School's In. Fuck.

It's been yet another long stretch since I've blessed you all with the brilliant things I have to say. Let me start first by saying that I wanted so badly to write about my current life surrounded by women (yet failing miserably to wife any), but after writing two pieces inappropriate to publish, I realized I would only get myself into trouble because my idea of what's sexist and what's not happens to differ greatly from that of particular young women. Rest easy, however, for something good ought to surface maybe once I'm across the Pacific this winter. The point of this little nugget for your reading pleasure is this: I've forgotten all the pleasures and pains of school.

I'll be perfectly honest, in the years past, i've generally looked forward to the start of the new school year. Not this year. I slept like a baby the night before last with a total lack of anxiety - probably the last time for a few months. Pleasures, you ask? Well there aren't many, and I'm talking specifically of the simple pleasure of scopin out hot chicks that happen to be scampering about campus. And it's not just, oh look there, a good-looking young lady, it's a more in-depth analysis that just looks like blankness on our faces, maybe a smile if I'm sharing the view with a bro. Or tryin to EF (eye fuck, yaddadai?!). The mindful analysis goes something like this: Interesting outfit, love the Lulus. HATE those boots. That belt is way too big. Lip gloss needs a come back, Why bigass sunglasses in the rain? etc... until dirty thoughts inevitably come around and make themselves heard if in the company of a bro.

Now the pain, which is something everyone, all of you, can relate to. Your professor's boring, too much reading, and so on. But what REALLY grind my gears is That Guy.

That Guy is usually a taller, average weight, white male. He thinks the words coming out of his mouth are liquid gold and everyone around should fucking shower in them. He's the guy who asks the professor or TA, usually TA, the first of many stupid questions to come. He thinks he can answer questions impeccably, and often tries faking interest in the hot girl who shared that she worked in an office somewhere in Jalalabad. Bro, you don't even know where that is, stfu. And even worse is when That Guy has a bro in the class. It's as if this guy provides some sense of security or confidence for That Guy causing him to hesitate even less when saying something completely assholish. The worst part? Half the time these assholes get grouped with the only hot girl in the section, and I'm left with some Asian guy that has tourette's syndrome. That Guy can be a freshmen. These think: Hey I was hot shit in high school... so that like, transfers... right? Fuck it, sure it does! I'm fuckin awesome! and that's the thought process before That Douchebag opens his mouth. The worst is a room with three or even four of these people. They could be at opposite corners of the room, yet it only takes one mouthful of shit to start a whole downpour of crap.

That 1 Guy:
That 2nd Guy: Oh, yeah, blah blah blah,
That 3rd Guy (and this one's the worst because he ACTUALLY knows his shit and he's just a showoff): Well, actually guys, it was the president of Turkmenistan who built a spinning gold statue of himself.

And I'm sitting there looking around at the students around me like, Are you guys watching, listening, to this clusterfuck of stupid shit?! And that's when I generally let out a deep, agonizing sigh, and depending on the setup and numbers, a "douchebag" under my breath but loud enough for a nice semicircle of people to hear nearby. This is usually met by nods and grins of agreement. One girl even turned around and let me know she concurred.

Little did she know... she was agreeing with an Asshole.

Last Night I Hitch-hiked

I remember wanting to cry. I don't remember what made me so sad. Actually it could have been a dream. I don't remember the last time I cried. I must have been a young boy, but I've cried in my dreams.

I drank my first Heineken at a quarter to six. It was Sunday and I hadn't really done much that day. Just watched the movie Up. And then Rescue Dawn with Christian Bale. Watched the new Terminator the day before with him in it too. Pretty talented actor. Anyway, I was getting quite hungry despite behaving like a sloth all day and I knew we were going to sushi around six thirty. I had two Heinekens before dinner. At dinner had a twenty two ouncer of Kirin Ichiban. When we got back I got drunk. This is when we watched Rescue Dawn. Christian Bale is this guy who gets imprisoned in Laos during a fly by in the Vietnam War. I worked on probably four or five pints of White Russian (with ice to the top, mind you) until my folks went to bed. Now, I'm an individual who happens to have a stubborn tolerance to alcohol, especially with food in my belly, so upon my parents sleeping, I cut a little Key Lime. Into four pieces. Four limes means four drinks. Tequila. This is where things get drunk.

Tobacco is a disgusting habit, and I can safely it's not one of mine, though it has been. I walked down the treacherous hill my parents live on and found myself in some nondescript gas station buying a pack of Marlboro 27's. I got matches. It was windy that night, but I found enough nooks and crannies to chain smoke for a while. I don't remember everything, but I must've been out there for a couple of hours, because I was almost to Waikiki, and I'd befriended some poor looking guy who was walking his bike. Oh, I remember now vaguely, that I had ventured into a dark-ass park looking for, looking for God knows what. Maybe trouble. But I emerged somewhere with this guy and his bike - he had a bike wheel strapped to the front, didn't ask why, thought it was natural. We talked and talked about bullshit this bullshit that, and I gave him my card. His name was Tony Tran. I had to check my phone see that. Not such a positive idea to swap numbers with a stranger when you're drunk even if they're friendly. At least my address ain't on that card. Maybe he'll read my blog. Doesn't really matter, probably never see the guy again. So we depart, somewhere along the way I must have remembered how disgusting cigarettes were and thrown them and their matches into oblivion.

The walk up the hill is so much worse than down. It's stupid. Funny, but stupid, because I had taken off my shirt and had the thing tucked part way down my backside. Like a tail. So's I'm walkin up this damned hill and I'm maybe a quarter way up the damned thing when I'm like fuck this goddamned hill. There were few cars going up this mini Everest, but just enough to make me think sticking my thumb out would be da kine idea. I was only half doing it, throwing a shaka in every now and then. But I got tired. I stepped into the middle of the street and faced the next car that crawled up. Hey, I woulda jumped away if I'da been hit. Maybe. In any case, a nice van pulled up with three Hawaiians init. Some guy was getting a ride to his house which was just a bit before mine. The van was full of junk, bicycle stuff in fact. There was a pretty girl in the back with me. At least I thought she was pretty. Had my goggles on after all. She could've been obese. Dey tol' me sit down shotgun after frien' got ou' Oh and before climbing in I struggled with me shirt and failed to get it on. They laughed, get in. And they took me home real nice like. I fought to find the right key into the house, got lucky I still had my mom's from earlier that day. Musta sat in the den blacked out for a bit because my shorts were in there the following morning. This morning. What might the opposite term to "fuck my life" be? "Fuckin life, ya?"

Nap Dreams

Telling me you don't nap would be about as legit as if you told me you didn't masturbate. I'm not going to discuss how valuable sleep is or how much I love it, or compare it to sex (mostly because I don't get enough of either! Heyo!) ((Ironic because if I'm not getting enough sleep, wtf am I doing if not sexing?) good question, but unrelated to this post). This particular article is about a dream I had whilst sleeping sometime around noon after waking up dehydrated as fuck, nose all stuffed up, chapped lips and a mouth so dry my tongue's been transformed into a rabbit's foot. It counts as a nap because although I returned to bed shortly after waking up from these discomforts, which include a mysterious bruise on my eyebrow, because I ate and drank in between. If you do an activity between sleeping, the sleep after activity but during daytime hours will constitute a nap. I believe that dreams at least for me are way gnarlier because of all the outside noise influencing my subconscious. I've experienced naps that put me in a weird mood for the rest of the day because although I might not have remembered the dreams in their entirety, something musta happened in there to cause a degree of trauma. Trauma's a strong word, but accurate; this has only happened once or twice, once being after waking from a nap on the frat's sleeping porch when Jaeger happened to be napping in the bunk right above. He reported similar symptoms. This morning that I'm talking about didn't even leave me feeling that retarded, but here's what I recall.

I was living in some house by myself I think. A house I've never really been to, or maybe have, just didn't remember. A humble house like you might find in Ballard. Anyway, some guys, I wish I could remember the details more, but these guys had a device that made wishes come true. Not like a genie's lamp, but it looked almost like a busser's tub filled with water, and to one side something that looked like a cash register. The men tell me to wish for anything, just to say it out loud and clearly into my hand, but then to make a fart noise with my lips right after. There was one point I recall vividly: I touched the water in the tub with my hand; for some reason I thought I was in a cartoon or video game instead of a dream, because I said to myself, wow, the water looks so real. And there's my hand, all wet (I've heard that if you can see your hand in a dream, you can then control the actions you make in that dream. or wake up). So I take this device, put my hand up to my mouth, and wished for the most gorgeous woman thinkable to be mine - sex dreams are awesome, okay? Anyway! when it came to the part where I had to make a fart sound, my goddamned lips were too dry and cahpped, that the sound that followed my wish was closer to a dry queefing sound. I was like, fuck. And then it was as if my subconscious was mocking me. Because I eff'd up the last part of my wish, the result was far from perfect. The woman delivered to me not only looked like an overweight hispanic nurse, but she looked confused, like wtf kind of gringo magic is this? What the fuck the shit. Anyway, I woke up with the same horrendous hangover and empty belly. All I'd eaten between sleeps was some cherries, a peanut butter chocolate chip chewy granola bar, and some swigs of blue Gatorade Frost. All I know is that I threw up somewhere last night, procured a bump on my brow, and did not get any. I still need to shower. Butt fuck washing my dirty mind, right?

Maybe the wish-granting machine misinterpreted gorgeous -_-*

Haterz Back Off, I'm Sofucking GANGSTER!!!!12@2=

I realized it has been quite some time since I let my pet chimpanzee write notes on facebook, so I thought you mongoloids may be starting to miss the sound of his voice. How this nugget congealed: Sleeping... sleeping..., POFFFFFFFF!! That's the sound of you (me) waking up hard, sudden, deliberate. Senior Sol decided it was time to put me in a choke hold, noogie my skull, and then suplex my rag doll body into consciousness, da diem. So where does that leave mah? With Mr Vaporizer My Brains McGee. I'll tell you what. That guy sure knows how to bake my cakes.

Yesterday's officiating was sub-par. I'm not talking about the basketball game. I'm not referring to the softball game. Watermelon wrestling is something to be taken at least a dwarf-nickel's worth more seriously ("midget" is a derogatory term for dwarfs). It's very phenomenal, however, the way this nasty pool of water and watermelon chunkiez literally attracts crazed, drunken-stupid, ape-shittened, shenanigan-hooligans to the point where they think wrestling in it is a cool idea. So one might ask, Cyrus, why are these people behaving this way? And I say, well Larry, These folks. These folks over here... And then we lift him up by the legs and power slam his livid body into the awesomest, chunkiest, wettest fun imaginable. Not because it's cool, Larry. Because it's FUN. Other things that are fun: Beer Pong, Catch Phrase, eating spicy hot macadamia nuts with your roommate, playing Halo 3 on Live with some bros, dancing. and doing body shots offa girlz. Things that are kind fun, but really: Shooting pool, Playing Halo 3 on Live with some bros, smoking dope and then having pollen destroy your allergic eyeballs that just experienced cotton-eye from the dope... Oh, one more thing just to keep in mind (KIM): Deceptacons. I'm a person who came to the understanding of the term naturally. I was looking around one day and I saw a pretty girl walking by. She was wearing enormous sunglasses. I was like whatever, lookin good. "Hi Cyrus," she says. Oh. "Hello" (smile, keep walking). Who the eff was that girl I'm tinking to mahself. Chucklez - deceptacon. When I say I came to the understanding naturally I mean I made this connection that Urban Dictionary can illustrate for you if you didn't get it the first time:http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=deceptacon&defid=1213940Now, to be fair, I'm not saying ugly, just more basically, identity. It's like, hey girl, why don't you just wear a mask? Sorry, to be fair, I thought that eye-wear Beyonce had going on in that one video in the warehouse. Remember? It's kinda hot. Anyway, the other day I was watching Cash Cab on Discovery HD. HD content is sofuckingawesomebytheway. And this one dude fucking cleaned up. He won the highest amount ever on the wholefuckingshow. $6200 this modafucka walked away wit. It was a Double Ride. This man is alone. 5'9" Overweight. Like just a bit more than husky. This guy was unathletic. Glasses... But a beard too. He was caucasian and had a red beard that ultimately had me respecting the shit out of this guy. Jk, it was his pwning of the game that earned my respect: guy had racked up $3100 during regulation time. This was with two strikes, one of which was earned after a failed mobile shoutout. And to make things even more excellent, often times when he answered a question, he would act as if he were guessing the answer. "Is it... horse radish?" Host guy's got this look like, How the fuck is this guy killin it like that. right now? in mah taxi cab? And the best part is how at first he was all reserved, like ooo don't look at me, just a casual guy answering some questions. But then the G's started comin in. This sonuvabitch was fist-pumping and clapping and doing all kinds of enviable activities. Anyhow, he looks real smart by the end of his ride, you know? But like a nerd? Not like a daring sort of dude with some heavy nuggets betwixt his legs? He decides to go for the double or nothing video challenge and humiliates Ben Bailey or whatever his face is. I reacted like I'd just seen LBJ hit a 3 with one second left. Fuckin awesome. I hope he buys books and stuff to make himself more smarter mo betta mo mo. Okay, that's the sign to hang my chimpanzee slippers and go party extra.

Double-take

More something to compel you sweet folks to share some things that have made you go, "WHAT What, whaaAAHH?!?"

Today I witnessed two things (besides hot chix) that made me look once, then twice, and then smile to myself. In a creepy way. jk. But seriously:

I saw this frat bro wizzing into campus on his long board. Nothing unusual, except that he was fat. Never knew I'd only ever seen leaner dudes, often So Cal dudes, ride these, until witnessing this pleasantly plump surprise.

On my way home from school I saw a sorority girl, or what I assumed to be a sorority girl because I don't know shit about girls, riding her bike. What made my neck break two times? Her chunky Ugg style boots that were just waiting to be ground through her bike chain. They musta been her pair from Target.

So, donate something of this sort to make me, you, and others smile if not laugh like a hyena on brownies. Plus, I want something new (again, besides beautiful women in tiny clothing) to look for between my campus-home walks. Cheerz.

One of more favorite fat guys. Him and Chris Farley

Da Buzz Behin' Bottlez n Bonez

So, I left you poor, fun-loving readers out in cyberspace floating around without any direction. Well your humble destination has finally come, folks.

Just a seventh of my week is spent in a simple, yet brilliant fashion playing the age old game of dominoes, also known as bones (more specifically, ivory). My pieces are just imitation bone, but they fulfill their purposes well enough. In fact I might have broken 'em by now if they weren't synthetic material (cameramen have captured me banging the Crown Royal sack of 'noes against the table like a primitive ape playing with a pouch o bones). Anyway, that explains the bonez part, the bottles, brewz, booze, beerz, is what makes da dominoez that much betta. What started out as a casual vapor lounge activity escalated to me having a few beers (in cans), to duecers (22oz-erz, for you n00bz (this is when "Bottlez N Bonez Wednezdayz" came about)), to cola and a half gallon of rum split across three broz (I got thoroughly blacked out and harassed a sober roommate. Bryant. You.), and then finally to this week's half g of Evan William for whiskey sourz. We don't play for money. Yet. But it's just a real wholesome activity. It's like the kind of think the Stepbrotherz would think of as a pretty rad activity. Rum night we blew out the electricity in the pool room and had to play in our foyer. See dominoez can really teach a fellow just how to endure adversity. Some times anniversary is easier to overcome than you think. Like if your the guy to the right of the double six player. Don't give up hope that the assholez in front of you might knock. Or better yet, take a trip down to the BONE YARD. That's us yelling at the poor bloke for not being able to play. It can be a ruthless game, and you don't wanna be that guy that finds himself bone collecting. Farming bonez is the opposite of what you want to do. I mean, you're out there, sitting amongst a few other douchebagz, just trying to sell your own bonez to the table. But there's few thingz worse than slapping down a twenty spot and then watching the bastard next to you whore that score for twenty five points. One thing that is worse is going a whole night without ever rackin up 150. You gotta wait a whole week while the other guys talk shit about you, calling you gay, calling you stupid, maybe even downright incompetent... until that next wednezday comes around and your worth may be proven once again. I don't remember finishing those last two nights, but I know I won at least one each time. That's probably the best part about winning, is seeing the disappointment, and frustration dripping off your opponentz' facez. One big problem now faces B Night next week - finals.

But before I let you go, let me tell, and in the process ask, how the forthcoming B Nightz should and will get even awesomer:

We also traditionally smoke blunt(z), so that can stay. But when it's nice out, Bonez on the Balcony (actually lawn or porch), might just be status quo. Bitchez. or Broadz? Whichever is less offensive to the women we'd love to hang around dangling grapes into our mouthz and pouring shampoo down our throatz. If only our landlord allowed pets we would have:

1) a chicken coop, you know, to keep things country
2) a lion chained up just close enough for us to pet
3) opium and opium pipes
4) regular pipes that old men use
4) monoclez
5) for me, a fake mustache that's hella big
6) oh, the girlz can be massaging our shoulderz while wearing sexy bikiniz (oo nice, another b-word)
7) lots of munchiez
8) someone grilling anything and bartending from a tiki bar. She has a straw hat on too. Just the hat actually.

Alright, eazy now, I think the vaporizer's talking for me now. How funny that another Azn squad won ABDC, huh? Well I'll be damned. So comment, txt, make a flog post, whatever you gotta do to request a VIP invite to BnB Gentleman's Club. It's no Penthouse Club, but our landlordz won't let us install a pole either. Oh, and add rabbitz to that list. But keep the tiger from the chickenz and bunniez. Oh, and don't worry if you don't know how to play, we're good at breaking in newbazoidz. Hope I got to use my z key enough tonight. I paid for the damned thing, but don't use it as much as the other onez. One last announcement - let me know if you'll be in Oahu over spring break. Domihoez.

Da Vapor Lounge, Vancouver, BC

Nation, I experienced something so genuinely awesome I just had to share it wit y'all. You know how people always say Marijuana Lawz are less strict in North America's hat (Canadia)? Well, when it comes to The Vapor Lounge and the Amsterdam Cafe in Vancouver, BC, they wasn't lyin. For one thing, finding a sack in the area, sort of east Vancouver as it was, turned out to be easier than finding a sack here. You just go to a little bar on E Hastings and Cambie, poke your head in an unmarked back door (not as shady as that really sounds), and someone will supply you with a nice recreational amount of ganja-buddha. "11 - 12" were the hours of operation quoted (11AM - 12AM). Convenient. But not as de-cleatingly brilliant as the Vape Lounge, which is actually in a three story building with a shop downstairs selling everything from clothing to coffee table books to absolutely breathtaking glass bongs. In the back is a little lounge of about four or five volcano units. Now, when I say lounge, not all of you might know what to mentally picture. Lounge tends to mean couch-oriented seating, usually more love-seat sized around a little coffee table where one can drink, lounge, etc. So what you see in this little back-of-the-shop section are about four or five pods that can seat four to five people per.

We vaped down there yesterday, but tried upstairs today. The first time was obviously fucking amazing. I was sitting there thinking I was in a some (Amsterdam) European country with fewer jackasses, and more liberations. Y'all know thoughts tend to go all obscure on yo ass whence the ganja shmoke hits ya body. Well I was sittin there just overjoyed at the prospect, and actual experience of vaporizing with German technology alongside other folks belonging to the broad Cannabis Culture. For those of you who haven't vaped before, it takes maybe .4g to get 4-5 people just about uncomfortably high (if that's possible). But real quick, I want to point out one misconception many people have about vapes. If you take a hearty pull of vape, like out of a balloon, as one should, you probably will still experience a tickle to the rear of your throat, and hence feel a coughing sensation. It's my belief that it's just the hot air (as I've seen weed vaporize at temperatures of 375F - 500+F). But that's neither here nor there when you're sitting in the most detached, relaxing environment within the dense urban sprawl of downtown Vancouver. It's five $C per person to rent a Volcano, but they also have munches ranging from chips to candy to baked goods to (un)alcoholic beverages all meant to satiate the side effects of GB (ganja-buddha, my perferred terminology for the beautiful herbal essence that git me ). Upstairs was a pool table, foozball table, all of which no one was using (too high), but their existence added to the coolness of the whole deal. And of course you have all sorts of people from older folks to the rare huppie* to those sort of gangsta white guys all converging upon this one awesome spot for the same reason. Stoners have this awful reputation of being low class, lazy, and unclean. This establishment is nothing short of professional liberalism.

Everything is clean, accounted for, and sanitary. They provide alcohol wipes for the mouth pieces rented out. Upstairs there were two or three cats, all of which looked very fit, and clean, as well as high as tits. One was fooling with a Smartie on the floor for way too long. But as I was saying earlier, all the different faces of cannabis-lovers come together and treat each other almost too much respect. Obviously I don't believe in too much respect, for it's a priceless thing, but take for instance when I walked by some dudes that looked kinda Bape, they was all like, "aw sorry, scuse me," as if they were in my way with a good foot separating us. I don't even know how to respond, like, "Nah man.." But the main thing one observes is a deep ideology that recognizes how futile getting worked up about anything really is. Getting mad, or even frustrated, anything projecting negative vibes, that is, happens to be taboo. Not everyone knows what "taboo" means; it's when something like saying the N-word happens to be negative in the light of present societal standards. Example? "What a fucking CHINK!" - said in China town. = pwned. If only our government could take a page out of this coffee table book of art and excellence (wtf?).

Creepin Solo

Just when you were beginning to miss me, yeah? I was actually planning to write my next story upon my vaporizer's arrival, but yestaday I did some kinda awesome shit. So I gets outta class at about 12:20, pwned by this awful Thai quiz, still got a bit of residual drunkeness in me from the previous night. Sometimes this is a bad nasty thing, but sometimes too, is it a mindset of boldness, and if you're lucky, spontaneous if not bad decision making. Look, I don't judge as far as that goes, because while I scoff at other people's lifestyles, they'd surely do the same to mine. So I get offa class like I was sayin, and I go to the bank to deposit my paycheck, like yadadaimean? EZ money, but instead of turning left at the ave and heading north to my house like any sound-headed human should do, I decide rather to hit up Earl's. Bingo Bango Bongo, baby, their long islands are indeed all they're cracked up to be, and two of them got me in the zone. And by zone I mean drunk as shit. And by drunk as shit, I mean ready to make awesome heads up decisions. I had started out sitting at about the middle of the bar, right? Solo, Carhartt jacket on, backpack on, no one else in the place except for a guy named Roy, and the bartender Joe. So Joe's a guy with one of those sorta buzz cut up to the crown hair, but form there he's got it grown out into a pony tail, with a fat chunk of beard growing out of the goatee area. Little over weight, at first glance probably not the type one would make friends with. So we exchange that sorta awkward/polite small talk, me feeling more and more like an alcoholic, but as I'm about finishing with my first drink I'm all loose, and decide to go over and talk to Roy. By that point some other dude is sitting by him, and I actually talk to him a little while, semi interesting. Anyway, Roy had just enjoyed a cup o noddles, beef flavored. Roy looks like an Ave Rat, you would not be able to distinguish the man from an Ave Rat. He also had a QFC chocolate cake, which he shared with me. Oh, also we talked about Ave Rats, and he was going on about why they like to loiter outside Rite Aid, strange. That slice o cake was the only thing I'd eaten all day. Good man. So we blah blah for a bit, he tells me he lives in downtown in fact, in a studio apartment. Keep in mind he's wearing a dirty jacket with dirty, torn camo pants, rather thick, unkept beard. And he starts rolling a cigarette. "Can I have one of those?" I says. And of course he obliges. Around this same time my friend Duffy gives me a call. Freakish awesome chance if you ask me. "Whatcha doin?" he says. "Drinking my self stupid at Earl's," I says (I found out right quick how taboo the term "blcked out" is over there by the way). So he actually arrives whilst Roy and I are smoking 'and rolled cancer sticks, right? Duffy comes outside, and we axchange 'ellos, and then something quite weird occurred. This is in the alley behind Earl's. We watch an Asian man bring box after box of beer out to the dumpster. "He's not throwing that away? Is he?" I ask anyone who's listening. And then, like hungry malnourished canines, we start barking and gnashing our teeth. Just kidding, but I was all like, "Duffy pull your car around, we're taking this." So like something right out of the Italian Job, he whips his Volkswagon down da alleyway, and we're just tossing box after box, probably six or seven, and even one box of Mike's Hard Lemonade. You know, for the ladies. I ended up leaving my unfinished drink at the bar, and peaced the fuck out of there. I left a box of Mike's red lemonade for Roy. Se we get back to my house, at this point, I'm just about completely retarded, and having difficulty constructing sentences, but I like to think all the roommates were hella impressed by the sweet come up. And like a bunch of douchebagz, we did have a round of Mike's. They're like sodas. Anyway, like a some sort of newb, I thought it was a good idea to run over to our (hot) neighbors house, and tell them we're having a party that night at our house precisely because we got all dis free beerz. I think her name was Mallory, and I like to think she was impressed, breath-taken, whatever you like to call it. Well, obviously she wasn't, and instead I ended up looking like a huge fag. That's fine, I come back, and say to Jaeger, "let's get high." So we head across the alley to our other neighb'z house to vaporize some ganja-buddha into our lungs. Right now it's about 4:20, and for some stupid reason I think the sun should be gone. That's what happens when you start drinking just after noon. Anyway, from then till dusk is quite blurry and hard to remember, but the next thing I know of was going to the bar. Duffy had lost his debit card the previous night, and I told him I'd ask A Pizza Mart if he'd left it there. No he hadn't, but there were two very attractive girls sitting at the bar getting hit on by two dudes way too old. Fuckit, I pullz up a stool and order a G & T. That's a gin and tonic for you kidz who are still total nubz. This girl I was "mackin on" is a quarter Japanese, a quarter Chinese, and half white. Killer Kombo. She was the type of girl that I would consider being shy of, but then realize she's way too hot not to talk to, whether I stutter or what not. (Of course I didn't stutter, I had nothing but silk coming out o my mouth) Turned out the one guy to my right was married. No threat there. And the guy to the Asian girls's friend's left was a sonuvabitch regular I'd recognized from the last night I'd been there. I don't care how often it happens, but I think it'll always surprise me when a young woman, especially a beautiful one, gives me their time of day. It's like, woah woah woah, wait, is she liking this, is she actually feelin me right now? No shit, asshole, don't fuck it up. I fucked it up. Forgot their names, or if I even learned them, didn't get any numbers (thought it was lacking in class to ask), and they left on the note that hopefully maybe we'd run into each other another time. Lame. Now I get to do the whole comparing of notes with those other two assholes, blah blah, yeah they were mad pretty. Yeah they were mad cool. No I can't believe such awesome beauties existed much less decided to talk to me. The married dude did share good council, however, and said I played well, and they'd be back, whatever. I noticed a cougar who I'd talked to another night. This cougar was not hot. I found her interesting simply because she was an older person, and there. Whatever, she had cigarettes too. Menthols, blegh. Nasty habit anyway... Just found out this very moment that my debit card's not in my wallet...

Cheers,
Cyrus

All Grown Up

is a misconception I've fallen for a few too many times. Last night was no exception. I'm rarely one to feel embarrassment, or shame, or whatever that sensation is that makes one blush, but last night I got pwned. By my mother. And it was all my fault too, which makes it even worse. To put things into perspective, though, if it were anything far too embarrassing, you all know I'd rather take it to my grave than to express it here.

It's about 5:30 PM
"I'm bored," I say to no one in particular, but you know, to everyone at the same time. "It's friggin friday night, and I don't have anyone to go out with" *Awful, awful thing to blurt out within my mom's hearing distance, which can extend much further than one might guess* So I'm there, eating dinner, watching House of Saddam II on HBOoD, not quite DYING of boredom, though momma somehow got the idea I was. And, let me interject real quick, you know when you were little like up to fourth or fifth grade, and your parents would call your friend's parents and set up a play date, and then drive you over there? Well this only happened because we were so young, so naive, and hadn't quite developed the social/telephone skills that we are now so adept with. When you're 21, your mother is NOT supposed to call other adults, and say, "Cyrus is bored here, and he... he doesn't really have any friends here," Jesus H, like I can't hear this clearly, and painfully so. And if you knew my mom, trying to stop this snowball is like trying to knock Manny Paciauo out with your hands tied behind your back. So I'm left there, watching, hearing, this horrendous act happen before me, wondering how pathetic this 30 year-old, kinda-cute, FEMALE grad student they somehow know, thinks I am. She couldn't have just given me her number and have me call her. Nooo, my mom had to take her cell phone and verbally castrate me in front of someone I barely know, and will have to apply social bandages to tomorrow night at the party we're all going to. (At least there's a hot tub there, and a guarantee of all-Cyrus-can-drink). Ah, the things we can only dwell on and sigh about, right? I try to be one of those people who can look back at something and laugh at it. Right away.

But the phone conversation was only the beginning, folks. "They're going to Indigo around 6:30, Cyrus. You wanna go?" Well, sweet baby Jesus missing his pacifier, what the fuck am I supposed to do? Look like an even bigger fag by not going? "Fine," I say. "Okay, Dad can take you," she replies. And I gag a little bit in my throat, eyes watering ever so slightly, what is this woman trying to do to me? Is she serious? Of course, you moron, you're the one who was whining about what a bored little bitch you was. So around 7, I'm like, "Dad, let's go." I don't know whether I'm anxious, excited, still bored slightly, or just plain pissed off. Well that's taken care of when my mom, ah yes, my dear mother, decides to come along. "We're just going to drop you off. We not going in. Cy Ruussss, come on, stop being gay." Yes, my mom says "gay." Call me a bad influence, but let me defend myself when I say I'm not the one who made her inherently racist. That's another issue. Anyway, I don't know if it were a struck of luck or bad luck, but a series of major lightening strikes blacked out the entire island (except for some buildings with back up generators, including Obama's compound), and the restaurant/bar they're at has to close. So on the one hand, I didn't have to be seen getting dropped off at an adult Chuckie Cheese's, yet on the other, I get to wait to try explaining how not pathetic I am, and how insane my mother is. Moral of the story? Don't let your hella Asian mom try to "help" in situations like this. And let me worry about making the mistakes, you just try learning from 'em. Hang loose brodaz n sistaz.

Da H is O - The Heat is On

I apologize, my young, free-spirited, reader, for allowing you to wallow in Winter Break Boredom. So in a feeble attempt to shake your shackles of boredom, I offer to you yet another humble note expressing my recent adventures (if you can call my equally boring life that).

I hate to say, but I've seen it brewing over the last few years. I'm talking of course, about this fading novelty that we once valued Christmas with. Now don't let me knock you, if you still love these holidays driven by family time (blegh), slow, dreadful dinners, and last, but not least, gift-giving. You know when we used to love toys? Whether it was a Lego set, or action figure, or a paintball gun that we looked forward to maybe getting, very few things of reasonable cost get me excited anymore. And don't take this to be a snobbish remark, but it's just that there are few material things I really care for anymore. Instead of toys, I ask for practical things (god forbid), from socks to cocktail sets (didn't get this because my dad thinks I'm becoming an alcoholic), to tools. While all these things are fine and dandy, I think we can all agree that the best gift might be cold hard cash. Especially in times of economic recession. Well that's true, and one can use cash towards fulfilling their personal wants, but mine now mostly include travel. "Momma, I wanna go to Whistler. Momma, I wanna go to Vancouver. But Mommaaa, sorority gentlemen don't make shit... So, howz abouts you kick me a little dinero, to, you know, fund my drinking adventures in places that are only marginally if not objectively sweeter than Seattle?" But it's not the gifts that even bore me, and call me selfish, but it's my theory, that spending family time has become, and will only continue to become, of the utmost bore. You and I both ought to know by now, my number one method of combatting boredom. Liquor. And lots of it. But this only scratches the surface. Look, I just say it's my number one, and preferred method. If you don't know me so well, let me tell you I also read (books, not just fantasy stats online), and watch the TV thing, as well as surf the Internet. Which, sadly, can also be excruciatingly boring. And although I have little in the way of philosophical jargon to offer at the moment, I'll just relate a short story of a night out I shared with my friend Jeff (36 year-old, white, male, likes to drink*).

So this is actually the second night on Waikiki, but it's more interesting than the first where we drank enough tequila, beer, and God knows wheat else to make him yak, and me laugh. Anyway, we start out at Senor Frog's. Awful awful place, I don't recommend. Music was too loud, and the Dos Equis were $6 a piece. We end up at a neat bar called Duke's. Drinking beers and having two (their limit on shooters) Jeagers, was about the right amount of liquid courage to ask the bartender about the girls across the bar (I know, I'm a joke, bare with me). But come on, I'm a bar scene newb, and Jeff observed that one girl, who had been shooting ME, yeah, me, some looks. I made contact once, mutual smile, but leading up to all this, we had been watching a Douchius Maximus hit on her, with her sister nearby. This fuckin guy had a tight green polo with designs on the exposed part of his popped collar. *Shudder* So I'm like, "Hey Ricki (bartender), you know how old those two are?"
Ricki: "The one on the left is 28, her sister's 25"
Neat, neat, I thinks to meself, "Would you ask 'em if they'd like to get a table with us?"
Sonuvabitch Ricki goes over, chats to them about something or other, comes back, and replies, "They said if you two had any balls you'd ask them yourselves."
I almost made a scene swinging myself (and my balls) outta my seat, and around the bar into prime mack position. Oh, it should also be noted that I was putting myself (and yes, my cojones) on the line here for the sheer novelty of the thing, and also with the hopes of living a cool story to share with you all. Warning: it's not that cool. These sisters were not my type. And by not my type, I mean over weight. Okay, so maybe usually not my type ;) But moving on, by this point, another brolo (Bro in a polo), was sitting next to the younger, slightly more attractive young woman. And in a dash of uber douchiness, and in fact, putting myself at physical risk (he was huge), I leaned against the bar betwixt him and her, with my back to him. Don't ask me where this rude amount of boldness comes from (they did, however serve hard A on ice... not sure how that's so different from shots...). So I'm chatting to the one, and then the other, usual stuff, where you from? how long you staying? do you smoke ganja-buddha? whad'you think about my tan... Blacked out. I come out momentarily to find myself sucking down a drink the bartender gave them for free, and eating their waffle fries. So the humble observer has effectively become the loathesome D-Bag, that just about everyone should hate. How the older sister's number found its way into my phone is still a mystery. Although I can guess it was something along the lines of, "Oh, you're leaving monday? Well shit in my shoes, and call me a bastard, we oughta go out tomorrow! What's your number?!"
Just trying to be realistic; I'd like to think it went smoother than that. Blacked out again. End up at some weakass bar with some jerkoff we met at Duke's, who we thought was cool. Don't know why, but I ended up sucking down two mind erasers here to re-black. Called some Samoan I didn't know "Brodda." Somewhere thereafter we got denied from some club that required pants, not really important. Guess we ended up at The Shack... The rest of the night is according to what Jeff recounted to me the next day.

Our taxi driver was apparently Korean. I repeatedly asked him how goes things in Japan. Jeff tells me he's from Korea. I tell Jeff, "Fuck you," and then to driver, "So how's Japan?" I guess I also jumped out of the cab at my house only giving him a five, leaving Jeff the rest to pay. Fuck it, right?

So when I say Da Heat Iz On, I mean, thank goodness Christmas is over, and it's about fuckin time we can concentrate on the potentially mo' betta holiday that is New Year's. Between now and then, ladies and gentlemen. Tha. Heat. Is. On. Happy Holidays.

*If you like to drink, chances are, we can be excellent friends

See? He knows what to do post-Christmas