142: There's Trouble A-Brewing, When You Start A-Thinking

There's trouble a-brewing, when you start a-thinking.

Not that I'm a thinker, nor a communicator, mind you. Because I believe most, if not all, great thinkers, being also great communicators, when illuminated with an idea, however abstract and intricate it may be, they know how to share that idea, provoking and expanding the minds of the feeble masses, with effortless ease. I mean, one reason among many that we think Bush is an idiot is that he can't speak English; no one understands him.

So, as I was saying: not that I'm a thinker, nor a communicator; but still... I'd rather not think.

You know, at this point, you are supposed to lie and say, "No, you are a great thinker and also a great communicator!"

No? Is it too tiresome and beneath you to stroke the ego of a self-proclaimed loser?

Well, FUCK YOU! I HATE YOU.
No! I love you; I LOVE YOU...
Fuck me instead. Cum on back, please.

So, yeah, I'd rather not think. I'd rather sit in front of a vanity and run a comb down my well-conditioned hair (it's not), counting each stroke (too lazy to do), up to a thousand (up to five is more likely), preening and primping (don't know what that entails), making myself pretty. Because when you are pretty, you are happy. And even if God decides to hate the pretty ones (highly unlikely), cursing them with trials and tribulations (oh no, his Gucci man-purse ripped), but if their beauty is intact, they still will be happy. Sure, they may suffer some. But ugly people suffer, too. And there are more ugly people in the world than there are pretty people. Pretty people intrinsically understand this, and their innate ability to see the world for what it is will give them this natural ability to be happy. Being pretty equals being superior equals being happy. So, I'd rather not think; I want to be pretty instead.

It's the biggest dilemma I have right now: How can I stop myself from thinking and be pretty instead, when any medical alteration, be it a lobotomy or a pectoral augmentation, is not an economically viable option?

But then I've heard it said "throughout your life, God will throw at you life's challenges that only you can handle." This "belief" seems promising to me. It says that there is a way for me to empty my head and fill my biceps, and I'd be better for it. I would have grown in wisdom—wasn't it Buddha who said everything is meaningless? Why then ponder about nothing?; and I would have matured in beauty—like a sole lotus blossoming in a garden pond.

Yet boredom finds me once in a while lifting a book (often drawn to biographies or memoirs), flipping its pages, and reading the words. But, damn it, the voices of the authors encroach my mind, and there's a rapid succession of electrochemical thunderstorms, which makes me see the world in a new light. I'd admire their shear bravado in overcoming difficult situations, the richness of their lives. And inevitably, I'd compare my life to theirs, realizing how easy I have had it. But then I'd find myself turning green, followed by the envious hue deepening, moving one spectrum down to blue.

My mind races: Does God not think that I'm strong enough to overcome more difficult challenges in life, so that I, too, can have a rich life, one that's admirable to others, or rather one that makes others jealous of me? Does he think me that weak that my only concern now in life is to be like Natalie Wood and to sing, "I Feel Pretty?" And WHY THE FUCK AM I THINKING?

GOD, WHAT AN ASS! I HATE GOD!
No, I love God; I LOVE YOU...
Don't smite my back!

Oh, how I am constantly reminded of the Japanese lady with two Master's Degrees who tried to work at a Korean deli! She philosophizes almost every night on Avenue Q how two polar opposite forces can inhabit an individual at the same time. I quote: "Love and Hate, they like two brothers who go on a date." Indeed they are like two brothers on a date, "where one of them goes, other one follows. You inviting love; he also bringing sorrows."

Let it be said that yours truly will explore this life's mystery. Why two contradictions exist at the same time and space. Why people have no problems with life's many paradoxes, while I do. And why I am a Gemini—the living embodiment of the two opposites, the wishy and the washy. Yes, I shall investigate why my desire to not think is provoking me to think.

It's a beautiful and ugly world!

***
This post was brought to you by the letter "V" for vapid; and the numbers "3" and "1," the number of comments I've got for my hype-cast and the number of fingers I'm holding up in response to the low number. Oh, and guess which finger. Just kidding—I don't really care... yet I do care...some. Ah, another paradox.

***
Pace ed Amore!
xoxo

141: Say Cheese

I am a point, click and shoot kind of a guy. In a way, my pictures lack a certain depth and sharpness you find in professional work. I've decided that I need to develop this artform; my goal is to be a good photographer, an artist!

So, when pictures are taken of me (self-portraits), they'll look good, or rather I will look fabulous! The next step is I will photoshop them and I'll look beyond fabulous, I will look hot! Then I can start posting my hot mug in some on-line personals. Yeah!

No, seriously, I need to do something creative. So, I've decided to try photography and signed up for a course. Tonight I had my first class. By May, I'll be an awesome photographer. And it's important that I get good by May... I'll disclose the reason why later on.

Yawn... I needs me my sleep.

140: A New Adventure

I dare you to click on the image. See where it'll land you. Only thing I'll say is I hope I'll get better at playing with my new toy... Well, at least for me, it's new. Usually I join in the fad once the interest in it has dissipated to nil, but why not change the paradigm a little, hm? Why the b!&%p not?!

Blogoliday Post: I'm Nauseous

I feel like hurling.
Oh God, here comes the upchuck.
Stand clear, I'm gonna spew.

Dear Commenters,

Thank you all for your kind words.

I'm feeling va-klempt... Oo-Uh... Talk amongst yourselves, I'll give you a topic:
"The writer of the this blog is neither a non-entity nor does he need an identity to define who he is."

Ok, that was not funny. But it's a truth that I'm going to stick with.

Truly, your words of encouragement have uplifted me. It's thrilling to know that what I have to say resonates with you. So, I'm going to vomit.

The fact that tomorrow's hyphenated non-IDentity's 1st blogiversary had no bearing whatsoever in my decision to come back. No siree, none! I mean, it's good a time as any to start writing again, right? Sure, it's lamely symbolic, for me, that I can mark tomorrow as a new beginning, but, hell, we all need a new beginning, sometimes we need as many as we can get.

So, here's to a new beginning!

Blogoliday Post: An Update

I've let myself be cut off from the blogging world.
I'm seeing a different world.
I'm almost tempted not to come back.
But that'd be my laziness talking.
You see, my mind's percolating with thoughts and stories I'd like to share.
And I don't care if no one listens!
My dreams, however lofty, seem vivid and real.
Only I can make them come true.
Perhaps my good friend YM is right:
I can see myself having massive, explosive, uncontrollable word vomit.

'Til then,

Blogoliday Post: Would You Like to Take a Haiku?

FYI: If you say "haiku" many times and fast enough, you'll hear "hike."

***
So, shall I rattle the box of a goblin? Sure, why not? Hehehe.

***
Well, my dear reader(s), I have to say I've been enjoying my blogoliday. I'm not stuck inside my own head as much, and most importantly, I'm not writing about it—repeatedly. I mean, it's not like those entries are something interesting or profound.

No! Wait!—"Mr. Chairperson, I move to strike the previous remark for being too self-loathing."

Anyways, "Enjoying"... yada, yada, yada... "writing"... yada... and, I'm extrospecting* a little. I likey, likey!

***
Well, let me provide you yet again with an exposition: A blogoliday post is a post where I rehash my old post for your reading pleasure. At the end, I give you a little challenge. You must comply. Because if you don't, I'll know you don't love me and I'll be crushed, devastated, extinguished.

There are days when you feel ugly, or feel ugly—it's an introspective view; an extrospective* view is—there are days when the world feels ugly, or feels ugly. And the summation of them says ALL is U.G.L.Y.

There's chaos, disharmony, an elegy.

But there was this one tiny insignificant moment in time and space that uplifted me: the world looked beautiful to me, I felt beautiful in it; I felt connected to the world, the world felt connected to me. And I tried writing a normal post, but it kinda evolved into.., well, it was partly because of the great doctor's haikus, which later found themselves bound in paper. I'm no poet, but I like to play one in my blog. So, without further ado...

019: I Live in the Now

On a Sun soaked day
In the greatest town on Earth
I'm taking a stroll

From down the street...

A boy throws a fit
Tugging at his nanny's arm
But she trudges on

As we cross path...

Her face is stone cold
Revealing nothing, but wait—
Did her eyes just roll?

Giving her a nod
One, full of understanding
I crack a huge smile

How precious is this
A moment of connection
Between two strangers

Continuing my walk...

On a Sun soaked day
In the greatest town on Earth
I realize it

I am fortunate.

I live in the Now.

Now, for the challenge: Write your own haiku(s). Write about some small moment in your life, a moment you felt at peace with the world, at peace with yourself. The teacher in me would like to see you in your haiku. There's no deadline. Consider this an open challenge running indefinitely. Once you post your haiku(s), let me know by sending me a comment or an e-mail. You can even A.I.M. me (fullofhype).

So, would you like to take a haiku? With me?


*I can make up words because I used to be an "English" teacher.

***
***
Addendum (01/18/06 09:51PM): Oh, I almost forgot. I'll consider this challenge a success if I get—and I'm going to dream big here—if I get at least five bloggers to take a haiku with me.

Oh, as I'm watching Lost, I can't get over how hot Matthew Fox is!

139: Here's My Two

I'm... I am temporarily taking myself out of my blogoliday (I used to teach English to Japanese high school students, so I can make up words!) just to respond to my "about-a-month-and-counting long" blog crush's recent posts: this and this, because I also feel that I need to clarify my position. (Although I could just shut up since no one hurled any hate e-mails my way or asked for my "Gay Membership Card" back for believing something that amends the statement: "gay is genetic," I won't.)

So, here's my two cents:

I am a queer because I am a queer. (I do not discount nature; my brethrens and I are in agreement.)

And I am a queer because of how I grew up. (Very controversial, I know! I strongly believe nurture affects the person you are. It may be that some of my brethrens seem to ignore/minimize/deny this view because of the current political and cultural war waged in America.)

I would never say that being gay wasn't genetic. But I think it's a part of the equation—a very significant part. And most of you would agree that what I'm saying isn't new.

***
Consider this: some women are predisposed to some rapid and uncontrolled cell growths in their breasts—they have the "breast cancer genes," but they may live their entire lives without ever having to suffer from the disease; some women do not have the genes, yet they need a mastectomy and chemotherapy. (By the way, if there's any confusion, I am in no way, no how equating being gay is the same as living with (and then perhaps dying from) an "abnormal" state.)

Also, we haven't even found a so-called "gay gene."

So, how can we then give so must credence solely to genetics?

***
And no, I do not think there is just one "gay gene.” A gene usually expresses a state that's either is or is not; on or off; black or white (in the figurative sense), with no shades of gray in the middle. Clearly our experiences and observations in the Human population have taught us that, in human sexuality, there isn't a clear break from gay to straight (see Kinsey). And even biology has taught us that: multiples genes influence the vast array of differences in a trait; for example, your eye color. Then, something as complex as human sexuality cannot be dismissed as something controlled only by just one gene. Even in an evolutionary point of view, if such a "gene" existed, nature would have whittled it away from the population, provided that gays, the absolute polar opposite to the straights, would not breed, because he or she is unable to or unwilling to do a little dance.

***
The examples I'm giving aren't to discount that being gay is genetic. Heaven be damned, should some misguided fundamentalist says that there are gays who believe that being gay is a lifestyle choice and that they can change, and that I am one of those delusional gays. No, I don't want to hear that I can happily be married to a woman with two kids, a dog, and a picket fence around my house, living the ultimate American suburban NIGHTMARE!

***
All I am saying is that genetics is not the end to human sexuality; it's definitely a start. Yes, I believe our sexuality starts with multiple genes working in concert or perhaps some working against some to make you the sexual being you are. But a trait that’s controlled by multiple genes, the expressivity and penetrance of genes, and their combinatory effects, affect its outcome. A colony of E. coli with a lac operon living on a Petri dish with glucose as their main source of energy will have its lac operon muted; a colony of E. coli with a lac operon living on a Petri dish with lactose as their main source of energy will have its lac operon functioning. Yes, we must look at the environment.

We must also take heed that in biology, and it’s a fascinating aspect of it, that there always are exceptions to the rule. A certain stimulus that elicits a certain response from an organism may not elicit the same response from another organism, even if they are the same species. These variables in the equation make it hard to say that one who grew up a certain way will be one thing and another who grew up another way will be another. Or saying that both who grew up a certain way will end up the same would be absurd.

I grew up with an absent father and an overprotective, controlling mother. But ours was a very traditional Korean household, with my uncles and older male cousins acting the surrogate male role models. Some of whom had… well… When I was a child, I was molested—and I liked it, because it was their display of love; and when I was a child, I molested other boys (and a girl) younger than me—and I liked it, because it was my display of love. I got caught; I was reprimanded. Like Adam and Eve, my shame was exposed. I hated myself. I found forgiveness in the church, and I suppressed all things sexual about myself, believing I must be something I am not to be forgiven and loved. Indeed I shouldn't be a molester, but a homosexual? I don’t know, I could have been very successful living that life, and I’d have died a heterosexual. But I found the gay blogosphere and heard from it many voices showing me the true face of God, gracious and loving. Again, I say, I don’t know… I wonder if I had been nurtured some other way, would my true natural tendency—minus the inappropriate hands—had found expression and penetration early on, as I wish it had?

You see, when we do start to look at how nurture, including all aspects of nurture, the controllable and the uncontrollable facets of our surroundings, can strengthen or weaken our natural tendencies, now then, when we truly ponder this, We, the humankind, who hold life’s many diversities and mysteries, We indeed are the true image of God.

***
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And now, back to my regularly scheduled blogoliday. :-)

138: Post Script

I hadn't planned on blogging anymore...

***
I think I still need time to clear my head...

***
I feel too much like a singer in an empty closet singing to himself. Don't get me wrong, I love singing. But more and more, I've spent many a night wondering what kind of songs I should sing, hoping to get more people to join in, to harmonize to my melody, with counterpoints and gracenotes, together becoming a choir; our voices reverberating, filling the world's greatest cathedrals with a sweet, sweet, heavenly sound.

Yet... My ethereal cathedral is but an enduring closet. I've built nothing.

And in despair's comfort, I am cloistered; because in the abundance of my care, I am suffocated, dead, and buried.

***
...Last night, one of my favorite bloggers, to commemorate his first year anniversary, came out...AGAIN. In front of an orange tree stands Simon shedding his secret: his handsome mug revealed, his apprehension cast aside, Simon revels in his quiet triumph of the unexpected. As his orange tree, for the first time since being planted, bears fruit, an unanticipated gospel, Simon heralds in a new birth.

As I sat watching his videocast, my eyes were heavy with welled tears of happiness and of admiration. But I guess Saul reigns in me, for I, too, was at the ready with a spear to thrust into the heart of a boy with his lyre.

***
Stuffed and packed inside the Orient Express, with John Vanderslice crooning into my ears, I empty my head; my thoughts are supplanted with his words, "dance dance revolution..." and my body feels... heavy and light, grounded and uplifted. I see in front of me the World glisten from Helios's gentle caress, his august fingers, more glorious than Midas's, anointing her, the drabiest of drab, my Queens. Robed and crowned, now, with regal splendor, hued with gold and bronze, holds she the globe, her royal orb, the towers, her maces. Her majesty overcomes me. This morning, I am broken; I am blown; I am burnt.

***
The map and Site Meter are gone from my blog. I'm liberated.
I am going to take a hiatus from blogging. It's sensible.
Should there be something to say, I'll visit.
In the meantime, there a world out there to "extrospect."

Forget waiting for Prince Charming.
There's a princess to rescue!
Hermit crab, come out and play.
Hermit crab, come out and play.

137: REsolved to DisSOLve the Malcontent, Une SoluTION

Batter my heart, three-person'd God; for you
As yet but knock, breathe, shine, and seek to mend;
That I may rise, and stand, o'erthrow me, and bend
Your force to break, blow, burn and make me new.
I, like an usurp'd towne, to another due,
Labour to admit you, but Oh, to no end,
Reason, your viceroy in me, me should defend,
But is captiv'd, and proves weak or untrue.
Yet dearly I love you, and would be loved faine,
But am betroth'd unto your enemie:
Divorce me, untie, or break that knot againe,
Take me to you, imprison me, for I
Except you enthrall me, never shall be free,
Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me.

Holy Sonnet XIV - by John Donne

A New Year's Day is some arbitrary day when most of us resolve with a fancy declaration vowing to turn our lives anew. In my mind, I've done the same; I've resolved to dissolve the malcontent. Yet in all honesty, starting this post has been extremely difficult. (Well, then again, nothing for me has ever been easy. But we're not going to talk about that. Let's talk about this:)

As John Donne notes, it's not enough for the Divine to "knock, breathe, shine, and seek to mend" his enslaved heart. Or rather if you do not like idea that the Divine of the Christian faith pulls the strings on the marionette of your constitution, let it be said, then, that it's not enough for "you," the wholly independent "you," and I'd even dare say, the divine in "you," as the puppeteer, to mend the symptoms of your sorrow. It's like taping cracks on a dam ready to unleash thousands of gallons of destruction and death. I believe as John Donne does, I must be overthrown; I must "break, blow, burn" so that I'd be made new. As freshly mined gold ores are refined by fire, let me also be purified into something precious.

But I need help—your help. "Reason, your viceroy in me, me should defend / But is captiv'd, and proves weak or untrue." Plans and goals, I've thought out for myself; faithful and true, I want to remain. However, on the wayside, should these aspirations be lost, despairing I'd be, for yet again, is found, my friend, Failure. Tragic is this that I'll still exist devoid of life; sorrowful still is this that I am a non-entity.

How funny though, the despair is my very own... my baby, my child I've nurtured for far too long...

I should just fade away... This exercise, this blog... of useless introspection, of vanity and pride... just so that I can find myself... Am I finding myself? I am lost. Relevance? Acceptance? Immortality? Love? They don't apply to me. I'm done. I'm finished.

No more...

Let me disappear into oblivion... The splendor of my life was but a futile dream.

136: A Prayer

Dear God,

I ...

...

...

... Fuck it. Forget it.

Amen

135: A Year in Review

I am a minus 11 years, reflecting back on 2005. I admit it hasn't been an easy year. It's been one of struggles, trying my best to keep the darkside, like the one of from overwhelming and consuming me into oblivion. Indeed, it has been a year of realization: I've cradled for far too long too many of my hang-ups and fears. But it has also been a year of recognition: like , I need to confront my short-comings, letting them not become a crutch and growing to become a man I should be. Whether I'd be a sidekick or a hero, like those from , I have to know that I am a man with tremendous worth, a man who is a hero to himself. I've too long dwelled on my limitations, real and perceived, like Sofi from . But through her trials and tribulations, Sofi found a diamond within her, something precious and something strong. Once she gained her power, she was able to save her true love. That's the power of loving the person you are! So, I shall shed my and I shall let love in, empowering me to be unashamed and happy. Yes, Jake, you must grow up like is growing up. So Jake, hustle,, hustle!!! I don't know what 2006 will hold for me, but I feel good things will happen to me. I've always thought that I needed to friendship, because I'm always uprooted, from one place to another, leaving behind loved ones and carrying only memories. No, this time around, with the friends I have, I'll root myself deeper into their bed of friendship; with the friends I will make, I'll embrace them with all of myself. Yes, I feel good things will happen to me. Perhaps even romance will right into my life, heating up the coldest recess of my heart. Once I find romance, I won't have one memory, one place, like , be the end of all; I shall fight for love! I am ready to crawl into the wardrobe, brushing aside from fur coats to fir trees, finding myself in to become a King!

Good bye 2005; Welcome 2006!

134: Ooh Baby Baby

Here's to a shitty 2005! Good bye!

133: Life & Beauty, Part 2

Continued from here.

It's an obsession of the most sublime, of the most vulgar; one that up-lifts, one that cuts down. Cloistered yet again in my darkened confines, with my Powerbook open, I whittle away time, clicking and scrolling away, in search of I don't know what. Meaning? Salvation? ... Oblivion? Then, I see him. It's only a picture, an image. But I'm winded and beatened, pricked and pierced, lashed and thrashed... And yet, the hunger pang forces my eyes to hold the gaze on his wide chest as Moses had on top of Pisgah looking down on the panoramic view of the promised land he would never touch. Slowly, I trace the groove below his oblique muscle that runs down like the River Jordan. And I cross and climb every mound of his ab: my spirit's weighed down; my burden's made heavy. Nail me down and hang me up!

Oh, Bane of Beauty!

132: The Age of Aquarius

When the Moon is in the Seventh House,
And Jupiter aligns with Mars,
Then peace will guide the planets,
And love will steer the stars

Christmas has come and gone and the year's end is just around the corner. And I'm guilty yet again of letting my ennui overcome me. But I think this time around, it's a good thing. Mainly because I can use the New Year as a starting point to implement a pogrom to annihilate the demons of my worse disposition. Well, not all, but some that I believe I have an upper-hand over; I know (wait for it, a cliché cometh) there will be some battles lost, but I'm here for the war to win! (Gee, I sound eerily too much like Bush and his cronies.) Let me defuse the warmongering rhetoric and infuse this post with some New Agey dictum: the New Year will usher in a new chapter of my life, heralding a new age...

This is the dawning of the age of Aquarius...

***
What? Oh, you want to know why I'm talking about the age of Aquarius? Well, I've been singing this damn song for nearly two whole weeks. Forget allowing Christmas carols even a chance to enter into my mind's iTune playlist: Aquarius has been on repeat and it won't be deleted. The blame lies with me, of course, for making a BestBuy run, succumbing, finally, to purchasing and thus inadvertently giving credibility to the unauthorized tale of my sorry ass life in this: Sure, Universal Studios have decided to make our virgin hero white, about two hands full older, and a hetero; and the hero's name is Andy. And granted, Andy is obsessed with amassing action figures, whereas I am obsessed with eyeballing action shots attaining nirvana. But Andy is shy and overlooked, a relative loner, a regimented dork; Andy is kind-hearted, a loyal friend, a good guy; and Andy is asexual... just like me. We are the same: Andy is me, ergo I is Andy. The point I am making is this: Universal Studios claim that "The characters...depicted in this movie are fictitious." Yeah, sure, whatever! "Fictitious," my never-been-poked ass!

***
A never-been-poked ass... Well, might as well, since we're on the subject, we should talk about it. I'm serious. We need to discuss this very important topic.

You know me as Jake, but in reality I have another given name; it's my Korean name, which my American passport now indicates as my middle name. But let me briefly explain about Korean names. As an example, I'll use one of the most recognized Korean names, the one of "Dear Leader," the crazy one, the despot of North Korea, Kim Jung Il (김정일/金正日). Firstly, by tradition, the family name or what we normally call "last" name, in our example, "Kim (김/金)," comes first...

(Um... yeah, briefly... Right. You know what, skip what's to follow, if you don't want to be educated.)

...Secondly, the given name or first name, "Jung Il (정일/正日)," follows. Many westerners think that there are three parts, the first, the middle, and the last, in a Korean name. Sorry, they're idiots; and Koreans who explain it to them as such are bigger idiots.

Now, in a traditional Korean family, such as mine, where being Korean is a religion, the naming of the baby boy is a prerogative of the paternal grandfather, but he has to follow certain conventions taught by some crazy Chinese philosopher, I think, Confucius, and implemented by the clan's patriarch. The patriarch has to make sure each male member of his clan know his place in the clan hierarchy, lest he speak informally and use improper words to his elder, thus causing the ancestors to turn over in their graves in dismay and shock and causing some catastrophic calamity to befall the clan.

Let me use my name as an example: Dongjoon, 동준 (東俊) or Eastern Excellence. Although I was not named by my grandfather, because he had passed away before I was born, my name satisfies the clan's rules. My paternal male cousins of the same generational line and I share the first syllable (Dong/동), or if we look at the Chinese character (hanja), the first hanja (東), of our given names. My grandfather's two brothers, older (Big) and younger (Small), have grandsons. Now some of Big Grandfather's grandsons are in their sixty's and both Small Grandfather's grandsons are in their teens; and we all are in the same generational line, sharing the same hanja (東). What I find remarkable is that the Korean language is hierarchical: how and what you say, or the correct form of speech, is determined by the person you are speaking to. As Korean customs dictate, the honorific language must be spoken to those who are in an elevated position, like your parents, teachers, leaders, bosses...and as a general rule of thumb, someone who's older than you. But my sixty-something year old cousins, when speaking to a couple of my father's younger brothers and to Small Grandfather's two sons, my uncles, all younger than them, these cousins of mine must use the honorific language. If they were total strangers meeting for the first time, the ones using the honorific language would be the younger ones—in this case, my uncles; it's a total role reversal!

(Anyways, my father whose name is Seoktae, 석태 (晳泰), shares the second syllable (hanja), Tae, 태 (泰) with his brothers and cousins. If I have a son and if I want to give him a Korean name, he will share the second syllable (hanja), Sup (○섭/○燮), with his brothers and cousins as well.)

***
(Wow, I can't believe you've stuck around this long, reading something I'm sure is dull as hell. Wow!)

So, as I've mentioned, my cousins and I share the same first syllable in our names: 동 (Dong). Yet... yet... yet...

Well, you know, if we replace the "o" from Dong with a "u," we have... you know. Well, in Korean, if you add a consonant, ㄷ (d), to 동 (dong), you have 똥 (ttong), which has the same meaning as... just guess. So, as I've mentioned, my cousins and I share the same first syllable in our names: 동 (Dong). Yet I get stuck with being called 똥 (ttong)! To the Korean language's credit, though, 똥 (ttong) has a cuter, childish connotation than dung, like poop, doo-doo, and turd. Still, I'd rather have a different nickname. Also to make the matter worse, the person who started calling me 똥 (ttong) is none other than my very own mother! Sigh... All because since my childhood, the uncooperative tail end of my alimentary canal has found me frequenting the porcelain throne for some explosive evacuations. My many visits to the toilet has earned me an unfortunate monicker.

***
Yes, in a way, this brings us back to my never-been-poked ass.

Now, like every healthy (or read, horny) male Homo sapient in this world, my head is frequently penetrated with prurient thoughts, some of lascivious deeds, sure to scandalize if expressed at a family dinner table. Yes, I indeed think about sex. More so, since I'm trying to shed my asexual façade. And with the added benefit of being a Homo—times two with a flash of pink—sapient, I think about SEX.

But as I have heard, "when you're gay, you are either young or 29," and as I can attest to missing out on the "young" portion of my gay existence, I have a lot of catching up to do. Granted, my pre-pubescent years were sometimes fraught with inappropriate hands touching me, leading me, at the age of ten, to play with a boy and a girl two to three years my junior, and then getting caught—my impropriety, my shame brazenly exposed—thus thrusting me to a prison of asexuality. It's time the pendulum swung the other way: I subsisted at the hypo-sexual end of the Sexual Standard Deviation curve for far too long, the inner whore needs to be let out, ushering in...

the age of Aquarius; the age of Aquarius

Still...

My gastrointestinal tract gives me trouble. Once when a bloody stool found me on an examination table with the good doctor's finger up my ass circling around my rectum compacted with what I'm sure was brown caca with patches of scarlet, let's just say, I was thoroughly embarrassed. Once in the throes of a self (ahem) exploration session, upon an accidental insertion of an index digit into the nether-regions thought to be fully evacuated and cleaned, and on contact with some gut-churned remnants, let's just say, I was thoroughly grossed out. So, in a way, I'm deterred from the acts of penetration, as a giver and definitely as a taker. But the very nature of hot sex, from what I gather, is spontaneity. Does one, then, if he's a bottom, carry around an enema kit? And it's such a mood killer, too. "Would you pardon me for a moment? I need to prepare." Yuck!

But I'm adaptable. I won't not withhold the battering ramp from an opened gate and I won't not keep the gate shut.

So, I declare to you the gate is open, so...

When the Moon is in the Seventh House,
And Jupiter aligns with Mars,
Then peace will guide the planets,
And love will steer the stars,
This is the dawning of the age of Aquarius,
The age of Aquarius, the age of Aquarius

131: Who Will Win?

Yet again I find another awesome jewel from transbuddha. Where do they find these treasures?

Check it out, y'all!

And check out some other rad tracks from Lemon Demon.

130: A Rainy Christmas

The weather forecast predicts rain for New York City. We'll have a rainy Christmas.

So on this rainy Christmas day, I wanted to bring Christ back to Christmas. No, no, stop laughing. Okay, there's no need to roll your eyes, Mister. Seriously, do not worry, my brothers and sisters, I won't go fundamentalist on you. Nor will I preach. And don't seek a well thought out apologetic from what I'm about to say. A statement of one's faith, however well reasoned and logical, is considered a foolish ramble; and here I am the biggest fool.

But what this fool wants to ramble about is this: despite the loudness of some church-goers' tirade with their chants of "God hates fags," I do not buy into their lies! I believe in God; I believe He loves you and me just as we are. I believe He sent some two thousand years ago a nice Jewish baby who taught us love. I believe once this nice Jewish boy grew up, He walked around Judaea and Galilee healing and teaching, and even transforming lives. I believe He even died for the sake of love. And yes, I believe He rose from the dead.

For that I live; I live each day to love God, to love my neighbors, and to love myself.

If anyone thinks the shame and the disappointment I've sheltered and at times am still sheltering within me is because of who I am, well, one may be partially correct. But it has more to do with my shortcomings, which is a part of who I am, the limited and imperfect love I have for God, for my neighbors, and for myself. I pray that I can be more loving, not because I want to win points from God, assuring myself a ticket to heaven, but because I believe I can take part in building a Kingdom of God, here on Earth, now.

So on this day, a day when some well-intentioned believer decided to usurp a pagan holiday to make it the Lord's birthday, I am brought back to the wonder of it all. Hmm... every day should be Christmas, so I'd never forget the wonder of love.

Merry Christmas, everyone. I love you all.

As a little treat(?—well, you can decide), I'm posting a recording of me singing. I used to be in a Christian a cappella group back in college. I think I was pretty good. Hahaha, whatever.

Let It Rain. Originally performed by Newsboys.

129: Best Christmas Present Ever

So, back when I used to live in Japan, I raised a puppy, whom I named Ocha, the Japanese word for "tea," because of her coat and because I like Japanese tea.

When I first got Ocha, she was about 3 months old and she fit inside my two hands. Whenever I lifted her up to give her a kiss, she returned the love with an ample amount of licks, thus melting my heart and wetting my face. At first Ocha was a peeing and crapping machine, and later on I found her to be a little bit blonde, but I loved her nonetheless. Everyday, when I returned from work, her two front paws would extend forward, lowering the front half of the body, as if to bow, and her tail would wag at 100 mph. As I took a step closer to her, she'd quickly get up and start hopping like a crazed kangaroo, then she'd pounce on me. Think Dino from the Flintstones.

***

A fellow Assistant Language Teacher (ALT—a JET Programme participant), S, who lived in a town next to mine had a reputation among her neighbors as an animal rescuer. S had found a litter of abandoned kittens and took those dirty, mewing critters home with her. She sent out a mass e-mail to all the foreign teachers in my prefecture asking if anyone would be interested in raising a kitten. Two ALTs, C who happened to be my next door neighbor and P who happened to live not too far from me, each volunteered to take one in. So, when I saw C and P becoming parents to two cute allergy-inducing creatures, I felt a tinge of jealousy and wistfully wished out loud, "if only S had found puppies instead of kittens, I'd adopt one just like that," snapping my fingers.

Fast forward a few weeks, C comes over to my bungalow and says, "S has found a puppy. Do you want it?" You see, S's reputation in her neighborhood has garnered her an unexpected visitor. One day, this visitor came over to S's house with a puppy in tow. Standing in the genkan, an area inside the house where one would take her shoes on and off, an area which the Japanese consider it a public space, the visitor called out to S, "do you want a puppy?" Startled, S came out to the genkan, politely refused the puppy, and sent the interloper on her way. The next morning, as she was about to get on her bike to go to the Junior High School she taught at, her eyes noticed a moving box. Inside it she found the puppy from the night before abandoned. S again sent out a mass e-mail. I read it but at first didn't think much of it; C read it and remembered what I had said.

I had become a proud parent to Ocha.

***

It's a month before my JET contract is set to expire and a month before my departure, but I'm finding myself driving down the winding mountain road with tears welling up. I've just left the prefectural government animal shelter after speaking with one of the caretakers, or whom I would call murderers. When my search for a new home for Ocha yielded no fruit, I've driven up to the animal shelter to ask them if they can take my Ocha in and find her a new family to love her. (Yes people, I would have brought Ocha back with me to the States, but the lack of assurance on my part—will I return home to my Mom's where there's a no pet policy or will I end up in grad school?—the uncertainty made that option impossible.) After hearing my situation, the staff worker at the shelter informs me, "Sure, we can take your dog." But even if by some good fortune, they find a new home for Ocha, she continues, "We are not obligated to let you know. In fact, we are not allowed to." And in an unfortunate circumstance Ocha isn't placed in a new home in three days, in a matter-of-fact tone, void of compassion and full of steely cold, the staff worker concludes, "Your dog will be put to sleep." Murderers!

Once I get home, Ocha greets me with her ritual bow; I let myself fall when she pounces. I give her the biggest and longest hug I can give; she lets me while licking my tears away. I vow never to hand over Ocha into their hands, to cast her away to a most grievous end. I spring into action, calling everyone I knew, asking all of them if they want a dog or know anyone who would, asking those who told me that they may know someone who may want a dog to redouble their efforts and come back to me with a certain "yes" or "no" and not with a dubious "may;" I plead and plead, fighting to give Ocha a new beginning.

Then comes M, a sweet Japanese gal, whom I've met at my favorite bar and befriended immediately, and who has been a gracious target of my childish tease. M calls me, letting me know that she will take Ocha. But she tells me, because she lives under her parents' roof, her only trial is to convince them to give Ocha a home; noticing my immediate despondence, she assures me that it's hardly a tribulation and then asks me to send her pictures of Ocha. Five minutes have not even passed since I've e-mailed the pictures when M calls me back, "They said okay!" My heart leaps with joy: Ocha will have a new family.

***

I won't bore you with how Ocha and I were parted. What I wanted to do when I started writing this post was that—I've gotten a Christmas card from M, and she had put inside the card the best Christmas present I could have received this year—I wanted to share it with you. Inside the card were three pictures. Take a look:

Her new mother (well, not really; M's been with Ocha now for 2.5 years) has been spoiling her; it seems like Ocha is a little wide around the sides. But I'm thankful that she looks so happy.

Yes, this is the best Christmas present ever!

128: Am I?

Well, "supposedly," I've made it to work. Albeit late. It sucks that I'm here. And I'm procrastinating!

Blah!

Anyways, I saw something here which I found interesting(?)—well, not totally, but whatever—and I've decided to do the same. Hmm... I think I steal a lot from Mr. Brian.

Who would have thunked that answering just four questions can reaffirm something I already knew about myself? Don't you forget it, people! The test never lies.

Your Blogging Type Is Thoughtful and Considerate

You're a well liked, though underrated, blogger. You have a heart of gold, and are likely to blog for a cause. You're a peaceful blogger - no drama for you! A good listener and friend, you tend to leave thoughtful comments for others.

What's Your Blogging Personality?

I so am not! Am I?

Well... I am underrated... I like to think that I have a heart of gold, but... I absolutely do not like to stir any controversy, cuz, I mean, why can't we all just...be friends?

So, am I? (It's a rhetorical question, please don't answer it.)

127: Supposedly

Supposedly, it's like 1:30 in the morning.
Supposedly, I should go to sleep...
Well, supposedly, whatever!

Supposedly, I am now back in NYC.
Supposedly, I have to go to work in the morning, even with the Transit strike!
Supposedly, the commute is going to suck.
Supposedly, I told my boss that I'd take the LIRR to get into Manhattan.
Supposedly, once I get in, I'd either (a) take the Path train from 34th Street to get down to SoHo or (b) walk.
Supposedly, I told my boss I'd be late.
Supposedly, I told my boss all this while we were in Chicago, supposedly.

But, supposedly, there are Chinatown buses that take you from C-Town/K-Town in Queens to Chinatown in Manhattan.
Supposedly, Chinatown buses are a faster option.
So, supposedly, the commute isn't going to suck as much.
Supposedly, I should take the bus.
Then, supposedly, I'd be a good drone.
But, supposedly, the traffic is going to be bad.
So, supposedly, I want to fling my hands up and just stay home, supposedly.

Finally, supposedly, I've used "supposedly" wrong, supposedly.

126: Like, Oh My God

In Chicago for work (stop)
The day's lowest temp here was -1 degree! (stop)
With the windchill, -13 fucking degree! (stop)
Transit strike in NY (stop)
My fellow co-workers will call (stop)
"We can't get to work" (stop)
Hmm... (stop)
Will they have to come in to work? (stop)

If they don't, then it sucks for me to have to work...
If they do, then it sucks for them to try to come in to work...

No, it just sucks for all of us, period (stop)

125: Outraged

This article in the New York Times finds me fuming. I keep wondering, "What if it had been me?" "What if I become like them?" I really don't know how to articulate this outrage...

A couple of months ago, at my friend, R's wedding, my friend E and I offer our pregnant friend, G, who has brought her daughter, C—she's in her terrible two—to spend one night in our hotel room. In the morning, while G is getting ready in the bathroom, leaving E and me to tend to her child, laid on top of the bed I had used but had given up for the guests is C rolling, crawling, and trying to stand on the bouncy surface, oftentimes close to falling. I quickly make my way over to the bed and sit down, forming a barrier between C and the floor. Like what a good uncle should do, I pick her up, bounce her up and down, gently toss her down, all of which make C giggle with delight. At one point I even tickle her. Then E, looking on from across the room, pipes in saying, "You know what they say, most molestations start with tickling."

Bam! I feel like I've been punched in the stomach; the word, "tickling," echoes in my head.

Then, my mind plays back old memories I'm suppressing. Those of their hands. Those of pleasure... Yes, I know what they did is wrong, but I can't deny the pleasure their hands brought. And I hate myself for having liked their touches. Sometimes I wonder (and I don't know if I can explain my thought cogently but), if Kinsey is right about the sexuality rating scale and nurture does make the man you are (or nurture can increase the expressivity of a low penetrant gene), then have I been pushed towards the homosexual range because of pleasure, nurture's positive reinforcer? Then can the lingering memories of what had happened cause me to become like them, the monsters with their hands?

I don't want to open my Pandora's box any further...

Christmass approaches and yet I'm writing about...

124: Endorsable

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

123: What Are You Waiting For?

Just go and watch this masterpiece! Also, read the gut wrenching, beautiful short story that started it all!

122: I Believe

I believe in angels, angels of our better nature; I believe in demons, demons of our worse disposition.

It's Friday; the last work day of the week and a glorious pay day as well. Yet within me the demons are out to play in full force. With each tick I feel the cold fingers of gloom grappling me, pulling me down; with every tock I emanate pulsating negativity so dark, the angels flee, and I am truly afraid...for myself.

What was the trigger? Most likely, it was something so innocuous it's hardly worth remembering.

Damn it! I blame the drug!

I believe in community and solitude; I believe in cliques and loneliness.

It's 4:30 in the afternoon; I take a long, hard, and final drag on the stub of already my fifth cigarette of the day. A few minutes before stepping outside for a quick head rush, I've IMed my go-to friend, wanting to find out if she'd like to hangout. I’ve kept our chat casual, kept it light; but really, it is a distress call, an S.O.S., because I need to hear something else other than my own voice, because more and more I feel like…

…I’m naked. Alone. In an empty space. In front of me stands a tall mirror wall reflecting my image. The man across from me—the body distorted, the face contorted, all grotesque—this monster leers at me. I turn away, afraid he’d break the glass boundary that separates us and terrified he’d jump me into a humiliating submission; I run.

It’s around 10:00 in this nippy evening; my friend treads down the subway station, as I look on from a sidewalk of Lower East Side. I’m left to my own devices yet again, but I’m not ready to go home. I don’t want to waste this temporary joie de vivre, this flushed red warmth fueled by some good banters and fruity cocktails. I stumble down to the Slide and pay $15 for the all you can drink deal, which also gets me a yellow glow-stick wristband. I order the gin and tonic at the bar, sit myself down in the corner, which happens to be my favorite spot anywhere I go, and wonder why the guy who took the $15 asked me the most inappropriate question: “Are you a top, bottom, versatile, or do you not want to comment?” With a shrug, I chug my favorite poison down, and up I go again to the bar to order the same. On my way back, I notice the establishment’s clientele wearing their glow-stick wristbands, yet these are different from mine: a couple of gossiping friends sitting across from me wore blue bands, a gang of jolly revelers who just entered the bar had on red, blue, and green bands. Yet, I am the only one stuck with the yellow! As I am about to sit in my corner, a poster on a wall catches my eyes. It reads, “Red=Top; Blue=Bottom; Green=Versatile; Yellow=No Comment.” Oh my God, my quick reactionary quip to the question at the door has made me yellow (every pun intended). I don’t know what is worse: learning just way too much about people I hardly know or showcasing my lack of openness and experience to all these guys! I chug my drink down again, fast. I again go for another. With the cup in hand, I back away from the bar. My red, hot face is the source of this August in December; my spinning head needs support from the sturdy wall I’ve found to lean against. But the few seconds of respite is greeted by an older gentleman standing on my right, with an alarmed voice, yelping, “Your hair is on fire!” Indeed, I’ve managed to lean my head next to a candle. A cute guy on my left with the red wristband jumps into action, patting my burning hair, helping me extinguish the fire. Once my shock attenuates a bit, I mumble a word of thanks to the man on my right, and quip about the situation to the cute guy on my left. But alas, they both walk off, leaving me to stroke my head feeling the little, thankfully, very little gaping bald spot. Then quickly I gather my belongings and head for the door; I run.

I believe in celebration of life’s little practical jokes; I believe in desperation of life’s little practical jokes. (A caveat: I’ll celebrate it on you; I’ll despair it on me; until security finds me impervious.)

It’s 1:00ish in the afternoon. The unsatisfying experience the night before sets ablaze the negative aura of my constitution. I’m sluggish, but I pretty myself up somewhat to go out to meet a friend from L.A. who’s in town for a visit. How do I keep from her this gnawing feeling? The one that I’ve been having, the one where…

…I’m running. Away from the mirror wall. Suddenly the ground trembles; crack, the ground splits, from the divide rises another great mirror wall. I turn away and run again. From the corner of my eyes, I see the two mirror walls closing in on me, the monsters following suit. Then the heavens thunder; crash, up from the vast sky falls another mirror. I slide to avoid a collision into the wall. I crawl back up. I have to run, run away. Yet in front of me, a gale force wind blows over me; boom, the fourth mirror speeds toward me. Now, I’m surrounded by mirrors, and all around me are gruesome monsters ogling, mocking, taunting me. A mirror ceiling appears, causing me to look down to the only surface where there are no monsters. But I am not so lucky, because the ground disappears; I fall into the abyss. Breaking my fall is a mirror platform, which takes me back up, enclosing me in a box of mirrors. I yell. Terrified. My voice echoing inside the chamber, growing louder, as each sound wave bounces off, as if all the monsters inside the mirrors are yelling. From afar, the lights go off, the darkness rushing towards me like a tsunami. Then, all is black.

I believe in the throb, the pull, the urge.

He comes to me from behind. He taps my shoulder and I turn to look at him. A flash of recognition, a pang of hunger, we embrace and kiss. His hand gently travels down my chest, my abdomen, finding its way to the outline of the bulge inside my jeans. He cups it, whispering in my ear how good it feels in his hand. He unbuttons my jeans and slips his hand inside, kneading the hardening growth. A groan, a murmur of satisfaction leaves my mouth. He turns and slides into my hard-on, rubbing me, heating me. He reaches over and slides down my jeans and I do the same. His two voluptuous mounds spread open and within the crevasse my dick slides up and down gushing pre-cum. He turns his head and locks his piercing chestnut eyes into mine, and he implores, “Fuck me.” His hole puckers, ready to kiss my head. I push in. The head disappears. He moans; I groan. My hands run up and down his torso, his arms, feeling them tremble in anticipation. I run my hands up his tensing and relaxing thighs. His tight, clenching hole loosens up, his sweat trickles down to my pole, allowing me to enter him a little bit more. He arms rest against the wall for support. My hands busily explore every part of his body that can be explored. Slowly and surely, we undulate; we undulate to the rhythm of our creation, dancing in ecstatic frenzy.

Suddenly my cell phone rings. The lights in my hotel room return. It’s 6:45 on a rainy Sunday early evening in Atlanta. I’ve been sitting in front of my laptop. The exploratory search of gay night life around my hotel has turned into something unexpected; it has turn into my very first cyber-sexual encounter with a total stranger. The phone call from my boss has deflated the inflation, reprieving me from la petite mort.

I believe in the expected; I believe in the unexpected.

A few hours after and just right before I lay myself down, I stand in front of a mirror and look at myself, my body still vibrating and tingling, refreshed from the sheer senuality of the moment. For the first time in a long while, I don’t see the monster. In front of me stands a man with a biggest, goofiest smile. Perhaps I have to stop looking at myself with such a critical eye. Why is it that I needed a different perspective from a different set of eyes to tell me that I’m interesting, that I’m desirable? Change is definitely what I need; change is what I am working on.

I believe in me.

Take a listen to this: In the Waiting Line by Zero 7

(Addendum 12/13/05 3:15AM: Finally, I posted the weekend recap.)

121: Greetings and Salutations

I am currently in Atlanta. I've arrived late this afternoon. Well, for work...

But this business trip is shaping out to be quite...uncharacteristic, which by the way I am quite stoked about. Because a deviation from the routine or from the expected is always, I repeat, ALWAYS exhilarating. Of course, there may be a down side, too. In that you find your face glowing neon red from embarrassment...

Well, when the fluorescent glow dims...I may talk about it.

Truthfully, this whole weekend has been interesting. Not just today...

I apologize for keeping things vague. Maybe next time... Seriously.

120: Typical!

So this morning, on my way to work, I...

1. saw a man being carried out of the subway station on a stretcher by four firemen, of which two were actually fit, like calendar model material fit.
2. saw an assault, aka a fistfight, involving two women. The usage of "cunt," 1; "bitch, what did you call me?" 4; the entertainment value, priceless.
3. heard the conductor say, "stay clear of the closing door," about a good handful of times at each station the train stopped. Each time he said it, his voice got steelier and sharper, too.

With the movement of bodies tilted significantly towards coming in than going out, or in a biological term, "going against the concentration gradient," thus elongating the time spent at a station, and further acerbated by the train, while in between stations, jolting to a halt, for a good few minutes, the resulting effect was that I had a miserable commute and I was late!

Oh, how I love New York!

119: World AIDS Day & A Check List

***

I saw this on Mr. Brian's site and I decided to copy it. Mainly because I haven't had time to actually sit down and write something meaningful. Some may call it laziness; I call it aphasia. Well, it does take me a quite a while to write anything down and make it sound decent. But anyway, it really is a good meme.

I . . .
(x) smoked a cigarette (I'm working on quitting.)
(x) crashed a friend's car
(x) Got drunk with a good friend
( ) stolen a car
( ) been in love
( ) been dumped
(x) shoplifted
( ) been fired
(x) been in a fist fight
( ) snuck out of your parent's house

( ) been arrested
(x) gone on a blind date
(x) skipped school
( ) seen someone die
(x) been to Canada
(x) been to Mexico
(x) been on a plane
( ) purposely set a part of yourself on fire
(x) eaten Sushi
(x) been skiing.. snowboarding

(x) been moshing at a concert (Well, not really at a concert, but at a small but crowded club in Osaka. The DJ, after spinning some quality dance music, decided to play "Nookie." My friends and I rolled our eyes, shrugged, and started moshing, which led to the DJ quickly changing the record.)
( ) taken painkillers
( ) love someone or miss someone right now
(x) lain on your back and watched cloud shapes go by
(x) made a snow angel
( ) flown a kite
(x) built a sand castle
( ) gone puddle jumping
( ) played dress up
(x) jumped into a pile of leaves
(x) gone sledding

(x) cheated while playing a game
(x) been lonely (Always!)
(x) fallen asleep at work/school
( ) used a fake id
(x) watched the sun set
(x) felt an earthquake/tremor
(x) touched a snake
(x) slept beneath the stars
(x) been tickled (And they say, tickling can lead to some inappropriate hands...)
(x) been robbed (Does getting mugged count?)
(x) been misunderstood (ALL THE TIME!)

(x) pet a reindeer/goat (Actually, I've held a baby goat.)
( ) won a contest
(x) run a red light
( ) been suspended from school
(x) been in a car crash
( ) had braces
( ) eaten a whole pint of ice cream in one night
(x) had deja vu
(x) danced in the moonlight
(x) liked the way you look (But that feeling goes away rather quickly.)
(x) witnessed a crime (Just this morning.)

(x) questioned your heart (ALL THE TIME!!!)
( ) been obsessed with post-it notes
( ) squished barefoot through the mud
(x) been lost (And confused.)
(x) been to the opposite side of the country
(x) swum in the ocean
(x) felt like dying (Be me for a while.)
(x) cried yourself to sleep (See above.)
(x) played cops and robbers
( ) recently colored with crayons
(x) sung karaoke (Get me away from a mic.)

(x) paid for a meal with only coins
(x) done something you told yourself you wouldn't ("I've quit smoking." A few hours later, I'm puffing away.)
(x) made prank phone calls
( ) laughed until some kind of beverage came out of your nose
( ) caught a snowflake on your tongue
( ) danced in the rain
( ) written a letter to Santa Claus
( ) been kissed under a mistletoe
( ) watched the sun rise with someone you care about
(x) blown bubbles
(x) made a bonfire on the beach (Does playing with fireworks count? It involves fire.)

( ) crashed a party
(x) gone roller-skating
(x) had a wish come true
( ) worn pearls
( ) jumped off a bridge
( ) ate dog/cat food
( ) told a complete stranger you loved them
( ) kissed a mirror
(x) sung in the shower (Every day.)
(x) had a dream that you married someone (But the person always is faceless.)
( ) glued your hand to something

( ) got your tongue stuck to a flag pole
( ) kissed a fish
( ) sat on a roof top
(x) screamed at the top of your lungs
( ) done a one-handed cartwheel
( ) talked on the phone for more than 6 hours
(x) stayed up all night
( ) didn't take a shower for a week
( ) pick and ate an apple right off the tree
(x) climbed a tree
( ) had a tree house
( ) are scared to watch scary movies alone

( ) believe in ghosts
( ) have more then 30 pairs of shoes
( ) worn a really ugly outfit to school just to see what others say
( ) gone streaking
(x) gone doorbell ditching
( ) played chicken
( ) jumped into a pool/hot tub/lake with all your clothes on
( ) been told you're hot by a complete stranger (I wish!)
( ) broken a bone
(x) been easily amused
(x) caught a fish then ate it

(x) caught a butterfly
(x) laughed so hard you cried
(x) cried so hard you laughed
(x) cheated on a test
( ) have a Britney Spears CD
(x) forgotten someone's name
(x) French braided someone's hair
( ) gone skinny dipping in a pool
( ) been threatened to be kicked out of your house
( ) been kicked out your house
( ) have had a fantasy over someone you love as a good friend
( ) sun tanned naked
( ) ran naked in the rain

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.