This is how I pop out of bed and into the streets every morning. I’m all, “TADA.” I emerge fully fabulous.
I thought quitting smoking, drinking and doing drugs would be hard but actually it hasn’t been hard at all. We’ve been staying home holed up hiding and working though not going out to clubs and shows in order to avoid temptation and the possibility of relapsing. We’re not going to go out until we’re strong enough to do it without breaking down. So far so good and actually I’ve never looked or felt better, in fact I think I look and feel better than I did when I was twenty. I always knew smoking was bad and drugs were bad, I didn’t know that actually alcohol’s the worst of all. Take it from me, if you want to look and feel your best and notice an immediate and amazing improvement, quit drinking. I almost can’t even believe it. Looking and feeling so great more than makes up for not being able to drink. Now I just gotta see if I can go out, dance, have energy and be fantastic company without drugs or drinking. One day at a time right you guys. Straight edge is awesome, just gotta figure out how to do it without being preachy or dull. What makes being bad enjoyable is danger and risk, the challenge is to somehow make being good fun.
Dylan emerged from music making saying, “That’s it, I don’t think I can produce anymore.” “Great,” I said, “let’s stick this pickle up your bum.” “I don’t know about that,” said Dylan nervously. “Do it,” I said. “Life is for the living. What are you waiting for. Try something new.” “I should clean up that bassline and fix those drums,” said Dylan and he hurried back into the studio.
Apologies to anyone who might’ve been triggered by my recently calling all men retards. Fag is another word that can get me in trouble, especially since many of my closest friends are queer, a lot of the best people in the world are homosexual, and some of my straight single male friends might as well be, so much so that I often tease them for it. Like the reason they can’t get girlfriends is because they’re obviously gay. One sensitive straight male friend once stood tragic before me and said, “Nunich, it really hurts my feelings and makes me feel sad, when you say I’m gay and call me a homo in front of my friends.” “You know why it hurts your feelings and makes you feel sad?” I asked. “Because you’re a fucking fag,” I said. “That’s why.”
If people don’t love you for who you are, you should ignore them, or tell them to go fuck themselves. You should never change for somebody else, you should only change because you want to change, because you know you need to change, because you want to be better, and you know you can be better, never because someone’s trying to live your life for you or control you. You should be your biggest threat to yourself, and you must also be your biggest supporter. You are your own worst enemy, and you also gotta be your own best friend. Once you master that shit, everything else is icing. And we all know that icing is great, but icing is worthless without the cake.
I read an article about a leading psychologist who made troubled couples build Ikea furniture together as an ultimate form of couples therapy. There’s a certain cabinet that’s such a nightmare to assemble it’s been labelled “The Divorce Maker.” I had to laugh picturing all these angry frustrated couples trying to assemble the thing and failing hard, they probably hated each other mere moments into the challenge, on top of the animosity, dissatisfaction and resentment they already felt going in. If that were Dylan and I, shit would go down pretty easy and straightforward. I’d just say, “Sweetheart, darling, illest person of all time. Build this insanity furniture and build it good. Call me over when you’re finished, so I can exclaim over the beautiful efficiency and nimble quickness of your great work.” Then I’d tuck off in a corner somewhere, kick back with a book and a drink, sigh deeply and smile to myself over how nice life is. What people in relationships sometimes forget is that you shouldn’t try to control each other, and you shouldn’t force things. You should shine on as the crazy diamonds that you independently are, and love each other for the very independence of your singular shining. There’s gotta be a heads and a tails, else there can be no quarter, no sunrise can blow your mind if the sun never sets, and anyway both sunrises and sunsets are magnificent.
After a bit of thought and research, I’ve concluded that “Ass N Titties” by DJ Assault might be the greatest song ever written. Lyrically there’s just no candle that can hold to that. “Beat That Bitch (With a Bat)” by Johnny Dangerous is also a strong contender alongside certain other tenacious tunes such as “The Percolator” by Cajmere and Lil B’s “Wonton Soup.” Thirty on my dick on that court like Spalding. Bitches suck my dick because I look like JK Rowling. Okay so I don’t know what Lil B looks like but I’m willing to bet that he doesn’t totally resemble JK Rowling. I mean I’m pretty sure out on the streets Lil B has been mistaken for JK Rowling zero times. And, I don’t know, are bitches even flocking to her for purposes of somehow sucking mad dick? I fail to see how any level of resemblance as such would lead to a tsunami of blowjobs, or even just one, for anyone. Still though my favourite is “Tightest” by Busy Signal. Baby you crotches. Oh my God it strike my cocky like a matches. I’m not saying you burn me. I just think your tight pum pum concern me. Busy indeed. Finally there’s “Ass Like That” by Eminem. You make my pee-pee go doing-doing-doing. Your honour, no further questions. Sometimes shit just speaks for itself.
“What’s the longest English word?” I asked Dylan. “Pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis,” Dylan answered. “How did you know that!” I thundered. “The second longest word is floccinaucinihilipilification,” said Dylan shrugging. I looked at Dylan like he was an actual alien and wondered who in the hell I married. All this time I thought he was just a dj.
“Your job as students who are receiving this privilege called education is to do your best to achieve great things, all the while advocating for those in the rows behind you.”
I sat on the nice new glasses I got in Cuba and pretty much irreversibly destroyed them. The lenses are scratched and chipped and the arms are all bent wildly askew. Then, being blind and rampaging the streets of an unfamiliar city, I fucked up hard trying to get home from running errands and got pretty profoundly lost. I ultimately figured shit out and returned hectic and hyperventilating. Dylan gazed at me gravely while I described my misadventure with melodramatic gestures and overemotional words. When I was done, Dylan said, “Christ. What would you do without me?” “Roll around naked in a ditch,” I replied, “until I starved and died.” “Hm,” said Dylan. “So would you though,” I added. Dylan seemed about fit to refute the remark, but then intelligently desisted. “I love everything about you,” he said instead, which were of course exactly the only correct words. Because long term relationships take work. The point is to relish the work. And when you relish the work, you’ll relish each other, and the love will burn true and continue.
It seems because I am of unknowable age, background, orientation, classification, type and identity—and possibly also because I am reasonably attractive, outwardly mysterious, unboxable and byzantine, people are always asking me questions. They won’t stop with the questions and they tend pretty much to believe anything I tell them for answers. People believe literally just any old shit that I might feel like saying. Especially when I pull the inviolable Asian Card, people motherfucking don’t bat eyes.
I told a guy while we smoked outside some small city club that I was the girl in all those incredible Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon tavern fighting scenes when I was just seventeen. He gaped at me and did the sputtery version of blinking. “You were amazing,” he intoned, all hushed and whispering. Wondering then what in the Sam goddamned Hill I was doing slouching about in a nameless city at some no-account bar, I said, “Field work.” As in I was researching the role for my next Asian stab at sensational cinema. All excitement and reverence, he glowed with understanding. I gave him my smile that is exactly like a wink but with no winking.
Many people believe too that David Suzuki is my father. They are every time respectful and awed. I tell them he may be a famous environmentalist to the world at large but he’s just plain old dad to me. Another person another time said I looked incredibly familiar. I said, “Ever heard of Miss Saigon.” Guy stared at me flummoxed and gobsmacked both. Casting my eyes demurely half away down and in a voice that is synonymous with a shoulder’s shrug I both tuneful and dismissive said, “No biggie.”
The best though is this whole my feet getting smaller and smaller thing. I used I swear to wear size 7 and now I’m barely filling out a size 5½. When I raise my bare foot high and people gaze perplexed at my living proof truth of this, I tell them it’s the complex work of genetic ancestral memory. I love to throw around the term “genetic ancestral memory.”
My elaborations go like this: “My Eastern rising sun genes can sense that my feet were never manually bound, so now genetic ancestral memory is just sort of kicking the motherfuck in. My genes are doing the binding for me. Amazing, right?”
People maintain their intent faces of captivated interest and careful astonishment but reveal usually still a strain of confusion. Timing it perfectly I gaze chastely forward into the future and declare, “It’s an Asian thing.” The collective expression upon all those beneficent faces goes, “Oh!” and all is understood, believed, swallowed beautifully white people whole and everyone wins. They’ve learned still more fascinating wisdom of the East remarkable Asia type stuff and I’ve amused myself once again to my usual highly improbable always extravagant often unforgivable degree.
Three questions I always get asked are what do I look like without make up on, how old am I, and what is my sexual orientation. Of the 4 or so billion Asian people on Earth at present currently not wearing make up, I probably look exactly like one of them. Whichever age is the nicest and most awesome age to be, I am that age. Whoever is intelligent, original, brave, beautiful, or cool, I’ll be interested. Sex has nothing to do with it.
I told Dylan that overnight my arm got all crooked rammed beneath my head and pillow, lost proper blood circulation, and went horribly to sleep. “Yuck,” I said, “I hate that. It feels real awful, like when I bonk my funny bone. I flung my arm away like it belonged to someone else but the arm could just be flung only so far.” “You know what I do when that happens,” said Dylan, and he made a loose encircling gesture with his hand that I was soon to learn was fairly masturbatory. “It’s called ‘The Friendly Stranger,’” said Dylan defensively when he caught my expression. “I’m surprised you didn’t know that,” he added. I continued to look at Dylan and that look was meant to convey all manner of messages. The friendly stranger. Shit. What planet is this.
Dylan walked in on me one day looking with interest at something and chuckling. “What,” he said. “There’s a list I made,” I said, “in this here notebook. It’s called Things I Love.”
THINGS I LOVE
“I’m last,” Dylan said sadly.
“At least you made the cut,” I energetically replied.
Privately I was embarrassed that greater than half and all of the first mentioned loved items had exclusively to do with food. I felt particular dismay at “Sesame Oil” landing squarely in first place. Not to knock sesame oil though, clearly I love that shit.
Dylan called me urgently to the studio and so I rushed in. “Want to see a man doing manly things?” asked Dylan. “Sure,” I said. “Who wouldn’t.” And so we spent 20 minutes watching a time lapse of a handsome shirtless barefoot male individual alone in the woods doing everything for himself. He built a fire pit, made a fire, created special clay tiles in the flames and then baked them in a drying shed he had previously constructed. Later he used all the tiles to make a magnificent roof for his hut. This can-do man dazzled our eyes with all his calm capability. “I’d suck his cock,” said Dylan.
Later we were chuckling over how Cristiano Ronaldo’s shirt comes flying off with every opportunity, regardless if he actually just scored or not, or even if he left a match injured. “You’re not even gay if you fuck Ronaldo,” said Dylan. Meaning Ronaldo is such a specimen, who could blame anyone for the sex part, man, woman, young, old, Real Madrid fan or not, gay or straight.
While online shopping at one of my several Asian distribution sites, an ad featuring an enormous picture of David Beckham appeared. “The most handsome man on the planet,” the ad declared. “I love that Asia has decided that David Beckham is the world’s most handsome man,” I said. “He’s probably the most handsome man in the universe,” said Dylan. “I’d suck his cock,” Dylan added and I felt like the statement was becoming a mantra of sorts.
On my Instagram I follow an account featuring all things Bruce Lee. I showed Dylan a cute gif of Bruce Lee shimmying and Dylan gazed on approvingly. “You’re not even gay if you gave Bruce Lee a blowjob,” said Dylan. “You’d just be doing the right thing.” Indeed. One wonders if there’s not something about Dylan that his wife should maybe know.
I said, “When I reincarnate, I’m going full Mantis.” Dylan said, “You just want to eat men’s heads. “NO I DON’T,” I said. Neither of us had anything further to add, so we dove into dinner. Afterward, Dylan fucked with my vibe a bit, which he does sometimes, and we argued by what we did but didn’t say, until finally I shouted, “Stop being destructive with your actions!” Dylan said, “I’m NOT.” I said, “You’re a big pile of poo, that’s what you are.” I added, “You’re a dirty diaper that hasn’t been changed in MONTHS.” This is how we fight, this is how we argue. I could hear our roommate staying out of it, keeping to himself, and laughing cautiously in his room. Dylan after an offended pause commented, “I get you a bit of booze and now look at you.” For the record, I look goddamned beautiful.
It’s amazing how furious people get over Dylan’s haircut. Some people are head over heels in love with it and others want to murder him in order to properly express the depth of their hatred. The crux for most people is they want Dylan to look normal. They want Dylan to act normal. They want Dylan to be normal. But why would anyone want to be that? Why would you want to be lifeless, monotonous, forgettable and average? Fuck that shit, and fuck the people who don’t have the balls to be different. Fuck being normal. Normal is for chumps. Bend some goddamned rules, burn the envelope, destroy the box. No one will ever care about how safe you played it. Beauty lies in daring, and greatness takes risks. Live, or die boring. Fortune favours the bold and history celebrates men with special haircuts.
What my hair looked like half my life ago. Yes that’s a thousand million long black cables, wires, headphones and cords which didn’t make nightly for the world’s most comfortable sleeping. Actually it was like cozying up to a plane crash and having many jagged metal parts poke into my brain. Think besides being amazingly original, impressively difficult and incandescently cool, this hairstyle was meant to let everyone know how committed I was to technology and to sound, and how profound and deep if not downright holy was my connection to music. Think I even attached an antenna to my head. I have no idea how long I made this look work. Surely the excessive discomfort I enjoyed nightly put finally a stop to things. Kids right. But what is art if you don’t suffer for it a little bit.
No matter how autonomous and self-sufficient you think you are, life is too complicated to try to make a go of it alone. When things gets rough or hard, it’s essential to have someone there to help figure things out, and to do some of the heavy lifting. A life without the love and support of at least one person that you honour with both your affection and your trust is difficult to fully realize or conceive independently. It’s not just the tough times either, it’s not only misery that loves company, it’s happiness too. Goals achieved and good feelings felt are nothing if you’ve no one to smile at or to hold tightly, if there’s no one there to receive the words, “This is wonderful,” “I love you,” and “I am happy.” Joy is one of life’s rarer moments of pure beautiful human feeling. Sharing joy deepens it, and it’s the sharing that makes the happiness we feel both more meaningful and more real.
Once you get to a certain point in your life, people start trying to tell you that magic isn’t real. These people are trying to quell your sense of wonder at the majesty of the world, and you mustn’t let them. Because magic happens all the time. Whenever you see something utterly beautiful in nature, and you take the time to notice it, it’s magic. When you recognize the love you have to give and the love you receive, it’s magic. Magic is in the look and touch and nearness of someone who matters to you. It’s magic even when something sad or terrible happens, because there is magic in the very fact that you care, and that you’re still there. Magic happens when you stand up for what matters. Magic happens when you don’t let anything ever beat you, no matter what. Magic happens when you are part of the force of love. It’s magic, no matter how dim the hope, how slim the chances, how great the cost. Magic happens every time you give, every time you love, and every time that you are strong. The magic only stops when you let it. The magic is in you and it is all around you. Because the magic is you.