Friday night the girlfriend and I met up with Rina and her friend over at Poquito Mas. It was my first time at Poquito, but I’m still not convinced that it’s better than Baja Fresh as Rina claims. However, any Mexican joint that has jalapeno-soaked carrots is already pretty good in my book.
Rina being Rina, the friend she brought along was Brook, who used to be Miss Universe back in ’97 or ’98. I think Rina introduced me to her at a party several years ago, but my ass was mondo trashed at the time and, as my mondo trashed ass is wont to do, I amused myself by dry-humping Rina. Rina tends to be one of those sassy females; and rather than shaking my finger at her and saying “Don’t get sassy with me,” I’ve found that dry-humping is a more effective method of de-sassy-fication. Well for some reason, this terrified Brook and I think that image haunts her still.
After dinner we met up with Rog’s girlfriend Ophelia and 30 other people at AMC Century City to watch “Better Luck Tomorrow.” It was quite a sight. As soon as we stepped out of the parking garage, we found ourselves drowning in a sea of yellow people, until we realized that we were yellow people too and the drowning sensation went away.
The entire mall had turned into an Asian nightclub, and I half-expected the Korean birthday song to break out any minute Heppy Heppy Buhsday! Heppy Heppy Buhsday! The handful of white people looked visibly terrified and ran off to buy surgical masks.
As you may, or may not know, all the BLT screenings sold out that night. Not just in LA, but all the other cities as well. Rog, who was in San Fran that Friday, said the Berkeley theater sold out by noon. Or at least that’s what I think he said, because the boy was whispering so as to not wake the people whose pad he was crashing.
Cheap MTV bastards didn’t even set the guy up with a hotel room. If I was starring in a movie about morally indifferent Asian teens, and they did that shit to me, I’d be on the phone screaming “You’ll be hearing from my people!” Then I’d be angrily dry-humping whoever’s in charge over there at MTV Films, or maybe that sassy Brynn from “Real World.”
For the second Saturday in a row, we did the noraebang thing. I personally don’t enjoy it much. Never did. Two reasons:
1) When it comes to singing, I’m da bomb – ear-shattering loud with lots of casualties.
2) Sitting there in a dark room, listening to other people sing, is pretty damn boring. Maybe it’d be more interesting if you made a game out of it. Suggestions:
A) American Idol – After you finish singing, your friends take turns telling you how awful you are. Then they tell you how awful your singing is.
B) American Alcoholic – This is for those noraebang machines that give separate scores to both microphones. Whoever has the lower score has to drink, making the winner jealous.
C) Softcore Idol – Same as above, except the loser must shed one item of clothing, unless the loser is physically repulsive, in which case he or she should just leave the room.
D) Korean Idol – This is where a hot female friend lip-synchs the song while a couple of friends act as backup dancers. Meanwhile her other female friends gather in a corner and gossip about how much of a slut she is.
E) Pagan Idol – If you sing well enough, your friends fashion a golden statue in your image and sacrifice a goat.
My noraebang disdain gets elevated to begrudging acceptance when we play game B, except it’s just alcohol without all that ‘game’ nonsense. And by alcohol, I mean the kind of drinking that makes your liver quietly plot to kill you.
BTW, intoxicated Asian chicks and digital cameras are not a good mix. I’ll try to post some photos tomorrow…
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