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Published: June 15th 2008
Yesterday afternoon I was pumped.
I was finally going to meet some new people.
I was going to the Texas A&M Japan Club’s intramural soccer game.
Hopefully, there would be at least one female.
Hopefully, it would lead to something.
Hopefully, it would not be another dead end in a summer filled with them.
Backtracking a little, the reason I was going to this soccer game in the first place was because I have so much time on my hands (work is usually from 10am-4pm, and other than eating, drinking, shitting and breathing, I have little else to do) so I spent all of Monday night running through Texas A&M’s clubs and emailing every single one that pertained to me in hopes of finding people to meet.
I guess by sheer luck, the only club that emailed me back was the Japan Club. The irony, of course, is overpowering. I turned down a job in Japan to “experience something new” this summer, and here I was, trying to make a comeback in the J-League again.
It made me hesitate slightly. Did I really need to fall back on this safety net
The Rec Center...
...where I played soccer. JESUS, this shit is bigger than McGill campus
again? Was I really this desperate?
I easily convinced myself it wasn’t desperation—when emailing all the random clubs, I purposefully neglected one in particular, the Anime Club. Granted, it would’ve been the easiest and surest home run, but it is grossly immoral for a Japanese male to show up at an Anime Club meeting and pick up girls (and if I were to stoop that low, I wouldn’t be publishing my stats in a public forum).
For all my male friends who are inwardly screaming, “Gen, pussy is pussy!”…Does a Major League Slugger go to a Little League game, dash a 12 year old’s dreams by continuously hitting 500 foot bombs into straightaway center and then gloat about it on national TV as the kid weeps in the background?
I thought so.
And yes, Anime Club females tend to have mindsets similar to 12 year olds. They believe in the odd caricature of “love” placed forth by Japanese culture. They dress in that crazy cute style of 12 year olds. And yes, they toss up meatballs in the game of love and would probably cry post-coitus.
It’s too easy.
I would talk romantically about
love, stress my Japanese upbringing, wear hipster clothes, show them some romantic J-movie, use the same lines from said movie, make grand promises to sweep them to Japan and make sure to drench my hair in gel everytime I met them.
But I don't want to be the asshole who destroys their “dream” of falling in love with a Japanese guy, because even though I want to marry young, I don’t picture my honeymoon taking place in Akihabara…
…and anime fangirls are fucking ugly.
But for all my inner turmoil, it turned out I was fretting over nothing.
I had forgotten, it was a soccer game. Soccer, is a sport (America raises it’s hand in objection). Girls don’t play sports (Feminists raise their hand in objection).
Conclusion: there were no girls (the 6’8”, 240 pound female with no breasts on my team raises her hand in objection).
In fact, the “intramural” game happened to just be a pickup game. There were only 3 J-Poppers there, and all three of them were in grad school, so they were the cool, calm and collected Japanese type that I can’t really connect with, but who
love to live vicariously through me.
Still, it was nice to finally be able to talk in Japanese, talk about Japan and not have to worry whether the guy I was talking to was strapped.
But, once again, I forgot it was a soccer game.
I suck at sports. Thin, gangly (but not tall) and with Asian genes to boot, I’m not good at any sport. Especially soccer. It’s not really popular where I’m from—the only people who play it are Hispanics (the ones not good/cool enough to play baseball), Europeans (whom most people hate) and the occasional white kid who moved in from suburbia (who everyone hates). So I have very little experience in this game which causes riots, sparks revolts and keeps David Beckham from getting hit with gay jokes (wait…never mind).
Even so, I guess my teammates were ridiculously good, because we ran the indoor soccer floor for 2 hours in an insane winning streak (house rules: skins/shirts, play to 2, winner stays on).
When we finally decided to quit, we dragged ourselves off the floor with a sweaty trail marking our exit. I ate some amazing Chinese food with two of
teaching us how to 2 step
the J-Poppers and then they drop me off at my dorm with promises to play next week.
Tired, full of greasy Chinese food and sweating my ass off, I drag myself into my room, shower and I’m about to collapse into my bed when I remember I asked one of my (21 year old) friends to buy me a 12 pack of MGD. I walk over to his room…
…right into a party.
Oh right, its Friday.
Music is blaring, people are drinking and everyone is getting tanked.
I’m exhausted but I drink with them…and before I know it I’m drunk. Or rather, I knew I was going to get drunk (being tired, being skinny and being Asian equals easily being drunk) and didn’t give a fuck.
We decide to hit the bars and everyone goes back to their rooms to get dressed up…”dressed up” in Texas means changing from basketball shorts to normal shorts, changing your t-shirt for a tighter shirt and putting on a cap.
I walk back to my room to stow away the rest of my beer when I see a hot Hispanic girl walking down the hall.
I’m smashed, I must smell like shit and she’s a girl of one of the minority races.
I have a chance!
I talk briefly to her, and manage to exchange phone numbers somewhere between exchanging introductions and exchanging good byes.
I see her waltzing down the hall and I check my phone to make sure I wasn’t dreaming.
My first phone number in Texas! It happened so fast that I couldn’t even provide a play by play…
I’m on a roll!
After throwing my beer into my mini-fridge and throwing on a collared shirt, I meet with the rest of the crew and we hit the strip. Literally a strip—a street a quarter the size of a NYC one that has maybe 4 bars, 2 clubs and a pizza place.
I manage to get into a bar even though my ID clearly says I’m 20…and I’m too drunk to care.
I’m with my diverse (all-male) crew of 5: A blue-eyed, blond Aryan originally from the South but currently residing in Boston, a half Native/half Persian pothead from New Mexico, a black guy
(who, coincidentally, is good at basketball) from North Carolina, a half Filipino/half Hispanic guy from Texas who doesn’t talk and rounding out the yellow in the race color wheel is me, a Japanese guy from NYC who makes inappropriate jokes at inappropriate times.
I’m with Tim (the black guy) and Isaac (the white guy) and we decide to hit up two girls near us.
Isaac engages first. He’s white. He’s blond. He’s got blue eyes.
Me and Tim are debating which of us has a better chance with these college white chicks from Texas and Tim graciously slides aside for me.
So I join Isaac and let me tell you…in all my experiences with talking to women in North American bars, this was the easiest; I just played the “I’m new to Texas, tell me what to do” card and the conversation easily flowed with them doing most of the talking.
After some time, Girl 2 (yes, I labeled them based on descending levels of hotness... and yes, I objectify women) left to do something and me and Isaac were faced with the awkward proposition of two guys hitting on one girl. It didn’t help
I woke up to this on my arm
and freaked cuz i thought it was a tat when i couldn't wash it off
when another of our crew, Kaz (the Native/Persian guy) decides to come into the conversation.
I quickly slide out and try to motion Kaz to do so as well (let’s face it, who had the best chance of getting laid?), but he’s either enthralled by the awkward conversation in the loud bar or completely ignores me.
I join Tim, who’s off to the side (he understands wingman responsibilities), and I’m debating whether to stay and hope Girl 1’s friend comes back. Tim is bored and 2 minutes later, “I’m going to fuck that black girl back in the dorm. Peace.”
Girl 1 reunites with Girl 2 and they tell us they’re hopping over to another bar.
Isaac is doing his thing with another girl, so Kaz and I bounce out, head to a parking lot, toke up, I’m reeling from the combination of substances, the ease in which I can talk to girls down here and the fatigue in my body.
Kaz decides to follow the shorties to the next bar, I make probably the best decision of my drunken life and decide to go home before I pass out and wake up naked in a dumpster.
I start the long 2 block trudge to my home.
About halfway there, I see a random cute blonde talking to a guy, the guy leaves and a lightbulb goes off in my head.
Following the best decision of my drunken life comes one of the worst.
I start talking to Random Cute Blonde Girl and the conversation is running smoothly, so I ask her about the guy: “Was he your boyfriend or something?”
“No, just a random guy.”
After which, “random guy” (who’s roughly 6’4”, 220) comes back and shoves me.
“What the hell are you doing with my girl?”
“She told me you guys weren’t going out…”
I turn to the girl, who’s smiling nervously and I recall a similar situation that Teddy went through in Japan…”women are fucking liars” pops into my head…and a blur of white pops into my view…and a solid right hook slams straight into the bridge of my nose…
Reeling backwards from the punch, the drinks, the tokes and my exhaustion, New York City instinct takes over and on autopilot I rapidly close the distance to launch an uppercut to the man’s chin…
His head snaps back and I’m starting my left to continue the onslaught but his right is already loaded up with a Sunday punch and I’m cringing cause my punch is already starting and I’m horribly exposed and this guy is clearly double my size and I’m about to say goodbye to my consciousness…
And the blonde girl must’ve been a brunette who dyed her hair because she actually does something smart and comes in between us and random onlookers race in and break us up…or rather, there’s two tiny ass girls holding me back and twenty stout Texan men keeping Paul Bunyan from pounding my ass.
In the midst of this swirling mass of bodies, I manage to hear one girl muttering, “Hold on, I’m calling the cops now…” as she flipped her phone open.
That’s all I needed to hear.
It didn’t matter that the other guy dwarfed me. It didn’t matter that my nose was now bleeding (and probably broken). It didn’t matter that I didn’t instigate the fight.
I’m Asian. I’m not white.
I’m in Texas.
I fucking jetted out of there like a black man finding himself in a maternity ward.
I got home, took a shower and as I reach for my towel, I slip on the wet tiles (no doubt aided by the substances coursing through my system) and if it wasn’t before, my nose was definitely broken now as I piledrived my face into the floor.
As I lay there, shower water and blood pooling around my body, my last coherent thought was…
“Texas is ridiculous.”
I passed out.
Tot: 2.414s; Tpl: 0.054s; cc: 14; qc: 57; dbt: 0.0426s; 2; m:saturn w:www (188.8.131.52); sld: 1;
; mem: 1.4mb