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?
Monday, March 09, 2009
Sunday, March 01, 2009
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
