Relationships are not a subject I’m well versed on. In fact, relationships are a subject with which I have no versing, or experience, or whatever you’d call it when you haven’t had a girlfriend. Friendships, friendships with benefits, benefits without friendships, one night stands, booty calls, regretted calls, and an impressive amount of drunken dials, debacles, spectacles, and of course rejectacles (not a word but I was on a streak so forgive me) have been the extent of my forays into “romance.” When people find this out I usually get a quizzical look and the question, “why?” As if this had been a conscious effort on my part to avoid any sort of intimacy and security, not to mention a guaranteed lay on those oh so lonely Saturday nights.
It’s not a question, despite its frequency, that I’ve ever had an answer readily at hand for, probably because I still haven’t quite figured it out myself yet. Usually I make a joke about my inability to attract women (not entirely true) or something along those lines to which I then get more confused looks which only requires more explaining or jesting until they drop the subject and I’m allowed to drift back into my comfort zone of odious one liners and comebacks.
The life of a bachelor I find is not at all fulfilling or even half-filling for that matter. However, without ever having ventured into the chains on, shield drawn, taken world of having an exclusive relationship I will presume that being a bachelor is infinitely more interesting and enlightening. You learn more about yourself when your pushed to the edge of desperation after two months in a row without so much as a hug from a girl to the edge of rapture after going through four different girls in three nights. You learn more about people when you put yourself out there every time you’re out, from trying an assortment of overused, undersuccesful pick up lines, to sociological studies in the text from The Game to comprehend why it is that girls never talk or show interest in you. Not to mention the girls you do meet and actually start getting to bases with; it really is incredible, I find, how different every girl can be.
One thing I can say for certain is that it is much easier to be perceived as an asshole while rambunctiously courting every girl that shows the slightest interest…or eye contact. Growing up I never thought I would be that kind of guy. Having always considered myself a “nice guy” (with varying degrees of accuracy), I envisioned being with a “nice girl” (if there is such a thing) in a happy romance that could be taken slow and grow into something more. You know, the kind of wholesome development that Disney raised us on. This, however, has not been the case as should be abundantly obvious by now.
To be fair there are two reasons for this, me, and every girl I’ve ever met. I find that I take conversation, sense of humor, and personality entirely too seriously and have tastes so specific they’d probably keep me from dating Jessica Alba and the entire Pussicat Dolls (except for the blonde, I just feel like I could relate to her). That might be a bit of an exaggeration but not by much. Additionally, with my lack of experience at ever making it to a point where cheating is actually something I could be guilty of I am persistently unsure as to what the girl wants and usually succumb to my overwhelming self doubt in concluding she’s probably not interested in me. I’ve come close a couple of times. Times in which I found a girl that met my specific standards of humor, conversation, and personality and actually showed some interest in me as well. These are the examples that have probably most shaped my view towards women…and myself. I no longer consider myself a Saint to say the least and have come to the conclusion that I probably will not be challenging for any good character awards until I have graduated from the single life. I have also realized that of all the wrongs I’ve been guilty of, I have also been a victim of a cruel sense of karma which hovers over me and it’s only a question of who struck first my wrongs or theirs.
As for the future, will it bring more unrelenting sin and excitement or will I be at last rewarded with a boring, uneventful stability only possible in the midst of a faithful, funless relationship? I got my fingers crossed and my eyes peeled but most likely I’ll settle for my drink strong and my thirst welcoming.
Monday, September 29, 2008
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Alcoholics Unanonymous
I want to be an alcoholic not for the self destruction, not for the vomiting, not to disappoint people, not for rehab, and not to be like an A list celebrity. I want to be an alcoholic to keep things interesting. Some might think, “Matt, that sure is a silly thing to do just to keep things interesting.” And they’d be right, but I still wouldn’t like those people because they say the word silly and that frankly is not ok. Now, from my highly educated knowledge on alcoholism (via VH1 True Life and the tabloids of course) I can gather that alcoholism is an excellent way to have a story made about you and since I’m always looking for a chance to keep my life as fascinating as possible this seems like an excellent opportunity. It also follows a very linear path and requires little to no transition from the previous stepping stone of my life story, college. I’m fairly certain that I could simply continue the rampant drinking habits brewed during my time in school and be classified as at least a novice alcoholic. Drinking 4 nights in a row in college isn’t alcoholism its finals week. Blacking out isn’t amnesia it’s Friday morning. And Beer before Liqour makes you sicker isn’t common sense it’s commonly disregarded. Plus, and perhaps most importantly there is always someone to drink with before that 2pm lecture and always someone that has had a rough Monday and could use a vodka tonic cocktail. Now as the only place college can be found in my life is the past I’m not surprised I still savor that rambunctious chaos that eight too many can bring. Moderation is for pussies you might live longer, but myself, I’d die of boredom much quicker than liver deterioration.
Monday, September 22, 2008
Tales from a Stamford Soiree
Along with fixed condescension, botox and jewelry seemed preordained in this epicenter of high society frivolity conveniently located at an ostentatious Stamford waterside restaurant. The superficial stares of interest plastered on these wealth stained middle aged to just aged merchants of high class pretension warranted at the least a cautious awareness of my company and at the worst a self inflicted shotgun blast to the head. The shotgun blast option gained steam early on as two elderly gentlemen in specially tailored white slacks matching their crisp oxford, collared button downs disdainfully brushed me aside without even a “thank you” while I stood holding the door for them. The night, without the availability of an infinite supply of alcohols, some stronger, some tastier, but all nonetheless alcoholic, would likely have concluded with a gradual self bludgeoning to the cranium with any blunt object within reach. Somehow I doubt this would’ve caused the slightest stir among these people so ingrained in a culture of denial, deception, and ignorance to the plight of men outside the top 2% of net wealth. Needless to say at this point it was a stage set for obnoxious self gratification of the undeservedly wealthy as they all simultaneously gave themselves unwarranted pats on the back for their “charity.” They called spending a miniscule amount of their daily income on some pompous fundraiser “volunteerism.” They were engrossed in celebrating their own humanitarian ideals and simultaneously drinking and enjoying the very affluence which their supposed benefactors would never touch or taste. It was truly mutual masturbation in the most unholy of ways as they lubricated themselves with mutual funds and long term assets and ejaculated out whiny diatribes of thoughtless reflection revolving around the disenfranchised workers across our great nation and the possibility of an aided youth putting these injustices to rest. I now disgustingly wiped off these very “injustices” from my just dry cleaned shirt. So long as you don’t shine a black light on me I thought.
The outdoor terrace on a lofty wooden deck over looked a bay of mansions and yachts gently swaying in the calm breeze. It was a “White Hot Night Party.” It certainly was white I observed. Aside from the Indian co worker that joined us on this unfortunate foray the only non Caucasian attendees were the courageous service corps of waiters and bar tenders. They really did promote “diversity” at this charitable event. The mood was uplifting as conversation centered on second and third homes, what Maggie had done with her new Mercedes, and how Rebecca really looked dashing with that new stylist from Romero that took 10 years off her age. I’m sure the plastic surgery had nothing to do with it nor did the thousand dollar spa treatment including a facial.
If only I had given these sheltered aristocrats my idea of a facial I would’ve at least humbled them to the real treatment of the people they step on while wasting more energy than a West African Village and spending more on dinner than the GDP of Ethiopia. To the end this is just thoughtless ranting at a segment I blindly dislike and am unable to tolerate. They don’t know me, and if I’m lucky they never will.
The outdoor terrace on a lofty wooden deck over looked a bay of mansions and yachts gently swaying in the calm breeze. It was a “White Hot Night Party.” It certainly was white I observed. Aside from the Indian co worker that joined us on this unfortunate foray the only non Caucasian attendees were the courageous service corps of waiters and bar tenders. They really did promote “diversity” at this charitable event. The mood was uplifting as conversation centered on second and third homes, what Maggie had done with her new Mercedes, and how Rebecca really looked dashing with that new stylist from Romero that took 10 years off her age. I’m sure the plastic surgery had nothing to do with it nor did the thousand dollar spa treatment including a facial.
If only I had given these sheltered aristocrats my idea of a facial I would’ve at least humbled them to the real treatment of the people they step on while wasting more energy than a West African Village and spending more on dinner than the GDP of Ethiopia. To the end this is just thoughtless ranting at a segment I blindly dislike and am unable to tolerate. They don’t know me, and if I’m lucky they never will.
Monday, September 08, 2008
Canadian Bacon
Eccentricities abounded in this bristling pastiche of metropolitans. Tables lined the right of the venue with amber lights oozing up along the walls of this dark lower east side scene. The waitress had long, wavy black hair and a backless dress. I spotted the table with our neighbors to the North by a fierce aroma of cigarettes and high pitched “ehh’s” and “yahh’s.” The five beers I’d drank at my apartment before arriving proved essential in order to withstand the dull, tasteless conversation flowing across the table. Something about a girl’s job and what she did, working with “two full departments” and managing human resources…you know something along those lines. There were bright spots though. The sister of my only acquaintance at the table actually had an attention rousing past and sense of humor far beyond that of the two gentlewomen sitting across from me. Regardless, as I heard tales from Lebanon, France, and regretfully, Toronto I quickly ordered a drink, a touch of bourgeois class with a Stella, the everyman’s elite. I smiled persistently and drank constantly.
Predictably it was mid drink when I noticed some odd gender arrangements in the near corner of the bar. My friend mentioned to me that the entire corner had been rented about by a party of seventy. Looking over I audibly questioned what kind of party it was if they didn’t even have any girls. Of course, my question answered itself as I scanned the party and fell upon a graphic make out session taking place in a not so private area between two of the guys at the party. “Good for them” I thought, they’re already enjoying the night and it’s not even eleven. When I turned my gaze back to my party I realized half of them had left the table for their fifth cigarette break, each returning with a refreshing fragrance of incinerated toxins.
The entire time I was trying to decide whether the nausea induced by the stench of cigarettes was enough to keep me from being attracted to this fascinating mutt of clashing cultures, curly brown hair, and a sizeable chest. Her case certainly wasn’t helped by us needing to be so close to each other to speak at the next bar that I actually felt my own heart rate slowing from the residual nicotine on her breath. However, again the conversation we did engage in proved to be that hard to find mix of limit pushing punch lines and harsh observations of lesser beings around us. As we each watched in shameless entertainment as some twenty something in a long sleeve button down with the top three buttons open and half a bottle of gel in his hair approach one of the girls we were with, the human resources one, with an obvious intent to “pick up.” We enacted the conversation among ourselves dubbing his own lines with those of our choice, a very possible blog entry in itself as we leaned forward listing an assortment of disastrously dumb and unattractive pick up lines. Without going through the entire array I can tell you that “So, what are you drinking and can I buy you your next one.” As well as “You’ve got really great skin, moisturize?” did come up as distinct possibilities that if nothing else deserve further study.
After more drinking, some choice music and accompanied poor dancing I ended up waking between two girls, neither of which had been introduced up to that point in the night. There was, it seems, a distinct shift in which I went from lucid and partially appropriate, to blacked out and mildly offensive. Luckily I entered that transition only after reuniting with some long lost friends and leaving the group I had been with earlier. To avoid any misconceptions, there was no sex involved and the sleeping arrangement was completely consensual.
Predictably it was mid drink when I noticed some odd gender arrangements in the near corner of the bar. My friend mentioned to me that the entire corner had been rented about by a party of seventy. Looking over I audibly questioned what kind of party it was if they didn’t even have any girls. Of course, my question answered itself as I scanned the party and fell upon a graphic make out session taking place in a not so private area between two of the guys at the party. “Good for them” I thought, they’re already enjoying the night and it’s not even eleven. When I turned my gaze back to my party I realized half of them had left the table for their fifth cigarette break, each returning with a refreshing fragrance of incinerated toxins.
The entire time I was trying to decide whether the nausea induced by the stench of cigarettes was enough to keep me from being attracted to this fascinating mutt of clashing cultures, curly brown hair, and a sizeable chest. Her case certainly wasn’t helped by us needing to be so close to each other to speak at the next bar that I actually felt my own heart rate slowing from the residual nicotine on her breath. However, again the conversation we did engage in proved to be that hard to find mix of limit pushing punch lines and harsh observations of lesser beings around us. As we each watched in shameless entertainment as some twenty something in a long sleeve button down with the top three buttons open and half a bottle of gel in his hair approach one of the girls we were with, the human resources one, with an obvious intent to “pick up.” We enacted the conversation among ourselves dubbing his own lines with those of our choice, a very possible blog entry in itself as we leaned forward listing an assortment of disastrously dumb and unattractive pick up lines. Without going through the entire array I can tell you that “So, what are you drinking and can I buy you your next one.” As well as “You’ve got really great skin, moisturize?” did come up as distinct possibilities that if nothing else deserve further study.
After more drinking, some choice music and accompanied poor dancing I ended up waking between two girls, neither of which had been introduced up to that point in the night. There was, it seems, a distinct shift in which I went from lucid and partially appropriate, to blacked out and mildly offensive. Luckily I entered that transition only after reuniting with some long lost friends and leaving the group I had been with earlier. To avoid any misconceptions, there was no sex involved and the sleeping arrangement was completely consensual.
Saturday, September 06, 2008
Middle Age
What is middle age? I think to myself. One year ago I had a simple answer, 30. Simple enough, 30 from a college student’s perspective embodies all those essential characteristics of one in old age…it’s half of 60, at which point we all decided life was no longer worth living anyways. 30 is when one should be in the midst of a budding career, and should at the precipice of starting a family. From what I’m learning though, 30 has a much closer resemblance to my college escapades than it does one’s proverbial middle age archetype, their parents.
When my elder coworkers go out drinking more than I do; when they descend to more juvenile humor than immediately occurs to me, and when I find myself utterly speechless at the unapologetic vulgarity of these hard to place thirty somethings I’m reminded that I still have much to look forward to. Old enough to have thoughtful and intriguing conversation, young enough to hit on my friends…and their younger sisters, and confident enough to come into work more hung over than a frat boy after homecoming I might very well see this become the prime of my life.
Having only been working for a mere six months I already feel I have more in common with these limbo dwelling souls than I do with some of the peers of my age. We relate in thinking back fondly to our college days, days with similar tastes yet limited responsibility and an abundance of time to “find ourselves” which of course is not what we were doing, but who’s to say that was wrong. Does this mean, I, now a man occupying a full time job, have also hit the dreaded middle age mark? Is it more of a lifestyle than an age? Personally I think it makes more sense to sort our lives through particular relatable themes then vague expressions like “middle age” and “over the hill.” I have pre and post high school, pre and post college, and now first job out of college. There are similar things we learn at each of these posts and not everyone will go through them at the same time or go through them at all, but it is the stage of these events much more than our biological age that shapes us, our lifestyle, and our future.
Am I afraid of middle age? No, because now I know it won’t be forced on me by the ticking of a clock but will come to me only when I’ve let it
When my elder coworkers go out drinking more than I do; when they descend to more juvenile humor than immediately occurs to me, and when I find myself utterly speechless at the unapologetic vulgarity of these hard to place thirty somethings I’m reminded that I still have much to look forward to. Old enough to have thoughtful and intriguing conversation, young enough to hit on my friends…and their younger sisters, and confident enough to come into work more hung over than a frat boy after homecoming I might very well see this become the prime of my life.
Having only been working for a mere six months I already feel I have more in common with these limbo dwelling souls than I do with some of the peers of my age. We relate in thinking back fondly to our college days, days with similar tastes yet limited responsibility and an abundance of time to “find ourselves” which of course is not what we were doing, but who’s to say that was wrong. Does this mean, I, now a man occupying a full time job, have also hit the dreaded middle age mark? Is it more of a lifestyle than an age? Personally I think it makes more sense to sort our lives through particular relatable themes then vague expressions like “middle age” and “over the hill.” I have pre and post high school, pre and post college, and now first job out of college. There are similar things we learn at each of these posts and not everyone will go through them at the same time or go through them at all, but it is the stage of these events much more than our biological age that shapes us, our lifestyle, and our future.
Am I afraid of middle age? No, because now I know it won’t be forced on me by the ticking of a clock but will come to me only when I’ve let it
Sunday, August 10, 2008
25th Birthdays
I knew it was going to be a special night when my coworker, “Mark” we’ll call him, called me at 5:30, already drunk on a bottle of cheap red. It takes a special kind of person to rush straight into an alcoholic binge at midday on a Friday. Mark is a special kind of person though and I seem to always run into him on nights where the only memories are those left in digital pictures and rousing voice mails.
The first stop was a nice little bar in Alphabet city, a bar with character. Looking back I don’t know why I was so surprised to find the bar so empty considering we arrived at 7. They had a fascinating mix of American brews which, aside from Yueng Ling, I recognized none of. I satisfied myself by relentlessly downing a delicious concoction named “Two brothers Cane and Ebel.” The discernable method I used for picking this sweet gem out of a list of wild and obscure names was that its alcohol content rested nicely at 7%, well beyond the 4.3% of many others. If that’s not a bargain I don’t know what is.
Some of our other co workers had joined us and I looked and saw Mark animatedly talking with them. I went and mulled over the digital jukebox selection trying to find an appropriate song to capture the moment. I settled on the classically obnoxious Def Lepperd mantra, “Pour Some Sugar on Me” and proceeded to entertain myself with the air guitar while people watched laughing at my ridiculous display. Luckily the bar tender for the night worked at the same company I did, albeit now in California, but tonight he was my server and was serving free round after round. “One more Cane and Ebel please.”
The scene started to pick up slowly as night had finally fallen and I suddenly felt very at home here. They left the doors open and opened the floor to ceiling partitions in front as the bar felt more like a Patio then anything else. As I was joking about an outrageously inappropriate coworker on our floor I spotted an Asian vixen eyeing our dear friend Mark with shrewd, lustful eyes. This is a woman with purpose I thought as she was clearly ignoring the three guys hanging on her. Mark, hadn’t noticed her though as he was savagely tearing into another cold glass of booze. He had a wild, primitive look in his eyes. He spoke with the same fervor that we were used to, but there was something different in his gaze, a reckless confidence perhaps. As I was walking to the bathroom before we moved to the next spot I overheard that same girl exclaiming to Mark how “cute” he was; to which I then heard Mark drunkly laugh and reply, “You’re pretty cute yourself.” Her over the top laughter at this barely funny remark only confirmed her licentious intentions for him. A few coworkers and myself waited near the front of the bar while they exchanged a few more words. Finally, he tore himself away and just told us that “that Asian girl had said I was cute, I think she’s meeting up with us at the next bar.” We just laughed and made our way to the next place, a bit higher end then the one we had just left at least from the fact that they had a bouncer, velvet rope, and dj.
We stepped inside and I observed an aimless sea of clueless women and men, idling over drinks and impotent conversation. I saw right away that Mark was intent on changing that as his stares shifted quickly scanning the place for potential targets. Uninterested in anything else but my next drink I walked straight to the bar and stupidly opened a tab quickly buying up a round to get the place started off right. We all toasted and relaxed a bit with some office stories of inappropriate themes.
Suddenly Mark blurted out that we should try and talk to some of these girls. I had seen him measuring up a group of girls to our right along the bar after they had bought a round of champagne. Another one of our companions sealed his fate when he dared him to go through with it. Before he’d even finished his sentence Mark had turned from us and was walking straight for that group of girls, it was eight on one and he was too blasted to even feel intimidated…alcohol is a holy drug indeed.
We all watched intensely as he walked up to the girl everyone seemed to be toasting to and said something close to her ear. I was bracing for the worst, a slap in the face or a drink thrown. Apparently though he knew what he was doing as she burst out laughing and then so did her friends. Now that he had broken the barrier we awkwardly made our way over to him, we could’ve said it was for back up…but the truth is he didn’t need it and we wanted some new conversation.
I must confess that I remember none of their names, and nothing else for that matter aside from the part about them all being there to celebrate the 25th birthday of the one Mark seemed to be focusing on, though it could very well have been the other way around. Either way, the two groups soon mutually lost interest in forcing conversation between each other and Mark and his nameless female companion drifted further and further into their own space. Our party found this social dance endlessly entertaining, however with a few glimpses at her friends I could tell they were far from amused as they saw their dear friend, obliterated on champagne shots completely abandoning them for some sleazy drunk bastard she’d never met.
I’m sure Mark made this girl’s 25th birthday one to remember as he succeeded in dancing, grinding, and passionately making out with her in a very public way. I’m sure he ruined this girl’s 25th birthday when after she said that she didn’t think she’d go home with him that night he immediately stepped back from her releasing himself from her desperate embrace, took back the drink he had bought her, chugged it and then walked out without saying good bye to her, us, or his sense of morality. It was a stunning exit, that left us all questioning whether he had really left until ten minutes later he still hadn’t come back in. It was quite a sight to see her visibly annoyed friends triumphantly saying I told you so as she just repeatedly questioned why he had just walked away and left, birthday tears shamelessly falling down her face.
It was a sad display and I couldn’t help but feel bad for her. I don’t think Mark will be getting an invitation to her 26th birthday and I don’t think she’ll be hooking up with random strangers again soon, probably both for the best. Bleary eyed and dizzy I thought about the reasoning of random hook ups at bars and decided that when left at superficial lust it was a perfectly legitimate arena, but that it may not be best method for finding a partner that will share emotional attachment…or a cell phone number.
The first stop was a nice little bar in Alphabet city, a bar with character. Looking back I don’t know why I was so surprised to find the bar so empty considering we arrived at 7. They had a fascinating mix of American brews which, aside from Yueng Ling, I recognized none of. I satisfied myself by relentlessly downing a delicious concoction named “Two brothers Cane and Ebel.” The discernable method I used for picking this sweet gem out of a list of wild and obscure names was that its alcohol content rested nicely at 7%, well beyond the 4.3% of many others. If that’s not a bargain I don’t know what is.
Some of our other co workers had joined us and I looked and saw Mark animatedly talking with them. I went and mulled over the digital jukebox selection trying to find an appropriate song to capture the moment. I settled on the classically obnoxious Def Lepperd mantra, “Pour Some Sugar on Me” and proceeded to entertain myself with the air guitar while people watched laughing at my ridiculous display. Luckily the bar tender for the night worked at the same company I did, albeit now in California, but tonight he was my server and was serving free round after round. “One more Cane and Ebel please.”
The scene started to pick up slowly as night had finally fallen and I suddenly felt very at home here. They left the doors open and opened the floor to ceiling partitions in front as the bar felt more like a Patio then anything else. As I was joking about an outrageously inappropriate coworker on our floor I spotted an Asian vixen eyeing our dear friend Mark with shrewd, lustful eyes. This is a woman with purpose I thought as she was clearly ignoring the three guys hanging on her. Mark, hadn’t noticed her though as he was savagely tearing into another cold glass of booze. He had a wild, primitive look in his eyes. He spoke with the same fervor that we were used to, but there was something different in his gaze, a reckless confidence perhaps. As I was walking to the bathroom before we moved to the next spot I overheard that same girl exclaiming to Mark how “cute” he was; to which I then heard Mark drunkly laugh and reply, “You’re pretty cute yourself.” Her over the top laughter at this barely funny remark only confirmed her licentious intentions for him. A few coworkers and myself waited near the front of the bar while they exchanged a few more words. Finally, he tore himself away and just told us that “that Asian girl had said I was cute, I think she’s meeting up with us at the next bar.” We just laughed and made our way to the next place, a bit higher end then the one we had just left at least from the fact that they had a bouncer, velvet rope, and dj.
We stepped inside and I observed an aimless sea of clueless women and men, idling over drinks and impotent conversation. I saw right away that Mark was intent on changing that as his stares shifted quickly scanning the place for potential targets. Uninterested in anything else but my next drink I walked straight to the bar and stupidly opened a tab quickly buying up a round to get the place started off right. We all toasted and relaxed a bit with some office stories of inappropriate themes.
Suddenly Mark blurted out that we should try and talk to some of these girls. I had seen him measuring up a group of girls to our right along the bar after they had bought a round of champagne. Another one of our companions sealed his fate when he dared him to go through with it. Before he’d even finished his sentence Mark had turned from us and was walking straight for that group of girls, it was eight on one and he was too blasted to even feel intimidated…alcohol is a holy drug indeed.
We all watched intensely as he walked up to the girl everyone seemed to be toasting to and said something close to her ear. I was bracing for the worst, a slap in the face or a drink thrown. Apparently though he knew what he was doing as she burst out laughing and then so did her friends. Now that he had broken the barrier we awkwardly made our way over to him, we could’ve said it was for back up…but the truth is he didn’t need it and we wanted some new conversation.
I must confess that I remember none of their names, and nothing else for that matter aside from the part about them all being there to celebrate the 25th birthday of the one Mark seemed to be focusing on, though it could very well have been the other way around. Either way, the two groups soon mutually lost interest in forcing conversation between each other and Mark and his nameless female companion drifted further and further into their own space. Our party found this social dance endlessly entertaining, however with a few glimpses at her friends I could tell they were far from amused as they saw their dear friend, obliterated on champagne shots completely abandoning them for some sleazy drunk bastard she’d never met.
I’m sure Mark made this girl’s 25th birthday one to remember as he succeeded in dancing, grinding, and passionately making out with her in a very public way. I’m sure he ruined this girl’s 25th birthday when after she said that she didn’t think she’d go home with him that night he immediately stepped back from her releasing himself from her desperate embrace, took back the drink he had bought her, chugged it and then walked out without saying good bye to her, us, or his sense of morality. It was a stunning exit, that left us all questioning whether he had really left until ten minutes later he still hadn’t come back in. It was quite a sight to see her visibly annoyed friends triumphantly saying I told you so as she just repeatedly questioned why he had just walked away and left, birthday tears shamelessly falling down her face.
It was a sad display and I couldn’t help but feel bad for her. I don’t think Mark will be getting an invitation to her 26th birthday and I don’t think she’ll be hooking up with random strangers again soon, probably both for the best. Bleary eyed and dizzy I thought about the reasoning of random hook ups at bars and decided that when left at superficial lust it was a perfectly legitimate arena, but that it may not be best method for finding a partner that will share emotional attachment…or a cell phone number.
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
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.
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.
Sunday, July 20, 2008
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.
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.
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
When Photos Are All That Remain
Nights out can often be a bit blurry to downright absent in the memory bank depending on the extremity of alcoholic intake. Luckily…or more often unluckily, we now have a ready supply of digital cameras tucked in our back pockets and blackberries in hand to always catch that oh so picturesque moment of the belligerent drunk making an ass out of himself. “That will look good on Facebook” we think to ourselves. And that grotesque figure of the previous night, the one you left before you sobered up to spare yourself the horrible misery of knowing the mistake you made…Well you’ll see her regretful face next to yours in a conveniently tagged photo of yourself. Of course the caption will resemble something like "Matt and the mother of his children!" Funny enough though, none of these awkward, potentially embarrassing situations, ever really bothered me much. What’s at stake there? A few jokes at your expense and some phone calls you won’t be returning? I practically live in a world laughing at my expense and I rarely have my own phone calls returned. Nope, what does worry me though is when I think I’m harmlessly going out for drinks with those pesky co workers only to run 3 Margaritas in and have that outrageous engagement party behind me teaming up for pictures with yours truly just as the guy that sits two cubes down unleashes his blackberry and turns the dinner into a photo shoot. Even that though is not entirely out of the ordinary…I’ve lived with a male model for the last 4 years so I’m no stranger to impromptu photo shoots. It was the moment he yelled, “Hey Matt, I just sent these photos to everyone in the office! You and your soul mate!” that I became unsettled. I laughed at the time, on the outside… inside though I cringed not with embarrassment but with a previously unknown fear of losing my job. It is beyond question that I have begun to let my guard down since my nervous first day in a suit and short, tidy hair. My hair, now covering my ears and forehead, not to mention the unkempt curls in the back is beginning its transformation from professional to unconventional at best. My dress, once primed and uncreased is now recycled from week to week as I no longer make any effort to ensure my clothes are in acceptable order. I’m boisterous and jovial in the office still unsure to my reception with the more senior of management I at least enjoy great conversation with those closer to my level, the fellow cubies. The subject of drunken rampaging a la photos from said coworker however, is not the topic of conversation I’d like to headline. I’d much rather prefer my usual low key answers about just relaxing in, or going home to a potentially embarrassing rendition of my “dirty dancing” with that 30 year old in the cocktail dress. These stories I can leave for those urging for excitement within the office walls. Myself? I’d prefer my excitement to be kept outside of the work place…miles and miles away where word of my sins could only reach as an unintelligible whisper of the wind.
Sunday, June 01, 2008
View From the Past: Constructive Alcoholism
It’s funny how it’s rarely alcohol that kills you, but the stupid things you inevitably let yourself to do while under its influence. Tonight was one of those nights. Precociously drunk and lively, my roommate and I were just waiting for something to dare us into adventure. That dare presented itself in fabled double dog form as an unguarded construction site on Mercer St between Broome and Grand. We were supposed to be innocently heading towards a bar of deplorable taste, treading away on foot with the cheap meagerness of college preventing us from riding extravagantly in a cab or even comfortably in a subway. However, the allure of that swinging make shift wooden door opening up into a dangerous fun house of scaffolding, ladders, and an array of building materials proved far too great to ignore.
After my co drinker sarcastically dared me to go in I threw that snark comment in his face by causally meandering my way under the caution tape and through the door. Damn that bastard I thought drunk or not drunk I like exploring. He quickly followed me in, excited at my thoughtless choice of adventure. Peering around we quickly discovered two hard hats (regrettably lacking the cool flashlights on top) and obnoxiously adorned them disregarding any concern of hair carried diseases or just common cleanliness. We scampered around like second graders in the attic, marveling in drunken stupor at the grandeurs of modern construction. Then came the exhibitionism. Despite being blurry drunk I had enough faith in my coordination…and my God, to climb up an unfastened, unsecured 40 foot ladder to the top floor. After succeeding that, my arrogant and athletically gifted drunk bastard of a friend continued to push me still further to test the limits of my ability. He confidently strode over to the edge and without hesitation hopped over the guard railing and jumped to the fire escape of the neighboring building. “What are you fucking crazy? You’re not spiderman you crazy shithead! There’s no way in hell I’m ending up sprawled out on the pavement below to impress you.” My unrecoiled shock at his stupid risks only provoked him further laughing at my nervousness. I was now holding onto the railing, still trenched on the safe side, pleading with him to stop the dumbass antics and come back to the safe side. As he hopped back over I uselessly tried to reach out my arms in the case that he did slip I’d be able to catch him…thinking back I doubt I would’ve been able to even delay a fall let alone save him from one.
He was not to be done there, and frankly neither was I. We saw what looked to be the makings of an elevator shaft on the rear of the building and made our way through the maze of rubble and dust to that side. This side of the building was encased by scaffolding and so with the thoughtless permit that alcohol allows we began climbing through it making our way higher and higher. Upon reaching the peak of scaffolding I was horrified to see a single beam leading across a deep abyss of darkness to the far side where the elevator shaft was being built. It was straight out of a tragic movie scene. Two innocently drunk kids engage in stupid horseplay and one of them ends up dead while the other regrets it for the rest of his life. It was at that moment I decided if anything I would be the one regretting it because there was no way in Hell I was gonna try to test my balance against a single high beam and a 60 foot drop. To my horror my friend had come to the complete opposite conclusion and was already swaying his way across, holding his arms out for balance. Balance? What fucking balance? We had chugged eight beers each in the last hour and a half; there was no such thing as balance at that point. I held my breath, closed my eyes….and almost passed out. When I opened my eyes moments later he was on the other side laughing at me like it was some big fucking joke. “Life isn’t a joke!” I yelled. “Yea, but you are for being too much of a pussy to cross!” he replied. That insensitive prick, he was actually mocking me for not committing what amounted to suicide. There was no way he was gonna bully me into this one. Uninterested in seeing my roommate plummet 6 stories I began making my way down through the scaffolding without seeing if he made it back across (he did).
There was really no topping the excitement of the last encounter so we resigned ourselves to leaving the site, but not without two souvenirs, hard hats for the each of us! We paraded up through Mercer Street in common street wear and hard hats now just as drunk from euphoria as booze. We also developed the highly catchy phrase “It’s ok we work for the city” that night which we repeated to each stranger unfortunate enough to pass us. We entered the bar like conquering heroes, blazing our fake ids at the bouncer without even once lowering the bright plastic caps from our heads. After our entrance we realized we were yet again near the sad state of sobriety and with the lightness of our wallets decided it best to head around the corner to Space Market to pick up a couple more forties. We decided we needed to maximize return so we each swagged a forty of Ye Olde English Malt Liquor and I confidently handed the cashier my university ID and promptly paid for the booze in campus cash.
As we idled around outside the deli wondering where we could toss these babies back, we caught sight of that large imposing building known simply to the NYU community as Bobst, or in other words the NYU Library. We both looked at each other and all I had to say was “Open 24/7.” Of course we made a pit stop and took a few gulps in the park for mere effect. Giddy again with excitement at the prospect of risk taking we stumbled into the great edifice completely aimless in direction. All we had were two paper bags wrapped tightly around brimming bottles of OE and clearly misused hard hats. Luckily all we needed was the swipe of an ID to get in, and then, “Hey! Where do you think you’re going?”
We froze. The guard had seen us…as if we didn’t have to walk right past him. We were caught, shit we were gonna get busted, they were gonna kick me out of school, tell my parents, put me in time out…I don’t know what I feared but in that split second all I had was fear. “I beg your pardon sir?” I stammered.
“The upstairs is closed between the hours of 12 am and 7 am. Only the downstairs is open.”
“Sorry, first time studying this late on a weekend.” Like anyone would believe that line, hell I looked like a homeless village person.
“Do you two even go here?”
“Yea of course, we swiped in” and then without stopping we just walked straight down before he could ask us any more questions.
The NYU library was just as unexplored as the construction site for me but even so we managed to locate a staff locker room and continued our nefarious drinking exploits there. We turned up the stereo and delighted in hearing Queen blare through the locker room. The world was ours…or at least that staff locker room. We were only there for ten minutes before we had finished swallowing that bitter drink. We stumbled back up and hustled hurriedly past the guard not wanting to answer any of the obvious questions.
Now on a rush that comes with accomplishing great things, i.e. trespassing and public intoxication in a college library, we once more set out for that lamentable bar that our sorry friends were at. Of course this harbor of boredom and irritating banter could not hold us for long and before another hour had passed we left that forsaken place for the last time. We threw our fate to the wind and wandered back downtown along Broadway before shifting still further East to Lafayette St. Then we saw it, a bar we had passed many times always admiring its sleekness but never daring to venture in. Tonight was the night though, we were invincible. When we walked up the bouncer knew two things: that we were both underage and that at 3:30 in the morning we had lived tonight and he was going to let us in. After laughing and making a joke about my ID he stepped aside and let us in.
The interior of the bar had smooth gentle lighting only in the corners and around the bar, with deep red velvet furniture and bar tenders in all black. Oh, and there were eight 52 inch flat panel high definition television sets on the walls each playing a different showing of lesbian porn. Eight! We sat down not knowing if it was polite to stare open mouthed at the screens surrounding us. After being haggled by the bartender to do a repeat of the ID bit and having yet another joke at our expense we each ordered a victory shot of patron. The night was complete, the sweet savor of that Mexican Tequila signaled an end to our journey and our glorious night; the girl spread eagle on the screen behind me even told me so. We walked home triumphantly as the sky was beginning to light and our eyes beginning to close.
After my co drinker sarcastically dared me to go in I threw that snark comment in his face by causally meandering my way under the caution tape and through the door. Damn that bastard I thought drunk or not drunk I like exploring. He quickly followed me in, excited at my thoughtless choice of adventure. Peering around we quickly discovered two hard hats (regrettably lacking the cool flashlights on top) and obnoxiously adorned them disregarding any concern of hair carried diseases or just common cleanliness. We scampered around like second graders in the attic, marveling in drunken stupor at the grandeurs of modern construction. Then came the exhibitionism. Despite being blurry drunk I had enough faith in my coordination…and my God, to climb up an unfastened, unsecured 40 foot ladder to the top floor. After succeeding that, my arrogant and athletically gifted drunk bastard of a friend continued to push me still further to test the limits of my ability. He confidently strode over to the edge and without hesitation hopped over the guard railing and jumped to the fire escape of the neighboring building. “What are you fucking crazy? You’re not spiderman you crazy shithead! There’s no way in hell I’m ending up sprawled out on the pavement below to impress you.” My unrecoiled shock at his stupid risks only provoked him further laughing at my nervousness. I was now holding onto the railing, still trenched on the safe side, pleading with him to stop the dumbass antics and come back to the safe side. As he hopped back over I uselessly tried to reach out my arms in the case that he did slip I’d be able to catch him…thinking back I doubt I would’ve been able to even delay a fall let alone save him from one.
He was not to be done there, and frankly neither was I. We saw what looked to be the makings of an elevator shaft on the rear of the building and made our way through the maze of rubble and dust to that side. This side of the building was encased by scaffolding and so with the thoughtless permit that alcohol allows we began climbing through it making our way higher and higher. Upon reaching the peak of scaffolding I was horrified to see a single beam leading across a deep abyss of darkness to the far side where the elevator shaft was being built. It was straight out of a tragic movie scene. Two innocently drunk kids engage in stupid horseplay and one of them ends up dead while the other regrets it for the rest of his life. It was at that moment I decided if anything I would be the one regretting it because there was no way in Hell I was gonna try to test my balance against a single high beam and a 60 foot drop. To my horror my friend had come to the complete opposite conclusion and was already swaying his way across, holding his arms out for balance. Balance? What fucking balance? We had chugged eight beers each in the last hour and a half; there was no such thing as balance at that point. I held my breath, closed my eyes….and almost passed out. When I opened my eyes moments later he was on the other side laughing at me like it was some big fucking joke. “Life isn’t a joke!” I yelled. “Yea, but you are for being too much of a pussy to cross!” he replied. That insensitive prick, he was actually mocking me for not committing what amounted to suicide. There was no way he was gonna bully me into this one. Uninterested in seeing my roommate plummet 6 stories I began making my way down through the scaffolding without seeing if he made it back across (he did).
There was really no topping the excitement of the last encounter so we resigned ourselves to leaving the site, but not without two souvenirs, hard hats for the each of us! We paraded up through Mercer Street in common street wear and hard hats now just as drunk from euphoria as booze. We also developed the highly catchy phrase “It’s ok we work for the city” that night which we repeated to each stranger unfortunate enough to pass us. We entered the bar like conquering heroes, blazing our fake ids at the bouncer without even once lowering the bright plastic caps from our heads. After our entrance we realized we were yet again near the sad state of sobriety and with the lightness of our wallets decided it best to head around the corner to Space Market to pick up a couple more forties. We decided we needed to maximize return so we each swagged a forty of Ye Olde English Malt Liquor and I confidently handed the cashier my university ID and promptly paid for the booze in campus cash.
As we idled around outside the deli wondering where we could toss these babies back, we caught sight of that large imposing building known simply to the NYU community as Bobst, or in other words the NYU Library. We both looked at each other and all I had to say was “Open 24/7.” Of course we made a pit stop and took a few gulps in the park for mere effect. Giddy again with excitement at the prospect of risk taking we stumbled into the great edifice completely aimless in direction. All we had were two paper bags wrapped tightly around brimming bottles of OE and clearly misused hard hats. Luckily all we needed was the swipe of an ID to get in, and then, “Hey! Where do you think you’re going?”
We froze. The guard had seen us…as if we didn’t have to walk right past him. We were caught, shit we were gonna get busted, they were gonna kick me out of school, tell my parents, put me in time out…I don’t know what I feared but in that split second all I had was fear. “I beg your pardon sir?” I stammered.
“The upstairs is closed between the hours of 12 am and 7 am. Only the downstairs is open.”
“Sorry, first time studying this late on a weekend.” Like anyone would believe that line, hell I looked like a homeless village person.
“Do you two even go here?”
“Yea of course, we swiped in” and then without stopping we just walked straight down before he could ask us any more questions.
The NYU library was just as unexplored as the construction site for me but even so we managed to locate a staff locker room and continued our nefarious drinking exploits there. We turned up the stereo and delighted in hearing Queen blare through the locker room. The world was ours…or at least that staff locker room. We were only there for ten minutes before we had finished swallowing that bitter drink. We stumbled back up and hustled hurriedly past the guard not wanting to answer any of the obvious questions.
Now on a rush that comes with accomplishing great things, i.e. trespassing and public intoxication in a college library, we once more set out for that lamentable bar that our sorry friends were at. Of course this harbor of boredom and irritating banter could not hold us for long and before another hour had passed we left that forsaken place for the last time. We threw our fate to the wind and wandered back downtown along Broadway before shifting still further East to Lafayette St. Then we saw it, a bar we had passed many times always admiring its sleekness but never daring to venture in. Tonight was the night though, we were invincible. When we walked up the bouncer knew two things: that we were both underage and that at 3:30 in the morning we had lived tonight and he was going to let us in. After laughing and making a joke about my ID he stepped aside and let us in.
The interior of the bar had smooth gentle lighting only in the corners and around the bar, with deep red velvet furniture and bar tenders in all black. Oh, and there were eight 52 inch flat panel high definition television sets on the walls each playing a different showing of lesbian porn. Eight! We sat down not knowing if it was polite to stare open mouthed at the screens surrounding us. After being haggled by the bartender to do a repeat of the ID bit and having yet another joke at our expense we each ordered a victory shot of patron. The night was complete, the sweet savor of that Mexican Tequila signaled an end to our journey and our glorious night; the girl spread eagle on the screen behind me even told me so. We walked home triumphantly as the sky was beginning to light and our eyes beginning to close.
Monday, May 19, 2008
Let’s talk about my Boyfriend and his Hedge Funds
Ever meet that person who you can tell is nice and kind hearted but just doesn’t realize how much no one cares about what they’re talking about and how self centered they sound by rambling on? Yes? Well me too. Today in fact, as on many days but let’s go with today out of convenience and more importantly a still tangible memory to vent off.
Things I know little or nothing about: Romantic Relationships, Nice Cars…or cars altogether, Hedge Funds, Hedge Fund Celebrities, Dates with your boyfriend in White Plains, Dates, anything Hedge Funds, and dates with your boyfriend that works at some hedge fund after he picked you up in his really nice car.
I’m sure it’s obvious where I’m going with this, and yes that’s right I’ve started dating a guy that works at a hedge fund and owns a really nice car. Oh wait, that’s the girl I had the distinct misfortune of conversing with today. I really am happy for you that you’ve found that perfect someone (wealthy) that has all the same values that you do (money) but seriously wasn’t it blatantly obvious when I stopped making eye contact with you that I didn’t really have any interest in hearing more about hedge funds especially the one your boy friend works at. To be clear on how far away I belong from this conversation the first thing I think of when I hear the term hedge fund is that computer animated film Over the Hedge, and the next thing is my time living in Mexico when me and my friends had a hide out in these bushes. Second, the fact that your boyfriend owns a very expensive car (I don’t remember what, something German, a convertible I think) while living and working in the city just makes me think he’s some self important asshole idiot. Why the fuck would you pay that much to not only own a nice car, but store away it for 98% of the time in some ludicrously priced garage to take it out once a month. If that’s not a waste of money then my $25 Carribean Hooker with a wandering eye certainly wasn’t either…but that’s a different story altogether.
The point is, I get it your boyfriend makes a lot of money and you were really happy he spent some of it on you. But to be honest whether or not you intend it to sound this way you’re just coming off as someone desperate to convince others that she’s in a great relationship with some “amazing” guy when in fact all you’re trying to do is convince yourself. I’m not fucking dating this guy, I couldn’t care less if he was the janitor for the janitor’s staff room. However, you sound pretty preoccupied with his monetary income and spending so at least he’s meeting your financial prerequisite for a boyfriend. Maybe it’s just the psychology major in me rearing it’s psychoanalytic head after all of this finance work but honestly I really could’ve gone without that
Things I know little or nothing about: Romantic Relationships, Nice Cars…or cars altogether, Hedge Funds, Hedge Fund Celebrities, Dates with your boyfriend in White Plains, Dates, anything Hedge Funds, and dates with your boyfriend that works at some hedge fund after he picked you up in his really nice car.
I’m sure it’s obvious where I’m going with this, and yes that’s right I’ve started dating a guy that works at a hedge fund and owns a really nice car. Oh wait, that’s the girl I had the distinct misfortune of conversing with today. I really am happy for you that you’ve found that perfect someone (wealthy) that has all the same values that you do (money) but seriously wasn’t it blatantly obvious when I stopped making eye contact with you that I didn’t really have any interest in hearing more about hedge funds especially the one your boy friend works at. To be clear on how far away I belong from this conversation the first thing I think of when I hear the term hedge fund is that computer animated film Over the Hedge, and the next thing is my time living in Mexico when me and my friends had a hide out in these bushes. Second, the fact that your boyfriend owns a very expensive car (I don’t remember what, something German, a convertible I think) while living and working in the city just makes me think he’s some self important asshole idiot. Why the fuck would you pay that much to not only own a nice car, but store away it for 98% of the time in some ludicrously priced garage to take it out once a month. If that’s not a waste of money then my $25 Carribean Hooker with a wandering eye certainly wasn’t either…but that’s a different story altogether.
The point is, I get it your boyfriend makes a lot of money and you were really happy he spent some of it on you. But to be honest whether or not you intend it to sound this way you’re just coming off as someone desperate to convince others that she’s in a great relationship with some “amazing” guy when in fact all you’re trying to do is convince yourself. I’m not fucking dating this guy, I couldn’t care less if he was the janitor for the janitor’s staff room. However, you sound pretty preoccupied with his monetary income and spending so at least he’s meeting your financial prerequisite for a boyfriend. Maybe it’s just the psychology major in me rearing it’s psychoanalytic head after all of this finance work but honestly I really could’ve gone without that
Sunday, February 24, 2008
Ralph Nader…is this on repeat or something?
Ralph Nader, that pesky, third party icon and a hope for all pot heads looking for a legalization of cannabis has announced yet again he will be running for president. I readily admit I am no expert on politics and presidential elections, but I must say that in this election it seems to me a third party candidate is more of a publicity stunt then anything else. Americans seem to be once again impassioned by their presidential contenders, and I don’t readily see an environment of apathetic voters waiting for a candidate to emerge from the bipartisan fray to sweep them out of their malaise. Last election perhaps, however people seem to have a great deal of belief and ardor, especially on the democratic side where they are breaking all kinds of primary records for voter turn out. Nader mentions that he feels people are “disenchanted with the Republic and Democratic parties.” I certainly relate to where he’s coming from in that I believe we have spent enough time dividing the country into red and blue states instead of recognizing that we are in fact the UNITED States, but thus far this election has been one of the tamest in recent memory with the low blow slanders and shameless attacks refreshingly absent I think his timing might be a bit off. In this election cycle Nader offers little more then a distracting side show where there are already 3 very viable candidates with a great deal more support and governmental experience. And speaking of distracting side shows, I must reference Lindsay Lohan’s boobs. I hate to say it, but I think she actually gained more respect from me with the powerful nude display she released in New York magazine. Those soft, pale love pillows gave me a new found image of her…breasts. Now I must be honest; I did not read the article or see the actual magazine, just the photos on some celebrity website, but I must say the lighting was very professional and the tones were deftly intimate and sensual without being overtly sexual. Pure class from the raging marijuana, turned coke, turned drunken driving mess. Perhaps she’d make a good running mate for the Nader green machine. Him appealing to a movement that was within reach 10 years ago, and her appealing to an icon that was at her peak a half century ago.
Monday, February 18, 2008
Employed and Alive…with some sobriety strewn in for good measure
A job, society’s current measuring stick of an individual. The peremptory second question after “what’s your name.” And now the single largest time consumer in my life. A brief foray of two weeks into a world centered around preparing, participating, and departing from a job has surprisingly been not the insurgent life changer that I dreaded…or hoped it might be. I spend less of my day idling around in my room listening to songs on repeat and stumbling over facebook or a few broken words, but other than that if anything it has just added structure and consistency to what was once a directionless stagger through days. I had high doubts I would ever be able to find a position labeled “financial analyst” interesting or enjoyable, but I have been pleasantly surprised at my mind’s reception thus far. Maybe it’s just the opportunity to throw my hat in the wind and learn something I had absolutely no conception of previous to two weeks ago, or perhaps it’s the exciting thrill of meeting a whole other side of people, the working side. What’s that mother of 3 like when she’s analyzing volume and brand deployment? How’s that newlywed when he’s away from his new wife and agonizing over numbers that just don’t match up? And how’s the plight of the single professional who stays late because she has nothing to go home to? It’s a fascinating mix of transition and life decisions…and some finance as well I suppose. I’m not sure if there’s humor in this piece as much as reckless observation and pondering, but I don’t see any other suitable cell for ruminations as careless as these. Now, that I get home with nothing of absolute substance to occupy my time I’m wondering which world I prefer, the dark unexplored waters of the working world waiting to be discovered, or the unnamable pull of my apartment and Manhattan, an option of endless choices and absent decisions. However, I have stopped drinking…for a limited time at least. A non practicing Catholic makes a heavier sacrifice then most devout church goers. Heavier in the sense that for the past 4 years it has occupied more of my social life then conversation, not too mention a hefty amount of my personal time as well. Going cold turkey on the old cure all is no easy task when it is still the center of all of your friends’ attention but I consider lent to be more a test of inner strength and will then a resolute withdrawal of some careless mini vice like hot dogs, a favorite brand of cookie, or a murky goal of cutting down on something without any clear guidelines. Not to say I haven’t done the traditional abstaining from soda or dessert but this year I felt like goin balls out and dropping not only my best friend Jim Beam, but his brother Jack Daniels, their Mexican cousin Patron, and all the rest of assorted alcoholic delicacies that this great planet has to offer. March 23rd has never loomed so far in the distance. Until then, here’s a toast of Gatorade to your tequila sunrise.
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Child's Play
Being the part time blogger that I am, I at times feel compelled to exercise a little reconnaissance and check out the trends of other blogs, or just randomly find an interesting one. The returns thus far have been disappointing and I’m left to wonder what a stranger would think of my blog should they suffer the distinct misfortune of stumbling upon it. Most of the other sites I’ve seen on blogspot by clicking the “next blog” icon appear to me as hopelessly uninteresting, disturbingly weird, and just plain sad.
I would hope that initial impressions of my own work do not come off so negatively, but that might be asking too much. I am aware that only a very specific demographic is likely to be amused by the politically, socially, and spiritually incorrect writing that fills my posts. Let’s just assume that some 45 year old conservative mom will probably not find humor in intermittent comedy.
On the other hand, there seems to be a lot of middle aged moms delighting themselves by creating posts of their “angel” children. Excuse me if I’m wrong, but this trend seems to me a bit out of place. When I by chance fall upon a blog covered with photos of young children being thrown together like it’s some kind of twisted shrine I can’t help but ask myself who the fuck else besides this misguided mother would spend time on this. The only conclusion I came to was sick and deranged pedophilic creatures scrounging the internet for anything they can get their hands on. Maybe it’s an initial reaction that finds its origins in paying too much attention to Fox 5 News, but either way I can’t understand why these people would just carelessly throw photographs of their most loved ones up on some public site. Make a photo album or something, because believe me no on cares that little Johnny has finally started third grade and that dear Jennifer said her first words today.
Perhaps, if the emphasis were placed on the funny missteps of childhood I would be more interested, but until I start seeing some tales of 5 year old Pete accidentally pouring the fishbowl and accompanying fish into the pool because he saw Free Willy, I doubt any of these attention craving mothers will rouse my interest. Every mother thinks her child is an angel. Keep it to yourself and family because only one mother was right about that, and that’s mine.
I would hope that initial impressions of my own work do not come off so negatively, but that might be asking too much. I am aware that only a very specific demographic is likely to be amused by the politically, socially, and spiritually incorrect writing that fills my posts. Let’s just assume that some 45 year old conservative mom will probably not find humor in intermittent comedy.
On the other hand, there seems to be a lot of middle aged moms delighting themselves by creating posts of their “angel” children. Excuse me if I’m wrong, but this trend seems to me a bit out of place. When I by chance fall upon a blog covered with photos of young children being thrown together like it’s some kind of twisted shrine I can’t help but ask myself who the fuck else besides this misguided mother would spend time on this. The only conclusion I came to was sick and deranged pedophilic creatures scrounging the internet for anything they can get their hands on. Maybe it’s an initial reaction that finds its origins in paying too much attention to Fox 5 News, but either way I can’t understand why these people would just carelessly throw photographs of their most loved ones up on some public site. Make a photo album or something, because believe me no on cares that little Johnny has finally started third grade and that dear Jennifer said her first words today.
Perhaps, if the emphasis were placed on the funny missteps of childhood I would be more interested, but until I start seeing some tales of 5 year old Pete accidentally pouring the fishbowl and accompanying fish into the pool because he saw Free Willy, I doubt any of these attention craving mothers will rouse my interest. Every mother thinks her child is an angel. Keep it to yourself and family because only one mother was right about that, and that’s mine.
Sunday, January 27, 2008
Flighted Frustration
I was bailing. I was scared. I was unprepared. I was on the nonstop flight to South America in seat 26 B next to the bearded welter weight with thick rimmed glasses and greasy curly hair surrounding a shiny bald top. To the other side of me was a portly woman with a disposition of feigned nobility and importance. The energetic and exaggerated hand gestures along with her tendency to laugh at her own amusements assured me of this. Her stiff brown hair seemed sprayed in place much like the orange tan of her face. I had been sober for nearly 14 hours and trapped between these two characters of America I knew it had been a mistake to stop drinking. How long would it take the stewardess or flight attendant or which ever was the correct terminology to reach me? I needed one of those petite bottles of liquor they served; actually better make that a double. This was a long flight, but if I chugged two of them I might get myself just fucked up enough to harmlessly pass out without the horrific thoughts of my dear friends on either side of me.
I panicked imagining their backgrounds and lives fretting to a nervous degree about the fact that these were people that might have actually reproduced or worse, had people that validated and encouraged them. Who were these insolent strangers anyways? Why were they on my plane, interfering with my trip of spiritual freedom and existential pursuit. Their negative auras were sure to affect my own in such close proximity and I was already aware of the volatile nature of my current state. I was lodged between an untimely graduation from college and a looming full time job so near on the horizon I might as well have been on the edge of the earth myself. Graduation had beckoned way too early and I dreaded the loss of my lifestyle.
Now I was here stuck between insurance agent Lionel and housewife extraordinaire Claire. Between them was Hades and I was firmly slouched in my seat there. I uncomfortably shifted in my position and unwittingly made physical contact with dear Claire when I recklessly threw my arm towards the arm rest dividing our space. When it felt the soft pudginess of her cholesterol deposits I immediately realized I had strayed too far. I ripped my arm back in uncontrolled shock. Thank god she was too absorbed in the god forsaken aerial presentation of Garfield to notice my horrified reaction. How the fuck could anyone with a fully functional brain born before the year 2000 find anything remotely entertaining in this frighteningly appalling trash parading as cinema?
Bored, sober, and out of options I resigned myself to perusing the Continental airlines magazine expecting nothing more then a couple of mildly interesting photographs. Despite the abhorrent movie selection, Continental did surprise me with a most likely unheralded gem. As I thumbed through the Continental magazine placed in the sleeve in front of every seat I settled on a small piece about Cancun drinking hubs, as much a product of itching alcoholism as my former time visiting that foreign city. I’ve never imagined some marketing fueled magazine mass-produced for tired travelers looking for something to put them asleep as a source for fine-tuned and highly entertaining writing. So you can imagine my surprise when I found myself entranced by the delectable piece by Chris Barnett (name confirmation pending) about Yucatan drink specialties.
After streaking through this I imagined it to be a rare fortune of a good writer in a shoddy magazine. To put my theory to the test I flipped back to a previous article and to my now overwhelming surprise found it as engaging as my first discovery. Thus, I must tip my metaphorical cap to these underappreciated literary engineers capable of turning a magazine long advertisement into an unexpected pleasurable experience. Now if only the irritated flight attendant with an inability to communicate with speakers of espanol would lighten her mood.
By some unheeded miracle I reached nearly the fifth hour of flight alive and breathing. The long haired infant continued to laugh playfully every time I smile at him. His brown eyes lit up as he giggled on his mother’s lap. This little kid thankfully distracted my attention from the brutal stench fuming off good ol’ Lionel. My guess is it was a mixture of some odious cologne and untamed body odor. Either way, it was at times hard to breath.
Thankfully I felt the plane descending and that warm, crackly voice on the overhead in fluid Spanish and broken English told me we were approaching our destination, Lima. I could hardly wait to escape from this stale air and lamentable company. Myself, still a snob entrenched in bitter judgments and pretension just looking for some Spanish conversation and Peruvian Pisco.
I panicked imagining their backgrounds and lives fretting to a nervous degree about the fact that these were people that might have actually reproduced or worse, had people that validated and encouraged them. Who were these insolent strangers anyways? Why were they on my plane, interfering with my trip of spiritual freedom and existential pursuit. Their negative auras were sure to affect my own in such close proximity and I was already aware of the volatile nature of my current state. I was lodged between an untimely graduation from college and a looming full time job so near on the horizon I might as well have been on the edge of the earth myself. Graduation had beckoned way too early and I dreaded the loss of my lifestyle.
Now I was here stuck between insurance agent Lionel and housewife extraordinaire Claire. Between them was Hades and I was firmly slouched in my seat there. I uncomfortably shifted in my position and unwittingly made physical contact with dear Claire when I recklessly threw my arm towards the arm rest dividing our space. When it felt the soft pudginess of her cholesterol deposits I immediately realized I had strayed too far. I ripped my arm back in uncontrolled shock. Thank god she was too absorbed in the god forsaken aerial presentation of Garfield to notice my horrified reaction. How the fuck could anyone with a fully functional brain born before the year 2000 find anything remotely entertaining in this frighteningly appalling trash parading as cinema?
Bored, sober, and out of options I resigned myself to perusing the Continental airlines magazine expecting nothing more then a couple of mildly interesting photographs. Despite the abhorrent movie selection, Continental did surprise me with a most likely unheralded gem. As I thumbed through the Continental magazine placed in the sleeve in front of every seat I settled on a small piece about Cancun drinking hubs, as much a product of itching alcoholism as my former time visiting that foreign city. I’ve never imagined some marketing fueled magazine mass-produced for tired travelers looking for something to put them asleep as a source for fine-tuned and highly entertaining writing. So you can imagine my surprise when I found myself entranced by the delectable piece by Chris Barnett (name confirmation pending) about Yucatan drink specialties.
After streaking through this I imagined it to be a rare fortune of a good writer in a shoddy magazine. To put my theory to the test I flipped back to a previous article and to my now overwhelming surprise found it as engaging as my first discovery. Thus, I must tip my metaphorical cap to these underappreciated literary engineers capable of turning a magazine long advertisement into an unexpected pleasurable experience. Now if only the irritated flight attendant with an inability to communicate with speakers of espanol would lighten her mood.
By some unheeded miracle I reached nearly the fifth hour of flight alive and breathing. The long haired infant continued to laugh playfully every time I smile at him. His brown eyes lit up as he giggled on his mother’s lap. This little kid thankfully distracted my attention from the brutal stench fuming off good ol’ Lionel. My guess is it was a mixture of some odious cologne and untamed body odor. Either way, it was at times hard to breath.
Thankfully I felt the plane descending and that warm, crackly voice on the overhead in fluid Spanish and broken English told me we were approaching our destination, Lima. I could hardly wait to escape from this stale air and lamentable company. Myself, still a snob entrenched in bitter judgments and pretension just looking for some Spanish conversation and Peruvian Pisco.
Tuesday, January 01, 2008
Tales of College III: Lofted Excitement
The possibility of renting out a two story loft for the sole purpose of throwing a kickass party had never occurred to me when I arrived in late February my freshman year with stern instructions not to bring anything other then girls and $15 in cash. Fuck if I cared; I was gonna have unlimited booze and an entire New York City loft to enjoy it with the company of dozens of thrill seekers like myself.
Inside was teeming with people, some I knew, some I wanted to know, and others I would be avoiding whether I knew them or not. There was a full table entirely dedicated to an assortment of liquors and mixed drinks next to which rested two glorious kegs. NYU isn’t renowned for keggers and this was the first keg I had seen at a party there. Being the uninhibited beer drinker I was I turned my attention straight for them. Pumping the tap, I downed my first cup in a voracious chug and filled it up again.
Thank god most of the lights were out I thought, these people are going to look infinitely more attractive in the dark. With that, I chugged my second cup and was now on to number 3.
There were two girls at this party I had hooked up with before. One, named Christy, I refused to call by her name for the entirety of the night and instead, after devolving myself with drink, relentlessly called her Erika (I was insistent that she looked like an Erika). The other girl I had recently stopped hooking up with because of questionable acts which I felt risked both health and safety and my inability to keep pace with her insatiable lust.
An important note in this story, though I’m tempted to omit it, refers to my participation in a zealous, spiritual trial for lent. On my own accord and with complete disregard to health and sanity I decided to give up all types of sexual behavior both with partners and self arranged. The pent up sexual energy was overwhelming after the effects of alcohol reverted me to carnal instincts. Without my roommate’s help it is quite possible I could’ve made a multitude of ungodly mistakes in the name of desperation. Luckily for me, the only mistakes I made were minor and amusing. Just as I was seriously beginning to feel the loosening effects of the natty ice keg I was confronted by my first test.
She blindsided me as I carelessly turned to one of my friends, and instead was treated to her standing right there. “Heyyy Matt.” My immediate, alcohol driven instinct was to pull her into the bathroom and implore her to replay the countless acts of fellatio I had been privileged with previously.
Thankfully I only responded in kind, “Heyy there, haven’t talked to you in a while.”
“Well that was your choice” she reminded me as I had told her I couldn’t commit myself to her lustful desires with the same unabashed passion and complete disregard for other scholarly commitments as she had.
But I was drunk and in a flirtatious mood as orgasms were now only a fleeting memory and I was desperate for one. “Well I never said I made the right choice.” As I smiled at her I’m sure I personified that ubiquitous drunk asshole look.
“Haha, oh matt you know the reason I was obsessed with you right?” Where was she going with this?
“Um…cause I’m really funny?” That was honestly my best guess, I’ve never thought of myself as someone a girl could actually obsess over, let alone readily admit to it.
“Haha, well no. Honestly you were just the best kisser I’ve ever kissed. And I’ve kissed over like 40 guys.” Stop. What? A self respecting man would’ve been appalled that he had engaged in any form of physical interaction with a woman that unhesitatingly was able account for at least 40 guys she had previously hooked up with. However, a drunk bastard like myself would’ve celebrated enthusiastically at his triumph in the sacred art of lip linked tongue swapping.
Accordingly my first reaction in response confirmed my placement in the latter option as I bellowed out, “You’re damn right I’m the best kisser you’ve ever kissed! I’ll out kiss any guy at this whole fucking party!” The few questioning stares I got from this did not deter me in any way. She laughed at this then turned to walk away, probably to find number 50.
People had started dancing and jumping in the largest room of the loft as the music blared loudly. After stopping by to refill yet another cup of beer (I had stopped counting by that point) I went to find my roommates. They were cooped up by the bathroom area while my roommate’s ex complained about something and repeatedly asked to leave. I miscalled her friend Erika a couple more times and then my attention swung back to the large room.
Some guy had grabbed a microphone and started demanding that everyone shut up because the stripper had just arrived. Alright, I thought this will be some good ol’ fashion excitement. I jumped back into the fray, refilled my beer, and looked on waiting for the unclothed performer to step on stage. The guy with the mike kept blabbering something about everyone having to pay money if we wanted to see the stripper perform. I was almost up for it until I saw the wreck that emerged. This gothic looking fright was dressed in black leather and her pudgy stomach emerged from under her tight shirt. Her makeup job looked like it was performed by a seizuring pre-schooler, a tattered mess of light blotches and dark blotches. Even in my drunk stupor it was a scary sight. They wanted me to pay for this ragged hag?
There was an increasing murmur that soon developed into angry shouts demanding a hotter stripper and a refusal to pay. Then the damned fool with the microphone gave the crowd an ultimatum: either we pay or the stripper will not perform. It was at that moment I heard the funniest line at a party I’ve ever heard. As the crowd silenced thinking over his proposition one my good friends from our floor screamed out, “Then tell her to leave! She’s fucking ugly anyways!” After a split second of shock over the finely timed outburst everyone started hysterically laughing and yelling in agreement. It was wicked and cruel for the stripper that night. She left in a cloud of shame amid insolent and drunk college kids. Think Can’t Hardly Wait, when the big jock gets called a fag when everyone is watching and silent. It was something along those lines, but much much better. The only tarnish to this outrageous exclamation was the surely damaged self-esteem and feelings of the stripper, as if the removing your clothes for crowds of plastered college kids part wasn’t degrading enough.
After that, the mood of the party shifted and it was clear it had surpassed its climax. I downed a couple more cups of lukewarm beer and told myself it was time to leave before I had any more encounters with that girl Erika who kept insisting to me that her name was Christy. I also had a religious commitment to honor and my chances of completing this only waned as the night wore on. My friends and I left, staggering half-hazardly all the way back to our dorm; our first loft party was a resounding success in entertainment.
Inside was teeming with people, some I knew, some I wanted to know, and others I would be avoiding whether I knew them or not. There was a full table entirely dedicated to an assortment of liquors and mixed drinks next to which rested two glorious kegs. NYU isn’t renowned for keggers and this was the first keg I had seen at a party there. Being the uninhibited beer drinker I was I turned my attention straight for them. Pumping the tap, I downed my first cup in a voracious chug and filled it up again.
Thank god most of the lights were out I thought, these people are going to look infinitely more attractive in the dark. With that, I chugged my second cup and was now on to number 3.
There were two girls at this party I had hooked up with before. One, named Christy, I refused to call by her name for the entirety of the night and instead, after devolving myself with drink, relentlessly called her Erika (I was insistent that she looked like an Erika). The other girl I had recently stopped hooking up with because of questionable acts which I felt risked both health and safety and my inability to keep pace with her insatiable lust.
An important note in this story, though I’m tempted to omit it, refers to my participation in a zealous, spiritual trial for lent. On my own accord and with complete disregard to health and sanity I decided to give up all types of sexual behavior both with partners and self arranged. The pent up sexual energy was overwhelming after the effects of alcohol reverted me to carnal instincts. Without my roommate’s help it is quite possible I could’ve made a multitude of ungodly mistakes in the name of desperation. Luckily for me, the only mistakes I made were minor and amusing. Just as I was seriously beginning to feel the loosening effects of the natty ice keg I was confronted by my first test.
She blindsided me as I carelessly turned to one of my friends, and instead was treated to her standing right there. “Heyyy Matt.” My immediate, alcohol driven instinct was to pull her into the bathroom and implore her to replay the countless acts of fellatio I had been privileged with previously.
Thankfully I only responded in kind, “Heyy there, haven’t talked to you in a while.”
“Well that was your choice” she reminded me as I had told her I couldn’t commit myself to her lustful desires with the same unabashed passion and complete disregard for other scholarly commitments as she had.
But I was drunk and in a flirtatious mood as orgasms were now only a fleeting memory and I was desperate for one. “Well I never said I made the right choice.” As I smiled at her I’m sure I personified that ubiquitous drunk asshole look.
“Haha, oh matt you know the reason I was obsessed with you right?” Where was she going with this?
“Um…cause I’m really funny?” That was honestly my best guess, I’ve never thought of myself as someone a girl could actually obsess over, let alone readily admit to it.
“Haha, well no. Honestly you were just the best kisser I’ve ever kissed. And I’ve kissed over like 40 guys.” Stop. What? A self respecting man would’ve been appalled that he had engaged in any form of physical interaction with a woman that unhesitatingly was able account for at least 40 guys she had previously hooked up with. However, a drunk bastard like myself would’ve celebrated enthusiastically at his triumph in the sacred art of lip linked tongue swapping.
Accordingly my first reaction in response confirmed my placement in the latter option as I bellowed out, “You’re damn right I’m the best kisser you’ve ever kissed! I’ll out kiss any guy at this whole fucking party!” The few questioning stares I got from this did not deter me in any way. She laughed at this then turned to walk away, probably to find number 50.
People had started dancing and jumping in the largest room of the loft as the music blared loudly. After stopping by to refill yet another cup of beer (I had stopped counting by that point) I went to find my roommates. They were cooped up by the bathroom area while my roommate’s ex complained about something and repeatedly asked to leave. I miscalled her friend Erika a couple more times and then my attention swung back to the large room.
Some guy had grabbed a microphone and started demanding that everyone shut up because the stripper had just arrived. Alright, I thought this will be some good ol’ fashion excitement. I jumped back into the fray, refilled my beer, and looked on waiting for the unclothed performer to step on stage. The guy with the mike kept blabbering something about everyone having to pay money if we wanted to see the stripper perform. I was almost up for it until I saw the wreck that emerged. This gothic looking fright was dressed in black leather and her pudgy stomach emerged from under her tight shirt. Her makeup job looked like it was performed by a seizuring pre-schooler, a tattered mess of light blotches and dark blotches. Even in my drunk stupor it was a scary sight. They wanted me to pay for this ragged hag?
There was an increasing murmur that soon developed into angry shouts demanding a hotter stripper and a refusal to pay. Then the damned fool with the microphone gave the crowd an ultimatum: either we pay or the stripper will not perform. It was at that moment I heard the funniest line at a party I’ve ever heard. As the crowd silenced thinking over his proposition one my good friends from our floor screamed out, “Then tell her to leave! She’s fucking ugly anyways!” After a split second of shock over the finely timed outburst everyone started hysterically laughing and yelling in agreement. It was wicked and cruel for the stripper that night. She left in a cloud of shame amid insolent and drunk college kids. Think Can’t Hardly Wait, when the big jock gets called a fag when everyone is watching and silent. It was something along those lines, but much much better. The only tarnish to this outrageous exclamation was the surely damaged self-esteem and feelings of the stripper, as if the removing your clothes for crowds of plastered college kids part wasn’t degrading enough.
After that, the mood of the party shifted and it was clear it had surpassed its climax. I downed a couple more cups of lukewarm beer and told myself it was time to leave before I had any more encounters with that girl Erika who kept insisting to me that her name was Christy. I also had a religious commitment to honor and my chances of completing this only waned as the night wore on. My friends and I left, staggering half-hazardly all the way back to our dorm; our first loft party was a resounding success in entertainment.
Thursday, December 27, 2007
College Compilation Part II A Grand Excursion
On a typical Thursday night, in the midst of a heated poker game, I was employing my usual strategy of playing it safe until I was sufficiently drunk to throw it all away when I received a special visit from my friend, “Sam”. Apparently there was this “crazy” party materializing at some place called the Tribeca Grand that I “had to go to.” Being an ignorant freshman, I had no conception of what he was jabbering about and foolishly told him we should just go to San Marcos and get wasted.
He left the room disgusted with my lack of adventure and enthusiasm but I was almost two forties in and couldn’t have cared less. After expectedly losing my last chip I joined up with the usual bar crew and departed for the freshman oasis, San Marcos. The place would’ve let in a ten year old boy with a 40 year old women’s id as long as it said he was over 21. (Apparently they were desperate for service because they would close down later that year.)
Upon arriving I was surprised to see Sam already there alongside a few other familiar faces as well as some unknown women. I asked him if he had “come to his senses and realized San Marcos was the way to go.”
“Hell no you fuckin moron” was his quaint reply. I ignored that response for the moment and poured myself a brimming glass of bud light from the recently purchased pitcher. In my dumb, alcohol given confidence I walked up to some blonde chick my friend was talking to and proceeded to dance, make out with, and allegedly attempt to finger minutes after introducing myself. I have only heard second hand reports of the last act and although I have no recollection of this, nor do I hope it happened, based on previous encounters it is sadly not outside the realm of possibility or even expectation.
Thankfully I was dragged away by one of the friends I had arrived with. He told me that we were after all, going to this “hot spot” Tribeca Grand place. Whatever I thought to myself, this crazy girl had stopped talking to me anyways (probably on account of me sliding my fingers into inappropriate places) and we had four other girls with us already.
We hailed down two cabs and gave the driver the address. When we arrived I almost turned around and walked right back into the cab. I was not 21, and my i.d. looked like a seventh grade arts and crafts project. The bouncer I saw was a massive, imposing monster dressed in a suit with an ear piece. This was uncharted territory for me; Jesus an ear piece. Who in God’s name could he be talking to? The police? I’d be arrested on the spot. Before I could dissuade anyone from entering they had already presented their ids. Sam had given us a name to recite at the entrance. Apparently that had some sway because after carelessly glancing at our ids while I nervously shifted in my stance he let us right in. I couldn’t believe it; I even gave that damned gatekeeper a knowing nod as if I had been there countless times.
We walked in hesitantly heading toward the origin of the vibrant noise and swanky music. There was another bouncer in front of a velvet rope separating a private party and half the bar. The furniture was sleek, clean, and had an air of sophistication that went with the dim lighting and dress code…most of the men wore suits or at least business casual. I had on jeans, sneakers, and an old Texas shirt. Perhaps because I was dressed like absolute shit they thought I was so important that this self imposed dress code didn’t apply to me. More realistically though it’s likely that the bouncers were just too high on cocaine to notice that night. Amazingly, our party was in the VIP area or we luckily walked in when the bouncer wasn’t looking. Either way we arrived and ordered a round of nine dollar bud lights and proceeded to relax in the lounges and sip the most expensive beer I had ever purchased. It tasted better too, to be around all of these fine, rich, classy metropolitans; the decadence of it all was a bit overwhelming. Then one of these upstanding gentlemen came up and insisted to the girls we were with to join him in a line of coke (not coca cola). I had just become comfortable around weed, but now having this “hard” drug staring me right in the face dressed up like an upscale business man threw me into a storm of cognitive dissonance. After pleading with our eyes for the girl, Erika, not to accompany him she relented to his persistence and agreed to take a seat in our view.
Then I looked up and saw the majestic lights floating above us as the rim around each floor was lighted with neon green that presented an eerie glow. From that central bar area you could see clear to the top of the building and each floor moved closer and closer to the center creating a glowing bull’s eye of sorts in green luminance and darkness.
When my gaze returned to our level I saw our dear friend sitting uncomfortably at the lounge while the elder gentlemen, eager for her company, seemed to be shifting his head on the counter behind her. What an odd position I thought to myself only later to learn that he had in fact been doing lines behind her head (I guess it wasn’t flakes that I saw in her hair after all).
I couldn’t stop staring at all of the whorishly dressed women escorted by men capable of providing for their extravagant tastes. These girls were beautiful and then I had to piss. As I walked by the guy guarding the entrance to the select party I confidently assured him of my impending return. I knew he’d remember my face. The bathroom was decked out with more goodies than a seven eleven complete with a strapping young cashier exuberantly handing out warm towels and paper sheets. My three dollar tip is still the most expensive piss I’ve ever taken which in terms on the Manhattan elite is laughingly low, but I’ve always been low class. I caught myself staring at the assortment of products lining the bathroom and forced myself to leave before I ended up getting charged for standing there.
The bouncer immediately opened the velvet rope when he saw me coming. What a sucker I thought, I had no idea what the fuck this party was or even where I was. I stepped back into the aura of pretentiousness and put on my best I’m rich but don’t dress like it face. As I was walking innocently back to our seated area with a self imposed air of superfluous grandeur I was stopped by a stunning dark haired temptress. She wore a red dress in just enough places to leave some things to the imagination and had dazzling green eyes that seemed to stare right through me and I thought she must’ve been staring right through me…until she spoke directly at me. My immediate reaction was of course to turn around to see who she was really speaking to. However, much to my disbelief there was no one there. Was this model so fucked up on drugs she had mistaken me for a man of wealth with something to offer her aside from a chance to be signed into my dorm bedroom that I shared with two other people. Christ she was just a bit shorter than me with those heels on and then she repeated her question.
“And who are you here with tonight?” Thank God I was drunk which helped alleviate the incredible awkwardness with which I usually confront these situations. After convincing myself this was real I went right with it. I told her I was with “Sebastian’s party over near the circular red booths and lounges.” She nodded as if she understood.
I put myself on the line as I dared continue the conversation risking being found out for the imposter that I was any moment and asked her “Who might you be here with tonight?”
Her answer was fluid and completely beyond me; it was in a language and with references that I had no hope of understanding. She said, “Ugh, I’m with Saul’s party but the fucking dick will not stop ordering the same fucking shots of patron and my girl friend Briana is just totally wasted like already thrown up twice, but don’t tell anybody and now I’m so tired of their same old partying. You know, they’re probably going out to Marquee after this, as if I haven’t been there every fucking night. So now I’m just on my way to get another drink.”
I just stared at her, she could’ve been speaking some extinct Nordic language for all I knew but damn was she beautiful and that sparkling pearl that rested deep within her cleavage kept flashing at me beckoning me to stare deeper. When she had finished that line I realized, late, that it was my cue to offer her a drink. It was at this point I had the option of going for a totally baller move and spending the last 50 bucks in my account on an obscenely expensive drink for her in the vain hope that she’d ask me back to her place (there was no way I would be able to explain away the procedures of signing into a freshman dorm with any hope of her maintaining a conversation let alone eye contact with me) or I could just be me. Sadly, I chose the latter.
“Nice, well I recommend the sex on the beach it’s addictive and like Pringles once you pop you just can’t stop.” Jesus could that joke have been any more corny and just completely misplaced for this situation. Her disappointed reaction told me no. I tried one last time to salvage a lost cause when I said as she was already walking by, “By the way my name’s Matt and you should come by our party if you wanna try meeting some other people.” She didn’t even turn to look and see me pointing in the direction of where we were sitting. “Damn, that was brutal” I thought. Probably for the best, she didn’t deserve me anyways. I walked past the creepy coke man to get to our lounges as he stood, powder nose and all, staring hungrily at Erika. It was a stare that told me I never wanted to do cocaine…or be friends with that guy.
As we were all running low on funds to fuel a drinking habit that was blatantly unaffordable here and the alluring novelty of the Tribeca Grand was waning we decided to set off before any more illicit substances made their way into our night. It was nearly four in the morning as I gave my last overdone head nod to that bouncer with a clipboard.
“Have a good night buddy,” I said and as he looked up he gave me an expression of immediate shock sort of like, “what the fuck were you doing in there and I hope I wasn’t the bastard that let you in.” Needless to say, we were pretty tight.
He left the room disgusted with my lack of adventure and enthusiasm but I was almost two forties in and couldn’t have cared less. After expectedly losing my last chip I joined up with the usual bar crew and departed for the freshman oasis, San Marcos. The place would’ve let in a ten year old boy with a 40 year old women’s id as long as it said he was over 21. (Apparently they were desperate for service because they would close down later that year.)
Upon arriving I was surprised to see Sam already there alongside a few other familiar faces as well as some unknown women. I asked him if he had “come to his senses and realized San Marcos was the way to go.”
“Hell no you fuckin moron” was his quaint reply. I ignored that response for the moment and poured myself a brimming glass of bud light from the recently purchased pitcher. In my dumb, alcohol given confidence I walked up to some blonde chick my friend was talking to and proceeded to dance, make out with, and allegedly attempt to finger minutes after introducing myself. I have only heard second hand reports of the last act and although I have no recollection of this, nor do I hope it happened, based on previous encounters it is sadly not outside the realm of possibility or even expectation.
Thankfully I was dragged away by one of the friends I had arrived with. He told me that we were after all, going to this “hot spot” Tribeca Grand place. Whatever I thought to myself, this crazy girl had stopped talking to me anyways (probably on account of me sliding my fingers into inappropriate places) and we had four other girls with us already.
We hailed down two cabs and gave the driver the address. When we arrived I almost turned around and walked right back into the cab. I was not 21, and my i.d. looked like a seventh grade arts and crafts project. The bouncer I saw was a massive, imposing monster dressed in a suit with an ear piece. This was uncharted territory for me; Jesus an ear piece. Who in God’s name could he be talking to? The police? I’d be arrested on the spot. Before I could dissuade anyone from entering they had already presented their ids. Sam had given us a name to recite at the entrance. Apparently that had some sway because after carelessly glancing at our ids while I nervously shifted in my stance he let us right in. I couldn’t believe it; I even gave that damned gatekeeper a knowing nod as if I had been there countless times.
We walked in hesitantly heading toward the origin of the vibrant noise and swanky music. There was another bouncer in front of a velvet rope separating a private party and half the bar. The furniture was sleek, clean, and had an air of sophistication that went with the dim lighting and dress code…most of the men wore suits or at least business casual. I had on jeans, sneakers, and an old Texas shirt. Perhaps because I was dressed like absolute shit they thought I was so important that this self imposed dress code didn’t apply to me. More realistically though it’s likely that the bouncers were just too high on cocaine to notice that night. Amazingly, our party was in the VIP area or we luckily walked in when the bouncer wasn’t looking. Either way we arrived and ordered a round of nine dollar bud lights and proceeded to relax in the lounges and sip the most expensive beer I had ever purchased. It tasted better too, to be around all of these fine, rich, classy metropolitans; the decadence of it all was a bit overwhelming. Then one of these upstanding gentlemen came up and insisted to the girls we were with to join him in a line of coke (not coca cola). I had just become comfortable around weed, but now having this “hard” drug staring me right in the face dressed up like an upscale business man threw me into a storm of cognitive dissonance. After pleading with our eyes for the girl, Erika, not to accompany him she relented to his persistence and agreed to take a seat in our view.
Then I looked up and saw the majestic lights floating above us as the rim around each floor was lighted with neon green that presented an eerie glow. From that central bar area you could see clear to the top of the building and each floor moved closer and closer to the center creating a glowing bull’s eye of sorts in green luminance and darkness.
When my gaze returned to our level I saw our dear friend sitting uncomfortably at the lounge while the elder gentlemen, eager for her company, seemed to be shifting his head on the counter behind her. What an odd position I thought to myself only later to learn that he had in fact been doing lines behind her head (I guess it wasn’t flakes that I saw in her hair after all).
I couldn’t stop staring at all of the whorishly dressed women escorted by men capable of providing for their extravagant tastes. These girls were beautiful and then I had to piss. As I walked by the guy guarding the entrance to the select party I confidently assured him of my impending return. I knew he’d remember my face. The bathroom was decked out with more goodies than a seven eleven complete with a strapping young cashier exuberantly handing out warm towels and paper sheets. My three dollar tip is still the most expensive piss I’ve ever taken which in terms on the Manhattan elite is laughingly low, but I’ve always been low class. I caught myself staring at the assortment of products lining the bathroom and forced myself to leave before I ended up getting charged for standing there.
The bouncer immediately opened the velvet rope when he saw me coming. What a sucker I thought, I had no idea what the fuck this party was or even where I was. I stepped back into the aura of pretentiousness and put on my best I’m rich but don’t dress like it face. As I was walking innocently back to our seated area with a self imposed air of superfluous grandeur I was stopped by a stunning dark haired temptress. She wore a red dress in just enough places to leave some things to the imagination and had dazzling green eyes that seemed to stare right through me and I thought she must’ve been staring right through me…until she spoke directly at me. My immediate reaction was of course to turn around to see who she was really speaking to. However, much to my disbelief there was no one there. Was this model so fucked up on drugs she had mistaken me for a man of wealth with something to offer her aside from a chance to be signed into my dorm bedroom that I shared with two other people. Christ she was just a bit shorter than me with those heels on and then she repeated her question.
“And who are you here with tonight?” Thank God I was drunk which helped alleviate the incredible awkwardness with which I usually confront these situations. After convincing myself this was real I went right with it. I told her I was with “Sebastian’s party over near the circular red booths and lounges.” She nodded as if she understood.
I put myself on the line as I dared continue the conversation risking being found out for the imposter that I was any moment and asked her “Who might you be here with tonight?”
Her answer was fluid and completely beyond me; it was in a language and with references that I had no hope of understanding. She said, “Ugh, I’m with Saul’s party but the fucking dick will not stop ordering the same fucking shots of patron and my girl friend Briana is just totally wasted like already thrown up twice, but don’t tell anybody and now I’m so tired of their same old partying. You know, they’re probably going out to Marquee after this, as if I haven’t been there every fucking night. So now I’m just on my way to get another drink.”
I just stared at her, she could’ve been speaking some extinct Nordic language for all I knew but damn was she beautiful and that sparkling pearl that rested deep within her cleavage kept flashing at me beckoning me to stare deeper. When she had finished that line I realized, late, that it was my cue to offer her a drink. It was at this point I had the option of going for a totally baller move and spending the last 50 bucks in my account on an obscenely expensive drink for her in the vain hope that she’d ask me back to her place (there was no way I would be able to explain away the procedures of signing into a freshman dorm with any hope of her maintaining a conversation let alone eye contact with me) or I could just be me. Sadly, I chose the latter.
“Nice, well I recommend the sex on the beach it’s addictive and like Pringles once you pop you just can’t stop.” Jesus could that joke have been any more corny and just completely misplaced for this situation. Her disappointed reaction told me no. I tried one last time to salvage a lost cause when I said as she was already walking by, “By the way my name’s Matt and you should come by our party if you wanna try meeting some other people.” She didn’t even turn to look and see me pointing in the direction of where we were sitting. “Damn, that was brutal” I thought. Probably for the best, she didn’t deserve me anyways. I walked past the creepy coke man to get to our lounges as he stood, powder nose and all, staring hungrily at Erika. It was a stare that told me I never wanted to do cocaine…or be friends with that guy.
As we were all running low on funds to fuel a drinking habit that was blatantly unaffordable here and the alluring novelty of the Tribeca Grand was waning we decided to set off before any more illicit substances made their way into our night. It was nearly four in the morning as I gave my last overdone head nod to that bouncer with a clipboard.
“Have a good night buddy,” I said and as he looked up he gave me an expression of immediate shock sort of like, “what the fuck were you doing in there and I hope I wasn’t the bastard that let you in.” Needless to say, we were pretty tight.
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
A look back, College
I am now sadly a few short days away from completing my college career and venturing out into a world that I doubt will condone the particular lifestyle that was a trademark of my time here. That lifestyle in brief consisted of senseless, excessive, and unhealthy amounts of drinking that were not restricted by conventional means such as days of the week or classes the next day. Another feature of the time spent here has to be my precocious aptitude for putting myself into the most ridiculous of situations only to barely escape with stories that border on surreal and disgusting. Alcohol was inevitably linked with almost each of these unconventional encounters and as the hours dwindle and I see my end here fast approaching I have compiled a short list or homage to the most interesting and entertaining college moments in my life. This will be part of a recurring series so you will have to stay tuned for the next entry.
The Fabled Beer Pong Championship
Entering freshman year my senses were overloaded with a constant stream of new experience and information. However, one high school classic remained and served to bring it all together. Beer pong, or Beirut (I’ve never had two people tell me the exact same difference between the two) is a game of hand eye coordination, alcohol tolerance, and focus. I have never possessed any of these qualities, but on a warm September Thursday night back in 2004 none of that mattered.
The noise from the party easily reached the elevators and the stench of weed was unmistakable; the fact that RAs didn’t crash the party and bust us all was a minor miracle in itself. I walked into a dimly lit room with the three beds thrown against the walls to create space in the center for the arena of attraction. It rested there like a deck of champions residing insecurely above two rocking chairs. The table was a closet door that had been unhinged and laid out over two of the desk chairs kindly provided by NYU. In college when it comes to drinking games everyone is Mcguyver.
I have a history of streaky beer pong play, easily going from 3 cups in a row to 3 nights in a row without hitting a cup. I stepped up amid a crowd of boozed out freshman to begin filling the ten red party cups with the forty of Coors Light purchased from the deli around the corner. My opponent would be my current roommate and former teammate from the soccer team, a cocky asshole whos confidence in beer pong and other feats of coordination and drinking would border on ludicrous if he didn’t back them up almost 99% of the time. We were each partnered by girls that would only prove to be insignificant bystanders in the greatest game ever played.
As the music blared in the background I watched as my opponent made his first three shots in a row and then his ex girlfriend also lucked out in making one forcing us to send the balls back. Swiftly he drained yet another. They made five before we made one. The crowd was growing restless and nearing booing us off the table calling the game a blowout and asking for the next round to start.
I was tense. The last thing I wanted to do was look like some sort of inexperienced loser in front of these new classmates. I was starting to feel a little buzzed after downing four out of the five cups and a chugging a forty before the game had begun. I scooped the ping pong ball out of the water cup threw it up in the air, spinning the excess water from the ball. Without thinking I caught the ball and mindlessly threw it up and succeeded in making our first cup. I breathed a sigh of relief. Then amazingly my partner equaled my feat and the balls were sent back. I repeated the previous ritual, too buzzed to focus on any one cup. The quick splash brought the crowd back into it and we had a game on our hands.
It was at this point I started yelling obscenities and nonsensical insults. After they missed their shots I again made mine and suddenly we were only one behind. After another few rounds we were behind again, one cup to three. And I watched helplessly as my roommate made the last cup. To stay in the game we now had to make all three of their last cups. My teammate inevitably missed her shot and so it was left to me. The next two players were already pushing their way through the crowd getting ready to take our place. By this point I was categorically drunk and with the ball wedged between my thumb, index, and middle finger I lofted it toward the triangle of red. IN. Without thinking, I took the other ball and repeated. IN. Now everyone in the party was as engaged in the match as a room full of drunk college students could be. The music was turned down and people were screaming their predictions. One cup and I would bring this game to over time. I steadied myself a bit, repeated my by now sacred ritual, and tossed reflexively toward the last remaining red plastic cup. It grazed the rim, slid around and dropped gently into the warm bud light.
“I am the greatest beer pong player ever! I cannot miss! I do not know how to miss!” I had never achieved such a feat in my life. Now my confidence bordered on inebriated delirium and I couldn’t stop screaming my own praises. This also boosted me to grab my partner and deliver a most likely awkward and inappropriate kiss. I couldn’t have cared less though. This baby was going to over time and as a new freshman at NYU I was the king of the moment.
One cup sudden death. The table was set, the girls were irrelevant and I made my first shot. For those of you counting that was now four cups in a row (including two glorious one cup finishes). My insane ranting was now at an all time high but not even the uncomfortable stares of those around me could quiet my euphoria. My roommate with a slight smile on his face looked straight at me and equalized. This fucker was good I thought, but I was drunk and invincible. Sober Matt he would’ve crushed a thousand times over but the processes of my mind and beer pong ability had transcended my normal state. After seeing my partner miss her cup yet again I took the ball threw it up in the air a couple of times, gathered myself and incredibly made my third one cup in a row.
“I cannot miss! I do not know how to miss! I am a beer pong God!” I threw my arms in the air like some self aggrandizing freak beckoning all to worship my divinity. People were now chanting in disbelief at the epic battle that had enveloped the party. I was incredibly on the verge of completing the greatest of comebacks until my bastard opponent still with all the confidence in the world threw in another perfect shot. If my form mirrored that of Jackie Chan’s legend of the drunken master, always on cusp of falling apart in an unbalanced mess, my adversary’s technique was impeccable and textbook. It was now a clash of drunk expressionism and engineered functionality.
I was beginning to believe he might’ve been a robot the way he kept dropping in shots like he could’ve done it for hours while I seemed always on the verge of missing, but I didn’t. I made my sixth cup in a row and in the midst of my overzealous celebrating dared him to answer. I had made six cups in a row, including three one cups, and had no idea how lady luck had lifted me to such heights. I could tell how surprised he was that I had made yet another shot, putting him under enough pressure that I’m sure even a robot felt. And he did, and he crumbled. I knew he would miss when that damn smirk had left his face and sure enough to ball sailed through the air bouncing just wide.
I jumped up and down like a mad man giving high fives to anyone that would lift their hands and some that didn’t. I had come back from three cups down in the final hour and had prevailed. I went on to win two more games in a row that night and continued that streak of six cups in a row that game to my first five cups in the next game. But none compared to the drama and excitement in my greatest game ever played. I used stories of that fantastic match as a pick up line for the next three months until people inevitably told me to “shut the hell up about that already.” Well here I am four years later still talking about it, beat that assholes!
As a side note, my opponent that game and current roommate would go on to beat me approx 143 times in a row afterwards, until I beat him again in a one v one match on his 21st bday which eerily mirrored that very game played so long ago.
The Fabled Beer Pong Championship
Entering freshman year my senses were overloaded with a constant stream of new experience and information. However, one high school classic remained and served to bring it all together. Beer pong, or Beirut (I’ve never had two people tell me the exact same difference between the two) is a game of hand eye coordination, alcohol tolerance, and focus. I have never possessed any of these qualities, but on a warm September Thursday night back in 2004 none of that mattered.
The noise from the party easily reached the elevators and the stench of weed was unmistakable; the fact that RAs didn’t crash the party and bust us all was a minor miracle in itself. I walked into a dimly lit room with the three beds thrown against the walls to create space in the center for the arena of attraction. It rested there like a deck of champions residing insecurely above two rocking chairs. The table was a closet door that had been unhinged and laid out over two of the desk chairs kindly provided by NYU. In college when it comes to drinking games everyone is Mcguyver.
I have a history of streaky beer pong play, easily going from 3 cups in a row to 3 nights in a row without hitting a cup. I stepped up amid a crowd of boozed out freshman to begin filling the ten red party cups with the forty of Coors Light purchased from the deli around the corner. My opponent would be my current roommate and former teammate from the soccer team, a cocky asshole whos confidence in beer pong and other feats of coordination and drinking would border on ludicrous if he didn’t back them up almost 99% of the time. We were each partnered by girls that would only prove to be insignificant bystanders in the greatest game ever played.
As the music blared in the background I watched as my opponent made his first three shots in a row and then his ex girlfriend also lucked out in making one forcing us to send the balls back. Swiftly he drained yet another. They made five before we made one. The crowd was growing restless and nearing booing us off the table calling the game a blowout and asking for the next round to start.
I was tense. The last thing I wanted to do was look like some sort of inexperienced loser in front of these new classmates. I was starting to feel a little buzzed after downing four out of the five cups and a chugging a forty before the game had begun. I scooped the ping pong ball out of the water cup threw it up in the air, spinning the excess water from the ball. Without thinking I caught the ball and mindlessly threw it up and succeeded in making our first cup. I breathed a sigh of relief. Then amazingly my partner equaled my feat and the balls were sent back. I repeated the previous ritual, too buzzed to focus on any one cup. The quick splash brought the crowd back into it and we had a game on our hands.
It was at this point I started yelling obscenities and nonsensical insults. After they missed their shots I again made mine and suddenly we were only one behind. After another few rounds we were behind again, one cup to three. And I watched helplessly as my roommate made the last cup. To stay in the game we now had to make all three of their last cups. My teammate inevitably missed her shot and so it was left to me. The next two players were already pushing their way through the crowd getting ready to take our place. By this point I was categorically drunk and with the ball wedged between my thumb, index, and middle finger I lofted it toward the triangle of red. IN. Without thinking, I took the other ball and repeated. IN. Now everyone in the party was as engaged in the match as a room full of drunk college students could be. The music was turned down and people were screaming their predictions. One cup and I would bring this game to over time. I steadied myself a bit, repeated my by now sacred ritual, and tossed reflexively toward the last remaining red plastic cup. It grazed the rim, slid around and dropped gently into the warm bud light.
“I am the greatest beer pong player ever! I cannot miss! I do not know how to miss!” I had never achieved such a feat in my life. Now my confidence bordered on inebriated delirium and I couldn’t stop screaming my own praises. This also boosted me to grab my partner and deliver a most likely awkward and inappropriate kiss. I couldn’t have cared less though. This baby was going to over time and as a new freshman at NYU I was the king of the moment.
One cup sudden death. The table was set, the girls were irrelevant and I made my first shot. For those of you counting that was now four cups in a row (including two glorious one cup finishes). My insane ranting was now at an all time high but not even the uncomfortable stares of those around me could quiet my euphoria. My roommate with a slight smile on his face looked straight at me and equalized. This fucker was good I thought, but I was drunk and invincible. Sober Matt he would’ve crushed a thousand times over but the processes of my mind and beer pong ability had transcended my normal state. After seeing my partner miss her cup yet again I took the ball threw it up in the air a couple of times, gathered myself and incredibly made my third one cup in a row.
“I cannot miss! I do not know how to miss! I am a beer pong God!” I threw my arms in the air like some self aggrandizing freak beckoning all to worship my divinity. People were now chanting in disbelief at the epic battle that had enveloped the party. I was incredibly on the verge of completing the greatest of comebacks until my bastard opponent still with all the confidence in the world threw in another perfect shot. If my form mirrored that of Jackie Chan’s legend of the drunken master, always on cusp of falling apart in an unbalanced mess, my adversary’s technique was impeccable and textbook. It was now a clash of drunk expressionism and engineered functionality.
I was beginning to believe he might’ve been a robot the way he kept dropping in shots like he could’ve done it for hours while I seemed always on the verge of missing, but I didn’t. I made my sixth cup in a row and in the midst of my overzealous celebrating dared him to answer. I had made six cups in a row, including three one cups, and had no idea how lady luck had lifted me to such heights. I could tell how surprised he was that I had made yet another shot, putting him under enough pressure that I’m sure even a robot felt. And he did, and he crumbled. I knew he would miss when that damn smirk had left his face and sure enough to ball sailed through the air bouncing just wide.
I jumped up and down like a mad man giving high fives to anyone that would lift their hands and some that didn’t. I had come back from three cups down in the final hour and had prevailed. I went on to win two more games in a row that night and continued that streak of six cups in a row that game to my first five cups in the next game. But none compared to the drama and excitement in my greatest game ever played. I used stories of that fantastic match as a pick up line for the next three months until people inevitably told me to “shut the hell up about that already.” Well here I am four years later still talking about it, beat that assholes!
As a side note, my opponent that game and current roommate would go on to beat me approx 143 times in a row afterwards, until I beat him again in a one v one match on his 21st bday which eerily mirrored that very game played so long ago.
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
Campaign Slogans that will never be used
1) Vote or Die lets bring the White Party to the White House, P. Diddy for 2008 with his running mate Diddy, and a cabinet composed of Puffy, P.D., Sean Combs, and Crystal.
2) We have no redeeming qualities of our own but we can sure as hell trash the shit out of our opponents. Politicians Conglomerate 2008, this time we'll confound even ourselves with senseless arguments.
3) Either you're with us or you're a terrorist and I will shoot you in the face while hunting. Cheney 2008...coincidentally he will also be his own vice president.
4) American needs a stronger man in the white house, and that man is a woman. Hillary Clinton 2008.
5) Rudi Giuliani 2008, you'll never know when 9/11 will happen again and he'll never stop reminding you.
6) John Edwards 2008 because well, he's just a lot better looking than you.
7) America has real problems, maybe its time we start looking for imaginary solutions. Jack Bauer 2008.
8) He beat cancer now he's going to beat Iraq. Lance Armstrong 2008.
9) OPEC 2008, they already run our country anyways we might as well start giving them credit for it.
10) If you're a Mexican get the fuck out...(unless you mowe my lawn) Mitt Romney 2008 running mate Iam Intolerant.
2) We have no redeeming qualities of our own but we can sure as hell trash the shit out of our opponents. Politicians Conglomerate 2008, this time we'll confound even ourselves with senseless arguments.
3) Either you're with us or you're a terrorist and I will shoot you in the face while hunting. Cheney 2008...coincidentally he will also be his own vice president.
4) American needs a stronger man in the white house, and that man is a woman. Hillary Clinton 2008.
5) Rudi Giuliani 2008, you'll never know when 9/11 will happen again and he'll never stop reminding you.
6) John Edwards 2008 because well, he's just a lot better looking than you.
7) America has real problems, maybe its time we start looking for imaginary solutions. Jack Bauer 2008.
8) He beat cancer now he's going to beat Iraq. Lance Armstrong 2008.
9) OPEC 2008, they already run our country anyways we might as well start giving them credit for it.
10) If you're a Mexican get the fuck out...(unless you mowe my lawn) Mitt Romney 2008 running mate Iam Intolerant.
Sunday, December 02, 2007
Brownagraphy
I like women of all color, except for green and blue, because I mean if a girl is green or blue there is definitely something medically wrong with her. But onward forth to the brownies, you know the south Asians, the Indians, Bengalis, and whatever the hell else resides in that realm of the world or in our backyards. This post may seem a bit off key probably because it is dedicated solely to one person who I promised I would write an entry after. I doubt she’ll be impressed or amused with the content of this page but she said she’d laughed before, what a sweet girl she is. In a comedy blog though, I am obligated to discover and procure the humorous to display for you the beloved reader. Pornography is the drug of the internet. That might seem random except to explain that this particular blog dedication is directed towards a vixen of insatiable lust and an unhealthy obsession with the adult filmography. What amuses me most about her vivid and entertaining tales of pornographic escapades on the internet while regaling me with the value of the porntube or some shit that mirrors youtube but with sex was how in control she was. This was no desperate, sad, lonely broad looking for a kick up and some fingers in. No, she was just a girl that knew what she wanted and was aware enough and unabashed to go for it. If anything I’d call her descent into the pornographic underbelly of online obsession heroic and courageous. She spits out famous porn star names like I recite the most known soccer players. She delves into her favorite porn films of all time quicker than I can gather a top list of movies or television shows (aside from californication of course), and she is naturally comfortable with all of this. As much as I would like to bash her and the crude humor which she “gets off to” I have to say I respect the self confidence and comfort with which she explores herself, her sexuality, and Debbie does Dallas. Either way, only one thing’s for certain. A pornographic exploration better come equipped with the most advanced anti virus software available because it will give your computer Chlamydia and it will die from it. She ends our conversation on her fascinating, sexual online journey with the warnings of viruses, computational crashes, and obscenely angry parents. Right now she is actually in the midst of a lap top search as her previous computer succumbed to the gonorrhea contracted in the midst of Backdoor sluts 9. So, as intriguing as this dimension of a devout brown muslim is she makes it clear that it can come at a profound cost. Regardless, I’m proud to say I’ve known this person and the conversations we’ve engaged in I am not legally allowed to share with anybody.
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