TALES OF SAN FRAN (Only Two Weeks Late)

Right after Las Vegas, I headed to San Francisco, ostensibly to catch a transpacific flight, but really it was to see the love of my life: Aleks Sedaazalarazsas (no, really, that’s how you spell his last name). Aleks and I are an interesting tandem because he, like, cares about people and stuff. He’s intelligent, but humble. He treats people of all races, political ideologies, and sexual orientations with respect. Clearly, we’re polar opposites, yet we remain friends for two reasons: a) Aleks is too kind to turn down a request for a rendezvous (for a period during our friendship I referred to him exclusively as “Kathy Bates” and now its Sandy which is short for Sandy Vag and he still hangs out with me!); b) we both love beer. Needless to say, our encounters are always amusing and memorable, and when our favorite androgynous Macanese punmaster Spiffy Tiffy is added to equation…well, actually its a lot less amusing than you’d expect. Whatever, I’ll let you be the judge!

Worst Idea of the Weekend (Even Worse than Anything We Conceived in Vegas. And There Were a Lot): Sandy is well aware of my affinity for Indian food, and he suggested what he considered to be an appropriate send-off meal (My flight left at 1 AM which allowed us to have a leisurely dinner before heading to SFO). He knew of a delicious, yet relatively inexpensive Indian buffet in the neighborhood which all but decided it. Three trips through the buffet line later, I knew I’d made an awful decision that was both inconsiderate to my healing nether-regions and to the passengers in my general vicinity. I popped a couple Gas-X (nice foresight, mom!) hoping that would stave off any leakage for the twelve hour flight to Hong Kong…erroneous! I provided enough gas myself to get that 747 to Hong Kong. After four hours writhing in pain, I decided to inconvenience my seatmate, ask her to let me out even though she was asleep, and finally relieve myself, for everyone’s sake. I figured it was the least I could do. And let me tell you, there’s nothing like the awkwardness after returning from a 20 minute bathroom break and the knowing glances that are exchanged. After that, I did the only sensible thing; I downed a couple Tylenol PM and prayed that I wouldn’t wake up until landing in Hong Kong, where I would promptly blame the gas on the rather unfortunately overweight girl sitting next to me. Word to the wise: if travelling with me, perhaps one should arrange separate transportation and rendezvous there.

Most Conspicuous Absence in the Bay Area: Sandy’s ardently feminist, occasionally violent, Hispanic (in the words of GOB Bluth, she’s one of our Mexican friends from Ecuador) girlfriend never made an appearance. I couldn’t really understand why. She must have been on her period, or something. (JOKE! GET IT, BECAUSE SHE’S A FEMINIST! She would’ve loved that one).

Coolest City Name: So all Chinese city names in North America suck. They’re all simple transliterations (hey, say these out loud in a funny Chinese accent, and then you’ll get the gist!). For example: Ao Lan Duo is Orlando; Ya Te Lan Da is Atlanta; La Si Wei Jia Si is Las Vegas. Most of the time they don’t even mean anything. But there is one exception (there are a few more, like they literally translate Phoenix, but they’re few and far between and nowhere cool as this one): San Francisco is Jiu Jin Shan. Wait, that doesn’t sound like San Francisco at all? Why? Because it means “the Old Gold Mountain!” Which is totally awesome! And in future brog posts, this city will only be referred to as “the Old Gold Mountain,” and will be said/read in a tone that conveys a sentiment of antiquity and mystique.

The Metamorphosis: On Sunday evening, Sandy and I had a pretty epic night at the bars, and we went back to my hotel room around 2 am for a nightcap, after which he headed home. Before I left my room again, Spiffy met me there the following morning. To the casual observer on the staff of the Intercontinental, it would seem as if I went to bed with a hulking Eastern European male and emerged with a petite Asian female who’s five foot on a good day only a few hours later. But, you know what, its San Francisco, I guarantee that’s not the first time that’s happened. That doesn’t even rank on the bizarre fetishes scale in SF.

Most Potentially Embarassing Moment: No, it wasn’t while we were on the BART when we all admitted that we watched both the Big Bang Theory (I heart physics jokes) and How I Met Your Mother (WWNPHD). It was while in San Francisco’s International Airport, where while watching the most recent episode of How I Met Your Mother, that I MISSED EVERY SINGLE BOARDING CALL. I had been waiting in the airport for two hours, yet still managed to be the last person to board the plane. And it was totally worth it to see Barney hook up with Robin. The Brog’s affinity towards BC-born Portugese girls is well-documented.

Another Brogpology: I’d like to apologize to the readers for endangering the Brog’s credibility by allowing Spiffy to write an entry. I was in the shower and she commandeered my computer and wrote what could have been the most Asian post ever. Evidently, Spiffy finds blogging incredibly difficult without pictures of food to aid her endeavors.

Worst Pun: Since all three of us are Sinophiles on varying levels (me being on the low end of the totem poll), China is a frequent topic of discussion. And when talking about China, it’s hard to avoid talking about Shenzhen: the city that transformed itself from an obscure fishing village to the richest city in the Mainland. Well, the influx of cash isn’t the only deluge that Shenzhen has experienced; prostitutes from all over the country have flooded Shenzhen trying to get a piece of the action. This prompted me to say: “So, they’ve traded their fishnets for, well, fishnets.” I don’t think Aleks has spoken to me since.

Least. Heterosexual. Parking. Ever: One joke? Maybe? Come on, its San Francisco! The parking in San Francisco is inherently less heterosexual than everywhere else, per capita wise! (well, other than Key West). FINE, I take it back. How about the parking sucked? Is that ok with everyone? Here’s where I was going with this: Jand and the Mexican wolf were actually in town for the weekend, and fortunately our paths crossed for two hours. However, an hour and a half of this was spent driving back from the airport (by the way, thanks again), dealing with SF’s totally straight traffic (meaning it sucked, see, we can make straight negative too!), and then looking for parking for no less than 45 minutes. Good times. This did allow us time to smoke cigarettes, but that was pretty much the only positive aspect of the experience. I cite bad karma (wow, I really shouldn’t use that word any more in light of the previous post) for our lack of luck, because these two should’ve come to Vegas in the first place.

Biggest Douche Maneuver: I’m pleased to announce that I will not be the recipient of this award (sorry to eliminate the suspense). So, it’s Sunday night, and Sandy and I are at bar number three, and they have one of those nouveau/touch-screen jukeboxes. You know, the kind that actually has music you want to hear. Well, it’s about 130 at this point, and we decided we were going to create a bitchin’ playlist to close out the night. We spent about ten bucks and the amalgam of our music tastes meant an eclectic, yet palatable mix (in other words, he prevented me from going off the deep-end with Korean Pop and Rai ‘n’ B selections) consisting of Lou Reed, Smashing Pumpkins, Pearl Jam, The Pogues, Johnny Cash, Red Hot Chili Peppers, and others. Just as we had finished creating what was truly an epic playlist, the bartender comes up and asks us, “hey, do you mind if we play my CD instead?” As I remember it, I groaned audibly; given my level of inebriation, this meant it probably appeared as if I’d throw a tantrum (and rightly so!). But Sandy is way too nice and he told the bartender that “sure, we’d love to hear your cd;” this is a decision we’d come to regret deeply. Our new friend the bartender’s band apparently only had one musical influence: Limp Bizkit. For the next half hour, we not only had to deal with C-rate rap metal (not to mention a decade too late), we had to listen to the guy belt out the lyrics, point out favorite parts, and break down the meaning of the songs. It was don’t care city, and I was the mayor; thanks for almost ruining the night, douche.

In San Fran, Even the Homeless Are Environmentally Conscious! Sandy decided that we were all going to take the bus to the Indian restaurant. Sandy clearly forgot that I do not do well with public transportation that does not run on rails. About ten minutes into the ride (I know, because I’d only complained about the smell once, and I was pretty proud of myself), pandemonium breaks loose outside of the bus. A homeless woman is screaming at an Asian man standing directly in front of me: “LITTERER, LITTERER! YOU THREW A PIECE OF GARBAGE OUT THE WINDOW, LITTERER!” The professional looking guy in front of me protests his innocence, and I believed him, because a) I would have seen it if he had and b) the LADY IS A CRACK HEAD. Well, monsieur asiatique’s response was not enough to assuage madame tete de craque, and she brought the Asian’s supposed indiscretion to the attention of her two male friends. She resumed screaming “LITTERER, LITTERER!” while I prayed for the bus to leave, so that I could finally laugh (for fear of my life, I had covered my mouth and pinched myself to avoid aggravating Team Mental Instability). Well, her male friend mistook “LITTERER” for another, more pejorative insult and began to berate the young man as well: “Yeah, COCKSUCKER!” The homeless man decided he had not gone far enough, and proceeded to call him, “you COCKSUCKER-ETTE!” What I interpreted from the situation was that, not only does the male crack head suspect that the young Asian man regularly performs oral sex on other men, but that the Asian is secretly a woman as well! This continued for honestly a minute as San Francisco gridlock prevented us from moving much to my horror/secret delight. Sandy later confided in me that he didn’t think I was going to make it. Neither did I. The moral of the story, kids: don’t do crack.

MVP: Spiffy didn’t stand a chance, this was Aleks’ from day one. Not only does Aleks hate prohibition, he totally would’ve had Chipotle with me, had he been there. That’s mega-minus puntos for Spiffy. AND, Aleks invited us to the bookstore where he works (ugh, how quintessentially liberal) and got us all books on the house, including Amy Chua’s latest, and a The Onion Anthology. Aleks: bought me beer. Spiffy: did not buy me beer. Aleks: procured books for me. Spiffy: did not procure books for me. Aleks: tells funny stories. Spiffy: makes me zone out her stories. Aleks: don’t have to strain my neck to talk to him. Spiffy: do have to strain my neck to talk to her. Easy choice. Winner: Aleks!

The 2008 Phoenix Awards

As I indicated earlier, I just got back from Phoenix, Arizona (or as the locals call it, Mexico del Norte) for a weekend replete with various debaucheries and silliness, copious amounts of cheap beer, few, if any, bitches (we’re all kind of androgynous at this point. At least that’s my excuse!) and of course Polish Horseshoes (If you recall from a previous post, this is our new favorite past time that involves throwing a Frisbee at ski poles planted in the ground with beer bottles balanced on top. I charge Justin with the responsibility of drafting an in-depth PH constitution that I’ll post here and for which I’ll take all the credit. Danke!) And, of course, it’s not a true reunion weekend without an awards presentation, so without further ado, the Phoenix edition of the SOSBrog awards:

Our first award is a double whammy: The Barack Obama Award for dressing up in the traditional garb of the country you’re visiting and getting endless shit about it AND the Carlos Mencia Award for reaffirming every stereotype about Mexicans that whites have: To Scott Greenwood! While dining at Phoenix’s version of Casa Bonita, Tradiciones (which has to be one of the top 5 Mexican restaurants in the Estados Unidos), we slyly informed our waitress, Ale’s female counterpart Alejandra, that it was our friend Scott’s birthday (it wasn’t). Ten minutes later, a Mariachi band surrounded Scotty, the wait staff placed a sombrero four feet in diameter atop his head, and together sung “Feliz Cumpleanos” to our half-Mexican friend (Scott Greenwood may not sound like a Mexican name, but don’t be fooled, that’s how they’re assimilating! They’re taking our names! Build that fence! Just joshing, me encantan los chicanos y, mas importante, su comida!)

Ryan Atwood Honorary “look at me, all I do is brood and pretend to be hardcore” Award: to Andy Greenwood. Really, do you do anything other than brood and pretend to be hardcore? Well, that and be unemployed? I didn’t think so.

Bill Gates Award for the person least likely to pump one’s own gas: To Scott again! Unlike Bill, who will never pump his own gas because he can pay people to do it, Scott won’t do it because he physically can’t. While at a gas station this weekend, Scott couldn’t get three different pumps to work. Why? He wasn’t lifting the lever. After incessant instructing, one of us finally got out of the car, and demonstrated the proper way to pump gas. Fortunately for Scott, he’s quite adroit at all things law, because the career path of gas station attendant is obviously not in the cards.

The Hilldawg “I didn’t know you were capable of feelings” Award: Goes to Biller! I always assumed that romantic sentiments weren’t his bag, but he informed me this weekend, he likes a girl! Nice! Good luck, William!

The second honorary Hilldawg Award for throwing a temper tantrum when people aren’t playing by the rules: to moi! One of the things I’m the best at is acting like a spoiled brat at all times, and this aspect of my character was displayed prominently this weekend. On multiple occasions in Beirut and Polish Horseshoes, I threw a fit because people were not playing by the rules and almost incited a brawl at one point. I would apologize but its your fault for actually hanging out with me.

The Pharaohs of Egypt Award for coolest team nickname: Me and Jand had two dynamite nicknames for our Polish Horseshoes teams. The first was the Indomitable Pirates of Marrakech (even though its not on the ocean, whatever, we’re land pirates anyway!) and the Anal Sex Tigers of Bangalore (every key play was followed with an effeminate ‘roar’). Unfortunately, neither nickname brought us luck, and we, once again, went winless over the weekend.

The Ronde Barber Award for defensive player of the weekend: to J for his consistent performances on the non-offensive end. Though others played admirably, and there was some talk that J’s place as defensive maestro may be usurped, in the end, his supremacy on the defensive end was quite evident. Also, he needs a confidence booster after two heart-breaking losses to Biller and Andy.

The Adolf Hitler Award for the person who attempted to destroy the essence of Polishness: to Nick. His inconsiderate play on the defensive end discouraged teammates, his brisk throws and incessant posturing infuriated opponents, and his overall lack of sportsmanship is anathema to the spirit of Polish Horseshoes.

The Dick Cheney award for surliest demeanor: to the man who is named grumpy stumpy. The man is an avid jon Edwards supporter, yet, I’ve never met anyone who more resembles a young Richard Cheney. I look forward to an abrupt about face on his political views once his taxable income hits seven figures. just kidding Peteypoo, I know your convictions are ironclad and you’ll be a dirty socialist forever and I can say whatever I want because in your Facebook profile you claim to not read the brog! Brasphemy!

The Inaugural Ryan Wackerman Award for people who make decisions based primarily on the opinions of the brog: to Ryan Wackerman! A few weeks ago, I was critical of Wack’s ‘ride,’ an ’87 Acura. Well, last week Ryan upgraded to a 2005 Mercedes. Coincidence? I think not.

The Being the Coolest Kids in Three of the World’s Top 25 Busiest Airports in One Day Award: Petey K and I, on Thursday, went to the ludicrously expensive Islands of Adventure for, well, an adventure. After riding the uber-trippy Dr. Seuss ride, we meander through the gift store only to see the coolest T-shirts ever. In Dr. Suess groundbreaking treatise, The Cat in the Hat, there are characters named Thing 1-4. Well, in the gift shop, they had T-shirts that said Thing 1, Thing 2, Thing 3, and Thing 4. In what was the easiest monetary decision of my life, we purchased three t-shirts (one for my friend Ale, because we knew this would make him the happiest Argentinean of all time. This is the kid who demanded freshman year that I bring him back Mickey ears after Christmas Break). Many people were sporting them throughout the park, but Pete and I had loftier plans. We were going to wear them the next day during our epic journey from Orlando to Phoenix via Houston. I now know what it feels like to be a hot chick. People stared at me constantly. Here’s the problem: in our delirium over the awesomeness of this apparel, we forgot that these shirts would surely provoke conversation with strangers, and we despise people. I mean, we are truly curmudgeons. Of course, we were inundated with inane comments the second we entered Orlando International Airport. Heaven forbid I was not by Pete’s side, otherwise some douchebag would waddle up to me and ask, (this happened at least every five minutes) “Where’s Thing 1 ? HAHAHAHAHAHAHHA!” It took all of my will power to not retort “Where’s your wife? Oh, that’s right, getting plugged by Thing 1!” My favorite comment came from an African-American male roughly our age. He approached us in the boarding area, looked at our matching T-shirts, dumbfounded that post-pubescent males would wear those shirts in public and asked “What the fuck is that? Like, in Cat in the Hat?” We agreed, and once he left, there may have been some inappropriate comments concerning black literacy rates (or there may not have been). Once we got to Phoenix, there was only one word to describe our friends’ reactions: jearous.

Tiger Woods Award for outstanding comeback performance in a head-to-head golf tournament: to moi! Petey K and I squared off in a drunken putt putt match. Pete sprung out to an early lead, but the Orlando native came back to throttle the Masshole by three strokes.

The How to Catch a Predator Award for sketchiest moment of the weekend: John Hose. At around 9:30 am Monday morning, Pete and I are passed out in the living room as we don’t have to get up for another few hours to catch my flight. Suddenly, we hear the door open (all the people who live at the house are at work), and I see this huge dude standing in the room. I thought for sure I would die. It turns out it was their neighbor, who is a hulking 6’5” 250 pound dude with more teeth than not. After my initial shock wears off, I doze off again. Not ten seconds later, I hear him open a can of beer (at nine freaking thirty!), and he walks out of the house. Who does that?!

The “Oh My God, Lance Bass Is Gay!” Award for surprise that everyone should have seen coming: To me. I didn’t tell anyone I was visiting, but given my unemployed status, everyone should have known I’d be there.

2008 Los Angeles Awards

(Some have honorary titles; as for the rest, it means no one has yet to merit such distinction. Also, the Brog is making a concerted effort to make it as inside-joke-less as possible and thus suitable for mass consumption, What can I say, I’m a pandering panda! Bad. Just bad.)

Coolest Rental Car: Me, for my PT Cruiser. Thank you Deluxe Car Rental. What I saved (200 bucks) was repaid in full by the mockery of mis amigos

The LenDale White Award for the Most Number of Friends at USC: Scott Greenwood managed to invite four law school friends to his shindig. That means Scott is making roughly 1 1/3 friends per semester.

The Tiffanie Lam Memorial for the Least Number of Friends at USC: This bad boy goes to Jand Barbero. On his third day of school, we go to meet with a friend of mine from home who attends USC film school named Catherine (oh, whoops, now that she’s in film school, it’s “Cat.” For the record, when she starts making 17^th century British period pieces, I bet she changes it back). After catching up with “Cat,” Jand confides in me that, other than moi and his roommate DasBrick, Cat was the first person he’s talked to since he had come back from ‘Tina. I keep telling you, Jand, Co-eds!

Biggest Pussoi Award: To me, Friday night, for having only one beer and refusing to play beer pong. An awful, just dreadful performance that would’ve been justified had I actually prevailed at securing a job. But in light of my dismal display, both Saturday morning and Friday evening, I am the biggest pussoi.

Least Pussoi Award: Also goes to me! (For future reference, these awards are like the Golden Globes: easily bought). Because I started drinking at 930 am, berated wack for not having beer in his fridge (at 1130 am), and drank continuously until the am next day. Hey, I had tarnished the good name of the SOS, I had to do everything conceivable to remedy the damage incurred the previous 24 hours.

The Shamelessly Promoting One’s Own Agenda Even When It’s Not One’s Birthday Award: Wack! For incessantly insisting that we go to Pacific Dining Car for Jand’s bday dinner. Did he make a good choice? Yes. Was it his decision to make? Questionable. Did I have the best shit of my life as a result? You bet.

The Rob Schneider Bastion of Maturity Award: To all of us, because while at the aforementioned Pacific Dining Car, we decided to end our dinner with a nice glass of port. However, the only glass of port in our price range was one called “Cockburns.” Having been nominated to choose our port (Jand would’ve been a better choice, he’s the resident port connoisseur, not to mention the bdayboy), I look at the menu, and begin to giggle uncontrollably, and proceed to pass the menu around the table. Subsequently, the rest of the table succumbs to a fit o’snickers (J resisted for some time, but, prease, resistance was futire) and then attempting to determine the best way to order said drink in sign language. Eventually, I was able to muster up enough serious thoughts to order “Cockburns” without laughing or making a hooker joke, but I still regret not asking the waiter what he thought of good ole Cockburns.

The Most Thinly Veiled Excuse to Stay at Home and Masturbate Award: Goes to Ale! Ale informed us at NINE in the morning, that he would not be accompanying us and would eventually meet us at SIX for dinner. He was “too tired” to watch football. Ale knew he could’ve taken a nap in one of the FOUR beds in the house where we’d watch the game.

Biggest Dissapointment: The fact that the girl with the nickname “Slump-buster” did not show up at Scott and Ale’s Saturday night bash. (Not seeing Mama Greenwood comes in a close second)

Best Surprise: Ale’s beard. This could be the biggest development on the Los Angeles male aesthetics scene since Beckham’s arrival. He at all time looks as if he’s just stepped off his yacht. Except for the sandals. Those need an upgrade.

The Stanton-Wells Honorary Awkward Couple Award: To me and the elder BosqueVerde. Everytime we were paired with one another, beer was spilt. Shirts were ruined. Games were lost. It was awkward. Our relationship was already in a rough patch. Will it survive?

The “Hedgecock” Award: Goes to Scott, because I think he might be violating his “it’s complicated” pact with yours truly as a result of his roommate’s uberhandsome beard and my ineptitude at drinking games.

The Thank God She Mentioned She Had a Boyfriend Otherwise I Was Going to Drink Until She Was Attractive Award: To the busted Asian girl that Scott invited to his party. Not cool, Scott.

The Dirty South Award for the Most Classless Behavior: Also goes to me, when I insisted that Hand and Scott leave the first Indian restaurant (after having sat down and been served water) because it was a veggie restaurant.

The West Virginia University Memorial for a Collective White Trash Moment: All of us, loitering in Biller’s front yard in Bellflower, beers in hand, tossing Frisbees at ski polls planted in the ground with cups and beer bottles balanced on top: a game we like to call Polish Horseshoes.

The Lech Walesa Award for Outstanding Individual Polish Achievement: To Ryan Wackerman, whose impeccable tosses and tenacious D kept his side in the match every time he was involved. The way he played this weekend, he could’ve kept up with the big boys on the docks in Gdansk.

The Jaroslaw and Lech Kaczynski Award for Outstanding Polish Performance by Twins: To Biller and J Reone, whose dominance throughout the weekend was only thwarted by..

The Donald Tusk Award for New Polish President with Awful Fashion Taste: To Andres BosqueVerde. His style may be simultaneously eclectic (old man and punk) and hideous, but his Polish Horseshoes play in the final rounds was second to none.

The It’s Time to Stop Justifying Why You Drive an ’87 Acura Award: To Wack. At least get the breaks looked at.

The Biggest Meanie Award: Whoever broke J’s car window and glove compartment. And didn’t take anything. What a meanie!

The Jeb Bush Memorial for the Person Most Likely to Hook Up with a Fat Mexican: No, this is not a poorly conceived, obviously contrived joke at Jand’s expense! As a matter of fact, I’d like to take this opportunity acknowledge. Jand’s recent celibate behavior. He’s a few months away from leaving the “fat chick doinker” monicker behind him forever. This award actually goes to your author. I was about six beers away from making a bad decision that would have inspired a decade’s worth of nicknames. I cite divine intervention for my good fortune.

The MVP of the trip: There are a lot of factors here. And, you know what, I might get shit for this, but I have a relationship to salvage. It’s going to Scott. Many an intimate Mexican lunch were consumed. Many a brew were shared. And always a smile. Wack loses points for being nonexistent (and not opening your door Friday afternoon, though you made up for it by taking me to LAX twice) during the week. J for being a Pats fan (and only 36 hours to make witty remarks). Jand is ineligible because he was the mvp of like 36 weeks last year. His mantle is already full. Bill and Andy both had strong showings but not enough to overtake monsieur L2.