2012 - End of Days?

Seems believable, I mean Facebook is going public, the race for the Republican nomination is between a bullfrog and a gazillionaire, the world has been in a recession for like 1,000 weeks, and Community was put on hiatus. The question we have to ask ourselves isn't "is 2012 the end of days?" it's "do I want to be around for another fucking year?" The arguments on either side are compelling.

On the side of struggling on for a future of the human race there are things to look forward to - things like the continuing career of Emma Stone who is my completely non-secret, flagrantly public celebrity crush for her quiet beauty, witty humor (at least in her roles and the few interviews I've seen), and apparent decency as a human being (probably unlikely to see her follow her red-headed predecessor Lindsay). Also, even if the USA induces self-inflicted Armageddon by electing someone other than our current president, it will allow President Obama to go back to doing what he does best, writing books. Is there anyone that wouldn't want to read his thoughts on being president and trying to govern amid the insanity of the last couple years sans the restraint necessary when holding public office? And of course there's the ever-present hope of flying cars, shuttle buses to the moon, and a Guns N Roses reunion that perpetually appear just off in an ever elusive horizon.

Of course, the evidence against living on past 2012 is just as compelling. First and foremost I'm in the midst of my longest dry spell since my first longest dry spell (the first 17 years of my life). Frankly, if this continues I have no interest in living on. Secondly, people don't have jobs and when they don't have jobs they ask me for money or favors, constantly. I mean I'm sorry that you're jobless and have mouths to feed but I have important plans for my money and if you don't believe me ask the liquor store around the corner. Lastly Steve Jobs is still continuing on in his path towards world domination even from the grave. I see it only as a matter of time until we're walking around in smooth, shiny black and white cases as iPeople and while people reading this on one of their motley of apple gadgets may get half-aroused at the thought of seamlessly integrating their brains with their devices and fully aroused at the thought of fornicating with an iPerson I on the other hand want no part in this digitally consumed future.

So there you have it: I'm single and completely sexually inactive (Emma, if you're reading, trust me these are compelling reasons to date me), soon people standing next to me will be part owners of my profile page on Facebook, and I'll likely be looking at that profile page on an iPhone after I finally sell out amongst the weight of the giant wave of civilization pulling me onward into a future devoid of substance and hope.

Cheers kids - you're all fucked anyway.

Don't Call it a Comeback (Even though it is)

I'd say I can't remember the last time I posted, but that would be a lie since these damn editorials are time stamped, but I think you get the idea - it's been a while. My life since my last post has been, well probably as good as anyone could ask for. I moved into an awesome one-bedroom apartment living by myself for the first time. Living alone has been a revelation, who knew how much cleaner, productive, and at peace I could be just by getting rid of roommates (no I didn't murder them, more like misplaced). There hasn't been much time to be lonely though since living solo in an apartment has come with an abundance of hookups that I have not seen since that dream I had in tenth grade where I dated all the hottest girls in the school in quick succession. But this isn't a dream, and frankly it's not dating either. Sure I've gone on dates, but a majority of my encounters have involved a bar, a twelve-pack, or an apology. Hell, some of them involved all three. Accompanying these experiences have been a variety of comical situations, from getting thrown out of a still moving cab at 3am by a coworker (he decided for me that I needed to meet up with the girl texting me), to being thrown into a cab at 4am by a girl who said "we might as well bang at this point anyways" to being thrown into a room and ordered to remove my clothes by the time this particular girl returned from the restroom (couldn't quite manage to get my socks off). Damn, there was even the time my CFO cock-blocked me when I accidentally picked up the phone very much in the middle of something (and someone). Have I regretted any of these? No. Honestly, I've actually liked every girl I've been with in some way or another. My dilemma, and it's an admittedly selfish one, is that I want all of them and none of them at the same time, but never just one of them. New York makes these situations way too easy to fall into, there's so many goddamned bars, so many people just wanting to go out without thinking about tomorrow, what it all means. People say New Yorkers are miserable; I disagree. I think we all just live in the moment. So while others may fall back on happy times when nothing's going on, when others have stability, New Yorkers shoot from misery to elation and it roughly follows the hours of the day from the mornings and days spent alone wondering why that other someone hasn't called you back, to the early evenings when you're surrounded by friends and thought prohibiting substances, to where you've cast aside all inhibitions and will literally bang the next person you talk to. The morning will come though and you'll know for sure that the person lying naked next to you is not the one you've been waiting for because this is New York, and in New York there's always somebody better.

Morning to nowhere

Light, cruel sweeping light, smothered my face in morning as I struggled from my air mattress to a stumbling position, managing to avoid a dreaded tumbling position. I left on the boxer briefs from last night and pulled on some shorts and a shirt. I fell in love with the gallon jug of water I'd bought yesterday and devoted my mouth to its opening for what seemed like a long time until I started choking. I opened the door and the stupid cat sprinted in before I could shut him out. I don't even know the furry thing's name, I just know the sound it makes at night when its on the balcony outside my window meowing at the world below. Things were unclear. I walked through the living room to the door out of the apartment and passed the couch pulled out into a bed with some stranger sleeping there. We looked at eachother for a moment, an awkward exchange of curiosity, fuck him though I had keys to the place; I lived here if only temporarily. The white walls of the 33rd floor seemed very serene, like a mental hospital and it was cool out here, much cooler than my room which liked to heat up like an oven at night when I tried sleeping. Not having air conditioning enabled these effects. The elevator arrived to this top floor and I was surprised when I saw 3 people in there not getting off. As I walked in one of the guys in a building uniform told me the elevator wasn't working very well and they'd trying getting to the lobby twice only to be shot back up to pick up more people. I nodded trying to understand but not really doing so. The doors closed and there was a cute girl in there and I looked at her but she didn't really look at me. The elevator arrived safely and they exhaled big sighs of relief as I exhaled a .3 BAC. Pathmark was a couple blocks up on 125th street and seemed a good destination. I couldn't remember last night but I felt that it was probably better that way. I passed the recycling machines where people were already lined up with their trash bags and carts depositing collected bottles and cans, new york city's chief foragers and experts in living without homes talked and laughed, some wore gloves peeling bottles one at a time from their coveted stash and pushing them into the machine, the cents jumping up with each new deposit. It was hot and I was sweating and I smelled. I tried peeling my shirt from my body, but I realized I was outside and Pathmark probably wouldn't like that. I bought an eight pack, but of orange gatorade. It wasn't cold, but it wasn't as hot as outside. My stomach suddenly felt weak and I didn't think I could drink anything so I just walked back to the recycling machines and gave people the gatorades. I walked back towards the Miles, the tall apartment building where some of my stuff currenlty resided. It wasn't going out that was the problem, it was finding a home

Going from Ronaldo to Ke$ha

Four AM is a great time for self reflection.

The above statement has literally nothing to do with this post except that what transpired did so at around 4 AM. Dehydrated from early evening drinking I awoke in the early morning and of course found sanctuary in the endlessly comforting embrace of the internet. The internet is to boredom what alcohol is to sobriety: its unstoppable solution.

With a trip to South Africa fast approaching (and a bank account quickly dwindling) I logged onto youtube to watch some soccer videos...a habit I've once had compared to porn addiction. It's been years since then though and my futbol compilation fetish has long since waned. Anyways, I went from from one cristiano ronaldo highlight reel to another until I fell upon one with Katy Perry as background music (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ju1F2W-O8fg&feature=related). I immediately thought of Russell Brand, her fiance and the english lothario from Forgetting Sarah Marshall whos autobiography I'd just finished reading. Quickly I found myself typing in his name and watching a stand up performance in New York (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g4mXZ2FSlUo). After speaking about his experience in hosting the MTV Music Awards and some of the scenes with Britney I quickly then looked up these as I apparently missed all news of these MTV Music Awards...mainly on account of me not realizing MTV had anything to fuckin do with music. So there I am and in my room is me, Russell Brand, Britney Spears, and an elephant (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YgeUXLVcI6E). Of course I couldn't stop there and quickly followed this with the following http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-Yldq2pQwTI&feature=related. After this enterainment I was of course compelled to revisit my short but passionate love affair with Britney's song, Circus. I'll spare you the link on this occassion, but as I sat, now at 5am listening to this song I thought of my other recent infatuation, that of the new pop sensation, seemingly debaucherous, ironic dollar sign in name Ke$ha. And so that's how I found myself here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qGp6xC5MXic

The internet is like a box of chocolates, you never quite know what your'e gonna get.

Lower than Lower East Side

It’s Friday night and you live in New York City so you know there may be lines. You’ve always hated lines outside bars and clubs but generally succeed in avoiding the types of places that would have them. However, every now and then the occasional birthday party, reunion, charity event, etc arises to require your attendance.

For instance, once, nearly 3 years ago, you put yourself through the dreadful, artificial atmosphere of the meatpacking district to attend a club for your friend’s 21^st birthday. They were “doing it big” with tables and bottles and ice and five figure bar tabs. It’s not that you didn’t have a good time, dancing and orally exchanging ice cubes with your friend’s cousin was an interesting story in itself, it’s that this place just doesn’t suit you. You don’t want to feel important or classy or cool, mostly you just want to feel drunk and as we all know location doesn’t matter for that.

So this past weekend while drinking beer at some banker bar in Chelsea you send out your one size fits all mass text message to quickly elicit alternative means of entertainment. It’s through this process that you’re reminded of a friend’s birthday at Gallery Bar, a Lower East Side venue. The Lower East Side used to be a neighborhood you thoroughly avoided between the nocturnal hours of ten and six, but slowly you’ve grown more accepting as long as you stay away from bars like pianos which, frankly, just suck. You tell her you’ll be there and along with your good friend Nik hail a cab and head southeast. Upon arrival you see the entrance roped off like a crime scene and there are four wannnabee detectives dressed in sports jackets and designer jeans rubbing their five day old facial scruff in two minute intervals. There’s no line as you approach but that doesn’t stop some small, loud talking doorman from halting you with a condescending hand and asking “what party are you here with?”

“Christina’s” you tell him.

“Christina’s and Steve’s?” He asks incredulously.

“Of course.” You both assure him.

“Wait right here.” He says before turning around seemingly annoyed that he’s been forced to spend time with these line occupying peons. You hear someone refer to him as “Perez” and completely understand why he would have that name. The line begins growing as you quickly discern two types of people, those that quietly move to the back of the line and those that don’t. Those that don’t seem to be made up of consciously hot girls and self absorbed guys with gelled manes and fake smiles wooing the doorman as he laughs, hugs, and opens the velvet rope to happily admit them inside. You’re instantly reminded why at times you’re sure New York is the most evil place in the world.

Two guys in sports jackets, graphic t-shirts and hair flipped up in the front next approach the pale, beanie wearing Perez to concoct an obscenely uninteresting sob story. You watch as the sad faced newcomer says, “I’m just trying to see my cousin who’s in there.” It’s all the more shocking though when you watch the douchebag doorman, pleasantly satisfied that these bro boys have spent the last five minutes effectively fellating his oversized ego, allow them to enter. You would’ve thought they believed he was Jesus or at least Ghandi with the way they praised him as they walked in. “Yea, he’s a real hero” you think to yourself. In a moment though your instinctive reactions get the better of you as you exclaim immediately following their entrance, “hey! My cousin’s in there too!” A chorus of laughter erupts from the line behind you now also aware of our gatekeeper’s tragic shortcomings.

“My sister’s in there!” someone else yells quickly followed by Nik yelling “My cousin’s sister’s in there!” Despite the obvious humor the joke is not appreciated by your new night working friend whose power you haven’t respected but mocked. He locks eyes on you and approaches. It’s a standoff straight out of the Discovery channel and his body posture and unearned air of superiority make it obvious he thinks he has the upper hand. No matter what happens here though he doesn’t; because he’s still a prick LES doorman, which maybe on the spectrum of doormen is impressive, but on spectrum of life still falls below drug dealer, amateur porn star, and endangered species hunter.

“Seriously?” He asks you disdainfully.

“It’s just a joke.” You tell him, not really believing it

“Seriously if you don’t stop you’re just gonna have to leave.” You hold back your mocking laugh until he’s distracted by a group of whorish honies eager to play the game and cast aside respect for entrance. You wonder who’s worse the doorman for yielding power so irresponsibly or the eager patrons who give it to him. It’s at this point that Perez learns the word, “capacity.”

“Capacity” is what the owner tells him the bar has just reached before letting in six more girls. Excited as this addition to his meager vocabulary he begins proudly announcing the bar has reached CAPACITY and that they won’t be able to let anyone in right now. If you knew any better you’d guess he wanted to wrap his eccentric arms around the word and jam his impotent doorman dick into one of the A’s.

After ten more minutes of waiting and 500 more uses of the word capacity you’re growing impatient. You’ve told your friend you’ll make an appearance for her birthday but certainly she’d have to understand the extenuating circumstances. You think you’ll just query the man on the other side of the rope for an estimate on time to enter.

“Hey, it looks like a lot of people have been leaving, any idea on much longer it might be for us to get in?” You ask without any sort of dissension, though you know you want to.

“Seriously? You’re seriously asking me that right now? If you don’t stop being such an asshole you’re not even gonna get to stand here you understand?”

“Wait what? I just asked how long you think it’ll be; I’m not being an asshole.”

“Alright you’re seriously gonna keep asking me? Really?” This flamboyant cunt prick is fucking with you and you’ve just about had enough of it. You’re about to say something that will A) Get you kicked out B)Get you kicked out and punched in the face by the bouncer a couple feet away or C) get you kicked out after punching the doorman before getting beat up by that dude’s cousin who’s still inside along with 3 of his friends that have gone in since. Before you retort though someone yells the doorman’s name as the owner’s bushy head is sticking out the entrance and is yelling at the bouncer to start letting people in. The bouncer who’s sat quietly to the side, remaining a neutral but no less innocent, checks your id and lets you in the side entrance while the self important Perez is busy being complimented by more soulless partiers.

The Other Guy

The Other Guy - The guy that is not the main one. An unserious diversion from the real interest. synonym-guy on the side, tool of jealousy, one night stand, mistake, me.

As I think back upon my brief yet scarring romantic history I seem to continue coming to the same conclusion. That other guy was me. Here's a brief chronological synopsis to explain:

5th grade - Crush on Maria in Mexico City seems to be reciprocated until Ariel's bday party where she spends the whole night trying to dance with my best friend Mario.

9th grade- Stephanie from English class entices with seductive eyes and random phone calls to my house, perhaps giving the first glimmer of hope to my worried parents that I'm not gay. With double Cs she inevitably ends up dating the JV football team and stops returning my calls.

11th grade-Ashley from art class always talks about hanging out and even proposes getting together on valentines day. Ditches me at last moment to get back with her ex boyfriend while I spent valentines day playing video games to the bemusement of my parents who I'd already told I had a date.

College-Well if you don't know this one by now you haven't read this blog. Girl dates guy while trying to get back with ex guy or get with new guy... either way I'm the other guy.

After examining this undeniable pattern of mistrust and misperception it's hard to believe I was surprised after another recent event. Booze flowed freely (I didn't have to pay for any of it) from 6pm on. My night began in a relaxed setting at a coworkers home as I drank dangerous combinations of beer and sangria. Treating them interchangeably until 1030 when i departed back to the city. The nap on the ride home energized me and I headed downtown more awake at midnight than I had been in some time. A roaring welcome to the party only served to enhance my mood and I immediately targeted a defenseless bottle of Jim Beam, pouring its contents straight into a plastic cup with ice. After, drunken dialogue with a certain female counterpart showed signs of potential. The drink fell to my thirst and I filled the cup yet again with a massive pour, finishing what had once been a half full bottle of bourbon. Teasing comments were made about my past transgressions while I employed inebriated charm to combat false perceptions. Making further use of my drunk faculties I conceived an overly complimentary letter to said female. This succeeded in unlocking her lips but not unweaving the webs of deception of which I was already ensnared. Being kicked out of a room without warning at 430 in the morning is not a good sign kids. After a make out session to a degree I can't honestly remember I journeyed home. The next day I stayed true to my word as a man interested in more than just a drunk mistake and asked her to hang out in my sober company. After I'm sure hours of avoiding a response she curtly texted back that it wasn't a good idea because she was, of course, "dating someone."

That other guy was me.

That's Boken....

According to the unquestioned resource of Wikipedia, "St. Patrick's Day is an annual feast that celebrates St. Patrick, the most recognized patron saint of Ireland and is celebrated on March 17th." A national holiday in Ireland, the US has adopted it as a public holiday. After scenes from last Saturday I'd argue that it might be the MOST public holiday we have, at least when celebrated across the Hudson in the fair city of Hoboken.

The definition of St. Paddy's day I suppose is vague enough to be interpreted in many different ways. Yesterday, March 6th a full 11 days before the recognized date of the celebration is a stretch on its own. However, the leniency of interpretation afforded to "feast" is the most questionable as the meaning must be wide enough to encompass an appalling display of unapologetic debauchery to the most deplorable degree. I'd been warned about the intensity of St. Paddy's Day in Hoboken, but after living in NYC for 6 years I quickly dismissed these concerns as naive and confidently hopped onto the Path Train wearing a dark green t-shirt accompanied by the always dependable Dr. Gonzo.

I should've sensed trouble brewing when I saw the demographics of riders crowding into the path train. Two guys next to us mixed a bottle of whiskey with coke. Girls about our every side all conversed with the words "like," "you know," and "fuck," in five word intervals. The train arrived and the doors opened to a teeming underground hang over. Only 4:30pm the entire station smelled of booze and regret.

Hoboken, being so close to New York managed to create the perfect storm of unrepentant depravity. Legions of Investment Banking Bobbies flocked in from Manhattan with hair slicked back and green sports jackets purchased solely for this occasion. This disturbance was met by Bro Brigades travelling from exotic faraway destinations like the Jersey Shore, Long Island, and North Jersey. Finally, completing the disaster stew, swarms of man craving, liqour chugging, drama inciting females flocked to the scene like it was their own personal Mecca, except instead of bowing in prayer they bent over and boked.

Forget http://www.overheardinnewyork.com/, I heard more appalling comments in one block than I've ever read on the popular blog. Dr. Gonzo recognized the region as a highly lucrative market for HGH dealers as tight shirt wearing, neck bulging masses of booze and rage seemed perpetually on their way to, from, or in a fight.

Girls slumped over on the curb, unconcious or dead, were such a normal sight that they stopped meritting even a second look. After finally making it past the bar filled Washington Avenue we reached the destination of our party. Where all hell had already broken loose. The apartment was carpeted in beer, liquor, some girl from Stephen's Institute of Technology and a stunning collection of aluminum. My feet felt sticky as I tried moving through the huddled masses while simulatenously avoiding pissing off any of the guys with the lingering far off stairs just aching for a chance to punch a hole in a wall.

Lemons shot around the walls and I saw a guy I knew judo chop a stranger's vagina. The reception, obviously, was not welcome. However, that was the least of anyone's problems. Some girl with tears repeatedly tried to reason with an angry lover. Another angry man tried to reason with a potential fucker and another guy I knew puked his pants. I wasn't drunk or insane enough to stay long. In my better (younger) years a place like this would've felt natural, almost paradise like, now it felt dirty and wrong...like sex with a married chick.

We survived the walk back pausing only to pick up a stray $40 and watch a bouncer beat the drunken shit out of an unruly patron, made complete when a cop arrived and someone shouted, "First you got fucked up! Now you get locked up!" Forcing ourselves onto a train we had not escaped the date rapiness of Jersey as all around us creepy men were trying to lure drunken women into devious encounters. My stomach hurt; it was a bad but sadly not forgettable place.