Table Talk: Episode 1


One of the pro’s that comes with living in the same house as three of your closest friends is when you sit down for dinner, which we try to do together every night, you often times come across some interesting topics of conversation. I can’t recall who brought this up the other night, but we got on the topic of how nothing can be deleted from the internet; social media in particular. You may think the 6-second Snapchat of you provocatively using an article of fruit you sent to your boo last night is now only accessible through his imagination, but you’re wrong. (Before I could even complete the Google search in the link provided, the search engine was already filling in the search bar for me.It’s not only Snapchats that can be recovered. You think just because you deleted that tweet seconds after it went public it’s erased forever? Not in a world where Twitter sees 100 million daily active users it isn’t. All it takes is one simple screenshot, and boom, controversy.

We’re only just now beginning to see how tweets/statues/photo’s can ruin a celebrity’s reputation, but think about the future. For all we know the 55th President of the United States could have just tweeted something racist while sitting in Mrs. Smith’s 6th grade English class; the next star athlete could have Snapchatted a sexual picture to all of the girls in his Freshman Spanish class; Time’s next “Person of the Year” could have just Instagramed a picture of the newest addition to his bong collection; etc. It may not effect these individuals now, but all it takes is that one accusation and everything goes out of control. With how messed up this world is, I guarantee there is someone out there who would not hesitate to go back and pull up a future celebrity’s social media page just to get a share of the limelight; even if that means ruining the career of someone they don’t know, or better yet, an old friend.

I’m not here to tell people what they should and should not post on social media, because that conversation could be as annoying as the thousands of times Mom and Dad told you not to take candy from a stranger. I’m just doing what I normally do: giving you all food for thought. With how big social media is now-a-days, your past is as easily accessible as that girl standing on the end of your street at 3 in the morning in her stilettos. Family members, friends, friends of friends, strangers, employees, potential employers, just about anyone can access your social media pages if they really wanted to. That alone should make you think twice about the things you post to Facebook/Twitter/Instagram/etc.


The Best Kind of Compliments


Disclaimer: I am not racist: (I know, I know – if you have to make a disclaimer, odds are people will disregard your disclaimer and accuse you of the things that follow (kind of like when you say, “I’m not trying to sound _____” knowing that you’ll sound exactly like the adjective within the blank when it’s all said and done). And, because this is about a race other than my own I feel the need to add it anyways, just to make things clear. But, seriously – let’s all try to view this as a comical post and nothing more. You know how my logic works by now, so it shouldn’t come as a surprise.)

Saturday night my roommates, friends, and I went out for a night on the town to bid farewell to my main man Luis during his final weekend in Nova (I’M GOING TO MISS YOU, MAN!). Because I’m the type of person who laughs at everything, and my bladder was to the point where even the faintest of chuckles would have caused a warm stream to run down my legs, I figured I had to do it: I had to break the seal. So, I did exactly what the books tell you to do: I put a napkin over my glass (I ain’t tryin to get roofied again), announced to the table where I was going, and headed off to the bathroom.
I get to the bathroom and notice all of the stalls are taken, so I patiently stand there waiting for one to open up. While I’m waiting, this gentleman of African American decent comes in and stands behind me. As we both stand there I see him look down out of the corner of my eye. Time to go off on a tangent: now, when I was preparing to go to New Orleans in October I did a little research. Apart from reading about all of the violence in that city, which freaked me the fuck out, I read a comment someone wrote that said, “if you drop something on Bourbon Street, don’t bother picking it up: it’s hers.” Back to the story: when I saw this guy look down I wanted to make a joke similar to that, because I wouldn’t have minded making a friend in the bathroom. Unfortunately, I didn’t see him make any movement down so I refrained from doing so. To my surprise, he had actually looked down at my shoes and gave me a compliment. This is where my post gets interesting, with all intentions to be comical:
In my opinion, black people can pull anything off. I mean ANYTHING: e.g. this black guy at school wore this beanie that was the shape of a tigers head and had long tassels. Did he look dumb in my eyes? HELL NO. He was pulling that thing off as if it had been in style for 10 years. If it were a white person wearing it, I would have politely told him he’s trying to hard, and that he needs to tone it down.
So, whenever I get a compliment from a black person about my attire I freak out. It happens every time. It’s almost like black people are the gatekeepers of the fashion world, and they just let this scrawny white kid through to the next round. The last time I got a compliment about my shoes from a black guy I was wearing these at a bar. I literally took them off of my feet, held them up to his face for him to get a better look, and said, “right?! I just got them today!” with this huge grin on my face. Looking back on it I’m only a little embarrassed, because he probably thought, “look at this dumb, drunk white boy”. At that time, I was through to the other world and nothing was stopping me.
There you have it: my not-so-racist-comical-post that involves black people. I guarantee you I’m not the only one who feels this way. I may just be the only brave soul man enough to talk about it.

DC Nightlife


Sucks. Just kidding. I can’t really base it off my one and only experience, but it will forever play a heavy role in future decision making.

This past Saturday night my roommates and I (5th roommate included) went to this bar/club in DC for a friend of a friend’s birthday. Now, I am FAR from being a club-goer, but I was lured in because I was told it was more of a lounge than a club before I agreed to go. Although this was kind of true…never mind. It wasn’t true; it was a club. I decided to take one for the team anyways, because all 4(5) of us haven’t been out together in a few weeks. I figured, “hey, I’ll get drunk enough so I can enjoy it.” That turned out to be a bad idea.

Now, I love wearing hats. It’s kind of a staple in my life. As we were walking up to this club, I could tell from the outside that they had a strict “no hat” rule, and that put a damper on the night. Luckily my intuition kicked in while we waited outside, so I was able to buff out my hat hair as best I could. We get up to the door, the lady with the clipboard asks if we’re here for someone who’s on the list (thank God we were, because it was a $20 cover charge if we weren’t, and I refuse to pay even a $5 cover charge at some places), we tell her yes, we start walking in, and sure enough they told me I couldn’t wear my hat. (I know, I know. Impressive, right?)

We get in to this place, and it’s exactly like the many reasons why I hate clubs:

  1. The uncomfortably loud music. It’s almost difficult to hold a conversation with your own self, let alone another individual.
  2. The god damn strobe lights. It’s like the machines knew everywhere I was going to look before I even did, thus blinding me wherever I turned.
  3. The dress code. This didn’t really bother me. A flannel and some khakis, essentially what I wore, is what I consider business casual when going out. I don’t feel the need to dress in slacks and a sports coat to have drinks with my friends, as was the situation with many people there.
  4. The dancing. I hate dancing. To me it’s awkward. You mean I have to awkwardly/creepily dance with a complete stranger before I can even talk to them? Yeah – no thanks.
  5. The heat. I don’t know if my body was used to the cold temperatures outside, but it was hotter than two squirrels fucking in a wool sock.

Then, there were reasons I added to the list as the night went on:

  1. I didn’t see a coat check anywhere, which meant I had to put my hat and jacket on top of a booth (MAJOR plot point).
  2. No seats. From what I recall, the only seats they had there were strictly for those who ordered bottle service. Essentially, it was $300 to sit.
  3. If using a card, you had to spend at least $20 minimum to close out your tab. In a time where a majority of peoples money is on a piece of plastic, you’re telling me I have to buy 3 beers/drinks to close out my tab? Fuck that.
  4. As it got more crowded, the smell of body odor became overwhelming. If I wanted to spend the night smelling funk the body produces under a lot of physical activity I would have gone to Gold’s Gym.

To spare you all from hearing me complain anymore, and myself for making me relive the situation, I’ll stop there. As the night went on, and the more and more drinks I got in my system, I began to “enjoy” it a little bit. (I put “enjoy” in quotes because the state of enjoyment was heavily effected by the alcohol). It’s about 2:45am and we all decide to leave. I go back to the booth where I set my hat and jacket and start the search. Moving jackets left and right, I finally come across my hat. I put it on, because fuck the rules, and continue to look for my jacket.

I never found my jacket. Fuck DC.