She was supposed to be the dream, my pin-up dream. She was cute. She was gorgeous. She had great posture and naturally thick eyelashes. Legs from here to Heaven. I was in Heaven. She was just perfect. It was Friday night, 10 p.m. Time to get moving. I called up my best friend James. He's the best wingman out there, at least the best wingman I know.
"What's up? He says. "Bout to get my drink on." I say. "Cool." He says. "Cool." I say. "See you in a bit?" He asks. "Yeah, see you in a bit." I told him. As you can probably tell, we are awesome conversationalists, champions at the craft.
A bit passes by and we're at the club, readying ourselves to get our groove on. Yeah, we're thorough like that. We enter the club, we get all up in it. I'm sipping on a mojito. Not because I like them, but because girls like guys who drink mojitos and that guy on that one commercial looks badass. It's 2009's dry martini, shaken not stirred. I'm bobbing my head calmly, keep the beat like a lounge singer. James is over talking to some girl. She looks like Julia Roberts. It looks like its going well. What a pretty mouth. He touches her arm.
She touches his arm back. Houston, we may have lift off. It looks like I might be going home alone tonight. And since I have D. S. S., or dry streak syndrome, I can't go home alone. I scope the rest of the bar. There's a couple of cute blonde chicks over to the left. There's a pretty redhead a bit to the right. Right in front of me is a goddess. She's dark-haired, thick lipped, almond-eyed. It's like the pin-up that my grandfather gave me the day he told me it was time to be a man, came alive. She was my destiny.
I had to make my move soon. I shot a quick glance over at James. He wasn't there. Gone. What? Where could he have gone so fast? I searched the bar again, this time with a completely different intent. It's like he just vaporized. 'Well, good for him' I thought. Houston, we have lift off.
I turned back to the business at hand, my Miss. America, and there was James. What the hell? But how... why? It was like the Universe was playing a trick on me. Why God, why? I stood and watched in slow motion horror as my best fried was talking his way into the bed of my Aphrodite. I couldn't let this happen. I intervened. I had to.
I walked up to James and the Goddess of Love. "Hey man." I turned from him to her. I said. "My name's Dan." I offered my hand. She took it. A chill went right down my spine if you know what I mean. "I'm Becky." She said. Her voice was honeysuckles and roses. I smiled, a little too dreamily perhaps, but it wasn't anything I could control.
James eyed me, gave me the cut off signal. He was claiming rights. I shot him a look right back. It said "fuck no, I'm in this." That was it, the game was on.
Shameless flirting ensued. Innuendo was made. The war was being waged. It was an even fight; he just had a little more ground on me because he struck first, the bastard. We were at the tipping point. Then the Nagasaki moment. James turned to Becky, smiling a-wicked, "Dan, over here," he nudges me, "has one and a half testicles... and sleep apnea." Becky looks at me in horror and pity. I look at James, betrayed to my very core. Becky tells him she's just going to tell her friends that she's going to another club and that she'll be right back. The silence is violently awkward. It feels like he's standing over me, unsheathed dagger plunged in into my heart, a laughing maniac.
By the time Becky comes back, I've lost my anger and fallen into self-pity, righteously so I might add. I shuffle over to the bar and order. My good friend Johnny comes to cheer me up, followed by a bit of the Captain as he navigates his way through my Coke. I watched Judas escort my Mary Magdalene out the door. Neither of them even looked back.
Someone pats me on the back. "Don't worry about it. She always does that." The voice is kind, understanding. "You can have your friend back tomorrow morning." I turn. A girl with reddish-brown hair and freckles smiles and holds out her hand. "I'm Annie." She says. "I'm Dan." I say. "Nice to meet you." We say, at the same time. We started talking. On our second beer, her phone played that Vegas song by the chick who kissed a girl. "Do you mind? It's just a text message." She asks. "Not in the least bit." I answer. “It’s from Becky.” She says. She flips open her phone and puts her hand up to her mouth. She can't hold back the laughter. She holds the phone up so I can see.
(505): That's the great thing about NY, if you pee your dress you have an entire cab ride to air dry your panties
Friday, October 23, 2009
Monday, October 19, 2009
Hot Tubs, Pizza, Tequila
The night started off like any other night, double-fisting a nice pair of Buds. They were bottles, not cans, because I’m classy. They were in cozies because I care. In any case, the night looked normal. But I was wrong, so very wrong. It was all going well until I swallowed that worm. That, my friends, is not a good idea, a mistake if you will. And on top of violating Tijuana logic and common sense, I broke the cardinal rule of drinking: Liquor before for beer, you’re in the clear. Beer before liquor, makes you sicker.” And this is how I learned my lesson.
We played many a game of beer pong. In fact, we were the reigning champions. Undefeated for nine games and counting. It was unbelievable. It was fucking epic. Love beer pong. Then came Jana and Mary. Freshman. Girls. The easiest way to get a pongcase* in history. I thought the game was over before it began. I was wrong then too. In just a few turns time, Ryan and mine’s empire was crumbling before us, our legacy, our Mongolian dynasty, mortally threatened. It was like a shot to the balls. We had two cups left, they had five. It was our turn. Ryan went first. Thunk. Sunk. In. My turn. The pressure was on, it was the eleventh hour. I called Hero* and shut my eyes. I focused my senses. I was a fucking samurai.
I opened my eyes slowly. The world breathed in when I breathed in. The world breathed out when I breathed out. I felt like Neo at the end of the Matrix. I was that into it. I pulled my arm back. Bent my knees. Paused for the count of “One Mis-si-ssi-ppi,” then launched, arcing my arm, spinning the pong. Bullet-time. Then contact. Round and round. It almost rimmed out once, twice, thrice. Then in. It went in! Our turn again. Ryan readies, fires, misses. Some cheer. The crowd has turned against us like the Senate on Julius Caesar. I stood defiant. It was me against the world. In the midst of all the jeering, I fired. Thunk. I sniped that fucking cup.
Now it’s their turn. The crowd cheers Jana on. Little Miss Too-Much-Makeup shoots. Misses. Mary’s turn. Mary shuts her eyes, couches. The Pong is strong with this one, I can tell. She has much potential. She perks herself up, thinking she can fell the Pong God’s champions. I look upwards, passed the halogen lights, and pray. ‘Let this is day not be our last day oh Hoppy One. If you grant us victory over these infidels I will sacrifice a family of six cans in your honor.’
I return my gaze back to the game. Mary shoots. Rims it. Once, twice, thrice, four times, gravity has an error, the ball flies away. I looked skyward and mouth ‘Thank you.’
Now it’s one to one. I look to Ryan and nod. We fist bump like terrorists. Ryan squares his shoulders, readies, shoots. The crowd goes quiet. I hear a drip of water fall from the kitchen faucet. Chink. Ryan’s shot glances off the front of the cup. He hangs his head low. My turn. I cradle the pong, feel its essence. I am samurai Neo again. I must make it, my reputation and dignity are on the line.
Jana and Emily are smiling, trying to distract me. I see right through the act and look them in the eyes. I see not victory. I see fear.
I take my shot.
The pong spirals every forward, ever onward. Bullet-time again. It cuts a path through the air. Chink. It bounces off the front of the cup. People begin to celebrate our downfall. But it is not to be so! The ball rolls back to me, guided by the Hoppy One. I retrieve, reload, and shoot from behind my back. I don’t even look.
Thunk. From what I’ve been told, the pong hit nothing but water. The crowd went wild. It was like a fucking jungle. Many of them cheered. Others couldn’t speak because they had just been witness to the most epic beerpong comeback in a thousand millennia. Ryan picked me up, a couple others helped to carry me to the other room. Jana and Mary cried. Everyone else shouted, in a most righteous manner. “PONGCASE! PONGCASE! PONGCASE!” I don’t know how, but ‘We are the Champions,’ by Queen, started playing in the background. I clenched my fist and thrust it in the air, screaming with pure adrenaline. As I passed Mary I put a hand on her shoulder and told her. “You have much potential. One day, you may ride on the backs of your peers too. Maybe, just maybe, you will stand on the shoulders of giants.”
Then I was taken upstairs and handed a bottle of congratulatory tequila by the owner of the house. The last thing I remember was waving at the worm as it came down the bottle.
I woke up this morning to the scent of kiwi-strawberry lip balm. I was not in my house and surrounded by my clothes. I had a bad case of rug burn on my back and knees and no memories. My stomach lurched and I ran to the balcony. Apparently, the pizza from the box I had used as a pillow had been, in its entirety, in my digestive system. Funny thing is, I don’t even remember having pizza.
I found my pants, took out my cellphone and texted Ryan.
(831): I puked off a balcony. (1-831): That’s not so horrible.(831): Into a hottub. With six people in it. I had eaten all their pizza.
*Pongcase – when an individual, pair, or team of individuals wins ten games of beerpong in a row. Considered a feat of epic proportions, it is not uncommon for a celebration involving more alcohol of conscience-altering substances to ensure after the proclamation of victory.
*Hero – a rule in beerpong also known as Island that allows a player to potentially clear two cups from the table by calling out "hero" or "island" and scoring with the correct cup. This rule can only be used in a certain scenario. That situation is when there are only four cups left and one is not kissing (touching) any other, as in a hero leading and army or a lonely island.
We played many a game of beer pong. In fact, we were the reigning champions. Undefeated for nine games and counting. It was unbelievable. It was fucking epic. Love beer pong. Then came Jana and Mary. Freshman. Girls. The easiest way to get a pongcase* in history. I thought the game was over before it began. I was wrong then too. In just a few turns time, Ryan and mine’s empire was crumbling before us, our legacy, our Mongolian dynasty, mortally threatened. It was like a shot to the balls. We had two cups left, they had five. It was our turn. Ryan went first. Thunk. Sunk. In. My turn. The pressure was on, it was the eleventh hour. I called Hero* and shut my eyes. I focused my senses. I was a fucking samurai.
I opened my eyes slowly. The world breathed in when I breathed in. The world breathed out when I breathed out. I felt like Neo at the end of the Matrix. I was that into it. I pulled my arm back. Bent my knees. Paused for the count of “One Mis-si-ssi-ppi,” then launched, arcing my arm, spinning the pong. Bullet-time. Then contact. Round and round. It almost rimmed out once, twice, thrice. Then in. It went in! Our turn again. Ryan readies, fires, misses. Some cheer. The crowd has turned against us like the Senate on Julius Caesar. I stood defiant. It was me against the world. In the midst of all the jeering, I fired. Thunk. I sniped that fucking cup.
Now it’s their turn. The crowd cheers Jana on. Little Miss Too-Much-Makeup shoots. Misses. Mary’s turn. Mary shuts her eyes, couches. The Pong is strong with this one, I can tell. She has much potential. She perks herself up, thinking she can fell the Pong God’s champions. I look upwards, passed the halogen lights, and pray. ‘Let this is day not be our last day oh Hoppy One. If you grant us victory over these infidels I will sacrifice a family of six cans in your honor.’
I return my gaze back to the game. Mary shoots. Rims it. Once, twice, thrice, four times, gravity has an error, the ball flies away. I looked skyward and mouth ‘Thank you.’
Now it’s one to one. I look to Ryan and nod. We fist bump like terrorists. Ryan squares his shoulders, readies, shoots. The crowd goes quiet. I hear a drip of water fall from the kitchen faucet. Chink. Ryan’s shot glances off the front of the cup. He hangs his head low. My turn. I cradle the pong, feel its essence. I am samurai Neo again. I must make it, my reputation and dignity are on the line.
Jana and Emily are smiling, trying to distract me. I see right through the act and look them in the eyes. I see not victory. I see fear.
I take my shot.
The pong spirals every forward, ever onward. Bullet-time again. It cuts a path through the air. Chink. It bounces off the front of the cup. People begin to celebrate our downfall. But it is not to be so! The ball rolls back to me, guided by the Hoppy One. I retrieve, reload, and shoot from behind my back. I don’t even look.
Thunk. From what I’ve been told, the pong hit nothing but water. The crowd went wild. It was like a fucking jungle. Many of them cheered. Others couldn’t speak because they had just been witness to the most epic beerpong comeback in a thousand millennia. Ryan picked me up, a couple others helped to carry me to the other room. Jana and Mary cried. Everyone else shouted, in a most righteous manner. “PONGCASE! PONGCASE! PONGCASE!” I don’t know how, but ‘We are the Champions,’ by Queen, started playing in the background. I clenched my fist and thrust it in the air, screaming with pure adrenaline. As I passed Mary I put a hand on her shoulder and told her. “You have much potential. One day, you may ride on the backs of your peers too. Maybe, just maybe, you will stand on the shoulders of giants.”
Then I was taken upstairs and handed a bottle of congratulatory tequila by the owner of the house. The last thing I remember was waving at the worm as it came down the bottle.
I woke up this morning to the scent of kiwi-strawberry lip balm. I was not in my house and surrounded by my clothes. I had a bad case of rug burn on my back and knees and no memories. My stomach lurched and I ran to the balcony. Apparently, the pizza from the box I had used as a pillow had been, in its entirety, in my digestive system. Funny thing is, I don’t even remember having pizza.
I found my pants, took out my cellphone and texted Ryan.
(831): I puked off a balcony. (1-831): That’s not so horrible.(831): Into a hottub. With six people in it. I had eaten all their pizza.
*Pongcase – when an individual, pair, or team of individuals wins ten games of beerpong in a row. Considered a feat of epic proportions, it is not uncommon for a celebration involving more alcohol of conscience-altering substances to ensure after the proclamation of victory.
*Hero – a rule in beerpong also known as Island that allows a player to potentially clear two cups from the table by calling out "hero" or "island" and scoring with the correct cup. This rule can only be used in a certain scenario. That situation is when there are only four cups left and one is not kissing (touching) any other, as in a hero leading and army or a lonely island.
Friday, October 16, 2009
From Stilettos to Bacon Grease
You know the saying, “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned?” Well it’s true. Here’s how I found out.
My girlfriend and I have been together for the better part of five years. One could say it’s been a while. I say it’s an eternity. Nevertheless, minus the $100,000 dollar wedding she wants, we’re pretty much at the “til death” part of our love. You know the kind where you know your bond can withstand anything? That everything’s better in the morning… or some morning long after kind of love? The one where you feel like two boxers in a caged ring cause ain’t no one getting out? Yeah, that’s the kind of love we have. Its wonderful getting up next to her because for the two minutes I’m awake and she’s not, I’m in heaven and she’s my angel. She’s so serene, freckles and all. Then approximately two minutes after said harmony my day, without exception, gets thrown into Purgatory and I never know where I’ll be by lunch or by dinner or by the end of one breath and the beginning of another. I try to think about it in a positive manner, try to make it anything else but a life and death slots game.
So Yesterday, I wake up, stretch, look over at my dear Shawna and smile. I rub her back oh so gently and kiss up her shoulder until I get to her cute, soft lips. I kiss her again. Her eye lashes flutter like butterflies. She looks at me and smiles. Today is going to be a good day. See you tomorrow Purgatory.
We get up and have a nice, calm breakfast. We make pleasant conversation. We kiss each other goodbye and it’s off to work I go. She calls me at 10:30 and asks if we can have lunch, she’ll be in the area. I tell her sure, that I’d love to. We agree on 12:45 at a little place a few blocks from my office. Things are set.
12:30 rolls around and I leave to meet her. She loves it when I’m in my business clothes and I’m looking pretty sharp today. Power tie and all, it’s like her 1950’s era James Bond fetish come to life. When I arrive at the restaurant, she’s not there. Thirty minutes later, she’s not there. Much to my good fortune, she arrives after my second glass of wine has gone dry. She rushes to sit down, all flustered. I can tell that she left the apartment fifteen minutes ago and drove twice the legal limit to get here. I can’t help but crack a smile because she always has the most ridiculous look on her face, like a fat kid caught eating a cookie under his covers after story time. We say hello and kiss. After a bit of conversation, I proceed to ask her what time she actually left. She hangs her head a bit and mumbles something closer to Chinese than English.
I razz her a bit more then let it go, I’ve had my fun. The lunch itself is quick and pleasant. Everything was going well until that third glass of wine kicked in. I’m not sure about anybody else, but when my alcohol intake goes up, the control I have over my mouth goes down. I tell people it’s a condition but no one takes me seriously. As we walk outside, hand in hand, she asks me if I notice anything different. I look her up and down and tell her that she’s looking stunning as always. She smiles then asks again, this time a little more pointedly. Holding my chin like a professor, I say to her. “Hmm… you do look taller…” I look to her. She nods, I’m getting warmer. I look down at her shoes and stare, studying them. Have I seen them before? What color are they? Are they Dark blue? Or Navy blue? I learned the importance of this distinction a couple of years ago during the Easter Hue Event of ‘05. It was a bloodbath.
I still shudder at the thought of it.
Moving on. I didn’t recognize the shoes, though I noted they were stilettos. Now, it should be known that my girlfriend has never worn stilettos in the entirety of our time together and has proclaimed them as “whorish” and things that only “hookers” wear. The words she used to describe this certain style of shoes lie somewhat in a gray area to me as I do not personally believe that an overpriced pair of name brand “foot accessories” makes one a moral pariah. Upon my realization that my girlfriend was, indeed, wearing “hooker” shoes, I humored the buzz I had been having and said, word for word. “If you’re only taking cash tonight, I can pick up some cash on my way home, if ya’know what I mean?” Then I continued to wink at her in an overly hyperbolic way, like a cartoon character.
The air hung still and she caught my eyes. I could see the Lady Justice weighing my fate. Anger, just a flash though. Then the wind blew again and all was well. Shawna was smiling, smiling dirty. A miracle? Maybe I should start going to church again.
Dinner was hot and on the table when I came home that night. It smelled wonderful! All of my favorite things! Collard greens, fried chicken, and macaroni and cheese! Home cooked from scratch! When the dinner was finished, she grabbed me by my tie and lead me to the bedroom.
When I woke up the next morning, I looked lovingly over at my freckled angel. So peaceful, so serene. I kissed her good bye and went to work. Call after call of urgent business kept finding its way to my desk. By noon I had had enough and sent my girlfriend a text in the middle of an incident. She responded.
(205): Damn it woman. I’ve been shitting all morning because of that damn bacon grease.
(1-205): That’s what you get for calling me a hooker.
My girlfriend and I have been together for the better part of five years. One could say it’s been a while. I say it’s an eternity. Nevertheless, minus the $100,000 dollar wedding she wants, we’re pretty much at the “til death” part of our love. You know the kind where you know your bond can withstand anything? That everything’s better in the morning… or some morning long after kind of love? The one where you feel like two boxers in a caged ring cause ain’t no one getting out? Yeah, that’s the kind of love we have. Its wonderful getting up next to her because for the two minutes I’m awake and she’s not, I’m in heaven and she’s my angel. She’s so serene, freckles and all. Then approximately two minutes after said harmony my day, without exception, gets thrown into Purgatory and I never know where I’ll be by lunch or by dinner or by the end of one breath and the beginning of another. I try to think about it in a positive manner, try to make it anything else but a life and death slots game.
So Yesterday, I wake up, stretch, look over at my dear Shawna and smile. I rub her back oh so gently and kiss up her shoulder until I get to her cute, soft lips. I kiss her again. Her eye lashes flutter like butterflies. She looks at me and smiles. Today is going to be a good day. See you tomorrow Purgatory.
We get up and have a nice, calm breakfast. We make pleasant conversation. We kiss each other goodbye and it’s off to work I go. She calls me at 10:30 and asks if we can have lunch, she’ll be in the area. I tell her sure, that I’d love to. We agree on 12:45 at a little place a few blocks from my office. Things are set.
12:30 rolls around and I leave to meet her. She loves it when I’m in my business clothes and I’m looking pretty sharp today. Power tie and all, it’s like her 1950’s era James Bond fetish come to life. When I arrive at the restaurant, she’s not there. Thirty minutes later, she’s not there. Much to my good fortune, she arrives after my second glass of wine has gone dry. She rushes to sit down, all flustered. I can tell that she left the apartment fifteen minutes ago and drove twice the legal limit to get here. I can’t help but crack a smile because she always has the most ridiculous look on her face, like a fat kid caught eating a cookie under his covers after story time. We say hello and kiss. After a bit of conversation, I proceed to ask her what time she actually left. She hangs her head a bit and mumbles something closer to Chinese than English.
I razz her a bit more then let it go, I’ve had my fun. The lunch itself is quick and pleasant. Everything was going well until that third glass of wine kicked in. I’m not sure about anybody else, but when my alcohol intake goes up, the control I have over my mouth goes down. I tell people it’s a condition but no one takes me seriously. As we walk outside, hand in hand, she asks me if I notice anything different. I look her up and down and tell her that she’s looking stunning as always. She smiles then asks again, this time a little more pointedly. Holding my chin like a professor, I say to her. “Hmm… you do look taller…” I look to her. She nods, I’m getting warmer. I look down at her shoes and stare, studying them. Have I seen them before? What color are they? Are they Dark blue? Or Navy blue? I learned the importance of this distinction a couple of years ago during the Easter Hue Event of ‘05. It was a bloodbath.
I still shudder at the thought of it.
Moving on. I didn’t recognize the shoes, though I noted they were stilettos. Now, it should be known that my girlfriend has never worn stilettos in the entirety of our time together and has proclaimed them as “whorish” and things that only “hookers” wear. The words she used to describe this certain style of shoes lie somewhat in a gray area to me as I do not personally believe that an overpriced pair of name brand “foot accessories” makes one a moral pariah. Upon my realization that my girlfriend was, indeed, wearing “hooker” shoes, I humored the buzz I had been having and said, word for word. “If you’re only taking cash tonight, I can pick up some cash on my way home, if ya’know what I mean?” Then I continued to wink at her in an overly hyperbolic way, like a cartoon character.
The air hung still and she caught my eyes. I could see the Lady Justice weighing my fate. Anger, just a flash though. Then the wind blew again and all was well. Shawna was smiling, smiling dirty. A miracle? Maybe I should start going to church again.
Dinner was hot and on the table when I came home that night. It smelled wonderful! All of my favorite things! Collard greens, fried chicken, and macaroni and cheese! Home cooked from scratch! When the dinner was finished, she grabbed me by my tie and lead me to the bedroom.
When I woke up the next morning, I looked lovingly over at my freckled angel. So peaceful, so serene. I kissed her good bye and went to work. Call after call of urgent business kept finding its way to my desk. By noon I had had enough and sent my girlfriend a text in the middle of an incident. She responded.
(205): Damn it woman. I’ve been shitting all morning because of that damn bacon grease.
(1-205): That’s what you get for calling me a hooker.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
New York, New York!
I had never been to New York City, that place where even the trees give children the middle finger. It was always that faraway place, that concrete jungle. Then, last Monday, the phone purrs, Ring… Ring… Ring. My cousin Gracie is on the other line. After a bit of catch up and customary questioning, she offers me a couch and a three days in the Big Apple. I thought on it rather hard and came to the conclusion: “Hmmmmm... okay.” She told me that she “couldn’t wait” and that it’d “been too long.” Two proclamations I was rather ambivalent to at the time. I told her that I’d be up Friday.
Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday came and went like wedgies in gym class and Friday morning, 6 a.m., announced its unholy birth. Merp. Merp. Merp. I stumbled to my pre-made coffee and in three sips its gone. Chinatown bus, here I come. Now, I’m not saying that the Chinatown bus system is illegitimate, but I am saying that not having any decal or other identifying marks is a little sketchy. I couldn’t get a good look before I got on, but the license plate may or may not have been paper written on by black Sharpie.
By some small miracle, I arrived in one piece, safe and sound minus a bit of my own drool. Then I had to get on the subway. Oh, New York subway, how I will not miss thee. I got pushed once, bumped at least twice, and had my ass slapped three times. I’m a guy. Not that I’m complaining, one of the girls was kind of cute, but that was only the first ten minutes. I’m just saying. After an action-packed forty eight minutes I met Gracie and away we went, cityside.
The buildings were so tall! There were so many people! Everyone was power walking like my grandma. It was amazing. The rhythm was so intense. Gracie was walking like a normal person one second and a moment later she’d fallen into sync with the crowds. I struggled to keep up. I broke a sweat. I felt like last year’s R/C car. It was all a blur. I was completely sober. At some point we got into a cab drive and were driven around by Apu from the Simpsons. I swear. When we got out we had to walk another eighteen blocks. We were right there, almost to the sanctuary or Gracie studio apartment. It was getting dark out and I felt like an atrophied Tarzan after a day in the jungle. Gracie was pulling farther away from me. We got to her building.
Then it happened. Something was coming down the sidewalk. A car! A Honda Civic was barreling towards us! I pushed Gracie away from the danger and dove in the other direction. When all was said and done, I picked myself up and stared down the sidewalk, my jaw to the gum-infested concrete, my phone open. Then I selected my best friend from my contact list and told him what had happened.
(240): Dude, I almost got run over on the sidewalk by a car but, turns out, when it got closer it was just a ccrackhead walking with the whole front of a car... bumper, lights, and all... I haven't even been here one day... I love New York already.
Monday, October 12, 2009
Never 21 Again
Today. It’s today. It’s finally here! The day I drink to be merry until my eyes tear! My name is Brian and I’m turning 21 today. I’ve been looking forward to this since last May. I’ve got it all planned out, down to the very last beer. Finally, finally today is here.
Or so went the resounding cheer inside my head, before the day began, before my coffee, before 3:24 in the morning the next day. Its 10:34 Friday morning and my best friend Billy is standing over me, smiling ridiculously. “Happy birthday motherfucker!” I know that tone. I will not be responsible for the next 24 hours of my life. He hands me a doughnut and a beer. “Breakfast of champions.” He says as he pops open a Guinness and chomps on a devil’s food crumb doughnut, our mutual favorite.
I look from the doughnut to the Sam Adams Oktoberfest, then back again. “Trust me.” He says, smile still on his face. I shrug and take a bite. Then a sip. Not too bad actually. “Thanks.” I say. I take another bite-sip combo. Not too bad at all. I finish. “I’ll be down in two.”
He hands me a hot pocket. “Hurry, we have a full day.”
I put the somewhat-hot-pocket in my mouth, roll out of bed, and search for the cleanest clothes. I find my favorite pair of jeans under my favorite hoodie and zip the both them up. I love the feeling of ripped, worn jeans and time-thinned, thumb-hole hoodies in the fall. It’s like the coating of a Klondike. Fucking delicious. I look out my window at the all the autumn colors and can’t help but think, ‘It’s going to be a good day.’
And so it was, so it was. There was alcohol and good times in everything. Cups, glasses, kegs, watermelons, everything. The world was my drunken oyster so I sang the national anthem to it. At noon. I climbed a bell tower and apparently played the theme song to the ‘Lion King’ on it. It sounded horrible in a wonderful kind of way. Who knew I had a thing for music?
It was the watermelon that really got me. We had just gotten back from ninja-fighting when the drunkmunchy monkey climbed aboard my back. I told Billy that I was hungry. That was my first mistake. My second mistake was eating what he told me to. My third mistake was washing down the watermelon with the vodka leftover from spiking said watermelon. Those are the only three mistakes I can currently remember.
The day was turning out to be quite the memorable occasion. I can’t say the same for the night; I lost a few too many hours. After sobering up just enough to regain the ability to walk a straight line, Billy and I stumbled to the local pizza joint and woofed down an anchovy-feta cheese-banana pepper-extra pineapple-white sauce pizza. Then we settled our stomachs with Tums and beer.
I have a vague recollection of watching a Jennifer Aniston movie with guns and giant explosions and aliens, which is impossible. And I also have a brand new appreciation for the fine people at Pixar. They’re really very talented. Finding Nemo is my new hero. Not only can he lead his people to freedom but his name has an E and an O in it in just like the word “hero.”
It made sense at the time.
The last thing I can recall from that night was the sudden realization that whatever I was eating was dry, tasted like tuna, and was unnecessarily crunchy. I looked down, shook my head and tried to figure out where I was. Then I realized the receipt in my right hand. It was from CVS. I turned around and lo and behold, in the distance, was a flickering 24 Hour pharmacy sign. I looked at the time. It was 3:24 in the morning. I facepalmed then flipped open my phone, selected ‘Dad’ on my contact list, and hit the send button.
(412): I’m walking the streets of B-Ville with a bag of cat food… looking for my car. I don’t ever want to turn 21 again.
Or so went the resounding cheer inside my head, before the day began, before my coffee, before 3:24 in the morning the next day. Its 10:34 Friday morning and my best friend Billy is standing over me, smiling ridiculously. “Happy birthday motherfucker!” I know that tone. I will not be responsible for the next 24 hours of my life. He hands me a doughnut and a beer. “Breakfast of champions.” He says as he pops open a Guinness and chomps on a devil’s food crumb doughnut, our mutual favorite.
I look from the doughnut to the Sam Adams Oktoberfest, then back again. “Trust me.” He says, smile still on his face. I shrug and take a bite. Then a sip. Not too bad actually. “Thanks.” I say. I take another bite-sip combo. Not too bad at all. I finish. “I’ll be down in two.”
He hands me a hot pocket. “Hurry, we have a full day.”
I put the somewhat-hot-pocket in my mouth, roll out of bed, and search for the cleanest clothes. I find my favorite pair of jeans under my favorite hoodie and zip the both them up. I love the feeling of ripped, worn jeans and time-thinned, thumb-hole hoodies in the fall. It’s like the coating of a Klondike. Fucking delicious. I look out my window at the all the autumn colors and can’t help but think, ‘It’s going to be a good day.’
And so it was, so it was. There was alcohol and good times in everything. Cups, glasses, kegs, watermelons, everything. The world was my drunken oyster so I sang the national anthem to it. At noon. I climbed a bell tower and apparently played the theme song to the ‘Lion King’ on it. It sounded horrible in a wonderful kind of way. Who knew I had a thing for music?
It was the watermelon that really got me. We had just gotten back from ninja-fighting when the drunkmunchy monkey climbed aboard my back. I told Billy that I was hungry. That was my first mistake. My second mistake was eating what he told me to. My third mistake was washing down the watermelon with the vodka leftover from spiking said watermelon. Those are the only three mistakes I can currently remember.
The day was turning out to be quite the memorable occasion. I can’t say the same for the night; I lost a few too many hours. After sobering up just enough to regain the ability to walk a straight line, Billy and I stumbled to the local pizza joint and woofed down an anchovy-feta cheese-banana pepper-extra pineapple-white sauce pizza. Then we settled our stomachs with Tums and beer.
I have a vague recollection of watching a Jennifer Aniston movie with guns and giant explosions and aliens, which is impossible. And I also have a brand new appreciation for the fine people at Pixar. They’re really very talented. Finding Nemo is my new hero. Not only can he lead his people to freedom but his name has an E and an O in it in just like the word “hero.”
It made sense at the time.
The last thing I can recall from that night was the sudden realization that whatever I was eating was dry, tasted like tuna, and was unnecessarily crunchy. I looked down, shook my head and tried to figure out where I was. Then I realized the receipt in my right hand. It was from CVS. I turned around and lo and behold, in the distance, was a flickering 24 Hour pharmacy sign. I looked at the time. It was 3:24 in the morning. I facepalmed then flipped open my phone, selected ‘Dad’ on my contact list, and hit the send button.
(412): I’m walking the streets of B-Ville with a bag of cat food… looking for my car. I don’t ever want to turn 21 again.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Stolen Nightcap
I just wanted a bit of chocolate, a coco nightcap if you will. That’s it, that’s all. I looked over at Dan. He was lying on his back, arms above his head, chest hair like a tiger’s, kind of regal if you thought about it the right way, and most importantly: asleep. He was snoring so loudly the echoes had echoes. I watched him closely, like a mama hawk. Not a stir; I was in the clear. So I got up, like a ninja, slipped on my fuzzy bunny slippers, and tiptoed to my stash. It was like I was walking on air, I didn’t even know I was moving. That’s before I stepped on something soft and boney. Squiggles, our cat, screeched like there was no tomorrow. I turned around, fast as lightening. Dan didn’t wake. ‘Phew’ I thought and continued. I got to my stash, unraveled it, opened it, smelled it. So good! Milk chocolate! Dark chocolate! White Chocolate! All kinds of chocolate!
What to have, what to have? I couldn’t decide. So I took everything back to bed with me. Softly, I opened my bedside drawer, watching Dan once again like a hawk, and putting everything in the back of the drawer. I slipped off my fuzzy bunnies, got back in the bed, and pretended to sleep. Then inspiration! Dark chocolate M & M’s with almonds! That’s what I want. I listened to Dan snore. Then I peeked over at him with one eye to make sure. The mission was a go. I reached into the drawer, pulled out the bag of M&M’s, a huge smile on my face, and then… the snoring stopped. Caught, I turned around sheepishly and there was Dan. Eyes open, hand open. A huge smile on his face. “I’d love some. Thank you.”
I poured away, then texted my best friend. Why did I text her at 2:47 in the morning? Because I had to.
(416): I don't understand how he can't hear himself snoring, but he'll wake up to me sneaking M&M's from my junk food stash beside the bed...
What to have, what to have? I couldn’t decide. So I took everything back to bed with me. Softly, I opened my bedside drawer, watching Dan once again like a hawk, and putting everything in the back of the drawer. I slipped off my fuzzy bunnies, got back in the bed, and pretended to sleep. Then inspiration! Dark chocolate M & M’s with almonds! That’s what I want. I listened to Dan snore. Then I peeked over at him with one eye to make sure. The mission was a go. I reached into the drawer, pulled out the bag of M&M’s, a huge smile on my face, and then… the snoring stopped. Caught, I turned around sheepishly and there was Dan. Eyes open, hand open. A huge smile on his face. “I’d love some. Thank you.”
I poured away, then texted my best friend. Why did I text her at 2:47 in the morning? Because I had to.
(416): I don't understand how he can't hear himself snoring, but he'll wake up to me sneaking M&M's from my junk food stash beside the bed...
Monday, October 5, 2009
Cockblocking Robot
She’s there. She’s just there. I don’t understand it. Five foot one inch tall and every-fucking-where. She breaks physics. At a party, at a bar, on the sidewalk, it doesn’t matter, she’s there. In the morning, at night, at 3 a.m. She’s there. I don’t know how she does it. The only legitimate explanation is that she’s a fun-sucking, bitter-hearted vampire-robot sent by her future self to ruin my life. That’s the only reason that makes sense to me.
I was talking to a girl at a party on Saturday night. Her name was Angela. She was gorgeous. Nice smile, very smart, great teeth, long chestnut hair, pretty face. The whole package. Everything was going well. So well. We talked about our ambitions in life. Her wanting to better people’s lives, my wanting to live to see the third Star Wars trilogy, everything was peachy keen. As I was about to ask her for her number, the vampbot climbs onto the nearest table. ‘This cannot be good.’ I think. Everyone starts to mumble and point, mostly at her but a bit at me, as she struggles to maintain her balance. Her body starts jolting back and forth, awkwardly jutting about. I thought she was having a seizure standing up. I took out my phone and dialed a nine and a one before she started humping the air and I realized she wasn’t dying, she was dancing.
Then, to my horror, she found me in the crowd, locked devil eyes with me. She leaned towards me, absent cleavage leaving everything to be desired, and beckoned me to her. I looked away, pretended that the giant-fucking-elephant was not in the room. Angela looked at me, judgment one wrong answer away. I shrugged and mouthed ‘psycho.’ She laughed, I passed. Then my chances with Ms. Perfect were tarred, feathered and shot. The gyrating mess miraculously got down off the table, managed to shuffle over to me and planted a big, sloppy, nasty, vodka-scented kiss right on my lips. Then she yelled “I still love you. We aren’t over yet.” Conversation ceased to exist. All eyes on us. Awkward.
I was too stunned to even move. I just couldn’t comprehend what was going on. I checked my mental calendar of legal and illegal trips I’ve taken recently and came up with nothing that could produce such a horrible hallucination. When I came back to my senses Angela was gone and I was being held hostage in what can only be described as standup-reverse-spooning. I tore away from my captor and ran out the door. “Angela! Angela!!” I called and called. She didn’t answer.
I sat down on a cold bench, cheeks still rosy from embarrassment, and took out my phone. I thought and thought. Then inspiration! Words from the bottom of my heart flowed from my thumbs and onto the screen. I was like William fucking Wallace. I scrolled down my contact list until I got to “Megabitch,” hit send, and yelled “Freedom!!” at the top of my lungs.
(850): You are like a giant, cock-blocking robot developed in some kind of secret fucking government lab.
I was talking to a girl at a party on Saturday night. Her name was Angela. She was gorgeous. Nice smile, very smart, great teeth, long chestnut hair, pretty face. The whole package. Everything was going well. So well. We talked about our ambitions in life. Her wanting to better people’s lives, my wanting to live to see the third Star Wars trilogy, everything was peachy keen. As I was about to ask her for her number, the vampbot climbs onto the nearest table. ‘This cannot be good.’ I think. Everyone starts to mumble and point, mostly at her but a bit at me, as she struggles to maintain her balance. Her body starts jolting back and forth, awkwardly jutting about. I thought she was having a seizure standing up. I took out my phone and dialed a nine and a one before she started humping the air and I realized she wasn’t dying, she was dancing.
Then, to my horror, she found me in the crowd, locked devil eyes with me. She leaned towards me, absent cleavage leaving everything to be desired, and beckoned me to her. I looked away, pretended that the giant-fucking-elephant was not in the room. Angela looked at me, judgment one wrong answer away. I shrugged and mouthed ‘psycho.’ She laughed, I passed. Then my chances with Ms. Perfect were tarred, feathered and shot. The gyrating mess miraculously got down off the table, managed to shuffle over to me and planted a big, sloppy, nasty, vodka-scented kiss right on my lips. Then she yelled “I still love you. We aren’t over yet.” Conversation ceased to exist. All eyes on us. Awkward.
I was too stunned to even move. I just couldn’t comprehend what was going on. I checked my mental calendar of legal and illegal trips I’ve taken recently and came up with nothing that could produce such a horrible hallucination. When I came back to my senses Angela was gone and I was being held hostage in what can only be described as standup-reverse-spooning. I tore away from my captor and ran out the door. “Angela! Angela!!” I called and called. She didn’t answer.
I sat down on a cold bench, cheeks still rosy from embarrassment, and took out my phone. I thought and thought. Then inspiration! Words from the bottom of my heart flowed from my thumbs and onto the screen. I was like William fucking Wallace. I scrolled down my contact list until I got to “Megabitch,” hit send, and yelled “Freedom!!” at the top of my lungs.
(850): You are like a giant, cock-blocking robot developed in some kind of secret fucking government lab.
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