Zigazag AH!

Our 6 p.m. quest for fob pastries turned into quite the late evening, which is how things tend to happen around here. I’ve had a thoroughly Chinatowned-out night and a karaoked-out weekend: Between 7 and 10 I had a taro bun and taro mochi, which turned into dinner at a Cantonese restaurant, which turned into tiramisu in Little Italy. (Jay ordered two desserts and I was like, damn, I have finally met my match. Then he didn’t finish them, and I totally took it back.) Then the boys took us to Winnie’s karaoke bar, where we belted our hearts out for the second night in a row. The number of patrons dropped like flies from the moment we picked up the mics. Meh, no shame, I won’t be seeing any of them ever again. Until next weekend anyway…

While I miss last summer’s pretentious glittery karaoke lounges of Taiwan, nothing quite beats spending Sunday night at a dirty Chinese bar in good company, rapping to Spice Girls before a dissipating crowd of disapproving old Asian men who are chilling in their wifebeaters, sippin’ on their Tsing Taos, and judging us all the way through.

Between last night’s karaoke at Allen’s place and tonight’s little rendezvous, we’ve realized that we are mainstream ’90s pop whores through and through with generally zero taste in music and zero appreciation for the classics. The oldest oldie we can go is like, Celine Dion. Other than that, we flip through the songbooks hoping to catch glimpses of BSB.

I must say, the world does not need me demonstrating my musical non-talent for quite some time. However, having manned it up in front of a completely unresponsive, quietly judgmental crowd tonight, I’ve now lost all shame of rocking out in front of any sort of audience. I had not much to begin with, but it’s reached an all new low. Beware, karaoke bars of New York City. I’m coming, and I’m not bringing my shame with me.

Just got a missed call from “Mets Guy” and it’s 2 a.m. What about the whole I need to sleep concept do people not understand? Like I said, obviously need to stop giving out my number to these CRAZIES! And yes, I saved his number in my phone as… “Mets Guy.” Like I told John though, even the fact that I know of this defining characteristic is more impressive than the number-saving of my freshman year, which involved single letters, and at times, mere punctuation marks. (I always planned on calling “!” in my phonebook one day to find out but it never did happen.)

I think Kirby and I are the only bitches who will walk home past midnight from Chinatown to the village. I guess 15 blocks isn’t all that far, but even the New Yorkers are surprised at our dedication to the no-cabbing rule. I’m dead tired. Another week, another week… how these days just disappear. San Diego, I don’t think I miss you in the least.