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.

178: Oh, What a Night!

Boy, my feet are hurting.

I've just returned from volunteering at Dance 20, the Gay Pride week's grand finale. Even the wet weekend didn't stop this event from being a success. Actually, the party gods must have smiled on us, because we only got lightly sprinkled on. By the time J. Lo finished performing, the clouds started to dissipate, the black night sky was a great backdrop for the spectacular fireworks that followed. There were definite oohs and aahs.

I can definitely volunteer for this every year. Free access to the thumpa-thumpa and a fabulous diva performance, who can say, "No thanks," hmm? Not to mention the hot men and the pretty boys proudly displaying their strength and beauty.

I'm full. And the two bananas kept my energy up!

Oh, what a night!

177: A Chat

It's a private chat conversation I had with a close friend, a friend I've known since high school. I'm making it public, with her permission.

Please forgive my grammar and spelling mistakes.

Click and Ye shall enlarge.

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176: 100TAM 2.0 (Work In Progress #2)

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