So Jealous

What happened? My brother and I are music-loving, identical gay twins. Why didn’t we start a band, go to a studio and record a CD like identical lesbian twins Tegan and Sara? It makes me so fucking jealous.

I mean, I am jealous enough of lesbians as it is, with their outsider status, their political awareness, their righteously comfortable shoes--so different from the exhausting gay culture of men, muscle and maxing out credit cards.

Many people think that gay men want to be heterosexual women. Uh-uh, not me. If I was a woman, I would want to be a lesbian, preferably one of the hot ones on “The L Word”. However, if I somehow fail to get cast in that show, I would want to be my lesbian friend Sarah Kressler, who I’ve lost touch with.

(Sarah, if you googled your own name and found it here in my blog, I want you to know that I admired you, your edgy look; your cool, cool clothes; your gawky dance with the fingers waving as guns, shooting invisible bullets in every direction. I really really wished I was the male version of you, but without the long years of therapy. And if you decide to pay me the $104.75 you owe me, we can be friends again.)

For some reason, I have always had an affinity for lesbian music: the Indigo Girls, Melissa Etheridge, Clay Aiken. I can’t really explain it.

While lesbian music runs the gamut from folk to country, rock to pop, there’s always this organic quality to it, like fresh, warm, dog shit that I stepped on this morning. It’s like every note came straight from the blood, tears and sweat of hitching a U-Haul by yourself, while the stripper you met last week--now your girlfriend--sits on the curb, buffing her long, red fingernails.

There’s certainly plenty of heartsickness in So Jealous, the fourth disc from the Canadian duo. But it’s not totally despondent or morose. It’s more like a wry, I’ve-been-here-before kinda thing, which for the most part, helps cut down some of the potential corniness from their earnest lyrics, which sound like they could have been lifted directly from their diaries.

The bright production, upbeat tempos and quirky harmonizing really make this CD a lot of fun. “Speak Slow” rocks out, a totally headbanging song about co-dependency: 'when your love lets you go / you only want love more / even when love wasn't what you were looking for.' Yeah, you could pretend those bruises are from slamdancing to this song, I'll totally believe you.

My other favorite song is “I Know I Know I Know,” which is about negotiating a break-up after an infidelity. Just because you’re breaking up doesn’t mean you don’t still love each other, that even packing 'box after box and you're still by my side.' This is the best break-up song I’ve heard this year. I hope they never find true love.

The rest of the album is packed with great tracks like “You Wouldn’t Like Me,” “Walking With a Ghost” and “Wake Up Exhausted.” It’s a great pop/rock album with a bit of punk thrown in. This album is so catchy, it’ll be on heavy rotation at my house for a long, long time.

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Get the CD:

Cookout

(c) 2004 The New Yorker Magazine

Comfort Zone

One can’t really go against one’s nature, I think, especially with sports.

Maybe you can pretend that you are a top, and maybe you can get away with it through a dinner date. But as soon as you get into bed, your helium heels inevitably rise up in the air.

When it comes to sports, I think you either have it or you don’t. Either your wrists are built for a bat or they are built for a hairbrush. I don’t think there’s a happy medium. And Patricia Arquette just proves that I think; she doesn’t look very happy in those awful cardigans she wears in her TV show, “Medium.”

Look, I don’t hate playing sports. I just hate wearing shorts, the sun and basically anything that causes sweating. I mean, I think that I wouldn’t enjoy sex that much either if I wasn’t able to help myself to my tricks’ wallets as they dozed off.

And I don’t mean this in a gay or straight kind of thing. There are certainly many gay folk who are excellent in sports: Martina Navratilova, Billy Bean, everybody in Pro-wrestling. I think that gay people have proven that we can do anything we set our minds to. I mean, if we can elevate decoupage to an art, some little thing like gay marriage couldn’t be too far behind.

I think that ultra-right wing conservatives are really going at it the wrong way. If they want us not to marry, then they should pass a constitutional amendment to ban divorce. I think it would scare off all but the few gay men who live in Long Island that truly want to spend the rest of their lives together. And if they pass a constitutional amendment to ban same-sex bridal registries, I think that would take care of everyone else.

So maybe it was watching a bunch of naked actors, 'bats' swinging, playing baseball on a stage that made me sign up for softball with the local gay sports league.

Yeah, I was skeptical too. I wasn’t really sure what to expect; the locker room would either be a balls-out orgy or a royal tea party with a centerpiece made out of jockstraps and peonies, I don’t know. They would all be stretching and flexing for the speed-knitting event.

Either way, I think I’d be very uncomfortable. I’ve never been that good in group settings. The idea of a locker room orgy really scares me. Come stains are sooo hard to get out. Come would be shooting everywhere, like a warzone. You have to duck or you might get some in your eye. It would be kinda like Iraq except with designer jockstraps.

Besides, I’m really really shy, which is why I have a blog instead of a life. My idea of a three-way is when I use both hands to masturbate. An orgy would be if I also used a dildo.

But that’s why I decided to do softball. I needed to get out of my comfort zone. I needed to get out there and take some risks, but not the kind of risk where you pair an argyle sweater with plaid pants and a mohawk, which might seem like a good idea at the time, but in retrospect was really not what one should wear to a frat party, unless one wanted to be ridiculed by the object of one’s secret crush and his friends.

Last Saturday was the first practice day. I made it all the way to park where I got a hotdog, ate it and went back home.

I wrote an e-mail to the team captain and told him things had come up and my weekend schedule had drastically changed, and I was now too busy to play on the team.

E-mail sent, I sat at my desk and stared at the screen for a long time. Then, I settled in and started typing.

“One can’t really go against one’s nature...”

Honeymoon's Over

There was a time when everywhere we went was an adventure. When a drive around the block was something to look forward to and a mundane activity like going to the grocery store was such fun.

Well, the honeymoon’s over. With the car, I mean, the one we call “Pretty.”

I thought it would last longer, but I guess six months was about how long it took before the new car smell dissipated and was replaced by one that smelled slightly of used leather and sweaty ass--two-thirds of the essential aromas of a leather bar (the third being that of human piss).

You can put in an air freshener called “new car smell,” but it’s not the same. It’s like a stuffed bra. You worry all night about when it has to come off. You hope he won’t look down and notice your penis.

I remember the day I drove home the car, my brand new VW Jetta, my little pet. I was intoxicated by that new car smell, a chemical cocktail of fresh paint, hard plastic and oily rubber. All it needs is a splash of vermouth and it’s perfect.

The smell reminded me of the freedom, the liberation of my youth, but mostly it reminded me of the glue I sniffed in our garage. With the windows rolled up, I could almost get high, but the salesman kept tapping on the glass.

They say the millisecond you drive out of the dealership, your car depreciates $3,000. I wondered if car manufacturers did anything to intensify this smell because they know it makes people irrational. It’s like a drug. Someone should make a PSA about it. At least crystal meth only makes you have unprotected sex.

But little by little, things chipped away at the euphoria.

The battery in the car key remote died, so I had to open the door the old-fashioned way--uuh--by sticking the key in the lock, like, how lame. Yeah, I know, it’s not the car’s fault, so I can’t really argue with that. Opening the door manually is quaint, but ultimately annoying and frustrating.

Batteries are so essential in modern day living. You know the five basic elements, right? Air, Water, Fire, Earth and Batteries.

I mean, one time, in the midst of a tornado warning, I saw two women in a fierce tug-of-war over the last pack of batteries at a store. The eventual winner gingerly put the battery in her cart next to the Jeff Stryker Realistic vibrator. I guess I shoulda known she would win, she looked more desperate, with her wild hair, disheveled clothes and the fat boyfriend carrying a twelve-pack of Coors.

And what do you do when you find a piece of moulding on the driver’s side door sticking out, possibly the result of some clandestine act? Do you hide out to see if you can catch the perpetrator en flagrante delicto? The evidence sickens me; it is in my face every time, like an engorged pimple on your nose, unavoidable. You wish it was on the other side, like on your ass, where you can’t see it.

Apparently, I can’t replace the battery in the key remote myself. It has to be synchronized with internal computer. It would’ve cost me $65 (I know, a scam), but fortunately the car is still on warranty. All I have to do is spend the time to get it fixed.

I guess a honeymoon is like a warranty period, right? It don’t cost you anything to get your little foibles fixed.

But unlike the warranty on a car, you don’t know when the honeymoon will be over. One day, the car will unexpectedly come to a dead stop, right in middle of the road, and you just hope to God that with the right repairs you can get it started again.

Take Me Out

When my friend asked me if I wanted to go see naked men parade onstage at Madrigal’s, the premier local strip club, I was aghast that he would even ask me to go. Why would I go to a strip club for naked men, I asked him, that’s what theatre is for.

Besides, the guys that frequent strip clubs belong to the lower rung of the gay population, you know, the guys who are looking for relationships. I mean, you wouldn’t think so, but strip clubs are where you can find guys who are rich, horny and desperately lonely--all the qualities that nurture successful relationships.

After perfecting musicals, the gays have moved on to the next brave frontier in theatre, the artful presentation of gratuitous male nudity, or as I call it, “nudicals.”

I think it’s very sophisticated to go to nudicals. You get a very cultured boner and you get a souvenir Playbill. And being a proponent of efficiency, this makes me all warm inside, when you can handle two stones and one bird.

And what’s with the spelling of “theatre”? What’s with the “-tre” in the end instead of “-ter”?

Well to begin with, thea-tre is pronounced theeatuh, preferably in a British accent--Cockney if you can manage it, coz I like the sound of "cock."

Theatre is a night on the town, of love and romance. Theatre is art, glamour and wonder. Theatre is what women drag their husbands and boyfriends kicking and screaming to, a night of intense, emotional blackmail.

How about thea-ter? Three words: Blue Man Group.

"Theatre schmeatre," you might say, "what’s the difference? It’s ALL gay. Straight theatre, that’s an oxymoron."

You know what’s an oxymoron? President Bush.

So off we go to a night of theatre.

My friend John S. scored us tickets to a preview of Take Me Out. A preview is basically a full dress performance to iron various kinks out in front of an audience.

Ironing the kinks out. Hmmnn, this kinda brings to mind laundry day for an S&M couple. It also brings up the question of whether there should be a crease in a pair of leather chaps or not, but I digress.

The story is about a popular and well-loved pro baseball player, Darren Lemming (Derrick Nelson) who is at the top of his game. Darren believes that he was put on Earth by God to play baseball. The fact that he was bi-racial and homosexual was beside the point. Darren was not in the closet, he just didn’t feel his homosexuality was relevant to the game or is anyone's business.

But after a conversation with his best friend (who didn’t know of Darren’s homosexuality) about being true to oneself, Darren, without hesitation, decides to come out during a TV press conference. Darren, naively or arrogantly, believed that his mythic prowess would overshadow this teensy revelation.

The play then goes on and examines how the fans, his teammates and friends react to this outing. Some are supportive, some are shocked, still others are resentful and hostile, but not necessarily to Darren’s homosexuality, but for this “lie” of his true nature.

One stand-out performance was that of Tom Aulino, playing Mason Marzac, Darren’s geeky gay accountant and new fan. “Marz” was a veritable mass of tics and nerves, like a Woody Allen unencumbered by the confusion between step-daughter and Korean sex slave, providing comedic relief in just the right places.

Take Me Out blends the various hot topics of our day: race relations, homophobia, circumcision and parades them in front of you, sometimes producing a very uncomfortable feeling inside of my pants. I had to place my Playbill on my lap to cover my 'rising embarrassment,' especially when redneck Shane Mungitt (played by an intense and sexy Kyle Hatley) was being wrestled by Darren in the shower. Also, I found out uncircumcised penises were more prevalent than I thought.

Take Me Out is about baseball, the love of it, the magic of the game, the magic of the fans, but most of all, the magic that happens when hard buns are encased in skintight pants.

I went to see the play because of its merits: a Tony award, glowing reviews, nine sets of ‘twigs and berries’ and I was not disappointed. The play lived up to its reputation and even if it didn’t, the nudity certainly did.

Take Me Out is showing March 24 to May 1st at Steppenwolf Theatre. Chicagoans, go get tickets, it's worth it.

Girl, Interrupted

The last thing I remember was lying on the bathroom floor, my stomach feeling satisfyingly empty. The taste of bile in my mouth felt familiar, comforting, even as it burned my throat. My therapist had said the bile could damage my vocal cords.

Then as the light blue tile, the chipped white ceramic bathtub, the floral shower curtain all blurred together, rushing into the void, the darkness descending upon my eyes, a stray thought floated into my ebbing consciousness: I wondered if Harvey Fierstein was bulimic too. I didn’t want my voice to sound like him.

Then blackness, darker than the stroke of midnight, Pluto or a David Lynch movie.

When I woke up, I found myself lying in a dark hospital room. My mouth felt arid and scratchy. The light from doorway caught on the tube that was attached to my throat.

My throat! There’s a tube in my throat!

I panicked. I couldn’t move. My limbs were heavy, prickly, as if they fell asleep for a hundred years or from taking an extra long crap. Am I paralyzed? I didn’t know. What happened to me? Just as I thought my heart was going to burst from my chest, my mother, my father and Mike rushed into the room.

I didn’t recognize them at first. They looked older, their faces lined with worry, their bodies fleshy and full. They scared me.

Mike’s face was flushed, as if he had been in a heated argument. I know that look of my husband. It’s the same look he had the last time I suggested we go Cosmic Bowling. And he’s keeping something from me, something important, but I haven’t figured it out yet.

Over the next few days, my parents told me what happened. I had been in a coma for fifteen years. My mom filled me in on all the events that happened while I was asleep. I tried to listen, but all I could think about was whether or not stirrup pants were still in fashion. I had just bought a very sassy pair a week ago.

No, that was before. This time shift is very strange and confusing. Time has passed and I was left behind. Now I know what Rip Van Winkle must’ve felt like. Or Ed McMahon.

As the story unfolded, I became distressed at who--no--what I had become, a poster girl for the Right, the Left, and everyone in between. This is not what I wanted. I just wanted to look at the mirror without despairing. I just wished that people would leave me alone. I just wished they picked a better picture than the one that showed at the evening news. God, it makes me look like such a mouth-breather.

And fat.

They say that all this commotion, this ruckus, was for me. I don’t believe that. I don’t know these people outside the hospital lawn, with their signs and singing, their politics. Who are they? No, it was all them. All for them.

If this was for me, they would have thought about how I would feel waking up like this. If it was for me, they wouldn’t parade me on TV. If it was for me, they would have chosen the low-calorie option for my feeding tube.

I feel violated. There’s a hole in my throat. I feel like such a porpoise. I am dying for a Diet Coke, but I am afraid it would dribble out.

My life was hell. My life is hell.

I feel so humiliated, I could just die.

Those Who Help Themselves

A drowning man should ask God for the strength to swim for safety, not to be plucked out of the ocean by a helicopter.

That is a direct quote from the great armchair philosopher and quiche-maker extraordinaire of our time, my brother Peter.

He also goes on to say that a housewife should not pray for her husband to be faithful, but to have the courage to cut off his balls when the bastard comes home, but I think he was being just a little melodramatic.

He said that as a response to an e-mail forward he and I received from our sister about how God had saved 400 Christians from tsunamis that wiped out the city of Meulaboh. The Christians had gathered in a nearby hill after they were forbidden by the city's Muslims from celebrating Christmas and were thus spared.

My sister, in the past few years, has become more and more religious. In her zeal to spread the word of God, she sends me e-mails that are meant to be inspirational and faith-affirming. I should have told her that she should send me a backstage pass to an Indigo Girls concert, only in the music of folky lesbians with hairy armpits do I see God. Or in a grilled cheese sandwich.

E-mail forwards are a sub-genre of spam that I believe are more dangerous than the Viagra-pushin’, pyramid scheme-solicitin’, Christian-singles-in-your-area-pimpin’ variety. At least those are filtered by your spam blockers into a ‘bulk folder’ where you can go through them leisurely while you are waiting for your boyfriend’s response to your e-mail that you’ve got gonorrhea.

Nope, e-mail forwards are insidious because they are sent by erstwhile well-meaning people like your co-workers, your friends, your lil ole grandma, who think that they are taking advantage of technology to keep in touch. Well, they are mistaken. In terms of keeping in touch, these e-mail forwards cannot take the place of real, handwritten, personal checks of $50 or more.

If you send enough of these e-mail forwards, your friends may start disregarding your e-mails or worse, mark them as spam.

My friend Rooster was a well-known abuser of e-mail forwards. He used to send jokes everyday until one day, he accidentally sent his naked chatroom pic to his entire mailing list. Now, we call him Chicken Little. I wondered if I should also send him a note of congratulation, since I spied two eggs nestled underneath his hairy nest.

You could learn a lesson from this too. Your gonorrheal e-mail could be sitting in your boyfriend’s bulk mail folder, along with the other e-mails for CHEAP$$$ CaNaDiAn pen1cillin!!! How ironic.

I guess a lot of people misunderstand the purpose of prayer. People think that every time they need something, they can put their palms together and ask, you know, like it’s a 1-800 number to the heavenly Sears catalog. That's just stupid. God would never have anything else but a Barney’s catalog. He's not that cheap.

Look, I am not saying that in times of extreme desperation, I have not prayed to God that he send me that pair of Gucci suede loafers, overnight delivery please. But for me, it was more like a way to express my frustrations, my fears of not having the right shoes for my outfit. I don’t really expect that God would give me something that I didn’t work hard for.

And to be honest, I was really offended that people are out there attributing these things to God, putting words into God’s mouth. I don’t believe that God would kill thousands of people just to prove a point, that would just be plain evil.

I think there should be a rule that miracles can only be attributed to God after they have been researched and verified, the facts beyond a shadow of a doubt. There should be a governing body, sort of a Good Housekeeping “Seal of Approval” on it, but by Calvin Klein or something--but please not the Pope, he's done enough damage this century. Otherwise, I feel that we have cheapened the True Miracles.

Peter wrote back to our sister:

I think that people put a lot of meaning into things that are just random or natural. My problem with these forwarded religious emails is that people read them and think they are true without any critical thinking whatsoever. I believe that faith should not be bolstered by untruths, and that faith should not take the place of rational thought or personal action. A drowning person should pray to God for the strength to swim for safety, not to be plucked out of the water by helicopters. God helps those who help themselves.

Amen, brother. Amen.


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Put your own holy face on a grilled cheese sandwich

The Assassin, Part 2

Continued from The Assassin, Part 1

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Comedian Margaret Cho, whose show, “The Assassin Tour” I went to see last week at the Chicago Theatre, has become a gay cultural icon in recent years. This means that she has either transcended stand-up comedy or she wears way too much make-up.

Also, I think that if you have followed Margaret’s career, you would have seen her comedy incorporate more and more gay cultural references and trivia, which run to things like off-off-Broadway shows, highly specialized cookware and slang for unusual sex acts. Tea-bagging, comes to mind.

Trivia, particularly useless trivia, is essential. It supplies all the dialogue you need until closing time at the gay bars with your friends whom you only know by their first names. Useless trivia is the glue that hardens every gay friendship, just like Colin Farrell is what hardens every gay penis.

Ultra-right wing conservatives think sex with the same gender is what makes someone gay. But they’re wrong. That’s what makes someone homosexual. What makes someone gay is knowing Madonna’s entire discography, including obscure imports and extended remixes. If you’re the local Trivial Pursuit champion or can guess the title of a song from a one-second charades clue, guess what? You’re GAY.

Sometimes, I get really paranoid when going to an event that’s so obviously gay, like college Rush Week. They don’t call it “greek week” for nothing.

(Ok, if you didn’t get that one, you’re probably not gay. Go look it up; the Greeks basically invented anal sex)

I get paranoid that crazy terrorists like the Al-Qaeda, the Unabomber or Carrot Top will barge into the Chicago Theatre and start gunning down everybody. They would shoot at those in FCUK t-shirts first because they think those are the gay dyslexics and should be put out of their misery. I can't say I blame them, they've suffered enough from their fashion faux pas. FCUK, please. That's just so fucking DMUB.

Of course, at the first sign of violence, all the gays would scream and grab the nearest person with a fanny pack and use them as human shields.

I thought about how little respect terrorists have for human life and haute couture. Gay terrorists would use less destructive methods, like maybe Sarin gas or lethal-grade botox, so that they can pick out the best shoes from the casualties.

The show was probably one of the best of Margaret's career. Quite possibly, better than “I’m The One That I Want.” “Assassin” finds her confused about living in an America, post-Bush reelection, post-Condoleeza Secretary of State appointment, post-prison Martha Stewart. She ruminated about ways we can all get together and beat the shit out of gay Republicans. She rallied the 'troupes' with her comedy and sent us all out into the night, exhilarated and energized, ready to kick some ass with our tap shoes.

As the rowdy crowd loaded into the CTA buses, gays and lesbians, bisexuals and transgendered folk, all giddy and chattering, I spied a woman who was looking at the crowd in contempt, skittering away as if we were diseased.

I felt an urge to yell at her:

"Our marriages won’t make yours less valid!"

"Our families won’t make yours less loving!"

"You can’t catch gay from breathing the air!"

I wish I did yell at her. I wish I did.

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The Reader Appreciation Award is hereby awarded to Ro's Musings!

Mini-Blog

Have you been checking out the Mini-Blog (see top right of this site)? I decided I wanted a place to post my short notes, announcements and brain farts. Let me know what you think of it. Thanks y'all for your visits! You are the reason I am up late at night and obsessively checking my site counters. Give me some sugar!!!

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

Guest Blogger

Hi, I'm Eric. I am guest blogging today. Paul a.k.a. "No Milk" isn't feeling very sociable this past week. I have been a cramp to his style or more accurately, a pimple on his nose.

Paul really isn't into the habit of naming his pimples, he would rather pretend that I do not exist. But I am named because my presence cannot be ignored. I am acne vulgaris, stubborn and hard, an angry red. I am the one that causes him grief, makes him change his plans, go on hiatus.

I also have a cat, who I brought along with me. Her name is "Pus."

In Paul's teenage years, I used to visit more frequently. Those were the times when he preferred to stay at home with only me for company. To liven things up, I would have some friends over for Pizza Nite, which is when my friends and I get together and make pizza out of his face.

We play games like "Acne Twister", where we are a mess of pimples all over each other with heated, sexual undertones; "Pimple Jenga", where we pile up on each other to see how high we can go before bursting in glory, launching Pus on to Paul's bathroom mirror, mingled with blood. It's quite a blast. We get real rowdy and shit.

To hear him say it, I am the cause of his misery, his misanthropy. I don't think I was all that bad. Because of me, he was able to cultivate interests and hobbies. Because of me, he read widely and voraciously. Because of me, he met his best friend: his right hand--the one he could rely on when he was bored or lonely or watching wrestling on TV.

These days however, I visit less and less--it seems less hospitable here. Maybe the skin is less oily or the testosterone levels have gone down or he is using better medication, I don't know. It was more fun in the old days anyway, when I meant so much more, when my mere presence could send him into a tailspin of depression.

These days he tends to ignore my presence, not even bothering to use a blemish cover-up unless I am unusually engorged, like I am right now. I don't know if he is starting to believe when his boyfriend Brian tells him that I am hardly noticeable, although I know I am. How can I not be? I think what Brian means is that he doesn't care to notice.

I can tell that I still nick at his confidence, but this is nothing compared to before. I am a guest blogger because I suspect it is his way of dealing with me, cutting me down to size.

Even now, as he heaps a suffocating amount of zit cream on me, I can feel myself start to dry up. Maybe I should consider moving to Joan Rivers' face or Laura Bush's crotch? I hear it's pretty dry there too. Anyway, in a few days, I will already be fading.

Maybe one day I will get tired of these visits.

Or maybe one day he will truly no longer care. Then it wouldn't really matter, would it?

Dry

Alcohol is known as a social lubricant. I’ve been known to use it in very stressful situations like, fifth grade.

And when it comes to alcohol, I’m a lightweight. And I am one of those Asians who turns red after one sip. One night, I drank so much that afterwards I went to a reservation and built a casino.

Being a lightweight makes me a cheap date. One glass of wine and I’ll go to bed with you, make you breakfast in the morning and then nag you the rest of the week for not taking the garbage out. Two glasses and I’ll start bitching about your mother and how nobody’s ever good enough for her son.

In “Dry,” author Augusten Burroughs, narrates the story of his descent into alcohol, drugs and poor hygiene: he was so coked out of his mind he had started using Irish Spring.

Ok, maybe that wasn’t in the book, but in one scene where Augusten wakes up in an alley after a coke binge, clothes dirty and hair matted down, I could only think about how horrible it must be to have to face his hairdresser.

Augusten Burroughs is most famously compared to another gay author David Sedaris which probably really ticks Burroughs off. The toughest thing Sedaris ever had to deal with was having a domineering mother. Who hasn’t had that? My own mother was domineering and I grew up ok--all my ex-boyfriends would tell you that through their lawyers, since they all have restraining orders against me.

While there are similarities to the two authors’ style--they both use personal experience and have a certain gay sensibility, like how they talk about sports and girls all the time instead of their feelings--I think of Sedaris as a humorist, like Nora Ephron or Erma Bombeck. Burroughs is more of a storyteller, I think, and more satisfying. He never descends into self-pity with his addiction. In a way, I think he is most honest, most matter-of-fact in the darkest moments in the book.

In one such moment, Augusten walks into his apartment for the first time after spending thirty days in rehab and is greeted by a something he’s never seen before in the cold light of sobriety. There were empty Dewar’s bottles, hundreds of them, on all flat surfaces and in dark corners, as if they multiplied while he was gone, although nobody’s been in there.

Another character, with terminal breast cancer, muses about how she didn’t realize the insidiousness of alcoholism:

“Back when I was drinking, when I thought nothing [bad] had ever happened to me, something did. A lot of time passed. In bars, at parties with people I didn’t care for. It wasn’t about love or reading the Sunday paper in bed or anything that people call ‘life.’ It was always about drinking. So actually, something bad, very bad, did happen to me. I wasted my life.”

But before you think that this book is a downer, it’s not. It’s a book with a real message: that life is about living, not to drink and withdraw from.

Burroughs writing style is very engaging and there is never a dull moment in the book. The book was at times graphic in the descriptions of the horrors of working retail. And I think the book is quite aptly titled: it is quite witty and very, very dry.



Thank you, Jimi. I really enjoyed this book.

-----
Buy the book:


Check out the other books in my bookshelf

The Fourth Wall

Somebody broke through the fourth wall.

Somebody reached from beyond the ephemera, beyond the electronic realm and into my reality.

Until recently, my interactions with you, my fellow bloggers, readers, have only been through comments, lurking and stalking.

For the most part, you only exist in my head where we are all attending a swinging, virtual cocktail party, discussing the latest must-see, must-do, must-trash. Paris Hilton’s ears must be ringing.

As with any congregation of bloggers, a group of people are discussing the latest meme.

(A meme of course, is a “thought virus,” which I think are popular because they’re mostly egoistic, self-serving, so about me, me, me. I don’t think it would be so popular if it was a "youyou," would it?)

In this virtual cocktail party, you are like the photo in your profile, the one you have chosen that best represents the you-ness of you: the studied casual attire; the brainy, come-hither expression; the diffused lighting; everything that says “slutty intellectual” (or is it “intellectual slut?” I get confused sometimes).

We converse animatedly in our natural stances: my chin casually resting on my fist, face tilted up and right (my best profile) with a small smile; you, looking over your shoulder, gazing slightly to my left, your mouth frozen in mid-laugh. Or, if you are a gay man, you are shirtless, your elbows raised, palms resting at the back of your head, biceps flexed--the classic gay male pose--as if auditioning for a underarm deodorant commercial.

Then, one day, I received a package.

A box from Amazon! It was a surprise. I wasn’t expecting any deliveries, otherwise, I’d have shaved my pubes for the UPS guy.

Later, after I douched, I quickly opened the box.

It was a book, “Dry” by Augusten Burroughs. The book was on my online wishlist. Jimi Sweet, a fellow blogger, looked it up and sent it to me. Jimi’s blog is one I visited for his amazing eye in photography.

I am always curious about other people’s wishlists and I never fail to check it out when I see one posted in a blog. I think a wishlist says a lot about you--your taste in music, books and movies. But I think it mostly says “greedy motherfucker.”

But mine of course, is posted here just so I remember all the stuff that I would like to buy for myself in the future. It most certainly is not meant for people to buy and surprise me on a special occasion like a birthday or Christmas or because it’s Tuesday.

I am not so obvious. If I wanted my friends to buy me stuff, I would do the proper thing, you know, by laying a guilt trip on them.

Things seem a little different now. Maybe it’s because the world is smaller somehow. Before Jimi, you were all ions bouncing around in my LCD screen.

Now, I don’t know what it all means.

But I hope it means y’all are gonna buy me more stuff.

-----
I've finished “Dry”, that's next.

It Don't Smell Like Roses

I guess I didn’t really know what it’s like to be in a relationship. I thought a relationship meant romance, you know, like scented candles, flower petals in bed, chocolate syrup in your crotch.

If I knew better I’d have set my expectations differently--I wouldn’t have put my boyfriends up on a pedestal. I also wouldn't have used my Ralph Lauren sheets--chocolate stains like a bitch.

I mean, who tells you these things? It’s like a vast conspiracy. Everybody will tell you how wonderful being in a relationship is. C’mon, ask a friend, “How’s things going on with you and so-and-so?” and invariably, the answer will be “Things are going great, could never be better!” This is what they tell you right up to the day before divorce court.

When it comes to their relationships, I think people are compulsive liars. It’s practically an epidemic.

I’m not any different. I find myself telling friends how Brian and I hardly spend any time apart, how we finish each others’ sentences, how we get along sooo well--you know, all the sweet and mushy things that make my single friends puke inside.

You know how when your friends get coupled, you never see them ever again, like they dropped off the face of the earth? I think this is because single people cut their brake lines. I would too, if I had to listen to myself.

I think it is this misconception of the true nature of relationships that doom 51% of them to fail.

It’s probably all those damn fairy tales. They really work a number on you. What Disney didn’t tell you was that Snow White was really just shacking up with seven midgets, who were probably chronic potheads. C’mon, they have names like Sleepy, Happy and Dopey. Snow White probably had a nasty cocaine habit, hence her name.

And our parents, geez. When I was growing up, my own mother, who in full knowledge of my dad’s cheating, never failed to tell me to find a nice girl and get married. She would tell me this as she cleaned and dusted my ceramic doll collection. For the longest time, I thought getting married meant getting a cleaning lady.

So, we spend all our time trying to find the perfect person and so when we find it, we can’t really turn around and say, wow, that wasn’t what I expected.

Yes, for awhile, it was The Dream, the romance. But before you found out yourself, did anybody tell you exactly what Happily Ever After meant? And if somebody did have the balls to tell you, did you believe them?

Let me tell you what comes after Happily Ever After: it’s a ticket to The Jerry Springer Show.

I think maybe, if we were all taught what to expect, then maybe the success rates would be higher.

Look, I’m not knockin’ relationships. It’s great and wonderful and all that la-di-dah. But it’s not a Valentine’s Day card. It don’t smell like roses or honeysuckles or scented candles all the time. More often, it smells like wet socks, morning breath and farts under the blanket.

Once a person really understands what this all means, maybe a relationship has a decent chance to survive.

And maybe that's when you'll be able to appreciate all the smells of a good working relationship--farts under the blanket and all.

Blog Gimmickry

Listen, nobody really reads blogs. It’s just the same old tired popularity contest where the only thing that counts is who you got to link to you and how many. Think of it as spreading herpes, except online.

If you want your blog to be popular and you’re not going to call it something sexy like “Diary of a High School Whore” or “Bound for Muscle” then you’re gonna have to come up with a gimmick, come up with a cool tag line, or some kind of angle.

Heard about the guy who works as a bouncer in a strip club? How about blogging about your sexual exploits while taking a shower? Or maybe something really gimmicky like living in war-torn Iraq?

I wasn’t feeling that creative the day I started this blog, otherwise I might have called it “No Pussy Please”. I already have two cats, thank you.

My only previous experience with bloggery was LiveJournal, but the free account didn’t allow a lot of customization.

Besides, LiveJournal is mostly a cluster-fuck and it’s all about "comment flirtation" with your shirtless or nude avatars. I would have made a nude avatar myself, but I felt that a 1" square photo could never, ever capture the delicate nuances of my asshole--only a 5" x 7" photo will do.

But if you want people to read your blog, then you’re gonna have to blog a LOT. And you can’t just talk about how you had coffee that day and how it was so hot so you scalded your tongue.

No, you’ve got to write about something people can relate to, you know, like shitting in your pants while you were on vacation in Mexico. You gotta give people a reason to tune in to you everyday so they can talk about you in their own blogs.

And if you are willing to talk about deep, conflicted feelings while providing nude photos of yourself, you’re miles ahead of the rest of us.

For some reason, nudity makes conflict seem to have more substance. Nudity adds a touch of gravity to normal day-to-day stuff like reading a book, vacuuming the living room or going to church.

And nothing beats balls, man. Yeah, when all else fails, you should always fall back to scrotum. I mean, maybe I can elicit a giggle from my prose, but that’s nothing compared to the laughter a picture of a pair of wrinkled old testicles can bring. Say it out loud with me: balls. Balls! BALLS! Now, wasn’t that fun?

As you may have noticed, I myself am of the opposite bent. I only post about once, sometimes twice a week. I can't possibly rant about something everyday, there would be no time left to fix my hair, which has got to take priority.

Blogging is natural for me. I’ve always wanted to have a website. I wanted to put up photos of my cats, my latest projects and start a book club. This is because deep down inside, I am mannish, sixty-something retiree with a predeliction to shoulder pads, living with three other roommates in Miami.

I also wanted a revenge webpage where I get to trash my ex-boyfriend. I mean, nothing is more therapeutic than ranting about your ex, except maybe if I put up the naked picture I took of him in the bathtub looking quite shocked. I bought a new hair dryer the next day. It wasn’t a good idea getting it wet.

I think my boyfriend gets irritated sometimes when I am blogging instead of paying attention to him. Ok, maybe more than sometimes. Ok ok ok, he’s looking at me right now with undisguised contempt.

I am not sure why, I can type and jerk him off at the same time. I mean, I do it all the time myself and so far, I haven't heard any complaints. If it's good enough for my goose, then it should be good enough for his gander, right?

I think he would prefer that I was looking at gay teen porn, at least it would only take about 4 minutes a day and a box of tissues.

(Just a few more minutes, ok? I promise, then I'll even throw in a blowjob.)

Ok folks, I guess I have to go now. I have "something" to take care of and if you’re around in the next 3 minutes after I post this, you may be able to catch it on my webcam.

A By-The-Book Affair

I’m not one of those people who can casually pick up a book and leave it anytime, not caring if they’ve finished reading it.

It takes a lot of effort for me to find a book to read: cruising it at the bookstore, eyeing it on the shelf, walking nonchalantly, giving it a small smile as I pass by.

When I finally summon enough courage to approach it, I go tentatively, studying the cover, perusing the blurb, flirting with the first page. Sometimes I can get very daring and read an entire chapter. Scandalous! The clerk eyes me disapprovingly behind the counter.

When the plot clicks, I get this rush, this giddy feeling. I have to rush to pay so I can go home and get into bed with it. I spread its pages apart and dive in. I am enthralled, passionately reading all night.

In the morning I wake up and it is lying tenderly on my chest. Not just one for a nightstand.

When a book is really good, I keep it forever. It occupies a very special space in my bookshelf, in my life.

But once in a while, I get a book that starts out good but starts to turn bad. I have made a bad judge of its cover.

I find it hard to abandon a book. I usually stick with it to the bitter end. I am co-dependent that way: even though I derive no more pleasure with it, I cannot untangle myself. I am bound to it.

I try to negotiate with it. Another few pages I say, maybe it will get better.

But it doesn’t.

I can get really violent. I will slam the book close in disgust, or throw it physically across the room. But in the cold light of the morning, I am ashamed when I see its cover bruised, battered, lying there, forlorn.

A friend may see the book and ask me what happened. An accident, I say, the door...

But even though I carefully consider each book I encounter, most often, I get this feeling, like it wasn't meant to be. You know the kind: you have fun while it lasts but when The End comes, you part ways amicably.

Just another by-the-book affair.

I may bump into it in a resale store, or see it listed on eBay, or maybe hanging on to another reader’s hands.

I try to remember why it didn't work out. But my memory of that particular story arc only comes in bits and pieces. I realize it doesn't matter, I've already turned the page...





-----
My other ruminations about books:

On The Bus
Used Books
Mint Condition

Priceless

Photoshop software: $649

Image server: $25

Exchanging sexy, furtive glances with Brian Urlacher: ...Priceless

Detour

If Brian and I were on The Amazing Race, I would have to be the navigator and he, the driver.

This is because I’m too jumpy a driver and apt to make rash decisions. Once, while I was driving, he suddenly yelled “Turn left!” and I ended up moving in with him.

I am generally not a big fan of reality shows because I hate all the fake drama. I mean, what’s so real about seven strangers lounging in jacuzzis, rec rooms and each others’ tonsils? It’s about time they throw in some real issues, like death and taxes. Or a grenade.

And I hate the subtle humiliation that America's Next Top Model or American Idol dishes. These shows are supposedly giving constructive criticism based on some so-called industry standard. Oh, come on. Let’s have some reality TV with some honesty you know, like outright humiliation. In fact, let’s call the show “Humiliation.”

But I love The Amazing Race.

The only problem I have with this show (and others) is that they tend to cast what I call the “slash models.” I’m sick of the couples who are Christians/models/dating or Models/College roommates or Raving/Psycho/models who are constantly telling us how perfect they are for each other, and how when the show is over, they are going to get married and vomit happily ever after.

This is probably because the stupid-head network executives think that we can relate more to these people like the way Melissa Rivers is related to the plastic body that used to be Joan Rivers, which is to say, not at all.

In fact, the teams I rooted for were like the father/daughter team Gus and Hera and the dim-witted, married pro-wrestlers Lori and Bolo. And I was really on the edge of my seat when sixty-nine year-old Don was pushing gigantic bales hay for the Roadblock challenge. I was really worried that he was gonna have a heart attack before the popcorn was ready.

TiVo, with its ability to pause live TV makes this show more interesting for us.

When the Detour or Roadblock is announced, we pause the show and make a decision on what we, as a potential team will do before we see what the tasks really are like. It’s just like being there except that i'm in my pajamas and having a grilled teriyaki chicken sandwich.

A Detour is a choice between two sets of tasks, each with its own pros and cons. One is usually harder and may involve using physical strength, but is pretty straight-forward. The other is usually an easy task but may take a potentially long time.

An example of the tasks could be a choice between “Gay” or “Straight.”

In “Straight,” couples will go to a straight bar and try find a woman who will have a three-way with you. It may take longer, but once you find the right person, the only thing you have to worry about is that when you wake up, your husband may be missing.

In “Gay,” the teams will go into a gay bar, try to find a gay man who will have a three-way with you. It may be significantly easier to do, but when you wake up, your priceless collection of Limogés china may be missing.

Then there’s the Roadblock, which is a task that only one of the couple can perform, you know like, the laundry or oral sex.

On our way back from San Francisco, Brian and I had an Amazing Race moment.

We used miles to buy our plane tickets, so we could not get a direct flight back to Chicago. We had a layover in Salt Lake City that would have added 3 hours to our trip. I was afraid the Mormons would make us marry the Osmond Family.

At the airport, we saw that there was a direct flight back to Chicago leaving in 20 minutes. We could try to exchange our tickets.

As I ran towards the counter, I yelled over my shoulder to Brian to hurry up while he carried all our heavy, emotional baggage.

The plane was fully booked. We asked to be put on standby and ran to the gate, arriving just as they announced final boarding. I felt like this was the event I have been training for all my life on the treadmill.

Wordlessly, I turned in our standby tickets. I held my breath as the guy checked his computer. Then he printed our boarding passes. We were on our way home.

In my mind, I ran through the list of things that the producers of the show will probably want from prospective contestants.

Interracial couple: check.
Controversial views: check.
Annoying, loud and shrill voices: check.
Tendency to argue over inconsequential things: check.
Ability to ignore festering issues in our relationship: check.

I think we’re ready.

-----
Other posts about this trip to San Francisco:

Part 1: Wedding Party Part 2: Boystown USA

Part 3: A Haunting Part 4: Detour

Staff Picks

(c) Copyright 2004 The New Yorker

Nice and Easy

You should be glad that you are not gay. Being gay is tough. It’s a never-ending game of one-upmanship with the queens down the street: who has the nicer house, the better wardrobe, the more glamorous crystal meth overdoses.

I agree with people that say that homosexuality is an evolutionary dead end. I mean, straight men have evolved away from such frivolity as fashion and grooming. If we gays applied our energies to more practical pursuits in the hard sciences, maybe Christopher Lowell would already be a Nobel Prize winner in Home Economics and Culinary Physics. We could turn towards spirituality by meditating on the glitter forever stuck inside our navels.

Like this weekend, I felt like I wasted so much time and effort coloring my hair black to hide the gray. I mean, in a dark, smoky bar, nobody notices anyway—well, at least not until 2am. And at 2am, gray isn’t gray, it is ‘distinguished’ or whatever our inebriated minds will use as an excuse to sleep with someone.

Anyway, the only people who can really see my gray hair are those people at work, and I really couldn’t give a damn about them unless they brought Krispy Kremes to share, then I am Mr. Chatty and Friendly. Most of the time, I just stick to myself, not revealing any personal details about myself because otherwise I might be accused of rubbing my gayness into peoples’ faces. Homophobes really can’t stand it when gay people talk about their latest decoupage project.

I usually use Clairol’s Nice and Easy #122 or Natural Black, the thirtysomething Asian’s best friend. I went blonde one summer in a fit of gay midlife crisis which strikes every homo at ripe old age of twenty-five. I thought it made me look exactly like blond Colin Farrell in “Alexander” if he were Asian and went to circuit parties.

Of course they didn’t have circuit parties in the 310 B.C. It would take so long to travel from city to city by horseback, that by the time you get there, you’d be over thirty and centurion bouncer won’t let you in the door.

And a “White Party” would be impossible, although a “Dusty and Grimy Party” would probably be a hit.

However, one would not have to worry about one’s toga in the long journey, it will still be fashionable as long as it is asphyxiation-inducing. Circuit parties are not known for fashion innovation anyway; everyone goes shirtless as soon as they walk in--clothes just gets in the way of showing off muscles. Investing in servants to pan for gold is probably more apt, body glitter would still be de rigeur.

After I applied the black gooey gel to my hair, I set the egg timer which I normally use to boil an egg. My scalp sure felt like boiling an egg.

I used some baby oil to prevent staining my ears and forehead. I am not sure why it is called “baby oil,” probably because it is supposed to be gentle. I can’t wait for Nair to create a gentle version of their product--it really burns my crotch when I use it. However, I don’t imagine they will be calling this product “baby depilatory.”

A black scalp is a side effect. It stays like that for a few days; when you scratch your head, the dye gets lodged under your nails making it look like dirt, which I think makes me look butch, like I’ve done manual labor like a construction worker, a farm hand or a manicurist.

For a few weeks anyway, I look maybe five years younger. Or maybe I’m just fooling myself.

Aging is an accelerated process for gay men. In a couple of years, I’ll be looking at gay retirement homes which I hear now have many amenities that appeal to the gay sensibility: luxe décor, haute diet-restricted cuisine, lowered glory holes.

I just don’t want to end up a sixty year-old with a balding head of jet black hair. I don’t want to end up a sixty year-old period.

But then again, I didn’t really think about being on this side of thirty either. I don’t know if anyone ever does.

I don’t think ‘old’ is something you grow into.

I think ‘old’ is a four-car pile-up that happens to you while driving on the freeway of youth, singing your favorite song at the top of your lungs.

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Is a circuit party a party for electricians? No.
Play with Homestarrunner's hair
Wanna get rid of hair? Get advice here.
You need a depilator for this (NWS)
A 'baby version' of your product is not needed here
Try on a new hair color virtually
Bleached blonde and Asian

When I googled "Blonde Asian," this was the only site out of hundreds that wasn't porn. So to all you asians out there thinking of going blonde, people will assume you're either in porn or this guy. Think about it.

More about decoupage
They would've gone to the White Party
Got something political to say - the Freeway Blogger
Make your own Freeway Sign
Gay retirement homes
Final Acres - a retirement home for the loved ones you don't want back