226: Fuuka Update

Granted, Fuuka is an awful name (I blame my idiotic brother-in-law), but just look at her! Just look at her! Gaze upon her cherubic face and marvel at her beauty.

Now, when you comment, dear Readers, please use at least three adjectives to describe my new niece, Fuuka.

225: I'm #1

What site comes up first when you google "if I lay here?"

That's right!


I'm #1. Woohoo!

224: NOOOOOooooooooo......

What do this: and this: have in common?

Although there's nothing wrong with either one of them, there's something foul afoot when their names sound the same. Which, by the way, confirms my suspicion that my sister is an idiot.

Seriously!

Worst still, what if people associate this: with this: ?

Sigh. What can I do? For my niece's sake, I pray that she stays put in Japan and never meets anyone who speaks English.

Everyone, this is my niece: , 楓花 or Huuka (Fuuka).

223: Introducing...

...my niece. Yet to be named.

She's so ugly! Just look at her flat nose!

Why is my niece so ugly? The girl had better learn to smile! Look at her. She's not even a day old and she's going to have creases! Frowning like that.

Her stats...
Birthday: December 21, 2006
Sign: Sagittarius
Time of Birth: 04:10 (JST)
Weight: 2.93 kg (6.45 lbs)

222: I'm An Uncle ... Again

My sister had a baby. Her fourth child. And she gave birth to my niece ... tomorrow.

Yes, you heard me right. Tomorrow.

Although today is December 20, 2006. My niece WAS born in the morning of December 21, 2006. Japanese time. A morning in Japan is a day before in the evening in New York. Or, tonight in New York is tomorrow morning in Japan.

Still confused?

No? Good.

Now, my sister just needs to tell me the baby's name. And she'd best send a picture! I shall post it when she does. I need to populate this blog with cute pictures.

Yay, I'm an uncle... again.

221: More Than Incidentally...

Klein Sexual Orientation Grid

I scored an average of 3.95

0

1

2

3

4

5

6

Heterosexual

Bisexual

Homosexual

Meaning

This result can also be related to the Kinsey Scale:


0 = exclusively heterosexual
1 = predominantly heterosexual, incidentally homosexual
2 = predominantly heterosexual, but more
than incidentally homosexual
3 = equally heterosexual and homosexual
4 = predominantly homosexual, but more than incidentally
heterosexual
5 = predominantly homosexual, incidentally heterosexual
6 = exclusively homosexual

Summary

The idea of this exercise is to understand exactly how dynamic a person's sexual orientation can be, as well as how fluid it can be over a person's lifespan. While a person's number of actual homo/heterosexual encounters may be easy to categorize, their actual orientation may be completely different. Simple labels like "homosexual", "heterosexual", and "bisexual" need not be the only three options available to us.

Take the quiz

More than incidentally, I could possibly take applications for a future wife as well. More than incidentally, I can live a life my parents want for me. Maybe.

NOT!!!

220: Spend Time With Me

The Five Love Languages

My primary love language is probably
Quality Time
with a secondary love language being
Words of Affirmation.

Complete set of results

Quality Time:		10
Words of Affirmation:		8
Physical Touch:		6
Acts of Service:		5
Receiving Gifts:		1

Information

Unhappiness in relationships, according to Dr. Gary Chapman, is often due to the fact that we speak different love languages. Sometimes we don't understand our partner's requirements, or even our own. We all have a "love tank" that needs to be filled in order for us to express love to others, but there are different means by which our tank can be filled, and there are different ways that we can express love to others.

Take the quiz

Apparently, if you don't mind being handcuffed and tied to me and forced to tell me lies, tell me sweet little lies, you are a perfect candidate to be my husband. I'm taking applications.

219: Narcissus's Ugly Sister

I've managed to be soberly this morning. So now I want to hash up a conversation I had with someone I met at the Holiday party. It started out with us talking about work, and then...

Her: (Incoherent) hot. Aren't you?
Me: Thank you.

Then, she gave me this awkward look. With a slight head shake, she continues. Enunciating.

Her: It's really hot in here. I'm hot.

It dawns on me. She wasn't saying I was hot. Oops. If not for the alcohol in my blood, my face would have revealed my embarassment.

Me: Oh, yes. It's hot.

I look away. Then, quickly I face her and smile as nothing had happened.


Now, I've been mulling over that particular exchange during my commute to the office. And I came to the conclusion that I could have executed the ending a lot better. So, let's revisit the scene.

Her: (Incoherent) hot. Aren't you?
Me: Thank you.
Her: It's really hot in here. I'm hot.
***
Me: Oh, yes. I know. Thank you. I'm the source of the hotness.

And then, I'd smile, a victor's smile.

Or... ooo... I could have said something like, "Global warming has nothing on me." Or like, "I'm sorry. It's my fault. I'm just too hot. You're just feeling my hotness" Or something equally inane.

218: Narcissism Becomes Me

My office had a Holiday Party.

I'm slightly inebriated.

After the party, I went up to Hell's Kitchen to meet and socialize with the ski group I joined. I didn't get to meet any new people, but that's okay. I'm fine with that.

Afterwards, I walked over to Rockefeller Center to marvel at the Christmas tree.

Ain't it a beaut? Then, I figured, I should hassle random strangers to take pictures of my handsome mug. So, hassle, I did. And here are the fruits of my labor:

Okay, you can start falling in love with me. Tell me how cute, handsome, hot, etc. I am. Especially with my rosy cheeks. Seriously, aren't I cute?

*mwah*

217: One Hand in My Pocket

I swear, the way I'm spending money these days, you'd think I'm loaded.

I’m not. I gots nuthing to unload, y’all.

I’m a pauper with a huge hole in his pocket. You see, I've got one hand in my pocket and the other one is giving a high five. And a ten; not to mention a twenty, a fifty, and a hundred. Let’s just say that I’m very giving.

Let me recount my extravagant expenses:

1. Parents’ anniversary dinner. [Check]
2. Dad’s friend and his wife visit NY, and I pay for dinner. [Check] (I’m just glad I didn’t have to pay for their hotel stay.)
3. Christmas gifts for my little cousins. I’ll end up giving them money, so… [Check]
4. A round trip flight ticket to Seattle for Mom. [Check]
5. Oh, I've signed up with this group in NYC, where members go on ski trips. So, I've booked a vacation with them. Deposit payment. [Check]
6. Now, I need to buy a few gear here and there. [Pending]
7. And I must pay the rest of the payment for the vacation next year. [Pending]
8. Others [Pending] (Just in case.)

Eh. You only live once.

I've got one hand in my pocket and the other one is giving the peace sign.

216: A Lesson Learned

Today, I've learned that there are bisques other than a lobster. I've also learned that a bisque is a highly seasoned, thick, creamy soup, where the main ingredient is puréed. I've learned that a spinach bisque from Dean & Deluca in SoHo is rather good. But I've also learned that the staff do not know how to give the customer what they've ordered. You see, instead of a half a roast beef sandwich I ordered, they gave me a half a chicken sandwich. I'm utterly devastated.

Moving on.

215: 100TAM 2.0 (Work In Progress #3)

The list has been updated. Please go here.

214: The e-mail: Shallow or Deep?

In my previous post, I shared with you all my response to an e-mail from a first time reader. He has given me permission to post his e-mail to me. So, I'm going to share. But, even though he didn't ask, he will remain anonymous to you all. m'kay. good.

Hey,

[___]. I saw your recent comment on [___] blog and followed the link to your blog. And I read a bit. You sound like a good guy, with all the insecurities etc that we all have.

But the reason that I'm writing you is I wanted to respond to your 11/23/06 post. I think that I know how shitty you must have felt about your friend M. I only came out at 32 (being 36 now) and therefore hadn't dated much. So my friendships have been (and still are) immensely important to me. So, I know how crappy it can feel when a friend lets you down--especially an important friend. Even though I do feel that I have a good group of friends, I too have had the experience of hearing about plans or events that I wasn't included in. It's that sick to your stomach feeling, where you wonder why I wasn't invited. I, like you, like everybody, want to feel that I matter to someone. So, the main thing is that I wanted to share with you that I get what you're saying.

I hope you don't mind (even though I don't know you) but I wanted to share a story with you. From [___], I know that a blog is often a place to just vent so you may not want input, so you can take it or leave it.

And the other thing is this--(as [___] will attest to, I can get lecture-ish sometimes), here's a big lesson that helped me a lot. Maybe it something that you totally get, but hear me out. One of my best friends is this guy named Chris. Chris and I have been friends since the first month of freshman year in college. I'm Caucasian, Jewish (well, sort of) and pretty American in my thinking. He's from a South Pacific island and arrived here when he was 14 years old. So, not exactly the same upbringing for us.

Anyway, he is and always has been a great friend. But it's been a learning friendship--it's sometimes challenging being friends with him because we think so differently. And to prove this. During sophomore year of college, I found out about something that he did that totally pissed me off. I fumed for a bit and then decided to talk to him. At some point during the conversation I asked him, "Why would you do that?!" And he basically just shrugged his shoulders and said, "I didn't think it was that big of a deal." A light bulb went off for me. Of course, I knew intellectually that people don't think the same, but it was only at that point, at 20 yrs old, that I really, really "got it."

I realized, "Holy shit. He really DIDN'T think it was a big deal!" I was still pissed and had a right to be. We talked it through and resolved it. But it made me realize how that I'd been projecting my value system onto others and how it wasn't working for me. I expected people to think as I did (having an identical twin brother--no, he's not gay--didn't help this matter). If [I] had done to [me] what Chris did to me, that would suck. But that wasn't the case. Don't get me wrong, it's still a struggle for me to really realize that people think differently. But when I do "get it," it saves me a lot of misery (not all of it, but a lot).

You seem like a deep guy. And I hate to tell you this--as you probably already know for yourself--it's been a struggle to realize that most people won't interact at that deep level. But as I've gotten older, I've found more and more people who do. I agree with the blog comment that M was probably just being thoughtless as opposed to doing something purposely crappy.

Anyway, again, the main point, I wanted to convey, was that I know how you feel.

Take care,
[___]

213: The Response: Shallow or Deep?

I received a cool e-mail from a first time reader. He read this post and decided to write me. I wrote him back and I decided that I wanted to post my e-mail to him. So, without further ado, here's my response:

Hi [___],

Thank you for your thoughtful email. Wow! Your email lifted my spirit.

And by the way, my name is Jake. [___]. It's cool that you found my blog through a comment I left at "[___]."

I feel a bit cathartic now hearing from someone like you who identifies with and understands how I feel. I know I'm not the only person who feels... disappointment, hurt, or whatnot, and it's a great affirmation to hear that I'm not as isolated as I tend to locked myself into thinking.

I know and understand that not all people think alike, that I can't interact with everyone the way I think we should: at a deep level. I get it. Although, like you, I do find it at times difficult to "get it" ...

And your email just reminded me why I was so disappointed with the whole situation with M. You wrote: "So, I know how crappy it can feel when a friend lets you down--especially an important friend." Important friend. When I read it, I had to wonder if I have ever thought of M as an important friend. Immediately, I scoffed, because from the start, M stated that he wanted to separate his work life from his personal life, that he does not want his two worlds colliding. He made it clear that I was a co-worker. But since his declaration, I may have interpreted some of his actions, like him calling me his friend, as something like.., I don't know, him considering me his friend. When in fact, he was calling everyone his friend as Eddie was so prone to do.

And the problem is I've forgotten what I've learned from Eddie. One of the lessons is that I can't always interact with some individual the way I think we should interact. That not all friendships will be deep. As I've written: "In college, I was friends with those who wanted to be my friend. Some of these friendships were shallow and some were deep. Some friendships died off, some grew." I had applied the lesson learned.

But my grief from that night with M stems from the fact that because "M is the first gay man I met outside of blogosphere, a non-virtual gay man, if you will, to whom I've told that I'm gay," I've somehow managed to put him at a different level... perhaps on a pedestal. Hmm, I wonder if I'm making any sense... Because he was the first non-virtual gay man to whom I was truthful in regards to the man I am, maybe I felt that he'd take me by the hand and help me navigate the complex terrains of the gaydom, sans sex. I admit it's an unwarranted expectation. But at the very least, I wanted to learn from him. So, maybe deep down, he was an important person for me. And I will admit, I had once hoped that the word proceeding "important" in the previous sentence had been replaced with the word, "friend," and "was" with "is."

Yes, with M, I've forgotten the lessons of Eddie. I should have let this non-"friendship" with M remain as such, non-existent. I let my lonely heart speak for me, when I should have listened to my clinical mind.

And I do agree with TK's comment and your email: M was being thoughtless; he wasn't trying to be purposely crappy. But I still come to the same conclusion: I'm hurt, not because of M's action, but because of my reaction. And I'm trying not be beat myself up for it. Friendship is like investment. With M, it was an investment without profit. I lost. But I'm trying... no, I won't... no, I'm not beating myself up for it.

Sheesh, I'm sorry for the long-winded reply to your email, [___]. My original purpose was to thank you for letting me know you know how I feel. It means a great lot.

Thank you again,

Jake

212: People Must Die

Because I am a horrid, horrid man, I tend to wish (and I wish upon a star real hard, cuz those are the ones that really count); yes, I wish certain subway commuters gruesome death. At the very least.

To the following people:

• If you are someone, when riding the escalator, who won't move to one side to let others pass by, I wish you dead.
• If you are someone who pushes their way into a subway car when there are still passengers trying to get out, I wish you die a painful death.
• If you are an old lady with an excruciatingly sharp elbow, die! Just die already. Please! You're taking up valuable space and resources.
  
• If you are fat and take up 2.5 seats during the morning rush hour when every subway car is like a sardine can, go to the gym, go on a diet, lose that weight, or else, I have to wish you dead, dead, dead.
  
• And finally, if you are someone who clips their nails inside a subway car, which by the way isn't your fucking personal space, I wish for all the nail clippings in the world to be gathered, so that those human wastes will be forced fed to you spoonful by spoonful, and if you happen to vomit the acid treated, yet protein rich bolus (mmm, delicious) out, then that, too, will be forced fed to you. I wish you all that. And I wish you die a painful, slow death. Then I want you resuscitated and revived, so that you can be fed that nurishing goodness again, until you die a painful, slow death again. And we can repeat ad infinitum.
  

211: Remembrance

Last year this day my mom's aunt, my great aunt, passed away. Today her family and her relatives gathered to remember her. Besides the fact that I don't "do" family functions well, as you, my loyal readers, know already, the thing is, I had a hard time remembering the person who've passed away. I've known Grandma (that's what I've called her) and interacted with her since I was a boy, even before I had moved to New York. But there wasn't a single 'specific, vivid' memory, fond or otherwise, that popped into my head. It scared me. It scared me to know how good I am in detaching myself from those I should care about, from those who should be close to me. Could this be an indication that I am incapable of loving or being loved?

210: A Home Is Where the Heart Is

Hmm... Is a home where the heart is?

Nope, I beg to differ.

A home is where I know I can buy for a scrap... Scrap? Who am I kidding? Correction: A home is where I know i can buy for a assload and sell in about 5 to 10 years time for a huge shitload.

Could a condo in Williamsburg be just that? Could my home be it? I don't know. I have lots to think about.

I mean, sure, condos in Brooklyn are generally cheaper than ones in Manhattan. And should the price of a unit be the same in both areas, indubitably I'd get more space in Brooklyn than in Manhattan. But do I want to live in Brooklyn?

New Yorkers, what say you? What should I do?

209: There's Still A Long Way To Go

According to UNAIDS, There are, on this Earth, these numbers:

39.5 million ... People living with HIV
4.3 million ... People infected this year with HIV
2.9 million ... People dead due to AIDS this year

These people are your father, your mother, your brother, and your sister;
These people are your friends, your neighbors;
They are your son and your daughter;
They are your partner, your wife, your husband, your better half;
They are you.

Protect yourself; wear a condom.

208: A Night of Extravagance

Yesterday was my parents' wedding anniversary... their 45th wedding anniversary!

As their son, I must admit, I feel like I've done good, somewhat—finally.

You see, Mom and Dad never asked me of anything in terms of material displays of affections. What they’ve consistently asked was that I’d be good, good as in, “be a good son,” be the archetypal eldest son model of the Korean culture: one who has filial piety, or in other words, one who takes care of the parents when they get old and decrepit. So, getting a good edu-ma-cation was important. “How?” you may ask; “good question,” I’d answer. No, it’s because, as Mom always has told me, "having a good education will bring you lots and lots of fortune." By the way, I’m still waiting on that pile of riches to fall on my lap. So, sure, yes, I worked hard (...somewhat) to get into good schools. And I hardly ever, almost never, got into trouble. Giving no grief, making no fuss—some would say I’m a model of good behavior all around, a son who has not shamed his parents.

My parents seem satisfied with how I've led my life thus far. But as they are only human, their selfish desire for me is that I have a clearer direction in life. A direction that would lead me to be sufficient, to want for nothing. So that I'd become a man, an able provider, one who starts a family of his own. Having a nice wife at his side and at least one child in between them, like something you'd see in a perfect family portrait which hangs on the wall, placed somewhere prominent in a house with a backyard and white picket fences.

However, seeming my parents' wish for me will be somewhat rather difficult to fulfill, I've been resigned to feel not so much like a good son—not a bad one either, mind you, but just not good. It's evident that my parents are old, and especially my mom has sacrificed a lot to get me to where I am. I can say it was her push, more so than my own, that made me somewhat educated, worldly; it was her drive that helped open up many opportunities for me. Could I have grabbed onto many more nuggets of golden opportunities and cashed them in for security and wealth? Maybe. Then, I could have perhaps provided for my parents' security and paid for some of their luxuries, like throwing them a huge 70th Birthday Celebration.* But their birthdays came and went. I've failed to be a good son.

But today, I must admit, I feel like I've done good—finally.

Yesterday was my parents' 45th wedding anniversary. Although I think celebrating wedding anniversaries is more of a Western convention than a Korean one, I now had the chance to give them a material gift of some substance. I took them to a nice restaurant on 5th Avenue, near Washington Square Park, called CRU. We drank champagne and ate from the Tasting Menu, relishing every bite, and passing away the time with hearty laughters. Mom, I believe, in all her life, never had tried squab (then again, neither have I), never had anything fancy laid before her to eat. Dad may have had tried something classy. But regardless of their prior culinary experience or inexperience, seeing them smile, seeing them enjoy themselves, made me feel like I've done something finally good.


So to my Parents, Happy Anniversary!


*In the Korean culture, 60th Birthday is a milestone. Therefore, a large celebratory party is thrown by the children for their parents. However since I was still in junior high school when Dad turned 60 and in college when Mom turned 60, I had no means to throw either one of them a party. So a realistic goal would have been to throw them a modest 70th Birthday party.

207: What's With the Weather?

It's not too strange to see people walking down the street in t-shirts and shorts, is it? It's not really. But not in November, in New York! It's the last day of the month, and people are dressed like it's summer. Something strange is happening in New York. Not that I'm complaining, mind you.

Al Gore, can you explain this to us? And can you tell us why this is a bad thing?

Thank you.

206: I'm in Love with Jennifers

And I am telling you
I'm not going.
You're the best man I'll ever know.
There's no way I can ever go,
No, no, no, no way,
No, no, no, no way I'm livin' without you.
I'm not livin' without you.
I don't want to be free.
I'm stayin',
I'm stayin',
And you, and you, you're gonna love me.
Ooh, you're gonna love me.

So, I’ve read somewhere, in some gossipy blog, that Beyoncé and her family are furious at the attention Jennifer Hudson, her co-star in the upcoming Broadway musical movie, Dreamgirls, is receiving. There’s even a talk of an Oscar for Jennifer, an American Idol loser, for her role as Effie. No wonder Miss I’m-A-Grammy-Winning-Diva is upset. But that’s all hearsay. Still, it’s a good juicy gossip.

Anyway, I get the sense that as a gay man, I’m supposed to have, um, a certain affinity for show tunes and the divas who’ve sung them. Who am I kidding? I do show this “gay” trait. Let’s face it, I am a stereotype.

The thing is Jennifer Hudson is reprising a role on film Jennifer Holliday made famous on Broadway. My first encounter with Jennifer Holliday was from her role as, Lisa Knowles, the choir singer and the spurned fiancée of a preacher on Fox’s Allie McBeal. I’ve heard her sing, and I was astounded by how good, no, great, she was. What I didn’t know was that she was already very famous with my people. You see, I’ve been a little late in discovering Dreamgirls. And oh my God, just listening to her sing “And I Am Telling You” on the Original Broadway Cast Album of Dreamgirls, I had chills, son, chills! Wait. I just found something in YouTube. It’s the 1982 Tony’s Performance by the cast. Remember when I said I had chills? Holy cow! A.M.A.Z.I.N.G.

Tear down the mountains,
Yell, scream and shout.
You can say what you want,
I'm not walkin' out.
Stop all the rivers,
Push, strike, and kill.
I'm not gonna leave you,
There's no way I will.

Where was I? Oh, yes. Jennifer Holliday won a Tony for her performance, and I’ve wondered, when I heard that Hollywood was making a movie version of the musical, if anyone can top that great emotive, powerful sound of Jennifer Holliday. Enter, Jennifer Hudson. I have yet to see her performance, but a few days ago, somehow the movie soundtrack got into my possession, and I’ve have heard Hudson’s take on the famous song.

People, she’s great. She’s amazing. She’s equally emotive and powerful as Holliday. Not only does Hudson embody Holliday, but she makes the song hers—it’s something, I think, Simon Cowell would say to the American Idol contestants he likes. But I think you’ll end up loving Jennifer Hudson after hearing her. Except, I guess Beyoncé and the Knowles family.

And I am telling you
I'm not going.
You're the best man I'll ever know.
There's no way I can ever, ever go,
No, no, no, no way,
No, no, no, no way I'm livin' without you.
Oh, I'm not livin' without you,
I'm not livin' without you.
I don't wanna be free.
I'm stayin',
I'm stayin',
And you, and you, and you,
You're gonna love me.
Oh, hey, you're gonna love me,
Yes, ah, ooh, ooh, love me,
Ooh, ooh, ooh, love me,
Love me,
Love me,
Love me,
Love me.
You're gonna love me.

From Dreamgirls: And I Am Telling You

205: Thanksgiving, Why Give Thanks?

Wednesday

Although the work day should have ended at 4, I was stuck at work, held up in a meeting that would not end. I had a plan to hang out that night. But first I had to wait for the call beckoning me for a night of debauchery. And when waiting became excruciating, I let my fingers dance on the keypad of my cell phone. Yet, nothing. Neither a reply nor a call ever came; I was stood up.

But the rainy night was not lost. One came to lift my forlorn spirit, and left me spunky and happy. That’s why I give thanks.


Turkey Day

A lazy, rainy morning was a start of my day. The people on the parade route seemed miserable enough, which made my mouth stretch from ear to ear. An odd sensation, I might add. Then my cousin and I visited our Great Aunt, a.k.a. Grandmother, who was in the hospital. We then got picked up and were rushed to our Aunt’s place for the Kim clan to clang up the late afternoon with songs and drinks. Okay, there weren’t any songs, but drinking I did. And lots of eating too. Plus, I had my pumpkin pie. And, and, and… only one member of the family piped in about my lack of having a fiancée, a potential baby maker, at my side. Oh, did I mention there was drinking?

But it’s okay, it’s all good. I saw “Happy Feet” and that was a good ending for the night. That’s why I give thanks.


Friday & Saturday

Lazy, lazy, lazy days. That’s why I give thanks.


Sunday

The 'rents and I take a trip to Brooklyn. I want them to see that owning a home in an "up and coming, or rather, already 'here'" neighborhood in Brooklyn can be a fine investment. They like the neighborhood. I may get them to help me with the deposit, once I find a place that calls out to me. "Jake," it will call out, "come to me."

Anyhoo... we finished the tour by stopping at Junior's to buy the best cheesecake in New York. So very delicious. That's why I give thanks.

204: Where the Shallow Meets the Deep

The one thing that I don't want people to know about me is that I don't have many friends. Maybe it's the constant uprooting I've experienced as a child that made me a bit hesitant to flash a smile or extend a hand. Maybe it's that I'm just unbearably shy. Whatever the reasons, what's been constant is that whenever there is a change in my life, a change defined as a move to a different location, a different school, a different job, whatever friendships I've established come to an unsatisfactory and quiet end.

After several cross-country relocations, and once I got settled in New York and was placed in Mr. Goldman's 5th Grade class, I befriended Sung. He and I were inseperable. He was, to me, more like a brother than a friend. Sung stayed friends with me, though I once swung a bat at him with a murderous intent; even when he pounded my face repeatly with his fists, my ties to Sung remained. Well, not at first, of course, but we've always found ways to straighten whatever seemed wayward with some jokes and laughter. He brought me porn with snatches *shudder* and, to tease me, he'd hit my jewels, cooing, "you hard?" We even grabbed each other's dicks, as pubescent boys are known to do.

But maybe it was my strict adherence to the "Out of Sight, Out of Mind" philosophy. We both went to different high schools; me, to one in Manhattan, and him, to one in the Bronx. As the school year progressed, Sung and I saw less of each other, though we lived in the same neighborhood. By the time the holiday season rolled around, we've not seen nor talked to each other for a long while. But that was okay. I had my Church Youth Group and the Worship Band.

My devotion to God, I believe, came, of course, from my conviction that God--the Father created me; the Son died for my salvation; the Spirit guides me to bear Fruit, to manifest the Light, the Living Word--that God is the reason I live. But the devotion also came from an unattained desire for companionship, for friendship. The Youth Group, sensing my lack of charisma, or rather, my lack of cool quotient, only embraced me so far. No one asked for my number; no one told me to call them. 'Perhaps my love for God is insufficient, so very insufficient that I am not experiencing God's love expressed through God's own people,' I thought, and I prayed, 'help me Dear Lord to love you more.'

Rather than leave those who haven't fully accepted me, I sought to infiltrate further into the Youth Group. I've even joined the Worship Band. It meant that four hours each Saturday were devoted to rehearsals and Bible studies. It meant, for those four hours, they would have to deal with me, to acknowledge that I was a part of them, even though it meant that I had to start "low." How funny, looking back, it wasn't, or rather, it didn't seem like I was being.., but I think it was then I started to forget how to say "no." And for each "no" I didn't say, for each time I didn't assert my own opinion or will, I started to forget my own worth. So, in a word, I became a doormat, a nice doormat for people, knowingly or unknowingly, to step on me.

Eddie was the leader of the band. He had a lame name, but he was cool. I felt cool just hanging out with him, so I wanted to spend as much time with him as possible. He even called me a friend. But to him, everyone was his friend, and his friendship to me was as deep as spilled water on a table. He'd suggest that we go see a movie, that we go to the park, that we go hang out. Yet more often than not, when next Saturday rolled around, I'd hear how Eddie and his other friends saw a movie, how they went to the park to play Ultimate Frisbee, how they hung out, without me, without me, without me. Still, when he wanted my undivided attention, when he wanted something from me, more often than not, he had me, the nice doormat.

Looking back, it's all petty and insignificant, and I tell myself that I've outgrown it and I've learned the lessons. In college, I was friends with those who wanted to be my friend. Some of these friendships were shallow and some were deep. Some friendships died off, some grew. Yet, still, I didn't find a friend who I'd consider a best friend, a brother. And admittedly, it's because there was a part of me I was hiding from myself. If I couldn't be myself completely, how could I expect anyone to be involved in my life. There would always be a wall that I built. Besides, the "Out of Sight, Out of Mind" is still in play.

However, now, I've accept the deepest secret that I kept, and claimed it as a part of my identity. Yet I find the wall I've erected... well, let's just say that the Berlin Wall might have been easier to tear down than my wall. Also, "Out of Sight, Out of Mind" is... well, it's laziness and cowardice having a night of drunken and forgetable romp, and then them giving birth to the bullshit that is "Out of Sight, Out of Mind." I realize it.

Though, still, I'm prone to repeat history's mistakes. M is someone who has called me his friend. And M is the first gay man I met outside of blogosphere, a non-virtual gay man, if you will, to whom I've told that I'm gay. But over the past year of interacting with him, I've learned that he is more like Eddie than all the Eddies I've met over the years. He'd suggest that we do things, but he'd never follow through. He would snap his fingers to beckon me, and like a needy puppy, I'd go running. But last night, the camel's back broke, and I sent M a text message:

U know what? Im gonna care. U asked me if i thought most gay friendship is shallow. Even tho i said yes i'm 2 lonely n alone 2 abandon my hope of finding one, just one, deep friendship. I'm that pathetic n stupid. Well, good nite. N i blame myself 4 waiting by the phone. Happy Thanksgiving n have a great trip.

I did get a reply back. But it was from Verizon informing me that the message was too long. Soon after, another reply came, and this time it was from M, and he wrote: "Huh?"

An unsatisfactory and quiet end.

As I'm searching for a conclusion to this post, I think, I don't know. Where is it? Where does the shallow meet the deep? And when?

I'm hopeful, though. I have to be.

So be thankful for your friends. Be thankful that you don't struggle like I do. And know that I'm thankful too, because I'm carrying hope. That's what I got, and I'm gonna work it!

203: Thanksgiving Woes

We’re two days away from the time of year when I shall face those who share some small fraction of genetic material with me. And most certainly, I shall be bombarded with the most lambasting comments about my woeful lack of attachment in my life to an entity with a womb who can continue the family name. For that I’m thankful.

But as far as I’ve known, or rather, up to this past Sunday, my nuclear family and I have decided that we would spend this Thanksgiving as a nuclear family, with me managing the traditional American fare. I’ve been searching for the perfect recipes for turkey, gravy, stuffing, mash potato, oh my. Last night I was going to make a grocery list. But I get the dreaded phone call, a call informing me that the clan is required to congregate. Sigh. I really wanted to cook. Now, I have dried up turkey and nasty chunky gravy to look forward to. Yay!

Unrelated to Thanksgiving, last night I had a strongest of desire to cuddle. So, I went over to my cousin’s to play with her dog. I felt much better after that.

202: Weekend Recap

Here's a quick rundown of my fabulous weekend:

Friday night after work,
... I come home. And eat. And then, get this everyone, I go to bed... EARLY.

Saturday,
... I take the 'rents into Manhattan. Meet up with my cousin and feast at Dos Caminos. Go for drinks at the View, the revolving restaurant, in the Marriott Hotel in Time Square.

Sunday,
... I take a tentative step in becoming a potential future home owner. I walk down and up many streets and I take the lifts up and down many apartment buildings in search of a place that calls out my name.

But I wonder... Do I really want to settle in New York?

I think I need to explore what other places can offer me. Like, the West Coast. I've many vacation days and sick days left over this year. I'm almost tempted to buy a beat up car for something less than $500, and go West. And see what it can offer me.

Addendum:
I've just checked craigslist, and no one's selling a fully functional car for $500. It comes as no surprise that God hates me.

201: Ben!

A strange thing happens to me on my way to work. I’m on the 6 Train sitting down, my ears stuffed with what used to be white earphones, the iPod's playing … something I don’t recall, because my focus is on reading Paul Neilman’s “Apathy.” Then, suddenly I feel a tap on my right shoulder. I put the book down, unplug my right ear, and turn to face the agitator of my morning commute.

She’s around my age, I think. With a big grin, she tells me that my Ben Sherman bag is her design. And as to justify her interruption and as to show evidence, she lifts her big, black, Ben Sherman logo etched bag. It’s a pathetic attempt at her proof of her profession. My overprotective New York mentality goes into hyper-drive. Must I suffer another sort of crazy, other than me, on this dreary morn? I ponder. She gushes about how great it is to see her work in people’s hand. Then as the train reaches my stop, I praise her work, saying how much I like the bag, and with an awkward goodbye I walk away.

I don’t generally function well in the morning... Now as I’m writing this, I think, what if she was really the designer of my bag? Why wouldn’t she be? Why would some random stranger lie about who she is? I think I should go into craigslist’s Missed Connection or something, and apologize for my halting display of social ineptitude. Or praise the shit out of her so that she can get in touch with me and send me a sample or two of her new designs.

What say you?

200: ...O, My.

A friend from some southern town comes to the Big Apple. On Friday with him, I break bread on Jane's sumptuous table, and to hit the G Spot, I imbibe on an Appletini. But I miss. For my wandering hand syndrome, I seek counsel at Therapy. On Saturday night, instead of Bread, I opt for a glass of water, which takes forever to come. Poor harried girl. Can a hug help to hurry her up? I wonder. Eventually, even the daisy's thirst gets quenched. The night ends with us cashing out at the Bank some saved up booty shaking. Then we part: he, to his abode, and I, to abide. With a new realization. That the city is more than enough. That I am more than enough.

A gift to a friend from some southern town:

199: Let's See...

...I'm knackered. I hate it when work takes me to New Jersey. It's a punishment.

...I've just read the NYT, and WE WON!!! Virginia, I'm sorry. I take it back. You have made me proud. You are not worthless at all. Hmm, I've never said that you were, did I? Oops.

...Oh, take a look at this:

Ummm... Dayyum... YUM.

People, take note! I know what I want for Christmas.

198: Nail Biting

10:51 PM
I think the House will go Democrat. I think the House will go Democrat. Ask me how I feel?

No, I'll just tell you. Ecstatic! I'm ecstatic.

Now, I'm concerned about how the Senate races are coming along. Virginia is yet again disappointing me. People of Tennessee could have spoken loud and proud, shedding the infamous legacy of the South, by electing a first black Senator from the South since Reconstruction. But are they going to? It seems unlikely now. Total disappointment.

10:58 PM
Let's see the Daily Show's take on this Midterm Midtacular.

11:06 PM
I love the "loser" stamp the show is placing on the pictures of... losers! It's so deliciously sweet when the losers are Republicans. Oh, the show's calling the Senate race in Pennsylvania. Oh, let's see what's happened to Rick Santorum, the biggest ass in the Senate. Oh my God, he has been raptured. He'll be no where near the Senate chamber. Hallelujah.

11:18 PM
ABC News is predicting the control of the House will go to the Democrats. The New York Times indicates 14 seat gain for the Democrats, and we need just one more to take control. We won. We have overcome. We have the House. Now let's see by how big the margin the Democrats will take control, or as I would like to put it, whop the GOP's Elephant ass.

It's a good change. It would be a great change, if the Senate went my way.

197: I Voted, But For What? I Don't Know

I’m a little disappointed with this year’s election. My district will never be a battle ground district. In fact, my state will always be predictably Democrat. Seriously, does my vote count?

Besides the federal races, in New York State, we are voting for a new Governor, Comptroller, and Attorney General, and not to mention for members of the State Assembly. After having a Republican Governor for 12 years, we will go back to a Democrat running this state, Eliot Spitzer. I’m surprised that the GOP did not field anyone strong enough to challenge Spitzer and follow in Pataki’s footstep. Not that I’m complaining. As for the State Comptroller, I don’t know what the Comptroller does, so I don’t really care. Except that the incumbent, a democrat, Alan Hevesi, is mired in some political scandal and there’s a talk of impeachment if he’s re-elected. That’s hot! Also, a good example of how in New York politics runs in the family is by watching the race for the Attorney General seat. The democratic candidate, Andrew, is a son of a former New York Governor, Mario, (and a brother of a certain anchor of a national morning news program, Chris). Can you guess the family name? Finally, as for who is going to represent me in the state Assembly, both the Senate seat and the House seat will go to the Democrats. So, clearly, it’s another year of predictable outcomes. Not that I’m complaining.

I just want my vote to matter, like the Floridians during the 2000 election, or the Ohioans during the 2004 election.

And my Congressional district will return the long standing, the twelfth termed and soon to be thirteenth, and the unopposed gentleman from Flushing, New York, Gary Ackerman, to the U.S. House of Representative. *Yawn!* Seriously, the man has not campaigned here at all for as long as I can remember. Also, the junior Senator, and hopefully the next President of the United States, Hillary will return to her seat in the Senate. But did she come and visit us? I think not!

Because we’re so predictable, no candidates ever visit. We have no worth. My vote does not matter.

I need to move.

196: E-mailing My Post

This is a test. If this works well, then while at work I can pretend to be writing "work" e-mails. And that will be fantastic!

Well, I've made a few minor adjustments to my blog. And now I'm thinking I want a new look. But instead of worrying about a new look, I should, as many of you have repeatedly told me, concentrate on posting more often.

An effort is being made.

But remember, I'm someone who's prone to failure. So, I don't expect much from me, and so you shouldn't either.

YAY!

Self-pitying is sooooooo fun. Not overrated at all.

195: Elector's Dilemma

It's Halloween and I'm already looking towards the future, towards Election Day. I guess it's because I'm watching the Daily Show. And come on, Election Day is only a week away.

It's a day when we make choices, hoping that our choices are the right ones, the winning ones. We can hope and hope, but there will be times you will make wrong choices, and you'll end up feeling like some losing character in Mortal Kombat with the head decapitated with blood gushing up like Old Faithful.

But once a bad decision has been made, is there any saving grace? Can there be a do-over?

I don't know. Probably not.

So, if there isn't any saving grace or a do-over, I guess you have to let the consequences of the bad choice run their course, and come next Election Day you will make the right choice. A choice based on facts, not on suppositions and fear.

So, people, I plead with you. Help us take back the Senate and the House!

194: Unsettled

What do people normally do when they're unsettled?

Before I start silencing my thoughts and emotions by watching TV, I'm going to make a bold statement: I'm afraid. I'm afraid that I might have made a mistake. Or maybe I'm justing running away. No wonder! I'm afraid my insecurity and doubt are gripping me so tight, I have no other choice but flee.

So, tell me, what do people normally do when they're unsettled?

Maybe when I wake up tomorrow morning, the world will be different. But for now, it's time for me to kill any form of cognition I have.

193: And There Was...

And there was a carving of pumpkins. And may I add, considering the last time I craved a pumpkin was when I was nine, it turned out pretty cute. It's a scared yet adorable face with jazz hands. Now I've a strong craving for a pumpkin pie. Anyway the thing is I was supposed to carve it at a party. Well... okay, I did make it to the party, but yours truly, true to his clumsy, inept form, arrived late... correction: beyond late: all the guests had left and the apartment had been cleaned. But it was all good because the host and I spent a couple of hours the next morning, while watching "Nightmare Before Christmas," carving pumpkins. So, yes, there was a carving of pumpkins.

And there was a breaking of a CD player. Shit happens! Yet the host blames me. Really! Totally not my fault. If I can look the other way... Fine, sure, yes, I did spill hot chocolate on his couch. That he can blame me for as much as he wants, because it was my fault. But I will not take the blame for the CD player. So there!

And there was a viewing the throng of runners. A friend of the host was running the Marine Corps Marathon and we went to it to cheer her on. Unfortunately, we did not see the friend. But there was plenty of shivering. Note to self: I think I want to run one in the future. but first, Get. In. Shape.

Hahahahaha... I'm making it sound like a lot of things went wrong this weekend. Maybe. Maybe not.

Oh, there was some unrestful nights, too.

And there was a look of "Oh, he's so nasty" followed with a shrug of "whatever" this morning.

Hmm... maybe a lot of things did go wrong. Or maybe not?

192: Slumming With A Pissant Mop

I power-walked to my office this morning. I didn’t need to wake up at 6:40 to get to work at 9:00. I didn’t need to take the subway, a door-to-door commute of 1 hour. I walked! Because since last night, I’ve become a Manhattanite, but only temporarily: I’m house-sitting for my cousin. (Yes, I am a New Yorker, but I don’t live in Manhattan. Get over it!) I get to live in her fab, two-bedroom apartment for two weeks! Well, actually, more so than house-sitting, I’m dog-sitting her sweet, affectionate, little puppy-dog, Bebe. For the life of me I can’t recall what her breed is called, but I know I’ve seen her kind in a movie before. And during the walk, it hits me: Bebe’s the same breed as the dog from “As Good as It Gets.” Now, I can be like Greg Kinnear, imitating Jack Nicholson: "Verdell. What's wrong? You miss the tough guy? Well, here I am, sweetheart! Happy to see me, you little pissant mop? How 'bout another ride down the chute?”

191: "So I Did Sit and Eat"

The rhythmic rocking of the rail car carries me across to a gilt gates of gentle slumber. With a rude jolt I awake to find an idyllic dream intertwined with reality's confusing Sprawl, now all tethered to the bedrock of Memory. There, they will stay; Here, I take my step.

Camille Paglia in her book, "Break, Blow, Burn," says that religion and sex are intertwined in Renaissance and Baroque art, like in Berlini's Ecstasy of St. Teresa. Inspired by the Holy Bible, Christian theologians interpreted the book of the Song of Songs as "an allegory of the bridegroom Jesus knocking at the door of the female soul." The Song of Songs portrays, if I remember the book correctly, the male lover as the epitome of masculinity, virile and potent. Just imagine Jesus, the hot bod lover, knocking, ready to enter the door of your soul. My mind conjures up an ever so puerile image and I giggle. But I think: if the ecstasy of knowing the Divine is akin to or is better than the ecstasy of sex, should the Church continue to frown on non-procreative sex? What if the soul is masculine?

But let's let these debates wage elsewhere. It's a dream I want to capture. The dream that was prompted by a poem I read just shortly before my eyelids amassed great weights. It's George Herbert's "Love."

Love bade me welcome: yet my soul drew back,
Guiltie of dust and sinne.
But quick-ey'd Love, observing me grow slack
From my first entrance in,
Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning,
If I lack'd any thing.

In my dream, I am at a fancy dinner party, no, I'm sitting a table across from the dinner party, gawking longingly at it, when this beautiful guy gets up from his circle of friends, walks over, and extends his hand to me. "Join us," he says, giving me a smile that can melt ice. I jump up, thrilled, to extend my hand. But I notice that I have on my unfashionable yet comfortable bum clothes, which unfortunately has a funk. Compared to the other party guests, I am inadequate in every way. As his hand touches mine, I feel my hand grow weak and limp. I'm consumed with shame.

A guest, I answer'd, worthy to be here:
Love said, You shall be he.
I the unkinde, ungratefull? Ah my deare,
I cannot look on thee.
Love took my hand, and smiling did reply,
Who made the eyes but I?

He pulls me up and drags me to the table, he places a seat next to his and leads me to it. He sits and shifts his seat closer to mine. The chinks and clinks of utensils fade, the murmurs of jovial conversations dissipate, and all the people there turn to shadow. We are left alone, me and him. "You are hot," he whispers, and for a brief split second, I believe him. But doubt fuels me and I fall from grace.

Truth Lord, but I have marr'd them: let my shame
Go where it doth deserve.
And know you not, sayes Love, who bore the blame?
My deare, then I will serve.
You must sit downe, sayes Love, and taste my meat:
So I did sit and eat.

The table is filled up with an array of delectable appetizers. I nibble, peck, and taste everything I can see, hold, and have. With pure abandonment. Without a care in the world, he also nibbles, pecks, and tastes. Then yet when the entrée is served up, the sheer grandiosity of it freezes me. Can I eat it with my hand? Of course not. Do the fork go to my right and the knife to my left? Oh, which fork must I use? What if I don't eat it perfectly? Paralysis. I excuse myself. On my return, the plate is gone (or was it I who took the plate away?). But he takes me by my hand and offers dessert. So, I sit and eat.

So I did sit and eat.

190: "Who Are You Not to Be?"

I came across a quote watching a wonderful, inspiring movie called "Akeelah and the Bee." The quote is by Marianne Williamson. It's a different, yet a familiar, take on why we are here, how we should be, what and who we are. I hear the call of Greatness. BAM! It hits me. I'll remember, remember always...

Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate.
Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure.
It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us.
We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous?
Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God.
Your playing small does not serve the world.
There is nothing enlightened about shrinking
So that other people won't feel insecure around you.
We are all meant to shine, as children do.
We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us.
It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone.
And as we let our own light shine,
We unconsciously give other people permission to do the same.
As we are liberated from our own fear,
Our presence automatically liberates others.

189: Peeved

I'm slightly miffed with this year's Emmys. Not only was Lost, the winner of best drama last year, get ignored, my other favorite-est ABC show, Grey's Anatomy, which had a whole bunch of nominations going into the show, came out with NADA. The injustice of it all!

In other news, I'm losing the battle to gain muscle mass. This morning I weighed myself, and to my contentment, the one which makes one jump up and down, dancing like a foolish maniac, the one which makes people want to hurt you, I weigh less than I did when I wrote up my goals. Sigh. Then I went to the bathroom to do my morning bizniz, the one that requires much time and many abdominal contractions. And when I weighed myself again, I lost more than a pound! The injustice of it all!

Peeved is my middle name.

188: Battle Cry

Stolen from here.

What Is Your Battle Cry?

Zang! Who is that, prowling out of the cliffs! It is Jake, hands clutching a studded crowbar! And with a cruel cry, his voice cometh: "I'm going to fuck you so hard, you will drink poison and piss honey!"

Find out! Enter username: Are you a girl, or a guy ?

created by beatings : powered by monkeys

You know it!

What Is Your Battle Cry?

Stalking out of the wasteland, wielding a thorned whip, cometh Jacob! And he gives a low bellow: "I'm going to defoul you so utterly, Jesus himself will forsake you!!!"

Find out! Enter username: Are you a girl, or a guy ?

created by beatings : powered by monkeys

Need I say more?

187: No, I Can't Get No Rise...

...Not from a Mister Nice.

That, and I might be totally shallow.

Okay, let me channel my 16 year old girl's voice to tell this tale of... of... of something. I need a bubble gum.

So like, a few weeks ago, I sign up for this, like, on-line personals, and like, you know how I love, like, being pro...laxative or whatever, cuz, you know, a gurl needs something to sink her teeth into, right? like, especially when it involves, like, jewels and the man they're attached to, and so like, I'm sitting and waiting, but like brushing my hair, too, cuz, a gurl has to work to get all the jewels she wants, because Heather, who's had all kinds of jewels, said to Heather, who's into long, thick pendants and who then told Heather, who has a thing for pearl necklaces and who then told me, that only hot girls can get as many jewels as they can possibly want, and some girls are born pretty, but even they got to work hard to get, like, hot, and so like, I have to work hard, too, and like I think Heather's soooo right, cuz like, Oh my God, a guy re-spon-si-ated back! Brushing my hair worked! So like, we exchange e-mails, right? and he's like, "you're cute," and I'm like, "hee hee hee," and like, we decide to meet.

Okay, there weren't any Heathers, brushing-the-hair's, you're-cute's, or hee-hee-hee's, but we did decide to meet...

I'm early. I'm fifteen minutes early, so I decide to walk around my favorite temple, the Barnes&Noble at Union Square, and I think, while I wait, I might as well find a potential read to buy. I'm on the fourth floor, leafing through a photo book of Japanese youths in their bizarre anime-inspired fashion get-ups, dreaming like Fantine dreaming a dream in time gone by, when life was worth living. But I have a task at hand. It's almost six, I send a text message telling the guy that I'm on my way down. It's 6:10, and he has yet to respond. "Whatever," I think, and continue on with my other task of finding a book. It's a good thing that I haven't heard back from the guy, because I did find another Augusten Burroughs's book, "Dry." I'm in line and I decide that after paying for the book, I'd just go because it's 6:25 and the fool most likely ditched me. But as soon as the money has exchanged hands, I get a text message. And there, just a few yards away, is the guy.

(Unfiltered and unadulterated) First Impression:
He's tall, around six feet, and... his mid-drift needs some work... Yeah, He's a bit... chubby. FAT!!! But his face picture matches the real face. Cute-ish. He's got a gentle face. He's not a fashion crazed queen, and not a slob either. He seems like a down to earth, regular Joe. That's never a bad thing, right? FAT!!! Okay, fine, he's got a stomach, but it's not like I've a body men and women would drool over. FAT, FAT, FAT, FAT!!! But, but, but... he's got a kind aura about him... (and I hear an echo...) faaaaaaat... (I'm a horrible person.)

To prove to myself that I am not a horrible person, I shall get to know this guy. It's a vow I'll keep even if it means my body ends up chopped up and thrown into the lovely waters of the Hudson, and besides, like I said before, he has a kind aura about him, he seems nice, truly, so my ending up as fish food is highly unlikely. I walk towards him and extend my hand, and he extends me a Sunflower. A sunflower, people! Last time I checked, I didn't have a vagina. What would make any guy think it would be a good idea to give a flower to a guy? But, I admit, it is a sweet gesture.

Since we had agreed beforehand to walk around to find somewhere to imbibe some caffeinated goodness, walk around we do. We head towards... somewhere. I have no preference and I don't think he does either, so we walk aimlessly. I had hoped he'd be more assertive and suggest a place to go. But I guess not. So, while conversing about little things, I veer and steer our way to Bleecker, and I hint at various locales good for drinking coffee. But to no avail, he does not make any suggestions. So I decide we'll walk. Maybe, it'll be good for him to walk and walk and walk. He does need to lose some weight! (God, I'm evil.)

Okay, now, I know, some of you may say that I should have been the one wearing the pants, but remember, I was the one who received the flower. Which to me means that he expected me to be the demure one, defering to the wisdom of the dominant one, him. And besides I'm Asian, so I'm supposed to be passive. (I'm so lame.)

Whilst in the midst of our energic power walk, our conversation's main topic turns to alcoholic beverage and food. I share that I can be a bit fickle when it comes to Japanese food, and he tells me that there's a fusion place he heard about where Japanese food takes on some Brazilian and Peruvian influences, and we both shudder. Then, lo and behold, there we are, standing in front of the very restaurant we were disparaging with glee. At this point, I just need some alcohol (just because it's a Friday and I had a long work week); the idea of coffee has passed and gone ten blocks ago. And here is as good as any place to drink. I suggest we look at their drink menu and see if we want to go in for drinks. I can't find the drink menu, but ask if we should go inside to see. He shrugs. Then, I don't totally recall what I exactly said, but it makes him make the decision for us not only to stay and drink but have a sitdown dinner at the restaurant we thought was... how do I politely say this... oh yeah, shit.

Maybe it's me. I think people have a hard time reading me.

Like, oh my God, I get to eat expensive sushi, which like, I wasn't really in the mood for! Like, yay!

Yet, I do sense a genuine kindness from him; he wants to accommodate my fickle whims. And I want to find out what he thinks of me.

To be continued.

The Essay In Progress

08/02/06

While waiting for the Beef Red Curry (it's either a Malaysian or an Indonesian dish) to arrive, I started jotting down some thoughts and ideas for the AMCAS essay. Here's what I wrote:

What's the purpose? Why am I writing this?
It's to show that I'm an excellent candidate to be a future physician.

How will I show the schools that they should take me on?
I must demonstrate that I have desirable qualities that fit, or at least fit closely, to what an ideal physician should be, writing some of my life experiences that speak to those qualities. I can write about teaching in Japan, interning in Uganda, studying at my grad school, etc. But I think I need specific events... Must dig deeper.

What are those desirable qualities?
Well, I think I'm passionate. I'm passionate about wanting to help people... mainly because helping others is much more fulfilling than helping yourself. Being selfish will only go so far in life, I think, in terms of one's happiness. But saying, "I want to help people" is such a bore!!! A passion for service? For what ends? To say, "I want to be a doctor to be fulfilled and happy," sounds like I'd be asking for trouble. But anyways, it's another "Must dig deeper" situation.

Compassion is another quality. Inquisitiveness is another...

Shit! I hate "selling" myself.

186: Goals

People change; we all change.

Time is like a constant force that shapes and molds us, without any pre-planned expectations of the end result. So it's in the way we use time where we have the most control. Growing into the person who I want to be tomorrow, in a week, a month, a year, or until the day I die, lies with me.

But of course the old serenity prayer still holds true. I'll need to accept the things I can't change, I'll need courage to change the things I can, and most certainly I'll need the wisdom to know the difference.

The wisdom teaches me that action is better than inaction. Failing is better than not trying. Being rejected is better than staying anonymous. Living is better than existing.

So here I stand, without any irony or sarcasm, weary and vulnerable, calling on anyone, from those who might give a damn to those who might be mildly curious, to bear witness in my quest to be someone.

Goals:

1. When I'm in my death bed, I want to look back at my life and pray, "Dear God, thank you for my life's abundant riches." (Monetary riches would be an added bonus, but not required. Those who know me should know that I've never equated my happiness to material gain.)
2. One of my long term goals is for those who've invested their time to me to know me as kind and good, reliable and loyal, generous to a fault, and loving, but strong enough never to take shit or abuse from anyone.
3. As for short term goals, by next year, I want to hold up a medical school acceptance letter to my boss and quit my job.
4. In six months time, I would like to have made two more new friends, not acquaintances but true friends. It sounds cheesy, but I'm no longer ashamed to say, I need to be supported and I need to support. Fuck pride, I need to belong!
5. By the end of October, I'll have submitted at least 15 copies of my resume to prospective employers, and interviewed with at least one, since I do need a contingency plan, should the medical path does not pan out. But I concur, the said numbers are far too low. But I need to be realistic: I'm lazy. But then, I guess you can say one of my long term goals is not to be so damn lazy, or rather is to be diligent.
6. Following in line with the goal to be diligent, I want to gain at least 10 pounds of lean muscle by then, which means going to the gym will have to become a habit. I hate feeling tired and unfocused. My body is seriously craving some good stresses and endorphin rushes.
7. By the end of August, I'll have submitted the AMCAS (the American Medical College Application Service) application.
8. By next week Monday, I'll have an outline of the AMCAS essay I need to write, and perhaps even a paragraph I can post here to be critiqued.
9. And by next week Monday, I'll have gone to the gym at least once! One has to start somehow, even if the start is slow, you know?
10. And also by next week Monday, I need to come out with some sort of exercise and diet regiment that I'll follow, so that I can achieve my goal in gaining at least 10 pounds of lean muscle by the end of October. If any of my readers have suggestions, I'll love to hear them.

I'll routinely amend my goals and post my failures and accomplishments. I'd like to see how I'm growing, and I want you to see my progress. I'm excited!

185: Seen on the Subway

If you'll give up your seat for a pregnant woman...

You are a Mitchum Man.

If you're careful who you assume is pregnant...

You are a "sensitive" Mitchum Man.

Where's my camera when I need it?! Bah.

184: I Totally Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest

I *heart* Steven for bringing this wonderful site into my life.

It starts out innocently enough. While Steven and I are IMing, he randomly declares that he might be "possibly mildly depressed" and sends me a URL for this test. I take it, and what joyous news, I am depressed; I'm so depressed, I'm four points away from being "severely depressed!"

Seriously? Seriously?! Seriously!

The wheels in my depressed head start turning: 'I refuse to believe I'm only unipolar!' I declare, 'if I believe there's a yin, then there's a yang. I should be bipolar!'

And lo and behold, I am manic. Well, I have a manic tendency that ranges from mild to moderate. So, I'm slightly more depressed than manic, but I'm bipolar nonetheless.

But I'm still left feeling empty. I should be more fucked up than what this wonderful site is telling me. So, I click and click away, like a man possessed with the urge to pick his nose when he thinks no one's looking.

Anxiety disorders? Maybe... There are several kinds! Agoraphobia? Nope, it's not me. Panic attacks? Never had them. Come on, I should have some sort of anxiety disorder. Social phobia?

"A marked and persistent fear of one or more social or performance situations in which the person is exposed to unfamiliar people or to possible scrutiny by others. The individual fears that he or she will act in a way (or show anxiety symptoms) that will be humiliating or embarrassing."

Oh my God, that's me! I bounce up and down, gleefully clasping my hand. And I suffered worse in the early 90s when I was a mere dental floss instead of a stick.

What else? What else?

Any personality disorders? Let's see... there aren't any tests for them. Okay, it's okay, I'll just read what the symptoms are.

Antisocial? Dependent? Histrionic? Narcissistic? No, no, no, and no. But I will work on them.

Avoidant? (1) Avoids occupational activities. Hmm... There was a trip to a Yankee game that I first said I'd go and then at the last moment had back tracked. (2) Is unwilling to get involved with people unless certain of being like. Wait, people don't normally do this? (3) Shows restraint within intimate relationships because of the fear of being shamed or ridiculed. What? That's not the right thing to do? (4) Is inhibited in new interpersonal situations because of feelings of inadequacy. "Killing me softly with his song!" Totally. (5 & 6) Views self as socially inept, personally unappealing, or inferior to others, and Is unusually reluctant to take personal risks or to engage in any new activities because they may prove embarrassing. A new realization bathes me... Yes, this is so MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!

And the icing on the cake is I'm also Borderline.

I'm totally fucked up!

More, more, more... I want more!

ADHD? They've a test for this one. And great news people, I'm... Hold on...

Why are "Homosexuality and Bisexuality," "Adoption,""Irritable Bowel?" "Irritable Bowel" in this Mental Help site?

And you know what? I think I have Irritable Bowel.

What was I talking about before? Oh, no, wait... oh yes, ADHD.

Ooo, there's an Alcohol & Substance Abuse test and Anger Management test... And, and, and, and, and there's also a video of penile pump implant surgery!!!

I've died and now I'm in glorious dysfunctional heaven.

Hallelujah!

***
By the way, I'm totally freaking angry, have a slight ADD, and I don't need the implant, which by the way is great news. But, but, but... I'm not an alcoholic. Me, sad.

183: Debbie Downer, Me? Never!

This summer brings the unbearable 100 degree heat, and the networks aren't doing any better to distract me from thinking, 'Oh my God, I'm melting.' Yes, the prime time line-ups are laden with some atrocious reality shows (except for So You Think You Can Dance, thank you very much) and uninspired reruns (except for Grey's Anatomy). But thank goodness I'm a dork (as my friend has aptly pointed out in her e-mail to me), because I can rely on cable TV for brand new gamut of shows. Yes, tonight, I'm gravitating towards SciFi channel, like how a horned up dog seeks a leg to violate, with unbridled glee, because of him:

Colin Ferguson. Woof!

Colin stars in a new series called Eureka...

It looks promising.

But anyhoo...

***

"Eureka!" exclaimed Archimedes, as he leaped out of his bathtub, and I, too, am exclaiming the same. You think of me as Debbie Downer! But, really, people, I'm an optimist.

Consider my last post. I started the post writing about how I'm addicted to smoking and about my craving for a good, long drag from a fag, which serves only to perpetuate the nasty habit. Then I segued into my addiction to self-pity. But, instead of stating that I crave to dawdle in its misery and continue on the downward spiral of negativity, I stated the opposite.

People, please! Let me quote Hedwig:

(Tear Me Down)

I was born on the other side
Of a town ripped in two
I made it over the great divide
Now I'm coming for you

Enemies and adversaries
They try and tear me down
You want me, baby, I dare you
Try and tear me down

I rose from off of the doctor's slab
Like Lazarus from the pit
Now everyone wants to take a stab
And decorate me
With blood, graffiti and spit

Enemies and adversaries
They try to tear me down
You want me, baby, I dare you
Try and tear me down

On August 13, 1961,
A wall was erected
Down the middle of the city of Berlin
The world was divided by a cold war
And the Berlin Wall
Was the most hated symbol of that divide
Reviled, graffitied, spit upon
We thought the wall would stand forever
And now that it's gone
We don't know who we are anymore

Ladies and gentlemen
Hedwig is like that wall
Standing before you in the divide
Between East and West
Slavery and freedom
Man and woman
Top and bottom
And you can try and tear her down
But before you do
You must remember one thing:

There ain't much of a difference
Between a bridge and a wall
Without me right in the middle, babe
You would be nothing at all

Enemies and adversaries
They try and tear me down
You want me, baby, I dare you
Try and tear me down

While I have Colin to ogle at, there's really nothing that tears me down.

Debbie Downer, me?

Never!

182: Withdrawal

Really, it all started when I was in Japan. It's not that I haven't tried it pre-Japan, but it was while I was there it became a habit. And honestly, it was more of a social thing: you're at a bar with your buddies drinking a few screw driver here and gin & tonic there, and to counteract the alcohol's tendency to depress, you light one up. The smoke flushes down to your lungs, the heat prickling, and the blood races up to your brain, the head rushing. A nicotine fix that's always never enough, soothes, alerts, only for a short moment, but again, it is never enough, and you hunger, you crave, for more, for more, more, more, Dear Lord, just one more drag.

And the thing is, let me just say, I don't have an addictive personality, period.

I don't.

Let's just say that I've been clean for the whole month of July thus far. Then again, I go through days, weeks, or months without smoking, but I'll admit that, yes, I have fallen off the wagon many times before, and there's no guarantee that this time around I won't fall.

And today, this sweltering day, I feel the craving...

This craving has me thinking about what other "things" I am addicted to.

Most of you, if you are reading this, I guarantee, are first time readers. Welcome, and I'm sorry for what's to follow, because you'll be reading a theme I absolutely love to write about, and if this theme were a person, I'd have swung a bat at him over and over again until he lost consciousness, then I'd have thrown a bucket full of ice cold water to revive him only to beat the life out of him.

I think, or rather, I know I am addicted to self-pity.

I'm ugly because I'm born a Korean, and you know what they say about Asian men (...that we're Mongoloids, a term that also can be used to describe people with Down Syndrome; you thought I'd say something else, right?); and I've a body that resembles a chopstick, that's why I'm unattractive. I'm boring because I'm shy; and most times I've nothing to say, that's why I'm dull. I'm lonely because I'm alone; and God hates me, that's why I'm unloved.

I'm an outcast; I always have been and I always will be.

And on and on I go...

But then again... Why do I continue to believe in hurtful lies of my own fabrication; why do I believe that I can't be loved? How is it that I continue to dismiss those who comment and praise this blog; how is it that I believe these people to be delusional for thinking that I've something to contribute to an on-going discourse on life? What kind of twisted ego must I have that I feel self-conscious about what strangers might say when they see me struggling to bench not even a quarter of my body weight; what twisted pride prevents me from going to the gym when I know the end result for hardwork is so much rewarding than the status quo?

Yes, I feel the craving. I crave to ride high in life, seeing the true beauty in me, fostering the joie de vivre (I must still have some and I must be brewing with some charisma, because if I did not, then the friends I have should be no more than a passing scenery one sees on a train, and the friends I have would not be called loyal); I crave to grab life by its balls, to intertwine, to mesh, to belong... I to you, you to me.

Yes, I feel the craving.

181: Can One Become Too Gay?

So...

I think I found one of the many Nurture's contributions to my gayness. Ladies and Faeries, I present to you Allison and Ivan:



Maybe it's just that they were dancing to Annie Lennox, but last night when I saw Allison and Ivan dance, I was moved almost to tears. So, tonight, after the result show, I did a search to find the dance on-line. And thank goodness for Veoh YouTube! Now, I can be moved over and over again.

Okay, I've no punch-line. But to answer my question: if you enjoy and watch So You Think You Can Dance, then yes, one can become too gay.

**
ADDENDUM (7/20/06) - YouTube has also removed the video. Oh, well.

180: We Lost

The Empire (State) is indeed siding with the Dark side.

Maybe the critics are right. If we are granted equal rights, then one day, as one of the most rational critics from FOX News has claimed and reported by the great Mr. Colbert (a rerun episode which aired last night), some Americans will want to do what some Indians do.

So, good for you, Empire, for striking back to progress and basic human rights! I say, BRAVO!

179: Travelogue, "The Rain in Spain Does Not Fall Mainly in the Plain"

*From my journal

5/21/06 4:49 AM

Feliz cumpleaños.

It's my birthday, and I'm in Spain. I'm in Spain!!! To be more specific, I'm in Madrid, back in my room. God, I'm exhausted, but even this tiredness feels good.

I fly out of New York on the 19th, arrive here early afternoon on the 20th, find lodging at a hostal, not a hostel, in Chueca. Chueca is a neighborhood near the main city center, Sol, Km 0; Chueca flows, bustles, and pulsates: cervezas, wines, cocktails, and tapas; fags, dykes, punks, fashionistas, slobs, snobs, and gypsies; energetic, vibrant... (I can still hear people down on the street, shouting, singing, laughing. It's fucking awesome.)

As soon as my backpack is thrown down, I jump into the shower washing away any semblance of fatigue, dress down to a T-shirt and shorts, and fly out onto the narrow Calle de Hortaleza. Without a guidebook and certainly without a camera, but with a cute Ben Sherman bag I bought just for this trip, I wander around feeling the vibe of this foreign yet familiar barrio. For the rest of the late afternoon and for the entire night, I stroll to and fro, I go in and out: boutiques, bars, and bodegas, there are no rocks left unturned. I get lost. I get found.

But even so, I don't know...

Is it the excitement of stepping across the starting line? Or is it the anxiety of encountering, hopefully, an unexpected, great adventure? Maybe it's just the discretely located but blatantly obvious "saunas" that I've passed by. Perhaps I'm Tony from West Side Story singing "Something's Coming."

Sufficiently imbibed and incredibly stuffed—the inhibition wanes—I feel my body craving to bid my 20's adiós with THE DANCE. The Saturday has joined with history. With a flyer I picked up at Mama Inés, a gay owned café, I navigate through wide streets and narrow alley ways to a club called Cool. While there, I learn a valuable lesson in Spanish time: half past 12 is still unfashionably early for a club to be hopping, let alone crawling. I find myself literally at a party of one. The affable hostess informs me to come back a little later. Tony is certainly right: something indeed is coming.

I trudge my way back to the hostal, somewhat discouraged, but unwilling to end the night just yet. I'm supine on the bed for a disco nap, legs elevated, knees close to the chest, prohibiting REM sleep from finishing me off. After a brief respite, a jolting shower, freshly moisturized and coiffed, and a cup of European Joe (or rather, José), I strut my best to make John Travolta proud.

It's a few minutes past 2 at Cool, the hostess smiles me in. I walk up the neon blue lighted corridor to a cool white art deco lounge overlooking the spartan dance floor below; the music is thump-thump-thumping, but it's still too early. I order a gin and tonic at the bar; the husky bartender hands me a tall ice-filled glass with some gin and a bottle of tonic water. I sit down near the balcony, light a cigarette and sip my drink, hoping to regain the buzz from a couple of hours before, and I longingly look at the dance floor for it to fill up.

Men, bois, toys, and hags, slowly but surely stream in. Some glance over to me; I glance over to some. They shake and I bake. Yet with each passing moment, I cannot but think how much the scene here is the same as in New York. Chueca bois are clones (or is it the other way around?) of Chelsea bois: tight fitting t-shirts, wife beaters, jeans, bulging upper body muscles, the latest designer accessories... My enthusiasm cools precipitously and I stumble out the door.

I think: 'You know what? None of these Spanish bois came to chat me up because (1) they don't speak English or they don't think I can speak Spanish or English, (2) they rarely encounter exotic specimen like moi and they were intimidated by my hotness...

'BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA,

'God, I kill me.'

Tony is right: something has come, the expected, the same old same old. Contrary to what people believe, the rain in Spain does not fall mainly in the plain.

Happy birthday, you old dog! Hello, my first night in Spain.