Friday, June 29, 2012

First Date

Text message, are you there? I am here, you are where?
Wearing blue, and slim fit slacks, lord I hope she isn't wearing flats.
Wake up praying she is tan, 5 ft 6 and frail thin
Just enough tucked in her bra, booty shorts and thin cut thong.

Is he really single, girl I hope hes cute, Ill fucking die if he is 5 ft 2
I am here, you are where? Short cut dress, should i say no underwear?
Hope he's tall but not too tall, please don't be wearing a fossil
Jeans are fine, but slacks are fly, pleats make me want legit want to cry.

There she is, not quite what I thought
Thanks Greg, dirty blonde not black, at least shes hot
Adjust my shirt, its tucked in just right, expose the Breiling nice and bright
Check the breath pre-liquor chase, here's a toast to the first date

Kind of dapper, like the shoes, Ferragamo maybe, or just Sunday blues.
I hope this dress isn't to slutty, but I hope its...kind of slutty.
Pulls out my chair, chivalry ain't dead, wonder if he makes his morning bed
Nervously adjust my silverware, smile aloofly as if not to care.

Nice move man, the chair pull is classy as fuck
If I ask her to go home and skip this waste of time and money would i be pushing my luck?
Ah, screw it Ill order a drink or two, maybe a duck panini and a little side au jus.
I think she's nervous she keeps touching is plate, but she' staring I def. have food on my face.

Why does he keep checking his breath, does he think i would even consider kissing his neck?
Glad he just stepped on my toe, if this is flirting, might as well grab my vibrator and go
But he ordered me a dirty martini mc screamy, and im starting to see him as kind of "dreamy"
One more of these and I could throw some inhibitions onto the side walk and walk all over them to his place.

Drink up beautiful, made that a double - asshole I know but these drinks cause me trouble
Spend too much here, but its all for the thrill, she may even give it up at will.
Garcon please bring me another, need to keep up with Ms. "Already under"
Now I yawn and say its getting late, time to move on to the second part of the date

One night stand..could i do it? My friends wont know, i live alone, screw it.
He touches my leg and i move a bit closer, what do I have to lose? Virginity was gone in 2006, somewhere in October.
If he doesnt pay the bill, I may have to reconsider, not that i dont have it but my pretentious nature is bitter.
I'll grab him by the arm and let him escort me home, then I suppose i will let him slip me the bone.
________________________________________________________
Yeahhh...right.

I bought seven drinks as she pounded them back like she was a sophmore in college. I bashfully paid the bill doing the calculations in my head about how low my checking account was, wishing I didnt drop 4k on a fucking Breitling last weekend just to look cool and foolish.

I then walked home, clutching my dignity between my right armpit and rib cage and stepping on my lack of respect for myself the whole 700ft home from the bar. Got home, poured a free drink that i could have poured 2 hours ago, 110 bucks richer, and 1/3 less sweaty.

Good lord. Dating is fun. I'll never call her again. She was 5'4, pale, and stupid.




Thursday, June 14, 2012

25 Ways To Know You Are Not In College Anymore

There are probably hundreds of points after you graduate from college when you realize your life has taken a drastic change for the worse. This is simply a list of the most clarifying revelations that I could think along with the help of my close friends.

1. You pay rent, rather than collecting a paper check in the mail from your mother written out to Hasam Pontes, your Portuguese landlord. Now you are writing a check to another low-life immigrant that you cannot for the life of you figure out how he came to actually own property.

2. Tostitos Con queso dip no longer suffices as a full, vegetarian meal by having cheese, peppers, and corn (the salty chips that you are submerging in its delicacy). In fact if you digest this dish as just a side or a snack, you will in fact be posting up in the bathroom reading Anthony Bourdain's Kitchen Confidential for the next 3-4 hours.

3. Quoting films like Fight Club, Resevoir Dogs, 300 are no longer considered "deep." Now you have to spend hours critically watching Sanjay Gupta, reciting his speech about his thesis by heart and taking it to heart. This bores the shit out of your and everyone around you, however you come off an intellectual and well informed.

4. Dating is no longer an accidental meetup at a house party followed by unknowingly consensual sex, parting ways, and never seeing each other again. Or, seeing each other on campus but actively taking the long way to avoid physical confrontation or, at the very least, eye contact.

5. "Freelancing becomes a term used very loosely to describe your current employment status." Which of course is listed on some you Fbook profile with a shortened middle name or ancient ancestor surname followed by a scrambled last name to shield your from potential employers searching you and digging up...colorful content.

6. Gym shorts and athletic drawstring pants no longer populate your closet as "Monday-Friday" wear.

7. The gym used to be a place where you go 3-4 times a week to check out girls, talk about bands, sip aggressive supplement drinks and plan your strategy to entice a freshmen to come to the bar. Now, you go there 5-6 times a week for hours at end sweating out of pours you did not even know existed, cursing at your stomach vehemently.

8. Vacations are truly planned out, you have secured ample time off from work, and you have a hand and computer written itinerary. In college a "vacation" was getting seven dudes together with a collaborative sum of $127 dollars to take a road trip to three east coast colleges. You do not know the addresses of these schools, the people you are visiting are distant friends of friends, the car you are driving seats 3 uncomfortably, and the term shower is more foreign than fois gras.

9. Luckily parents send you money in college so you were not often too broke but you definitely have more money now. Saving now is for a new rolex, a car, a vacation, a gift for your mother. Saving in college was for 6, 30 racks and the only bottle of patron you will ever buy to be a "baller."

10. Emergency funds are for the shitty possibility of losing your job spontaneously and having to come up with rent and food money without a regular income for three months. "Emergency funds" in college were for paying off the city to drop the charges of underage possession, and for that unexpected Plan B purchase due to your decision to partake in #4.

11. Laundry is done by trained Asian professionals once a week and neatly folded in little bundles for you to put away elegantly and fashionably like Gatbsy. In college, your laundry was done once a month at your friends house in his water damaged basement. Bleach from 1994 stuck within the whirlpool filter still finds its way into your colored clothing wash making for an interesting unplanned tie die effect. Good thing fucking Bonaroo is next weekend. 


12. Love. Something you are actively searching for underneath rocks, park benches, and in between lines of an Ok Cupid essay. This is your life, all your friends are getting married and you are the single butt of every joke. In college, you were actually ostracized by your group of friends for holding a relationship for longer than a winter intercession. The only thing you were doing with love was dropping the word endlessly to naive freshmen hoping they might trust your endearing eyes for one second and allow you to penetrate with a lack there of protection - simply using the "fingers-crossed method."

13. "Pulling out" now means leaving the bar early so that you can get a full night sleep and finish the last chapter of your Nelson Demille novel.

14. The only acceptable sandal to wear is one with three velcro straps, one of which wraps around your heal to keep you foot in place. This is because A) you need the ankle support and B) Sandals that can be walked around all day and then pressed to a beer bottle that you are about to put into your mouth is not considered "kosher."

15. No one is impression by your ability to shotgun a beer followed by physically eating the can and spitting out the shards of scrap metal into the air like tiny helicopters. They are equally unimpressed by your ability to "run the table." Now you trade stories about your fairly sad Fidelity accounts and your accomplishment of being told you are in relatively good shape for your age during your regularly scheduled physical.

16. You no longer blackout and celebrate it. You hide your blackouts by saying you browned out, which is supposedly better. You remember just as little, feel twice as bad, and lose the same amount of friends, potential clients, and future employment opportunities as you would if you "blacked out."

17. Sally Mae starts sending you weekly letters reminding your that no matter how much you make you have to chop that in half and hand it over in large lump sums. This results in you having less money, thus less swagger, and inevitably less sex.

18. You are trying to collect art. Nothing too expensive yet since that is out of your ballpark, relax there Mr Rembrandt. However you start to acquire an eclectic taste and get excited about a canvas painting that would look "lovely" in your 4x6 sq ft dining room. Before art was simply paper posters of Sopranos scenes devout of any sort of framing that were taped crookedly to your wall. The only reason it is up in the first place is to cover up the hole in the wall you made during a tragic flex-off accident. Good decision. Great thing your parents put down that security deposit. They have a better chance of Bob Barker coming up to them on the street and handing them a 100K check than ever receiving 13 cents of that deposit.

19. Crashing your Audi into a bank of America building while doing a routine 30 MPH reverse move to the wall ATM ripping off all axels and the front left quarter panel now results in months of bills. In college, it was the third call of the week to mom saying; "I fucked up." This of course was followed by crying. sitting Indian style and stating that if you have to pay to fix it, you will be eating Ramen noodles for the next thirty days. Fortunately your parents get you a new car, yet you still eat Ramen.

20. Going for "a run" is a seven mile trek next to the Charles River where you cough up blood and other unknown organs onto the sidewalk. Vigorously trying to shave off a few lbs because its going to be nice this weekend and you are going to the beach. It does not mean, contrary to popular college belief, that you are going to the liquor store for a larger than average purchase for a group of people.

21. Instead of collecting beer and wine bottles to "decorate the apt" you have decided to start putting them into blue bins regularly so people can come and pick them up on a weekly basis. I think that is called recycoping...IDK I will figure that one out.

22. Now you move about your overly crowded apt building asking people to turn down their TV programs because you are trying to sleep and the walls are thinner than Mary Kate Olsen's left wrist. In college you would actually have competitions with the stereo, testing out its bass ability and overall trying to shatter the eardrums of those around you. The only noise that you have asked to ever keep down was the random stranger in your bathroom who is scream vomited profusely into your bathtub since it is irritating the girl who decided to spend the night. You are trying to calm her down but simply cannot remember her first or last name.

23. You play tennis on Saturdays and trivia on Sundays instead of Beer Olympics and stressful games of who's in my mouth.

24. Asher Roth and Kayne West/Lil Wayne Lollipop no longer show up on EVERY mix tape you have. Instead your get a mixture of coldplay, the verve pipe, Michelle Branch, Creed, and all the other bands that suck infinitely more, reminding you that as you get older you completely lose your taste buds for anything good.

25. A big night out today is as follows; a meet-up with the guys at your favorite restaurant after tirelessly interviewing many other qualified restaurant candidates. This date is arranged through an extensive email chain of complaints, and I cant to that's. Finally you decide, half of the guys leave after the meal to meet up with their girlfriends, the other half chuck back six tums and a pepcic AC to help mitigate the projected acid reflux that has been spiking up more and more lately. You go to a cigar bar, exit jubilantly, but more tired, drink espresso and attend a bar that you heard was "sick." You dance, you flirt awkwardly with younger girls who are taking picture of you to send to their guy friends saying "look at this fucking old man doing the dice dance again trying to talk to Katty." You keep drinking, you "brown out," your fucking reef flip flops are all wet from the beer your boy spilled and they look worse than they already did while you were trying to look like a frat boy. You all leave the bar in one heaping pile of failure supporting each other emotionally and physically while trying to side-step and text girls who will NOT answer at 2am for a little "late night lovin." You all sleep in one guys apartment who has the most space. This is because he makes more money and thus has 1/2 as much free time to have epic nights like this,  already regretting agreeing to this slumber fest.

In college your would have drank til eleven, went out without thinking about what to wear, found a gril who was barely keeping it together. You would then stumble back to your friends apartment to have sex, because it was funny, you could have easily went back to your apt or her dorm. You fall asleep, wake up, and do it again. The total amount of hours that you spent "out" is vastly lower than that of the new you, but in the latter of the two options you succeeded in your goal.

I like to thing I do have just about as much fun in college as I do not, but I sincerely can say I do pay for it much more now.

Good lord, college.

Tuesday, June 12, 2012

Pursued, pursuing, busy, and tired.

"There are only the pursued, the pursuing, the busy, and the tired."
- F. Scott Fitzgerald

The pursued:

Glossy, marble, cookie cutter jaw
Dental doctored porcelain finish
Pockets full, and clothes still tagged
Single malt sip and cigarette drag

Have not one, but three daughters
golden locks and daisy flowers
Hampton homes, church bell bothers
picket fence, void of drothers

Pursuing;

Happiness lies in a field somewhere
just beyond a restless shore
Pockets are thin, devout of change
love is lost, desiring change

One more shot, one more smoke
fills the insides up with hope
foggy now, and faded later
Alas awaiting destined fate here

Busy:

Racing, waiting, counting, pushing
traffic stops, and stopwatch drops
Carousel spins not once but twice
ticking-tocks the only vice

Almost there but wait a minute
only 60 seconds you cannot bare
Back peddling to another task
barely time to fill the flask

Tired:

Days are numbered far and few
mirror glances hardly you
face looks worn like captain shoes
Donning still the boy scout blues

99 days out of 100
time for one last final draw
Reaching deep into the marrow
This is the last straw

Man.


Tuesday, June 5, 2012

The Real Hangover

Most people complain about their hangovers, commiserating with co-workers about its negative effects on their body and overall lack of productivity as a result of superfluous consumption. I for one revel in it. I take it for all its glory. The subtle and often times less subtle reminders throughout the morning hours that you made multiple mistakes on top of one another during the day prior, resorting back to your college day roots. The pain is there, the regret is ever prevalent, and the cold sweats make you soberly aware that something is simply not right on the inside.

Despite what we all wish was true, a real hangover is not like the movie. Things go wrong and they usually dont get better until a full, non intoxicated night of sleep. The only part that is accurate about that movie is the lack of memory and the ruined clothing. 

Waking up hurts, and your wipe the crust forming under your eyelids. This was due to the fact your slept in your contacts for the third night in a row out of sheer laziness to take the 24 seconds needed to remove them before sleeping. You rationalize this by the fact that you had "better things to do," like passing out, having another Stella Artois and making sure the Red Sox game is Tevo'd tomorrow, since you are already predicting an early sleep on the following night. You stroll heavily to the bathroom as your overactive and overfull bladder is in need a immediate release, but yet the flow is as slow as you are to allow it to happen. You can physically hear your steps as your bare feet slap against the wood floor, as it creaks and sound louder than silverware being dropped on linoleum floors.

You're roommate is in the kitchen after a very well rested evening cooking up breakfast and lunch at the same time looking like chef morimoto dicing up peppers with his eyes closed. Meanwhile you enter the kitchen with your eyes close by force not choice and blindly dump ground coffee into the tea kettle instead of the french press. You decide eating is not a possibility and would run the risk of making you tardy for work since you will be taking an extra 15 minutes to instantly remove the consumed food through the opposite orifice. Packing up your bag for work you dont even double check to make sure you have the eleven thousand key cards needed to enter the office, nor to make sure your personal computer is charge (which it fucking isn't) of course. Rolling down the stairs and out the door, looking like Robert Downey Jr after his third relapse and stumbling into the open air, which is the first and probably only relief you will feel all day. The cold wet air hits you in the face and you realize that you underestimated the ability for New England to change from 75 degrees one day to 4 degrees the next. Its cold.


Subways move too low, people move to fast. The entry ways are crowded and people look far too awake in comparison to your zombie like state. You feel that everyone is staring at your as we compulsively check your breath for the stench of whiskey and orange juice, hoping that it has since subsided from the taste that you woke up with. It hasn't, people can tell as it pours not from your breath but from the overactive sweat glands ever present throughout your entire body. Shame. You fear conversation and avoid eye contact with anyone. You start thinking about the day prior and the laundry list of events that inapropriately unfolded throughout the arduous day. Morning cocktails, 5 layer nachos, entering cheescake factory, acquiring waitresses phone number, leaving the factory, arriving home, passing out, waking up to call from cheescake factor waitress, she comes over. Watch the Celtics game, eat more nachos, drink beer, buy more beer, make out, find out her age, make out some more, bed, history. At no point did you think that a harmless drunken game of "high five acquisition would lead to you spending the evening with a Northeastern sophmore being questioned about your watch that could pay for an entire semester. Be careful with high five acquisition - one minute you are high-fiving 6 women with an average age of 73, and the next your are ID'ing the girl you are about to sleep with.

The day carries onward as does the hangover. There are glimpses of hope that present themselves throughout the morning, but they are brief an innocuous towards rectifying the situation. You are short in breath and your reflexes are about as "on point" as a 62 year old obese man with parkinsons disease. Sitting in your desk contemplating 101 different reasons to tell your boss you have to leave, and deciding each one of them is completely inadequate. There is not enough Keurig coffee and advil in the world to help, unless of course and IV was rolled over dripping Italian roast and sugar into the bloodstream, which in itself would only offer a temporary reprieve from your suffering.

This is the real hangover. This lasts all day, and constantly reminds you of the shortcomings that took place over the weekend, for most people. For me, the pain is a gentle solute to the achievements of the weekend. I am still standing, I still have my job, my friends dont hate me and I STILL GOT IT. I can still close on a wild Sunday afternoon at cheesecake factory with a girl who is a full standard deviation close to the age of my little sister than she is to me.

You're welcome.

Friday, June 1, 2012

Note To A Friend: Run


Hey Brotha, 

First and foremost, I hope your date went well last night. If it was anything like my night you ended up balls deep in a cuddle session sucking your thumb trying to repress eight year old tears and mild self hatred...stomach acid boils up and you dont know whether to run to the bathroom or just let it gurgle. You side with the latter and cross your right fingers for good luck since your left had is preoccupied by long hair sifting. All the while you really just want to flip her over and fuck like you used to with a bit of a post coital cry, which is inevitable.

I am sure your luck is not as bad as mine. I wish I could have carried on through this weekend not knowing at all that my high school sweetheart (as much as it pains me to use a cliche term) had broken up with her long-lasting boyfriend, and is essentially on the market again. It would have been easy to just not find out, drink excessively and hit on a random passerby at a local Boston establishment. Or even text a recent fling and ask her to "come by and watch a movie," with a harsh undertone that says "don't wear underpants." I wish I could continue to move onward with life, letting her and all the memories be simply that, a moment(s) in time, tucked into the sepia tone shoe box of love lost and love gained. I would like to say that I didn't say "I love you" under my breath. Gripping my vocal chords with a hypothetical straightjacket in order to repress any possibility of those words flourishing into action and dancing off my pallet like manic hopeless romantic punch drunk and high on epsom salts. Which, as a side note, are used by kids across the country by digesting or inhaling them into their system to produce a ridiculous high that mimics a zombie doing a comedy show. The zombie being the only one laughing at his jokes and then losing his mind and eating the crowd to death.

There was a lot of wishes and could have been's in that last paragraph. But, I did find out about their impending breakup and it immediately effected my mood, my demeanor, and my goals for that evening and the next 30-40 years. That's how it goes for good bad guys like us. We fall in love too quick, fall out of it even quicker, then we scrape at gravel trying to dig ourselves out of the hole of despair. We drink, and we smoke, and we ask ourselves how do we feel? We answer better, transgress to greener pastures, and into the next bottomless cocktail of overall romantic underachievement. The good news is we do it with style and panache. We smile at the right people, and earn the right amount of money to get by. Life aint that bad, but we are never really satisfied. There is always "the one that got away." And when you are able to get her in your grasp again, there is the other one that got away. I feel it is different with this one, the first love, first lover, and last piece of innocence. In part I want her to feel bad for taking that away from me, as I did to her. Maybe that's why I move aimlessly as I do now, stopping only briefly to attempt to be rational in thought, wholesome in love. 

I am attempting to get over this impossible hurdle and scorn myself in the fogged up mirror of my steaming hot bathroom I have a thought. I wipe my face down, clear the air, untie my tongue and depart the tiny vestibule of a room. The air is cooler outside and the drink is prevalent. I say fuck the towel walk down the hall ass naked, because really who cares? At this point I have the one thought that I usually do when something earth shattering like this happens: RUN. 

Where to? That is where you come in. It has been far too long since you and I have spent more than a night out on the town, and when we do it is in some of the WORST towns you can fathom. We discussed months ago about a trip to Copenhagen, and to California, Atlantic City, Netherlands. Honestly, I don't give two partial fucks by non human being or even a quarter shit from a calfs ass about where we go. As long as it is more than 1000 miles from my front door. Let's make like Hunter S. Thompson and pull the damn trigger. We don't have to shoot at anything but the feel that we get driving back the trigger of the 44 Magnum as it pushes our should uncontrollably away just makes my blood run to places I enjoy. 

Almost went on a ridiculous tangent there, but seriously lets plan something. My credit card has way too high of a limit and way too little of that limit used. Let's spread her wings (man I am fucking full of cliche comments today). 

LA?
Denmark/Sweden?
San Francisco?
St. Maarten?
Hawaai?

You be the judge, just tell me when and where and lets get on that plane, boat, bicycle or electric scooter and get on our merry way. Plus I am starting to get the "fear." 

We can talk about the fear on the trip. 

R