Big Time Low-Life

Broadcasting live from Manchester, New Hampshire and probably the only office I will ever have in my entire life. Okay, it’s not really an office; more of a cubicle on steroids, but like I said this may be the closest to the big time that I ever get. It’s big, its walls are taller than I am and I have two – count em: TWO – chairs that fit comfortably inside this Bad Jackson. Not to mention that the carpet around my desk is covered with a clear plastic thing that lets my chair slide around without all that constrictive carpet friction. Which reminds me of a dirty joke, but not really. It just sounds dirty. Anyway, my administrative assistant just had this to say about me:

I heard you like that[sic] crazy ones.

Which is a brutal, but functional, segue into the story I’ve been meaning to tell you feebs for some time. The Amy Story. You all remember Amy, right? Cute blonde chick, apparently likes dancing in People’s? Well I found out she also loves being a judgmental bitch to my friends and talking about ritualized executions. Now the second part would be awesome and totally cool with me in the whole “Hey, maybe I’ll get bound and gagged out of this, in the kinky way this time and not in the all-my-stuff-is-gone way” way. I just nested “ways”; save me. Anyhoo talking about the Brian Jonestown Massacre is cool if you’re referring to the band that toured with The Dandy Warhols, but when you’re a elementary school teacher talking about THAT Jonestown Massacre we’ve rapidly gone way over the Vicky Mendoza diagonal into the CRAZY side of the Hot/Crazy Scale. For illustrative purpose (and because I feel like a boss in my pseudo-office) please refer to the graph below:

Hot/Crazy Scale

The red line indicates the aforementioned Vicky Mendoza diagonal. A girl is allowed to be only as crazy as she is attractive, so preferably you want a girl north of the red line. For me, when I use the 1-10 ranking system* I do it in relation to my own perceived appearance, personality and what-have-you. This Amy girl was/is what we in the business like to call “Cute-Hot”. “Cute-Hot” girls walk that fine line between being the kind of attractive that would endear her to your mother, and the kind of attractive you want to spend all weekend in the Rocky Hill Marriott with. It’s a deadly combination to say the least, and these are usually very date-able looking girls. The problem is that they’re also usually bat-shit crazy. Amy had a serious case of the “crazy eyes” which I choose to ignore because I’ve always been a sucker for a pretty smile and… damn.

Anyways, so in relation to me, Amy was about a 8 to a 8.5. Definitely out of my league, definitely attractive but there have been prettier girls. So she starts off with a base rating of 8 x 1 (that is a score of 8 Hot and 1 Crazy, because everyone’s at least a little bit crazy). So I call her up to ask her out, and we talk for a bit about how she’s moving and her teaching and some other innocuous garbage that started to get frustrating after 20 minutes. She also mentioned how she didn’t know if she wanted to go out or continue to sit in the laundry basket she was currently sitting in…

Okay… We’re officially at a 8 x 2. So I tell her, since she’s playing poor this week, that I’ll take her out and ask her how she wants to spend my money (jokingly, of course). She responds with something along the lines of buying (or feeding, I forget) a starving African child. And we’ve hit 8 x 3. African, really? I can get a starving kid for half-price over in Somerville. So eventually she decides to come out with me so I drive out to the Q to pick her up. She takes forever to get ready, but all chicks do so no big deal. We’re driving up I-93 heading towards Cambridge and People’s because fuck it, I’m a one-trick pony. If you can’t hang at my bar you might as well just hit the bricks, toots. So we’re driving and she mentions that she can’t see something because she’s not wearing her glasses. I asked why she wasn’t wearing contacts/glasses and she says “Because it makes everything all blurry and pretty.” To which I respond, “Are you high?”

8×4.

So I get pulled over on the way to People’s by a Cambridge cop that sadly isn’t Big Sexy, but I still get off with a warning. Probably because the cop thinks I’m about to drop a lot of money on a girl that’s going to drop my ass like a bad habit. He’d be a quarter right, but I’m giving him full credit for giving me a warning even though I kind of cut him off and kind of almost hit pedestrians in a crosswalk. Anyhoo, we get to HQ and Class Lady-Friend Maeve shows up. I love Maeve; she’s like the psychotic, violent, drunk sister that I probably have but don’t know about. She’s a bit of a crazy, borderline-nympho self-destructive attention-whore… but really, who isn’t? So Maeve comes and we talk about things that we talk about (fucking (verb, not adjective) Republicans, Eiffel Towers, alcoholism, her parents getting married after 23 years, how she burned half her hand-skin off earlier in the night, etc) and she eventually leaves after a beer or two (and one Heineken-drinking black man rubbing his Robin Hood all over her ass), and I go back to trying to make polite conversation with Amy**. So I ask her what she thinks of my friend Maeve…

Apparently that means its open season to call my friend who I’ve known for about ten years a drunken, scum-bag whore. To which I respond, “Hold the phone, sugar, that’s only okay when I say it.” Then she launches into a tirade about how I asked what she thought and how she’s not judgmental (I hadn’t said she was) and a bunch of other crap that I just tuned out. We’re skipping right over 8×5 and 8×6 and scoring this a 8×7, because fuck you, bitch, I love my drunken scum-bag friends. I was actually so pissed that I stopped paying attention to her and start pounding beers. I actually excused myself to the bathroom because I saw Kelly loitering around there, and was hoping to use her as a human shield to get me through the rest of this awful night. She managed to vanish (she reappeared later, which both 1. made Amy jealous and 2. engaged her in conversation long enough for me to delay slapping her), though.

So I forget how the topic of “the media” came up, but I probably started it. My hatred for mainstream media is well-known but I was lazy so I didn’t launch into an impassioned speech, but probably made so off-hand comment. Apparently, I struck a nerve though because Amy hates the media. And I mean HATE. She started screaming and raving about how the media kills people and recited the entire history of the aforementioned Jonestown Massacre to the point I was actually a little afraid of her. Congratulations, Amy, you’ve reached the diagonal: 8×8.

Oddly, it was at this point that things started to get interesting. She started flirting a bit, smiling at me, touching my leg and I’m starting to think that 8×8 isn’t so bad after all… Then she started playing with the dish-rag. Old Max came over to wipe down the bar and left his dish rag behind, so Amy grabbed it, rolled it up and pretended it was a person. She began making it dance around the bar and talk to people that came up to order drinks. This didn’t go on for five minutes, or happen only once… it went on for an hour. People that had ordered drinks, finished those drinks, came back and had to talk to the dish rag a second time. Now, that’s hysterical from an outside perspective. From the perspective of being on a date with this person: IT’S FUCKING HORRIFYING.

We’ve reached a Critical Mass of Crazy: 8×10.

As the night winds down I go to take another leak, to come back and find her talking to another guy for the second time (I ignored the first one because the guy mentioned that she had said he was sitting in my seat, and actually looked like he was going to piss himself when I came back), and at this point I could give a fuck. The guy talked her up, I had a few more beers, they exchanged numbers, I didn’t even pretend to care that she was approaching 8×11 (a hereto unheard of level of crazy) and just said, “Fuck it.”

I decided to be a nice guy and not abandoned her psychotic bitchy ass in Cambridge even though I had every right to after her shenanigans with Maeve and calling me “boring” repeatedly because I refused to play with a filthy dish-rag***, or dance for her amusement. So yeah, I drove her home. And I got a goodnight kiss because 1. beggars can’t be choosers and 2. I earned it.

Will texted me the next day to ask how it went, since Kelly texted him was gushing over Amy from their brief conversation. Unfortunately (for Kelly, fortunately for dudes like me and Will), Kelly is a lousy judge of character. But hey… who isn’t?

Peace,
{VM}

* Side note to Amanda and anyone else who may think this is misogynistic: welcome to the big leagues. Everyone does it. You’ve done it. I’ve done it. That girl who maced me sure as hell did it, so let’s not fool ourselves with shameful idealism.
** Amy had moved up to a 8×3 for wearing a tight Jimi Hendrix T-shirt, but dropped back down to a 8×4 for picking “Foxy Lady” as her favorite Hendrix tune. While “Foxy Lady” is a solid tune, is there any Hendrix tune more pretentious for a chick to pick as her favorite? I venture to say there’s not.
*** At one point, brilliant rocket surgeon that she is, she forgot how she had folded the napkin the first time to make it resemble an old lady. I got sick of listening to her talk, so I did it for her, placed it in front of her and ignored her squealing for the next ten to fifteen.

I’m Not Dead, I Swear

Good evening, Sports fans.

I’m not dead – at least not physically. Spiritually and emotionally I’m a rotting corpse inside a whited sepulcher, but that’s to be expected on weekdays. Anyhoo… I have meetings for the rest of the afternoon in Patheticut and then I’m spending the rest of the week working in NH, so I doubt there will be much on the update front in the coming days.

So here’s a summary and I’ll elaborate later:

• That Amy chick is crazy
• The doormen at Kings suck donkey genitalia
• Despite being horribly out of shape, I’m still the best at football in my family
• I spent my entire Thanksgiving week in Townie bars drinking with old friends
• Turkey sandwiches are better than actual Thanksgiving turkey
• Still single. Still employed. Still love beer.

Anything else you can stop being a lazy bastard and call me about. Some friends you are, living vicariously through my blog.

Worky-work, busy bee,
{VM}

Bad Will Hunting

Not Pictured: The real Will and Vinny

Yeah, yeah. Long time no blog. Look, I’ve been busy so how about you get off me? You think with my meager amount of free time, I’m going to spend it generating ha-ha’s for you feebs?

Well, sadly, you’re right. But I can’t I think of anything to write, so here’s some excerpts from my conversation with Will yesterday (edited slightly for readability):

On Mid-90s Rock Chicks From Boston:

Will: Incidentally, I share your Kay Hanley fetish. I still pleasure myself to the image of her turning her back to the crowd and bouncing up and down for an entire song at the Paradise back in about ‘98 or so.
Vinny: I saw her at the paradise in ‘08. The years have been very kind to her
Will: Nice. She’s my second-favorite 90s Boston rock girl, trailing only Juliana Hatfield, who I met at the People’s last year and who has not aged that way. The woman needs to eat. Juliana was on the cusp of big-time but never fully made it. She was on the cover of Spin in ‘95ish and inside revealed that she was a 27-year-old virgin. So, obviously, insane and crazy catches up to you when you’re not young and adorable anymore. Now she’s a bit haggard, but I still creep-hugged her for old time’s sake.

On Fame:

Will: I never see famous people, even in NYC. I guess Josh Hartnett was in my bar right before me and Patrick and Max got there the night before WhiskyFest, but I wouldn’t have recognized him anyway.
Vinny: How can you not recognize the guy from such classics as “Pearl Harbor”, “Wicker Park”, and “40 days and 40 nights”?
Will: Saw Clemens here in 2002, while a Sunday afternoon game was still going. I mean granted, he’s a starting pitcher and doesn’t really need to be there, but it was still strange to see him at the bar. He refered to himself as “The Rocket” in the 3rd person repeatedly, and got a few rounds for the small crowd. I hate to admit, he came across as a pretty good guy, a friendly idiot, the way you imagine Papelbon would be.
Vinny: He referred to himself as “The Rocket”? Tell me he was trying to be ironic.
Vinny: I can see that. I feel like if I became famous I would turn into a dick.  Err… that is to say my public image would be startlingly accurate as opposed to a whitewash of lies and DUIs.
Will: Oh, I’d be completely insufferable, I’m positive.
me: I’m pretty sure I’d be hanging out in the Beverly Hills McDonald’s parking lot making fun of fat chicks with Megan Fox or something. or I’d be “that guy” who got drunk while hosting SNL and tried to make out with Miley Cyrus (and succeeded, because she’s totally a skank).
Will: Sounds about right.
Vinny: Though to be fair, me and Miley sucking face might be the best thing on SNL since Farley died.
Will: I mean, I act like I own the fucking world if I’m someplace where I know the bartender’s name, or if I’ve gotten a blog comment that day or something. Fame would destroy me. I can’t wait!

On Same As The Dead Pool Ever Was, The Movie:

Vinny: I feel like we should take a page from the Affleck/Damon playbook and write a screenplay about Boston/Cambridge and cash in on this whole “everything to do with Boston is fucking awesome!” kick that Hollywood is on.
Will: You’re right. And I will always appreciate those guys for getting guys like me laid when that movie came out. So many Harvard freshman were willing to believe they’d found the real-life Will Hunting any time they took Daddy’s credit card to a bar with a wiseass bouncer. I didn’t have much of an accent as a kid–my dad’s from Oklahoma and my mom’s parents were deaf, so she over-enunciated everything and had no accent. But I sounded like you after 16 beers when it became obvious that it was somehow sexy for a brief moment in time.
me: Yeah, play up the whole Boston thing that makes ‘em think “Hey maybe there’s a sensitive genius under that rough exterior” and lead them on by showing them angsty teenage poetry, get laid and they find out there’s little more to me than apathy and dick jokes. Either way, we should start writing a screenplay so that we can put together the farce that we’re actually working on it and bring it up in casual conversation with chicks at the bar, describing it as “Catcher In the Rye” meets “Good Will Hunting” and if they’re unimpressed add that “It’s got a little more heart, though” or “It’s semi-autobiographical”.
Will: Yup. I like where this is going. And we’ll get Truck to actually write the fucking thing–that dude’s hilarious and into movies and shit.
me: Excellent but he’s white and hence expensive. We’ll get my Mexican to write it
Will: Good call. In fact, he’s worse than white: he’s a Jew too.
me: So’s the Mexican! He’s actually Guatemalan…
Will: Same thing, different flag.

This racism, bigotry, celebrity slander, and misogyny brought to by my lousy job and Will’s boredom.

Yes, I’m aware that this doesn’t really count as a blog post, but I don’t care. I’m leaving here in twenty minutes and starting Thanksgiving week at the bar. See you there.

Future celebrity,
{VM}

To Write Love On Her Arms

Taking a break from self-serving liver destruction, I’d like to point out that today is “To Write Love On Her Arms” Day. I know, I know. What in the bluest of fucks is that?

To Write Love On Her Arms

Here’s the low-down from the Facebook event link:

To Write Love on Her Arms is a non-profit movement dedicated to presenting hope and finding help for people struggling with depression, addiction, self-injury and suicide. TWLOHA exists to encourage, inform, inspire and also to invest directly into treatment and recovery.

*****To Write Love On Her Arms Day is a day where anyone can write the words love on their arms, to support those who are fighting against depression and those who are trying to recovering. On this day, just write love on your arms, and show it off, other people will ask why you have love written on your arms, and you tell them you are supporting to write love on her arms day, and how its benefiting a non profit organization helping stop depression, and make love the movement ♥

I’m not normally one for the touchy-feely-queery crap in most cases, and normally I only make exceptions for cancer, children and cute animals (fuck beavers, fur coats look better). I first became aware of TWOHA (I’m abbreviating because of course this non-profit had to go all shitty Emo band when thinking of a name), when I got the swanky, hip, socially conscious “Social Vibe” widget you see down here to the left. No lower. There it is. That’s the spot. Mmmmm.

Sorry, what was I talking about? Oh yeah. So that’s how I became aware of TWOHA, and I thought it’s a solid cause. I’ve had a lot of friends who have struggled with depression, addictions and contemplated suicide so I figured if they say throwing this widget up on my page would help stop that then count me in. Ditto to this TWOHA Day thing. If rocking some Sharpie art on my arm for a day will get people involved with suicide prevention then hand me a Sharpie, let me get a few huffs and let’s get rolling.

Peace (and Love),
{VM}

Goodbye, Liver

To the death, I say. To the death!

A wise man (Bill, the guy who sits next to me) once told me (five minutes ago) that a man has to have goals in life. We were discussing the Bukowski Six-Month Club.

For those of you who don’t know, Bukowski’s Tavern is a bar on Dalton St in Boston (and Inman Square in Cambridge) named after the author Charles Bukowski. The Emperor loves Bukowski and made me watch a documentary on the dude and I gotta say between the alcoholism and misogyny and violence, he seems like me if a few (hundred-thousand) brains cells drifted to the creative side of my brain from the “don’t beat chicks” side.

Anyways, Bukowski’s is known for having a rather large beer menu – its no Sunset Grill but who can top 500? – constituting somewhere in the range of 120 brews and its greasy food. I know this, sadly, not from firsthand experience but rather through a buddy or two and exhaustive online research (a full ten minutes). I discovered that this “Six Month Club” is for people who have drank all 120 beers within the span of six months. Your reward – besides the obvious pride – is a big-ass mug (‘big-ass’ being the technical term) engraved with your favorite author’s name that you can get filled for the price of a beer every time you go back. Does this not sound like a challenge tailor-made for yours truly?

Apparently, again according to my online research and third-to-fourth hand information, the record for completely all 120 beers is five weeks. Five weeks. That’s 120 beers in 35 days or 3.428571 (repeating) beers per day. That right there is what we in the business like to call “weak-ass shit” (or in the vernacular: “shit’s weak”). That 41.428571 (repeating) fluid ounces a day is not something impressed with, and frankly hardly a challenge. So I was talking to my life coach – the aforementioned Bill – and has agreed to be my “manager” for this challenge. He even drafted me a schedule for completely it in seven days*. We’ve scaled back the ambition of our schedule now, but you better leave I’m going for the record.

But its not enough to set a record of this magnitude; you to set the bar so high and so convincingly that people come to loathe and despise you. You become their motivation to be the prolific drinker they know they can be. Your’s will be the name they curse while worshiping at the porcelain altar. Five weeks is the record? I’m looking to do it in 12 days.

12 days means 10 beers a day on average, consecutively. That’s 120 fluid ounces of booze per day. 2400 total. Uncountable calories ingested and imbibed. Is it possible? Not for mortal man. Will my liver be able to handle it? Probably not. But dammit: nothing ventured, nothing gained. To quote Theodore “The Ruff Rider” Roosevelt:

The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly;

who errs,

comes up short again and again,

because there is no effort without error and shortcoming;

but who does actually strive to do the deeds;

who knows the great enthusiasms,

the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause;

who at the best knows in the end

the triumph of high achievement,

and who at the worst, if he fails,

at least fails while daring greatly,

so that his place shall never be with those

cold and timid souls

who neither know victory nor defeat.

I still need to consult with the Emperor and with my Bad Life Choices Mentor (and ignore advice from doctors and parents), but as Bill just said to me, “Anything close to a month is a disgrace in my book.” That’s why he’s the Mickey to my Rocky, the Mr. Miyagi to my Daniel LaRusso, and the black guy from Showgirls to my Elizabeth Berkeley.

Anyone who wants to draft out a plan or schedule, or be kept updated on my plans just leave a comment. Wish me luck.

EDIT: Also, who should I have engraved as my favorite author?

Stay thirsty,
{VM}

* This was when we thought the challenge was 100 beers.

Recklessly Optimistic

I know I said I was going to write about Saturday night on Monday, but I spent two hours driving to Connecticut to spend the subsequent 13 hours in the basement cubicle dungeon/sweatshop.  That was followed by dinner at the only place still open: a diner and finally arrive “home” to the hotel at 11:15pm. So needless to say, I didn’t have the free time to update; so stop pestering me, you cads.

I’ve been waking up earlier on Saturdays, which is slightly disconcerting for me because it means I’m getting older. And getting older means the two things I used to be able to do in bed for a long time, now happen for shorter durations and with less satisfaction. So I was up “early” on Saturday, just after noon, which means I got about eight hours of sleep. That’s good for your average low-life but for a cube-jockeying alcoholic it barely passes as adequate. Not one to dwell on my own inadequacies, I got out of bed, had some lunch and a shower and waited until 3pm to text Amy and find out that she didn’t want to go to the movies, because – fuck it – she doesn’t have to and that flies with a guy like me. So I dicked around the house, ate a pizza and went back to People’s to meet up with Bonnie.

Bonnie was busting my balls because she was in Cambridge and I wasn’t coming out to hang out with her. I was waiting for the aforementioned plans to falls through, you see. So she gave me a hard time about that, because while Bonnie has a vagina which would intrinsically make her a “ho”, we have a significantly more “bro” centric relationship, thus allowing her to bust my balls under the precedent set-up under the court case of “Bros v. Hos”. In short: “Fine. Meet me at People’s.” So we had some beers, I watched the Bruins game and Bonnie tolerated my attempts to teach her about the white people sport. We drank for a bit, I got crap for not talking to a girl in a flannel shirt and subsequently made fun of her choice in men.

Kentes arrived with one of his theater buddies. They started talking about theater and other such nonsense with which I don’t normally involve myself, but then we started talking about how my brothers are both actors and how I should’ve been an actor. I have no background in acting and nothing that should lead anyone to believe I’d have any penchant for it… but I do have a solid Boston accent and those are in short supply these days. Kentes mentioned that he’d love direct me in a one-man play, so I said “Yeah, I’ll do MY version of the the complete works of William Shakespeare.” I then started quoting what little Shakespeare I know in an overly-thick Boston accent and added my own side-commentary… three minutes later Kentes and his buddy were ready to start making this thing right there in the bar. So look for that on Broadway sometime soon.

Bonnie’s friends showed up and had a few drinks. Someone ordered a Sprite which was fucking pointless. I like Sprite as much as the next guy, but when in fucking Rome get hammered. These were the broads who asked for directions to Phoenix Landing, and around the point where my chronology gets hazy because I’m not sure if Porter and Evelyn showed up before or after this point, but I do remember they were the last to leave which is really all that matters.

Around midnight-ish, I’d been there for about five hours and we’re guessing I’m at a two-per-hour clip (conservative estimate, fuckyouverymuch) then I’m about 10 beers and $50 in, minus the beers I bought for other people and the $2.50 for the Sprite*. I get up to use the can and when I get back Porter and Eve are talking to each other as people who live together are wont to do, or so I’m told, and some dude is sitting on my stool. And yeah, it is my stool. I’ve spent the past five hours farting into it and pounding beers atop it: it is my stool. But I’m having a good night so far, king of my little corner of the bar, so I politely say to the guy “Excuse me, you’re in my seat.” What I should’ve said was “Hey, fuckstick, get the fuck out” and given him the Stone Cold Stunner, but I opted for more Ghandi, less Kamala. So the kid gets up off the stool (which has my jacket on it and my beer in front of it, mind you) looks at me and then gives me the “Are you asking for it back?” No, asshat, I’m just making conversation. Please continue to rub your ass on my coat and stick your finger in my beer.

First of all, fuck this guy for sitting in my seat, on my jacket and within sipping distance of my brew. On a bad day that’s grounds for execution, but I was charitable and gave him a chance to scram. But dickhead wanted to act all tough because he was balding and had a small penis. Look, pal, not my problem. You deal with you bald impotence, I’m here to drink. So I look at the bastard and say, “No. I’m not asking,” and sit right the fuck down in my fucking stool. He, of course, did and said nothing. Fuck you, hot shot. So I went back to my drinking and indulged Evelyn in a game of “Okay, well what’s wrong with THAT girl?” Surprisingly, the game went on for a good thirty minutes until she finally said, “Okay fine. Well what about that girl standing by the end of the bar?”

The girl at the end of the bar? Amy. Nah, I’m fucking with you. That’d have been a great story though, right? It was Kelly, though. So I said, “Alright, no problem,” and walked over like I was hot shit, gave Kelly a hug, and pointed back and Porter and Eve. They left while I was talking to Kelly, and before I met Big Sexy – an enormous black man in a pimp fedora that was absolutely the coolest fucker ever – and probably somewhere around the time Kelly stone-walled the Guido in the motorcycle jacket. I ended up kicking it there until about 4am, learning secret handshakes with Kelly and Big Sexy, before finally calling it a night.

Good times, though Saturday was kind of a “had to be there” story, wasn’t it? Probably should’ve mentioned that about a thousand words ago, huh?

Everything I know about “peace”, I learned from Dominican baseball players,
{VM}

* Actually that got comped. Some Euro-Trash stiffed Patrick on the tip so I offered to pay $10 for my next Bud. Classy kid that he is, Pat wouldn’t take it and comped the Sprite that I was embarrassed to even order. I actually asked what booze they wanted in the Sprite. I mean, seriously, Sprite?!

Cautiously Pessimistic

So first I think I owe an apology to Will, who insisted that I rub Kelly’s stomach at my earliest convenience. Well I saw Kelly twice this weekend but didn’t remember to molest her midsection. To be fair I knew I was supposed to do something creepy to her, but I figure I accomplished that through the normal course of conversation. So to make up for that I said I would write about my weekend and specifically about my time at my second home* with someone who looked decidedly unlike the Emperor**.

Friday night I went out to People’s – which reminds me, their website needs more bells and whistles… maybe a blog? – where I sat in the corner like the alcoholic trainee that I am and watched the Celtics lose to the Phoenix Suns with some dude named Chris from Arizona. I was there early drinking up some confidence while I waited for Amy to show up. You remember Amy, right? Cute blonde girl. Like’s metal. Somehow got me to dance like an asshole and (even more baffling) answered my phone calls afterwards. Well I finally manned up and asked her out for a drink. Creative and imaginative bastard that I am, we settled on going back to the scene of the crime.

Brief tangent: it was brought to my attention that despite spending an incredible amount of time in Cambridge, I rarely (if ever) leave the Republik. Never been to Plough and Stars, never been to Phoenix Landing, or River Gods. I’ve been to both versions of the Middle East (I prefer Upstairs because they have Tullamore Dew and they hide it from the feebs that don’t know about it), and TT & the Bear’s to see Kay Hanley, who is probably my biggest MILF crush. I gave someone directions to Phoenix Landing and when they asked about how it is, I said I’d never been which confused them but I’m not in the business of enlightenment; just directions, sugar.

So I’m watching the C’s and drinking my Bud Heavy when Kelly shows up. Kelly – who was formerly perfect in every way until we discovered she’s a Yankees fan – gets a lot of credit in my book for recognizing me, because I’m a kind of generic-looking kinda guy and if I’m not with the Emperor I can blend in with a crowd. Granted, she’s been tacitly tolerating my existence for a long enough time that I feel comfortable using the F-word*** with her, but I also have a rotating system of hats and facial hair that makes me the man of 1,000 (generic) faces. So anyway, Kelly comes up gives me a hug and asks to talk about the universe with her. Normally I’d spend my night buying her beers, leering, and arguing string theory but normally I’m not gonna run into ANOTHER blonde girl who is willing to spend her time in my presence. So I says to Kelly: “Listen, baby, I ain’t no master conversationalist and this girl expects me pretend I’m charming and interesting for hours, literally hours, and I don’t have enough in the tank to satisfy both of you intellectually.” At least that’s how it went in my mind, in reality I talked to Kelly until Amy showed up which makes me look like a dink, but hey let’s keep their expectations low, right?

Luckily they both have better memories than I do and recognized each other, said their hellos, and only in my mind was there a cat-fight for my company. So I pretend to be charming and intelligent with moderate success while Amy tolerated my presence and amused herself by pouring Corona into my Bud and watching me struggle to force it down, because dogs gotta eat and boys gotta drink. It went as well as these things are supposed to go – I think. I didn’t get my kiss goodnight, but as Kelly would say later you don’t want a girl who kisses that quickly. Obviously she doesn’t know me very well; I’m out of shape and even when I wasn’t, I was never good at the chase. So I walked her to her car, made plans for Saturday (which got nixed) and went back inside to talk shop with McFee.

Of course, while I’m talking to The Big Guy some chick with one of those 80s off-the-shoulder shirts comes right the fuck up with her entourage in tow and just hands McFee her number. Just. Like. That. The chicks leave and he looks over at me and catches my “Motherfucker, what the fuck?!” look and goes “That does not happen.” To which I respond, “Shut up, you Lou Ferrigno-looking motherfucker with that ‘this doesn’t happen’ bullshit.” It’s a good thing he’s got a good sense of humor and is a gentle giant, because he could easily rip my sternum off.

Long story short: I’m cautiously pessimistic about this whole Chasing Amy situation, so we’ll see what happens. Kelly at least seemed impressed so if worse comes to worst at least I’ll have a shoulder to cry on. And a stomach to rub.

Peace,
{VM}

PS. Saw Porter, Evelyn, Bonnie and Kentes (and the People’s People) on Saturday. I’ll write about that tomorrow.

* My first home being a hotel in Connecticut and my third home being the place where I sleep alone and they mail my bills.
** Feel better, homie.
*** Friend. I say ‘fuck’ in front of my own mother (but not grandma, she’d whoop my ass).

Fine. This One Is About Cougars

Some of you got all pissy because I didn’t talk enough about cougars. And Bonnie said I was the only person that could make a cougar attack sound boring (I think she’s confused as to what type of cougar I’m talking about it), so here’s the explanation of the cougar story…

But first – and this is my real reason for writing this besides the fact that, fuck me, its 9:23 in the morning and I’m stuck in this goddamn cubicle AGAIN – does anyone else get the ads on Facebook to meet Christian singles? Facebook, I’m pretty sure, uses Google to generate their ads so they’re supposed to be tailored to you specifically. Obviously I’m listed on Facebook as single because 1. I am single and 2. I don’t care. So I get a lot of ads like “23 and Single?” or “Hey, Desperate Lonely Fat-Ass, here’s a picture of a chick you’ll never meet” or “Seek Help: Alcohol Addiction” and those are understandable given my age, physical appearance and vices. But my religious affiliation is not listed on The Facebook, so I have to just assume that either 1. Mark Zuckerberg is stalking me or the less likely 2. Facebook is taking a shot in the dark since 90%+ of Americans consider themselves Christian.

Anyways, like most of my generation I consciously ignore the ads and let them subconsciously mold every manner of my existence until I am the perfect consumer. And I’d be happy continuing to ignore them until she appeared…

"Boyfriend Wanted"? Sign me up, coach.

Let’s ignore the fact that she’s probably a Bible-thumping Jesus-freak, and also ignore the fact that there’s something vaguely hypocritical about a good Christian girl showing more cleavage than a Dolly Parton tribute and focus on someone finding out who in the blue Buddhist hell this girl is, tout fucking suite. Long story short, the things I would do to this girl on top of a stack of Bibles would make Sodom and Gomorrah look like Vatican City. Go, my minions. Search through the Intertubes and find me my future ex-wife.

Oh yeah, cougars.

So I went out to dinner with some people from work and spilled beer on my pants, which caused my co-workers to laugh until the point of guilt wherein they bought me a Jack and Coke. Now I don’t usually drink Jack and Coke, but I also don’t usually sit in a puddle of Miller Lite either so when in Rome… I get back to the hotel and change into some clean clothes and head to the hotel bar and have a few drinks with some other people from work. Our project is so large at this point, you can’t go anywhere in CT without running into someone from the team. Anyway, so there’s always a motley crue of barflies of a generally older variety there but on this specific night the resident cougar (Betty) was being outclassed in Cougarocity by the upstart rookie (Tammy). Tammy had a gaggle of balding dudes in sports coats hanging around and her, leading them on. But what was really weird was that she’d keep looking back and staring at me*. So I point it out to my buddy Dave and wouldn’t you know it, Tammy comes waltzing (see: stumbling) over to talk to us. A few drinks and a lot of personal space invasion later, last call at the hotel bar has come and gone. But last call at the Marriott is at midnight, so no one is quite ready to call it a night.

How or why we decided to go to the other bar is irrelevant (probably because it was my idea), but we get in the Malibu and drive over there with Tammy in the backseat. Dave told her she should sit back and buckle in, but if she did that she couldn’t be nibbling on my ear. She should’ve listened to Dave’s advice because I took a hard left and sent her flying across the backseat in a moment that will live in hilarity to quote FDR. We get to the other bar and like all drunk older women, she transforms into a petulant five year old: “I wanna play darts.” Good idea. Because really what I want to do right now is arm you with sharp metal projectiles; what am I retarded? Well yes, I’m retarded. So we played a round of darts which became increasingly difficult for Dave as he was being molested while trying to throw.

So I won the darts game – naturally – and we ended up at the bar and who shows up but Betty with the hotel bar staff in tow. And who gets the seat between the two cougars? Yep… Captain Vin. I forget how their little argument got started but I just remember being caught in the middle of a leopard print and silicon sandwich praying to the God of Christian Singles to get the hell out of there. Eventually it subsided with Tammy focusing her attention back on Dave and Betty (and the glock she keeps in her purse) between me and the cute Eastern European girl that works the Marriott bar. So I look over toward Dave for the cue to leave and Tammy catches my “let’s get the fuck out of this Tim Burton-level-of-fucked-up nightmare” look and hiccups her way through some snide mumbling about me wanting to leave or being jealous or something. To which I respond in my best Clark Gable: “Frankly, my dear, I couldn’t give a fuck.”

So she tried to turn her attention back to Dave but he was too busy laughing his ass off to really care, and I turned my attention back to the bartender who looked like Caity the Red Bull Girl with the same smile that made me fall for the original Caity. Connecticut Caity’s name is Sam, and she might be only the chick in the whole state that is tolerable for more than five minutes. Of course, I didn’t get to test that theory because last call there was at 1am. So I bid adieu to the Red Bull and Jager Girl, put the cougar in the cage and drove back to the hotel. Dave managed to escape with his life and only a few claw scratches and I passed out in the handicap room that they gave me this week because they lost my Platinum status number.

Now let’s never speak of this again.

Cougar bait,
{VM}

*To be fair she was probably so drunk she was probably like “Hey, why are those triplets all dressed the same? Oh, the middle one is kinda cute.”

Even A Broken Clock

I made one of the biggest mistakes of my life today. I ate lunch at 11:30 in the morning. I’m not a breakfast guy. Most of you feebs can’t deal with life without some coffee and eggs or some such nonsense, but for me I don’t even want to think of anything remotely solid to eat before noon. It’s probably part of the reason my metabolism has essentially shut down and I’ve become a fat slob but this isn’t about my fat ass or the fact that your mom likes being spanked; this is about my shitty lunch and how it ruined my day.

Right now its 8:30 at night, which is to say it’s 3:30 in the afternoon. I ate lunch 4 hours ago, which roughly how many hours it screwed up my internal clock. Apparently a fifteen minute deviation from my “routine” results in a one hour drag in my brain. I feel like I’ve been here 5 hours longer than I actually have and this has been going on ever since I got back from lunch (around noon, because I get a shitty short lunch). I realize this is interesting to no one. It’s not even interesting to me, but I’m trying to kill some time until the real world catches up with my brain and I got nothing else to talk about. Sure, I could talk about being  cougar bait at the hotel bar last night and the two women that were yelling and fighting over me and my buddy Dave, but who wants to hear saggy tits and leopard print?

I could talk about how I only packed one pair of dress pants this week – because I’m only here for two days and Friday morning and brown’s a versatile color so fuck it, right? – and then spilled beer all over them at the Japanese restaurant and had a twenty minute discussion over whether or not I should wear them tomorrow or just cut out my own larynx with the chopsticks.

Truth is, none of it is particularly interesting. My hope was that by starting to write about uninteresting things, something interesting would pop into my brain pan, but no such luck.

Detoxification Station

Working from home has two distinct benefits:

1. I’m not in Connecticut
2. I get to listen to “Those Monday Blues” on WWPV in Vermont via webcast.

“Those Monday Blues” are hosted by avid reader and sometimes-commenter, John “One Chord” Connors who offered up several shout-outs to yours truly and one to the Dead Pool on the show tonight. That means very little to everyone else but for me it means a lot because I thought the only mention of The Dead Pool in other media would be on the TV news when I snapped and killed an office full of people with a Bates stapler. But I suppose that’s neither here nor there… time for a weekend recap.

Friday
Friday started with the trip home from Connecticut around noon, and the reminder from Kentes that Boondock Saints II: All Saints Day was opening that night. So Kenny and I and Kenny’s buddy Mike went to the Loews theater on the Common. If you haven’t seen it yet, and you’re expect the same movie as the first, you may or may not be disappointed. I did, and I wasn’t disappointed but it wasn’t what I expected. All Saints Day has a little more trouble than the first with deciding whether it wants to be an action movie or a comedy movie and ends up meandering somewhere in the middle as a pseudo-manifesto on the state of masculinity with Rocco making appearances to speak as of the voice of “men past”.  All in all, if you don’t expect an art-house movie and are in it for the jokes and the gunplay and the stone-cold fox by the name of Julie Benz (who remains hot despite her horrible and unnecessary Southern accent), you will enjoy this movie. Since Duffy actually spent some time learning about film-making between this film and the last, its a little steadier to watch and comes off less as Tarrantino and more as John Woo (early Woo, not like Mission Impossible 2-Woo) without the doves.

Anyways, after the movie we went to Bonnie’s friend Holly’s Halloween party. Yeah, it was a day earlier than Halloween, but whatever an excuse to drink is an excuse to drink. I had been all amped up for Halloween, because I had actually put a modicum (no more) into my costume this year, purchasing a Comedian costume. That was supposed to save me from having to scramble at the last minute for a costume. Yeah well, guess what didn’t fit? So fuck that time to scramble for a last minute costume. Goodbye, Comedian. Hello, The Spirit. For those of you who are unfamiliar with these characters, I switched from a murderous, rapist anti-hero to a sex-obsessed superhero. All told, probably a good call. Furthermore, it continued my pattern of Halloween costumes rotating between either my red flannel shirt or my black suit. I’m now on a five year run going suit-flannel-suit-flannel-suit. So ideas for next years flannel-based costume are welcome.

We got to Forest Hills and changed in the parking lot – always a bold decision at night – and entered Holly’s house to find Bonnie shitplastertrashfaced. She spent most of the night either clinging to my arm so as not to fall down – and then when she fell down, to my leg to ease the spinning – or vomiting. Not exactly the most eventful of parties for myself, but there were a weird group of fire-throwers there. Let me tell you, that is one sub-culture that just goes over the edge on the fucking crazy scale. Now I enjoy playing with dangerous things as much as the next hombre, but the weird secret-name, pseudo-bisexual, quasi-polygamist swerve they added to playing with fire was not up my alley. So I drank Miller Lites with the boys, wished there were prettier girls there, and crashed in on to kids trying to bump uglies because I was trying to check on Bonnie before I left. That was about it. Also, got some texts from the blonde girl that has been mentioned in at least three blogs (The Pool only being one) which was weird because I’d texted and called her earlier in the week to no avail, so I’d given up. Then outta the blue I get the “Hey” text*, which if you’re an overly analytical cat like me can mean a million different things. But there was nothing I could do because there was a drunk girl clinging to my leg and another one trying to molest me and I didn’t feel like driving into Back Bay.

Saturday
Saturday was Moosh’s Halloween party. I got there early, because fuck it why not? I had more than my $5 worth of beer and Jello-shots and probably got roofied a couple times so that was a blasty-blast. I went as The Spirit again, but decided I didn’t want to wear the mask so I didn’t. So I was basically a guy in a suit and a fedora and everyone seemed strangely comfortable with that. I made some new acquaintances by guessing costumes and being overly-friendly like I’m from the Midwest and don’t bleed from the ears I hear anyone say “Yummers!”. Wendy, Kelley and Catt ended up showing up at some point which meant I’d be driving them home in all likelihood. Works fine for me. I’d rather leave with people I’m not gonna sleep with than leave alone. At least I can give people the impression I’m taking three girls home with me and I’m some super-pimp. Speaking of being a super-pimp, I actually met another gorgeous girl at that party. She has a bad-ass name and apparently poses nude while people take pictures of her. Part-time, though. I instantly became regretful that I possessed no camera and had not spent my whole night talking to this girl, since I had found her attractive/interesting when we were both sober and I thought she was “just” an insurance broker. I ended up taking her home. By which I mean her roommate abandoned her and I offered to drive her home. I’m assuming she was initially like “No thanks. I don’t feel like being violated and/or lowering my standards THAT far tonight.” To which I probably responded, “Look, sugar, you’re wearing a four inch skirt, five-inch heels and have been walking up and down this staircase all night; you’re practically dating half the party at this point.” To which I’m sure she responded, “You’re funny and gorgeous. Take me home, stud.”

That or she gave me her number in the hopes of scoring a free ride and then blowing me off when she’s sober. Either way I dropped her off, went back, picked up the other girls and dropped them off before crashing at home.

Sunday
Went and saw Boondock Saints II for a second time. Enjoyed it much more. Watched the Bruins game and was thankful there wasn’t a football game I had to give a fuck about this week, so I could catch up on some reading, movies and detox.

I’ll be in Boston Monday night, driving down to CT for the rest of the week Tuesday after jury duty. Looking forward to that. And to the cube. And to getting blown off by two chicks this week instead of one.

Stay positive,
{VM}

* Technically it was “Yo”, which may be the first time I’ve ever been texted “yo” and it hasn’t been followed with “-yo out of my ass” and preceded by “Come help me get the”.