silly pictures

I am the queen of taking pictures from a moving vehicle. On the way to Vegas, we passed this road. I made the very inappropriate joke about Nipton being a tea that the Japanese drink. My boyfriend didn't even laugh and he's a frikkin' white guy.

This shelf is so busy I don't even know where to begin. Note at the top, the cat "sculpture" painted like a lady wearing a bustier. Someone made that. Someone somewhere has a love for felines and formal attire and decided to merge those two things with their pottery skills. Bad. I'm just shaking my head.


Our non-smoking hotel room with the king bed. I quickly turned our lounge area into a stage so I could do my Nicole Kidman tribute set. Oh, how I love to perform!

In the elevator to MIX. I'm a huge loser for taking a photo of this button. Who cares about the button.

The shadowy champagne bubbles at MIX. I turned off the flash because it kept bouncing off this one silver "pod" in the middle of the room and throwing off the photo.

The kitchen at MIX...

...and what comes out of it. I apologize for this being blurry. I had a very weak cocktail and I was not myself. This was the foie gras on top of striped bass on brussel sprouts. The...foie...gras...has me in its oily clutches.

Lobster "au curry" with coconut basmati rice and what looks like golden raisins. I think there's a fancy name for golden raisins but I can't recall what that is right now. OH WAIT! Sultanas!

Mac and cheese (with cubes of jambon or "ham.")

The dessert kitchen at MIX...

...and what comes out of IT. Baba "au rhum" also known as Baba "psh, I can make this shit at home for $3."

But I don't have this view at home. I feel slightly sheepish at having said that last comment about the baba. I'm sorry.

NO, I'M NOT! I own Las Vegas!

This is the security guard who would check room keys before you could take the elevator to your room. What a cute old man, you say. See that lizard? It makes a squeaky noise when squeezed, a trait demonstrated by the not-so-cute-anymore old man for everyone and anyone who walked by. He did it with such genuine relish however, that you felt bad making fun of it.

One person tells two people that "wheat" is spelled "w-e-a-t". Then those two people tell four people and those four people tell eight people and so on and so forth. And this is how illiteracy spreds.

Paris Las Vegas.

The chocolate fountain at Jean-Philippe Patisserie at the Bellagio. I wish I could bathe in it and then eat my chocolate covered limbs.

The sunrise on the day we left. Were we just waking up or finally going to sleep? We'll never tell because we are CRAZY!

While brushing my teeth, I noticed the boyfriend's shadow cast onto the wall. I decided to have a little fun with the sun.

"Where have you been?"

"Hwaaaaaaaa...!"

"Ride 'em, cowgirl!" a.k.a. sexy Katie.

Ok, so here I was trying to go for a prom invitation silhouette but it looks like the boyfriend is stabbing me and watching me die.

odd

Most people go on crazy shopping sprees after they've hit the jackpot at the Wheel of Fortune slot machine. Others buy a Maserati after having taken the pot at a poker tournament. Well, I spit my complimentary cocktail at those people, those earn before you spend conventionalists. I am a risk taker.

On Saturday night, the boyfriend and I had a reservation at MIX which is atop THEhotel. It is celebrity chef Alain Ducasse's sky-high restaurant with an oval dining room and ceiling from which were hung hundreds of glass "bubbles." It was like stepping into a glass of champagne. If the decor was any indicator of the meal, we were in for a treat. We were not deterred by being down $200. We were going to eat in high style despite our meager finances. As expected, the meal was delicious and I took detailed notes for my friend who works at Sona, the very avant-garde house of cuisine on La Cienega. The restaurant industry is a small incestuous world when it narrows at the top and chefs gossip like little girls. Thoughts on lobster "au curry" served on coconut basmati rice were greatly appreciated. I had striped bass served on brussel sprout leaves, topped with seared Hudson Valley foie gras all in a small pool of black truffle reduction. I get weak knees when in the presence of a fatty duck liver. To indulge, we had a fantastic side of elbow pasta with French ham and gruyere also known as "mac and cheese," a banal term Monsieur Ducasse detests. And of course, since we were down on our luck, we ordered the signature dessert, a baba "au rhum" which was in essence, a sponge cake soaked in citrus vanilla sauce, then served with vanilla whipped cream and a tiny pitcher of rum which you added yourself. The dessert was a little disappointing although they did bring out an amuse of fresh Madeleines which you pulled from the mold yourself. Madelines are cakey cookies in the shape of a scallop shell. Very French. Very awesome. Honestly, the view from the restaurant was the best dessert and I will post pictures soon. Wipe up that drool.

We returned to our hotel glowing and sated. We sashayed through the casino with the hopes of reclaiming the cash which was rightfully ours but after stopping at our non-smoking room to change out of haute couture, we realized we were feeling and looking a bit slovenly. We could barely lift ourselves up to arm wrestle for the remote (I had had enough SportsCenter) let alone sit upright and focus on cards. We went to bed early and the next day woke up to a complimentary breakfast for two courtesy of our hotel. Judging from the patrons in our hotel, we suspected the breakfast to be somewhere between appalling and disgusting. The mere thought of buffet scrambled eggs made the both of us nauseous. We lucked out though and instead of breakfast we had brunch which means prime rib at 10am. Like I said, I'm a risk taker.

After brunch, we went to do what I do best when things go wrong. We went shopping. You don't drive back and forth past an outlet mall and tell me I shouldn't go in just like you don't dangle a steak in front of a Doberman. As an appetizer, we started with the Nike Outlet where I bought a new pair of Shox. The boyfriend was looking for basketball shoes he liked which he was unsuccessful in finding. I supposed he'll just have to carry the team on his back and shit while wearing his old cross training shoes. My tricked out Bentley and acrylic nails with diamonds spelling my name on each finger will have to wait. For my second course, I bought a camera bag for my SLR. And for dessert, I agonized over a pair of Oscar de la Renta sunglasses at Off 5th, the outlet version of Saks Fifth Avenue. I know! Heaven! I love that store. To give you an indication of how I shop there, the boyfriend couldn't hang for more than twenty minutes, went to the car and waited so long that he had to come BACK in and hurry me the hell up. I did get the sunglasses. Convenient for muting the boyfriend's exasperated glare.

In the red even further now, we headed to the Strip to walk along the roads paved with flyers for dirty girls. The traffic was so bad that we parked early at the Monte Carlo and walked to Paris and the Bellagio. The boyfriend and I pondered the themed hotels and casinos, spanning the most exotic and alluring places around the world like Mandalay Bay or The Venetian or the most fascinating times in history like The Excalibur or The MGM Grand.
"What theme would your hotel be?" the boyfriend asked.
"Purses." Can't you just see it? A purse-themed hotel for women with the same handbag addiction I have. There are few themes left which don't seem like a pathetic reach. Take our hotel for example, the South Coast? It's just sad. The next monstrosity will surely be The Reno at Las Vegas.

We had lunch at Olives in the Bellagio. You know, the restaurant located across from the Prada store which is next to Christian Dior and Gucci. The meal started with an assortment of olive tapendades both kalamata and green. I had the best caesar salad I have ever had. The leaves were crisp and the dressing just garlicky enough to be delectable yet not turn me into a putrid pox on society. It was topped with fresh parmesan and olive oil croutons and a smattering of tomatos, a rare find in most caesars. The boyfriend had a flatbread pizza which was also very good. We paid and on the way back to our car, I collected a bunch of dirty flyers from the men who were bundled up in ski jackets, with stacks of beautiful women in their mittens. You notice they never stand by themselves? It's always a group of three or four and as I approached a row to my right, I took the booklet the first one handed me and thanked him. I proceeded to thank the gentlemen individually as they each added their contribution to my smutty handful. Oh, Demi looks nice, thank you. Jessica AND Holly for $99? Thank you to you. Beautiful, exotic girls to my hotel room in less than 15 minutes guaranteed. That's efficiency. I saw a trampled booklet on the ground that had an assortment of "Asian dancers" and as I stopped to pick it up, the boyfriend reprimanded me with a stern "Don't touch that, it's dirty." Exactly.

We returned to the Monte Carlo to retrieve the car and head back to our hotel with plenty of homework in hand. The boyfriend spotted an empty $10 black jack table and now, after losing money the day before, dropping serious coin on a gourmet dinner and shopping for things we didn't need, we finally sat down to wager on a game of chance. Earlier in the day, we played roulette here and won. My coworker had given $10 to bet on Red so as we approached the table I turned on my sixth sense for numbers and told the boyfriend to put down the money. "It's gonna come up red," I predicted. The feeling was stirring deep within my heart. Red. Red. Red. So Red. I was confident in my prognostication. It was Black 8. Fortunately, the boyfriend didn't get to the dealer in time and wasn't able to put the money down. So, there I was, pretty much turning off my sixth sense and it indeed landed on Red 36 and my coworker was $10 richer. Hopefully the luck would rub off on us.

Who doubles down on 14? Who splits a pair of 8s? I do. Why? Because gambling is a game of chance and I will not be beholden to a bunch of mathematically proven statistics. Who cares what "the book" says. I bet with my gut which seems to puzzle the boyfriend who knows this game fairly well. His eyes grew with incredulity as I kept betting as if I was looking at a completely different hand than the one in front of me. As a few more people joined our table, I was quickly getting coached by everyone and anyone. Bianca, our dealer was effectively playing FOR me and since this seemed to please my tablemates, I stifled my capricious gambling nature. I am not usually a team player but whatever I was doing seemed to help everyone else and since there was money involved, I figured it best not to piss anyone off. After all, the boyfriend might get upset and come to my hotel and break my legs. In the end, after tipping Bianca $20 over the course of an hour, I was up $60. I had had enough of the ups and downs and the betting according to the odds and the man smoking cigarette after cigarette to my left so I asked the boyfriend if we could leave. He would have preferred to stay and win enough to pay his rent for the rest of the year but he had to settle for $150.

Our trip wound down with dinner at Lotus of Siam, one of the most famous Thai restaurants in the country. Fried dumplings were a great appetizer. My pad see-ew was the best I've had so far although the boyfriend got a spicy steak dish which was spicy but not inspiring. After dinner, we tried our hand at a few more rounds of black jack but lost. Frankly I was more amused by the slot machine names than the games themselves. "Get Egg-cited" and "Dam Lumberjack Beavers" were my favorites. We decided to turn in early and get ready for the drive back to L.A.

By Vegas standards, we had a crazy weekend. We got more than forty-five minutes of sleep each night, we only ate at a buffet once and we stayed sober. I mean, that's how I roll. Sometimes you have to rock the boat. I wasn't concerned about the potential stripper bonanza I was missing or the one life changing pull on the Star Wars slot machine. I was coming home with silly pictures, a pair of sensible shoes, old lady sunglasses and no regrets. I am, afterall, a risk taker.

Pictures to come!

smoke gets in my eyes

I haven’t been here in about five years but needless to say, I have a few thoughts on Las Vegas.

Upon arriving in this glittering desert mecca, the boyfriend and I wanted to check-in to our hotel early, hoping to find a place to put down the six bags we were (he was) carrying. Ironically, we booked a room at the South Coast hotel, open nary two months and replete with décor “inspired by the Southern California lifestyle.” Five hours of traffic and we ended up back in L.A. Seemed about right. We were told that the only rooms available were “smoking” and since we were road-weary and stinking of cheap cologne rental car, we took our keys and headed to investigate the actual fiery nature of our king room. Walking through the casino, my eyes began to water from the ubiquitous secondhand smoke. I am such a delicate, non-nicotine, non-alcoholic flower. The slightest irritants drive me batty. But no matter, I was not going to be picky.

We found our room and as I stood in the midst of it, grimacing, I asked the boyfriend, “Doesn’t it smell like smoke to you?”
“No, I can’t really tell.”
“Ok, it’s fine then.”
There is a pause. The boyfriend evaluated the grimace, “Let’s just wait for a non-smoking room.” Of course we wait for get a non-smoking room. It could be a smoking floor, I told him, not merely a smoking room. He nodded to no one in particular and mounted up the caravan of duffle bags I packed for our two-night respite. He knew that if we stayed in this room, he would have a sleepless night next to my constant toss/turn analysis of the odor in our chambers. This is why I love him. Because he accepts my passive aggressive nature.

We had lunch in the Coronado Café as we waited for our new room. Just as I recalled from my previous visits to Vegas, there is no ambiance at hotel-run restaurants. The patrons stare blankly at their rib-eye steaks while the octogenarian waitresses tell the story of their relocation to Sin City for the thousandth time. I did notice this time though the extremely wide chairs. As I pulled mine out, it was akin to dragging a park bench. How odd, I thought, what a waste of, oh no wait, that woman over there is three hundred pounds. I was in a mock version of L.A. with citizens from across this great land, chomping on patty melts and spreading their extra-large asses across these extra-large seats. I NEVER feel this thin in the real L.A.

I excused myself from the table after ordering my patty melt and went to the ladies room where the most wondrous bathroom experience awaited me. Oh Las Vegas, with your smoky casinos and your Petri dish of large Americans, you sure know how to design a bathroom for the obsessive compulsive germ-o-phobe. In most public spaces, I am squeamish about bathrooms, plying layer after layer of toilet paper on every surface that will touch or come near my body. When I am abroad, especially in third-world hoods, I am a wreck. But that’s another post. Las Vegas came through for me, man. Automatic flush I’ve seen. I’ve even enjoyed an automatic faucet. But the automatic soap dispenser and infrared paper towel machine were an absolute treat. Short of extracting the urine from my bladder with a sterilized catheter, there was nothing more sanitary than my experience in this bathroom. Me likey. Me likey mucho.

A non-smoking room became available. The boyfriend a.k.a. personal bell hop schlepped our (my) belongings to our new room and both I and he could appreciate the untainted air in 1011. And the fact that the room was less than months old pleased me to no end. Even if this room had been booked every night since its grand opening, there would have only been about sixty occupants before us. That brings the number of non-Katie bacteria in the room down considerably. I almost allowed myself to walk barefoot on the carpet. But I most certainly did not.

We began our vacation. We took deep, non-smoky breaths. Clean air. There ain’t nothing like this in L.A.

on being loved

How do I know the boyfriend loves me?

It's not out of convenience. I'm not some "around the way" girl who lives in his neighborhood. I live across town and when he visits me, he has to drive at least 30 minutes. And most times, it's because I need something from the hardware store or the dry cleaner. "Boyfriend, pick me up a wrench on your way over!" So, not only am I inconveniently located, I'm demanding. Curious.

He's obviously not superficial because I am not a sight to behold although, I will update you now that I have officially kept off 5 pounds. I am aiming for more even though my fans keep screaming "No, you'll be too thin!" "Your boobs will disappear!" "You're not THAT fat, you're just a little bit fat!" I only weigh myself after I have completely disrobed and expelled every last drop of urine from this sack I call my body. He's definitely not a "looks" man.

Although he's hardly a gourmand, he won't eat just anything. Spinach? Mushrooms? Steamed veggies in a plastic bag? All items I cook that he will not eat. Thus, my culinary skills are not keeping him around. I do love to bake though, but no, he has not a large sweet tooth.

He couldn't be into me because I'm Asian. There may be passersby who disagree, those AznPride zealots who detest the sight of their Asian sisters in the culture-leeching claws of White ghost establishment. The boyfriend is neither established nor ghoulish. I know he's not a weird Orientalphile because:

a) he often confuses my ethnicity (Chinese) with something else (like Peruvian)
b) he doesn't try to impress me by dropping random phrases in my native language like "How are you" or "How much for the girl and two condoms"
c) he walks away when I take out my leftovers i.e. the Tupperware with assorted animal odds and ends
d) when I tell him about the traditions my family keeps for things like Lunar New Year or the Harvest festival, he glazes over or just keeps watching SportsCenter

I sometimes point out "those types" of Asian fetish men to him when we are walking to the supermarket or riding in an elevator. The ones who inevitably begin conversations with "Nee hao ("Hello" in Chinese), are you from Shanghai because you look like Northern Chinese as opposed to Southern Chinese?" The boyfriend doesn't see it.

"He looks normal to me."
"But look at the woman he's with!" I exclaim, "She has nothing going for her except her limp black hair and her slanty eyes! I betcha he'd have her pull him around in a rickshaw if he could ship one over here!" Maybe he's with me because I'm racist.

And now that we've come to the awkward doorway into the analysis of my "man-pleasing" skills, let's just laugh a nervous laugh and say no.

So, what is it? What is it that keeps him around? What keeps him near me? It's not my stink or my smile. They say that what often attracts people is the unknown delights of a new love conquest. It's the secrets we keep and reveal only slowly, over time, which hold a person's attention. We avoid the predictable and the obvious. I am both. Maybe what keeps him around is the fact that I just can't figure him out and simply refuse to leave him alone.

valentine cut-outs

My secret desire has always been to work for Hallmark Cards. When I was little, we would drive past the Hallmark factory just north of Highway 401 in Toronto and I would recognize that crown logo and wish I could work there. They could pay me in stickers, I thought. Fuzzy stickers.

Sometimes, people have trouble expressing themselves especially during the holidays. Emotions can overwhelm. This year, to help with this festive affliction, I have created an assortment of Valentine's Day greetings you can illustrate yourself, print and cut out for the special people in your life. When you care enough to send the very best and the very inexpensive.

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Sometimes at night
I watch you get ready for sleep
and I marvel
to the heavens
at your beauty
the sinewy nape of your neck
the way you tie up your golden locks
you're oblivious to how you affect people
and I want you to know
I love watching you get ready for sleep
So please,
come to the window without a top on sometime.

Passionately yours,
The guy who lives in the apartment across the street
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My darling wife,

It has been ____ years
of bliss and wonder
of awe and joy
There have been hard times
and tears
good times and laughter.
On this special day,
I want you to know
that if you want me to take Viagra
you have to get in shape
and start wearing a bra again
for Chrissakes
or else I will be forced to cheat on you.
I'm just letting you know what's up.

Your devoted hubba hubba

Hope your day is filled with hearts and roses!
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They say we're young and we don't know...
We won't find out until... we grow
But I say
Fifteen is old enough!
And I want to be with you until forever ends!
I'm getting my learning permit next weekend! :)
Wanna go see Big Momma's House 2?

I'm a slave 4 U.

IM me l8r, k?
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Roses are red
Violets are blue
I stopped taking my meds
Ever since I met you!
And boy, I have never felt so manic.
I need some coffee or SOMETHING.
It's like constant sinus pressure.

Love to you!
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To the man in my life,

You make my days worth living
Your inner beauty, I adore
Please tell your parents you're gay
I can't pretend to be your roommate anymore.

We're here, we're queer, get over it!

Kisses,
The man in your life
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Hey, so I wanted to tell you that I'm pregnant.
I went to the doctor last week and he said that I'm definitely pregnant.
I'm looking forward to spending the rest of my life trying not to yell at you in front of our child.
Especially at our wedding if you would ever fucking marry me.

XOXO PUNCH PUNCH
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No matter how far
No matter how long
No matter how many state lines
I will be there
because we belong together
You know
I know
Your wife knows
That night we had
at the Sheraton World Center - Orlando
is the fuel for the car that is my heart
The heart I will drive to Lansing
to find you
because
I am yours
P.S. You accidentally dropped your business card on your way out of the hotel room.
Oh, sweet destiny.

Happy Valentine's Day!
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To my love,

The sun in your eyes
The squint of your lids
Your ebony hair
Your pale milky skin
Your ancient culture and demure ways
You are my China doll
my geisha girl
my Asian dream come true
On this Valentine's Day
I want to colonize you.
Colonize you all night long.

Con amor,
Your hairy white boyfriend who took Japanese in college
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n.b.

Someone recently asked me if I knew what "N.B." stood for. I told her I thought it was "nota bene" which means to take note or note well. After a quick verification via internet, she told me I was right. Oh yes, every time I am correct, I note it well.

I went to my first poetry slam in probably over a year on Monday night. In a darkened bar, I sat at table next to my friend Slim who was competing and I felt strangely at home. Strange that it has been so long since I've been in attendance for such an event and yet, it is as normal as a poetry slam can be normal. I watched my friends stand behind the mic one at a time, standing in a spot I used to occupy on a regular basis, saying words that left their impressions like fingerprints on my brain. I was in awe. In awe that I know people who have such eloquence and profundity. I was also in disbelief that there was once a time that I was the eloquent and profound one. That I once rubbed shoulders with the urban soothsayers who turned the masses out into the world from the bars turned auditoriums, hearts burning with inspiration and ears smoking from wisdom heard. One of those people was me. I was one of those people who walked off stage with eyes following and whispers exchanging on the ingenuity of my work. And now here I was, like a grandma watching kids climb the jungle gym at the park, peering with misty wonder as she asks herself when was the last time her hip didn't hurt and that she could hang upside down by her knees.

I stopped performing poetry because I got scared. I was afraid that I couldn't say anything new. When poets would speak of revolution, all I heard was the same words going in circles, THAT kind of revolution. I didn't want to be the fish tank that recycles the water. I would have liked to be a spring. I didn't want to deal with the insecurity of a new piece, innards exposed, fresh ideas deemed elusive and too esoteric for people to bite into. I kept writing poems for myself, for the boyfriend, for no one to hear but anyone to read. When you hold a poem in your hands, you can cuddle with it until it makes you feel turned on or rejected. The "page poems", as poets call them, worked for a while, but now I can't even remember the last poem I wrote and if I think for a moment, it sucked. I've forgotten that my poetic mind is a muscle and it needs exercise.

When I see my poetry friends, they ask me if I've been writing. I tell them I started a blog, as if it was something special. They tell me that they miss my poetry. I miss it too. And so, I am heeding their advice, not that they offered any, but I will glean what I need from their comments to start writing poetry again. Nota bene.