A short excerpt from something I wrote ages ago (my profile photo was taken that night as well, now you know):
This bus is headed in the direction of the truth, the truth I thought about myself a couple of days ago when I was drinking Japanese beer and soju at a place called Halu, conspicuously the only white man on the premises. My friends and I had gone to the California Academy of Sciences that day; the objective of the trip was to educate ourselves for a couple of hours, and then go to Halu for yakitori, which is essentially grilled meat on a stick. I don’t know much about love, but yakitori and soju with condensed milk is one delicious combination. The five of us arrived at Halu at 5pm, after walking six blocks to Clement and 8th, in the inner Richmond district of San Francisco.
The best laid plans are often the easiest to disrupt. I should state a disclaimer here: this essay is about how my friends and I got one of our friends really drunk at a Japanese restaurant and then planned to put him on a flight to Los Angeles after he fell asleep on the table. Chris is a light drinker: half a glass of champagne will put him to sleep. That night, Richard, Luke, and I decided to test his limits. Richard and I each had a couple of beers and mixed drinks with soju and milk tea, which tasted like condensed milk. Soju is the Korean variant of Vodka, only with less alcohol by volume. I could not taste the alcohol, which would explain why I had three of those delicious concoctions. Chris had two, and about a third of a glass of Asahi, a Japanese beer. Luke documented his descent into a drunken stupor by taking pictures, and Richard actually timed him on his iPhone. Usually it takes Chris about twenty minutes to get drunk.
We spent three hours at Halu, during which we managed to consume over two hundred dollars worth of food and drinks. Chris ended up passing out about three quarters of the way through dinner, and Richard suggested pooling some money together in order to put him on a plane to Los Angeles. A Greyhound bus was also considered because it would have been easier to manage, seeing as airport security would be unlikely to accept an inebriated traveler carried around by some guys with stupid grins on their faces.
Nothing happened. We just sat around drinking and sticking yakitori sticks into Chris’ boots. Then we went and watched “Burn After Reading,” after which I proceeded to say “What the fuck?” a lot. That’s a phrase used throughout the majority of the film. When George Clooney’s character accidentally shoots Brad Pitt’s character in the head with a revolver, he says “What the fuck?” in a tone of amazement. When John Malkovich’s character bludgeons someone to death with a hatchet on a street in broad daylight, the viewer is obviously thinking, “What the fuck?”