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iPhone Friday #17
27 Friday Apr 2012
Posted iPhone Fridays, It's A Gay World
in27 Friday Apr 2012
Posted iPhone Fridays, It's A Gay World
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26 Thursday Apr 2012
Posted Absolutely Thursdays, It's A Gay World
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26 Thursday Apr 2012
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I am not to blame. Though that is a motto that has served me well in life, in this instance it was true. Still relatively new to Bangkok, and definitely still a newbie to the world of Bangkok’s gay gogo bars, I assumed they all were basically the same. I assumed they all worked alike. Peddling flesh isn’t rocket science and someone figured out all the angles centuries ago. Sticking to the basics works best: offer hot flesh, grab the cash. But then I’d failed to take into account the three First Principles that have always guided the Asiatic mind: never look a cop in the eye; if it slithers you should eat it; and money is the root of all evil only if you don’t have any. And I’d not yet learned the universal truth that a farang and his money are soon parted.
In those days Sukhumvit was my beat. Even when chasing the exotic, the familiar has an undeniable draw. The first hotel I stayed at in Bangkok was along Sukhumvit. I liked the area. It was convenient, there were plenty of taxis available (the BTS was still years away), there was cool shopping just outside the hotel door at night, and the ride over to Patpong cost less than a buck. The ladyboy population was almost nonexistent then too, and since visiting gay gogo bars was still a new thing to me there didn’t seem any good reason to hunt for accommodations elsewhere. The neighborhood fit my needs well.
Back then finding a gogo bar still required a bit of a hunt even in Patpong. There was no soi filled with less than salubrious establishments whispering promises of sexual fulfillment that would make a porn star blush as there are today. But the allure of cheap sex worked its magic fairly quickly on me and it wasn’t long before I started the hunt for a bar closer to my hotel, a handy spot to grab a boy before the more serious night time trip to Patpong rolled around.
In those days there was a small bar on Sukhumvit that did little to entice passersby to drop in. Windows that hadn’t been cleaned since the king was crowned refused to offer up a glimpse of what might be waiting inside. The door was always open, a halfhearted attempt at welcome with as much impact as a sparrow’s belch in a typhoon thanks to its efforts being foiled by a dingy black curtain blocking the entryway that allowed just enough noise to float out into the tepid air to let you know that despite looks there was some form of life happening within.
But then Barbiery, the hottest gay gogo bar in Patpong at the time, didn’t do much to welcome punters either. There you entered a long narrow bar staffed with a few lowlife locals whose entire reason for being seemed to be to hurry you along toward the partially hidden staircase at the back of the bar that led upward to what would either be heaven on earth or an unexpected and possibly violent death. If not yours than at least your wallet’s. Having survived that trip on more than one occasion, and in dire need of a blow job, the small bar’s dour and dingy appearance failed to keep me from entering.
Sometimes initial appearances can be deceiving. This wasn’t one of them. The bar’s interior was dim, lit only by a few low-watt bulbs hanging from the ceiling and a string of Christmas tree lights – the only hint that the place might serve a gay clientele – that would have twinkled in the early evening light if they’d had any twinkle left in them. Inside it was hotter than out on the street, the floor was done in peeling linoleum that might have once been gray, and the whole place smelled of sweat, the efflux of the crapulent who’d visited in the past, and moldy wood. It was a narrow, low-roofed space, with plumbing lines serving as a ceiling and insect eaten wooden walls keeping the neighboring dives at bay. A rickety counter toward the front – at best guess the bar – divided the room from a small factory space in the rear, where a rag-tag group of brown-eyed boys in jeans and T-shirts worked an ancient karaoke machine, deep in debate over which favorite would be played next.
Huh. I’d wandered into a host bar. I’d read about them, but had not yet experienced one. And if this place was any indication of the promise they held, I hoped I’d never stumble upon one again.
But my little head won the day as it so often does and I grabbed a stool at the bar and ordered a beer. Management, having saved money by not having refrigeration, served a snack with my luke-warm brew; a tiny winged creature was struggling to stay afloat in it and looked about to lose the fight at any moment. Meanwhile the boys in the back continued their debate over the best tune to put on, or possibly it was an argument over how to make the magic genie in the machine do his thing.
Realizing even the locals are smart enough to demand their insect snacks be fried first, I gave up on my beer, then looking for an excuse to wander back to where the boys were, headed to what turned out to be the filthiest, foulest, and fetidest toilet in all of SE Asia. Fortunately I didn’t need to use the facilities, my visit had been a ruse, and excuse to saunter nonchalantly past the staff, an opportunity to surreptitiously check each of them out. Unfortunately in the quick few gag-worthy seconds I’d been inside the head the boys got their karaoke machine to spin a tune. And one of them joined in, letting loose with that Asian-falsetto howling that makes you think of a castrato in a wheelchair falling down a fire escape. Thai music hurts your ears the way it hurts when you accidently staple your tongue to the wall. My atavistic instincts kicked in and urged me to flee.
I’d been in the bar for about twenty minutes and so far none of the boys had paid the least bit of attention to me. But like a night market vendor’s desperation when you start walking away before the sale is concluded, my heading toward the exit brought the group to life. A hand reached out as I passed by stopping me long enough for a greeting to be made. “My name Tick,” came a sing-song cadence barely floating in the air. Somewhat dubious of what a Tick would look like, my eyes followed the dusky brown skinned hand up a well-formed arm and into a vapid pair of dark brown eyes that promised a world of pleasure, a world of delight, a world of my wildest fantasies brought to life. Or at least a night with a beautiful Thai boy seraphically free of pesky gag reflexes. I was sold.
Tick had exhausted his command of English in greeting me. No probelmo, I wasn’t interested in debating world affairs with him. Even back then, in my early days of haunting the flesh pots of Bangkok, I’d learned to deal with expectations up front. Using universal sign language for the acts that my soul required, I confirmed that Tick was both willing and able, paid the bar fine, and headed home, a short stroll down the soi to my hotel with Tick following closely behind.
I had a quickie in mind, a short short-time off, a wham bang, thanks, here’s some baht now leave proposition. Tick had a different idea. Settling into the room he turned on the TV using the remote to set the volume to stun. Sitting on the flow at the foot of the bed, he compressed his lips and put on a truculent expression, immediately sinking deep into his personal misery and radiating broadband resentment. I know the whore with a heart of gold is but a fantasy, but I expected, at the very lease, a false sense of bravado, possibly even an insincere attempt at looking as though he might enjoy what was to come. But then his extreme pout made it easier to move things along, so no foul. “Shower,” I told him.
Tick cranked his dour expression up to a level he’d been busy perfecting since the age of three. But he’d been in the game long enough to know when the customer is ready further delay won’t cut it. He showered. I showered. We hopped into bed. I don’t know why either of us bothered. I’ve seen bread harder than his dick was. His desultory attempt at a hand job proved he’d learned his technique from milking the family’s cow back home. He gave the word dud and entirely new meaning. And left me feeling more frustrated than an Amish Electrician.
Time is a relative concept, as either Einstein or my first bar boy once pointed out. I began to consider how lucky premature ejaculators are when Tick’s cellphone buzzed at him from the teak wood nightstand next to us, skittering across the gleaming wood like a shiny black cockroach. Saved by the bell, or in this case a poor monophonic rendition of Just Beat It, Tick had to go and even though I’d not yet come his hasty departure seemed the best use of both of our time.
I’ve never considered my off with Tick to count toward the worst sex I’ve ever had. Mainly because our time together really didn’t count as sex. I did consider it a lesson and avoided host bars from there on in. Not that staying clear of host bars in Bangkok is a difficult trick. For the gay farang customer, they are few and far between. Gogo bars are more lively, the stable of boys usually more numerous, and you get a much better idea of who you are hopefully getting into. As Soi Twilight grew into the destination for gay punters, it filled with gogo bars. There was no good reason to search out a host bar for your night of fun.
But times change, the world evolves, and even in Thailand they make some concession to demands of the market. Caucasian customers are no longer the primary source of income on the soi, Asians from surrounding countries are becoming the norm. And while they enjoy cheap sex as much as Westerners do, they have a much more healthy respect for money. At least for theirs. Host bars, where drinks are cheaper, off fees are less, and tips are half the price of what those working their trade in gogo bars expect, are becoming the latest hot venue of the soi. One popped up a year or so ago, and several others have joined in since bringing new life to what had started to look like a dying scene.
I’ve got the Bangkok gay gogo bar paradigm down to a science. I know what to expect and what is expected from me. Through experience I can tell which boys will be duds and which will rock my world. Navigating the world of host bars is a different matter. The basics are the same, and maybe now the experience is too. But my history with host bars, as brief as it was, still sounds a note of caution. Part of me still balks at trying a host bar again. But then maybe, like the soi, I need to evolve. Maybe I need to give the host bar scene a second chance. Maybe doing so will be just different enough of an experience to bring back some of the old excitement that used to course through my veins when I hit Bangkok.
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25 Wednesday Apr 2012
Posted It's A Gay World, Wednesday Wetness
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25 Wednesday Apr 2012
Posted It's A Gay World, XXX Games
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You’ll have to excuse me if today’s post seems a bit off. My mind is preoccupied with learning how to pronounce ‘Kekkon shite kuremasu ka’ properly ‘cuz I just found out Japanese hunk and Olympic Gold Medal winner Koji Murofushi trains but a forty-five minute drive from my house. I know, the outcome of Prop 8 is still up in the air and same sex marriage isn’t legal in California yet, nor is it I’m sure in Japan, but it’s the thought that counts. Besides, I couldn’t find a translation for, “I want to ride you hard and put you away wet.”
Koji, for those of you who are not familiar with him – which is fine by me ‘cuz I saw him first and already called dibbs – is the Beijing Games Gold Medalist in the hammer throw. Forget Thor, with features fit for the gods on Mount Olympus, Koji is a pure hunk, a world champion, and at the age of 36 not married – but has a video floating around of him at a gay bar in Nagayo. So if there is a god he might just play with balls other than those he wins medal with. And if all it takes is a medal to stir his interest that can be arranged.
The 6’ 3” stud is a rock star in Japan. Anything and everything he does makes the news. Endorsements keep flowing his way right along with medals and trophies. He signed on as a spokesman for FedEx and there even is an action figure of him in his FedEx uniform. And showing a complete understanding of what his fans want, he recently posed for a series of semi-nude photos for a book The Lonely King, 144 pages of pictures dedicated to his hotness (of which 0 can be found on the internet. Trust me I looked. So if anyone in Japan wants to make a real nice American a happy camper, scan those suckers and email them to me please!)
Koji competes in both the discus and hammer throw, though it is the latter that gains him the accolades and championship titles. In Japan that comes as no surprise. His father, Shigenobu, is known as the Iron Man of Asia and is an Olympic hammer thrower himself. Pops held the Japanese record in the hammer throw for 23 years until his son broke it, and Koji’s sister, Yuka , throws both hammer and discus too (she won the 2000 silver and 2005 bronze in the Asian Championships). And just to complete the family who competes together picture, Moms, Serafiuna, is a Romanian-born javelin thrower and was the European Junior champion in 1968, and Romanian senior champion in 1970. As well as being partially responsible for Koji’s good looks.
While throwing things on the field is a family affair, Shigenobu laid out some pretty big shoes for his son to fill. The last time the senior Murofushi set a new Japanese record was when he was 38-years-old. And Koji just became the oldest gold medalist at the World Championships at the age of 36. You’d think there’d be some serious father-son rivalry going on in the clan, but their respect and love for each other shines through. “I’ve been greatly influenced by my father, who is also an Olympian. I want to thank my father,” Murofushi says now, although he went through a rebellious phase in college. After watching his son throw at the World Championships last summer, Shigenobu told reporters, “I think he’s getting closer to the essence of what hammer throwing is. He throws the hammer like it’s very light.”
Standing next to his father, the younger Murofushi smiled and joked, “It’s not that light, you know.”
Shigenobu Murofushi, now 66-years-old, has been by his son’s side throughout his athletic career. During competitions, he always sits in the stands just behind the hammer throwing area. Many Japanese think that father and son worked extensively together, since Shigenobu was also a four-time Olympian hammer thrower who kept breaking his own Japanese records. But Shigenobu did not push young Koji, never teaching his son more than he felt was necessary. “I taught him the basics, but I let him think for himself the rest of the way,” Shigenobu says.
It appeared Shigenobu’s hands-off approach paid off when Koji won the gold medal for hammer throw at the 2004 Olympics. But that win was not without controversy. Throughout the competition in Athens, Koji was in second place. Getting his best mark in the final round, it appeared he’d won the silver medal. But Adrián Annus, (no, really, I didn’t make that name up) was called back for a second round of drug tests. He’s passed his initial tests both before and after the competition but after his training partner Róbert Fazekas was disqualified from the discus for failing his drug tests the officials asked for a new test from Annus. He refused and when the Olympic Committee had his tests reanalyzed it was revealed the samples had come from two different people. He was disqualified and Koji was awarded the gold medal.
Four years later at the Beijing Games the use of performance enhancing drugs again appeared to be what would move Koji up in the medal rankings. He finished in the fifth spot but the silver and bronze medalists, both from Belarus, were disqualified in December 2008 for testing positive for abnormal levels of testosterone. Their medals were then awarded to Koji and Krisztián Pars of Hungary. The Belarusians appealed the IOC’s decision and in June of 2010 the Court of Arbitration for Sport ruled that due to errors at the Chinese medical laboratory the disqualified Belarusians should get their original medals back.
Since winning the gold medal at the 2004 Athens Olympics, Murofushi has been plagued with back and related problems, which caused him to miss the 2005 and 2009 world championships. After years of steady improvement and a stream of medal wins, he only finished sixth in 2007 in Osaka and, after the give and take of medals, lost out at the Beijing Olympics in 2008 too.
But at the 2009 Japanese Championships, Murofushi retained his national title, winning his fifteenth consecutive championships at that event. He increased his title total again the following year and though he limited his season to only one other competition besides the Japan Championship in 2011, he won the national title again, extending his record run to 17 consecutive titles.
Koji’s gold medal win at the 13th IAAF World Athletics Championships, held in South Korea last August, makes him Japan’s first three-time medalist and a candidate for a second Olympic gold in this year’s London Games and, at the age of 36, the oldest man to win a world title in the men’s hammer throw.
For Murofushi, the gold medal was the culmination of a detailed plan put together by him and Swedish coach Tore Gustafsson that ensured he would be in peak condition coming into the World Championships at Daegu.
“After 30 years old, you cannot push every competition,” said the newly crowned world champion. “Maybe it’s my problem, …maybe for everyone, but to keep all the competition at the top level is almost impossible.”
His age continues to be a factor and to prepare for the London Games, Koji is training with Gustafsson and two U.S.-based trainers who are helping make sure his 37-year-old body is a finely tuned machine. Physical trainer Masaya Sakihana’s focus is on core muscle maintenance. Working with Murofushi since 2009, when Sakihana first met Koji, he says he believed the right side of Murofushi’s body was weak. “I think that was because throwing the hammer involves throwing from one side all the time,” Sakihana says.
Sakihana focused on strengthening Murofushi’s right gluteal muscles (something I’d like to focus on myself). He also trained Murofushi in proper breathing methods. There is a plan for helping Murofushi do his best at the Olympics,” Sakihana says. “It’s our job to implement that strategy.”
While his trainers focus on the physical, Koji is attuned to the metaphysical. “Tools have spirits and we can feel them through touch,” he says. “I brush my hammer with soap every day. I even experimented with different brands of soaps and brushes to see which were the best for it. How could I just leave it there, full of dirt?”
And at times Koji sounds like he channels Chevy Chase, in this case by being one with a ball that for some odd reason is called a hammer. “I talk to the hammer all the time,” he says. “Hey, buddy, good job! We made it. We worked really hard to get here. Now can you give me some power, please? I’ll do my best, too. It supports me a lot. If my condition is bad, it gives me the extra strength I need.”
The still single hunk says he’s not a macho guy. “I’m afraid of everything!” he says jokingly but then quickly clarifies: “But I am sensitive.” Some fans have noticed that air of sensitivity about Koji and have equated it with his being gay, noting that he’s never been known to be in a relationship – though he does have two cats – and that his current George Micheals getting whammed look totally fits what the Japanese expect of a gay bear. And then there is the YouTube video of Koji out for a night of fun at a gay bar in Nagoya, the Elephant’s nest, from back in 2008.
Off the field – and out of gay bars too – you immediately sense Koji’s passion for his sport, for his family, and for his country. He made several visits to the earthquake devastated coast of Japan last year, offering his moral support to the victims and families struggling to cope with the aftermath of the quake and nuclear power plant melt-down. The flag he held aloft after winning his gold medal at the World Championships bore inscriptions from students from the area whom he had visited and spent time with last year. And his sense of community spills over to include an Olympic tie-in too.
Koji has been keeping the Olympic legacy alive at the Tokyo National Stadium by polishing the Olympic cauldron. Murofushi hopes to see the Games awarded back to Tokyo and the fire ablaze again in its Olympic cauldron. Last year he learned that the son of Mannosuke Suzuki, creator of the 1964 cauldron, had passed away so he volunteered to take up the cause. The late son of the creator had been polishing the cauldron annually to maintain his father’s contribution to the 1964 Games.
“I was deeply moved by the story of a family carrying the Olympic legacy from generation to generation. So I decided to offer my time to keep the tradition alive,” says Koji, a supporter of the Tokyo 2016 Olympics host city bid. “Tokyo has been profoundly shaped by the Olympic Games, so it will be an honor to have a direct role in keeping the shine on the cauldron as well as the Olympic legacy.”
One of the key elements of the Tokyo 2016 plan was to reutilize many of the 1964 venues celebrating the Japanese Olympic legacy and to keep the bid plan more sustainable. Bid CEO Dr. Ichiro Kono said: “Koji Murofushi’s inspiring action shows how athletes – the lifeblood of the Olympic movement – make such special contributions to the Olympic legacy.”
With his recent world champion title, it is expected that Koji will be the gold medal winner at the London Games. Koji is humble about his chances. “I know that I give 100 percent, so whether I get a medal or not, the gold is already inside of me,” he says.
The hammer throw is not one of the crowd pleasing events at the Olympics. The competition is short, the rounds quick. But the event will be televised this year, and I’ll be glued to the screen, undoubtedly along with most of the nation of Japan. In the meantime I need to get my ass down to San Jose and meet Koji in person. On the drive I’ll keep practicing my new mantra, my latest linguistic plea to use when I meet him, ““Boku o sekai-ichi shiawase na otoko ni shite.”
[‘The XXX Games’ are a series of posts about hot Olympians, gay competitors – both present and past – and general articles about the 2012 London Olympics of interest to gay men. So, yeah, lots of hot male eye candy. Click the XXX Games graphic above for additional news, stories, and pictures.]
24 Tuesday Apr 2012
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24 Tuesday Apr 2012
Posted It's A Gay World
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The current point of contention in American politics is whether eating dog or strapping one to the roof of your car is worse. Good thing our economy is doing so well that we can concentrate on the things that really matter. Mitt for Brains is the strapee, not realizing when his wife mentioned using a strap on she wasn’t talking about the dog. And President Obama is the one being attacked for eating dog meat as a child in Indonesia. Granted, puppy is not a staple on American dinner tables. But other countries have a more realistic opinion of meat sources, and Fido becomes a ready food option when you are starving.
I can understand how a multi-billionaire whose stay at home mom wife has to attempt to keep the dozen of houses they own straight might look down on someone less fortunate who had to make do with dog for dinner, but that doesn’t exactly endear him to the masses. And you’d think since he has a problem with being endeared by his own party members he might be a bit more circumspect in trying to find favor with the undecided. But ‘out of touch’ seems to be the one issue Mitt doesn’t flip flop on. Of course if he really wanted to attack the President for his culinary choices as a child he should have gone with the bugs. ‘Cuz all Americans will agree that eating insects is just plain gross.
That our opinion of crunchy critters is not shared in other parts of the world quickly becomes apparent when you visit most countries in SE Asia. Not to mention the rest of Asia and most of South America too. The consumption of insects, or entomophagy, has been around for thousands of years. It is estimated that more than half the people of the world eat a variety of flying, crawling, and biting bugs. And that might include Republicans too. But don’t tell Mitt, that’s a photo op we really don’t need to see.
Bugs are definitely on the menu in places like Thailand, Cambodia, Vietnam, and Indonesia. And it’s not just the poor – who have no choice in the matter – who like to chow down on bugs. The perimeter of the Weekend Market in Bangkok is filled with food carts offering the very finest in insect snacks. And the lines of locals waiting to buy a bagful should tip you off that to Thais, at least, bugs are good for you. Visiting Americans might try one for the ewwww factor and a gross photo op. But back home? No way. We’d never eat bugs. At least not those that haven’t been approved by our government for human consumption.
The United States Food and Drug Administration’s Center for Food Safety and Applied Nutrition details acceptable levels of food contamination from sources such as maggots, thrips, insect fragments, ‘foreign matter’, maggots, mold, rodent hairs, and insect and mammalian feces in its publication The Food Defect Action Levels: Levels of natural or unavoidable defects in foods that present no health hazards for humans. It’s the government’s go-to manual on how many bugs you can include in your food product. And it’s a lot. Lisa Monachelli, director of youth and family programs at New Canaan Nature Center in Connecticut says, “It’s estimated that the average American eats one pound of insects each year unintentionally.”
Canned mushrooms, for example, may have “over 20 or more maggots of any size per 100 grams of drained mushrooms and proportionate liquid” or “five or more maggots two millimeters or longer per 100 grams of drained mushrooms and proportionate liquid” or an “average of 75 mites” before provoking action by the FDA. And if you feel the need to spice up your dish of ‘shrooms, curry powder is allowed 100 or more bug bits per 25 grams; ground thyme up to 925 insect fragments per 10 grams; ground pepper up to 475 insect parts per 50 grams; and 80 or more insect fragments per 10 grams of ground cinnamon is cool with our government. So next time you order a mocha latte frappe grande whatever whatever from Starbucks, with cinnamon on top, know that along with way too many calories you’re also getting your daily dose of bugs.
But then if you tried to play it safe, passed on the cinnamon topped drinks at Starbucks, and ordered a Strawberry Frappuccino instead, thanks to the company’s attempt to go green that red coloring used in your brew is from cochineal beetles, a commonly used natural food coloring; the small, scaled bugs are listed as cochineal extract on ingredient lists. Starbucks switched from artificial dyes to bugs in January when it aggressively moved away from the use of any artificial ingredients in its food and drinks. Now, several months later they’ve made a switch again thanks to an uprising over their addition of insects to their menu. But it wasn’t the grossness of serving up bugs that caused the PR nightmare. Nope, instead it was thanks to PETA who objected to the use of bugs on behalf of the vegans of the world. That almost makes you want to cry in your beer. Unless you are aware that just 10 grams of hops could have as many as 2,500 aphids in it.
Starbucks is moving to a tomato-based extract to put the red in its Raspberry Swirl Cake, Birthday Cake Pop, Mini Donut with pink icing, and Red Velvet Whoopie Pie. So no more cochineal beetles to go with your morning caffeine fix. But that may mean a protein upgrade: maggots abound in tomato-based foods like canned tomatoes, tomato paste, and pizza sauces. Which makes the 30 fly eggs in each 100 grams of tomato sauce hardly worth mentioning. Besides, no Starbucks drink worth its salt (you don’t want to know) fails to include a healthy does of chocolate, which can have up to 60 insect fragments per 100 grams and still be in compliance with FDA regulations.
You may pass on the crap they sell as coffee at Starbucks, and limit your chocolate intake too, not just to avoid eating insects but out of a concern for healthy eating. And what could be more healthy than vegetables? Frozen or canned asparagus, frozen broccoli, and frozen Brussels sprouts all are packing tiny little winged parasites called thrips. And spinach, broccoli, and Brussels sprouts all have aphids in them too. That frozen spinach is also loaded with caterpillar larvae and larval fragments. And now you know what was giving Popeye all that strength. And why he got all hard over that bug eyed bitch Olive Oil.
Oh, and fruit? Buy a can of citrus juice, and you’ll be swilling five fruit flies with every 8 ounce cup of juice. Grab an 8 ounce handful of raisins and you could be eating as many as 35 fruit-fly eggs. And larvae and/or larval fragments whose aggregate length exceeds 5 mm are allowed in every 12 pounds of canned or frozen peaches.
Eating bugs may not sound as gross as chowing down on doggie, and certainly doesn’t sound as bad as eating pink slime (rejected fat, sinew, bloody effluvia, and occasional bits of meat cut from carcasses in the slaughterhouse) an industry and food product which the country’s leading Republicans are all firmly behind. But then since a mere 10 years ago pink slime was considered only fit for dog food, maybe the idea of eating dog isn’t all that gross after all. And as for eating bugs, don’t be surprised when the next time you are dining out and you complain, “Waiter there’s a fly in my soup!” that it’s a non-event.
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23 Monday Apr 2012
Posted Dancing With the Devil, Eye Candy
in≈ Comments Off on Happy Earth Day!
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I know. I’m a day late. Yesterday was Earth Day, the day each year we are supposed to go hug a tree or something. Seemed more appropriate to me to celebrate with a different kind of appreciation of nature, so here’s Earth Anuwat, Thai model and all around hottie. Now do you forgive me for being tardy?
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