A Birfday Party

I've known Winner for about a year and a half. She was sitting at a table (shockingly enough) at Ozzies with Big Apple and, seeing two attractive women I did not know sitting at a table I (shockingly enough) engaged them in conversation. No big whoop. A couple of months later, Winner saw me again at Ozzies, remembered me, said hi, and what would evolve into a three-way friendship was well on its way.

Yesterday was Winner's birthday and she had a gathering at a restaurant downtown... and I was graciously invited by the birthday girl.

After happy hour with TM2000 and his gf, I walked the 10 blocks or so to Winner's party, into a reserved room with a pool table and a LCD television on the wall and a bunch of people I didn't know. Here are some random thoughts:

1. Winner had invited people from several parts of her life: friends from college, friends from both of her workplaces, and me. When I'm surrounded by people I do not know I assume that they all know one another, so I was consistently surprised when people kept introducing themselves to others. I'm a slow learner, or maybe I set myself up to be constantly surprised. 
   
   
2. Big Apple was not in attendance. She was back east and I was able to talk to her on the phone a bit as part of the birthday festivities. I chat with Big Apple quite a bit, but rarely talk to her on the phone, so it was a bit confusing when we had this (brief) convo:
   

   Me: Hey! 
   Big Apple: Hi.
   Me: It's Ed!
   Big Apple: OK.
   Me: Do you know who this is?
   Big Apple: Did you hiccup?
   Me: What? No. This is Ed!
   Big Apple: ...
   Me: Well, uh. So... good talking to you. (?)
   Her: OK!

   She claims she had me on speaker phone. She claims she wasn't really paying attention. I think she just was exceedingly bored by me. Heh.
   
   
3. I tried to learn how to properly pronouncer Winner's last name. She has an "American" first name (named by her parents after a local newscaster, oddly enough), but her last name is more complicated. I'm not familiar with the tonal contours of many asian languages, and I felt like a total rube as I continued to try to pronounce it and she kept trying to suppress winces. It reminded me of a scene from a Stella short (4:40 in):
   

   Michael Showalter: We call it "Hanukkah".
   Mrs. Claus: Chanookah.
   Michael Showalter: "Hanukkah"
   Mrs. Claus: Shewbacca.
   Michael Showalter: "Hanukkah"
   Mrs. Claus: Chaka Khan?
   Michael Showalter: No ... !

   I can try to speak with a Mexican accent. I have been told I do a reasonable facsimile of Australian... or at least I can mimic it. Vietnamese, though? Evidently not so much.
   
   
4. The Portland Trail Blazers were playing during the party. They are my favorite sports team and it is their first appearance in the playoffs for, like, five seasons. I watched them get their asses handed to them while I was in Vegas, and in game four El Diamante (previously: Buddy #2) txted me when I was time-shifted, giving me the result (Blazers loss) so last night I was determined to avoid the score until I got home to watch it from my DVR. The bad news? I saw the score at the end of the night. The good news? The Blazers won at home and pushed it to a sixth game (Thursday night, which I will also miss live because I'm doing a volunteering thing).
   
   
5. There is evidently a neurology convention going on this week in Seattle. At a couple of times throughout the night, old dudes with funny accents poked their noses into our rooms and, seeing an assortment of cute girls, would infiltrate our area to some extent... the most significant incursion happened towards the end of the night. There were about seven of us left, five girls and a pair of dudes (including me) when three odd-speaking, odd-looking, old-looking dudes entered.
   
   One of the remaining women was a coworker/supervisor of Winnner's... an Attractive Brunette with Fashionable Glasses. She also happened to be sitting closest to the door and bore the brunt of the neurologist onslaught. It went something like this:
   

   Neurologist #1: How are you guys doing tonight?
   ABwFG: We're good! It's her (pointing at Winner) birthday!
   Neurologist #2: Oh, really. We're in town for a Neurology convention.
   ABwFG: Rad!
   N#1: "Rad"?!?
   N#2: What? "Rad"?
   ABwFG: Uh. Yeah. What's wrong with "rad".
   Neurologist #3: Nothing. I'm sorry for our reaction.
   N#2: Are you from here?
   ABwFG: Here? Like Seattle? Actually Spokane, but I've been here for three years. Where are you guys from?
   N#1: Nova Scotia.
   N#2: Calgary.
   N#3: Toronto.
   Me: Canadian, eh?
   N#1: ...
   N#2: ...
   N#3: ...
   ABwFG: I'm sorry... where?
   N#2: California.
   N#1: Yeah... Sacramento!

   I didn't see wedding rings, but I noticed that all three guys had their left hands in their pockets. Oh, silly neurologists!
   
   
6. Like at many parties with adults, some adult beverages were imbibed. Winner had several birthday drinks, I had my first Patrón shot since Vegas (I felt like I sort of cheated on Patrón), and everyone was feeling pretty good. One of Winner's friends, though... it seemed she was feeling better than the rest of us. Or at least more bold. Lesbian Friend was bouncing around the room, jumping on the couches, sitting on the pool table, and flirting heavily with almost every girl in the room.
   
   I don't have any issues with lesbianism. I don't have any issues with heavy flirting. I don't even have any issues with heavy flirting by a lesbian. 
   
   The only reason that this is even making this august list of events is because of the sheer boldness of her propositions. An example:
   

   Lesbian Friend: Are you gay or straight?
   ABwFG: Straight.
   Lesbian Friend: Have you ever been with a girl?
   ABwFG: No.
   Lesbian Friend: Want to be?
   

   I mean... it was fine. It was probably something of a confidence boost for the women that were being propositioned. I think that I gawked at least three times at her audacity. It was awesome. Kudos to you, Lesbian Friend!
   
   
7. At the end of the night, as I've mentioned, there were seven of us still around, chilling in the room. Five chicks, another guy, and me. It was painfully obvious that Other Guy was into Winner... and as she fawned over me as only a good friend who's had a lot to drink can do, I had to stop myself from wincing a few times by his reaction. An example:
   

   Winner: (Stroking my left hand oddly) Ed, you have such soft hands!
   Me: It makes sense... I haven't worked an honest day in my life.
   Winner: (giggling) Whatever!
   Other Guy: What about me? Are my hands soft?

   Ugh. Just typing that hurts me deep inside. He was a really nice guy but it was just NOT happening, and he was trying to power through... with me caught in the middle (literally/physically, for much of the end of the evening). It was at that point that I knew I had to blog about the whole experience.

So... happy birthday to Winner. I had a great time, I was honored to have been invited, and I was delighted to learn that I have very soft hands.

Fixing My Jeans

I'm not much of a do-it-myselfer when it comes to fixing things. Yes, I've built my computer myself and, yes, I took apart my Xbox 360 to lubricate a drive motor issue... but as a general proposition I don't feel comfortable fixing things or patching things.

Or stitching things.

I have about eight pairs of jeans that I wear on a regular basis. Of these, about five subject me to some level of mockery for their color or tightness, which leaves me with three jeans that I can wear just about anywhere.

Until recently, it didn't occur to me that they could wear out. I knew I could spill stuff on them and stain them, or I could catch them in something and rip them, or I could get fat and they might not fit any longer. But having them just start to dissolve? I guess intellectually I knew, but emotionally I hadn't come to grips with it. It was like my own death or a woman being President of the US... it's inevitable, but it's something I guess I don't like to think about.

Fortunately, the jeans I have are capable of having some holes and worn spots in them without being entirely useless... one might even argue that the way my wallet creates an impression in my back pocket or the way creases form around my package gives the pair of pants a look that is uniquely "me". One might argue that, and one might be punched in the face by fashion-indifferent homophobes, depending on where the argument is made.

Unfortunately, one of my pairs of jeans got to the point where critical failures were appearing: the left rear pocket was starting to rip off on one side and, more shockingly, a tear in the crotch had appeared, potentially revealing my extravagantly colored underwear to prying eyes.

Some weeks back, I had some decisions to make: stop wearing the jeans or power through until they were just a blue-tinted layed of dust on my lower body? Fix the jeans or throw them away and rely on my other pairs?

In my current state of financial ambiguity, buying a replacement pair is out of the question, so I invested about $7 in a set of needles and an assortment of colored threads (you read "needles" and thought it was a heroin joke, didn't you?). I figured that I could whip-stitch the pants and get a few more decades of use out of them.

Of course, I have no idea what "whip-stitching" is. It's a term that my mother seemed to use occasionally as I was growing up but one that I never tended to learn. She probably told me--she might even have showed me--what was involved, but I didn't pick it up. I have blind spots in my ability to retain knowledge. I was helping my parents with balancing the home finances when I was in, like, sixth grade but I still would have trouble checking the oil level in my car, for example.

Anyway, I figured that in spite of my ignorance I would be able to figure it out. Stitching is something that has been going on forever--at least since the 1960's, according to my research--and I thought that, with some trial and error, I'd be able to figure it out.

As I said, that was some weeks back. I bought the needles and thread and placed them in a secure location in my kitchen and promptly ignored them. My jeans continued to fray and I managed to vacuum my apartment about 25 times, but still I ignored the task of fixing my jeans because I didn't have the first idea where to start.

This afternoon, rather than go for vacuuming number 26, I decided to take a crack at it.

Where did I start? I gathered the items I thought I'd need:

• The jeans in question
• The thread (still in the package)
• The needles (still in the package)
• A pair of scissors

As I so often do, I plopped down in front of my computer desk. I am 100% confident that, no matter what the problem facing me, I can Google it and get an answer. "Surely," I thought, "Google will link me to a simple 'How to Fix Expensive Jeans for Newbies' site (maybe with an embedded video tutorial) and I'll be ready to go."

Unfortunately, in spite of my supreme confidence and considerable skill with the market-leading search engine, I pretty much came up empty. I found information on patching and on sewing from scratch but I didn't have much luck with the very very basics of sewing/stitching/whatever and so I turned to the non-virtual world to see if I could figure it out.

The choice of threads was easy. I went with dark blue. So far, so good.

The choice of needles was a bit more difficult. I had three that seemed to be reasonable size for the job, and I chose the middle of those three. After much difficulty with the packaging (which seemed to be, essentially, embedding the needles in solid plastic with a veneer of paper on the back) I extracted the needle... and promptly reconsidered my selection.

The eye of the needle was too large for the thread, and I thought maybe I should go with the smaller needle. I was feeling quite indecisive and part of me worried that I was going to shelve the project and bust out the Dyson vacuum, after all.

Have you ever read or heard about when an army is shipped to a foreign shore? They are dropped off and they face long odds and morale is low ... so the generals burn the ships, ensuring the only way to live was to win the upcoming battle?

Well, there was no shop-burning here, but my impending paralysis by analysis was alleviated when I attempted to remove the smaller needle from the packagine. I performed the same routine as I had previously, which involved poking and tearing and bending the packaging... but this time I heard a "snap" and the entire top (or bottom? the part with the eye, in any case) snapped off the needle... and I was left with my first selection as my only option.

I got my sewing second wind at this point, some 20 minutes after I decided to fix the jeans, and, after some difficulty locating the end of the blue thread on the spool, managed to secure the thread to the needle.

The spool, of course, revealed its mischievous streak at this point and fell to the ground, rolling some ten feet across my well-vacuumed carpet. My sharp curse alerted Potter, my youngest cat, and he swooped in and started playing with it. I knew that my jeans were actually farther away from being fixed than they had been when I'd rolled out of bed at the crack of noon today, but I shoo'd Mr. Potts away and gathered myself (and the thread) and got to work.

After about an hour (really!) of trial and error, I managed to stitch together the hole. I think I secured either end of the thread, and although I'm not certain how well it will hold up over time, I am confident that in the short run the odds of either or both of my testicles falling out of my pants are much lower.

I still have to tackle the back pocket. Wish me luck...

A Tale of Two Concerts

I don't go to all that many rock and roll shows. I live in a city that's been known, off and on, for its music scene for some time. I've lived on Capital Hill with venues that have lots of live music. I worked near the Crocodile, which is re-opened and kind of a big deal, historically.

Music just isn't that important to me... at least going to see people play it isn't.

With that being said, I enjoy the communal nature of going to a concert. As his codename implies, Flowers has nanorgasms whenever he hears the Killers, and most of my circle of friends in Seattle has at least some level of appreciation for their work. This resulted in an even dozen of us heading the Vegas this past weekend to see the Killers make their music.

Of those 12, four of us decided to double-down by seeing the Killers in Seattle tonight, as well. Thinking I'd CERTAINLY have a job by now, I purchased a pair of tickets back in January-ish. I suppose I could have sold them for money for important stuff like food or a fourth cat, but I decided to invite a friend, we'll call her Stix, and roll to the WaMu Theater to see the show.

The vibe was... different. I don't want to say worse, because I had fun tonight, but I will say worse because it was not as much fun as the Las Vegas show. I'm going to do a little exploration of the differences to try to determine why it was less good for me (although better for Flowers, who claimed it was "better than the Bravery", which was a show we saw in January 2008 that preceded me fighting for his honor and getting scraped up in the process).

Some factors. Order is random, although my subconscious might rank them somehow in terms of importance:

1. Seattle: sober. Vegas: hammered. This is something that influenced everything I saw and did at the show. I was in a happy drunk, and that was a good thing. I was in a good mood in Seattle, as well, but I was a bit more irritated by other factors than I might have been had I imbibed heavily. On the other hand, maybe I would have been more irritated.
2. Stix is short. I was on the floor for both shows, but in Vegas, with TM2000, Thor and Flowers, I never had to worry about what they could see and what they could not. Stix is a smart, strong, capable person... but she was about 5'3" in her boots. In the middle of the opening act, she noticed how precious little of the stage and performers she could see... I felt bad for her, and I felt some responsibility. She could have wiggled up the front but didn't want to ditch me, and I tried to clear space throughout the show behind short people so she could actually see. It wasn't a chore, but it wasn't something I had to think about in Vegas.
   
3. Seattle: all-ages show. Oh, man. I didn't think about how much of a great thing it was that the Joint is 21 and up only. I felt weird getting checked out by female teenagers, for one thing, at the Seattle show (I'm a sexy beast, what can I say? Alternatively, they were wondering what their dad was doing there). More importantly, though, there was a lack of civility at the Seattle show that simply wasn't present in Vegas. Crowd-surfing occurred with bare-chested guys who evidently thought they were watching Black Flag and didn't care how much sweat they dropped on everyone. Stix also had to make a conscious effort not to beat the shit out of four youngsters who were speaking quite rudely to her. It would have been a MUCH different experience (and blog) if she'd started throwing punches, believe me!
4. Song playlist. I like the Killers. I know many of their songs. I don't know all of their songs, though, the way I do, say, Teenage Fanclub or Weezer. In Vegas this was not a problem, but in Seattle it seemed like about 40% of the songs I just didn't know. Why not? Was it that I was more sober, and therefore aware? Perhaps. I will have to speak to Flowers for guidance in this area. Or I can take a trip to Canada so he'll read my blogs again and fill me in.
   
5. Venue. There are two aspects to this: first of all, the WaMu Theater holds considerably more people. It holds between 3300 and 7000 people, depending on the event. I have no idea how many were there tonight, but it was considerably more than the Joint's 1400. Further, the Joint is just COOL. I remember turning around during the Vegas show and seeing people packed in multiple balconies all around... it felt like a big deal, and it felt classy, and it felt special. The WaMu Theater had what look like old movie theater seating centered in the back, with the barricade beer garden and the large free-for-all floor. My view tonight was fantastic, because we made our way up pretty far, but it just didn't have the same vibe.
6. Hometown advantage (Killers). The Killers are from Las Vegas. I think that they appreciated being the opening show in a pretty significant new venue, and I think that they might have put on a more energetic show for their home town. I might be right, but I doubt it.
   
7. Hometown disadvantage (me). Usually I'm anti-expectations... I think that if I get them up, I'm just setting myself up for disappointment. With the Vegas show, though? I was not going to be disappointed no matter what in spite of high expectations. We'd traveled a significant number of miles to see the show and it was awesome to be there with some of my best friends in the world... I really enjoyed seeing the show tonight with Stix and Flowers and Natty Ice and [codename pending], but c'mon... it was a 12 minute taxi ride from the top of Queen Anne to get to the show. It simply couldn't compete in terms of anticipation.

I don't want to sound negative about the show or about the venue or about my company tonight... I had a great time. On the heels of an extraordinary show and trip, though, the Seattle Killers show (or, rather, "the Seattle the Killers show", or, alternatively, "the Killers show that took place in Seattle", or, perhaps, "shut up Ed and finish this blog") was doomed to come in second place.

Vegas III: Escape from the Wynn

Introduction

I spent Friday and Saturday nights in Vegas. I went with 11 of the most radical people in the world (sort of the Islamist arm of my Seattle friendship Muslim world) and we saw the Killers. We drank. We sang karaoke. And we drank.

It was about 4:30 AM. I was at the Wynn hotel, talking to some lovely women from Mexico. Thor was talking to Diamonds, and I was talking to Patrón.

Let's pick it up there, shall we?

Extraction

Patron was no more sober than I was, but she seemed to have boundless energy. She was bouncing from person to person and ordering tequila and driving me crazy... in a good way.

Shockingly, there weren't that many guys around. It was about 5:00 AM, and the casino was relatively empty, but it shocked me how many of the random guys who wandered past the bar chose to speak to the prostitutes that were hanging at the bar, rather than the girls Thor and I were. Maybe they knew they had no chance.

Of course, not EVERY guy is going to know he had no chance. My focus was on Patrón, and one older gentleman just wouldn't give up. My ego would have taken a beaten the likes of which it had never seen if she had chosen to hang out with him rather than me... thank goodness my ego was not put through that.

At some point, Patrón wanted to go home. I offered to escort her back. She decided she wanted some pens and grabbed about 20 from the bar... but when only 15 would fit in her purse, I took possession of the remainder and put them back where they belonged.

We bid adieu to our friends and the old guy and started on our way to her room in the Encore, which is a hotel attached to the Wynn.

First Leg

Here's the first leg of our trek to her room. The red line indicates our path, and major events are numbered on the map, with descriptions of the events below:

The first issue is that I had no idea where her room was. I had no idea what the Encore was, let alone how to get there.

The second issue, of course, is that I was not sober enough and/or aware enough to simply follow signs.

The third issue is that Patrón seemed to know where she was going.

The fourth issue is that Patrón didn't really know where she was going.

But here are the events...

1. We started at the "B Bar" we sort of slipped away as the rest of the people made merry. We took a hard right and started on our way towards the Encore and her room. We were having a fun little conversation as we walked. Then, as we approached what she thought was where we wanted to be, she challenged me to a race.
   
   
2. "Challenged you to a race?" Yes, challenged me to a race. She gave me her purse to carry. She took off her heels. And she said something like, "You win if you touch that door first." I resisted asking what I'd get if I won. But I definitely won the race.
   
   
3. I won. I won the race. She lost the race. But she left me speechless with her next act: she fell down, panting. Panting heavily. Writhing in exhaustion. It was one of the sexiest things I've ever seen, and I would bet you just about anything that she knew it. I plopped down a couple steps from her, preparing to wait her out.

Second Leg

Unfortunately, even after she stopped wiggling around so fetchingly, and I was able to overcome that distraction... we weren't where we wanted to be. Someone looking at that map now might say, "But you are! You just had to turn left to go to the Encore!", and someone might be right. But we weren't that observant, clearly, and events transpired that I'm still both amused and befuddled by.

We sat there, on the ground in a deserted part of the hotel/casino, kinda giggling, when someone approached...

4. "Sir? Miss? I need to ask you to stand up" We looked over and there was a geeky guy walking our way. I think he name was "Andy". I, naturally, popped right up, feeling a bit abashed. Patrón looked at the guy and didn't really make a move to get up. He stood a few paces away, waiting. She eventually mumbled something under her breath and I helped her to her feet. We asked for directions and he gave them to us... to go back from whence we came. I'm not quite sure why he gave us such bad directions. Did we misunderstand him? Did he misunderstand us? Or was he being a jerk on purpose? 
   
   Why would he have an attitude? Maybe it was this exchange between the three of us:
   

   Andy: Miss, you must get off of the floor.
   Patrón: I will. In a minute.
   Andy: Miss, I need you to get up now.
   Patrón: Who are you, anyway?
   Andy: I am Andy [Whomever], security team chief. Please get up.
   Patrón: (With my help, getting up) I'm getting up. Why do I have to?
   Me: Well, I don't want us to get booted from the hotel.
   Patrón: He can't throw me out. Does he know who I am?

   It was funny to me. I doubt it was funny to Andy. But, still, he escorted us as we walked back towards the bar.
   
   
5. Andy's mood didn't improve when Patrón pulled her next stunt. I can't blame her--I'm a sexy beast--and I wasn't complaining at the time. Or, rather, I wasn't complaining with all of my heart.
   
   As we walked down the empty corridor, Patrón walked with her right arm in my left arm and Andy was about eight feet to my right, keeping pace.
   
   Suddenly, Patrón made a break for the wall to the left. She lifted some sort of curtain that was acting as a wall covering-decoration thingie and stepped between it and the wall. I looked at Andy, shrugged apologetically, and followed her over to the wall to retrieve her.
   
   When I lifted the sheet she looked up at me mischievously and pulled me close to her and we kissed a little bit. It was pretty hot and it was pretty fun but I knew Andy was standing there, waiting for us to come out. When I heard him say, "Really. I am NOT in the mood for this!" I regretfully dragged us out and we continued our trek.
   
   
6. Andy let us go and Patrón and I passed the bar where we'd met. We saw our friends and she squeaked a bit about getting another drink, but I was determined to get her back to her place without getting kicked out, so after a short conversation she agreed to keep going.
   
   
7. We'd been walking, like, a LONG time at this point. I think we'd left the bar at about 5:30 and it had to be around 6:10 or so when we finally asked someone else where the Encore elevators were. The employee explained that they were back, past the bar, where we'd originally raced. 

Third Leg

We were both exhausted. We still had booze in us. Fortunately our frustrated attempt to escape the Wynn struck us both as more funny than frustrating.

And so we turned back. Again. But we were giggling about it.

8. Patrón still had more tricks up her sleeve, and she seemed to be gaining momentum as we went along. After we'd doubled-back, she once again took a special interest in a decoration along the wall... this decorative item was a wood sculpture-like feature that had a thick rope integrated into it. The ~12 feet of rope had loops on either end and was laced around the wood, hooked at either end.
   
   A nice-looking, interesting piece. Nothing spectacular, of course, but not something that all indicated it should be fiddled with. At least not to me. But I'm not Patrón.
   
   She saw it as a bit of a puzzle... or at least a challenge. As I repeatedly said, "No... no...", she unhooked part of the rope and began to unwind it from the wall. I followed her and considered whether it was better to grab her to stop her or try to talk her out of it. I didn't know her well, and I didn't know if she'd appreciate me restraining her, so I looked to the four (yes, FOUR!) employees watching in amazement as Patrón kept at her task.
   
   One employee--who was a supervisor, I think--shook her head and said, "Miss, you can NOT be serious!" but Patrón finished removing the rope and acted like she was going to sneak off with it. It would have been 100% hilarious except that I could see the supervisor closing the 25 foot gap between us and I was worried we were about to get kicked out.
   
   So it was only 99.5% hilarious.
   
   The supervisor took the rope. I explained that we'd had a little bit to drink and were just trying to get back safely to her room. Patrón was already on the move by the time the supervisor shook her head and waved me along, telling me to follow the signs to the Encore.
   
   
9. We walked past the bar again. Our friends were still there. This time I think we knew that we had to keep walking or else we'd never make it back.
   
   
10. The tenth event, and parts beyond, simply don't map very well. Not because they aren't linear events, but because for some reason my memory is extremely hazy. 
    
    We followed the signs. We were on the right track. We were making good progress. And then we saw the cones.
    
    There was a cleaning man. There were big yellow "slippery when wet" cones. And Patrón wanted a cone. So she took one. She took one of those meter-tall cones and tucked it under her right arm and ran.
    
    I looked back at the cleaning man, who was staring after her, aghast. I shrugged at him and said I'd get it back. I then took off after her, confident I'd overtake her quickly. After all, I'd beaten her in a race about 40 minutes earlier.
    
    Something funny happened, though. You know how, in video games, when you drive over a "power up" you get a speed boost? Well, for Patrón, that cone was a super speed boost.
    
    I could not catch her.
    
    She got a head start, and then she ducked in a niche in the wall and I blew right past her. She giggled and accelerated past me, as I shrugged at the three or four employees watching us--her with a big yellow cone under her arm, shuffling along at superhuman speeds and me trying to keep up.
    
    Another supervisor called out at one point, and he had the snap in his voice of someone used to being listened to. Patrón stopped on the other side of a huge column and dropped the cone. I retrieved it and had this interaction with the supervisor:
    

    Me: Hi.
    Supervisor: Where did that cone come from?
    Me: Back there... she's been running with it for about five minutes. I'm sorry.
    Supervisor: You need to take it back.
    Me: She's had a bit to drink. I'm worried that if I take the cone back she won't get to her apartment safely.
    Supervisor: Well... yes. OK. Leave it here. I'll take care of it. Get her home safely.
    Me: I will, thank you.

    It wasn't quite, "Do you know who she is?", but it did the job.

Aftermath

We found the elevator. We went to her floor. She challenged me to another race, and evidently there was some residual cone power in there because she beat me.

After some final minor issues, including the 15 pens taken from the bar spilling all over the floor when she got her keycard out, we made it. It had only taken us about an hour, but we had escaped from the Wynn.

It's no big shocker that we were asleep about 45 seconds after entering the room...

Vegas II: Bar Talk (Now with Hookers!)

Buddy #1 and I rolled from the Imperial Palace to the Wynn at about 3:30 AM Sunday morning. That Buddy #1 had to catch a flight about seven hours later wasn't much of a consideration for either of us.

He was focused on the craps, and I was focused on adventure.

Well, I don't know if my eyes were focused on it on account of the booze I'd consumed. I believe that I was still walking straight, but I was exhausted and my voice was shot from the concert the night before and karaoke earlier in the night, and my hair was spiked beyond reason.

A perfect recipe for adventure.

After watching B#1 play craps for about two minutes, my wanderlust kicked in and I started off in another direction. I had nowhere, in particular, to go. I had exchanged txts with some key members of the crew and knew that someone, at some point, would show up to help entertain me, but in the meantime I would have to make my own fun.

Of course, in Vegas, you have to avoid fun or else fun will hit you in the face and give you a bloody lip. It'll be fun blood, of course, but it will still hit you if you're not careful.

"Making it rain" is a term that I was familiar with. In spite of (a) being about as white as a man can be, and (b) not having spent a dollar in a strip club in over a decade, I know that "making it rain" is when a person has a stack of paper currency and pushes/peels off the bills rapidly to make the bills rain down... on a stripper, I guess. At least that's my working definition of the phrase. I had heard about it, I'd seen video of it (sans stripper part, of course... I don't think there are actually video clips of nudity on the Interwebz). But it's been rare that I've seen people do it in person... even as a joke.

Of course, I was in Vegas, so when I saw attractive women standing at a bar throwing money around (literally, in this case) I ought not have been surprised.

As far as rainstorms go, it wasn't much. It was a $20 and a $5 and maybe four or five ones... but it was funny and it was enough to get me to get within speaking distance of the chicks at the bar.

Which was close enough for one of them to call me "Edward". Like Edward Cullen, from Twilight. I suppose it was the spiky hair.

Setting aside how notoriously androgynous the character of Edward Cullen (as played by Robert Pattinson in the movie) is, that's a pretty good opening for me. My name is, after all, Edward. And I am, after all, from Washington state. I'm no vampire, but I suck in many ways, too. Although I didn't really mention that last bit.

I spoke to a couple of the ladies and it turned out that there was a group of five or six of them in from Monterrey, Mexico. As I've mentioned, they were very attractive... and, in a shocking turn of events they were not only good-looking but also lots of fun and actually nice.

Later I commented to Thor that I was shocked they weren't being swarmed by guys, given those factors. He pointed out that, even in Vegas, 4:00 AM tends to cut down the dudeswarming potential. Excellent point.

So the first girl I spoke to, we'll call her Diamonds, gave me some basic info on her group before introducing me to the woman sitting next to her, claiming it was the woman's birthday.

The woman sitting next to her was CLEARLY not in her group. In fact, it was rather clear what she was, but I engaged her in conversation anyway. Because it's Vegas.

Her: Hey! We have the same phone.
Me: Yep.

Her: Come closer.

Me: (Shuffling a step or two to my right) She said it was your birthday?

Her: What's your name?

Me: Ed. Yours?

Her: (Reaching her hand up towards my chest) CC. CC with the natural double-D's.

Me: I see.

Her: (Fondling my left nipple through my shirt) What are you doing?
Me: Now? Or in Vegas? Or in terms of general life matters?

Her: Now. Tonight.

Me: Oh. Uh. Hanging out. My buddy (pointing to my left, at which time she shifted to my right nipple) is playing craps. I'm talking to these lovely ladies from Mexico.

Her: (Dirty look at the girls)

Her Friend: (Sitting to CC's right) Hey! Don't be hitting on my girl!

Me: Um. OK. Who are you?
HF: Cookie. That's my girl, right there.

Me: I see.

Her: So... you want to hang out?

Me: Um. Like, now?

Her: Now. Later. Whenever. Now.

Me: I just have to ask... this going to be a business transaction?

Her: Yes.

Me: Sorry. No, thanks.

And I pivoted right back to Diamonds and the girls and left CC and Cookie alone. At least for a little bit.

At some point shortly thereafter, Patron showed up. Like her friends, she was pretty and having a lot of fun. She was more hyper than her friends, though, and earned her codename by repeatedly shouting "Ryan! Ryyyyyyan! Patron and ice!" at the bartender, who was named Ryan. She actually called him Raymond and Ray at various points, but she was able to remember "Ryan" most of the time.

More on her later, though. Actually, Patron will be starring in the third of the Vegas Trilogy blogs.

Around 4:15 or so the cavalry arrived. Flowers, Silver Hammer, Thor, TM2000. I was happy to see them, and Thor, in particular, was rapidly integrated into the Monterrey chick mix. Diamonds, like so many non-visually impaired women before her, was intrigued by him and they ended up talking for about eight hours straight. (Exaggeration? Or truth? Not my story to tell...)

In the mean time, CC and Cookie were chilling at the bar... and I think it was only fair that TM2000 got to meet them.

As Thor was holding down the Mexico front, I walked over to the other guys to see how their post-karaoke night had gone. They'd hit up a club and wandered a bit. They were in a good mood and so I told TM2000 that I wanted to introduce him to someone.

Now, TM2000 is not single. He's happy with his gf, but no straight man would not be interested in meeting attractive chicks that his buddy was just chatting up. So when I told him I wanted to introduce him, he was naturally interested.

Of course, I led him right past the girls, around the bar to ... CC. I told her that I wanted to introduce her to a friend of mine. I then walked back to the group of guys and watched.

I couldn't hear the conversation, but TM2000 knew I'd got him. He is a respectful guy, in his own way, and there's something odd about speaking to someone you have so little in common with. The conversation was brief and the only part I know of was this:

CC: You like to have a good time?

TM2000: No. Never.

I might have gone for the "Not with you" line, but I also might have ended up stabbed, so his dry sarcasm was probably a wiser rejoinder. I know that, even at the time, I thought I was being a bit stupid in laughing at her and cracking jokes about 20 feet away from her that she MIGHT have been able to hear.

Oh, well. I'm sure she's heard worse and if someone's going to stab me over that, they're going to have to get in line.

After TM2000 returned, I reveled in my good-natured jest-making with him and walked back over to Thor and Diamonds and Patron and the rest of the group.

~~ And thus ends part II of the Vegas Trilogy

Vegas I: Facebook Status Updates

Two things you need to know to appreciate this blog. They're not terribly complicated, and I'd imagine that you could figure these things out within the context of this entry, but...

1. I went to Las Vegas to see the Killers this weekend. "How does a man who's currently taking an extended sabbatical from actual adulthood afford such a trip?", inquiring minds might want to know. I saved some pennies and have chosen my friends wisely. TM2000 was my primary sugar daddy, with considerable alcohol-based support from Buddy #1 and emotional support from Flowers. There were 12 of us in our group, including Thor, Natty Ice, Silver Hammer and Firehose. It was a very memorable, very exciting trip. The show was great and the city was fantastic. More on that in a moment.
2. I use Twitter. I also use Facebook, and I have a doo-hicky (tech jargon, I know) for Facebook that allows me to tweet (send Twitter updates) to change my Facebook status from my phone. It lets me document my activities/thoughts/feelings for later examination by Interwebz historians. Or by a more sober version of myself.

Coincidentally enough, these two factors come together, like peanut butter and chocolate, for one incredible taste sensation. Or at least for this blog.

The plan? List my status updates and try to provide context for each. Hopefully tell a story or two. You ready? I'm ready. Let's do this thing.

Fri 12:11am: Ed O is tentatively planning on (1) sleeping, (2) going to the gym, (3) packing and prepping for Las Vegas, and (4) meeting at TM2000's place. All in the next eight hours. Possible?

Most Thursday nights I do the "LQA crawl": prefunk, hit up Chopstix and then Ozzies. Usually TM2000/Flowers/Thor accompanies me and it's a nice alternative weekend night (often resulting in me taking Saturday nights off altogether).

Because I knew I was going to be flying out at around 11:00, and because I consider getting out of bed before 9:00 to be oppressive without ample rest, I decided to take it significantly easier: no drinking and an early night. TM2000 was out with me until about 11 and I was home at midnight.

Before bed, I ambitiously charted out the remaining tasks. Why I hadn't just gone to the gym on Thursday or packed before midnight is a mystery. I'm a man of many mysteries. And occasional indolence. But mainly mysteries.

Fri 6:02am: Ed O is awakened by his alarm clock, looks at the numbers, and decides to get a bit more sleep.

Unfortunately, I didn't get to bed until about 1:30.  I decided to pack before going to bed, but my subconscious decided not to let me sleep until significantly later. I set my alarm for 6:00 AM with every intention of rolling out of bed and going to the gym early before prepping for the trip.

In spite of the lack of energy to actually get out of bed and go to the gym, I had the energy to send a tweet to update my status before rolling over for another hour of sleep.

Fri 4:47 pm: Ed O thinks that mustaches are underrepresented in Las Vegas and is doing his best to remedy that.

In late 2008/early 2009, I had a mustache. My mustache and I had a love/hate relationship going... I loved that I was willing to sport and nurture it, but I hated that I was subject to near-daily ridicule for sporting and nurturing it. After I shaved it off, I felt like a massive social albatross had been liften from my shoulder. Or at least my upper lip.

With that being said? I am willing to dabble with a bit of facial hair now and again.

I had eschewed the razor for a couple of weeks and decided to rock a mustache for the plane ride to Vegas. As mustaches tend to do when I grow them, it lasted longer than I'd anticipated and I decided to wear it during the concert. Just because I could.

We started drinking in the early afternoon, which probably was another factor in the keeping of the mustache, as well as my odd decision to do something odd with my hair. I spiked it up oddly in a sort of messy pompadour and expected to be mocked by my friends and change it to something more conventional. 

Naturally, the opinions proferred were all positive and I let it ride.

Fri 8:27 pm:Fri 8:27pm: Ed O has to rely on his liver to carry him through... go, liver! Rely on your buddy Red Bull!

The show started at 8:00. After a robust prefunk involving numerous rum and diets and touchdowns, I was already buzzing when we arrived at The Joint at the Hard Rock Hotel. We had bought tickets online in a mad online dash earlier (the venue only holds 1400 people, and the Killers are kind of a big deal AND it was the first-ever show at the brand-new arena) and so we'd purchased blocks of tickets at different levels so when we split up I was on the floor with Flowers, Thor and TM2000.

Flowers only wanted to get into the beer line once, so he loaded each of us up with a pair of beers. I am not the hugest beer fan in the world, but (a) it was free, and (b) I was already sufficiently sloshed that I knew it would taste just fine.

By 8:30, though? Wow. I was hoping that the energy drink coursing through my veins would pull me through.

Saturday 1:17am: Ed O is surprised to learn that ~90% of songs played in Las Vegas implore listenerd to throw and/or keep their hands up.

The concert was great. The Killers know how to play the rock and roll music and I got to see Thor pushed around by an angry five-feet tall chick after he bumped her and spilled some of her drink. For some reason (see: already drinking for about four hours) I found it tear-rolling-down-the-cheeks hilarious.

After the concert, I stopped by and said hi to a friend of mine that is the lead singer of the go go dancers at the Hard Rock and our group split up. Thor, TM2000 and I stepped into a dance club and dance-dance-danced the night away. Well, the rest of the night and a good chunk of the morning.

I think that I've previously written about my inability to meet girls on or around a dance floor. I know I have gone into excruating detail about my lack of dancing capabilities. I still am trying to piece together some sort of connection there, so I'm gonna focus on my comrades.

TM2000 is a good dancer. I think. I'm bad enough that I'm not exactly sure what I'm seeing when I watch people dance, but he's confident and appears to know what he's doing. Plus he occasionally seems to threaten me with a c-walk challenge... and I had to google that just now to even make sure I knew I was spelling it correctly.

As for Thor...

Saturday 1:54am: Ed O wants you to dance like no one's dancing... because he probably is and can use a chuckle.

Before we get to Thor, I wanted to comment on this. I've been told that my drunk txt messages are odd because I tend to be rather fastidious about my use of grammar and syntax. Or at least use of proper grammar and syntax.

After three hours, though, of dancing and laughing (see below) after several hours of drinking? Even I make mistakes. Like txting "dancing" instead of "watching".

Saturday 2:05am: Ed O wants you to dance like no one's watching... because he probably is and needs a chuckle.

Thor is a fantastic singer. He plays piano like a pro. He plays the guitar like an angel... I think I remember angels playing guitars. 

So he's a musical guy. Great.

On Friday night/Saturday morning, I saw a new side of Thor. A dancing side.

I don't know what brought it out. I've seen him impaired from various intoxicants at different points in our friendship, but I've never seen him dance. In flip-flops. For four hours straight.

Fortunately, I saw it in Vegas. He danced. He danced up on girls. He talked to girls. He engaged in (and declared himself the winner of) a dance-off. He also attempted to dance barefoot at some point, but had enough good sense to take my advice that he didn't want to be limping around due to broken-bottlely cut-footedness.

That he ended up limping around due to extended dancing does not reduce the soundness of my advice... you just can't expect to perform a dance move I call the "Rib-breaking Baby-maker" without some soreness the next day.

Saturday 9:41am: Ed O started Day II of Vegas with horrible dreams of his friends being beaten up quite severely. :(

After coming back to my Trump hotel room (I shared a two-bedroom suite-like situation with TM2000, Thor, and Silver Hammer), Silver Hammer brought us up to speed on his night, including the fact that Buddy #1 had blood on his shirt. We've seen this before and while he wasn't beating up racists this time, he was reportedly defending Firehose's honor as an Everett firefighter.

I wasn't sure that the story exactly held water, but it clearly influenced the nightmares that I was having in the three or four hours of sleep I got. Flowers txted me at about 9:30 and I decided to get up and explore the hotel. After about seven minutes by the pool I fled back to the air-conditioned safety of non-sunburning hotel interior, and I ended up meeting up with a big chunk of the group for a buffet brunch at the Wynn around 11:00.

Saturday 12:44pm: Ed O just ate the shit out of that $30 + tax and tip buffet.

I haven't always been a big fan of buffets. I think that they either are ripoffs or they contribute to obesity. It's a bit of a no-win situation for the buffet eaters.

Vegas, though, is different, and I enjoy the buffets I've eaten there. This one was no different.

Gnocchi. Pizza. Hum bao. Omelette. More gnocci. Breads. Desserts. I consumed six or seven plates worth of food, and it was the last meal I would eat in Vegas until a Whopper in the airport about 28 hours later. 

More interesting, though, at least to me, was the odd way our collective geekiness came out as we were wrapping up our meal. I sent this tweet and within five minutes four of the six other diners at our table had commented on Facebook, and it would have been all six if Buddy #1 was not making night soil and Flowers wasn't a technophobe.

Saturday 7:49pm: Ed O is NOT pleased by the start in Portland...

After brunch I went to the pool and seemingly avoided getting burned thanks to borrowed sunscreen (and, yes, I plan on secreting it back at some point to return it to my friends). The pool was just OK, but it was a dramatic change in weather from the Seattle blah weather.

After another prefunk starting around 3:00, Buddy #1, Firehose and I went to the Wynn to watch the Portland Trail Blazers first playoff game in five years. I am a huge Blazers fan and I was excited to see them return to action in a home matchup against the Rockets.

Things did not go well. I don't want to talk about it.

I ended up winning $10 on video poker, getting a couple of free drinks in the process, and that was the extent of my gambling ventures for the weekend.

Saturday 11:33pm: Ed O is having a "big hair" evening.

After the Blazers got blown out and I won the fortune, we headed back to the Trump to get changed and meet up with the rest of the crew on the Strip. 

I noted early, as part of the concert preparedness, I sort of spiked my hair up. Well, probably because I had been drinking for several hours, when I changed into post-NBA Playoffs attire my hair seemed flat. Boring. 

My solution? More product. My hair is pretty thick and it can be unruly, but Saturday night was ridiculous. I couldn't get it to be interesting as half-way between flat against my head and spiked up, so I spiked it up. All of it. It was pretty ridiculous.

I also zapped the 'stache.

Sunday 2:07am: Ed O finds few things more frustrating in life than trying to sing karaoke when he has a fried voice.

Buddy #1, Firehose and I took a cab to the Imperial Palace to sing karaoke. It is on the strip, and it's definitely a step down from the Trump and the hotels around it... people in the casino were dressed like (*gasp*) tourists, rather than people who were going out for table service at dance clubs. It wasn't better or worse (OK, yes, it was worse) but it definitely was different.

I'd sung karaoke once before in Vegas, in October of 2007 with TM2000 when we went to Ellis Island karaoke. Ellis Island is definitely focused on locals... it's off the strip and a bit dive-ish. I actually enjoyed the experience, but one of Firehose's buddies recommended the Imperial Palace and so B#1/Firehose/TM2000/Flowers/Thor/I ended up hanging around the karaoke area for a couple of hours before we temporarily split up for a while.

The thing is that my voice was fried. It was bad. I had sung along at the top of my lungs with most of the Killers' songs (except the one or two I didn't know, and a pair of brief distractions that rendered my mouth unavailable). I had laughed my left lung out at the dance club the night before. I was not used to smoke wafting into my face. I didn't sleep much the night before. I was terrifically dehydrated because the tap water was too hard and the bottled water too expensive for my cheap ass.

But I tried. I sang "Stayin' Alive" at about 30% volume so I wouldn't blow my remaining voice out. The other guys rocked their songs. Good times were had. Incredibly strong touchdowns soothed the pain of my inability to sing as well as I'd have liked.

Sunday 3:26am: Ed O just ran train on his hair. Dear Lord.

First of all, I'm not going to apologize for blaspheming. 

Secondly, I am not going to explain running train. If you don't know what running train is in a general sense, you are probably better off NOT knowing.

In this context, which I created after much alcohol and little sleep the night before, I meant "really fucked up in a weird way".

It was late. I was feeling good. My body was awake but much of my mind slept. And I don't mean in a "we only use 3% of our brains and therefore can't open shrink-wrapped DVD boxes with telekenisis" kind of way... I mean in a "do something first, think about it later" kind of way.

My hair was already spiky. It had settled down due to gravity, but it was still way weirder than I normally wore it. The product remained intact, though, and when I re-spiked it at about 3:30 AM it made me look ridiculous.

But it got me attention, I guess. And in Vegas isn't that part of the fun?

Sunday 3:51am: Ed O Someone just told me I looked like "Twilight". Then acquaintances tried to settle it down. They have no idea that my hair, aided by hair product from 7 Salon, has achieved consciousness

It's fun to talk to people and ask who they've been told they look like. Presumably most of us have been told we look like a sibling or a parent, but it's much more interesting when someone is told they look like someone famous, like Snoop Dogg. Or Flavor Flav. Or Jason "White Chocolate" Williams.

Most of the time when people ask me that question, I don't have a good answer. When someone tells me I look familiar, I chalk it up to having rather unremarkable features. I suppose I've been told that I look like Ron Livingston a bit... but as much as everyone loves Office Space, that's just not that exciting of a name to throw out there as my celebrity doppleganger.

Lately, though? This has changed a bit. There have been a pair of celebrities that I've been told I look like. They're both guys... that's the good news. The bad news is the distinct lack of testonsterone in either person. One step at a time, I suppose.

The first guy is Adam Lambert from American Idol. I don't watch the show and while I've heard him sing (and think he's very very good) I don't have enough data to really know if I think he looks like my younger brother. The odd thing is that of the eight or ten people who have told me that he reminds them of me, they're almost all people that I know pretty well... they say he talks like me and looks like me and smiles like me. I dunno. I'm pretty sure he doesn't like girls like me. Not that there's anything wrong with that!

The second comparison actually is pretty recent. Like last night. Immediately after I spiked my hair out ridiculously.

I've never read the Twilight books. I've never seen the Twilight movie. But I know that Edward Cullen is a major character, a vampire that does something that makes young women everywhere quiver and everyone else wonder if he's gay or not.

At the Wynn I watched B#1 play craps for a few minutes before looking for my next adventure. I got about 10 steps from the table when someone random told me I looked like "Twilight". I tweeted it because it was funny to me.

About ten steps further, I was called "Edward Cullen" by a few cute Mexicanas. I was introduced to a pair of prostitutes. The rest of the gang arrived, and I had one of the most interesting "get a new friend back to her hotel room in one piece" adventures... ever.

Hopefully that story will be told tomorrow. I plan on including at least one map. I know the kids like the maps. Right now, though? I should sleep. I've got about 9 hours in the last three nights combined... yay, Vegas!

Movies

I don't watch a ton of movies. I rarely go to the theater because of the cost and because I'm caught in the trap of expectations (if I'm excited enough to want to see a movie, I'm invariably disappointed) and cost. While I enjoy watching movies at home (especially 5-11 minute clips of a particular adult-themed type), I simply don't own that many.

BitTorrent has never really worked for me, so I don't download movies. I don't have a Blockbuster or NetFlix account, and never feel compelled to sign up for one.

The movies that I like, I own. And pretty much the only movies I watch are ones I own. It's not the best way to expand my movie-watching horizons, but I have a nice little collection of movies that I don't really get sick of watching.

With all of that as preamble, I am gonna list the top 10 movies that I own. If anyone reading this blog ever wants to spend an evening experiencing any of these movies, let me know. I will consider watching with you... pants are optional for the more attractive female potential visitors, of course.

10. Strange Brew

Strange Brew has a lot of nostalgic value for me, and I still think of it whenever I meet Canadians... which helps explain why I add "eh" to everything Canadians tell me and why I start giggling uncontrollably when I hear anything resembling a Canadian accent.

I also saw this movie before I read Hamlet, and there are innumerable (well... I guess there is a number to them) references to that play... so when I saw that the castle was named "Elsinore" I enjoyed Hamlet much more than the other kids in my class, I think.

9. Mallrats

Kevin Smith writes some funny movies. Clerks is in my collection (along with Clerks II and a couple of other Smith flicks), but Mallrats is my favorite. It's cheesy and it's silly and Jeremy London turns in probably the worst acting job of any movie I own, let alone on this list, but it's got a great energy and I really enjoy it.

Comic book references abound... Stan Lee makes an appearance (as himself), and there are a few "My Name is Earl" connections. Plus there is perhaps the best Sega Genesis-based breakup in the history of the universe.

8. Hot Rod

Hot Rod, from the makers of Jizz in My Pants and On a Boat, the Lonely Island guys put together a movie that's actually pretty good. The physical humor is really strong and the supporting cast is delightful.

The end is sappy and the Chris Parnell bits in the final scene are annoying, but this movie has too many good scenes for anyone with a sense of humor not to see.

7. Reservoir Dogs

Yes, Tarantino is probably overhyped. Yes, his scenes often are too much for many people. But when it works for you, it REALLY works. At least when it works for me, it REALLY works. Reservoir Dogs is amazing. Violent. Simple. Fun dialog with pop culture references that aren't quite as obscure as much of what he's written.

Tarantino is the only guy who gets two movies on my list. But he's also the only guy who shows an ear get cut off and discusses the fairness of tipping waitresses in depth. He deserves it.

6. Evil Dead II

Oh, man. How is this only number six on my list? Evil Dead II breaks rules and is ridiculous with cliches, but Bruce Campbell on-camera and Sam Raimi behind the camera made this movie just a ton of fun. Like several movies on this list, it might not be the easiest to watch, and it won't appeal to everyone.

There's a sequel to this gem, called Army of Darkness, and it's a whole other genre and a whole second helping of awesomeness. 

5.  Bottle Rocket

Wes Anderson knows what he's doing. He weaves memorable characters in whimsical situations. He writes and directs well enough to keep plots going, and he has had well-casted movies. Bottle Rocket was the first movie he wrote and directed (he would later produce, write and direct Rushmore, The Royal Tenanbaums, and a few other movies) and it's my favorite one.

Bottle Rocket is perhaps a bit less funny than Rushmore, which I own, as well, but I think that it moves more quickly and I like the music it uses, so it earned a spot on my list.

4. Bananas

Woody Allen knows what he's doing, too. Maybe people with the initials "W.A." have some sort of advantage in winning me over. Allen's well-known for a variety of reasons, and his commentary-in-comedy on relationships and religion and other issues is often astounding. Bananas is an old movie, at this point (released in 1971) and it was one of his earlier efforts. Some of the references are antiquated, but they don't seem stale.

Howard Cosell? A young Sylvester Stallone in a non-speaking role? Awesomeness everywhere. And the best breakup scene, ever... even if it doesn't feature a Sega Genesis.

3. Glengarry Glen Ross

This was originally a play, and it's obvious. There are few locations in Glengarry Glen Ross and there are no explosions or special effects. Oddly enough, there are no significant female roles... it's all dudes. Excellent actors who spew salesman jargon and f-bombs. It's a movie packed full of testosterone.

Alec Baldwin shows up for a scene and is very impressive, but the rest of the cast is so good that even if his scene is memorable it doesn't steal anyone's thunder.

2. Death Proof

Tarantino got me. I actually saw this one in the theaters, when it was half of the Grind House double feature. Even as I was watching the movie(s), I knew it was going to bomb. Too long and too violent and too ... weird. Tarantino is terribly self-indulgent in this movie, it seems to me, making a ton of references to cars I don't know anything about and pop culture that I just kind of have to take his word for in terms of its existence.

The movie drags in spots, and some of the portions that I find incredible would not be considered watchable by most people, I think.

Why is it at my number two, then? Because of what it made me feel when I watched it the first time. It got me hooked, emotionally, and it kept me on the edge of my seat for the whole excruciating and exciting 20 minutes of the final car chase scene. (OK. Maybe not 20 minutes. But it's a while, and it's the best car chase scene I've ever seen.)

Stuntman Mike is a fun, mysterious, bad bad guy. And this is a good good movie.

1. This is Spinal Tap

With the possible exception of about 10 minutes towards the end of the film, I could take any five minute chunk of the movie and be guaranteed to laugh at at least a dozen jokes. Spinal Tap is hilarious and it's mostly improvised, which means that the actors talk on top of each other and it's impossible to hear all of the humor in a single viewing.

It's got memorable original music. It's got awesome facial hair. It's got it all.

Hawaii Story

Last year I went to Hawaii with a few friends: TM2000, Flowers, and Flowers' gf Ice.

We sang karaoke, we got sunburned, we hiked, and we drank.

TM2000 and I also attempted to meet women. Unless we're in Mexico, that's been known to actually work occasionally.

The last night we were in Waikiki, the four of us met for drinks and TM2000 and I peeled off from the other two, who were probably going to go bump coconuts. And thus begins the adventure.

The Pickup

We weren't sure where to go, and after hitting up a bar we'd frequented, uh, frequently during our stay we decided to go to Senor Frog's. Our expectations were tremendously low... as part of our "No Women Tour of Mexico" some months earlier, we had gone to Senor Frog's in Puerto Vallarta, and while there were some attractive young women there, for some reason the young women are significantly less appealing when their parents are hovering a couple of tables away.

(Translation: the girls were all too young. Even for me. Which is saying something.)

So TM2000 and I took the elevator up to the bar. We ordered a drink. We worked the dance floor a bit (him in a skillful and appealing-to-women sort of way, me in a "oh my God, he's horrible!/someone call the paramedics, because he's going to break something if he keeps moving that spastically and unappealingly" kind of way). TM2000 started talking to a girl, and this is where (finally) things got interesting.

(Actually, things had been interesting the previous night in an adventure I had with a batch of Australian chicks... that will have to wait until another time, though.)

The woman was Japanese and she was there with another Japanese chick. They were being ruthlessly hit upon by dudes, and they were gladly accepting the free drinks that were being thrust upon them.

From my perspective? I almost NEVER buy random chicks drinks. On a date? Sure. A friend I've known for a while? Absolutely. Some girl I just met and might be interested in talking to? No way. I've done that about five times in the 2.5 years, and I have not got a kiss nor a number nor anything but thinly veiled contempt from any of the recipients. I love women.

If and when I buy a drink, though, for a girl? I think that it'd be a bad sign if she started sharing it with another random guy.

TM2000 was that random guy in this case.

The first Japanese girl, Ichi, had been the recipient of a free drink. A big, colorful, vase-like drink that was probably filled with sugars and liqueurs and odd tropical colors. Evidently it was too much, or she was trying to ditch her patron, or she was just super-interested in TM2000. For whatever reason, she offered him a sip.

I don't even remember if he took her up on it, but I know that it gave us an ability to talk to Ichi and her friend, Ni. The dudeswarm eventually receded and we convinced them to hit up another bar with us. A bar that happened to be on the way back to our hotel room.

The Extraction

Sometimes guys notice when girls are into other guys. Sometimes they do not. This was one of those "do not" situations.

Of all the guys standing around Ichi and Ni, one persevered. The bar closed and the four of us left together, and Clinger was right behind us.

Over the course of the next 15 minutes or so, Clinger followed us. He stayed within about 30 feet of us. He waited at the bottom of an escalator for us. He ignored dirty looks and he ignored when I attempted to get rid of him with a, "Look, buddy, it looks like they're hanging out with us tonight."

Finally, Ichi talked to the guy. She was pretty traditionally Japanese and she was clearly uncomfortable with the "confrontation", but she took his phone number and he finally (FINALLY) went away.

Second Location

After the uncomfortable Clinger portion of the early morning, we made our way to the other bar. It was about 3:00 at this point, if I remember correctly, and it was a bar that TM2000 and I had been to several times before. We got drinks (this second location justified my buying a drink for Ni, consistent with my general antipathy towards buy drinks for chicks) and camped in a booth. TM2000 went for the mini pitchers of Budweiser option, in spite of Ichi's request for a cocktail.

I think we kinda made fun of the douchebags that were hitting on chicks on the dancefloor. I think we talked a little bit about Japan and the US and the guy who'd stalked us. 

We then decided to go back to our hotel room for after-hours. And for adventure. Although I'm not sure promising "adventure" in a hotel room would be the best move with most women...

The Hotel Room

After we arrived at the hotel room, TM2000 admitted to me in confidence that he was feeling a bit sick to his stomach. He seemed pretty sure that he was going to vomit, but we knew there was going to be a problem. Actually, two problems.

Problem #1: Our hotel room was not that big. It had a queen bed and a cot-like mobile bed, and it had a TV, and it had an attached bathroom. It worked perfectly for us and what we needed, but it didn't provide many soundproof vomiting options.

Problem #2: Women are not really very turned on by the sound of a man vomiting. At least not many women.

So TM2000 had to vomit. We had two women in our hotel room who, presumably, didn't want to hear him upchuck on the other side of a very thin door. It was about 4:00 AM, so even if we had an audio source (TV or radio) that could drown out the sound, it could have resulted in issues with our neighbors.

Fortunately, we are creative. And, more fortunately, we had a balcony.

TM2000 stepped out onto the balcony to spray the lower floors with partially digested food and beer foam, and I attempted to distract Ichi and Ni. I did so, in part, by asking them what they did for a living.

Ichi was, as it turns out, a massage therapist. After several "happy ending" jokes, which were both racially insensitive and probably lost upon Ichi altogether, I told her that was cool and that she should give TM2000 a massage when he got back in. She agreed and I told Ni that I would give HER a massage, too.

He came back in, had something to drink and/or popped some gum in his mouth. Operation: Vomit was successful, and Operation: Freak TM2000 Out was just beginning.

TM2000 was on the right side of the bed, facing the television (which was tuned to TNT or something equally semi-boring) and Ni did the same a few feet to his left. Ichi straddled TM2000's butt and I did the same on Ni.

I enjoy giving backrubs. I hesitate to use the word "massage" because it seems like that a massage might have some medicinal value and/or require some level of professional skill.

Even though I might not be able to give a proper therapeutic massage, I can perform "monkey see, monkey do".

Ichi bent TM2000's arm one way, and I mimicked her with Ni's arm. She pushed on his neck and I pushed on Ni's. Sounds OK, right? Well, again, there were two problems with this:

Problem #1: I was not sober and I had no idea what I was doing. I had no idea the amount of pressure to apply. I could not tell how far I should be stretching Ni's limbs. She was little and I probably could have really hurt her.

Problem #2: TM2000 was screaming his head off. Remember, he had been outside when it had been established that Ichi did that for a living. Remember, too, that massages can be kind of painful, even when you expect the person to know what they're doing. In his pain and ignorance, gems such as, "You're breaking my arm!" and "What are you doing to me? Aaah!" were exclaimed, although in real life they were more in bold, all caps.

After the massage session, where miraculously no one was injured and no police were called due to the yelling, Ni decided to go home. I walked her down to the taxi and she went home.

I came back up and Ichi and TM2000 were already asleep. I crashed in the little mobile bed and slept soundly.

The Next Morning

I woke up relatively early in spite of the late night, and I cracked my eyes open to ensure it was safe to be looking around. I was confronted with an odd sight.

It was Ichi, on the bed, resting on her knees. She was looking at a sleeping TM2000, and when he finally stirred himself she waited for a moment and, in an oddly pleading tone, said, "Can I go home now?"

It was one of those odd moments in life where I just don't know what I'm seeing. Was she asking for his permission? Was she asking for a ride home? I honestly don't know.

TM2000 dismissed Ichi and we packed for the trip home and it was good.