Monday, January 09, 2006
On Friday night, at about 10pm, I got a message from my buddy “Jerry”. I should note that Jerry is one of my best friends here in NYC, a big time boozer that I have spent many a 4am with, bombed at a pizza place, yelling at women. Jerry’s message went:
“Hey buddy, it’s me. [Girlfriend] and I are out to dinner right now at [nice restaurant], but after that we’re going out for a drink if you want to join us. But just one drink, because it’s the new year and I’m trying to watch my drinking. Anyway, give me a call if you’re interested.”
Now I’m not going to do down the “girlfriends are stupid” road. Once, and I can’t remember when, I wrote something on here disparaging a buddy for hanging out with his girlfriend and I got a crapload of emails from female readers saying, “Um, that’s what guys do, jerk. They fall in love and settle down. You should try it sometime.” (My guess is that these women are the targets of insults from their boyfriends’ guy friends and so spat their harpie venom at me for hitting a nerve)
Add to that, Jerry’s girlfriend is a fun girl and way too attractive for Jerry. So if I were Jerry, I would do what I had to do to keep her. She’s cool, and I’m not just saying this because she will read this.
But that’s what maybe makes it so difficult for me. I know that Jerry’s girlfriend (we’ll call her Brittany) was not the impetus behind Jerry’s message or “new year’s resolution.” It is Jerry himself that is making these changes. A man that I once watched (from the front set of a cab) get a handjob from his coke dealer is cutting down on his drinking in the New Year. Sad.
Let’s compare and contrast this to what I was doing when I got this message from Jerry. I got said message on Friday night, a little after 10pm. At the time, my roommate Brian and I were ripping cans of PBR, stopping for the occasional vodka red bull. We have been drinking PBR like professionals lately. The Chinese grocery store a few blocks away from me sells twelve-packs for $6.88. That is extremely cheap in NYC, the equivalent of getting a sirloin for $3. For example, also a few blocks away from me is a bodega at which I recently bought twelve bottles of Rolling Rock for $24. Twelve Rolling Rocks for $24 or Twelve cans of PBR for $7? Not a tough choice.
In addition to getting shit-bombed, Brian and I were also on our second hour of watching Journey videos on VH1 Classic. This first hour was a special Journey in concert, which was, as you might expect, the most entertaining experience of my life. Special props go to Brian, who probably knows more about “rock” from 1977-1989 than anyone aside from Chuck Klosterman, for guessing the year in which the concert was less than one song into the show (1981). The second hour was just Journey videos, which were incredible in and of themselves but couldn’t match the intensity of the live show.
Finally, after Journey was done (I think Metal Mania came on after), Brian and I spent a good two hours discussing my future post, “Ten Guys I’d Do”. I mentioned I had an idea for this post before on the site here, but then it was “Ten Guys I’d Do For $10,000”. Now it’s just “Ten Guys I’d Do.” I guess I’m getting lonely. Brian and I were able to come up with six guys, but stalled there. And seriously, I promise you we’re not gay. For the most part.
So while my friend Jerry was at a nice dinner with his beautiful girlfriend drinking in moderation, Brian and I drank a case of PBR, watched two hours of Journey, then talked about ten guys I’d fuck. I don’t even know what to say here.
But you know what? I’m happy with my choice. I had an awesome time on Friday night. Brian and I left the apartment at just before 1, met up with some friends, then got home at almost 5, though I don’t remember how I got home and have no recollection of anything at 2am. Such is life.
About a week ago, I made a decision. I am going to retire at 30. Not from my job of course, since by the time I’m 30 I should have about $54,000 in credit card debt if I keep going at this rate. God I wish that was a joke.
But I’m going to retire from my life as I now know it at 30. Assuming that my projects fail (which, to be honest, the odds are against them) and nothing else has come of it, I will stop writing this blog. I will get serious about my job and dedicate myself to being a (Senior) Practice Development Analyst. I will stop drinking 50 cans of beer per weekend. I will instead have a dozen vodka tonics only. I will get involved in a serious relationship, finding a nice 22 year-old girl on Match.com to marry. She’ll be perfect: bright, busty, freaky, but she will have one minor flaw: no legs. I can deal with this. I am not, never was, and never will be a leg man. And I will settle into adulthood and ride off into the sunset of my life, which will end at age 37 in a Chinese restaurant fire.
But until then, I am going to try to destroy myself (in a good way). I will continue drinking my shit beer, going out and talking to girls even though the expiration date on the People thing has long since passed, and I will still come home at night, lay in bed, and listen to Motley Crue on my iPod while the room spins (I’m going to try to lighten up on the whole “talking about guys I’d do” thing though).
I’m telling you this both because I love you and I want you to prepare. You will only have me until July 17, 2009. After that, I’m done. Consider this fair warning. So until then, let’s just enjoy it while it lasts.
And if you’re not watching VH1 Classic while drinking, the disservice you’re doing to yourself is too great for words.
[Follow up: Because my friends and I made such fun of Jerry for his behavior on Friday night, he showed up at my door on Saturday night with three bottles of wine. Many drinks and many hours later, I was watching him play pool at a bar when he literally keeled over and fell first against the table and then onto the ground. It was incredible. So Jerry, despite his faults, still “has it.” And there are no hard feelings between us. That is, until after his girlfriend reads this post and asks him about the handjob in the cab. Oh well.]