118: Brotherhood!

This just spoke to me. (via Transbuddha)

Three words: Men, Wieners, Hot.

Check it out.

117: My Two Cents

So, I'll assume, even though I'm going to make an "ass" out of "u" and "me," (har-har-har, NOT FUNNY), most of you, this weekend, have seen at least Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, and perhaps Rent, too. If you haven't seen either, or both, then I'd advise you to "Hit the Road, Jack."

Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire

Was it too long or too short? A dear friend of mine opined that the visually magnificient movie was too long, which to me suggests that she perhaps found the plot progression positively plodding. Well, my esteemed colleague, who by the way isn't a true Potterhead, is absolutely and resoundingly delusional. And I surmise if she were to be jumped by goodness, with goodness slapping her across the face yelling, "wake the fuck up, I'm Good, I'm Good, damn it," she'd still stingily keep the lights in her head switched off. In other words, she be trippin' y'all! (I tease.)

Granted the fourth book, known for its complexity with many subplots strewed throughout the story, is rather difficult to translate into film and certain omissions are a necessity. Nonetheless, I missed the little details of story.

What happened with Winkie being found stupified with Harry's wand in her hand at the Quidditch World Cup? How about Hagrid being spurned by Madame Maxime when he tries to confirm her giant heritage? Rita Skeeter finding out Hagrid is a half giant? Hermione discovering Rita Skeeter is an unregistered animagus? And what about the spat and the fall out between Dumbledore and the Minister for Magic that followed right after Barty Crouch Jr. had been snuffed by the Dementors? Oh, and not to mention, changing Harry's dream? Barty Crouch Jr. was never in it!

Sure, I'll echo with the fans around the world praising Mike Newell's superb endeavor. In fact, I'd go so far as to call for a fatwa, calling on the fanatics to assassinate any persons or groups who dared to speak disparagingly of the cinematic master piece that is The Goblet and of the man who helmed the project, Mike Newell. (Wait! Did I just call for my own assassination as well with the slight display of discontent? No matter), but my anal side really wanted, desired, longed after those little details... Sigh.

Anyways, Ralph Fiennes! Oh my Lord, he's just like the Dark Lord of my imagination. He rocks!

And people, how fucking hot was Krum?! Enough said.

So overall, The Goblet is a must see movie.

***

Rent

If you own the original Broadway cast recording and heard it over a gazillions of times as I have, I advise you to turn off that portion of your brain and let the movie tell its own version of the story to you; try to see it with a fresh set of eyes. And ignore the disjointed story telling in the last third of the movie. You know what though, even in the stage production, the second act is a little...disorderly. I guess the question Chris Columbus had to grapple with was: should the purity of the book Jonathan Larson wrote be left intact, or for the sake of story telling, should it be dramatically altered? Chris Columbus chose the middle road. Good effort though.

But you know, I love Rent. I nitpick, because I'm so attached to this musical. The pull it has on me won't ever change. I laughed and cried. Then I laughed some more and cried some more.

Go see it, peeps!

UPDATE

Posted (11/26/05 11:40 PM):

105: But Then There Were Fireworks...

Have I gone overboard by letting vanity reign over me?

***

Posted (11/06/05 7:58 PM):

093: A Tale of Two Weddings

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times...

116: Can I Offer You...

Another Googlism?

Since Thanksgiving has come and gone and Christmas, a season when we can freely express our desires for material goods, is just around the corner, I figured a googlism of "Jake desires..." would be more than apropos.

So here are some of what I supposedly desire and I've found...interesting, in no particular order.

1. Jake's desire to be taken care of is a sign of the larger problem he has: not taking responsibility for his response to the painful feelings... (Um, excuse me?)
2. Jake desires Sydney and decides he wants her and will do what ever it takes to get her, where he wants her; in his bed. Jakes has never desired a woman... (Um, but... yet I desire Sydney?)
3. Natalie and Jake hop into bed thinking their mutual desire is the result of... (Um, no! There's no attraction from my side.)
4. Elliott suggests that Jake desires to penetrate women. (Um, what?! Ew, ew, ew!)
5. Brett desires Jake but cannot commit as a result of Jake's impotence. (A LIE! I don't care if Brett desires me, but NO, I AIN'T! My masculinity has been challenged! What shall I do? What shall I do?)

Um, by the way, Hemmingway sucks for writing "The Sun Also Rises." Never read it, but because of #4 and #5, never will.

115: T-minus 24 Hours

Tomorrow...

At 7:10 PM...

At this address: 1998 Broadway, New York, NY 10023...

I shall sit enraptured in stillness...

And my soul shall sing alongside them...

In unison...

There's Only Now
There's Only Here
Give In To Love
Or Live In Fear
No Other Path
No Other Way

No Day But Today

Wanna join me?

Addendum (11/23/2005 12:13 AM): You know, I've just realized that, when I first saw Rent on Broadway, it was in 1998. 1998! Like the address. 1998 Broadway. Okay, now, I'm obsessing.

114: Rain Drops on Roses...

Keener eyes may have noticed a slight change to this humble blog of mine. But don't fret if you haven't noticed, just get your eyes checked out by a professional. It may do you some good in the long run.

Unnecessary ascerbity aside, a while back, if you remember, I've made a small request for participation, which by the way went a little, abruptly reeled back, crashing into a wall, causing it to implode into sweet nothingness. Mind you, I don't...mind. Not one bit; no... Surely as the days are long... Wait, that's only true now in the Southern Hemisphere. Well, forget it. It's neither here nor there.

Well, cliches aside, if you take a look at the side panel, I've included a new category, "It's Just Me." There you will find some entries I'm particularly fond of, because they showcase a little bit of my reality as to who I am. I'll be most likely updating it as time goes by.

By the way, who else is as excited, entralled, ecstatic as I am about the soon to be coming to a theater near you Rent, the motion picture?! Yeah! And who else is as depressed, despondent, distressed as I am about Thanksgiving?! Sigh.

That is all. Carry on.

113: "To Do" Tomorrow's Schedule (shejool)

06:30 AM: Wake up to my cell phone alarm clock ringing the tune, Rodetzky.
06:31 AM: Turn off the alarm, go back to sleep.
07:00 AM: Wake up to my cell phone alarm clock ringing the tune, Ode to Joy.
07:01 AM: Curse my lot for being a drone who works a 9 to whenever-my-boss-thinks-it's-appropriate-for-me-to-leave-for-the-night job, and get my ass up.
07:05 AM: Begin my morning ritual.
07:45 AM: Snuggle in the iPod earphones, turn the iPod on, "Do a little dance, get down tonight," and storm out of the apartment.
07:50 AM: Fight off small, obnoxious, Asian ladies who push and elbow their way through the sliding Subway door; avoid getting knocked over by the said vicious ladies clawing over each other to get seats.
07:55 AM: Take out "Wicked" and transport myself to Oz. Blank out the streaming thoughts of my many various ways of dying.
08:28 AM: Arrive. Climb up the stairs and head straight into the deli. Get a bagel with cream cheese.
08:40 AM: Arrive at work. Get coffee from the kitchen. Eat! Must nourish myself if I want to survive the day.
09:03 AM: Make a "solid" offering to the porcelain God.
09:10 AM: Start going down my work "To Do" list. Then every 10 minutes ask, "why am I here?"
11:00 AMish: Take my first cigarette break with a coworker. Listen to him bitch; keep myself from poking my eyes out with the burning end of the fag.
01:00 PMish: Grab something from the deli. Bring it back to the office, while moaning the lot I have corner myself into. Oh, if I find an opening from doing work, contemplate replying back to the comments left on my blog or to the e-mails I've received from the readers.
01:10 PM: Start formulating plans of my fabulous deaths to rehash during my morning commute tomorrow.
02:30 PMish: Take my second let's-get-lung-cancer hiatus.
02:40 PM: Start formulating plans to eliminate the people who are giving me grief with work.
04:30 PMish: Take my last drag of the day.
05:00 PM: (HOPEFULLY) Jump out the window or take the elevator down to a temporary reprieve.
05:20 PM: Meet my friends to get opera tickets. We're going to enjoy a night of La Boheme.
05:45 PM: Walk around with said friends debating where to have dinner, and have the following conversation:

Me: So, where are we going for dinner?
Her: Zagat says so-and-so place is good.
Me: Okay, let's go.
Him: Yeah.
Her: Um, it's kinda pricey, though.
Me: Okay, whatever.
Her: Oh, I hear this place is good, too. (Him and Her walk over to the display menu.)
Him: Hmm...
Her: Hmm...
Me: So?
Him: Oh, you know what? The so-and-so place up at so-and-so street is good. It's not too expensive, either.
Me: Okay. How far is it?
Him: It's a few blocks up.
Me: Oh. Hmm... Fine, fine, let's go.
Her: You know, Zagat says so-and-so restaurant isn't too expensive, and it's only one block away from here.
Him: Um, yeah, why not?!
Her: But it's the other way. Let's just go to the other place.
Him: No, no, no.
Me: So, where are we going for dinner?

(Repeat from the top.)

07:15 PM: Head over to the Met. Enjoy the opera. Let the music soothe the weary day away. Be thankful to have friends. Be thankful to share moments with people who, in some small way, give a damn about you.
10:30 PM: Head underground. Get myself home for a good night's sleep. If that's possible.
12:00 AM: Vegetate for an hour or go straight to bed.

Addendum (11/16/05 11:10 PM): The day went exactly as scheduled. Well, not exactly, but pretty damn close.

112: I'm Not That Boy

Hands touch, eyes meet
Sudden silence, sudden heat
Hearts leap in a giddy whirl
He could be that boy...

Can you miss something you've never had? You see, I've never been in a "relationship," period. It's, therefore, a mystery, in some degree, the feelings one has, when he first realizes he's in love; when he wants to commit; when, after many years sharing a life with his beloved, he can sit in silence, together, in perfection and imperfection, complete and whole, comfortable, familiar, cozy ... in love. Granted, I've idealize the concept of being in a relationship, but I've never denied the ugly, as most people would say, that comes with commitment. Yet I'm a helpless soul: I have to romanticize the good and the bad... to think how wonderful it would be for your heart and mind to say, "I am yours, you are mine. You will matter to me as I, to you; your life will have a meaning through me as mine, through you."

Foolishness? Perhaps, yes.

Don't dream too far
Don't lose sight of who you are
Don't remember that rush of joy
He could be that boy...

Ev'ry so often we long to steal
To the land of what-might-have-been
But that doesn't soften the ache we feel
When reality sets back in

My insecurity, of which its etiology and pathology are evident as a blue lagoon is clear, paralyzes me, prevents any real action from my part... and most nights I find myself in a dark room, pathetic and sad, alone.

Fuck, I sound like a broken record.

Blithe smile, lithe limb
She who's winsome, she wins him
Gold hair with a gentle curl
That's the girl he chose
And Heaven knows
I'm not that girl:

No, I'm not that boy.

Whoever you are... You were so vivid, you were so real. Yes, I dreamed about you. Not about the sweeping broadstrokes of romance and passion we'd share: no, there wasn't a gondola ride in Venice; there wasn't a sweaty romp in a gold gilded four poster bed. Yes, I dreamed about you. It was in a simple kiss goodbye as we each took off to work; it was in a rainy Sunday morning spent lazily in bed reading the New York Times and sipping coffee. It was in a pile of tissues I've collected: see, you had caught a cold, which made you blow your ever reddening, a faucet of a nose, but you were a tissue using machine and you wouldn't stay put, so naturally there were trails and piles of tissues here and there, which of course I had to pick up after, making even my temperature rise somewhat. It was also in a hug: I was chopping an onion with tears running down my cheek; you've heard me sniffle, and not knowing what I was doing, you were naturally concerned; your instinct was to rush over to where I was and give me the most comforting hug only you know how to give, and you whispered in my ear, "what's wrong?" rocking me, soothing me. It was in the fine prints where I found you. Whoever you are...

Don't wish, don't start
Wishing only wounds the heart
I wasn't born for the rose and the pearl
There's a girl I know
He loves her so
I'm not that girl:

But no, I'm not that boy. I wasn't born for the rose and the pearl. I'm not that boy.

(The lyric is from Wicked: I'm Not That Girl.)

111: Participation?

We interrupt your regularly scheduled program to... Bzzz Bzzz Bzzz

Well, dear readers, yet again I find myself KNACKERED. So, I figured I'd do something different. I'm going to solicit your, yes, my dear readers, your participation.

I'm doing this, even though my insecurity, from the rooftop, cries out, "Are you nuts? You're not JoeMyGod! Who's going to answer your call?!" (By the way, did you like the self-pity, I'm-no-Mister-Popular card I played to get your sympathy to participate?)

Anyways, most of you, I conjecture, are bloggers; as such, I'm going to state the obvious here, we write. And I'm sure we have at least one blog entry we are very proud of. Why not share it with everyone and let all of us know why you are most proud of it? So, I beg your indulgence, leave me a comment, or an e-mail (hyphenatednonidentity AT gmail DOT com), with the link to your most proud post and divulge your secret as to why you think it so.

Addendum (11/12/05 10:49 PM): My brilliant idea, as it seems, has backfired. Oh, well. (Picking myself up.) I move on.

110: Life & Beauty, Part 1

Bud Greenspan narrates on TV, his stoic delivery drowning out the quiet; the modern day fire flickers safely inside the tube, its artificial glow veiling the dark—in a familiar ambience of my room, nestled in bed with the Powerbook, I decompress a long, hard day. Rising and falling, my chest steadily moves; clicking and scrolling, my hand playfully flits the mouse; yearning and starving, my eyes greedily devour their every word. In spite of myself, my mind then plays a movie where I am the main character they write about, the hero in a thrilling misadventure, the lead in a passionate love affair. Or when modesty asserts itself, I am, at the very least, an extra—insignificant; yet enthralled that he, he has shared the silver screen, even if for briefly, with them, partaken in the revelry of their circle, however much peripherally relegated he has been: glad, happy, joyful, nonetheless, I'd be; and all the more grateful.

Oh, Life of Longing.

Also known as BlogCrushes.

Continues on here.

109: Arghhh!!!

Tired, weary, exhausted, fatigued, and tuckered; yes, this is my current state, which I have my work to graciously thank.

So, I'm gonna keep this post very short. Besides, my muses, those fickle bitches, abandoned me, left me to rot, I tell you, in the desert that is my mind, now void of creativity and imagination. Therefore, please accept my apologies, and I shall leave you with something trite: an alternate version of googlism, where I type in "Jake needs" in google to see what comes up.

1. Jake needs financial backing.
2. Jake needs to make changes.
3. Jake, a young adult Vizsla (Hungarian Pointer), is in need of a loving home, preferrable with a backyard or someone who spends a lot of time outdoors
4. Jake needs to jack it up.
5. Maybe Jake needs a vacation.
6. Jake needs red.
7. Jake needs someone to love him.
8. Jake needs more back-story.
9. I think Jake needs the extra large size.
10. Jake needs two pints of milk for a cake.

How uncanny! Google knows what I need so well.

So beauty people, 'tis all from me tonight. Besides I venture out to Chicago as work demands, bright still dark and early, extremely early, tomorrow morn.

Arghhh!!!

108: I Wanna Dance

I have to do some shaking of the booty in the very near future, or I'm gonna...hmm? I wonder, what is gonna happen to me?

Segueing: Check this video out. (via Transbuddha)

On my birthday, after I posted this lyric and song from a Japanese group that j'aime beaucoup, I went out, and there was definitely some booty shaking going on. Now, I've the itch. More intense. Any suggestions? Bueller, Bueller?

Useless fact: m-flo was a three-member group: Lisa, the sultry lead vocalist; Verbal, the front man rapper; and Taku, the genius behind the sound of m-flo. About 2-3 years ago, Lisa left the group to seek a solo career, leaving me devastated. Now, m-flo is just Taku and Verbal. But, they've teamed up with various solo artists and produced singles like the one you just saw. The girl isn't Lisa, by the way. She's BoA, a pop diva who's big, also, in Korea, because, well, she's Korean and started her career there. More useless fact: Lisa is biracial, one of her parents is Japanese and the other is Colombian. Verbal is a zainichi Korean. Taku is...he's just Japanese.

Hmm... I wonder if I have a point to this post?

You see, on one of many nights spent at home watching TV in Japan, I saw a documentary about m-flo. Even with my limited Japanese abilities, I had enough sensibility to intuit what each member shared about who they are. Hey, it's the N (iNtuition) and F (Feeling) of my Myers-Briggs personality type. And what they said made me love them more than I already did. My heartstring was tugged the most by Lisa; and I concede that perhaps I've projected my own experiences on her; but while she spoke of her childhood, running down across her cheeks were hot, burning tears, bearing the secrets only a hardship of being different from the rest can bring. Lisa's sin was the same as Elphaba's. I admire that Lisa, who I'm sure wanted to be a wallflower growing up, unnoticed for being a biracial kid, decided to stand tall and proud, and get noticed for her talents, her passions, her achievements.

But again, I've strayed from what I first intended to talk about, which is I wanna dance.

Seriously, I need to dance.

Whatever!

Let's watch some kids who know what's what. Check this and this out!

107: Reading Too Much Into Nothing

If you are a couch potato like me, and lately I have been one to my utter detriment, you may have come across an unexceptional commercial for Chex cereal.

Let me set it up for you.

The premise, I think, and I'm happy to be wrong, is that it's a huge deal that somehow, by miracle of all miracles, children and their parents came to an agreement on what children should eat, Chex cereal.

The location: the front steps of some legislative building. Clever that, because, you know, parents and kids are political adversaries.

The time: late morning or early afternoon. Clear blue sky all around.

The action: The kids are coming down the steps to an eagarly waiting news media idiots. The new conference commences with the awestruck journalists posing to the kids the cereal's selling points in a question form: "Did you know that the cereals are made from whole grains? Yet still you like it?" etc... The confused kids reply back, "I don't know, we just like it." It's a yawn inducing display of wholesomeness and America-the-beautiful.

The subtle racism: (I know I'm reading way too much into this, and I wouldn't really say the commercial contain any real hateful bigotry or racism, but I'm just saying it, for the effects, for dramatic purposes.) The cast of kids are very "we are the world;" you have your whites, a black, and even a yellow. I don't think I saw a brown or a red. But anyway, General Mills is trying to be very multicultural; obviously they want to attract and send a positive message of the company to their diverse American consumers. But you know what, it was very poorly executed. It was poor because they played up to stereotypes. What was the deal with the Asian girl holding the rice Chex cereal box? Was it because Asians eat rice as we are known to do? By the way, the white kid was holding a wheat box. You know, since Europeans' main grain staple is wheat. And I think they decided to give the corn box to the black boy, because they couldn't find a Mexican child cute enough. Who know? As I've said, I might be reading too much into nothing, but I really don't like seeing stereotypes perpetuated, however innocuous they may seem.

That is all.

106: Simple Pleasures

After a separation that lasted two days, I was reunited, today, with my iPod. It made me happy.

I've been obsessively repeating in my head this one line from a song: "One more itch, You son of a bitch." It made me happy.

Tons of blog post ideas are percolating in my head. It's making me happy. But I just don't seem to have time or the energy to write them down. It's making me sad.

Don't worry, though, I've just heard Martha Stewart say, "You made something really, really un-beautiful." I'm chortling. Oh my Lord. That made me happy.

I'm gonna go beddy-bye, now.

Addendum (10:09pm): I've a question. What's the deal with Korean being spoken in TV shows (just now in "Law and Order") these days? Are my people finally being represented? Hmm... I'm happy.

105: But Then There Were Fireworks...

Have I gone overboard by letting vanity reign over me?

You see, I've gone on my own version of the Tet Offensive, not to drive out the "American Imperialists," but to drive out the reds! Yes, I've engaged a full head-on assault to rid forever the red scar-inducing pimple-landmines. The battleground is my face and neck. The weapon of choice is Isotretinoin, commonly known as Accutane. Well, let's pause for a moment here and see what Roche Pharmaceuticals has to say:

Some patients have become depressed or developed other serious mental problems while they were taking Accutane or shortly after stopping Accutane. It is not known if Accutane caused these problems. Some signs of depression include sad, "anxious" or empty mood, loss of pleasure or interest in social or sports activities, sleeping too much or too little, changes in weight or appetite, school or work performance going down, or trouble concentrating. Some patients taking Accutane have had thoughts of ending their own lives (suicidal thoughts). Some people have tried to end their own lives (attempted suicide) and some people have ended their own lives (committed suicide). No one knows if Accutane caused these behaviors.

The thing is, lately, I've been moody. Very moody. I'd oscillate from being cheerful, wanting to be active, social, etc., to being downcast, wanting solitude, sleep, etc. And today was no exception! But worse!

The morning was fair enough. I woke up feeling somewhat replenished and ready to go. But the work day sure did an excellent job bitch-slapping, groin-kicking, head-mashing, and plain diarrhea-smearing the fragile glow of the morning. You see people, my work today involved me being in a day long meeting, listening to a consultant drone on and on, with thoughts, of jamming a pen into my ears just to have some...silence, of throwing myself out the window with the George Washington Bridge as my last view, flashing in my head every now and then. Added to the fact that, due to one of isotretinoin's other side effects, my skin was flaking off, well, Yours Truly was not a happy camper. No siree. "All work and no play makes Johnny a dull boy?" "HERE'S JOHNNY?" No, no, no. Too tame, too subdued the blood curdling madness.

Oh, and yes, I realized that God hates me. When I arrived at 42nd Street-Time Square station, the New York's finest was "investigating" something, thus shutting down the 7 line from the said station to the Grand Central station. I had to take the N/W line instead and change trains at Queensboro Plaza, which by the way is no big deal. But when I arrived at Queensboro Plaza, the platform was packed with commuters waiting for the 7 train to come. After about 5 N/W trains had come and gone, the 7 train gingerly arrived jammed pack. The commuters, resilient New Yorkers they are, with their sharp elbows, pushed and shoved their way into the train, and I was tossed about the human waves. I had no desire to be a sardine! Another set of 5 N/W trains had come and gone, then another packed 7 train arrived. Another fight to stay alive from the on-coming tidal wave of irate riders. I waited—not patiently, but nonetheless, I waited.

The commute home, which usually last less than an hour, lasted more than 2 hours! 2 hours! As an aside: I seriously need to move into the city (for the none Tri-State people, the city is Manhattan); does anyone in the Village area need a roommate?

Granted the meeting and the police investigation are beyond my control. I can usually let the annoyance roll off of me, but I swear isotretinoin is making me think that the world is against me, that it's all a set up to inconvenience my existence. Let me tell you, I truly believe even God, yes, even He is against me!

Oh, I just realized that today marks the one year anniversary of my coming out to myself and God. Hmm... Is that why God is punishing me? You see, He knew my vanity will drive me to seek out a dermatologist, who in turn would prescribe me a drug so potent, it's considered a category X (the worst) teratogen, which in turn would fuck with my head; and to test me, He'd throw the biggest, the smelliest shit of a day at me; all because I demanded that He'd bless me. Normally, I'd say, "no," but I'm inclined to believe otherwise.

But you know what? While I was waiting on the platform of the Queensboro Plaza station, up above the East River, like today was a Fourth of July, there were fireworks. I swam inside a septic tank of a day, but then there were fireworks.

Perhaps, the world isn't out to get me. Maybe God isn't cursing me. For a moment, there was a celebration of fireworks. I know it wasn't for me... But since my head's not in the right place, I'm going to say the celebration of fireworks was just for me.

Happy Realizing-Who-You-Are-And-Stop-Living-A-Life-Of-Denial Day; Happy Coming-Out Day!