I was at Lum’s last night after picking the Bastardizer up and meeting up with Magnus for a beer. Lum’s I like; for those of you not in the know, Lum’s is a restaurant bar that’s quite literally split down the middle… to your left, a family restaurant and to your right, an American pub. I love the place because it makes me feel like I’m in some urban wild west… or in “Road House,” either way it proves to be interesting times every time I’m there. So, the three of us were chugging Warsteiners until the bar was out and we’re talking about random stuff… mostly about Magnus’ experiences over in Chitré, which is one of the bigger towns of the country’s colorful interior, 3 to 4 hours away from Panama City. The world works differently out there and with the stories I heard last night, my belief was cemented. Anyway, I’m not here to talk about what it seems I’ll find when I take my monk journey over there (even though I should) in a couple of weeks, but about the ocurrence that happened that night. Now, as you will read in the following paragraphs, you will notice 2 things: for someone who’s straight arrow about shit, i’m sure as hell clueless about my surroundings and secondly, that I’m an idiot for that very same reason. Or I could not be, who knows? It doesn’t matter though. It will be clear in a minute.

There was a table on the other side of the bar with a group of people who were doing pretty much what we were doing, except they were sitting down and being… umm, less loud about it. This is of no concequence in relation to the story, though; what you, my esteemed reader, should be paying attention to is the people sitting in that table: a nice enough group of foreigners/zonians… I counted 3 guys and 2 girls… this last statistic is key. One of them was a brunette and the other, a bleach blonde. Her skin looked like she had taken some sun and reacted like any other American would so naturally, she was as red as a crab. There was something about her I liked, though… she wasn’t anything spectacular body-wise but I’ll let you know that even though I have sex with supermodels and Wonder Woman on a regular basis that doesn’t mean that I actually care about what they think. I see behavior and that’s what I like… of course, it helps a lot if she’s cute but that’s beside the point. Whatever; thing is that there was something about her that caught my eye… I think she reminded me of my torment. She was a redder, blonder version. I don’t know, the point is for some reason I couldn’t stop looking at her and of course, she eventually noticed… she stopped on her tracks as if she had been busted for something so I just kept telling the story I was giving my friends and left it at that. Next thing I know, the girl is sitting right beside me at the bar, waiting for something.

Now, today I can tell you with utmost certainty that she wanted me to talk to her, but I was so in the zone with the conversation that I didn’t put much thought into it. This happened twice in the evening, mind you, and if my friends’ faces were any indication then she wasn’t necesarilly sitting at the bar for a drink, even if that was her excuse to come over. Now, do you know how that makes me feel? Like a jackass: here I am, complaining and complaining and when an oportunity to prove myself comes along like that I fail to see it until the morning after where I’m stuck with the porn section of this site to keep me warm at night. This stuff is rather frustrating, man. She was cute, too. She looked like the type I could have a great exchange with, which is the stuff I <3 doing. And the fact that I’ve developed an entire blog entry dedicated to a near miss as a result to my absolute ignorance to what happens around me doesn’t really help matters. I think that if I ever see her over at Lum’s again (knowing my luck, the chances are rather slim) I will go over and talk to her and fulfill my part of the equation since I’ll be thinking about that in the back of my head the next time I go to Lum’s. Thank you, cute blonde. Thank you for fucking up my “Road House.” The only thing good thing that came out of my stop at Lum’s (aside from the awesome-yet-cock-blocking conversation) was that I was thinking about what music to put on the Porto Diao BirriaFest commercial and the place’s jukebox gave me the answer during the 3 minutes I bothered to pay some fucking attention to where I was… and since you guys are the best, here’s the song.

The moral of this story, besides me having to seriously do something about my A.D.D, is that Panama isn’t really that socially retarded. It could be that Panama is filled with people like me who are either too proud or too into their own little worlds to notice people wanting to talk to them. But then again, my mom always tells me I’m special. Mind you, she dropped me when I was a baby and I cracked my head open as a result, so it could be because of that, too. Who knows, that’s neither here nor there. If you’re at a bar and a cute girl sits right beside you only to stare idly at the fridge with beer in the bar, chances are she wants you to talk to her. Point noted. Also, liquor is much, much cheaper in bars outside of the city than in it. Magnus told us that half a bottle of Seco (a Panamanian kind of alcohol birthed in the 7th circle of hell, distilled with fire and brimstone) is $5.50 or so and your mixer’s a frickin’ quarter. A quarter. Clubs here charge $35 for Seco bottles and $4 bucks for a mixer! In the fucking hell, man! Do you have any idea how much beer I can buy with $35 bucks? Hell, I can have sex with a stripper for that amount of money and I’ll even get some change, which I’ll have to pick up from the whore’s thong. With my teeth.

Ahem. Sorry about that.

I wish I had a picture of said girl so I can post her up like I did Carol in a post I wrote some time ago… “We’re Going Hunting,” I believe it was. We never did go hunting. That hunting expedition is pending. I think we didn’t go because I had a hat and there’s a no-hat rule in the club we were going to which was were she was spotted (”Buzz”) and I naturally got pissed. Nobody messes with my hats. Whatever, I’m just gonna have to drown my sorrows with large amounts of vodka.

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