Monthly Archives: April 2010

The More Things Change …

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Is sending a friend request on Facebook the equivalent of asking for someone’s phone number? It certainly is as personal–even more so, in fact. It not only establishes a medium of communication between 2 people like the phone does, it also heralds the always open (browser) window to the other person’s online persona. This is assuming, of course, that the object of one’s affection has an FB profile and is active in the online social scene; but, in this voyeuristic and narcissistic day and age, who doesn’t and isn’t? Basically, in what would typically be unraveled by going on a date or two, a Pursuer can instead get the virtual low-down in a minute or two of viewing the Pursued’s profile. (Don’t even pretend you don’t do this, dear readers. We all googled the Pursued before Facebook came along, so don’t worry, you’re not a cyberstalking freak.)

I ponder this fact because, a few weeks ago, I was quite pleased with myself having finally asked a Pursued if I could add her on Facebook. (I asked before I did so to appear, er, gentlemanly. I’m an idiot, I know.) To my alcohol-muddied recollection, she replied with an inviting “yes.” However, it’s now been 3 weeks and I still see this beside her FB profile.

The feeling I get when I see this — and yes, I look at it everyday — is reminiscent of the dreaded wait for a callback after leaving a blundering voice mail, or the anticipation of hearing the iPhone make that SMS tone after dispatching a flirty but ill-conceived text message. Maybe I spooked her by friending too soon–as in, 1 day after asking. Is there already proper etiquette on how soon one can friend someone on Facebook? Or, do we just rehash the rule for the post-encounter phone call, i.e., do it 2 days after?

Be it via phone lines, cell towers or fiber optic cables, I know, at least, one thing remains the same: my results are consistent however way I do it. FML.

The Vodka Code (Part II)

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[continuation of my previous entry]

The art scene got old by the time 7pm came around. To bid a fond adieu to the gallery and its open bar goodness (and since we weren’t allowed to bring any of the free booze out of the premises), Susan slyly hid my plastic cup of cranberry vodka and her Ketel One with Diet Coke under her coat as we slipped by and giggled at the guardians of the front door. Unfortunately, Vu was unaware of the “no to-go” policy and tried to exit without proper booze concealment and, therefore, got his stash tragically sequestered.

Before we proceeded to the California Theater to watch CineQuest’s closing film, Mother, we stopped at Fahrenheit lounge to replenish our bodies with food that had actual nutritional value. But, of course, while there we ordered more cocktails. I had a very fruity lychee martini and something else, which I no longer recall at this point. Neither do I remember the drinks of my 2 companions, nor the food we ordered. (As you can tell, alcoholic amnesia had already kicked in.) After some very speedy consumption, we headed out to see the movie, which turned out to be quite engaging. Sitting — or in Susan’s case, sleeping — through it was also a good way of sobering up from all the pre-movie madness we engaged in.

By the time the ending credits were scrolling up the silver screen, we were like rejuvenated boxers ready for more rounds of rigorous rigmarole. Stepping out of the theater, Vu purposefully directed us to the first club we chanced upon, Brix, on 349 South First St. The nightclub had a nice exterior and there was a small line at the door, so it looked inviting and promising. However, the very first step I took past the entrance, I knew something was amiss. While San Jose is often referred to as “Man Jose” because of its population’s lopsided ratio of more guys than girls (in nightlife venues, at least), this place was practically packed with only dudes. Mere seconds past the front door, I realized Vu had just led me to my first LGBT nightclub. (That fool is slowly peeking out of his closet, methinks.)

Not dismissing any opportunity to have a good time, we lingered for a bit, sipping our drinks while wondrously enamored with the unfamiliar vibe and scene. I ordered my favorite drink, an apple martini, taking advantage of the only place where I won’t get ridiculed for ordering such a cocktail.

At some point, some dude ended up dancing shirtless on the dance floor as his companion playfully twirled the pink polo shirt he previously had on. Such a different ambiance indeed. (The music was actually pretty good, too.) All this was happening, by the way, while Susan was lost in another world: She apparently found her calling as a fag hag, as one guy who just moved to San Jose from the East Coast fell in love with her at first sight and proceeded to corral her within his yearning arms for most of our time at the club. (He added her on Facebook right then and there.)

Obviously, I was not going to meet or dance with any viable ladies around here, so we decided to move on after the novelty of the scene wore off. The night was still young, after all, and there were lots more debauchery to be had.