Why You Should Never Wait

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

New York Bar Hopping …and subsequent stumbling

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

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

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

When Photos Are All That Remain

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

View From the Past: Constructive Alcoholism

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you two even go here?”

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

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

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

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