Andrew K: when we have our “fresh fish” parties do you want to be on the list…for fish that is hours old and makes you cream your pants it is so good
Me: i didn’t even know you had fresh fish parties..but yes i love semen + fish
Andrew K: no seriously sometimes the fish is so good its rediculous
Me: no seriously i love semen + fish
Andrew K: no, seriously
Me: no, seriously
Me: i am spreading wombi’s fresh semen from last night on a trout right now…deal with it
Yim: so i bought some magnum condoms to see how they fit
Yim: they fit
Me: so your penis is magnum?
Yim: magnum is largely marketing i thnk
Yim: its a little wider than a normal condom
Yim: ie the ring
Yim: well thats 6 bucks i wont get back
Yim: bought the smallest number they had which was a 3 pack
Me: um but you can use them so it’s not a waste of money right
Yim: yeah but i dont use condoms with laura.
Me: you should test out the magnum XL
Yim: i tihnkthats for something ridiculous, like 8-9″
Me: you’re afraid to test it aren’t you
Yim: well the thing about testing condoms
Yim: is if it fits
Yim: you feel a sense of accomplishment
Yim: but once you dont fill it
Yim: …
Yim: i have no problem testing it
Yim: but why dampen the high haha
Me: so to be clear
Me: to “test” this
Me: you had to jack off
Me: until you were hard
Me: and then put on the condom?
Yim: yup
Me: you’re such a weirdo
Yim: jacked off to completion to make sure it wouldnt slip or anything
Yim: scientifically rigorous
Me: god this is so going on the blog
If I knew of your existence a few months ago on August 8, 2008 (8/8/08), I probably invited you to our epic Ever Clear party, meant to celebrate our new apartment above Toscanini’s. Whether you remember that night or not really depends on how much of the juice you drank.
What we the hosts remembered most (and appreciated) was that it was CLEAN. No beer bottles. No stains. Which really was the intent of the party theme: all clear or white drinks and mixers. I don’t quite remember whose idea it was to call the party Ever Clear, but regardless, you can’t throw an Ever Clear party without some good ol’ Midwestern grain alcohol. Unfortunately, in our great liberal state of Massachusetts, it is, in fact, illegal to sell Everclear. By contrast, in St. Louis, MO (headquarters of the primary manufacturer of Everclear, Luxco), sodomy is illegal but not liquid fire. Sometimes the hicks get it right.
But no biggie, E. is coincidentally driving down from NH that weekend and according to Wikipedia, NH is not among the states that disallow Everclear. This is what exes are for.
Me: Make sure you get the real stuff, not the 151 proof.
E: Are you sure this stuff is legal in NH?
Me: …isn’t everything legal in NH?
E. agrees to pick some up on Thursday (8/7/08). I get a call that afternoon, and my opinion of NH drops like the Dow circa two months later:
E: So…do you want me to replace the Everclear with some other alcohol?
Me: Uuuuugh…fuckin’ A, tack on another handle of vodka.
Goddamn Wikipedia. I break the bad news to my roomies while we pour our 5th tray of island pineapple-flavored Jell-O shots (sounds theoretically gross but trust me, delicious). Party-prepping morale is instantly crushed. We give up on scoring Everclear in time, rationalizing that everyone will be too wastefaced to even notice or care tomorrow.
But even as we made this decision, I couldn’t admit defeat. Logic said the Everclear was trivial–yet my juvenile heart argued, pounding in refusal. Something in me wanted tomorrow night to be epic, life-changing. Like prom, or the night you finally muster up the courage to kiss THAT boy. I was suddenly living that pivotal moment in all teen movies, when everything has gone to crap and hit rock-bottom, and the former skeptic stands up and inexplicably makes a motivating speech to turn things around. Cue the montage.
I loaded up the Luxco website, finding a list of states that sell Everclear. No more secondary sources. If I’d listened to my elementary school teachers more, I wouldn’t be in this pickle. My eyes scanned and followed the text next to my finger scrolling down the screen.
Colorado.
I call up an old acquaintance, Ryan, who is coincidentally flying in from Denver on Friday for a weekend of debauchery with the guys. I’m unable to catch hold of him, so I text his wife, D. Ryan is one of those truly good and sweet gentlemen who rarely denies a favor, and consequently, I feel as if I’m taking advantage. It’s easier on my conscience to ask D. Straightforward and no pushover, she always speaks her mind without being callous. I haven’t spoken to her in almost a year, not since they moved out West. I don’t miss her but I like her a lot.
Later that night, even the delectable aroma of Indonesian fried rice can’t keep my hands on the eating utensils. I’m sneakily flipping open my phone every 30 seconds to check my messages under the coffee table. We’re sitting Indian-style around Yoda’s banquet of home-cooked food, sipping Franzia and Coke out of red Solo cups, and psyching ourselves up for tomorrow night. It’s psyching me out. As my friends declare their solid ambitions to get sloppy, my apprehension grows with the silence of my cell. While I appreciated their enthusiasm, I’m not comfortable with high expectations.
But my phone beeps, and relief washes over me. “We’ve got the Everclear!” I announce, interrupting several conversation threads. High-fives and w00ting commence, and I take a triumphant gulp of my Coke.
Bzzzzz. Bzzzzzzz…clackity clack. I roll over underneath my luxuriously poufy blanket and squint at my clock. 10 AM. Game day. Waaaait a second, my alarm didn’t go off. That was not my alarm. I sit up and swing my legs over the edge of my bed, accidentally stepping on a small square of smooth plastic. My phone had vibrated itself onto the floor. I flip it open and read Ryan’s message. FUCK. Fuckity fuck fuck FUCK. I am a complete dick.
“Wait, so he put the Everclear in his checked luggage, right?!” Nina’s voice sounded as high-strung as I felt.
“Of course he did, you can’t carry on that much liquid.”
“So how did the TSA know he was bringing on Everclear?”
“I don’t know, they do random searches on checked baggage too. Ryan was already seated on the plane when they came on and asked him if the Everclear was his.”
“The TSA boarded the plane?”
“Apparently. They said they’d hold on to it, and he could pick it up when he returned.”
“Christ. Tell me Ryan’s white.”
“Ryan’s super-white. And he’s like, the nicest person ever.” Ugh I couldn’t believe I’d caused an innocent man to be reprimanded by the TSA. I’m such an asshole.
“Good. Cuz you just know if he were black…” Her voice trailed off.
“I know.” I sighed. I didn’t know, but whatever, racial profiling was not my primary concern at the moment.
“So wow, the TSA knew Everclear is illegal in Mass?”
“No, it’s not illegal to transport Everclear across state lines, it’s just illegal to bring anything over 170 proof onto a plane.”
“Shit, what proof is Everclear?”
“190.”
I’m totally useless at work as I gchat the usual suspects about my humiliating failure–best to disappoint early on before the party got started. I’m whining to Brian Beliveau, who is still in disbelief that Everclear isn’t sold in New Hampshire.
“I know, it doesn’t make sense to me either, but it’s not legal there. It’s legal in Rhode Island and Connecticut, but not New Hampshire, and not Massachusetts,” I listed, resigned.
“Rhode Island is 2 hours away, that’s totally feasible.”
“Brian, it’s like…1 PM right now. Who am I going to convince who has a car, doesn’t need to be at work, and wants to drive to Rhode ISLAND?”
“Hello?” Alex’s voice sounded scratchy and sleepy, most likely from the Franzia last night.
“Hi, it’s me; listen, doesn’t Byron have a car?”
“Yeeeeeah…”
“What’s his phone number?”
“What is this about?”
“I need someone to drive to Rhode Island to buy me Everclear. I’ll pay for the gas.”
“Are you serious?! What happened to your dude?”
For the millionth time that day, I explained the TSA guidelines for flying alcohol cross-country. Alex listened quietly, and with a steely note in his voice, proclaimed, “I’m down. I’ll go with Byron.”
“Don’t you have shit to do in lab?”
“Fuck lab.”
I called Byron six times in the next hour, but his phone repeatedly went straight to voicemail. I gchatted Yoda, who claimed she hadn’t seen him in lab but he wouldn’t get reception in the med center if he was working there…
I punched in Alex’s number angrily. “Where the hell is your boy Byron?!” I snapped, skipping over pleasantries. “His phone keeps going straight to voicemail.”
“Aw yeah, he doesn’t get reception at his apartment. I bet he’s still sleeping.”
“Who doesn’t get reception in their freaking home?! And it’s like…it’s 2 PM in the afternoon!! Don’t you people have WORK?”
“Just email him. He gets Internet at home, he’ll check his email when he gets up.”
My fingernails clicked quickly over my laptop keys, chipping polish in the process. Hm. I should probably get my nails done before tonight. No time, no time. Must focus…
Miraculously, email did prove to be the quickest method of communicating with Byron. He called me within minutes of my email, and I went through the whole story again.
“Give me twenty minutes. I’ll pick up Alex at school; you get me directions to the closest liquor store in Rhode Island with Everclear,” he commanded, sounding fully alert.
“Omg I love you Byron. I think I am in love with you. Thankyouthankyouthankyou…but…so you don’t have to go into lab today?”
“Fuck lab.”
And that is how a few graduate students with grossly misplaced priorities came together in a juvenile quest to obtain illegal substances. That, my friend, is the great American dream.
I am not ashamed to admit I order the Thai peanut tofu at Goosebeary’s. Sure, foodtruck food is sketchy; they use the same “special sauce” on everything, but it’s $3.50 and I’m not a picky eater. Clutching my white Styrofoam box and plastic fork, I did my quick grad-student-walk to the Biocafé tables and plopped down next to my labmate Robbie, careful not to spill any sauce over the sides of the Styrofoam.
“Whatcha got in there?” I asked, peering nosily into his plastic grocery bag.
“Salad, manicotti, chocolate chip cookies, and homemade cheesecake Megan made last night,” he replied, as he assembled his Tupperware nicely in the order of execution. My mouth watering, I felt transported back to the third grade, when I’d regularly barter my extra tater tots for one of Brooke Rosenbaum’s pizza Lunchables.
I offered to trade my tofu for Robbie’s wife. He declined and handed me a cookie, which I thought was pretty fair and not wholly unexpected, especially as tofu << tater tots.
Married grad students have it made. It’s not just the better lunches. They’ve got two incomes and cleaner apartments. Maybe even a car, for those trips to see the fam on special occasions. Granted, you won’t be spotting them at Underbar on Friday nights, but that’s because they’re participating in the glorious regular sex privileged upon newlyweds. Glorious, hot, condomless sex—without the three $12 drink minimum required to bag a girl at Gypsy Bar. And there would be no STDs or hangovers the next morning, allowing the married grad student to maintain both superior hygiene and a diligent work schedule that starts before 10 AM.
But aside from these superficial differences, they exude a general aura of…composure. Of poise. Maybe it’s the inherent maturity that comes with marital responsibility, but my gut says there’s something else. While other grad students exist in a constant mode of restrained panic, the married appear to be somewhat immune to the perpetual undercurrents of stress at MIT. More self-assured, their emotional well-being seems less bound to the rollercoaster progress of their theses. Perhaps this emotional stability is just a result of having a steady supporter cheering in their corner. Or maybe to them, graduate research feels more akin to a real-life job, a source of income—instead of a personal investment upon which our egos and self-fulfillment rely. Those three letters attached to our names translate to a certain identity that defines us—something that once won, can never be taken away. I wonder if ‘Mrs.’ renders the same, or at least a competitive, effect.
Committing to the love of your life undoubtedly puts things in perspective and reorganizes your priorities. The Western blot can be left for tomorrow when dinner with the future mother of your child is waiting. Too many of us choose lab at the end of the day, giving up sleep, concerts, wine with the girls, spring break (the WOO HOO! kind), and movies with old friends. Later, we say. After oral exams or quals, after we finish writing up that paper. We make these little trades every day. There is a pervading sense of putting our lives on hold for 5+ years. Sacrificing now for a better future: a quicker, stronger debut into the “real world”. Are we losing the battle to maintain balance and sanity? The married aren’t. Whether they realize it or not, they’ve developed a foolproof strategy for achieving this. While the rest of us are essentially waiting to begin adulthood, they have already reached out and grabbed life by the horns—even if in a most ordinary and conventional way.
But alas, here I sit: single, possibly losing the battle. Hung over on a Sunday, wallet light from last night’s activities. Nursing my headache with a Bloody Mary at brunch, and consequently, getting a late start in lab of course. I look around. Then again, so will Matt. And Alex. And Nina. With my fork, I spear a home-fried potato chunk marinating in grease off Nina’s plate. If love is all about timing, then I suppose our synchronous tardiness makes us soulmates. Watching my comrades chatter and laugh, I decisively shove the fork into my mouth. I am unwilling to trade this potato, this moment. Besides, my husband would have to eat some pretty shitty homemade cheesecake.
Me: I like how you work out all the conditions of the bet but completely gloss over the part where I have to suck your dick.
Yim: I mean, is that such an undesirable event? I’m surprised you even need incentive.
Me: First of all, in general, fellatio is not ever truly desirable to a girl. Also, I think fellatio would nullify our friendship; I might as well just have sex with Welsh while I’m at it.
Yim: But you have 2x the odds!
Me: I’ve just decided that we talk about your penis way too much.
Me: How’s the Koch Institute conference?
ASco: Boring.
Me: Are people just like, jerking the koch off the whole time?
ASco: Ya, I was thinking that we need you here to catch it all.
Me: Like Pokemon.
Rory: You know, in the future, everyone might be gay.
Rana: Oh yeah, especially in China.
Me (excited): So I think I might be getting an REU!
Nina: *gasp* Do you put it in your vagina?!
Me: …what?
Nina: Ok, wait, I’m confused.
Me: I sense that.
“Sometimes I wonder why I don’t have more female friends, and then I remember, oh YEAH, it’s because girls are unreasonable and INSANE.”
Having a zillion male friends and anal typeface handwriting are probably my two biggest claims to fame. There were those couple years in undergrad when I sported Flava Flav-sized watches and then my brief stint with the asymmetrical haircut, but really, when people think “Jeezy, the bomb diggity”, they think of me writing up equation sheets in readable size 8 font while being Eiffel Towered. That might be an exaggeration; I can’t really write in size 8 font.
“Yeah, they are, but it works,” admits Number 2.
Number 2 is a perfectly reasonable and normal friend of mine who dates crazy-ass women. Why? We don’t know. It just happens.
“Everyone wants what they can’t have, and crazy girls make it difficult to be had,” he goes on.
Correction: IIIIII don’t know why he dates the crazies. Number 2 is apparently clear on what attraction is. It’s not just the crazies–really, I am baffled by men who date: demanding women, high-maintenance women, me-me-me women, women who make them carry their purses, ice-queens, airheads, spoiled brats, socialites, celebutantes…the list is endless.
I think subconsciously, this is my main beef with women. Up front, I have no problem with the female sex. I like girls, love a few, and have been known to develop chick crushes. But it cannot be denied that even at a very early age, I surrounded myself with sausage. Something buried deep down inside me resists estrogen, and I’m pretty sure I know exactly who is to blame: Isaac Holbrook.
Ok, not solely and entirely, but at least a little bit. Isaac Holbrook was a brilliant talent at the International Institute for Young Musicians, a piano camp I attended during my teeny-bopper years. With a shock of white-blonde hair, clear blue eyes, and pale arms the size of toothpicks (for some reason, I had a fetish for pasty, uber-skinny guys in middle school–friends call it my “cancer patient phase”–I like to think I was just ahead of the curve on the emo fad), Isaac fit cozily into my Aryan fetish. Coupled with his sense of humor and gentle, concerto-mastering fingers, Isaac Holbrook was positively dreamy. I immediately befriended him. He immediately fell in love with my roommate Lulu, who thought he was a freaky-looking kid with awkward conversational skills. I felt bad for Izzy, so I did what any ugly friend would do in a chick flick–convinced my roommate he was a great guy and hooked them up, effectively condemning myself to a summer of torture.
Lulu is a fabulous tour de force today, but at the age of thirteen, she was a complete space cadet. I, on the other hand, was quite manipulative, always scheming and harboring ulterior motives. I took advantage of Lulu’s impressionable psyche. In under a week (ah, how I miss the days of changing your mind at every whim), I had her obsessing over what to wear on their pseudo-dates. And the real genius of it all, the part I reeeally congratulated myself on, was that neither Lulu nor Isaac knew it was I who pulled at their marionette strings.
It might seem like I was playing the martyr, the self-sacrificing friend, but let’s be honest here, thirteen-year-old girls do not know balls about charity. I wasn’t Cupid, I was waiting. Waiting for Isaac to spend enough time with Lulu to realize she was flakier than his morning cereal. Waiting for them to have a neverending awkward pause in conversation. Waiting for him to wake up and say “oh my gosh, the right girl has been under my nose the whole time.” For him to choose funny and smart over witless and tits.
I know, it makes no sense to censure an entire gender for the blindness of the Isaac Holbrooks. But somehow, I am mad at the Lulus, not the Isaacs. It just isn’t fair, that a pretty shell can win the public over, no matter how empty it may be. Number 2 is close with his unattainability theory, but not quite. It’s much more cliche and obvious, what men want. Men like beautiful women. These women are not unattainable because they are crazy, but because they are beautiful. They just HAPPEN to be crazy much of the time, because they can be. Society and the Isaac Holbrooks will never demand otherwise. These women don’t have to be nice. They don’t have to be intelligent, or make clever banter. After all, who cares about outercourse when intercourse is involved?
It’s been five years since I’ve made a close girlfriend, and it hasn’t made a difference–a decade of being “one of the guys”, and I’m still waiting, playing Cupid.
I kind of hate it when I get back from a trip, and my camera is filled with pictures of gay-ass nature shit like mountains, which I thought were breathtaking or whatever at the moment, but now just look like boring mounds on an LCD screen. Or annoying vertical shots of buildings. I mean, what am I gonna do with that 20 years from now? Life is not about places. As sexy as the city is, I’ve been to New York. I’ve been there done that, three times before, without feeling the need to post about it. But it’s a different creature now, with a few new residents–each of whom I have seen with fresh perspective under the Manhattan twilight. This is a montage of my tryst with New York, through the nature of New Yorkers:
Seok: “Wait a second…his name is ‘suck’?” –Wilkerson
Snooping through Seok’s bathroom cabinet, I find that he owns about 15 mini-bottles of Axe body wash, and has an affinity for French facial scrubs. He has the feet of a ballerina (I never hear him leave for work in the morning) and the voice of an angel (totally missed his calling in Korean karaoke). And surprisingly fashion-conscious–his indignance over Banana Republic’s recently lengthened sleeves is as fierce as a gay man.
Grace:
I spent about 3 straight hours of alone time with this trader on Sunday, wandering the streets vagrantly and discussing the adorability of Kate Beckinsale. We hit the Hershey’s store in Times Square, envied the swank swine dining in Bryant Park, watched the ice skaters in Rockefeller, and finally ended the jaunt with a beer and Malibu-orange. This is what I have learned about Grace: she is confused. This lack of self-knowledge has often led her to bandwagon-jumping, in which Yim is the bandwagon driver. Strictly speaking, Yim doesn’t fit the Asian female profile, but trust me, he makes a shitty driver. Thus far, this BJing has led Grace to:
1) Snowsports
2) Drugs
3) Hockey
…and she didn’t even frickin’ swallow. In fact, Grace has never swallowed, but not for the reasons you think. I find this particularly ironic, as she would stoop to any level in the name of love. A trait that might be admirable if it didn’t stem from her misguidedness.
Yim:
My very favorite Y chromosome also subscribes to Grace’s “hos before bros” philosophy, but he likes his hos professional and expensive. The best meat market for these jewels? Heeeelloooo Penthouse Executive Club, corner of W 45th St. and 11th Ave. Cabbing it to Midtown isn’t cheap from the dolla’ dolla’ district, but in retrospect, that cost was pretty much negligible:
$300- Drinks
$100- Lap dances
$1000- an hour in the champagne room, where Chris Rock’s #1 rule was not abided by
Having your body covered in stripper smell…priceless.
That night, Yim pulled his down blanket over his head to Dutch-oven himself in stripper aroma.
“Mmmmm…stripper smell…”
“Oh Jesus Yim, that is disgusting.” I am sleeping on the edge of the bed and turned away from him to avoid smelling like a skank in the morning.
“No it’s not, it smells good. Like baby powder.”
“That is not baby powder. That is sexual fluids.”
“It’s gotta be a perfume or something they’re all required to wear. Because all strippers smell like this funky baby powder smell.”
“No dumbass, they all smell like SEX.” (I later confirmed this by asking a stripper if they were all required to wear a certain scent, and she gave me a weird look and said no.)
After dropping a cool 1.5 grand that evening, Yim was introduced to Hot Dog. Hot Dog takes care of the high-rollers at Penthouse, and his name exudes nothing less than 100% class. The mere mention of this Ballpark frank to the meatheads that guard the door will guarantee you free cover and a whole lot of TNA.
Unfortunately, Yim’s credit card company does not quite recognize him as the baller that he is yet, which resulted in a very awkward phone call the next day after his plastic was suspended for “unusual activity”. All together now: ooooooh Yim.
Christine:
Christine is a single girl in the big city who only dates Asian boys. Since Yim is busy smelling himself, she must find true love elsewhere, namely, in da clubs.
“The Park” is a three-story party mansion nowhere near Central Park, but in Chelsea instead. Filled with shimmering Christmas lights and more space than any locale in Boston (including a fabulous outdoor courtyard called “The Garden”), Park maintains its hotspot status by enforcing a strict >1:1 female:male ratio (in other words, you can’t get in if you’re a guy without a girl), thus avoiding the major sausagefest that New York already is.
With all the testosterone spewing in Manhattan, Christine nabs herself a pretty Asian boy on the third floor dancehall (“The Penthouse”) who works for…Estee Lauder. Yes, he is in cosmetics. They grind, they flirt, email addresses are exchanged.
The next day, Christine and I are shivering on 5th Ave., waiting for Yim to get off work. She asks me if Estee Lauder was cute. I assure her that yes, I was mostly sober at that point in the night (despite my drunken debacle later at karaoke), and even though it was dark, I could tell he was cute. She is excited, and reasonably certain that he isn’t a homo.
One week later, she is giving him the cold shoulder because he used too many exclamation points in his email to her. True story.
Welsh:
Matt Welsh is the whitest white boy I know, and I love him for it. Born in Long Island and bred at Stuyvesant, he prides himself on his diverse collection of Lacoste polos and his inability to move his hips while dancing, among other things:
“NO prosciutto???!!” Welsh is beside himself with sadness as he discovers that his die-hard favorite item on the menu, eggs benedict topped with prosciutto, is no longer available. We are having brunch at Jane in SoHo at the bright and early hour of 3 PM, and Welsh’s day is about to get worse.
“50 bucks says the bread plate is supposed to be on the left side,” challenges Christine.
“I’m telling you, the SALAD plate is on the left side, so the bread plate has to be on the right side,” Welsh counters.
“I don’t know where the salad plate goes, but bread plate is definitely on the left side.”
“Christine–I ate with perfect etiquette every day of my life for 18 years. I know this. Trust me.”
“50 bucks.”
Welsh hesitates. “I’m almost positive it’s on the right side.”
“Don’t be a pussy.”
6 hours later, I am gchatting with Matt, 50 dollars poorer. “Turns out the bread AND salad plates are on the left side,” he sighs.
“Ouch, that hurts huh.”
“Yeah, I offered to pay Christine in cash right then if she would agree not to tell anyone I was wrong, just to save my reputation.”
“…and?”
“She didn’t take it. Fuck, I should’ve offered her more money.”
The truth is, it wouldn’t matter how much Welsh offered. It’s not about the money–not in New York.
