I guess I should see it as a compliment that one of my guy friends feels comfortable enough to watch porn in my presence. Channel-surfing, he hesitated when he came to the Playboy channel, glanced at the bored, indifferent look on my face, then set the remote down on the carpet.

My friend sat on a velour-covered easy chair, so close to the television screen that any mother would have screamed had she seen her child sitting that close to Saturday morning cartoons. The chair’s color was midway between a faded green and a fluorescent highlighter yellow; its shade depended on the incoming light and one’s mood. To a grass-roots fanatic, it was definitely green. To an inebriated frat boy, the chair probably took on a less verdant tone and more of a puke-yellow shade.

With my friend sitting on the only real chair in the apartment, I opted for the worn-down, carrot-colored beanbag. When I sat down, the beans swooshed to either side of me, snugly reforming to the intrusion of my butt. I was just leaning back when I saw a broad, tan-colored wrist place the elongated, black control on the floor.

Complacently he watched, with one hand periodically retrieving his can of Budweiser and the other hand gently set on his protruding tummy. I watched my friend, as he watched TV, and I tapped my fingernails on my thigh. His thin white shirt barely covered the remaining bulge of stomach fat. And when he raised his hand to sip the room-temperature beer, I could detect small holes on the sides of his right underarm. Nonetheless, in spite of his sub-par appearance, I couldn’t help but smirk inside. A great all-around guy—I couldn’t help but be drawn to his quick wit. We had met at forestry camp in college and because of his sense of humor, I had spent a whole summer laughing heartily.

Stagnated on the nostalgia of pine trees, wooden cabins, and bright yellow hard hats, I didn’t notice the irritating buzzing sound a few decibels greater than normal until moments later.

“Dan!” I screamed, looking from the TV to his fat ass. “You can’t even see anything!” It was true. He didn’t subscribe to the Playboy channel, so all we could see were zig-zagged clips of a scene which distorted the picture altogether.

“Just wait. Just wait.” He chided, anxiously diverting his gaze from these imaginary naked figures on TV to the resting remote control, thinking that with my fiery impatience I just might have the guts to switch the channel for my own viewing pleasure.

“Ooohhh,” I muttered. I figured I might as well disrupt the silence. Dan’s the talker. I’m the listener, but when I listen, I like to punctuate the conversation with those monosyllabic filler words to let the other person know you’re actively listening—words like, ‘yeah,’ ‘wow,’ ‘oh,’

“Oh see! Look at that!” His voice rose in excitement as he physically perked himself up with his forearms. The folds in his stomach increased both in number and magnitude. “You see that?” He posed the question, then eased into a broad smile.

“No. I really can’t see anything.” I patronized. But I was in truth lying because I could see some flesh, just not distinctly. I really couldn’t see anything very clearly, so I squinted several times, hoping the ridged lines would smooth out.

“It’s a tit!” He resolved emphatically with a big fat grin on his face. Just like the Cheshire cat—so smug and annoying. Dan’s face lies hidden beneath a barrage of thick, black curly hair and an unruly beard that he likes to scratch and play with. His pretty green eyes light up amidst the darkness of his physiognomy. And when he smiles, the grooves of his mouth expand from ear to ear, just like the infamous cat when Alice in Wonderland asks for directions.

I squinted again, hoping to catch a clearer view of the scene. With my brain still processing the input of information, I looked restlessly from my watch to the TV. But finally it clicked. Although the scene was distorted, I could make out the images flashing across the screen. I made a game out of it, trying to recognize what had previously been unrecognizable. Intermittently, the screen would go blank, then images of nude flesh would appear, giving rise to explicit scenes of sexual intercourse.

“Oh, Dan! ENOUGH!!” I cried. I hardly felt comfortable watching Playboy with a male friend.

“Fine.” He relented, issuing me the power over the remote control. He proceeded to finish his Bud. Excitedly, I scanned the plethora of channels. After two thorough scannings, I was content to watch the eighties TV show ChiPs. Bringing his head down from the last gulp of the can, Dan glanced at the TV, then looked at me with imploring eyes, accentuated by his wrinkled forehead and furrowed eyebrows. “What the fuck is this?”

“Dan,” I explained calmly, “it’s ChiPs. It’s a classic.”

“A classic piece of shit,” he retorted. “C’mon,” he summoned. “Don’t you have to go to Church?”

“No,” I murmured. “But for once I might as well be early.”

Caribbean Cruise, Spring Break 2003

Once again, I’m having problems uploading images to the site. I guess the words will have to speak for themselves. No pictures for now. Stay tuned.

Seventies Holiday Party

My mother handed me something the other day that made me laugh. It was a pamphlet titled ‘Overcoming Alcoholism.’ She had gotten it from Church. I giggled and promised her I’d read it.

It’s a running joke in my family that I’m an alcoholic. They laugh, I laugh, but there’s concern on both sides. I know I have a problem; I’m just trying to keep it under control.

I started drinking when I was twelve at basement parties with my junior high friends. That’s when I started, but I could have started earlier. My dad and uncles love beer and it would have been completely acceptable to have a can of beer at a family party. They even offered, “Beer? You want some beer?” I shook my head in disgust, heading past the ice chests to pour myself a cup of 7-Up or Coke.

So when drinking came up pre-teens, I never thought it was a big deal. I simply chugged wine coolers while the guys drank beer.

I built up my alcohol tolerance in college. After a few parties, I actually thought I was incapable of getting drunk. I congratulated myself. Here I was…a five-foot tall Asian girl drinking all these shots and I was perfectly fine, with only a slight buzz. Armed with that mentality, I went to a Goldschlager party my Freshman year and downed at least ten shots. I had been mixing my alcohol, going back and forth between beer, mixed drinks, and shots. I’d never had Goldschlager before, but I didn’t think it would affect me any differently. “Ooooh,” I cooed. “Look at the gold flecks, floating in my shot. They’re sparkly! PRETTY!!!”

Suddenly…very suddenly, I didn’t feel too pretty myself. Without even talking to any of my friends, I ran out and through the streets. In this case, there would be no looking both ways before crossing. I could’ve been crossing a barren country road or Broadway in Manhattan. It did not matter; I needed to get home. Fast.

I flung myself face-down onto my toilet and barfed non-stop until morning. When I thought the worst was over, I would crawl over to my bedroom, lie in bed for no more than two minutes, then drag my sorry-ass back to the bathroom to begin the vomiting process all over again. After enough back-and-forths, I brought my pillow and blanket with me to the bathroom for good. A couple of coughing heaves and a few good bursts of vomit, then I’d sloppily sink into the makeshift bed I’d made for myself right there next to the toilet.

I even contemplated calling an ambulance. That’s how bad it was. Here were my thoughts.

“If I call an ambulance, I’ll get arrested for under-age drinking. I’ll have to go through some detox program, I’ll have to quit school, I won’t graduate, and that’ll be the end of my career. I’ll end up working at the bookstore for the rest of my life. While all my friends at the bookstore are off in medical school or law school, planning their futures, I’ll be stuck cashiering at the bookstore full-time! Oh God, but this hurts. I’ve never been in so much pain in my life. I need an ambulance. WHAT IF I DIE?!?!? I’ll be in the papers. The article will say, ‘If only she had called an ambulance, we would have been able to save her in time.’ This psychological debate possessed me until morning when the illness completely left me. I had convulsed and vomited enough. The poison was gone.

During times like that, you make a promise to yourself to never do that again, but let’s be honest. Those promises never hold any weight. I continued drinking in college, but that was my worst episode. I had had the typical college experience. When I worked, I never shunned alcohol, going to happy hours and drinking with friends, drinking with my boyfriends. My drinking pattern was normal.

Then I got to business school and my drinking took a turn for the worst. There were the weekly Brats n’ Brew social functions, recruiting events with open bar, TNDC (Thursday Night Drinking Club)…you name it…alcohol was written all over it. We were a bunch of twenty-somethings who had tasted the good life (many of us were making good money even before b-school), had more than enough money from financial aid, and had one last opportunity to party like rock stars. Also, there were little to no repercussions. I had accepted my full-time offer with two more quarters left at school. Offer letter = time to party. If I was hung-over, I didn’t have to go to class if I didn’t want to. Hell, unless it was a class I found enjoyable, I spent class-time sitting at home sleeping or shopping on Michigan Avenue.

It was bad. Very very bad. Here was the routine.

Night 1: Get blistering drunk.
Morning After: Wake up hung-over. Thank God I was a student and didn’t have a full-time job. Promise myself not to drink that night.

Night 2: Drink, but not get drunk.
Morning After: Wooohoo, not hung-over. Go to class. Stop by Sweet Mandy B’s and treat myself to a cupcake for not being hung-over.

Night 3: Get shit-faced drunk.
Morning After: Wake up hung-over. Sleep in until I feel good enough to get a cheeseburger and French fries with friends. Thank God that this is the life I lead. I feel so blessed.

One night, I drank heavily—indifferent to the fact that I had an on-campus interview the next day. I conducted my interview in a sloppy fashion, but the company moved me on to second rounds. “Geez, if these people think I’m smart when I’m half-buzzed, and they’re going to fly me out to headquarters all expenses paid, then damn! What a bunch of dingbats!”

It was the ultimate drinking validation. Two executives had given me the thumbs-up in moving forward with their hiring process after I’d spent the night drinking up a storm. Suh-weet, I was golden.

I was certain that lifestyle correlated only to b-school. Once I start working full-time, I’ll have my career ahead of me and I’ll lead a mundane, upwardly mobile life. I was wrong. The drinking and partying wasn’t as frequent, but it was just as bad. I spent countless Saturdays and Sundays nursing violent hangovers. “I feel like a solid gold dancer,” I’d tell people on the phone. “I can’t stop spinning.”

Then there was the time I went drink-for-drink with my 6’6” co-worker. I kept up with him, but lost it shortly afterwards. My friend was having a party for his new plastic surgery office. It was a classy affair, wine and cheese, and so forth. The only thing I recall was wanting to go home and wanting to get there as quickly as possible. I exited the building without talking to anyone, hailed a cab, and got myself home. I later found out that I had thrown up in one of the patient rooms. I vaguely recall also throwing up before I got into the cab.

That is when I started thinking I might have a problem. Jeopardizing a friendship was a big wake-up call.

And finally, there was the blackout. The day after my 30th birthday, I woke up confused and relieved. I was relieved because I was safe in my own bed with my pajamas on and my contacts off. At least I had sense enough to get myself ready for bed. But I was confused because I had absolutely no idea how I had gotten home. I couldn’t even remember what had happened towards the very end of the night. I had to do some sleuthing to figure out what happened and who had gotten me home. It was the first and last time I blacked out.

Scared for myself and recognizing that I truly had a problem, I attended a few AA meetings. AA is a lot like going to Church. But there isn’t anything AA is going to offer me that I don’t already get from going to Church as a practicing Catholic. So I stopped going. I just tell myself that I never want to be in another situation where I’m hurting people or I’ve completely lost my sense of awareness—situations that are all possible and have come to fruition when I’ve been drinking heavily.

When I started thinking I had a problem, I told myself I would not drink a sip of alcohol for the next month, but I couldn’t do it. No alcohol for one week…couldn’t do that either.

I realize I cannot simply stop drinking alcohol. I think that’s extreme and pointless, because then the craving will never go away. It’s kind of like Lent. I can give up sweets or chocolate for forty days, but come Easter morning…Hell, even before Easter morning…when the clock strikes midnight, I’ve got a spoon in a half-gallon of ice-cream and my other hand reaching for a Twinkie.

I know myself well enough. Becoming sober will only ignite a craving that will never completely go away. I have to learn to live with my drinking and keep it under control. It’s about believing in and trusting yourself, and making the right decisions from now on. I guess that’s all we can hope for when it comes to addictions.

To complementing life with alcohol and not drowning in it. Cheers.

Art in a museum in Quito, Ecuador

I got to see my best friend Daniel on Saturday. I love my Daniel time. We went from brunch at the Blue Jay Café, to hot chocolate and tea at Absinthe, then capped off our time with a chocolate chip cookie for me, and a chocolate croissant for him at Citizen Cake. I even went back later on in the day for another chocolate chip cookie. I can’t help myself!!!

There’s so much to talk about when we get together. There’s his wedding that he’s frugally trying to plan. “Forget the flowers, no one remembers the flowers.” I agreed with him. I told him that when I get married, I don’t even want to have it catered. I’m going to hire a bunch of high-schoolers to run around to the best cheap eats in the city and bring bins of food back for the reception. No need for catering! Maybe I’ll hire a taco truck.

And invitations? Over-rated. I’ll be using Evite. Ha-ha, people laugh. But I say, who’s laughing when the credit card statement comes, eh? Who’ll be laughing when you have to stay at a hostel during your honeymoon because your wedding was so expensive, huh? Ha-ha. I won’t be the one having the beautiful, classic wedding, but I promise, it’s going to be a lot of fun. Think piñatas, magicians, fire-dancers…Don’t anyone steal my ideas!!!

All the talk of weddings got me depressed. I asked Daniel (who has this eerily accurate foresight), “Do you think I’m going to get married some day?”

He paused. “Yeah, yeah I do.”

“Really?” I perked up. “What kind of guy do you think I’ll end up marrying?”

He paused again. “Average. He’s going to be average.” My bewildered look begged for more information. “He’s going to be some average Joe. That’s all I’m saying. Average.”

I can’t wait to meet my Mr. Right, some Joe Schmo Schmuck. If you know of any average guys, send them my way. My best friend has a sneaky suspicion that among these nobodies, the perfect guy awaits me.

The Jersey Shore

The time had come to take action. My whole lesbian/bi deal. All talk, no action. I sometimes doubted it myself, but I know I have definitely been attracted to women before. Serendipitously, an email came through—among the numerous emails I get for events around the city—for a brunch mixer with ‘like-minded lesbian and bisexual women in San Francisco.’ The event was titled “Brunch with a Bunch.”

Omigosh, I thought. This is perfect timing. Here is my opportunity! I signed up on the spot. Brunch at 11:30 at my favorite spot Eastside West. We would have a separate dining room all to ourselves. Great! There’s no need for the Marina boys to know I’m considering switching teams.

Sunday morning, I drove down to the Marina and parked. As I walked toward the restaurant, I became nervous and anxious. I kept wondering if I was doing the right thing. It’s only $20. I can skip the brunch and just not give any money to the church tonight during the collection. I’d consider it my one-time donation to gay rights.

I was getting closer. My heart beat faster. This was really nerve-wracking. I felt the same way after I’d already decided to run the Bay to Breakers naked and it was finally showtime…time to bare all for tens of thousands of people to see.

Gulp, I pressed on.

There was a group of women already at the door, standing outside. It looked like the restaurant was closed. At exactly the same time I got to the group, a man came up and informed us, “The restaurant is flooded. The event is cancelled. There’ll be another one in January. You can attend that one. Or if you want, we’ll refund your money. Whatever is best for you.”

There were six women crowded around, including myself. I looked at every single one of them and said a little prayer. Thank the Lord, Almighty. God is watching over me. All those five women looked exactly the same. The only differences were the pigment of their skin and their hair color. They were all older (I’d say mid-forties to early-fifties) and round-bottomed. OK, I’ll be honest. They were huge, fat, big-boned women. The event should’ve been called “Brunch with a Butch.”

I did not belong there. Let’s just say the flood did not rain on my parade. I would’ve been outta there by the time bread was served. Concurrently, the women were looking at me like, “What’s this cutie doing here among us?” They probably thought of me as someone who’d been devastated by her boyfriend and was now looking for love with the more sensitive and caring sex.

I walked away…extremely relieved. I figure, the kind of girl I’m going to like will most likely be hetero. Who knows. I do know I won’t be signing up for any gay events in the future. But for now, I’ll just be open to the possibility. I’ll take a cute girl over two unattractive security guards any day.

Deb, Brian, and Me trekking along the coast of Capetown