I vividly remember my first day of college. My Mom and Seesters dropped me off, and left me with a freshly cleaned dorm room (the cleanest it ever was), a mini-fridge filled with food, and a deep sinking feeling:
WTF do I do now?
I felt lost, alone, and down right fucking terrified. I quickly gathered my marbles (both the ones in my head and the ones next to my other head), and started my journey through drunken shenanigans (had to use spell check for that one), worthless all night study sessions, and of course, self-discovery.
Four years later, as I descended the stage steps after accepting a piece of paper that I will probably be paying off for at least the next 15 years, that familiar sinking feeling struck me again:
Seriously. WTF do I do now?
Graduating from college (as if you need another dickhead saying this) is a huge transition. There isn’t another grade to progress to, there isn’t another set step to reach for. Your life is no longer laid out nice and neatly.
I started this blog to detail what my life was like after college (no shit huh). I wanted to show that even though I didn’t know what to do next, it wasn’t going to be THAT bad.
WITH A PERSPECTIVE
I’ve been listening to NPR lately on my way to work (yeahhhhhhhh grown up shit muthafuckaaa). They do a daily segment called “With A Perspective…”, where ordinary people submit stories about essentially any topic. These topics range from child rearing to opinions on intentional business transactions. It gives everyday listeners a voice, and the ability to share their own personal narrative with millions of listeners.
This give me an idea for a little project. I thought it would be pretty cool to feature a few “Perspectives” on my own blog. Instead of a bunch of random topics though, I wanted these “Perspectives” to focus on the transition made between college and well, life after college. I sent a survey to a dozen or so of my closest friends, and a few sworn enemies (not really). Some are on the verge of graduating, while others have already taken the plunge into adulthood. I will be sharing their responses over the next few weeks.
I wanted to thank everyone that has helped by sharing their thoughts and feelings! For those that have not yet submitted your answers, hurry the fuck up bro.
First up, we have Squirty. I first met Squirty when he pledged the fraternity I was in a few years ago. When I first saw him I thought:
Shit. What a fucking nerd.
I ended up living with this kid, and he turned out to be pretty chill. Although I still think he looks like an 85 pound Korean tranny, he was always down to pound a 40 with me. For that, I will be forever grateful. Check out his responses!
What were your expectations coming into college?
I wanted to get a science major because I was interested in going to medical school. I also wanted to major in something specific enough so that if I decide to change my mind, I could fall back on research. So I chose Biochemistry. Besides studying a bunch and getting to know some new people, I didn’t expect much else.
What did you want to achieve?
I wanted a Biochem diploma and to make some new friends.
Proudest accomplishments?
I believe I influenced the future of my fraternity and my friends in a positive way throughout my college career.
Any regrets?
I regret being a Biochem major because as it turns out, research is definitely NOT what I wanted to do. Unfortunately, the whole major is to make you a baller researcher so I had a rough ass time with the upper division classes because I was so uninterested.
Best advice you received?
Don’t be a pussy.
What advice would you give you freshmen self?
Dude, drop that stupid ass major and change it to Chinese. Also, try not to juggle too many things at once. Oh, and drink a little less.
Biggest take aways from your experiences during college?
After it all ends, it’s the friends you make that will last a lifetime. I would also say don’t be afraid to step out of your comfort zone.
Plans and goals for after college?
I’m taking the MCAT this Saturday. After that, I will await the results and if they are good enough, I will apply to medical school. In the mean time, I will be just be working my scribe job, going to the classes I’ve always wanted to take (such as beer brewing), playing video games, and getting royally fucked up.
If you could go back and do it all over again, would you?
Definitely, and I would have rushed my fraternity (name of fraternity omitted. Sorry broz) the first quarter.
Thank you Squirty for your contribution! Please stay tuned for more perspectives on our journey through Life After College (HA! Because that’s the name of this blog!).
To my friends and family, it is no shocking revelation that I, just like every other person in this world, love fried chicken. I had previously written a post detailing my affection, (nay my passion) for the culinary establishment known as Popeye’s. To put it simply, I would eat that shit errday if I could.
But I realized today that gourmet food aficionados, such as myself, are not the only people that patron this palace of saturated fat. I mentioned in a previous post that Popeye’s has an awesome deal every Tuesday. For 99 cents, you can get your hands on 2 scrumptious pieces of deep fried goodness.
Well the fat cats in Washington, and the literal fat cats getting into the dumpsters behind franchises, decided to test the loyalty of true fans. They raised their prices by 30 cents! As perverse as this profit-mongering tactic appears to be, it has not stopped flocks of starving teenagers, budget conscious parents, and the rift raft in between from lining up.
Like with any hugely popular bargain, droves of people are willing to stand in line. Hungry individuals get testy as their impatience grows by the second. It makes matters worse when all you can smell and see is fried chicken. This form of torture makes waterboarding look like pussy shit.
As we all know, lines make people anxious. Hunger makes people delirious. Before you know, muthafuckas are shouting and screaming. Luckily for all of you readers, I was there to witness (and maybe participated in) such an incident.
The place was packed today, and there was definitely no shortage of crazy. They were running two registers, which added more to the chaos.
Irate Customer: Why is he getting his food before me? I have the smaller number!
To make matters infinitely worse, they were running low on spicy chicken. As the cooking crew desperately tried to keep up with demand, people began to display their frustration. Angry patrons were crowding the counter, brandishing receipts while pleading their case. Like at any fast food joint, the person handing out the food had no control over the process.
One angry Asian lady decided to push the limits of customer etiquette. She began to badger the counter girl, implying that she had been intentionally skipped. Yes, she purposefully skipped you. She skipped you because she decided to be a dick that day. She skipped you intentionally, because as we all know, Popeye’s employees just want to watch the world burn.
I felt terrible for the girl. It was bad enough that she has to serve this greased up artery clogging chemical concoction to massive swarms of rude customers. It definitely made matters worse that English was probably not her first language. Now, I am not trying to make fun of her in anyway. She needs the money, and works at a job that sucks. But if I had to choose somebody to correctly annunciate a single line from this post or I would have man parts beaten with a spiked bat, she probably would not be my first choice.
As the pissed off customer, who will henceforth be referred to as Hoodrat Customer, continued to berate her, she flashed a look of panic. Her expression was almost reading
Dude, it’s just fucking chicken.
But not to the Hoodrat Customer. She continued her verbal onslaught. I knew I should have probably done nothing, but somebody needed to say something. Definitely louder than I wanted to, I exasperated:
Me: Come on bro, just chill. It’s just chicken man…
The next words spilled out of my mouth like a giant cyst being popped. It was as if I had no control over any motor functions.
Me: These guys are having a hard enough time and you’re giving them shit? Calm down and just relax. You’re not going to get your food any faster. You’re making their job harder, and it’s slowing everybody else down. You ordered after me, and I still haven’t gotten my food yet. I’m not complaining though because it’s packed in here.
Hoodrat Customer looked like she was going to toss a basket of scalding grease all over me. She started a tirade about how “she didn’t need no little boy to tell her how to talk” when the crowd became silent. They were about to announce the next receipt number. It was as if the fried chicken gods, or the Black lady that does commercials for Popeye’s smiled on me. They called my number.
Like a triumphant hero, I strutted towards the counter. At this point, I could have turned around to Hoodrat Customer and flaunted my new riches.
HA. HA. HA. HA. HA. GOT MY CHICKEN MUTHAFUCKA!
Instead, I calmly collected my food, shot her a smirk, and got out of there. I felt like Steve fucking McQueen.
I’m so kewllllllllll.
The spring quarters I had in college will always hold a special place in my heart (and a bad place in my liver). Great weather, easy class schedules, and an abundance of drinking events all await you during this time of year. Public sloppiness and a serious lack of fucks given can also be found.
For those that don’t know, Davis holds an annual event to showcase all of the departments and student organizations on campus. There are tons of exhibits, food booths, and plenty of free swag. Plastic firemen hats? FUCK YEAH.
But beyond the “pageantry” and the “family friendly atmosphere” this event seemingly exudes, every student on campus knows exactly what the meaning of Picnic Day. The true meaning of Picnic Day is to wake up as early as possible, get sloshed, and to not get arrested.
For undergrads, Picnic Day is a joyous occasion to look forward to. It is a like a mini Summer vacation packed between midterms, essays, labs, and awkward, flirty study groups that don’t really accomplish anything. For alumni, it is the greatest excuse to set aside your day drinking inhibition (apparently it is frowned upon for working professionals to get trashed during the day), and relive those great, but hazy, memories.
Picnic Day was this past weekend, so Anal and I decided to make the trek to Cowtown. As we pulled off the exit, I noticed a strange calm the air. There wasn’t the usual stink of stale beer and bad decisions. It was warm and eerily silent. The calm before the storm.
PICNIC DAY! PICNIC DAY! PICNIC DAY!
On Saturday morning, I woke up bright and early and headed over to Killa K and Samurai Jim’s place (although he should no longer be known as Samurai Jim because he took a Katana to his locks for a good cause). I walked into a sticky floored apartment filled with brotank-adorned dudes. I was immediately handed a Mickey’s Hand Grenade. Ahh, Feels good to be home. After a couple more brews and a few games of beer pong, Killa K turned to me and said:
“Dude, it’s not even 10:00 AM and I’m fucked up.”
Same here brother, same here.
Upon reaching a healthy level of intoxication, we made the journey across campus. Along the way, we encountered eye-shielding parents, sloppy drunken sorority girls, and out-of-towners that really decided step up their obnoxiousness. Then it struck me like an elbow from Metta World Peace:
Shit. I don’t belong here anymore.
It was then that PJ Benn’s words echoed in my mind:
“Picnic day isn’t the same when you’re an alumni,bro.”
Well, fuck you PJ.
In my inebriated and dehydrated state, I began to wonder why this sudden realization came to be. Sure it’s fun to get sloshed with your buddies and wander around abrasively. But I had already done that for four years. There was a sense of familiarity with every step I took, but it somehow felt so foreign. I graduated less than a year ago, but I felt decades away.
This was intensified when I crashed through the backyard of my old fraternity house. Looking around, I saw guys that I haven’t seen in almost a year and in some cases even longer. Hugs were shared and butts were slapped (no homo) as we all exchanged intoxicated pleasantries. But as I continued to make my rounds, I saw more new faces than I had been accustomed to. This place was my bar, my bed, my sanctuary for 3 years. In a fraction of that time, it had transformed into something nearly unrecognizable.
Now don’t get me wrong. I am extremely proud of what these guys have done. It’s just, I learned first hand that day that progress waits for no one. I wasn’t about to pack up, and move back there to try and relive my glory days. It was definitely really cool to see all the changes that had been made. Some of these new guys even knew who I was before meeting me (no big fucking deal or anything).
All in all, I still had a blast. More than anything, it felt awesome being surrounded by close friends once again. Like really close friends. Like so close, you’ve slept in the same bed on more than one occasion, but would never bring that up to strangers. Like so close, you’ve probably been inches away from brawling. Like so close, a few months feel like an eternity. You really begin to appreciate the relationships you build with people when they aren’t a 5-minute car ride away.
Holy fuck. I think I’m growing up.
Sike. Penis. He He He.
I wanted to steer away from my usual tomfoolery to address a topic that has seemingly captivated everyone. That topic of course, is Jeremy Lin.
If you haven’t heard the name by now, you are more sheltered than a pack of bacon at fat camp. He’s the guy that came from the NBA’s graveyard (the D-League or the Bobcats depending who you ask), seized an opportunity on a roster depleted team, and took the league by storm. O yeah, and he’s Asian too.
I am not talking about an international import that is eight feet tall. I am talking about a Taiwanese American kid, that grew up in the States, and speaks English without a translator (Have you heard the guy talk? Sounds like a thug). Born and bred in the good ol’ USA, J Lin is shaking up the sporting world and is defying previous misconceptions about the physical abilities of Asian Americans.
Therein lies the debate. The concept of race is still a testy issue. While some argue that the racialization of the U.S. died when a Black president was elected into office, others suggest that things haven’t really changed. It has always been popular to point at minorities and claim that racism stems from an over analysis of society. It is suggested that we now reside in a racially harmonious culture, and those that oppose this notion are truly the close minded ones. But the fact of the matter is, we still live in a world that is highly governed by our physical appearance.
You Only Like Jeremy Lin Because He is Asian
Well, so the fuck what? When I am offered this statement, that is the only way I can respond. Yes, I do like Jeremy Lin because he is Asian, but that isn’t the only reason. Have you actually seen this guy play basketball?
He is proving that being Asian does not limit your skills on the hardwood, even if you aren’t a tree from the Lord of the Rings. He plays the point guard position like it should be. Quick to penetrate the lane, smart enough to pass the ball (the guy went to fucking Harvard), and composed enough to take that game winning three. But he isn’t perfect. J Lin averages a fair amount of turnovers, but it is only his second year. It is only his sixth start. There is still room for improvement. I normally wouldn’t get too excited by a gnarly stat line on a lackluster team, but they are winning. They are winning games despite the fact that their two superstars haven’t been playing.
What truly makes him such a bad ass in my eyes though, is that he is the epitome of an underdog story. To the best of my knowledge, he wasn’t recruited by gangs in high school, and he didn’t have to wear cardboard in his basketball sneakers to cover holes in the sole. Nonetheless, he was still overlooked, underestimated, and all around dismissed at the end of his collegiate career.
Harvard isn’t exactly a basketball powerhouse, but he was still averaging 20 points a game. That combined with the fact that he was a senior, and not one of these one and done guys, should have been an indicator of his potential to play in the NBA. Still, no team wanted to take a risk on a 6’3 Asian point guard. Maybe they weren’t impressed by the competition he faced. Maybe they weren’t impressed by his talent. As we can see from his recent performances, that sure as shit didn’t deter him.
To simply conclude that Asian Americans like him only because he looks like us, downplays his talent and accomplishments on the court. By doing so, you label him as an “overrated” player that is only getting fan support due to his physical features. To these individuals I ask, “How can he be overrated, if he wasn’t even rated to begin with?”
His journey to the NBA has been a fascinating tale. He took nothing, and turned it into something. Life threw lemons at him and you know what he said?
Jeremy Lin: Fuck lemonade. I’m making champagne.
That isn’t a direct quote but I think you get the point. It is extremely admirable how he seized an opportunity, and has made the best out of it. When they told him he wasn’t good enough, he didn’t just sit on his ass and wait for something to happen. He worked on his shot. He worked on his conditioning. He worked on proving to the league that he belonged there even if he didn’t look like he should be there.
Buying What the “Man” is Selling
I recently read a passage that discussed the social implications of the support Asian Americans laud on Jeremy Lin. The passage pointed to the obsession Asian Americans have developed with this rising star. The author suggests that in effect, Asian American males are buying into the racial hierarchy that permeates American society. He goes on to say that in desperation for a champion, we disregard the champions we come across everyday. We rain compliments and beam with pride every time J Lin’s name is mentioned, yet we fail to recognize the hard work put forth by unsung heroes. Basketball is just a sport, just a game. How could anyone possibly draw inspiration from it?
But you know what? People do.
I agree with the author that we are misled into believing that everyone is one big happy family. I also agree with the idea that we often overlook those that contribute more to a society than just playing a game. We are supposed to be “color-blind”, but a racial hierarchy does still linger in the psyche of minorities. It can not be and should not be ignored, but that is not to say that it can not be demolished. Instead, I posit that the best way to shatter this bullshit system, is to subvert it from within. Only when racial stereotypes in the media are broken down, will people realize how fucking ridiculous they really are.
I am not saying that we should try and live up to some bullshit media generated standard that has been set up for us. Neither am I saying that we have to show everyone that we are “just as good”. All I am saying is that I am sick and tired of being portrayed in the media as some perverted, asexual nerd that shies away from confrontation.
It seems as if this transformation is already on its way. Stereotypes about Asian Americans in the media will continue to persist. However, a handful of Asian American actors, musicians, dancers, and athletes are slowing breaking down these notions brick by brick. Even though every time Ken Jeong prances around in a thong, we seem to move back a step, there is always someone pushing two steps forward.
Long before John Cho sword fought in space, or got faded and chased MILF’s, he was showing people that Asian dudes love getting laid as he portrayed the wrist band toting Chau in the short lived tv series Off Centre.
The Far East Movement and The Jabbawockeez are proof that Asian Americans can appreciate, perform, and love Hip Hop too.
Jeremy Lin is evidence that the best thing to do when the odds are stacked against you, isn’t to sit down and bawl.
It is to get up and ball.
Before I begin, I want to put something out there. I fucking hate driving in the city. Not only are street signs and general road layouts confusing, people drive like shit here. There always seems to be some sort of construction going on, so inevitably that road you need to take? Yeah, fuck you we closed it. Sure there will be a detour, but it’s a pain in the ass especially when everyone else is taking that same road.
It’s understandable though, especially since SF has such a great public transit system. But shit. Sometimes a guy just wants to drive and not have to deal with crackheads, highly inaccurate pick-up schedules, and being packed like a sardine (No, sir. That was my umbrella and I am in fact not happy to see you).
The worst part about it all is that when you get to your destination, chances are that there will be no parking. And I mean absolutely no parking. You will most likely have to park 4 or 5 blocks away, and walk your ass there. It sucks especially when you are just trying to get some food.
It’s tough parking by my house as it is already. Street sweeping takes place 4 out of 5 days during the week. Because of this, I spend most of my gas just moving my car around to different blocks to avoid a ticket. I thought this was Amurica and not Communist Russia. Alright enough ranting, let’s get to bizzness.
MOTHERFUCKING FRIED CHICKEN
I woke up Saturday morning, hungover, and hankering for some fried chicken. I am usually a Popeye’s guy through and through, but KFC, to my understanding, had their hot wings for 50 cents a piece. What a fucking deal! I decided to roll out of bed, and go grab some wings. Like any normal person who is about to buy some fried chicken, I did my research on which would be the closest location. I wanted to exert the bare effort needed to procure this chicken. I punched in the address to my phone and was on my way.
The closest one is about 1.5 miles away from here. I also wanted to pick up a pack of stogs, so that I could have a nice little after breakfastlunchdinner treat. I figured that the entire trip would take about 20 mins and I would be back in my bed munching on delicious genetically modified chicken resembling meat, and watching Storage Wars. Boy was I wrong.
The trip to the KFC took about half an hour itself. The directions called for taking a main road, and I figured that it wouldn’t be too bad. I don’t know if there was an accident, or if that is how traffic that way usually ran, but it was jam packed. It felt as if everyone in the surrounding area knew that I was craving some chicken and decided to put together a big FUCK YOU. Well it worked, and I was fuming.
I finally pulled up to the place and there was no drive-thru. At this point you might be thinking “How fucking lazy is this fat shit?” Well let me tell you, I am pretty fucking lazy. And of course, when I pulled up, THERE WAS NO FUCKING PARKING. Yeah they had a parking lot, but all the spots were taken. Not to be discouraged, I quickly flipped a bitch (that is how the cool kids say make a u-turn), and began heading for another KFC that was near my house.
I decided that the optimal way to go about things, was to pick up a pack of stogs on the way. I pulled into a gas station and hopped out. To my dismay, there was huge line. This issue wasn’t aided by the fact that the cashier seemed to have just started working there that morning. Phones were going off, receipt papers needed to be filled, and customers were getting testy. After about another 15 mins, I finally grabbed my pack and headed out.
A this point, any sane person would have just settled for something else. Going through all this trouble just for some KFC? You gotta be fucking nuts. Well when it comes to 50 cent wings, I am. I needed that chicken.
I finally arrived at my destination. There was no drive-thru, but there was plenty of parking.
*thinking* Sweet. Finally some fucking chicken wings.
I walked up to the counter and the guy was actually pretty cool.
Me: Hey, do you guys still have that deal 50 cents for a wing?
Sgt. Sanders: Actually, sorry man but we don’t. It ended with the Super Bowl.
Me: *thinking* Are you fucking kidding. Hey, are you serious?
Sgt. Sanders: Yeah. What was cool about it was that you could get however many you wanted but now they only come in 5s. And they were 50 cents each. That was pretty cool too.
Me: *thinking* Can’t tell if this guy is just being a douche and rubbing it in, or if he was actually that excited about the deal. Alright, thanks man.
I knew that I had gone through quite a bit of inconvenience for supposedly convenient food, but I figured I should just get something since I was already there. Luckily, this KFC was one of those hybrid fast food Hydras that doubled as a Taco Bell. I went from almost eating some pseudo chicken meat, to eating downright dog food quality beef flavored tofu.
Anthony Bourdain ain’t got shit on my food travels.
One of the things I have come to miss most about college, is a designated (nay, dedicated) group of friends to engage in shenanigans with. But as you can tell from my previous detailed accounts of drunken debauchery, the lack of a consistent drinking buddy hasn’t exactly slowed me down. I began to accept the fact that it would be a while before I found that special someone (no homo or should I say no bromo?).
That is until I met my new housemate, El Bandito.
Here are few things to note about El Bandito:
1. He’s Mexican (hence the ethnic alias)
2. Currently attending CSUSF majoring in Business Management
3. Drives a white lowered Honda Civic
4. Fancies Corona, Los Lakers, and Hoodrats
DGAF
El Bandito is actually a really nice guy. He is pretty lax about most things in life (don’t come between this guy and his Corona though), and doesn’t usually get too wound up about anything. Whenever I throw out a joke or somewhat offensive jab at him for being Mexican, he will respond with a well timed quip about me being Chinese. It’s like the Odd Couple except neither of us are old white dudes.
Me: Hey. Can I put you in my blog? *thinking*I’m gonna do that shit anyways.
El Bandito: For what?
Me: Don’t worry, it’ll be good.
El Bandito: You’re going to put me in your blog?
Me: Yeah. Well not just you but stories involving you. Don’t trip. I’ll call you El Bandito.
El Bandito: *with eyes never straying away from Call of Duty* Yeah sure I guess.
The most awesome commonality we share, is our propensity towards binge drinking (yes, I am fancy huh). When El Bandito drinks, he drinks. Remember that post about the Slippery Slope? Drinking with this guy is like a fucking downhill mudslide.
No Cash Cab
About two weekends ago, El Bandito and I decide to head out and take in the city. We decided on going to this art gallery that transforms into a lounge/club at night (now if they only served soup…). After a few brews, a stiff gin and tonic, we decided to make our way towards BART armed with a Canada Dry bottle filled with Gin.
We got to this lounge and things were going alright. We grabbed some more drinks and made a concerted effort to take in the art pieces (yes we were some sophisticated muthafuckas). We decided to head down the street to another bar to scope out the scene. Along the way, I witnessed the transformation of my housemate into El Bandito.
As we walked by a guy yacking in the corner, El Bandito decided to really let his true colors fly.
El Bandito: Look at this pussy!
Yacking guy’s friend: Hey man, relax alright. Just get the fuck out of here.
El Bandito: Hey, fuck you!
Me:Uh yeah. Fuck you!
And along we went on our merry way.
We arrived at the destination, and it was clear that this was a bar for grown ups. You know the type, a lot of oak paneling, dimly lit, 90’s alt rock playing in the background, no stench of vomit and bad decisions. El Bandito and I stood out like a freshmen in an upper division GE class that won’t stop debating with the professor.
We grabbed a few more drinks then, but it was becoming clear that El Bandito needed to get home. I came to this conclusion when I realized that he was not standing on his own will. As the most sober out of the both of us (which wasn’t saying much at the time), I decided that we needed to call a cab before we ended up stuck in the city fighting off hobos and other vagabonds.
Surprisingly, we were able to hail a cab despite El Bandito’s overt intoxication. We hopped in and were home free. Suddenly, from the opposite side of the taxi:
El Bandito:*some slurring and making no effort to lower his voice* Yo, let’s ditch this bitch.
Me: Nah man calm the fuck down. We’re chill.
El Bandito: Nah fuck this let’s go!
And just like that, El Bandito swung his passenger door open while the taxi was in full motion and attempted to jump out. Thanks to my cat like reflexes which were honed by having things frequently thrown at me, I grabbed him by his coat and dragged him back in. Apparently in San Francisco, that action was warrant enough to get us kicked out of the cab.
Thanks a lot El Bandito. Thanks a lot.
Follow me on twitter @catfishquach!!! Also, feel free to let me know what you think in the comments section! All feedback is welcomed! Actually, I take that back. Only good feedback is welcomed.
Wow. It’s been over three months since my last post. Don’t you fret. Like with most things I have procrastinated on, I have a perfectly valid excuse. I’ve been busy. No, seriously.
But since it has been such a long time, let me give a quick synopsis of what’s been going on with me:
- Decided to let my mustache grow out, and my resemblance to catfishes is uncanny
- Moved into a new place in the city that doesn’t seem to have any insulation
- Got an iPhone, so yeah, I’m pretty bad ass now
I made it one of my resolutions this year to keep up with updating my blogs. Along with my other resolutions, this one is not going so well. But don’t worry, I intend on continuing to update this so please stay tuned! It’ll be good or at least mediocre.
Tahoe: Double Shower, A Dream, and the Most Dangerous Guard on the West Coast
I recently went on a trip to Lake Tahoe with a few of my buddies: Le Girlfriend, PJ Benn, the Sundance Kid, Mexican Ed, Killa K, Honeyphung, and the Taiwanese McLovin’. One thing I’ve realized is that it’s quite the challenge getting everyone under one roof. Although not impossible, we are all spread out all across the state/bay area so it’s nice when we do have these group gatherings.
Enough with this mushy shit. Let’s get into the shenanigans.
Double Shower:
So, when I was informed that we would be renting a cabin for this trip, I naturally assumed that it would be nothing more than a wooden shack in the middle of the wilderness. Prime territory for an ax wielding sociopath. Little did I know that I know very little about cabins.
The cabin we rented for the weekend was the bee’s knees. It looked like something out of a very classy and well produced 80’s softcore porn. What really secured this description of the cabin was one particular fixture in the bathroom.Now, I am not one to make a sweeping generalization about something upon first glance (who the fuck am I kidding, yes I am).
While checking out the place, I wandered into the bathroom to see the place I would inevitably spend a good portion of my time in. I noticed that the sink was incredibly high (the place was obviously designed for white people), there were some creepy paintings and art work around (who really needs to fucking decorate a bathroom. You’re just pooping in there), and the size of the actual shower itself. Upon a double take, I noticed something else.
Two shower heads.
You heard me. Two fucking shower heads. There was a fixture on both sides of the shower. While you were washing your face or any other business on one side (not going to get too graphic), the other shower head would be there to gracefully wash your back. It was like taking a bath without having to wade in your own filth. It was, dare I say, the most amazing shower I have ever taken in my entire life. And that’s coming from a guy that showers on occasion.
I can tell you that my showers since, have not been the same. I considered petitioning my landlord to install one, but I guess I’ll just have to stick with dragging in a garden hose every morning.
A Dream at Your Neighborhood Bar & Grill
I have never snowboarded in my life. This trip was going to be the first time I could pay a hefty sum of money to fall on my ass all day. Unfortunately, Mother Nature decided to be a hoodrat, and save all of the fresh snow for the following week. What a dick.
Seeing as how there would be only man made snow and prices for lift tickets didn’t get that memo, Killa K, the Sundance Kid, le Girlfriend, and I decided not to go snowboarding. Instead, the plan was to catch the 49er’s game at a local dining and alcohol establishment. We decided to venture to everyone’s favorite bar & grill, Applebee’s.
While most of the people there were Niner’s fans, there were a few Saints’ fans present. You might be wondering: “Well, who the fuck are Saints’ fans outside of New Orleans?”. Douches. They are dirty douches.
And right on douching they went. It seemed like every time New Orleans made any sort of positive play, these assholes began cheering like I see a picture of a dog acting like a human. But as the game wore on, and the pitchers kept coming, my friends and I decided to counteract their douchery with a little douche wizardry of our own. We too began to act like a bunch of raucous baboons at a banana party (ran out of B sounds).
I would not consider myself a Niners’ fan, but this pseudo cheering had me caught up with the rest of the fans. When Alex Smith completed that TD to Vernon Davis, and the whole place erupted in cheers, I couldn’t help myself.
Me: FUCK YEAH THIS IS FUCKING NUTS!
Killa K: O, shit! That was so sick!
Me: I have a dream!
I felt like it was the appropriate timing to use that phrase, seeing as how it was MLK Weekend. In hindsight, it is probably never appropriate to imitate a Civil Rights leader.
The Most Dangerous Guard on the West Coast
For those that do not follow MMA (yes, that is the name of the sport. UFC is the main brand that promotes the sport but UFC is not the same of sport. You assholes), or any other combat sports, I would like to give you a description of what a guard is.
Essentially, someone is in your guard when you are on your back with your legs wrapped around that person’s hips. Your ankles are locked together, and you are basically bumping uglies with that individual. This is primarily used in Brazilian Jiu Jitsu, as the person attempts submissions from guard.
One thing you should know about me and my friends is that when we get drunk, we like to wrestle (no homo. And I do stress that). Well just because a few of us have graduated, doesn’t mean that we have outgrown that aspect of our collegiate careers.
PJ Benn, Taiwanese McLovin’, the Sundance Kid, and I, are pretty big fans of MMA. While only the Sundance Kid, has had any form of training, the rest of us would like to think that we are experts in this arena. This is particularly true when we are obliterated.
So while PJ Benn was getting out of his snowboarding attire, I drunkenly decided to act quick. As he was slipping out of a pair of jeans that he borrowed from his kid sister, I reacted by jumping on him and immediately putting him in my guard. Now you might be thinking, “Yo, that’s kinda gay”. Well first, you might have a point there. And second, he had his long johns on and I was fully clothed so it wasn’t that gay.
Being the seasoned vet that he is (Or he is just probably getting used to getting jumped by dudes as he is undressing), he reacted and we were quickly engaged in the most intense grappling sessions I have ever been in. Alright, well it wasn’t that intense. I hate to admit this, but there was actually a lot of giggling going on. He had me in a dominant position, and before long I would be subject to one of his infamous victory dances. I had to act fast, so I relied on all the years of film study I have done about MMA. When I couldn’t figure out what to do, I turned around and bit the shit out of him. He showed me the bruise I left him the next morning.
Ladies and Gentlemen, that is why I have
The Most Dangerous Guard in the West Coast
Nowadays, my lunches consist of hand held lunches that are easy to consume at my desk. This allows me to get back to my work as seamlessly as possible, making me a more efficient employee. Dear God…what have I become?!
Constantly grubbing on sandwiches and salads, I found myself craving a big hunk of meat (no homo). As I entered the kitchen the other day from a mind mulching day of work, I find just that. In the kitchen sink lay a defrosted, ready to marinade, chunk of beef. We were having tri tip for dinner. Awesome.
As you should know by know, my sister and her boyfriend simply despise simple culinary projects. Everything needs to be fancied up just a tad. Grilled cheese? Panini grill that bitch. Milk and cereal? Why not add bananas? Mama Celeste Microwave Pizzas? Crack open the caviar muthafuckas, cause we bout to ball outta control! Well, they don’t really say but you get the point.
Surprisingly, they decided to take a relatively simple approach. This particular hunk of meat was marinated in soy sauce, garlic, and salt. I know what you’re thinking. What’s with the soy sauce? You don’t marinade beef with that stuff. Well first, you’re a racist. Second, it was really good. It was a better instance of “East meets West” than the Chris Tucker Jackie Chan combo in Rush Hour 2 (obviously the best of the franchise). Perfectly grilled, it was extremely flavorful without stripping the meat of its natural taste. I am salivating just imagining that meat in my mouth. Here is a pic (ignore the green stuff):
Drunk Powers
It is no secret. Alcohol is a bigger confidence booster than beating your little cousins at video games (except they’re much bigger now, and can probably beat the doo doo out of me). Liquor gives you the courage to chit-chat with strangers, speak your mind, and makes you feel invincible.
While in college, I felt that I could accomplish any physical task after a few brews. No tree was unclimbable, no bottle unbreakable, no dog out-runnable, no amount of Jack-in-the-Box tacos uneatable. It is like having super powers that are only rechargeable with more beer or boxed wine. Alcohol can make even the skinniest of bowl hair cut, four-eyed, StarCraft 2 junkies feel like a 10 foot giant (talking to you Squirty). Confrontation, your biggest ally. Embarrassment, your smallest concern. Regret the next morning, almost certain.
Now, it’s a little different. For whatever weird reason, belligerence is frowned upon in the real world. Instead, I have begun to notice more and more that people just start spilling their guts when they’re blasted. Whether its failed goals, or an emotional rant, people really like to talk when they’re fucked up.
I am no exception. I become quite the blabbermouth (even more so if you can believe it) after my BAC has reached a healthy level. There are only a few things that I could go on and on for while intoxicated. Conspiracy theories, mind control, and other times I have been drunk are just a few of my favorite topics. But one theme takes the cake.
Business.
When hammered, nothing interests me more than talking about owning my own business. It’s cheesy, but when I get started, it’s hard to stop. This was recently brought to light by my sister’s bf.
Seester’s BF: You were pretty fucked up last night.
Me: Yeah, I know (holding back the unforgivable hangover puke).
Seester’s BF: You were running around talking to people about your business idea.
Me: *thinking* Aw fuck. At least I didn’t take my pants off.
Call it ambition, or just a pipe dream, the idea of owning a business is immensely appealing. You’re your own boss, you make the rules, and if you waltz into work at noon, who’s gonna say anything to you. The thing is, a lot of the business ideas I develop drunk, usually don’t seem too logical when sober (but then again, what is).
One of the ideas that I have been toying around with is a restaurant/bar. But get this, this place would only serve soup. I know I’m not the only one that has ever craved a bowl of soup. There aren’t many places that specialize in just that. Yeah sure, you can order soup at other joints, but the amount of choices is lacking. I would have a large selection of different soups that would be offered certain days of the week.
Still with me? Here’s the kicker. At night, this place turns into a bar. SAY WUT. Yeah, a fucking bar. When drunk, it is the best idea ever. My friends can attest to the undying passion I have for this project when I am intoxicated. Get me started on it, and I won’t stop talking. However, when sober, I realize that it is possibly the worst concept for a restaurant ever. The best thing about my fictional business would have been the name:
Soup Bar. Patent pending.
Follow me on twitter @catfishquach! Keep your eyes peeled boys and girls. Just 2 more days and you’ll see!
The weather in the Bay lately is very much like my fantasy football team. Inconsistent, and really starting to piss me off. One day its pouring, and the next day it’s 100 degrees and the soles of my Nikes (pronounced like Boobie Miles from Friday Night Lights) are sticking to the concrete. Come to think of it, that just might be the gum or human doo doo I stepped on while walking to work.
A few days ago, it was really coming down hard (no homo). My sister decided to embark on a culinary challenge that many have tried, but few have successfully pulled off.
Me:Hey, what are you doing?
Seester: About to make some chili.
Me: *thinking* O shit. Cool.
After this meaty concoction had finished simmering, and the last of the spices had been added, the product of several hours of preparation was finally ready to be devoured. I almost cried harder than when I watched 50/50 (Damn, that was a sad movie). Here are some pics:
What are those little yellow round things? Cornbread muthafuckin’ muffins. I don’t really eat chili too often (unless it’s on a burger or wiener, no homo) so I didn’t really understand the combination at first.
Me: Dang, what else are you making?
Seester: Some cornbread muthafuckin’ (added in by me) muffins.
Me: How come? To eat with the chili?
Seester: Yeah, that’s how white people eat it.
She was right. White people are really catching on to something.
Movin’ On Up!
I’ve recently started looking for a new place to live. I work in the City and want to be closer to work. Also, I don’t know how much longer my sister will be cool with me crashing in her living room with my stuff all over the place. The process has been a bit more complex than I had originally anticipated.
In college, finding housing was always pretty easy. You grab a couple friends, at least the ones you get along with the most, send out a few emails, and before you know you’re playing drinking games on a Tuesday night and using paper towels as toilet paper. Ah, the good ol’ days.
It is definitely different now. Why? To be honest, I don’t have many friends in the area that are looking for a place, or don’t have a place already. What I’ve learned from previous experience is that you will be much happier if you get along with your roommates. Who wants to come home and share a toilet with a person you secretly hope will accidentally take too much Nyquil? I needed to find a place that was financially feasible, had a low probability of being stabbed, and roommates that won’t fart on your pillow when you’re not home.
I know what you’re thinking. Boo fucking hoo. But it’s been tough. Finding a place to live is almost as hard as getting that good hot sauce from Popeye’s. I can’t recall how many emails I have sent out shamelessly selling myself, exaggerating my cleanliness, while downplaying the amount of noise I make (I snore pretty loud and get too excited when criticizing bad t.v. shows. Looking at you X-Factor). I was sending these emails out by the dozen all the while thinking “Shit. It’s not like I’m asking you for a job”.
I finally received a reply for a place that was affordable, closer to my work, and the roommates were my age. Awesome. I checked the place out last Saturday, and was told to come back this past Tuesday to meet the roommates. I knew I had to make a good impression, so I shaved the pathetic excuse for a mustache on my face.
I showed up, and the two dudes were actually really cool. Things were going well as we exchanged anecdotes and elevator-pitch life stories. Then suddenly, the bell rings.
Roommate #1: *answers door* Uh, hey. You must be the other dude checking out the room.
Me: *thinking* WTF IS THIS SHIT. Is this a group interview or something?
Turns out, it was exactly that. The landlord had also asked another guy that was interested in the room to come meet the roommates the same time as me. Talk about awkward situations. I knew I had to step my game up if I wanted this place.
Me: (after a brief moment of silence) I have an Xbox 360.
Roommate #2: Cool, I have a PS3.
Me: *thinking* Sweet. I’m in.
After about 15 mins, the landlord came back up.
Landlord: So, did you guys make a decision?
Roommates: (looking at each other questioningly) Uh, I’m not sure what you’re asking.
Landlord: Make a choice between the two silly!
As if it were not weird enough, the landlord wanted the guys to choose on the spot between me and the other guy. Awkward. They just kept looking at each other like they didn’t know wtf to do or say. I decided to make a move.
Me: How about we take off, and you guys just decide and let us know?
Roommates: Cool. We’ll let you know.
So as we were getting ready to leave, I decided to use the restroom. It’s a little trick that I sometimes use for group interviews so I can get a few extra moments to pitch myself. Smart right? Well, I wasn’t thinking that. I just needed to take a piss really bad.
Half way down the block, I get a holler and turn back around. Turned out that they chose me to fill that empty spot. Awesome.
I just hope they’re cool with naked Thursdays.
Follow me on twitter so you can the latest updates!!!
I’m back! To all my loyal readers (talking to you Mom), sorry for yet another long hiatus. Things have been a bit hectic, but I will definitely try and update more frequently.
What’s been going on in my life?
Well grab a seat and listen! I have recently been promoted at work. I use the word promoted very loosely. I was initially hired as a temp, but got the call to move to the big leagues. I am now a full-time permanent employee! I went from keeping my head down and staying quiet, to now ruffling feathers and walking around like I own the fucking place. Not really, but you get the idea…
In other news, I got new sunglasses, got a haircut, and am finally getting ready to move out of my sister’s place. What’s that you ask? Is he finally taking that big leap forward you ask? FUCK YEAH I AM. And besides, I kinda have to. My sister is starting to get tired of that dirty socks smell in the living room. Farewell meticulously home cooked meals… HELLO CEREAL AND MICROWAVE DINNERS!
Uhh. You’re not on the list.
About two weeks ago, I received an office wide email from one of my co-workers inviting everyone to a bridal shower she was planning for one of my other co-workers. Where was this momentous occasion going to take place? The Chevy’s around the block from work. The email also asked for a $5 donation from those who wanted to attend. When I saw this, only one thought came to mind: Lulz. Fuck it, I’m not going.
I mean, I would be lying if I said that I wasn’t at least a little interested in going. I thought it would be quite the hoot to see my co-workers drunk, mainly because they are the next in sequence in people you wanna see plastered. But five dollars? I can get 20 chicken mcnuggets with that. I decided that I wasn’t going to go.
Then, the day of the bridal shower rolls around. I was debating all day if I should go or not.
Me: *thinking* Shit, I should probably just go. What am I gonna do? Just go home and watch t.v.? But if I go, I gotta go get cash, then make change, then have to make awkward conversation with my co-workers about work and just end up leaving half an hr into it. Aw fuck it.
I decided to tag along with my co-worker and go for at least one drink. I didn’t pay the five bucks, but I figured it wasn’t gonna be a problem. Boy was I wrong.
Bride to be: O, hey guys! Thank you so much for the contribution. Thank you for coming and contributing. It was really nice of you guys to contribute.
As we walked away, I noticed that the bride had a list by her with a bunch of names, and check marks. Yeah, a fucking list. First off, I thought this thing was supposed to be a surprise. Why is the Bride being informed of who is coming or not? Second, WHO THE FUCK KEEPS A FUCKING LIST OF PEOPLE THAT PAID.
Me: Hey, I don’t like how many times she used the word contribute.
Co-worker: Don’t trip. Just buy her a drink; that’s what I’m doing.
Me: But if you buy her a drink, she’s not gonna drink my drink. You guys are all light weights.
You might be thinking, what a cheap asshole. But hey, it’s true. She probably wouldn’t have finished my drink so why waste my hard earned dollars? I’m better off spending the money on liquor for myself, than anybody else.
Not to toot my own horn, but I was in a frat. What does that have anything to do with, well anything? I can handle my liquor. That is not the same I could say for some of my co-workers. These people were getting blitzed. I decided to get on their level.
A margarita (no homo), shot of whiskey, gin and tonic, pint, and half an hour later, I was getting close. My co-workers on the other hand, were just getting shittier by the moment. Stumbling, confessing their undying love for each other, knocking over plates, I only had one thought on my mind :
Fucking freshmen.
Follow me on Twitter @catfishquach for funny junk and stuff! Also, working on a project with a few buddies of mine so be on the look out.
