on this night of nights we two are so hopelessly inevitable

it's a haiku.



In Filipino tradition, it is said that the way you spend your New Year's Eve will resonate throughout the year. Because of this it is almost mandatory in some families that the entire core group is together on New Year's Eve. This was not the case for my family last night, as our hero was facedown drowning in the largest flagon of Guinness ever poured by humans.


I decided to go downtown, which was the place to be, and thankfully I wasn't driving. We had a table and we were with a good crowd. Pictures up on lushcollective later on. Everyone and their mother was in some sort of relationship so I attached myself to an extremely tall beer and hoped for the best. My night was comped courtesy of Lauren and Audria from the Hills, so drinking/cabs were not an issue.

I was entirely overdressed and some very large women found me adorable in the same way that a cute hat is adorable or a big piece of cake is adorable. The camera added a lot of 'prestige' and generally creeped everyone out.

The entire night, I knew I would inevitably end up in pacific beach. It was a combination of deep seated determination and fate. It became my mission. Another girl, another party, another crowd- I left my heart in PB and that is where my night would end-

At any cost!

Still though, as the clock struck midnight I was *not* in PB, so I forced myself on the nearest female and trademark overwhelming awkwardness filled the air.

"That was nice. So I was thinking I should call you."
Yeah my boyfriend over there doesn't think you should.
"...whoa. Oops. Whoa."
[John of unlimited charisma quickly backs away from the booth.]

In Filipino tradition, it is said that the way you spend New Years Eve will resonate throughout the year. Maybe this year's gonna have me getting my ass kicked.

To Pacific Beach!

Many drunken phonecalls had filled me with a sense of urgency. As if she might disappear at 2 AM, or my cab would turn into a pumpkin, or other such fairy tale urgency. I managed to hail a cab and collected Kevin and Kathryn and it was off to PB. I generously offered to pay for the whole cab, but I was thwarted by the cabbie who reminded me that he only accepted cash. So I payed far less than my share and quickly exited the scene.

I was totally lost at this point and several more phonecalls had me running into awaiting arms; though I inadvertently smashed some of her jewelry. Ataraxia is the state of mind in which you are no longer concerned with consequences. No more worries. It occurred to me later that I had lost my wallet somewhere and a small search party, armed with a single flashing LED keychain was sent out. Nobody found anything. My phone died. I don't know which cab company I took home.

In Filipino tradition, it is said that the way you spend New Years Eve will resonate throughout the year. Maybe this year's gonna have me going broke.

I wasn't worried about the wallet. I was happy to have completed my mission. I was full of alcohol and everything romantic there ever was.

Aren't you worried about it? It's such a pain in the ass.
"No, for some reason I'm not."

I woke up the next day with many farts still in me. My body has programmed itself not to fart in a girl's bed. Reality sets in and I remember where I am. Ataraxia wears off and I'm immediately disappointed by the inevitable trip to the DMV I'll have to make later. I got a ride to my car and I was complimented by the world's nicest floormats. They read, "You are THE BEST! :)" and I thought that was awfully positive for something you smear your dirty shoes all over but what the hell.

So in movie-mode I drove home. I might have been the only car on the road. I hoped I wouldn't get pulled over; I don't have anything on me. No license, no registration, no nothing. I make it home without incident and only now am I hung over.

I unleash a series of loud but not entirely unpleasant farts and I fall asleep. My cashmere sweater has shed all over my blazer and I look homeless, sleeping in jeans. I am awoken a little later by my cellphone, which is now charging.

A gritty, almost Rastafarian voice takes me by surprise.
Eyyy der Jannyboy! Ya know where yar wallet be?
"What? No?"
I've gat yer wallet Solees. Yar numba was in da wallet."


I met up with him at a neutral location and he handed the wallet to me. We happened to meet at a cafe and I offered to buy his meal. He said he had to get to work, but he wished me a happy New Year, told me to be more careful with my wallet, and drove off.

After getting my wallet back I realized how much work he had to do to get the damned thing back to me:

1) He had to dig through the whole wallet and somehow ended up with a list of contact information regarding the gym that I worked at.

2) He had to look up the directory OF that gym, and match my name to a list.

3) He had to determine which of the contacts would take him to me and which were just office bureaucracy runarounds

4) He had to call my ass, go out of his way to meet me at a safe and neutral location, and didn't even want some soup and a sandwich for his troubles.


Just because he wanted to do the right thing.


In Filipino tradition, it is said that the way you spend New Years Eve will resonate throughout the year. Maybe this year will see me being left vulnerable but loved by those around me.

I felt so good about the way everything panned out yesterday, and today was just icing on it all. And I didn't have to go to the DMV.

imagine living your whole life for the worst thing you ever did.

part one: milfhunter
------------------

Like clockwork I'm old.

1985, John is born.

22 years later I am the oldest man in the entire world.

I've been so attracted to adult behaviour in girls lately that I must be an adult.

Can't find a job? Oh tell me all about it.
Stressed about your full time job? I've got a boner.
You miss college? Let's get married.
You're nervous about your wedding? Dear God lets run away from all this...

These grown up problems get me going so much because I'm at this bizzare stage where I might be the only medicine left for these people. I'm a grown up. Still living like an eighteen year old. I'm gonna make you young forever.

The people I'm closest to are my age, and in turn, a lot of them have graduated and moved on. And their situations are terrifying to a college student. But somehow, I'm not phased. I'm not scared. For some reason, I don't think it's gonna be me. That dude who slows down and lives for happy hour and is in bed by ten cause of work...

You see it, around this age, around this time, at this exact fifth year in college. That nervous confusion of the 22-24 year old college student. People feel old, and they're over the college scene. They just wanna get out. Move on, move up.

I do feel old, but I'm so not over it. I've seen enough wealthy and miserable graduates to know that it's not for me *quite yet*. I'm already thinking my career is going to have to be fun...

that is HUGE.

because as a business major, you usually realize in your senior year that your career will be lucrative but not fun.

I think mine might be fun. I might force it. It's gonna be great.

I've never felt so positive about the future. I think about it so rarely- I exist two weeks at a time. But I look forward and I feel good.

I see all these kids around me doing the SDSU dance, and it's funny to see how the patterns are so consistent. Freshman year people tend to act a certain way. Sophomore too. Junior too. Etc.

It's like my hero complex has grown up with me and graduated college before I did, because I just wanna save these 'grown up' girls who've accepted this monotony... the total value change.

I saw Johnny Rotten on Jimmy Kimmel and he's 50 years old and he's STILL pissed off. Ha!

I'm completely rambling. I don't feast on other people's misery, I just wanna help. For realsies.

------------------

part two: something's wrong syndrome
------------------
Everyone loves to be a victim. You can see it in people as young as toddlers. Here's a classic example:

Kid is toddling around the living room and bonks his head on a table corner. Ouch! He pops back up and keeps toddling around, but mom runs in from across the hall and coddles the shit out of him. "OHMYGOD AREYOUOKAY? OHMYBABY!"

This attention... shit, read Choke. Anyways, this attention not only reinforces the behaviour, but the "what's wrong?" aspect of it suggests that SOMETHING IS WRONG!

So the kid cries, cause she's wondering if he's okay so he must not be.

"What's wrong?" is the most fucked up thing you can ask someone.

Are you alright? Well fuck you, I'm not now.

And once you make yourself the victim, there's no backing out. You're miserable and you can't just turn it off. It's hard to change character on a dime. All cause some drunken bitch couldn't perceive the difference between distracted and depressed.

Here's how you fix it. Just claim drunkenness. Just do it. You can get away with anything if you're drunk, don't make yourself a victim or a villain and just say, "Oh I'm fine, I'm just shitfaced."

That's all there is to it. Heed that one, save yourself a lot of awkwardness. Trust me.

run for your life.

run for your damned life. the future is here. it is.


I batted so badly on drunk dials tonight. Only the reliable ones answered. You have my everlasting gratitude.


want something poetic? Here. This is what I've got. This is what they've done to me.
---
[don't read too much into this.]


He wasn't a bad kisser. Not bad in the sense that you wouldn't want to kiss him again. She was startled, though, by the voracious desperation that he displayed any time his lips met hers.

Like he needed to kiss her to save his life. The kind of frantic, passionate desperation someone exhibits when they jam an epi-pen into their own thigh. The clenched, tooth-grinding desperation heard rattling like pills when someone's heart stops beating and the medicine lid is child-proof.

His obsession and her sadness were like poison.

He kisses her like her tongue had the antidote.


Like her breath would make him live forever, if he took in enough of it.










One kiss and he's building castles in her name.




---
five syllables in
and we're still so hopelessly
inevitable.


---

there's another line on the end but it's zero syllables. Sometimes it goes without saying.


----

here's good advice. Pick something and do it. While you're trying to figure out what to do, the world's not waiting up for you.

John goes to the Casbah part one: Ross Jarman's grassroots campaign for a better tomorrow.

The Casbah is a San Diego/scene icon. "world famous," goes the cliche. I'd never been there before but I heard good things.

But first- the beginning.

I was surfing for porn at 1:20AM and I had Conan on in the background. I was also in a drug induced stupor but that is neither here nor there. (two more weeks on this stuff for what it's worth.)

I was doing my best to focus on my google search for "big boobies" but an overpowering english accent stole my attention for a moment.

The band, whoever they were, finished their song and Conan said "The Cribs, everyone! Thankyougoodnight."

I was charmed enough to stop my current search and instead I sampled some of their music. Very catchy stuff. Wikipedia said that they're a band of brothers from Wakefield, England. Myspace said they're on tour. And they would be in San Diego on Monday the 23rd.

An hour later I had tickets.

Me and Kevin went, and inadvertently showed up on time.

The Casbah struck me as unusually small, and it was completely empty as the doors opened. We got a game of pool in and still no one showed up for the first band. The Hugs eeked out about five songs, and appeared to be around 15 or 16 years old. They were short one member, as he was kicked out of the band for stealing equipment.

After the Hugs left the stage, some roadies got up and started tweaking the gear and practicing music. Some of them were playing really well. It then occurs to us that the "lead roadie" is actually Sean Tillmann of Sean Na Na, and the rest of the roadies are his band. These guys are probably confused for roadies a good deal. Their first song is awesome, but the rest are sort of murky due to the way the sound technician was handling things. Sean expressed his dissapointment in the sound on numerous occasions.

After Sean Na Na plays, I decide to go pick up a Cribs t-shirt. I go up to the table and I ask the dude selling shirts if I can buy a white one. He gives me a surprised "sure" as if I'm the first person in the history of shirts to ask for a white one. The guy on his left says, "Hi. I'm Ross." I shake his hand and then I realize. "Oh shit. I say. Hi!" Ross is the youngest brother of the group, and plays drums for The Cribs. Gary Jarman and twin brother Ryan play Bass and Guitar, respectively.

"At the risk of sounding cheesey," I can't believe I'm prefacing this statement out loud, "would you sign this?"

Ross says sure, and not only that, he rounds up the rest of the band and they all sign it too. I have a moment to bullshit with them about nonsense. I'd be a horrible interviewer because I'm not really interested in talking about music.

John: How do you like being a twin?
Ryan: It's not bad. Do you have one?
John: Nope.
Ryan: How do you like that?
John: It's good.

(Ryan and Gary leave for a moment.)

John: Did you guys get to hang out with Conan?
Ross: Yeah, we got to meet him for a bit.
John: What was that like?
Ross: He's massive, first off. (Ross raises his hand high above his head.)
John: I heard like seven feet.
Ross: Yeah, and he's quite wide. And he wears a lot of makeup.
John: Oh yeah, you've gotta, with the HD stuff and what not, you know It's sweeping the... *trails off.*

We discuss The Streets, cockney rhyming slang, roadies and etc. Ross shakes my hand and goes to set up his gear.

I come back to my seat (we had a bar table right in front of the stage) and I show Kevin my shirt. These guys just made a fan for life by taking the smallest bit of time out to talk to me. I hope they blow up. In the exposure sense, not the explosive sense.

Something interesting: When you have twin brothers who are both doing vocals, you can create some really bizzare sounds. It's like having one extremely talented lead singer. They have the exact same voice- I wouldn't have guessed that it would work so well. It sounds like one guy harmonizing with himself.

The Cribs knocked over their gear several times during the show. Mics and cymbals and other equipment hit the floor on various occasions, and the band played right through it. Their loyal roadie did his best to keep things standing up.

They played really well and the crowd definitely got into it towards the end. They finished by creating tons of feedback and walking off stage. Ryan, the lead gutiarist, literally ran out the door and wasn't seen again.


All in all it was a great show, and I was really impressed by the band. I like how the Casbah works- the bands are having drinks right next to you before they perform. It's a very Cheers-esque thing. They're just normal people that happen to be playing some music.

My ears are still ringing from the feedback.

Go listen to the cribs.

http://www.myspace.com/thecribs

part three: john the gorilla: the long hard never again

11:38.



I am at work and I am still drunk. Doubtless.



For real, I'm never going to finish the Vegas story unless I do it now, as a proper segue into last night.



It's Saturday and I'm in vegas and we're at a breakfast buffet. Every hotel feeds you in buffet form, whether you're at the Venetian or Lucky Louie's Bad Times Casino. I am in "line" behind a very scary cholo man and I think of Rebeca. He glances over at me while he fishes for eggs, and asks, "Where did you get that scar?"



There are people who have known me for months-- years, even, without asking this.



He catches me off guard and the response is kneejerk. "Gunfight," I tell him.



He nods approvingly and moves on. Breakfast is decent, not great. They have yogurt and I fill up on that. There is no better feeling in the world than just being completely overflowing from the inside, chock full of dairy products. It's how an IED must feel. A pipe bomb. Something simple, poorly made and deadly-- that's me, when I'm full of yogurt.



I go to the pool for a long time. 122 degrees in vegas. I fall asleep on my back, so I am now two distinct shades of tan with my shirt off. I am told that this drives the ladies crazy. Two-tone John is on the prowl; watch yourself.



We go to the family reunion thing. I am still a deranged fuckmonster, but I resist the urge to hit on my distant cousins. I sing some karaoke songs. I hit on the bartendress. Huge, overflowing, jiggling personality on that girl. I get drunk. Typing that, I want to throw up because I am drunk right now.



I tour vegas with some of my older cousins. I start gambling again. There is no poetry here; I lost everything. All my profits from the day before, the saved 200, everything. It's gone. I feel like a loser; mostly cause I lost over and over. Losers lose.



I go to sleep a broken man. I look like this picture. I hate las vegas. Forever.



I go home the next day. I'm all out of embellishments.

---



Last night I'm in PB and my phone rings at around 11:00. Next thing I know, I'm at SDSU drinking with my coworkers. I drink too much, too fast. Story of my life. I smoked all of Tina's cigarettes. Nice. I wake up mostly naked on a couch that isn't in the same house that I was drinking at. This was startling but not surprising. If there's a difference.



I am drunk at work now. Probably. I want to throw up. I am full of regret and alcohol. Which may be my next CD title.



The upside is that I recorded a sick version of All Choked Up into my keyboard this morning. That should sound good.

A report. I am still drunk.

I showed up thirty minutes early tonight. What followed my punctual arrival was perhaps the longest half-hour in history. I approached the hostess and I said, plainly:

"Hello, my name is John Solis. S-O-L-I-S."

I spelled it out for her because people so often mispronounce or misspell my name.

"Uhhh.... that's nice." She stabs. "Did you want to be seated?"

I quickly realize that my promptness has left her confused and disoriented. "I'll just sit at the bar."

Time passes and Brendan and his cohort arrive. I leave my chair and finish my mojito, which is apparently the trademark drink of Cendio. Cedino? I am still drunk. I finish my drink, and I order another. I am desperately wanting something called a 'caramel appletini', but I feel that any manhood I have left will be tossed out the window if I order this drink.

I lean in on the bartender and ask him, "what would James Bond order?"

he doesn't know.

Luckily for me, and my liver, Jenny knows that James Bond drinks a dirty martini with a twist of lemon rind. Shaken, not stirred, of course.

And with that one simple and idiotic request, I consumed my first of ... six? martinis tonight. I am still very very drunk, for whatever it is worth.

The 'free vodka' was scheduled to last from 9:00 pm to 10:30 pm, but ran out at around a quarter to ten. Luckily for me, I had an open tab and no sense of money management. Christo imbibed a Patron shot and yet another "James Bond" martini on my behalf. He bailed out early, but to his credit, he drank every beverage handed to him. What a champ.

I have a fatty crush on the promoter. Something about a woman in power. Hi Andrea.

Time passes and I notice that my ride has arrived. I am drunk and paranoid, and incredibly cautious of my behaviour. I am sure not to offend her, though at one point in the night she is certain I grabbed her butt and I scream at her till she admits she was wrong.

She was wrong, by the way.

That was, thankfully, my only incident of the night. I saw quite a few people I didn't expect to see, and my drunkeness was (likely due in large part to the high quality of the drinks) a very happy sort of drunkeness.

I was largely mentally distracted throughout the evening, but that did not stop me from dancing and looking like an idiot. Some people lead with their hands, or even their hips. I lead with my crotch. Maybe it's been too long, but the pelvic thrusts just force their way into my social life when they aren't satisfied in my private life.

Thank god I'm still drunk or else that last paragraph may not have made the cut.

My happy drunk turned into a slightly more hostile drunk as the night went on, but I never crossed any lines of appropriateness. I took a puff of a cigarette which is unlike me, but I suppose I only wanted to blow a ring. Which I did, quite successfully.

More time passed and more things happened, and I got a taco and enchilada. I thought my enchilada would be full of beef, but as I bit into it, I found nothing but cheese. In fact, it was an entire bag of Kraft shredded Mexican style cheese, wrapped in the worlds thinnest casing. I finished it though, because I am a trooper.

At some point during the night, we encountered a few gentlemen playing a rousing game of midnight wiffle ball. One of them invited me to smoke, and I agreed to, for some reason, but was too drunk to find their apartment. I suppose that this is a good thing, at the end of the day. I assembled the hookah back at Christina's house, and it was very good.

There are a ton of gaps in here. Here are some blurbs:

1) Everyone assumes I'm still handling this girl that I no longer am. It creates some awkard moments, for sure. The fact that I'll still defend her honor just compounds the stupid situation.

2) When I am drunk, I definitely like to kiss people. Sorry for that.

3) I am the drunk dialing master. On 20 drunk dials, I'll get around 10 answers. That's .500! I'm the Tony Gwynn of drunk dial averages, though none of mine panned out into anything successful.

4) I still want a ride and a hot tub party. Just so you know.

5) In my drunkeness, my paranoia is quite amplified, and as I type this, I am incredibly skeptical about what I left behind tonight. Yes that is vague. Yes I know.

But here's the point: I didn't embarass anyone. I didn't ruin anyones night. No one knows I hate them, and no ones knows I love them. But I *did* get way fucked up, and I *did* have a really good time. So take that. I'm still a person. Not an alcohol-fueled awkward-moment machine like some of you may have thought.


Tomorrow I need to find my car. And once I found it, I would have to find a way to get there. I had no idea where I parked it, but upon checking my text messages, I realized that I had left myself a reminder.

"Dear John: You parked in front of Banana Republic. Be good, I love you."

At least someone does!

Goodnight.

Cendio, La Jolla

Summer is essentially here for me. I have a final next Wednesday- Marketing, which is also my major.

Important, right? Wrong. I have bigger things to worry about.

For example, where am I going to embarass myself next? What bridges can I burn further? I hear alcohol is quite combustible.

The answer lies in La Jolla. The answer lies in a birthday, a promise, a test, and free drinks. The answer is Cendio, a latin-themed La Jolla restau-bar that was formerly known as Moondoggies.

As far as burning bridges goes, free vodka and plentiful company should provide ample amounts of fuel. Incendio, coincidentally, is Spanish for fire. Ominous.

I hope that isn't the case tonight. I hope I make a good showing, display appropriate levels of drunkeness, and arrive home SAFELY and WITHOUT confessing my love or hatred of anyone. That is what I want. And I want Christo to have a good 21st birthday, too.

There is a girl out there, whose opinion means more to me than it should, who thinks I'm going to drink too much and get too rowdy and ruin her night. I hope she's wrong, and I wish she trusted me. Regardless, though, I journey forth into the night with good intentions.

Summer hasn't even officially started yet and I'm already antsy. Anxious, even. I have high hopes for the night- not because of where I'm going or who's going to be there with me... but because I've been really bored lately, and I want to make sure I remember how to have fun.

The only question will be whether or not anything catches fire in the process.


Wish me luck.

John