I am often surprised to hear people speak with such zealous nostalgia for their years in college. They talk as if there will never be a better time in their lives, and when I look back on the sunrises I watched through bleary, sleep deprived eyes, away games and strenuous off-season workouts, and more general social malaise that dominated the majority of my four years, I find it difficult to echo the popular “I would kill to do that again” refrain so many others are want to tell me. But I was fortunate to meet some of the singularly most amazing and endearing people ever to enter my life while I otherwise fumbled my way through an undergraduate education, and for them I would subject myself to the experience a thousand times over.
Recently, two of the more uniquely special of those amazing people converged on my decreasingly quaint hometown; Virgil, a dark comedian with the power to intellectually intimidate strangers by accident, wandered down from his home in the former Confederate capital in the same weekend that Mattie Silver, the only woman on earth capable of quelling my once door-biting rage, drove up from her well appointed apartment on the outskirts of the country’s largest Delta and AirTran hub bringing her good friend Little Spoon along for the adventure. Virgil and Mattie were some of my favorite people to converse with during my final year in school, both understanding and appreciating the sheer genius of Matt Groening while also nursing a growing disdain for the tiny environment that was what so many others were happy to call the best time of their lives. To this day I feel some guilt for graduating before them, but they seem not to notice.
Their visit came and went without any particularly dramatic or impressive story, but to describe the weekend as typical suggests that the places we went and drinks we consumed could have happened any other time and were the defining moments. Sure, like so many other weekends Winkle stayed on the couch and attempted to make drunken, ham-fisted moves on Little Spoon. Of course, we called upon the same dingy yellow Ford Windstar that has been my chariot into battle for two years now. And yes, we did end up going to the almost universally unobjectionable Dark Flipper bar one night and the neighborhood favorite Samadillo Sam’s another night, but the words, glances, smiles, and thoughts exchanged were different and otherwise impossible without Virgil and Mattie.
For example, while imbibing the only beer brewed colder than the Rockies in mason jars popularized by southern moonshiners in a bar that was originally famous for showing every Manchester United game, we sat and stood around a chest height table playing the world’s lamest game of one-upmanship by trying to figure who had gone the longest without an intimate (or clumsy) union with the opposite sex. We had finally found a game the happy couples could not win and the lonely and desperate among us reveled in finding humor and pride in our situations, but I’m not sure anyone was prepared for Virgil’s amazing victory:
“Last time I was even WITH a woman, a prom dress was involved, and yes it was actually PROM” he began. “I’m practically a virgin by now. It’s been so long since anyone has seen my penis that you could declare it legally dead. The only thing I could tell you about a vagina at this point is that babies come from there and the diagram from my high school biology book made it look suspiciously like the University of Texas Longhorn. The last boob I saw that was more than two dimensional was one actually one of MATTIE’S that accidentally escaped from a low cut tank top and I know exactly one other person saw it because Thaddeus could not have moved faster to cover it up like a ‘decent’ person otherwise I would have assumed I just hallucinated the whole thing like a desperate legionnaire mistaking heat for water while crawling through the desert.” Through the laughter he began to wind down his tirade, but not before admitting “I don’t even remember what a vagina actually feels like.” He next looked directly at me, shrugged his shoulders in a sincere expression that I might be able to lend some clarity to his confusion regarding the female anatomy, and cracked just the slightest smile to let me know his next words were going to be worth remembering. “A freshly mopped floor??” he asked before letting his shoulders drop and sighing a very real sigh through a very real smile.
A few more shots and a couple of beers later, a surprisingly early last call snuck up on us and kicked us out. It was in fact a Sunday night, and even though most of my banking, court house needing, and educating friends had the next day off to honor Christopher Columbus’s discovery of what he was really hoping was India, I had to work, and for that reason was the only person sober enough to drive everyone home and translate the hieroglyphics on the remote that would allow my drunk guests to watch a DVD. I went to bed hoping that four hours of sleep would be enough to get me through eight hours of work, and dozed off to the sound of a movie I knew no one was watching.
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Chapter 4: Jason Chimera
Two years ago, before I returned to my hometown with the eventually successful intention of caring for my family and the eventually far less successful intention of starting my own, I was a government-employed statistician living in our Nation’s Capitol. The city was a perfect place, populated by some of the most interesting people currently residing on this planet. In my first weeks there, I took up residence on a couch while I became acquainted with the Useless Accessory Board, a company whose reputation for selling the scent of the sizzle even before seasoning the steak while simultaneous crushing the foolish dreams of the so called Marketing Associates who made luke warm calls to initiate this process between otherwise useless meetings. It was as rewarding as it sounds and I was all too happy to quit. After several part time opportunities to learn the art of checking IDs, serving tortilla chips, and asking rowdy guests to “please leave”, I had the good fortune to restart my career crunching numbers for the greater good of public transit and the even more serendipitous adventure of working with a particularly unconvincing cross dresser. I could travel nearly as far as I needed with only my feet and a Smartrip card, though driving was often slower than crawling. Winters were bitterly cold and summers suffered from the sort of humidity one can only experience on swampland reclaimed by our founding fathers from the Chesapeake watershed. But any description of the experience there is hollow without the friends that made so much of the time there into stories worth telling.
The Dutch Rudder: Bearing the snarky confidence that can only come from generations of the same people who felt it perfectly acceptable to enslave the lower horn of Africa until roughly 1990, and living the sort of adventurous dating life that his ambiguously asexual but not entirely autoerotic nickname might suggest, the Dutch still represents the greatest thing I have ever found on Craigslist. Though we never successfully finished a year long lease together, despite signing two, the stranger I met for the purposes of splitting rent still ranks among my best friends and is all a once slovenly man could ask for in a roommate.
Lieutenant Commander Bruce “Mr. Spock” Wayne: Generous, patient, and moodier than a menstruating sixteen year old. His loyalty is more constant that the speed of light and occasionally comes with fresh baked apple pie.
Richard Branson: So named for his long standing presidency of virgin and dual citizenship, as well as his dashing good looks and always appropriate facial hair. He has a particular way with the opposite sex, especially those members of the opposite sex who he would rather not have any way with. As a former cohabitant, he knows me better than most men should, and as a result of so many hours in close proximity, feels that keeping in touch is best done without reminiscing and as rarely as needed.
Ben Bernanke’s Right Hand (on lonely nights): Ben communicates with a specific sort of humor that has been derived from years of being the first to get any joke on the internet. It is a brand of comedy that can only be delivered by Ben, and I was very fortunate to enjoy it from point blank while staying on his couch in my first weeks at the Capitol.
Princess: only because she would pitch a fit otherwise.
The Ultimate Accessory Crew: While it may be unfair to attach so many people to the company which nearly all of us have since left, it was a pivotal time in my life during which I met many influential people, a few pretty girls, and managed to make friends on the way out the door with Wolverine the entrepreneur, Bucknell the Publisher, and Steel Town Girl the last one of us to soldier on at that miserable place of business.
Ben, Dick, Bruce, and Dutch were kind enough to take me in, treat me to a meal, and otherwise endure my antics on a recent trip back to visit the big city, but Steel Town Girl provided inspiration for this story. She has at many points in the past helped to collaborate any number of implausible identities which I have temporarily assumed. On evenings out, she often encouraged my mischievous and easily bored side to find increasingly interesting answers to the oh so obsequious questions “where are you from?” and “what do you?” mostly to avoid answering Ultimate Accessory Crew to the latter question. The response started simply, but soon its outlandishness became a point of pride, and my faux career ranged from amateur stuntman to semi professional wrestler on the underground circuit in Japan, and was always lion tamer when the circus was in town.
On a Friday night at one of my favorite bars, Steel Town Girl introduced me to the locals and convinced me to take on the persona of Jason Chimera. For the first time, I was to assume the identity of a living person, a professional hockey player for the Washington Capitols, and notorious brawler. I was up to the challenge, and was even introduced to a cute young lady enjoying a red colored mixed drink at the bar. We talked for a while about my difficult schedule, the hazards of my line of work, the fact that she thought I would be in better shape (bitch) and a bit taller (fair) before she finally asked “where are you from?” Having previously utilized someone’s 3G network to know this answer, I blurted out Cleveland, Ohio. What a great coincidence, the young lady with the red drink was from Cleveland, and was eager to know what highschool I had attended. I parried her first joust by explaining that I had attended boarding school in Massachusetts for the sake of hockey, a lie which I was instantaneously proud and ashamed of. Moments later, she described a charity function she hoped I could help, and being Jason Chimera, I offered up an autographed stick. At the moment that I began to take down her number in order to contact her later provide this future forgery, I was struck in the side of the head and pushed.
Normally a blow to the face is accompanied by pain and anger, but turning to see the tiny furious fist and scowling face that that had decided to pick a fight he knew he could not win and smelling the sweet smell of jealousy, I laughed knowing that I was looking into the eyes of a stilted boyfriend. My smile did not have the calm, soothing, pants melting effect it always has on women, and instead enraged the small man even further. He lunged, not really considering the consequences of his actions, and before he could make contact, the lady with the red drink interceded exclaiming dramatically “NOOOO, he’s a HOCKEY PLAYER! He could probably kill you, and he was just helping me with charity.” With the impasse passed, I was able to laugh with Steel Town Girl about the whole experience.
But the next morning I could not help but feel a twinge of guilt. Not because I hit on a girl with a boyfriend who obviously cared for her. No, I consider that good sport, but I could not shake the notion that I had defrauded a charitable organization under the influence of alcohol. No joke should deprive anyone in need from the resources that might help them. As an act of retribution, I have sent the following email:
From: Thaddeus
To: Jason Chimera
Re: A great cause
Mr. Chimera
I must begin this message with an apology. I have recently borrowed your identity and noticeably limited fame for my own selfish and hilarious purposes. While drinking, I convinced a young lady that I was you and in doing so sullied your good standing within the singles community of the greater Washington DC area and more egregiously promised to provide an item for charity that I cannot deliver since I am, in fact, not Jason Chimera.
I am contacting you in hopes that you will see the humor and flattery in my attempt to be you for just one evening, and more importantly will feel that the particular charitable cause with which I intend to connect you is worthy of your time. Please call the person listed below, understanding that by doing so you will be serving your community, serving humanity, and creating at the very least, two life long fans.
The lady with the red drink
xxx-xxx-xxxx
Thank you for your time, consideration, and considerable on ice talent.
Thaddeus
The Dutch Rudder: Bearing the snarky confidence that can only come from generations of the same people who felt it perfectly acceptable to enslave the lower horn of Africa until roughly 1990, and living the sort of adventurous dating life that his ambiguously asexual but not entirely autoerotic nickname might suggest, the Dutch still represents the greatest thing I have ever found on Craigslist. Though we never successfully finished a year long lease together, despite signing two, the stranger I met for the purposes of splitting rent still ranks among my best friends and is all a once slovenly man could ask for in a roommate.
Lieutenant Commander Bruce “Mr. Spock” Wayne: Generous, patient, and moodier than a menstruating sixteen year old. His loyalty is more constant that the speed of light and occasionally comes with fresh baked apple pie.
Richard Branson: So named for his long standing presidency of virgin and dual citizenship, as well as his dashing good looks and always appropriate facial hair. He has a particular way with the opposite sex, especially those members of the opposite sex who he would rather not have any way with. As a former cohabitant, he knows me better than most men should, and as a result of so many hours in close proximity, feels that keeping in touch is best done without reminiscing and as rarely as needed.
Ben Bernanke’s Right Hand (on lonely nights): Ben communicates with a specific sort of humor that has been derived from years of being the first to get any joke on the internet. It is a brand of comedy that can only be delivered by Ben, and I was very fortunate to enjoy it from point blank while staying on his couch in my first weeks at the Capitol.
Princess: only because she would pitch a fit otherwise.
The Ultimate Accessory Crew: While it may be unfair to attach so many people to the company which nearly all of us have since left, it was a pivotal time in my life during which I met many influential people, a few pretty girls, and managed to make friends on the way out the door with Wolverine the entrepreneur, Bucknell the Publisher, and Steel Town Girl the last one of us to soldier on at that miserable place of business.
Ben, Dick, Bruce, and Dutch were kind enough to take me in, treat me to a meal, and otherwise endure my antics on a recent trip back to visit the big city, but Steel Town Girl provided inspiration for this story. She has at many points in the past helped to collaborate any number of implausible identities which I have temporarily assumed. On evenings out, she often encouraged my mischievous and easily bored side to find increasingly interesting answers to the oh so obsequious questions “where are you from?” and “what do you?” mostly to avoid answering Ultimate Accessory Crew to the latter question. The response started simply, but soon its outlandishness became a point of pride, and my faux career ranged from amateur stuntman to semi professional wrestler on the underground circuit in Japan, and was always lion tamer when the circus was in town.
On a Friday night at one of my favorite bars, Steel Town Girl introduced me to the locals and convinced me to take on the persona of Jason Chimera. For the first time, I was to assume the identity of a living person, a professional hockey player for the Washington Capitols, and notorious brawler. I was up to the challenge, and was even introduced to a cute young lady enjoying a red colored mixed drink at the bar. We talked for a while about my difficult schedule, the hazards of my line of work, the fact that she thought I would be in better shape (bitch) and a bit taller (fair) before she finally asked “where are you from?” Having previously utilized someone’s 3G network to know this answer, I blurted out Cleveland, Ohio. What a great coincidence, the young lady with the red drink was from Cleveland, and was eager to know what highschool I had attended. I parried her first joust by explaining that I had attended boarding school in Massachusetts for the sake of hockey, a lie which I was instantaneously proud and ashamed of. Moments later, she described a charity function she hoped I could help, and being Jason Chimera, I offered up an autographed stick. At the moment that I began to take down her number in order to contact her later provide this future forgery, I was struck in the side of the head and pushed.
Normally a blow to the face is accompanied by pain and anger, but turning to see the tiny furious fist and scowling face that that had decided to pick a fight he knew he could not win and smelling the sweet smell of jealousy, I laughed knowing that I was looking into the eyes of a stilted boyfriend. My smile did not have the calm, soothing, pants melting effect it always has on women, and instead enraged the small man even further. He lunged, not really considering the consequences of his actions, and before he could make contact, the lady with the red drink interceded exclaiming dramatically “NOOOO, he’s a HOCKEY PLAYER! He could probably kill you, and he was just helping me with charity.” With the impasse passed, I was able to laugh with Steel Town Girl about the whole experience.
But the next morning I could not help but feel a twinge of guilt. Not because I hit on a girl with a boyfriend who obviously cared for her. No, I consider that good sport, but I could not shake the notion that I had defrauded a charitable organization under the influence of alcohol. No joke should deprive anyone in need from the resources that might help them. As an act of retribution, I have sent the following email:
From: Thaddeus
To: Jason Chimera
Re: A great cause
Mr. Chimera
I must begin this message with an apology. I have recently borrowed your identity and noticeably limited fame for my own selfish and hilarious purposes. While drinking, I convinced a young lady that I was you and in doing so sullied your good standing within the singles community of the greater Washington DC area and more egregiously promised to provide an item for charity that I cannot deliver since I am, in fact, not Jason Chimera.
I am contacting you in hopes that you will see the humor and flattery in my attempt to be you for just one evening, and more importantly will feel that the particular charitable cause with which I intend to connect you is worthy of your time. Please call the person listed below, understanding that by doing so you will be serving your community, serving humanity, and creating at the very least, two life long fans.
The lady with the red drink
xxx-xxx-xxxx
Thank you for your time, consideration, and considerable on ice talent.
Thaddeus
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Chapter 3: Fist of Fury
A night out with Thaddeus and Young Lad has a distinctive and predictable anatomy consisting of three distinct and important parts, the first of which is the pregame. Depending on the time of year, day of the week, color of the sky, alignment of the planets, and barometric pressure, pregaming can begin as early as noon and technically commences with the first beer, wine, or finely aged, single barrel scotch whisky enjoyed with dinner. But to suggest that festivities on which the success of the remainder of the evening will rest simply happens during a meal or can be as paltry as one beer in the afternoon downplays its importance. Like warming up and stretching before any major sporting event, drinking before drinking simply prevents injury and readies the mind for competition.
The second part, most obviously, is being out. My exposure to bars in at least three cities indicates that this experience is almost universal, varying only in details and how many shots your wingman approaches you bearing Jaeger and how much dancing or live music takes place at the location you chose. Young Lad, Staunton and I tend to avoid what is often referred to as the “club scene” mostly because I have the high dancing threshold owing to multiple generations of Protestantism and the general body sense of an adolescent. After fifteen outright rejections of my increasingly pathetic advances or last call – whichever comes first – I make the push for third part of the evening equation: the postgame.
The postgame, or in some regions, afterparty, is far and away the highlight of the night. It offers the opportunity for hopeful men to bring unsuspecting women back to a location with a bed, counter, couch, or shower within a stone’s throw while continuing to enjoy their company. I particularly relish the opportunity to better apply my linguistics skills to the art of game without having to yell over “raaaaa raaaaaa RA AHHH AHHHH.” Also, as the nature of tort law increasingly ignores personal responsibility in favor of large settlements, bar tenders are less and less likely to serve enough liquor for one to get Mel Gibson drunk before last call. But on a recent Saturday evening, after what were fairly standard parts one and two, part three went tragically wrong. While imbibing at a local bar, The Lad and I ran into a group of female friends and acquaintances led by the fearless Rady Friend.
To even begin to understand what follows, one must first attempt to develop an understanding of what exactly makes Rady Friend worth keeping around. Rady fluctuates between two states of being: blackout and hungover. Of course she spends the occasional hour being neither, but such anomalous occurrences represent outliers and may simply be observational errors rather than conscious decisions to behave like the rest of us. Some portion of Rady’s propensity to reach a state of pure inebriation that most others only dream about can be attributed to her stature as well as her origins. Standing only three apples high in heels, the little partier is currently China’s only representation in the Lollipop Guild. Despite what sounds like the lifestyle of an alcoholic homeless person, Rady is in fact an incredibly well meaning and often generous person who offers sage advice to friends like “you’re too old to only be giving handjobs.” At times, she can even be an outstanding wing woman when she is not trying to find a new stranger to take home for herself.
Hoping to be a good wing woman for me, on this particular Saturday, Rady encouraged two of her good friends to come home with Lad, a good friend from out of town who I will call the Dutch Rudder, and me. While neither girl was outstandingly attractive, they were at least better than many of the Picasso like options that appear inexplicably just before bars close, but regardless of our feelings on their appearance, the two young ladies would have been welcome company had one of them not been an incredibly unlikable person who feels that “you’re a loser, buy me a drink” is an effective pick up line. After tormenting my dog, insulting my beer, panning my choice in music, and making disparaging remarks about how the television is too big, I decided that I had my fill and settled in to slumber.
Just as my dog and I were starting to doze off, I heard a stream profanities coming unmuffled through the paper mache walls separating me from the ongoing postgame activities. Young Lad had reached a sudden breaking point and finally snapped at our bitchy houseguest. With high pitched and aggressive tone, he questioned her upbringing, suggested that she fornicate with herself, repeatedly and with fervor, and then vacate his place of living in the very near future. Shortly after making this harsh but ultimately understandable request, I heard a sound with which I became casually and personally familiar during my time as an active member of a fraternity: the distinct thwunk of hand going through a six panel hollow core door. As it was at least the twenty third time I have heard this sound, I knew that the damage was already done, doors are easy to replace, and that seeing at least some small amount of destruction coming from what is normally an infinite but completely impotent rage would actually have a calming effect. No one was hurt, and the damaged door has become a shrine to grown man temper tantrums everywhere.
The second part, most obviously, is being out. My exposure to bars in at least three cities indicates that this experience is almost universal, varying only in details and how many shots your wingman approaches you bearing Jaeger and how much dancing or live music takes place at the location you chose. Young Lad, Staunton and I tend to avoid what is often referred to as the “club scene” mostly because I have the high dancing threshold owing to multiple generations of Protestantism and the general body sense of an adolescent. After fifteen outright rejections of my increasingly pathetic advances or last call – whichever comes first – I make the push for third part of the evening equation: the postgame.
The postgame, or in some regions, afterparty, is far and away the highlight of the night. It offers the opportunity for hopeful men to bring unsuspecting women back to a location with a bed, counter, couch, or shower within a stone’s throw while continuing to enjoy their company. I particularly relish the opportunity to better apply my linguistics skills to the art of game without having to yell over “raaaaa raaaaaa RA AHHH AHHHH.” Also, as the nature of tort law increasingly ignores personal responsibility in favor of large settlements, bar tenders are less and less likely to serve enough liquor for one to get Mel Gibson drunk before last call. But on a recent Saturday evening, after what were fairly standard parts one and two, part three went tragically wrong. While imbibing at a local bar, The Lad and I ran into a group of female friends and acquaintances led by the fearless Rady Friend.
To even begin to understand what follows, one must first attempt to develop an understanding of what exactly makes Rady Friend worth keeping around. Rady fluctuates between two states of being: blackout and hungover. Of course she spends the occasional hour being neither, but such anomalous occurrences represent outliers and may simply be observational errors rather than conscious decisions to behave like the rest of us. Some portion of Rady’s propensity to reach a state of pure inebriation that most others only dream about can be attributed to her stature as well as her origins. Standing only three apples high in heels, the little partier is currently China’s only representation in the Lollipop Guild. Despite what sounds like the lifestyle of an alcoholic homeless person, Rady is in fact an incredibly well meaning and often generous person who offers sage advice to friends like “you’re too old to only be giving handjobs.” At times, she can even be an outstanding wing woman when she is not trying to find a new stranger to take home for herself.
Hoping to be a good wing woman for me, on this particular Saturday, Rady encouraged two of her good friends to come home with Lad, a good friend from out of town who I will call the Dutch Rudder, and me. While neither girl was outstandingly attractive, they were at least better than many of the Picasso like options that appear inexplicably just before bars close, but regardless of our feelings on their appearance, the two young ladies would have been welcome company had one of them not been an incredibly unlikable person who feels that “you’re a loser, buy me a drink” is an effective pick up line. After tormenting my dog, insulting my beer, panning my choice in music, and making disparaging remarks about how the television is too big, I decided that I had my fill and settled in to slumber.
Just as my dog and I were starting to doze off, I heard a stream profanities coming unmuffled through the paper mache walls separating me from the ongoing postgame activities. Young Lad had reached a sudden breaking point and finally snapped at our bitchy houseguest. With high pitched and aggressive tone, he questioned her upbringing, suggested that she fornicate with herself, repeatedly and with fervor, and then vacate his place of living in the very near future. Shortly after making this harsh but ultimately understandable request, I heard a sound with which I became casually and personally familiar during my time as an active member of a fraternity: the distinct thwunk of hand going through a six panel hollow core door. As it was at least the twenty third time I have heard this sound, I knew that the damage was already done, doors are easy to replace, and that seeing at least some small amount of destruction coming from what is normally an infinite but completely impotent rage would actually have a calming effect. No one was hurt, and the damaged door has become a shrine to grown man temper tantrums everywhere.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Chapter 2: NYE
For many years, I have felt that New Years Eve garners far more attention than it deserves. Though overrated, New Years does offer a fantastic opportunity to have a drink and interact with friends that I love very much but visit very rarely and never combine for what is sometimes later revealed to be very good reason. As is to be expected when consorting with little seen friends, acquaintances, and associates, the usual catching up questions were asked:
“How have you been?”
“How’s the family?”
“Where is whatsername?”
“Whatever happened with that other girl?”
“Are all those drinks for you?”
“Don’t you think you’ve had enough?”
“What do you mean you don’t remember?”
“Are you ok?”
“What happened to your face?”
“Thaddeus, can you hear me?”
“Thaddeus!?”
Etcetera
There is no reason not to enjoy a holiday that encourages drinking too much, but the expected New Years Kiss with which many hope to close out the holiday makes the event a better fit for couples. Not because single people do not enjoy kissing – we do – but rather that our odds are calculably lower than the even one to one for those who arrive with a mildly special or imminently committed romantic interest. Having to consider the odds simply goes against my risk averse nature, as does this entire year. Some attempted to flatter me by saying that I was almost guaranteed to find a suitable suitor for the evening, but despite my dashing good looks, intoxicating charm, and generally agreeable if rugged aroma, I celebrated the conclusion of an odd year with a vigorous fist pump while I waited for my companions to cease attempting to orally evaluate whether or not their dates still had their wisdom teeth. I was grateful for a platonic hug from female followers, Velvet and Teach, and thoroughly enjoyed a more overtly manly and less sympathy inspired high five from Young Lad before the bar hosting our festivities decided to pull the fire alarm and send everyone back from whence they came
But the evening was not marred by my inability to begin a public display of foreplay’s foreplay while watching others mug up, nor was it cut short by the subtle hint from our venue’s proprietor. I took advantage of the confusion to relieve myself between two cars parked outside after finding the wait for traditional bathrooms too long, accidentally startling a young lady walking by who masked her delight by feigning astonishment despite my specific instructions not to be impressed. Feeling that I needed to apologize for accidentally blinding the poor girl with my endangered trouser snake, and also hoping to capitalize on the fact that she had already seen the best of me, I struck up a conversation in the parking lot that seemed fruitful in my inebriated state. Her surprisingly large boyfriend disagreed. To his credit, the Andre-the-Giant-esque boyfriend felt my antics were humorous and harmless enough not to inflict any damage to my face, and even remained patient when I asked him to, please, “don’t screw this up for me. I think she likes me!” The remainder of the evening quickly fades to black soon after I left my new friends to head home.
The next morning is sometimes the best part of nights you cannot remember the conclusion of, if of course you can ignore the throbbing head ache, distinctive taste of rotting flesh, unshakeable and debilitating nausea, and general sense that you are covered in a layer of filth and shame that will not wash off even with dish soap. This particular next morning started off with the pleasant surprise of finding The Drunk and another man I had not seen since high school sprawled out on my couches, which is normally not a problem, except that in this case I did not have enough food in the house to make breakfast for everyone. But I did have enough beer for twenty thirsty men, and so Young Lad, The Drunk, my newly reacquainted acquaintance Rip van Winkle put off our hangovers to another day. The combination of a slight buzz, the enjoyment of reconnecting with Winkle, and observing Winkle leave the absolute worst voicemail I have ever heard another man leave for a woman he is hoping to sleep with inspired me to call up a girl from my own past and wish her a Happy New Year. Since the message I left was not rambling, incoherent, nor embarrassing, Penny Lane called me back, and I spent the remainder of my weekend with her, watching monster trucks, drinking decidedly out of season beers, and generally enjoying each other’s company.
By the time I dropped her off at her parents’ house on Sunday evening, I was reminded of at least one of the reasons we separated in the first place as well as many of the reasons I have at times missed her since then, but more than anything, Penny gave me the belated New Year's kiss I thought I wouldn’t have this year, and demonstrated to me exactly how challenging my year as a bachelor is going to be.
“How have you been?”
“How’s the family?”
“Where is whatsername?”
“Whatever happened with that other girl?”
“Are all those drinks for you?”
“Don’t you think you’ve had enough?”
“What do you mean you don’t remember?”
“Are you ok?”
“What happened to your face?”
“Thaddeus, can you hear me?”
“Thaddeus!?”
Etcetera
There is no reason not to enjoy a holiday that encourages drinking too much, but the expected New Years Kiss with which many hope to close out the holiday makes the event a better fit for couples. Not because single people do not enjoy kissing – we do – but rather that our odds are calculably lower than the even one to one for those who arrive with a mildly special or imminently committed romantic interest. Having to consider the odds simply goes against my risk averse nature, as does this entire year. Some attempted to flatter me by saying that I was almost guaranteed to find a suitable suitor for the evening, but despite my dashing good looks, intoxicating charm, and generally agreeable if rugged aroma, I celebrated the conclusion of an odd year with a vigorous fist pump while I waited for my companions to cease attempting to orally evaluate whether or not their dates still had their wisdom teeth. I was grateful for a platonic hug from female followers, Velvet and Teach, and thoroughly enjoyed a more overtly manly and less sympathy inspired high five from Young Lad before the bar hosting our festivities decided to pull the fire alarm and send everyone back from whence they came
But the evening was not marred by my inability to begin a public display of foreplay’s foreplay while watching others mug up, nor was it cut short by the subtle hint from our venue’s proprietor. I took advantage of the confusion to relieve myself between two cars parked outside after finding the wait for traditional bathrooms too long, accidentally startling a young lady walking by who masked her delight by feigning astonishment despite my specific instructions not to be impressed. Feeling that I needed to apologize for accidentally blinding the poor girl with my endangered trouser snake, and also hoping to capitalize on the fact that she had already seen the best of me, I struck up a conversation in the parking lot that seemed fruitful in my inebriated state. Her surprisingly large boyfriend disagreed. To his credit, the Andre-the-Giant-esque boyfriend felt my antics were humorous and harmless enough not to inflict any damage to my face, and even remained patient when I asked him to, please, “don’t screw this up for me. I think she likes me!” The remainder of the evening quickly fades to black soon after I left my new friends to head home.
The next morning is sometimes the best part of nights you cannot remember the conclusion of, if of course you can ignore the throbbing head ache, distinctive taste of rotting flesh, unshakeable and debilitating nausea, and general sense that you are covered in a layer of filth and shame that will not wash off even with dish soap. This particular next morning started off with the pleasant surprise of finding The Drunk and another man I had not seen since high school sprawled out on my couches, which is normally not a problem, except that in this case I did not have enough food in the house to make breakfast for everyone. But I did have enough beer for twenty thirsty men, and so Young Lad, The Drunk, my newly reacquainted acquaintance Rip van Winkle put off our hangovers to another day. The combination of a slight buzz, the enjoyment of reconnecting with Winkle, and observing Winkle leave the absolute worst voicemail I have ever heard another man leave for a woman he is hoping to sleep with inspired me to call up a girl from my own past and wish her a Happy New Year. Since the message I left was not rambling, incoherent, nor embarrassing, Penny Lane called me back, and I spent the remainder of my weekend with her, watching monster trucks, drinking decidedly out of season beers, and generally enjoying each other’s company.
By the time I dropped her off at her parents’ house on Sunday evening, I was reminded of at least one of the reasons we separated in the first place as well as many of the reasons I have at times missed her since then, but more than anything, Penny gave me the belated New Year's kiss I thought I wouldn’t have this year, and demonstrated to me exactly how challenging my year as a bachelor is going to be.
Sunday, December 27, 2009
Chapter 1: The Aspiring Author
One of the great and interesting differences between the sexes is the phenomenon of the birthday. Women take pride in knowing each others’ birthdays, creating surprises, and giving gifts that are not alcoholic beverages and thus inappropriate for celebration, no matter how allegedly thoughtful they may be. Men find it incredibly important to honor another man’s birthday, but categorically refuse to remember exactly when it occurs, unless it is a holiday you already remember, like your own birthday. They can usually narrow it down to a season, and good friends who have known each other for many years can eventually develop a sense for the month.
Recently, I began to sense that my long time teammate Staunton was approaching his birthday, and along with Young Lad endeavored to celebrate it with him on the Saturday nearest to what we guessed the actual date might be. Young Lad was placed in charge of planning the event, and took the process exactly as far as “We’ll start drinking at our place” and then invited his friend Doc Martin -- the last living artifact of the era Kurt Cobain still roamed the earth -- over to make sure there were enough men in attendance to play a proper game of beirut. After several rounds and a unnecessarily long discussion of where we should go out that evening, Thaddeus, Staunton, and Young Lad gave into the wishes of Doc Martin and agreed go to a night club featuring light effects, bottle service, floor space dedicated to dancing, and music defined by a rhythmic baseline, memorable portions of other better songs, and scratching sounds. By even suggesting what would soon prove to be the among the worst places in the county to actually meet and talk with women who have a modicum of self esteem, Doc Martin had set into motion a chain of events that could only produce one inevitable result: “Let’s just go to The Club.” Young Lad made the arrangements, I called the cab and began rationalizing what I knew was a bad decision by reminding myself that Staunton needed and deserved boobs in his face since it was, in fact, reasonably close to his birthday.
After travelling a few more abusive miles in the back of a mustard yellow Ford Windstar that had already seen hundreds of thousands, we arrived at our destination. We were greeted like kings by a harem of beautiful but classless women before being reminded by a man who could not fit a belt around his neck that he would need to see our IDs, and to please not forget about the cover charge which would provide our group the opportunity to pay three dollars for water, six dollars for domestic beers, and twenty dollars for blue balls. Young Lad selected a table close to the stage and the bar so that Staunton might better be able to see and drink despite the cumulative affects of both alcohol and time making his head heavy. Several dancers approached our table and offered an enhance our experience at The Club, Staunton accepting on my behalf, while I declined them all until a nice looking young lady approached the table wearing the tattered remnants of clothes that when new would have made a pirate hooker blush and jumped into my lap without so much as a handshake or an introduction.
“I’ve had the worst day and I just want to sit down,” she began. Since it is a well known fact that clear heals provide very little arch support, I decided to do the best thing I could for my new friend and let her rest on top of me in while I engaged her in what I assumed would be innocuous conversation. I asked about her dog, drunkenly guessing that all strippers must have or want dogs. Jackpot! I had found a subject that seemed to cheer her up, but quickly lost control of the conversation as it meandered through innumerable, insufferable subjects before arriving inexplicably on the literature of Ayn Rand. Much to my own amazement, I was discussing the lack of practical applications for Objectivism in every day life with a woman who chose to earn at least part of her living by willingly being objectified (John Galt would be proud). I was so enthralled that I did not even respond to “Atlas Shrugged changed my life” with an appropriately snarky comment; so much so that I actually asked for a way to reach her outside of her work in order to continue the conversation. She obliged. For free.
Staunton, Young Lad, and I arrived home, having long since lost Doc Martin to a girlfriend who thinks seeing other women dancing for money is inappropriate but still allows him to use the internet. I decided that before going to bed, I would test out this new number in my phone by calling, only to resume my earlier conversation about favorite books, favorite authors, and eventually my new friend’s ambitious undertaking of a novel of her own. The Aspiring Author had chosen me, out of all the intelligent and trustworthy men she had met through her line of work, to open up to, and told me that she wanted my feedback on her masterpiece before shopping it around to publishers. Never in my life have I been more flattered while stifling a laugh. I cannot wait to see the Author again to get a copy of her work, and I have already started guessing at the title of her semi-autobiographical, future best seller.
Fingers crossed for Love in the Time of Gonorrhea.
Recently, I began to sense that my long time teammate Staunton was approaching his birthday, and along with Young Lad endeavored to celebrate it with him on the Saturday nearest to what we guessed the actual date might be. Young Lad was placed in charge of planning the event, and took the process exactly as far as “We’ll start drinking at our place” and then invited his friend Doc Martin -- the last living artifact of the era Kurt Cobain still roamed the earth -- over to make sure there were enough men in attendance to play a proper game of beirut. After several rounds and a unnecessarily long discussion of where we should go out that evening, Thaddeus, Staunton, and Young Lad gave into the wishes of Doc Martin and agreed go to a night club featuring light effects, bottle service, floor space dedicated to dancing, and music defined by a rhythmic baseline, memorable portions of other better songs, and scratching sounds. By even suggesting what would soon prove to be the among the worst places in the county to actually meet and talk with women who have a modicum of self esteem, Doc Martin had set into motion a chain of events that could only produce one inevitable result: “Let’s just go to The Club.” Young Lad made the arrangements, I called the cab and began rationalizing what I knew was a bad decision by reminding myself that Staunton needed and deserved boobs in his face since it was, in fact, reasonably close to his birthday.
After travelling a few more abusive miles in the back of a mustard yellow Ford Windstar that had already seen hundreds of thousands, we arrived at our destination. We were greeted like kings by a harem of beautiful but classless women before being reminded by a man who could not fit a belt around his neck that he would need to see our IDs, and to please not forget about the cover charge which would provide our group the opportunity to pay three dollars for water, six dollars for domestic beers, and twenty dollars for blue balls. Young Lad selected a table close to the stage and the bar so that Staunton might better be able to see and drink despite the cumulative affects of both alcohol and time making his head heavy. Several dancers approached our table and offered an enhance our experience at The Club, Staunton accepting on my behalf, while I declined them all until a nice looking young lady approached the table wearing the tattered remnants of clothes that when new would have made a pirate hooker blush and jumped into my lap without so much as a handshake or an introduction.
“I’ve had the worst day and I just want to sit down,” she began. Since it is a well known fact that clear heals provide very little arch support, I decided to do the best thing I could for my new friend and let her rest on top of me in while I engaged her in what I assumed would be innocuous conversation. I asked about her dog, drunkenly guessing that all strippers must have or want dogs. Jackpot! I had found a subject that seemed to cheer her up, but quickly lost control of the conversation as it meandered through innumerable, insufferable subjects before arriving inexplicably on the literature of Ayn Rand. Much to my own amazement, I was discussing the lack of practical applications for Objectivism in every day life with a woman who chose to earn at least part of her living by willingly being objectified (John Galt would be proud). I was so enthralled that I did not even respond to “Atlas Shrugged changed my life” with an appropriately snarky comment; so much so that I actually asked for a way to reach her outside of her work in order to continue the conversation. She obliged. For free.
Staunton, Young Lad, and I arrived home, having long since lost Doc Martin to a girlfriend who thinks seeing other women dancing for money is inappropriate but still allows him to use the internet. I decided that before going to bed, I would test out this new number in my phone by calling, only to resume my earlier conversation about favorite books, favorite authors, and eventually my new friend’s ambitious undertaking of a novel of her own. The Aspiring Author had chosen me, out of all the intelligent and trustworthy men she had met through her line of work, to open up to, and told me that she wanted my feedback on her masterpiece before shopping it around to publishers. Never in my life have I been more flattered while stifling a laugh. I cannot wait to see the Author again to get a copy of her work, and I have already started guessing at the title of her semi-autobiographical, future best seller.
Fingers crossed for Love in the Time of Gonorrhea.
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Prologue
Even numbered years have always been good for me; I graduated on an even year, learned to drive on an even year, my brother is getting married on an even day of an even month of an even year, etc. So I am going into 2010 with high hopes and unique quest: to stay out of any serious, committed, exclusive, or involved relationship for the entire calendar year. Few would imagine this to be a challenge worth documenting, but as a recently self diagnosed, love sick, chronic serial dater, the events of the coming year could be interesting and certainly should be entertaining, and will be the singular purpose of what is written here. I intend for the next three hundred and sixty five days to be a time of philosophical introspection and personal growth, not simply chasing indiscriminate women. At least not entirely. I want to leave behind my unabashed poondoggery in favor of a more cultivated and sophisticated taste. Unless she’s hot or Native American or something kinda cool and exotic like that.
What follows is the collection of the Misadventures of the willfully single narrator, Thaddeus, and his close friend, token sidekick, sometimes caddy, and constant wingman Young Lad. Like the two main characters, anyone included in the stories here will be given appropriate pseudonyms to mask their identity for their own innocence (or lack thereof). Destinations and locations will be intentionally obfuscated and many pertinent details will be intentionally omitted or preemptively forgotten due to the influence of alcohol. Also, I am allowing myself some degree of poetic license to keep things entertaining and anonymous. The spirit of this public journal is entirely in jest and hopefully uplifting, and so in that spirit, I implore anyone commenting here keep to my same standards of anonymity and show just a little decorum. Of course I do expect people to uncover their secret identities and take some offense to what is written here, and I apologize now in advance and probably never will again.
What follows is the collection of the Misadventures of the willfully single narrator, Thaddeus, and his close friend, token sidekick, sometimes caddy, and constant wingman Young Lad. Like the two main characters, anyone included in the stories here will be given appropriate pseudonyms to mask their identity for their own innocence (or lack thereof). Destinations and locations will be intentionally obfuscated and many pertinent details will be intentionally omitted or preemptively forgotten due to the influence of alcohol. Also, I am allowing myself some degree of poetic license to keep things entertaining and anonymous. The spirit of this public journal is entirely in jest and hopefully uplifting, and so in that spirit, I implore anyone commenting here keep to my same standards of anonymity and show just a little decorum. Of course I do expect people to uncover their secret identities and take some offense to what is written here, and I apologize now in advance and probably never will again.
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