Buzzed and Blogging [Tasty Hotel Party Details]

[Sunday, March 23, 2008]


I always thought certain things on TV weren't true. I've seen a ton of television shows with the starving artist type, a writer fresh out of a divorce or something especially hurtful a lot of people can relate to. On screen we see the writer, hair frazzled, dressed in dirty clothes drinking from a bottle. In this drunken state, the writer types away, hitting the high notes on incredible prose. I never usually believed these portrayals, because of course, the guy is an actor. The liquid in the bottle is probably apple juice, and the prose was written by a real writer locked up in a tiny apartment somewhere with a few vials of coke, a few red bulls and some imported ass. I didn't really believe those portrayals really, but last night it hit home.

In the blog I wrote before this, I can't believe how honestly I wrote about such a sensitive issue as it related to my ex-girlfriends. I had a lot to drink, (as any well to do birthday boy would ) and honestly, the way the blog was written surprised me. It sounded a bit prophetic, amazingly reflective and serious.


So maybe these portrayals aren't a crock of -ish. Maybe sometimes you need to be in a odd state of shock, or be dulled into a state of creative bliss with alcohol. Who knows. After reading the blog, I realize that I didn't write the blog feeling pained up, or even filled with regret. Mind you, I woke up the next day, challenged a little bit with those memories from the past that any Ex generates. Sexual longing, little moments of laughter watching a movie. The quiet drives to nowhere.


At the very least, I'm glad I write my thoughts down in a way that others can see, and that I can relate to. There are moods I've been in that I can never imagine a few months later, but when I read what I wrote about it, I'm like "Damn dude, what the hell was going on?"

I like the portrayal of a writer as a sort of crazy, semi-drugged up guy with a seemingly endless well of passion within him or herself. I've been there, writing for so long I don't' eat. I've gone to bars and stood mute for hours, watching social interactions to get better descriptive techniques in my mind. Writing is crazy. It is nonsensical. I know now why not everyone does it.


This has been my birthday weekend, and its been VERY crazy in some ways. One day, in a tell all book, I might give a few tidbits, but its the usual cocktail ladies and gents. Alcohol, Women and Drugs, as predicted.


But i'm a writer, and I've decide to put a snippet of what i'm writing here. Like I said, one day the full details might surface, or they may not. Anyone who requests more, I'll e-mail them the rest of what I have. [En-Joy]

HOTEL PARTY - PART DEUX - THE SNIPPET : -0

March 20th, 2008. 10:50 p.m

I spend the next hour or so talking to a cute girl from Boston. She’s leaving the next day, and I toy with the idea of trying to make out with her near the bathrooms but I toss it aside.

There is a bartender at the restaurant I’ve always wanted to hook up with, this gorgeous brunette that reminds me of a young Winona Ryder.

The crowd is a mixture of middle-eastern looking folk and capitol hill types. I hang with two girls for a while, Billie and Jordan. Billie is celebrating her birthday as well, and Jordan is one of her closest friends. I make small talk and snap a few pictures with my digital SLR.

I’m waiting on Amy to call me. After breaking open my emotional dam to Jen, I’m dying to see her. Her words gave me the final bit of strength in what I had to say. I was happy to be a priority for her tonight.

I end up being wrong.

Its almost 2 a.m and I realize I’m not going to get the call. I text her to see whats up, and she tells me she don’t think she’ll make it. My heart sinks to the floor. I can’t believe it, because I really needed the buttress of seeing her. I wanted a kiss, or a hug. I wanted to just see her and smile. That is all I would have needed.

Patrick comes over and rests a massive paw on my shoulder.

“We are heading out in ten minutes. Did you drive here? “ he says.

“No, I walked.”

“Okay. You can ride with us.” He says.

With that, it was confirmed. I was going to the drug party.

Bzzzzt.

Yoshi is hopping up and down in a strange way. “ I have to pee pee.” He says with a chuckle. I laugh. Patrick’s girlfriend hops out to grab some water from the seven eleven. Two other guys go to find their car to get parking. As we walk inside the hotel, I swear I can hear the a Quentin Tarantino soundtrack play in my head. The atmosphere was a hybridization of the 70’s era, laid to the back drop of contemporary interior decorating. The hotel has a lime green décor, and the walls are dotted with amateurish pictures of non-famous people. The place is clean and very hip. This is definitely a place do have an after party.

The room is great. I notice a few books laying by a wall that is covered in mirrors. A large tv-set attached to a swivel is facing the group. A small table in the left corner of the room is filled with DVDs, bottles of water and small snacks. We all file in and I slump to the floor. It’s a bunch of guys and one girl, but the vibe is cool. I’ve done this before, the party-hard then party-harder and get fucked up vibe. Everyone sits in a semi-circle of sorts, staring at nothing. A few of Patrick’s friends have this look in their eyes, a glazed looked that suggest a longing for something. It is a manifestation of group think, the leader and alpha male providing for his flock. Soon it happens.

[ end of snippet ]


Cheers.

Oh my Ex girlffriends

I'm fresh from a party at the Japanese house.

The Japanese house is a place i;ve been partying at for a few years. Two fellows I know celebrated their birthdays. Twenty-seven and Twenty-eight respectively. I always enjoyed these parties. Over the years I've come to associate a certain feeling with the house; its smells, the people and the random circumstances that happen. Tonight, I ran into my ex-girlfriend Yuko.

My story with Yuko is like many stories of "weird love". Yuko was Japanese, and my family had a grand time asking about her. My mother would always call her "yako" or "yuka" but never "yuko". I would always have to explain to family members her name, and explain that she wasn't chinese, but Japanese.

The funny thing about my relationship with Yuko, was that it was built on a foundation of intense emotion. She was reeling from the ravages of a bad former relationship and I was just ready to be with someone qualified. We played video games in her apartment, ate late night dinners at many restaurants and talked each other to sleep late at night. In the christmas of 2004, I went home for a two week vacation. When I went to the airport, she dropped me there, in her very comfortable Jetta. I gave her a warm kiss on the lips. "I'll see you in two weeks." I said.

This was not to be.

When I returned to the states, Yuko wasn't there. It would be a full nine months before she came back to the U.S. During that time, I saw my grandfather die, and one of my best friends killed himself. When Yuko, finally returned in August of 2005, she didn't want to hear from me, or talk to me. It had to do with a brief liaison I had with a girl she might have met, but I'll never know. It didn't matter.

This was the weekend of Exes. On Thursday I spent time with another ex of mine, and it was an interesting affair. When you are around a person you love, who treats you like a friend, its like walking into a maze knowing you will get lost. The lips that touched your body are now afraid to even say certain things. The hands that caressed you early in the morning are afraid to touch you, and even words and gestures are limited. Its like being a pariah of sorts, a leper even. It is like the very things that made you close are the same things that keep you apart.

At my friend's birthday party at the Japanese house, I was surprised to see Yuko. Her hair was different. It was a brown color.
"I did it just before I went to Paris." she said.

I talked to her when I was buzzed, and the alcohol betrayed me. I spoke about things I had been doing over the last two years since we spoke, and for a while it seemed like she actually wanted to speak to me. "We should hang out sometime." I said. She nodded, and then when I told her I didn't have her number, she told me to e-mail her. That was a sign that it made no sense.

My other ex, who I saw on Thursday wasn't in the same boat, but it was almost the same thing. We took pictures and it was almost uncomfortable for her to put her hand around my waist. Whenever I spoke to her, certain expressions were stilted and certain things were never said. It is the conundrum of loving someone when they can't reciprocate. It is the ultimate representation of unrequited anythings.

It doesn't bother me that Yuko doesn't' want to see me. I haven't seen or spoken to her in almost three years. Whatever love or affections I had for her have dissipated into that place where my dead grandfather rests, and where the soul of one of my best friends lies. One can't help but remember how a person loves you.

You remember holding their hands as you walk down a nameless street, feeling blissful in each other's company. You kiss and talk about random things while eating dinner in a nameless cafe. You make love looking into each other's eyes, forgetting the world as your bodies caress each other.


These are the things that immediately spring into your mind when you see an ex. Does she think about the same things? I dont' know. It doesn't really matter. What is done is done. The past is the past.

Whatever love I have for someone will always remain within me, but I will never try to force their hand. I won't make petulant requests for their company, nor will I try to prove myself in some extreme manner. Rather, I will hold on to the notion that I was loved and that I was appreciated at some point in time. That means that in the future, someone else can love me and be affectionate towards me.

I'm twenty-six years old, and I'm still growing up. Fate itself seems to be teaching me a lesson, putting two girls I love a few feet in front of me, almost teasing me and taunting me. It is as if fate is saying that I am looking at the past, an unrealized ideal that I cannot comprehend, and old situation that has beauty within that I can no longer touch, or sense. Fate is telling me thatI had something wonderful, but now, I have no more.

The party was fine, with a mixture of drinks, interesting people and good music. But what am I left with after this weekend? A dull rememberance of the beauty of my past? Or am I looking forward to the unseen riches of the future?

I don't know.

I can't forget the girls i've loved, or the reasons why. When Yuko disappeared for nine months, the last thing I remember her telling me was that doctors found a microscopic cancer cell in her uterus. I was stressed out for months worrying about her, then I gave up. I had to let go.

With my other ex, I realized I loved her in a way that made me feel almost crippled. I wanted to hear her laugh, I wanted to see her smile. I wanted to smell and touch her. I didn't need her to tell me anything. Just seeing her was enough. Hearing her voice talk to me was more meaningful than any massage, or any kiss. But she wasn't there. She was far away, thousands of miles away.

So what have I learned?

I've learned that you don't always get what you want. You don't always understand the meanings behind what life throws at your. But at least you know that you loved, you lived, you existed. Whether or not your ex doesn't have it in her to kiss you anymore, or she can't stomach spending time with you because of a slew of reasons she created, it doen'st matter. I hold within myself the knowledge that I have loved, I have given, I have lived.

In the end, that's probably all there is, isn't it?


Twenty-six and counting. Cheers to a wonderful life.

Life 4 inches at a time [PreBday Thawts]

Today is Wednesday, March 19, 2008.

Last year on this very day, I was in Barcelona, probably sipping on a cafe con leche. I spent my 25th birthday in Europe, far away from almost everything and everyone I knew.

Today, I'm sitting in my room, staring blankly at my computer screen. Naturally, this leads one to reflect. I'm not sure what to speak about honestly, but I feel like with any blog a person needs to say something before they usher themselves into another age bracket?

Maybe I could talk about love, growth, the economy or probably Global Warming. Who knows. I have no poignant thoughts on the brain of late.

Maybe I'll blog about nothing in particular, and write a little poem that reflects my state of mind.
One thing I realize about this blog thing, its pretty challenging at times. This thing is supposed to be a sort of online diary, a forum where anyone can hop onto your page and read what you've been up to. Much of what I've been up to, I don't want to say.

Maybe I'm too shy, or a little too reserved when I think of who might be reading these blogs. Does it really matter if I say whatever is on my mind? The most hits i've received in a day are 120. Can my life really be affected if an extra 120 people know a few tidbits about someone they will probably never meet?

Who knows.

I've toyed with the idea of writing another blog, the one were I can REALLY speak my mind. Rant if you will. Talk about my life's frustrations, things that are approaching that sometimes keep me awake, disturbing adult behavior, unrequited love, the works.

But who knows. These aren't things someone really has to focus on are they? We are in the age where people can find out almost anything if they search hard enough. I'm just doing people a favor, and putting it out there before the masses come calling.


I can say without reservation that in my life so far I have seen some pretty ugly things. The dark side of human nature, people and events. I try to ignore these things, but I realize that when some really f-ed up stuff happens to you, it can really sit with you for a LONG time. This sometimes makes me desire to be "normal". But what is normal anyway? I don't think anyone is normal. Half of my relationships are destroyed by the hangups my exes have over their former boyfriends. Do the wrong thing, you become that guy, and you are gone. Caput.

Everyone has their frame centralized based on what happened to them in their life, good or bad. Who is normal? The chick with the eating disorder because she hates herself or the guy who does lines to forget about his friend that killed himself? What is normal?

Each time I hear about people dying on the news I feel nothing. Worse, when people close to me have died and I don't know how to react. How can I? We are in this weird, desensitized world where no one generally thinks past how far they can tolerate discomfort.

I've also seen some amazing things. I've traveled, I've met beautiful people I care and love. I've seen one of the better sides of humanity, the value of family, good friendships, and priceless moments. I've sat on a beach in Hawaii, staring at the sunset, realizing how big the world is. I've heard my father tell me he loves me, looked a hurricane directly in the eye and dodged a few near death incidents. I've had broken bones, and a broken heart. Christ, I still have a broken heart. I've lived eh?

Even though i'm sitting in my room, alone and in my underwear typing this, I have to be thankful.

Yesterday I was walking home. I was feeling like a huge cloud was over my head. This happens to everyone in a major city if you don't have that many people to interact with. Its almost like everyone is a mannequin, and you are walking by everyone in slow motion. You don't hear any voices because you have your headphones on, drowning out the world. You don't see any smiles, or looking into anyone's eyes. You walk straigth ahead, like society's runway model, unaware of anything in the periphery, all you see is that walkway that leads to the photographers.

I was feeling like this. I had just returned from walking around aimlessly for a few hours. About fifty feet in front of me, I saw a man struggling to push his wheelchair up a small ramp that lead to the sidewalk. A passerby helped him and when the man regained control of his chair, I walked past. This man--I have no idea what ailment he had--could only push the wheelchair forwards a few inches at a time. His head rested awkwardly on his chest, and he was twitching. Even so, his eyes seeemed much brighter than mine. I, the person in full control of my faculties had darker eyes.

Immediately I felt ashamed of myself. I felt the need to cry surge within me as I wondered about what I was truly thankful for. What is wrong with you? I said to myself. Even if there isn't much going on right now, you can walk, you can talk, if you get lucky, you can get laid. You aren't living life four inches at a time.

This emotional charge has probably lead me in a spiral of thinking about the past. I've been in a few car accidents, and I've suffered some major injuries in my lifetime. These leave me in a fluctuating state of pain, which I find annoying, but i'm not crippled. Even though I tend to limp every now and then, I can still run if I need to, and walk a few miles every other day or so.

Whoever reads this, I might dismiss this as meaningless in a day or so. Regardless of that fact, it is all i can think about right now. The time your inner voice in the loudest, is when you have nothing to say, and no one to say anything to you. Add a Spring Break time period to that, and you have a regular existential birth about to happen.

Who knows what life means. So what if I was in Barcelona last year, and this year i'll probably be sitting in some Cafe in DC somewhere. I'm not unhappy to be alive. I don't really have that much to complain about. I've realized as I get older that a few things happen:

(a) you see the bad side of people you love, and you can choose to hate them, or get over it.
(b) you will experience the death of someone close to you, sooner or later. No one escapes.
(c) you will fail a few times at things you believe you could NEVER lose at. Life teaches all.
(d) you will have at least one or two major regrets. Things you can never change. Ever.
(e) you will have the choice to call someone to say hello, or tell them you love them, but you won't.
(f) you will either decide to focus on your career as the focus of your life, or take your own steps towards what your life will be. Either way, its fueled by the notion of death at the end of the road.
(g) you will have lots of fun if you so choose.
(h) you will realize your own meaning of life and death, sooner or later.
(i) you will be challenged to change a bad habit you have, or you will lose people very precious to you if you don't.
(j) you will realize the words of your peers when you were a child make perfect sense.
(k) you will fear having children of your own someday.
(l) you will have a moment where you can completely change your life, or stay where you are, knowing it will keep you trapped for years to come.
(m) next year, you'll realize these things all over again. :p

Okay that's not some comprehensive list, but its MY list... and you are reading MY blog...so there! :p


Anyways, lately I've been like "screw it". I'll tell my thoughts within reason. I've been hesitant at times to write because I think certain people might read my blog, but hey, I'm not that important. I get comments from random people in different countries. The people closest to me refuse to read my blog, so I'm safe. I'm still trying to get my sister to read one of my 76 posts.

So ladies and gents, so ends the rant. Maybe there wasn't much point to this. Tomorrow i'll go back to my usual witty re-telling of whatever I do on my birthday. Hopefully it will involve women, drugs and alcohol.

Peace

Nerdy Models, Touchy Feely and Dinner Parties

SUNDAY 11:45 P.M

I’m in the middle of a Kitchen in Mount pleasant, and four people are touching my head.

“I love your hair.” My friend says. She is an adorable Serbian, with classic dark European features; almost six feet of height, dark hair and sharp eyes. A few other people are touching my hair as well, including a moody guy named Peter, and a quiet Asian-American named Rebecca. The hair touching exercise came from a height comparison between myself and Peter.

“We are both almost six two right?” he says.

“Well, I have on these sneakers,” I say. “They push me up to about six two and a half, but I’m really six one.”

I had been drinking a lot of wine, so I can’t remember why everyone started touching my hair. They said it was cool, and the attention was interesting. I was at a dinner party.

During the night, our conversation was interesting. It floated between talking about breaking paradigms of thinking, the discourses of our failing social system, mother-love complexes and being attacked by wild animals.

This weekend has been interesting, as many of my weekends have been. I went to a 90’s dance party on Saturday night that had a high ratio of women and gay men. So high in fact, that many of the girls were dancing with themselves, amped up on brownies, mixed drinks and the sound of La Bouche blazing through the airwaves.

SATURDAY >:

It seems at these parties I always meet a very tall, very attractive woman. Last week, I met a statuesque Serbian girl ( a different Serbian ) who looked like she used to model. She went to American University and habit of punching me as I spoke to her. Tonight, it was a girl form Minnesota who looked straight out of an Italian Vogue catalogue. She was at least 5’10, with dark olive skin, jet black hair and those large eyes that make you think of porcelain dolls, or 1960’s European movies.

I found it funny that she referred to many of the patrons at the part as “white people”. I laughed to myself whenever she said this. “White people eh?” I replied. “I have identity issues.” She told me.

During the night, in between drinking a little too much, scarfing down brownies and dodging the advances of a drunk and very gay Latino guy, we salsa danced and talked about her job in IT. I found her fascinating. Probably because she was the hottest nerd I’ve ever met. Take a prototypical model-chick. Put her in an IT job, and you had Kristen.

At the party I saw a classmate of mine I hadn’t seen in at least 10 years, who was now married to a tall white guy from the Bahamas. They were an adorable couple. During the night I realized I had been drinking too much because I kept talking about myself being a writer to everyone.

Writers hate talking about being a writer. We just like to write and hope people appreciate it.

Nothing crazy happened. I met a girl named Virinda who goes to George Mason University who immediately told me that her friends said she dates too many guys. “I’m not a whore she says.”

“I believe you.” I reply.

In reality, I didn’t believe anything. I was more than tipsy and there was this cute girl sitting on a couch by herself. Her dating numerous guys was actually a plus. Later in the night I would see her gay friend dancing in what can be described as “nasty” with her.

There were a few good moments. I was upstairs waiting on someone to exit the bathroom and I suddenly heard “Marcus! Marcus!” echo from downstairs. A La Bouche song was playing and it was my Jam. I ran into a throng of girls, all screaming as I appeared. That was a good moment.

Miss model-nerd left and gave me her card. I found it funny that the address of where she worked was in a place called “Milky Way”. Doesn’t get more hot and nerdy than that. Maybe I’ll see her someday.

At some point during the party I start snapping pictures and try to catalogue the chaos. Elli, the cool Greek girl, was celebrating her birthday. My friend Cathryn, who I’ve also not seen in like ten years, was having a blast. I also met a few cool Harvard students with heavy accents. One, I thought was Indian.

“I hear an English accent.” I said.

“Well, I’ve lived in London, but I’m not English.” She replies.

“Oh, are you Indian?” I ask.

“No, I’m from Bangladesh.”

“Ah…”

It has been a while since I’ve met someone from Bangladesh. Everyone make sure to remember, Bangladesh is beside India, and they are different people! Say otherwise and you’ll be in trouble :p

Her friend was an Aussie who also went to Harvard. I made a lame joke about being an Aborigine which didn’t fly. After I was sufficiently buzzed and found myself doing a particularly intense running man dance, I decided to go home.

---- ----- ---

SUNDAY 5:30 A.M

For a brief moment, I am in a movie. I’m sitting on my bed beside my cute friend, who is playing my guitar. With vodka in my system, I explain at length the mechanics behind learning basic guitar and try to motivate her to do exactly what I’m saying. As she sits there, occasionally sipping on a cup of water (which we later find out has mysterious white particles in the bottom) I realize I don’t want to try anything with her. I’m completely tired and buzzed to the point where all I can focus on is what is presently on my mind. In this case, it is teaching guitar. Its 5 A.M and I do a shoddy rendition of a song I’ve been playing for a while. I walk out into 30 degree weather in slippers and follow my friend to her car. I shoot her a text asking her if she got home safe. Then I fall into dreamland without wondering why I didn’t try to kiss her.

8:45 P.M

This is the day of the dinner party. So everyone at some point was touching my hair, I drank lots of wine and again found myself trying to understand why I’ve been very hesitant about certain things lately.

I’m trying to plan a proper Eurotrip, and thankfully, I know a bunch of European women now who all have places to recommend. My tall Serbian-glass-of-water friend says:

“Go to Croatia. It has the most beautiful beaches you have ever see.”

(Okay she said “seen”, but I’m just being an ass.”)

Another friend, the cool Asian, says I should definitely checkout cheap airfares to fly wherever I need to go. I think its cool. I think I might go to Greece and hang out with Zeus for a bit. I’m tempted to go to Cologne. My friend said the hottest women in history were there. A country chock-full of six foot blonde women with interesting sexual dispositions. Can anyone say “hrrrmmm..”?

Alas, the weekend is over. After a semi-chilly bike ride home, I’m back in my room, staring at this very computer screen. My fan is echoing in the background and I’m still wearing a fleece vest and my scarf. I want to sleep, but I feel like writing. Typing pages of prose until nothing makes sense and life itself it some weird kind of aberration. Should writing be effortless? Should women be less hesitant around me? Or should I shave my head? Who knows.

I realize tonight that I might be in a phase. A phase where I’m hesitant for subtle subconscious reasons. Or I might just be tense because of my impending foray into the real world. Whatever it is, I’ll deal with it, and hopefully meet some more Serbians with soft lips and tall glasses of wine for me to sip on.

Toodles.

GIRL ON GIRL = Entertain Me

Its been one of those nights, the kind that leave you wobbly in the morning, filled with eighty percent smiles, ten percent regret and another ten percent of stuff you’ll realize later down. I’m at the GIANT food store in Columbia Heights, and my mini shopping cart reminds me that I’m not really that aware of what I’m doing. A quick peek into my basket would reveal a bag of Tostitos, shredded cheese, oatmeal cookies, Raisin Bran and some spaghetti. My head is throbbing a bit—Fridays will do that to you—and I realize I’m hobbling around with a post-inebriated gait. Ignoring the occasional glimpse I get from people (they must be wondering why the dude in the really cool jacket is walking so funny) I gather my things and prepare to leave, when I run into a friend of mine. He gives me a once over.

I don’t live in Columbia Heights. He does.

I’m sharply dressed doing afternoon shopping. He is in a hooded sweater with jeans and dirty sneakers. I save him from having to ask any questions.

“I’m still drunk.” I say.

“Nice.” He replies.

I briefly run through the events of the night. Girls kissing girls, me getting entangled with one of the girls who was kissing a girl, lots of drinking, hanging out with friends and eventually passing out on a couch.

“Nice.” He says again.

I notice that he has typical party material in his basket: Two cheap sodas, cups and some vodka. He tells me to come by his party later. I say “sure…” and wish him a good day. There are two parties slated for tonight. If I go, I won’t be drinking.

In the grocery line, I find myself staring at a place outside that says “Georgetown Valet” for what seems like an eternity, then I pay for my items and go. I sit on my bike, and my mind briefly flashes back my friend’s apartment. We were pre-gaming before heading to a bar (I was pre-gaming more heavily) and the conversation was about boys. It was me, Miss J and Miss M.

“So I met this guy.” Miss M says. “He is such a Jew… and you know I love Jews!”

She chirps a cute laugh.

“Yes, you are a Jew lover. But you know his mother will never let you marry him because you are Italian.” Miss J replies.

“Ah… my Jew boys, I love them.”

“What’s his name?” Miss J asks.

“Eli.” She replies.

I raise an eyebrow. Well it could be a Jewish name.

“Hrm, is he as Jewish as you know, Jesus?”

(she pronounces ‘Jesus’ as “Hey-soose”)

“No, no, no, “miss M replies. “He isn’t Mexican.”

I laugh to myself, watching the drunk conversation. We are almost ready to head out, and Miss M explains her rationale for the guys she dates. Apparently, as an Italian, she wanted to rebel against her parents by dating more Anglo-esque guys.

“I like pale, freckly boys with no hair. “ she says, flashing me a quick smile.

“No hair… you mean bald?” I ask.

“No, I meant no body hair.”

I laugh again, I really am a guy. She continues.

“Yes, every boy I’ve brought home my parents don’t like. All these blue-eyed hairless boys.”

She we go through a series of discussions about body hair, including information on how hairy her father is, which I find hilarious. She also mentions that her parents are “probably totally racist”. She said that when she told her mother she supported Barack Obama, her mother replied. “You know he’s black right?” Miss M says she then said: “Oh, he’s half-black mom.” To which her mother replied. “That’s half too much.” She then tells me a brief story about New Jersey and the migration of blacks into certain communities which threatened jobs and such. The information comes out in a stream—I drink all the while she tells me this—and for some reason I keep thinking about the Sopranos while she’s talking.

Miss J returns from her bedroom and sits on the counter of her kitchen sink.

“Don’t you rebel Marcus?”

I think about it for a second while the girls discuss another friend of theirs.

“You know,” Miss M says, “That friend of mine, in high school she had a black boyfriend, that was her rebellion.”

Miss J tosses the question back at me.

“Are you rebelling against your parents by dating white girls?” she says.

“Well I can’t say I’m rebelling per se.” I reply.

“I’ve always been an equal-opportunist, and I think who you date sometimes depend on who you hang out with the most.”

I make mention of my “Asian period” when I hung with a ton of Japanese people pretty heavily, a pleasant side-effect was a number of Asian girlfriends.

“So I think its relative…. But I must admit I probably shy away from some things that remind me of Jamaica. So in a way, socially I guess we all rebel in one way or another.”

By this point I’ve had two glasses of wine and three beers in the space of ten minutes.

HOME : I think about the conversation briefly as I carry my bike inside. Then I think about the bar.

BAR: The hours that followed after the pre-gaming session were a blur. All I know is that I think I was grossly overcharged for my tab (I had three Guinness’s and a PBR….wait I think my tab was right!) and then my friends bought me a few more drinks. I touched the hair of a bartender I know. It was normally blonde and it was an interesting brown colour. Kind of hot. People buy me drink while I do the same, which creates a nice sprialling effect for the next few hours which—

I’m in the Bar standing near the wall with my friend. We talk about the usual stuff, the week, work, life etcetera. I’m surveying the room, thinking of who, if anyone I feel like approaching. I approach anyone I want to generally, and with my growing buzz (which would lead me to certain ruin) my confidence was much higher than normal.

“I’ll be back.” I say to my friend, and head to the bar.

At the bar, I meet a girl named Erin, and accidentally call her cheap. (Note: Do not ask a girl if she works at a non-profit after she tells you she is buying the drinks because they cost much less money. )

I run into Liz, a girl I’ve been seeing at this very spot once a week. She gives me a perfunctory smile as I walk by. I run into miss J and miss M, who are hanging with this guy named Dave. Dave is wearing a full khaki suit, which I find interesting. The conversation lags a bit, then I return to my friend. The conversation goes into BS some more, then I’m ready.

A set of girls are in front of me, one or two of them give me a little smile. Suddenly, the crowd erupts into a roar of cheering and whooping. Apparently its someone’s birthday—and my buddy and I exchange confused looks.

“What’s going on?” I say to the group directly in front of me. A short girl who reminds me of an Elf replies.

“Its Beth’s birthday!” she says.

In seconds Beth arrives. I wish her happy birthday and she extends a hand to shake mine.

“I don’t shake people’s hands when its their birthday. Come here!” I give her a warm hug and chit-chat with her and her friends for a few. After that last Guinness, the night gets a little blurry. At some point during the night, a hand touches me on my back. It is Sam, a cute girl I met at a REALLY wack party last week.

“Marcus!” she says, giving me a hug.

“Sam!” I reply with equal gusto.

Another body floats by us almost a little too fast, its Tara, another girl I met at the same party. She’s Sam’s friend. I squeeze the muscle behind her forearm gently. Always gets attention.

“I sent you an e-mail this evening.’ I say to her.

“Ah, no way man! Nice try!” she says, and walks off.

The truth is, I did send her an e-mail. Regardless, my buddy decides to leave and I realize that I’m getting drunk. At this point I know I cannot safely ride my bike home, creaky and non-functional as it is. I touch miss J, letting her know that I’ll be crashing at her place. In the next thirty minutes, not only do I hit on Miss J, prompting her to say “If we do that, we won’t be friends anymore,” I hit on the girlfriend of a guy I know in a very roundabout way. She reminds me of an Actress on TV and I always remind her of it. I went just a bit too much this time. Then shortly before I left, a lot of girls started to kiss one another. (This tends to happen a lot at 2 a.m I realize). This time I wasn’t going to be left out. On of the really friendly ladies is Liz. With alcohol fueling me, I try to initiate a three way kiss with the girls, but the friend isn’t’ having it. She smiles at me then darts across the room and begins kissing another girl. I settle for Liz.

Soon afterwards, Sam tells me I should totally go for Tara and try to kiss her. I repeat this statement to Tara verbatim. She reminds me about the e-mail while grabbing her coat. I laugh. At this point I THINK I got a girl’s number… but for the life of me I can’t remember. I think I remember saying “So yeah, we should hang out.” But everything else is fuzzy. By the time I reach back to miss J’s place, (they almost left me) I’m hit full-on by the effects of drinking twelve or so dense beers in the space of an hour. What follows isn’t worth typing.

HOME – I’m drinking water and preparing to watch an episode of Stargate Atlantis. Two parties tonight? Hrm… can anyone say, “Rock n’ Roll?”

Phone Sex With a Robot

My neck is acting up today. It’s a result of some whiplash—due to the presence of a bird in my room. Two weeks ago, I woke up to a shuffling noise in my room. As I opened my eyes, a thing flew over me, a blur I couldn’t really discern as I was still foggy. Regardless, I freaked. I fell off my bed, knocking over my space heater and slammed into the door, somehow managing to shout “Fuck!” at the same time. I spent the next hour trying to cajole the poor creature to get the hell out of my room, reinforcing the opinion that animals really aren’t that smart. Some might be, but this bird certainly wasn’t. I wonder how a person could explain the concept of glass to a creature who’s daily life consists of eating crap and crapping on things.

I spent most of the day in Chinatown, experiencing another one of those rainy days. I’m riding on my bicycle, which is now creaking magnificently, and I enjoy the wet drops seeping through my trucker hat as I enjoy the inner vista of Washington D.C. I go to Urban Outfitters—my latest treasure trove for interesting mental fodder—and pickup two books. I’ve been reading with a monstrous appetite lately. Since the start of the year I’ve read eight books:

Think and Grow Rich, The Game, The Road, Spook, Fast Food Nation, I’m Dreaming of Gwen Stefani, Working Stiff, 22 Jamaican Stories and Brave New World.

I pickup Secrets of a Model Dorm and Rules of Attraction. This is my stilted form of research into sharpening my writing craft. I’ve written a lot, and lately I feel the need to do more non-fiction than a bunch of fast-paced thrillers. The more I read non-fiction (especially those with lots of sex, introspection and random scenarios) is the more I know I can tell a GREAT story for example, this happened today:

February 18, 2008:

I’m sitting in my room, watching Tony Soprano eat ice cream. I think to myself it would be great to do something sexual with his wife Carmela. She has that constant look of stress and sexual tension built into her so well it seems she’s just dying to get laid, multiple times. My phone rings and I don’t recognize the area code. I answer.

“Hello.”

A woman speaks to me. Her voice sounds like the voice you hear in any elevator; computerized, young and hot.

“This is IP Relay.” She says.”Someone is calling you using their computer to communicate with you.”

I raise an eyebrow.

“Uhm.. who is this person?” I say, playing along.

“I am not allowed to tell you who the person is, but I can initiate a conversation.”

I smile for a second. The woman really sounds like a robot.

“What is this?” I ask. I am genuinely confused.

“IP Relay allows someone to talk to you while they are using an online service. They will type something, and I will read it to you while they type. You can respond, then you must say “Go Ahead” then I will type your response to the person.”

“Okay…” I reply.

“Is that a Go Ahead?”

“No….wait, I mean, okay to you, I still don’t know who that person is.”

“Are you going to initiate the chat?”

“Sure.”

“Is that a go ahead.”

“Yeah, Go ahead.”

I hear furious clicking of keys in the background. I wonder if she’s really typing. She has a flat monotone that doesn’t’ sound human. It is perfectly practiced and whatever questions I ask don’t seem to stimulate her emotionally. I wonder if she’s a new prototype from Japan.

“The conversation has been initiated. You may begin speaking.”

“Who is this?”

“Is that a go ahead?”

“Whoops, yes, Go ahead.”

More clicking. What would come next would be disturbing and also fascinating. The lady begins speaking.

“What do you mean you don’t know who this is? I let you come all over my face this weekend. How many deaf guys do you know?”

I froze. For two reasons. One, the lady said it with ZERO emotion but managed to somehow mimic it in a way that reminded me of any number of crazy ex-girlfriends. Two, Cum on who’s face?

“Okay, I get it. This is some kind of weird prank. What is this?” I say.

“Is that a go ahead?”

“No this is not a ‘Go Ahead’ I’m talking to you.”

“I’m sorry sir, I’m not allowed to speak to anyone while the chat is in session.”

“Well if you don’t tell me what this is then I’m hanging up. What is this?”

Silence.

I hang up, and look at the phone. This really is America, I think to myself. I pause my Sopranos episode on my computer and grab my bag, the day awaits.

End of daily log

We’ll see what happens. As the days go by and my scenarios get more bizarre, I also have to grow and change as a person… y’know, so the story can have meaning and what not. I just watched this film called 4 Months. It won the Palme d’Or at Cannes. Now that was a film. Ballsy.

I wonder If that lady is going to call me back.

Giant Cum

"Is that Paris Hilton on your shirt?" A guy says to me. I'm looking straight down into a urinal, watching dark yellow liquid escape my body through a convenient route. Without raising my head, I say "No, its just a random blonde chick." "Oh," he continues (he himself relieving his body of fluids as well), "I just came back from the Las Vegas Porn convention and I might have met that little chick who's on your shirt."

This was in the men's bathroom at Local 16, a bar on U St. It was weird enough that I had "urinal-side" conversation, but what are the odds that the guy beside me just happened to come from the city of Sin?

During the night, my shirt had been light conversational fodder, and I do mean light. Its a thin yellow shirt with an image printed on it. In full colour, it is a picture of an attractive blonde woman eating a half-finished donut. She is wearing a white shirt that reads "GIANT CUM" in large black letters. The shirt has been siting idle in my wardrobe for about three months as I couldn't really decide where to wear it. I toyed with the idea of wearing it when I was at home in Jamaica but decided strongly against it. A guy wearing a shirt that said those words, girl or not, would probably be taken as gay and promptly dispatched.

It’s Friday, and its my friend’s birthday. I receive a long text message somewhere between six and seven p.m telling me to come to Saint Ex, a bar off 14^th St. I fiddle with the idea of going (I am very tired from spending the entire day shuffling coffee and doing grunt work in Farragut North) and then I play an intense game of indoor soccer. A crushing defeat, a few wasted curses, one of which was “Fucking drop man! Mark you man! Come on! Come on!” which I blurted out three seconds before the end of the game.

When I arrived home, a warm, smelly mixture of sweat and raging hormones, I received a call from my friend Allison.

“Heyyy…” she says.

Her voice always sounds like she’s smiling, if that makes any sense. She says she and some people are traipsing about U st, and they were seeing what I was up to. “Give me a few hours to rest and then I’ll meet up with you guys wherever you are.” I eat a massive meal and try to sleep immediately afterwards. I spent thirty minutes staring at my curtain, realizing sleep will be impossible. I laugh to myself and play some music. This is a part of my Friday ritual—the wanton eruption of music from my speakers—and it fulfills two key things: One, it gets me in a good mood, no matter how boring or lackluster my week was. Two, it gets me a in a good mood, no matter how boring of lackluster my week was.

My track selections are based primarily on my moods from whatever events transpired during the week. I feel a sense of overwhelming Melancholy because some girl I liked pull the ol’ flakeroo on me again, I might start out with some touchy-feely Sugar Ray, segue into some disturbing yet pleasing Flyleaf then go ballistic and listen to some hyper-violent Dancehall music. At that point I am so charged that I am ready to run to the hills and have ten babies with a group of six-foot mountain women.

This never happens, but more often than not, I end up at bars talking to women in a five-foot four to five-foot eight range who are less than willing to be man handled in post-Mavado coitus.

So, like any Friday, I started playing some dancehall music. My mood during the week was somewhat flat. There was no crescendo, no up, no down. It was merely there. As such, a quick dose of dancehall always does the trick. After a few songs played and I heard “Boy get shot inna face”, “Boy get shot inna head”, “My gun…”, “Body on the ground”, Over and over in different songs, I turn it off. Hyper-violent music really does have its own time and place. I switch to the Garden State sound track and listen to some Shins. I felt much better. My no measure of the imagination was I in an excitable mood, but I put on my Giant Cum shirt anyways.

I hop onto my bike, a wobbly dangerous piece of Architecture and head out. I’ve been frequenting U St more it seems. Before it was almost foreign, merely that in between place from destination to destination. Saint Ex is where everyone is. As soon as I walk in, my friends try to zip up my shirt.

“Wow, your shirt says “Giant Cum”.” Allison says. Her friend, Christina, reaches over and attempts to zip up the jersey I’m wearing over the shirt. I laugh.

The conversation runs the gamut, from my non-fiction writing aspirations, using a journal as a tool to cross-examine one’s self with, a rotating story of how a friend spilled beer on someone’s shoes and other things. Downstairs, they are playing old-school hip-hop, which I do not enjoy. Allison and Christina make good fun of it, dancing in tune to the beats. I barely dance these days, much less to old hip-hop that I can’t relate to. Each time I hear “Engine Engine number nine, on the New York Transit line….” I cringe.

Not really because the song annoys me, but I’m in a bar with mostly preppy white guys who raise their hands as the songs come one, as if to say “Dude, that’s my joint!”. After a little while, my Serbian friend strolls in, tall and resolute with a swishy head of hair. I give her a perfunctory happy birthday kiss on the cheek and introduce her to my friends.

The night goes on like this for a while longer. A few people smile and point at my Giant Cum shirt, and I smile back.

We head to another bar, Local 16 briefly. They are playing house music, the kind I really love. I am however, insanely tired and my knees hurt. I won’t be the tall, sexy Euro-dancing Jamaican guy tonight. We sit at a table downstairs. There was a moment when I almost fell into conversation with the ladies about my current track record with meeting “qualified” women. After a few stops and starts, I successfully dodged the conversation,

Not before a few items slipped.

“Have you even been in love?” Christina asked.

“Of course.” I responded with gusto.

“Was she someone you knew?” she says.

“Yes, I knew her from school.”

“Ah…”

Allison interjects.

“That is SO true! I remember when I was in love it was someone I had known for a long time before. He was a friend before I loved him.”

Allison goes on to mention a survey done by National Geographic about cities with the most singles, citing DC and New York as having some of the highest numbers. We chatted on the topic a little more, with me trying not to speak about certain flagging aspects of my life in a bar of all places, Allison no doubt reminiscing about her possibly current love, and Christina looking at me in a way that suggest that if I were to continue speaking, she would probably feel pity for me. I made sure to dodge the rest of the conversation.

“Listen ladies,” I said, straightening up.

“It’s nice to talk about these things if they are a prevailing thought in your mind. For me they aren’t. I don’t want to start chatting about these sappy situations and then you all have good reason to pity me and feel all sorry-like.”

They both reacted at the same time, like a set of Birds being startled in a cage.

“Oh no, No!” they said.

“This is nothing,” Christina started. ”We girls talk about these things all the time.”

“In fact, just before we headed out we were talking about a similar subject.” Allison added. I nodded for a second, then completely switched the conversation. A few minutes later, it was Ben’s Chili Bowl time.

Christina somehow gets served in three minutes behind a line of twenty people. She brings a large, disgusting-looking bowl of fries over. It looks like a cat threw up and then took a large, runny dump on a set of large fries. I was offered.

“I’ll pass.” I said. After some more light conversation, it was time to go.

By now the temperature had dropped at least fifteen degrees, and again I regret my Alfie-isms. I have no gloves and I’m riding my bike back home. I follow the ladies a few blocks from their house and jet home. Inside, I wolf down a donut I bought at 7-Eleven just before I reached home and sip on some soda. Friday was OK.

I flop into bed and wonder if I should watch a movie on Saturday, or walk idly around Chinatown watching out for some of those President’s day sales. No matter, I say, wrapping the covers around me, watching the word disappear under my closing eyelids.