Last Friday was my friend Kristi’s birthday. And if I know anything about celebrating a birthday, then it’s going to involve copious amounts of alcohol. Ok, so maybe I involve bountiful quantities of alcohol for any celebration. That’s just who I am. What can I say? Distilleries around the world love me.
So it was Friday, the 19th of October, when my friend Kristi turned the big 24. Now, that’s not a big number in any way. It’s not, say… 25, which is a full quarter of a century. Nor is it 40, which is the number that marks the onset of middle age official. It’s not even close to 62, which is the when you can start collecting partial social security benefits. But, 24 is a big enough year to require getting drunk and taking birthday spankings from your friends. The spankings were not my idea. Seriously, I was a good boy. I kept my hands to myself for once.
For the record, Kristi spells her name with a “Y.” Thus, when she writes her name out, it is looks like “Kristy.” But I spell it differently. Mainly, I spell it that way because it makes her sound like a stripper, and that amuses me. She doesn’t seem too fond of it, though. One of these days women are going to realize that their sole purpose for being on this planet is to amuse me. Until they accept that one little fact, they are going to be perpetually inclined to hate and despise me. And that’s ok. I happen to find angry women entertaining. That’s just me.
Now, just because I’m a horrible person and I intentionally make my friend Kristi out to be stripper-esque, that doesn’t mean that I’m a terrible friend. I’m pretty sure I just contradicted myself there, but hey, I’m trying to make a point. Bear with me. Since I am such an amazingly good friend, and such a stand-up guy, I was explicitly put in charge of the whole affair for Friday night. Now if you’re plan for the evening is to drink, drink, and drink, then I’m not exactly the wrong person for the job. Some of my alcoholic feats are legendary. And then again, some of them merely involve me getting drunk, and getting slapped repeatedly. Eh, it happens.
The way I came into the position of leadership for the birthday festivities is quite a story. Well, it’s not a long story, not is it an entirely entertaining one, but it’s a story I’m going to share with you nonetheless. Personally, I find it somewhat amusing.
So, the week before (that would be the 12 of October, if my subtraction skills are up to par) I was out at a bar with Kristi and two other fine gents. Kristi, being a woman, and me being, well, me, I felt the need to say some things that annoyed and possibly upset my good female friend. Now, I’ve spent a good portion of my life learning and perfecting my abilities to piss off the opposite sex, and personally, I’d think it would be shame not to use them. So use them I did. For some strange reason, I don’t think Kristi was flattered by my improper comments. I think it was the fact that she repeatedly used the phrase, “I hate you,” that gave it away.
But in between telling me how me she hated me, which she managed to do repetitively on several separate occasions, she told me that I was in charge of her birthday for the following week. I was supposed to plan where we were going as well as recruit some more people to go out and drink with us. Now, I don’t know why the other two guys in attendance weren’t good enough for her, I mean, they were actually being nice to her, but apparently I was the guy for the job.
So in the intervening week, not only did I manage to negotiate where we would be transmuting our hard earned dollars into liquid, mind-altering substances (and by negotiating, I mean, I asked Kristi where she wanted to go, and then commanded everyone to go there; I call it leadership) but I also was able to garner a fairly decent crowd for the festivities. Ok, so maybe no one really came out because I said so, mostly they wanted to hang out with Kristi. That’s ok with me. Seeing as it was her birthday, the spotlight was most appropriately on her. I was more of a background character.
Now being in charge has its downfalls. It requires you to be responsible. And responsibility means driving all the drunken idiots home after a night on the town. But it was Kristi’s birthday, and I was in charge, so yeah, I think I can be the sober guy for one night, which is exactly what I did. So after a shortened evening on the town (we only hit two bars), we ended up back at Kristi’s apartment complex, hanging out with her neighbors. Up to that point, the evening was rather uneventful. I mean, there were shots taken, some singing, some dancing, and I’m pretty sure someone left a bite mark on Kristi’s ass (and it totally wasn’t me, I was sober, remember), but that’s really nothing to write home about.
So, here we were, seven or eight people, hanging around outside of an apartment at 3am discussing the possibility of ordering a pizza. Now, for those of you who don’t stay up that late, let me fill you in on a little secret: pizza doesn’t exactly get delivered after 2am, even on Fridays. So, bummed out, a few of our party left. Those that stayed ended up inside the neighbor’s apartment watching the recently released Transformers on DVD (good movie, by the way, even if I prefer the original 1986 animated Transformers: The Movie better). I neglected the box-office blockbuster when I found a copy of Sports Illustrated: Swimsuit Edition lying on the kitchen counter. Beyonce was on the cover, ‘nuff said.
I had managed to not piss of Kristi while we were out at the bars. Seeing as how it was her birthday, I thought I could do at least that much for her. Though I have to admit, I accomplished this feat by keeping my mouth shut most of the time we were out. Yet somehow, I finally got on her nerves by looking at pictures of scantily clad women. Well, in all honesty, she was upset because I was slobbering all over the pictures of the beautiful blonde models in the magazine (she doesn’t like blondes for some reason). To be perfectly fair, I wasn’t just ogling the blondes, I was also eye-humping the two-dimensional brunettes as well as the insanely gorgeous Brazilians posing therein. And on a completely unrelated note, I’m saving up all my pennies for a trip to Brazil. Who’s coming with me?
Shortly thereafter, Kristi left to go walk her dogs and get some sleep. She had sobered up quite a bit up to that point, which was refreshing. If she had fallen too far into her drinks, it would have been my responsibility to look after her while she was sick. Like I noted before, I hate being in charge. But she was fine, and she left under her own power. This was right about the time her neighbor had decided to cook for everyone who was hungry since we couldn’t order a pizza.
Since it was now around four in the morning, I figured he was going to pull some chicken out of the freezer and throw it into the microwave or something. But no, he produced fresh vegetables and pork from his fridge and began chopping away. He even mixed up an Asian style spicy sauce from scratch to go with it. It was crazy. I mean, who the hell makes a home cooked meal at 4am? Apparently Alex does. Twenty minutes or so later, he served the stir fry up on top of some steamed rice in a fancy bowl. He even had chopsticks on hand for us to eat with (to his credit, he is dating a Chinese girl). By this point, though, the girls that were left had passed out on the sofa. So the only people eating were Alex, Joey, and me. Hey, more food for us guys. It was a good thing too, that Alex can cook up some damned good food.
My night finally ended just after 5am when I returned home, brushed my teeth, and fell into bed. As far as birthdays go, Kristi’s wasn’t too shabby. We all went out and had a good time. And most important of all, I didn’t have to baby-sit anyone. Because, let’s be honest here, I’m not exactly world-renowned for my responsibility. I feel for the girl who actually has no choice but to rely on me in her time of need. Seriously.
Showing posts with label drinking. Show all posts
Showing posts with label drinking. Show all posts
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
I Do
Who would have thought that two little words would fill me with such dread and antipathy? I mean, they’re just words, right? What can two meaningless words, comprised of only three letters even, possibly wrought to affect me? To be honest, I’m not entirely sure, but I’m still scared of them. Scared out of my commitment fearing mind.
Luckily I’ve been able to avoid that particular phrase all the way up to this point in my life. Many of my friends haven’t been as fortunate (is fortunate the right word there?). My friend Andy got married almost two years ago, Jeremy had already tied the knot by that point, Frank got married this past weekend, and Jim is getting hitched in December (or so he says, that boy is notorious for changing his plans at the last second). I swear my high school buddies are dropping like flies all around me. I’m worried that one day the marriage bug will eventually hit me.
I bring this up because my friend Frank was wed recently. As I previously mentioned, he’s the latest in a long line of high school chums that have bit the dust, so to speak. And seeing how Frank is such an awesome guy (and he really is), I made the trek all the way up to the Land of Mary just to attend the festivities. I just hope he knows the seriousness of dragging me across two states just to watch his bachelorhood get buried. I mean, taking the time out of my schedule to go a frat party 300 miles away is no big deal. But suffering in a car for six hours for the sole purpose of watching a dear friend consign to what I consider to be an inconceivable error? Frank better know how lucky he is to have such a committed friend like me.
There was an upside to the weekend though. Free booze. That’s right, say it with me now, “free booze.” Now there are two words that’ll put a smile on my face. It’s a few more letters than the earlier scriptural pairing, but I think it has a much warmer, more soothing feel to it. Coincidentally, the alcohol itself tends to make me feel all warm and fuzzy inside. And I’m pretty sure everyone likes to feel warm and fuzzy. But, as I alluded to earlier, this was no frat party, this was a wedding. I had to be on my best behavior… or rather, what passes as my best behavior after five or six drinks in an unfamiliar local.
Luckily there was an even more important reason to imbibe this weekend besides the fact that it was a wedding and there was alcohol aplenty… and the fact that I pretty much drink whenever I can get the chance… and well, do I really need a reason to drink? Frank made sure to have in attendance on his wedding day one keg of locally brewed beer and three separate varieties of bottled home brew. Now, for those of you who don’t normally have much to do with the small cap beers, allow me to enlighten you. Local brews are beers brewed locally. I came up with that all by myself, if you can believe it.
Seriously though, local brews are good stuff. They’re usually restaurants or small breweries that distribute beer only within very regional confines. Some of my favorite beers are made in my home state of North Carolina and only circulated inside its boarders. What can I say? I enjoy helping out the local mom and pop enterprises. And it doesn’t hurt that the breweries around here make some damned fine libations.
But homebrews are a little bit different. If you can’t tell by the word choice there, they’re actually made in a person’s home and are generally not made for profit (I’m just Captain Obvious today, aren’t I?). Homebrewers like to experiment and come up with not only new flavorings in beer, but also to tweak the tastes of existing beers. I’ve only had the pleasure of sampling a few homebrews before, but with a little bit of ingenuity and the right ingredients, I know a dedicated homebrewer can make a pretty good beer. Unfortunately it can get expensive when you factor in the costs of bottles and caps and other beer storage needs.
Frank and some of his friends have been cooking up their own beer for a few years now, and I tasted one of their recipes before and found it quite to my liking. I was especially happy to see that all three homebrews present at the wedding were new to me. In attendance were a raspberry wheat ale, an Irish red, and a rather nice amber. I was determined to try them all since each one seemed intriguing in its own right. My findings are as follows (in order of decreasing awesomeness): The amber beer was very good, as both Frank and Danny (the brewers) had advertised, the Irish red was pleasantly flavorsome and enjoyable, but the raspberry wheat ale I found to be a bit too fruity for my tastes. As a general rule, fruity beer equals not good beer. Well, unless you’re a chick, chicks like fruity stuff.
So I have to say, Frank’s wedding turned out to be an enjoyable event all around. However, this didn’t stop me from attempting to do what I resolutely consider my hallowed responsibility in this life. The night before the wedding, as the rehearsal dinner was winding down, I took Frank to the side and gave him the same advice I try to give every man just before his wedding day: RUN! Run and don’t look back! You know, for some strange reason, people never seem to take my advice. I really don’t know why either.
To his credit, Frank didn’t run. Even when a good family friend who had known his grandfather for many long years gave him the same advice (including offering to foot the bill for a one person plane ticket to the Bahamas), Frank stayed the course. That boy must be in love or something (ever notice how “love” is a four lettered word? I’m just putting that out there). Though in his defense Rosa, his fiancé, seems like a very nice young lady. Fiancé? No, they’re married now, Rosa is his wife. Wow, wife (yet another four letter word, amazing how these things keep piling up, huh?), it’s going to take me some time before I get used to using that word. I still have a hard time remembering to refer to Laura as Andy’s wife, not his girlfriend, and they’ve been married for two years! Sometimes I think I’m not really one of the fastest Hotwheels in the boxed set, if you know what I mean.
So what have we learned today? We learned that it’s okay to get married as long as you brew your own beer for the wedding. We also learned that “love”, “wife”, “girl”, and “commitment” are all four letter words, carrying eerily similar connotations with all those other four lettered words that aren’t exactly conversationally polite (oh, and don’t even try to tell me that “commitment” isn’t a four letter word, you can count all you want, but I’ve spent the better part of my twenty-four year existence proving that one particular obtuse fact, so please, don’t challenge me on this). And finally, we learned that weddings are really just funerals for a man’s single existence and all that he once was. Furthermore, the death of his bachelorhood is the necessary reagent that opens up the possibility of a new beginning of marriage and couplehood. It’s the Circle of Life (hey, I’m pontificating here, it doesn’t happen very often, just go with it). I might also be wise to point out that I’ve learned all I know about life from Disney movies. Go figure.
Luckily I’ve been able to avoid that particular phrase all the way up to this point in my life. Many of my friends haven’t been as fortunate (is fortunate the right word there?). My friend Andy got married almost two years ago, Jeremy had already tied the knot by that point, Frank got married this past weekend, and Jim is getting hitched in December (or so he says, that boy is notorious for changing his plans at the last second). I swear my high school buddies are dropping like flies all around me. I’m worried that one day the marriage bug will eventually hit me.
I bring this up because my friend Frank was wed recently. As I previously mentioned, he’s the latest in a long line of high school chums that have bit the dust, so to speak. And seeing how Frank is such an awesome guy (and he really is), I made the trek all the way up to the Land of Mary just to attend the festivities. I just hope he knows the seriousness of dragging me across two states just to watch his bachelorhood get buried. I mean, taking the time out of my schedule to go a frat party 300 miles away is no big deal. But suffering in a car for six hours for the sole purpose of watching a dear friend consign to what I consider to be an inconceivable error? Frank better know how lucky he is to have such a committed friend like me.
There was an upside to the weekend though. Free booze. That’s right, say it with me now, “free booze.” Now there are two words that’ll put a smile on my face. It’s a few more letters than the earlier scriptural pairing, but I think it has a much warmer, more soothing feel to it. Coincidentally, the alcohol itself tends to make me feel all warm and fuzzy inside. And I’m pretty sure everyone likes to feel warm and fuzzy. But, as I alluded to earlier, this was no frat party, this was a wedding. I had to be on my best behavior… or rather, what passes as my best behavior after five or six drinks in an unfamiliar local.
Luckily there was an even more important reason to imbibe this weekend besides the fact that it was a wedding and there was alcohol aplenty… and the fact that I pretty much drink whenever I can get the chance… and well, do I really need a reason to drink? Frank made sure to have in attendance on his wedding day one keg of locally brewed beer and three separate varieties of bottled home brew. Now, for those of you who don’t normally have much to do with the small cap beers, allow me to enlighten you. Local brews are beers brewed locally. I came up with that all by myself, if you can believe it.
Seriously though, local brews are good stuff. They’re usually restaurants or small breweries that distribute beer only within very regional confines. Some of my favorite beers are made in my home state of North Carolina and only circulated inside its boarders. What can I say? I enjoy helping out the local mom and pop enterprises. And it doesn’t hurt that the breweries around here make some damned fine libations.
But homebrews are a little bit different. If you can’t tell by the word choice there, they’re actually made in a person’s home and are generally not made for profit (I’m just Captain Obvious today, aren’t I?). Homebrewers like to experiment and come up with not only new flavorings in beer, but also to tweak the tastes of existing beers. I’ve only had the pleasure of sampling a few homebrews before, but with a little bit of ingenuity and the right ingredients, I know a dedicated homebrewer can make a pretty good beer. Unfortunately it can get expensive when you factor in the costs of bottles and caps and other beer storage needs.
Frank and some of his friends have been cooking up their own beer for a few years now, and I tasted one of their recipes before and found it quite to my liking. I was especially happy to see that all three homebrews present at the wedding were new to me. In attendance were a raspberry wheat ale, an Irish red, and a rather nice amber. I was determined to try them all since each one seemed intriguing in its own right. My findings are as follows (in order of decreasing awesomeness): The amber beer was very good, as both Frank and Danny (the brewers) had advertised, the Irish red was pleasantly flavorsome and enjoyable, but the raspberry wheat ale I found to be a bit too fruity for my tastes. As a general rule, fruity beer equals not good beer. Well, unless you’re a chick, chicks like fruity stuff.
So I have to say, Frank’s wedding turned out to be an enjoyable event all around. However, this didn’t stop me from attempting to do what I resolutely consider my hallowed responsibility in this life. The night before the wedding, as the rehearsal dinner was winding down, I took Frank to the side and gave him the same advice I try to give every man just before his wedding day: RUN! Run and don’t look back! You know, for some strange reason, people never seem to take my advice. I really don’t know why either.
To his credit, Frank didn’t run. Even when a good family friend who had known his grandfather for many long years gave him the same advice (including offering to foot the bill for a one person plane ticket to the Bahamas), Frank stayed the course. That boy must be in love or something (ever notice how “love” is a four lettered word? I’m just putting that out there). Though in his defense Rosa, his fiancé, seems like a very nice young lady. Fiancé? No, they’re married now, Rosa is his wife. Wow, wife (yet another four letter word, amazing how these things keep piling up, huh?), it’s going to take me some time before I get used to using that word. I still have a hard time remembering to refer to Laura as Andy’s wife, not his girlfriend, and they’ve been married for two years! Sometimes I think I’m not really one of the fastest Hotwheels in the boxed set, if you know what I mean.
So what have we learned today? We learned that it’s okay to get married as long as you brew your own beer for the wedding. We also learned that “love”, “wife”, “girl”, and “commitment” are all four letter words, carrying eerily similar connotations with all those other four lettered words that aren’t exactly conversationally polite (oh, and don’t even try to tell me that “commitment” isn’t a four letter word, you can count all you want, but I’ve spent the better part of my twenty-four year existence proving that one particular obtuse fact, so please, don’t challenge me on this). And finally, we learned that weddings are really just funerals for a man’s single existence and all that he once was. Furthermore, the death of his bachelorhood is the necessary reagent that opens up the possibility of a new beginning of marriage and couplehood. It’s the Circle of Life (hey, I’m pontificating here, it doesn’t happen very often, just go with it). I might also be wise to point out that I’ve learned all I know about life from Disney movies. Go figure.
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
Enter the Pig
Happy New Year! Yes, I know we’re already into February, but that doesn’t mean it’s not the New Year. According to the Chinese calendar, the New Year started this past Sunday, February 18th. You did know this right? I mean, the Chinese only had the most powerful and dominant culture on the face of the planet for over 800 years. They had armadas capable of taking on every European power contemporary to them. And I bet you thought they only invented fireworks and ate with chop sticks.
So how did you spend your Chinese New Year’s Eve? You probably weren’t doing the same thing you were on the Gregorian New Years. I know I wasn’t. On December 31st I was a huge loser and didn’t go out or do anything. But this time around, I decided to go out and enjoy myself, which, of course, means copious amounts of alcohol. Hey, what did you think I was going to do? It’s New Years.
In celebration of the New Year, I joined a group of my Asian friends and headed out to downtown Raleigh. If you haven’t had the chance to get to know an Asian person, then let me tell you a few things about them. They like to gamble and they like to drink, a lot. Yes, I know it’s stereotyping, but anyone who likes to booze as much as I do and play poker as much as I do is perfectly ok by me. As far as I’m concerned, most Asians are good people.
We ended up going to Five Star, an Asian themed restaurant right in the heart of downtown. The restaurant stays open for late nights as a night club, and of course, they were all ready to go for the New Year. Or at least I thought they were going to be. When I showed up around midnight, the place was packed with white people. Now, being a white boy myself, I shouldn’t have a problem with that. But here I am, in an Asian restaurant/nightclub on the eve of the Chinese New Year and I’m surrounded by white people. I’m sorry, but I was just a little weirded out by that.
On the plus side it made my friends that much easier to locate. Once I found everyone, I learned the reason why the majority of the people there were not minorities. There was a cover band playing at the time that was supposed to finish up at 12am and let the DJ take over. But all of the white boys kept insisting that the band continue to play. Which for me wasn’t a big deal. That is, it wasn’t until the band played a cover of Aretha Franklin’s I Will Survive. Now don’t get me wrong, Aretha sings a pretty good tune, but this cover was awful, it was truly an insult to my eardrums. The worst part, however, was that all the white boys started jumping up and down and singing along.
Now I know by the stroke of midnight most of those guys had probably imbibed in enough alcohol to knock out a full grown horse, I’m sure. Still, that doesn’t excuse singing along to a crapped out rock version of a classic R&B song. Stupid white people.
Ok, enough with the racial partition. I’m not really sure I’m qualified to talk about that anyway. Luckily enough, the band eventually had to leave and the DJ was able to take over. Originally he began playing some recent hip hop hits, but later in the night he began to play some old favorites. Now, I’m not huge into rap and hip hop. That was always my older brother’s thing. I usually prefer the rock and roll. Hey, I’m a white boy, what’d you expect? But I do enjoy a lot of the older, classic R&B and hip hop.
As the place started to clear out, leaving a mostly Asian group behind (plus me) the DJ started playing such favorites as Boyz II Men, Blackstreet, and Cypress Hill. My friends moved to the dance floor and I adjoined to the nearby sofa to mouth off the lyrics I hadn’t heard in ages. Needless to say, I didn’t bother to get up and dance. Let me assure you, there’s a very good reason why. It’s as much for your benefit as it is for my own. Trust me, you don’t want to see me dance.
Back in college I was given the most wondrous opportunity to watch a video tape of my drunken self attempting to dance. I should probably thank my college buddies for goading me into dancing while I was severely inebriated and then recording it for all prosperity. But considering the fact that they make fun of me even to this day at every conceivable chance, I don’t think “thanks” is the word I’ll be using. Suffice it to say, I keep off the dance floor. Besides, I’m white, I’m not supposed to be able to dance.
Now knowing how my friends are, that they like to take shots throughout the night (many, many shots), and knowing that I had a much longer drive home than anyone else, I decided to be a complete and totally weenie. And you know what, I’m ok with that. I bought one drink and nursed that baby for the entire night. But my friend Kim decided I was going to take shots with her, and she wouldn’t take no for an answer. Well, not that I’m in the habit of saying no to an incredibly attractive girl who’s trying to get me drunk. Still, I attempted to put up a fight. Well, I sort of put up a fight… for a minute. Ok, maybe it was more like thirty seconds. Did I mention before that I was a complete and total weenie?
It was to no avail however. Not only did Kim manage to get me to down two shots of whiskey (I refused to drink tequila with her), but several other people forced various other forms of alcohol on me as well. It didn’t help that we knew the bartenders working that night and they were very persistent in goading us to buy more booze. Needless to say, everyone in my group was having a good time.
As the night wore on, several of the helium filled balloons that were stationed against the ceiling of the building began to float effortlessly down to us on the floor. But with only a sharp poke to the bottom of the party favor, the balloons would majestically levitate back up to join their brethren. Now, knowing that the balloon fell from its initial perch I realized that it was running low on helium. I began to wonder how little of a force was needed to get the inflatable back up to the ceiling and exactly how long it would be before gravity was able to counteract that force and bring the balloon back to the ground.
It was about that time I realized that I was being a huge nerd. And I blame this squarely on my family. Heck, I don’t even like physics. But if you grew up in my household, this sort of stuff would have brushed off on you too. My dad and brother were both mechanical engineering majors in college, my uncle runs a shop that machines industrial tools, and my grandfather flew airplanes in the Air Force briefly before joining the FAA. At Christmas time, we sit down to play some cards and I end up listening to discussions on thermodynamics and other such scientific hullabaloo. That’s about the time my brain cells start shutting themselves off in boredom (there’s a reason I didn’t follow in my family’s footsteps). And my parents wonder why I keep a fifth of bourbon at their house year round when I only visit for a scant two weeks during the holidays.
Finally, the end of the night came, the DJ turned off the music, and we were all forced to leave. You usually get the feeling you’re not wanted when people are cleaning things up all around you and stealing away the sofa you were sitting in just five minutes prior. I’d like to think I’m subtle enough to pick up on those clues. As we left Five Star, my friends suddenly began asking me over and over again if I was ok to drive home. Sure, they try to force drinks down my throat all night, then they worry if I’m ok to drive. I understand totally. Ok, maybe I don’t. Anyway, I had less than four drinks in a two and a half hour period, and on a full stomach, so I was more than ok to get the job done. Even then, I had to promise Kim I’d send her a text message to her phone when I got back safe and sound. I’m willing to bet she was fast asleep before she ever got that message, but at least I know my friends care about me.
So that was my New Years, and I hope you had a great one as well. Oh, and in case you didn’t know, it is now officially the Year of the Pig. According to the Chinese zodiac pigs are gluttonous animals that enjoy the carnal pleasures in life. So yeah, I think I’m going to enjoy this year.
So how did you spend your Chinese New Year’s Eve? You probably weren’t doing the same thing you were on the Gregorian New Years. I know I wasn’t. On December 31st I was a huge loser and didn’t go out or do anything. But this time around, I decided to go out and enjoy myself, which, of course, means copious amounts of alcohol. Hey, what did you think I was going to do? It’s New Years.
In celebration of the New Year, I joined a group of my Asian friends and headed out to downtown Raleigh. If you haven’t had the chance to get to know an Asian person, then let me tell you a few things about them. They like to gamble and they like to drink, a lot. Yes, I know it’s stereotyping, but anyone who likes to booze as much as I do and play poker as much as I do is perfectly ok by me. As far as I’m concerned, most Asians are good people.
We ended up going to Five Star, an Asian themed restaurant right in the heart of downtown. The restaurant stays open for late nights as a night club, and of course, they were all ready to go for the New Year. Or at least I thought they were going to be. When I showed up around midnight, the place was packed with white people. Now, being a white boy myself, I shouldn’t have a problem with that. But here I am, in an Asian restaurant/nightclub on the eve of the Chinese New Year and I’m surrounded by white people. I’m sorry, but I was just a little weirded out by that.
On the plus side it made my friends that much easier to locate. Once I found everyone, I learned the reason why the majority of the people there were not minorities. There was a cover band playing at the time that was supposed to finish up at 12am and let the DJ take over. But all of the white boys kept insisting that the band continue to play. Which for me wasn’t a big deal. That is, it wasn’t until the band played a cover of Aretha Franklin’s I Will Survive. Now don’t get me wrong, Aretha sings a pretty good tune, but this cover was awful, it was truly an insult to my eardrums. The worst part, however, was that all the white boys started jumping up and down and singing along.
Now I know by the stroke of midnight most of those guys had probably imbibed in enough alcohol to knock out a full grown horse, I’m sure. Still, that doesn’t excuse singing along to a crapped out rock version of a classic R&B song. Stupid white people.
Ok, enough with the racial partition. I’m not really sure I’m qualified to talk about that anyway. Luckily enough, the band eventually had to leave and the DJ was able to take over. Originally he began playing some recent hip hop hits, but later in the night he began to play some old favorites. Now, I’m not huge into rap and hip hop. That was always my older brother’s thing. I usually prefer the rock and roll. Hey, I’m a white boy, what’d you expect? But I do enjoy a lot of the older, classic R&B and hip hop.
As the place started to clear out, leaving a mostly Asian group behind (plus me) the DJ started playing such favorites as Boyz II Men, Blackstreet, and Cypress Hill. My friends moved to the dance floor and I adjoined to the nearby sofa to mouth off the lyrics I hadn’t heard in ages. Needless to say, I didn’t bother to get up and dance. Let me assure you, there’s a very good reason why. It’s as much for your benefit as it is for my own. Trust me, you don’t want to see me dance.
Back in college I was given the most wondrous opportunity to watch a video tape of my drunken self attempting to dance. I should probably thank my college buddies for goading me into dancing while I was severely inebriated and then recording it for all prosperity. But considering the fact that they make fun of me even to this day at every conceivable chance, I don’t think “thanks” is the word I’ll be using. Suffice it to say, I keep off the dance floor. Besides, I’m white, I’m not supposed to be able to dance.
Now knowing how my friends are, that they like to take shots throughout the night (many, many shots), and knowing that I had a much longer drive home than anyone else, I decided to be a complete and totally weenie. And you know what, I’m ok with that. I bought one drink and nursed that baby for the entire night. But my friend Kim decided I was going to take shots with her, and she wouldn’t take no for an answer. Well, not that I’m in the habit of saying no to an incredibly attractive girl who’s trying to get me drunk. Still, I attempted to put up a fight. Well, I sort of put up a fight… for a minute. Ok, maybe it was more like thirty seconds. Did I mention before that I was a complete and total weenie?
It was to no avail however. Not only did Kim manage to get me to down two shots of whiskey (I refused to drink tequila with her), but several other people forced various other forms of alcohol on me as well. It didn’t help that we knew the bartenders working that night and they were very persistent in goading us to buy more booze. Needless to say, everyone in my group was having a good time.
As the night wore on, several of the helium filled balloons that were stationed against the ceiling of the building began to float effortlessly down to us on the floor. But with only a sharp poke to the bottom of the party favor, the balloons would majestically levitate back up to join their brethren. Now, knowing that the balloon fell from its initial perch I realized that it was running low on helium. I began to wonder how little of a force was needed to get the inflatable back up to the ceiling and exactly how long it would be before gravity was able to counteract that force and bring the balloon back to the ground.
It was about that time I realized that I was being a huge nerd. And I blame this squarely on my family. Heck, I don’t even like physics. But if you grew up in my household, this sort of stuff would have brushed off on you too. My dad and brother were both mechanical engineering majors in college, my uncle runs a shop that machines industrial tools, and my grandfather flew airplanes in the Air Force briefly before joining the FAA. At Christmas time, we sit down to play some cards and I end up listening to discussions on thermodynamics and other such scientific hullabaloo. That’s about the time my brain cells start shutting themselves off in boredom (there’s a reason I didn’t follow in my family’s footsteps). And my parents wonder why I keep a fifth of bourbon at their house year round when I only visit for a scant two weeks during the holidays.
Finally, the end of the night came, the DJ turned off the music, and we were all forced to leave. You usually get the feeling you’re not wanted when people are cleaning things up all around you and stealing away the sofa you were sitting in just five minutes prior. I’d like to think I’m subtle enough to pick up on those clues. As we left Five Star, my friends suddenly began asking me over and over again if I was ok to drive home. Sure, they try to force drinks down my throat all night, then they worry if I’m ok to drive. I understand totally. Ok, maybe I don’t. Anyway, I had less than four drinks in a two and a half hour period, and on a full stomach, so I was more than ok to get the job done. Even then, I had to promise Kim I’d send her a text message to her phone when I got back safe and sound. I’m willing to bet she was fast asleep before she ever got that message, but at least I know my friends care about me.
So that was my New Years, and I hope you had a great one as well. Oh, and in case you didn’t know, it is now officially the Year of the Pig. According to the Chinese zodiac pigs are gluttonous animals that enjoy the carnal pleasures in life. So yeah, I think I’m going to enjoy this year.
Wednesday, January 03, 2007
Now the Morning Light Has Come and Kicked My Ass
So I woke up Tuesday morning, went straight to the bathroom, and threw up. Let me assure you, it was not fun. Regurgitation is something I try to avoid as a general rule, mainly because I have a really hard time breathing right after I violently vomit and expel the contents of my intestines. Totally not cool.
To figure out why I was hunched over my toilet praying to the porcelain gods at 9:30 in the AM, we need to rewind a bit to Monday. That’s right, New Years Day. I did not go out on New Years Eve, mainly due to the fact that I’m a huge loser. Personally I don’t consider myself a loser, but if you stay in New Years Eve and go to sleep nursing a cold you caught from your father while visiting the family for Christmas, then by default, you are a loser. And no, I’m not bitter at my dad for giving me his cold just in time for Christmas and New Years. Nope, not bitter one bit.
So here we are on Monday, January First. Or, as I always remember it, Company Holiday Party. We have our party a little bit later than most companies, but trust me, it’s totally worth it. The boys upstairs set up a nice dinner at a hotel, hand out usually five to six tickets for free drinks per person, and get the hotel to offer rooms at a discount for people attending the party. That last little part is especially nice, because after about three fourths of a bottle of bourbon I do not need to be getting anywhere near my car. And that’s something that I can’t stress enough, I drink good old fashioned American Whiskey. I buy domestic and thereby support the hardworking American.
So after a nice sit-down dinner of filet and shrimp (the filet was much better going down Monday than it was coming up Tuesday, trust me) I headed out to the hotel bar to start drinking with the rest of the alcoholics. Well, it wasn’t starting so much as it was continuing. I think I was the first person to show up before dinner so I could hang out at the bar, get the whiskey flowing, and watch some of the Rose Bowl (Unfortunately, I missed the Fiesta Bowl with Boise St. beating Oklahoma 43-42 in an overtime spectacular). Being there that early gave me the opportunity to talk the party organizers into giving me a few extra drink tickets. What can I say, I’m a sucker for free drinks. Now apparently after dinner, while I was at the bar, I missed my name being called out to receive a door prize (an Ipod, I think), so they gave it to someone else. I didn’t get an Ipod because I was busy drinking. C’est la vie. That’s pretty much the story of my life.
Do you mind if I take a break from my current storytelling to ask you a philosophical question? Is it ok to watch a 17 year old girl making out with a 19 year old girl? Or more importantly: Is it ok to enjoy watching a 17 year old girl making out another girl? And I ask for absolutely no reason whatsoever. …except for the fact that the previously mentioned event happened Monday night not three inches from my face. And truth be told, I enjoyed watching, very much so. That doesn’t make me a dirty old man, does it?
There’s a trick to drinking at the company holiday party. Well, there’s a trick at my company party at least. When everyone is hanging out at the bar after dinner, you’ll usually find me drinking with the general managers. Now why would I be spending my time with my bosses at a party where there’s underage female to female tongue action going on? Mainly, my bosses are almost as big of alcoholics as I am. And that’s saying something. So every time I see the big boys trying to decide what shot to order, I quietly slide on over and suggest Red-headed Sluts (Jager, peach schnapps, and cranberry juice). Because really, who doesn’t like red heads?
Now, I know what you’re thinking. Three fourths of a bottle of bourbon and several shots, I should probably not be surprised that I ended up getting sick. I mean, alcohol is not the healthiest of substances. Well, let me assure you that I have discovered, by means of my uncanny intellect and astounding analytical skills, that beyond any shadow of a doubt, it was the steak that made me sick, not the alcohol.
To be perfectly honest, alcohol and I go way back, especially whiskey. We’ve had a very long and fruitful friendship, and I am very reluctant to believe that alcohol would betray my trust like that and cause me to get ill. This is why I choose to believe it was the food at fault. Armed with that knowledge I can now go out this weekend and continue my relationship with alcohol unimpeded by any needless worries.
Luckily I had the foresight to make sure I didn’t have to go into work Tuesday. The last thing I need is to be working with a fragile stomach and light head. Well, actually, the last thing I need is group of ninja assassins stalking me at night. But the being sick at work thing is still pretty bad. I feel sorry for the guys who actually had to go in today. It must suck to be them.
Well, I think that’s pretty much the highlights of my night. I drank a lot of whiskey, watched some indiscretions, and took some shots. How many shots did I have? …no seriously, how many did I have? I don’t have a clue. And this seems like it might be relevant information taking into account the first sentence in this passage.
Although, I have to say, I am proud of myself. I made it to my room, all on my own, and got into my pajamas and into bed. That’s quite an accomplishment. Usually at one of these things, I wake up the next day sitting up in my bed, fully clothed (shoes and all), with the lights still on. I have no idea why I would need to go to bed in a sitting position with the lights on and my pants still unremoved. Apparently, I usually have very good reasons, though I’ll never quite know them fully.
You know what, I just had an epiphany. It is completely ok for me to enjoy watching underage girls making out with each other. No worries there. And yes, I do realize I’m going to hell. I’ve come to terms with that.
So here’s hoping that you had a wonderful holiday season. I hope yours was packed with as much wonder and excitement as mine was. And always remember, just because the holidays are over, doesn’t mean you have to stop having a good time. Getting out and enjoying yourself is a year round affair as far as I’m concerned. As I always say: eat, drink, and be merry!
To figure out why I was hunched over my toilet praying to the porcelain gods at 9:30 in the AM, we need to rewind a bit to Monday. That’s right, New Years Day. I did not go out on New Years Eve, mainly due to the fact that I’m a huge loser. Personally I don’t consider myself a loser, but if you stay in New Years Eve and go to sleep nursing a cold you caught from your father while visiting the family for Christmas, then by default, you are a loser. And no, I’m not bitter at my dad for giving me his cold just in time for Christmas and New Years. Nope, not bitter one bit.
So here we are on Monday, January First. Or, as I always remember it, Company Holiday Party. We have our party a little bit later than most companies, but trust me, it’s totally worth it. The boys upstairs set up a nice dinner at a hotel, hand out usually five to six tickets for free drinks per person, and get the hotel to offer rooms at a discount for people attending the party. That last little part is especially nice, because after about three fourths of a bottle of bourbon I do not need to be getting anywhere near my car. And that’s something that I can’t stress enough, I drink good old fashioned American Whiskey. I buy domestic and thereby support the hardworking American.
So after a nice sit-down dinner of filet and shrimp (the filet was much better going down Monday than it was coming up Tuesday, trust me) I headed out to the hotel bar to start drinking with the rest of the alcoholics. Well, it wasn’t starting so much as it was continuing. I think I was the first person to show up before dinner so I could hang out at the bar, get the whiskey flowing, and watch some of the Rose Bowl (Unfortunately, I missed the Fiesta Bowl with Boise St. beating Oklahoma 43-42 in an overtime spectacular). Being there that early gave me the opportunity to talk the party organizers into giving me a few extra drink tickets. What can I say, I’m a sucker for free drinks. Now apparently after dinner, while I was at the bar, I missed my name being called out to receive a door prize (an Ipod, I think), so they gave it to someone else. I didn’t get an Ipod because I was busy drinking. C’est la vie. That’s pretty much the story of my life.
Do you mind if I take a break from my current storytelling to ask you a philosophical question? Is it ok to watch a 17 year old girl making out with a 19 year old girl? Or more importantly: Is it ok to enjoy watching a 17 year old girl making out another girl? And I ask for absolutely no reason whatsoever. …except for the fact that the previously mentioned event happened Monday night not three inches from my face. And truth be told, I enjoyed watching, very much so. That doesn’t make me a dirty old man, does it?
There’s a trick to drinking at the company holiday party. Well, there’s a trick at my company party at least. When everyone is hanging out at the bar after dinner, you’ll usually find me drinking with the general managers. Now why would I be spending my time with my bosses at a party where there’s underage female to female tongue action going on? Mainly, my bosses are almost as big of alcoholics as I am. And that’s saying something. So every time I see the big boys trying to decide what shot to order, I quietly slide on over and suggest Red-headed Sluts (Jager, peach schnapps, and cranberry juice). Because really, who doesn’t like red heads?
Now, I know what you’re thinking. Three fourths of a bottle of bourbon and several shots, I should probably not be surprised that I ended up getting sick. I mean, alcohol is not the healthiest of substances. Well, let me assure you that I have discovered, by means of my uncanny intellect and astounding analytical skills, that beyond any shadow of a doubt, it was the steak that made me sick, not the alcohol.
To be perfectly honest, alcohol and I go way back, especially whiskey. We’ve had a very long and fruitful friendship, and I am very reluctant to believe that alcohol would betray my trust like that and cause me to get ill. This is why I choose to believe it was the food at fault. Armed with that knowledge I can now go out this weekend and continue my relationship with alcohol unimpeded by any needless worries.
Luckily I had the foresight to make sure I didn’t have to go into work Tuesday. The last thing I need is to be working with a fragile stomach and light head. Well, actually, the last thing I need is group of ninja assassins stalking me at night. But the being sick at work thing is still pretty bad. I feel sorry for the guys who actually had to go in today. It must suck to be them.
Well, I think that’s pretty much the highlights of my night. I drank a lot of whiskey, watched some indiscretions, and took some shots. How many shots did I have? …no seriously, how many did I have? I don’t have a clue. And this seems like it might be relevant information taking into account the first sentence in this passage.
Although, I have to say, I am proud of myself. I made it to my room, all on my own, and got into my pajamas and into bed. That’s quite an accomplishment. Usually at one of these things, I wake up the next day sitting up in my bed, fully clothed (shoes and all), with the lights still on. I have no idea why I would need to go to bed in a sitting position with the lights on and my pants still unremoved. Apparently, I usually have very good reasons, though I’ll never quite know them fully.
You know what, I just had an epiphany. It is completely ok for me to enjoy watching underage girls making out with each other. No worries there. And yes, I do realize I’m going to hell. I’ve come to terms with that.
So here’s hoping that you had a wonderful holiday season. I hope yours was packed with as much wonder and excitement as mine was. And always remember, just because the holidays are over, doesn’t mean you have to stop having a good time. Getting out and enjoying yourself is a year round affair as far as I’m concerned. As I always say: eat, drink, and be merry!
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