For as long as I can remember, I have wanted to write a book. At age three, in cursive on construction paper, I wrote tables of contents for imaginary novel chapters. From fifth to eighth grade, I created dozens of terrible young adult fiction book outlines that inspired too-long scribbled “Chapter Ones” in loose leaf notebooks. During high school, I attempted to write poetry collections about my non-existent love life and glamorized ideals of solitude. In college, I would study in the University library and take my breaks strolling through my favorite aisles–particularly the 20th century non-fiction texts, running my fingers over the books’ textured spines and gazing with love over the letters that spelled out titles and author names horizontally, like vertebrae.
As a grown-up writer, I think differently about the idea of publishing a book. I would still love to write one (perhaps with Jen, who is a far better scribe than I), but I now unfortunately know all the other stuff that goes along with the endeavor: book proposals and agents and publishers and politics and big-selling Christmas seasons and the word “niche” and writing from the inside and redundancy and timeliness and nervous breakdowns and writer’s block and what-about-my-other-projects and maybe-I-just-can’t-fucking-do-this and wouldn’t-it-just-be-easier–and-faster-to-have-our-twitterfeed-optioned-as-a-lame-William-Shatner-sitcom. I mean, hell, real writers are miserable for a reason.
Whenever somebody I know publishes a book, particularly a second or third (God help me if I ever befriend Mr. Chopra), my chest heaves a little. I’m jealous. I’m really, really jealous. I’m obviously proud and happy for them, I probably love their book and can’t wait to get my copy signed–but I’m also cringing inside, mad at myself for not realizing such an important dream, even though I arguably write thousands of words every week. Bloggers publish words on a virtual page that isn’t really a page; it doesn’t smell of ink and paper, you can’t dogear it, you can’t lend it to a friend and ask for it back. There’s just something about a book.
Even after I give birth to my first child, I’m pretty sure I’m going to tell my mom and dad that I’m a virgin. It’s like, my duty as the fourth child of two Hardass Asian Parents (who, as far as I know, are also virgins). It’s how we roll, yo. We’re expected to avoid dating but marry someone rich and virile, have babies without ever making sweet monkey love, and teach our kids to do the same.
So the first thing I thought when I read on HuffPo that an Aussie producer put together a cast willing to auction off their virginities to the highest bidder for a reality TV show was: I’ll be damned if there’s an Asian-Australian on that show!!! Hardass Asian Parents would go ape shit.
Apparently, all of the parents are pretty unhappy about the show’s concept.
Network television’s worst inside joke-turned-joke-turned-running joke-turned-joke pitch-turned pitch treatment-turned-idea going up the chain-turned-pilot order-turned-IDIOTIC DRIVEL THAT SOMEHOW SAW NETWORK AIRTIME ON ABC AND RESULTED IN A SERIES ORDER aired this week, and I missed it. Oh, darn.
Here’s the concept: Five single ladies choose from thirty single guys in a conveyor belt white elephant party. That is all you need to know.
Keep your eyes on Keiko during this episode. She’s bratty, opinionated, languid, not terribly bright and too pretty for her own good–also the first to proclaim disinterest in the “Filipino Criss Angel” on the belt, which may make you mad until you realize he sucks.
Keiko is a player-lover who chooses a hard body over intellect, disses the hot engineer with the 5 o’clock shadow in favor of an oily Speedo-wearer with a chihuahua, loves screwing, and in general gives this show the credit and seriousness it deserves–next to none. All in all, she’s the best part of the show (“Show” being an incredibly generous term, by the way).
That’s Emiri Miyasaka (Miss Universe Japan) above, in a brand-spankin’-new national costume, which she will apparently be wearing to the big galactic competition on August 23 of this year.
Perhaps on first glance (if you didn’t, like, immediately splooge all over yourself) you reacted as I did: “Ugh. God. Awful.”
Or like the handful of angry readers that posted comments documented by Itai News (highlighted by Japan Probe, from whom we’re borrowing translation)–which accused her of mocking her home culture, then labeled her as “a national disgrace,” “perverted,” and a “stupid person” wearing a “stupidly designed costume.”
Leave it to my trusty partner-in-crime, Jen, to approach the outfit slightly more thoughtfully: “Yeah, it’s really pervy, but we are talking a beauty pageant“–an event where coating one’s teeth with Vaseline, shoving one’s tits up their chin with tape, and spouting ignorant drivel from the stage are all kosher, if not recommended. Jen also ventured that the outfit might even be evidence of progress: maybe the Miss Universe Japan people are boldly stepping ahead of the curve, finally recognizing that the world kinda views the Japanese as pretty… pervy, and they’re beating everyone to the punch. How forward-thinking of them!
After all, what’s the real disgrace here? That she’s wearing lingerie?
Hell, we’ve seen Rachael Ray in skivvies before, for crying out loud. Total NBD. Conservative Middle America still loves the woman. I could take her or leave her, but that’s hardly the point.
That turkey might think Ray is a disgrace, but he’s probably the only one.
And if we’re talking about being scantily clad, let’s not forget that Miyasaka will be obliged to trot around in an itty-bitty two piece for the competition, as will all of her competitors. I mean, check out the evening’s performers, for crying out loud:
Nothin’ but class in this act
By comparison, Miss Universe Japan looks covered up and downright bookish!
At the end of the day, regardless of its cosmic reach, we are in fact talking about a BEAUTY PAGEANT, not a post-doctoral graduation ceremony. Others may disagree, but in my eyes, this pageant is about as legit and respectable and culturally relevant as Star Magazine (perhaps less so). It’s a boiling cauldron of disgrace. It’s a disgrace diet shake.
Final thoughts: One thing I really, really, really, truly-ooly respect is Miyasaka’s hot legs. They’re awesome. Gotta give respeck where it’s due, y’know?
Shooting Stars: The effervescent cast of ‘Big Brother 11′
I worked in reality television for four sordid years and never watched an episode of Big Brother (Dear God, I hope my former jefe isn’t reading this!). Instead, I studied the format on paper, religiously researched cast members and memorable conflicts, allowed myself to be fascinated by the number of cameras apparently mounted around the house, met frequently with the show’s multitude of producers, and believed–without ever seeing an act–that I understood Big Brother‘s point. The ultimate fish bowl, everyone called it. Pure genius, they described. A landmark achievement, one exec mused.
What a Crock Pot of shit all of that was. Seriously.
I finally saw my first episode of Big Brother last Sunday (Mind you, we’re now amidst an ungodly Season 11) during periodic glances away from a lively game of Blackberry Sudoku. I can’t exactly tell you what was going on, but I did understand that the group had been divided into “cliques”–Oh, you know, like “Brains” and “Athletes”… and, ehrm, “Offbeat” cliques. (Gosh, I feel embarrassed just typing those words on the page.)
Problem is, based on pure instinct, I instantly found myself rooting against every single person in the house. The offbeat freaks were all poseurs, the brainy nerds awkweird and creepy. And the jocks, as always, spent so much time kissing their dumb muscles that I began to simply hate life.
But I didn’t just hate them for their cliquey leanings. Flaky blonde chicks that have never had a real conversation with a dork sporting a crappy adult faux-hawk are people, too, and I get that. But honestly, I racked my brain for minutes–MINUTES!–and could not determine a reason for a self-respecting human to immerse themselves in the sick, sad, exhibitionist world of Brother, for days on end with a house full of fairly unattractive and dull nobodys.
Okay, one reason. How great would it be to eventually see oneself on the small screen, juxtaposed with brassy, sassy host Julie Chen in one of these saucy numbers?
But that can’t be enough of a reason, can it? Back to the real issue! WHAT KIND OF PEOPLE ARE THESE CAST MEMBERS?
Sigh. Apparently, people actually watch this dung heap. Check it out: moving right along, the douchebags in the house ultimately stirred up lots of trouble (and buzz!) after three of the castmates got into an awesomely lame argument that took a dark turn when Braden–a semi-ugly white dude with with decent abs and chicken legs–vented his frustration with Kevin–a blasian–by repeatedly calling him a “beaner” (1:16 of the video below)
Braden’s follow-up jab to the beaner tirade and resulting yellfest? “Hey, go back to Burbank.” (1:46)
Jen and I always read all ofmost of some of our mail. And we get it–sometimes, folks are not happy with all of the things we say. There are people who feel we’re too rough on Ann Curry (By the way: Seriously? It’s not like she isn‘t a robot). And there are those few remaining Gwen Stefani fans who wish we whouldn’t comment on her man-shoulders. There’s Tila Tequila, who likes our sense of humor (??!), but changes her mind once she sees we don’t believe she actually buys Chanel (or that she should exist).
Maybe y’all get mad sometimes. And you want to tell us. That’s cool, guys. That’s fine. That’s par for the course for two ladies pouring pitchers of Haterade.
But might I make one request: the next time you’re all worked up, huffy and puffy with your mouse clicking away and your little fingers tippity-tappity-ing against your keyboard, fueled by unsettled angst while composing an angry email to us–please remember what your Asian “ha ha” alternative might be if gals like us weren’t busy policing the Web:
“OMG” is precisely what comes to mind
…and try to see that we’re just tryin’ to do our job. And we love you–we’re just trying to keep you safe and free from humiliasian and shame, caused by our fellow citizens.
Unless you’ve got a real hankering for “69 Photos of Asian Girls Posing,” all day, every day–in which case, DISGRASIAN is probably not the site for you. Please. Step. Away.
To the people who developed RapeLay–a dark, first person Japanese video game that simulates the stalking, groping, and raping of two women and a girl in a subway, park, and bedroom–we feel sorry for you. You are sick, sad, twisted, violent, pathetic, low, inhuman, ugly fucks.
And if we ever meet you, we will chop your fucking dicks off.
“…Tila [Tequila] saw Joel [Madden, and] ran up to him and started acting super flirty-grabbing and hugging him,” a spywitness told The National Enquirer.
“Nicole had her back turned,” the insider continued, “But when she realized that Tila was all over him, she ran up and yelled, ‘Joel..JOEL!”
Nicole pulled Joel away to the couple’s table, but that wasn’t a big enough of a hint for Tila, who continued pursuing Joel in the presence of her pregnant companion. When she tried approaching Joel a second time, all Hell broke loose.
“That was the last straw for Nicole. She got right in Tila’s face and screamed, ‘Back off and get out of here.’”
Tila stood her ground for a few moments, but left the affair red-faced with shame once she realized Nicole’s outburst had made her the laughing stock of the party.
Ooh, the fireworks! Midge versus midge! Stick arms versus stick arms! Famous-for-nothing versus famous-for-nothing! And all over Play-doh-faced Joel Madden–there hasn’t been a celebutard love showdown this worthless since Lindsay Lohan and Hillary Duff duked it out over Aaron Carter!