No 1 Can Hear U Singing in D Rain

Its raining and I feel like singing.

Its Friday, and so far I've shared the company of three women under three umbrellas. I wouldn't say this is a great feat, but it beats walking with my own umbrella by my lonesome. On rainy days I don't like to stay indooors. The columns of rain droplets peeing on the land always makes me want to walk around and look at puddles, wet dogs and soggy pieces of newspaper. As I write this, I am sadly not in the rain.

I'm in a computer lab sitting across from a guy who I think had a brief hookup with a girl I once dated. I find this interesting, simply because he probably has no idea if I hooked up with the girl he once hooked up with (though he did give me a lingering eye). Nonetheless, it is raining outside.

Lately my impetus to write has been mixed between my impetus to go out and socially interact. (yes, I said "impetus" twice in one sentence...I should be put on the Writers' Guild guillotine ASAP).

My last outing was over the weekend, the amazing Homecoming weekend. I'm calling it amazing because this particular weekend was great, because I spent it in the company of five people. Myself, my cousin, his friend, my other friend and my alter-ego, who I have dubbed "Vinton."
My alter-ego is that side of me that wears his hair mangly and half braided, who sneers at women and cheers guys on the more they look at women's asses. Vinton is the kind of guy you wouldn't invite to choir practice, a job fair at school, or a wet t-shirt contest.

Luckily Vinton doesn't appear as my alter ego through any phsyical changes within me. He is merely a voice, that gives credence to his existence. Say for example, myself and my cousin and his friend are walking down the road.
"Yes," my cousin says about a girl named Alice. "Alice is a good girl."
After a brief pause, Vinton would say in a hushed and scraggly voice.
"Good gyal? You mean she can get some good wuk."

(do I have to explain what "wuk" means?" )

Vinton's occassional appearance is good for a quick laugh or a skewed observation on a hot issue. All in all the weekend was pretty interesting. At homecoming events clubs hustle. I don't like knowing that last week I paid 5 bucks to get into a club that sold 3 dollar rails, and homecoming weekend it costs 25 (before 10 p.m) and drinks cost 8 dollars each. Things like that make me want to slap a bouncer in the face ... but I like my teeth.

There were moments I enjoyed during the weekend--dancing in the middle of a group while I was cheered on for my dancing among my favourite--but it was the company I enjoyed the most. Sometimes a guy needs to be a guy around other guys, for that explicit purpose. (I'm sure Vinton would say:" Guy? You need man in you life? " )

That was a guy's weekend. I didn't even make any attempts to meet new women or do the usual drinkup to the point of floating on air. I just had fun.

Today was diferent. Its raining in DC, and I feel like its a sunny day.

I'm bored and I decide to head to Filene's Basement to get some new jeans. I have lunch with a cute lacrosse player and we hop on the shuttle. She is going shopping for shoes.

After a thrilling conversation and a short metro ride later, I found myself at Border's near Farragut North. It was raining so hard outside of the metro station, only the large white letters of "Borders" was visible through the deluge. I didn't even remember what direction Filene's was in. My new pair of jeans would have to wait for another day to be tried on and purchased. I hobble through the rain, making sure to look expectantly at any cute women walking with large umbrellas, but I find no saviour on this Friday. I'm glad the walk is only one block. I walk through the store, wincing a little bit inside because this store has a potent memory in it for me. My ex-girlfriend and I argued inside and outside of the store for almost an entire hour about whether or not Alligators had tongues. As it stands, they do NOT have tongues... but that is a moot point. (I think crocs have tongues, or vice versa...you get the idea ).

I'm in the sexuality section and I grin to myself because a book about "Race, Image and Citzenship" is between the "Licoln Boys Club" (gay erotica ) and "Omnivore's World" (general health).I like seeing people read 35 dollar books for free. Everyone is quiet and soaking up their free literature. I almost step on two girls drinking coffee in the Self-help aisle. I'm slightly tempted to speak to one of them, a cute brunette wearing a horrible-looking red jersey, but they leave twenty seconds after I pass them. Border's isn't that cold, but I'm freezing because I walked into the place soaked. I head into the Border's cafe and sit and write a few stanzas for a song I made up while walking. (Therefore, I DID sing in the rain). After I peruse the formidable selection of mindless literature they have, I head outside and stare at the falling rain. It is captivating and hypnotic, being shrouded in the claustrophobic atmosphere of a city, slowly being drenched with fat droplets falling from the sky. I am one of the only persons without an umbrella on the street side, looking like a bull in a big... freaking china shop. After a while, I give in and walk towards the metro station as it pours, feeling the droplets hit my head, skitter through my hair and travel down the slope of my nose. Its wet and it feels good.

Potent memories of ex's and arguments about bogus topics aside, its good to be alive. Its good to be aware of the rain hitting my face, and feeling my body shudder occassionally. I'm thrilled by the prospect of reading, engaging and interacting. The gray sky no longer looks portentious and intimidating. The sky, like the buildings and people around me, is merely an extension of my reality. I can choose how I perceive it, among many other things.

I shudder once more, and wonder to myself if I should get an umbrella. I would certainly keep my head under something protective. "Nah..." Vinton starts to say, "What you mean unda? Bad man don't go "unda" anything...just pon top a gyal!"

Baby Blocking is Unethical

Its one of those days again.

I'm on the metro heading towards Farragut North, i'm standing akimbo in a train moving at probably seventy miles an hour, testing fate. Okay, i'm not standing Akimbo, but I am look through the lenses of the train (otherwise called Windows) and I'm wondering why I'm even on the metro so early the in week. To me the metro is a sacred place, relegated for Friday, Saturday and MAYBE Sunday usage. During the week, it is not to bee seen or touched.

While i'm bustling about in the thick crowd in the Chinatown station, I'm running towards the train and a man with his infant child in a very cheap looking baby carriage veers in front of me, even though he saw me coming. "Ouch." I said to myself."The baby block." Now, the 'baby block' isn't nearly as bad as the Jesus Cock Block, but its oddly familiar. The Jesus cock block was weird and downright strange in how it happened, but this, this was unethical. It is not fair for a man who has lived life, had sex (i'm assuming this and also assuming the child was his) to put this fragile, thirty something pound baby in the way of a semi-tallish guy who weights 175 pounds. It is unethical to assume that I even care about babies and that I would stop before I slam into the side of the pram, sending pacifiers and baby limbs flying asunder.

Luckily for the man, I pause my sprint and and allow him to go past me. He hurries along, blocking at least two more people before the tell tale sound everyone hears before "Doors Closing" chimes through hidden speakers in the Metro train. I'm glad that I stopped, because I really didn't want to have to explain to Metro Police why I sent a helpless child flying ten feet after his father was walking with him in a "calm, cool and collected manner" towards the train. I know it wasn't like that, but naturally that's what any protestant (and unethical father) would no doubt say to the police while they glare upon me with contempt. There are many other kinds of Baby phenomena i've witnessed, two of my favourites being the "traffic block" and "baby angst".
The traffic block happens when the unethical parent doesn't just assume the casual passerby is acutely aware of their baby's existence and are therefore in awe of the small life form, the parent assumes that HUMANITY itself has a vested interested in her 9 month project. At this junction, a parent will merely stroll onto a street of busy traffic, red, amber or green light and smile at the ensuing chaos as individuals maim, injure and kill themselves to save the anonymous child. I've seen this happen several times and it always baffles me how condifently these parents stare at the face of death on these roadways, when the face of life is staring back at them, blinking and unable to speak without the use of "goo" or "ga".

Baby angst is the reverse of this situation, where a woman or man assumes that everyone knows what a daunting task parenting is and are therefore believes it is okay for everyone to be privy to their bouts of annoyance in any situation. "Since I had my son, " a man might say. "I've had no time to myself!" Then he would probably attempt to slap me and then apologize for his "baby-induced" anger, or "babe-rage". Whatever the case, I tend to avoid pregnant or baby-carrying women who work in restaurants or public places because should they give me bad service, an odd look or a feral growl of dissent when I ask for that second glass of water, it is simply "understood" that I cannot say anything becase it is due to Baby angst.

Alas, I digress.

Interesting Comment -

I got a comment which had a link to a website based on my "Cloud Nine" Post. It was pretty cool, seeing someone quote some of my work. Click the pic to see.

Cloud Nine - Writing competition Entry

I have a lot to write about, the last few days have been pretty crazy. Not only did I meet four girls in one night who all work to save the environment, flew to four states in less than 24 hours, but I saw a friend of my proclaim "Yay! White people" when Tupac was playing at a bar I went to recently. I also met a nymphomaniac cab driver. I'll blog about those things pretty soon. I'm posting a story i'm entering in a writing competition. Its only 2,000 words. A very quick read. Ciao.

Cloud Nine

By Marcus Bird

Cloud Nine

Nights like these, Vince thought, made cold people wrap their arms tightly around one another while bustling to some destination. Nights like these the sky is streaked with grey clouds that turn into a brooding, black coat. This was the night he smelled Michiko’s hair. He was by himself—an amazing feat considering he hated being alone—and always felt the need to express himself through people he knew. He went to a popular bar, called Cloud Nine which had great Wednesday night happy hour cuisine. It was in this place, eating a Caesar salad, he saw Michiko. She walked in, a bundle of foreign expression, an externality of the rawness of Japan’s populace and fashion sense. She wore a shiny gray jacket adorned with large yellow buttons on the shoulders and a thin yet form fitting black vintage tee; followed by a chocolate brown skirt and long Cat-in-the-Hat looking socks straight out of a rugby player’s closet. Vince was in mid-bite when she walked in. She looked perturbed, lost in another country, or searching for something. Her eyes were dark and mysterious. Even her hair, a large bob of luxuriant styling courtesy of some uber-expensive Tokyo fashion shop, stood out. As Vince stared at her, she glanced at him and held his gaze. He coughed briefly, turning his eyes, and finished biting into his salad. After a few more chews, he glanced through the corner of his eye in her direction. She was at the bar, standing by herself.

Something inside him stirred in a way that it had never done so before. Maybe it was her striking contrast to everyone else, or maybe it was her foreign touch, that spark of Tokyo-pop and extreme fashion that tickled his relatively conservative sensibilities. Whatever it was, it gave him impetus. He sucked his teeth to check for vegetable particles, and wiped his hands on a napkin. A few long strides took him to the bar directly beside her. As he asked for a drink, Michiko hopped up quickly, so fast that her hair flew upwards and slightly touched Vince’s face. A smell briefly wafted into his nose.

Bubble-gum and Cookies.

She squealed with delight about something and Vince turned to see her hug a young man, also of Asian descent. He was much shorter than Michiko, with a round face, spiky hair and gentle eyes. In a full black shirt and pants, he was also in contrast with Michiko’s outfit. “That’s the DJ.” The bartender said. The bartender was a young twenty-something year old guy with a small outcropping of stubble on his chin, a wide well-proportioned face with a permanent cleft in his left cheek. He always seemed to be smiling.

“Is that his girlfriend?” Vince asked.

“No, nothing like it. She comes here every now and then to hear him play house music.”

Vince looked over to where the two just were, and they were gone. He turned his head and looked across the room. He saw Michiko sitting in a plush couch near to the DJ booth, where the small man was setting up.

“That’s DJ Yoda.” The bartender said with a laugh. “I love star wars.”

He slipped Vince a Vodka Cranberry and turned around to polish some glasses. Vince felt the same twinge of that weird feeling run through his stomach again. Michiko was sitting quietly in the couch, in the soft shadows of the lounge. Her hair almost covered her eyes, making her face look like a beautiful yet disturbing mask. She flicked up a strand of hair with her finger and looked directly at Vince. At this point, a hand seemed to be pulling him forward, tugging him towards the mysterious woman with the funny socks. Vince found himself with his drink in his hand, floating over to Michiko. She gave him a bright smile, showing rows of small white teeth.

“Can I sit here?” he asked.

“Yes, please!” Michiko replied.

“I love your socks.” Vince said.

Michiko let out a loud laugh that sounded like the jingling of bells. When she laughed, Vince’s eyes flashed to any number of hypothetical bars in Tokyo, where she would be sitting with some equally quirky girls, laughing in a booth on the twentieth floor of a nameless building. Laughing that same laugh.

“Thank you, thank you!” she exclaimed.

Vince knew she was from Japan. He had been there himself for two months, walking through the almost maddening architecture of a contiguous landscape, filled to the brim with people. There was a certain look many of the locals had, a look that a person who lived there for some time could pick out immediately. Sometimes it was a certain slanting of the eyes, the shape of the nose, or even the walk, a particular gait reserved for certain boroughs. Then it was the fashion, the odd sensibilities that reflected a city of bright colors, flashing lights and time-your-watch-to-the-second trains. It was like technology and man had mated and produced a host of Michiko’s, happy to exist in a world laced with self-parking cars and rapid text messaging in Kana.

“I’m Michiko.” She said.

“I’m Vince.”

“Vince?”

She said his name in the usual Japanese way, adding “su” to the end. Vince was now, Vinsu?

“That’s’ right. “ Vince replied.

“You like Japanese girls? Eh? Vince-san?” she giggled.

“I like all girls.” Vince replied.

“Ah, so-dayo..” Michiko said.

Vince smiled to himself, “Is that so”… bounced around in his head as his mind translated her little phrase. They spoke for a few minutes until the music started. Michiko ordered a few drinks and Vince followed suit. As they downed drinks time seemed to slow, with the taste of alcohol setting the tone for each moment that passed. Eventually a crowd formed on the dance floor and Michiko's eyes brightened as she heard a familiar song. Without any hesitation she went into the absolute middle of the dance floor, rocking to the music with her eyes closed and hair swaying. Vince eased his way into the center with her, doing a semi-awkward motion of house dancing relegated to those who spend their days walking in the park.

Michiko was wild—dancing like a possessed squirrel—and Vince struggled to keep up. She had an odd rhythm to the pulsing house beats playing. She was half-hopping and half-shaking in a way that didn’t really work with the music, but in a way … it did. In the middle of the usual interlude in a house song—an instrumental break of about thirty seconds that leads to the reintroduction of the bassline—she gave Vince a hug. Her body was small and firm and Vince could feel her shape as she pressed against him. The smell of her hair mixed in with the smell of a strong perfume she was wearing. She kissed him on the cheek, with soft, tiny lips and laughed.

“Dance, Vince!” she said.

Vince felt the buzz of alcohol hitting his body in waves. The music sounded duller but the bass was everywhere, reverberating off the walls, rattling his teeth and scratching the insides of his ears. The club was full of people as well, many of them looking like moving mannequins in Vince’s increasing blur of disconnect. Sometimes he looked at the DJ, standing in his booth with a massive pair of grey headphones on. If he looked up, Vince never saw it. He was fully focused on his job, pleasing the crowd… pleasing Michiko. Michiko grabbed Vince’s hand and pulled him close to her. After dancing for twenty minutes, the lightest sweat was on her neck, it glistened with each flash of the strobe lights overhead. She reached up and over his shoulder and grabbed him, pressing her face against his. Vince felt her lips quickly force his lips open, and her tongue, small and searching, invaded Vince’s mouth. The kiss seemed to last forever, and Vince found himself becoming enamored by Michiko. Her weird sense of style, the way she smelled and how she kissed all seemed to be perfect indicators of something he wanted. Something he needed. They broke the kiss for a moment, and he looked at her in the frantic glow of flashing lights. Her eyes were still dark and mysterious, and Vince wondered how many other guys she had kissed in this way, or looked at with those eyes. She felt slim and supple in his arms, and Vince found himself beginning to wonder how her body looked. It wasn’t something he was thinking the moment he saw her, but now after that kiss and her subsequent gaze—it was impossible not to.

“Let’s go outside.” She said. Michiko bounded with surprising control over to the DJ booth and gave Yoda a kiss. In the brighter lighting of the booth, she looked beautiful. The light accentuated her features, showing the slight flush her cheeks becoming red and made her hair look so shiny it almost didn’t seem real. They exchanged dialogue for a few seconds, but for Vince it seemed like forever. He was still thinking about the moment after they kissed, when she had her arms around his neck, almost staring into his soul. After giving Yoda another kiss on the cheek, she walked back over to Vince. They walked across the marble floors of Cloud Nine, excusing themselves as they felt dancing bodies lightly brush them. They grabbed their coats from the lobby and walked towards the exit. A few large bouncers in dark glasses stood motionless at the doorway, not seeming to breathe as they walked past. A set of large transparent doors with an artist’s rendition of a series of clouds on it was at the end of the lobby. Vince pushed the door and they stepped outside.

The first thing Vince felt was the cold hitting his face, then he felt Michiko’s hand in his, and it was surprisingly warm. She wore a soft orange jacket that fit her form perfectly. With a zip going all the way up the front just below her face, she looked warm and comfortable. “I got this jacket in Shibuya.” She said. “It’s a nice place in Tokyo.” Vince nodded as she said this. He himself had enjoyed walking through Shibuya, shopping for shoes and t-shirts. They walked down the sidewalk, not speaking for a few minutes and then Michiko turned towards Vince.

“I like you Vince.”

“I like you too.” He replied with a smile.

The statement seemed half-sincere, as if she said it knowing that something strange was about to happen, or that she had some kind of power Vince was not aware of, like telekinesis. Michiko must have read Vince’s thoughts.

“I don’t have a boyfriend.” She said. “But I am new to this City. “

“Oh? The bartender says you are a regular at the Nine.” Vince added.

Michiko laughed softly, echoing the sound of softer jingling bells.

“Cloud Nine reminds me of one of my favorite lounges in Tokyo.” She said. “It was funny that the DJ who played there is actually Japanese! That was so crazy. Even though I’ve been here for two months, I’ve been to Cloud Nine maybe five or six times.”

“Ah, sodaro. “ Vince said.

Michiko’s eyed widened and a smile forced its way onto her face.

“You speak Japanese!” she said with excitement.

“Just a little.” Vince said.

She gave him a playful slap on the shoulder. They kissed once more and held hands.

“I live just a few blocks that way. Would you like to come over?” Michiko said.

Her voice sounded more reserved than before, and the tell-tale signs of her alcoholic buzz were wearing off. Vince could feel himself normalizing too. It was probably the cold.

“Sure, we can drink some ocha and watch terebi .” he said.

“Hahah! Drink tea and watch TV… very well!”

Michiko held his hand and they walked in the darkness of the night, heading towards her place. Vince felt the stirring in his stomach again and looked at Michiko’s hand entwined with his. It had been a long time since he had met anyone so interesting that liked him. He could see himself in Michiko’s life; probably at more clubs, eating at restaurants and sitting on a couch together watching television. He wondered if Michiko was thinking the same thing, seeing them through the designer panels of her Tokyo mind, creating an alternate reality with more gadgets and brightly colored clothing. They stopped by a row house with a bright blue door on the corner of a main street.

“Here we are!” Michiko said.

As they headed inside, Vince thought it was ironic that they met at Cloud Nine. In the morning, he wondered if he would know that he didn’t just go to Cloud Nine, but that he was on it. Michiko laughed again, a cascade of soothing resonation that made Goosebumps run up his neck, and Vince knew he would get his answer.

Explosion Implosion

It's one of those days. The kind that make you feel like punching a wall, or taking a really long sleep.

I'm not sure what to blog about, because I'm a serious mixture of tired and frustrated stemming from a huge number of things that are probably more personal that I'd like to say (at least for now)... so I will just say Tuesday wasn't that great, but Wednesday can always be better than monday.

Monday = Fallout

This weekend was a fat blur.

It was a fat, pungent blur, filled with enough random circumstances to fill any number of observational narrative books you can find in any Urban Outfitters store. Long weekends are a crazy social scene. Tack on another day to get over a hangover and you have an extra day to get a hangover.

Sunday was no different. The fallout from Saturday was:
(a) talking Japanese with two girls, one native Japanese, one from New York.
(b) meeting the three K's (Kat, Kate, Katherine)
(c) meeting the two Anna's
(d) waking up finding bits of paper with myspace/facebook information on them
(e) subsequently not hearing from anyone

I can't say this weekend was the most hardcore a weekend has ever been for me. But then again, one needs to define "hardcore" to establish what it truly means. For most, it floats between having a good night, and "almost blacking out". On Sunday, two people I was hanging with would explain to me their various nights of reaching the coveted "Black out zone". A mysterious girl I met the night before (Saturday), explained the quota.
"It takes probably 19 beers for me to black out. "
I said, "wow, I can see this guy--"I pointed to my friend Nate, "drinking 19 nineteen beers, but not you."
"Damn, I can see myself drinking 19 beers! " he replied.
The conversation would go like this for a long time. But in terms of the weekend being hardcore, I'd have to give it a 6.5 out of ten. In terms of mental stimulation and the "very cool" factor, it would get an 8. I'm slashing two points because there is no romantic ending to this affair. This weekend has had an interesting theme of educatedly-alcoholic discussions. It is funny to see how passionately and eruditely people can speak about dense, technical issues after seven glasses of wine. It is also interesting to note, how attentive YOU can be, when watching these people extoll the virtues of proper water-shedding pracitces to preserve our water supply, when a drunk (yet very intense) guy is simply like "But... we need plastic!"

Today was a "me" day. Meaning I had nowhere to go, no one to hang with and I needed to get the hell out of my room. The better my night was before, the smaller my room seems to be when I wake up. It is as if the world itself is pulling me outwards, telling me to enjoy the sun and look at the green-leafed trees before they become bare and the sky is grey for months on end.
Its a fitting end to a blurry weekend... a five hour introspective hike across the sprawling DC landscape. My stomach is growling and I eat a protein bar and drink some water. I'm feeling liberated after being so "open" this weekend and I sport a tank top, cargos and my always fashionable Von Dutch trucker. I stop in Chinatown for about ten minutes. Fall is approaching and I want to grab one or two hip looking sports jackets for those longs walks home. I see a few hung up and I make a mental note of the names and the sizes, then I start walking towards the National Mall.

To me the National Mall represents DC tourism. On any given day you can see buses filled with dozens of curious looking Asians, and people speaking a host of Germanic languages. Chinatown is ten or so blocks away from the Mall, which is a wide, sharply designed area that's the tip of the political hub. For about half a square mile, large museums dot the perimeter of a large open space which leads to the Capitol building, shadowed by the massive totem pole people affectionately call "The monument".

I'm walking around and snapping pictures, which naturally leads everyone to think I'm a tourist. (I see no one else wearing a ribbed tank top and cargos for the rest of the day). The last time I was at the Monument, I was watching an AFI (American Film Institute) "Screen on the Green" presentation of Annie Hall. That was one of the first times I truly saw a huge difference between white American culture and everyone else. Just before the movie started, a very old, horrible looking HBO graphic floated across the screen, as low rate synthesized sounds chimed out some horrible version of a pre-digital age jingle. At this point, several thousand (white) people jumped up and started dancing as if possessed by the devil. The screen was well over fifty feet in height, and by my inaccurate estimates I would say there were no less than twenty thousand people in attendance. The dancing was interesting, but not monumental. Hah.

I end up going to an exhibit in the National Air and Space museum. I snap pictures of Korean artwork and eye many cute, visiting Asian girls. There are tons of families milling about. Everytime I see these couples, whatever theories i've heard about aesthetics and the "typical guy" women wants is shattered completely. I ALWAYS see a tall, bald white man with an extremely gorgeous black girlfriend/wife. Or a tall, waspy white man with a gorgeous Asian girlfriend/wife.

I don't look on these people with envy, but I do wonder how it happens sometimes. Before the day is over, I will end up in Ballston to collect a guitar tuner from a guy I interfaced with on craigslist. I will see a short, very hairy chested man (the hair was literally pouring out of his shirt) with a very tall, very attractive Asian girlfriend/wife. The guy wasn't ugly, but he was closer to Wolverine than Superman. This trend isn't limited to waspy white guys of course. I do see many a tall, bald black man walking hand in hand with a cute Asian, but the trend over the last few weeks has definitely been:

Average white guy + attractive girl of other race.

The second to last time I came to the monument, was after a bad breakup with a girl I really liked. That day it wasn't easy watching all the waspy, squirrely men walk by with their gorgeous wives/girlfriends. That day I was wearing a nice white linen shirt, a fresh pair of "man capris" and my famous hat. That day I wanted to feel attractive, but the unbalanced couples all around me was like a slap in the face. Today, it wasn't like that. I don't feel lonely walking around a museum by myself. I am genuinely interested in reading up about Award winning pictures, Korean activists and the mating habits of Terns (a type of bird). I browse the museum a little longer, wondering if I should walk up to a group of Japanese-seeming tourists and say:

Sumimasen? Ago ga wakarimasu ka?

I decide against it. I have a copy of my project in my bag, and I spend the better part of thirty minutes reading through some of my writing. As usual, I'm not impressed by what i've written. These are my thoughts, and my experiences. Re-reading dozens of pages of my own prose isn't inspiring, or very interesting. Its like listening to my mind speak. It is almost boring, but its saved by the fact that there are some anecdotal memories associated with much of what I write. I sit on the steps of the museum, watching about twenty Asian families go in a large purple bus, and I wonder if I'm cut out to be a writer. I wonder if i'm just a 'passionate' writer, who had a great memory as it relates to conversations and circumstances, who can "somewhat" write. Sometimes I used to re-read things I wrote a long time ago, and I would marvel at how well it was written. Now, it is like looking at a page of barely legible scribble. Some call it a personal bias, I call it a lack of innovation.

I get up from the steps and shrug my shoulders. I'm listening to a Goo Goo dolls album, and one of my favourite tracks, "Am I gone" plays in my head. Part of me is hoping i'll see someone I know, but the odds of that are staggering. Most people are using the Monday to sleep, or recover from a nasty hangover. I'm using it to excercise my right to exist in a pattern of conditioned loneliness. I grab my man-bag, and head towards the metro. I see runners dripping rivets of sweat onto the hot midday soil, some wincing as they run, making them look like the messengers of somthing scary and forboding; they are the harbingers of Nike shoes. Some people are laying on tree trunks, sleeping as the leaves comfort them for another few weeks. I ask two large (possibly gay ) men where the metro stop is. They give me a concerned look and I head into the recesses of the city's underbelly. On the train, I switch my Ipod to a dancehall mix, and start reading the Onion. Even though I am sitting by myself on this day, I find solace in laughing at a joke that someone made up.

Maybe writing isn't so bad...

Von Dutch Ireland Man

"Oh ho! Von Dutch Ireland Man."

This is something I would be called twice in one night. There was a period in time when I liked to wear Von Dutch caps. I must confess my initial impetus to get one of the caps was watching an MTV special on "It" clothing and the first chance I got, I headed to nordstrom to get a hat or two. But unlike a lot of people who wore them mainly during that time period, I still wear mine on occasion.

Last night was one of those nights that's part-blur, part survival-horror movie waiting to happen, if somehow Washington D.C mysteriously had its water supply infected by a malevolent plumber recently kicked out of a closed doors Union meeting.

People would comment on my hat twice for the night. My first stop was a house party somewhere on Otis street. This is near the lovely Wonderland, to the tune of six or seven blocks. I always like house parties, because they remove the touch of skank that a bar can give to meeting someone, but if you have enough alcohol and people a house party can get skanky too.

This night wouldn't be skanky. A few people are watching an LSU home game, and before I say hello i'm offered Alligator meat. I cringe inwardly, trying to make mention of the fact that I eat little or no meat, but I'm trying not to come off like a prude when I'm in the house for thirty seconds. "Please have a bite!" my friend asks me, holding up a very red sliver of "gator meat". I smile.
"Can I get a drink before I start eating anything guys?"

Even though this does not sound humorous when I qoute this, it created enough laughs to create a temporary diversion. I then proceeded to the Kitchen to get something to drink. It was a nice place, fitting into the typical Row House theme i'm getting accustomed to seeing. This party was an LSU party, but grew to a bigger size because 70% of the people invited weren't LSU fans, and were out on the deck.

After a few minutes I found myself on the deck as well, talking passionately with a very Chirpy Archaeologist, a cool NGO worker, the head of fundraising for a Musician's committee and a bunch of other people. It was one of the three K's---three girls I would meet that night with extensions of the name 'Kat"--who would say something extremely interesting to me.

Kate, the archaeologist had that almost tv-like super-blonde bubbly energy. It was very cute.
"Tell me what you are passsionate about." She said, after telling me just why Archeology was just the coolest thing ever. I proceeded to go into a light talk about choosing a career and how often times if you are in school some classes you might hate, some you might like, but inevitably you might hate more classes than you like unless you choose the perfect career. Kat, who's career I was not aware of, explained her theory on it.
"I make all my classes interesting in my own way. For example, if I'm in a Math class, I just sit down and say to myself, 'well... what if you take X number of parents without children in Rwanda and Y number of Orphans in Bosnia and add them together?' that's how I do it."

I guess it made sense, but hopefully she was mixing her math class with her international relations one. This dialogue continued for a while and people sipped wine,wine wine. My friend gave me his reason why wine was so good two days before. "Wine is friendly with you. It sits with you in a nice, easy way, you know?" I have to agree. You can drink five or six glasses of wine, thinking it won't mess you up until you stand up and fall face first on the pavement. Thankfully, that wasn't me.

Our host hopped outside for a second, mentioning that they would be having a nice "recreation time" upstairs. "Ah," I said. "That kind of recreation."
"I don't do coke." she replied. "Maybe if I worked in a Law Firm in Georgetown, that would be expected, but its just weed here man."
I nodded as she said this (to me, "recreation time" meant smoking, not snorting.)

I was hoping the party would spillover into Wonderland, but apparently the night was hot. There were two more parties going on at various spots all nearby. "What are the parties" I asked Katherine---number three of three K's---who replied: "Well, there's a 70's party somewhere on Euclid and then there's a white trash party on 17th".

I'm not sure why it was a 'white trash' party, and I didn't ask. The 70's party sounded pretty interesting though. We walked down the road for a few moments, and I ended up talking about bikes with a guy who was at the party who reminds me of a really tall version of an actor I can't remember. This conversation about bikes became attractive, and a random guy in a straw hat and white shorts began explaining how he bought a Dahmler-Mercedes bike for 300 dollars and it was piece of crap. I didn't even know you had bikes branded that way (Dahlmer-Mercedes?)

I ran over to Wonderland for a brief moment. The staff were all wearing "Columbia Heights Day" shirts and tank tops and I was envious. I ran into a guy I've seen three times in my life. Once at my friend's Japanese party two yeras ago, second at Wonderland on Friday, and Thirdly on my five minute stop at the W on this Saturday. We talk black politics in bars for forty-five seconds(i.e they were there to get some white nookie). I shake the hand of his half-Japanese friend who is at least six-foot seven. I don't know what the other half is, and I don't ask. They both look ready to leave with two girls each, even they just enetered. I say goodbye and head down to the 70's party.

The 70's party becomes a blur in twenty minutes. I will meet even more Kate's at this party plus the three K's, who are all having fun dancing and chatting. The party is HUGE. When I approached, there were no less than forty people on the front lawn drinking smoking, and talking to each other. Inside was like a sweatbox. Even though it was dubbed a 70's party, the music was all hip-hop, all contemporary. I didn't mind.

I float through the crowd and within ten seconds a guy touches my shoulder.
"Von Dutch! Yeah dude! You're bringing it back!" I laugh to myself, say cheers and head towards the kitchen. As I saw a girl I met on Friday, (one of two Anna's) and she gave me the "oh shoot,he-met-meand-i-gave-him-my-number-and-I-didn't-call-him-back-but-let-me-act-l
ike-i'm-not-a-bad-person" look.
I smile with her and talk to someone else.

After leaving that Anna, I meet the second Anna in the kitchen. She is wearing a summer-esque black dress with a white belt and white shoes. For a brief moment, I am reminded of Sarah Jessica Parker, if she was a brunette and a million years younger. We both lament at the lack of liquor available and I tentatively hold a shot of Jose Cuervo in my hand. Then, I eye a large keg people are pumping beer from, and I decide to take the easy route. We chat for ten or so minutes and the night presses on.

I'm not sure how alcohol, language and interactions work, but the night goes pretty well. I find myself speaking Japanese with two girls from New York. (Eventually they would give me a ride home as well). Each time I go out, 30% of the girls I meet are visiting, and of this 30%, 95% of them are always VERY cool.

After I reach home I fall asleep and dream about having a punk-rock Malay band with a Middle-eastern lead singer. It was a good night.