Epicurus and the Modern White Collar Career

Being 22 in an office of middle aged MBAs is a strange experience, especially if you live in the debauched and hedonistic isle of Manhattan, while your cubicle cohorts are domesticated yuppies of the suburbs of Westchester and Greenwich. Its almost as if you have to straddle two worlds—one where you are doing pivot tables and reformatting Powerpoint spreadsheets and another where you’re constantly texting and calling college buddies with messages like, “yo dude, where the fuck you at?”

Really though, you already know the answer to that question, or at least you know your answer. You’re at a bar, preferably a cheap one because you live in Manhattan and even a cheap bar is beyond your meager means as a first year analyst living in a luxury high rise midtown apartment. You’re a dumb bastard for not doing anything remotely close to balancing a budget or at least identifying it. You blindly spend…never on anything substantial, but substantially hedonist yes. The drinking is constant…to a degree that even your college self is impressed with your tenacity and relentlessness. The one thing that surprises you is your ability to get away with this outlandish behavior while at a white collar job of coworkers that have been known to be church ministers, senators, and all around moral administrators. Despite this unnerving fact however you recognize others like yourself…more like your future self. Thirty somethings that embrace the comfort of a great night amidst friends and drinks fermented. Your humor, though toned down and not quite as in your face vulgar as your repertoire among friends is still widely accepted for its off center irony and wit. What you do know is this, your hours are now clearly divided. No longer is their a murky haze of school and partying. Now there are two definite worlds, the hours of the work week when you’re in office and any of those outside of it. You try to be well kempt, responsible, and speak in grammatically correct sentences while in the array of cubed alleys. Outside of this world of self and mutual respect you live in a land of broken dreams where you’re constantly in a battle to arrive at your better self. Though nowhere near that state of being you spend the journey towards it idling in booze and arbitrary acts of self amusement, getting yourself into any sort of adventure or trouble that crosses your path. The working world may be different, but am I?

The drink in my hand tells me no, and the 8 previous drinks of varying alcoholic concoctions seem to confirm this. I enjoy the learning and interactions with those in different life circumstances then myself. My view broadens, my horizon widens, and my thirst deepens. It’s at this point I realize the real thirst that drives me isn’t that of alcoholic assortments, but that of learning and new experience. Should I be so lucky, I will continue this reckless trek through undiscovered wilderness and my discoveries will be endless and unexpected. Either way though true intoxication is like a passport to bad behavior but more importantly an irreverence towards consequence which opens the gateway to new experience.

Drunk In The Time Of Cholera

The following is a dazzling piece of diction by my esteemed editor. He has finally deciding to grace my audience with a refined and crisp eloquence that this blog has desperately been missing. Kudos to him…and I was drunk and passed out while he wrote this piece.

Most people consider alcohol to be a means to an end. You get yourself drunk so that you won’t be too embarrassed to walk straight up to that girl from your French Lit class and tell her you can’t stop staring at her in between those ridiculous feminist readings. You drink so that you can go out and feel like part of the crowd in overpriced, underlighted subterranean bars on the lower east side. You drink so that you won’t have to think about how desperately awful you feel about your current state of affairs. You drink as a means to an end.


I drink as an end to a means. Drinking is the end game. I don’t drink for anything other than the obvious conclusion of relenteless alcoholic intake, intoxication. People who don’t drink might not know this, but being drunk is a magical state. The feeling of walking intoxication is akin to existing in two planes of reality at the same time—one where you are the master of the universe, suave and witty, and another where you are a stumbling and incoherent mess. The beauty of it is while you exist in both, you only see yourself in one; the cooler one. It’s almost impossible for someone who is truly drunk, 3 sheets to the wind, to know how obnoxious they are capable of behaving. It’s a problem that I’ve not yet come to terms with, as I simply refuse to censor myself when in the company of guests. This manifests itself most often when meeting people for the first time, as I often have the bad habit of asking people their favorite sexual position (I’m partial to reverse cowgirl myself, not least because it has a western element to it.)

More often than not, people frown on frequent, daily drunkenness as a sign of moral failing. I find this to be highly hypocritical, especially since some of our greatest statesmen (and they’re all men) to be functional alcoholics—Ben Franklin, Thomas Jefferson, George W. Bush—more people should resign themselves to the fact that getting drunk in the middle of the day/week/hour is a sign of commitment, and not any kind of desire to run away from your feelings or emotions. In fact, if W was still drinking, he probably wouldn’t have invaded Iraq, or at least could have been talked out of it over a couple of whiskey sours. I think if W was wasted, I could have screamed “Hey dude, maintain!” a couple of times and he would have snapped out of it.

To An Audience of One

Few people read this blog. Because so few people read this blog I tend to pander to the ones that do. So when a regular follower requests an entry in her name I feel compelled to deliver.

For those of you unfamiliar with the kingdom of Bengalia, it’s a small wretched land between our sewer system and hell. The person to whom this entry is dedicated is from there. At times I’m stunned at her inexplicable lapses in decency and common morality; but I have to remind myself that she’s from a place where those things don’t exist. So when she casually rapes a four legged animal (crawling babies included) to when she sells opium to senior citizens convincing them its arthritis medicine I have to look the other way because I mean that’s what friends are for. Yes, I admit it; I am friends with this person.

I’m friends with her because despite all her shortcomings for which there are many there are also her long Cummings…did I mention she appreciates a vulgar sense of humor? Really though, she has demonstrated an impressive ability to “be there” for me during my many over exaggerated moments of duress when my whining reaches maximum capacity and my proclivity towards self deprecation and self desoberazation achieves unfathomable lows. She genuinely believes some very nice things about me to be true. For instance she recently said that despite being a lawn mowing Mexican I am a really nice guy. If that’s not sincere I don’t know what is. Not to say that I do know sincere, considering my recent forays into trust have only served to prove I’m a shitty judge of character. However, I’ve seen no reason not to trust this milk chocolate colored lust being. I only hope that should she ever need it I can be there in the same way she’s been there for me…to offer a lewd joke at her expense and to degrade her entire race with egregious political incorrectness. You’ve been a dear and valuable friend and all of your attention is much appreciated almost as appreciated as those carpets your mom made for me, which don’t even compare to the raw, sweaty, passionate …lets just say I’ve grown quite fond of your mom and I think I will continue to GROW fond of her over and over again.

Things Not to Do

Sometimes I think life is just a growing list of things “not to do.” Like this past weekend for example, I learned that one thing not to do was drunkenly imply you had fornicated with your coworker’s wife only four hours previous to the happy hour which you now attended. But wait, there’s more. Additionally, you learned that if you must make this reckless implication it should certainly be far away from an uncensored arena of alcohol and not directed at the most senselessly profane and politically incorrect man in your office. That’s right; your harmless retort to his own insinuation of your meager sexual history has provoked an obscene exclamation of none other than “Matt fucked my wife!” When he sees you gasp in horror you notice a twisted, sadistic twinkle in his eye before he turns and devilishly approaches your V.P.

“Hey Gary” he says, “Matt just said he FUCKED my wife.” The mouthful of burning whiskey erupts from your mouth at the shock of his sensationally damning statement right onto the unsuspecting administrative assistant standing to your right. Yep, you guessed it; let’s also add that to the list of things not to do.

“What the fuck?!” she exclaims. Shit, you’ve never heard her curse before, much less an f-bomb, merely proving just how fucked you really are.

Ok, let’s recap. Your ride home and prior to this night closest friend at the office has just spread an inexcusable rumor accusing you of breaking about 5 commandments, no wait, 6. He’s just added a part where you stole twenty bucks from him to pay for the condoms. "Wow that’s some graphic story telling", you think, especially for a company happy hour. Next, your V.P., the one you should be kissing ass to, has just told his wife to go wait in the car and is giving you a stare that borders on a judgment to hell and genuine fear. It appears you won’t be getting that promotion after all. And finally you’ve spit up half swallowed whiskey all over your poor admin’s only nice dress. The nicest lady at the office, not only does she have to put up with awful treatment at work, she also has to walk into a thunderstorm of whiskey and ice.

Well Matt I certainly think you’ve added enough to that list tonight. It’s too bad someone just handed you a tequila shot with a mind eraser as a chaser. “If I’m lucky I at least won’t remember getting fired tonight” you think to yourself. The tequila burns, the mind eraser numbs and then you feel someone sensually sliding their hand into your armpit…at least you think it’s sensually. Fuck it, it’s all the same anyways and without thinking you turn to the young lass fondling that soft ticklish juncture of arm and body and begin a passionate tongue massage of the inside of her lips as you pull her close. It was dark and she was probably just trying to push her way through the crowded bar. If only you would’ve thought that way at the time, but you didn’t.

When you stumble back, a direct result of her pushing you off you realize to utter dismay that it is Rob’s wife you just French kissed in the face. That’s right, the same Rob who earlier you joked with about fucking his wife of one year. Which brings me to the final addition of “what not to do” discovered on this educational night. Don’t joke about hooking up with your coworker’s wife only to actually end up doing it right in front of said co worker. You’ll only end up unemployed with nothing to better do than write an ill conceived blog.

Fists of Fury

The HBO show Taxicab Confessions was famous for eliciting highly controversial and taboo confessions from patrons who let their guard down in the anonymousness of a New York City cab. This weekend I saw the other side of that coin. Settling in comfortably against the familiar leather seats with one of my friends from college the only thing running through our minds was who was going to be at this party. However, all those thoughts soon dissipated as the driver let out an unprovoked string of expletives directed at the driver of a blinged out SUV playing what he described as a “fucking gay nineties dance mix of fucking shit.” The accent accompanying these well thought out tirades was Eastern European as was the order of the grammar. “This guy, who does he think he is, this guy listening to this shit.” His fury from a buzzed back passenger’s perspective was highly entertaining. My friend and I looked at each other quizzically then went about the very easy task of egging him on, baiting him with snark comments which he inevitably finished and usually took too far.

Once the object of his frustration had parted directions he turned his attention to lesbians. “Fucking dykes from Brooklyn” he called them. Apparently he wasn’t a fan of Williamsburg, especially as he related these longer cab fares to highly questionable acts in the very seats we now resided.

“These dykes, they cannot wait until they get back, they just fuck in the back. And I’m like ok..” We had to know more after this tantalizing statement.

“Excuse me? Fuck? What do you mean?”

“These loose lesbians, they stick like their entire fists up there, all the way to the fucking elbow these sick fucks.” His accent and roaring voice cannot be overstated in this instance. We were now hysterically laughing at the inappropriateness in this exchange of experiences. He regaled us with forays of toys, joints, and oral excursions all within the cozy confines of this well worn seat.

When we reached our destination we hurriedly threw some money at him as he continued raging at Brooklyn culture and lesbian tendency to copulate mid fare. It wasn’t exactly a confession but without doubt was an unprovoked, warrantless deluge of some very risqué experiences that had we not been such well versed metropolitans could easily have stirred us to much more than laughing. As it was, laugh we did while this cab driver, this guy who does he think he is saying these ridiculous things. I say it’s what we pay for as New Yorkers; this opportunity to let those completely unlike ourselves voice their opinions louder than our inhibitions compel us not to listen. That’s what makes it the greatest city on Earth.

Relationships and you...or uh me...Us, Relationships and Us

Relationships are not a subject I’m well versed on. In fact, relationships are a subject with which I have no versing, or experience, or whatever you’d call it when you haven’t had a girlfriend. Friendships, friendships with benefits, benefits without friendships, one night stands, booty calls, regretted calls, and an impressive amount of drunken dials, debacles, spectacles, and of course rejectacles (not a word but I was on a streak so forgive me) have been the extent of my forays into “romance.” When people find this out I usually get a quizzical look and the question, “why?” As if this had been a conscious effort on my part to avoid any sort of intimacy and security, not to mention a guaranteed lay on those oh so lonely Saturday nights.

It’s not a question, despite its frequency, that I’ve ever had an answer readily at hand for, probably because I still haven’t quite figured it out myself yet. Usually I make a joke about my inability to attract women (not entirely true) or something along those lines to which I then get more confused looks which only requires more explaining or jesting until they drop the subject and I’m allowed to drift back into my comfort zone of odious one liners and comebacks.

The life of a bachelor I find is not at all fulfilling or even half-filling for that matter. However, without ever having ventured into the chains on, shield drawn, taken world of having an exclusive relationship I will presume that being a bachelor is infinitely more interesting and enlightening. You learn more about yourself when your pushed to the edge of desperation after two months in a row without so much as a hug from a girl to the edge of rapture after going through four different girls in three nights. You learn more about people when you put yourself out there every time you’re out, from trying an assortment of overused, undersuccesful pick up lines, to sociological studies in the text from The Game to comprehend why it is that girls never talk or show interest in you. Not to mention the girls you do meet and actually start getting to bases with; it really is incredible, I find, how different every girl can be.

One thing I can say for certain is that it is much easier to be perceived as an asshole while rambunctiously courting every girl that shows the slightest interest…or eye contact. Growing up I never thought I would be that kind of guy. Having always considered myself a “nice guy” (with varying degrees of accuracy), I envisioned being with a “nice girl” (if there is such a thing) in a happy romance that could be taken slow and grow into something more. You know, the kind of wholesome development that Disney raised us on. This, however, has not been the case as should be abundantly obvious by now.

To be fair there are two reasons for this, me, and every girl I’ve ever met. I find that I take conversation, sense of humor, and personality entirely too seriously and have tastes so specific they’d probably keep me from dating Jessica Alba and the entire Pussicat Dolls (except for the blonde, I just feel like I could relate to her). That might be a bit of an exaggeration but not by much. Additionally, with my lack of experience at ever making it to a point where cheating is actually something I could be guilty of I am persistently unsure as to what the girl wants and usually succumb to my overwhelming self doubt in concluding she’s probably not interested in me. I’ve come close a couple of times. Times in which I found a girl that met my specific standards of humor, conversation, and personality and actually showed some interest in me as well. These are the examples that have probably most shaped my view towards women…and myself. I no longer consider myself a Saint to say the least and have come to the conclusion that I probably will not be challenging for any good character awards until I have graduated from the single life. I have also realized that of all the wrongs I’ve been guilty of, I have also been a victim of a cruel sense of karma which hovers over me and it’s only a question of who struck first my wrongs or theirs.

As for the future, will it bring more unrelenting sin and excitement or will I be at last rewarded with a boring, uneventful stability only possible in the midst of a faithful, funless relationship? I got my fingers crossed and my eyes peeled but most likely I’ll settle for my drink strong and my thirst welcoming.

Alcoholics Unanonymous

I want to be an alcoholic not for the self destruction, not for the vomiting, not to disappoint people, not for rehab, and not to be like an A list celebrity. I want to be an alcoholic to keep things interesting. Some might think, “Matt, that sure is a silly thing to do just to keep things interesting.” And they’d be right, but I still wouldn’t like those people because they say the word silly and that frankly is not ok. Now, from my highly educated knowledge on alcoholism (via VH1 True Life and the tabloids of course) I can gather that alcoholism is an excellent way to have a story made about you and since I’m always looking for a chance to keep my life as fascinating as possible this seems like an excellent opportunity. It also follows a very linear path and requires little to no transition from the previous stepping stone of my life story, college. I’m fairly certain that I could simply continue the rampant drinking habits brewed during my time in school and be classified as at least a novice alcoholic. Drinking 4 nights in a row in college isn’t alcoholism its finals week. Blacking out isn’t amnesia it’s Friday morning. And Beer before Liqour makes you sicker isn’t common sense it’s commonly disregarded. Plus, and perhaps most importantly there is always someone to drink with before that 2pm lecture and always someone that has had a rough Monday and could use a vodka tonic cocktail. Now as the only place college can be found in my life is the past I’m not surprised I still savor that rambunctious chaos that eight too many can bring. Moderation is for pussies you might live longer, but myself, I’d die of boredom much quicker than liver deterioration.

Tales from a Stamford Soiree

Along with fixed condescension, botox and jewelry seemed preordained in this epicenter of high society frivolity conveniently located at an ostentatious Stamford waterside restaurant. The superficial stares of interest plastered on these wealth stained middle aged to just aged merchants of high class pretension warranted at the least a cautious awareness of my company and at the worst a self inflicted shotgun blast to the head. The shotgun blast option gained steam early on as two elderly gentlemen in specially tailored white slacks matching their crisp oxford, collared button downs disdainfully brushed me aside without even a “thank you” while I stood holding the door for them. The night, without the availability of an infinite supply of alcohols, some stronger, some tastier, but all nonetheless alcoholic, would likely have concluded with a gradual self bludgeoning to the cranium with any blunt object within reach. Somehow I doubt this would’ve caused the slightest stir among these people so ingrained in a culture of denial, deception, and ignorance to the plight of men outside the top 2% of net wealth. Needless to say at this point it was a stage set for obnoxious self gratification of the undeservedly wealthy as they all simultaneously gave themselves unwarranted pats on the back for their “charity.” They called spending a miniscule amount of their daily income on some pompous fundraiser “volunteerism.” They were engrossed in celebrating their own humanitarian ideals and simultaneously drinking and enjoying the very affluence which their supposed benefactors would never touch or taste. It was truly mutual masturbation in the most unholy of ways as they lubricated themselves with mutual funds and long term assets and ejaculated out whiny diatribes of thoughtless reflection revolving around the disenfranchised workers across our great nation and the possibility of an aided youth putting these injustices to rest. I now disgustingly wiped off these very “injustices” from my just dry cleaned shirt. So long as you don’t shine a black light on me I thought.

The outdoor terrace on a lofty wooden deck over looked a bay of mansions and yachts gently swaying in the calm breeze. It was a “White Hot Night Party.” It certainly was white I observed. Aside from the Indian co worker that joined us on this unfortunate foray the only non Caucasian attendees were the courageous service corps of waiters and bar tenders. They really did promote “diversity” at this charitable event. The mood was uplifting as conversation centered on second and third homes, what Maggie had done with her new Mercedes, and how Rebecca really looked dashing with that new stylist from Romero that took 10 years off her age. I’m sure the plastic surgery had nothing to do with it nor did the thousand dollar spa treatment including a facial.

If only I had given these sheltered aristocrats my idea of a facial I would’ve at least humbled them to the real treatment of the people they step on while wasting more energy than a West African Village and spending more on dinner than the GDP of Ethiopia. To the end this is just thoughtless ranting at a segment I blindly dislike and am unable to tolerate. They don’t know me, and if I’m lucky they never will.

Canadian Bacon

Eccentricities abounded in this bristling pastiche of metropolitans. Tables lined the right of the venue with amber lights oozing up along the walls of this dark lower east side scene. The waitress had long, wavy black hair and a backless dress. I spotted the table with our neighbors to the North by a fierce aroma of cigarettes and high pitched “ehh’s” and “yahh’s.” The five beers I’d drank at my apartment before arriving proved essential in order to withstand the dull, tasteless conversation flowing across the table. Something about a girl’s job and what she did, working with “two full departments” and managing human resources…you know something along those lines. There were bright spots though. The sister of my only acquaintance at the table actually had an attention rousing past and sense of humor far beyond that of the two gentlewomen sitting across from me. Regardless, as I heard tales from Lebanon, France, and regretfully, Toronto I quickly ordered a drink, a touch of bourgeois class with a Stella, the everyman’s elite. I smiled persistently and drank constantly.

Predictably it was mid drink when I noticed some odd gender arrangements in the near corner of the bar. My friend mentioned to me that the entire corner had been rented about by a party of seventy. Looking over I audibly questioned what kind of party it was if they didn’t even have any girls. Of course, my question answered itself as I scanned the party and fell upon a graphic make out session taking place in a not so private area between two of the guys at the party. “Good for them” I thought, they’re already enjoying the night and it’s not even eleven. When I turned my gaze back to my party I realized half of them had left the table for their fifth cigarette break, each returning with a refreshing fragrance of incinerated toxins.

The entire time I was trying to decide whether the nausea induced by the stench of cigarettes was enough to keep me from being attracted to this fascinating mutt of clashing cultures, curly brown hair, and a sizeable chest. Her case certainly wasn’t helped by us needing to be so close to each other to speak at the next bar that I actually felt my own heart rate slowing from the residual nicotine on her breath. However, again the conversation we did engage in proved to be that hard to find mix of limit pushing punch lines and harsh observations of lesser beings around us. As we each watched in shameless entertainment as some twenty something in a long sleeve button down with the top three buttons open and half a bottle of gel in his hair approach one of the girls we were with, the human resources one, with an obvious intent to “pick up.” We enacted the conversation among ourselves dubbing his own lines with those of our choice, a very possible blog entry in itself as we leaned forward listing an assortment of disastrously dumb and unattractive pick up lines. Without going through the entire array I can tell you that “So, what are you drinking and can I buy you your next one.” As well as “You’ve got really great skin, moisturize?” did come up as distinct possibilities that if nothing else deserve further study.

After more drinking, some choice music and accompanied poor dancing I ended up waking between two girls, neither of which had been introduced up to that point in the night. There was, it seems, a distinct shift in which I went from lucid and partially appropriate, to blacked out and mildly offensive. Luckily I entered that transition only after reuniting with some long lost friends and leaving the group I had been with earlier. To avoid any misconceptions, there was no sex involved and the sleeping arrangement was completely consensual.

Middle Age

What is middle age? I think to myself. One year ago I had a simple answer, 30. Simple enough, 30 from a college student’s perspective embodies all those essential characteristics of one in old age…it’s half of 60, at which point we all decided life was no longer worth living anyways. 30 is when one should be in the midst of a budding career, and should at the precipice of starting a family. From what I’m learning though, 30 has a much closer resemblance to my college escapades than it does one’s proverbial middle age archetype, their parents.

When my elder coworkers go out drinking more than I do; when they descend to more juvenile humor than immediately occurs to me, and when I find myself utterly speechless at the unapologetic vulgarity of these hard to place thirty somethings I’m reminded that I still have much to look forward to. Old enough to have thoughtful and intriguing conversation, young enough to hit on my friends…and their younger sisters, and confident enough to come into work more hung over than a frat boy after homecoming I might very well see this become the prime of my life.

Having only been working for a mere six months I already feel I have more in common with these limbo dwelling souls than I do with some of the peers of my age. We relate in thinking back fondly to our college days, days with similar tastes yet limited responsibility and an abundance of time to “find ourselves” which of course is not what we were doing, but who’s to say that was wrong. Does this mean, I, now a man occupying a full time job, have also hit the dreaded middle age mark? Is it more of a lifestyle than an age? Personally I think it makes more sense to sort our lives through particular relatable themes then vague expressions like “middle age” and “over the hill.” I have pre and post high school, pre and post college, and now first job out of college. There are similar things we learn at each of these posts and not everyone will go through them at the same time or go through them at all, but it is the stage of these events much more than our biological age that shapes us, our lifestyle, and our future.

Am I afraid of middle age? No, because now I know it won’t be forced on me by the ticking of a clock but will come to me only when I’ve let it

25th Birthdays

I knew it was going to be a special night when my coworker, “Mark” we’ll call him, called me at 5:30, already drunk on a bottle of cheap red. It takes a special kind of person to rush straight into an alcoholic binge at midday on a Friday. Mark is a special kind of person though and I seem to always run into him on nights where the only memories are those left in digital pictures and rousing voice mails.

The first stop was a nice little bar in Alphabet city, a bar with character. Looking back I don’t know why I was so surprised to find the bar so empty considering we arrived at 7. They had a fascinating mix of American brews which, aside from Yueng Ling, I recognized none of. I satisfied myself by relentlessly downing a delicious concoction named “Two brothers Cane and Ebel.” The discernable method I used for picking this sweet gem out of a list of wild and obscure names was that its alcohol content rested nicely at 7%, well beyond the 4.3% of many others. If that’s not a bargain I don’t know what is.

Some of our other co workers had joined us and I looked and saw Mark animatedly talking with them. I went and mulled over the digital jukebox selection trying to find an appropriate song to capture the moment. I settled on the classically obnoxious Def Lepperd mantra, “Pour Some Sugar on Me” and proceeded to entertain myself with the air guitar while people watched laughing at my ridiculous display. Luckily the bar tender for the night worked at the same company I did, albeit now in California, but tonight he was my server and was serving free round after round. “One more Cane and Ebel please.”

The scene started to pick up slowly as night had finally fallen and I suddenly felt very at home here. They left the doors open and opened the floor to ceiling partitions in front as the bar felt more like a Patio then anything else. As I was joking about an outrageously inappropriate coworker on our floor I spotted an Asian vixen eyeing our dear friend Mark with shrewd, lustful eyes. This is a woman with purpose I thought as she was clearly ignoring the three guys hanging on her. Mark, hadn’t noticed her though as he was savagely tearing into another cold glass of booze. He had a wild, primitive look in his eyes. He spoke with the same fervor that we were used to, but there was something different in his gaze, a reckless confidence perhaps. As I was walking to the bathroom before we moved to the next spot I overheard that same girl exclaiming to Mark how “cute” he was; to which I then heard Mark drunkly laugh and reply, “You’re pretty cute yourself.” Her over the top laughter at this barely funny remark only confirmed her licentious intentions for him. A few coworkers and myself waited near the front of the bar while they exchanged a few more words. Finally, he tore himself away and just told us that “that Asian girl had said I was cute, I think she’s meeting up with us at the next bar.” We just laughed and made our way to the next place, a bit higher end then the one we had just left at least from the fact that they had a bouncer, velvet rope, and dj.

We stepped inside and I observed an aimless sea of clueless women and men, idling over drinks and impotent conversation. I saw right away that Mark was intent on changing that as his stares shifted quickly scanning the place for potential targets. Uninterested in anything else but my next drink I walked straight to the bar and stupidly opened a tab quickly buying up a round to get the place started off right. We all toasted and relaxed a bit with some office stories of inappropriate themes.

Suddenly Mark blurted out that we should try and talk to some of these girls. I had seen him measuring up a group of girls to our right along the bar after they had bought a round of champagne. Another one of our companions sealed his fate when he dared him to go through with it. Before he’d even finished his sentence Mark had turned from us and was walking straight for that group of girls, it was eight on one and he was too blasted to even feel intimidated…alcohol is a holy drug indeed.

We all watched intensely as he walked up to the girl everyone seemed to be toasting to and said something close to her ear. I was bracing for the worst, a slap in the face or a drink thrown. Apparently though he knew what he was doing as she burst out laughing and then so did her friends. Now that he had broken the barrier we awkwardly made our way over to him, we could’ve said it was for back up…but the truth is he didn’t need it and we wanted some new conversation.

I must confess that I remember none of their names, and nothing else for that matter aside from the part about them all being there to celebrate the 25th birthday of the one Mark seemed to be focusing on, though it could very well have been the other way around. Either way, the two groups soon mutually lost interest in forcing conversation between each other and Mark and his nameless female companion drifted further and further into their own space. Our party found this social dance endlessly entertaining, however with a few glimpses at her friends I could tell they were far from amused as they saw their dear friend, obliterated on champagne shots completely abandoning them for some sleazy drunk bastard she’d never met.

I’m sure Mark made this girl’s 25th birthday one to remember as he succeeded in dancing, grinding, and passionately making out with her in a very public way. I’m sure he ruined this girl’s 25th birthday when after she said that she didn’t think she’d go home with him that night he immediately stepped back from her releasing himself from her desperate embrace, took back the drink he had bought her, chugged it and then walked out without saying good bye to her, us, or his sense of morality. It was a stunning exit, that left us all questioning whether he had really left until ten minutes later he still hadn’t come back in. It was quite a sight to see her visibly annoyed friends triumphantly saying I told you so as she just repeatedly questioned why he had just walked away and left, birthday tears shamelessly falling down her face.

It was a sad display and I couldn’t help but feel bad for her. I don’t think Mark will be getting an invitation to her 26th birthday and I don’t think she’ll be hooking up with random strangers again soon, probably both for the best. Bleary eyed and dizzy I thought about the reasoning of random hook ups at bars and decided that when left at superficial lust it was a perfectly legitimate arena, but that it may not be best method for finding a partner that will share emotional attachment…or a cell phone number.

Why You Should Never Wait

Girls are complex creatures indeed, their depths descend deeper then perhaps I will ever fathom. It is a common consensus that women are infinitely more complicated then men, especially when it comes to the realm of romance and all its logical connections. I reached this “common consensus” with the help of two females amidst some intellectually rewarding conversation. The fact that I was 7 and 14 years their junior I’m sure was irrelevant.

However, basically the only understanding I gained was that I cannot and will not be able to understand women. I won’t be able to understand why they seem predetermined to want guys that treat them like shit and determined to treat the guys that want them like shit. This sad trend was only just disclosed to me, perhaps my eyes being truly opened for the first time in a wild and wondrous trip to Atlantic City. Being the type of man that I am, I’m always more inclined to gamble with my dignity then my money. So after giving away $150 in a hopeless game of black jack I went out with only booze on my mind. My friends though have become quasi disciples of a book called, The Game, about the art of picking up women. To completely bastardize the book and sum up all its subtleties into one line I’ve gathered that basically the way to pick up women is to simply treat them like shit. As my friends chatted excitedly about the techniques I was skeptical until I realized this would probably account for the slimness of my success in that department…that is of course if I’m not holding my lack of good looks accountable, but that’s neither here nor there. After drinking, and then dinner with drinking, and then more drinking we headed out to the Tropicana to take in that AC night life. Low and behold though, the interior section of the Tropicana had a ceiling deceptive enough to pass for the sky and I was immediately so disoriented by the bright sky above that I was wide awake. This was a very clever gimmick indeed; the more people stay awake, the more they’ll spend.

After entering the bar and seeing a tall cooler stacked with forties I knew we had come to the right place. There were groups of guidos, the pride of Jersey, to my right, some clueless Pennsylvania girls to my left, and I think an unconscious rabbi behind us slumped over in a chair, but I can’t be sure. Across the bar I recognized a group as New Yorkers by their perpetual air of boredom and superiority. I belong over there I thought, then I took a huge swig of my forty of Coors Light and realized I was right where I belonged, by the bar.

My friend, a deacon in the art of “The Game” had provided me with several plausible situations in which to enact its teachings. Out of the corner of my eye I saw he had already engaged in one as he stood conversing with two girls, neither of which I knew…the birthday tiara however spoke volumes for what I could expect. At a moment of opportunity he signaled for me to come over. I immediately went over and proceeded to make fun of the two girls he was talking to, just like the “good book” had said. After assuring them that my friend and I were both entirely too good for them, I made them laugh with some running commentary, usually only pausing to brush back more Coors. It was an enjoyable time and then at the height of their enjoyment. As I had had them laughing to the point of tears we walked away. “We gotta get back to our party now.” Without further explanation we turned and walked away.

I questioned this at first. I mean wouldn’t any self respecting woman feel so insulted by this that they’d just move on? After making a very predictable trip to the bathroom they came right back to us as we stood amongst our other friends…they were hooked. “So are you going to buy me a drink for my birthday?” Usually, I’m all too eager to share my love of drinking with others, but again I was reminded by those fateful words of deacon Frank, “thou shalt never buy a girl a drink.” “Absolutely not” I replied to the shell shocked girl. The result was even more unexpected. Not only was she now more desperate for me, she had even gone and made some poor bastard buy her a drink then come right back to me to try and get me jealous. “So Matt that guy right over there bought me a drink.” I looked over and saw some sad soul sitting by himself at the bar…if only he would’ve read the book, he’d at least still have those five bucks. “Good for him” I said, thinking exactly and you came right back to me. I had to give the book credit I was going against everything I had ever done, and success was coming easier then shooting fish in a pale.

After the forty and four kamikaze shots, in addition to the 5 hours of straight drinking previous to that I was thoroughly tight. We all then decided it was time to leave. Again we used the same technique with unabashed commitment. “Alright we gotta go, we’re heading over to Caesar’s.” The looks on their faces alone was worth saying that. “Wait, so you’re just gonna leave us?” they asked…pleaded. “You’re both welcome to come but we’re leaving now.” The game says that you should always maintain control and be unconcerned with your targets. Our “targets” chugged their drinks and hurried over to us as we were walking out.

While standing outside discussing our options leaving the girls five feet behind a group of guys approached them in what I now knew were all the wrong ways. The birthday tiara girl actually had the audacity to respond by saying “I’m with him” then walked straight up to me and kissed me. My heir of imperviousness dropped, now I was just as shell shocked as anyone else. I had done nothing but mock and ignore this girl since meeting her and she had just mouth raped me. I mean she didn’t tie me down, but the kiss was certainly not two way. As she grasped for my hand I reluctantly gave it to her, if only to keep her away from my mouth. The teachings of The Game were holy indeed, one could only imagine the power of it should it fall into the wrong hands.

Birthday tiara girl cried that night as I left her at her hotel without ever giving her a number…or a last name. I couldn’t lead her on though; I’m not in the business of asking girls to wait, of letting them hang on for a possibility that will probably never come. No, I leave that vicious and savage act to girls, I’ll just go on mindlessly drinking, at least now without the concern of emptying my wallet for female returns, I’ll tell them to buy their own drink and leave me to mine.

New York Bar Hopping …and subsequent stumbling

The last few weeks I’ve begun reverting back to some of my old partying habits that seem to spur from a love for the adventuresome. Of course it’s not Man vs. Wild adventuresome, but there’s something about just moving from bar to bar, party to party that keeps the night exciting. With each move you never know what you’re going to get…unless that next move is to McSorley’s on 7th St. and 3rd Ave. in which case you know exactly what you’re going to get, lights and darks. McSorley’s is what I would describe as the epitome of a man’s bar, dirty, grungy, loud, packed with men, a layer of sawdust blanketing the floor to soak up booze and vomit, and most importantly light and dark ales. It’s definitely not an experience for everybody but I think it’s certainly an experience everyone should try once. Which is what I told a co worker when I dragged her there to meet up with some of my college buddies. It took some particularly convincing rhetoric to persuade this wine drinking, low key, conservative summer intern to accompany me to a vulgar scene of obscenities and inebriation. Naturally I just told her there would be a lot of single guys there, neglecting the fact that there are a lot of single guys at every bar in New York…it’s where we go to feel especially single when even the most desperate of girls still won’t talk to us.

So, after finishing some delightful apple flavored Belgian Beer at the more local Beer Bar, on 45th and Vanderbilt we made our way to the 6 train. After pounding a few darks and lights while watching my poor friend labor through a mug of light we did the inevitable talking with strangers that happens there. There are no select tables of private parties at this place. They will literally sit you down with anyone if you ask for a table. You just hope to get sat next to the guy just offered a job by a big bank (a rare occurrence given the current economic climate) and have him buy everybody round after round. When I thought she had absorbed all the intenseness of the place she could we took the party to a near by favorite, Phebes, on 4th St. and 3rd Ave. Phebes was the place everyone ended up heading at the end of the night. Close to campus, with great bar music, and just…well it was just popular among us NYU students for some reason. Here we had a few more rounds of drinks along with a bit of awkward, unskilled dancing by yours truly before deciding to call it a night. Fatigue had set and the effort of a work week was wearing on me. I only just made it home after passing out on the subway, luckily missing my stop by only one.

The very next night I found myself out at a friend’s apartment sharing drinks on their East Village Rooftop absorbing the stunning full circle view of Manhattan with both rivers plus up and downtown immediately at hand for my viewing pleasure. The company was good, the drinks were alcoholic, and the weather was divine. It was a clear night with a light breeze drifting west to East while the temperature rested in the mid seventies. Giving into the urge to head out we made our way to a trendy place called Side Bar on 15th and Irving. Well, it tried to be trendy but after interacting with its occupants I was disappointed in the quality of drinkers. The place was too crowded to just hang out and relax with an overpriced beer in hand. So I decided I’d do something I almost never do, hit on a complete stranger or strangers in this case. With nothing to lose and the possibility of an entertaining story to gain I decided to put myself to the test. There was a side area raised a bit above bar level and I spotted a group of cute, dancing girls happily enjoying themselves while the guys with them sat brooding over to the side with grim, serious faces refusing to smile or do anything that might make them less cool. “What a bunch of uninteresting losers” I thought to myself. Then I strode up there, with blind, ignorant confidence, chugged the beer in my hand, turned smiled at my friend who I told to watch and walked right up to one of the girls. “Hi, my name is Matt and I just wanted to tell you that you looked beautiful tonight.” It should be noted that this is the most forward line I’ve ever used. Initially I think she was in shock because she took a step back, but I knew the one thing no woman can resist is a compliment on her appearance. She quickly smiled and actually extended her hand, introducing herself as “Alisha.” “Alisha,” I said, “it’s very nice to meet you.” As I began speaking with her I noticed out of the corner of my eye some definite unease growing among the guys from the group, huddled over by themselves off to the left. I didn’t let it bother me though, these self absorbed, over serious deuchebags were the worst kind of people and I could care less what they thought. At this point I was now talking to two girls, I don’t remember the other one’s name but it turned out they were both interning at Investment banks, J.P. Morgan and Morgan Stanley. Their voices peaked with delight as they told me this, clearly pleased with themselves and their prospects of earning obnoxiously large amounts of money. I couldn’t have cared less. When they asked me what I did I put them to the “Matt Wealth Importance test” (trademark pending). It’s a little test I’ve devised to see how invested a woman is in wealth and occupation as far as determining the quality of a person. I comfortably responded that I had just graduated and was just hanging out, unemployed at the moment. They weren’t able to hide the ghastly look on their faces as they heard this. The test was done and they had failed…miserably. These two well dressed, cute girls had transformed into hideous ghouls right before my eyes. They tried to hold their composure but still almost walked away from me mid sentence before I decided to just keep the conversation going by telling them I was only kidding and was in fact a financial analyst at one of the most well known companies in the world. The damage was done though and I had lost any and all interest in knowing these two superficial money whores. I did, however, find it quite amusing when the guys around them decided to hone in and really mark out there territory. As we were in mid conversation their guy friends would come up and start trying to grind with them all the while trying to give me tough, get the hell out of here, looks. It was enough to make me laugh right in their faces and feel embarrassed for them all at the same time. How anyone like that could take themselves seriously is beyond me. I walked away without saying good bye, happy that I had dared myself to engage in conversation, disappointed it had been with people of no substance.

When Photos Are All That Remain

Nights out can often be a bit blurry to downright absent in the memory bank depending on the extremity of alcoholic intake. Luckily…or more often unluckily, we now have a ready supply of digital cameras tucked in our back pockets and blackberries in hand to always catch that oh so picturesque moment of the belligerent drunk making an ass out of himself. “That will look good on Facebook” we think to ourselves. And that grotesque figure of the previous night, the one you left before you sobered up to spare yourself the horrible misery of knowing the mistake you made…Well you’ll see her regretful face next to yours in a conveniently tagged photo of yourself. Of course the caption will resemble something like "Matt and the mother of his children!" Funny enough though, none of these awkward, potentially embarrassing situations, ever really bothered me much. What’s at stake there? A few jokes at your expense and some phone calls you won’t be returning? I practically live in a world laughing at my expense and I rarely have my own phone calls returned. Nope, what does worry me though is when I think I’m harmlessly going out for drinks with those pesky co workers only to run 3 Margaritas in and have that outrageous engagement party behind me teaming up for pictures with yours truly just as the guy that sits two cubes down unleashes his blackberry and turns the dinner into a photo shoot. Even that though is not entirely out of the ordinary…I’ve lived with a male model for the last 4 years so I’m no stranger to impromptu photo shoots. It was the moment he yelled, “Hey Matt, I just sent these photos to everyone in the office! You and your soul mate!” that I became unsettled. I laughed at the time, on the outside… inside though I cringed not with embarrassment but with a previously unknown fear of losing my job. It is beyond question that I have begun to let my guard down since my nervous first day in a suit and short, tidy hair. My hair, now covering my ears and forehead, not to mention the unkempt curls in the back is beginning its transformation from professional to unconventional at best. My dress, once primed and uncreased is now recycled from week to week as I no longer make any effort to ensure my clothes are in acceptable order. I’m boisterous and jovial in the office still unsure to my reception with the more senior of management I at least enjoy great conversation with those closer to my level, the fellow cubies. The subject of drunken rampaging a la photos from said coworker however, is not the topic of conversation I’d like to headline. I’d much rather prefer my usual low key answers about just relaxing in, or going home to a potentially embarrassing rendition of my “dirty dancing” with that 30 year old in the cocktail dress. These stories I can leave for those urging for excitement within the office walls. Myself? I’d prefer my excitement to be kept outside of the work place…miles and miles away where word of my sins could only reach as an unintelligible whisper of the wind.

View From the Past: Constructive Alcoholism

It’s funny how it’s rarely alcohol that kills you, but the stupid things you inevitably let yourself to do while under its influence. Tonight was one of those nights. Precociously drunk and lively, my roommate and I were just waiting for something to dare us into adventure. That dare presented itself in fabled double dog form as an unguarded construction site on Mercer St between Broome and Grand. We were supposed to be innocently heading towards a bar of deplorable taste, treading away on foot with the cheap meagerness of college preventing us from riding extravagantly in a cab or even comfortably in a subway. However, the allure of that swinging make shift wooden door opening up into a dangerous fun house of scaffolding, ladders, and an array of building materials proved far too great to ignore.

After my co drinker sarcastically dared me to go in I threw that snark comment in his face by causally meandering my way under the caution tape and through the door. Damn that bastard I thought drunk or not drunk I like exploring. He quickly followed me in, excited at my thoughtless choice of adventure. Peering around we quickly discovered two hard hats (regrettably lacking the cool flashlights on top) and obnoxiously adorned them disregarding any concern of hair carried diseases or just common cleanliness. We scampered around like second graders in the attic, marveling in drunken stupor at the grandeurs of modern construction. Then came the exhibitionism. Despite being blurry drunk I had enough faith in my coordination…and my God, to climb up an unfastened, unsecured 40 foot ladder to the top floor. After succeeding that, my arrogant and athletically gifted drunk bastard of a friend continued to push me still further to test the limits of my ability. He confidently strode over to the edge and without hesitation hopped over the guard railing and jumped to the fire escape of the neighboring building. “What are you fucking crazy? You’re not spiderman you crazy shithead! There’s no way in hell I’m ending up sprawled out on the pavement below to impress you.” My unrecoiled shock at his stupid risks only provoked him further laughing at my nervousness. I was now holding onto the railing, still trenched on the safe side, pleading with him to stop the dumbass antics and come back to the safe side. As he hopped back over I uselessly tried to reach out my arms in the case that he did slip I’d be able to catch him…thinking back I doubt I would’ve been able to even delay a fall let alone save him from one.

He was not to be done there, and frankly neither was I. We saw what looked to be the makings of an elevator shaft on the rear of the building and made our way through the maze of rubble and dust to that side. This side of the building was encased by scaffolding and so with the thoughtless permit that alcohol allows we began climbing through it making our way higher and higher. Upon reaching the peak of scaffolding I was horrified to see a single beam leading across a deep abyss of darkness to the far side where the elevator shaft was being built. It was straight out of a tragic movie scene. Two innocently drunk kids engage in stupid horseplay and one of them ends up dead while the other regrets it for the rest of his life. It was at that moment I decided if anything I would be the one regretting it because there was no way in Hell I was gonna try to test my balance against a single high beam and a 60 foot drop. To my horror my friend had come to the complete opposite conclusion and was already swaying his way across, holding his arms out for balance. Balance? What fucking balance? We had chugged eight beers each in the last hour and a half; there was no such thing as balance at that point. I held my breath, closed my eyes….and almost passed out. When I opened my eyes moments later he was on the other side laughing at me like it was some big fucking joke. “Life isn’t a joke!” I yelled. “Yea, but you are for being too much of a pussy to cross!” he replied. That insensitive prick, he was actually mocking me for not committing what amounted to suicide. There was no way he was gonna bully me into this one. Uninterested in seeing my roommate plummet 6 stories I began making my way down through the scaffolding without seeing if he made it back across (he did).

There was really no topping the excitement of the last encounter so we resigned ourselves to leaving the site, but not without two souvenirs, hard hats for the each of us! We paraded up through Mercer Street in common street wear and hard hats now just as drunk from euphoria as booze. We also developed the highly catchy phrase “It’s ok we work for the city” that night which we repeated to each stranger unfortunate enough to pass us. We entered the bar like conquering heroes, blazing our fake ids at the bouncer without even once lowering the bright plastic caps from our heads. After our entrance we realized we were yet again near the sad state of sobriety and with the lightness of our wallets decided it best to head around the corner to Space Market to pick up a couple more forties. We decided we needed to maximize return so we each swagged a forty of Ye Olde English Malt Liquor and I confidently handed the cashier my university ID and promptly paid for the booze in campus cash.

As we idled around outside the deli wondering where we could toss these babies back, we caught sight of that large imposing building known simply to the NYU community as Bobst, or in other words the NYU Library. We both looked at each other and all I had to say was “Open 24/7.” Of course we made a pit stop and took a few gulps in the park for mere effect. Giddy again with excitement at the prospect of risk taking we stumbled into the great edifice completely aimless in direction. All we had were two paper bags wrapped tightly around brimming bottles of OE and clearly misused hard hats. Luckily all we needed was the swipe of an ID to get in, and then, “Hey! Where do you think you’re going?”

We froze. The guard had seen us…as if we didn’t have to walk right past him. We were caught, shit we were gonna get busted, they were gonna kick me out of school, tell my parents, put me in time out…I don’t know what I feared but in that split second all I had was fear. “I beg your pardon sir?” I stammered.

“The upstairs is closed between the hours of 12 am and 7 am. Only the downstairs is open.”

“Sorry, first time studying this late on a weekend.” Like anyone would believe that line, hell I looked like a homeless village person.

“Do you two even go here?”

“Yea of course, we swiped in” and then without stopping we just walked straight down before he could ask us any more questions.

The NYU library was just as unexplored as the construction site for me but even so we managed to locate a staff locker room and continued our nefarious drinking exploits there. We turned up the stereo and delighted in hearing Queen blare through the locker room. The world was ours…or at least that staff locker room. We were only there for ten minutes before we had finished swallowing that bitter drink. We stumbled back up and hustled hurriedly past the guard not wanting to answer any of the obvious questions.

Now on a rush that comes with accomplishing great things, i.e. trespassing and public intoxication in a college library, we once more set out for that lamentable bar that our sorry friends were at. Of course this harbor of boredom and irritating banter could not hold us for long and before another hour had passed we left that forsaken place for the last time. We threw our fate to the wind and wandered back downtown along Broadway before shifting still further East to Lafayette St. Then we saw it, a bar we had passed many times always admiring its sleekness but never daring to venture in. Tonight was the night though, we were invincible. When we walked up the bouncer knew two things: that we were both underage and that at 3:30 in the morning we had lived tonight and he was going to let us in. After laughing and making a joke about my ID he stepped aside and let us in.

The interior of the bar had smooth gentle lighting only in the corners and around the bar, with deep red velvet furniture and bar tenders in all black. Oh, and there were eight 52 inch flat panel high definition television sets on the walls each playing a different showing of lesbian porn. Eight! We sat down not knowing if it was polite to stare open mouthed at the screens surrounding us. After being haggled by the bartender to do a repeat of the ID bit and having yet another joke at our expense we each ordered a victory shot of patron. The night was complete, the sweet savor of that Mexican Tequila signaled an end to our journey and our glorious night; the girl spread eagle on the screen behind me even told me so. We walked home triumphantly as the sky was beginning to light and our eyes beginning to close.

Let’s talk about my Boyfriend and his Hedge Funds

Ever meet that person who you can tell is nice and kind hearted but just doesn’t realize how much no one cares about what they’re talking about and how self centered they sound by rambling on? Yes? Well me too. Today in fact, as on many days but let’s go with today out of convenience and more importantly a still tangible memory to vent off.

Things I know little or nothing about: Romantic Relationships, Nice Cars…or cars altogether, Hedge Funds, Hedge Fund Celebrities, Dates with your boyfriend in White Plains, Dates, anything Hedge Funds, and dates with your boyfriend that works at some hedge fund after he picked you up in his really nice car.

I’m sure it’s obvious where I’m going with this, and yes that’s right I’ve started dating a guy that works at a hedge fund and owns a really nice car. Oh wait, that’s the girl I had the distinct misfortune of conversing with today. I really am happy for you that you’ve found that perfect someone (wealthy) that has all the same values that you do (money) but seriously wasn’t it blatantly obvious when I stopped making eye contact with you that I didn’t really have any interest in hearing more about hedge funds especially the one your boy friend works at. To be clear on how far away I belong from this conversation the first thing I think of when I hear the term hedge fund is that computer animated film Over the Hedge, and the next thing is my time living in Mexico when me and my friends had a hide out in these bushes. Second, the fact that your boyfriend owns a very expensive car (I don’t remember what, something German, a convertible I think) while living and working in the city just makes me think he’s some self important asshole idiot. Why the fuck would you pay that much to not only own a nice car, but store away it for 98% of the time in some ludicrously priced garage to take it out once a month. If that’s not a waste of money then my $25 Carribean Hooker with a wandering eye certainly wasn’t either…but that’s a different story altogether.

The point is, I get it your boyfriend makes a lot of money and you were really happy he spent some of it on you. But to be honest whether or not you intend it to sound this way you’re just coming off as someone desperate to convince others that she’s in a great relationship with some “amazing” guy when in fact all you’re trying to do is convince yourself. I’m not fucking dating this guy, I couldn’t care less if he was the janitor for the janitor’s staff room. However, you sound pretty preoccupied with his monetary income and spending so at least he’s meeting your financial prerequisite for a boyfriend. Maybe it’s just the psychology major in me rearing it’s psychoanalytic head after all of this finance work but honestly I really could’ve gone without that

Ralph Nader…is this on repeat or something?

Ralph Nader, that pesky, third party icon and a hope for all pot heads looking for a legalization of cannabis has announced yet again he will be running for president. I readily admit I am no expert on politics and presidential elections, but I must say that in this election it seems to me a third party candidate is more of a publicity stunt then anything else. Americans seem to be once again impassioned by their presidential contenders, and I don’t readily see an environment of apathetic voters waiting for a candidate to emerge from the bipartisan fray to sweep them out of their malaise. Last election perhaps, however people seem to have a great deal of belief and ardor, especially on the democratic side where they are breaking all kinds of primary records for voter turn out. Nader mentions that he feels people are “disenchanted with the Republic and Democratic parties.” I certainly relate to where he’s coming from in that I believe we have spent enough time dividing the country into red and blue states instead of recognizing that we are in fact the UNITED States, but thus far this election has been one of the tamest in recent memory with the low blow slanders and shameless attacks refreshingly absent I think his timing might be a bit off. In this election cycle Nader offers little more then a distracting side show where there are already 3 very viable candidates with a great deal more support and governmental experience. And speaking of distracting side shows, I must reference Lindsay Lohan’s boobs. I hate to say it, but I think she actually gained more respect from me with the powerful nude display she released in New York magazine. Those soft, pale love pillows gave me a new found image of her…breasts. Now I must be honest; I did not read the article or see the actual magazine, just the photos on some celebrity website, but I must say the lighting was very professional and the tones were deftly intimate and sensual without being overtly sexual. Pure class from the raging marijuana, turned coke, turned drunken driving mess. Perhaps she’d make a good running mate for the Nader green machine. Him appealing to a movement that was within reach 10 years ago, and her appealing to an icon that was at her peak a half century ago.

Employed and Alive…with some sobriety strewn in for good measure

A job, society’s current measuring stick of an individual. The peremptory second question after “what’s your name.” And now the single largest time consumer in my life. A brief foray of two weeks into a world centered around preparing, participating, and departing from a job has surprisingly been not the insurgent life changer that I dreaded…or hoped it might be. I spend less of my day idling around in my room listening to songs on repeat and stumbling over facebook or a few broken words, but other than that if anything it has just added structure and consistency to what was once a directionless stagger through days. I had high doubts I would ever be able to find a position labeled “financial analyst” interesting or enjoyable, but I have been pleasantly surprised at my mind’s reception thus far. Maybe it’s just the opportunity to throw my hat in the wind and learn something I had absolutely no conception of previous to two weeks ago, or perhaps it’s the exciting thrill of meeting a whole other side of people, the working side. What’s that mother of 3 like when she’s analyzing volume and brand deployment? How’s that newlywed when he’s away from his new wife and agonizing over numbers that just don’t match up? And how’s the plight of the single professional who stays late because she has nothing to go home to? It’s a fascinating mix of transition and life decisions…and some finance as well I suppose. I’m not sure if there’s humor in this piece as much as reckless observation and pondering, but I don’t see any other suitable cell for ruminations as careless as these. Now, that I get home with nothing of absolute substance to occupy my time I’m wondering which world I prefer, the dark unexplored waters of the working world waiting to be discovered, or the unnamable pull of my apartment and Manhattan, an option of endless choices and absent decisions. However, I have stopped drinking…for a limited time at least. A non practicing Catholic makes a heavier sacrifice then most devout church goers. Heavier in the sense that for the past 4 years it has occupied more of my social life then conversation, not too mention a hefty amount of my personal time as well. Going cold turkey on the old cure all is no easy task when it is still the center of all of your friends’ attention but I consider lent to be more a test of inner strength and will then a resolute withdrawal of some careless mini vice like hot dogs, a favorite brand of cookie, or a murky goal of cutting down on something without any clear guidelines. Not to say I haven’t done the traditional abstaining from soda or dessert but this year I felt like goin balls out and dropping not only my best friend Jim Beam, but his brother Jack Daniels, their Mexican cousin Patron, and all the rest of assorted alcoholic delicacies that this great planet has to offer. March 23rd has never loomed so far in the distance. Until then, here’s a toast of Gatorade to your tequila sunrise.

Child's Play

Being the part time blogger that I am, I at times feel compelled to exercise a little reconnaissance and check out the trends of other blogs, or just randomly find an interesting one. The returns thus far have been disappointing and I’m left to wonder what a stranger would think of my blog should they suffer the distinct misfortune of stumbling upon it. Most of the other sites I’ve seen on blogspot by clicking the “next blog” icon appear to me as hopelessly uninteresting, disturbingly weird, and just plain sad.

I would hope that initial impressions of my own work do not come off so negatively, but that might be asking too much. I am aware that only a very specific demographic is likely to be amused by the politically, socially, and spiritually incorrect writing that fills my posts. Let’s just assume that some 45 year old conservative mom will probably not find humor in intermittent comedy.

On the other hand, there seems to be a lot of middle aged moms delighting themselves by creating posts of their “angel” children. Excuse me if I’m wrong, but this trend seems to me a bit out of place. When I by chance fall upon a blog covered with photos of young children being thrown together like it’s some kind of twisted shrine I can’t help but ask myself who the fuck else besides this misguided mother would spend time on this. The only conclusion I came to was sick and deranged pedophilic creatures scrounging the internet for anything they can get their hands on. Maybe it’s an initial reaction that finds its origins in paying too much attention to Fox 5 News, but either way I can’t understand why these people would just carelessly throw photographs of their most loved ones up on some public site. Make a photo album or something, because believe me no on cares that little Johnny has finally started third grade and that dear Jennifer said her first words today.

Perhaps, if the emphasis were placed on the funny missteps of childhood I would be more interested, but until I start seeing some tales of 5 year old Pete accidentally pouring the fishbowl and accompanying fish into the pool because he saw Free Willy, I doubt any of these attention craving mothers will rouse my interest. Every mother thinks her child is an angel. Keep it to yourself and family because only one mother was right about that, and that’s mine.

Flighted Frustration

I was bailing. I was scared. I was unprepared. I was on the nonstop flight to South America in seat 26 B next to the bearded welter weight with thick rimmed glasses and greasy curly hair surrounding a shiny bald top. To the other side of me was a portly woman with a disposition of feigned nobility and importance. The energetic and exaggerated hand gestures along with her tendency to laugh at her own amusements assured me of this. Her stiff brown hair seemed sprayed in place much like the orange tan of her face. I had been sober for nearly 14 hours and trapped between these two characters of America I knew it had been a mistake to stop drinking. How long would it take the stewardess or flight attendant or which ever was the correct terminology to reach me? I needed one of those petite bottles of liquor they served; actually better make that a double. This was a long flight, but if I chugged two of them I might get myself just fucked up enough to harmlessly pass out without the horrific thoughts of my dear friends on either side of me.

I panicked imagining their backgrounds and lives fretting to a nervous degree about the fact that these were people that might have actually reproduced or worse, had people that validated and encouraged them. Who were these insolent strangers anyways? Why were they on my plane, interfering with my trip of spiritual freedom and existential pursuit. Their negative auras were sure to affect my own in such close proximity and I was already aware of the volatile nature of my current state. I was lodged between an untimely graduation from college and a looming full time job so near on the horizon I might as well have been on the edge of the earth myself. Graduation had beckoned way too early and I dreaded the loss of my lifestyle.

Now I was here stuck between insurance agent Lionel and housewife extraordinaire Claire. Between them was Hades and I was firmly slouched in my seat there. I uncomfortably shifted in my position and unwittingly made physical contact with dear Claire when I recklessly threw my arm towards the arm rest dividing our space. When it felt the soft pudginess of her cholesterol deposits I immediately realized I had strayed too far. I ripped my arm back in uncontrolled shock. Thank god she was too absorbed in the god forsaken aerial presentation of Garfield to notice my horrified reaction. How the fuck could anyone with a fully functional brain born before the year 2000 find anything remotely entertaining in this frighteningly appalling trash parading as cinema?

Bored, sober, and out of options I resigned myself to perusing the Continental airlines magazine expecting nothing more then a couple of mildly interesting photographs. Despite the abhorrent movie selection, Continental did surprise me with a most likely unheralded gem. As I thumbed through the Continental magazine placed in the sleeve in front of every seat I settled on a small piece about Cancun drinking hubs, as much a product of itching alcoholism as my former time visiting that foreign city. I’ve never imagined some marketing fueled magazine mass-produced for tired travelers looking for something to put them asleep as a source for fine-tuned and highly entertaining writing. So you can imagine my surprise when I found myself entranced by the delectable piece by Chris Barnett (name confirmation pending) about Yucatan drink specialties.

After streaking through this I imagined it to be a rare fortune of a good writer in a shoddy magazine. To put my theory to the test I flipped back to a previous article and to my now overwhelming surprise found it as engaging as my first discovery. Thus, I must tip my metaphorical cap to these underappreciated literary engineers capable of turning a magazine long advertisement into an unexpected pleasurable experience. Now if only the irritated flight attendant with an inability to communicate with speakers of espanol would lighten her mood.

By some unheeded miracle I reached nearly the fifth hour of flight alive and breathing. The long haired infant continued to laugh playfully every time I smile at him. His brown eyes lit up as he giggled on his mother’s lap. This little kid thankfully distracted my attention from the brutal stench fuming off good ol’ Lionel. My guess is it was a mixture of some odious cologne and untamed body odor. Either way, it was at times hard to breath.

Thankfully I felt the plane descending and that warm, crackly voice on the overhead in fluid Spanish and broken English told me we were approaching our destination, Lima. I could hardly wait to escape from this stale air and lamentable company. Myself, still a snob entrenched in bitter judgments and pretension just looking for some Spanish conversation and Peruvian Pisco.

Tales of College III: Lofted Excitement

The possibility of renting out a two story loft for the sole purpose of throwing a kickass party had never occurred to me when I arrived in late February my freshman year with stern instructions not to bring anything other then girls and $15 in cash. Fuck if I cared; I was gonna have unlimited booze and an entire New York City loft to enjoy it with the company of dozens of thrill seekers like myself.

Inside was teeming with people, some I knew, some I wanted to know, and others I would be avoiding whether I knew them or not. There was a full table entirely dedicated to an assortment of liquors and mixed drinks next to which rested two glorious kegs. NYU isn’t renowned for keggers and this was the first keg I had seen at a party there. Being the uninhibited beer drinker I was I turned my attention straight for them. Pumping the tap, I downed my first cup in a voracious chug and filled it up again.

Thank god most of the lights were out I thought, these people are going to look infinitely more attractive in the dark. With that, I chugged my second cup and was now on to number 3.

There were two girls at this party I had hooked up with before. One, named Christy, I refused to call by her name for the entirety of the night and instead, after devolving myself with drink, relentlessly called her Erika (I was insistent that she looked like an Erika). The other girl I had recently stopped hooking up with because of questionable acts which I felt risked both health and safety and my inability to keep pace with her insatiable lust.

An important note in this story, though I’m tempted to omit it, refers to my participation in a zealous, spiritual trial for lent. On my own accord and with complete disregard to health and sanity I decided to give up all types of sexual behavior both with partners and self arranged. The pent up sexual energy was overwhelming after the effects of alcohol reverted me to carnal instincts. Without my roommate’s help it is quite possible I could’ve made a multitude of ungodly mistakes in the name of desperation. Luckily for me, the only mistakes I made were minor and amusing. Just as I was seriously beginning to feel the loosening effects of the natty ice keg I was confronted by my first test.

She blindsided me as I carelessly turned to one of my friends, and instead was treated to her standing right there. “Heyyy Matt.” My immediate, alcohol driven instinct was to pull her into the bathroom and implore her to replay the countless acts of fellatio I had been privileged with previously.

Thankfully I only responded in kind, “Heyy there, haven’t talked to you in a while.”

“Well that was your choice” she reminded me as I had told her I couldn’t commit myself to her lustful desires with the same unabashed passion and complete disregard for other scholarly commitments as she had.

But I was drunk and in a flirtatious mood as orgasms were now only a fleeting memory and I was desperate for one. “Well I never said I made the right choice.” As I smiled at her I’m sure I personified that ubiquitous drunk asshole look.

“Haha, oh matt you know the reason I was obsessed with you right?” Where was she going with this?

“Um…cause I’m really funny?” That was honestly my best guess, I’ve never thought of myself as someone a girl could actually obsess over, let alone readily admit to it.

“Haha, well no. Honestly you were just the best kisser I’ve ever kissed. And I’ve kissed over like 40 guys.” Stop. What? A self respecting man would’ve been appalled that he had engaged in any form of physical interaction with a woman that unhesitatingly was able account for at least 40 guys she had previously hooked up with. However, a drunk bastard like myself would’ve celebrated enthusiastically at his triumph in the sacred art of lip linked tongue swapping.

Accordingly my first reaction in response confirmed my placement in the latter option as I bellowed out, “You’re damn right I’m the best kisser you’ve ever kissed! I’ll out kiss any guy at this whole fucking party!” The few questioning stares I got from this did not deter me in any way. She laughed at this then turned to walk away, probably to find number 50.

People had started dancing and jumping in the largest room of the loft as the music blared loudly. After stopping by to refill yet another cup of beer (I had stopped counting by that point) I went to find my roommates. They were cooped up by the bathroom area while my roommate’s ex complained about something and repeatedly asked to leave. I miscalled her friend Erika a couple more times and then my attention swung back to the large room.

Some guy had grabbed a microphone and started demanding that everyone shut up because the stripper had just arrived. Alright, I thought this will be some good ol’ fashion excitement. I jumped back into the fray, refilled my beer, and looked on waiting for the unclothed performer to step on stage. The guy with the mike kept blabbering something about everyone having to pay money if we wanted to see the stripper perform. I was almost up for it until I saw the wreck that emerged. This gothic looking fright was dressed in black leather and her pudgy stomach emerged from under her tight shirt. Her makeup job looked like it was performed by a seizuring pre-schooler, a tattered mess of light blotches and dark blotches. Even in my drunk stupor it was a scary sight. They wanted me to pay for this ragged hag?

There was an increasing murmur that soon developed into angry shouts demanding a hotter stripper and a refusal to pay. Then the damned fool with the microphone gave the crowd an ultimatum: either we pay or the stripper will not perform. It was at that moment I heard the funniest line at a party I’ve ever heard. As the crowd silenced thinking over his proposition one my good friends from our floor screamed out, “Then tell her to leave! She’s fucking ugly anyways!” After a split second of shock over the finely timed outburst everyone started hysterically laughing and yelling in agreement. It was wicked and cruel for the stripper that night. She left in a cloud of shame amid insolent and drunk college kids. Think Can’t Hardly Wait, when the big jock gets called a fag when everyone is watching and silent. It was something along those lines, but much much better. The only tarnish to this outrageous exclamation was the surely damaged self-esteem and feelings of the stripper, as if the removing your clothes for crowds of plastered college kids part wasn’t degrading enough.

After that, the mood of the party shifted and it was clear it had surpassed its climax. I downed a couple more cups of lukewarm beer and told myself it was time to leave before I had any more encounters with that girl Erika who kept insisting to me that her name was Christy. I also had a religious commitment to honor and my chances of completing this only waned as the night wore on. My friends and I left, staggering half-hazardly all the way back to our dorm; our first loft party was a resounding success in entertainment.