I'd been looking forward to Saturday all week. There was a huge fireworks festival coinciding with a Halloween bar crawl in Kyung Sung University with tons of prizes. I hadn't gone out in two months, barely even leaving my apartment unless necessary. I was dying for any social interaction with people my own age. There was no plan, but five of us had agreed the night before to meet up, catch the fireworks, and get wasted in KSU. I was pregaming at a playdate party with a bunch of parents, when what was supposed to be a bit of rain turned into full on bullshit poured out of a blender. The fireworks festival was pushed back to Sunday, and rumors of subway closings started flying around. Someone up there had literally rained on my parade, except instead of rain it was semen; corrosive, foul tasting black guy semen.
Then I got the call from Mance. Him and his two buddies bailed out with no explanation. NZ and Denver were already drunk and in a cab, which left me at the scene of a playdate with a bunch of toddlers running around, quickly sobering up from hearing a bunch of bullshit news. My brain shifted into fourth gear. NOBODY WILL TAKE THIS AWAY FROM ME! I left for home, got into costume, and made a sprint for the last train.
An hour and a cab ride later, I was wading through a horde of drunk, costumed foreigners to get to some cheap awful liquor. There was even a decent amount of respectable Korean women in short skirts, fishnets and heels. Nothing vulgar like bared shoulders though. The first thing I did was get a bottle of soju and put it in my Pudding Dog. What's Pudding Dog? Only my best friend, guardian angel, and essential part of my costume which consisted of this:
I looked a little less gay than two guys having sex with another guy.
I found my friends at a Thursday Party packed tighter than a New Orleans welfare office. Not wanting to bother with the bar, I took out the soju and finished the bottle before NZ came back with the first round.
I don't mention this enough, and because of the nature of this blog and the moniker I use, some people assume that I get wasted and do stupid shit all the time, but I actually fucking loathe alcohol. Aside from having no tolerance at all, I also blush red over half my body after two beers (“My body is having an allergic reaction to an addictive carcinogen? That's weird.”). You don't feel any empathy like with MDMA, or get ego-dissolving insight with psychedelics. No opiate euphoria, no amphetamine focus. And worst of all no visual synesthesia. Mainly, it just makes me highly suggestible and prone to do stupid shit, as if it were the perfect date-rape drug or something.
As fate would have it, my bad luck streak wasn't over yet. Everyone else wanted to sit around the table and socialize, so I made a beeline to the closest thing in five inch heels.
“Come have a drink with me and meet some dirty foreigners.”
“Okay, let me tell my boyfriend over there.”
That was the end of the conversation because I just turned around and did a re-scan of the room. Sometimes in Freecell you get a shitty deal, and the best thing to do is to hit F2. I saw someone at the bar that made me immediately start planning my exit strategy. This French girl that I'd hooked up with was at the bar, facing me, wearing something that could've been a costume or just her normal get up: The last time I saw her she was wearing hillbilly overalls, possibly ironically, possibly as penis repellent. I never explained to her why I just stopped wanting to hook up and subsequently started ignoring her, and tonight was not going to be a night for that conversation. I could imagine no good outcome after hearing “I realized that you look exactly like one of my third graders. In conjunction with the smoking, the pretentiousness, the rudeness, the language barrier, in essence, the being French, I thoroughly stopped wanting to put my penis in a bag and that bag inside you.” But at the same time, I was well on my way to shitfaced drunk and I totally wanted to have that conversation.
My brain cut the Gordian knot with attention deficit as I spotted what every single man, married man, creeper, date rapist, pretty much anybody with a dick recognizes as the most golden of all golden opportunities; The back silhouette of a woman drinking alone at the bar.
“WHY IS THAT WOMAN DRINKING ALONE RIGHT NOW?”
Oz: “Dunno know man. Looks fine as. You should go talk to her.”
The pre-isolated female is a classic economics paradox like dropped change or an undervalued currency. A fleeting market imperfection due to be immediately corrected, nothing more than a mirage. But in order for that to happen, something needs to correct it- A trader needs to make the arbitrage, a homeless man has to pick up the change. I looked her up and down, from her dangling heels to the small of her back. I could be that homeless man.
I waded through the pool of filthy unfuckables and made my way over to her. She hadn't noticed me yet- I was about to get the jump on her.
“Hey, what you doing sitting by yourself? Quit scaring away all the cute boys.”
She turns around.
“Fratty! Haven't seen you in a long time. How are you?”
I don't know her name. All I know is she's from out of town, and I'd hit on her seven months ago and it worked like pushing rope.
“I've been up to things. How's Daegu?”
I don't want to have this conversation.
“It's greaaaat I didn't know you were so handsome.”
I'd like to see where this is going.
I guess she let me down, because the next thing I remember is turning my attention to two Korean girls which me an Oz convinced [coerced] to come with us to Almost Famous. I don't know if you could say they had a lot of surgery, but what they did have, they had it in spades. One of them had been altered so much she didn't even look Korean anymore, but I guess that's the point.
I was drunk before, but after another shot with them I was gone.
“Hold onto my Pudding Dog, I need to go take a shit.”
Is there anything as overrated as sex or as underrated as defecation? I fucked that toilet so good it asked for a tip. When I went back down to collect my pudding dog, one of the British girls suggested we get another drink. A great suggestion and a terrible idea all at once, I sauntered over to the bar where I saw four shots laid out neatly. I reached grabbed the bottle of brown liquid sitting next to the shots, and started sucking it through the easy pour. Unbeknownst to me, this is a social taboo in Korea, and as my bad luck would have it, a bigger than usual Korean was offended at the sight. He pulled my hood over my head and threw me around. My instinct was at first to put my guard up, but in my selfishness, I lost the bear. The bastard ripped my hood off, so I tackled him. We got separated, and the one white bartender figured out I was the foreigner and pushed me against the DJ booth where he informed me, that I was done and I need get out.
I haven't been in a street fight since before I started fighting in a ring, in large part because training in a controlled environment makes you aware of how dangerous an uncontrolled one is. Even sparring against competent partners, accidents happens. Eyes get poked, bones get broken. Now imagine fighting drunk, with a furious stranger, in a dark environment with hard surfaces, uneven terrain, and no rules. The amount of things that can go wrong increase a hundredfold. For one unlucky person tonight, something was about to go wrong.