Friday, February 11, 2011
Friday, December 18, 2009
Size does matter after all
Before this exercise, I consulted with many a fresh engineering graduate from prestigious schools with prestigious programs and prestige prestige prestige seeping out of every pore (as well as too many instances of jargon, Greek letters, and MIT/Cooper Union pride [forget about Polytech]). Why did the levees break, and why did no one do anything despite seeing it coming?
There were several answers. First off, the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers tend to recruit the "shittier" people from the bottom of that barrel; the good ones are quickly picked up by prestigious (sigh) firms. Just like in Baruch, most of the underachievers cruise by by riding on the back of their groupmates (*nods* to G) because professor don't care as much about peer evaluations as the ones at Baruch do. These are the same one to apply to USACoE. I know that this is a blanket statement, but that's what I heard. And it's federal, so it's believable.
The second one was just as disheartening. "There's really no way you could adequately predict this sort of thing; it's all guessimating." That goes along with what Jenni Bergal mentioned in her book City Adrift: New Orleans Before and After Katrina. She mentions that the USACoE "had used outdated data in its engineering plans ot build the levees and floodwalls and that the wetlands buffering the area... were disappearing."
(As seen here, the levees of the West Bank are no match for a category 3 storm, such as Katrina)
(Note the 10' and 13' walls that shelter the city from Lake Pontchartrain.)
Indeed, it's safe to say that someone was caught with their pants down; it boils down to who. Right after New Orleans was devastated by Katrina, a $924 million protection project was authorized by Congress, in which barriers and levees would be built. However, the completion date, which was scheduled to be 1978 was pushed back to 2008. Since Katrina hit in 2005, that's a moot point. (Talk about procrastination and/or ineptitude; perhaps the elitsts were right about their assessment of the USACoE.)
At the same time, too much was riding on the levees. In a Frontline investigation about Katrina, first-hand footage showed that local Nat'l Guard was unprepared because expect the levees to give way. When the levees did break, they were caught floundering; only 3/4s of the force was active after saving themselves. In the end, the last barrier of defense for the precarious city isn't enforced by guns, but stalwart sentries (both human and geological) and a better work ethic (likewise).
There were several answers. First off, the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers tend to recruit the "shittier" people from the bottom of that barrel; the good ones are quickly picked up by prestigious (sigh) firms. Just like in Baruch, most of the underachievers cruise by by riding on the back of their groupmates (*nods* to G) because professor don't care as much about peer evaluations as the ones at Baruch do. These are the same one to apply to USACoE. I know that this is a blanket statement, but that's what I heard. And it's federal, so it's believable.
The second one was just as disheartening. "There's really no way you could adequately predict this sort of thing; it's all guessimating." That goes along with what Jenni Bergal mentioned in her book City Adrift: New Orleans Before and After Katrina. She mentions that the USACoE "had used outdated data in its engineering plans ot build the levees and floodwalls and that the wetlands buffering the area... were disappearing."
There's also the many human errors resulting from sloppy work that I heard mentioned more than once (darn elitists). That, combined with bureaucratic red tape in regards to specific levee heights and federal funding, led to low walls that Katrina's storm surge could easily surpass and topple like Jenga blocks.
(As seen here, the levees of the West Bank are no match for a category 3 storm, such as Katrina)
(Note the 10' and 13' walls that shelter the city from Lake Pontchartrain.)At the same time, too much was riding on the levees. In a Frontline investigation about Katrina, first-hand footage showed that local Nat'l Guard was unprepared because expect the levees to give way. When the levees did break, they were caught floundering; only 3/4s of the force was active after saving themselves. In the end, the last barrier of defense for the precarious city isn't enforced by guns, but stalwart sentries (both human and geological) and a better work ethic (likewise).
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
"So it's not in Florida?"
“So, New Orleans is in a state of anarchy right now,” he said, in between bites of his BLT. “People are rioting, looting, stealing flat-screens and shit.”
“No kidding?” I responded, more interested in the anarchy rather than New Orleans. I imagined babbling tourists in tawdry Mickey Mouse shirts fleeing while rioters torched Cinderella’s Castle. Police in riot gear were retreating, dropping their Plexiglas shields after failing to hold the line, as bandanna-masked hooligans tossed flaming Molotovs into shattered storefronts.
It was my second year of college upstate, and I was absorbed in my own nocturnal world. The janitor, interrupting my fantasy of urban violence unto hapless Disney mascot, crept out of her little closet, her yellow bucket-on-wheels signaling that the cafeteria was due to close in about 15 minutes.
“Eh. What happened in Florida?” I asked innocently.
“Wha—what?” His eyes then shrunk to slivers as he smirked, gloating at a chance to one-up me. “You’ve got to wake up and smell the coffee. New Orleans isn’t in Florida. Well, it is, but… you know, the hurricane? It just hit New Orleans. In Louisiana.” As if on cue, the wet splash of the mop punctuated his statement.
I knew nothing of Katrina then, and even less of New Orleans. I had no television in my dorm room, and I got the most important news from Darren, the smug asshole in front of me. In my mind’s filing bin, I placed “Look into Hurricane Katrina” and “Research New Orleans” onto the “DO LATER” stack, where it would be forgotten for years to come. I guess now’s a good a time as any.
New Orleans, it would seem, is unique in that it was—well, it was unique in a lot of ways. After the switching of hands and shuffling of feet, New Orleans was passed back and forth between the French and the Spaniards, before it was ultimately sold to the United States. It was from this that determined the basis the city’s spirit—the changing controlled allowed for a more diverse population (French, Spanish, Creole, white, black, slaves and freemen alike) and different attitudes. Indeed, blood was diluted with the mixing of the races, and more notably, as Peirce F. Lewis puts it, “blacks have worked besides whites”; this was progressive at a time when the rest of the nation was still prodding at race relations like cavemen with fire.
History would not be as kind to New Orleans after this. When the blacks, who were arguably the most progressive in comparison to populations in other cities, tried to push for too many rights, tragedy beset them from then on. Though once a paradigm for race relations, New Orleans would become the beaker in which segregation is the catalyst, and less-than-humane compounds would be synthesized. Race relations, tolerable at best, went down a rocky path, and each bump along the way contributed to bruises in our nation’s history (such as Plessey v. Ferguson, Brown v. Board of Ed., white flight, housing projects, etcetera).
That etched out the foundation for New Orleans’s culture. Currently, New Orleans has the upper-class old money with blood that is “Bourbon-blue”; the tourists, who provide $5 billion to the city’s revenue; the shipping and oil industries, and the black underclass, which is romanticized for their music and dancing.
The geography, then, was manipulated to suit all four tiers. “Land” was dredged up from swamps for the two industries, and levees and pumps were built to drain parts of the Pontchartrain Lake so that suburbs could be built for refugees of white flight. The Brown v. Board ruling ended segregation in schools but had the unintended consequence of alienating blue-collared whites and concentrating blacks within specific parishes and public housing project. The culling of blacks into these enclaves also lessens their chances of upward social mobility, and concentrates their masses into a pot of poverty and crime. In this way, New Orleans is just like the rest of America.
It was because of that, then, that led to the incredible oversight in the face of Katrina. According to Douglas Brinkley, New Orleans was a sinking bowl surrounded by levees that were rendered ineffective by the constant dredging of the oil companies. Money that was necessary towards the defense against the ire of Mother Nature was instead focused on the city’s failing public school system. With an elevation that is on average of six feet underwater, New Orleans is just one disaster away from being a soup bowl filled with “HAZMAT gumbo.”
That’s not to say the city isn't a stranger to disasters. New Orleans has a legacy of 300 years of flooding ever since it was founded by a Frenchman named Sieur de Bienville in 1718 to use as shipping port. Though he knew of the slumbering leviathans that are the Mississippi River and the Pontchartrain Lake, Bienville kept New Orleans where it was, for the sake of commerce. Since then, levee failures, floods, and hurricanes have wreaked havoc on the city and taken its toll on the residents. And while the physical aspects of and surrounding New Orleans is inevitably ineffective against Katrina, so too will be the people running the city. It’s safe to say that the top heads of New Orleans—- one Mayor Nagin and a Superintendent Compass—- dropped the ball when it came to the evacuation of the city in light of Katrina, which had just devastated Florida days before. They chose to side with the second tier—- tourists-— by delaying a mandatory evacuation to see if the storm would miss them. It didn't, and as a result, the fourth tier-— the underclass—- took the brunt of the hit.
But that’s for another time.
(Take that, Darren. You smug sonuvabitch.)
“No kidding?” I responded, more interested in the anarchy rather than New Orleans. I imagined babbling tourists in tawdry Mickey Mouse shirts fleeing while rioters torched Cinderella’s Castle. Police in riot gear were retreating, dropping their Plexiglas shields after failing to hold the line, as bandanna-masked hooligans tossed flaming Molotovs into shattered storefronts.
It was my second year of college upstate, and I was absorbed in my own nocturnal world. The janitor, interrupting my fantasy of urban violence unto hapless Disney mascot, crept out of her little closet, her yellow bucket-on-wheels signaling that the cafeteria was due to close in about 15 minutes.
“Eh. What happened in Florida?” I asked innocently.
“Wha—what?” His eyes then shrunk to slivers as he smirked, gloating at a chance to one-up me. “You’ve got to wake up and smell the coffee. New Orleans isn’t in Florida. Well, it is, but… you know, the hurricane? It just hit New Orleans. In Louisiana.” As if on cue, the wet splash of the mop punctuated his statement.
I knew nothing of Katrina then, and even less of New Orleans. I had no television in my dorm room, and I got the most important news from Darren, the smug asshole in front of me. In my mind’s filing bin, I placed “Look into Hurricane Katrina” and “Research New Orleans” onto the “DO LATER” stack, where it would be forgotten for years to come. I guess now’s a good a time as any.
New Orleans, it would seem, is unique in that it was—well, it was unique in a lot of ways. After the switching of hands and shuffling of feet, New Orleans was passed back and forth between the French and the Spaniards, before it was ultimately sold to the United States. It was from this that determined the basis the city’s spirit—the changing controlled allowed for a more diverse population (French, Spanish, Creole, white, black, slaves and freemen alike) and different attitudes. Indeed, blood was diluted with the mixing of the races, and more notably, as Peirce F. Lewis puts it, “blacks have worked besides whites”; this was progressive at a time when the rest of the nation was still prodding at race relations like cavemen with fire.
History would not be as kind to New Orleans after this. When the blacks, who were arguably the most progressive in comparison to populations in other cities, tried to push for too many rights, tragedy beset them from then on. Though once a paradigm for race relations, New Orleans would become the beaker in which segregation is the catalyst, and less-than-humane compounds would be synthesized. Race relations, tolerable at best, went down a rocky path, and each bump along the way contributed to bruises in our nation’s history (such as Plessey v. Ferguson, Brown v. Board of Ed., white flight, housing projects, etcetera).
That etched out the foundation for New Orleans’s culture. Currently, New Orleans has the upper-class old money with blood that is “Bourbon-blue”; the tourists, who provide $5 billion to the city’s revenue; the shipping and oil industries, and the black underclass, which is romanticized for their music and dancing.
The geography, then, was manipulated to suit all four tiers. “Land” was dredged up from swamps for the two industries, and levees and pumps were built to drain parts of the Pontchartrain Lake so that suburbs could be built for refugees of white flight. The Brown v. Board ruling ended segregation in schools but had the unintended consequence of alienating blue-collared whites and concentrating blacks within specific parishes and public housing project. The culling of blacks into these enclaves also lessens their chances of upward social mobility, and concentrates their masses into a pot of poverty and crime. In this way, New Orleans is just like the rest of America.
It was because of that, then, that led to the incredible oversight in the face of Katrina. According to Douglas Brinkley, New Orleans was a sinking bowl surrounded by levees that were rendered ineffective by the constant dredging of the oil companies. Money that was necessary towards the defense against the ire of Mother Nature was instead focused on the city’s failing public school system. With an elevation that is on average of six feet underwater, New Orleans is just one disaster away from being a soup bowl filled with “HAZMAT gumbo.”
That’s not to say the city isn't a stranger to disasters. New Orleans has a legacy of 300 years of flooding ever since it was founded by a Frenchman named Sieur de Bienville in 1718 to use as shipping port. Though he knew of the slumbering leviathans that are the Mississippi River and the Pontchartrain Lake, Bienville kept New Orleans where it was, for the sake of commerce. Since then, levee failures, floods, and hurricanes have wreaked havoc on the city and taken its toll on the residents. And while the physical aspects of and surrounding New Orleans is inevitably ineffective against Katrina, so too will be the people running the city. It’s safe to say that the top heads of New Orleans—- one Mayor Nagin and a Superintendent Compass—- dropped the ball when it came to the evacuation of the city in light of Katrina, which had just devastated Florida days before. They chose to side with the second tier—- tourists-— by delaying a mandatory evacuation to see if the storm would miss them. It didn't, and as a result, the fourth tier-— the underclass—- took the brunt of the hit.
But that’s for another time.
(Take that, Darren. You smug sonuvabitch.)
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Just an Afterthought
I had wound my handwraps too tightly around my wrists
And they throb
Just like Yun's face is throbbing now.
Everyone loves an underdog
Just not a dead one
The size-L t-shirt hides his medium build
But it ain't fooling Tom’s fists.
Tom’s heavily chiseled, alabaster
The Greek masterpiece we could never be
His stance is unorthodox
And he’s playing peek-a-boo
But it works for him
Nobody minds.
I advised, “Cinch him!” but the idea is preposterous.
I'm better off telling a nun to deepthroat
Still, Yun keeps going like the little engine that could.
But for every step he takes, Tom drives him back three
If not by choice, then by a cannonball to the head
Or a wrecking ball to the ribs
The sinews on his arms tense
But every jab that takes off never lands
Tom’s batting them aside like a manscaped King Kong
Yun sees the one from below, but not the hook from the side
His reacts like a fish caught and Tom's reeling him in
He’s on the floor
Splayed like an asterisk
Just an afterthought to this bout.
-v
And they throb
Just like Yun's face is throbbing now.
Everyone loves an underdog
Just not a dead one
The size-L t-shirt hides his medium build
But it ain't fooling Tom’s fists.
Tom’s heavily chiseled, alabaster
The Greek masterpiece we could never be
His stance is unorthodox
And he’s playing peek-a-boo
But it works for him
Nobody minds.
I advised, “Cinch him!” but the idea is preposterous.
I'm better off telling a nun to deepthroat
Still, Yun keeps going like the little engine that could.
But for every step he takes, Tom drives him back three
If not by choice, then by a cannonball to the head
Or a wrecking ball to the ribs
The sinews on his arms tense
But every jab that takes off never lands
Tom’s batting them aside like a manscaped King Kong
Yun sees the one from below, but not the hook from the side
His reacts like a fish caught and Tom's reeling him in
He’s on the floor
Splayed like an asterisk
Just an afterthought to this bout.
-v
Saturday, November 28, 2009
On Citizen Journalism
It seems that one of the reasons as to why people prefer blogs to mainstream media is because of how in-depth it can be. Indeed, while the latter has to focus on delivering brief nuggets of the news, bloggers can go into detail. Jill Rettberg, in her book, Blogging, calls this gatewatching, where bloggers can identify important material in order to verify its authenticity. She also mentions that citizen journalism also allows for transparent bias, which readers trust more, as it allows for more "honesty."
An example of such "honesty," then, is Yoani Sánchez. In Cuba, where dissent is met with governmental backlash and censorship, Sánchez posts guerrilla entries about her daily reality (vs. the veil of deceit of the regime). In a translated interview, Sánchez noted than an advantage bloggers have over the mainstream is that they are at the "epicenter of events," which allows them to provide the news unadulterated and without comprises usually reported by those with "journalistic integrity."
A problem with citizen journalism, though, is one of its strengths as well. Strong opinions, such as Sánchez’s, is uncontested, as bloggers can choose not to debate on their blogs (though some may argue that arguing is not the point). Also, as bloggers gain popularity, they may feel enticed to act a certain way to maintain and grow their readership (not unlike the way NtCoolFool felt when his posts were recognized by the mainstream media). Sánchez seems to want to invite criticism of the government, but not engage in debate with it; however, one can argue that that is because she blind-blogs with the help of outsiders.
An example of such "honesty," then, is Yoani Sánchez. In Cuba, where dissent is met with governmental backlash and censorship, Sánchez posts guerrilla entries about her daily reality (vs. the veil of deceit of the regime). In a translated interview, Sánchez noted than an advantage bloggers have over the mainstream is that they are at the "epicenter of events," which allows them to provide the news unadulterated and without comprises usually reported by those with "journalistic integrity."
A problem with citizen journalism, though, is one of its strengths as well. Strong opinions, such as Sánchez’s, is uncontested, as bloggers can choose not to debate on their blogs (though some may argue that arguing is not the point). Also, as bloggers gain popularity, they may feel enticed to act a certain way to maintain and grow their readership (not unlike the way NtCoolFool felt when his posts were recognized by the mainstream media). Sánchez seems to want to invite criticism of the government, but not engage in debate with it; however, one can argue that that is because she blind-blogs with the help of outsiders.
Friday, November 20, 2009
In America, we call it "keepin' yo' pimp hand strong"
Making my daily rounds of international news and gaming blogs, I came across this little oddity.
Yep, it's an awkwardly named HIT THE BITCH (link for full screen version- I won't judge you if you prefer it rough and in-your-face, if that's your thing; it even has a meter to measure how much of a gangsta or pussy you are, depending how hard and how much you hit.)
I question the wisdom of releasing a flash app that encourages you to slap a bitch up onto the internet; it's like delivering a lamb into the den of rabid wolves, where even its bones will be defiled and desecrated. But I digress.
In an effort to dissuade (promote?) domestic violence, a Danish marketing firm created this "immersive" app, which even has dodgy webcam support, so your virtual pimp hand will beat the shit out of her regardless, even if you're trying to sooth her face while begging for forgiveness for that initial wrong. Just saying.
No, this game wants you to slap the Beetlejuice out of her. She's probably saying some fresh things, and in some scenes, she flips you the bird. Clearly, the game does its best to escalate the situation, and so the antagonism can be passed around like mac 'n cheese at a Thanksgiving dinner, or Paris Hilton on a good day. Slap her harder and you'll fill up your meter faster, and be less of a "pussy."
So, what's your motivation for slapping her? From what I understand, she burned your dinner. [ed. note: see correction below.] Seriously. I wouldn't mind a Order take-out, play some slow jamz, and then turn up the heat option, but all you have is SLAP DAT BITCH UP WIT' YO MIZZOUSE or SLAP DAT BITCH UP WIT' YO' WEBCAM. This is what we call "When keeping it real goes horribly wrong."
Wait, you might think. So this game is egging you on, telling you that you're less of a pussy if you put that woman in her place? Yeah. I know. I know. It's awkward, and maybe a bit too forced. There's no quit button either, just that ever-present palm. That game wants you to get to the end, because, well, you already lost the game.
In the end, if you somehow sat around to filling up the bar to 100% gangsta (I'm not judging you!), it changes to 100% idiot and the game berates you:
"Idiot, hitting bitches is not gangsta; you lost the game the first time you raised your hand. There's no excuse to hit someone. Seek help before it's too late."
For a game that's titled HIT THAT BITCH, it seems glaringly ironic. At least it'll fulfill its ulterior intentions- it's gone viral, and it may even go meme status. Pretty soon, we may start seeing some HIT THE BITCH shirts.
But Izzy, you stammer. I'm here for your questionable poetry and your boring anecdotes. What gives?
Thanks. Really. I'll be getting back to that soon enough, don't you worry.
-v
Correction: She didn't burn your dinner. She talking about banging your buddy. In this case, they should've included a FIND NEW FRIENDS option.
girl: I've had a fantastic night, how about you?
girl: Yeah, of course I danced with someone.
girl: it's not up to you to decide who I dance with.
male voice: what's going on, you can't control the bitch at all. Smacking her will probably help.
girl: Why shouldn't I fuck your friend, he's just as ugly as you are.
OH BURN. And thus, the slapping begins.
Yep, it's an awkwardly named HIT THE BITCH (link for full screen version- I won't judge you if you prefer it rough and in-your-face, if that's your thing; it even has a meter to measure how much of a gangsta or pussy you are, depending how hard and how much you hit.)
I question the wisdom of releasing a flash app that encourages you to slap a bitch up onto the internet; it's like delivering a lamb into the den of rabid wolves, where even its bones will be defiled and desecrated. But I digress.
In an effort to dissuade (promote?) domestic violence, a Danish marketing firm created this "immersive" app, which even has dodgy webcam support, so your virtual pimp hand will beat the shit out of her regardless, even if you're trying to sooth her face while begging for forgiveness for that initial wrong. Just saying.
No, this game wants you to slap the Beetlejuice out of her. She's probably saying some fresh things, and in some scenes, she flips you the bird. Clearly, the game does its best to escalate the situation, and so the antagonism can be passed around like mac 'n cheese at a Thanksgiving dinner, or Paris Hilton on a good day. Slap her harder and you'll fill up your meter faster, and be less of a "pussy."
So, what's your motivation for slapping her? From what I understand, she burned your dinner. [ed. note: see correction below.] Seriously. I wouldn't mind a Order take-out, play some slow jamz, and then turn up the heat option, but all you have is SLAP DAT BITCH UP WIT' YO MIZZOUSE or SLAP DAT BITCH UP WIT' YO' WEBCAM. This is what we call "When keeping it real goes horribly wrong."
Wait, you might think. So this game is egging you on, telling you that you're less of a pussy if you put that woman in her place? Yeah. I know. I know. It's awkward, and maybe a bit too forced. There's no quit button either, just that ever-present palm. That game wants you to get to the end, because, well, you already lost the game.
In the end, if you somehow sat around to filling up the bar to 100% gangsta (I'm not judging you!), it changes to 100% idiot and the game berates you:
"Idiot, hitting bitches is not gangsta; you lost the game the first time you raised your hand. There's no excuse to hit someone. Seek help before it's too late."
For a game that's titled HIT THAT BITCH, it seems glaringly ironic. At least it'll fulfill its ulterior intentions- it's gone viral, and it may even go meme status. Pretty soon, we may start seeing some HIT THE BITCH shirts.
But Izzy, you stammer. I'm here for your questionable poetry and your boring anecdotes. What gives?
Thanks. Really. I'll be getting back to that soon enough, don't you worry.
-v
Correction: She didn't burn your dinner. She talking about banging your buddy. In this case, they should've included a FIND NEW FRIENDS option.
girl: I've had a fantastic night, how about you?
girl: Yeah, of course I danced with someone.
girl: it's not up to you to decide who I dance with.
male voice: what's going on, you can't control the bitch at all. Smacking her will probably help.
girl: Why shouldn't I fuck your friend, he's just as ugly as you are.
OH BURN. And thus, the slapping begins.
Sunday, November 15, 2009
The Bid, pt. 2
“No,” he said, more incredulous than chastising. “You can’t- you shouldn’t have sex in the frat house.” His voice was muffled over the receiver by the giggles of girls and the thumping of bass, and at that moment, I finally had something in common with him.
“Yeah. Yeah, I gotcha,” I replied, glancing aside at my quarry, who was now seated on the sofa. It was placed haphazardly on the makeshift dance floor, beckoning couples to add to the collection of stains upon its upholstery. So far, the splotches were from spilled drinks, but I had intended to mark it with my, and someone else’s, essence. “I saw it on some site, you know, one of those, uh-”
“You sound like Joey from Friends. That episode where they get free cable porn, and he thought he could have sex with anyone, anywhere?” I felt my eyes glazing over, and I scanned the meager crowd as he derailed our conversation to talk about a show I would never watch. A minute later, the train was back on track. “You should have more respect for the bros. Actually, you should have more respect for yourself.”
“Respect for myself?” I interjected, playing as if I had listened to his entire lecture. “They made me fill up two extra large soda cups. With piss.” And I did it all for you, I thought.
He chuckled. “Oh! That.” I could almost hear the gears in his head grinding nostalgically as he recalled the “best times you’ll never want to go through again.” After a short pause, he asked, “Did you get the bid?”
“No, brah, I didn’t.” It was bad enough answering other people when they asked, but this time, it felt worse than trying to hide a mediocre report card from my parents, but the inevitable has drawn to a close.
“You might be hurting, but don’t do anything stupid. Well, in your case, don’t do anything that stupid.”
I’m not hurting. Just disappointed. “Roger that.” I hung up and walked through the throng of twisting, sweaty girls. I nodded to each one, but did not stop until I got to the sofa. As I sat, she climbed over and straddled my lap, her blonde curls tickling my face. “Hey, sorry about that… I had to make a call.”
“No problem,” she said, still mesmerized from before. “Say, can I get you something?”
“Yeah, I’ll have what he’s having.” I thumbed at the fratboy-to-be next to me, who was stoned, drunk, and receiving a lap-dance from a girl who wasn’t too easy on the eyes, even under the veil of night. “Make it a double.”
“Seriously?” She asked, an eyebrow arched more in invitation than in question.
“Yes.” I wasn’t in an offensive mood, but at this point, I didn’t care about blowing my chances. I just had to let the situation drag out and for things to go as planned.
She began pivoting her body, and she was about as sexy as a circus seal but as eager as a boa about to squeeze its prey. As she moved further along my thigh, she smiled.
And I hurt.
“Hey, love,” I said, running out of placeholders to call her, since I’ve forgotten her Russian name almost as soon as she mentioned it. “Hold on a second. My keys are trying to claw through my leg.”
“Oh, should I stop?” She was as bright as a doorknob, but I’ve already forgiven her in light of her other assets. I must’ve sighed reflexively, because she got off, and the pain subsided.
She rubbed my thigh with one surprisingly soothing hand, given the pain she just dealt, and brushed my knuckles with the other. I knew where this was going. “Hey, do you have a ride home?” she asked, as her fingers snaked around mine.
“No, I got it covered.” I was going to call a cab, but I was intent on missing the point. My interest started to wane as much as my arousal had, and I turned my head the other way to look at the well-lighted side of the house. Some of the man-boys were playing the usual house party fare, such as beer pong and retro videogames, while others were knocking back shots of liquor that were off-limits to the paying guests. It was painfully noticeable that the girls were on my side of the house, as if cordoned off by the impeded advance of illumination. The amount of ping pong balls that soared through the air was a fitting testament to the testosterone level in that room.
And at the border of light and dark, shitfaced Stevie was puking out his guts onto a pile of black North Face bubble jackets. Luckily, mine was in one of the bros’ bedroom.
“Hold up, I gotta go check on something,” I muttered, more to myself. I headed over to the light side, where Stevie was sprawled over the edge of another sofa. “You probably just pissed off half of the Asian guys here, man,” I joked, referring to the cookie-cutter image that most Asian males have that forces them to dress in the same way. The up-side is that it’s easy to be unique in a sea of clones; on the other hand, I’ll never blend in if I don't dress that way.
“Yeah, they funneled so much liquor into me. Here, take this.” He handed me a shot. “I can’t take much more of this shit.”
Yeah, I noticed.
A well-built Asian hovered over us, conjured by the offer and acceptance of the forbidden alcohol. He was one of the brothers. “What the fuck, we give you the shot, and you hand it off to someone else?” Someone else. Before, I was a rush, and now, I’m just an outsider without a name. He yanked the shot glass from my hand, spilling some as he handed it back to Stevie. “You better take your shit, you little pussy. Don't let me catch you again.” At the sound of cheers and retching behind him, the brother hurried off.
It didn't faze me. “Props. For you getting the bid, Stevie. I never doubted you,” I said, as he slammed the shot, against his better judgment.
“I have never felt so shitty before. Never. Felt. Ugh”
“It’s okay, you’ll get used to it.” I held up one of many buckets lying around and struck a pose as a passing girl memorialized it with her camera. Stevie promptly hurled into the bucket. “Or, you’ll have to.” She handed me the camera, and I was somewhat pleased to see that I didn't look that goofy. Stevie, with his face buried in the bucket, took the brunt of shame. As I handed the camera back, I heard a familiar voice.
“-Yeah, Stuy kids are such herbs,” I heard, not too far away, from a Stuy graduate who was from my year. There was no irony in his statement, as he meant none. I knew who it was directed towards; if I was in less hostile territory, they would be fighting words. I glanced while patting Stevie’s back, and noticed that he was speaking to a younger Stuy graduate, who received a bid earlier in the day. “That’s right,” the other agreed. “Fucking herbs.”
I couldn’t help myself, but I sneered. Instead of flirting with nubile hotties, they were disgruntled and talking among themselves. It’s not that the opportunity hadn’t presented itself; they were devoid of it. For them, it would be easier trying to be the top in the showers of a maximum-security prison.
My mind buzzed as it generated conversational spools, from the initial retort to the inevitable counters down the line. I caught myself forming a fist with my left hand, the bones cracking as I did so; it was a tic I needed to control. Did they notice? I wondered. I replaced the bucket, making sure not to spill its vile contents. As I turned to face them, I felt a slightly tug at my elbow.
Oh. It wasn’t Stevie. Instead, she was a Korean girl. Without the unholy bucket as my shield, I am now my own chink in my armor.
“Hey, what are you doing over here?” Her cascading inflection said it all; she didn’t expect a response. “Let’s dance.”
For a moment, I thought about resisting and playing hard-to-get, as is generally advisable by smarter men. But, hey, she was attractive, and she seemed to glow under the light. Iwasn't ready to burn this bridge just for some superficial chest-thumping.
I nudged Stevie’s head off of my shoulder. The graduates were looking at me, awaiting my response. They received none.
I stood, and I was whisked back into the darkness, away from the land of trivial men.
-v
“Yeah. Yeah, I gotcha,” I replied, glancing aside at my quarry, who was now seated on the sofa. It was placed haphazardly on the makeshift dance floor, beckoning couples to add to the collection of stains upon its upholstery. So far, the splotches were from spilled drinks, but I had intended to mark it with my, and someone else’s, essence. “I saw it on some site, you know, one of those, uh-”
“You sound like Joey from Friends. That episode where they get free cable porn, and he thought he could have sex with anyone, anywhere?” I felt my eyes glazing over, and I scanned the meager crowd as he derailed our conversation to talk about a show I would never watch. A minute later, the train was back on track. “You should have more respect for the bros. Actually, you should have more respect for yourself.”
“Respect for myself?” I interjected, playing as if I had listened to his entire lecture. “They made me fill up two extra large soda cups. With piss.” And I did it all for you, I thought.
He chuckled. “Oh! That.” I could almost hear the gears in his head grinding nostalgically as he recalled the “best times you’ll never want to go through again.” After a short pause, he asked, “Did you get the bid?”
“No, brah, I didn’t.” It was bad enough answering other people when they asked, but this time, it felt worse than trying to hide a mediocre report card from my parents, but the inevitable has drawn to a close.
“You might be hurting, but don’t do anything stupid. Well, in your case, don’t do anything that stupid.”
I’m not hurting. Just disappointed. “Roger that.” I hung up and walked through the throng of twisting, sweaty girls. I nodded to each one, but did not stop until I got to the sofa. As I sat, she climbed over and straddled my lap, her blonde curls tickling my face. “Hey, sorry about that… I had to make a call.”
“No problem,” she said, still mesmerized from before. “Say, can I get you something?”
“Yeah, I’ll have what he’s having.” I thumbed at the fratboy-to-be next to me, who was stoned, drunk, and receiving a lap-dance from a girl who wasn’t too easy on the eyes, even under the veil of night. “Make it a double.”
“Seriously?” She asked, an eyebrow arched more in invitation than in question.
“Yes.” I wasn’t in an offensive mood, but at this point, I didn’t care about blowing my chances. I just had to let the situation drag out and for things to go as planned.
She began pivoting her body, and she was about as sexy as a circus seal but as eager as a boa about to squeeze its prey. As she moved further along my thigh, she smiled.
And I hurt.
“Hey, love,” I said, running out of placeholders to call her, since I’ve forgotten her Russian name almost as soon as she mentioned it. “Hold on a second. My keys are trying to claw through my leg.”
“Oh, should I stop?” She was as bright as a doorknob, but I’ve already forgiven her in light of her other assets. I must’ve sighed reflexively, because she got off, and the pain subsided.
She rubbed my thigh with one surprisingly soothing hand, given the pain she just dealt, and brushed my knuckles with the other. I knew where this was going. “Hey, do you have a ride home?” she asked, as her fingers snaked around mine.
“No, I got it covered.” I was going to call a cab, but I was intent on missing the point. My interest started to wane as much as my arousal had, and I turned my head the other way to look at the well-lighted side of the house. Some of the man-boys were playing the usual house party fare, such as beer pong and retro videogames, while others were knocking back shots of liquor that were off-limits to the paying guests. It was painfully noticeable that the girls were on my side of the house, as if cordoned off by the impeded advance of illumination. The amount of ping pong balls that soared through the air was a fitting testament to the testosterone level in that room.
And at the border of light and dark, shitfaced Stevie was puking out his guts onto a pile of black North Face bubble jackets. Luckily, mine was in one of the bros’ bedroom.
“Hold up, I gotta go check on something,” I muttered, more to myself. I headed over to the light side, where Stevie was sprawled over the edge of another sofa. “You probably just pissed off half of the Asian guys here, man,” I joked, referring to the cookie-cutter image that most Asian males have that forces them to dress in the same way. The up-side is that it’s easy to be unique in a sea of clones; on the other hand, I’ll never blend in if I don't dress that way.
“Yeah, they funneled so much liquor into me. Here, take this.” He handed me a shot. “I can’t take much more of this shit.”
Yeah, I noticed.
A well-built Asian hovered over us, conjured by the offer and acceptance of the forbidden alcohol. He was one of the brothers. “What the fuck, we give you the shot, and you hand it off to someone else?” Someone else. Before, I was a rush, and now, I’m just an outsider without a name. He yanked the shot glass from my hand, spilling some as he handed it back to Stevie. “You better take your shit, you little pussy. Don't let me catch you again.” At the sound of cheers and retching behind him, the brother hurried off.
It didn't faze me. “Props. For you getting the bid, Stevie. I never doubted you,” I said, as he slammed the shot, against his better judgment.
“I have never felt so shitty before. Never. Felt. Ugh”
“It’s okay, you’ll get used to it.” I held up one of many buckets lying around and struck a pose as a passing girl memorialized it with her camera. Stevie promptly hurled into the bucket. “Or, you’ll have to.” She handed me the camera, and I was somewhat pleased to see that I didn't look that goofy. Stevie, with his face buried in the bucket, took the brunt of shame. As I handed the camera back, I heard a familiar voice.
“-Yeah, Stuy kids are such herbs,” I heard, not too far away, from a Stuy graduate who was from my year. There was no irony in his statement, as he meant none. I knew who it was directed towards; if I was in less hostile territory, they would be fighting words. I glanced while patting Stevie’s back, and noticed that he was speaking to a younger Stuy graduate, who received a bid earlier in the day. “That’s right,” the other agreed. “Fucking herbs.”
I couldn’t help myself, but I sneered. Instead of flirting with nubile hotties, they were disgruntled and talking among themselves. It’s not that the opportunity hadn’t presented itself; they were devoid of it. For them, it would be easier trying to be the top in the showers of a maximum-security prison.
My mind buzzed as it generated conversational spools, from the initial retort to the inevitable counters down the line. I caught myself forming a fist with my left hand, the bones cracking as I did so; it was a tic I needed to control. Did they notice? I wondered. I replaced the bucket, making sure not to spill its vile contents. As I turned to face them, I felt a slightly tug at my elbow.
Oh. It wasn’t Stevie. Instead, she was a Korean girl. Without the unholy bucket as my shield, I am now my own chink in my armor.
“Hey, what are you doing over here?” Her cascading inflection said it all; she didn’t expect a response. “Let’s dance.”
For a moment, I thought about resisting and playing hard-to-get, as is generally advisable by smarter men. But, hey, she was attractive, and she seemed to glow under the light. Iwasn't ready to burn this bridge just for some superficial chest-thumping.
I nudged Stevie’s head off of my shoulder. The graduates were looking at me, awaiting my response. They received none.
I stood, and I was whisked back into the darkness, away from the land of trivial men.
-v
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