Happy Chinese New Year

Ok, so memoirs of a lorne conference will have to continue to fester in my mind, I can't seem to find the motivation (or muse?) to put it on 'paper'; however, after concluding my weekend where haven't really stopped drinking except to sleep, i'll jot a few random thoughts here. First, the liquid soul of Gambrinus has been quite strong with me as of late, he's having a party down in my belly with my other good friends, tequila and grapefruit. How are you going, down there, guys? Getting along well, I hope.
Rolled to the beach yesterday w/ Julian (I'll throw some picutres up when my internet has the ability to upload - the G-men taxed out our bandwidth for the month downloading Rocky Balboa and Departed in german - here in the land of the plunging neckline you're allotted a certain amount of broadband connectivity before they knock you back to 2 kps, or approximately the speed of stone-age fedex). This cat will talk to any girl anywhere. The random girl on the tram, girls at a bar, on the beach, in the water 40 feet away, you name it. I'm lying on a towel reading Thucydides, keeping my feet off the near-glass sand (it's been 40 celcius here this weekend - honestly, it's all i can do right now to be polite with you people - i'm tired, hot, and have been sweating on myself all day - I'm such a grouch right now), next thing I know Julian's off chatting w/ these girls from Brazil. Whatever, brazilian girls aren't known for their looks. Aight, hang on, let me see if i can throw this bitch up here: nope, sorry - tried to upload a picture of the jellyfish (there were lots on shore) - big bastards. So the other thing about this beach, and apparently all beaches in the land of the plunging neckline, is that in the odd but not improbably rare case, there are no necklines or tanlines if you catch my drift (careful, here comes my drift, don't let it getcha). European wannabes I think. I'd comment more on this but literally I don't feel like anything right now, I'm so drained from the sun, chinatown crowdedness (as well as the baliwood dancers, now that's a picture i'll need to put up), and the 12 beers I've had starting at 1030 this morning. I will say the beach is really cool, with a sweet main street area (pics also) with bakeries, cafes, etc. - We rolled out after the beach, dehydrated as a polar bear (I don't know, nothing makes sense right now), got a couple of sparkling wines (the supercillious french won't let you refer to it as champagne, since it's not from the champagne region - whatever, I call a spade a spade don't I?), then some sangria. Oh man, if anything is closest to ambrosia of the gods on a hot day at the beach, it's motherfuckin sangria.
But enough about me, let's talk about the NBA dunk contest. I'm tired of people saying how it's irrelevant, or how everything's been done; these guys can jump out the building, and there's nothing more impressive than seeing Gerald Green's head above the rim, nothing (even a brazilian girl changing her top 12 feet away on the be-ach). Finally the celtics won something (and the trophy's pretty big, too), and a nice little nod to the past when GG leapt over lil' 50 for the peekaboo dunk. And that condescending prick jordan gave him a 9. All due respect to MJ, he is the greatest to ever play the game, but he never even put the ball between his legs or off the glass, let alone hurdled another human being. And Dwight Howard putting a sticker 12'6" up on the glass? Gloriously orginal. These guys aren't rocket scientists in most cases, how do they come up with this stuff. I have a great idea for a dunk for next year, but I'm keeping it a secret, lest one of my brilliant concepts is stolen yet again. Do I need to remind you that I came up with the idea to drop off traditional film and have the developer scan it into a computer and return it via CD-ROM or email? No. Or my latest and greatest cash cow: You know how men cower from applying sun lotion on the hindquarters (Ok, bad term, back works) of other males? Get a couple girls, and charge $1 each to have them rub sunblock on dudes' backs. You'd easily make enough to go out every night. Plus it's all cash in hand - virtually untraceable by the IRS - especially in the land of the plunging neckline, where $1 coins have no serial number, unlike their security laden American cloth-paper counterparts. Acquiring cancer protection using the delicate manual labor of the female species? Brilliant! Women love squeegieing the hairy backs of 57 year old at-risk-for-stroke veterans, they'd work for a pittance, so it's all profit. Oh yeah, basketball. Well in the least surprising turn of events since Jack Bauer didn't die when he was basically sentenced to death, D-Wade reigns supreme at the skills competition, besting the futile attempts of his western nemesis and meandering washed up hoopster, Kobe Bryant. One more thought: you know how great players make their teammates better? Dwyane's so great, that he makes his teammates better even when he's not on the court with them. Case in point: Jason Kapono winning the three point shootout in convincing fashion, all thanks to the tutelage under one D-Wade.
Sorry guys (read: I'm not sorry), but I can't keep coherent thoughts straight right now, it's too hot, I feel like something that's really hot (no, seriously, all metaphors aside, I'm standing and delivering my true feelings - I'm like a white Edward James Olmos). PS: That was a simile, not a metaphor, so it's all good.
EDIT: The above dribble as a free standing piece of literature is atrocious. I just realized it's not fit for publication in a fourth grade essay compilation. I am not lying when I tell you that I actually want to type up something non-trivial, perhaps pertaining to some peculiar anecdote or another, but I do not currently posess the wherewithall to do so. Plus the swath of sweat coating my person (that has been showered off twice now, but keeps returning, like herpes) is causing my mood to deteriorate further, so that I'm descending into a pit of intense magmatic frustration. I was honestly going to write about how I really love the bar/cafe scene here, after my day at the beach and out last night w/ a couple of housemates, but this heat is causing my inner pessimist to seethe into my fingertips at the keyboard. Furiously firing salvos at my cheap toshiba's pneumatic analog QWERTY array, vowing vengence on the very mother nature whose dazzling ultraviolet display imparts my beautiful aboriginal tan, I cannot help but to bitch and moan at the weather. I really can't take this heat - it was perfect for the beach, but downright wretched for sleeping and walking amongst throngs of new years revelers. In both the positive and the negative domains of the above statement (the beach and new years, for you goldfish out there), it was an agoraphobic's nightmare. Not just people everywhere, pungently sweaty people everywere (I wanted to get a picture with the below baliwood dude, but you think I'd want to be anywhere within the nasal proximity of these guys after they'd performed in 100 degree heat wearing saris head to toe? - ok, apparently pictures aren't happening just yet, but he was a dancing fool - all with a polite but maniacal grin plastered on his face the whole time). In all honesty it's been a really good weekend - great beach day yesterday (and no, christina, not because of the topless woman), really good time out w/ a couple dudes from my house last night, and a fantastic yum cha brunch (including 3 rounds of tsingtao rice beer), followed by a cool (temp.) pub for the dunk contest, including 6 rounds of aussie beer, capped off with watching the soccer grand finals (ok, i fell asleep during this time, but there was more beer involved) at penny and warren's. Even friday was a good, but low key, night. I went out with the germans and some of their g-friends, who wanted me to show them how to get to brunswick st, because they wanted to go where there would be lots of girls. I pointed the way, and said I was retiring to get food and sleep, but was ushered away with a "no no, you come viss us." I glanced down: I could have sworn I left my star of david pendant at home. We actually just ended up at a lebanese hooka bar overlooking lygon st., fairly chill place (for a raging den of carcinogens). Nice and relaxing time, though, for being excluded by language from 90% of the conversation. Like it's my fault the US didn't impose mandatory english-as-first-language laws on all the axis powers.
I think I'm finally finding places i'd be consistently happy going to, and at this point I've got some nice people with whom to attend those places (aside from father gambrinus). I move this coming friday into my nintendo castle (my lab has now taken to calling me super mario) - I'll let you know how that goes. My landlady has been around fairly often recently, making sure the place is [relatively] neater for the next group of suckers, er, tenants. She's been surprisingly pleasant, actually, but I think it's a trap. Kind of like the Walrus coaxing the oysters into his deceitful dungeon of culinary doom, I'm quite wary of where my money is at all times when I'm around her, lest she coax me into a false sense of security and snatch up my last funds from my wallet. Rohipnol (sp?): not just for date rapists anymore.