The Hammer of Thor

Consider for a moment the possibility of dating a nymphomaniac. Consider all the implications, benefits and challenges, social impact and realizable personal milestones that come along with having a bedfellow whose biological fabric, DNA, and soul was, from birth, imbued by the heavens a mystical ancient whisper granting her the mission to do just one thing – to be one with the sex. I use the word “sex” as a proper noun here to illustrate the transcendental nature of sex to the Nympho, not as a gender, but as something more like energy, a moving torrent – like the Force. And I don’t mean Obi Wan’s pissing in the wind kind of force. Nymphos are a breed until themselves. I’m talking about the Darth Jenna Jameson shit, blow out your eardrums, suck you till your lungs collapse, please don’t touch Mr. Helmet head anymore, kind of force.

Nympho’s are evil. They are malevolently overpowered. They cannot be controlled, much less owned or tempered. And if you can’t keep up, they will leave you. They must be enslaved. They are like the holy grail of game.

Thor is a good man, and his story is that of the underdog turned army general. He moved his way up the firm the old fashioned way taking on doc and contract work nobody else wanted and ate up billable hours on overtime for free. He didn’t complain and was a quiet soldier to the firm, all the while soaking up knowledge and building influence. A few years ago, he was finally promoted to a leadership roll, became the first point of contact with the bulge-brackets, and so he could start indulging a little in softer things in life – like wine, literature, karaoke, and flaming dr. peppers. He is notoriously generous with his champagne and overly-friendly to strangers. Thor was THAT brother who drove the last girl home at the end of the night when no one else would. He was never the alpha male, but his presence inspires meaningful conversation no matter how loud the music, and he his attendance is always enough to warrant that “one more drink” for good measure. His teeth were a bit crooked but he makes up for it with one of those million dollar smiles. His intentions have always been the most altruistic of us all – consequently and unwillingly the benchmark of all our actions. Women are drawn to him because of his good heart - like an Asian Celtic Jedi. Women fear that if they venture too far into a relationship with him, they would fall under his Jedi spell.

They also fall for one more thing. In addition to a big heart, he also has a big cock.

His ex-girlfriends nicknamed it, “The Hammer.” The Hammer of Thor.

I digress.

Most men, those lucky enough to find a nymph, would keep her caged away at home. That’s the smart thing to do. This might be why we rarely see them out. This might also be why when friends tell us they’ve met one, we’re more often than not skeptical. So back in November on the eve of Johnson’s birthday, when Thor told us about his new friend, we all imagined a cougar or possibly a cute young intern who hadn’t had a boyfriend before. Truth be told, he’d been keeping quietly to himself, taking occasional trips out to Taipei, and when we finally did see him that night, he wasn’t his talkative self. He looked disheveled, a bit restless, and quite tired – like a mule who’d just stepped off a long-haul flight from the Golden Triangle. And if you count sex as a narcotic, that’s pretty-much what happened.

“How was Taipei? Heard you’ve been seeing someone,” I ventured. Johnson, Hulk, Kal-El, and I were huddled in a corner of the bar.

Thor didn’t waste much time and dove right into it.

“Mate, I don’t even see Taipei anymore..”

“Wow, enjoying yourself?” I asked nonchalantly, digging at the bottom of my Chivas greentea.

“I touched down Friday morning, checked into the Hyatt. We left the hotel once to get some dinner. I haven’t seen daylight in 72 hours.”

“Yo, that’s sick.” Johnson was interested in details, despite having dated his girl for 6 months already.

“Nympho. Mate, I’m dating a Nympho. She’s fucking crazy,” Thor insisted.

“You’re in honeymoon period. That’s understandable,” I mused.

“No, mate – I’m telling you. I came 6 times in the first night.” We look at him quizzically.

“WTF. But you got the Hammer…” Hulk wasn’t convinced.

Thor was shaking his head, “Hammer was dry-heaving by Day 2.”

“Harsh.”

“Her appetite is insatiable. She’s fucking crazy.”

“The man is an empty shell.” Johnson shook his head.

“Happy birthday, Johnson.” Thor raised his glass.

“Happy birthday, Thor.” Johnson returned.

We all chuckled at the irony and chimed in,

“Happy birthday, Thor!”

And we all raised our glasses.

We finally met Lisa just two weeks ago. We were meeting at Racks to start off the night, and we invited Thor to join us. He brought along the vixen. And wow. First, imagine a nympho. Now imagine a half-Brazilian, half-Taiwanese nympho. Legendary. That’s right – limited edition, complete with hologram sticker. She was stunning. The rest of us were… well, we were just stunned. She was tall and slim. Big Latina eyes, killer smile, porcelain skin, and yet her curves stretched only so lightly against the skin tight black cotton-stretch dress she was wearing. She couldn’t speak a lick of English, but she was very nice. We all wanted to run over to the Thor-meister and rollout some jumping high fives, a hearty handshake, and a big pat on the back! Good job, good job. Bartend, get a bottle of your finest cognac!

From Racks, we went straight to Dragon I. The DJ room was packed to the brim, and so we stationed ourselves in the civilian room by the Long Bar. Everyone was in good spirits, and within 45 mins, 3 rounds of flaming something or other, we were buzzing hard. Some of us more than others. Hulk, Johnson, Saks – we were on cruise control; opening up a few sets on the floor but nothing special. We were in a happy drunk mode and dancing up a storm. Thor and Lisa were dancing a bit too, some moves less dance-like than others. We were happy for him, nonetheless. He was Bossman for the night.

I found myself at the bar later on in the night chatting with Lisa in my broken Mandarin. She was sweet and talkative. She had no airs about her, and she had an adorable laugh. She was becoming more and more flirtatious as the night wore on, and I was trying to distract myself by ordering more drinks while she tried to keep my attention – pretending to wave down the bartender even though he wasn’t looking, smiling at random strangers to break the conversation up. She was getting frisky and kissed me repeatedly on the cheek, and there wasn’t much room to maneuver on a Saturday night.

“You’re so lean!” She purred, felt my waist, let out a squeal and licked my face. It was becoming more crowded in the room, and so I turned my body adjacent to the bar, with one elbow leaning on the marble. Lisa turned her back to me with her neck coming closer towards my face and the cleft of her derriere pressing firmly into my crotch. I could smell the soft perfume in her hair and a faint scent that I can only guess were her pheromones gushing from every pore in her body. My hands moved to her waist quickly to push her away just a little to give some distance between her soft ass and my throbbing erection, but she was quick and took my hand and ran it over her taught midriff. I’ve been in situations like this before, when the girl of a friend is this hammered; she doesn’t mean it personal and I’m just the closest target. It’s purely circumstantial and I knew it. Even though Thor wasn’t calling it official - between brothers, the protocol is very strict.

From the corner of my eye, I saw Thor engaged in a friendly chat with a friend, but I had not doubt he could see his girl was on a rampage. I finally caught his eye, and I pointed my finger straight at him. “You, come here.” I told him I had to use the washroom, that he should hold the bar space, that it was real estate worth parking. In fact, I was going cool off and stay out of the way. For the rest of the night, the boys took turns shooing away the bar vultures who simply could not resist – spent the past 2 hours gazing from across the bar, waiting for a chance to intercept her and lull her away from the pack. Saks’ patience fell through and ordered her taken off the premise. “Thor, get her outta here. She’s done. She’s hammered.” It was the right move. I went home and rubbed one out.

The next morning, I received some text messages from Thor. I think he was feeling mildly uncomfortable having her out in public, and perhaps he needed some reassurance.

Thor: Sorry didn’t get chance 2 see you before we left. Had to take crazy girl home b4 some random dude tried to take her back home. Translation: Yo, had to bounce home to tax that ass. Please tell me I’m not doing the wrong thing parading around town with a girl who might be mistaken as a high class prostitute.

Phalimus: No worries. You did the right thing. She is a very attractive girl with an appetite for excitement. I can understand why you two would stay cooped up in a hotel normally. Translation: It’s a good thing you got her outta there. I want to eat her out and I’m so envious. I wish I was tapping that hot body 8 nights a week. I can still smell her perfume on my cuff..

Thor: Crazy girl, crazy appetite, crazy everything. Completely loses control when drunk. Happens all the time. Beginning to think I’m crazy for continuing to see her… Translation: We fuck so goooood. She lets me have it anyway I want, any time I want. However, I’m concerned about my appearance though out in public. Are you sure, it doesn’t look like I’m tapping a high class prostitute?

Phalimus: You’re addicted. And its not something everyone has a chance to experience. We are happy for you. Enjoy it. Although she may driver you up the wall later. Translation: You coke fiend. You should pour honey all over her and do lines off her beaver. We hate you, but we are happy for you. Tap that shit, badboy! Don’t take her home to see mom.

Thor: Thanks, but she’s already driving me up the wall with her craziness! Will be outta town until after CNY. Let’s catch up afterwards. Translation: Thank you for reassuring me. I’m da MAN! I’m going to spend 2 weeks just tapping. Outties yo.

Phalimus: Good to see you too, bro. Just tie her up in a cage. See you in a few weeks. Translation: You da Man! Just tie her up in a cage. Tell us all about it when you come back an empty shell, motherfucker.

Phalimus out.

Pocket Aces

I have friends, like Hulk & Thor, who insist on dating girls no younger than 26 - for all the obvious reasons: more experience and less inhibition. And I don't necessarily mean this in the sexual sense. While the age doesn't necessarily guarantee self-assurance and confidence, she's less likely to be insecure - assuming she's a semi-career woman.

A while back, I had a date with a girl who was a textbook 9, in her early twenties; freshgrad and beautiful. She was born in HK, moved to the States at an early age, and came from a well to do family - albeit not an excessively rich one. She studied at UCLA, picking up a liberal arts degree and managed to find a decent job soon after gradating. She's a part-time model with a day job as a PR associate at reputable tech firm - a rare breed, insomuch that she was determined to persue a career that was not contingent on her hot body. I respect that. Her name was Susan. And I was excited about this date, but it turned out to be a huge disappointment.

In no-limit poker, pocket pair Aces have diminishing returns over time as more of the common cards are revealed - as the flop, turn, and river open up. If your best hand is still the same pair of Aces you picked up in the first place, you'd better be prepared to fold. Amateurs tend to hold onto their pairs, refusing to fold, refusing to believe that their luck could be so poor that they could lose with such a perfect hand. In fact, you're likely to get beat a two pair, trips, flush, or straight. The writing's on the wall, but they refuse to let go, and its not till until everyone opens up the cards do you finally feel regret. Perhaps the same is true of dates with hot faces.

I took Susan out to a quaint little oyster bar on Bridges street called, "The Oyster Station." While not high society, it's the kind of restaurant that makes a lasting impression and a high enough value/dollar ratio that you'd come back for more. It was after work, so she wore a tight black suit, hair tied up in a pony tail, and a color that opened up her delecate colar bone and the soft untreated porcelain skin underneath. She had a small mole on her neck - a reminder of my favorite muzzling zone. She was classically beautiful with strong cheek bones and small but pouting lips, and she never wore much makeup - her skin was flawless. Pocket Aces.

We talked about Cali, the old restaurants, Polka-dot-door, and all the things that influenced us as children. She was an avid D&D gamer as a kid and we reminisced about late Saturday nights in someone's basement rolling for initiative and drinking beer. It was fun, in that way, and I felt myself relax into nostaligia. But as we moved into the last course of the meal, into the more deeper discussions about career and asipirations, certain insecurities that started to turn me off.

She would go on about how she had a massive project coming up in just a few months and that she was the 'project manager'; she had to host a round table and workshop for 200 people, and she was (somehow after only 6 months of work experience) the center of the decision matrix. She bragged about her busy travel schedule after CNY - London, Tokyo, Sidney.. blah blah blah. She sounded a bit like a cocky intern - the same kind of summer associate you see every recruiting season overly-profuse name-dropping at Dragon-I and Armani. Do you know who I work for? JP Morgan! We buy 50 bottles every weekend - so don't tell me you can't let me in! Blah Blah Bah.

I find her stories typically hard to believe, and this type of overeager, slip-of-the tongue social proofing comes off as boasting - not from arrogance, but from insecurity. When she talked about her friends, it was never a simple opening, "My friend John, the banker." It was always, "My friend, John, the DERIVATIVES BANKER," or "My friend from highschool, Frederick, the PUBLIC EQUITY IN-HOUSE CORPORATE COUNSEL." I mean.... what the hell IS a "derivatives banker?" I've heard of derivatives traders or quants, but never in that semantic. And who the hell says 'public equity in-house corporate counsel?.' I sort of understand the terms, and there are so many new acronyms and titles these days that they could very well exist. But the fact that she was even using them made me cringe. The titles weren't even relevant to her stories, and she'd dropped from a solid 9 to a borderline 7.6 in under an hour.

Maybe it's because she reminded me of myself - when I was 15. This was when I used to wear my dad's overcoat because the shoulders made me look bigger. My pants were too baggie, and I slicked on so much hair gel I looked an unemployed bicyclist strung out on coffee. The girls wore overly bright red lipstick that smeared into the corners, and everyone smelled like they were draping themselves in CK One. Some of the girls in our sister school wore too much perfume and about a gazillion layers of foundation. We call them "Flytraps." (That's not a mole, yo).

It was all about me me me. And writing this now, I feel like I'm regurgitating a bad scene from any given Manhattan romantic comedy released on Christmas day, but I they are stereotypes for a reason. Susan was talking so much fluff, and in turn, so was I - just to keep that ego stroked. I just didn't have the energy left to persue it past 9:30pm, and I felt I'd been chewing on cotton balls all night. Mind you, it's not her fault. She's just young and insecure. I'm sure one day, she'll grow into her own skin, but I'm not sure I have the patience to wait that long. I hadn't had sex in months, and my vision was starting to blur. But she wasn't really a bitch, neither arrogant nor too demanding - she just wasn't there yet, and maybe a little dumb.

That same night in the cab on my way home, I received a text from the Hulk who was also out on a date with Candace - the nurse with the fatty liver, bad teeth, great hair and an incredibly tight bootie. Obviously, he was not enjoying his meal either.

The text read, "What is it with these bitches who don't say, 'thank you' after you buy them a nice dinner?"

You can end up with rags even if you start the hand with pocket aces.

Phalimus Out.

Hulk vs. Pussy

I hate anti-comformists. In a city that has one of the highest 3G penetration rates in the world and generally a very tech accepting population, I still come across a lot of people very resistant to the iPhone. And despite what I consider a very thorough education campaign to ease the legitimate concerns – there is still an incredible amount of skepticism or stubbornness. Having said that, it is still a very expensive piece of technology despite prices coming down by about 20%. But there is tremendous satisfaction. So I’ll just say this once: 1) the keyboard is very easy to use, because of its predictive programming. You just need to mash the word in to the keyboard with approximate accuracy. Fat fingers are fine. 2) You can personalize it with cool decals – the same thick stickers you see on cars. Gelaskins is my favorite, because the promoted artists do gorgeous and cool work, the material and adhesive of the decal is done by 3m, but they do take 2 weeks to ship because they’re made in Canada. You can find them at Windsor House in Causeway, but they’re substantially more expensive at around HK$260 a piece. 3) You can play facebook poker from your iPhone. The app is called Live Poker.

Different players, different game. I think one of the more important life lessons I’ve learnt is that everyone, while made equal, none of us are interchangeable. That goes for approach kung fu as well. Bruce had it right for the start, I think. Jeet-Kun do is in fact an illustration of how there is no set way, that each fighter must develop his or her own optimum technique based on their own physiology, temperament, and spot progress. Some are team players, and some aren’t. Even within a team, players differ in strategy. Cyclops has ranged attack but vulnerable in close quarters. Colossus, on the other hand, needs to get up close and personal - low mobility but high impact in the hand-to-hand. They compliment each other, and there is a clear synergy. And then, there are players whom you need to have around, just because they have that something about them, that special power that attracts pure action. They come alive at the tipping point of devastation, and are often perceived as both pacifying and volatile – but never at the same time. Rarely troublesome in sober environments, their status is binary – On or OFF. Blue Chip Rock solid or Chuck Norris Nuclear. Nothing in between.

In my current team, the Hulk, is one such character. A respected lawyer, he is well liked for his antics, sharp tongue, and blatant disregard for impudent AMOGs and half-baked Cockblocks. He is cultured, musically talented, and immensely knowledgeable. He finds tremendous satisfaction driving his body TO the limit – HIT the limit, and then he’ll go another 50 miles, burn down a forest, and jump naked into an arctic lake – all just to scratch an itch on his balls. He is carnal but an inborn sense of justice makes him a protective friend and an explosive catalyst for ‘Yo, this shit is going DOWN!’

Strangely, women feel safe around him because of this. And because he’s an animal, they can spot him from afar. They sniff him out from across the room, track him down, coil up in heated anticipation and pounce on him, just like them crazy ass hyenas in Lion King.

So it's not surprising, his game appears to be far more successful in the absence of his crew than attacking alongside us. And just like in the movie, we’ve discovered that the best way to make use of the Hulk is to use him like a godamn pussybomb. We have a recipe, but this is a work in progress:

Recipe for 1 Hulk Pussybomb.

1. Drag your Hulk to a dark corner,
2. Stuff him in a large container – a cage will do,
3. Inject him with a tray of jager bombs,
4. Instruct the resident DJ to turn up the volume and play Kanye’s ,“Stronger,”
5. Rattle the fucking cage
6. Lob the now enraged, drunken motherfucker it into the zone with the most pussy-per-square-inch. Period.
7. Wait for the first scream, and count to 15.
   

We did this a few months ago, just for kicks, the asshole came back with a truckload of collateral damage, he had panties coming out of his ears; and there was so much lipstick on his face, he looked like he’d been angel kissing the Brazilian volleyball team on Japanese Flag Day. “Candy, Rose, Amber, Jessica, and I think your name is Cindy – let me introduce you to my good friends; they're arms dealers by day and dildo models by night.” Team fucking player. When asked how he met them, there was some story about snapping some asshole’s neck, getting asked about his gold Roger Dubois while he was attempting a one-handed "through-the-fabric" bra-snap. Unstoppable.

My point is this: Every team needs a Hulk, whether your strategy is light recon or structured pawning. Having them around certainly entails pricing in a high risk of bar fights, but because of they have the special ability to somehow turn everything fucking upside down when you least suspect it – a complete waste of a night can just as easily turn into a brilliant one. They have a mutable role of being the brains during delecate negotiations and the brawn during heated pissing contests. But they tend to dramatically improve your chances of a Hail Mary score.

Phalimus out.

A story of terrible proportions.

One day, a small group of very bad people got together and drank lots of water. When the water entered their bodies, the water became bad. The bad water coursed through their blood, then into their bowels and finally into their evil evil renal organs. Then for some terrible reason which only bad people could imagine, instead of peeing in toilets like nice people, they gathered some old dirty bottles and peed in those bottles. They corked those bottles to keep the evil freshness inside and sold it tto nice people. When nice people complained about the taste, the bad people gave them a slice of lemon, gave them a pat on the back, reassuring them that everything was okay. In fact, the bad people were seceretly laughing. At the end of the night, curled up on the ground, the nice people fell sick. This was how tequila was born.

1:00 am Real estate

The importance of positioning. I am a firm believer in perpetual movement - in any event, any venue. Bars are an older crowd favorite because it typically relieves older (at heart) drinkers the secret shame of being just that - old at heart. It's either that, or they really don't feel comfortable around crazy hot young co-eds on summer vacation; that's what they tell me, and I suspect they're gay. (Having said that, I'll probably get to that point one day when I start binging on congnac and Bugles.) But for the rest of us, it's important we keep moving. Otherwise, we get stale, conversations start repeating themselves sounding like exasperated scripts from highschool, "what do you wanna do?""I dunno, what do YOU wanna do?""I dunno, wanna shoot some pool? Streetfighter?"*sigh* "Mmmk. Fine."

I don't particularly like anchoring myself to one end of the bar or on the dancefloor for too long, but I must admit that there are certain parcels of venue I consider prime real estate. It's not at all unlike picking good Koh Samui real estate; beach front, sea view, main road access, and close to the airport. In clubs, it's usually bar front, a decent dancefloor view, not too crowded, and close to the washroom or exit. At Prive, this would be the at the very end of the long bar facing the dancefloor. I notice we naturlly stay clear from the corners because they brush up against the heavy bottleneck traffic on both lengths of the bar. After 1am, unless you've already rooted yourself against the marble, you're pretty much left crowd surfing and armpit sniffing atleast until they've finished the 8th rotation of Rob Sinclair's "World. Hold on."

I actually really like the upper deck bar. It has a great view and very personal service. Unfortunately, it's just too small, and the flow is so bad, they usually assign a traffic cop (ie bouncer) just to keep the stairway clear. He even get his own flash like, "Xcuse me, sir. Keep moving please. ok la." *flash flash flash.* The front of the long bar, just as you come through the door, is actually not bad - full view of the other patrons, and quick access to the exit. The problem is that it's a trek to get to the washroom from 1am to 3am. Moreover, since it really is AT the entrance, I actually feel like I'm stuck in the lobby - just like those 2006 China Ipo cocktails - I have fight the uncomfortable urge to mingle with the other newcomers, squinting into the light every time the door opens like I'm trying to make out their name card. "Hi, my name is..."

I've only recently started visiting Billion, but I have a better impression of the club than I did my first visit a few months ago. In this case, there are two bars: an Eastern bar nestled by the entrance next to the veranda, and there's a second bar lodged in the Western Corner. The first 5 minutes of entering a club, most people do a 'look-see.' After checking their coats and bags, they do a full walk around the club pretending they're looking for someone, but really they're checking out the meat and building an initial crowd sense. It's like the first hand in poker - alot of sniffing going on. After that, 9 out of 10 kids end up BACK at the Easter bar. It's like there's a sense of closure, and they feel comfortable coming back to that bar. There's actually plenty of space througout the club, especially on the west side. But the bottleneck always builds up along the Eastern bar. I did the same thing on my first visit, and found it difficult to anchor - simply because the dancefloor traffic was rubbing up against too close to the bar traffic. If you've ever been to Beijing club, think back to the 1st floor main bar, that spot that bar space that joins the dance floor? Same thing. You can't breathe. (The second floor is a writeoff, since there's rarely any traffic; the over-the-danceloor balcony is a waste, since the right angle gives you a great view of their scalp, but you can forget about facial recognition).

At Bilion, the Western bar with the frontal exposure to the dance floor. That's a very special area and it's quickly becoming a personal favorite. Unlike the Eastern front, there's alot of space to dance, order drinks, and a full view of the dance floor. You have your choice of opening a set either by the bar or on the floor. Very accessible. There's still booth property readily available if you wanna splash, but you generally get very high value for your buck hanging around the bar. And there's less temptation to wander back to the eastern bar, because EVERYONE does the look-see. They come to you. Just like Genki-sushi (sushi on a conveyor belt). The best part? There's a secret door beside that opens up to the main corridor RIGHT beside the coat check. Score.

Captain crunch & a Billion reason not to grind

Credit crunch, yo. Yoshinoya, that is. Hi protein, dense, filling, and relatively inexpensive. While it's easily 50% more expensive than your local "cha siu & you gai" rice box (bbq pork & soya sauce chicken rice), personally I feel less post-meal comatose and less nausea with the beef. There's not doubt Yoshinoya yields very high utility. My secretary gave me a coupon for $3 off a meal, but when I got to the counter, they rejected the coupon, cuz it was for in-restaurant dining only. I like to eat my food at my desk. Eating by myself in the foot court feels like a waste of time; not that it's lonely, but more because I could be surfing the web for more zhang ziyi photos while I wolf down the chow. But after lining up for 15 minutes to place my order, I wasn't in the mood to wait another 15 minutes to get a seat and forfeited the $3 coupon, that would have otherwise paid for a tram ride to central and still give me back $1 in change. Located in Wanchai, the little fast food joint was overflowing from customers bleeding in from Central - I've ran into hordes of strapped associates from Merrills twice in the past 2 weeks already. Yo, that's a 10 minute walk from Garden rd, #3. Somehow it makes sense. A toasted prosciutto and mozzarella sandwich from GREAT will run you at least $65 bucks plus drink. A $39 "Prosperity" beefset meal at Yoshi gets you a hot green tea PLUS your choice of Salmon steak or Sabah fish in teriyaki sauce. Having said that, lunching 4 times a week at the same spot is a bit much. My semiretired ex banker uncle Vincent used to gorge on $15 Cha Siu rice box (bbq pork & rice) EVERYday for lunch. Apparently, it sharpened his valuation skills and charged his market senses enough to hit day end close. I tried that diet for 3-months a few years back, and I almost went blind. And I thought that was from too much prawn.

Zhang Zi yi. I think she's a real trooper for going back to work after all the tough publicity. I really do. Back in the Edison scandal days, there was a letter published online by a Cecilia Cheung doppleganger defender her image as a badgirl, denouncing criticism that she was soiling her reputation, that the only person she had to answer to was her husband. It wasn't actually written by Cecilia, but I wish it had been. It would have been empowering, and I would have rooted for her. In the same manner, I think Ziyi has the goods and the attitude to do the same. Having said that, I had a look at mom's copy of Next magazine, and I have to say - my favorite picture is the one with "dudefella" really getting in there. You know the one I'm talking about - like a hedgehog on coke. That shot makes me laugh my head off. He reminds me of old Columbia Coffee commercials I saw on Saturday mornings - the ones with Juan Valdez nose deep in coffee beans a smile with grinning assurance - quality in every cup, yo.

A note on dance floor approaches. Opening a set on the dance floor is very difficult. Opening a set in a packed club on the dance floor is a genuine challenge. Unless you're Eurasian, you're going to have a very difficult time getting their attention, and even if you do, it'll be unlikely they hear a word you say. Even if you manage to elicit some acknowledgement of your existence, be genuinely careful what you do next. You really should not be diving in Kino if you haven't built a little bit of comfort, let alone attraction. What I'm trying to say is, unless she's looking you in the eye and gives you clear nonverbal permission to dance within her personal space, I DO NOT RECOMMEND slipping in behind her for a grind session - not without at least some communication that results in a sincere smile or laugh. And don't hover around gazing at her longer than the length of the current song unless you're making a clear effort to engage. That kind of fear stinks. But yeah, I don't care how you get it, but don't skip the permission to go straight to the grinding. It creeps them out and you make me look like an ass. No Jagerbombs for you! That is all.

Finally. Mr. Dudefella, I apologize for for not intervening when the Korean Pro was grinding you at the bar. You should know, however, we really did enjoy watching her work you out. It was like you opened up a bag of Christmas cake 10-years too late. Next flaming Moe is on me. Cheers.