After taking quite a respite from writing due to unforeseen circumstances (mostly just too much drinking and Bravo programming interrupting my ability to focus), I'm back and ready to expose myself once again, both physically and metaphorically. And away we go.
For those of us who have never been to a magical place called Puerto Vallarta, Mexico, it can be described as what would closely resemble a gay mecca. My vacation consisted of me, my 25 year old flamingly gaysian friend Amreth, his 47 yr old Anderson Cooper lover, and their 52 year old doctor friend named Matt. This group alone is cause for concern, considering doctor Matt is more of a trainwreck than any other person I've ever met in my life. In the interest of my inability to organize anything, I'll break this shindig of a vacation down by day for your reading pleasure.
Day 1 - Arrive to PVR to find Dr. Matt already drunk in his Speedo by the hotel pool. Additionally, he had a Q-tip sticking out of his ear whilst clutching a margarita in a plastic cup. He was under the impression that everyone was staring at him because he's hot. I believe in my heart of hearts that the Q-tip had something to do with the unwarranted stares.
Sidenote about Dr. Matt - He's hysterical. Not because he says or does funny things, but moreso because the actions and words that are expressed from his awkward body are hilarious without him even knowing. He also likes to use the term "honey" a lot, as in "HONEY! I AM A MESS! Is my cock ring still on????" (Actual Dr. Matt quote). This, in turn, leaves him sounding like a 73 year old Jewish woman from Long Island with a smoker's voice and a possible herniated disk from lying on her back for so many years.
After dropping off our shit, Amreth goes up to his room to rest because he decided it would be a good idea to go skinny dipping the weekend before our trip and caught a bashful case of pneumonia. Todd, Dr. Matt, and myself go exploring at the whim of Dr. Matt's notion that he has any type of directional capabilites. After being led around in 3 distinctive circles that, from an aerial perspective, must have looked like two titties being seduced by an Asian penis, we finally determined that Dr. Matt had no idea where he was going. It was like being led around a carnival by a drunk midget in a Speedo with oversized flip flops and severe ADD. Eventually we wound up at the Blue Chairs rooftop at the gay hotel on the beach. Because it was only 5pm and a stripper named Ricky was already feeling me up by the balcony, I decided it was only appropriate to drink 4 Rum and Diet Cokes in the span of 20 minutes. The rest of my evening was quite a blur.
Day 2:
Woke up well rested yet painfully thirsty from the unorthodox amount of Rum consumed the previous night. Amreth was only half alive, so Todd threw him over his shoulders like a gay satchel/man purse and we headed towards the beach. Upon our arrival, it was clear that the gays have a universal beach outfit: Nothing. Literally they wear nothing. I refuse to accept the fact that a Speedo suited for the likes of a 3 year old and barely covering the twigs and berries of a sassy gay man can be considered a bathing suit - much less an article of clothing. It was like swimming with the cast of Blue Lagoon. Only on a gay beach in Mexico can I ever feel uncomfortable for wearing a standard issue Banana Republic bathing suit. How rude of me.
After a grand total of 32 beers consumed by myself, Todd, and Dr. Matt, as well as a tacky henna tattoo I purchased courtesy of a 5'2 Mexican man I lovingly referred to as "Paco" on the beach, we decided to head back to the Blue Chairs rooftop for cocktail hour. The thing I found interesting about Mexico is that there seems to be few boundaries for acceptable social behavior. You can be sitting on a rooftop bar watching the sunset and enjoying background music and a taquito when, all of a sudden, a stripper comes up and starts rubbing their bare penis against your leg and/or exposed extremity - much to the delight of Dr. Matt. Since it's only day 2, I, for one, continue to munch on my stale chips and salsa uninterested while Dr. Matt is sitting opposite from me with a smile that reflects a toddler in a toy store. Who knows where that penis has been? And, oddly enough, I don't see any Purell in sight. Call me old fashioned, but I'm of the opinion that a country such as Mexico should have Purell stands located every 5.5 feet, particularly on the gay beach full of salivating "daddies".
Upon return to the hotel Dr. Matt and I are left on our own to explore the nightlife of Puerto Vallarta since Todd is entirely too intoxicated to continue with the festivitatas. We decide to go to a place cleverly named "Picante's", where I meet a bartender named Marin. I'm immediately attracted to him and, for some reason, he finds me interesting. I'm surprised by this, not only because I'm severely sunburnt and look like a dried California raisin/ am slurring my words, but also because I've run out of cash and flirtaciously offer to pay for 150 pesos worth or drinks with a 50 peso bill. Marin winks and tells me the remainder of my drinks are "on the house". Fantastic. At this point, I look over and see that Dr. Matt has been put on the middle of the stripper floor and is sporting an enormous hat made of balloons and shaped like a diseased vagina. A group of middle aged blond ladies from Sacramento are clapping for him and exposing their floppy, surgically enhanced breasts. We stumble out of the bar and Dr. Matt insists that he knows his way back to the hotel. After picking up Dr. Matt from the cobble stone street three different times and traveling through various dark alleys while heading towards the mountains, I determine that Dr. Matt may or may not, in fact, be retarted. Not in the traditional sense, but more so in the directionally challenged and "unable to survive on his own" sense. I hail a taxi and force his ass into the back seat in order to make our way back to the hotel.
Day 3 - Dr. Matt has researched an antibiotic to administer rectally to Amreth. It seems to be working.
Day 4 - It's Dr. Matt's last full day with us, which saddens me seeing as how his departure means the trainwreck spotlight will be focused on me (Although Todd is proving to be better competition than I would have initially thought). He's consumed so much alcohol and guacamole that his feet have swollen to the size of a 3 day old corpse. Dr. Matt is convinced his Kindeys may indeed be failing by announcing to the hotel patio from his window, "HONEY!! COME LOOK AT MY SWOLLEN FEET! EITHER MY KIDNEYS ARE FAILING OR I'M IN MY 3RD TRIMESTER OF PREGNANCY!!"
We head to the beach and Dr. Matt orders everyone a round of margaritas and 3 buckets of beer. I'm beginning to think that, if ever I'm stranded at sea, my body can survive off of alcohol remnants and 3-day old taquitos.
Luckily, lady Amreth is doing much better due to the suspiciously strong "over the counter" Mexican anti-biotic recommended by Dr. Matt. The Speedos are out in full force and Todd decides it would be a good idea to tan his nude, bare ass in the sun. This attracts the attention of a stealthy black woman who decides to also show her bare ass and parades around the beach in a red thong while demanding more margaritas from the waiter. I take mental note that, while her breasts are large, they seem very misshapen. Perhaps she's a tranny.
Day 5- We've decided to take a day "gay cruise" for 70 bucks - which includes an open bar and lunch on a beach village. Dr. Matt's flight is at 5:30pm so he can't join. We say our goodbyes and he waves us off as the boat leaves. From that angle and pose, he reminds me of Nathan Lane in The Birdcage, minus the gaudy jewelry. As the boat departs I order 2 rum and diet cokes for myself and, from the corner of my eye, I spy a 40 yr old blond woman who doesn't seem to fit in on this trashy little gay excursion. Eventually she approaches me and tells me her name is Tiffany from Chicago and, with enough drinks, she may indeed take her top off halfway through the cruise as per my request. I immediately knew we were destined to be friends. Her gay friend is ugly so I ignore him. The gay cruise is full of every stereotype in the book - strippers doing drugs in the bathrooms, an old man with a cock ring tanning naked on the roof deck, naked swimming in a deserted beach, and me clinging to Tiffany for dear life as I'm afraid and put off by all of the above. Upon return to land, we're sufficiently intoxicated and Tiffany exchanges contact info with me. Her busted gay friend wants to hang out later, but I quickly tell him I'll most likely be facedown in the hotel pool by sundown and will, therefore, be deemed utterly useless company. Upon our return to the hotel, a young, flirtatious, and decently attractive couple that has been talking to me all week start buying me drinks by the pool. I'm starting to wonder what they want from me, but for the time being I appreciate the free drinks. Todd and a group have gathered around me to convince me to call the airline and extend my vacation. Since I've been drinking all day, this sounds like a fantastic idea to me. Upon calling the airline the agent tells me that I can change my flight for a small fee, but my return flight has me going through about 8 different cities and taking me a grand total of 17 hours to fly home. One more Rum and Diet and I change my flight, to the cheers and applause exploding from random groups of people in the pool, with Todd in the center of them grinning. And completely nude.
Later that night, Todd, Amreth and I head back to "Picante's" where I see Marin the bartender again. We talk for most of the night while Todd pole dances for a rowdy and unfortunate looking group from the Midwest. Eventually we head back and Marin comes with us to the hotel. From what I can recall, there was extensive swimming and late night cocktails involved. Mexico is fantastic.
Day 6 - My body is rejecting any alcohol, yet somehow I have the shakes as I eat my morning scrambled eggs. I'm scared that I might vomit at any moment and receive judgmental, angry stares and points from the gays. Todd, Amreth and I head to the beach and run into Tiffany. She asks to sit with us and brings along her very obnoxious gutter troll of a friend once again. Since I'm on the brink of death laying like a beached whale on a chair, Tiffany buys me a $15 foot massage from a small Mexican man on the beach. I wish I had friends like her at home. Since it's our last day, I spend most of it sitting in the sun trying to re-tan my peeling forehead so I don't arrive home looking like I spent my vacation in a leprosy ward in Mumbai.
For our last night, we go out to a nice restaurant with Tiffany who is becoming increasingly friendlier towards me. At one point, she tries to coerce me into a bathroom to expose her breasts to me (which I've been requesting to see all week). I told her there was no need to go to the bathroom, as breast exposure could occur from the comfort of our own bar stools without having to travel all that distance. After several bars, I randomly run into Marin the bartender on the street. It's his day off so he hangs out with us and carries a conversation with Todd in broken English. Marin seems very much into me, which always catches me off guard for some reason. We make our way back to the hotel and spend most of the night hanging out and eventually I part with my Penguin-shaped silly band so he can have a little taste of the real America. We also became Facebook friends via the 1992 desktop computer with dial-up internet in the lobby.
Day 7 - As usual, all good things come to an end and it's time to take my sunburnt, alcohol infused body back to reality. We had time to spend the morning at the beach, so I went in a frantic rush to expose my skin one last time to the sun, all the while thinking how disappointed my SPF 100 wearing friend Carol would be in my ritual of dousing myself in oil whilst baking underneath the Mexican sun. Eventually I said bye to Tiffany and Marin (and my Penguin silly band, which I kind of wanted back. But only because they seem so hard to find at the last three 7-11's I've been to).
On my 18.5 hour plane trip home and about 15,000 pesos poorer, I kept reliving all my experiences in my head. I concluded that I am a completely different person when on vacation. It seems I let my guard down more often and have a more carefree attitude, and maybe that's what attracts people. Or maybe it was the fact that I was really tan, which is notorious for making us all look at least 10 lbs thinner. In any event, it's just my luck that the only people I like, or more importantly like me back, exist thousands of miles away from this God forsaken city of DC. I felt like I was in Elizabeth Gilbert's "Eat, Pray, Love" - except without all the stupid bullshit of "finding yourself through pounds of pasta and useless meditations with monks in Nepal". Fuck you, Elizabeth. My experience was cheaper and far dirtier than yours.
- A
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
Staycations - Gaycations
If you're anything like me, the oppressive heat we've had in DC this summer has caused you to sweat like a wild animal the instant you set foot outside the confines of your air conditioned, pottery barn apartments. Sure there are rooftop parties and barbecues to attend, but who wants to be constantly wringing out the pools of sweat from their undies and reminiscing about the fond memories of “Snowmageddon” while indiscriminately slipping cubes of ice down their plunging v-necks? If you're looking to escape the heat or relax without spending buckets of dough, there's a plethora of great options to explore within the greater DC area. After all, let's not forget we're still in a recession, and a trip to Europe in the summer can leave you eating beans and rice until Christmas. Not a good look.
One of my favorite summer activities to do is river tubing. Not just because you can pack your own coolers full of beer and Cheetos, but more so because you realize which one of your friends is most willing to swim after you in case you consume one too many cold ones and float away from the pack. Just a short hour's drive from DC, you can find BTI's whitewater rafting and river tubing adventure in Harper's Ferry, WV (www.BTIwhitewater.com). For just under $30, you can rent a tube and get a day pass for unlimited river tubing down the Potomac River. If you happen to have your own tube, just $15 will get you an unlimited shuttle bus pass with life jacket for an entire day. My recommendation: scour the aisles of Wal-Mart or Target for a sturdy tube that can support not only you, but perhaps also a new friend you make along the way. What happens on the river stays on the river.
Another great summer activity that gets you out into the water and away from the urban heat island is sailing. Who needs the French Riviera when we have Annapolis, MD at our disposal? It's the new Mykonos, so get with it. While prices are significantly steeper than river tubing, it can be a great bargain if you're popular enough to enlist a group of friends to join you. Typically, a boat rental (and in this case, size DOES matter) can cost anywhere from $160-$400 for a half a day, and $250-$800 for a full day. The more expensive of those is a '37 sailboat which, if you're waking up in the morning and feeling like P. Diddy, would make for an unforgettable all-day yacht party. For an extra $200, you can enlist a captain and instructor/Latin cabana boy so you and your party boat can sail responsibly and fist pump all the way into the sunset. If your group is more interested in relaxing and taking a swim in the bay, you could pack some steaks or burgers and enjoy a barbecue out on open water, turn on some Bob Marley, spread eagle, and work on that all important summer tan. For more information on boat rentals, visit http://www.southriverboatrentals.com/rates/.
If you're not feeling all that adventurous, there are plenty of great restaurants to explore within DC. One of my personal favorites is Cava, a Greek Mezze restaurant owned by two young Greek friends that used to serve tables in Bethesda, MD. Cava first opened its doors in Rockville, MD in 2006 and quickly became a hit, spreading mostly by word of mouth and customer reviews. The Rockville location is teeming with young professionals and wino house moms that are adamant about enjoying half-price bottled wine on Tuesdays and downing small plates of spicy hummus and lamb souvlaki. Those of us that enjoy a cocktail or ten can setup shop at the full service martini bar that reminds me of some rustic, underground restaurant that seems more suitable for the alleyways of Athens than suburban Washington. The soft lighting and dark, wooden furniture create a very simple yet intimate setting that leaves me half expecting an elderly Greek grandmother sporting a headscarf to emerge from the kitchen while waving a leg of lamb at me and forcing Ouzo and feta cheese down my throat. It's fantastic. Moreover, it's easy to feed off the ambiance at Cava, where the great drink specials and free pita dip leads to endless conversations with attractive, young and middle aged patrons from all over. Just remember to pack some breath mints - the spicy hummus has quite a kick. Cava has just opened its second location in the Capitol Hill neighborhood. This location is slightly larger, but features a very similar menu. Long-time Cava server, Kyle Swanson, explains just how extraordinary Cava is. "The fact that the owners are two young Greek professionals and have been in the restaurant industry for so long creates a really laid back, Mediterranean feel to the place." he says, as he leans over and pours more Pinot Grigio into my eager glass to keep my buzz afloat. "The owners are actually great friends of mine, and they've found so much success with Cava. The wine, the mezze options, and the décor really represent who they are.” The relatively new Capitol Hill location offers more space and a quieter atmosphere. Still, things tend to get crowded at Cava, so plan to make a night of it and strike up a conversation with the surprisingly attractive bartenders. Who knows what magical things can happen? Perhaps you can scamper off with more than just free Pita and hummus. For more information on Cava, visit their website- www.cavamezze.com.
Summer doesn't have to be expensive. You can get a great tan, party with your friends, and eat great Mediterranean food without setting foot on a plane. Just get creative, down some chilled vodka, and let Europe come to you.
One of my favorite summer activities to do is river tubing. Not just because you can pack your own coolers full of beer and Cheetos, but more so because you realize which one of your friends is most willing to swim after you in case you consume one too many cold ones and float away from the pack. Just a short hour's drive from DC, you can find BTI's whitewater rafting and river tubing adventure in Harper's Ferry, WV (www.BTIwhitewater.com). For just under $30, you can rent a tube and get a day pass for unlimited river tubing down the Potomac River. If you happen to have your own tube, just $15 will get you an unlimited shuttle bus pass with life jacket for an entire day. My recommendation: scour the aisles of Wal-Mart or Target for a sturdy tube that can support not only you, but perhaps also a new friend you make along the way. What happens on the river stays on the river.
Another great summer activity that gets you out into the water and away from the urban heat island is sailing. Who needs the French Riviera when we have Annapolis, MD at our disposal? It's the new Mykonos, so get with it. While prices are significantly steeper than river tubing, it can be a great bargain if you're popular enough to enlist a group of friends to join you. Typically, a boat rental (and in this case, size DOES matter) can cost anywhere from $160-$400 for a half a day, and $250-$800 for a full day. The more expensive of those is a '37 sailboat which, if you're waking up in the morning and feeling like P. Diddy, would make for an unforgettable all-day yacht party. For an extra $200, you can enlist a captain and instructor/Latin cabana boy so you and your party boat can sail responsibly and fist pump all the way into the sunset. If your group is more interested in relaxing and taking a swim in the bay, you could pack some steaks or burgers and enjoy a barbecue out on open water, turn on some Bob Marley, spread eagle, and work on that all important summer tan. For more information on boat rentals, visit http://www.southriverboatrentals.com/rates/.
If you're not feeling all that adventurous, there are plenty of great restaurants to explore within DC. One of my personal favorites is Cava, a Greek Mezze restaurant owned by two young Greek friends that used to serve tables in Bethesda, MD. Cava first opened its doors in Rockville, MD in 2006 and quickly became a hit, spreading mostly by word of mouth and customer reviews. The Rockville location is teeming with young professionals and wino house moms that are adamant about enjoying half-price bottled wine on Tuesdays and downing small plates of spicy hummus and lamb souvlaki. Those of us that enjoy a cocktail or ten can setup shop at the full service martini bar that reminds me of some rustic, underground restaurant that seems more suitable for the alleyways of Athens than suburban Washington. The soft lighting and dark, wooden furniture create a very simple yet intimate setting that leaves me half expecting an elderly Greek grandmother sporting a headscarf to emerge from the kitchen while waving a leg of lamb at me and forcing Ouzo and feta cheese down my throat. It's fantastic. Moreover, it's easy to feed off the ambiance at Cava, where the great drink specials and free pita dip leads to endless conversations with attractive, young and middle aged patrons from all over. Just remember to pack some breath mints - the spicy hummus has quite a kick. Cava has just opened its second location in the Capitol Hill neighborhood. This location is slightly larger, but features a very similar menu. Long-time Cava server, Kyle Swanson, explains just how extraordinary Cava is. "The fact that the owners are two young Greek professionals and have been in the restaurant industry for so long creates a really laid back, Mediterranean feel to the place." he says, as he leans over and pours more Pinot Grigio into my eager glass to keep my buzz afloat. "The owners are actually great friends of mine, and they've found so much success with Cava. The wine, the mezze options, and the décor really represent who they are.” The relatively new Capitol Hill location offers more space and a quieter atmosphere. Still, things tend to get crowded at Cava, so plan to make a night of it and strike up a conversation with the surprisingly attractive bartenders. Who knows what magical things can happen? Perhaps you can scamper off with more than just free Pita and hummus. For more information on Cava, visit their website- www.cavamezze.com.
Summer doesn't have to be expensive. You can get a great tan, party with your friends, and eat great Mediterranean food without setting foot on a plane. Just get creative, down some chilled vodka, and let Europe come to you.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Only in the Gazeebo
When I was younger, one of my favorite television shows was "Baywatch". It was something about the flawless forms of the lifeguards that amazed me. I remember being mesmerized by Pamela Anderson as she ran on the beach with her red "Baywatch" rescue bowie as her fake breasts seemed to gently and rhythmically bounce with every long stride. Her breasts mesmerized me not because I was turned on by them, but more-so because the only breasts I had seen up until that point had belonged to my 85 year old grandmother, whom I had accidentally walked in on while she wrestled with her hammock-like bra as her very own pair of enormous, sagging "Pamelas" flopped voraciously from left to right, resembling large bells. I once read that Pamela's diet consisted of liquefied veggies and diet shakes to keep her body in shape. Even David Hasselhoff seemed to be eating nothing but eucalyptus leaves, which to me seems astonishing seeing as how most of the foods I consume are prepared from either a box with an animated white glove that promises a delicious meal, a giggling overweight dough-boy chef, or baked by a colony of questionably homosexual elves that live in a tree.
In my mind, lifeguards represented the opposite of everything I found frightening and repulsive. It was for this reason that I was so perplexed by the lifeguard I encountered at my friend Chris's swimming pool. He seemed to be in his late 20's, yet still carrying a grotesque layer of baby fat and a massive beer gut. In fact, he most closely resembled the character "Ralph" from The Simpson's. Chris' apartment complex is inhabited entirely by a colony of wealthy retired Jews and Wasps that seems to create unparalleled levels of tension. It's more like living in Hitler's military compound as opposed to multi-million dollar penthouse apartments, as evident by the unnecessary number of signs and rules posted every 5 feet along the clubhouse walls. In the locker room, there was a box of "sanitary wipes" in case you felt the need to poop before going into the pool, which I can only assume were meant to be used because of the white sign that read, "In the event that feces is present in the pool area or within the pool itself, we are obligated to shut down and evacuate the pool for immediate disinfection. This creates a bio-hazard threat to our guests. In order to prevent this from occurring, please use sanitary wipes before going in the pool." This sign lay directly adjacent to a large, red stop sign on the door that read, "STOP!! Have you showered? Please shower before entering the pool area!" This was strange to me, as within the first ten minutes of being at this pool, I was fully under the impression that none of these rich people have ever pooped before in their life. Ever. But if they had, surely they pooped nuggets of gold that did not require sanitary wipes. On the off chance I'm wrong, there is most likely a magical clubhouse fairy that swoops down from the rooftop with a bottle of Windex and a tube of diaper rash cream to take care of all the dirty work.
It became quite obvious that Ralph the lifeguard was given full authority to enforce all clubhouse rules, and this probably included a rectal examination to ensure all hygienic pool procedures had been followed prior to setting foot on the pool deck. Of course, being who me and my friends are, we casually walked into the pool with a cooler of beer and sangria. One of the things I love about Chris is his inability to care about the stupid, unimportant shit in life (i.e. irrational and ridiculous rules). "Here, take my iPad and read this excerpt from Anthony Bourdain's book where he talks about snorting coke off a tranny's penis" he said to me, as I looked over and noticed a handful of elderly couples staring us down. Just as that was occuring, Ralph waddled toward us and began by reciting more rules: "Hi guys. If you're going to drink liquids or food, they must be consumed in the gazebo directly behind you. If you are to talk on your cell phone, you must exit the premises and speak in a low voice so as not to disturb others. I do hope you've taken advantage of our sanitary wipes available in our locker rooms, as we wouldn't want to shut the pool down for any sanitary reasons, if you know what I mean." At this point, I felt like I was at camp and I wondered if he had given the same speech to everyone else. And besides, if anyone was most likely to shit themselves in the pool, it certainly wouldn't be those 85 year olds swimming in diapers...
We nodded to him and he walked away. Of course, our instincts told us that surely Ralph had meant we couldn't drink out of glass bottles around the pool, but he never said anything about red cups.
A few beers later, Ralph approached us, armed with the mean towel lady as backup.
"OK guys, I told you earlier you weren't allowed to have any liquids unless it was in the Gazebo. You are CERTAINLY not allowed to consume alcohol anywhere on the premises, and I'm going to need you to take that out of here immediately" he says, all while mean towel lady stands there shaking her head in a scolding manner. "Oh, well I saw people drinking in that other corner of the pool over there and so I thought it'd be OK" said Chris, motioning to the far corner of the pool where two decrepit World War 2 veterans were either lying dead or sunbathing. Well, it was not OK and Ralph and the towel lady were having none of it. We moved our party to the gazebo, where I frantically downed 2 beers in the span of 3 minutes, which had Ralph coming back for more.
"OK what's the deal guys? I told you to get the alcohol out."
"But I thought we could drink in the gazebo?"
At this point, Ralph is turning red and the veins in his fat neck are starting to show. "ABSOLUTELY NOT! The gazebo is a place of relaxation where you can consume juice or other beverages, but not alcohol. And please DO NOT throw these cans in my trash can" he said, as he began sifting through banana peels and dirty napkins to fetch our crushed beer cans. I wondered if he had gone to Ikea and purchased these extra trash cans with his own money so that he could one day dictate what pool-goers could and could not throw away in said trashcans. Simultaneously, I was overwhelmed with the sudden urge to fill his trashcans with used tampons acquired from a homeless woman or overweight bus driver from a third world country. While Ralph scolded us, a senile old woman walked into the gazebo, sat down right in the middle of our circle, and began gently humming and rocking back and forth. I couldn't really believe any of this was happening and, naturally, I began to laugh, which pissed Ralph off even more. "Well if we can't have beers, can we have popsicles? What about popsicles? Is that ok? I really want to suck on a popsicle. Yes? popsicles?" I was slightly disappointed that Chris hadn't repeated the word "popsicle" more times, along with adding a strong lisp. Through grinded teeth, Ralph replied, "Yes. Popsicles are fine, but ONLY in the gazebo." Messing with someone like Ralph is like poking an overturned autistic midget with a stick. You know you shouldn't do it, but you can't help but continue. "What about an abortion? Can I have one of those here? In the gazebo? If I use the sanitary wipes?" I asked. Following this, Ralph threatened to kick us out, which I found amusing because I pictured him grabbing all five of us by the ear and escorting us out of the pool while wearing floaties, a white sunhat, and oversized flip flops purchased from an Old Navy outlet.
Moments later, Chris returned with an enormous box of popsicles and a frozen beer mug filled with cranberry juice, which was only to be consumed in the gazebo and used as a passive aggressive tool for taunting Ralph. I offered the senile old lady a popsicle, but she seemed more interested in intermittently passing gas and examining the mothballs in her sweater pockets. I didn't say anything, as she was well within her rights to pass gas within the confines of the gazebo. Had she been a couple of feet outside the parameters, I would have had to fulfill my duties as a responsible pool patron and kindly tell Ralph that the old lady was not only passing gas, but that I also suspected she had not used any sanitary wipes that were so thoughtfully offered in the restrooms. I'm just trying to look out for the ladies in my group, as I would hate for them to catch some sort of yeast infection and be baking loaves of bread from their beavers all night just from swimming in infected pool water.
As I gathered my things to leave, I waved at Ralph, his nose covered in zinc oxide as he sat atop his lifeguard chair, watching over the one 99 year old woman floating in her noodle in the shallow end that read "Caution: 3 feet deep. NO DIVING!" Inside the clubhouse, I happily waved at the mean towel lady before stepping into the elevator, just as an older woman and her friend rushed to make it before the doors closed. As the three of us stood in the elevator with the doors still open, I could hear the towel lady scream, "HEY LADY! THOSE ARE OUR TOWELS! DO NOT TAKE IT WITH YOU! YOU DID THIS LAST TIME AND I WON'T STAND FOR IT ANYMORE!". I looked over to see the petrified old woman clutching her balled up white towel, apologizing profusely and probably on the verge of a stroke or explosive diarrhea. "I'm sorry! It's just that I had a little accident and I was going to take the towel to my apartment to wash it. I'm so embarrassed. I wasn't trying to steal this, I just don't know the protocol. I was going to bring it back down later this afternoon!" I turned and mumbled to her friend, "Did she use the sanitary wipes?".
I couldn't help but feel troubled about the irony of the situation. Here was this old woman, who probably survived the holocaust and came to America and most likely popped out 5 kids from her papaya, leaving her looser than a wizard's sleeve which then lead to her husband cheating on her with a more youthful woman, followed by a divorce and years of therapy and stress that caused stomach ulsers and irritable bowel syndrome, which in turn led to her accident on the towel, all of this only to be taken out by one of Hitler's little helpers running the towel distribution cartel. It doesn't seem fair, a world run by Ralph and the towel lady. Which is why if I lived in this place, I, too, would post signs every five feet enforcing my new rule: ALL SOILED TOWELS MUST BE DISPOSED OF IN THE POOL TRASH CONTAINERS ONLY! While it's not exactly a trashcan full of used tampons from the vaginas of day laboring third world women, I think it would do.
~ F.A.G.
In my mind, lifeguards represented the opposite of everything I found frightening and repulsive. It was for this reason that I was so perplexed by the lifeguard I encountered at my friend Chris's swimming pool. He seemed to be in his late 20's, yet still carrying a grotesque layer of baby fat and a massive beer gut. In fact, he most closely resembled the character "Ralph" from The Simpson's. Chris' apartment complex is inhabited entirely by a colony of wealthy retired Jews and Wasps that seems to create unparalleled levels of tension. It's more like living in Hitler's military compound as opposed to multi-million dollar penthouse apartments, as evident by the unnecessary number of signs and rules posted every 5 feet along the clubhouse walls. In the locker room, there was a box of "sanitary wipes" in case you felt the need to poop before going into the pool, which I can only assume were meant to be used because of the white sign that read, "In the event that feces is present in the pool area or within the pool itself, we are obligated to shut down and evacuate the pool for immediate disinfection. This creates a bio-hazard threat to our guests. In order to prevent this from occurring, please use sanitary wipes before going in the pool." This sign lay directly adjacent to a large, red stop sign on the door that read, "STOP!! Have you showered? Please shower before entering the pool area!" This was strange to me, as within the first ten minutes of being at this pool, I was fully under the impression that none of these rich people have ever pooped before in their life. Ever. But if they had, surely they pooped nuggets of gold that did not require sanitary wipes. On the off chance I'm wrong, there is most likely a magical clubhouse fairy that swoops down from the rooftop with a bottle of Windex and a tube of diaper rash cream to take care of all the dirty work.
It became quite obvious that Ralph the lifeguard was given full authority to enforce all clubhouse rules, and this probably included a rectal examination to ensure all hygienic pool procedures had been followed prior to setting foot on the pool deck. Of course, being who me and my friends are, we casually walked into the pool with a cooler of beer and sangria. One of the things I love about Chris is his inability to care about the stupid, unimportant shit in life (i.e. irrational and ridiculous rules). "Here, take my iPad and read this excerpt from Anthony Bourdain's book where he talks about snorting coke off a tranny's penis" he said to me, as I looked over and noticed a handful of elderly couples staring us down. Just as that was occuring, Ralph waddled toward us and began by reciting more rules: "Hi guys. If you're going to drink liquids or food, they must be consumed in the gazebo directly behind you. If you are to talk on your cell phone, you must exit the premises and speak in a low voice so as not to disturb others. I do hope you've taken advantage of our sanitary wipes available in our locker rooms, as we wouldn't want to shut the pool down for any sanitary reasons, if you know what I mean." At this point, I felt like I was at camp and I wondered if he had given the same speech to everyone else. And besides, if anyone was most likely to shit themselves in the pool, it certainly wouldn't be those 85 year olds swimming in diapers...
We nodded to him and he walked away. Of course, our instincts told us that surely Ralph had meant we couldn't drink out of glass bottles around the pool, but he never said anything about red cups.
A few beers later, Ralph approached us, armed with the mean towel lady as backup.
"OK guys, I told you earlier you weren't allowed to have any liquids unless it was in the Gazebo. You are CERTAINLY not allowed to consume alcohol anywhere on the premises, and I'm going to need you to take that out of here immediately" he says, all while mean towel lady stands there shaking her head in a scolding manner. "Oh, well I saw people drinking in that other corner of the pool over there and so I thought it'd be OK" said Chris, motioning to the far corner of the pool where two decrepit World War 2 veterans were either lying dead or sunbathing. Well, it was not OK and Ralph and the towel lady were having none of it. We moved our party to the gazebo, where I frantically downed 2 beers in the span of 3 minutes, which had Ralph coming back for more.
"OK what's the deal guys? I told you to get the alcohol out."
"But I thought we could drink in the gazebo?"
At this point, Ralph is turning red and the veins in his fat neck are starting to show. "ABSOLUTELY NOT! The gazebo is a place of relaxation where you can consume juice or other beverages, but not alcohol. And please DO NOT throw these cans in my trash can" he said, as he began sifting through banana peels and dirty napkins to fetch our crushed beer cans. I wondered if he had gone to Ikea and purchased these extra trash cans with his own money so that he could one day dictate what pool-goers could and could not throw away in said trashcans. Simultaneously, I was overwhelmed with the sudden urge to fill his trashcans with used tampons acquired from a homeless woman or overweight bus driver from a third world country. While Ralph scolded us, a senile old woman walked into the gazebo, sat down right in the middle of our circle, and began gently humming and rocking back and forth. I couldn't really believe any of this was happening and, naturally, I began to laugh, which pissed Ralph off even more. "Well if we can't have beers, can we have popsicles? What about popsicles? Is that ok? I really want to suck on a popsicle. Yes? popsicles?" I was slightly disappointed that Chris hadn't repeated the word "popsicle" more times, along with adding a strong lisp. Through grinded teeth, Ralph replied, "Yes. Popsicles are fine, but ONLY in the gazebo." Messing with someone like Ralph is like poking an overturned autistic midget with a stick. You know you shouldn't do it, but you can't help but continue. "What about an abortion? Can I have one of those here? In the gazebo? If I use the sanitary wipes?" I asked. Following this, Ralph threatened to kick us out, which I found amusing because I pictured him grabbing all five of us by the ear and escorting us out of the pool while wearing floaties, a white sunhat, and oversized flip flops purchased from an Old Navy outlet.
Moments later, Chris returned with an enormous box of popsicles and a frozen beer mug filled with cranberry juice, which was only to be consumed in the gazebo and used as a passive aggressive tool for taunting Ralph. I offered the senile old lady a popsicle, but she seemed more interested in intermittently passing gas and examining the mothballs in her sweater pockets. I didn't say anything, as she was well within her rights to pass gas within the confines of the gazebo. Had she been a couple of feet outside the parameters, I would have had to fulfill my duties as a responsible pool patron and kindly tell Ralph that the old lady was not only passing gas, but that I also suspected she had not used any sanitary wipes that were so thoughtfully offered in the restrooms. I'm just trying to look out for the ladies in my group, as I would hate for them to catch some sort of yeast infection and be baking loaves of bread from their beavers all night just from swimming in infected pool water.
As I gathered my things to leave, I waved at Ralph, his nose covered in zinc oxide as he sat atop his lifeguard chair, watching over the one 99 year old woman floating in her noodle in the shallow end that read "Caution: 3 feet deep. NO DIVING!" Inside the clubhouse, I happily waved at the mean towel lady before stepping into the elevator, just as an older woman and her friend rushed to make it before the doors closed. As the three of us stood in the elevator with the doors still open, I could hear the towel lady scream, "HEY LADY! THOSE ARE OUR TOWELS! DO NOT TAKE IT WITH YOU! YOU DID THIS LAST TIME AND I WON'T STAND FOR IT ANYMORE!". I looked over to see the petrified old woman clutching her balled up white towel, apologizing profusely and probably on the verge of a stroke or explosive diarrhea. "I'm sorry! It's just that I had a little accident and I was going to take the towel to my apartment to wash it. I'm so embarrassed. I wasn't trying to steal this, I just don't know the protocol. I was going to bring it back down later this afternoon!" I turned and mumbled to her friend, "Did she use the sanitary wipes?".
I couldn't help but feel troubled about the irony of the situation. Here was this old woman, who probably survived the holocaust and came to America and most likely popped out 5 kids from her papaya, leaving her looser than a wizard's sleeve which then lead to her husband cheating on her with a more youthful woman, followed by a divorce and years of therapy and stress that caused stomach ulsers and irritable bowel syndrome, which in turn led to her accident on the towel, all of this only to be taken out by one of Hitler's little helpers running the towel distribution cartel. It doesn't seem fair, a world run by Ralph and the towel lady. Which is why if I lived in this place, I, too, would post signs every five feet enforcing my new rule: ALL SOILED TOWELS MUST BE DISPOSED OF IN THE POOL TRASH CONTAINERS ONLY! While it's not exactly a trashcan full of used tampons from the vaginas of day laboring third world women, I think it would do.
~ F.A.G.
Thursday, June 10, 2010
Bringing Sexy Back
I’ve come to accept I cannot wear skimpy clothes. My body as a whole is far too supple for the likes of public beach viewing and would most likely scare away the nearest toddler, sending them running face first into his or her mother’s bosom. This may be all for the better, since I’ve recently found that children are far more annoying than I ever imagined. What happened to some good ‘ol fashion spanking or being chased with a wooden spoon the way my crazy South American grandmother used to do? In an effort to be a more progressive nation, America has done away with tolerating physical threats towards children so instead, innocent bystanders such as myself have to deal with misbehaved children that run rampant in society like wild boar at a carnival, with distracted parents that carry a look on their face to be interpreted as, “What do you want me to do about it? I can’t beat them, so please suggest an alternative. Otherwise, fuck off and deal with my dirt-smothered offspring.” I’m all for progress, but why not at least keep one thing from the earlier times that may benefit us? My 2nd grade friend, Christina, once slapped me in the face for pinching her butt in the lunch line. Never did I ever go anywhere near her butt, or even her, ever again. See? Children can be easily trained, much like an angry and intolerable Chihuahua with a Napoleon complex.
For the moment, though, I’m OK with the obesity epidemic in America, as it makes me feel more comfortable to be out in public and, in particular, the boardwalk at the beach. That’s the straight beach though. The gay beach, in line with popular stereotypes, is a breeding ground for men with eating disorders and an unfathomable ability to go for days without consuming a morsel of food. This is what makes it so difficult to go to a gay beach, where men think it’s OK to swim in their Hanes underwear from the 4th grade and the Lesbians, in turn, think it’s fine to wear board shorts that reach down to their chubby, hairy knees. The paradox that can be observed between lesbians and gays at a beach is simply astonishing, like watching a herd of lions and elephants migrating to a river bed in unison on the Discovery Channel. It’s not a sight you see everyday.
I’m not really being overly critical of myself, as I know that everyone has their problem areas and mine just so happen to be my entire body from the neck down. Thank god for attractive faces. Nevertheless, I try to do my best when it comes to working out and staying fit, but unfortunately God/Allah/all the Hindu gods and probably even a little bit of Buddha's vengeful side just decided that my fate would be to have a body full of stubborn fat cells that refuse to completely vanish no matter how much I starve and work out. Let’s face it, I’m a Fat Asian Girl. It’s a curse, but I think I’ve finally come to accept it. Not enjoy, but definitely accept. In today’s term, I suppose my body type is average. Certainly, though, I’m not sporting six pack abs and Mario Lopez legs. Still, in my imaginative head there’s hope. Every time someone asks me to a pool party or plans a beach vacation months or weeks in advance, I enthusiastically and optimistically think to myself, “Perfect. This gives me 6 weeks to starve and work out and take laxatives and become bulimic and undergo small doses of liposuction if need be. But goddammit I will have a 6 pack and toned legs and a perky black girl ass by that deadline.” Of course, it just never works this way. Instead, now I’ve resorted to desperately hoping that during one of my midnight nature walks I often take while under the influence, a vampire jumps out of a tree and bites me in the neck, converting me into one of their kind wherein I will never have to consume anything other than blood in order to survive. I can be thin and hot and desirable just like those fuckers in the Twilight movies. I think I can live with drinking blood if it means I can rock a scantily clad outfit on a crowded beach. For now, I’ll accept the curvaceous undertones offered by my body and rock it like it’s hot. Secretly, though, I’ll be jealous of the gays and yoga freaks with their Gumby-like bodies and be wishing in my head that winter comes early this year, so I can hide under layers of frumpy lesbian-ish sweaters and scarves that conveniently cover neck fat. Although, I recall an invitation to a pool party in two weeks, so until then I shall only chew gum and slap myself in the face with a picture of Cristiano Ronaldo every time I think of eating.
Honestly though, I’ll most likely be binge eating burritos and guac by noon tomorrow. Cristiano Ronaldo probably has a Fruit-Rollup penis anyway.
~ F.A.G.
For the moment, though, I’m OK with the obesity epidemic in America, as it makes me feel more comfortable to be out in public and, in particular, the boardwalk at the beach. That’s the straight beach though. The gay beach, in line with popular stereotypes, is a breeding ground for men with eating disorders and an unfathomable ability to go for days without consuming a morsel of food. This is what makes it so difficult to go to a gay beach, where men think it’s OK to swim in their Hanes underwear from the 4th grade and the Lesbians, in turn, think it’s fine to wear board shorts that reach down to their chubby, hairy knees. The paradox that can be observed between lesbians and gays at a beach is simply astonishing, like watching a herd of lions and elephants migrating to a river bed in unison on the Discovery Channel. It’s not a sight you see everyday.
I’m not really being overly critical of myself, as I know that everyone has their problem areas and mine just so happen to be my entire body from the neck down. Thank god for attractive faces. Nevertheless, I try to do my best when it comes to working out and staying fit, but unfortunately God/Allah/all the Hindu gods and probably even a little bit of Buddha's vengeful side just decided that my fate would be to have a body full of stubborn fat cells that refuse to completely vanish no matter how much I starve and work out. Let’s face it, I’m a Fat Asian Girl. It’s a curse, but I think I’ve finally come to accept it. Not enjoy, but definitely accept. In today’s term, I suppose my body type is average. Certainly, though, I’m not sporting six pack abs and Mario Lopez legs. Still, in my imaginative head there’s hope. Every time someone asks me to a pool party or plans a beach vacation months or weeks in advance, I enthusiastically and optimistically think to myself, “Perfect. This gives me 6 weeks to starve and work out and take laxatives and become bulimic and undergo small doses of liposuction if need be. But goddammit I will have a 6 pack and toned legs and a perky black girl ass by that deadline.” Of course, it just never works this way. Instead, now I’ve resorted to desperately hoping that during one of my midnight nature walks I often take while under the influence, a vampire jumps out of a tree and bites me in the neck, converting me into one of their kind wherein I will never have to consume anything other than blood in order to survive. I can be thin and hot and desirable just like those fuckers in the Twilight movies. I think I can live with drinking blood if it means I can rock a scantily clad outfit on a crowded beach. For now, I’ll accept the curvaceous undertones offered by my body and rock it like it’s hot. Secretly, though, I’ll be jealous of the gays and yoga freaks with their Gumby-like bodies and be wishing in my head that winter comes early this year, so I can hide under layers of frumpy lesbian-ish sweaters and scarves that conveniently cover neck fat. Although, I recall an invitation to a pool party in two weeks, so until then I shall only chew gum and slap myself in the face with a picture of Cristiano Ronaldo every time I think of eating.
Honestly though, I’ll most likely be binge eating burritos and guac by noon tomorrow. Cristiano Ronaldo probably has a Fruit-Rollup penis anyway.
~ F.A.G.
Sunday, May 23, 2010
Cowboys and Indians
"You know, I got a call from Martha saying they had just the best time on their trip. She said they made so many great friends and the group got along so well and it was just such a memorable trip for them." These were the words being spoken by the elderly woman to her husband as we shared a bench seat on the Hertz shuttle to the terminal at Denver International Airport. Except, she had a very thick Midwestern accent and, with my pseudo-expertise, I was able to determine that she was probably from the desolate and undesirable plains of Minnesota, a land that I dare say 80% of Americans can't even place on a map. Therefore, imagine her sounding more like this: "Ya knoh, I gat a call from Martha sayin they hee-ad just the best tayme on der tree-ip. She said tha group, well dey just hee-ad such a gash darn good tayme. Dey mayde so many great friends, dontcha knoh? Soda pop." It was 6 am, and I wondered what kind of unprocessed foods and hormone-free milk they consumed in Minnesota that makes these people so energized and superfluously chatty at such an ungodly hour. Where I'm from, the industrialized foods filled to the brim with pesticide spray, hormones, preservatives, and trans fatty acids that I consume make me a complete and utter hairy, unkempt, ugly walking dick anytime before 10:30am. Scratch that, I'm a vagina with teeth that foams at the mouth prior to 11am; like a rabid mongoose. I'll keep my two-headed cows and genetically modified headless chicken torsos, though, thank you very much. There's something about my morning moods that I find refreshingly evil. I think I get this from my mother, who is a real nasty bitch for the first 2 hours of every day, slowly waning to a sedated and mild bitch by noon if you're lucky. "But Martha did mention that one of them got sick on the 10th day. The Oriental family they stayed with said that's the longest anyone's lasted! Turns out one of the guys ate some bad chicken nipples. That'll get ya every time. You don't eat animal nipples in a foreign country. You just don't. Especially China. Those Orientals will eat just about anything, even live baby monkeys I heard. It's just awful. Come to think of it, I don't know why the heck Martha and that group even ventured over there. You're just asking to come back with some type of god awful bird disease." The whole time, her husband just nodded and stared ahead, as though he was performing a routine he had down to a science. I guess this must be what happens after being together for so many years, you just learn to tune out the bullshit. The term "Oriental" was definitely a blast from the past.
In general, Americans are very ignorant and oblivious to their surroundings. As a culture we're just so afraid of everything that's unknown or foreign, such as the city of Washington, DC (allegedly). I went out to a bar called JR's in downtown Denver and was met with crowds of lesbians and gays galore. I always wondered why lesbians seem like such an exotic, seemingly endangered species. Well, it seems they've all uprooted to Denver, Colorado, where they can drive Ford Broncos and ride tandem bicycles without the awkward gawks from "sophisticated" urbanites. I sat at the bar talking to a guy who claimed he was "not from around here" but turned out he was actually from 30 minutes south of Denver. Of course, in the DC area you can be from Pennsylvania and still claim status as a "local". Eventually, our conversation was interrupted by a blond girl who reminded me of a lot of my female friends back home. In other words, she was completely trashed and about a half a catwalk away from having her left nipple pop out of her push-up bra. "Do you believe in fate?" she slurs to me. "It depends. How attractive is fate?" I respond. I sat there admiring her unique ability to clutch two drinks and adjust her bra with such unprecedented amounts of grace and finesse. "Well he's right out there, parking that car. And he'd like to meet you." As I peered through the crowd and out the window, I saw a BMW X5 backing into a parking space. Fate was looking pretty attractive from this angle. Of course, 5 minutes later fate strolls in and, under normal bar lighting, is about as attractive and desirable as a yeast infection. Honestly, I truly believe I was more attracted to the boyish lesbian named "Shaun" that asked me for a stick of gum not 5 minutes before. Welcome to the great Rockies.
Things took an odd turn when the blond girl who, in a fantastic drunken stooper, decided to divulge all of her personal life information to me, a complete stranger. "You see, I suffer from a rare disease called 'Lupus'. My parents resent me for it, so I don't ever go back to Wyoming to see them. It also makes my hair fall out in clumps. See? Just grab a handful and pull and see what happens." My first reaction was to feel sorry for her, followed immediately by the realization that not only was this the first person I had ever met from the state of Wyoming, but she was also at that exact moment grabbing my hand and forming it into a fist around a clump of her hair. For reasons unbeknownst to me, I gently tugged on her hair. Seconds later, I held a fist full of blond hair as she stared at me. "See? It just comes right out, like a shaggy rag doll." I sat there laughing in my head, thinking I'm glad I traveled 1,500 miles for this. I didn't quite know how to respond, so I said "This is really cool. If I were you, I would at least sell locks of my hair to white women with female pattern balding." She stared back. "Well, feel free to keep that piece if you'd like. A souvenir for when you head back to NYC!" I reminded her I was from DC, just as "fate" interrupted by asking, "How far is Central Park from the White House?" It's difficult to get angry at such an unattractive person, but it's not difficult to play along with stupidity. "Well, it's about 2 blocks from the White House, right near 5th avenue and the Washington monument. If you're lucky, sometimes you can catch Obama warding off a homeless person with a special can of Central Park mace on his early morning jogs." Maybe if I held similar levels of ignorance, my life would be more interesting and certainly filled with less therapy sessions. After all, ignorance is bliss right?
Eventually I made it back to my grimy hotel, where the halls wreaked of marijuana, cigarettes, and middle-American shame. It was a strangely welcome surprise, but certainly not as advertised on their website, which described the place as a "Luxurious 3 star hotel with a great view of the Denver skyline, conveniently located right off I-25!" To be fair, the lobby was O.K. and the rooftop bar on the 14th floor did have a good view, but as I recall, the only thing I had a good view of was a cinder block building and an 18 wheeler truck stop. It wasn't that they lied, they just bent the truth a little bit. Therefore, I decided I was satisfied with the place. I liked how different it all felt, as though I had instantly jumped between social classes and held a comfortable spot amongst the Harley Davidson crowd and chain smoking soccer moms. I smiled at the thought of my mother at this hotel: "I'm not going one foot closer to that bed until you get on all fours and check underneath for roaches and used condoms. This place is filthy. And don't touch that comforter, God knows the last time they washed those things. Does it smell like burnt hair in here to you?" Sylvia just isn't cut out for middle America. Ironic, though, as she's from a third world country that believes in consuming Guinea Pigs as appetizers and the sanctity of child labor and teen pregnancies.
As the plane descended upon DC the following day, I had a great view of Central Park and the Washington monument, with the Statute of Liberty just barely out of sight. The flight attendant announced, "Welcome to our Nation's Capitol" and for some odd reason I broke out in what I thought was quiet laughter. The girl in the seat next to me stared back with a confused look. She was in a suit wearing a serious expression on her face, and I knew she was flying to DC for business as I had spent the majority of the flight reading her emails on her MacBook as she wrote about business initiatives and long-term fiscal goals. How boring, I thought. She just wouldn't understand that, the reason I was laughing, was because just 12 hours before, I had been holding a clump of dry and damaged blond hair in my hand and explaining the significance of Madison Square Garden and it's proximity to the Capitol. In one weekend, I held a clump of a stranger's dead hair, witnessed what fate would look like had he been raised in cowboy boots on an inbred Mormon ranch in Texas, and binge drank beers on the 14th floor of a seedy "3 star luxury hotel" with a scenic view of a 6-lane highway. "What did she do?", I thought, "Write emails and iron her Ann Taylor suit?" If you learn to let go, you can experience more than you might ever imagine possible.
~F.A.G.
In general, Americans are very ignorant and oblivious to their surroundings. As a culture we're just so afraid of everything that's unknown or foreign, such as the city of Washington, DC (allegedly). I went out to a bar called JR's in downtown Denver and was met with crowds of lesbians and gays galore. I always wondered why lesbians seem like such an exotic, seemingly endangered species. Well, it seems they've all uprooted to Denver, Colorado, where they can drive Ford Broncos and ride tandem bicycles without the awkward gawks from "sophisticated" urbanites. I sat at the bar talking to a guy who claimed he was "not from around here" but turned out he was actually from 30 minutes south of Denver. Of course, in the DC area you can be from Pennsylvania and still claim status as a "local". Eventually, our conversation was interrupted by a blond girl who reminded me of a lot of my female friends back home. In other words, she was completely trashed and about a half a catwalk away from having her left nipple pop out of her push-up bra. "Do you believe in fate?" she slurs to me. "It depends. How attractive is fate?" I respond. I sat there admiring her unique ability to clutch two drinks and adjust her bra with such unprecedented amounts of grace and finesse. "Well he's right out there, parking that car. And he'd like to meet you." As I peered through the crowd and out the window, I saw a BMW X5 backing into a parking space. Fate was looking pretty attractive from this angle. Of course, 5 minutes later fate strolls in and, under normal bar lighting, is about as attractive and desirable as a yeast infection. Honestly, I truly believe I was more attracted to the boyish lesbian named "Shaun" that asked me for a stick of gum not 5 minutes before. Welcome to the great Rockies.
Things took an odd turn when the blond girl who, in a fantastic drunken stooper, decided to divulge all of her personal life information to me, a complete stranger. "You see, I suffer from a rare disease called 'Lupus'. My parents resent me for it, so I don't ever go back to Wyoming to see them. It also makes my hair fall out in clumps. See? Just grab a handful and pull and see what happens." My first reaction was to feel sorry for her, followed immediately by the realization that not only was this the first person I had ever met from the state of Wyoming, but she was also at that exact moment grabbing my hand and forming it into a fist around a clump of her hair. For reasons unbeknownst to me, I gently tugged on her hair. Seconds later, I held a fist full of blond hair as she stared at me. "See? It just comes right out, like a shaggy rag doll." I sat there laughing in my head, thinking I'm glad I traveled 1,500 miles for this. I didn't quite know how to respond, so I said "This is really cool. If I were you, I would at least sell locks of my hair to white women with female pattern balding." She stared back. "Well, feel free to keep that piece if you'd like. A souvenir for when you head back to NYC!" I reminded her I was from DC, just as "fate" interrupted by asking, "How far is Central Park from the White House?" It's difficult to get angry at such an unattractive person, but it's not difficult to play along with stupidity. "Well, it's about 2 blocks from the White House, right near 5th avenue and the Washington monument. If you're lucky, sometimes you can catch Obama warding off a homeless person with a special can of Central Park mace on his early morning jogs." Maybe if I held similar levels of ignorance, my life would be more interesting and certainly filled with less therapy sessions. After all, ignorance is bliss right?
Eventually I made it back to my grimy hotel, where the halls wreaked of marijuana, cigarettes, and middle-American shame. It was a strangely welcome surprise, but certainly not as advertised on their website, which described the place as a "Luxurious 3 star hotel with a great view of the Denver skyline, conveniently located right off I-25!" To be fair, the lobby was O.K. and the rooftop bar on the 14th floor did have a good view, but as I recall, the only thing I had a good view of was a cinder block building and an 18 wheeler truck stop. It wasn't that they lied, they just bent the truth a little bit. Therefore, I decided I was satisfied with the place. I liked how different it all felt, as though I had instantly jumped between social classes and held a comfortable spot amongst the Harley Davidson crowd and chain smoking soccer moms. I smiled at the thought of my mother at this hotel: "I'm not going one foot closer to that bed until you get on all fours and check underneath for roaches and used condoms. This place is filthy. And don't touch that comforter, God knows the last time they washed those things. Does it smell like burnt hair in here to you?" Sylvia just isn't cut out for middle America. Ironic, though, as she's from a third world country that believes in consuming Guinea Pigs as appetizers and the sanctity of child labor and teen pregnancies.
As the plane descended upon DC the following day, I had a great view of Central Park and the Washington monument, with the Statute of Liberty just barely out of sight. The flight attendant announced, "Welcome to our Nation's Capitol" and for some odd reason I broke out in what I thought was quiet laughter. The girl in the seat next to me stared back with a confused look. She was in a suit wearing a serious expression on her face, and I knew she was flying to DC for business as I had spent the majority of the flight reading her emails on her MacBook as she wrote about business initiatives and long-term fiscal goals. How boring, I thought. She just wouldn't understand that, the reason I was laughing, was because just 12 hours before, I had been holding a clump of dry and damaged blond hair in my hand and explaining the significance of Madison Square Garden and it's proximity to the Capitol. In one weekend, I held a clump of a stranger's dead hair, witnessed what fate would look like had he been raised in cowboy boots on an inbred Mormon ranch in Texas, and binge drank beers on the 14th floor of a seedy "3 star luxury hotel" with a scenic view of a 6-lane highway. "What did she do?", I thought, "Write emails and iron her Ann Taylor suit?" If you learn to let go, you can experience more than you might ever imagine possible.
~F.A.G.
Monday, May 17, 2010
Friends with Benefits
I've always wondered what it is about celebrities that enthrall people. The best part is, it doesn't even matter what kind of celebrity it is. From A-list to Z-list, the reactions are always the same: Swoon and stare like a starstruck idiot in awe of someone that probably has no higher than a high school education. But, I guess that's the world we live in. A world dominated by Britney, Gaga, and Miley Cyrus. And who am I to complain? These days, it seems the dumber you are, the further ahead you move in life. It's fucked up, but it's real. This is why I sit in my room and kill brain cells every night after work, in hopes of striking it rich and/or famous. Plan B is welfare or zookeeper.
Of course, last weekend I was standing in line to get into one of the most over-priced and over-hyped gay "hot spots" in DC and, as I turned to pay, I saw a familiar face. Not the kind that you see and think, "holy shit he looks familiar, I hope I didn't sleep with him and leave my underwear at his place." No, this was a far different type of familiar face. One you only see on television, and as recently as the previous weekend. As I stood there, I mouthed to my friend, "Is that Ana Gasteyer from the old SNL cast/the mom from Mean Girls?". He looked at me confused. I turned around and asked, "Aren't you Ana Gasteyer?". She responds with, "Why yes I am! What's your name?" Immediately, I turned into the type of person that I never ever EVER want to be. I swooned and babbled on about how I loved her in the Betty White Mother's Day special of SNL. Something took over me, and it was not pretty. She smiled and nodded a disinterested nod, and I instantly felt awkward and transitioned into the "I don't give a shit who you are" phase. I think it's a defense mechanism so that I don't seem like a crazy, adderal filled teeny bopper. Of course, my friend Matt (who is always a relentless train wreck of a human being) screamed like a flaming homosexual. This wasn't your ordinary scream. This was the type of scream that you let out when you either a.) see a tarantula in the shower while nude and armed with only a bar of soap and a low-pressure shower head, or b.) see the ghost of your dead grandmother walking into your room in nothing but a sarong and unbuttoned nightie, exposing saggy and withered breasts that not even God himself would stare at on judgment day and say, "Ok you're in. But first things first, go see Dr. Goldstein to fix that freak-show under your shirt. He's in suite B, located in the Medical Malpractice section just beyond the entrance gates." As a result of this scream, poor Ana expressed a look on her face that could only be interpreted to mean, Dear Obama, please keep the ban on gay marriage. They're just not ready.
For some reason, it seems the less you care about someone, the more they are willing to approach you. Yet another odd parity of life. This seems to be the common trend in relationships as well. The less you seem to care about someone, the more they chase after you. I guess amidst our own stupidity as human beings, this sort of makes sense. I suppose it provides for cheap thrills in an otherwise monotonous daily life consumed by work and fake smiles to strangers. It was because of my new lack of interest that I was able to carry on almost a 45 minute conversation with Ms. Gasteyer, who eventually ventured off to the velvet room in the back (dubbed the "quiet room"), where the gays were less likely to harass her for a photo wile screaming "I love you bitch!!". In fact, as she entered the establishment, the gays swarmed her like crows on a dead deer, begging and pleading for pictures. Directly next to me, I heard a gay scream, "Oh my god I want a picture for my twitter!". This was immediately followed by him turning to me and asking, "Who is this bitch anyway?" And that, right there, made me seriously doubt Darwin's theory of natural selection/survival of the fittest. With any luck, this homo will appear on American Idol in full make-up and tranny boots and still land himself a record deal. Within the year, he won't be able to enter any mall without people swarming him for pictures, all the while someone will be posing for a picture with him and wondering, "Who is this fruitbasket?"
Eventually, my new friend Ana Gastayer and I had quite the interesting conversation. It turns out she was here for her 25th high school reunion at the Sidwell Friends School (she's actually an intelligent celebrity!). Immediately, I pulled out my pretentious private school card and told her I attended Georgetown Prep. This is probably one of the only times in my life where that $20,000 a year private school education my parents paid for actually paid off. It gave me 5 minutes of fame where I can forever claim Ana Gasteyer as my personal friend and confidant. I even shared with her the story of my broken foot as she laughed hysterically (hopefully with me, and not at me. But who even cares, I was successfully entertaining an entertainer). Had she provided me a healing remedy that included a gallon of lube, a hot tub full of men, and a sacrificial goat, I would have certainly gone along with it. That's how close of friends we became. At least, in my delusional head. I can only hope that next time I'm in NYC, I can drop by her apartment and perhaps be invited to stay for dinner. Or at the very least, get kindly escorted off the premises by an attractive doorman that falls in love with me. When people ask how we met, I can reply confidently with, "Oh, well we met through my good friend, Ana Gasteyer. She's such a sweetheart."
~ F.A.G.
Of course, last weekend I was standing in line to get into one of the most over-priced and over-hyped gay "hot spots" in DC and, as I turned to pay, I saw a familiar face. Not the kind that you see and think, "holy shit he looks familiar, I hope I didn't sleep with him and leave my underwear at his place." No, this was a far different type of familiar face. One you only see on television, and as recently as the previous weekend. As I stood there, I mouthed to my friend, "Is that Ana Gasteyer from the old SNL cast/the mom from Mean Girls?". He looked at me confused. I turned around and asked, "Aren't you Ana Gasteyer?". She responds with, "Why yes I am! What's your name?" Immediately, I turned into the type of person that I never ever EVER want to be. I swooned and babbled on about how I loved her in the Betty White Mother's Day special of SNL. Something took over me, and it was not pretty. She smiled and nodded a disinterested nod, and I instantly felt awkward and transitioned into the "I don't give a shit who you are" phase. I think it's a defense mechanism so that I don't seem like a crazy, adderal filled teeny bopper. Of course, my friend Matt (who is always a relentless train wreck of a human being) screamed like a flaming homosexual. This wasn't your ordinary scream. This was the type of scream that you let out when you either a.) see a tarantula in the shower while nude and armed with only a bar of soap and a low-pressure shower head, or b.) see the ghost of your dead grandmother walking into your room in nothing but a sarong and unbuttoned nightie, exposing saggy and withered breasts that not even God himself would stare at on judgment day and say, "Ok you're in. But first things first, go see Dr. Goldstein to fix that freak-show under your shirt. He's in suite B, located in the Medical Malpractice section just beyond the entrance gates." As a result of this scream, poor Ana expressed a look on her face that could only be interpreted to mean, Dear Obama, please keep the ban on gay marriage. They're just not ready.
For some reason, it seems the less you care about someone, the more they are willing to approach you. Yet another odd parity of life. This seems to be the common trend in relationships as well. The less you seem to care about someone, the more they chase after you. I guess amidst our own stupidity as human beings, this sort of makes sense. I suppose it provides for cheap thrills in an otherwise monotonous daily life consumed by work and fake smiles to strangers. It was because of my new lack of interest that I was able to carry on almost a 45 minute conversation with Ms. Gasteyer, who eventually ventured off to the velvet room in the back (dubbed the "quiet room"), where the gays were less likely to harass her for a photo wile screaming "I love you bitch!!". In fact, as she entered the establishment, the gays swarmed her like crows on a dead deer, begging and pleading for pictures. Directly next to me, I heard a gay scream, "Oh my god I want a picture for my twitter!". This was immediately followed by him turning to me and asking, "Who is this bitch anyway?" And that, right there, made me seriously doubt Darwin's theory of natural selection/survival of the fittest. With any luck, this homo will appear on American Idol in full make-up and tranny boots and still land himself a record deal. Within the year, he won't be able to enter any mall without people swarming him for pictures, all the while someone will be posing for a picture with him and wondering, "Who is this fruitbasket?"
Eventually, my new friend Ana Gastayer and I had quite the interesting conversation. It turns out she was here for her 25th high school reunion at the Sidwell Friends School (she's actually an intelligent celebrity!). Immediately, I pulled out my pretentious private school card and told her I attended Georgetown Prep. This is probably one of the only times in my life where that $20,000 a year private school education my parents paid for actually paid off. It gave me 5 minutes of fame where I can forever claim Ana Gasteyer as my personal friend and confidant. I even shared with her the story of my broken foot as she laughed hysterically (hopefully with me, and not at me. But who even cares, I was successfully entertaining an entertainer). Had she provided me a healing remedy that included a gallon of lube, a hot tub full of men, and a sacrificial goat, I would have certainly gone along with it. That's how close of friends we became. At least, in my delusional head. I can only hope that next time I'm in NYC, I can drop by her apartment and perhaps be invited to stay for dinner. Or at the very least, get kindly escorted off the premises by an attractive doorman that falls in love with me. When people ask how we met, I can reply confidently with, "Oh, well we met through my good friend, Ana Gasteyer. She's such a sweetheart."
~ F.A.G.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Karma's a bitch
It's funny how one step can change your life so drastically. Certain events seem to have a celestial impact on your existence. It's as though the stars align perfectly every so often, so that one particular event in your life that could have been avoided, becomes a reality. I know this, because it was proven to me inside the emergency room of Suburban hospital.
There’s a sense of urgency as I’m walking to my car from the metro during the monotonous Wednesday rush hour. It’s as though, in my warped mind, the 5 minutes I gain by walking just a bit faster and being just slightly more rude as I shove people out of my way will get me home faster and, therefore, will allow for that much more time to do absolutely nothing. This feeling becomes quickly interrupted when I see a monstrous Ford F-250 parked uncomfortably close to Ramona (my car). So close, that I can’t even open my door to get in. I’m staring at the truck in anger and fury, quickly wishing upon the driver a particularly slow and painful death via dysentery or flesh eating bacteria. A couple of days before, I had been watching an Indie film as part of my latest “get cultured and worldly” regimen. The movie was "Paris, Je t’aime", and there’s a scene where the girl’s French dad is walking down the street, keying every car in sight that is parked obtrusively on the sidewalk. Call me easily influenced, but this scene played a key role in what I was about to do next. As I climb through the passenger side of my car, I feel enraged enough to key this person’s truck. As anger and frustration takes over me, I run my key along the passenger door of the F-250. Immediately, I’m riddled with guilt and for the remainder of the night, I have trouble sleeping. I’m certain that, unless I quickly find a way to rescue a drowning baby or an injured raccoon, I would either get hit by a bus the next morning or attacked by a fleet of angry geese, whichever Karma decides I’m more worthy of. It’s not a matter of “if”, but more so “when”.
It’s 9:44pm on Thursday and I’ve been drinking at an open bar event for a good part of 2 hours to gain liquid courage and make the dismal crowd appear more attractive. My phone alarm goes off, telling me I have exactly 3 minutes left on my meter. As I put my drink down, I tell my friend to keep an eye on it, secretly hoping he fails so that someone fun and attractive slips me a roofie to spice up my night. I’m descending the stairs quickly, but feeling confident that my now 2.5 minutes to spare will give me plenty of time to refill my parking meter. My shoes are squeaking against the stairs and I feel annoyed that rubber in contact with linoleum makes such an obnoxious sound, resembling the sterile halls of a hospital or nursing home. As I turn the corner, I spot the vulture of a meter maid standing over my car, Segway parked against the nearest tree, examining the printed pre-paid meter ticket on the window that reads “9:47 pm”. I glance down at my cell phone and notice that the time reads “9:45 pm”, giving me a full 2 minutes to walk the remaining 30 or so feet. I hear myself yelling, but the meter maid and her curly-fry weave remain oblivious, leaving me to wonder if I’m so drunk that I only think I’m yelling when in reality, I may very well be yawning. As I run, I notice the brick sidewalk is uneven. My foot falls in. CRACK. I fall only slightly, as I regain my balance and think “Fuck, this hurts.” I hobble over to the meter maid, breathless and in pain, and grasp her arm to keep me from falling over. In my head, I expect her to look at me and say, “Good hustle!” as she gives me a high-five or perhaps a slap on the ass and cancels the half-written ticket. Instead, she gives me a head roll and sternly says, “Sir, please do not accost me”. As I walk back into the bar with my broken foot, I’m proud of myself for getting out of an unfair ticket. Therefore, I reward myself with more vodka sodas. By the end of the night, the place is closing down and the attention starved gays with insecurities and low self-esteem are finding someone to go home with. I go home with a broken foot.
The next day at the E.R., I’m bitter. The x-rays confirm I’ve broken my 5th metatarsal, and I immediately think back to the Ford F-250. Karma’s a real bitch, I think. As I look around the waiting room, I overhear a woman crying. “I found mom at the bottom of the stairs face down, bleeding. Everyone I love gets hurt or dies. I’m cursed.” Then her flaming homosexual brother hugs her as they sob together. On the opposite side, there’s a little girl with a bloody chin and scraped face, sobbing as her mother holds her on her lap. If karma and curses are so real for everyone, I can’t help but think what this little girl must have done. Was she mean to her sibling? Did she light too many ants on fire with a magnifying glass? Did she accidentally urinate on one of her minority kindergarten classmates? At this point, everything seems possible.
As I walk through the back of the E.R., I see a Mexican day laborer stretched out on a bed, bleeding and bruised from head to toe. As I turn to sit on one of the beds, I notice how thin and scratchy the sheets are, as if someone from the hospital has been sent on a pilgrimage to Soviet Russia to obtain sheets that resemble a brillow pad. There are two nurses arguing about the Mexican man. “No Barbara, from the looks of his injuries he must have fallen at least 25 feet from the ladder while he painted that house” says one. “No no, Kathy, the EMT said the ladder was only 10 feet tall. Unless he was hanging by one arm from a gutter and painting the side of the house like a baboon on steroids, he’s fallen only ten feet”. The man is laying on a gurney, bleeding and cut all over and slipping in and out of consciousness. Does it really matter what height he fell from? Really, all that matters is that this poor man’s Cinco de Mayo has been completely and utterly ruined. The height should be the least of his worries. Instantly, I feel the need for a double vodka on the rocks with a splash of lime. The doctor puts a splint on me, hands me a pair of crutches, and says, “Stay off your foot until you see the orthopedist.” To which I reply, “Does this mean I can’t go on my trip to Nashville tomorrow?” Instead of an answer, he glares at me and walks away. Doctors can be so pretentious.
The next morning, I’m watching the news and see that Nashville is under 20 feet of water as a result of severe flooding. I guess it’s a good thing I didn’t go, as I’m confident I would have been one of the people walking around the downtown area who gets tragically swept away by a raging river. I can imagine myself on the television being filmed by the local news chopper, clinging to a tree branch and waving one of my crutches in the air as branches and rednecks with mullets flow past me. I can picture Obama sitting in his living room watching CNN as he calls out to Michelle, “Hey ‘Chelle, come look at the floods! White people can swim right?” She responds with, “Remember Katrina?” “Oh yeah…well it’s a recession, we’ll wait to send help.” says Barack, as he sits back and pops open a beer, cracking a smile at the picture of George W. Bush hanging on the wall alongside previous presidents, thinking to himself, "Karma’s a bitch, huh Bush?"
When I finally get back to work, I’m bombarded with questions about my broken foot and stylish boot that I must wear for the next 6-8 weeks. “So what happened?” my boss asks. In my head, I run through several possible responses:
-I kicked a midget in the face as he tried to steal my wallet.
-The vagina of a woman doing the crab walk in a skirt down a sidewalk clamped onto my foot and snapped it in half (I’ve heard vaginas are volatile. God knows what they’ll swallow and spit out these days).
- I was playing naked leap frog and slipped on a giant, black dildo.
I realize my mind is even crazier than I thought. “I fell while running on an uneven sidewalk” I respond, hoping he won’t pry for further details. He smiles and says, “You have to watch out for those, they can be deadly.” In my head, I think, "Yeah, well so can rabid vaginas and angry midgets". Moments later, I’m on a crowded elevator and a group of women I work with (one of whom I don’t care for) gets on the elevator as they nurse their afternoon coffees. One of them asks what happened to me, and I respond with my generic “I fell while running” response. The woman I don’t like (we’ll call her Annette) laughs and in an effort to be funny says, “Be serious. You were drunk and had no one to hold you while you walked home alone from a bar!” The three women laugh in unison and I smirk and say, “Oh I just can’t get anything past you, can I?” As the elevator door opens, the three of them file out. Annette doesn’t make it out fast enough as the door closes and hits her on the arm, spilling her hot coffee all over her hand and beige silk sleeve. “Oh no are you ok? These elevator doors are so volatile you really need to be careful!” says one of the women. I laugh and call out to her, “Yeah, be careful Annette! And watch your step!” I guess often times, karma can work in your favor.
~ F.A.G.
There’s a sense of urgency as I’m walking to my car from the metro during the monotonous Wednesday rush hour. It’s as though, in my warped mind, the 5 minutes I gain by walking just a bit faster and being just slightly more rude as I shove people out of my way will get me home faster and, therefore, will allow for that much more time to do absolutely nothing. This feeling becomes quickly interrupted when I see a monstrous Ford F-250 parked uncomfortably close to Ramona (my car). So close, that I can’t even open my door to get in. I’m staring at the truck in anger and fury, quickly wishing upon the driver a particularly slow and painful death via dysentery or flesh eating bacteria. A couple of days before, I had been watching an Indie film as part of my latest “get cultured and worldly” regimen. The movie was "Paris, Je t’aime", and there’s a scene where the girl’s French dad is walking down the street, keying every car in sight that is parked obtrusively on the sidewalk. Call me easily influenced, but this scene played a key role in what I was about to do next. As I climb through the passenger side of my car, I feel enraged enough to key this person’s truck. As anger and frustration takes over me, I run my key along the passenger door of the F-250. Immediately, I’m riddled with guilt and for the remainder of the night, I have trouble sleeping. I’m certain that, unless I quickly find a way to rescue a drowning baby or an injured raccoon, I would either get hit by a bus the next morning or attacked by a fleet of angry geese, whichever Karma decides I’m more worthy of. It’s not a matter of “if”, but more so “when”.
It’s 9:44pm on Thursday and I’ve been drinking at an open bar event for a good part of 2 hours to gain liquid courage and make the dismal crowd appear more attractive. My phone alarm goes off, telling me I have exactly 3 minutes left on my meter. As I put my drink down, I tell my friend to keep an eye on it, secretly hoping he fails so that someone fun and attractive slips me a roofie to spice up my night. I’m descending the stairs quickly, but feeling confident that my now 2.5 minutes to spare will give me plenty of time to refill my parking meter. My shoes are squeaking against the stairs and I feel annoyed that rubber in contact with linoleum makes such an obnoxious sound, resembling the sterile halls of a hospital or nursing home. As I turn the corner, I spot the vulture of a meter maid standing over my car, Segway parked against the nearest tree, examining the printed pre-paid meter ticket on the window that reads “9:47 pm”. I glance down at my cell phone and notice that the time reads “9:45 pm”, giving me a full 2 minutes to walk the remaining 30 or so feet. I hear myself yelling, but the meter maid and her curly-fry weave remain oblivious, leaving me to wonder if I’m so drunk that I only think I’m yelling when in reality, I may very well be yawning. As I run, I notice the brick sidewalk is uneven. My foot falls in. CRACK. I fall only slightly, as I regain my balance and think “Fuck, this hurts.” I hobble over to the meter maid, breathless and in pain, and grasp her arm to keep me from falling over. In my head, I expect her to look at me and say, “Good hustle!” as she gives me a high-five or perhaps a slap on the ass and cancels the half-written ticket. Instead, she gives me a head roll and sternly says, “Sir, please do not accost me”. As I walk back into the bar with my broken foot, I’m proud of myself for getting out of an unfair ticket. Therefore, I reward myself with more vodka sodas. By the end of the night, the place is closing down and the attention starved gays with insecurities and low self-esteem are finding someone to go home with. I go home with a broken foot.
The next day at the E.R., I’m bitter. The x-rays confirm I’ve broken my 5th metatarsal, and I immediately think back to the Ford F-250. Karma’s a real bitch, I think. As I look around the waiting room, I overhear a woman crying. “I found mom at the bottom of the stairs face down, bleeding. Everyone I love gets hurt or dies. I’m cursed.” Then her flaming homosexual brother hugs her as they sob together. On the opposite side, there’s a little girl with a bloody chin and scraped face, sobbing as her mother holds her on her lap. If karma and curses are so real for everyone, I can’t help but think what this little girl must have done. Was she mean to her sibling? Did she light too many ants on fire with a magnifying glass? Did she accidentally urinate on one of her minority kindergarten classmates? At this point, everything seems possible.
As I walk through the back of the E.R., I see a Mexican day laborer stretched out on a bed, bleeding and bruised from head to toe. As I turn to sit on one of the beds, I notice how thin and scratchy the sheets are, as if someone from the hospital has been sent on a pilgrimage to Soviet Russia to obtain sheets that resemble a brillow pad. There are two nurses arguing about the Mexican man. “No Barbara, from the looks of his injuries he must have fallen at least 25 feet from the ladder while he painted that house” says one. “No no, Kathy, the EMT said the ladder was only 10 feet tall. Unless he was hanging by one arm from a gutter and painting the side of the house like a baboon on steroids, he’s fallen only ten feet”. The man is laying on a gurney, bleeding and cut all over and slipping in and out of consciousness. Does it really matter what height he fell from? Really, all that matters is that this poor man’s Cinco de Mayo has been completely and utterly ruined. The height should be the least of his worries. Instantly, I feel the need for a double vodka on the rocks with a splash of lime. The doctor puts a splint on me, hands me a pair of crutches, and says, “Stay off your foot until you see the orthopedist.” To which I reply, “Does this mean I can’t go on my trip to Nashville tomorrow?” Instead of an answer, he glares at me and walks away. Doctors can be so pretentious.
The next morning, I’m watching the news and see that Nashville is under 20 feet of water as a result of severe flooding. I guess it’s a good thing I didn’t go, as I’m confident I would have been one of the people walking around the downtown area who gets tragically swept away by a raging river. I can imagine myself on the television being filmed by the local news chopper, clinging to a tree branch and waving one of my crutches in the air as branches and rednecks with mullets flow past me. I can picture Obama sitting in his living room watching CNN as he calls out to Michelle, “Hey ‘Chelle, come look at the floods! White people can swim right?” She responds with, “Remember Katrina?” “Oh yeah…well it’s a recession, we’ll wait to send help.” says Barack, as he sits back and pops open a beer, cracking a smile at the picture of George W. Bush hanging on the wall alongside previous presidents, thinking to himself, "Karma’s a bitch, huh Bush?"
When I finally get back to work, I’m bombarded with questions about my broken foot and stylish boot that I must wear for the next 6-8 weeks. “So what happened?” my boss asks. In my head, I run through several possible responses:
-I kicked a midget in the face as he tried to steal my wallet.
-The vagina of a woman doing the crab walk in a skirt down a sidewalk clamped onto my foot and snapped it in half (I’ve heard vaginas are volatile. God knows what they’ll swallow and spit out these days).
- I was playing naked leap frog and slipped on a giant, black dildo.
I realize my mind is even crazier than I thought. “I fell while running on an uneven sidewalk” I respond, hoping he won’t pry for further details. He smiles and says, “You have to watch out for those, they can be deadly.” In my head, I think, "Yeah, well so can rabid vaginas and angry midgets". Moments later, I’m on a crowded elevator and a group of women I work with (one of whom I don’t care for) gets on the elevator as they nurse their afternoon coffees. One of them asks what happened to me, and I respond with my generic “I fell while running” response. The woman I don’t like (we’ll call her Annette) laughs and in an effort to be funny says, “Be serious. You were drunk and had no one to hold you while you walked home alone from a bar!” The three women laugh in unison and I smirk and say, “Oh I just can’t get anything past you, can I?” As the elevator door opens, the three of them file out. Annette doesn’t make it out fast enough as the door closes and hits her on the arm, spilling her hot coffee all over her hand and beige silk sleeve. “Oh no are you ok? These elevator doors are so volatile you really need to be careful!” says one of the women. I laugh and call out to her, “Yeah, be careful Annette! And watch your step!” I guess often times, karma can work in your favor.
~ F.A.G.
Friday, April 30, 2010
The Naked Truth
I have two biggest fears: to die a lonely person, and to die stupidly. The other day, I was reading a news story about a 22 year old kid who got drunk and decided to climb a smokestack only to fall 100 feet to his death. At first, I kind of laughed at the stupidity of it, but then I realized that it could have very easily been me. I drink, and I can get a clear image of myself climbing tall objects while under the influence. The only difference between me and this kid, is that I probably would have been clutching a bag of Doritos and a cheeseburger big bite smothered in fake cheese and chili from 7-11. In the manner of stupid deaths, I see myself in an obituary of the Washington Post, describing me as “bright and full of life”, only to have lost an unfortunate battle between a micromachine and the corner of a coffee table where I landed on the exact part of the temple that supposedly kills you instantly. I can imagine what people would say at my funeral: “He was so young. How was he killed? Slipped on a micromachine while drunk you say? At 3pm? On a Monday? How tragic.” Except I would know on the inside, they’d be secretly laughing the same way I had when I’d read the story of the 22 year old plunging to his premature, drunken death.
In terms of dying a lonely person, I have a very real and legitimate cause for concern. It seems I’m constantly falling for the wrong person. Of course, as it often happens, I tell them how I feel and the feelings are not reciprocated the way I would have hoped. “Oh, I really like you. But, I think we’re better off as friends.” Listen homo, I don’t need any more friends. Immediately, I’m transported back to the days of when the only clothes I was able to comfortably fit in were an XL Nautica shirt from Marshall’s and Wrangler jeans from Costco. Then I realize I continue to go after the guys that my therapist would say are completely "emotionally unavailable" only because I enjoy the chase of it all. I’m like a small child. I’ll whine and bitch for shit that I know I can’t have, and then once I get it, I’m on to the next one (as Jay-Z so eloquently puts it). I used to put my mother through this every time we walked through the doors of a Toys R Us…or a Burger King.
I seem to be the type of person that does exactly what I know I should not be doing. For instance, say I run into a guy that I used to really like and he asks me to come over the next day and hang out. I think to myself, “It’s better if you say no. Get your dumb, emotionally dependant ass out of this situation and move on. It’s bad for your mental health to be near this person, you shitsmear.” And, without even letting the guy finish his sentence, I’ll reply with, “I’d love to. What time shall I come over? And should I wear underwear?” And so it goes, around in a circle. This is not to say I’m “easy”. I prefer to think of it more as “I’m easily persuaded”. I’m not so sure why people make things so difficult. If this were my world, things would go as follows:
Boy/girl meets boy/girl: “Hi I think you’re attractive. You smell nice too. I think we could have a lovely time together. Do you have cats? Good. I’m allergic. I think you’re funny and have just the correct balance of ‘nice guy meets asshole’, because no one likes a doormat. Shall we?”
Boy/girl being wooed: “Help me unzip these pants. Dinner seems like an unfortunate waste of pleasantries at this point.”
Fast forward to happily ever after.
Of course, more often than not things don’t go this way. But in Andres world, they would. Things would be far simpler, and I would implant myself with a chip in my head that allows me not to give a fuck about anything. In the real world, I suppose it’s quite the opposite. Unfortunately, I do give a fuck, but I don’t want to. My friend Sadaf once told me, “When people/things bother you, think of blank, white computer paper. It works every time.” I try, except my white computer paper, instead of being blank, is filled with a mixture of grocery lists and unrealistic dreams of a white picket fence with Anderson Cooper as my pool boy and the Kardashian train wrecks as my neighbors. Then I realize that Anderson Cooper is far too over qualified to be employed as my pool boy.
When you’re young, it’s so easy to be filled with grandiose ideas of a life full of glitz and glam and a hot spouse to share it all with you. I hope as I get older, these ideas don’t fade. Actually that’s wrong, because what I really hope is that these ideas fade into becoming a reality. For now, I’ll enjoy my cluttered computer paper scenario, as it keeps me excited for what lies ahead. I just sincerely hope that, at the ripe age of 80-something, I’m not wandering around my nursing home asking people if I should come to their room sans diaper, wearing only a vintage XL Nautica shirt from circa 1998.
~ F.A.G.
In terms of dying a lonely person, I have a very real and legitimate cause for concern. It seems I’m constantly falling for the wrong person. Of course, as it often happens, I tell them how I feel and the feelings are not reciprocated the way I would have hoped. “Oh, I really like you. But, I think we’re better off as friends.” Listen homo, I don’t need any more friends. Immediately, I’m transported back to the days of when the only clothes I was able to comfortably fit in were an XL Nautica shirt from Marshall’s and Wrangler jeans from Costco. Then I realize I continue to go after the guys that my therapist would say are completely "emotionally unavailable" only because I enjoy the chase of it all. I’m like a small child. I’ll whine and bitch for shit that I know I can’t have, and then once I get it, I’m on to the next one (as Jay-Z so eloquently puts it). I used to put my mother through this every time we walked through the doors of a Toys R Us…or a Burger King.
I seem to be the type of person that does exactly what I know I should not be doing. For instance, say I run into a guy that I used to really like and he asks me to come over the next day and hang out. I think to myself, “It’s better if you say no. Get your dumb, emotionally dependant ass out of this situation and move on. It’s bad for your mental health to be near this person, you shitsmear.” And, without even letting the guy finish his sentence, I’ll reply with, “I’d love to. What time shall I come over? And should I wear underwear?” And so it goes, around in a circle. This is not to say I’m “easy”. I prefer to think of it more as “I’m easily persuaded”. I’m not so sure why people make things so difficult. If this were my world, things would go as follows:
Boy/girl meets boy/girl: “Hi I think you’re attractive. You smell nice too. I think we could have a lovely time together. Do you have cats? Good. I’m allergic. I think you’re funny and have just the correct balance of ‘nice guy meets asshole’, because no one likes a doormat. Shall we?”
Boy/girl being wooed: “Help me unzip these pants. Dinner seems like an unfortunate waste of pleasantries at this point.”
Fast forward to happily ever after.
Of course, more often than not things don’t go this way. But in Andres world, they would. Things would be far simpler, and I would implant myself with a chip in my head that allows me not to give a fuck about anything. In the real world, I suppose it’s quite the opposite. Unfortunately, I do give a fuck, but I don’t want to. My friend Sadaf once told me, “When people/things bother you, think of blank, white computer paper. It works every time.” I try, except my white computer paper, instead of being blank, is filled with a mixture of grocery lists and unrealistic dreams of a white picket fence with Anderson Cooper as my pool boy and the Kardashian train wrecks as my neighbors. Then I realize that Anderson Cooper is far too over qualified to be employed as my pool boy.
When you’re young, it’s so easy to be filled with grandiose ideas of a life full of glitz and glam and a hot spouse to share it all with you. I hope as I get older, these ideas don’t fade. Actually that’s wrong, because what I really hope is that these ideas fade into becoming a reality. For now, I’ll enjoy my cluttered computer paper scenario, as it keeps me excited for what lies ahead. I just sincerely hope that, at the ripe age of 80-something, I’m not wandering around my nursing home asking people if I should come to their room sans diaper, wearing only a vintage XL Nautica shirt from circa 1998.
~ F.A.G.
Friday, April 23, 2010
Trailer Park
I can’t quite get a grasp on my levels of ADD. When I was younger, I found it hard to listen to my second grade teacher, Ms. Carliner, as she rambled on about the difference between nouns and pronouns. Instead, I focused on her cruel ability to taunt the class with her Roy Roger’s food as she slurped her 30oz. soda and ate soup from a Styrofoam container with Roy
As it was, I found myself heavily involved in my latest book on the Metro when I became distracted by “Trailerpark”. She spoke with a twang and was a mix of Nancy Grace and Pat Robertson from the Christian channel had they had a love child. Her hair was teased on the top with thin blonde bangs that attempted to cover her forehead but seemed to fall awkwardly short, like a midget in high heels. The frumpy fleece jacket she wore fell upon her enlarged “Fupa” that sagged like an overused college beanbag with half the contents missing. So much so, that it seemed like her vagina had contracted an aggressive and tragic strain of elephantitis. She spoke on her phone loudly. “She be telling David that I ain’t allowed ta come over no more, even tho he’s the daddy of my baybees. She fuckin threatinin him by saying she gon speak to his parole officer. Well guess the fuck what, bitch, I ain’t goin no where cuz yur son fucked me and now we gots baybees!!” I’m not sure why, but in this instance it seems a natural reaction to quickly search around for the nearest child, hoping they’re out of earshot. Of course, it just so happened there were two kids sitting diagonal from her, adjacent to a horrified old lady and a quiet looking man whom I assumed was their father. “Well that bitch can eat my twat, ok!? She ain’t got no business comin up in my house and tellin us what to do!” Instantly, I wondered who would be the type of person to eat her twat, and why?
I’ve made it a habit as of late to travel with a notebook almost everywhere I go. On this occasion, I filled my notebook with words like “puffy vag”, “teased hair”, “three-way”, “cunt rag”, “Jew bitch”, and “pussy gadgets”. These were all words that I heard come out of this woman’s mouth, as in, “Tell that Jew bitch cunt rag I’ll send her some of my used pussy gadgets so she can get away from my man because I ain’t havin no fuckin three-way with that nasty fat bitch!” The word “puffy vag” was something I wrote down for my own reference, lest I forget her most distinguishable physical attribute. I began to wonder what her “baybees” with this man looked like, and why the higher being that Ms. Carliner referred to would allow for such a horrible existence.
I imagined her living in a duplex with beige, discolored siding and a screen door that slammed hard enough to annoy the neighbors every time she and David got in an argument about child support or overcooked meatloaf. Instantly, my inner fat kid with low self-esteem started whispering, “See, even this inbred bitch can find love, even if it is inside a duplex in Clarksburg with two overweight children and a 2-door Pontiac Sunbird parked out front.” I fought back by telling myself I’d rather be alone in an apartment full of dead cats on an episode of “Hoarders” than experience life full of pussy gadgets and puffy genitals. “I swear, Crystal, I’ma kick that fucker square in them balls so that they end up lookin like my saggy tits if he gets anywhere near that fuckin bitch cuz aint no way in fuckin hell he’s gon fuck with me or my fuckin kids cuz what I shoulda done is used a coathanger from day one then this motherfuckin cocksucker would be out of my goddamn fuckin life for good!” For a minute, I pictured a coat hanger with eyes and a mouth, like that googly-eyed stack of money from the Geico commercial, kicking and screaming in fear and disgust as it realized her intentions.
As the train came to a stop at the final station and people scrambled to exit, trailerpark shouted, “Come on kids, get yer asses up we’re gonna miss that goddamn bus and I’ll be fuckin damned if I’m waitin for another one!” The ironic part is that I was annoyed with this woman for being so loud and oblivious to her surroundings, yet the entire time I had assumed those children near her belonged to someone else. I guess I was just as oblivious. When the kids grabbed her hand, I laughed at the thought of the duplex being her version of the penthouse in Manhattan, and the kids being her Korean daughters. Somewhere in Clarksburg, a man named David with saggy balls and a FUBU sweatshirt is her version of doctor-guy. And why not? It’s the American dream.
As it was, I found myself heavily involved in my latest book on the Metro when I became distracted by “Trailerpark”. She spoke with a twang and was a mix of Nancy Grace and Pat Robertson from the Christian channel had they had a love child. Her hair was teased on the top with thin blonde bangs that attempted to cover her forehead but seemed to fall awkwardly short, like a midget in high heels. The frumpy fleece jacket she wore fell upon her enlarged “Fupa” that sagged like an overused college beanbag with half the contents missing. So much so, that it seemed like her vagina had contracted an aggressive and tragic strain of elephantitis. She spoke on her phone loudly. “She be telling David that I ain’t allowed ta come over no more, even tho he’s the daddy of my baybees. She fuckin threatinin him by saying she gon speak to his parole officer. Well guess the fuck what, bitch, I ain’t goin no where cuz yur son fucked me and now we gots baybees!!” I’m not sure why, but in this instance it seems a natural reaction to quickly search around for the nearest child, hoping they’re out of earshot. Of course, it just so happened there were two kids sitting diagonal from her, adjacent to a horrified old lady and a quiet looking man whom I assumed was their father. “Well that bitch can eat my twat, ok!? She ain’t got no business comin up in my house and tellin us what to do!” Instantly, I wondered who would be the type of person to eat her twat, and why?
I’ve made it a habit as of late to travel with a notebook almost everywhere I go. On this occasion, I filled my notebook with words like “puffy vag”, “teased hair”, “three-way”, “cunt rag”, “Jew bitch”, and “pussy gadgets”. These were all words that I heard come out of this woman’s mouth, as in, “Tell that Jew bitch cunt rag I’ll send her some of my used pussy gadgets so she can get away from my man because I ain’t havin no fuckin three-way with that nasty fat bitch!” The word “puffy vag” was something I wrote down for my own reference, lest I forget her most distinguishable physical attribute. I began to wonder what her “baybees” with this man looked like, and why the higher being that Ms. Carliner referred to would allow for such a horrible existence.
I imagined her living in a duplex with beige, discolored siding and a screen door that slammed hard enough to annoy the neighbors every time she and David got in an argument about child support or overcooked meatloaf. Instantly, my inner fat kid with low self-esteem started whispering, “See, even this inbred bitch can find love, even if it is inside a duplex in Clarksburg with two overweight children and a 2-door Pontiac Sunbird parked out front.” I fought back by telling myself I’d rather be alone in an apartment full of dead cats on an episode of “Hoarders” than experience life full of pussy gadgets and puffy genitals. “I swear, Crystal, I’ma kick that fucker square in them balls so that they end up lookin like my saggy tits if he gets anywhere near that fuckin bitch cuz aint no way in fuckin hell he’s gon fuck with me or my fuckin kids cuz what I shoulda done is used a coathanger from day one then this motherfuckin cocksucker would be out of my goddamn fuckin life for good!” For a minute, I pictured a coat hanger with eyes and a mouth, like that googly-eyed stack of money from the Geico commercial, kicking and screaming in fear and disgust as it realized her intentions.
As the train came to a stop at the final station and people scrambled to exit, trailerpark shouted, “Come on kids, get yer asses up we’re gonna miss that goddamn bus and I’ll be fuckin damned if I’m waitin for another one!” The ironic part is that I was annoyed with this woman for being so loud and oblivious to her surroundings, yet the entire time I had assumed those children near her belonged to someone else. I guess I was just as oblivious. When the kids grabbed her hand, I laughed at the thought of the duplex being her version of the penthouse in Manhattan, and the kids being her Korean daughters. Somewhere in Clarksburg, a man named David with saggy balls and a FUBU sweatshirt is her version of doctor-guy. And why not? It’s the American dream.
Sunday, March 28, 2010
The View From Above
Arriving at BWI smelling of liquor and a hint of calamity, I hopped on the airport shuttle bus in expectations of what was sure to be an adventurous day in Boston. Seeing as how I had never been before, I decided it would be a fun last minute trip to explore a city that was full of history, boats, and drunken Irish bastards.
My first run-in happened with a mother of three rowdy children, who so lovingly held the hand of her husband as she turned to me and said, "Sir, you smell very strongly of alcohol." For some reason, I've made it a habit to speak in what I can only refer to as "email lingo" as of late. I'm not sure if it's the fact that I work as a corporate slave Monday-Friday, but "email lingo" is a fantastic new form of passive aggressiveness that I can use on friends, family, and strangers. Just last week, I said to my friend Ashley, "If you sat on my face, would I drown? Please advise." She was seemingly less amused than I was at my newly discovered vernacular. In this particular scenario, I responded to the soccer mom with "Ma'am, kindly note that your spawn are being rambunctious. Please quiet them, as I'm nursing a hangover." These were the type of people that seemed like they were headed for a cheap kids-friendly resort on the outskirts of Cancun, so I felt satisfied in my emailesque response. She, not as satisfied.
Once I arrived in Boston, I was waiting outside for the #55 bus to take me to the blue line T-station, when an empty bus pulled up and an old man opened the doors and asked "where you headed?" I told him I was waiting for the 55 to the blue line, but he told me to get in anyway. The bus was completely empty, save for me and this old nut who had a severe gas problem. Incidentally, the old man was as deaf as the Keller bitch too, so I took this to my advantage. Wrong? Maybe, but at 9:30 am I was feeling succulently bashful. Our conversation was as follows:
Old Man: "You a student?"
Me: *pause* "Sure...a Junior in College studying physiology and undertaking"
Old Man: "What a great profession...people die all the time! So where do you think I'm originally from?"
Me: "Greece."
Old Man: "Well I'll be the son of a bastahd who beats his wife...no one has ever guessed that before! How did you know!?"
Me: "I was just there last September. I studied what Greeks look like in my 2 week stay and committed it to memory. You're the poster child. But a bit older."
Old Man: "Oh, how old am I you ask? Well, I'll give you one guess!"
Me: "112 years old"
Old Man: "That's right! 72 years. And married for 53!!"
Me: "I can't even put up with myself for 53 years, much less anyone else."
Old Man: "Who you tellin? I want to kill that old bitch every otha day! But, what can ya do? She's a good cook, good mutha, and she used to put out on regular occasions. We can't do it so much anymore, what with her heart condition and my irritable bowel syndrome. She's a good lady, though. And wicked smaht. Keeps me on my toes, that one! Yes siree!"
I crept up in my seat and slowly asked him, "Wait, you shit yourself? On her chest?"
"You're a sick bastahd. But that right there is some funny shit!"
Maybe he wasn't as deaf as I thought.
The old man left me with some wise advice: "Be good to your parents. They're your best friends, and at the end of the day, everyone else mine as well be a dirty, hairy-assed Turk." I guess we had a moment, because that strangely made sense to me, considering my utter disappointment in most of the human race as of late.
What became most fascinating to me about Boston was the accents. In fact, this fascinates me about every city. Give me a half a day in NYC, and I'll be hailing cabs and inquiring about the cost of bagels with the distinguishable accent of an old Jewish woman from the Upper East Side. In Boston, I was giving directions to the best Clam Chowdah joint in town by noon. At one point, I found myself following two old Jewish women in the train station who were yapping about their friend, "Bahbrah". This, in reference to a woman who apparently aged like shit and must have slept with one of their husbands at some point. That's the only way I could explain such hostility. "Did you see the wrinkles on Bahbrah's face? She looked like a leather handbag I once bought in Bangladesh! I think it's tha heavy drinkin she does, and that tanning she's always so fond of. Melt the skin right off ya! Her chest must look like a pair of old burlap sacks!" This was interjected by the second woman, who enthusiastically contributed with, "Oh I know it. It's one thing to be a ragin alcoholic, but its anotha to be disrepsectin ya skin and fryin it in the sun like a gad-damn Samoan servant! It's unhealthy, is what it is. And her husband, too! His shmackel is probably the only paht of his body that ain't burnt to a crisp!" It gave me a certain sense of satisfaction to know that, even at the age of 70-something, people still found the time to talk shit about one another. I just hope that, if I'm able to avert cancer and plagues and nuclear warfare and swine flu's 1, 2, 3 and 4, I at least won't be compared to the likes of a Bengali leather handbag or a burlap sack at the age of 70. A raging alcoholic, though? Perhaps.
In terms of traveling alone, there's nothing in the world more liberating. When in the company of someone else, I'm constantly distracted by their needs, wants, and complaints. At the Bunker hill memorial, the only thing I was distracted by was an old Asian man flying a kite. I find Asians so intriguing, as they always seem to have their own agenda. As a fat Asian girl, I know this. Better yet, it seems they don't give a flying fuck what the rest of the world thinks of them. This became evident when I approached the old man, who enthusiastically smiled at me and said, "You fry kite. I stretch". As I held the kite for him, he performed a series of stretches, jumps, and squats that would make any Harajuku girl on the streets of Tokyo proud. Including myself. It seemed that the bewildered look of westerners walking by only fueled his energy. I, for one, was desperately wishing I had brought along my kimono for an occasion like this.
As I made my way back to Quincy market, I stumbled upon what I later found out was a "chili bowl", which basically translated into just another excuse for drinking at a chili tasting competition. People dressed in actual jalapeno chili suits drew me in. I, of course, approached the first group dressed in t-shirts that read, "Chili-Vanili Army". I promised to vote for their chili, and they in turn promised to buy me 8 beers. 3 hours later, buzzed and full of free chili, I headed back to the airport.
As the plane flew over Manhattan on a clear night sky, I could see the dark outline of central park amongst all the bright city lights of NYC. I read once that the Central Park zoo had two gay penguins, and they were in love and faithful to one another until one of the penguins started fornicating with the penguin slut next door. How awful to be fully enthralled in what you think is the deepest form of penguin love, only to find out that your supposed "soul-mate" is in the cave next door, pounding away at the penguin who may have had a slightly better body or whose feathers glistened in a more seductive and youthful way than the yours. As I peered out the window, I couldn't help but look down upon such a massive city, and wonder to myself if the lonely penguin left behind could hear the two penguins next door through the thin cave walls, shaking with anger as he imagines that penguin skank hanging from a wooden beam upside down in pornographic pose, begging for her new penguin lover to just finish her off while she gets donkey punched as her head bangs against the cold, damp walls. I snapped out of it when I looked towards the lights of the upper east side, and thought how fabulous the lives of all those rich housewives and successful NYC interior designer gays must be. And, I wondered how many of them were doing exactly as the Penguins were.
When I landed, I promised myself I would take more of these weekend trips. I've already booked my next weekend trip, so I'll put up an update on where I went and what I experienced when I get back. I'll be living off nuts and berries, and probably joining the likes of the prostitute I met on the street the other day in order to afford all this, but how else can you experience life? Certainly, not behind the desk of an office building. I don't quite know where amongst the chaos we lose ourselves and wake up thinking, "How did I get here? Did I settle? Why is the world passing by my office window, and how, as a Fat Asian Girl, can I make my life more meaningful to me?" I'm not sure of all, or any, of those answers. But when I think about those penguins and the NYC millionaires from 35,000 feet in the air, I laugh and somehow think it all makes sense for now.
~ F.A.G.
My first run-in happened with a mother of three rowdy children, who so lovingly held the hand of her husband as she turned to me and said, "Sir, you smell very strongly of alcohol." For some reason, I've made it a habit to speak in what I can only refer to as "email lingo" as of late. I'm not sure if it's the fact that I work as a corporate slave Monday-Friday, but "email lingo" is a fantastic new form of passive aggressiveness that I can use on friends, family, and strangers. Just last week, I said to my friend Ashley, "If you sat on my face, would I drown? Please advise." She was seemingly less amused than I was at my newly discovered vernacular. In this particular scenario, I responded to the soccer mom with "Ma'am, kindly note that your spawn are being rambunctious. Please quiet them, as I'm nursing a hangover." These were the type of people that seemed like they were headed for a cheap kids-friendly resort on the outskirts of Cancun, so I felt satisfied in my emailesque response. She, not as satisfied.
Once I arrived in Boston, I was waiting outside for the #55 bus to take me to the blue line T-station, when an empty bus pulled up and an old man opened the doors and asked "where you headed?" I told him I was waiting for the 55 to the blue line, but he told me to get in anyway. The bus was completely empty, save for me and this old nut who had a severe gas problem. Incidentally, the old man was as deaf as the Keller bitch too, so I took this to my advantage. Wrong? Maybe, but at 9:30 am I was feeling succulently bashful. Our conversation was as follows:
Old Man: "You a student?"
Me: *pause* "Sure...a Junior in College studying physiology and undertaking"
Old Man: "What a great profession...people die all the time! So where do you think I'm originally from?"
Me: "Greece."
Old Man: "Well I'll be the son of a bastahd who beats his wife...no one has ever guessed that before! How did you know!?"
Me: "I was just there last September. I studied what Greeks look like in my 2 week stay and committed it to memory. You're the poster child. But a bit older."
Old Man: "Oh, how old am I you ask? Well, I'll give you one guess!"
Me: "112 years old"
Old Man: "That's right! 72 years. And married for 53!!"
Me: "I can't even put up with myself for 53 years, much less anyone else."
Old Man: "Who you tellin? I want to kill that old bitch every otha day! But, what can ya do? She's a good cook, good mutha, and she used to put out on regular occasions. We can't do it so much anymore, what with her heart condition and my irritable bowel syndrome. She's a good lady, though. And wicked smaht. Keeps me on my toes, that one! Yes siree!"
I crept up in my seat and slowly asked him, "Wait, you shit yourself? On her chest?"
"You're a sick bastahd. But that right there is some funny shit!"
Maybe he wasn't as deaf as I thought.
The old man left me with some wise advice: "Be good to your parents. They're your best friends, and at the end of the day, everyone else mine as well be a dirty, hairy-assed Turk." I guess we had a moment, because that strangely made sense to me, considering my utter disappointment in most of the human race as of late.
What became most fascinating to me about Boston was the accents. In fact, this fascinates me about every city. Give me a half a day in NYC, and I'll be hailing cabs and inquiring about the cost of bagels with the distinguishable accent of an old Jewish woman from the Upper East Side. In Boston, I was giving directions to the best Clam Chowdah joint in town by noon. At one point, I found myself following two old Jewish women in the train station who were yapping about their friend, "Bahbrah". This, in reference to a woman who apparently aged like shit and must have slept with one of their husbands at some point. That's the only way I could explain such hostility. "Did you see the wrinkles on Bahbrah's face? She looked like a leather handbag I once bought in Bangladesh! I think it's tha heavy drinkin she does, and that tanning she's always so fond of. Melt the skin right off ya! Her chest must look like a pair of old burlap sacks!" This was interjected by the second woman, who enthusiastically contributed with, "Oh I know it. It's one thing to be a ragin alcoholic, but its anotha to be disrepsectin ya skin and fryin it in the sun like a gad-damn Samoan servant! It's unhealthy, is what it is. And her husband, too! His shmackel is probably the only paht of his body that ain't burnt to a crisp!" It gave me a certain sense of satisfaction to know that, even at the age of 70-something, people still found the time to talk shit about one another. I just hope that, if I'm able to avert cancer and plagues and nuclear warfare and swine flu's 1, 2, 3 and 4, I at least won't be compared to the likes of a Bengali leather handbag or a burlap sack at the age of 70. A raging alcoholic, though? Perhaps.
In terms of traveling alone, there's nothing in the world more liberating. When in the company of someone else, I'm constantly distracted by their needs, wants, and complaints. At the Bunker hill memorial, the only thing I was distracted by was an old Asian man flying a kite. I find Asians so intriguing, as they always seem to have their own agenda. As a fat Asian girl, I know this. Better yet, it seems they don't give a flying fuck what the rest of the world thinks of them. This became evident when I approached the old man, who enthusiastically smiled at me and said, "You fry kite. I stretch". As I held the kite for him, he performed a series of stretches, jumps, and squats that would make any Harajuku girl on the streets of Tokyo proud. Including myself. It seemed that the bewildered look of westerners walking by only fueled his energy. I, for one, was desperately wishing I had brought along my kimono for an occasion like this.
As I made my way back to Quincy market, I stumbled upon what I later found out was a "chili bowl", which basically translated into just another excuse for drinking at a chili tasting competition. People dressed in actual jalapeno chili suits drew me in. I, of course, approached the first group dressed in t-shirts that read, "Chili-Vanili Army". I promised to vote for their chili, and they in turn promised to buy me 8 beers. 3 hours later, buzzed and full of free chili, I headed back to the airport.
As the plane flew over Manhattan on a clear night sky, I could see the dark outline of central park amongst all the bright city lights of NYC. I read once that the Central Park zoo had two gay penguins, and they were in love and faithful to one another until one of the penguins started fornicating with the penguin slut next door. How awful to be fully enthralled in what you think is the deepest form of penguin love, only to find out that your supposed "soul-mate" is in the cave next door, pounding away at the penguin who may have had a slightly better body or whose feathers glistened in a more seductive and youthful way than the yours. As I peered out the window, I couldn't help but look down upon such a massive city, and wonder to myself if the lonely penguin left behind could hear the two penguins next door through the thin cave walls, shaking with anger as he imagines that penguin skank hanging from a wooden beam upside down in pornographic pose, begging for her new penguin lover to just finish her off while she gets donkey punched as her head bangs against the cold, damp walls. I snapped out of it when I looked towards the lights of the upper east side, and thought how fabulous the lives of all those rich housewives and successful NYC interior designer gays must be. And, I wondered how many of them were doing exactly as the Penguins were.
When I landed, I promised myself I would take more of these weekend trips. I've already booked my next weekend trip, so I'll put up an update on where I went and what I experienced when I get back. I'll be living off nuts and berries, and probably joining the likes of the prostitute I met on the street the other day in order to afford all this, but how else can you experience life? Certainly, not behind the desk of an office building. I don't quite know where amongst the chaos we lose ourselves and wake up thinking, "How did I get here? Did I settle? Why is the world passing by my office window, and how, as a Fat Asian Girl, can I make my life more meaningful to me?" I'm not sure of all, or any, of those answers. But when I think about those penguins and the NYC millionaires from 35,000 feet in the air, I laugh and somehow think it all makes sense for now.
~ F.A.G.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Breakfast During a Recession
On most mornings, I'm walking to work in what I can only describe as a trance-like state. I function on autopilot until about 10:30am. I look around me, and most people, with few exceptions, seem to function the same way.
This morning, my trance-like "I don't give a fuck just please don't talk to me" state was interrupted by a female voice asking me, "Hey baby would you like some breakfast, suga?". I turned and saw what I could only describe to be a woman standing 6'2 sporting a feux fur coat, a barbie-sized skirt not designed for her Mo'nique-like curves, and smoking a Newport. But, what was most noticeable was the gap betwixt her teeth. I'm not sure why, but the gap is what told me I should engage in conversation. There's just something about people with gaps in their teeth...somthing so rare and exuding of an attitude that clearly speaks to you: "This is my gap. Name it, love it, deal with it. Because clearly, I don't give a fuck to fix it." How can you not talk to someone like this? Plus, the bitch looked like a tranny mix of Whitney Houston (the latter years), Clarice 'Precious' Jones, and the woman who played Peggy Bundy on "Married with Children". Clearly, she had me at "hey baby".
To be honest, at first I really thought that perhaps she was offering me a discounted coupon to the crepe's and custard place that sits right off I street. It wasn't until 7 minutes into my conversation that I realized this woman was a prostitute. Breakfast to her was codeword for "Pay me 15 bucks and I'll do whatever you want". I, of course, naively thought of the delicious Crepe place just a few doors down. Funny how two worlds can collide over one word.
My conversation went as follows:
Me: "I've been really meaning to try that crepe and custard place? I really hope you're giving out coupons because, you know, it's a recession"
Hooker: "You see Frankie over der? (Pointing at a less-than-well-dressed 5' 6'' black man sporting sweatpants and a periwinkle blazer) Well usually he a good customer but he be slappin me and pullin my hair during our transactions lately so I don fuck with him no more"
Me: "Why would Frankie slap you over a breakfast item?? Did you perhaps ring him up wrong?"
Hooker: "Baby he know what da price is, and he know if he wants extra it costs more so dat aint even no issue. I's a respectful woman, but he disrespectin me in ways I don fuck with no more and, I'ma tell you right now, he aint got nuthin to brag abouts to anybodys cuz he be packin a peanut"
Me: *Awkward laughter* "Well obviously if you want more you have to pay for it. For instance, when I go to Wendy's drive through and I want a side of cheese sauce for my chicken nuggets, I have to pay extra. That's fine with me, it's a part of life and I want my 50 cent cheese. Frankie's gotta check himself."
Hooker: "You a smart muthafucka ain't you? Now how bouts we go get take care of some business." *Blows smoke in my face and adjusts her weave*
It was at this point that I got a bit uncomfortable. Perhaps I had meddled to much in their business? I don't know what it was, and I'll try and blame it on the fact that it was still early and I was half asleep, but it was at this very second that I realized this crazy bitch was a prostitute. Not just a prostitute, but also a cheap imitation of someone I thought was giving away free samples of breakfast items.
Although, I had to give her credit. Most hookers work the streets in sketchy, poorly-lit sidewalks circa 2 am. Not her. This train wreck was getting an early start. But that gap she had in her teeth, it seemed like everytime she opened her mouth it got wider...to the point where I wanted to see how many life sized objects I could fit between it...a coin? a small dixie cup? a wedge of laughing cow cheese? a prematurely born baby? To me, the possibilites were endless, and I couldn't turn away. As she sucked on her cigarette, I couldn't help but wonder how, through one of those violent drags that she seemed to inhale, the cigarette didn't launch through that archway and right down the back of her throat. Sure, she could survive years of casual sex with strangers and a few muggings and beat downs from her pimp, and even the impending lung collapse as a result of smoking, but one bad drag from this cigarette and that bitch was a gonner. People at her funeral would ask her pimp, "How did she die?" and I can only imagine him saying "I told that bitch to fix the damn gap between them tooth. She ain't ever listen to nobody".
Meanwhile, I could picture poor Frankie, sittin in the darkest corner of the church, inconspicuously wiping tears from his periwinkle blazer. All the while, wondering if it was inappropriate to drink at a time like this.
~F.A.G.
This morning, my trance-like "I don't give a fuck just please don't talk to me" state was interrupted by a female voice asking me, "Hey baby would you like some breakfast, suga?". I turned and saw what I could only describe to be a woman standing 6'2 sporting a feux fur coat, a barbie-sized skirt not designed for her Mo'nique-like curves, and smoking a Newport. But, what was most noticeable was the gap betwixt her teeth. I'm not sure why, but the gap is what told me I should engage in conversation. There's just something about people with gaps in their teeth...somthing so rare and exuding of an attitude that clearly speaks to you: "This is my gap. Name it, love it, deal with it. Because clearly, I don't give a fuck to fix it." How can you not talk to someone like this? Plus, the bitch looked like a tranny mix of Whitney Houston (the latter years), Clarice 'Precious' Jones, and the woman who played Peggy Bundy on "Married with Children". Clearly, she had me at "hey baby".
To be honest, at first I really thought that perhaps she was offering me a discounted coupon to the crepe's and custard place that sits right off I street. It wasn't until 7 minutes into my conversation that I realized this woman was a prostitute. Breakfast to her was codeword for "Pay me 15 bucks and I'll do whatever you want". I, of course, naively thought of the delicious Crepe place just a few doors down. Funny how two worlds can collide over one word.
My conversation went as follows:
Me: "I've been really meaning to try that crepe and custard place? I really hope you're giving out coupons because, you know, it's a recession"
Hooker: "You see Frankie over der? (Pointing at a less-than-well-dressed 5' 6'' black man sporting sweatpants and a periwinkle blazer) Well usually he a good customer but he be slappin me and pullin my hair during our transactions lately so I don fuck with him no more"
Me: "Why would Frankie slap you over a breakfast item?? Did you perhaps ring him up wrong?"
Hooker: "Baby he know what da price is, and he know if he wants extra it costs more so dat aint even no issue. I's a respectful woman, but he disrespectin me in ways I don fuck with no more and, I'ma tell you right now, he aint got nuthin to brag abouts to anybodys cuz he be packin a peanut"
Me: *Awkward laughter* "Well obviously if you want more you have to pay for it. For instance, when I go to Wendy's drive through and I want a side of cheese sauce for my chicken nuggets, I have to pay extra. That's fine with me, it's a part of life and I want my 50 cent cheese. Frankie's gotta check himself."
Hooker: "You a smart muthafucka ain't you? Now how bouts we go get take care of some business." *Blows smoke in my face and adjusts her weave*
It was at this point that I got a bit uncomfortable. Perhaps I had meddled to much in their business? I don't know what it was, and I'll try and blame it on the fact that it was still early and I was half asleep, but it was at this very second that I realized this crazy bitch was a prostitute. Not just a prostitute, but also a cheap imitation of someone I thought was giving away free samples of breakfast items.
Although, I had to give her credit. Most hookers work the streets in sketchy, poorly-lit sidewalks circa 2 am. Not her. This train wreck was getting an early start. But that gap she had in her teeth, it seemed like everytime she opened her mouth it got wider...to the point where I wanted to see how many life sized objects I could fit between it...a coin? a small dixie cup? a wedge of laughing cow cheese? a prematurely born baby? To me, the possibilites were endless, and I couldn't turn away. As she sucked on her cigarette, I couldn't help but wonder how, through one of those violent drags that she seemed to inhale, the cigarette didn't launch through that archway and right down the back of her throat. Sure, she could survive years of casual sex with strangers and a few muggings and beat downs from her pimp, and even the impending lung collapse as a result of smoking, but one bad drag from this cigarette and that bitch was a gonner. People at her funeral would ask her pimp, "How did she die?" and I can only imagine him saying "I told that bitch to fix the damn gap between them tooth. She ain't ever listen to nobody".
Meanwhile, I could picture poor Frankie, sittin in the darkest corner of the church, inconspicuously wiping tears from his periwinkle blazer. All the while, wondering if it was inappropriate to drink at a time like this.
~F.A.G.
Friday, March 19, 2010
From FAB to FAG....
Yeah, I was a cute baby but I was milk sucking machine.....no titty was safe from my vacuum powered lips. In fact, I still love titties to this day. Stay tuned to my adventures of eating, love making, and waddling my way through cities across America. Goodbye for now dumplings! Ruv you rong time!
~ FAG
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Here Comes the Bride...and the Shitshow
There's really nothing more invigorating than the hopes of an open bar, balls to the wall wedding. Last weekend, I attended the wedding of Andrea and Terrence Bayly, and the following is a recap of some of the night's events:
At the church, I was trusted to play the role of "Greeter", which for anyone who knows me, that's quite the risk considering how utterly and completely inappropriate I am 85% of the time. You really want me to greet your grandmother and 2nd cousins from the west coast while wearing a suit that may or may not hold a flask in the coat pocket? Superb.
Now, as a fat Asian girl, really the only thing I could think of through the entire Catholic ceremony was binge eating/drinking at the reception. Some may say that I have problems of over-consumption, but I just think I have lofty goals of being hefty and seducing a mate through my inability to carry myself with any dignity whatsoever. I'm also confident that the Jew sitting behind me at church shared the same sentiment, since he kept leaning forward in his pew and ever so gently asking me, "What quarter are we in? I think I'll be optimistic and say we're halfway through 3rd".
This, it turns out, was only the beginning of a series of entertaining questions that would get me through a 1-hour long Catholic mass. A few minutes later, I would hear the pew creaking and, ever so gently, the whisper of the Jew asking, "Is it me, or does Jesus look a lot like Osama Bin Laden?" Moments later, a short and stalky dark-haired man, clearly late for the ceremony, huffed and puffed his way into my row and this time, with a lot less tact, the Jew exclaimed, "Holy shit it's Danny De Vito!" That time, I just couldn't hold my laughter. After all, fat Asian girls are known for giggling. Of course, my Latina mom was there to scold me, even at the ripe age of 24, with "Andres! Shat Ap and poot jur Blackberry away, Jesu Christo is watching!"
To be honest, the ceremony was beautiful but church is church, and it's boring as all hell. Special thanks to the Jew for making my hour that day more pleasant.
The reception that followed could only be described as a classy debauchery, as everyone was wearing their "Sunday Best", but by the 2nd hour their behavior was more akin to "Thursdays in College Park". I, of course, was not wasting anytime and pre-gamed for the open bar reception in the limo ride from the church. Thankfully, Susan's alcohol induced brain plans ahead, much like mine, and we were able to sneak in a bottle of champagne to the limo, cleverly concealed by a transluscent plastic grocery bag which, if bought in DC, was worth every penny of those 5 cents.
Being a half Latin/half American wedding, one could be entertained solely by observing the dance floor. The gringos (Americans, for you non-native spaniards), would flood the dancefloor every time Journey or "Shout" would start blaring from the speakers. Ah, to be white and boring. Then, like a scene from a play, the crowd would quickly shift once Shakira would come on. The gringos would exit and on came the Latin crowd, whose hips were clearly not lying. It was magical, and I could only compare it to watching "A West Side Story" live and up close.
After a drink or ten, or perhaps even 20 at this point, one of the best parts of my night occured. I was in the "powder room", when I ran into my dad. He's somewhat of a quiet fellow, but has an inexplicable ability to drop one liners with impeccable timing. As we finished washing our hands and walked out the door, our conversation went as follows:
Me: "Are you having fun dad?"
Dad " Yes. Andrea looks beautiful. I like the open cigar bar"
Me: "I can't wait for Vanessa Keating's wedding"
Dad: "Yeah, and Andrea Keating and Susan Riley"
Me: "Oh, well ya that's random I only mentioned Vanessa bc she's engaged. But yes, hooray for Susan and Andrea."
Dad : "Damn straight"
Me: "Did you just say damn straight, in a Spanish accent?".....Long silence....
Me: "Aren't you excited to have to pay for Daniella's entire wedding when she gets married?"
...And here comes dad, with all his magic and wit and impeccable timing as we walk past the coat check girl:
Dad: "Are you kidding? Your sister is a god damn Lesbian"
And with that, as quickly as it came, he parted ways with me as I was left clutching a vodka soda and, from the corner of my eye, witnessing the coat-check girl giggling.....like a fat asian girl.
To be honest, I don't like to discuss my complete levels of intoxication in a public forum because it seems a bit tacky and de-classe, but let's just say that as the night went on, I somehow thought it would be funny to go around and invite all the Catholics to my same-sex wedding. I'm not even in a relationship, let alone engaged, but for the sake of entertainment I'll do and say just about anything. Some gave looks of disapproval (particularly the older crowd), some gave looks of encouragement, some gave looks of 'Why are you the only one with your shirt completely unbuttoned?', yet all were hilarious and equally fulfilling.
The night somehow ended with a limo ride to McFadden's in Georgetown and me slipping and falling on someone else's strategically placed pool of vomit somewhere on the top floor. It's ok, I'm not hurt.
Until next time....
- FAG (Fat Asian Girl)
At the church, I was trusted to play the role of "Greeter", which for anyone who knows me, that's quite the risk considering how utterly and completely inappropriate I am 85% of the time. You really want me to greet your grandmother and 2nd cousins from the west coast while wearing a suit that may or may not hold a flask in the coat pocket? Superb.
Now, as a fat Asian girl, really the only thing I could think of through the entire Catholic ceremony was binge eating/drinking at the reception. Some may say that I have problems of over-consumption, but I just think I have lofty goals of being hefty and seducing a mate through my inability to carry myself with any dignity whatsoever. I'm also confident that the Jew sitting behind me at church shared the same sentiment, since he kept leaning forward in his pew and ever so gently asking me, "What quarter are we in? I think I'll be optimistic and say we're halfway through 3rd".
This, it turns out, was only the beginning of a series of entertaining questions that would get me through a 1-hour long Catholic mass. A few minutes later, I would hear the pew creaking and, ever so gently, the whisper of the Jew asking, "Is it me, or does Jesus look a lot like Osama Bin Laden?" Moments later, a short and stalky dark-haired man, clearly late for the ceremony, huffed and puffed his way into my row and this time, with a lot less tact, the Jew exclaimed, "Holy shit it's Danny De Vito!" That time, I just couldn't hold my laughter. After all, fat Asian girls are known for giggling. Of course, my Latina mom was there to scold me, even at the ripe age of 24, with "Andres! Shat Ap and poot jur Blackberry away, Jesu Christo is watching!"
To be honest, the ceremony was beautiful but church is church, and it's boring as all hell. Special thanks to the Jew for making my hour that day more pleasant.
The reception that followed could only be described as a classy debauchery, as everyone was wearing their "Sunday Best", but by the 2nd hour their behavior was more akin to "Thursdays in College Park". I, of course, was not wasting anytime and pre-gamed for the open bar reception in the limo ride from the church. Thankfully, Susan's alcohol induced brain plans ahead, much like mine, and we were able to sneak in a bottle of champagne to the limo, cleverly concealed by a transluscent plastic grocery bag which, if bought in DC, was worth every penny of those 5 cents.
Being a half Latin/half American wedding, one could be entertained solely by observing the dance floor. The gringos (Americans, for you non-native spaniards), would flood the dancefloor every time Journey or "Shout" would start blaring from the speakers. Ah, to be white and boring. Then, like a scene from a play, the crowd would quickly shift once Shakira would come on. The gringos would exit and on came the Latin crowd, whose hips were clearly not lying. It was magical, and I could only compare it to watching "A West Side Story" live and up close.
After a drink or ten, or perhaps even 20 at this point, one of the best parts of my night occured. I was in the "powder room", when I ran into my dad. He's somewhat of a quiet fellow, but has an inexplicable ability to drop one liners with impeccable timing. As we finished washing our hands and walked out the door, our conversation went as follows:
Me: "Are you having fun dad?"
Dad " Yes. Andrea looks beautiful. I like the open cigar bar"
Me: "I can't wait for Vanessa Keating's wedding"
Dad: "Yeah, and Andrea Keating and Susan Riley"
Me: "Oh, well ya that's random I only mentioned Vanessa bc she's engaged. But yes, hooray for Susan and Andrea."
Dad : "Damn straight"
Me: "Did you just say damn straight, in a Spanish accent?".....Long silence....
Me: "Aren't you excited to have to pay for Daniella's entire wedding when she gets married?"
...And here comes dad, with all his magic and wit and impeccable timing as we walk past the coat check girl:
Dad: "Are you kidding? Your sister is a god damn Lesbian"
And with that, as quickly as it came, he parted ways with me as I was left clutching a vodka soda and, from the corner of my eye, witnessing the coat-check girl giggling.....like a fat asian girl.
To be honest, I don't like to discuss my complete levels of intoxication in a public forum because it seems a bit tacky and de-classe, but let's just say that as the night went on, I somehow thought it would be funny to go around and invite all the Catholics to my same-sex wedding. I'm not even in a relationship, let alone engaged, but for the sake of entertainment I'll do and say just about anything. Some gave looks of disapproval (particularly the older crowd), some gave looks of encouragement, some gave looks of 'Why are you the only one with your shirt completely unbuttoned?', yet all were hilarious and equally fulfilling.
The night somehow ended with a limo ride to McFadden's in Georgetown and me slipping and falling on someone else's strategically placed pool of vomit somewhere on the top floor. It's ok, I'm not hurt.
Until next time....
- FAG (Fat Asian Girl)
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
The Lost Shoe
Just so you know, like most of my stories this one doesn't really go anywhere or even teach a valuable life lesson. I just felt like I owed it to Chelsea.
Last week, I had just stepped off the metro at Farragut North when a girl, lets say in her mid 20's, shoved past me and cut me off at the escalator. At first I thought "whoa, bitch", but then I reminded myself that for lent I gave up two things: 1. biting my nails 2. cussing out busted chunky white girls. I'm not religious, but I figure I should jump on the sacrificial bandwagon all the religious people and Ghandi seem to rave about.
If you've never been to Farragut North station, then you wouldn't know that the escalators leading to the outside world are long and resemble a stairway to heaven, only filled mostly with angry people who are late to work and will probably end up going to hell or, at best, purgatory. Myself included.
So this girl, we'll call her Chelsea. Generic chunky white girl name, no? Well as soon as chelsea set foot on the escalator, her right heel fell off while the left one hung loosely from her left mammoth-sized foot. I was perplexed because she stood there, barefoot, on the escalator as her shoe lay next to my feet a few steps down. Naturally, I assumed she would switfly look back and reach for her shoe. I guess Chelsea had other plans. She rode that entire 45 seconds with only one shoe on, looking around as if her fat stocking-lined feet were not resting bare against the metal teeth of some grimey ass escalator. It was like witnessing someone doing the "I was walking at normal pace but then I tripped and almost fell so began lightly jogging so hopefully people won't notice" move, only dumber. She even took her phone out and pretended to start texting someone, and I know what pretending to text looks like because I do it all the time when I'm in awkward situations/see someone ugly staring at me. So I decided since she so gracefully cut me off earlier, that I would hold on to her shoe until we reached the top. As we ascended, I caught her taking a quick glance backward in hopes of spotting her shoe. The milli-second look of panic that took over her face when she couldn't find it automatically made me realize that taking her shoe was quite possibly the best decision I would be making all day.
As the escalator reached its ending point, Chelsea took on a whole new persona. Earlier, she was just another moody girl willing to be rude to strangers for the sake of getting to work 30, maybe 40 seconds earlier. Now, she turned into frantic/nervous Chelsea and, I have to admit, I liked her better this way. As I held her shoe, she twisted her body and head so violently in search of her shoe that her pony tail was practically whipping the asian lady standing behind her in the face. Poor Chelsea had tried so hard not to call attention to herself earlier, that in a matter of seconds the Asian lady and 3 sourrounding businessman began to wonder what could she possibly be so frantically searching for. At the end of the escalator, Chelsea stood on the metal grate as a rush hour of hurried bodies shoved past her. I could see her mouthing to people "my shoe, my shoe! I think it fell!". The site of chelsea standing on one 4 inch heel as people rushed past her carelessly was utterly fantastic. As I reached the top of the stair, I found her delightfully frazzled, holding an expression that could only be interpreted to mean "what the fuck am I going to do with only one heel for the rest of the day?" As I walked past her, I stood next to a concrete pillar to continue watching her.
Things took a turn for the worse when, in a dumbfounded panic, Chelsea started tromping down the crowded escalator head-on into the morning crowd. I began to wonder, "Why didn't she just get on the descending escalator to the right?" and laughed. No, more like cackled evily at this point. Was I taking this too far? Maybe, but this shit was so good it had to be fattening. As she came back up the stairs, I held up her shoe and said "I'm sorry, did you lose this?". She responded with, "My shoe! Awesome!" proceeded to put it on, and quickly waddled away. No need to thank me or anything, Chelsea. If anything I should thank you for giving me something to write aimlessly about.
Last week, I had just stepped off the metro at Farragut North when a girl, lets say in her mid 20's, shoved past me and cut me off at the escalator. At first I thought "whoa, bitch", but then I reminded myself that for lent I gave up two things: 1. biting my nails 2. cussing out busted chunky white girls. I'm not religious, but I figure I should jump on the sacrificial bandwagon all the religious people and Ghandi seem to rave about.
If you've never been to Farragut North station, then you wouldn't know that the escalators leading to the outside world are long and resemble a stairway to heaven, only filled mostly with angry people who are late to work and will probably end up going to hell or, at best, purgatory. Myself included.
So this girl, we'll call her Chelsea. Generic chunky white girl name, no? Well as soon as chelsea set foot on the escalator, her right heel fell off while the left one hung loosely from her left mammoth-sized foot. I was perplexed because she stood there, barefoot, on the escalator as her shoe lay next to my feet a few steps down. Naturally, I assumed she would switfly look back and reach for her shoe. I guess Chelsea had other plans. She rode that entire 45 seconds with only one shoe on, looking around as if her fat stocking-lined feet were not resting bare against the metal teeth of some grimey ass escalator. It was like witnessing someone doing the "I was walking at normal pace but then I tripped and almost fell so began lightly jogging so hopefully people won't notice" move, only dumber. She even took her phone out and pretended to start texting someone, and I know what pretending to text looks like because I do it all the time when I'm in awkward situations/see someone ugly staring at me. So I decided since she so gracefully cut me off earlier, that I would hold on to her shoe until we reached the top. As we ascended, I caught her taking a quick glance backward in hopes of spotting her shoe. The milli-second look of panic that took over her face when she couldn't find it automatically made me realize that taking her shoe was quite possibly the best decision I would be making all day.
As the escalator reached its ending point, Chelsea took on a whole new persona. Earlier, she was just another moody girl willing to be rude to strangers for the sake of getting to work 30, maybe 40 seconds earlier. Now, she turned into frantic/nervous Chelsea and, I have to admit, I liked her better this way. As I held her shoe, she twisted her body and head so violently in search of her shoe that her pony tail was practically whipping the asian lady standing behind her in the face. Poor Chelsea had tried so hard not to call attention to herself earlier, that in a matter of seconds the Asian lady and 3 sourrounding businessman began to wonder what could she possibly be so frantically searching for. At the end of the escalator, Chelsea stood on the metal grate as a rush hour of hurried bodies shoved past her. I could see her mouthing to people "my shoe, my shoe! I think it fell!". The site of chelsea standing on one 4 inch heel as people rushed past her carelessly was utterly fantastic. As I reached the top of the stair, I found her delightfully frazzled, holding an expression that could only be interpreted to mean "what the fuck am I going to do with only one heel for the rest of the day?" As I walked past her, I stood next to a concrete pillar to continue watching her.
Things took a turn for the worse when, in a dumbfounded panic, Chelsea started tromping down the crowded escalator head-on into the morning crowd. I began to wonder, "Why didn't she just get on the descending escalator to the right?" and laughed. No, more like cackled evily at this point. Was I taking this too far? Maybe, but this shit was so good it had to be fattening. As she came back up the stairs, I held up her shoe and said "I'm sorry, did you lose this?". She responded with, "My shoe! Awesome!" proceeded to put it on, and quickly waddled away. No need to thank me or anything, Chelsea. If anything I should thank you for giving me something to write aimlessly about.
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