“The Rock Disaster Movie”

A while back, I went on two Tinder dates on one day. I have only posted about the second one so far. The first one was a little more mundane, at least on the first date.

This guy, we will call…. Badminton guy. Because he told me on our second date that he used to be a high level collegiate badminton player in India and almost went pro. Because I guess that’s a thing in India. And a friend of mine who has her own badminton net and no one to play with her always says she should go out with him so he will play badminton with her. But she doesn’t really want to go out with him, for reasons that will be explained shortly.

One funny thing that happened on my first date with Badminton guy is that we ran into the very same badminton-loving friend of mine, who lived in Baker at the time, on the street while we were going to Sweet Action to get some hipster ice cream. She was carrying a stack of books, one with the title “Teen Relationship Violence” or something dramatic like that and a picture of a girl with a black eye on the cover. It was for her thesis for her Ph.D., but she joked that it was her way of setting boundaries with random passersby in the street. Which cracked us up because we work in mental health. Badminton guy was not a therapist and not a native English speaker, so he did not get the joke and just said something about how people will think she is so studious with those books.

Anyway, date one was normal. Especially in contrast to the fact that immediately afterwards, I went on a date with that guy who showed up like 2 hours late and did a tongue-filled attack-makeout in the Lyft I begrudgingly shared with him.

The part where it stopped being normal is that after our first date, he wanted to text me and call me all the time. I think it was the day after our first date, I was grilling with some friends at my house and he sent me a bunch of texts, starting out normal with “how r u” (he had a good mastery of text speak for not being a 12-year-old from the U.S.) and gradually devolving into “I guess u just don’t want to talk to me :(” after a series of unrequited texts. My roommate told me that she wondered how many more non-response texts it would take for him to show up at my house and break down the door. Luckily, he didn’t know where my house was.

And he started calling me “baby” constantly, which I promptly had a talk with him about, but he kept doing it. But despite all this, I decided to give him another chance in the form of a second date because I tell myself that being overzealous is better than being underzealous (definitely not a word but I’m going with it).

So our second date started off when he picked me up at a friend’s birthday party picnic at City Park. Because he very specifically wanted to pick me up rather than meeting somewhere. This was complicated because of his lack of familiarity with Denver (like many bros I meet on Tinder, he had lived in Denver for less than three months at the time of this story) and communication barriers due to his less-than-perfect command of the English language and perhaps mine as well! After several complicated and annoying phone conversations, he finally found the spot in City Park where we were having the picnic. He then decided we should go somewhere with the best “American chicken wings” in town. I like the wings at Jake’s, so I decided to take him there. Where we awkwardly ran into one of the students I work with and his parents. Which is par for the course when I go to that place so I should have known better, and they are a really nice family, but still awkward.

Over the best “American chicken wings” ever, we talked about his badminton career, and how much money he makes. He was trying to impress me, I guess. He was a computer engineer for a diamond mining company. I guess that sort of thing exists other than just in the movies. He was also trying to convince me to go to Orlando with him because he had to go there for a month for work. I have a job, you see. Two of them. Also, it was summer, and Orlando is one of my least favorite places even in the winter, despite the fact that my heart is with all the victims in the recent Orlando tragedy and their families. Also, we are not there yet, at all.

But I decide to humor him and not just cut the date short right then and there. He wants to go to a movie. I remember there was some sort of halfway decent movie that was supposed to be playing at the Denver Pavillions downtown. We showed up, and any movie that would have been tolerable was sold out or playing in 2 hours. But he seems really committed to this movie plan, for reasons that I will discover later, and insists that we watch that terrible disaster movie with the Rock in a helicopter… San Andreas. I had to Google that, but it was the first thing that popped up when I entered “the rock disaster movie.” That might as well have been the title. But, as a consolation prize, it was in the theater there with the nice leather seats where you can recline a lot.

However, a little ways into the movie, I discover this is not a consolation prize, this just means that it is super annoying and cramp-tackular when he wants to hold my hand during the entire movie. I periodically shift around to get his claw-like grip off of me for brief intervals. Eventually, he gets bold and moves to full-on boob groping. Because that is the next step after hand-holding? Ugh. “The Rock Disaster Movie” as I will now call it, is also really long for a movie so lacking in plot, so this dance of periodically squirming out of his grasp and/or removing his hand from my breast goes on for much longer than I would like.

After the movie, I just feel grossed out and want to leave. Also, during all this physical contact, I determine that Badminton guy’s general scent is a lot of B.O. mixed with a lot of man perfume. Why do I always find the ones that bathe in cologne? Anyway, this wanting to leave is complicated by my stupid decision to let him pick me up and leave my car in City Park. But after minimal complaining, he agrees to drive me to my car. I tell him goodbye and that I don’t really think I want to do this again. He seems very sad and asks me what he did wrong. I can’t quite manage to put my finger on a kind way to say it at the time, so I just say that I don’t think we’re on the same page or something vague like that. And I drive off into City Park, where he will never find me. The end.

 

 

 

The Shroom Story

Hi friends, I have been told that now that people other than my friends actually read my blog, I should post more regularly, you know, for the maintaining of the fame. Due to my extreme lack of motivation for dating at the moment, which may or may not have something to do with the fact that it is hot as balls out, I don’t have any super new stories to share – yet. But I have started contemplating going on Tinder dates with dudes who seem particularly ridiculous just so I have good stories, which is probably bad, but perhaps good for all of you…

Anyway, a friend of mine from high school who was the catalyst for the story I am about to recount was recently visiting me. I realized that this story, while mostly not hilarious due to the actions of any dudes, does involve a dude. So here it is, for your reading pleasure, the famous Shroom Story, as it is called in my real-life social circles.

I had an internship in Boston the summer after my junior year of college. My cousin and a friend of mine from high school, who we will give the fake name Maya, went to school there. Maya is a genius, and went to MIT where she lived in a dorm that was more like a frat house than a dorm. Supposedly they invented PCP in the basement back in the day. These were the types of geniuses who get bored and have to do drugs to entertain their brains, and apparently also invent new drugs.

So that was the scene. It was a Friday night. Maya had actually just graduated from MIT that day and I walked over to her dorm from my internship on the other side of Boston to go celebrate, they were having a party. Maya and I hung out for a while and shot the shit, and before I knew it, it was about 9pm. I was crazy hungry at this point and Maya needed to go help set a few things up for the party. She told me she had a ton of leftover Chinese food from dinner last night with her parents in her mini-fridge and I would be doing her a favor to eat as much of the food in there as possible because she was going on a little road trip the next day. Awesome! So Maya heads up to the rooftop of her dorm to set things up for the party and I start stuffing my face with food. Imagine some sort of meme or gif that involves the phrase “nom nom nom” and that was basically what I was doing. As I eat my way through her fridge, I discover a plastic bag with several chocolates in it. Some of them are those mini-size Hershey bars, Mr. Goodbars, etc. and one of the chocolates in there is in a pink foil wrapper. I shove the foil wrapped chocolate in my face and down my gullet. It tastes a little weird so I conclude it must be old and eat a mini Hershey bar and a little more Chinese food for good measure. Then I head up to the roof for party time!

I don’t know anyone at MIT, and have literally just moved to Boston that week, so this is my chance to meet new people in my temporary new town. I mix myself a drink and start talking to random people I don’t know. I don’t even know where Maya is at this point, but a friendly couple with many tattoos between them start talking to me about fun things to do in Boston after hearing I’m new in town. As I am having this conversation, which I am enjoying, I get distracted by the fact that things look sort of wavy when I try to look my new possible friends in the eye and I can’t focus on their faces. Maybe I started drinking too soon after eating or something and I am dizzy from that, I think. I see Maya at this point and ask her if I could go lay down for a few minutes in her room. Of course, she tells me this is no problem because she’s probably going to sleep in her boyfriend’s room anyway so I can sleep in her bed if I want.

I go downstairs to lay down and discover that the fan on Maya’s massive multi-monitor computer apparatus is SO LOUD and it’s IN MY BRAIN, so I decide to go back up to the rooftop to ask her if she can unplug it or turn it down or something so I can rest. I don’t want to mess up her fancy computer situation, you see. One thing I have neglected to mention that becomes relevant at this point is that I was recovering from knee surgery the week before I moved to Boston and my knee was bandaged and not fully functional. Because of my knee/the amount of walking I had done that day, I decided my shoes were uncomfortable and I didn’t want to put them back on, so upon coming out of the elevator on the rooftop, I am barefoot. Maya strongly suggests I put on some shoes because there’s broken glass and things on the rooftop and I tell her I will if I come back up. She somehow does not think my request about her computer and the noise is too weird, comes down with me to shut it down, and goes back upstairs.

I lay down in her bed again and discover that this time, in the absence of the SUPER LOUD computer, I have a new problem that won’t let me relax. Every time my heart beats, I feel like instead of blood, it’s pushing tiny chains through my veins. I have chains in my veins! I conclude that I am either having a psychotic break, or I am on drugs. Knowing that I’m in the place where PCP was supposedly invented and I ate a weird-looking chocolate, I start to think it might be the latter.

Still barefoot, I decide to make the journey upstairs to the rooftop again to consult Maya about this situation. However, the second time, the route has somehow become much more confusing. I go up the wrong elevator and it does not take me to the rooftop. It takes me to a deserted area of the dorm where, I shit you not, there were murals of shrooms smoking joints on the wall. I have confirmed afterwards that this is true in real life, not just in drug life as I was experiencing it at the time. The shrooms were definitely looking at me either quizzically, or with disdain, I’m not sure which.

Eventually I make it up to the rooftop. “Why are you still not wearing shoes?!” is the first thing Maya has to say when she sees me. “Maya, will you come in the elevator,” I ask. She comes into the elevator. When the door closes, I literally say to her, “Maya, were there any crazy drugs in your fridge?” Not just drugs, crazy drugs! She asks if I ate something wrapped in pink foil. Yes, I did. “Damn, you just ate a lot of shrooms! I was going to try to get you to do those with me for 4th of July to watch the fireworks… That was like $50 worth of drugs!” she replies. She tells me that attempting to go to sleep is futile, so now that we’ve identified the issue, I might as well enjoy it.

I am up for this, but I have two primary concerns. 1) My knees, and my entire body feel straight up numb, or almost like pins and needles. This causes me to worry that I will damage my already fucked-up knee because I can’t feel anything, which in turn causes me to choose to do only seated or slow walking activities while on shrooms. 2) I am very worried that I will be discovered as a fraud because in my own opinion, I am not cool enough to do drugs on purpose, and I clearly did these drugs by accident! All the people here are cool enough to do drugs on purpose but I am a goody two shoes who only drinks and they are going to KNOW when they look at me! I share this concern with Maya and she says just to go up to people and say you’re tripping and they will help you enjoy yourself by doing things like smoking so you can watch the smoke, or wave their hands around, or give you a glow stick. People did do that sort of thing for me, but she was the one who had to tell them I was tripping. They also played me some sweet music that I could slowly bop around to.

Maya and a group of her friends are sitting around talking, smoking, etc. and one of them pushes a small table with wheels on it against the outer wall of the little area I was in. “Whoa, did you guys see that?” I ask everyone. “That table just kept going through the wall and out into space forever! Like cartoon space!” No one else saw that, but also no one made fun of me for accidentally eating mushrooms.

In this group was a guy who we will call Oswaldo, sometimes known as “Crazy Oswaldo” by people in the dorm. This is a messed up nickname because he actually has schizophrenia and is a genius but clearly struggled with life because of having schizophrenia and using weed to medicate it instead of the medications he should have been taking. Anyway, at some point, everyone else leaves and Oswaldo takes advantage of the opportunity to tell me that he thinks I’m really cool and beautiful but he realizes that this is probably a hard thing for me to think about right now because I’m tripping. Yes it is, Oswaldo, your face is getting bigger and smaller in waves while you are telling me this!

This weirds me out a bit, but Oswaldo is very nice, a lot shorter and smaller than me, and everyone else wants to go to bed because it’s 3am at this point. Oswaldo tells me he doesn’t sleep, he just stays awake most nights, smoking weed. I watch the smoke from his joint, it looks beautiful and like it’s in stop-motion. We hang out for a while and he suggests we go outside to watch the sunrise on the Charles River. That was probably the most beautiful sunrise I’ve ever seen.

He also suggests we go get breakfast. At this point I am tripping a little less and starting to feel tired and hungry, so I am in for this idea but also starting to realize that I need to somehow get back to the bedroom in an apartment I am subletting from a girl who I don’t really know, with two roommates I don’t really know. I know the cross streets and address, but don’t feel confident in my ability to successfully get back there while on drugs, on the subway, in a town I have only lived in for a week. Oswaldo says he knows a breakfast place over that way that has delicious Challah bread French toast. Sounds great. However, we discover that this place is not open. So we go to Dunkin Donuts, because those are open 24 hours and there is one pretty much every 2 blocks in Boston. And then Oswaldo walks me to my apartment. And I don’t invite him in, because I need to go to bed and am concerned that one of my new roommates who I don’t really know is going to see us and know about the crazy drugs! Luckily, no one appears to be home so I go to sleep. And then my brain hurts for a day and a half. The end. I hope you enjoyed the magical “Shroom Story,” perhaps the greatest and dumbest story of all.

Anonymously Denver famous?

Oh shit guys, I might be getting anonymously Denver famous!

You may recall my previous post where I refer to what it means to be Denver famous. It’s like real famous, but less so. Some Denver famous people move on to become real famous people… such as…. Nathaniel Rateliff. Or Condoleeza Rice? I don’t know if she was Denver famous when she lived here, she might have just skipped Denver fame to become actually famous. Anyway, I may have my shot at Denver fame, specifically anonymous Denver fame, thanks to a local institution that defines what it means to be Denver famous, the Westword.

I was asked to be a featured “bro expert” of sorts for a Westword article about the evolution of the LoDo neighborhood and its corresponding bros. Because I am a credible bro expert, certified by the Department of Regulatory Agencies of Colorado. That would be awesome if that was a thing. At any rate, I was asked to literally meet up with some of the fine folks from Westword to go out in LoDo and help them make fun of bros in an anthropological style for an article. It was a good time, and I appreciated being kept anonymous. My fake name for the article was Allison. I wanted it to be Lindsey, but apparently that had been used as a fake name in a previous article… So many women named Lindsey in my generation… Anyway, now there is an actual chance someone I’ve banged and written about will read the article and find this blog, so I really don’t want my identity, or anyone else’s, associated with this shenanigans.

They used a lot of direct quotes from me in the article that are probably actual statements I made… I think it’s all pretty funny, but possibly because I laugh at my own jokes? My friends also laughed when I read it aloud to them. Then I made them all swear to never tell anyone I have ever dated or might want to date that I am Allison.

So yes, an interesting article about an interesting night of me doing what I do best, judging people. I will say that the whole thing was a bit more subdued than I thought it would be due to the fact that I guess reporters don’t like to stay out super late on work assignments, so we left at 10:30pm, way before the bro witching hour.

Also, when I agreed to be a part of this situation, I didn’t realize it would be the cover article for the week. I have to say, I appreciate the amazing stock photo of a bro with brightly-colored sunglasses and an expression that can best be described as “the look on a Colorado bro’s face whilst shredding the gnar gnar and being whimsically happy about it.” Props to the art department or whoever made that happen. So, check out the sweet stock photo and even sweeter article  here.

And I will remember the little people when I become anonymously Denver famous. I am considering making a fake web presence for my fake self. If you have any suggestions for an awesome last name for Allison, please comment them.

For all the new people just seeing this blog now, welcome. Get ready for more tales of my “frequent and disastrous dating experiences,” as they were aptly described in the article.