Morning to nowhere

Light, cruel sweeping light, smothered my face in morning as I struggled from my air mattress to a stumbling position, managing to avoid a dreaded tumbling position. I left on the boxer briefs from last night and pulled on some shorts and a shirt. I fell in love with the gallon jug of water I'd bought yesterday and devoted my mouth to its opening for what seemed like a long time until I started choking. I opened the door and the stupid cat sprinted in before I could shut him out. I don't even know the furry thing's name, I just know the sound it makes at night when its on the balcony outside my window meowing at the world below. Things were unclear. I walked through the living room to the door out of the apartment and passed the couch pulled out into a bed with some stranger sleeping there. We looked at eachother for a moment, an awkward exchange of curiosity, fuck him though I had keys to the place; I lived here if only temporarily. The white walls of the 33rd floor seemed very serene, like a mental hospital and it was cool out here, much cooler than my room which liked to heat up like an oven at night when I tried sleeping. Not having air conditioning enabled these effects. The elevator arrived to this top floor and I was surprised when I saw 3 people in there not getting off. As I walked in one of the guys in a building uniform told me the elevator wasn't working very well and they'd trying getting to the lobby twice only to be shot back up to pick up more people. I nodded trying to understand but not really doing so. The doors closed and there was a cute girl in there and I looked at her but she didn't really look at me. The elevator arrived safely and they exhaled big sighs of relief as I exhaled a .3 BAC. Pathmark was a couple blocks up on 125th street and seemed a good destination. I couldn't remember last night but I felt that it was probably better that way. I passed the recycling machines where people were already lined up with their trash bags and carts depositing collected bottles and cans, new york city's chief foragers and experts in living without homes talked and laughed, some wore gloves peeling bottles one at a time from their coveted stash and pushing them into the machine, the cents jumping up with each new deposit. It was hot and I was sweating and I smelled. I tried peeling my shirt from my body, but I realized I was outside and Pathmark probably wouldn't like that. I bought an eight pack, but of orange gatorade. It wasn't cold, but it wasn't as hot as outside. My stomach suddenly felt weak and I didn't think I could drink anything so I just walked back to the recycling machines and gave people the gatorades. I walked back towards the Miles, the tall apartment building where some of my stuff currenlty resided. It wasn't going out that was the problem, it was finding a home

Going from Ronaldo to Ke$ha

Four AM is a great time for self reflection.

The above statement has literally nothing to do with this post except that what transpired did so at around 4 AM. Dehydrated from early evening drinking I awoke in the early morning and of course found sanctuary in the endlessly comforting embrace of the internet. The internet is to boredom what alcohol is to sobriety: its unstoppable solution.

With a trip to South Africa fast approaching (and a bank account quickly dwindling) I logged onto youtube to watch some soccer videos...a habit I've once had compared to porn addiction. It's been years since then though and my futbol compilation fetish has long since waned. Anyways, I went from from one cristiano ronaldo highlight reel to another until I fell upon one with Katy Perry as background music (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ju1F2W-O8fg&feature=related). I immediately thought of Russell Brand, her fiance and the english lothario from Forgetting Sarah Marshall whos autobiography I'd just finished reading. Quickly I found myself typing in his name and watching a stand up performance in New York (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g4mXZ2FSlUo). After speaking about his experience in hosting the MTV Music Awards and some of the scenes with Britney I quickly then looked up these as I apparently missed all news of these MTV Music Awards...mainly on account of me not realizing MTV had anything to fuckin do with music. So there I am and in my room is me, Russell Brand, Britney Spears, and an elephant (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YgeUXLVcI6E). Of course I couldn't stop there and quickly followed this with the following http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-Yldq2pQwTI&feature=related. After this enterainment I was of course compelled to revisit my short but passionate love affair with Britney's song, Circus. I'll spare you the link on this occassion, but as I sat, now at 5am listening to this song I thought of my other recent infatuation, that of the new pop sensation, seemingly debaucherous, ironic dollar sign in name Ke$ha. And so that's how I found myself here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qGp6xC5MXic

The internet is like a box of chocolates, you never quite know what your'e gonna get.

Lower than Lower East Side

It’s Friday night and you live in New York City so you know there may be lines. You’ve always hated lines outside bars and clubs but generally succeed in avoiding the types of places that would have them. However, every now and then the occasional birthday party, reunion, charity event, etc arises to require your attendance.

For instance, once, nearly 3 years ago, you put yourself through the dreadful, artificial atmosphere of the meatpacking district to attend a club for your friend’s 21^st birthday. They were “doing it big” with tables and bottles and ice and five figure bar tabs. It’s not that you didn’t have a good time, dancing and orally exchanging ice cubes with your friend’s cousin was an interesting story in itself, it’s that this place just doesn’t suit you. You don’t want to feel important or classy or cool, mostly you just want to feel drunk and as we all know location doesn’t matter for that.

So this past weekend while drinking beer at some banker bar in Chelsea you send out your one size fits all mass text message to quickly elicit alternative means of entertainment. It’s through this process that you’re reminded of a friend’s birthday at Gallery Bar, a Lower East Side venue. The Lower East Side used to be a neighborhood you thoroughly avoided between the nocturnal hours of ten and six, but slowly you’ve grown more accepting as long as you stay away from bars like pianos which, frankly, just suck. You tell her you’ll be there and along with your good friend Nik hail a cab and head southeast. Upon arrival you see the entrance roped off like a crime scene and there are four wannnabee detectives dressed in sports jackets and designer jeans rubbing their five day old facial scruff in two minute intervals. There’s no line as you approach but that doesn’t stop some small, loud talking doorman from halting you with a condescending hand and asking “what party are you here with?”

“Christina’s” you tell him.

“Christina’s and Steve’s?” He asks incredulously.

“Of course.” You both assure him.

“Wait right here.” He says before turning around seemingly annoyed that he’s been forced to spend time with these line occupying peons. You hear someone refer to him as “Perez” and completely understand why he would have that name. The line begins growing as you quickly discern two types of people, those that quietly move to the back of the line and those that don’t. Those that don’t seem to be made up of consciously hot girls and self absorbed guys with gelled manes and fake smiles wooing the doorman as he laughs, hugs, and opens the velvet rope to happily admit them inside. You’re instantly reminded why at times you’re sure New York is the most evil place in the world.

Two guys in sports jackets, graphic t-shirts and hair flipped up in the front next approach the pale, beanie wearing Perez to concoct an obscenely uninteresting sob story. You watch as the sad faced newcomer says, “I’m just trying to see my cousin who’s in there.” It’s all the more shocking though when you watch the douchebag doorman, pleasantly satisfied that these bro boys have spent the last five minutes effectively fellating his oversized ego, allow them to enter. You would’ve thought they believed he was Jesus or at least Ghandi with the way they praised him as they walked in. “Yea, he’s a real hero” you think to yourself. In a moment though your instinctive reactions get the better of you as you exclaim immediately following their entrance, “hey! My cousin’s in there too!” A chorus of laughter erupts from the line behind you now also aware of our gatekeeper’s tragic shortcomings.

“My sister’s in there!” someone else yells quickly followed by Nik yelling “My cousin’s sister’s in there!” Despite the obvious humor the joke is not appreciated by your new night working friend whose power you haven’t respected but mocked. He locks eyes on you and approaches. It’s a standoff straight out of the Discovery channel and his body posture and unearned air of superiority make it obvious he thinks he has the upper hand. No matter what happens here though he doesn’t; because he’s still a prick LES doorman, which maybe on the spectrum of doormen is impressive, but on spectrum of life still falls below drug dealer, amateur porn star, and endangered species hunter.

“Seriously?” He asks you disdainfully.

“It’s just a joke.” You tell him, not really believing it

“Seriously if you don’t stop you’re just gonna have to leave.” You hold back your mocking laugh until he’s distracted by a group of whorish honies eager to play the game and cast aside respect for entrance. You wonder who’s worse the doorman for yielding power so irresponsibly or the eager patrons who give it to him. It’s at this point that Perez learns the word, “capacity.”

“Capacity” is what the owner tells him the bar has just reached before letting in six more girls. Excited as this addition to his meager vocabulary he begins proudly announcing the bar has reached CAPACITY and that they won’t be able to let anyone in right now. If you knew any better you’d guess he wanted to wrap his eccentric arms around the word and jam his impotent doorman dick into one of the A’s.

After ten more minutes of waiting and 500 more uses of the word capacity you’re growing impatient. You’ve told your friend you’ll make an appearance for her birthday but certainly she’d have to understand the extenuating circumstances. You think you’ll just query the man on the other side of the rope for an estimate on time to enter.

“Hey, it looks like a lot of people have been leaving, any idea on much longer it might be for us to get in?” You ask without any sort of dissension, though you know you want to.

“Seriously? You’re seriously asking me that right now? If you don’t stop being such an asshole you’re not even gonna get to stand here you understand?”

“Wait what? I just asked how long you think it’ll be; I’m not being an asshole.”

“Alright you’re seriously gonna keep asking me? Really?” This flamboyant cunt prick is fucking with you and you’ve just about had enough of it. You’re about to say something that will A) Get you kicked out B)Get you kicked out and punched in the face by the bouncer a couple feet away or C) get you kicked out after punching the doorman before getting beat up by that dude’s cousin who’s still inside along with 3 of his friends that have gone in since. Before you retort though someone yells the doorman’s name as the owner’s bushy head is sticking out the entrance and is yelling at the bouncer to start letting people in. The bouncer who’s sat quietly to the side, remaining a neutral but no less innocent, checks your id and lets you in the side entrance while the self important Perez is busy being complimented by more soulless partiers.

The Other Guy

The Other Guy - The guy that is not the main one. An unserious diversion from the real interest. synonym-guy on the side, tool of jealousy, one night stand, mistake, me.

As I think back upon my brief yet scarring romantic history I seem to continue coming to the same conclusion. That other guy was me. Here's a brief chronological synopsis to explain:

5th grade - Crush on Maria in Mexico City seems to be reciprocated until Ariel's bday party where she spends the whole night trying to dance with my best friend Mario.

9th grade- Stephanie from English class entices with seductive eyes and random phone calls to my house, perhaps giving the first glimmer of hope to my worried parents that I'm not gay. With double Cs she inevitably ends up dating the JV football team and stops returning my calls.

11th grade-Ashley from art class always talks about hanging out and even proposes getting together on valentines day. Ditches me at last moment to get back with her ex boyfriend while I spent valentines day playing video games to the bemusement of my parents who I'd already told I had a date.

College-Well if you don't know this one by now you haven't read this blog. Girl dates guy while trying to get back with ex guy or get with new guy... either way I'm the other guy.

After examining this undeniable pattern of mistrust and misperception it's hard to believe I was surprised after another recent event. Booze flowed freely (I didn't have to pay for any of it) from 6pm on. My night began in a relaxed setting at a coworkers home as I drank dangerous combinations of beer and sangria. Treating them interchangeably until 1030 when i departed back to the city. The nap on the ride home energized me and I headed downtown more awake at midnight than I had been in some time. A roaring welcome to the party only served to enhance my mood and I immediately targeted a defenseless bottle of Jim Beam, pouring its contents straight into a plastic cup with ice. After, drunken dialogue with a certain female counterpart showed signs of potential. The drink fell to my thirst and I filled the cup yet again with a massive pour, finishing what had once been a half full bottle of bourbon. Teasing comments were made about my past transgressions while I employed inebriated charm to combat false perceptions. Making further use of my drunk faculties I conceived an overly complimentary letter to said female. This succeeded in unlocking her lips but not unweaving the webs of deception of which I was already ensnared. Being kicked out of a room without warning at 430 in the morning is not a good sign kids. After a make out session to a degree I can't honestly remember I journeyed home. The next day I stayed true to my word as a man interested in more than just a drunk mistake and asked her to hang out in my sober company. After I'm sure hours of avoiding a response she curtly texted back that it wasn't a good idea because she was, of course, "dating someone."

That other guy was me.

That's Boken....

According to the unquestioned resource of Wikipedia, "St. Patrick's Day is an annual feast that celebrates St. Patrick, the most recognized patron saint of Ireland and is celebrated on March 17th." A national holiday in Ireland, the US has adopted it as a public holiday. After scenes from last Saturday I'd argue that it might be the MOST public holiday we have, at least when celebrated across the Hudson in the fair city of Hoboken.

The definition of St. Paddy's day I suppose is vague enough to be interpreted in many different ways. Yesterday, March 6th a full 11 days before the recognized date of the celebration is a stretch on its own. However, the leniency of interpretation afforded to "feast" is the most questionable as the meaning must be wide enough to encompass an appalling display of unapologetic debauchery to the most deplorable degree. I'd been warned about the intensity of St. Paddy's Day in Hoboken, but after living in NYC for 6 years I quickly dismissed these concerns as naive and confidently hopped onto the Path Train wearing a dark green t-shirt accompanied by the always dependable Dr. Gonzo.

I should've sensed trouble brewing when I saw the demographics of riders crowding into the path train. Two guys next to us mixed a bottle of whiskey with coke. Girls about our every side all conversed with the words "like," "you know," and "fuck," in five word intervals. The train arrived and the doors opened to a teeming underground hang over. Only 4:30pm the entire station smelled of booze and regret.

Hoboken, being so close to New York managed to create the perfect storm of unrepentant depravity. Legions of Investment Banking Bobbies flocked in from Manhattan with hair slicked back and green sports jackets purchased solely for this occasion. This disturbance was met by Bro Brigades travelling from exotic faraway destinations like the Jersey Shore, Long Island, and North Jersey. Finally, completing the disaster stew, swarms of man craving, liqour chugging, drama inciting females flocked to the scene like it was their own personal Mecca, except instead of bowing in prayer they bent over and boked.

Forget http://www.overheardinnewyork.com/, I heard more appalling comments in one block than I've ever read on the popular blog. Dr. Gonzo recognized the region as a highly lucrative market for HGH dealers as tight shirt wearing, neck bulging masses of booze and rage seemed perpetually on their way to, from, or in a fight.

Girls slumped over on the curb, unconcious or dead, were such a normal sight that they stopped meritting even a second look. After finally making it past the bar filled Washington Avenue we reached the destination of our party. Where all hell had already broken loose. The apartment was carpeted in beer, liquor, some girl from Stephen's Institute of Technology and a stunning collection of aluminum. My feet felt sticky as I tried moving through the huddled masses while simulatenously avoiding pissing off any of the guys with the lingering far off stairs just aching for a chance to punch a hole in a wall.

Lemons shot around the walls and I saw a guy I knew judo chop a stranger's vagina. The reception, obviously, was not welcome. However, that was the least of anyone's problems. Some girl with tears repeatedly tried to reason with an angry lover. Another angry man tried to reason with a potential fucker and another guy I knew puked his pants. I wasn't drunk or insane enough to stay long. In my better (younger) years a place like this would've felt natural, almost paradise like, now it felt dirty and wrong...like sex with a married chick.

We survived the walk back pausing only to pick up a stray $40 and watch a bouncer beat the drunken shit out of an unruly patron, made complete when a cop arrived and someone shouted, "First you got fucked up! Now you get locked up!" Forcing ourselves onto a train we had not escaped the date rapiness of Jersey as all around us creepy men were trying to lure drunken women into devious encounters. My stomach hurt; it was a bad but sadly not forgettable place.

Snow Day

Flaky bits of sky and ice swirled around my window today, somehow impossibly floating upward and spinning round in graceful cyclones between the spaces of buildings. I'd happily shut my alarm off at 6:30 am comforted in the knowledge that my office had been closed, snow day all the way.

Alas though, in today's corporate world's where everyone is blackberried in and carries around laptops like notepads and pens there is no such thing as a snow day at least not in the truest old school sense of the word. There is no respite from your tasks, the show, the spreadsheets, the presentations must go on like some self important all encompassing mass of bull shit...that is unless you care so little about your job that an excursion from the office gives way not to increased productivity in solitude by unquestionable slackery of the highest degree. My work computer idled in the background as I intermittently moved the mouse around at ten minute intervals to appear active to anyone checking in on my "green light" for our company's instant message communicator. In between these mouse moving exercises i half heartedly answered simple emails and even went "above and beyond" by phoning into two conference calls.

The snow came in waves, sometimes the outside of my window looked like a paper mache explosion while at others it was calm and still as could be. Not more than a month ago I would've started drinking the moment I heard the robotic voice on our company's weather line say "All New York Area offices are closed today," but that was then and now was sober. I was sober, and it was ok...somehow. Kicking the alcohol may have been a positive step for my health and wellness, but it held absolutely no impact on my piss poor attitude towards responsibility and office reputation. An office reputation that this Friday would likely suffer another irreparable setback as a night of good ol' fashion boozin with coworkers was on the cards, with the added spice of me being the center of attention in a potential blind date sort of hook up as a coworker tries to set me up with an unfortunate friend of hers (6 years my senior). This plot can yield nothing if not an interesting story and I plan to play my part to the highest degree of foolishness. The thing I'm best at seems to be screwing things up for myself and I think it's time I embrace that; while my feet get settled on my out of work life and I've found new stable ground I'll delight in watching my professional reputation light up in flames, after all it'll be me striking the first match after I've doused myself in booze.

Bobby

Bobby grew up in Greenwich, Connecticut amid stirring Northeastern foliage, large oak trees, and tightly trimmed grass. The landscape on his parent's estate always had a tight, maintained feel mostly a result of the immigrants his family employed to carefully manage the lawn and shrubbery.

In elementary school initial tests showed Bobby to be near remedial level in all core academic subjects and it was agreed he would be held back a grade and receive special tutoring until a mysterious closed door meeting between Bobby's father, the Great Hedge Fund Manager Bobby Sr. and the school's principal. Following this, a remarkable turnaround occured in Bobby's academic performance and the subject of his underdeveloped brain was dropped altogether.

At the advent of Middle School Bobby played part time roles in local area baseball and fencing leagues, excelling in neither yet he was lauded for the "top notch" end of the season parties he threw at his house often centered around his enormous pool and video game room which contained all of the latest hits and gadgets. Kids not invited to Bobby's parties generally became considered uncool as their prior friends were all lured away by Mario Kart and Golden Eye on Bobby's enormous projection tv as well as the gracious culinary service arranged by his family to always retain at least two cooks on duty.

Throughout high school Bobby continued to artfully employ his blessed home and personnel to climb the high school caste system. His first serious girlfriend, Rebecca Chesire, came from another well known family and they first initiated their romance at one Bobby's parents cocktail soirees. Acting on limited cerebral capacity and three virgin daquiries he bravely took Rebecca's hand as he led her to his "chill den" (the video game lounge was so middle school) where they kissed with tongues. Rebecca would later tell her friends that his breath smelled like "dog shit" and that he cried after, begging her to never leave him. Despite being unimpressed with Bobby's game she continued their relationship at the urging of her parents and the bribe of a brand new Lexus for her 16th birthday. They were together until after prom when upon attempting sex for the first time Rebeccas was so unimpressed with his anatomical tools that she walked out laughing. Bobby maintains Rebecca made the whole thing up and spread a vicious rumor that she had herpes and was probably a lesbian.

On the academic front despite repeated difficulty in completing any of the reading or math assignments demanded of him, Bobby proved adept at networking and making use of other people's natural aptitudes in scholarly pursuits. Sure some people called what he did cheating, (receving copies of the test prior to the exam, having other students write papers for him, paying that nerd Stephen to take his SATs) but surely he was just following his instincts.

Receiving excellent SAT scores he went on to attend Trinity and joined the university's ultra competitive Greek circuit and through connections of his father eventually settled on Alpha Delta Phi where he was made "class bitch" by the Senior Gerald Evans. Bobby was eager to please though and diligently completed all of his cleaning and cooking tasks by paying local vagabonds in booze and cocaine he got through "that mexican in econ" to rigorously finish all duties assigned to him. College proved just as susceptible to alternate means of passing and through almost no learning of his own he succeeded in graduating cum laude in four years. With a semester left his father arranged an interview with Goldman Sachs to join their Investment Banking division. After "nailing" the interview while talking about the preferred golf courses in the greater New York City area, and their favorite French restaurants he started in August of 2009 sporting a tailored made suit from Italy and custom made shoes that shined brighter than his graduation rolex.

In January of 2010 he went out and got "loaded" with friends eager to begin another night of drug driven ecstasy and pussy filled fantasy. Although he had yet to get laid in New York, he repeatedly bragged about the volumes of phone numbers he'd procured from the "finest snatch" in the city. Despite nights usually ending in on demand porn, lotion, and tissues he frequently recounted imagined sexual encounters with girls met out at clubs as reality.

On this particular night he wore his hair tighly cropped in a comb over part and applied fifteen times the recommended dosage of hair gel before beginning his customary scent applications a questionable mix of colognes, deoderants, and something a chinese man had sold him on while talking about pheremones, lunar cycles, and female cum. Then he adorned his "number one" sports jacket and diesel jeans. After doing "wicked number of shots" at best friend Sebastian's place they went to start the night at B Bar, a trendy but more often than not empty bar on 4th St and Third Ave. While there he spotted two unaccompanied "grade A hotties" as he would later tell Sebastian, who had already moved on to another bar. With all of his blind ignorant confidence, acquired over years of purchasing things he wanted, he approached the pair and boldly sat down talking about how "beautiful and exemplary each was." As he began to move in on the blonde with the Southern twang I arrived to his dismay. "That's when this total fag came in and completely cock blocked me" he would tell coworkers that Monday. He was trying to convince the guests to accompany him to Brass Monkey and generously offered to charge all expenses to his company credit card; he was after all "an invenstment banker" he kept reminding us. Seeing our lack of enthusiasm he vigorously requested blonde one's number until she relented. After promising to return to no one's concern he latched onto the defenseless blonde's hand and planted perhaps the cheesiest most vomit inducing kiss to a hand I have ever witnessed. After leaving he would proceed to call said emotionally damaged girl five times to no answer on each occasion. Following this he would be profiled on this blog as a warning to future prey.

You have been warned.