Washingtonians, this Wednesday afternoon, come to the Starbucks on 1600 K Street to become acquainted with some young, interesting, average income level Asian American guys and gals. Instead of meeting Asian American doctors, lawyers, and consultants, you’ll meet Dr. Dre copycats, alcoholic paralegals, and T-Mobile wireless salespeople.

These guys and gals are looking to meet new friends that include: white, black, Hispanic, or any other race of people, just as long as you aren’t a F.O.B. Because after all, they don’t want to perpetuate the stereotype that Asians only hang out with other Asians. Just kidding, we love our F.O.B brothers and sisters! But **** stereotypes.

If you are a Washingtonian who likes drinking alcohol and smoking marijuana, stop by and make a new Asian American friend who will provide mixers and match you on a blunt. Please, do not ask these guys and gals for college study notes for Math or Bio, because all of them have dropped out of college to pursue their artistic passions, like: writing a novel about having a white group of friends and being the token who reads Tolkien and likes Toking; playing electric guitar in a grunge, punk, post-emo garage band with your black buddies who like Fugazi and bad brains but ******* hate Green day for selling out; and drawing sketches and painting portraits of the half-Asian girl you’re dating on a wide canvass, but really you’re secretly into selfies and taking photos of breakfast on Instagram.

We don’t discriminate against the kind of alcohol you drink, whether it be wine, beer, or liquor—within reason please don’t bring Franzia or Rolling rock, this isn’t college anymore. Yes, we get it, you’re highly considering attending this group because you’re a huge Haruki Murakami fan and you’re wondering two questions: are our Japanese American patrons also huge fans of the author, and do our patrons behave in a similar fashion to Murakami’s characters like Toru Watanabe and Toru Okada?

First, our Japanese American patrons are huge fans of Murakami and they own books like Sputnik Sweetheart and The Windup Bird Chronicle, but they also think the author often is obsessed with Western culture, in a way that possibly, and seriously possibly transforms him into a Brett Easton Ellis derivative based on Ellis’s American ****** and Glamorama.

Second, no these particular patrons do not behave like Murakami’s characters, because they’re real, living, breathing human beings, and not some fantasy figure or made-up person! But enough of the rant, please come though and let’s have conversations about jazz and talking cats.

While we respect Asian American actors like Ken Jeong and Randall Park, we really aren’t interested in having a lengthy dialogue about The Hangover’s Asian **** scene, or how Park was kinda offensively funny in The Interview. Although Park is awesome in Fresh Off The boat! All we really want is to just drink jack and cokes and smoke Marlboro lights and have conversations about the latest trends in indie rock and Hip Hop culture, and whether Citizen Kane was better than Casablanca, or vice versa.

At the meeting, we will have our guest speaker Jeremy Lin’s college roommate George Park answer questions about Lin, as well as a special appearance by Steve Yuen’s ex-girlfriend Marcy Abernathy who will give us an inside scoop to Yuen’s fetishes as well as his quirky habits. We will also be providing free snacks like LSD Pho noodle soup and Marijuana Mochi ice-cream. On a serious note, we’ll be giving out guilt-free Twinkies.

Before you arrive at the Starbucks, you’ll be getting a name tag and a free A.A.A T-shirt that wasn’t made by little children from China; instead, the shirts are made by Ronald Mai, our aspiring fashion designer whose twitter handle is @thatsmyshirtwhiteman! If you’re interested in coming out to the group our first meeting is this Wednesday at 6 p.m.

Leave your apprehension at the door and walk in with a warm smile, as you’re greeted by an expressionless face. And phoreal if your car is messed up and you require a ride, please call A.A.A’s number at (202) 576-2AAA (we know we’re phunny). Hope to see you there, and if you don’t come, you’re a ******* racist! But seriously come out and meet some cool *** people.

[Life]

I
A man with no shoes
walks by with a limp.

His arms -
covered
in tattoos
and scars -
are lethargic
by choice.

The biting
winter sun
delivers respite
from late December
northerlies.

He reeks of Franzia.
Redolent, it shadows
him, haunts
him like what he drinks
to forget.

His unkempt white beard
is stained yellow
around the mouth
from years of cigarettes
and no-shave Novembers.

He dons a jacket
- faded glory -
that is two sizes too small
and his pants stay together
like a couple for their kids.

Too proud to join
the Salvation Army
on Christmas Eve,
he finds his bench,
lies down

and survives
one
more
night.

II
A man in a suit
drives home in an Audi.

His collar
is stained
with cheap lipstick
and Chateau Lagrange
from last night's
late night meetings.

Angie, his wife,
waits anxiously
at the door
of their four bedroom,
three and a half bath
Victorian.

Her eyes -
still puffy
and red -
fixated up Swann St.
She is not blinking
and barely breathing.

The kids
have been sent to Grandma's
for the night.

They watch TV -
SpongeBob SquarePants.

The Audi
drives by a man on a bench
He looks asleep -
possibly dead.

The suit inside thinks to himself:
“That poor man.”

Franzia oh Franzia!
You are my savior.
With just a box
You clean my slate.
I have no problems!
And no insecurities
I fill up on you
So I don't devour gallons of ice cream.

You save me
From the person I could be
And you raise me
Closer to who I want to become.

When this wine touches my lips
Thoughts of freshman year float by.

Wine Wednesdays...
A weekly ritual marked by cheap Franzia and wandering hands
Mumford, Coldplay, and Dave
Laughter, Dancing
Build me up buttercup

This is my place
With you
On this cheap *** futon
Murphy girls and Detroit boys
Drinking this cheap *** wine
Together
How it was supposed to be

Cheeks rosy like our wine,
Sunset Blush with shy kisses
Soft whispers
Fingers intertwined
Your hand rests on my thigh
Gently moving up and down

I am in heaven.

If only for a moment
As I reminisce

TO: athens
you are a boy born to argue,
confrontation stuck between your gritted grin.
TO: athens
see, a long time ago, before i met you,
i spent far too much of my time apologizing,
minimizing, shrinking my words down until they were fine print.
i was born shy, tongue-tied,
but around you, i am out spoken.
eloquent, concise, not backing down.
TO: athens
and see maybe that’s a bad thing,
two head strong orators always talking over each other.
TO: athens
but i always like who i am with you
TO: athens
an argument
for the sake of argument,
for the sake of laughing over each other’s rebuttals,
for the sake of starting conversation,
for the sake of digging around in your heart
TO: athens
i have never disagreed with someone so much
and still liked them this much at the end of the conversation
TO: athens
i want to argue with you for the rest of my life
TO: athens
when i am tipsy and loud and laughing and leaning too close
to you on the couch,
and drunk enough to see the stars in your eyes
through any of the light pollution,
i imagine if i kissed you it would taste like franzia.
TO: athens
you are easy but i always try too hard
TO: athens
no, baby, you are impossible
and i know i’m ****** and difficult, but you and me?
that’s easy. ****, that’s easy.
TO: athens
i used to think of love as frantic, thrumming,
and then i met you and realizes it could sneak up on you,
quiet and comfortable and unnoticed
until it’s everywhere
and you don’t know how to scrub out the stains
TO: athens
you make me smile, simple as that
TO: athens
and to catch your eye across the room,
the laughter still stuck in my throat, maybe that’s what
i’ve been searching through other people for.

I
A man with no shoes
walks by with a limp.

His arms -
covered
in tattoos
and scars -
are lethargic
by choice.

The biting
winter sun
delivers respite
from late December
northerlies.

He reeks of Franzia.
Redolent, it shadows
him, haunts
him like what he drinks
to forget.

His unkempt white beard
is stained yellow
around the mouth
from years of cigarettes
and no-shave Novembers.

He dons a jacket
- faded glory -
that is two sizes too small
and his pants stay together
like a couple for their kids.

Too proud to join
the Salvation Army
on Christmas Eve,
he finds his bench,
lies down

and survives
one
more
night.

II**
A man in a suit
drives home in an Audi.

His collar
is stained
with cheap lipstick
and Chateau Lagrange
from last night's
late night meetings.

Angie, his wife,
waits anxiously
at the door
of their four bedroom,
three and a half bath
Victorian.

Her eyes -
still puffy
and red -
fixated up Swann St.
She is not blinking
and barely breathing.

The kids
have been sent to Grandma's
for the night.

They watch TV -
SpongeBob SquarePants.

The Audi
drives by a man on a bench
He looks asleep -
possibly dead.

The suit inside thinks to himself:
“That poor man.”