Friday, September 29, 2006

Why God, Why?!

Tonight, the world looks a little bit greyer—the sky a little bit darker. Dog’s beady, sympathetic eyes don’t offer their usual comfort. A glass of Shiraz doesn’t warm the pit of my stomach like it should. Reruns of Chappelle’s Show don’t garner the same chortle, Conan O’Brien’s auburn coif is missing its signature bounce.

However, Jay Leno’s chin is still obnoxiously big and he is still not funny.

Tonight—despite the Mets finally snapping their four-game losing streak, despite Beltran’s club record-tying 41st home run, Reyes getting his 64th stolen base, El Duque sparking a glimmer of hope in a weak starting pitching rotation, David Wright continuing to suck it up for whatever Goddamn reason—a dark cloud descended on the ray of light that was their clicher celebration last week.

I don't expect non-Mets fans to understand (maybe BoSox fans, but their season's already done and they're probably all bitter), but...

...I is very sad...


P.S. David, I'm just kidding, I still love you! xoxoxo

Wednesday, September 27, 2006


Bored...bored...I'm fucking bored. Bored with my writing, the thoughts occupying my head, my life, my routine, my complete lack of purpose and motion. So what do you do when you're bored?

Everyone keeps telling me it'll pass. I'll find my groove or some manner of bullshit. What if I don't find my groove? What if I don't want a groove? Grooves are dull. I need uncertainty. I want to be scared shitless.

Lately, I've been thinking a lot about joining the Peace Corps. The idea of a two-year commitment is a bit daunting, but it seems like an experience that would be both humbling and inspiring. And who knows, maybe it'll cure my writer's block once and for all.


Tuesday, September 26, 2006

If a tree falls in the forest...

I know two kinds of women—the ones who are sexually active (sometimes a little too active) and the ones who are virgins.

How, you ask, does a woman manage to preserve her virginity when she is well into her mid-twenties? She must be one of those Jesus freaks. She must be really ugly. She must have a deformity.

None of the above.

A “virgin” is actually a wild, raging she-demon with an insatiable sexual appetite who sleeps with every man, or person, rather, whom she encounters. The difference between the two? The latter doesn’t tell anyone about it. Both categories engage in all manner of bedroom activity that might get you fined or jailed in several states, but while Group A recounts every detail of every encounter to me in painstaking, sometimes grotesque, detail, Group B does not mention, and often lies to cover up, any sexual debauchery they partake in.

So, if a girl fucks in the forest and no one is around to hear it, does it not count?

I’ve always been a strong advocate of owning up to your choices. In high school, I used to say that a girl didn’t really qualify as a slut unless she slept around and hid it. My rationale: a girl wouldn’t feel the need to lie about her choices unless she felt ashamed of them. She wouldn’t feel ashamed of them unless what she had done somehow compromised her morals. Essentially, no motive meant no crime. Many of the girls I knew seemed to be supporters of my theory because they spared me nothing when sharing blowjob tips or telling me about the first time they took it in the ass. Oddly, while the guys I knew wouldn’t surrender the tiniest tidbit of information when it came to a girl they actually cared about, the girls were always relentless. Birthmarks, penis size, duration—nothing was sacred.

While in a perfect world, I still believe a tastefully executed version of this theory would hold true, unfortunately, we don’t live in a perfect world. No matter what, a woman, whether she sleeps with two men or fifty, will be labeled a “slut” by at least one person. While some women have learned to accept this as a fact of life, some continue to cower from the word in abject horror. Therefore, I can understand why some women feel the need to conceal their whorin’ ways. This would all be fine and dandy were it not for one minor setback—usually sex involves two people. What with the world being so small and the way social circles are often concentric, sometimes I happen to be friends with that second party as well. Sometimes that second party is not so discreet. Sometimes that second party tells me something that makes a girl who has all but convinced everyone that she is the Virgin Mary look a little bit silly.

I guess the tree does make a sound.


Friday, September 22, 2006


“Grande iced coffee!”

The barrista sets a plastic glass, sweating beads of condensation, on the counter. Immediately, four people emerge to claim it, myself included. A mild scuffle ensues until a tall, thin, bespectacled man in a navy pinstripe suit emerges the victor.

Here I am again, in my version of hell, ironically what most urban yuppies and middle-aged businessmen consider the Holy Grail—Starbucks.

Starbucks spread like a virus, infecting every Manhattan street corner, train terminal and shopping plaza before anyone had the opportunity to decide for themselves whether or not they actually liked it. Manhattan blinked and suddenly that circular green logo was everywhere, quashing the glow of its reigning franchise predecessor – the golden arches. It waged guerilla warfare on every major city, serving countless cups of overpriced, mediocre coffee to millions and leaving the charred remains of corner coffee shops and street coffee kiosks in its wake.

But somehow, despite my abject hatred for its woodsy décor, hipsters clacking on laptops and lines of soulless eyes brightening at the sound of their drink being called, I have found myself here again.

Navy Pinstripes swoops upon the cream and sugar counter and begins pouring half and half into his coffee with the precision of a lab scientist while I dust myself off and act unfazed by my defeat. Seriously, how many people forsake their usual steaming cups of java in lieu of iced coffee once the temperature begins to teeter at a sweltering 85 degrees? Surely a multibillion dollar franchise would figure out a more efficient system than this—a generic iced coffee as bait for a crowd where rushed, irritable, caffeine-deprived people battle for it like wolves fighting for their claim on a piece of meat. I guess that’s what I get for refusing to jump on the bandwagon and making some poor college student’s life a living hell by ordering a grande-soy-nonfat-caramel-latte-shot-of-espresso-two-squirts-of-vanilla-and-whipped-cream or whatever bizarre concoction that will distinguish my order from the rest.

Unlike more seasoned Starbucks-goers, I have not mastered the “Art of the Order.” The people waiting for their drinks can spot me immediately—a newbie. My awkward stance and overtly-attentive eyes have marked me. I haven’t perfected the bored, borderline pissed off look characteristic of the people I see there, the ones who don’t need to listen because they’ve memorized the length of time it takes to prepare their drink and can sense when it’s ready. I feel like an outsider here, untrained to the system, awkwardly eyeing the drinks lining the countertop waiting to be claimed, interrupting the aggravated barrista’s work to ask which drink is mine. I have had one too many instances of picking up someone else’s order and having to deal with the uncomfortable confrontation, the stuttered apology, the tail hanging in between my legs while witnesses shoot me bemused stares.

As someone who witnessed to what extent a larger, richer company is capable of stubbing out the hard work of an underprivileged layman when my father’s fruit store was put out of business by the grand opening of a supermarket across the street, my disdain for franchises has deep roots. But my dislike for Starbucks has blossomed into full-blown resentment. Both as a coffee aficionado who sees the shortage of quality in a cup of Starbucks brew and as a champion of the lower-middle class who disagrees with what it stands for—a paradise for the privileged where the words “small, medium and large” aren’t chic enough to make the cut and inflated prices give false promise of quality.

Yet I find myself here, again, subjecting myself to the torturous process of securing a Starbucks java fix when I can find easier relief at a corner deli for fifty cents. Why on earth, after all this, do I continue to wander into a Starbucks when I break into caffeine-deprivation chills? For the same reason I often opt for a Coors Light at a bar—when you know and expect mediocrity, you’re never disappointed.

And, screw it, they're fucking everywhere.


Friday, September 15, 2006

How to Waste Your Friend's Time on AIM

b (1:18:03 PM):

friend (1:18:13 PM): ?

b (1:18:21 PM):

friend (1:18:51 PM): i don't see anything you're typing

b (1:19:45 PM):

friend (1:20:22 PM): still nothing

friend (1:20:26 PM): your im is bugging out

b (1:21:19 PM):

friend (1:21:53 PM): still don't see anything, reset your aim

b signed off at 1:22:28 PM.

b signed on at 1:23:36 PM.

b (1:23:40 PM):

friend (1:24:04 PM): are you using a weird font?

friend (1:24:10 PM): i stil don't see anything

b (1:24:20 PM):

friend (1:24:32 PM): don't see anything

friend (1:24:36 PM): is it just me?

b (1:24:39 PM):

friend (1:24:52 PM): yo, i don't see anything.

Wow, I'm such a loser...

Tuesday, September 12, 2006

Brush with John Cho


The Hairy Monk is an Irish bar on 25th and 3rd that offers free karaoke on Sunday nights and relatively cheap drinks. I met J and another friend at around 9 to watch the rest of the Giants game. After getting totally sloshed, we decided to head over to our favorite bar, Park Bar over on 15th street between Union Square West and 5th.

Park Bar is a very small obscure bar, which offers overpriced drinks, very bad lighting, music straight off a CD player and rude bartenders. But for some strange reason, it’s always fun. On this Sunday night, the bar was pretty empty except for maybe 15 or so patrons including J, me, and a table of three Asian guys who I later approached and introduced myself to.

“Dude, look at the bar. That’s John Cho.” I point and J looks over.

“Nah… Wait a minute, I think you’re right.”

“I know I’m right, that’s John Cho.” John Cho walks away from the bar and rejoins his group sitting a couple of feet from me. “I’m a fan. I like his shit.”

“You should go over and say something.” J looks over at the table. “Yeah that’s definitely John Cho.”

“Dick, I know.” After a couple of minutes of J telling me that I’m a bitch, and using phrases such as, “It’s not like it’s a chick” and “If you don’t fucking do it, I’m going to do it”, I finally decide to walk over to his table and totally interrupt his conversation. For all I know, he could’ve been in the middle of a really good knock knock joke.

“You’re John Cho.” Just in case he forgot.


“I’m actually a fan.” He surprisingly extends his hand to shake mine. Surprising because I’ve heard somewhere that he’s an asshole in real life, but he was actually being really nice about everything. At first, I almost expected him to drop kick me in the face and yell, “Can’t you see we’re talking here!”

Now I’m not a fan of John Cho because of his stint in the American Pie series in which he coined the phrase MILF. I’m not a fan because of “Off Centre”, a WB sitcom that was quickly cancelled but I thought was one of the WB’s only funny shows and was sad to see it go. I’m not a fan because of the movie “Better Luck Tomorrow”, which was a pretty bad movie but I watched it in the theater and totally supported it because I liked the concept of an Asian movie without the Asian stereotypes. I’m not a fan because of “Harold and Kumar go to White Castle”, which I also supported and found to be hilarious. I AM a fan because of this: his MAD TV appearance with Bobby Lee. It just put him over the edge, and I had to cross that line into the scary world of “fandom”.

“I’m assuming you guys are here for the filming of West 32nd Street.”

“Yeah, (he points at the guy sitting across from him) that’s actually the director.”

West 32nd Street is a movie about Korean gangsters. I’m assuming the movie mainly takes place on West 32nd Street which is a problem considering the premise of this movie. West 32nd Street refers to Korea Town which is that tiny strip between Broadway and 5th, and any Asian from NYC knows very well that this strip has never seen a fight in its entire existence. It’s known for its Karaoke joints, weak ass bars, cab drivers who try to solicit guys to go to whorehouses that pay them commission, and restaurants. Gangsters? Hell no. You have a better chance spotting gangsters in Disney Land. Fortunately, some of the movie takes place in Flushing where at one point Asian gangsters did exist. I think they could’ve definitely picked a better location for the title such as:

Chinatown – Damn you Jack Nicholson, Roman Polanski, and all you other fuckers involved with this film. You guys took away a perfectly good Asian gangster movie title and turned it into… well… an Oscar award winning film. Erm... yeah. Damn you…

Prince Street – Located in Flushing, this street’s seen more fighting than the MGM Grand. I’m certain it’s because the location is eerily obscure, and home to one of Flushing’s most notorious gangster pool halls (Play Ball, 4x4, or whatever the hell they changed their name to recently).

Broadway Park – Over in Elmhurst. During the 90’s, gangsters would race to the Asian restaurants lining the street across from this park to see who would get to extort them first. When having disputes over racketeering, what better place is there to settle these disputes than a children’s park?

Disney Land – I wasn’t kidding before, Disney Land is fucking crazy. The Mickey Mouse Club? It’s just a front for a huge organization of murderous assassins, and a drug ring that would make Tony Montana’s head spin. The Mickey Mouse club bred gangsters such as Christina Aguilera and Justin Timberlake. Careful, I hear he’s bringing sexy back. And by sexy, I mean MURDER.

There’s a dozen other places I can think of, but West 32nd street would not be on that list.

My sister also has a problem with this film because of one of their actors. You can read about this in her "guido" post.

So, going back to last night:

“Oh, hey, I saw you guys filming outside of Korea Town last night.”

“Ugh, it must’ve looked like a total disaster” says Michael Kang. Typical self-deprecating artist humor. I know it well. Not because I’m an artist too, but because I’m just a flat out loser.

“Nah, it looked fine. I was just surprised that you guys were still working at 5 AM.”

John Cho chimes in, “You know Koreans, always working.”

“Oh yeah, I know, I’m Korean too.”

He looks at me solemnly and says, “I’m sorry…” as if I just revealed that I had a disease.

I laugh and say, “I appreciate your sympathies.”

Then I ran home and got my ¼ finished screenplay and threw it at John Cho’s face. He looked at it and screamed, “This is brilliant! Be my best friend!” Okay fine, that didn’t really happen, but there was an awkward silence followed by:

“Well anyways, it was nice meeting you.” And I shook his hand again and left, at which time they resumed telling each other knock knock jokes. Thus ends my brush with someone famous.

Well. It looks like I’m going to be the proponent of yet another Asian American film. Hooray for West 32nd Street. Oh God shoot me. Unless you’re Justin Timberlake because then you’d probably take this literally.

Tuesday, September 05, 2006


-I fell asleep halfway through Half Nelson last night, and I was thoroughly irritated with myself. I'm one of those people who cannot shut off a movie no matter how bad it is (with the exception of some exceptionally bad ones--Glitter, Catwoman), so I was really annoyed that I missed a chunk of a film that I found rather enjoyable. Note to self: go to the bar after the movie.

-I'm watching Miami Ink on TLC, and it's making me want to get a tattoo. I've always wanted one, but without knowing for sure what career path I would end up on, I didn't want to negate any possibilities by getting a huge permanent dragon painted around my neck. If I end up in a creative field, I would probably get a significant number of tattoos. I'd definitely get my lip pierced too. Maybe I should just do it to ensure I won't roll over one day and accept a fate as a corporate drone. I still plan to get one just as soon as I do something noteworthy enough to "deserve" it. So once I write my first book, save my first baby from a burning building, devirginate my first minor, I'll get a huge, tacky lower back tattoo to comemmorate the event (like the klassy brawd that I am).

-Reading back, I see that my earlier entries were much more entertaining, well thought-out and eloquent than any of the crap I've been spewing as of late. I think the stress has taken a toll and I've become nothing but cranky and bitter (moreso than I was in the past). Therefore, rather than continue posting for the sake of posting and tricking everyone into wasting their time reading dumb shit, I'm going to take a break and post when I have something of the same caliber as things I have written in the past. Don't get me wrong, I'm definitely not abandoning this site (I'm still shocked that people who don't know me actually read it and there are 25 whole other sites that link it), I'm just a strong believer in quality over quantity. So, I'm going to take a short break and sort out all my other issues in the hopes that it rekindles my creativity. Hopefully my next post will be worth the wait.


Adventures in Interviewing - Part II

"Oh, they never ask you that anymore," Gloria told me when I asked her what the best reponse to "What is your biggest weakness?" is. "It's such a textbook question and everyone has a form response planned out for it, so most interviewers never ask you that anymore," she said.

Thankfully, she was right. It's awkward discussing where you think you've gone wrong when you're trying to sell yourself.

Unfortunately, she was only right most of the time.

I'm sitting bolt upright in my chair at an Editorial Assistant interview for a small publishing house. Sweating, feeling my shoulders steadily droop with every ensuing question, suddenly realizing I'm starting to slouch and jerking them back up. I'm doing okay so far babbling about working abroad, writing is my passion, love to travel, want to write a book, read a lot, blah, blah, blah. Then comes the question--that fucking question.

"What do you consider your biggest weakness?"

"Ah, uhm, er, I, uh, don't like confrontation. I, er, sometimes don't, uh, speak up, like, because I don't want to, uh, step on people's toes." My voice starts to trail off.

My ears ring bad, bad, bad.

"Ooookay," he says followed by a long breath. He furrows his brow.

I roll my eyes to myself. Oh well, there goes that. I didn't really want this damn job anyway.

"If you could be anything in the world, what would you be?"

My face contorts into a mask of concentration.

"A rockstar!"

Ah well, might as well get a couple of laughs in before I lay my head on the chopping block.


The Ladder

Some people live in a New York City swaddled in silks and Cartier jewelry. A rodent-sized dog slung over one arm, Italian leather bag with gold detailing adorning the other, they spend their days lounging on rooftop terraces sipping frozen margaritas. When the orange autumn leaves give way to another unforgiving New York City winter, they find sanctuary amidst folds of chinchilla fur and minibreaks to Cabo and the South of France. Christmases and New Years’ are spent skiing and snowboarding, carving ice trails down the side of mountain paths packed with coarse artificial snow. Summer weekends are spent finding solace from the relentless humidity poolside in the Hamptons, discussing extra-marital affairs and breast augmentation. On spring afternoons, they sit in outdoor SoHo cafés sipping Diet Coke and browsing the menu for entrées that adhere to low-carb lifestyles. Dinner conversation takes place at trendy three and a half star restaurants decorated with hard furniture in retro geometric shapes and bold, primary colors. When the sun sinks into another city night, persistently illuminated with the glow of high-rise windows, they throw themselves into the welcoming embrace of opened velvet rope arms drinking fruit-infused martinis and slipping into cramped bathroom stalls to snort illegal substances.

A lot of people escape their suburban sprawl, family-owned businesses and small-town limitations to pursue this New York, a New York fictionalized on movie screens and splashed across tabloid pages. They don’t realize that this city exists only to a select few, deemed society’s most profitable or beautiful, the bankers and lawyers and the women who fuck them, the socialites and heirs, the few models and actors who achieve the level of success necessary to finally remove “aspiring” from their title. The rest of us are left to fight for the wilting husks of trendiness they leave behind—empty shells of once-exclusive clubs and bars that have outlived their stint in the limelight and are forced to open their doors to the likes of you and me.

Some manage to achieve a watered-down version of Breakfast at Tiffany’s New York. They meet someone who provides an in—a free pass to view this side of the city, perhaps even latch onto a B-level celebrity and secure a spot within. I’ve known some people who managed to get me inside, and as much as my eyes lit up at the spectacle of this inaccessible alternate world in my own neighborhood, I could never bring myself to stroke an ego, fawn over an entourage member and fix a place for myself within.

I like to consider myself rising above this shallow world, but for the reason that I’m not welcomed there, I find myself oddly infatuated with it. The simple fact that it isn't available makes it desirable. I feel a twinge of envy at another’s mention of finding a way in, even if their methods clearly involve debasing themselves. And, while my pride won’t let me attach myself to someone purely to snake inside, I consider it a goal of mine to independently raise myself to that level and storm the gates. I want to have a place in that world so I can decide that I didn’t really want to be there in the first place.


Monday, September 04, 2006

Just so you know...

We're still here, around, floating around the blogosphere awaiting the perfect opportunity for our triumphant return in a hail of fanfare...or something. B caught some heat thanks to a former post, I have been overcome with serious cases of Pissedoffateverythingitis and Ihateeveryone Syndrome, and have been leaving a trail of negativity and destruction everywhere I go. Hopefully it'll pass.

In the meantime, chew on this:

Does anyone else find it ridiculously ironic that it wasn't a crocodile? Crazier still, a stingray? They let you pet those at the London Acquarium. Nonetheless, farewell Steve.

-Bye Andre.
I still remember the long hair, the earrings, the attitude, the reputation, the marriage to Brooke Shields. Thanks for making tennis seem more interesting than watching a ball bounce back and forth.