New Years Whooo

Alright, I've been promising the story of my New Years for about a week now, so here it is. Resolution: Update more often, I guess. Also update when I say I will? I dunno. What I DO know is that I mostly remember what happened, I've got a can of Guinness poured into a measuring cup (because it's the only clear glass I own), and I'm ready to narrate.


It is literally insane that I do not get laid more often.

So, Korean New Years Eve! I start the night off heading to one of my favorite spots here, a bar called Commune's, at about 10 to midnight because those who know me will tell you I am obsessed with punctuality. I get a shot of SoCo (actually I trade someone for their shot because I accidentally got a shot of Jager through a hilarious mixup) and toss it back at the stroke of midnight with about half a dozen of my coworkers. There are kisses all around, and we get into the drinking proper. Before I came out, I drank this little wonder:


It's a hangover prevention drink that I've tried once before, and while it worked that time, I want to really put it to the test. You know, make sure it wasn't a fluke. For science.

I'm treated to my first drink by a coworker whose name I still haven't figured out, so I order a Jameson, neat. There's a Pearl Jam/Green Day cover band playing and the place is packed, so I go mingle with some Korean strangers I'm introduced to. It's over at their table I notice none other than Scary Korean Metal Guy from Club Heavy, with all the face piercings and the mohawk and the Lennon glasses. Remember him, from famed local Korean death metal band Axcutor? Well he's hanging out in a corner, and I cautiously attempt conversation with him in broken Konglish, but he's having none of it. He's hanging out with people from some of the other bands playing, and I guess I'm just not on his radar.

One day, Axcutor. One day.


Fuck him! Whoo Commune's! (It's really crowded)

After that someone passes around a bottle of Jameson, of which I am ordered to take a healthy swig and do so promptly. I buy the next round, which turns out to be Jameson & Gingers, thus preventing any sort of dangerous Irish whiskey anemia I might have had. To change things up I follow the Jameson & Ginger with a Black Russian, and then we're off to another club called Urban.

Urban is just as crowded but filled with more douchebags, shittier music, and pricier drinks, which means foreigners just fucking love it. I order a whiskey coke or some shit at the bar and watch some American GIs play an awful game of pool and talk to my cohorts. I'm felt up from behind by some girl who, when she sees me turn around, is all of a sudden not convinced she knows me. I have no clue who she is, but make The Most Awkward Smile and suggest maybe we met when we were "real drunk", an explanation that seems to satisfy her. I then order another Black Russian and talk to a couple of teetotaller coworkers who just showed up and proceed to be the Sober people in the group.

After they've had their fill of not-drinking and probably judging the shit out of everyone and are about to leave, they offer to split the cab home with me and I agree. You know, quit while I'm ahead, before I've climbed any roofs. However, this decision doesn't sit well with another coworker, who in her enthusiasm for me to stay spills my half-empty Black Russian. She argues that now I have to stay so that she can buy me another drink, which seemed like flawless logic at the time.

The non-drinkers leave, and I am bought a Bass or Becks or some beer that starts with a B. My coworker wanders out of sight and out of mind until I'm approached by another coworker I've been hanging out with from the beginning of the night, who insists I watch her take pictures of Black Russian-spilling-coworker "totally having sex with this guy". She leads me, bewildered and more than a little intrigued, to the dance floor where the girl in question is indeed making out with a guy who (in her own words) reminds one of Borat. Non-making-out coworker circles them with her camera, photographing the scene, while I finish my beer. While I'm talking about her, I was taking a few pictures of my own that night, and I can't help but notice that she has the exact same expression in every picture I took with her. Observe:








Eerie.

Clearly I wasn't drunk enough yet, so I bellied up to the bar for, I dunno, my 80th drink of the night. This time I was craving something a little more exotic, so I skimmed a cocktail menu and decided to chance their Mojito. Turns out it tasted pretty awful, but finishing the drink had to be put on hold while I talked to some other people who turns out worked at the same company, but a different branch in Daegu. The big one (and presumably Alpha) of the group and I made some unremarkable small talk, until he asked me where I was from. I replied Seattle, to which he responded, "Seattle! Oh, so, are you gay?"

I was understandably taken aback, but I've faced down my share of homophobes before, so I mustered all the razor wit I could muster and replied: "Not everyone from Seattle is gay, you know."

Oh yeah, he'll feel that one in the morning, while calling his parents and reassessing his entire worldview. Or, he would have, except the next thing he says is "Actually, I just ask because I'm gay."

Motherfucker. Did he just turn me into a homophobe? Before I can start reevaluating my life too deeply, this gay fellow buys a round of Jager Bombs and insists I drink one with him. I accept, as anyone would, lest I insult his honor. These things are important, goddammit. So we pound the drinks, and at the end the modest bastard has to point out that he beat me by about a second. We talk a little more while I switch back to my neglected Mojito, and then a couple girls from work approach me about going dancing at another club.

By this point our friend has disappeared with Borat, gay Jager guy is back to Jager Bombs and light conversation with his own coworkers, so I say fuck it, grab my drink, and lead the way to Club Frog. Public drinking is really freaking cool, by the way. Anyways, on the way we pass Viniroo, a small establishment that sells big Capri Sun-like plastic bags full of made-to-order cocktails. Really fucking strong cocktails, perfect for walking around with. Well, of course we stop in and get some bags for our journey. I order a bag of Singapore Sling, and in the meantime talk to a French guy who starts feeling up my hands and forearm, trying to discern if I'm a "hard worker." I attempt some drunken French with him, which he condescendingly tolerates, probably waiting out another chance to molest my forearms. I finish the Mojito I brought just in time to receive my big ol' bag of Singapore Sling, and one coworker finishes up her flirting with the pretty Korean bartender, and we take off.

In my state, leading the way is a sisyphean task of concentration and sheer grit, not helped by how the same coworker keeps breaking off and yelling at Korean pedestrians for directions in English, but I triumph and we arrive at Club Frog, silently crowning myself a modern Odysseus. Inside, it's a whole new level of crowded, and I marvel at how people tolerate being in a dancing club where you don't even have room to move. We all dance as well as we can in the circumstances, which amounted to mostly a lot of off-balance swaying in place. Anyways, one thing leads to another, as they do, and one of the girls and I make out for a bit, until my need to pee becomes far more important of an urge. I have to leave the dance floor to find the bathroom, and out in the lobby area I take a seat and a moment to assess things. I also try to flirt in Korean with a couple girls next to me, but the less said about that travesty the better.

The situation as I saw it: on one hand, making out with a coworker could only lead to trouble and despair, absolutely. On the other hand, making out is fun and I was druuuuuuuuuuunk. So, I did what every wise man has done in similar situations from the beginning of time, namely I asked a Korean guy sitting next to me to call a coin flip. He didn't speak English, but such wasn't necessary for my purposes. He called heads, and the coin came up tails. I decided this meant ditching the girls and going home, which I did, after texting them something about not being let back into the club. I grabbed a taxi, got back to my apartment and finally, after One Million drinks, passed the fuck out in bed.

HAPPY NEW YEARS

Oh yeah, and that hangover prevention stuff? Tastes like mean bullshit, but it worked a charm.