Luck. I believe “luck” is really a factor of how much positive energy you have in your life. How much positive energy you have brewing within your heart. How much positive energy you have directed towards you by your friends, peers, and even strangers. And how much positive energy you project out into the world. The more positive energy and good will we can cultivate, the more “luck” one can create. At least that’s what i think. : )
May this video put a smile on your face and add to your “lucky”.
Greece is screwed. The home country of Mt. Olympus is bankrupt and no spell conjured up by any naked God from atop the Acropolis will be able to save it. Normally, when a country cannot pay off it’s debts, the government can quietly print up a whole bunch of new money via a printing press (ie. out of thin air) to get the creditor pimps off their backs (that’s what the United States does). How cool would it be if we all had our own little, secret printing presses hidden in our closets? Credit card bills too high? Just print until you’re in the black. Want that $1.5 million dream house but you got no coin? Just run off 15,000 one hundred dollar bills. Got a Korean girlfriend? No problem at all! Just give her a mini printing press hidden inside a LV or Prada bag and 98% of all your future fights will instantly disappear. Unfortunately for Greece, the nation cannot print it’s way out of their financial mess like the United States because Greece’s currency, the Euro, is tied to 22 other European nations. Basically Greece doesn’t have the keys to the printing press and today, finds itself in a financial checkmate to it’s world creditors. Zeus is dying. No, actually, Zeus is dead but is being kept alive via an IV, life support, and Wheel Of Fortune reruns. Greece is pretty much laying in the coffin, just one nail short of stepping into it’s own mythology. What is this great Hellenic nation to do? Athena has an idea…
As a kid, I would badger my mom to clean my ears at least 3 times a week. I would run to the pen cup, pull out the skinny little bamboo shovel with fuzzy cotton ball top, and scream out to my mom, “Mama, can you clean my ear???!!!” If my mom wasn’t busy outside harvesting silkworms or chopping the head off a duck, she would usually oblige. So there I would sit, Indian style, with my head kinked 45 degrees to the left or right depending upon which ear canal was being excavated. I’d usually have my hand sticking out like I was expecting someone to give me money. But instead of cold hard cash, my hand acted as a depository for the bounty of ear wax my mom would soon be pulling out of the dark recesses of my canal. It was beyond satisfying to feel the little bamboo spoon probing my ear hole, scratching and scraping the walls and occassionally hearing it encounter a little boulder of hard wax. Crunch! And then, to my delight, my mom would present me with a yellowish-green chunk of gold and let it drop into my hand. After a few minutes, I would have a little stack of wax piled on my palm and a smile on my face running from clean ear to clean ear. Little did I know that this innocent mother/son ear-probing ritual would become a fervent, lifelong obsession…
A woman is like a ninja. Her body the perfect weapon, able to effortlessly dispatch even the hardest of men with casual simplicity. She is born with a natural arsenal in which to choose and depending upon her intent, can flirt, seduce, liquify, or terminate her opposites at will. Instead of tonfas, swords, throwing stars, and bamboo darts dipped in blowfish toxin, the modern, woman ninja possesses weaponry of mind, breast, shoulder, tummy, persona, tongue, etc. 21st century steel is no match when compared to the flesh of a woman ninja. Not even close.
i will seduce you with my mind and hypnotize you with my bodice...
As much as I fear the woman ninja, I simultaneously desire her. It’s like superman wanting to make love to Lois Lane after she secretly smoothed on Kryptonite body lotion. The allure is beyond temptation but indulging in it will instantly vaporize any man’s nut sack and mojo. A frank with no beans is a useless stalk, so they say. But as my wise, one-eyed grandfather of the Shaolin once told me before my departure into the modern world, “Grandson, it is your destiny to make love to the woman ninja no matter how painful. It is through this great pain that you will find your truest self. Just make sure to practice safe sex and say thank you.” My one-eyed grandfather was a wise man indeed… Read more...
My AC/Heater unit just croaked. You know, that big, square, metal block that hides on the side of your house, thanklessly working to make sure you’re not too hot, not too cold, but just right? Well, my aluminum friend just upped and died on me. Fucker. OK, it wasn’t his fault. He’s been diligently working since 1989 (I bought my place in 2003). 21 years of flawless performance from a HVAC unit is impressive. It’s the equivalent of a human being living to 210 years old and forced to run an olympic marathon naked every single day from birth. He was a good machine that far outlived his time. His performance was gold medal worthy. BUT the bill for replacement felt far worse than Mao Asada’s loss to Yu-Na Kim. Far worse than my most recent rejection by Michelle Kwan (btw, I’m still available for casual or formal love making session, Michelle). It was an unexpected, financial butt slap of epic proportions…
$2,250? FML...
Total cost to replace? $2,250. And I had to pay cash. Why? Cause that’s how my HVAC dude rolls. Not a check, not a cash card, but with cold, hard, green paper. Paying my guy felt more like a Miami Vice drug deal than a home renovation project. I felt domestically dangerous in a way that only Sonny Crockett could understand. Now if I didn’t have a history with my HVAC dude, I’d think he was aiming to jack me of my bling, knock me out with ether, throw me in the back of his van, and sell me off to a rich cougar in the Hollywood Hills who would keep me locked up in her basement demanding a vigorous, geriatric pump at least twice a day (hmmm… kinda sounds like the life of my HVAC). Read more...
I loved you Michelle Kwan, I loved you hard. Did not my sexy love poem scribed with the blood of my loins inspire you to become a Fan? Twas my offerings of eternal love, worship, and a lower, middle-class life not enough? Apparently not. 48 hours of silence can truly deafen a wanton heart. My soul is cracked and my audacity to hope, guillotined. All I have left now is my Ni Hao Kai Lan doll with aluminium foil skates (I made them myself) and an ego the size of an ant testicle. I loved you. I love you. I will forever love you. But I’m a big boy and I can take a hint…
I love Michelle Kwan. Always have. The girl’s got the entire package. She’s smart, well-spoken, has incredible skin, possesses legs as hard as granite, and is quite a looker. My only regret in life is that she and I never dated. I think we would have made a fantastic pair.
Usually I do not pursue a girl that I am interested in. Like the puma, I am patient. But I am getting old and wish to experience this relationship before I turn into an oriental raisin with a severe case of male pattern baldness and possible ED issues. Also, osteoporosis is not a kind dance partner to hot romantic seductions on ice.
So in the spirit of The Secret, I will set the metaphysical dominoes in motion by declaring my desire to date The Great Michelle Kwan in the form of a love poem. It is my hope that she will respond to my romantic beckonings before the close of the Vancouver winter olympics. With the extinguishing of one olympic flame, perhaps the flames of love of one of olympic’s greatest champions will spark and be inspired to burn forever bright. Let the games begin… Read more...
Last Wednesday I went to Santa Monica to have lunch with a friend. We ended up eating at an Italian restaurant right on 3rd Street Promenade. For those of you who have not been to “3rd Street”, it’s Santa Monica’s version of a European thoroughfare – an avenue running several blocks where no cars are allowed, with shops/restaurants lining the entire length of the boulevard. It’s very cool indeed even though there are no strip clubs for women.
So here we were, eating lunch outside like hip Euros not in Europe when I began to take notice of some really, really out of tune singing. Just a few feet from us was an African American street musician in a wheel chair, singing classic hits from the 70’s, 80’s, & 90’s. He was not a gifted singer by any means. In fact, he was tone deaf and would make William Hung sound like Celine Dion. Dressed in his finest winter garb and sporting medical-grade glasses for the blind, he would butcher every single song he pulled up on his iPod. Now you would think that someone who sounds like an out-of-tune, nasal whistle would repel all those within earshot. But that was not the case at all. There was a large crowd gathered around him and I found myself eerily drawn to his music. I wanted to hear more. But why? The guy was terrible! My theory is that he was singing from his heart so deeply and from such a raw, personal place that his passion and charisma entranced the surrounding listeners and trumped his supreme vocal suckiness. Crazy, huh? There he sat, singing with tremendous emotion into a 1930’s replica mic as if he was performing in Lincoln Center. He sang stuff like Michael Jackson’s “Beat It”, Stevie Wonder’s “I Just Called To Say I Love You” and an endless string of other famous hits. It sounded like shit but people loved it. I loved it. Sometimes pure joy can go a long, long way.
Have you ever encountered/experienced anything like this?
Well, Valentine’s Day has come and past. Some are probably reeling in agony for not doing enough and some are heading toward financial ruin for doing too much. And there are those who did it just right. Per my previous post, I revealed the cheesiest thing I’ve done for love and asked any and all to submit their most demeaning cheesy experience. Here are some of the cheesiest. BTW, thank you all for providing me with the knowledge that I am not alone in the art of cheese making (and in this universe too)…
* * * * * * * *
from SHAUN, busting out his CK1
While I will not admit to doing anything cheesy after the age of 21, but once I took a page from a song called, “Four Page Letter” by Aaliyah (RIP) and wrote a 4 page letter which once really hard to do because as much as I tried to express love it just became lust. With every classy move, I sprayed it my favorite fragrance at the time unisex CK One (I know better now) and attached a fake single rose that I bought from the drugstore on the way to school. I taped the letter and rose to her locker and she was impressed. I didn’t get lucky like Roger, however I got heavy petting and kissing which is fine since I was a 15 yr old kid at the time.Read more...
What’s the most romantic cheesiest thing you’ve ever done in the name of love? Don’t know? Well, if it’s something that’ll make your scrotal sack cinch up into the size of a baby raisin, it probably qualifies.
I will share with you mine. Just promise me you will never bring it up in my presence or I will charley horse your kidney or flick your nipples until first blood. Trust is a delicate thing…
mine was even longer and sexier than this one... Read more...
Do not fear Valentine’s day my fellow warrior. If you’re broke, there is a solution. If your lover is impossible to satisfy (at least through gift and wine), I have an answer. If you shiver in fear over the expectations created by V-Day, there is a way to triumph and prosper.
For years, a bloke has had the burden of expectation heaped upon him as a result of this Valentine’s day holiday. If you tire of bearing such an obligation and do not have the gaul or constitution to feign a false bout of Lyme Disease (thank you Offender Phil for that good one), I will share with you a secret that, when employed effectively just once, will forever erase any desire from your lover to experience Valentine’s day ever again. Guaranteed. The answer is simple…
a little love puke is cute. A LOT of love puke is gross Read more...
Yes, I shop at Sephora. Soft, supple, youthful skin is a requirement in my line of work. And in order to prevent premature “rasining” of thy face, I spend a significant amount of money on facial creams, lotions, toner, bull semen, etc. Shopping at Sephora helps me save money in my quest to look forever like a yellow Zac Efron.
As a loyal Sephora customer, I get emails from time to time notifying me of sales and the like. This morning I got the latest one. And who greeted me? The dreamy, Kim Kardashian. But wait? Is that really her? She’s so…white. I mean, really white. Like the color white. Like bleached white. When did this happen? Yes, I understand that she’s half Scottish/Dutch. But her other, more genetically dominant half is Armenian (Turkish/Russian). She is naturally a darker skinned lass (and a beautiful one at that). If you locked her up in a sunless mall for 10 years, she’d at worst emerge with a nice, tropical tan. Much like the Na’vi is forever blue, KK is forever brown (ish). I am vexed. Read more...
I was a bit bored yesterday and feeling a tad blue when a good buddy of mine (EMun) emailed me a link to turn myself into a Na’vi warrior. Given the fact that I’m a closeted geek and someone who throughly enjoyed James Cameron’s Avatar, I could not resist. Without delay, I found a non-zitty picture of my face and, with a few clicks and a confirm, morphed myself into a Na’vi of the Omaticaya clan. Strangely enough, I rather enjoy my new skin of a blue hue (it’s not all that far off from yellow). I find it peaceful and quiet becoming. So if you’re feeling a bit down or a tad blue inside, try morphing your outer self into a radiant Na’vi azure. Who knows? Perhaps you’ll discover a renewed energy, joy, and optimism emanating from your newly awakened Toruk Makto. www.avatarizeyourself.com/
I see you…
yes, they even have a McDonald's floating around the Hallelujah Mountains. is nothing sacred? Read more...
There are 14 people in this “Lost Supper” picture. 4 of them are Asian (or 28.5%).
Now that’s something you don’t see everyday. Very, very cool.
*Update – 2/4/10 – from reader KEITH – Zuleikah Robinson (far left) is of English, Scottish, Indian, Burmese, Iranian and Malaysian descent. So there’s actually 4.5 Asians in the picture (or 32.1%). Even better! Thanks KEITH for the info.
I grew up with Roger Ebert. And though he’s white and we’re not blood related, I always likened him to that fun uncle that came over every Sunday at 4:30 in the afternoon via the tele (vision). There I would sit, chugging a gallon of milk and stuffing my face with Twinkies, excited and laughing with Uncle Ebert and Auntie Siskel as they yelled at and berated each other on what movies were worth an up thumb or a down one. Little did I know that Uncle Ebert would play such an important role in my (our) life so many years later at the Sundance Film Festival. Were it not for Uncle Ebert hoisting his large frame atop a theatre seat to loudly exclaim his opinions on the double standard imposed upon “ethnic” cinema and race expectations sprouting from it, I wonder if I’d even be working in Hollywood today. I wonder if BLT would have had enough juice to stand above the larger, more well-funded, highly star-studded competition films. We owe Roger Ebert a lot. Perhaps more than he’ll ever know. We are entwined in so many unexpected ways…
THE BALCONY. the photo's somewhat blurry b/c it was taken on a 2007 camera phone Read more...
Angst. For years I thought I knew what the word meant. I even used it from time to time at cocktail parties to impress the older ladies. But when I really had to sit down and think about “angst”, it gave me a bit of… well, angst. Did I really know what I was saying to all those cougars in the Hollywood Hills or were they just laughing as part of their seductive trickery to lure me into their den? So to clarify, I consulted the dictionary. Here’s what I got…
Leave it to those pragmatic Germans for even creating such an insomnia-inducing concept. And now that I finally know the true definition of angst, I realize I am loaded with it. In fact, I’m pretty certain I have angst over my angst…which gives me even more angst. This is not good. I think I may have to double my dosage of antidepressants and up my anti-anxiety medication candy. Effexor XR is a fine thing. But please consult your doctor before taking any form of medication. Erections lasting more than 4 hours can occur. If so, call your doctor immediately if you think he/she is hot and sexy and game to taking advantage of your advantage… Read more...
Every now and then I get really excited when I come across a piece of technology that confuses me. Confusing not because it’s difficult to use, but confusing because I can’t exactly figure out why it exists. I get even more excited when that mysterious technology is well-designed, fluid in function, and so original that perhaps it’s hinting at a future that has yet to fully materialize. This week I encountered two such mysteries. The first one is the website for this Sunday’s upcoming Grammy Awards. It has this gnarly, technological, algorithmic function where you upload your picture, color it, and plug in a few of your favorite bands and it instantly outputs a visual collage of links, videos, blogs, etc. all ghosted onto a dynamic mosaic of your pic. Here’s mine. If you look closely enough, you’ll see I’m a huge fan of euro techno pop as well as a bit of black man beat. I can’t exactly figure it out just yet, but I get a sense that the web is going to evolve into something like this. The TED site has a similar aesthetic (another site I love) Click on my pic if you want to make one for yourself. It’s kind of a trip.
cyber music Fan
The other piece of technology is the iPad. All feminine hygiene jokes aside, I get an erie feeling that this thing is intended for a tomorrow that has yet to come into full swing. I’m a life-long Apple user who rabidly uses my iPhone, MacBook Pro, Final Cut Pro, iPhoto, iTunes, iMovie, iCal, Safari, etc. everyday. Even after a few hours of online study of the iPad, only 50% of me really understands it’s true purpose. There something else I just can’t put my finger on, a greater intended use for this technology that isn’t written in the instruction manual…yet. I guess only time will tell. And though 50% of me is still a bit puzzled, I’m pretty sure that the mysterious purpose of the iPad is crystal clear in the mind of our techno savior, Steve Jobs. We’ll see… Read more...
My wisdom teeth haunt me. I know that they are there, just waiting to attack when I least expect it. I liken them to hidden landmines in my mouth with age and time as the tripwire which will eventually set them off. When will they make their presence known is anyone’s guess. But when they do, I hear the pain is greater than being kicked in the head by a feral donkey.
I paid a visit to the dentist last month after not having gone for over 3 years. I shivered in fear during the whole oral ordeal like a nervous brownie before her first cookie sale. Total damage? A few bucks, 3 small cavities, and one erupted wisdom tooth that must be extracted asap. Uckfay.
Luck. I believe “luck” is really a factor of how much positive energy you have in your life. How much positive energy you have brewing within your heart. How much positive energy you have directed towards you by your friends, peers, and even strangers. And how much positive energy you project out into the world. The more positive energy and good will we can cultivate, the more “luck” one can create. At least that’s what i think. : )
Greece is screwed. The home country of Mt. Olympus is bankrupt and no spell conjured up by any naked God from atop the Acropolis will be able to save it. Normally, when a country cannot pay off it’s debts, the government can quietly print up a whole bunch of new money via a printing press (ie. out of thin air) to get the creditor pimps off their backs (that’s what the 
As a kid, I would badger my mom to clean my ears at least 3 times a week. I would run to the pen cup, pull out the skinny little bamboo shovel with fuzzy cotton ball top, and scream out to my mom, “Mama, can you clean my ear???!!!” If my mom wasn’t busy outside harvesting silkworms or chopping the head off a duck, she would usually oblige. So there I would sit, Indian style, with my head kinked 45 degrees to the left or right depending upon which ear canal was being excavated. I’d usually have my hand sticking out like I was expecting someone to give me money. But instead of cold hard cash, my hand acted as a depository for the bounty of ear wax my mom would soon be pulling out of the dark recesses of my canal. It was beyond satisfying to feel the little bamboo spoon probing my ear hole, scratching and scraping the walls and occassionally hearing it encounter a little boulder of hard wax. Crunch! And then, to my delight, my mom would present me with a yellowish-green chunk of gold and let it drop into my hand. After a few minutes, I would have a little stack of wax piled on my palm and a smile on my face running from clean ear to clean ear. Little did I know that this innocent mother/son ear-probing ritual would become a fervent, lifelong obsession…
A woman is like a ninja. Her body the perfect weapon, able to effortlessly dispatch even the hardest of men with casual simplicity. She is born with a natural arsenal in which to choose and depending upon her intent, can flirt, seduce, liquify, or terminate her opposites at will. Instead of tonfas, swords, throwing stars, and bamboo darts dipped in blowfish toxin, the modern, woman ninja possesses weaponry of mind, breast, shoulder, tummy, persona, tongue, etc. 21st century steel is no match when compared to the flesh of a woman ninja. Not even close.
I loved you 
Do not fear Valentine’s day my fellow warrior. If you’re broke, there is a solution. If your lover is impossible to satisfy (at least through gift and wine), I have an answer. If you shiver in fear over the expectations created by V-Day, there is a way to triumph and prosper.
Angst. For years I thought I knew what the word meant. I even used it from time to time at cocktail parties to impress the older ladies. But when I really had to sit down and think about “angst”, it gave me a bit of… well, angst. Did I really know what I was saying to all those cougars in the Hollywood Hills or were they just laughing as part of their seductive trickery to lure me into their den? So to clarify, I consulted the dictionary. Here’s what I got…
