College Compilation Part II A Grand Excursion

On a typical Thursday night, in the midst of a heated poker game, I was employing my usual strategy of playing it safe until I was sufficiently drunk to throw it all away when I received a special visit from my friend, “Sam”. Apparently there was this “crazy” party materializing at some place called the Tribeca Grand that I “had to go to.” Being an ignorant freshman, I had no conception of what he was jabbering about and foolishly told him we should just go to San Marcos and get wasted.

He left the room disgusted with my lack of adventure and enthusiasm but I was almost two forties in and couldn’t have cared less. After expectedly losing my last chip I joined up with the usual bar crew and departed for the freshman oasis, San Marcos. The place would’ve let in a ten year old boy with a 40 year old women’s id as long as it said he was over 21. (Apparently they were desperate for service because they would close down later that year.)

Upon arriving I was surprised to see Sam already there alongside a few other familiar faces as well as some unknown women. I asked him if he had “come to his senses and realized San Marcos was the way to go.”

“Hell no you fuckin moron” was his quaint reply. I ignored that response for the moment and poured myself a brimming glass of bud light from the recently purchased pitcher. In my dumb, alcohol given confidence I walked up to some blonde chick my friend was talking to and proceeded to dance, make out with, and allegedly attempt to finger minutes after introducing myself. I have only heard second hand reports of the last act and although I have no recollection of this, nor do I hope it happened, based on previous encounters it is sadly not outside the realm of possibility or even expectation.

Thankfully I was dragged away by one of the friends I had arrived with. He told me that we were after all, going to this “hot spot” Tribeca Grand place. Whatever I thought to myself, this crazy girl had stopped talking to me anyways (probably on account of me sliding my fingers into inappropriate places) and we had four other girls with us already.

We hailed down two cabs and gave the driver the address. When we arrived I almost turned around and walked right back into the cab. I was not 21, and my i.d. looked like a seventh grade arts and crafts project. The bouncer I saw was a massive, imposing monster dressed in a suit with an ear piece. This was uncharted territory for me; Jesus an ear piece. Who in God’s name could he be talking to? The police? I’d be arrested on the spot. Before I could dissuade anyone from entering they had already presented their ids. Sam had given us a name to recite at the entrance. Apparently that had some sway because after carelessly glancing at our ids while I nervously shifted in my stance he let us right in. I couldn’t believe it; I even gave that damned gatekeeper a knowing nod as if I had been there countless times.

We walked in hesitantly heading toward the origin of the vibrant noise and swanky music. There was another bouncer in front of a velvet rope separating a private party and half the bar. The furniture was sleek, clean, and had an air of sophistication that went with the dim lighting and dress code…most of the men wore suits or at least business casual. I had on jeans, sneakers, and an old Texas shirt. Perhaps because I was dressed like absolute shit they thought I was so important that this self imposed dress code didn’t apply to me. More realistically though it’s likely that the bouncers were just too high on cocaine to notice that night. Amazingly, our party was in the VIP area or we luckily walked in when the bouncer wasn’t looking. Either way we arrived and ordered a round of nine dollar bud lights and proceeded to relax in the lounges and sip the most expensive beer I had ever purchased. It tasted better too, to be around all of these fine, rich, classy metropolitans; the decadence of it all was a bit overwhelming. Then one of these upstanding gentlemen came up and insisted to the girls we were with to join him in a line of coke (not coca cola). I had just become comfortable around weed, but now having this “hard” drug staring me right in the face dressed up like an upscale business man threw me into a storm of cognitive dissonance. After pleading with our eyes for the girl, Erika, not to accompany him she relented to his persistence and agreed to take a seat in our view.

Then I looked up and saw the majestic lights floating above us as the rim around each floor was lighted with neon green that presented an eerie glow. From that central bar area you could see clear to the top of the building and each floor moved closer and closer to the center creating a glowing bull’s eye of sorts in green luminance and darkness.

When my gaze returned to our level I saw our dear friend sitting uncomfortably at the lounge while the elder gentlemen, eager for her company, seemed to be shifting his head on the counter behind her. What an odd position I thought to myself only later to learn that he had in fact been doing lines behind her head (I guess it wasn’t flakes that I saw in her hair after all).

I couldn’t stop staring at all of the whorishly dressed women escorted by men capable of providing for their extravagant tastes. These girls were beautiful and then I had to piss. As I walked by the guy guarding the entrance to the select party I confidently assured him of my impending return. I knew he’d remember my face. The bathroom was decked out with more goodies than a seven eleven complete with a strapping young cashier exuberantly handing out warm towels and paper sheets. My three dollar tip is still the most expensive piss I’ve ever taken which in terms on the Manhattan elite is laughingly low, but I’ve always been low class. I caught myself staring at the assortment of products lining the bathroom and forced myself to leave before I ended up getting charged for standing there.

The bouncer immediately opened the velvet rope when he saw me coming. What a sucker I thought, I had no idea what the fuck this party was or even where I was. I stepped back into the aura of pretentiousness and put on my best I’m rich but don’t dress like it face. As I was walking innocently back to our seated area with a self imposed air of superfluous grandeur I was stopped by a stunning dark haired temptress. She wore a red dress in just enough places to leave some things to the imagination and had dazzling green eyes that seemed to stare right through me and I thought she must’ve been staring right through me…until she spoke directly at me. My immediate reaction was of course to turn around to see who she was really speaking to. However, much to my disbelief there was no one there. Was this model so fucked up on drugs she had mistaken me for a man of wealth with something to offer her aside from a chance to be signed into my dorm bedroom that I shared with two other people. Christ she was just a bit shorter than me with those heels on and then she repeated her question.

“And who are you here with tonight?” Thank God I was drunk which helped alleviate the incredible awkwardness with which I usually confront these situations. After convincing myself this was real I went right with it. I told her I was with “Sebastian’s party over near the circular red booths and lounges.” She nodded as if she understood.

I put myself on the line as I dared continue the conversation risking being found out for the imposter that I was any moment and asked her “Who might you be here with tonight?”

Her answer was fluid and completely beyond me; it was in a language and with references that I had no hope of understanding. She said, “Ugh, I’m with Saul’s party but the fucking dick will not stop ordering the same fucking shots of patron and my girl friend Briana is just totally wasted like already thrown up twice, but don’t tell anybody and now I’m so tired of their same old partying. You know, they’re probably going out to Marquee after this, as if I haven’t been there every fucking night. So now I’m just on my way to get another drink.”

I just stared at her, she could’ve been speaking some extinct Nordic language for all I knew but damn was she beautiful and that sparkling pearl that rested deep within her cleavage kept flashing at me beckoning me to stare deeper. When she had finished that line I realized, late, that it was my cue to offer her a drink. It was at this point I had the option of going for a totally baller move and spending the last 50 bucks in my account on an obscenely expensive drink for her in the vain hope that she’d ask me back to her place (there was no way I would be able to explain away the procedures of signing into a freshman dorm with any hope of her maintaining a conversation let alone eye contact with me) or I could just be me. Sadly, I chose the latter.

“Nice, well I recommend the sex on the beach it’s addictive and like Pringles once you pop you just can’t stop.” Jesus could that joke have been any more corny and just completely misplaced for this situation. Her disappointed reaction told me no. I tried one last time to salvage a lost cause when I said as she was already walking by, “By the way my name’s Matt and you should come by our party if you wanna try meeting some other people.” She didn’t even turn to look and see me pointing in the direction of where we were sitting. “Damn, that was brutal” I thought. Probably for the best, she didn’t deserve me anyways. I walked past the creepy coke man to get to our lounges as he stood, powder nose and all, staring hungrily at Erika. It was a stare that told me I never wanted to do cocaine…or be friends with that guy.

As we were all running low on funds to fuel a drinking habit that was blatantly unaffordable here and the alluring novelty of the Tribeca Grand was waning we decided to set off before any more illicit substances made their way into our night. It was nearly four in the morning as I gave my last overdone head nod to that bouncer with a clipboard.

“Have a good night buddy,” I said and as he looked up he gave me an expression of immediate shock sort of like, “what the fuck were you doing in there and I hope I wasn’t the bastard that let you in.” Needless to say, we were pretty tight.

A look back, College

I am now sadly a few short days away from completing my college career and venturing out into a world that I doubt will condone the particular lifestyle that was a trademark of my time here. That lifestyle in brief consisted of senseless, excessive, and unhealthy amounts of drinking that were not restricted by conventional means such as days of the week or classes the next day. Another feature of the time spent here has to be my precocious aptitude for putting myself into the most ridiculous of situations only to barely escape with stories that border on surreal and disgusting. Alcohol was inevitably linked with almost each of these unconventional encounters and as the hours dwindle and I see my end here fast approaching I have compiled a short list or homage to the most interesting and entertaining college moments in my life. This will be part of a recurring series so you will have to stay tuned for the next entry.

The Fabled Beer Pong Championship

Entering freshman year my senses were overloaded with a constant stream of new experience and information. However, one high school classic remained and served to bring it all together. Beer pong, or Beirut (I’ve never had two people tell me the exact same difference between the two) is a game of hand eye coordination, alcohol tolerance, and focus. I have never possessed any of these qualities, but on a warm September Thursday night back in 2004 none of that mattered.

The noise from the party easily reached the elevators and the stench of weed was unmistakable; the fact that RAs didn’t crash the party and bust us all was a minor miracle in itself. I walked into a dimly lit room with the three beds thrown against the walls to create space in the center for the arena of attraction. It rested there like a deck of champions residing insecurely above two rocking chairs. The table was a closet door that had been unhinged and laid out over two of the desk chairs kindly provided by NYU. In college when it comes to drinking games everyone is Mcguyver.

I have a history of streaky beer pong play, easily going from 3 cups in a row to 3 nights in a row without hitting a cup. I stepped up amid a crowd of boozed out freshman to begin filling the ten red party cups with the forty of Coors Light purchased from the deli around the corner. My opponent would be my current roommate and former teammate from the soccer team, a cocky asshole whos confidence in beer pong and other feats of coordination and drinking would border on ludicrous if he didn’t back them up almost 99% of the time. We were each partnered by girls that would only prove to be insignificant bystanders in the greatest game ever played.
As the music blared in the background I watched as my opponent made his first three shots in a row and then his ex girlfriend also lucked out in making one forcing us to send the balls back. Swiftly he drained yet another. They made five before we made one. The crowd was growing restless and nearing booing us off the table calling the game a blowout and asking for the next round to start.

I was tense. The last thing I wanted to do was look like some sort of inexperienced loser in front of these new classmates. I was starting to feel a little buzzed after downing four out of the five cups and a chugging a forty before the game had begun. I scooped the ping pong ball out of the water cup threw it up in the air, spinning the excess water from the ball. Without thinking I caught the ball and mindlessly threw it up and succeeded in making our first cup. I breathed a sigh of relief. Then amazingly my partner equaled my feat and the balls were sent back. I repeated the previous ritual, too buzzed to focus on any one cup. The quick splash brought the crowd back into it and we had a game on our hands.

It was at this point I started yelling obscenities and nonsensical insults. After they missed their shots I again made mine and suddenly we were only one behind. After another few rounds we were behind again, one cup to three. And I watched helplessly as my roommate made the last cup. To stay in the game we now had to make all three of their last cups. My teammate inevitably missed her shot and so it was left to me. The next two players were already pushing their way through the crowd getting ready to take our place. By this point I was categorically drunk and with the ball wedged between my thumb, index, and middle finger I lofted it toward the triangle of red. IN. Without thinking, I took the other ball and repeated. IN. Now everyone in the party was as engaged in the match as a room full of drunk college students could be. The music was turned down and people were screaming their predictions. One cup and I would bring this game to over time. I steadied myself a bit, repeated my by now sacred ritual, and tossed reflexively toward the last remaining red plastic cup. It grazed the rim, slid around and dropped gently into the warm bud light.

“I am the greatest beer pong player ever! I cannot miss! I do not know how to miss!” I had never achieved such a feat in my life. Now my confidence bordered on inebriated delirium and I couldn’t stop screaming my own praises. This also boosted me to grab my partner and deliver a most likely awkward and inappropriate kiss. I couldn’t have cared less though. This baby was going to over time and as a new freshman at NYU I was the king of the moment.
One cup sudden death. The table was set, the girls were irrelevant and I made my first shot. For those of you counting that was now four cups in a row (including two glorious one cup finishes). My insane ranting was now at an all time high but not even the uncomfortable stares of those around me could quiet my euphoria. My roommate with a slight smile on his face looked straight at me and equalized. This fucker was good I thought, but I was drunk and invincible. Sober Matt he would’ve crushed a thousand times over but the processes of my mind and beer pong ability had transcended my normal state. After seeing my partner miss her cup yet again I took the ball threw it up in the air a couple of times, gathered myself and incredibly made my third one cup in a row.

“I cannot miss! I do not know how to miss! I am a beer pong God!” I threw my arms in the air like some self aggrandizing freak beckoning all to worship my divinity. People were now chanting in disbelief at the epic battle that had enveloped the party. I was incredibly on the verge of completing the greatest of comebacks until my bastard opponent still with all the confidence in the world threw in another perfect shot. If my form mirrored that of Jackie Chan’s legend of the drunken master, always on cusp of falling apart in an unbalanced mess, my adversary’s technique was impeccable and textbook. It was now a clash of drunk expressionism and engineered functionality.

I was beginning to believe he might’ve been a robot the way he kept dropping in shots like he could’ve done it for hours while I seemed always on the verge of missing, but I didn’t. I made my sixth cup in a row and in the midst of my overzealous celebrating dared him to answer. I had made six cups in a row, including three one cups, and had no idea how lady luck had lifted me to such heights. I could tell how surprised he was that I had made yet another shot, putting him under enough pressure that I’m sure even a robot felt. And he did, and he crumbled. I knew he would miss when that damn smirk had left his face and sure enough to ball sailed through the air bouncing just wide.

I jumped up and down like a mad man giving high fives to anyone that would lift their hands and some that didn’t. I had come back from three cups down in the final hour and had prevailed. I went on to win two more games in a row that night and continued that streak of six cups in a row that game to my first five cups in the next game. But none compared to the drama and excitement in my greatest game ever played. I used stories of that fantastic match as a pick up line for the next three months until people inevitably told me to “shut the hell up about that already.” Well here I am four years later still talking about it, beat that assholes!

As a side note, my opponent that game and current roommate would go on to beat me approx 143 times in a row afterwards, until I beat him again in a one v one match on his 21st bday which eerily mirrored that very game played so long ago.

Campaign Slogans that will never be used

1) Vote or Die lets bring the White Party to the White House, P. Diddy for 2008 with his running mate Diddy, and a cabinet composed of Puffy, P.D., Sean Combs, and Crystal.

2) We have no redeeming qualities of our own but we can sure as hell trash the shit out of our opponents. Politicians Conglomerate 2008, this time we'll confound even ourselves with senseless arguments.

3) Either you're with us or you're a terrorist and I will shoot you in the face while hunting. Cheney 2008...coincidentally he will also be his own vice president.

4) American needs a stronger man in the white house, and that man is a woman. Hillary Clinton 2008.

5) Rudi Giuliani 2008, you'll never know when 9/11 will happen again and he'll never stop reminding you.

6) John Edwards 2008 because well, he's just a lot better looking than you.

7) America has real problems, maybe its time we start looking for imaginary solutions. Jack Bauer 2008.

8) He beat cancer now he's going to beat Iraq. Lance Armstrong 2008.

9) OPEC 2008, they already run our country anyways we might as well start giving them credit for it.

10) If you're a Mexican get the fuck out...(unless you mowe my lawn) Mitt Romney 2008 running mate Iam Intolerant.

Brownagraphy

I like women of all color, except for green and blue, because I mean if a girl is green or blue there is definitely something medically wrong with her. But onward forth to the brownies, you know the south Asians, the Indians, Bengalis, and whatever the hell else resides in that realm of the world or in our backyards. This post may seem a bit off key probably because it is dedicated solely to one person who I promised I would write an entry after. I doubt she’ll be impressed or amused with the content of this page but she said she’d laughed before, what a sweet girl she is. In a comedy blog though, I am obligated to discover and procure the humorous to display for you the beloved reader. Pornography is the drug of the internet. That might seem random except to explain that this particular blog dedication is directed towards a vixen of insatiable lust and an unhealthy obsession with the adult filmography. What amuses me most about her vivid and entertaining tales of pornographic escapades on the internet while regaling me with the value of the porntube or some shit that mirrors youtube but with sex was how in control she was. This was no desperate, sad, lonely broad looking for a kick up and some fingers in. No, she was just a girl that knew what she wanted and was aware enough and unabashed to go for it. If anything I’d call her descent into the pornographic underbelly of online obsession heroic and courageous. She spits out famous porn star names like I recite the most known soccer players. She delves into her favorite porn films of all time quicker than I can gather a top list of movies or television shows (aside from californication of course), and she is naturally comfortable with all of this. As much as I would like to bash her and the crude humor which she “gets off to” I have to say I respect the self confidence and comfort with which she explores herself, her sexuality, and Debbie does Dallas. Either way, only one thing’s for certain. A pornographic exploration better come equipped with the most advanced anti virus software available because it will give your computer Chlamydia and it will die from it. She ends our conversation on her fascinating, sexual online journey with the warnings of viruses, computational crashes, and obscenely angry parents. Right now she is actually in the midst of a lap top search as her previous computer succumbed to the gonorrhea contracted in the midst of Backdoor sluts 9. So, as intriguing as this dimension of a devout brown muslim is she makes it clear that it can come at a profound cost. Regardless, I’m proud to say I’ve known this person and the conversations we’ve engaged in I am not legally allowed to share with anybody.

breakfast has gone to shit

This morning I came home to a telling sight of beer cans, wine bottles, champagne bottles, and a sighting of bourbon. As filthy as it might have been it was not unexpected or strange. What was strange was walking into the bathroom to see half a bowl of cheerios in the toilet. Being 6 days hung over and 7 days drunk I of course had to make a double take on the sight which I almost passed over. Seeing a sea of cheerios floating in the shitter is just not something you can be prepared for. After I realized that I was in fact not delusional (at least not in that moment) I began pondering how they had come to reside in my bathroom bowl. Had someone run out of milk and decided it just made more sense to poor the cheerios into the jon and eat them out of that? An appalling image, but I was in no position to rule out possibilities. Perhaps someone had thrown them up. In all honesty that was my first thought, but then when I inspected closer (this was something I couldn’t take a chance on being uncertain of) I clearly saw that the cheerios were all fully shaped and most definitely unregurgitated. Well damn, had someone just senselessly decided to pour away these bronze honey nuts into a drain of defecation? That just didn’t register in my mind. I decided the best thing to do would be to grab a beer and gather my thoughts. A beer at 11 in the morning is no simple task, that is unless your fridge is stocked full of them in which case it is a childishly simple task. The cold beer tasted just like the 10 I had imbibed only hours before. I’ve recently become enthralled with the beauty of drinking through the hang over but that’s another story altogether and its dismissing the central issue: cheerios in my toilet. These little bastards were screwing with me. Maybe they had gotten there themselves. Dancing out of the box and jumping along the wood floor into my bathroom. Maybe they just wanted a swim. I imagine a toilet bowl would present itself as an enticing swimming pool to these little fuckers. They were playing mind games with me, I knew it. Still though, I couldn’t force myself to just flush them away. That’s exactly what they wanted. No I wouldn’t destroy the evidence or grant them asylum in the sewers of Manhattan. I’d scoop them up with my own hands if I had to. What was I saying? Jesus these were just cheerios; I ate them damned near every day. If anything they were friends. Christ, maybe they were in trouble. Could they swim? What if they were drowning? Ok, I had definitely had too much to drink the last week; and when had I slept? I couldn’t remember. I didn’t even remember the last time I had spent a night in my bed; not to say that I was out sleeping around mainly because I wasn’t sleeping wherever I ended up either. I had to check again, were they still there? Just then I heard the toilet bowl flushing. “Noooooooo” I screamed as I sprinted to the bathroom. But it was too late, they were gone, that is if they were even there in first place. Just cheerios in the toilet.

This entry is dedicated to alcohol and sleep deprivation without which I would not have been insane enough to concoct this piece.