than another 20 minutes. At least when you're miserable, you could wallow in it. But whoever heard of wallowing in happiness? If you do, maybe you should check the dosage of your medication.

I have to ask myself: Is this going to last? Is he going to stop loving me? How much longer is he going to keep doing the laundry? I have become used to having him in my life. If we split up, how am I going to keep the evil telemarketers at bay?

How am I going to survive without knowing how to operate the dishwasher?

He alway pretends to be me when a telemarketer calls, "May I speak with Paul?" This is by the way, is a dead giveaway that the caller is a telemarketer. When my friends, my family call me, they say, "Wazzup, hookah??!?" Except of course, my grandma, who is quite genteel so she says, "What's going on with my little prostitute?"

I can't deal with telemarketers because I always end up buying whatever shit they are selling or answering totally insane and ridiculous surveys about the state of our Economy. I don't know why I can't do what any normal person would do and just scream obscenities into the phone and hang up. I just can’t do that.

Why am I mad?

I'm mad because he told his mother we'd have dinner with her at the Olive Garden without asking me. I mean, how could he, when I could've been planning some big fancy dinner for us with the package of baloney and an egg in our refrigerator. I mean, it wasn't that big a deal, but at least ask me--I would’ve said yes.

Now, I have to suffer through the 'endless salad and breadsticks,' tediously asking for an umpteenth refill. Then, I have to make sure I lined my man-purse with a large baggie so I could fill it 'leftover' bread and salad.

Yes, it made me angry, which is nuts because, like I said, I would’ve gone anyway. If this was the first year of our relationship, instead of the fifth, I would've even enthusiastically tried to think of a creative gift idea for her. After all, I would've still been trying to buy her affection, instead of merely tolerating her.

So instead, I give him the silent treatment, which by the way, is easier when you've just had botox. Later, I may even throw a fit or pick an argument, I don't know, depending on my mood and outfit. It's hard to act huffy when you're not wearing a feather boa or a pashmina.

Why do I do this? Why can't I let a relationship be? Why do I have to second-guess myself? Why do I have to question the status quo?

And whyohwhy do I let Doubt and Insecurity lie on my bed, especially when Doubt constantly sheds and Insecurity has fleas...


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Cary Tennis, that wise Salon.com sage advises a man from his dark thoughts which mirror my own.

Other related posts:

Detour - We carry our heavy emotional baggage through an SF airport. It Don't Smell Like Roses - I believed in the Happily Ever After. Boy, was I wrong.

Stuttering - You can't argue with a hot Marine who stutters. Girl, Interrupted - A national argument about a girlfriend in a coma.

Cheaper Sneakers

"They're turning kids into slaves 
                 just to make cheaper sneakers.
But what's the real cost? 
      'Cause the sneakers don't seem that much cheaper..."

"Think About It"
Flight of the Conchords

word.

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Other related posts:

The Assassin - A night with another comedian, Margaret Cho

A Blogless World - A slave to blogging, I imagine a world without blogs.

Watch the Video.

Death Wish

Don't you sometimes wish that somebody was dead, just because they have so much power over you? Someone maybe like, you know, like your boss, or your teacher, or like, Madonna? Yeah, sometimes I wish that Madonna were dead.

Ok not really, I am totally looking forward to her next album, even though Confessions on the Dancefloor left me a little cold.

But sometimes, I wish my mother were dead.

Is that horrible? You can say it, tell me I'm horrible, it's okay. Sometimes, I wish that Cher was dead too.

Ok, that's not really true either. You who have children know this; your kids have wished you dead a thousand times to your face for not letting them drive the car, play video games or to wear make-up to the boy scout troop.

I don't really want my mother to be dead. My mother is the only person in the world who can really get to me, she's the only one in the world who can put any kind of sense in my head. She's the only person in the world who can make me feel happy and sad and angry all at the same time.

In my last visit home in the Philippines, my mother drove me around town. She wouldn't let me drive her car, ever since I backed the car into the garage door. What? I was fifteen but I was paying attention and totally looking at the rearview mirror, you know, at my hair.

And as we usually do while we're in the car, we were having an argument about my financial situation, my "bachelorhood," my eclectic choices in deodorant. The conversation would go from a discussion of what diets we were on, to how long to hard-boil an egg, to why-the-hell-aren't-you-married-yet? Sometimes it would go exactly like that, except without the first two topics.

It's a touchy subject, one that nobody in my family would ever have the nerve to bring up sober--or at least when I'm sober.

When I'm drunk, then it's free game where all the old aunties come by and sit around and they all start planning my big fat heterosexual wedding. I don't have the heart to tell them that I would never get married unless there were Limoges china involved. And a shotgun. And the girl had a penis.

My mom brings it up at every opportunity, as if my "sell by" date is fast approaching, that if I don't get married soon, I would have to be marked down for a quick sale. She doesn't know that in local circles, I am already cheaper than a whore with no boobs and a crystal meth habit. She thinks that the right girl will "turn" me back, back into a werewolf with my bushy unibrow and untrimmed man-lawn. Which is sad, but I think she prefers that. She prefers me with wild bushy pubic hair. Mothers. Sigh.

I remember the day my younger sister got married, my mother was so radiant, so happy, you'd think it was her own wedding day. We were all having a wonderful time, drinking, laughing. My mother was in her element. She was able to marry off one of her four children. I think that she thought that we would all get married in succession, inevitable, like time or tide. Or herpes.

That was ten years ago, my sister is still the only married one of her children.

Sometimes, when I think about my mother, it makes me really sad, especially when I think that if something were to happen to her, I will not be by her side. Even if I rush on the next flight to the Philippines from Chicago, it will be 16 hours, 45 minutes and a smelly cab ride too late.

Once, I woke up in the middle of the night and thought that I was back home, until my eyes adjusted to the darkness and realized that I was not. It filled me with a small despair; I could not walk out of my bedroom and find my mother's bedroom down the hall.

The thought of my mother slipping away from the world scares me, and I wish--don't think me callous (even though I don't blame you if you do)--that she was already gone, the grief already behind me, because I don't know that it will ever be behind me.

This distance from my mother and my family is an ache in me. It is always with me, like a pebble in my shoe. If my Mom were to be gone, I would miss that ache, that pebble.

Mom, I wish you can be with me forever.


I had debated whether to put up this post. Most of the time, when I write, I don’t censor myself, I let my thoughts wander freely. This was supposed to be my Mother’s Day post and I was in sort of a mood when I wrote it.

Did I go too far? I feared that mothers might launch a vendetta against me, or conspire to give me a bad perm. When I asked my boyfriend to read it, he said it to was too dark, which I kinda knew, especially since we were both sitting in the living room with the lights off.

To heck with it, let it be posted. You tell me if I crossed the line.

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Engagement - On her deathbed, my grandmother schemed to get my dad married off. Letter From Home - I come across a letter from my mother which tugs my heartstrings.

voyeur - I stumble on a train wreck of a blog, of someone who wishes he were dead. My Sister, The Hurricane - The baby of our family fulfills our genetic destiny.

Cary Tennis of Salon.com advises a man who can't get home before his mother dies.

Because It's About You

(c) 2005 The New Yorker

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you were born and so you're free - Take a wonderful, dark and poetic journey, from deathbed to oblivion, written and drawn by Anders Nilsen.

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