Give the Young Chap Your Number

So a good friend of mine from work, we’ll just call him Sterling Silver, has been inviting me to come dancing at Club Try Angles, the local gay bar, for a while now. There are two things you should know about me: 1—I love to dance, and 2—I have a dark birthmark on my right thigh that doctors call a nevis. While the birthmark has nothing to do with this story, the dancing does. I’ve heard on several occasions that there are few better places to dance than a gay bar. The music is always fun, and you don’t have to worry about looking like a sissy in front of other dudes when you start pulling out your spinny moves. An added bonus is that the very fact that you are at the place makes women trust you, no matter if you are gay or straight (which you are probably at least one of those). If a woman trusts you, she will oftentimes approach you and strike up conversation! Can you believe that? I thought that only happened in Imaginaryland!

So my roommate Barnaby and I drove down to Try Angles and I purchased a temporary membership (you have to be a member to go in). As we were going in, I got a text message from Sterling Silver, who we were supposed to meet there, that he wouldn’t be able to make it. So it would just be Barnaby and I swimming in a sea of men. I’m glad we brought our swim suits. We went in and found a small table along the wall and observed for a few minutes. I had to go to the restroom, and when I came back Barnaby was gone. “Your friend went in the other room,” a neighboring table of two huge Polynesian guys informed me. I followed their direction and indeed found my Czech roommate in the billiards room, chatting it up with three young men. I joined the conversation and after a few minutes we were all having a grand old time. But the time to leave had come—we had a pirate poetry party to get to. As I got up to leave, one of the gents we had been hanging out with also stood up, “Hey, do you have a phone?” “Ya.” “Let me get your number.” Inside I froze, though on the outside I was as cool as a jazzman at The Birdhouse. I didn’t know if I should tell him I was straight, if I should give him a fake number, or if I should fake sudden illness and run to the bathroom as I made really loud throw up sounds. Oh, who cares, I thought to myself, just give the young chap your number. You could use some friends in this big new scary city. So I willingly recited my phone number, laughing hysterically inside at the fact that on the numeric keypad my digits spell SO GAY 41. If only my new friend knew.

Aaaaaaah SUSHI!

Every Wednesday night I go to Ahh Sushi! for half off sushi rolls. It is awesome. It is the greatest and only city-type activity I know, since I'm fairly new here. Except for dollar fish taco Tuesday at Rubio's. And driving in tons of heavy traffic morning and night during both rush hours. Once I have lived here for a little more time, I will know of more city-type activities, then I will blog about them. Iblog.

But Ahh Sushi! California rolls and Funky Charlie rolls are many dollars off, as are some other things from various areas of the menu. And there are many friends there--mainly because I guilt them into coming. But the important thing is that they come. And they're there. And they feel guilty. The best is when you get the back party room and get to close the sliding paper doors. You go back there with all of your friends and put your legs in the hole under the table (which is just barely too far away from you to feel normal) and feel like you own the place, but you don't. Hiro Nigishama does. No he doesn't. I just made that up because I'm trying to appeal to a Japanese audience but I don't think it's working because my sensei just sent me a text message and told me that I was temporarily banned from his dojo for wearing my "Bruce Lee + Jackie Chan = 2 Gay Japs" t-shirt to karate practice. I haven't missed sushi night since I started going at the very beginning of December, except for one night that I was really sick and actually threw up. Not from nausea, but from coughing so hard that I puked.

Tacos, Temples and God's Wrath

The taco cart "Las Gueras" that sets up in the parking lot at work is the best thing to hit Salt Lake since that tornado that tore through Temple Square a few years back, which was actually the worst thing to hit Salt Lake since the winter of '97/98, which was the best snow we had received since Snow the rapper came through here on his "Informer" tour about 12 or so years ago. If you don't follow, let me approach this in a different way. The Temple Square tornado was God's wrath coming upon us for all the Single's Ward and other Mo-Mo movies we have created. The winter of '97/98 was an incredible snow year. I was working at Snowbird that winter and was stuck up there for 3 days (poor me, poor powder) while the Utah Highway Patrol worked to clear the road up Little Cottonwood Canyon that had been completely covered by several avalanches. One lady that was trapped up there gave birth to a brand new slimy baby. It proves that even life has small miracles every day of every minute. Alisson Kraus was right. Snow is a reggae rapper that had an album called 12 Inches of Snow, referring not to depth of white stuff on the ground, rather the imaginary length of his own manhood. The taco cart outside is the best one I've known in years of taco carting. Absolutely. Rebeka makes these huge quesadillas where she throws a pile of cheese right on the grill, then puts the tortilla on top of it. Then she scoops it all up, puts the spicy meat of your choice inside, then serves it to you in a to-go box with rice, beans, grilled onions, and a roasted pepper. You load it with your preferred combination of toppings (pico de gallo, fresh blended guac, salsa verde or roja, squeezed lime and whatever else). The whole thing costs three bucks even and you can hardly eat it all. Tacos are one solid dollar a piece. She knows you by first name. I can't take this, I'm going out there right now.

Skating Invalid

If I ever break my leg, I won't walk around with regular crutches. I will wear those kid shoes that have wheels in the heels. The crutches I will use will have a rollerblade wheel in each base. The part where my hands go will have brakes that I could squeeze to slow down or stop if I need to. I know it sounds dangerous, but kids go around on those wheelie shoes all the time without getting hurt. I think it is a safe and logical method of rehabilitative transportation, and that's why I'm voting today. And you're not.