I like to think that over the last six years of living here in Seattle, I've developed some sense of personal style. I wear clothes that fit my skinny frame (e.g. "men's small") not to look trendy but to look good. Let's face it, people judge you first by your looks and then if those can keep their attention long enough, by your personality. Sad but true, we are visceral beings by nature, and the first train out of the 'sense station' is the ocular one. We make snap judgments of people based on their appearance and then extrapolate from there on what that person must be about without ever talking to them. I'm told we do this with everyone we see and meet in less than 7 seconds, which a long time ago seemed impossible to me, until I started doing it consciously. In other words; recognizing the fact that I was sizing someone up by what they look like. Which brings me to my pink shirt.
OK, so it's not really pink, but many would categorize it as 'pink'. I like to think of it more as a reddish-white. American Apparel describes the color as "coral", which I think is close but unfortunately I did not get the shirt at American Apparel, I got it at Urban Outfitters. That's right I shop there, I have a dick and you can eat it. They sell some of the best cotton tee's I have ever worn, in a variety of semi-unusual colors, I like to pick up a couple whenever I am in the store. Defensive maneuvering aside, I decided to get the t-shirt in question. When I grabbed it I didn't twice, it was a color that was appealing to my eye, but I should have noticed the first red flag. My Mom, who graciously bought me the shirt along with what I am sure my friends will eventually deem as a "hipster hat", said "So, I'm buying you this hat, and this pink t-shirt?" To which I replied "Actually, you are buying me this cool hat, and also this these t-shirts. Oh, I guess this one is kinda pink, huh? I didn't notice." Seriously, I said that, and I let my Mom buy clothes for me, please see previous line about said dick.
It is not weird to see some heterosexual male strolling down a public street here in Sea-teezy (that's how us Seattlite's refer to Seattle) wearing a pink t-shirt, which may or may not have a screen print of a giant cock on it in purple. Why? Maybe because it's ironic (the penis part, not the pink part, or maybe the pink part too) or perhaps it's because pink is just a fucking color. Yet, the minute you leave the city for somewhere like, I don't know, Renton, you are instantly berated by bucktoothed teenagers, who think that Panic! At the Disco kept them from committing suicide. Well I have news for you teenagers: The color pink is cool, P!ATD is not, and soon your going to realize this and you will probably find yourselves (again!) with one of your dad's ties around your neck attached to the door knob of your bedroom very soon, maybe even after you read this post.
RANTY!
That last part was in reference to what happened tonight while filming a Sounders game. There I was, running some cable before the game kicked off, when I hear from the stands "Only real men wear pink!" Classic. I ignored the comment like a cool dude would, but about an hour later during half-time I was confronted by three teenagers who were at first trying to get on "TV" after not acknowledging them for about 3 minutes one of them piped up "I like your shirt, you look like a girl!" Burn. While I could have picked that statement apart by saying something like "Wow! Your idea of what a girl looks like must be very strange. Are you attracted to women with flat chests and facial hair? Because if you are, you are in for a world of hurt, there aren't many of us out there." Instead I turned to the youth and said "Well, at least I don't sound like a girl." Which is what I actually said, to which he said while on the verge of tears and running away as his friends laughed at him "Panic! At the Disco will make me feel better!" No they won't son, no they won't. That tie you got your dad for Christmas last year is looking pretty good right now, huh?
All puberty and horrible, horrible teenage suicide jokes aside though. I find it funny that when I leave this city I become an entity in style, both negative and positive. While here (within the city) I find that I look like every other male on the street. Skinny, bearded, hooded, and possibly hungover. To be honest, if I could I would dress like a completely insane person, much like my father does now. I would go for a more indy-rock kinda of look and not the hipster-lite that I seem to be in now. I'd wear even tighter pants with wing-tip shoes, huge collared shirts from the seventies. My hair would be cut into one of those mullets that all of the European soccer players seem to be rocking. Wacky scarves would be the main thing I was known for, and I would have a nickname among the rest of the hipsters. Something like; Endangered or Roflmao.
In the end it all goes back to a conversation I was having with Mr. Proper the other day about dress. I was telling him about how I never want to go back to wearing a uniform of any kind, that includes wearing slacks and a nice shirt. When he asked 'why?'
"I am going to ride this 20 something thing, til' it crashes." I'm pretty sure I said that.
Sunday, September 23, 2007
Monday, August 20, 2007
wanderlust pt. 1
Internets! Holy crap, I missed you so much! Sorry, I've been on vacation. What been going on? They gave up the search for those miners?! Get out. Lindsey's still in rehab? Wow, I mean wow. Mit Romney for President? Yeah, I could see that happening. Me? Well, I was in New York for a few days, and then I went on a cruise. To where? Bermuda of course, where else would I go? How was it you ask? Ummmm.....let me start with New York.
New York was intoxicating. Definitely the biggest city I've ever been in. Shen Zhen was huge and different, Barcelona as well although it was not much bigger than Seattle. But New York! I mean, I've seen it in movies, TV, and pictures, but to actually be there was something else. It was not at all like I had imagined it. It was something different, exciting, gritty. Full of assholes, just like me, and the hipsters! Oh sweet crunkington, the fuckn' hipsters! They put those kids at Linda's to shame. The sweet confusion that I felt while wandering was something that I haven't felt in a long time. Granted, I spent a lot of my time in tourist areas, and only got but a small taste of what the city must really be like. I went to Broadway; where I saw the awesome Avenue Q, and 'Little Italy' where I spent my time getting ripped off by eastern Europeans, claiming to be Romans or Chinese. Soho, where my brother and I were treated like complete outsiders at a restaurant and ultimately ignored. We went to the Museum of Modern Art, which was fantastic, and my sister and I went to the American Museum of Natural History, or whatever and solely to see the exhibit shown in the last scene of "The Squid and the Whale". The rest of that museum turned about to be really cool.
In the end, New York was a place I eventually could find myself living in and also a place I want to avoid. In other words; just like Seattle you must find the places that you are most comfortable with and stay there until you are comfortable, then you can move on.
So that portion of my "vacation" ended after 4 short stressful days and we found ourselves meeting up with the other 13 members of my extended family for a 7 day cruise to the isle's of Bermuda. To all of my twenty-something readers/friends heed my advice. DO NOT GO ON A CRUISE IF YOU CAN FLY TO YOUR DESTINATION. Flying is cheaper, faster, and for the most part, you don't have to worry about getting giardia. Which 40 people on my ship contracted, consequently turning the ships staff into a bunch of "hygiene Nazi's". More on that later.
The vessel we were on was called the Norwegian Crown, and was constructed sometime in the late 1980's, and holy shit if it's interior didn't reflect the 80's coke induced aesthetics. Gold and mirrors everywhere, I hate referencing this piece of shit movie but it will give you an idea of what it was like. Imagine Tony Montana's mansion in "Scarface" and you have a pretty good picture. The music that they played everywhere didn't help dispel the eightysness of it all either. It was like the top 40 from '85-'93, but not the real top 40, but some bizarro world top 40 where all the good hits from that decade were replaced by the "Electric Slide" and "Macarena". I shit you not, I heard those two songs several times during our fantastic voyage. I could tell you so much about the food, which was "free"(for a reason) and the on-board entertainment which was also free, but I wish we could have paid for them not to be on the ship, because I would have given up a year's worth of my salary to get back the hour of my life that Adam Ace, the Crazy Comedian, embarrassingly wasted. I could devote an entire post to that poor bastard and his "act" alone. But I won't, because the best part about this cruise were all the people on it, oh and the pink sandy beaches of Bermuda. Totally beautiful, when I marry a rich woman that's where we are going to have our summer home, right next to Catherine Zeta Jones and that old dude she's married to, his name escapes me at the moment though ummm....Catcher's Mitt perhaps? Seriously though, how the fuck did that guy do it?
I have spent years making fun of people with mid-western and southern accents for years. It hasn't just been me though, but our country as whole, where in fact we should be jibing on people from the north east! Comparably, the people in the mid-west have nothing on people from Staten island. From now on when people I hear use the phrase "the dregs of society" I will think of people who were born and raised in New Jersey. The majority of the people on this cruise were from Staten island, Long island, and Newark. It took awhile for me to get over their accents but once I had done that, I was absolutely dumb-founded by their lack of imagination and wit. I realize that sounds very elitist of me, and it is, but these were some of the most tacky and clueless people I have ever had the displeasure of being around. I realized early on that there was no escape, and accepted my fate, thereby allowing me some very good people watching time, I combined this time with many brief conversations that I had with people on my ship and came to these conclusions:
Average Cruising Age: 14-19 and 40-75
Average Weight: Fat
Average idea of a 'good' vacation: Cruise
Average choice of an 'imported' beer: Bud-Light
Average clothing choice even when indoors at public eating areas: back hair or tracksuit
I spoke with one enlightened woman of about 70, who said that this was her 7th(!) cruise, and that every time she finished one she swore she would never do it again. When I asked her why she had embarked on yet another one of these horrible things she said "In the end it makes me happy to see all of these young people have such a good time." Indeed, there were a lot of young people having a good time on this cruise. To be more precise, there was probably a larger teen aged contingent than any other age group aboard, and yes they were definitely having fun. Before entering my room one night I saw a small group huddling around a Nalgene bottle conversing. I paused at my door for a moment, and this is what I overheard:
Teen 1: How much did you put in there?
Teen 2: Well, I filled half with Coke and the other half with vodka!
Teen 3: That's 50%! Skelkin!
Creepy Skinny Guy Fumbling With Key To Lock: Pussies...what the fuck does 'skelkin' mean anyway? What the eff happened to 'rad'?
Teen 1,2,and 3: Get jam-howed, you fram-prizk!
CSGFWKTL: Word.
...and then all hell broke loose, and I started punching teenagers in their acne covered faces. Wacky. No, that really didn't happen, but you can find out what happened next week in part two. I am making this a two parter because this has turned into a really long post and my internets are getting weak. So tune into my final point and analysis. Thanks for reading.
Who loves you?
New York was intoxicating. Definitely the biggest city I've ever been in. Shen Zhen was huge and different, Barcelona as well although it was not much bigger than Seattle. But New York! I mean, I've seen it in movies, TV, and pictures, but to actually be there was something else. It was not at all like I had imagined it. It was something different, exciting, gritty. Full of assholes, just like me, and the hipsters! Oh sweet crunkington, the fuckn' hipsters! They put those kids at Linda's to shame. The sweet confusion that I felt while wandering was something that I haven't felt in a long time. Granted, I spent a lot of my time in tourist areas, and only got but a small taste of what the city must really be like. I went to Broadway; where I saw the awesome Avenue Q, and 'Little Italy' where I spent my time getting ripped off by eastern Europeans, claiming to be Romans or Chinese. Soho, where my brother and I were treated like complete outsiders at a restaurant and ultimately ignored. We went to the Museum of Modern Art, which was fantastic, and my sister and I went to the American Museum of Natural History, or whatever and solely to see the exhibit shown in the last scene of "The Squid and the Whale". The rest of that museum turned about to be really cool.
In the end, New York was a place I eventually could find myself living in and also a place I want to avoid. In other words; just like Seattle you must find the places that you are most comfortable with and stay there until you are comfortable, then you can move on.
So that portion of my "vacation" ended after 4 short stressful days and we found ourselves meeting up with the other 13 members of my extended family for a 7 day cruise to the isle's of Bermuda. To all of my twenty-something readers/friends heed my advice. DO NOT GO ON A CRUISE IF YOU CAN FLY TO YOUR DESTINATION. Flying is cheaper, faster, and for the most part, you don't have to worry about getting giardia. Which 40 people on my ship contracted, consequently turning the ships staff into a bunch of "hygiene Nazi's". More on that later.
The vessel we were on was called the Norwegian Crown, and was constructed sometime in the late 1980's, and holy shit if it's interior didn't reflect the 80's coke induced aesthetics. Gold and mirrors everywhere, I hate referencing this piece of shit movie but it will give you an idea of what it was like. Imagine Tony Montana's mansion in "Scarface" and you have a pretty good picture. The music that they played everywhere didn't help dispel the eightysness of it all either. It was like the top 40 from '85-'93, but not the real top 40, but some bizarro world top 40 where all the good hits from that decade were replaced by the "Electric Slide" and "Macarena". I shit you not, I heard those two songs several times during our fantastic voyage. I could tell you so much about the food, which was "free"(for a reason) and the on-board entertainment which was also free, but I wish we could have paid for them not to be on the ship, because I would have given up a year's worth of my salary to get back the hour of my life that Adam Ace, the Crazy Comedian, embarrassingly wasted. I could devote an entire post to that poor bastard and his "act" alone. But I won't, because the best part about this cruise were all the people on it, oh and the pink sandy beaches of Bermuda. Totally beautiful, when I marry a rich woman that's where we are going to have our summer home, right next to Catherine Zeta Jones and that old dude she's married to, his name escapes me at the moment though ummm....Catcher's Mitt perhaps? Seriously though, how the fuck did that guy do it?
I have spent years making fun of people with mid-western and southern accents for years. It hasn't just been me though, but our country as whole, where in fact we should be jibing on people from the north east! Comparably, the people in the mid-west have nothing on people from Staten island. From now on when people I hear use the phrase "the dregs of society" I will think of people who were born and raised in New Jersey. The majority of the people on this cruise were from Staten island, Long island, and Newark. It took awhile for me to get over their accents but once I had done that, I was absolutely dumb-founded by their lack of imagination and wit. I realize that sounds very elitist of me, and it is, but these were some of the most tacky and clueless people I have ever had the displeasure of being around. I realized early on that there was no escape, and accepted my fate, thereby allowing me some very good people watching time, I combined this time with many brief conversations that I had with people on my ship and came to these conclusions:
Average Cruising Age: 14-19 and 40-75
Average Weight: Fat
Average idea of a 'good' vacation: Cruise
Average choice of an 'imported' beer: Bud-Light
Average clothing choice even when indoors at public eating areas: back hair or tracksuit
I spoke with one enlightened woman of about 70, who said that this was her 7th(!) cruise, and that every time she finished one she swore she would never do it again. When I asked her why she had embarked on yet another one of these horrible things she said "In the end it makes me happy to see all of these young people have such a good time." Indeed, there were a lot of young people having a good time on this cruise. To be more precise, there was probably a larger teen aged contingent than any other age group aboard, and yes they were definitely having fun. Before entering my room one night I saw a small group huddling around a Nalgene bottle conversing. I paused at my door for a moment, and this is what I overheard:
Teen 1: How much did you put in there?
Teen 2: Well, I filled half with Coke and the other half with vodka!
Teen 3: That's 50%! Skelkin!
Creepy Skinny Guy Fumbling With Key To Lock: Pussies...what the fuck does 'skelkin' mean anyway? What the eff happened to 'rad'?
Teen 1,2,and 3: Get jam-howed, you fram-prizk!
CSGFWKTL: Word.
...and then all hell broke loose, and I started punching teenagers in their acne covered faces. Wacky. No, that really didn't happen, but you can find out what happened next week in part two. I am making this a two parter because this has turned into a really long post and my internets are getting weak. So tune into my final point and analysis. Thanks for reading.
Who loves you?
Sunday, August 5, 2007
(...the...)
I called my friend Dantron the other night to wish him a happy 24th. After talking for a little while he mentioned this blarg, and how he has been reading it. I can't say how much it pleases me when I hear one of my friends, who I don't think read this retarded thing ever, do in fact read...it. He had a few qualms with the new format however. For one he is hardly ever mentioned, and two what the fuck happened to the "Barack" blog? "The 'barack' blog," I asked "What the hell is that?" He then went on a diatribe about all of my "big" words and how it was something I used to sometimes write on MySpace. "Ahhhh...you mean 'baroque' blogs." "Yeah, whatever you snarky fuck, I used to love those hate filled rants. What happened to those?" I then promised that I would bring back the Baroque Blog at least once as a gift to him. So here you are Danny, happy birfday.
There are three things that I will probably never stop thinking about, and that will probably never change in order of importance as long as I live, unless I win the lottery, then 2nd and 3rd will become 1st and 2nd and 1st will become third. Money, Women, and Music. Now: Women. I think about women a lot. So much so that I feel oddly gay when I start critiquing their fashion (I did it here). I'm no prize pig myself when it comes to fashion, but it's pretty hard to rip apart a dude who primarily wears jeans and a t-shirt. Anyway, I've dedicated a lot of thought to this and I think it's time that I just come out and say it. STOP WEARING THOSE ENORMOUS SUNGLASSES. You don't look mysterious, you definitely don't look like the gorgeous Audrey Hepburn (admittedly she doesn't look that good here either however, go back and watch Roman Holiday, then try and tell me to tell me she is not a stunner), and men do not find you more attractive because of them. These fucking things cover up one of, if not the most flattering aspects on a woman. At best, you look like an insect. At worst, Paris Hilton. Please stop.
OMG, video games! Fuck the next gen, the Nintendo DS is where it's at. Not only is the Legend of Zelda: The Phantom Hourglass coming out soon but Square Enix is remaking Final Fantasy VI(?) in glorious 2.5D! I piss my pants every time I think about playing these games, which sucks because it means that I am spending a lot of money on laundry these days, and often reeking of urine.
BREAKING: Page France is my new favorite band. Finish this blarge, and go and buy their new album. Also, these two are almost too much to handle, Mr. Proper and I saw them at the Capitol Hill Block Party last week and they rocked it. Kim is way more cute in person and cannot stop smiling.
Apparently I used to end each of these with the latest death of one of my hero's, and then I would write my own obituary for them. (Un)fortunately, no that I think is cool has died, unless you count my friend Kreamy, who should have died the last time I saw him, except the knife that I used was to dull to actually do any damage, fear not though, because I don't make the same mistakes twice.
Baroque Obama in '08
.
There are three things that I will probably never stop thinking about, and that will probably never change in order of importance as long as I live, unless I win the lottery, then 2nd and 3rd will become 1st and 2nd and 1st will become third. Money, Women, and Music. Now: Women. I think about women a lot. So much so that I feel oddly gay when I start critiquing their fashion (I did it here). I'm no prize pig myself when it comes to fashion, but it's pretty hard to rip apart a dude who primarily wears jeans and a t-shirt. Anyway, I've dedicated a lot of thought to this and I think it's time that I just come out and say it. STOP WEARING THOSE ENORMOUS SUNGLASSES. You don't look mysterious, you definitely don't look like the gorgeous Audrey Hepburn (admittedly she doesn't look that good here either however, go back and watch Roman Holiday, then try and tell me to tell me she is not a stunner), and men do not find you more attractive because of them. These fucking things cover up one of, if not the most flattering aspects on a woman. At best, you look like an insect. At worst, Paris Hilton. Please stop.
OMG, video games! Fuck the next gen, the Nintendo DS is where it's at. Not only is the Legend of Zelda: The Phantom Hourglass coming out soon but Square Enix is remaking Final Fantasy VI(?) in glorious 2.5D! I piss my pants every time I think about playing these games, which sucks because it means that I am spending a lot of money on laundry these days, and often reeking of urine.
BREAKING: Page France is my new favorite band. Finish this blarge, and go and buy their new album. Also, these two are almost too much to handle, Mr. Proper and I saw them at the Capitol Hill Block Party last week and they rocked it. Kim is way more cute in person and cannot stop smiling.
Apparently I used to end each of these with the latest death of one of my hero's, and then I would write my own obituary for them. (Un)fortunately, no that I think is cool has died, unless you count my friend Kreamy, who should have died the last time I saw him, except the knife that I used was to dull to actually do any damage, fear not though, because I don't make the same mistakes twice.
Baroque Obama in '08
.
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
purge
Blarg purge! You don't even want to know how many blogs I write, the ones that you actually see are just ones that I either stuck with long enough to finish, or felt good enough about to publish. I write about everything, and nothing. Everyday minutiae, condensed into a 5 paragraph digital shout. The main reason I don't publish a lot of these blogs is because I am trying to make this less personal and more about ideas and thoughts. The problem with my MySpace blog was that it was too personal and I used it like a blunt instrument. Here are a few of the post that I didn't finish.
"atm ninja?" I am not sure where I was trying to go with this one, but I am guessing something really cool happened at the bus stop.
I left work at 5:55pm the bus would arrive at the stop outside of Starbucks at 6:07pm, but I would not go straight there. I first had to drop by the ATM so I could pull out some cash to give to my roommate for this months cable bill. As I made strode towards the cash machine, I noticed another man who was clearly making for the same machine I was. There were a lot people downtown because today was the second day of the Mariners season. So I increased my pace and attack angle, and easily caught the guy off guard, deftly removing my wallet from my pocket, flipping it open and inserting my card. I couldn't help but notice in the reflection of the camera's protective screen, how indignant the guy was over the fact that I had so easily overtaken him. Clearly, he was pissed, but little did he know, he was dealing with an ATM ninja. I was in and out of that bitch in less than a 45 seconds. Cash and card in hand. Strolling confidently past the man I had just usurped, I couldn't help but feel pretty bad ass. The faux-hawk and aviators were a plus at that point.
I arrived at my stop with about 3 minutes to spare before the 66 came. 1
"jeff & those gays" I actually have a finished version of this blog waiting to be published, I just thought that the second paragraph was kind of funny.
I liked Jeff Tweedy more when he was getting run over by the wagon, instead of riding it. That is all I am really going to say about the new Wilco album. The first half is pretty good albeit a little jammy and at times it can be pretty schmaltzy even in Tweedy standards. It really just goes to show where drugs can be good for you m'kay.
I've been living in Ballard for approximately 3 weeks and I think it's the best decision I've made in years, actually the hair removal from my back via laser, now that was the best decision I ever made. I've been doing a lot of thinking and exploring within Ballard and have decided it is probably the best neighborhood in Seattle, even if it is a little out of the way, we're a helicopter ride away from the nearest I-5 entrance/exit. That, as far as I can tell is the only downside and even then it isn't a downside because I don't own one of those auto-mo-whats-its, and I-5 is primarily for the gays. Word on the street.
I think the main reason why I love it here so much is because it's like a small town in a large city, and it reminds me of my hometown before it started turning into a strip mall. Fuck
"big love" This one actually had some legs! The jokes are good, and topical but I started getting a little self-righteous there at the end.
1: As much as I like to think that thousands of people are reading this blog, the truth is that it's somewhere closer to 527 people, and out of those people, about 132 actually can't leave the house unless they read a fresh blarg written by me on Monday or Wednesday. So, to you I apologize.
2: If I am not writing inter-blogs, than I am scouring these nets for my own obscure fetish. What is it? Sock Puppet BDSM. Now the internet knows and much like this girl, I am no longer safe.
Anyway, good weather has seemed to grace this fair city, and like rats escaping a sinking ship, the tourists are coming out from their hiding places in retarded droves. There are only a few things I hate about living here, but the number one thing I can't stand are the fucking tourists. Holy shit do I hate them. I hate for the fact that they think they need to act like "Seattle-ites" when they come here. They mostly try and accomplish this feat by going in to any Starbucks they happen upon and order the same ridiculous drink they get themselves when they are at home in Bum-fuck-nowheres-ville, all the while wearing a t-shirt adorned with Kurt Cobain's face that they bought at Sea-Tac airport when they got off the plane, while I stand in line behind them considering whether the jail time is worth me smashing a vacant coffee mug over the back of their ignorant skulls.
Case in point. I was a block away from work, and as I walked by what I can only assume was a large Mormon family, I heard three of the younger female members exclaim; "Oh look! An art store! Let's go in." While I could pick that quote apart alone like a pretentious fuck for several paragraphs, I won't because what they did next was absolutely hilarious. They went in to the store. Which is really where it gets funny because the place they went into was clearly a frame shop, and very obviously marked that way. With the multitude of galleries located in the Pioneer Square area they chose a framing shop to go in to. I wish now that I had just waited in front of the shop and looked through the window just to see the looks on their faces as they realized their mistake, if they realized it at all.
My point is, when I am touristing it up in a new place, I don't try and act like I am down with the cities "theme". I do everything within my power to avoid the places where other tourists go. Not bec
"sweet jane" This one was supposed to be about the clerk at the QFC that I have a huge crush on but I wasted to much time writing about the scene with my mother and grew board with the whole thing. Such is life.
When your own Mother has lost faith in you, you pretty much know you are fucked.
I flew home last weekend mainly to visit my family. While sitting at dinner with my Mom and sister, my Mom mentioned that she might want to sell her house. She had said this before, citing the fact that it's way to huge for one person to be living in all by themselves, which is true. But oh internets, if you could only see this place! It was built over 120 years ago, and my Mom took it upon herself to restore, and even add on to it. It is truly a beautiful house, and one of the first places I actually ever called 'home'. I digress however, when she said that she was looking to sell, I sarcastically (big surprise!) asked "Where will your grandchildren come and play?" Scoffing she replied "Do you have a girlfriend?" "No." "I wonder how much I can get for this place now?" Burn! She is right to ponder though. My siblings have terrible taste when it comes to picking boy/girlfriends. My brother is especially gifted in when it comes to
I've been spotty, at best, when it comes to posting on time or frequently. Not that any of your internets give a shit, hopefully Peter Means Rock will come to my aid with a spanking new website and I will be able to give up this blargging crap for good.
"atm ninja?" I am not sure where I was trying to go with this one, but I am guessing something really cool happened at the bus stop.
I left work at 5:55pm the bus would arrive at the stop outside of Starbucks at 6:07pm, but I would not go straight there. I first had to drop by the ATM so I could pull out some cash to give to my roommate for this months cable bill. As I made strode towards the cash machine, I noticed another man who was clearly making for the same machine I was. There were a lot people downtown because today was the second day of the Mariners season. So I increased my pace and attack angle, and easily caught the guy off guard, deftly removing my wallet from my pocket, flipping it open and inserting my card. I couldn't help but notice in the reflection of the camera's protective screen, how indignant the guy was over the fact that I had so easily overtaken him. Clearly, he was pissed, but little did he know, he was dealing with an ATM ninja. I was in and out of that bitch in less than a 45 seconds. Cash and card in hand. Strolling confidently past the man I had just usurped, I couldn't help but feel pretty bad ass. The faux-hawk and aviators were a plus at that point.
I arrived at my stop with about 3 minutes to spare before the 66 came. 1
"jeff & those gays" I actually have a finished version of this blog waiting to be published, I just thought that the second paragraph was kind of funny.
I liked Jeff Tweedy more when he was getting run over by the wagon, instead of riding it. That is all I am really going to say about the new Wilco album. The first half is pretty good albeit a little jammy and at times it can be pretty schmaltzy even in Tweedy standards. It really just goes to show where drugs can be good for you m'kay.
I've been living in Ballard for approximately 3 weeks and I think it's the best decision I've made in years, actually the hair removal from my back via laser, now that was the best decision I ever made. I've been doing a lot of thinking and exploring within Ballard and have decided it is probably the best neighborhood in Seattle, even if it is a little out of the way, we're a helicopter ride away from the nearest I-5 entrance/exit. That, as far as I can tell is the only downside and even then it isn't a downside because I don't own one of those auto-mo-whats-its, and I-5 is primarily for the gays. Word on the street.
I think the main reason why I love it here so much is because it's like a small town in a large city, and it reminds me of my hometown before it started turning into a strip mall. Fuck
"big love" This one actually had some legs! The jokes are good, and topical but I started getting a little self-righteous there at the end.
1: As much as I like to think that thousands of people are reading this blog, the truth is that it's somewhere closer to 527 people, and out of those people, about 132 actually can't leave the house unless they read a fresh blarg written by me on Monday or Wednesday. So, to you I apologize.
2: If I am not writing inter-blogs, than I am scouring these nets for my own obscure fetish. What is it? Sock Puppet BDSM. Now the internet knows and much like this girl, I am no longer safe.
Anyway, good weather has seemed to grace this fair city, and like rats escaping a sinking ship, the tourists are coming out from their hiding places in retarded droves. There are only a few things I hate about living here, but the number one thing I can't stand are the fucking tourists. Holy shit do I hate them. I hate for the fact that they think they need to act like "Seattle-ites" when they come here. They mostly try and accomplish this feat by going in to any Starbucks they happen upon and order the same ridiculous drink they get themselves when they are at home in Bum-fuck-nowheres-ville, all the while wearing a t-shirt adorned with Kurt Cobain's face that they bought at Sea-Tac airport when they got off the plane, while I stand in line behind them considering whether the jail time is worth me smashing a vacant coffee mug over the back of their ignorant skulls.
Case in point. I was a block away from work, and as I walked by what I can only assume was a large Mormon family, I heard three of the younger female members exclaim; "Oh look! An art store! Let's go in." While I could pick that quote apart alone like a pretentious fuck for several paragraphs, I won't because what they did next was absolutely hilarious. They went in to the store. Which is really where it gets funny because the place they went into was clearly a frame shop, and very obviously marked that way. With the multitude of galleries located in the Pioneer Square area they chose a framing shop to go in to. I wish now that I had just waited in front of the shop and looked through the window just to see the looks on their faces as they realized their mistake, if they realized it at all.
My point is, when I am touristing it up in a new place, I don't try and act like I am down with the cities "theme". I do everything within my power to avoid the places where other tourists go. Not bec
"sweet jane" This one was supposed to be about the clerk at the QFC that I have a huge crush on but I wasted to much time writing about the scene with my mother and grew board with the whole thing. Such is life.
When your own Mother has lost faith in you, you pretty much know you are fucked.
I flew home last weekend mainly to visit my family. While sitting at dinner with my Mom and sister, my Mom mentioned that she might want to sell her house. She had said this before, citing the fact that it's way to huge for one person to be living in all by themselves, which is true. But oh internets, if you could only see this place! It was built over 120 years ago, and my Mom took it upon herself to restore, and even add on to it. It is truly a beautiful house, and one of the first places I actually ever called 'home'. I digress however, when she said that she was looking to sell, I sarcastically (big surprise!) asked "Where will your grandchildren come and play?" Scoffing she replied "Do you have a girlfriend?" "No." "I wonder how much I can get for this place now?" Burn! She is right to ponder though. My siblings have terrible taste when it comes to picking boy/girlfriends. My brother is especially gifted in when it comes to
I've been spotty, at best, when it comes to posting on time or frequently. Not that any of your internets give a shit, hopefully Peter Means Rock will come to my aid with a spanking new website and I will be able to give up this blargging crap for good.
Monday, July 9, 2007
bus rides are for closers
In lieu of my latest opus over my brief stint in Ohio, where I attended this years National Synchronized Swimming Competition, I have decided to post this blarg about being a real life "hero". Mainly because that post needs to be perfect, and this one doesn't.
I have had a grand total of 3 opportunities to look/be a real life hero in life, of which I am now 0 for 3. Let me give an example from the time that I would decide to stop pussing out and act the next time a situation presented itself.
My brother and I were in Barcelona visiting my sister who was working in Spain at the time. One night the three of us went out for dinner and drinks. After dinner, Scringa thought that we should go for a tour through her old neighborhood, which was rather seedy. Full of Spanish teenagers, Moroccan teenagers, and Moroccans. In other words, the barrio. It's not the kind of place you walk around at night if you are a local, let alone a tourist. As my brother and I were having our picture taken in front a wall with some graffiti on it that said; "TOURISTS YOU ARE THE TERRORISTS" smiling like a couple of dumb Americans, a young kid comes sprinting by us, followed shortly by a young woman who my sister would later tell us was screaming "Give my back my purse you dirty bitch!" As they ran by us some Spanish dude abandoned his girlfriend to give chase. It was at that moment I realized what I was witnessing. My first ever "purse snatching", and I wasn't going to do shit about it. We watched as the young man, the girl who's purse had been purloined, and the Spaniard disappeared towards yet another building designed by Guadi.
I pretended like I didn't know what was going on as I often do when there is something fucked up going on. The next morning I went to the little cafe I had been going to every morning since arriving and ordered my usual cafe con leche. Taking a seat outside I lit a cigarette and began to replay the brief scenario over in my head, only this time my brother and I joined the Spaniard, let's call him Raul, in chase. I fantasized about how we would corner that little bastard, he'd probably try and fight us, but my brother is kind of a big dude so he wouldn't stand a chance. So as my brother and Raul, were getting there hits in I would grab up the purse and return it to the grateful, young, sexy Spanish girl....and this is where the fantasy goes to places that are best dedicated to the classier of trashy romance novels, or Cinemax "pornos". In other words; we get are faulk on. That's what happens with heros.
In reality I am pretty sure Raul was led down a dark alley while chasing the purse thief, and was met by the dudes gang who all happened to have knives, and some cutting ensued.
What brought about this brief trip down memory lane? Well, yesterday a chance to be a hero arose, and it was damn near bulletproof. I got lucky and ended up on the 15 Express from downtown to Ballard, a bus I rarely catch but am glad when I can get on it because it cuts the trip home down by about 15 minutes. We are about halfway to Ballard when a you "g-ish" looking white dood with a sidewayz baseball cap comes charging to the front of the bus. The thing with express buses is that they have limited stops, hence the express part, and there is always some poor asshole who doesn't realize this and ends up having to ride the bus until they can get off and catch a normal one back to their destination. That's what most people do, that's what I've done, but this douche wasn't going to act like a civilized human, he was going to act the way he was dressed; like a privileged suburban white kid with a hard-on for 50 cent. He began first by verbally berating the driver, then (and this is what raised my ire) tried to force open the front doors of the bus, which wouldn't budge an inch. He then went back to the bus driver and got back in his face. My pulse quickened and I began looking at the other passengers, who were visibly nervous over the whole sitch. Between sizing up the dude and slowly repositioning myself on the seat so I could leap at the guy I was also looking to the other male passengers for some sort of confirmation like "If you do it dude, I'll join you." No such luck, but I figured if I at least could wrap my arms around the dickhead, some of the others would quickly join me. I calculated that this would all take only a few seconds.
There I was, about to jump out of my seat, my blood hot with rage and adrenaline, when the driver, to my surprise, actually stopped and let the asshole out! My guess is that he could see me seething in his rearview and just didn't need to be on the 7'o'clock news that night. Who could blame him though huh? Who wants to retell that embarrassing story on the news?
"So I was calmly dealing with an irate passenger like I do everyday like ten times a day, when all of the this skinny guy comes flying out his seat to try and...well I don't know what he was trying to do, but I'll tell you what, I've never seen a man go down from one punch like 'slim' there did."
Cut to b-roll of me being carried off of the bus on a gurney to the ambulance, with an oxygen mask over my face. To be honest I bet when the time comes to be a hero and I actually pull it off it will never be able to hold a candle to my actual fantasy. Really the only reason I would even consider doing something that could possibly get me hurt/killed is not for the glory but for the girl.
She happened to be sitting two seats in front me and when the guy finally got off she looked at me and smiled. We'd be faulking later.
I have had a grand total of 3 opportunities to look/be a real life hero in life, of which I am now 0 for 3. Let me give an example from the time that I would decide to stop pussing out and act the next time a situation presented itself.
My brother and I were in Barcelona visiting my sister who was working in Spain at the time. One night the three of us went out for dinner and drinks. After dinner, Scringa thought that we should go for a tour through her old neighborhood, which was rather seedy. Full of Spanish teenagers, Moroccan teenagers, and Moroccans. In other words, the barrio. It's not the kind of place you walk around at night if you are a local, let alone a tourist. As my brother and I were having our picture taken in front a wall with some graffiti on it that said; "TOURISTS YOU ARE THE TERRORISTS" smiling like a couple of dumb Americans, a young kid comes sprinting by us, followed shortly by a young woman who my sister would later tell us was screaming "Give my back my purse you dirty bitch!" As they ran by us some Spanish dude abandoned his girlfriend to give chase. It was at that moment I realized what I was witnessing. My first ever "purse snatching", and I wasn't going to do shit about it. We watched as the young man, the girl who's purse had been purloined, and the Spaniard disappeared towards yet another building designed by Guadi.
I pretended like I didn't know what was going on as I often do when there is something fucked up going on. The next morning I went to the little cafe I had been going to every morning since arriving and ordered my usual cafe con leche. Taking a seat outside I lit a cigarette and began to replay the brief scenario over in my head, only this time my brother and I joined the Spaniard, let's call him Raul, in chase. I fantasized about how we would corner that little bastard, he'd probably try and fight us, but my brother is kind of a big dude so he wouldn't stand a chance. So as my brother and Raul, were getting there hits in I would grab up the purse and return it to the grateful, young, sexy Spanish girl....and this is where the fantasy goes to places that are best dedicated to the classier of trashy romance novels, or Cinemax "pornos". In other words; we get are faulk on. That's what happens with heros.
In reality I am pretty sure Raul was led down a dark alley while chasing the purse thief, and was met by the dudes gang who all happened to have knives, and some cutting ensued.
What brought about this brief trip down memory lane? Well, yesterday a chance to be a hero arose, and it was damn near bulletproof. I got lucky and ended up on the 15 Express from downtown to Ballard, a bus I rarely catch but am glad when I can get on it because it cuts the trip home down by about 15 minutes. We are about halfway to Ballard when a you "g-ish" looking white dood with a sidewayz baseball cap comes charging to the front of the bus. The thing with express buses is that they have limited stops, hence the express part, and there is always some poor asshole who doesn't realize this and ends up having to ride the bus until they can get off and catch a normal one back to their destination. That's what most people do, that's what I've done, but this douche wasn't going to act like a civilized human, he was going to act the way he was dressed; like a privileged suburban white kid with a hard-on for 50 cent. He began first by verbally berating the driver, then (and this is what raised my ire) tried to force open the front doors of the bus, which wouldn't budge an inch. He then went back to the bus driver and got back in his face. My pulse quickened and I began looking at the other passengers, who were visibly nervous over the whole sitch. Between sizing up the dude and slowly repositioning myself on the seat so I could leap at the guy I was also looking to the other male passengers for some sort of confirmation like "If you do it dude, I'll join you." No such luck, but I figured if I at least could wrap my arms around the dickhead, some of the others would quickly join me. I calculated that this would all take only a few seconds.
There I was, about to jump out of my seat, my blood hot with rage and adrenaline, when the driver, to my surprise, actually stopped and let the asshole out! My guess is that he could see me seething in his rearview and just didn't need to be on the 7'o'clock news that night. Who could blame him though huh? Who wants to retell that embarrassing story on the news?
"So I was calmly dealing with an irate passenger like I do everyday like ten times a day, when all of the this skinny guy comes flying out his seat to try and...well I don't know what he was trying to do, but I'll tell you what, I've never seen a man go down from one punch like 'slim' there did."
Cut to b-roll of me being carried off of the bus on a gurney to the ambulance, with an oxygen mask over my face. To be honest I bet when the time comes to be a hero and I actually pull it off it will never be able to hold a candle to my actual fantasy. Really the only reason I would even consider doing something that could possibly get me hurt/killed is not for the glory but for the girl.
She happened to be sitting two seats in front me and when the guy finally got off she looked at me and smiled. We'd be faulking later.
Saturday, June 16, 2007
"boozey" and other nicknames I won't get to use anymore
I'm having a terrible time figuring out how to write an opening for this one. Part of me wants to be poetic and poignant, another part would like to write something hilarious and wacky, this is all a reflection of my real-life disposition. Pierre, our family dog, was put down on Saturday. So I am dedicating this entry to his memory.
My Mother reminded me a few weeks ago of how Pierre first became a part of our family. Somehow, my brother and I had managed to get him to our house from a family friends house who lived in the country. We had apparently secreted him away in our room, hoping to hide him from Mom. How we ever thought that we would get away with hiding a puppy from her is still a mystery to me. Upon her discovery of the dog, that at the time we were calling "Gak", she told us that we could not keep him, but after much begging, she eventually, albeit begrudgingly, gave in.
I am not sure who came up with the name Pierre, but I always thought that it fit him perfectly. Perhaps we named him that because he was small and had a tail that curled to his lower back completing an almost perfect circle. Which in my mind is a distinctly French dog trait. The best we could figure is that he was some kind of terrier, or a mix of that sort. I guess if I really had to describe him, I would say he looked a lot like Benjy, only 27 times cuter. This is pretty close.
In the beginning he ran away alot, and would more than often be picked up by the pound before we could find him. Where my Mom would have to post bail for him, which increased every time he was captured by them. This really pissed my Mother off, who would after springing him, threaten to leave him there next time. It was an empty threat, we knew it, and even though she wouldn't have admitted it, in those early days Mom loved that dog just as much as she loved my brother, sister and I.
"He's just like a person!" Everybody says this about their dog, but no one ever says it about other peoples dogs. We heard this exclamation quite often, because up until about a year ago he would greet anyone who set foot through our front door with a toothy smile and a fit of sneezing, tail wagging, and a myriad of bodily gyrations. He was smart in a very stupid dog kind of way. If you left anything edible on a table that was less than 3 feet high and then left the room only to return and find it missing, he would be sitting there smugly licking his chops, staring at you with a look that said; "Dude, you didn't call 'dibs'."
After my brother, sister and I moved out of the house you could tell who Pierre really loved. It was Mom. This became evident after she sold the restaurant and decided to take him with her on an extended vacation to California and Spain. Unfortunately she couldn't take him to Spain, where my sister was living at the time, so he had to stay with my Grandma in Laguna. My Mother was gone for a month, and when she returned that dog would not leave her side for a second. From then on, he wouldn't let that woman be alone unless she was going to work, but when she returned he was always beside her. At dinner, on the couch watching 60 Minutes, or just reading a good book, he would hang within her proximity just so that he could be near the person he loved so dearly. His utter devotion to her was concreted by the fact that when he was diagnosed with chronic renal failure a year ago and he could barely move. She rushed him to the vet and they helped him the best they could but told my Mom that he only had a little more to live. After that visit he wouldn't eat his dog food, so my Mom decided to cook for him. Mashed potatoes and ground beef, that is all he would eat!
The most endearing quality of this dog was his undying devotion to Mom. I can remember nights sitting on the couch with her and Pierre and looking down at that dog only to see him gazing up at her. To him, she wasn't just the Alpha-dog, she was his Mother, his savior, and his best friend. To be honest I was a little bit jealous, Pierre and I had many a good time. We spent many late nights hanging out, eating leftovers, and watching the Cartoon Network. Whenever I would come back home for a weekend, he would join me in the basement and sit beside me where we would enjoy the quiet solitude of Mom's house together.
He was quite possibly the most excellent domesticated animal to have ever existed. I really hate it when people personify their pets, but it is hard not to do it with him. He lived 15 years, which I am told is a very long time for a dog to live. That's a little over half of my life time. He lived a charmed life, and considering his penchant for running around in traffic, a lucky one too. We all miss him very much, I'm sure the next time I return home I'll really understand what it's like. So I dedicate this blarg in loving memory, of a brother, I sincerely hope that there is a heaven, because if there is, he's there, running around with a turkey carcass in his mouth, playing in traffic that will never hit him.
My Mother reminded me a few weeks ago of how Pierre first became a part of our family. Somehow, my brother and I had managed to get him to our house from a family friends house who lived in the country. We had apparently secreted him away in our room, hoping to hide him from Mom. How we ever thought that we would get away with hiding a puppy from her is still a mystery to me. Upon her discovery of the dog, that at the time we were calling "Gak", she told us that we could not keep him, but after much begging, she eventually, albeit begrudgingly, gave in.
I am not sure who came up with the name Pierre, but I always thought that it fit him perfectly. Perhaps we named him that because he was small and had a tail that curled to his lower back completing an almost perfect circle. Which in my mind is a distinctly French dog trait. The best we could figure is that he was some kind of terrier, or a mix of that sort. I guess if I really had to describe him, I would say he looked a lot like Benjy, only 27 times cuter. This is pretty close.
In the beginning he ran away alot, and would more than often be picked up by the pound before we could find him. Where my Mom would have to post bail for him, which increased every time he was captured by them. This really pissed my Mother off, who would after springing him, threaten to leave him there next time. It was an empty threat, we knew it, and even though she wouldn't have admitted it, in those early days Mom loved that dog just as much as she loved my brother, sister and I.
"He's just like a person!" Everybody says this about their dog, but no one ever says it about other peoples dogs. We heard this exclamation quite often, because up until about a year ago he would greet anyone who set foot through our front door with a toothy smile and a fit of sneezing, tail wagging, and a myriad of bodily gyrations. He was smart in a very stupid dog kind of way. If you left anything edible on a table that was less than 3 feet high and then left the room only to return and find it missing, he would be sitting there smugly licking his chops, staring at you with a look that said; "Dude, you didn't call 'dibs'."
After my brother, sister and I moved out of the house you could tell who Pierre really loved. It was Mom. This became evident after she sold the restaurant and decided to take him with her on an extended vacation to California and Spain. Unfortunately she couldn't take him to Spain, where my sister was living at the time, so he had to stay with my Grandma in Laguna. My Mother was gone for a month, and when she returned that dog would not leave her side for a second. From then on, he wouldn't let that woman be alone unless she was going to work, but when she returned he was always beside her. At dinner, on the couch watching 60 Minutes, or just reading a good book, he would hang within her proximity just so that he could be near the person he loved so dearly. His utter devotion to her was concreted by the fact that when he was diagnosed with chronic renal failure a year ago and he could barely move. She rushed him to the vet and they helped him the best they could but told my Mom that he only had a little more to live. After that visit he wouldn't eat his dog food, so my Mom decided to cook for him. Mashed potatoes and ground beef, that is all he would eat!
The most endearing quality of this dog was his undying devotion to Mom. I can remember nights sitting on the couch with her and Pierre and looking down at that dog only to see him gazing up at her. To him, she wasn't just the Alpha-dog, she was his Mother, his savior, and his best friend. To be honest I was a little bit jealous, Pierre and I had many a good time. We spent many late nights hanging out, eating leftovers, and watching the Cartoon Network. Whenever I would come back home for a weekend, he would join me in the basement and sit beside me where we would enjoy the quiet solitude of Mom's house together.
He was quite possibly the most excellent domesticated animal to have ever existed. I really hate it when people personify their pets, but it is hard not to do it with him. He lived 15 years, which I am told is a very long time for a dog to live. That's a little over half of my life time. He lived a charmed life, and considering his penchant for running around in traffic, a lucky one too. We all miss him very much, I'm sure the next time I return home I'll really understand what it's like. So I dedicate this blarg in loving memory, of a brother, I sincerely hope that there is a heaven, because if there is, he's there, running around with a turkey carcass in his mouth, playing in traffic that will never hit him.
Sunday, June 10, 2007
The Night of 1000 Michael Jackson Dances
I can call some of my birthday celebrations, "birthday celebrations", others I can call "epic", but only one (so far) can I and will call, legendary. I recently hit the quarter of a century mark, and while I've considered posting a very self-indulgent blarg involving stories from my formative years, I decided that writing a blog, in and of itself, is enough. Consider this one an ego hand-job, instead of the usual BJ.
Mr. Proper/Voltron's gift to me was admission to the CSS show at Neumos. Unfortunately, after two buses and a very underwhelming improv bus performance (my first) put on by three hackneyed teenagers, we arrived only to find out that the show was sold out. Upon which Mr. Proper(MP) and I decided that it was going to be "one of those nights." We'd be got-damned if it didn't too, and got-damned we weren't!
After a delicious G&T at Moe (the bar connected to Neumos), MP led the way to another bar down the block that he was familiar with. After showing our ID's to the bouncer we entered, and found our ears being assaulted by Janet Jackson. Red flag from the get go, but we had already walked through the doors and something curious was going on. Placed along the bar were 40 or so designer Fedora hats. People were trying them on so we decided to do the same. After finding one I liked I told MP that I might buy it if it was reasonably priced, but I would definitely need another drink before I made that kind of commitment, so we ordered a couple of beers and MP asked the bartender what the deal was with the hats. "They're fuckin' free dude, it's a promotion." He turns to me and says. Without hesitation I run over and grab the one I was admiring and we set to finding one for him. At this point I figured that after the free hats anything else would be a bonus and we probably could have called it a night. That is, if we were major pussies.
With both hats and buzzez on we triumphantly strode up the street to the Satellite, to look in a Stranger and find out if there were anymore shows we could go to. There really wasn't anything going on and we both knew where we really wanted to be at that moment. Neumos, watching this waifish minx rock out. After yet another beer we made our way back to Neumos to see if we couldn't find a way in. Obviously it was still sold out and Busdriver was already playing who we could actually see from the street. He's kind of a nerd-core rapper, he was wearing one of those cone shaped birthday hats, which I thought was very apropos.
MP seemed shut down, we were just standing outside the main entrance between CSS's tour bus and some groupies. No words were exchanged for about 5 minutes, but I was cool with that because I was being entertained by these two sorority girls attempting to get on the tour bus, the look of desperation on their faces was priceless. But after they left I began to worried MP, was standing there seemingly staring in to blank space, little did I know the gears were turning in his and a plan was being hatched. "Let's go dude, I've got an idea." And like that we were off down the street at a good clip.
It wasn't until we arrived at the grocery store that MP would unfold his plan to me, and it was either the dumbest plan ever concocted or the most genius. I settled on the latter, due to the fact that the risk to reward was something like 0 to 100, and if anything I would have something to write about later, MP agreed.
The plan was remarkably, we were going to make our own VIP bracelets. All we needed was a green band, which we got off of a kite, a sharpie , a whiteout pen and some tape. Total cost: 11 and some change. We set to work right there in the QFC on some tables next to the coffee stand in front of some windows facing the sidewalk. People could easily see us from the street as they walked by and we must of looked totally retarded because as we were drawing on the green ribbon we were smiling and laughing like a couple of drunk idiots. Our faux bracelets attached to the appropriate wrist, we made our way back to the club, all the while discussing our plan of attack. We decided to try the side entrances first, since security seemed to be the most lax there. But we were immediately turned away saying that we had to go through the main entrance. Fuck.
Things happened very quickly from this point on. MP led the charge, his technique was flawless. Stealthily covering up his wrist band just enough so that it looked like the real thing, so that they could give him a stamp. He was in, right there on the fucking stairs leading up to the VIP section. His insane plan had worked, I followed his lead, mimicking almost every one of his movements, almost. Something gave me away, we're not sure what it was, but we were pulled to the side as security was called. Checking MP's wrist, a security guard discovered that they were fakes and said to Mr. Proper as tape broke "That's not going to work." You could tell the security guy was mildly entertained by our little ruse, and for a second it looked like he was going to let us in. Until he put a giant red X on our wrists, and told us to leave. What was surprising is how little we were hassled, usually when assholes try and pull a fast one like that, they get a lot of shit, but nothing happened. They handed me my ID no questions asked, 86'd us, and let us leave under our own power.
We ended the night at Linda's replaying the whole thing over in our heads. What if we had...etc. It didn't dawn on me until the next morning how much fun I'd had. We had done something completely stupid, something I probably would have done as a teenager. Here we were two full grown adults attempting to trick an establishment in to letting us in with VIP bracelets that we had fashioned from a kite streamer. For me it was all about proving to myself that I still had it, that wild spontaneity of youth. You sometimes forget that you are still young in the midst of the 9 to 5, student loan payment, bill world that you live in everyday. It felt really good to do something crazy, and it truly ended up being one of the best birthday's I've had in years.
A special thanks goes to Voltron as a whole, for making this happen. Now go and check out Mr. Proper's account of this tale.
Mr. Proper/Voltron's gift to me was admission to the CSS show at Neumos. Unfortunately, after two buses and a very underwhelming improv bus performance (my first) put on by three hackneyed teenagers, we arrived only to find out that the show was sold out. Upon which Mr. Proper(MP) and I decided that it was going to be "one of those nights." We'd be got-damned if it didn't too, and got-damned we weren't!
After a delicious G&T at Moe (the bar connected to Neumos), MP led the way to another bar down the block that he was familiar with. After showing our ID's to the bouncer we entered, and found our ears being assaulted by Janet Jackson. Red flag from the get go, but we had already walked through the doors and something curious was going on. Placed along the bar were 40 or so designer Fedora hats. People were trying them on so we decided to do the same. After finding one I liked I told MP that I might buy it if it was reasonably priced, but I would definitely need another drink before I made that kind of commitment, so we ordered a couple of beers and MP asked the bartender what the deal was with the hats. "They're fuckin' free dude, it's a promotion." He turns to me and says. Without hesitation I run over and grab the one I was admiring and we set to finding one for him. At this point I figured that after the free hats anything else would be a bonus and we probably could have called it a night. That is, if we were major pussies.
With both hats and buzzez on we triumphantly strode up the street to the Satellite, to look in a Stranger and find out if there were anymore shows we could go to. There really wasn't anything going on and we both knew where we really wanted to be at that moment. Neumos, watching this waifish minx rock out. After yet another beer we made our way back to Neumos to see if we couldn't find a way in. Obviously it was still sold out and Busdriver was already playing who we could actually see from the street. He's kind of a nerd-core rapper, he was wearing one of those cone shaped birthday hats, which I thought was very apropos.
MP seemed shut down, we were just standing outside the main entrance between CSS's tour bus and some groupies. No words were exchanged for about 5 minutes, but I was cool with that because I was being entertained by these two sorority girls attempting to get on the tour bus, the look of desperation on their faces was priceless. But after they left I began to worried MP, was standing there seemingly staring in to blank space, little did I know the gears were turning in his and a plan was being hatched. "Let's go dude, I've got an idea." And like that we were off down the street at a good clip.
It wasn't until we arrived at the grocery store that MP would unfold his plan to me, and it was either the dumbest plan ever concocted or the most genius. I settled on the latter, due to the fact that the risk to reward was something like 0 to 100, and if anything I would have something to write about later, MP agreed.
The plan was remarkably, we were going to make our own VIP bracelets. All we needed was a green band, which we got off of a kite, a sharpie , a whiteout pen and some tape. Total cost: 11 and some change. We set to work right there in the QFC on some tables next to the coffee stand in front of some windows facing the sidewalk. People could easily see us from the street as they walked by and we must of looked totally retarded because as we were drawing on the green ribbon we were smiling and laughing like a couple of drunk idiots. Our faux bracelets attached to the appropriate wrist, we made our way back to the club, all the while discussing our plan of attack. We decided to try the side entrances first, since security seemed to be the most lax there. But we were immediately turned away saying that we had to go through the main entrance. Fuck.
Things happened very quickly from this point on. MP led the charge, his technique was flawless. Stealthily covering up his wrist band just enough so that it looked like the real thing, so that they could give him a stamp. He was in, right there on the fucking stairs leading up to the VIP section. His insane plan had worked, I followed his lead, mimicking almost every one of his movements, almost. Something gave me away, we're not sure what it was, but we were pulled to the side as security was called. Checking MP's wrist, a security guard discovered that they were fakes and said to Mr. Proper as tape broke "That's not going to work." You could tell the security guy was mildly entertained by our little ruse, and for a second it looked like he was going to let us in. Until he put a giant red X on our wrists, and told us to leave. What was surprising is how little we were hassled, usually when assholes try and pull a fast one like that, they get a lot of shit, but nothing happened. They handed me my ID no questions asked, 86'd us, and let us leave under our own power.
We ended the night at Linda's replaying the whole thing over in our heads. What if we had...etc. It didn't dawn on me until the next morning how much fun I'd had. We had done something completely stupid, something I probably would have done as a teenager. Here we were two full grown adults attempting to trick an establishment in to letting us in with VIP bracelets that we had fashioned from a kite streamer. For me it was all about proving to myself that I still had it, that wild spontaneity of youth. You sometimes forget that you are still young in the midst of the 9 to 5, student loan payment, bill world that you live in everyday. It felt really good to do something crazy, and it truly ended up being one of the best birthday's I've had in years.
A special thanks goes to Voltron as a whole, for making this happen. Now go and check out Mr. Proper's account of this tale.
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