Have a Drink on Me

Back home, since every religious group seeks validation by having days in the calendar marked in their honor, I'm used to at least 1 religious holiday a month. Someone died for our sins? Chug, chug, chug! A demon was slayed viciously on an angry lady's tongue? Bottoms up! Life in a secular nation is fun.

Holidays in the American calendar are few and far flung. They're conveniently tooled to give the salaried class extended weekends, and I'm down with that. A certain holiday gives ladies an excuse to wear very little in public, and is one of my favorite days in the year. I don't care about dressing up, but certainly don't miss out on the parties. Halloween this year was a general dud, as the women were covered up more than a 50 year old Saudi in a prince's harem. I didn't let that affect me, and highlights of the night include

- one of the guys in our group felt up a dozen women and came this close to being beaten up. I hit him a few times just to be sure
- said despo wandered away from us, and lacking a cell and wallet, was near impossible to track
- I pushed the group to drink on anyway and shots after shots were poured.
- complimented a lesbo bar tender that Bird (her jersey) was better than Magic and got free drinks for the night
- got everyone else wasted
- picked up a fight with random first gen American
- picked up a fight with random Indian dude about computer security
- campaigned to legalize it
- spoke to 4 different cops and tried to get their opinion on "illegal occupation of US in Iraq"
- offered random Indian dude a position in my team (the fuck I get to decide)

Most of the night is a blur, and I woke up near naked next to my lady and she wasn't even that mad at me. I take it the night was a success.

Demon Alcohol

A lot can happen in a month.

Picking up from here, I spent a crazy day at work to wrap up three dozen loose ends, at least half of which legitimately required a day's effort. As my flight time approached the skies opened up and sent things (and traffic) into a tailspin. I made it to the airport on time, and S delivered my last minute gift purchases which I'd left in his car. There were nearly twenty French students catching the same flight, and as pretty as the girls were, I grew tired of their incessant babble. But, motherland beckoned, right? I dismissed the cellophane wrapper guy like a pesky mosquito and checked my bags well ahead of time. I was underweight by several pounds, and that's a first in more ways than one. Security was a breeze, I didn't even get "randomly selected" for a pat-down.

Since I had so much time to make my flight, I decided to get a few drinks in. I'm sure drinking heavily on an empty stomach before a trans-continental flight is a great idea and I found the bar closest to the gate. "Double shot Jameson on the rocks, easy on the ice", I bellowed as I set my incredibly heavy backpack down. For some reason that drew attention from at least 3 blondes around me, and that was another first. "Nice", a lady of a slightly older persuasion muttered with a smile, and a significantly younger 'un said "I shoulda ordered that". The ladies have never been kind to me, and I'm sure looking like a creepy foreigner doesn't help. Since I haven't been single for a couple of years, I feel no pressure while making conversation at bars these days. I even had a choice this time so I picked the younger one to clink glasses with. Another lady was was asking her questions about a Dallas flight but she was dismissed quickly in my favor and I felt like an engineer on the verge of... something geeky.

At this point, I was aware that

1) I wasn't going to meet her again, I could say whatever the fuck I wanted
2) I was drinking on an empty stomach, things would sound interesting to me no matter what.
3) she had the look of a "closet Republican" on her and this would indeed be *lot* of fun.

We spoke about her destination, her travel plans - visiting an ailing relative. I told her mine - travel to India. Sure, there was more to it, but why get there so soon? I was wrong about the closet Republican part - she was pretty liberal, so dang, no fun there. I did try to stir shit up about white folk having to be overtly politically correct, but no dice there. Alcohol fueled time acceleration got us talking about a lot of interesting things, and soon I had an offer to visit her place in CO, a few miles North of my home. No, it wasn't for anything carnal, but see what no pressure on a guy does? In any case, I didn't want things to get awkward so I told her about my good lady and my intentions to propose. This must have eased the pressure on her too (yaay, creepy foreigner doesn't want to copulate with me), and she opened up about her love life.

I find it amazing how most people around me are so candid about their lives. Makes me wonder, is it because they're honest, or because they feel they won't see me again? Why is it that strangers can talk about finances, family and lost love but clam up when it comes to politics? Anyway, my new friend gave me her contact info. which I promptly lost in a week. Heck, I'm not even sure what her name is anymore.

Thoroughly buzzed, I sauntered off to the gate just in time for boarding. Good thing they don't let you make calls during take off, I was so ready to drunk dial everyone I know.  First question I was asked when we were airborne? "Do you need a drink, sir?" Why, I certainly do.

Tell All The People

I have a mild form of ADD, I think. Oooh look, shiny thing. Anyway. I'm somehow never around when conversations begin and lose patience to see them to the end. Saturday night - Belated birthday binge drinking, now that we're all responsibly employed. Pre-drink conversation, no idea who started it and how.

Someone : Man, I feel old.
Someone else : Me too!
Birthday chap : ....
Girl who was never into live bands : yeh, let's get away from the band, can't stand the noise! Heh, guess we're all oldies now!
Asshole who volunteers opinion irrespective of audience: You're telling me, I'm 30 and I'm the oldest in this group, this is a first!
Me : Bartender, 7 car-bombs, double shot Jameson on the rocks and some guinness.

2 hours, several drinks later

Bald guy : Have you had (some IPA)
Birthday chap : But that tastes like ass!!
Me butting in : Depends on the girl man!

Another hour passes, more people join in, and some are lying face down in the basement bathroom.

Asshole who volunteers opinion irrespective of audience: We gotta go early, me and the wife have some gardening to do tomorrow
Someone else : Dude, I gotta slow down, the room is spinning
Me : Bartender, 3 shots of red breast

At this point, I was reasonably sober, and had to drive. And why the fuck don't my wimpy friends drink whiskey? That I was pissed off would be putting it lightly. And Mr. Asshole started pontificating on how we software nerds aren't quite engineers since we don't work on a lathe. Apparently an engineer is someone who does "stuff" and makes "things" with his hands. I gestured to the birthday chap that Mr. Asshole was pleasuring himself and was due for a finish reminiscent of the Icelandic volcano. You know - slow, dusty and something most of us don't give a shit about. Caught in the act, I was glared at by Mr. A.

"What?" he bellowed.
"Your lack of job satisfaction and low productivity has no bearing on why the world calls me an engineer"

Frankly, between me and all 1.5 of you, I don't care if I'm called a pig-nipple-tickler as long as I like what I do and get paid for it. And this isn't the first time I've heard that only mechanical engineering is true engineering (ignoring the fact that the people working with cutting tools are most likely high-school dropouts). What makes it special is that Mr. A is belongs to the species of jerk-offs who opine all the time under the guise of a debate. How is it a discussion if you won't listen to others' opinion and are unwilling to change yours when presented with a compelling argument? Are you that insecure that you must interrupt 4 bachelors talking about women they'll never be in the same room as, with shit about "finding a purpose"? If I want rehashed opinion from your twitter list, I know where to look.

I can be pretty pig headed about my opinions too. I wouldn't have strong opinions if I was swayed easily. But engaging me in a conversation just to preach and ignore everything I say is just plain disrespectful and a complete waste of my time. Time I can spend on making masturbation jokes, which are far better informed than Mr. A's opinion on financial reform.

Start of something beautiful

It was the eve of my first full-time job after my masters. That wasn't a strong enough excuse to stay sober, so we stumbled from one bar to another, every passing hour getting groggier and murkier. Quite by chance, we happened upon the back room of an annoying bar. The cover was steep, which is unusual in a college town such as the one I was in. The music sounded intriguing and the smell of green was unmistakable. Down the rabbit hole we went.

The spectacle that greeted us was both unexpected and unbelievably rewarding. Onstage were three DJs, singers of several genres and color. If trip-hop was an art invented to take dopeheads to the next level, this was a temple of the high priests. Every so often, a DJ would disappear under his table and puff enough smoke to turn all his mates invisible. The tunes and voices were from another dimension and the only constant was the bitter drink in my hand.

My friend went to get a fresh drink, as I watched over his very, very drunk girlfriend. She was unable to stand steadily and was swaying to the music. I had my arm behind her back to help keep her balance, but an inch of air in between just to make sure no drunken mistakes were made. I was seemingly hugging an invisible layer around her. A black guy in dreadlocks smiled and asked me where I was from. "India", I said and he roared back with delight "I'm from Kenya man!". Indians, we're everywhere. All races feel some kinship with us, and we're expected to share the emotion. Ah well.

He suggested I hug and kiss her to "seal the deal". I told him that she was my best friend's lady love of ten years and I was only looking out for her. A heavy handshake and a slightly uncomfortable hug later, the Kenyan gushed "you're a good man!". The night wore on, and I was in a team meeting 8 hours later.

The couple broke up a month from then.

Dittohead

And so Thanksgiving stopped by for a short visit. It dropped off a 10lb turkey which four of us dutifully devoured in two meals. I like how Turkey day is treated with so much anticipation because it gives way for Christmas anticipation. "We can't wait for T-giving so that we can start waiting for X-mas" is the prevailing opinion. Meh, whatever, nobody gives me anything for Christmas. And no one lets me make turducken.

A bigger damp squib on the radar is New Year's Eve. Now. Just as I hate "anyways", I hate it when people say "New Years". New Years what? Anyway, new year's eve is one of the biggest let downs of the year and that's saying something considering I'm a 26 year old guy living by myself. The few people who willingly tolerate my august company all hang around in Boulder, which being a college town, empties itself during the winter break. Great.

No one will want to drive, who wants to stay sober on such an "important" night right? The unlucky SOB who drives has the onerous task of finding a spot while the revelers take off to shoot lousy specials. Why the hell does everything around me look like a ghost town when every freaking spot in a 5 mile radius around downtown is taken?

And then there's the bar hopping in the cold winter and sharing space with creepy 50 year olds (both sexes). The problem is, no party is ever good enough. There is always the other bar with the other DJ, that confused guy who knows that girl who's throwing a mean theme party and this other joint where unspeakable things happened last year. All that anticipation and peaks at 11 PM, and you already know that no matter what you do in THIS bar, it'll never be as cool as what you COULD have done in some other place. Oooh, I should have thrown a house party instead (ignore the tiny voice telling you that no one would come). And then there are the assholes who won't get wasted. "I don't want to welcome the new year with a hangover" the smug couple says. Makes me want to puke, but maybe that's just the Jager shot talking. Who drinks that shit anyway and why do I know someone who would buy me one?

Finally midnight rolls around, the DJ counts down and the entire crowd is unsure what to do. Stick my tongue at that random drunk I just met? Chug my watered down drink? WHERE THE HELL IS THE SHOT I ORDERED TWENTY MINUTES AGO THAT I WAS HOPING WOULD IMPRESS RANDOM IDIOTS?

And before you know it, it's last call. Arrogant bouncers want you out, cleaning sub-staff shake their heads at you as they wade through knee-deep dixie cup piles. Well, that's over. Now what? Super, party's over, everyone's sleepy. JUST LIKE ANY OTHER WEEKEND. Sleep, wake up at 2 PM ruing that the first holiday of the year is 3/4 gone already.

Oh great, the idiots at work will ask me what I did for "New Years". Yeah, you were in Vegas - good for you. Oh road trip to Miami? Freakin' awesome. Oddly shaped pills from shady strangers in a suspicious alley? Joy. Me? Passed out on my friend's couch and not drunk enough to sleep well. Can't wait to do it all again in 364 days. Will you drive next time?

Blue Jay Way

A few shots, some drinks and many many beers later my friend used the bathroom.

Friend : Hey, what have you done with the bathroom?
Me : Hmm?
F : The WC you know!
Me : ...
F : The water's blue!!
Me : Well...
F (interrupting) : And when you use it, it turns green!! How do you do that man!?!?!
Me : Have another beer...

Instant Party (circles)

Because when I throw a party, I expect livers to shrivel and die

Whiskey on the Rocks

Fuck the whole debate about legalization of weed.

Screw the drug tests and the regulations and the rules about possession.

Alcohol is my drug and I am its willing victim. It makes me laugh, rage, love and laugh some more. It makes me act out of my skin and then kill memories of the night. It gives me the hangover so that I can avoid the consequences of a rough night.

Dear alcohol, whether sold to me as an expensive single blend or cheap revolting swine piss, I love you all the same. You never quit me and I'll never leave you.

Spanish Caravan

I pride myself on my knowledge of the bars in Boulder, CO. In my days of being a borderline alcoholic, many bartenders knew me and even my birthday. But I digress.

"You can't start a night without car bombs at Connor's", "Aww shit, The Walrus smells like piss", "The Rio margaritas will fuck you up son!", "Goddamn hippies in Mountain Sun crowding up happy hour", "Avoid the hill at all costs, unless a night among smelly jocks, drunk overweight teens with fake IDs is your idea of fun". This advice and more, is available to anyone who wants to scar his/her liver in my presence. I know it all.

Or so I thought until last weekend. My friend's from Mexico and bought a great new casa last month. His family was here to visit (insert stereotypes here). I met his 2 brothers, only one of whom could somewhat communicate in Anglonese. Amidst drunken, accented muttering I heard the word "Oscar" being tossed around a lot, and I figured it was a new friend from way south of the border. Turns out it was bar they wanted to visit, and I went along, mainly in the disbelief that there was a watering hole I had no knowledge of. "Oscar's" as the blinking neon lights called it, is on the outskirts of the city, in the kind of area where even kindly white dreadlocked cabbies won't pick you up from. Surprisingly, the place was packed and even charged a mean $5 cover (most places in Boulder don't have a cover - $1 is an exception in Connor's on Saturdays).

Entering the bar was like walking into the set of a Three Amigos caper. I saw sweaty Mexicans in sombreros, overweight women in colorful skirts and smug lothario bartenders. By the time I had ordered the house margarita (which had more sugar than a boxful of candy), I had seen nearly every demographic you see in Boulder. The dancefloor was filled with outrageously pretty latinas doing the salsa in a hurry(how do they manage to swing their hips to reggae and still look so cool?) patrolled by hair gelled slicks. There were "college kids" in loose clothing consuming shot after shot. Muscular old men and skinny older men waited to flirt with the drunken rejects. I even saw a black couple, some Saudis and an Indian couple. Represent!

The fuckin hippies turned up, the unshaven women doing the annoying belly-dance imitation move. Anyone else seen that? Modern hippies like to believe that they imbibe something from all cultures and so they know everything. Only they confuse the middle east for South Asia, hip-swirling for belly dance, and slow irregular hand movements for response to Indian music. Goddamn hippies.

Amidst all this chaos, the brothers were supremely disappointed and insisted they wanted to go to the bars I knew about. Off we went, me wondering what they'd do in place where the DJ played MJ and JayZ. Time for shock #2. Turns out, to "pick up" girls you don't have to sober or capable of a coherent conversation. The brothers would stumble over to a group of girls mutter something and would have a woman on each arm before I could say Jignesh Ravindrabhushan. Their intentions were clear - to take the girls home (i.e. the new 2BR casa where their parents and sisters were presumably asleep). I guess that didn't make for a good pick up line and they left every bar empty handed. They even managed to pick up a girl from the streets before her boyfriend chased them away. I still have some faith in humanity left in me.

It was close to last call and I wasn't drinking that evening so I had had enough. Wished the boys good luck, rued the fact that I never had or will possess such skills, and drove home. Last I saw them, they looked like they had found a flock of cooing girls to buy drinks. Wonder how that turned out.

Light my Fire

"Why pay rent when you can own?" they say. "Tax write-offs, pride of ownership, moving up in life" they preach. What happened to the grad school dream Jim? What happened to "let's drink all the 150 beers in this bar over summer and get our names on that plaque"? Where's that Mustang I promised the salesman I'd buy? Where's my Kawasaki Ninja? What happened to the 23 year old who bought 10 people shots and shouted "what's my name?" and had them all chant it? Screw all that, what happened to the "buyer's market"? Almost feels like I'm begging people to sell me their home. Home owner, here's a hint - if your stupid condo has sat there unsold for a year, while all your neighbors got theirs, maybe it's not the market it's you.


Last Thursday, my big German friend, Haans (not his real name) thundered "I'll have just 1 beer more. 2, if you guys are funny". A beer later, he must have decided we were fuckin' hilarious because he bought us margaritas, one after the other - each bigger than my skull. We were all 3 down in under half an hour. The margaritas are big enough to drown in, and the bar limits its patrons to 3 per head. How about that for a forbidden taste? Last call is the imminent threat of sobriety and knowledge of the passing time only hastens the drinking pace. Considering 2 of my friends were driving I suggested we "just get some air, lets chill".

In the next 40 minutes, we had consumed approximately 4 double shots of whiskey each. My memories of the night begin to fade after that. A creepy guy hit on one of my friends. She entertained his conversation, much to our collective shock and disgust. I argued with the bartenders about their poor scotch selection - I'm not sure who won. Haans almost picked up a fight with the creepy perv, but when you lose count of the number of drinks in your system, you tend to lose focus real quick too. Closing doors had us bounced out soon. I wasn't done with the "establishment" yet. I avoided 2 bouncers, got back in, stammered and mumbled and got some water. Only for it to be snatched away at the door because they thought it was vodka. Dumbasses.

I woke up the next day at 10 AM, still drunk. Called in sick, hoped Haans survived and went back to sleep. Woke up at 3:30 again, and my head and stomach were starting to speak up. "It's the mixing man, always fucks me up" I mumbled to myself since the kid wasn't talking to me anymore.  "Never again!" I declared while feebly munching at a big burrito.

And then it was Saturday night the next day.

Ozone Baby

I'll slack off today and post pictures.

Promised ball-cupping pics.

The next day, I had a few friends over for a cocktail party. You know it's a good night when you finish a bottle of rum in under 2 hours.



Man, it's been a while since I broke out that hookah.

Speaking of which, random story (guess I'm not that lazy after all). Me and a few friends were in god forsaken dirthole downtown Denver two summers ago. Of course, the bar we were in had this angry red, near gothic theme going for it, and us former death-goth-metal-heads quite liked the place. We Indians very quickly realize that our accent will never be considered exotic, and that our words will never make the ladies swoon or make their knees go weak. It is of great use when you want to play "make the politically correct whitey laugh at your accent", but not too much good comes out of it otherwise. Try saying "you and me, will paint this town red baby" like Apu does and you'll see what I mean. Yanks - yes, we know you find us funny.

Anyway, even if I did have an outrageously cool accent, I have zero skills to initiate conversation with the fairer sex, much less charm them with my mystical Eastern wisdom. So I generally stick with my friends and pretend I'm too cool to "play the game". Back to the story. After a few drinks, we stepped out for a smoke. I should mention that I pick up the cancer sticks only when I've had one too many, and my sparkling wit and genius spontaneity are at a bare minimum. We started talking to these ladies of shall we say, an older age group. We exchanged notes about smoking preferences and soon I had to explain that I liked my tobacco flavored, smoke cooled and delivered through an ornamental glass contraption, and indeed I wasn't interested in women who provided sexual gratification after a brief financial transaction.

The ladies were fascinated and cooed "that sounds great! where do you live?". While I've had the occasional wink, suggestive nod, subtle elbow, sensational grind, I'd never had the anvil of a super clue dropped on my head. Of course, we had no intention of taking the bony elders home and I was suddenly faced with the task of ending the conversation. My friends, as usual, had run away and I had 3 sets of crow-feet lined, expectation-filled eyes looking at me. Turning my head to the side, I pulled out my best Indian accent and said "uhhh, I don't know I am new to this city, my friends brought me here, and they live somewhere south and I have no idea how to go there". After a minute's delay, that is.

The rest of the evening was uneventful, and we did end up consuming flavored tobacco bubbled through cold vodka, sans the senior citizens.

Whiskey on the Rocks

n the eve of my birthday the kid asked me if I was happy. I wasn't all that thrilled. I miss the folks back home, I miss her and I'm still not completely used to living alone. And that incurable itch due to credit card bills refuses to go away.

On most birthdays, I'm a happy person and the day feels rather special. Today I didn't feel any different. Perhaps because the numbskulls in my car pool forgot, or because I've been here 25 times already. I felt a little better when a friend remembered, and I was taken to lunch and made to eat dick shaped ice-cream. I may get over my shyness and post some pictures of me cupping the balls. I finally got hold of the pics, they're up!

Still, I was thinking about the mundane-ness of the day when it hit me as hard as a right upper hook : I was sober. Yesterday, now and potentially all day today. This is the first birthday in 5 years I haven't welcomed with shots and unrestrained drinking. Plans for me getting wasted on Saturday night were made last fortnight, but being a corporate whore has now put a dampener on weekday celebrations.

So that's it then. I'm not feeling old, fat or poor. I feel sober. And if that's still a new, uneasy feeling  I don't see myself getting old anytime soon. Booya.

I think I'll fix myself a drink. No drink on weekdays/no drinking alone be damned.

Halo

During most of my schooling my dad served in the "fauj". That's Indian speak for the Army. Capital A bitches. Artillery, Gunner and proud of it. If you don't get it, too bad.

He was part of the force that put an end to to the Sikh separatist movement. He had an AK-47 put to his chest because an overstressed idiot wanted 2 weeks of leave.

When I was 7 years old, me and mum moved to the-then pensioners' paradise Bangalore, India because Dad had been posted to the out of control Pakistan-India border. "Non-family station" - the posting was called.

He would call, once a week - Saturday 9 PM IST, at first to a pay phone 2 blocks down our house. Then, when our neighbor finally got a phone 9 years after the first application (fuck you Soviet inspired socialism), he would call there. Yes, that was life. I'd wait a week, to know if my Dad was alive.

In the meantime, life was about visiting temples, old sages and married couples, blessings from holy men and priests to keep the family safe. Fuck god. Fuck all that.

Do you know what its like to spend a week wondering if your father is alive? Multiply that by 5 years. That's equal to fuck god.

god didnt matter. The phone did.

So when you say fuck India, you're saying "fuck your childhood that you missed because your parents chose to protect your borders".  You're implying "fuck all the hours you spent alone tossing a tennis ball in the air because we're dissing the culture based on a few blogs that are no indication of the sacrifices the nation has made".

That's me. A well educated man, living a reasonably privileged lifestyle, hailing from a country of billions - with a history older than the written word. And you choose to disrespect everything my culture, my country and my civilization has achieved because you need a passionate story about divorced parents.

Congrats for being the echelon of evolution. Hope you have blast up there.

One More Time

You : Dressed up like hell, as usual.
Me : Black tee with funny graphics and blue jeans, as usual.
Us : Super awkward because you figured I was trying to hit on you the last time I saw you.
The evening : Full of mind games
Me, later in the evening : Chilling offstage with a beer
You, a little later : Dancing with random dudes trying to catch my eye - and succeeding twice.

Thank god we did the mature thing and acted like there was nothing wrong.

September Sun

Me and a few pals were watching Knocked Up. When the kid is finally born, the hero's friends go crazy and celebrate with him. I avoid congratulating people when they/their wives are knocked up. However, at that moment I understood why people celebrate kids so much, why there's so much joy in bringing someone into the world.

These feelings may have something to do with the 4 hours of drinking that preceded it, the 16 mile drive to get fries from McD and back to back to back movies. You know a girl (Heather Graham in this case) is truly beautiful and not just sexy when a drunk chap says "I'd put her on her back, take her clothes off and make love to her".You don't "tap that ass" when the girl is beautiful, I guess. 

I love drinking. I love hard liquor, and in large amounts. I didn't drink in college, but more than made up for it in grad school. I have this belief that everything's better with alcohol.Heck, I even hold entire conversations after a few beers.

I was reading about Bif Naked. Did you know she was born in India? And that she's straight edge? I've decided that after I finish this beer I have now, I'll go straight edge for a month. Who knows, even more. The longest I've gone without a drink in the past is about 10 days and I almost lost it then. Life's a lot less stressful now, lets see how this goes...