The Red Room
It was Latin Nite last night.
Me and my roomies were going to The Red Room to enjoy that Latin American fever. So, as promised, I called up my new Yugoslavian friend that I met earlier this week and told her what was going on, and if she would like to join us. Understandably, she was nervous because she thought that my roommates were all guys. I explained to her that there are at least as many girls as there are guys in our group, and she wouldn't feel out of place because we were from many different nationalities - German to Iranian to Dutch to Chinese.
At this point, if you're a girl and you still don't feel comfortable about coming, you'd just politely say no and I'd politely back off after a little bit of desperate coaxing. But not her. She starts insulting me by throwing this really lame excuse:
"I have to go all the way to Burnaby to get my satellite dish fixed, and I don't know what time I'll be back."
I knew this was bullshit, because if this was really an issue, she would've brought it to my attention right up front before expressing her anxiety of walking into a sausage fest. She tried out the sausage fest excuse first, and when that didn't work, she decided to throw in the Burnaby satellite dish excuse because she deemed it would be more effective than the sausage fest. And so it turned out that she is one of those people that is just a total waste of my time to know.
And so I delete her number from my phone, and we shall speak of her no more.
Later at night, we made our way downtown to The Red Room sans Yugo bitch. My Venezuelan roommate signed us up on the Guest List and printed out some VIP tickets online, so we got in without waiting. After paying our cover and checking in our coats, it was time to hit the dance floor. The DJ didn't disappoint, and we were treated to some really nice Latin music, with the occasional track that was perfectly suitable for me to work my crash-course meringue, which my friends taught me in ten minutes in Miami.
But it was only going to be good for an hour.
For the rest of the night, the music degenerated to regular hip-hop (not that it's bad, but we were expecting LATIN music for Christsakes), and any Latin song the DJ played, it was repeated from not too long before. And so the DJ ended up playing Shakira's Hips Don't Lie four times during the night, which really pissed, I mean PISSED off my Venezuelan roommate, who walked up to the stage and made her grievances clear to the DJ. Just as we were leaving the club, the real Latin music starts coming on again.
Go figure.
Outside the club, my Venezuelan roommate explained that this DJ is usually very good, but it was those whores dancing on stage that flirted the DJ into playing hip-hop music so they can shake their saggy tits and flabby ass in front of everyone. She was pretty worked up and said many things that not even I would dare recount on this blog, and it would've also been a total disappointment to me had it not been for that glory hour. My Chinese roommate, who is her best friend, managed to calm her down somewhat.
In all my time in Miami, I may not have been able to learn Spanish, but if there ever was one useful lesson in life I brought back from that beautiful and culturally enriching city, it was this: Never piss off Latino chicks. They will eat you alive and pick their teeth with your rib bone.
She had enough time to cool down as we waited for the late late night bus, sitting under a large display window, overshadowed by plastic limbless people clad in the latest fashions, a mute and desperate consumerist plea fallen on the deaf ears of a city in quiet slumber. That is, a silence peppered with the occasional odd creature that dwells the shadows.
One such creature stumbled down the gently inclined sidewalk towards us, bearing a flower surely torn from a municipal flower bed. He was wearing the tartan of a flannel jacket, jeans, and a baseball cap. Nevertheless, he appeared to be a well-shaven young man, and not too creepy at all. Or perhaps it was just too dark. He swaggered up to my Chinese roommate sitting beside me, and spoke in a foreign accent (or was that just a drunken slur?).
"I give this to you and only to you. It is the rose of my heart."
"Uh....but....this is a tulip..."
Then, the piss-drunk casanova broke the long awkward silence with delusional insistence that it was indeed a rose and that it was, indeed, of his heart. Satisfied that his job was done and that he has saved the day for some damsel's heart, he zigzagged across the street - and nearly into a moving bus. My Chinese roommate thought he was sweet, albeit a bit lacking in the sobriety department.
And so, that tulip became an addition to our flower vase in the living room. Despite the disappointing music, I guess we could say that we still had a good time because we faced that disappointment together. Of course, it would've been more fun if we had more people (i.e. the more, the merrier). So any of you out there are welcome to join us.
Just don't fucking tell me that you're getting your satellite dish fixed in Burnaby.
Me and my roomies were going to The Red Room to enjoy that Latin American fever. So, as promised, I called up my new Yugoslavian friend that I met earlier this week and told her what was going on, and if she would like to join us. Understandably, she was nervous because she thought that my roommates were all guys. I explained to her that there are at least as many girls as there are guys in our group, and she wouldn't feel out of place because we were from many different nationalities - German to Iranian to Dutch to Chinese.
At this point, if you're a girl and you still don't feel comfortable about coming, you'd just politely say no and I'd politely back off after a little bit of desperate coaxing. But not her. She starts insulting me by throwing this really lame excuse:
"I have to go all the way to Burnaby to get my satellite dish fixed, and I don't know what time I'll be back."
I knew this was bullshit, because if this was really an issue, she would've brought it to my attention right up front before expressing her anxiety of walking into a sausage fest. She tried out the sausage fest excuse first, and when that didn't work, she decided to throw in the Burnaby satellite dish excuse because she deemed it would be more effective than the sausage fest. And so it turned out that she is one of those people that is just a total waste of my time to know.
And so I delete her number from my phone, and we shall speak of her no more.
Later at night, we made our way downtown to The Red Room sans Yugo bitch. My Venezuelan roommate signed us up on the Guest List and printed out some VIP tickets online, so we got in without waiting. After paying our cover and checking in our coats, it was time to hit the dance floor. The DJ didn't disappoint, and we were treated to some really nice Latin music, with the occasional track that was perfectly suitable for me to work my crash-course meringue, which my friends taught me in ten minutes in Miami.
But it was only going to be good for an hour.
For the rest of the night, the music degenerated to regular hip-hop (not that it's bad, but we were expecting LATIN music for Christsakes), and any Latin song the DJ played, it was repeated from not too long before. And so the DJ ended up playing Shakira's Hips Don't Lie four times during the night, which really pissed, I mean PISSED off my Venezuelan roommate, who walked up to the stage and made her grievances clear to the DJ. Just as we were leaving the club, the real Latin music starts coming on again.
Go figure.
Outside the club, my Venezuelan roommate explained that this DJ is usually very good, but it was those whores dancing on stage that flirted the DJ into playing hip-hop music so they can shake their saggy tits and flabby ass in front of everyone. She was pretty worked up and said many things that not even I would dare recount on this blog, and it would've also been a total disappointment to me had it not been for that glory hour. My Chinese roommate, who is her best friend, managed to calm her down somewhat.
In all my time in Miami, I may not have been able to learn Spanish, but if there ever was one useful lesson in life I brought back from that beautiful and culturally enriching city, it was this: Never piss off Latino chicks. They will eat you alive and pick their teeth with your rib bone.
She had enough time to cool down as we waited for the late late night bus, sitting under a large display window, overshadowed by plastic limbless people clad in the latest fashions, a mute and desperate consumerist plea fallen on the deaf ears of a city in quiet slumber. That is, a silence peppered with the occasional odd creature that dwells the shadows.
One such creature stumbled down the gently inclined sidewalk towards us, bearing a flower surely torn from a municipal flower bed. He was wearing the tartan of a flannel jacket, jeans, and a baseball cap. Nevertheless, he appeared to be a well-shaven young man, and not too creepy at all. Or perhaps it was just too dark. He swaggered up to my Chinese roommate sitting beside me, and spoke in a foreign accent (or was that just a drunken slur?).
"I give this to you and only to you. It is the rose of my heart."
"Uh....but....this is a tulip..."
Then, the piss-drunk casanova broke the long awkward silence with delusional insistence that it was indeed a rose and that it was, indeed, of his heart. Satisfied that his job was done and that he has saved the day for some damsel's heart, he zigzagged across the street - and nearly into a moving bus. My Chinese roommate thought he was sweet, albeit a bit lacking in the sobriety department.
And so, that tulip became an addition to our flower vase in the living room. Despite the disappointing music, I guess we could say that we still had a good time because we faced that disappointment together. Of course, it would've been more fun if we had more people (i.e. the more, the merrier). So any of you out there are welcome to join us.
Just don't fucking tell me that you're getting your satellite dish fixed in Burnaby.
posted by Cosmic Ocean at 3:22 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home