Come Sail Away

As mentioned in a previous entry, my drink of choice when it comes to alcohol is not just rum and diet with a lime, but Sailor Jerry’s rum and diet with a lime.  Sailor Jerry’s spiced navy rum is essentially Captain Morgan on steroids (92 proof as opposed to Captain’s feeble 70), except cheaper, and better tasting.  Some of my closer friends can attest to many a night enhanced and/or obliterated by the Sailor.  Given its delicious nature, this gem of the drinking world has a tendency to sneak up on its consumers and provide for some very entertaining evenings.  Lest you think I am merely a lightweight, a friend of mine Justin, who used to be the president of his fraternity at the University of Florida and used to jumpstart his night by splitting a fifth of Jim Beam with his brother described a recent night with the Sailor as one of the top ten drunkest nights of his life.

Last night, on my way home I called up my buddy Colm (pronounced like a column – the Irish feel little need to waste letters) and asked him what he was up to.  ”Nothing,” he replied.  Knowing full well that Colm is always up for a little drinking, I asked him the all important question, “have you ever had Sailor Jerry’s?”  He said that he hadn’t yet had the pleasure.  ”Come over,” I said, “bring your drinking pants and be prepared to make some bad decisions.”

8:45 – My roommate Jon, his girlfriend Jess and two of their friends arrive having already spent the better part of their evening at a bar drinking.  Apparently the effects on Jon and the boys are fairly minimal but Jess, either due to her smaller nature or because she was slamming drinks for 3 hours was considerably more intoxicated than everyone else in the house combined.

8:50 – Colm arrives.  Apparently he is taking this night of drinking seriously as he has arrived donning the classiest of attire.  As opposed to the standard white t-shirt, light jeans and white sneakers uniform that typically drapes his 130 pound frame (yes, I am literally twice his size), he has on a blue button up shirt and some black shoes to go with his jeans.  I ask him if he is coming directly from an interview and he replies with a cordial “fuck you.”

8:55 – After exchanging pleasantries we head into the kitchen to make our drinks where we find Jess (the boys went out back to “partake in the doujjjjjj” as she put it) who appears to be concentrating very hard on continuing to remain standing.  I grab the cups and ice and pour a good amount of the Sailor into each cup at which point Jess snags the Coke Zero and decides that she is the most fit to handle the rest of the drink-making.  I hold the first cup steady and Jess focuses, takes a deep breath and promptly pours Coke Zero on my hand that is holding the glass she was aiming for.  ”Sorrysorrysorrysorrysorry” as she cleans it up, “hey….HEY!….hey…lemme….hey….lemme try again.”  The second time around was much better and she managed to get it mostly in the glasses.

9:07 – Jon, Jess and their friends head out again and Colm and I move into the living room to drink and catch up as I haven’t seen him in a while.  Most of our conversation revolves around 1. the trials and tribulations of him working with a girl a couple nights a week when he delivers food who has a crush on him but that he recently found out is still 17 - It is decided that he can no longer work at the restaurant - and 2. the handful of people that are more beautiful than us.  The second issue comes up because of the fact that I was telling him about a friend of mine that I recently hung out with.  This guy is an actor, is just starting to have some real success with TV and movies and is considerably better looking than I am.  This is not to say that I am not a self-confident guy, but as Colm put it – “Look, I’m not gay, nor am I modest, but some guys are just prettier than me.”  It really is a complete mindfuck to hang out with this guy as BEAUTIFUL women will circle around him trying to catch his eye like vultures on a carcass.  He completely reverses the traditional role of guys chasing women.  Granted he is a flirt and loves the attention but it is a crazy thing to behold.

9:32 – Colm and I are both feeling the effects of the Sailor.

9:45 – The second large Sailor drink is made.

9:52 – I drop anchor in the bathroom as Colm calls us a cab.  Apparently we were supposed to meet up with his buddy Pine and some of his friends at a bar but they decided it best to meet at his friend Phil’s house to drink more before we go to a bar.  I remind Colm that we will not need any help with the intoxication process after this drink.  He makes a noise that sounds like agreement.

10:15 – We arrive at Phil’s place.  Phil is not there.  Pine is not there.  No one is there but us.  Awesome.

10:20 – The boys arrive and they crack open some beers right as I get a call from a girl that I work with and her friend.  They want to know where we are going, I decide Busby’s since I used to work there and it’s one of the few places I know that we actually might want to go that will let us in with 5 guys and 2 girls at 11:00 PM.

10:40 – We all pile into Phil’s car.  Phil, who had only had that one beer, drove, I sat shotgun since I was the size of the remaining passengers combined, and the 4 other guys sat in the backseat, the three of them essentially using Colm as one big seatbelt.

10:50 – We walk up to Busby’s right as the girls are arriving and I see that there’s a short line but one of the managers I used to work with is out front.  I say hi, he tells us to hang out on the side opposite the main line and he’ll get us right in.

Me: Don’t worry guys, I used to work here, we’ll get right in.

Phil: Um, why don’t we get in that line?  There’s no cover and it appears to be moving fast.

Me: Ha, sure you’re welcome to if you’d like but they know me here, it’s not an issue.

Phil: Ok, well me and Mark are gonna get in that line, see you inside.

10:55 – Phil and Mark enter Busby’s.

11:02 – The rest of us get in.  My pull is less than impressive.  I asked the manager later what happened and he explained to me that I was supposed to follow him in 2 minutes after I said hi to him but was apparently too drunk to take the hint.  Well played Sailor, well played.

11:11 – I make the rounds, saying hi to everyone I know that still works there, get everyone drinks and settle next to a booth adjacent to the dance floor.  The two girls occupying the booth make friends with the two girls in our party and so we all sit down.  These booth girls are fully aware of the impressive nature of their chesticulars and feel the need to share them with everyone else in attendance that night by wearing low-cut shirts.  This also helps to distract drunken men from the less than impressive rest of them.  Kudos young ladies, way to work the system.

11:25 – The music is good here for a change so the girls and I get up to dance while Colm resorts to something resembling a cross between a dog peeing on a tree and some copious dry humping, all while standing up.  I suppose music inspires different people in different ways.

11:47 – Drinks round two.  More dancing.  Asses are grabbed.  Flirtatious looks are exchanged.  Shots are contemplated but decided against and several minutes later I find myself in the booth again with my two girl friends and the Boob Patrol.

12:15 – The West LA Bar Industry Standard White People’s Rock Anthems set begins.  This seriously boggles me.  Every Thursday-Saturday these same bars (Q’s, Parlor, South, Busby’s, Circle Bar) play the same 80’s rock songs and every time the same people lose their fucking minds like they’ve never heard this song before, or like Van Halen was performing 17 feet away.  Staples of the WLABISWPRA setlist include: Pour Some Sugar On Me, Livin’ On A Prayer, Sweet Child of Mine, Shot Through the Heart and many more.  It is literally taken directly from the Time Life “Monster Rock Ballads” collection and these people flip the fuck out every time they hear it, which is at least 3-4 times a week.  I get excited about songs that are either 1. brand new and I really like at the time or 2. old favorites that I haven’t heard in a while.  Someone explain this phenomenon to me please.

12:38 – The music returns to normal and I dance with Agent Mammary of the Boob Patrol, the one out of the two that I would remotely consider hooking up with.  However, she promptly disses me to get another drink and then doesn’t even get a drink and instead dances with other girls.  There went her shot.

12:49 – My girl informs me that Agent Mammary likes me.  I let her know that she dissed me and therefore sucks.  She reminds me that girls like the chase.  I kindly point out that, given her size, a two-toed sloth could catch Agent Mammary in a short period of time and that chasing is clearly not her strong suit.  The Sailor has a tendency to bring out the best in me.

12:55 – I witness both the girls from the Boob Patrol kiss each other and then look flirtatiously in my direction.

12:57 – I decide that I have been entirely too hard on Agent Mammary and conclude that she probably has an excellent personality worth getting to know.  Mine is a kind and gentle soul.

1:05 – I engage in a series of dance routines with one of the girls we came with and she is repeatedly impressed at my ability to move in line with the rhythm of the song without every resorting to the goofy white guy overbite or the staple jerky motion/flailing of the arms move.

1:15 – Last call.  All of Colm’s friends have disappeared, the girls we came with leave and I am left to find the members of the Boob Patrol to see if they would like to all get together and hold hands at a later date.  I go to say goodbye to them and Agent Mammary’s friend tells me, with Agent Mammary literally leaning over her shoulder,

“My friend likes you, do you like her?”

Me: “Um…can she not hear us?

Friend: “No, she can, but she’s shy…so what do you say?”

Me: “Um, sure….she’s got great….personalities”

Friend: “Cool, so what do you want to do about it?”

Me: “Well the night is young, let’s all go hang out somewhere.”

Friend: “Haha, no I’m not coming.”

Me: “Oh, ok….” *turning to Agent Mammary* “well why don’t you give me your number and I’ll call you later and we can meet up?”

Agent Mammary: “I have ‘friends’ here so I can’t exactly be seen giving my number out…”

Me: “Wow, ok how bout you write it down, give to her and I’ll go stand 7 feet away and she can give it to me and I’ll put it in my phone.”

AM: “Perfect!”

Me: “Wooooow.”

1:22 – The phone number is delivered to me and I go to say goodbye to both of them and ask if I can give her a call later and see her that night.  She makes it clear that her interest in me is wanting me to take her out on dates next weekend.

1:25 – I am less than impressed with Agent Mammary’s personality and am now over her.

1:30 – I find Colm drunk as all to be good and goddamned in the booth talking to some girl he apparently has known since they went to Jesus Camp in 6th grade.  They are in no rush to go anywhere and I am annoyed by this until I discover that his friend (Brenda) has a very attractive and seemingly very cool friend.  I am now in no rush.

1:38 – We empty out of the bar and 17 guys are lined up to try to get Brenda’s friend to come to their after party or go home with them.  Every time we dispatch with one of these hooligans another one appears and then the first one comes back for more.

1:50 – We finally pile in a cab and head to my house and the whole ride Colm keeps repeating “Bren……Bren….I love you…..I’ve known you since the 6th grade….since Jesus Camp!…..Bren…..Bren…..I love you….” all the while nuzzling up to this woman twice his size.

2:02 – We get to my place and the girls decide we need to play a drinking game with the remaining Sailor Jerry’s.

2:10 – We start a game of Pyramid of Death (sounds much more ominous than it actually is but it involves a pyramid of cards and I couldn’t think of what else to name it).

2:12 – Colm passes out on the floor to my immediate left.

2:14 – Brenda’s friend curls up in a ball on the couch, decides she can’t drink any more and accidentally releases the first cute fart in the history of gastrointestinal discomfort.

2:20 – I become committed to the idea of getting food and starting pounding water so that I will be able to drive us to Taco Bell.

2:30 – The girls call a cab and head home.  Brenda’s friend gives me a hug, tells me I’m funny and she likes my smell.  I like her everything.

2:35 – Colm pukes in my front yard

2:40 – Half a gallon of water and a cold breeze later and Colm and I are off to Taco Bell where we order half the menu.  On the way back Colm sticks his entire upper body out the window and starts yelling, prompting all the dogs in earshot to start barking.

2:45 – Colm pukes in my front yard some more.

3:00 – Well fed and tired, I head to bed.  Colm doesn’t touch any of the food he ordered.

8:00 – Taco Bell begins its assault on my internal organs.  I awake to the sound of my ass trumpeting and my chest hurting.  To call it heartburn would be a severe understatement, this was more like heart inferno – my chest was ablaze with pain.  Colm is gone and I am exhausted so I head back to bed until the early afternoon.  Until next time Jerry….until next time.

My Halloween Costume for the next 10 years

Someone, and by that I mean one of the girls in the picture, sent me a pic today from Halloween 2007.  I couldn’t love my costume any more or be more proud of it, so I thought I’d share.

Oh, and just so you get the full picture, here’s the back of the costume:

I couldn’t figure out how to rotate the picture but hopefully those of you with a functioning frontal lobe and a sense of humor can figure out that I was indeed breast cancer awareness for Halloween, and will continue to be for the next 10 years.  On a scale of zero to awesome I give myself a 12.

Racism is Alive and Well in the South Bay

Though my actual birthday was Tuesday the 8th, and though I did do a bit of celebrating that night as well (I do not want to smell tequila until at least late August) the real night of partying was last night.  In an effort to go some place other than the regular bars I frequent in West LA, I considered going out in the South Bay (Manhattan/Hermosa Beach).  I hadn’t come up with a solid plan until Thursday when a friend of mine from college informed me that it was her birthday on Friday and that she was planning on going out in Manhattan Beach.  ”Hurrah, let’s party together” I said, and that was indeed the plan.  She told me she had already made plans for her and her friends to go to this place called 12th and Highland which, creatively enough, rests on the corner of 12th and Highland in Manhattan.  So I sent out a mass text to inform my friends where we would be and that they should come and if they did not I would throw things in their general direction.

Yesterday, I slept in, lounged around for a bit, made my traditional trip to Fatburger before a big night of drinking and picked up some Sailor Jerry’s – the most delicious and strong alcohol I drink with any regularity.  I told the boys to meet at my place around 6:30 to play some dominoes, drink and hang out before we headed down to Manhattan.  I spoke to Larry and Kieran at 6:15 and Larry refused to communicate in any way other than to sing “we on our way, we on our way, we on our way” over and over.  7:00 rolled around and still no signs of anyone.  7:10 I texted Larry to ask if he was making his trek from Tibet or some other Southeast Asian country, as opposed to his house down the street.  7:15 I got in the shower to get ready.  7:16 Larry and Kieran arrived.

We drank half the handle of Sailor, all felt comfortably numb (with the exception of Kieran, who drove) and piled into the car to head to the bar around 9:00.  We managed to find parking all of 100 feet from the bar (an anomaly in any part of LA if you don’t count valet – even the fucking FedEx Kinko’s in West LA has valet parking) and walked up to the bar feeling good.  We were buzzed, we were in good spirits, we had friends on the way, the other half of our joint birthday extravaganza was supposed to bring several women as well, the evening looked prosperous.  However, we overlooked the fact that 1. we were in Manhattan Beach, CA, Population: Whitey McWhite and 2. our party of 5 was 80% black.

I walked up to the doorman first as I was a good 20 feet ahead of my friends who were busy checking out some new Aston Martin parked nearby.  I was met with a brief glance, a smile, a “come right in, sir” and I moved past the ropes and waited on the other side, informing PerfectlyNiceDoorGuy that my friends were walking up right now.  As soon as they turned the corner, the rope that he was holding open for me to walk through was re-latched to its post, closing off the entrance to new customers.  He froze.  My friends – 4 well dressed black gentlemen in their mid-20s – approached the rope and waited to be let in.  It was at this juncture that PerfectlyNiceDoorGuy turned into RagingAssholeRacistDoucheBag and spent 2-3 minutes stammering over his words and searching my friends over for a valid reason to deny them entry.  We allowed him this fun exercise in racism before I interrupted with:

Me: “What’s the problem?  This place is still empty, we have a joint birthday party here tonight and these are my friends.  What’s the holdup?”  He started to try to come up with some way that we weren’t supposed to be there.

RARDB: “Well do you have bottle service?  Do you have a table reserved?”  At this point he clicked the screen on his iPhone back and forth without opening any applications or looking at anything and then said, “Nope, you guys definitely don’t have a reservation here.”

Me: “Does that mean we can’t come in and party here?  Does everyone that comes in need to have a reservation?”

RARDB: “Well no, but…but…we he clearly doesn’t meet dress code, he needs to pull up his pants and tuck his shirt in.”  He was gesturing towards my friend Yohance, who was dressed in a neatly ironed blue button up shirt and slacks, that hung a little low.  ”We don’t allow baggy clothing in here.”

Me: “Woooow”

Yohance obliged and pulled his pants up, tucked his shirt in and RARDB realized he had no more non-blatantly racist objections to make, so he said, “ok, let me see your IDs.”  Though he did not check mine, he scoured over every detail of my four friends’.  I was extremely tempted to walk off and had we not planned a joint birthday party here and had I not told all my friends to meet us here, we would have.  We walked in to find the place damn near empty, save for 5-6 couples finishing up dinner.  We wandered towards the back and took a seat in the booth that was not near anyone except two 50+ lovebirds who barely took notice to our presence.

Larry decided to order a round of shots and drinks to take the edge off.  As soon as the Patron was coursing through our veins and we were back to laughing and having a good time, RARDB pulled me aside again.

RARDB: “You can’t stand up over here, all of you need to sit down in the booth.”  It appeared that the fact that Kieran and I were standing while Clarence, Larry and Yohance crowded in the booth was unacceptable because it would disrupt the other customers finishing up dinner.

Me: “What are you talking about?  We can’t all fit in there.”

RARDB: “And tell your friend to sit up and take his feet off the furniture…”  This time he was gesturing toward Larry who was slumped a little in his seat, with his leg lying on the booth, though his feet were not touching anything other than air or the floor.

I went back over and told Kieran to pull up a chair and sit down so we didn’t make the white folk nervous, set my drink down and went in search of the manager.  I found a waiter and asked him where I could find someone in charge, explaining that the doorman had been nothing but a racist dick to me and my friends since the moment we walked up.  He apologized profusely and told me he would try to locate the manager for me.  Several minutes later the manager came up to me, and I pulled him to the side and basically told him what I had told the waiter – that the doorman had been an insufferable ass from the moment of our arrival and that he had treated my friends differently than me and everyone else in the establishment because they were black.  Instead of taking the “the customer is always right, let me make this better for you approach” that the waiter employed, he defended his doorman’s actions.

Manager: “It’s our policy to hold the door any time a large group of guys comes up at any point of the evening, I can assure you race and ethnicity had nothing to do with it.  And he was right to inform you that you couldn’t be loud and disruptive to our dinner guests…later on you can do whatever you want, stand on the booths for all I care, but it’s tough to make the transition from a dining establishment to a club and we have to handle it very delicately.  And the doorman you referred to is the owner.”

Just.  Fucking.  Awesome.

A couple friends showed up and had a drink with us, which we weren’t even able to finish before we were hurried off our table because someone had reserved that table for bottle service – even though the dinner couple (who was about to leave) was not asked to give up their table and there were two other unoccupied booths right next to us.  At this point I really wanted to leave because I knew we were not going to be able to enjoy ourselves in a place that has fond memories of Jim Crow.  As we got up, Yohance went in search of the Coloreds Only restroom.

It was at this point that I got the first in a string of highly upsetting text messages, especially given what we’d had to deal with up to that point, from the joint-birthday haver/party organizer.  ”Hey, are you guys there yet?…We’re still at my house doing karoake”  Lovely.  I informed her that she should head over now as it was 10:15 and a line was starting to form.  10:45 rolled around and I got the next winner.  ”What are you guys doing?  You should come do karoake….I want to come there but I don’t know if I can motivate everyone.”  Awesome.  11:30 – “Yeah we’re not coming but you guys should definitely come here.”  I hate everyone.

At this point another friend of mine showed up and asked if I could get her and her friends in (2 guys, 2 girls) so I tried to see if a friend of mine who lives in the South Bay could help them out.  I thought she did, but as soon as my friend got in she said “Well, that cost me $80, hope it was worth it, happy birthday.”  I saw her one other time that night for all of 7 seconds and then she disappeared without saying goodbye and simply texted me later saying she would have rather given me the $80.  The two girls who showed up initially to have a drink with us disappeared without saying goodbye and texted me this morning to say that one of them had mixed Benadryl and alcohol and her stomach was unhappy with her and her friend had to go with her.  Larry and Yohance disappeared without saying goodbye and walked to the birthday girl’s house that was about a mile away.  Around 12:30 I was completely over the night and ready to go home so I gathered Kieran and Clarence up and we headed out to pick up Yohance and Larry.

We arrived at the birthday girl’s place in time to hear a horrific rendition of Whip It and Yohance and Larry felt compelled to perform Jump by Kriss Kross before we left.  We ended the evening by devouring some delicious Johnnie’s Pastrami and debating if accepting gifts from someone you’re dating makes you a prostitute – a conversation that lasted about 45 minutes, which was roughly 43 minutes too long.  According to Clarence and Larry, I am a prostitute, while Kieran and Yohance ardently defended my whore-ish honor.  Well, prostitute or no, at least I’m not a bigoted club owner praying for the return of Plessy v. Ferguson….what an asshole.

Birthdays

Happy birthday America.  As tempting as it was to go out and celebrate your birth by blowing shit up or handing out smallpox-infested blankets to Native Americans, I decided to stay in and rest up for the celebration of my own birth.  However, it wasn’t until now that I realized that America was a Cancer (and no, not in the spread out and destroy everything cancerous way, though there could be an argument for that and it would probably be written in Arabic) and truthfully, it makes a lot of sense.

Cancers are traditionally very guarded, they put up walls to protect themselves and project this hard exterior in order to protect the soft underbelly.  If that’s not America I don’t know what is.  We are the world’s bully, calling out terrorist organizations, not backing down from threats of nuclear war, we are very much the tough guy on the outside.  Hell, we even have right-wing lunatics like Lou Dobbs lobbying for actual walls to be built on the Mexican border.  However, though we put up this tough exterior, we do have a lot of social programs to help those that can’t help themselves.  Granted they could be a lot better, but America is a young nation that is still marginally retarded and is still learning.

Cancers are also very sensitive.  To me, this trait begins and ends with our political process in America and is exacerbated by the intensity of the 24 hour media coverage of everything.  For example, when Michelle Obama (SOUUUUUUUUUTHSIDE!) said that for the first time in her adult life she was proud of her country, how did a good portion of America respond?  ”Oh my god, does this mean you didn’t like us before?  What’s wrong with us?  Why only now?  What an awful thing to say!  Well fuck you then, you hater.”  Aaaand the walls go right back up.  Sometimes Cancers’ emotions can cloud the truth and detract from what is actually a complimentary comment.

Cancers are nurturing.  Give us your poor, your weak, your hungry.  Though America’s take on this is notably less open-arms, we are the world-ish than it has been in the past, we Cancers have a tendency to take on others problems.  So not only are we willing to listen and help out those that seek us out, we are also prone to go and defend people we see as helpless, even if we may have ulterior motives as well (like looking like the hero to impress girls, or making sure we can still make tons of money on oil).

That’s pretty much all I know about Cancer traits, and though I could go look it up, I am too lazy to do so and come up with a definitive list of traits.  Although I suppose we could throw in the laziness I just displayed as a trait since it certainly fits the bill – Americans are the fattest, laziest people on the planet.  There, now we have 4 traits.  Awesome.

As I insinuated earlier, my birthday is fast approaching as well and it always brings up a variety of thoughts and emotions for me.  Every year I always want my bday to be a big event where everyone shows up and displays their undying love and affection for me and I bask in their adoration and love them all back.  Needless to say, I am often let down (for example, the year when my parents forgot my birthday).  I was thinking the other day and trying to figure out why my bday always meant so much to me – I’ve always maintained that the two times people have to pay attention to me (though I appreciate attention most of the time) is when I’m sick or when it’s my birthday – and realized that a lot of it ties back into my childhood shyness.

I was never the outspoken, outgoing kid who got the center of attention merely by walking into a room.  I had to earn it with sarcastic comments here and there that most people wouldn’t get anyway.  As a result I always looked forward to my birthday because it was the one day where no matter what I was the center of attention.  People noticed me, everyone was nice to me and did things on my behalf.  I was less concerned with the fact that most of them did so out of a sense of obligation, it just felt good to be loved and admired without having to act out.

As I’ve gotten older, I’ve had to take over planning duties for my birthday, which leads to even more anticipation and excitement being built around the day.  And then of course if things don’t go according to plan I’m at least somewhat disappointed (mostly in myself for not coming up with a more awesome and bulletproof strategy).  This year, though I could certainly use the pick me up given the last 3-4 months, I’ve decided to be more low key about it.  Lower expectations means I have less to worry about and hopefully I’ll do something fun.  If nothing else, it will be a present to myself and a sign of maturity as I enter my late-20’s that I don’t need all the pomp and circumstance of a birthday blowout to feel appreciated.  UNLIKE that insecure fucker America…grow up.