This Guy Loves To Party

As I write this, I’m sitting in the living room of a hostel in Medellin, Colombia.  There’s a group of people, guys and girls, nearby on the outside balcony, listening to loud pop music and smoking.

Just a moment ago, the fucking “Numa Numa” song came on the group’s iPod.  I don’t know its real name and care so little that I won’t spend the three seconds required to Google it.  But, for the most part, it spawned the least entertaining Internet meme ever, and came to fame the ironic route, bolstered in support by sorority girls and 14 year olds the world over.

One of the guys outside went spastic trying to display his approval of the song coming on the iPod.  “Yes!  YES!!  YES!!!!  Hehehehehe, YES, OH MY GOD!!!!!” he screamed as the song’s nauseating opening yodels came on.  I wouldn’t be surprised if he was having a seizure at the same time to bring attention to the fact of how happy he was to hear the song.

All the guy wanted, though, was the approval of the girls sitting nearby him.  It was their iPod, their song, and he wanted to seem cool by showing approval of the song.  In other words, he was working to get their approval.  It was obvious.

Does he actually like the song?  Probably not.  But he assumed the girls loved it (ironically, of course) and was hoping to be “in” with them by liking it, too.

The girls, though, didn’t care.  They didn’t turn to him and high five him, as I’m sure he hoped would happen.  They didn’t smile at each other, happy and horny to have finally found a guy with the same ironic taste in music that they have.

I would go as far as to say that the girls were actually a little bit turned off that this guy was so blatantly trying to win over their approval.  I don’t know this for sure, but they haven’t paid much attention to him in the time that I’ve written this.

To make things worse, the song turned out to be something else.  It was just sampling the Numa Numa song.  It was actually a Rihanna song.  The guy now looks even more retarded, having gotten so jizzingly excited over Rihanna’s latest hit.

All the guy wanted was the group’s approval, but he made the mistake of making everyone else’s opinion more valuable than his own.  He pandered to them and looked stupid and inauthentic, and it was obvious.  If he had instead just acted normally without worrying what everyone else was thinking about him, he would have probably done a much better job impressing them.  Appearing genuine always trumps appearing desperate.

Of course, take this social advice however you’d like.  While he might be the loser trying with all his might to win the approval of a group of girls, I’m the stud writing a blog entry alone on my laptop.  (And there’s a big boy cat cuddling against me as I’m doing this.  He’s purring really hard.  My life is a joke.)

I remember before I left Panama for Colombia, I accidentally stumbled across a “How To Pick Up Women in Colombia” forum online.  Excited by the prospect of the rich material I was to discover, I plowed through the posts.

I was a little confused by the terminology, though.  Those pick-up artists and their crazy nicknames for everything!

Guys were posting in threads with cryptic messages like, “STICK. WITH. THE. PROS.  It’s not worth prospecting a local.”  Other guys were talking about average cost per woman they met in Colombia.  Maybe the dating scene is a little more difficult over there?

It took me about ten posts to realize that they weren’t speaking with any kind of cryptic terminology at all.  I had landed on a forum specifically about prostitutes in Colombia.

I left (after reading a few more posts) and never returned.  That’s not my kind of tourism.

Until now.

I am proud to say, I have now officially visited a Colombian whore house.  I can check off that goal now, sitting inbetween “volunteer at an orphanage” and “start a puppy farm.”

It was Friday night.  Sitting in Medellin’s Parque Lleras, we befriended a guy from Miami whose parents were from Bogota.  He was moving to Colombia for a year or two to, from what I could gather, evade tax laws.  I don’t know, he said something about having bad credit and how he needed to get out of the USA.

I’ve already written about how I hate being a mentally stable person, so I decided I wanted to follow this guy through whatever plans he had for the night and see what it’s like to be him.  If I got shot at or ended up in a car chase with the police, so be it, it’s worth it for the story value that I’d never create by myself.

So we hopped in a taxi with him, with the ultimate goal of going to a local bar/club.  On the way there, though, he mentions he has to make a quick stop.  He tells us it’s cool for us to go in, and we don’t have to buy anything.  How very cryptic of him.

It turns out he ordered the taxi driver to take us to a local high-class whore house.  Literally, it is a beautiful house in an up-scale neighborhood, filled with whores.

The taxi pulls into a poorly-lit street, driving up to a closed gate.  A guy walks out, surveys the taxi and the four of us inside, and opens the gate for us to come in.  Inside the gate there are two more guys whose job, I believe, is to stand around with their arms folded.

At this point I was convinced I was going to get shot tonight, but I had already accepted that fate, so I was OK with it.

We enter the house, greeted (in spirit, not literally) by a soul-less old woman watching a small TV next to the front door.  I don’t know what she was doing there.  She literally served no purpose.  I feel like a whore house should be a very tight business, where there is no dead weight dragging everyone down.

Our creepy Miami friend says something to the “host” of the house, a nice young man, and we take a seat outside on a deck.  He then requests that we meet the whores.

Every prostitute in the house then comes out, one by one, greeting us and shaking our hands.  They then leave, letting the next prostitute come in to do the same thing.

They all had amazingly firm hand shakes.  Some of the best hand shakes I’ve ever had, in fact.  I let one of the whores know this — “me das la mano muy fuerte, estoy impresionado!” — and I feel like this was a mistake to say, judging by her reaction.  I think talking to the whores at all is a sign that you’re interested in them, and I was just being a big ol’ tease.

After the process was over, we discussed our favorites.  (The first two had fun personalities.  We decided this was the case because they actually smiled and didn’t seem so dead inside.)  Then our shady friend from Miami told us that the ladies tonight weren’t as good as the ones from the night before.  We remind him that, by this point, it was about 9:30PM.  Whore houses, like hot clubs, don’t really get cracking until 12 or so, we’re guessing.

We all decided to leave at this point.  I yelled out to all the ladies, who were huddled in the living room, “Que tengan una buena noche!”  They responded in a harmonious, “Unnnnghghhghh.”  I could tell they love their work.

Although that will probably be my last visit to a whore house anywhere, I will never forget how strong their handshakes were.  Really great grips.

There is one common phrase that I don’t plan on ever using again.  I hear other people say it all the time and it really bothers me.

It’s one that you’ve probably said before, too.

“I wish I could, but…”

This applies to anything.  It’s the ultimate excuse.

Oh man, you’re going to the show tonight?  I wish I could, but I’ve got to finish a couple things at home.

Hey, you’re eating a healthier a diet?  I wish I could, but I just love donuts.

Wow, you’re leaving to travel for a few months?  I wish I could, but…

If you want to do something, you can.  And if you really legitimately want to do it, you’ll find a way to make it work.

So don’t tell me you “wish” you could do something I’m doing.  You can, and you’re just making excuses.

I’ve spotted them in every country I’ve been in.

Kicking around their hacky-sack, dancing mindlessly to any live music that might be playing, devouring weed in public parks, braiding their unwashed hair.

It was the same group of hippies.  They followed me from home, and now were everywhere I went.

OK, I admit I’m not retarded enough to think that.  But a surprisingly comforting feeling has come from the realization that — no matter where you are, or what the societal norms are — all hippies are the same, everywhere.

Of course, there’s a wonderful irony in the idea that, worldwide, the people who go out of their way to be different and break the status quo are, in fact, all exactly the same.  But it’s true.

I haven’t suffered from home sickness really at all in my trip, and I credit a lot of that to the universality of hippies.  It’s a great feeling to be able to walk down to just about any big city’s local park and see basically the exact same people I’d see in my home town’s park.

And, usually, they’re all really nice people, even if they don’t speak your native language.  So if you’re both lonely and home sick, you kill two birds with one stone.

Have a bad case of home sickness?  Go on a hunt for some hippies.  They’ll transport you right back home — if not for just one night.

(Photo: hayes street rocks)

I am fascinated by people who knock on locked bathroom doors.

Can someone explain this to me?  Why do people do this?

You’re in a public setting.  You go into the one-toilet bathroom and both close and lock the door, so as to protect your privacy.

Thirty seconds later, you hear someone jiggling the doorknob unsuccessfully.  Clearly the doorknob is locked.

Now, at this point, any normal person would conclude that, since the doorknob is not moving, the door must be locked, and therefore someone must be inside the bathroom.  “I will return to this same bathroom at a later date,” this normal person would conclude.

But all too often, I get the retard who, confused that the door is locked, knocks on the bathroom door.  To see if anyone is in there.

What are they going to do if I don’t respond?  Forcefully kick the door down, pee, and then leave?

Maybe they just need to quickly wash their hands while I’m crapping only three feet away from them?  I respect that.

Or maybe they just want to watch me?

The conclusion I’ve reached is that they’re idiots, but I’ve never actually questioned any of the elusive locked-bathroom-door-knockers.  They usually run off scared when I question them from inside, “Why would you knock on a locked bathroom door?”

If any of you are able to capture one of these people in the wild, please find out why they do what they do.  It’ll be a huge relief for me to understand their thought process.

I feel bad for this emotionally stable child. (Photo: gambass)

When I was younger, I always wanted my parents to get divorced. I wanted it more than anything else.

I remember going over to my buddy Alec’s house. He lived with only his mom because his parents were divorced. He lived a lavish life of video games, ice cream, and over-compensating love from an otherwise insecure mother.

I wanted that. God I wanted it so bad.

Now I meet people on my travels who have the most ridiculous stories — stories that I wish I had myself. They almost got into a fight with an angry Bolivian over a piece of bread, they spent three months in prison when they were younger, they have all kinds of wacky stories about stealing cars on meth highs. What do these people have in common? Yep — divorced, absent parents. Depressing, unstable childhoods.

And don’t get me started on successful, creative people. God their parents were awful. And look at them now — for all their suffering and misery, they get to be rich and famous.

What I’m getting at is: fuck you, mom and dad, for the worthless stable upbringing you gave me.

Do you expect me to be a lawyer or something?

What am I supposed to do with my completely stable, loving upbringing?

I can’t tell interesting stories at parties because I’m too nice a guy to get into conflicts with anyone. I get anxiety attacks if I lie and make up stories.

Any kind of creative career I have will be seriously stunted by my bright outlook on life and generally pleasant demeanor.

Not to mention my complete and utter lack of any kind of drug problem, normally developed to overcome the emotional emptiness at home. There goes any kind of fun career in music, or really anywhere in the entertainment industry.

The plan for my kids

I don’t want my own children to suffer like I do now.

That’s why I’m going to put them through a rigorous 18 years of mental abuse and emotional stress that’s sure to make them interesting and successful people.

I plan on missing most important sporting events they participate in. However, that they even participate in sports will be on their own good will, since I won’t promote any kind of fulfilling after-school activities.

I don’t drink alcohol now, but I’m looking forward to picking up the habit. For my children’s future.

And you’d better believe I’m going to be marrying a series of emotionally absent, empty wives. They make the worst mothers.

Think about your children’s future

Do you want your child to be a lawyer or doctor, or do you want him to be the interesting guy at parties?

I know what I’d prefer right now. And it’s exactly what my kids are getting.

I get hot and bothered when I find travel blogs that are written months or even years before any kind of travel takes place, like it’s a “preliminary plan” blog. This is especially true for the “I’m going to quit my job and travel the world for a long time” variety.

I’m bothered by these kinds of blogs because I already know that this person is likely never going to go on their trip, or actually do what they want to do.

Just Do What You Want To Do, Don’t Tell Everyone About It

If you want to do something cool or significant with your life, here’s the trick: just fucking do it.

If you start telling everyone about your plans months or years ahead of time, you’re just pandering for attention. “Look at me, I’m going to do something cool with my life… when the right time comes.”

People who make plans far, far in advance typically never find the “right time.” They never actually have enough money, or they never have the free time, or they never get rid of their annoying, time-consuming children. The excuses pile up fast.

But the interesting thing is that if you don’t wait for a right time, but rather just do what you want to do, somehow everything works out just fine, every single time.  The money, the responsibilities, the pregnant girlfriend… somehow they all end up not mattering.  (Solution: take the pregnant girlfriend with you!)

So if you want to do something interesting with your life — like quit your job and travel the world — just do it now. Force yourself to get started. And don’t waste my time by putting up a blog about something you may do two years from now.  It’s really annoying.