You are currently browsing the archives for August, 2007


My new baseball nemesis is this fat fuck Joba Chamberlain. He played an important role in the Red Sox getting swept in an utterly painful series between them and the Yanks this week. A series in which Daisuke Matsuzaka, aka Sir Dice-A-Lot, was left in the game too long and gave up a 2-run homer to Johnny “F-ing Traitor” Damon, and Chien-Ming Wang, aka the Wonger, pitched a no-hitter until the seventh inning last night.

But back to that fat fuck. He was suspended today for 2 games and fined after throwing over the head of Kevin Youkilis TWICE yesterday in the ninth, when the Yankees were locking down the game 5-0. Who the F “goes inside” when you’re up 5-0 in the final inning? That is bullshit.

My real problem with Joba, however, is his ritual before taking the mound. He takes a moment, and he PRAYS. Please bear in mind that I have no quibble with prayer. None. Zilch. But if you wanna pray, please don’t stop the game only to display how down you are with Jesus while the cameras are rolling.

You know that long-ass run that relief pitchers in most ballparks have to make, usually to the tune of G’N'R or Metallica or something heavy? That is a wonderful time for a private communion with God. Or, how about when they call you from the dugout phone and you’re still in the bullpen? Isn’t God supposed to be like really good WiFi–with Him, you get a signal anywhere?

Also, FYI–”Joba” is pronounced “Jabba.” As in “the Hut.”

Source Source Source

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“Ohmigod Norman, where did you say that money came from?”

My new friend Chris and I were having a drink and chatting about politics (usually not a good idea) the other evening, lamenting the fact that more Asians don’t get involved in political fund raising and grassroots activism. He’s Chinese; I’m Vietnamese. Neither of our respective communities are known for their effectiveness in swinging the vote.

Which is why I’m so bummed that the most recognizable Asian Progressive fund-baller–Norman Hsu– is best known for being a 15-year fugitive from the law and donating [probably] dirty money (allegedly acquired in an illegal Ponzi scheme) to some of the most notable Democratic Presidential candidates, most notably Hillary Clinton.

Shit, maybe we shouldn’t get more politically involved. Sorry, Chris. I can’t believe I just wrote that.


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Afternoon chat at DISGRASIAN HQ:

JEN: Hi Diana!

DIANA: Hey Jen!

JEN: How are you? Cute dress.

DIANA: Thank you. Lovely shoes. Are they A.P.C.?

JEN: No, Loeffler Randall. I love a nude flat.

DIANA: Who doesn’t?

[They relax with their laptops, reading the Times and various blogs]

DIANA (cont’d): Ugh, Gwen Stefani.

JEN: Dude, I’m almost fucking over talking about Gwen Stefani. She bores the bejeezus out of me.

DIANA: Yeah–It’s like she sucks, she’s derivative, she’s annoying… but I wouldn’t even waste the energy hating her if she wasn’t still enslaving those poor Harajuku Girls.

JEN: She won’t listen. She’s up inside her own asshole. She’s so deeply entrenched in her filthy brand of exploitasian. She looks like a man.

DIANA: She bores me. And I’m from Orange County.

JEN: I wouldn’t say that too loud.

DIANA: I represent!

[They continue to work quietly on their laptops.]

JEN: Oh lawd.


JEN: I just clicked on this HP ad.

DIANA: You clicked on a computer company link?

JEN: Accident.


JEN: You won’t believe this site. It’s ill.

DIANA: What is it?

JEN: It’s this awful, cheesy promotional thing called “Gwen Stefani For You” where you make a bunch of idiotic Gwen-themed crap and print it out on your HP printer.

[Jen's eyes narrow as she gazes at...]

JEN (cont’d): Ugh. Gross. Look.

[Diana leans over and clicks on the first link...]

DIANA: Jeezus!

[She clicks back and moves on to...]

DIANA: I might throw up. She doesn’t stop.

JEN: Who buys into this shit?

DIANA: Bajillions of people.

JEN: [Sighs loudly]

DIANA: Still bored?

JEN: Yeah, still bored.

[They continue to work on their laptops.]


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Smack the F*ck Up

The Sad Truth: Smack kills

Heroin is an ugly drug, and not an addiction I would wish on my worst enemy. Which is partly why my mouth dropped agape when I saw this headline today:

The full story goes on to describe how traders fed doped-up bananas to Big Brother, an elephant held in captivity since 2005, in order to control him. The traders were apprehended by police when they tried to sell their drug-addicted-elephant off.

The Scotsman reports:

The traders were caught trying to sell Big Brother and his herd after a tip-off to police.

By that time Big Brother had developed a raging heroin addiction and posed a danger to people if denied his fix, the paper said.

A drooling Big Brother was taken to a park on the island of Hainan for treatment, after cold turkey was so unbearable even his chain could not hold him.

This is one of the cruelest stories we’ve ever heard about in a long time. We can only hope that those traders enjoy a long life of having their balls punched in and lemon being squeezed into a million little paper cuts all over their hands.

Big Brother, fully weaned off of his addiction, was returned to the wild this week. Wish him luck!

Thanks, Chris!

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Fall from Grasian

Dude. When I first saw this picture, I almost had a seizure.

MY INTERNAL MONOLOGUE: No no no. This cannot be happening again. Another blonde chick with a “posse” of dolled-up Ornamentals following her around on a red carpet, four feet behind at all times? ARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGH!!! AND WT#@!*$&##!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Then I took a chill pill, had a slug of rosé, and discovered that the event was a store opening in Tokyo, the Ornamentals are models wearing merch, and the blonde chick is socialite Tinsley Mortimer–who is big in Japan apparently (file under: Weird Japanese Behavior).

Tinsley’s pictured here at the ribbon-cutting with Miss Japan 2006, Kurara Chibana.

MY INTERNAL MONOLOGUE: Just two has-beens with a couple of pairs of scissors. Phew.


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We Rule

My friend Greenie, a diehard New Yorker and joke savant–if you ever need a script “punched up” as they say or a food recommendation in his favorite city–he’s your man. He sent me this tip from the New York Post this morning about the Forbes’ Top Ten Most Powerful Women on the planet:

POprah didn’t even crack the top ten, and you know we’re all going be tithing 10% of our earnings to her in 10 years, because that bitch is more powerful than God. But, dude, Chi Wu, Ching Ho, Indra Nooyi, and Sonia Gandhi? That’s 40 percent of the Top Ten, y’all.

We kick ass! We rule!

And, as Greenie wrote in his email, “Let’s hear those dry cleaners jokes NOW, suckas!”


(Thanks G!)

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Hurricane Kashameful

Yesterday marked the 2nd anniversary of Hurricane Katrina, our nation’s biggest domestic disgrace. The Washington Post reported these alarming statistics about the current state of affairs in the Big Not-So-Easy:

Still, only two-thirds of the pre-Katrina population of New Orleans has returned to the city, and storm damage remains visible. Only 40 percent of the city’s public school students have returned, although sales tax receipts have climbed to 84 percent of pre-storm levels, according to a new Brookings Institution report.

…The Louisiana-run Road Home program, which provides rebuilding grants to homeowners who had inadequate storm insurance, has sent checks to 44,000 hurricane victims, despite having received more than 184,000 applications and having billions of dollars in the bank.

…More than 1,600 people died in the storm along the Gulf Coast and 1.5 million people were scattered. Almost as much as the war in Iraq…

Here are photos I took 9 months after Katrina, in and around the Ninth Ward:

FEMA trailers for miles and miles

A typical street

An abandoned school

From all reports, the city is not that much better off today. New Orleans still needs your tourism, your money, and your help. Click here to view a list of disaster relief organizations, and help rebuild NOLA.

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Buddhist Prayer Hands: They’re Contasious

Dear J. Gar,

I like you. I don’t know why. Maybe because you have perfect hair. It’s always so shiny and lush. And if you weren’t so nice-seeming, I’d have to hate you or wish that you never lost that baby weight, which you did so splendidly and at your own pace. I think I watched one too many seasons of Alias, even after it became a demented, half-assed rip-off of The Da Vinci Code, which didn’t make much sense neithuh, only because of you and your relentlessly dimply smile.

But you clearly didn’t get the memo I sent out re: Buddhist Prayer Hands. That’s one strike against you. The other strike is that you’re married to Affleck, a fact I’m willing to forgive if you stop this immediately.

you’re racially dragging me down but I’m a sort of forgiving person,


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I got to thinking today: If everybody spent more time snuggling like these Chinese squirrel monkeys (pictured mid-family embrace today), Jen and I would have a lot less to write about.


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If You Want to Sing Out, Sing Out

LACE (Los Angeles Contemporary Exhibitions) gallery, here in Hollywood, which my friend Carrie first took me to, is one of the better art spaces in this city. And now they’ve “curated” an amazing performance art piece that elevates them to bestest.

I know what you’re thinking. Ugh. Performance art. How very (insert past decade in which you had a traumatizing experience with performance art). But this idea of LACE’s ROCKS. Li-trally.

It’s called the Karaoke Ice project, and it’s housed in an ice cream truck. This ice cream truck will be wandering the streets of Los Angeles for the next 9 days. At its scheduled stops, people will be handing out popsicles, and a makeshift stage will be created for YOU, and by that I mean you and me and Diana, on which to SING OUR LITTLE HEARTS OUT. Songs to choose from will include Johnny Cash’s “Ring of Fire” and the Ramones’ “I Wanna Be Sedated.”


Click here for full schedule of Karaoke Ice cream truck stops.


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Good Intasians

Jim Carrey, who we actually take kinda seriously, recently appeared in a PSA for a cause we take very seriously: supporting the world’s only imprisoned Nobel Peace Prize recipient, Aung San Suu Kyi.

The spot also calls attention to Burma’s military regime, which recruits more child soldiers than any other country in the world, has destroyed 3,000 villages in eastern Burma, and forced 1.5 million refugees to flee. The star urges us towards two great organizations, The Human Rights Action Center and U.S. Campaign for Burma. All very good things.

So why am I busy fighting awkward tingles and looking at Carrey’s hair?

Four words of advice: MORE TEXT. LESS FACE.

Sometimes well intended things go awry. Let’s just try harder next time!

They’ve got the right idea:
The Human Rights Action Center

U.S. Campaign for Burma

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A Little Personalizasian

I know sometimes it feels like we only talk about very distant, impersonal things– celebrities, politicians, people we don’t know that make ignorant TV shows or do stupid things to earn them a spot in the news. You know what I mean. Sigh.

So today I’ve decided to start letting you into my real, personal life. I’ve got a job. I’ve got dreams. I’ve got a family.

Below is a picture of my Aunt Sharon. She is an immigrant, a hard worker, and a good person. She walks the streets on foot in the clothes she’s collected from her children and her refugee sponsor, ignoring the creaks in her bones to peruse the local Asian market for leechees and beef shanks–which she stores in her reusable plastic grocery bag. She does all of this while carrying an umbrella to shield her precious porcelain skin from the evil sun. Her mother never allowed her to tan–she would look like a peasant–and she has carried that advice with her for her entire life. She is a good woman. She is my family.

Ohhh. Shit. Wait. Forget it. No. That’s Lucy Liu on the set of Cashmere Mafia. Ignore everything I said.


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