It's been a couple of weeks now and I haven't stopped listening to Joy Formidable's "A Balloon Called Moaning." I feel like my appreciation for this band and this record is the apex of my recent troubling love of female vocalists. Does aging cause testosterone levels to drop and/or estrogen levels to rise? Because there's really no other reason I should download a Bat To Lashes record. Oh and I've also grown tits.
Anyway, it turns out that five of the eight tracks on "A Balloon Called Moaning" are available for free download -- legally -- over here on a site called Music Glue. So go ahead and listen to them, because now you have no excuse.
As far as other media that's passed through this lovely, slightly misshapened head of mine; "X-Men Origins: Wolverine" was fucking stupid and I actually enjoyed this version much better.
Thankfully I had Cormac McCarthy's "The Road" to read afterwards, sort of as a palate cleanser. It was also a huge step up from the last book I read, which was that dreadful Chuck Klosterman turd about shitty music nobody really cares about. "The Road" was actually lent to me by my Uncle about a year or so ago, and I've avoided it since due to the big fat "Oprah's Book Club" sticker on the cover. I embarrassingly changed my mind after seeing the trailer for the movie adaptation, which I'm now even more curious about. The bulk of the book follows two people not doing much of anything, which has the potential to make for a pretty boring movie. Viggo Mortensen is in it, and he's kind of awesome, but if he starts running around and fighting dudes with his dick out like he did in "Eastern Promises," I swear to God I'm never watching another movie again.
So, yup.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Saturday, May 23, 2009
Monday, May 18, 2009
This book sucked.
An ex-girlfriend told me that my writing reminded her of Chuck Klosterman, who I had heard of but never bothered to read. Intrigued, I decided to check out my local library, which only carried three of his books. They didn't have a copy of what I believed to be his most well-known book -- "Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs" -- so I settled on the book that sounded the most interesting to me: "Fargo Rock City: A Heavy Metal Odyssey in Rural North Dakota." I finally and begrudgingly finished the book last night and as you can probably tell from the title of this post, I thought it sucked the foulest of dicks. As a matter of fact, I'd go as far as to say that it is probably the worst book I've ever read. It's boring and it's embarrassing.
The book is more or less a 280 page love letter to some of the worst music known to man. Klosterman admits bands like Motley Crue are "stupid," yet goes to great lengths to defend it from detractors who claim it's nothing but stupid. In addition to this awful book, he also somehow managed to parlay his embarrassing opinions on music into a full-time position over at Spin and a couple of other respected magazines, where somehow someone respected his awful tastes. It's a shame he didn't refer to one man cover band Lenny Kravitz as "like Living Coulor, only good" earlier in his book, so that I could have stopped reading then and there.
Listen; don't read this book. It is fucking terrible. Instead, go buy a "Perfect From Now On" by Built to Spill (one of the bands Klosterman eschews for far superior musicians such as Warrant, and I personally guarantee that you will derive far, far more enjoyment from it.
The book is more or less a 280 page love letter to some of the worst music known to man. Klosterman admits bands like Motley Crue are "stupid," yet goes to great lengths to defend it from detractors who claim it's nothing but stupid. In addition to this awful book, he also somehow managed to parlay his embarrassing opinions on music into a full-time position over at Spin and a couple of other respected magazines, where somehow someone respected his awful tastes. It's a shame he didn't refer to one man cover band Lenny Kravitz as "like Living Coulor, only good" earlier in his book, so that I could have stopped reading then and there.
Listen; don't read this book. It is fucking terrible. Instead, go buy a "Perfect From Now On" by Built to Spill (one of the bands Klosterman eschews for far superior musicians such as Warrant, and I personally guarantee that you will derive far, far more enjoyment from it.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
ATM diaper baby.
Of course loudmouth, crybaby jerkoffs have always existed, but the Internet and more specifically the proliferation of obnoxious "social networking" sites have made it easier for them to find an audience with like-minded nitwits. Case in point: earlier this week, a self-proclaimed and heavily advertised "vegan, straight-edged anarchist" -- and I was embarrassed even typing that -- was shopping inside of an REI when he decided to take a picture of an open ATM that was in the process of being refilled with his iPhone. There's a lot going on in that sentence, so take a minute and picture an adult "anarchist", shopping at an REI (because the fight against the man may take place on any terrain, and you'd best be prepared... with a $300 backpack), snapping pictures with his an iPhone. Once you've pried your face from your palms using your feet, let's continue:
He claims he took the picture because he's "fascinated" by the insides of things, which also happened to be the story my defense used during that murder case. He also specifically states that he did not take the picture to "case the joint." Of course he wouldn't need to think or say that unless it's understood that some people may question him, which is exactly what these security guards did and are paid to do. They don't know this asshole. They're not mind-readers. So, naturally, the Loomis security guards are curious, and -- if this dork's account is at all accurate -- they asked if they could speak to him. But rather than just leaving the store, like he had every right to do and most normal human beings would have, he decides to stick around throw a tantrum. Because if he hadn't, he couldn't have complained about it later all over the Internet, which you know dickheads like this immediately begin planning the second they smell a confrontation. Anything for fifteen minutes of Internet fame. If an obnoxious asshole didn't have a blog, would he still act like such a fucking asshole? So he stays in the store and begins to verbally instigate the Loomis security guards... because he's SUCH A QUICK-WITTED BADASS. And what razor sharp zingers does he unholster? He calls them "fake cops!"
Seriously, are people still over the age of thirteen calling security guards (especially those with guns) "fake cops" and "rent-a-cops?" Shouldn't they be well past that by now? Are you being railroaded out of your favorite mall after loitering out front of Forever 21? Grow the fuck up. These are security guards; most likely full-time employees of Loomis. They're not pretending to be cops; they're not running around with plastic badges from Party City and they're not driving around the city with their heads hanging out of their open windows, making siren sounds with their mouths. Nobody calls whiny Ruby on Rails developers "fake programmers." But of course simple name calling was not enough power-fighting for this dipshit as he also finds it necessary to diagnose them with "fragile egos." Apparently in addition to being an "anarchist," he's also a physcologist.
Stores are not public property. As much as I appreciate the idea of being able to go anywhere I want and do anything I please at any time, it's simply not the case. And this has nothing to do with what idiots would call "a post-9/11 mentality" rather it has everything to do with the unpopular fact that GIANT CORPORATIONS also have rights. And I'm talking about real rights; not the invented shit smarmy twats like this love to trumpet and pretend they're defending. Yes, even companies like REI and Loomis have a right to privacy, but that concept is most likely lost on someone who relays every seconds of every minute of every day of their life, including what they're doing and where, to the entire Internet (just don't ask to see indentification). And these companies control -- or at least have the right to control -- what goes on on their premises. They have the right to ask you to stop taking pictures inside their store -- and most stores will do this -- and they can boot and ban you for as long as they like. They have the right to kick you out if they don't like your stupid face. It's their store, and if you don't like it, leave and never shop there again. It's all actually very simple. I've personally managed to stay out of most brick and mortar stores for years. Did you know that in addition to being an outlet for your trials and tribulations as a downtroden white man and a bulletin board for every little thing you do every second of your boring life, you can also buy shit off of it? Often for much less than you would anywhere else? Technology: it's fucking incredible.
So long and stupid story short, this self-important jackass acts like a spoiled cocksucker until "actual" cops (or would those be "very real security guards?") are called and he's taken to the local police station. All for absolutely nothing, of course. Zero charges are pressed; he's asked to sign a form stating that he's been banned from that particular REI for one year and they let him go home and blog and Tweet and whatever until he's blue in the face (remembering to namedrop Fall Out Boy in the process -- cool, dude!)
This being the Internet, it was only a matter of seconds before this fuck got exactly what he wanted and amassed an army of angry retards who were firing off angry letters to REI, threatening a boycott even though most of them have probably never step foot in one, all while chanting "Lawsuit! Lawsuit!" Because that's what this phony freedom you've invented is all about, right, Internet? Frivolous lawsuits?
Of course his story popped up on Consumerist, a site I generally enjoy and read regularly but has a habit of handing the conch over to raving lunatics who demand everyone bend over backwards to treat them like the fragile snowflake they are without ever bothering to investigate the story themselves (which I'm fairly certain is the cornerstone of legitimate journalism).
I hate to be the dude that says dumb shit like this, but with all the shit that goes down daily on this planet and in this country -- and hell, here in the city of Philadelphia -- it's amazing that this whitebread megadouche being detained for a half an hour is important enough to not only whore itself out all over the fucking Internet but to also score him radio and television interviews. Clearly this is the greatest injustice in the history of mankind. NO ACTUAL CHARGES WERE PRESSED -- THIS PIECE OF SHIT WALKED AWAY WITH A ONE YEAR REI BAN. THAT'S FUCKING IT.
Fuck, I hate this dude so much.
I'm not going to link to this dink's website and provide him with any more hits to jerk off to, so if you really want to read his assuredly unbiased recollection of this nailbiter, you can always Google it.
He claims he took the picture because he's "fascinated" by the insides of things, which also happened to be the story my defense used during that murder case. He also specifically states that he did not take the picture to "case the joint." Of course he wouldn't need to think or say that unless it's understood that some people may question him, which is exactly what these security guards did and are paid to do. They don't know this asshole. They're not mind-readers. So, naturally, the Loomis security guards are curious, and -- if this dork's account is at all accurate -- they asked if they could speak to him. But rather than just leaving the store, like he had every right to do and most normal human beings would have, he decides to stick around throw a tantrum. Because if he hadn't, he couldn't have complained about it later all over the Internet, which you know dickheads like this immediately begin planning the second they smell a confrontation. Anything for fifteen minutes of Internet fame. If an obnoxious asshole didn't have a blog, would he still act like such a fucking asshole? So he stays in the store and begins to verbally instigate the Loomis security guards... because he's SUCH A QUICK-WITTED BADASS. And what razor sharp zingers does he unholster? He calls them "fake cops!"
Seriously, are people still over the age of thirteen calling security guards (especially those with guns) "fake cops" and "rent-a-cops?" Shouldn't they be well past that by now? Are you being railroaded out of your favorite mall after loitering out front of Forever 21? Grow the fuck up. These are security guards; most likely full-time employees of Loomis. They're not pretending to be cops; they're not running around with plastic badges from Party City and they're not driving around the city with their heads hanging out of their open windows, making siren sounds with their mouths. Nobody calls whiny Ruby on Rails developers "fake programmers." But of course simple name calling was not enough power-fighting for this dipshit as he also finds it necessary to diagnose them with "fragile egos." Apparently in addition to being an "anarchist," he's also a physcologist.
Stores are not public property. As much as I appreciate the idea of being able to go anywhere I want and do anything I please at any time, it's simply not the case. And this has nothing to do with what idiots would call "a post-9/11 mentality" rather it has everything to do with the unpopular fact that GIANT CORPORATIONS also have rights. And I'm talking about real rights; not the invented shit smarmy twats like this love to trumpet and pretend they're defending. Yes, even companies like REI and Loomis have a right to privacy, but that concept is most likely lost on someone who relays every seconds of every minute of every day of their life, including what they're doing and where, to the entire Internet (just don't ask to see indentification). And these companies control -- or at least have the right to control -- what goes on on their premises. They have the right to ask you to stop taking pictures inside their store -- and most stores will do this -- and they can boot and ban you for as long as they like. They have the right to kick you out if they don't like your stupid face. It's their store, and if you don't like it, leave and never shop there again. It's all actually very simple. I've personally managed to stay out of most brick and mortar stores for years. Did you know that in addition to being an outlet for your trials and tribulations as a downtroden white man and a bulletin board for every little thing you do every second of your boring life, you can also buy shit off of it? Often for much less than you would anywhere else? Technology: it's fucking incredible.
So long and stupid story short, this self-important jackass acts like a spoiled cocksucker until "actual" cops (or would those be "very real security guards?") are called and he's taken to the local police station. All for absolutely nothing, of course. Zero charges are pressed; he's asked to sign a form stating that he's been banned from that particular REI for one year and they let him go home and blog and Tweet and whatever until he's blue in the face (remembering to namedrop Fall Out Boy in the process -- cool, dude!)
This being the Internet, it was only a matter of seconds before this fuck got exactly what he wanted and amassed an army of angry retards who were firing off angry letters to REI, threatening a boycott even though most of them have probably never step foot in one, all while chanting "Lawsuit! Lawsuit!" Because that's what this phony freedom you've invented is all about, right, Internet? Frivolous lawsuits?
Of course his story popped up on Consumerist, a site I generally enjoy and read regularly but has a habit of handing the conch over to raving lunatics who demand everyone bend over backwards to treat them like the fragile snowflake they are without ever bothering to investigate the story themselves (which I'm fairly certain is the cornerstone of legitimate journalism).
I hate to be the dude that says dumb shit like this, but with all the shit that goes down daily on this planet and in this country -- and hell, here in the city of Philadelphia -- it's amazing that this whitebread megadouche being detained for a half an hour is important enough to not only whore itself out all over the fucking Internet but to also score him radio and television interviews. Clearly this is the greatest injustice in the history of mankind. NO ACTUAL CHARGES WERE PRESSED -- THIS PIECE OF SHIT WALKED AWAY WITH A ONE YEAR REI BAN. THAT'S FUCKING IT.
Fuck, I hate this dude so much.
I'm not going to link to this dink's website and provide him with any more hits to jerk off to, so if you really want to read his assuredly unbiased recollection of this nailbiter, you can always Google it.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Carrie Prejean is a faggot.
Once while I was staying at my Grandmother's house in Central New Jersey, I caught a solid twenty minutes of some miscellaneous South American beauty pageant. It was absolutely incredible; the girls were smoking hot, they wore next-to-nothing, and they didn't talk. So imagine my surprise when I found out that not only was the Miss America pageant still a thing, but that it was as lame as ever. And I probably would have remained blissfully ignorant of this garbage if it wasn't for some bleach blonde, cookie cutter nitwit out of California by the name of Carrie Prejean.
Better known as Miss California to sash makers, Prejean tanned her way into the public eye by awkwardly stumbling her way through a question about gay marriage posed by the Internet's Perez Hilton, who got the job of beauty pageant judge by using Microsoft Paint to write the word "FAT" on pictures of Jessica Simpson and not being at all attracted to women. Claiming that both her family and her country were founded on the idea of "opposite marriage" (I swear to fucking God that is what she called it), Prejean sent shockwaves across the CRT televisions of Grandmom's everywhere.
Since I hope to one day marry Georges St-Pierre and recreate, I'm obviously a firm believer and supporter of gay marriage, yet I still couldn't give two shits about this idiot and her stupid opinions. Why? Because, as far as I know, U.S. policy has never been based around the uninformed opinions of its nitwit beauty pageant contestants. So what's all the hub-bub? I guess one could make the argument that it paints our country in a bad light that one of it's most blonde and bronzed citizens is an ignoramus, but I could also make the argument that nobody who cares watches this shit because it's fucking stupid.
Of course the religious right immediately latched on to Carrie and pushed her to become their official spokesdope for hating gay people. Because that's what they do now that most people have finally realized that their policies are garbage and don't work; they enlist the services of gimmicky self-made celebrities like Rush Limbaugh or Jonathan Krohn, the fourteen year old conservative. And so they used Carrie for commercials and robocalls and because she proved herself to be such an eloquent speaker, they made her a presenter for Gospel Music Association's 2009 Dove Awards, an award show which I'm guessing has nothing to do with birds.
But like every good Christian folk hero before her, it turned out that Miss Prejean wasn't as wholesome, good and obedient as she made herself out to be. First off, it was revealed that she had breast implants, paid for by the Miss California pageant. Whoops! Now I'm not a biblical scholar -- I've actually never read more than a few verses that I quoted for a piece on Christian haunted houses a few years ago -- but I'm pretty sure that we were all created in God's image. If this is true, aren't implants, I don't know, kind of blasphemous? Isn't that kind of like saying that you think God needs bigger tits? That seems much worse than allowing two people to share health benefits to me.
But the fun doesn't stop there. It also turns out that before being artificially bustified, Carrie shared her inferior rack with a photographer for some "modeling photos." Again, I'm no expert, but I'm pretty sure that this (pornography) is generally frowned upon by the religious community. Personally I love titties and I hope to one day see every last one (that isn't gross), but this just goes to show that these people are the biggest, most brazen hypocrites and when you put stupid shit like your retarded views on gay marriage out there and you choose to take some sort of stupid moral stand, becoming the face of an entire backwards movement in the process, it's best if you have lived the kind of life that you are now pushing onto others.
Most importantly, all of this could have been avoided if everyone just stopped paying attention to the kind of stupid shit beauty pageant contestants think about. Unless it's Miss Teen South Carolina 2007, of course. That shit was hilarious.
Better known as Miss California to sash makers, Prejean tanned her way into the public eye by awkwardly stumbling her way through a question about gay marriage posed by the Internet's Perez Hilton, who got the job of beauty pageant judge by using Microsoft Paint to write the word "FAT" on pictures of Jessica Simpson and not being at all attracted to women. Claiming that both her family and her country were founded on the idea of "opposite marriage" (I swear to fucking God that is what she called it), Prejean sent shockwaves across the CRT televisions of Grandmom's everywhere.
Since I hope to one day marry Georges St-Pierre and recreate, I'm obviously a firm believer and supporter of gay marriage, yet I still couldn't give two shits about this idiot and her stupid opinions. Why? Because, as far as I know, U.S. policy has never been based around the uninformed opinions of its nitwit beauty pageant contestants. So what's all the hub-bub? I guess one could make the argument that it paints our country in a bad light that one of it's most blonde and bronzed citizens is an ignoramus, but I could also make the argument that nobody who cares watches this shit because it's fucking stupid.
Of course the religious right immediately latched on to Carrie and pushed her to become their official spokesdope for hating gay people. Because that's what they do now that most people have finally realized that their policies are garbage and don't work; they enlist the services of gimmicky self-made celebrities like Rush Limbaugh or Jonathan Krohn, the fourteen year old conservative. And so they used Carrie for commercials and robocalls and because she proved herself to be such an eloquent speaker, they made her a presenter for Gospel Music Association's 2009 Dove Awards, an award show which I'm guessing has nothing to do with birds.
But like every good Christian folk hero before her, it turned out that Miss Prejean wasn't as wholesome, good and obedient as she made herself out to be. First off, it was revealed that she had breast implants, paid for by the Miss California pageant. Whoops! Now I'm not a biblical scholar -- I've actually never read more than a few verses that I quoted for a piece on Christian haunted houses a few years ago -- but I'm pretty sure that we were all created in God's image. If this is true, aren't implants, I don't know, kind of blasphemous? Isn't that kind of like saying that you think God needs bigger tits? That seems much worse than allowing two people to share health benefits to me.
But the fun doesn't stop there. It also turns out that before being artificially bustified, Carrie shared her inferior rack with a photographer for some "modeling photos." Again, I'm no expert, but I'm pretty sure that this (pornography) is generally frowned upon by the religious community. Personally I love titties and I hope to one day see every last one (that isn't gross), but this just goes to show that these people are the biggest, most brazen hypocrites and when you put stupid shit like your retarded views on gay marriage out there and you choose to take some sort of stupid moral stand, becoming the face of an entire backwards movement in the process, it's best if you have lived the kind of life that you are now pushing onto others.
Most importantly, all of this could have been avoided if everyone just stopped paying attention to the kind of stupid shit beauty pageant contestants think about. Unless it's Miss Teen South Carolina 2007, of course. That shit was hilarious.
Thursday, May 7, 2009
Department of Eagles "No One Does it Like You"
Shit is so great.
Sorry my tables are not built for widescreen videos.
Sorry my tables are not built for widescreen videos.
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Here's how I learned how many pushups I can do and avoided being murdered in the process.
After skimming through the journal entries for my most recent trip to Thailand back in October of last year, I realized that I somehow managed to leave out a pretty wild story, especially considering the fact that most of my entries consisted of slight variations on the train, eat, drink, sleep routine. Even a quick look at the original text file I used to jot down short notes on my experiences failed to mention it.
Seeing as how this story took place about seven months ago (that coupled with the fact that there was alcohol involved), my recollection of the night's events may not be 100% accurate, but I'm going to do my best to remember everything as they happened. There is no need for creative embellishment as the actual events are pretty great on their own merit.
Most of my nights were spent at a little beer bar called the Beach Bar which was directly across the street from the Icon nightclub. The Beach Bar is close to Sinbi's gym, I know and like the girls, and I almost always have a good, relaxed time there. Also there almost every night was some eurotrash fuckface and a perpetually drunken Russian (I know, I know) named Victor. What the girls told me about Victor was that he owned a few rental properties throughout Phuket, was married but in love with a bar girl, and suffered from an unknown or unnamed disease he contracted through a dirty bamboo tattoo he got while spending time in Cambodia. What I overheard Victor tell me about Victor was that he spent a number of years in the Russian Army and was responsible for the deaths of hundreds of men, women, and children.
Anyone that's even gone out drinking with me or has spent any time around me after I've been drinking would most likely describe me as a pretty chill drunk; I don't get loud and I don't start shit with anyone, so why Victor decided to start shit with me on more than one occasion is still kind of a mystery to me. He started shit with plenty of the girls at the bar as well, but my only guess would be that I got his attention because I was usually the only male in the bar under the age of sixty-five, and the girls seemed to genuinely like me while avoiding him at all costs.
The first time Victor decided to make a scene wasn't really all that big a deal; it involved some yelling, cursing, and posturing, but I never felt threatened and the bar's owner (who unfortunately had to -- and most likely still has to -- deal with Victor's shit on a daily basis) was there to calm him down. I stayed in my seat the entire time and tried to avoid escalating the situation, all while maintaining eye contact with him in case he decided to sucker punch me. Things died down considerably once Victor passed the fuck out on an old couch set up in the back of the bar, by the kitchen.
A few days went by without any further incident. In fact, after Victor had sobered up the following day, he told the girls he felt like a real asshole and asked them to apologize to me for his bullshit. I couldn't care less about this guy, but I was thankful that I could drink in peace at my favorite bar again. God knows I didn't want to go through the trouble of finding a new one, or go hang out at the Freedom Bar on Rawai Beach with all of the dinks from Rawai Muay Thai.
Of course this was all too good to be true. Not all that long after the first incident, I was back hanging out at the Beach Bar with Victor sitting directly across the way from me, when I saw him talking to an older guy seated directly next to him, appearing fairly agitated. I couldn't make out anything he was saying, but I noticed him point at me more than once. I initially figured he was probably explaining what had happened the other night, but he only got more and more angry. Eventually Victor enthusiastically rang the bell above the bar that's used to buy everyone a round, shouted "drinks for everyone!" before pointing directly at me once again and continuing, "except for him! YOU don't get a drink!"
"Fuck. Here we go again," I thought, and I attempted to diffuse the situation by informing Victor that I bought my own drinks and I was completely fine with that. But he raged on, once again leaving his chair on the other side of the bar and getting right in my face. Again, I remained seated but facing him in case he decided to do something stupid. I guess it's worth noting that Victor probably had somewhere between 50-60 pounds on me, but he was a few inches shorter and almost fall-down drunk. I wasn't scared of him -- worst case scenario I could easily outrun this dude -- but there absolutely no reason for me to fight this guy. I'm in Thailand, for Christ's sake. Have you ever watched Locked Up Abroad? The last thing I ever want to do is run afoul of the law in Southeast Asia. Plus this is my favorite area bar, and I have no desire to x it off my list for some shit I didn't start. So I kept my composure and told him to sit down.
During the course of his huffing and puffing around the bar, he shoved Rung -- one of the girls working at the bar -- hard enough that she fell backwards a couple feet into some rocks. Getting in my face is one thing, but beating up on a Thai girl half his size is far over the line. It was at that point that I finally got up and stood between him and the girls. Again, I stood my ground, but I didn't do anything to instigate any sort of physical altercation. I even let my hands dangle at my sides, stupidly leaving my entire face and head open. I still wasn't particularly worried about anything this guy could do to me. Have you ever seen a drunk try to throw a punch?
By now, the bar's mammasan was so pissed that she picked up a giant flower pot by the side of the road and threw it down at Victor's feet, sending ceramic shards and soil everywhere. It was actually sort of hilarious, but the whole situation was surreal enough for me to easily stifle any laughter. Victor cooled down for a minute or so after the flower pot incident and took his seat at the bar, but managed to quickly rile himself back up. This time, before he got back up, he grabbed a seashell ashtray off the bar and crushed it in his hand, shredding his palm and instantly bleeding all over the place. I remembered what the girls said about his mystery illness and this now became my primary concern. Victor again approached me and began to threaten me with a shard of the seashell ashtray, shouting that he was going to slit my throat from ear to ear and then pay off the local cops, all of which is probably entirely possible. But I continued to stand my ground as I got more and more annoyed the longer this stupid situation stretched out, I actually started to lose my cool a bit, going so far as to call Victor a "pussy" multiple times for needing a weapon to fight someone almost half his size.
This is where things get a little fuzzy, and not because I was stabbed with a broken ashtray and sustained major blood loss or anything. The standoff between Victor and I continued for maybe another ten minutes or so while he continued to rant on and on about all of the money and power he had in Phuket and all of the people he had killed back in Russia while I seriously began to miss my previously ice cold Chang beer, still sitting untouched at the far end of the bar. I guess that once it finally became clear to Victor that I wasn't going to swing at him and that he was too much of a blowhard to deliver on half of the threats he made towards me, he moved on from threatening my life to challenging me to a pushup contest. Seriously.
While a good, old fashioned pushup contest sounds infinitely better than fending off a drunken Russian with a broken seashell ashtray for a weapon, I also felt like I was at a slight disadvantage as I A) had been training all day, which included somewhere between 100-150 pushups already and B) my left shoulder had been bothering me for months already (this was back when my posterior torn labrum had been misdiagnosed as bicep inflammation just before I left). But then I came to the realization that even if I lost the challenge, it would probably get Victor off my case anyway as it would effectively prove to me and everyone around us that he was the better man, so I accepted and agreed to go first.
I'm no knucklehead, so I made sure that I left a good five to six foot buffer between Victor and I before I dropped down onto my hands. That way, if he decided to wait until I was on the ground before attempting to soccer kick my skull, I'd have some time to react. It turned out not to be an elementary ruse; Victor really let me do my pushups in peace -- 78 in total. Victor was next. Although he started at a brisk enough pace to worry me, he petered out and eventually stopped somewhere in the mid-forties. Ready to quietly revel in my win and get back to my drink, I was surprised when I learned that we weren't done. Or, more specifically, Victor wasn't done. After a thirty second break, Victor then continued doing his pushups and counting as if he had never stopped, picking up exactly where he left off. I had no idea where he was going with this, but I let him continue, figuring the better he felt about himself, the less I would have to deal with him. Two pushups in, his arms gave out and he fell face-first onto the concrete, splitting open his forehead. Unfazed, he returned to the starting position and grinded out four more pushups. He then stopped again, took another twenty second break, and then grimaced through another three or four pushups for somewhere in the neighborhood of sixty "consecutive" pushups. Victor stood up, said something about it being "close", and then -- obviously unhappy with the result -- challenged me to a one armed pushup contest. All I really wanted was to drink a fucking beer in peace, but I reluctantly agreed. This time, Victor went first, dropping down to the floor, taking an extremely wide stance, and doing ten ugly one armed pushups. I can't remember the last time I did a single one armed pushup, let alone after knocking out somewhere around two hundred pushups in the preceding hours, but I dropped down, assumed a normal base, and managed to muscle through thirteen of them. After being bested by a much smaller man twice in a row, and at his own challenges, Victor then proposed a THIRD contest: sit ups. By this point, I had most definitely had enough, and I declined. Victor took it well, even offering to shake my hand and buy me a drink. I took him up on the latter and made him buy me a Jack and Coke for my troubles (and for the warm Chang he dragged me from) and managed to go the rest of my trip without dealing with his bullshit again. In fact, on more than a few occasions, Victor would approach me at the bar, shake my hand, and ask me how I was doing. And if I remember correctly, he even said something along the lines of, "you're my friend now; if anyone ever fucks with you, you tell me and I fuck with them." Of course I never took him up on it as out of the four times I've been to Thailand, this asshole was the only one who ever gave me a hard time. There was the drunken German from the previous trip who went on and on about how much he hated America, but he was a harmless idiot.
So that's how I avoided being killed by a drunken Russian by way of a broken seashell ashtray and learned how many consecutive pushups I could do in the process. I hope I didn't miss any entertaining or important details.
Seeing as how this story took place about seven months ago (that coupled with the fact that there was alcohol involved), my recollection of the night's events may not be 100% accurate, but I'm going to do my best to remember everything as they happened. There is no need for creative embellishment as the actual events are pretty great on their own merit.
Most of my nights were spent at a little beer bar called the Beach Bar which was directly across the street from the Icon nightclub. The Beach Bar is close to Sinbi's gym, I know and like the girls, and I almost always have a good, relaxed time there. Also there almost every night was some eurotrash fuckface and a perpetually drunken Russian (I know, I know) named Victor. What the girls told me about Victor was that he owned a few rental properties throughout Phuket, was married but in love with a bar girl, and suffered from an unknown or unnamed disease he contracted through a dirty bamboo tattoo he got while spending time in Cambodia. What I overheard Victor tell me about Victor was that he spent a number of years in the Russian Army and was responsible for the deaths of hundreds of men, women, and children.
Anyone that's even gone out drinking with me or has spent any time around me after I've been drinking would most likely describe me as a pretty chill drunk; I don't get loud and I don't start shit with anyone, so why Victor decided to start shit with me on more than one occasion is still kind of a mystery to me. He started shit with plenty of the girls at the bar as well, but my only guess would be that I got his attention because I was usually the only male in the bar under the age of sixty-five, and the girls seemed to genuinely like me while avoiding him at all costs.
The first time Victor decided to make a scene wasn't really all that big a deal; it involved some yelling, cursing, and posturing, but I never felt threatened and the bar's owner (who unfortunately had to -- and most likely still has to -- deal with Victor's shit on a daily basis) was there to calm him down. I stayed in my seat the entire time and tried to avoid escalating the situation, all while maintaining eye contact with him in case he decided to sucker punch me. Things died down considerably once Victor passed the fuck out on an old couch set up in the back of the bar, by the kitchen.
A few days went by without any further incident. In fact, after Victor had sobered up the following day, he told the girls he felt like a real asshole and asked them to apologize to me for his bullshit. I couldn't care less about this guy, but I was thankful that I could drink in peace at my favorite bar again. God knows I didn't want to go through the trouble of finding a new one, or go hang out at the Freedom Bar on Rawai Beach with all of the dinks from Rawai Muay Thai.
Of course this was all too good to be true. Not all that long after the first incident, I was back hanging out at the Beach Bar with Victor sitting directly across the way from me, when I saw him talking to an older guy seated directly next to him, appearing fairly agitated. I couldn't make out anything he was saying, but I noticed him point at me more than once. I initially figured he was probably explaining what had happened the other night, but he only got more and more angry. Eventually Victor enthusiastically rang the bell above the bar that's used to buy everyone a round, shouted "drinks for everyone!" before pointing directly at me once again and continuing, "except for him! YOU don't get a drink!"
"Fuck. Here we go again," I thought, and I attempted to diffuse the situation by informing Victor that I bought my own drinks and I was completely fine with that. But he raged on, once again leaving his chair on the other side of the bar and getting right in my face. Again, I remained seated but facing him in case he decided to do something stupid. I guess it's worth noting that Victor probably had somewhere between 50-60 pounds on me, but he was a few inches shorter and almost fall-down drunk. I wasn't scared of him -- worst case scenario I could easily outrun this dude -- but there absolutely no reason for me to fight this guy. I'm in Thailand, for Christ's sake. Have you ever watched Locked Up Abroad? The last thing I ever want to do is run afoul of the law in Southeast Asia. Plus this is my favorite area bar, and I have no desire to x it off my list for some shit I didn't start. So I kept my composure and told him to sit down.
During the course of his huffing and puffing around the bar, he shoved Rung -- one of the girls working at the bar -- hard enough that she fell backwards a couple feet into some rocks. Getting in my face is one thing, but beating up on a Thai girl half his size is far over the line. It was at that point that I finally got up and stood between him and the girls. Again, I stood my ground, but I didn't do anything to instigate any sort of physical altercation. I even let my hands dangle at my sides, stupidly leaving my entire face and head open. I still wasn't particularly worried about anything this guy could do to me. Have you ever seen a drunk try to throw a punch?
By now, the bar's mammasan was so pissed that she picked up a giant flower pot by the side of the road and threw it down at Victor's feet, sending ceramic shards and soil everywhere. It was actually sort of hilarious, but the whole situation was surreal enough for me to easily stifle any laughter. Victor cooled down for a minute or so after the flower pot incident and took his seat at the bar, but managed to quickly rile himself back up. This time, before he got back up, he grabbed a seashell ashtray off the bar and crushed it in his hand, shredding his palm and instantly bleeding all over the place. I remembered what the girls said about his mystery illness and this now became my primary concern. Victor again approached me and began to threaten me with a shard of the seashell ashtray, shouting that he was going to slit my throat from ear to ear and then pay off the local cops, all of which is probably entirely possible. But I continued to stand my ground as I got more and more annoyed the longer this stupid situation stretched out, I actually started to lose my cool a bit, going so far as to call Victor a "pussy" multiple times for needing a weapon to fight someone almost half his size.
This is where things get a little fuzzy, and not because I was stabbed with a broken ashtray and sustained major blood loss or anything. The standoff between Victor and I continued for maybe another ten minutes or so while he continued to rant on and on about all of the money and power he had in Phuket and all of the people he had killed back in Russia while I seriously began to miss my previously ice cold Chang beer, still sitting untouched at the far end of the bar. I guess that once it finally became clear to Victor that I wasn't going to swing at him and that he was too much of a blowhard to deliver on half of the threats he made towards me, he moved on from threatening my life to challenging me to a pushup contest. Seriously.
While a good, old fashioned pushup contest sounds infinitely better than fending off a drunken Russian with a broken seashell ashtray for a weapon, I also felt like I was at a slight disadvantage as I A) had been training all day, which included somewhere between 100-150 pushups already and B) my left shoulder had been bothering me for months already (this was back when my posterior torn labrum had been misdiagnosed as bicep inflammation just before I left). But then I came to the realization that even if I lost the challenge, it would probably get Victor off my case anyway as it would effectively prove to me and everyone around us that he was the better man, so I accepted and agreed to go first.
I'm no knucklehead, so I made sure that I left a good five to six foot buffer between Victor and I before I dropped down onto my hands. That way, if he decided to wait until I was on the ground before attempting to soccer kick my skull, I'd have some time to react. It turned out not to be an elementary ruse; Victor really let me do my pushups in peace -- 78 in total. Victor was next. Although he started at a brisk enough pace to worry me, he petered out and eventually stopped somewhere in the mid-forties. Ready to quietly revel in my win and get back to my drink, I was surprised when I learned that we weren't done. Or, more specifically, Victor wasn't done. After a thirty second break, Victor then continued doing his pushups and counting as if he had never stopped, picking up exactly where he left off. I had no idea where he was going with this, but I let him continue, figuring the better he felt about himself, the less I would have to deal with him. Two pushups in, his arms gave out and he fell face-first onto the concrete, splitting open his forehead. Unfazed, he returned to the starting position and grinded out four more pushups. He then stopped again, took another twenty second break, and then grimaced through another three or four pushups for somewhere in the neighborhood of sixty "consecutive" pushups. Victor stood up, said something about it being "close", and then -- obviously unhappy with the result -- challenged me to a one armed pushup contest. All I really wanted was to drink a fucking beer in peace, but I reluctantly agreed. This time, Victor went first, dropping down to the floor, taking an extremely wide stance, and doing ten ugly one armed pushups. I can't remember the last time I did a single one armed pushup, let alone after knocking out somewhere around two hundred pushups in the preceding hours, but I dropped down, assumed a normal base, and managed to muscle through thirteen of them. After being bested by a much smaller man twice in a row, and at his own challenges, Victor then proposed a THIRD contest: sit ups. By this point, I had most definitely had enough, and I declined. Victor took it well, even offering to shake my hand and buy me a drink. I took him up on the latter and made him buy me a Jack and Coke for my troubles (and for the warm Chang he dragged me from) and managed to go the rest of my trip without dealing with his bullshit again. In fact, on more than a few occasions, Victor would approach me at the bar, shake my hand, and ask me how I was doing. And if I remember correctly, he even said something along the lines of, "you're my friend now; if anyone ever fucks with you, you tell me and I fuck with them." Of course I never took him up on it as out of the four times I've been to Thailand, this asshole was the only one who ever gave me a hard time. There was the drunken German from the previous trip who went on and on about how much he hated America, but he was a harmless idiot.
So that's how I avoided being killed by a drunken Russian by way of a broken seashell ashtray and learned how many consecutive pushups I could do in the process. I hope I didn't miss any entertaining or important details.
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