Carly Simon has Time for the Pain and Starbucks Lawsuit

Carly Simon is broke. Yes, broke. After loosing money in unwise investments (Madoff?), and taking on too much debt, the Simon and Schuster heiress finds herself in the poor house–two of them. One a West Village townhouse, the other a beach pad on Cape Cod. We should all be that destitute.

I remember, years ago, the first time I moved to New York, when the then mayor was cracking down on rent-controlled and rent-stabilized abusers. Mia Farrow and Carly Simon cried fowl from their below-market price apartments with fabulous views of the park and hardwood floors.

“We can’t afford to live in New York now!!!” They wailed.

“Really?” I thought in the cramped living room of my illegal sublet. True, it was in Tribeca, but I had to run past the doorman on my way through the lobby. Bitchy queen loved to give me hell. Thankfully, he was Puerto Rican, so I’d just throw him something shiny or point out a studly black man and make a break for the elevators while his attention was diverted.

Now don’t get me wrong. I’m a big Carly Simon fan (Mia Farrow too–go rent Alice and see why). I have many of her hits and misses on my iPod. Nobody Does it Better is arguably the best Bond song ever. Really sums it up. You’re So Vain? Great song and I’m pretty sure it’s about Warren Beatty. My personal favorite is Loving You is the Right Thing to Do. Such a happy ’70s love ballad.

And while I’d love to have a Simon sighting while walking down Christopher Street, I’m not very sympathetic to her plight. She says Starbucks didn’t promote her album enough. I got news for her. Everyone just listens to whatever CD they’re hawking while sipping their lattes or while waiting in line. If you’re lucky, they’ll pick up the worn headphones and listen to the various tracks.

Poor Ms. Simon says Daddy only gave her a mere pittance, $60,000 in fact, and that she wasn’t an heiress like so many people claim. First of all, I seriously doubt that’s all she got. Secondly, she should talk to Bonnie Franklin of One Day at a Time fame because “Imagine, the price of a cup of coffee can help save a child.”

$60,000 may be a mere pittance when you’re an heiress, but if you’re black or brown and in living in some man-made hell-hole, $60,000 is a lot of dough.

Carly should just ask her ex-husband, James Taylor, for the money she needs to help keep her afloat. Maybe she’s too vain? But if she hasn’t got time for the pain, I’m sure Mr. Taylor will lend a helping hand.

Comrade Oscar the Grouch and the Sesame Street Collective

Come and play! Everything’s A-OK!!!

Harmony among the monsters and people. Neighbors looking after (and spying on) one another, Oscar the Grouch as a lovable homeless “person” living in a trashcan. Of course Sesame Street is populated by lefties and their POX News hating monsters. There is no question the program promotes fairness, tolerance and a homosexual agenda. Ernie and Burt for Christ’s sake! You even know who the bottom is in that relationship.

Can you imagine if Sesame Street had been conceived by the religious right? Conservatives? Sarah Palin!!??

First of all, it would be set in the suburbs of some second-tier Southern city. Big Bird would wear Brooks Brothers and drive an SUV. Oscar the Grouch would be his illegal Mexican gardener. Elmo would have Down Syndrome (which would explain a lot actually) and Grover would take him to church and sit righteously with him up front, basking in the glow of his selflessness while the Cookie Monster looked on in admiration and thought, “He could have had Mrs. Grover abort him, but no. He had the little guy.”

Elmo would be slobbering into a high Mrs. Grover’s Sunday best. She would be smashed on the Oxycontin she takes to deaden herself to the pain of an abusive spouse and a dead-end life. Grover drinks, you know. Beats his poor wife near and far.

Ernie and Burt would be married, but not to each other. They would exchange knowing glances at the gym, toweling off vigorously before going home to their “loving” muppets. Sure, Burt would take his own life after The Count threatened to go public with their affair. But Ernie wouldn’t be so lucky, enduring a lifetime of ice cream socials and company picnics until the day, Rolf, a drunken pianist from a visiting town, plows his sedan into Ernie’s Corolla. At least the end was quick.

No, my friends. A right-wing Sesame street would be no picnic indeed. A Boulevard of Broken Dreams.

Ellen DeGeneres Demoted

I love Ellen DeGeneres. Who doesn’t? True, I love my gay gals. But Ellen ranks on top.

While Jodie was still living an open secret of suburban bliss and playing house, Ellen jumped out of the closet and said, “Yep, I’m gay.” While Lang was trolling up the bars and breaking hearts, Ellen tried to make it work publicly with that zany media whore, Heche. While Queen coyly parties with her peeps in Manhattan, Ellen takes Portia out for a night on the town in Hollywood. Let’s face it, Ellen is right up there with Etheridge when it comes to gay saints.

So I was sad to read that Ellen has followed Rosie O’Donnell’s lead and demoted herself from openly gay talk show host to one of a panel of judges. And don’t be fooled, those ladies on The View do nothing but judge. God love ‘em. Except that skinny, ultra right-wing Survivor contestant (Barbara, just fire her already. We all know you hate her from the way you look at her).

What was Ellen thinking? Going on American Idol is a lose-lose situation.

No matter how nicey nice and goofy you are, you have put yourself in the roll of judge. If you give a free pass to poor performers and do some shtick, the audience is going to deride you for not being honest. Even Paula could come down hard when necessary.

If you do say something negative about a performance and joke about it, people are going to blast you for not just being a meanie, but a meanie who pokes fun of a performer when he’s down. Your aw shucks likability is going to come off as cruel and dismissive.

Everyone in the gay community (you should see our rec center!) knew Rosie was aggressive, short-tempered and out-spoken before she had her talk show. That’s why we all rolled our eyes when the soccer mom set sat down to watch this hollow persona called Rosie. That we got the tough-talking Rosie “we” all loved when she joined The View is one thing. Ellen has never been known for being aggressive, short-tempered and out-spoken. She has nothing to gain and everything to lose by joining American Idol.

Ellen, Baby, rip up the contract and say, “I’m just playin’ guys!” Or you’re going to end up a “mean” lesbian. And mean lesbians don’t keep their day jobs.

A Nightmare in Hong Kong

First I was a late 70’s James Bond villain lounging in my serene, minimalist lair, eating grapes and marveling at the perfect symmetry of my monochromatic surroundings. Then I was a tourist in rural Portugal with a group of foreigners on what I can only guess was a tour of wineries.

We had all just bellied up to this ice cream counter/bar where we were staring at the Portuguese menus, none of us speaking a word of the local language. It bothered me that no one was taking the initiative. I mean, can’t I relax for just one second? Can’t anyone else take the lead once in a while? Especially when I’m on vacation in rural Portugal traveling alone with a bunch of European winos?

I speak Spanish, so I take everyone’s order and relate it to the pudgy boy in the red and white striped hat. Everyone’s drinking cognac or bourbon but I’m drinking a Campari and soda even though we’re all on a wine tour and it’s late at night. I’m in one of my antisocial moods, refusing to make small talk and avoiding eye contact.

When I go to pay, the pudgy boy’s mom clearly overcharges me. I smile and tell her that I believe she made a mistake. My fellow winos are lined up behind me and want to pay so that we can go. Not to be rude, I pay but study the receipt so that I can point out her error, which I do once the last foreigner has paid. But the mom refuses to return my money. Again, I ask nicely a third time (as I do in real life), but again she refuses.

This is when I get all Mexican on her ass. Mexican as in psychotic homosexual on a rampage in rural Portugal. I throw the napkin dispenser at the wall and slam my fists into the partition separating the ice cream from the customers. I kick the cheap aluminum chairs and overturn a scratched and faded table. I call her the worst names I can think of in English and Spanish, ugly cunt and puta pendeja.

I wake up, my heart racing, still pissed that I was screwed out of twenty-five U.S. dollars, my partner sleeping quietly beside me. I don’t like to tell him when I’m feeling tense or trapped or sad. He’s too busy at work to hear the rantings of a trailing partner. Hong Kong is much easier than Tokyo was, but still I feel that clawing, that pressure, that tightening. It’s as if I want someone to assure me that it–whatever it is–is going to be all right. Don’t worry be happy. Easier said than done.

Are Japanese Babies Born Quiet?

A couple of days ago, my partner and I found ourselves reading the FT and playing gin rummy at a soulless chain restaurant in the most sterile neighborhood in Hong Kong. Next to us, a small group of Japanese women were splitting a side salad and sharing a cola while they occupied the best table in the house. So Japanese. One of the women had the cutest baby I’d seen in a long time. The pudgy bundle was strapped into a stroller and outfitted in a pink-rimmed summer hat and matching sun dress. So Japanese. The baby was content to sit and do nothing, glancing about the room and smiling at anyone who caught her eye. So not Japanese.

The baby was also quiet. No screaming. No whining. No crying. No discernible baby-like behavior, except for the occasional coo or giggle. It’s as if the baby somehow knew instinctively that making a nuisance of herself would disturb the Wa, disrupt the harmony.

I was tempted to engage the table in conversation, to show off a little of my third language and bombard them with the Japanese I learned to navigate their capital city for four years. My partner gave me a look that said, “Please don’t.”

And so I didn’t. Which is fine given how much the baby seemed to like me making faces at her. It’s not hard to go from gushy gaijin who loves babies to creepy foreigner downing his second margarita.

My partner and I immediately started discussing how strange it was that Japanese babies could be so quiet while Western babies–hell, babies in general– could be such terrors. My parents couldn’t even take me to restaurants until I was 13. Seriously, by the time I knew how to use my hands, I was throwing knives and making threats like any other normal Mexican baby.

Maybe the self-imposed isolation that Japan experienced for generations isolated the Wa gene. Screaming babies were left to fend for themselves in the wild. Quiet babies were allowed to stay home and thrive. “Bad” babies died out, and the “good” ones grew up.

An American friend in Tokyo once told me that she was ushered into a special room to nurse her baby after the line she was waiting in to nurse her son grew too long. There she was, the sole Westerner among Japanese women and their hungry babies. The Japanese babies fed quietly and without incident while her baby cried, ripped at her blouse, nursed loudly, belched, and then for good measure, farted. She was mortified.

Before we left the restaurant, I lifted my empty glass and quietly toasted the bright-eyed baby. If all babies behaved like Japanese babies, I might even want one someday.

Hong Kong: Where everybody knows your name

Tokyo is Mama Cass to Hong Kong’s Karen Carpenter. Tokyo is massive, sprawling and endless. Hong Kong is sinewy, narrow and bony. Tokyo spreads out over a vast valley, its back to the bay, the mountains in the distance. Hong Kong is perched nervously between countless peaks and the harbor, the South China Sea a stones throw away.

Depending on which statistics you choose to believe, Tokyo overtook Mexico City to become the most populous city in the world a few years ago. Around 22 million people call the greater metropolitan area of Tokyo home. Hong Kong has barely seven million citizens. And it shows.

Don’t let the massive skyscrapers, gridlocked streets and bustling sidewalks fool you. Hong Kong throbs restlessly because there is nowhere left to go. The city periodically reclaims land from the sea in order to build all those glass towers and shopping centers. And while it’s true seven million people is a lot of pork fried dumplings, the city has an earlier bed time than Tokyo. When my partner and I first arrived from Japan one evening in November, I said, “Where the hell did everyone go? What kind of 28 Days Later hellhole have we moved to!?”

Expat life in Hong Kong centers around Central, the aptly named business district. The neighborhoods popular with the gweilo crowd (or expats) radiate in three directions, the fourth direction being the harbor–no one lives there. You’ll find the majority of expats living in burgeoning Sheung Wan in the west to crowded Causeway Bay in the east, and up against The Peak in the very residential Mid-levels neighborhood on top. As a whole, it’s the white, gooey center in the middle of the Twinkie.

You see friends crossing the street while you’re in back of an idling cab, acquaintances staring at a window display while you whiz by on a bus. Walk into an expat heavy restaurant, coffee shop or bar and you’ll run into every Tom, Dick and Harriet you know. “Hey! What are you guys doing here!?”

A few months after we arrived, I even ran into the only person I have ever defriended on Facebook. She still lives in Tokyo, and was with her husband and toddler when I saw her–her lazy eye laying about listlessly as usual. They were riding up the escalator, while I was riding down. The husband spoke loudly and nervously as I stared at them blankly before looking away.

The problem with a smaller community is that you have to play nice. And while I play nice and am always fair, I’m a bitch when scorned. Thankfully, the fellow gweilo and locals I’ve met here are sweet and sincere. And I’d rather have sweet and sincere than bitter and two-faced any day. Who wouldn’t? Especially when they know you by name.

A Fag’s Stag: The Straight Man

I hate the phrase fag hag. It trivializes friendships and marginalizes both the gay man and the straight woman. I haven’t heard people use it recently (granted I live on the other side of the world), so hopefully it’s fallen out of vogue, like duh or dude. Let’s hope retard and so gay go away soon too. The last thing I want to see is a gay retard saying, “Dude!” I mean, like duh. That’s so gay.

Most of my partner’s colleagues are men, as are the majority of the people we meet through his job. And, surprisingly, most of my fellow teachers in Asia have been men too. I say surprisingly because as a teacher and later a university counselor, most of my colleagues were women, gay men, or gay men who pretended to be straight so we all had to play along. Not a fun game.

Here in Asia, I’ve been thrown to the wolves, forced to make friends with straight men. It’s not that I didn’t have straight male friends back in the U.S. It’s that I tended not to have many male friends at all. Gay men make terrible friends. Think about a hyper-competitive, catty bitch who either secretly despises, or loves you and you get the picture. I’d rather not deal with the drama.

I grew up in the South. There, straight men were afraid to make friends with an openly gay guy. What would their buddies think? In New York, straight men wanted to be friends with a gay guy to up their cool factor. “Hey! Look at me hanging out with a Mary! I’m so cool.”

Traditionally, most of my closest friends were gay women. Is there drama among them? Of course. Don’t let me get started on lesbian drama. My God. You think gay men are bad. I’ve seen it from the inside. It ain’t pretty. The American military should study lesbian strategy and tactics, that way, if push comes to shove, we’ll blow our enemies away, secretly, seductively and with a venom so lethal, so toxic, they won’t know what hit them. But I digress.

Straight men are great friends to have. You never have to worry what you look like, or how you’re dressed, or what you say, or how you say it. They’re not looking for hidden meaning or searching for secret emotional treasure. My Latino chivalry goes completely out the window–no cheek kissing, hugs or “Let me get that for you.” They’re men after all. They can get it their own damn selves. Except beer. Men always buy each other beer. It’s a bonding thing I guess. Now I’m not a real beer drinker, but I learned quickly that vodka sodas don’t go down so well with the stags.

Straight men are even better when they’re single or mostly single. No wife or girlfriend to deal with. I know how this sounds. But hear me out. Women and the half of gay men in touch with their feminine side, are the mommies. We are the meter maids, the final authority, the judgment queens. We can be such a drag. Who wants mommy’s stern glare when you’re out drinking or partying with the boys? Straight, single men can be stupid all night without fearing for their lives when they get home.

I’ve learned to take it easy on my partner when he has a work thing that we both know will turn into a booze fest. I used to call him if he wasn’t home when he said he was going to be. I used to leave crap by the front door to alarm or scare him when he did finally enter, drunk and wreaking of Stella or Sapporo. I used to tell him that his breath stank like a cow shit in his mouth when he woke up. I used to say, “Coffee? Coffee? You can make that yourself. Good luck at work today. You look like shit.”

I don’t do that anymore. My stags have taught me well.

My Nylonkong or Nykong: London not Calling

I’ve set foot on every continent except Africa and Antarctica, have lived in Mexico City, Tokyo and now Hong Kong, speak English, Spanish and some Japanese, call New York home and love to travel. But I haven’t been to London.

London was always one of those places I meant to get to, eventually. But it wasn’t high on my list. Why London when Paris? Why London when Rome? Why London when Madrid? You get the idea. And so every time I went to Europe, I’d go somewhere else. Hell, I haven’t even transferred through Heathrow. I’m a complete London virgin.

Now that I’m approaching 37, I’m beginning to feel embarrassed that I haven’t been to London. People don’t help either, rolling their eyes and dropping their jaws in disbelief when I tell them.

‘”YOU haven’t been to London!? REALLY!!?? Why haven’t you been to London!? WHY!!??”

There’s a look of pity and slight disgust when people say this too. I know that look. It’s the look I give people when they tell me they haven’t been to New York.

“You haven’t been to New York!? REALLY!!?? Why not!? What’s wrong with you!!!???”

It didn’t help that one of my best friends told me after she visited London, “You’re not missing much. It’s just a low-rise, more expensive New York with bad food and ugly people.”

“What about Colin Firth!?” I demanded. This was pre-Clive Owen–I never did get into Hugh Grant.

Imagine my surprise when I turned on the television early this morning and saw Richard Quest, old rope around the dick, dildo in the boot himself, gesticulating from the Kowloon side, “And SO in the EARLY morning darkness, it’s DIFFICULT to imagine that just a few hours ago, THIS specTACular skyline was aglow with neon.”

He was jumping around the screen as usual. Poor guy, I hope he’s off the drugs. It’s great CNN stuck by their witty, weird and wild Jewish gay. A few months in rehab and presto, Richard Quest returns: quirks, twitches and nods. I love him. But I digress.

Richard goes on and on about Nylonkong: New York, London and Hong Kong smooshed together creatively. When Quest says it, it sounds like an evil Star Trek character’s name. I immediately googled Nylonkong Supreme Leader of the Anti-Federation Movement.

The idea behind Nylonkong is that New York, London and Honk Kong have managed to dominate the financial markets and thus hold the key to globalization, providing “lubrication, capital and expertise.” Come to think of it, this sounds right up Richard’s alley.

These three cities are all well known to a select group of banker wankers, high-rollers and all around tossers. Apparently, Joe Blow lives in London and often works in Hong Kong for a company based in New York (where he has a pied-a-terre and a mistress). He knows the best tailor in Hong Kong, the best sushi restaurant in New York, and the most magnificent antique gallery in London. Sounds like a fag if he didn’t have that former Miss Something or Other holed up somewhere in Midtown.

So now I’m itching to go to London. Why not? I’m not getting any fresher. I told my partner that if he has to go to London for work, I’m going with him no matter what.

“Why don’t we just go ourselves?” he says, “Schedule a trip to Europe to catch up with our friends who live there?”

“WHAT!!! I’m no going to rush through Paris and Amsterdam just to visit London. No way. Plus, I want to go back to Buenos Aires at some point in the near future, especially if my dad moves there. And what about the Australian Open? I thought we were hoping to go see Nadal pick his crack in Melbourne while he kicked some Roddick ass? What’s wrong with you? We’ll go to London when you have to go for work. Kill two birds with one stone. I’m not paying to go to some expensive, low-rise, New York with bad food and ugly people!!”

Maybe I’ll never make it to London. I’ll always be Nykong, or more specifically Las Sanicochitinko Nykong.

Drinking with Australians: Dancing with the Devil

Some stereotypes stick for a reason. Do you know an Australian who doesn’t drink? Neither do I.

Australians don’t just drink occasionally. They drink aggressively, often, and with a determination that is baffling and commendable. I love them! Other nationalities disapprove of public displays of drunkenness. Not the Aussies. They encourage it. And while Aussie English is sometimes difficult to decipher (what with the accent and colorful use of the English language), Drunken Aussie English is mostly straightforward and fairly simple to comprehend.

“One more?”
Translation: Don’t even think of leaving the bar. The phrase, “One more?” is rhetorical.

“One more, mate?”
Translation: I said “mate” now sit the fuck back down or you can forget you know me. This phrase is a sweetly veiled command.

“Another one?”
Translation: You’re not drunk yet therefore you can’t leave. In the states, we’d say (ask) “Should we have another one?” followed by either “No, I’ve got to deliver a baby at 6:30.” or “Fuck it. I hate my wife.”

“Dan! How are you mate? Do you know Dan?”
Translation: Dan hasn’t had a beer with us. We’ve got to have a beer with Dan. In this situation “Dan” could be a real “mate” or just a random stranger who looked like he’d make a good drinking buddy.

“Shall we (head on)?”
Translation: Don’t be fooled. This does not mean “Shall we (head on home)?” This means, “Shall we (head on to another bar)?” Again, this is rhetorical.

Not long ago, an Aussie friend told me that he was impressed by my drinking skills because I was able to keep up with a pub full of Aussies. I was initially honored by his comment, but soon became concerned. A week later, another Aussie friend apparently tripped and fell on his way back home after we’d been out drinking. In steep and hilly Hong Kong, a nasty fall could mean death.

“I woke up black and blue!!!” he announced.

“Were you OK?” I asked.

“Yeah! I don’t remember falling. No worries.”

I remember taking a cab home that night, remember inhaling a pre-pub prepared, post-pub devoured snack. I’m beginning to worry.

I Love to Hate Tyler Brule

My Japanese boy toy neatly dispatched by my personal butler, Tanaka, I’m on a taxi bound for Narita. Memories of the magnificent view from my hotel suite suddenly replaced by the soundless crush of midday Ginza traffic, I instruct the driver to deposit me at Tokyo Station. Asprey overnight bag in hand, I cut a determined path towards the front of the line reserving a window seat on the green car of the Tokyo Narita Express.

Concrete and neon give way to Japanese pine and rice paddies. Recollections of my boy toy gagging on my ample manhood are replaced by the greeting of a uniformed hostess. I order a Sapporo, sit back and reflect on my recent success.

I arrive at the first-class counter and am greeted by the appropriately cheerful, Yumi Shindo, my airline assigned assistant. She whisks me past security, escorts me to the first-class lounge and shakes me a classic martini. Exhausted after such a difficult morning, Yumi asks if I might like a sucky-sucky. I sit back and imagine last night’s Japanese boy toy, Shinichi. Perhaps I was wrong to have Tanaka snap his neck and dispose of his remains in the hotel furnace.

Near regret gives way to a boarding call. Yumi adjusts her ascot and leads me to the Boeing Triple Seven. Recent economic collapse means I have the first-class cabin to myself. I order a preflight vodka soda and adjust my seat. Why American or European carriers aren’t as clever as their Asian rivals I’ll never know. I do know, however, that my vodka soda has arrived a gin and tonic. Before I can complain, the sound of a sword hitting the cabin door as Yumi’s entrails splash across the cabin floor. Tanaka reappears, vodka soda in hand. This is Japanese efficiency at its best.

The London-bound jumbo jet is halfway to Heathrow when I awake, the stench of Yumi replaced by freshly cut lilac and cherry blossom. I readjust my massive manhood and order a club sandwich.