Back (apologies for my handwriting!)
The text of the postcard is
General Grant National Park is the drink ingest National Park.
DumbFunnery.com OR @DumbFunnery
Although I am sure you are aware, I will give the definition of a think tank (source):
An institute, corporation, or group organized for interdisciplinary research (as in technological and social problems) – called also think factory
I don’t think I’ve ever heard the phrase ‘think factory’ but that conjures up all kinds of fun, Roald Dahl-esque imagery.
Anyhow. I went to a wine tasting/grading party on Saturday night and I got drunk. In my drunken state I began to daydream about my own think tank.
‘What’s that? DumbFunnery as the originator of a think tank?’
Why, yes, friend. It not only could happen – it WILL happen. But only if you use the phrase ‘think tank’ in a non-traditional, less-work involving way.
First things first, though. What’s the name of my think tank? Here are some ideas. Feel free to vote.
Please feel free to write in other names if you have something good. If your idea is selected, the think tank will tackle any problem of your choosing. Or if that just sounds like I’m relying on you to be creative in two seperate instances, I’ll figure something else out. You jerk.
“Hey cutie. Call me in a few years when you’re old enough.”
This was said by a very large, very drunk woman on St. Patty’s to my 16 or 17 year old self.
Back (apologies for my handwriting!)
The text of the postcard is:
You may think, based on my handwriting, that I am a drunk pre-schooler. This is not true.
Scientific tests have proven that, despite my diet of Chefboyardees and Pizza Lunchables (extra cheesy kind) – I am actually a 26 year old.
Big congratulations to the bro and new sister-in-law. I headed to Vegas on Tuesday night, the wedding was Wednesday, and then I hung out with my family until Sunday when I flew back to Houston.
I wrote a speech for the wedding, which I didn’t end up giving. But you know what? I like the speech. Thankfully I have this self-centered blog that revolves around me. So blog, do your thing. I changed my sister’s name to E$, like you do. And the bro’s name to: T.
I didn’t know if I had to make a speech or not, and I didn’t want to ask T because that’d be too easy, so I asked mom and E$ and they said write one just in case.
So that’s the opening line of my speech.
Anyway. I’m going to tell you a story about T and I. The family all moved out to Arizona because we figured Dad was lonely, and we wanted to teach him to never make that mistake again.
One day, everyone was gone but T and I. We were bored.
We’d probably already been in the pool about 20 hours that day, and watched plenty of TV, so we found a new distraction – two-square. Like how 4th graders do. We were on the driveway going back and forth, trying to set a record. One tap. Two taps. Three taps! Dang, messed up. One time I accidentally hit the ball to the ‘yard’ – which consists of small, sharp rocks. T, the athlete, jumped after it with abandon, killing his feet. He saved the ball, but I was too busy laughing at him sacrificing his body to react. He and I cracked up at the fact that T just wrecked his feet for stupid two-square.
Life was good.
E$ was gone when that was happening. She was here in Vegas actually. She got back and she later told me she was ‘disgruntled’ because T and I got all buddy-buddy and were ganging up on her for a change rather than E$/me or T/E$. E$ is very much a good middle sibling, peace keeper. She’s a very good listener, at least she tells me that – like daily – so T and I talk to E$ much more than we talk to each other.
I guess what I’m saying is E$ more of a best man than I am. Look at her. All manly and such.
No, I’m just kidding I guess.
T has had a very big impact on my life. Emotionally. You know. Like with emotions. For example, a lot of you may not know this – I didn’t either, until I made this up when I wrote this speech (just kidding) – anyway, I didn’t like reading when I was growing up. My dad taught me that books are for sissies. But then one day, T, the coolest sissy I knew, gave me ‘The Sword of Shannara.’
I read that, and it’s a book about dudes with swords and magic and all that nonsense. And I think a large part of my not having a girlfriend until college was because of that. But a nice thing was that I really liked the book. And it’s like 800 pages. Nothing to sneeze at. So I read the book, and I loved it, and then I read the next one, and the next one, and so on. I was crazy for the books.
I still remember T’s favorite character was Panamon Creel. He had a hook for a hand. Yeah. There was another character who was a ninja (my favorite), but T chose the guy with a hook for a hand. Take that as you will. I’m also picturing that the character T liked wore sequins. No, I’m kidding about that part. But now that you know T chose a pirate over a ninja, sequins probably fits the bill for him.
Anyhow. When I moved to Houston recently it was very daunting and scary and a little squishy, emotionally that is, and so I did what has become a norm for me ever since that summer I first read ‘The Sword of Shannara’ – I escaped in books about dudes with swords and magic and all that nonsense.
So I appreciate T more than he realizes. And I would thank all of you to not acknowledge the fact that a genuine compliment was given in this speech, because I am a WASP and it is against my religion to acknowledge the showing of emotions. ‘And God said, shut your pie hole about it,’ Job 3:14.
But T has been a huge part of my life, and I am much the better person for it. He’s ocasionally sprinkled some knowledge my way, and in return what did I do? I grew to be taller than him. I’m not very nice, am I?
Anyway let’s all raise our glasses and toast the newly married couple – T & H [his wife], their future, and of course let’s also toast dudes with swords.
Below are three lovely photos from the enjoyable week with the fam.
The bro, sis and I. Plus Jozy (sp?) making an appearance on the left.
Couple o’ studs.
The fam, sans T and the newbie.
What happens in Vegas does NOT stay in Vegas. At this fancy club I went to at the Wynn, there were stripper poles. And apparently, you get a bunch of Vegas hooches together, get the booze flowing, and girls turn into strippers. Vegas, huh? This particularly lovely lady, right after this picture, went BAM right to the ground on her back. Even better? The stripper poles, at the base, had a sort of fountain. Soaking wet, drunk, and full of shame – classic Vegas.
It’s a long post but I think it has some funny stories. Especially part V.
In August of 2009 I went to a beautiful wedding in San Francisco. My brother-in-law’s best friend (and cousin), Dominique, got married. The bride’s name is Chantilly.
They got married at the Palace of the Fine Arts, which was a great setting.
After the ceremony we stood around and snacked on some foods that had been brought out. I was standing with my sister, brother-in-law and some of his family (two cousins – Ira and Luis, and Ira’s girlfriend Shyla). We talked and cracked stupid jokes and got to know each other somewhat. They were all sarcastic and quick-witted so it was a lot of fun.
Buses took us to the site of the wedding reception. My sister and I grabbed some food while Pierre (my brother-in-law) did some more photos with the wedding party. Soon Shyla, Luis and a woman (I don’t remember who) joined us.
I didn’t actually remember this but my sister spent this past Christmas with Pierre’s family and Luis brought it up to her. Either Shyla or the mystery woman were talking about the movie ‘Rachel Getting Married’ and I chimed in with my typical I’m-the-world’s-sarcastic-younger-brother style, and said, “ohhh … yeah … that was so sad with the deaf brother.” There was a pause where everyone (but Erin – who through years of training has learned to assume I’m being a punk) tried to figure out what I was talking about. Eventually they caught on and my inputs were quickly ignored from there on.
I didn’t think all of that was particularly funny, but I think the fact that Luis did was very funny. What can I say, it’s as simple as the fact that I enjoy it when people enjoy me.
After we ate and speeches were made, the music came on. It was my time to shine. Except not at all.
At my sister’s wedding (about a half year before this) I drank a pretty fair amount, which meant I also danced a pretty fair amount. My dancing is like a variety show: it’s sort of funny, you don’t know what to expect, and you’re not sure if you’re laughing along with it or laughing at it … For whatever reason, Ira enjoyed it (though to be fair he’d also been drinking). I walked up to him and my sister and he told me that my “dancing … is genius!” My sister and I were both pretty amused and surprised. This is high and inaccurate praise for me, but I’ll take, it sober or drunk.
A week or two before Dom and Chantilly’s wedding, my sister brought up Ira’s compliment. I admitted that I felt like the pressure was on. The first time around – who would expect the 6’3″ q-tip to dance? This time my only hope was that everyone would’ve had enough to drink at my sister’s wedding that I could do the same exact dance moves and no one would remember them. Erin (my sister) asked if I had been practicing some new dance moves and I could honestly tell her: sort of. I like to turn on music and dance while doing dishes, which I am sure has won my fair share of neighborly hatred. I didn’t think I could duplicate my success from Erin’s wedding, though.
Turns out I was right, sort of.
Pierre’s mom came up to me while I was dancing with a group and said, “look at you! You have rhythm! We were watching you and you have rhythm!” It was a nice thought, but she didn’t have to sound so surprised when she said it. I told this to some folks, we laughed about it, then I excused myself to go to the bathroom.
Where I ran into Pierre’s dad.
Mr. Pierre: “You’re good out there!”
Me: “Haha … Oh thanks.”
Mr. Pierre: “Where did you learn those dance moves?”
Me: “Ha … I don’t know.” (Seriously, how do you respond to that?)
Mr. Pierre: “Did you learn those in high school?”
Me: “…” (…)
I wasn’t sure if that was an insult or a compliment. Pierre’s family is very nice so I’m sure it was a nice thought, but really, what does that mean! Anyway, the photos I copied to my computer from the wedding are all named ‘High School Dance Moves.’
A group of us stayed at the reception until it ended, and we wanted to continue to dance. We decided to head to someplace in San Francisco near the hotel where everyone was staying, and the best way to get there was the Muni, a form of mass transit in San Francisco.
Yes, the bride and groom came too.
A photographer was on the Muni with us and he asked if he could take our pictures. He thought it was so cool to see a wedding party riding mass transit.
The photographer ended up posting some of the photos on flickr. I told my mom about it and she found the guys’ page with this set of photos, along with a note congratulating the married couple. The funny thing (to me, not as much to her) was that the photo at that time that represented this ‘married couple’ album was of Ira and me. Here are the photos, I’m the white guy (and I’d been drinking): here.
While we were walking to catch the Muni I hiccupped. Pierre’s sister, Sabrina, described my hiccup pretty accurately by saying, “you hiccup like a small dog!” I found this hysterical. Actually, probably everyone who heard this found this hysterical. Again, we’d been drinking.
Not long after that, we were riding the Muni. Sabrina sneezed. I saw this as an opportunity.
“You sneeze like a small dog!” I said loudly, and very proud. Aren’t I so clever?
Shyla, though, had apparently not heard Sabrina’s comment to me about my hiccup. Taken without the context – me yelling very happily to someone “you sneeze like a small dog” – this is a weird thing to say to someone you don’t know all that well. Shyla told me, shocked at my behavior, “that was rude!”
But you know, my strongest association with Shyla and Sabrina are those 3 lines.
Last story, I promise.
We went to a club that was at the roof of some hotel near Union Square. There was a live band and we started up dancing some more. We were tired, and boozy, but it was still a lot of fun. (Below: drinking makes me short.)
After a while my sister and Pierre sat down and I was standing a bit in front of them. I was sort of dance walking toward them when an Asian girl (maybe late 20s?) came up to me.
She wanted to – what is this? – dance with me! Weird! Normally people don’t approach me to dance. I’m not sure why, it could be the flailing limbs.
Anyway, we started ‘dancing.’ This was a cue for my body to shut down. I would look at my sister, then at this tiny stranger, then at my brother-in-law, then the tiny stranger, and so on. How to ‘fast-dance’ (as I still refer to it in my 6th grade mind) with this tiny lady? My dancing, like most of the things I do, is meant to be funny. Strangers might not get that.
Thankfully (I guess) she ended my mental melt-down with some talk. These aren’t verbatim, but it’s the gist of the conversation.
“You’re really white.” (Seriously, this is the first thing she said to me. What an opener.)
“Uh … yep … You’re really Asian.” (I may have muttered the last part.)
“… Where are you from?”
“What?” (I leaned down about a foot.)
“Where are you from?”
“…” (I’m paranoid so I wonder why she’s asking me this, then I decide it’s a harmless enough question.) “I live in the South Bay … Where do you live?”
“I used to live in the South Bay!”
” … Cool …” (?)
[I think she asked something about what are you doing here after that. I may be missing some.]
“I’m here – that’s my sister over there!” (I pointed.) “It’s her husband’s best friend’s wedding!”
“Oh cool! I’m here for [no idea – sister, friend?] wedding! You should meet her!”
” … Uh …” (What?)
“She likes guys like you! Tall and white!”
I look up to my sister, hoping she’ll drag me away or something. I was afraid for my life. I don’t know why. It made sense at the time.
The tiny girl starts dragging me toward another part of the club. I look back and Erin and Pierre are just as casual as can be. I don’t usually meet people at clubs. And by ‘don’t usually’ I mean never.
Suddenly she stops me.
“Are you smart?”
I found this question hysterical for so many reasons – 1, we’ve both been drinking; 2, she’s about to introduce me to a girl for Lord knows what reason but I’m assuming not something you’d preach about since said girl is about to be married; 3, who cares?; 4, you started off our talk by saying “you’re really white.”
“Sure.” (I grin.)
“Seriously.” (And she really did ask it seriously. Wow.)
“I don’t know? Why’s it matter?”
“My friend only likes smart guys.” (Again, the engaged girl on her bachelorette party. People these days.)
“Sure.” (I’m not sure what I said – it was either sure or some overly long answer about how do you really judge if someone’s smart. Either way I proved I was a geek.)
Whatever I said, she found it acceptable because she continues to drag me back to the chicas. I get back there and she introduces me by saying something. One of them stands up and they take a picture of us. I probably looked scared out of my mind. So tiny and, I was assuming the worst, slutty!
One of Pierre’s cousins comes around to tell me they’re leaving. I say ok and jet set out of there.
We get to the elevator where the cousin is politely informing me what I could’ve done to/with/for/had done to me/etc with this girl. I noticed around the time he was saying, “f her over a table” (with charades to go with the words) that the bachelorette girls are boarding an elevator.
I’m pretty proud of my first interaction with a bachelorette party. I’m sure some guys would be shocked at my not going for such an easy thing, but in my mind there is a direct correlation between easiness and the amount of STDs someone has.
These things are ‘Weekly Wackos’ for a reason, people.