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Joemygod wrote about FRAPPR recently, saying he was behind the curve in talking about it, but I’d never heard of it. Apparently, I’m at the end of the curve. For all you other slow ones, FRAPPR–along with other features–allows me to see where my visitors are coming from. Go do it real quick. It only takes a second; you don’t have to sign up for anything. Put up your pictures, I want to see your faces! –
We ditched the scene and got some burritos. Actually, I had a chimichanga, those faux-Mexican deep-fried concoctions. I didn’t really know they were available outside of the freezer-variety. (By the way, it’s remarkable how many popular “ethnic” dishes are completely not related to their respective countries. Try going to Thailand and ordering pad thai; it was created in Brooklyn.) After that, we walked down and got some Starbucks and went to Bed Bath & Beyond–I like to call this portion of the date “the yuppie interlude.” I found a $20 handheld milk steamer/frother that I really wanted, but there’s one on Amazon for $10, so I managed to hold off on the impulse buy. He unsuccessfully looked for a U-shaped curtain rod for his bathtub. Ah, well. I promised myself I would enforce a chastity period with any potential relationship material. This was, unsurprisingly, an enforcement I could not follow through with. We went back to my apartment, watched numerous episodes of Strangers With Candy (”Who wants cake?) and South Park (”Whatever, whatever, I do what I want!”) Cuddling led to making out which led to lack of clothing. Man, I suck. And I don’t just mean literally. I have absolutely no self-control. My reasoning is, we had an amazing night, it was perfect; if this messes that up, it wasn’t as strong as I thought it was. Plus, if there is any sexual incompatibility, I might as well figure it out now. And to answer those nagging suspicions: it didn’t mess it up, and there definitely wasn’t any incompatibility. We’ll see where this goes. Cross your fingers. (And add yourself to my FRAPPR!) filed under: misc | comments: 5 comments |
I went on my first “first date” in a long time yesterday evening. It was amazing. Effortless. Natural. I don’t want to jinx it, but I have a really good feeling about this guy. We went up to Lincoln Square for the tree lighting/street festival, which ended up very disappointing. The tree was ugly and the “street festival” consisted of a handful of tents giving out little food samples from local restaurants, most charging a couple bucks for a sample. No thanks. Definitely not the famous tree lighting ceremony for a reason.|
When I was young, my family used food stamps. We got government peanut butter and orange juice, complete with white label and simple drawing of a peanut or orange, respectively. We actually got a lot of things from welfare, including the infamous government-funded glasses. Those glasses were the bane of my existence. My sight was atrocious, so they were insanely thick, with bulky brown frames. Upon receiving those glasses, I was pretty much guaranteed a lack of a social life for the following years. Added to my inability to catch a ball, my Asian skin tone, and my shyness, I was tortured throughout my school days. Before this becomes a post about the hardships of an outcast childhood, because god knows I have my stories–skipping months of school because I was being picked on so awfully, hiding in the garage because my parents were home and I had nowhere else to go–I just wanted to provide that set-up to bring up a point. That point being, it’s amusing how the things we rued in our awful childhoods are what we embrace later in life. Being Asian was definitely not a selling point growing up in North Carolina. I was called Jackie Chan, Jet Li, Bruce Lee–any Asian action movie star, really–almost as much as I was called “Fag!” …Hm, that’s lie, but enough times to make me ashamed of being Asian. Today, I wouldn’t want to be anything else than the mutt I am. I really enjoy my skin tone, my small frame, everything that comes with being half-Asian. Similarly, those big coke-bottle glasses I detested in my childhood, are back! Well, they’re a little more fashionable, but they’ve returned. Yesterday, I went to the optician and picked up these thick frames because I needed an image tweak, something intelligent and classy. After downgrading to thinner frames from those huge ones, and then to contacts, I’m finally back to the size I started with. Funny, no? Point is: I got glasses, tell me they look good.
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La vie boheme. To loving tension, no pension, to more than one dimension, to starving for attention, hating convention, hating pretension…
And here I am afterwards, sitting at a Starbucks and drinking a soy latte, pondering over the film. I don’t fully buy into the whole “Corporations are evil!” sentiment–I mean, I work for one of the biggest corporations in the world, and I love it–and I think would tell a couple of those characters to just get a fucking job and stop moping, but I was still drawn in by the story. Everyone needs to let go and give into a little emotional manipulation now and then. Rent, like most movie musicals, is one for which you have to suspend your sense of disbelief for–both for the highly romanticized nature of it all, and for the sudden breaks into song. It’s hard to stomach for the cynics, but then again, that crowd probably isn’t flocking to see the movie, anyway.
A lot of the story benefited greatly from the production values afforded to a studio-backed film, and the story gained much clarity. It wasn’t something you had to know the plot of beforehand to get, which is a qualm I always kind of had with the show. On stage, it was always a little muddled. The film version definitely gives the story justice. Overall, not an immaculate film. Not even particularly relevant–dated and archaic, to some degree. But that withstanding, it was still pretty great. Everytime you feel like it is slipping into cheesiness, it hits you in the heart. I’d definitely see it again. – Speaking of hitting you in the heart, I’m so not ashamed to admit I bawled while watching Finding Nemo on TV tonight, even though I’ve seen it five times. Just keep swimming, boy. Just keep swimming. filed under: misc | comments: 2 comments |
I saw Rent when it opened on Wednesday. I felt conflicted; thematically, it’s sort of a rant against corporations and gentrification, capitalizing on the struggle of artists and bohemians. All of the main characters rebel against a huge cyber cafe being built on their corner. Of course that’s not all the movie is about–there’s the AIDS outbreak, the romantic entanglements, the drag queens and fags, the hustle of New York City–but it’s a large part of the story. You feel their pain, you struggle with them, you go through the “Damn the man!” emotions.
Rosario Dawson was a huge revelation. In my opinion, she made the movie. Her Mimi was captivating and stole the screen whenever she appeared. Before I saw the film, I was a little peeved that most of the promotional focus was on Little Miss Movie Star, but she was astounding. Also really great were Idina Menzel, Tracie Thoms (I wish her part was bigger), and Wilson Hereida. I’ve never really cared for Adam Pascal–good voice, bad acting–and Anthony Rapp is also definitely not going to win any acting awards. Taye Diggs was barely a factor, and Jesse L. Martin was merely OK, although his “I’ll Cover You (reprise)” stole the movie, much as it always stole the show.|
This middle-aged Middle Eastern man ran up to the subway car I was sitting in the other day and plopped down across from me. I was wondering why he ran to the car since it was in the middle of the train and none of the other cars were particularly full. In fact, it was an off-peak hour, and they were all pretty empty. I would soon find out why. So, a few stops in, as my eyes do the subway wander–where they pass over everyone every few minutes–and I notice his–well, package–is prominent. Major VPL going on here (that would be Visible Penis Line, for those of you not familiar with the jargon). And, as I start to look away from this obscene display, he starts to rub it. And I think, okay, he’s adjusting. But, no. He keeps touching himself. So, this fascinating display is something that my eyes keep coming back to, like a train wreck. Not for a prolonged period of time, of course. That would be…rude. Almost as rude as fondling yourself in public. So, he stands to get off the train in that period of time where it’s almost at the station. And he saunters towards me, which would make sense seeing as the doors opened on my side at this station. And… And… He starts RUBBING HIS PENIS ON MY KNEE. I was shocked to the point that it took a few, shall we say, swipes for me to understand my poor kneecap was being taken advantage of. So I shoot a dirty look up at him, and he moves over towards the door. And, in perfect timing–clearly he timed this out in his head–in the second before the door opens and he walks out–he swipes his cock on my shoulder leaning against the siderail. Before I registered that completely unexpected appendix to the situation (What a double meaning that has, huh?), he was gone. What could I do? Scream “Stop that penis swiper!”? Pull the emergency cord to stop the train? There wasn’t really anything to be done except sit in bemusement. Only in New York, kids. – PS - You think your smoking habit is bad? I think this lady has you beat. filed under: misc | comments: 7 comments |
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Jake Gyllenhaal in Jarhead. Thanks, Spanish lady in the subway station.
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