So I am determined that never again will I let my girlfriend Kristin drive my car anymore.  Ever.

No, she’s actually a good driver.  In fact, she is TOO good of a driver.  I let her take my car on a joyride through the backroads by Loch Raven reservoir to see how fast she could zip through those corners.  For those unfamiliar with the Loch Raven area of Maryland, its a series of winding canyon roads through the forest that car enthusiasts try to zip though the hairpin turns like something out of Initial D or Tokyo Drift.  Once in a while you’ll run into broken car parts or a totaled car that some silly ricer thought he could drift with his piece of shit Honda Civic.

On the way home after picking up my car from an oil change, she somehow talked me into letting her drive and taking it up Loch Raven.  I wasn’t sure whether she was a crazy terrible driver, or was she just TOO good of a driver– Lets just say, I have never seen anyone handle my car as well as she did– or any driver on the road for that matter.  I haven’t even really drove my car to its full potential, and here she is pushing it well beyond its limits and still handling it like a champ.  I wish I could have videotaped the entire course but I was a bit too busy screaming for dear life and trying not to piss my pants.

The irony is, she drives a piece of shit econo-box, so there was no way I could have figured out that she learned how to be a rally racer by driving in Chicago all her life, having to drive a manual transmission and dealing with [in her opinion] the country’s worst drivers without any accidents.  And no, that ’67 Mustang she’s rebuilding on her own doesn’t count as a car yet.  No joke.

If it was any consolation for me, she offered to buy my next set of tires from all the layers she wore out on my current set.  I told her I could care less about the tires, I just want my manhood back– I’m doomed to just pussyfoot my car for the duration of its existence.  Until I can afford a 911 Turbo.  Or an F-18 fighter jet.

I told some people this and already some idiots were like “oh I’d like to race her sometime..”  NO.  Save yourself from embarrassment and shut the hell up, I’m not even exaggerating when I say that she’ll make you cry.  She is THAT good.  If you need proof, just ask to see how much my testicles shrank from that 20 minute ride and I’ll be glad to show you.  Maybe.

20 pullups
100 crunchers
20 min. 6 sec. on the 3-mile run

= a PFT score of 287 points (out of a max of 300 pts)

I knew working out like a madman (and lots of sex.  Ok I joke.) paid off at the end.  Beat my boot camp score of 282.  Booyakasha, silly Recruit!

Immediately after the PFT, we get thrown into the gas chamber.  Nearing the end of the fiscal year equals to getting rid of all the CS pellets at once, which probably amounts to 20 pellets per round.  How much of that wonderful military-grade tear gas did we get to breathe in?  (hint: when tear gas crystals begin forming on your gas mask visors, I’m sure that poses some form of health risk in the long run.)

I wish you all could see how attractive I looked after I shuffled out of the chamber with more snot coming out of my nose than my actual body mass.

And thats my weekend in a nutshell.

Oh and PS: getting into a random barfight with groomsmen from a wedding reception in front of the bride, bridesmaids, and the rest of the fraternity and sorority guests will NOT get you invited into their wedding party.  Neither is it a good idea for five drunk Marines to tackle 20 groomsmen at once.

Fortunately though, that MCMAP stuff every Marine takes for granted does come in handy every once in a while.  And fratboys aren’t exactly the most adept fighters.  We proudly emerged from the battle victorious, however at the cost of never being able to hook up with any of the available bridesmaids or beautiful guests.

I am SO going to prison one of these days.

…………………………………

EDIT

Didn’t feel like starting a new entry since this pretty much coincides with drill weekend, but this is what happens when you’re bored.

Hurry up and wait, son.

Yes, even the Mini-me target on the top right can’t escape my tight grouping.  TIGHT.

“When I first saw Pamela, she has golden brown hair, no hair on chest, and assholes tight like nine year-old.  Whoa whoa WEE wa!”     –B. Sagdiyev

——————–

Also another great accomplishment, I drank from 12 noon yesterday until 1:30am in the morning.  Last day of summer finals, good enough reason to celebrate!  Unfortunately my girl wasn’t too happy about picking me up 2 in the morning b/c I couldn’t operate a motor vehicle at that point, much less even remember where the hell I parked.

However, waking up 7 in the morning hungover as hell with a pissy woman driving you back and taking an hour and a half to find your car you “lost” last night definately goes into your novel of stories to tell the grandkids.

Leather seats in a car may be a sign of class or luxury, but never a good idea if you don’t keep your car in the shade when its hot as balls outside.  Its great in the winter if you have heated seats or even heated leather steering wheels, but never a good idea in the summertime.  I swear I actually felt like I had to peel some skin from my hands off the steering wheel earlier today, while my ass and back received second-degree burns just from sitting in the seat.

Its no BS 101 degrees outside, my skin is about to melt off my face.  With the A/C on full blast in my car, my gas money is literally flying out the window.  I think its time to get the windows tinted.

Then again, its not really the sun that bothers me, the humidity (60% today, it was 95% w/o rain just yesterday) is what’s beating me into submission.  I feel like I’m back in Asia or something, I always wondered how the hell can people adapt to those places.

At least its 20 degrees cooler in the shade in a dry place like Iraq.  Then again, its still 140 degrees out in the desert.  I should quit whining just about now.

There’s a good chance I’ll be sent out to the mean streets of Iraq again.  Even if I get out in January, they could still call me back.  Or if I stay in the reserves a bit longer, they’ll send us out again for sure.

So here I am, on a friday night in front of my computer drinking by myself.  I’m having those thoughts again.  Yeah, remember that shitstain of a country they call Iraq?  It was two years ago, but to me…. it still feels like yesterday.  Some of my friends are still out there.  Some of them came back.  Some of them never made it back.

I’m sick of the Corps, I’m sick of this war, but I still want to go out there and fight alongside my brothers and sisters and bring them home.  Too much idle time thinking to myself makes me look like some burnt-out idealist, but maybe thats what I am.  An idealist.

But not like this.  Not sitting at home with a bottle of scotch and pondering my existence or usefulness– wondering if I should pick that rifle up again and go back out, or concentrate on my books and get a dull 9-5 office job in the future.  Wondering if not going back out equals to abandoning my friends.  Pondering whether the stuff I did before was worth it, questioning my morals and trying to forget the damage I have caused.  Wondering if any of my friends, family, or people in general that I interact with on a daily basis knew the real me, or my real history.  I wish I can say that I’m still the fun-loving, troublemaking joker that I have always been all my life, but ever since my return from Iraq, its not the same anymore.  I’ve gotten older, way older– Warriors will never be young again.

Its one thing to tell people how hot and shitty Iraq was, or telling stories about the fun stuff or the stupid shit that went on out there, they definately make good conversation starters.  In fact, I always tell my friends about the cool shit that has happened, or retarded day-to-day stuff in the Corps that I complain about all the time.  But when people start noticing that I lack that kind of spirit to tell a good “war story” and as my girlfriend (yeah, i got a girl now, more on this later) pointed it out, I have this “look” in my eyes that says I’m hiding something.  Well, she isn’t too far from the truth.

I’m all about being open and having nothing to hide when you’re in a relationship.  But I’m petrified to reveal any of my Sandbox experiences with her– which she is naturally curious about.  I always tell her please don’t ask, and she says she understands….. but I highly doubt it.  She WANTS to know.  People are curious.  And thats what I’m scared to talk to her about, which could lead to alot of trust issues.  I feel like my silence will jeapordize my relationship with her, or any future relationships for all that matter.  For all she knows, I’m either a liar that never been to Iraq (pictures prove otherwise though, but one could argue they were probably taken out in the Mojave desert), or maybe I may have been involved in the Haditha shooting myself.  I’m not admitting to anything, but I rather keep that chaper of my life shrouded in mystery than have the possibility of her thinking that there may be a few screws loose in my head, or have the potential to go bonkers.  Especially if she finds out that I drink alone at home often.  I just don’t know what to tell her.  I’ll be taking a big risk if I ever tell her, hoping that she may understand my silence a bit more (might be worth the risk though).  But not now, not today.  I’m still scared.

I don’t give a fuck what any of you readers are thinking about me right now and what I could have possibly seen or done out there, but I’m still a semi-decent human being with a fragile mind but extremely strong conscience; hoping that by trying to live a normal life, I may be able to find peace with myself.  And thats all you need to know.

Like I’ve said a long time ago, once you had your first taste of combat, you’ll never be young again.  When your closest friends become a death toll number that the news simply flashes briefly on the TV and nobody really gives a fuck about, that makes you want to curl your index finger against the trigger of an assault rifle and squeeze some rounds downrage until something or someone stops functioning.  Nobody knows why I’ll even consider going back there, and nobody ever will.  But if going back out there and bringing a friend or two home alive means that I can finally confront my demons and conquer it, then so be it.

Maybe I can finally forgive myself.  Or at least try.

I swear I’m still suffering PTSD just from driving around Washington DC and the I-495 area in general.  Yeah, some may argue that Baltimore isn’t much better either– being a Baltimore native, I can safely say that B-more aint jack compared to dodging all the attention-lacking crazies behind the wheels in our nation’s capital.  However, it does make up for the great bars that they somehow decide to concentrate all over the place.

Adams Morgan, like all other bar towns in DC is packed.  Like, balls to the wall packed.  Call me old, but I prefer my bars up in Baltimore (Canton, Fells Point, Federal Hill, Towson, etc.) where there’s a good deal of people (and women), but there’s still enough room where I could still stick my arm standing still out without punching someone.  At least, not on purpose.

Won, a former-Marine buddy of mine decided to show up over the weekend from New York– probably the only reason I even bothered to drive down to DC in the first place.

Me, lost as usual.  Peggy said I look like a little boy in the picture.

Kevin, going for the Derka Derka Mohammed Jihad look.

Our happier (drunk) side.

Kevin, Me,Jen

Won and Jen

Me and Won, the two token FOBs

Won and George, his former MSG Detachment buddy.

……………………………

Now I gotta shave off some weight from all the eating and drinking from over the weekend.  I drank enough for an entire family, looks like I should dedicate this week to recovery.

Some of you guys that know me may remember my crazy story from March of 2005 when me and my buddy Carl went to Mitsuwa Supermarket in Edgewater, NJ and bought a giant (and expensive) bottle of sake, drank it all in the parking lot, and somehow made our way out to Queens in New York City– and the story goes even longer than that, which gets progressively crazier to the point where if I told you the story now, you would never believe me.  Trust me thought, I know alot of you have some stories that are so crazy, you just can’t make that shit up at all.

I went back there during the weekend, trying to get a taste of J-Pan again.

View of Manhattan from across the river

Just some fat Asian dude.

I bought several packs of onigiri…. you have no idea how delicious these things are.  Unfortunately, shit like this overseas costs less than half the price of what I bought it for.

I haven’t the slightest clue what this is called, but its pretty much close to being wonderful.  Its like a crepe bread with sweet red bean paste in it.  I bought like 10 of these and finished all of it by the end of the day.

I just thought this was amusing.  And New Jersey still sucks, sorry folks.  But its true.

If you get a chance, try one of these Umeshu plum wines.  Yes, those are actual plums floating on the bottom.  So after you finish the bottle– try eating one of those plums.  Its almost like soaking fruit overnight in a bowl of 99 Berries.

On the way home, I witnessed the funniest shit for the day (and also how stupid humans can be).  In NJ, all pumps are full-service, which means you have to wait 30 minutes before the attendant gets the clue that you need gas in your car (sorry, I just can’t stand the state of NJ).  BUT…. Pennsylvania has by far the worst drivers (and worst roads) along the north-east coast.

So this chick here, realizing she got on the wrong side for the pump, decides to flip a bitch and back into the pump, which to her was the most logical thing to do (while everyone else is laughing).  By the time she got to the pump, she puts her card into the machine and tries to fill up the car by herself while the attendant is looking at her like she’s stupid (which isn’t too far from the truth).  So she’s screaming at the attendant b/c the pump isn’t activated, while the attendant keeps pointing to the giganting bold sign above the pump that says “Full Service Pump”, and she keeps giving him the deer-in-headlights look.  At this point, everyone has their windows down laughing at her, so she gets pissy and drives off, almost crashing into every single car on the way out.

Fucking Pennsylvania drivers, I swear.  Don’t get mad at me, you know its true– if you’re from PA, you’re a shitty driver.  If you’re a good driver from PA, then you know its true that everyone else in PA is a shitty driver.

If you REALLY support your troops, not only should you throw your over-18-years-of-age daughters at me, but possibly donate a plane ticket for me to go back to Japan.  I’m starving right now, and I’m about to crack open a can of Chef Boyardee– but then I thought, I need to eat me some of these:

They’re looking mighty delicious right now, even if they’re just plastic static displays.  Japanese style Izakaya– think of it as a cheaper and more substantial version of tapas or mezze.  Generally, you want to order tons of food, whether it be grilled skewered yakitori or one of those awesome donburi bowls, and drink tons of beer.  Its good times rolled up into a decent check at the end of the night.

I remember a few years ago in Ikebukuro (part of Tokyo), my friends Kat, Mike Y., and Taku went out and got pretty wasted one time at an Izakaya.  I was staying with Kat’s relatives back then (her mom’s side is Japanese), so we had a place to stay in Ikebukuro and there were plenty of places there to get drunk.  Before we got to the restaurant, we already drank quite a bit, and Kat was pretty wasted already.  As we were waiting for our food to arrive, Kat went over to the plastic displays and began attempting to devour one of the nearby plastic food bowls.  It was kind of embarrasing for her, trying to spit out all the wax and plastic chunks while everyone else is laughing and the owner is about ready to slice our noses off with a veggie knife.

This awesome motherfucker is Kohji, the chef at an Izakaya joint out in Daikanyama that we frequented alot (took this pic from Capsul’s page).  His place is a bit “upscale” for all its worth, meaning that people had to behave themselves at his place.  But his food tastes the best.

Most of the time, we get to meet all kinds of crazy people, whether it be locals or gaijins.  I remember this group of people that we started talking to and toasting at a joint in Ueno– I can’t remember their names, but I remember the whiteys are an Australian couple and the dude on the right could actually speak decent English (thus I didn’t need to embarrass myself any further with my substandard Japanese speaking abilities).  And that’s Taku poking his head in on the left.  There were others there too, but I couldn’t find any more pictures from that night. 

We had a great time– we ate alot, we drank a lot…. I mean ALOT.  I don’t even remember how we got home that night……. oh wait, I didn’t.  I passed out on a park bench a block away from Kat’s apartment, and one of the locals that we drank with was on the ground next to the bushes.  The other three somehow “lost” me on the way home, and Kat passed out on my couch where I usually slept in, and Mike and Taku somehow ended up in Kat’s bed next to each other.

Wierd.

……………..

Like Harold and Kumar goes to White Castle, I need to make my ”Chris Goes to J-Pan” adventure again.  Anyone up for funding my trip?

—————————

EDIT

I just got back from NY.  I told you I was going on an adventure.  Unfortunately it was with the ‘rents, so I couldn’t drink.  Well, not as much as I usually do anyway.

Due to an unfortunate event that transpired during my AT in Camp Pendleton, CA, there is a good possibility that I may be busted down to the rank of Corporal.  I will not discuss the details of it, but lets just say I gave another Marine what he deserved in the form of a few fists….. and we’ll leave it at just that.  After the drill this past weekend, I found out that his command may be pressing charges against me.

Whatever.  Go ahead and make me an E-4 again, it was my favorite rank anyway.  I had no responsibilities back then, and at the same time I didn’t have to mop floors and take out the garbage.  I may have mentioned this before, but for any short-timing (single contract) Marines out there– don’t let yourself get promoted past Corporal.  You’re in a leadership position, yet you only have half the responsibilities.  Especially if you’re an E-4 in the airwing, people tend to just leave you alone and assume you know what you’re doing without the need to babysit you.  Unless of course, you’re one of those habitual fuckups that your entire chain of command loves to keep tabs on you like a hawk.

So here I am, bent over the desk with a tub of KY jelly, waiting for the Corps to stick its green weenie up my butt.  Again.

I got six months left, Marine Corps.  So you better stick it in there real good this time, or you’ll never get this chance again.  Then when you’re done, you can move on to the next good Marine and fuck him over too.  It wouldn’t be your first time anyway.

I don’t know about you guys, but every time some idiot does something stupid on the road that almost costs me my life, its usually done by some kid that thinks he’s driving a racecar and wishes to challenge me by running me off the road.  If not by a crazy chick in her SUV on her cellphone, then its usually by some pimply-faced teen in a ricer– or even better, a Scion tC who thinks their 4-cylinder engine could outrun any other car on the road.  I have some major gripes with those Scion owning pricks, and here are some common shit that I hear kids throw in my direction:

1. “Its a sportscar!”

A Ferrari, Porche, Honda S2000, Subaru WRX, etc., those are sports cars.  A Scion is an econo-box designed for pre-pubescent teens who wish to be hipsters, just in case their iPods don’t make them look cool enough.  160-horsepower cars are NOT sports cars.

According to my friend Alex, a Toyota mechanic– a Scion tC has a weak chassis that was not designed for racing.  You don’t say!

2. “If I put a supercharger in my Scion, it’ll be just as fast your Acura!”

Keyword is “if”.  Now, I drive an Acura RSX Type-S– Its a pretty quick car, but by no means can my car outrun big-leaguers like those other sportscars mentioned above.  But if said asshole wants to compare a tuned tC against a stock RSX– come on now, thats comparing apples and oranges.  Thats like saying, “if I put a turbocharger in my Acura, I can outrun a stock Nissan 350Z”, which may be true.

Again for comparison– a Scion tC was never designed for racing.  An RSX or its twin cousin, the new Civic Si however, are designed as FWD front-engine budget speed-platforms with reinforced front shock tower bars and heavily tuned factory suspension to handle incredible amounts of horsepower and precision cornering.

3. “Its way cheaper than the RSX, and with the remaining money, I could spend it on mods and make my car faster!”

Ricer logic wins again, just like winning the special olympics– you’re still retarded.  Again, comparing Apples to Oranges again.  Again, its like saying spending less money to buy an RSX instead of the Nissan 350Z, and using the remainding money that I saved on mods to outrun the Z.  Except in my case, if I could outrun the Z by then, your Scion will never have a chance in hell to catch up.

4. “Its more stylish than your car!”

I guess beauty is in the eye of the beholder.  But from my viewpoint, I consider the ’05-06 RSX Type-S to resemble a sleek, aerodynamic arrow; while the Scion tC just looks like an oafy lima bean.

Plus, you can’t beat leather seats.  No matter what you say Scion owners, you guys can’t out-style a car that has leather seats.  Sorry, you just can’t.

……………..

Now mind you, I never said that the tC was a BAD car by any means.  I said its not a fast car, but its still a decent car for a fully loaded car for under $20k.  Besides, its a Toyota– it’ll last you for quite a while.  Until you wrap it around a tree going over 90 mph.

………………………………

Now I just realized this entry may have either:

a) made no sense
b) bored you to the brink of suicide
c) made you go buy a Scion

If its a) or b), its understandable.  If you picked c) though, I’d have to kick you in the spine several times.