I Found Myself at a Bar . . .

This is part 2 of 2. You can read part 1 of 2 here. 

Where was I, oh yes. You liked the cliffhanger? I actually, emphatically, asked the cab driver to let me out in front of the the pub, which is way more boring than Action Rob, so a little embellishment is good for entertainment sake.

Scientific fact: one that is inebriated misjudges distance in all circumstances, from throwing paper in waste basket to the distance from local pub to home. This fact is the impetus for me asking the cab driver to pull over at a pub that I believed was not far from my apartment. Furthermore, I had ran over 7 miles that morning so feeling like a little walk would be nothing to me.

I fall in line, show my I.D., and I'm in the pub. Much to my surprise, the pub had a beer that I have been wanting to try: Stone Farking Wheaton W00tstock. This is a collaboration between Stone Brewery owner Greg Koch, Farking.com creator Drew Curtis, and Wil Wheaton. It is an imperial stout style, with a subtle 65 IBUs, and 13% ABV (this beer geek speak). This beer was so fancy it was put into a snifer glass.

Snifer Glasses

I was feeling good. Had some laughs with cousin and her friend, played The Simpsons arcade, and ending the night with a strong, delicious beer. My luck was multiplying as a group left right when I got my beer and a table was available. Solo sitting is an art that I am well versed in and often enjoy it. Sitting at the table, probably twitting accolades over the beer, a young lady asked if her and her friends could sit there with me. I said, "Sure," with an open smile. She calls over two guys and two more ladies. My smile slipped slightly, but not for the reason you are thinking, but the guys were spiky hair, Ed Hardy wearing guys. A certain Garfunkel and Oates song started playing in my head.

One of the girls was asking me questions, being polite, but one of the guys was, I think, sniffing her. It definitely seemed like he was sniffing her. He could have been marking his territory. I was in Robtopia at this point, a far away place in my mind that is serene. One day I'll fully describe Robtopia to you, gentle reader, but for now it is happy place I drift towards. 

I just wanted to enjoy my drink, people watch, and leave. The lady asking me questions, got to, "What do you do?" Pro tip: Never tell someone that you are a psychotherapist. A glow must have enveloped me, and a proverbial de-suctioning occurred from sniffing boy. This did not please sniffing boy. He attempted physical menacing.  I am not proud of what occurred next. Something clicked in my head, maybe spending too much time around doctors, and I grabbed my glass, placing the stem between my ring and middle finger. Lounging back in my chair as though I no care in the world I stated, "I can make you cry in a matter of moments."

He replied, "You threatening me? Think you can take me?"

"I don't mean physical harm; rather, I can peel back your bravado revealing a scared, little boy with a few simple words."   I incited him (which to be fair helped create an air surrounding me of a punchable person), but the girl (I'm the damsel that doesn't know she is in anger) grabbed him by the arm and removed him from the table. This was lucky for me. An awkward silence fell over the table. I swirled my drink, drank the last bit, said (I wish this wasn't true of what I said), "My work here is done," and stumbled out of the bar.

Thus my  trek began. It is approximately 3.3 miles from the pub to my apartment (I looked this up later). What I believed was going to be about a twenty minute walk turned into an hour long trudge. Here proving the scientific fact of inebriation causes spacial disharmony. I made my way home without any problems and learned some valuable lessons.

1) If you are taking a cab home, take the cab ALL the way home.

2) If inebriated, use Google maps on your phone to judge distance, it even calculates walking paths

3) Don't walk home alone at night

4) If you are going out, don't tell people you are a psychotherapist

5) Don't incite people with pompous talk.

6) Don't write about your idiotic mis-adventures.

Five out of six lessons learned.

Until I ramble on again . . .  

I Went To The Bar . . .

This is part 1 of a 2 part series of me behaving like an idiot out on the town and why it is better for me to play games at home. The events in this story are mostly true according to my brain. Enjoy!

There are about 4 unfinished rambles that have either hit a wall or disgusted me. Woe is my artistic vision. I've been debating on writing up this story, but I figured that it might be fun to give you a snippet in the kind of trouble I sometimes get myself in, and part of the reason I don't go to bars often.

I went out with my cousin and one of her friends. They are a bit younger than me, but two girls that have good heads on their shoulders for not having full developed prefrontal cortexes (meaning the complete ability to make executive judgement has not fully developed, which doesn't happen until around age 25). Outside of that, they were funny and fun. Of course, there is a protective nature that comes out with hanging with your younger cousins causing one to lurk about (wait, do I lurk?).

Let's skip the boring parts. So we are fast forwarding to later in evening. bzzzzzzbzzzzbzzz (that's the sound fast forwarding makes in my head.) bzzzzzzbzzzzbzzz (taking pictures of homeless man) bzzzzzzbzzzzbzzz (getting called old) bzzzzzzbzzzzbzzz (drinking) bzzzzzzbzzzzbzzz (someone noticing all my gray hairs)bzzzzzzbzzzzbzzz . . .

The evening endedish at Barcadia, which is awesome outside that it is a little too swank for my taste, but they had amazing video games. I was talking to a female and in mid-flirt I had a nerdgasm for a retro The Simpsons arcade game. I had spent many of hours at arcades in my youth pumping that game full of quarters. Needless to say the female lost total interest (very use to it). Yet, I had a brilliant time playing as Homer and fighting hordes of yellow people.

After playing a bit, the girls had enough to drink, and it was time to send them back to the place they were staying. Herding them outside, I got them a cab. I have not taken many cabs in the city, heck I haven't taken many cabs in the U.S., but I have taken many, many cabs in India. This is an important piece of information because in my inebriated mind, one could only use cash for cabs. This was fact. Pay no mind that for the past year the local news has been covering how it is now mandatory for all taxi drivers to have a credit card machine in their taxi. So I gave the girls cash, and emphatically pressed upon the taxi driver not to try to rip them off or I would make like a Wookie. I don't think he felt threatened. Didn't he realize I was inferring that I would rip his own arms off and beat him with said arms? He smiled and promised to get them home safely.

Sending them off, I felt like I had my big boy underoos on. I got my own taxi. Heading down Magazine street, I saw a bar I enjoy. I grabbed the cab door, swung it open, and rolled on the pavement like Jackie Chan. Dusting myself off, I swaggered sauntered into the bar.

Here ends part one.

Until I ramble on again . . .

Rambling Etymology Part 3

Last post in this series I discussed the origins of the Tibetan Language in brief. I ended on a concept that I want to explore- thoughtful communication.

When I was a kid, physically not mentally, I was very interested in Native Americans. I think it was part Tonto, part Indian in the Cupboard, and part I thought Cowboys were dicks. I know, not very American of me, but I can’t remember having a fascination with Cowboys; rather, I wanted to be the Indians (Cowboys and Indians the classic, ironic game of childhood) without realizing I was going to be massacred.

I can’t remember the origin of this bit of useless knowledge, but it was one of the many books I read on Native American culture, and it stressed that they handled everything through an oral tradition. In certain Native American cultures, the men would discuss important business, and it was the women that would memorize every word uttered verbatim. I can’t even remember favorite lines of movies that I have seen hundreds of times, but people memorized entire conversations. Moreover, single conversations would take hours because when some spoke the other person listened intently, waiting for the other person to end, and then taking his or her time in constructing a thoughtful response. It was believed that words had powers and to utter anything in haste was wasteful, even potentially harmful. Whether this is true or not, is irrelevant since it is a beautiful notion.

I have noticed that often when I pause for an extended period of time attempting to formulate a thoughtful response I get several reactions. First type, the other person becomes impatient. Second type, the other person might believe that my thoughtfulness is my nefarious mind plotting. Third type, the other person might believe me not paying attention to what the other person is saying. Fourth type, the other person think that I’m inept in thought and communication (which is actually true more often than not).

These are all negative responses to a pause, or a thoughtful construction of a response. Why does communication have to occur at a rapid pace? Why does a dialogue need to be a volley as though we are in a tennis match? I enjoy snappy, snarky dialogue on T.V., but it further promotes the concept that intelligence is linked to how fast one can provide a clever response. How often do we step away from a conversation and think, “Oh man, I should have said this or that.”? There is a place in conversation for wit and pith, but sometimes stopping, slowing, and really listening to another can make us better . . . conversationalist.

Furthermore, if we aren’t holding on to a thought in fear of losing said thought while another is talking, then we can truly absorb what the other person is saying. If we lose a thought, it might really have not been that relevant or it will return. However, my problem is when I discuss things I enjoy, I become overly excited. This leads to rapid speech and outbursts. Mindful of speech can help in slowing conversation to a nice meandering pace. Unless some one is being an ass, then you shot the pith and wit at them with full force. 

Just food for thought.

Until I ramble on again . . . 

Dancing at the Zombie Zoo

I have had that Tom Petty Song stuck in my head ('Zombie Zoo') for about a week, but it is fitting for today's post.

On Thursday, I received a phone call from my cousin asking if I would watch my godchild for a couple of nights. Fortunately for her, my social calendar has been a bit barren. As I don't spend nearly enough time with my godchild, I thought a couple of days would be great. Being a godfather is akin to being a grandparent. I get to take the kid for a determinable length of time, spoil him, and kick him back to his parents. The difference is I didn't have to raise a child of my own to get the privilege. I was asked.

I am not a religious person, which makes the title godparent somewhat interesting. It's origins are Christian in nature. Two individuals are chosen to sponsor a child's Baptism. These individuals are bestowed the responsibility of the child's spiritual development. I view it more for me as taking an interest in my godchild's cultural development, which is why I introduced him to Monty Python.

I have a couple of their records, and played one for him as we devoured some Pinkberry frozen yogurt. The mead in the picture was not shared with him- that comes later in life. He was laughing. He genuinely seemed to be enjoying the songs and silliness. Of course, he didn't understand all the references, but on visceral level it was funny for him.

Next in his cultural lesson was Risk. I taught him how to play, but he schooled me on how to dominate. The little bugger was hitting some great roles and generally destroying. We played it off and on for two days. This is a picture early on, but he ensured that we have a picture of our final turn of the weekend to set it up exactly for when he comes back. He is yellow.

Saturday we got up relatively early for 10 year old and 32 year old males. Had breakfast and went to the zoo. The zoo was very fun. In the spirit of adventure, we explored without a map. No plan, just exploration from one exhibit to another. My godchild commented, "Why do you need a map? There are signs and every where you go there are animals." Sometimes his mouth is a fountain of hilarity. Speaking of fountains.

My godchild enjoyed the primates the most. He seemed to stay longer, showing fascination with each of the different primates. He was less impressed with the animals that were just laying around. He was more interested in the monkeys moving. My 'Sprockets' joke did not work on him, and in retrospect, should not be uttered in a public that is kid friendly. For me, I have a special place of fondness for orangutans- right next to Buffy and just below alcohol. I always think of the Librarian in Terry Pratchett's Discworld novels when I see an orangutan. One person understands this line of thinking. . .

I think the most fun was had in the reptile area. My godchild would walk up to a vivarium and search out for the specific reptile or amphibian noted above. When he would find the creature of his search, he would move on to the next vivarium. At one point, he found a snake easily and another child of about equal age walked up and whines, "Where is it? I don't see it." My godchild turned to him, rolled his eyes, and stated, "There." The subtext was 'duh'. 

The weirdest thing was the two-headed snake. The sign above the vivarium was emphatic that it was an anomaly not a natural occurrence. Here he is to creep you out now. You're welcome.

  

We saw much and enjoyed soda, roman candy, and trees (oaks are made for climbing). I think it was a successful cultural weekend. We covered foreign countries, history, and nature in the forms of British humor, 90's references, board games, dinosaurs, and lazy primates. You are welcome world, cultivating another geek/nerd one weekend at a time.  

Until I ramble again. . . 

Rambling Etymology Part 2

In the my last post, I stated that Hindi and Tibetan derive from the same language in their written form.They are not similar in their spoken form. This is an interesting story.

Their are no records of any formalized written Tibetan Language until King Songtsen Gampo (reigned AD 629-649). The only evidence that there might have been a written language prior was that there is record that reports King Songsten Gampo wrote a letter to the King of Nepal for his daughters hand of marriage. There is no record of the letter. This supposed letter was written prior to sending Tönmi Sambhoti to Northern India (around Kashmir) with a group of scholars to study language and literature. Tönmi Sambhoti is credited with creating a uniformed grammar system to the Tibetan language.He adapted a Northern Indian Gupta script, and modified the rules of written Sanskrit to the Tibetan words. That is pretty impressive. Tibetans were speaking Tibetan, but no written representation existed.

Why is this interesting? It is the political implication for today. China has “absorbed” Tibet claiming that Tibet is really a part of China. This occured after China's Cultural Revolution around 1950. One of many arguments against China’s claim of Tibet being originally part of China is the language. The oral and written language bare no resemblance to any form of Chinese languages- neither Mandarin, Cantonese, or Mongolian. How can an area (Tibet) be China's lost brother/sister, when such an integral part of existence shares no resemblance? Instead of going to China to develop a written language, Tibetans went to India. I'm not going to launch into a political diatribe (well, I did but deleted it).This is more food for thought. Language is integral with culture. 

I inadvertently learned basic Sanskrit from a Tibetan-based meditation exercise on speech and the importance of thoughtful communication. This was taught to be by some Tibetan Monastics. Not sure if I have developed thoughtful communication. 

More on this next time.

Until I ramble on again . . .

Rambling Etymology Part 1

Note: So, I have been MIA here for the past week or two, but I have been writing. So this is part of a series I'm playing around with- language. These lines are mostly filler, until I go on my next adventure. 

Language has always been a fascination of mine. This can expand from non-verbal to verbal communication and all the way to languages and dialect. In unpacking my boxes, I realized I have a schizophrenic (or just ADHD) consumption of languages. In the first picture you can see 5 languages represented- Latin, Spanish, German, Tibetan, and Hindi.

In this second picture, you can see workbooks for several languages as well. Do you think I can read or speak any of these languages? Not really. At one point my German was good enough to order and provide bare communication while in Germany. I taught myself German through books and audio tapes. In undergraduate, I was taking Spanish because they only offered Spanish and French and I took 2 years of Spanish in high school- let logic take you to the conclusion.

It is important to understand that I was taking Spanish, but teaching myself German simultaneously for this story.

I was touring Europe and ended up in Zweibrüken. This is a small town in West Germany, near Saarbrüken. I had been ordering food and saying simple things in German at this time- feeling confident in my spoken German.

After getting a room, I went to the bathroom and the light broke. Full of pride and confidence, I strolled to the front office. In this small town, I’ll speak their language and show them that not all Americans are mono-linguist idiots. To a group of three Germans having a conversation, I started, “Das licht kaput en . . . el baño.” Laughter ensued. I was embarrassed. Of course, immediately, I remembered it was “bathezimmer” not “el baño,” but by then it was too late.

I have a knack of allowing my pomposity to be followed by foolishness.

There are various reasons for the languages that I have chosen, but there are actually intersections. The most obvious is that Spanish is a derivative from Latin, as are French and Italian. English (which I speak and write only slightly better than the other languages) is a derivative of the Indo-Germanic languages- not Latin. The most interesting connection, to me, is that of Tibetan and Hindi. In their written form they come from the same root- Sanskrit.

We will stop there for now.

Until I ramble on again . . .