Last night I was just sitting at the hotel bar, minding my own business, when I get a call from a beautiful AND bisexual blonde that lives next door to us. She has just had an awful day including a flat tire, being broke as a joke and discovering she will no longer have a job one week from now. Seeing as how I've been schooled in the arts of chivalry from an early age (the book I'm writing is coming out this fall, there will be a one time only signing at the Double Deuce in Jasper, Missouri on a date to be determined) I invited her over to the bar so that I could buy her a drink. Obviously she accepted.
We sat, we talked, we drank and laughed. After a while we fell upon the conversation of what to do for food. "We could just go back to my place for some pizza," she offered. I'd like to take a moment to point out that not only is this the perfect plot for a porno but that said porno always ends pretty damn well for the lead male role, usually played by a Rod Hammer or a Python Johnson. As my name does not carry this same kind of auditory sexual prestige, please don't get your hopes up. Regardless of any ill-gotten aspiration and later realized failure, I went with her.
Seeing as this was my first time in this particular apartment, it was customary that I take a tour. To the right we have the kitchen, then as we pass through the garden space we enter the living room and finally the bedroom. As she left to start the pizza, I explored. A few candles here, some pillows there - suddenly I stumbled upon it. Like Mikey Walsh from The Goonies finding the map in his parents' attic, my eyes gazed upon a treasure of my own - tarot cards. I'd often been tempted to get my tarot cards read, as the mysticism has always allured me, but had never given in to the temptation marked by some as voodoo. More importantly, finding this deck provided the easiest finishing move ever as the tarot card reading site was located directly adjacent to her bed.
Like clockwork, she came back into the room just as I was fingering through the deck. Obviously looking to get me naked, she offered to give me a tarot card reading for free while the pizza was cooking in her miniature oven. As a master of the obvious and an experienced importer/exporter, I obliged.
First came the explanation of how exactly the tarot cards work: the deck is shuffled and mixed and I'm told that I am to pull five cards and place them in front of me face down without looking at the reverse side. The rest of the cards are then cleared and my cards will be flipped, one by one, to reveal certain aspects of my life. The first card represents past. Keep in mind that the fortune tellers' classic line of "it means different things for everyone" was thrown my way but what is shown on the first card should represent something that I am looking to get over or that I am perhaps running away from. The second card represents the present, and indicates an aspect of the way I am currently living my life that will lead to the third card - my future. The fourth card, or the "intercept" card indicates some sort of action or method I can utilize to dodge the future from the third card and instead provide myself the alternative offered by the fifth card - cleverly named the "alternative" card. I know that's a lot to take in so just think of it like this:
1 = Past
2 = Present
3 = Future
4 = Alternative Course of Action
5 = Alternative Future
Alright so I draw my cards as she lights the candles, the deck is cleared and we are ready to start flipping. I felt like I was playing texas hold-'em, except the stakes were a bit higher. I take one moment of hesitation - do I really want to know my fate? How much faith can be placed in a set of randomly drawn cards? What if I don't like what I see and it fully messes with my head? As my eyes slowly shift up from the mysterious cards in front of me, to the beautifully crafted body sitting indian-style across from me and finally to the gorgeous face gazing upon me with a smile of anticipation, I only have one thought... "Oh yeah, that's right I'm trying to get laid."
Freshly donned with an air of confidence and swagger, I flip the first card that represents my past - DEATH. Hormones halted, I immediately lost any and all mojo as this just took a drastic turn for the serious. This card represents the passing of an important part of your life but (as its in the "past" position) also represents a rebirth and beginning. Digging what I'm seeing as I definitely came down to St. Thomas to run away from certain aspects of the real life experienced on the main land, I continue on.
Upon flipping the second card - which represents the present - I see I've acquired the sobriquet of HERMIT. This means that in the most recent days and weeks of my life I'd opted to keep everything to myself, hiding serious or legitimate concerns that crossed my mind, and avoid going out and celebrating life with my friends. Also true.
The third card was the CHARIOT card, which meant if I continued on my path my future would be one of drastic financial and social favor. Yet, I'd be riddled with an overwhelming sense of seriousness and drive that makes me a model citizen and a mold for progress yet alone in my fortune and success.
The fourth card represents the intercept card - a course of action or a method that once followed can distract my life from the fate of the CHARIOT and instead offer the alternative life of demonstrated in the fifth card. It is in sorts a way of embracing one's responsibility for their own life and choosing paths. The card that I flipped - and I wish I was making this up, was FOOLISH CHILD. This represents going through life without a care in the world and taking life as it comes; not concerning one's self with fame or fortune and just embracing the beauty of each day. Nice.
My fifth and final card was the SUN card. This card represented an alternative future of happiness, bringing joy to the many people around you who love and embrace you. Boss.
So my synopsis of the reading goes as follows: Yes, Tim, you ran away from something from which you felt you needed to escape. Currently you are being a bit antisocial - but don't sweat that because in the near future you will either be a captain of industry or if you continue on your ways of blatant disregard for your liver and any kind of career the worst that will happen is you are going to be a singular and solitude source of happiness to those who mean the most to you in this world.
I can't believe I'm actually buying into this crap.
P.S. I didn't get laid, I didn't even make a move.
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Saturday, June 5, 2010
Ninety Percent Chance Of Reign
So in the past three nights I've gotten in two dance-offs. As illustrated by the title of this post I bat about .900, with my only career losses being against DC. No matter the case, no matter the race, no matter the place, I do what I need to get the crowd clapping. The first showdown was at Point Pleasant, an incredible bar/restaurant at the top of one of the peaks here on St. Thomas. I was just sitting there, minding my own business when a local (who also happened to be waitressing at the time... interesting take on your job when you just jump on the dance floor mid-shift) (although upon further contemplation I'd probably get out there too, which explains my 9 for 10 average record in dance-offs) (I have nothing else to say, just wanted to use the pause concept again. Where was I? Oh yes, the local) challenged me to a "how low can you go" contest to the Ludacris song by the same name. Needless to say, I went low enough to make the dude from "Powder" blush. I was lower than G.W. Bush's approval rating. I was lower than the literacy rate in Mississippi (I'd apologize but the fact is those who would be offended by this can't read it). I was lower than Verne Troyer sitting down. You get the point. The fact of the matter was that she was unable to set the bar quite as low as I could. I stood up and walked away to thunderous applause.
Fast forward to last night. Now Fat Turtle was packed, and there was a bit-o-boozin going on. If memory serves me correctly, I'd be surprised if I remembered much at all. Two things I definitely remember as "the end of the night" are as follows:
1.) Kier mentioning that she just met three Hooters girls that are new to the island.
2.) Telling our restaurant manager that we had done enough dancing and that were ready to leave. Which was immediately followed by "Forever Young" by Jay-Z coming on and that statement being immediately retracted.
The problem is these two memories are both, as I said "the end of the night". They both were not. They were probably about two hours apart.
In the mean time, there was a dance-off.
Now as I've made fully clear, the few precious moments of said dance-off are a bit hazy. It was more like the pictures during the credits at the end of The Hangover. Not necessarily a full encapsulation of the night's transgressions, but a solid snapshot slideshow nonetheless. Here is how I remember things going just prior to the dance-off:
-The "watchu doin? I dunno" dance.
-A firedancer that refused to accept my challenge.
-Much applause from Taavon's necklace.
-Push-ups on the dance floor.
-Rocking the cyclone AND the Thunderclap.
So after all this, I find myself faced off with a 6'5" and at least 275 lbs. West Indian dude that thought I was trying to out dance him in order to win the affection of his ladyfriend. Undeterred, I confronted him, face to face, and said..... "This ain't no Dancing With The Stars, sucka. It's time for a dance-off."
The music screeched to a halt. The crowd oooooooooo'd. A circle was formed around us and he stared me down like he was going to eat my unborn children (yes I'm pregnant. Twins!!). Unfortunately for him, my glare spoke for itself - "you're going down, you handsome son of a B." It was tense. There we stood, squared off for what felt like an eternity before one of us made the first move. It was me. I turned to the DJ, and with full confidence and aspiration in my voice, said "Gimme the hard stuff." The song: "Take My Breath Away" by Berlin.
Naw I'm just kidding, It was more of a dance-off between DC and I, neither of us really remember much so we'll just call it a draw.
Currently batting: 0.904762. Holla!
Fast forward to last night. Now Fat Turtle was packed, and there was a bit-o-boozin going on. If memory serves me correctly, I'd be surprised if I remembered much at all. Two things I definitely remember as "the end of the night" are as follows:
1.) Kier mentioning that she just met three Hooters girls that are new to the island.
2.) Telling our restaurant manager that we had done enough dancing and that were ready to leave. Which was immediately followed by "Forever Young" by Jay-Z coming on and that statement being immediately retracted.
The problem is these two memories are both, as I said "the end of the night". They both were not. They were probably about two hours apart.
In the mean time, there was a dance-off.
Now as I've made fully clear, the few precious moments of said dance-off are a bit hazy. It was more like the pictures during the credits at the end of The Hangover. Not necessarily a full encapsulation of the night's transgressions, but a solid snapshot slideshow nonetheless. Here is how I remember things going just prior to the dance-off:
-The "watchu doin? I dunno" dance.
-A firedancer that refused to accept my challenge.
-Much applause from Taavon's necklace.
-Push-ups on the dance floor.
-Rocking the cyclone AND the Thunderclap.
So after all this, I find myself faced off with a 6'5" and at least 275 lbs. West Indian dude that thought I was trying to out dance him in order to win the affection of his ladyfriend. Undeterred, I confronted him, face to face, and said..... "This ain't no Dancing With The Stars, sucka. It's time for a dance-off."
The music screeched to a halt. The crowd oooooooooo'd. A circle was formed around us and he stared me down like he was going to eat my unborn children (yes I'm pregnant. Twins!!). Unfortunately for him, my glare spoke for itself - "you're going down, you handsome son of a B." It was tense. There we stood, squared off for what felt like an eternity before one of us made the first move. It was me. I turned to the DJ, and with full confidence and aspiration in my voice, said "Gimme the hard stuff." The song: "Take My Breath Away" by Berlin.
Naw I'm just kidding, It was more of a dance-off between DC and I, neither of us really remember much so we'll just call it a draw.
Currently batting: 0.904762. Holla!
Out Of Retirement
So there is a certain nostalgic feeling that comes when an old friend you haven't seen in a while suddenly shows up and surprises you when you least expect it. Last night, I was able to experience this joy.
The old friend I'm referring to, of course, is Friday.
Yes, I realize that Friday nights come roughly once every seven days and there are around fifty-two of them in a year. And yes I'm quite aware that a surplus of Fridays have passed since my last post. The difference, my friend, is that those were just days. Last night, was a FRIDAY.
"But Primetime (as I've recently come to be known. Not really - people won't stop calling me Timbabe which disappeared until last night, thanks Leah for sharing that one with the world), aren't Fridays usually the start of the weekend? And don't you work every Saturday?" you may be saying. And, you would be right. Congratulations on your incredible grasp of the work week. That doesn't apply down here.
The reason that last night was a real Friday was because we not only had a family meal, but we also rocked out Fat Turtle. After my shift at the pool bar, I managed to cook a crudely pulled together meal while the Philadelphia Flyers lucked out against the Chicago Blackhawks and evened the series. Justin and Beth came over, as well as their incredibly intoxicated yet still fun to talk to friend who I will protect with anonymity. Food was eaten, people caught up, laughs were contagious. The loud eating game was played and I won. Eventually the time had to come to move on to Fat Turtle.
As we walked in, it was about a 9 out of 10. The place was packed. Good friends were everywhere, as well as gorgeous women. Drinks were plentiful. The only thing missing was some serious dancing. I mean people were dancing, but clearly they weren't serious about it. They were mainly just paired off, moving their feet and hips rhythmically to the beat, sometimes putting their hand in the air or on their dance partner. I mean that's fun and everything, but its not real dancing. Real dancing comes when they make a circle around you as you challenge someone to what is essentially a one-on-one walk-off that features ridiculous(ly good) moves, charming smiles and the wink and pistol aimed at the closest suitable female. Once we got there, it was 10 out of 10. Some serious dancing occurred, but we'll get to that in the next post. Skip ahead.
So I had just finished dancing with a girl, getting all kinds of wild, and it was time to move on and grab an adult beverage and cool off. So I snag a beer, make some moves and bump into the girl with which I was dancing. I figure now is a good as ever to introduce myself, as she basically raped me (in the sense that Kristin Stewart intended) on the dance floor. The only problem is, I've had a few drinks. What I meant to say was "My name is Tim. What's yours?" What I said was "My name is Tim, with an I."
This might become my new pick-up line, because I heard girls like guys that make them laugh - and she would not stop laughing at me all night. She'll probably call.
Later on Kier met some Hooters girls who were fresh on island and gave them her number citing that her roommates were "the two greatest guys on island." I don't know who these guys are, but I'd sure like to meet them as they might be able to help DC and I meet girls. At least her night ended well:
The old friend I'm referring to, of course, is Friday.
Yes, I realize that Friday nights come roughly once every seven days and there are around fifty-two of them in a year. And yes I'm quite aware that a surplus of Fridays have passed since my last post. The difference, my friend, is that those were just days. Last night, was a FRIDAY.
"But Primetime (as I've recently come to be known. Not really - people won't stop calling me Timbabe which disappeared until last night, thanks Leah for sharing that one with the world), aren't Fridays usually the start of the weekend? And don't you work every Saturday?" you may be saying. And, you would be right. Congratulations on your incredible grasp of the work week. That doesn't apply down here.
The reason that last night was a real Friday was because we not only had a family meal, but we also rocked out Fat Turtle. After my shift at the pool bar, I managed to cook a crudely pulled together meal while the Philadelphia Flyers lucked out against the Chicago Blackhawks and evened the series. Justin and Beth came over, as well as their incredibly intoxicated yet still fun to talk to friend who I will protect with anonymity. Food was eaten, people caught up, laughs were contagious. The loud eating game was played and I won. Eventually the time had to come to move on to Fat Turtle.
As we walked in, it was about a 9 out of 10. The place was packed. Good friends were everywhere, as well as gorgeous women. Drinks were plentiful. The only thing missing was some serious dancing. I mean people were dancing, but clearly they weren't serious about it. They were mainly just paired off, moving their feet and hips rhythmically to the beat, sometimes putting their hand in the air or on their dance partner. I mean that's fun and everything, but its not real dancing. Real dancing comes when they make a circle around you as you challenge someone to what is essentially a one-on-one walk-off that features ridiculous(ly good) moves, charming smiles and the wink and pistol aimed at the closest suitable female. Once we got there, it was 10 out of 10. Some serious dancing occurred, but we'll get to that in the next post. Skip ahead.
So I had just finished dancing with a girl, getting all kinds of wild, and it was time to move on and grab an adult beverage and cool off. So I snag a beer, make some moves and bump into the girl with which I was dancing. I figure now is a good as ever to introduce myself, as she basically raped me (in the sense that Kristin Stewart intended) on the dance floor. The only problem is, I've had a few drinks. What I meant to say was "My name is Tim. What's yours?" What I said was "My name is Tim, with an I."
This might become my new pick-up line, because I heard girls like guys that make them laugh - and she would not stop laughing at me all night. She'll probably call.
Later on Kier met some Hooters girls who were fresh on island and gave them her number citing that her roommates were "the two greatest guys on island." I don't know who these guys are, but I'd sure like to meet them as they might be able to help DC and I meet girls. At least her night ended well:
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