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.

Today's New Word: Excret

Neologisms are fun. Making up a word to mean something almost never leads to anything that means anything, but ... isn't that like life?

[shift]

I enjoy talking to people. Hm. I enjoy chatting with people. I don't always enjoy talking to people.

(Quick sidebar: conversations almost never last as long as I want them to in real life. Why is that? Normally when I start talking to a girl I don't know in a bar, for example, they are less interested than I would prefer, and the conversation is shorter than ideal. Occasionally, though, I talk to a girl I don't know in a bar merely because she's there, rather than because I actually want to talk to her... and she is willing to fucking talk my ear off.)

"I went to the store today and bought baby carrots" chats are boring, for the most part (which is why I leave those sorts of updates for Twitter/Facebook status updates), and when I build up a chat friendship with someone, it tends to be about issues we have... issues with a friend, or a significant other, or the absence of a significant other.

[shift]

Secrete means two things. It means to create a substance from cells and/or liquids (like with our bodies and our perspiration) and it also means to hide away or make unavailable (like with the world and our hopes and dreams).

Without doing one bit of research, and possibly getting the etymology 100% wrong, it's easy to see how this ties into the word "secret". We all have things that we know about ourselves or about others but we want to keep them from others. Duh.

So we all know what a secret is.

But what's an "excret"?

Excrete is, like secrete, a process used by our bodies. It is, more specifically, the expulsion of waste products. Which includes defecating, I've read. I wouldn't know anything about that, since I am a gentleman and gentlemen always strive to never poop.

An "excret" (EX-cret), then, is (as I am now defining it) the communication of something to another because it's a bad bit of info. A cathartic act... getting something off of one's chest. Venting. An excret can be a secret, and a secret can be an excret. If a piece of information is both an excret and a secret, whether it's referred to as one or the other depends on the context, although logically it seems the secretive part would be more critical and therefore one would refer to it as a "secret". 

Let's do a quick quiz, shall we? Answer "A" for "Secret", "B" for "Excret" and "C" for "Both Secret and Excret":

1. "Damn. I hate the traffic in Seattle when it rains. I sat on 520 for, like, 75 minutes at 2:00 this afternoon! Why doesn't ... and then the guy tried to get over and ... and I'm home now but I'm all agitated!"
   
2. "My apartment key is under the housewarming mat right in front of my door."
3. "I killed my baby's mama last night. Don't tell my wife."
   

If you answered B, A, and C, respectively, then you get the gist of this. If you have said any of these things recently: those are pretty boring things to tell people. Have more adventures.

Will excret, as a vocabulary term, save the world? Maybe not. But it is (as far as I know) a new word, and it let me (finally) use the word "poop" in a blog post, so please plug it into your personal dictionaries ("excret", not "poop") and begin using it when it's appropriate.

An Odd Number of Topics from an Odd Day

Yesterday was Saturday. It started early and ended late. It was a good day.

1. Waking Up Early

I love to sleep. I love to be up late and sleep in and get out of bed whenever I want to wake up, whether that's at 8:30 or 10:00. I understand how and why alarm clocks are useful, but (as with tourniquetes and exclusive relationships with the opposite sex) I think they should only be resorted to in worst-case scenarios.

I knew that I was going to have a full day yesterday, and in preparation I stayed in on Friday night. I didn't "stay in" by having a friend over and watching movies... I was attached to my computer, chatting with people and watching bad TV playing in the southeast corner of my living room. It was pretty much like every other day, except it was darker outside and I knew almost all of my friends were out, doing something to themselves or others.

I didn't get to sleep early, but I was sober and I was well-rested, if not altogether pleased, when my alarm went off at 8:50. I hopped online (of course), had to cut a chat off with Big Apple, and went to the gym. 

Uneventful trips to the gym are good. It was an uneventful trip. No guys got in my way on the machines I wanted to use, nobody sweated on me, and I hadn't somehow inexplicably gained weight.

Got back. Showered. Scooped up TM2000 and we were off to Buddy One's place for a Rock Band party.

2. Song 82

OK. Let me say this: Rock Band is a great video game. For people who have not played it, it's like a combination of Guitar Hero and Karaoke Revolution... with drums thrown in, too. If you haven't played Guitar Hero or Karaoke Revolution or Rock Band: I salute your ability to avoid popular culture phenomena... and in short it's a way for up to four people to collaborate on a video game version of popular (and not-so popular) music.

Rock Band 2 is the second edition of the game, and it's quite good. It also has what's called the "Endless Playlist", where your band plays 84 songs. In a row. You can pause (although you get an extra achievement if you don't), but you can't save progress and come back later... it's kind of a big time commitment.

And a big time commitment is what Buddy One had in mind when he sent out his Evite several weeks ago. He sent out the call to those of us who have some degree of experience and interest in (a) Rock Band, (b) drinking, and/or (c) breakfast burritos.

TM2000 and I arrived at about 11:20, bearing ice. Buddy One, Buddy Two and a few other fellows were there, waiting to kick things off. After a round of breakfast burritos, we started rocking at 11:55 AM. We expected it to take between seven and eight hours.

One twist to the game is that different instruments can have different difficulty settings. Because of our more involved experience on guitar and bass, Buddy One set those two instruments to "Hard" difficulty setting (a step down from the most difficult "Expert") and set the drums and vocals to "Medium" (a step down from Hard and a step up from the easiest "Beginner"). We knew that the Endless Playlist had some random elements to which songs would be where, but that it would get progressively more difficult.

Well... we thought that would be the case, and we were right.

Setting Rock Band aside for a moment, I wanted to remind people that I have not been drinking alcohol that long. I started about 1.5 years ago, and there is still a long list of things that I have not done. Not that I'm waiting for the right moment or that I'm necessarily never going to do them, but that I just have not done.

Starting to drink by noon was one of those things. When Black Top offered me a Black Sparks Plus, though... how could I tell him no? They are, as far as we can tell, no longer being produced with caffeine, and getting his hands on a supply has been a labor of love for him over the last few weeks. I was obligated and delighted to accept.

The plan, in addition to the drinking that people did on their own throughout the day, was for people to do a round of Touchdowns every ten songs. I passed the first time--I was still nursing my Sparks at about 12:40 or so. I didn't pass at 20 songs, however. Or 30. Or 40. Or 60. Or 70. Or 80.

Notice there was no "Or 50" in there. That was because, over the course of the 9.5 hours that we were working on the Endless Setlist, we ran into three problems:

1. At about song 35 or so, the drums broke. We were using the Guitar Hero World Tour drums, and both the kick pedal and the red drum pad crapped out at about the same time. Black Top and the other drummers were able to power through for several songs until replacement parts arrived with latecomers to the effort, and all was made right with the drums.
2. We ran out of Red Bull before song 50. Touchdowns without Red Bull are like a blog entry from me without a bullet list... uncommon and not really what they claim to be. By the time Red Bull reinforcements arrived, we were approaching song 60 and I think I might have been the only person to notice that we didn't do a round at 50... and I was cool with it.
3. Song 82. Ugh.

I mentioned that we believed that the song list would get more difficult as things went along, and we planned for that by not putting the guitar and bass at Expert (where many of us could have succeeded on most of the songs). Our belief was correct, but our measures proved inadequate.

At about song 77, we started getting a lot of metal songs that no one really knew. Testament. Mastodon. Other groups no one had heard of and/or didn't want to sing. Nothing we couldn't handle, though.

When Battery by Metallica arrived as song 81, I was pumped. We'd joked about how no one would want to sing a Metallica epic because it was so rough on one's voice, but I was talking shit all day about how I would rock it and come through for the band. (Man... that sentence really drove home how geeky all of this is. I wonder why it took that long for me to notice. I should have PROBABLY noticed the moment I looked at the Evite.)

So I was gonna sing it, and no one wanted to stop me. I'd had a lot of Red Bull, remember. Heh.

Keep in mind, as I build this up: we had only "failed" about two songs all the way up to song 81 (Battery). Failure happens when the band members screw up a certain number of times. Our previous failures had been flukes and we'd usually bounced back to get five stars on the second attempt.

Battery was different, though, and a sign of what was to come.

On a difficult song, I totally zero in on whatever part of the song I am in control of... but Metallica has a lot of instrumentals in their songs, and I was able to watch how difficult the song was for the bassist and guitar. I did fine on my part, but we failed. And then we failed again.

And again. And again.

I think we failed about eight times before we finally finished it. My voice felt like it was a bit fried, but I was happy that I was able to contribute to a tough song.

When song 82 came, though? It was different. "Different" more difficult. "Different" worse. 

Our best guys had been drinking, in case you skipped many of the previous paragraphs, and their skills had slipped a bit due to that. And the song was freaking impossible in their condition (I was actually in pretty good shape, since I'd been sipping water throughout the day, rather than nursing beers).

Here. Watch. Or try to. The song itself is unlistenable, in my opinion. It gives you an idea of the way the game and song go (with a group, there are three of the cascading notes, one for each player, with a vocals indicator at the top for the fourth band member)...

The video is demonstrating "Expert" level, so it's faster that what we were attempting. But imagine two people having to do a similar number of clicks and moves... while the drummer hits things at the right time and the singer mumbles in time.

After about 80 minutes of failing (getting up to 69% completed, in one outlier of a performance, but generally under 40% completed per attempt), we decided to leave the XBox360 running until another day, when more sober players could attempt it.

We began our migration to Hula Hula, with slightly downcast spirits but with a lot of energy drink in our system.

3. Jelouse(?) Non-BF

There were about a dozen of us that made it to Hula Hula... all male but one. 54-Bait used to be Buddy One's neighbor and made an appearance in my blog nearly two years ago. I hadn't seen her in a while, and while I normally am happy to talk to a cute blond who I get along with, 54-Bait delighted me by talking about where she works, that her employer might be hiring, and launching into how much she loves my blog. 

Note to anyone, anywhere: I will get embarrassed and tell you to stop it, and I will be sincere in both of those reactions, but I will never complain about getting complimented on my blog. I like hearing about people reading it, and I love hearing when they like it.

In spite of my repeated domination of Battery, I signed up for a song and sang it and 54-Bait was right in front, cheering me on. It was cool.

After the song, I talked to her for a while, and I asked her where her boyfriend was. She told me that the guy she was hanging with that night was NOT her boyfriend, although she did not deny that they were dating. That's cool. Whatever.

The reason I bring any of this up is because of the way Non-Boyfriend interacted with me later in the night. I had not been introduced to him, but he seemed nice enough, and after I asked him if he sang (and he said "no"), he stated he liked seeing me do it. That's cool. Whatever.

A bit later, though, we had this exchange:

N-B: Hey can I get your number.

Me: Uh, sure... it's--

N-B: I didn't get your name, either.

Me: It's Ed... what's your name?
N-B: Yeah, so what's your number?

Me: It's xxxxxxxxxx.

N-B: Those aren't numbers. They're just lower-case "x's".

Me: Yeah. We aren't really saying this now. It's a joke in the blog I'm writing. I actually just used the x's to indicate that I'm not stupid enough to put my real cell phone number in my blog.

N-B: Oh, yeah. So how did I really react?

Me: Well, after I gave you my number, you said...

N-B: We'll see if it works.

Me: Dude. Really? Why wouldn't it work?

N-B: (Dialed my number. Waited for it to ring.)
Me: See? It's ringng. Why the fuck would I lie about that? 

N-B: ...

Why the fuck would I lie about that?

Why the fuck would he want my number?

Why the fuck wouldn't he give me his name?

Even though he'd been drinking, and I'd had a bit to drink, it was strange. It was all weird, and my best guess is not that he wants to give me a jingle to hang out sometime...

4. Mustache Man

Sometimes you meet cool-ass people. They might be nothing like you. They might not live anywhere where you live. They might have no common interests. But you can instantly tell that you can be their buddy.

Some time after Non-BF had left me alone and after most of the Rock Band party had moved on to Ozzie's and/or gone home to vomit, I met such a person. I'll call her Palindrome.

I was looking through a book to sign up for a third/final song of the night, and she was grabbing a book. She was wearing some sort of Peruvian-looking stocking cap and she was adorable. Since I'm a sucker for Peruvian-looking stocking caps and adorable women, I opened and we had the following little chat:

Me: Hey, what are you gonna sing?

Her: I dunno... what should I sing?

Me: Wow. I don't know.

Her: Based on how I'm dressed right now, what do you think I should sing?

Me: Uh... I don't know.

Her: C'mon!

Me: Rape Me by Nirvana.

Her: ...

Me: Uhh.

Her: That is such an awesome answer!

She got it. Instantly. She would have followed through on my little joke, too, if it weren't for you meddling kids. Or if, perhaps more relevantly, Hula Hula had the song.

We turned our songs in and later, about 15 minutes before close, we started talking again. We were watching a guy sing and there was a dude with a mustache standing there, staring at the four or five girls on the dance floor. I looked at Mustache Man and shook my head.

"He's creepy," I commented. 

"Oh, really?"

"Yes, earlier tonight I saw him gawking at a chick for about 45 seconds straight... looking her up and down and then they had a mini staring contest until she broke eye contact and turned away, laughing, to her friend."

"Oooh. That's sad. I feel bad for him."

"That's noble of you. But he's creepy. Let's just watch. You'll see."

I love being right. There are few things better in life, and the lack of frequency with which it occurs for me only makes it sweeter.

The chances of me meeting a cool-ass person and then being proven to be so incredibly correct right in front of her are, for me, infinitesimal. And yet, last night, about four hours after song 82 kicked the crap out of my friends and me, it happened.

Mustache Man looked at a dancing chick. Then he started to mosey on over. He didn't dance over. He didn't even really walk. He had his hips oddly open and his arms glued to his sides... it was like a Mehow open approach gone horribly wrong.

He kept getting closer and closer, with the same blank look on his face and the same pulled-by-his-hips movement. The target was blocked by two of her friends, who then all moved about 4 steps away from him.

Palindrome, though, had seem the oddness. Had seen the creepiness. Had understood that I was, at least in this one case, entirely correct. Mustache Man was very, very creepy.

5. Morning with Bernie

Weekend at Bernie's is sort of a infamous movie. Not just famous, but infamous. Terrible script, rather shoddy acting, and overall not good. 

But it's wedged in all of our consciousnesseses until the day we die.

I've never lugged a dead guy around before, acting like he's still alive and either sleeping or just bemusedly detached from interacting with his surroundings.

While I would love to tell you this is what happened last night, I had to settle for the next-best thing: Buddy One was WASTED.

By closing time, we'd been drinking for 14 hours. Whether because of self-discipline or because of frugality or because of my 14 year-old liver, I was able to weather the storm just fine... I'd had a couple of drinks in the four hours that I was at Hula Hula, and I hadn't crashed from the Red Bull in the Touchdowns.

Our group as a whole had been acting strangely since being released from the captivity of almost ten hours of Rock Band 2, and the alcohol had been taking its toll.

Buddy Two? He'd bolted after taking off his t-shirt and having difficulty standing without looking like he was on a boat. 

TM2000? He's left before midnight and sent a mass-txt about the difficulties he'd experienced at home.

Buddy One, then, was a champ for lasting as long as he did. At closing we decided to get some food at the Mecca and we invited a couple of ladies that work at Hula Hula to join us. They accepted, but had to close and so offered to meet us there.

After we finally got out of the bar, at about 2:10 AM, we walked to my car to drive the ~4 blocks to the Mecca. Well... I walked. Buddy One weebled. He wobbled. He did not fall down, to his credit.

When we got there, we grabbed a booth. We split some mozzarella sticks. Buddy One ordered a Philly cheesesteak, and I decided not to order more food until/unless the females arrived.

We talked for about a half hour, and we ate the food, and we confirmed that the chicks were going to show. Buddy One then slept.

Not, like, a light doze. Instead, something akin to death. Something akin to Bernie. (See what I did there? I finally got around to why the heck I talked about such a bad movie.)

It was fine. I got on my phone and checked email. I looked at boxscores. I polished off his sandwich. And I waited.

The women were still working when I called for the last time, but they agreed to meet us outside of the restaurant and we'd figure something out.

After about six minutes of prodding and non-inside-voice encouragement, Buddy One awakened. We closed our tab out and walked the 45 feet to my car, waiting outside. And he slept more.

The girls showed at about 3:20. We went to my place. We managed to pry him from my car, and Buddy One even  rallied for a bit, listening as we played songs on the guitar and being very supportive of Mr. Potts's comeback from back problems. By the time we were halfway through an episode of Important Things by Demetri Martin, however, he was sleeping on my couch. Back to being Bernie. At least he wasn't snoring.

I tucked Buddy One under a comforter, drove the women back to their car and apartment, respectively, and left him sleeping on my couch. By the time I was back home shortly after 5:00, he was snoring like a motherfucker and I was glad that the Red Bulls had worn off. I fell asleep after brushing my teeth and didn't awaken until about 7:45, when I gave him a ride home.

Yesterday was Saturday. It started early and ended late. It was a good day.

Woody Allen + Real Life

Part of the my writing ecosystem is this blog. Part of it is emails to friends. Part of it is chats. Part of it is my own ramblings in posts that never get posted.

This is from an email I wrote over a year ago. It is a combination of a few real-life events (not mine; I don't have that problem) and my love for Woody Allen's movie "Bananas".

I re-read it this morning and I still think it's funny, even though it IS a bit 2008...

Woody Allen: I just got an interesting text message.

Louise Lasser: Oh, really?

WA: Yeah. It was from you.

LL: Oh... really ...?

WA: That's all you have to say for yourself? "Oh, really?"

LL: You seem agitated.

WA: Well, I'll admit I am a bit agitated.

LL: Why?

WA: Why? I just intercepted a text from my date to her roommate about me being gay.

LL: I didn't say you were gay. I just said you might not be gay.

WA: Can you understand why I'm agitated.

LL: I suppose, but this isn't really a date.

WA: Not a date? Are you serious? What are we doing right now?

LL: Talking.

WA: No, I mean more generally--but not existentially. (I could see you getting ready to philosophize, which I'm not quite ready for. I haven't even finished my coffee yet.)

LL: Eating dinner?

WA: Right... we're eating dinner. You and me. Man and woman. In a fancy restaurant.

LL: It's not really that fancy. And it doesn't mean we're on a date, you know.

WA: So you're planning on paying for your share tonight? 50/50?

LL: No. For two reasons--

WA: TWO reasons? OK...

LL: First of all, you ate more than I did. And you had more wine. So 50/50 wouldn't be fair--

WA: Wait... you're keeping track of how much I'm drinking?

LL: It was really the most interesting part of the meal. You can really put it away--

WA: That's great. My drinking habits are the best thing I've got going for me...

LL: Well, I wouldn't go that far. You seem to be an active person.

WA: That's good. Active like "fit"?

LL: Hmm... I wouldn't go so far as to say, "fit". Maybe "thin" is a better description. But you seem active like "hyper".

WA: Fantastic. A hyper alcoholic. Perfect. Can you stop complimenting me and get back to why this isn't a date?

LL: Sure. You ate more than I did, and you should pay for me because you asked me out.

WA: On a date, yes! Ah-HA!

LL: No, out to dinner.

WA: This doesn't make any sense... you accepted my invitation in spite of me thinking I was gay. I just don't understand...

LL: You were wearing eyeliner. Your MySpace page reads as pretty gay.

WA: No not the gay thing. I understand that. I don't understand why you'd waste my time. Your time.

LL: You seemed like a fun person.

WA: I seemed fun like I seemed gay, huh? I guess one for two isn't too bad.

LL: Well...

WA: Oh, come on! I'm a fun person!

LL: ...

WA: Are you saying I'm not a fun person?

LL: Yes.

WA: How can you say that? I've got fun oozing out of my nostrils! It's uncontrollable. I'm seeing a specialist next week...

LL: Well, if it makes you feel better you give the impression of being fun.

WA: "The impression"? You... I... what's not fun about me? What changed?

LL: You were more fun when you were gay. Or when I thought you were gay.

WA: Oh! So now that you know I see you as a sexual object, you feel differently. You see your "relationship" threatened.

LL: No.

WA: No what? You know I see you as a sexual object.

LL: Yes.

WA: So you don't feel differently?

LL: No. I mean, I feel differently, but not because you see me as a sexual object.

WA: Is it because you see your relationship with that other guy as being threatened?

LL: By you? Not threatened by you, no.

WA: You should. I've threatened plenty of relationships, sweetheart. My own, mainly, but plenty of others, believe me. 

Non-Pranks

First of all: why is late in the calendar year "the holiday season"? I know that we've got Halloween and Thanksgiving and Christmas and New Year's... we can even throw in Boxing Day for the Canucks.

But it sure seems like there are holidays every week or two lately.

Valentine's Day.  Presidents' Day. Mardi Gras. St. Patrick's Day. Then this month? Easter. Earth Day. Arbor Day. Administrative Professional's Day.

And, of course, April Fool's Day. More on that in a moment. 

Looking at a calendar of the holidays this year in the US, it looks like we have pretty much made all year "the holiday season"... except August, which is when I suppose most people are outside enjoying the weather (unless one is indoors, blogging about the people who go outside to enjoy the weather).

I think, for the sake of efficiency, we should drop the "holiday season" phrase entirely and just assume it's the holiday season. We can call August "non-holiday season", if that would help.

So... it's April 1. April Fool's Day. The day when people play pranks on their friends. The day when people keep their defenses up and limber up their eye-rolling muscles for lame attempts at "getting them".

Oh, sure, there's the occasional effective prank (e.g., Flowers convincing his mother that his dog was impregnated by a black lab when she dogsat her), but this holiday generally leaves something to be desired.

Today, though, I was marvelously confused by whether I was getting or getting got. TM2000 and I had a txt exchange along these lines:

TM2000: How was your night last night?

Me: It was pretty good. We hit up Hula Hula and even though there were NO girls there, it was fun. No girls.

TM2000: You almost got me with the "No girls at Hula Hula" prank.

Did he think that I was trying to get him? I don't think so, but that means he kinda got me by making me think that he thought I was trying to get him.