And you and I

I have absolutely no experience with picking up chicks in bars. Couple that with the fact that my personality goes as flat as my ex-girlfriend's chest when talking with cute girls, I should have known it would be an interesting and trying evening.

I arrived at Jeff's (the bar's name) around 9:20 with two friends, my wingmen. Naturally at this time there was almost no one there. We situated ourselves along the wall, facing the window, thinking that we could perhaps catch a glimpse of this girl as she was walking into the bar, and possibly make a quick getaway with a string of knotted bed sheets if we spotted an effeminate Australian man making his way up the stairs to us. We sat and chatted for quite some time, making sure to keep a close eye on the street below, had a few beers, and about an hour later, I turned to find the place packed. I have no idea where these people came from. There must be a back entrance.

I looked around to see if she was there, and finally spotted her at the bar flanked by two very talkative guys. I decided I hadn't laid much claim on her, so I'd let these guys have their way with her, and if they cleared off and a seat opened up, great, if not, well it wasn't meant to be.

You see, what had happened was that I found this pic of Andrea Dworkin online when doing research for a debate on feminism over here, and my balls retreated somewhere in the upper-reaches of my chest cavity. They were nowhere to be found at this point in the evening, or rather, there was no means to appropriately relocate them; I brought my scalpel, but forgot resources for sanitation, and what good are balls if gangrene doesn't allow you to enjoy them?

So finally around 11:30, with my wingmen a little worn-out from all the bed sheet tying, I figured I would take the doughty way out and leave quietly. However, after consulting with my comrades, I figured it would be ungentlemanly of me to leave without saying something to her. The best course of action, we decided would be for me to tap her on the shoulder as we were leaving and tell her something like "sorry I didn't get a chance to talk with you this evening, but I've got to head to another party now." So I said something like that.

It was actually kind of cute, she seemed really disappointed, and said she was so sorry, but she didn't recognize me with my haircut (I forgot to mention that I buzzed my head earlier this week). She seemed, well, frantic's not really the word, but maybe really anxious not to let me leave. I said, I saw her over here, but she seemed pretty engrossed in conversation, and I didn't want to disturb her. She protested that this was only her friend who tagged along because she didn't want to go to a bar alone. Yes, I agreed, that would be pathetic. I shuffled my feet. I told her, well, this make-believe party of mine is in Japanese, so I probably wouldn't understand much of it anyway; perhaps a conversation in my native tongue would be a more productive use of my time. Plus you're a girl, I explained, and girls are invariably better company than male coworkers. I waved off my companions. The three of us--she, I, and her friend--talked for a bit, and then he said, obviously having fulfilled his mission as caretaker, he had to call it an early evening. That left an empty seat.

We talked for about 2 hours, and I completely forgot to drink, which was probably for the best. She was definitely cuter than I remembered which is to say that she was cuter than a fuzzy flesh-colored oblong sphere resting atop an amorphous blob. We didn't delve into anything too deep, mainly covering the typical "why did you come to Japan" type questions. I don't know any of the important stuff, like if she's religious (Mom), her political beliefs (Meredith, among others), or whether or not she hates minorities (Scott), so don't ask.

Around 1:30 she said she needed to head out in preparation for a semi-early morning tomorrow. She decided to walk because it was a nice evening, and I said I would accompany her, for protection. She sized me up and laughed, and I said, no seriously, I'm really Captain America in disguise; all I need is 5 minutes in a phone booth with you to prove it. It was a good joke.

When it came time to part ways, she asked if I had a cell-phone, to which I replied that, no, I didn't because I was afraid if I got one no one would call me. Don't let these good looks fool you, I told her, it has not been the most productive month-and-a-half in terms of social climbing; I am probably not one of the top-10 most popular people in Kumamoto. Well, do you have another number, she asked, and I gave her my apartment number, along with my email address, for which she also asked. Finally having completely spent the awkward clichéd parting phrases, I leaned forward and hugged her, thanking her for a wonderful evening, topping it off with a little kiss on the cheek. It was then that I felt my left testicle descend. Why not both, I asked? My one ball didn't respond. She asked who I was talking to, but I pretended not to hear her. I told that, though my sister was coming, I'd still give her a call this next week, and maybe we could do something. Then I turned and fled. Now if that's not a manly course of action, then I don't know what is. I don't what more my right testicle expects from me.

Well, as promised I called the potential Australian beauty back this evening--sieze the day and all that jazz--though I was unsure of her name. The whole evening (as in last Saturday evening) I was under the impression that her name was Sara, but she corrected me as I left. What her correction was I don't rightly remember, but I believe or at least believed she said "Saraette". I know, that's an incredibly crappy name, but she's Australian, what did I know? So, accordingly, during the phonecall this evening, I called her Saraette.

Her name is Sara Anne. Thank the Lord Jesus that my language-butchering American accent masqued any mispronounciations or just completely incorrect names. She thought I said her name correctly, and repeated it when I asked if I had the right number, making me aware of my mistake. I asked her if she was planning on heading back to the same bar this weekend, you know, something non-commital. She said she was this Saturday, and I said good, I just wanted to make sure that this Radiohead CD I was burning wasn't completely in vain (I had promised her a copy of Kid A on Saturday night, one of the few details I recall). She laughed and said she was looking forward to it. God I'm a smooth talker.

Well, that's the easy part. The hard part will be coming up with some disguise in case she turns out to be a man or something. I was thinking I could wear my bar stool costume as that's pretty inconspicuous. I'm taking suggestions so fire away.

I received an email last night from someone I haven't spoken to in quite awhile, someone with whom I used to be very close. She's getting married. I was and still am unsure what to think. It's not that I still have feelings for her, but perhaps, what with her being my first love, my first serious relationship, I still feel some small sense of ownership. Feminists crack away at that last sentence.

Perhaps part of it is sorrow at the passage of time--sure it has to happen, but why does it have to happen to me? Why not to some poor Bosnian kid, his life sucks anyway. It's like my boy Ben Folds said, "Everybody knows it hurts to grow up."

It's not even so much the passage of time itself that bothers me, but it's not being caught in it. I grow uneasy at watching those around me move on with their lives, succeeding in graduate school, getting married, working their way up in the world. I sort of feel like life's on pause at the moment, like I won't really be able to begin adulthood until I return home among my friends and family and make some definite career decisions, at which time I'll be significantly behind, not only in terms of my career, but, more importantly, in terms of finding that special someone. Sure that's probably bullshit, but I'm an irrational human being--I've written this entire post using only the karmic pictures in my dried tea leaves.

Needless to say, her email threw me for a bit of a loop. It was blunt but sweet, and to the point. I responded with schmaltz:

Ali,

Whoa, who's this? I didn't even know you were dating anyone. God, I'm speachless. I guess congratulations are in order. So...Congrats! See, and before your scary age too! Listen, I want you to know that I am so happy for you; love could certainly not happen to a more deserving person (unless of course it was me). I also want you to know that I do indeed embrace the memories of the love we shared--you've become the standard by which all other girls are judged, which makes it quite difficult for other girls. If fact, I'm going to go ahead and pin the blame for my recent stale love-life on you--thanks a bunch.

You've certainly been through some trying times recently, and what a blessing to stumble upon love at this most unexpected time--at least unexpected from where I am. I'm certainly not suggesting that the reason behind your engagement and future marriage is merely a seeking out a source of comfort, but it certainly is a beautiful end to perhaps one of the less easy times in your life. But what is it they say about finding love where you least expect it? I guess one could say this is almost idiomatic.

I didn't think I'd ever be happy for an ex-love's engagement, but, well hell, I feel like I'm going to cry. God bless you Ali, you are a truly beautiful person--graceful and dignified--and have left an ever-burgeoning blossom upon my heart: you taught me to love. I'll never forget you.

Nick

Ah, I truly am happy for you, Ali. I will miss you; you defined who I was for a good portion of my youth. Perhaps that's unhealthy, but it's the truth. Letting go of you was difficult and, though I know longer harbor the same feelings for you I once did, letting go of you again won't be much easier. To borrow a line from Scott (ok steal as I've no intention of returning it): smile forever, Ali. Yes it reeks of cheese, but I like it; it's sweetly laconic and pithy. Plus it's original, which is more than I can say for my own writing. In fact, you'll find that most of my blogging is stolen from other sources. That recent inebriated plea for advice? James Joyce. The classic Yasser Arafat story? Gabriel García Márquez, from his short story collection One Hundred Years of Opium.

Well, I suppose we all know what this means. I have to call back the faceless Australian girl. Sure she might have like 3 arms or something, but she might also have 3 breasts, and that would be kind of hot. Let's face it: time's running out here, the 'ole biological clock's a-tickin'; I can't afford not to pursue every lead, to leave any stone unturned. It's crunchy time, I need somewhere to sow my wild oats, someone to tame this wild stallion. That's me, I'm the wild stallion.

Edited to note that it was supposed to read "It's crunch time", but, after a publishing and reading, I thought it was pretty fun as is, so I left it.

Just returned from a bar with a phone number and email address in hand, but I'm not sure what to do. The problem is I don't even know what the girl looked like. Perhaps I should start over. I'm drunk. Like, really drunk. Not so drunk that I'm having bladder control problems, but enough to where I'm receiving strangers' phone numbers and email addreses'.

I had a wonderful conversation with this girl tonight, had a few drinks, and she gave me her phone number and email address. When it came time to leave we parted ways; I said it was lovely to have met her, she told me to call or email this next week.

She was Austrailian. Does anyone know anything about Austrailians? Are they cute? What are my chances, if I play this blind, of snagging a hottie?

I guess what I'm asking is, hypothetically, if you, drunk at a bar, receive a phone number and\or email address and don't really remember the owner, should you contact?

Eagerly awaiting your replies, I remain drunkfully and tiredly yours,

Nick

I really don't have anything to say, I just wanted an excuse to write another pithy one-word post title.

Woke up this morning feeling quite convalesced, reasonably healthy, and decided to pry myself out of bed and attend Catholic mass, just for the hell of it (incidentally, also this particular church's slogan: St. Xaviers "Just for the hell of it"). It would seem that I've become quite the rebel lately, what with my excused hooky yesterday (a contradiction in terms, I know, but still a little bit recalcitrant), and now my rubbing elbows with the enemy.

Spent a good portion of the day playing Final Fantasy Tactics, which reminds me, I need to catch up on my fan fiction. I guess that makes me a bit of a loser--or a nearly complete one--but certainly not as complete as the one who writes them.

Just finished watching The Professional with Andrew; a delightful flick which holds both the director and co-star (Gary Oldman) in common with one of my all-time favorite movies The Fifth Element. I don't know why it's one of my favorites; it just is. I would imagine none of my so-called "favorites" would even sniff a top 100 films in the universe list or whatever, but who gives a crap? What makes the greats great? There's no way I could make it through Citizen Kane without having injested a large amount of methamphetamines, let alone 5 times in one week, something I am known to do with the Luc Besson classics. I actually chewed my thumb off after watching 2001: A Space Odyssey. I find it's rather typical to lose an appendage after viewing a Kubrick film, which is why most people have to call it quits at just three--try handling the remote with less than 7 fingers. And the only reason I was in the same room as a showing of Gone with the Wind was because there was a girl in there whose pants I was trying to get into. As to whether or not I did, a gentleman doesn't answer such questions. And yes I did.

What are my top-5 favorite movies? Well, since any previous conceptions of my coolness flew out the window 3 paragraphs ago, I'll go ahead and list them.

1. Conan the Barbarian--does it get any more manly than this? No talking, just sex and violence. And then some more violence. Plus a little more sex and a funny little Japanese wizard.

2. Quest for Fire--Best movie you've never heard of. All about cavemen. No dialogue. Lost of sex and violence, but the sex isn't hot b\c it gross cavemen. Works well as white noise when you're trying to sleep because you can't make out what's going on.

3. The Fifth Element--Enough said.

4. Gerry--remember that movie "Good Will Hunting"? Well ole' Van Zandt made another one, a doozy of a picture. Very little dialogue. Dialogue is just filler, cover-up for a bad movie.

5. The Big Lebowski--unlike my other favorites, this one's all dialogue. Somehow it worked.

Well there you have it. Dont' you judge me.

What was I talking about again? *scrolling upward* God, that was a boring post. I'm not really even sure what it was about. It's like a stream of consciousness, just a stringing together of random unrelated thoughts. The title doesn't help much either. But it is kind of cool sounding, pithy some would say.

I feel terrible. I woke up with violent shivers in the middle of the night, and importated Exedrin™ (it makes the post look more official) from the States is the only thing that gives me a moment's rest. It's been nice playing hooky for the day; this is the first substantial rest I've had in awhile.

I'm a little loopy and am sweating profusely, so I hope this makes sense when I read it tomorrow. Until then, I'm going to catch up on some much needed rest.

There's nothing quite like a miserable day in bed to suck the spirits, the joie de vivre out of you. Had a wonderful conversation with Scott this afternoon--wonderful to me, but I was heavily medicated, so what do I know--it reminded me of how much I miss home, friends, and family. I haven't had time to think about it recently, so here's hoping that I get over this ailment quickly.

I truly hope this sickness isn't the result of all the studying I've been doing because I don't want to stop; I feel like I'm accomplishing something.

Good night.

One day blurs into the next.

I don't remember ever having worked this hard in my life. I feel exhausted, but I feel fulfilled. I finish my days not questioning myself, my actions, and my decision to come here, but entirely too exhausted to question. And perhaps that is better. Since reporting in a previous post that I would dedicate myself to the study of the Japanese language--in preperation for the proficency exam--I have put in ungodly hours toward this end. Honestly, I don't think I studied half this hard in college; it's wonderful. The changes manifest themselves in more ways than just improved communication ability--my mind feels sharper and more accute, my thoughts trenchantly clear. But at a price: I can hardly keep my eyes open, and I think I've eaten a hole in my stomach. Don't ask, I lost a bet and hadn't eaten since breakfast.

I am finding it difficult to stay awake for more than 2 hours at a time and average around 3 to 4 10-15 min naps a day. Lesson planning and energy in the classroom so far hasn't taken a hit, but I fear my writing and English language ability might. After graduation and before giving myself over to the Japanese language, I was determined to keep up my reading and writing ability in preperation for law or buisness, which ever I should choose. But now, like in college, pleasure reading and writing always feel like I'm wasting time. In college it was time I could have spent studying as it is now. But here, unlike in college, I don't have assignments keeping me in check and forcing my intellectual upkeep.

This is my sole outlet, and I must take advantage.

Drunk, yes I am. Am I drunk? I think I already answered that. I am drunk. I had a lot to drink. I walked arm in arm home with a girl that I don't find even remotely attractive. Why the hell was she with me? I don't know, I was drunk. And I still am. God, the room is spinning. I think I'm going to write a poem for tonight. It's called:

Saturday Night

The night of Saturn, the grey night
The night of repeated soliloques of a hundred foreign rooms
The evening of scotch and beer ensues
But mainly scotch, as it contains more alcohol.

I'm too drunk to finish this poem, but you get the genereal idea. Eh, what else should I write? I just bought some new CD's, so I'm kind ofdajf

Ok, I'm tired. I'm going to sleep.