Can We Take It Home?

(c) 2004 The New Yorker Magazine

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Other cartoons that have appeared in NMP.

Deveined

I confess that I’ve always been afraid of touching my belly button. When I wash my belly button, I only give it a cursory wash, trying not to delve deep into it. I avoid looking at it because it scares me; it might tell me something I didn't want to know about myself, like my BELLY BUTTON IS DIRTY.

I have an semi-outie which means that it doesn't stick out like an Asian in Martha's Vineyard, but is not deep enough to hold a tequila shot. It is barely a thimble-full. If I shot my wad on myself, it wouldn't be enough to keep all of it in there, unless it's my third wad of the morning.

When I was younger, my great-aunt told me that if I played with my belly button too much, I could give myself a stomachache or worse--it could burst, my entrails spilling out of my gut. It's one of the many things that adults tell you as a kid not to do to yourself: pick your nose, bite your nails or stick your finger in your ass because awful things are going to happen. Of course, I have learned since then that nothing awful is going to happen if you pick your nose, although if you stick a finger up your ass, you turn gay.

It seems to me that since God never provided humans with an instruction manual to our bodies, we decided to write our own, many times to illogical or comical results. Masturbation will cause you to go blind; spitting on a new baseball bat will make it lucky; going to sleep with your hair wet can cause a bad hair day. Some of these are blatantly ridiculous. But really, don't sleep with your hair wet or your day will be totally ruined. Bad hair has been known to wreck lives and careers, remember Justin Guarini? Exactly.

These are the things I think about when I wash my semi-outie belly button, which right now, looks like an opened shrimp with the black vein still in place. I am afraid to pick at the black, dried crusts stuck in there because my belly button might unravel, the crusts being the only thing keeping it together.

I am not really sure why this happens anyway. I bathe regularly and as a rule, I don't roll around in unsterilized mud. It's gotta be pure, clean, unadulterated mud and then I spray Lysol all over it before I dip even a little toe into it.

In the shower, I steeled myself, preparing to clean the area. I gird my loins as I soap my fingers. I hope my stomach doesn't burst.

Wait, should I find a cork just in case?



Technorati Tags: Humor Gay Queer

Letter From Home

This is a letter from my mother from three years ago. I found it last week while I was cleaning out our second bedroom. Brian and I had moved to this new place last November and we still have stuff left unpacked and in boxes.

In the rush of moving, I had stuck the letter in my miscellaneous junk box because I had already taped up the box with all my other mementos from home:

October 13, 2003

Dear Paul,

Last night, I dreamed that I was having a meal with Lucy and Rita, you and your brother Peter's godmothers. Then, I suddenly saw you and Peter eating at another table near us. I was so surprised and walked to you and asked you why you didn't tell me you were coming home.

Then I woke up.

Is it because the two of you have left us for so long that even in dreams, I can't help but miss you?

Take care.

Love you always,
Mom

I moved to Chicago from the country of my birth, the Philippines. I left my home at the age of 21 because even though I loved my family, I couldn't live my life in the closet; I couldn't live a lie. I wanted to be the real me, you know, a bright, young gay man with a head full of useless, celebrity trivia. The future awaited me, filled with love, laughter and a colossal credit card debt.

At the time, fifteen years ago, I didn't even think about what this meant to my family, those I had left behind. All I could think of was myself, my survival and my despair of ever, ever finding a real pair of Prada shoes instead of the counterfeit shit they sell in the sidewalks of Manila, the ink on the label running from the sweat in my heels.

Reading the letter again made me remember how hard this journey had been, not just for me, but for the people I loved.

Today is my mother's birthday.

I miss you mom.

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All About My Mother - a tragicomedy in three parts
The Long Way Home - yes, before the Dixie Chicks!

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Let's Get [a] Physical

Today I am supposed to get my annual physical exam.

The physical is at 11am. I had planned to work from home so I can get some stuff done before going to my appointment. Instead, I spent the hours before my appointment jacking off. Three times.

I just thought you wanted to know that.


It's been a year since I last saw my doctor, who is gay and has a predominantly gay practice. I stuck with him all these years because much like women prefer female doctors, I prefer a gay doctor because he understands all the medical issues that gay men face like STDs, compulsive sex and acute problems with not calling after a date.


"Strip," my doctor commanded, handing me what I thought was a wad of paper towels. "Put it on," he said.

I realized he meant the wad of paper towels. Apparently, it was a gown. It was basically a long, seamless rectangular paper towel with armholes and a scalloped edge for a collar. I mean, I've always wanted to be brawny, but this is ridiculous.


The doctor made me feel at ease by sharing juicy celebrity gossip while he examined me. Then suddenly, he jabbed his gloved finger into my asshole!

He was checking my prostate. I was so distracted I didn't even notice that he had been slathering his finger with lube.

Normal, he pronounced, raising the finger in front of me. I caught a whiff of the antiseptic smell of latex and the thick, heavy scent of my ass. The smell reminded me of my first love, Harry. That's what I called my 12" rubber dildo.

The doctor thoughtfully gave me a paper towel to wipe myself back there. I felt an overwhelming need to cuddle.


Having your blood drawn has got to be the most unnerving thing. Waiting for the poke is nerve-wracking. Am I the only one who thinks that instead of drawing your blood, the smiling, insane medical technician is going to pump an air bubble into your plumped vein, killing you instantly?


I rattled off a bunch of different symptoms that could be the first signs of any number of serious illnesses. My doctor dutifully listened and then gently reassured me that my mother-in-law was not a serious illness.


My doctor called me a neurotic. I can't wait to tell all my friends that I was just as fucked up as they are. Surely, they'll let me hang out with them now?


I left the doctor's office with a lighter step and an extra swish in my walk. I don't know if this was because of my clean bill of health or because of the lube in my ass.

Less friction, you know.



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Famous

"On the Web, everyone will be famous to fifteen people."

- David Weinberger, The New Yorker, 08/2006

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Join the mailing list and be famous to me!


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Rock Bottom

I'll know that I've hit rock bottom if I pull those cookies out of the trash can. At least, that's what I tell myself. Right now, my only form of self-control over snack food is to throw the uneaten portion into the trash. In my mind, the second something’s in the trash can, it's garbage, even though in reality, the cookies themselves are still clean, protected by the mylar bag, untouched by whatever else is around it.

Sometimes, I would throw out unopened packages of candy or snacks that were given as gifts to prevent myself from gorging on them. I try not to think of the wastefulness of it all, thinking only of the benefits to my health, my body and my lungs as I try to squeeze into my suffocatingly tight wardrobe.

I am at work. It is 3pm. I am starving.

I go to the lunchroom and stare at the vending machine for what seemed like an hour. I become one of those people who stand in front of this machine, hypnotized, like it's an oracle telling my future, one where I have to have a great personality instead of being shallow and goodlooking. The thought of having any sort of intelligence or wit in my skull depressed me, but I fear that I am already a lost cause.

As I feed the machine my dollar bill, the irony is not lost on me. I tentatively pressed the "E" button. My index finger hovered at the number "3" for what seemed like another hour before stabbing it, taking the plunge. The vending machine whirs to life, dropping a sinful package of Oreo cookies. My change--a lone, sad nickel--falls into the slot with barely a jangle.

There are four cookies in the package. I take it back to my desk. I rip open the package, quickly savoring thick sweetness of the first cookie.

I take my time with the second one, taking only little bites, hoping that this would fool my stomach into thinking it was having more than it is. However, I knew this wouldn't work, just like I knew that it wouldn't work when my high school boyfriend begged to let him in 'just an inch.'

As I licked the crumbs off my fingers, I eyed the two other cookies, commanding myself to throw it in the trash. The guy in the next cubicle looked at me quizzically. I realized that I said that out loud.

I throw the cookies in the trash.

The cookies sat in the garbage staring back at me, lying there dejectedly, like unwanted newborn babies in a dumpster. I so want to rescue it, cradle it in my arms and then cram all of it in my mouth. I kick the trash can further under my desk so I can't see it.

Babies. Baby Ruth. Sugar Babies. God, this makes me feel disgusting, like a choco-pedophile. I try to think about other things, things that won't make me take that little bag of cookies out of the trash.

Babies make me think of umbilical cords. Some people say it's thick and cutting through it is like cutting through a finger. Or a Slim Jim. I wonder if it tastes like one too? Sorry, hunger is making me a little light-headed.

The cookies are calling me, like my ex-boyfriend who I've given crabs: I'm here, I'm here, I'm here...

I'm reaching in.

Please look away.

Please look away...


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It's All Up Here...

"How does it feel to be 29?" I asked my boyfriend Brian. "Do you feel any older?"

"Nope," he said confidently. "Besides," he continued, tapping his temple, "it's all up here."

"Yeah, it's all up there alright," I laughed. "But once 'up there' starts thinning, it's hard to tell yourself you're not getting older." I pointed to my own receding hairline.

"Then you notice that your knees groan when you walk up the stairs, your lungs protest at running after the bus and your eardrums balk at the relentless booming bass at dancefloor."

I gave him a kiss. "Happy birthday, babes. Next year, we'll start saving for hair plugs, just in case..."


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Last year, I gave my boyfriend a birthday nookie

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God Surfs the Web

"And if you believe that we really have free will, then you know that God really can't control us. And if God can't control us, all God does is watch [us] and change channels when he gets bored. Somewhere in heaven, you're LIVE on a video website for God to surf."

"All God does is watch us and kill us when we get boring. We must never, ever be boring."

- Chuck Palahniuk, Invisible Monsters

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Technorati Tags: Books Humor Gay Queer

King of Sorrow

Check out my new remix:



King of Sorrow
(DJ Evil Twin Melancholy Piano Remix)
Sade
DL @ DivShare*
If link is broken, e-mail me.

Other Sade / DJ Evil Twin Mixes:




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Recommended Sade CDs:

International Porn Film Festival

Here at No Milk Please, we are hosting the International Porn Film Festival, which occurs whenever my boyfriend Brian goes out of town for any amount of time.

Whenever Brian tells me that he has a trip planned, a seminar or whatever, I go through a jumble of emotions. On one hand, having your mate go away throws life askew. We have been together long enough that we have fallen into familiar patterns. The household chores have been unofficially divided. I cook, he does dishes; He picks up the mail, I throw out the garbage; He does the laundry, I watch Project Runway.

I can't wait to have kids so I can foist these chores on them. Of course, I would only assign age-appropriate chores. Surely a two year-old would be tall enough to clean the toilet? By three, they could be mowing the lawn.

But inevitably, when Brian is away, some things end up being neglected. I only remember to feed my cats when they start to gnaw on my little toe.

On the other hand is my cock. No, really, my hand is on my cock. Who's going to take care of it when Brian's away? An anonymous hook-up is out of the question; I'm too scared of catching a gay disease, like, Cher-impression-itis, you know, that horsey bray, that whhhhhoooooooahhoh at the end of each sentence. You gays know what I'm talking about. I spent thirty minutes thinking about how to spell that sound. If you can actually transcribe this, let me know.

So porn is my only recourse. I go to Specialty Video on Broadway with a bounce in my step. I am giddy about getting some new porn. I rarely get a chance to get to watch any new ones.

It's like being single all over again. I remember all those Friday nights I spent cruising all the porn. I eye beefy Carl on the shelf before Kurt, with the toothy smile, catches the corner of my eye. Carl looks mean, but promises to be a pussycat in bed. Kurt is just plain adorable. I take both videos along with three others. The International Porn Film Festival is about quantity, not quality. There will be time enough to go through the bad dialogue, the limp scenes.

The next few days were a blur. I don't remember very much except that my dick was starting to get sore. I make a mental note to buy more lube--my VCR was making squeaky noises. I thought about upgrading to a DVD player, but shopping would just cut into my masturbation time.

One night, while I was lying in bed, in a sweet, hazy post-orgasmic stupor, my idle thoughts went to Brian and whether he's having as much fun in Puerto Rico as I am. I missed him. By now he'd be snoring on my shoulder, the lube getting cold on our skin. He'll be back soon enough, I thought.

Fast forward to the day of Brian's arrival. A couple of hours before I have to go to pick him up, I hustle and put the videos back in their cases, taking care to rewind. The bitches at the video store won't hesitate to charge me a rewind fee. I'll drop them off on my way to the airport.

Standing in front of the video store's dropbox, I said a silent goodbye to my new friends Carl and Kurt before slipping their plastic cases through the slot.

At the airport, I was happy to see Brian, but I was also a little sad that my little festival had ended.

Brian groused about the delay and a rude passenger on the flight. I nodded sympathetically.

"Thanks for picking me up," he said.

"That's cool babes, it's no trouble," I replied.

"You're going to have to do this again in a few weeks. I have to go to Vegas for the conference, remember?"

"Oh yeah," I said, my eyes lighting up. I give him another hug as my thoughts went to planning another festival.

Carl and Kurt, we shall meet again.


See Jack do Cher. Think you can transcribe that sound? Put it in the comments!



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Remembered Something

(c) copyright 2006 The New Yorker

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UPDATE: I added a link in the ALL ABOUT ME section in the sidebar that will contain all the cartoons that have appeared in this site.

Author Stalker

This is what it feels like to be a stalker: nerves fire from every part of your body; your muscles quiver randomly like dandelions; your tired, blinkless eyes are like marathoners in the final mile, surging forward. There's a dry, brassy taste in my mouth, like deodorant or metal polish. I make a mental note to remind my boyfriend Brian to buy a different brand of metal polish--there must be one that has a more pleasing scent--strawberry, perhaps.

I'm at the Book Cellar, a genteel little bookstore in Lincoln Square, hiding behind the greeting card rack like a lion stalking a gazelle or a vulture circling a carcass, or a gay Bear pouncing on a donut. My prey is the famous recluse, author John McNally who was scheduled to do a reading and book signing. I scan the racks, hoping to find John an appropriate card for the occasion, one that says 'congratulations!' or 'good luck' or 'til death do us part.'

"Hey Paul," a man's voice behind me said.

I turned around and it's John himself. He's tall, taller than I've imagined him to be from the picture in the back flap of his books. I imagined that he would be at most 6 inches tall, with his lower body uncropped. But here he was, normal-sized and talking to me.

It was a couple of seconds before I was able to respond with a weak "Hi!" I was amazed that he even recognized me. The only explanation was that he must've read my blog and seen my pictures. But even that is surprising since I only post pictures of myself that are unrealistically attractive. They bear no resemblance to me in real life. In real life, I cannot hope to show only my 'good side' like Barbra Streisand. In real life, no cosmetic can cover up blemishes like photoshop can.

We spoke awkwardly for a few minutes. Our conversation was like a fish flopping about on dry land, gasping for a topic. I thanked him for sending me a copy of his book and he thanked me for posting my interview of him in my blog.

"Brian, my boyfriend, was saying that we should take a trip out to Duke's Italian Beef which you mentioned in your novel, out in Bridgeview," I said. "Is it like a Portillo's?" Portillo's is like the McDonald's of Italian Beef sandwiches in the Chicago area.

"Nah," John said, "Duke's is more like a hole-in-the-wall."

"I love hole-in-the-walls," I said excitedly, "in more ways than one!"

He raised an eyebrow and said, "Ba-dum-bum."

Ouch. But I didn't feel too bad because he grinned.

The bookstore was filling up, everybody was looking for a seat. John excused himself politely. I found a seat for myself. My friend Annie, who came with me to the bookstore, sat next to me.

I felt out of sorts. When I am in an audience, I am the guy who hoots and hollers, the one who initiates the clapping, the standing ovation. I looked around, scanning the small audience. People are seated, murmuring quietly. I wondered whether I should take my lighter out and raise it above my head, swaying.

While John read from his new book America's Report Card, I studied the people around me.

I wasn't listening; I had already read the book. I finished it quickly, in two late nights. My guess is that everybody in the audience had too. I was more interested in who I had wrestle with to get in front of the line for the signing later. An older woman, about sixty and with grey hair, sat a few seats away. She had a walker beside her. When I looked at her, she looked back, narrowing her eyes as she did. She had a stack of books on her lap. I was sure I could take her down. Or at least trip her.

Later, John graciously signed all our books. As he rose to leave, a bald man who was sitting in the audience stood up. He was immensely tall. It was Irvine Welsh, author of Trainspotting and Porno. They chatted for bit. I tried to casually eavesdrop but I couldn't understand Irvine with his thick Scottish burr.

In my mind, they were going to a nearby pub and were going to invite me and Annie along to discuss literature and booze and sex. It was perfect, I knew all about booze and sex. I stood right by the door for my invitation.

Unfortunately, a night of literate debauchery was not to be, an invitation was not forthcoming. Annie and I leave the bookstore only a little disappointed. We had our signed books and we shook John McNally's hand. I was even able to lightly touch Irvine Welsh with the back of my hand as I walked pass him.

That's enough for this stalker for one night.

Best Beths

I've been very inspired by Beth ever since I had "remixed" Stolen Car. I had bought all of her CDs and decided that if anybody was ripe for a remix, it was her.

Beth's songs are quiet and never over-produced, they lend themselves to my idea of lazy mixing and production, which is basically to add beats and atmosphere and possibly speeding it up to 30%. Many people describe her music as a fusion between trip-hop and folk. I took many of these quieter songs and made them more upbeat--pop, if you will. If you like Everything But The Girl, Fiona Apple or Cat Power, you probably will like her too.

Yes, yes, I should probably stick to writing my stupid little blog posts, but ya know, I follow my Muse wherever she takes me even though one time, she led me to a sex party where people shit on each other. I made her promise to not ever do that to me again without telling me. I would've taken some Metamucil before going.

I put the mixes up at BestSharing.* When you click on the images below, it should take you the BestSharing site and you can DL them there. They will be there for a limited time, so get them quickly.




But listen, if you want a bona fide CD of these DJ Evil Twin mixes, I'll send them to you. I only have 5 of these CDs to give. The CD contains these 11 mixes as well as 8 other great songs.

I want people to listen to the damn thing and short of selling the thing on eBay, nobody will. All you have to do if you're interested in it is to send me your address so I can mail it to you. You MUST have a blog. Yes, this could be my way of showing up unannounced on your doorstep, but if you've read my blog, you know that this will never happen because I am waaay normal and not crazy at all. Seriously though, if you're worried about that, send me your work address, I would NEVER dream of showing up there. TRUST ME.



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*If you are using Firefox, the song downloads, but may need to be renamed to a .mp3 extension.

Today I am Happy

Today, I'm in the midst my third decade and I have all my teeth. When I laugh, the lines on my face add character and that character is not Elmer Fudd. I have an ass that gravity has not pulled below the back of my knees. Half a breath is all it takes to hold in my stomach. And though my hair is slowly eroding, I can still use my muscular chest to distract you.

Today, I have a job that I do well and I don't hate. Sometimes, there are people who make it unpleasant, but by and large, that is infrequent and quickly over. We have casual Fridays which can sometimes stretch to casual Mondays and Tuesdays. This saves me a lot of money on dry cleaning, which is my third largest expenditure, behind the rent and the credit card payments for the trip to Italy ten years ago. When I get home from work, I can forget totally about it.

Today I still have both my parents, who are elderly but young enough to fret about being called "seniors." When I call them, they are healthy enough to complain of their various little ailments, which I commiserate with them about. They have not resigned themselves to the inevitable decline, but still harbor hope, which is evidenced by their efforts to marry me off to an unsuspecting young woman at their church.

I want to describe to you this day so that you will remember. I am sitting in a Starbucks, waiting for my best friends Joe, Matt and Annie. It is a sunny day; the sidewalk is white from the glare of sun, reflecting into the cafe. A pretty girl is standing outside, in a denim skirt and a jaunty ponytail, her hand covered in a plastic bag, waiting patiently for her pug to finish taking a crap so she can pick it up. I am enjoying a piping hot cup of Calm, a chamomile tea, which my boyfriend Brian has bought me. I blow into the cup to cool it off.

Today I am in love.

Today, I am writing this post, which my friends around the world will have read. I will read their comments with excitement, I respond with enthusiasm.

Today I am alive, right now, key by key, letter by letter. These are my marks in the world. This is my pee in the alley behind the dumpster, my scrawl in a bathroom stall: FOR A GOOD TIME CALL PAUL AT 773.555.1212.

You, who are me tomorrow, a week or twenty years from now--I don't know where you are, whether you're lonely, unemployed or sick in bed, a tumor growing inside of you--there were days when you were happy, this being one of them.

Remember that there was a day like today.

America's Report Card

When John McNally, wrote to me several months ago that he was going to give me a copy of his new book America's Report Card, I ignored it as if it were a venereal disease: it's not real until the scabs appeared. I didn't think he was actually going to send me the book.

As you long time readers know, I don't write very good reviews. I tell people that I like it or I hate it, period. I'm not one for unearthing the hidden meaning of art or delving into the mind of the artist. That's for people who have a spatula instead of a personality.

However, what I am good at is the celebrity interview. I've done so, so many. This time I tried to get John to reveal more intimate facts about himself. Even if you've never read anything John McNally has written, you'll laugh (or cry) at his responses to my irreverent questions.


No Milk: When you said that you were going to send me a copy of your new book after it was published, I thought you were full of shit. I was going to send you a laxative, but I didn't know your address. But the book actually appeared on my doorstep.

I was in the middle of reading Joan Didion's The Year of Magical Thinking and Chuck Palahniuk's Invisible Monsters. Invisible Monsters was my bathroom read, I need literature to help pass the time while I take my long craps. Your book was going to be the book I read in the car while I was stuck in traffic, propped against the steering wheel. I almost got into an accident because I so absorbed in it, it blew away both other books. I even took an extra long crap so I can finish the last chapter. You must be proud of this novel. But if you had to save only one of your books from a burning house, which one would you save?

John McNally: If you mean which of the books I’ve written I would save, I would probably say none. I tend to hate everything I’ve written by the time it’s published. Instead, I would save Richard Yates’ novel Revolutionary Road. But if I could replace the medium, I would actually save all of the seasons of Deadwood on DVD. I’m writing an essay for a magazine about why Deadwood is the best mass entertainment since Dickens. So, there you have it. I’d run into the burning house, run past my own books, and snag all of Deadwood. I should say here that the mobile home my family lived in when I was three years old burned down in the middle of the night, and while I was watching from inside the trailer next door, I saw what my father threw out the front door as the highest priorities to save: a rug cleaner; an answering machine (this was a Code-a-Phone, circa 1968), and a birdcage with our pet bird inside. And that was pretty much all we ended up with. My pet turtle, which I had bought the week before at Goldblatt’s, perished.

NM: I must admit I had some trepidation when I heard your book was going to be called America's Report Card, I have such an aversion to politically themed books. I hate things that tax my wallet, and I hate books that tax my intellect. Interestingly, your book drew me into the characters and their lives while implanting me with political rhetoric. What came first, the chicken or the politics?

JM: The chicken. The book began as an essay about my crappy job of scoring standardized tests, and how corrupt I thought the whole enterprise was. The essay didn’t work, so several years later I pulled out my shoebox full of notes and tried writing it as a novel. The novel didn’t work, either. But then came Election Year 2004. I was growing more and more pissed off every time I saw Bush on TV, and so I went back and wondered what it would be like to try writing the novel in the very moment that I was living, letting whatever was on the news filter into the story and letting my own anger fuel the writing of the book. Once I figured out that I would end the book on Election Day, I had a structure for the book, and the rest of the elements all fell into place. The last thing I wanted to do was write a politically-themed book, but I managed to find a roundabout way to write one.

NM: You mention Duke’s Italian Beef in this novel, as you did in The Book of Ralph. Let me tell you, the Italian Beef sandwich is probably the one food that exemplifies Chicago for me, more than the Deep Dish Pizza or the Chicago-style Hot Dog. There should be a fanfare of trumpets or a chorus of angels whenever it is served.

I'm from the Philippines and closest we have to something as iconic as an Italian Beef sandwich is balut, which is boiled duck embryo, still in its shell. There is no fanfare or chorus when you eat it, just the imaginary high-pitched scream/quack of a tiny, featherless duckling stewed in its own amniotic fluid.

This is the way I like my Italian Beef: on a warm, flaky bun with hot peppers and a side of the "juice" or gravy, which I will dip my sandwich in before each bite. Sometimes, in my haste, parts of the waxy paper they use to wrap the sandwich end up in my mouth. I will also throw a few fries at a time in the gravy to soak and cram into my mouth before they get soggy. I arm myself with a three-inch stack of napkins to deal with the inevitable mess of eating this delicious meal. Why does Duke's have such a hold on you? And have you ever had balut?

JM: I have never had balut, but I'm game for anything stewed in its own amniotic fluid. Sounds wonderful. As for Duke's, it's the beef sandwich place of my youth, so it's not just tasty Italian beef that lures me in, it's the nostalgia I have for the building itself, it's the melancholy that overcomes me when I step inside. I weep each time I visit Duke's. It's that frickin' emotional for me.

You and I both know that when you order food outside of Chicago that bills itself "Chicago style" that it isn't really "Chicago style." It's just crappy food with some marketing savvy slapped on it. I got married in Iowa City, where their idea of an Italian sausage sandwich is to grill the sausage like a hamburger patty and serve it on a bun. What the fuck is that? The day after my wife and I got hitched, we threw a party, and so I had a friend from Chicago cater Italian beef and Italian sausage. There are several photos of me explaining the proper way to eat the sandwiches. Our guests were virgins when it came to this shit. They were trying not to get the bun wet with beef sandwich juice. My mother-in-law actually wanted to toast her bun in our oven because she mistook the bun’s durability for it being stale. I almost kicked her out of the house. What these people didn’t understand is that a good Italian beef sandwich is messy. They were acting like I was serving deli sandwiches.

NM: I am a very important blogger, my blog is read by my twin brother, my boyfriend and his mother. They can mean the difference between the discount bin and a runaway hit novel, which believe it or not, is a very slim divide, especially for my boyfriend's mother; she's never paid full price for a book ever. This past 4th of July, after dinner, she took our styrofoam plates and plastic cutlery, rinsed them and put them back in the cupboard. How does it feel to be in the presence of blog royalty?

JM: I am humbled, sir. I quake even as I type this.


CONTINUED: "The angrier the context in which I say Ann Coulter's name, the rauchier things get."




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Read my other celebrity interview with John McNally. This is his website and blog

What's in Paul's fridge?

Paul Pellerito, the awesome blogger from In My Own Words created this graphic and hosts all of my alter-ego DJ Evil Twin's remixes. Please show him some love.

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No Ordinary Love

No Ordinary Love
(DJ Evil Twin Soulful Remix)
Sade
DL here
If link is broken, e-mail me.

Other Sade / DJ Evil Twin Mixes:


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Recommended Sade CDs: