Goodbye Dutch Girl

Half of my prediction has been confirmed.

It will be indeed a sausage fest with two guys moving into my quad, according to the housekeeping staff that dropped by this morning. I hope the other half doesn't come true that they are assholes, like those Americans downstairs who recently moved out (Thank God. They smoke outside downstairs and it wafts up into our windows. They once even asked my German roommate if he liked Jews!) Could my German roommate have said the same about me when I moved in? Of course not. I was the equalizing factor, and he sorely needed me. Without me to back him up, he would've been bullied by three girls, among them a Latina and a Honger.

The Dutch girl next door is leaving today, so yesterday, we went to see her on her last trip to Wreck Beach, a clothing-optional beach (i.e. nudism is legal). Usually, some rather unattractive people and men exercise their right to go around like they're in the Garden of Eden. One interesting sight was this buff guy in the buff parading himself in front of some indifferent girls. How pathetic. What do these testosterone-fueled guys think they're trying to accomplish with their, "Pardon me ladies, I'm just passing by...very slowly...and naked..."? Yes, of course you've worked hard at forging a rock-hard, well-cut body, but if you want girls, you'd better work on other things - such as your EGO!!

Despite that, unlike my undergrad days, the clothing optional population has vastly improved. Granted, we still get mostly men and fat old people to whom gravity was unkind, but now there's sexier fare from countries where the practice of tanning au naturel is widely acceptable (i.e. Latin America), because getting a complete tan is much more important than some bullshit prudish family moral values (Usually with a certain religion mixed in. I'm not going to say which religion, but let's just say that it rhymes with "fristian").

After that, my quad ended up hosting her farewell party. In line with the Dutch theme, the Dutch girl decided that the main fare would be crepes - entree crepes for dinner and sweet crepes for dessert. The food and liquor provisions ran out fast, so being the only one with a vehicle and sober, I volunteered to go on a liquor and grocery run. Among the party's guests, these two lovely Scottish lasses decided to tag along. The lovelier of the two was only here on a short visit from Scotland (go figure).

The lasses were rather cheery, and I doubt that it was the effect of alcohol but rather it is their nature. To express their cheeriness, they decided to sing Scottish and Gaelic folk songs. I managed to recognize some of the songs from my frequent trips to The Blarney Stone, so I sang along and threw in my own Scottish accent, which I learned from my Scottish friends and from watching Groundskeeper Willy from The Simpsons. Hey, it's not everyday that I have a pair of lovely Scottish birds in my backseat singing in the mirth of their heritage, and it is even less often that I find people willing to accompany me in singing "I'm Gonna Be (500 Miles)".

The party was a blast, and I was once more re-enlightened as to how many people can fit in my quad. For good measure, someone brought in a Twister set so we had our own little Twister tournament. Aftwerwards, someone presented the Dutch girl with a large Canadian flag, and we all signed it, regardless of whether it is considered defacing the flag or that doing so may be unpatriotic or illegal.

I signed the flag, accompanied by a picture of a squid and a chicken. There's a funny story behind that. One day, me and my German roommate went with her to Stepho's, a popular Greek restaurant in the middle of Vancouver's gay district. After an entertaining display of a flaming leather-clad couple whipping each other out in the sidewalk, accompanied by a delicious calamari, she exclaimed, "That's the best chicken I've ever had!" to which we cracked up. I mean, do chickens in the Netherlands have tentacles? What kind of problem are they having with nuclear waste there!?

That story aside, the party was soon over and I just saw her off this afternoon. It was a sad farewell, and as you can see, there were many fond memories to be had. I'm sure that she'll bring home a life-enriching experience, and has learned a lot of new things during her stay here that she couldn't learn back home.

Such as telling a squid and a chicken apart.

All kneel before the Twister Queen!
Unequalled in the Bending of Limbs in Exotic Positions!
(sounds dirty, heheh)

Dim Sum and Splashdown For Europeans

My Dutch neighbor is returning to the Netherlands soon.

It's all the better reason get her, and my German roommate to try something new - Sunday morning dim sum. It's also a good occasion because my roommate's friend, also German, came for a visit. They don't really get this kind of thing in Europe, or at least they've never went out of their way to try it.

For those of you who have never left your trailer park, dim sum is these little à la carte Chinese dishes, usually steamed, which are really good. It is customary for families to eat dim sum on Sunday mornings as a brunch. Traditionally, these ladies cart a bunch of these dishes, in stackable steaming baskets, around the restaurant, all the while yelling out what they've got. If a customer likes what they hear, they order from the cart lady, and the cart lady puts a stamp based on the dish's size on a card that each table gets. The stamp count determines how much the customer pays.

Sadly, to slash costs, the cart lady has been replaced with an order card, and you just mark down what you want and hand over to the waiter, and they carry out your order. At least they didn't "outsource" the cart lady job to less-than-minimum-wage Mexican or Indian workers - that would be very awkward. Nevertheless, the job market just got significantly harder for middle-aged Chinese women who don't speak a word of English.

I managed to take them to Floata, this restaurant in Chinatown that is probably the largest Chinese restaurant in the country, but more importantly, is also one of the very few in Vancouver that still employs cart ladies. Those Europeans were taking their bloody time to return a rental car from a trip they took the day before, and we would've missed our reservation had I not called the restaurant to push it back. But sitting at the table with lots of food and a lively atmosphere quickly dispelled all that frustration I had built up.

I set them up with the dishes that I usually order, which would be new and exotic to them, but nothing so alien to them that they wouldn't eat it. That is, all but my favorite dish, which is the real reason why I wanted to bring them to dim sum - Assorted Cow Parts. That's what I called the dish that I grew up enjoying, that most other Westerners would find repulsive. Its contents are pretty much the way I've named it - cow tongue, spleen, tendon, stomach, (sometimes) lung, and (although not technically a cow part) chunks of radish - all stewed in this delicious sauce.

I kicked myself in the ass for getting carried away and proudly describing the dish to them before they tried it. It would've been much more fun if they ate it first, I told them what they ate, and they retch. The Dutch girl and my roommate's friend made a feeble attempt to get the smallest bit of cow stomach down.

My German roommate, however, was a sport and he pretty much sampled one of each cow part. His rationale was that Germany is famous for its sausages, which are pretty much the same cow parts that was set before him. The only difference is that the Germans mush up, spice down, and stuff those cow parts into intestines so that they can't tell what they're eating by looking at it or tasting it.

Now all that's left to make them gag is preserved (aka 1,000 year old) egg!

Later in the afternoon, we met up with a bunch of other fellow fun-pursuers and went to Splashdown Park, a waterslide park, to take advantage of some late bird discount admissions. I don't think they have this kind of thing in Europe. We had lots of fun, and if you've ever been to the waterslides, or able to envision a day at the waterslides with your friends, then it's pretty much like the kind of fun time that we had.

Well, except that your friends scream and curse in a foreign language when they think that they're about to be launched off the edge of the slide.

How do you think the cow feels about you eating her stomach!?!?

Unfresh Fruit Of The Loom

Today, I went to buy underwear at Zeller's (the Canadian equivalent to Wal-Mart, but with less corporate bullying, old people, illegal immigrants, blah blah).

It was necessary because I've been doing laundry way too often due to underwear shortages. Not just any underwear, but briefs. I've spent my whole life enjoying the crotch-hugging comfort of briefs. I've spent some time with boxers, but they are way too drafty, and with my vital areas dangling loose, I get the feeling that they just might wander off somewhere when I'm not paying attention. And I'm not just buying any briefs, but colored briefs. That's right, I'm making my life more exciting by reinventing myself. I already have colored underwear, but those don't count because they started out white.

With my purchases complete, I left the mall, and I have just pulled my car out of my parking space, this old couple pulls up to my car (their LEFT side!) and blocks my way! I honk them, but they just cut in front of me to quickly shove their vehicle into the parking space I just vacated, the very parking space that I would've left for them anyway. Fucking elderly. If I ever get old and become a hazard on the road, I'll be more than happy to turn in my driver's license. I guess they are in such a hurry because they don't have much time - whether they have to go to bed soon or they have to check in to the Underground Hotel soon, I don't know. But just because they have one foot in the grave doesn't mean they are entitled to drag us all down with them.

Without further incident, I brought home a 6-pack of Fruit of the Loom briefs of assorted colors (They come in TEAL, baby!). I was about to open the package to fill my underwear drawer, when I notice something written at the bottom:

Reclosable Bag
To re-package: Place garments
neatly inside bag. Fold inside
flap over garments.

What the hell is Fruit of the Loom thinking, packaging their underwear in reclosable packages!? Did they expect that someone's going to try them on for size, so they decided to make it easier for that person to put it back into the package if he didn't like the fit!?!? It's really grossing me out to think that the underwear has been pre-worn. I'm glad I have a habit of picking merchandise from the back of the shelf or rack.

And some lucky girl's going to have fun guessing what color I'm wearing. **SOB**

WORLD CUP!! Stanley Cup?

It's ON!!!

It's been so exciting these past weeks ever since the FIFA World Cup started. My German roommate is even more pumped, and has his Team Germany jersy on standby for any games played by Germany ever since. This event has really helped root out all the different ethnic groups that come to UBC, as you can see them filter out into the student pub whenever their country is playing. This is nice, because for the rest of the time, I'm starting to think that 75% of the entire student population is Asian and the rest are White.

Oh wait, there's a Stanley Cup going on, isn't there? Oh, it was Edmonton vs. Carolina. Well, Edmonton isn't playing that well, so there goes my hopes that the Stanley Cup is going home to Canada. Well now that the World Cup is going on, I'm more excited about that, as it's the only truly international sporting event other than the Olympics. It's certainly not like Major League Baseball, which calls their playoffs the World Series - by "World", they mean they have one Canadian team in the league, and a bunch of players from Japan and Latin America.

But most of all, the fans of the female persuasion are much hotter (e.g. wear less clothes) in soccer!

Finals Up The Arse

If I was too busy to post on this blog, now I'm even...uh...too busier to post?

I've already had a huge backlog of entries that still need to be typed up before posting, and so by the time this entry actually gets posted on the blog, it will be weeks - or even months - after it has been typed up. Have I just confused you? Try going through the crap I have to study.

I have two finals - financial and cost accounting - back to back tomorrow and Tuesday. At least they're not on the same day like my midterms. My last will be commercial law on Thursday, right after which I'm going to get sooooo drunk. Until then, I'm studying sober.

So don't worry about cutting me some slack, I won't need it by the time you read this.

Half-Empty

Both girls moved out at 4:45 this morning.

We had a last meal last night, followed by one last outing to The Red Room for Latin night. Damn, it's awfully quiet here. No more loud Spanish coming from the room of the Venezuelan girl when she is spending the 40% of her day on the phone. No more squealy cheers when the girls both get excited about something and start holding hands and jumping up and down the way girls always do.

At least they'll be back sometime during the next academic year, but by then, my German roommate would've already moved back to Germany, so this was the last time all four of us will be together. Me and my German roommate told the girls that we've spoken to the building administrator, and she's replacing them with two hot blonde chicks. But that was a lie to get them jealous.

So sad that good things never last, but bad things cling to your ass like a soiled diaper.

The Last Supper of Room 202

To Middle! To Tits! To Balls!

Parties have never gotten as crazy as this in my quad.

The two girls are moving out very early tomorrow morning, so last night, we threw a huge bash for them last night. The roommates and some of our neighbors first went out to a pub, but I elected to stay behind and finish up my last accounting assignment of the term due today. Well done, Procrastinating Me. Hopefully, I could be done by the time they come back for the real party to begin.

They came back before I could finish it, and oddly enough, my German roommate walks up to me and gives me a hug and a kiss in the cheek, in that affectionate, non-homosexual way that Europeans do. Well, nice to see you, too. That's a sure sign that they've done a lot of pre-drinking for the party that is about to ensue.

I could just give you the first and the last photo of the unfolding events, and label them "before" and "after" respectively, but it is more fun to see the gradual decline from vertical and decently buzzed, to sprawling around on the floor. Earlier in the day, the girls bought some very special (and very potent) exotic liquor, one was some raspberry-flavored vodka, and the other was a bottle of Alizé, which is a delicious mix of passionfruit juice and cognac. The latter tasted so good that, if they were pretty drunk coming in, then this stuff really hammered the nail into the coffin of sobriety.

Then, my German roommate decided to spice up the party by trying to teach us a German drinking song. I used the word "trying" because it took him quite a lot of effort to do it through broken and slurred speech. Anything German, or European, for that matter, may seem weird to us and this song is no exception, but it turned out to be really fun.

What follows is his translation of the song. It's a song where you have to perform the gestures being sung, so it's just like kindergarten, except it involves less alcohol:

1. Hand on the table, hand on the table
   Oolalee oomp sasa
   Hand on the table, hand on the table
   Oolalee ooh
   Hand on the table, hand on the table
   Oolalee oomp sasa
   Hand on the table, hand on the table
   Oolalee ooh
   
   To middle!
   (everyone raises glasses together to the middle of table)
   To tits!
   (raise glass to your breast)
   To balls!
   (lower glass to your crotch)
   To the German Air Force!
   (everyone returns their glasses together in the middle)
   Oooooooh!
   
   Don't be afraid! Hallelujah!
   Oooooooh!
   (everyone drinks)
   
2. Hands on the table...
   
3. Foot on the chair...
   
4. Feet on the chair...
   
5. Lift up the table...
   
6. Put down the table...

Then, you basically work your way backwards from there. Since you have to drink a glass each verse, you should give yourself a pat on the back for being able to survive the entire song...if you're still coordinated enough to find your back. This would've bene manageable if we drank beer, but with the mixed drinks we had, we were just staggering around the apartment, until we all ended up passing out on my Chinese roommate's bed. No, there was no sexual activity, you perv.

Oh, and I managed to sober up just enough to get my assignment done.

Rise Of The Kokanee Warrior

Man, it's been a while since I was this wasted.

We were all supposed to go clubbing last night, and the reason being that my friend's friend, a sorority chick, is celebrating her birthday at this club called The Plaza and wants us to come. Even though we prepared by getting ourselves on a guestlist, we still ended up waiting in line outside for hours.

Then the sorority chick calls my friends about a change in plans, and that the party is actually going to be in another club. So we waited there outside for another hour while my friend tries to call the birthday girl. No answer. Maybe she's busy being tipped upside down on a beer keg or having her way with a frat boy. We gave up and decided to take our party home.

What is it with me and unreliable girls all the time?

To make matters worse, last night was the night UBC planned to have a massive power blackout for the entire campus. Something about maintenance on their powerhouse or some other bullshit. We were pissed off at our building administration for giving us notice about this at the last minute, as they obviously didn't think of the consequences it would have on the food in our refrigerators; some of us who just bought groceries were even more pissed!

It was creepy seeing the whole campus grounds as pitch black as the forests around it. Fortunately, some of the streetlights were still working, as they were part of the City's power grid. As expected, my building was totally dark except for the emergency floodlights in the hallways, and even those weren't expected to last long.

Oddly enough, our friend Sam's building, just next to mine, had its lights on and was perhaps the only building on the campus grounds that did not have a power blackout. Probably because it was on an independent power line than UBC's. So we decided to take our party there.

Oh, and by "party", I meant drinking games, as that was what we unanimously agreed upon, since we found that it can be a culturally educational experience for my German roommate and the Asian members of our group. We first played Have you ever...? which is pretty much the same as I never..., only that the prompt is different. Unfortunately, that game didn't last long, as the Asian girls were a little too shy for the sexually outrageous and scandalous questions that eventually floated around.

So the next game we played was much simpler. I don't have a name for it, but we just took a deck of cards and wrote down a list of actions/forfeits for each card value. Don't ask me what they were, as I don't have a sliver of a memory of that event. All I can remember is that most of them involved drinking. Anyway, this game is simple enough, which is good because a complex game would be impossible when you're piss drunk. We just passed the deck around, drew a card, and followed the instructions on the piece of paper.

Too bad we only brought one case of Kokanee. It ran out pretty soon, and so we had to switch to the harder stuff. As you may know, unless you're a pussy, a cup of mixed drinks will always have more alcohol than a cup of beer. We were oblivious to that fact. Hell, we found mixing too tedious, so we just gave up and poured the whiskey straight into the cup.

Bad idea.

We were so wasted, when my roommate asked me to pass the Kokanee box so he can put the empties away. I put it on his head instead, then took a picture. Soon everyone around the table wanted to put the box on their head, to the point where I wanted to do it myself. Being impaired in my motor skills, I ended up pulling my head all the way into the box, and the holes that make the handle of the box for carrying also made a good visor.

Thus, the Kokanee Warrior was born!

Oh yeah, baby. For the longest time, that photo will be my profile photo on MSN Messenger. That's all I remember about the events that unfolded at Sam's place. As for after that, I walked some of the girls home across campus just to be safe, even though the sun was coming up. I ended up passing out on my friend's couch, so she stuck a note on me explaining who I am and why I'm on the couch, to avoid freaking out her roommates.

Ugh, now I remember why it's been so long since I got this wasted.

Fighting to defend the rights of the alcoholic and fashionably challenged!

My First Blade

It's about time I get a sword for my iaido practice.

As mentioned before, the blade of an iaito may be metal, but it is some rust-proof alloy and cannot cut; it doesn't even have a sharp edge, although you may want to be careful where the point goes. The blade of a shinken, or a real sword, is made of carbon steel and can rust if you just breathe into it, so it must be constantly oiled.

Not only are there a huge selection of shinken being sold out there on the internet (some good and some crappy, caveat emptor), but also iaito. I can't wait for an iaito to be made and delivered, so I buying it online is out of the question. No, it's not that I'm buying on impulse, but I am really pressed for time. Next summer term, I can only attend one iaido practice a week because of night classes - in the fall term, I can't attend any practices at all. It is imperative that I learn as much as I can before I am unable to attend practices. A wooden sword is still useful, but doesn't give you any idea of the weight and dimensions of a sword, nor can you practice drawing from a scabbard. Furthermore, it is always good to get a feel of the sword before you buy it, as having a proper sword is important to develop good technique during the early stages of learning.

So where do I go to buy one? Fortunately, one store, Aoi Budogu, set up a booth during the iaido seminar, complete with their wares, and I like their quality. I got the necessary dimensions from the sage advice of my sensei, so my only personal needs are that the blade be heavy to train myself for the weight of a real sword, and that the tsuka maki, or the hilt wrapping, be leather. No, it's not because it looked cool in Kill Bill, but leather gets nice and sticky for that steady grip, so I don't have to be afraid of my sword flying out of my hand and impaling some poor bystander, whether or not he deserves it. The only tradeoff is that leather is thicker than cotton or silk wrapping, so it might be tricky to handle the sword at times.

Since the seminar was long over, I had to go to the actual store to buy the sword. It's tucked away in some industrial park, but they have a showroom totally decked out in traditional Japanese style. It was samurai pimped-out, but I was more interested in what they have in inventory. Unfortunately, they didn't have a sword that meets my exact specifications, but they did have one that came close, only that the blade was lighter. An iaito being a significant investment, it took me two hours to decide on that sword, since I realized that developing technique is most important, and that a lighter blade will help me focus on that objective. When I'm ready for a heavier sword, I can have it custom-made to my exact specifications without being pressed for time.

I'm still happy with my decision. The sword feels very well-balanced, and the blade makes a nice whistle when I swing it properly. I'm not going to say how much I spent, as my parents will kill me. Especially since they're Hong Kong Chinese, who are notorious for their adverse reaction to large expenditures. Besides, I have more than enough people trying to blackmail me for other things.

Now I am one step closer in my quest to fight back the Western Devils, HUZZAH!

Legal Problems

I just got my law midterm back today.

It sucked. It was totally lower than I expected. Sure, it's a "B" grade, but it's total crap when I am aiming for an "A". I cannot afford to have a "B" in any course, not if I want to gain the attention of recruiters. This program is my last chance to get the job I want, the kind of job where I can put my best skills to use. Now, I've effectively screwed up half the course. Maybe I should give up and stop caring. After all, I'm going to be an accountant, and even if I get 100% in law, I'd still need to consult a lawyer for legal matters anyway.

Participation's not a problem, as I've given the prof ample discussion about cases I've read before class. It has gotten to the point that now, even if I haven't read the case, I'll still put my hand up and the prof will give me credit but pick someone else to discuss, instead of calling my bluff. But then again, I do back it up by asking and answering a lot of questions in class.

If I ever want to express my indifference, when the prof talks about the final exam in class, maybe I'll ask if calculators are allowed.

Goya Chanpuru

I love Okinawa.

It is an island/prefecture of Japan so far down south that you can see Taiwan from there on a clear day. The people, biome and modern culture there are very similar to Hawaii, and I even had a Hawaiian colleague validate that when I went there with him. The traditional culture, of what was once the Ryukyu kingdom, is a rich mix of Chinese, Japanese, and Korean elements, with their own nice Okinawan touches. Okinawa was so fascinating that I even went aside to learn one of their musical instruments and their cooking.

The aroma of Okinawan cooking reminds me of Chinese food because the miso used in the dishes smell quite like black bean sauce. One particular dish really grabbed the attention of my tastebuds - goya chanpuru in romanized Japanese. Goya is basically a bitter melon that looks like a wrinkled cucumber that you may find in most Asian supermarkets. Despite its tremendous health benefits, goya alone is...well...pretty bitter and not very pleasant. However, like Hawaiian cooking, Okinawan cooking also employs Spam. In this case, the Spam doesn't counteract, but instead nicely complements the goya's bitterness, making it very good to eat AND healthy. Maybe that's why Okinawans have the longest average lifespan of any people in the world.

So I found a nice recipe on this blog that turned up after looking up the dish on Google. The difficult part is acquiring the bitter melons, as my closest source is a supermarket in Richmond, and I hate driving there because none of the Asians there (mainly Hongers) can drive or choose to drive. The goya's come in twos or threes depending on size, in a styrofoam tray and the package wrapped in cellophane just like meat. The first time I bought them, I was shocked at how quickly they grew moldy in the fridge, and how colorful the mold could be. This is a stupid packaging idea, and I don't know why they couldn't just sell the bitter melons like any other produce. Maybe the people working there are colorblind, and to them, a wrinkly bitter melon looked like a strip sirloin. That would explain the huge pile of raw meat next to the radishes.

Anyway, I had to make a second trip to Richmond to replace the lost goya's. This time, I had only kept the goya's in the fridge for one day before cooking my goya champuru. Unfortunately, I only need to use one, so I had to throw the other one away due to its short lifespan. I hate wasting food, but I can't just eat it straight and like a cucumber. It took an hour to chop up all the ingredients, and I am reminded about why I usually reheat instead of cook.

The result was a little too salty, but that was because I found the term "heaping tablespoon" to be quite subjective. I guess a big chunk of miso is more than just "heaping". The other problem is that I may have used too much chili paste, as its taste is a little too prominent. Nevertheless, the Spam really did enhance the flavor of the bitter melon, just like dish I tried in Okinawa, so I did succeed in what I believe is the most important aspect.

And now, for the final evaluation - I've been invited to a friend's house for a potluck. Some of the guests included Japanese exchange students, and when they tried my goya chanpuru, they all agreed that it tastes exactly the way it tasted back in Japan, which was authentic and very good. Either that, or it really tasted like shit and they were all just being polite. Well, since the non-Japanese guests didn't complain, I'd consider it a job well done.

So get the candles lit, bitches - you now have an Okinawan cook!

The Blarney Stone Revisited

I haven't been here since my undergrad days.

We all went to The Blarney Stone, an Irish pub close to Gastown, but not before I stuffed my face at The Old Spaghetti Factory, even though I ate a TV dinner just hours earlier back home. The Blarney Stone has a dark, wooden interior like a lot of Irish and British pubs, along with coats of arms hanging on the walls. There's a big stage, and a Scottish or Irish band would play upbeat traditional and modern tunes for everyone to dance to.

Things haven't changed since then, really. The atmosphere is nice and lively and everyone is dancing and having a good time, as if to celebrate a victory against the British or something. I remember some of my undergrad friends getting so piss-drunk that when they do that twirly dance while linking arms with someone else, they accidentally flung themselves into another crowd, or on the floor.

But I'm much better behaved this time.

Happy Birthday To Me, So Gimme My Free Meal Bitch!

Yesterday was my birthday.

So my roommates, neighbors, and friends took me to The Red Room, because they just started this event called Wild Out Wednesdays or something like that. When we got there, the place was depressingly empty. So empty, in fact, that it was just us, two girls on one table, and all the waitresses/dancers on another. The two girls left soon enough, probably because they saw me and got more depressed.

It was just us sitting at a table, knocking back regular-priced drinks. You'd think that being the only people to grace their event, the club people would give us some special discount as a token of appreciation. Cheap bastards. Then, a couple of voluptuous girls walked up to our table and told us that it was their "first night", so they'd like us to have a good time, and then they went backstage. Now when we heard them behave that way, we started to wonder if those girls were strippers or what. Or maybe it's just another alcohol-induced group mental diarrhea. Fortunately, it was the girls in our group that had the balls to inquire, as if it were the guys, they'd either get kicked out and/or leave with palm prints on our faces.

It turned out that the voluptuous girls were actually the event organizers, and it looked like they didn't do a good job of promoting the event. In fact, no one else came to the club that night, so we just ended up shooting pool and feeding loonies into the table. You'd think the manager would open the table for us to play for free just to keep us there (and buying regularly priced drinks), but nooooo, still a cheap bastard.

Well, it turned out that the manager did do something after all, and that was put the club out of its misery for the night and closed early. They apologized for kicking us out, but just as well. The universe would be thrown in utter chaos, if not completly obliterated, if I were to have a good time on my birthday.

We were pretty hungry at this point, so we decided to scrounge around for food. Then, someone had the brilliant idea to go to the nearby Denny's, where they offered free meals to the birthday boy/girl. I'm all up for that...

...and once again, life denies me another pleasure. It turned out that there is no manager on duty at that time to authorize the free meal. The waiter, this elderly Asian man, was very apologetic, and instead offered us all a free dessert. I was so grateful to him for going against the laws of nature and doing something to make my birthday happier, that I got us all to give him a big tip. God bless him.

So that's how I spent my birthday with my friends. In an empty nightclub, approached by girls who were disappointingly not strippers, and denied a free meal at Denny's.

But as long as I have a crappy time together with my roommates, friends, and neighbors, I'm a happy man.