Love Letter

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

Tuesday, May 21, 2002 11:12 am

Hey baby,

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

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

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

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

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

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

What Is The Use?

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

Dearest,

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

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

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

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

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

Love,
Mom

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

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

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

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

Scruff

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

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

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

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

Username mankini

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Let's play. Guitar.

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

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

You would fuck me, right?

No Milk Please 360º

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

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

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

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

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

A Letter From My Sister (in Haiku)

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



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



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



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




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



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

From My Brother's Secret Blog

"Friends"

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

"The Part Of You I'm Most Familiar"

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

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

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

Sidebar Action

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

Body Building

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I Understand If You Don't

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Downlow

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

He Is Risen

Pics from the Ecce Homo series by Elisabeth Ohlson Wallin

Dusty

Dusting off this thing.

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

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

Sorry

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Toilet Paper Roll

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

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

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

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

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

Chicago Missed Connections

As seen on Chicago's craigslist:

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

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

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

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

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

Burning - Redux

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

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

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

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

Recession Depression

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

In With The New...

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

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

Support for the LGBT Community

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

-- Barack Obama, June 1, 2007

Dumpster Diving

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ghosts of Chicago

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Related posts:

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

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