You.

I am afraid of you.

Of all the things that I've done, I hadn't counted on you disarming me so easily. Almost so completely. Quite thoroughly so.

Like Mitsuha and Taki, we were on a time slip. Separated by distance and time. Never meeting properly. Reaching out to each other, across a few hundred kilometers and years, through that magical plot device that is the mobile phone. Always at its mercy, fighting against dead batteries or broken screens. I was fearful of losing contact information because it was literally the only way I could find you again.

The years have aged me considerably, although thankfully many have said I don't look it, but they certainly have taken their toll on me. I am afraid of getting hurt, so I put up walls to protect me. To prevent the same mistakes or similar errors.

I was afraid that I had met you at the wrong time.

We may not be separated by a rift in time, but I can't deny the aptness of the analogy. I became extra cautious.  It goes without saying that you have so much of your life ahead of you. I don't want to get in the way of that. I wanted someone to be my equal. So I said, maybe in 50 years or so.

"I'm afraid I won't have time for you in fifty years. I'm a busy guy."

However, I hadn't counted on you to be so witty. You caught me off-guard with your candor. And your own way with words, that you so often say you're not good at.  You fought back when you disagreed with me. Put in my place.

You became someone that I respected. Someone who could keep up with my way with words. I know me. That's not easy.

It was your general honesty and insights that kept me taking stolen glances at my phone at odd hours of the night. While I cannot claim to know or understand wholly who you are as a person, I wanted to know more. Somewhere between fictional crushes and the silence of mountains at night and other fragments of your mind, I caught a glimpse of the flame that is your soul.

Sometimes that flame would almost seem extinguished. Perhaps due to the hours you put into your work. Or some other problem you might have. I wanted to fan the embers back to life and protect that flame that danced within when you were happy. I felt the need to guard it from all the scoundrels of the world that could potentially snuff it out. Men with nice words, who know how the world works and will use it to get to you. Yes, I wanted to protect you from them, and perhaps even from me.

I had to look deep into my own soul and ask myself "Why?" Being raised Catholic, it is in my nature to examine my own conscience and question my own motivations. What would that mean for me, and more importantly, what would that mean for you. Was I just using you because I was, or am, feeling lonely? What could I possibly offer you that would benefit you? Eventually, I settled on this. That if I could give you something that would make you a better man, then I could open myself up to this possibility.

I decided I would ask you out on a date.

And then I saw you. Rather the photos you shared of yourself. Irrationally, we hadn't gone through those usual rituals of these dating apps. Perhaps it was for the best. I wouldn't have dared reached out to you had I known.

I hadn't counted on you being indescribably handsome? Gorgeous? I don't know. If I could write poetry, I would. But I can't. That's not part of my bag of tricks.

I blush at even the thought of allowing myself to like someone like you. It just isn't done. Not everyone should ever be so lucky to even attempt to aspire such a thing. Drawing up words from my mental thesaurus yields "not in your league" and "not even in your wildest dreams." Sad cliches that ring even more sadly because they feel so true.

And as I am wont to do, I let my imagination run wild. That even if in the off-chance that something so wonderful should happen, you would always have men and women admiring you that I might be forever cursed to feel so diminished.

Yet I continue to be foolish. And I asked you if I could meet you.

I never told you how many times I typed that out in the days prior, deleting it as I chastised myself. And for some reason, you said yes.

To cheaply borrow another cliche, because sometimes that's the best one can come up with, I took that leap of faith on that train ride that day, hopeful that the stars would align and let us meet. It was as if I were Mitsuha on a mission to find Taki in Tokyo.  As I walked the streets alone, sat in that subway, and rolled around in that strange hotel bed, I remained hopeful as I looked at the phone, waiting for Taki who couldn't possibly know Mitsuha yet. Too soon perhaps. Possibly foolish as well.

As soon as I plopped into my seat, you finally text. You sounded like you had the life snuffed out of you. To be fair, you also took a risk. I had secretly hoped it was for my sake as well. You went out on a limb and got hurt by someone whom you treasured.

I understood completely why, but I couldn't stop my soul from escaping from me as I let out a sigh as the train pulled away from the station. I couldn't quite put my finger on it, but despite having the spirit knocked out of me, once I regained my strength and senses, I find myself still resolute.

After all, you had said you wanted to take things slow. You said you weren't even sure if you'd ever want a boyfriend. That was more than fair. I told myself that patience was a good test of the integrity my own intentions.

We both know what followed was not the story I would have liked to have written. One particularly frustrating night, I had intended to be more forthcoming with you. Instead you pushed me away. Towards other men, no less. It felt like someone had rung the gong on me in a game show. I had given the wrong answer. I felt that by being more forthcoming I had suffocated you, needing room to breathe, space to spread your wings.

And there I was, similarly trapped, having painted myself into a corner.

"Well, why would you be responsible? I'm asking you for a date. Not to be my boyfriend."

This was me hurt, trying to dial it down, hoping to give you what you wanted. Instead you said I had ever so slightly annoyed you, and you didn't want to talk about it. I obliged.

You seemed happier that weekend, and didn't seem to want me around. It ended with you begging off, saying you won't be able to text me for a couple of days. That magical plot device, your phone, had given up.

A couple of days went by, and I waited. I couldn't help myself and fired out a message. I knew it was as useless as shouting to the wind, but I missed you.

It did not end up just two days. For all intents and purposes, it felt like you had disappeared on me. I would wake up in the middle of night and mindlessly hoping you had risen back from the dead. By the time the next weekend had passed, I was ready to give up.

Then you came back. With what seemed like some sense of urgency. You had news for me. My heart stopped. No news that is delayed is ever good news. You reassured me it was nothing. A silly little thing that was nothing for me to worry about.

In my head, different scenarios played out. Maybe it was really nothing. But why then would he not tell me? It had to be something that he was afraid that I'd judge him for. Perhaps, no, it couldn't be. He seemed quite happy to be talking to me again. He seemed to have that spark back in him. Whatever it was, it seemed to make him happy.

And you did sound happy. You chided me for not seeing "Kimi no Na wa" and so I did. I even went a step further and brought back this blog to life. It was almost quite frightening to realize how much you have influenced me. But I was only too happy to do so.

As the days went on, your story would change. At the back of my mind, I had already put the pieces together, but I pushed those thoughts aside. But the more you switched gears, I could no longer ignore the signs. How I wish I didn't look so foolish, but that's who I am.

When I asked you for the truth. Your silence rang throughout the night. And all that ran through my mind was that how right I was right to have been afraid of you. It only confirmed how foolish it was for me to even consider myself being even remotely...no, it wasn't entirely foolish. This is who I am.

I'm a wear-my-heart-on-my-sleeve kind of guy and that gets me into trouble. Not great. Not bad, but okay.

I take risks for things worth fighting for.

I just hadn't counted on you not giving me a fair chance.

-------------

This is not where I wanted the story to end. In my mind, I had hoped that this isn't the end. Just some second act complication of cosmic proportions to overcome before we reach the finale. But this is as far as my writing goes.

This seems to be a sensible place to stop. I had intended this to end a couple of paragraphs ago, but somehow I can't stop writing. I suppose what else do I have to lose? I've already lost. And nothing emboldens are person quite so.

I've read, written and been written in my fair share of love stories in my life. Have loved. Been loved. Have been hurt. Have hurt.  

I mean really, why should this be any different?

Because you're you.

Excuses and Care-less-ness.

Not great, but good. 

Not bad, but okay.

Someone remarked to me recently, "CQ, you haven't changed one bit!" (in a negative sense)

"You keep putting yourself out there, but you're still saying the same things over and over again."

And she's right. I do put myself out there. I proudly declare I'm a wear-my-heart-on-my-sleeve kind of guy and that gets me into trouble. Or heartbreak. More trouble for me.

In fact, I'm starting to worry for my friends and that my exploits are taking their toll on them too. It's only so many times that a boy can cry wolf.

So what's my excuse?  (Note to self: try to avoid using so as a transitional device, it's so lazy.)

It's just me, I guess?

Time Skip

After nearly a decade, I've returned to blogging to nothing and to nobody. Perhaps for myself, but also for others who may stumble upon this relic of the mid-aughties.

However, if you're reading this then you're probably one of those to whom I've entrusted this journal of mine to. 

A lot has happened since 2007. In the 9 years, I have loved. Been loved. Have been hurt. Have hurt. All par for the course I suppose, so I wonder what is in store for me this time around.

I have uprooted and transplanted myself a year ago, and think I may have taken root here in my new home. Far more than I probably should have, but have nonetheless.

The past few months have been a tumult of some magnitude. Some might say I might have lost my way or others could say I have found myself again. As always, I'm inclined to say that I'm somewhere in between. Firmly undecided, yet resolute in my conviction. 

It is with this in mind, that I feel that I should begin this reset with a film that has shook me awake.

君の名は (Kimi no Na wa) Your Name

Kimi no Na wa is a 2016 animated film from Makoto Shinkai, who previously directed 5 Centimeters Per Second, a similar film released in 2007 about young love separated by distance. 

As with most of Makoto Shinkai's works, I was immediately enamored by the background art which straddles between the realistic and the ethereal (another director whose vision rivals this is Satoshi Kon, albeit his films have a definite grit to them). 

Kimi no Na wa is no different, not only visually, but also thematically. This too examines the theme of love separated by distance, in this case both physical and temporal. 

This time the two protagonists are Misuha, a girl from the small, fictional, rural town of Itomori and Taki, a boy from the very real, urban sprawl that is Tokyo. They find themselves inexplicably switching bodies at random times, interfering with each other's lives. Misuha, in Taki's body, is horrified to discover she has a "thing" down there, whereas Taki was more enthused to discover that he was, well, breasts. There is a light touch to the tone in the first act as they realize that their body switching is was very real and the film cleverly grounds it by referring to real-world objects and locations whenever possible. One such example is the two protagonists reliance on their cellphones to figure out whose lives they suddenly inhabited and the cleverness of their scheme to communicate with each other through apps like LINE and their phone's calendar and diary functions. It's the little details like these that make the film's magical premise almost feel real. 

The second act lulls a bit when the action slows down and the audience is left unsure as to where the film is headed. It was as if the premise had almost worn out its welcome, until the third act pulls back the curtain on their situation. 

If you haven't seen the movie, it's perhaps best to stop reading at this point as the it is inevitable for spoilers to be divulged. 

Central to the film is the motif of the red string of fate, a belief shared by Chinese and Japanese cultures that a red string ties two people together across space and time. Taki and Misuha are presented with an impossible situation that is tied together by this tenuous thread. And audience members would either buy into this completely or reject this outright.

As a romantic at heart, I was hopeless drawn into the narrative. I could not help but fall in love with both Taki and Misuha, even if I do not necessarily believe in finding the one. I have often asserted my belief that there is no one perfect person, but there is a person who could be perfect for you. I've revised this in the past few years that perhaps there is no person that is perfect for you, but rather you can work hard to make the relationship work, and this be that "perfect" match. 

Yet this is not the conceit of the movie. Taki and Misuha are almost quite literally tied to each other. And this is a notion that I suppose resonates with a lot of people. Particularly in this often isolating existence we find ourselves in. Misuha, as is in my current situation, is stuck in the middle of nowhere, a quaint rural town with nothing to do. Taki, without him realizing it, is never alone in the packed metropolis of Tokyo, yet is lonely. It is when they find each other in the most unlikely of circumstances that they find/lose what it is that their heart is searching for.

This is simultaneously exhilarating and distressing. To find someone and yet have that someone be out of one's reach. Does one pursue that? At what cost? In our lives, there are many people that we meet that almost seem like they could be the one. Yet most likely they're not. 

So how does one know? One can't really tell. We don't have magical realism-type plot devices to push our lives forward, but I find that Kimi no Na wa posits one potentially reliable measure. 

Near the end of the second act, after Taki goes on a date with his crush, he takes a leap of faith and seeks out Misuha. However his search is in vain as each possibility leads him to a dead end. Unbeknownst to him, Misuha went on a similar rash journey to Tokyo to find him. She too only met profound disappointment.

This grand gesture, this leap into the unknown is probably familiar to many of us. I know that it is to me. I've taken too many trains and buses, and have driven countless kilometers to nowhere. The two parallel scenes of them waiting for a phone call or a text from the other echoes an all-too-familiar sense of defeat for me. This can be enough suck out all the optimism from the most hopeful person and the sensible would know when to cut his losses and pack up to live another day.

And yet, I believe that the person worth your while would not come easy. Nothing in life worth having is ever that easy anyway. I waited for ten years for my dream to come true. Many of those years were spent having conceded to the reality that dreams do come true. However, the past two years have taught me that dreams are worth having, and they are worth working hard to reach them. Sometimes you just have to be patient.

In the case of Misuha and Taki, the effort they exerted to reach out to one another was mutual. In the mundane, to them at least but certainly not to the audience, day-to-day concessions they made to accommodate each other's wishes to the distance they traveled to find the other person to the incredible leap of faith that they took in the climax, and finally back to the everyday chance they took at the end, therein lay the foundation that earned them their relationship.  

Yes, in many ways, Kimi no Na wa is more fantastical than 5 Centimeters Per Second, but it is no less real. It has broken box office records in Japan, but hopefully people don't just enjoy it, wish it were real and call it a day. The real connection we made with it was not with its body switching plot device, but with the very real characters whose hopes and dreams reflected our own. Like Taki and Misuha, I hope find someone out there that we can feel tied to, even if not by fate, but by our own choosing.   

Another Guilty Session

Last week, I discovered the Luke-Noah story on "As the World Turns" and I was hooked.

What is it anyway about soaps that make us addicted to them?

I'm well-aware of the fact that in place of actual skilled storytelling, they opt for awkwardly edited scenes that are cut into small chunks that are not too small, but large enough for you to choke on. This of course is spread out over weeks, months and even years.

So what brings me to this one?

I suppose it's because I've been searching lately.

This isn't limited to watching spliced episodes of soaps on YouTube, but I've also taken a liking for French films about gay teens.

Now at this point in my life I'm hardly a teen, quite possibly never really been a twink. What resonates is with me is the uncertainty of the future that these kids face. Risking everything for love, how exuberantly naive can one get?

Maybe I'm searching for that exuberance. I don't quite get that feeling anymore.

To be realistic, the film I saw, "À Cause d’un Garçon" or "You'll Get Over It," isn't too cheery. It isn't some brooding film as well. It's somewhere in the middle, perfect for the awkwardness of adolesence. Perfect for the awkwardness of my life right now and all the questionable choices I've been making.

It's precisely this awkwardness that I suppose keeps me perpetually feeling like a kid at times. While I can be distanced and sage when it comes to helping other people with their issues, I sort of let my own swing to and fro being carried around by chance hoping it would at some point settle down.

However, when will this constant shifting between the rational and impulsive, confident and insecure and goodness-knows-what-else stop? Probably never.

I haven't initiated a good relationship since I was a teenager. Maybe that's why I'm so fixated with these fictional teens? Being in the closet willingly has screwed up my on-board radar. I might have to give up my rainbow license.

Anyhow, I've got another movie lined up: "Presque Rien."

It's a coming of age story about two boys who fall in love with each other.

Big surprise.

Escapism? Maybe. Reflection? Possible.

Or perhaps I just have an incurable crush on Jeremie Elkaim.


But for now, it's back to Lucas and Noah in "As the World Turns."

Guilty Pleasure: Loah

My rainy day guilty pleasure: "As the World Turns" Luke and Noah
----------

They Say

They say I spoil you.

For now, I never listen.

Down the road I will.

Mystery Solved

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Who's the hunk?

Okay, so this pic is a bit of an oldie.

I took it at the Field Museum in Chicago and from afar, I saw this really cute guy. Now, my cam is crap and this is the best shot I got of this guy.

So, does anyone know him? If you do. Tell him to send me an email.

I'll be waiting.

Reviving the Dead

And Closet Queer rises from the grave.

Appropriately, it's Easter, so that's a big whoopee.

Hmmm, how have things changed for the Closeted One?

For one, my world has expanded in many ways. I can't really say I'e had my coming out party, but the status quo has shifted, ever so slightly.

Personal life? Still a mess. Still single.

But that's not to say that it's without any development!

Kakoi? History.

I can't believe I spent so much time blogging about it.

The search for myself continues.

Film Fluff

Sometimes cotton candy can be good for you too. It may not have the nutrients you need, but that satisfying feeling of contentment can't be beat.

I usually like my films, plays and other forms of entertainment with a bit of substance or at least something analyze. However there comes along a bit of fluff, which, when done well, can be ever so consuming.

Enter Hairspray.

I first heard of the movie a long time ago, which is only right since it's an old movie. It starred trash talk show dive Ricki Lake as a (as many people like to quote) "pleasantly plump" teenager in early 60's Baltimore.

I ignored the musical version which came out on Broadway a few years back, brushing it off as bubblegum Broadway. When they annoucned a movie version of the musical that was based on a movie, I became curious enough to buy the soundtrack of the Broadway version.

It's bubblegum all right, but oh what fine chewy, pliable, delicious bubble it is.

It has rubbed away all the pretense from me and has taken over my iPod (don't worry it's tempered by another oft played musical, the indie musical about a divorce The Last Five Years).

And so I present to you the racially integrated finale of Hairspray as seen on the Today Show.

"You Can't Stop the Beat"

Those people are dynamite! I can only hope that the younger cast of the film can catch up, but with a stellar cast which includes Allison Janney, James Marsden, Michelle Pieffer, Christopher Walken, Queen Latifa and John Travolta (as a rotund mother no less!), I can't help but get a little bit giddy with Hairspray anticipation.

Preview of the film musical Hairspray on TRL

Oh yeah, it also features that amazingly not-so-annoying-anymore actress, Amanda Bynes and the "it" boy of 2006, Zac Effron.

I never really like the jock look of Zac Effron in "High School Musical" (now THAT is pure fluff) and he sort of annoyed me then (though I have to admit his shirtless scene in the locker room was easy on the eyes). Now, I just think he's the "bee's knees" or whatever they'd say back then. His hair looks good. Then again, I might just be a sucker for guys with black hair.

A pseudo teaser trailer can be seen here.

CQ's Kitchen: Index Card No. 1

And now it's time to flex my culinary muscles.

Like many people, I'm fond of good cooking. I was probaby born to cook because as early as six years old, I was already cooking ham, mushroom and cheese omelettes.

As I grew up I dabbled in different cuisines and had my fair share of failures. Thankfully, from the ashes and crumbs of those disasters rose some recipes that have become particular favorties of my family and friends. So now, I will every now and then share some of my masterpieces.

As a note, I am not a professional chef nor is this really a scientific matter. My meaurements comes in one size: to taste. I've added measurements so that people will feel better about trying out my recipes. However, I probably don't follow them anyway.

Use the Force, Luke. Let go, Luke. Luke, trust me.

Cream of Squash Soup

Ideally this should be made with an oven, but this is a version with can be done on a stove. I served this recently at a party with my friends and surprisingly this became their favorite dish, dislodging my pasta from its lofty throne.

One fresh squash or pumpkin (your favorite variety will do)
At least 4 cloves of garlic
3 whole white onions chopped
1 can of cream
Fresh milk (full cream or low-fat will do)
1/2 cup grated cheese (any semi-hard cheese)
Fresh basil chopped (or any fresh herb will do)
Curry powder (or cumin, paprika and all-spice)
Salt and pepper (or seasoned salt) to taste
Worcestershire sauce
Butter and/or olive oil
Bullion Cube (optional)

Directions:


Peel the squash and cut into squares. Toss the squash along with two cloves of crushed garlic and one chopped onion into a pot of boiling water (just enough to cover the squash). Cook until the squash is tender. Drain the water (you can opt to save it for later) and put the softened squash, onions and garlic in a food processor. Add a little bit of butter (about a tablespoon) and a bit of milk. Puree the squash until it becomes a smooth paste.

Mince the remaining cloves of garlic and chop the two onions.

Over a medium flame, heat a large saucepan (make sure it's large enough to hold all of the soup you intend to make), and toss in some olive oil and the minced garlic. Make sure you put them in at the same time because tossing in the garlic after the oil is hot will burn it. Sauté the garlic and quickly add the onions. Season this with a dash of salt. Once the onion has become tender, lower the heat of the stove. Add most of the chopped basil, saving some as garnishing. Quickly add the squash paste and another dollop of butter quickly sautéing the paste without burning it. Season with a teaspoon of curry poweder or a dash of equivalent spices. Add the cream and briskly stir it until the cream is incorporated into the paste and vice versa.

Add milk and vegetable stock (where the squash was boiled in) alternately until the mixture reaches a soup-like consistency. Season to taste with salt and pepper and Worcestershire sauce. Stir in grated cheese until it melts. Garnish with basil leaves. Serve hot.

Electric Dreams

I am not usually one to dwell in fantasies. I try to keep things as real as possible.

However, every now and then the occasional creation from the realm of the fantastic does capture my eye and sends me in fits of delirium.

One of my hobbies is gaming. And in the past decades or so this medium of entertainment has grown considerably. Since this is a stereotypically heterosexual pursuit, most of gamedom's characters are fetching lasses in skimpy outfits. Hence, growing up, it was virtually impossible for me to fixate on any of my gaming heroes for scopophilic ends. I mean, who could develop a crush on those guys from Contra as you saw them on your television?

As gaming became more advanced, it became to portray the finer nuances of the human anatomy. And while I once again call on my tendency to remain prudent, some gaming hunks have tickled my fancy.

Here are my top crushes in gaming.

Solid Snake, Metal Gear Solid

Okay, so this picture really isn't of Solid Snake hhimself, but rather of his "dad", Naked Snaka (a.k.a. Big Boss). Since Solid was cloned from Big Boss, they look the same. Plus one of the hottest aspects of Metal Gear Solid 3 (which is a prequel) is that you could dress up Naked Snake in various camo outfits. I like making run around the jungle without his shirt on. Rowrf!

Gillian Seed, SNATCHER

So this guy isn't really that famous. He's Gillian Seed, an amnesiac who was discovered with his wife in a cryogenic sleep in Siberia. The only thing he remembers is the word Snatcher, which is now a bio-mechanical terror, which impersonates the people it murders. Think Blade Runner and you'll get what Snatcher is about. Gillian is a cop with a mysterious past and undergoing a divorce. I just think he's hunkily drawn and is really a likeable guy. His amnesia in a subtle way makes him a bit of a teenager searching for his identity and this appeals to my paternal insticts.

Link, The Legend of Zelda

It seems quite unlikely that I'd ever have a crush on Link from The Legend of Zelda. The original NES showed him as a squat Elf. Those old Saturday morning cartoons made him look like a leftover of the Eighties and sounded like a imbecilic spawn of suburban America.

So imagine my surprise when in the June 2006 issue of Out Magazine, they awarded Link as the "Hottest Video Game Character." I mean, I do agree to some degree, but with countless shirtless hunks in all those other games flexing muscles, wooing bitches and killing enemies, it was a bit of a surprise. Out Magazine writes:

When darkness enshrouds the land, Nintendo's sexy farm-boy-turned-wolf sets out to save the day in this upcoming game. His weapons: a sword, a bow, arrows and kick-ass grooming skills.

Uhuh. So whatever. I ignored it. However, once I actually got to play the new Zelda game, I was in for a rude awakening (or stirring).

Shirtless Link!

It was just too much for me to take. I couldn't really know if I was scandalized or strangely attracted to my elven alter ego. Is it his lean bod? Those stylized sumo garb? Or the fact that he has never been shirtless before? All those years of secret, unattended yearnings, unleashed by a flash of digital flesh? I swoon.

I don't usually go blonds and this Link is more brownish in hair, so that definitely ups the hotness level. Nor do I usually go for twinks, but heck. I'll do this one.

I don't think this pic does Link justice. A video of the sequence will provide you with a better peek at Link's pecs.

Move the slider to the 1:40 mark for Link's man on man action.

I think Link reminds of those amateur guys who, um, do the deed on those sites that are so prominently featured in sites like QueerClick. I have never been this enamoured with a videogame character before and I don't think I ever will.

I have never felt so guilt-stricken as well. It's like falling in love with your best friend. O such sweet taboo.



I end this featurette with a pic of the hottest Link I could find. I couldn't stop staring at his beautiful face. Never before have I developed a crush... No, dare I say it?... fallen in love with someone who liked to dress up as a fictional character (or any character for that matter).

First of all, I'd like to draw your attention to the perfectly mesmerizing eyes. Then the flawlessly translucent skin. Then to those oddly attractive ears. Finally to the meticulously crafted green tunic.

Rapture!


The only problem.


This Link's a girl.



And once again my closeted heterosexuality tries to make itself known.

And now for something fun...

Lacoste Pour Homme



Chanel No. 5


Now both ads exude style. Granted these both sell fashion merchendise, but the way they do it so class you just gotta keep it in your mind.

The first one uses Ian Lawless, a hunky hunk of a hunk kicking around pillows in the buff. It's sexy, but so tasteful you'd feel guilty if you ever tainted the impeccable Mr. Lawless. I find himtimpossibly hot. Whenever I see this video, I just go nuts, literally. Even after a few years, I still haven't lost my crush on him. Hopefully the fragrance lingers as longs as these stirrings.

The second one features Nicole Kidman and Rodrigo Santoro in an opulent ad directed by Moulin Rouge helmer Baz Luhrmann. The nods to his movie with Nicole are deliberate and explicit. However instead of detracting from its appeal, the ad works because of it. The idea of romance is sold. Not to me however.

Why? No shirtless Rodrigo Santoro. How can you even think of selling that to me? All the budget blown away for nothing.

Oh yeah, I have a crush on Nicole Kidman. Then again, that's like falling in love with Judy Garland.

Selfish Me.

WARNING:
Today's blog entry is an angry, self-loathing, self-serving rant against all civilized society.
If you do not want to spoil your day, I suggest you wait until I'm in a better mood for a perkier blog entry. You have been warned.
Proceed at your own risk.
I need a hug.

And I don't expect it to come from anyone anymore.

In my feeble attempts to sort and sieve through my life, I have just come to realize that maybe I don't need anyone. Or I don't need just anyone.

I believe I've been a good friend to my friends. Well, maybe not where money is concerned, but I try to be there whenever I can.

However, it has come to the point where I don't really want to worry about their problems. I need to get it together.

So I got problems, great. I suppose it's the unattractive me or I think I'm unattractive. Gay culture ruins people like me - pushing me further into the closet.

All this bullshit of people complaining about how it sucks to be single really gets on my nerves. Boo-hoo, my life sucks. Boo-hoo, I'm single. Fucking shit! I've been single for four years. I'm practically in a convent or a monastery or something like fucking that. Sure, I complain about, but not as much as some people. The worst part of it is that it's not just a couple of people but a handful of them, coming up to me.

I'm not Oprah. I'm not Dr. Phil. Fuck off!

So maybe I asked for it. Nice guys finish last. For people like that, my heart bleeds for them. Really, I do.

It's just that I'm such a frickin' bleeding heart that I've grown numb. Gimme space. I'll fix my own life first. Then, maybe, we can fix yours.

I try not to dwell too much on my own status. However, when people who have only been single for less than half a year begin to rant about how much it sucks. I get so fucking offended. What am I chopped liver?

I chose to be single for four years (long story made short, it's my personal therapy for the end of a four year relationship). Now that I'm back in the market. My sealegs are woobly. I have no idea what I'm doing.

So I end up staying away. I need to love myself. Not someone else.

Then again, here I am. Mr. Tough Guy is spent from ranting.





And I still need a hug.



"Nothing lasts forever." "All good things must end." I've memorized that phrase by heart. So tell me, I need to know it. When do the good things start? -Charlie Brown, "You're a Good Man, Charlie Brown"

Brazil? Brazil!

And I pop back online.

I've barely taken the time to actually continue this blog simply because there isn't anything happening to me that is worth noting. Or at least anything that I really want to be talking about.

After much brooding (and working - as work really took its toll on me this month), I've mustered up all my thoughts into a coherent theme - Brazil.

Unfortunately, if you ever saw this gem of a film, you'd know that it's anything but coherent (in a conventional sense at least). I'd hate to sing praises for this movie and sound like a poseur, so I won't. At least I won't pretend to like parts that I didn't really understand.

I bought the DVD on sale at HMV in the UK (Thank God for Generic Region-Free Players). I hadn't really had the time to watch it until this month. I had half my brain focused on something else and early on it was a struggle to focus on somethings. However the visuals tickled my fancy. I couldn't really feel for Sam Lowry's (Jonathan Pryce) flight sequences but his mom's facelift scene early on is definitely priceless!

A hodgepodge of the futuristic 20th century and a bit of the old-fashioned 50's look mashed into one proves that Terry Gilliam is one sick, sick genius. The question what is "Brazil"? Is not answered at all. The title is just there, freely available for you to pick apart. Gilliam offers the best explanation, to paraphrase, it's Walter Mitty meets Franz Kafka. Or something like that.

A lot of explanation runs along that line: something like that. It's not quite definite and it is precisely this lack of certainty that "Brazil" plays around with. The dystopian utopia which is mildly reminiscent of the world that "V for Vendetta" presents, but unlike that 2005 release this Nineteen-Eighty-Four for 1984 film has no real menace. Except maybe for the bureaucracy which is a tangled mess of a paper trail much like the ducts which undulate and snake through the film. Untouchable and inscrutable by all except those who dare to do so.

And to dare to dream is what Sam Lowry (a pun? a relative of Willy Loman perhaps?) does. At least in his dreams.

An in mine as well. Or something like that.

Much like his character I live in the fantasies of my mind. No, I'm not dabbling in dirty talk. I just have these bouts of daydreams of incredible images and situations. Things that make my regular life, well more liveable. It's not that is that ill-lived. It's just that the inner-child, someone I've repressed throughout childhood is trying to break free.

And break free it must. To the rhythm of Rio's deep and throbbing beat if possible.


If Terry Gilliam has his way, the torture of everyday life will be underscored by saucy samba music. And in many ways, that's the story of my life.

Minus the samba dancing.

"Aquarela do Brasil" (Watercolor of Brazil)

Good stuff

Here's a nifty blog I stumbled upon yesterday.

Actually, I've seen his blog before, but I only took time to go through it yesterday. And woof! woof! What a blog it is!

This is a personal blog by a guy named Jeff (aka Amateurhunk) in the same way as mine, except that I'm not as bold as he is.

So at first glance one will go nuts over this hot guy and maybe uh relieve oneself with one of his video clips, but that was interesting for only a few minutes (or after the rush of orgasm has subsided). What really drew me in is that it is a very well-written blog.

I really go for brains and this guy has got his fair share of functional noodles in his cranium. While he doesn't really pepper his blog with politics (thank goodness for that), but little flourishes of style really adds a lot of class.

Add the fact that he doesn't really show his face and you've got a mystery. You can infer what he looks like (and according to my deductions, he's got a great smile, a strong nose and seems to be quite adorable), which is enough for me. At least he's not just a torso.

He's got the muscles and the words. Go read him.

http://www.amateurhunk.blogspot.com/

Love in the Time of Influenza

I do not get Folk'ed.

There is a thick soup in the air.

A yellow nausea that tiptoes into my space and drips all over my head, coating me in its contagious goo.

Yes, it's love in the gay world and it's cheap, free for all.

As a man who loves men, it is difficult to pigeonhole myself into a comfortable cubby that will satisfy everyone.

I do not join Pride Parades. I am not out, to a good degree and some argue that I send gaydom into the Dark Ages.


Well, Hallelujah!

Just because I don't wear my rainbow armband, doesn't mean I don't care about gay rights and all that; I do. However, just like my friend said of her religion, spirituality is not something to be displayed, it's private like dirty underwear.

While I wouldn't go as far as alluding to my spirituality as dirty underwear, but my sexuality is definitely dirty underwear.

I dare not display it, but I am aware of its existence. I acknowledge its importance and role in my life. I choose not to "display" it for various reason which I will not necessarily discuss today.

I do feel that any need I feel to ascribe to a gay lifestyle is quickly quashed by my own person. I never feel truly comfortable with other gay men. To certain degree, I do, but another not quite. This is a bizarre turn of events because I fancied myself a trailblazer in my age group.

I was quite young when I had come to terms with my sexuality and had gotten involved with someone seriously. I came out to my folks (and we all know what kind of drama that entails) and have done my little evangelization of gay rights.

So why am I in the closet? The funny thing is is that I'm not really in the closet. I act the way that I do because that's just who I am. Geeky and not quite fabulous. Friendships with other gay men don't really last. Backbiting can get even the best of them and many are quite fleeting.

Hence, I begin to think about the feasibility of the possiblity of finding love again. Frankly, things are looking bleak.

Gay love is a seasonal infectious disease, it can have terrible symptoms, but at the end of the day, most cases of it are shallow and simply disappear over time.

There is virtually no permanence. How can there be permanence when the entire dating game is plagued with superficial demands?

What is the currency of love nowadays?

1. gym buff. so much for average schmoes like me. why is it that every gay man on fashionable tv looks like the cast of Queer as Folk? the obsession with looks is frankly scary. maybe i'm just insecure. yeah, i'm insecure. what chance do i have?

2. location. are you strategically located to be loved? what happened to crossing the ends of the earth for love? chivalry is dead? not if it never existed. chivalry in gay relationships is merely a fantasy played out in bed as foreplay.

3. the right cellular phone. shallow, but people actually do care about this. quick, right on the money, easily accessible.

4. my humps - my lumps. well-hung we all need to be. sexually-gratifying. of course this is important, but to be rejected.

5. numbers - the right numbers, the right stats, the right height, the right salary.


Should I submit my resume the next time I court someone? I'll have a biopsy as well while I'm at it.

After all this is making me sick.

Love these days hits hard, leaves many empty handed, like we've never been loved at all.

And the Earth rotates once more

ANOTHER day has come and gone and I'm still online. The bizarre thing about a web presence is that you're never really there. A lot is compromised in persisting an existence in cyberspace.

Time flows forward and backwards and not by jumping through the folds and wrinkles in the fabrics of time and space, but just by slumming in the bean bag waiting for myself to turn into a pumpkin, or a glass slipper.

Having just devoured another movie about a man whose wife was murdered, I can't help but reflect on the motifs of the past week or so. Somethings are on just continuous replay. Same things said and same things done and oddly enough different reasons for why I find myself in similar situations.

Flirting with a nineteen year old? Why the hell not? I was nineteen once, in a long time ago, in a galaxy, far, far away. However now things seem more muddled, like seen through foggy spectacles.

I'm rambling. And the world is turning without me. Again.

The Twizzle of Blogs

As I sit here tonight, I wonder once more.

Why do I think too much? Brood, brood, brood.

For some reason, I feel very, very lonely. It's not that I don't have friends around. They're there, fluttering about, but something just got to me today.

I just finished watching "Memento"; you know that Christopher Nolan flick. Yeah I spent two long entries babbling on and on about "The Prestige" - a decidedly inferior according to some people (probably because it's more "mainstream") and one would probably correctly assume that I'd babble on and on about "Memento."

Not really. It was good, no doubt. Maybe it was my mood today or the fact I just saw it in my room with the distractions of the people outside my door, the PC and books. Memento didn't draw me in that much. None of the twists really surprised me nor did they beg me to unravel them.

Maybe I'll need to process it some more.

Right now I feel like dried shit that attached itself to the bottom of your shoe and couldn't be scraped or hosed out.

Like my entire life was headed for this moment: the big giant BLAH.

Of course the irony of the blog is that as I sit here, hours and hours trying to be all profound and shit about my life, the sun has come and gone and I'm still alone.

It measures nothing.

Sacred Secrets

Jamie's got secrets he doesn't confide And I'm still hurting
-"Still Hurting" from "The Last 5 Years"

The worst kept secret in the world is that everyone has a secret and that usually, it in itself is poorly kept. The fact that you share it with someone lessen its entity as classified information and that once the words escape from your tongue or fingers, it exists as its own entity. Free from your own constraints and exists as a secret that your confidant must bear. Until of course, the confidant chooses another confidant, which again, renders your prized kernel of truth, less sacred.

Thus there are secrets that we must keep hidden, even from our closest and dearest of friends, and sometimes even from ourselves.

Any gay/bi man who ever struggled with his sexuality knows this.

Keeping that part of you that you probably didn't want to acknowledge in the first place proved to be a feat of wrestling with your own Nemean lion. Since you are no Heracles, the lion probably one and that's why you're reading this blog.

So we're gay. Big fucking deal. We probably wanted the lion to win anyway. Most of us probably want to be dominated at one point or another anyway. Such are the nature of the secrets we keep from ourselves.

Clearly, it if the secret is on the foremost part of our consciousness, it is far easier to share and to divulge. At least, we have already accepted it to one degree on another.

However, what about our subconscious? When dreams grace and plague our listless sleep, are they stirring such emotions we have long buried in our subconcious? By what machinations of the id do we wake sweaty and bothered by the dancing images of full-bodied, lusty sex with partners we never thought we'd dream of.



Like coming to terms with your own sexuality. Most of the time, the initial reaction is one of repulsion.

Possibly the repulsion stems from the physical attributes of the person. We're simply not attracted to the person. Maybe he/she is quite hideous and our personal tastes are compromised by engaging with him/her in a compromising coital situation.

However the truth is that most of the time, when lustful thoughts of unlikely people penetrate our conscious mind, they're more likely to be remotely attractive to us. Deep down inside, beyond the cogs of our rational mind, we admire something in them. Still, the very thought of kissing, much less make love, that person is beyond consideration.

Why the guilt? Is it a betrayal of our own sensibilities? Like Oedipus, do we have our own Jocasta? Why do the stirrings of such thoughts make us want to gouge our eyes out and mourn for our warped sense of passion?

Does it mean that we secretly harbor lustful intents for our genetic progenitors? Our comrades? Our superiors and inferiors? Surely we can just brush such thoughts aside with one flick of the superego. However, what if - and this is the dangerous what if - what if we actually enjoy it?

That lingering kiss, that swipe of the tongue - the taste of that which has been forbidden, they all come together and form the ideal we have conditioned ourselves not aspire for, but rather avoid.

What then to do? Do we run down the road and follow them? Do we pretend they don't exist?

Neither way is right. They could be, just like any emotion, just some random chemical process and this does not merit any further exploration. However to supress such thoughts would also render us vulnerable. Rather, we should just keep it at that. Accept them for what they are.

So we remain silent. Let it pass like the icebergs in the North Atlantic. In the attempt to keep ourselves pure, let's keep the self sacred.

I'll keep my lips pursed and sealed.