Echo

The potluck at our place was on Saturday night, and we had about 20 people and a hell of a lot of good food. I made broiled jerk chicken drumsticks and gyoza (Japanese pot stickers), as well as an assortment of improvised shots and blended drinks after dinner. We played a game of Mafia in which Alex and I, as mafia, won, and by early morning, everyone was pretty much passed out. We heard shouting from across the street so AD and I ran out to the front balcony. What is it about possibly witnessing a fight that gets people so morbidly excited? It was the two B-school guys who live across the street, their windows directly across from mine. They were in the street and one guy was storming around the corner while the other guy said, “I’m gonna beat your ass as soon as I pay for the taxi.” He spent about 10 minutes paying the cab driver before getting in his car and speeding off, swerving down our street, generously using both lanes. The asshole was totally drunk driving. Meanwhile, the other guy went upstairs and in his drunken state, neglected to close his curtains. Mind you, I parade around my place in my underwear near compulsively, not to mention the infamous spider incident* so as much as they’ve seen me, I’ve never seen them in any compromising states.

Today is my ex-boyfriend from years ago’s birthday. He’s a nice guy so I have no qualms about wishing him a happy birthday. We’ve only talked once since we attempted the post-relationship friendship but ended up falling out over him accusing me of accusing him of stealing my pot (trust me, this accusation came out of left field and I did no such thing).

The conversation happened because I kept leaving messages on his best friend Dave’s answering machine about editing work, thinking I was leaving messages for Dave, my editor. I just assumed that the name “Dave” programmed into my phone would be the same creative cohort that I talk to on a constant basis. Unfortunately, his friend Dave is also an editor, making these messages even more confusing. I didn’t realize my mistake until he picked up one day and I figured out that months worth of messages had landed on the wrong answering machine. I asked him how Drew was and Drew ended up on the phone. It was friendly without any past resentments. No mention of the weird pot-stealing fallout. End of story.

I saw Drew again last year at Bed Bath and Beyond, the night of my breakup with a stupid guy not worth naming. He had on a wedding band and was with a girl wearing a ring, and her parents. I’m assuming they were preparing the registry. Seeing as this would be an awkward moment to say hi, I left. Maybe he saw me lurking. I hope not.

Fast forward to three weeks ago when I’m at Sonny MacLean’s for a birthday party. I know that last I talked to him, he bartended here. I asked the bartender if Drew still worked here. She said there was someone by that name. I said, blond, from England. She said, he’s from Connecticut. I remember that he got here by way of Conn, so I say, he’s married, has a little dog. She realizes that we’re talking about the same guy so she says, “A good-looking guy? Yeah, he works during the days. He’ll be working tomorrow.” What is it about hearing someone say that an ex is good-looking that just rubs you the wrong way? It’s an ego thing. You don’t want to think that there’s life after you. You want to think their life is a dry, ravaged landscape ala post-Armageddon, and they’ve fallen to pieces ever since you took your rays of sunshine away. But I digress. I say that I’m an old friend who just wanted to say hi, take my drink and leave.

The next day, I can’t find my credit card. Having been at this bar seems to have been completely wiped out from my mind. I report it lost and a whole week goes by before I remember that the last place I used it was at the bar. Part of me knows that I should go and reclaim it, but part of me hates the fact that Drew probably came in, saw my card, and thought that I was still an idiot, leaving my tab open and forgetting my card. (but then again, there is really no argument here since this is the second time within months that I’ve done that). But more importantly, I was too lazy to make that 10 minute drive to reclaim my card since they’d already charged me and I’d already cancelled it.

My mortgage check is due. Someone please remind me to pay it. I actually had a check written out and the enveloped stamped and everything, but somehow lost it on my way to the mailbox. If that doesn’t epitomize my life, I don’t know what does.

Work was hectic so I met up with some friends for drinks to unwind. I got there first and ran into Tom and Ben from Reno 911. It’s funny cuz I ran into them at this same bar, almost exactly one year ago. So we chatted for a bit and I asked Tom about that complaint that was filed against him (discussed in a previous post, I don’t know when). The whole time I was talking to them, I was thinking how lean they had both become, and how good their skin looked…definitely hotter than the last time I saw them. I guess it’s the vanity price of your show getting picked up for another season. You have to look good for your public. They’re still working on that competitive ping pong movie with Ali G. I hope that gets made. Balls of Fury.

I think some people plan to get old. They make preparations to ensure their survival into old age, be it consciously or subconsciously. I think others do not. Perhaps this is the key to sticking around longer. Knowing that you want to early enough to make sure that you prepare yourself to have a fighting chance.

I saw this kid once, about seven years old, at one of my parents’ parties. He was moving around some mingling adults, legs somewhat unsteady, when he threw up on himself. His instinct was to cup the vomit with his hands, but when he realized what had just occurred, when he realized what was in his hands, he froze, looking horrified. He looked around furtively to see if anyone had seen him, his hands pressed against his mouth. Luckily, the hallway was somewhat dark so that most people, other than bizarre folks such as myself who make a sport of people watching, hadn’t noticed. He teetered around, desperately looking for a place to drop the vomit while obviously about to be sick again, trying to be as discreet as possible about it. I could tell he was hoping for a garbage can but the low, rising whine of anxiety was making sinks, plates or even a potted plant a suitable alternative. He managed to throw it in the sink of a little wet bar with about a quarter of it actually making it in. The kid looked miserable.

FBI AND CIA PARTY OF 7.2.04
FRIDAY, JULY 2ND 2004

THE PARTY STARTS AT 8PM AND ENDS AT 2:30AM.
THERE WILL BE FOOD PLUS LIVE

MUSIC AT THE PARTY. THE MUSIC WILL BE PLAYING ON THE BOSE SOUND

SYSTEM. MICHAE J. S***#1 FBI AGCENT IS THROWING THE PARTY. SHERRY WILL BE THERE.

THERE WILL BE CHINESE FOOD AT THE PARTY. BLONDIE, REM, JUSTIN TIMBERLAK

E SO ON WILL PLAY AT THE PARTY. THERE WILL ALSO BE A DRAWING CONTEST OF

AIRPLANES CARS AND SO ON. THERE WILL BE 12-25 PEPOLE AT THE PARTY.

THE PARTY IS AT THE HOUSE IN FREMONT,CA. THE ADDRESS IS 2590 S******T CT. FREMONT,CA 94539.

PLEASE CALL ME AT 510-656-**** OR IF I AM OUT WITH JULIA MY BIG SISTER AND

MY FRIEND BIG BROTHER #2 JAKE C. K****** PLEASE CALL ME ON MY CELL PHONE 510-364-****

OR CALL JULIA, MY SISTER’S CELL PHONE AT 310-795-****.
THERE IS ALSO SWIMMING AT THE PARTY TOO.
THANXS MICHAEL J. S****…

You know the ones. The ones that come back and bite you on your ass.

Have you ever given out a fake name?

I have. Sometimes as a joke. Sometimes it’s because I don’t want people to stalk me. Sometimes it’s because I’m wary when I first meet strangers in places like bars. I once told this guy in college that I went by Bambi because that’s the name I stripped under when I had to raise money for my grandmother’s cataract operation. I apparently said it with such earnesty and forgot to tell him that I was just kidding, that months later, he was confused when he couldn’t get a response from me while yelling my name from across a busy street. We laughed about it later, and he always called me Bambi, though when I later told him that I was born in Dallas, he wouldn’t believe me.

Have you ever given someone a fake name and then regretted it?

This is what happens when you’re wary of the opposite sex. I’ve given a fake name before because for some reason, I just didn’t want some stranger getting too close to me, but then, he or she turns out to be cool or interesting. Then I’m pissed at myself because what am I supposed to say, everything has been a lie? When in fact, the only thing I was dishonest about was my name? Oops.

Someone I met a long time ago just got in touch with me again about potential creative endeavors. I felt stupid because I gave him a name that wasn’t my birth name when we first met because sometimes I don’t trust people in bars and I didn’t trust his intentions, but after getting to know him and finding out that he was a normal person who wasn’t a shark, I didn’t know how to correct it; then I felt guilty about it so I stopped talking to him. But of course, how dumb do I look to say, all these years that we’ve been minor acqaintances, I couldn’t even be honest about the most basic thing?

Then I think about the time that I didn’t want to date someone anymore because I knew he had been deceptive about his age, but also that he didn’t know how to backtrack and tell me. I didn’t want to date him anymore not so much because he had lied about his age, but because he didn’t feel comfortable enough or trust me enough to tell me later.

Which I guess is one of those things you can look at both ways; I probably should have just confronted him about it because in hindsight, it’s not a big deal and we’re actually friends now, though I’ve never mentioned that I actually know how old he is. That was a missed opportunity for communication and honesty.

I guess if someone told me that they gave me a fake name because they were being stupid or were wary or whatever, I would undertand. So maybe other people would, too. I just find it amazing how a small little deception can sometimes escalate. Or maybe, sometimes we subconsciously set ourselves up by doing something like telling a small but blatant lie, so that we can sabotage things later on if they end up getting too good. Way to go, kids.

Weekend Highlights:

I’m back from spending the 4th of July Weekend in the Bay Area. It was a great weekend and I have little interest in being under fluorescent lights at the office today; I plan to show my discontent in suitable passive-aggressive fashion.

On Friday, Michael threw me a welcome home party. I thought it would be a “party” consisting of just Michael, my mom and a cake, but he actually packed the house with family friends and relatives. He put up an announcement sign on our door describing the highlights of the party, if you call 12 sheets of paper covering the entire door, detailing EVERYTHING, from day/month/year/time in which this party will take place, all music CDs that will be played, and every phone number imaginable that will be needed to contact us about the party, a sign. I’ll post a picture of it with all the text later. It was funny as hell.

Jake wanted to shower when we first got there, and finding soap became a huge ordeal. He asked for some soap since all that was in the guest bathroom was shampoo. First they presented him with another bottle of shampoo. He clarified that he wanted soap. After more searching, Michael tried to tell Jake that they don’t manufacture soap anymore. I think shampoo was brought out again accompanied by the question, “Are you sure this isn’t soap?” I decided to get involved and found a bar of soap hidden in one of the showers. It seems there was a misunderstanding about what exactly we were looking for. My family thought we were looking for specifically a bar of soap, and they explained that they don’t have bar soap because they use mostly liquid soap now.

The next day, we went to Costco to get get some meat for the bbq. I opened our spare fridge in the garage to store the meat and found…a 12 pack of Irish Spring soap on the top rack.

I mean, OF COURSE. Why WOULDN’T the soap be in the fridge?

We went to visit my grandfather’s grave in the afternoon. I caught a frog, but let it go when it was time to leave.

Around dinnner time, my mom asked us, “What do you guys want for dinner? Italian, Caucasian or Chinese?” Caucasian?

I had called Aubrey to let him know I was in town and he told me that Simar was having a birthday party that night. I went over around 1:45am, and we all sat around in Simar’s backyard, shooting the shit. Jeff is proposing to his girlfriend.

The next day was 4th of July and we had a bbq. I spent the day preparing the food which included:

Cantaloupe with Prosciutto
Goat Cheese and Strawberries
Stilton Cheese w/ Apricots and Crackers
Filet Mignon marinated in Kickass Secret Sauce
Korean Short Ribs
Jerk Chicken Drumsticks
Louisiana Hot Links
Grilled Salmon in Butter, Crushed Garlic and Thyme
Buttered Corn

For drinks, I made a pitcher of a new drink that I improvised that day, which was made with:

Vanilla Stoli
Coconut Rum
Pineapple Juice
Lime
Pina Colada Mix
Berry Sprite Remix

Food, drink and company were awesome.

Candice, my cousin, Bohr, and I played drinking poker by the pool, with the stakes being quantities of beer. We got suitably drunk, at which time I stripped and jumped into the pool.

I drove back the next day with Jake and one of his friends (identity not disclosed), who was intent on scoring weed. He asked attendants and fellow patrons if they had any whenever we stopped for gas. He had a profile and everything about likely people who would have some. We never scored any but we sure did stereotype many, many minivans full of Hispanics.

For all you bloggers out there…do you ever find cryptic messages to people in your blog, messages you would never tell them in person in a place that they’ll probably never find? Maybe not consciously, but do you ever get the feeling that sometimes when you post, there is subtext directed at someone specific?

All of the writing here is stream of consciousness for me but sometimes I read an old post and wonder who the hell I was talking to.

And off the topic, Spencer, I owe you an email. Thanks for the response.