Islandboy00

Yes, Ma'am I'm a Vacuum Cleaner Salesman....

2003-03-27T02:19:38Z

You Are 100% Skilled @ Giving Blowjobs!

Woo Hoo! You are 100% skilled when it comes to sucking dick. Who could have thought that one person could possibly suck and blow at the same time.

You have got it going on in the tongue tango department.

Your lover is the luckiest man alive.

You know how to handle Mr Happy in every way unimaginable.

In your eyes, the penis is your friend.

You enjoy giving oral sex, and it is without a doubt enjoyed!

Think You're Good at Giving Head? Don't Be Sure. "How Does Your Blowjob Rate?" Quiz Reveals All!

More Revealing Gay Quizzes @ Gay Personality

well...if i fail my midterm tonight...at least i know i'm good at something

And the Winner Is....

2003-03-25T09:54:26Z

Man. Life goes up, life goes down, and there's all this talk about you reaping what you sow and karma to help you take your mind off the hardness in front of you. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't. So when does my karma train make it's stop? When is my harvest festival, the Oktoberfest of my life? When will I stop crawling from paycheck to paycheck? When will I meet someone who meets my needs with the same fervor with which I seek to meet theirs? ARgh....how can life be so fulfilling and so lacking at the same time? How can you seemingly have it all and have nothing? I'm tired and I'm getting burned out. I'm tired of being an adult.

Roller Girl Lives On....Only to Fall On Her Face

2003-03-23T12:40:23Z

The floor of a roller-rink is amazingly hard and unforgiving, especially to a skater attempting to show off his newly-reborn skills on said floor. When my skates clipped each other while rounding the bend, and I flew forward, arms outstretched as if reaching for my rapdily escaping pride, something else escaped my grasp. There it was, above the blaring music and the din of the other skaters, and the roar of the blood in my ears, an effeminate flamer-scream, punctuated by the thud of my elbow and knee hitting the ground simultaneously. And so ended the fabulousness of Roller Disco Night at World On Wheels tonight. And while I of course stilll LOOKED fabulous, the fact that I could barely walk, let alone shizzle ma nizzle on the skate track curbed my enthusiasm significantly. But man what a blast!!! Who woulda thought skating in circles like a rat in a maze would be so entertaining? Who woulda thought that a ghetto location actually made the idea fun? Not I. But I enjoyed it all the same. Now I have to go ice my knee with my bottle of vodka from the freezer......

Oh the Places You'll Go!!!!!

2003-03-19T10:48:53Z

If you want to get technical, you can call me a manipulative bitch with self-destructive tendencies who actively and willingly seeks needy, self-absorbed, and mentally unstable men with self-destructive tendencies in order to validate myself in my struggles with dependency and self-worth. I'm fucked up, so it seems, and I could not be happier. In a sick twist, I have realized that to some extent I enjoy the stress and aggravation that follow these men like sharks after a sinking fishing trawler. I also relish the drama that comes from the revelation that my happy life is fraught with strain and disappointment, that I "smile through the pain." Fuck. Give me MY Oscar. Call me a handy man - I like to fix guys, or at least think that I can. Why? Maybe because I can't fix myself.

And, on a side note, I'm falling out of love. For once, I'm taking the first of many challenging steps towards doing "what is right" for me. No more stress-filled and near sleepless nights pondering the significance of the coincidental skin-to-skin contact earlier in the evening. No more time wasted changing into the "good boxers" on the off-chance someone might *gasp!* see them. No more obsessing. No more late night phone conversations that continue into the early morning hours, over someone who could obviously give a shit about what I say or do. Why do this to myself? That, my friend (and of course, by "friend," I am referring to the two of you who actually read this) is the point. I will not do this to myself any longer.

Strength, particularly inner strength, is a highly sought-after quality, and one that I have rarely found (read: never) in a potential "partner." ( I hate that term. It sounds so, so...sanitary). And so I have come to expect that I cannot expect what I want completely, that my life will forever be made up of compromises in relation to relationships. This will not do. I refuse to make a list of pros and cons and stress over whether or not the cons outweigh the pros. I will stop throwing myself at someone, especially since it usually means the person just assumes that I'm such a nice person and that my desperate behavior is actually the norm for me, and that he can just expect that behavior at all times. No more trips to Gardena for hot Krispy Kreme, in other words. No, it is NOT part of my daily routine. Driving 45 miles for a donut is ridiculous, and if the end result is that I am still unnoticed, then I should accept that. No more trying to fight that. No more.

And so it is time to resume my role once again as "always the friend, never the one getting any." Sure, he's still achingly cute. Sure being with him makes me feel good. And of course, he's a great guy. But just not the best for me. And when it all boils down, it really is all about me. So that's that.

Of course, you should know that should he, by chance, touch my hand again or verbally indicate that there are "feelings" involved, you can just disregard this post. HA! I'm Kidding.............................................................................right?

All Hail the Chief

2003-03-18T11:02:29Z

and so, on the brink of war, i find myself preoccupied with thoughts of terrorist attacks and how horrible it would be for my mother to read of my demise in a firebombing at the grove, or worse yet, at tigerheat. the image of g.w. bush mispronouncing "nuclear" as "nucular" sends my body shuddering with apprehension, certain that a man who adds imaginary vowels to very serious words cannot be the best man for our country, let alone the commander in chief of waging war. i just remembered....i have no duct tape to seal my windows in this time of "orange alert," the nation's second highest warning level, which means that "something" could happen at any time, which more or less tells me nothing. and so here i am, entering information electronically onto a virtual space in time, oblivious to the winds outside, winds that foretell coming danger, ominous times. this will be the second time a man named bush will wage war against a country named iraq in my lifetime, but the first time that i realize how scary the prospect of war, and all it's necessary accoutrements, the heightened terrorist threat, rising gas prices, the draft, the first time i realize that this is my life now. i don't want to worry about duct taping my windows to keep out anthrax from a dirty bomb. i don't want to think about the many millions of ways someone can use a plane to kill hundreds or thousands of people. i don't want to think about the killing of innocent iraqui civilians if one of our missiles misses it's mark (and it seems that our own mistakes cost us more lives than those from behind enemy lines). i want to think about how nice it would be to cuddle in bed on a lazy saturday afternoon with my favorite guy. I want to think about 10 more weeks of tuesday night dinners in brentwood with american idol. i want to go to the beach. i want to forget that somewhere in the middle east a ruthless man is causing a ruckus and upsetting my normal routine. am i selfish? no. i dont' want to give up my life. i don't want to worry about my life on my own soil. why war now? why possibly make the world a worse place to live? we will have no gas, the ozone will be gone, and terrorists will spring upon us anew in light of our belligerance towards the arab world. and thank you, mr. president, you will have officially fucked up my dreams of happiness for the future...i just want to be with my boy...or at least get the chance to pursue him...without a gas mask

Vote for me on Oscar Night 2003!!!!

2003-03-17T09:02:40Z

Watch my movies!!!!

Fanta Shokata 1

Fanta Shokata 2

Fanta Shokata 3

Love this shit!!!!

For a transcript of tonight's program...

2003-03-17T08:37:50Z

kr1s33: LOL
kr1s33: uh huh
kr1s33: dear diary, this is barry's website, i love him < enter >
JaycenLee: man
JaycenLee: shut up
kr1s33: dear diary, if i had ovaries, i'd have barry's children < enter >
JaycenLee: you will die
JaycenLee: haha
JaycenLee: hahaha
JaycenLee: i was laughing so hard
kr1s33: to what?
JaycenLee: at your fucking comment
kr1s33: dear diary, i don't think barry likes me, but he's s till number one in my heart < enter >
JaycenLee: aaaaaaaaaaaaa

I'm a Queen

2003-03-06T19:57:25Z

You Are a Blowjob Queen!

You are a Blowjob Queen. That's right - you are a total blowjob master. You give the best blowjobs in town. In fact, you
could be considered a modern Linda Lovelace. Your reputation preceeds you, but that's okay. Men shower you with gifts to get close
to those lips.

What Kind of Queen Are *You*?

More Great Quizzes from Quiz Diva

Don't Stop Movin

2003-03-04T18:06:15Z

What is it about humans that requires them to savor the chase, to enjoy the pursuit, nearly more than the actual destination? Whether they be Ponce de Leon looking for the Fountain of Youth, or me chasing the object of my affections, why is it that the actual journey seems more exciting than the end result? *cue cracked-out breakdown* omg the chase is killing me! why can't people just you know, but fuckin straight-forward and obvious in their intentions? why the constant mind-fucking? yes it is exciting in a roller coaster-ish sorta way, but after a while, the ride must end and the rush should be savored in the afterglow. where's the afterglow! i want the afterglow! "ah paid my fare, rode the ride, now let me enjoy the sensations left lingering" or something like that. i'm going insane. when all the world around you is slowly losing their minds, it's just more fun to join in the chorus...here's to being crazy, at the end of your kerosene-soaked rope, at with's end, frazzled and greying, weeping and gnashing your teeth! Cheers!

I'm A Bitch! (but you knew that)

2003-02-24T08:38:43Z

The Sexbot

2003-02-21T06:57:23Z

You've all seen her. You know who she is. Instantly recognizable and forever notorious, she commands awe and respect for her brazen sexuality as much as for her marathon career, spanning three decades and showing only minimal signs of slowing down. The woman in question is, of course, Cher, the infamous pop-culture icon who once quipped that in the event of a nuclear war, "there will be cockroaches, and there will be Cher." Now, as much as Cher likes to flaunt her sexuality, strutting her stuff in flamboyant Bob Mackie creations that remind many of bad Batman movies, can you actually imagine having sex with her?

I bring up this question, this "one for the ages" because, I feel, it is a good question. On the one hand, you have Cher, who during performances, emits throaty growls and husky purrs, punctuated by electronic burps and beeps and doodads. Does she do this during sex? Do her ooooooooos and ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhs sound as fucked up as her voice on "Believe?" I can imagine a stunned participant running from the bed in terror, screaming. "She's shorting out!!! Bring some fuses!!!" "burp burp beep beep believe in liaaagvfe after lovee...."

Anyways, as you can see...the above was totally uninspired. For shame. I'm bloated and filled with grease after consuming an entire package of Hurricane Popcorn by myself, so you'll have to excuse me. Here's to Jordan, my Brown Brother in Bankruptcy. Here's to us making tons of cash and blowing it on Louis Vuitton's new spring line!!! Woo Hoo!!!! Ab FAb Saturday, here I come!!!!.........................*i'm out like george michael after he was caught in the park...with his hand on the wrong branch*.........

Why I Love Chicken Ceasar Salads

2003-02-16T17:19:35Z

The goddamn lice-ridden and mangy-looking rooster is at it again. It is 3:46 am, and for some reason, the Rooster belives it to be dawn. Asshole. He should be dragged by his chicken legs into the street and shot, then tarred and feathered, and hung from a telephone wire. Rather harsh, you say? This fucking chicken deserves to die and not get the honor of becoming Chicken Cordon Bleu or other such nonsense. I may sound bitter. I am. But whatever. I need sleep.

Valentine's Day Creeps Up, Like Cheap Underwear

2003-02-14T09:03:34Z

Somewhere over the rainbow, everything's supposed to be better, or that's what Patti's supposedly singing about. However, in the wake of the latest El Nino storm, I have yet to see bluebirds fly, or even a fucking rainbow for that matter. I'm not bitter, really, I'm just tired. And somehow, craving someone to hold for this impending holiday. lately i've been asking myself, am i a chronic relationship junkie? i like being in a relationship, and i would be lying if i said that i don't want one now, even though i just got out of one. am i trying to fill a hole in my heart? or do i just long to be held again? maybe both...and this holiday isn't helping.

The Music Store

2003-02-11T09:32:05Z

I was browsing the considerable aisles of the Amoeba music store, a giant new and used music emporium, this past Sunday and nearly lost myself in near-coital extacy at the bounty this treasure trove contained within its slightly dingy walls. Heading straight for the tried-and-true "used soul albums" section, I perused with serious intent. I came across one particular used cd that piqued my interest and spoke to my heart. I withdrew the cd from it's resting place and walked around some more, but I felt myself growing strangely self-conscious. I observed the other patrons, and their rabid enthusiasm was off-putting. I suddenly felt like the literal embodiment of "the mainstream label whore" in that sea of individualists, music snobs, and rock aficionados. There I was, wearing my Abercrombie T-shirt cause it was my last clean one, a Gap jacket, Abercrombie jeans and A&F sandals. I looked down at my own personal music selection, the CD that was going to make me happy, and suddenly was embarrassed. "Patti LaBelle: Live! One Night Only!" stared up at me, lifted in my hands, and I slowly turned the album, so that the cover was facing my body, away from the scrutinizing eyes of the crowd. I made little eye contact as I moved toward that other tacky domain, where few self-respecting music aficionados would dare to browse: the Cher Section. Her greatest hits were only in my hands five seconds before I dropped the CD back in it's slot. I had succumbed. I felt a little more assured when I pulled Dusty Springfield's Anthology from the racks, but I still felt somewhat odd, as if i didn't belong in this building. Gazing at the funky, Hollywood-trendy clientele, I realized that something was going on, something that was bigger than modified jeans and old Ramone's T-shirts and old records. This was a lifestyle, and I was not perceived as a part of it.

Think about it. If I were to walk into the Virgin Megastore and buy a Cher Greatist Hits, I would not feel as blindingly self-conscious as I did walking up to the Amoeba cashier with my Patti LaBelle CD and Dusty Springfield. Why is it that I don't feel comfortable expressing a part of who I am? I am not a musically illiterate troglodyte limited to a narrow slice of the genre pie. I love all sorts of songs, and yet, I feel as though I am perceived as too mainstream, too ingrained in the cultural ways of the unwashed masses. Aye. So yes. I indulge in Cher. I am a LaBelle Fan. Whitney can rock my world, but so does Donny Hathaway and a great Marvin Gaye/Tammy duet. Elton's a fave, and Bjork's getting up there. I love the Avalanches and Eve and Sergio Mendes and I can say that all in the same breath with confidence. Luther Vandross is inspiring and Sheryl Crow is reviving and Belle and Sebastian just get me in this funky mood. Ella calms me, along with Billie, Diana, Dinah, and Nina. So I don't have much experience searching through the remnants of other people's musical collections, and I may not weave my own belts or tear the sleeves off my shirts and sew on a sock. I don't have an extensive knowledge of Led Zeppelin's career nor do I know the significance of the liner notes on a particular Muddy Waters album, but I do know that I love music, all music, regardless of my clothing or percieved social status. And what's wrong with being me? The idea that I must fit a certain image to shop in the same arena as other more "die-hard" fans is outdated. Someday, I will be secure enough to lower my windows at a traffic light, "Dark Lady" blaring out the speakers, and not give a damn. That day is a long ways off; my fellow drivers will just have to suffer at intersections to "Mais Que Nada."

The Sunny Side of the Street

2003-02-06T17:16:52Z

I used to walk in the shade
With those blues on parade.
I'm not afraid - this Rover has crossed over!
Now if I never had a cent, I'd be rich as Rockefeller
Gold-dust at my feet
On the Sunny Side of the Street!

You can't be sad when you hear Dinah Washington, Diana Krall, Ella, or Tony Bennett belting out those lyrics. It's physically impossible. So, there I am, drving along the ghetto-ghetto (as opposed to ghetto-fab) streets of the Valley, smiling like a dumbass while singing this song. It helps that I have a new job...making $$$$$ and having nothing to do with folding sweaters, although we employ a mini-sweatshop next door - hey it's air-condiditoned so it's all good. However, I am ashamed to admit that I have blown a portion of my newly-made wealth on *sigh* Nail Envy Nail Strengthener. So yes I gloss my nails - the better to stare at my reflection or to use as reflectors when using outdated hand-signals to indicate a lane-change. Anyways, it's early, I must clean my room and *sigh* go to class and then work....damn this single-mom schedule.

Carnival of Clowns

2003-02-04T20:41:40Z

I weep
Inside
For no apparent reason.
A torrent of tears
Cascades around my heart
Eroding,
Breaking it.

Pounding
Waves
Of doubt and disillusion
Wash away my will
To fight the rising tide.
Apathy
Threatens me.

Diva's Live and other such Nonsense

2003-02-03T03:35:05Z

What began as simply another Friday night adventure became an intense and rollicking ride through diverse musical genres as five gay men battled it out at Yuu Yuu Karaoke. The playlist read like some cracked-out DJ's hallucination, with hits from Elton, Cher, Jay-Z featuring Beyonce, Whitney (who really is cracked-out), Oasis, Britney Spears, and superwhore Mariah Carey all making appearances. Tina Turner also made a special appearance, but the latter half of "Proud Mary" was marred by my lack of alcohol, rendering a flawless performance impossible. I massacred the song bad. There were no survivors. The stand-out Grammy nominated performance of the night, however, belongs to Mr. Hamaguchi, whose impassioned version of "Don't Look Back in Anger" stunned our group into silence, then made us fans!!! Release the CD!!!! Eric rocked us with his Chinese songs, and even though we had no idea what the hell he was saying, or why the Chinese girl in the video was staring off her balcony into space, we appreciated his songs, sung from the heart. And Brian, Mr. Tom Jones himself, proved that it's not unusual at all to start singing that song. Or even to do the head bob. Alain reserved his voice for the truly diva moments, letting loose with "One Moment in Time" circa 19-whenever-Whitney-was-not-on-crack and "I Can't Live If Living is Without You" by Mariah before she had her whorish breakdown. I do, however, believe that my performance of "Gypsies, Tramps and Thieves" was respectable, and "September" was fun to sing. Ah, the joys of karaoke. The Japanese, I tell you...they have all the answers.

Saturday was Chinese New Year, so my Portugese Aunt and my Mexican self drove out to Gardena to celebrate. Ah hell it was just an excuse to gorge ourselves on shrimp and roast duck. I also got my yearly dosage of vegetables, so i'm set for now. Also picked up some hot, fresh Krispy Kreme...mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm. Soooooooooo good. Later that night...I prepared for an early death by eating a diet-obliterating omelette at Cafe 50's, while I pretended to not be embarrased that Barry was eating a salad while I gorged myself. We then watched "Guru," where I learned about the dangers of sitting in the middle of a theatre (god forbid a girl's hair should catch on fire! then where would we go? we're in the MIDDLE!), and I also learned that Marisa Tomei is sorta weird. Good times, though...good times. Oh...and the dimmer switch on your rearview mirror is your friend...learn to use it.

Today..I lost my Virgin virginity by visiting the Virgin Megastore on Sunset Blvd. I've been to the one in Vegas, but never here. No big deal though. The bigger deal was my burger at Wolfgang Puck's, which was awesome. A drive down Mulholland Drive and I was home...my last weekend as a non-working individual...as I start my new job tomorrow. Rape me for my Gap discount now you conniving thieves, because in two-weeks...I will no longer be under their employ.............

Return of the Green Totoro and What That Means For My Life

2003-01-31T19:08:20Z

The Totoro is staring at me again, and I must say, something in his gaze has me believing that he is somehow responsible for the events that have just occurred. Let me explain.

On our way to Tigerheat to get our collective groove on, Carmelita (Donna the Red Civic after her name change because she discovered her Latin heritage) broke her foot. Actually, her foot blew up. While charging up the Mulholland Pass at 75 mph, Carmelita blew out her left rear tire, effectively halting most forward progress. When I say blew out, I mean BLEW THE FUCK OUT. We limped to the side of the road, sparks flying from the metal rim, and immediately called AAA. Now this is where it gets fucked up. I begin yelling over the phone to the AAA lady, over the roar of the passing cars, while Cris and Jessica reenact every porno scene they have ever watched to amuse oncoming traffic. To make matters worse, the operator kept saying "Are you ok Ma'am? Ma'am? Have you pulled over to the side of the freeway?" Evidently at that moment I sounded like an hysterical woman, even though I was far from hysterical. I'm less far from being a woman, but whatever. The icing on this cake was this statement she made: "Ma'am, this says the account for AAA is for Jason Marcos. He will be there, correct? Ma'am? He is with you on the freeway correct?" AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
It's my life before puberty all over again.

Well, It only took ten minutes for the AAA man to come and change my tire, and while he was doing it, I was struggling with the politics of such an interchange. After all, this man IS changing my tire. Should I talk to him? Offer to help him? What? I have no idea. So because I was confused, I just stood on the curb wth everyone else and just talked a lot. As soon as he was done, we continued on our merry way. Ain't nothin gonna stop us from getting our groove/skank on (groove/skank depending on which member of the group we're talking about). So yes once at Tigerheat we partied like it's 1999 in 2003, and then made it home by 4, at which Jessica's car wouldn't start so I had to take her home. Bad Lolita bad. (Lolita is Jessica's car. She may be white but there is NOTHING virginal about that car.It even drives bow-legged). And that's pretty much the end of the bad news.

Very good news this morning to wake to. I received a call...and Little Giraffe wants me!!! They Love me!!! They really love me!!!! I can finally look forward to being able to SAVE. Brian, put away your cardboard boxes; I no longer need your affordable housing. Thank you anyways. Jetta here i come. Carmelita is almost history. I take that back. Carmelita the Carmelite Civic will forever be a part of me. She has been great, incredible really to me. "lady, from the moment i saw you...." and so forth. Ok...I'm so done with this post. It's become a sort of novella, and if i write more, I'll have nothing left to write ever. One last comment: Thugz Mansion by Tupac is absolutely beautiful. Are we sure he's dead?

Mornings Must Die and Other Random Thoughts

2003-01-30T18:13:39Z

My 6:30 class, while not altogether horrible, is one of those events that once again reassures me that all things that are associated with the morning, traffic, cold, WAKING UP, these are all horrible. Breakfast and coffee excepted, there is nothing grand about shaking off the sleepy daze, venturing out into the biting chill of a morning, trudging through the half-light that is dawn, Aaron Copeland's Appalachian Suite be damned!
On a good note, however: I just received a phone call, and I now have a job interview at 2 this afternoon! Cross your legs and knock on your wood folks, cause I wanna be a Little Giraffe too!!! Now the all important question of "What to wear?" Oh and do I bring a list of references? How about another copy of my resume? I'm so new at this...stumbling around in a fog concerning this whole job hunt bullshit. Thank you card after the interview? Send a fruit basket? Sexual favors? What the hell do I do? I'll knock em dead, that's what I'll do.
On a quizzical note, why do we suffer nervous breakdowns? How is that, undernormal circumstances, our minds can handle millions of stressors, and yet, just one more breaks the camel's back? Or causes our nose to bleed? Interestingly frail, we are.
My Totoro mini-plush is eyeing me, his blank stare gazing upon me with suspicion. What could he want? Rice? Normalcy? What? What does an imported mini-plush from Japan need to be happy? A little girl totoro? A little boy totoro? hehe. Sounds like a musical :"The Gay Totoro!" Off-off-off-off-off-two-more-blocks-down-around-the-corner-from-Broadway.
Enough randomness...don't want to contribute to those stressors. Operators, have your Kleenex standing by. And camel back replacements. I want to slip in a camel-toe joke, but i'm not sure how to do it, so I'll end it ......here.

Dammit

2003-01-28T17:49:49Z

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!! I hate school. It's my second day, and already I've missed a class. For some reason, I signed up for a 6:30 class, believing it to be 6:30PM. Unfortunately, I am not that lucky. This total night owl will now be required to get his ass out of bed at 5:45 every Tuesday and Thursday, to attend the History of the US post 1865. YAY! On the brighter side, I will not miss American Idol, nor be late for Friends. And I'm free to do as I please after 12:15 on Tuesdays and Thursdays, which leaves plenty of time for an intensive job hunt, because, friends, the GAP is not showing love. No sir. Folding sweaters no longer equals rent money.

The Trouble with Cock

2003-01-27T10:31:02Z

My rooster is at it again. Once again, it is 2:21 in the morning, and the filthy animal is crowing to an imagined sunrise. Of course, it's not MY rooster per se, but it haunts my nights...crowing at a fucking halogen lamp in the parking lot because it's too stupid to tell the difference between that and the sun. Dumb-ass fowl. I'm gonna go across the street and kill that lice-ridden retarded organic alarm clock if this continues. I wonder if it would make great Coq au Vin?
And that, my friends, is the trouble with cock: it's always up when you don't want it to be, and never around when you need something to munch on.

Mariah Highs and Parking Woes

2003-01-26T12:28:58Z

So I had this awesome day today, and I did absolutely nothing that I had planned to do, which I think made it that much more awesome. What began as an excursion to aquire simple donuts became an adventure throughout LA, an adventure in which most of our time was lost attempting to find parking. The Grove shopping center has one of the most advanced parking lots in the world, with digital read-outs on each floor telling you how many spaces are available...level 7 supposedly had 178...why could we not find a single one? While the roof, while claiming only to have 84, had almost half the lot empty. Hmmm. Bitches!!! We spent 15 minutes inhaling the toxic fumes of hundreds of other cars in an attempt to buy Valentine's Day boxers.On one hand we have cute boxers at the risk of death by carbon monoxide poisoning...on the other, more money in the pocket to save!. Hmmm. This is America. We choose boxers and imminent respiratory failure. Our second parking problem began in Westwood, while tryin to get Kim Chee Fried Rice. Awesome stuff. Also, no awesome parking. Anywhere. We ended up paying $4 for a lot right next to our table. Haha. Ok..This post sorta sucks. I blame this firstly on my exhaustion. Secondly, I blame it on your lack of interest in my story, which I must admit, really amuses only me. And thirdly, you really don't want to hear about how Mariah nearly got us to pay $12 each to sing a few songs at a Karaoke room for 2. "Always Be My Baby" will do that to you. And then you probably don't want to hear about "Barbershop" which we later rented, or "American Idol 2" which we watched later on tape. No, you just want to finish this damn entry and get on with your lives. Well, ok. I'm gonna lie down now..and prepare myself for the barrage of commercials and food that is Superbowl Sunday. Vivo los commerciales y Star Spangled Banner y Half Time Show! I'm out like a light.

Who I Am

2003-01-24T00:43:44Z

I grew up believing I was white. The history of the "old continent" became my history, the Pilgrims, George Washington and Abraham Lincoln, became my heroes, the greatest men of the greatest country ever founded. I was taught I was white. Born in a small rural town in Central California, I saw little connection between the deeply tanned skin of the local migrant workers and my own brown skin. My neighborhood was white, my school was white, Jesus was white. I was raised to be white.
I moved to Hawaii when I turned twelve, to the then-untapped root of my family tree, back to the seed of my Filipino heritage. I knew nothing of it. For the first time, I attended class with not a single blonde. No blue eyes sparkled, and the five white kids my age were in the class next door. I was uncomfortable with so many brown people around me; their brown eyes and strange foods assaulted my senses. Strange customs, the tini-kling and bon dances, Chinese New Year, cotillions, all confused me. I was born a third-generation Filipino; my grandparents were born in this country. My childhood was largely devoid of ethnic influences, and this sudden immersion in a world where ethnicity came out in full force brought me to a sudden realization: I believed I was white, was taught I was white, was raised to be white, but I was born brown. Brown is the color of my skin, my hair, my eyes, and my life. For the first time, I saw myself reflected in the faces of my friends; their families resembled my family, their life was my life. I felt at home in the Aloha State, and realized what it meant to be brown, to be not white. For the first time, I recognized the fact that I was a Filipino American.
I learned my family history in Hawaii, my real history, the history that mattered to me. I learned how my great-grandfather left his village in Illocos Norte to work on the sugar plantation in Waipahu, how my grandfather's mother was murdered at the stream where she washed the workers' clothes, and how my grandfather was raised by his sisters. Ellis Island meant nothing to these people. My grandfather has never seen the Statue of Liberty. The history of the European immigrants now meant nothing to me; it had nothing to do with me. My point of entry had it's roots a half a globe away, in a land only mentioned in textbooks in relation to General Macarthur's "I Shall Return" speech. It is not hard to understand why the residents of Hawaii do not feel as though they are a part of the United States; their histories are not included in the curriculum. My own aunts, who are Filipino-French-Portuguese, refuse to acknowledge their Filipino heritage, claiming their European pedigree instead.
When I returned to California as a sophomore in college, I enrolled in an Asian American Studies class for the first time, intrigued by the title, "Asian Americans in the Media." As I attended the class, I realized the utter non-recognition of the Asian American community, my people, as a people who deserve recognition. Relegated to playing sexless martial arts warriors or exotic over-sexed dragon ladies dependent on white men, Asian Americans are forced to perpetuate stereotypes to make a living. I was angry at the realization that I had no voice in this country, no representation, no role model. I had only the sugarcoated history and half-hearted attempts of the government to include Asians after classifying them as "aliens ineligible for citizenship." Suddenly, I had a hunger, a need, to know more. I changed my major to Asian American Studies, and spent the past two semesters learning about our history, our struggles, and our triumphs.
I hope to take my major and my knowledge in the field, and use it to bring a sense of pride to the community. I want to help bring this country to a place where race is not only black or white, but a multitude of colors and ethnicities. We are not Model Minorities; we are Model Americans. We have worked hard to establish a place in this land, to build communities, families, and businesses. We want to live out the American Dream without being asked, "Where are you from?" We want to be recognized as a people who belong here. I want the freedom to be brown.

I'm coming out

2003-01-23T08:48:39Z

For the two of you who read this journal consistently, I must come clean. For too long, I have attempted to hide who I really am, to hide certain "feelings" from you, because I was ashamed. It is a horrible tragedy of life when a person feels that he can not truly be accepted, because of the chosen object of his affection. Therefore, I am now going to tell you this secret: I am...ah, it's so hard! Why is it so hard to reveal this? I am strong, I am secure, I am confident, and yet the courage that i need now escapes me. Woo! Ok..I'm ready...I am .... a BRITNEY SPEARS FAN. Oh what a fucking relief! It feels so good to get that shit off of my chest. For too long I have dogged those who adore her, and dissed her songs, only to go to the clubs and dance to every one of them and sing along to all the lyrics, which I kept locked away in my head. But I always said that this wasn't who I was, this couldn't be...it was so WRONG. But finally, I had to come clean, for my sake. I needed to love myself for who I realized I was, and to just let go.

It was actually today that I cemented my BS fanhood. While driving through a park off Mulholland Drive, we passed Britney and her friend walking down the side of the road, about 3 feet from our car. Our eyes locked. We continued driving a ways before pulling off to the side of the road and completely losing control of ourselves for five minutes. Calling everyone we could, we debated following her and asking for her autograph, but ultimately decided against it. You see, Jessica and I, we are a better breed of fan. We respect Britney's right to privacy and her current hiatus. As such, we felt it wholly unnecessary to pester Ms. Spears for an autograph amidst all of nature's glory. Also, Justin's CD was in the car, and that would have been wholly disrespectful.

So that was the highlight of my day, well that and seeing my old high school friend Robyn on American Idol! And homegirl made it to the next round! It's cause she knew me...I'm good luck.

If you got a big D***, Let Me Search It, Find out how hard i gotta work it...

2003-01-20T22:26:06Z

I'm in full recovery mode now, tidying up the wreckage that my body has become after one crazy weekend. I don't believe that I can bend down now...my thighs would surely snap. I'm reminded of my old P.E. teacher screaming at us over the scorching blacktop while we did our sprints: "FEEL THE BURN! EMBRACE THE BURN!!" Freaks I tell you, it was freaks who ran our programs. But last night was not P.E. Last night was Tigerheat. I figure if I continue dancing at this rate, I'll never need the gym again. Just play "work it" by missy in one continuous loop and I'll have the body of a god in a few months. Oh my god. Why do people feel the need to wear tank tops at clubs without at least a prior inspection of the jungle under there first? Barry and I were nearly smothered by the Amazon rainforest thrust at us by Ugly Homie #1 last night. Fo real...trim. Knocking random people out with your elbows while polluting the air with the funk of your untrimmed armcrotch in the name of getting your groove on is totally unacceptable. And then there was Uglie Homie #2, who proceeded to belt out the lyrics to "Dirrty" in this absolutely gross high nasally whine of a bitch-voice. Imagine Urkel attempting to sing "Dirrty" three feet from your face, and you basically have the idea. Actually, that description is perfect. He was Urkel without the Nerdy Cool that somehow made him popular. No Urkel doll for this boy. Just a bitch slap. I may sound like a bitch, but DIVA is more like it. Cause girl, if you're gonna get your ass out on the floor like that, then bitch, own that shit. Sing like you mean it, dance like you want it, and don't be afraid to give that skank next you a little elbow if he/she starts bringin their stank ass a little too close. Cause none of us needs stank ass. This go dunk a dunk dunk is out.