3-Day Weekend Day 2 (Cont.): Jews vs Asians

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Read Day 1 here and here.
Read the beginning of Day 2 here.


In a testament to how messed up we were that morning, the first sip of Miller Lite tasted amazing. And immediately started wiping out huge swathes of memory.

There is only one scene I can distinctly remember at the bar, occurring within my first beer and thus evading the complete annihilation consecutive beers had.

It was Steven Gerrard’s 4th minute goal. Up to that point the bar had been worked up into a frenzy by the Star-Spangled Banner, ultra slow-motion high definition shots of David Beckham reacting to English mistakes and the thunderous yell which accompanies kickoff. But that goal sucked the life out of the bar. Everyone was silent except for the English contingency in the back screaming chants out of their misshaped teeth. But all I remember was the silence. Just a silence that suddenly slammed into the bar.

I’ve heard this silence only once before. A mass silence which completely shuts down everyone present. It happened roughly nine years ago, when I was getting evacuated out of high school during 9/11 and boom second tower collapsed. I was standing in the lobby, about to leave the front entrance and then we see a wall of smoke and debris, just a solid wall of grayish brown flying towards us. And it was silent. There were probably sounds of explosions and huge chunks of building slamming into the street and car alarms excitedly chirping and steel stressing and grating but all I can recall is deafening silence for ten long seconds before pandemonium broke out.

And it was here, of all places, I experience something similar. The biggest oh shit moment, the one that transcends anger or cursing or sadness. It’s when you know. It’s game over but you can only watch in horrified fascination.

It was oh shit…a goal that was complete class, nothing of the likes we’ve seen in MLS or from the National Team…oh shit they have Gerrard…oh shit he barely made the team…oh shit we were just undressed…oh shit all we have is a wigger and a squeaky voiced balding middle aged man. Oh shit.

Though I would love to continue down this trend with the climax occurring with Deuce’s goal/Green’s mistake (“…just like post-9/11, the British helped us out…”), I took another sip and promptly blacked out.

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I woke up in the dingy motel bed. What time was it? I struggled up and looked at the alarm clock. It stared back at me blankly. Oh right, I had ripped it out the day prior.

I checked my cellphone. 5pm. Ten missed calls. From Vams. I called him.

“Yo, I’m in SF too! Over at a friend’s apartment, come over.”

“Ok.”

Kentucky roused himself. He also didn’t know how we ended back at the motel. I told him the plan to meet Vams. We both looked exactly like drinking for 36 hours looks like.

He started pouring us two tequila drinks and making a roadie. I turned on SportsCenter and just before I raised the cup to my mouth, I saw highlights of the USA-England game. We had tied? I took a sip of tequila and blacked out.

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We visited Vams’ friends’, drank a bit more, hung out for awhile and then me and Kentucky left to find food. The lack of details is because this part is all secondhand information I would hear about later. We found some overpriced restaurant and ate with a beer. It was creeping to 9pm.

Vams’ friends had mentioned a popping club (I forget the name) in a district (I forget the name), we Google Map it and it’s across the city. Instead of being smart and taking the cab, we try to save money by taking the buses.

Many drinks in, first time in San Francisco and we manage to surprisingly find ourselves lost. Thankfully, some black girls get us on the right bus and we manage to find the club. We chug the rest of the roadie and we’re in and we grab drinks at the bar and we’re mingling and dancing.

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This is where my memory returns.

I am dancing. With a girl. I take a step back and yea, she’s cute. 14/16. White. Slender. I step back in and continue dancing. I turn to my left and Kentucky is dancing with a linebacker-sized woman.

He notices me staring at his fat chick and he bugs his eyes and cranes his face forward in the universal, “What the fuck are you doing?” pose. He then violently gestures me towards the white girl.

Oh. He was winging for me. Thanks buddy. I give him the thumbs up and he violently swings his hand towards the girl “Go! Go! Go!”

I place my hands around her neck and pull her closer. Our faces are touching. She smiles.

I kiss her, quickly. She smiles again. “That’s the first time I’ve kissed an Asian, you know.”

Her accent sounds…strange. Like something I’ve heard before, but not really…

I kiss her again, a little deeper. “Oh? Where are you from?”

She kisses me back, tentatively snaking her tongue in and just as swiftly pulling it back into her mouth.

“Colorado.”

I kiss her back, slowly letting my tongue explore around the front of her mouth.

“They don’t have Asians in Colorado?”

She kissed me, mouth open, lashing her tongue around mine.

“They do…but I’m Jewish…don’t meet too many of them.”

I kissed her, ramming my tongue into her accepting mouth.

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In front of me was a sure double. Triple probably. Homerun…doubtful, but still possible. Plus, the story fit. It fit with my style. It fit with this Internet character I had created.

It would cripple readers with laughter as I plowed through my repertoire of Jewish jokes as the bases get rounded. It would start slow (“…her bra looked like two yarmulkes…”), gradually build (“…she was creaming like lox…”) and then I would shockingly ramp it up (“…I should name my bat Zyklon B the way it choked her throat…”). In between I would make sure to plunge my ego down (Asian bat shorter than Jewish nose, perhaps? My skinniness related to a concentration camp diet, maybe?). The readers would ride an up and down freight train until the grand finale. Something would happen to break it up. Something always happens. It would be metaphor-ed or similie-d into a Gestapo door knock and I would bitch and whine about all those other times I’ve had bad luck at the finish. It would all be tied in a ribbon with my Japanese roots and their standing with the Nazis. It was a match made in (generationk’s) Travelblog heaven.

But here’s the problem. I objectify women on this blog. Freedom Scale points, women are pitchers, bitches, hoes, sluts. Readers probably objectify me because of it. Douche, American, misogynist, chauvinist. And though I don’t deny it, it probably leads to an assumption I live my life for my blog. This is far from the truth. I find something blog worthy and blog about it.

The blog doesn’t mention the weekly drudgery of work or school, which consumes 90%!o(MISSING)f my life. Nor the endless hours spent on Bookface and Youtube and porn sites. Nor the food I eat. Nor the sights I see. Because that shit is boring. It’s my life. But still boring as fuck.

But sometimes I do mention work, or school, or Bookface, or Youtube, or porn, or food, or sights…because it’s connected. I live my boring, mundane life and when something slams into it, I write about it. Love, sex, hilarity, depression, relationships, women, nostalgia…everything I find valuable I find blogworthy. I live my life, and then choose bits of it to showcase.

So I wasn’t formulating jokes about Denver Jew scavenging for gold in my mouth with her tongue, nor thinking up ways to kosher-ize my dick so she would go down on me. Instead, I was just focusing on the amazing feeling of making out, coupled with my ears being raped by nondescript rap music while swimming in drunkness. Travelblog was the furthest thing from my mind. Her being Jewish had already been forgotten for that night.

Therefore, I wasn’t considering the comedic gold in my hands. All I knew was 14/16 on the Drunken Freedom Scale, danced well, kissed alright, fun to party with. So what happened next was totally defensible.

We took a break. We were both pouring sweat and gasping and probably dehydrated out of our minds. We slowly grinded (ground?), our arms around our necks, stupidly smiling at each other. We knew one of us would crack and start the makeout session again. But we both wanted control. We wanted the other to appear desperate and initiate the kiss.

In midst of this Mexican standoff, I felt someone start grinding me from behind. I pushed them away. Probably a drunk Kentucky. They came back. I looked back and it was an Asian girl. 14/16.

Here was the turning point.

If I lived my life for the blog, Asian girl would’ve been pushed away and ignored. Jewish girl had the potential of an epic story on so many levels. The overarching theme of ravaging and conquering San Francisco would be present with a surefire triple at least. The story would fly in a clipped pace with the jokes flowing. The ending would be a clincher: “She then sobered up and disappointedly realized my skin only looked like gold”.

And then perhaps a revelation article following as I contemplate extricating myself from the clutches of the Yellow Women into the lighter hues which dominated the earlier stages of my life. Perhaps a trend of white would follow, creating a whole new dimension to my life and I would stagger through it in my writing. Perhaps a different girl would pop into my life, a sign of reparations maybe.

Perhaps.

But behind me was tried and tested. An Asian girl. Not hot but exceedingly cute. The type of girl I could easily fall for. The type of girl who consumed me. The type of girl who I had notched hits off. In all sense, a type of girl I knew how to handle. I knew how to transition from first to third with minimal time at second (who wants to stay on Asian second?). I knew how to steer the girl for greatest home run possibilities. I knew to watch out for the JFK rule.

But white girls? I’ve had my hitting experience with them, but always as a boyfriend-girlfriend. I’ve never hit randomly off of them. Think to your white girl friends…how many are infatuated with an Asian guy? How many go to clubs looking for Asian guys? Chances are, 0 (remember, Japanophiles don’t count as people). I don’t play against stacked decks.

So all signs pointed to the Asian girl. I could probably get a triple to replace the one that got called off the night prior. She was cute. It was simple. It was easy.

So what did I do?

I was drunk so I tried to get both.

I kept my hand around the neck of Denver Jew and took my free hand and looped it around the Rag (Random Asian Girl...and yes, the acronym is not fully capitalized on purpose). But there were a few problems with this setup.

First, I had already made out with Denver Jew so I was on first and looking to make my way second. I hadn’t even stepped into the batter’s box with the Rag. So I was making out with Denver Jew, then stopping, turning around to the Rag and doing that awkward, grinding closely, pushing your faces close together that you usually have to do for two or three songs until you can sneak in a kiss. I was jumping back and forth between the two and though my brain didn’t have to compute much, I was also drunk and knew I would mess up which base I was at with which girl.

Second, I only had one hand and ½ a body for each girl. They were both dry humping a leg each. With Denver Jew, I couldn’t progress to second with one arm. I needed one hand to stabilize her and another to root through her top…she wasn’t moving much—just a side to side sinuous movement white girls believe constitutes dancing—but I was drunk. If I tried the maneuver with one hand, I would fail and she had a clear avenue to leave with no encircling hand. The Rag would also prove difficult to move to first base as I had only one hand on her neck. One wayward hip sway to the left and she would fall out of my grasp.

Third…girls don’t like sharing. Nor threesomes. I was surprised it took so long for them to notice one another but I made three or four dynamic pitching changes before they realized they both had arms around my neck. They both stopped dancing and glared briefly at one another. Assessing each other. Probably concluding the same thing as me: equal in everything except race.

Denver Jew tugged me slightly towards her, a move which compounded with my inebriation lurched me in her direction. The sudden change in movement meant my head spun in that direction and I was effectively ignoring the Rag. The Rag was not about to lose. She tugged me harder and I was just as quickly spun towards her. Denver Jew pulled me back. The Rag pulled me back harder.

This continued in some fashion longer than it should. Not only were these two equal in looks, apparently their strength was identical as well. Neither could gain an advantage in this absurd tug of war they were having. Just when I was trying to find a way to stop this (having longer arms is only helpful if I wanna fingerfuck Lisa Leslie while kissing her), and perhaps get them to reconcile so I could move back down the path to a threesome, the Rag made her move.

She finally figured out the one area she and Denver Jew were not equal: race. She raced back through generations of slanty-eyed martial arts genes and latched on. She thumbed her nose, glared at Denver Jew, spun 180 so she was directly facing me, jumped high in the air (off heels!), wrapped both legs around my waist midair and started making out with me as I staggered back a few steps from her weight.

Denver Jew was powerless to stop the onslaught. She could’ve offered me a discounted 401k, or showed me how to hedge gold with US Treasury bonds, but with alcohol turning me into a simple man, she couldn’t stop the Rag’s primal thrust. Denver Jew had lost, and she stood still like her boxcared great-grandmother. She probably left. Maybe she found someone else to dance with. Someone who appreciated what a story she could be.

But now, sober, and without the distractions of the Rag’s tongue in my mouth, nor her legs wrapped around my waist, I can appreciate just how great a story Denver Jew would’ve been.

Never forget.

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Photos

Kentucky
Doing the John Wall

Vams' Friend
I don't remember this at all...this was during blackout

Kentucky
Sad he didn't score?