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?”

Club a Dub Dub

I feel like a soggy bowl of cereal.

This is funny, because I'm eating a bowl of cereal as I write this. It is my latest addiction: Raisin Bran. Most people hated this cereal, and I must admit I found myself searching for the raisins as a kid whenever I had the opportunity to eat any. But after the evolution of "two scoops", I am more than satisfied.

Liking Raisin Bran has nothing much to do with feeling like a soggy bowl of cereal. Its one of those days, when it seems like the week is actually nine days long with four days of choir practice. Monday feels like it happened a really, really long time ago, and I keep hearing Leonard Nemoy talk about Star Trek just before I sleep. Maybe this has to do with me not sleeping.

Experts say that lack of sleep can lead to severe disillusion, sexual disfunction and increased aggression. Okay, Okay, no experts say that. But a lack of sleep can certain have an effect on us. For me sometimes I hear life on mute. Or slightly muted. I walk around and everything sounds more quiet, my vision narrows and colours aren't that bright. I'm in class and I can feel myself interacting, but afterwards it feels like someone tosed a cold glass of water in my face. Class becomes a single moment, populated by no memories, just that moment I made the class erupt into laughter. Maybe I am truly becoming a vampire.

I'm not one of those people that really likes to sleep. For years, if I sleep more than nine hours, my stomach cramps and I feel unwell for at least two hours. Sleep to me is injurious. The only time I really enjoyed sleep was when I had to sleep on a mattress for over a year. My room in my apartment was so small that my bedframe wouldn't fit into its confines, and I was forced to sleep near the grond, Japanese style for an entire year. When I went to the apartment of my girlfriend at the time, I was in heaven. She had a massive Sultan Ikea bed that could hold a small army in it. It was soft, extremely spacious and contoured for me. Her bed didn't make me want to sleep, but it definitely made the moments I slept a lot of fun.

Now, sleep is half and half. I know I need to, but I can't spend all day in bed hoping I have dreams involving nubile female ninjas and sports cars.

I went to a presentation yesterday involving creating a dream life through powerful thoughts and a positive attitude. I find this subject matter interesting--I've been studying it for almost nine years--and it was good to get a refresher in terms of my inner potential. But potential energy that sits too long can become dangerous, and I think that mine has not been fully released yet.

Maybe that's why sleep is so weird and I get cramped up. Maybe I need to be doing more than I am (if such a thing is possible). I haven't been able to truly "dream" about anything for a long time. There are moments when I feel excited by the prospects of a bright future, but I think the jaded Rayban glasses America hands to many of its citizens are slowly putting themselves over my eyes. I know things are possible if one has determination, a plan and constant reinforcement of these ideas... but sometimes, its a little difficult to feel uber-happy when you eat tuna and spaghetti five days in a row.

I think that's maybe why my stomach is cramped. It is annoyed by the monotony of my dietary habits, and wishing to change this stomach for one more worthy of this less that stellar palate. Lately i've been too busy to even cook, and I find myself making the fastest meal possible, which is the tuna dish. But sometimes when i'm pitter-pattering about my ratty Kitchen, I can see the well polished tiles of my future home and I see my future wife greeting me with a hug from behind and a kiss on my neck. In my mind I know that I am happy, comfortable and doing the things that I'm supposed to. My time right now is like this week: After I finish what I have to do, I will feel like someone threw a glass of water into my face. All the bad things will be a moment with no memories, and I will bask in the beauty of the present.

Or I could just sleep, and get cramped up and hope for the best.

Leonidas Ain't got Nothing on Me!

In twenty-nine days i'm supposed to be a Spartan. A friend of mine suggested we all work out and get ripped over a 10 week period and then head out to a halloween party in briefs, red capes, with fake shields and masks as our protection against hordes of inebriated women. For me this is a 60% reality. I don't work out much, but i'm lucky to have the body type that makes people think I "might" work out, which is pretty cool, until I start bashing myself worse than a body builder who forgot his steroid injections.

I realize I've never even been to a Halloween party. To my knowledge we don't (and probably still do not ) celebrate Halloween where i'm from, which is Jamaica. I've always read about Jack-o-lanters and pumpkins and what not, but other than seeing that stuff in kids books and on television, there is no way in hell that random Jamaican parents are going to let their kids roam the streets asking for candy. Its just not done.

In 2002, I walked around a shady neighborhood wearing the mask from Scream, dressed in full black. I felt powerful and anonymous, watching people through the tinted veils of some mad writer's genius. But, I've never been to a Halloween party, so this year might be my first. I'm thinking about the choice of outfit. I can already foresee several other spartans in attendance, with many of them having beer bellies, hairy chests and tighter briefs than I might wear. I can also imagine one of these guys leaving with a girl for the night, while I, with my semi-okay six-pack, will probaly be sipping fruit punch and munching on condiments from the table beside the DJ.

Some aspects of being a spartan seem rather exciting, such as hearing a dancehall song play ( most likely this will be a Sean Paul song) and then someone raises their sword, shield, or fist and belts out, "SPARTANS!". Then we assemble on the dance floor and do awkward Jamaican dances in briefs and capes.
"Oh, there will be blood."

As I've always heard from a good friend of mine, Halloween is a prime occassion for people to hook up. Maybe it has something to do with wearing costumes and being relativley anonymous that gives people more confidence. A guy dressed like Batman might actually believe he is a billionaire with psychological issues, able to get any woman he desires with a swipe of his credit card. Or maybe the guy who dresses like a large teddy bear, is fulfilling some strange childhood fantasy involving himself, Teddy Ruxpin and several sweaty strippers. Whatever the reason, the rumours about Halloween hookups seem to have some merit. I think it takes a certain level of confidence or inebriation to go to a party as a Spartan. I mean, 99% of guys who watched 300 left the theater punching walls and ripping hair of their chests. Then they proceeded to engage in thousands of "Ambiguously gay" battles in their underwear, shouting "Tonight we dine in hell!" to which his friend might reply, "No! Tonight you dine in my ass douchebag!"

Maybe being a spartan will be a cool thing. I could be the one spartan that isn't filled with bloodlust, uber-manliness and a need to savagely take out his homoerotic tensions on waves of very ugly marauders. I might stand up in the middle of the party, with my cape wrapped comfortably around my torso, debating Science Fiction with the guy who came in dressed as Orson Welles. Then I may offer my condolences to Neo for dying at the end of the Matrix, give Batman a high five and then smile lustfully at any girls dressed as Nurses or Playboy bunnies.

I could have a shield, but i'm not sure how practical that would be on the dance floor. Blocking hundreds of arrows and the sharp blades of my enemies won't be necessary in the company of college students, people who work in non-profits and on the Hill. (Well, in terms of people on the Hill, I might need the shield.)

It would be fun to ben an intelligent Spartan, or maybe even a bipolar one. I could savagely kiss a girl i've never met, then run into a corner weeping because I acted like "less of a man". I could be the kind of Spartan that keeps the uber-cool "I can kick your ass with my little finger" vibe while expounding on the laudable attributes of Halo 3. I could be that spartan.

Nonethless, I have been doing nothing towards this goal. I'm too tired during the day to really go to the gym, and like I said before, I am luckly to somewhat look Spartan-esque without doing too much work. Exciting as the Spartan thing is, I think I might just go dress in a white collar shirt and a soft pair of plaid pants. Then, when I am asked what i'm dressed up as, I will give the reply Wednesday did in the Adamms Family movie.
"'I'm a psychotic killer. They look just like everyone else."