What is it with people trying to distinguish themselves from others by claiming they’re not what they are? HBO tells me it’s not TV. Wendy’s tells me it’s waaay better than fast food. And truTV tells me it’s not reality, but actuality.

It’s not just corporations either. The young man tells his girl it’s not sex if it’s oral. The woman at the door tells me Christianity is not a religion, but a lifestyle. And the man in the mall tells me his dog is not a pet, but a member of the family.

This is it. I wrote a harsh letter to TV Guide complaining about their inclusion of HBO in what is supposed to be a TV schedule. I no longer consider Wendy’s when I’m in the mood for fast food. And truTV will not have to reenact my crimes because I’ve already filmed them with an out-of-focus lens and haunting background music. I told the young man to pleasure me orally, and it’s not gay because it’s not sex. I told the woman at the door that I’m looking for religion, but I’ve only heard sinful things about alternate lifestyles. And I’m publicizing the trauma I experienced after I was touched inappropriately by a member of the Stanton family.

No, I’m not pissed. I’m inversely delighted.

I’m not a clubbing kind of guy, but sometimes the situation calls for it, like last night when the hormones took over, my girlfriend was out of the country, and all astrological signs told me I could get away with stuff.

My pre-clubbing routine was simple: bathe, put on shirt and pants, and walk myself through a mist of Febreze. Just a hint of it, as you want to keep the girl guessing.

I stopped by the bar first, eyeing an attractive girl sitting alone. I pulled up next to her, and ordered a Shirley Temple. I turned to look at her, my eyes tunneling into hers, and continued with my deep, manly voice, “Shaken, not stirred.”

“Are you a Chinese James Bond?” she asked.

“No, better. I’m the Gentleman Sir Kevin Kao, Ph.D.”

She chuckled, then sniffed the air. “Is that Febreze?”

Good, she had a sense of humor and knew her household products. That was a sign she would be comfortable cleaning my house while I made fun of her.

“What are you drinking?” I asked, over the loud music.

“Cosmopolitan!” she replied.

Woah, woah, woah. Red flag. I left the club in disgust, utterly disappointed that I could let myself get so deep into the heart of darkness. All I wanted was to meet a normal girl, not a fan of Sex and the City.

Living in L.A. without a car is a physical disability.

People certainly treat you that way. Today, I went to McDonald’s and was completely out of breath. An obese man nearby was too, his T-shirt drenched in sweat. Upon asking, I found out that he had to park his car across the street and walk all the way there. He asked me the same, and he learned I had to walk all the way there from home, because I didn’t have a car.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t know.”

I nodded, out of politeness. He continued studying my carless body, and said, “I know I shouldn’t be asking this, but I’m just really curious. What happened? I mean, did your car get stolen? Or maybe it was towed for illegal parking?”

I grunted, making sure he knew I get asked that all the time, and said, “No, I just never had one.”

“Oh, a birth defect, huh?”

My new neighbors moved in last week. I’ve seen them a couple times, but other than that, contact has been sparse. As a Chinese person who has consulted his Guide to Proper Ethnic Behavior, I have accordingly holed up and not introduced myself.

What little contact we have established happened because the walls between our bedrooms are so thin, I constantly eavesdrop on them unintentionally. Even as I type this, I’m an unwilling third party in their discussion to determine what to eat for lunch. Seems like salad today for Jill.

Oh, I don’t actually know that her name is Jill, but it seems that if I’m to become an accidental part of their lives, I should at least name them. That was Jill. The other, deeper voice is Jack. I’m sure they’ve given me their own name too. Maybe I’m Bob O’Hara.

I don’t quite know what to think about my new friends. They seem like a nice older couple, often chitchatting about what’s on TV, or what’s going on with their distant relatives. And they seem to either never have sex, or they only do it in the kitchen. I hope I can still be that kinky when I get to their age.

When I was in an amateur street racing team, I went by the alias of RSX. It just simplified things, referring to each other by our most expensive piece of machinery. There was Civic, Lancer, and my best friend, Integra. His little brother, whom we let on the team because his mom made us, was named iPod.

The team didn’t last long, perhaps all of two months. I wish I could tell you that it was the result of conflict within the group, differing visions, or clashing personalities, but it was mainly that we valued our ability to live.

It began when we ran into Murciélago, a rival gang member whose main characteristic was having a name none of us could spell. He challenged us to a duel down the I-10, going backwards. We all froze, terrified, knowing that if we refused any challenges, the respect we’d garnered would disappear. iPod started crying.

“Maybe we can convince him to let us go,” Lancer suggested. “After all, you can’t spell Murciélago without mercy.”

It turned out you could. Stupid foreign names.

Over the next week, our team officially disbanded, but looking back, it was all right. I had already discovered World of Warcraft anyway, and there I can duel while keeping my internal organs internal.