Friday, April 28, 2006


Julia stopped by last night on a whim, and as we haven’t seen each other for a sum total of a two weeks (a very long time in the history of “us”), “stopping by” became “shooting the shit” for three hours, watching CSI and then almost severing my toe.

We were sitting in front of the television after eating, and I knocked a knife off of the coffee table and it promptly landed on my left foot middle toe.

A significant amount of gibberish/expletives began to stream out of my mouth at a very fast rate while Julia stared at me agape.

“Does it hurt?”

“Fuck yeah, it hurts!”

Thankfully, it was only (don’t laugh) a butter knife. In my defense, it’s a really sharp butter knife that weighs a ton, so the combination of jagged sharp teeth, considerable mass and velocity with which it flipped off the table and landed on my foot made for a pretty nasty gash. Had it been a sharper knife, bye-bye toe.

Which would have been a shame because I wouldn’t be able to flip people off with my feet anymore.


Happy Hour


HH. No it doesn't mean "holding hands" you damned acronym fiends. It means happy hour, and that's what I did after work yesterday with my boy J. It turned out that J had abstained from alcohol for the entire week, completely uncharacteristic of him (and me) considering he's a total alcoholic. I said it before, and I'll say it again, the guy's straight out of an after school special. The kind of guy who probably put vodka in his thermos in second grade, and carried around a huge pack of Big League Chew to cover up the smell. Because of the fact that he hadn't touched alcohol in such a long time, he wanted to get drunk and fast. And that's exactly what we did.

Fast forward and we're at Midtown East. The venue is a place called PS450 and it's filled with yuppies, suits, big dicks and the occasional chubby Jew with a Ronald Mc Donald haircut (J) and skinny short Asian with a Hong Kong superstar haircut (me) wandering around drunk off our asses staring at people and drooling. This is where I learn that I'm a bad wingman. Every time we go out, J goes to work. He seems to have this bar omniscience. Just by glancing over at a chick, he can tell their personality, why they're at the bar, who they're with, the name of their 3rd grade teacher and whether or not they like it in the ass. He's been playing the game so long that it's not surprising. It's really impressive though. Me, on the other hand, I'm completely fucking clueless. A chick could slap me and I'd reply with, "So does that mean you'll call me?"

J approaches two girls, one's a heifer and the other's got potential so he goes at it.

"Check this out, this is B's old ID card and that's how his hair used to be. Tell me, doesn't it look much better now?"

"Yeah, definitely."

Then the two begin some sort of conversation but I'm just standing there like a statue. Then suddenly attention is directed to me and J says, "So what do you think?"

I start twiddling my fingers and giggling like a little schoolgirl.

"Ummm... what's wrong with your friend?"

"Ummm... I dunno, B, you alright?"

Once again, I start twiddling my fingers and giggling like a little schoolgirl. Some drool slips this time. Needless to say, the girls stop talking to us.

I stop by a sushi joint on my way home and order the sushi regular. Most of the wasabe at Manhattan sushi places are weak as hell, so I always put a lot into the soy sauce. And I was drunk so I worried that I might be exceptionally numb to it, and ended up adding a lot more than usual. Intense. I love how wasabe just keeps getting more and more intense until you feel like you can't handle it anymore, and then right at the breaking point where you're about to start crying, it dies down. This time, it kept getting more and more intense for like a full minute and I just sat there holding my head together out of fear that my head would explode while thinking to myself, "Ahh... the life of a Manhattanite! It doesn't get much better than this..."

Thursday, April 27, 2006

Grammar Lesson #1

"Your" refers to something belonging to you. I.e. "Your face is ugly." and "I am your master."

"You're" is short for you are. I.e. "You're an asshole." and "If you didn't learn this in elementary school, you're a moron."

There is no reason anyone should not know this.


Wednesday, April 26, 2006

Cyber Love

To a certain degree, I understand it. Although I sold most of my soul to the devil for three jelly beans and a pint of Killians four years ago in St. Louis, the freckle of healthy pink flesh on the grey stone in my chest has been there. I’ve met the stupid cute guy with the stupid smile and thought to myself, humina humina humina blub blub blub.

I have even, I reluctantly confess, written about it in a style reminiscent of dollar ninety-nine Danielle Steele – in my diary, in my old blog.

Boyfriend came over and surprised me today with a gift. I am the luckiest girl in the world. He is the cutest widdle snugglemuffin ever!

(Excuse me, I just threw up in my mouth a little bit)

I’ve come close to experiencing that breaking point where infatuation segues into insanity (a la Tom Cruise). I can understand how people who fall in love find that it takes every modicum of self-control to quell the urge to run down the streets announcing it to everyone they see. I can see how celebrities find it difficult, deep within the throes of mutual lunacy (aka love), and given a broad forum in which to broadcast this, are unable to resist speaking at great length and detail about their shmoopy woopy sugar bear.

I understand, I see, but I don’t agree.

I know everyone is quick to point the finger once they break up. Oh, they shouldn’t have publicized their relationship so much. The media wouldn’t hassle them so much if they had kept their private life private.

But everyone does it to a lesser extent. Whether it’s gushing about a new flame to your circle of friends until they begin to turn blue, or doodling names on the cover of your notebook for all to see, or, in the advent of technology, writing about it on your site for the entire world. With blogs growing in popularity, offering a creative outlet for those with talent who would otherwise have no place to showcase their ability and with more and more voyeurs scanning the web for internet soap operas and reality shows to live vicariously through, more people are feeling the need to push the envelope in order to attract readers and book deals.

Some people do this, in what I consider, the most disgusting way possible.

Feel free to write about your foot fetish, your bizarre penchant for pachyderms, detailed accounts of casual encounters exclusively with men named “Bob.”

But don’t recount how your boyfriend fucked your brains out while shoving his finger up your ass and then gush about how the wedding’s set for June. Don’t say you can still smell his scent lingering on your pillow when he’s away, then copy and paste an IM conversation in which he tells you he wants to watch you play with yourself.

Being irritatingly corny about someone you’re dating on a channel where the entire world, the vast majority of whom you don’t know and quite possibly might never want to know, can access this information is tacky enough. But to gush about how pure and true your love for someone is and then recount in detail how he took you from behind against the kitchen stove is just exploiting the thing you are trying to convince yourself is “real.”

News flash: It's not.

So the next time your “soulmate” is going down on you and you’re savoring every detail so you can write about it on your website later, keep in mind that Frank with the beer gut from Staten Island will be wiping the white smears from his computer screen so he can read it.



Monday, April 24, 2006

Just Sayin'...

I believe the more politically correct term is "Little Person."



5' 6"


I’m an introvert. Well, I if I get introduced to someone, I’ll go through the usual motions and indulge in the brief mindless chit chat that ensues after an introduction. But aside from this, when I’m at clubs, I’m just a total introvert. I’m that guy you see at a club who stands there trying really hard to look comfortable, who bobs his head up and down to the music, but is very obviously a complete and total weirdo. I’ve accepted this, and I’ve also accepted the fact that everyone on God’s green earth is completely aware of this. So I end up doing the next best thing: I get so mind numbingly drunk that I forget the fact that I’m an introvert.

I’m a small guy, 5’ 6, about 145 pounds (of pure unadulterated steel cast god-muscles) but before I go out, I always have a 40 oz Coors light, or sometimes a bottle of red wine (sometimes both). Some people drink just this for the entire night, but for me, this is a pre-drink. Then comes the Jack and Cokes, oh the Jack and Cokes. I love those bartenders who fill like half the glass with Jack because that means I’ll only need like 5 to become incoherent.

When I’m drunk, I’m no longer 5’ 6. I’m fucking Yao Ming man. I’ll yell and spit when I talk, and you’ll fucking like it. I’ll complain and complain about how no one ever has anything interesting to say at bars anymore, but I’ll be slurring and swaying so profusely that it’ll come out in tongues. When I’m drunk, I’m the richest man at the bar, and not the modest rich guy, I’m talking about the arrogant, “throw your wad of singles at the bartender’s face” type of rich guy who buys all his friends a drink and charges it on his Master Card that’s teetering on the brink of extinction because of the fact that the bill hasn’t been paid since mom and dad decided that you were too old to support. But after a while it all begins fading, and that’s when I know it’s time to go home. Usually alone, but that’s all right. Because I’m fucking Yao Ming man.

Clubs suck when you’re 5’ 6. I mean, I’m not incredibly short, but in one of those posh NYC nightclubs, I’m a fucking midget. I like those Lower East Side dive bars because the people there are more realistic. They aren’t all giants, plus, they’re easier to talk to. Why is it that there are no midget nightclubs? I mean, you’ve got nightclubs for the gays, and just about every race you can think of. But where are the midget nightclubs? I would SO go to those, and I would SO be the man there. I’d just beat up all the midgets and take the finest midget home. So watch out man, if you’re a midget, you’re on my shitlist…


1) First off, I checked my site meter today to discover that between the hours of 2AM and 9AM EST today, I received more hits on my site than the entire five or so months I've had the damn thing up. Further proof that this guy's opinion carries a significant amount of weight amongst the bored insomniac masses. Thanks for that.

2) Food poisoning on Friday = inability to stomach more than one meal for three days = alcohol tolerance reminiscent of high school, 15 years old, getting drunk for the first time on three shots of Bacardi Limon.

3) Whoever said you can't make up for lost sleep is out of their gourd. I quite easily logged 40+ hours of uninterrupted deep sleep this weekend and, despite settling into a restless, turbulent, half-drunk slumber last night, feel fresh and ready to do stuff that people who get enough sleep do, like write bullshit on their blogs.

4) Mothers always know best. My mom reminded me five times this morning to remember to take my umbrella to work. Naturally, I forgot and ended up coming into work looking like I crawled out of a sewer drain.

5) That's all, really, but having only four Mondayisms seemed kind of weak. Plus five is a prime number.


Friday, April 21, 2006


I've got nothing for you today but food poisoning.

Fucking Korean food...


Thursday, April 20, 2006


Apparently, I hate white people.

You think this'll put a damper on my ability to get Irish men?


Wednesday, April 19, 2006


Anyone who knows me, knows that it takes a lot to offend me. I throw shit at people left and right, so the least I can do is be a good sport about it when they throw it back. I also have a potty-mouth like you've never seen, so I don't mind when people make inappropriate comments in my presence.

No problem.

However, I was genuinely offended when I received the following message in my MySpace inbox a week ago (yes, I have a MySpace profile, but I assure you I do not use it to solicit casual encounters with strange men):

Subj: awww...
Msg: let me grab 'em titties... and then rub my 8 incher all over them

Absolutely appalled.

Mouth-open-in-disbelief-disgusted-horrified appalled.

Don’t get me wrong, I’ve heard worse from men in the past, but the thing that really got me about this message was the source.

Name: Chen-Yi
Age: 29
Location: Edison, New Jersey
General Interests: Karaoke (oh man, I can’t…), Clubs (of course. Where else would he meet chicks to rub his “8-incher” all over), CounterStrike (this just keeps getting better), Chinese Chess (I actually like Chinese Chess too! We should get married!)
Favorite Music: Canto Pop (wtf is this?), Korean Pop (this guy’s unintentional comedy stock is skyrocketing), Gangsta Rap (jyeah homey!)
Favorite Movies: Rocky I-IV (yeah, seriously Rocky V sucked), Matrix I, Meet the Parents
Favorite Books: Robert Jordan (I had to Google this guy. Apparently he writes fantasy. Much like the world our subject lives in), Technology or Educational books (Educational is a bit broad, don’t you think? He might count The Art of Self-Pleasure as “educational.” Heck, I sure did!)
Heroes: The good man in my father (you think his pops has an 8-incher too?) and the good woman in my mother (I hope she lets him grab her titties). The Warrior God that most Chinese pray to, Kwan Gong. And any self-made millionaires.
Marital Status: Single (no surprise here)
Orientation: Straight
Body Type: 5’6” / Some Extra Baggage (okay, at this point, a little pee came out from laughing so hard. Thank God little man’s got an 8-inch cock to make up for it!)
Occupation: Multimedia Designer & Coordinator (whatever that means)
Income: $45,000-$60,000 (cha-CHING!)

There are a few comic gems in his “About Me” and “Who I’d Like to Meet” sections as well, but I’m going to leave those out lest this post get too long. However, you can check out the “Playboy Pimp-Daddy, Panty-Dropper Extraordinaire” yourself here. He’s got an absolutely faaaaaabulous mugshot-esque photo as well.



Tuesday, April 18, 2006

Full Metal Stereotype

Of the many topics we discussed and essays we had to read in my Theory and Criticism class my senior year of college, Edward Said’s (pronounced sah-YEED) Orientalism was by far the only one that I found genuinely interesting. It was a relief amidst a sea of Derrida’s deconstruction, Segdwick’s Queer Theory, Freud’s Penis Envy, and Foucault’s Panoptic Eye (although this was pretty interesting too, and we got to watch Pink Floyd’s, The Wall in class). For the most part, these essays were like wading through literary goo that oozed on and on, traced and retraced trains of seemingly endless and pointless thought, and made me want to jab pointy objects into the eyes of anyone who ever wrote fifty pages about why the word “chair” means “chair” instead of, perhaps, “elephant” or “foot.”

It’s a fucking chair, shut up.

I guess the fact that I am “oriental” (please do not use this word to describe Asian people), added to the appeal of Said’s essay, but the entire class agreed that it was much easier to follow than any of the other crap we had to read.

Said said (hah) that Orientalism was the way Western society (aka the Occident) portrayed Eastern society (aka Yellow Folk). While many of their portrayals were not damning, they adulterated one’s perception of the Orient in a way that was more damaging than straight racism. Why? Because in an attempt to accurately depict Asian people, even if it was in a flattering manner, they drove many stereotypes home. Therefore, under the guise of an accurate portrayal of a culture, they further misled Western society to believe that Asian people were submissive, loyal, overachievers, men were feminine, women were "dragon-ladies" or prostitutes, etc. People readily accepted these portrayals because they weren't racist, but representative.

Are you following me? Yeah, me neither.

Anyway, this brings me to my favorite example of Orientalism, Full Metal Jacket. Possibly one of the best films ever made. If you have not watched it, hurry up and Netflix it (and if you don’t have Netflix…get with it, asshole). It chronicles the journey of several American soldiers from boot camp to Vietnam. It is also the source of numerous famous quotes (What is your major malfunction, numbnuts?) including everyone’s favorite, the bane of every Asian woman’s existence from now until the end of time, “Me love you long time.”


I mean, come on, couldn’t Stanley Kubrick put something like this in Eyes Wide Shut instead? At least that was a crappy, forgettable film. Instead, this line got strapped into his best film (maybe not best because A Clockwork Orange is pretty awesome-er), and will live on for all eternity as the most irritating five words in existence.

So, what have we learned?
-Edward Said's name is pronounced (sah-YEED).
-Don't call Asian people "oriental."
-I will not "love you long time," so stop fucking asking me.
-Vietnamese chicks make for good snipers (you've gotta watch the film to get this one).


Monday, April 17, 2006

God; Underwear; Monday


So I went to church yesterday for the first time in maybe half a decade. It really moved me, so I’ve decided to become a priest.

Nah I’m just kidding, but it did douse the tiny pang of guilt I had hanging over my head because of the fact that I hadn't been to church in so long. However, I probably will go to hell now because of the fact that I just joked about becoming a priest.

Going to church was strange. It was a church I had never been to in my entire life, right near Penn Station in the heart of Manhattan, yet it felt so familiar. The pews, the Passion of Christ on the walls, the crucifix, the candles, the Gregorian chants, the gay guy at the altar yelling about how I’m a sinner; all in all, not much has changed. Nostalgia hit, and I had a severe flashback of those 5 years I spent in Catholic elementary school where I was training to be a future guilt-pusher. I must admit it did help a little because I really am great at making people feel guilty. Afterwards, I went shopping.

What’s with girls and Victoria’s Secret? The store is always packed. Girls are always going with their friends while commenting on how a piece of underwear is "so cute" or "so hot" or whatever the hell adjectives you crazy chicks decide to use for something that's going to ultimately be covering your genitalia. I just can't see where the excitement comes from. I mean, I can't imagine guys getting that excited about underwear. What would you think if you heard some dude say, "Hey Bill, those boxer briefs look really cute on you. The padding really accentuates your penis. How’s the support on those bad boys? Hmm, try the pink ones now."

I was walking up the stairs this morning out of the subway, and I was walking behind this chick's ass. Then she farted in my face. There is no better way to start the day than to get farted in your face. It’s going to be a good week...

Sunday, April 16, 2006

Weekend Fart-Beer-Out-of-My-Nose Quote

"A bald guy with facial hair is like a guy with a tiny penis and really huge balls."
- The Best Friend


Wednesday, April 12, 2006

Volunteers of America

Just in case someone from work comes across my site and sees that previous entry, thus putting my job in jeopardy, I’d like to clarify that I really was sick. My stomach had been acting up all weekend and Monday, and yesterday’s rest was much needed. I can feel the productivity coursing through my veins now.


So, last night, after spending the better part of the day in bed, I managed to drag myself into Chelsea for my Volunteers of America meeting. Yes, I’m actually donating my time to a good cause.

The meeting was spent brainstorming ideas for possible events for the homeless, people living with HIV, victims of domestic violence, at-risk youth, etc. Of course, I had to venture my personal favorite suggestion.

“Um, how does everyone feel about baseball?”

“Oh, yeah, baseball. We go to a lot of games. We actually have a good relationship with the Mets,” our group leader says.

“Oh, wow, really. That’s cool,” I squeak.

“Yeah, Tom Glavine and Cliff Floyd actually do a lot of charity work with us. We also have an event where ten players come to Morton’s Steakhouse and treat some kids to a steak dinner.”

“Wow, that’s really cool.” At this point I’m tightening all the muscles in my stomach to keep it from bursting and spraying my innards all over the twinkle-eyed volunteers.

Besides being my link to my future husband, the Volunteers of America do a lot of really cool/fun charity work, and I encourage everyone to join. Unless you’re an attractive female. In which case, don’t.

Moral of the story: volunteer work = cool


Despite the cost involved, I can’t say enough about the upgrade in your commuting experience when you take the Long Island Railroad. I was all set for a relaxing, enjoyable ride home on the LIRR, oblivious to the fact that the Rangers game had just let out.

In two words: absolute chaos

In three words: absolute drunken chaos

I settled into my seat, headphones blaring, when a throng of drunken, raucous Rangers fans swarmed into my car and engulfed me in the stench of cheap beer. Thank God for noise-cancelling earphones.

I consider myself a very friendly person, but like most New Yorkers, I don’t like it when people speak to me on the train. So of course the two middle-aged gentlemen sitting next to me just had to engage me in conversation.

“What are you listening to?” Man #1 asks.


“What kinda music?”




“This is Pat, by the way.” Man #1 gestures to Man #2.

“Hello, Pat.”

“You listen to metal?” Pat asks.

“No, not really.”

At this point it became clear that they weren’t going to leave me alone, and as a person who despises rudeness in any form, and because I was honestly curious, I asked, “So, did the Rangers win?”

“No,” Man #1 says, “it was a close game though. Are you a Rangers fan?”


“Are you a sports fan?”


“What’s your sport?”


“Mets fan?”


“So, who won today?”

“The Mets, naturally.”

“What pitcher won today?” he challenges me.


“Oh! You really are a Mets fan! Who’s your favorite player?”

“David Wright. Obviously, I’m a girl.”

Here we talked some more about this season, the new players, etc. etc., then proper introductions were made, but I don’t remember his name. Finally, the Bayside stop came up and I said good night and got off.

Moral of the story: sports fans = good peoples


Tuesday, April 11, 2006

Playing Hookey

I woke up this morning, and the only words that came into my mind were, "Hell no."

So I called in sick. Which wasn't difficult to do because a weekend of back-to-back baseball games and 25+ beers has left my voice with the timbre of a pubescent boy. My boss was greeted this morning with a pathetic little squeaky-voiced message.

And now I have a stomach ache. Such is life.


Such is life

It was the only story I had ever written that I was completely proud of. When I think about it, for that reason, it's the only story I have ever written. The rest have become scraps of paper, occupying intermittent sleeves in my portfolio, taking up space.

The story grew into its own being. Three years, on and off, I had spent nursing it—adding, deleting, replacing, I had read those five pages so many times, I could recite everything word for word.

Naturally, I am defensive when C tells me she wanted to see it. The only other people who had read it were others like me. Writers who understood how long you obsessed over the words “the” or “a,” “but” or “however.”

C is a Dan Brown fan.

“Uh, it’s not quite finished yet.”

“So? Just show me what you’ve got.”

“Uh, okay.”

And I do.

A day passes without any mention of the story. I hope there won’t be any, but the next day, as we cook dinner together, she brings it up.

“So, I read your story.”

“Oh, what did you think?” I try to sound casual.

“When you told me you weren’t finished with it,” she laughs, “I thought you were being all tortured artist about it. You really aren’t finished with it! So is the main character going to die or something?”

I’m speechless. I can feel the look of horror painting my face.

She looks at me, wide-eyed. “What?”

What? Why would the main character die?”

“Because there was no, like, ending. Nothing happens.”

“That was the ending. Someone doesn’t need to die for it to be a story. That’s life, most of the time, shit doesn’t happen.”

“Oh, uh, okay. Well, then, yeah, it was good.”

I don’t know what it was that made me think about this incident last night. I’ve probably settled into my new job, new routine. Each day is becoming a reflection of the one before, and nothing happens. When a season of MTV’s the Real World ends, they show you all that “never before seen footage” and they admit that most of what the camera captures is people doing nothing. That’s how life is. The majority of the time, when people I haven’t spoken to in a while ask me what’s new, my answer is an honest, "nothing."

So how do you remedy that?

What route do I need to take in order to make myself feel like something is happening to me? This motionlessness is exhausting. I need to make some fucking moves.


P.S. I apologize for the Real World reference.

Monday, April 10, 2006

Caught Red-Snouted

"Oh my Gawd! Oh my Gawd!" Julia trumpets from the hall in her thick Lawn Guyland accent.

"What? What?!"

I run over to find her staring at Dog, his eyes wide as dinner plates, her Sephora blush brush between his paws, pony hair bristles surrounding him, his muzzle tinted pink from residual blush powder.

"You muthafucker!" I'm snatch what's left of the brush from him. He is frozen, still wide-eyed, confused. "What the fuck? Jesus-fuckin'-Christ, you're too old to be doin' this kinda shit! 'Da fuck is wrong wit you?!" I give him a light spank, his ears drop.

"Awh, it's okay. Look at him, he's sorry!" Julia is too forgiving.

So, thanks to Dog, today's lunch hour will be spent legging it over to Sephora to spend $26(!!!) on a blush brush.

Fuckin' Dog.


Sunday, April 09, 2006

Modern Romance

It’s easy to fall for someone you don’t know. You meet once, twice, maybe you see them every day—eye them from a distance or maybe you never meet them at all—a celebrity, a fellow writer. As long as that distance is there, it’s easy to fall completely. You fantasize them into perfection. You imagine the amazing sense of humor that might not exist. The taste in music—he jumps at the opportunity to accompany you to a Yeah Yeah Yeahs concert. Fantastic in bed, of course. Intelligent, naturally. Attentive. He might even be able to educate you. For once, he might not tuck his tail in between his legs when you challenge his intellect. Rather, he’ll step up, tell you something you don’t know. Slap you off your damn pedestal, finally.

As long as you don’t see any of the wrong, everything will be right. Don’t talk to him too often, or else you’ll see the dry sense of humor. He’ll get offended by your crude jokes, your free use of the word “cunt,” the way you raise your voice when you get excited or drunk, not befitting of the demure Asian standard. He’ll nod and pretend he understands what you’re talking about when you tell him you think Jackson Pollock is overrated. 50 Cent will spew from his speakers during long drives. His penis will be small. The novelty of you will wear off and he'll stop calling you the day after.

So you don’t give chase. You slither into a dark corner—a silent voyeur. You avoid phone calls, dodge dates.

Whenever you have a free moment, you fantasize about this fictional cast in your head. You build dream scenarios to the songs that drown out the din of your morning commute. Compose your own dialogue to the point you're talking to yourself on the street. And you fall in love over and over and over without fail.


Friday, April 07, 2006


Absolutely exhausted.

The Best Friend called me yesterday and told me someone at work gave her tickets to the Mets game. Despite my better judgement (my plans for the night were to rest so that I would be ready for tonight's game with Julia), I couldn't say no. Needless to say, it was totally worth it.

But now, I'm face-to-face with the reality that I have to do it all over again tonight.

So, I'm tired. My creativity is shot. I have no opinions on anything. So, for those of you who started reading the site recently, read this, and grace me with your opinions on the matter.


Thursday, April 06, 2006

Scheduling Conflicts


Period. End of the road.

That’s all they need to say to me to get me off the phone.

Hi, this this L from X conference production company and I’m organizing a Conference on Boring Tax Shit from August 7-9 in Chicago and I’d like to invite you to speak at the event.

Sorry, due to scheduling conflicts, Mr. Up-his-own-ass will not be able to speak.

Nothing I can say to that. No need to launch into my spiel about networking opportunities, free company exposure, you’re soooo knowledgeable in this field, people have specifically requested to hear from your company, blah fucking blah.

Because really, none of that shit matters when your wife is expecting your first child the week prior and you should probably stay in New York with her (someone from Sony actually told me this. He was really nice about it though).

Come on man, who cares about the baby? Chicago is cool!

It’s not just work though. Life is one big giant scheduling conflict. A stick shoved straight up your ass.

Hey Chef, what’s up?

Nothing much, just doing laundry.

You working tomorrow?

No, but I have to go to a friend’s birthday party.


What are you doing Friday?

Oh, I’m going to a baseball game on Friday. And the only way I’m missing that is if I get hit by a bus (knock on wood please).

Oh, hmm, I have work on Saturday and Sunday night…

What time are you done?

One AM.

Oh, well.

Oh, well.

Well…I’ll call you on Saturday? Maybe we can meet up after you’re done with work?

Yeah, sure.
Yeah right, I’ll be drooling beer by one AM on Saturday.

Okay, well, bye!

Have fun at the baseball game!

Sometimes people have babies. Sometimes people have work. Sometimes things just aren’t meant to be.

On a side note, Best Friend just called and told me she got Mets tickets for tonight. Some things are meant to be.

L + DW = <3



How much brainpower do human beings devote to the pursuit of sex?

Or more specifically, how much brainpower do men devote to trying to get a woman to have sex with them and how much do women devote to finding a man they are willing to have sex with?

If you really think about it, the only difference between romantic and platonic relationships is sex. No one ever shows off to their friends that they met someone cool to chill with at work. So what’s so special about sex that people put such a premium on it? All it really is, is inserting male plug into female socket—like hooking up your cable system. If you think about the act itself without all the emotional implications it carries with it, it’s really pretty silly. Two people awkwardly pawing at each other’s naked bodies while one thinks about baseball and the other concentrates on “ooh-ing and ahh-ing” as convincingly as possible. Then, of course, the obligatory, “I swear this never happens to me.” And the ever-diplomatic, “Oh, that’s okay. It’s actually flattering.” while trying not to roll your eyes.

If sex ceased to exist, would people become more productive? We only use 10% of our brain’s capability to begin with. Of that 10%, I’d say around 75% (more in some, less in others) is dedicated to obscene fantasies about the opposite sex. If we figured out a way to eliminate all sexual impulses from the brain, would medical researchers have already discovered the cure for AIDS by now? Would we have populated Mars? Would we have found a clean, readily renewable source of energy?

I wish I could figure out a more clever and eloquent way to pose this question, but I’m hungover.

Tuesday, April 04, 2006



B's post made me laugh out loud. Good save man, good save...

I, too, suffer from foot-in-mouth disease. I spend most of my day hopping around on one leg, the other stretched up towards my face, sucking on my toes. I'm that chick who gets drunk and makes an inappropriate, obscene comment about anal sex in front of her boss. The one who makes the Jewish joke in front of the Jew, asks you how your dog is doing, forgetting that it died a week ago. If there were a competition, "The Tenth Annual: Offend as Many Strangers and Casual Acquaintences as Possible Tournament," I would walk away with the three-tier trophy of shame.

Last night was no exception.

I met The Chef at Chris's party a week and a half ago. A little short, a little shy, muscles bulging, fuzzy shaved head, very cute from what my alcohol-hazed vision could gather. We spent the better part of the night talking, getting progressively drunker. We spent most of last week text messaging each other, having brief phone conversations, engaging in the ritualistic pre-meet tango.

Then there was the phone call yesterday. It wasn't the normal "make tentative plans" or "just say 'hi'" call. It was obvious from the tone of his voice and his immediate launch into a story that had happened the day before that this was the phone call. The first "have an actual conversation over the phone" call. Not good news for someone with foot-in-mouth disease. Especially when symptoms are aggravated by stress, awkwardness and attraction to person to whom speaking (this is why I am destined to be single for the rest of my life).

The conversation somehow segued into where he worked, a very posh restaurant in the LES. Remembering that he told me he was a chef, I inquired, with innocent intentions but tactless bluntness:

"So do you actually like, cook there?"

" I'm a waiter."

At this point, my best friend who had been sitting next to me watching TV threw the remote control at my head and mouthed the single word: Bitch.

"Oh, shit, oh my God, I didn't mean it like that!"

"Oh, it's okay."

Talk about your stereotypical gold-diggin', social-climbin', shallow-as-fuck Korean chick.

In my defense, I honestly didn't mean it in the condescending way that I said it. I spent the rest of the night watching the Best Friend shake her head at me and repeatedly hitting myself over the head with whatever hard, blunt objects were within reach.

To his credit, he didn't get offended (well, he thought I was laughing at him at first, but once I clarified that I am actually just a horrible person, he seemed okay) and the call ended with the definitive "I'll talk to you tomorrow."

Someone please buy me a muzzle.

Being Drunk and Stupid is Fun


I got drunk. Surprise surprise, what the fuck else is new? This time it was a Thursday, and the weather was beautiful so a happy hour session with the office alcoholics was mandatory. It's strange but in every job I go to, I always look for the office alcoholic. I'm always able to spot that guy in the office who fills his thermos with whiskey, and totally looks like he should be in an after school special. In my current office, his name is J, and his drink is vodka soda. He's a high maintenance fucker, my sister was even convinced he was gay, but after hearing a multitude of confirmations from females who vouched for his heterosexuality, I decided he was okay to hang out with. Not that there's anything wrong with being gay. Except that it makes me nauseous. And uneasy. And well, I just think it's fucking gross. But yeah, there's nothing wrong with it.

This Thursday was a little different than others because we went to the bar straight after work, therefore I didn't get a chance to pregame. When you go out after pregaming, your motives are different. You're already kind of buzzed so you go out to chill with a beer. However, when you go straight to a bar, you know that you're paying top dollar for your beer as soon as happy hour runs out, so you end up trying to get as painfully twisted as possible before 8 o' clock hits. Your goals become skewed. Unfortunately for J and I, we totally succeeded in getting trashed.

J was kind of digging this chick that I've known for quite a while (and who I see rather frequently) and she was talking to us and giving J some very positive signs. Somewhere in between her flirtacious taps and his drunken stupor, he became convinced that he was going home with her. That was until her "significant other" arrived. All was still not hopeless for J because according to his target, she wasn't serious about her "significant other" and in fact, she didn't like him much at all. However, once he came, almost all her focus was directed into him.

At one point near the end of the night, I was talking to J and he expressed his disappointment in his sudden shift in odds, when she suddenly approached us. By this time, they were doing some sort of raffle so the music was off, but I was so fucked up, I was practically hearing music in my head. J talked to her for a bit, and then she kind of pivoted to the side and began talking to her significant other once again. I thought that they were at a safe enough distance for me to have a candid conversation with J:

me: (yelling into J's ear) DUDE, AS LONG AS HE'S (pointing over at her significant other) HERE, YOU AIN'T GONNA TAP THAT.

her: (tapping on my shoulder) umm... B, I just heard everything you said...

Mortified. Absolutely mortified. My mind began racing in a hundred different directions. I've always considered myself a semi intelligent person so I was sure that I could figure a way out of this. But then again, I was trashed beyond recognition so of course my judgement (and volume control) were severely hindered. So the following is exactly what I said, word for word, but allow me to backtrack so as to give better insight into the extent of my drunkeness:

me: dude, as long as he's here, you ain't gonna tap that.

her: umm... B, I just heard everything you said...

me: ummm.... uhhh.... are you sure?

her: yeah...

me: ummm.... uhhh....

At this point I realized there was no escaping this situation. It's kind of like when your dad's chasing you with that stick because you "accidentally" shoplifted. You know you're screwed, and you'd give anything to just get out of the situation.

me: ummm... I'm really fucked up. I'm sorry.

her: it's cool B, don't worry.

me: no but, I'm really fucked up. Can I get you a drink or something? I'm sorry...

her: nah, don't worry, it's cool.

me: yeah, i'm really fucked up...

her: you know I'm not a ho or nothing right?

me: no, no, of course I know... I'm really fucked up, I'm sorry...

And I spent the next few hours wishing I was someone else. I should not be allowed to drink. What the fuck is wrong with me? Fortunately for me, I'll probably see her again soon since she's within my circle of friends. Maybe it's time to hide underneath that rock...

Monday, April 03, 2006

Random Monday Thoughts

1) My office has begun a campaign of stringent website blocking. I'm guessing I triggered it in some way because I quite easily log 20+ hours of personal internet use a week. I logged onto my computer this morning to find that almost all of my favorite blogs are now off limits due to "Adult/Mature Content." Thankfully, I still have access to these two (as well as my own). Whenever I clicked on a link in my favorites, I was greeted with a message listing my IP address and log-in ID and stating, more or less, that Big Brother is watching me and IT has been alerted to my penchant for adult websites. Unemployment here I come!

2) My parents left for a two-week trip to Tokyo/Korea last night, and I thought I would be happy to have the house to myself, but I'm mostly bored and a little sad. Probably because I don't have a booty call to take advantage of the situation with.

3) I was feeling a little blue when I went to bed last night, and one thought kept running through my mind that almost kept me up all night, "If I die in my sleep, Dog will starve to death." Pretty morbid. B, you better check-in regularly to make sure I'm not dead.

4) Julia will be coming to "live" with me as my surrogate mother starting Wednesday. It's gonna be like the old days when we lived together in college and all we did was drink beer, eat buckets of fried chicken and watch DVDs of OZ (much to the revulsion of anyone who came over to find us prostrate on the couch, bellies stretched taut and hands and cheeks stained with grease).

5) Today is opening day. *cue seraphim singing, rays of light shining through clouds*