Chris Walker Vs. Valentine’s Day 2008

Nothing says “Jesus was born” like a bearded, fat guy who lives with pointy-eared midgets and breaks into people’s homes once a year. Nothing says “Jesus rose from the dead” like a rabbit that lays eggs. Nothing says “convert or die, druids” like getting savagely drunk on Guinness. And nothing says “celebrate the saints” like dressing as a slutty cop, a slutty nun, or a slutty penguin.

Let’s face it, most holidays are horse-shit, rarely representing their source material with any accuracy. That’s why I’m saying for this Valentine’s Day – one of the most contentious holidays of the year – let’s quit crying about how it’s “driven by marketers,” get our girlfriends some flowers, and shut the fuck up. We haphazardly buy into the shenanigans of every other “holiday,” how is this one any more ridiculous? Play along and have a good time. Otherwise, you might as well become one of those absurd Jehovah Witnesses, disavowing everything.

Women love Valentine’s Day. Even if they say they don’t, they do. The estrogen in women’s bodies predisposes them to like anything even remotely romantic. They want flowers, they want attention. The only women who really don’t like Valentine’s Day are ugly, fat chicks who never get asked out or bitter whores more familiar with the term “booty call” than “dinner date.” I looked it up, it’s fact.

Keep in mind: women forgive, they never forget. When you tell your girlfriend, “Why do I have to prove I love you on this day? I should show you all the time,” all she hears is, “I’m a cheap fuck who doesn’t want to take you to a fancy restaurant.” Truth be told, you probably are, but she doesn’t have to know that. Suck it up for one day. You can either be A.) the guy who came through big on Valentine’s Day (in which case, you don’t have to do shit for, like, the next three months) or; B.) the asshole who wouldn’t quit bitching about consumerism and unrealistic expectations (in which case, prepare to get blown a lot less often).

As for my Valentine’s Day: I had fun last year, and I expect to have fun this year. After all, my Mexican Distributor is in town once again for this love bonanza, and I hear they’re still serving grappa in restaurants so I’m all set. Hoo-rah.

CHRIS WALKER VS. VALENTINE’S DAY 2007

Everyone hates Valentine’s Day. People say the same things every year: “It’s a ‘Hallmark holiday’”; “Why do I have to show you how much I love you on one day out of the year? I should do it everyday.” The blog world is saturated with “Valentine’s Day sucks” posts, including one from my good friend Ruckus Maximus. So, for a change of pace, I present a Valentine’s Day story with a happy ending.

My Mexican Distributor (from various Chris Walker Versus) and his friend “Nacho” were in town so I took them – along with two, attractive lady friends – to my favorite Italian restaurant in Reno: La Famiglia. We had great conversation, drank a lot of wine, ate great food. Then we drank grappa.

If you’ve never had grappa you need to. You probably won’t like it but at least you can say you’ve tried it. It’s gasoline you can drink, essentially. Italian moonshine. Only the manliest of men can appreciate its ruthlessness; only the burliest of women can consume it and not die. Italians drink it after dinner because it aids in your digestion and by ‘aids in your digestion’ I mean it eats a hole through your stomach lining. Grappa can remove paint from a car. It can cure and cause cancer, simultaneously. It will make your teeth three shades whiter while decimating your taste buds. In other words: it’s magical.

Grappa is made from the grape skins, seeds, stems, and other by-products of the wine making process. Wine-makers take the leftovers, add a dash of pure evil, distill it, and wa-la, grappa is born. I drink grappa frequently and alone (since no one else will touch it), unless I’m with “The Bosses.” There was a time The Boss (from previous Chris Walker Versus, not to be confused with Big Boss) and I killed a bottle and a half of grappa in Wiesbaden, Germany. I felt like death until I drank more that following night.

I made Nacho drink grappa the first time I met him, in Chicago, so he knew what he was up against. He was a good sport though, and drank one glass before switching to cognac and Coke. I, on the other hand, drank four grappi. My Mexican Distributor drank zero, he knows better. The girls hadn’t heard of grappa so I explained it to them and told them to try it. They were willing until the rubbing-alcohol smell hit their noses, then they politely declined. What can I say? They’re smart.

Nacho wanted to go to a strip club after dinner. I’ve never been inside a Reno strip club. I’ve never had the desire; I hate strip clubs and I hate strippers. Need proof? Here’s proof. Despite my disdain for all things stripper related, I wanted to show the guys a good time so I took them to The Men’s Club.

To Men’s Club credit, it’s a pretty classy joint – for Reno. They have a sushi bar and a “four-star restaurant”; drinks are reasonably priced, and the bathroom attendant listens to John Coltrane. The strippers however, were not so great. There was this one – a platinum blonde with gigantic tits – I found out when she isn’t stripping she’s actually in the National Guard – as a tank. This bitch was HUGE. Like wooly-mammoth huge. A couple more beers and I would’ve tried to play real-life Shadow of the Colossus, scaling her massive frame so I could slay her (if you’re not a video-game nerd that joke holds no weight).

As bad as the strippers were, I was determined to buy Nacho a dance. I told him, “Any girl you want, you let me know and I’ll pay for it.” We drank beer and made fun of strippers until Nacho could find one adequate enough for me to waste $20 on. Eventually, Nacho found one but I was in the bathroom when he did, so Nacho bought his own dance. I died a little inside.

12:00 AM was quickly approaching and I knew we had to leave the club. I was ready to go until another stripper took the stage and suddenly, “Hello little boys, little toys…” blared over the sound system. It was “Le Disko” by Shiny Toy Guns. I told the guys, “I have to get a dance from this chick, my friends will totally get a kick out of this.” I still haven’t lived down the whole Shiny Toy Guns thing down since I wrote about it (here); my friends hit me with the occasional, “Hey, have you heard of Shiny Toy Guns?” and I call them ‘assholes’ for it. Then we laugh and hi-five each other.

This stripper was not attractive. She was like six foot (at least), no boobs, and fucked up teeth but it didn’t matter. I was taking one for the team so I could tell this Valentine’s Day story-of-love for you all today. The whole time she was grinding into my crotch I was laughing; I told her why I was getting a dance from her and she said, “Well, I hope that’s not the only reason.” Trust me you horse-faced hooker, there was no ulterior motive – comedic value was the only purpose, you are a soulless stripper.

Near the end of the dance it dawned on her I said I write a music site, our conversation went like so:
Dumb Stripper: “So, you’re in the music industry.”
Me: “Yeah, I am.”
Dumb Stripper: “What do you do?”
Me: “I write for the music publication and produce records.”
Dumb Stripper: “Really? You produce?”
Me: “Yeah, that’s why it’s so funny, I actually produced that Shiny Toy Guns track.”
I love lying to strippers.
Dumb Stripper: “So, you want me to dance for another song?”
Me: “No, that’s cool.”

And that’s where my romance with the stripper who’d “heard of Shiny Toy Guns” ended. It didn’t blossom into a Valentine’s Day, boobless, mutual ability to identify mediocre music tryst. No, we paid our tab and left. I dropped the guys off at their hotel and made it home by 1:00 AM to wake up at 6:30 AM to get my windshield fixed, and take the guys to the airport at 8:00 AM.

The best part of it all was I kind of looked like I could’ve been a record producer. I was wearing a sports coat with jeans and a collared shirt and I’m a big enough asshole to play the role. Then again, what would a record producer be doing in a Reno strip club at 12:30 PM on Valentine’s Day? Then again, what was Ron Jeremy doing at the Reno/Tahoe International Airport this morning?