“You see? It doesn’t hurt really so much, right? I use gentle diamond head to remove skin. Very gentle.”

I don’t usually get facials. Once in a while, I go to the L’Occitane Spa on Star Street to get a refresher. My face likes L’Occitane products so I trust them there. Recently, when I was killing time one afternoon back in Texas, I allowed this very flamboyant, kind older gentleman to talk me into buying a few Keihl’s products. In the past Keihl’s hasn’t really worked for me. I break out. But I wanted to make a change from L’Occitane, wanted to mix things up a bit. He also told me about this rather expensive product called Cellman.

He said in his gay, Texas twang, “Why if you want somethin’ really good, somethin’ that’s gonna really work for ya, I highly recommend Cellman. But let me tell you now, it ain’t cheap. Guess how much it is. Go on, guess. Guess! Guess!!!”

I guessed high but in the same ballpark. I would have lost the showcase had I been on The Price is Right but he was so nice he gave me all these Cellman samplers.

When I got back to Hong Kong, I slathered the Kiehl’s Creme de Corps all over my face one day and woke up with zits the next. I faired better with the Facial Fuel Anit-Wrinkle Cream, or so I thought.

Two weeks later and you could play connect the dots on my face. Some of the pimples were dry and dead but others were popping up in odd places like my forehead. Now I don’t normally have a problem with zits so this shit was really starting to piss me off. I finally made a call to the spa after my partner made a joke about my face. I’m three years older than he is and I’ll be damned if I’m going to age gracefully. It takes work to look younger than I really am. Exercise, vodka, staying out of the sun, and the occasional facial intervention.

I picked up the phone and called the Four Seasons spa. I needed something more than just the regular L’Occitane facial. I needed the works, the whole enchilada.

“Hi, I’d like to make an appointment for the resurfacing facial for tomorrow afternoon if possible.”

“Yes, but first I’d like to know why selected the resurfacing facial.”

She went on to warn me that this facial wasn’t for everyone, that some had bad reactions, that people with sensitive skin could find the diamond crystal wand too difficult to take. She was starting to scare me. I started to imagine Patsy in that episode of Ab Fab where she gets the chemical peel. Fortunately, she suggested a consultation first, followed by the treatment. If the resurfacing facial was right for me, my consultant would give me the green light.

The day of my treatment, I used the spa facilities, put on the robe and made my way to the waiting area. I usually come here for my mani/pedis so I have my routine down. Incidentally, the facilities are nice. I love the relaxation room, but the wet and dry areas are beginning to show their age. If you want Hong Kong boom, I recommend the Bliss Spa at the W Hotel. Bliss is on the 71st floor and you have these boom views from the jacuzzi and treatment rooms. The furnishings and details aren’t as good as at the Four Seasons, but that view.

Christine was an excellent consultant. None of that whatever I say is good bullshit. If she disagreed with aspects of my “morning moisturizing routine” she told me. She gave me pointers and tips on how not to break out in the future and how to better take care of my skin.

“Your face is very supple, very good skin but your neck is not so supple. Good but not so good like your face. Do you use moisturizing lotion on your neck?”

I said yes and then she told me that using your facial moisturizer on your neck was better than a body lotion because facial moisturizers are stronger and gentler. Who knew?

I had snuck a Xanax into a pocket of my robe in case I’d be given the go ahead for the Resurfacing Facial. I get a little weird when it comes to closing my eyes for too long, being fondled by a uniformed stranger and remaining in a small, enclosed space–even those with nice views of the pool and harbor. Besides, if this procedure did hurt, I was going to endure the pain with positive thinking, meditation and medication.

By this time, I was already cocooned in my blanket wearing my black, paper throwaway cardboard panties (Don’t you hate those?) so I asked her to reach into the pocket of my robe to retrieve the little white pill. She seemed a bit confused but played along. I mean, I wasn’t asking her to pull my finger or anything else for that matter. She’s a professional, not a “professional” after all. Christine gave me my pill and a glass of water. I gulped that sucker down.

“Okay, I’m ready.”

I only wanted to jump up and scream just once but the Xanax kicked in just in time. I nearly nodded off once too. I don’t credit the Xanax for that, I credit Christine’s soothing touch, rhythmic motions and that vitamin C lotion she was using on my face. Must get some of that later this week.

While I lie there half asleep, I imagined the 22 year-old me. What a little do-gooder, hippy, drunken lesbian I was–I’ve always been a lesbian trapped in a gay man’s body. But now? Now I was a fearful, vain gay man cocooned in a blanket at the Four Seasons high on Xanax on a Wednesday afternoon. A cliche.

I’ll tell you what I fear more than being a cliche. I fear looking my age more than I do a small, limbless robot with a long penis. I fear it more than I do a chemical peel, a needle or the knife. One day, I’m going to have to look into fillers and botox, but for now I have Christine and her diamond headed phallus.

I had tagged along with my partner on one of his business trips back to New York. Two weeks back in my adopted hometown! I caught up with old friends, saw the Diego Rivera exhibit at MOMA, hit the sales racks at Saks, and went to see some of the Oscar buzz movies.

It was last Friday between “Shame” and “My Week with Marilyn” when I popped into Billy’s Bakery in Chelsea for a cupcake. I was craving chocolate and desperately needed to cheer myself up after watching “Shame”. I’ve never seen so much sex and been so depressed. It starts out as an advertisement for why you should move to New York in your twenties and quickly devolves into desperate depravity. Loved it. Michael Fassbender was horrifically hollow.

Billy’s is small and has one communal table for anyone choosing to eat in rather than take out. I grabbed my goodie and sat next to this old Jewish guy in a wheelchair, a tough-looking white guy in an army jacket and this elderly Italian woman wearing glasses. None of us knew each other and even though I brought the paper to read, conversation quickly ensued. “God I miss New York,” I thought, “Where else can strangers of different ethnicity, age, sexual orientation and religion bond over a cupcake?”

I left the bakery with a big smile on my face, walked to the theater and totally enjoyed Michelle Williams as Marilyn Monroe. She’ll get an Oscar nod for sure.

Later that evening, I recounted the conversation to some of my best friends and partner as we ate dinner at my favorite Mexican restaurant in Manhattan, La Palapa.

Me: So I sat down and had a fun conversation with these strangers over cake.

E: What happened?

Me: I sat down and this tough-looking white guy said that my cupcake looked good. He said, “Oh that looks good. That looks delicious. I wanna see you eat it. I wanna see you take a bite. Go ahead, take a bite.”

Partner: What?

Me: Yeah, and then the old Jewish guy wanted to know if I had gotten chocolate cake with chocolate icing or yellow cake with chocolate icing. I said chocolate on chocolate because I like chocolate. The tough-looking Irish guy said, “I just want to see you eat it. Go ahead, put it in your mouth and tell me how good it is.”

K: What!?

E: Oh, you got played. You got the dirty man.

Me: No! The guy just wanted to watch me eat it. He said he wanted to know how good it was. That’s all. It did kind of make me self-conscious though, him wanting to watch me eat it. So when I took a bite, I bit it and made this “Tada!” face.

Partner: How could you be so dumb?

H: You got played.

E: HA! How could you not get it? You’ve been away from New York too long.

Me: No, no, no!!! It’s wasn’t like that at all, he just wanted to know how good the cupcake was. When I was chewing, he kept asking me, “Oh tell me how good it is. I wanna know how good it is. Take another bite.” So I took another bite and…OH MY GOD!!!!! He was a total fucking pervert!!! How could I not have seen that!!?? Fuck!!! I’m so fucking stupid! Jesus, I left the fucking bakery wanting to move back to New York thinking this is exactly what I miss about the city the random conversations with friendly strangers. Fuck!!! I’m so fucking stupid!

No matter how many times I play it over in my head, I was played. That pervert turned an innocent treat into sexual innuendo and I ate it all up–figuratively and literally.

Still, I miss New York. Where else can random strangers of different ethnicity, age, sexual orientation and religion bond over a highly suggestive conversation about a cupcake?

I finally made it to London earlier this month, tagged along on one of my partner’s business trips. Nine days of walking the streets, getting a feel for the city, soaking up the culture, the sights. I walked from South Kensington to Soho. Islington to Shoreditch. Central to Belgravia. Mayfair to Maide Vale. I walked so much that one evening my knees buckled and I had to stop at the Savoy for a Grey Goose martini. OK, three.

English friends warned me: London is terribly expensive and gloomy.

American friends warned me: It’s a low-rise more expensive New York with ugly people.

All I could think was, “Miss Piggy in The Great Muppet Caper!!!”

By the time I arrived on a BA flight form Hong Kong at four thirty in the morning, I was expecting “City of the Walking Dead” or surly, disheveled Oompa Loompas in Burberry trenches. Our room wasn’t ready when we got to the hotel so we walked down Piccadilly. Let me tell you, it was “City of the Walking Dead“.

The tube station had just opened and people who had stayed out all night were staggering back to the metro. I saw one girl slump down near a guardrail and vomit, a guy smash a bottle on the street, and a man fast asleep on the sidewalk in a sleeping bag. We walked back to the hotel. This is London?

After a hearty breakfast, we stepped out again and walked through Green Park, the fall leaves cracking under our feet. The sunrise had brought out the runners, baby strollers and jet lagged tourists whose rooms were also not ready. We passed Buckingham Palace, walked through St. James’s Park and watched the beginning of the Armistice Day commemoration. This was more like it.

Over the coming days there were reunions with old friends: the girl who saved me from drowning in Palau Tioman, Malaysia and her family; my partner’s former work colleagues who got married and now have a family; a surprise Tokyo reunion of friends who had also lived in (endured) Japan.

I met a new friend too, well new friend of sorts. She had worked for the company that helped my partner and I move from New York to Tokyo seven years ago. And while I’d never actually met her, we had stayed in touch over the years via email and facebook. Strange how you can feel you’ve been friends with someone for over seven years without having met them in person.

And while it was all very very, most of my time was spent alone. I visited the Tate Modern, the National Gallery and Harrods. Read the FT while dining at several Indian and Lebanese restaurants. Walked up and down Marylbone High Street, popped into this great bookstore, Daunt Books, where I picked up Diane Keaton’s recently published memoir. Strolled along South Audley Street, passed the US Embassy and some very stately homes and embassies.

People warned me that Londoners could be rude. I didn’t find that. Well once, this crusty old white guy tending bar at a pub in Notting Hill. People warned me that London was gloomy and wet in the fall. While it’s true that during the colder months the sun just hovers above the horizon and never really rises, the light it shines makes the city mysterious and romantic.

I knew London was multicultural but was amazed at just how multicultural it was. Half the people were not white. Me and my multicultural “what the hell is he?” face fit right in. I knew London had a lot of wealthy Saudi and Russian people, but again, was amazed at just how much money they had. These people aren’t old money tasteful rich, they’re new money showy rich, pretentious posers in Prada and Pucci.

On my final evening just before heading out to the airport for a late night flight back home, I had a martini at the Palm Court Lounge. Nine days had flown by so quickly. Our room at the Park Lane was big enough to feel like I had been staying in a small apartment. I didn’t want to leave. London was beginning to feel like home.

I’d come here to check it out, see if it could be our new home. I’d arrived with few expectations other than to see Miss Piggy climbing a wall and riding a motorcycle. Now I was convinced this should be our next move. Possibly.

On the taxi ride back to our flat in Hong Kong, I was stunned again by the audacity of this city. Skyscrapers rising above hills, mountains rising above skyscrapers, the harbor threatening to wash it all away. The ferries, barges and bridges linking everything together however tenuous. The beautiful chaos. Maybe I’m not ready to leave just yet.

Alright, I’m pretty sure those things won’t happen but it’s a good excuse. More than anything, I smoke because it’s bad. “Bad” as in badass. Yes, I realize it’s bad for your health and therefor stupid but that doesn’t really bother me. You see, I only smoke one cigarette and before class. I don’t smoke in real life. Why? It’s bad for you.

I used to smoke three packs a week twelve years ago. I stopped that after it started to get in the way of my running. You can’t run when you’re wheezing. That, and I was starting to develop a little gut. I’m gay so having even a little gut is a no-no. I’m aware that there are overweight gays, but I guarantee you they’re eating hotdogs because they can’t eat dick. It’s a terrible cycle. “I’m fat. No guy will let me suck his dick. I’ll eat a hotdog instead. Oh no! Now I’m even fatter!”

I’m a good teacher. That means that for however long I’m with my kids, they are learning and I am bouncing off the walls with positive energy, enthusiasm and unbridled glee. I’m a firm believer in rewards so I split the class three ways and then make learning a competition. The team that has the most right answers that day will win a lollipop, a candy bar or a cookie. I know some people really dislike this method of teaching but it works. Kiss my ass.

The problem with all this wave of joy bullshit is that it makes me feel like a cheese ball, a fraud, an idiot. I’m a polite do-gooder. I pick up litter, open doors, overtip, chitchat with cashiers, vote Democrat, etc. But I also carry grudges, am terribly vindictive, imagine killing those that have wronged me when I run, am a complete bitch if things don’t go my way, and am Lady Macbeth to my partner’s Macbeth. He accuses me of making him think others are out to get him. I say, “They are. Don’t be a fucking moron. Now this is what you’re going to do. Are you listening to me GOD DAMN IT!? Don’t fuck this up!”

So I smoke before teaching to remind myself that although I’m about to be all sunshine, lollipops and unicorn horns, I’m also shadows, razors and mutilated Care Bears. It all balances out in the end. I hope.

I was shameless when I booked the room, telling the hotel that we were in town to celebrate my 39th. And God bless the front desk staff at the Four Seasons because a deep, rich, decadent chocolate cake was waiting for me when I arrived. What a great way to start a week in DF.

Biko deserves the hype. I hadn’t had a meal that good since my man turned 35 last year and we went to Oso Ristorante in Singapore–he was there for work and I wasn’t going to let him celebrate a birthday alone. Pujol was good too. My guy ate a baby corn skewer slathered in mayonnaise and ants. I watched.

The Condesa neighborhood was incredibly surprising. It felt like Park Slope and the East Village had a baby. Young families, hipsters, gays, musicians all enjoying Sunday brunch and then a walk through the park. Parque Mexico was gorgeous! I still can’t believe how much more livable Mexico City has become. Between the free bikes and cleaned up city center, DF is becoming practically European. No severed heads here.

For me, this trip was about revisiting old haunts and making new memories. But I was brought back to an afternoon in 1994 when we passed through this one neighborhood close to the hotel. I was going to a party just outside fashionable Polanco on a Saturday. One of my dad’s colleagues was having a drinks thing at her flat and she invited us. I’m not quite sure why my parents didn’t attend. The party consisted mostly of embassy personnel and some local business people. It was a very low-key, casual thing. Luis Miguel had just released his monster album Romance and the hostess was playing it on her CD player (remember those?).

The song La Mentira had just come on when I made my way to the balcony to watch the sunset. Back then, the smog was terrible and people used to call the sunsets “chemical sunsets” because you sometimes got these weird, otherworldly but strangely romantic glows. One of the marines invited to the party approached me. He was just as handsome in casual clothes as he was in uniform. I pretended not to know him but I had seen him before in the embassy–I have a thing for military uniforms.

I remember how confident and direct he was. I like that. A real turn on. Because I was unsure if he was gay or not, I was surprised when he steadily steered the conversation towards my looks. I was so taken aback that I can’t recall exactly what he said, I just remember his smile and intense blue eyes, so fixed and sincere. Even now I get a bit giddy thinking about it. He really took a shot. I’m not a gay who wears his gayness on his sleeve. It could have backfired horribly.

Maybe it’s better I didn’t pursue it further because that afternoon, that moment, will forever be with me. I’ve heard some really bad pickup lines over the years. But no line, even a good one, can compare to a steady gaze, a firm handshake and a relaxed confidence. That said, the whore in me wishes I had taken that marine into an empty bedroom and rewarded him for his confidence.

I don’t miss the casual hookups and one night stands of single life. That was fun when I was in my 20s. I do miss the flirting. Strange how something so silly can be artful when done well. I’ll always think of my marine when I hear La Mentira. We’re still out there on the balcony in Mexico City enjoying the chemical sunset.

The Portuguese were the first Europeans to arrive in China. Inspired by trade, they set up shop on what is now the peninsula of Macau and began a long and often combative relationship with their landlord. If you’re interested in learning more, I highly recommend A Macau Narrative by Austin Coates. Reads like a real life version of One Hundred Years of Solitude. A comedy of errors really. But what a comedy!

I go to Macau about once every six weeks. Sometimes I go alone, occasionally with friends, always with visiting friends, but mostly I go with my partner. In the beginning, he was happy to go along. Then it became, “We always go to Macau. I want to spend weekends visiting other places in Asia. Why do we always have to Macau?”

I ignored him of course.

Obviously, we spend a few days or longer at other Asian destinations. But we always go back to Macau. Go back for the relative calm of its cobblestone streets, its centuries old churches, its ancient Buddhist temples, its grand colonial buildings, its glitzy casinos, and its secluded beaches. But mostly, we go back for the food.

The Portuguese had to sail around Africa, India and Southeast Asia to make it to Macau. That’s a lot of spice they brought with them. Mix that in with Chinese cuisine and you get one exotic wallop. Macanese cuisine is fusion cuisine, and was so long before “fusion cuisine” was made hip by modern chefs. African chicken, coconut curry crab, clams bathed in garlic and cumin, cod so soft it slides off the fork, slow-roasted pork. And that’s just what I can’t eat.

As a vegetarian, people often think that I miss out on all the fun. Sometimes they’re right. Not in Macau. Just typing the words “Portuguese cheese” makes my stomach growl. Egg tarts, flan, egg custard, samosas, butter rice, steamed veggies in garlic broth and herbs, and this amazing bread that is a bit more doughy than a traditional baguette and even more delicious.

At A Petisqueria, our favorite restaurant in Macau, they even have this rich and oh so spicy red chili sauce you can use to drip on your meals. I drip it on my bread and cheese, snap into a fetal position and melt onto the floor. And don’t let me get started on Macau tomatoes. I know what you’re thinking, but trust me. Especially at Fernando’s in Coloane near the beach, the tomatoes are amazing.

If you’re a lush like me, you’ll enjoy “learning” about and “discovering” all the wonders of Portuguese wine. The ports too. In fact, there is a wine museum–one of the many museums in Macau. We went there last weekend. A drunken Filipino poured my tasting selection. He asked me where I was from. And when I said I was American but that I lived in Hong Kong, he said, “No, like you know: Chinese, Indian, Portuguese…”

And that’s one of the things I also like about Macau, there is a lot of blending in its people. Sure, it’s mostly Chinese. And there is a small, active and very proud Portuguese community. But there are many Eurasians. How could there not be after over 400 years of Portuguese rule? As a Mexican with Spanish, indigenous (Aztec/Mayan) and German blood, I look like I could be from a number of different places. I get some mix of Chinese, Italian, Filipino, Middle-Eastern all the time. You should see how much fun I have at airports back in the US! In Macau, I fit right in.

Then, there is the main reason people visit Macau. Gambling. I’m not a big gambler but I do like to play roulette now and then. My partner prefers blackjack. We cap off most nights in the city with a visit to one of the many casinos, The Wynn being our favorite. I usually watch my partner gamble while I keep the vodka coming. Chinese gamblers don’t like to drink alcohol when they play, only coffee or tea. So you have to flag down a waitress to special order a drink.

Lastly, there are the hotels and resorts. Most big name casinos operate their own hotels, but there are a number of hotels, both big and small, that are not in the gaming business. We tend to stay at those establishments. As I said, I’m not a big gambler, so it’s not important for me to have a casino downstairs (nearby, but not downstairs). I prefer a morning at the gym and a noon spa treatment followed by an afternoon margarita by the pool. Lately, we’ve been staying at both the newish Mandarin Oriental and its sister property, the old Mandarin Oriental, now called The Grand Lapa. Neither one runs a casino, but there is one a short walk away. The MGM and The Wynn for the Mandarin Oriental, The Sands for the Grand Lapa.

I’m always a bit sad when I step on to the ferry that will take me back to Hong Kong. Don’t get me wrong, I like Hong Kong. I just love Macau.

After a lot of nagging on my part, my partner finally agreed that we should vacation in a country that doesn’t have elephants, demilitarized zones or soy sauce. I took the opportunity to insist that we visit a place that has kidnappers, drug violence and taco sauce. Mexico City.

You see, after nearly seven years in Asia, I was growing tired of visiting only Asian countries. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve loved exploring this part of the world. I list Hanoi, Macau and Kuala Lumpur among my favorite finds–love places with mixed cultures. But my partner’s rational that we visit as many places in the region while we’re still here broke down after he told me we’d likely be here two more years.

Me: Are you fucking kidding me? Two more fucking years of being away from my family and friends? Two more fucking years of not being able to run along the Hudson, brunch with my best friends, visit MOMA and up the number of Julianne Moore sightings?

OK, I didn’t say that. I wanted to, but didn’t say that. I’m a stand by your man kind of man. Instead I went for a run, asked my doctor for Xanax and scheduled a spa day at the Four Seasons. Hong Kong is a great place to live when you have a lot of time on your hands.

So I got my mind around it and said to my partner, “OK then, I want to go to Mexico City for my birthday. The world is a small place. You said so yourself. Besides, I’m freakin’ Mexican and you’ve never even been to Mexico or stepped foot in Latin America for that matter. What’s up with that!? I haven’t been there in nearly nine years and I want to show it to you. You’re gonna love it! Mexico City is awesome!”

“OK, let’s do it!” he said.

As soon as I hugged him, my heart sank. I thought, Fuuuuuuuuuccckkk. Now the pressure is really on to not only show him a good time but avoid getting us mugged, robbed, kidnapped or killed. It’s Mexico after all. I know my people. We’re all tequila and sunshine until we’re not. And then we’re all torture and attitude.

A lot of people think Mexico City is just some massive, polluted monstrosity where danger lurks on every corner of its smog-choked streets. And it is! Kidding. Mexico City (or DF as it’s most commonly known for Federal District) is one of the world’s most fascinating cities. It has colonial era churches, haciendas and public buildings, ancient pyramids, archeological excavations, Art deco and Art Nouveau treasures, the largest cathedral in the New World, Diego Rivera murals and one of the largest public squares on the planet. And that’s just in the historic downtown. My poor partner. That first day, he’s going to be doing a lot of walking.

My parents moved to Mexico City shortly after I went away to college. They were there just shy of four years and so I’d visit a lot during my breaks. I even lived there one summer. Back then, in the early 90′s, Mexico City was a lot more polluted and even more dangerous than today.

Now, much of the drug violence happening in the country occurs along the US/Mexico border. I grew up in Texas less than ten miles from said border. I remember when you could cross with family or friends for some dinner or dancing. No more. It’s too dangerous.

While northern Mexico has devolved into a hell on earth, Mexico City has evolved into a very cosmopolitan place. Award-winning restaurants experimenting with Pre-Columbian recipes, a boatload of new furniture design shops, and a number of boutique hotels have sprung up in the past decade. Even neighborhoods that were once no goes have become gentrified hotspots. The city is turning into a Wallpaper Magazine’s wet dream.

But you’d never know this if you watch the news. Nine severed heads found in a large duffle bag (I wonder which brand?), the mutilated corpse of a young woman found “posing” in the woods, Swine Flu. It’s no wonder most tourists stick to the Pacific and Caribbean beach resorts.

And so my partner’s mom is screaming that we’re crazy for wanting to holiday in a hellhole. My mom is starting to light candles and say prayers in advance. Even when I announced our vacation plans on facebook, friends didn’t comment “Have fun” or “I want to go with you!” but “Be careful!” and “Don’t go out at night.”

But we will go out at night. Every night. I’ve already made the dinner reservations. But just to be safe, we’re hiring a hotel car and driver each night. It is Mexico after all.

Now that we live in Sai Ying Pun, we rarely visit our old neighborhood. Even our favorite restaurant in the area, Cine Citta, has moved out. Now, when I step out of my apartment building, I’m no longer greeted by French bankers and cigarette smoke but by pig entrails and fresh tofu. I figure I traded the frog for the pig. That’s fair.

On a typical Monday summer morning, I leave our flat with a bag of dirty laundry and a canvas grocery bag. The doormen smile as they open the door. I say “good morning” and “thank you” because I’m not an asshole–like some of my neighbors. Out on the sidewalk, I see elderly locals buying fresh (bloody) pork, Filipina nannies taking their “kids” to school, men in tank tops lifting bags of rice onto flatbed trollies, and I smile.

Sai Ying Pun makes Star Street look like Walla Walla, Washington by comparison. I love the energy, the commotion, the pulse of my new neighborhood. Middle-age daredevils with canes and walkers dash across oncoming traffic. Mangoes and bananas are sold by the kilo to passersby. Dark puddles of water mixed with the grime and chaos of Hong Kong pool in potholes and near sidewalks. I dart across the street with a ragtag group of locals and we barely miss getting hit by a taxi, the morning sun set to broil.

By the time I reach my dry cleaners, my brow is already starting to sweat. I say hello and dump off whatever I have to be laundered or cleaned with the nice, elderly couple who run the shop. Their Scottish Terrier comes out to say hello. I pet his rump to get his hind leg shaking. This dog is so cute I want to knock out the nice, elderly couple with a karate chop and run back home with their pride and joy.

I walk up the steep slope of the hill and pop into Pacific Coffee for my ice soya latte and to read the morning paper. The woman working the counter knows my order, so I just show up with my face aglow with sweat, 32 Hong Kong dollars in hand. Afterwards I head to the ATM machine and later the International supermarket near Hong Kong University. Tofu, tortillas and tampons and I’m good to go. OK, not the tampons.

Making my way down the hill, I stop into the local bakery to pick up some wheat bread. I like that it’s not a chain and so I forgive the middle-age prig behind the counter who needs to get laid worse than Sarah Palin needs to get a clue. Further down the hill, I pick up my flowers, usually orchids and maybe some hydrangeas or Calla lilies if they look good. Further down still, my banana lady smiles as she brings down the bananas I’ve chosen. She displays them on these hooks, like they’ve been bad or something. Maybe she’s seen Texas Chainsaw Massacre too many times.

Finally, I make my way to the large market across the street from my building, but only to the produce section on the first floor. The stuff upstairs make the pig parts on my street look like child’s play. Come to think of it, my banana lady must go up there to get ideas on how to display her bananas. I even took my carnivore partner up there once just for shits and kicks. He saw a barrel of frogs staring up at him, freaked out and wanted to leave. Sissy.

I like to get my peppers and tomatoes from this little person who runs a stall smack dab in the middle of all the chaos. I figure she has to work extra hard to keep up with her competitors. It’s not easy when you sometimes can’t reach what you’re trying to sell. She’s a real trooper–got good produce too.

By the time I make it back to my building, I’m drenched in sweat, carrying a heavy canvas bag, flowers, and whatever wouldn’t fit inside said bag. The doorman smiles as he opens the door. I smile back and make my way up to my air-conditioned apartment, views of the harbor greet me as I open the door. I’m home.

Undeniably talented, she had more musicality than Britney’s muffin top, more bravado than Christina’s fake eyelashes and more artistry than Justin’s bangs.

I remember when she first burst onto the scene. As a lover of jazz, I was happy to see a young performer breathe some new life into those classic tunes, especially some of the more obscure ones.

Back then, I saw some of her earlier performances on youtube. She just stood there on stage, smiled and then effortlessly belted out a tune like it was no big deal, as if she were doing some silly card trick she learned as a child. Made me wonder if she realized the enormity of her talent. “Who IS that girl?” I thought.

Later, when she dipped into booze, bad boys and drugs, I quietly rooted her on. I was happy that there was someone real out there, someone unwilling to settle for the mundane. Winehouse was willing to embrace her demons, nurture them. I envied her fearlessness, her ability to explore that self-destructive side we mostly choose to deny.

On the day she died, I held up my glass of wine at dinner and said, “To Amy Winehouse.”

My partner thought it was an odd way to celebrate her, but I told him I thought it was perfect. I tried to explain why but failed miserably. I said that I know we’ll marry one day but that part of me (a small part) hates the idea of marriage because it’s so traditional. Ever since I was a kid, I questioned everything. I saw the hypocrisy in my Episcopalian elementary school, the discord in my parents’ marriage, the phoniness of my neighbors, and I thought, “Why? Why is this normal and acceptable?”

I wanted something real, something on the edge, something different from the norm. And after a spectacular start, somewhere along the way, I retreated. Now, scared of cable cars, clowns and the dark, I shop for produce, arrange the flowers, cook dinner and wait for my man to get home. I live life safely, securely, far away from deep water and my own balcony. But not Amy. Fearless in her disregard of societal norms, she straightened her beehive, took a swig from her flask and flicked her cigarette.

“Hands off my meal ticket, asshole!!!”

You’ve got to hand it to Wendi. Putting up with Rupert can’t be easy. I have a hard time just watching Murdoch on TV. His jowls, those wrinkles and that evil Donald Duck as Mr. Scrooge impersonation. Poor Wendi has to see him naked!

Of course, I use the word “poor” loosely. Given that Rupert resembles a Shar Pei, I guess it’s only fitting that Wendi love him. Like Wendi, those dogs come from China. But what exactly does Wendi love about Scrooge McDuck?

It’s easy to call Wendi a gold digger, a trollop, a tramp. I mean, she paid back the couple that first sponsored her visa to America by breaking up their marriage and then marrying the husband. Later, when she saw that there were other, bigger, wealthier fish in the sea, she put herself back on the market like a good Capitalist and traded up. She’s no dummy.

I remember reading in Vanity Fair a while back about Wendi getting Rupert to include her children with him as heirs to the News Corp fortune. This after Rupert agreed with his ex-wife that in lieu of an ugly and costly divorce, he just split the empire between the three children that they had together and the other child from a previous marriage. Rupert has been married three times. What a dog! I mean Shar Pei.

Wendi is a Chinese immigrant with a green card and a Birkin. Rupert is a naturalized American citizen from Australia with an empire and an attitude. Theirs was a love story that could only happen in America. One where merciless, immoral media moguls marry social-climbing home wreckers.

Still, it can’t be easy for Wendi. I imagine Rupert’s bald head tastes like a peanut. Can you imagine what the rest of him must taste like? Wendi just pretends she’s sucking on a log roll, one that will soon die and leave her with two young heirs, four bumbling adult step-children and one aging ex-wife.

Wendi, your limo is waiting.