The Mikes, Jocelyn, and Hans

I met the Mikes on Friday at Jenk’s. In the midst of Kristy flirting with Jim who had to leave because his sister got in a car accident and Rob buying me too many beers, I somehow ended up dancing with a guy named Mike with a friend named Mike and in all the confusion, I gave him my number and he called me on Sunday. So, tonight I hung out with the Mikes and their friend Jocelyn who they met in February at a Simple Plan concert. Jocelyn and I watched the Mikes bowl in their league at Ocean Lanes and then we headed to the OQ diner “via three-vehicle convoy” (ljrichard, 5/10/04). Over cheese-and-gravy fries one Mike asked, “What kind of music do you listen to? Do you like punk and ska at all?”

“Sure I do,” I said.

“Well, what’s your opinion of this band — you’ve probably never even heard of them.”

“Who?”

“Reel Big Fish.”

“WHOA! That is, like, my FAVORITE band in the whole world!” I exclaimed.

“Sweet. This girl rocks,” one Mike said to the other.

As we finished eating, Jocelyn told us about her latest crush, Hans. She confided that she’s pretty into him because “he’s hot with flaming red hair and a pimped-out white Honda,” but he says he can’t date her because he only likes “girls who go to shows, are interested in fashion, and aren’t ghetto.” I thought he sounded like a bit of an ass — especially after she told us that she and Hans did it in a hot tub and he “doesn’t remember” it happening.

“Jocelyn,” I said, “This guy sounds like a real dick. Besides, I don’t know that many girls, other than probably me and you, who go to shows that are interested in fashion. Most show-going girls are a little too punk-rock to worry about keeping up with the latest trends in Cosmo — they’re too busy dying their hair black and looking for their next pair of fishnets at Hot Topic.”

“Hans. Is he Indian?” a Mike asked.

“No,” she replied, “He’s German.”

“Hans isn’t an Indian name, you retard,” I said.

“Oh,” the Mike said, “Well, did you see that movie Cool Runnings? Remember they were like, ‘Hans! Vans! Mans! GO!'”

“What does that have to do with Indians?”

“Dude,” the other Mike said, “That’s not what they said.”

“Yeah! It is! When they were about to take off. They said that!”

“No man. They didn’t. They said some Swiss shit, like, ‘Eins! Veins! Kleins!’ or something.”

“Oh,” the first Mike said, “Well, I like Swiss cheese. I like all kinds of cheese — cottage cheese, cheesecake, monterey–”

“Dude, cheesecake is not a cheese,” I stated.

“It has cheese,” the Mike defended himself.

“Yeah, I guess, but it’s cheesecake. It’s not technically classified as a cheese,” I informed him.

“Fine, but I like it. I like cheesecake. And Hans sounds gay. We should get him drunk and spray paint ‘Hans’ on his forhead.”

“Um, what for?” I inquired.

“Don’t know. Just sounds like it’d be fun.”

With that, we left the diner. It was a pretty good time — I suppose you can’t really beat a night of bowling and cheese-and-gravy fries in New Jersey. It was nice to hang out with some new people — and I’m glad they were the Mikes and Jocelyn and not anyone like Hans. Hans has a PlayStation in his Honda Civic. If I ever met anyone with a video game system in his car, I’d probably wack him upside the head because that has got to be one of the stupidest things I have ever heard of.

(NOTE: Yes, I used a citation in this entry, and no, I do not know what the point of this story was.)

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