Monthly Archives: December 2004


I have this the­o­ry that there’s no myth to the female orgasm. There are some who can have one and some who can’t. Most of the girls I’ve dat­ed have been able to achieve cli­max (or have led me to believe so), but there was one who nev­er did and nev­er seemed to care. There is no set attribute for all women.

This may be sup­port­ed by the fact that it’s the same with the types of orgasms, which vary not only from woman to woman, but from each occur­ring time as well. Some are implo­sive, some are explo­sive. Some are cen­tered in a region, some affect the entire body. Some cause lethar­gy, some cause ener­gy.

I think the abil­i­ty to have an orgasm is most­ly men­tal. The girl­friend who nev­er had one was a stone in bed, and I lat­er real­ized that she had the men­tal capac­i­ty to match.

Another girl­friend was of a sim­i­lar demeanour, but I could tell that she had the abil­i­ty to be taught at the right time, and the right per­son would have the patience to teach her the right things. I find that men­tal­ly strong girls are the ones who have the best orgasms. They’re also the most fun, because they know what they like and they aren’t afraid to ask for it, allow­ing for a lot of explo­ration. It was only when I met a strong girl that I was com­fort­able push­ing her body, com­fort­able fig­ur­ing out what she liked. She had the best orgasms, and she’s the only one I know who’s been able to have two very dif­fer­ent, very dis­tinct orgasms in a row, or orgasms that would last longer than a minute.

Even the expres­sions after­wards are unique, whether it’s a joc­u­lar look of “Don’t touch me, I’m over­stim­u­lat­ed” or bewil­dered “What the FUCK did you just do?” or “Give me a minute, I can’t feel my brain”. Guys are total­ly dif­fer­ent. Their expres­sions are linked to their orgasms, and they only have two: the angry face (aggres­sive, dom­i­nant, empow­er­ing), and the con­fused face (soft, whim­per­ing, almost sor­ry, à la Ben Stiller in There’s Something About Mary).

But that’s just my the­o­ry.

A New Breed Of Comment Spam

I’ve been bom­bard­ed (about 50 a day) by a new kind of spam com­ment late­ly. It’s been slip­ping through my MT-Blacklist fil­ters, because it cre­ates intel­li­gi­ble sen­tences by vary­ing verbs (like “check” and “vis­it”) and nouns (like “site” and “pages”). Sometimes, when I’m brows­ing through oth­er sites I see the same spam com­ments, so I fig­ured I would post the reg­u­lar expres­sion I wrote to block it in case any­one hap­pens to be search­ing for one, like the one I wrote a few months ago.

(check|visit)[\w\-_.]*(pages|sites|information|info)[\w\-_. ]*

This has been the most dif­fi­cult spam vari­a­tion I’ve had to deal with. The one weak­ness of most com­ment spam is that it’s bound to a sta­t­ic web­site address. Since spam is usu­al­ly gen­er­at­ed through robots, there are pat­terns that can be matched in order to block it. The key is fig­ur­ing out what the pat­tern is, whether it may be a reoc­cur­ring IP address (very unlike­ly and unre­li­able), or a reoc­cur­ring web­site address (most like­ly). This one is dif­fer­ent though, because the adver­tised web­sites keep chang­ing. Not only that, but the sen­tences used to present the site are also incon­sis­tent. The pat­tern, as a result, is more com­plex.

The Shirt Tucking-In

I’ve start­ed tuck­ing in my shirt. The only two times that I remem­ber tuck­ing were both at wed­dings; Dr. Lea’s and Jono’s. I did­n’t even tuck for my cous­in’s wed­ding, even after (or should I say, espe­cial­ly after) a chid­ing from Priscilla’s unpleas­ant boyfriend. Admittedly, I have a very thin waist, and tuck­ing always makes me look extreme­ly skin­ny. I don’t always tuck now, just when I’m wear­ing a dress shirt with cer­tain new v‑neck sweaters. If I don’t tuck, the sweaters end up bunch­ing up odd­ly around my mid-sec­tion and make me look even skin­nier.

I don’t mind it so far, although it feels a lit­tle odd to have so much mate­r­i­al stuffed into my pants, like I have a skirt on under­neath (not that I have ANY idea what that feels like, or ever pre­tend­ed I was Candice Bergen from Attenborough’s Gandhi after find­ing a cache of my moth­ers old clothes as a con­fused ado­les­cent). I’ve always been most com­fort­able with the casu­al untucked-shirt with tie or blaz­er style. I’ve been against tuck­ing for so long that it feels like I’ve sold out, start­ed lay­ing down to the prover­bial “man”, but real­ly, I’ve only start­ed to tuck my shirt in on occa­sion.

I’ve also start­ed try­ing to sit up straight. I think that pos­ture is an impor­tant part of self-image, and real­ized that I’m con­fi­dent enough now to project it. My par­ents would always tell me to keep my shoul­ders back, because they’re gen­er­al­ly for­ward in a sleazy slouch. I’ve been try­ing to go cold turkey and not slouch at all, instead of only sit­ting straight when I feel rest­ed. The great­est chal­lenge is sit­ting up straight while eat­ing soup. The extra dis­tance the spoon has to trav­el to the mouth is scary, and after a while, I end up slouch­ing again to pre­vent stray drip­pings from mak­ing large splash­es.


I wrote this on the bus this morn­ing:

I wrote this on the bus this morn­ing. I gen­er­al­ly hate writ­ing on the bus because it always seems so pompous. I don’t like to come off as some­one who thinks he’s an impor­tant writer, or as some­one who’s look­ing for atten­tion. Then I try to tell myself not to care what oth­er peo­ple think, because the fact is that all I’m doing is writ­ing in a note­book. And then I pull out my note­book.

The note­book itself, how­ev­er, may be the impor­tant detail. I bought a new ruled, pock­et Moleskine to keep track of my ideas. It cost me a pret­ty pen­ny, but I’m hop­ing it’ll last me a while. What I used to do was use a text file saved on my desk­top when at my com­put­er, or my Dominion Blueline A9 (com­ing in at a hefty 9 1/4″ x 7 1/4″) when trav­el­ling. The Moleskine is per­fect because it’s small enough to car­ry on the bus, and too small (a pock­et-fill­ing 3.5 x 5.5 inch­es) for oth­er peo­ple to read over my shoul­der. I can’t stand it when oth­er pas­sen­gers nosi­ly glance at my words.

It has a rib­bon to keep track of the cur­rent page, a small pock­et in the back to keep loose items, an elas­tic to keep the pages togeth­er and pre­vent dam­age, and some of the smoothest uncoat­ed paper I’ve ever used. Perfectly, all of the things I look for in a note­book. This does­n’t mean that I’m going to leave my A9 in desue­tude; I’ve rel­e­gat­ed it to keep­ing track of mis­cel­la­neous notes, lists, songs, etc., recent­ly the only task I have been using it for. The Moleskines also come with a lit­tle card in the back explain­ing an inter­est­ing his­to­ry:

It is two cen­turies now that Moleskine has been the leg­endary note­book of European artists and intel­lec­tu­als, from Van Gogh to Henri Matisse, from the expo­nents of the his­tor­i­cal avant-garde move­ments to Ernest Hemingway. Many are the sketch­es and notes, ideas and emo­tions that have been jot­ted down and har­boured in this trust­wor­thy pock­et-size trav­el com­pan­ion before being turned into famous pic­tures or the pages of beloved books.

This long-stand­ing tra­di­tion was con­tin­ued by writer-trav­eller Bruce Chatwin who used to buy his Moleskines at a Paris sta­tionery shop in Rue de l’Ancienne Comedie where he would always stock up before embark­ing on one of his jour­neys. Over the years he had devel­oped a ver­i­ta­ble rit­u­al. Before using them he would in fact num­ber the pages, writ­ing on the inside his name and at least two address­es across the world, and a mes­sage promis­ing a reward for any­one find­ing and return­ing the note­book in case of it being lost.

He even sug­gest­ed this method to his friend Luis Sepulveda, when he gave him a pre­cious Moleskine as a present for a jour­ney they were plan­ning to under­take togeth­er in Patagonia. And there was no doubt as to how pre­cious it was, giv­en that at the time even the last Moleskine man­u­fac­tur­er, a small fam­i­ly-run firm of Tours, had dis­con­tin­ued pro­duc­tion in 1986. “Le vrai mole­sk­ine n’est plus” was the short and curt state­ment of the own­er of the sta­tionery shop where Chatwin had ordered one hun­dred before leav­ing for Australia. Despite hav­ing lit­er­al­ly swept up all the mole­sk­ines he could find, they were not enough.

Now, the Moleskine is back again. This silent and dis­creet keep­er of an extra­or­di­nary tra­di­tion which has been miss­ing for years has set out again on its jour­ney. A wit­ness to con­tem­po­rary nomadism, it can once again pass from one pock­et to anoth­er to con­tin­ue the adven­ture.

The sequel still waits to be writ­ten and its blank pages are ready to tell the sto­ry.

Now I feel free to do this. Write what I want, when I want, where I want. I love writ­ing in this thing.

I’m back.

This Is Why You're Not Allowed (Save It)

This is the rit­u­al.

We meet. Usually by Greyhound.

We get stoned. In the car, in the park, or in the apart­ment.

This is what we’ve been sav­ing for. What we’ve cho­sen to deny our­selves of, until the present com­pa­ny, so that the expe­ri­ence is more intense. The rea­son why we’ve with­held for so long.

We intro­duce to each oth­er what we’ve dis­cov­ered on our own. Songs. Videos. Experiences.

There is no pride. No bias. No judg­ment.

We cher­ish these times. These week­ends. These mem­o­ries.

When we can grow from one anoth­er.

Because we’ve grown from our­selves.