Perfect English is sooo 2008…

I’ve always been super anal when it came to typos and grammar mistakes – not that I didn’t make any myself.  Which was why I absolutely HATED reading my old blog posts because I could always spot little errors throughout the entry.  I would obsess over every mistake, beating myself up and asking myself “How can you be so stupid??”  I’d go through each and every sentence like an orangutan picking fleas off her offsprings, and nibbling on every mistake as a form of self punishment.

And I wouldn’t stop there.  I’d obsess over mistakes by those around me as well.  When I catch a typo in an assistant’s email, lord have mercy ’cause it’d turn into a long winded lecture on the importance of ‘professional-email-writing-as-a-reflection-on-the-professionalism-of-the-company’.  If it came from my boss, it would take everything for me to bite my tongue and not confront her.  In fact, I was such a word-Nazi that I once completely tore a guy at work to shreds for using “ur” instead of “your”.  And god forbid if I caught an email with an error in my own outbox, I would literally get up from my desk and leave my office in order to namaste-breathe….

Oh how times have changed.  That was just a little over 3 years ago.  Nowadays we as a society have not only lowered our tolerance for errors, we’ve pretty much completely tossed the concept of correct grammar and spelling out the window.  In this modern (ahem, 3 years) age of 140-character-including-spaces-status-update-while-driving, grammatical-correctness has become luxury we just can’t afford anymore.  I mean who’s got the time?  It’s gotten to the point that as long as we get our point across it really doesn’t matter if we mix up a few words hear and their.  If it’s good enough to tweet, who cares if it reads like twat…?

And forget those annoying little marks we used to called punctuation. I mean are you kidding me why would I wanna waste my precious time to tell you when one thought ends and another begins I mean if you cant figure that out for yourself then youre not worthy of my time anyways I mean you should be happy that I even bothered to capitalize the word I…

And of course, why even bother with complete words when you can abbreviate?  And it doesn’t really matter if it’s not a commonly known abbreviation, because just like a venereal disease, if you put it out there often enough it’ll surely to catch on… kn wt i mn?

By now, like most of the laptop-ipod-ipad-iphone-toting population out there, I’ve pretty much become desensitized to grammatical and spelling mistakes.  These days when I get an email from a colleague or client, while there’s always at least one or two typos in them, miraculously they don’t irk me as much as they did before.  Sure it’s still kind of annoying but it’s also comforting to know that I no longer want to reach into the computer and strangle the sender.  What’s worse is I’ve become lax when it comes to my own writing as well.  And nowadays if I spot a slight error in my Outlook outbox, I wouldn’t beat myself up like I used to but would instead shrug it off by thinking, “Oh he probably knew what I meant…”

So as you read this blog entry and as you pick apart my spelling, my run-on sentences and my concoction of past-present-future-perfect-progressive tenses, know that I really don’t give a crap.  Because alas, I am liberated!

Fistful of Cash….

Remember that Seinfeld episode, when Jerry, completely clueless, gave Elaine a giftbox full of cash ($182 to be exact) for her birthday?  hmmm…

Today the HK’s finance chief announced that each HK resident will receive $6,000 cash due to budget miscalculation – resulting from an embarrassingly high budget surplus.   So let it be noted that today, March second two thousand and eleven, will forever be the day when our wimpy government pays the population to stay calm, stay quiet, and spend up.

Sure most HK households still can’t afford a two-closet, I mean two-bedroom, 500 square foot apartment in the city as our currency continues its head-spinning spiral down that seemingly bottomless valuation tunnel, but with an extra $6,000 payout from the government, we can finally go and buy that latest LV bag or that new Leica camera we’ve been DYING to have – and isn’t life just wonderful?  And the iPhone 5 and iPad 2 is about to come out… perfect timing!!

Getting free money is probably a once in a lifetime thing.  Sure there was that tax rebate thing back in US a few years ago, but I don’t recall it being this much.  I mean $6k can buy you a mini-vacation, and not just another weekend in Taipei or Bangkok but actually a few nights to more ‘ritzy’ destinations like Tokyo and Seoul – or if you’re willing to fly economy on Air China, you can fly to Spain or Amsterdam… via Beijing… so no, this is not a small amount.  But $6k x 7million people… isn’t that like $42billion or $5.4b usd…?  We could’t have been that THAT underbudget? (actually after a bit of news-googling… HK is expecting a budget surplus of $71billion or usd $9.1billion)

I’m not a finance guy but I do know that while budget deficits are bad, huge budget surpluses are just as nasty.  Not only does it mean we’ve got fiscally irresponsible folks running the govt, but it also means we have govt leaders who are getting a taxpayer paycheck but aren’t doing very much.  No programs = no spend = leftover $$$.  What’s even more disappointing is the utter lack of creativity (or laziness…?) from our city officials.  Is it possible that no matter how hard they try, they just couldn’t think of a better way to allocate the funds to improve our lives than giving out cash to everyone?

What about initiatives like cleaning up the harbor, clearing our air, beefing up our cultural offerings (ahem… not talking about WKCD), revitalizing our heritage and neighborhoods, education programs for under privileged, vocational training programs, or just simply feeding the homeless and shrink the poverty gap…?

The thing is, the government has promised $6,000 for each and every HK permanent resident.  You’ve got ***, here’s $6,000.  How much lazier can you get with policy making?  This basically means the money that little old lady hauling recycled cardboard boxes gets will be exactly the same as what that mansion-dwelling billionaire media mogul will receive.  Only difference is old lady will spend it on her room rent and monthly groceries, while the billionaire will use it to pay for his high tea at the Mandarin…

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not claiming to be a saint or anything, and I’ll be cashing out the $6k as fast as the next guy while salivating over our next vacation plans… but if I had a choice, I would’ve hoped that our government had made a bit more of an effort and gave us the public a little more credit by developing programs and initiatives that can actually change lives for the better and longer term, rather than just a cash handout.

Yes I admit, I haven’t touched this blog for the last X months… actually make that XXXX months.  And it has taken this crazy news to get me off my ass and be compelled enough to log in and write again.  So if nothing else, I guess I can just treat the $6k as my personal motivational fee to keep this blog going…

More about the surplus and cash handout: http://blogs.wsj.com/hong-kong/2011/03/02/cash-handouts-not-enough-say-legislators-residents/

Keep Writing

An article I read recently said that to start a blog is easy but to maintain it is the toughest part.  After over 30 entries, I stalled – yeah i guess i could blame it on hectic schedules (both work and play) – then again I can only blame myself 🙂

Gonna make 2011 the year of blogging again 🙂

The Asian Bear Market

One summer night found us at a gay club up in China with a few good friends. Smack in the middle of China to be exact. A handsome young man across the club kept staring towards our direction, at our group of thirty-somethings as we knocked back tall glasses of watered down gin and tonics. The boy, no older than 25 or 26, couldn’t seem to take his eyes off us. He was fixated, and after a few beers gathered enough courage and strolled over to our table.

“How are you?” he said in Chinese. Extending his skinny arms out to one of our friends he smiled, “I was admiring you from across the room.” Our friend blushed with excitement, “I love bears and we don’t have many around here…”

Welcome to the New China.

In the States, a gay ‘bear’ meant rock-hard potbellies, sandpaper chins, and skin-tight leather chaps and collars studded with shiny silver buckles. Bears had their mini-ghetto-within-the-gay-ghetto. They hang out in bars far west of West Chelsea and rarely socialize with ‘mainstream’ gays… ie. gym-toned and tanned boys sipping fruiti-tini’s in bars dotting 8th Ave. I could count on one hand the number of times we actually went inside a ‘bear’ bar, since we did so only when we desperately needed to pee. They were sticky, smelled of urine, and claustrophobically pitch dark. The bathroom had rows of mirrors strategically installed right above rusty metal urinals, apparently to facilitate drunken peep shows. It was an environment only a real American bear could bare. We’d get out as fast as we our bladder muscle would allow. Bear country was a land I had no desire to be a part of.

Since moving to Hong Kong, we have discovered a different kind of bear culture. Asian bears, or also affectionately called pandas, are typically beefy and stocky, just like their American counterparts. Most of them have facial hair, or at least as much as God would willingly allocate to an Asian man. The major difference is that the bear market in Asia seem to be much brighter and hopeful than in the States. Bears are widely accepted, embraced and at times even adored.

Zoo, the appropriately named and most popular gay bar in Hong Kong hosts a ‘bear’ night each Thursday. And not the dark-sticky-urine-smelling kind, but is of the chic-loungy-fuzzy-cuddly variety. They even put out dozens of cute little teddy-bears all over the bar to make sure patrons are in good company. And it’s not just bears that show up there, bear admirers run the gamut in Asia, from twinky monkeys to tall banker zebras to mature lions and athletic tigers. It’s surprising how well-represented the animal kingdom is on a bear night at Zoo.

In fact bears are strangely popular all across Asia. From mega-parties in Taipei to hip clubs in Jakarta and karaoke bars in Tokyo, beefy seems to be the meat of choice everywhere we go. And these are not actually bear-themed events, but mainstream gay parties where you see bears and other animals co-mingle. It is a phenomenon that still kind of baffles my mind. Coming from a gym-bunny-zone-diet-obsessed West Hollywood culture, there was only one type of ‘perfection’. Apparently in Asia, “perfection” come in all shapes and sizes.

I admit it, I have been called a bear myself more than a few times – mostly from friends teasingly and probably attributed to my heavier-set and my short goatee originally meant to hide my second chin. Being a bit overweight in the States is exponentiated to being quite-overweight in Asia, where rail thin is the “norm” body type – even for a guy. But the reality is, I’m probably not ‘bear’ enough to be fully recognized as a legit member of the club. Because contrary to common belief, being a bear is not as easy as it seems. If you think all it takes is plopping down on the couch with McDonald’s every night and letting nature take its course, think again. As one of my Facebook friend so eloquently put it, “If you’re a pig, don’t call yourself bear!”

The bear-posse is actually a surprisingly elitist group and they won’t just acknowledge anyone. They spend hours at the gym, mostly on weights, working to tighten up while bulking up. And while you can go on a crash diet and drop pounds, it’s much harder to maintain that perfect balance of adorably-chubby yet solid and muscular. It takes a well disciplined regimen of consumption and exertion to achieve. And it’s more work than I’m probably cut out for. In truth, being caught in limbo has been kind of difficult. Seeing the joyful bears frolicking around the Zoo each Thursday, I can’t help but ask myself, should I make one last attempt to shed 15 pounds and regain my 20-something year old physique or continue proudly towards bear land? The former is attractive but for the first time in my lfe, the latter doesn’t sound too bad either. Regardless of the decision though, I have to admit that it’s hella comforting to know that there is a happy and healthy bear market out here waiting.

Show Me Some Alien Ass

September 9 was a night filled with unusual phenomenons here in Hong Kong.  A record breaking 13,000 lightning bolts zapped down on our city in the span of an hour, igniting the sky and sending our two pooches hiding under our tea-stained coffee table.  It was like something from Independence Day, War of the Worlds or any alien-takes-over flick, you know that familiar scene when dramatic clouds gather between rumbling thunder – moments later dish-shaped machines would descend and laser our pathetic asses and blow up important landmarks like the Hollywood sign and the Golden Gate Bridge.

So it was astonishing that also on September 9, a record number of UFO sightings were reported in and around the city – five to be exact according to our faithful HK Observatory.  This guy was even able to take pictures of the darn thing with, in cliche HK fashion, an iPhone:

Although it doesn’t surprise me.  It would make sense why UFOs would want to visit us here.  I mean what better place to profit from their arrival than a city with the highest concentration of jaded individuals?  People here have zero tolerance for the past (evident in our diminishing historical architectures) and trends come and go at the blink of an eye.  We’ve all been trained to constantly be on the look out for the next “big thing” that would turn a profit.  That goes for the next hot stock and IPO to the next Pokemon and Hello Kitty.  A stuffed flying saucer and action figure alien can’t be that far behind.  And we’ve got the factories just across the border to crank them out.

If these aliens knows anything about the effectiveness of a viral PR campaign, they would definitely make a pit stop here.  Hong Kong people are a  voyeuristic bunch and we are at-ready to turn our neighbor’s mental breakdowns into YouTube fame (evident in the infamous bus-uncle and airport-auntie videos).  Those aliens’ message of World-demolition-and-domination would spread like wildfire by our social video fanatics, cheaply and effectively.

Or maybe they were just running on empty and just needed to swing by and get fueled up on the abundant amount of carbon dioxide in our air and the electromagnetic glares emitting from our skyline.  We might just be a designated refueling station after a long haul from Area 51 before  before rocketing back into outer space.  Gravity is a major fuel-suck, just ask any ailing airline.  Why else would we be denied pillows and blankets and be forced to eat a bag of Dorito-mix for dinner on a 6 hour bicoastal flight?  But if the UFOs are really milking our smog and electromagnetic waves, then I’d say they should pay a hefty airport docking tax.  Or maybe they already do… which explains our annual budget surplus each year.

I’ve always been curious about UFOs.  Not whether they existed or not, but when the hell will they finally come down and recycle this planet that we’ve almost finished milking?  To me the question is not “if” but “when”.  An alien attack is imminent I believe and personally I don’t think I’d mind it much.  I’d rather die from a worldwide-zap that disintegrates our entire city including both our humble little 700 square feet two story walkup and that multi-million dollar mansion on the Peak than from a fatal illness that happened to not be covered in my company healthcare plan.  And when they do invade, at least I would’ve witnessed something spectacular and miraculous before I turn into human dust.  It’s like getting a heart attack right after the most breathtaking Cirque du Soleil act or after the finale of a Lady Gaga concert, it’d be an exhilarating way to go.

Maybe that’s why I’ve never felt sorry for the civilians who get zapped away in those sci-fi movies.  And it’s also why one of my favorite movies of all time is Tim Burton’s Mars Attacks with Jack Nicholson Annette Benning and a pre-Sex-and-the-City SJP.  In the movie, alien-attacks were comical and death is cartoonish, hence for me it’s the most realistic alien movie ever.  Because I believe that WHEN Mars DOES attack, we’ll be in for a hell of a roller coaster ride.

Anatomy of a Move

Moving is one of the most stressful events in life, ranking right behind divorce and death.  So it’s no wonder I’ve become such a neurotic ADD mess.

It seems I’ve been moving as young as I could remember.  When asked “where did you grow up?” I’d often return with a blank stare, simply because I couldn’t pinpoint the exact city where “growing up” happened.  Was it when I had my first crush on my third grade Japanese classmate Juro?  That was Palo Alto.  Or maybe it was when I belted out “Lady of Liberty” in front of a darkened auditorium during a sixth grade musical in West Lafayette, Indiana.  Or was it the summer when I witnessed the most miraculous firework showering over us from the lawn in Salt Lake City?  Or that Australian experimental-girlfriend that I pecked ever so lightly, just once, back in seventh grade… or was it eighth?  Which meant it would’ve either have been in Chicago… or San Francisco.  All this was before turning 14, the year when my parents decided to pick up and move back to Hong Kong, where we stayed for three long-and-luxurious years… before plopping ourselves back to the States to deep dark Orange County.

Yes, staying put was truly a luxury for me growing up.  Changing schools every year meant I had no concept of longterm friendships and made me both curious and incredibly envious of those who actually had “childhood friends”.  The strongest memories I have of my parents are of the two of them hauling a dusty oversize couch from the Sunday garage sale around the corner up three flights of stairs to our Chicago walk-up, of me and my mom circling the supermarket parking lot hunting for used cardboard boxes, and of my nervous father behind the wheel of a clunky U-Haul zipping along Highway 5.

To save money we never used a mover, and for the longest time I didn’t even know you can hire other people to move for you.  When shopping for a new used car, the first thing my parents would examine was whether it had ample space for boxes and appliances.  And until now the first thing I notice on a car is still the size of its trunk.  Moving had become so ingrained in my genetic makeup that even after I left home at 18, I was already fully conditioned to keep our family tradition, even on my own.

Apartment hunting in L.A. became a drug and the LA Weekly rental classifieds became my favorite Thursday morning read.  I looked forward to the end of my rental lease like it was my birthday and grew antsy after each day that passed.  Like a schizo nomad, I went from a tiny room in the basement of a retired Chinese couple’s house to a funky-smelling studio in an art deco building in Mid-Wilshire to a Melrose-Place-lookalike studio on Fountain to a clumpy-brown-carpeted one bedroom next to gay-town on San Vicente.  It got to the point where I wouldn’t even bother to fully unpack because I knew I would be moving again in 12 short months.  My longest L.A. residence came only when I got entered a relationship with a guy who didn’t share in my addiction and collectively we had too much shit.

Three years later when that relationship ended, I also rebounded.  I hopped over to Pasadena for a year and Alhambra for another.  Until I met my current partner, who happened to be just as restless.   So off we moved, this time to New York where we stayed for three (luxurious) years between two apartments, got bored and picked up and moved to Hong Kong.  We’ve been here for three years now, and just like clockwork, churned through three more apartments.  Housewarming and birthdays have pretty much become annual affairs and IKEA owes us a rebate.

All said, somehow it still doesn’t make the process of moving any less stressful.  And why would it?  For a couple of weeks, your whole life is put on hold and into wobbly boxes haphazardly taped together by hardcore-looking chain-smoking moving guys.  And in the process you are confronted with that scratchy old N’Sync CD you played nonstop in college, hotel toiletries you collected from humdrum business trips, and expiring bottles of multivitamins you bought from Costco because they were way too cheap to pass up.  When we move we are forced to confront all the “things” we had previously tucked away safe from memory, things that we spent our hard earned cash on but rarely used, tangible reminders of past headaches, and heartaches, now forced into the open.  For two weeks we are required to dig deep into our past, face our present, and make us question our future.

Come to think of it, maybe moving isn’t really that stressful, but is simply an opportunity to give our lives a much needed make-over.  And just like putting on a fresh face, we gotta wipe away the dirty old make-up to reveal all our flaws before we can start a clean slate.

What’s in your happiness-account?

Happiness is a funny thing.  It’s such an intangible concept yet so very universal.  Yes, it’s a feeling that even our dogs and cats share.  And with all the uncertainties in the world, it’s not surprising that happiness is a hot topic these days.

And just like the stock market and consumer confidence index, taking stock of ones own  happiness portfolio couldn’t be far behind.  And in the spirit of the Apple slogan “there’s an app for that”, the UK company Mappiness is already on it.

The company has developed an app that pings you a few times a day, prompting you to input your ‘feelings’.  After a week or so, it charts out your happiness-quotient and voila, you learn whether you are a life-loving-happy-go-lucky or a depressed-party-pooping-downer.

Just think if this whole thing actually takes off, it may not be long for happiness to one day be widgeted, packaged, marketed, and bartered.  Imagine instead of digging up filthy bills and clunky coins, we reach into our emotional digital-wallets (in the form of an app of course) and scan a few bars of happiness at the Starbucks cash register in exchange for our afternoon mocha latte pick me up.

Hmmm… happiness as currency, what a concept.  Instead of just running the rat race to fill up our bank accounts, we “work” just as hard to achieve personal happiness to fill up our emotional wallets.

Come to think of it, it really isn’t as ridiculous as it might seem.  I read an article the other day that said while money can buy happiness, it does so only up to a certain point.  According to the study, $75,000/year is the ‘magic number’, after which the positive correlation between income and happiness begins to plateau.  Obviously this number would fluctuate based on where you live, eg. $75,000/year may be plenty in Kansas City but wouldn’t go very far in New York.   But the overall theme in the study is that when it comes to relationship between $$ and the :D, there is always a threshold above which the happiness-curve starts to flat line.  The result?  The person making $5 million is not guaranteed to be that much happier than the man making $1million versus the guy who makes $100k.

Can this be true?  If so, then would this means that happiness itself is worth more than all the money in the world?  Because while you can always work harder to make more money, to gain happiness… not as easy.

Come to think of it, this whole thing actually explains a lot.  Like why some successful rock stars earning millions succumb to drugs and Oscar winning actresses commit suicide.  And why a successful career woman would quit her high paying  job to live in exotic locales around the globe for a year in order to ‘find herself’ (aka Eat Pray Love).  Ironically the woman ends up writing a bestselling book, that’s made into a movie, which end up earning her more money.  In this case, instead of money buying happiness, finding happiness, by giving UP money, actually earned her even more money… you following?  Awesome right?  hmmm… wonder how happy she is these days though…

So what does my own happiness bank account look like and what can I do to generate bigger and more frequent deposits?  What investments do I need to make to guarantee myself long term results?

Because like they say, it’s never ever too late to start investing.

Deafening Silence

All was quiet this morning.  Almost silent.

Rush hour in a bustling city of 7 million, today a damp gray drizzle blankets over her.  She did not want to wake up.  Her limbs still aching.  Her heart still wrenching.  Her mind still racing.  The quietness of a hangover.

This was the morning after a night of thunderous downpour, of popping rounds of gunshots and smashing windshields, which became the soundtrack of a nightmare where bloodshed and death was the marquee.

Mrs. Leung - Lost 2 Daughters and 57 Year Old Husband

Swimming through a sea of hollow faces, I made my way to pick up the morning paper.  Pedestrians tip toe to work, to school, to life.  We timidly avoid eye contact, for fear of being pierced by the sadness in each other’s eyes.   A giant elephant towered over the city and we were afraid of waking him.  Because if we spoke, it might turn out to be a deafening scream.

So instead we whisper.  Quietly.  Gently. Under our breaths.  This was the only way of holding back swelling tears and our bubbling emotion of sadnessfearangerhelplessdespair… mix and brought to a boil.

For this morning I experienced a silence of the loudest magnitude.

For more about the hostage incident:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/2010_Manila_hostage_crisis

The Gay Fountain of Youth

It’s official, the closest thing to the proverbial fountain of youth isn’t botox or a $250 Le Mer cream. If you are a man, and you want to turn back time, apparently homo-ing it is the way to go.

This morning on Facebook I saw yet another former colleague, an ex-New York partying princess, holding a newborn baby. I was so shocked that I had to zoom into the picture to make sure it was really her and not the result of some pre-Starbucks early morning grog… or an Inception-type-hallucination. For all I knew, some sick person may be planting baby dreams in my head.

No such luck, I wasn’t dreaming and it was definitely her. And she traded in her DJ-spinning-gin-and-tonics for an adorable newborn baby boy she named Alejandro, shown cuddled up in a warm fuzzy baby-blue blankie. Yep another one bites the dust. I needed coffee stat.

Twenty minutes later as I trammed my way to the office, iPod in ear, I contemplated how my life of Alejandro-by-Gaga has become so different from her’s, one that consists of goo-goo and gaga-ing over little Alejandro. She has morphed into a responsible diaper-changing-college-fund-saving parent while miraculously I’m still here, a manchild in Uniqlo-T and Converse listening to Justin Biebler. So this is what vampires must feel like, ageless and immortal, watching their peers grow and move on.

“Hello boys!” Muah muah air kiss air kiss (somewhere between the tail end of the financial crisis and the trickling recovery, we have all become oh-so European). A very typical Saturday night gay-greeting before the first round of cocktails are served, after which it becomes “gurrrl-this” and “gurrrl-that” (note, not “laaadies”).

The fact is, gay men rarely refer to ourselves as “men”. We don’t want to grow up, just like a Toys R Us kid. And no matter how wrinkly, gray, pot-bellied, and frumpily-dressed, if you’re gay your friends will tend to call you a “boy”. Perhaps we do this subconsciously so we can also feel just as young. Since you’re a boy, and I hang out with you, then I must be a boy too. And here we are, a group of button-nose-rosy-cheek-lollipop-sucking boys, loitering drunk on the urine-smelling sidewalk outside a gay bar at two thirty in the morning, refusing to go home to our Toy Story sheets and teddy bears… not until we get laid.

And then there are the extremes. We have a friend who enjoys acting like a Japanese cartoon character after he’s had a couple, squeezing his voice to a high-octave squeal and in baby-talk, “Aww… wa a we doing afta dinna? I wan ice-kweem. So fun, so yummy!” He’d then squint and pout his lips, probably waiting for a pacifier he left next to his bed at home. By the way, he’s forty-two and a director at a global investment bank. Apparently in our efforts to achieve immortal-youth, it has somehow become strangely acceptable for an adult gay man to act, sound, and behave like a toddler.

Not that I’m not guilty of it myself. I make stupid-but-I-think-is-cute V-signs when I take pictures and often times dress like a college sophomore. And I did spend my 37th birthday with my partner visiting Disneyland. Upon entering the Happiest Place on Earth (or at least in Hong Kong), I have to admit I felt a bit self conscious. Those fresh faced uniformed Disney ushers were just as confused as they watched two thirty-something year old men posing with Donald Duck and Winnie the Pooh. Sans kids, just two grown-ups, goatee and everything, hopping on It’s a Small World. Perhaps this is why there’s a Gay Day at Disneyland and no Grown-up Day.

Maybe this is also the reason why so many straight people enjoy hanging out with gays, so they can feel and act like kids, or at least like the age of pre-adulthood. A gay gathering automatically means no crying babies or screaming 5 year-olds, no mother-in-laws or babysitters calls, no stressful marriages or bitter divorces. Being at a gay party is like getting drunk inside a time capsule, no matter how many vodka shots later, time stands still… even if you can’t.

And in what may be a uniquely gay phenomenon, there seems to be an apparent disregard of age barriers when we socialize. Older gays can hang, if energetic enough, with the youngest and wildest of them without awkwardness. 40 year olds dance next to 20-somethings and everyone ends up having a good time. I recently went to a birthday party where guests ranged from 60+ to a guy who just turned 20. Being gay is our common denominator and age can become wonderfully secondary.

So to all you straight “boys” and “girls” out there, cancel your next chemical peel and use that money to buy your gay buddies a round of chocolate martinis instead. Come hang out. Because even if we can’t promise your skin will look younger when the night is over, at least you know your heart will be.

Losing My Religion

I have to confess, I am not a religious person.  Unless you consider checking my Facebook page every few hours a religious ritual.  When it comes to the world of institutional spirituality, I’m not only agnostic but embarrassingly ignorant.  Religion never really played a role in my upbringing and the only belief my parents hammered into my head early on was to “get good grades and follow our rules”.  Not really stuff you can pray to.

So it’s no surprise that to this day I’m still quite unclear about the differences between a Christian and a Catholic and can’t really distinguish Taoism from Buddhism without a stopover at Wikipedia.  And for an ideology that pretty much defined the modern world as we know it and has been the root of countless conflicts past present and future, I could really have used a crash course in “Religion 101” in school.

It’s not like I was never ever interested in the higher power.  One of my favorite books growing up was the D’Aulaires’ Book of Greek Myths which my mom bought for me one summer at a garage sale when I was eight.  It was an unusually big book, the biggest book I had ever owned at the time and was an effort just to drag it into bed and under the covers, which I did every night.

I read about Zeus and his family of gods and goddesses of the earth wind and sea.  Immersing myself into the marvelous world of majestic palaces and towering statues, billowing clouds and rolling green pastures where centaurs and sphinxes frolicked with their bow and arrows.  And since the size of the book was larger-than-life, it seemed to emit a mystical power when I held it in my tiny arms.  As an impressionable and curious eight year old, the D’Aulaires Book of Greek Myths became my bible.

For the rest of the summer, I would read and re-read its oversize pages, digesting every word and letting its pastel illustrations soak into my budding consciousness.  I concluded that I have finally found my religion and was both excited and comforted by the fact I finally was no longer a lost soul.  Just like my classmates and cousins, I too have found God and his name was Zeus – a powerful lightning-bolt wielding man who shared his powers with his siblings.  I became a proud and faithful believer.  To me, a democratic panel of Gods shining down on dancing muses and exotic talking beasts seemed much more interesting than the other lonely singular God.  My Gods were colorful, flashy, and wore shiny jewelry.

“But dear… those Greek myths are just fairy tales.  They’re not real, and its certainly not a religion,” my well-meaning third grade homeroom teacher Mrs. Tomoko explained calmly, smiling, I believe wickedly.  It was only the second day of the new semester and she already needed to steer me away from the gates of hell.  I hated her.

She couldn’t possibly be right.  My Gods had names.  They had personalities and feelings, and they fell in and out of love.  And I read it in a book, a BIG book at that.  Sure the stories of my Gods were wild and magical and fantastic but they couldn’t have been any less real than the singular God embraced by my fellow classmates.  That night after dinner I confronted my mom, who responded by rolling her eyes and instructed me to hurry up and finish my homework.  I was devastated.  I found God and now I’ve lost it, without so much of an explanation except, “You’re wrong.  Deal with it.”

In hindsight, I probably should have known something was off.  I mean I never saw any church bearing engravings of Poseidon and we never had public holidays named after Zeus.  But my young undying faith had cocooned me and my denial from these annoying and minute details.

After Mrs. Tomoko’s ruthless declaration, I couldn’t bring myself to read the book again knowing that Zeus and his siblings were no more believable than Alice and the Mad Hatter.  Feeling betrayed, I tucked the Book of Greek Myths in the garage, away from the light of day because it no longer deserved to be in my presence.  And as I put the book in storage beneath peeling copies of Raggedy Anns, Wizard of Oz, and Choose Your Own Adventures, I may have buried with it yet another small part of my ability to believe.