The Future and Sushi (Part 2)

Eh hm.

I can hardly recall the events that happened that night. I've been busy. Yeah, right.

I could have finished writing this a week ago. And look at me now. Sitting, desperately recalling that night, fixated at the screen, and hungry. I suck.

I have nothing else to say about G-Speak. It's the future. A future that will cost you over 400 thousand dollars. A future with endless possibilities. A future that has nice black gloves which you can, in fact, laundry. We asked. It's nice to know that we are progressing.

I want to talk about this interesting character I met. His name is Blake. He works there. Genius? Probably.

Imagine this.

A white male, about 5'8.
A golden, curly Afro atop his head.
Black-rimmed glasses.
An accent. No clue. But definitely somewhere in Europe.
A shirt and a thin-jacket that looks a bit too big for his petite body.
Grey sweat pants.
Barefoot.
A black, husky dog at his side.
Probably listens to Nirvana.

What the hell. This guy looks like he's getting out of bed. And he's at work?
He must be important. Or maybe, the company doesn't care. That's how every job should be like. Just as long as they do their work. Dress codes are for cats.

Despite his appearance, he glowed of sophistication. The casual overtone of the workplace made me feel like I was in a secret room with highly intellectual high school kiddies creating something mischievous. Like a death ray for cats.

After the G-Speak demonstration and the tour of their workplace (which included a kitchen), we, as in them, decided to eat sushi. There was six of us which included Blake and Kate. The sushi restaurant was only down the block located in the Little Tokyo Mall area. So we walked. In the night. This was downtown. I was scared, again.

Blake sat in front of me. Get this. He brought a backpack. As soon as he sat down, he opened it and pulled out several large books before he got to his notepad. He placed his notepad on the table and pulled a pencil out of his pocket. He flipped through several pages of small writing. Curiously, I saw him write the date and where he was at and what he was about to do: eat sushi at Sushi Go 55. Interesting? Yes. Weird? Hell yes.

I am a sushi neophyte. They ordered. They asked what I wanted. I nodded. They all ordered Sapporo beer. Blake likes beer. That's all I saw him drinking at the workplace. I was the last one to order a drink. Everyone glanced at me. My cousin shook his head. I ordered coke.

I must say, sushi is delicious. Except when you accidentally eat one without noticing the large chunk of wasabi placed on top of it while out of beverage. Good thing everyone was too busy talking about cryptic emails.

When asked, "What do you enjoy most about your job?" Which was directed towards Kate and Blake. Blake instantly responded, "the beer fridge, movie nights, and general witty banter." I want that job. Minus the beer.

The end.
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I didn't want to do this and I'm probably too late. But here it goes.

To Michael Jackson,

I am not a hardcore fan. I haven't listened to your every song. I haven't been to your concerts. I haven't said you were my favorite artist of all time. I did, however, learn how to moonwalk at the age of 12. I did watch a documentary about your childhood. I did sing out-loud to your songs whenever played. I did learn how to artistically pelvic thrust into the air. I did learn the thriller dance with my cousins at 3am in the morning, while breaking furniture.

So thanks for the good times. May you rest in paradise.



..

I'm off to Vegas.