Pumpkin Carvin'

Here are some pictures taken from a pumpkin carving party hosted by Brian and Joe. This is the first time I have ever carved a pumpkin and I think that I didn't do too shabby. Check it out, mine's the one with the skull, Brian's is the one with the scary face.

Click on the pics to see a larger view.

Downhill Ride

Aren't we are wasting valuable non-renewable resources in order to manufacture useless things like triple-scented candles, sequined throw pillows and beer cozies?

Beer cozies. What's that about? When did our beer start needing a little cozy? Is it to keep the beer warm or cold. I can't figure it out. Does it need a down jacket too? It might get frostbite in the fridge. Besides, I like my beer bottles the way I like my men: long, hard and naked.

What will happen when humanity has used up the last drop of crude oil or scrap of metal? When we cannot grow any more crops because we have used-up, polluted our environment, what will we do with the never-used cappuccino makers our sisters gave us for Christmas? It’s too late to re-gift it then. There will be no coffee beans, sugar or milk to make cappuccino with.

What about all the energy and raw materials, labor and marketing used to make a yellow rubber LIVESTRONG band, just to convince people to donate money for cancer research? And when I asked a girl who was wearing one what the band was for, she said she got it because she thought it matched her Louis Vuitton purse. I was so angry, how dare she? Anyone can see that the purse was a knock-off!

Besides, charity is not a fashion statement. Charity is not buying a Fashion Targets t-shirt, Greenpeace bumper sticker or a red kabbalah g-string. It's a upside-down world we live in where charity comes from a good marketing strategy.

Also, it may be hypocritical of me to rant about this, since I do enjoy my modern conveniences. In the interest of full disclosure and bragging, I do have a toaster, a toaster oven and a regular oven and a microwave, all of which more or less do the same function. There's no danger of me joining the cast of Survivor: Champaign/Urbana anytime soon.

I guess the line between modern convenience and utter frivolousness is blurred. One woman's electric hand mixer is another woman's sex toy. I guess we will just have to wake up one day to find that there is no more gas to run our cars or electricity to light our homes.

I don't even know if we can stop this from happening. It seems to me that we are on a downhill ride on a very steep mountain.

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Keep your beer cozy
This guy needs a lot of beer cozies
Beer Can Bob for president
A girl in a red g-string not practicing kabbalah
Here's a crotchless version and with suspenders (not work safe)
Greenpeace: Save the Whale

Cool Ads

Check out MarriageRights.com for some cool ads about equal marriage rights for gay people!

Garage Sale

(c)2004 The New Yorker

In Syndication

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Mint Condition

CONTINUED FROM Used Books

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My book collection makes me feel good. I like looking at my bookshelf, books lined up like soldiers at attention, pages crisp and tight like Joan Rivers' face.

I like keeping my books in perfect shape. I have books that are in near mint condition, binding unbroken, like a Catholic virgin with hymen intact, subjected only to furtive gropes and clothes-on climaxes.

I have mastered the skill of reading a book opened only to a narrow 30 degree angle so as to preserve the integrity of the binding. I wash my hands with warm sudsy water to carefully remove all grime and oil and dry them completely before touching a page.

This is common practice among comic book collectors, where the term 'mint' has seven grade levels including that sought after, fresh-off-the-printers bagged-in-mylar pristine-mint condition. It is amazing what adolescents who don’t have dates on a Friday night will think of. I just hope they don't get together under one roof, possibly in superhero attire, set up booths, and invite comic book creators to sign stuff.

But I admit it, while I mostly have outgrown my comic book geekdom, I usually still have the eBay selling value of an item in the back of my mind. My comic books, action figures, pez dispensers--they are still carefully handled and stored to preserve maximum value.

This behavior has spread to other aspects of my life where I will consider whether I should open a cereal box carefully in case I want to sell it to a collector at some point. You may scorn Britney Spears now, but her image on a Special K box or a Do-It-Yourself Pre-Nuptial Agreement could net some big bucks someday in an online auction, possibly five dollars.

I am not sure why I do this because I have yet to sell anything anything on eBay. I have bought hundreds of dollars worth of shit, but I have so far sold nada.

I tried selling my used underwear on eBay once for $10 a piece, but nobody wanted to buy them. One person finally asked me if they were 'stained.' I was indignant. What kind of person did he think I was, I thought, and is he willing to pay $20? Anyway, it's not the kind of thing I would tell me Mum. She might start selling her dirty panties.

It’s amazing what people will pay for a bit of nostalgia but I am not planning my retirement on it. Besides, a book isn’t going to keep you warm at night, unless you burn it in your fireplace. A good hairpiece may be a better investment.

Whenever I see a gap between the books on my shelf, I feel an absurd sense of loss. I rarely lend out my favorite books, and when I do, I usually require a signed contract for its replacement if it slips one grade condition level.

It's a quandary: you want to brag about your collection, but you're afraid to because somebody might want to borrow it.

Sometimes I do think about what would happen to my collection if I were to suddenly go on a "permanent vacation." Would they end up in a garage sale? Maybe someone will buy one of them. It would be read, enjoyed, passed on to friends, without a thought to condition, only to sharing the wonderful experience of reading a good book.

More likely, somebody will buy the books and give no thought to its previous owner, one who kept them pristine, who spent more time keeping them that way than reading them...

Used Books

I love going to used bookstores. I will often buy used books of authors I am unfamiliar with to try them out.

When I read a used book, I often have a feeling of spiritual camaraderie with the previous owner. Did they enjoy the book? Did they delight in the same passages? Is that why the pages are stuck together? Did they sell the book because it sucked, because they needed more room, because they needed the money?

It's the same kind of feeling I get when I see someone on a bus reading a book I love. I just want to gush and talk to them about the book and possibly follow them home without their knowledge. It's that full feeling in your chest that makes you want to smother someone with joy, with a thick, white pillow until they stop breathing. I wonder if Jeffrey Dahmer loved books as well?

I hate to say this because it invites scorn, ridicule. I know--after being called a 'gaywad', 'pillow biter', 'butt muncher', I shouldn't be afraid being called a 'poetry reader.'

Yes, two of my favorite books are books of poetry. They are e.e. cummings' Tulips&Chimneys and is 5 which I bought from a used bookstore after I saw the movie Hannah and Her Sisters nearly ten years ago.

In the movie, Michael Caine, a married man, tries to woo his wife's sister into an affair by asking her to read a poem in an e.e. cummings book. The poem is so powerful that the sister considers an affair with him.

I wanted to read this poem that was so powerful it incited such amorousness.

I bought the books and I loved the poems. The books were well cared for but also obviously well read. The edges showed wear where they were pulled to and from a shelf; the creases on the spine were numerous, easily opening to certain sections of the books.

And there was something else I found. In some of the pages, favorite passages were neatly, sparingly, underlined. In others, poem numbers were encircled, like a halo bestowed. But in a select few, there were little neatly drawn pictures which seemed to me the reader's impressions of the poem. These were deliberately drawn--not idle doodles--in colored pen.

I felt like I was reading the poems along with this other person, sharing intimate thoughts. I conjectured that both books of poetry were owned by the same person, a man, probably reasonably attractive, because otherwise, I couldn't imagine the possibility of sex between us.

I wondered who this man was. I wanted to talk to him and I wanted to ask him what other images came to mind when he read the poems.

I wanted to ask him why these books left his possession, these books that he so obviously loved.


    


NEXT: Mint Condition

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Bjork interprets an e.e. cummings song in her CD Medúlla

Recommended books:

The Little Things

Is there a time when people outgrow their juvenile grossness? Is there an age whereupon one reaches it, we become civilized, mature human beings?

I mean, I was at the men's room at work peeing, when I noticed that slightly to the right of me at eye level was not one, but two greenish-gray, dried-up boogers stuck on the wall.

Mind you, this is a men's room that belongs to a large corporation run by men and women who generate millions of dollars of revenue. This company employs engineers, scientists, lawyers, members all of the professional community. As far as I can see, there are no eight-year olds working here who are tall enough to put boogers at my eye-level.

You know how some people joke about not being able to walk and chew gum at the same time? Not me, sirrah. Not only can I walk and chew gum at the same time, I can do it in 9" stiletto heels and a Bronx accent. What I can’t do is pee and pick my nose at the same time. I just don't have the manual dexterity to handle both 'digging for buried treasure' and 'watering the lilies.' It's just beyond me. I mean this is not like driving a car where you can use your lap to steer while you dig in there.

Look, I am not saying you shouldn't pick your nose. It's unpleasant for other people to think about, but it's normal; it's very much like homosexuality or tax evasion that way. But I think that everybody should be responsible enough to wipe their boogers into a kleenex, a handkerchief or the inside of your pants pocket like everyone else.

I know this activity probably creates some sense of satisfaction or achievement by putting things up on a wall for display, but this is not like mounting a deer head, even if the boogers will probably blend in with the outdoorsy décor. And I don't care that it's some celebrity booger you bought from eBay.

If we adults cannot manage these little things, how can we manage the big things? If we cannot ever become mature enough to take responsibility for ourselves, how can we ever achieve peace-on-earth-goodwill-towards-men? No wonder we are at war in Iraq.

I really, really just hope there are no boogers on the wall in the restrooms at the White House.

---
Bastion Booger
Weird eBay auctions: you might find some booger here
The Speech Accent Archive
I didn't know this went on in the women's restroom
Online Tour of the White House
A parody of the White House first page (refresh a couple of times to see different versions)
A golden urinal at the White House

Pulp Fiction

David Schickler is not your namby-pamby, sensitive, wryly comic author. His prose is lusty, colorful, a punch in the gut.

His characters are vividly drawn, full of intent with a dark side to boot. They are people who see ominous portents in a falling leaf or a white squirrel. They like to have sex and lots of it, in an alley or the backseat of a car, it doesn't matter--it is urgent and it is primal. No kissing when biting and scratching will do.

His books are like southern-fried novels but takes place in big cities. Think of the movies Fried Green Tomatoes or Steel Magnolias but set in New York City or Chicago; people drinking martinis instead of iced tea, then maybe you'll get a sense of his style.

Magic lies just beneath the surface, percolating. There are spells uttered in everyday words. A local bar brews a liquor so potent, it can cure your ails, make you drop dead or grow hair on your balls. I wish I had some to give to my loathsome boss, maybe he'll stop making me lick his armpits—I really don't like his deodorant, it tastes too metallic.

I credit the 'discovery' of David Schickler to my book buddy Annie (don't you wish she had her own blog?), whose taste in books is reliable and true, one of the few people whose book recommendations I take seriously. She had finished an advanced reading copy of the author's first book Kissing in Manhattan and came to me raving, looking like she possibly needed a rabies shot.

I wasn't sure what to expect because the book's blurb only indicated that it was a series of interconnected short stories about people who lived in a certain posh Manhattan building.

I am typically not a fan of short story collections because usually there is only about two or three good stories in them, the rest being just mediocre. Also, when the short story is good, then I always end up wishing that it was a full length novel. But in this one, even though the only connection between the stories is the setting, there is an underlying theme which unified them, like it was all part of one story.

I know, that sounds thin, like a porn video plot, right? Like maybe a mysterious necklace when worn, would make its wearer horny and ready for a gang bang? Trust me, this is much more substantial. There are no stunt cocks here, this is the real thing; turgid and purple and coming right at you.

I did have a huge hardon while reading the story "Checkers and Donna". The character, Checkers, a bruiser with huge biceps and a raunchy mouth made me wish I was Donna, the object of his affection. There is only one false note in this book, in the story "Jacob's Bath". It was awkward and lead-footed, too sudsy for my taste.

The new book is called Sweet and Vicious. It was a surprise gift from Annie, for no special occasion, which I think is the best kind of gift. Birthday gifts and such are fine, but they don't have the same kind of emotional punch as a gift that says "I'm glad we're friends" or "Thanks for being you" or "Chill bitch, it's my turn to rob the bank."

This one is caper story, about Henry Dante*, a strong arm for a big Chicago gangster who was asked to retrieve The Planets from one of the gangter's about-to-double-cross-him henchmen. The Planets are a "glorious, amazing, sell-your-firstborn haul of ice, a seven-stone diamond collection" which a prince gathered from across the globe to give to his sweetheart in 1790, each one cut to resemble the planets discovered by then.

Henry makes a bad move and ends up taking The Planets on the run. On the road, he runs into Grace McGlone, a beautiful redhead working at a car wash. Grace sensed that Henry was her destiny, so she makes a deal with God. If she walks through the car wash, water misters, foamy soap, big brushes and all, and Henry is still there when she gets out on the other side, then she's going with him.

The book is slim and a very quick read. I finished it in three long sessions in the can. I fucking loved it. Love, love, loved it. I cannot wait for another book from this guy--pulp, rind, seeds and all.

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*Don't you just love the name "Henry"? I do. It makes me think of my supercrush Henry Rollins (formerly of Black Flag and Rollins Band) who has biceps of death.

Read a short story "Fourth Angry Mouse" from David Schickler

A Reminder

See the rest at The Deep South!

My Sister, the Hurricane

My sister is four years younger than me. She is the baby, my father's favorite child. Every parent will loudly proclaim that no, there are no favorites, but they are lying, lying, lying, just like they lie about having sex--they aren't having any--we all know anal doesn't count.

Anal sex is not sex, as many a Catholic girl knows, which is why it puzzles me that so many Catholics are so against gay men. Even the Pope has a vendetta against us. In my mind, it's the lesbians he should be going after--they are the ones who are having sex.

My sister is having real sex, having fulfilled her reproductive destiny three times over, while her three older brothers have three cats and a Furby among them. You would think this takes the heat off of us, the sons, but my both my dad and mom, true to the Asian stereotype, want grandchildren who will carry on our illustrious last name. The world cannot go on without somebody with a surname of Fukudome*.

My parents wanted to name my sister Mary Jane, but my father thought better of it because he thought the Spanish version, Maria Juana, sounded too much like marijuana. So they decided to compromise and call her Jeanne, pronounced 'zhan', you know, like in French, after a Filipino game show hostess. I don't know why they couldn't have just called her Douche Bag. That's what we called her until she turned thirty.

But seriously, I love my sister. Without her, I don't know if I could have gotten away with shit growing up. My parents were perpetually worried about her getting knocked up that they didn't suspect that me and my 'friend' Nelson were blowing each other in my room.

When I heard that Hurricane Jeanne is approaching Florida, I felt a little trepidation. Is the hurricane going to be true to its namesake, my little sister? Would it be temperamental, placid one minute, furious the next? Would it make waves as it walks into a party? Would it dance up a storm or blow through a paycheck like her?

I don't know, but I hope people are smart enough to get the fuck out of her way.

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*Fuck you, do me. Yeah, like I would put my real last name here.

See if a hurricane was named after you
A hurricane named Shaniqua? Join the debate.

You got an Asian Fetish? Get a Chinese Name!
The Top Chinese Surnames and their origins
The Name Generator
Get your own Porn Star Name, Goth Name, Star Wars Name

Furby Autopsy
Cute like a Furby
God Discusses Homosexuality with the Pope

Isn't It Ironic?

Old man turned ninety-eight
He won the lottery, died the next day
It’s a black fly in your chardonnay
It’s a death row pardon, two minutes too late

- Alanis Morrissette, Ironic

When did this song come out, like ten years ago? With this song, along with the vengeful "You Oughta Know," Alanis broke through and changed the pop music landscape forever--it made clear that women can not only sell records and concert tickets, they also buy millions of records.

It blew a hole into the 18 to 25 male power demographic, who are believed to be the holy grail of marketing. Who, when they (we) don't have their hands on engaged on their joysticks, literal or anatomical, spend their disposable income quite indiscriminately. Hence, the existence of blow-up sex dolls, Magic the Gathering, tractor lawnmowers.

It also created a discourse on the nature of "irony" because whatever Alanis was singing about, it was not irony. Bad luck maybe. Or, in the case of the guy who couldn’t take a good advice, stupidity, but certainly not irony.

In my case, every time we hear the song on the radio, Brian and I will argue again on the definition of irony. Every time I provide him my definition*, Brian says that it’s not the true definition of irony. He demurs to give his definition but he knows irony "when he sees it."

My dear friend Annie declared to me once that Ethan Hawke's exposition* in the movie Reality Bites on the definition of irony is the one that crystallized the meaning for her, that after she heard it, irony was no longer a mystery. I asked her what Ethan's definition was. She shrugged, "I don’t remember."

You may ask, why don't you just look it up in the dictionary? Aha! I did. Several times in fact, in the past. After the last time, I refused to look it up ever again. In my mind the definition is clear, for about ten minutes. Then as life goes on, the definition starts fading away, like my restraint at an all-you-can-eat buffet. I remembered the plot of Gay Prison Gang Bang 4 longer than that.

I think the confusion is not in the definition of the word, but rather, the use of it. I don’t think many people (including myself) know how to use irony correctly, often confusing it with metaphor, simile or sarcasm. In fact, most of the time, the only time I am aware of irony is when the writer specifically prefaces it by saying "Ironically, it..."

And for the longest time I pronounced it "i-yor-nee" as in to "iron a shirt" or "iron ore" rather than "i-ron-y." I'm still unclear on how to pronounce it. No, I don't want to look it up. I'm sick of irony.

I want things to be what they seem.

I want my Butches to be butch, my Riches to be rich and my Nellys to be nelly.*

But let's have a little fun here. Without looking it up first, put your idea or example of irony in the comments before you look at the others (scroll down quickly). Be as elaborate as you want, some people don't think irony can be easily summed up in a few words. But please don't mock or try to correct others' definition. This is just an experiment, after all.

If you still don't understand irony, you go look it up.


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* see my definitions here



Get Alanis' CDs here:


Watch the "Ironic" video
50 Things You Oughta Know about Alanis Morrissette

Once and for all, here's what Irony means!

Too cheap to buy a blow-up sex doll? Make one (and other hand-made sex toys)
Satirical Magic the Gathering Cards 1 2 3
Lawnmower Tattoo

Mistaken Identity

If somebody stole my identity, it would suck ass, especially since I spent nearly all my life trying to be someone else.

Since I lost my ATM card, I had been pre-occupied with thoughts of identity theft. My card has been replaced since, but there were a few hours where I thought about somebody running around passing themselves off as me. I mean, it took a really, really long time to gain and then maintain the reputation of being a slut. It's distressing to think that someone would be taking advantage of this.

I have to admit though, that being an identical twin helped in gaining a slutty reputation. Since Peter and I frequent the same gay bars, it is quite natural to have a case of mistaken identity. People would see me playing tonsil-hockey with some dude and then see him dirty dancing with somebody else and think we were the same person whoring around town.

I've even had people with whom Peter is going out with get huffy with me for not saying "hi" as I passed them by. People get mad you know, when they think you've just "ignored" them, especially the ones that broke up with their boyfriends for you but haven't heard from you since. Yeah, they get pretty darn angry. That you owed them five hundred dollars was just incidental.

It does get confusing sometimes. I don't know if I don't recognize a cute stranger who comes up to me because it is Peter he knows or because I couldn't see his face while I was being gang-banged at the sex club. It's not like people introduce themselves first: "Hi, my name is Kerry, I'll be fucking your ass after this guy." It would be nice though. Actually, it would be quite charming, I could fall in love with someone like that.

Unlike other twins, Peter and I have never played the twin-switcheroo that is the plot of many a comedy film. I don't understand why anyone would do it anyway. One twin will always get screwed. Think of it: the only time you would want to be somebody else is if your life sucks. Can you imagine anybody wanting to be someone else while they are shooting their wad all over somebody's face?

I do worry about somebody buying the nomilkplease.com domain because I'm too cheap to do so. Also, I've heard that there are unscrupulous people who will steal your URL if you neglect to renew your domain registration and try to sell it back to you at a premium.

The only time I thought about changing places with my twin brother is when he got laid off a few years ago from his last company. I had gotten my U.S. citizenship then, but my brother was still a non-immigrant working under an H1-B visa.

Having an H1-B visa status meant that he could not work for any other company other than the one which sponsored him. If he did not get a new sponsor within sixty days he would have had to leave the country, leaving behind everything that he worked for. Trying to get a job in the U.S. while you were in another country is near impossible—he had to find a new sponsor.

Those two months were harrowing. He must have sent out hundreds of resumes hoping for a nibble. We had been preparing for the worst, what we would need to do if he had to leave the country; where he would store his stuff, if I had enough money to pay his mortgage or if we had to rent his place out.

I had fantasized about how we could take advantage of our being identical twins. I had thought about various scenarios of him re-entering the U.S. using my passport in order to look for a new job. I juggled thoughts of what permutation of him leaving or my entering the country would create enough confusion on his actual whereabouts.

We had even discussed a "marriage of convenience" for him with a U.S. citizen. Did we have any female friends who we could approach with such a serious request? Will any of these women be willing to have him wear their sassy clothes and high-heeled shoes?

I remember thinking that there was nothing funny in this situation that we found ourselves in. There was no laugh track or jaunty background music. There were no crazy pratfalls, no inept and bumbling INS agent skulking about or hiding in smelly, dusty closets to inject any kind of levity. There was only a quiet desperation.

Luckily, a few weeks before Peter had to leave the country, he got a new job as a financial analyst with company who was willing to sponsor him for a new H1-B visa.

I was immensely relieved. I can't even imagine what he had to go through.

I think that if we absolutely had to, I would have been willing to risk having him assume my identity just to buy him some time. Thank God we didn't have to go through such lengths.

I guess we were pretty lucky.

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What to do if you are a victim of Identity Theft
Tips to prevent Identity Theft
Watch the funny Citibank Identity Theft Commercials here

Immigration Issues that affect the GLBT Community
El Emigrante - funny Immigration game

Slut Barbie and other Barbies
So What is a Slut (and what's wrong with that)?
Slutty Sorority Girls?

Remembering 9/11 and the Twin Towers
Top 15 Secret Service Code Names for the Bush Twins
Top Ten Pieces Of Fatherly Advice From George W. Bush (to the twins)
Those Wild Bush Twins (cartoons)
Olsen Twins Turn 18
Switcheroo Zoo: Create your own animals

Comfort Food

$1.50 for a bowl of rice is insane.

Brian and I went to a local pan-asian restaurant called pingpong in our neighborhood in Chicago which has some great food. They have this amazing super spicy calamari appetizer, which is lightly breaded calamari and fried with tons of garlic, tossed with jalapeno pepper slices. I ordered the dish as my entrée, but it didn’t come with rice.

There was an intense psychological battle between my cheapness and my rice addiction on whether to pay a buck-fifty for that small bowl of rice or not. It’s like having a drag queen choose between a sequined gown or a rhinestone tiara: a real moral challenge. I mean, in a regular restaurant they give you all the bread you want to eat! It's racism I tell you!

A 25 pound sack of rice costs about $15 at an Asian store and I can probably make more than 500 cups of cooked rice with it. They also have a 50 pound sack, twice the size, for only $5 more. I would have bought it but Brian refused to help me carry it to the car. I’ll have to remember this about him in case I have to bury a dead body.

I don’t know why I have to have rice when I have a meal. I’ll eat it for breakfast, lunch, dessert.

When I was younger, if I was ill or feeling poorly, my mother would often make lugaw (which the Chinese call congee), a sort of rice soup, much like other mothers make chicken broth for their sick kids. When you’re sick, lugaw is bland enough not to overwhelm you. My mother would top it with some pork fu, a condiment made from dried, shredded pork to add a bit of flavor.

Actually, I always thought pork fu looked like dried hairy boogers, which to a kid, made it more fun to eat. I imagined that some old Chinese man picked his nose all day to fill up the bag it came in. However, the first thing that came to my mind when I saw this photo is that it looks like a cow’s pubic hair. Yum.

Some Sunday mornings, I would head towards Chinatown with some friends for dim sum at a restaurant called Phoenix. Here, Asian women in white cotton cheongsam-style blouses and black pants push around dim sum carts, calling out the names of the little dishes they carry in Cantonese or Mandarin amidst the din of patrons chattering in various foreign languages. Dim sum is like Chinese tapas: little dishes in bamboo steamers like beef tripe, pork spareribs or braised chicken feet—Fear Factor for the uninitiated maybe, but a real treat for me.

The carts meander around the restaurant like leaves flowing down a stream, stopping by each table to let diners pick out their favorite dish. You could probably order what you want to eat from a menu but it is more fun this way. I mean, you can have sex with your boyfriend--but isn't it more fun to take his Visa card out shopping first? The orgasms are much more intense that way.

I got excited when the lady with the congee cart came by. Here, the congee came with diced chicken and bits of century egg. She didn’t speak any English but she saw what I wanted. She smiled as she ladled the steaming congee into a bowl in front of me and topped it with fresh green onions.

I looked into her face. Her gray hair was pulled into a tight bun, little beads of sweat dotted her forehead from the steaming soup. The smile deepened the grooves on her wizened cheeks and the wrinkles around her eyes. In that smile, I saw a trace of my mother.

Then she was gone.

I ate my congee, my lugaw. The warmth in my belly comforted me.

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Recipe for Congee with Chicken and Century Egg
Why I Love Chicken Feet
More Dim Sum
I don't speak Engrish

Kid Fear Factor: so cute
Fear Factor? Crusty Booger Balls and other gross recipes
(includes the Kitty Litter Cake recipe Pua sent me)

#762 Yo Mama's nose so big, you can go bowling with her boogers (and other Yo Mama jokes)

Implicit

(c) 2004 The New Yorker

I Lost My ATM Card

Have you ever lost your ATM card? Took your money, the receipt and forget the card altogether? That just happened to me.

I opened my wallet and couldn't find the card in its usual slot. In a panic, I go through my wallet, practically turning it inside out. Still not finding it, I wondered if I dropped it somewhere. Shit, shit, it could be anywhere. Helpless, I did what anybody else would do: I went through my wallet again to see if it would magically re-appear.

Weird isn't it? When nothing makes sense, we would consider the supernatural, so-called elixirs or pyramid schemes before accepting the harsh reality. I mean, I used Rogaine for months before accepting that I didn't need a full head of hair to get laid—slipping a roofie in their drink did just fine.

No magic happened, my card is still missing.

I don't understand why ATM machines cannot spit your card out first before the money so you won't forget it. It's backwards, like getting married before having sex with your wife's best friend.

Normally, I don't even use cash for anything anymore. It's much, much more convenient to shoplift. Yeah, I know. I really shouldn't steal because it is so damn hard to return stuff without a receipt these days. I hate store credit, don't you? Hey, if I wanted your crap, I wouldn't return it so just hand over your money already.

One thing I really worried about when I lost the card was that somebody would try to use it as a debit card. Anybody can use your card! Nobody checks the signature on the back anymore. I know, because the signature on mine says 'fuck you, whore' in nice cursive writing and nobody has ever called me on it.

When I have to, I prefer to use my credit card, so I can keep track of all my expenses. It's nice to see where all the money goes so that I can tell the bill collector where to go find it. I can even print out a little report for him to use.

If I didn't have the Internet, I don't know if I would have been able to get the 800 number to call to report my card missing. I suppose the number would have been in an old bank statement, but I tend to throw out any correspondence that have the words PAST DUE NOW, OVERDRAWN or WE WILL HUNT YOU DOWN AND KILL YOU IF YOU DON'T PAY US in big red letters. Boy, don't they know that red is such an unfriendly color? They should have used a happier shade like pink, don'cha think?

Of course the first question from the automated menu was please enter your card number now. Bitch, if I had my card number, I wouldn't be calling you, I'd be calling 1-900-HOT-GUYS to see if I can hook up with somebody who can help me figure out if plaid is back in.

Unlike some people, I like the automated phone menus. I really dislike talking to customer service reps. They are unhappy people and I can't say I blame them. Talking to morons, I mean 'customers,' all day can do a number on you. I mean, all that false cheeriness.

Speaking of numbers, have you ever had the urge to do "number two" in the middle of a customer service call? I had called to order DSL and the whole process took like, seriously, an hour. Thirty minutes into the call, I felt the pressing need to go poo but I didn't want to hang up and start the process all over again. You know, there is a certain satisfaction of finally being able to go potty after holding it and knowing you are going to have high-speed Internet. Anyway, I digress.

They are sending me a new card in seven to ten business days. In the meantime, I have to make the seventeen dollars I have in my wallet last that long. I wonder if I'll make it?

Once, I was able to last almost three days without any cash in my wallet. It took austerity, self-control and my jar of pennies, but I did it. It made me feel very zen-like and Asian using those pennies to pay the cab driver or for a burger at McDonald's.

I felt like I was able to resist the whole concept of money and capitalism. Or at least until the store detective caught me.


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Before Rogaine: Early experiments in hair regrowth

The Dewey Color System
Are you Color Blind?
Color Quizzes: 1 2 3 4 5 (so many!)

Cutesy ATM messages in Shinjuku, Japan
Be careful of rigged ATMs!
What to do if you lose your Credit/Debit card
ATM lures gambler to win lost money back rather than walk away

My rants about being gay and asian
All Asians look the same? Here's the straight dope.
Random Zen koans

Medúlla

Bjork must be very, very brave or very, very crazy.

I tend to lean towards the former while others, including my boyfriend Brian, think she's just nuts*. We have a framed poster of the cover of Homogenic with Bjork in futuristic geisha garb hanging in our living room. Brian thinks of it as the Halloween decoration that never got taken down, occasionally making noises about how it would be great campfire fodder. Hah! The smoke from the laminated paper will make the marshmallows taste funny.

At a party, my friend Randy H. and I heatedly discussed Bjork's career. Bjork appealed to him in her pop/dance Debut but quickly lost him when she started taking an entire minute to sing one word. I thought that Bjork gained depth as an artist as she followed her own muse. Granted, as with other great artists, there is a tendency to overshoot the mark and risk alienating their audience. Some critics may say that these days, only aliens would listen to her music and I don't think they mean people from New York City.

I think that the 'crazy' Bjork image comes from two incidents: one, when she wore a dress that looked like a swan's carcass draped on her to the 2001 Academy Awards; the other, when she slugged a female TV reporter in a Thai airport for shoving a microphone in her son's face. At least Bjork didn't call her son 'blanket.'

Well, Randy is not going to like Medúlla, Bjork’s new CD. The title refers to the 'inner part of an animal or plant structure or the lower part of the human brain'. The album's concept is to use only human voices as accompaniment, fusing choral music, Icelandic hymns and a human beatbox together with the singer's own quirky vocal style. There is only the barest instrumentation, a few tinkles of the piano, a low rumble of a synth sprinkled in a couple of songs.

The epic "Oceania", which the singer debuted at the 2004 Olympic opening ceremonies, stands out with its sweeping vocals and dramatic themes. I have been playing this song over and over. I already do a great impression of this song which I spring on Brian randomly, like, just as he emerges from the shower:

Wahn breath ah-way...from Mother Oceeeaaaannniiiiiaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa...!

The other song I really like is Bjork's interpretation of poet e. e. cumming's "it may not always be so;and i say" (Sonnets/Unrealities XI). e. e. cummings is known for his avant-garde approach to poetry, his literary acrobatics and the peculiar way he lays the words on the page. I think they are well suited together. This is not their first 'collaboration.' In Vespertine, she tackles another poem "i will wade out" in the song "Sun in My Mouth." I think if the poet were still alive, he might have worked with her. Or hit her on the head with a stick.

There are many words to describe the album: ethereal, primitive, atmospheric, all of which means that the record is going to sell like, ten copies. Outside of a Bjork CD release party, it will probably be heard only in an upscale gay couple's all-white minimalist home.

Don't get me wrong, I enjoyed the album and appreciate the ambition and artistic statement that Bjork is making. She has made an album that appeals to the intellect. I loved the songs when they worked and can see what she was going for in the songs I didn't particularly care for.

On a purely superficial level though, I think that the CD is pretty much really just a bunch of bullshit.


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* Wouldn't it be wonderful if Bjork was in a remake of the Barbra Streisand film "Nuts"?

The Official Bjork Website: fantastic content!
Another picture of the infamous swan dress
Salon.com weighs in on Bjork.
A remix of Bjork's "Oceania" featuring Kelis can be DL'd at this message board
Watch the video directed by Lynn Fox

e.e. cummings poetry: here and here
Human Beatbox Community
Amusing human beatbox video (6 mins)

"My Name is Blanket" by Blanket Jackson
Play with Blanket: Baby Bounce game and Baby Drop game

Mr. Privacy

Why is it that when you put on a hospital gown, you look sickly and frail? I think it's because it is missing the little tag that has "Calvin Klein" on it.

One minute I'm a hip and stylin' motherfucker, the next, I am tentative and insecure, wearing a flimsy, faded aquamarine hospital gown tied haphazardly together. I mean, does anybody know which way a hospital gown is supposed to go on? Does it go on backwards, like a straight-jacket or forward, like a shirt? And how are you supposed to keep it together when the goddamn ties randomly hang from odd places?

I guess a hospital gown is designed for easy access. I'm surprised that no one's thought of including it in their Spring Collection. I can see Donatella Versace accessorizing one with chandelier earrings, a coordinating sash and stilleto heels. Yikes.

When I was at the hospital, it seemed that patients lost all sense of modesty. I saw flesh carelessly exposed, no attempt made to cover up hair or hide. I felt pretty much the same way. When you have strangers randomly touching you, taking your temperature, sticking you with needles, it’s hard to hold on to modesty. How could you? Besides, peeing into a bedpan has got to be the most undignified thing in the world, except maybe for being Carrot Top's mom.

I remember that when the time came to take the catheter off my dick, I pulled up my gown and let the nurse pull it out as if exposing my genitals was a commonplace occurrence--usually I only exposed myself to children.* She pulled the tube out of my dick quite Zorro-like--with one quick snap.

For the uninitiated, a catheter is a ¼" thick tube attached to a urine collection bag which is inserted eight inches into your penis through the urethra. Yes, I was flabbergasted too. I thought I was at least twelve inches long.

Last week, I went back for some follow-up tests. The doctors were not able to determine what caused the bowel obstruction in my intestines. That's probably because I refused to let them use scopes to poke through my ass when their dicks could have served nicely.

The nurse handed me a folded gown, soft, like your favorite bed sheets and nudged me gently towards the locker room. There was another guy, quite cute really, looking like a swarthier Colin Farrell who was in the locker room with me. We smiled nervously at each other as we emerged from the little changing stalls. We looked ridiculous in our gowns with dress shoes and dark socks hanging loosely around the ankles.

Already our inhibitions were leaving us. He didn't care that his gown allowed a small peek of his tight, hairy buns as he walked out ahead of me. I didn't care that the thin cloth at the lower region of my gown was starting to reveal my 'true feelings' for him.

The next hour I spent being herded from one x-ray room to another. I shuffled behind each nurse, mind devoid of thought. If I'd let myself think about my situation, I would have been scared of why I was there in the first place. That we were looking for what Ah-nuld the Governator called a 'toomah'.

Shit. I can't even say it seriously. A tumor. No, that's too scary, too real. It's not a toomah, not a toomah, not a toomah...

At some point, after they had completed all the tests, I was sent back to the locker room. Colin Farrell was there too. Like me, he looked exhausted even though we had not been tasked to do anything more taxing than lie still on a cold metal slab or hold our breath as controlled bursts of x-rays filtered through our rigid frames. We silently put our clothes back on. This time, we did not meet each other's eyes.

Yesterday, I got a call from my doctor. The results show that there is no evidence of anything unusual. No tumors. No cancer. He was issuing me a clean bill of health. I breathed a sigh of relief. It was hard pretending I was not worried. I was in-between botox shots.

In retrospect, privacy--physical modesty--is something that I shed so quickly in the face of fear. I don't know what to think about that. It's like somehow I became a slab of beef with all the dignity of one, pushed and prodded, devoid of personality.

It's a scary thought.

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* calm down, I was JUST KIDDING.


Read about my stay at the hospital:

Part 1: This Is How It Happens Part 2: Emergency Room

Part 3: Misery Part 4: Discharged!

Hospital Gift Shop
Shiny Happy People in designer hospital gowns
More Hide: Gratuitous Tattooed Butt Shot
More Colin Farrell here and here

Mr and Mrs Carrot Top
We Love Ah-nuld!
Bodybuilder, Actor and Politician Arnold quotes

The Dive from Clausen's Pier

What if, just as you realize that you are no longer in love with your fiancé, he gets into an accident which renders him a quadriplegic. Would you still marry him?

That’s the plot, as one of the characters says in the novel The Dive from Clausen’s Pier by Ann Packer, but not the story.

Carrie Bell, a young woman in her twenties, has never left her small hometown of Madison, Wisconsin and has been with the same boyfriend since she was in her teens. When the boyfriend, now her fiancé, dives off the titular pier and ends up paralyzed from the neck down, I thought the rest of the novel would be about how Carrie would handle the terrible position she found herself in. Would she sacrifice her happiness for the sake of 'doing the right thing'? Can she abandon this man who still loved her in his hour of need?

When I was laid up in the hospital, I was hooked up to various tubes which in effect, rendered me immobile. I could not get out of my hospital bed without having the nurse unhook me from various machines.

In those four days, with no cable TV, I was bored out of my mind from the lack of stimuli. I never realized before how quickly boredom sets in without access to porn. My porn collection, my right hand and I had a joyful reunion as soon as I got home. Brian was my fluffer.

I was thankful that I was only there for only a few days. But in those hours of boredom I wondered what I would do if I had to be confined to a hospital for the rest of my life. I don’t know, but I had some pretty morbid thoughts while I was there. I thought about having cancer, being on life support, Cher finally ending her Farewell Tour, now in its fifth year.

The idea that I had loved ones who would take care of me was both comforting and disturbing. Even in only four days of being in the hospital, I appreciated having Brian see to my needs. Just re-arranging my hospital gown was difficult. My feather boa kept getting in the way. Those were beautiful summer days that he gave up, spending it inside a sterile, white hospital room. I don’t know if I would want him to give up a 'normal' life for me if I were paralyzed and be a burden. Would you?

When I started reading this book, I just vaguely knew it was on some TV book club. I bought it because I read the first paragraph of the book and it appealed to me. That’s pretty much how I pick books. A strong writer hooks you in from the first line. If you can’t bring a reader into your world within the first paragraph, it will be an arduous task with each succeeding one.

Ann Packer created many compelling characters whom I think you will enjoy meeting. The author thankfully avoids being a literary version of a Lifetime Movie and keeps the story moving along at a good pace. I was continually surprised at the events that unfolded in the novel. The story had so many twists that it kept me engrossed and on the edge of my seat.

I liked this book a lot. If you read it, let me know what you think.


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Other books in my bookshelf

Birthday Nookie

I just gave my boyfriend Brian his birthday nookie.

On this day of the year, I give him permission to defile my body any way he wants to. I'm like an all-you-can-eat buffet. I'll eat him out too, if he wants.

These are the days in a year where one in a long term relationship can have guaranteed nookie:

His Birthday
Your Birthday
Christmas Eve/Day
Valentine’s Day

The following are the days where one has a strong possibility of getting nookie, but may be trumped by extenuating circumstances:

New Year’s Eve, if you're not too drunk
New Year’s Day, if you're not too hung over
Sweetest Day, if you remember when it is
His Mother’s Birthday, if she’s not staying over

Christianity is probably the only religion that allows sex on religious holidays. I don’t think Jews or Muslims can have sex on Yom Kippur or Ramadan, can they? On the other hand, Christmas, Easter, St. Patrick’s Day are fair game for Christians. Anyway, the way some couples make love, it’s like a prayer: "Oh God. Oh God. Here I come. OH MY GOD!" or "jeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeesus-god!"

However, all bets are off if you have any kids over the age of one. Think about how many years there were between you and your next sibling—that's how long your parents had to wait before they were able to have sex again.

Being in a relationship is great, you can have sex any time you want, as long as you’re good at emotional blackmail. It’s better than being single, there’s a lot less humiliation involved—unless you’re into sadomasochism, then there's probably a lot.

When you’re single, you forget what it’s like to be in a relationship. You long to be back in one. But relationships are really quite unnatural, if you think about it. Mother Nature wants you to have as many sexual partners as possible in order to increase your chances to reproduce. Being in a relationship produces quite the opposite effect, so it's no wonder relationships are hard to maintain. We're not supposed to be in them.

So for homosexuals, since we are not able to reproduce, wouldn't it be the most natural thing for us to have long term relationships and get married? Marriage after all, leads to the decline of all sexual activity. Think about that you anti-gay marriage freaks.

I will take my leave while you ponder that.

I have to go and rinse out my mouth. It smells like dick.

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some adult novelty cakes
If you have dick breath, get these.

Somebody's term paper on the "Like a Prayer" video
Like a Prayer: God and the Constitution
The updated serenity prayer and The Lord's Prayer
When married couples pray...