Jun Dishes

verb/diSH/ : food or sex or gossip or fiction in real life

Home » Articles posted by Jun Song (Page 5)

My Secret To Getting Shit Done: I Expect To Be Disappointed by Nouns


There are too many blogs out there already telling you what I’m about to tell you. But I’ve been asked and so I’ll blog. But I’ll cut out all the cotton candy bullshit and tell you how I get shit done. Working hard and being resourceful and sacrificing free time to get shit done is all nice and a given but…

My secret to getting shit done is: I expect to be disappointed by nouns.


You expect to be disappointed by nouns. Nouns? Yes, by people, animals, places, things, qualities, ideas, or actions, according to Merriam-Webster. Not all at once, and not all to the same degree, but you’d better expect it and plan for it, or you will lose more often than you win. This includes yourself. We are our own worst critics. But if you believe in your bones that you will be disappointed, then it’s easier to get to a place where you’re already thinking of alternatives and Plans B and C. That’s the key to getting shit done. If you set big goals, then you need big balls when disappointments start flying your way.

I swear I’m not a pessimist, although sometimes I might sound like one, but in fact I’m an eternal optimist. When events arise when my expectations are met and even exceeded, then Hallelujah there must be a God after all. There are brilliant and capable nouns out there but they’re indeed needles in that proverbial haystack. But those people and things below your level will always be there and if you act surprised or break when they disappoint you, then you won’t get shit done. Basically.

Maybe you’re opening a business and your printer didn’t meet one or more of your deadlines. Perhaps you were insulted by a representative of a national household brand name with nobody to defend you. And what if your idea or artwork was stolen by someone else, or you never got credit for hard work you did? Or you find out you’ve been cheated out of money that’s rightfully yours? And what if…

Who cares?! You should care. Nobody else has to. If actions speak louder than words then no blog can help you get shit done. It’s up to you to move on from disappointments and not take them personally.

In fact, Noah and I decided to demonstrate what this looks like.


Last night having an “oh well” moment.

I’m not saying the world is doomed, although it’s spinning and jerking out of control sporadically, and I’m not saying I don’t believe in nouns. I love nouns! I care about nouns. I gave birth to a noun! I am a noun.

I’m just saying that the reality is, nouns will disappoint you. The better you deal with it, the better you get at getting more shit done. Wasting your time wallowing is the worst thing you could do. You don’t have to expect the unexpected. Just expect to be disappointed, and disappointed by nouns.

Then keep it moving.

Always dishing,


The Pace of Belgium is Looney Tunes


At the end of the day, Rice House is hell and glory for my husband Davy and me alone. Hell, because of the actual risk and budget involved. Glory, because it’s the start of new legacy for us as a family. Davy and I want to prove that it’s possible to stumble upon an opportunity and by humble means with our own two hands, turn it into a dream manifested.


But comparing what it’s like to run a business in Belgium versus in America, would be like what Wile E. Coyote is to The Road Runner. Belgium’s infamous for its red tape and complicated structure and processes, and overall slower pace of life. It’s not that Belgians are slow in mind, but there is no instant-anything as a lifestyle, compared to the States, where almost everything service-oriented is instant or “at least” within 24-hours.

There is no Amazonin Belgium! I’ve been living without Seamless and the always-open bodegas of Manhattan, and Duane Reade and CVS and Chinatown at 4am! But my life is different now. I miss little things about my New York life, but I love what is my life now in my little town of Evergem.

Especially being from New York, I’ve slowly lowered my expectations for anyone to hurry up and help me (except that one time I had a baby but then still, it took too long to get my epidural). Put simply, one of the side effects and beauties of living in a socialistic country is that…

Nobody is in no rush to do nothing for no one.

It’s probably a good thing because it would be harder otherwise, to get a moment like this captured by my hand…


Rice House: April 18, 2014

Rice House’s exterior got a makeover yesterday! Everything could have been done “yesterday” but it wasn’t. It doesn’t have to be.

Unlike in the States, there is no rat race or aggressive sales tactics here. Your own personal deadlines are you own and so you learn to set realistic ones given your surroundings. You don’t “demand to speak to the manager!” here because it’s just not that serious. Nothing is live or die when it comes to business transactions. They’re just business transactions. Everything is completed in a slow and civilized manner. I know this now. It’s taken me almost 3 years to adjust, and I’m still not all adjusted yet.

“When do you think it will be done? “How long will it take?” “Should I call back tomorrow?”

In the States, these questions and more are answered and followed-up on. Business is done. In Belgium, all you get is shoulder shrugging and an I don’t know we’ll have to see. So you wait. You wait a lot in Belgium.

For example, if you deposit cash at an ATM at the global bank you hold an account at, then the deposit is reflected in your account between 1 and 3 business days. These are banks with presence all over the world. True instant-banking is only beginning to make it’s way over here.

There is no instant-anything. I miss it but it’s just a part of living here. But if nobody’s breaking their necks, then that’s a good thing right?

We don’t want broken necks all over the place…except in cartoons maybe.

Wile E. Coyote never actually dies so I guess that’s a good thing for Belgium. It’s a good thing for Rice House. Davy and I, and our little Noah, are proud to bring to Ghent its first Korean eatery.


And when things get tough, this is what I remind myself and Davy to stay positive and less Looney Tunes.

Always dishing,


I’d Never Do That. I Couldn’t.


I’ve always been a risk-taker. Not for others, but for myself, a risk-taker.

Anyone who happens to come along for the ride gets to feel the effects good and bad.

Although she’ll deny it damn convincingly, my mother was also a risk-taker most of her life.



She left Korea for America, to give me a better life, and together owned a fruit and vegetable store with my father. I left America for Belgium, for a new life and to start a family, and now own a Korean takeout place called Rice House. Not exactly the same, but lots of risk-taking all over the place between two generations.

Just because you own a business doesn’t mean you’re rich. In fact, it means that you’ve probably invested most of what you had in life savings plus maybe a loan from the bank, and you’re now poorer than you were before. But you own a business! It’s pretty much the coolest thing ever after winning Big Brother and marrying Davy and having Noah, and still having fans who throw me love and support every day in different ways.

The risk is great but I choose to believe in my Korean heart that more often than not, the reward will be greater.

But…and I never thought I’d say this, my American citizenship is proving burdensome. More specifically, the IRS. I don’t understand people who say it’s “so complicated tax-wise” being an American expat anywhere, regardless of the country you were born in, because it’s actually not that complicated. You’re basically fucked. Any income must be paid in your country of residence, and also kicked back to the IRS. Even when I obtain my Belgian citizenship, I’ll be required to send a check to the IRS, plus…

I’m not eligible for a loan. As an American citizen you can’t get a loan in Belgium (and other EU countries I presume but I’m NO tax expert). As a Belgian married to an American citizen, my husband Davy can no longer take out a loan in his own country of birth Belgium. Crazy right?

The thing is, Davy and I haven’t taken out any loans since we’ve been married so we never knew we were ineligible in the first place. Belgians by nature don’t live on credit, unlike most Americans, and so we’ve always lived within our means. When I did my research before moving to Belgium, I didn’t anticipate opening Rice House or taking out loans. Maybe I should have. But maybe I was too busy packing to move here and getting shit translated at the Korean Consulate, and oh well.

And…it turns out Noah, by his American citizenship, is required by law to pay taxes in both countries as well. As soon as he’s old enough to work, he’ll have to pay taxes to a country he’s never even lived in let alone worked in. I guess that’s the cost for admission? Like a grand scale American Buyers Club without the drugs?

I’ve read articles recently, stating alarming numbers of Americans renouncing their citizenships and choosing to live abroad paying taxes where they reside yet cutting ties with the IRS. I’d never do that. I couldn’t. Give up my American citizenship?!

But I can see why some Americans would…

Nevertheless, Davy and I move forward counting pennies to the euro and we’ve made it thus far without a loan from the bank. We’d applied for less than $10,000, small in the grand scheme of starting up a business, yet we were shut down because of my American citizenship. Belgium and America are the best of friends that way it seems. They shut us out like mean girls.

Our accountant recommended something called the Win-Win Loan or WinWinLening open only to Belgians. It’s a 2.5% tax credit for a friend or member of the family who’d would loan money to me and Davy. This all sounded great but Davy and I laughed because we don’t have friends or family in Belgium, with money to invest in Rice House. I can’t imagine asking anyone struggling anyway, to lend us money. But if you do know a Belgian who’s got extra disposable income, then please do tell them about Rice House.

For now, I’m just literally watching every penny going into our business without compromising quality. I figure this is all just stuff to laugh about later. Right?

Always dishing,





Being Jun Malkovich, Kinda


The plan was really simple this morning.

My husband Davy and I, along with Noah, would have breakfast then go to Supra Bazar nearby (think smaller-scale rural Target store) to get a new bulb for the lamp in our aquarium and a sun shield for Noah’s side of the car. Then we were going to check out the fresh sushi station at a Carrefour nearby (think Food Emporium), in the name of Rice House research, and also to do some grocery shopping before returning home at which time I’d make lunch before Noah napped and Davy would prepare to go work the “afternoon shift.”

Easy breezy.

Now 12 hours later I sit here and I feel like a month has passed because it was not a simple morning at all.

Welcome to my brain…

Sure, we had breakfast and got to the Supra Bazar this morning, but they didn’t have the lamp we needed for our aquarium. But they did have a Bumba sun shield. Side Note: Davy scoffed and swore on his life before Noah was born, that he’d never ever get a “kiddie” sun shield for our car and well he did today.

We then had to stop at yet another store to get the lamp we needed, and by then Noah was getting hungry and tired. We trudged on, getting stuck in traffic because of construction on one side of the road and a fatal car accident on the other. We counted our blessings because we had just missed it.

Then we got stopped a little later by two fucking ducks. Two ducks, literally fucking, in the middle of a major road. Alas, I failed to capture the actual fornication because my iPhone was buried in my bag. But I did manage to catch the ducks waddling their walk of shame back over the barrier and into the canal from whence they came.


When we finally got to the Carrefour, housing the alleged fresh sushi station, there was no fresh sushi to be found.

But we did find these vacuum-sealed things with expiration dates on them…


I didn’t even know sushi could have an expiration date of a week from now. I haven’t seen sushi with an expiration date on it since sad airport shops of yore. Alas, we didn’t purchase any of the sushi and we asked an employee which Carrefour location had the “fresh sushi station” and it turns out we were in the wrong town. So we decided we’d cut our losses and just have a non-sushi lunch. Noah needed to eat. I needed to eat. Davy had to leave for work sooner than we wanted to. So we chose ‘t Koffieboontje, The Little Coffee Bean, which we’d eaten lunch at once before, which also happens to be right next the failed Carrefour expedition.

I still wanted to check out the fresh sushi station, but the vacuum-sealed stuff called sushi at the last place confirmed what I already knew. Rice House would be filling a need outside of the city of Ghent., Ghent-proper…fresh sushi with no expiration date.

So Davy and Noah and I ate our lunch and just as we were about to leave, Noah scooted off his highchair too quickly and the back of his head met the corner of the dining table. I’m sure he saw stars because I saw some too, and I scooped him up and cradled him as he wailed like ten thousand firetrucks. Davy turned purple and started sweating, but grabbed wet towels from someone behind the counter, and used them as compresses against Noah’s bleeding head. Noah clung to me like my clothes do after getting caught in the rain in the summer time. His tears soaked through to my shoulder.

Everybody felt bad for him. I cried inside but cooed outside.

The bleeding stopped before Noah’s crying did, but a sweet lollipop gesture bought us some silence. We left hurriedly, but not before Noah turned back waving at everyone with a “Da-da” goodbye. Davy and I knew he was okay but we scrambled. Side Note: Thank you to the ladies at ‘t Koffieeboontje for being so compassionate!

Some medical attention and lots of hugs and kisses and candy later, minus some locks of hair, Noah was back home and mostly unaware of the bandages on his head.

Noah's Head

Our family physician also paid a house visit and Noah was deemed healthy and sound, despite some diarrhea from the candy earlier. Note to self: Less candy next time. And that was my morning.

So with Davy at work and Noah napping, I left home once again leaving Noah with his Opi. I had a stove to accept delivery of, at Rice House. My new industrial gas range was coming in today amidst the chaos.

I named her Suzy.

Suzy the Stove.




Can you see me?

She barely fit through the front door, Suzy, the front door to Rice House which once had temporary signage next to it which has been stolen. Who steals temporary signage?!


Then Noah had another poop explosion.

Davy’s just come home from work and tells me that there was a suicide attempt at work today, at the Port of Ghent. Not an employee. A civilian.

It’s been an odd day.

Today was a Being Jun Malkovich kinda day.

Always dishing,





RIP John Zsa Zsa Martin aka GaYToR



We met on a website called Big Brother Dish in the summer of 2009, where I was writing Big Brother blogs for fun. I never even thought to charge for my writing. I was doing it for the love of Big Brother and “for the fans.” The concept of fans was so new to me, even after so many years after winning Big Brother because at the end of the day, I’m just like everyone else. My mother thought I was crazy to write for free, so I lied to her and told her I was getting paid $25 an article, and this made her happy. That was 2009.

I didn’t know what to make of GaYToR at first. I didn’t know why the “Y” and “T” and “R” were capitalized in his username. I still don’t know. I always meant to ask but always forgot to. It didn’t matter. He was GaYToR. He was a drag queen in fabulous New Orleans, and he was a huge and old school fan of Big Brother.

Then, at some point, GaYToR went from fan to friend. The Big-Brother-Fan-to-Friend. This doesn’t happen often but when it does it’s warm and sincere and long-lasting. I learned that GaYToR’s real name was John Martin, and Zsa Zsa his stage name, and his loving partner in life’s name was Danny Stark.

John Zsa Zsa Martin and I were friends before I ever had a Facebook fan page or Twitter account, or my own blog. I tasted my first-ever New Orleans King Cake because Zsa Zsa sent me one with Louisiana love. Zsa Zsa never asked me for a thing but gave a lot of himself.

Over the years, John Zsa Zsa Martin watched me go from single thrill-seeker to married to mom and we exchanged stories and anecdotes like any other friends would, regardless of how we met. Zsa Zsa shamelessly lusted after my husband Davy, to my delight and Davy’s laughs. Davy and I talked about Zsa Zsa often, and interestingly enough, we always referred to Zsa Zsa as “her” or “she” and it always just felt right. Davy always laughed extra loud when Zsa Zsa flirted with him.

Zsa Zsa loved his Danny Stark, but Zsa Zsa held a special place in his heart for Davy too and for me and Noah.

After all their years together, Zsa Zsa and Danny were to be married this past Friday in Connecticut. On Saturday morning, I received the news that Zsa Zsa died of a massive heart attack right before the wedding. April Fool’s Day had already come and gone, and the reality of Zsa Zsa’s passing was cold and shocking and raw still. Danny is now mourning his partner of 33 years and yet still so in love.

Davy wasn’t home yesterday when I received the news. He was helping a friend move into the city. I told him everything in one long breath when he got home and the hairs on his arms stood up as his face fell. Neither Davy nor I had ever met Zsa Zsa in person. How could we be so affected?

GaYToRRIP John Zsa Zsa Martin

I can only imagine what Danny is going through right now. Bringing John home to New Orleans from Connecticut is the harsh reality that must be addressed. Who has extra money these days? Nobody I know. But what Davy and I could, we spared and sent to Danny. Danny needs help to repay a kind minister who paid all final expenses up-front. With no legal recognition or death benefits to collect, Danny Stark could use a compassionate shoulder to lean on.

At the time of this writing, the John Zsa Zsa Martin fundly fundraiser is nearly two-thirds of the way there. If you can, please help. The smallest amounts can amount to enough.

We miss Zsa Zsa already.

Always dishing,


That Poem I Wrote About My Suitcase



Screen Shot 2014-04-03 at 2.24.46 PM

Back in 2010, before I married my husband Davy and had my son Noah, I was finishing my English degree at Hunter College and long-distance-relationshiping at the same time. I had to juggle Davy in Belgium and graduating before our wedding. I’d be leaving The U.S. to live abroad.

I wrote this poem for a required poetry course, about my suitcase:


O Delsey
(November 2010)


“Aye dios, it’s too heavy lady!” said the cab driver when he dropped me off at JFK. 
He was talking about you, Delsey.
But I already knew you would be too heavy this last time around.
One last trip to a new country I'd soon be calling home.
Six trips, from JFK to Brussels and back.
Two in July, and one each in August, September, October, 
and now in November.
Frequent flyer miles accrued and redeemed not yet, if ever.
The first time you were 52 pounds, and Delta didn’t make me pay extra.
One time you were at 57, and I had to take stuff out of you to carry on.
You’re never less than the maximum 50 pounds. 
I always push everything to the limit.
You nearly busted at the seams every time, 
yet only scratched the surface in moving my life. 
4,000 miles.
50 pounds at a time.
Each leg, I took parts of me, to leave there as I planned my life there.
Six times 50 equals 300 pounds of my life so far. 
There’s at least 500 more to go, maybe less maybe more.
How am I supposed to know?
The perfect leather skirt I found in an East Village consignment shop a decade ago, the rare Oscar de la Renta pumps that wrap my feet in red wine scalloped suede that Century 21 made mine, my Bobbi Brown eyelash curler and Shiseido concealer, my bottles of Escada and Chanel and all the Louis Vuitton I own. 
I will leave some behind.
But I need it all.
But on the trips home when you come back with me, Brussels-to-JFK, 
you're all but emptied, freed of any weight Delsey.
But what about my other baggage? Do I leave it here? Take it with me there?
How am I supposed to know?
O Delsey, 
you hold so much, with me from the very start,
And although I have lost two zippers on you, you belong to me still.



Delsey, today, still looking good



My Longchamp, which always served as one of my carry-ons.


Who cares? I care. I thought of O Delsey, and shared it today, because I was asked yesterday at a catering and restaurant expo if the Louis Vuitton Luco bag I was carrying was real. I’d answered yes, and felt almost guilty about it, just like I felt guilty a few weeks ago wearing fur to a pet store and being called out on it.

I realize that the average Belgian housewife in this mostly rural socialistic country does not own a wardrobe of high-end labels nor does she traipse around in leather and fur. The thing is, I’m not your average Belgian housewife.

When I packed my life up to move here, I managed to bring with me almost everything precious to me besides people I love. I couldn’t pack my momz or my brother or cousin or girlfriends or guy friends, or families I used to babysit for. So I packed everything that reminded me of them, by packing everything me. Me. Being myself is the best way I’m preserving and cherishing everything I miss back in the States.

This includes most of my handbags, though I have a few pieces still left in New York that I will retrieve the next time I’m there. Here’s some of what I brought with me though, not including clutches:

BaggageMy full Delsey collection, plus some Louis Vuitton, Prada, Burberry, Kate Spade, Kipling.

It’s not that I’m a brand-whore. But when you’re working in finance, in private sectors, you dress the part to play the part. Your salary affords you to dress the part accordingly, to varying scales. Incidentally, I have not bought one new purse or handbag since I’ve moved to Belgium because what was once a whim purchase is now unnecessary. Besides, my collection of accessories is vast enough. And timeless. There are outfits Davy have never even seen on me yet in the three years we’ve been married. I packed that much.

There are tailored suits I once wore in the halls of global banks, that I never get to wear anymore unless I’m role-playing for sex time with Davy. My point being…I’m glad I brought them all with me. Really.

When I moved to Belgium I was taking a huge risk, but so was Davy. I was dumping my belongings in his home one trip at a time and if our vacation romance didn’t work, I had no idea what I’d do with all my shit. Neither did Davy. But it worked out and here we are proud parents of Noah and owners of Rice House…

I didn’t want to take that poetry class because it was a required course and I hated requirements by default. I loved electives. I struggle with poetry. But I’ll always remember “that poem I wrote about my suitcase.”

Always dishing,



Noah’s Birthday in Photos


Noah’s been 2 whole years old now since last Friday, and his birthday weekend was everything he never expected.

To turn two again, chronoligically…


















Thank you everyone for your love and support.

This blog is dedicated, in loving memory, to my grandfather’s brother. He now joins my grandfather and my father. He was the very first in the family to step foot on U.S. soil before the rest of the family followed suit, in stages. He passed away on the Thursday before Noah’s birthday and I have been mourning him in my own way, and celebrating Noah’s precious birthday too.

Cancer is real. Life is real.

Living is…eating the nose off your fabulous Bumba birthday cake.

Happy Birthday sweet Noah.

Always dishing,


Noah Is A Happy Sponge


This past weekend at the garden store, Noah happily followed this cool little girl with sunglasses up a little bridge, but then he asked for help coming down the bridge.

He reached out his hand…


He’s all grown up but still my baby, and on Friday we party!

This Friday, Noah will be celebrating his second birthday and I am so proud of myself for getting this far. Yes, I’m proud of Noah and my husband Davy and hearts and rainbows packed to the rafters, but I really am fucking proud of myself. I don’t think it hurts to admit you’re a good parent when you’re being one, or to let another parent know you see their efforts too. Sometimes it’s a thankless job and we could all do with a kind word. It keeps you all in check when you’re feeling like a shitty parent anyway, because half the time it’s out of your control.

Sometimes I feel like a shitty mom. Not often, but sometimes. It happens.

But I realize now that being a good mom means being good to yourself too and not just to your child first. Equality’s great and all, but there’s no real equality when it comes to childcare around-the-clock under your own roof. In real life, moms are just in a whole different arena than dads. I can say this wholeheartedly now that I’m a mom and still-feminist. Oh my god…the f-word.

I have a lot more defects than you’d think, and there are demons that I fight every day, personal ones. Just because you become a mom doesn’t mean your precious child fixes everything in your life by default. Hell no. You now have to manage another life in addition to yours and whomever else’s, and juggle your insecurities or handicaps, anxieties and minor fails. Plus, if you’re a klutz like me, you’ll give yourself at least one new bruise or bump a day. It comes with the territory, and shaving your legs in a hurry so you can run off and play like a maniac with your son who’s about to turn two!

If sponges could be happy, then I’d describe Noah as a happy sponge. He is one of the happiest children most people have ever met, because they’ve told me so. He’s at the age where he’s soaking up everything in his environment and retaining so much of it, then recalling it at whim, and sometimes it’s freaky just how much he knows. Noah is, hence, a happy sponge.

I don’t know about other moms, but I’ve heard countless times of how I “shouldn’t be” down or sad because I have Noah to look at. It’s not just on Twitter or Facebook or blog, but in-person and in e-mail and text message. “Don’t be sad! Look at Noah!”

It’s like saying people without children are more qualified to be sad because they didn’t birth a child, or perhaps people without children are supposed to look to their dogs or iPhones instead?

Yes, I post countless photos of Noah all sponge-happy and yes, he brings joy to my heart and soul. And there’s nothing sweeter than Noah’s smile to me when I need it most, especially before coffee, but it doesn’t make everything else bad go away. Life goes on like anyone else’s, with or without children.

Happiness can be found in many places, but I’d be lying if I said that just looking at Noah made my day turn around. Days are meant to up and down, and Noah helps me through it. Believing a baby is a cure-all is dated and delusional.

I do realize that most people who say “How can you ever have a bad day when you have Noah?” or something to that effect, mean it in the sweetest way and they’re right. At the end of the day, my biggest accomplishment and new love is Noah. But there’s a real and dangerous epidemic beneath the surface, with new motherhood, in minimizing any mom’s bad day. To put it plainly, postpartum depression isn’t mythical or cute or “her problem” no matter how brief or long it endures. I’m not sure if I ever had it or have it now because the time has flown by so fast, and my hormones are raging under a new birth control pill anyway. In the end, nobody is to blame for it. Fun times!

But I look at my Noah now, and I see in him all that he’s absorbed from me in the last two years, and I know I’m a stronger mom because of it, good and bad.

Thank you to all the moms (and non-moms) out there who’ve helped me along the way!

Always dishing,


Things In Common: Opening A Takeaway And A Body Rub Business



Check out this carrot I found from a farm nearby!


Because I’m about to open a Korean takeaway business and just for fun, I came up with an impromptu list of:

Things in Common between Opening a Takeaway and a Body Rub Business:

Market Research: You have to do market research for both the takeaway and happy ending biz. Who is your competition in the area? How many other businesses already offer the same thing you’re going to offer? It doesn’t matter if it’s a bowl of rice or a hand job, you need to know who else is peddling the same goods you are.

Menu: Both menus offered at the takeaway and the hand job joint should offer varied price points. You want to be sure to capture every budget walking in through your front doors. Items on the menu should be fresh and tasty and satisfying at both establishments. However, the bigger the menu the more work involved so everything extra is extra. Ka-ching.

Insurance: Everyone knows there’s insurance involved when it comes to opening a takeaway business, but you’d be surprised that there’s something called insurance in the body rub business too. It’s not your conventional plan you purchase and sign, but very unconventional indeed. Any body rub girl in your employ can never be trusted completely, especially under pressure. You must train them on what to do should the cops appear and break down the doors and bust the place, let’s say, for example. And in order to work in the business, each girl must bring in her passport or driver’s license for photocopying and safe-keeping in some safe in an undisclosed location. Basically, it’s insurance for the business that the girls never rat them out, or at least make them think twice before doing so.

Marketing and Advertising: This is key for both the takeaway and the body rub business. How and when, even down to hours of the day, must be planned in advance. It’s not like hand job shops will be tweeting publicly, so most sex businesses run on shadier arenas for advertising (i.e. Craigslist, hotel bedside magazines…). Sometimes, hiring a programming nerd to run your online advertising is your best bet. Balancing cost-effectiveness with good old-fashioned word-of-mouth, or hand, and use of technology is key for any business. In 2014 the possibilities are endless, and still some archaic, retro even.

Delivery: This is all about cost-effectiveness and nothing else. As a business owner, If it’s not “worth” delivering for free then you shouldn’t do it. Takeaways offer free delivery all the time because nobody wants to pay for delivery anymore. You’d think there’s no such thing as delivery in the body rub business, but there is. Most established sex businesses have a driver on-call for “outcalls” by which a working girl is taken to a client (lots of cab-taking too). But there’s always an extra charge to the client. That’s where a Korean takeaway and body rub biz really differ. Delivery is at a premium for hand jobs, and the client will pay anywhere from $50-$100 more for the request.

Safety is a whole other level of crazy, and worthy of its own blog…

Always dishing,


My Last Bachelor Blog Ever



I’m going to make this quick. Last night’s ABC finale of The Bachelor was unlike any finale I’ve ever actually seen in the franchise before. Clare claims to have her closure after having gotten off her chest to Juan Pablo’s face on national television, “I’d never want any children to have a father like you!”

Yes. Clare was clearly sent packing. Last night, she and ABC were intent on crucifying Juan Pablo. Did it work? Maybe. Did it last? No.

It doesn’t matter.

There are still thousands of crazed and probably-teenaged fans clamoring to get Juan Pablo’s love and attention, and everyone else involved in the finale just exhausted themselves trying to make Juan Pablo break when actually…

Juan Pablo is unbreakable. It’s like talking to a wall that you’re attracted to. Does Nikki really want to spend the rest of her life with an attractive wall?

All Wall Pablo can manage to say to her is:

“I like you a lot. A lot.” – Um, I say that to my vibrator at least once a week. You’d think Juan Pablo could come up with better than that for Nikki, by the end of the show.

“I’m so glad you’re here.”  – Um, I say this to my period when she arrives EVERY month. That gets boring.  

Get this though…

I once witnessed a friend get really drunk one night and dry hump a wall dancing so hard his jeans left a denim stain on the wall. You can dance with a wall but you can’t marry one! You just can’t Nikki. You should be ashamed of yourself for letting Juan Pablo literally tease you with a diamond engagement ring in his pocket while sweat rolled off your upper lip in the agonizing heat. I would have wrenched that ring out of his tight-pants-pocket and swallowed it. But no. Juan Pablo’s probably the spiciest thing you’ve had since egg nog last Christmas, and you are hooked on him. Enjoy it while it lasts.

I actually want to punish myself for watching all of it…as if I’m aiding and abetting someone when I shouldn’t.



Meanwhile, Juan Pablo’s somewhat magically materialized bff gay and apparently famous Latino cousin Rodolfo is the icing on the vomit cake that is essentially this season of The Bachelor.

I do really like Juan Pablo’s family though. And no matter how much was edited in or out or sideways up the ass, his family was blatantly telling both Clare and Nikki to run for their lives. But no, Clare and Nikki think it’s great that Juan Pablo makes his mom cry he’s so rude to her sometimes. And they find it so uh-mazing that Juan Pablo actually does nothing in real life but be an asshole commitment-phobe who watches a lot of television. This is all according to the things that came out of Juan Pablo’s family’s mouths, but they’re now saying that it was all “editing.”

Even I’ve never cried editing, and I could have many times. I’m sure Juan Pablo’s family said some nice things about him, but if ABC doesn’t want to show it then they don’t. End of that story. Welcome to reality television.

I just don’t see how Juan Pablo can cry about editing when even on live television, all he represents is a denim stain on some wall bringing awareness to the chaos in Venezuela. All “Bachelor Nation” wants to know is…

Whether or not Juan Pablo snuck in an “I loved fucking you” to Clare when the cameras were off. It’s something only he and Clare know. But it’s probably the most “honest” thing Juan Pablo would have said all season.

Goodbye ABC.

Always dishing,