Kelly Clarkson and Me

I don't know what it is about pop female vocalists but I can't seem to get enough of Kelly Clarkson's heartbreak ballads, Black Eyed Peas Catchy beats, and Briney's techno sex circus. As I sit here tired a from a hard day's work, hung over a weekend's drinking, and worn out on romance without even being involved in any (I put myself through two rom coms this weekend), I can't help but turn back to good old Kelly my texas compatriot (yes texas is considered a country by its citizens) and americas number one idol.

I spent the weekend voraciously emptying eighteen packs (all in all I think 9 of them were consumed in my apartment between thurs and sunday). Thursday night I treated myself to wine, whiskey, and beer, the holy trinity of hang overs. Depressingly I realized I no longer knew anyone that treats Thursdays as weekends and settled for a college party that I'd only been invited through facebook despite not being in contact with any of its hosts. My post college friends and I showed up drunker than anyone in probably the whole damned bar. My roommate even went to such lengths and petting a clearly horrified 19 year old. The distant look in his eye made it obvious that he had absolutely no awareness of his actions. Many beers later I woke up at 10am on Friday, 3 1/2 hours after my alarm. Work would not be a reachable destination and I avoided even emailing or calling my manager because frankly I was too drunk to even think of an excuse let alone put it to words.

Predictably I followed this with more ill advised midday boozing intermingled with half hearted attempts at story telling. After compiling some quarter of a century's pages of rambling trash I deemed my work complete and devoted my full attention to the recently purchased beer in my fridge. I'd already had a liquid lunch and subway was the healthy choice I accompanied my beer with for dinner. Luckily this night I didn't bother the outside world with my plastered presence and stayed confined to my apartment to consume among friends and fellow alcoholic influencers.

The weekend pretty much continued on like that until Sunday night when I heard a Kelly Clarkson song on the tv's music channel and listened to it on repeat for the next two hours at my computer sipping coors light and adding pages to what will probably be another horrid attempt at novelized fiction by the author that brings you intermittent comedy and constant dissapointment.

happy holidays

Just In Case

Listen up, I am amped right now, listenin to Britney's Circus gettin ready to take some serious meaningful time off work for the first time since I began this full time job shit. The slow and painful deterioration of my soul during this time has become increasingly evident and I'm hopeful that this vacation will be all I need to reenergize my fine american hunger for hard work and dollar bills. I'll certainly need it after I spend my life's savings on a trip half way round the world searching for warmer climates and more receptive vaginas (are american accents as hot abroad as foreign accents are in america?). I'm not saying I'm going to be draped in the red white and blue, but I doubt I'll be able to hide the powerful american presence that I exude with every breath.

This blog believe it or not has been my life's work (especially since I believe my life began in college) and in between the volumes of abhorrent trash there are intermittent bits of real knowledge and experience. Should anything happen that keeps from returning to dominate the realm of questionable actions intermingled with questionable veracity I hope that you'll peruse the older archives of this dear diary of mine and learn from my mistakes and triumphs both of which are well documented.

New York is a great place; I love every goddamned building and borough of this place. The women are not all easy and booze not at all cheap but fuckin a is there plenty to see and do and the failures in new york are ten times more succesful than the successes in most other places.

Now go fuck yourself.

Trick or Treat

To think, it all started with gonorrhea. Unfortunately, on Halloween I’d forgotten my spare case of antibiotics as I ventured into the night dressed up like a douchebag. Douchebag in this case is a costume, not a description. Picking relevant douche insignia I assembled a uniform for the Jersey Shore meets Staten Island meets pompous prick. Three popped collars, one headband, aviators, and a fohawk later I walked towards the subway doing my best to subdue the douche within until arriving at the party.

The first stop united me with the Ambiguously Gay Duo, a soldier, two cowboys, and some strippers (putting cat ears on your head while wearing a four inch skirt does not make you a feline it makes you a whore). Beer was consumed, unforgivable statements were made and southerners were offended…and offensive at the same time.

Like alcohol thirsty parasites, we moved to the next party after depleting the booze. It was here the crew’s limits were tested. Ace found a bottle of vermouth and proceeded to drink it, all of it, by himself. Gary meanwhile drank himself straight and proceeded to lock tongues with the big boobed Southern chick, with allegedly green eyes (I didn’t even realize she had eyes). Then an Asian cast of Star Trek walked in…funny I remember only one Mr. Sulu.

I was somewhere in double digits for beers when we ran out. Luckily my drinking compatriot, Dr. Gonzo, procured a potent bottle of scotch. Him along with some other guy dressed as a meandering hipster led me to the kitchen where we scooped cubes of ice into glasses and poured the shiny poison in after. Things were going well until the host of the party joined us.

“I’m glad you’re not being such a dick tonight.” She said to me mockingly.

“Hey! You’re the one that slapped me!” I responded looking at my fellow scotch suckers for approval. “All I did was ask if she had gonorrhea, a perfectly legitimate question considering I was sitting right next to her. You can never be too careful these days.” Need I say more?

“By the way that was his girlfriend you said that to.” She said gesturing towards unnamed hipster dresser.

I smiled proudly and reacted genuinely, “That was your girlfriend! I’m Matt nice to meet you!” I extended a hand as he disdainfully knocked it away.

“You asked my girlfriend if she had gonorrhea?” He asked accusingly.

I tried to explain the humor but he found none and stormed away to yell at his girlfriend for allowing me to ask if she had contracted VD. He returned shortly in a sour mood. Dr. Gonzo and I were innocently sipping our drinks when he asked how the host could be friends with me.

As she tried responding diplomatically with a by now rehearsed defense of my humor and skewed moral compass, I blurted out, “oh we’re more than friends amigo.” He looked at me, then at her.

“Don’t tell me you made out with this guy” he said disgustedly. That guy was me.

“I’m standing right here buddy.” Laughing, I added, “and we did much more than make out.”

Bro bag was really getting pissed now. As I laughed he asked the next logical question, “Don’t tell me you slept with this guy.”

As she tried to refrain from revealing the answer with a smile, I answered for her and assured him that I called it “fucking,” and that sleeping was for miserable, married people. I then smiled and waved at his girlfriend prompting him to go off and yell at her for this too. Probably a woman beater I thought.

Post Vermouth Ace then stumbled out the apartment and got lost in the New York City streets. Little Bo Peep took my number and said she’d call about a party next week but wouldn’t fuck me tonight. I had a lot more beer at a bar and lost my sunglasses. There was dancing on stools and a verbal assault on a Ranger Jersey. I woke up the next morning and went to report a story on the marathon…I guess I waited till the day after Halloween to wear my costume.

There's a Zombie in the Closet

Yesterday, while exiting the New York Public Library on Fifth Avenue between 42nd and 41st Streets I saw a convention of zombies.

“Zombies” in this case is completely literal, but it isn’t. Zombies of course aren’t real or are real only in the sense that Big Foot, the Chupacabra, and the Abonimanble Snowman are real, which means one in ten thousand believes in them but every single one of those people will watch Discovery and History channel specials on fictional characters. The zombies outside the library were not fictional, but they weren’t really zombies either. A gathering of about 100 “infected” beings was posing/writhing on the steps in front of the classically built edifice. Their faces were painted white and green and red to simulate blood and wounds and whatever else zombies usually have on their undead faces. I briefly joined the interested and amused onlookers as the area filled with nonsensical yells and moans.

The funniest part was watching the zombie convention disperse as they ran howling into unsuspecting New York foot traffic scaring the absolute shit out of a group of high school kids on a weekend field trip.

As a now “legitimate” reporter I wish I had been assigned to this story, and that I had a camera on me. I believe the article would’ve begun something like this:

“In response to the escalating Swine Flu epidemic the Zombie Community held an emergency convention to remind people that there is still no vaccine for zombienitus.” It would then go on to include background on the zombie condition, a few brief quotes from concerned or influential zombies as well as a tasteful photo of a convention attendee leaping into an unconscious homeless man.

On my walk home I mistook a lingering zombie for a homeless man when I gave him my change; I guess I missed the sign that said he wanted human flesh.

Balls in the Mouth

One time, when I was eight years old, I made the mistake of eating grilled corn on the cob with mayonnaise and chile purchased from a local street vendor in Mexico City. Subsequently, I threw up for five days straight and stayed home re-watching Indiana Jones and Super Man movies which may not have been the worst thing, but I haven’t liked the idea of corn on the cob since. I remember another time I was watching a porno where a girl started sucking on a guy’s nut, which until then I’d never even considered asking a girl to do. I still haven’t posed that question, and after this weekend I doubt I’ll ever have the stomach to.

Beer pong is a relatively simple game with its ups and downs. A previous post of mine recalls a particular occasion in which I battled against a superior player to overcome the odds and drunkenly triumph in the greatest game ever played. However, what happened this weekend had nothing to do with winning or losing, though I suppose it had everything to do with how you play the game.

We were at our apartment with approximately 150 beers and two handles of liquor. For the first couple of hours it was literally just nine guys sitting around drinking. Thankfully two friends of the opposite sex granted us reprieve from an all night sausage fest. With them came the welcome idea of beer pong. In a true battle of the sexes we decided to do cocks vs. cunts the first game, and as hosts it was my roommate and I against these two vagina having opponents.

By this point in the night both my roommate and I were well intoxicated and our mouths were loose with wildly inappropriate commentary. Nothing was out of line for trash talking, but apparently they seemed fine with this; one of them even retaliated by bending over with each shot I took to grant me an all too personal glimpse of her milk makers. I have to say, not the worst pair of breasts I’ve laid eyes on. Regardless though, none of this was anything new, except for the girl with the exposed chest who I’d met only once before, these were all part of a rehearsed script of senseless profanity and drunkenly lobbing ping pongs balls towards beer filled plastic red cups.

The ping pong balls in use tonight had history. They had survived two apartments, three roommates and countless games of filthy water cups, grimy, sticky, dusty floors and unwashed drunken finger tips. They had character but not hygiene.

I don’t know how drunk big boobed girl was when she arrived at the party, but what followed should not be replicated on any drug. It was their turn to shoot, but “Ashley,” chest exposing girl’s partner, was immersed in a conversation with some other guests. I was just about to turn and hit the pisser while we waited when I caught it out of the corner of my eye. She held the ball delicately between her thumb and index finger, raising it to her mouth. “No” I thought. Slowly she let out her tongue while guiding the ball towards her mouth. I’m not sure whether she was doing this because she thought no one was watching, or because she thought someone was watching. What happened next I will never forget. She rolled the ball along her tongue, giving it a thorough taste bud scrubbing. Then proceeded to fully open her jowls and immerse the used ping pong into her welcoming oral orifice. This wasn’t kinky, it was revolting, reviling, and offending. I stood for a moment in complete shock, rarely am I left without a witty and inappropriate retort, but there I was dumbfounded at this girl’s actions. The next reaction of course was gut wrenching hysterical laughter. I was on the ground as this senseless girl, seemingly without realization of what she had just caressed with her mouth, laughed too.

All in all I guess what happened was horrific, but it was funny too. It was funny until a week later she came down with an incurable bacterial infection and dropped dead while riding the subway. Don’t put beer pong balls in your mouth.

Time to Kill

I don't usually watch alot of tv, especially when it comes to closely following a series. With the exception of Californication, which historically I've watched online, and Better Off Ted, the best new comedy of the year, the only thing I really watch is soccer. That all changed a couple of weeks when I discovered Dexter.

Dexter Morgan brings a face to serial killers that we've never seen before... the face of someone we root for. Sure he gets sadistic pleasure from dissecting and dismembering his victims while they're still alive and seems get off to blood like I get off to girl on girl porn, but hey he only kills murderers. That, plus we'd hate to see him get locked up because that would mean the end of a truly innovative series. Watching a man juggling responsibilities between his job as a blood splatter expert in forensics, his girlfriend and her kids, and his intrinsic need to kill on a regular basis is not only interesting, it's goddamn entertaining. His voice guides us through the show as a third person narrator meant to be the voice in his head. As an example a typical internal dialogue might go something like this, "Things to do today: Pick up Deb and the kids, stop by the station, pick up heavy duty trash bags and industrial plastic wrap, kill murder rapist after he gets off work at ten." For some reason watching an obsessed serial killer struggle with some of the same problems us non murder addicts deal with is endlessly amusing.

As I mentioned, I started watching Dexter a couple of weeks ago and have already killed the first two seasons. It's like Law and Order if the main characters were 10 times smarter, had personal lives we cared about, and spent half their time tracking murderers and subsequently killing them. If you don't try to start watching this series you should kill yourself, before Dexter does the job for you.

Pussy comes when you least expect it

Like most great things in life, pussy seems to come when you least expect it. Just when you've given up hope of bagging the love of your life and you think god is a cruel sadistic bastard who likes watching your impotent pick up attempts as you try to recover from an obliterated heart, just when you figure your right hand isn't so bad after all, just when you think you can relate to the himalayan monks who meditate instead of ejaculate, just when you think working longer hours and doing more exercise is the appropriate way to deal with the despair of overwhelming loneliness pussy comes cascading down on you like its fucking niagara falls.

I don't know whether it's luck, coincidence, attitude, or lower standards but at moments when I'm at my lowest there is usually a catapulting motion back up to unseen heights. There is no gradual climb up rocky terrain, no slow moving love affairs or flirtatious trysts, no I'm in a rocket ship straight for orgasm after orgasm. Is it all fulfilling? A moral man with self respect might say no, but I haven't been one of those in a long time. I'm having a great time meeting girls and actually having success in gaining access to their most private possessions.

Is this sustainable? Of course not, like a violent thunderstorm it will probably be followed by an unbearable drought. And here I am constantly being thrown from one extreme to the other, avoiding any sort of consistency or normalcy. I guess it keeps me from my number one fear of being boring, but the roller coaster motion of ecstasy and agony is overwhelming and it'd be nice to maybe find that love of my life and settle down. Call me a romantic but I'm not sure if there's anything more appealing than having a girl you can sleep with on any night of the week with whom you'd actually LIKE to wake up next to.

I'll enjoy this oasis of vagina while it lasts, but when it inevitably dries up I'd like to avoid asking myself if I should've maybe cut back and looked for something different this time. Otherwise I know what comes next, and I know the pleasure isn't worth the pain.

Booze Clues

Booze cruise can mean alot of different things. To me it simply implies drinking booze on any sort of water traversing vessel. On 25th and the West Side resides an assortment of boats gently swaying with the Hudson that are hosts to (from what I can tell) some of the most attractive women in New York. The place, dubbed the Frying Pan (Not sure why), is made up of two ships tied together with thick seafairing rope and bridges (more like planks) to cross from one to the other. The one on which you enter is the larger of the two and has two bars. The drinks aren't cheap, but weren't as expensive as I might've thought being on the Hudson with a gorgeous view of Downtown and Jersey. My friend and I arrived around ten and after passing through various cliques of hot girls and post work guys we found the group with whom we were meeting. They were on the side ship, the smaller one, towards the back. We quickly said hi then immediately turned around recognizing our overwhelming need for drink. We bought a pitcher for what seemed like an affordable price and immediately started downing it. We knew one of the girls there, apparently it was her friend's 21st birthday party and what could be better than celebrating on a boat?

The views were astounding and I have to say that the attractiveness of the Pan's female guests was significantly higher than the average East Village bar (where I usually ply my trade). Our mutual friend introduced us to a few of the other guests at the party, but mostly we remained with said company. So there we were, the girl we knew, her roommate, my friend, and I, the perfect foursome. The rocking of the boat only served to enhance the feeling of inebriation. I was sober when I got there but the rising and falling of the ship could've convinced me otherwise. Funny enough, once I did reach the point of intoxication I hardly noticed the river's movement, probably attributable to my intense concentration on the drink at hand.

As the night moved further along and drinks continued to dissapear and reappear with purchase it became obvious that we would all be hooking up. Myself with the girl I had known before arrival (had hooked up with her once before) and my friend with her roommate (to my knowledge also with one prior hook up). It's likely this is what was always going to happen, but the booze definitely accelerated the process. I desperately wanted to stay awake but the movement of the water was so soothing and I had worked, and I was drinking, all things that alone could send me into an inescapable slumber. However, the thought of sex and all of its accompanying foreplay propelled me to wrestle back the fatigue.

I don't remember what time we left The Frying Pan, but I'm pretty sure we all then went to another bar to further pursue our alcoholic tendencies. It was at this point that I began feeling the gentle hands of my female companion along my rapidly growing member. Above the table we drank intermittently from our beers, but beneath we were rapidly moving towards mutual masterbation, or third base, or whatever you call it when your hands are fondling eachother's pleasure points. I don't know if this was more from sexual attraction, drunken horniness, or a desperate attempt to stay awake. Either way, even the sensitive attention being paid to my enlarged, throbbing...fatigue was only enough to keep my consciousness in flashes. She helped by repeatedly slapping me in the back of the head whenever I started to fade. I'm already sensitive to blows to the head (not like that, but yes like that too), but I had undoubtedly drank away alot of important brain cells and this latest trauma to my cranium could not be helping things.

I woke up to her laughing at me saying that it was 6:30 and I had to go to work, almost on cue my alarm went off. I had no idea of when I fell asleep, but as soon as I moved to get up I realized I was very much without clothes. Upon further investigation I discovered she must've been afflicted with the same desire to derobe...or we had just had sex. There were flashes of scenes in my mind, but I wasn't sure if they were real or not, but when I inquired, "So...did we...you know?" She curtly responded, "yes, we had sex and no I don't feel good about it either." Wait a sec, who said I didn't feel good about it? Either way I was late for work and probably still drunk, I found my clothes and stumbled out of her apartment trying to make my way back into my life.

Hapless Hour

It’s 3pm Friday and I’ve just walked into Sutton Place, a bar on 53rd St and Second Ave. The weather is miserable, raining all day with dark clouds covering the entire sky. The bar is empty when I arrive with one of my coworkers. It’s June 5th, the day of the annual Finance Happy Hour in the city and I’ve decided to ignore and avoid all discretion, giving in to the intentional recklessness to which my internal compass seems to lean.

Since I began working I’ve noticed things, little things, changing in my speech and thought patterns. The attention and focus needed to remain within the realm of the appropriate while in the office has taken a toll and appears to have pushed my out of office tendencies further into the profane. My conversation points have gone from mildly crass to grotesquely offensive. Tonight is a dangerous convergence of my out of work habitat (a bar) and my office coworkers and I’m relatively confident they’re going to see a side of me that will taint all interactions hence forth. However, even my early estimates at impending indiscretions did not match the vulgarity that followed.

I started with a bud light. Then I had another. About four more followed before people really started showing up at 4:30. I was still in my comfort zone and had only tested the waters. The bar was dark, and occupied almost entirely by my office brethren. I started changing beers every now and then but still had not brought liquor into the repertoire. Speech began to be more free and uninhibited. In a conversation with two coworkers that I was fairly close with along with two interns who had just started I threw out a one liner about my previous experiences in rape. I immediately saw from the terrified expressions on their faces that I had crossed lines. However, confused in my surroundings, I regretfully followed it up with my usual reaction to uncomfortable stares after inappropriate comments… I topped it with the next thing I said.

“Matt, you can’t make jokes about rape like that, look at the people that are here, Jesus.”

“What’s the big deal? It was only barely rape because she was unconscious. I’m sure she would’ve said yes had she been able to talk.”

I quickly realized I was the only one laughing, and no one else wanted to be associated with me. I had become toxic, maybe even more toxic than that 40 year old bald guy that was bad at his job and hit on all of the young analysts. They moved slowly away from me, backing away without taking their eyes off me like I was some sort of sexual deviant who they were afraid would attack…I suppose my prior conversation points did nothing to disprove that theory so I did the only thing I could do, I got another beer.

Thankfully for a while this seemed to be an isolated incident. I didn’t think they would tell anyone about my made up rape escapades so I was probably safe. I was talked into taking shots of tequila with some other analysts, which I happily did. This was probably the central turning point of the night. Before this moment I still maintained hints of control, now I was a zombie driven only by one thought, to consume more booze.

I suddenly found myself with another beer in my hand, someone had bought it for me, but there was a crowd around and I had no idea who it had been. I then realized I was in a conversation with my VP and one of my good friends. He talked about doing something and asked if I would do it. Without realizing what it was I told him if he did it, I’d do it. We then shook hands and he told me before the end of the summer we both had to go sky diving. I was thoroughly wasted and could barely discern his face. I just stammered in agreement praying that I wouldn’t fall over right there. Reinforcements arrived soon and a couple of my non work friends showed up to enable me to release some of my profane build up in the safety of their welcoming ears.

It looked like I might survive the night, albeit probably by passing out on the table in the back, but without thoroughly destroying the small reputation as a “nice guy” that I had. Then some coworkers approached us and my first comment was, “She has AIDS.” Things spiraled quickly out of control after this and I’m left with only vague flashes of scenes. One, in which I’m surrounded by concerned people asking, “Is he going to be ok?” I remember shouting “I’m fucking wasted!” and then chugging my beer and almost tipping over off my seat. Someone had brought a breathalyzer but I was so drunk I couldn’t even blow on the thing right and she quickly took it away before I could drop it in my beer to see what the BAC of Bud Light was. I think I called someone “mildly retarded” but I can’t be sure. The place was crowded but I was fading. I had been drinking for several hours without lunch or dinner and the shots had taken their toll. I really don’t know how bad things got, because to be honest I have no recollection of my final, dire moments entrenched in that Godforsaken mindfuck of beer taps and liquor bottles surrounded by people that could get me fired. It was a decidedly unforgiving combination.
I woke up the next morning sprawled on my couch, with the TV on, and the microwave beeping. I had a vicious headache and sick feeling of fear. Not because of what I could remember from the night before, but because of all moments I couldn’t

Jersey Jello

What do you get when you have a beautiful day, a grill, a bunch of people from high school, a ton of alcohol, an inflatable pool, and five pounds of industrial jello powder? A kickass time. When my friend told me I should go to this bbq with jello wrestling I was less than enthusiastic. To me it sounded like a bro out of bro epic proportions right in the bro epicenter of the world, Jersey, but I wasn’t really doing anything so I told him I’d stop by. As soon as I saw the keg and coolers filled with reserves I knew there was no chance in hell I’d leave.

Upon first arriving there were 15 people just eating and drinking. Nothing too wild and I played the conservative new guy role, keeping fairly quiet and limiting my interactions to the people I knew. Drinking does such wonderful things though. The atmosphere began to open up on my third drink as I shared a particularly vulgar joke involving peanut butter with some hysterically amused guys and terrified girls. The reaction between the genders was like night and day and from that point on I was “that guy.” I said the things no one else would dare to say (more likely no one else would ever think of saying).

When two guys grabbed hold of an unsuspecting female guest (one got her legs, the other her arms) and started carrying her screaming body toward the gelatinous inflatable tub I commented to a group of laughing onlookers, “Isn’t rape a wonderful thing?” The guy next to me spit out his entire beer in shock…the women vowed never to talk to me. The night generally went like that with the exception of a few brave double x chromosomes that could stomach or look past the utter profanity of my speech. I was having a great time though; I met some surprisingly cool guys, and actually started to wonder why I hadn’t spent more time in Jersey. I was drinking a shit load of free booze, eating free food and watching girls in bikinis writhe around in green jello. Call me a bro, but it was awesome. The stuffiness and perpetual sense of having to impress people or know what you’re doing in NY was refreshingly absent. In its place stood a few drunk, senseless people trying to impress with their shirts off, but the majority just relaxing with the crowd. Maybe a bro isn’t that different from an intellectual, one tries to impress with frosted tips and biceps while the other tries to impress with obscure quotes and favorite authors but the intentions are the same. And then I was splattered by jello. It was a threesome…not in the old fashion two girls one guy sense, more like the wrestling free for all of three men. Oddly it didn’t feel as gay as it should have. I didn’t even mention that everyone wore those ridiculous wrestling masks while in the jello ring, you know the ones that closely mirror those used in S&M except they’re bright and colorful and don’t have zippers across the mouth. Again, somehow it was not as gay as it should have been.

I think I arrived at 3:30. It was now 7:30 and I had been drinking constantly for four hours which was fine…but now I was getting drunk and there were more people, all of them strangers and it was getting harder for me to not get my ass kicked by some bro because I called his girl friend a “ragged meat curtain.” In my defense she wasn’t suppose to hear it and I didn’t even know who she was when I said it.

The keg was empty so I started drinking Heinekens and eating cupcakes. I met two girls one of which continued to claim that she knew me from high school. Despite speaking with them for the rest of the evening even now I am unsure of their names. I do remember repeatedly asking my friend when they weren’t looking to remind me, but some things just don’t stick as well non edible green jello. After finding out one of the girls was a self proclaimed feminist I launched into an ill advised tirade detailing all of the many reasons that women were inherently lesser beings than men. I then pretty much spent the rest of the night trying to convince them that I wasn’t as big of an asshole as it seemed and quickly asked for their forgiveness for all previous and future uses of the word, “cunt.” They reluctantly agreed. At this point the cloud of inebriation was thicker than the residual remains on the bottom of the kiddy pool. People were leaving. It was time for me to go too. I had met some cool people, made some friends, offended many more and had paid absolutely nothing to fill my system with unhealthy food and drink, Jersey, what a wonderful place.

About as random as it gets

Work brings with it not only a sense of worth and accomplishment, but also a nagging sense of burden and weariness. Arriving home you rest your shoulders, but know it's fewers hours to rest than the hours you spent in occupation, wage earning, for those of us fortunate enough to reside in that category.

It's at this point that for the fifth time of the day I notice the constant replaying of the song, "I Hate this Part" by the singularly talented Pussycat Dolls. Singularly talented, because although there is like 6 of them there is only one singer. I find it comical how blatantly obvious this is and how little they try to hide it. The other five are reduced to posing models and at best back up dancers. They're lucky if they get more than a blurry silhouette in the frame of the music videos while the lead (I have no idea who she is and am not shameless enough to do the wickipedia research required to learn her name) remains the only pussycat doll in focus.

The cursory glances I've had of the supporting cast convinces me they are all aesthetically talented women which is fine by me. Companies have been using beautiful women to advertise their products for eternity. Why not add five beautiful women regardless of musical ability to one gorgeously talented voice who also happens to be a fucking hot babe? Plus, pussycat dolls sounds so much better plural. This way you've always got the chance of bagging the "back up singers." If I were ever in a position to hit on one of the members of the group (let's hope it doesn't involve anything comparable to stalking) I would totally play on their insecurities. I imagine it would go something like this:

Me: (Speaking to "pretty face in the background girl #2" after passing by the hotter, talented one) You know she has an incredible voice, I love her music. (referring to the talented one)

Pretty Face in the background girl #2 (#2): You know we all sing?

Me: Yea, but she really stands out; she's really talented. I think with some luck she might make it.

#2: ...um, We've already had a bunch of hit songs you know.

Me: No, sorry I didn't mean make it in fame. I meant actually make it as an artist.

#2: Well what do you think of me.

Me: Listen, I don't care if everyone in the group thinks you've got less musical talent than that Asian guy from American Idol; I'd still hook up with you.

#2: Really? You would?

Me: Yea, why not? (Passionate lovemaking follows)

And scene. It's that easy; once you've convinced a girl she's all but worthless by complimenting everyone but her she's all but yours. Please note this works especially well on anorexic chicks. If this post doesn't send me to hell there is no hell. By the way for all parties concerned when I hit on women it's because I like their "personality"...that is the thing below their back and above their legs right?

This isn't what I expected

Yesterday afternoon I was sitting at a window side table for two at Singa's, a small Pizza place on 2nd Ave and 12th St, enjoying a cold pitcher of coors light (only $5.45 before 10pm) with a good friend of mine. I found it entertaining that as we shared beer after beer at 1:30 in the afternoon he insisted on convincing me to curb my drinking tendencies. Admittedly I spend more time in conversation on alcohol related content than all other topics combined. Drunk sex falls into the drunk, not sex, category because it's likely that if I wasn't drunk I wouldn't be having sex (my game improves by tenfold with each point on my BAC, plus like all people I'm a lot more likely to fuck anything that moves while ten beers in). Either way, the point was that I don't drink nearly as often as I talk about it...but outside of hours employed it gets pretty close.

The conversation first centered around serious issues but progressively devolved as our pitchers emptied. We talked about one and five year plans, you know grad school, degrees, jobs, ambitions, hope, dreams, disappointments. He talked about potentially heading back to school to pick up a few degrees then getting a job in a foreign country making third world cities more efficient. It seemed very ambitions, but actually very admirable and focused. There's something about putting your future in your own hands and consciously driving yourself to points so far off in the distance we have no way of predicting the pathway there, just the point we'd like to arrive at, that I've never been able to quite grasp. I have a bunch of things floating around in my mind perpetually romanticizing and reinforcing themselves into a bucket list. At the same time I idealize the absence of direction, the "let life bring to you what it will" approach.

The beer was helping enormously with my hangover. I had mixed one too many kinds of alcohol the night before, but the beer was settling down my system quite well. When we pushed into the last half of the second pitcher our moods began to change. We were raucous and entertained at our own blatantly elementary speech patterns.
"Yea well your shirt looks fat"
"Yea well I ate squirrel in Washington Square Park because I wanted nuts"
Obnoxious and unwarranted laughter ensued.

We had begun the day with a plan; we were focused. An hour of pregaming would lead into a stop at warehouse liquors to buy rum and then we'd be at our next stop by two ready for obscene shouting and gatorade flavored rum. Afterwards we'd go drink more, beer probably and then we would head downtown to the Patriot.

We started at 1:30, drank for an hour and a half. The booze blurred our senses and our direction became less discernible in the noise. We bought a bigger bottle of rum than we intended. We drank it faster than expected. Words were shouted but lacked the energy we anticipated. A return to Singa's followed where it seemed there was a never ending waterfall of cheap booze cascading into our mouths. Someone shook me awake, I chugged the beer in front of me, filled another then knocked it all over the table. When I got home around 8, thoroughly smashed, I went to take a quick nap to ready myself for the patriot. I woke up at 3 in the morning when my roommate and friends returned from there. There had been a brawl; they won, but it was really only thirty seconds and some guy got punched in the face four times. Nothing goes like you plan it to.

Out of time or alcohol?

Life moves on; that's one thing I've been learning. No matter how much you might want time to just stop, no matter how much you want to try and absorb the moment, the year, the stage of your life, the innocence of naive untainted youth, your world will move forward and it will drag you with it.

I've been working for a year now and have come to realize a thing or two during my time immersed in the cube.

First, I don't want to wake up five years from now and still be doing the same thing I'm doing now. In fact that's my number one fear and it's awoken me several times in the middle of night. I love my job and my coworkers, but I can't help feeling I'm here for something more than excel modeling and financial forecasting. Another country and adventure beckons, the only challenge is finding a way to finance this. I'm thinking book deal, peace corps, or shameless sale of my body...though that's more for me than the financing.

Second, some people are inherently bad. I don't mean murderous, I just mean indecent people without empathy, concern, or understanding for those unlike themselves. There are people so absorbed with themselves that a dying man begging for help would only be seen as a bloody inconvenience...for some reason I'm reminded of my ex wife.

Third, I've started thinking about drinking all the time. Back in college, usually I did actually just drink all the time, but now with at least 60 of my waking hours accounted for during the week and reserved for wrenching sobriety I have much less spare time to just relax and enjoy the wonders of a beverage alcoholic. The only, thing that calms me down when I think about this is the nice, cold glass of Jim Beam...shit I'm out.

New Years Déjà vu

Things were spinning dangerously out of control. Surely I had gone too far this time. Even in the midst of the moment I recognized an absence of discipline in my behavior, my speech, my movement, and my actions. There were people everywhere. Who were these people? Loud music bellowed out of speakers at the far wall near windows over looking Second Avenue. The deafenening sounds reverberated off the walls and condensed around my head making me even dizzier as I navigated through tightly knit cliques dispersed around the apartment. I recognized a group of girls huddled around the couches at the East wall of the apartment. Why did they look so familiar? They seemed intent on ignoring or dismissing me as I approached. The whiskey swashed violently around the bottle of Jim Beam I carried at my side like a harbinger of reckless misbehavior. I was dumb to all around me as I continued toward them when a memory struck me like a blow to the head. It was from earlier in the evening…I think. I recognized the vague scene in my mind as I stood conversing with them earlier. Then I remembered something going horribly wrong, loud, angry yelling in my direction. It came back to me in a sickening flash.

“Beth! Her name is Beth! Stop calling her Liz you fucking idiot!”

I had spent the entire night calling that girl the wrong name in front of all her friends. My actions were even more inexcusable given the fact that I met her over a year ago and partied with her countless times since then.

My view shifted from blurry recollections back to the present and I awkwardly changed direction to avoid walking into fiery pack of livid females. My mind was elsewhere anyways. Where were the friends that accompanied me here? This scene was all borderline familiar to me. I had seen these people before in one drunken night or another. My friends though had come with me from Jersey and were strangers to this crowd. How were they faring? I spotted one, comfortably standing with a group of my friends holding what I assumed to be some sort of vodka cocktail in a red plastic cup. I scanned the apartment for the other and he wasn’t hard to find.

His glazed over eyes seemed to stare at everyone at once. He wore some sort of jacket/sweatshirt contraption that he adorned despite the heat of the densely populated living room. All the while his short, spiked hair remained remarkably unaltered by any of his imaginative dance moves. In the fifteen seconds I stood observing him he passed through four different girls, rotating his attention from one to the other while he showered them in his masculine wiles half removing his jacket/sweatshirt and shifting it provocatively from side to side. Regretfully, it seemed the only person taking this dance seriously was himself.

Things were growing worse I thought. We had already lost one man to the cruel consequences of drink as he sat unconscious on the couch right at the center of this high energy gathering. My attempts to wake him proved futile and so he sat out this New Years drunk and unconscious while some tearful mess explained her life’s problems to him not quite comprehending that his sighs of approval were in fact just snores of slumber.

People continued giving me questionable looks when they noticed the gleaming glass bottle of Jim Beam firmly entrenched in my grip. My liberal swigs of the bronze liquor sent sickening shivers down their spines. They feared the actions I might take, and probably even more so the actions of my digestive system. I assured them I had done this before not knowing how else to comfort these strange beings around me. Even those I was friends with began to lose their shape. The booze filled my head with nonsense and my eyes with mist and at that point I stopped recognizing anyone.

2009 had already arrived it seemed. How long had I been living in this new year unaware of its arrival? The bathroom seemed to me the most logical place to look for answers. Four girls occupied the line to the restroom. I remember speaking to the one nearest me. What I said is beyond my powers of recollection; I only remember understanding a common loss of reality in both of us. Perhaps it was this joint absence of sense that brought us together in a sloppy mouth embrace. Whatever it was, I’m hopeful the concentrated whiskey on my breath killed any and all possible oral diseases that could have passed from one mouth to the other. As I walked away I looked down at my bottle. Where had all of it gone? Perhaps only a tenth of the whiskey remained, my mouth and stomach now a scorching host to the bourbon that had once resided in that bottle.

I then heard banging on the bathroom door and turned just in time to see my flamboyantly dancing friend emerge along side another female attendee of the party. He seemed confused and aimless as he staggered towards me. My other friend met us there; him being the only voice still on the side of reason. He gently ushered us to gather our coats recognizing the dangers of remaining here any longer when the booze had so clearly led us astray. So this was 2009, an aimless drunken foray into vaguely familiar scenes and ill advised hook ups. Even while obliterated I could feel the striking sense of déjà vu hovering above me as we stumbled back to my apartment and passed out for the first time of 2009.