November 22nd, 2002


British = Gay?

Headed over to the GQ "Man of the Year" Awards party over at Falcon. As far as Sunset clubs go, Falcon’s quite nice. Some day I’d like to have a house that looks just like it, including the bar, unapproachably hot chicks, and the DJ spinning chillout music over in his little wooden room. Of course this would require me to marry a wealthy old lady and then stage a fiery yacht explosion. Or I can do it the old-school way and embezzle (the shizzle-hizzle).

My girlfriend and Jill came along with me and Chuck. The highlight of the evening, other than the free food and booze, was when I introduced them to my British coworker, whom I shall call British Boy. British Boy looks like one of those soccer hooligans who spend their free time getting tanked and stabbing people with screwdrivers. But instead he’s a Flash designer.

After chatting with him for a few minutes, Jill turned to me.

"He’s so obviously gay," she said.

Chuck and I almost fell out of our chairs. British Boy has testosterone for blood. British Boy only eats bacon, or food that has bacon on it or anything that looks like it might taste like bacon. British Boy can out-drink an entire fraternity – his favorite bar, Malloy’s over at Hermosa Beach, even has a specific drink just for him: Tequila/Vodka/Red Bull in a pint glass. British Boy farts excessively and openly. British Boy is misogynistic and homophobic… Hmmm …

"But he was married for several years," Chuck said.

"Doesn’t matter. A lot of gay guys are married to women, " Jill replied.

"Maybe it’s the English accent that’s throwing you," I said.

"No. I know a guy just like him. Tries really hard to mask his gayness."

"Have you seen him dress at work?" I asked. "The guy only wears sweat shorts and old t-shirts. A gay guy would never be caught dead in that shit."

Jill wouldn’t budge. British Boy? Gay? I was about to mention all the random chicks he’s been sleeping with, but the waitress walked over and placed an entire tray of orgasmic tuna rolls in front of me. I love this place.

Chuck barely made it into the office. Apparently an entire flock of Gray Goose had flown directly into his mouth in a V- formation and proceeded to mutilate him from the inside out.

As much as I would’ve liked to have strapped that Mangina to his chair and spun him around repeatedly, I had a shitload of work to do.

The client’s timing, as always, was perfect. They bought off on a campaign for the Lexus megaproject, and somehow the task of coming up with the bulk of campaign executions fell on me. I leave for Southeast Asia in four days. On top of all that, I’d been working on a side freelance project for Blizzard – the video game company that unleashed "Starcraft" and "Diablo 2" on vulnerable Asian men.

So what did my dumb ass do? I just sat in my office and spent several hours wondering how I was going to get ALL this done on time. Then I went home, watched "Friends," and went back to marveling at how overwhelmed I was.

Finally around midnight, I realized that I was an idiot and painfully pulled some ideas out of my left nostril with two really long chopsticks. The metal kind.

Below are a couple of photos from Brie’s birthday last Friday at Saga …

The gender ratio in this picture reminds me of when I went to school in the Bay Area. But it’s probably the only photo from that night where I don’t look like I just did 10 shots in five minutes. What I love about Asian females is how they neatly fit under my armpit, as if Mother Nature intended it that way.

I’m obviously completely faded here. How else to explain the fact that I’m willingly posing with a guy in a pink shirt? Actually he was on his college’s wrestling team and will probably kick my ass after reading this.