Bars are never my favorite places to hang out, due to the fact that it typically involves ample amounts of alcoholic intake and overexertion at the pool table, neither of said activities in which I partake.
But this Thursday night, I guess my stars were aligned just so, because unknowingly I’d come prepared with the perfect remedy to cure my illness.
You see, unfortunately I had the intelligent insight to head straight to Tesco Grocery Store after school and load up on all the essentials. On the bus coming back from Tesco I got high jacked and dragged down town as usual.
Groceries, backpack, gym shorts and all.
Which unfortunately for me, the groceries part included my half gallon jug of Meiji low-fat organic milk.
Desperately calculating in my head, numbers flying as I tried to recall whether it was four or six hours mom always said items could remain out of the fridge.
Unwilling to risk it, and un-wanting to sacrifice a half gallon of freshly purchased milk to the gods of the garbage disposal, I figured I may as well just take advantage of my milk situation while I could.
After all, the circumstances of cereal consumption are never slim.
So, procuring a spoon and an old beer stein, I began to settle in and serve myself a meal.
Much to the drunken confusion of many a spectator, I haggardly sliced open the granola, and the bag generously erupted into my mug, followed by a couple of hearty sloshes of milk over the top.
Sinking back into the booth, slipping off my shoes and twisting my feet up beneath me, I began to munch.
Anticipating one of the most enjoyable evenings I’d experienced thus far.
Really, with a little bit of beer flavored granola there wasn’t much that could go wrong.
They looked and looked and looked.
Tilted their heads a bit.
Then looked a little more.
Apparently that just wasn’t something that one did.
You know, the whole sitting in a bar on a Thursday night completely sober consuming granola thing.
I tried to play it off with the cultural card.
“We, ah, we do this all the time in America.” I cooed expecting an easy escape with the wide breach of cultural understanding.
“Ummm, no we don’t.” Stated the kid sitting next to me from Nebraska.
Shoot, I’d forgotten about him. Everybody always forgets about Nebraska anyhow.
“Well, it’s more of a California thing.” I retorted.
You know, surfing, movie stars, eating cereal in bars.
That’s how we roll.
After ample amounts of peering, I began to get approached by the joyfully curious folk.
“Are you eating Muesli’s with milk right nooooow?”
They slurred with thick coated breath a little too up close and personal for my liking.
“That’s so bitchin!!!!! You’re awesooooooome!”
Apparently my inherent cereal craving and quirky location had instantly elevated me to a status of awesome.
I wasn’t going to complain about my newly attained rank, however I was slightly skeptical about the power invested in them with which to grant said titles.
Though the legitimacy of my apparently awesome ranking is a debate of which we can undertake another evening.
It became the thing.
Not quite as big as Furbies, but I’ll modestly make the comparison to Pogs.
Screw chugging beers in a bar, it was obvious that the newest trend involved Mueslis’ and a half gallon of milk as we passed the substance up and down the aisle and all took hits of granola.
“Delicious maaaaaan.” Chorused the tipsy individuals who somehow happened to really be in the mood for the munchies.
Not five minutes later the box was empty and it seemed like a unanimously agreed upon trip to 7-11 was in order, this time for some Cocoa-Puffs.
As successful as my granola had been, the management had made complaints as to the overwhelming health factor and lack of sugar in the product.
Standing outside the store, munching on dry cereal, we were informed that the real show this evening was down at the beach.
Apparently Ed, the new bald headed student from Upstate New York, had spent 7,000 baht on fireworks to celebrate the Chinese New Year.
There goes someone’s college education up in flames.
While traipsing down to the beach, we heard the hovering squeal of a bush of bats intermingling with the squeak and crack of an eventual bursting firecracker.
Squeak. Squeak. Squeak. Sizzle. Burst.
It made quite the chorus of noisy explosion in the night.
Lighting up the sky inches away from our faces with crimsons and golds and sparkly light as we laughed about on the beach, running around with our sparklers dancing like it was the first time we’d ever laid eyes on balls of fire.
And at the end.
After the fireworks gently traipsed into the sky, dissolving overhead.
And the sparklers sputtered to a stop in our hands.
The only light left was the small glow dripping from the end of cigarettes.
As the bats continued to squeal, uninformed that the show was long gone.
And we sank back into the sand looking up at the empty sky, slapping anxious mosquitoes from our legs.
And debated the meaning of life, and time, and all that jazz.