May 26

I’ve been meaning to write this for a while, but based on some stuff I’ve been reading lately, I’m starting to wonder whether some of the random musings in my head have become a reality.

I was wondering the other day how much inter-blog fuckin’s going on these days, which made me think about some interesting pairings. Like, what if Tiger Lily and the Assimilated Negro were puttin’ wordz to bed? Probably would be pretty hot. How about the Queen of Cityrag paying it forward and engaging the NY Hack in a little indoctrination? Both urban and auto themes abound! Or maybe Bad News Hughes hittin’ it with…ah, why not skip the blogger pairing for Hughes and give him like 5-10 Suicide Girls, because he’s funny, and funny guys deserve massive truckloads of poon (plus he would probably write a hilarious post about the encounter the following week). And his bro, the Honorable Reverend Hughes, can bone, I don’t know, Ultragrrrl. Just because they sit next to each other in my Favorites list. What the hell, you know. Maybe they’d be feeling it. Love the one you’re list.

The one pairing I really think would be most vidly, though, is the Doorman hitting it with the Washingtonienne. If you read either of these blogs with any frequency, you’re probably annoyed by their intermittent posting frequency. Yeah, the pot’s calling the kettle black. Lik. Tha. Balls. What? Dese eyebrows is threaded, yo. Now where’s my Benz?

Seriously – if you read either of these blogs, you’d know by now that these two cats have, like all of us, personas that they rock to the public which obviously may not be entirely representative of who they really are, though these personas come from a genuine place. While one of them wants to come across as jaded, worldly, and tough, and the other one wants to come across as jaded, worldly, and extraordinarily tough, you can pretty much intuit from their blogs that they’re both really sweethearts. Come on, admit it, Tough Guy and Sexy Breezy. It’s ok.

Hang on, I’ve got to go get some damn food – worked out at like 6am this morning and I’m fucking starving. Muggy as shit in HK these days, in case you were wondering.

Ok, I’m back. So yeah, they play their positions, they’ve got their personas, whateverwhatever as Biggie says. But I’m thinking they would just melt each other like heat do butter. By the way, has anyone seen my copy of Last Tango in Paris?

Yeah, so they’ll meet at some poncy blogger soiree at some joint like Hiro, where Rob has never been but at which Jessica has blown rails 20 times, and he’ll be sitting at the bar by himself, gripping a huge Stella and realming on the latest Gibson book he read (I love Gibson too, Rob -- you just want to go there, you know?), and she’ll breeze on up to the bar and order like a cosmo or some shit, and they’ll get to talking. Clublife, and club life, will come up, and her love of joints like Crobar will become apparent, and he’ll want to hate her for it – and probably say something derisive – but in reality he’ll be so open that he can’t even look at her. He’s like twelve again, ya undersmell me? Completely open. And, despite her usual stance that dudes who act like that are totally pussy and should have a little goddamn confidence once in a while, this time she’ll find it endearing and sweet, and of course she’s already read his blog and kind of likes his whole two-fisted, tough-as-nails yet well-read steez, as well as the fact that he can kill most of the fey dudes she runs with. With his bare hands. At the same time.

And before you know it, they’re giggling in her bed at daybreak, already forming their inside jokes and setting aside – at least for now – the knowledge that this shit isn’t going to work out and it’s going to ultimately fuck them both up a little, even though it feels like goddamn heaven on earth at the moment, and he’s loving her dainty expensive shit all other the place and she’s loving his total goddamn…just, presence, his ability to destroy everything in her apartment, hell, feels like the whole building, yet he doesn’t. He’s really loving and says nice things and isn’t trying too hard because he knows he’s in uncharted territory and it’s best just to be yourself in those strange lands. And it doesn’t matter that he’s never heard of Agent Provocateur, or that she drinks silly girl drinks. At that moment, it’s all good in that way we’ve all felt at certain times in our lives, when you’re so unbelievably psyched you almost can’t stand it. You feel like you’ve never lived at all before this moment, and you already know that you’ll always remember lying in that bed, on that morning, with that person. No matter what happens.

The thing is, though, I think the Doorman may already be hittin’ the Cutlerian One. Or working on it, at least. I read that latest post and I’m like, fuck, that’s Cutler. That’s her fo sho. Who knows, right? I hope it happens and it’s real good, though. That’s right, the Hater is wishing some good flavor comes the Doorman’s way. Why? Because I’ve got a buddy of whom the Box-Stander reminds me, and I want all cats like that – stand-up guys, the real deal – to get theirs in every way possible. Plus, you know, I’m engaged now, so my own fantasy of bringing a meteor and a bag of M&Ms downtown must remain just that.

By the way, pick up a book titled I Heard You Paint Houses. It’s about Frank “The Irishman” Sheeran, a real stand-up dude, and tougher than two panel trucks full of guidos.

Chucky

May 17

I’m having one of those days. Not one of those days, but one of those days in which you have way less work to do than you want, believe it or not, and you find yourself trying to hide your web-surfing from your boss and office mates while simultaneously running out of sites to scope. That’s the thing about being 12 hours from the East Coast – the sites I visit don’t publish new shit over the course of the day since all the ponces who work on them are sleeping, so I rip through the sites and I’m left with nothing. It seems that moderation remains a problem for me, especially when I’m bored. And there’s just not much on the to do list for work this week, so I’ve got to pretend to be busy every time the bossman comes in here.

I don’t really care - I worked my ass off the first week and a half I was here. First three-day weekend of my trip and I have to go into the office on the holiday. Second three-day weekend of my trip, right after the first one, and the weekend that F arrives – in the office for at least a couple hours every freakin’ day. So I’ma take it back to 2004 and knock out a blog post while I wait for 7pm to roll around.

UPDATE:
Ok, actually time passed rather quickly because Vice came through for me somewhat and I did a little work. I’m also rolling early because I wanna pick up my cleaning and start getting fucked up early tonight. To where the offence lies, let the great axe fall.

Chucky

I have my annual physical today. Sucks because I didn’t eat a huge meal last night and I came in with a bit of a case of the munchies, so I have to suck on ice water until 12.00 or so, at which point I can gorge on a freakin’ meal. I am not psyched. The world is kind of messing with me today, too. I thought I would be able to at least read about a bear attacking and killing a little girl in Tennessee without the damn article making me hungry – you’d think that, right?

No. They have to bait traps for the bear with “honey buns and doughnuts” and plan to set additional, similar traps, and I’ve got to read about it.

Shit.

I wrote that back on April 14, before I headed to the Kong. I have lots to say about the Kong, though, so I’ll get into that, but I just thought you might find that old post funny. I need to publish some of the shit I wrote over the past 6 months, but I know some of you have been wondering when I’ma throw up some HK posts. Thing is, since I just write lots of text and don’t have any fancy features, not even pics, I wonder whether I need to do more than break up the paragraphs – maybe I just need to shorten the posts.

Hell with that. I’m going straight Diary of Indignities style – I write as long and texty as I want (ah wait, that cat does have pics sometimes, that’s the funniest part about his blog).

On a side note – since I don’t really where to start, so I’m in no hurry to get there – I really dig this badnewshughes cat. I can relate to him since we had similar youths – listened to similar music, grew up in Florida, have tales of drunken, uncool yet sometimes successful mackalation attempts, did some Webelos crap, stuff like that. And sometimes we seem to have similar outlooks on things, uncannily so. Sour outlooks. That’s right.

Let’s stick with the off-the-top side notes before I run through another tale of getting completely hammered on ill drinks and fighting and fucking and stuff. Which one do you prefer – “my niggas and niggarettes”, a la ODB, or “My niggas and niggettes”, comme zee Mobb Deep? I like ODB’s more, always have – funnier, you got that cigarettes thing going that adds a little bend in the comical river there...

This weekend I did some shit. Friday I went out with B and E and her family for Mother’s Day dinner at a Korean barbecue place – her moms heard we were in town and invited us to come along. My lady had just got hit with some food poisoning, so she chilled, but I headed out and ended up getting pretty litacious in a short period of time. Also proud to say I ate about ten different animals, depending on whether the beef (both raw and cooked) came from a cow, a bull (uncastrated male), or an ox (castrated male) and, related to that, whether you see any difference among them, which I suppose there is not except for various degrees of dick-havingness or oncedick-havingness… bornwithdickness, I guess.

So dig, I had ox tongue, a pile of raw beef, some beef short ribs, chicken, lamb, mussels, scallops, giant prawns, fish of various sorts, octopus, and squid. Ten if you count the ribs and tongue as two. So, like 9. Hell yeah. I put in work, and watch my status escalate.

Yeah, so we were like the loud crowd at the joint, and even though I used to describe every little detail of an evening like this in previous posts, I’ll be honest and say that this wasn’t too over the top. Had its moments. The burner-fixing techniques that the waitress and some other dude attempted struck both fear and curiosity in me, especially given that they were doing it 12 inches away from me. Ok, put on the glove, I’ll turn the valve, you light it and jump back…ok, let’s try it 2 or 6 more times…of course the food was fantastic as always. The pile of raw marinated beef was great, the tongue I could live without forever, but it wasn’t terrible, and the rest of it was amazing. The Korean sake was pretty good too. And just like the last time I had dinner with E’s family, my knowledge and recollection of the location is something like this: Causeway Bay, Jaffe Street, up an elevator.

After dinner we headed to LKF and, after a brief altercation with some drunk cats who were trying to get all feely and touchy, we went into some joint, can’t recall the name but there were all these gweilos there dancing like fucking idiots on the floor, jamming to one of the ubiquitous Filipino bands that permeate the landscape in this region. Apologies to those readers who already know this or read about this in the Times magazine, but Filipinos have this band game on lock out here. “Out here” as in “all over a huge chunk of Asia”. Apparently they go to like band vocational school-type shit as teenagers and they all learn instruments, work out a decent singing voice, form bands, learn a pile of hit songs, and proceed to be the most ubiquitous and most talented motherfuckers in Hong Kong, Shanghai, Singapore, Australia, all the cruise ships…and they did rock, even though playing all the “hits” means you had like one decent Depeche Mode song thrown in among two Black Eyed Peas songs, a “You Can Call Me Al” for the older folks, some bad disco covers and all that. The dancing made me seriously ashamed of being a whitey mcwhitestone gweilo. Ha, the spell check calls out the last two words but not whitey. Let’s see, does it underline honky? No. Nigga? Yes. Nigger? No. Great, the PC’s dictionary knows the language of racism. Wop? Yep, Accepted that. Kike? Jesus, this software is fucking bigoted! And now I just noticed farther up that it underlines uncastrated but not castrated -- does my computer prefer, and therefore only accept, bad things, bad words? Let’s try a new racist term for a cracker that Chris Rock made up on SNL years ago: honkaloid. That one it called out.

Ok, whatever. So we headed to LKF and we got more lit and B and I talked about random crap for a while, and I headed home to my sick baby. That was the more mellow night. Home by 12.30, even though I still had a good baker’s dozen in me. Saturday morning, not surprisingly, involved F going to the gym while I got puffed and slugged myself in the genitals and tried to go back to sleep. We had some illtop freakin’ later, though. That helped. It’s too bad you can’t have orgasms every 5 minutes until your hangover has subsided.

Saturday night we went to Red for a farewell drinks thing for this reporter, and that was ok. Kind of like work, really. B and I took our honeys up to Soda later and we got all manner of fizznucked izznup. I was drinking these fuckers with vodka, Crème de pech, some kind of berry liquer, and mottled raspberry and mandarin orange – served in a pint glass no less. Going down as fast as Jungle Juice on the North Beach schoolyard back in the day, and the same bright red color, too. Stellas, ginger and lemongrass martinis, this shooter called a One Night Stand that is just so sweet and tasty and then disappears, just as it should (oh, snap)…ha-a-aa-aaa-a-aa-ammmered. Actually, Victor was in the house – at least for me – so I felt pretty lucid and awesome the whole night. Everything was lovely until about 4am when we rolled home and got in a big fight on the way and fought for a while when we got home. Stupid fighting. But we made up in the morning.

Oh yeah, I guess to kind of automatically, if pathetically, qualify this as service journalism (why am I doing this), I will now throw up in your mouth. Nah, kidding. Soda is on Pedder St. just below Hollywood Rd in Central. Decent DJ, good drink menu for those who care (and last night I seemed to be one of those people), and the same cats who own Loft 9 owns this bar, so if you like Loft 9, this is fairly similar. Plus you can stand out on Pedder St., which you can’t do at Loft 9. The bathrooms are, like every other bar in Hong Kong, as cramped as a fucking submarine. Prepare to have your dong bumping up against other dude’s dongs. And if that’s what you’re looking for anyway, you can step to Propaganda, just down the alley across from Soda. Walk down the alley…keep walking…don’t worry, there’s no crime in Central…and there it is on the left. There’s some other place further down, too. Go to Propaganda on Fridays, I think.

Called B and E around noon the next morning and they said they ended up heading to Wanchai after we left. Turns out E doesn’t remember going. And she had to work Sunday.

So there’s some other shit from the weekend, but I want to look at all these other posts I’ve been meaning to publish. I can’t believe I never threw up a summary of the Rakim show. Have to finish that one. So like I was gonna say before I interrupted myself, I just want to end with a short journey down memory lane and mention this awesome Metallica tape this dude gave to me in college. It was from the Metallistore, this “store” in NYC when Electra went out of business and they just gave away all kinds of weird Electra shit or Metallica shit out of the store on one last day, January 21, 1993. There was a little description on the side of the tape or something. Metallica was there.

Anyway, this dope tape has 3 tracks, all from a live show in Moscow – can’t remember the date, but it was from 1991. Probably ended up on a live album – did they do one of those or was it just video? Oh yeah, Binge and Purge. So they start off with “Last Caress” by the Misfits, and then segue into “Am I Evil?” by Diamondhead with the Kirk Hammett crunch – this loud, raw, advancing legions-type shit – and the drums…ah, man. Metallica heaven for hardcore fans. Last, they rip their way through a blistering “Battery,” faster than you can imagine. I know I sound like a big dork right now, but it’s just awesome.

Chucky