A Club-goer's Icebreaker - Option #3561

It's almost 3:00am on a Saturday morning and I'm in a club enjoying the final stretch of a DJ's set. The jock in question has already spent most of his audience's goodwill for the last 15 minutes and has resorted to selecting a random mix of tunes to wrap up his set. The flow was gone. Ah well, it was still an excellent performance while it lasted.

I check my watch. Yup, it's about that time to start heading for the door. I look over at my roommate and he's looking a bit dazed, swaying in that particular, too-tired-to-dance-yet-too-wired-to-sit manner that is pretty typical of clubbers. Just then, an older guy in his 30's who I've spotted a few times earlier sidles up, smiling. He looks like he wants to chat.

Me: "Hey, what's up?"

Him: "Hey aren't you getting tired, standing there?"

Me: "What?"

Him: "You've been standing there for a while. You must be tired."

Me: "Oh, well I'm taking a break from dancing."

Him: "Yeah I'm just seeing the way you're standing... I would just be so tired standing like that for so long."
[While saying this, he imitates my standing posture, which by the look of it leads me to believe I was handcuffed and locked inside a broom closet for the last 15 minutes without my knowing it.]

Me: "Uh huh."

I think right about now my friendly smile may have changed to something a little less favourable. The concerned stranger smiles, nudges me on the arm and walks off. I wanly smile back.

Deep down, I know this dude probably meant well, however, I'm an asshole who needs grist for his blog, so there are a few points that I would like him to consider after our little exchange:

1.) Firstly, say it, don't spray it.

2.) I'm flattered that you were observing me long enough to notice I was standing at the outskirts of the dancefloor for a longer than a few minutes.

3.) I'm evern more flattered you care about my well-being. However, I've done exactly what you've done before, taht is go up to strangers and comment on how they're standing rather than, oh I dont' know, dancing or sitting. Maybe you truly were in awe of my amazing standing strength? Were you wondering if I have thighs of steel? Feet of cement? A spine of titanium? Based on my own experience, I was more inclined to think you were implying that I wasn't having fun or doing what was expected in that situation, which was to dance and get sweaty. Well...

If you were creepy enough to observe me for the whole night, you would have seen that I was shaking my moneymaker since the tail end of the first opener act, and all the way until the headline DJ. The only break I took was near the start of the headline act, when I went for a much needed water and sitting break. In total, I was probably dancing for two and a half hours. But who's counting? I certainly didn't notice.

4.) You're ugly. And you're a dude. Seriously, if all you were going to do was comment on my standing I would much rather have that conversation with a girl, preferably a scantily clad one, who has been dancing as much as I have and as a result is glistening with an alluring film of girly sweat. Yum.

5.) Finally, you need to work on your icebreakers. Commenting to a complete stranger about their standing is, without a doubt, lame to the max. Whatever happened to asking someone what they thought of the show, how their night's going or even better, introducing yourself and buying a drink for me? Hey, maybe your awkward icebreakers work miracles on drunk chicks, like your haggard-looking trophy Asian girlfriend, but they don't pass muster with this China boy.

Did I mention you're ugly? Please go away.

5 Words Per Decade?

I am reminded, without fail, but my loyal fan base whenever I've lapsed in my posting frequency. I admit, I've let this fair blog collect a shit load of dust lately. My objectives were so brave and lofty ... back when I was unemployed, playing Neverwindter Nights all day in my PJs and largely subsisting on leftover meals passed over from my parents. Ahh those were the days.

Here's the deal: I need some time to regroup. I know all my devoted followers are positively falling off their seats in anticipatoin of the much-hyped second installment of my Fitness World exposé. Hear me now, faithful readers: your patience shall soon be rewarded and you will be blessed with an abundance of bad, perverted prose and much juvenile worshipping of finely sculpted female parts.

Aside from that, there are a number of other personal topics that are dying to get out onto the keyboard and up onto this blog. I'm making a committment to use this coming weekend wisely to see if it'll be possible to continue a pretense of even writing something new every WEEK let alone every day.

More to come...

Vegas, baby. Vegas

I suppose it's quite impossible to describe a first-time experience to Sin City without resorting to tall tales and marketing slogans. That's because everything you've heard or seen about Vegas, whether it's through the media or via personal accounts, is dead-on. Las Vegas is a wonderful, disgusting city. There is no subtlety here. None. It is what it is and it makes absolutely no apologies for its indulgences, artifice and pitiful lack of indigenous culture.

And I have to say, for 3.5 days last week, all this manufactured "stuff" that is Vegas was a breath of fresh air. Figuratively speaking, of course. I realized how amazingly grimy and decrepit the city actually was. The freshest air I actually breathed was when we got off the plane back at the Seatac airport in Seattle. The 3 days prior was sort of a dazed wonderland of blinking lights, perpetual clattering of gambling chips and fake titties.

Here's to you, Las Vegas. You're about as subtle and pretty as a jackhammer, but I'll be damned if you aren't a jolly good cesspool of sin.