Monday, October 24, 2005
Many years from now, long after my spectacular death in a garbage fire, my authorized biography will be released. It will come after several unauthorized biographies, which will contain various half-truths and lies, like how I was briefly Vice President in Charge of Operations for Petco (half-truth; I was CFO), how I played a small but important role in the Falklands War (lie; not even sure what the Falklands War is), how I don’t know how to use a fax machine and have always hated this about myself (half-truth; no idea how to use a fax machine but I don’t care), and how once when cornered by a gang of youths in 2000 I turned a potentially dangerous situation into a satisfying sexual romp (lie; I wasn’t cornered, it was two men I met at club and not a gang, it was only somewhat satisfying, and it cost me $400).
Of course, there will be shocking revelations in this authorized volume, penned by my long time friend and confidant, this guy. And of course, I won’t reveal these revelations now, because I want you to buy the book. Not for me, because I’ll be dead, but for my estate, to whom I will leave many, many legal bills and gambling debts and countless half-Taiwanese children, all named Sip-Sip.
But there will be a lot of talk in the biography about how, though loved by literally millions – even trillions perhaps – I have, for the most part, few friends. This is my own fault entirely. It’s not because I’m not that open of a person and yada yada yada, but this isn’t therapy. It’s also because I suck at the whole keeping in touch thing and doing my part to make friendships work. I’m not good at following through with plans, I don’t return most emails, and if you call me, there’s a less than 10% chance I’m going to call you back (in part because of my horrible Sprint cell phone; by the way, I think I’m getting a Sidekick – please email me if you have one and tell me what you think).
Basically because I’m lazy, self-centered and somewhat private, I don’t have a lot of friends (I should say that this applies to NYC only; I have lots of friends in Philly and Boston and had lots of friends in NYC before everyone moved out). I have lots of associates and people I get along with, but few tried-and-true, “wipe my ass after I’ve shit myself on your bedroom floor and passed out” buds. Sad, but true. The good news is that I always manage to convince myself that I have more, but the bad news is that this weekend I learned that it just ain’t true.
On Saturday night, Brian and I had a joint party. Friday was Brian’s birthday. He is now 27, and we are all happy he made it this far. Seriously, I don’t know how he’s lived this long, but we’re not going to start questioning this, lest we jinx him.
On my end, I’m working on this. For legal/pr reasons, that’s all I can say about that until further notice. I’m also working on another project which I can’t speak about for the same legal reasons (not the same exact legal reason, but a different set). Additionally, my wonderful, wonderful employer has made it possible for me to work only one day a week while I pursue these other things. So basically this is the best time of my life and this party was to celebrate that.
[And yes, I hope to make an official, tell-all announcement very soon. But please, this is all I can say now, so don’t inundate me with emails. Believe me, I want you all to know, and as soon as I get the green light, I’ll let you all know, but this stuff takes time. But know that I’m working one day a week at my real job and writing (read: sleeping in, being slovenly and disappointing people) the rest of time. Thank you for understanding.]
We even classed it up a bit. We usually have our parties at the Keltic Lounge on Ludlow Street, but this time around we went for the Happy Ending Lounge. Brian and I had been there before several times, and it’s not too fancy for scumbags like us and our friends. Plus, it was a special occasion: Brian is old and I’m livin’ the dream, so a lil’ fanciness wouldn’t hurt.
What we didn’t know was that the location of the bar really didn’t matter. By the end of the night, Brian summed it up best: it was a new personal low. Ladies and gentleman, Brian and I had our party at Happy Ending. We were there from 10pm until 4am. We were expecting around 50 people. Six people joined us.
(Eight if you include Brian and I. But I don’t think we should.)
I should clarify to say that six people spent a decent amount of time at the bar. By that I mean that six people were at the bar for longer than one hour. Roughly ten others stopped in for a drink en route to other, no doubt more exciting places and parties.
Six. I sent out an email inviting around 80. Six came and hung out. Ouch.
In truth, I am not that bothered by this. I had a pretty decent time with those that did come, managed to get very drunk, bought drinks for everyone, and had my credit card rejected because it’s maxed out. Good stuff.
And like I said, it’s my fault too. I stink at being a friend, so I shouldn’t have been surprised. Also, a few people replied to the email to say that they couldn’t make it. Also, it was pouring rain and around 48° out, so if I didn’t have a party to host I probably wouldn’t have come either.
But damn – six. That’s just embarrassing. I don’t want to turn this into a pity party, because I’ll make it. Sure, Brian and I might just have to move out of NYC and rent a house upstate where we can get messed up and start fights with trees, but if that’s what we have to do, that doesn’t sound too bad.
And I’m not, in any way, mad at those who didn’t come. I’m sure they each thought, “Jason is the most wonderful and charismatic person I know, so I’m sure he won’t even notice if I don’t make his party, because there will probably be all sorts of athletes, celebrities, and strippers there.” I’m ok with that. Of course, these people didn’t know that I locked myself in the bathroom for two hours during the party while my friend Jeremy talked through the door consoling me, finally getting me to come out only when he promised me that we’d go to Friendly’s the next day. God bless him.
But the whole incident made me put things into perspective. I need to do one of the following things:
1) Be a better friend. I doubt this is going to happen, so let’s just move on. Although maybe if I get that Sidekick, that will help.
2) Join some groups or some shit. Maybe I can look for friends on craigslist or join a choir or discussion group or something. This probably isn’t going to happen, because I’m not good at meeting new people and I don’t really want to discuss anything except how awesome I am and how much I can bench press.
3) Move. I can either move to Philly or Boston where I have friends and family, or to LA, where I don’t know anyone but I can start over as a vegan, environmentalist, and horrible writer who uses way too may run-on sentences and doesn’t place quotation marks properly. Odds are not good on this either, because moving would require a ton of physical effort, something I am strongly averse to.
4) Nothing. Winner.
So that was the big party and this is what I’m going to do. I don’t really have an ending or a point, so I’ll go with this: Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go lie on the couch and watch ESPN all afternoon. If I get ambitious, I might make a giant omelet, but right now I can’t tell either way.