Tuesday, June 24, 2008
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.
Sunday, June 01, 2008
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.
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.
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