(Originally posted April 17th 2008)

I’m always amazed at the just completely rediculous things I see on a daily basis. Sure, sometimes I might overreact a little, but most of the time I know deep down in my heart that I am dead on. Recently, I’ve seen a pattern of behavior that I need to go to war with. There’s just no avoiding it any longer. Something so absoulutly fucking stupid that I just can’t sit around and look at it one more day without losing my goddamm mind.

The faux hawk

For those of you who don’t know what a faux hawk is, Allow our friends at wikipedia to explain:

The fauxhawk (or faux-hawk) is an approximation of a mohawk, made without shaving or buzzing the hair on the sides of the head, allowing an imitation of the look of a true mohawk without having to commit to removing most of one’s hair. In many cases, the look can be temporarily set aside by simply combing or restyling the hair. Because a fauxhawk does not involve shaving the head, most, if not all, of the hair will be gelled upward.

For those of you who haven’t seen this abomination, allow me to provide an example

Yeah, his parents must be real fuckin proud.

I just don’t get it. Did someone wake up one morning, take a look in the mirror and say to himself, “Hmmm, I wonder how I can look like an even BIGGER douchebag today? wait…I’ve got it! A pretend mohawk! This will go great with my pink, popped collar shirt and my lack of self respect! Why didn’t I think of this before? I’ll be all the rage in my metrosexual social circle!”

The worst part, is that I keep seeing people in my building wearing this shit to work. Where is the common sense? Where is your dignity? Where is your hope for ever moving up in the world for christ sake? I have to fight every urge to walk over and and just smack the shit out of them. Grabbing a half a gallon of man-spunk and slapping it on your skull is just not good for anybody. It confuses women, it unfairly turns on gay men, and it nauseates the ever living shit out of people like of me.

The whole point of having a mohawk is not so you can comb it over when you go to visit grandma or your pre-op sex change counselor. I had a mohawk when I was a teenager, and having a mohawk takes balls. When you have a mohawk, people look at you like your going to bite them and steal their wallet. Having a fauxhawk just looks like your mom got drunk one night and fucked Ed Grimley.

The battle lines have been drawn folks, and the war has begun. And I see a whole army of my countrymen, here in defiance of metrosexual tyranny. You’ve come to fight as straight men… and straight men you are. What will you do with that freedom? Will you fight?

I know I will. And you should too. Well, unless you really wannna look like your mom’s most regrettable one night stand.

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(Originally posted March 2nd, 2008)

As I was walking up west broadway the other day, I was suddenly catapulted into a crippling fear of which I haven’t had in a very long time. The week before another Harpoonfest no less.

“Oh my god”, I said to myself. “It’s her…It’s really fucking her”

I tried to get as good a look as possible before I ducked into CVS for my own safety. After walking in I immediately began walking towards the back of the store, while attempting to hide what must have been an ear to ear grin on my face. “Whew”, I exclaimed to myself…”thank fucking god”

What sort of woman could put the fear of god in me like that? What sort of deranged creature would drive me to run into a pharmacy in nothing but sheer terror? This is a story that has been a long time coming. Though not even close to number 1, this story easily ranks in the Top 10 Steve Scalia stories of all time. People don’t even believe this story half the time, like it’s some sort of mass hallucination Scalia and I had after one too many beers. But it’s true. Every bit of this story is true.

This is the story of Steve Scalia versus the 8 ft tall woman.

It was October 2005. I had recently moved back to Boston and taken up residence at my current place on west broadway. My roofdeck is one of the best places in the world to entertain in the warmer months, and Harpoon octoberfest is normally the equivalent of one last picnic before covering the pool for the winter.

Steve arrived promptly at my house at noon. It was the final yanks/sox game of the regular season, and THE determining factor on who was going to lose the first annual “your team sucks” moustache bet. Trust me, no monetary bet is satisfying as the public embarrassment of your friends. Though most of you know how that worked out for him, it never hurts to remind the world. Yanks won the game, clinched the division, and Steve had to start cookin up that infamous moustache of his.

Needless to say, he was already having a bad day. Not to mention he was still with Jen at the time, and that can ruin anyone’s day. Or life. Or reasonable level of sanity. We head off to harpoonfest and begin sampling some of the finest beers and kegtossing that boston has to offer. We meet up with Jen and her friend Laura, along with my roommate and a few of my buddies I went to college with. Fun was had, beers were drank, and we returned to my house for some post harpoon fest entertainment. It was a particularly warm night for October, so we decided to go out on the town and head down to the Rattlesnake. The women wanted to go back to Jen’s and change first, so our plan was to meet them at the bar in an hour or so. Little did we know that the departure of the girls would severely cripple us in our next endeavor.

Steve and I walk outside to smoke a cigarette and wait for my roommate. As we walk outside, I notice 2 guys and a girl sitting on the sidewalk outside my door, next to a car with a flat tire. I look at them and say: “flat tire huh?, that sucks”

I swear to you, as god as my witness…this is exactly what happens next.

Steve: “Did you call AAA or something?”

A very gangly looking guy with long straight blonde hair replies: “No”

Steve: “Do you want a hand changing the tire or anything”

Out of nowhere, the “guy” leaps to his feet and immediately gets right up in Steve’s face and screams: “What the fuck is your problem?”

It’s at that point, I notice that this “guy” has breasts. This “guy” also happens to be 7 1/2 feet tall. I swear to you, I have never seen a taller woman in all of my life. Steve is 5’10, and this girls waist came up to his neck. She was like a fucking giraffe on two legs, and she was angry.

Steve is caught off guard by both the immense size of this woman, and her blind rage in his direction. He was like a deer in headlights, he never have a chance.

Steve: “All I was asking you was if you wanted a hand?”

Manbeast: “Who the fuck asked you you fucking asshole”

Steve (snapping out of his confusion): “Wait…what the hell is wrong with you, you crazy bitch? I was just trying to be helpful”

Me: *sigh*..here we go (walking into the street with my arm in the air) TAXI!!

Dropping the crazy bitch card didn’t help matters any. Lesson 1: Don’t poke the bear. These two are now REALLY getting into it…and she is clearly looking to beat the ever living shit out of him. She’s got her hands up, fists clenched, and tapping her shoulders for Scalia to “bring it”.  As this is all going on, Steve is caught in between the drunken confusion of defending himself from this completely unprovoked attack, and remembering that it is never acceptable to ever put your hands on a woman….even if she is twice your size and looking to go 12 rounds.

Manbeast: “I’ll fuck your ass up, do you think I’m afraid of you?”

Steve: “I would hope not, you’re twice as big as me you freakshow!”

My roommate comes outside and sees the two of them going back and forth, but of course he has no idea what the hell just went down. So as expected, he blamed Steve. He’s trying to make peace with the batshit crazy amazon woman and yelling at Steve to calm down, while I’m in the middle of the street saying “are there any taxi’s in this goddamm town?”

At that moment, a taxi finally pulls over.

Me: “Scalia – in the cab, NOW!”

I grab Steve and literally throw him in the cab. The girl is continuing to yell at him and starts following us into the street. Then I catch her wrath.

Me: “Yep, Ok, that’s nice. I’ll make sure to take the time out to go fuck myself, Yup, thanks for that. Hey, you guys have a good night. Maybe you can go find another way to emasculate your guy friend over there. Might I recommend hedge clippers?”

Manbeast: “Fuck you!”

Me: “Not on your life sweetheart, I wouldn’t even know where to find a ladder at this hour”

I jump in the cab and tell the cabbie to “get us the fuck out of here, and take us to the rattlesnake.”

We start driving to Copley.  Finally..Steve breaks the silence.

Steve: “Did that really just happen?”

Me: “Yes. Yes it did.”

Steve: “What the hell did I do?”

Me: “You sure do have a way with women pal.”

Steve: Dude, have you ever seen a woman that big?

Me: “What kind of stupid question is that? she was like 7 fucking feet tall!”

Steve: “Are you crazy? she was 8 feet tall if she was an inch”

Me: “Shit, she really was that big….wasn’t she?”

Steve: “What the fuck was I supposed to do?”

Me: “I really don’t know man, It’s uncharted waters.”

Steve: “Uncharted waters? Was her father the fucking jolly green giant for christsake?”

Me: “That had to be one albino looking giant”

Steve: “You know something, nobody is even going to believe this.”

Me: “Steve, I saw it with my own two eyes, and I don’t even believe it.”

Steve: “This is what I get for trying to be nice to people?”

Me: “Well, Let this be a lesson to you. Never Try.”

And what a lesson it was. Steve’s level of chivalry towards women would never be the same. I really think she scarred him for life. Once you get punked out by a giant albino woman you tried to do a favor for, it’s really all downhill from there.

In my mind, I can still hear the drunken conversations he had that night with random strangers about the moral implications of fighting back when attacked by an 8 foot tall woman: “Ya, I know you can’t hit girls…. but this woman’s breasts were ABOVE MY FUCKING HEAD! What would you do if you were me?”

I wish I could have given him the right answer. I still don’t know what to tell him almost 3 years later. I mean, you can never hit a woman. You just can’t. It’s not allowed. EVER. But if there ever could have been one exception to that golden rule, it was that fateful day on the sidewalk of west broadway. I will tell you one thing though, the streets of South Boston are no longer safe for one Mr Steve Scalia. That girl has a score to settle, and with a sight line like hers, she could spot his ass on my front stoop all the way from Carson Beach.

Maybe it’s just me, but I have this giddy feeling that St.Paddy’s day could get a little bit more interesting this year.

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Remember when I used to write? I remember. It was a warm and fuzzy time where I could work 70 hours a week, go out every weekend, sleep 5 hours a night, and bang out awesome blogs once or twice a week.

Well, that warm and fuzzy time is missing. If anyone finds it (along with my youth), let me know.

So, like all washed up hacks…it’s time to dig into the archives. I’ve decided that some of the gold that used to be on my old site needs to make it over to my new home. Maybe in a few weeks, you might even get something fun and original. But until then, enjoy my previous works of brilliance. Especially this next one….

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The Yankee kingdom has an empty throne. Today, George Stienbrenner passed away at the age of 80.

Whether you loved him or you hated him, there was nobody in baseball like him. Thankfully, he was ours. He was our fearless leader. He was The Boss.

George Stienbrenner rebuilt the downtrodden Yankees into the powerhouse that they are today. Bottom line, he saved the legacy of the franchise that I’m proud to be a fan of. 11 Pennants, 7 World Series titles, and the pieces in place for many more to come. Sure, he was loud, brash, dominating, and maybe even a little bit off his rocker…..but he always got results. Even during the title drought of the 80′s, no team in baseball won more games than the Bronx Bombers.

But, he also maintained the Yankee lore. There were no alternate jerseys, or names on the backs. You weren’t growing a beard, and if George told you to get a haircut…you got a freakin haircut. The Boss wasn’t going to let any player compromise the class and tradition of the team of Ruth, Gerig, Mantle, and Dimaggio, no matter how much they produced or how much money he paid for them. The legend of the Yankees was always bigger than the sum of its parts.

Of course, George made plenty of mistakes along the way. To whitewash his screw ups would be selling his legacy short. But even in failure, nobody did it like The Boss. How many owners would publicly call a pitcher a fat pussy toad…in spring training!?! Zero, that’s how many. And that’s what made him special. He never settled for second best. He re-invested every dime he made off the the Yankees into making them better. His tactics may have seemed ruthless at times, but not when you’re a Yankee fan. All he wanted to do was win, and it happened more often than not.

No one ever talked about the good that George did. It was always just a small footnote in the story of The Bronx Zoo. He gave away millions of dollars to charities on the condition that no one every mention where it came from. Hundreds of kids went to college, without knowing that Mr.Stienbrenner paid the bill. He took down on their luck players like Doc and Straw, and gave them chance after chance to turn their lives around. He even hired his own personal assistant after catching him putting graffiti on one of the stadium subway cars. He made the kid remove the graffiti, then gave him a job. That’s the Big Stien no one ever mentioned. He demanded results on the field, but the man had a heart of gold off of it. He was the best owner a baseball fan could ever have.

The last time I saw him was my last visit to old Yankee Stadium: the 2008 All-Star Game. It was an emotional day to begin with, and then came The Boss. Sure, he rode around the field in a golf cart and was obviously in fading health…but the electricity of having the King back in his castle for one more night is something I will never forget for the rest of my life. Dammed if I didn’t even get a little teary eyed. The Boss was like every Yankee fan’s crazy grandpa, and every October we got awesome Christmas presents. Nothing makes me happier to know that he went out a champion, just like he deserved.

9 days ago, we spent the 4th of July and George Stienbrenner’s birthday in the house that he built. A palace fit for none other than the greatest team in history of sports. It’s tough for me to accept that in those 9 days since, Yankee fans first lost the voice of the Yankees, and then their heart and soul. I suppose Big Stien just needed to wait for Bob Sheppard to get to heaven to announce his grand arrival.

My friends and I have never known a baseball world without George Stienbrenner. All I can hope for is that two little Stienbrenners can add up to be even half of what he meant to us over the years.

A hard rain fell over the city of New York today. My only guess is that George immediately fired Mother Nature.

Rest In Peace Boss. You’ll be sorely missed.

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I am so fucking tired of Lady GaGa. Either get that man a beer or have her put some clothes on, because it’s killing me. Grace Jones needs to go all Tonya Harding on her ass.

So, the Celtics lost Game 7. Badly. Chokelike even. Blowing a 13 point lead? Come on guys. Sure, you can blame age, or injuries, or even the fact Kobe Bryant raped all the players wives during halftime. Me? I’m putting the blame squarely on Jay, who went to see Phish instead of watching Game 7 of the NBA Finals.

“Hi, I’m Lebron James. Some called me the next Micheal Jordan. Turns out, I’m the next Scottie Pippen..but not nearly as angry and scary looking.”

The year of the pitcher? More like the year of drug free baseball players. Don’t fuckin kid yourselves, there are a lot of mid to late 90′s starting pitchers sitting at home that are pretty pissed off right now. Defense? Stolen Bases? When the hell did these become important again? For as much as I’m happy to see baseball come back to the place where i loved it, it’s just odd to watch the transition.

On a side note: I have a tendency to use baseball terms a lot in my day to day life. I think I have issues. Well, other than the obvious.

Happiness? The definition of happiness is knowing I won’t have to watch soccer for four wonderful years. The World Cup is a crappier version of the Olympics without all the bearded Russian women. No, it’s not because I don’t understand it, it’s because it sucks.

Mel Gibson. It was nice knowing you. You had me at calling a female cop sugartits, but you lost me when you turned that into being a crazy racist asshole.

Yeah, so I wrote a blog about the oil spill like 3 months ago. Great job everyone. Now it just spews less oil. It’s things like this that make me think it might come in handy to know mandarin chinese someday.

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These people have to be either the unluckiest people on the face of the earth, or someone just has it out for them.

So. Here we are. The largest oil spill in US history, headed right for the Gulf coast. Meh, No big deal. They only have an ocean full of precious wildlife, and states that depend on it for economic survival.

Now, I’m not going to go on some big anti oil rant. There’s no point. No matter how many hybrid cars there are, or energy efficient windows, or natural gas solutions: We are slaves to the stuff. That’s not going to change. Not to mention, accidents happen. You can’t be perfect 100% of the time when it comes to anything really. That’s just the risk you take. You can’t drive to work everyday and not accept that fact. That’s just the reality of the situation.

What I am pissed about however, is the response to this nightmare. Or quite frankly, the utter lack thereof.

I like my President. Sure, I disagree with him on a few things. But overall, I support the guy. Well, not this time. 12 days. You let this shit fester for 12 fucking days before you got off your ass and headed to Louisiana. I mean, WTF?? Seriously? After everything that happened with Hurricane Katrina? The President who is supposed to be for the common man was too busy cracking jokes at a state dinner with that suckbag Jay Leno to get his ass in gear? Where was the Navy and the Coast Guard with oil booms? Why was BP left alone to deal with this for over a week when we have the unlimited resources of the United States of America? Of course they said they could handle it. What else were they going to say? You’re telling me a government regulated company is going to come out publicly and say “Well, quite frankly Mr President…we’re pretty much fucked”? Of course not. We never should have even given them the option. We should have taken the reins from day one. “Oh, you can handle it huh? Well, it sure looks that way from the 500,000 gallons of oil in the water. Now, get the fuck out of the way”

Instead, the entire federal government sat around with their thumbs up their asses while an ecological disaster of epic proportions just got bigger and bigger. There are more private fishing vessels dragging booms right now to try and save their livelihood then there are government ones. It’s literally so ridiculous that I can’t even believe it’s actually happening.

The President telling me that “BP is gonna pay for this” does nothing to help the wildlife that will eventually be sucking down super unleaded up and down the eastern seaboard, or prevent the utter thrashing of the marshes and beaches that will take years if not decades to undo. Neither does suspending new oil permits less than 2 months after you just opened up more land to offshore drilling. PR moves aren’t going to help fix this.

What will help is declaring a national state of emergency, and pulling every boat, raft, and spare cotton ball into the Gulf as fast as you fucking can. Ya know, like you should have done a week ago. If money isn’t an object when it comes to any of your pet projects, then it shouldn’t be an object when it comes to making sure our citizens can fish and swim in our own waters without coming out looking like a cast member from the Jersey Shore.

Get on the fucking ball my friend, because “Barry, yer doin a heck of a job”

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Love: The attention. Man, they treat me like freakin gold here.
Hate: The attention. Sometimes I just want to open my own fucking door.

Love: The work ethic. These people take serious pride in their work. Even if you are a shit shoveler. Nobody half asses anything.
Hate: Filipino time. It’s like Chop time, but 10 times more frustrating. At least I get to work and meetings on time.

Love: My hotel staff. They all knew my name by the end of the first week. The cleaning staff alone deserves a medal.
Hate: Korean tourists. Rudest motherfuckers I’ve ever seen. They treat the staff like second class citizens. I need to learn how to call someone a douchebag in Korean.

Love: The weather. 85+ and sunny every day. It never rains this time of year.
Hate: The unforgiving smell of raw sewage after there actually is a big rainstorm.

Love: Buckets of San Miguel beer.
Hate: Empty buckets of San Miguel beer.

Love: All the big visiting music acts stay on my floor.
Hate: Having to hang out with the guys from Tears for Fears.

Love: Large amounts of cheap disposable goods. I bought new Vans for 11 bucks.
Hate: Filipino’s think all Americans are rich.

Love: That I have a new friend that’s an Ex-CIA agent.
Hate: That he was able pull my arrest record less than a half hour after I called his bluff. Well played Terry….If that IS your real name.

Love: The unwavering desire for my minons to follow my exact orders.
Hate: The inability for my minons to think on their own. Ever. They are so fucked when I leave.

Love: The Bars are open all night long.
Hate: Sunlight.

Love: Readily available supplies of Cuban Cigars.
Hate: How many I’m going to have to throw out when I get red-flagged at customs.

Love: Making up fake names at Starbucks. You’d laugh too if you ever heard an Asian say “Grande Cafe Mocha for Smegma”
Hate: When they remember your name as Smegma.

Love: Filipino bitches love me.
Hate: The fact that Filipino bitches REALLY love me. 

Love: $1 packs of cigarettes that taste like they used to before America made them double wrap them in paper so idiots didn’t burn their houses down.
Hate: It took me only a week of living here to totally fall off the wagon and really start smoking again.

Love: Diving in the oceans off the coast. Absolutely beautiful coral reefs.
Hate: Having to be careful since crazy Filipino’s still actively practice blast fishing. You would think the guy with one arm would try a safer method.

Love: The imaginary character that pays for everything that I named Mr. Hancock.
Hate: A guaranteed expense audit when I get home.

Love: Filipino cover bands. Never in America do you see bands big enough and egoless enough to have two singers and the talent to cover modern pop songs.
Hate: The idea that they think they can cover “Sweet Child Of Mine” and not make it sound awful.

Love: The Japanese TV channel. It’s just as funny as SNL made it out to be. Perhaps even funnier.
Hate: They edit the movies on TV for content here. I haven’t seen Cinemax or HBO titty in 7 weeks.

Love: Hot British business travellers that can drink like maniacs.
Hate: Yeah, there’s nothing to hate there. Nothing whatsoever.

Love: Redefining the American stereotype.
Hate: That the existing stereotype is set so fucking low that I impress people.

Love: That I leave for Australia in 7 days
Hate: The fact that I have to go back home and become a regular schlub again.

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Well, another year in the books. 31. Weird. They just keep sneaking up on me. All and all, I had a pretty good birthday. The one thing about this birthday that is certain, it definitely wasn’t like past years. There were no grand celebrations, no scorpion bowls, no car bombs, no crypt keepers. But you know what? I’m really OK with that. I knew going into this deal that sacrifices were going to have to be made. Birthdays come and go, but once in a lifetime opportunities don’t just fall at your doorstep. At least not for me.

Part of what made it not such a big deal for me (other than some great friends who made sure to still make me feel pretty loved), is the firm realization that I am a lucky son of a bitch. I crammed more fun into my 20′s than most people get to do in a lifetime. But you know what? I wouldn’t relive that time in my life for a million bucks. Alright, maybe a million…or at least enough money to pay off my overbearing student loans and get a lap dance or two. Sure, we had some awesome times that I’ll treasure for the rest of my life…and damm if there weren’t a few mistakes I’d like to undo along the way. But my 20′s were wrought with a complete uncertainty that I’d never want to go through again. Who I was, where I was going, what my path in life was going to be. It was nothing short of controlled chaos, and I wasn’t always alone in the aftermath it created.

Being a teenager was easy, there was no expectations. Hell, staying out jail was meeting expectations for the most part. But my 20′s? Well damm. All the fun, the adventures, and the partying did nothing more than help distract me from the reality of knowing that quite frankly, I didn’t know where the hell I was going. I just knew I had to get there fast. The pressure of my reputation, my demons, and my own unreasonable expectations put me in a place where I could never really relax. It was always about what’s next. The next goal, the next conquest, the next move. It was never about where I was, it was always about where I was going. I may have picked up a few enemies over the years (and I use the term “a few” loosely), but none were bigger than the guy I saw in the mirror every morning. Or late afternoon. Whatever.

I never really ever planned life after 30. It seemed so far away, and I seemed so far away from being old enough to relate to it. I always assumed it would just take care of itself. Boy, was I wrong on that one. It’s funny. I spent most of 20′s running forward at 100 miles an hour, but never really knowing the actual destination. Now it seems like I know exactly where I’m headed, but the ride moves just a little bit slower. At the end of the day: I know what I want, and I know what I don’t want. That alone made all the madness worthwhile I guess.

Sure, there are goals I sometimes wish I got to earlier than I did. Everyone does. Marriage, kids, houses, promotions….hindsight is always 20/20. But you know what? I’m still going to get where I’m supposed to be one way or another. I think for the first time in my life, I’m completely content with the now. Not relishing the past, not fixated on the future. I’m just loving every bit of now. My 30′s is where I learned to stop sweating the small stuff, and for an anal retentive bastard like me…that’s the closest thing to a miracle I’ll ever find. Good or bad, all you can do is take the things you’ve learned along the way, and use them to make today better than it was yesterday.

And today will be better than yesterday……..no doubt about it. This ride is just getting started.

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Well, it’s been a month. What a freakin month. I’ve really tried to sit down and write. It’s just….well, you wouldn’t want to sit around and write if you were me either.

I gotta say, things in Manila are going pretty damm awesome. Work is going as well as it could be, I’ve gotten used to being up all night, and the weather has been amazing. It’s weird, the weather here never changes. I was sitting on the patio upstairs last night with one of the other long term guests and a nice breeze came through. No lie, it was the first change in the weather in like 2 weeks. It’s always between 80 and 90, and a little humid. Lets just say that I’m no longer my usual winter pasty self.

I’ve had a chance to do some exploring over the last few weeks, survived my first earthquake, and managed to get myself familiar with the culture here. It’s interesting, that’s for sure. Lots of random t-shirts with American phrases, occasionally not worded quite correctly.  I’m definitly bringing a couple of the funnier ones back with me. The food here is decent, though my adventurous nature has twice stricken me with what I casually call “Filipino Stomach AIDS”. Uggh. Not fun. Not fun at all. Crippling actually. This place has some odd smells sometimes. You occasionally get these wafts that smell like either bad fruit or good cheese. That’s not even getting into the street vendors. Rumor has it that the ratsicles in Intramuros aren’t just a bad Chinese food joke.

Living in Manila is not nearly as scary as people make it out to be. But, that’s after you get used to it. My hotel’s security guards have an affinity for pump handle shotguns. I have a new friend to play catch with named Buddy. He’s the black lab they use to sniff the cars for bombs. The trunk of my car gets checked every time I enter the hotel, and every time I enter work. On the surface, it’s disconcerting. But, most of it is a dog and pony show. It’s more about appearance than anything else. Nothing really weird has happened to me, nor do I see any crazy shit. I will say though, I also rarely see police officers. From what I’ve been told, about $40 can get me out of any situation when it comes to the police….so most of the businesses and hotels all have private security. You even get searched entering the mall.

Oh, the Mall. I can’t even explain the Mall. You just have to see it for yourself. Filipino’s LOVE the fucking mall. It’s shocking, considering you would think they don’t have the money to shop at the mall. That’s what credit cards are for I guess. It’s really just like America! The mall’s are like a world all their own. They are like palaces. the one next to me has 6 floors and 750 stores. It’s crazy. I’ve gotten lost in it twice. I spend a lot of time in Greenbelt, which is packed full of bars, nightlife, and old creepy white dudes looking for wives. Oh yeah. Can’t forget that part. There are two kinds of Americans here in the Philippines. Those that are here for work, and those that are here for sex. The dudes I’ve met and the things I’ve seen would blow your mind. I mean, I’ve met some real scumbags. I met a trucker from LA that comes out here 3 months a year just to buy whores. When I asked him if he felt bad about it, he responded “I pay these girls a year’s salary to suck my dick…so no.” Umm, yeah…I think I’m going to move on to the next bar. No, I don’t want to hang out sometime. Dirtbag.

But, the market is there I guess. When I first got to Manila, I befriended one of the staff members here. His name is Shrii, and he’s a really cool dude. He’s one of those guys that should be doing a lot more than working the pool at a hotel. He said to me probably the second week I was here “Your build, your skin, that handsome face…Filipino girls will dig you like chocolate bar”. Of course, I laughed it off at the time. Yeah, it’s not so funny anymore. I’d be lying to you if I didn’t say I get approached by Filipino women on daily basis. At the end of the day, a guy like me is a golden ticket. I see creepy looking dudes, some in their 60′s and 70′s with hot ass women. God knows I can pull better than those mopes. Call me old fashioned, but it’s all just kinda messed up to me. Of course, if I was one of those dudes…I’d probably understand a bit better. You gotta figure, most of those types couldn’t get laid on their own to begin with..so there’s not much for them to compare it to. I’m sure it seems normal in their heads. I’ve been trailed at the mall, approached at bars, and my personal favorite: The girls at starbucks write their phone numbers on my receipts. Oh yeah, the corporate expense guys are going LOVE my explanation for those. If I had an Asian fetish, this would probably be a really fun place to live. Unfortunately, I’m stuck being attracted to obnoxious American women. Meh, such is life.

So, there’s about 5-6 parent company folks that are living here in the hotel, as well as a few more westerners that work for other companies. The brits are my favorite. They are the only ones that can keep up with my drinking problem. We go out on the town together, hang out by the pool, get shithoused…it’s pretty cool. We’re all kinda stuck in the same situation, so it’s nice to have company. The work people are funny. First being…well, they’re Canadian. That alone can be amusing. They try to give the American kid shit sometimes, but I mean…it’s Canada. That’s like getting made fun of by the kid that eats paste. All I have to do is bring up how Curling isn’t a real sport and that shit is over. But that’s not the real reason they bust my stones. The real reason is when the US division makes 60% of your revenue and they are supposed to be your subsidiary, I can understand being a little jealous. Not to mention they get all their IT support from that shitty ass company named IBM. That alone could make someone pretty bitter.

Speaking of Canada, one of the parent company folks brought her husband John with her. He’s from Nova Scotia, so he might as well be American anyway. I mean, he’s a Bruins fan for christ sake. He’s pretty much the Mayor around here. He’s been living here for three months…and just hanging out every day. He’s some sort of nature museum director for the Canadian government, and just decided to not work and stay here for the winter with her. Must be nice. But, I’m going somewhere with this. His government issued PC got infected with a bunch of viruses, and they weren’t doing shit to help him back home. Of course, the PC is totally locked down since it contains sensitive government data, blah, blah, blah. He’s bitching about it one day, so I tell him to bring it down to the pool and I’d take a look at it. 20 minutes. I cracked Canadian government security in 20 minutes and removed the virus. There’s a reason you’re our little brother Canada, now go get me a Molson. What? Don’t call me your buddy, I’m not your buddy. (Needless to say, John was quite grateful, and I didn’t pay for a drop of booze for a good week or so.)

Oh booze. My trusted friend. Even more so a friend now that I’ve been limited to it being my only major vice. Yeah, that other stuff is not really quite as accepted as it is in lets say, Massachusetts. It’s kinda killing me. But, I’m surviving. Gin helps. A lot. The booze here is pretty much the same as back home…except for a few things. I can’t find a bottle of Captain Morgan to save my fucking life. It’s like there’s some sort of Filipino trade embargo against it or something. It’s really starting to get me a little frustrated. I have gotten well acquainted with the local beer however. San Miguel is pretty much Miller Lite (which I ALSO can’t find over here to save my life), but with a local flair. It’s cheap and it does the trick. What I have gotten to like is a beer called “Red Horse”. Red horse is like Budweiser, but a little stronger. But there’s a funny thing with Red Horse. Randomly, they insert a bottle where the Horse is smiling. They call this “The Happy Horse”. Why is the horse so happy? Well, turns out the beer in a happy horse has an extra 2% alcohol content. Trust me, the horse is not the only happy one when you get dealt of those gems at last call.

Do you know what I found quite odd? No one here has ever heard of a beer coozie. It’s a thousand fucking degrees all year, you would think someone would have introduced a prime way to keep beer cold. Needless to say, I’m building a business model. A few San Miguel beer coozies could make me millions.

All  and all, I really can’t complain. Sure, things are a little wild around here sometimes, but it’s almost like the country as a whole is forced to police itself. I mean, the Filipino government stance on drinking and driving is “Please drink and drive in moderation”. No, that’s not a joke. There’s really no such thing as a DWI here. Yet, I never see any drunk guys smashing into each other. Survival of the fittest I suppose. I bet the Catholic guilt helps. Well, that and it’s hard to get a lawnmower engine up to speeds that can kill someone.

Wait a minute: Cheap booze, great weather, loose women, no DWI laws……why exactly am I coming home again?

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