KITTEH

A CHANCE ENCOUNTER IN GREENPOINT

I came across this kitty right outside the Nassau Ave G stop in Greenpoint, Brooklyn.
There are alot of strays in the neighborhood.

I have a history with stray cats, dating back to my days living in Pittsburgh, at 5622 Woodmont St.
Since then, I've called any and all friendly stray cats Woodmont.
Jason calls the above cutie, Whiskerface Meowmers.

Additionally, another Woodmont, from outside my old Greenpoint bedroom window:




Oh hai.

That is all.

 
 
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MUZAK

INTERPOLA, SILVER-SCREEN HEELS

I'm a huge Interpol fan. Ash thinks all their songs sound they same.
We both think they're funny in their semi-serious, lyrical way.
Together, we wrote the ultimate Interpol tribute.

Lyrics: Kohta Asakura and Ash Hsie
Music, Vocals, On-Screen Talent: Ash Hsie

 
 
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ROMANCE

SLEEPING WITH A SPICE GIRL IN L.A.

I was alone. It was the first night after I moved to LA.


A few details: I was at a local watering hole a block from my apartment, trying to acquaint myself with my new neighborhood. I draw a blank when I try recollect anything memorable about this place.

I guess it was dark, dingy, and cozy.


... ;)
 
I'm reminded of a nugget from the past:
 
Back in the pubescent glory days of the late 20th century (read: mid-1990s), I participated in a pissing game called, "Which Spice Girl would you have sex with?" Note: - none of us had any real grasp of what sleeping with someone of the opposite sex actually entailed.
 
The participants were my best friends: Leon (Middle-Eastern), Stan (Black), Craig (Black), and myself (Asian). We were our very own International House of Spice Boyz.
 
Like most of my pre-pot-addled memories (and my post-cocaine-addled memories)*, the details are fuzzy, but I do vaguely recall that one of my black friends (Stan or Craig) picked Scary Spice, probably because that was the ethnologically correct thing to do, and my sleazier (falsely interpreted as "experienced") friend, Leon, picked either Ginger or Sporty, because they too were assumed to be more sexually experienced, and therefore be more fun in bed.
 
Probably. Yes. 4 (Four) pre-broadband virgins talking game.
 
{*Don't let peer pressure convince you that weed isn't a gateway drug. It is.}
 
I have always been (and still am) insecure about the opposite sex. Perhaps it was my middle-class upbringing, growing up an only child listening to Third Eye Blind? So it was with great fanfare (in my head) that I proclaimed Posh Spice as the only Spice worthy of my seeds.
 
Like the other three major "girl decisions" I've made in my life, I was met with derision and ridicule by my peers. She was too skinny, or something. Seriously though, fuck that. She's the best looking of the bunch.
 
Let it be known that no one wanted to sleep with Baby. Sorry, girl.
 
...
 
Back to the bar.
 
I sit there, nursing my (first) drink, ruminating about shit and shit, when someone taps me on my crooked right shoulder. I Asian-Glow, but am not drunk. I recognize the tapper as Geri Halliwell, aka. Ginger Spice.
 
We exchange pleasantries. She commences to talk about - I don't recall, but the ease with which she converses with my total strangerlyness convinces me that this is a curious case of mistaken identity.
 
I nod. I am too confused to say otherwise. She orders herself a whiskey, straight. I assume I'm paying. Okay, great.
 
Then she drops an English-accented bombshell: "So, you gunna' take me huhm, or whut?"
 
I hadn't even said a word up to this point. I panic. I've never done one night stands; this was less of a moral decision and more of physiological limitation, me thinks. My body decides to sweat profusely - and I am convinced that this is a deliberate decision made by my glands, and not some sort of biological coping mechanism; otherwise, how could God be so cruel and born me unto the world as an uncontrollable sweater?
 
I excuse myself to the bathroom. BRB (Bee-ar-bee). Ms. Halliwell scrunches her face and eyes the bartender, effectively responding, "Whatever, bitch."
 
In my haste to the boys room, I accidently bring my drink with me. I place it on top of the urinal, and let my jimmy flow. It is damp in the bathroom, and it smells like a combination of balls and Irish Spring soap. There is condensation building up everywhere. Using my right forearm as a sanitary pillow, I lean my head onto the flush.
 
Two thoughts run concurrently in my head: "What next?" and more pervasively, "OhMyGodHowDidIGetThisFar?Does
SheFindMeSexuallyAttractiveBecauseSheIsDrunkOrIsItBecauseIDidn'tSayAnythingAndWomenFindThatAppealing
BecauseWheneverIOpenMyMouthTheyFindMeRepulsiveAndOhMyGodNoOneLovesMe?"
 
I glance back to see that the bathroom door did not close fully. In true narrative cliché form, I catch Geri checking the time on her wristwatch. Even the pale-yellow tiles of the bathroom wall sweat under my nervous energy.
 
Wait,IsSheOrderingAnotherWhiskey?!
 
Though I stopped pissing several moments ago, I do a little formal jiggle to eek out any more time before having to decide whether or not I'm going to go through with this.
 
Encouraged slightly by Ms. Halliwell's libatious (not a real word) inclinations, I decide that I will get crunked, and then I shall bed her. As I am about to grab my drink from atop the urinal, under my breath I declare, "Unless you show me a sign, God!"
 
At that moment, a droplet of water from the built up condensation drops from the urinal flush into my drink. Plop. Divine intervention!
 
I am relieved, as I was never serious of actually going through with this bizarre one-night stand. I decide to commiserate my overreaction to these events by overreacting once more. I run into a stall, kick open the small window above the toilet and climb out of the bar.
 
I left behind a past, present, and future I could never truly appreciate. Remember, I chose Posh.
 
I concede: the false irony of "If you wanna be my lover, you gotta get with my friends," escaped me as I fled.

 
...
 
Upon doing some research, Wikipedia informs me that Ms. Geri Halliwell is actually quite an accomplished diplomat and goodwill ambassador to many causes.
 
Perhaps it was a case of mistaken identity on my part?
 
 

* * *
 
 

REALITIES

MORTIFYING TRAIN SITCH
 

I've fallen in and out of love with the most gorgeous women on the subway,
based solely on the impression left, post-collision.
 
 
* * *
 
 

DISPATCHES

A Colin Powell Story

Excerpts from "GOD IS DEAD" written by Ron Currie, Jr.

Purchase the book.

Illustrations by Kohta Asakura

With a curse, Powell turned off the telephone. "Tell me something," he said to the official. "Why do I always end up relaying messages through the lowliestgoddamn sub-assistant-deputy in the White House? Why, in almost four years, have I spoken directly to that redneck son of a bitch only three times? And two of those times were at fucking Christmas parties?"
     "I don't know, sir," the official said.
     "I'll tell you why," Powell said. "Because I'm black."
     The official, uncertain, said, "Well, maybe, sir."
     "The same reason I got this job in the first place," Powell continued. "Because I'm black. Ain't that a bitch, huh? I get the job because I'm black, and my boss won't talk to me because I'm black."
     "If I may speak frankly, sir," the official said, "I'm not sure black is the word I'd use to describe you."
     Powell deployed a fierce, wide-eyed gaze, one he'd perfected through hundreds of hours of viewing and reviewing Samuel Jackson movies. "Oh no?" he said.
     The official, realizing he'd stepped directly into the metaphorical pile of dung, tried to backtrack. "Well, of course, I mean, ethnologically speaking, you're black. Sir. Of course. I was thinking more of your appearance, a sort of benign, nonthreatetning, ashy tone which ---"
     "I'm black as night, motherfucker!" (Said Powell).
     "Of course (you) are, sir," the official said. "Sorry, sir."
     "Apology accepted, Bitch-ass."
     "Back to the keywords for tonight's (speech), sir. If we may."
 
...
 
"Fuck that," Powell said. "I'm a general, don't forget. And generals give orders. Like I'm giving you an order right now: Leave me alone."
 
...
 
(Without knowing it, Colin Powell meets God in human form. Powell speaks to Him/Her.)
 
"How does a man become the first black assistant to the president for national security affairs? How does a man become the first black chairman of the Joint Chiefs? How does a man become the first black secretary of state? And then I answer myself: by behaving, in every possible manner, like a white man."
     God said nothing. Instead he did what he always did, all he was allowed to do: sympathize, sympathize.
     "The highest ranking, most powerful house (negro) in history," Powell said. "That's me."
 
...

 
 
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