Twenty-something, single, semi-professionals are a blight. They are cockroaches that seem to sprout up on Thursday night only to scamper away by Monday morning. They spend the weekend feeding off alcohol and shattered idealism only to be driven back to their support, clerk, or sales positions by the weekday sunlight. Disposable income, a stunted future, and few prospects leave them slaves to the bar scene, cell phones and personal blogs. They all see themselves (and we see them) as different entities:
The Loner
The Chem-dependant
The Sleaze
The Ex-Frat boy
The Emo
The Screamo
The Fake Literati
The True Literati
The Jock
The Film Buff
The Mute
The Looker
The Stalker
The Self Denial Drunk
The Closet Case
The Fag Hag
Plus many more, too numerous to list. All different, but all the same. Throw out a label to see if it sticks and you’ll be right 90% of the time. The problem is… it doesn’t matter. This generation doesn’t want for classification. It lacks purpose, it lacks a calling. I know because I am just as enveloped in it as anyone else. My speech doesn’t separate me from the masses of my peers. I might be a critic or chronicler, but I am in no way walking against the grain. Give me my drink and my alternative music just as you give a babe his teat and his lullaby. Pacified, I am part of the plague.
We have no demigods that are of their own making. We have cultural icons and MTV puppets. We have media moguls telling tweens what is sexy. There are trends being pre-set just like the radio stations on that car you just bought because you saw it on the 150ft billboard. Of course this isn’t revolutionary. We have been bought and sold by media since Cro-Magnon man used blood and excrement to draw cave paintings describing his “two for one” stone wheel sale. The only difference is now the media is so tremendous it envelops itself. Like Ouroboros, it’s living off its own body, yet it still manages to devour us even as it eats its own tail.
How far we have fallen into it is measured by how petty we have all become. We count the friends on out buddy lists and MySpace pages like the Wall Street investment banker counts the figures in a merger. We hone our music and dvd collections like a wine or cigar aficionado. Place an item on its designated rack and suddenly it has cultural and spiritual value. There are even laws and regulations placed upon the digital sound and imagery we once so freely distributed. It’s shocking how quickly a once free sharing of ideas has become big business and marginalized. Right now there are lawyers arguing over who owns the rights to the videos you posted on the internet of your friend passed out drunk on the library steps.
All this consumerism brings me back to the social scene. Our interaction over this expanse of instant media has crippled our growth as social animals. We laugh and love and dine and spend and return to our homes without emotion or sentiment. Emotion is replaced by emoticons and acronyms take the place of feelings. How can this not create widespread listlessness? Empty from soulless living, we fill this hole with booze and products then return to the rat race to earn more and repeat the process. Those who dissent or try to live outside this cycle are seen as a whiny and counter-cultural even by those who agree with the bucking of the system. It’s even more depressing to hear how you and everyone you know is part of the problem… so why bring it up?
But even now I look around and know that I’m not the only one who realizes something is wrong. At night I can feel it. An inner whisper, barely a child’s breath telling me. If I don’t pay attention, it is only a minor distraction. But if I listen… oh if I listen… it’s pervasive like an internal agony throbbing in every vessel. A sharp pain, ever-growing, taking over my every thought, so intense it cannot be ignored. It screams at me:
You are wasting your life.
You are 26 and you are letting the days, months and years dwindle away.
There is something out there, calling, telling you that you should do…
Do what? Be what? Go where? It isn’t specific. It never is. All I know is that I’m not living up to a potential that was set by a person or thing that I may never have known or met, but their presence is felt in the back of my mind. Deep within me, this force pulls at my very being. It shreds away my covers, my masks, my pleasantries. The lies I tell myself and others to get through a normal day of social graces are washed away.
I am left with nothing but my core… and it’s unhappy. It’s restless. And it is trying to find release. But there is no cultural guidance in the wasteland I’ve previously described. Nothing I see or read compels me and nothing I’ve been taught gives me any sort of direction. In this massively connected world, an individual is left alone to wade through the choices that will define their life. Or you can join the rest of your peers and remain in the societal purgatory that is becoming the norm. The holding pattern of the pre-midlife crisis.
Oh, how scared I am. I have already taken the first steps, or been pushed as the case may be, but I have retreated back into the stable, yet fraudulent life I have become accustomed to. I fall back into my group, return to my label and begin to want again. So buy me another round and set my friends up too. Tonight we drink with fear and angst.
Friday, August 10, 2007
Friday, June 29, 2007
To the Girl in the Bar
I’ve almost given up meeting someone in a bar. When I’m drinking, every girl I see seems prettier than the last and of course, less approachable. I am an unwanted blotch on the sheets that cover these avenues of hip gentrified Brooklyn. These trendy bars that are too well lit to hide my uncomfortable awkwardness isolate me even further. In them I feel as if I’ve regressed back into worst parts of adolescence if I’ve even ever left at all.
That’s why I pass the evenings at the cheapest neighborhood tavern that also happens to be the closest to my apartment. I sit alone and drink a locally brewed beer or whiskey if I’m feeling particularly depressed, or bourbon if I’m feeling self destructive.
It’s a very noisy Thursday when I see you at a table in the corner with your friends. You hair is jet, your eyes are grey and you look bored. People are laughing and talking and having fun, but not you. You stare into you gin and tonic trying to find entertainment from the relationship between the swizzle stick and lime wedge. Unfortunately for you, it’s a shallow marriage and they part quickly after one sharp stir. The separation of citrus and plastic causes you sigh heavily and rub you pale tattooed shoulders. You look around in an attempt to distract yourself from the conversation being held directly across from you when it happens.
You catch me staring at you.
Not just staring, but practically leering. I have been looking at you for about twenty minutes captivated by your every move. The way you brush your short cropped hair out of your eyes, the way you nurse your cocktail, the way you feign interest in your friend’s anecdotes. Every action is mesmerizing. I longed to be with you, hold you, comfort you and whisk you away from this dank inebriate filled cesspool.
But it’s too late for any of that. You’ve observed me observing you and I’m mortified. I jerk my gaze away as quickly as possible while trying to be nonchalant. I don’t pull it off. I feel like a voyeur caught peeking at someone changing through a keyhole. I’m nauseous with guilt and shame.
I can still feel you watching the back of my head. You must be repulsed at this sleazebag that’s been gawking at you. I know you are still looking at me and the urge to look back again is building in my mind. It’s like scratching a bug bite that has already turned red and raw. This can only bring more pain but I am compelled.
My muscles begin to act on their own and swivel my head towards you. I am fraught with anticipation and fear as I catch you out of the corner of my eye and meet your eyes once again. It takes every bit of strength not to fall out of my bar stool when I see you smile at me.
Again I wrench my head back to the bar and my half empty beer. I chug it down like a frat boy losing a bet and run out the bar. I feel so stupid. Why didn’t I say hello? Why was my first impulse to run away with out looking back? Why was my embarrassment so strong?
You could have been my best friend or my worst enemy. My one true love or my eternal nemesis. In leaving immediately I have removed all those options from our path. We will forever be nothing.
I think your name was Karen.
That’s why I pass the evenings at the cheapest neighborhood tavern that also happens to be the closest to my apartment. I sit alone and drink a locally brewed beer or whiskey if I’m feeling particularly depressed, or bourbon if I’m feeling self destructive.
It’s a very noisy Thursday when I see you at a table in the corner with your friends. You hair is jet, your eyes are grey and you look bored. People are laughing and talking and having fun, but not you. You stare into you gin and tonic trying to find entertainment from the relationship between the swizzle stick and lime wedge. Unfortunately for you, it’s a shallow marriage and they part quickly after one sharp stir. The separation of citrus and plastic causes you sigh heavily and rub you pale tattooed shoulders. You look around in an attempt to distract yourself from the conversation being held directly across from you when it happens.
You catch me staring at you.
Not just staring, but practically leering. I have been looking at you for about twenty minutes captivated by your every move. The way you brush your short cropped hair out of your eyes, the way you nurse your cocktail, the way you feign interest in your friend’s anecdotes. Every action is mesmerizing. I longed to be with you, hold you, comfort you and whisk you away from this dank inebriate filled cesspool.
But it’s too late for any of that. You’ve observed me observing you and I’m mortified. I jerk my gaze away as quickly as possible while trying to be nonchalant. I don’t pull it off. I feel like a voyeur caught peeking at someone changing through a keyhole. I’m nauseous with guilt and shame.
I can still feel you watching the back of my head. You must be repulsed at this sleazebag that’s been gawking at you. I know you are still looking at me and the urge to look back again is building in my mind. It’s like scratching a bug bite that has already turned red and raw. This can only bring more pain but I am compelled.
My muscles begin to act on their own and swivel my head towards you. I am fraught with anticipation and fear as I catch you out of the corner of my eye and meet your eyes once again. It takes every bit of strength not to fall out of my bar stool when I see you smile at me.
Again I wrench my head back to the bar and my half empty beer. I chug it down like a frat boy losing a bet and run out the bar. I feel so stupid. Why didn’t I say hello? Why was my first impulse to run away with out looking back? Why was my embarrassment so strong?
You could have been my best friend or my worst enemy. My one true love or my eternal nemesis. In leaving immediately I have removed all those options from our path. We will forever be nothing.
I think your name was Karen.
Sunday, June 17, 2007
How to (temporarily) Tank Life:
A guide for the lazy, lonely guy
Giving up on your life, happiness and goals can be a great way to make life long friends and even get laid. It’s a subterfuge that might take over your whole life, but in the end can make people feel bad and give you things. It's a fair trade when you think about it. Before somebody says: “How disgusting! It’s an easy way out of responsibility and culpability!” let me tell you that it may be deplorable, it may be shameless, and it may be degrading, but there’s noting easy about it. Ennui and apathy can be hard work. Really letting yourself go isn’t a sweet ride to the hamlets of sloth and gluttony that people make it out to be. It is a grueling and arduous task that can take weeks or even months. To really flush your life down the drain without any permanent side effects you need to put time and money into acting the part while still maintaining an audience to feel sorry for you. What good is being a mess if there’s nobody to give you any sympathy? Rock bottom can be a tough place to find when you need spectators and want to avoid staying there permanently. Keep in mind that you are trying to get attention by deception and you want to leave yourself some outs after this goal is accomplished. Now where should you begin on this journey to the gutter? With the details.
The easiest thing to do is grow a beard. Not any stylish facial hair like some well maintained goatee, you need to look more rugged. The unwashed face covered in little black ants look. Just let it go crazy for a few days and see which way the wind blows it across your cheeks and upper lip. Think mountain man meets dumpster diver.
Clothes are another important aspect of the broken man image. Try sleeping in an outfit you plan to wear the next day or wear a shirt that is 2 sizes too large and covered in old food. Wrinkles, stains, rips and holes are your allies in the battle of “not giving a shit”. And don’t use too many bright colors. Lots of earth tones and black can really give the impression that you should be kept away from sharp objects. It’s important to keep somewhat with the style you are known for. Drastically altering your appearance overnight might make your viewers skeptical thus limiting any sympathy you might receive. Just change what you need to so that even the causal observer can glance at you and think “I hope he’s alright!”
Remember, you are trying to make sure people care about what you look like while giving the impression you don’t care what people think about what you look like. It’s a tightrope walk.
Start to drink heavily. If you already do, start doing it publicly. And make sure people don’t mistake you for the happy drunk. You want it to be clear that you’re drinking to make the pain go away and are trying to find solace at the bottom of a bottle. Try getting people to buy you drinks and then toast to “A better life.” Careful not to be too obnoxious during this phase or you will push away anyone who would want to help you, but be as obvious as possible. Some of your more shallow friends might even get off on the fact that they were able to stick by a buddy with a drinking problem. Pricks. Make sure not to give them any credit when you start to turn it around.
When the drinking, attire and hygiene are in order, it’s time to quit your job. If you happen to like your job (unlikely) or if it is a financial or social impossibility, then I guess you could manage by getting up late (or not at all) and showing a marked decrease in productivity, but in reality these are just half measures. You need to commit to a complete lack of employment to truly get the point across that you are in trouble and are becoming despondent. This may make it difficult to get a real girlfriend (most women don’t want to get into a committed relationship with a penniless loser), but by playing a heavy handed “my life is spiraling out of control” card, you could be rolling in the sympathy booty. You’d be surprised how well the “if I just had something good to keep me going” line works with the moderately drunk girls with low self-esteem. Hell, they might even make you a “pet project.” That’s like striking gold in a brothel.
Once all these factors are in place, you can begin living your life as a pity sponge. Feel free to mooch money, meals, booze, lodging and emotional support (sex) off your friends and acquaintances. This is a process more than a goal. The deeper you seem to sink, the easier it will be to live like a parasite and have people be glad to offer themselves as hosts.
Now how long can/should you keep this up? That all depends on your situation. I have seen guys stay in this zone indefinitely. They shuffle through life looking all depressed and getting zero flack for it. In reality they are sneakily happy and love the existence they have orchestrated for themselves. No worries, no responsibility, no accountability. They are just sorry sacks that expect everyone to feel bad for them and give them stuff. If this act works 25% of the time, then they would see it as a win.
Mostly this lifestyle should be a temporary placement for the stressed, bored or lonely. Get out there and find people to give you sympathy, pity and take care of you. Once you’ve had your fill of that type of attention, start to regain some of your shame and turn your life around gradually. If you’ve been busy keeping friends and making new ones it should be easy with all the support you are going to get. They might even start to respect you as you raise your quality of life back to a normal standard.
Take their compliments in stride, stay visibly stoic and depressed and try not to laugh as you crawl your way back from a self imposed rock bottom vacation.
Giving up on your life, happiness and goals can be a great way to make life long friends and even get laid. It’s a subterfuge that might take over your whole life, but in the end can make people feel bad and give you things. It's a fair trade when you think about it. Before somebody says: “How disgusting! It’s an easy way out of responsibility and culpability!” let me tell you that it may be deplorable, it may be shameless, and it may be degrading, but there’s noting easy about it. Ennui and apathy can be hard work. Really letting yourself go isn’t a sweet ride to the hamlets of sloth and gluttony that people make it out to be. It is a grueling and arduous task that can take weeks or even months. To really flush your life down the drain without any permanent side effects you need to put time and money into acting the part while still maintaining an audience to feel sorry for you. What good is being a mess if there’s nobody to give you any sympathy? Rock bottom can be a tough place to find when you need spectators and want to avoid staying there permanently. Keep in mind that you are trying to get attention by deception and you want to leave yourself some outs after this goal is accomplished. Now where should you begin on this journey to the gutter? With the details.
The easiest thing to do is grow a beard. Not any stylish facial hair like some well maintained goatee, you need to look more rugged. The unwashed face covered in little black ants look. Just let it go crazy for a few days and see which way the wind blows it across your cheeks and upper lip. Think mountain man meets dumpster diver.
Clothes are another important aspect of the broken man image. Try sleeping in an outfit you plan to wear the next day or wear a shirt that is 2 sizes too large and covered in old food. Wrinkles, stains, rips and holes are your allies in the battle of “not giving a shit”. And don’t use too many bright colors. Lots of earth tones and black can really give the impression that you should be kept away from sharp objects. It’s important to keep somewhat with the style you are known for. Drastically altering your appearance overnight might make your viewers skeptical thus limiting any sympathy you might receive. Just change what you need to so that even the causal observer can glance at you and think “I hope he’s alright!”
Remember, you are trying to make sure people care about what you look like while giving the impression you don’t care what people think about what you look like. It’s a tightrope walk.
Start to drink heavily. If you already do, start doing it publicly. And make sure people don’t mistake you for the happy drunk. You want it to be clear that you’re drinking to make the pain go away and are trying to find solace at the bottom of a bottle. Try getting people to buy you drinks and then toast to “A better life.” Careful not to be too obnoxious during this phase or you will push away anyone who would want to help you, but be as obvious as possible. Some of your more shallow friends might even get off on the fact that they were able to stick by a buddy with a drinking problem. Pricks. Make sure not to give them any credit when you start to turn it around.
When the drinking, attire and hygiene are in order, it’s time to quit your job. If you happen to like your job (unlikely) or if it is a financial or social impossibility, then I guess you could manage by getting up late (or not at all) and showing a marked decrease in productivity, but in reality these are just half measures. You need to commit to a complete lack of employment to truly get the point across that you are in trouble and are becoming despondent. This may make it difficult to get a real girlfriend (most women don’t want to get into a committed relationship with a penniless loser), but by playing a heavy handed “my life is spiraling out of control” card, you could be rolling in the sympathy booty. You’d be surprised how well the “if I just had something good to keep me going” line works with the moderately drunk girls with low self-esteem. Hell, they might even make you a “pet project.” That’s like striking gold in a brothel.
Once all these factors are in place, you can begin living your life as a pity sponge. Feel free to mooch money, meals, booze, lodging and emotional support (sex) off your friends and acquaintances. This is a process more than a goal. The deeper you seem to sink, the easier it will be to live like a parasite and have people be glad to offer themselves as hosts.
Now how long can/should you keep this up? That all depends on your situation. I have seen guys stay in this zone indefinitely. They shuffle through life looking all depressed and getting zero flack for it. In reality they are sneakily happy and love the existence they have orchestrated for themselves. No worries, no responsibility, no accountability. They are just sorry sacks that expect everyone to feel bad for them and give them stuff. If this act works 25% of the time, then they would see it as a win.
Mostly this lifestyle should be a temporary placement for the stressed, bored or lonely. Get out there and find people to give you sympathy, pity and take care of you. Once you’ve had your fill of that type of attention, start to regain some of your shame and turn your life around gradually. If you’ve been busy keeping friends and making new ones it should be easy with all the support you are going to get. They might even start to respect you as you raise your quality of life back to a normal standard.
Take their compliments in stride, stay visibly stoic and depressed and try not to laugh as you crawl your way back from a self imposed rock bottom vacation.
Wednesday, May 9, 2007
Dreaming
Drinking and dreaming is an interesting phenomenon. You need to get amazingly drunk, but remain JUST sober enough that your memory is not too impaired. Remembering a dream is hard enough without the use of an outside substance that contains mind wiping properties.
This type of dreaming you can’t awake from easily and it’s often mistaken for real life. You will find feelings both physical and emotional are accurate and it can have all the highs and lows of an acid trip. I have heard of very positive experiences with this phenomenon, but these are mostly people having realistic sex dreams that fulfill deepest fantasies and maintain a crystal clear base in reality. Mine never turn out this way. Mine are the bad trips.
For example, this was the result of my last drunken sleep where lucid dreaming was possible (as best as I can remember it anyways):
I am standing in the back of a crowded theater. Everyone is dressed in the finest gowns, tuxes and evening wear because a red carpet gala has just preceded this event. The audience is aflutter with activity and excitement as I make my way to my seat in the front. As I look down each isle I recognize famous figures, personal friends and all manner of relatives. People I know from movies and TV and people I know personally but I haven’t thought about or seen in years. It is a collection of everyone I have ever known or wanted to know. When I get to the front, I see my best friends and immediate family have filled the seats in my row. I glance at one of the displaced programs on the floor and realize… this is MY movie. These people are here to view the debut of my film. It is never certain if I have written, directed, acted or some combination, but it is clear that I have ownership here. This is my celebration for my creation.
The theater dims, the crowd roars. Standing applause as my name appears on the screen in enormous white lettering. The screen goes dark, people sit and the film begins.
SHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH
It’s static. Nothing but black and white snow as if the movie screen was one of the old TV’s and the knob was turned between channels. I’m horrified. I put my hands over my mouth but I cannot avert my gaze form the nothingness being projected. The nothingness I created. In desperation I jerk my head away and try to find some comfort in the people around me, but they’re gone. All the family and friends in my row have vanished without sound or motion as if they were never there. I quickly stand and spin to look at the rest of the theater seats, but they are empty as well. I am now acutely aware that this is exactly what I produced. Nothing. I stand alone in a darkened theater with only a static filled screen. The noise emanating from the empty film seems to be getting louder and louder and louder until…
I wake up.
This is just one of the reasons I recommend drinking lots of water before retiring after a night of debauchery. That, or make sure you’re drunk enough that you blackout, pass out and don’t remember a thing.
This type of dreaming you can’t awake from easily and it’s often mistaken for real life. You will find feelings both physical and emotional are accurate and it can have all the highs and lows of an acid trip. I have heard of very positive experiences with this phenomenon, but these are mostly people having realistic sex dreams that fulfill deepest fantasies and maintain a crystal clear base in reality. Mine never turn out this way. Mine are the bad trips.
For example, this was the result of my last drunken sleep where lucid dreaming was possible (as best as I can remember it anyways):
I am standing in the back of a crowded theater. Everyone is dressed in the finest gowns, tuxes and evening wear because a red carpet gala has just preceded this event. The audience is aflutter with activity and excitement as I make my way to my seat in the front. As I look down each isle I recognize famous figures, personal friends and all manner of relatives. People I know from movies and TV and people I know personally but I haven’t thought about or seen in years. It is a collection of everyone I have ever known or wanted to know. When I get to the front, I see my best friends and immediate family have filled the seats in my row. I glance at one of the displaced programs on the floor and realize… this is MY movie. These people are here to view the debut of my film. It is never certain if I have written, directed, acted or some combination, but it is clear that I have ownership here. This is my celebration for my creation.
The theater dims, the crowd roars. Standing applause as my name appears on the screen in enormous white lettering. The screen goes dark, people sit and the film begins.
SHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH
It’s static. Nothing but black and white snow as if the movie screen was one of the old TV’s and the knob was turned between channels. I’m horrified. I put my hands over my mouth but I cannot avert my gaze form the nothingness being projected. The nothingness I created. In desperation I jerk my head away and try to find some comfort in the people around me, but they’re gone. All the family and friends in my row have vanished without sound or motion as if they were never there. I quickly stand and spin to look at the rest of the theater seats, but they are empty as well. I am now acutely aware that this is exactly what I produced. Nothing. I stand alone in a darkened theater with only a static filled screen. The noise emanating from the empty film seems to be getting louder and louder and louder until…
I wake up.
This is just one of the reasons I recommend drinking lots of water before retiring after a night of debauchery. That, or make sure you’re drunk enough that you blackout, pass out and don’t remember a thing.
Thursday, March 22, 2007
Are we ever really alone?
It’s a sad moment when you find yourself by yourself in a bar. Bars are social outlets with free flowing legal drugs (ok not “free”). They are day-care centers for adults and as such they can be fun incarnate. You want to go to these havens and hang out and drink with friends, co-workers, ex-lovers, ANYBODY… but not alone. If you look closely at these dimly lit establishments, you may spot some sad sack nursing a drink and some wounds by the end of the bar. They look lonely because they are alone. You know nothing about these people, their situation or current condition, but you pity them. They are drinking alone. The final taboo of the drunk.
Well back off. Sometimes options can be limited and I want a beer and a place to clear my head and inviting a friend can disturb the whole situation. I’ll call them and they’ll get there and they’ll look at me and tilt their head and say:
“Hey buddy, you look down. I’m here for you. Wanna talk about it?”
WHAT? No, fuck you! I want to drink! That’s why we’re at a bar. If I wanted to talk I would go to the Upper East Side and see some asshole in a tweed suit with oversized glasses and a grey beard with some sort of parchment on the wall that says “Certified… something or other” and I would lie on his sofa as he picks his teeth and pretends to care about why I feel like my life is going in circles. I would pay him $550 bucks and hour and he would laugh as he remodels his home in Connecticut. Just shut up and drink.
So I bundle up and walk through some impressive snow flurries to the closest bar unaccompanied (burdened) by any other noises besides the ones on the street and in my own head. I want to relax, grab a pint and just think awhile. This bar (it’s really called “Bar”) is perfect for that kind of thing. Poorly lit, soft alt-music without any driving baseline, only a small TV with almost no sound and a great selection of drinks. Perfect place to hide from the world. All this just a hop, skip and a stagger away from my apartment. What more could I ask for?
Tonight I asked for solitude, and I got it. The cold and snow (and the fact that it’s Wednesday) must have driven most of the customers away. The bar was completely empty except for a couple in the corner and the bartender who looks bored out of her mind. I plop myself on a stool at the end of the bar and drop my coat off on the seat next to me. I eye the taps a second and then try to get the attention of the girl resting her head in her hands behind a sack of glasses.
I cock my head and squeeze out an “Ummm… hi?”
That’s all it takes. She lurches up and shuffles her way towards me. She’s cute in a way I can’t really put my finger on. She has her short black hair pulled back with a rubber band and is wearing a very underwhelming ensemble of ripped jeans and a light blue sweater. But she pulls it off in a laid-back hotness that is simply comforting. She definitely isn’t trying to impress anyone. Not that there’s anyone here to impress.
“What can I get ya?” He tone is soft and does little to hide her boredom. She wants to be somewhere else on this freezing cold evening.
“I’ll take a Brooklyn Lager, thanks.”
“Sure” she says. It’s not the “Sure” that makes you feel good about your choice. It’s more of a “Sure, and could you kill yourself you freaking drunk” type of “sure.”
I try not to notice. I give her a five and don’t take the change (4 dollar pints are a steal in New York) and begin to sip… and think.
I don’t remember what I think about. It’s not anything deep or meaningful. It’s just an evening alone with my thoughts and our mutual friend booze. The three of us have a grand ‘ol time depressing each other and if any of us begins to feel empty, I signal the increasingly attractive bartender to fill us up. On my third pint, the couple in the corner throws on their coats and makes their way to the door. A huge rush of frigid night air whooshes its way into the bar as they exit. The wind is so strong it blows a speaker off the shelf, effectively killing the music for the evening.
I didn’t really mind losing the disharmonic tones emanating from the fallen speaker, but the bartender (and now my only company in the place) was less than thrilled.
“Stupid motherfucker!” she screams half at the now exited couple and half at the broken speaker. She hunches over and begins to clean up the mess. She is mumbling soft curses to herself as she tries to put the pieces of the speaker back together. The frame is obviously cracked and wires are protruding out of the back at various angles.
I make my way to the other end of the bar to get a better view of the damage. Upon closer inspection, it appears the speaker is a lost cause, and the bartender may join it. She’s pissed.
“I can’t believe this is fucking happening to me today.” Her anger is palpable as I move closer to her. She looks up at me and stands slowly with the remnants of the speaker still in her hands. She places it on the bar.
“You ok? Need any help?” My offer is mixed with sincerity and pity.
“Help?” She replies, starting to vent. “Yeah I need some help. I need to know why I’m even here. I need help figuring out what the hell went wrong with my life that I’m stuck in some dive bar washing glassing and dealing with fucking drunks.”
“Uhhh…” My fear combined with the fact that I’m pretty sure she was talking about me leaves me a bit tongue tied. She however, continues.
“Did you know I have a law degree? Yeah, Brooklyn Law! I’m almost a freaking lawyer, but I can’t pass the BAR, so I can’t get a real job, so I can’t stop working here! I can’t even begin to pay off my student loans!” Her voice is cracking and tears are welling up in the corners of her eyes. She collapses in an emotional heap at the end of the bar.
I wanted to comfort her, but I never know what to say in these situations. How can you cheer up somebody at a bar besides offering to buy them a drink? I seriously doubt that she needs my offer for any chance at alcohol consumption. So I did what any self respecting (loathing) drinker would do: I sat on the stool at the end of the bar and sipped my pint as she composed herself.
About two minutes of awkward silence (interrupted by sobbing) later and it seems she had gotten out all of the pent up frustration she had been holding on to. She wipes the final tears from her eyes and gives me a half smile.
“I’m Jamie by the way.” She stands as she says it.
“Nice to meet you Jamie.” I try to be as earnest as possible.
“Likewise.” She attempts to smile again. “So, you always drink by yourself?”
“No” I shrug, “Sometimes it just feels like I do.”
Well back off. Sometimes options can be limited and I want a beer and a place to clear my head and inviting a friend can disturb the whole situation. I’ll call them and they’ll get there and they’ll look at me and tilt their head and say:
“Hey buddy, you look down. I’m here for you. Wanna talk about it?”
WHAT? No, fuck you! I want to drink! That’s why we’re at a bar. If I wanted to talk I would go to the Upper East Side and see some asshole in a tweed suit with oversized glasses and a grey beard with some sort of parchment on the wall that says “Certified… something or other” and I would lie on his sofa as he picks his teeth and pretends to care about why I feel like my life is going in circles. I would pay him $550 bucks and hour and he would laugh as he remodels his home in Connecticut. Just shut up and drink.
So I bundle up and walk through some impressive snow flurries to the closest bar unaccompanied (burdened) by any other noises besides the ones on the street and in my own head. I want to relax, grab a pint and just think awhile. This bar (it’s really called “Bar”) is perfect for that kind of thing. Poorly lit, soft alt-music without any driving baseline, only a small TV with almost no sound and a great selection of drinks. Perfect place to hide from the world. All this just a hop, skip and a stagger away from my apartment. What more could I ask for?
Tonight I asked for solitude, and I got it. The cold and snow (and the fact that it’s Wednesday) must have driven most of the customers away. The bar was completely empty except for a couple in the corner and the bartender who looks bored out of her mind. I plop myself on a stool at the end of the bar and drop my coat off on the seat next to me. I eye the taps a second and then try to get the attention of the girl resting her head in her hands behind a sack of glasses.
I cock my head and squeeze out an “Ummm… hi?”
That’s all it takes. She lurches up and shuffles her way towards me. She’s cute in a way I can’t really put my finger on. She has her short black hair pulled back with a rubber band and is wearing a very underwhelming ensemble of ripped jeans and a light blue sweater. But she pulls it off in a laid-back hotness that is simply comforting. She definitely isn’t trying to impress anyone. Not that there’s anyone here to impress.
“What can I get ya?” He tone is soft and does little to hide her boredom. She wants to be somewhere else on this freezing cold evening.
“I’ll take a Brooklyn Lager, thanks.”
“Sure” she says. It’s not the “Sure” that makes you feel good about your choice. It’s more of a “Sure, and could you kill yourself you freaking drunk” type of “sure.”
I try not to notice. I give her a five and don’t take the change (4 dollar pints are a steal in New York) and begin to sip… and think.
I don’t remember what I think about. It’s not anything deep or meaningful. It’s just an evening alone with my thoughts and our mutual friend booze. The three of us have a grand ‘ol time depressing each other and if any of us begins to feel empty, I signal the increasingly attractive bartender to fill us up. On my third pint, the couple in the corner throws on their coats and makes their way to the door. A huge rush of frigid night air whooshes its way into the bar as they exit. The wind is so strong it blows a speaker off the shelf, effectively killing the music for the evening.
I didn’t really mind losing the disharmonic tones emanating from the fallen speaker, but the bartender (and now my only company in the place) was less than thrilled.
“Stupid motherfucker!” she screams half at the now exited couple and half at the broken speaker. She hunches over and begins to clean up the mess. She is mumbling soft curses to herself as she tries to put the pieces of the speaker back together. The frame is obviously cracked and wires are protruding out of the back at various angles.
I make my way to the other end of the bar to get a better view of the damage. Upon closer inspection, it appears the speaker is a lost cause, and the bartender may join it. She’s pissed.
“I can’t believe this is fucking happening to me today.” Her anger is palpable as I move closer to her. She looks up at me and stands slowly with the remnants of the speaker still in her hands. She places it on the bar.
“You ok? Need any help?” My offer is mixed with sincerity and pity.
“Help?” She replies, starting to vent. “Yeah I need some help. I need to know why I’m even here. I need help figuring out what the hell went wrong with my life that I’m stuck in some dive bar washing glassing and dealing with fucking drunks.”
“Uhhh…” My fear combined with the fact that I’m pretty sure she was talking about me leaves me a bit tongue tied. She however, continues.
“Did you know I have a law degree? Yeah, Brooklyn Law! I’m almost a freaking lawyer, but I can’t pass the BAR, so I can’t get a real job, so I can’t stop working here! I can’t even begin to pay off my student loans!” Her voice is cracking and tears are welling up in the corners of her eyes. She collapses in an emotional heap at the end of the bar.
I wanted to comfort her, but I never know what to say in these situations. How can you cheer up somebody at a bar besides offering to buy them a drink? I seriously doubt that she needs my offer for any chance at alcohol consumption. So I did what any self respecting (loathing) drinker would do: I sat on the stool at the end of the bar and sipped my pint as she composed herself.
About two minutes of awkward silence (interrupted by sobbing) later and it seems she had gotten out all of the pent up frustration she had been holding on to. She wipes the final tears from her eyes and gives me a half smile.
“I’m Jamie by the way.” She stands as she says it.
“Nice to meet you Jamie.” I try to be as earnest as possible.
“Likewise.” She attempts to smile again. “So, you always drink by yourself?”
“No” I shrug, “Sometimes it just feels like I do.”
Tuesday, March 6, 2007
...and Party Every Day
I knew my party was just about done when Kyle stumbled out of the room moaning and turning green. Nothing kills a party atmosphere more than a retching sound. It’s an amazing feeling to have a friend in need and have your first thoughts be of death and dismemberment.
“You threw up.” It’s a simple observation as I survey my kitchen.
“Yeah… I got… I’m a little sick, man.”
“Yes, I see. But you threw up… on my dishes.”
“Sorry man. They were in this sink.” Kyle burps “sink” more than he speaks it. The air smells of hot sauce and whiskey. I served neither this evening.
“That would almost be understandable” I am trying to mask rage with bemusement “but what you did… you puked on the clean dishes in the rack.”
“…oh…”
Hosting parties is awful. You may not know it now, but your friends are the rudest, most inconsiderate fucks ever spawned from the festering Love Canel of the anti-Martha Stewart. Oh, and they don’t give a DAMN about any of your belongings. They will gladly break stuff and lie about it. Spill drinks on books and carpets and then hide the damage. If they are enterprising enough, they might even misplace some half eaten food item in the couch cushions. These “friends” will go all out to make your life miserable the next day. I know this because that’s how I act when I go to parties. I guess Kyle was just living up to my expectations.
“Man I feel really bad.” I am not sure if he’s guilty for the mess he is currently making or if he’s ready to puke again. I am standing clear just to make sure.
“Kyle, can I help you to the bathroom? Or at least can you turn your head to the sink? You boot on anything else clean and swear I’ll make you sleep in it.” Even I’m not sure if I’m kidding.
“Dude, you don’t have to be a dick.” He can’t keep his head straight. Kyle bobs back and forth like a leaf stuck in a breeze. “I said I was sorry I busted up your fucking thing here. I know you planned a good time… and I’m, like sorry.”
He’s wrong. I didn’t really plan to have a big get together tonight. Some of these people brought friends of their own… and thus like a sapling growing into a might oak, the party is created. The organic party is almost always better than the planned shindig. Guest lists, invites, shopping and any actually effort really take the flavor out of the drunk gathering. I’ve always had more fun when my jerk friends bring jerk strangers into my home. It creates such an air of unpredictability. Now take this uniquely rowdy crew, add a splash (and several more splashes) of liquor, place in an unclean room and shake vigorously. BAMN instant party.
There may not be any food, planned entertainment, and there may be no real reason other than “Friday,” but it really doesn’t matter in the end. Nothing beats drunken revelry, random hook-ups and even some super awkward moments that make life special.
But it isn’t always sunshine and smiles. After a night of heavy drinking, emotions can run wild and some boundaries that should not be crossed are violated. And sometimes this negative aspect can manifest itself as a moron puking on your fine china.
Kyle is busy examining the drain on the bottom of my kitchen sink when I hear a crash back in the living room. I spin around just in time to see some asshole I’ve never met break through my card table like Chris Farley on a bender. Beer bottles and paper plates go flying in every direction. Some of his dimwitted buddies (and some of my close friends) laugh and clap in approval. I lose my temper.
“That’s it! GET OUT!”
The large gentleman who is currently residing inside my table begins to object, but I leave no room for error.
“Yes you too! Everybody grab your things and go!” I sound like the rudest stewardess ever to de-bark a flying saloon:
“Out! Out! Out! Take your crap… I’ll see some of you later… yes NOW… leave that, it’s mine… take your beer I don’t care… go with haste please… fuck you too… I don’t give a shit if you just got here… party is over people… I don’t even know half of you… keep walking tubs… move move move…. no stragglers… yeah, nice knowing you all… maybe next time I’ll go to your place and break your stuff… adios!”
Kicking the last drunken stranger out of my house with a vindictive boot to the ass puts an exclamation point on a crappy evening. The mess is staggering. I can barely even think about cleaning as drunk and as tired as I am. It can all wait till tomorrow when I’ll need lemon cleanser to help me battle my pending hangover. I’m about to pass out when I hear some stirring from the kitchen and realize I am not yet alone. Kyle never made it out.
I find him curled up under my sink hugging a Drano bottle (don’t worry, it’s sealed) and still leaking vomit out of the corner of his mouth. He fits right in with all the other toxic detritus. I pick up the stained and damp tablecloth off the remains of the table and cover the drunken mess that was once a friend of mine. In a final act of compassion I turn him to his side so he doesn’t choke and die.
My generosity knows no bounds. That’s probably why I throw parties in the first place.
“You threw up.” It’s a simple observation as I survey my kitchen.
“Yeah… I got… I’m a little sick, man.”
“Yes, I see. But you threw up… on my dishes.”
“Sorry man. They were in this sink.” Kyle burps “sink” more than he speaks it. The air smells of hot sauce and whiskey. I served neither this evening.
“That would almost be understandable” I am trying to mask rage with bemusement “but what you did… you puked on the clean dishes in the rack.”
“…oh…”
Hosting parties is awful. You may not know it now, but your friends are the rudest, most inconsiderate fucks ever spawned from the festering Love Canel of the anti-Martha Stewart. Oh, and they don’t give a DAMN about any of your belongings. They will gladly break stuff and lie about it. Spill drinks on books and carpets and then hide the damage. If they are enterprising enough, they might even misplace some half eaten food item in the couch cushions. These “friends” will go all out to make your life miserable the next day. I know this because that’s how I act when I go to parties. I guess Kyle was just living up to my expectations.
“Man I feel really bad.” I am not sure if he’s guilty for the mess he is currently making or if he’s ready to puke again. I am standing clear just to make sure.
“Kyle, can I help you to the bathroom? Or at least can you turn your head to the sink? You boot on anything else clean and swear I’ll make you sleep in it.” Even I’m not sure if I’m kidding.
“Dude, you don’t have to be a dick.” He can’t keep his head straight. Kyle bobs back and forth like a leaf stuck in a breeze. “I said I was sorry I busted up your fucking thing here. I know you planned a good time… and I’m, like sorry.”
He’s wrong. I didn’t really plan to have a big get together tonight. Some of these people brought friends of their own… and thus like a sapling growing into a might oak, the party is created. The organic party is almost always better than the planned shindig. Guest lists, invites, shopping and any actually effort really take the flavor out of the drunk gathering. I’ve always had more fun when my jerk friends bring jerk strangers into my home. It creates such an air of unpredictability. Now take this uniquely rowdy crew, add a splash (and several more splashes) of liquor, place in an unclean room and shake vigorously. BAMN instant party.
There may not be any food, planned entertainment, and there may be no real reason other than “Friday,” but it really doesn’t matter in the end. Nothing beats drunken revelry, random hook-ups and even some super awkward moments that make life special.
But it isn’t always sunshine and smiles. After a night of heavy drinking, emotions can run wild and some boundaries that should not be crossed are violated. And sometimes this negative aspect can manifest itself as a moron puking on your fine china.
Kyle is busy examining the drain on the bottom of my kitchen sink when I hear a crash back in the living room. I spin around just in time to see some asshole I’ve never met break through my card table like Chris Farley on a bender. Beer bottles and paper plates go flying in every direction. Some of his dimwitted buddies (and some of my close friends) laugh and clap in approval. I lose my temper.
“That’s it! GET OUT!”
The large gentleman who is currently residing inside my table begins to object, but I leave no room for error.
“Yes you too! Everybody grab your things and go!” I sound like the rudest stewardess ever to de-bark a flying saloon:
“Out! Out! Out! Take your crap… I’ll see some of you later… yes NOW… leave that, it’s mine… take your beer I don’t care… go with haste please… fuck you too… I don’t give a shit if you just got here… party is over people… I don’t even know half of you… keep walking tubs… move move move…. no stragglers… yeah, nice knowing you all… maybe next time I’ll go to your place and break your stuff… adios!”
Kicking the last drunken stranger out of my house with a vindictive boot to the ass puts an exclamation point on a crappy evening. The mess is staggering. I can barely even think about cleaning as drunk and as tired as I am. It can all wait till tomorrow when I’ll need lemon cleanser to help me battle my pending hangover. I’m about to pass out when I hear some stirring from the kitchen and realize I am not yet alone. Kyle never made it out.
I find him curled up under my sink hugging a Drano bottle (don’t worry, it’s sealed) and still leaking vomit out of the corner of his mouth. He fits right in with all the other toxic detritus. I pick up the stained and damp tablecloth off the remains of the table and cover the drunken mess that was once a friend of mine. In a final act of compassion I turn him to his side so he doesn’t choke and die.
My generosity knows no bounds. That’s probably why I throw parties in the first place.
Sunday, January 14, 2007
Insomnia in the City That Never Sleeps
The city is known for its lights. It’s known for many things, but people seem to remember the lights. Stars shining at the horizon, so bright they blot out the celestial bodies that inspired them. Electric torches fill every window of every tower. Miles of metal and mortar, all lit to reinforce the image of the unsleeping New York.
But not tonight. Tonight a gloomy fog fills the landscape. The lights are muted and combined to form an orange glow that stretches throughout the boroughs. Famous paintings and postcards become moot. The skyline is gone. There are no towers or bridges. No castles or keeps. No exits. Streetlamps become dismal beacons lining invisible byways. Only the adjoining buildings seem to poke through the tangerine cloud. The smokestacks, fingers of a dark hand pushing through the haze.
I sip my drink slowly as some nameless tune whispers through my headphones. The slow, somber piano mimics my mood. The city’s mood. It’s late and we both should be sleeping. Me, on a hard mattress with flat pillows, her, smothered in a citrus blanket. We fight the urge to rest together. I can’t turn my waking dreams off, my mind working at too fast a pace. The silence of her fog is cut with dim headlights and the occasional siren. We resist.
Just like the night before, there is no rationale for me to be awake at this hour. I have no hobby, no novel to keep my attention. No drugs or stimulants course through me, artificially maintaining my perception. The exact opposite is true. The alcohol depresses my wits and slows my hands. It aids my fatigue and pulls my body closer to the chair. But still, I cling to my consciousness and stare into the mist.
New York needs no justification for activity this evening. “Always Open” does not allow for conditional weather factors. Even if impenetrable fog hides people and buildings and thick air muffles all sounds. The reputation alone keeps her vigorous. Be it snow, rain, wind, fire, or smoke, nothing alters the business hours. Even tonight when no rational person would be patrolling the streets and the visibility is so low you couldn’t tell if anyone was out there anyway. The city is unwavering.
I am not. I finally succumb to my exhaustion and collapse upon my bed. I roll over to get one more glimpse of the dull orange light before I close my eyes. I wonder what the other eight million people in the city are doing at this moment. Eight million strangers, sleeping and dreaming. Am I the last one awake? The only person unable to find rest on this quiet night? The fog begins to clear while my drunken sleep deepens. Buildings seem to grow out of nothingness as the city is cleansed. As I become less lucid, I hope for some comfort from the newly revealed New York. I give one last look into the skyline, but I’m unable to find any understanding or sympathy. I’m not surprised. That isn’t what the city is known for.
But not tonight. Tonight a gloomy fog fills the landscape. The lights are muted and combined to form an orange glow that stretches throughout the boroughs. Famous paintings and postcards become moot. The skyline is gone. There are no towers or bridges. No castles or keeps. No exits. Streetlamps become dismal beacons lining invisible byways. Only the adjoining buildings seem to poke through the tangerine cloud. The smokestacks, fingers of a dark hand pushing through the haze.
I sip my drink slowly as some nameless tune whispers through my headphones. The slow, somber piano mimics my mood. The city’s mood. It’s late and we both should be sleeping. Me, on a hard mattress with flat pillows, her, smothered in a citrus blanket. We fight the urge to rest together. I can’t turn my waking dreams off, my mind working at too fast a pace. The silence of her fog is cut with dim headlights and the occasional siren. We resist.
Just like the night before, there is no rationale for me to be awake at this hour. I have no hobby, no novel to keep my attention. No drugs or stimulants course through me, artificially maintaining my perception. The exact opposite is true. The alcohol depresses my wits and slows my hands. It aids my fatigue and pulls my body closer to the chair. But still, I cling to my consciousness and stare into the mist.
New York needs no justification for activity this evening. “Always Open” does not allow for conditional weather factors. Even if impenetrable fog hides people and buildings and thick air muffles all sounds. The reputation alone keeps her vigorous. Be it snow, rain, wind, fire, or smoke, nothing alters the business hours. Even tonight when no rational person would be patrolling the streets and the visibility is so low you couldn’t tell if anyone was out there anyway. The city is unwavering.
I am not. I finally succumb to my exhaustion and collapse upon my bed. I roll over to get one more glimpse of the dull orange light before I close my eyes. I wonder what the other eight million people in the city are doing at this moment. Eight million strangers, sleeping and dreaming. Am I the last one awake? The only person unable to find rest on this quiet night? The fog begins to clear while my drunken sleep deepens. Buildings seem to grow out of nothingness as the city is cleansed. As I become less lucid, I hope for some comfort from the newly revealed New York. I give one last look into the skyline, but I’m unable to find any understanding or sympathy. I’m not surprised. That isn’t what the city is known for.
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