Today’s soundtrack: when my memory starts to wander
Today at 11:02am: Waking up 2.1 hours late for work. Ohhhhh boy.


1. what's on your bedside table?
An attention-starved alarm clock

2. what's the gayest part of your music collection?
Right. Like I buy Lionel Richie albums and I’m gonna write about it here

3. what do you eat when you raid the fridge at night?
Fridge contains only liquids

4. what is your secret guaranteed weeping film?
I only cried once at a movie, it was a Korean documentary you’ve never heard of. And I wasn’t really crying, there was just something in my eye

5. if you could have plastic surgery, what would you have done?
Extra arms added, like that Vishnu fellow

6. do you have a completely irrational fear?
Honestly answering internet questionnaires for public scrutiny

7. what is the little physical habit that gives away your insecure moments?
I sometimes stand up and announce “I’m not feeling very secure”

8. do you ever have to beg?
Saving myself for marriage

9. do you have too many love interests?
No. If anything I have too much credit card interest

10. do you know anyone famous?
Let’s put this in perspective by remembering that David Hasslehoff is considered a god in Germany

11. describe your bed.
A soft, padded rectangle.

12. spontaneous or plan?
I’m spontaneous in matters of the heart. I plan things out in matters of the clubs, spades and diamonds

13. who should play you in a movie about your life?
The child that Woody Allen and Soon-Yi will someday have

14. do you know how to play poker?
goto 12

15. what do you carry with you at all times?
A mild sense of dread

16. how do you drive?
As if I’m being pursued by John Bunnell

17. what do you miss most about being little?
The Napoleon complex and not being able to reach things on the top shelf

18. are you happy with your given name?
Only if it’s like, screamed in terror

19. what color is your bedroom?
It’s a tasteful melange of fuschia, magenta and rugburn

20. what was the last song you were listening to?
That goddamn NBC commercial with Star Jones

21. have you ever been in a school play?
Yes but it was a non-speaking role (I played a tree)

22. have you ever been in love?
When I went to prison it was a crazy, mixed-up time for me. Anyways look, I did what I had to do to survive

23. do you like yourself and believe in yourself?
By the time I get to the bottom of the bottle, yeah, I’m ready to run for President

24. have you ever done any illegal drugs?
Of course not man. In terms of being “high on life,” I’m like John Belushi on a Bolivian safari

25. do you think you're cute?
Yes. People often fawn over my poor posture, bad skin and sickly appearance

26. do you consider yourself to be a nice person?
I’m like the rest of us: an angel on one shoulder, a devil on the other

Today’s soundtrack: I race for my connection
Today at 5:02pm: On line at CVS buying band-aids.


I’m such a sucker. I hate getting manipulated but it happens to me from time to time. My problem is my stomach; people providing me with food are in excellent positions to take advantage.

Long story short, there’s a “friend” of mine I used to be quite close with, who now only comes around when she needs something. So once again I got tricked into doing something. And what did I get out of it? A cannoli and some fucking sfogliatelle*. I coulda bought that stuff myself.

(*Sfogliatelle is an Italian puff pastry filled with ricotta/semolina/lemon. If you watch The Sopranos it’s that thing they call Sh’voya’dell. If my journal’s not going to be interesting, I’ll at least make it educational.)

Today was breakup weather, cold and rainy. It rained cats and dogs. I didn’t mind ‘cause it finally felt like autumn. Walking through silver-grey midtown in pouring rain, you can’t help but feel your resolve harden. I think cold rain drives humans to industriousness, which is probably why England and Germany militarized relatively early.

I love the beginning of autumn, that first whiff of cold. I dunno if you cats who grew up on the West Coast can appreciate this.

To me the beginning of autumn feels like a time to get your shit together. Autumn means putting your summer dreams back on the shelf and getting down to brass tacks. It means hard work, unpleasant hours and regretting not bringing a jacket. It makes hot coffee taste good and a warm café feel better.

When the leaves change, I am going to get in the car with a stack of freshly burnt discs and drive. I’ll press hard on the accelerator and get out of the city, somewhere I can see the colors. Probably I will go by myself so I can crank the music and think. If the leaves look good I’ll take pictures and put them up in my little online journal. It will give me a small sense of accomplishment.

I just finished all the sfogliatelle. Fuck!

Today’s soundtrack: Little girl, with hair so blue
you’ve got to find the future in you
Today at 8:02pm: Exhausted and trying to retain my balance in the dojang shower.


Trying to type this with bandages on my fingers. Very difficult.

Something is definitely wrong with my Sabumnim/Master. I felt I might die after the first ten minutes of class today, but he continued the grueling workout for another 30 minutes. During back-fall practice I noticed blood on my white uniform but had no idea where it came from.

I wished someone else would notice the blood and ask me about it, just so I could say “That’s not...my blood” with a faraway look in my eyes.

During the pushups I realized it was my blood. I’d somehow punctured one of my fingers (probably from my own fingernail) and blood was oozing from the cuticle of another. Although a bleeding cuticle is gross, it’s hardly a manly injury so I kind of felt like a sissy for noticing.

Alice just came over. It seems like people come by our apartment every night. This has little to do with us being popular and a lot to do with us being centrally located. Actually I take that back; Shady’s pretty popular. At one time I, too, commanded something like social relevance, but now I’m 31 and I’m getting tired. I won’t take meals with people unless they’re both smart and funny. It sounds like snobbery but it’s just exhaustion.

Anyways Alice is one of Shady’s friends. She’s a pretty cool chick, a CPA by day and a bartender at night. She’s Chinese and hot so I was hoping Shady and her might hit it off, but so far they just seem like good friends. I was about to type “I’ll keep you posted” but then I realized I won’t, ‘cause it’s none of your business.

I just came back from dinner down at Yuka’s. Years ago there was two Chinese, one Japanese and one Korean living down there. Then one of the Chinese moved out and another Korean moved in. Now there’s no Koreans, one Chinese and three Japanese. Yuka is consolidating her power.

Anyways Yuka has two new proteges--two extremely young (17ish) boys from Japan, ‘Ji and Ken. They’re really nice kids, best friends with each other and one of them lives there so they’re both always around.

The thing is: These kids can cook like a motherfucker. I don’t know how they learned but the shit is just ridiculous, it’s better than a lot of the Japanese restaurants around here.

Tonight Ken whipped up mabo tofu and shockingly good okonomiyaki. See Ken’s from Hiroshima, and they make okonomiyaki differently than they do in Osaka; it’s lighter, kind of like two crepes with a layer of noodles in between. If you’re a food fan put it on your checklist.

So I get down to Yuka’s and there’s a whole grip of us. Five Japanese girls, me, Shady, and Streetwear Jane. Ken was cranking out food like a fucking factory, it was amazing.

Yuka has cable, too so it’s like a fucking amusement park for Shady and I. I was tired from Hapkido so sat at the corner of the table, eating but not talking much. The band-aids gave me the chopstick skills of a German so I had to use a spoon.

Music videos in the background and the familiar chatter of Japanese girls. The occasional passing siren. Pignoli cookies for dessert (my contribution), then I made a pot of coffee and did the dishes. I have a much better time of things when it’s dark outside.

Today’s soundtrack: Do you remember, the 21st night of September
Today at 8:02pm: Me, Lam and Tony jawboning on a stoop in Chinatown


You have friends who are upright and friends who are sideways. Lillian’s one of my upright friends so I was surprised when she didn’t return my e-mail.

But today I got an e-mail from her explaining her absence; last week she up and went to London, which is where she is now. Made the decision one day and flew out the next. Man! I haven’t even left the borough this month. I don’t think my car’s been on the bridge since it was hot out, goddammit.

Last night in Hapkido I thought I would have a heart attack. Lately the Sabumnim has been working us extra hard; the warm-up sessions feel like Army punishment. I swear. It’s so grueling you see fat people come into class and after an hour they turn thin.

Our dojang offers free trial classes, so in every other class there’s usually somebody wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt. Last night it was a muscular brunette girl and I got paired up with her.

We were doing kick-drills so, assuming she was a novice, I took it super-easy with her. Then she started whipping all these crazy kicks at me; I completely misjudged what she was throwing and her foot shot around my block, stopping next to my face.

As the minutes wore on it became obvious she had either studied something along the lines of Thai kickboxing or was some sort of freelance Ninja.

(Freelance ninja, can you imagine the resume?


OBJECTIVE: To kill enemies with stealth and disappear in a ball of smoke.

QUALIFICATIONS: Many times I have killed enemies with stealth and disappeared in a ball of smoke.

SKILLS: Killing stealthily, making smokebombs.

AWARDS & ACHIEVEMENTS: 2002 Golden Smokebomb for Best Assassination (Division One)

INTERESTS: Badminton, volleyball, French.

REFERENCES: All of my references are dead...you can join them if you like.)


Disappointingly, Ninja Girl was assed-out after only five minutes. She had great kicks, really quick, but absolutely no endurance. Winded, she slunk off the mats somewhat embarrassed while I continued drilling with imaginary foes. I pretended I was fighting William Shatner and Adrian Zmed. It’s more exciting that way. Even though Adrian Zmed is no match for me.

After class, Eggtart came over for dinner. It’s cool having friends who live in the same neighborhood. However Eggtart lives in deep Chinatown, the real shit, whereas I live in fake Chinatown, the part the tour buses come through. If you hang out in Eggtart’s neighborhood you won’t see a white person all day.

My cooking didn’t come out so good, but Shady and Eggtart choked it down gamely. I really gotta learn to cook right, it’s getting kind of embarassing.

Presently Annie (the new next-door neighbor) came by, followed by Jerry.

“It’s Hanako’s birthday,” Shady mentioned. “She’s having it at Double Happiness, me and Jerry are gonna go by. You guys should come out.”

Jerry’s cell phone rings. It’s a female friend of his, Dee. Jerry talks to her for a minute, then hangs up. “I gotta go to the subway station to pick Dee up...she’s scared to walk over here.”

“Whaaaaaaat? What station is she at?”

“Broadway and Prince,” says Jerry.

“Broadway and Prince is in fucking SoHo,” I practically yell. “What is she, afraid she’s gonna get mugged by shoppers coming out of the Prada store?" But he went anyway.

Eggtart had to get home to finish some work, so I walked her back while the rest of the group went to the bar.

In front of Confucius Plaza we passed two Chinese guys on ladders, installing one of those huuuuuuge Chinese store signs. The old one, easily the length of a limousine, lay on the ground. It had plastic Chinese characters on it, each one bigger than my head. “I wonder if we can pull those off,” I said.

“I’ll ask,” said Eggtart. “Mmgoyyy,” she called up to the guys on ladders. A brief Cantonese exchange followed, at the end of which the workers assenting to us taking some characters off the sign.

“Can you read Chinese?” I asked. “I don’t know what they say.”

Eggtart looked them over. “This one is just the owner’s name. These ones say, Chinese Medicine. These ones say, Buy Here. These ones say, As Much As You Want.”

I ended up taking the ones that say As Much As You Want. I have no idea what I’ll do with them. Clean them and hang them, I suppose.

On the way home I stop off at the bar. Double Happiness is a terrible, terrible place but I figure I’ll say hello to everyone, have a Tsingtao and act, you know, normal. Don’t look at me, because I am normal.

Someone sent me this. It's from "Sherman's Lagoon" by cartoonist J.P. Toomey.

Today’s soundtrack: turn on my VCR, same one I had for years
Today at 1:02am: Mesmerized by World’s Wildest Police Chases


Friday night Handsome Dan went to an Elite Models party and asked me to go. I chose to pass, figuring the models would be too tall to talk to. Placing me at breast-level with a woman is counterintuitively emasculating. Not to mention, a recent perusal of the men’s magazines section at B&N has shown me that what America finds attractive in a woman and what I find attractive in a woman are two totally different things. Hey stop getting fake tits.

Saturday night on Delancey Street. “You lads don’t do drugs, do you?” asks the Brit, hopefully.

Lam and I are heading over to Essex Lounge when this soccer-player-looking guy stops us, initially asking for directions to Good World. Tourists always ask me for directions, now they’re asking me for drugs. If only I carried maps and weed around with me, I could make some extra bread.

Me, Lam, and Lam’s 22.75” head get to Essex (the bar, not the British county) on the early side and shit-shoot over Gee-and-Tees.

After a few minutes The Two Michelles stroll in. They’re easy to introduce because they have the same name. One is Chinese but looks Korean, the other is Korean but looks Chinese. I draw undue delight from the fact that they both have the same name; I enjoy when things come in twos. By the by, Michelle A.’s head is 22” in circumference.

Presently Handsome Dan appears (not sure how big his head is), then Moonberry, Serina and a girl named Jennifer. Out of the four of them it is perhaps easiest for me to talk to Moonberry, because I already know her cranial dimensions and can focus on the conversation without wondering. Then again Dan and I share a gender, and that’s always good fodder too.

Tonight (Sunday) they finally ended the goddam Feast of San Gennaro. If you’re not from around here that’s this Italian festival they put on once a year in Little Italy. There’s nothing overwhelmingly Italian about it; it’s basically a bunch of drunken ex-cons staring at your girlfriend’s tits.

They set up booths filled with “games of chance,” lame stuffed-animals you can win and overpriced calzones. The worst part is every tourist, ya-ya, knucklehead and cock-knocking thug from everywhere converge on this goddamn festival and they turn the neighborhood upside-down.

Last year it was canceled due to 9/11 but the year before, there were drunk people passed out on my doorstep--at only eight o’fucking clock. The year before there was a bunch of kids from New Jersey punching each other. Sometimes I wish I could find fun in the things society finds fun. But I can’t and that’s why if I met you, I would secretly want to know the circumference of your head.

Today’s soundtrack: you talk behind my back and spend up all my bread!
Today at 4:02pm: Lunch for 50 cents, yeah man.


I took 72 pictures today. Had some errands to run in midtown and around Lincoln Center. Whenever I’m shooting random street ephemera I’m acutely aware that I look like a freakish Japanese tourist, photographing sewer grates and whatnot.

But I don’t care, and looking foreign has its benefits. Like today there were some zealots from Greenpeace recruiting up by Columbus Circle. They were accosting everyone. When they got close to me I started walking all spastically, like certain Asian foreigners, and they totally left me alone.

At night I have dark thoughts. Sometimes I even think about ending it all and moving to the Upper West Side.

I stopped to photograph this one building and for some reason I looked down. Lying in the gutter was a fish the size of a small frying pan. I looked around but there were no restaurants or fish markets anywhere on the block. It’s almost like the fish escaped out of the sewer, tried to make it to the curb and collapsed.

Shhhhh, he’s sleeping.

DivineLV’s in town so I had lunch with her and Cityglimmer. Cityglimmer lives in Jersey with a Manhattan view. DivineLV has no roommates! She says living by herself gets lonely sometimes. I told her she just needs to drink more. If I lived by myself and got lonely I would buy a few bottles of whiskey, a hunting rifle and a ski mask and just sit around to see what might happen.

Today’s soundtrack: unpaid bills...Afghanistan hills
Today at 7:02pm: Doing involuntary push-ups.


Midnight on a Wednesday and you have to ask yourself, do you really wanna go out to a bar? Do you really want to put your Outside Pants on and stuff some crumpled, miraculously unspent bills in your pocket and go?

Or do you want to just stay home and chill. Catch a little Conan, make a nice pot of decaf, write your silly little stories.

Last night I chose wrong, I went to the bar. You shouldn’t go simply because you have nothing better to do, right? I used to think some sensation, any sensation was better than no sensation at all but now I’m not so sure.

Speaking of sensation did you ever drink absinthe? I drank it last year in Hong Kong. I’m not much for drugs and shit but absinthe was fucking awesome. It felt like listening to all the best Radiohead songs in a cloud filled with pretty girls.

I’m hiding from my “novel.” I put “novel” in quotes because until I make some significant fucking progress it’s just a joke, a loose collection of unintelligent sentences that all happen to be in the same Word file.

When I’m writing it I see the characters moving around, I hear the things they say and I transcribe it.

When I’m not writing it I see the characters frozen in suspended animation, just sitting there floating. Doing nothing, saying nothing. They’re so sad when they’re not doing anything, it’s almost like they’re temporarily dead. Sometimes I go for a walk and they start moving again. Other times I look in the mirror and see a grim hack.

GenerationRice is having their 4th anniversary so Cia wanted me to shave something commemorative in my head. I used a tape measure and measured my head to see what would fit.

While I abandoned the idea of shaving any message, I did discover my head is 22” in circumference. Later I asked Moonberry how big her head is, just out of curiousity, and she seemed to take issue with the question. Eventually she measured it and told me. It’s within an inch of mine.

I’m not sure what we should do with this knowledge. I’d like to get all my friends to measure their heads, for the sole purpose of isolating the person with the biggest or smallest head and ridiculing them. Me and most of my friends are downtrodden minorities so I figure we should mimic the oppressor and single one of us out for persecution. Head size is as good an issue as any, no?

My friends may not want to measure their heads, so we probably have to do something sneaky. Like having hats made in specific sizes and suggesting to friends they try them on. (“Pssst--look, Lam fit the #12!”)

Next I want to weigh my head but I can’t figure out how to do this accurately in a manner that doesn’t involve my death. I’m not ashamed to say my head probably doesn’t weigh that much.

I had to do a lot of push-ups in Hapkido today. Gregory was teaching the class and he used to be in the fucking army, so he goes nuts with the push-ups if you don’t line up straight and stuff. Every time someone committed an infraction the whole class had to do them.

It’s a peculiar thing to think everyone in the class is paying a monthly fee for the privilege of having a former Staff Sergeant or whatever he was tell you to do push-ups. But that’s the nature of the beast, right? Beats the shit out of Crunch.

Today’s soundtrack: warm it up Kane...warm it up Kane....
Today at 7:02pm: Hapkido, hapkido, hapkido. I have a long way to go.


After the shoot last night yes, my place was a wreck, but Emi was exhausted and in no shape to clean it. “I’ll do it tomorrow, I promise,” she said, through eyes glazed from stress.

I wasn’t too worked up about it; last night the New Neighbor had me and Shady over for dinner. She whipped up sea bass with ginger, beef stewed with enoki mushrooms, spicy chicken and some type of Chinese vegetable. Holy shit it was good, like I almost asked for the check after the meal.

Came home early today, loosened the tie around 4pm. Walked into my apartment to find it spotless! All the junk from the shoot was gone! The furniture straightened and replaced! The floor had been mopped! There was even a vase of flowers on the kitchen table and a long thank-you note.

I’m in the middle of reading the note when Emi comes out of the bathroom and screams. It was a long scream, too. “Ohmigod you scared me!” she said, after she finished screaming. “I thought you were at work!” Little on the high-strung side I guess you could say. But she did a bang-up job on the cleaning--she even replaced the toilet paper! I’m impressed by details.

Lam and I have been talking about taking another roadtrip, and something just materialized. Eggtart’s talking about Toronto. She’s already got people lined up, looks like it’s gonna be late October.

I’ve been hot to see Vancouver but never thought I’d go to Toronto. I mean, I guess I like the thought of going to Toronto better than I like the thought of going to, say, Manhattan’s west 50s (god I hate that neighborhood) but it never seemed like a destination to me. No offense Alex, don’t go getting all Ferrigno on me. But yeah, we’re coming up to your world, break out the maple syrup and whatnot.

Eggtart’s got fam up there so we’re all crashing at her place. Alex I’d ask to crash at your place to lighten her load, but your house sounds like a den of filth and treachery. Word up your place sounds like jail with kimchi. I bet your roaches have been there so long they’ve evolved, all walking around on their hind legs, building primitive tools and shit. Hahahahaha.

Toronto’s a 10-hour drive, that kind of blows. You could watch “Titanic” three times and spend an hour hating yourself in that time. You could get a good night’s sleep in that time. Alex’s roaches could learn to develop primitive trading societies with their own codes of social interaction in that time. Well, whaddaya gonna do.

Anyways you want anything from New York, Lexx? Cheesecake, pizza, can of Raid, you name it. Better yet I’ll bring a Brooklyn roach up there to introduce American roach technologies and foment revolution. Onward; Toronto-ho.

Today’s soundtrack: Fortunately gone I wait for you
Today at 12:32am: Abandoning plans to go to a bar. I’m tired


Sunday morning and I’m facedown on the mattress like a corpse floating in the East River. The cell rings twice, the house phone three times. I remain unmoved, both physically and emotionally. I can’t think of a single person I’d rather speak to than sleep. Sure my life is sad, but at least I’m well-rested.

Lying there semi-conscious it occurs to me the call might be important since it’s the house phone that’s ringing; most everyone I know has my cell number but very few people have the house number. But the conversation in my head goes like this:

“Maybe you should...pick that up because...zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.”

An hour later. The Police have this song called “Voices In My Head,” good track. Anyways now I hear voices in my hallway. Face down and mostly naked I suddenly feel vulnerable. Who the fuck is in my apartment? I hear three Japanese voices, one male, two female...ah, Emi’s photo shoot is today.

I stumble out of my room and introduce myself. The makeup girl and the hairstylist greet me with “konnichiwa” because I look very Japanese. (I’d even say extremely Japanese.) I mumble “ohayo ‘zaimasu” and take groggy steps to the kitchen to cut up my pineapple.

Next the clothing stylist shows up and finally the two models. One of the models went to Pratt (my alma mater) so we engage in some perfunctory conversation. Then I put a pot of coffee on, look at my wreck of an apartment and wonder about the choices I’ve made in life.

The makeup girl and the hair guy work on the models like mechanics fixing a car. Boxes and boxes of equipment. The models sit there like strange, elongated porcelain animals. One of the models was about six feet tall.

Once the shoot begins Emi cranks up her CDs, and let me tell you she listens to some weird fucking music. Like what? Like 2 Live Crew, for chrissakes. That guy Luther is so annoying, I hope he drives off a cliff.

I tried to get some writing done at the front of the apartment but it was impossible with all the noise.

The clothing stylist took my bedroom over. I walk in, there’s clothes all over the fucking place and she’s ironing a skirt furiously like a DJ working the decks.

The six-foot model chick, wearing nothing but pink underwear, is splayed out across my bed, completely unconscious. I suddenly wished my parents would pay me a surprise visit sometime in the next 30 seconds.

“Natalie’s just resting,” says the stylist. “She only got a couple hours of sleep last night.” I guess being tall is really exhausting.

Today’s soundtrack: I, can’t, stand, up, for falling down
Today at 8:02pm: Engulfed in the smell of burning kalbi.


Going nuts with the camera today. Having one of those days where everything looks hot as fuck in the viewfinder, then you get home and find it was all crap. Still, that’s the great thing about filmless, you can just shoot and shoot and shoot ‘til you get it right.

Severely slept-on album: “Pod,” by the Breeders. Hellbound hellbound hellbound hellbound.... Dug it up a few weeks ago. I borrowed it from my friend Charles when I was living in Brooklyn in 1992 and forgot to give it back. Well, what does he care, he’s married and has a kid now. Lives in Maine. I think the kid’s three now, I bet he’s never heard of me.

What a good night! Tonight on a rooftop in Chinatown was the Last of the Barbecues. I like that, it sounds like Last of the Mohicans. Joanne was the hostess and Cia cooked. The chow was killer, like you would fight people to eat this. At least I’d fight you to eat this.

Joanne’s a single Chinese girl living by herself. Across the hall from her is an elderly Chinese family. They let us borrow their Mah-Jongg tables to take up on the roof and put the food on. They worry about Joanne and try fixing her up with suitors she doesn’t need.

Twenty, thirty people showed up and it was the best kind of crowd: Unpretentious creatives. No annoying lawyers, “look at me” actors or icy chicks who work in finance. No moody painters, idealistic grad students or therapyheads with performing arts backgrounds.

Someone stole Moonberry’s fucking wiper blades. I swear there are cats in this city who’ll steal the milk out of your coffee. Anyways it rained for a few minutes here and there, temporarily dampening our spirits and the barbecue charcoals, but then it subsided and we ate like animals. You know the food is good when the conversation dies down and everyone is just focused on cutting marinated meat with their teeth.

Lam, Shady and Joanne can speak English and Cantonese. Cia, English and Tagalog. Moonberry’s fucking quadrilingual. I can barely speak English.

Every barbecue we go to, Shady gravitates towards the grill and just handles shit. I haven’t touched a pair of tongs once this year, and will probably never have to if I keep living with the guy.

If you could look at our previous incarnations back during caveman times, Shady was the guy who always got the fire going. Mike the Player would be the decoy used to lure wild animals out into the open while the rest of the group threw rocks at it. Me, I was back in the cave drawing pictures on the wall.

During the span of a private party there are always actually two parties. The first is with all the guests and lasts for two-thirds of the time. Then a shitload of people leave and you’re down to your core survivors. At this point people sit rather than stand and the conversation gets a little more intimate.

I stayed for the second party, there were maybe ten of us. Three of the guys were Mars, Handsome Dan and Jimmy. They’re funny guys individually but when you put the three of them together the laughs start rolling, like making a Funny Bomb out of volatile chemicals. I laughed so hard my face hurt. Some of the jokes were cruel but c’mon, those are the fucking funniest kinds.

One of Joanne’s friends from Hong Kong was there. Nice guy named Wallace, minimal English. Towards the end of the party Wallace disappears and inexplicably returns with 50 bucks worth of weed. Everyone started to pass the dutchie from the left-hand side but I abstained.

I think I’ve said this before but I won’t smoke weed because it makes me slow and dull. I’m not especially tall or good-looking so my wits are all I’ve got and I need to save them shits. Plus everytime I smoke I end up eating like eleven pizzas afterwards.

The whole time we’re at the party, our friend Emi has been in me and Shady’s apartment, prepping it for a photo shoot she’s doing tomorrow. She needed a loft space so we told her she could use it.

I had no idea what a big deal it would be until a bunch of delivery guys showed up Saturday afternoon to drop off the equipment. Monster lights and she’s hooking up a huge seamless backdrop. One of the lights is so big it looks like it puts out the fucking bat-signal.

Shady and I walk home through Chinatown around 2am. “Emi called,” Shady mentions. “Said she turned the place upside down.”

Sure enough we get home and our place is a wreck. Everything has been taken from the living room and shoved everywhere else. Chairs in the hallways, mattress in the kitchen, I can’t find the garbage can, etc.

At one end of the loft there’s a huge, white seamless hanging from a rack, balloons everywhere and a bubble-blowing machine. It’s kind of surreal. I’m tempted to turn the bubble-blowing machine on and sleep in the pile of balloons. I wonder if I’m non-photogenic in my sleep.

Today’s soundtrack: Mama put my guns in the ground,
I can’t shoot them anymore.
Today at 7:02am: Ironing.


As I’m heading down the subway steps I hear the train pulling into the platform. Whip out my metrocard and slide it through the gash in the turnstile, but INSUFFICIENT AMOUNT comes up in the LCD. Fuck me.

It’s no problem though, ‘cause I’m fast Fast FAST!

I whip around and hit the touchscreen on the Metrocard vending machine. I’ve memorized the prompts and button locations so I fly through the menus like a hacker, dip my credit card lightning quick, Transaction Complete. Behind me, on the other side of the turnstiles the train has just come to a stop. I can make this.

Then the machine starts making some grinding noise. “Transaction Complete” is frozen in the window. It doesn’t spit out a Metrocard, just sits there and grinds.

I hear the train doors open, hear people going in and out, then I hear the “bing bong” and the train doors shut. It slowly starts pulling out of the station. Then the machine spits my card out. I swear to god the fucking thing is timed.

Cops all over the place. I work near the Waldorf and I guess some U.N. shit is going down today, ‘cause as I come out of the subway there’s a wall of blue like they’re filming Police Academy Seven. I look for Steve Gutenberg and that guy who makes the sound effects but I don’t see ‘em anywhere.

I arrive at the office early, 8am. I woke up today around 3:30am and wasn’t able to go back to sleep so I’ve been up for a while.

Everyone on my floor seems to be upgrading their computers, so every day there’s a new piece of “garbage”--a completely serviceable but outdated computer component--in the hallway next to the recycling pile. Last week I scored a keyboard.

My laptop screen is dead (picture above) and I need an external monitor. Today there was a 17-inch Sony in the hallway. I immediately squatted down to pick it up, simultaneously feeling I should exclaim “Score!” or “Bonus!” but I have to face facts, I have no such exclamations. I have lots of “Shit”s, “Shyte”s and “Dammit All To Hell”s but I don’t have many phrases for when things go right.

The monitor was pretty goddamn heavy but I lugged it to my office so the garbage monsters wouldn’t take it. Tucked it away on the edge of my desk and debated leaving a threatening post-it to protect it. I wanted to write something in broken English to make it more scary, like MONITOR IS MINE, YOU NO TOUCH OR I BREAK YOU FUCKING FACE.

I don’t want to get fired (not that way, anyway) so I didn’t write the note.

After lunch I passed Drew in the hallway, he’s one of the tech guys. “Say Drew, that Sony monitor you guys threw out, it works, right?”

Drew scratched his head and looked at the ceiling. “...No. No, that one is garbage.”

“Ah,” I said. Dammit all to hell, hell, hell.

Carried it back into the hallway and I swear it got five pounds heavier. Fucking thing gained weight on my desk.

I got out of work early (“Score!”) and walked through thirty thousand cops to get to the subway station.

A limo with police escort pulled up in front of the Waldorf, trailed by a black Suburban filled with what looked like Secret Service. Some important-looking dignitary starts to step out of the limo (he opened the door by himself) and this female agent runs up from the Suburban to put herself between the dignitary and the sidewalk crowds.

One of the black agents started pulling some stuff out of the back of the Suburban. I couldn’t see what it was because of the angle I was at, I wonder if it was like, shotguns or something.

I put “female” in italics ‘cause I’ve never seen a female bodyguard before. She was backed up by a crew of three guys. They all looked like Agents from The Matrix, sunglasses, earpieces and “Don’t Fuck With Me” demeanors. They hustled the guy into the Waldorf and it seemed to me they looked at everyone’s face on the way in.

There’s this really good street musician who sings and plays guitar on the subway platform. The downtown-bound 6 at 51st and Lex. Anyway today he was singing some song I don’t really care for, but the other day he sang “Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door” and it was just killer. The guy’s got a great voice and he knows what he’s doing with the guitar too.

So today when I got home I was craving that song and I downloaded all the various versions of it. I’ve had the Guns ‘N Roses version since college but I just now I pulled down the Clapton, the U2, the Bon Jovi and of course the original Dylan.

Unsurprisingly the U2 version sucked.

Surprisingly the Bon Jovi version sucked. I know most people think Bon Jovi sucks altogether but I can appreciate him from a New-Jersey-Turnpike-Rocking-Out-In-My-Camaro kind of way. Like you break up with your girlfriend Tina who works as a cashier at the Mobil station and you rip down the Garden State Parkway cranking “You Give Love A Bad Name.” Then you get to the Jersey Shore and get in a fight with some guy in a parking lot but you won’t punch his friend because he looks like Richie Sambora. Like that.

Anyways none of the versions I listened to really satiated my craving; somehow that guy in the subway sings it the best.

Today’s soundtrack: kanashii koto nante
Today at 10:02pm: Sipping at an unwanted gin & tonic.


Right now it’s 5 in the morning and I can’t sleep. I’m just gonna stay up and go to work in a few hours.

Psyched, I avoided TV all day and didn’t see any tastelessly looped images.

Slept late, occasionally turning news radio on to see if anything had happened that might warrant my getting out of bed and putting some clothes on and evacuating.

Today was freakishly windy. I avoid the temptation to attribute meaning to that, understanding it’s the cause of atmospheric conditions, the little red and blue arrows on the weather maps.

The wind is blowing so hard all the white people on the street look like they’re doing Asian impersonations with their eyes.

Put the short stories down in frustration and switched back to the novel, steadily adding sentences to chapters two, three and four. My hope is that one day people will be able to read these sentences while they’re waiting for airplanes or riding the subway or lying in bed playing hooky from work.

After I graduated college I was recruited to work on a start-up magazine. We busted our ass and after it was published, distributed them to some universities. We visited one. They were using stacks of the magazines to prop doors open.

The thing I did get out of that experience was good friends. That’s how I met Lam and Deadly. So even if the magazine didn’t go anywhere we did spend the next seven years going to movies, eating meals and taking little trips together. Maybe my “career” will go nowhere but me and my agent will become golf buddies.

Went to bed at the decent hour of midnight. After restless slumber my eyes cracked open at 3:30am. Turned on the TV to see Conan interviewing Carson Daly, which was kind of surreal. Like watching Superman fight Batman or something.

Nearly out of money, earlier this evening I ate an inexpensive dinner by myself at the kitchen table, reading a magazine. Then the new neighbor called me down to help her install a shelf.

Half-hour later Shady asked me if I wanted to go out for a drink. He’d been planning on treating himself to a nice dinner tonight. A year ago he was one of those people running away from the collapsing tower while I was obliviously riding the subway. PTSD being what it is, tonight he wants a nice steak and a clear conscience.

“You wanna come out? Let’s go to Fanelli’s,” he says, referring to one of the standby neighborhood spots. In truth I didn’t want to go out at all, but I went so he wouldn’t be alone. Everyone likes Fanelli’s but for some reason I’m never really comfortable there.

a New Yorker, a Californian and a Canadian

(Alex what the hell do they call you guys, Torontonians?
P.S. Stop mailing me your fucking change.)

Today’s soundtrack: I’m out of luck, out of love.
Got a photograph, picture of
Today at 6:02pm: Going through some old photos.


Hey look what I found: It’s a picture of me, Naka-chan and Lexx. Of course if you’re not a regular reader of AA blogs you have no idea who the hell any of us are, which is A-OK. Microcelebrity is the thing.

The three of us were all at the same drinking hole in the same city. We all like to write so I feel like we shoulda worked on a screenplay while we were in town together.

This photo is telling because our physical scale is readily apparent. As you can see both Paul and Alex lift weights, whereas I read books and am allergic to things. Mostly I’m allergic to iron disks that say “25” on the side.

I had drinks with Paul and Alex about two months ago. They’re really good guys, you’d never know they’re both convicted felons. I don’t want to start any rumors, it’s just that Paul put several security guards in the hospital and Alex, one time he killed a guy with a hammer.

Today’s soundtrack: crazy for trying
Today at 9:42pm: Doing 78 on 95.


The wedding in Connecticut was brutal. I got to the ceremony late and sat by myself in a pew at the back. The church was big and filled with sunlight and had this horrific statue of Jesus Christ--just his torso--nailed to a cross and bleeding profusely. What is it with these people.

I scanned the program, which had a list of all the people in the bridal party. In vain I scanned the list for a Lee, a Chin, a Tanaka. Nothing. Searched for a Wong, a Shin, a Morimoto. Zip.

Next I looked for a Lopez, a Trafficante, an Escobedo. Nothing. Then I looked for a Cabrini, a Martinelli, an Andante. Zilch.

What I found were Eastwoods, Smythes, O’Learys. Along with Madisons, Grants, and a Byron-Leigh. Ah.

The reverend/minister/priest guy was somewhere in his 60s. He was bald and very pink, the color of Spam. He rambled on and on about the Corinthians, which is what the reverend talked about at the last wedding I went to. I guess in terms of religious programming the Corinthians are kind of like Friends, very high ratings.

The reverend made us stand up and sit down a couple times, apparently some prayers are better understood if you’re on your feet. He said this one prayer where afterwards everyone started smooching each other, really weird. I was by myself in the back so didn’t have to worry about it though.

Next he took a swig of Cabernet and ate this piece of bread. He seemed to take a long time chewing and you could kind of hear it in the microphone. I thought it would have been funny if next he put a big Dorito in his mouth and crunched it up all noisily. Munch, munch, munch.

After the ceremony I met up with my parents. We were all hungry but the reception wasn’t for another three hours, so we drove into town to find something to eat.

Well the only thing this town had was a fucking Burger King. The three of us are all dressed up and we go into BK. Three Asians dressed in “Sunday finery” and the locals, who are fully trailer-park style (i.e. wearing a T-shirt that says “U Can’t Touch This” in flourescent letters) are looking at us like Who The Fuck Let You In Here.

We sit at a table in the corner and eat miserable little cheeseburgers. My parents are fairly dignified people so it was strange seeing them eat fast food. Anyways during a slow spot in the conversation I made the BIG, big mistake of confiding something in my parents, and the lid came off the pot.

Must remember: Where parents are involved, it is always better to lie. Tell them what they want to hear, tell them everything’s fine and give them the impression you are an upstanding citizen. It’s not like they see you more than five times a year anyway so they’d never know.

So anyways we ended up getting into a huge, occasionally heated, er, debate in the corner of the Burger King. We spent the better part of two hours going in circles, all because I can’t keep my big, fat trap shut.

At the reception we shared a table with my elder aunt, who married white. Her husband is this old cooter named John from Chicago and he was there with his Army buddy who’d done a tour in Korea. The Army guy’s name is Bob.

Bob was a real comedian, just one of those people who was born funny. Making all sorts of funny jokes and comments that had me and my parents both laughing out loud. I liked him and didn’t mind talking to him. Then he started using words like “sand nigger” and saying extremely unpleasant things about Mexicans and black people. Me and my parents were fairly shocked but my Aunt didn’t seem to notice.

Then John turns to my father and says “When you were a little boy in Korea, did the American G.I.s throw you candy bars?”

I couldn’t fucking believe it. I just stared at my plate, convinced if I lifted my eyes I would grab a butter knife and plunge it into John’s white fucking eyeball. I’d break a dish over his head while blood spurted from the wound, then I’d grab some sternos from the kitchen and do my best to set Bob on fucking fire.

Of course I couldn’t do any of that. It was my not-a-cousin’s wedding and I shouldn’t be making scenes. See one of my Aunts married white and now the rest of us have to put up with this shit.

The bride and groom sat at their own table in the center, away from it all and very happy. They made a good-looking couple and I’m glad they weren’t within earshot of our table.

The groom is half-Korean, the bride comes from a family that came over on the Mayflower. Chances are at their children’s wedding, Korean people in attendance will be few. If Bob and John are still alive they can attend and talk all the trash they want. With any luck I won’t be able to make it out to Connecticut that week because my flying car will be in the shop.

Today’s soundtrack: Daria, I won’t be soothed
Today at 12:02pm: Kicking back a cocktail with the marrying man


Y’ever find yourself just walking down the sidewalk and scowling? Yeah that’s no good.

I come back from the bar early, maybe 2am or so. By myself in the car listening to Led Zeppelin and feeling the alcohol evaporate through my skin. Sitting at a stoplight, wondering who all these people are. People everywhere.

I wasn’t planning on going out tonight but a friend from L.A. is in town. He’s getting married and tonight they celebrated so I had to come out. He had it at Forbidden City, of all places. I couldn’t get away from that place if I tried.

Tomorrow I have to go to my not-a-cousin’s wedding. My parents ratcheted up the brutality by telling me I had to be there for the whole thing, which means I’ve gotta leave town around noon and won’t be back ‘til after midnight. Chingada, man. Tomorrow’s a day off work and I’ll be spending the whole fucking day in a suit. In fucking Connecticut. Maybe the cake will be good.

Financial reality stared me in the face today. I tried staring back but then it slapped me, pushed me to the ground and kicked me. Basically I have to find another job. Not “another job” as in a job to replace the one I have now, but a job on top of the fucking job I’ve got now. Once again I’m gonna be one of those assholes with more than one business card.

Did you know the WTC was only the second time in human history that a skyscraper has ever collapsed? The first time was in Brazil, which is a country that I guess is not known for its structural engineering anyway. I think most of the structural marvels there have to do with mammary glands.

Lam pointed out that Brazil does have that huge Jesus statue, and that seems to stand up okay. But I think if you looked inside, the whole thing is held up by schoolchildren holding ropes. I don’t really know though. That’s probably something I would bring up at a cocktail party, causing people to walk away from me.

GOOD god would you look at that, a 1970 Mercury Cyclone GT.

It doesn’t matter which country your parents are from; there’s always one province
back home where everyone hates the people. Well if you had this car you could drive
around and beat the shit out of people from that province. You’d be rolling along
when you’d spot one, then you’d stick your head out the window and yell
“I’m gonna beat you up!” and pull over.

Today’s soundtrack: [electric guitar licks from Samurai Fiction]
Today at 10:02pm: Eating leftovers and donated brie.


Leaving work early was the right thing to do; I arrived at the hardware store just as they were closing. I was the last one inside.

Four sheets of 80-grit and a couple 120s for good measure. Replacement filters for my paint mask. I love Chinese hardware stores ‘cause they don’t dick around: Here’s your shit, give me the money, here’s your change, the fuck out. They address me in Cantonese but I respond in English, effectively canceling my Asian coupon.

Back at the apartment I strip out of my suit and put on the type of clothes I’d wear to a tractor pull. I haul my soon-to-be-a kitchen cabinet up to the roof, put my mask on and start sanding. It’s quiet up on the roof. Up here I can’t see the mess that is the street.

Lam swings by and comes up on the roof. We shit-shoot for a little, then I go back to sanding and Lam breaks out his laptop. That’s what I love about writing, you can do it anywhere. Lam is disciplined enough that he actually does do it anywhere. The sun, bored with the both of us, dips low and heads steadily west.

Tomorrow I have to go back to that fucking office. For now all I can do is make this wood smooth, nice and smooth. I control this.

Today’s soundtrack: if you want it bad you gotta steal your own fuel
Today at 11:02pm: I don’t know ‘cause it’s only 9:34pm


Yesterday in the rain amidst garbage I found four closet doors and various pieces of hi-grade plywood in a pile on the sidewalk.

Our apartment badly needs kitchen cabinets, and I’d been planning to hit a lumber yard to get the wood to build some. The wood on the sidewalk was in good condition so I made five trips and hauled most of it home. I got really fucking wet in the process.

I say hauled “most of it” home because on trip 3, a Chinese guy with a station wagon pulled up and started loading some of it up himself. Since it was obviously someone else’s garbage, I couldn’t exactly be like “Hey man that’s my shit.” Plus the rules of sidewalk acquisition are: whoever gets it, gets it.

Next I have to sand the wood down (it’s painted), clean it and stain it. I suppose I could just go to Ikea and buy finished cabinets but there’s something to be said for doing it yourself.

The worst part about doing home projects is listening to my roommate bitch about it. He likes to sit on the couch and say discouraging things. He also urges me to take shortcuts, like he doesn’t think I should “waste my time” cleaning and sanding the wood. Must learn to shut him out.

Just started re-reading this book Why Smart People Can Be So Stupid. It’s a fascinating collection of scientific essays that provide psychological breakdowns of stupidity.

I won’t go into the specifics of psychological drives and the acts of satiating them here, but I will mention a couple things. Chapter Four lists a bunch of conditions people can suffer from that may ultimately lead them to do stupid things. I was alarmed to see I possess most of these characteristics. They are:

Impulsiveness - i.e. you’re in the middle of doing something but suddenly decide you need to go out and get a bacon cheeseburger or an angora sweater or laid.

Neglect - The opposite of Impulsiveness. While Impulsiveness implies you act too quickly, Neglect means you act too late or not at all. Is my book finished yet? Er, no.

Procrastination - Not quite the same as Neglect, Procrastination means you actively avoid work you have to do, perhaps by busying yourself with other, more trivial things. What should I be doing right now? Working on my book. What am I doing right now? Updating my freakin’ online journal.

Vacillation - i.e. dicking around while you’re trying to make up your mind. What should I have for dinner, a bacon cheeseburger or a Vietnamese sandwich? The Vietnamese sandwich is cheaper. But wait, I’m in the mood for a burger. But the burger place is farther. But I had the Vietnamese sandwich yesterday. Fuuuuckk...

Backsliding - Backsliding is when you adopt a new practice, but soon lapse back into the established way of doing things. Like saying “I am going to get up early from now on!” and doing it for three days before oversleeping by several hours.

Indulgence - Indulgence implies engaging in excess. Like “Man that chocolate cake was good, I should probably have another 97 helpings of it.” Cigarettes ain’t a bad example either.

Overdoing - Overdoing is when you disguise Indulgence as something effortful. Like writing a lot in your online journal under the illusion that writing a lot of anything is better than writing nothing at all.


Well at least now I’ve identified my problem. Or seven of them anyway.

Today’s soundtrack: promises, promises, I do
Today at 3:02pm: Buying pignoli cookies.


More than anything they move through the streets like a silver fish. Openings present themselves, then narrow just as quickly; the fish darts through and ahead.

The yellow fish are by far the least considerate. They lumber and shift with a drunken inaccuracy that begs for them to be overtaken. They are quickly gained on and left behind.

The large blue-and-white fish are not to be trifled with. Impassively huge, they can do whatever they want. Stopping sporadically to feed and excrete, straddling more than their fair share of the space alotted, no one can displace them.

Then there are the white fish with red markings. Most fish dare not pass them; none will cut them off. These fish are the kings.

The silver fish comes to rest, cargo is unloaded. Then it’s back to the grotto where the silver fish sleeps amongst others of its kind, fish of all colors, neatly stacked far underground.

Today’s soundtrack: everything is everything
Today at 10:02am: Spitting out Christine’s horrendous coffee.


Mike’s sister is crashing at our place. She’s a great gal but she sure can’t make a cup of coffee.


Against my wishes I watched Shallow Hal on DVD and it was actually entertaining. At face value, this movie and the movie Shrek appear to be polemics about superficial beauty but are in fact tales about fat people succeeding. I think.

Also saw Vanilla Sky, which wasn’t necessarily a good movie but to me, was one of those movies you have to see, at least for the pop-cultural literacy.

The freakishly fantastic shot of Times Square in the beginning is fucking amazing, especially to me as a New Yorker. Ranks right up there with the Grand Central “ballroom” scene in The Fisher King. Scenes like those are something I think all New Yorkers secretly dream of.

Now that Mike lives down the hall with Yuka, me and Shady have an extra living room. When bored we go down to Mike’s photo studio. The three of us sink into the couches and listen to Patsy Cline and stare at the ceiling like potheads. We have arguments about lesbians or Hong Kong movies or martial arts systems. Sometimes Mike will put on a wig and a jumpsuit for no good reason. Also I’m allowed to smoke in there.

Other times he goes digging through his boxes and produces amusingly old photographs of us. Mike and Shady knew each other before I’d met them so they have a little more history. There are the photographs where I’m in them, then it goes back to the pre-Rain period. There’s an old snapshot of the two of them with Angus (from AC/DC) they especially prize. Around the same time I was living in Brooklyn, dating a Puerto Rican girl and I had a Caesar and a hoop through my ear. I was pretty gay-looking by today’s standards.

[disclaimer: While the word “gay” is commonly understood to mean “homosexual,” I still use the word “gay” to mean “cheesy,” because I’m basically a child.]

I’m trying to download “Promises, Promises” by Generation X. Not because it’s a particularly good song but because it reminds me of a certain time period. Anyways I can’t find it anywhere so if you have this track I’ll trade you something for it. I don’t know what you’re into but I’ve got some Skatalites gems, a shitload of Motown, a grip of Elvis Costello and all the Dinah Washington you want.

Next weekend I have to go to my cousin’s wedding in Connecticut. Which is weird because he’s not really my cousin (long story) and I dislike Connecticut. No offense if you’re from there but like, I totally hate you.

Anyways I’m not really going to know anyone there except my parents. I picture myself sitting in the corner in my brown suit eating wedding cake while everyone else does the bunny-hop. I’ll eat it rapaciously, the way an unwatched animal eats. On the way home I’ll have to pull off of 95 and rob a convenience store just to balance things out.