Stood on the sidewalk and waved good-bye as the girlfriend left once again for the weekend. This time New York. I retransformed into free man.
To celebrate I was about to throw caution to the wind and watch “Black Hawk Down” on the TiVo, when Chuck called to see if I wanted to meet up with some friends at Palm Tree. Wasn’t feeling too peppy, but free man strongly suggested I go, and so I went.
Had some beers with Lenny, Squiggy, Jill, Ophelia, Easy, etc. Lordy, haven’t written down those pseudonyms in a while - surprised I even remembered them. Rog wasn’t being the team player though and stuck with a single glass of merlot. That boy’s quite the mangina when it comes to fermented beverages. Normally one would attribute that to his being Chinese, but when I first met the guy he was quite the raging alcoholic. Of course back then he was a self-loathing management consultant, whereas now he’s an actor who loathes management consultants.
So how did I start off my second weekend as a free man? Discussions about politics and real estate. Discussions are not my strong suit. I once refused to apply to Princeton because they asked me to write an essay about something ‘intellectual.’ Of course this was after four straight sleepless nights, and I ended up closing my 17-year-old eyelids and reassessing my life’s priorities, which inevitably lead me to realize that I’d never be happy at Princeton.
Normally I only see the side of Squiggy that throws down several dozen shots of J Black and then feverishly chews watermelon rinds like a beaver. So I tend to forget that he’s a real estate genius. Dude just bought a chick-magnet penthouse in Marina del Rey next door to Darius Miles, replete with a small river flowing with Crys and booty-quaking vixens. Should pick his brain more during his brief moments of sobriety.
151 shots. Fucking Bacardi 151 shots. Very unwise move putting those in your mouth. Even less wise being in the same room as me when I’ve had three of those (in addition to five vodka on the rocks). I will make you do some very stupid things, just to amuse my semi-coherent ass.
This was a tough one: What do match, date and cook have in common?
If life - mine in particular - was a Coldplay song, this weekend would be 2:54 in “Politik.”
Had to work this afternoon. Although it was photo shoot casting, so no major taxation on the cerebral part of me. You know what they say about us Oriental people, how we all look alike? It is a hundred times worse with forty-year-old white males. Then I had the same problem with black guys and, a half-hour later, with black chicks.
In the end I just picked the three who looked the least ugly. Although you never say this to the client. I prefer “I went with the three whose faces told the most compelling stories. Stories that make you close your eyes and reassess your life’s priorities, which inevitably leads one with a household income of $200,000 to purchase a Japanese luxury sport utility vehicle.”
People claimed they were utterly wrecked from Friday night, so they wanted to do something mellow instead of going out to a club as planned. We ended up watching “Unfaithful.”
This inevitably led to a discussion. Not a discussion about Diane Lane’s distaste for foreplay, mind you, but about infidelity. About whether you’d prefer your spouse/lover/sex slave cheat on you physically (as in hooker or meaningless one-night stand) or emotionally (as in sexless, but he prefers to spend more time with her and probably loves her like the cheap man-whore that he is).
Again with the discussions.
Come to think of it, I don’t know why this was worth being discussed yet again. It’s obvious that women prefer to be cheated on physically, whereas men find the emotional cheating more bearable.
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