Top Weekend Quotes

This weekend was old-school solo action. Not, like, stay home-and-look-at-porn-alone solo action, but go-out-to-my-favorite-spots-by-myself-seeking-odd-adventure solo action.

Ozzie's and Frontier Room did not disappoint. Here, in chronological order, are the top six things I heard other people say this weekend.

"Oops. He's 30."
Ozzie's has long had karaoke. Now they have rockaroke--karaoke with a live band--on Friday nights. It's awesome. I was there, drinking and watching and waiting for my turn to sing, when a guy's name was called and a group of dudes behind me exploded in shouts of "Happy birthday, man!" "Yeah, Dave! [or whatever his name was]". "The big [?]-0! Woo hoo!"

Which is fine. Totally acceptable, even if the shouts were drunken and partially unintelligible.

There was a group of women in front of me who had heard the shouts, too, and I could hear them talking about the guy who was going on stage, and their conversation went something like this:

Woman One: It's his birthday?
Woman Two: I guess.
Woman One: How old is he?
Woman Two: I dunno. They yelled it but I couldn't understand. 40, maybe?
Woman Three: Yeah, I think so. He looks it.
Woman Two: Yeah, 40.
Woman One: Let me go ask them... [wanders over to the guy's group and comes back a moment later]
Woman Two: Well?
Woman One: Oops. He's 30.
Woman Three: Ouch.

"She likes dudes that know dudes."
I was ordering a drink at the bar and a weird-looking guy was talking to two women. I got my drink but had managed to not receive a straw, so I was looking around for a straw... and the weird-looking guy struck.

Weird-Looking Guy: Hey... hey!
Me: Uh... what?
WLG: [Pointing at a not-bad looking blond] Do you want to meet Leah?
Me: Um. Sure. Hi, Leah. I'm Ed.
WLG: She likes dudes that know dudes.
Me: What? Dudes that know tunes?
WLG: No. Dudes that know dudes.
Me: [Looking at Leah, who gives me an "I dunno wtf he's talking about" look.] Um. OK.
WLG: She's been telling me that... [blah blah blah]
Me: OK. Fantastic. [Turning to leave] Nice meeting you, Leah.

I dunno what he meant, but I wasn't about to stick around and find out.

"Oops. I forgot my ring tonight!"
Part of what I prefer to do--especially at Ozzie's where there are so many things to do (two karaoke areas and a rockaroke stage)--is to keep moving. So I'm constantly battling through bottlenecks and crowds of people.

I worked my way past a group of three women, and I overheard one of them say, "Oops, I forgot my ring tonight!" and the other two giggle conspiratorially.

It's not my business. I don't know her fiancee/husband/whatever. I don't even know for sure that she meant a ring-ring. But I am pretty sure she was.

And that sort of thing disgusts me.

"Don't worry about it. They don't like vagina."
The next night I was at Frontier Room, and my nights at Frontier Room (especially when I go alone) are pretty formulaic:

1. Have a couple of drinks at my place, listening to music (often The Records)
2. Catch a bus and get to FR right before they start charging cover at 10:00
3. Order a rum and diet from my bartender
4. Chew gum and drink rum and diet and txt with friends until the dance floor warms up and the rum hits me
5. Ease my way onto the dancefloor
6. Avoid asshole guys and weird chicks as I attempt to move in a non-offensive fashion to the music
7. Either catch a cab to Neighbour's or walk home

Also, between steps 4 and 7 I often am moving around, getting more booze and passively seeking interesting occurrences.

It was during step 4 that I noticed a couple of guys dancing on the dancefloor. They weren't alone--there were other people on the half-full dancefloor, too--but they appeared to be having a dance-off. They weren't taking it too seriously, and people were amused.

As one of them was making his response, a pair of women wandered up and started to talk/half-dance with him.

Now, I'm no expert either substantively or procedurally in terms of dance-offs (that's more of Thor's department) but even as a layperson I know that people shouldn't interrupt one of the participants.

Justifiably and understandably, then the guy shrugged the women off in order to continue the battle... and one of the women looked downcast and turned away. Her friend, nursing her friend's spirits with venom, explained to her, "Don't worry about it. They don't like vagina."

Effing chicks.

"Do you remember me?"
*tick tick tick*

When I was a kid, I understood I was pretty smart. I was considered smart by my teachers and family and I had test scores and grades to prove it. To what degree it was a big fish in a small pond thing or not is never clear, and how much one's capabilities are enhanced through mere assumption of the possession of capabilities isn't clear, either.

As I've aged, my confidence in my general aptitude has waned. Whether I'm more wise or less smart now doesn't matter. I know that my memory is not particularly great. I know that my intellectual rigor is ... not rigorous.

I don't think I'm stupid, of course. I just recognize my actual strengths: specifically, it's my ability to process information and respond to it more quickly than most people. Much more quickly than many, to be honest.

*tick tick tick*

So when I hear something, I usually get it. I don't need things repeated very often, and I usually can string together a response without too much effort. Whether it's a particularly good response or not is another question, but I rarely feel out to sea or dumbstruck.

*tick*

This helps me when I'm out at bars, because I can avoid unpleasant situations or talk myself into pleasant ones relatively easily. Last night, though, it felt like my one self-avowed strength of intellect had failed me when I was asked a very simple question:

"Do you remember me?"

*tick tick tick*

She was a pretty blond. She looked familiar. She looked like someone I wanted to remember.

*tick*

But I had no response. I was trying to place her face, her hair, her boobs... something.

And I had nothing.

*tick*

I smiled at her and mumbled something... trying to buy time. I could see her smile slipping--almost imperceptibly, but slipping--and I could almost hear a clock.

*tick tick tick*

Smiling ... thinking ... taking her in with my eyes without moving them ... thinking ..

*tick tick*

*click*

Sweet. Got it.

"Sure. You're [her name]."
"You remember me! Yay!"

Hugging ensued.

"You get to dance with two beautiful women!"
Sometimes I see things happen in real life and I imagine scenes from movies. Scenes that probably never happened in movies that may not even exist.

The hour was late at FR. Dancing was happening, and I was participating in my limited capacity. I'd carved out a nice little space where no aggro dudes were bumping into me (step 6) and was enjoying the music.

Earlier I'd bumped into Miss America, who was there with a group of people. She is adorable and fit and--like any adorable and fit woman on that dancefloor--seemed to have to spend more energy keeping guys off of her than in actually dancing. I don't know how women put up with it, man.

So... movie scene. I imagine a scene from a movie like Aliens or Starship Troopers where a group of people are retreating from a large mass of aliens. Aliens that want to eat and/or dismember them. The group is doomed if they all keep running, so one or two of the group turn to the others and say, "Go on without me! I'll try to hold them off!" and after a nod of acknowledgment and gratitude, the rest of the group flees, only looking back right before getting to safety... and seeing the brave individuals getting overrun/eaten/torn apart by the aliens. Going back would be suicide, so a tear is shed and the door is closed.

I imagined something like that after Miss America and her friend sidled up to me on the dancefloor, with Miss America saying, "You get to dance with two beautiful women!"

It was cool. She was going out of her way to be nice. I appreciated it.

But I'd forgotten about the aliens who wanted to rip her apart.

Within 13 seconds of her saying that to me, there was someone dancing up to her from behind. Within 45 seconds another guy was attached to her friend. Within 97 seconds they were being dude-swarmed. And there was nothing I could do. Going into a dude-swarm is suicide.

So I shed a tear and wandered over to a less male-infested part of the dancefloor.

Considered but not making the list:

From a female to me: "I can't stay out late or else my girlfriend gets pissed."

From a female to me: "Those guys have been staring at me all night."

From a female to me: "I won't punch you if you don't touch me."

From a jealous guy to me: "Douche."

Forsaking FourSquare

Before FourSquare, there was Dodgeball.

Dodgeball was started by a couple of guys, and it got purchased by Google in 2005, with the thought that location-based social networking was gonna be a big hit.



Unfortunately (on the surface) for the Dodgeball guys, Google did nothing with it, and discontinued Dodgeball in early 2009.

Of course, appearances can be deceiving. Not only did the Dodgeball guys get some money up-front, being cut loose by Google let them start FourSquare.

FourSquare, for those of you who aren't technically savvy (and/or live in rural parts of the country), uses an application on your phone to see where you are, physically, and lets you "check in" to specific locations. The thought is that if you have checked in more than others, you become the "Mayor" of that location, and some places give you discounts and such if you're the mayor... although that is a pretty uncommon occurrence. You also get "badges" for certain activities or combinations of checkins, and you get "points", too... which are seemingly useless.

I've been on FourSquare for over a year now. I've checked it relatively religiously when I've gone out over that time, and I'm done with it. I just uninstalled it from my phone and don't plan on using it in the future.

Why? Not because I'm angry with FourSquare. Not because I feel that my privacy has been betrayed, or I feel the service's performance is bad.

I just don't get anything out of it except frustration. As a single guy who owns >3 cats, I've got enough frustration in my life already, so getting rid of FourSquare simplifies my life.

What value did I extract from FourSquare? Or what value would I like to have? Social media can add value to our lives in four major ways, I believe:

1. Exhibitionism. Social media is often about showing off. Telling others what you think or how you look or where you are or who you know. If it seems narcissistic: that's because it is. But we can all take solace in the fact that only people who care about us (at least to the point of clicking on a button or two to follow us) see it.
2. Voyeurism. There's also the fact that social media is about being nosey. Seeing what your friend (Facebook or otherwise) is up to. What they're reading or watching or doing. Who they're doing. What their friends look like and where they went to school. If it seems creepy: that's because it is. But we can all take solace in the fact that only people who want us to see things about them put things up for us to see.
3. Accomplishment. Making things into a game makes them more fun. Being able to count friend totals adds a quantitative thrill (whether it's seeing how many friends one can accrue or how tight one can keep the friends group) and I believe our monkey brains are programmed to enjoy victory, whether it's lighting a fire or finishing a race or hitting level 41 on World of Warcraft. We get motivated over very silly things (see: Farmville) but that motivation is no less real for being silly.
4. Other utility. I hate to make this a grab-bag, but... it's a grab bag for things that ACTUALLY make your life better. IRL. Knowing the best-reviewed restaurant in your area. Seeing where your friends are hanging out tonight. Getting directions to a concert featuring music you will probably like. All of these things are possible through different services, and there's less sticky residue than is associated with the other three areas.

Looking at FourSquare, for me, in this prism...

1. Exhibitionism. Sure, I was advertising where I was and where I'd been, but I had no illusions that anyone was really paying attention, and I have a great outlet on Facebook and this blog to let it all hang out. (Not literally.)
2. Voyeurism. I rarely looked to see where others were, and when I saw that strangers were sharing a spot with me, it didn't help me. "Hey, baby, did you just check in on FourSquare?" is, shockingly enough, not a line that impresses women. Especially when they hadn't just checked in on FourSquare. Oops!
3. Accomplishment. At the high point of my FourSquare presence, I was mayor of about eight places, from my employer to my grocery store to a hotel in Mexico to a half-dozen restaurants and bars. I will admit it was kind of fun, even if I had no illusions about (a) others not being WAY more active than I was, or (b) it mattering at all to anyone and/or real life. Over time, though, I was supplanted by people almost everywhere. And it would aggravate me. Even though I knew it didn't matter, it would bug me. When I found myself a dozen check-ins behind at a location I had been mayor of a fortnight earlier, I knew that people were either cheating or were just going to those places much more often than I was. Either way, I was feeling frustration and perhaps a hint of failure. Embarrassing but true.
4. Other utility. I found no real-world value from FourSquare. The "tips" that people can leave are useless. I didn't track my friends through FourSquare. I don't care about trending data with people I don't know. There was, as far as I can tell, not additional utility.

It all came down, in the end, to FourSquare being a game. When games get boring and frustrating, I quit and move onto something else. 

So FourSquare is gone. I'm not keen on using Facebook places (a similar service, except that you can allow friends to check you in, too) or more robust trending/amalgamation services like TheHotList... because I see the same problems that I've had with FourSquare and no real additional utility.

I'll stick to Facebook and this blog and wait for something better to come along.

I wonder how long it will take before someone ousts me as the mayor of Qdoba...

I Don't Buy Chicks Drinks

As part of my trip to Oregon (more on that in another post), I went out with Big Cow, Deek, and LeJohnse. We didn't go out in my home town (I'm not sure there's anywhere to "go out"), and we didn't make it into the big city of Portland, but we did go out in Wilsonville.

After having a quick drink at LeJohnse's place, the four of us (accompanied by a young man I shall call Gamgee) headed to a wonderous place called Wanker's Corner.

The name (at least the second part of it) is a vestige of its original location, I'm told.  Given that it's in the middle of a strip mall-like situation, it's not currently on the corner of anything.

Wanker's Corner actually reminded me of Yella Beak... a Yella Beak that someone had shrunk down to a quarter size and stunk in the middle of Wilsonville, rather than the middle of a cow pasture.

Gamgee and Deek weren't drinking alcohol, but that didn't stop BC, LJ and me from imbibing. Towards the end of the night, only BC and I were left from our group, and we had already closed out and were preparing to leave when I heard someone say something about buying drinks.

My general approach to buying drinks is one of quid pro quo: I will buy you one if you buy me one. The general rule is only lightly applied to friends, since I know that they'll get back to me. The general rule is applied very strictly, however, when it comes to women (that I do not know) at bars.

I understand that many women get free drinks from guys. I understand, too, that many guys expect to purchase drinks for women.

I understand, however, that the practice is entirely bullshit and that if a chick is not going to talk to me without me buying her a drink then she can go find some other sucker.

So when I heard a woman talking about someone buying her a drink, I let it be known that I do not engage in that practice. Sober Ed O might never chime in like that, but I was far from sober.

She replied that she would buy me a drink, and that caught me (or at least Drunk Ed O) off guard. I said that we could buy a round each, and she agreed.

So with BC on my left, Kay-One and Kay-One's Friend sat to my right at the bar. I got out my credit card, and Kay-One did the same. In front of the bartender, I reiterated the agreement we'd made. A round of drinks was served. My credit card was charged.

And Kay-One had disappeared.

I looked to K-OF in confusion. Asked her wtf was going on. K-OF told me that there was no deal. I said that it was bullcrap and I looked to the bartender and told her that I would not sign the charge. I was not going, I said, to pay for drinks for those two women.

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see that BC couldn't take the discomfort... but K-OF was still jibber-jabbering. I think the last thing I heard from her was, "When you come into a bar, you should know..."

Blah blah blah.

I turned my back to her as she kept talking and told the bartender that I was entirely willing to pay for our two drinks, and that I would tip her well for them, but that I would not sign anything for all four drinks and that I would challenge the charges. That the bartender had SEEN us make a deal and that it was not fair.

The bartender relented. Told K-OF that she had to pay for the other two drinks. I tipped well on the much smaller tab and felt a sense of triumph.

Of course, success is rarely unadulterated in this world, so it should not be a shock that I looked down at the counter and saw a note from Kay-One that read something like:

Kay-One
503-xxx-xxxx
I owe you $20 :)

Uh... was I too quick to judge? Was she flattering me? Or was the note to grease to skids for the scam that she'd known she was gonna pull from the beginning?

Not my problem. I don't buy chicks drinks.

NYE 2010: Part II (Non-Hetero Venue)

NYE 2010 had started off interestingly. The bars were shutting down and TM2000 had headed home.

2011 was about two hours old, and I wasn't in the mood to sleep. I was in the mood to dance.

Or at least not to go home and look at porn.

Why a Gay Dance Club?
Bars in Seattle may not serve alcohol past 2:00 AM. Meaning they get busted if there is anyone drinking past that time (not that they "may or may not... take your chances), so most places give last call around 1:30 and start pushing people out the door shortly thereafter.

I'm no expert regarding the clubs that remain open past 2:00, but they seem to be (a) urban, (b) Russian, or (c) gay.

Given the fact that my dancing skills only tower over my fighting skills, I prefer to avoid aggro dudes (especially when I have my capacity to sidestep them inhibited by alcohol) and so I usually choose (c).

And when I choose (c), I choose Neighbour's. It's a short cab ride or a long walk from Belltown, and it has pretty good music. While I've had extremely limited luck in meeting women there, I have had occasion to dance with a woman or two during my forays into the establishment. Oddly enough, I think the reason I've had almost no luck meeting women there is more to do with my personality than with the fact that it's a gay dance club.

Because while it's a gay dance club, it's not normally a GAY dance club (all caps for emphasis). There are straight chicks dancing and avoiding the standard pack of really short straight guys that seem to think that women go there to be ground upon.

While it's not normally a GAY dance club, on the morning of January 1, 2011, it definitely was.

Not that there's anything wrong with that.

The First Guy
I was dancing on my own for about 20 minutes when I was approached by a guy.

Now, in spite of me being drop-dead sexy and often by myself in a gay dance club, I'm rarely approached by guys. Which--trust me--is just fine.

But in this case? An older-looking fellow came up to me and actually used an opening line:

"You're a great dancer!"

Bad move on his part. Not that he had a chance in any case, but someone calling me a "great dancer" to my face as I paroxysmally take up space on the dance floor is like someone telling the dude from Powder that they like his tan. It's pretty objectively incorrect and in THIS case a lie.

So I shook my head and said, "Thanks, but no." Which had two meanings, the second of which he did not pick up on.

He talked to me a moment or two longer and then asked if I wanted to "go upstairs" with him.

I knew there was an upstairs, but I didn't see any reason to go with him. I also had a strong suspicion that it was code for something or even a euphemism.

So I declined and continued to subtly thrash about in my personal space.

Woman Interlude
A bit later, two women walked up to me. They appeared to be a couple, and not the kind that would be particularly interested in me, so I was a bit intrigued by what they wanted.

One of the two of them asked me a question that went something along the lines of, "Have you got any [unintelligible]?"

The way she was standing, the way she sort of mumbled at the end... I didn't hear what she said, but I knew it had something to do with drugs.

She, much like the man before her, was barking up the wrong tree. I know less about drugs than any man alive in Seattle. I saw the remnants of cocaine once... and it seemed like such a crazy thing.

In spite of that--or perhaps because of it--we had this conversation:

Me: What? I'm sorry I don't understand.
Her: Oh, nothing. We haven't looked to score any for years...
Me: I really don't know what you even said.
Her: You're just too young. You don't even know what I'm talking about, huh?
Me: Young? I bet I'm five years older than you are.
Her: I doubt it. Let's see your ID.
Me: Uh, ok... [showed her my ID]
Her: Wow! You are old! Are you, like, American Psycho or something?
Me: What? I'm sorry I don't understand.
Her: You know. In American Psycho he does the skin peel treatment to look young?
Me: Oh, yeah, and the pushup routine and stuff?
Her: Exactly. I'm surprised you're old enough to remember that movie...

I think it could easily be argued that she did not need the drugs she was seeking.

The Second Guy

And so she left and I continued to dance. But not unmolestedly.

A bit later, another dude approached me. This guy was short and skinny with shaggy brown hair and geeky glasses and an army surplus jacket. Also? Not so cute.

But he evidently thought I was worth spinning game at. (Spinning game with? Toward? I dunno...)

Him: You look just like a Jonas brother!
Me: Uh... do I?
Him: Don't worry. It's a good thing. A very good thing.
Me: Uh... OK. I guess.
Him: So... *** You wanna go upstairs?
Me: Uh... no thanks.

A few notes:

1. I can't decide if his opening line was a sincere compliment or a neg. 
2. The *** indicates a physical action: he took his hand and ran it along my stomach vertically from my belly button up to my chest. It was super-creepy.
3. "Go upstairs" was, as I had strongly suspected, some sort of code for something that I really don't want to participate in.

I kinda turned away from him a bit and he left.

The End of the Night as I Knew It
Time passed. Music played. Each of the two guys walked past me, right before closing, arching their eyebrows inquiringly.

The end of the night was nearing. The sun was about to shine for the first time in 2011. I hopped in the cab and reflected on all of the ill-fitting and awkward moments I'd already participated in after midnight, and I can't wait to see what else 2011 has got up its sleeve.

NYE 2010: Part I (Hetero Venues)

(I had a busy New Year's Eve this year. I'm going to bust the night into two blogs, one dealing with the first half of the night and another dealing with the latter half.)

The Planning
I'm not usually a huge New Year's Eve guy.

(Actually, I'm not really a huge holiday guy generally. Halloween, for some reason, is the exception.)

I neglected to make NYE plans until about a week before the end of 2010, after TM2000 had mentioned he had purchased an extra ticket for an event at Venom... it sounded good enough to me, so I decided to join him and Thor and Thor's gf.

I've been to Venom a time or two, and it is a dance club that is... well... urban. It always struck me as too crowded with dancefloors that double as thoroughfares, but... whatevs. It sounded good enough to me. It was a masquerade-themed party, and I had a pair of masks for us, so it sounded fun.

The Lines Explained
We had purchased tickets. TM2000 had printed them out. And yet we couldn't get in the best line. We couldn't even get in the second-best line, as it turns out.

The best "line" was an amorphous spot where people who knew bouncers got to get in first. I put "line" in "quotes" because there wasn't a line until people stood there. But they seemed to have first crack at getting in.

Second-best was the people who had physical tickets.

That's right. Physical tickets. Not printed-out tickets

So we were in the third-best line. AKA the worst line.

Which was OK, I suppose. Except the worst line didn't move for the first 20 minutes we were in it.

Insensitivities
As we stood there, the four of us, we were pretty close to the front of the worst line. About eight people were in front of us--although for the time the line wasn't moving, we might as well have been behind 300 people.

It was cold. I was getting antsy.

I mentioned that the club is... well... urban. I did not mention that we had prefunked, and I had a fair bit of alcohol in me at this point.

As I watched people in the other two lines (line and "line") move into the club without us budging, I uttered something I probably should not have.

It's not that it wasn't true--it was. It's just not sensitive and I try not to talk this way.

I said, "Man, there are a lot of fat black chicks out tonight."

Oops.

But... whatever, right? One general statement that lacks sensitivity is not the end of the world (unless it's heard by the wrong person, I suppose, then it might be the end of MY world...)

But it didn't quite end there.

I had uttered it, half under my breath, to TM2000. Thor, standing a full 24 inches away, could not hear what I said. So TM2000 repeated what I said. And then Thor repeated it, kinda laughing.

It went something like this:

Me: Man, there are a lot of fat black chicks out tonight.
Thor: What?
TM2000: He said, "Man, there are a lot of fat black chicks out tonight."
Thor: (Laughing) There are a lot of fat black chicks out tonight?

It was, in other words, repeated significantly more loudly than I'd said it. It might have been true (see scientifically-derived charts), but it was too loud.

(And, yes, I understand that it was racially insensitive on my part. From this point forward, I will refer to this particular group of individuals as BBBW.)

And, alas, it turned out that a woman RIGHT in front of us sort of fit the BBBW bill perfectly. I hadn't even seen her when I'd made my observation. I'd missed a forest-legged example due to the arboreal abundance.

We almost sprained muscles cringing as soon as we saw her. Oops!

She didn't hear us. I don't think. But for just a moment I thought I was going to get my nearly-frostbit buttocks beat down before the year was out.

While it's conceivable she was pretending to not have heard the slight, and while there was plenty of time for me to get a 2010 ass-whupping at the hands of someone else (BBBW or otherwise) I think she'd honestly not heard us... primarily because of her annoyance with the lack of motion in the line.

Squeaky Wheel Gets the Grease
About five minutes after our foot-in-mouth placement, the woman and her friend started talking to us. Or, rather, complaining to us. While I normally would be loathe to talk to a stranger who is not physically appealing in such a setting (yes, I'm not just racist, but shallow. I rock!), I felt badly, so I was really supportive of her whining about the lack of movement.

Not only was I feeling annoyed, too, but I figured that if she complained and got kicked out of the line we'd be that much closer to getting out of the cold.

After another minute or two, our neighbor started to shout to a doorman, asking/complaining/kvetching... I stood with my peeps, silently, mildly embarrassed by her loud-mouthed ways.

And yet? It worked. The line started moving about 90 seconds later, within 10 minutes we were all in the club, and within 12 minutes I was urinating relievedly in the men's room.

A Theme Continues
I'm not going to go into a ton of detail about the interior of the club--from 10:40 or so (when we got in) until 12:15 or so (when TM2000 and I left) not much happened.

Actually, I will comment on the makeup of the club: there were two women that I saw that I found appealing. Physically, I mean. I'm sure many of them had fantastic senses of humor and could delight me with tales of travel and World of Warcraft.

But there were only two that I found appealing. TM2000 and I sort of danced near them for a bit until they got wristbands to get into the VIP area and then they were gone.

By the time we left, I was ready to go. I wanted to talk to (or at least look at) women that weighed less than 1.5 times me.

Unfortunately, that wasn't going to happen.

Second Location
TM2000 and I had been wearing masks at the party and, as the first hour of the new year progressed, he decided to remove his but I chose to wear mine. Why? I'd like to say I was cold and it was keeping me warm and that's the reason I wore it, but I think it's better explained by the alcohol I had consumed.

We bounced to a few places around Belltown and, since neither of us were keen to spend money on cover for an hour or so of a bar, we ended up at Karma, a little bar with a DJ and small dancefloor that doesn't charge cover.

We'd been there before and it was more our speed than Venom. Oddly enough, though, there was a high ratio of BBBW:everyone else there, too.

The difference? These ones were handsy. See updated charts.

Which is OK. A little groping never hurt me (so far). The thing is, in the immortal words of Axl Rose, "a little wouldn't do and so the little got more and more."

I walked up to the dance floor, and Queen Groper made eye contact with me. I smiled and looked away.

She then made hand contact with me. Or, more specifically, (her) hand-to- (my) hip contact. I winced and edged away.

Unfortunately, she didn't get the point. She was like a black hole (no pun intended)... every time I got within groping range (which was much farther than I would have anticipated; I think her girth created an optical illusion of short arms) she'd touch me.

My shoulder. My hair. My back.

Ew. Not ideal.

I kept drinking. She kept drinking.

I got more comfortable (or at least inured) to her clumsy and ineffectual advances, and she got ... more drunk.

By closing, I'd developed an ability to avoid her. And she'd developed a willingness to pull up her shirt, revealing a bra-free sight that I will not soon forget and not soon hope to see again.

TM2000 and I exited. He went home. I went to Neighbour's, a Capitol Hill gay dance club.

I didn't wear my mask, but my ability to attract individuals I was/am utterly disinterested in continued. (I know... in a gay dance club?!? Who'd have seen it coming?)

More next time, in NYE 2010: Part II (Non-Hetero Venue).

Brand Loyalty, Poetry, and Me

I've sat through countless hours of commercials that try to differentiate products from one another. Dodge vs. Ford vs. Chevy vs. Datsun (or whomever makes trucks; I never see myself owning one, so I just tune the commercials out) or Miller vs. Samual Adams vs. Budweiser vs. Coors (I don't drink beer very often, but I will admit that babe-focused ads at least get me to pay attention).

These ads vie to make their product different by convincing us that their product name is better. Once we associate a brand with quality or value or fun or whatever, that brand doesn't have to be the cheapest for us to purchase its products.

I'm not immune from brand loyalty (Les Schwab, I'm convinced, will always treat me well, so it doesn't occur to me to go anywhere else or even to shop around when I need tires)... but I am less prone, I'd like to think, than the average consumer. Cars/beer/vodka/toilet paper/paper towels/laundry detergent/condoms/bread/salad dressing/shoes/etc., etc., ... none of the brands in those product areas give me much reason to prefer them.

And most of the brands I do prefer? There's nothing particularly spectacular or special about. I won't give a guy a high-five if I see him with a box of Glad plastic wrap, and I won't start chatting up a woman in the checkout line if we're both buying Heinz ketchup.

All of this is to say there are very few moments I have in my life where I see, like Larry David in Curb Your Enthusiasm with fellow Prius drivers, a stranger who has something that I have loyalty to that I actually consider congratulating on being awesome enough to possess, as well. (Man. That sentence was a piece of work...)

Such a moment happened the other night, though.

I was at Ozzie's, having a drink and watching people sing, when I noticed that a fellow at an adjoining table was capturing his friend's song on his phone. On his Nexus One.

I have a Nexus One (aka the "Google phone"). I love my Nexus One. I only know one other person (Heels) who has it, and it was only sold by Google for about six months. It's a good phone that is a bit different than most other devices out there, and it's not common to see another one "in the wild".

As a result, after the guy finished videoing his friend, I leaned over and pointed to my phone and said, "Nexus One, huh?"

Before I get to his response, I'd like to go on a quick tangent.

I think of poetry--and perhaps art in general--as the conversion of one type of thinking or feeling into another. A poet can express, in words, a sunset or the yearning of unrequited love or the pain of a canker sore underneath one's tongue, and the reader feels those sensations. A poet translates feelings into words.

I am no poet.

So... back to the guy with the Nexus One. I pointed to my phone, said, "Nexus One!" and gave him a thumbs up. And he gave me a look.

A look of irritation and confusion and disgust and boredom and ... I don't know. I am no poet, remember?

The look he gave me made no sense to me--Nexus One owners all know how awesome their phone is, right?--and I've been chewing on it ever since.

My conclusion? He was using his friend's phone to capture the video. There's obviously no other explanation.

My Journey Into Crazyville

It's not a huge secret that I don't like Apple. I don't care for their software. I don't dig their hardware. And I really don't like their attitudes (both the smugness that permeates its marketing and so many of its users as well as the lack of openness in its standards).

With that being said, I have had to get used to using a Mac because it's what I've been using at work for almost a year and a half now. I still don't have the hot keys down, it still bugs me that there are two "Delete" keys that do different things, and there are innumerable other irritants... but I am getting used to it.

I've eschewed iPhones for a variety of reasons, and I'm delighted with my Android-powered Nexus One.

When the iPad came out, I understood the impact it might have... but I didn't see any time or place I would use it. I am planted in front of my desktop for many of my waking hours at home, and I have my Nexus One the rest of the time. An iPad might work for other people, but not for me.

So when, in an incredibly generous act on the part of my employer, I was given an iPad as part of my holiday bonus, I was sort of uncertain what to do. I was told that I could take it back for cash, but I felt a bit bad. I'm the tech guy in our company, and it seems I should have the latest/greatest gadget.

After some mulling, I decided I'd rather have the money. Whether it will go towards a new TV or a new car or a trip to foreign lands is TBD, but in spite of revisiting the "how would I use it?" question, I couldn't find a satisfactory answer, and I bet if I'd opened it then it would have ended up under some random paperwork on my coffee table, just begging for a cat to jump up and take a nap on it.

Since I had received the actual box with the iPad in it, it was necessary for me to go to the actual Apple store to return it. I took a (slightly) extended lunch this past week and headed out to the University Village Apple store.

I'd been there a couple of times before, but this was a bit of a post-Christmas madhouse. Several things struck me as exceedingly odd--or at least inconsistent with what I find valuable.

First of all was the very notion that I had to go to a store. When I got my Nexus One, I ordered it online. It was shipped promptly and I got exactly what I expected--I even was credited $100 a few weeks later when the price dropped. Going to a store to buy something or return something feels a bit antiquated to me.

Secondly, there were a shit-ton of employees. They were all wearing bright red shirts and carrying little PDA-type devices (iPhones? Maybe. Not iPads, though) and there were a lot of them. I didn't count, but I'd estimate 30.

It was good, I guess, since it was busy. If people go into the store expecting to jibber-jabber, then I suppose it's better to not have to wait too long to do so. Personally? As a general rule, the less I need to talk to anyone in life, the better.

Thirdly--and I'd noticed this before--there's just so much elbow room in that place. Each laptop and phone and iPad and piece of hardware was treated like a piece of art. I can't confirm they each have a laser-protected security system when the store closes, but it looks like they've got the infrastructure for it.

Having that much space feels inefficient. When I go to a museum or a gallery, having that much space makes sense. I'm visiting (or, at least on paper, potentially purchasing) art. Giving each piece room to breathe and having a bit of visual palette-cleansing space makes sense.

When I use a computer? I don't need art. I need efficiency.

And that's what all of these things add up to me: fluff. Expensive fluff.

Assuming the software and hardware costs of Apple vs. competitors' products are equal, then I don't see how I can't be paying for fluff. Paying for elbow room in a store I don't want to visit more than absolutely necessary. Paying for in-person support that I don't want to take advantage of (that's what the Web is for, dammit!).

I don't consider myself a fanboy of Google (or Microsoft, for that matter) but I did get some pleasure using my Nexus One as they were trying to figure out how to get me my money.

For the record: the staff members who assisted me were pretty helpful--after I pushed a bit. They offered me in-store credit, which I almost laughed at, and eventually converted the iPad to a gift card, which they could then cash out. The check should be here in 4-6 weeks.

I'm still grateful at my bosses for getting me the iPad, and I'm delighted for all the people who enjoy the Apple experience enough to pay for the fluff. For my part, though, I'm going to plug away with my PowerBook (or whatever markety-marketing name my laptop has) at work and I'm otherwise going to avoid Apple products... which will maybe put me at a return visit to the Apple store in 2018 or so.

Which is fine by me.

2011: A Resolution

I enjoy writing this blog. I did not start writing the blog, though, just to have fun.

I started doing it, iirc:

1. To practice my writing.
2. To document my life.
3. To get mad play.

While number three might never come to pass (although, now that I think of it... hehe), the blog definitely can do numbers one and two... 

But I have to write.

I had 60 blog entries last year. Five a month. Not too bad.

BUT... I only wrote three in the last three months combined, and two of them are lame-ass blogs that have nothing to do with adventures in my life.

So. The new year. People sometimes make resolutions, and I'm not really a "resolutions" guy. It might be said that I prefer to leave things unresolved.

This year, though? I considered three resolutions:

1. Austerity measures in my personal life.
2. Flossing regularly.
3. Writing a specific number of blogs as a minimum.

The first one, as I thought about it last night/this morning after a considerable amount of rum, would involve drinking less, spending less, being alone more, etc., etc. Basically personal changes that would, if implemented at a societal level, cause riots in Europe.

I've reconsidered that one.

BUT... I will floss at least twice a week (which would be a lot for me). 

AND... I will write at least 100 blogs this calendar year.

That's fewer than two a week. Fewer blog entries than flossings.

I think I can do it, and I hope that I write at least 100 things that are worth reading... and not just for me. Because while I started off with that original list (or something akin to it) I appreciate that I have friends and acquaintances and strangers that take the time to occasionally read my ramblings and I don't want to let you down.

Happy 2011.

Here's one blog entry in the bank.