30 Bars & Other Things

Dish 5: Fried Pregnant Fish

2011-03-29T22:25:00.000-07:00

I see a scantly clad waitress pass by with a dish that caught my interest. It is serendipity really. The Taiwanese have very odd beer food. Tendons, stinky tofu, chicken livers. Sure offal is the rage in haute cuisine, but the Asians have been frying the unmentionables for decades. But there is one item, just one, that has lodged itself in the shriveled olive that is my heart and that is “Fried Pregnant Fish.”

I am not exactly sure what is the name of this dish; in fact, I am not sure what type of fish I am writing about. It is akin to a sardine and fried - head to tail. You eat it in two to three bites. People have rituals when eating certain foods. I recently went out on a date with someone who had to cut an apple into matchsticks before consumption. I have a ritual too. The first bite, and always the first bite, I decapitate the sardine. With its head perfectly removed, you can peer inside, and you will discover the roe; hence, pregnant fish. With my culinary endeavor I have become an abortionist.

I don’t know why I like this dish so much. Sure it is delicious, but I actively seek it out in all Chinese restaurants (provided I am with company that can stomach my feats of gastronomic genocide). I think it is just romantic to talk about this dish. In one singular bite you get life and birth. Add to the fact that it is the season of Lent, and fish and Christ run together, and you will get any symbologist to shoot his wad.

So what am I doing for Lent? My brother asked me this question over – fish tacos. According to my church instead of giving up something, I should do something positive. Like, learn to say “good morning” to a stranger for 40 days. I never follow the positive route in the past. I don’t know why. Maybe it is emblematic of why I am damaged. Lately I have been a very angry person. For some reason a confluence of events have funneled into my life and I have been swept up, leaving me very bitter and angry:

I am mad that my Ex dumped me and has found two relationships, while I still floating in flotsam and jetsam of loneliness.
I am mad that S never thanked me for dinner.
I am mad that S invited him and never said “sorry.”
I am mad that P only has 10 mins to talk.
I am mad that $300 got deducted without a thank you.
I am mad that my solar stocks are not going up.
I am mad at fuel prices.
I am mad at C for calling me out.
I am mad that Season 3 of True Blood sucked.
I am mad about Chinatown.

Now, Dear Reader, I am not being facetious. I am really mad about these things. If you talk to me about Season 3, I will go into an uncontrollable frenzy. But it is about the people that really get to me. A friend not thanking me for dinner has taken up 2 months of angst and frustration. There were nights were I went to sleep with clenched fists. Angry, and really, why? I mean my life is not too difficult or taxing. I could be in the northern corner of Japan, or Libya. I could be born in the wrong side of the California/Mexico border. I make more money than I did last; how many people can say that. If I wanted to go to business school tomorrow, I can. In three years I could be in Rome living in a villa and learning a beautiful language. I can.

So why be so angry about protocol or feelings. I got dumped. But really, I am petty and mean, of course I will get dumped. He is not petty.

S doesn’t understand protocol. So what? We don’t live in the Han Dynasty.

Eat the fish, and let go. Not just for 40 days.

Dish 4: Stinky Tofu

2011-03-25T16:18:00.001-07:00

I love tofu. It is velvety, smooth and protein rich; just like an ideal boyfriend. Tofu is excellent in a stir fry, grilled for a salad, or just fried; thus, destroying all its nutritional value. But there is a special type of tofu, one that only lurks in the palates of psychopaths and the culinary deranged – the stinky tofu. According to Wikipedia, the fount of all information, the tofu is fermented in some unholy elixir for months. When it is brought out from the kitchen, it makes you want to vomit. To explain the odor to Western readers is near impossible, just think of rotten cheese and mix it in with a lot of Asian yelling.

Jason and Wendy were popping the tofu into their mouths like candy. Here is to something new. As I grasped the tofu with chopsticks and trepidation, my hand started to shake. Has the land of cheeseburgers and pizza made me forget my forefathers? Before moving to Chicago eating such items would never give me pause, but now, if it is not covered in a bright rich pesto it is not going down my gullet. I took one bite. It was ok. It tasted like … tofu. But then came the aftertaste. Again my gag reflex kicked in. I tasted ricotta, socks and kitty litter. I stopped at “half tofu.” Dear Reader, note, your car will smell like stinky tofu afterwards.

Dish 3: Fried Chicken Cartilage

2011-03-20T17:08:00.000-07:00

Wendy said it was "good."

Surely she can't be wrong. She wields chopsticks like a samurai. Jason was popping it into his mouth like it was popcorn. Even my brother, nodded in approval.

Here it goes. Here is to new experiences. It was disgusting. It actually snapped in my mouth. For some reason, my gag reflex started to undulate. Now, I want to describe the sensation. When you eat fresh green beans, it has a similar snap. But for some reason, and it may be culturally derived; when I eat meat, I do not want it to bounce back.

Now Dear Reader, you may ask, "why did you eat it?" Well I am going to reveal something that only my family and two close friends know, I am going through a midlife crisis. I am 31, and I need to do something new in my life - I need something more. Dear Reader, in two years I will be debt free. And in two years I have no idea what I am going to do. A very good friend told me recently that I needed a change. The other told me, to do something that will make me happy - life is short. Was it not Christ who died when he was 33? So here is to new experiences. Even chicken cartilage.

Here is a semi-bucket list. Things I want to do before I am 33:
1. Learn to read Chinese.
2. Learn to write 750 Chinese characters.
3. Relearn Geometry - Calculus II. (I did really bad in high school).
4. Let bygones be bygones. I have three enemies. I need to let them know that they have been downgraded.
5. Write that book. I have found a 100 reasons to not start. Its time to close the door, and open the Word document.

Dish 2: Pho

2011-03-19T20:12:00.000-07:00

I was going through my Pokemon collection of boyfriends, paramours, and tricks and I noticed that whenever they wanted comfort food they would always ask for meatloaf, chicken noodle soup, lasagna … White people stuff. When Asians want comfort food, it requires the pillaging of rice fields and the sacrifice of many animals. When I am sick, I want congee or pho. I am not going to describe congee, a white, unctuous mixture of water and rice, but it really is quite disgusting. In the grand scheme of things, pho, if you are a reader: of Fast Food Nation, The Omnivore’s Dilemma, and Los Angeles County Food Inspector Reports, is equally heinous. What is chicken noodle soup to my ex boyfriend, is pho to the Vietnamese. Pho comprises of thin clear noodles in a beef stock. But this is no traditional beef stock. The base is not one of bullion cubes, rather, what we are talking about is a stock with all the parts of the cow. Under a slick of fat, you will find tendons, tripe, and various other unmentionables. The soup is greasy, fatty and - beefy. So vile is this bovine elixer, you are encouraged to dump handfuls of bean sprouts, mint, and all other types of vegetation to cut through the grease. And guess what, when my white blood cells are fighting the good fight, I will be slurping my noodles and smacking my lips with remnants of tendon.

Dish 1: Vietnamese Eggrolls

2011-03-18T16:33:00.000-07:00

When one thinks about eggrolls, the image of greasy yet tasty finger food often comes to mind. The evocative image of +$1 for a combo meal dances in the head, and well, that’s it. Eggrolls are a mainstay of Chinese Restaurants, but they are not important. A throwaway, like the first female child of a traditional Chinese couple. But whereas the Chinese equivalent has failed us, the Vietnamese has excelled. Crispy, fat and plump. The Vietnamese eggroll is reminiscent of a cigar, with the girth and length that would make any homosexual blush with anticipation. But the one major characteristic about the Vietnamese eggrolls that are universal, at least in Vietnamese restaurants in California, are the fact that they are all delicious (this is not the case in Chicago where they are reminiscent of the Chinese ones). I pondered this with my brother. Why, regardless of restaurant, locale or zip code in California, are they all delicious? His answer, “Because they are fresh.”

It is interesting to discuss the nuances of “farm to table cuisine” versus, produce purchased at a farmer’s market. But when it all comes down to it, the differences are in degrees and likely intangible. The difference is premised on sentiment and goodwill towards our animal kin and not so much on the quality of the loin. But Dear Reader, the leap between frozen and fresh are leaps and bounds. This is entirely the case with eggrolls. The ones you see riding on a dim sum cart or tacked on as a +1 are likely to be frozen. Manufactured at City of Industry, California and the epicenter of the mortgage meltdown, these infernal fingers are trekked over to your local Chinese restaurant ready for your consumption while accompanied with that sugary plum sauce. Vietnamese eggrolls are different, they are made at the restaurant. You see the Vietnamese ladies hunched over with the egg wrappers spooning the mixture of pork and reconstiuted woodear mushrooms before the flick of their wrists transforming meat paste into Asian burrito. The Vietnamese Eggroll will always taste like pork, and mushrooms, not fried skin -not something frozen 1,300 miles away.

This is ultimately a tale of globalization. The Chinese are victims to it. We have lost the eggroll to refrigeration and interstate commerce. The only thing satisfying about Chinese eggrolls are the qualities that make fried foods so appealing. But the Vietnamese eggroll, they were made at the very table you are sitting, and that’s why they taste so much better.

Compare the first picture (Vietnamese) to the sad Chinese one:

31 Dishes

2011-03-17T18:34:00.000-07:00

So this begins the first post in a series about my trip back to California. Dear Reader, I am going to be honest, this is not a trip I wanted to make. Things have been cold and empty since my coming out. My mother never addressed the issue and I definitely do not expect an apology.

Since October, my father has strongly suggested that I should visit. First he recommended an unholy odyessy for Christmas but I knew what that would comprise of; a bunch of Asian meals with very Asian people. For the uninitiated, the Visigoths have better table manners. There is a particular “aunt” of ours that remove the flesh from chicken feet with the precision of a surgeon; and then spits the remnants back onto the table. Oh yes, I come from bourgeoise stock.

Then I had to deftly avoid purchasing a plane ticket for Chinese New Year. Dear Reader, the stereotypes about Chinese drivers are true, but think about the annual rodeo when they all converge into a 20 mile radius.

But then my father caught me with the Siren’s call, “Come back for your birthday, we want to take you to Vegas. You won’t bring any of our friends”. I couldn’t really resist, I don’t think there are many Asians driving around Vegas (instead of taking to the road they stay in the casinos and gamble), plus, the people I try to avoid, mainly my parents’ friends will not be there.

Two days before coming to California, I learned that my mother will be going to a Texas Hold’em tournament, and that through a slip of my brother’s tongue, I will not be going to Vegas. I would stay in California as they go out and scratch that proverbial Asian itch that is gambling.

Since I will be in California and hanging out with my brother, I plan to write about 31 dishes I have consumed during my trip to California. Of particular note, he was present at every meal. Some people say we resemble Frasier and Niles. That is probably true. I am Niles.

There will be some other cast-members. My cousins will make cameos - and much to my joy, so does Wendy, Jon's girlfriend.

"Eric, your cats are gay."

2011-02-04T14:16:00.000-08:00

I was trying to convince them that they would like Big Bang Theory. It seems like such a silly sentence. The word “convince” should never be in the same sentence as Big Bang Theory. Everyone should like it. Everyone, like me, should yearn for Thursday nights 8 Eastern / 7 Central, and click to CBS. It is a show about comic books, videogames, and socially obtuse nerds – how does it not appeal to all? Well my friends, Peter and Scott were having none of it.

Scott was playing the good friend, he was trying to enjoy the show, laughing at all the right moments, but there was something hollow, something missing. His verbal ejaculations reminded me of mine when I speak with a coworker on the phone, “Oh I have soooo much fun working on projects with you. I can’t wait for the next one. [Cackles and the rolling of my eyes].” What I really meant to say is “Get the fuck off my extension, I am waiting for my Match.com boyfriend to call me.” What I really heard when I heard Scott laugh was “Can we play Dead Space?” But Scott was bearing it, he was pretending to be a good friend.

Peter was having none of it. He could not hide his contempt for the show, all he did was try to find a boyfriend on Grindr.

“My God,” I thought to myself, I am a terrible host. If I cannot entertain my friends – my chums – my coterie, how could I ever entertain a date. Dear Reader, I have a very limited skill set. If I was a Dungeons and Dragon character, all my points would be attributed to “awkward conversation” and none to the ones that count such as “strength” or “agility.” If I can’t even entertain Peter and Scott, it will surely be a cold bed until I level up and get more points.

Well Dear Reader, something happened. Scott actually placed his iPhone down on my coffee table and got up. The phone was just lying there, alone and naked against the wooden furniture. On the screen was a grid of semi-naked men. I made a note to myself to get the CDC to examine my sofa after Scott leaves. I followed Scott’s eyes, like two floodlights they were trained on my cats. Peter noticed something too, and he laughed. It was not a fake one to make me feel better about my cultural choices, no it was a real hearty bellowing laugh. What are my cats doing that would entertain them so? Surely they cannot be more entertaining than Sheldon Cooper. And then I saw, it was a dark sight indeed. My yellow cat, Frodo, was humping my other cat Sam.

[Spotlight on cats]

Scott: Eric, your cats are gay.

Eric: [Exasperated] No, they are not. Frodo is just showing his dominance by biting Sam. Frodo is not thrusting, there is no motion of actually humping. They are not gay. It is an issue of property rights.

Scott: Dude, your cats are gay.

Peter: Oh my god, your cats are gay.

[Audience Laughs]

Eric: Frodo is the alpha cat. Not everything is about humping. Look at Scott’s phone, surely there must be one legitimate picture in there!

[Light moves onto Scott]

Scott: My cats’ don’t do that. And they are both boys.

Eric: My cats are not gay!!!

[Curtain]

I don’t know why I am so adamant about my cats being straight. I tried to rationalize it away. Frodo acts differently when women are around. It is an issue about property rights. They are just doing what is normal in nature, this is my boundary and you are the Omega Male. I rationalize, they can’t be gay. I imagine this is what most parents do when they hear their children are gay. They rationalize, my son can’t be gay. “He is so good in sports,” which may lead to “He had so many girlfriends,” to “Not my son, what did I do wrong.” My cats can’t be gay.

There is an obvious irony to this. But the irony is not one geometric line, rather, it comprises of many fibers woven together to make a giant trunk. The central fiber is obvious, I am gay. So why do I care if my cats are gay. In fact I should take pride in it. The second fiber, I am progressive in my politics and judicial philosophy. I believe people have no choice in being gay (they may have been born gay, or they were influenced by early social cues). To be consistent, nature made my cats gay. The third fiber - so what? If I was straight, I would still be an opinionated, bombastic horror of a person. Sexual orientation is of very little importance about my character. Sure, I could make jokes about Grindr, but the wasteland that is The Dark Tower has formed more of my character than abs and a 30in waist ever will. And yet I still tell myself, my cats can’t be gay.

I had a discussion with my best friend about her son. She said she would never want her son to be gay because life is so much harder. I agree. You have to hide who you are. I knew when I was 10 and I pretended to never look at the quarterback while feigning interest about the ball he was catching. I acted. It is horrible to tell a boy to be something he is not. This act is not premised on mere chauvinism, or homophobia. Gays do it too. On dating sites, the term “straight acting,” is a badge of honor. The term “fem” is a scarlet letter. And nothing is worse than watching a bunch of gays around my age wear Abercrombie and Fitch sitting at a sports bar, acting out a fraternity life that they never had. I sit in the throes of ennui whenever I see fags pretend to be the very human waste that so terrified their childhood. And there I did it too, I said “fags.”

So why, why can’t I accept Frodo and Sam being gay? I mean with names like that, they should default to being homosexual. Am I a homophobe? Don’t be silly, I interned at Lambda Legal; I worked on the Iowa Marriage case. I have plenty of gay friends. I like Prada shoes and Gucci suits. I can’t be a homophobe. Surely, I am not Rick Santorum!

But Dear Reader, the sui generis of my denial, is this, it would make my role as a cat owner as part of the minority and I have led my life trying to be part of the majority. I once made a comment to a Partner at work, I was born American first, Republican second. On so many levels, that still holds true. I know enough about my culture. Dear Reader, if you have a hankering for dim sum, give me a call. You want to play mahjong, I will be your fourth. You want a Steven Chow movie, I have 12. But if you asked me, would I do tai-chi in public, I would tell you to go to hell. In fact, I have a special scorn for those who look at me as if I am Asian first; in fact, I have no patience for “Rice Queens” (white males who are chemically attracted to Asians).

You have to like me for all the things that make me uniquely American – or at least Westernized – or even better, the characteristics that make me superior to most people. I am able to wield the tax code like a machete, can a FOB do that? No! I am a lawyer that practices common law – can a FOB do that? No, he is a communist! I am going to spend 5% of my disposable income at Borders this year, will a FOB do that? No, there is no Hello Kitty. I am. I am. I am… part of the mainstream. Fuck you if you think I am weird. My cats can’t be gay! My yearning to be a normal cat owner goes against my aversion to gays who act like frat boys. Aren’t they just scratching an itch to be part of the mainstream? Well guess what, at my age, you should move up to couture. I look down at you and your attire purchased at a mall.

Bingo!

“Your cat’s are gay” translates to “That is weird.” I am not weird. I am part of the mainstream. I am better than most people. My cats can’t be gay. And that is my problem, it is one of pride. I was injured when my Mom acted most undiplomatically during the revelation that I liked men. I expected her to say “That is fine. I love my son regardless. Plus I have always known – he has a lot of black shoes.” But she flipped out, “He can’t be gay!” I don’t think my mom is Rick Santorum. I just injured her pride.

Note #1: I love my cats. Ask anyone. I treat them better than I treat myself.

Note #2: I love Peter and Scott, even if they prefer Grindr over Big Bang Theory. I love them more than I love myself; but maybe not my cats.

On HIV

2011-01-17T13:55:00.000-08:00

I assume that people do not think much during sex. People are probably not thinking, “Wow this is happening,” or “I need to watch out, or I may get her pregnant,” or “He needs to brush his teeth.” People normally do not think, let alone during sex. I recently watched agog as pair of teenage idiots stood clueless while waiting and ordering at Starbucks. They were dithering about macchiato vs. latte; foam vs. topper. I doubt that they would engage in much dolorous excogitation in the middle of coitus. But one thing that has been illuminating, especially as of late since I just got tested, is sex and HIV. People do not think going into sex “I may get HIV from this.” Trust me, as a gay male, as a person who shared the bed with another who was positive, I never thought about it. I wonder why.

I try to get tested frequently. By “frequently” I mean semi-annually, by “try” I don’t know what I mean. I make an attempt to go to church every week; I aim to call my parent’s every Thursday. But do I make an attempt to get tested? I don’t know, I just do. This is not being sanctimonious, I am sure many people do not get tested. I assume most heterosexuals do not get tested for HIV, and sadly, I don’t think enough homosexuals do either. I just do it, and it is scary as Hell.

I know enough about HIV. As I said, I was in a relationship with somebody positive. We were safe, very safe. And as I ruminate about my sexual exploits of last year, it dawns on me, I am still so ignorant. Now Dear Reader, don’t get the wrong impression. I was not some sexual gymnast balancing partners on an engorged phallus. I didn’t really get all that much, but that might be subjective. But before I discuss more about HIV, I think I should add some background as to my recent year. I had intercourse with three people, two of them were ex-boyfriends, and one was an absolute stranger (with one of the two ex’s it was not protected). Regarding oral sex, I am not going to lie, there were many, and most were strangers. With all of them, I had fallatio performed on me (I really have to like the guy for me to open my mouth, and last year, I was mum on the subject).

I assume that if you are reading this blog, you have an odd understanding about me. I can be rather clinically detached. In fact, one of my relationships ended with the assertion that I calculated too many situations, when in fact, I should enjoy the moment. Well guess what, Dear Reader, I was not much of a machine, I did not think, I had random sex, with a lot of strangers.

Recently, I went to my normal spot to get tested, and I went through the same battery of questions. For the uninitiated, the questions range from the personal “How much do you make a year,” to the lurid “Have you been to a sex party,” to the extremely specific “Have you done LSD while engaging in anal sex.” I think I am an interesting test subject because I am a matter of extremes. With the first set of questions, I try to be as specific as possible. In response to educational level, I responded with “I have a law degree. I am licensed in Illinois and with the US Supreme Court. I want to get a MBA.” On questions about income, I actually asked, “Are you asking W-2, gross, or net? Or are you asking about adjusted gross income.” The specificity to my answers have no bearing to the results, but I give them because somehow, an answer about line 43 could control me being negative. I am so good about playing around with tax rates, surely I must be negative. Surely I can will it. The second set of questions, I completely gloss over. Have you had unprotected sex? “Yup.” Where do you normally meet men? “In a bar.” How many partners have you had? “A dozen, two.” I could pinpoint the first set of questions with marksman like accuracy; I was just driving around the second with training wheels. I didn’t want to talk about it. Maybe it is because I did not want to talk about my sex life, but more likely, it was because the second set of facts would determine my fate. The first set, was merely to determine my class.

Tests have changed a lot. The examiner swabbed my mouth and took a vial’s worth of blood. I was going to get my results in 15 minutes. I remember a Golden Girl’s episode where Rose had a scare, and she had to wait a week for her result. Fifteen minutes is a lot more bearable than one week, but it is still a hellish 15 minutes. I started to look around the walls. Everything was so sterile. Posters about various help groups with young gay men eliciting that it would be alright. My eyes were scanning everything in the room, it was like they were about to fall out of my sockets. The examiner noticed my nervousness, so he told me about how he was a paralegal. The topic of the familiar began to calm me. He talked about how he filed things for the Seventh Circuit. The minutes quickly ticked away. The discussion was about the first set, not about why I was there.

One more minute remained. “Ok, so if it is negative, there will be no stripe. If it is positive, it will be red.” I nodded assent, even though it did not register agreement to any result. Just a nod on my part - please no stripe. Why, why did I do what I did? I don’t even remember any of them, it wasn’t even good! If I die before my cats, who will take care of them. Sam eats a lot, do I need to create a trust for him?

DING.

The examiner looked at the vial. There was no emotion on his face. FUCK! Why is he not smiling? Why does he not tell me “Congratulations”? He shows me the vial. The paper was blank. I nearly had an aneurism. Oh my god, blank means positive right? Shit, I am positive. I stammered “What does blank, mean again?” He laughs, “It means negative.”

So I am negative. I don’t have it. This thing has infected so many people I know, but I don’t have it. I am going to try to be better, to be smarter. Sex is overrated anyway; all those bodily fluids – what a mess. What an emotional mess.

10 Things I am Looking Forward to This Year

2011-01-04T20:23:00.000-08:00

10. Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part 2, in particular, the battle at Hogwarts.

9. Green Lantern, in particular, Ryan Reynolds in... green.

8. Comic Con

7. Dreaming about moving back to the city. Oh yes, the financial models are being broken out.

6. Holding an "ideal portfolio" by the time I place my earmarked amounts into my retirement accounts.

5. News of The Dark Tower novel. I need Oy, Jake, Eddie, Susannah and Roland. They have become my ka-tet.

4. Planning that trip to Argentina.

3. Sam Park's novel. My friend's book is coming out. It is going to be a work of genius. Plus he supported me when it was darkest. The least I can do is watch him triumphant.

2. Just one date; where potential is everything afterwards, where nothing shades the past.

1. Hanging out with the people I love; more than I did in 2010. I forgot a few of your faces.

My Books of 2010 and how they rank:

2011-01-02T15:17:00.000-08:00

The Stand, Stephen King A
Luthor, Brian Azzarello A
The Snowball, Alice Schroeder A
Fast Food Nation, Eric Schlosser A
Fooled by Randomness, Nassim Nicholas Taleb A
Batman: Dark Victory, Jeph Loeb and Tim Sales A
Dry, Augusten Burroughs A-
The World is Flat, Thomas Friedman A-
Harry Potter and the Deathly Hollows A-
Batman: Long Halloween, Jeph Loeb and Tim Sales A-
Song of Susannah, King A-
Salem’s Lot, King A-
On Writing, King A-
The Waste Lands, King A-
The Drawing of The Three, King B+
I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell, Tucker Max B+
Game Change, John Heilemann, Mark Halpern B+
The Way to Win, Mark Halpern and John Harris B+
The Wolves of The Calla B+
The Hours, Michael Cunningham B+
Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, Rowling B
The Year of Magical Thinking, Joan Didion B
The Gunslinger, King B
Angels & Demons, Dan Brown B
The Reason for God, Timothy Keller B
Batman and Robin, Vol I, Morrison B
Harry Potter and The Prisoner of Azkaban, Rowling B
Supreme Courtship, Christopher Buckley B-
The Rehnquist Choice, John Dean B-
Harry Potter and The Sorcerer’s Stone, Rowling B-
The Food of a Younger Land, Mark Kurlansky B-
The Irresistible Revolution, Shane Claiborne C+
The Da Vinci Code, Brown C+
How to Win Friends and Influence People, Dale Carnegie C
Julie & Julia, Julia Powell C
The Money Book for the Young…. Suze Orman C
God & Empire, John Dominic Crossan C
Harry Potter and The Sorcerer’s Stone, Rowling C
Harry Potter and The Chamber of Secrets, Rowling C
Party of the People, Jules Witcover C
An Alter in the World, Barbara Brown Taylor C
Superfeakonomics, Steven Levitt and Stephen Dubner C
Stocks for the Long Run, Jeremy Seigel C-
1776, David McCullough C-
Wizard and Glass, King D+
Harry Potter and The Order of Phoenix, Rowling D+
Tyrannosaurus Sue, Steve Fiffer, D+
The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, Larsson D
The Lost Symbol, Brown D-
Eclipse, Stephanie Meyer F
Breaking Dawn, Stephanie Meyer F

On Videogames

2010-12-31T12:45:00.000-08:00

I try not to keep rules during a date. I use to keep a certain “playbook” that comprised of 96 traits I wanted in a mate. After much self reflection, and ridicule, I moved my mouse cursor over the Word file and dragged it into the recycle bin. I erased something I held dear with a left click. I entered into the scary world of dating without this extensive crib sheet. But instead of feeling liberated, I still needed to reach for something, some sort of rule. As much as super villains appeal to me, I am more Batman than Joker, I need rules. As a result, my new totem while dating is to fess up that I am a nerd on the first date. If you are willing, if you are able, you have to be open to me drone on about: the psychosis of the Riddler, why The Stand is a better authority on how we should live our lives than the Bible, and my fascination by Richard Burr’s vote on Don’t Ask Don’t Tell. At the first date I will pound into the other participant that books are my body, DC comics are my victuals, and politics are my life blood - did I forget to mention that everything that deals with money is my soul? A good weekend is me sitting at Starbucks reading an enlightening article in Barron’s about palladium and how I can make money by investing in shipping companies that move precious (oh yes, precious, not precious-light) metals from Latin America to China. I am some fucked up CNBC policy wonk that spends too much time playing Magic the Gathering. As I said in the beginning, I let all my dates know at date one. I don’t hide it anymore. Sure, I can do some pretty urbane gay things like talk about the career trajectory of Tom Ford (his best stuff was when he was director at YSL), but give me P/E ratios and Green Lantern t-shirts any day.

Dear Reader, I am going to share my results. I have been on enough bad dates that you can examine them like some homosexual fossil record. I can tell you what are not the deal killers. Telling a guy that you like to read, will not destroy the prospects of getting laid. Everyone puts up the front that they are looking for somebody smart. Of course this depends to a magnitude, there are some rice-queens that are terribly afraid of dating an Asian that completed college. Telling a guy that you like politics makes you look urbane and witty … of course this also depends on degrees. For the fags out there (and I really mean it in this context), make sure you say all the right things about Don’t Ask Don’t Tell, DOMA, and all things marriage. But don’t get too specific, mentioning the invocation of the Commerce Clause, discrimination in the Internal Revenue Code, Intermediate Scrutiny, and the sainthood of J.Kennedy will end the date. AND DON’T for the love of God, do not make the mistake of saying that the federal deficit or marginal tax rates are more important issues than gays in the military; you will be stuck with the check. I am telling you what not to do, but I am going to hold true to myself, if we end up on a date, you will hear me pontificate about Lawrence v. Texas.

I know the rules, maybe not all of them, but enough. Dear Reader, the one thing that kills dates and that laid waste to my sex life, are fucking videogames. It is easier to be a sex fiend, a coke-whore, an alcoholic, a person who failed the GED, than to proverbially come-out and tell the other guy, you play videogames. Every date has ended on the circle button.

What I don’t understand is society’s allergy to videogames. I understand going to a Gamestop is often a harrowing experience; especially for one’s nose. People may not be able to shake off their preconception of sketchy arcades with machines covered in cobwebs a’la Tron. For those who argue videogames are for kids only – and not the cool ones, but the pimply faced virgins who will not score till they are able to tap a credit line, I argue, are movies that much different? Every time I go into a movie theater, sclerosis tightens its fingers around my temples. Parents who should have sought counseling at Planned Parenthood are staring at the marquee as if they are reading an alien language, teenagers are jibber jabbering on their phones (in line and often in the movie now), idiots bring in Panda Express, and there is always that one douche bag who pretends he is some investment banker and needs to check his cell phone a hundred times during the movie. No Dear Reader, I protest! I rather spend my time at home, and live in my squalor opposed to the den of discourtesy at AMC!

But while I make an argument that one’s castle is a better environment to enjoy entertainment than the movie theater, it still does not explain why videogames should be lauded. Why a potential Romeo should undress me immediately when I explain the merits of Fallout 3. Roger Ebert argued that “in principle video games cannot be art,” and I imagine, most people believe this. Ask my parents for a concurrence and they will add “Of course, videogames are for kids.” Hogwash. I challenge anyone, to sit through 30 minutes of Bioshock and tell me that they are not sitting with rapt attention watching the game move from one startling set piece to another. I challenge anyone to find me a better story, (with the exception of Prof. Samuel Park’s novel to be released in 2011 of course) than Bioshock; Hell, I will even throw in the inferior Bioshock 2 to the mix. The reason is simple, you are the movie.

From beginning to end, the Warcraft III campaign took me twelve hours to complete. During this odyssey, I saw a prince prevent a plague, sell his soul, commit regicide, and become a super villain. Meanwhile his lover tragically becomes something she hunted, cosmic powers are bringing down the apocalypse, and demi-gods are stirring in their sleep. A lot is going on, but guess what, the pacing, the story, is better developed than most movies I have watched. I didn’t care if Christina Aguilera made it in LA; I barely cared if Annette Benning and Julianne Moore rekindled the fire in their bed. You know why, the experience was passive, I was sitting in a chair watching people play tragic lives. I was not invested. But I was invested, dare I say, videogames are my IRA when Arthas became the Lich King. Instead of merely watching, I fought as Arthas, I was in his shoes as I pursued Kel’Thuzad to the ends of the world, and then I – yes, I, committed genocide in Stratholme. I have done more as Arthas than I will ever do in my life. That is fact.

You could argue, well videogames are just mere escapism, give me sports any day, for I am a participant – nay a gladiator on the court. Well first, I would argue that the point of entertainment is escapism. But even more important, you are not a character on the tennis courts. I concede there is a component in competition that appeals to people but I have been watching the “leader boards” for Assassin’s Creed Brotherhood and I think it is probably more cutthroat than any bowl game. No Dear Reader, if you want your sports, watch a Starcraft II tournament and turn off ESPN.

I am sure the literati will still scoff at this entry. They would asset that I am shooting fish in a barrel. Of course Eric can make arguments that videogames are better than movies and sports, he doesn’t care for either, but dare he challenge books? Well first I have to say this, I will make a blanket statement that I find videogames a superior form of entertainment than movies and sports. But I cannot make that sweeping generalization with books. First I will argue is the importance of the set piece. The Ayn Rand dystopia of Bioshock’s Rapture is breath taking. It beats Nolan’s Gotham City and whatever nonsense in the Matrix, but is it better than King’s version of Las Vegas in The Stand? Probably not, because in the book you can smell the flesh burning, you can hear the moans from those crucified, you can feel the sex, you know there is no God in that land. Rapture cannot give us the sensory feel. Once again, it is pressing the circle button. But I have already established “I like books” is acceptable on a date; so should “I like video games.”

The character development of a good videogame (like books there are many bad ones), are inherently more nuanced than any that you will find in most books. Do you like John Galt? Well guess what, the machinations and the rise of Andrew Ryan is even better. Does Goethe’s Mephistopheles stir your literary loins? I argue that Portal’s Glados wears an even more wicked mustache under her mechanical exterior and barbed quips. And maybe this goes back to point one, good characters are influencing you. The explosion in the tunnel is forcing you to run, and if you don’t, people will die. Edward Cullen’s pompadour does nothing to the reader, you just turn the page.

So Dear Reader, next time when I say, “I like videogames,” pick up the check, and let's go to Gamestop for a nightcap.

Motivations

2010-10-03T13:14:00.000-07:00

To wit, I do things because I am a selfish bastard. I think people write blogs for several motives: (1.) The author is completely egotistical and wants to talk about himself, (2.) The author likes a particular subject matter so much, that he thinks the world will be a better place if everyone shared his interest, (3.) the author has a lot of free time and blogging is way of improving one’s writing skills. The blog could be about one’s political views, budgeting, scrapbooking, religion, sexcapades but ultimately, it is about the blogger. Dear Reader, I am 1 … 2 … and 3. I often think my #2 is often ridiculous and doesn’t make for good reading. Who really wants to read about some Gaysian’s love of all things Batman and how JokerFish restrict the “Production Possibilities Frontier.” But in the past two months, I actually received six emails from strangers (one who is actually my brother’s friend and whom I have never met) asked me questions about my blog. It is an unnerving thought really, to see people in Alaska read and send me a message about my blog, when most of my friends have not. So this Dear Reader is for you – and for me.

It has been an odd and difficult week. There have been much turmoil in my personal life, and it leaked into my professional. I made a terrible mistake on Monday where I sent off an urgent email to a co-worker to inquire about $96,000 in net operating losses that were never utilized. For the uninitiated, Net Operating Losses (NOLs) are losses that a corporation accrues over the tax year. If they have losses, they can apply it to a previous years income to get a nice refund. If there were no profits, you apply it to income in the future. I spent a good 15 mins looking for the NOL worksheet – it was akin to the Ark of the Covenant. Since it was not there, I thought it was not utilized. My boss found it in 30 seconds. I was a wreck, I apologized profusely to my boss and his partner. I told him abut my awful week and asked for forgiveness. He seemed to listen with a certain amount of ennui that only a heterosexual man can, “It was not a big deal." I felt like a chastised Chinese wife telling her husband that the parasitic organism in my womb is a girl.

My life is kind of a wreck right now. I spent the good part of the week in disbelief. By Thursday I was a storm of outrage and contempt. Friday was a bit better, I had a 2,000 calorie dinner with Jason and Ashley. Saturday was fun too, 8 hours of playing Infamous, and a birthday/house warming party with happy couples, but if there were babies I would have euthanized myself. Today, was a bit weird, I went to church, and ate lunch at Joy’s while reading Julie and Julia.

I was at sea amongst floatsam and jetsam all week. With the exception of Thursday, I felt nothing. It was only at lunch when I read the dedication that the tears started running:

“For Julia, without whom I could not have done this, and for Eric, without whom I could not do at all.”

What makes that Eric different than this Eric. How did that one change another's life so much that he eclipsed Julia child. And how did this one whose only claim to fame is having two monster cats. Motivations ... I want to be that Eric.

Review Avatar

2010-06-06T19:06:00.000-07:00

Like many people in Arizona, I was beginning to wear my ignorance as a source of pride. As if I was in state of constant innocence and bliss, I knew nothing about Avatar. Oh sure, I knew that a bunch of blue-cat humanoids were involved, and that a scene involving cross-species coitus were to occur, but I tried to navigate the shoals of all things James Cameron with a sense of mental dexterity. After missing the proverbial boat several times (I was ditched on two occasions), I thought: Fuck it, I am not going to watch it. It was a state of blissful ignorance really. I didn’t have to engage in the prattle about 3D effects; nor, did I have to participate in the water cooler talk of a new found environmental evangelism. But one day, I bit the proverbial blue apple. I saw Avatar. Where many have commented about how Cameron was the founder of a new renaissance in movie making, I see something much more apocalyptic. My prediction, we are going to have more movies with cacophonous explosions and scenes that will assault our eyes. Our visceral reaction will be to watch agog as our senses are assaulted with CGI, but unfortunately Dear Reader, our souls will be unfed, because the characters and script are empty. As one of the last lines in Avatar ends with two star-crossed lovers mutter in a nauseating way “I see you.” It is most unfortunate because all we see is a blank fancy canvas.

I will try to reduce the story into three lines. Corporation wants ore on land that indigenous people lives on. People won’t leave, so corporation takes the land with violence. Flawed character becomes a messianic character and rallies the peoples; consequently defeating the venal corporations and ignorant military. If you think you have seen this script, well you have, think: Fern Gully, Pocahontas, Star Wars, Star Trek: Insurrection, Hero, Underworld, and X-Men. Instead of spending all this money in generating every brick and branch, Cameron should have spent some time in not plagiarizing Disney or every other summer blockbuster.

With a generic plot comes the dreaded generic-character. I hate stock characters, and Avatar is filled with them. We have the stern environmentalist who becomes the matron figure of the movie. There is the love interest that initially approaches the hero with open contempt, but ends with open loins. Let us not forget the craven corporate suit (played by Giovanni Ribisi out of all people) willing to kill for all who stands against him in his pursuit of a promotion. Cameron would be remiss to omit the Jesus figure. Oh, and let us not forget the real villain, an ignorant military general who is willing to destroy an entire civilization because he has some masculine desire to engage in cinematic masturbation.

What a villain he is, so evil – oh the horror - that he is drinking coffee when he blows up a tree. It is the villain I take most cause with. Oh sure, Cameron wants us to get mad at Dick Cheney, Rumsfeld et al. and we are suppose to leave the movie with a certain disgust over our involvement in the Middle East. But the problem with the villain, is that I don’t hate him – at all. In fact, I am just really annoyed. He is a loud-mouthed frat boy I would punch in the face, but I don’t hate him like I do other classic villains. Dear Reader, I posit, there are only two good archetypes for villains. One is the purely evil. And what I mean by this is essentially the Biblical sense. We are talking about Satan, or the Antichrist, some character that really exemplifies the destruction of not just what we believe in, but the obliteration of ourselves. Three years ago, Joe Morgenstern of the Wall Street Journal made an interesting point, not since the Exorcist have we had a real villain. He pointed out correctly that even Emperor Palpatine, and Sauron were not really evil, they just wanted to take over the world thinking their form of government was vastly superior. Now, I do take some cause with Morgenstern’s article, I thought Ralph Fiennes in Schindler’s List was evil enough. Regardless, the audience needs an evil character, because it makes the triumph of good all the more satisfying. A similar vein of the absolute evil archetype, is the “Entertaining Evil, the one we like more than the hero, such as Heath Ledger’s “Joker.” I concede that one could make an argument that the Joker is evil personified, but what makes him different than say Satan in the Exorcist is the level of entertainment the Batman villain provides. Nobody roots for Satan, but I know many who wanted to see the Joker kick Batman off the building in the end. The villain in Avatar, was neither, he might not have even been evil. If he entered my parent’s restaurant, I would tell him to leave. If the Joker came in, I would run.

The villain is exactly what is wrong with Avatar. The audience would be bombarded with scene after scene meant to make us awe in wonder. But where is the awe in the story telling? I fear that more movies are going to be like Avatar; just a bevy of fancy empty vessels. “I see you.” God, how I wish I didn’t see.

Grade: C-

Last weeks grade for Sex and The City 2 was a D.

Movie Review - Sex and the City 2

2010-06-01T11:23:00.001-07:00

Sex and the City 2

Dear Reader, I rarely show enthusiasm for anything. I like to blame it on my heritage and upbringing – because being stoic is considered a virtue. But in all fairness, being stoic does not appeal to me; for example, if I was really a stoic, I would be even tempered. No, I rarely show enthusiasm because I am afraid that once when the world learns of my excitement, the world – like a cruel lover, takes it away and sends me an invoice for the balance. But even operating under such a paradigm, I had to admit, I was damn excited for Sex and the City. So excited, that I even tried to corral legions of fans to a watching with me. Like a lovesick teenager waiting in homeroom for her crush, I was eagerly anticipating the sexual exploits of Samantha, the Pollyanna chirps from Charlotte, the cosmopolitan insight of Carrie, and the bitchy but familiar vocal ejaculations of Miranda. Well Dear Reader, none of that occurred. All that waiting was all for naught: there was no “City,” for most of the movie inexplicably took place in Dubai; and there was no sex – any burning in one’s loins was replaced by a mild stirring in a teapot. I wish, oh how I wish that this movie was taken away from me.

I have two rules with movies: make me care, and the characters must be consistent. The first rule is probably a universal rule between all moviegoers. If you don’t care about the characters, you don’t care about the movie. A recent example where I stared at the screen agog with adoration for its characters was Pixar’s “Up.” The movie had me at its first fifteen minutes. I was particularly invested in one character that had ten lines for a brief period. When she exited the stage, I was an emotional wreck. The dust and cobwebs that clogged my tear ducts were actually washed away. My body was warm, my chest heaved in anticipation. Please live. Please. "Up" made me love.

On a more personal rule, and one that I am sure not everyone holds in high regard, is that the characters of a story must be consistent. Now you think this would be a universal rule, but Dear Reader, please explain the inane popularity of “Will & Grace.” Karen was usually the greedy harlot with very little redeeming quality, until the writers need a plot foil, and then she was as pious as Christ. Or Will, the level headed attorney who always placed profession before romance. Unlike Jack, Will was the stoic homosexual who could never get a date because of his social awkwardness. Well, that is Will, until he consciously makes a bevy of poor professional decisions and seems to get a date betwixt every episode.

These are my rules. Oh sure there are other things, like my disdain for cookie-cutter plots (See anything Michael Bay), or illogical plot devices (See another Michael Bay movie, “Transformers.” Why the Decepticons should choose to engage in a war rather than just buy the glasses through Ebay still gives me conniptions). But there are often times where I can disregard an inane story and still watch a movie with rapt eyes and captivated attention (See most Stephen Chow movies, especially “Kung Fu Hustle”). My rules are simple, make me care, and respect my intelligence by being consistent. Sex and the City 2 violate these two rules.

I just don’t care about characters' problems. I don’t care if Miranda has a bitch boss. I don’t care that Samantha is having menopause problems. I don’t care about Charlotte’s children. And I don’t care that Carrie is having buyer’s remorse. But here is the rub, under a more skilled hand, I would have cared. We have all been placed in those situations (maybe not menopause, but there are universal and parallel similarities that could be used as an example). But the problem with this movie is that all those universal and weighty issues, are manifested within 2 minutes. Miranda doesn’t like her new boss, so within the first 15 minutes of the movie – she quits. Charlotte is having all these problems at home, so she goes to Dubai for a trip. Nothing in the movie is fleshed out. One may argue, if we were to engage in a detailed character exposition, the movie would last forever. That may be the case, but “The Queen” starring Helen Mirren, which was essentially two hours of character exposition, never seemed to linger - and I was more familiar with Miranda than I was with Elizabeth! More importantly, the argument that the movie would be too long is a specious one at that. In 15 mins of “Up” I cared, why couldn’t I care about Carrie in two and a half hours?

Yes, the writers could have fleshed out the lives of the girls we loved so much. We haven’t heard from them in years. But instead of catching up with dear friends at a coffee shop, the writers tried to give us sexual rendezvous between two horny homosexuals. And what a fag’s wet dream this movie was. Liza Minnelli inexplicably spent a good 5 minutes singing “All the Single Ladies” at a stereotypically gay (there were fucking swans!) wedding. Five jokes were puzzlingly wasted on Samantha’s servant, an ever increasing effeminate one at that. And the most gag inducing were the countless times men were enigmatically seen waving at the girls whenever the camera would pan out. I understand the spirit of “Sex and the City.” Its qualities naturally appeals to the gay aesthetic: Gucci, abs, bitchiness, and sisterhood. But when you sacrifice the important things, when bitchy comments are sacrificed in lieu of what an adolescent homosexual would consider entertaining, we no longer have “Sex and the City;” we have “Queer as Folk.”

And consistency – my God! Carrie, mysteriously changes. She doesn’t want to stay at home. She wants to maintain the “sparkle.” Forget the fact that she selfishly wants Mr. Big to go to a party on a MONDAY night, she doesn’t even want to stay at home with him at all. Forget Seasons 1-3, 5 and 7, where all she wanted was for him to spend the night. Or what about Charlotte, who finally gets the children she wants, but then finds out it is kind of tough being a mother. So what does she do? She agrees, after 30 seconds of goading from the other girls and goes to ever woman-friendly Dubai. The mythos was destroyed. Sure there were nice clothes, and hot men, but the characters were no longer the characters I watched for a decade. This movie was a cancer, an irrevocable and terminal one at that. There was no Sex, there was no City; just a bunch of teenage fags writing a script.

My Thoughts on Being Sick

2010-04-01T16:33:00.000-07:00

Dear Reader, I am sick. Not so sick where getting out of bed becomes an Odyssey, but sick enough to wipe out my calendar. Sick enough where all well thought out plans become null and void. Check cashed, funds withdrawn, sorry, you are not going to drop off dry cleaning, you are not going to workout, you will sit on the couch and get rid of this sickness. Like a bystander in the bleaches, you hope for the home team - white blood cells to wage war and defeat the cross team rivals. You can't do much.

I woke up several times in the early morning and I felt like shit. By 7:30, I knew I had to make a decision, do I call in sick, or do I just tough it out and go to work? The cogs were turning, and I thought to myself "I will make a decision while I take a piss." It came out a dark yellow and smelled like the River Styx. I was going to vomit at that moment. I called in sick and went to bed.

Pets are interesting really. For hours my cats laid with me. Sometimes they would stick their noses in my face. The realistic part of me thinks they want me to get up, but the romantic side - well I like to think they want to know if I am ok. There is nobody else to really check up on me, just Frodo and Sam.

It is 2:30 and I am hungry. Which is ironic because I am also on a diet. I am beginning to rethink this diet. I mean I already have a 100 things on my proverbial plate, do I really need to diet. I get up from my stupor and look in my cabinet. I have a ton of Lipton Prepackaged Rice kits. Yesterday, when I was feeling well, God, it seemed like years ago, I ran a nutrition count on these things, apparently they have tons of sodium. Thinking I probably need more water in my system, I take a pass.

I go through the shelves. I do this all the time really, the harder I look - maybe there is something I forgot that I purchased, maybe I will discover a little treasure trove of oil packed tuna or a tin of almonds. I come up with nothing, I have a can of tuna (packed in spring water) and a bunch of Lipton packets. I also have four avocados in my fridge, so I take two and decide to make myself some odd guacamole mixing it with the tuna. Cutting avocados and removing the pit is not a difficult process. But try doing it when you are half awake, and mad at yourself for being sick. You can't do anything, you are just a spectator. Go team. I also remember some capers in the fridge, so I dump a spoonful of it into my mixture. Olive oil is good for you right? Tea spoon of it too. Mash away. It becomes this odd green bolus flecked with tuna.

I start eating. Like some unearthed vampire feasting on some intrepid archeologist, my hunger grew. As I simultaneously watched some History Channel special regarding the Battle of Jericho and spooned my concoction into my maw, my stream of consciousness woke up.

Avocados are good for you, I think that is what Alton Brown said. They also have a lot of fat.

Tuna is good for you, protein and all that jazz. BTW, there is a lot of mercury.

This meal still cost you $3.00. If you ordered from the McDonald's Dollar Menu it would have been cheaper.

You can't stay sick. Healthcare is expensive.

Why am I sick. Rapists and murderers are not sick. Job was sick. Is this a test?

This is what it feels like to be sick. Strip away all the years of education, remove all the fancy books on your shelf, close the closet with all your suits - you are just a spectator. Sam and Frodo are watching, and you sleep.

The Scariest Thing in the World

2010-03-31T12:01:00.000-07:00

Pistons and gears.

When applying the proper amount of pressure, a "Click" is heard echoing in the hall. The machine's last victim let out a horrifying wail, "It can't be!"

As I entered the cold and neglected alcove, I saw the dreaded machine. The last victim was a husk of her former self. I started to lose my vision; it was beginning to be hazy, as if the machine's dark fingers were starting to cover my eyes. I got on.

"Click."

Its fingers repelled.

169 lbs.

So starts my diet.

Throwdown at Work

2010-03-25T10:49:00.000-07:00

I have joined a diet challenge at work. I think the prize is a mani(pedi)cure. The person to lose the most percentage of weight, wins. Now I know this test is over and underinclusive, but I need to lose weight anyway - I have some advantages going into this contest, namely I am competing against three very skinny co-workers; hence, I can lose a lot more. So when I am done with the postings about 30 bars, this is going to be a posting about my diet and what I consume. Be warned. I may sound very angry.

I joined Calorie Count, and since I weigh 165, I needed to think of a reasonable weight within two months that will seal my victory. I decided that 150 lbs is most ideal: 1. I will be crazy sexy, 2. It will be a 10% loss. In order to hit 150, I most consume 1,524 calories a day (assuming no exercise). But since I workout this will cause a distortion in my optimal caloric intake.

If you have any suggestions, please let me know.

A Russian, a Korean, and a China Man Goes into a Restaurant.

2010-03-24T16:48:00.000-07:00

San Soo Gab San
5251 N Western Ave
Chicago, IL 60625
(773) 334-1589

Dear Reader, I am sure that through my writings you are able to deduce that I approach disappointment with a certain amount of equanimity; I am perceived as the living embodiment of grace. But sometimes, I know, you need not file a dissent, I can have a temper. Depending on the situation, time, and person, what would be perceived as a mild injury can often be turned into an act of war. I am first to stipulate that this is my major character flaw, I internalize too much, every mistake is perceived as an affront to me. But running parallel to this is my recovery time. I may not forget, but I usually forgive quite easily. San Soo Gab Son injured me, and quickly it made reparations.

While milling about a bookstore, I received a most fortuitous message from Vladimir (aka Dr. Liarski) inquiring to my evening plans. Originally I was going to go home and eat a jar of peanut butter while read the Omnivore’s Dilemma. Scratch those plans I thought, Vladimir wants to hang out! But like a summer romance, happiness is often fleeting, Vladimir suggested we do Korean bbq. Back to peanut butter. I am not a fan of Korean bbq, mainly because it makes my clothes smell like meat. Every time I take a whiff of the cashmere in my closet, I go into a carnivorous frenzy.

“Are you paying for my dry cleaning?” I asked.

“No. Sam wants to go.”

“What? He just got back from Los Angeles. There is plenty of Korean food and bbqs over there? What, he didn’t get his fill of drive by shootings?”

“Nice. Attorney, he wants Korean.”

“Doctor – fine, we will eat where Sam wants. Where?”

“San Soo Gab San.”

“Where is that?”

“I don’t know, use your iPhone.”

“What, this is ludicrous. You not only named the place, but now you want me to research?”

“This is why you are single.”

“Bitch. Ok, what time?”

“How is 8:00?”

I choked, “Wait, it is 5:30 right now. You want me to wait two and a half hours?”

“Well Sam is coming from downtown. He is teaching a class.”

A Filet-O-Fish, and a BigMac later, I arrive at San Soo Gab San at 7:30. I arrived early for two reasons: I had nothing else to do, and it was Friday, so I assumed there would be a wait. Well there was no line, so I told a waitress that I would have a party of three. She told me to wait near the door. This was most mystical to me considering the number of open tables in the restaurant. So I waited, between 7:30 and 8:00 there was a mad rush of parties. At first other parties asked if I was waiting, but I told them to go ahead because I was still waiting. Well by the eighth party I was getting irritated, and I started to notice one thing, middle aged Korean women (and woe to the ones who date the balding white man for a green card – oh yes, this is one of those restaurants) did not even give me the courtesy of asking why I was loitering near the door. They just clutched their Louis Vuitton and made a beeline for the waitress.

My temper started to rise, I was getting pissed. I immediately called Dr. Liarski and Sam, but neither one of them picked up. I was incensed. TWELVE, a dozen parties have already been sat and I have not. And what was most galling was that I got the perception that tables with White Men were getting better service; the waitresses seemed to have no problem in sitting anyone who came from an imperialist heritage even though their party did not fully arrive. I was eying them jealously. They didn't even order and they were already feating on a bunch of small dishes. I was being discriminated against because I hailed from the same continent as they did! Dr. Liarski and Sam arrived 15-20 mins late, and they saw the look in my face.

Dr. Liarski approached me with one foot near the door “Ummm… hi.”

“Sam go talk to them, they are your people. Koreans hate the Chinese. I have been waiting here for almost an hour. A fucking hour! I should bill them.”

“You don’t have billable hours.”

“Fuck you Sam, go talk to them.”

“I am afraid of them.”

“What? My god, you are a fag.”

At that point I resembled an eggplant, but luckily within another five minutes - they sat us near the bathroom.

Without missing a beat Dr. Liarski suggested we order a Soju. I just looked down at the menu and continued brooding. Beef Short Rib. Marinated Beef Short Rib. Broiled Specially Marinated Beef. Marinated Beef. Broiled Beef. How many meet dishes could they make from same cut of meat? The menu would have been a statistician’s wet dream.

Since Sam is Korean, we made the tactical decision of making Sam order. Big mistake. Sam is a fucking genius. He is an English professor and is going to release his first book this August. And no, this is not some self-published pamphlet on Amazon, this involves a real publisher, Borders and Barnes and Nobles. I feel like a literary troglodyte when I sit next to Sam. But even with Newtonian like ingenuity and Herculean effort, Sam had trouble ordering. Apparently Sam was born in Latin America and his accent is not Korean enough for the waitress. Seeing that Sam is a sellout, the service got even worse!!!

“How is this possible? I waited an hour for this table and all I want is water. Why couldn’t you be conceived in a proper continent? Dr. Liarski, you are White, tell them I need water.”

Dr. Liarski raises his hand.

“Don’t do that. That is rude.”

“These people made you wait.”

“Flag away.”

Well Dear Reader, guess what, it still took minutes to get my water. It was like Sam’s accent was a taint on our table. We were forever marked with his Latin stain. The Soju came, but I couldn’t get any water. Sam told me to drink the alcohol. In fear of criminal and civil litigation I waved it away. I just wanted water.

As I sulked and the others talked about the others talked about life, the universe, science, religion, politics, shopping and men, all I wanted was decent service.

Blap!

I snapped my head to the table, the waitress brought over some banchan. For the uninitiated, banchan are the cold dishes served in Korean restaurants that accompany your meal. They come in various forms and textures. Most are actually quite disgusting, like marinated mung beans, and weird pickled seaweed, but some banchan are quite resplendent. There were eight dishes, what the hell! Why did the other tables get so much more banchan than we did. People who have not ordered, got more banchan than we did. Sam was in a dark mood, he was getting pissed too. Being the Russian Buddha of the table, Dr. Liarski just ate away, but a cancer was eating at the Asians. You can discriminate against us, but do not give us less food. It was time for me to act. I raised my hand.

Sam scanned the room and he immediately tried to intercept me, “No she is the worst one. Last time I was here, she was so mean to me.”

“Wait, she was mean to you, and you still want to come here?”

“I wanted Korean.”

“You only date white guys, don’t you take them out to Asian food all the time.”

I didn’t care if the woman was a shebeast, she was going to answer to me. She spoke in almost perfect English, “Ok, ok. You dinner is coming out soon.”

Vladimir was watching this Kabuki theater with amusement. Sam tried to hide under the table.

“Oh that is ok. Don’t worry. I was just wondering if I could have more tofu.”

“Of course, but it will cost you $15.”

I started to flirt, “Oh don’t worry, please put it on his tab (pointing to Dr. Liarksi), the tofu is so good.” I batted my eyelashes.

“I will be right back.”

Dr. Liarski dug Sam out of a mountain of coats.

“Well, she wasn’t that bad.”

Dr. Liarski responded, “I think she likes you.”

“Well naturally, history of my life.”

Another five minutes later, no kidding, more than 20 plates hit our table – 2 of which were tofu.

Sam was flummoxed, “I don’t get it, you are Chinese, she should hate you the most.”

“It is my sunny disposition.” But that is the thing Dear Reader, my mood suddenly shifted. It was like a chorus had walked in and tried to sing above the noise of sizzling meat:

Mr. Blue Sky, please tell us why,
You had to hide away
For so long where did we go wrong.

Hey there Mr. Blue
We're so pleased to be with you
Look around see what you do,
Everybody smiles at you.

“Wait, why is there a sexy woman on the Soju bottle?”

Vladimir stared at me is disbelief “You just noticed that?”

“Sorry, I was in a bad mood. Hey, where is Dustin?”

“I told you he was sick. My God, don’t you listen?”

“I would have been listening if you were here on time.”

“This is why you are single.”

Cupcakes and My Budget

2010-03-23T12:47:00.001-07:00

Phoebe’s Cupcakes

3327 North Broadway
Chicago, IL 60657
(773) 868-4000

I would like to thank Clinton Bissett and Jennifer Cameron in the editing of this particular entry.

Dear Reader, you probably have noticed that I have been most languid in my blog postings as of late. Initially I wanted to finish all of my “30 Blogs” prior to my 30th birthday; alas, I did not have the time, and I also have other writing/reading engagements on the side. But I would like to reveal that I am about to finish my last 5 blogs shortly. On a separate note, I have been trying to think of other subjects to tackle after my final 30^th blog. Some ideas include: grilled cheese sandwiches, cheeseburgers, restaurants noted on the Food Network and Travel Channel, movie reviews and/or commentaries about books.

I have actually gone to Phoebe’s Cupcakes twice for this blog. The first time I went, I thought it was called Phoebe’s Cupcakes [Cupcake Bar]. Well it is not called that. Shit. So I went a second time and actually sat at “the bar” and consumed my cupcake, and guess what Dear Reader, there have been many sacrifices in history and culture. Melville was entranced with sacrifice and martyrdom. Lincoln was “sacrificed” to preserve the union. Syndey Carton engaged in self-sacrifice for his love. And we are coming close to Easter, so we should not forget about a minor event regarding two planks of wood and a spear. But Dear Reader, I too have engaged in sacrifice – I spent $5.60 at Phoebe’s to bring you this blog. Love does spring eternal.

Phoebe’s Cupcakes offers several different types of cupcakes. But for some reason, probably attributed to an early onset of dementia, I ordered the same type of cupcake twice - “Salted Caramel.” Now when I go back to a restaurant for a second time, I try to order an item I did not previously consume; thus, getting a broader picture of the kitchen. I failed here. I ordered the same cupcake twice. In hindsight, and in defense of my forgetfulness, I tend to order interesting item on the menu, and Phoebe’s as much as it tries to dress up its carbohydrates in couture, provides relatively lackluster fare. “Red Velvet” – boring! “Tuxedo” – I can go to Starbucks and get an Americano with it for 10% off. “Apple Crunch” – if I wanted a muffin, I would get one at Einstein’s. So “Salted Caramel” it was – Parts One and Two.

(On a side note, Phoebe’s also offers a breakfast cupcake which is soaked in maple syrup and topped with ½ a strip of bacon. I did not order this because I did not find this to be an adequate play on sweet and savory. In fact there is no “savory” on the item. Think about it, a strip of bacon does not make an item savory, it may make it salty and smoky, but that’s it. A more interesting item would have been actually incorporating the bacon into the cupcake).

Now I want to dispel any insinuation that I loath Phoebe’s. They make an adequate cupcake. But that is the point, it is merely adequate. The most noteworthy item of Phoebe’s is that its cupcakes are moist. Like two reunited lovers in a Nicholas Sparks novel, the mere press of its flesh elicits so much sugary liquid that it verges on the grotesque. Moist and sweet, that is all I can say about it, I left unsatisfied.

There was no cigarette afterwards. But the point of culinary criticism where I must gnash my teeth is the light hand in the salt. To wit I quote from Phoebe’s website “topped with Himalayan Rose Sea Salt.” Now I am the first to stipulate, salts do taste differently. Sea salt does taste differently than table salt, than kosher salt, than Hawaiian black sea salt. But what is the point of calling it “Salted Caramel” when it is only the caramel you can taste. In fact, as I look at the pictures, no matter how much I use Adobe and magnify, I can’t find anything red on the cupcake. THERE IS NO SALT! And if there is no quantifiable amount of salt, then what is the point of calling it “Salted”? Now Dear Reader, I am not speaking in hyperbole but in fact, you are clearly a genius for finding me in this vast terrain as we know as blogspot - and you will likely argue “Eric, maybe the problem is that you have an inferior palate.” I probably do; nay, I stipulate, my tongue is likely not as sharp as yours, - my taste buds are dull and ground to fleshy nubs that can not distinguish between “Mandarin Chicken,” “Orange Chicken,” and “General Tso’s Chicken,” but there was no discernable salt in these cupcakes. This is not to say that caramel and salt are not interesting plays on food. Some ice-cream parlors actually do it quite well. Paciugo, Sapore di Napoli Pizzeria &; Gelateria (which is half a block down the street) does an excellent “Salted and Caramel Gelato.” It is just that Phoebe’s fails on riding the bandwagon. It is merely a “Caramel Cupcake.”

Returning to the $5.50 that I spent at Phoebe’s, my blood begins to boil. Now a cupcake costs $2.50 – yes $2.50 – the price of a Venti Iced Americano – the Holy Grail which gives me life. $2.50 for a cupcake, or lets face it, a glorified piece of cake molded into the form of something cute that we remember in our childhoods, and then charged a premium. Is it worth it? Well from tone and text of this blog you can probably gauge my answer, but let’s look to Microeconomics for the answer.

We all live with “Budget Constraints”. With my income, I can buy a designated amount. Since I have very little disposable income, I cannot take a vacation to Rome. Since I have some disposable income I may be able to buy Final Fantasy. Since I bought Bank of America stock right after TARP, I may have tons of income and I can buy whatever I like. We all have a Budget Constraint, and most are modeled with two variables. Based on my budget I can buy so much of X and so much of Y.

Now once a month I volunteer for bringing dinner for Bible Study, and last month I actually purchased cupcakes at Jewel. Now due to Google Analytics I have been able to somewhat customize my blogs to my readers: for those in California think of Ralph’s, for those in Dallas think of Kroger, and for those in Russia think of Pyatyorochka. Jewel was selling 24 cupcakes for $5.99. They are not wonderful cupcakes, they are quite dense, and the icing is quite sweet. I admit Phoebe’s provides a superior product. But in the most craven terms, one Phoebe Cupcake is equivalent to a dozen Jewel Cupcakes ((Two dozen for $6 vs. $2.75 (with sales tax at Phoebe’s) for each Salted Caramel)). So assuming my income is $6.00 my Budget Constraint regarding cupcakes would look pretty much like this.

Is it worth it?

Well we then have to go into the dreaded concept of “Utility.” Now “Utility” is one of those things in economics that I find to be fascinating, but have very little application in real life because we can’t quantify it. Utility is defined as the amount of satisfaction one derives from the consumption of a particular item. That is problematic because I don’t know what it means. My utility for artichokes is nearly infinite, but my utility for refried beans is next to nil. In fact I have this obscene and irrational hatred of refried beans. If they even come close to touching any of my food, I must turn it away. There was at least one meal where I chose to disenfranchise people I was dining with in order to wean myself of those infernal mashed legumes. As I sacrificed nearly $6.00 at Phoebe’s I would freely sacrifice relationships to get refried beans off my plate. But guess what, the world is often appalling. Some people – including my dearest friend Pauline seems to have an irrational hatred of artichokes rather than refried beans! She would rather eat frijoles refritos than Gaia’s Holy Thistle. She derives more utility from a can of Old El Paso then the tender green heart of an artichoke (which is fine for me because I do not want aggregate demand for artichokes to increase). I wager that most people are not as extreme as either Pauline or myself. Like moderates who disdain the Tea Partiers, but crosses the street when they see a Transsexual Eskimo, most people probably straddle the middle – “I am ok with refried beans, as I am ok with artichokes.”

Through the use of some calculus you can actually derive a graph of the interrelationship of artichokes and refried beans; or in the case at hand, Jewel Cupcakes and Phoebe’s. Now Utility is comprised of many things, maybe people like to have a place to sit and chat with friends. You would think that this would be a component of Utility in Phoebe’s not found in the supermarket’s. Well guess what, Phoebe is small and cramped. I guess there is something novel in saying that you purchased an “adult cupcake.” Maybe the cashier at Jewel is cuter than the one at Phoebe’s. Let’s hold all these variables aside. I approach my caloric consumption with a certain clinical detachment. It is the cupcake I am looking at.

But alack, before I reveal the graphs regarding the interrelationship between my utility of cupcakes there is something else called indigestion. Holding price aside, how many Jewel cupcakes must I consume before it equals one of Phoebe’s superior, but unsalty cupcakes? Well as many as I can before I throw up. They are not perfect substitutes I may add, 3 Jewel cupcakes may conceivably be equivalent to one at Phoebe's, but the threat of throwing up, infernal bowel movements and diabetes will perniciously require me to consume more Jewel cupcakes to receive the equivalent amount of enjoyment as a second Phoebe’s cupcake. Hence, the slope in utility curves.

Well with the derivation of my utility I can then transpose it onto my budget constraint, and that will tell me my optimal consumption of Phoebe Cupcake’s to Jewel Cupcakes. As I told my cousin before, the important point in economics is where lines and curves intersect.

I guess Phoebe’s wasn’t such a ripoff after all.

Table for One Next Time

2010-03-16T10:31:00.001-07:00

L. Woods

7110 N. Lincoln Ave.,

Lincolnwood IL, 60712

(847) 677-3350

Sophie had an easier choice. Do I stay at home and spend another night spooning my cat, or do I hang out at L.Woods? As I was preparing dinner “Kristian” sent me a text inviting me to L.Woods. I was ecstatic, I haven’t seem Kristian in ages – but there was a catch, Maleficar was also going.

Kristian and Maleficar have a strong platonic gay relationship. If you find one partner, you find the other. In the rare situation where you only see one, he will speak of the other as if they were both present in the same room. It is quite annoying really. A co-joined identity in which conversations often center on the other person.

Now this is not really an attack on Kristian and Maleficar. I hate eating with most couples. My blood boils when personal identity becomes obliterated and replaced by the dreaded “we”. I presume there are two things going on with me really: 1. I am a jealous bitch, and 2. Everything I have learned in school has been about the individual; the community is merely a footnote, an extra in my psyche and education.

Think about it, even in MACROeconomics, the curves are known as “Aggregates” i.e. Aggregate Demand. All the little people out there and their combined demand for something like say Final Fantasy XIII drives the economy. Sure, you can’t study MACRO without an analysis of the community and the interrelationships between individuals, but ultimately, the curves are driven by one – the personal.

Lets look at law school, individuals are restrained, not communities. In fact, every law is merely a restraint on one’s liberty. The central player is the individual. In order to defend the community, you must restrain me. I cannot price gouge, because it is an inefficient use of resources. I cannot speed, because it is dangerous for all the drivers out there. The person is important, community is secondary.

Which comes back to Kristian and Maleficar, well, I really don’t care for Maleficar. He is a D’bag. Maleficar is one of those sanctimonious, pretentious gay bitches who likes to think of himself as the hottest and smartest person in the room. Dear Reader, if there is something you care about, Maleficar will find fault in it. If you have a girlfriend, Maleficar will assume she has a hybrid venereal disease. If you have a Toyota, he will claim it will explode when its trunk opens. If you like videogames, he will call you a loser. If you like cats, he will assert that dogs are better and that felines are the agents of the Devil. If you like dogs, he will claim they are stupid and that you are a mental lightweight for not choosing cats. If you are allergic to cats, Maleficar will bitch-slap you and propound that you come from defective stock. In totality, Maleficar is a very shitty person.

Kristian on the other hand is quite different. He is jovial and tranquil. He is quite a pleasure to be around really. Dear Reader, you may be surprised to know that I went hiking (for the first time) last year. I went with Edward and Kristian and had a wonderful time. Alas, I haven’t seen much of Kristian for several reasons, most of them are logistical, he lives in a suburb. But there was some weird drama between Kristian, Maleficar, and Edward. It is summarized below:

Maleficar and Edward met up on Match.com.
Maleficar and Edward went out a few times (whether or not these were defined as dates requires an attorney to define “Date”)
Edward told Maleficar the “Let’s be friends” and “I am not ready” line.
Maleficar flipped out and asserted that Edward did not want to date him because Edward (a doctor) did not respect Maleficar’s profession (psychiatrist).
Edward started to hang out with Kristian (which also included Maleficar).
Edward and Kristian was caught In flagrante delicto - in a bar.
Maleficar and his band decided to brand Edward with a scarlet letter.
Kristian wanted to pursue a relationship.
Edward did not want the drama and extricated himself from the situation.

Now I stipulate, I did not know any of the parties when all this was going around. (I live in a bubble where the largest amount of drama is a debate between purchasing FF XIII or a pair of new shoes. This is not to say that I do not cause myself a tremendous amount of angst or inner turmoil. But with time, I am usually mad at myself and not another party). But I was privy to all this information because three different people recited the same facts over and over again. Even though Maleficar and Edward each have a respective boyfriend, I suspect that the wounds are still raw. Maleficar particularly picks at the scab of Edward with pernicious fingernails.

So what does this have to do with me? As I said before, Sophie had an easier choice. I can choose to spend another night with the cats, or I can go to L.Woods and hang out with super awesome Kristian; alas, that would also mean hanging out with Maleficar. It is quite obvious what my choice was, since there would be no blog if I made good decisions.

Now to put things in context, L.Woods is a 15 minute drive from where I live. It is technically in Chicago but nobody who lives in “city proper” would actually go there. Now there is nothing really offputting about the décor of L.Woods, think of a less manicured Claim Jumper. Dear Reader, if you have never been to Claim Jumper, think of a log cabin. L. Woods is actually a pretty large restaurant segmented into three areas: a bar, a middle dining room, and an end room that acts as another dining room. I presume the end room was an addition to the original structure because the look and color of the room is different compared to the middle room and the bar (the end room is much brighter).

The clientele of L.Woods is actually quite interesting. There are two main groups that seem to dine there, people of Jewish or Arab descent. Forget the Oslo Accords, a three state solution could be drafted in Lincolnwood!

As I waded through what appeared to be a graveyard of bones, I finally found Maleficar and Kristian sitting in talking.

“Gentleman, it has been a long time.”

Kristian smiles, “Dude it has been months.”

Maleficar waves.

The waiter immediately approaches and asks me what I would like to order. Kristian tells me that they already ordered the “Brontosaurus Ribs.” I was puzzled by that comment, but I noticed that Kristian seemed to be concentrating on the waiter with a disproportionate amount of time. After I ordered a Sierra Pale Ale, and the “Onion Strings,” the inquisition immediately starts.

In a nasally voice Maleficar asks, “So how is Edward and his new boyfriend,” without missing a beat, “Has Edward gained weight?”

I was bit taken aback. Was this the reason why they asked me to hangout - to talk about Edward?

“I don’t know, why don’t you call him.”

“Well ….”

“Look, I like Emmett [Edward’s boyfriend]. I am not going to talk about him. I would also like to highlight, on the record, and on blog, that he has been a better friend to me than you have.”

Kristian jumped in “Oh yea, your blog entry about your dates was hilarious.”

“Dude, that was so long ago, I have written 20 since then.”

“Oh, well you need to tag me on Facebook. Maleficar, did you know about Eric’s blog.”

“You write a blog? It would actually be a blog I would actually read.”

“Yea, I post the updates on Facebook all the time.”

“Well, you need to tag me.”

The waiter brings the “Brontosaurus Ribs,” my “onion strings” and my beer all at the same time. At this moment I am at a dark mood. I understand that the ribs were entered before my onion strings, in fact I don’t mind if the rings comes to the table after the ribs, but since less than 5 minutes passed before me entering an order, the fact that an appetizer could be brought to my table meant that it was already prepared ahead of time. This is a restaurant sin! In order to satiate my unholy demands of all things gluttonous, do not bring me food sitting under a heat lamp; this is especially true for fried foods. As if I was some culinary neophyte, Kristian was explaining to me that since beef ribs are so large (compared to pork I guess), he and Maleficar called them “brontosaurus.” I picked at the onion rings. They were cold.

Bad ideas often have a certain powerful inertia that propels them, and I really wanted to project my disgust with my rings onto Maleficar. “So how is your new bf.” Not since the Battle of Moscow has there been such a miscalculation. Maleficar discussed for 15 minutes about the metal and social defects of his boyfriend. Kristian intimated that he and other third parties thought that there is an odd struggle in the relationship.

Twisting the knife in order to unsettle my ennui, “So why are you with him?”

“Well I like the concept of someone there. Plus I miss him when he is not around.”

“Interesting, besides all these general laments about your boyfriend what is his real problem.”

“Well, he is focused on status way too much.”

I almost choked on the batter of the cold onion rings sticking to my esophagus.

“I am interested, please discuss more.”

“Well, he works at the AMA, so he knows the Surgeon General and we had this discussion about the Surgeon General …. I didn’t know who the Surgeon General was, so he kind of flipped out. ‘You are a doctor, how can you not know who the Surgeon General is.’”

Even with a peace treaty being hashed out on the table next to me, a Faustian scene was occurring in my head, Correct him, he is not a doctor. Just a psychiatrist.

Maleficar, continues “So I tell him that stuff like this doesn’t matter to me. I am in medicine to help people…. I don’t care about status.”

In the middle of this lament, Kristian asks for more bbq sauce. I noted, good idea, I need something hot for these onion rings from Cocytus. As I was about to join in the request for additional sauce the waiter sprinted off. Maleficar just continued “You know Eric, a lot of this was on my Facebook wall.”

I was about to commit felony homicide. The same guy who told me that he does not read blogs unless he is tagged, told me to follow his Facebook feed. Who the fuck does he think he is? As I engaged in this dolorous excogitation, I saw quite possibly the most disgusting sight ever recorded. Apparently, Maleficar did not like one of his ribs, so after taking a bite he threw the rib back onto the plate and took another one. Thump.

“What the hell just happened?”

“Well I don’t like that one, so he (pointing to Kristian will eat it.”

This disgusting journey continued. I am going to leave off other highlights such as: surprisingly good cheesecake, Kristian’s additional ogling of the waiter, more complaints by Maleficar, an obscene tip left by my party because they thought the waiter was “good,” and Maleficar’s obvious lust of a teenage boy sitting two tables away. I am just going to fast forward to the parking lot.

“So attorney, what do you drive?”

“A Camry.”

“Good luck staying alive.”

“I keep forgetting I do not live the privilged life of a Saab owner. (Maleficar once waxed poetic about a BMW).”

I could only hope that the accelerator sticks and I run him over. “Does not care about status,” my ass. I hate couples.

Something I Would Like to Share

2010-03-09T19:11:00.001-08:00

"Eric,
My name is Keli and I am the manager of Frank's. I was very sorry to hear about your recent experience at the bar. Please believe that we demand better attitudes from all of our staff. I am sure you can understand why I would not want to question each waitress about the incident, since the description you wrote on her appearance is quite unflattering. That being said I would like the opportunity to reprimand my server. If you could remember the date of your visit I would really appreciate it.

Again I am sorry that you did not have a more positive experience since we do work very hard to please our guests!
Sincerely,
Keli Amato"

Presbyterians can party.

2010-03-04T13:50:00.000-08:00

Frank’s

2503 North Clark St.

Chicago, IL 60614-1711

773 - 549-2700

Cocktail
3359 N. Halsted St.
Chicago, IL 60657

When I think of Christians, I often conjure two different and stark images. One is the overly pious type who really enjoy wearing Dockers and attempt to convert everyone at the checkout counter. The other type of Christian is the granola-eating, homebody whose mantra is “Jesus was the OG hippie.” There is no middle ground. There are only two types of Christians. I think this is why my recent adventures at Lakeview Presbyterian has been so shocking to many of my family and friends. I don’t wear Dockers; I think pleats make me look like a communist. And I am definitely not a hippie, my thesis in finance was about Philip Morris and the glories of its average cost of capital. If Christians only fall into two schema, the Evangelist and the one who practices “Civil Disobedience,” why would I join Lakeview? Well Dear Reader, you have never partied with Lakeview Presbyterians, I almost died doing so.

NOTE: There are several types of Presbyterians. The two main lines are Presbyterian Church USA (PCUSA) and Presbyterian Church America (PCA). I am a member of the more progressive PCUSA and I am not referencing PCA, which probably thinks I should be held as property.

It was Saturday, and I received a text message from Tara inviting me to Julius Meinl for dinner. I hung out with Tara once, we did brunch at Finley Mahoney’s. I was sandwiched between her and Ashley, I felt welcomed; nay, even more, I was the cool kid hanging out with hot girls in church. I was part of the A Group! Within five minutes of Tara’s text, I received an email from Ashley inviting me to the same event. Looking at the addressees I noticed that I was the only male invited. OMG, in just three months of Bible Study I have cemented myself as the “Girls’ Best Accessory,” I was essentially the “Gay Clutch.”

Ashley and Tara were at Julius Meinl before me. Even though 9 people were invited, it was just the three of us that night. We talked about clothes and boys; nothing religious. I ordered an amazing grilled cheese sandwich, and sexually harassed the hot waiter. Tara noticed that he was wearing a wedding band, “It is the first thing I look for,” she instructed. "Technicalities" I thought. We were done with dinner, and I thought I was done for the night. I was behind on my book project, but then out of the blue Ashley inquired as to where we were going afterwards.

“Afterwards,” I asked?

“Yea. We have to go drinking. WE ARE DRINKING.”

OMG, she looked demented. “Ok” I acquiesced. I thought she was going to decapitate me. We started to walk south along Southport, but we really didn’t find anything promising. Ashley suggested DOC Winebar. Dear Reader, if this sounds familiar it is the winebar adjacent from Dunlay’s on Clark (see “If These Chips Could Talk.”) but I really had no fear though, I liked these two femme fatales.

When we got to DOC Winebar, a really hot guy approached us – so hot I fell in love. Yes, Cupid stuck me at the corner of Clark and Wrightwood. Eric’s Husband (bitch holding his arm be damned) told us that DOC Winebar was closed for a private event. Tara and Ashley gasped in horror. I gasped for other reasons. He then walked south with the Whore of Babylon. Ashley was suggesting places in the area. Tara wanted to avoid any place where college students would be at. I was suggesting we stalk Eric’s Husband and was looking in my pockets for chloroform. I then suggested “Basil Leaf,” which is an Italian restaurant that actually serves an excellent Riesling.

As we were walking to Basil Leaf, I was looking under every alcove for the super hot guy. Instead of finding him, we spied a rather divey looking bar called Frank’s. Now the bar is not a dive in the sense that I would get crabs from looking at the sign, rather it is a dive compared to its surroundings. Now the inhabitants of Lincoln Park often think to much of themselves. The bitches do not live in Orange County or Beverly Hills, but they often think they do. The DePaul students make themselves seem like that they are going to Harvard, when in fact they are going to … DePaul. Needless to say, Lincoln Park is a community of inflated egos. Hence, a dive is not really a dive in Lincoln Park, it is merely an ordinary bar. Since Ashley really wanted to drink, Tara didn’t really seem to want to walk, and I prefer dives over nice bars anyway, Frank’s it was.

As we walked in, we immediately sat down at one of the two booths facing the street. Along the perimeter of Frank’s are high-tops for two, then there is the usual bar arrangement. I studied the clientele, it wasn’t particularly pretentious, just a normal bar. As I yammered continuously about the Eric’s Husband, Ashley pointed to “Sparkling Wine (bottle).” Tara and I were intrigued by the $3 drinks. The server came by and I was aghast, she was an ogress wearing a tube top. How the hell did this "Shebeast" get a job in Lincoln Park? Tara inquired to the $3 drinks and Shebeast immediately dismissed it as swill. I actually respect it when a server tells me not to order something on a menu. It shows honesty, a certain amount of care that is no longer found in service. Ashley followed up with “What is the Sparkling Wine.” Shebeast had no idea, and she said she would need to ask the manager because nobody has ever ordered it. On principle alone, I really wanted it.

Shebeast returned, “We have a bottle chilled. It is Cooks. But I have never seen anyone order it, and I have been here for two years.”

Tara looked in horror. Ashley looked at me. I consented, “Dear barkeep please bring us a bottle and three glasses.”

In less then five minutes it came out in a bucket. “Fancy huh,” as Shebeast served us, I was aghast, Cooks, oh my god, they serve this at prison functions. We continued our talk about boys, and Tara said something profound, “Bad Sparkling wine is at least drinkable, bad wine is not.” I was puzzled by that comment, until the sixth sip hit me, my god, this was as bad as I remembered. I had two glasses and I was sick. Like watching a Wayon Brothers' movie sick. I had to eat something or throw up. I was calling it a night until I heard Ashley’s objections.

“We need to go somewhere else.”

“What? I am tired.”

“It is only 10:30 continued. You can pick the place. It needs hot guys.”

“We saw a hot guy, there is a hole in my heart, I will never love again.”

“Well we need to go to a bar to find you a hot guy.”

She was very persuasive. Tara just kept on drinking and asked for the check.

“Well, we could go to Cocktail, it has strippers.”

I thought I was an extra in some Star Trek episode, we were transported to Cocktail in less than ten minutes after my suggestion. I don’t even remember paying. As we walked in, Ashley asked the bouncer “Are there strippers?”

The bouncer who was three times Ashley’s size actually took three steps back, I think he was afraid of the ravenous look in her eyes, “Yes ma’am.”

“Good,” she made a beeline to the bar.

Tara went to scope out some real estate for us to stand, and I felt like throwing up. BOOOM BOOOM BOOOOM. The music blared, and with each soundwave my intestines were assaulted. It dawned on me, I just can’t drink cheap alcohol. As I stood hunched over to the side, Ashley came back with some humungous goblet of alcohol. I thought it was the coveted Sangre Real.

“I opened a tab. They required a minimum of $20 for a tab.”

“Is that supersize?”

As we were talking about this, Tara also came back with a rather large alcoholic drink. I was trying to get my mind off my lack of equilibrium and focused on how she could carry 20 lbs of alcohol.

BBOOOMMMMM BOOOM BOOOM.

And then I heard screaming, strippers. Lots and lots of strippers. The first brought little attention, so Ashley decided to make friends. Within 5 minutes she developed a coterie of homosexuals and were talking about jackets, underwear, and jobs. Tara was focused on the stripper. I was frantically looking for a bathroom.

Ashley was trying to introduce me to her gays, but I was not in the mood. I am … in lovve…. BOOM BOOOOOM BOOOOOOOM, oh god I have to throw up ….. BOOOM BOOOM BOOOM …. what if I never see my lov…. BOOOOOM.

Ok we need to leave. What the fuck, Ashley was starting a second crate’s worth of alcohol.

“Do you want something to drink hon?”

“Umm can I get some water?”

“Sure, hold this.”

I almost dropped her stein, it felt like it weighed ten pounds.

I heard Tara meekly, “Oh my god.”

The crowd erupted in noise, the second stripper was up. BOOOM BOOOOOM. If Stephanie Meyer were to describe him, she would use the words “Godlike,” or “Apolloesque” or “Sculpted out of marble.” Everyone but me went ecstatic, my love is hard to earn.

Ashley returned with my bottle water. I thought it was going to squirt out of her hands. “Eric, I am coming here tomorrow.”

When the stripper was done, he made his way around the bar to talk with the customers. As he was making his way to us, one of Ashley’s new gays took her arm and placed it on his chest.

He smiled the way only a straight guy could smile, “You want to touch my abs?”

BOOOOOM BBBBOOOOOM BOOOM. Presbyterians can party.

I Am A Fraud.

2010-03-04T11:06:00.000-08:00

TGI Friday's1500 West Lake Cook Road,Wheeling, IL 60090-2249(847) 459-1273‎

When you cultivate a certain reputation, it is hard to admit enjoying something that is violate of all your efforts. If people view you as an intellectual, it is difficult to reveal one’s love of videogames. If you are a conservative congressman, it is probably hard to come out of the closet and reveal you like shirtless Abercrombie models. If you are a literary bookworm, how does one reveal one’s love of all things Twilight? You fear – nay, you dread the reprobation of your peers. You become a fraud if you enjoy laser tag, while you discuss Socrates and Mill; a drag queen wearing the cloak of large wordy books. But what is worse, is looking in the mirror. You want to be an adult, you need to be a member of the ivory tower, you see yourself achieving something that only status can bring. And dejection comes, as if examining your sides looking for that extra layer of fat, you are not as smart as you think, not as good looking as your Match.com profile indicates. Dear Reader, I am not an academic, nor am I terribly good looking. I do not suffer illusions of grandeur. But I always thought - I really believed I was a foodie. Then I looked in the mirror, then I realized I liked TGI Fridays!

It was a dreadful week at work and I was ambling towards either Gomorrah or the weekend. Salvation would come at 4:30! Only. EIGHT more hours to go. SHIT! It was only 8:30! WHATTHEFUCKAMIGOINGTODO? It is still the morning. I went to Jennifer’s desk, clutching onto a mug of caffeine as if it was the Holy Grail.

“It is only 8:30.”

Jennifer lifted her head, “How many projects are going out today,:

“Hell if I know, Happy Hour?”

“Absolutely.” She grunted as if speaking the language of Mordor.

8:35

9:00

9:05

10:00

11:00

Lunch

11:45

12:30

1:15

1:16 – What the fuck one minute. Is the clock broken?

4:00 comes around and I am as giddy as a little school girl sitting in line for an autograph from Zac Efron. I call Jennifer – well, first I have to be transferred to her (I have no idea how to use these Cisco phones).

“Where are we going.”

“Let’s go somewhere cheap.”

I think apprehensively, whenever we have tried cheap it normally turns into some cataclysmic event with me sulking at a table.

“Well, I saw TGI Fridays running a three course special for $10.99. What do you think?”

Before Jennifer answered, I added that “I wouldn’t expect much though – I mean $10.99.”

She said she would ask Candice. Within 10 minutes I was at TGI Friday’s opening a door that Dante and Virgil would have been loath to open. Jennifer and I got to the restaurant first. I demanded that we sit at the bar (always thinking about you Dear Reader).

The greeter an unbelievably faye male talked about the $10.99 specials; “Well there are liiiiiiike 275 different combinations you could create.”

288 I thought to myself. He sashayed away.

Our waitress came over to ask us for drinks. Jennifer ordered a large Sam Adams, I asked for water. Yes, I am a pussy. But after awhile I noticed I was beginning to become really hungry, and when I enter starvation mode, any little social grace I may have disappears. Deprive me of carbs when I become famished, and I become a craven bitch. Seeing that I was beginning to bite my lips, Jennifer inquired if we should order first. I flag the waitress before Jennifer could complete her suggestion.

It took me 30 seconds to order. “I would like the Fried Green Beans, “The Cheesy Chicken” and the cheesecake. Jennifer ordered the pot stickers.

I hear YAY” ejaculated at the table next to me. WTF! Is it New Years? I glare at the table. Middle aged women doing some sort of martini that involved cotton candy. I don’t know if I was in either suburb hell, or jealous that I was not menstruating.

The waitress brings the Fried Green Beans, and Jennifer’s pot stickers over. She also brings a bevy of wet-naps, napkins, plates, and refills our drinks all in one trip. I was impressed. She should open a restaurant in my neighborhood.

The Fried Green Beans - they look like the fingers of a leper. But what was even more off putting was actually handling them, aside from the oil slick that they left on the plate, which could power an entire fleet of SUVs, the green beans were coated in this rough fried coating. I was going to regret this - $10.99 wasted. I could have used it to download Castlevania! With a sense of foreboding I dropped one into my mouth and started chewing. Bernini, sculpted the Ecstasy of St. Theresa, depicting the saint having an orgasm after being pierced with the love of God. Dear Reader, I still can’t get a dry cleaner to get the DNA out of my pants. The green beans were unequivocally one of the best things I had this year! No joke, get thee to a TGI Fridays and order the Fried Green Beans. The coating was sweet and crispy, the beans had a crisp fresh taste to them. Sure they were probably frozen (green beans and peas freeze quite well, unlike say broccoli), but I would have ordered a second helping if our group was larger. Each bean provided me a scintillating pleasure that I have long forgotten. To think frozen appetizers could be so good.

As I was in the middle of ravenous frenzy, Candice came in and gave me a look as if she discovered a zombie feasting on the dead. She stared.

“Get your own woman. $10.99. 275 combinations.”

The waitress comes by and Candice orders one of the cotton candy martinis. The waitress swings on by constantly with napkins – apparently I was a greasy mess. Beans were probably in my hair and fingernails.

The one hiccup in service involved Candice after receiving her drink, she wanted to order, but the waitress just dropped off the drink. Unfortunately, it took Candice a good 7-10 minutes to order her meal. Satiated and in a green bean coma, I wasn’t even appalled by the waitress' negligence.

“The Cheesy Chicken” was next. Now I have been trying to reduce my consumption of meat, especially chicken. I just have a problem of killing animals for a meal, and I especially think chickens are treated poorly, but I really wanted cheese so “Cheesy Chicken” it was. The entrée was served on one of those cast iron dishes that was placed into a salamander before service, so it not only serves the purpose of becoming a rather dated spectacle (the sizzle and pop was amusing in the 80s), but it creates this burnt cheese on the sides. The entire entrée was a salty gooey mess. If you have a “loved one” who has hyper-tension, serve him this meal, I want half of your inheritance for the referral. I should have avoided for health reasons (but I was already here), it was glorious. I peeled the cheese as if there were chips in a Super Bowl party. The chicken wasn’t bad either, screw morality and the new world order with the coming of our Lord, if violence to birds could create this dish, cull away!

The service with the cheesecake was kind of odd. When it was presented, the waitress said “This has to be the saddest strawberry I have ever seen.” This was quite a turn off, if you know I am being served some berry that is essentially the offspring of some hybrid VD, don’t give it to me. But as with the other items above, I was actually quite surprised with the cheesecake. Now, classical adherents to cheesecake would hate this bastardized concoction. I couldn’t taste much cream cheese, but there was a lot of heavy cream. It was rich, sweet, and smooth - I surprisingly liked it.

I may have to turn in my foodie card, you can find me at TGI Fridays to claim it.

I am Type A, so I can rant.

2010-03-03T21:49:00.000-08:00

It was my turn to pick up the food for Bible Study (for 35-40 people). Normally this type of task would sound mundane and not much of an issue. But for a freak like me, it has to be an event. For some reason, I am this crazy control freak. Thirty years and I still have not had a stroke! "Why, why all this drama?" you may ask. Well Dear Reader, follow me as we take a short journey back in time.

Monday morning I slipped into work in a foggy haze. I haven't had my coffee yet, and I had 10 emails waiting for me to mechanically click - as if unchecking the box would make the task finished. I then double clicked the most dreaded icon on my desktop - ACCESS. Reader, I doubt Pandora ever had to go through the effort of opening a box, or Satan having to cajole Eve with an apple, Microsoft Access is evil enough! There was an annotation next to my name, I had a project going out on Tuesday. Shit. Who the hell is going to pick up the food? Surely I can't let the Bible Study folk down, I just got baptized. I quickly penned an email to the entire group asking for succor. By 2 P.M. there were no replies. I was pissed. Do Christians not help each other? How is this possible? I understand, I go to a rather free thinking Church - but traditional community is stressed, would nobody help? Thankfully I did not let out a profanity laced bromide at work because by 7:00 my personal inbox was filled with offers of help. Apparently people do not check their personal email at work. Something called integrity, or restraint. In fact, one particular deacon even called me. My faith was restored.

Tuesday morning came and I decided to pull some strings to see if the project could be accelerated. I then found out a component (that was originally included in the reorganization was no longer demanded); hence, I was going to pick up the food. I was going to feed my people. I would be the Asian Jesus, sans sandals, and wisdom, and a beard ....

Well I picked up Thai food from Jitlada and you know what? IT WAS FUCKING TERRIBLE!

I ordered three items: 1. Vegetable Curry Fried Rice, 2. Vegetable Pad Thai, and 3. Broccoli Chicken. The problem with all the items was mediocrity, attributed to an inability to handle mis en place, and a wok.   The fried rice was really wet. I attribute really wet fried rice to two things: the kitchen cooks several orders in batches, or they did not dry out the rice prior to cooking.   The Pad Thai was serviceable, but it was not particularly better than any other generic Thai food in the area.    But the culinary Hinderburg had to be the Broccoli Chicken. The chicken was rough, stringy and dry. This could have been prevented if the chicken was properly "velveted" before cooking.  But I will admit the saving grace is the service. The employees and the kitchen help were very friendly, and offered to provide me with a bevy of condiments and utensils (I think they gave me 50 chopsticks). But you know what, I got stressed out - I tried to control everything. From "Production Schedule," to "emails," but what tripped me up, what screwed up my entire Tuesday, was really bad chicken.

But you know what really ticks me off. The last group to pick up the food from the very same restaurant, brought amazing food. The rice was fluffy and seasoned well. The Pad Thai was not some wet clump reminiscent of medusae on the shoals of a beach. And the chicken ... shit they ordered beef!

If These Chips Could Talk

2010-02-28T16:10:00.000-08:00

Dunlay's On Clark

2600 North Clark Street

Chicago, IL 60614-1523

(773) 883-6000

If there is anything I have learned about my experience with this 30 Bar Odyssey, it is this – the company you keep, makes the journey. Could you imagine: Carrie with Samantha, or Frasier without Niles, vampire love stories without goth emo kids, or Japanese cartoons without transsexuals?

Most of my blogs are pretty easy to write because I go with some pretty awesome people. There is Vladimir who is the Doctor/Foodie/Movie buff – fascinating individual really. Born in Russia, he could talk your ear off about the most insensible items; ask him about the “prescreen date.” Vladimir’s boyfriend, Dustin is a firecracker, Midwestern, sensible, whenever he is at the table, he grounds our cosmopolitan, and maniacal tendencies. And I cannot forget the duo in the suburbs, Candice and Jennifer. Every time I am with them is like Sex and The City, without the city, and the sex. Many of my blogs are with these people. It is always a good time, a journey I always want to share. But sometimes, there are those meetings where you go with a group of people where the dynamics don’t really click. You wish for the check to come, and you become contemptuous of your party. My time at Dunlay’s on Clark (DOC) was this.

“Scott” texted me on a Saturday night asking me if I would join him for a drink at DOC. I met Scott on Match.com two years ago and romance did not really bloom. I never really understood what really happened, things got hot and heavy one night and at the next moment I got the inexplicable “Let’s be friends discussion.” Here is the problem with such a discussion, Dear Reader take notes, if you are giving the speech, the other side wants to know. If you think she has small breasts, she wants to know. If you think he is a bad kisser, he wants to know. The “oh I am not feeling it” – is a pussy way of getting out of it. Grow a pair and tell the other person why, you two probably shared bodily fluids anyway, so you owe him/her something more.

My relationship with Scott has always been rather odd. He would confide in me about his exploits while always trashing mine. But here is the thing, he is kind of hypocritical, and sanctimonious. It is never his fault. He would always develop a relationship, and then something always happens. Half of his relationships start and end by email, even though a meeting never occurs. The other half, he ends the relationship, and he NEVER tells the other guy why. I have often called bullshit whenever he tells me his exploits. He often responds, “I am just Minnesota nice.” The bile often rises whenever I hear this – it is not like the location of one’s conception is an affirmative defense for negligent acts. A year ago, Scott ended a promising relationship with this fellow named “Darren.” Scott told me that Darren had a lazy eye and he could not handle it. Unfortunately, Scott did not tell this to Darren. Scott just got increasingly removed and distant from Darren and finally “Let’s be friends.” How do you support a friend's actions when the same thing happened to you?

As I said, Scott told me to meet him at DOC. He was also invited a co-worker/friend of his “Diana” who is new to Chicago. I was hoping it would be a good time. It was dreadful. DOC is actually a pretty cool neighborhood restaurant. It has seating capacity of around 100 people, of which the bar seats around 16 to 20 people. There is an open kitchen to the north of the main entrance, and a little doorway connects DOC with its winebar known creatively as “DOC Winebar.”

Scott and Diana were already at a table and I introduced myself to the new girl. Now I am not the first nominee for a Goodwill Ambassador, but I thought I should try to give my most pleasant first impression to Diana. My god, this woman looked liked a 20 year old Amazon. I was jealous, not only was this bitch taller than I am, but she was years younger than me. In fact, to put everything in perspective, Scott is also four years younger than me, and as tall as a sequoia. I was in a table in the woods.

Scott ordered a white, which Diana inexplicably copied. DOC actually has a comprehensive wine list; it is after all, connected to winebar. They were some weird sexless couple that copied each other. I hate it when people do not have an identity beyond their clique. If Hell is actually some state of being where there is no happiness, DOC was my infernal basement. I ordered a Lagunitas IPA from Petulima.

Scott and Diana started to talk about work. They are both nurses at Northwestern, and all these senseless medical terms were strewn all over the place. Now I hate being left out of a conversation primarily because depriving me from sharing my font of wisdom is a crime worthy of Nuremburg. But worse, I hate it when people discuss shop when another of the party is not in the industry. If I was having a dinner with all lawyers, discussing depositions is fair game, but if there are five lawyers and one chef – Roe v. Wade is not to be discussed. So while the two were talking about needles, veins, and scat, I stated to take pictures of the Lagunitas. The conversation stopped. I should have took my iPhone out earlier. They were just staring at me and Diana was giving me the most bitchy look. I explained that I was writing a blog. Scott admitted that he didn’t even know about my enterprise, and Diana just scoffed and carried on about saving lives.

Scott and Diana were finished with their wine in a hurry. Apparently, being a nurse makes one thirsty. They both ordered a second glass, since I was still drinking the beer in a counterintuitive languid manner, I ordered the “Blue Cheese Chips.”

Scott tried to shift the discussion and asked me “So what is going on with you.” I was about to have a stroke. What should I have said, “I am writing a book,” or “I have a blog,” maybe I should have tried “I have had a plethora of terrible dates.” I shared all of that, and all I got from Diana was the feeling that I was some harlot that was about to ride the Beast of Babylon. While discussing dates, we were on the issue of the Twilight Series. Her interpretation of high school girls and vampires was unusually off the mark. The chips came and I started eating right away. They were delicious and covered in this rich béchamel. Even though I am gay I didn’t know anything covered in white sauce would be this delicious. I was eating away as they both discussed relationships. Apparently, Diana unsurprisingly has never had a relationship. I guess heterosexuals are more discerning than I give them credit for.

Scott started to talk about Lazy-Eye Darren. I was eating intently. There were some chips layered with hot sauce, OMG, if I could have had a conversation with them instead. Scott told us that he sent Darren an email trying to rekindle things. I wanted to throw up, but to purge those delicious chips would be such a waste. I actually slapped Scott. Not just a faye-gay slap, I mean a Class II Battery slap, “WHAT THE FUCK! WHY, WOULD YOU DO THIS TO HIM!” Diana was appalled that I had this violent reaction, “Well who knows, he should give it a try.” This cretin, this tween who could not understand the nuances of vampire relationship was trying to lecture me about relationships. Now, I stipulate, I am: pretty picky, unusually Type A, very opinionated, and sometimes a whirlwind of a character. I am not sure if anyone in Chicago, let alone this world could ever tame me, but I think I have more knowledge in this area then some transplant wearing some fucking promise ring plucked out of a Cracker Jack box! I was brooding, where the hell was Vladimir and Dustin? They were probably having a ball as the cutest gay couple in the world. Jennifer and Candice? They were probably throwing beer cans at drunk frat boys. It all sounded so fun, and this cunt was trying to lecture me.

To make things worse, the check came, and without looking at it, Diana laid down $20. Her wine was $9 each; therefore, I subsidized this twat’s drinks. I liked DOC, but next time I am going with real women, and guys who know what they want.

Worst Date #3. Part Deux

2010-02-21T19:10:00.000-08:00

Leona’s
3215 N Sheffield Ave
Chicago, IL 60657
(773) 327-8861

Brew & View At The Vic
3145 North Sheffield Avenue
Chicago, IL 60657-4434
(773) 929-6713

Dear Reader, I am a poseur. Not to the scale of one of those Lincoln Park bitches who take four hours ordering at Starbucks, but at the level where I must blush at my hypocrisy. I am not always as efficient as a machine. Sometimes things, like feelings get in the way. Sometimes when I get lonely and stupid, yes, very stupid, ridiculous actions on my part are made.

So 2010 rang in with a bang. I literally had six dates (7 if you count one where there was a ridiculous exchange of hatemail between me and another) in the first week of the New Year. Keeping my proverbial powder dry, I didn’t let anything physical happen in any rendezvous, plus I wasn’t really into any of the suitors. But I wasn’t concerned. Shit, if I could get six dates in one week, think of the next 51! Then something happened – a drought. My phone was silent. Every fifteen minutes I would tap my phone to see if I somehow turned deaf and had a miss call. Helen Keller’s AT&T bill was probably larger than mine. My love life was a bear market, and the Chicago gays were shorting my stock.

I was getting desperate. Every time I went to Argo, my ego was insulted. There were couples all over the place. People were on dates, they were in relationships, they had kids. Even the neighborhood dogs were dating. What did I have - a bunch of Harry Potter books and my two cats. I was going to bite the bullet. I was going to call my “Option”.

In financial terms, “options” are used to hedge against dramatic changes in the market; for example if you own stock in GE, you could purchase an option to lock in the price of GE in case the stock goes down. Well, options are also found in your rolodex. Dear Reader, there is probably one person that you dated, whom if you called, he/she would give you fallatio over the phone at the mere tenor of your voice.

But let’s face it. My “Option” is not my “Boyfriend” because he is inherently defective. Now I want to be clear, this is not a fuck-buddy. You don’t go out with your fuck-buddy. You fuck your fuck-buddy. With the Option - you go out - on a date - with dinner – because you are lonely. And maybe, just maybe, that defect can be overlooked. Maybe the defect is no longer there, maybe he changed, maybe I changed. Perhaps the Option can be exercised.

Option and I were walking from my apartment to Leona’s. For those who do not have to suffer through the winter of discontent that is Chicago, just realize this, it is cold here. I am talking apocalyptic cold here. And my date was complaining like a little bitch about the obvious. It was cold. Dear Reader, I have very little patience for taxis in Chicago. I often find the drivers to be inept, and they tend to forget English at the most inconvenient times. But Option was complaining so much, “I asked him, do you want to get a taxi?”

“No it is ok, how far away is Leona’s?”

“A little bit past the El.”

“Are you sure it is open, it is kind of late.”

“It is 9:00 on a Saturday.”

“It is a shame if it is closed, I mean it is so cold.”

I almost gay bashed him right there.

After almost ten minutes of listening to Option’s incessant whining we get to Leona’s. We are immediately seated in a booth and I noticed a placard advertising Miller Lite Bottles for $2. I instantly order two for myself. Option orders a Diet Coke.

“Diet really? I thought you drank gin and tonic.”

“Oh my god, you remembered, it has been like a year. Yea but I don’t really want to drink tonight.”

“Why.”

“Last time we went out drinking you broke my heart.”

It was true. Dear Reader, if you follow my blogs, you may remember “My 10 Dates of 2009.” Option is actually #3. Oh yes, I was desperate and lonely.

In the middle of repeating “I broke your …” two massive land animals come to our tables and clap Option on the back. They exchange gay pleasantries, which for some reason involve kissing. I don’t mean the French variant where there is an innocent peck on the cheek. No, this is lip locking, and to make things even more ridiculous, there are arms a’flailing. I don’t mean locked in ecstasy but rather, arms flailing in the air as they greet. I am so disgusted I begin to contemplate the logistics of heterosexual intercourse. Option moves over to the other side of the booth for the two water buffalo. I was staring in disbelief. Not so much that Option was so uncouth about the situation, rather I was concentrating on how the booth did not collapse. The Titanic had more structural integrity than that booth, but with some feat of magic, it was holding those three.

Option and the juggernauts were talking about their Lutheran church and the waitress drops off the drinks. I immediately start for the beer. The waitress asks if we are ready to order, but the Lutherans are carrying away about church politics, so I tell her to come back. As I nurse the Miller Lite, Juggernaut One gives me a disapproving look.

“Aren’t we starting early.”

“It is $2 a bottle, I was afraid the offer would expire.”

He looks at Option, “Boys, nowadays.”

I am pissed now. You can call me an asshole, a cretin, a pissant, but do not refer to me as a ‘boy.’ “Hey asshole, wasn’t Luther a drunk.”

Juggernaut 2 intercedes, “That is a misconception, he argued that people should talk about religion while drinking, so it makes for a freer conversation.”

“Ok, well fat-ass we are on a date, I don’t know you. In fact you two elephants didn’t even introduce yourselves to me as you intruded. [I take a long drink]. I think God, would disapprove of you interrupting a night of amore.”

Juggernaut 2 turns to Option and does the gayest lisp I have ever heard, “Wheeee will seeee you tomooorrrow at CHurCH Byyyye.”

I start on my second bottle. Now I don’t really drink that much, but for some reason I was going through a total shame spiral. It has been five weeks and my hand was hot, now I am reduced to Option. I need to drink.

The waitress comes back and I insist on the pizza with pesto. Option stated he hated pesto but he would “settle” with the 1950 Traditional, which was essentially a sausage pizza with some vegetables. I told him I really liked pesto. He told me he really liked “meat pizzas” and the 1950 was his way of compromise. Fine he wins, I don’t care.

The waitress looks at my two empty bottles, “Can I get you anything else to drink.”

“Yes, anything but Miller Lite. It is disgusting.”

“What about the Stone Mill Organic. It is umm… organic.”

“Thank you for caring about what I put in my body, organic beer it is dear lady.”

Leona’s is actually a relatively large pizzaria in the neighborhood. It is essentially two store fronts. Their motif is essentially, neighborhood pizza place, a’la Pizza Hut. But the one thing I have noticed about Leona’s is that the pizza has degraded in quality over the past 5 years. When I first arrived in Chicago, Leona’s was the only pizza I really craved. Then it became really good, which transitioned to pretty good, transforming to ok, and then becoming “what the fuck is this shingle I am placing in my mouth.” But it was my fault, I chose Leona’s because Option does not like Asian food, or Mexican, or Middle Eastern, or Italian. Option was essentially the culinary Bubble Boy.

Here is the thing, I thought Option might have been the real deal. I “broke his heart” because a year ago he told me that he would never eat Asian food because he did not like it (even though he never tried it). Ever the optimist, I thought surely – after a year, he must have had fried rice at a food court. Nope. Option’s time value fully decayed, and I wanted out of this date.

We were talking about mundane stuff until he brought up the subject I really did not want to talk about.

“I can’t believe you ditched me over food.”

“Jesus, Joseph and Mary, looking at the company you keep, I figure food would be really important to you.”

“Fuck you, Eric that was really rude of you. You could have been nicer to [Juggernaut 1 & 2].”

“They sat down without introducing themselves, an act which you could have done too. And – and they were judging me because I am drinking. I don’t even drink much.”

Without missing a beat, the waitress drops off the Stone Mill Organic. Instinctively I reach out for it and take a sip. My God, I could make better moonshine by having my cats take a piss in a bottle and setting it out for two weeks under the sun. I gagged and reached for water.

“Would you stop being so dramatic, it can’t be that bad.”

“Well Option since you are the epicurean here. Please try and elucidate me.”

He takes a sip, and he purses his lips. “Yea it is pretty bad.”

The pizza arrives and I tell the waitress the beer is undrinkable. She takes it away as if it was a common occurrence. The pizza was just as bad. Now, we ordered a traditional crust, rather than Chicago style (which is essentially a cornmeal casserole covered in cheese) and it was insipid. The cook actually forgot to use SALT! Seriously, there was no NACL on the pizza. Sure, sausage is inherently salty, but sans the pork, the pizza was absolutely tasteless.

Option looks at me “Please don’t send this back.”

“You know me so well. We can’t eat this.”

“I think it is ok.”

“You are paying.”
“Ok. What are we going to do after this.”

I stare at him. Oh my God, we are doing something afterwards? I was just hoping that we would go our separate ways after dinner. This was not planned.

“What do you want to do,” I asked meekly.

“We could go to your place.”

I almost had a stroke. “What if we catch a movie at the Brew & View?”

“What is that?”

“It is a movie theater, where we can drink.”

I SWEAR TO GOD THIS IS WHAT HE SAYS: “Sure anything you want as long as we are together.”

I vomit some tasteless pizza. A side note: the waitress still charged Option for the Stone Mill.

------------------------------------------------
We enter the lobby of Brew & View. The place looks like a movie theater back in the 70s. Note, there is only one theater, but it has balconies and alcoves; thus making the place pretty awesome. I find out that “Wayne’s World” is playing.

Option gives me a look of disdain “Uggg… I don’t want to watch a stupid movie.”

The guy at the ticket counter looks like he is about to punch Option. I was wondering if I could date the guy at the counter. “Wayne’s World is a classic. Stop being a d’bag.”

“Why don’t we just go back to your place.”

The guy at the ticket counter looks at me as if he was witnessing a pack of lions about to tear up a gazelle. He sighs, “Look, what if I sell you guys one ticket and both of you get in.” I immediately fall in love.

The theater is not arranged like a normal theater. There are a bunch of banquettes and tables strewn about. Option goes to the bar to pick up drinks. I look at my phone to see if a potential paramour called. No Miss Calls. Shit. Option offered me some beer in a plastic cup.

“Thanks. But what is this?”

“I don’t know, I just ordered two beers.”

I don’t particularly like Wayne’s World, but I feigned laughter and enjoyment - anything to divert attention from Option. But then he did the reach around, and I immediately excused myself. The bathrooms were in some basement, and it required an exorcist. There was green slime hanging off the handles of the urinals. WHY – is there slime on the HANDLE? The mirrors were cracked as if it was the result of some demon leaping into our world. And the pipes, they made this weird bellowing noise as if I was in Hell’s waiting room. I quickly scurried upstairs.

The movie ended and I told Option that I had to get back home because I had to watch Iron Chef. He gave me a puzzled look, and I literally sprinted out. All I could hear was the guy behind the counter laughing.

Working At Home

2010-02-12T14:57:00.000-08:00

So the elevator next to my apartment has been making this god-awful sound, and I have placed a work order two weeks ago. Since I am working at home, each grind of the wheels acts as a proverbial gnash of my patience. I haul myself out of the apartment and find the maintenance guy.

"Hi, I am Eric of 507. I was the one who placed the order on the elevator."
"Hello."
"Um... when are we going to fix the elevator."
"The elevator guy came out today to measure the gears and they should be fixed next week."
"Ok this sucks, this means I cannot bring anyone back to my apartment."
"I don't understand."
"Dude, why would you cock-block me?"

Elevator being fixed right now.

Two Companies I Should Work For: Yuplet and California Fish Grill

2010-02-11T11:59:00.000-08:00

California Fish Grill
3988 Barranca Parkway #B
Irvine, California 92606
Phone: 949-654-3838
Fax: 949-654-3858

Think of Chipotle, only a little bit nicer, and instead of barbacoa (which I learned is traditionally made with beef cheeks) in our tacos, we have fish – not the nasty kind that you would find at Baja Fresh, but the kind that would make a 29-year-old jaded attorney reduce to tears. This is California Fish Grill, and poetically, it is my last meal in California.

After the traumatic events of coming out to my mother, I decided I wanted to spend the next day with Jon. This of course meant going to work with him, and actually I was quite excited because I wanted to see the magic. Jon is currently part of an internet startup called Yuplet. It is actually a rather simple but brilliant website – free real estate listings. I know Jon and his cohort would disagree, but I kind of think of it as a sexier Craigslist. Anyway, I find business to be fascinating, and what better way than to see the people that he works with.

I never have been part of a startup. My career path has always been marked as “safe”. Even during my “rainmaker” period, I could have chosen to intern at an organization that represented people held at Gitmo, instead I chose to intern at Lambda fighting the rather pedestrian right of making sure Iowan couples could marry. I mean think about it, a gay lawyer, fighting for the right to marry – it is quite cliché (in fact one could argue that my current occupation, not to mention its environs are much more contrapositive to my orientation). Regardless, a start up is actually quite foreign to me, and boy it was quite a shocker. There was no espresso machine, no muffins, no bottle water in a fridge – hell – there was no fridge. It was just five people working damn hard to get their website up. Since Poi, Shaw, Traci, David and Jon are all around the same age, I thought there would be foozeball and nerf guns all over the place. I was shocked to find that Yuplet is an unusually quiet working atmosphere. My god, these people are more professional than the ones I work with. As I said, it was the day their revised website was going up and it looked stressful. Sometimes there would be a break in the tension: “Fuck” was used more times than in this blog, voices were raised, people were moving at a frenzy pace, there was the occasional slamming of keyboards – but it was mainly quiet. They were like part of the 300 at Thermopylae, these five were working in a harmonious nature with one goal. It was exciting, God I wish I was part of it.

It was 6:30, and a monsoon cleared out of Irvine; in fact, there were tornado warnings in the area. Surely God is not mad at California for the gays, the state did pass Prop. 8 after all. The skies were clear, the air smelled like rain, leaves and branches were strewn all about the streets. Dreading the potential commute from Irvine back to California (and it gives me an excuse to avoid my parents) I practically insisted that we eat dinner in Orange County. Jon immediately punted the suggestion with the Yuplet executives. Their deliberation over dinner was like Conclave. Mapquest, Yelp, and a host of other websites were being browsed simultaneously. Windows within Windows were being opened at a mere tap of an index finger. Habemus Papam! California Fish Grill was announced, and directions were given. If Homeland Security hires Yuplet, we would never have to take our shoes off at an airport ever again.

The location of the restaurant is actually awkwardly situated in this mammoth shopping center. It is located at the very southwest corner, but the back of the restaurant is actually facing towards Barranca; hence, if you were trying to find the restaurant from the street your eyes would naturally scan past it and be directed towards Target, Office Depot, Homegoods, Red Mango, Subway, Home Depot, McDonalds, Express, Toys R’ Us, Kohls, TJ Max, Jamba Juice ….

California Fish Grill is not a particularly attractive restaurant, but I really have no problem with it. Like I said in the intro, think of it as Chipotle. It looks like a hollowed out warehouse that is the vogue nowadays. Within 6 steps of walking in, you hit the ordering counter, and I have two minor quibbles about the arrangement. First there is no natural queue, so one does get rather claustrophobic if there are several other groups who are waiting for/to order. With two groups behind us, and a group of four in front of us, I was already getting the sensation that the walls were closing down upon me.

The second problem I have with the arrangement is the lack of a large menu above the counter. The customer is to rely on laminated menus to make their menu selection. This is not an initial problem if done correctly, but Dear Reader, if you want to mess up operations, do it the California Fish Grill style. The menus are located next to the cash register, not at a location when you walk in. Hence, we can only select our order when it is our turn to order. This leads to a rushed and most uncomfortable situation especially if you have no idea what is going on; moreover, it just creates angst in the customer who is regularly acquainted with the menu and just waiting for me to decide. While I understand that placing the menus closer to the entrance may not be an adequate solution for the following: 1. I regularly waste ample amount of time at Starbucks waiting for the twat in front of me to make the distinction of a latte vs. cappuccino, 2. There isn’t that much room in California Fish Grill between register and entrance, and 3. Intrepid groups could send out a scout to procure menus while the rest wait in line; there is a lot of ample space to the right of entering the restaurant. So a simple solution is to make a queue to the right and place a little slot at the beginning containing the menus; thus, we can read at our leisure as the group in front determines if they want Fried Fish Tacos vs. Grilled Fish Burrito.

The menu is not particularly complex, but it is a bit cumbersome. The restaurant serves entrées, like Red Lobster, and they also serve seafood tacos. I am a sucker for fish tacos, so I tell Jon to order me a mahi taco, a large clam chowder, and a Cajun shrimp taco and I run to the bathroom.

As I return, I already find Shaw et al. nestled into a booth. The restaurant has two types of seating arrangements: tables and booths that can comfortably sit four. Since there were five of us (David peaced out and was nursing an injured foot caused by a domestic squabble), Poi acting as CEO decided to sit at the end.

My clam chowder came out first, and the runner actually brought out a second bowl. I was actually amused that the service at California Fish Grill already exceeded 80% of the restaurants in Illinois. I split the chowder with Jon. I thought it was orgasmic, he thought it was pedestrian. I was impressed that the chowder was creamy but not so heavy that I felt like I was eating clumps of flour. There were a good amount of clams in there, they were not particularly fantastic, but serviceable. But what I was particularly partial to the onions and bacon. The chowder was really smoky and rich; hence, the kitchen (or some offsite location), cooked bacon first and sweated down onions in the fat. My brother waived the soup away with a Rabbinic disdain of all things porcine.

Within another 5 minutes the meals arrived. Poi, Shaw and Tracy all ordered the ahi. If memory serves, I believe Jon ordered the mahi. But my tacos – yes those tacos – I would sacrifice distant family members for an endless supply of those tacos. The generous portion of mahi was grilled to a medium (which I normally disdain), but it was juicy. I was impressed with the fact that it was sliced on a bias and that the strips were not particularly long; hence, preventing awkward situations of constant taco chewing and its absolute destruction. The taco had perfect amounts of cilantro, tomato, cabbage (anathema in Chicago), and this amazing cream sauce. Yes, cream does make everything better.

The shrimp tacos were even better. I personally believe the shrimp were frozen because they did not give off the taste of fresh shrimp, but I often think an even more important quality of good shrimp tasting is how it is marinated, and if it maintains that snap between bites. It is hard to describe, but I thought the shrimp were amazing. Now I rapidly concede, many people will be turned off with the shrimp because it was blanketed – nay carpet bombed with Cajun seasoning, but I am particularly partial to bold flavors. Underneath the seasoning, you can still taste shrimp, not out-of-the-sea shrimp, but good shrimp. But this cream sauce, this reddish (I presume paprika), was a revelation. I could take facials in it. If women regularly bathed in it, I would become heterosexual. I rapidly devoured my taco in less than 2 minutes. The Yuplet gang looked at me with a mixture of disgust and wonder. My Bar results were taken into question. Nom nom nom.

Probably from trying to direct attention from my gluttonous ways, Shaw wanted to get some beer and started to look around the restaurant to get a runners’ attention. A rather sharp expediter noticed and directed three runners to come to our table. Shaw asked one if they served beer by the pitcher. She said no. Shrimp was hanging out of my maw. How is that possible. They serve tacos. They serve beer. How could they not serve beer in pitchers? Within a minute the same runner came back and corrected her comment “Yes we do have pitchers.” At that comment I believe Shaw (or Jon) shot up and bought a pitcher. I immediately went for seconds and ordered a fried fish taco. Jon also purchased some sort of fried combo platter.

The beer, which I believe was a Hefenweiser was pretty good. Tracy was already throwing lemon into her beer like a pro. I found out a lot while drinking with this motley gang. Tracy is a faghag. In fact I was trying to get her to hook me up with half of her rolodex. Shaw thought Tracy was Pocohontas during the first three years of their middle school years. Poi knew I had a thing for Matt Damon a decade ago.

Jon’s fried combo came and it was just ordinary. Nothing terribly poor about it, but nothing of real note, except that the items were scorching hot when they came out. My fried fish taco – was just as good as my previous two. It was cod fried in this most delicious batter covered in the same white sauce as my mahi taco. I was seriously contemplating being Yuplet’s janitor if they could buy me lunch and dinner in lieu of any compensation.

Things turned mildly personal, Shaw mentioned to Tracy that bf #1 was “a good guy” and “thumbs down” for #2. Poi and Shaw then listed a laundry list about why #2 was bad. Tracy mentioned why #1 wouldn’t work – primarily him being gay. Who are these people? Why don’t I have these characters at work? I have made some amazing relationships at work, but my coworkers are never as emotionally invested in my dating as I was of Tracy’s.

Discussions about dating continued. Since beer and fried food was purchased, I thought I should do my part and order a slice of each dessert. There was key lime pie, chocolate brownie cake, and carrot cake. When the runner came with the desserts he also brought five plates and forks. What training – or commonsense! Does this place offer a deferred comp plan? Is there health insurance? Why are the runners more intelligent than the managers at restaurants on Michigan Avenue? Unfortunately, I became quite deflated with the dessert. The key lime pie, was more pie and less lime. In fact we did not get a taste of lime until you get near the crust. The carrot cake was rather ordinary, but I liked the chocolate cake. I noticed that the guys favored the other two items, but that Tracy and I preferred the chocolate cake. Quite fitting actually.

One thing I need to note, two days after, Jon told me that Tracy, Poi and Shaw felt quite terrible after the meal. I presume it was the ahi, or some sort of Midwestern disease I brought over.

In a scale of 1 to 4 with 4 being the best.
Quality: A solid 3, I really liked my food, but Jon’s fried combo and the desserts were meh. Of course if I got sick we would have a different score.
Service: 3.5. It would be higher, but not knowing if you have pitchers is ridiculous.
Atmosphere: 2 Warehouse redux.
Hotness of clientale: 2 Orange County families – no hot Housewives – or maybe there was.

The Best 5 Books I Read This Year

2010-02-08T17:58:00.000-08:00

5. Supreme Courtship by Christopher Buckley, what if the president chooses a "Judge Judy" to be a justice on the Supreme Court. The first 100 pages are a tour de force. Buckley is a wordsmith and he doesn't disappoint. Unfortunately, the book collapses in the end, and you get the feeling that he tries to muscle through the end with sentences littered with phrases like "dolorous excogitation."

4. Don't Sweat the Small Stuff by Richard Carlson: I avoided this book for a decade. Who really needs to read 100 bromides telling you to calm down? Then I read this, "The next time you find yourself at the lack of love in your life or at the lack of love in the world ... Forget about the world. Instead, look into your heart. Can you become a greater source of love." Things don't bother me as much now; and I couldn't say this a year ago.

3. God & Empire by John Dominic Crossan, he starts with a promising thesis, man is naturally nonviolent; therefore, empire is unnatural. Unfortunately, he doesn't thread the needle. Crossan discusses some interesting topics - for example how Cain (farmer) murders Abel (shepherd), then builds enoch, and is essentially unpunished by God. But that is the point, Crossan seems to reinforce that man is more like a farmer, rather than a shepherd.

2. New Moon by Stephenie Meyer: I am Jacob, sans rippling stomach muscles. As Jacob realizes he is going to lose the annoying high school girl he says "I swore I wasn’t going to get mad, no matter what you said to me. But… I just got so upset that I was going to lose you… that you couldn’t deal with what I am…." Dear Reader, we have all been there. I am also particularly partial to this book because it is all about property rights between vampires and werewolves.

1. Harry Potter and The Sorcerer's Stone, by J.K. Rowling: Ok, so I am 11 years late. This book is part of my project, and I am so happy because of it. A entire mythos, nay, cosmos has been created. The book is essentially an exercise of the 14th Amendment. What if a muggle wanted to go to Hogwarts? Why is the law different for half bloods?

Most Disappointing book: Superfreakonomics by Levitt and Dubner. All the good subjects were in Freakonomics, the sequel is about the authors' politics. Ok we get it, global warming is bad, so find a solution through economics.

Worst Book: The Lost Symbol by Dan Brown: Forget about how omnipotent characters make stupid decisions, such as, walking into a creepy house - alone! Here is an example of the prose found within this tome: "You know, I still haven't learned how to send a twitter." You know, I still never learned how to write.

This is Me

2010-02-04T10:02:00.000-08:00

Home Brew Coffee Co.
601 W. Arrow Highway
San Dimas, CA, 91741
(909) 394-1964

Ok, I am cheating. It is not Home Brew Coffee [Bar]. I even tried to look up the corporate entity on Westlaw and the Secretary of State. But I am going to count Home Brew in my 30 for several reasons. First, this project is getting really expensive, so reducing the amount of necessary visits by one is a plus. Second, I am rapidly approaching March 7th, so time is of the essence. Third, I was going to sit at the bar, but my brother was already sitting at a table. Fourth, there has been a lot of interest in what happened on that day. So I am going to treat it as one of my 30, I promise I won’t cheat again.

After Buca de Bepo (see http://30bars30days.blogspot.com/2010/01/italian-embassy-line-one.html), Helene kindly volunteered to drop me off at Home Brew where Jon was doing some intense studying on food sciences. I wanted to go back to parents’ house with my brother in tow. It was going to be an Asian Ragnarock.

Dear Reader, I need to back up a bit. In order to explain the material events of that night, I have to discuss several personal issues. First, in case if you happened to stumble onto this blog, I need to state that I am gay. Not Jack McFarland gay, but Sex and The City watching gay. I like shoes, I like clothes, and I really like chick-flicks. But being gay is not the defining element of my life. I was born to a Chinese family – and that fact has often shaped all the important variables of my life.

MOTHER’S FAMILY
In the 40s there was a minor spat between the world superpowers. China was under siege and my family was definitely hit hard. My maternal grandfather came from a family of business owners and land holders. I don’t really believe that they were part of the landed gentry of Gone with the Wind, but one’s place in China was determined by real estate. If you had land, you were privileged. My maternal grandparents didn’t meet at a Starbucks or through Match.com. Their relationship was the product of an arranged marriage.

I don’t know what the early years of my grandparents’ relationship resembled, but for the 21 years that I saw them together, I thought they were terribly in love. But “love” in the Asian context (especially old world Asian) is an unwieldy word. It is not like Nicholas Sparks, Notebook love, where the protagonists are always running towards each other in rain. It is much more quiet, harder to explain. I would always remember how the two of them would cook in their small kitchen. They could cook seven courses without speaking a word to each other. But it wasn’t because they spent half a century hating each other, it was because they knew each other so well. Without a sign, my grandmother would hand my grandfather a cleaver. He would chop cabbage in half and then return it back to her. It was an efficiency Sony hopes to achieve. Two people, could know each other so well that they could feed their family, without saying a word – not because they didn’t want to – but because they didn’t have to.

Now being a grandchild, one naturally casts his grandparents in the greatest light. They are good people, highly moral people. But they did one thing that might appear repugnant to western eyes, but perfectly reasonable for the times. Holding property is a dangerous class in times of war. They had to flee China, and it was a journey that I can’t fully comprehend. According to my mother, my grandfather saw his own father and siblings executed by decapitation. But it wasn’t WWII that forced them out, it was the communist revolution, and they had to make a difficult choice, “what if you can’t take all your children with you to another country?” They made the difficult choice of leaving their eldest son, and fled to Hong Kong.

I cannot make that choice – but I know my grandparents tried to atone. In the late 80s they did everything they could to bring their eldest and his rather large family to the states. But even after the arduous journey through immigration law, and having full citizenship bestowed to them, you get the feeling that wounds were never healed. My uncle looked at his younger siblings (born in Hong Kong) with contempt. On the other hand, the siblings – including my mother, first looked at him and his family with curiosity, then with Westernized superiority, and then finally with disdain. I know it was difficult for my grandmother to see this civil war between siblings – war after all separated them from the beginning. Admittedly, I even viewed the “others” as exactly that. They were foreign to me, they spoke in a dialect and cadence that I did not understand. It is only until writing this that I can get a glimpse of how they must have felt.

People who are familiar with Asian stereotypes or characteristics, will be able to easily identify my mother. She is the Crazy Type A mother who would look at my report card and ask why my A was not an A+. When she use to take a more involved approach to the restaurant it was quite terrible to work with her. Everything has to be perfect, place mats must be perfectly aligned to her desires, or she will go into a horrendous tear. In my description of my mother so far, I can admit, I am exactly like her.

FATHER’S FAMILY
My great grandfather was the last Nationalist Governor of Canton. When the communist were about to take over, he and his giant family fled to Taiwan. During World War II, my grandfather was studying at Stanford, and after the war he also moved to the fledgling colony. My father was born in Taiwan, and after a few years my Grandfather moved his family to Hong Kong.

Now I don’t know much about the early years of my paternal grandmother. I know she was from a Northern Chinese province. But I don’t know how they met. My great grandfather is not portrayed positively in the history books. My grandfather was often portrayed as a lackadaisical man whom dreamed too much. My grandmother was often viewed as a drunkard whom constantly said the wrong things at the most awkward moments. My father rarely talked about his family, and I used to think that he bore some sort of odd shame for them. But in later reflection, I don’t think that is the case. To me, I think he doesn’t talk about them, because he has no real involvement in the development of their lives. They were adults when he was born, their paths shaped before he was a gleam in their eyes. To him, I think he says to himself “I had no real involvement in what they became, so it is moot.” It is quite a clinical view, and often one that I adopt.

My father also has a sister whom he hates. He tells me that it is because she cheated him from a lot of money. I don’t dispute that - she also stole my grandparents’ Social Security checks. But I think his hatred is something more. My aunt always received my grandparents approval and attention, and I think there is a line of jealousy. But it is merely conjecture.

What I do know is that my father’s family disapproved of his marriage to my mother. They thought he was marrying below his class. My paternal grandfather went to Stanford after all; on the other hand, my maternal grandmother never learned how to read. But as bitter and mean as my father’s family could be, he stuck it out, he married my mother.

MY FAMILY
When I think of what really constitutes as my family, I of course have to include all the relevant parties above. But also of material importance are my cousins and my brother. I really have no paternal cousins per se (my aunt did have one daughter, and I think she is in Hong Kong), my paternal grandfather had a second wife in Canada and I do not know of their status, so all the cousins I will be talking about are from my mother’s side.

Bryant is my youngest cousin. He is also the one that I know the least about. I know he goes to Mt. San Antonio. He works at Panda Express. He is pretty good at videogames (but not Halo). Between all of us, Bryant is definitely the quietest one, but he is also pretty damn observant (a trait I think all five of us share). I know he was a member of a very Evangelical sect – but he doesn’t seem to hew to any religious ideology at all. He just strikes me as a guy who will be able to look back in his 20s and say that he had a more well-rounded time than I ever did.

Darren is next in age. Not going to lie, he was my favorite cousin. The first bar he went to was a gay one. His first drink, Pauline bought. He went into Gucci and YSL more times with me than a GQ Editor does in his career. He was my protégé, my chum, my pal. He went to UCLA and in his first year I remembered having a discussion with him about gay marriage. He seemed rather left of the middle on the issue. He rattled off the talking points; I was happy. But then something happened, it might have been an epiphany on his part, or just a gut feeling – regardless he voted for Prop. 8. All that has been said on the issue has already been noted. But the vote still stings, the wound is still raw.

Jason is Darren’s older brother. He was the black sheep of the child. Jason is not dumb, or lazy, or born lame. He was disfavored because he resembles his father, who in turn, was not viewed favorably by my mother’s family. College wasn’t for Jason, he worked at Panda Express instead. I just found out that he now trains managers, a feat that I find astounding. He also comes across as the most gay-positive of my cousins; even admitting that he and his friends often go to gay bars because they are the only ones who play Lady Gaga in the desert. I will say this about Darren and Jason, I think that they are more socially approachable than my brother or myself. Jon is really good in social settings too, but Darren and Jason often appears to have a populist approachability that we will never have.

Then there is Jon my brother. I often write about him, but the one thing that I learned recently about him is that he is much more emotionally nuanced than I am. One time we were talking about “Fat-Kid Syndrome” and how he believes that all people who were fat kids had it; for example, himself. I was a bit amused and I rapidly proclaimed I don’t have it. This incident coupled with several other situations (one fight in particular) made me realize that I am often the clinical one between the two of us. But that being said, I also have a much shorter fuse. I have very little patience for the ignorant. I am more like Mom, and I think he is more like Dad.

WHAT THIS MEANS
Dear Reader, I have essentially reduced my lineage into three pages. Everyone has a subjectively torrid history. I don’t really. I was raised in a white, middleclass suburb of Los Angeles. But that is not to say I had a normal childhood. I didn’t swim or play sports. Videogames was my football, the shuffling of Magic cards was my activity. Needless to say, this sedentary lifestyle made me a fat kid; I was fine with it. I took it with aplomb, a confidence that I knew who I was – even if I did finish twelve cans of coke a day.

You may argue that being a fat kid is relatively normal – Michael Pollan did not start writing after all. But my curious nature was how I carried myself – I was a stoic, elitist because I was bred to be. I was also subjected to history and politics early in my life. When he stayed with my parents for the summer, my grandfather would teach me about the atrocities of the Kuomintang (ironically), and the politics of triangulation (4 years before Clinton’s win in 92). My parents never taught me how to swim, or ride a bike, but my Dad would always be willing to take me to Barnes and Nobles to spend a king’s ransom on books like The History of Hell, Barbarians at the Gate, Ulysses, and Atlas Shrugged. Sure, I had no idea what those books were talking about. What is this rapture in Thessalonians? Why does John Galt keep speaking? Ulysses – what the fuck? I often wonder if my parents thought if I was some Yuppie-Satanist, or maybe they didn’t even know what I was reading.

Regardless, I was the golden child – I was the Straight-A-kid (with the exception of math – an Asian chromosome that must have hybridized during ESL), who made them look good. I hewed to the typical Asian conservative taglines. “Why increase minimum wage when it will lead to a distortion in the markets?” or “Universal healthcare, my grandparents fled from genocide and they didn’t complain when they heard a cough on their boat.” Everyone else could be children – not me. I was the mature one, the one privy to all the family politics and secrets. As confidante of the forbidden truths, I learned at an early age to leverage information to get what I wanted. People allowed me to do whatever I wanted. I could do no wrong. Sure my cousins and my brother had the social skills and lived the relatively normal childhoods, but I also knew that I could pick on them and win any argument. I was the unholy result of two very political families.

HOME BREW
Helene and I entered a very simple order: large non-fat cappuccino, and a large green tea; two simple drinks. We sat down with Jon and talked about the company that he is working at. After some general discussion about the state of the economy and the difficulty in the housing market, the issue at hand was on the table. What should I say to my mother who just found out I am gay.

My mother found out in the most ridiculous way. Seven years ago when I came out to my father, he made me swear that I could not tell my mother because he was afraid she would get a stroke. We all thought she knew, that she was just in denial. This was entirely consistent with her actions too. Whenever one of her friends would bring up the obligatory Asian issue of marriage, she would change the discussion to mahjong or purses (a very gay issue that I know too much about). “Mother’s know,” … so we thought.

So I told Helene the story, about how my mother and I got into a fight because I did not want to have dinner with one of her friends. It was after all my vacation, and I did not take time off to each with all her friends individually. I was loquacious and heated. I just kept talking and became very thirsty. Where the hell is my cappuccino? We already talked about the Fed-Funds rate, internet start ups, and I was in the middle of briefing Helene on this very important day. It must have been 15 minutes. Why can’t I get caffeine! Jon noticed too and inquired about it. Helene looked over and said “Well she is cleaning dishes.” I stopped mid-sentence and approached the barista.

“Pardon me, but where is my order?”

She gasped in horror and dropped the plate into a sink. “I am so sorry, that was a nonfat cappuccino and ….”

“A large green tea. Thanks.”

I walked back to the table. Was this the girl that was hitting on Jon? If so, society should be more concerned with the heterosexuals than the queers. Without missing a beat, I continued with how after my fight with my mother, she called my father and asked “Is Eric gay.” He confirmed that I was and she responded with “If any of my friends ask me, I am moving to another state.”

The barista dropped a wax bag on our table. Oh dear god, she probably thought I ordered an oatmeal cookie instead of coffee. I was about to correct her, but as I looked up I noticed she was holding two drinks! Halleluiah! THERE IS CAFFEINE! I let out a shriek reminiscent of the ringwraiths. In less than 30 seconds I finished half of the cappuccino – and you know what – it was pretty damn good. It was served scalding, like eighth layer of hell hot. Screw the Defense of Marriage Act, the greatest legal injustice occurred when some plaintiff successfully sued some coffee store for serving scalding hot ambrosia. Coffee has never been the same ever since. Home Brew obviously doesn’t have legal counsel because I burnt my tongue – and what a joy it was. But temperature is not the only important variable in a delicious drink, the foam was done pretty damn well too. Often non-fat foam comes out in a chalky, insipid mess that resembles balsa wood. This foam was airy, and LO, it tasted like dairy. My hometown is doing something rather ridiculous, they are posting banners all around this stretch of highway called “Heroes of San Dimas.” Under each banner is a name of a person who is serving in the military. Now heroes are subjective, and I personally find the barista who served that damn cup of espresso to be a hero. Sure she is a retard who can’t handle one/only order in the restaurant, but I would gladly wait for that cappuccino again.

Alas, the cookie was a nightmare. Thank god I did not pay for it. In hindsight, Home Brew should have given me money to take it away. The cookie dough was still chewy but it tasted stale. What were suppose to be chocolate chips (but resembled something much worse) were absolutely terrible! The chocolate comprised of overly sweet little nuggets of brown. I was reaching for an insulin pump after taking a nibble. The restaurant was closing up, so maybe – just maybe the cookies might have been better when they were freshly baked and not sitting at a counter waiting to be given away. I personally don’t think any act of Chronos could have revived those little landmines.

As I lapsed in-and-out of hypoglycemia, I asked Jon and Helene for consultation, “What should I do with my mother?” “Nothing,” was the consensus. Jon pointed out that my parents don’t even speak to him about his romantic dalliances, so why would they even bring my lack of Craigslist connections. As we discussed the politics and implications of “Do Nothing,” I noticed a skeezy fellow around my age, silently eyeing the barista as he nursed his ice tea. As we walked to our cars, ready to implement the plan of apathy, my brother pointed out the skeezy fellow driving off in his beaten up station wagon. Jon pointed out how that would be suitor was trying to impress the barista with his “I am starting a business” shtick. Perhaps “Do Nothing” would have worked better for him than me.

Later that night, my father had a really long talk with us (I insisted that Jon sit in). Apparently my mother drove to San Diego and decided to stay there overnight. The issue of his friends, the thorn that has expensed all my vacation time, was brought up. How dare they be concerned about what their friends thought. I have a pretty advanced degree, I am upward mobile, I can outwrite any of their children, I helped out at the restaurant, I am a much better son to them than any of their friend’s spawn … I … I … I ...... I. All the arguments of the past came out, I am the Golden Child, I will not lose this one. But that is the point, I was the Golden Child, and I am gay. At my conception, those two points were headed into collision. I was the first son of the family, so I was bestowed with certain gifts – taught certain things – made privy to certain facts that Jon, Jason, Darren or Bryant were not aware of. But I like men, and that appeared to discount everything in my life. My life was fully expensed under the guise of “What if my friends ….” Jon brought up the fact that how does my orientation actually affect my personal characteristics. My father rapidly conceded that it did not, but he still defended his friends arguing that “Eric is in Chicago, and you will be elsewhere in the near future, all we have are our friends.” Jon and I argued that it was a backwards argument, that if they cared, they are not your friends.

“Dad, all I want from this is your defense. To say in the grand scheme of things I am a good son.”

His answer was ridiculous, “You know how I feel about you, I can’t go around defending you if they don’t bring the issue up.”

I didn’t need my father to join PFLAG, all I wanted from him was to say “I love you.” But he wouldn’t. Of course he wouldn’t, I come from two families where emotion is a lonely stepchild, where practicality runs the household.

My mother came back the next day. We did not discuss the issue. As I flew back into Chicago I called my dad to let him know I arrived safely. On the phone he said the one thing I never thought he would say, “I am always on your side. I love you son.” Maybe history does turn – I might be the first openly gay person in my family – but I am also the first one to graduate from college, first to be a Presbyterian, first to register as a Democrat, first to go to law school, and first to live in Chicago. I won’t leave my children in times of war. I won’t steal from my parents. I will always love my brother. I will stand up for myself. This is my journey. This is Me.

Italian Embassy - Line One.

2010-01-28T09:29:00.000-08:00

Buca di Beppo
505 Foothill Boulevard
Claremont, CA 91711-3402
(909) 399-3287

Chains are interesting things really. They have sterile atmospheres, the food is usually mediocre, and the service is usually palatable. It is easy to diagnose the problem, when a recipe or service parameters are reduced into a codex, you lose something. For example, you can locate several dark spots on my brain due to fits caused by watching a barista nervously thumb through a manual as he pours ice over my espresso.

But let’s face it, Chains become “Chains” because they originally start with some successful concept. “Chicken Fajita Burritos, served in a building that looks like a factory, how original!” [Chipotle]. “Unlimited fries… blasphemy!” [Red Robin]. “Sandwiches served in a deli with wallpaper comprised of pictures of New York back in the 30s and 40s. Amazing!” [Subway].

With Buca di Beppo, you have to think about the original store and what the venture capitalist saw.

[Curtain rises]
It is a dark stormy night in some desolate red state that George W. Bush will take by 30 pts. The stage is unlit.

A well dressed man enters onto the stage. He is wet from the rain, cursing under his breath.

Man: “Why did Goldman Sachs have to send me to [insert Hick state]. Fuck, this better jack up my Christmas bonus.”

The man fidgets a little. The audience hears a slow rumble that is suppose to reflect his hunger. The stage is lit, it is a shrine to tackiness. Random statutes, rosaries, pictures of the Pope, and Italian flags are strewn all about the stage. Instead of using a color wheel, the set designer used a drag-queen’s make-up drawer for inspiration. At the center of the set, is a table … covered in plaid-plastic.

Enters Waiter carrying a very large plate of pasta: “Hello Dear Sir, how may I help you?”

Man: “Well, I scuffed my Prada’s, would you by any chance have a shoe-monger in this God forsaken [stomach grumbles] …. What is that you are holding?”

Waiter: “Why this? Oh it is merely competent pasta bolognese.”

Man: “Why, I have never seen pasta served on a big plate. And look at this place, with the exception of a million households in the Midwest, I have never seen something so tacky. Sure it might be slightly offensive to Italians and members of other religions. Wait till the partners at Goldman hears about this!”
[Curtain Falls]
_______________________
Fast forward 15-20 years, my mini-high school reunion is set at Buca di Beppo. Nestled in a rather large booth, our party of five scrutinizes the menu. Oh, the possibilities are endless! Do I choose the “Spaghetti with Meat Sauce” or the “Spaghetti Marinara?”

Helene and I dissect the menu as if we were looking for the Bible Code, a sasquatch walks to our table. He does the obligatory “have you all been here … all the portions are large … blah blah ….” I inquire as to the beers that are offered. Sasquatch rattles off several talking points about Peroni and hefenweiser. Since it is Italian, why ruin the motif? I order a Peroni. Dan almost has a stroke in the waiter’s inability to pronounce hefenweiser. Five minutes later, Sasquatch returns and relays the message that “We are out of Peroni.” Dear Reader, if you question the existence of God, or your role in the general cosmos, do take heart that the Great Mover is at least humorous … how the fuck is an Italian restaurant – let alone a chain – out of Peroni? Resigned, I order a “Buca di Beppo Sangria.” Without a beat, Sasquatch asks if he can put in an order for appetizers. Dan orders “Brushetta.” Sasquatch says “Sure a large,” and walks away. Bewildered in the lack of choice, Dan looks at us, “A large it is.”

Now “Sasquatch” might be picturesque, but I really need to put brush to canvas. Think of an overweight male in his mid-late 30s. Unshaven, slightly taller than 5’8’’ with the posture of Fred Flintstone. Dear Reader, I posit a simple question, “What do waiters normally wear?” It is a simple question, you do not work at Buca de Beppo, the answer is obviously “white dress-shirt.” Sasquatch followed the norm per se; it was a white dress shirt. But alas, I will never be able to recreate the kaleidoscope. Sasquatch wore a very colorful undershirt. One that Dan and I actually spent a disproportionate amount of time attempting to decipher.

My “Buca di Beppo Sangria” arrives. And I really have no complaints. It is quite sweet. But I am a stickler with menu descriptions. To wit, it is described as “served over ice with orange slices and cherries.” I got no orange, and one cherry. Where the hell are my oranges? Now, I understand, I may look like a dick for being so inflexible. But if a corporate menu says orange slices and cherries, then I presume, a trainer and a instruction manual must have instructed the bartender “Step 5: Insert Orange Slices and Cherries (not cherry) into tacky goblet.”

Sasquatch brings the brushetta to the table. We look at it. There is an awkward silence. We stammer to our orders. But in between words like “salmon” and “marsala,” there is always a weird pause in our cadence; “what the fuck is on the table!” I googled “brushetta recipe” and the very first link brought me to the following recipe:

• 6 or 7 ripe plum tomatoes (about 1 1/2 lbs)
• 2 cloves garlic, minced
• 1 Tbsp extra virgin olive oil
• 1 teaspoon balsamic vinegar
• 6-8 fresh basil leaves, chopped.
• Salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste
• 1 baguette French bread or similar Italian bread
• 1/4 cup olive oil

Pretty standard, a lot of oil, garlic, tomatoes, basil. Here is Buca di Beppo’s brushetta:

• Insipid tomatoes – a lot.
• No garlic – because contrary to the menu, why stick with shtick
• Olive oil – make each serving resemble the torn hull of an oil tanker
• Two shreds of basil
• Bread – the same type that is given for free
• There is no free will, it is a large for everyone

The entries were just as inspiring. I can’t remember what John ordered, but Stacey and Dan ordered the “Chicken Marsala,” and the “Manicotti.” Helene and I ordered the “Pesto Salmon” and a large order of “Green Beans.” Stacey said she was perfectly happy with the chicken because it was her favorite dish when she used to work at the restaurant. But the other three entries are a bit more noteworthy.

Helene is one of my best friends. She was one of the first people I came out to. I was in her wedding party. Helene is one of the first people to know of any material developments in my life (see next entry). I rarely disagree with Helene. Here, there was a small split between us regarding the salmon. We both thought it was overcooked, but from tenor and tone, I actually felt that I had a more positive experience with the dish because of the pesto. Now for fair disclosure, I am ludicrously partial to pesto. Lately, I have been putting it on top of white rice for dinner. But this pesto I found to be quite interesting; it was served with entire cloves of roasted garlic. Now the garlic may have been an accident – maybe the line cook intended it for the brushetta – but it made it into the pesto, and it was really good. So delicious, that I was actually spooning it onto the complimentary bread; thus, making an appetizer better than the one ordered.

But if there was a split in opinion between the salmon entrée, I think Helene and I were quite united on the green beans. It was a salty wet mess. The beans were served in a reservoir of liquid that comprised of lemon juice, oil, and water. At the time I was thinking this was quite possibly the worst plate of beans I have ever placed into my maw, everyone in my high school turned out to be teachers. Stacey teaches our next learned generation and is now the head of an entire science department. John is a professor and teaches people how to argue and use logic. Several other compatriots also chose the noble profession of bestowing knowledge to others. If I could only teach the kitchen how to properly steam green beans.

But the night's low, was Dan and Stacey’s manicotti. There were four on the plate, and Dan had one. He artfully described it as “A cheese log.” Sasquatch came and cleared all the plates, and asked if Dan wanted to “wrap” the manicotti up. He just shook his head and waved the plate away (btw, this is the first time I met Dan – he seems like quite the diva – and I am quite a big fan). What really annoyed me, was that Sasquatch did not inquire to the lack of interest in the manicotti. To me, it appeared that it was routine to be returned untouched. In fact, that should go for the entire restaurant.

In a scale of 1 to 4 with 4 being the best.
Quality: 1.5. I had to give an extra point for the pesto.
Service: 1.
Atmosphere: 2.
Hotness of clientale: 1. My god, the Inland Empire really is the armpit of Southern California. Helene and I went to the Trader Joe’s across the parking lot, and even the gays are … if you are in your 30s stop wearing Abercrombie! An aside, Stacey did not look like she aged one bit, and John has the booming voice of a Senator.

What Time Is It?

2010-01-21T19:15:00.000-08:00

Good Time
19240 E. Colima Rd.
Rowland Heights, CA 91748
(626) 965-9303

January 19, 2010
It is quite fascinating to hear the exploits an underage person performs in order to get alcohol. They often range from: the juvenile – asking a person to buy alcohol in the Wal-Mart parking lot; to the laborious - a hallmate made me a fake I.D. to get into the shitty Nashville bars; and to the absurd - taking flight to another nation in order to imbibe ambrosia (Thanks Poi). But there is no need to be so creative, you can just go to Good Time in Rowland Heights.

January 16, 2010
2:30 A.M.
Dear God, where am I, why do I smell like a mixture cigarettes and fruit?

January 16, 2010
10:40 P.M.
We were watching Jersey Shore, and we were discussing the many ways of extricating ourselves from the possibility of playing poker with Uncle Eddie.

“So what are we going to do,” Jason nervously asked.

We discussed tipping cows, playing mahjong, playing Magic the Gathering, playing Call of Duty, ceremonial sacrifice; anything but playing poker with Eddie.

Jason was looking at me “I want to go out drinking with you, I want to be in your blog.”

“Really? You actually read it?” I asked in a surprised voice.

“Hell yea, I read them all. By the way, Darren is a bear.” We all laughed at the inside joke.

Puzzled I asked, “Bryant, how old are you? Isn’t it going to be a problem since you are 5?”

“It is ok, we could go to Good Time,” he answered.

They all nodded.

January 17, 2010
1:30 A.M.

“Eric it is your turn. A.”

I have no idea who said that. I was in a drunken stupor, and I was sitting next to Darren. As Jason indicates above, Darren is a bear; therefore, he is a comfortable warm pillow. I peel my eyelids open. “I am THINKING!” I go back to sleep.

January 16
10:55 P.M.

We walk into the successor of the Asian opium den; red walls, red booths, Asians eating really red things and wearing really red clothes. I thought I was in Hell’s waiting room.

The greeter was leading us and Jason sagaciously inquired to the “backroom.” At the word, my interest was piqued, but much to my surprise, it was in this blue room decked out in a frenzied nautical theme. There were signs taped to the wall saying “L.A. 30 miles west,” and “No swimming in shallow waters.” To add to the montage, there were several barrels a’la Donkey Kong attached to the wall. To capture the glory that is Good Time, close your eyes and imagine yourself as flotsam and jetson scattered amongst a wreck.

January 16
11:30 P.M.

“If you pour the Soju into the Hite it makes it sweet,” so says Darren in an authoritative manner.

I gag. When I hear “sweet” I think Snickers, not a combination of death, mud, and water.

January 16
11:07 P.M.

We are ordering. Jason tells the waitress that we want two Hites, and a Soju. Darren asks her what type of Soju cocktail she would recommend. Blank stares. Nothing. Silence. But it is always darkest before the dawn. Darren asks “What type of flavor would he (pointing to me) like?”

Without a beat, she says “PEACH.”

Everyone including the waitress laughs.

January 16
11:00 P. M.

“Ouch, what the fuck!” Darren screams in pain. He accidentally hits the barrel that he is sitting under – TWICE. For those who never met Darren, think of an Asian Shreck.

January 17, 2010
12:20 A.M.

Jon is explaining the rules to a drinking game. Somebody says the name to a videogame character. The next person needs to name a character using the last letter of the previous; for example “Rydia” comes after “Tauren Sledgemaster.”

January 17, 2010
12:33

It is my turn to pick a topic - "Books". I smoke the round in three.

January 16, 2010
11:55 P.M.

Some sort of Korean concoction hits our table. It is a combination of fish cake, ramen, and lots of red sauce. It needs salt. And people are smoking ….

I inquired, “Why are people smoking here?”

Jon points art Bryant “They obviously do not care about regulations.”

January 17, 2010
12:10 A.M.

Darren orders “Combo #2”. It comprises of two Hites, chicken wings, and Bulgogi.

January 16, 2010
11:40 P.M.

The waitress delivers the Peach Soju. It looks like a carafe of milk. Always the gentleman, Jason pours five shots. We each pick a glass up and make the obligatory “cheers”. With trepidation, I pour half of it into my gullet. As an automatic response I wince and shudder, but then a realization occurs - the peach Soju is quite tasty! Instinctively I finish the rest of the shot.

January 17, 2010
1:50 A.M.

Jon throws a Banana Republic bag into the back seat. “Hurl into this,” he instructs. I giggle like a little girl.

January 17, 2010
1:15 A.M.

The smell of chicken wings makes me want to throw up. Everyone grabs for one. You can hear the crackle of the skin, the slurping of the sauce, the smell of a mixture of fowl and saliva envelops the table.

I reach for the french fries that comes with the wings. They are fried pretty well. Unfortunately, I do not understand why they come to the table covered in ketchup.

January 17, 2010
12:15 A.M.

More Hite arrives. It dawns on me that the youngest one of us could probably out drink the rest of the room.

For those unfamiliar with Hite, it is one of the main beers in Korea. Kind of like Miller Lite, only much better. My cousins finish four super-sized bottles in an unsatiable thirst. I think to myself “Why are there barrels on the wall?”

January 17, 2010
12:55 A.M.

I spit it out. I wince at what would pass for beef in third world countries. Is that the face of Jesus on the meat? I ask Jon “What is this?”

Between bites Jason answers “Bulgogi.”

“Dear God, do they not have salt?”

January 17, 2010
2:35 A.M.

I am staring into a toilet. It is filled to the brim with green vomit. I have no idea why it is green. All I know is that I smell like peach.

Out of a score of 1-5 with 5 being the best.
Quality - N/A I was asleep when Jason and Darren paid
Service - 3.5 Surprisingly good for a Korean Bar
Atmosphere - 2. Think of swimming in a disaster.
Hotness of clientale - 2. There were a bunch of teenagers, and FOBs.

Teleology

2010-01-12T12:51:00.000-08:00

Halsted's Bar & Grill
3441 N. Halsted St.
Chicago, IL 60657
773-348-9696

Dear Reader, the most exciting thing about New Years Day is “potential.” The possibility that the next year will be better, that TARP will be relegated to the footnotes of history, that 10% unemployment will be merely a question in Trivia Pursuit. We all look to 2010 for new possibilities, for the potential that things will be better.

Possibilities and potential, it is why some of us are cryptozoologists seeking Nessie, why some of us want to have kids, and why some of us seek a deeper relationship with a higher power. We want to leave a mark, we want; nay, we have to believe that there is something larger than us, and that we can be part of it. 2010 – things will be better. New Year’s celebration at Halsted’s is supposed to begin my new course of possibilities - and it is why this entry is so late.

I was really fortunate to be accompanied by such a distinguished but motley gaggle of gays. There is “Edward” who is a doctor, and who makes it clear to everyone that he is one. I know this makes him sound like an ass, but he is actually quite cute about it, and he is not stuck up about his achievements. But woe to the person who mentions that he may have burped earlier in the day. While speaking in a language that would be a hybrid of Aramaic, Latin, Mandarin and Extraterrestrial, Edward will go through a comprehensive diagnosis of the gaseous emission. He also has a boyfriend “Emmett”. Where Edward may be a bit ostentatious in his learned ways, Emmett is the complete opposite. In fact, the two are quite the yin-and-yang; physically and in the manner in which they communicate. But it works out, they make an excellent couple. If possibility is the central theme, then they are the archetype of how people should approach their relationships – what is actually possible. Emmett’s best friend, “Carlisle” also joined us. He is the CTO of a firm in the loop, and he has the ability to track if people are watching porn on their Iphone’s. He is arguably the most powerful man in the loop.

Emmett is a consummate planner, and he made reservations far in advance. As he approached the greeter to ask about our table, I started to wonder, why did we need reservations? The place was not empty, but it hardly resembled a restaurant preparing for New Year’s revelry. It looked more like a normal Thursday evening.

Halsted’s is actually a pretty well designed bar. The interior is divided into three sections. The dining room is essentially divided into two vertical sections. The one gripe I have with place is that the dividing area between the rooms acts as a waiter station; consequently, when it gets really busy, there should be a significant amount of burdensome foot traffic in the area. As you walk back into the longer section there is a bar that sits 14 people. Facing the bar are several high tables and stools. And behind the bar is a relatively sexy open patio.
As we nestled into a rather comfortable booth and weaned ourselves of several layers of clothing, I could not help but make fun of Edward’s Abercrombie & Fitch clothing (if you did not recently pledge into a fraternity please move up). Hearing a quick quip, the waiter “Enrique” instinctively introduced the pre-fix menu to us. Twenty-five dollars! Hot damn, that was five dollars less than what I expected. 2010 is going to be better! We ordered drinks, I ordered an “Organic Winter Wheat.” Well drinks came in a rather expedient manner, but Enrique kept coming by to inquire “If we were ready.” As stated in other entries, I hate it when a server asks about my readiness. Edward may be able to diagnosis you for fibromyalgia, and I may be ready to order, but dear budding waiters, preface your question in a different manner; for example, “How may I help you tonight?” After shooing him off numerous times, I entered an order for tator-tots. After what seemed like a languorous wait, we ultimately bit the bullet. We ordered the rest of our meal. In attempt of saving the waiter from my proverbial wrath, Emmett and Carlisle brilliantly counseled Enrique to pace the meal accordingly - we were going to ring in the New Year after all.

I started to consume my Organic Winter Wheat. Dear Reader, if this is how organic tastes, than I prefer pesticides please. Not since the opening Act of Macbeth has a brew portended such dreadful things. It was insipid, if there was a liquid to make our children alcoholics it would be this beer; people would be unable to distinguish it from water. By the time I was finally able to finish my organic bromide, everyone else was already well into their second round.

The tator-tots finally arrived and talk about lost possibilities. Don’t get me wrong, they were delicious. But I am getting a bit tired with well-fried potatoes. There is nothing that really separates tator-tots in a bar from the ones that I overly indulged in when I was in elementary school. Sure the ones at Halsted’s are salted well, and fried in a superior manner, but they are essentially the same thing – except $3.50 more expensive. A restaurant has a right to charge a premium, but it should not have the freedom in being lazy.

The appetizers to our pre fix came out. Edward ordered a shrimp cocktail, and Emmett and Carlise both ordered salads (I can’t remember what type). I ordered the “Lemon-Garlic Marinated Chicken Tenders”. Marinated my ass. A sprinkle of Mrs. Dash does not make a marinade. But here is the thing, the “spicy Caribbean mango sauce” that came on the side was a revelation. It was sweet, spicy, tangy, and salty all at once. It was so layered that I was actually looking for porcinis to determine if there was umami. I dipped everything into that sauce, including random shreds of lettuce. Even the vapid chicken tenders took a bath (which actually made them quite delicious). If there was a magic elixir, it was found in that ramekin.

In between courses we ordered a fourth round of drinks (this would be my second). I ordered the Bar Harbor Bluebeer – imported from the far flung reaches of Maine. If there was a trade deficit between the states, Illinois was ripped off. The fucking bottle was undrinkable. If the Organic Winter was the possibility of beer turning into water, the Bluebeer was the possibility of beer turning into urea. I was repulsed. For twenty minutes I nursed that fucker. Even Enrique noticed. What galled me was that he did not make the offer of taking it away to some incinerator. I was going to make a request, but Carlise and Emmett were a bit too smitten with our waiter. Oh the advantages of being born with cheekbones that could cut a steak. I was so disgusted with the Bluebeer I begged Edward to take it off my hands. He didn’t really resist because he already finished his fourth or fifth drink.

Our entries came out, and three of us ordered the orange-glazed salmon. Emmett ordered the tenderloin (or chicken). Similar to the mango sauce in the appetizer, the orange glaze was delicious. If there is anything that Halsted’s does well, it is sauces. Unfortunately, the sous-chef should have been in charge of the protein. Three identical pieces of salmon, all identical in size, shape and cut were all cooked differently. I noticed that Edward and Carlise’s appeared to be seared to an unctuous medium-rare. Mine was overcooked. Now I know there is an amount of selective bias, I actually prefer fish to be cooked rare, and admittedly I should have told Enrique this, but holding all things equal, mine should not have been so poorly done. Carlise even mentioned that the entre was worth $25 by itself. Oh the possibilities! But besides the glaze, I will stipulate, the sides were pretty damn good. I had “Lorraine Potatoes” a name that requires the combined powers of Wikipedia and Edward’s gourmand knowledge to explain. The potatoes are merely pan fried with onions, and rosemary - in a lot of oil. They were absolutely delicious, which once again makes me believe that the sous-chef is more talented than the executive one. (I understand that Sauciers are actually quite important and esteemed in the restaurant industry but I don’t think Halsted’s would have one; moreover, there is the possibility that the executive chef was in charge of potatoes, sauce and protein, but even if that is the case, his strength is in sauce and not the flesh of dead animals).

The last course was desert, I ordered the rather pedestrian sounding “Brownie Sundae”. Well guess what, of all the courses this was the best. The brownie was light, and sweet, but not so sweet it would make me a diabetic. Even the ice-cream, which really had no trace of vanilla acted as the perfect foil to the brownie. The one course that I thought would end in absolute disaster, actually turned out the best. Who knew that Halsted’s would be proving grounds for would-be pastry chefs.

After desert we did a shot of something that involved the word “sex”. As my table was in a drunken mess, and I could only make out the words “Snuggie,” “cancer,” and “bathhouse,” I noticed that there was only one other table in the room! Enrique gathered us to toast the New Year in the bar and I got awfully depressed. Is this it? Is this the celebration? Edward and Emmett at least have each other. Carlisle has the secrets of his co-workers. Would I be toasting the New Year by myself, the possibility of no kiss – for the 29th year in a row? But I started to think, I didn’t know these guys a year ago. Edward can drone on obnoxiously about the maladies of Vitamin E deficiency, but his palate rivals mine, his opinion one I oft defer to. Emmett is the worldly one, the humorous but relatively subdued Blanche Devereaux to our group. And Carlisle, well I only had the opportunity to hang out with him three times, but he had the testicular fortitude to tell me that my New Year’s resolution “Was stupid.” I respect him for that.

I think about my gaggle of gays, and it is not about possibility or potential. These are good guys – nothing to hope for, nothing to discover. 2009 wasn’t really that bad - I did meet them after all.

In a scale of 1-4 with 4 being the best:

Quality: 2.5. When done well it was pretty damn good. When poor, it was still serviceable; except my piece of salmon.

Service: Emmett and Carlise would give a 4. I think Edward would give a gentleman's 3. I give a 1.5.

Atmosphere: It is a good looking bar. I prefer it to the ones across the street – but the bathrooms are terrible and designed for hobbits.

Hotness of Clientale: It is hard to tell, but my group of vampires are pretty crazy hot.

Grill Works - Suck My Balls

2010-01-08T13:22:00.000-08:00

Grill Works Restaurant & Bar
350 McHenry Rd
Buffalo Grove, IL 60089
(847) 821-9000

Dear Reader have you ever been to a restaurant where the food is so bad, you just want to call the Health Department to close it down? If you have never done so, but you really want to take it out on some restaurant, do me a favor and call (847) 377-8000 and complain about Grill Works.

Grill Works is a restaurant that shares a complex with a bowling center, “lazer” tag arena, and a batting cage (coming in Spring 2010 exclamation point); hence, I was not expecting Tru. I was not expecting fries cooked in duck fat. I was not expecting scallops cooked in truffle oil. But really, a competent vegetarian sandwich … is that too hard to ask?

As we walked in, I did my trademark gay gasp. The restaurant was fucking huge. I counted 26 tables, each of which sat at a minimum six people. Adjacent to the dining room was a bar which sat at least 30 more people. Now we did come in early, it was only 5:00, but the place was completely empty. As we stood around to be seated, it actually took 5 mins for a waiter to seat us.

I was already developing pangs of trepidation because the waiter/greeter was also the bartender. I have often experienced that when a single individual is the jack-of-all-trades in off hours it often results in a terrible restaurant experience for one or more reasons: 1. The quality of the restaurant is such that it does not necessitate a visit on off hours to avoid a wait, 2. Being so hassled with taking orders, phone calls, and making drinks, the ombudsman will be unable to adequately refill my water and provide me with extra napkins, 3. The waiter is actually a retard; hence, he works such a shift, 4. It will actually take the kitchen an hour to give me an order of french fries because nobody, but a single line cook is working in the kitchen; 5. The waiter will provide minimal service because he will not get a cut in the tips when there is a transition between shifts. Dear Reader, in this case, facts 1-5 actually applied.

As we meandered to a booth, I ejaculated “What in gay hell.” Instead of a rose, or candle, or menu with bar drinks, there sat a bowling pin with crayons. I felt like I was going to dine with Pinhead of the Hellraiser series. As I scanned the empty restaurant I was beginning to develop epilepsy. What third-world community college graduate designed this god-forsaken place? Each table was covered in red linen, that was in turn covered with butcher paper; hence, making each table resemble a Knight Templar.

But the schizophrenia did not end with the tables. The menu was equally inexplicable. The first two leafs were standard fare: pizza, sandwiches, and burgers. Pages three and four was a cross between a barbeque pit, Chinese buffet, and a steakhouse. To wit, I quote: “GRILLWORKS SIGNATURE RIBS. House Specialty – Mouth Water Baby Back Ribs that melt in your mouth. Slow roasted and grilled to perfection.” As I type this description, I develop minor strokes. One – what signature? Who the Hell knows about Grillworks, let alone connects the place with ribs? When I hear of Grillworks I personally think of batting cages coming in Spring 2010. Moreover, I took a peek into the kitchen – they don’t have a fucking GRILL. So don’t call the restaurant GRILLworks, and don’t say the ribs have been grilled to perfection! They may have been parcooked off premises, but be honest and say slathered in tangy sauce or something.

Jennifer and Clinton both ordered hamburgers, I ordered a vegetarian Panini, and Candice ordered a chicken sandwich with spinach artichoke spread (she asked to substitute fries for chips). Fearing that we would not hit a $40 minimum (I bought a Restaurant.com coupon) we also ordered an appetizer sampler. Well it took 30 mins for the appetizer sampler to come out. Now I was mildly vexed about this because the plate was a menagerie of fried foods: cheese sticks, onion rings, buffalo wings, (2) chicken strips, and potato skins. We were the only table, and there was more than one fryer in the kitchen, so how it could take half-an-hour for the trans-fat goodness was mind boggling.

But I am not adverse in waiting for good food. Dear Reader, this was not worth the temporal investment. The appetizer sampler was various hues of yellow on a plate. An aside, I was also really pissed off that I had to ask the waiter/bartender/host/bond-trader for plates when he carried the appetizer sampler in one hand! The chicken strips were emblematic of the lack of thought behind everything. The sampler was meant to be shared between four individuals: 4 skins, 4 cheese-sticks etc. I don’t understand why there were two chicken fingers. Sure the marginal cost for fingers is higher than wings, but the appetizer sampler was $13.99. In fact, I would imagine the main variable cost for the entire plate was yellow food coloring.

Five napkins after, our entrees came out. The first thing that really made me gag was the smell of the hamburgers. It was this weird beefy smell. Now Jennifer and Candice later commented that they thought it smelled good, and that a hamburger should smell that way. I respectfully dissent, while I tend to trend towards vegetarian options (unless it is for purposes of this blog), I know my hamburgers, and I thought they smelled like the violation of various Biblical laws. But the most offensive thing was Candice’s chicken sandwich with artichoke and parmesan spread. Now I am partial to white sauce, but this was pale on top of pale. I was so appalled that I actually inquired to what she ordered (I thought it was tuna-salad). Well we ate and Clinton and Jennifer actually stated that their hamburgers were “good”. I think they were trying to make me feel better. My sandwich was alright, quite salty, but it was a mess. In between the baguette were fresh mozzarella, “grilled” peppers, onions, and eggplant. One problem with my entrée was that the cook did not properly extract the water from the eggplant (which needs to be salted for 30 mins before cooking), but that was minor compared to the overcooked peppers. I am not sure how, but the peppers were cooked in such a manner where they lost all texture and color; thus, resembling the fingers of a decaying corpse. To top things off, Candice had to flag the waiter down and tell him that she ordered fries in substitute of the chips. Now to his credit, he got them out rather quickly (I presume the fryer works quicker for fries then cheese sticks), but how the hell can you mess up the only order in the restaurant?

The cherry, the capstone, the pinnacle of this gourmet extravaganza was the check. I was charged $7.99 for each burger, but as we walked out we noticed a window that held burger and fries $1.99. Clinton was the victim of such pernicious arbitrage as well. His 12 oz Sam Adams cost him $5.99 (!). The bowling alley was charging $3.50 for a domestic pitcher. Noting that Sam Adams is not really a “domestic,” Clinton noted he would have bought one! Oh, how hindsight brings so many possibilities.

In a scale of 1-4 with 4 being the best.
Quality: 0. I used a coupon, and I still had to get cash-back at Target.
Service: 1. One table, one fucking table and I have to flag you down as if I was in a
Chinese restaurant!
Atmosphere: 2. Chuck E. Cheese for adults.
Hotness of Clientale: 0. One guy came in, Candice thought he was a thug. Another guy came in, I initially thought he was the source of the hamburger stench.

Free Drinks, Onion Rings, and Bears, Oh My!

2010-01-07T13:40:00.001-08:00

Big Chicks

5024 North Sheridan Road
Chicago, IL 60640-3118
(773) 728-5511

Big Chicks was my haunt back in the days of yore when I was an intern at Lambda Legal. I was introduced to the sordid bar by the Outreach Coordinator, Catina Lowrey, who ultimately became one of my best friends. A many nights we closed that bar: we talked about Earl Warren, we drank over Roe v. Wade, we cried about boys (when about me), we cried about girls (when about Catina). Big Chicks was our little haven. It was my alcoholic uterus.

We haven’t gone to Big Chicks in awhile. Catina left Lambda and is now getting her masters in something that deals with (1) management, (2) public policy, and (3) non-profits. Whenever she talks about (2) and (3), my eyes glaze over. She spends all her time harvesting tomatoes and lichens in her pursuit of making the world a better place.

After Lambda, my path was different. I could have been an attorney for orphans and widows. I could have been, but I sold out. When I hear “good public policy” I immediately think of “weighted average cost of capital.” Whereas rake and sweat come with her vocation, mine is coupled with gin and tonic. Christmas was around the corner, and I had to call Catina. It is not her fault she chose such a lofty life decision. She was still my best friend, and it was my turn to treat.

I picked her up at 8:00 and the conversation between the two of just continued to flow. It is hard to describe Catina. Think of Whoppi Goldberg, as a Blacker, man-hating lesbian, and you get Catina. She hates straight men. One time we were walking around Wrigglyville, and she almost tackled three overweight Cubs fans. I was afraid she would kill them. She is a badass. The type of woman that I normally surround myself with. But here is the one thing about her, as much of a militant lesbian she is, the gays love her. She is not a diva like some of my friends. She is not a faghag like Paulene. She hates the penis. The concept makes her violently noxious. She refuses to take any “[his]tory” courses because of its root; hence, why Big Chicks is Catina’s Bar. This picture of Catina is quite important. I parked along Sheridan, and we had to walk a block to Big Chicks. On that short walk, I thought I was walking with the mayor of Chicago. Everyone stopped to talk to Catina. And it wasn’t just the gays - the homeless, the needy, the well-dressed, everyone stopped by. It was like walking with the Black Statute of

Liberty carrying a placard that read "Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses.”

For those who normally think of gay bars, one would likely have the image of a flashy, well manicured locale found in a gentrified neighborhood. Many of those do exist in Chicago. I tend to shy away from those. I may like Gucci loafers, but I want sticky floors when I drinking. In some way, Big Chicks scratches that itch. The bar is located directly across from some building meant to serve as residences for crazy people. I am not talking Arkham Asylum crazy, but more like the lunacy that runs in Asian mothers. To add to the motif, Big Chicks is flanked by some rather questionable establishments. Nothing all that pernicious because it is located in Uptown, and a certain amount of gentrification has occurred, but it is not a place where I would want my mother to see in her first visit to Chicago.[1]

It was fucking cold, and I walked ahead and into the bar. I was stunned. What the Hell happened to Big Chicks. It should have been called “Bears Den.” For the ones who are unfamiliar with the term “Bear” just think of “Smokey the Bear” or “Winnie the Poo” in gay form. Typically, Asians are not bears and I already tend to standout in crowds due to my vampiric pallor. I stood out even more at Big Chicks.

The bar is your typical long U-shaped table. I believe that there are more than 20 stools at the bar. Along the periphery are several hightables that can comfortably seat three. There are two other rooms. The back room has a pool table and two tall banquettes. It is narrow, and I hate elbowing through it when I go the bathrooms. The other room is adjacent to the bar. It serves as a dancefloor on some nights, a dining room on others, and a room where euchre is played on Mondays (which btw is the best Burger-Buck Nite in Chicago). Ironically, you have to walk through the dancefloor and to some desk in order to make any food orders.

As I essentially robbed a seat from some hairy fellow, I parsed through the menu. $12 for a Cobb Salad, $5 for onion rings, $7 for the California Burger, $5 for cake. Big Chicks is an all cash bar, and I started to think, “shit is $60 enough?” As Catina walked passed the adoration of a many bears, the mental calculus was forming, “Lesbians can drink, I will need to sell plasma.” As she stood next to me she nodded to the bartender, instinctively, another bear got up and yielded his seat to her. She was the like some ambassador, some emissary from Home Depot. Andy the bartender immediately got her a Peroni.

“When was the last time you came in?” I asked.

“Four days ago. Man we need to find a new place, I am so over this place.” She answered in a gruff manner.

Pondering how graduate students in non-profit studies could visit a bar so often I chimed in “What is with all the bears?”

She was already finished with half of her Peroni, “Boy! Are you going to drink or not? It is always bear night in this mother fucker. Andy, can my friend get a drink?”

“I would like a Peroni, and I presume she would too.” I was starving, “Hey, what do you want to eat?”

Catina was already chatting with a throng of bears. I started to have images of a witch in the woods surrounded by an army of bear-bodyguards.

“Bitch, what the fuck do you want to eat?”

A big black bear whom I shall refer to as “Smoky” stirred and jumped right between Catina and me, “Who the fuck are you calling a bitch you fag.”

Catina came to my rescue, “Smoky, leave him alone, the Asian is with me. I already ate babe.”

I walked past leagues of bears. Some were harrier than others. Some were heavier. Some were older. I wonder if there is a Gay Goldilocks for bears. As I ambled over to the ordering desk, I felt that all their eyes were on me. I was afraid of being mauled – the mini eggroll in their jaws.

I ordered the California Burger and a large basket of onion rings. The journey took me a scant three minutes. It is interesting how time flies when you are being assaulted while forging for provisions. As I returned back to our seat I noticed that there were three new Peronis sitting in front of me.

I tapped Catina on the shoulder, “Hey didn’t we order … what the hell woman! Are you drinking your second one? How many Peroni’s did we order,” I screeched. I was going to blow my proverbial wad before taking a sip. “How much do we owe the bar?”

Catina gave me a puzzled queer look, “We don’t, they bought it for us,” gesturing to her Ursidae friends.

I looked at them and said, “Oh thanks. I don’t really think Catina is a bitch. In fact I am more her bitch, we went to Detroit together.…” as I yammered on, I realized I made absolutely no sense. The bears were just smiling at me as if I belonged across the street. In retrospect, I have no idea why the synapses connected bears with Detroit, but they did.

Thawing to the situation, we started to talk about Lambda and transgender issues. I am not particularly knowledgeable with the legal landscape regarding the trans-population, but let me tell you, Smoky knew a lot about it. He was throwing words like “sex discrimination,” “gender stereotype,” “hostile,” and “Medicaid” into every sentence.

Finally I had to stop him “I am sorry, but how do you know so much about trans-issues.”

“Oh, I do drag.”

I almost threw up.

Serendipitously the food arrived. I offered my onion rings and french fries (which came with the burger) to Catina and my newly minted and knowledgeable friends. Catina took a handful of onion rings but the bears passed. So I thought to myself, “Good, more for me.” Well Dear Reader, as I bit into the onion ring I almost fell off my stool. No it wasn’t because an animal attacked me. It was fucking good. I rarely rave about anything, but these onion rings are quite raveable. So raveable that I would take off my shirt and The Big Chick can shower me in LSD. Each bite took me to the Age of Aquarius. I didn’t care about the french fries, and the burger did not hold my attention, I didn’t even care about the illegal activities occurring at the table next to me. I wanted more onion rings. I wanted them bad. It is impossible to do them justice. But each ring was a fat layer from a normal brown onion. Now these are not small onion rings like the ones found in burger king. These things were brontosaurus like. I am not sure if onions could be given steroids, but these things were the Schwarzeneggers of vidalias. Because they are naturally sweet, I am particularly partial to onion rings made out of vidalias, and nothing invites my wrath more than an insipid onion ring. But even more important than the species of onion, is the batter in which the thing is covered in. If there was ice cream made out of this batter I would eat it. The batter was a beautiful amber. It was sweet, crisp, and it had some sort of note to it (I presume it was beer). Dear Reader, this is the best onion ring I ever had. If I could loot my Roth IRA, I would eat infinite amounts of onion rings here.

As I was engorging myself in the onion rings, I would occasionally take a bite out of the burger. According to the blackboard, the California Hamburger is served with avocado, lettuce and tomato. What makes the California Burger, California, vis-à-vis The Delaware Burger, or the Toronto Burger is probably … the avocado. This is quite ridiculous. Tomatoes are not grown in Illinois, but for some reason we do not call every pedestrian hamburger a Fresno Burger. The burger was serviceable, but one thing I took note was the generous amounts of avocado found in it. It was either: a) an entire avocado, or b) a very large one. I presume it is “B,” which then leads me to wonder who the hell provides Big Chicks its produce.

The fries were pretty good. They were normal brown potatoes, fried to a crispy texture. I am particularly partial to fries where the skin is left on. But I hate french fries cooked in a sweet batter. This batter was quite sweet. Not so sweet that it would make me hyperglycemic, but sweet enough that I had to cast it aside. But I didn’t care – the O Rings beckoned.

As I continued to gorge on the onion rings, it dawned on me that a few more of these and I would fit in quite well with the crowd. Would I be a panda? As I thought of a whimsical moniker, I chuckled “I could be called Ling-Ling.”

POP!

What the fuck? Did I get shot? It is Uptown! As I tried to look up from what must have been a glutinous stupor, Smokey commanded “DRINK!”

I reached for my Peroni. It was empty, I presumed that Catina finished it. But in its place was a shot of what could easily be mistaken as tar. “What the fuck is that,” I asked.

Catina was suspiciously eying the shot glass that she was clutching in her hand, “Jaeger.”

Oh my god.

Not since the black tar in the X-Files has a black liquid been so evil. We did the “Cheers” – the drink – the slamming of the glass. I almost wanted to gag, but I couldn’t lose the onion rings. They were becoming quite precious to me. The bears laughed and bid us adieu. Apparently there was some bear party elsewhere.

After finishing the burger and onion rings I was still peckish, and I inquired about dessert. Big Chicks is known for its red velvet cake and I meandered over to the ordering desk for it. They were out, and I was bellicose. I blame it all on genetics really. I am the type of Asian who cannot process alcohol; moreover, my parents are Cantonese. So if I get loud in a bar, it really is one, or the other. With disdain I ordered the chocolate cake, but I did tip $2 feeling guilty that I was such an ass. It really isn’t my fault – just chromosomes.

As I got back Catina was already making a new friend, “Robert.” He told us he was a licensed masseuse and that he charged $60 an hour when working on the side. I gasped, why the hell did I choose my profession? Catina was shocked too, she asked if sex was involved.

As we discussed the logistics and the sliding scale of pricing in the massage-world, the chocolate cake came. The cake was disgusting. It was chalky, and desiccated. The one notable thing about the cake was the icing. It was chocolate and buttery, but no amount of icing could save the dry floury mess. I wanted the red-velvet cake, and instead I got this disaster that was the culinary equivalent of Chernobyl. Sensing my anger, another bartender bought us a round of drinks. And it dawned on me, I have not paid for a single drink at this visit. In fact as the night continued, Robert and the bartenders picked us up four rounds. By the end of the night I was staggering and requesting water in a hybrid of Cantonese, Mandarin, and Latin.

As we treaded out of the bar, I asked Catina “How many drinks did we pay for.”

“None,” she answered.

“How is that possible?”

“Bears like Asians.”

“Is there MSG in honey?”

In a scale of 1-4 with 4 being the best.

Quality: 3.5. It would be a four, but for the chocolate cake.

Service: 4. I love the bartenders, especially Andy. An aside, there is a surly barback, he needs to eat a sandwich.

Atmosphere: 3. It is a dive, and I would actually rank it higher, but some crazy people do come in; for example, odd wheelchair guy.

Hotness of Clientale: 2.5 They bought me a bunch of drinks – but I am not into bears.

[1] For those in the know, I admit Argyle Street is located in Uptown and one can get a decent Pho there, but you don’t know my mother. Think about it. She spawned me.

Ten Best Things I Ate in 2009

2010-01-02T23:55:00.000-08:00

10. Onion rings at Big Chicks. OMG, Big Chicks sure has big o-rings. Juicy, crunchy, finger lickin' good ones at that.

9. Penang noodles at Joy's. Pan fried chow-fun noodles covered in Thai (coconut based) curry. Every fork is 500 calories. Every bite, an orgasm.

8. Seared pork belly with a pomegranate reduction at Riva's. I know it is at Navy Pier, and that many foodies gives this restaurant the proverbial finger, but Riva's has a special place in my heart. Eat the pork belly, and it will occupy your aorta too. Hormel has nothing on this; alas, it was wasted on worst date #10.

7. Three cup chicken at Lao Sze Cheun. With the fall of Shui Wah, there is only Lao Sze Cheun. And you have to order this! Sure the caramelized sauce (equal parts sesame oil, soy sauce, and rice wine) will send you into diabetic shock, but eat more. In fact order it to-go for the hospital staff.

6. Helene's blue berry crisp. Helene + Blue Berry + Brown Sugar = nuff' said

5. Curry beef stew at Tasty Choice. Sure it is my parent's restaurant, but it really is the best curry I ever had. In 10 days, I am freezing the stuff back to Chicago.

4. A pasta recipe I learned in my kitchen. Put sardines, olive oil, and basil in a pan. Cook together. Add angel hair pasta. Mix in parmesan reggiano. Top with toasted bread crumbs.

3. Cherry pie at Erwin. I would listen to Warrant for this.

2. A ragu that I made in February. The recipe called for 3 lbs of veal shanks, 12 oz, of spicy sausage, three 240z cans of tomatoes, carrots, onions, red wine .... I had it for two weeks and I try not to eat meat ever since. Totally worth it.

1. Happy hour with friends. Thanksgiving/Christmas/New Year's with Vlad, Dustin, Joshua, and ambiguously gay doctor. Dinner with my brother (you should get tickets). Dim sum with Asian drama.

Using Marginal Cost Curves in a Bathhouse to Combat STDs

2010-01-02T19:54:00.000-08:00

Using Marginal Cost Curves in a Bathhouse to Combat STDs (WARNING)

WARNING: if you have a problem with reading about gay culture and bathhouses, do not read this entry.

WARNING

Con Cuidado

Ok…

Here it is.

Since New Year’s Eve, I have been eating out and drinking in a ridiculous manner. Over the past 40 hours I have been to:

Halsteds,

Brew & View,

Leona’s,

Starbucks (three times),

Argo Tea,

Intelligentsia,

Joy’s Noodle,

Melrose Café, and

the new gelato place on Melrose and Broadway.

With the exception of Melrose Café, I was in a party of two or more, and I noticed that there was a central strand in all my social gatherings. Instead of talking about the New Year, or what we hope to achieve, the issue of “Steamworks” came up three times. For those not in the know, Steamworks is a “bathhouse” in Chicago. For those innocent of lascivious matters, a bathhouse is a complex where individuals go to have sex. In the context of Steamworks, it is a gay bathhouse. I now know why I have such few friends. In order to be popular I need to stop talking about Charles River Bridge v. Warren Bridge and write epistles about bathhouses.

As I stated, I had three conversations about Steamworks. In the first, a friend (“Jacob”) told me that he had to breakup with a “boyfriend” because the beau was HIV positive. Jacob mentioned that in hindsight it was not particularly surprising because he found out that the beau often met five or more men per visit.

The second discussion about Steamworks came out in passing when I asked “Emmett” about his frenemy “Jasper”. Emmett told me that even when Jasper was in a relationship, he still frequented Steamworks. In fact Jasper’s family was so appalled by his behavior, his mother actually went into the complex and asked the office to page his son.

The third discussion was with “Bella” whom told me that her brother was recently diagnosed with Hepatitis A. Both Bella and her brother believed that he contracted the disease from his many visits to Steamworks.

Now Dear Reader, I would like to dispel several notions that may be going through your head:

I. In none of these situations did I bring the issues of Steamworks or even sex (more the lack of) up;

II. My friends tend to be god-fearing types in stable relationships, and

III. I do not go to such places because I am

a. Spending all my money on food and drink;

b. Getting fat because of food and drink;

c. Have lost all interest in carnal desires and replaced it … with my love for quinoa and coffee.

That being said, the issue of condoms was brought up in discussions with Jacob and Bella. In both instances, they both confirmed that the infected party did not use a condom.

I am not a homosexual anthropologist, but I know that during the AIDS outbreak, gay culture went underground. Sexual norms included the use of condoms. But times change. With the acceptance of alternative lifestyles, people started to come out at an earlier age. Men having sex with each other was no longer taboo, it became a sort of amusement for the ladies of Sex & The City; a reoccurring chapter at the Oscars. Equally important are the good people at Gilead Sciences (Nasdaq: GILD) whom developed increasingly effective medication and treatments to combat various STDs including, HIV and Hepatitis A. As my friend, “Dr. Edward” said, “The life expectancy of a [HIV] positive individual is … 20 years. It is not the death penalty it once was.” This confluence of events led to the turning away of the bleak times of the AIDS outbreak, and to a new sense of carpe diem with gay men. We don’t have to worry about being safe because the STIGMA is not as sharp; the medication, not as invasive.

Now I do not know if Jacob’s boyfriend, or Bella’s brother engaged in such mental calculus, but between 2004-2008, the number of people newly infected with Hepatitis A, Syphilis, or Chlamydia rose (I could not determine HIV infection rates because the website breaks out its reporting by months and I got a bit lazy with my abacus). Inference does not lead to causation, but the inference is pretty strong. People increasingly do not use condoms, and they are getting infected. http://www.idph.state.il.us/health/statshome.htm

An alarmist would argue “Close the fucking place down.” In fact this was the argument that a date, a dean of a prestigious graduate school presented. If Chicago can present evidence that Steamworks leads to greater incidents of HIV, then the city should use its police powers to close it down. Now this is completely constitutionally valid. In fact, until the dawn of this new decade, I use to hew to this orthodoxy. But now, as mercurial as my beliefs have become, I think there should be bathhouses, but there should also be incentives for the use of condoms.

I am not going into the logistics of it, but I presume that when two people engage in carnal activity, they prefer not using a condom. This preference appears to transcend sexual orientations. For example, many of my female friends use birth control in the form of prescription drugs rather than having their male partners wrap it up. Now I know there are some benefits in using pills; for example, one friend states it makes her skin better – but holding all things equal, a condom would be much less invasive. Hence, everyone has some sort of marginal cost (MC) in using a condom; less enjoyable sex. But that cost naturally comes with a marginal benefit (MB), reducing possibility of contracting an STD.

What the city/county/state/Federal government should do is subsidize the use of condoms. Now I don’t mean just giving them out. In fact condoms are so cheap now these days, that cost is rarely a barrier ((the cost may still be a hindrance for lower income households (in such a case, subsidy should be provided) but I am speaking under the spectrum of a Bathhouse here)). What the government should do, is actually offer a credit for used condoms at Steamworks. What this would do is shift the MB curve of using a condom. Say if an individual gets $1.00 for a used condom, this will give him an incentive to use it (there may also be more people going into Steamworks because I guess under this program they could make money, or at the very least lower the cost of entering; hence, the larger number of people having sex). Less people get sick. We, as taxpayers who pay 1.45% into Medicare will benefit. Condoms may not be perfect, but we are better off if they are used, rather then sitting in CVS.

Waba

2009-12-29T12:18:00.000-08:00

Waba Korean Restaurant (and Karaoke Bar)
Neighborhood: Lincoln Square
5100 N Western Ave
Chicago, IL 60686

Spoiler Alert!
………………
I hated this place. If there is anything, anything you can take out of my rants it is this, do not under any circumstance go to Waba!
………………

I am going to get raped. Where the fuck are they and why this far west?

I was standing outside of Waba waiting for Candice and Jennifer. They were driving from the suburbs and were stuck in traffic. I didn’t want to go inside by myself. The building was a giant purple box. The doors opened to a small room which you had to open through in order to get inside. On a functional level, it made sense. Create another barrier for the wind and cold. But there is a major problem, if you are going to create some sort of tunnel into your bar, don’t have it lined with mirrors, making it look even sketchier!

So I had three alternatives, wait outside, wait in the Joker’s hideout, or wait in the restaurant – a Korean Karaoke bar by myself. Each had its pitfalls. Waiting in the mirrored tunnel of death made me nervous. If there were bullets, glass would shatter, and I would be fucked up. Waiting in the restaurant by myself – I am not a Tong. Plus I don't have long finger nails, and my hair is not in a qui. Waiting outside, I would still be shot, but it is cold, so maybe my blood would congeal as it oozes out. Sophie had an easier choice. I decided on waiting outside, at least I could keep an eye on my car.

Reaching for my phone, I thumbed nervously and clumsily for Jennifer's phone. I felt like a bovine with Mad-Cow. Scrolling through my directory, A - Adam, Alex, Amy, Annie (damn it)! With a swoosh of my finger I get to G - Gary, Gwendaline (who the fuck is that?). Forward to J --- Jennifer! I caledl, and after a tense 30 seconds somebody picks up. It is Candice. she tells me that they are on Milwaukee Avenue and heading south. I responded with a curt "There is plenty of parking."

Shit it is cold. I could have gone to law school in California. Why did I have to come to this tundra? The seafood is better. The coffee is superior. And the mos, the mos like Asians there. Well at least they have a karaoke bar here. there hasn't been a shooting yet, so it already beats the ones on Western & Sepulveda. God it is fucking cold. I bite the proverbial bullet. I go into the hall of mirrors and wait.

As I open the door, I hear a metal clang. Oh my god, I just triggered a metal trap! I look up expecting the ceiling to come down on me. Instead what caused the noise was some garish Asian windchime. It was a spinning Buddha. I look at my phone, and thought to myself, "Well at least pretend you are doing something." So I go on Yelp and decide to look up the entries of Waba An average of 3.5 stars. People complained about service, which is understandable because it is a Korean Bar. I know this is offensive and I will be reported to Blogspot, ACLU, St. Peter, but Korean & Service, do not really run parallel together. Sure there are the exceptions, but those tend to exist in tony areas. 5100 N. Western, is not one of those areas.

I see two shadows approach the door. My heart skips a beat. The mental calculus was running. Did I give my brother a Power of Attorney on Healthcare decisions? Would Warren take custody of the cats? Who gets my shoes? I am not ready to shed my mortal coil!

Instead of Asian hoodsters, a pretty buxom black girl, and an equally pretty white girl opens the door. I have never been so happy to see Candice and Jennifer. Of course I always fear that good things would be be taken away from me, so I never show much enthusiasm for the subject matter, "OMG, do you see where we are in."

Jennifer and Candice just laugh. They are always so cheery. I should be like them. Unflumoxed they walk through the second set of doors. Are they unaware of the den of death that we walking into?

Two Korean boys greet us in an interesting form of English. Candice looks at me as if I could translate. Sorry I am not a Rosetta stone. Jennifer politely tells them "three" and they tell us to go through ANOTHER hallway! We walk a good 60 feet into a huge empty room.

Mildly relieved that there are no drug deals occurring, "Wow it is hopping in here."

Candice laughs, "Yea it is pretty dead in here."

Out of nowhere the Korean greeters pop out and says "Anywhere you like?"

What the fuck? Was there a trapdoor? Jennifer walks to the booth at the end of the dining space. The booth is too far away from the table, which is one of my greatest peeves. If they are not all that busy at least move the tables closer to the seats. Of course, it would take the strength of Hercules to move one of these booths. It is hard to describe the booths. They are actually good looking. Tall, dark wood, heavy as hell. But the rest of the dining room almost gave me epilepsy. The walls were inlaid with garish metal. And while the booths were sexy as hell, there were eight tables in the middle of the room. Each one of them could seat six. The tables were rather generic, but the chairs looked like they were out of a Chinese restaurant in the 80s. The bar was worse, like many of the bars I have written about it is U-shaped but surrounded by 18 red-stools. These were not sexy red stools. Whenever I listen to Billy Joel's "Piano Man" I have visions of patrons sitting on these ugly, dated, ragged stools.

I sigh and we open the menus. They looked like a child's homework project. "Are these written in crayon?"

Candice laughs, but she has a furrowed brow. I notice her apprehension, the first two pages are in Korean. Smudged characters in florescent pink, blue, and yellow - but definitely Korean.

Being the sagacious one, Jennifer tells us that the next page is in English. Relieved, I hate asking non-native speakers to describe a dish. One of the two boys who greeted us brings over warm water and a dish with honey roasted peanuts and pretzels. I was thinking well if there are honey roasted peanuts, it can't be that bad. Candice inquires to the warm water. Jennifer gives a sociology lesson about ice being an American thing and we attempt to decipher the menu.

Dear Reader, I think I lost two lines of vision. First of all, I hate menus written in some sort of stylistic font. I hate handwritten ones even more. Sure sometimes it can be portrayed as quaint - but I am not one of those customers. But what I hate more then crayons, are inexplicable items. Can somebody please explain what the fuck "CHEESE EGGROLL" means? Or here is another item that probably requires an epistle "Lonely Tiger in Cage with Kimchee." I have a headache, I don't even want to look at the entries because my imagination has been working overload. I just suggest that we order a few appetizers.

We order the salt and pepper squid, Korean seafood pizza (I presume it was hamul-paijon), potstickers, and the "firecracker chicken." Hoping that it was literally an eggroll stuffed with brie, I asked about the "Cheese Eggroll".

The waiter whom I will affectionately name as Wai Lung said "It is like a cheese omelet."

"I don't understand is it wrapped in a wanton wrapper."

Wai Lung says "No cheese omelet."

"OH! Cheese egg - roll." Jennifer just looks at me as if I was retarded. "Well can we get more peanuts. Oh, and we need to order drinks!"

Candice orders a "Sex on the Beach." I order an "OB" and Jennifer order a Miller Lite. We chastise her for her choice, but she defended herself by stating it was an "appetizer." Five minutes later, the drinks come over. We could smell the alcohol in the "Sex on the Beach." I wanted to throw up. But that was not the most startling drink, what was mind boggling was the OB. For the uninitiated, OB is one of the dominant beers in Korea. Apparently these also come in supersize at Waba I immediately ask for three glasses, what the fuck? Did Wai really think I was going to drink straight out of three liters of beer?

Half an hour later, and still an empty room, the food comes out (sans squid). I immediately notice that they all have several similarities. They all came out in white dishes, and all the items are served with shredded cabbage covered in this thick pink mayo. I understand the pink mayo is ubiquitous in Korean and Japanese food. In fact many people are rather enamored with the concoction. I am rather ambivalent towards it, but contrary to the bathroom walls, I hate thick sauces. But screw it. I look down on my watch and it is almost nine, I am starving.

I wish I ate beforehand. We dived into the hamul paijon, and we all noted that it was quite good. Candice in particular was quite partial to it. It was crisp, and actually well made. But, the seafood inside was actually quite disgusting. You could tell the seafood was frozen, and that is not a per se point of critique. I have been reading that people should only eat seafood that has been flashed frozen to reduce the chances of foodborne illness. The problem is the method in thawing. The shrimp and mussels in the paijon were mealy. Immediately I thought, "Microwave." This already set off red flags. Seafood should be defrosted under cold water and stored in a receptacle in the walk-in or prep counter. If the place needs to defrost in the microwave, the inference is low volume (let us not even mention the possibility of food poisoning).

Candice finished her "Sex and the Beach" and she said she was "done" with the alcohol. I was surprised she did not fall over. I pored her half of the OB (which by the way is a decent beer). I started picking at the pot stickers, and initially I thought they were pretty good. I tell Jennifer to try them (she is particularly partial to pot stickers), but at the second one I noticed that they were cooked unevenly. It was cold. Like a stepchild, I casted it aside to the periphery of my dish. Shit we were out of napkins. I looked for Wei Lung and his brother. They were missing. I started thinking that these kids were wearing Dolce and Gabbana. Which is emblematic of the problem of Waba. First, when working at a restaurant, and you are involved in front of the house, you can't wear couture (unless you are an owner, or working exclusively as a server), it is impractical because of stains, and you run the risk of creating resentment with the customer. Second, and more importantly, it is evidence that the kids were running the show. Rich kids running a restaurant is akin to invading Russia in Winter.

I flag down the waiter for more napkins and Candice actually lets out a surprised amount of delight while eating the chicken. I fork a piece into my mouth. I will admit, it was well cooked. It was crispy, and dry enough that it removed all the moisture out of the meat. Little nuggets of crispy delight. I know my description makes it sound like dessicated pieces of flesh, but there are moments when chicken can be fried to a point where enough moisture is removed that the flesh is firm but not gamey. This was the case, and the sauce was actually quite delicious. Unfortunately, it was served along five heads of cabbage and a jar of that obscene sauce.

The squid did not come out yet. But it is good company, and we keep talking. Candice could tell that I was not particularly happy with the food and she noted with a voice of encouragement that if we were in downtown, the food would be much more expensive. "The pizza would be like $18 on Michigan Avenue."

We hear some noise, could it be, would other people share in our misery? Actually I was hoping for a shooting so we could leave without paying for this garbage. The room is rather large, so it is hard to make out people from what looks like a mile away, but it was quite obvious what they were, Korean teenagers. I look at Jennifer, she just laughs.

I mutter "This is a frat party."

The squid comes out, and now I really want to throw up. To put all this in retrospect. Squid should be cooked one of two ways: cooked in a short amount of time, or stewed for a really long time; otherwise, it becomes really tough. Frying in a frier is not a technique that requires a particularly long amount of time, so this thing took at least an hour. Well it smells like the violation of several Levitical laws. What adds to the obscenity - they were entire tentacles that looked like the remains of the Kraken. At the very least, cut it up! Maybe the line-cook did not want to handle the squid. I think we each ate three to four pieces and we were done.

I was in Korean Karaoke hell. But then it dawned on me, "Where the Hell is the Karaoke!" I asked Jennifer and Candice and they gave me an equally puzzled look. It is called Karaoke Bar, and I don't see any underage Korean girls singing anime. We sit waiting for the check and then we hear the college anthem "CHUG CHUG CHUG CHUG!"

Appalled Candice goes to the bathroom. I talk to Jennifer about our culinary Hindenburg. Candice returns and asks us about the logistics of a bidet. The check comes. It came out to $25 a person, we leave while walking through a throng of teenagers. As much as I feared it, I think a shooting would have been preferable.

On a scale of 1-4 with 4 being the best:
Quality: 1. The highlight was 4 ozs of chicken and honey roasted peanuts.
Service: 1. We were the only table, I shouldn't have to flag you for napkins.
Atmosphere: 1. If you want to have a quiet date, sure go ahead. Of course, I could just go to a cemetery.
Hotness of clientele: 1 if you are like me. If you like them young get thee to Waba.

The Worst 10 Dates of the Year.

2009-12-29T12:17:00.000-08:00

I was actually racking my head in reducing my list from 17 to 10. First of all, I would like to note that I could have made a list of the Top 10 D-Bags. While that would be much more satisfying, I fear that it would just come out as 10 screeds of meanness. Second, I decided to omit the many weird situations where I thought I was going into a date, when in fact it might have been something else (the subjects often ran parallel with the D-Bags).

I stipulate, I come off as an asshole in a few of these:

#10. The Actor

He is cute, real cute. Tall, thin, good hair, but there is a catch, he is really young, 22. I approach with hesitation, sure he says he is a video-game nerd, but he missed the NES days, that is an entire generation. But the date goes well, good food, good wine (btw late harvest Gewurztraminer with scallops – better than a good date). Maybe I am worrying for nothing.

But then he says, “Yea, I am thinking about moving to California after getting my degree.”

Flabbergasted, I choked on the very sweet white “Wait, when is that?”

“Oh; in a couple of months, I don’t know it depends on auditions.”

“I don’t want desert, the wine is sweet enough.”

#9. Liar Number One

We met at the Art Institute. He is well read, a foodie, smart – smarter than me. He also tells me later that he is married.

#8. Selfish, Just Selfish

I thought I fell in love, “Eric, the problem with cap-and-trade is that if it is tied to say market cap it is under-and-over inclusive.” He continued about the problems of the economic policy.

I was thinking church bells. Then I pulled a Ted Mosbey. “Marry me.”

“I don’t believe in marriage. Actually I support polymorphic (sic) [polyamorous - take that!] relationships.”

Bewildered I ask, “Meaning more than one person?”

“Yes – it is economically efficient …”

#7. Visitor

I heard my Britney Spears ringtone, it was set to "SK." I jumped out of the shower. The cats were looking at me, a wet naked mess. “Hello, oh hi, 'Sk'… Sure I am free, I will meet you there.” He brings a friend, a friend I also dated.

#6. Dyslexia

“I am sorry, your profile says 6’ 5’’. Just wondering, umm… was that a typo?”

“No, my profile is 5’6’’ why?”

Appalled that I was being lied to, I use my inquisitor's tone, “No it doesn’t. Dude, it is not a big deal, but you wrote 6 foot.”

He shows me his phone. His profile under stark white light. Shit, he is right.

He winkles his forehead, “So is it a problem?”

“I am Asian, you can’t be shorter than me.”

#5. Where the Fuck is the Mandolin?

Dinner was amazing. He has a condo on Michigan Avenue with a view that Oprah would kill for. Things get hot and heavy. He goes to the bathroom to freshen up. He comes out in a kimono.

#4. Fuck You.

They are delicious. I offer hesitantly, “Would you like an onion ring.”

You could see him proverbially flexing his pecs “Do you know how many calories are in those?”

Appalled, not so much about the coloric lesson,but because I was being charitable without asking anything for return. “Ummm… they are really good.”

He scoffs, “If you want to look fat keep eating them.”

Eric now becomes ERIC “I am SORRY, I am a FUCKING ATTORNEY. WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU.”

#3. Get Thee to a Panda Express

Act 1. We had burgers and fries. It started as a good date.

Act 2. He asked me where we would go next time. I asked “What about Thai.” He told me he never had Asian food: no fried rice, no orange chicken, no dim-sum, no pot stickers.

[Curtain Closes]

#2 "Let’s Go Get Some Weed.”

#1. Who is Counting

He told me he was 37. I pressed on with inconsistent facts. He was actually 47.

My Top 10 Books of the Year

2009-12-29T12:15:00.000-08:00

In a short break to my blogs about 30 Bars, I thought I should write about the Top 10 books I read this year. “Top “ is actually a misnomer, because one would think it would be “best books,” but I think to determine "best" is highly subjective. So my criteria in determining best is "most influential". The Top 10 books that influenced Eric:

10. The Fortune Cookie Chronicles by Jennifer 8. Lee; “I work in a restaurant, so my children do not.” The ethos of my family. Sure, there were tons of chapters about the history and etymology of “fortune” and “cookie” but there are also many chapters that made me realize that in far flung reaches, people still have the same dream that my grandparents had four decades ago.

9. Team of Rivals by Doris Kearns Goodwin: Anyone who listens to NPR or watches Meet the Press have heard about this book. Sure Obama selected Clinton, but who else? What should serve as greater application is that people should get along to serve a larger goal, even if they hate each other.

8. Twilight by Stephanie Meyer; this was a god-awful book. Chapters devoted to describing the male love interest, nary a sentence about the girl (except she was a whiney bitch). But you know what, I am Bella and where is my Edward?

7. Pontius Pilate by Ann Wroe; I first read this book at Vanderbilt for fun, I reread it in September for knowledge. How do you declare a war on something that has no borders like “Al Qaeda,” how do you cut the Gordian knot when a man calls himself the “King of Kings?" A sympathetic portrait on history’s most hated bureaucrat.

6. Nixonland by Ron Pearlstein; forget Goethe, this is the ultimate Faustian tale. The man was a moderate, but he needed to win. He sells out, and the Republican party has never been the same.

5. The God Delusion by Richard Hawkins; he can be as irrational and extreme as the people he attacks, and sometimes it is shooting fish in a barrel. Attacking people who believes in the “Gap Theory of Fossil History” or “Irreducible Complexity” is amusing, but it preaches to the choir. What is more important and influential are his discussions and views of the Old Testament. He depicts God as an asshole, and that is offensive. But what the faithful should take out of it is why does God change? Why does he give us his son, when in the Old Testament he was wrathful, and why does Satan change from mere accountant to the embodiment of evil.

4. The 33 Strategies of War by Robert Greene; sorry I am a dick, BTW do you mind signing this?

3. The Agenda by Bob Woodward; you know what was the tipping point in securing Clinton’s economic plan? When Warren Buffet told Bob Kerry “Don’t worry [about his vote] the rich will set payroll low for themselves and invest in stocks that don’t pay dividends.” A policy that we should be cognizant about when adopting a plan in raising marginal tax rates for the wealthy.

2. Being Justice Blackmun by Linda Greenhouse; the ultimate profile in courage. After Roe v. Wade, Blackmun knew he would be one of the most hated men in America, but he did what was right. Women, racial minorities, and gays should erect a temple for him.

1. Conspiracy of Fools: A True Story by Kurt Eichenwald, we all want to be the smartest person in the room, but sometimes we need to know when to stop. What is more important than laws, is to know why they are erected.

The worst book of the year. Literally worst.

My Grandfather’s Son by Clarence Thomas, you are Black I get it. You believe Blacks should work hard, I get it. 350 pages of it, really? Next time, skip Anita Hill and your attacks against Affirmative Action, and tell us why I should not be allowed to marry a person I love.

Kuma's Corner - numero tres.

2009-12-29T11:55:00.000-08:00

Kuma’s Corner
2900 West Belmont Avenue
Chicago, IL 60618-5804
(773) 604-8769

In a concerned manner Alex looked at me and asked “So if we leave work at 4:30 we should get there by 6:00 right?”

Resigned over the hand that God dealt us, I answered in the affirmative “Yes. Well it depends on the Edens, but I think so.”

Sharing in our lament, Amy just gave us a glazed look. We were acting like we just heard that we were enlisted to fight in Iraq, that somebody attacked the president, or that a miscreant kidnapped my cats. We were staring into the abyss in a zombielike manner while ejaculating in the obvious, “Tell Gillian that if she gets there before us, to snag a table,” and “Maybe Dempster won’t be that bad.” Not since Ulysses has there been such a treacherous voyage. We had to take the Edens!

For those thankfully unacquainted with the highways that stretch through the land of Lincoln, the Edens is quite possible the worst cement artery ever created. Not since the Maginot Line, or perhaps even the Great Wall has a construction project so failed man. The Edens [Expressway] is a (three laned!) highway that stretches from Downtown Chicago to I41, which eventually takes wayward drivers into Wisconsin. Where there are areas in California that are considered traffic dead zones; for example, the 605 and the 10, at least those areas make sense. A lot of people live in Los Angeles, and you have to take the 605 and the 10. But where the 605, the 10, the 60, the 405, the 101, the 5 are often the only avenues that can channel one from the drudgery of work to peace at home, the Edens is inexplicably busy. Why would anyone want to leave Downtown for Wisconsin is mind boggling. Why would fleets of commuters perform such a trek is an insult against God, physics and Darwin. What the fuck can possibly exist in the burbs that can cause so much traffic? Oh I know Dear Reader, I work in the burbs, so I have to take the Edens. I made some excellent life decisions in my life; hence, I have to make this commute, but are there so many people who failed in life? If Purgatory is strictly confined to Catholics, the Edens is the punishment meted out to people who did poorly on the LSATs. Thankfully there are alternatives such as Green Bay Road which takes me through the tony neighborhoods of Glencoe and Wilmette. I get a view of the lake, the Baha’i’ Temple and the most comfortable Starbucks that the company of Shultz ever erected. Green Bay is essentially my traffic condom. It is my protection from the Edens.

Akin to planning the invasion of Normandy, Alex, Amy and I had to make an attack plan. We had to get to Kuma’s Corner, but the only way to get there in an “efficient manner” was to take the Edens. Sophie had an easier choice. Do we indulge in a burger that has received such universal praise that the Tribune declared it to be “One of the best burgers in the Midwest,” or do I end up one short in my blog because I did not want to take the Edens? The die was cast. I gnashed my teeth. I-94, the fucking Edens it was. Our road to perdition would span 27 miles. It would take us an hour and a half.

When Gillian told her friends that we were going to Kuma’s Corner, they told her she would have to wait hours, the reason, Kuma’s is really busy. Anytime when you are down and you hear about unemployment at 10% or that retail sales are down, buck up and head to Kuma’s, you would think that Nasdaq is at 25,000. When I met Amy outside, she told me that she left her name with the hostess and that we were expecting the wait to be an hour. The wait did not really bother me per se because well my tuition was paid by people who eat at restaurants; moreover, the tag “Best Burger in the Midwest” was chiming through my head. But the one thing that I first noticed was that like internet stocks, the business of Kuma’s may be a sophistry. Kuma’s is not a very large place. At most it sits 60-80 people including 14 at the bar. I started to think, if Guy Fiere, Food and Wine, Gourmet (alas!!!), the Tribune, the glutton in Man vs. Food, and the Sun-Times did not hype up this place, would it be that busy? Moreover, if it was larger, would we have to wait?

As we waited for Alex and Gillian, Amy and I decided to wait near the bar and examine the beer list. I wish we had the brewer’s equivalent of the Rosetta Stone. We were assaulted with terms like “Purple Haze,” “Pumkin,” “Bouquet,” and “Lychee.” None of which made any sense with beer. All I knew, was that I was not going to order any beer costing more than $5; meaning, there were plenty of beers that I would not order. Thankfully, Alex walked in and I assaulted her with the beer list. I never thought I would ask another individual this, but it was necessary “I don’t understand please translate.” Well Alex, really didn’t. She was a pro and told us that she wanted a Logunistas – IPA and decided to let us pick by trial by fire. Amy decided to order the Pumkin because she liked pumpkin and voiced some amusement in the typo. I ordered “Purple Haze,” because gays are naturally attracted to the color purple. Well, it took me a good 5-10 minutes to wrangle the bartender. I was in a sea of heterosexual men yelling out orders. It was like the floor of the NYSE and I was Maria Bartiromo yelling out “PUUURRPLE HAZE!”

I also need to rewind 15 minutes before Alex came in. Amy noted the general atmosphere of Kuma’s and we felt mildly out of place. Dear Reader, conjure up an image of a J-Crew model, and you get Amy. She is the beautiful All-American girl that Reese Witherspoon should have become when she sold her soul. Amy was wearing clothes that looked like it came directly from one of the more fashionable racks of Nordstroms. Meanwhile I was wearing 4 layers of Miuccia … and Sketchers (it was snowing). The clientele at Kuma’s on the other hand, did not look like they were wearing house of Gucci. But this is the paradox with Kuma’s, it is not a cheap place, but it is located in one of Chicago’s more middle-income neighborhoods, Avondale; hence, you know that the customers probably do not live in the area. These are all transplants from other areas whom had the prescience to change before dinner. I essentially looked more like an asshole than I normally do. Thankfully, we did not get a cock-eyed glance from nary a soul, probably because their skull caps were spun from Scottish cashmere. The rest of Kuma’s is meant to resemble a bilker’s bar, sure there were the requisite picture of nude women drinking blood out of a bat, but it all seemed too synthetic. It was D&G acting as if it was Wrangler.

I digress. We clutched onto our beers and Dear Reader it has been nearly five days and I still remember the Purple Haze. It was quite possibly the best beer I ever had in my life (with the exception of another one I had at a house party, but I was high at the time so I don’t know if it affected my sense of taste). Purple Haze tastes like raspberries, and a little bit of beer. It wasn’t sweet per se, but it was smooth, and subtle. The next thing I tasted was Alex’s IPA. Her drink was disgusting. It was robust and bold. My God, Alex is more masculine than I am. Gillian came and Amy tried in vain to order her a drink. She asked the bartender a battery of questions which only resulted in a litany of alcoholic terms that flew over our head. We could talk about §§ 403 and 501(b), but you lose us at “Berliner Weisse”. Regardless, Gillian ordered, and we get our table shortly after, 5 minutes before promised to be exact.

The kitchen is an open-one, but it essentially has the same amount of cooking space in a studio apartment. There is a grill, a salamander, and some prep counters, that is it. While the kitchen sounds simple, it is fitting for its menu, there are fourteen different types of burgers, three-five generic versions of salad (chicken salad, cobb salad, etc), some appetizers, and mac-and cheese. Most of my attention was focused on the burgers because Kuma’s is known for them, not the calamari. The burgers range from $10-$14. The one that was shown on Diners, Drive-in’s, and Dives is the one served with a fried egg, “The Kuma Burger.” Since it is so iconic, it is only natural for none of us to order it.

I don’t remember what Gillian ordered, but Amy and Alex ordered the “EYEHATEGOD” burger, which was a patty with a pecan crust, served with three bacon wrapped dates, stuffed with blue cheese. If memory serves the burgers also had a special type of mustard but Amy passed on hers. I ordered the “Pantera,” which was a patty served on top a charred poblano pepper, a slice of bacon and Monterey Jack cheese. With every burger you get the choice of fries or chips. I chose chips, everyone else selected fries. Well we ordered, and we waited.

As I said, the kitchen is small and it took some time for the burgers to come out. I am not sure how much time passed, but I do remember that I went to the bathroom twice. Dear Reader, if you do not wish to contract hepatitis, avoid the bathroom. Thankfully my parents are Chinese and they eat everything; consequently, I have some naturally immunity, or I would be dead. I think I should also talk about the non-existent service. The waitress stopped by twice, and she seemed more concerned with us ordering alcohol then anything else. In fact I noticed that after the burgers were served, the water stopped flowing too.

The burgers came out and my coterie of sexy femme-fatales immediately noted how they could not finish everything and bring leftovers for lunch. Such thoughts did not cross my mind. I cut the burger in half, and noted that it actually took some effort to cut the pretzel bun. I finished the burger in 10 minutes. The chips took me another 5. But here is the thing, the entire experience was a giant “meh.” Don’t get me wrong, the beer was fucking amazing. But Alex told me that it is accessible enough that she will be serving it at her wedding, so it is not a Kuma’s exclusive. The chips were crispy, fresh, piquant and delicious, but was it worth the Edens? But the main disappointment was the burger. I had better ones in Chicago. The Twisted Spoke in Wrigglyville (before it closed down for inauspicious reasons) served a much better burger, and MUCH better bacon. I also remembered the bun to be resplendent verging to the point of being orgasmic. Here is the rub, the much vaunted “Best Burger in the Midwest,” even fell to burgers I had in Tennessee, California, Florida, and even Louisiana. The last of which I remembered sharing with Paulene in which the cook intentionally covered a patty with shredded cheese, and then covered the entire thing with an iron cover after squirting several tablespoons of water. This allowed for a steaming process that made for a resplendent cheese web (this burger is reminiscent of the one I read about served at the “Squeeze Inn” in Sacramento, Ca; another burger-mecca that I must make a pilgrimage to). But in the totality, the burger at Kuma’s was merely competent. The patty was juicy, and it tasted like beef, so it was not overly salted; but admittedly, Alex made a better patty at her Fourth of July party. The pepper and cheese was absolutely uninspired, it was out of a Mexican menu. Granted, the “EYEHATEGOD” was unusual, and maybe that was a better burger, but I was uncomfortable with eating something with such a moniker.

But beyond a competent burger, the one thing that irked me was the attempt in rushing us out. The staff essentially cleared the entire table of everything but the check in order to give us the proverbial push out the door. I drove through an hour and a half of traffic, I waited another hour, I am surrounded by hot women making me the envy of every man in this place! The Office is a re-run, I want to talk about boys! But we bit the bullet, the girls were hitting a burger-coma.

I felt cheated really, and I pondered, if Guy Fiere did not visit, would Kuma’s be Kuma’s. If he had rolled into the Twisted Spoke, I think it would have deservedly won the plaudits that are currently bestowed on Kuma’s. If Food & Wine wrote about my little shack in Louisiana, the lines would be out the door; people would justifiably drive an hour and a half. Like the interior, I felt the burger was a counterfeit. Amy, Alex, and Gillian left like they were trying to recover from a carnivorous frenzy. I felt like I had a amuse bouche.

In a scale of 1 to 4 with 4 being the best:
Value: 1.5. $12 for a lack-luster burger, taxes are due soon.
Atmosphere: I think this varies. I personally like dives, not artificial ones. Regardless, what the hell is wrong with the bathrooms. 2.
Service: 2.
Hotness of clientele: I feel in love with this guy. I was going to have Alex walk me down the aisle - until he took off his hat. 3.

2 Down – 28 to Go

2009-12-28T21:27:00.000-08:00

2 Down – 28 to Go

Finley Mahoney’s
3701 N. Broadway
Chicago, IL 60613-4104
773-549-0226

It was a good night in Bible Study. We read a god-forsaken essay about how Joseph was the ultimate symbol of love. A discussion I may write about later this week, but I would like to share that I came out looking like an asshole. As I said, it was a “good night,” and it was my group’s turn to clean the eating area. I did it in an expeditious manner and then sauntered off to Finley Mahoney’s for Irish Beer. What is this magical brew that intoxicates three quarters of Chicago during every Cubs game. It is interesting to ponder the improvement in the Bureau of Labor Statistics’ findings if we were to ban Irish Beer. Would we be at full-employment?

I opened the door with trepidation (or maybe rigor mortis was beginning to set because the weather was fucking atrocious), would I become hooked. Would this be like mother’s milk to me. Would my church fellows have to stage an intervention to wean me off Finley Mahoney’s proverbial teat?

The first thing I noticed was how warm it was; in both, appearance, and temperature. I thought I stepped into Texas --- yes, Texas as decorated by Pottery Barn. Warm colors, dark hues, tall dark stools. It was a good looking place. As I entered it took me 30 seconds to find my group. We were a motley group of seven out of a total of 20-25 patrons. Most of them were at the bar, but I noticed three couples sitting at tables. I estimated that the place could comfortably sit 60-70. During game nights, when fire codes are mere formalities, I am sure a100 bodies have been jammed inside.

I sat down and attempted to strip 15 layers of clothing off my body when I was asked “so what do you have against kids.”

“Nothing, I just don’t think my friend should be dating a guy who has them.”

The inquisitor looked puzzled and unhappy, “But why.” I started to explain, and then I noticed, there was no server.

So I asked Craig, “what are you drinking.”

“Shlisist” he answered.

I had no idea what he was talking about. My god, was he already drunk? Is this the Irish Beer that has destroyed nations at work?

So I asked Ashley, and she said “Smithwick's.”

“Thanks.” She seemed cogent and alert as ever. But then I started to think, she could probably outdrink Craig and me combined.

The bartender ran over the specials, “$4 Harps, $4…, $4 … $4 Smithwick's, and $3 Jaegers. Do you want shots.”

“Oh, no thank you. I would like a Smithwick’s.”

“Cool, your server will bring it over.”

Well she kind of brought the Smithwick’s, apparently something happened to the keg, but she kindly informed me that the beer was free. Remembering that Sara told me to order something with potatoes, I ordered the “Tator Tots.” It was only yesterday when I remembered it should have been “Potato Soup.” Regardless, I was excited, the menu described the little spuds as mini little explosions in your mouth. To wit, the tator tots are supposed to be covered in cheese, bacon, chives, and some other delicious things (but I remember sour cream was not in the concoction). I was hoping to share these little goodies with the table. Develop some goodwill since I sullied Joseph’s good name. Of course the mental calculus was going on, who are the cool–craven ones who are sympathetic to my dogma. Who can I go to Joy’s with?

Much to my dismay, what came out were unadorned tator tots, with a ramekin of ketchup. What the fuck! I especially wanted Will’s approval since he is a cook at Bakin’ & Eggs. They were still crispy, delicious, and enjoyed all around; even sans carcinogenic pork. I hope they don’t hate me.

My free beer came, and I am not going to lie, it was amazing. I don’t drink much. When I go out, a few Amstel Lights (as suggested in Men’s Health) and that is good enough. Well, Smithwick’s kicks Amstel in the gonads, rips them out with its bare hands, and stuffs them with cream cheese before consumption. It was a tremendous beer. But I would like to note that Ashley P. thought the Pinot was unpalatable.

It is actually hard to gauge the value of the place. For a table of six (Eve left early and closed out her tab) the total came to $68-$69. From the itemized list there were 9 Smithwick’s, two pinot’s, another wine, and tator-tots ($4). I think we left $85, and we trudged down Broadway.

In a scale of 1-5 with 5 being the best:

Value: N/A. My beer was comped, but normal tator-tots for $4 seems high, at the very least offer a curry aioli on the side.

Service: 3 (the server was friendly and efficient, and the comped Smithwick was unnecessary, but when a guy orders Tator Tot’s and there is a superior alternative, you should state “Would you like the Super Tots?”

Atmosphere: 4. I prefer it to the gay bars on the street over.

Hotness of clientele:

Women were a 5. My table may have skewed it a little, because the girls in my Bible Study are smoking.

Men --- well there were a group of heteros talking about abstinence. We looked over, I am not sure if the alternative was possible. But Craig and Will are adorable so I say from 0 to 3.

I know I broke my rule of not including my group, but my Bible Study group is that good looking.

Number One of Thirty: Kona Grill

2009-12-28T21:15:00.000-08:00

Number One of Thirty: Kona Grill

Kona Grill
940 Milwaukee Ave
Lincolnshire, IL 60069
(847) 955-1210

Since yesterday of my blog post, I have received several text messages and emails indicating my readers’ enthusiasm regarding “30 Days – 30 Bars.” Being vainglorious I was naturally basking in all the glory and attention. On the other hand, I was taken aback by the fact that it appears that very few people care about my boy problems but appear to be interested in seeing me shit-faced. Regardless, I am a trooper and in a desire to make sure the reading is as pleasurable as my potential caloric intake, I posted an add on Craigslist seeking an editor/bar-pal/potential date. Alas, the positions have all remained unfilled.

But I digress, as I marched into work late today, I tried to reacclimate my body to the morning. Dear Reader, I spent a good 8 hours trying to get my Wizard Elf (with sexy face tattoo) to woo a sexy orphan-Paladin who has daddy problems; alas, I fear my orphan is interested in the scantly-clad lady bard. So as I turned on my computer and allowed a good 40 minutes for Microsoft Outlook to startup, I decided to make some coffee.

As I ambled onto the water cooler filling up my carafe, a co-worker, approached me and said “Man, your blog idea is legendary.”

I looked at her in a surprised manner that could only be elicited by caffeine deprivation “What --- the fuck are you talking about?”

“Dude, 30 bars awesome.” And she walked away.

It is a funny thing really; considering that I only speak to her 3-4 times a month. But similar situations kept on springing up. Lynn approached me and told me “we should go to Dancers.” What is Dancers? Well, it is a strip-bar that caters to a clientele whom like their strippers to be preggers. Guess what I updated my Outlook Calendar with.

Anyway today was quite the hellish day. Near 4:00 I almost had a melt down. I was reading quite possibly the most infernal document ever drafted since Faust. As I gnashed my teeth, Jennifer mentioned happy hour this week; she also continued with a brief discussion of her boy problems. Tempted in playing my favorite role, Dr. Eric, I suggested we do happy hour today – “like now.” With very little arm twisting, Candice and Clinton also joined. I threw out the suggestion Kona, and everyone joined my suggestion, Kona it is.

Dear Reader, Kona occupies a special place in my heart. Not only does it have a killer Happy Hour menu, but it has the hottest waiters in the Chicagoland Area – oh yes – it beats Boystown. A random appetizer sampler of the waiters at Kona include “Kona King,” who is so hot, that I once tried to trip my co-worker/girlfriend, Alex, just so then he would fall on top of her. Then there is “Peter-Pecker” the ambiguously gay waiter with an amazing smile. My friend Andrew, probably laid down $150 for me to develop the testicular fortitude to ask him out; I am still waiting for Peter to give me a peck. And lastly, there is “THE Cutie,” so cute, I stole two of his pens just so then I could say there is an object in this world that has both of our finger-prints. Yes, Kona is a special place to me, it is my Eden.

Well we finally returned to Kona (it has been awhile because Fridays are often packed, and the Peter thing made me avoid the place), and we noticed that the Happy Hour menu was revamped! Maki rolls are $3. Sliders are $5. Tacos (chicken, shrimp, or beef) are $4.50. In fact the most expensive item on the menu are the pizzas, which are $5.50. As we sat down, we were surprised by the new waiter. Yes he fits the archetype, but here it the kicker, he is Asian! I thought I was the only Asian in the northern suburbs. From my last Yelp search, Panda Express was in Downtown. What the hell was an Asian doing here, let alone a hot one! As I scanned the menu, clumsily thinking about eggrolls, Clinton ordered an amber-ale, Jennifer joined, and Candice (whom arrived a little bit later) ordered a frozen margarita. He came back, efficiently dropped off the drinks and asked me “Pardon me Sir, what would you like to drink.” I almost fell in love, a polite waiter, using proper English. I hate it when waiters ask “Are you ready to order.” My thoughts often go to “Yes, I am ready to order. But I am not going to tell you.” But this, this oriental cherub said “Pardon me Sir….” Anyway, I ordered ice water, extra ice.

Well after some talk with Jennifer about her guy issues, which are not really issues, but her lack in planning a military conquest, Hot Asian came by and took down our orders. Jennifer ordered pot-stickers and vegetarian maki. Clinton ordered sliders and vegetarian maki. Candice ordered calamari --- and --- vegetarian maki. I ordered chicken tacos and “tuna wanton skins.”

I would like to briefly talk about the decor and clientele of Kona. It is actually a pretty good looking restaurant. There is glass everywhere and the dinning room is very sleek. I believe the dining room has a maximum capacity of 100 people and it probably has 18-20 tables (8 of which are booths). The bar is a standard bar with a horseshoe shaped counter. The counter it sits 14 guests. And along the perimeter of the bar there are 6 high tables with allow for four to five guests each. Behind the bar is a foyer type area that has another 8-10 tables with a maximum capacity of 68. From there you get the view of a pretty nasty pond, several office parks, and a few residences with a lot of toys in the yard. But still it is a good-looking restaurant. The one real problem I have with the foyer, for some reason the tabletops are made with a particular material that becomes quite sticky when it is humid. An inexplicable sticky I may add.

I typically have one word to describe the clientale. Milf. Well, capital, bold, italicize, underline, and highlight “M,” and lower cases “l” and “f.” I have no idea where all the middle age women came from. But I noticed that they all had similar characteristics. They dress absolutely inappropriately for their ages, and they have hairdos akin to Dorothy of the Golden Girls. As it got later, the doors of Kona really opened up to these women. I felt like I was in Curves. I was surrounded by a sea of estrogen, I needed more ice.

Well the food came, and I must admit, I was very disappointed with the tuna wanton skins. The food was not bad, but the item made no sense. It was essentially four ozs of tuna sliced into six pieces and served over wanton skin and drizzled with some sort of indiscernible aioli. Now, I would like to reiterate, nothing that touched my mouth was objectionable, but the wanton skin was driving me crazy. The skin was literally one folded sheet of fried wanton skin, sitting as a foil to the tuna. Contrary to my friends and the boys on the street, my mouth is not that big. There is no way, I can fit the entire thing into my maw. You have to bite the item into two or three; thus, shattering the skin in greasy shards. Note, this was an attempt of making an amuse-bouche, but where it failed was that there is no way, that I could fit the entire thing into my mouth.

The chicken tacos were much more successful. Inside each taco (a total of four) were layered with fried chicken breast, avocado, cabbage and carrots. I also noticed that each taco was grilled before service, and each taco was resplendent. It was served with a peanut sauce, which I skipped because I found it to be an odd match for such a “taco.” The only minor complaint with the tacos were that they kept falling apart, but I think that is attributed to the kitchen’s zealous attempt to fill up each wrap (or use a binder at the end fold).

We lastly ordered a brownie sundae betwixt the four of us (Clinton actually passed because he needs to defend his girlish figure). This I must admit was a low point. The brownie, while the size of a loaf of bread was dense and dry. In fact the only way to consume this caloric brick is to essentially cut it with the vanilla cream; otherwise, you run the risk of choking. Since it is on the Happy Hour menu, I assume that there are fifty sheets of brownies sitting in the walk-in, and they are sliced when a Glutton raises his chubby fingers.

All in all, we left happy. Service was unbelievably attentive even when the waiter was essentially working 6 tables with a total number of 35 customers; granted I would have liked a little bit more attention. My total bill with tax and tip: $15. Full tummy, but a bit of dry mouth.

From a score of 1-5, with 5 being exceptional.
Quality: 3
Service: 4.5
Atmosphere: 3
Hotness of Clientele: 1

30 Years, 30 Days, 30 Bars

2009-12-28T21:07:00.000-08:00

I just came back from a brunch that my Young Adults Church group recently implemented. I initially presumed that these brunches would be very interesting because I could learn more about my fellows who may have constrained themselves within hallowed halls adorned with stained glass, and scented candles. Well with the exception of a few, my fellows do live quite Christian lifestyles even when they depart from the pews. They are well-mannerd, patient, good-natured, and generous - everything that I am not. Well today we went to Goose Island, and I was staring at a menu with 10 different permutations of a burger, when out of the blue, I started to have the following conversation with a fellow:

"So I have been recently blogging on Facebook."

"Like in the Julia Child movie."

"Yea, I like to think I am more creative than the Amy Adams character, but essentially yes. I guess it would be easier if I had a husband to play the foil."

"What are they about."

"Well the last one was about Cap-and-Trade and friendships."

"I think that might be entertaining, but don't get me wrong, wouldn't that be unaccessible."

"OMG, what the fuck are you talking about. It is my life ...."

"Well don't get me wrong, quite brilliant, Cap and Trade really. But the thing is, Cap and Trade really?"

"So what should I do?"

"I think you should write about sports."

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

"Ok, maybe not about sports, but what about food."

"Interesting."

"I think it would be amusing to read some of your thoughts about restaurants. Or what about this, my friend is turning 30 and she is visiting 30 bars before her birthday."

"That is quite fascinating, I going to bogart that idea."

"Yea, and don't take offense, so you don't have a bf, you don't have to write about it in every blog."

"How do you know if I?"

"I presume you do, because you brought up the idea of a husband being a foil."

"Hmmm... so what are the rules?"

"It could be any bar, cereal bar, sushi bar, cupcake bar, bar with alcoholics."

"Nail bar?"

"Oh my gosh, that is exactly what my friend is doing."

So Dear Reader, I am turning 30 on March 7th, my quest is to write about 30 "bars." The rules, it cannot be a restaurant that just serves alcohol, it has to be a "bar" of some sort. If it is a restaurant like TGIF, I have to be sitting at the bar. If it is an unorthodox bar, such as a coffee bar, "Bar" must be in the name in the establishment; for example, I can't count "Super Cuts," but I can count "Nail Bar."

I will be grading on the following:
1. Affordability in relation to the area, and good provided.
2. Service
3. Atmosphere
4. Hotness of clientele (not including the attractive people I normally hangout with)

If you have any ideas, or wish to join me in my travels. Give me a call or send me an email.

I have till March 7th to visit 30.

Does Cap-and-Trade Apply to Friendships?

2009-12-28T20:55:00.001-08:00

Does Cap-and-Trade Apply to Friendships?

Dear Reader, today has not been a particularly good day for me. Today started off as an excellent day. It was the day after an excellent Glee, the commute was perfect, and Bank of America paid back its TARP loan. But as the day started promising, an icy penumbra descended upon me. While discussing Glee, a particular co-worker announced her disappointment on how the writers treated Will’s marriage in a flippant manner. Naturally, this proved most offensive. Well this set off a conflagration of emotions, in particular a recent conversation I had a friend, which in turn further spoiled my mood. All of this ultimately resulted in an unpolitical email on my part in which a co-worker/very good friend rightfully took umbrage on. Ultimately, things are fine. I apologized, and we walked out as girlfriends again. But all this made me think, are our friendships miniature versions of Cap-and-Trade?

In reducing Cap-and-Trade to the most ridiculous of terms, the system is basically the trading of credits between producers to emit pollution. A company will be allocated a certain amount of credits based on several factors such as: number of employees, revenue, industry, and working capital. If a company expends all its credits, it has to go to the secondary market to purchase more credits. For example, if GM produces a bunch of Escalades and use up all its credits, it will have to go to Breyer Ice Cream (parent of Ben and Jerry’s) and purchase some of its credits. This exchange of credits, reminds me of the proverbial give and take in friendships and other relationships. My initial co-worker who brought up the marriage argument ticked me off, so what happened? Credit expensed. Which then leads to other problems, what do we do when all the credits are expensed, or even worse, what happens when a particular situation obliterates the entire pool of credits?

Dear Reader, I presume you are fully acquainted with my situation regarding Mr. Big. Well I had a conversation with an individual Sunday, and the topic of Big came along. I told him that Big is leaving on Tuesday, and that he might come back, but might is the operative word. This in turn lead to the statement “Oh, don’t take offense to this, but with how things are going for you, you will still be single when he comes back.” The conversation ended shortly after.

I discussed the conversation with several individuals. The first person essentially told me to use up a credit “That is how he is.” The second person told me that the only way to get more credits is if the individual apologizes “Fuck him. Has he said I am sorry.” The third person essentially told me that Armageddon descended into the secondary market, “I would punch him. In the face. In front of his mother.” Three different people, three different approaches to the market.

I find this concept of Cap-and-Trade quite fascinating. Because we all do it. Of further interest, is how we apply the secondary market. We don’t really purchase credits per se, but we do receive credits from other parties. An example is how my parents interact. Often after a particular slight no matter how petty or large, a person is dead to one of my parents, and it will often be the other who tells the injured to let it go. Essentially my mother gave my father a credit.

But I guess there are situations were the market is impaired and inoperative. A person who was particularly dear to me announced that he voted for Prop 8 due to religious reasons. I was inconsolable and irate; essentially, I was betrayed. On numerous occasions my Father tried to give me credits: first he told me that, “__ is young,” on another occasion he attempted to persuade me in resetting the market. “Let it go,” my father even tried to appeal to my side of contempt, loosely translated from Cantonese, “It is offensive, his brother wouldn’t do that, at least Jon didn’t. Forget about it.” Admittedly, a period after, the individual did send an email extending an offer of reconciliation that I never answered.

I had a dialogue with a friend about the conversation regarding Mr. Big. My friend asked, “Are you going to cut and run like usual.” It is a sad and profound condemnation – that my market is a constantly bearish. What is ironic, was that my co-worker/friend expensed credits on me. I apologized, and she said “Forget about it, Kuma’s next Thursday.” Thankfully, there are some markets that can post gains.

Do We All Have A Mr. Big

2009-12-28T20:54:00.002-08:00

Do We All Have A Mr. Big

A quick Google search for the term “Mr. Big” brought some interesting results. But they all seem to have one vein in common – violence. For example, The Online Slang Dictionary defines “Mr. Big” as a very important person; similarly, another entry holds that the term Mr. Big refers to some high-up in the mafia. Videogames continued this trend when SNK made “Mr. Big” a sub-boss in the Art of Fighting Series. Don’t mess with Big because he will cap you in the knees.

But lets face it. Today, when we hear "Mr. Big," we do not think of Don Corleone. We think of Chris Noth. We think of Sex and the City (SATC). We have the image of the character that Carrie Bradshaw defined as, "the next Donald Trump" and "major tycoon, major dreamboat, and majorly out of [her] league." After three days of ruminating, and numerous discussions with many intelligent friends, I ask the question do we all have a Mr. Big?

Now, I like to state off the bat that this entry is not exclusive to women and certain subsets of gays. I attempted to find a “Mrs./Miss/Ms. Big.” I got nothing. I found a Ms. Big Booty on Myspace. I think my computer still has crabs after I clicked on that profile. But I presume that my discussion will apply to men as much as women. But maybe not, which might be the reason why Twilight appeals to me and not my brother.

The germ of this discussion occurred when I was talking to a very dear friend of mine. As always, if I am not complaining about work, I am complaining about the lack of bf prospects. Recently I came across a fellow who had very similar interests to mine. For example, he referred to himself as a Red Mage, “which is problematic because I can only get up to Lit 2.” Dear Reader, if you have no idea what I am talking about, that is totally understandable. Dear Reader, if you know what I am talking about, you understand why I am writing about Mr. Big. Needless, to say, we had a lot of shared interests. I think my cats liked him. He was good to waiters. Fun to be around. He was even knowledgeable about movies, comics, and books. He even went toe-to-toe with me about my views regarding the New Testament. I would also like to add that he is quite attractive. So all-in-all he is “way out of my league.” Why the hell are we even shopping at Whole Food Together. As Jack Farland said “He is the rare hot gay nerd.” Well things were going well, but things had to end. It is not like I was diagnosed with cancer, or decide to date women. Instead, it ended because he has to go to California for an advancement in his career. I really don’t begrudge him that. I told him I would do the same thing, and I mean it. But I asked my friend, is this guy my “Mr. Big?”

My friend does not think so, she argued that if he is my Big, then he will come back and we will be together. I also reminded her that there is a sequel in the works, meaning something happens to the relationship. She thinks I am crazy. Now I didn’t poll her, but I spoke to many of my female friends about this issue, and they all concur, they all have a Big – and they are not with Big. In fact with the exception of a friend who met her husband on Myspace (out of all places), I can say nobody ends up with Big, and that is fucked up.

Now there are three reasons to us not ending up with Big.

(1). Big is merely a romantic character dreamed up by some dried up man-hating crone. It is merely fiction, stop being such a Mo.’

(2). We don’t end up with Big because we settle.

(3). The Fates make it impossible to get Big.

Argument 1 is probably the one that heterosexual men would avail themselves with. Why else is there no Miss Big. No girl is outside their league. But the problem with Argument 1 is that so many people can relate to Carrie Bradshaw. And if that is the case, then you can’t just argue “It is just fiction.” It is intellectually lazy.

Argument 3 is quite possible and quite possibly the most heart wrenching. One of my best friends lost her bf in Vandy because after graduation he went to study in Japan. She stayed in Nashville. They broke up. Torrid romance occurred. I played the role of Will to her Grace.

But here is the funny thing about Argument 2, there were chances for her to end up with Big. Even when she was engaged to her fiancé (current husband), there was a mild transgression. They even talked about being together and being the ultimate power-couple. But something told her to stick with her proverbial Aiden, she settled, and chose and number 2. But here is the secret, she still talks about Big once awhile. That is fucked up.

I would like to attempt to seek solace by arguing that my friend is just a whore. Maybe she just married the wrong person. But then how do you explain the fact that many of my friends explain they have a Big, and they are now with Big. If that is the case. Why don’t we go to Big. Is it because Big is an asshole, and Aiden is safe? Do we want stability over the guy who is “way out of our league”? You would think no; hence, why is all of our folklore centered around the proverbial Princess or Prince Charming.

So why, why do we let our Big get away even when we get a chance? And if I don't have a chance, "way out of my league" or across the nation. Then what do I do? Move on? Become a romantic zombie? Look for a Big bigger than Big --- Mr. Bigger? But really, Lit 2.

My Life in Adam Lambert's Song.

2009-12-28T20:54:00.001-08:00

Whataya Want From Me lyrics by Adam Lambert

"Hey, slow it down"
Except you, you effing freak with the WI plates driving 40 on the Edens. For the love of God and all that is holy, speed up.

"What do you want from me"
I have to say, my Mother was rather particular. She was the type who would say “A- why not an A+” In all fairness I have much to thank her for, including my current day demeanor. My father says I often sound like her. Whenever he says that, I die a little.

"What do you want from me"
When Sam walks on top of me in the morning, I know he wants more food. I have a dog bowl – oh yes a BIG dog bowl for his food.

Yeah, I'm afraid
Afraid of failure. Not having money. Nothing on my tombstone. Die alone.

What do you want from me
I want to be happy.

What do you want from me
I asked myself this when I was talking to my supervisor. As my co-worker said, we are doing charity work by subsidizing some floatsam.

There might have been a time
A time when I was even more crazy and high strung than currently. I would like to attribute my growth to many things. An SO for five years who taught me much. Cats. Age. The 33 Strategies of War.

I would give myself away
I did that a lot. I fell for the wrong people a lot. I have finally met a person I am rather fond of; alas, a move is eminent.

(Ooh)
Indeed.

Once upon a time
I always wanted to be an archeologist. That changed when I was 8, when my Dad told me they did not make much money.

I didn't give a damn
When I was a kid, I didn’t care about calories. I ate a lot. 240 lbs was my max.

But now here we are
In Chicago, and it is effing snowing.

So what do you want from me
In Tuesday, I asked myself that in Church. I don’t know if I was having a dialogue with cosmic powers, or myself.

What do you want from me
If this was a dialogue with God. I would want the cessation of conflict – maybe like something like universal grace.

Just don't give up
I always regretted dropping “African Art” in Vanderbilt. It was the only class I ever dropped. I felt like I lost, or I disappointed myself.

I'm workin' it out
Reading Don’t Sweat the Small Stuff.

Please don't give in
I did. I read Twilight.

I won't let you down
Here is the thing. I think I have often let a lot of people down. Like my parents, my brother, my SO at the time. I am near 30 and I should be able to carry a lot more on my shoulders.

It messed me up, need a second to breathe
During the final months of Lambda and I realized I did not want to do anything Constitutional (because of pay and a lack of brillance), I went into a shame spiral. I should have studied harder for the LSATs – gone to Columbia. I should have done better in Crim Pro – get hired at Latham and Watkins. My SO was subsidizing my existence. I thought I was useless.

Just keep coming around
I don’t eat meat much. But once awhile I love eating double cheeseburgers. Nom nom nom.

Hey, what do you want from me
There has been some talk about a list. What I really want is empathy, patience, strength.

What do you want from me
I hope that it is ok that I am a caffeine addict.

Yeah, it's plain to see
I am afraid of Lasik. Really, cutting the cornea is scary.

that baby you're beautiful
Not going to lie, my cat Frodo is a stud.

And it's nothing wrong with you
I felt bad when I realized that I often made my SOs feel inferior. I think it was a result of an ego complex. Well I still hate #1. I feel bad for #2. #3. Who?

It's me
Indeed

I'm a freak but thanks for lovin' me
After reading this blog, I am sure I convinced you Dear Reader that I am a freak.

Cause you're doing it perfectly
I often admire my brother and my cousin in social settings. It seems like everyone always gravitate towards them. They are the perfect social butterflies.

There might have been a time
When I thought my views were perfect.

When I would let you step away
I burned many bridges. Many relationships. I hate losing – when I am close to losing, I step away.

I wouldn't even try but I think
I should do this more. Just act and not rationalize things.

you could save my life
To the surprise of people who knew me since high school, I am in favor of a public option.

Just don't give up
Unless it is organic chemistry.

I'm workin' it out
I need to lift more. I really like cardio because I can read while working out. For example, I read Time Out Chicago on the elliptical.

Please don't give in
I shouldn’t have sold out. Maybe I should have gone back to CA and work on the Prop 8 cases.

I won't let you down
I plan to say that in the future.

It messed me up, need a second to breathe
There was one time where I ate bbq at Smoque. It effed me up for a week. I literally had trouble breathing the next day.

Just keep coming around
I don’t really have many vices. I used to shop a lot.

Hey, what do you want from me
If Obama asked me this question, I would say reform the tax code. Incentives for green technology is fine. But the 35% marginal rate starts at $370k for a married couple. That is nonsense. It rates should be higher and the level should be lower.

What do you want from me
I want a six-pack like a Men’s Health model.

Just don't give up on me
You know what would suck, if there is a God and he is like the one in the Old Testament. He just presses the home key on his Playstation 3 and resets on humanity.

I won't let you down
It is funny because I don’t think my cat Frodo would. He often act like the guardian of my apartment.

No, I won't let you down
Let us say I have children. Will I tell them this?

So Just don't give up
I was amazed when my parents didn’t give up on the restaurant in their first 6 months. I am amazed by the fact that my Grandmother does not know how to read. She is one of the savviest people I know. Machiavelli would be proud.

I'm workin' it out
I am trying to be conscientious of what I eat. I don’t think the sentient should die for my consumption. I know, if there were dinosaurs they would eat us. I just don’t want to do it.

Please don't give in
If you do give into Twilight. Realize that the writing will suck. But you want to be Bella.

I won't let you down
I don’t think Edward does. Which is why I want a proverbial vampire with a soul.

It messed me up, need a second to breathe
One of the things that really messed me up when I was a kid was this guy in a wheelchair at the Stardust Buffet. I think my friends were laughing at him. I didn’t. The fellow and his parents were offended and approached us saying it was wrong. I should have said something before then. I should have told my friends to stop.

Just keep coming around
Resse’s Peanut Butter Cups please. And String Cheese. And Quinoa.

Hey, what do you want from me
A good potsticker in Chinatown. Really why is it so hard?

Just don't give up
Unless you are driving in Detroit. Then you are SOL.

I'm workin' it out
Writing an article about the sophistry of stock splits.

Please don't give in
I am not going to settle for Civil Unions.

I won't let you down
My debate partner at Vandy said that. She did. I was pissed. But I totally forgot about it till now. And even now, I don’t really care.

It messed me up, need a second to breathe
My parents and brother had a dog, Bobo. When I was younger, I was never really fond of the dog. He was kind of smelly, wrinkly, not the best looking canine. But he was one of our best dogs. I just finished undergrad, stayed with my parents. For some reason, I made it a ritual to give him a biscuit everyday. He followed me around in the morning just for that cookie. Then one day he had a stroke. I cried.

Just keep coming around
If you are still reading, thanks.

Hey, whataya want from me
This Christmas is going to suck, so at most, dinner.

(whataya want from me) Whataya want from me
That I can say next year will be better for all of us.

whataya want from me.
Forgiveness.

Why Even I Love Twilight

2009-12-28T20:53:00.001-08:00

Why Even I Love Twilight

A few years ago I watched “Sex and the City” in my parents’ house. I was enrapt in the episode where Miranda was complaining about her new beau’s “funky spunk.” As I watched, sitting and transfixed with every word, with eyes agog and mouth agape my brother had the temerity to interrupt.

“I don’t get it,” as he munched into a tuna-salad sandwich.

“What the fuck do you mean? It is quite obvious what they are talking about. You know what I don’t get, ‘Sports Center.’ Is it that hard to open up the LA Times and read the sports section, do I need a gorilla to recite what happened fifteen minutes ago ….”

“Actually yes, Sports Center makes as much sense as the boring political stuff you watch. You made Darren write an essay – while watching C-Span.” He grinned.

I admit, I did make Darren do that. But after a brief moment of guilt, I was still perplexed. What can my brother, who is both intellectually superior and infinitely more socially graceful than I, can not understand about Sex and the City?

The central premise of the show transcends all race, sex, creed, religion, and sexual orientations. We have all been Carrie/Miranda/Charlotte/and Samantha at one time. Oh sure, I never had the joy of being much of a Samantha, but I did some things that she would have approved of. Note Samantha is emblematic of much more than sexual gymnastics. She is emblematic of freedom, a certain genou c’est quoi that we are all suppose to exhibit while living our lives. For example, without any consideration for Smith’s career (whom we were suppose to assume made it big under her wings) suggests that the four fly off to Mexico. Playing her professional ball-cutting attitude, Miranda suggest she can’t go because of work. But as I stated earlier, all four are archetypes. We have all been there.

I think the four archetypes in Sex and the City are not that much more different than the four in The Golden Girls, or Frasier, or even I Love Lucy.

(1) Carrie is Dorothy/Sophia is Frasier/Niles/Martin/Daphne is Lucy (when lucid), Ricky (when not screaming) or Ethyl (when not listening to Lucy)
(2) Miranda is Dorothy is Niles is Ricky.
(3) Samantha is Blanche is Frasier (at times, others is Daphne) is Lucy.
(4) Charlotte is Rose is Niles (at other times is Frasier, and near the end is Daphne) is Ethel

The running theme, is that we can exemplify all modes of life into four main characters: the capricious, the philosopher-king, the innocent, and the professional. Which is why my brother’s innocent comment “I don’t get it,” was, and to this day is so bewildering. What don’t you get? It has transcended generations of television. We would all ditch the male/female if he/she had funky spunk.

But unlike Sex and the City, the one cultural phenomenon that I bet my brother does not get – and rightfully so, is Twilight. I am on page 140 right now, but from what little I can gleam from this teenage epic is that it can only speak to the hearts of teenage girls, women, and special subsets of gay men. The first hundred pages of Twilight is all about (a) a red truck, and (b) the stages of some sort of love you know will end in a disaster.

For no good reason, the main character, Bella obsesses over the mysterious-pale fellow with ochre eyes. The first time we are introduced to the enigma he is described as “the beautiful boy …. Picking the bagel with long pale fingers.” By page 87, Meyer opens up a thesaurus and wrote “It was hard to believe that someone so beautiful could be real. I was afraid he might disappear in a sudden puff of smoke….” The book continues with this obsessions. “I wonder what Edward would say,” (about walking along the beach no less)! She dreams about him. She compares different potential mates to him. One would imagine that if she was in the middle of cuninglingus with a werewolf, she would ask him to bare his proverbial fangs. But unlike the characters in Sex and the City, I think my brother has a right in not understanding Twilight.

A quote that I can actually relate to is:

It was the same as yesterday – I just couldn’t keep little sprouts of hope from budding in my mind, only to have them squashed painfully as I searched the lunchroom in vain (for Edward) and sat at my empty Biology table.

This was during Bella’s obsession phase, where she was constantly longing for this random stranger (whom by the way she has spent the total time-span of a few lab experiments with). Edward this. Edward that. And yes even being disappointed when he is not at lunch. But guess what Dear Reader, that is me, and every woman out there. Now sure don’t send me hate mail by my general statements aimed at large cross-sections of the populace. I am sure there are the sentimental heterosexual males; for example, I work with one. I am also sure there are many women who really do live like Samantha Jones; for example, go to law school. But I can state that I know of many man-whores who can relate to the Chinese saying “For as many stars are in the sky, there are as many women on Earth.” But I, my female coworkers, my best friends (who are all women), and even a friend whom I refer to affectionately as the “Mo” have been there. We all looked at our cellphones to see if there is a missed-call, even though we last checked 5 mins ago. This Sunday, I even scanned my church several times to see if my crush appeared. Forlorn, I passed the collection plate without even reaching into my pockets.

People demonstrate surprise when I tell them I am reading Twilight. When I tell them I am reading a book about Katherine Graham it is acceptable, but Twilight – how dare I besmirch my bookshelf. But guess what, I read it because I am Bella. I (and every romantic) have searched the lunchroom in vain. We have all sat at an empty biology table.

If Fish Were Cute, I Would Be a Vegetarian. Part II.

2009-12-28T20:52:00.001-08:00

If Fish Were Cute, I Would Be a Vegetarian. Part II.

If you think about it, how we eat is usually loaded with a political overtone. Many times it is overt and laced with politics. For example, I choose to eat Artic Char because it is sustainable. Sometimes it is bad marketing. I do not order Patagonian Toothfish; with such a disgusting name who knows what the dish will look like. Other times, I vote with my stomach, I like Chilean Seabass because it is buttery and delectable. But what I mean by political nature is that only in developed countries do we have such luxury. I partially blame Top Chef and the Food Network. I feel that many people think of themselves as Daniel Boulud when they go to Ihop. For example in my book club there was actually this heinous woman who actually complained about the lack of Diet Sprite. She then picked at every food item saying that she could not eat the lasagna because it contained sausage. Taking the bait, another member asked her if she was a vegetarian. She acted the way I would if someone asked me if my shoes are Kenneth Cole. “No,” she scoffed, “I am a pescatarian.”

For those confused, pescatarians are like vegetarians – but they eat seafood. They are the culinary equivalent of agnostics. I am sure many came to their decision with “I hedge because I need protein.” Excluding the Jezebel at Church, I know three pescatarians. And of the three, one does not regularly bludgeon me with the importance of choosing shrimp matter over the bovine variety. We shall call this acceptable pescatarian “Fibromyalgia” (once again for fears of libel, and, well he speaks about lawsuits more than me). But like the vegan from the party in Part I, the pescatarian, even the much-loved “Fibromyalgia” often talks about the gospel of their diet. One ranted about the perceived smaller carbon footprint in consuming salmon than bacon (wild salmon, not farmed because the latter variety is unsustainable). FN1. Another talked about the dangers and evils of poultry farms. A few months ago, my brother informed of the actual evils from shrimp hatcheries. All I can conclude is that I am skipping the “all you can eat shrimp special” at Red Lobster.

What is the need to proselytize about one’s diet? Not going to lie. I do it. In fact I am going to beat you Dear Reader to the punch. I stipulate, I am a pretty picky bastard while eating. I am not picky with food per se, just technique. For example, I lifted my nose at a hollandaise that resembled a custard more than a sauce. It would be easy to deflect all criticism by stating that my parents/grandparents cultivated my palate – they too are critical with their proverbial chopsticks. But I find my defense to be unavailing because I have one particular cousin who eats everything and never complains about broken béarnaise. I conclude that my feelings regarding technique is another form of politics. As the true Iron Chef opens “I am what I eat.”

Occasionally, I do vote with my stomach, I hate beans. This hatred of legumes can often play out in the chessboard that is life. Ordering an appetizer is often a “move”.
And even on my date Thursday, I tried to appear as amiable, charming, and well adjusted as I could feign, I had to assert “I hate beans.” It was a loaded comment really. A challenge. Like the Invasion of Poland, it was a declaration. If you dare order hummus as an appetizer, I will be leaving before dessert. Now this might not be the best example, because he did. There was a countermove, it was like he was saying “If you object, there will be no sugar with coffee afterwards.” I relented, I ate the mishmash of tahini and chickpea. It was another form of the politics with food. Like the vegan who objected to the ham salad, the cunt whom complained about the lack of Diet Sprite, and Fibromyalgia whom I can never take to Ruth Chris, the little skirmish over beans was political. Every time we order a menu, it is like reading Machiavelli. FN 2.

FN 1. I am quite surprised that this particular vegan could make such an assertion because it is normally outside the subject’s intellectual capacities.

FN 2. For those curious, I am glad I lost the Battle of the Chickpea

If Fish Were Cute, I Would Be a Vegetarian. Part I.

2009-12-28T20:51:00.002-08:00

If Fish Were Cute, I Would Be a Vegetarian. Part I.

I have observed that in over the past five years there has been an explosion of people declaring themselves to have a diet contrary to our “normal” omnivore ways. Dear Reader, I do not wish to offend you if you are one of the many who goes into a “carnivorous frenzy” when he hears “Korean BBQ.” I merely state “normal” because we have both bicuspids and molars. If we only had molars, I guess we would be vegetarians. And if we only had bicuspids, I guess we would be vampires.

But why, why the phenomenon to declare that you are: the relatively-common “vegetarian,” or the militant “vegan”? Why isn’t it like sexuality or even one’s preference for shoes. I keep it to myself, and if you really want to know, just look in my closet. I am reminded about an event in college where my roommate and I brought ham salad to a party. In retrospect it was a bad idea. I still flog myself knowing that I contributed to the increased sodium and nitrates of some of Nashville’s young-and-finest. But I also rationalized it with the fact that my roommate bought the thing, I was merely an accomplice. Anyway, we carried it to the party and my roommate who will be known as “Stan” (I am withholding his actual name in fear of libel), placed the salad in the fridge. After doing so, we marched our awkward selves back into the group hoping to be assimilated by the college equivalent of Species 8472. While Stan was awkwardly flirting with this ogress, who was too good for him, I was fumbling through the host’s bookshelf. Tuesdays with Morrie (blech!), Suzie Orman (please shoot me), something by Mary Higgens Clark (egads!!), and an equally my mind-numbing diddy by Nicholas Sparks (but if any of you talk shit about the Notebook, I will fucking shank you). As the mental pinball was bouncing through my head – as I judged the host on her lack of literary good taste, I heard a minor commotion in the kitchen. A few of the guests went over to the kitchen to see what was happening. I was merely thumbing through Who Moved My Cheese, when a girl, with somewhat pleasant features, of average height, excellent shoes, stumbled out of the kitchen yelling “Who the fuck put ham in the fridge – I am vegan!” I volunteered “Stan did because it was on sale at Kroger.”

Stan does not talk to me anymore. We were never the best of friends, but we were chums. We were roommates. I knew more about his feeding, bathing and migratory habits than his mother. But somehow, like plate tectonics, we drifted apart. I like to think he lost his life in a fraternity; comprised of 4 members. That I lost mine at Yves Saint Laurant. But as I write, the more I am willing to pin the blame on that harpy at the party. I guess Stan viewed me as Judas for selling him out, and I do not view him as one who would read the Apocrypha. But you have to understand, Dear Reader, this banshee in fabulous Manolos was out for blood. She apparently cannot eat anything that shares the same fridge with any sort of meat product.

Well she is the only vegan I ever met. Like politics, religion, and sexual positions, I guess there are many extremes. Maybe not all vegans are crazy like that. But I only met one, so my sample size is too small for me to judge. But you know what I find aggravating? Well that come back for Part II.

For Tomorrow: If Fish Were Cute, I Would Be a Vegetarian. Part II

Is 98 Too Much?

2009-12-28T20:51:00.001-08:00

One of the classes that most influenced my life was "Literature and the Law." I learned more about Equal Protection, the Commerce Clause, and Due Process from reading Hawthorne, Melville and Richard Wright than I did in law school. But a memorable quote that I remembered was one that had nothing to do with literature, or the law. My professor was lecturing about the importance of labels and group thought, and in the middle of discussing the importance of Liberia in Uncle Tom's Cabin, he ejaculates what would be unthinkable for an Associate Professor reaching for the golden rod that is tenure (but would lead to an automatic promotion for a school like Vanderbilt), "We are all racists in bed."

It is an interesting notion really. Recently I asked a dear friend if she agreed with this comment. She answered, "Absolutely not, I am a slut." I can actually vouch for her. She is quite the harlot. But I really thought about this situation. In the time when China is ascendant, a Black man is president, and Rick Bayless has made Latin comida all the craze, maybe the 14th amendment has hit the boudoir. But reality hits. In attempt to bring enjoyment to you Dear Reader, I decided to engage in an intellectual exercise and went on Match.com. At a random search, I pulled 600 profiles in Chicago. In the profiles I check the box for a preference for Asian. Of the 600, less than a 100 registered. I may also like to illustrate that many of the profiles that populated were also included for not listing a preference (perhaps brothers of my friend). Sadly enough, many of us may be racists in bed.

But even beyond the issue of race. We do screen out mates. We all have lists. Recently I have been derided by some good friends, and best hags for my list for a potential mate. The list, in its third incarnation totals 98 items. I don't have things enumerating race, but I do have: (20) Can manipulate the Keynesian Cross; (26) Can filet a fish; and (70) Knows who Tom Ford is. In those three items I have effectively screened 90% to 95% of the population (think of my plight if you read Kinsey). In those three items, what was once many fish in the sea, becomes a guppy in my proverbial fish bowl. In order to hit all three, one would likely have gone to college - Keynes is unfortunately not taught in high school. Holding all things equal, one would have to be in a significant tax bracket - Tom Ford's cologne goes for $160. Lastly, one would have to be a foodie - because who really wants to gut a fish. Dear Reader, you are probably thinking, bullshit. What about the college kid at the Art Institute working at Red Lobster? Surely he has heard of Keynes in macro, knows Tom Ford through GQ and can filet a fish when the diners roll in. Excellent point, but I would also like to point to (2) Read the NYT (I am generous to add NYT.com in Version 2), (12) Name 10 DOW Components, (75) Hates Summer blockbusters, (80) Read Lord of the Rings, and (93) Does not have a hard drive worth of porn. I am pretty sure the sous-chef has been knocked out by #2 and #12. But surely, #93 knocked out the college student.

I want to point out, not all my items are focused on the material. I do not look for a mate because he can buy me an island. What I want is someone who has similar values that I have. I stipulate, many are focused on business and finance. (98) Know the difference between an IRA and a 401(k), (11) Watch CNBC and (1) Read The Wall Street Journal. Why? Because I like talking about business, and money. Not because resources buy nice things, its just of interest to me. My relationship with CNBC is akin to many at a bar. This Sunday I passed by a bar, where many crowded around the Green Bay game. None of them have the body or potential to participate in such sport. But they were screaming and jostling like zombies after the last starlet in a mall. Similarly, I just like watching a stock ticker. But even with dealing away with the 20-25 items that revolve around Peggy Noonan, Milton Friedman, and Ayn Rand, I also have many for my own personal convenience. For example: (44) Doesn't drink much - I can't process alcohol very well, or (77) is ok with reading in the bathroom - not since Alexandria has a room housed so much material.

The crucible of all this is, 98 seems like alot. But is it really? We all do it. Some do it with religion; "I will not marry outside my faith." Others do it with finances. And some, yes some do it on race. This list does seem excessive, and admittedly, nobody will ever hit all 98. None of my ex bfs even hit 30.

Over the weekend at brunch, several brilliant fellows argued that I am seeking someone like myself. Hogwash. (86) Spontaneous, (77) Compassionate, (92) Good Listener. Well I am 92, but 86 and 77, I think not.

So why, why do I keep it? Am I a romantic. I presume items 1-67 prove I am not. My friends are right, maybe I should reduce it from 98. Maybe Tom Ford is not all that important. But (43) Order Appetizers are.

For Wednesday: If Fish were Cute, I would Be a Vegetarian.

Just a Guy with Two Cats

2009-12-28T20:48:00.000-08:00

"Find a way to engage in the Sabbath."
"I am sorry?" as I replied in a drunken stupor.
"You need to take time, rest, you know, Sabbath, Sunday, contemplation."
My weak response, "I go to Target on Sunday."

Much to the shock and dismay of my few friends, I have recently joined a Church with much fervor. Dear Reader, all is well, do not seem so shocked. My politics are still left-of-center; my character, as prickly as ever. But yes, I joined a church, in particular, Lakeview Presbyterian. Now I must stipulate, my choice in being a Presbyterian is not the product of some apotheosis. It is nothing so grand as some cosmic calling that slipped through my window seal at night. I just like the Church for the following reasons:

1. They really help the community of Lakeview, and often provide service to the underserved.
2. I find the members to be friendly.
3. The environment is laidback - I can bring coffee into the sanctuary.
4. I like the old ladies.
5. The Pastor and Associate Pastor do not engage in tortious readings of the Bible (but I disagree with their reading of Mark).

These are all good reasons - not the best I suppose. But Dear Reader, I almost became an Episcopalian because I liked the pomp and circumstance. In comparison, my reasons in joining Lakeview seems monumental and well thought out.

So what does a new acolyte do in Church? I don't know, I refuse to be an usher. I have little patience in teaching the elderly the importance of Living Wills and Power of Attorneys (Oh yes, this Church does that). I just decided to join everything else with a bunch of gusto. As long as it does not involve me telling people where to sit or that they will die, I am in!

For example, one of the things I volunteered for is working in a pseudo soup-kitchen, which is a misnomer, because we do not serve soup. We serve crackers and peanut butter. To add confusion, we only allow people betwixt the tender years of 18-26 to enjoy my services. Before anyone attempts to seek out some nefarious intent on my part, I would like to state that the policy is to provide a safe space for many of the "Lakeview Youth".

Another thing I have joined, is Bible Study. As my boss said "Get the fuck out." Yes, I joined Bible Study. doing so seems antithetical to my character. I hate groups, and I hate listening to people spout out nonsense. Dear Reader, as you may know, I love talking politics, business and religion, but I hate talking to idiots. In a study group, I have no power to screen. Nothing irks me more than hearing some cretin's view of Revelations- borne by his love of all things Apocalyptic. But it is about faith right, so I joined with much trepidation.

Well cutting to the quick, the past few months have been about the Sabbath. For my group, I need to do something to relax. It was actually rather embarrassing that in the past couple of sessions I could not explain how I relax. Video games, a common respite for many of my age, just tick me off by the second hour (can somebody please explain where all the Riddler trophies are?).
Shopping - well that has caused much of my misery of late.
Sports - please.
Drinking - I lack important enzymes.
Drugs - we are in a recession.
So I thought, what can I do? Well I remembered back in undergrad, I really enjoyed keeping an Economics journal. Oh yes, I was that kid. So why not, keep a blog, engage in the Sabbath. Maybe I will learn something about myself. Maybe I will learn it is ok to be an usher.

Tomorrow's Topic: 98 Too Much?