C12UX

No More Pasta..

2012-02-28T00:16:00.002-08:00

WANT

FOOD

... and these KTZ sandals for Summer

Oh Home.

2012-02-26T22:49:00.001-08:00

You have a house,

but do you have a home?

In this sense, I feel like quite a nomad.

I dream of that day when I'll have a 20x20 box: a physical and emotional "home." A desk for writing [blogging], a chair for reading [magazines], a table for eating [home-cooked vegetarian crap], a closet for dressing [50% thrift, 50% quality], a bed for sleeping [alone], a dog-bed for my doggy [properly named "Bruce"] and a true haven to my friendly many.

Juan day! LF, DY, F2tD.

sincerely

, Henry

Unconditional Love. Don't You Realize What This Means?

2012-02-23T18:59:00.000-08:00

On rare occasion, I get approached by random-ish guys who are suffering to carry Christianity and homosexuality in some sort of balance. Most of the time, they feel like they're trying to mix water and olive oil: a messy, forced combination that in its very essence contradicts itself. That's definitely how I felt two years ago.

I don't know why they ask me, of all people. I mean, let's review my track record:

1 month-long relationship whilst in the closet
0 relationships post entering the living room
0-ish interest in romance
Lukewarm and cloudy in my Christianity (as evidenced by the horrible cynicism on C12UX, if you ask me)

Perhaps it's because the interaction is virtual, and therefore provides a safer medium through which to discuss the uncomfortable topic. I mean, society has clubbed our heads repeatedly enough for us to know that saying "I'm in love with another man" is seriously weird. You sicko you. Still, whenever asked, I listen with open ears, hoping they reach some sort of inner clarity.

Today, I was unexpectedly approached via email by another guy who had read some C12UX entries detailing my own struggles. This interaction was particularly surprising because this person was my friend, yet I had no idea he had this struggle. Immediately, I felt burdened. How could I, being in such a cold, jaded and apathetic state, be helpful towards a guy who needed help interpreting the Gospel? I'd be a hypocrite! My worldly state of mind can only lead him to sin! What do I know!

I listened as he ran through the common laundry list of issues: What will the parents think? The friends say they love the same, but why does it feel like they see things differently? Where does one go after coming out? Is one still welcome in the church? Is this going to define the person?

Suddenly, while intently listening to (or, er, reading) his worries, I had an awkwardly abrupt moment of clarity. Much like the random epiphany I had on a New York Subway, everything became crystal clear within an instant. The answer was right there:

Who cares if homosexuality is a sin? Who cares?

That's the central question in debate, no? Is it sinful to be gay? To be bi? To have an inexplainable attraction to shoes that are elevated in the heel?

Well, why does it matter! Listening to this friend explain how much he trusts God, how Jesus blesses the lives of him and his loved ones, how the Gospel brings him peace, I suddenly realized how petty his sexuality was. I mean, how much more does God care about you laying with a man than you getting annoyed at a homeless guy who's begging you for a dollar? How much do either of those"sins" compare to the deeper relationship you have with Christ? To me, he was a beautiful soul, devoted to spreading God's message of love. His sexuality didn't define him; and it sure as hell wouldn't matter enough to cock block his relationship with his savior.

Peter was single. Did you know that? I didn't--but he was. He undoubtedly struggled with it. Wouldn't you? Yet Peter is remembered for his relationship with Christ. Isn't that how we should all be remembered? Isn't that number one?

And what if homosexuality is a sin? If you're Christian enough to believe in the concept of sin, you should believe that this dude named Jesus already died for that sin. That he already died for one's greed, envy, anger, bitterness and homosexuality. It's in the past. It's forgiven. IT'S FORGIVEN, YOU DUMMY..

These bodies are fleeting. In the blink of an eye, they could be gone. I mean, a car could've hit me yesterday in that crazy blizzard, and it could've all been over. In the end, all we have that goes on with us are our souls: and when our souls are defined to the core by our love for Jesus, what kind of freaking sins could possible outweigh?

That is the end of this conversation.

I can't believe I've finally, after two years, come to a conclusion. And after I was supposed to help a brother (or sista, haha) with his problems? Praise God.

, Henry

PS. I re-read my coming out entry, and can't believe how much my perspective has evolved. I'm so blessed to have a blog and be able to so easily reflect upon my past.

Confessions of a Biker.

2012-02-23T02:39:00.000-08:00

Have you ever been inside a tornado? Inside a tornado on a sand dune? Inside a tornado on a sand dune on the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean?

Well, I have.

At 1:30 AM, it was time to get off of my ass and make my daily “study” trek to Leela's cafe. Leela's is essentially where I spend every night of my college life: a location much frequented here on C12UX.

Upon exiting the back door, I noticed that it was, in precisely technical terms, “sprinkling.” “I should probably change out of these flip flops and put on boots,” I thought. Now, more appropriately dressed in a Vans parka, Adidas sweats and Converse boots (yes, twas an incredibly jank combination), I embarked upon my journey.

Thirty seconds into this typical bike ride, I couldn't believe what was happening. Out of nowhere (and I mean nowhere, kid) the sprinkle turned into a rabid storm. Zeus' fu*king revenge. What used to be sprinkles of water had magically transformed into ice bullets, battering my face like sand shot through a firehose. "WHAT IS THIS WITCHCRAFT?!" I cried.

Home was merely 30 seconds away, if I could simply turn around. Unfortunately for this situation, I'm incredibly stubborn. I started this journey—I would finish it. Halfway to Leela's, I had to get off of my bike and walk. With wind, slush, sand, ice, knives and kitchen sinks crashing into me with a force I've never encountered, I eventually made it.

And now I'm here again... uncomfortably damp... wanting to be back in my warm apartment wearing boxers and twirling my hair.

I'm shocked I made it here without getting hit by a car. Thank you, God. Screw you, Aeolus.

, Henry

The Little Things.

2012-02-21T13:24:00.000-08:00

The 303 Magazine office is located on what I'd confidently call the "outskirts" of Denver. In order to catch the 44 bus by 9:33 AM (or earlier, considering the bus driver is an apathetic twat), I have to leave the house by 9:20 AM.

It sounds rather simple; and it is. Sadly, I am one of those people. Ukno, those who c a n ' t get up. It takes the shock!horror! of seeing "9:15 AM" on my cell phone to make me leap from my top bunk, destroy the room like a rampant tornado as I "get ready" and sprint through the front door. See, now you know why I carry cologne in my pouch.

This morning, however, I woke up at 7:00. Staring at the ceiling, head comfortably resting on a warm, soft pillow, I retreated back to Slumberland (a deadly move that has resulted in me waking up at to the sound of a furious boss) but woke up again at 8:30. God was clearly pleased with me. I took a long, leisurely shower while humming "Stupid Hoe," sculpted a perfectly plastic coif, made both breakfast and lunch and even wore my youth-in-revolt cut-out jeans.

To top off the marvelous morning, I was offered a free lift from a coworker.Ugh, like a mint garnish atop a fresh fruit tart.

I decided to hold Lindsay's tumbler while her puppy jerkingly dragged her to the car. As I got into her car, I, feeling rather mature, placed the tumbler on the roof of the vehicle like grown-ups do in ze movies. When I leaned out to grab the tumbler, I proceeded to pour her ice-cold Green Machine Naked Juice all over my head.

"oooOOOOOOHHHH EM GEEEE!!!!!!!!!"

I stood up, arched like a crippled person, and let the sticky juice drip from my hair and ear unto the asphalt.I couldn't believe my head was dripping green fruit slime, after I had such a perfect morning.

And then we laughed, hysterically, dabbing my head with cotton gauges Lindsay had purchased for her bleeding finger.

Sometimes... it's the random moments in life that really make your day enjoyable. Remember that the next time you drool in class, or drop your purse in the middle of the hallway.

, Henry

Omona, Omona.

2012-02-19T23:20:00.000-08:00

어렵다하더라도,

난 견딜 수 있다.

꼭. 성공할 것이다.

여드름 잔뜩 나든..

잠못자든..
하루하루 심심하게 지내든...

... 지말든지. 상권없다.

꼭.

이 분쟁은 축복이라고 믿게씀.

그리고 성공 후,
드디어, 내가사랑하는 친구들.. 가족들과.. 그 예쁜 그림 같은 삶을살게씀.

씩씩하게, 당당하게 걷기.
죽을 때까지... 싸우기!!!!

, 수영

근대 솔치회 말야...

좀 무섭단말이지.. ㅋㅋㅋ...?

Grammatically Incorrect List of Grievances

2012-02-15T23:33:00.000-08:00

I don't know what to say. There's just too much to say! THERE'S TOO MUCH TO SAYYYY!!!!!!!!

aAAAAAAAAHHHHH!!!!!!!

ok fool, calm down. Calm.......... it......... down.......

Ok. Now, get yourself organized. Think it through. Make a list. Yes, a list. Lists always help you.

1. School. Man, this is the last semester. If I earn straight Aes this time around, my GPA would be 4.0. 4.0 GPA in college? Pretty impressive. Man, I can't believe I have to chance to achieve such bragging rights. Ugh, but I can't afford the damn textbook for Strategy. And, if I don't do well, my GPA could be as bad as 3.4. Siiiigh. And I'm backed up on tuition by just 1000 buckaroos. UGH. DAMNIT HENRY, I'll do it. I'll show 'em all. Without parents buying me cold medicine, driving me to school, or paying for my tuition, I'll do it. Without having a desk to work on, or 24-hour libraries to my access, I shall prevail. I'll get a freaking 4.0 GPA despite my odds, rake up 1000 dollars by stripping at Boys Town and shove my beautiful transcript up everybody's asses. Even yours, whoever you are.

2. Graduation. It's almost here. Oh. My. Gaw. It's like I'm being abruptly kicked out of the nest. Well, no--I've already run away from the nest. It's like I'm being expelled from the abandoned-bird shelter. Oh the pressure! I'm a good student, got a good personality (professionally, at least), have helpful recommendations, and have a little experience in lots of different things. I mean, all I want right now is to be able to afford a bedroom in Cap Hill. Have pretty mugs, a freaking CABINET and CUPBOARD set for my things, and enough extra dough to buy myself some avocados. It can't be that hard, can it? I mean yeah, I'd love to travel to India as a post-grad present, but there aint nobody that's gon' give me such a thing. Damn. DAMN. I gotta get it together. I have an interview tomorrow with a record label. My future HAS to be in good hands. Why? Because I won't settle for anything less, damn it. That's why. THAT'S WHY.

3. Baby alligators. Freaking baby alligators. I'm trying to balance myself on this impossible tightrope, but all of these baby alligators keep biting my toes! I can't concentrate! AHH!!! I stepped on my roommate's freaking computer--how am I going to pay for that shiz? Hello, white hairs. Why does everything in my closet seem like I've had it for ten years? I almost forgot that my TAXES are due soon. UGH, I bet I'll get zero dollars and zero cents this year. And I SRSLY need a better piano. This stupid thing? You can't even call it a piano. It's a toy. But where would I have the money to get a new piano? Retail sucks right now! Why did I ever enter such an inconsistent industry? Don't they know I need to pay my own bills?! UGHH and when am I going to find the time to read all of those books I need to read? Elizabeth keeps telling me to read "Me Talk Pretty One Day." Well, all I'm thinking about lately is "Me Have Time and Energy One Day."

4. Love. Can I even call it love? Nope. Why? Because "love" wouldn't be on my list of astronomical worries--that's why. This isn't love. It's a crush. Puppy love. If anything, that's worse. I don't have TIME for crushing right now? Are you kidding me? All of that energy and brain space spent watching him walk from one room to the next--I SHOULD BE MEMORIZING MY SCHEDULE!! but while we're on the topic of it: why won't he ever let up? I mean, why sooo mysterious? Cmon, throw me a bone here. And I thought IIIII was the difficult one. UGH this is so silly. Just get out of my mind, please. Go on. Get!

5. I need to go to church. I need to pray. I need God. I need, I need, I need God. Where did I go? How did I get so far away?

.....................

wow. It feels nice to get it all out without feeling like I'm talking to myself.

Take responsibility for the energy you bring to your space. No more negativity. Move forth in confidence.

, Henry

The Good Years.

2012-02-13T05:52:00.000-08:00

"We are dying, to live. Sprouting pimples so that we can afford dermatology sessions--or something like that."

Another night in my favorite 24-hour cafe. My second home, tbh.

I'm trying to embrace these years of part-time jobs, full-time studying, money problems, Subway sandwiches, insomnia and dreams. It's a once-in-a-lifetime period. Revel in it! Soak it all in! FIGHTING!

, Henry

Ugly.

2012-02-11T20:59:00.000-08:00

He makes me feel ugly, but I kinda like it. In a makes-no-sense type of way.

I like that my arrogant narcissism goes away. Sitting directly next to him on a cramped bus seat, I'm no longer tall-ish. My interesting hairstyle gives way to an obvious case of hairspray rape. The blemishes on my face swell, and the random hairs on the corners of my mouth thicken. My breath probably smells stale, and my teeth are definitely yellow. And crooked, for that matter.

And then I laugh, nervously, attracting unwarranted attention to my unhealthy gums. He probably noticed my crazy cuticles when I handed him my piece of gum.

But because my shy, insecure self feels comically ugly, I'm too preoccupied to judge him for his flaws. All I see are his nicer cuticles, or that dorky smile where the mouth frowns instead of smiles.

And suddenly, I notice that he's not bad. In fact, he's a lot better off than I am in the looks department, isn't he? How important are looks anyway?

So I finally get past my typical roadblock and get to know what he looks like from the "inside." And then I'm more fascinated than ever before.

Hmm..

, Henry

Spring Break.

2012-02-09T13:19:00.000-08:00

Much like the Olympics, I'm campaigning for Elizabeth Lee to grace Denver as the host city for Spring break 2012.

I hope I win.

NYNY Day 5 pt. 2

2012-02-07T20:47:00.000-08:00

This is a long, and irrelevant story to your life. You've been warned.

18:00
AsElizabeth and Soy played dress-up in the other room, preparing forour final soiree, I found myself sitting on the sofa next toElizabeth's friend James: an otherwise stranger. With nothing else tosay, I, between bites of left-over sweet potato fries, selfishlyrecounted my exciting morning, disappointing afternoon and pensiveevening--finishing with an eloquent "So... yeah. That's it."Peering over to see him staring at the floor, I realized I had justdumped my smelly emotions all over a poor stranger. Ploop.....ploop........... ploop. Stranger,however, navigated my tale with unexpected empathy. Surprised by ourpleasant exchange of opinion, I thought to myself, "hey, wait aminute. Who cares if he really gets what I mean or not? Whatdifference does it make if he does or doesn't? In fact, why doesanybody absolutely needto understand how I feel? Does it make any actual difference if they pity me or not?" And just like that, right in time for dinner in SoHo, I was over my Major shenanigans. Thank youfor your indirect help, James.

20:00
Acomplicatedly-inter-connected mutual friend, Michelle (who has the most dashing smile I've ever seen on a Korean chick) awarded aquaint Italian restaurant the honor of housing my final New Yorkmeal. Congratulations, Il Corallo Trattoria! The restaurant was socozy and fragrant that it felt I was in an Italian grandmother'skitchen. Anorange hue filled the room with warmth... I cannot waitto go back and try the penne con crema di avocado e aragosta. I will probably go alone on a Monday afternoon in June, accompanied solely by a copy of 303 Magazine.

Withtime to murder before our designated bar appointment in St. Marks, wedetoured to Ktown to begin the preliminary drinking festivities. Ifound a seat on the subway that happened to be removed from the rest of the group, and Elizabeth, being mai bff n' all, thought that I waspurposely distancing myself (I do that at times). She asked if I was OK and I replied that I was fine. I was simply observing the group as they cackled, amusing themselves with "awkward animal" charades. It was... heartwarming. They were a refreshing, bright spurt of youth on the bleak train, celebrating a routine Thursday night in New York City. An intermission from their busy, motivated, New Yorkian lives.

21:00
Alltoo quickly, I found myself flipping my hurr and talking with a slurat a $wanky K-Town lounge. Perhaps it was the mood lighting, thesoju, the deceptively sweet cocktail, or a sinful combinationof all three, but somewhere between shot #3 and the commencement of my narcissisticcam-whoring, I had a moment of reflection. Recap: I was inNYC; loitering in a lounge; gawking overbeautiful/overpriced cocktails; and enjoying the company of Parsons,NYU and Syracuse students. Regardless of whether it was me or thealcohol taking center stage, I felt inspired. Incredibly inspired. I was eagerto return to Denver, work endlessly, kick laziness straight in thekisser and accomplish my own dreams. I vowed to make something of myself and have, as native New Yorker Nicki Minaj likes to say, "this moment 4 life."

--Andhad my night stopped there, it would have been perfect. Little did Iknow that my night would get far more interesting.

22:30
Anentire crowd of New Yorkers were apparently gathered at a morehappenin' K-Town locale across the street, and the five of us headedover to make a quick visit. Nobody knows this about me, but I'mrather intimidated by Korean-American social settings. After years ofbeing tossed and bullied as silly, frilly Stephen, I may never have fully overcome the shame of being the infamously faggy gay boy.Indeed, you could call it an “insecurity” stemming from“bullying.” I myself wasn't aware that suchfeelings still lingered within me, but Gaga says the effects of bullying never leave the bullied--and that may be true.

Before entering said happenin' locale, Elizabeth turned around to advise me, “don't be toogay!" All at once, my tipsy invincibility vanished, and I was nervous. "Don't be too gay?" I, dressed in tight black pants and combat boots,would be in a room brimming with cool, masculine Korean men and Korean women who hold certain expectations from the opposite sex. I'dstick out like pubic hair on a toilet seat! It was too little too late to not be "too gay!" Oh God, I don't want to go in...

Upon entering the actual bar, I retreated to the bathroom. More specifically, the stall. On the toilet seat. Pubic hair personified. “What's wrong withyou?” I scolded myself. “Why are you so nervous? What, are youshy? Are you too pussy to handle a stare or two? Or are you just socially awkward? You're in NYC and none ofthese people know you, you stupid freak! Get out of the bathroom! This is the only stall: what if somebody needs to take a shit!!” It was then that my balls dropped, perhaps. I stood back up, glanced at my reflection in themirror, realized I looked fabulous, and left the pisser.

23:00
Thetaxi driver had turned on classical music. How annoying. I too wanted tobe sober, working, listening to classical music. Instead, I was bright red, dizzy, on my way to St. Marks to drink some more. As it turned out, the cab driver was from Kansas. Kansas. That's east of Colorado. Oh,Colorado. I live there don't I? In Colorado? Geez, Colorado seems so far away. Why do people even live in such a random place? Elizabethpoked my shoulder, interrupting my mental conversation, and asked me what was wrong. Not wanting to inappropriately explain my sudden hatred for hedonism, my relapse from horrible high school flashbacks, my immediate desire to fly to Denver and study, my contradictory wish to stay in New York City forever, the annoyance of my emerging headache, and a slew of other muddled emotions, I simply responded, "I'm justtired and sober all of the sudden." She probably saw right through me.

23:30
We found ourselves at The Bourgoise Pig: a Steven Klein/Tim Burton inspired bar illuminated solely by one red light at the end of the room. The eerie tint turned everybody a translucent red: a serendipitous masquerade forthose who suffer from Asian glow. For the first time all day, I found myself sitting next to Elizabeth, cracking up about things nobody else would understand. As the inside jokes rolled in, I began to feel more like myself. A glass of bubbly (from a punch bowl, gloriously deemed "Charlemagne's Cup") later, I realized how silly I was being. For goodness sake, why so serious? In this moment, you're in New York City. The concrete jungle. At a beautiful bar. Chewing alcoholic blackberries. No more talking to yourself tonight, you neurotic psychopath. Enjoy the moment and cheers to that!

The events that followed this revelation (perhaps my 10th revelation of the day) play out like a cinematic montage. To the sounds of Oracular Spectacular, I, the main character, downed glass... after glass........ aftre glaas........ agtrr glsas. Somewhere in this chaotic scene, I laughed at an ear-splitting decibel, practically punched Elizabeth's friend Sarah in drunken hysteria, screamed, groaned and spilled enough Charlemagne over my hands to contract alcohol wrist poisoning.

I eventually wobbled out of The Bourgoise Pig. James and I skipped (?) to Big Gay Ice Cream. I scarfed an expensive, brand-name ice cream sandwich like it was a nacho. Elizabeth asked me again if I was OK.

"I'M FANTASTIC!!!!!!!!!!" I responded.

Friday, January 13
00:30
By this point, I was fatally drowning in an ocean of alcohol. Up in clearer waters, the heavyweights hadn't had enough-- so off we were to Kenka's (the authentic Japanese shack where Elizabeth and I lost it on Day 3). The rest is a blur. Did I run to Kenka's, or lag behind linking arms with Soy? Or was it Elizabeth? Did I indeed take a shot of sake, or was my rejection accepted? How long did we stay there? The details escape me. All I remember is passing out on the table, my temples fiercely pounding.

Out of nowhere, I randomly woke up "crying."

I took a picture I don't remember taking.

Elizabeth walked over and asked me again, "Stephen. Are you OK?"

"...mmnmhmnmm...."

"Stephen. Drink some water."

"....yeahuh..."

"...........Stephen. Let's go."

"no, I'm fine."

"No, let's go first. Guys we're gonna go-"

"Nooo~ I'm fine I SWEARRRRrrrr~."

My fried chicken arrived. Saved by the fowl. I ravenously shoveled the food into my mouth, and can't remember it tasting or feeling like anything other than hot... stuff.

01:00
"Stephen, wake up!"

The train stopped at Broadway. This was our exit. My sight was blinded by the mustard glare of the subway. People shuffled through the exit in chaos. Sleepy, drunk, physically exhausted and discombobulated, I paced out of the train as Soy, James and Elizabeth waddled in front of me. Then, only halfway out the door, a flood of warm saliva surged into my mouth. My tongue tasted horribly bitter, and my teeth clenched instinctively. Oh no, oh hell no. OH NO. I grabbed Elizabeth's wrist in fear. We both knew what was coming, yet we kept walking, hoping for the best. Step by step, I marched down the stairs. It's alright. I'm gonna make it. I'll be- OH NO OH NO OH NO. HERE IT COMES. OH SHOOT NOOO!!!!!!!!!

I pushed Elizabeth away, bolted back up to the tracks, and................ puked. Powerfully. A thick, dense geyser of vomit.. ejecting from my poor lips, jerking me back as I groaned "EEEEEEUUUUUUGH!!!!....... EEEEEUUUUUGGH!!!!...." Hello again, Snow White cocktail, yogurt soju, cotton candy, Charlemagne, ice cream sandwich and katsu. According to Elizabeth, my head was inches from the moving Subway cart.

As I spit the last remnants of my shame, I hit a stark reality: everyone was watching me. Elizabeth, Soy, James, grandmas, hipsters, hobos--everyone. My hands were covered in cake batter, my scarf dangled like a noose, and I was petrified. I had never thrown up before, and I couldn't believe this was happening in front of some of my most respected friends. In New York City. Hours after I vowed to keep my head on straight, work hard and "accomplish my dreams."

Humiliated, I ran home in a frenzy. Elizabeth, Soy and James chased after me, as I'm sure it's not exactly comforting to see your drunken gay friend running away in Astoria well past midnight. In the apartment, I shoved my scarf into the trash can, refused to speak or look anyone in the eye, and crawled into the shower. It felt like the longest shower of my life.

... When I finally showed my face, my friends did their best to cheer me up. They weren't exactly sure why I was so distraught, and I appreciated their kindness, but, I had yet to overcome the horrible end to an emotionally draining 24 hours.. so I pulled the blanket entirely over my head and passed out.

08:00
With a headache, crinkled clothes, frizzy hair and an insanely heavy bag, I bid adieu to New York City.

12:00
The bus ride to Newark Airport was torturous. All I could think about how violently I puked the night before, and how badly I wanted to puke again. Up in the air, I could've sworn Zeus was shaking the plane on purpose, punishing me. Back in Denver, slouching in my bus seat, about as physically strong as a tween and emotionally strong as a baby, I received a text message. It was from my boss.

"I feel like you're dropping the ball," it scathed. "You haven't responded to any of the emails, and how do you expect to get the article done by Sunday if you haven't even sent us interview questions yet?"

In complete delirium, I smirked. I couldn't help but smile at the situation. "I get it," I told God. "I'll work hard, and I'll do it all. I've learned my lesson. Give me another chance.."

And that.... was the end of my trip. My first encounter with the brash, unapologetic, spontaneous, complex lady herself: New York City. I've never met anybody like her, and I will never forget the first time we met. Till next time.

, Henry

PS Thank you to everyone whom I stole pictures from: Soy, Elizabeth, Michelle and many anonymous Yelpers.

PPS Welcome, Sarah Lee! And Thank you Hobojojo and Elizabeth Kang for the motivation to finish these unnecessarily long things.

NYNY Day 5 pt. 1

2012-02-03T13:55:00.000-08:00

And for the epic grand finale, I shall write a novel.

edit-- there is too much to cover in one entry. This shall be divided into two parts.

00:00
It had been over 24 hours since I'd enjoyed any alcohol, so Elizabeth (sensing my forthcoming withdrawals [we are blood brothers]) suggested we channel our inner Sex and the City and voyage to a gay bar in midtown called "Therapy." It was a rainy, cold and windy Wednesday night: not the ideal context for a girls' night out. Yet despite all of this (and the fact that we were in janky hair buns, pajamas, glasses and face masks), we once again got re-dressed at midnight, eager to entertain ourselves. Something about being on vacation makes us uncharacteristically hedonistic--or, as modern American youth culture might call it, "fun."

Still, in classic Elizabeth/Henry fashion, we went to our first club-y bar in NY only to sit at a booth, sip on one or two cocktails, take a couple pictures and debate the the relationship between homosexuality and Christianity. Meanwhile, one booth over, two men rampantly sucked each others faces off.

2:00
As we waited for the N train to arrive at 49 Street Station, I saw in the corner of my eye a peculiarly interesting lad. The way he walked, the way he spoke with his hands, his perfect hair, his perfect eyebrows... something seemed extremely famili- OMG, That's Joshua McKinley!

"JOSHUA. MCKINLEY." I sternly shouted like an old friend coincidentally in the frozen foods section. He whipped his head in our direction and slurred a casual, "hey~." Neither Soy nor Elizabeth knew he was Project Runway notoriety, but I forced them into a picture anyway. As he trotted off, drunk, he disclosed to us the winner of Project Runway All Stars. Yes indeed, I know who the winner of this season will be.

This New York place is basically an urban safari. Look! A Project Runway contestant roaming in the wild!

10:00
I woke up the following morning slightly before my roommates and walked to the kitchen, bare feet shocked by the frozen linoleum, to pour myself a glass of green tea. Sitting up-right on the sofa, savoring the personal moment, I suddenly felt bittersweet about leaving. "Too bad I can't stay here forever," I thought, watching m' dear friends drooling in bed like little infants.

As Elizabeth got dressed for a lunch appointment, I snuck out to the stairwell to make a quick phone call. This Major Model Management ordeal had been in my mind all morning, and I concluded to just call this Alejandro fellow. Don't settle with question marks, you dum dum. If they thought you were a complete waste of time, they would have harshly rejected you like they did everybody else. What do you have to lose? As the phone rang on the other line, I stared intently at a crack in the wall. The gray grout was slowly deteriorating and little dust bunnies were moving in, ready to call the crevice home. Somebody should probably clean it out, but nobody will probably ever see. I mean, it's so small. Maybe I should pick at it then, with my pinky fing- hello?

Minutes later, I crawled back into the apartment, peeped my head through the door and stared at Soy and Elizabeth, wide-eyed and bushy-tailed.

"So..? What did he say?

"Um..... he told me to come in at 3."

15:00
Yet again, the Major Model Management office had transformed. The ritzy, cinematic frenzy of the day before was long forgotten, and only a stark office as casual as Scranton's remained. I waited for Alejandro at his desk and noticed a form to my right. "New Model Information," the form read. Never in my life have I wanted more badly to fill out a sheet of paperwork.

--So one can imagine how I felt when the first thing Alejandro said to me was, "did you fill out the New Model Information sheet?"

Hash-tag: dies.

As I nervously filled out my information under the close inspection of Alejandro, he began asking me questions about where I work, what I do, who I'm signed with in Denver, etc.

   "So, you just wanna be a model..? Or... you wanna do other things? Or..."
   "I just really want to model," I replied. It wasn't the complete truth, but I'd be damned to let him know that.
   "And, how tall are you? Are you six feet exactly?"
   "You know, actually, I'm not too sure! I never got to see my own measurement." The moment those words spilled out of my fat lips, I wanted to circumcise myself. Could I have been any more self-sabotaging? To my predicted horror, his next words were:
   "Well then come with me and let's get you measured."

Walking to the stadiometer was like approaching the electric chair. A child molester being driven down Hell Boulevard. Oprah on her way to the gym. God forbid my two-inch bouffant help me now. I vertically stretched my body with as if such a technique existed and tried to shield my paralyzing fear. Had a model ever fainted on a stadiometer before, or would I be the first?

   "Ah, yeah, I thought so. You're not six feet: you're five eleven and some change." And there it was. My sentence. Mortified, I looked at my measurement, and indeed... I didn't hit the 6' mark. In fact, I was 5'11.8". Still, even with a .2 inch curve, I would've only measured up to 6 feet--and I was fully aware that 6 feet for male modeling is "short."

   "So here's the deal. I'm gonna be really honest with you. Is that alright?"
   "Oh yes, please be."
   "Well, you're too short for fashion modeling. You know, sample sizes just don't come in your measurement, and you can't really do runway unless you're at least 6'1" or 6'2"."
   "Mmhmm." *CLANG
   "Now, Kate Moss is the famous contradiction, right? But the thing with her is that she had such a unique look unlike anything that was out there at her time."
   "Mmhmm." *CLANG
   "I mean, you could do commercial, modeling. You know, the cheesy stuff. But then again you're too edgy. You dress this way, you're super lean, you're not the blonde-hair blue-eyed darling of commercial modeling, etcetera."
   "Mmmmmhhhmmm.."*CLANG
   "So, you know, there's still tons of other things you could do in fashion. I mean, you're a writer, and Katia was very impressed with your persona, you know? You could be a buyer, you could be a designer, you could be a lot of things. Like, I thought I used to want to be a model, but I realized that I'm just not made for it. But look at me now, I'm an agent at such a young age. So keep your head up, but for us, you're just not the right fit."

CLANG...

...my coffin was bolted tight by this point.

The worst part of the entire exchange was that there was nothing I could do to save myself. There was nothing I could negotiate. I mean, how could I respond to comments like "you're 5'11.8," or "your eyes are brown," or "you're Asian?" There was nothing to be done but nod in agreement and imagine tragic onomatopoeia.

I left the building, and New York didn't feel as magical as it did mere hours ago. As I walked to the Subway dungeons like a pensive zombie, I wished I could just collapse and throw a tantrum as viscously as it'd take for somebody to stop, hand me a pacifier and say, "alrighty son, let's make you taller, c'mon." But, I was smart enough to realize that this wasn't a viable option-so I kept walking.

Wondering how I'd tell Soy and Elizabeth that I'd been embarrassingly rejected, something peculiar happened: I had an abrupt moment of clarity. It was awkwardly sudden. Reminiscent of those bizarre moments when one instantaneously runs out of tears following an intense fight. Altogether at once, I felt incredibly thankful. To God. I was so blessed! To receive such a harsh, clear reality check: isn't that what we all long for? For somebody to tell us how it is before we waste more time riding down an eventual cul-de-sac? I wasn't merely accepting defeat, see, because it dawned on me that modeling is serendipitous. Models are lucky that they're of certain height. They're lucky to have certain eyes. They're lucky to have straight legs. True, successful modeling requires undeniable work in its own right, but the foundation of the job lies in the random assignment of genetic assembly. As for me? I was formed a few inches short--and that's that. Baby, I was born this way. Yes, a door had undeniably closed in my face, but I had too many open doors anyway.

My next worry was how I'd explain this to people. How could I explain this unnaturally peaceful epiphany without appearing like I'm making an excuse? I didn't want the pity. It was the pity that would kill me. Would they believe me when I tell them that I'm 100% at terms with the verdict, or would they think I'm in denial? Would they get it?

...... did I really care?

...... no. No, I didn't.

17:00
I came home to see Soy in the bedroom, unwinding after a long day of painting.

It was nice to see a friendly face as tired as my own.

, Henry

NYNY Day 4

2012-01-28T00:35:00.000-08:00

"Today's gonna be a day for the books," I thought, staring at myself brushing my teeth in Soy's cute bathroom. After all, it was Wednesday; and Wednesdays were the days Major Model Management New York conducted open calls at their agency. See, before packing my bags for the 212, I gathered the opinions of some fashion folk around the 303 regarding which modeling agencies I'd find fit "auditioning" for. Seeing as how two of four advisors had high regards for Major Model Management, an "up and coming" agency, I decided to check it out. After all, I'd spent a pretty penny on this trip to NYC so... why not?

Fast forward to 12:00, 28th and Park Ave:
As the elevator door on the twelfth floor peeled open, I was struck motionless with awe--or so it felt. Suddenly, I was Anne Hathaway, cautiously approaching the devil in Prada. A clear glass door, a red-headed secretary answering a phone call (of course) and the word "MAJOR" boldly declared behind her in large silver letters.

   "Hello, I'm here for the open call?"

   "Open call begins at four."

   "Oh! Okay, well then I guess I'll come back then."

   "Please do~"

Please do? Did she just say "PLEASE DO?" In New Yorkian, that basically translates to, "oh yeah you definitely should come back because I can tell that you're going to make a perfect fit and I really have high hopes for you and your budding career you star you!" Doesn't it?

I fluttered back down to the lobby in a dreamy state, and Elizabeth's classic apathy quickly sucked out my helium. Off we were to Port Authority, where we'd pick up one of my most beloved Syracusians, Eyang, from her New Jersey commute.

Reuniting with Eyang was... a strange feeling. Entirely unique in its own. You simply take a moment to lean back and say "huh, well would you look at that? We're meeting again? I thought we'd never meet again. Jiminy Cricket." It felt like no time had passed, and our hysterical sushi dinner circa Halloween 2010 was just the other night. This is likely because neither of us had a passionate longing to see each other; and I find this rather interesting. Time flies when you're having fun, but it surely shits past you when you kindly don't care.

As a future local, I guided our party to Corner Bistro: a highly recommended cafe in the cinematic Greenwich Village. The daylight was warm, and Eyang was just as bright as my memory said she would be. The classic cheese burgers were only $6 each (penny change to the Céline aficionado that lives in Greenwich) and were easily the deepest, most plump, savory burgers of all the ones in memory. Something about New York food, my friends. Every meal is an ordeal.

After lunch, I navigated myself back to Major Model Management in true New York style: sunglasses, mum expression and ruthless speed. Here's where things got rather interesting. What was formerly a New York fairy-tale had suddenly become a documentary. If the rest of the city was a can of sardines, this office was an high-pressure, air-tight pack of Pillsbury biscuit dough. Models (and "models") were literally seeping out of the glass doors. With barely any room to move even my eyes, it took all the power I could muster to keep my head held high and pretend to fit in with the gods and goddesses around me. What was I thinking? That I could come to a New York modeling agency and expect to be the modeling world's long lost Heart of the Ocean?

As I began to feel both sorry for myself and on the cusp of a heat stroke, an Asian girl motioned for me to come over. In New York, there's no such thing as proper "social skills." She introduced herself in a thick Vietnamese accent and asked me where I came from.

   "Colorado," I smirked.
   "Colorado? Where Colorado?"she asked. I giggled (the only sound heard in the entire office). Indeed, I was the silly boy from some unknown land called "Colorado." The silly boy from Colorado at an open call for Major. That's when I realized how amusing this scenario was! True, I likely hadn't the experience of the other models, but I did have one coveted advantage: I had nothing. Nothing to lose. No reputation, no bad impressions, no tainted past, no entitled future. Naive ambition.

Unfortunately, I signed up right after what I may as well describe as "sex on legs." Undoubtedly the most gorgeous hunkadaddy I've ever seen in real life. Wooo~ child. His interview seemed to last longer than the others, and I'll safely assume Major didn't mind adding "sex on legs" to their roster.

And I was next. What an episode of Seinfeld...

Deciding that being insecure and stoic would only worsen my chances, I jumped into the office with a comical "howdy!"

   "Hello, uh, Henry! So, tell me about yourself," Katia said to me in a surprisingly warm tone. Did I mention that we were being seen by Katia Sherman? President of Major Model Manaement's New York branch..‽

   "Well, I'm a student, living in Colorado, and I work at a magazine."

   "What type of magazine?"

     "It's a local fashion, lifetyle magazine--kind of like a smaller New York Magazine."

     "And what do you do?"

     "I'm an editorial intern and a columnist. I have a column that gets published every month."

     "In print or online?"

     "In print, actually! I'm actually quite proud to say that I'm a published writer."

     "That is impressive. What does your tattoo say? 'Peter Dark?'"

   {insert snickering of my friends}

     "No, it's actually 'After Dark.'"

   "Oh, I see." I felt the "interview" was coming to a speedy halt, so I decided to overstay my welcome.

   "Would you like to know what it means?" I teased.

     "Sure," Katia said to me as she took off her glasses, put her pen down and looked into my eyes, amused.

     "I doesn't mean 'hey let's turn off the lights and get it on.' It means, rather, that we're the same color if you turn off the lights. I kinda grew up with racist parents. Well, no, I can't call them racists--that's not fair. They just grew up in a country where everybody they ever met looked the same, so it's understandable that they wouldn't be as open minded as I am." Katia smiled. It seemed I had crossed from forgettful-land to interesting-ville.

     "And you know what? I'm from France, and I understand what that's like. I believe it's our responsibility now to teach our children the correct ways to live this life with people from all different stories and backgrounds."

     "I agree!" I replied with a smile. Smiles everywhere! In the devil's office!

     "Can you turn to the side?" asked the agent to her right. "Wow, you have a great profile." A great profile? Me? The boy infamously teased for his flat nose? Yes. He must be talking to me.

     "Well," said Katia smugly, "I'm not the one you should be impressing. It's Alejandro here who's in charge of the mens's divison." As I turned to look at Alejandro, I was surprised to see a young man not much older than me, casually observant, ready to move on. "What do you think, Alejandro?"

   I believe Alejandro... hummed.

     "Well we have his contact information here, so we can contact him before he leaves on-"

     "Friday!" I blurted.

     "Yes, Alejandro will contact you by Friday if he's interested." said Katia with another nurturing smile. I wanted to kiss her.

As I inhaled a deep breath of fresh smog on Park Avenue, I felt icredible. Invincible. Adrenaline leaked from my ears. Recap: I got complimented by Katia Sherman (whom I feel I must deem an "angel") and survived a New York open call in a rather successful fashion. Cue "We are the Champions." After jumping into the subway and exiting at Grand Central Terminal, I sprinted as fast as I could to the New York Public Library, oddly dying to see Elizabeth and Eyang.

Elizabeth seemed, for lack of more impressive diction (my mental library closes its doors at 22:00), freaked out by my restlessness. "What's wrong with you?" she eventually asked me as I ran laps around the building. How could I explain? I mean, what was there to explain? I abandoned my apprehensions, attended to an open call, met fascinating characters and ran to the New York Public Library to see my best friend who lives halfway across the country. Had I been calm and collected, that would have been a true cause for concern. Uh, duh.

By the end of the evening, my rattled brain parked at a lovely epiphany. Though all of New York seemed to be demanding some sort of empirical identification, I suddenly wondered, "maybe it's not my career, wallet, trophy cabinet or even name that defines me. Maybe it's my family." Riding cabs to Artichoke Pizza, splitting dulce de leche waffles on the sidewalk and devouring familiar goodies in Koreatown was exponentially more enjoyable than my experience at Major... because I was enjoying my time with special folk.

Perhaps, in life, love is the main entree, and everything thereafter acts as a garnish. Parm that only heightens an already unbelievable slice of artichoke pizza.

Gee, what a cheesy metaphor.

Denver never seemed farther away.

, Henry

NYNY Day 3

2012-01-22T02:18:00.000-08:00

Disclaimer: long day ahead

While Soy went t'werq once again, Elizabeth and I slept in. We had no concrete plans and were fully prepared to spend the day as slowly and lethargically as we desired. As a testament to our weak, muscle-less bodies (we typically resume exercising like heathens once school starts), yesterday's exploring had completely w i p e d us out. Still, we teased each other out of bed, ready to satisfy my curiosity to see the acclaimed SoHo district.

Both fully pimped out, ready to show SoHo who baws, we walked to the front door and I casually reaffirmed, "hey, you have the spare key, right?"

"No? I never got them..?"

"Well, I never got them."

"Then.... does Soy have them?"

.......................................................................

"AAAAHHHHHHH!"
"AAAAHHHHHHH!"

In defeat, believing we were in the world's greatest city only to be stuck at home cooking Bisquick, we took this Dailybooth picture. Minutes later, Soy texted us, saying the keys were in the apartment, and we instantly saw them hanging in Soy's mail bin. In retrospect, it's happenstance, dumbass moments like this that truly become remembered as "good times."

For lunch, there was one dish I undoubtedly needed to try while in New York; and I knew this afternoon was the afternoon to do so. Despite her adamant protest, I dragged Elizabeth's butt to Chinatown in search of chef Guy Fieri's highly recommended hand-pulled noodles from Tasty Hand-Pulled Noodles Inc.

Now, let me have your undivided attention to tell you that if you're ever in New York City, and are a fan of noodles, you simply must try this dish. Five dollars will be your ticket into thick, succulent, doughy, noodle nirvana. My meager words only brush the skin of the pleasure that awaits you.

Then, finally, we finally trekked to SoHo. Finally. To my surprise, SoHo was rather... um... NYC-ish? I had always pictured SoHo as a Parisian paradise: narrow streets, cobblestone roads and ivory pillars, perhaps? Unfortunately, all that surrounded me were asphalt roads and corporate stores like H&M or Uniqlo. Yes, yes, it was likely my fault for not venturing past Broadway, I know.

SoHo did, however, provide a thrilling experience at Muji. I thought Muji only specialized in stationary, but their minimalist clothing is BEAUTIFULLY crafted. Yohji Yamamoto on a budget, made especially for those who appreciate baggy silhouettes (like me). I will go back and afford everything for myself, my mom and my best friend. I WILL.

After more walking around, it dawned on Elizabeth and me that we were doing exactly what we set out not to do: walk around. I grabbed another Doughnut Plant doughnut (just because I could) and Ms. Elite used her dandy Yelp app to navigate us towards Think Coffee, a highly recommended coffee house on Mercer.

Think Coffee is a stereotypical hipster cafe irl, imo, but idm. A physical reincarnation of a Nora Ephron novel. Brown everything. Ironic eyeglasses, ironic tuxedos, ironic hair buns, ironic Indian music. Elizabeth and I decided to play along by having pretentious conversations about vocabulary and debating the concepts of dating. We were surely the most obnoxious pair in a cafe for solos, shamelessly aiming our deadly cameras at everything that surrounded us.

To the surprise of many, I much prefer the simple things: cheap food, a heater, a pretty doughnut and company over coffee. Though I hate to admit it, this is indeed to say that I don't fare well with the opposite.

While immaturely giggling at inside jokes, Soy invited us to dinner at, once again, Saint Marks. We again revisited Asia, this time at Kenka: an underground joint that can only be described as an authentic, trashy, sick (in a good way), Japanese bar/fast-food-restaurant. Neither Elizabeth nor I were hungry, but we somehow found ourselves sharing a horrifyingly thick bottle of shoyu...

After three shots, I, already buzzed, thought "to hell with it!" and decided to get schwasted. Elizabeth, refusing to drink drink, was eventually tricked into joining me by the likes of my spiking of her soda. The details of what followed remains a blur. Unconsciously picking at Soy's truly unappealing but intoxicatingly delicious octopus/mayonnaise concoction. Wobbling on my chair, jerkingly stomping to the bathroom, cackling in laughter. A slew of silly pictures. An argument with Soy, yelling at her to head home while we searched for a sanitary location wherein classy Elizabeth could puke. A tipsy subway ride, jamming to Oracular Spectacular. A sprint to Soy's apartment, in belief that running would assist in the sobering process.

They say a night spent drinking is a night wasted. "They" must never have drank during a New York City vacation. There's something to be said about running through the Manhattan streets a spongey mess, soaking up the city's abrasive rush rather than fighting back. Alcohol didn't (and shouldn't) define the night, but it was quite an amusing detail.

Did I mention that all of this happened around 7/8 PM?

By 11:30 PM, completely washed up and sober, my stomach began complaining. "Oh yeah, you idiot," I thought to myself. "You didn't eat anything after your tasty hand-pulled lunch and six shots of shoyu." Naturally, Elizabeth was hungry as well: so, like we did so many times this past summer in Denver, we re-dressed and confidently headed out to brave the night in search of yummies. I decided to wear a suit jacket over my pajamas, just for kicks and giggles, while Elizabeth went out looking uncommonly busted. Unaware of where we were trying to go, we randomly selected a subway stop to exit at and, upon exiting the terminal, found ourselves here:

I was in disbelief. Shock! How funny! I was finally standing in the most famous location in America. On accident. A suit jacket over pajamas. In search for a midnight snack. I mean... traveling just doesn't get much better than that.

My 24-hour celebration of gluttony ended with "chicken and rice:" a street corner secret found only on 53rd and 6th. Simply from the name of the dish, one would have no idea what "chicken and rice" truly entails. For the sake of honoring the local favorite, I will refrain from disclosing too many details. I will, however, officially declare it as the single most delicious meal I had in NYC. Soft pita, piping-hot meat, spicy rice, mysteriously addictive flavor, sauce overload, lights of Times Square: you'd be best advised to try it for yourself.

Before heading back to our quiet Astoria apartment, Elizabeth and I ventured to McDonald's to both warm up and have a relaxing chat. Likely induced by the contagious New York air, we discussed our dreams, aspirations, (not so) future endeavors and the overall excitement that surrounds us both at this point in our undergraduate lives.

We swore to "make it." To match our personal definitions of success and never forget the days and nights spent running around the city eating chicken and rice in Times Square, wearing our pajamas.

, Henry

NYNY Day 2

2012-01-17T17:23:00.000-08:00

This morning, I woke up in New York City. Gee, what a feeling. As I sat upright on the sofa, feeling annoyingly chipper, ready to experience the city in daylight, I couldn't resist taking a picture of my lovely friend waking from her beauty sleep.

We giggled quite a bit after this was taken.

Getting dressed today was a pain. Not to sound boastful, but I think I typically dress kinda nice; and by "nice" I mean that I turn my second-hand rags into something I personally feel comfortable and stylish in. However, on this particular morning, knowing that I was going to meet Elizabeth's intimidatingly East coast friends, I made the biggest mistake one can make when dressing up: trying too hard. When you over analyze the simple task of putting clothes on your nekkid body, you begin to meticulously pick at every detail--which causes you to feel constantly dissatisfied, make poor judgments, and ultimately feel like a jank mess. In the end, I was a sad mixture of uncomfortable, trying-too-hard, and bad. A denim disaster. O WELL.

Originally, for months, my plan was to go to The Doughnut Plant on monday morning. Without a doubt, I wanted my first breakfast in New York to be a peanut butter & jelly doughnut from The Doughnut Plant. However, upon walking to the Broadway station in Queens, it had dawned on my roommates and me that we simply weren't in the doughnut-y kinda mood--and the last thing I was going to do was eat my coveted doughnut when I wasn't feeling blessed by the doughnut gods. So, instead, we opted for Korean comfort food in Korea town. Ironically, it seemed I had traveled half-way across the country to find myself craving food that reminded me of home.

There is just nothing more unassuming and pure than getting kimbab and ddukbokki when you're craving something Korean.

After Soy went t'werq and Elizabeth and I traveled to Greenwich to meet her friends, it really sunk in that I was actually in New York City. Perhaps the #1 most famous city on the planet Earth. Being in Greenwich, surrounded by narrow roads, rusty fire escapes, grandmother willows, bakeries, cafes and bookstores-- I simply felt so... cinematic. Henry Bae, artist in many ways, living a life of success, love, sex (yeah, not) and other drugs in New York, New York. <3

Elizabeth's friends chose a quaint Italian restaurant in Greenwich as our meeting point. After all, there's no better way to meet new folk than over plates of food within which everyone can preoccupy themselves. It was a fancy hole-in-the-wall restaurant that specialized in pizza "pies." While obviously delicious, I would have preferred for my first slice of New York pizza to be on a paper plate accompanied by brown, recycled napkins. Nah mean? Just for kicks and giggles, perhaps? However, I heard the group gathered at an unusually grand locale just for me--how nice of them to do so.

I was quite taken back by the group. They were, after all, the first New Yorkers I was actually meeting in New York. Perhaps I'm impressed by the East coast population in general, but people here seem driven. Like the city is veiled in thick, opaque air, a mixture of smog and ideas. Not to say those from the rest of America aren't ambitious, but I think a combination of history and modern buzz makes people here more eager to, as they say, "represent." Some wanted to pursue film, some were passionate about the military, some were destined for success in the business world--inspiring group, those Syracusians.

After riding in my first NY cab; gazing in amazement at NYU's quad-like area; and mingling in more cafes, bookstores and (strangely) grocery stores, I found myself unusually chill, perusing the streets in Union Square. Somehow, even when you're in the world's most famous city, it can seem like there's nothing much entertaining to do. I think humans are always in search of entertainment--it's kinda sad.

AAaaand... then I freaked out when one of Elizabeth's friends, Liz, guided us here:

AAaaand... I ate five of the most delicious doughnuts I think I've ever had in my life (two of which were complimentary. Blessings from the doughnut gods). I can't talk about this anymore. I'm getting hungry.

Eventually, after a long day, we ended the night at IPPUDO NY in St. Marks (the same mini-borough where I had arepas the night before with Soy). IPPUDO NY is a rather swanky joint where supposedly where the city's best ramen is served... so you can just imagine the wait. Again feeling packed tighter than a can of sardines, our group waited for nearly 1.5 hours to be seated. New York is brutal, man. Whether you want to find work, eat a meal, shop, play, or move, everything takes willpower. "No wonder the people here are so jaded," I thought, as one dumb broad pushed me into Elizabeth's friends to get to her own friends. Somehow, around the 50-minute mark, I found Elizabeth standing next to me, and we were somewhat separated from the rest of the posse (in NY, three feet counts as separation). I think we had our first conversation since morning, and, oddly, the busy world around us seemed to blur away. I was suddenly just chillin' in New York, having a typical conversation with my best friend. Perhaps that's the ultimate entertainment: chillin' with somebody you love. Finally, our party's name was called and, after a loud "irashaimase!" we were guided to our beautiful booth.

The ramen was unfortunately forgetful, but the waiter was quite delicious. Feeling my Sex and the City angels chanting "do it, do it, do it," I left the waiter my phone number. Twas an uncharacteristically bold move (I mean, hello, it's me), and he never called me, but I'm glad I did it. In fact, it was a fitting way to end the day spent as a faux New Yorker. See, I'll wear his obnoxious Canadian suit, demand cabs pull over, shamelessly take pictures of strangers and leave my number for all cuties to see. Why? Because here, you're one sardine in a can of 1.5 million. The only way to not lose yourself is to shamelessly, fully, boldly "do you." Who cares who cares?

, Henry

NYNY Day 1

2012-01-14T01:24:00.000-08:00

My roommate came home just now, two hours after I myself returned from an unusual commute from NYC, and asked me the question I'm dreading to answer yet expecting to be asked from everybody.

How was New York?

I mean, where do I start? The endless menu of hallucinatory NY fare? The common experience of walking into a street, store or restaurant I've only seen in my dreams? The cartoon-like characters I met throughout it all? How it felt to get called back after a New York modeling agency's open call? My thoughts on living in NY versus vacationing there? The story of how I braved the biggest public humiliation in my life? How I spent five days running around the world's most famous city with my best friend?

I'll most likely tell everybody, "it was fun, and I'm glad to be home." Not cuz imma snotty hoe, but because I prefer to spare the person an hour of rambling.

Thankfully, I have a blog... wherein I can divulge into great detail all of the thoughts and ideas racing and crashing in my mind. It's for my own good, truthfully. I need to slowly dissect the days into a neatly organized series of epiphanies. Why? Well, I might be on the cusp of discovering something amazing about myself if I do so.

D A Y 1

Without sleeping (how could I?), I walked in my freezing yet impeccably New Yorker attire (as in, slim & black) to the bus stop by my apartment, wherein I'd go to Denver International Airport and then fly to LaGhetto Airport in NY. I would be staying with Soy, an old friend from years ago when my family used to live together in California. After dropping off my luggage in her surprisingly spacious Queens apartment, she took me out to dinner in Manhattan. This would be my first meal in New York; something I've been fantasizing about in almost NC-17 fashion. We went to an area called "St. Marks:" a small section of town populated with tiny "restaurants" packed tighter with people than cans of sardines. Srsly, some have about forty square feet of patron space. The restaurant we went to is called "Caracas," and is apparently quite the local rage for its Venezuelan arepas. Eating unique food in a bustling hole in the wall--I was already head-over-heels for the city.

For ever-necessary dessert, she took me to the ultra-famous Serendipity 3. Seeing as how my birthday is on September 3, this seemed like fate. Don't question my logic. The sundae we shared was heavenly... and I only wished it was available back home in Denver. Sitting next to us, I noticed a small group of teenage girls. They were sporting Louis Vuitton sneakers (ew, sorry...) and Beats headphones, each mildly amused at their own individual sundaes. It was clear none of them could handle the giant portions, but they didn't seem to care. It was a typical Sunday night in the city: shopping on Lexington Avenue and a forgettable dinner at a world famous restaurant. After dessert, touring through Bloomingdales and running along the unreal 59th Street, New York City's big-league opulence really sunk in--I had never felt like such a misfit. It wasn't that I felt out of place in a terribly worrisome way, but more like in a Miley Cyrus circa Party in the USA culture-shock-kinda way. I mean, this is where wives of prime ministers come to shop when they need to dress for fancy soirees... isn't it? Could all of New York share this type of intimidatingly luxurious outlook on life, or was it just those tweens at Serendipity 3 and the upper East side? Or, had I bitten off more than I could chew by coming here?

After a brief whiff of Central Park, we returned to Queens to pick up Elizabeth. It was nice to see her again--felt peculiarly casual. After all, we've done the whole "reunited" thing about eight times before so.. it felt like I had seen her just yesterday. The three of us got a little drizzy at a more humble locale in Queens (where the bartender spoke in a thick Bronx accent), and I felt quite at home. I was still completely engulfed in an "empire state of mind," so to speak, but being with people who understood me instantly put me at ease. I believe this is what friends do. Complete with a late night of chips and cookies, I was nothing but smiles both inside and out.

Tomorrow would be a challenge: meeting, mingling, wining and dining with Elizabeth's colleagues; some of whom are legitimate New Yorkers. Could I stand a chance, or would the Mid-West hick in me shine through? #firstworldproblems

, Henry

Funniest Email Ever

2012-01-07T23:02:00.000-08:00

I'll blog y'all from NEW YORK. See ya.

, Henry

A Pho Dinner Kinda Love.

2012-01-06T18:18:00.000-08:00

Elizabeth texted this to me today:

"I saw these two TOTES casual gay guys eating pho. One was skinny and dressed like you in 2010. You NEED to get a bf. I just got inspired for you."

3 digressions:
1) Please note that "totes" was initially used as mockery, but we have unfortunately integrated it into daily repartee.
2) They were eating pho? Well, okay. Too bad pho is stankkkity stank, huh?
3) One was dressed like me in 2010? How does Elizabeth even know what Henry circa 2010 looks like? Even I don't know.

Now srsly y'all.

As of recent, Elizabeth and I have been focusing on the topic of my love life quite a bit. All of our conversations from religious contemplations to local gossip to nightly recaps of bar crawls somehow trickle back into the debate of me and my refusal to date bois. Not that any of you asked, but lemme break it down.

First and foremost, I don't fancy, as my friends say, "dicking around;" so that immediately debunks the prospect of dating for kicks. I mean, why do we date for kicks anyway? Answer: because we're bored enough to be DGAF about somebody and ultimately want somebody to bang at night. No judgment, but that's just how I roll. The whole "you need experience" claim? Meh. I don't see the need. And, to be honest, until somebody begins to make annoying cameos in my dreams, the idea of dating them doesn't even occur to me. I'm sure this can be said for a lot of us.

If, then, I am not interested in leisurely canoodling, I must be hoping for a deeper emotional connection with somebody. Right? A bond of friendship and love? The kind of love where even a simple dinner over disgusting pho is time and money well spent? Well... see... I don't much want that either. I'd go so far as to say the idea repulses me. Somebody knowing me that well... is... unbelievably... clingy/uncomfortable/scary/unnecessary. It's hard to explain, but it is not a simple feeling of fear or nerves. It's another aspect of my personality in which I don't want to be emotionally associated with anybody but myself. Does anybody know what I mean? #writerfail

Now, if a man who is celibate, potentially asexual and as into me as I am into him (yet emotionally detached [yet pho-dinner-friendly]) comes along, I might change my mind.

But that is a ridiculous statement.

And that is why, Elizabeth Lee, I don't see myself casually eating pho with a "bf" any time soon.

, Henry

My "Type."

2011-12-29T00:56:00.000-08:00

Today in Henry World, the topic of "types" surfaced in coworker conversation. Seeing as how I work at H&M, and H&M is a strangely haute couture concept in Hicktown, USA, all of my coworkers are either women or gay men (± standard deviation of some straight dudes and lesbians)--which means that the topic of "types" centered around the topic of "boys." Go figure.

I became immediately fascinated with the topic when one boy pointed out his personal repulsion to pretty boys. Why? Because I luv pretty boys.

   "Yeah, the whole blonde hair blue eyes thing? Gross."
   "Really?" I asked. "Then what are you attracted to."
   "Black hair, green eyes. Just strong, confident, and strikingly masculine *orgasmic sigh."
   "So you're not into baby faced dudes at all?"
   "Nope. Not at all."

Isn't it freaking interesting how we humans can have such different standards of attraction? Yes, I am aware that none of this is particularly "news," but think about it! Our brains are wired so differently in terms of what types of people we're attracted to--how weird! Like, why in the world do tasteless freaks people find Robert Downy Jr., Johnny Depp, Orlando Bloom and Robert Pattinson to be so attractive? Don't we all agree that those mofos don't have anything on truly attractive men like Brad Pitt, George Clooney, Josh Hartnett, Jonathan Rhys Meyers and Zac Efron? And don't even get me started on this ridiculous Ryan Gosling fest.

Personally, I find myself repeatedly throughout my lifetime only being attracted to pretty men. "Babyfaced beauties," as some of my friends and I refer to them as. A sick haircut with punk rock clothes ripped and studded all over, but a beautiful porcelain doll-face that completely juxtaposes everything else about him. Like the OLD Ash Stymest.

*orgasmic sigh

, Henry

Merri Christmas!

2011-12-25T11:13:00.000-08:00

, Henry

rufk? No Way.

2011-12-18T23:04:00.000-08:00

Today at the Cleveland Hopkins Airport, mai bee eff eff told two chicks flying to LA together that she in fact didn't feel like giving up her aisle seat for a middle seat so that they could sit together.

It was an instantaneous, one-second decision.

If it were me they were asking, I would've said an enthusiastic "sure!" and maybe even thrown in an "enjoy your flight, girls!" Once on the aircraft, sitting between one obese man hogging my armrest and an annoying bloke who can't stop opening and closing his window, I'd rebuke myself for not having the courage to tell those girls what I really wanted to say, which is "rufk? No way."

-so thanks for your story you "ruthless bitch," for it has saved me from ever making that mistake in the future. I'm fully aware that I will forever be the nice guy, but yo. I'm boutz to visit NYC for the first time. Can't get pushed around by those ruthless city bitches. After all, every sweet cake needs a strong pinch of salt.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY ELEE!

2011-12-15T23:57:00.000-08:00

Today is Elizabeth's birthday.

Undoubtedly one of the most precious people in my life.

Potentially more than a lover can ever be.

HERE HERE!

(btw, um, PERFECT SCREEN SHOT? wow)

Hypocrisy?

2011-12-12T11:37:00.000-08:00

This will not be a friendly statement, but I don't care.

It irks me (a lot) when somebody who is not black casually dispenses the word "nigger" or, even worse, the trendy, slang-ified "nigga."

It also irks me when somebody that is not gay uses the term "fag." Women who claim to "love the gays~ love them love them love them" are also included.

Honestly, I'd prefer if those words were abolished entirely, as their common connotations have overshadowed the true intensities that lie within (like "retarded"). Is this view hypocritical?

December 2012: The Party Issue

2011-12-06T18:34:00.001-08:00

Yay! The final issue of 303 Magazine for 2011 is out, which means that I've commenced my first full year at 303!

Some complain that 303 is too small. It doesn't pay well, it doesn't get enough recognition to be worth the amount of work required, or it's just a bunch of (insert h8r speech here).

Everyone is entitled to their own opinions, and I don't believe there can be one right/wrong p.o.v. Still, from my personal experiences, 303 has been nothing but an incredible, happenstance blessing.

It always amazes me that the Editor-in-Chief hired me with zero reason to believe I wouldn't, as she might say, "fuck everything up." All she had to go off of was what seemed like a nice personality and a thirst to get my hands dirty. And, despite a handful of flubs, I'd mostly say that I've proven myself. But asides from what I have/haven't done for 303, there's so much more that 303's done for me. I've been given opportunities to model for fun (which led to me becoming an actual model in Denver), pretend to be a fancy reporter who goes into a fine dining restaurant's kitchen to see how lamb is prepared, get drunk at fashion events rather than paying $20 dollars to get into crowded douche bars like most college kids, increase my writing skills and vocabulary in ways a business student would never have the chance to, learn the basic ins-n-outs of running a publication, meet slews of helpful, successful, intriguing individuals, and get my own little 600-word monthly men's fashion column (which I believe I'm doing quite well, thank you very much).

Now, as I'm about to graduate, travel the country and search for real careers that support the dream life I've been cooking in my noggin for 15 years, I feel grateful and proud to have 303 on my resume.

Here's my last column for 2011. Though it doesn't sound incredibly "smart," I'm quite pleased of this one.

Check it out for free HERE (if you're either really bored or really nosy)!

, Henry

NY or Bust.

2011-12-06T15:25:00.001-08:00

It's finally happening. No, my balls haven't dropped yet, but DIZ BOI RIGHT HEAR IZ GOING 2 NY!!!!

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Sure, it seems like no grand ordeal. Some Midwest hick is going to New York for Winter break. I've heard it all before. Well, if you know me, you would know that this is THE huge deal, for I don't know a single person who fantasizes more about NY than I do.

NY is an entity. It's its own... thing. Carrie Bradshaw, Henry Roth, Anna Wintour, Mark Bittman, Anthony Bourdain, Lady Gaga, Richard Chai, Andy Warhol--sure, they're great and all, but who would they be without NY? Truth be told, they simply wouldn't be the people we admire today. It's like replacing "fuck" in that charming tune "Fuck You" with "forget." It's the same entity, but lacking all of its original flavor. That's what NY does to people. It flavors them.

And flavor is not something I will be missing out on.

In the harshest (or should I say "hardest" hehe) of Winter's bone, I will be trucking through the icy, black NY pavements in search of every epicurean delight NY has to offer me--and that my wallet can afford. Big Gay Ice Cream Truck Ice Cream, Doughnut Plant doughnuts, Baked brownies, Rice to Riches rice pudding, JG Melon cheeseburgers, fancy pantsy dinner at Butter, and so much more. It's absolutely incredible, what I have planned for myself.

Then, from the Staten Island Ferry to the Unisphere, Times Square, Intercontinental Hotel, Soho, Statue of Liberty, Central Park and the Brooklyn Bridge, I have lots of breathtaking sites to see.

And, of course, I'm hoping some local friends show me the more honest side of the city--the one that tourists don't easily have access to.

Five days. I will do everything in these five days to make them the best most exciting five days of my life.

My friends better begin training, for I will absolutely not be slowing down for anybody.

, Henry

PS If you have any absolutely-must-do activities for me to tackle, chuck 'em at me.

I Love My Boss

2011-12-05T18:16:00.001-08:00

No, like, I really do.

It's quite sad, the fact that I've yet again fallen down the rabbit hole of hopeless love.

First came Elizabeth, when I was a confused teenager. Hopeless because I am (to this day) the l a s t boy she will ever go on a romantic date with.

Then came a brigade of straight dudes (maybe 3? 4? 5?). I don't believe I truly liked them, though. I think I was just sheltered, and picked the best from the sad bunch around me.

Then came actual gay dudes (2? 3?). Yet, I was too shy. And scared. Not ready for love! Completely complacent with sitting in the side lines, aggressively carving the quarterback's name into my diary. It's a good thing this fool shot me down, though. Thank God you blew it. Thank God I dodged a bullet.

And now comes the next chapter in my hopeless love: my boss.

MY BOSS. Oh for the love of love, why am I taking fancy in my BOSS?

I initially thought it to be a phase, for I am a notorious emotional sponge (oh ho, just find me after walking out of any movie). But, no. With every unemotional, professional encounter at work, my googly eyes only get googlier. Now, nearly two weeks later, even my legs get googly. Like he sees me and I'm ready to melt straight into my Converse boots. A warm, pink pool of Bashful, spreading all over the store's entryway.

Sigh... oh boss... why must you be old? And my boss?

, Henry

PS. Should I stop cutting off entries and making you click to read the whole thing?

Girl Look At That Body.

2011-12-03T19:11:00.001-08:00

Working at a clothing store for the first time might have finally shown me why women are so self-conscious and obsessive about their weight (and overall physical image).
(It's actually "their weights (and overall physical images)" but that just sounds so bad)

The majority of men are either "S," "M," or "L." These labels are indefinite. Subject to interpretation. They do not accurately assess the body. Our beer bellies and pectorals (or lack thereof in my case) are not reflected in the labels "S" "M" or "L."

Women's labels, however, are explicit. Between 0, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, and 13, every woman has her number. Unlike her boyfriend's, her number is indeed accurate. Her number does indeed have meaning. A woman's number describes her body. The wideness of her hips, the broadness of her shoulders, the flab on her belly, and the fat hanging off of her arms.

Don't underestimate the Truth of a woman's number. A 12 woman will never fit into a 5 dress. A 12 woman can only, at the moment, wear 12 clothes (± standard deviation of store differences) while I, a "M" man, can easily flip-flop between options depending on my mood.

The important idea is this: the strict nature of women's numbers, in comparison to men's labels, may be why modern women place size and body image on such a pedestal. How often do you hear the words "I'm so fat" spit out of a man's mouth compared to that of a woman?

I realized all of this because the women at the store seemed to care more about their numbers than their personal styles. The cute dress was there, but was it made in her number? That's what mattered,

And do they realize how much they're perhaps unknowingly revealing to me when they ask "Do you have this in size 8?"

Could this truly be why the stereotypical woman is so self-conscious with her weight? Why, to her, every pound counts?

Elementary, Watson!

, Henry

Gay Marriage.

2011-12-01T19:35:00.001-08:00

I was sent an article regarding the media's favorite water cooler conversation--Michele Bachmann--and her famous bigotry against homosexuality. It included a video, which I will now discuss.

Scene: Bachmann being asked about gay marriage by a 16 y.o. at a town hall meeting in an Iowan pizza parlor surrounded by older white people with no sense of individualism in fashion.

Real scene: hatred-fueled campaign queen in a famously red state (Iowa) being celebrated by members of the un-discriminated ethnic-majority (white people) with a collectivistic sub-culture while they belittle the opinions of a perceived hooligan. Oh, and they're old (proven to be most resistant to change).

Fact: I never ever want to visit Iowa (along with VA, IL NE, FL, OH, and NJ). But I digress.

Though I admire the sixteen-year-old's balls (figuratively speaking), I must admit that the conversation was a bit disappointing. The student was obviously dumbfounded against Bachmann's counter-arguments and, I would say, "lost" the debate.

I wish I was there to confront Bachmann myself. But, like I said, I don't ever want to visit Iowa. Anyway.

What Bachmann crucially fails to acknowledge is that homosexuality, like one's sex or the color of one's skin, is not a conscious decision. To restrict a gay individual from marrying, or a black person from sitting near the front of a bus, or a woman from voting, is to oppress the natural follow-up of a trait that an individual has no capability in changing.

But just so we're clear, let me explain that homosexuality, like personality, is indeed a trait. It is a part of one's mental makeup. The fact that it cannot be seen like darker skin or enlarged breasts does not make it any less real or any less permanent. It is clear that the law acknowledges this truth, as insanity is often used as a defense against crime. Clearly, then, the law does not recognize homosexuality as a trait, but rather as a choice. Well, according to this homo, I never chose to be this way. Dare I say that I was "born this way?"

To punish an individual in something they themselves are not responsible for--that is discrimination. Discrimination, if you ain't known, is illegal here in the "land of the free."

Why, then, does the law agree that homosexuals are subject to different judicial treatment than heterosexuals. Answer: because, like the old days of fear of powerful women and African Americans, the majority isn't ready to welcome the minority.

Bachmann is only supporting the majority's ignorance.

For a woman who puts so much consideration into hair, makeup and style, I would expect her to be careful which beauty salons she walks into. Who knows, maybe she'll propose a law that only women can work in the fashion industry? Can I puh-leas get an "Amen?"

, Henry

REALLY?!

2011-11-29T23:36:00.001-08:00

It's midnight, I just got off of work, and I didn't sleep last night. Yet again I must break night and finish editing a 26-page group paper that I absolutely MUST get 100% on. My chances of getting an A in the class (and ultimately getting cum laude) depend on it! Wow, my eye balls are falling out. It's too bad that I always get stuck with group members who write like this:

The company hasdifferent environments that mean different things to theorganization. The organization environment is important to the company,because they set the standards high on how the organization shouldoperate, and also helps the organization get access to scarceresources. That’s important to have scarce resources because thathelps try to recruit skilled employees that the company needs produce thegood product as well as good services and good ideas to improve theproduct.

WHAT? WHAT DID YOU SAY? ARE YOU IN COLLEGE OR THE SIXTH GRADE??!??! DO YOU NOT SEE THAT YOU JUST WROTE THREE FUH-REAKING SENTENCES THAT DON'T MAKE ANY SENSE?

I am not insensitively attacking somebody's level of intelligence.

FACT: If you're a senior in a university and can only write at this level, the professors who have been passing you need to recognize the serious disservice they are doing to you and the other students who are graduating from the same institution as you.

WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO!!! RE-WRITE YOUR ENTIRE SECTION OF SIX HORRIBLE PARAGRAPHS FOR YOU!?!??!?!?!?!?!??!?!?!?!?

I'M. FREAKING. TIRED.

FREAKING!!!

TIRED!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I ALREADY HAVE TO REVISE THE GRAMMAR OF THE OTHER 25 PAGES!!!!!

COME!!! ON!!!!! DUDE!!!!!!!!!!!

No, this is my fault. I should have demanded your portion sooner. That way, I'd have time to tell you to re-do it yourself. BUT COULD YOU EVEN DO THIS YOURSELF?

AAAAHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

(I'm sorry for blowing up and transmitting such negative energy. It's just... this is too much...)

edit--

OK. Grow up you puss. Welcome to the real world, where life pitches occasional curve balls out of nowhere. If you want that A, then you better stay up all night long and make it shine. Otherwise, nobody's going to hold your hand through the process. SO STOP WHINING AND DO IT.

(is it super pathetic how I use my blog to have a conversation with myself?)

edit--

7AM. Haven't slept in... I'm not quite sure. All I know is I've gone two nights.

The paper is done. I mean, I had four shots of espresso (Leela's famous 24 Hour latte) and was talking to myself like a mad man, but it's done now. Now, as the caffeine wears off, and my train of thought gets even more unorganized, I must make our presentation in two hours and present it at the third.

Looking back at how nuts I was merely seven hours ago, I'm embarrassed. How could I let something get me so wired up? The only thing that should make somebody as mad as I was would be... I dunno.... catching your bf or gf with somebody else in your bed.

Every minute spent angry is a minute wasted. Sheesh.

I'm going to do the presentation and turn in the paper in peace. I gave it my all--there's absolutely nothing beneficial and letting them know how angry I was.

Pasta alla Formiana

2011-11-28T18:00:00.000-08:00

To the hilarity of my friends, my mom and I have a tradition of going to Mimi's Cafe for Thanksgiving. Yes, your smirk is audible. Why such a tradition? Well, once when I was around 14 my entire family went to Mimi's Cafe for brunch. One of the happiest afternoons of my life. I suppose the goodwill stuck--either that or they happened to be the only place open on Thanksgiving back in 2006. This year, however, I decided to make the all-important Thanksgiving meal. Why? Because Mimi's was now out of reach (my mother moved), 2people1turkey is wasteful and I refuse to spend $36 on one meal. I mean, unless I'm at Doughnut Plant in NYC or something.

My menu: gamberetto e rucola bruschetta and pasta alla formiana.

I'm sorry if this renders my meal totally un-legitimate, but I got both recipes from Giada. You know, Food Network Giada. The titillating Italian babe. Yeah, her. But, regardless of where I got the recipes, I'm proud to have succeeded in my efforts. I've recently taken huge interest in cooking and felt quite titillated myself at the opportunity to use my mom's island, massive stove and credit card (grazie, mamma).

Gamberetto e rucola bruschetta

This was the (only) appetizer. Shrimp, arugula, onion, garlic, red wine, parmesan cheese. Voila!

Just pile this spread (what's "spread" in Italian?) on some garlic crostini (which my mother ruined) and there you go. Spicy arugula, meaty shrimp, and cheesy parm. Like Thanksgivin' chips n' dip.

Pasta alla formiana

This took an entire hour to bake (ergo the appetizer) but after inputing ease and taste factor, it was worth it. What's neither easy nor tasty in regards to cooking time? Turkey. But I digress.

Simply blend a can of tomatoes with tons of oregano, olive oil, some sugar, and a pinch of garlic. Mixed in raw pasta and pour the goodness into a baking bowl lined with slices of fresh tomato. I repeat: a baking bowl lined with slices of fresh tomato. Glamor and class? Methinks yes. After an hour in the cooker, you're left with some of the lightest, freshest-tasting pasta you've ever had in your life.

Hope y'all had fun slavin' away at your turkeys or spendin' 36 bucks on one plate o' food!

;) I kid. Sorta

, Henry

PS I sure am updating a lot. Hm. I guess my brain's got a lot to say. Call me, friends, for I'm clearly in the beginning stages of become a cat lady. Kthxbye.

New Job.

2011-11-27T15:28:00.001-08:00

Today was day 1 at my new part-time job. Ew, I don't like that word. "Job." It sounds permanent and doomed. How about "gig?" Yeah. Part-time gig. I'm so incredibly p o o p e d that I don't know if I can do anything at all--let alone write in my blog. But I must! I must. I cannot forfeit these feelings to the lure of sleep. Gaga told me so. Do I already sound delirious? Wow, I'm rambling. On C12UX. I never ramble on C12UX. I only ramble in useless emails to Elizabeth. I must really be tired. Well, duh I'm tired. I had a nose bleed today.

This time last year, I had acquired a position at Hyatt Hotels. On the very first day, after vacuuming a ballroom, setting up seats in perfect rows for a ridiculous number of people (I'm talking thousands [seriosuly]), and staying up on my feet for eight hours, I vividly remember thinking "holy crap, what the hell did I get myself into?" It was perhaps one of the most ominous feelings I've ever felt. True to my horror, I spent 6 missssssssssssssserable months there. To this day, I still cannot believe I made it through.

Today, at my new job (which I'm obviously unwilling to specify), there was a brief moment where I thought to myself "Oh no. Am I screwed again?" I forgot that by stepping foot into the building, I was committing myself to months and months of potential misery. It terrified me. Was I again in for months of purgatory? I proceeded to mechanistically rearrange my station, petrified.

But you know what? YOU KNOW WHAT? I remembered something my pastor told me:

to find the fit, you must be willing to take a hit.

That is, to get to my future position that God meant for me to have.. the one where I fit like a glove.. the one where I become one of those annoying people in the NY Times who say "my job isn't work. It's my passion..." In order to get there, I must be willing to take a hit. To be on my feet for eight hours. To deal with morons who don't know how to put back what they've touched. And not just be willing, but be OK with it. Why? Because I know it's temporary. Because I know it's not forever, and it will help me get to my fit.

So now I'm home, making some quinoa for dinner. Exhausted, but open minded.

Plus........ I'm head over heels for my boss ;)

, Henry

Happy Thanksgiving!

2011-11-24T13:19:00.001-08:00

Today is Thanksgiving, 2011! While my family no longer circles the dining table to pile paper plates with cold potatoes, succulent turkey and (my favorite part) mountains of corn, there is still much that this 21-year-old is thankful for; and I shall detail them now.

1. Hananim.

2. 303 Magazine.

3. Mom.

4. Speed dials 2, 4 and 5.

5. Being alive.

6. Pearl and Cassie.

7. Dr. Jill Bolte Taylor

Everyone! Be at peace, live in the moment, and open your eyes more the beauty that surrounds you!

, Henry

Denver Pavillions Fashion Show.

2011-11-22T22:13:00.001-08:00

I had my first experience as a paid "model" a few weeks ago. More specifically, 12 days ago. I'd usually blog about something like that immediately after, but... then I got high? No, I kid. I've already put effort into writing creative and informative blurbs about the event nearly five GAZILLION times for 303 Magazine. I will ergo give myself a break and explain it in dumbed-down, grammatically-embarrassing layman's terms. Notice how almost every sentence in this paragraph began with "I."

The first Colorado H&M store was finally opening. It was a big deal. Cute, aren't we? On opening day, the shopping mall wanted to remind the community that there were more stores than simply the new H&M establishment. So they threw a fashion show featuring complete looks from Banana Republic, Forever 21, Express and Gap. The runway was on 16th Street Mall, which is kinda the street in Denver. A whole plethora of other crap was goin' down that day, like a real-life Project Runway challenge, press interviews, etc. All for the opening of an H&M store. Hahahahhaha...

I remember getting the call that I was casted and screaming in disbelief. Due to DFW, I was dressed like a bouncer on the day of the casting call, was pressed for time under my lovely yet occasionally fire-breathing boss and even forgot to bring my notebook with my lil' measurements. Yet, somehow, I was casted. #blessing

On the day of the show, I arrived at the mall's abandoned Wolfgang Puck restaurant feeling pumped in the head and exhausted in the body (I didn't get a chance to sleep the night prior). Initially, surrounded by confident female models strutting around in heels that shot them from 5'10'' to 6'1'', I became a wallflower. This was my first time modeling and I didn't know anybody so the day seemed like it'd pass in solitude, privately partying to the tunes of Kyary Pamyu Pamyu. Eventually, I introduced myself to everybody and, by the end of the afternoon, we were giggling at our day job nightmares, acting out Gap commercials and delving into our personal aspirations. That's when I realized that I really do want to model in Denver--simply because I want to get to know more of these people. Not in a sleezy business/networking way, but because they seem like a positive group of cheerful people.

Apologies for the horrid writing and superficial content. Truly kinda embarrassing. Forgive me with the help of some even more shallow pictures?

Matthew Morris Salon setting up. All super slick in black.

v^^v let me have my moment here.

This was the original hairstyle I was rockin'. I wasn't about to appear snotty and complain, but in my head I was thinking "aw come onnnnn." Luckily, the creative director hated it on me and we changed it.

Will I ever be dressed in such fancy business clothes ever again?

Sitting at the bar getting to know the other models. Fun times.

I want to date a red head, brightest personality, got tired of smiling (?), hot heels, hot boy, hot body.

Doing the Gap smile.

She had such a positive spirit.

Our humble runway hahahahaaaha..

Be driven. Have faith. Werq hard.

, Henry

BRB.

2011-11-21T09:24:00.001-08:00

It seems that I, more so than the average Joe, develop intense bonds of friendship that only seem to last for limited periods of time. These relationships aren't at all framed with the intent of being temporary; rather, circumstances like distance, free time, or money come into play and hinder the connections. Yet I always found myself struggling with were thoughts like, "perhaps I let this happen to my friendships. For whatever reason, maybe I'm the one failing to keep these friendships together." And upon reflection of those friendships lost, I felt guilty. Very guilty. As if every sayonara was all my fault all the time. As if I was the malicious perpetrator using people and carelessly throwing them away like Kleenex, or the clouded child who hasn't yet learned the value of friendship. So I'd scold myself and ask God why I was so silly.

But lately, I've come to see things differently.

Imagine your life as a tree. A soak tree (HA just kidding. inside joke). In its roots are God, family, and the few necessary friends who accompany you throughout your life. These roots are your unconditional foundation. And then come the leaves. The many, many leaves on the many, many branches of your life. Your work branch. Your California branch. Your school branch. Your church branch. Your iBranch. Your thug branch. Your mong branch. As seasons change, some leaves fall away and are replaced by new ones. Maybe this is nothing sad. Maybe this is nothing to feel ashamed of. Maybe this is simply a part of life. For all of us..

Well, that's how I see it. I no longer want to berate myself as being heartless, selfish, or malicious (sorry if you disagree...). No more blame--no more guilt. If anything, I feel liberated! I feel even more loving! To accept that we're all just swarms of energy that occasionally come into contact and occasionally drift apart. How peaceful.

And most fascinatingly, I've realized that when a familiar leaf does resurface on my tree... we typically pick up right where we left off. It's rare, but it's quite a fortunate realization. Makes you see how much you love some people, and how separate they are from the other leaves that just fall off. Which makes me believe that there might be no such thing as "drifting apart" within honest bonds, but simply "BRB's?"

, Henry

October 31st.

2011-11-01T20:35:00.000-07:00

My Korean cousin (who actually lives in S.Korea) once confronted my celebration of Halloween and its "satanic" nature. To most Americans, such a statement sounds completely cray cray. Whadya mean "Halloween is bad?" We've been dressing up as pumpkins since we we're four years old! You get to eat candy! Still, I don't blame non-Americans for thinking this way. I too would find it ridiculous for an entire country of adults to prance around in immature costumes (if I weren't one of 'em myself). I mean... those pictures of sorority sluts and slut-wannabes spilling their tits out and taking pictures of themselves suggestively licking the tops of beer bottles--yeah, it is pretty cringe-worthy. And then the not-sexy girls trying to be sexy by drawing whiskers on their faces.... oh geez.

But! I realized something this year:

October 31st isn't a celebration of Halloween. None of us even know what Halloween means. As I walked along 16th Street as Alex in Wonderland, freezing in poofy shorts and knee-high socks, watching Buzz Lightyear drive the Morton Salt Girl around in a pedicab, I realized that October 31st is just a fun, creative escape for adults who spend 364 days a year being mature and grown-up. It's the day we all get to play make-believe and not get judged for it (unless "we" are females wearing nothing more than cat ears, face paint, and lingerie).

So I hope October 31, 2011 was as fun and happy for you as it was for me--though, if your night was anything like mine, you most likely hated November 1st.

, Henry

Personal Story: My friend and I only took two shots of old Malibu Rum at my house before we decided to walk to our friend Jeanette's party. I, however, was dehydrated and famished that day so the alcohol went straight through me. I immediately didn't feel like myself. Along the way, we noticed this bustling party in a super cool condo. My friend asked me "wanna go inside?" and for some fuh-reaking reason, I replied, "YEAH!!!" So we opened the front gate and practically skipped straight inside, giggling hysterically. We tried not to be obvious that we were strangers who came for free food and took initiative to introduce ourselves to everybody. "HI, I'm Henry! I'm one of Jamie's friends!" After small talk, I scarfed two of their pumpkin cupcakes and stole some of their Jose Cuervo. That's when this girl walked up to us thieves and announced, "Cuervo's five dollars a cup!" I, oddly cunning, diverted the conversation by pointing to her pregnant belly and saying, "what, you wanna keep the Cuervo for you and the baby?" She screamed in laughter, "yeah! It's all for us!" My friend and I snapped a picture with her, complimenting her not-very-cool costume, and left, claiming we'd be back after we helped more of our friends with directions. Best cupcakes of my life.

You Are What You Eat.

2011-10-31T10:56:00.000-07:00

I will most likely offend somebody with this entry. One week ago, I had the pleasure of eating at a legitimate Indian restaurant with some of my classmates. After bingeing on carrot halwa (MORE PLEASE.....), the professor was curious as to what we, her eight students, prepare in our own kitchens.

The first student sitting to her left was this one chick whom I've already judged to have horrible eating habits. She comes into the 11AM class every wednesday with a to-go tray of chipotle, a cup of steamy Boston Market mac-n-cheese, a McDonald's Egg McMuffin or (when she's pressed for time) a Snickers candy bar. Her response was, "I don't really cook at home. Ever. My kids hate my cooking, so I don't even do it haha. The other night, I made some burritos with chicken cheese and sour cream, and they surprisingly wanted some."

The next six answers were basically "I make lots of burgers. Just buy the frozen ground beef, wait for it to thaw, and cook" or "I usually cook pasta: some egg noodles thrown in with a can of some tomato pasta sauce," or "I don't cook much. At home, just easy frozen foods because I don't have the time to sit in my kitchen and make something."

Frozen meat? Egg noodles and Ragú? TV dinners?! No wonder nobody felt daring enough to try the coconut curry or carrot halwa!

Somehow, proper cooking has become an "artform." Making your own dinner is no longer a primal instinct of survival, but a hassle-free, microwaveable, instant mess. Do most people even know the effects of a lifetime fed with carcinogenic, scientific "food?" More than the health factor (since I'm hardly knowledgeable to make a solid claim), it's supremely unattractive it is to see adults who know only how to feed on Hamburger Helper and Trix. PLEASE..... I CAN'T....

I'm not sure when I became "that guy," but I find few traits to be more unattractive than bad eating habits. Give your cereal, insta-egg, Pizza Roll lifestyle a rest. If not for health's sake, for your nosy partner/child/parent/sibling's sake. We can't stand to watch.

, Henry

Newsflash: She IS Out of Your League.

2011-10-27T12:50:00.000-07:00

A few nights ago, I biked over to Beauty Bar (where I once wnt with Elizabeth and had a smashing, taco-filled time) to quickly meet the Sara Ford and discuss something while she did photography work. I luckily spotted her outside (as I was lookin' hella jank) and, to my surprise, she was physically steaming. Evidently, the club heat indoors was unbearable. Tangent: of all the types of heat, from humid tropic to summer asphalt, I find that musky club heat is the worst. In a metaphysical sense as well, one could say she was "steaming." Not only is Sara tall slender and cute in the face, but she has radical street style and a smart personality. According to this homo, she's the whole package.

As we were chatting, this Seth Rogen look-a-like stumbled outside, also steaming, took one glance at Sara and confidently proclaimed, "holy shit your ass is amazing."

...............................huh?

I mean, picture that in real life. Go ahead, take a moment. Some dude yelling at you from behind, "holy shit your ass is amazing." Does that sound incredibly s t u p i d or what?

Sara's response was surprisingly civil. Perhaps she let it slide because she was working; or she gives drunks extra leeway.

"Thanks. I've been working on it for my whole life."

"I'm sorry, that was a rude of me, it's just- ha, I'm Seth Rogen."

"I'm Sara."

This strange encounter reminded me of a time Elizabeth and I were walking downtown and some barbarian on a bike slapped Elizabeth's ass as he quickly rode away, not even turning around to see if she was a woman or a typical Denver drag queen. These two experiences mark the only times I've ever witnessed blatant cat-calling (if you want to call slapping somebody's ass and running away as "cat-calling") but it apparently happens often when no other males are in sight. It shocks me that some straight men are so gross and horny that they need to voice their inappropriate thoughts to women who largely aren't. interested. The women aren't interested! I mean, did Seth Rogen honestly expect Sara to turn around, marvel at his bravado and ditch her equally fine boyfriend for a wild one night stand? This isn't Knocked Up, okay? Or She's Out of My League. Or American Pie 1,2,3,4,5,6 or 7. This is real life; and in real life, saying stupid shiz like "holy shit, your ass is amazing" aint gon' get you nothing, honey bear.

Ladies, I apologize on behalf of my lewd sex. I was falsely under the impression that douchebags only existed on MTV.

Question?

2011-10-19T01:02:00.000-07:00

Unlike other bloggers (like Elizabeth, probably), I don't write with a conclusion or point already set in mind. Rather, words effortlessly vomit out of my psyche; and only then do I discover how I feel about a certain topic. That said, I hope I don't end sound offensive or complaining today. Anyway.

I constantly feel judged.

OK, no, that sentence was a misleading cliche. I'm not necessarily concerned with "judgment." In fact, I find it amusing and potentially flattering that some care so much to do so. More so than a woe-is-me proclamation, I've simply noticed an interesting level of judgment directed at me from two certain communities: the gays and the Christ followers.

On one side, I am an aforementioned "raging queen." From advocating marriage and civil rights to the "it gets better" campaign, my fellow queens preach brotherly love and open-arm acceptance more visibly than (let's face it) the Christian community. What's funny, though, is how defensive this community can be towards their h8rs; and their h8rs are (let's again face it) mostly Christians. Just today, a friend made a comment about how "the Christians" aren't supporters of our community's fashion scene. My instant thought was, "well, I am... so..." When I'm with my near-n-dear "fashion friends" (I'm not sure how to group this group) I find myself having to conceal my status as "Jesus freak." Well, do I "have" to? No. But is that how I'm conditioned to feel? I 'spose. Why? Human instinct to not want to be associated with a "hypocritical," "brain-washed" or "ignorant," group they so fervently dislike, perhaps?

On the other side, as I already stated, I am one of "the Christians." I pray to my Lord, I thank Him for my blessings and try to trust in His plans. Christians, too, are taught to congregate on street corners and preach love--that in doing so, we demonstrate our God's unconditional love and acceptance. I don't believe inserting a fancy Bible verse is necessary for me to illustrate this point. Strangely, though, I've noticed a judgment (maybe even h8) from Christians for the queen community. When I'm with other Christians, I find myself hiding my potentially-sexuality-induced personality under a lampshade until I become a dim version of myself. In fact, I've been commonly confronted by peeps telling me that I'm no longer the funny or bright kid they once knew. Hm.

What's ironic is that this blog post may seem an open invitation for both communities to shun me; but that's obviously not my wish... I simply find this double-edged-sword fascinating. And perhaps a bit flawed. Wouldn't one assume the LGBT friendly community to be accepting of all paradigms on life? And wouldn't one assume the Christian community to be a place of open love and unconditional encouragement for all of God's children?

I mean, I'm most obviously a member of both communities-but isn't it strange that people like me (and lotsa m' mates) have an common tendency to not feel fully welcome in either?

I guess I don't have a point today, as much as I have a question.

, Henry

Fallin' at DFW.

2011-10-17T08:17:00.000-07:00

Like, omigosh, U guyz~ it happened again. I've fallen back into head-over-heels purgatory.

Perhaps I am infatuated with him. Infatuation with another human being is never conductive behavior. However, I'm not scouting pieces of hair to add to my secret shrine or daydreaming the details of our first kiss--I'm thankfully not that creepy. I simply have an innocent crush... that inches ever closer to Obsession Town with every encounter.

I thought I was free from this mental agony. After forcing myself to find the tiniest flaws and prohibiting myself from venturing onto his Facebook page, I was sure I had regained sanity. Unfortunately, I ran into him again tonight. And he said my name in that voice. And spoke to me with that friendly smile. And strutted around the place taller, more beautiful than any lowly creature present.

Now, quietly sitting on my apartment floor, hearing that awful "zing" in my ears one typically has after a loud night, I'm hooked again. No matter how hard I try, I can't not like this dude.

And I hate it.

In other news, I had a blast at Denver Fashion Weekend Fall/Winter 2011.

This is basically my "job" at DFW shows. With the editor of 303, I seat 370 people, type 370 seat tags with every single person's name, cut these 370 seat tags to size and tape these 370 seat tags to all 370 seats. It's mad tedious work... deciding where to sit everybody to accomodate big egos, paying customers, and 303 friends. But it's fun spending so much stressful time with your boss and getting to know them better, cracking stupid jokes to get you through the day, etc etc.

Night 2, sponsored by Schomp BMW. This one bloke made a not-funny joke to me after I took this picture, telling me to jump in the car and drive it out. He wouldn't give it up. I mean... is that funny? No.

All of my hard work. And the runway getting spick-n-span.

I basically ate an entire Walnut Room pizza all by myself because nobody else was eating any. Highlight of the night.

And then I (with one other coworker) let the "VIP" guests in, telling them where their seats are. It's mad chaos, but thanks for the free drink boss ;)

Apparently, you're Miss Colorado. Nice tiara. Your boyfriend is hawt (and bored).

After night 2, I came home at midnight, did homework until 4 and slept until 8. In the morning, I ran to a casting (a modeling casting! HA how funny.) and then headed straight to the 303 office to start another day of work.

Night 3 was the 2011 Hair Show. A humongous production. Ten times the work... but ten times the energy.

Infinitely better because I got to work with Jaymye this night.

Rehearsal. This is Oumou. She's sweet, hot, smart and driven. Love this woman.

Preparing to work an insane door. Thanks for the three drinks again, boss ;)

Thats the publisher of the magazine, ruining the first picture we three have taken in months. Lol...

Charlie Price. Never smiles. I did my best to imitate his witch face.

B U Z Z E D. Running around downtown trying to find a bathroom.

Getting even more drunk at the Jet Hotel after party. I haven't had any alcohol really since my birthday on Sept 3, so I decided I'd go all out that night. Bad girl scout shot (freaking girly but FREAKING delicious), oatmeal cookie shot (still girly, still delicious) and some pineapple shot my nuna bought for me-all within ten minutes. It was fun finally being 21 at a bar.

totally radical.

Denver Diner for "breakfast." :D

All in all, it was a good time--despite my unfortunate epiphany. Click here or here to see professional pictures. If you're bored!!

, Henry

Thankful Thankful Thankful.

2011-10-11T02:03:00.000-07:00

Today was rough. I long to reveal details, but my blog is too (get this) popular (HA, I'm such a prick) to do so. To summarize, I spent a frantic morning, exhausting afternoon, and sucky night--all in dress shoes. Oh, dress shoes: the nails to my coffin. Cali flip-flops are more my forte. Calloused heels and thong-tanned feet. All day, every day. Let's go. Anyway, I limped home at 2:30 AM to see a completely clean and organized apartment. I set my book bag next to the bed, freed my aching feet and changed into pajama pants, a cotton tee and my vice sweater (pictured below). I washed my face, brushed my teeth and finally plopped into my comfy butterfly chair.

And then I sighed a big, liberating sigh.

All of the sudden, I felt so... thankful...

Thankful that I have such a comfortable chair to rest on. Thankful for a medicine cabinet full of lotions and soaps to make me feel fresh. Thankful that I have a quaint, warm studio to call home after long days spent in dress shoes. Thankful to my roommate Mark for being so understanding of my psychotic neuroticism. Thankful for the friends who bought me such a warm, winter jacket I can't imagine living without. Thankful for the chance to model, write in a monthly column, and live in a downtown environment--a twenty-one-year-old's dream. Thankful that I have a mother who accepts me. Thankful that God has poured these blessings into my life when I didn't do anything to deserve them. Thankful that I finally realize how much I have to be thankful for.

It's funny that it took such a torturous day for me to see all of this.

Enjoy your life and stock it to the brim with to-do lists, man. It sucks not to.

, Henry

PS tell me my sweater is fabüsh and that you're just jealous.

Look, Kevin, I'm a Model.

2011-10-05T00:27:00.000-07:00

Today, I biked my sore ass ten blocks to a modeling agency to turn in a signed contract. Repeat: this lil' boi right hurr turned in a signed contract to a modeling agency 'yall. I looked like a hot mess, but I felt like a million bucks.

In elementary school, all I l i t e r a l l y wanted was to be cool. Sad, I know. The popular boys shredded the soccer field, the pretty white girls with long hair practiced some strange hand/clap dance routine and I just... moseyed aroun. Handball on monday, tether ball on tuesday, four square on wednesday, dodgeball on thursday (with the dead beats. Why did only the dead beats play dodgeball?), and dragging-feet-back-and-forth-across-the-playground on friday. Since the early years, I didn't like myself much. True, it's a fatal trait called "superficiality," but such is first world living.

At Vineyard Junior High School, things got worse. I'd enviously watch the show choir kids (how come only the douche bags and sluts did show choir?) during assemblies, wondering how fun it'd be to be a part of the "in" crowd. It didn't help that people like Elizabeth and the three homophobic, bored-with-their-own-lives bullies (Kevin, Intcher & James) hated me, making me feel incredibly sorry for myself. Sure, Elizabeth despised me because I embarrassed her in front of the entire 7th grade class, but the other three (and virtually everybody else) had no reason to aside from my high pitch, flailing hands, and pussy personality. Was that my fault?

Los Osos High school was a death sentence. I (unfortunately) met the entire Asian community of Rancho Cucamonga; and lemme tell you... they don't play around over there. You'd either have to possess pop-star looks, come from a wealthy family, or pack an impressive GPA for anybody to look your way. Nichkhun was worshipped. Unable to escape the gay rumor and clearly unappreciated by the Asians on campus, I found refuge in theatre. The open-minded, loud, positive theatre geeks were like my family-

-and then I moved to Colorado, stripped from theatre and thrown into barren wasteland. Ironically, it was here where I began to gain some confidence. Sure, it helped that I was the most good looking out of a whopping three Korean boys, but as I turned sixteen, seventeen and eighteen, my status as "freak" began to intrigue me. It wasn't until three girlfriend experiences, a deepening lie between my best friend and me, and nineteen years of self hatred that I came out of the damn closet and into the living room. I thought, "yeah, I am gay. The dreaded word "gay" does, in fact, apply to me. What's anybody going to do about it?"

I don't have dreams of following in Tyra's footsteps, and I doubt I'll book any jobs without having any experience. Still, the fact that I am signed to a modeling agency makes me laugh in triumphant disbelief. I'm still boney, I'm still flamboyant, I'm still as tough as loose-leaf paper, my nose is still "bug," my eyes are still squinty, and I'm still as un-suave as ever; but I suppose it's self acceptance that turns such things into beauty.

Eat your hearts out, bullies. Diversity is in.

, Henry

Present!

2011-10-03T21:11:00.000-07:00

thank you,

Elizabeth and Jihee and Brad

my vewy close fwends,

for this S T U N N I N G (and super steezy/manly/fresh) winter jacket from Vans. I don't deserve such a nice gift from you guys... we're all poor! But, that's the beauty of friendship. It makes life not fair.

Now, I am happy, knowing that last year's pains will not repeat themselves come this winter.

T H A N K Y O U

, Stephen (.....)

Living Cheap is Cool.

2011-10-02T19:17:00.000-07:00

I've started a new... hm... I suppose you could call it a "wellness program."

My spending habits are unacceptable. When I'm poor and unemployed (both of which I currently am), I ignore my bank statement and spendspendspend, hoping not to get declined. When I'm rich, however, I forfeit outrageous sums of money on frivolous luxuries (o hai, $40 Johnny Cupcakes T-shirt). In order to solve this problem, I've embarked on a quest. A quest for financial maturity. A quest I call "The Frugality Project."

Hopefully, The Frugality Project is only chapter one of a cheaper, cooler lifestyle.

A cheaper, cooler lifestyle that will be documented in my second blog! Living Cheap is Cool (dot blogspot dot com)! A hub for all things, well, cheap and cool. In other news, my face is exploding with pimples. This school year can suck it.

, Henry

Stupid Classmate.

2011-09-29T11:00:00.000-07:00

Don't harass me why, but I always come to class right on time. Right. On. Time. I reach full sunshine-intake capacity during my fifteen-minute passing periods (as classrooms at this campus are 100 degrees below zero) and make damn sure that I'm not stuck picking my fingernails in an uncomfortable room, waiting for a professor to clear her throat and moan, "ok class, let's begin." No, I'd rather pick my fingernails outside. In the sunlight. With fresh air. Thank you.

Fall Semester Day 1

Traumatized by the frostbite spreading on my fingers and toes, I arrive to class right on time. I'm pleased to recognize a "friend" sitting in the middle row, but notice he's blocked by two students at both ends of the table. Already I'm grumbing. What kind of idiots come early to a class and sit at the ends of a table, blocking off an entire row?" OK, fine, maybe they got there one second ago and assumed nobody else was coming. In order to sit next to this "friend," I have to either ask a girl who just got out of a shower (?) and my friend to scoot in or just one dude staring intently at his laptop. Obviously, I choose to ask the one dude staring intently at his laptop.

"Exkyuzzzze me," I politely mumble.

Without saying anything or even looking at me, this dumb bloke reaches down to pick up his backpack--and that's it.

...Obviously, my problem isn't your backpack, but rather the fact that your chair leaves me with insufficient space to get through!

After an apparent moment of awkwardness, I assume he's not moving and literally squeeze my ass in. My balls probably brushed his neck and the table behind me probably got a good view of my cheeks, but whatever.

Fall Semester Day 2

Same routine. How can somebody be so dumb?!

Fall Semester Week 4

Already anticipating that I'm going to come through, he doesn't bother to put his backpack on the floor anymore. Does he scoot his chair in? Nope! My "friend" even chuckles now because he's so shocked that this stupid boy doesn't take a hint from my daily "oomph," trying to get to my seat.

I suppose I could come to class early, but why should I? Until it begins to snow, I aint spending one more second than I have to inside an inhumane classroom. And I do suppose I can sit somewhere else, but is it that hard to SCOOT IN?

JUST SCOOT IN YOU STUPID, STUPID BOY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!1112233

GYAH!!!!!!!!!!

, Henry

Twist N Shout.

2011-09-25T02:28:00.000-07:00

I visited the infamous Rockbar for a 303 Magazine interview and decided to bike the way back home with m'boy Linus. Along the ride, I passed Twist & Shout: a record store I've always meant to browse but never got the opportunity to until that day. Lemme tell you, I had the afternoon of my month. I'm talking one hour of psychotically walking back and forth between every isle (except r&b, hip-hop, metal, and techno). It was so exciting! They had every album from my favorite artists, and every album from the artists I'm dying to try on: Amy Winehouse, Elvis, Norah Jones, Billie Holiday, M83, Neon Indian (QUITE disappointed), Zee Avi, and even Daphne Loves Derby (?). Definitely the afternoon of my month.

Seeing the library of albums sold here, I realized something. Could it truly be that alllll of these artists and bands are extraordinarily better than me? The answer to such a question depends on who you're asking; and if you ask me, with local no-names and Selena Gomez in the mix, the answer is no. It might not be my primary source of income, but one thing's for sure: Henry Bay is gon' release an album yall. Or an ep at least.

I hope to perform here some day!!!!!!

^Let me explain this picture. WOW. I listened to two of his songs at the store and... I was stumped. I feel stupid for only now finding him, but I don't blame myself too much. It's near impossible for a young Asian-American from California to discover bluegrass.

So I wouldn't forget the titles to the tracks I listened to, and so you can take a listen too.

Reminded me of Elizabeth. We've had many, many conversations about "white collar lies" this past Summer, and this illustration was perfect.

Some band played live music for what appeared to be sons, daughters, sisters, brothers, friends, cousins, and second cousins.

I love random concrete wastelands scattered throughout the area.

^discovered the coolest apartments in Denver. Period.

Jaymye (I love her little flower)

Warning: oatmeal cookie froyo + cheesecake bits + banana + chocolate chips = misleading disaster.

Henry (looking stoned..?)

And that concludes my revolutionary day. Come visit Denver, it's pritty kül.

, Henry

PS Robert Earl Keen- The Road Goes On Forever

(I suggest you listen, but look away from this cheesy, ugly fan-made video)

Gay Soldiers Are Gay.

2011-09-24T03:07:00.000-07:00

I. AM. INFURIATED.

This video infuriates me:

If you're too lazy to watch it, you're likely too lazy to read as well so... goodbye.

Now here I go.

I'm gay; and, after a recent berating by a hypocritical family member, proud. Luckily for Republican presidential candidate Rick Santorum, I have no intention of joining infesting the U.S. Military because it's simply not a privilege I find fitting for me (fun fact: I'm the first male in the family to not join a military unit). To whom might it be fitting? 6'2'', muscular, chest-haired, intelligent, brave and good-hearted men who (surprise!) happen to like other men when they're not too preoccupied being soldiers.

Santorum and a slew of short-minded adults deem the allowance of gay soldiers an injust "special privilege," as "any type of sexual activity has absolutely no place in the military." Immediately, I'm confused--what evidence supports the prospect that gay and lesbian soldiers are participating in sexual activity? In accordance with this point, I don't understand why women were ever permitted entry into a force dominated by horny men separated from girlfriends and wives. Oh, that's right: because having sex is most likely not a soldier's primary incentive of enlistment.

Santorum further claims that allowing gay men to serve is an "injection of social policy into the military, and the military's job is to do one thing: defend our country in a way that is most protective and efficient to our men and women in uniform." I fully support the claim that before being fair or happy, the military should be a fine-tuned, well-oiled machine. However, if social fairness threatens such efficiency, why did we ever allow minority groups such as women or ethnic Americans to enlist?

And, if homosexual soldiers do indeed prevent "protective and efficient" operation within the military, isn't that the fault of the homophobic soldier who can't overcome the idea that maybe, just maybe, the gay soldier in question isn't interested in fellatio?

Santorum answers with a smile and a shrug. I repeat: a smile and a shrug.

Sigh....

I apologize for being vulgar but I'm both personally and impersonally hurt. The reason we don't allow disabled Americans to become foot soldiers is because their disabilities directly conflict with the job description. I do not see how one's genitalia, sexual preference, or tint of skin affects the job obligations of being an effective soldier. Permitting such bigotry in an institution fully stemmed off the values of synergy, patriotism and selflessness is an error so vast that my mind can't even begin to process.

I will most definitely not be voting for a Republican come this election, and the open-minded Republicans can thank Rick Santorum's trippin' social policy for simultaneously losing them a vote and gaining them an active opponent.

, Henry

PS This now-famous video only encourages my opinion.

Unprepared.

2011-09-23T21:56:00.000-07:00

I asked my baüs if I could leave 303 an hour early to attend a job interview and was promptly outta dat hoe by 2. Unfortunately, the bus didn't arrive until 2:40. TWO. FORTY. My shins were on FIRE, my forehead was a skillet, and my black hair- don't get me started on my black hair. Honestly, there is no first-world inconvenience more torturous than awaiting a bus at this shadeless, desolate waste-land (pictured).

Finally, the damn bus arrived and dropped me off downtown at around 2:55. As I stumbled unto the street half-asleep, I noticed a congregation of people in front of Jimmy Johns. In case you weren't aware, Jimmy Johns is my life. #13: all day, every day.

As I walked closer, I noticed a large banner reading, "JIMMY JOHNS CUSTOMER APPRECIATION DAY. ALL SUBS $1.00 10AM-3PM." Like I'm witnessing some sort of miracle, it takes a while to register what I'm reading. "Hey brother, you in? Last one?!" says the Jimmy Johns employee I know all too well. "Um... yeah sure I guess" I mumble in disbelief. Lo and behold, I purchased a #13 for just one buckaroo (and rightfully so as I personally bring them tons of business without ever receiving complimentary services).

Chomping away on my #13 like my mom never taught me manners, Frends headphones messily positioned atop my head, I stood on 13th and Cherokee, waiting for a light to change--and that's when it happened.

The most perfectly beautiful baby-face rides up to the intersection on his bike, dressed in all black to accentuate his ocean-blue eyes. His skin as clear as a porcelain doll. His ethereal aura exuding peace..

And there's me, just two feet away, wide-eyed and bushy-tailed, bits of #13 dangling out m' mouth.

My life: shambles.

Sorry I made you read this useless moan.

, Henry

Speak Up.

2011-09-20T22:01:00.000-07:00

Your best friend has become a selfish brat. She only calls you when she's taking a cigarette break from studying or doing homework. In a quick five minutes, she rambles on at lightning speed about her love life. So, last night Greg (you remember Greg right?) is all up in everybody's face while were all walking downtown and like I dunno and like so forth and like you know what I mean cause like yeah, right? So now I'm like all confused you know and like i dunno what to do or what's going on or who i am or where I'm going or any of that shit you know what I mean? When she's done dumping, she spits a heartless, "Ok, well, I'll let you go. Ciao." and hangs up to resume her academic pursuits. Did she bother to ask how you are? Nope.

Your roommate is the most annoying vermin you've ever encountered. For some reason, mommy never taught her how to fend for herself. Every single day, she asks you what you're going to eat for dinner. Why? So she can "make it" with you and eat all of it! It's not that she's broke- she's just too lazy to drive her ass to the grocery store. Like clockwork, you hear the footsteps at 8PM, followed by a cringe-worthy knock on the door and the dreadful line, "hey, what are you gonna do about dinner?" Why won't she let you eat your own food?!

You're in love with this chick. You swear, God spent a little more time on her. Her smiles are effortless, when you're with her you feel like you can say anything, and above all... she smells like Victoria's Secret Love Spell. Unfortunately, she has a boyfriend (that lucky bastard) and sees nothing more in you than she does in her slew of plutonic friends. You invite her to dinner, and she brings her man along. You want to have fun walking around the quad with her, but all she wants to do is talk about him. Why is she so dumb! Can't she take a hint?

Well, my troubled welcome-mat friend, I realized something recently. More than these perhaps rude, idiotic, or insensitive people, its you who's the true fool. Until you tell these people that you have a problem, they're not gonna know! It's not their fault that they're dense--they were born that way, baby! God makes no mistakes!!

So grow a pair. I know it's hard (that's what she said) but there comes no greater satisfaction than when you get something off of your chest.

Deuces

, Henry

I'm "Disgusting."

2011-09-16T13:26:00.000-07:00

The actual email read "disgusted," but ± standard deviation of language barrier, "disgusting" was the intended context.

What was the subject berated as "disgusting" in this particular email? Moi.

Who was writing this email? Family.

A particular family member discovered that I am unapologetically as straight as a rainbow; and this, I suppose, was "disgusting" and "disappointing" to him.

I know, Stefon. I know.

I'm reminded of a casual conversation I had with two models backstage at the 303 Magazine Pridefest Fashion Show. I asked them if anybody was coming to see them walk the runway. "Family?" I suggested. "Gays don't have family," one of the models chuckled in response.

Sure he was joking, but dü yü knó that jokes shield honest undertones?

"Elizabeth, you're so scary that I want to just hide under my covers sometimes! Lol!"
Translation: "Lighten up, bro."

I didn't think much of the model's comment. In fact, I only remember it because he who said it was/is soooo fine. Now, however, I get a slight glimpse into why so many "gays don't have family."

Personally, I couldn't have forecasted my "sexuality crisis" to spark a Trojan war. As my family is deeply rooted in traditional culture, I've always believed it unfair of me to demand complete understanding, empathy or acceptance. Still, once slurred with "disgusting," well, the guns are comin' out.

Am I surprised that a relationship has finally been torn because of this issue? Especially considering that the relationship in question is family? Slightly. However, I'm not much affected. What can I do? Change? Ha. Apologize? Not unless I have a reason to.

Today you are You, this is truer than true. There is no one alive who is Youer than You.

, Henry

Blackhawk.

2011-09-12T02:51:00.000-07:00

Last Friday night, while Katy Perry lived it up, I sat on my messy-as-hell apartment floor feeling (for lack of better vocabulary) mildly emo. The certain business I had interviewed with at wasn't calling me(AH!!?!), it was evident that I wouldn't complete my weekly assignment by midnight, all I had to eat was a box of Oreos, and I had nobody to pointlessly whine to because, well, I don't pointlessly whine to people. Tangent: Why do some fools do that? Especially to people they're no longer close with? Is it not crystal clear by the cut in communication and unresponsive replies that the bond of friendship has simply died? Sure it's unfortunate, but leave us be! We are no longer available!! Try your call again bruv!!

That's when GC suddenly called me and said (in a voice already anticipating disappointment), "you do remember that we're going to Blackhawk tomorrow to celebrate you're 21st... right..?"

"Huh? Blackhawk? .......! OH MY GOSH. YEAH, I AM AREN'T I. WOW, I FORGOT."

After a brief but harsh scolding, I was forgiven. The next morning, however, I felt worse. Every pathetic Oreo was gone, and my stomach was eating itself. I forgot to filter drinking water. The assignment was never turned in. I didn't pack, and was to either leave in FIFTEEN MINUTES or lose a friend.

Basically:

Somehow, my toothbrush, cellphone, ID, sunglasses, murse and I made it out alive. Albeit zombie-like, I punctually met GC and was picked up by Bora Spice. Off to Blackhawk (Colorado's version of Las Vegas) to celebrate legal hedonism. During the drive, I began to think. So what if B******* didn't call me back yet? I could find some other job. Also, I just need to excel on future assignments to offset the one I didn't do. ALSO, I'm celebrating my 21st birthday--why would I have my life figured out already? Who in their right mind goes to a Blackhawk casino with so many contemplations? EFF IT ALL! When you're supposed to have fun, don't waste that time being serious!

I feel like we're often blinded by our instant-gratification, 4G culture and fail to see the bigger picture. So your car needs gas, but you're broke. So your roommate doesn't like you. So you don't like your roommate. So you found out he's talking to another chick. So you didn't get tickets to the show. So you didn't get that part-time gig. So you forgot one assignment in Operations Management. WILL ANY OF THIS STOP YOU FROM ACHIEVING YOUR DREAMS? Gimme a break off of dat Kit Kat bar.

I eventually felt baüs.

The NSFW shenanigans that followed are documented in the following pictures:

Sonix

wanted more Oreos.

Bora Spice

central mountains > any coast

socks are for stupid people

she likes me. you'll see.

Jersey Shore!

C12UX > GAGA

yayness!

#dying

I wish Almond Girl could be here too : (

omg, lyk, y r we so bís?

#JEALOUS

Mom! I look so suave! Wow!

C'mere little girl~

told you she likes me

Is that a Johnnie Walker Black Label (that I kept calling a Jeremy Scott)? THINK SO.

Breadly is here!

addicted.com

sambling is not worth it. I freakin' hate it.

apparently, Bread's go-to "douche face" is smiling all cute

double duty. nice, Bora Spice!

did I mention that I can blend in with wooden panels when I drink?

my peep-toe booties

#funfunfunfun

Later that night, Breadly and I pwned at Taboo. Friends marathon on Nick at Nite. Best workout of my life. And..... that was it. An unexpected, sudden, hilarious, rad time courtesy of GC's folks, GC, Bora Spice, and Breadly.

And now, I'm finishing up the last of my readings. What's there to stress about, really?

, Henry

Decade After.

2011-09-11T16:13:00.000-07:00

The reason is a mystery, but I'm peculiarly saddened by "September 11" this year.

It always amazes me that I can remember every detail of one particular morning that took place an entire decade ago--from the WTF look on my father's face to my mom's messy bedhead.

As I continuously (for about a week now) marinate on the I'll-be-damned phrase "decade ago," my mind reflects on what's occurred in the said past ten years: 5th graders got accepted into colleges, Skype connected the world like never before, our country elected our first ethnic president, DADT was repealed, mainstream North America discovered frozen yogurt, etcetera.

It's sad to ponder how much the fatal victims have missed, and how much they still are missed.

Not that death doesn't occur every day, or that terrorism isn't a depressing commonality, or that American life is more pained than the rest of the world's, but... still. As an outsider, I feel for the public trauma this specific day brought for so many.

My respect for those whose lives were affected.

, Henry

Por Favor.

2011-09-07T00:54:00.000-07:00

I'm sorry to do this. Really, I am! However, my second fancy lil "column" in 303 Magazine was published today (!!!) and, well, I'm quite pleased with it. The thing is... I think you should read it. Aw, gimme some slack. I didn't ask you to read last month's incoherent first-try column, did I?No.

Can't a fella advertise his accomplishments once in a while?

Ya darn tootin'.

So excuse my self-promotion and let your boredom lure you to 303Magazine.com to read the entire September Fall Fashion Issue FOR FREE! You have to sign up, but it's mad simple and I swear you won't get spammed.

PLUS, since most of you follow her too, you can read the "Quick Picks" on page 11 that Elizabeth Lee and I slaved to complete. Our last published work together, FOREVER?

AND!!! depending on your level of boredom, signing up would give you access to the previous August Gentleman Issue where you would see an embarrassing picture of yours truly "modeling" on page find-it-yourself.

So (please?) sign up on 303Magazine.com and read my column on page 56! I never get feedback on magazine writing since it's read by strangers but... I really work hard to make the column aiite. Some feedback would be a nice treat : (

Belated birthday present?

Above all, it's a fun freakin' issue to look at. Geez. Way to make me feel like a sleezy salesman.

Your shameless friend

, Henry

2NE1

2011-09-05T21:43:00.000-07:00

Despite being a self-proclaimed narcissist who finds instant joy in staring at himself, I don't celebrate my birthdays. I'm no spokesperson for modesty (obviously) but I appreciate when someone can admit, "yeah, I was born twenty years ago to this day--so what?" To the same degree, I scoff when people create spectacles of themselves and expect others to not only care but deposit both time and money into their praise. BUT, this year, I caved. Yes, I decided that I needed a pretentious love-me fest all to myself. At the end of the day, I made many memories and now I have a fun post for C12UX about my 2NE1st birthday.

Before I write, thank you Jihee Yoon and Elizabeth Lee for putting everything together and managing the nightmares unfolding behind the scenes (apparently??). As a result of your labor, I was ear-to-ear this weekend. Thank you for these memories.

Friday, September 2: I spent the day with mother over in her side of town. It feels incredibly foreign to be at such peace with my mom.. visiting her and not be afraid of being coo wit each uva?

Mrs. Kors bought me a camera. A CAMERA! I HAVE A CAMERA NOW! THANK YOU!

yeah.... I know......

I've seen better

As previously stated, my mom recently moved into a new house. Just like the last one, it's completely empty. My family has always been (too) minimalist in home design. This must be why I'm anti-clutter.

I rode the train back to Denver and spent the night finishing homework. Yes, that's right. An all-nighter approaching my birthday.

#Imatrueasian

Saturday, September 3: Despite my baggy eyes and impeding headache, I was excited to have my first drunken breakfast at Jelly with some 303 Magazine coworkers. Unfortunately, one of the coworkers had to rain check and the other forgot. True, it sucked, but I was already up and did not feel like sleeping my birthday morning away like a loser slob. In a moment's anger, I changed into black so I could be a "dark presence." Off to the art museum, where I can stare at art with sunglasses on, chew loudly on carrot sticks, and stick gum under a bathroom faucet.

said dark presence.

One of my biggest inspirations. A great morning sight.

I ended up falling asleep and missing Frankie's ironic invitation for lunch at Jelly.

Later that evening, I enjoyed a bitchin' Asian stereotype with summai closest friends: sushi, sake, karaoke and red faces all around. Good, simple times.

ALL YOU CAN EAT. BRING IT.

Good work, Samurai.

My friend Agatha. AKA Agada. AKA Lady Gada. Coke addict (no hyperbole).

My friend Bora Spice. TheSoakTree's best friend.

The Soak Tree herself. Autograph, please!

somebody doesn't know what a walrus looks like.

um, can you calm down woman?

"mature family picture."

deep fried ICE CREAM!

Coke Addict & Big Boobs.

Bora Spice and me at my first liquor store (as a consumer) ...

woo~ open wide, girl~

I thought you looked pretty here so...

HAHA. SO. RED.

Sunday, September 4: GC and I woke up at 11. We missed church. I know. I REALLY KNOW... : (

Since the day started without church, I suppose the first thing we did was get brunch at The Lobby with Chelle. I love The Lobby.

Sunshine~ It's a friend of mine~

I spy a bottomless mimosa tower..

I spy a mimosa...

I spy MY mimosa!

Lobby tater tots. Green chili and cheese.

"The Special" reserved JUST for Chelle by some fancy Executive Chef. Hehe <3 Poached egg crab cakes.

The Lobby Omelette. Something with petso on top?

The Lobby breakfast burrito. Perfection.

Hay! Mr. Fancy Executive Chef Nate Gravina and busted/tipsy Asian boy!

Then, GC and Chelle came over to help me pick out what to wear for my job interview the next day (which I will tell you about only if I get the job).

Sup?

Mi casa. Te gustas?

Chelle! Put yo pants back on! HA.

Not sure why, but people end up planking on the floor when they come to my house.

The birthday weekend ended that night with an unexpected trip to Buffalo Wild Wings to commemorate both me and Skylar turning 2NE1 with Brittany and Kayla. I can't believe how much I drank with these fools. Being a skinny lightweight in a group with caucasian tanks.. super radical~

Mandy Moore and Shane West!!

Me and my responsible, underage, hilariously cynical friend Kayla.

SOMEBODY is obviously sober while somebody is OBVIOUSLY about to ktfo.

Goodness, I did have quite the fun this weekend. Honestly, however, the most fun I had was checking my Facebook profile throughout the days (I know you're laughing at me) to see random "happy birthday!" comments from so many random friends. I was genuinely heart-warmed! In fact, I wasted mah time to go thank every. single. person. on THEIR Facebook pages. Hopefully, that says something in this world of quick-n-easy.

Thank you mom, GC, Elee, Clementine, Cadence, Agada, Bora Spice, Jyna, Chelle, Nate, Brittany, Skylar, and Kayla. I had a fantastic birthday weekend because of you fine people. I LOVE BEING 2NE1! MAZEL TOV!

, Henry

PS to fit the occasion

Don't Mean To Be A Witch But...

2011-08-31T02:23:00.000-07:00

... really Jamba Juice? That's it? You expect me to "round up the gang" on my birthday for ONE BAKED GOOD?

Ha, you're stupid.

In other news: 21 in T-3 days

Young, Dumb, Fun.

2011-08-30T01:58:00.000-07:00

It was my bombshell Jina's 19th birthday last Saturday. On Friday, she hosted a "jungle party" (which Elizabeth and I re-named "safari disco club") at her college abode in Boulder. In my opinion, whatever the setting may be, having happy people present makes all of the difference. The place wasn't a ballroom, there was no blasting bass, and I didn't know most of the people present. However, because my own friends were feeling upbeat, I had a blast. Thnks fr th mmrs! LADY OPPA LOVES YOU, JINA!

I'm much too narcissistic to not own a camera. BUT! Franx took pitchers:

Slutty Panda and Birthday Biotch (a cheetah girl?)

Way to dress up, Brad

lil' drizzy

"candid" while GC dances--I think

mad drizzy

I didn't know makeup meant I couldn't touch my face. After getting black eye shadow all over my hands, I decided panda was no more. However, my face felt drier than Michele Bachmann's sex life so I put on whatever lotion I could find in Jina's room. Apparently, I put on foundation.

nice!

Verr Naaz!

Good times.

, Henry

P.S. Fun fact: I'm either mildly allergic or extremely intolerant to alcohol. Potentially why I get "tipsy" early but doubt I've ever been what they call "drunk." When I do drink, my face swells and my body gets splotchy. Frankie was grossed out... haha

I take it as a blessing in disguise.

Bad Teachers.

2011-08-28T02:19:00.000-07:00

The purpose of teaching is to communicate knowledge.

COMMUNICATE. KNOWLEDGE.

An instructor can be as amazing as they want to be--perhaps they won a nobel prize for in vitro fertilization, participated in the naval assassination of Osama bin Laden, and can cook cup ramen in less than 3 minutes--but if they're not effective communicators, they're duds. They're useless, miserable wastes of space in our cramped college classrooms.

So please, universities, stop hiring pompous asses who spit words in rapid fire and don't give a damn if we can't understand their pretentious, show-off-y jargon.

Stop hiring fobs with incomprehensible Asian accents to teach courses like Finance 3000 while they can't even pronounce "Chipotle."

Stop hiring mousy introverts too shy to look their students in the eye, much less speak loud enough for the class to hear what the hell they're saying!

Stop hiring soccer moms who fill our brains with useless information like what their daughters, sons, husbands, sisters, and brothers said to them while they were trying to grade our papers.

Sure. I get what I pay for; and I mostly pay for sh*t. After all, this isn't Harvard, Cornell, Syracuse, Pepperdine, or LaGuardia High School. This is C.U. Denver. But, still.

CUT THE CRAP, AND GET ME MR. SCHUESTER OR SOMETHING!

, Henry

Bike Me.

2011-08-25T03:56:00.000-07:00

I think I have a problem with meeting new people. It's like... I whine to God that I only know a confined group of people (some of whom are super radical) and when he chucks me a bone, I say, "no thanks, I'm full."

Denver is a weird place and we have this thing called "cruisers." It's a weekly, Wednesday event where a bunch of hippies, hipsters, sk8rs, douchestep bros, fag hags, and trashy chicks in radical (omg, I'm using that word too much) stripper boots ride their fixed-gears, single-gears and (if you're not cool like the rest of us) mountain bikes from a buncha bars to some huge ass gathering in a public area. Basically: get pissed drunk together, BUI together, and party together in public.

I accidentally attended my first cruisers party today with my best friend Linus. Ukulele in one hand, wearing janky-ass junior high school gym shorts, I noticed a bunch of people were hanging out at Civic Center park, blasting jazzy beats, dancing with a buncha glowsticks. Low and behold, as I got closer, I noticed that this was an Angels and Demons themed cruiser party. Slutty chicks in lace lingerie (angels) and psychos with crucifixes drawn upside down sporting red body paint (r-tards). My initial reaction was "oh rad!" and then switched immediately to, "wtf is this. Get me out of here."

As I was leaving, I heard some dude yell, "Hey! You!" Mind you, there's tons of peeps, so I obviously assumed he wasn't talking to me and kept inching out of the moshpit, trying not to run over some amateur hooker's pleather boot.

"STOP!"

I look up again, and notice this white bloke's walking towards me. Like a movie or something, I'm staring at him in the eye but I keep walking forward. Frustrated at my stupidity I suppose, the dude (whos still walking towards me) yells, "YES, YOU!" and points at me Disneyland style.

We're finally in convo distance. "Hey!" he says. I'm giving him a mad wtf look (smiling, obviously, because I'm not a dick like some of you).

"I'm the guy who sold you your bike!"

".....OHH..! Wow, hey!" I'm kinda relieved that he's not some creepy bug trying to make small talk with me about how he likes my bike or something stupid. You know that's happened to you before. Still, why is my bike dealer trying to talk to me? I'm not gonna shout across from 16th Street Mall, "Hey! Hey you! Stop! Remember me? You served me at Applebee's the other day! Sup!"

"Yeah, I thought your bike looked familiar and realized that I sold it to you!" This dude is smashed, btw. Bloody eyes, lobster neck, I mean... on a white dude.... man. He was gone.

"Haha, yeah cool! I was confused at first, sorry."

"Come join us! I see you got your uke and shit- grab a beer with my gang!"

"Haha, nahhhh I have to go study," I joke, pointing at my uke.

"Study, eh? I don't believe you!"

"Yeah no, we're just gonna chill at her house." (Which is still a complete lie. Idk why I'm lying!)

"Alright well then come out next week. You have to! the theme is a rave."

"A rave?!"

"Yeah, we're gonna start drinking at Sputnik and then we're gonna come down here in rave gear to party."

"I love raves! I'll get my peeps over and do cruisers properly next time!"]

"Cool, I'll see you then????"

"Yeah! See ya then haha"

Um, I think raves are stupid. JBU, I'm not going to some psychotic gathering on a school night to "rave" in public. That crap used to be real deal, underground, illegal shiz. What do they know about raving. Plus, the friends of mine who own bikes are way to cynical and straight-headed to participate in such silly baboonery. Sorry, dude. Dunno why I lied to you when I want to some meet new people, but I definitely won't be making a fool out of myself next week at your rave.

Plus, I have important things to take care of. Like preparing for the Safari Disco Club happening this friday up in Boulder town. I'm going to go as a "slutty panda!"

Radical~~

, Henry

PS: HI BREWSTER!!!!!!!!!!

Gay Christians.

2011-08-21T01:39:00.000-07:00

I received a question on Formspring that inspired me. I hope this helps.

Yes, it's clearly stated in the Bible that homosexuality furthers us from God. Simple truth. The messenger Paul, inspired by the divine Holy Spirit, writes in 1 Corinthians 6:9 that homosexuals "shall not inherit the kingdom of Heaven." Ouch. Along with homosexuals, however, Paul includes fornicators, idolators, adulteres, thieves, covetous persons, drunkards, and extortioners. By this, I am now inclined to believe that none of you have made the cut either. Double ouch. But, Paul adds an important clause that changes everything. He says that we are "washed," "sanctified," and "justified in the name of the Lord Jesus, and by the spirit of our God." That regardless of our homosexuality, dishonesty, or drunkenness, Jesus has washed our feet clean. That he loves us anyway.

In my opinion, it doesn't really matter if I have sex with another male. Aside from being a sexually active homo (which I'm not [TMI?]), I also covet (I'd do anything for a Ermenegildo Zenga coat), idolize (I love you Norah!), get drizzunk (see: Mile High Project), and commit many other sins that I don't feel like publicly exposing. I often fall short, but let's face it: so do you. You're just like me. We all sin. ALL OF US (repetitive much?). You, sir who condemns my virgin homosexuality while messing around with your girlfriend, are a sinner and a hypocrite. You, snob who believes that homosexuals are less Christian than you and your honk-if-you-love-Jesus posse, are a sinner and a judger. Even you, Mr. pastor-who-forfeited-everything-to-spread-the-gospel, are a sinner.

But that's what's so unbelievable about the love of our God Jesus. Despite all of this, he loves you and me anyway. Though we fail him, he sacrificed himself as the ultimate offering so that people as dirty as us can too take off our shoes and dance in God's house.

It's not a resume of good deeds or permanent record of sins that determines whether we'll be with our Father one day. It's whether we truly believe in Jesus Christ; thank Him for what He's done, does, and will do; repent for our sins with honest hearts; and love Him with everything we have. That "whoever believes in Him shall not perish but have eternal life." To me, it's that simple, that free, that unfair, and that lovely.

Fact: I'm gay, but I am first and foremost a Christian. Nothing any human says can deter me to believe otherwise.

I hope this helps, Formspringer.

, Henry

PS Hi Kristin Bux!

Dipping x2.

2011-08-17T19:38:00.000-07:00

Dear Double Dipper,

Who do you think you are?

I'm sorry, I know that was abrupt. Let's backtrack a little bit, shall we? Out the corner of my eye, I saw a sinister hand strike the guacamole bowl with a half-bitten chip before I saw the face. Though I didn't entirely believe a meeting of 21 writers would go without one doofus tainting the only bowl of guacamole with their saliva, I didn't entirely believe anybody to be a doofus either. Yet there it went, that fatal nacho of yours, into my favorite condiment on earth... crushing any dreams I had about finally tasting Whole Foods guacamole. Oh, and look. You even got a little bit on your thumb.

Let's be honest here. I would've forgiven you and, in denial, tried the guacamole for myself on one condition: if I wanted to taste your saliva. The thing is, I only want to taste the saliva of hot people (don't we all?), and said hot people are rarely dense enough to do something like double dip. Even if a hottie was to double dip, the mere execution of such would render them un-hot, understand? So you'd need to be really, like, smokin' hot to pull that shiz off and qualify your saliva as a welcome addition to a bowl of Whole Foods guacamole. Simply put, unless your name is Ash Stymest, Sean O'Pry, Alessandra Ambrosio, or Anderson Cooper, double dipping is not allowed!

Perhaps you've been raised in this manner with no intervention. Perhaps I'm the stingy, mysophobic ass hole who takes silly things too personally. Fine, I'm anal; but you? You're a doofus who doesn't have the courtesy to ponder the idea that there may be a mysophobic ass whole in the room who really wants to try some Whole Foods guacamole after five hours of starvation!

With humor and forgiveness

, Henry

PS I finally sat through an entire verse of Lil Wayne.

I'm Home Again.. For A Little Bit.

2011-08-15T16:21:00.000-07:00

Sitting awkwardly upright with legs crossed Indian style on what is either Santa's sleigh or a bed, I watch the sun rise outside my bedroom window. "My bedroom?" I hear not the morning Budweiser truck unloading fresh booze at Cap City Tavern, but birds chirping. I forgot that birds can do more than mope around picking crumbs out of cracks in the concrete. This is weird.

After almost a year and a half, I've returned to my mother's humble abode in the 'burbs. Well, "humble" might not be the most fitting adjective. "Lavish" maybe. It's a foreign establishment in a foreign neighborhood an hour away from our more quaint residency of yesteryear. I initially scoured when I explored this extravagant, hollow space, but maybe grandma Betty was right. Maybe this will prove to be an "investment." Yeah, the rich always think outside the box, so...

Although, if I were looking for an investment, I would've bought land in Louisville. But I'll keep mum.

I wonder how so much time has passed since I outrageously screamed my way out of this lifestyle, yet the same towels, blankets, plates, and mother carry on with their lives as if my departure was yesterday. Everything's changed, but nothing's changed. It almost pricks me with guilt, how so much happened to me but, here, time seems to have just stopped. Albeit in a new location. I suppose this is a typical feeling when a bird first returns to its nest. If it ever does return, that is.

But to be less Shakespeare and more Snooki, it's cool to be home. A complimentary supply of milk, whole-grain bread, and watermelon. Still, I wouldn't settle for life here no matter how convenient. There's too much to do in Denver, too much opportunity to sieze, and wayy too many cuties I have yet to impress.

IT'S WEIRD BEING HOME!

, Henry

PS M83 is almost here. I've never anticipated an album release quite this much.

Swelter.

2011-08-10T02:57:00.000-07:00

I envy the white folk who don't get red when they par-t.

And the black folk with dark skin that covers everything anyway.

And the very-rare Asian folk who just don't show it.

How nice it must be to go to a wedding and enjoy a glass without being swollen, pulsing, and blotchy after.

, Henry

Oh! Here It Goes Again

2011-08-07T17:38:00.000-07:00

Morning rituals are unique. Here's mine:

Sit up at 90º angle
Stare at a wall until conscious
Stretch (as of two days ago)
Shower
Fix m' busted face
Glare at clothing until I find something acceptable
Listerine, brush, floss, Listerine

there's something very gross about doing this with eye cum and PJ's, so I save it for last.

Sunscreen
¡Vámonos!

Now that that's over, I'm at my favorite coffee shop, Rooster and Moon, about to treat myself to a double-chocolate cookie. But before grubbing, before checking my whopping one notification, before opening my QT book, and even before assessing the cute-to-fug ratio of today's clientele, there is something I must write in C12UX.

As of two days ago, I am unemployed. Yes, I have resigned my duties as Hyatt Slave.

Yesterday was entirely spent indoors like a loser keeping busy with laundry crap, AIM crap, garageband crap, Wonderbread goodness, and Tangled. Tangent: wow, Tangled, not too shabby.

Now, it is time to begin the search.

True, it's not so lovely when you're starving, and I've been there before, but otherwise.. unemployment's a total thrill. I mean, the world is in your access. SRSLY! There is no more Starbucks, Chase Bank, or Hyatt standing in your way. You can inch your way towards your goal of becoming a makeup artist, chef, model, Ironman, brothel employee, whatever!

Personally, I'm not sure what road to pursue. Not a clue. But what I vow--what I'm putting this double-chocolate goodness aside to say--is this: I am going to work my damnest to make sure that I get a job that A) is worth getting, B) I love, and C) God has blessed me with.

And knowing me, I tend to get myself into weird places. Good luck to me!

, Henry

PS One of my #1 women, Sia, just wrote/sang this song with musician David Guetta. Though the latter is involved, this song is killin. I hope I don't start hearing it every 2 seconds on the radio.

How Dare You.

2011-08-01T22:06:00.000-07:00

Elee Fotographee

I've allotted one week of silence, and that week is up. I now deem it OK to publicly complain.

Some time ago, I went on a date. My first date with a fellow peen. Further, it wasn't with just any ol' shirtless bloke at a trashy club, but with this dude. Remember him? Needless to say, I was excited.

The summary of how it happened goes like this:

Elizabeth and I walk into coffee shop againagainagain with the sole hope of seeing the dude in question. We do indeed see the dude. He asks us where we're headed. Like a good wingman, Elizabeth butts out. Small talk ensues between him and me. I'm shot with ecstasy. Wait, is he gay or straight? Nah, who cares- he's cute. He says it's his last day working at the coffee shop. I whimper to Elizabeth. As time passes, Elizabeth gets the hunch that said dude and his coworker are talking about us. Secretly hoping that he is talking about ME and not my female friend, I walk to the bathroom. I come back. Elizabeth whispers in Korean, "omg omg omg." "What?" I ask. "I can't tell you because I made a pact," she replies. Elizabeth unnaturally gets up to go to the bathroom. I'm shot with paranoia. Dude comes out, casually makes small talk with me. I casually play along. He asks if I've seen Harry Potter. "No." He asks if I want to see it tonight. "Yes." Elizabeth and I leave coffee shop. I'm shot with panic.

The actual date (haha, "date") was lovely. The movie was coo, and we had fun getting to know each other at Leela European Cafe. Afterwards, he asked what I was doing the following day. I told him I was scheduled to work, and he asked what I was doing the next next day. Again, I told him I had to work. "Oh well," we deduced. "I'll just hit you up." "Coo." "OK, bye, thank you for the date." "Yeah, thanks for going out with me."

Um, it was a date... right...? Anyway...

Serendipitously, I wasn't actually on the work schedule. When I told him that I could in fact meet at the park, he nonchalantly responded with "my phone is dying" and said he'd text me when he arrives. No text. I was slightly disappointed, but whatevs. The following day, I asked if he wanted to get ice cream. He said he couldn't because he had company over. I sucked up my pride and added him on Facebook. No comment. Finally, I told him to let me know if he would be coming to Elizabeth's good-bye dinner (which he already agreed to come to). I got no response. As of today, it's history.

Now, I vent.

Sure, fine! We're not soul mates and you don't want to put a ring on it. I get it. We're simply not that close yet. By all means, then, don't feel obligated to explain your life story as to why you've stopped texting back. Maybe you're in Nebraska, tending to your ill mother. Maybe your ex is back in town and you feel he deserves a second chance. Don't mind me- do what you gotta do! But, sir, if you're mentally period that you and I shouldn't bother getting to know each other further, be direct about it. How dare you mysteriously end things on the infamous dot dot dot? Don't allow me to torture my desperate self with maybe's and what-if's. Give it to me straight! No chaser! Tell me that you're. just. not. that. into. me. Period.

Maybe you felt bad. After just one date (it was a date... right...?!), perhaps you thought you'd feel stupid being dramatic and asking me, "hey, babe. What is this? Are we formally dating? Well, OK, sorry, but I'm breaking up with you now." Perhaps you thought you were being nice by letting me get the hint. By letting me break the bad news upon myself.

Well, bruv, lemme teach ya a lil something. You ain't doin' me any favors. You, my fatally attractive amigo, confused me, made me annoy my friends, and uselessly stole my precious date-cherry. But thank you for this blog entry.

, Henry

PS Hi Kent!!!!!!
PPS I updated "The Links" on the side-bar. They're mad coo, so ch-ch-check it if you're bored.