The (oh so infrequent) dating chronicles
So last weekend I went on a date. A proper American style date, which for me is an extremely, extremely rare event. Funnily enough I tend to date more in Sri Lanka than anywhere else, though dating there is a totally different ball game. Over here you date a girl to get to know her, generally from the very beginning. In Lanka however you tend to meet a girl with a group of friends, get to know her a bit while in a group and then ‘thin’ her from the herd for various nefarious activities. Personally I prefer the latter experience because if a girl is annoying for one thing you have other girls you can hit on without serious damage (well most of the time) and you also have your chums you can go get drunk with to forget the craziness that is womankind.
Anyways I went on this date, the hook up which was generally thanks to the obsession with photography and the wonder that is facebook. And it was…pleasant…it wasn’t super but it wasn’t bad either. But it was an odd experience. For one thing somehow both of us talked most of the time, didn’t listen to the band but just chatted. Unfortunately it was during the conversation and dinner later on that I had a dawning of an epiphany. That I actually do know what I want in a girl, and this girl though very nice, and I mean very nice, just didn’t fit the bill.
I like independence, attitude and a hint of naughty. Nice girls turn me off, sheltered girls turn me off and someone who doesn’t push my buttons, well isn’t as much fun. In fact what was eerie was that as the date progressed I came to realize more and more that this girl was almost a carbon copy of the ex, right down to the school. For some reason I kept hearing a voice in my head going ‘danger! Will Robinson, danger!’ and it got louder and louder as time progresses. I sincerely hope that it did not pop out of my mouth inadvertently as things have been doing recently, especially since I tend not to realize when something that was supposed to be in my head comes out of my mouth unless I cotton onto the shocked looks of the participants in the conversation.
At the end of the day the experience wasn’t a chore. Would I repeat it? I honestly don’t know. It’s hard to judge someone from those first sweaty palmed interactions and to be fair I think I may have come across as a somewhat alcoholic, nicotine addicted workaholic and I’m definitely not a workaholic. So there’s no guarantee that she would even want a second round, besides geography has raised its head again so that may indeed be a moot point. Ambiguity still reigns as choice is somewhat limited out here and the formula of intelligence, independence, brown eyes and stark raving nutter are difficult to come by these days. So much for curing the one-itis.
Whoever said life is weird wasn’t kidding. Work’s currently bollockingly hard, I mean ulcers, stomach churning hard. But the weird thing is I like it, I like getting those billables out (heck I even made it to the top three in the company in my fourth month) and I like learning about buildings and land use policy and geology and the other myriad of things I have to learn and apply to get my projects through. The life of a consultant is full of stress, but at least for the next couple of years should be interesting.
On a personal level life has taken an upshot as well. For one thing the photography is getting more and more interesting. What was an inkling of a fascination has turned into a full blown obsession. All I seem to think about now is aperture, f-stops, composition and the other bewilderments that play a part in trying to capture that perfect image, you know the one ‘where the whole world holds its breath.’
I’ve also rather encouragingly met a couple of buggers who are fun to hang out with, real chilled out island boys. The type that can drink, joke and take a joke (unlike these pesky, tootsie Yanks). I still miss my boys, R and his jokerness, which is probably only matched by me, CP who is getting married and will be going down that road of housewifery, Evil, Bounty and PV. Not to mention the girl, who seems to be intent on mentioning coming down to SL every time I’m in touch with her. The lack of communication is more a survival mechanism for me than anything else. The fact that I really don’t have time to text at random hours, etc does in a way help my cause. My take on that is blind faith, if it’s meant to be circumstances and timing will make it happen. If not, well that’s just the way things were meant to be.
Where my enjoyment really hits a clunker is with the family, speaking to the grandparents is something I try to avoid as well. Again that self preservation instinct kicks in, it’s just too tough to hear that they miss me, especially considering the fact they are old now and I don’t know when I’ll be home again. That I’m thousands of miles from the only family I’ve ever been close to, really close is something I try not to think about, just for the sake of my sanity. The plus point is that my relationship with the sibling is a lot better, which considering the growing pains we had a few years ago is nice.
That’s the trick actually. Everything has a plus point. I look at myself in the mirror and I don’t have to trick myself to be happy, I actually am. Life’s active, fun, I managed to somehow download the new Band of Horses album, there’s plenty of pictures to take, sites to see and friends to drink with. Yet at the same time I miss the grandparents trying to tell me how to live my life, R’s brotherhood,va certain pair of smouldering eyes and the looking glass light of home.
I guess this is what bittersweet is.
Is pretty bloody steep…and P and I have been in the thick of it. Little did we know that his innocent comment to me at Lanka Fest when we met only for the second time, asking if he could assist me at my next shoot would have lead to where we are now.
From a small outing to Santa Monica for some street shooting we moved onto an abortive attempt at being ‘official’ photographers for the Lanka Day at Santa Monica. Though this didn’t go as planned we still had a blast, P especially got some winning shots with N’s Xti and my 70-200mm F4 L. Then through the usual Sri Lankan randomness we got our first ‘gig’ which we initially thought was to assist the photographer handling the Iraj and Ranidu concert in Long Beach. We were both perturbed to turn up and be told by A that he was too busy with organizational headaches and we were essentially on our own. A conundrum since I had never shot with a flash before and P hadn’t either.
Some pointers, much experimentation and a Canon 5D in P’s hands and we were off, working the crowd, running around in front of the stage, behind the stage and all sorts. It was all learning on the fly as never before…in the deep end with nary a life vest to be seen. P came off the better man and he got some absolutely amazing shots, I seemed to lose my mojo somewhere as the cheap batteries that had come packaged with my 430ex started packing up. A desperate rush to get workable batteries threw me completely off my dial and though I managed a few decent shots I washed out. But then one must fail to learn to succeed I thought as I consoled myself with the few good shots and admired (a bit enviously to be true) the brilliant stuff that P had shot.
What neither of us had really bargained for was the vast amounts of post-processing, backing up and watermarking that producing the final package that was required involved. Also once the ball started rolling it didn’t stop with a party starter friend of mine calling me up and requesting my presence at a club in Sunset to shoot Lucid Dreams for a 30 minute set. With some valuable lessons in mind such as shooting in RAW, a greater understanding of the M mode and some high capacity batteries the two of us headed down to the Roxy last Friday, P with my 17-40L in hand and me with my 50mm 1.8.
Never have I had such an adrenaline filled 30 minutes (well I have but not for awhile). Once the boys got on stage and started rapping both of us were in the crowd, on stage, ducking and weaving, composing, recomposing, chimping, changing shutter speeds, dialing up and down on our flashes and shuttering away. I still have little idea about what their music was about because I was on my own high. Over 300 pictures in 30 minutes and my arms were aching from constant moving around trying to get that perfect image, Paper with his hat on, the girls in the crowd, Love crooning away, everything had to be immortalized.
The crowd going wild
There was a moment of humour once their set was done, I took a picture of the above two fine young ladies and moved over to have a quick chat. The Asian one asked how she could get copies of the pictures to which I graciously responded by handing her my card and telling her to drop me a mail. As I was going to take a few more pictures of them and close the deal P bumbled in like an eager puppy, tongue practically lolling out, handing out cards and flashing like crazy. Kids I tell you, completely ruined my set-up…but eh…not a big deal and it gives me something to take the piss out of him every now and then.
Of course as usual post processing was a bitch and has to be stuck in between work, gym, getting my car maintained, a sorry excuse for a social life, recovering from hangovers and of course sleep. We finally got some pictures out to C today and he wants us for another show in Malibu. On top of that we have other gigs on the way, the Red Bull Air Races on Saturday in San Diego and all kinds of fun things in the pipeline.
When the ball is rolling, gotta keep it going.
A millisecond later and this would have been an absolutely beautiful image. I still like it though!
This is what the monkeys are going to look like after a few weeks of solititude on my desert island, well I hope at least (Saira Mohan, from here)
Apologies drac old boy, I have zero imagination when it comes to titles, but here is a breakdown of what I would pack if I was err….forced to be ‘exiled’ to a desert island. A fate which I would obviously rail against with all my heart…sigh…
- Beach house 04.03 (Various artists) – well I’m going to be on a beach so I might as well enjoy some appropriate music right? The album has one of my all time favourite tunes, Empty Streets by Late Night Alumni as well as other notables such as Safe (Claude Bareau Mix) by Bonnie Bailey, Libre (Axwell vocal mix) by Mambana and Feeling the night by Kaskade.
- Conscience (Beloved) – One chill album from the British elecotro group. You’ve got me thinking and Sweet Harmony would be ideal tunes to swill a coconut to as the sun sets on my harsh existence.
- The Last Broadcast (The Doves) – another Brit indie band that I discovered during my halcyon college days, now defunct I believe. Both the band and my college days. Favourite tunes are Sulphur Man and Satellites.
- The Love Songs (Marvin Gaye) – a classic, classic singer. I mean imagine how many monkeys I would be able to charm out of the trees for various nefarious purposes by crooning songs like You’re all I need to get by and Stop, Look, Listen (to your coconut). And Abraham, Martin & John always almost moves me to tears..almost. I would probably add a bonus track to this disc, Tracks of My Tears by Smokey Robinson.
- Final Straw (Snow Patrol) & Son of Evil Reindeer (The Reindeer Section) – yes I know I’m cheating but it’s my fantasy…er…exile I mean. I think I’ve gone on about the Patrol ad naseum, but Reindeer Section is another favourite group (in a manner of speaking) of mine. It would be hard for me not to like them with the supergroup being made up of members from Idlewild, Belle & Sebastian and of course being fronted by Gary Lightbody. I absolutely love almost all of the tracks on Son, but the top ones have to be I’ll be here when you wake, Your sweet voice and Cold water.
So there’s my choice. Now I’m going to go figure out how to in turn generate solar energy for my CD player using only a coconut frond and a monkey’s tail and ponder on whether there’s an outside chance Saira Mohan might come floating into my metaphorical lagoon. You know because coconuts aren’t that companiable. Unless of course one figures out how to convert them to arrack.
P.S. I tag the following five peeps: Rastiadu, RD, Darwin & Spectral (who hopefully will give me some heads up on some new tunes) and Pissu (because I’ve always wanted to know what crazy people listen to).
Fuck off that is. What an absolutely bloody miserable day at work. Or was it a really good one? I’ll be buggered if I knew. For once when I needed it to be a crazy day it wasn’t. It’s bad enough that R keeps badgering me to come back in Dec and akks is starting to get on the same train, but the two couldn’t shut it for a bit. And off all the things I needed as I rolled into work was a text from the very reason I don’t want to go back this December (well 55.99% of the reason I don’t want to go back).
I don’t know whether to be bummed or strangely elated to be missed. Like I needed my head fucked or fucked again if I go down for three years in a row. I’d much rather freeze my ass off with a bottle of rum and a blonde, mindless sudhu badhuwa when the winter season comes around. Get drunk and have mindless sex. Hopefully at her place so I can get the hell out the next morning without that breakfast awkwardness.
What pisses me off is I still don’t know if I’m pissed or happy. Fuck.
“What does it need then?’ Sunny asked. ‘This love?’
Hector stopped. They were in front of the tea shop. The glass door had a wrinkled lace curtain pinned to it. There was no one inside.
‘The right time. The right place. Luck.’
- The Match, Romesh Gunasekara
For some reason that last line really resonated with me.
P.S. I’m reading it for the second time and loving it, expect me to babble on about it in some future post.
As usual, true to form. Clear my head, tie up the loose ends and forget and once it’s done and dusted, two weeks later…the phone shivers. It’s a bit of a random message but an invitation to a conversation. Frankly one does not text someone 10,000 miles away without it being an invitation for a conversation. Sigh…I had two options.
1) Ignore it
2) Start a conversation
If it was email/facebook I would have no qualms with a conversation, it’s easy and simple. Text conversations are so much more labour intensive, especially early in the morning. The cost/benefit analysis just does not add up. I decide to take the middle path (the good Buddhist that I am). I craft one of those texts that start with a “hehe” and end with a smiley face but doesn’t really say anything in between. You know those ones that acknowledge you received the message but with no lead into a conversation. Press send and head to work.
It’s just not worth it. And it seems to have worked, no response.
I still check my phone on and off though…a half hope…pointless hopes…
I’m open minded, not sure I’m this open minded though
Thankfully this statement, generally delivered in a disapproving tone is rarely directed at me. Well it may well be directed at me when I’m not around but I sincerely hope not. The statement with its disapproving tone is generally uttered by a female friend or family member. What’s surprising when it’s uttered by the family members is that my family is internationalized to say the least, there are French, Welsh, English, Black, American members of the family as well as someone who I think is a Czechoslovakian, though I could be mistaken with religions ranging from Buddhist, Catholic, Protestant, Born Again (my personal favourites because of the utter craziness exhibited) and even a Muslim.
But for all this UN-like multiculturalism, there appears one thing the ladies in the family have an aversion to and that’s Sri Lankan guys. This is especially true for the Sri Lankan girls who were born in Sri Lanka but have lived here for some time. And the aversion is also shared by a number of female acquaintances I have of Sri Lankan origin. I think it’s almost subconscious on some of their parts because they start bitching out the species in front of me and appear quite surprised when I, naturally, put my hand up and protest.
The sad truth is though, the reasons they give for their dislike seem to be true, that they are insecure and controlling. I personally have my doubts that this is a solely Sri Lankan attribute but I have seen a number of Sri Lankan guys who do fit the bill of controlling. They don’t like their girls dressing nice, going out by themselves, working, making more money than them or on some memorable occasions they attempt to hit you over the head with a pool cue for talking to them.
I’m a bit peeved with this though, both the generalization and the behaviour of the said chaps. For one thing the former means that a lot of brown girls simply dismiss me out of hand because I’m brown. Sure tell me to fuck off because I’m arrogant, cocky and have an inappropriate sense of humour (though this list is far from exhaustive) but at least let me piss you off with my attitude as opposed to the colour of my skin and the expectations that arise from it.
Also I’m pissed with the guys, they need to chill out for one. I personally like an independent woman, one who works, has friends to hang out with and does her own thing. Primarily because I have so much crap going on in my life and don’t foresee that changing for the next couple of decades that I don’t have a lot of time to devote to a relationship. Also if she goes out with her mates then I can go out with my friends and I don’t really mind the gf flirting a bit, because then I can.
The key element in a relationship is trust, she has to know that even though I may flirt (lets be honest, sometimes it helps getting stuff done, from getting tickets changed to real estate records recorded) I would never, ever do anything more (unless I run into Jessica Alba, then all bets are off), and I would expect the same for her. Else I wouldn’t be (hypothetically speaking) in the relationship. Also I prefer the girls I’m with looking sexy, for one thing I’m easily bored and the better she dresses the less I have to drink (I’m kidding, no I really am) and she can dance, flirt with anyone she wants, because at the end of the day she’d be coming home with me, while all the poor sods who thought they were getting some have to go home to their cold, lonely beds. The best part of course is that while she dances with some other guys that leaves me to have a chat with the buddies and try and deplete the national reserves of Reserve.
So in short I have two appeals, one is to the anal retentive guys (Sri Lankan and others), chill out…you’re giving guys like me a bad name and reducing my chances of getting hitched (or laid for that matter) to a nice brown girl. And to the girls, give a brown guy a break, I’m chill, I really am. Also I have absolutely, absolutely no problem with you making more money than I do…if you’re worried about that.
Nip slip courtesy of Picasso, alternatively a good reason not to go to the beach in Spain
There I was sitting in a Korean BBQ restaurant waiting for what I sincerely hoped was not the neighborhood pooch and instead some deliciously marinated beef to broil when I glanced at the wide screen the proprietors had so thoughtfully left to keep diners occupied. Important I guess because as good as Korean BBQ’s are to eat, some of them are a bit labour intensive, I personally am not so keen on paying through my nose to grill my own food. For the price of some of the places I would expect nubile Asian girls in bikinis to be grilling my food for me, but this was a lunch special so I had to do with the big screen.
And what was on the big screen was intriguing, it appeared to be a beach around noon time with the sun blindingly overhead and a Korean (I’m assuming) couple disported themselves by running after each other on said beach. Obviously a timeless scene, I’m sure early man ran after his womenfolk on the beach, clubbed them over the head and took them back to their caves while grinning inanely at them. For some reason whenever I think of a couple running on the beach I think South Asian cinema, Indian, Sri Lankan, etc., but I dare say I have seen a few white people do it as well.
As I watched the couple ambling along after each in the spray, still grinning inanely at each other I came to the sad realization that perhaps I am not after all that romantic. See if it was me, I’d take the girl, wander over to a coconut tree (check that said tree had no vertically inclined coconuts), pour myself a drink (Reserve) and settle down with her to watch the sun set. Why when you can do such a rewarding activity one would want to waltz around in the sand, surf and blinding sun I know not. Either I’m lazy or as romantic as a washed up jellyfish…or maybe both.
Yes random I know…
Volunteering and then there’s volunteering
Tina with her tablas but sadly not with bare feet (courtesy her website)
The last time I tried to volunteer my erstwhile services things didn’t really go to plan. It was a Tsunami relief concert in the Bay Area and R and I had the bright idea of going and lending a hand to the Sri Lankan contingent there. Of course the night before we very responsibly got utterly trashed, talked crap to some fine ladies and ended up with about two hours sleep before the event. R could barely drive the next morning and I spilled coffee all over my only shirt, which to add insult to injury was a pristine white.
Rolling up to R’s cousins place was an inauspicious start, I had never met C before and I think he was a bit befuddled by a vertically challenged Sri Lankan reeking of equal parts alcohol and coffee rolling up to his door and asking to borrow a shirt. This while R did a reasonable impression of a man breathing his last in the car. In the end all we could offer at the concert was some light lifting and drinking all their water, while staring wistfully at the profusion of cute Indian girls and trying to come up with something to say that didn’t involve throwing up all over them.
I think R and I cemented our reputation with C and his gang (though C I think has forgiven us because he’s a good mate now) when after spotting Tina Sughand playing the tables barefoot both of us broke in backstage looking for her. After considerable effort, being lost several times and dodging security guards (I tell you its all about confidence, walking in like you belong) there was a totally unbelievable moment. R turned to look behind him, stopped square in his tracks and nudged me so hard I currently have both my kidneys on my left hand side of my body. I turned around to see Tina walking by with her retinue. I think she was befuddled as well too see two brown guys standing there, looking very dodgy, with their mouths open wide (possibly drooling) and puppy dog eyes (I’m hoping). She did give us a sweet smile (though that may have been a hangover induced hallucination) to which I believe my reaction was my tongue dropping out and a thin stream of drool piddling out of the side of my mouth. I have not the foggiest idea as to how R reacted.
I funnily enough can’t remember anything more of that day, just Tina playing her tablas with no shoes on. For the umpteenth time I regretted drinking so much, nothing ever good comes off it. I always end up on the roof of someone’s car, pissing FG off, passing out at a Denny’s or in this case missing the opportunity of a lifetime, to mack on possibly one of the sexiest people I have ever seen. Imagine I had full control of my facilities and had come up with an amazing line. I could be sitting watching Tina play her tablas all night long…sigh
P.S. A fantasy about getting it on with Tina Tabla was not the point of this post, which was in fact about a volunteer experience I had this weekend, but I’m too tired for now. Await part 2 of Volunteering and then there’s volunteering. I would say with bated breath but I wouldn’t want anyone to hurt themselves.
Yes I know its an old movie (relatively) but then I’m not that cool. And yes its been nominated for Academy Awards and all that trollop but here are my rather simple observations on watching what was indubitably an awesome film.
1. Do not under any circumstances give your kid a gun, especially a high powered rifle. I don’t care how many jackals you have wandering around your backyard, kids wil be kids and wilk take a pot at some American tourist or some such. This will not end well, in fact you’ll be lucky if you don’t end up with a Apache chopper up your arse instead of a Moroccan bullet in the back.
2. Wear a bullet proof vest when traveling in Morocco.
3. Mexican people know how to party but don’t seem to drink as much tequila as one would expect, in fact I seem to drink more when I’m partying.
4. Border guards, immigration officials are cunts. Actually I already knew this having experienced in full living colour at the French embassy in LA, resulting in my boycotting France for the next ten years.
5. Again this like the gun point may seem like an obvious point but don’t under any circumstances get into a car with a drunk driver, unless said drunk driver is Bounty, P, R or Chinky Pinky. But especially not with a drunk Mexican when one has to cross the American border, come on…that’s just asking for trouble.
6. Morocco only seems to have one ambulance.
7. Fat, white Brits who can’t seem to give up their colonial hangovers should get a punch in the snoot.
8. The desert’s damn hot and red is not a becoming colour to wear in it.
9. Your best friend hooking up with someone you fancy is never a good thing.
10. Japanese girls need to learn about trimmers and apparently don’t wear panties very often
11. Aforementioned Japanese girls and guys seem to have some rather odd mating rituals involving multi-coloured drugs, cheap whiskey in ridiculously small amounts and water fountains.
12. Japanese clubs seem to have as bad music as Sri Lankan clubs, though better light effects. I reckon this combined with some elements of numbers 10 and 11 might make a visit worthwile.
13. Being deaf would suck…and this to me is the most profound thing I learnt from Babel.
If you do want a more profound treatment about the movie check the original link, or skiddadle your mouse here. Me, I loved the movie, composition, colours, acting…all bloody marvelous. And of course it did feature a Japanese girl in a plaid skirt without knickers, bloody marvelous, I’ll say again.
I used to be a party starter, as R put it once I was the kind of person who could start a party in Antarctica, just needed some vodka and a couple of cans of RedBull. And the boy was my partner in crime, the ultimate wingman. We used to be good, roll into Clancy’s, pour ourselves some 75’s and head out on the hunt, him with his killer smile, me with my humour. A plethora of girls passed before us, most of them I can’t remember, just nicknames like Dead Fish, White Top, etc (well actually I can only remember one, N, who’s actually a good mate now despite her irrational want for me to walk on the beach after I’ve consumed 10 pounds of seafood and two bottles of wine…yeah, never gonna happen!). Even when not on the hunt, we still enjoyed ourselves, a bottle of Blavod and we were on the tables at Glo, rocking until the early hours of the morning. We didn’t leave anybody behind either, K, Chinky Pinky, the Akkis all enjoyed themselves, Evil started smoking again, Bounty used to have to find himself a new job every time we came down and rebuild his reputation every time we left. But from the beach , to the Blue, to Glo, Holiday Inn and the early morning drives on Galle Road it was a blast…
But somewhere along the line we lost it, going out became more escapism than enjoyment. Pouring a drink is more pressing the button of self destruction, not that either of us are alcoholics since we don’t drink alone or all the time. But for me personally partying is not about having fun anymore, it’s about forgetting what sucks in life for a brief moment. Case in point, my penultimate night at home, my issues were 20% girl, 60% illness in the family and the rest the prospect of leaving what makes me, me behind on a 10,000 mile trip in couple of days. It was supposed to be quiet drinks at Buba, mostly because I was trying to sort the girl out, but that didn’t happen.
So I pressed the self-destruct button, a couple of quick texts to Akki to find out how Hikka was and to do some discreet convincing calls to P and Bounty. I tried to get Evil involved but apparently he was too busy entertaining his harem. One hour, some insane driving, a fruitless search for an open hotel for P to pee in (apparently because he can’t leak on the road) and Poot’s rather endearing incredulity about the fact that we were actually going to Hikka and we were walking into Mambo’s.
Money handed to P
Get me a vodka red bull
Gulp, gulp
Another please?
Machang chill
Don’t worry dude, it’s under control
What followed was pure escapism, I forgot the girl, the family, dealing with issues from 10,000 miles away and impending exile. All I was aware of was the alcohol sparkling in my bloodstream, Akki grinning away, Loo pulling on my hair, kupadi grin at a hot girl in a red top, gal look back, Indian girl in a skirt, Maldivian girl drunk off her head, etc.
Three hours or so of vodka, white rum and Old Reserve straight from the bottle and I ended up on the roof of P’s car being handfed onion rotti by Akki, almost killing Poot over a chocolate rotti, getting stuck in the window of the car trying to crawl in and then passing out on the way back on S’s shoulder.
It was a night that will probably go down in the annals of the crew as being one that was completely off the hook, but to me there will always be something wrong about that night. I fuelled the fire and was as Bounty put it when I asked him whether the night was entertaining, I was the ‘entertainment.’ But it wasn’t about fun for me, it was about self-destructing, escaping. Even now when I laugh about what I got up to that night, my laugh echoes hollow.
I have to stop pressing that button and learn to deal, somehow. The first step I took in Sri Lanka last year, for better or worse. This year I deleted all the girls I don’t want to know anything about, remember who they, don’t give a shit about from my phonebook (I didn’t really delete the girl’s number because I doubt that chapter is closed, well I don’t want to close it just yet I guess).
It’s time to get real I guess.
So T forgot that she needed more than just one page on her webpage, seriously I worry about the girl sometimes 
! I ended up having to trudge to Barefoot on my penultimate day to take some more shots in front of that now famous wall. An hour of groveling in the dirt, ribald comments from the one assistant, ass/crotch shots and I was done. This time I got paid in limejuice and a sausage and waffle…definitely going up in the world. My favourite shot from the shoot, definitely the one below,
BTW if there was any incentive to move to Sri Lanka and get involved in photography, I can’t think of anything more than this…talk about jaw-dropping beauty! I was without doubt spending time in the wrong places in Sri Lanka….next time…next time….
I had my first ‘official’ shoot yesterday at Barefoot, official in the sense that a friend wanted some pictures of herself for her website and I got paid in limejuice. Actually the limejuice was much, much appreciated considering the severely dehydrated state I was in due to the previous nights antics. I was actually very nervous about taking the shots, mostly because when I head out with a camera I head out for myself, what I want to capture and showcase to the world. Yes I do care what other people think of my work but mostly because any shortcomings they can point out helps me improve my work. That and there is that ‘small’ ego thing of people swooning over one of your pictures. I hadn’t really dealt with handling someone else’s expectations, but it was definitely worth the effort.
Barefoot was hot, very hot and I had two ‘assistants,’ which made me even more nervous with the painful shyness around strangers that I suffer from. Also I’m sure I looked a bit odd rolling around the ground in a white t-shirt at a café in Colombo. Thankfully the wall T had chosen as the backdrop was at the back of the foot, so my antics would have only amused my subject, the two ‘assistants’ who spent most of their time sitting around and making ribald comments (including one un-kept promise of a bit of disrobing) and the kitchen staff. Of course since I started off as a wildlife/nature/research photographer I really don’t mind groveling in the dirt too much, but still.
Some things I learnt, in a situation like that composition is of the essence, especially when the subject is as fussy as T and perspective, a couple of inches vertical either way works wonders. Also burst shots are essential; there are so many emotions that cross a human face in the space of milliseconds that I think for portrait work shooting fast is essential. You never know when you might get that one unguarded moment that is magical. Anyways it was a most enjoyable experience, hopefully the pictures come out well, the subject is happy and pacified and I’m definitely looking forward to more limejuice shoots.
Just a taste below….T in a pensive mood
A Spectral moment at Sri Lankan
So I had a moment akin to what Spectral was going on about a few weeks ago, but the adjective was less beautiful and more unbearably cute (and I mean absolutely no disrespect). The last time I was at the Sri Lankan Airways office at the World Trade Center I noticed her, but just peripherally as being phenomenally cute and very, very good at her job. She handled a customer call from some joker wanting to buy a Qatar Airways ticket from Sri Lankan brilliantly, pure class.
This time around I actually got counter number 4 and man was I blown away. Just the way I like a girl, Sri Lankan, petite, bit fair for my taste, bit of a strange name Viyani I think, sharp nose and big, brown eyes (sorry savi3 I couldn’t see her legs, so not sure if she fit the long legs requirement) and oh so cute! The best part about is instead of me being tongue-tied and lost which has been the case since I lost my mojo I was actually (I think) pretty charming and funny. Had a nice banter about the weather in California and Sri Lanka, compared the beauty of both countries, the deficiencies of the British and American airport systems and rather confusing, intriguing number system they have going on at the office.
Dare I say if I had all my mojo intact I would have asked for a number, but the healing process takes time. And I was just happy to leave with a big grin on my face, knowing I still had some of my old touch. Actually the best part was that I, very truthfully, pointed out that I fly Sri Lankan all the time because of their excellent customer service and she was a shining example of that. And thus left her with a smile on her face and I’m hoping the contented feeling of having a happy, satisfied customer leaving with his faith in her airline intact. Thank you from the bottom of my heart for making my day….and I hope I made yours!
And my decision not to wear a watch. After spending oodles of money, flying thousands of miles risking the chicken fever and a dodgy stomach for the first time I missed out on prematurely popping a champagne cork a few seconds to midnight. Instead I was emptying out my bladder for what seemed to be the hundredth time of the night even though it was still relatively early when the roar of fireworks alerted me to the fact that I had overlooked a minor detail of 31st night. I returned to some right royal abuse from the boys, but at least I had a glass of Champagne in one hand and Vodka/Red Bull in the other, a combination sure to make anyone happy.
All in all Galle Face was quite fun, admittedly the location was nowhere near as good as last years and we didn’t have a nice big tent with sofas to ourselves either, nor, thanks to my slight oversight, any Patron. It was what can only be described as a ‘sociable’ 31st night, no over the top rocking, just 5 minutes on a chair for old times sake, no random chat ups (despite what appeared to be the largest conglomeration of tight, mini-skirted, brown hotties on the planet) or excessive drinking. Evil wasn’t around for me to chuck an empty bottle at, which I’m sure he really missed, I know I did. I did however meet a bunch of old acquaintances, caught up and had a generally good time. There was a slight bit of weirdness towards the wee hours of the morning, but a couple of days and a good session of antibiotics should clear that up.
Cricket captain, in town to meet the in-laws was highly taken up by the whole Colombo 31st night scene, didn’t know where to look in terms of cuties and made us solemnly, if a bit drunkenly swear an oath to come back next December as well. He did however look shit the next day, he’s excused though since he has got a few years on us and not had the opportunity to be hardened by the party lifestyle in Colombo. Also met an ‘ex-blogger’ who’s dearly departed blog was one of my favourites, and not just for the excellent music recommendations that were on it but a writing style I could only be envious off. Well actually it was the second time I met her, but the first time was a bit blurry and loud and a haze. Its always strange putting faces to online personas, and this one was no exception. She turned out to be younger and shorter than I ‘pictured,’ in fact she claimed to be five feet tall, but unless I’ve grown around three inches since 10pm on the last day of 2006 there was no way that was true more in the region of four foot ten or thereabouts. She also had a rather irrational hatred towards Coldplay, but I guess you can’t expect people to have perfect taste in music.
Breakfast at Intercon, attended by R (who managed to last all night for once), CP and Cricket Captain and some early doors comedy from one of the strangest morning persons I have ever met, rounded up a ‘satisfying’ night and an excellent way to bid adieu to 2006, a year of dizzying highs and marrow chilling lows, a year I was glad to turn my back on.
I hope everyone out there had a fun, safe New Year and has a lot to look forward to in 2007!
I for once obtained a seat on the 41 bus coming back from work as opposed to standing around being squished in like a sardine with someone’s laptop bag fighting somebody else’s Givenchy handbag in an endeavor to be the first to be jammed up my arse. As I sat there, listening to my song of the moment, “The execution of all things” by Rilo Kiley, ruminating on the miserable week I had had, which compromised incredible amounts of work, a distinct lack of sleep and falling sick, I realized the girl opposite me was checking me out and she was actually quite attractive.
Well I was pretty sure she was, unless she had spotted an extremely fascinating pimple on my face. What followed was around 20 minutes of sideways glances, quick looks away and half smiles, all very Hindi moveish, well minus the dancing around tea bushes. She got out around Polk and Union and was still checking me out, outside the road and crossing the road.
And what did I do? Absolutely bollocking nothing…here’s the thing. I am far from a shy person, well I thought I was painfully shy for sometime but since almost everybody I know develops a hernia laughing on hearing this, I have had to abandon that particular worldview. Unfortunately outside of a club I am absolutely no good initiating a conversation with a random girl. I generally need some kind of contact, for example the last time I was on a SriLankan flight I managed to chat up one of the airhostesses, but needed her to ask me something about my passport to get cutesy with her. That my sinuses were clogged solid, I was starved for oxygen and probably sounded like Barry White didn’t fill me with confidence about my chat up abilities at that given moment.
In a club and under the influence I can chat to anybody, well most of the time anyways, I do have off days and I try and avoid talking to tall girls at least standing up, you see I develop a neck crick pretty quickly I do. But then in a club I never really know what I say and I reckon the girl hardly hears it half the time what with the blaring music and all. I do have another trick up my sleeve to initate conversations outside a club by asking for a light/smoke, a trick that works pretty well actually. But how the hell would one initiate a random conversation on a bus? “Say do you think someone farted in the front or is that bum seated across us?” doesn’t really come across as a quality chat up line. This is an issue I really have to sort out, any constructive ideas out there?
There’s PMS and then there’s PMS
Now before people get on my ass about the political incorrectness of bitching about PMS lets just say I have some experience in the matter. I once in a fit of foolishness lived with a girlfriend for a year, I was young and foolish at the time and to add to the foolishness we shared our flat with four other girls. Once a month I had to pretty much hide under the covers to avoid getting hit by the flying cutlery that accompanied the various tantrums.
Anyways PMS is the only reason I can think for a very odd experience last night, in fact one of the oddest nightclub experiences in my life. The Brit and A headed into town to hang out with ol’ R and I. The four of us hit our regular watering hole, Voda and proceeded to drink up a storm. R as usual sat at the bar, while I wandered around chatting to random people entreating them variously to help save the planet or come to Voda more often. The Brit and A apparently had had a quite intriguing discussion about virginity that for the benefit of all should not be repeated here. At one point my head started spinning, the result of not having eaten anything since lunch and probably a lack of oxygen from talking too much. There was unfortunately nowhere to sit near the bar but I did spy an open space on a couch where we had already left our coats. The plus point of my proposed resting place was that there were around four girls sitting there, who I could waste further oxygen on.
I wandered over to the spot sprightly, if a bit meanderingly and readied my but for a little rest, but before I could slide my posterior up onto the sofa one of the girls wandered over and mentioned that one of her ‘girlfriends’ was sitting there, it being a club and me being a bit drunk she has to say it a couple of times before I got it. I simply shrugged my shoulders, gave a goofy grin and turned to go find another seat. The girl then proceeded to grab me by the shoulders, say something along the lines of ‘get moving buddy’ and pushed me. To say I was surprised was the understatement of the year but it’s a girl and I was moving along anyways, so, another shrug, glance backward for askance and I left.
This is where the story gets much juicier and also very confusing. I was under the impression we were leaving for another venue and told R to go get his coat and marshal the troops. R contends that we were not in fact leaving but the Brit simply got tired of wearing his and went to put his down where ours already were. The Crazy Chick proceeded to tell the Brit to go shag himself and that he was not putting his coat down, him being a very chilled out individual shrugged, demurred gracefully, accepted the inevitable and pointed out that she really shouldn’t go around with an attitude like that. Crazy Chick then proceeded to go apeshit on R, demanding he take his coat and put it where the sun don’t shine, despite the fact our coats were there first, she actually went so far as to push R, drop A’s coat on the floor and went out to call the bouncer. I was watching this go down from the bar with mild interest before I got distracted by a Latin looking beauty with big eyes.
A few minutes later the situation seemed to have calmed down, the dynamic trio returned to the bar shaking their heads at the craziness of some people. I then wandered off to fetch my coat and as I picked it up, Crazy grabbed it out of my hand. Now as I said before I am a very chilled out individual and instead of asking her what in the name of fuck she thought she was doing, I simply looked at her, took back my jacket and started wandering off. B the bouncer then came in, observed me taking the jacket from the Crazy Chick and inquired from me what in tarnation was going on. My explanation was simple; we went to get jackets, Crazy Bird who had obviously in the meantime pissed around the couch to mark her territory got, well, territorial. B and I shrugged, had a good laugh and the owner, another mate of ours came over, apologized, put our coats behind the bar and gave us a round of shots. Crazy Chick and her posse were not happy that we weren’t kicked out and she came up to the other side of the bar and proceeded to give me gal looks. I being me, took great pleasure in giving her my goofy smile back, which I think annoyed her to the point where they all left.
Now I’ve met a lot of insane people in my life but Crazy Chick from last night took the cake, never have I met someone who was obviously so far on the Richter scale of looniness and I’ll be darned if I have an explanation. R thinks it’s because the club was full and the crowd was having a good time, but no-one was chatting to the posse in the corner, not unsurprisingly considering their, as the Brit pointed out ‘winning personalities’. I’m personally torn between two explanations, one is that they were all underage, probably the first time clubbing and were just on an attitude trip. My personal favourite theory is that Crazy Chick was suffering from the mother of all PMS’s which had caused her already tenuous grip on sanity to suffer even more. As the Brit so eloquently said, that girls gonna make someone a very ‘lucky’ man someday. Poor bugger.
Someone give me my damn mojo back!
So I had this interesting theory that drinking excessively whilst sick would clear out all the organisms causing my illness from my system. Considering I woke up today feeling like I tried to swallow a porcupine last night I think I can safely scratch submitting that theory for a Nobel prize. Last night’s Dhamaal event left a tad bit to be desired and begs the question as to whether there are any good looking brown girls in San Francisco? Everybody there (with one or two exceptions) was either dorky, ugly after six drinks or had bad breath, like this one Fijian Indian chick I got taking to. I almost offered her a Listerine strip but she looked like she could crush my head between her thumbs if I got cheeky, so I thought better of it.
That gripe aside, Vodka, RedBull and cold medication when mixed produced a very odd kind of buzz for both me and R. I was a bit better than him and considering our other companion A, my flatmate has a fair inability to chat up (read, no balls) I was pretty much flying solo. Hooking up in clubs is not a game I really like playing anymore, mostly because of the fact I’m on the run down to 30 now and my SL mind-fuck has made me want to at least attempt to behave. I try it on and off here simply because there really is no alternative. We never seem to meet cool people who are our ‘dial’ to hang out with, much less attractive, fun girls to profess our undying affection to (or something to that effect). So trying the hook/chat-up game is usually the only option left this side of the Indian Ocean to at least keep ourselves entertained on a night out.
Now the ‘game’ is essentially a numbers one, both in terms of volume of girls approached and dialing digits obtained. Getting numbers is actually pretty easy (or used to be at least) as my overstuffed contact list on my phone will attest to. The problem is actually remembering who the hell the numbers belong to visually. Was it the big brown eyed girl or the horrendous fugly friend is an eternal question I face the next morning? Thus I actually rarely call girls back when I get their numbers, its usually more entertaining to go out and get some new ones. Getting laid is a whole other equation and this is where volume really comes into it, I figure a hit rate of about 5% for the first step in hooking up assuming you are somewhat picky. If you are willing to stick your tongue down the throat of the nearest rhino regardless of the chance of catching herpes then your batting average will be significantly better, but assuming you have some vestige of self respect this really shouldn’t come into the equation, OK, occasionally you can take one for the team, but only once in a blue moon!
Anyways back to the numbers, so for every 100 attractive girls you approach, five should give you some kind of action on first contact. Around 50-75 will give you their number/email address of which maybe 10 will return your call. I figure this is because when they sober up they really can’t remember which one of the umpteen guys who hit on them you are. The numbers aren’t pretty, I’m assuming having a Ferrari, a bank account the size of Sri Lanka’s GNP or looking like Brad Pitt helps, but I’m just an average guy and it can get frustrating. You just have to first grow some monster sized balls, learn the gift of the gab, know what shots to order and get ready to deal with rejection. Trust me it never gets truely easy, but getting shot down always makes for some good laughs the next morning, while the opposite, well is quite nice.
Here’s the thing though, I used to be fairly decent at this enterprise but recently my mojo seems to have deserted me. I approach, engage the gift of the gab and get good responses but for some odd reason I actually FORGET to get a number. Last night I chatted up around three, one of whom seemed to reciprocate interest, one looked straight through me and the other giggled shyly and averted her gaze (this being an Indian party I figured I’d give that one a wide berth). With the one who was interested I vaguely remember a confused look sweep across her face when I begged her leave to head back to my mates. Now if this was a one-off I wouldn’t be too worried, but I’ve been doing this consistently for the last few months and I’ve just realized today that I’ve seen that look of confusion all too often. All in all not a good trend to forget something so BASIC in the game, even if it is on some level done consciously. I think I’m going to make getting Sasha’s (I’m really hoping that’s her name) number my number one priority for next weekend, Sip here I come, to find my mojo.
P.S. The Lovefest event itself rocked, await pictures on Flickr when I go pro, hopefully this week.
I was supposed to head out to Sip tonight to hit on a bartender called Sasha (I think) whom I met last weekend, had a smoke and a nice chat with..very flirty, very cute, big eyes. Unfortunately with friends like R (who gets sick if an ant farts in Bosnia), even a healthy immune system couldn’t safe me from an itchy throat. I erred on the side of caution because I really, really want to go to the Dhamaal Lovefest event tommorow at Club Six so I’m at home tonight with copious amounts of tea, Airborne, Picassa and Lone Wolf and Cub: Babycart in peril for company. The end result of this is a new appreciation for topless, samurai fighting girls and updates on my Flickr account. Tell me what you think of the pics! Now I’m off to try and recover ASAP in anticipation of thumping house music and hot brown girls tommorow.
Afternote: Hmmm…my luck sucks today, not only did my roommate turn up with some cute, young drunk friends intent on hitting the town, but flygirl happens to be getting her hair done, thus unavailable for a long overdue chat (I know better than to get between a woman and her hair!), not a good day for touching base with the ladies. On another note, I’m a bit hesitant on seeing Ms. Hepburn used like this for GAP, but I have to say this is a bloody good ad!
On almost getting flattened and definitely getting drunk
You would think almost getting run over twice on two consecutive mornings would not be conducive to a good mood, but rather surprisingly I find it is. Perhaps it’s the thrill of cheating death in the mornings when I can usually barely get my jeans on without falling down a couple of times and generally pour juice into my cereal instead of milk. I am hoping though that this trend of missing the front end of fenders by inches will not continue, after all luck has to run out sometime.
On the bright side of life I discovered two new bands on my iPod, something that happens with pleasing regularity. I have close to 9,000 songs on there, downloaded from a spectrum of people from British hipsters, Sri Lankan yuppies and San Franciscan liberals. Every now and then it throws out a couple of random gems and today two outstanding songs popped up, Summertime by the Sundays and Turn by Feeder, two British ‘indie’ (if that term really applies anymore in the real world) rock groups. I would recommend both groups for some chilled out, sometimes upbeat sometimes shoe-gazer tunes.
This week has also been one of the most sozzled weeks since I left college and I’m sure I’ve burnt up what few brain cells I had left. PKS left on Sunday (sadly I don’t have anybody to laugh at with regularity anymore) back to NZ and R has either been trying to celebrate his new found freedom or drown his sorrows (probably the latter) and dragged me along with him. It’s been a steady stream of rum and cokes and vodka/redbulls since Tuesday. One of the more notable nights was Friday at Voda, a brilliant place where there’s no cover charge, drinks are around $5 each and on top of that it looks a bit like Glo. Five shots of vodka, a couple of them free meant that even though I managed to get a number I for the life of me cannot remember who the girl was. All I can recall is that she was Asian and from Fullerton which in retrospect does me no good as that’s around 500 miles south of here. I do quite like Voda though, especially as a start out point to the night.
I’m currently thanking whoever pulls the cosmic strings for making tomorrow a holiday during which I plan to resolutely steer clear of anything with an alcohol content, try and sweat some toxins out in the gym, lose at poker and watch Himalaya, i.e. be somewhat productive. I also intend to spend a good portion of the day putting my thinking cap on and come up with ideas to make a quick $4,000 (preferably something that doesn’t require me to give up a body part) so R and I can hit up SL in December for a couple of weeks, just to try and maintain some sanity. Why did I leave corporate America and a fat paycheck again?
I don’t think there’s enough caffeine in the world that would enable me to handle my morning ride on the number 41 bus ride from the Marina district into the Financial district without ending up dazed and confused. I’m decidedly not a morning person, the fact that for the better part of my life I have had to wake up at unearthly hours ranging from 5.30 am (on occasions ranging from carpooling with lunatic when I was working in Woodland Hills to doing SAT classes with Mrs. Nannayakare) to 6.00 am during the greater part of my school career has always been a source of endless dismay to me.
My current wakeup time of 7.00 am is actually on the latter end my wakeup spectrum but still nowhere near what would be my ideal time of oh…say around 1.00 in the afternoon. I did manage to keep this wonderful schedule through a significant portion of college but sadly until I become rich and retire I don’t think that will be possible again.
Digression about my ideal waking time aside let me get to the point as to why my bus ride is difficult at best. My morning commute is like being stuck in a living, breathing FHM or Maxim magazine. As Cricket Captain so succinctly put it I have the dubious honour of living in a part of San Francisco which is home to what has to be one of the highest concentrations of hotties I have ever seen in my life, even compared to London, Paris or Hong Kong (actually scratch that last one, didn’t see a single cute girl there). It was also pointed out that I work downtown, which is where most of the hot girls work, thus I travel on the artery of hotness that runs through the city.
On my bus itself there are generally more hot girls than were there in the whole of Imperial College. I tend to spend my mornings plugged into my iPod with my eyes resolutely closed and concentrating on keeping my tongue in my mouth. What’s ironic is none of the girls (well 95% or so) aren’t my ‘dial’. They are attractive in a blonde, Teutonic manner…which I find nice to look at, but not nice to deal with. I’m much more drawn to petite brunettes or slim, brown skinned girls with more of an element of cuteness rather than being drop dead gorgeous (they generally tend to have less mental problems). These unfortunately seem to be in short manner out here.
The issues with my morning commute aside; I have to say living in the Marina district has other advantages. The ocean with views of Alcatraz and the Golden Gate Bridge is just a couple of blocks down and I think I’ve found a nice spot to relax on a Sunday afternoon with some good music, a good read and possibly a camera in hand. Below are some pictures I took while wondering around five minutes down from my flat, they are pretty shoddy quality, I wasn’t really trying and I didn’t have my tripod with me, but they should help give people some idea of the scenic advantages of my current abode.
The Golden Gate Bridge at Sunset, note the Pelican flocks
Similar shot to the one above, obviously couldn’t hold the camera straight
GirlsJuly 11, 2006 5:24 am
Out with the old
In with the new (sorta)
Sorry Nats, I know you’re hot, smart and very cute but I have a new fantasy number one, Nandita Das.
I watched Fire on the weekend and was struck by two things about her, her eyes and her voice. Show me a girl with big, dark doe eyes and you will promptly see my tongue hit the floor and drool issue from the side of my mouth. Similarly a sexy melodic voice is another big turn on and this is where Natalie Portman falls down. She has that ‘slightly’ annoying American nasal twang, which if I heard day in day out, would probably cause me to throw myself off the Golden Gate Bridge. I’ve been able to overlook this until now but not after hearing Nandita Das’ amazingly sugary voice. Just enough of a trace of an Indian accent to make her endearing without it being so strong as so she sounds like Ajit Agarkar.
The girl is cute and she’s into social work, smart, etc. And just look at her eyes, the epitome of the cute girl next door, not that I’ve ever had one, just a crazy old lady with vicious Alsatians. There is of course the small matter that she’s over 10 years older than me and umm….married. Oh well I guess that’s why its called a fantasy!
P.S. Natalie, if you do google your own name and find this page, please ignore this moment of insanity and drop me a mail at childof25@gmail.com!
For those of you who don’t know, Pure is one of the ‘premier’ clubs in Vegas, located in Caesar’s Palace. Spent the weekend in Vegas and went to Pure on Friday night. Notwithstanding the nine Ketel/Red Bulls I downed before hitting the club I was still knackered after driving for five hours in heavy traffic so all I did the entire night was stand by the bar. I was pretty impressed by the club, despite the fact its part owned by that horrendous extra from MIB, Celine Dion, but as usual for Vegas clubs it was just too damn crowded; going to the bathroom involved my personal space being violated by a number of different sizes and shapes of humanity and not in a good way.
Anyways as I said, I was so tired all I could do the whole night was stand by the bar, nurse a Long Island Iced tea and ogle this waitress, well all the waitresses in the club. There was this particular one though that really caught my eye, around 5’8”, brunette, big eyes (no really big eyes, I’m a big fan of big soulful eyes) and um..another pair of big eyes (OK so this time I mean her boobs), short black dress and some interesting dance moves. The only problem with the scenario was that the bouncers seemed to have a very ‘friendly’ relationship with all the waitresses at the club and I really hadn’t drunk enough to consider tangling with a six foot tall bouncer built like a banyan tree, especially considering I’m a short, brown guy who hasn’t been to the gym in oh about a month. Eventually I couldn’t take it anymore and headed home cursing my choice of career, the girls in the environmental field tend to be bucktoothed and have frizzy hair and hang out at animal shelters.
If Friday night was a bit of an anticlimax, Saturday was absolutely fucking horrendous. I followed my sister and a friend of hers to OPM, again in Caesar’s Palace, touted as the “#1 hip hop club in the world”, exactly the kind of claim that gets mind-numbingly common in the US. Note to self: always, always check the website of a club before going there to make sure what the crowd is like. In this case, everybody apart from me and a friend was black. Now my taste in girls tends to lean towards the slim, petite body type, so it was no surprise that I found all the girls at the club umm…lets just say unattractive. I couldn’t even bloody drink because I was trying to Vegas on $200 due to my current unemployed and broke status. All I can say is that I absolutely hate black clubs, the guys are usually around a foot taller than me and fairly menacing while the women have arses that would probably require a couple of satellite passovers to cover all that surface area. Not my idea of eye candy.
It was this weekend that also brought home to me the fact that I think I’m done partying, I actually found Vegas lame and boring and I doubt that had anything to do my budget. The lack of money was a real eye-opener though, I remember the good ol’ days of partying in Vegas when I was a mortgage consultant selling my soul to corporate America. Our minimum budget for a weekend was around $3000 to include rooms, clubs, alcohol, strip clubs and gambling. Ahh….those were the days! I can still remember one afternoon when it was around 40 ○C outside, sitting in air conditioned strip club with a double rum and coke, basketball on the big screen and a smokin’ hot Brazilian on my lap. The nights were wild, the early mornings were wilder, rolling into the casino at 4am pissed out of our minds trying to play Blackjack, sleeping for a few hours and then waking up to repeat the performance. I’m actually surprised none of ended up in jail or dead.
I guess everyone has to go through a crazy phase in life (though I seem to have gone through a few) but I definitely think I’m done now with that lifestyle. For one thing I’ve decided to stop selling my soul to corporate America and follow my heart in the environmental field. I’m actually considering jobs in the non-profit sector that pay less than half I made in my previous job. With that has come a realization that the endless partying, drinking, occasional drug sessions and womanizing has to wind down for me and my friends, I guess this last season in Sri Lanka was our collective last hurrah and now it is officially time to grow up (well at least be a bit more responsible). It was fun while it lasted but I really need to grow back some brain cells, if just for me retain the ability to tie my shoelaces in the morning.
I’m not sure when I lost my good habit of drinking a gallon of water before going to bed drunk, but I’m sure starting to regret giving it up. So I repeated the Friday night routine last night, I’ve had two hours of sleep, sat in a hotel room watching VH1 until 4 and then off all things went for a Buddhist talk. Not surprisingly my head feels like it’s attached to rest of my body by a strand of skin. Not withstanding the ill effects, this weekend though was absolutely bloody amazing, barring the talk from a monk who looked and sounded like a JHU reject (the things I do to please my family).
So back to the weekend, Friday night was a pretty unique night in my books. Usually when we go out in Colombo we have a fairly large crowd, but on Friday it was just me and one of my best friends, sitting at a bar and drinking. The night had started off on a bit of a sour note for me, my tardiness and picking up the phone and making a call resulted in me missing out on an opportunity for dinner with the girl i’m trying to get with. Oh well, win some, lose some I guess. But the night did turn out much better than I thought due to some very interesting company.
Saturday however was a different story, our crowd seemed to fill half the club, everybody was buzzed, I was wired on vodka/red bull and patron tequila and the ladies looked good (I think this was due to the alcohol though). Spent the entire night bouncing off