Brooklyn Museum – Felines


This instillation is the work of Pepon Osorio, a Puerto Rican artist.  The cats are huge and imposing and looked quirkily cartoonish until I took in the whole scene with the gold OG baller medallions around their necks – once you do, it all starts to make too much sense.

… These oversize domestic animals (their scale accentuated by the small table they sit on) may say something about the exaggerated role that our fears and denials play within our own imaginations.

No shit hey?

East Village – Enticing

As in I noticed the streets in this area are enticing you to become a drunk muthapickled drooling mummy with its endless rows of boards advertising Happy Hour … an hour so ‘happy happy good fanks’ it goes on for eight hours.  If you have a hernia or just can’t afford to pay anyone to create you a new identity to escape your partner and kids etc., you can probably drink enough around a few blocks in this area on the cheap to dissolve your entire stomach, making you so wasted you’ll wake up looking like a lopsided mutant and have to go into hiding.

Not like Bakers Delight.
Not like Bakers Delight.
This is an honest 8 hour work day.
This is an honest 8 hour work day.
Evelyn will be the judge of that player ...
Evelyn will be the judge of that player …
I got your backs hooligans.
I got your backs hooligans.
The best way to both give it and take it.
The best way to both give it and take it.

When it happened

The day of a Supreme Court ruling in a Supreme City.
The day of a Supreme Court ruling in a Supreme City.

It was awhile ago but when it happened I was here …

And I’m still here (I’m everywhere – in the USA, in Australia, in your worst nightmares if you shit me) … here for whatever happens next … in the meanwhile here’s more of the Cheetos … and the Cheetos hat, plus some other pics:

Cheetos Hat - Someone quickly show me how to set up Instagram for that InstaFame ...
Cheetos Hat – Someone quickly show me how to set up Instagram for that InstaFame …
Rest my lover ... for I have plans for you ...
Rest my lover … for I have plans for you …
Bar at Aloft hotel in Harlem, they do me right ...
Bar at Aloft hotel in Harlem, they do me right …
Then had to try this one ...
So Right …
And one more ...
So So Right …
Some bar in Brooklyn - you get a jar of plastic animals for play while you drink.
Some bar in Brooklyn – you get a jar of plastic animals for play while you drink.
Castle in Central Park - for the Empress of Cheetos mountain.
Castle in Central Park – for the Empress of Cheetos mountain.
This version will burn your ass into ash .. so worth it - do try it.
This version will burn your ass into ash … so worth it – do try it.


Central park - So pretty.
Central Park – So Pretty.
Central Park - So So Pretty.
Central Park – So So Pretty.

Found in Times Square – Not So Pretty.

Aint No Chup-Bowl like Ching Chong Chup-Bowl

Cos the Ching Chong Chup-Bowl don’t stop.  No it never stops, riding off the flavour of the previous post, here’s a few snapshots of how the Choo Choo Ching Chong Chup-Bowl train just keeps on comin’ thru:

(Note: I can say Ching Chong cos I’m Ching Chong.  If you have only the Ching or the Chong or neither, say it only if you like cigarette face burns & 3 fingers left on each hand in the morning.  Ahhh the beauty of controversial racially inappropriate double standards – I’m onto it)

My dad baked a cake by mixing banana & tasty cheddar cheese together.  He argued it was ‘cheesecake’ even though he used cheese meant for pizza.  I was forced to eat it and then I gagged – not in a nightclub laneway ‘well I should keep on going cos the guy at the bar bought me a drink’ kind of way.  But more in a ‘this is what a banana with a bacterial yeast infection tastes like’ kind of way. He might be trying to get this on the menu at Lucky Duck Chinese Restaurant.  Keep on walking.

My dad plays ping pong every Sunday.  He wears these shoes to Ping the Pong.  I think my dad’s in a gang.  And bright orange is their Wu Wong Tang gang bang colour.  I need to look for chopsticks with p.i.m.p inscribed on the side with fake diamonds and hoes hiding in the rice storage bin to be sure.  Meanwhile everyone beware.  If you see and smell a Honda that’s using toilet freshener as car fragrance slowing rolling up beside you on the road – don’t try & be a hero when that ping pong bat points at you through the back window.


Dad bought this turbo massage chair.  It’s compliance with health and safety standards is as questionable as the place of birth stated on his Australian passport.  Sit in this chair for 20 minutes with the vibration settings on high and you’ll be circumcised – yes that includes you too ladies.  It’s here to stay so I’ve decided I must de-sensitise myself to its power.  To do this I will lay on it nightly … naked … face down …with a glass of wine … until it’s safe … hey don’t hate the player people, hate the manufacturer…


Dad installed this satellite on the roof.  Communist Terrorist – Maybe.  Gangster – Definitely.  Check out the puffer vests below – rocked only by those feared in the hoods cos mum & dad are nothing but pure bad ass Chup-Bowl:  

Not Recommended – Asking for Chup-bowl

In our house, it’s not ‘Trouble’, it’s ‘Chup-bowl’ – I see you struggling to pronounce it.  Ok, drop down to a squat, slip on some kung fu cloth shoes, aim a video camera at the TV, shoot whatever movie’s on (make sure your cousin’s forehead’s visible in the shot as he ducks down past).  Now bark at any 7 year old child nearby to start dubbing & transcribing those subtitles (their small hands can work quicker than yours).  Allow the method acting to transform your speech.  Eventually ‘Trouble’ will become ‘Chub-ble’.  And then slowly feel it chinky-ly transform into the desired ‘Chup-bowl’.  This means the final stage of ethnic speech correction is complete.   

So what’s Not Recommended for this edition?  Home ‘Improvements’ like this:

This is the set up you’ll see in the toilet of my parent’s house.  No it’s not a shelf for guests to rest their chopsticks while eating noodles in a cup on the can.  It’s part of an elaborate hooked up contraption invented by the King of the Temple and Father of the Empress himself in his quest to be the master of water conservation.  From what I can see, but have avoided finding out for sure (the less you know, the less of a reliable legal witness you’re considered), the electrical wire leads to a plug that operates some kind of motor that channels some murky liquid from a huge plastic garbage bin/bucket container in the back garden to a pipe.  The murky liquid is pumped out of the container and travels through the pipe to flush the toilet whenever the button is pressed.  The murky liquid is actually excess water collected from the washing machine every time a load of washing is done. Try this same set up at your own home & you’ll be asking for Chup-bowl.  Get my dad to install it for you (with a hand written ‘Certificate of Safety’ spelt ‘Certifike of Siftte’ provided) and that Chup-bowl is Dup-bowl.

Look closely at the photo: Note the ultra-fine craftsmanship of the barely there wooden plank mounted on the wall.  Appreciate the seamless entry of the electrical wire’s insertion through the plaster.  Every time I flush the toilet I nervously hear the loud constipated choke of the rumbling motor outside (no doubt one of our neighbours has a motorised something that’s now mysteriously missing a motor).  Every time mum does the washing I’m worried I’ll see her thermals again as scrunched up missiles shooting out the toilet hole into my face when I go to flush.  So people of Australia and possibly some living in the other hemisphere, know this:  If you see a saturated little girl with long black hair covered in foaming detergent clutching toilet paper while speedily rocketing through the sky with underwear at her ankles letting off sparks and smoke, it means my dad’s blown the shitter through the roof – it’s not an inventive firecracker experiment we’re trying for Chinese New Year.

Been Medicating, Not Meditating

For those who’ve been with me since last year you’d have noticed an absence – you see I’ve been on a hiatus, up in the mountains, living in a bamboo hut, playing the pan pipes, milking goats, milking monks, milking myself, snorting fertiliser and dancing for the crops.  Some of this is true (everything to do with milking) but most of it’s bullshit as I’ve been nowhere near the mountains.  Just away from the blog. 

I wasn’t away finding myself – who needs to with the availability of cheap liquor,  free flowing prescriptions and loyalty reward points at the local pharmacy (handy hint: don’t be picky with expiry dates – it’s not just liquor that gets better with age).   It’s not the first time I’ve been absent for a prolonged period and it most likely won’t be the last (The Empress can be a scathing bitch but she never makes promises she can’t keep).  But really, as the great distinguished scholars and philosophers in history have posed: Does it really even fucking matter?  I write when I can.  You read when you want – that’s our dance, that’s how we play it, roll it, give it, take it.  That’s blog action, that’s human interaction – all of us removed and individual but intercepting sporadically in those moments when something brings us back to the same point – to either intertwine with or grossly repel one other – we’ll only really know which one when that time comes and it won’t be the same outcome every time.     

So here we are right now at that same point as I break the seal I’ve had on this blog for the 1st post of 2011.  Yippeee! Go fetch that shady prescription for uppers from Dr Woo Wang Wong and partaaay with me!  Relax I’m not advocating abusing this or that or anything illicit, I’m just advocating thinking for yourself about what’s right for you as I’ve done for me.  If you have beef with that then speak to my agent (which is me and I’m just going to tell you to fuck off).  But I do want to thank the fine people of the blog’s readership for continuing to tune in during my unexplained absence (possibly to re-read some older posts looking for the point – good luck with that) and for enquiring about my long awaited ‘come-back’ (which should occur not long after my even more long awaited ‘come-down’).  So I think I should try to make a point now: 

When you’re back from being far away, when you’ve been off – off-line, off the phone, off all the guest lists for those get-togethers, off in that space in your mind not open for business to serve anyone else – you always know who the good people are when you return: the people who are strong in the knowledge of who they themselves are and therefore know it’s not always about them when you don’t materialise for a very long time.  And those times do come people – you all know this and I’m sure you’ve all been there.  Say the un-sayable and say, ‘here are the greatest secrets that nobody knows’ but only if you want to share.  Share because you want to reveal but not because you feel you owe or are indebted or feel forced to appease and make that well worn and overused criticism of ‘not making the effort’ go away.  ‘The effort’ is in people being able to look outside of themselves to respect that others handle themselves in their own way, in their own time. 

You don’t need to see who takes the chance to fuck your boyfriend/girlfriend to know who’s real – just be inaccessible for awhile and see how your world reacts – watch the needy ego-centric scum rise to the surface crying for an explanation before you’ve even had a chance to adjust your eyes to the light.  Those who command my respect don’t demand a justification.  Those who demand a justification might want to ask why they need to have their balls licked as an apology for me not sucking them whole when I wasn’t in a place to be fucked with the gag.       

If looking at the above pic makes you concerned, don’t worry – the cat’s ok, that’s premium beer he’s on.  Only the best for my pussy.


Was It Just Me?

You’ve read this blog.  And no I’m not high when I write my posts (yes, been asked this – you know who you are).  I’m just unconventional perhaps.  I must be because all that’s ‘conventional’ is plain dead uncomfortable around me (yes, been shown this – you know who you are). 

As a child I assumed my experiences growing up were ‘normal’.  But judging by the outside world’s reaction to the adult finished product, I’m starting to suspect not.  

Help me out people.  Was it just me?  I need to know:        

Was it just me … who was forced to wear a traditional bright gold embroidered imperial style padded Chinese jacket for her grade 4 primary school photo, looking like some kind of under-aged warlord midget pimp amongst a bunch of Aussie kids in shorts and t-shirts?  

Was it just me … who had a scheduled ear cleaning session with my father every month where he shone the blinding light from a lamp into my ear like the ear was being interrogated?  And then with an actual ear cleaning stick (they exist – purchased from the Asian grocers, thin with a mini scoop at the end), attempt to dislodge and remove stubborn bits of ear wax which usually turned out to be actual parts of my inner ear?

Was it just me … who was told by her mother that I shot out of her one day while she was on the toilet and looked down to see something random floating in the bowl with a pair of eyes?  Clearly the stalk in the sky explanation couldn’t convey my value as an addition to the family as much as this particular version of events.  

Was it just me … who was forced to fast for 24 hours before we went to an all you can eat buffet restaurant in order to ‘build up the hunger’ and therefore get our money’s worth?

Was it just me … who was then restricted from picking non-protein items and potatoes from the all you can eat buffet because they wasted stomach space reserved for the ‘expensiveful’ offerings – ‘Why eat 3 bowl chips, eat 18kg prawn, we pay saaame pliiicce’.         

Was it just me … who asked my mother for a perm to revamp my generic poker straight oriental hair?  Only to be taken to the ‘local hairdresser’ of my aunty’s garage to be given a perm on purely just my fringe? (my ‘bangs’ for the North American crew). I wanted to go from chinky to kinky.  I stayed chinky except now I had a new mini afro sprouting from my forehead.  Where’s that can of Soul Glo when you really need it?   

Was it just me who … was told by her father that 3 fried eggs piled on top of one another was called ‘quiche’, toast spread with ketchup was called ‘pizza’, and boiled lettuce with soya sauce was called ‘salad’.   Assimilation is his middle name.   Asian ‘fusion’ cuisine is his game.

But chill – perhaps it’s possible that despite it all (and oh there’s so much more … so so much more), it can be argued that I have ended up stable, demure and respectable.  Always composed.  Always refined.  Never out of control.  Never caught off guard.  ‘Only god can judge me’ – Tupac Shakur.