ALL APOLOGIES: KUMIKO OR TOMOKO

Dear Kumiko or Tomoko,

Forgive me if I cannot for the life of me dig up your name from my corrupted memory bank. Narrowing down your first name alone has been a challenge. In fact, I'm not even sure I'm close. I just remember you're a Japanese girl, and the picture of you in my mind's eye is a fuzzy mash-up of hopeless typographical errors, a squeaky voice that was at once intriguing and tooth-rattling, an endearingly offensive undocumented immigrant's accent, a misappropriated mosquito net, chocolate-covered pretzels, INOJ, and...........your big bones.

"A/S/L," was my witty opener. No "hi", no "hello", just a cool "age / sex / location, please." Granted that one's personality can be greatly enhanced and even fabricated on the internet, I never really made for much of an online pimp. I choose to do my mackin' offline ;) The A/S/L bait usually didn't fetch much of a catch for me, and if I did get a response it would be something like "16 / No way / Vancouver. Bye." Argh. I have some friends who not only slept with the girls they met online, they actually ended up moving in with them, all by using that same opener (I'm not quite sure if that's a skill to admire or something worthy of an unannounced visit by Chris Hansen from Dateline NBC). No such luck for me apparently.

You and I "met" in the innocent days of the pre-merger, 28K dial-up America Online (56K if you had rich parents). Categorized AOL chatrooms were the stomping grounds for thousands of awkward, horny, easily excitable, college zombies across the country. There was a room for every race, gender, transgender, and age group to peel away their inhibitions and insecurities, one keystroke at a time. All you needed was a $29.95 monthly subscription and a clever screenname; in toggle-case for girls (i.e. AzNxBeBeGrl637) and car-inspired for guys (i.e. IntegraBoi4Lyfe). At that time I was driving around in my mom's car so I could either go with CamryThug187 or come up with something else (btw, I kid you not her license plate read "4MEN637." If you had a pager in high school you'd know that "637" was code for "always and forever." I have a story involving my mom's homo-Camry, four of my friends, and West Hollywood, but I'll save that for another day). I went with the latter and came up with Poopaburst.

"21-Female-Valencia," you replied. What the fuck, you actually replied? I needed a moment to gather my thoughts, fix my hair, pop some Halls, and calm my nerves before driving this conversation home. I mustered up every ounce of my wit and charm to follow with "Korean?"

"No Korean. Japanese yes."

Interesting. Based on your less than perfect grammar I guessed Japanese-born. After a 45 minute rally of absolute peabrain drivel, I somehow convinced you to give up your phone number. Well actually I just had to ask. What a pimp!

This chatroom stuff was turning out to be pretty fun. But I didn't know the ground rules. Does the Swingers wait-three-days-before-you-call-a-chick-you-meet-at-a-bar rule apply to online catches? Do I say the words "laugh out loud" when you tell a stupid joke? I was lost. But I called anyway banking to take advantage of your foreign-exchange-student naivete.

"Haro?" you squeaked.

Listen, I'm all for Asian Pride and social consciousness and racial equality and affirmative action and MLK and all that stuff, but goddamn, "oriental" accents never fail to crack me up. I mean don't get me wrong, I hate white people just as much as the next 5'7" Asian doucherag, but what's funny is funny.

"Something problem?" you shyly asked when I snickered instead of saying hello back.

"Nothing sweetie. So how are you?

"I am good and may I ask how about yourself?" you returned, enunciating every goddamn syllable like you were tip-toeing through the customs gate at LAX. Just perfect, talking to an English-speaking stranger on the phone was probably some lame ESL assignment from your perverted yellow-fever-afflicted adult school teacher. I had to wrap it up. I couldn't take anymore of this squeaky nonsense.

So I went for the kill. "Ok, so do you wanna hang out sometime? Maybe I can come over your place and we can play Hide the Salami."

"Eh? Hide uh Sarami? Who is Sarami?"

"Nevermind that honey. Can I come over or what?"

"Come? Obah?"

"Yes. I. Come. Over. To. Your. Place."

"Oh? Yes. Ok good."

"That's a yes?"

"Yes good."

"Good?"

"Yes ok."

Fuck me, we could do this dance for 20 minutes. "Ok so when should I come over?"

"Oh. Ahum. Please come obah Friday. Seven or crock. Umm. My oniichan go Japan. Ahum. Yes? You have handsome voice."

Something in my crotch area twitched a little bit. I dunno if it was your metal-grinding voice or the idea of spending the night with a Japanese chick all to myself. My sister used to watch a lot of Japanese anime so I knew that "oniichan" meant older brother. Could the timing be any better? Is this what everyone referred to as "having game"? Everything seemed way too easy. Either I was that good or there was a fat catch.

But there was no time to dwell on things. I had to prepare. I immediately got a fresh haircut with a No. 1 clip on the sides, washed my favorite corduroys, dry-cleaned my best Structure sweater, polished my Timberlands, and trimmed my pubes with a No. 3 clip all around. Oh and I couldn't forget the baby powder for the sack and walls. Prevents chafing from friction by reducing moisture.

All sorts of nasty, skanky, post-adolescent gooeyness filled my brain like Sapporo head in a pint glass while random clips of mosaic-censored porn scenes from my entire Japanese shelf flashed before my eyes faster than a bullet-train through Osaka. I was gunning my mom's homo-Camry up the 5 North to Valencia. I didn't know it could do 95 mph. When I finally exited I realized that I forgot to pick up the two most important things when aiming to get laid on a date: flowers and condoms. All the florists were closed and I couldn't find a Ralph's anywhere. Luckily I hit a 7-Eleven half a mile off the exit.

"Hello my frang!" greeted the bearded turban. I always thought a Middle-Eastern Mr. Potato Head would be fun to fuck around with. I cruised by the magazine rack. All the covers of Maxim, Ebony, Vogue, Lowrider, and Import Tuner seemed to scream at my crotch-a-fire. I was all shook up. I looked for flowers but they had none. So I opted for chocolate. The best I could find was a three-pack of Ferrero-Rocher. That'll do. I also picked up a pack of Halls. I find that the mentholatum is much more effective at killing bad breath than Trident or Orbit. Now all I needed were the rubbers. I scanned the aisles but they were nowhere to be found. "Don't tell me they're behind the fuckin' counter," I muttered to myself. At the time I was still embarrassed to buy condoms at a store. There have been occasions when I jacked a pack or two not because I didn't have the cash, but because I was too damn wuss to take them up to the cashier.

They were indeed behind the counter. Fuck it. Just get the damn things and go get laid, is what I told myself. I gathered my ballsack and walked up to Khalid. I placed the chocolates and the mints on the counter, my head slightly tilted, chin down, eyes shifty. When I walked in there was nobody in the store. Now, of course, there were five people in line behind me, their impatient eyes burning a hole in the back of my head. I'm sure they could all smell my horniness through my clothes. I was oozing perversion. I bet one of them even knew my mom and would immediately call her when she got home to tell her how sick and twisted her son was. My mom would run to church and repent for all her sins, a puddle of tears at her knees as she blamed everything on herself. Oh they knew what I wanted because I couldn't hide it. I'm sure they purposely sell condoms in public not as a service but to identify the perverts in society and let our own consciences torture us. Sickos like me should burn in hell for all eternity, and have their testicles shaved with fire and brimstone.

"Is that all my frang?" Khalid asked ever so amicably.

"Umm. No. Can I have a pack of those over there please." I pointed to the standing rack, finger twitching up and down like a San Julian Street crackhead.

"Magazine? Hustler?"

"No next to that. Those. The *cough* doms."

"Condoms? Sure my frang. Durex? Trojan? Kimono? Which one?"

"Trojans fine." I could hear them whispering behind me, cursing and condemning my soul. And giggling the whole time.

"Sure buddy. Lubricated, ribbed, magnum...well, not magnum right?"

"Just the blue ones."

"Light blue or dark blue?"

They say that highly stressful events can cause small hemorrhages in the brain, like mini-strokes. They are right.

My eyes blinked faster than a Camry with a horny driver behind the wheel as I stammered "LIGHT!!!! BLUE!!!! THANK YOU!!!!"

I wiped the sweat from my forehead, grabbed my black plastic bag from Khalid, and put my change in the Save-the-Children donation can. That should buy me some moral points with Jesus.

Alas, I arrived. I punched in the code for the parking gate that you gave me. I was rocking in my chair in utter anticipation as the slowest gate on God's green earth creeeeaaaaaked open. I pulled into a space, jammed my car into park even before I was completely stopped (that didn't sound too good), and speed-walked as fast as I could to your door. Oops gotta get rid of the black plastic bag.

Knock-knock.

Who's there?

My dreams crushed.

My dreams crushed who?

My dreams crushed by you when you opened the door. I had to wait until you were finished completely swinging it open before I could even see half of you. I thought Japanese people were supposed to be skinny, like overly skinny. What the fuck happened to you?

"Haro Poopaburst!!!" you ecstatically squeaked.

"Ho. Lee. Shit."

"No seery, my name Kumiko (or Tomoko) not Lee."

"O. M. F. G."

"Tee hee. L. O. L."

Allow me to revise an earlier point. If you plan on getting laid by a hot chick you'll need two items: flowers and condoms. If you plan on getting laid by a hot chick and a fat girl opens the door you'll need three items: flowers, condoms, and a gun or a good length of rope.

Of course your eyes went straight to the Ferrero Rocher in my hand. You gestured at the table and muttered something incomprehensible, something that sounded like you were chewing on rocks.

"Excuse me, what?" I politely asked.

"Choqueeoropreaz"

"Choke a rat, please? What?"

Sighing and blinking as if to say "silly rabbit," you walked over to the coffee table and picked up a bowl of chocolate-covered pretzels. That's right, somewhere in our chatroom conversation I had told you that my favorite food was chocolate-covered pretzels. I was just trying to be cute. I took a seat, stunned, and reached for my tumbler of Scotch. But I didn't have a tumbler of Scotch. I should've had a tumbler of Scotch.

You were smiling the whole time. Why so smiley? I took a quick scan of the room as my hearing slowly came back from the initial shock I was in. As I realized you were playing "Let Me Love You Down" by INOJ on repeat, I noticed that your bedroom door was ajar. Inside the lights were dimmed, but not off, and I could see that your bed had a mosquito net limply hanging over it.

"I didn't know you had mosquitoes in Valencia. I thought Santa Clarita Valley was really dry."

You, still smiling, just winked at me and gave me a thumbs up. This threw me off at first, because one, what kind of girl gives a thumbs up on a date, and two, damn your thumb was the size of my kneecap. I then realized, of course, there are no mosquitoes in Valencia. So that net wasn't for mosquitoes. It was for me.

They say that highly stressful events can cause small hemorrhages in the brain, like mini-strokes. They are right.

I had to make a move. No, not that kind of move. I had to get out!

"Hey Kumiko (or Tomoko), I'm sorry I think I left my phone in my car."

"Oh lilly?"

"Yeah I'll be right back. You just sit there and get started on those pretzels for me, yeah?"

"Ok, tee hee. Ahum."

That was the last time I ever saw your face. You were still smiling, if that's any consolation. I revved up the Camry and jammed out of there like a bat out of fat hell.

Fuck! The slow gate again. I was dreading possibly seeing you in the rear-view mirror, with melted chocolate smeared all over that shit-eating grin of yours. Brrr. I gassed it. Whatever, I'll get my mom a new bumper. Whew!

I should've grabbed a handful of those pretzels. All that drama gave me the munchies. I stopped to visit my old friend Khalid one more time. I grabbed a bag of chocolate-covered pretzels, slammed them on the counter, and with overwhelming confidence pointed behind him with an unwavering finger and commanded, "Gimme one of those."

"The light blue?"

"No, next to it."

"Dark blue?"

"No, next to it."

"MAGNUM?!!"

"No, right next to it."

"Oh. Hustler."

"Yes."


Sincerely,

Eric B. Swayze


P.S. Tell your property manager, sorry about the gate.

EVENTS AND HAPPENINGS: KOREAM AWARDS NIGHT

As of late, Mrs. Swayze and I haven't had many free nights to spend with friends. Luckily Saturday was different. We headed out to the KoreAm Awards Night shindig at the Park View hotel. I didn't really know what was going on, I was just looking forward to having a drink with some friends. And also I heard Don Henley was gonna be there so I was kinda psyched. I was bumping "The End of the Innocence" on repeat the whole way there. But upon arrival I realized there was no Eagle to be found. It was actually DANIEL HENNEY, some halfie Korean actor from that new TV show about multiple bodies of water. Other semi-celebs spotted were C.S. Lee from Dexter, a show I'm hooked on but can't fully enjoy because MegaVideo has that wacked out rule about streaming a maximum 72 minutes per day; that Korean dood from Lost who has a perpetual perm; Dr. Ken Jeong; Sung Kang; Big Phony; and pretty notable of all was the super-chill Sandra Oh. I guess she's more of a whole-celeb than a semi. Speaking of semi's, she's actually pretty attractive in person. Did I also mention they had an open bar?

SWINE FLU

The guy's voice is disturbingly soothing.

BLOODBATH ONE-YEAR ANNIVERSARY

CRIMSON (OPERA)
1650 Shrader Blvd.
Los Angeles, CA 90028
(310) 406-5905

Free before 11pm with RSVP
INFO@BLOODBATHPROJECT.COM

SWAYZE SPEAKS...

"You just put your pickle on everybody's plate, college boy, and leave the hard stuff to me."
- as Johnny Castle in Dirty Dancing

"Pain don't hurt."
- as Dalton in Road House

"You smoke more than a pack today and I'll skin you. Understood?"
- as Darrel Curtis in The Outsiders

"If you want the ultimate, you've got to be willing to pay the ultimate price. It's not tragic to die doing what you love."
- as Bodhi in Point Break

"Sometime it just takes a fairy."
- as Vida Boheme in To Wong Foo, Thanks For Everything, Julie Newmar

"You are a fear prisoner. Yes, you are a product of fear."
- as Jim Cunningham in Donnie Darko

"It's amazing, Molly. The love inside, you take it with you. See ya."
- as Sam Wheat in Ghost

SWAYZE IS HIP HOP

"Reach for the pistol and you're crazy
Try to blast and I'll be swinging that ass like Patrick Swayze"
- Kool G Rap; The Symphony Part II

"I'm sick, insane crazy, Driving Miss Daisy
Out her fuckin' mind now I got mine I'm Swayze"
- Method Man; Bring the Pain

"You got me strung like I'm young and it's crazy
You're making me nervous, I don't deserve this, I'm Swayze"
- CL Smooth; Searching

"The niggas went wild, the hoes went crazy
We dropped the microphone, then we Swayze"
- E Swift; Can't Tell Me Shit

"I try to stay aware of the drama, it's crazy
Plus, see I got to tell your mama that I'm Swayze"
- Black Sheep; Who's Next?

"Then he was Swayze, the shot must've dazed me
Thug's selling drugs, bustling slugs, but he ain't crazy"
- Big Noyd; Right Back At You

"But now I'm Swayze, ghost, the rap host
Who rip shows, from coast to coast"
- EPMD; It's Going Down

"Lick your toes, bitch? Fuck no, you must be crazy
Squirt in your face and then I'm Swayze"
- Notorious B.I.G.; Big Booty Hoes

"Commitments, I'm Swayze, no time for the ill shit
Rest with the niggas on that real blood-spill shit
- Notorious B.I.G.; Let Me Get Down

"That's why I bust back, it don't phase me
When he drop, take his glock, and I'm Swayze"
- Notorious B.I.G. ; Runnin' and Runnin'

GHOST LIKE SWAYZE

PATRICK WAYNE SWAYZE (AUGUST 18, 1952 - SEPTEMBER 14, 2009)

lay-z / JAY-Z

KOREANS GONE WILD: DOUBLE FEATURE

GATORS, LOBSTERS, AND PIGS

I miss Gatorade. The magical thirst quencher, developed in the 1960's by scientists and University of Florida Gators football coaches (hence the name "GATORade"), has long been touted as the ultimate rehydrator for weary atheletes and other energy-depleted persons. Lemon-Lime, the original green stuff, is my poison of choice. Gatorade is made of water, sugar, salt, carbohydrates, high fructose corn syrup, artificial colors, glucose, fructose, and a bunch of electrolytes like sodium, potassium, and chloride. This combination of fancy chemicals indeed does wonders in replenishing your body of lost energy and hydration. I got a B- in Mr. Bernard's 9th grade chemistry class at Granada Hills High School, so I pretty much have no idea what this chemical process is. But sometimes when I gulp it down I like to imagine all the different molecules, color-coded according to periodic table positioning, marching out of the plastic big-mouthed bottle like Ghostbusters with Proton Packs on, ready to vaporize all the deleterious crap that's bogging me down. They'll work their way out of the bowels of my stomach and through my veins like the halls of the Biltmore Hotel, and finally fight their way up to the roof to zap Slimer who is wringing the shit out of my brain. Let me rephrase my initial statement: I miss needing Gatorade.

Wait, let me rephrase that again. I miss what Gatorade can do for a hangover. But I don't miss the hangover. And wait another second, all this green is confusing me. That's not Slimer playing hopscotch on my cerebral cortex. It's a bottle (or two or three) of Chamisul Fresh Soju, that evil evil oh-so-seductive nectar of the gods.

In not-so-layman's terms, a hangover, or more formally, Veisalgia, basically goes like this: ethanol, the form of alcohol found in the potent potables most of us enjoy regularly, goes into the bloodstream and gets broken down by certain liver enzymes. It is then converted to acetaldehyde by an enzyme called alcohol dehydrogenase. Acetaldehyde is exponentially more toxic to the body than ethanol. Finally, an enzyme called acetaldehyde dehydrogenase converts the acetaldehyde to acetic acid, which is then flushed out of the body by way of nature's magic rubber-gloved hands. Ethanol severely dehydrates the body and depletes it of minerals and electrolytes. This is compounded once the acetaldehyde takes form, exacerbating and prolonging the symptoms of a typical Sunday morning hangover.

We all have Asian friends who turn into a Lobster-Face after half a pint of beer, and wonder what the fuck is wrong with them (in fact, some of us are them). We call them pussies while they adamantly exclaim that it is an allergic reaction that makes their entire head look like Rihanna's left eye. Well, being a pussy or having nerdy allergies do not fully explain the story. It is evolution that is to be blamed. Most Asians, during their evolutionary incubation period, somehow went through a genetic mutation process whereby their alcohol dehyrdogenase enzyme became overly effective at converting ethanol into acetaldehyde, and, conversely, their acetaldehyde dehydrogenase enzyme became less effective at breaking down acetaldehyde into acetic acid. This results in a large accumulation of the highly toxic acetaldehyde in the blood, causing the sufferer to experience immediate and dramatic hangover symptoms such as headaches, nausea, and a very very red face.

I don't miss hangovers.

I'll plainly admit that I'm not really going anywhere with this piece. It sounds like I'm drunk but I'm not. I just wanted to talk about alcohol and hangovers and my feeble attempt at quitting drinking altogether. Yes, in February I took a swing at quitting drinking. Why, you ask? I dunno really. Just thought it was about time to press the reset button on my liver, so to speak. But I have good news for pork, my first love truly so in the form of Sam-Gyub-Sal (SGS), or Korean BBQ: I am back!!! I would never have SGS without the Soj'. That's like jelly without toast. Especially in these hard times for sus domesticus, what with pork cooties killing Mexican babies in Texas oilfields, acetaldehyde in my bloodstream means dollars in your pocket.

Buenos Nachos!

EXCERPTS & MISCELLANY: SPEAK MEXICAN?

He led me to a barn, where a Mexican man stood waiting for his turn at the shower. "Whole-aah, Toe-moss," he shouted.

The man tugged at the towel he wore like a skirt around his waist and nodded his head in greeting, "Hola, Senor Hobbs."

"You speak some Mexican don't you, Daniel?" Hobbs asked. "Well, by God, I'm learning a few words of my own. A person has to in order to get along in the modern world! You get me going, and I'll speak like a regular Topo Gigio, right, Ringo?"

The dog knelt at the base of the tree, doubling over to lick its blistered anus.

"These are different times we're living in, a whole new set of rules. The kids around here, they think they're too good to work. Only choice left is either trash or Mexicans, and I'll take the stupid Mexicans any day." He prodded me in the ribs, "Watch this. 'Buenos Dios, Miguel.'"

A small, dark-eyed man looked up from his wood splitting, alarmed.

"They spook easy," Hobbs said.

Yes, well, people tend to do that when you come up behind them shouting, "Good God." It's just a habit, I guess.


Excerpt from "Naked" by David Sedaris

OLD BONES

To all five of you readers of my blog I apologize for the extended hiatus. I've wanted to keep in touch, believe me, but there has been a myriad of external forces restraining me from the at-times-challenging endeavor of "updating."

All excuses aside, I missed you all. Not being able to talk to you has been like the episode of Small Wonder when Jamie Lawson goes on a summer camp trip and gets claustrophobic because he has no way of communicating with his family.

Amongst the things that have paralyzed my writing is a black and slightly broken pinky. I never realized the demand for accuracy a QWERTY board entailed until I was suddenly left with only nine sausage links; not to mention many other daily, and perhaps even hourly tasks that hinged on the use of my fingers, that were temporarily halted due to this unanticipated injury. Example: that pinky, being my right pinky, was specifically designated for a special mission. If my hands were Navy SEALS, my right pinky would have been the sniper. It was fortified with more refined artillery, designed and specially trained to seek out its enemy and attack with precision and vigor. In some ways, even, I can stretch the shit out of this analogy like I stretch out my boxer briefs from two years ago when I was four waist sizes smaller, and say my pinky was, rather than a Navy SEAL sniper, a CIA operative planted in the bowels of a South American drug cartel.

Armed and at ease my pinky, people would say, looked like a coke-head's pinky. Basically, I would grow out the nail to about an eighth to a quarter of an inch length, and maintain it at that extension perpetually. Many thought it was a yayo-scooper or a tweak-mincer. Some just thought it was dirty. In actuality, behind the menacing guise, my pinky was in fact simply a picker, an orifice maintenance specialist, so to speak. The nail was grown to its obnoxious length so as to reach those hard-to-reach nooks and crannies. Noses, eyes, ears, teeth, belly-buttons, and other bodily grottos devoid of light, there wasn't a hole my right pinky couldn't excavate. Until now.

What happened?! So our group of Swayzians, some of you reading included, have recently been playing softball every weekend in the ungodly San Fernando Valley. In fact, we just came back from a fun but draining game played at Northridge Park under a blazing sun and 97 degree heat blanket. It's great to be out with good friends, all engaged in friendly competition, absorbing the physical and metaphysical nutrients an active day in the sun can offer. Preceding the softball series, however, a group of us guys started by playing football every Sunday. The first game, which of course was flag football, was a blast.....until I got home and looked at my hand. It was purple and pretty much looked exactly like in the picture. I dunno how, but I managed to put a hairline fracture in the tip of my pinky playing FLAG football. Luckily it wasn't a bigger bone that I busted, but at least it would have been somewhat respectable. A broken pinky from flag football: that's not much to brag about, there's not a whole lot of story-tellin' there.

Keeping tab, just on my right hand alone now, I've split my middle knuckle in two, broken my ring finger, ripped the nail off my middle finger, and now, fractured my pinky, all somehow involved with sports. I know I don't look athletic. Maybe sometimes looks aren't that deceiving, and now my pinky looks like Rihanna's left cheek. Maybe I should lay off the balls.