Archive for the ‘Working Stiff’ Tag

Hello DC: Rubix Cube Party   Leave a comment

I’m at a Rubix cube party.
We all know the Rubix cube. It was a genius little device invented in the early 70’s by the Hungarian architecture dude. You spin the faces, line up the squares and make the colors match. We know how it works. At this party, we are the colors, and by the night’s end, we must be wearing one color of clothing. In a sense, we are squares on the cube.
Earlier in the evening, I was happily munching on Chicken Tibs at a local Ethiopian restaurant. I was eating with a good friend of mine. We spoke frankly about the diatribes of broken relationships, growth and Sean Penn’s new Movie, “Milk”.
Afterwards, we stepped out into the darkness of DC’s winter cold, and I bid her adieu. Then I hopped on the 70 bus towards Columbia heights. I spent the trip listening to dancehall, and watching the dark blobs that represent rowhouses go past in a dull blur.
I was sitting quietly, (like most people in the bus), but I was listening to sexually charged, uber-voilent dancehall music. I’m sure my hipster pants and trucker hat hid that fact nicely.
It’s really cold when I exit the bus to head towards the party, but there is something oddly stimulating about it.
Maybe it’s the feeling of the wind biting my fingertips, the little brown leaves that rustle above me whenever a gust of wind flashes by, or the fact that I’m underdressed. My fingers are burning me, and my jacket (stylish as it is) has no outer pockets for me to slip my fingers into.
I walk fast.
When I reach the party, there is no one milling outside. This makes perfect sense. Even the smokers are happily huddled inside, accepting warmth instead of tiny doses of nicotine, cyanide and a dozen other harmful chemicals.
As I step in, a guy wearing red tights, and a red dress walks past. His eyes are glassy with alcohol, and he has a wry smile. “I need your hat!” he says to a girl walking nearby. She is wearing dark leather pants, a red hat and a suede Jacket that looks straight out of a vampire movie. She chuckles and disappears into the small crowd of people occupying the space.
I personally am out of place with my outfit. I’m technically wearing full black, (even though I wore a yellow shirt to throw my outfit off) but I am determined to find matching yellow pants. I see one person dressed in yellow, a short girl with dark features. She is wearing what appears to be a yellow jacket around her waist, webbed yellow shoes, yellow stockings, a yellow hat and a yellow shirt. I groan, as I have nothing to trade. The idea of taking off my pants right there to put some yellow tights on isn’t stimulating yet. I need to get some alcohol.
I meet and greet the hosts, and I find out it’s a birthday party. I was invited by a girl I know, Ash, and she is decked out in a full red outfit; large red shirt that reads “Ameican Heritage”, red tights and a  red baseball cap. At some point later on in the night she will be completely blue, complete with a blue wig. “Would you like some whiskey?” she says to me as I step inside.
For a moment I pause, and my mind flashes back to Halloween weekend a month prior. I saw a blur of people, faces and felt the heat of different bars and houses on my face, then I remember waking up and not knowing where I was.
“I think I’ll get a beer.” I say with a smile. Ash starts talking to the girl in the full yellow. Behind me, a guy says. “She (yellow girl) looks like a creature from Final Fantasy.”
I spend the next ten minutes trying to remember what creature she  looked like. I was never a huge Final Fantasy fan, but I knew a few of the creatures.
When I was in high school and Playstation (not Playstaion two or three, not even PSOne… PLAYSTATION) was all the rage, when Final Fantasy seven came out, it was lauded as one of the greatest RPG’s of all time. I didn’t have a Playstation, I had an N64, and I forever regretted not feeding on the frenzies of my school mates. I wished I could have huddled under the tree where the nerds hung out and read backstory on the FF universe, talk about little creatures and boss fights and escape in that world of fantasy. Instead, I played games like Bomberman 64 and Turok. I’m thinking about this as i walk through the kitchen looking a cup, then a word pops into my head:
Chocobo.
That’s the thing the girl in the yellow looks like. It’s a little bird sort of creature. I walk down a narrow hallway and through six active conversations. Outside is  a keg, and I get a drink. The temperature feels like its dropped another six degrees, and I hurry up and go inside. After my first beer, I’m determined to get some yellow pants.
The music isn’t very inspiring. It sounds like slow lounge music mixed in with upbeat country or old pop songs. No one is dancing yet. I see the birthday boy (who I incorrectly called “Jesse” for most of the night) and say hello. He is wearing a hodgepodge of colors. He has an orange shirt on, tiny blue shorts and black socks, and he has an orange bandana tied on his head. “So, you are twenty five eh?” I say. “Yeah, maybe in a week it will hit me and I’ll either be like “oh god!” or “oh yeah!” He says with a laugh. “I’ve been there,” I say. “I’m definitely in the “oh god!” stage right now.”
He disappears down the same long hallway with two girls and I eye some cake. Lately I’ve been avoiding a lot of pastry, and I don’t feel like digging into a suger-laced cake while I’m drinking. Ash is standing beside two more girls who are working the Rubix. One is wearing full blue regalia and has a blue wig on. She does Madonna style poses as cameras flash in the background.
I smile and survey the rest of the party. It’s a weird mix. Some people are dressed very normal, in the usually array of jeans and jackets. Then there are a few hardcore guys, who I call the “Rubix dudes”.
For some reason, they are all wearing dresses, and I think their oufits were elaborate plans engineered by the women at the party (they are in the majority). One guy is about six foot three and wearing a green skirt, a green halter top, what looks like a shiny set of green leaves on a string around his neck and (I think) a green necklace. Another fellow, who I later find out is Mark, is wearing small,orange boy-underwear, what look  like orange tassles around his waist, and a v-neck orange shirt (above a green one) complemented by a knit orange hat. He has sharp eyes, a playfully expressive face,a moustache and goatee. He looks like Robin Hood, if Robin Hood left Nottingham to join the broadway cast of Mama Mia! And ended up doing West Side Story instead.
There are a few other guys who enthusiastically get into the Rubix-mode, but the guy that took the cake was a short, broad-chested fellow wearing a full white female outfit. It was his manliness—hairy chest and broad flat features—that made his outfit the funniest. A tiny white haltertop barley fit on his chest and he wore a small white dress, and what looked like a white hairnet…. Or head tie, I’m not familiar with what all forms of female clothing are called.
They Rubix dudes were constantly taking pictures, smiling and laughing. I was on my second beer now, but I didn’t feel like clothes swapping that much. But somewhere in the back of my mind, I wanted to get my yellow pants. I started talking to Mr. T, a friendly-faced guy with a classic Midwest disposition. Ash told me he was apparently, a rubix cube expert.
We started discussing the dynamics near the front entrance. By this time I was on beer number four or five and sipping on a Bacardi ginger ale. Needless to say, talking about the concepts behind multiple planes and matching edges were lost on me. The music changed, and I started dancing with Ash.
At some point, I start a conversation with the tallest women at the party. One looks Scandinavian, and one looks German. I mention this to them.
“Hah! One laughs. I’m Swedish.” She says. “I’m German.” The other replies.
We talk for a few minutes about their amazing athletic abilities. (The swede did decathalon, long jump, high jump, 200M ,800M and deep sea shark hunting). The German did shotput, discus and javelin. (I guessed discus correctly).
Then the German speaks about one year of celibacy, and its implications as it relates to meeting people for “who they are.” I smile as she says this. “I wanted to know how it felt you know? To just not experience that for a year.”
I laugh, and say.”Most people know that feels for a good ten, fifteen years. I think they are too aware of celibacy.”
“Ten? Try twenty!” The Swede says with a laugh.
Ash is now in blue mode, and is dancing amongst friends, laughing and taking pictures. I wear the wig for a few minutes.
I go to the kitchen, and talk to two girls wearing black trucker hats. “What do your hats say?” I ask, squinting to read the writing on them. “Hah! You though it was Japanese didn’t you?” one of the girls says.
In fact, I didn’t think that, because I can read some Japanese. I was thinking it was some kind of Arabic language (and in my defense, the girls both had that “dark-ish” look. Long black hair, sharp dark brown eyes. Which means they could have Persian ancestry or just be from Manhattan.)
“It’s a hat our friend made. Its actually in English.” She points out what it says, and it becomes as clear as day. “ohhh….” I say. Then I look down, and see that she is wearing YELLOW PANTS.
“I said I’d get some yellow pants tonight.” I say seriously. “You have what I want.”
She swaps pants with me, and we snap pictures with her friend, who also has the pants on. Technically, they are little boy shorts, but I rather refer to them as pants.
I parade around in the pants for a while, and smile broadly. Ash comes over, she rubs her small hands across the small of my back. “I see you got your yellow pants.” She said. “Yes I’m a happy camper!” I reply.
I spend the next few minutes taking pictures of all the other emasculated men, including those I’ve named the White Russian, the Green Giant, Robinson Hood and the Black Tight. Outside where the keg is, people are huddled around a grill, talking about nothing in particular. I snap a few more pictures and go back inside.
The girls in the trucker hats are heading out, and I return the yellow pants. The party is beginning to thin out, and everyone is heading to wonderland. I feel a twinge of regret as I head out with Ash and Mr. T to wonderland. I was hoping I could wear my yellow pants there.

n633745386_4994459_51651

Phone Sex with a Robot   2 comments

My neck is acting up today. I wake up feeling my neck stiff and pained up. It’s a result of some whiplash—due to the presence of a bird in my room. Two weeks ago, I woke up to a shuffling noise in my room. As I opened my eyes, a thing flew over me, a blur I couldn’t really discern as I was still foggy. Regardless, I freaked. I fell off my bed, knocking over my space heater and slammed into the door, somehow managing to shout “Fuck!” at the same time. I spent the next hour trying to cajole the poor creature to get the hell out of my room, reinforcing the opinion that animals really aren’t that smart. Some might be, but this bird certainly wasn’t. I wonder how a person could explain the concept of glass to a creature who’s daily life consists of eating crap and crapping on things.

 

I spent most of the day in Chinatown, experiencing another one of those rainy days. I’m riding on my bicycle, which is now creaking magnificently, and I enjoy the wet drops seeping through my trucker hat as I enjoy the inner vista of Washington D.C. I go to Urban Outfitters—my latest treasure trove for interesting mental fodder—and pickup two books. I’ve been reading with a monstrous appetite lately. Since the start of the year I’ve read eight books:

 

Think and Grow Rich, The Game, The Road, Spook, Fast Food Nation, I’m Dreaming of Gwen Stefani, Working Stiff, 22 Jamaican Stories and Brave New World.

I pickup Secrets of a Model Dorm and Rules of Attraction. This is my stilted form of research into sharpening my writing craft. I’ve written a lot, and lately I feel the need to do more non-fiction than a bunch of fast-paced thrillers. The more I read non-fiction (especially those with lots of sex, introspection and random scenarios) is the more I know I can tell a GREAT story for example, this happened today:

 

February 18, 2008:

 

I’m sitting in my room, watching Tony Soprano eat ice cream. I think to myself it would be great to do something sexual with his wife Carmela. She has that constant look of stress and sexual tension built into her so well it seems she’s just dying to get laid, multiple times. My phone rings and I don’t recognize the area code. I answer.

“Hello.”

A woman speaks to me. Her voice sounds like the voice you hear in any elevator; computerized, young and hot.

“This is IP Relay.” She says.”Someone is calling you using their computer to communicate with you.”

I raise an eyebrow.

“Uhm.. who is this person?” I say, playing along.

“I am not allowed to tell you who the person is, but I can initiate a conversation.”

I smile for a second. The woman really sounds like a robot.

“What is this?” I ask. I am genuinely confused.

“IP Relay allows someone to talk to you while they are using an online service. They will type something, and I will read it to you while they type. You can respond, then you must say “Go Ahead” then I will type your response to the person.”

“Okay…” I reply.

“Is that a Go Ahead?”

“No….wait, I mean, Okay to you, I still don’t know who that person is.”

“Are you going to initiate the chat?”

“Sure.”

“Is that a go ahead.”

“Yeah, Go ahead.”

I hear furious clicking of keys in the background. I wonder if she’s really typing. She has a flat monotone that doesn’t’ sound human. It is perfectly practiced and whatever questions I ask don’t seem to stimulate her emotionally. I wonder if she’s a new prototype from Japan.

“The conversation has been initiated. You may begin speaking.”

“Who is this?”

“Is that a go ahead?”

“Whoops, yes, Go ahead.”

More clicking. What would come next would be disturbing and also fascinating. The lady begins speaking.

“What do you mean you don’t know who this is? I let you come all over my face this weekend. How many deaf guys do you know?”

I froze. For two reasons. One, the lady said it with ZERO emotion but managed to make it sound like a person was speaking. Two, Cum on who’s face?

“Okay, I get it. This is some kind of weird prank. What is this?” I say.

“Is that a go ahead?”

“No this is not a ‘Go Ahead’ I’m talking to you.”

“I’m sorry sir, I’m not allowed to speak to anyone while the chat is in session.”

“Well if you don’t tell me what this is then I’m hanging up. What is this?”

Silence.

I hang up, and look at the phone. This really is America, I think to myself. I pause my Sopranos episode on my computer and grab my bag, the day awaits.

End of daily log

 

We’ll see what happens. As the days go by and my scenarios get more bizarre, I also have to grow and change as a person… y’know, so the story can have meaning and what not. I just watched this film called 4 Months. It won the Palme d’Or at Cannes. Now that was a film. Ballsy.

 

I wonder If that lady is going to call me back.

 

 

A Jamaican, four girlie men and Tony Soprano   1 comment

 

I’m Tony Soprano, a middle-aged man with a gravelly chest of hair, pummeling the life out of a Indian man in the middle of a jungle that seems vaguely familiar after having a massive ninja fight with four Thai girly men searching for the gay cast member of an odd reality show I’ve found myself in the midst of, when everything erupts into chaos as thousands of Chinese men in full grey overalls start attacking the Thai boys, which is after a brutal cycle of eating spaghetti in a place that seems like something straight out of the Jungle Book, being chased by a very rotund woman who runs like a cheetah, and smiling as my henchman (who happens to be Russian ) prepares to help me beat the life out of the aforementioned Indian man.

 

That was my dream, or at least what I can remember of it.

 

I know exactly why the dream was an odd mix of weird images and random circumstances. I’ve been reading this interesting book called Working Stiff, which chronicles the sexual escapades of a late-blooming brit named Grant Stoddard. I ate a large bowl of spaghetti just before my midday nap, was watching bit pieces of The Secret (a movie filled with scenery from everywhere) and listening to Erupt’s “Click My Finger” song, which explains the continuous feeling of a need to dance throughout the entire dream. What I cannot explain is a ninja fight with four girly-men, me suddenly morphing into Tony Soprano, the Chinese riot, or how the dream began.

 

I remember the last part vividly. After I started to dispatch of the four highly trained girly-men, a door blasts open, and a stream of Chinese guys rush in. Not tens, not hundreds, but thousands. The area (which is a hillside in some foreign country) is filled to the brim with men in gray overalls. Somewhere over a loudspeaker, I hear a voice say that the men are “free” (whatever that means), and as I’m looking at the crowd breakup, someone pinches my wallet. I curse myself, saying “Dude, this isn’t a movie!” because one of the thousandsof similarly dressed men took my wallet. I then begin chasing a very suspicious Asian man with Shang Tsung-long hair wearing a green dress-thingy. It looks like he is a lost marauder from that band of desert-roaming pirates in Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon. I chase this guy (who is probably just the best representation my mind can make of a Chinese thief based on popular media) and it he leaps over a wall and I accost him. This is when I turn into Tony Soprano, beat him up, then hold on to the Indian guy, who was trying to steal my credit cards, business cards and whatever else was in my wallet, as I pummeled the thief. What was weird, almost hilarious, was when Soprano (or me) gets that tell-tale look of satisfaction that comes just before metering out a lot of punishment to someone “deserving” of it before they die, a massive Lithuanian looking fellow with icy blond hair in an Army guys’ crew cut appears from the underbrush, ready to dispatch the guy with me. This makes no sense—Tony Soprano is racist and doesn’t interact with blondes, unless they are prostitutes or his wife—and it is at point I wake up, wondering where I am, and what the hell I was dreaming about.

 

The last few weeks have felt like this. A bit chaotic, a bit confusing and a little off. I’ve been patrolling the city a lot, watching people, and getting inspired to write. I find it annoying that I am most inspired to create insightful prose when I’m far away from home. I rarely write anything in my room, which is a labyrinthine representation of packaged isolation. I feel like describing moments when I’m in Chinatown, blindly going from bar to bar in Adam’s morgan, riding my bike and fearing it will crash, or most recently, attending a sex-themed party (complete with pornography on the walls, sex candies and condoms in large dishes) and feeling disappointed the crowd was a bit stuffy. (Stuffy could be replaced with “tight-assed” if you wish).

 

An aspect of my confusion most likely lies in the fact that I am not inspired to write much, and this is fueled by many things. In fact, I have been hesitant to blog any of my thoughts because I’m beginning to see it as a pointless venture. Like much of my writing, it feels empty; a representation of other emptiness around me. Which faceless people read my blog? In what order? Of what nationality?

 

I have no idea. No tengo idea. Wakarima-freaking-sen.

 

 

But this doesn’t really bother me I realize. I just can’t bother to open up. I secretly planned to keep another blog, a private one that could keep an accurate record of my “deepesht, darrrkesssht, thoughts” but I decided not to. I could just buy a journal and call it a day.

 

This dream was wacky enough to prompt the ever-interesting-and-always-enjoyable bird blog, but there is more to tell, lots more. Tales of rejection, woe, the throes of the work force, racism, animal-based rejection (yes, this is true, even I couldn’t believe it) among other things.

 

A lot has happened in a few weeks, mostly good, some bad, somethings I can’t label yet. I think I’ll try and go back into the mindset I was in when I started this blog six months ago. It is an outlet for my thoughts to enter the Universe of the internet, where unlike going to a mountain top saying “God, are you there?” and probably hearing a bird squawk somewhere in the distance, I ge to see things like:

 

I want to go on adventures with you.

Oct 11, 9:14 PM

or

Is not nuh candy corn, ah di oil inna yuh back! Stop wid dis I’m-too-aloof-and pinky-finger-stiffened-and-gots-near-unattainable-standards-to-give the-bourgeois-the-time-of-day and kill off a ting! Time fi tear up bed sheet and ting.

Nov 9, 5:33 PM

Or maybe

See, we Asians are perpetually perplexed too–Asian girls we think are hella ugly always manage to be considered pretty. So maybe REALLY what is happening is that the average-looking white guys are getting the average-looking Asian girls (for Asians anyway), but you on the outside think that she’s a prize!

Maybe?

Oct 9, 6:37 AM

 

Either way, the blog will continue. I’ll have to gear up, get recharged and work some stuff out, but a writer needs to write. Alas I will blog anon.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

%d bloggers like this: