April 30th: spy games and tent kegs
[ posted by mcdeviltoast ]
Day 226
I shaved off the pencil thin mustache, reduced myself to clean shaven for the first time in 7.5 months. It only works on John Waters. I looked like a 30's villain or a struggling pornographer. It was too ridiculous.
the short-lived pencil-thin
Spent most of the day uploading my CDs to transfer to an mp3 player I was going to purchase until I found out I might only get 30 to 60 songs on one. I typed to Heather "So I wasted my afternoon?"
"Time is never wasted." (She is the kind of person who relishes throwing your own wisdom back in your face when you forget it.)
"Well, then" I typed, "it was spent poorly."
"That may be."
We rode out to look at Walkmen, but they cost as much as the mp3 players. I shrugged. No music for the trip. I'd be more creative that way. While waiting for Mickey to arrive, Rhys, Heather and I watched "Open Water" and ate cumin snacks (the Chinese equivalent of chili cheese Fritos). "Open Water" was poorly written (some laughably bad moments), poorly acted, overrated, but had a theme (getting left behind, being lost) that struck a nerve. Unfortunately a theme does not a movie make, it is merely the skeleton from which you hang the flesh of a greater story. Mike was right, it was not good.
Mickey arrived, so we shut it off halfway through. She wanted to go to the tents to have "rice and dishes" which "all Chinese" are fond of. I went to collect Mike, but Andy was in his room. I couldn't tell Mike with Numbnuts sitting there just itching to invite himself along. We brainstormed ideas of getting the message to Mike covertly, like calling him on the phone (but he would think it was Penny.) I finally thought of something foolproof that would give me a small window to relay the information. I walked down and into Mike's room, said "Andy, I think your phone's ringing."
"Really?"
"Yours or Heather's. I don't know."
He left and I spoke in a spytone to Mike, "We're going to the tents. Mickey's here. Come down and join us."
"Mickey's here?"
"Yeah, I..."
Andy returned. No phone call, he reported. I quickly acted like Mike and I had been discussing Civ, chatting about Turkey or some such. I turned to leave and Mike said he'd be down to see us later. Spy games.
We went to the tents, Mickey saying I was lovely for circumventing the Andy situation. She doesn't care for him, probably because he looks at every creature with a vagina like they were between two pieces of bread. Can't blame her. The tents had kegs, which was a bad idea, but we did it anyway, Rhys and I drinking directly out of our liter pitchers. Keg beer, no matter what the variety, is dangerous. Whether it's the extra carbonation, or the cold steel housing, a magic ingredient is in it that gets you blotto and stabs you awake the next morning with a wicked headache. Keg beer has been the ruin of me at certain farm parties (don't eat roasted marshmallows with it), staggering off and swapping spit with underage girls and staying in Hunter S. Thompson character all night. Oofda.
The liter sizes reminded me of Mecklenburg Gardens, but Spaten Optimator this wasn't. Still, it had more flavor than the standard BBoss fare. Mickey had to leave early because she was tired, but then she's always tired.
Earlier, she and Heather were whispering something and laughing and then wouldn't tell me what it was. This is a gigantic pet peeve with me. To dangle information and then not say. It seems like a game designed to push my buttons and the more frustrated I get, the more it escalates. It doesn't matter how insignificant it is, to not tell drives me up a fucking wall. It sends me back to games of keep-away as a kid, and I'm reduced to that big-headed dork, a joke for the world to pull up a chair and watch me turn red. I hate it.
But I also hate that I'm affected at all by it. It's ego, pure and simple. It's someone not doing what I want them to and me being Zeus throwing thunderbolts when I don't get my way. I have to be mindful of that. No matter what happened to me as a kid, my reaction now is ego-driven and ugly. I apologized. It's hard to be Buddhist-like. Daily struggle.
The rest of the evening gets convoluted. I remember going to Times for ice cream but they were closed. I was insistent everyone look at the cleanest most hotel-smelling bus in China, pictures with a small white puppy. I assume I scaled the gate without injury. An interloper in a dream alley felled me with a blackjack made of sleep.
chinglish shirt
the tent liters: bad idea from the start ('toast n constable rhys)
mickey and heather
a savage den of cutthroat drunkards
constable and lao ban
heather and non-menu item
ATTN: 'toast is on holiday
daily blog postings will resume in a week when i return from my adventures in shanghai, beijing, and nanjing for may festival.
I shaved off the pencil thin mustache, reduced myself to clean shaven for the first time in 7.5 months. It only works on John Waters. I looked like a 30's villain or a struggling pornographer. It was too ridiculous.
the short-lived pencil-thin
Spent most of the day uploading my CDs to transfer to an mp3 player I was going to purchase until I found out I might only get 30 to 60 songs on one. I typed to Heather "So I wasted my afternoon?"
"Time is never wasted." (She is the kind of person who relishes throwing your own wisdom back in your face when you forget it.)
"Well, then" I typed, "it was spent poorly."
"That may be."
We rode out to look at Walkmen, but they cost as much as the mp3 players. I shrugged. No music for the trip. I'd be more creative that way. While waiting for Mickey to arrive, Rhys, Heather and I watched "Open Water" and ate cumin snacks (the Chinese equivalent of chili cheese Fritos). "Open Water" was poorly written (some laughably bad moments), poorly acted, overrated, but had a theme (getting left behind, being lost) that struck a nerve. Unfortunately a theme does not a movie make, it is merely the skeleton from which you hang the flesh of a greater story. Mike was right, it was not good.
Mickey arrived, so we shut it off halfway through. She wanted to go to the tents to have "rice and dishes" which "all Chinese" are fond of. I went to collect Mike, but Andy was in his room. I couldn't tell Mike with Numbnuts sitting there just itching to invite himself along. We brainstormed ideas of getting the message to Mike covertly, like calling him on the phone (but he would think it was Penny.) I finally thought of something foolproof that would give me a small window to relay the information. I walked down and into Mike's room, said "Andy, I think your phone's ringing."
"Really?"
"Yours or Heather's. I don't know."
He left and I spoke in a spytone to Mike, "We're going to the tents. Mickey's here. Come down and join us."
"Mickey's here?"
"Yeah, I..."
Andy returned. No phone call, he reported. I quickly acted like Mike and I had been discussing Civ, chatting about Turkey or some such. I turned to leave and Mike said he'd be down to see us later. Spy games.
We went to the tents, Mickey saying I was lovely for circumventing the Andy situation. She doesn't care for him, probably because he looks at every creature with a vagina like they were between two pieces of bread. Can't blame her. The tents had kegs, which was a bad idea, but we did it anyway, Rhys and I drinking directly out of our liter pitchers. Keg beer, no matter what the variety, is dangerous. Whether it's the extra carbonation, or the cold steel housing, a magic ingredient is in it that gets you blotto and stabs you awake the next morning with a wicked headache. Keg beer has been the ruin of me at certain farm parties (don't eat roasted marshmallows with it), staggering off and swapping spit with underage girls and staying in Hunter S. Thompson character all night. Oofda.
The liter sizes reminded me of Mecklenburg Gardens, but Spaten Optimator this wasn't. Still, it had more flavor than the standard BBoss fare. Mickey had to leave early because she was tired, but then she's always tired.
Earlier, she and Heather were whispering something and laughing and then wouldn't tell me what it was. This is a gigantic pet peeve with me. To dangle information and then not say. It seems like a game designed to push my buttons and the more frustrated I get, the more it escalates. It doesn't matter how insignificant it is, to not tell drives me up a fucking wall. It sends me back to games of keep-away as a kid, and I'm reduced to that big-headed dork, a joke for the world to pull up a chair and watch me turn red. I hate it.
But I also hate that I'm affected at all by it. It's ego, pure and simple. It's someone not doing what I want them to and me being Zeus throwing thunderbolts when I don't get my way. I have to be mindful of that. No matter what happened to me as a kid, my reaction now is ego-driven and ugly. I apologized. It's hard to be Buddhist-like. Daily struggle.
The rest of the evening gets convoluted. I remember going to Times for ice cream but they were closed. I was insistent everyone look at the cleanest most hotel-smelling bus in China, pictures with a small white puppy. I assume I scaled the gate without injury. An interloper in a dream alley felled me with a blackjack made of sleep.
chinglish shirt
the tent liters: bad idea from the start ('toast n constable rhys)
mickey and heather
a savage den of cutthroat drunkards
constable and lao ban
heather and non-menu item
ATTN: 'toast is on holiday
daily blog postings will resume in a week when i return from my adventures in shanghai, beijing, and nanjing for may festival.
---
[ posted by mcdeviltoast @ 4/30/2005 10:37:00 PM ]
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The dumbtronica act Montana & McDeviltoast, along with their friends, keep each other updated on their activities. Much fun having by all, and Pockys fear for their lives!