Friday night, I was leaving work and my car wouldn't start. And nobody at The Client works on Fridays, so nobody was around in the parking lot to give me a jump.
I had to call my father to swing by on his way home from work to bail me out. Jumper cables didn't help; turns out, my battery was just coming to the end of its life.
I left the car at work overnight and brought a new battery out the next morning to take it home.
-
Yesterday, driving home from work, I was going through Meadows Place, which is a tiny little city. Little, as in, like, three blocks little. The Meadows isn't so much a city as it is a residential neighborhood with a bunch of senior citizen homes. The cops in the area are assholes; the kind that'll ticket you for going 37 MPH in a 35 MPH zone.
I was doing about 50.
And as I was driving through, I crossed a sheriff on the on-coming side of the street. Soon as I passed him up, I watched him, from my rear-view, take a U-turn and flash his lights.
Right around the same time, the car to my right made a right turn. He might've braked too abruptly or didn't use his signal or something -- I wasn't paying attention to him -- and the car behind him rear-ended him.
The sheriff stopped those guys instead, and I got off scot-free.
-
After leaving the gym tonight, I was cooling off on the trunk of my car in the parking lot. The weather at night around here has been nice and breezy lately, maybe because Ike's on the horizon -- I dunno, I never paid much attention to physics or biology or whatever the hell science class teaches hurricane mechanics.
A fella leaving the gym got into an old navy pick-up that was parked next to mine and tried to start up. His engine churned, coughed, and died. I watched him make two or three more attempts until he looked up and made eye contact with me.
"Won't start, huh?" I asked. I hate it when people ask obvious questions like that. No shit, it won't start, smartass, who the hell churns their engine for fun?
"Can you give me a jump?" he pleaded.
"'Fraid I got no cables," I shrugged. "Do you have power? Your radio still work? Your headlights come on?"
He turned up his radio and flicked his lights on and off, "Yeah, I got power. What does that mean?"
"Honestly, I got no idea, man. People ask me that all the time when my car don't work. I dunno what it does."
Damn it, I'm a dumbass.
I let the guy borrow my phone to call around for help. I got a fancy shmancy phone, though, and he's pretty old, so I had to dial for him. He only knew one number, some chick, and it went straight to voicemail everytime. He left her a few messages, pleading for her to come get him.
"You from Arlington or something?" I asked him because I recognized the area code of the recipient. For whatever reason, I know area codes to dumb places.
Turns out, the guy's from Dallas and he's just in town for a visit. It was probably a dumb idea for him to take a road trip without carrying a cell phone of his own and in a car prone to failure, but I refrained from telling him so.
I sat around in the parking lot with the guy, asking bypassers if they had jumper cables without luck, until I decided it was time for me to go. I bid him good luck and started getting in my car. As I was loading my gym bag in the backseat, I found jumper cables under the driver seat. My father had forgotten them there from Friday.
"Hey hey hey," I cheered, "Your lucky day, chief!" I said "Hey hey hey" like Doug Butabi did to the skank in A Night at the Roxbury.
-
When I got home, I saw one of those little lizard things crawling on my front door. I pulled its tail off. Don't know why.
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Witness to Projekt Revolution
Paul and I scored a pair of floor tickets to the Projekt Revolution tour, a concert in the Woodlands headlined by Linkin Park and Chris Cornell. Also appearing were The Bravery, 10 Years, Atreyu, and a few other no-named bands that I didn't care too much for.
The main attraction for me was Cornell. I was a fan of Soundgarden back in the mid-90's when I had longer hair, ripped clothes, and developing tinnitus from grunge and post-grunge rock bands like Nirvana and Bush. I picked up on Cornell again when he later re-emerged with Audioslave.
I'm not a huge fan of his recent solo efforts, but he was going to cover his Soundgarden and Audioslave and even Temple of the Dog works, and that was more than enough for me to be there.
-
Knowing from previous experiences about the venue's nine-dollar beers highway robbery prices, Paul and I consumed most of our poisons before arriving. But we arrived early in the afternoon to catch Atreyu on the side stage, in one hundred-degree sunny weather with nary a cloud in sight, so it limited how much we were willing to dehydrate ourselves.
I knew only a few of Atreyu's tracks, mostly from radio play, but Paul was a rabid fan. So after the few songs that I knew were played, I wandered off to some of the promotional booths and kiosks, bumping into other folks I knew.
After Atreyu closed, a handful of nameless teeny-bopper bands went on stage, so Paul and I hid in the shades behind the lawn to refuel on Blue Moons.
-
The main stage opened later in the evening. Our seats were seven rows back from stage.
The Bravery played their set, and was the last band before Cornell began the headlined show. Again, I was only familiar with a few of The Bravery's songs, mostly from radio play, and even those were sometimes more self-deprecating and angst-filled than I care to be at this age.
I dozed off during The Bravery's set. No offense to them; I'd spent four hours under the scorching sun, fighting through shoulder-to-shoulder crowds, fueled on nothing but Blue Moons.
-
During the intermission after The Bravery, the faint acoustics to Black Hole Sun playing on the loudspeakers brought me out of my slumber and onto my feet. In preparation, we quaffed as much Blue Moon as whatever little cash we had left could muster up.
Cornell finally came on looking scruffy like a younger Bob Dylan, seemingly in synch with the sun finally setting and the air cooling down. He opened up with some of the newer Audioslave tracks from the "Out of Exile" album.
Then the lights dimmed, and Cornell took center stage with a guitar and performed a solo cover of Like A Stone. Immediately afteward, the band broke out and they followed with Be Yourself and an insane performance of Show Me How to Live. It was that trio of songs that truly started my night and got the adrenaline running through my system.
Cornell's set went on for some ninety minutes. He sporadically introduced tracks from his newer solo albums, but mostly stayed true to the roots of Soundgarden and Audioslave that made him a phenom, and had one memorable -- and to say the very least, SICK -- duet performance of Hunger Strike with Chester, the screamer from Linkin Park.
When he performed Black Hole Sun, I looked around at the crowd and noticed some of the audience sitting -- mostly the younger kids, the ones probably too young to remember Soundgarden. And seeing them personally offended me. Who the hell goes to see Chris Cornell and sits down during Black Hole Sun? I mean, this is the song that turned Chris Cornell into Chris fucking Cornell!
I started yelling at them, "Everybody here needs to stand the fuck up! This is Cornell's Mona-fucking-Lisa, you can't sit during this!"
-
The show closed with an intense performance by Linkin Park.
I've always listened to Linkin Park because they have a catchy, unique techno-rock fused with hip-hop sound. But they were never a band that I listened to regularly or topped any of my lists.
But after seeing them live, if Linkin Park ever comes through town on another tour, I'm jumping in line to see them. They are hands-down the best performers I've ever witnessed.
Unfortunately, I never followed Linkin Park so I can't list a lot of their tracks the way I can with Cornell, except for some of their very first efforts from the "Hybrid Theory" album from back at the start of the decade -- which included Crawling, the track that saw Cornell returning a favor with his own memorable guest appearance during the show.
About an hour into the set, the members of the band left the stage with the exception of the drummer. Nobody ever knows the drummer's name. The lights dimmed, the drummer took the spotlight with a solo act, and the last beat on the drums turned the lights off.
In pitch blackness, the crowd lost their motherfucking minds. They screamed and stomped and beat on the backs of the seats. Tens of thousands of fans shrieked and cheered, and their exhiliration echoed and roared across the lawn, surging down toward the stage like a blast of wind. In that darkness, I literally felt the noise.
And in response, the band jumped back on stage and rocked for another hour.
Linkin Park brought with their performance a level of energy that's hard to describe. I wish I could say that they kept me on my feet the whole time, but the fact is I had to sit down out of sheer exhaustion during Shinoda's solo flows and some of the slower tracks like Leave Out All The Rest.
-
The ride home was eerily silent in comparison, our throats parched and sore, our clothes drenched in sweat, the adrenaline rush subsiding.
The main attraction for me was Cornell. I was a fan of Soundgarden back in the mid-90's when I had longer hair, ripped clothes, and developing tinnitus from grunge and post-grunge rock bands like Nirvana and Bush. I picked up on Cornell again when he later re-emerged with Audioslave.
I'm not a huge fan of his recent solo efforts, but he was going to cover his Soundgarden and Audioslave and even Temple of the Dog works, and that was more than enough for me to be there.
-
Knowing from previous experiences about the venue's nine-dollar beers highway robbery prices, Paul and I consumed most of our poisons before arriving. But we arrived early in the afternoon to catch Atreyu on the side stage, in one hundred-degree sunny weather with nary a cloud in sight, so it limited how much we were willing to dehydrate ourselves.
I knew only a few of Atreyu's tracks, mostly from radio play, but Paul was a rabid fan. So after the few songs that I knew were played, I wandered off to some of the promotional booths and kiosks, bumping into other folks I knew.
After Atreyu closed, a handful of nameless teeny-bopper bands went on stage, so Paul and I hid in the shades behind the lawn to refuel on Blue Moons.
-
The main stage opened later in the evening. Our seats were seven rows back from stage.
The Bravery played their set, and was the last band before Cornell began the headlined show. Again, I was only familiar with a few of The Bravery's songs, mostly from radio play, and even those were sometimes more self-deprecating and angst-filled than I care to be at this age.
I dozed off during The Bravery's set. No offense to them; I'd spent four hours under the scorching sun, fighting through shoulder-to-shoulder crowds, fueled on nothing but Blue Moons.
-
During the intermission after The Bravery, the faint acoustics to Black Hole Sun playing on the loudspeakers brought me out of my slumber and onto my feet. In preparation, we quaffed as much Blue Moon as whatever little cash we had left could muster up.
Cornell finally came on looking scruffy like a younger Bob Dylan, seemingly in synch with the sun finally setting and the air cooling down. He opened up with some of the newer Audioslave tracks from the "Out of Exile" album.
Then the lights dimmed, and Cornell took center stage with a guitar and performed a solo cover of Like A Stone. Immediately afteward, the band broke out and they followed with Be Yourself and an insane performance of Show Me How to Live. It was that trio of songs that truly started my night and got the adrenaline running through my system.
Cornell's set went on for some ninety minutes. He sporadically introduced tracks from his newer solo albums, but mostly stayed true to the roots of Soundgarden and Audioslave that made him a phenom, and had one memorable -- and to say the very least, SICK -- duet performance of Hunger Strike with Chester, the screamer from Linkin Park.
When he performed Black Hole Sun, I looked around at the crowd and noticed some of the audience sitting -- mostly the younger kids, the ones probably too young to remember Soundgarden. And seeing them personally offended me. Who the hell goes to see Chris Cornell and sits down during Black Hole Sun? I mean, this is the song that turned Chris Cornell into Chris fucking Cornell!
I started yelling at them, "Everybody here needs to stand the fuck up! This is Cornell's Mona-fucking-Lisa, you can't sit during this!"
-
The show closed with an intense performance by Linkin Park.
I've always listened to Linkin Park because they have a catchy, unique techno-rock fused with hip-hop sound. But they were never a band that I listened to regularly or topped any of my lists.
But after seeing them live, if Linkin Park ever comes through town on another tour, I'm jumping in line to see them. They are hands-down the best performers I've ever witnessed.
Unfortunately, I never followed Linkin Park so I can't list a lot of their tracks the way I can with Cornell, except for some of their very first efforts from the "Hybrid Theory" album from back at the start of the decade -- which included Crawling, the track that saw Cornell returning a favor with his own memorable guest appearance during the show.
About an hour into the set, the members of the band left the stage with the exception of the drummer. Nobody ever knows the drummer's name. The lights dimmed, the drummer took the spotlight with a solo act, and the last beat on the drums turned the lights off.
In pitch blackness, the crowd lost their motherfucking minds. They screamed and stomped and beat on the backs of the seats. Tens of thousands of fans shrieked and cheered, and their exhiliration echoed and roared across the lawn, surging down toward the stage like a blast of wind. In that darkness, I literally felt the noise.
And in response, the band jumped back on stage and rocked for another hour.
Linkin Park brought with their performance a level of energy that's hard to describe. I wish I could say that they kept me on my feet the whole time, but the fact is I had to sit down out of sheer exhaustion during Shinoda's solo flows and some of the slower tracks like Leave Out All The Rest.
-
The ride home was eerily silent in comparison, our throats parched and sore, our clothes drenched in sweat, the adrenaline rush subsiding.
Sunday, August 17, 2008
Disarm The Obstacles
Hung out with Kenneth, Trinh, and Trinh's brother, Martin, at a Korean karaoke bar Saturday night. It was Vinh's birthday weekend, and he and his friends were hanging out at the place, but when Vinh bailed to go clubbing or something, I opted to hang back with the fellas and kick it.
One of the tables adjacent to us started singing Kid Rock and Sheryl Crow's Picture. The girl was rocking the female vocals, so I looked over to check her out. One of the other girls at the table, a tan skinned, dirty-brown haired chick, was standing up, wildly cheering on her friend, yelling, "That's my cousin! That's my cousin! Woo!"
I turned back to my table, "That one's kinda cute. The one standing up -- Indian-lookin' chick."
"Yea, she's cute," Trinh agreed, "I don't think she's Indian, though."
"She's Hispanic," Martin chimed in.
I looked back at the girl, "Nah, she can't be Hispanic. She's got some of that exotic Asian thing goin' on."
"You should go ask her," Martin challenged me.
"She's Indian," I retorted, "You go ask her."
"Paper-scissors-rock to ask her."
Martin played rock, and I played scissors.
-
The table had three girls and four guys, not the most approachable ratio. When I walked up to the table, I engaged the guys first, "Are y'all the ones that were singing Picture earlier?"
One of the guys, a pimply-faced kid with his hair gelled up and in like a faux mohawk, acknowledged, "Yeah, that was us." He pointed at himself and the girl that was singing, but I pretended not to notice the girl.
"Man, y'all tore that shit up," I said, "That song is the shit, man, that song is phat and y'all rocked it. Just had to let you guys know that, man."
I started to walk away, as if that were all I'd come over to say to the table, but the guy predictably threw on his modesty act, "Nah, man, nah, that wasn't me. That was all her. She was tearin' it up." He stood up and pointed a downward finger over the girl's head.
I turned back, pretending to be startled as if I'd just noticed the girl for the first time. I showed a doubtful face, "You? You were doing Sheryl Crow? No way, you don't look like you can pull that."
The tanned skinned girl stood up and finally joined the conversation, "Oh, she can pull that! She can pull that! That's my cousin, baby, that's my cousin! Woo!"
That was my in.
I rounded the table over to the girl's side and stood between the two cousins. "You guys are cousins?" I asked, "Y'all don't look nothin' alike, what are you?" The one that had sang Sheryl Crow's vocals was obviously Vietnamese, but the tanned skinned girl was still up in the air.
"I'm mixed," she said.
"Yeah, no shit," I rolled my eyes, "Mixed what?"
"German and Vietnamese."
"You don't got Vietnamese in you," I scoffed.
"Yeah, I am!" she defended herself zealously, "Are you Vietnamese?"
"Yeah."
"Okay..." her eyes rolled up into the corner in thought, "You are..." She started speaking in tone-deaf Vietnamese, "Ðẹp trai quá, đẹp trai quá." In Vietnamese, that means, "Too cute, too cute."
"Yeah, I know," I replied matter-of-factly, shrugging.
She cracked a smile at my arrogance. "I am..." Again in tone-deaf Vietnamese, "Mập quá, mập quá." That means, "Too fat, too fat."
"What the fuck?" I chided, "You so fucking are not." This chick couldn't have been an ounce over ninety, maybe ninety-five, pounds. She was tiny.
She grabbed her breasts into her hands and lifted them up, "Yeah, I am. These are mập quá!"
As soon as she let her hands go, I palmed her tits and said, "Naw, sweety, I think they're just right."
I half expected her or her cousin to get offended and slap me or maybe one of the guys would jump out of his seat and kick my ass. But she just laughed, folded her arms over her chest, and threw herself into my arms.
One of the tables adjacent to us started singing Kid Rock and Sheryl Crow's Picture. The girl was rocking the female vocals, so I looked over to check her out. One of the other girls at the table, a tan skinned, dirty-brown haired chick, was standing up, wildly cheering on her friend, yelling, "That's my cousin! That's my cousin! Woo!"
I turned back to my table, "That one's kinda cute. The one standing up -- Indian-lookin' chick."
"Yea, she's cute," Trinh agreed, "I don't think she's Indian, though."
"She's Hispanic," Martin chimed in.
I looked back at the girl, "Nah, she can't be Hispanic. She's got some of that exotic Asian thing goin' on."
"You should go ask her," Martin challenged me.
"She's Indian," I retorted, "You go ask her."
"Paper-scissors-rock to ask her."
Martin played rock, and I played scissors.
-
The table had three girls and four guys, not the most approachable ratio. When I walked up to the table, I engaged the guys first, "Are y'all the ones that were singing Picture earlier?"
One of the guys, a pimply-faced kid with his hair gelled up and in like a faux mohawk, acknowledged, "Yeah, that was us." He pointed at himself and the girl that was singing, but I pretended not to notice the girl.
"Man, y'all tore that shit up," I said, "That song is the shit, man, that song is phat and y'all rocked it. Just had to let you guys know that, man."
I started to walk away, as if that were all I'd come over to say to the table, but the guy predictably threw on his modesty act, "Nah, man, nah, that wasn't me. That was all her. She was tearin' it up." He stood up and pointed a downward finger over the girl's head.
I turned back, pretending to be startled as if I'd just noticed the girl for the first time. I showed a doubtful face, "You? You were doing Sheryl Crow? No way, you don't look like you can pull that."
The tanned skinned girl stood up and finally joined the conversation, "Oh, she can pull that! She can pull that! That's my cousin, baby, that's my cousin! Woo!"
That was my in.
I rounded the table over to the girl's side and stood between the two cousins. "You guys are cousins?" I asked, "Y'all don't look nothin' alike, what are you?" The one that had sang Sheryl Crow's vocals was obviously Vietnamese, but the tanned skinned girl was still up in the air.
"I'm mixed," she said.
"Yeah, no shit," I rolled my eyes, "Mixed what?"
"German and Vietnamese."
"You don't got Vietnamese in you," I scoffed.
"Yeah, I am!" she defended herself zealously, "Are you Vietnamese?"
"Yeah."
"Okay..." her eyes rolled up into the corner in thought, "You are..." She started speaking in tone-deaf Vietnamese, "Ðẹp trai quá, đẹp trai quá." In Vietnamese, that means, "Too cute, too cute."
"Yeah, I know," I replied matter-of-factly, shrugging.
She cracked a smile at my arrogance. "I am..." Again in tone-deaf Vietnamese, "Mập quá, mập quá." That means, "Too fat, too fat."
"What the fuck?" I chided, "You so fucking are not." This chick couldn't have been an ounce over ninety, maybe ninety-five, pounds. She was tiny.
She grabbed her breasts into her hands and lifted them up, "Yeah, I am. These are mập quá!"
As soon as she let her hands go, I palmed her tits and said, "Naw, sweety, I think they're just right."
I half expected her or her cousin to get offended and slap me or maybe one of the guys would jump out of his seat and kick my ass. But she just laughed, folded her arms over her chest, and threw herself into my arms.
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Canadian Yuppies
Still groggy from the previous night at the hookah bar, the crew -- Kenneth, Trinh, Don, and Xixi -- reconvened on Saturday for a hot pot lunch at a dumpling house. Together, we re-hydrated while trying to reconstruct the night from the collective remnants of our memories.
We were joined by Thu and a co-worker of hers, a guy who initially seemed proper and professional, but after listening to our lunch conversation, quickly showed a cruder side, humorously profane topped with indiscreet misogynism.
Thu is a chick from Canada that works for the same suits as Titty and Kenneth, except in the Canadian office. I met her a little over a year ago when I was entertaining an offer from that company, and she was in town attending a training class. In that time span, I accepted another offer, left that job, and moved onto yet a new employer. Thu, on the other hand, is in town this year to lead a training class.
Her co-worker apparently holds a high level position in the Canadian office, though he didn't look or act like he was any older than his mid-late twenties, if even. Kenneth was accordingly very reserved around the guy.
-
Later in the night, Titty joined us and we took Thu and her co-worker to an upscale bar downtown with a live cover band that I think Trinh has some sort of man-crush on. The few of us from the previous night were still weary, though, so we were conservative with the drinks.
I baby-sat a glass of Sprite, faking drinks half the night.
The Canadian guy, however, came out hell-bent on making it a night as it was his last in town. He ordered rounds of Prairie Fires, which he claimed was a Canadian drink, though I doubt either tequila or Tobasco sauce originated from Canada.
At some point in the night, the guy told me that he wanted to pull some of "these bitches." When I asked him why he called them bitches, he said, "Because they're bitches!" I told him that he wasn't gonna get any if he kept calling them bitches, and he retorted, "You got to put them in their place. You got to tell them they're bitches, and let them know they're bitches, or they'll start thinking they're the shit or something!"
If he weren't Canadian, we probably could've been best friends.
-
At the end of the night, Kenneth was driving the Canadian guy back to his hotel, and just as the car pulled into the parking lot, the guy opened his rear driver-side door and hurled. As concerned as Kenneth was about partying with higher-ranking management in his company, the guy puked all over his car.
-
Tuesday, I took an extended break from the office and had lunch with Thu at a pho shop. We made catch-up talk -- I updated her on how things went downhill for me at my last place of employment and my outlooks about the new one, and she told me about her stuff and about the wedding she was going to have in -- I think -- September.
Some time just over a year ago, she was telling me about how she didn't believe marriage was a terribly big deal, and that she wouldn't care if she never married her man. At that time, I was telling her about how I didn't need growth and money to be primary factors in my career decisions as long as I loved what I did.
This year, I left a company of very friendly, very personable, like-minded peers and moved into a more structured, professional environment that conveniently came with better recognition and pay. Last year, I was chasing aspirations. This year, I chase paper. When asked what the difference was, my answer was simple: I can hold money.
I can only imagine that a ring might, likewise, be easier to hold than things like love and whispered promises.
We were joined by Thu and a co-worker of hers, a guy who initially seemed proper and professional, but after listening to our lunch conversation, quickly showed a cruder side, humorously profane topped with indiscreet misogynism.
Thu is a chick from Canada that works for the same suits as Titty and Kenneth, except in the Canadian office. I met her a little over a year ago when I was entertaining an offer from that company, and she was in town attending a training class. In that time span, I accepted another offer, left that job, and moved onto yet a new employer. Thu, on the other hand, is in town this year to lead a training class.
Her co-worker apparently holds a high level position in the Canadian office, though he didn't look or act like he was any older than his mid-late twenties, if even. Kenneth was accordingly very reserved around the guy.
-
Later in the night, Titty joined us and we took Thu and her co-worker to an upscale bar downtown with a live cover band that I think Trinh has some sort of man-crush on. The few of us from the previous night were still weary, though, so we were conservative with the drinks.
I baby-sat a glass of Sprite, faking drinks half the night.
The Canadian guy, however, came out hell-bent on making it a night as it was his last in town. He ordered rounds of Prairie Fires, which he claimed was a Canadian drink, though I doubt either tequila or Tobasco sauce originated from Canada.
At some point in the night, the guy told me that he wanted to pull some of "these bitches." When I asked him why he called them bitches, he said, "Because they're bitches!" I told him that he wasn't gonna get any if he kept calling them bitches, and he retorted, "You got to put them in their place. You got to tell them they're bitches, and let them know they're bitches, or they'll start thinking they're the shit or something!"
If he weren't Canadian, we probably could've been best friends.
-
At the end of the night, Kenneth was driving the Canadian guy back to his hotel, and just as the car pulled into the parking lot, the guy opened his rear driver-side door and hurled. As concerned as Kenneth was about partying with higher-ranking management in his company, the guy puked all over his car.
-
Tuesday, I took an extended break from the office and had lunch with Thu at a pho shop. We made catch-up talk -- I updated her on how things went downhill for me at my last place of employment and my outlooks about the new one, and she told me about her stuff and about the wedding she was going to have in -- I think -- September.
Some time just over a year ago, she was telling me about how she didn't believe marriage was a terribly big deal, and that she wouldn't care if she never married her man. At that time, I was telling her about how I didn't need growth and money to be primary factors in my career decisions as long as I loved what I did.
This year, I left a company of very friendly, very personable, like-minded peers and moved into a more structured, professional environment that conveniently came with better recognition and pay. Last year, I was chasing aspirations. This year, I chase paper. When asked what the difference was, my answer was simple: I can hold money.
I can only imagine that a ring might, likewise, be easier to hold than things like love and whispered promises.
Saturday, July 26, 2008
Go, Cougs, Go
Friday night, I sent a text to the hookah bar girl to see what she was up to. She was working the night, so I stopped by, accompanied by Kenneth and Trinh.
It was Kenneth's birthday weekend, and he was in party mode. The plan was to just stop by the hookah place for a little while to kick it with the girl before heading toward Midtown to romp.
The hookah girl caught us at the door and seated us in her section near the bar. I told her it was Kenneth's birthday, and she immediately yelled, "Jägerbomb!"
She brought us a round plus one for herself. We toasted and she cheered, "Happy birthday!"
An older lady at the bar overheard us, a blonde haired lady maybe in her forties or fifties wearing a frighteningly thick wad of red lipstick. "Is it somebody's birthday?" she yelled over to our table, "Is it his birthday? Get them another round and put it on my tab!"
So the hookah girl brought out another round plus one for herself.
-
As we drank more and the night got later, we abandoned plans of going Midtown, and the rest of our party -- Tam, Don, and Xixi -- joined us at the hookah place. The hookah girl moved us out onto the patio to give us more room and some space for her to sneak a seat when she wasn't busy.
Midway through the night, sauced up and heavy in party mode, Kenneth stood up and asked the table, "You guys wanna see me get a cougar?"
I hesitated, because I'd seen the cougar in question, and I really did not think that his hooking up with her could possibly end well. But I'm a dick with a sadistic sense of humor, and ultimately, the answer to the question was: yes; yes, I wanted to see that shit.
And so it came to be, Kenneth disappeared for half an hour and returned with probably a handful of shots in his system and a lady twice his age.
As it turns out, the cougar was related to the owner of the joint, and he eventually came out to our party and joined us. This cleared the hookah girl of her work, for the most part, and she joined our party as well, drinking and getting her rowdy on. Eventually, even the DJ joined us.
-
By last call, I'd drank myself beyond stupidity.
The guys had gone inside and were dancing up on random chicks. Trinh found an obese one to keep him company. Kenneth danced with some other dude's girlfriend.
The hookah girl found me hanging out on the patio by myself and dragged me onto the dancefloor. She freaked with me for a little bit, did some crazy hands on the floor, ass in the air kind of shit. That was the point in the night when I realized I'd been taken too far past my limits.
As I watched the girl's ass grind up against my crotch, I realized that I was too drunk to be dancing. And if the night went anywhere beyond dancing, I was way too fucked up to be doing that too.
"What's up?" she finally asked me, "You cool, babe?"
I shook my head slowly. I think something inside me died. "Naw, sweety," I uttered, "I fucked up tonight. I don't think I can be doing this right now."
-
When the music stopped and the lights came on, the cougar and the owner told us that they were related to another guy who owned another club, and that we would be moving the party to that venue.
We all agreed. The hookah girl said she'd come join us, but she had to close up. I told her that I'd wait for her to finish up.
Tam, Don, and I hung out a bit outside the place as she closed up. I sat down somewhere and blacked out.
-
By the time I woke, there was sun in my eyes. I was not at home, and there were about two dozen missed calls on my phone.
It was Kenneth's birthday weekend, and he was in party mode. The plan was to just stop by the hookah place for a little while to kick it with the girl before heading toward Midtown to romp.
The hookah girl caught us at the door and seated us in her section near the bar. I told her it was Kenneth's birthday, and she immediately yelled, "Jägerbomb!"
She brought us a round plus one for herself. We toasted and she cheered, "Happy birthday!"
An older lady at the bar overheard us, a blonde haired lady maybe in her forties or fifties wearing a frighteningly thick wad of red lipstick. "Is it somebody's birthday?" she yelled over to our table, "Is it his birthday? Get them another round and put it on my tab!"
So the hookah girl brought out another round plus one for herself.
-
As we drank more and the night got later, we abandoned plans of going Midtown, and the rest of our party -- Tam, Don, and Xixi -- joined us at the hookah place. The hookah girl moved us out onto the patio to give us more room and some space for her to sneak a seat when she wasn't busy.
Midway through the night, sauced up and heavy in party mode, Kenneth stood up and asked the table, "You guys wanna see me get a cougar?"
I hesitated, because I'd seen the cougar in question, and I really did not think that his hooking up with her could possibly end well. But I'm a dick with a sadistic sense of humor, and ultimately, the answer to the question was: yes; yes, I wanted to see that shit.
And so it came to be, Kenneth disappeared for half an hour and returned with probably a handful of shots in his system and a lady twice his age.
As it turns out, the cougar was related to the owner of the joint, and he eventually came out to our party and joined us. This cleared the hookah girl of her work, for the most part, and she joined our party as well, drinking and getting her rowdy on. Eventually, even the DJ joined us.
-
By last call, I'd drank myself beyond stupidity.
The guys had gone inside and were dancing up on random chicks. Trinh found an obese one to keep him company. Kenneth danced with some other dude's girlfriend.
The hookah girl found me hanging out on the patio by myself and dragged me onto the dancefloor. She freaked with me for a little bit, did some crazy hands on the floor, ass in the air kind of shit. That was the point in the night when I realized I'd been taken too far past my limits.
As I watched the girl's ass grind up against my crotch, I realized that I was too drunk to be dancing. And if the night went anywhere beyond dancing, I was way too fucked up to be doing that too.
"What's up?" she finally asked me, "You cool, babe?"
I shook my head slowly. I think something inside me died. "Naw, sweety," I uttered, "I fucked up tonight. I don't think I can be doing this right now."
-
When the music stopped and the lights came on, the cougar and the owner told us that they were related to another guy who owned another club, and that we would be moving the party to that venue.
We all agreed. The hookah girl said she'd come join us, but she had to close up. I told her that I'd wait for her to finish up.
Tam, Don, and I hung out a bit outside the place as she closed up. I sat down somewhere and blacked out.
-
By the time I woke, there was sun in my eyes. I was not at home, and there were about two dozen missed calls on my phone.
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Opening The Box
A small group of the guys from work decided to have a team-building dinner at an Indian restaurant tonight, organized by our infrastructures lead. I wasn't apart of their team, though we share the same open-bay office space, but they invited me along because I was working late, and they caught me on the way out the door.
During dinner, their team joked around and cursed and insulted each other's mothers. Their team has seemingly better chemistry than mine because the majority of them are relatively young, whereas my own team is composed mostly of older, more serious guys. The kind of cats that pop Centrum pills and test their blood sugar after every meal.
We had pili pili, goat curry, and a sampler plate with chicken, beef, and lamb kebabs.
-
After dinner, one of the consultants from Seattle asked if I knew of any good hookah bars. He and the guy from Austin thought it was too early to head back to their hotel rooms, and the guy from Austin, though living in a college town, had never smoked a hookah before.
The infrastructures lead joined us, and I showed them to a little joint on The Strip that I knew about because it was next door to a bar I regularly visit for happy hour. By the time we arrived, it was pouring a storm, but we took a seat on the patio under a curtain-drawn gazebo-looking structure anyway because they were blasting loud club music inside.
A cute, petite girl came out to wait on us; she wore large neon green hoop earrings and a necklace of colorful beads. Her hair was tied on both sides into little tails with more neon colors. She looked like the kind of girl that loved getting smash and using it as an excuse to do dumb things -- but very cute and petite, nonetheless.
I playfully gave her a hard time with the drink orders, requesting Stella and Amstel and other beers that I knew a dinky shack of a bar like this wouldn't have. After a few runs back to the bar to check on my beer orders, she came out with a bottle of Dos Equis and declared, "You're drinking Dos Equis, man, I don't care what you want. I'm not doing this anymore."
We laughed, and I told her, "I'm just giving you a hard time, dear, Dos Equis is fine." Then, I followed up, "I feel kinda bad, sending you running around like that. Why don't you just sit down and chill for a bit? There's nobody here, anyway, and it's raining."
She acquiesced.
The girl was not the least bit shy, and she began leading our conversations, diving into topics about drug-induced adventures and sexual experiences. She revealed herself to be a marijuana-enthusiast former college track runner -turned- skater and surfer.
She badgered me for my age, and I refused to answer seriously. I insisted that I was nineteen, and predictably, she knew I was lying. I was self-conscious because my co-workers were present. Since working at the new gig, I made it a point to not time-date myself because I knew that I was the youngest person on the team. I was staffed on a project backed by a multi-million dollar business proposal, and there would be meetings where I might voice my opinion, possibly make corrections or suggestions, and even criticism. And being so young and briefly removed from school, I did not want to have my youth become a hurdle.
So throughout the night, she tried to pry my age out of me, and I kept telling her that I was nineteen.
-
Sometime in the night, her manager stepped outside, looking for her, only to find her loitering about at our table. He came over to figure out why she wasn't working.
The guys and I started talking up a clamor, telling him about how great of a waitress she was, how she was so much fun and making the bar a better place to be, and how drunk she was getting all of us. So he cheered up, told her she could stay and even drink with us.
And so the girl started to drink with us. That was all it took for me to throw inhibition out the window. The whole table of us drank ourselves beyond professionalism, and stories began to leak out -- the kind you don't share around the watercoolers at work. The kind that'll make you want to avoid eye contact the next day.
Then, she asked me again about my age. She said that everybody was already drunk and telling embarrassing stories so I didn't need to try to hide things about myself anymore. I agreed, but still didn't give her an answer. So she took a guess, and she guessed my age exactly. "On the dot," I said. She replied, "Good. That's how old I wanted you to be."
-
At around 11pm, we decided to disband. We thanked her for her company and went our separate ways. Unsolicited, she wrote her number on a blank order slip and said to give her a call to hang out sometime.
During dinner, their team joked around and cursed and insulted each other's mothers. Their team has seemingly better chemistry than mine because the majority of them are relatively young, whereas my own team is composed mostly of older, more serious guys. The kind of cats that pop Centrum pills and test their blood sugar after every meal.
We had pili pili, goat curry, and a sampler plate with chicken, beef, and lamb kebabs.
-
After dinner, one of the consultants from Seattle asked if I knew of any good hookah bars. He and the guy from Austin thought it was too early to head back to their hotel rooms, and the guy from Austin, though living in a college town, had never smoked a hookah before.
The infrastructures lead joined us, and I showed them to a little joint on The Strip that I knew about because it was next door to a bar I regularly visit for happy hour. By the time we arrived, it was pouring a storm, but we took a seat on the patio under a curtain-drawn gazebo-looking structure anyway because they were blasting loud club music inside.
A cute, petite girl came out to wait on us; she wore large neon green hoop earrings and a necklace of colorful beads. Her hair was tied on both sides into little tails with more neon colors. She looked like the kind of girl that loved getting smash and using it as an excuse to do dumb things -- but very cute and petite, nonetheless.
I playfully gave her a hard time with the drink orders, requesting Stella and Amstel and other beers that I knew a dinky shack of a bar like this wouldn't have. After a few runs back to the bar to check on my beer orders, she came out with a bottle of Dos Equis and declared, "You're drinking Dos Equis, man, I don't care what you want. I'm not doing this anymore."
We laughed, and I told her, "I'm just giving you a hard time, dear, Dos Equis is fine." Then, I followed up, "I feel kinda bad, sending you running around like that. Why don't you just sit down and chill for a bit? There's nobody here, anyway, and it's raining."
She acquiesced.
The girl was not the least bit shy, and she began leading our conversations, diving into topics about drug-induced adventures and sexual experiences. She revealed herself to be a marijuana-enthusiast former college track runner -turned- skater and surfer.
She badgered me for my age, and I refused to answer seriously. I insisted that I was nineteen, and predictably, she knew I was lying. I was self-conscious because my co-workers were present. Since working at the new gig, I made it a point to not time-date myself because I knew that I was the youngest person on the team. I was staffed on a project backed by a multi-million dollar business proposal, and there would be meetings where I might voice my opinion, possibly make corrections or suggestions, and even criticism. And being so young and briefly removed from school, I did not want to have my youth become a hurdle.
So throughout the night, she tried to pry my age out of me, and I kept telling her that I was nineteen.
-
Sometime in the night, her manager stepped outside, looking for her, only to find her loitering about at our table. He came over to figure out why she wasn't working.
The guys and I started talking up a clamor, telling him about how great of a waitress she was, how she was so much fun and making the bar a better place to be, and how drunk she was getting all of us. So he cheered up, told her she could stay and even drink with us.
And so the girl started to drink with us. That was all it took for me to throw inhibition out the window. The whole table of us drank ourselves beyond professionalism, and stories began to leak out -- the kind you don't share around the watercoolers at work. The kind that'll make you want to avoid eye contact the next day.
Then, she asked me again about my age. She said that everybody was already drunk and telling embarrassing stories so I didn't need to try to hide things about myself anymore. I agreed, but still didn't give her an answer. So she took a guess, and she guessed my age exactly. "On the dot," I said. She replied, "Good. That's how old I wanted you to be."
-
At around 11pm, we decided to disband. We thanked her for her company and went our separate ways. Unsolicited, she wrote her number on a blank order slip and said to give her a call to hang out sometime.
Saturday, July 5, 2008
The Day We'll Fight Back
For Independence Day, Binh gathered a small crowd together at The New Cage.
The New Cage is Binh's new apartment, which he recently moved into, maybe a month go. The Old Cage is our old apartment, my brief stint as his absentee roommate. For simplicity, "The Cage" will from hereon just refer to the current one.
Met up with Krys, Ivan, and Gene at the Cage for some beers. Binh had a PC hooked up to his big screen, so Anton being Anton, surfed around YouTube and Entensity, finding fucked up borderline snuff videos to help the alcohol kill our brains.
The latest YouTube craze is apparently a Mad TV skit with Bobby Lee called "Dragon Hunter 2."
-
At around midnight, the crew shuffled out to a pub near Town Center, where we quaffed as many pitchers as we could before last call. There was a live band playing.
They sucked.
-
Back at the Cage, someone devised a new card game called Ba Cao For Shots.
Someone asked, "How do we play?" To which, Gene replied, "We play Ba Cao ... for shots."
And so we took turns drawing cards and drinking Hen.
Blake and Chu stopped by after a night at some club, and they brought two girls. The chicks were both drunk. And crazy. Not the good crazy.
One of the girls was skinny with a long horse face, and either wore too much make-up or was ghastly pale. She was an attention whore, and made it a point to be loud and announce her presence with inane rambling the moment she stepped into the place.
The other girl was shorter and noteably cuter and slightly less annoying. But equally crazy. She had security issues or something, and at one point in the night, locked herself in the bathroom because she was drunk and was afraid of making a fool of herself. Which, in my personal opinion, was just a tad counterproductive. Her attention whore friend had to console her and remind her that she was a unique and beautiful snowflake.
I was also told, through whispers, that the shorter girl had a forty-some year-old boyfriend that had been lighting up her phone all night. Forty year-old boyfriends are usually a good indication of daddy issues.
The attention whore kept clinging onto Binh's girlfriend and trying to be best friends with the girl, though the whole room could tell she was just trying to sip on Binh's Kool-aid.
-
Sometime in the night, the neighbors called the cops because we were too loud. We continued drinking, though in whispers, swearing under our breath at the people around us for trying to lead civilized suburban lives.
The party slowly fizzled and died, and as the sun rose, we one by one bowed out and went home.
The New Cage is Binh's new apartment, which he recently moved into, maybe a month go. The Old Cage is our old apartment, my brief stint as his absentee roommate. For simplicity, "The Cage" will from hereon just refer to the current one.
Met up with Krys, Ivan, and Gene at the Cage for some beers. Binh had a PC hooked up to his big screen, so Anton being Anton, surfed around YouTube and Entensity, finding fucked up borderline snuff videos to help the alcohol kill our brains.
The latest YouTube craze is apparently a Mad TV skit with Bobby Lee called "Dragon Hunter 2."
-
At around midnight, the crew shuffled out to a pub near Town Center, where we quaffed as many pitchers as we could before last call. There was a live band playing.
They sucked.
-
Back at the Cage, someone devised a new card game called Ba Cao For Shots.
Someone asked, "How do we play?" To which, Gene replied, "We play Ba Cao ... for shots."
And so we took turns drawing cards and drinking Hen.
Blake and Chu stopped by after a night at some club, and they brought two girls. The chicks were both drunk. And crazy. Not the good crazy.
One of the girls was skinny with a long horse face, and either wore too much make-up or was ghastly pale. She was an attention whore, and made it a point to be loud and announce her presence with inane rambling the moment she stepped into the place.
The other girl was shorter and noteably cuter and slightly less annoying. But equally crazy. She had security issues or something, and at one point in the night, locked herself in the bathroom because she was drunk and was afraid of making a fool of herself. Which, in my personal opinion, was just a tad counterproductive. Her attention whore friend had to console her and remind her that she was a unique and beautiful snowflake.
I was also told, through whispers, that the shorter girl had a forty-some year-old boyfriend that had been lighting up her phone all night. Forty year-old boyfriends are usually a good indication of daddy issues.
The attention whore kept clinging onto Binh's girlfriend and trying to be best friends with the girl, though the whole room could tell she was just trying to sip on Binh's Kool-aid.
-
Sometime in the night, the neighbors called the cops because we were too loud. We continued drinking, though in whispers, swearing under our breath at the people around us for trying to lead civilized suburban lives.
The party slowly fizzled and died, and as the sun rose, we one by one bowed out and went home.
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