White People are Crazy

Here I am again. It’s nearly 1:00 AM on a Thursday night and I’m on the subway heading home when these “people” enter the car at 42nd street and sit next to me. You’ve seen these people before, probably on the subway or walking around artsy (read: weird) areas like the East Village. You also might remember these types of people from cheesy 80s films about high school life. Back then I didn’t think these types of kids really existed outside of Hollywood’s fucked up view of reality...then I started living in New York City and I realized that I was wrong.

Anyway, I’m talking about the hardcore “alternative” people, some might call them “mods.” Not alternative like Eddie Vedder flannel and ripped jeans, I’m talking old school alternative like the 1980s, decked out in black, dark make-up, metal spikes and haircuts that look like a drunk guy took a weed whacker to their head. These guys looked like rejects from a Midnight Oil video.

Maybe it’s because I’m a little older now, maybe it’s because I’m a corporate whore or maybe it’s a combination of the two, but I can’t help but think what the fuck do these guys do for a living? To my surprise as I’m sitting next to them I realize that these punks are actually talking about “normal” thinks like iPods and shopping and shit like that. I then glanced over and noticed these two Mexican guys across from me talking their heads off in Spanish while gesturing and laughing in the direction of these freaks next to me. [By the way, they just got off the train at 14th street. No doubt they are headed to Brooklyn on the L...smart money is on Williamsburgh...it’s the new East Village, you know]

It’s at this point that the thought first occurred to me, “white people are crazy.” Think about this for a minute, when’s the last time you’ve seen a black, Asian or Hispanic person decked out like they were on their way to sit in the endzone of a Raiders game? You don’t, you know why? Because more times than not, their lives are hard enough. These people are working three or four jobs just to scrape up enough coin to make rent and feed their kids...with the occasional jaunt to the titty bar or Hypnotic purchase at the local liquor store - everyone has their vice.

So then why do you see these white freaks with their spiked leather garb, their multitude of piercings and tattoos and their semi-shaved (dyed) black hair? Because these mother fuckers were raised in a good home in the fucking suburbs by parents who loved them and wanted nothing more than to pay for their four year education at a private school in the Northeast. Yeah, my money’s on the fact that the majority of punks you see on the street aren’t like that because they had a hard life. Rather, I think it’s because their life was too easy and they feel like they have to make “bad” shit up to truly “understand” what the world is like. [Sidebar: I just noticed that I’m in subway car number 666...I’m not joking. That can’t be a good sign given the subject]

You know what I say? I say bullshit. Bull fucking shit. Listen mother fucker, are you so self-absorbed that you can’t look around and see all these people struggling to survive and you’re trying to rebel against your parents because they drive a Volvo and wouldn’t let you stay out later than midnight in high school? Fuck you. Get the fuck over yourself, grow some natural color hair, make up with your parents and stick that silver spoon so far up your ass that your teeth start to sparkle.

White people are crazy...and yes, I’m an angry drunk tonight.

NYCDG

P.S. for those readers that haven't actually taken the time to read my profile...I AM WHITE!

What do Scotch, Cigars, Tom Cruise and the Village People Have in Common?

You can find them all in the Meat Packing District...

It’s 4:17 in the morning and I’m more full of Scotch than Sean Connery’s wife. I have to admit it though, it was definitely worth it. I have some friends visiting from out of town and one of the guys really likes to drink...I mean really fucking booze. About 8 of us go out to dinner and a show (which will remain nameless as he’s got to apease his wife somehow...I mean we are going out drinking for the next six hours) and then really start to hit the sauce.

We start off at a place on 8th Ave. called Scruffy Duffy’s, which if you’ve never been, is a pretty good semi-dive bar near the (God forsaken) Port Authority. After several beers and a couple of rounds of Irish Car Bombs, we decided to head to one of the few remaining cigar bars in Manhattan - I love the “no smoking” laws in bars, except for the times when I really want t a stogey [Disclaimer: if you love a cigars and Scotch like I do, you really need to go to this place. By the way, it’s called Bar and Books].

So there we are, drinking some of the finest Scotch and smoking a few of the world’s best cigars (it’s good to live it up every now and then) when the next thing you know, it’s last call. Shit. Sometimes there comes a point in the evening when you feel no pain, like you can drink forever...this was one of those evenings.

[Sidebar: the award for the most random drunken conversations of the evening goes to my buddy from out of town and I. Around 3:00 AM the movie Top Gun comes up (don’t ask me how, it just did), when I make the claim that Iron Eagle was a much better movie. My very argumentative friend jumps all over this statement and the two of us start going at it. OK, I’ll cede the point that Top Gun was a much more successful movie, no doubt, the shear star power blew Iron Eagle out of the water. However, from a pure movie perspective, Top Gun can’t hold a candle to Iron Eagle. Think about it. In one sentence sum up to point of Top Gun. What was the problem that was presented in the movie that Tom Cruise’s character (“Pete Mitchell,” by the way) had to solve? Don’t know? That’s because it didn’t have one. There’s no fucking plot in Top Gun! No one ever realizes this because they are too mesmerized by Tom Cruise singing “You’ve Lost that Lovin’ Feeling” to Kelly McGillis. Iron Eagle, on the other hand, is the story of Doug Masters, a teenage boy who’s Air Force pilot father was taken hostage by some Middle Eastern rag heads and his plot to save him admits a far-fetched, but interesting storyline. It also had much...I mean MUCH better dog fight scenes than Top Gun. But I digress]


This particular bar happened to be in the Meat Packing District. Let me tell you, there’s a very real reason they call this part of town the “Meat Packing” district and it has nothing to do with placing New York Strip Steaks into cellophane wrappers. The fucking creatures you see in the Meat Packing District at 4AM are classic. Remember the children’s book “Where the Wild Things Are?” Well, I felt like I was walking through a real life version of that book. I have never seen so many prostitutes, transvestites and transvestite-prostitutes in my life. At one point while I was trying to catch a cab, I saw a 300lb black whore with a completely see through shirt (yeah I could see every detail of her monster tits) and an overweight, hairy white guy dressed up in a leather cop outfit like the dude from the Village People, within two seconds of each other. Hell, the guy might have been from the Village People for all I know.

The moral of the story? Scotch and cigars make for a very drunk evening and you can probably get your meat packed any way you like in the Meat Packing District.

NYCDG

Gay Dudes and Ballpark Disease

I went out last night with on of my best friends (and a group of his other friends) for his birthday. We go out to dinner, drinks and then head to a comedy club where we meet up with my friend’s brother and his brother’s, um,“boyfriend.” Whatever, I’m cool with all kinds of people, as long as you’re not French or Canadian...and god forbid if you’re French-Canadian, but that’s a topic for another blog post.

By the time the show is over we’d all had several cocktails and needed to hit the head before we left the club. So there I am standing in line to take a leak with my buddy and these two gay dudes whom I’d met for the first time no more than two hours ago, when I start to think about the dynamics of this situation. These guys are both dudes...they both fuck each other, but they are still both dudes. I can’t help but think of what kinds of issues this same situation would bring up if the roles were reversed.

Think about it. What would it be like for a straight guy to go to the bathroom with his girlfriend, which happened to be filled with other hot girls? Tell me you wouldn’t be tempted to look around, especially if something so small as a “splash guard” was the only thing between you and a hot blonde girl with big tits next to you.

Does this scenario ever bring up issues with gay guys? “Like, I totally saw you checking out that Cuban guy’s package while you were pissing. You like his Latin sausage better than mine, you little slut?” Shouldn’t the most feminine of the two in the gay partnership be allowed to go to the women’s restroom? Would anyone object to this? I mean they could help out the other females with their hair and make-up, they would probably compliment everyone’s shoes and they could even use some of their bathroom time to catch up on the latest episode of American Idol. I need to know these things.

This actually brings up another interesting topic, the idea of something I call “Ballpark Disease.” If you’re a female, you probably have no idea about this, but there are a significant number of guys that have a fear about pissing in a urinal. I’m not joking. Ladies, you may not realize it, but the number of guy’s that have this fear is so significant that I’d feel very confident in saying at one point in your life, you’ve probably dated a guy like this...hell, you might be dating one right now. How does that make you feel?

I actually have about five or six good guy friends that absolutely refuse to belly up and introduce Mr. Johnson to Miss Urinal Cakes. Unbelievable.

So the reason I call it “Ballpark Disease” is because at certain baseball parks around the country the urinals in the men’s room are actually one long, continuous trough mounted about two or three feet off of the floor and running along the wall. No dividers, no walls, no “plash guards. Just you and your “little friend” exposed to a room full of sweaty, drunk guys. Great picture, right? If you’re a dude that can’t normally piss in a regular urinal with something separating you from the next guy, the trough is your worst nightmare...thus Ballpark Disease.

What does this have to do with gay dudes in the bathroom? Nothing really, but if you’re a woman, who's wondering about how big the guy you're dating is, I’d suggest you find if he has Ballpark Disease. I'm not saying that there might be a correlations, but chances are if he's conscious about pissing around other dudes, he probably has some other self-confidence issues as well.

NYCDG

Women and Stereotypes

A friend of mine and I were talking yesterday over a few happy hour beers and the topic of women came up. I know, you’re shocked aren’t you? We started comparing notes on different types of women and it was interesting to find out that we had similar thoughts and experiences with each type.

It should also be noted that being the Gentile I am, I’ve never really considered myself a Jew-lover; however, my last two long-term girlfriends have been members of “The Tribe” (I guess I like being submissive, who knows). He, on the other hand, is Jewish and absolutely hates Jewish women. He can’t stand them...even the good looking ones with normal sized noses. His personal definition of hell is being stuck for the rest of his life with a Jewish girl that wears long jean shirts and Keds. He even went so far as to have his current (Gentile) girlfriend get rid of all the jean skirts she owns. I’m not joking.

Intrigued by our conversation, I decided to write down my personal take on various types of women. Keep in mind these are generalities based on my observations and experiences, but let’s be honest, there is a reason why generalities and stereotypes exist. More times than not, stereotypes accurately describe people. Do all black people like fried chicken and watermelon? Do all Asians drive foreign cars? Is every single white person incapable of holding a beat on the dance floor? No, no and no, but let’s just say the chances of those statements being true for any given black, Asian or white person are greater than the antithesis. So bear with me.

Blondes - Blondes have a party girl and porn star stigma associated with them; they know it, they take pride in it and they act accordingly. As such, they’re freaky, they’re shaved and they talk dirty. I’ve seriously heard things come out of a blonde’s mouth behind closed doors that would make Howard Stern blush. It also seems as if they tend to regulate themselves downstairs more than other girls, if you know what I mean (think George Costanza). I’m not exactly sure why this is, but I think it’s probably because blondes are more orally inclined than other types of girls...and where there’s a 6, there’s usually a 9 close by.

Brunettes - I love brunettes and they are freaking crazy in bed. I think it’s because subconsciously they feel they have something to prove. I mean, they don’t have the sexy stigma that blondes do or the novelty factor that comes with being an Asian or redheaded woman. Essentially brunettes are a dime a dozen and they need something to set them apart from their competition. This is where my MOP theory comes in to play. MOP is an acronym I coined (roughly five minutes ago) and stands for Most Orifices and Positions. This is pretty much self explanatory. If you want to get your pipes cleaned with a MOP, take a brunette home.

Asians - Two things about Asian women. (1) It’s really no joke, they have the most amazingly soft skin I have ever felt in my life and (2) they are very submissive and love...I mean LOVE to service their men in the sack. This translates to two things: BJs and doggy style. Maybe it’s a cultural thing, but who really cares? Fact of the matter is that you’re going to get served. Take the most independent, self-confident Asian woman and get her in the bedroom and she turns into the Vietnamese chick from Full Metal Jacket, “me so horny, me love you long time.”

Redheads - Maybe it’s the Irish in me, but I’m a sucker for a sexy redhead (who isn’t, right?) with fair skin, pink nipples and the curtains to make the drapes. Redheads are fun, but tend to be much more conventional in the sack, so expect more missionary and less doggy.

Jews - I saw a poster ad for the Broadway Play Jewtopia the other day. The sub-heading on the poster read, “The story of a Gentile that wanted to marry a Jewish girl, so he’d never have to make another decision the rest of this life.” This is true in and out of the bedroom. Jewish chicks tell you what they want, when and how they want it. You better bring your “A game” because if you don’t perform up to their standards you will hear about it. Hell, even if you do, they’ll probably find something to complain about. Don’t get me wrong, they’re tons of fun, but proceed with caution.

Catholics - Guilt can be a good thing sometimes and when it comes to sleeping with a Catholic women this especially holds true. Come their next confession they know they are going to have to say 1,000 “Hail Marys” anyway, so they are going to make them count. If you happen to be taking a Catholic girl home, have a lot of condoms and Gatorade on hand and be prepared for a long night.

Blacks - I’ve never been with a black woman before, but from what I hear, if I had I wouldn’t be wasting my time writing about white girls.

Hispanics - I think Hispanic women get a bad rap. I mean so what if they are a little slutty and tend to fuck more than their other female counter parts? Give them a break, they are working against the genetic clock. You know what I’m talking about. The genetic clock that Hispanics have which counts down to some undefined point in their late 20s or early 30s when their metabolism comes to a screeching halt and they blow up like a balloon. It’s unfortunate, but in many cases inevitable that the Hispanic chick you’re banging who is currently filled out in all the right places will one day look like a Latina version of Nell Carter. I say drive a Porsche like a Porsche was meant to be driven before you have kids and have to trade it in for a station wagon.

And on that note, I’m off to do some drinking. Enjoy the rest of your weekend.

NYCDG

Co-Worker Hook-Up Points

I got this e-mail from a reader the other night after he read my “NYC Hook-Up Fantasy Game” post. I liked it so I wanted to pass it along:

I tried to post a comment, but it said I'm not a team member. WTF!?!? I'm always a team player. I'm a utility team player. I can run wingman, I can run interference, I can be the coach, I can be the referee, and I can run the 2 minute drill. I'm a 5 tool team player. And per your blog about the hot co-worker... it sounded like you needed a coach to give you a pep talk and tell you to go for it. Come on Drunk Guy... it was her birthday. You would have done her a favor... don't be so selfish. By the way, I think points for a co-worker hook-up should be:

2 points - anyone that works for the same company.
3 points - Intern
4 points- your boss (assuming she’s female)
5 points - your boss' daughter--- which isn't a co-worker, but it would still be awesome. 5,000 points if the boss' daughter is Elisha Cuthbert (see Old School)

Thanks for the feedback. In my situation the co-worker would have only been worth the standard 2 points and given the post-sex awkwardness that’s inevitable after casual sex with a co-worker, I happily sacrificed the two points.

As for the rest of you, if you have comments, random questions or funny stories, send them to nycdrunkguy@gmail.com. I always enjoy hearing from readers.

Dude Looks Like a Lady

Hmmmmm, I’m trying to figure out how best to talk about this situation. First off, let me set the stage: it’s 2:34 AM and I’m fucked up. No joke. I am fucking hammered. OK, now that that’s behind us, let me tell you about my evening. After the Pearl Jam concert, which my buddies and I were tailgating at all afternoon, we went out in Hoboken to the bar formerly known as Miss Kitties. The bar still looks fairly the same and they still play the same great music, but now the place is a freakin’ sword fight, whereas it used to be a reputable hook-up joint. I’m serious, there was more sausage in that place tonight than a German gay bar during Oktoberfest. But I digress...

So there I am with two friends of mine and we are boozing...like seriously boozing. At one point in the evening I order a round of beers and three So-Co and Lime shots and the bartender - female, by the way (five points) - pours a shit-load of booze and lime into the shaker. She then proceeds to push the shaker and strainer across the bar saying, “there’s way more than three shots in there...have fun.” Fuckeneh! This happened again when I ordered the next round of beers and shots and the next thing you know we’ve had seven shots and four beers each in about an hour and half. OK, you get the point. We’re FUBAR’d.

So the shots start to do their business and as the beers keep flowing I start talking to this little blonde number. We’re kind of hitting it off and it’s late in the night so I’m thinking “sweet, I’m going to pull some ass tonight.” Then out of nowhere this thought pops into my head that I can’t seem to shake. Now, I’ve been to a lot of bars and talked to a lot of girls at bars, but I can honestly say that I have never had this thought enter my mind...ever. For whatever reason, I can’t seem to shake the idea that this hot little blonde girl used to be a man. Seriously, I’m not joking. It might have been the semi-defined jaw line or the voice that was a little horse-sounding, but let’s be honest, those characteristics aren’t that different than any other Jersey slut.

At the point I thought that I might be dealing with a post-op, we had already gotten comfortable (for the record, we had NOT kissed) and my hand was on her leg so I said fuck it and gave her the drunken “fly-by”...you know what I mean, the quintessential Crocodile Dundee hand to the crotch (although more subtle) and she completely checked out. Problem solved, right? Not so much.

At this point I’m telling myself that everything’s all good and that I should probably just go home with her. The problem is that I can’t shake the idea that this chick might have had a dick at one point in her life. I’m obsessed with this thought. I do a hand check - no man hands. I check for an Adam’s Apple - nothing. I even go so far as to run my hand across her face to check for whisker stubble - nada. So now I’m setting the odds of this girl being a post-op at about 100 to 1, but then again, I’ve never met a post-op and am by no means an expert in this field.

So what do I do? I get the fuck out of there, that’s what I do! As I’m leaving the bar with my friends they ask me what happened with the girl because they “thought I was money.” I told them about what was going on in my head and they completely dismissed my thoughts as if I was just being paranoid.

Let me tell you something about myself. I might be paranoid, I might even be a little crazy, but I’m sure as fucking hell not going to fuck a dude...or a girl that used to be a dude for that matter. I’ve got nothing again all those pillow-biters in Chelsea, but this door doesn’t swing that way. If that makes me crazy then dress me up like Elvis and call me Andy Kaufman.

After the last two weekends, don’t expect to see me in New Jersey anytime soon.

NYCDG

Hot at Work

OK, so I’m not quite sure how to handle this, but I’ll do the best I can in my 1:45AM drunken state. I went out tonight with this group of people from work to grab a few “end of the week” beverages. A few hours and several drinks later, the group had dwindled from five to just two: myself and another co-worker at the same organizational level. It’s her birthday tomorrow and so she had been hitting the sauce pretty hard...being that we were all buying her drinks.

Let me interject here by saying that I’m fairly new at this company and I’m still trying to get a feel for the people in my department as well as the people that report to me (yes, I have people under me on the organizational ladder...scary isn’t it?)

So there we are, just myself and this girl from work. She’s fairly attractive normally and very attractive after about eight Jack and Cokes...especially when we just stepped in to another bar to get away from the rain and her wet breasts are practically falling out of the shirt she’s wearing and she’s got this “fresh out of the shower” looking wet hair...but I digress. It’s getting pretty late and so we decided to close out our tab and head home (as I have a full day of barbequing and drinking ahead of me tomorrow before the Pearl Jam show).

So I’m walking her to her train - like the gentleman that I am - and all of a sudden this drunk co-worker of mine starts telling me about how “hot” I am and how she’s talked to several other women in the department (one of whom happens to be my report) and they also think I’m “hot” as well. Unbelievable. How the hell am I supposed to react to this?

[Sidebar: Anyone who knows me, knows that I try the best I can do delineate work and my social life. Don’t get me wrong, I go out boozing with people from work often, but I don’t (or at least try really hard not to) dip my pen in the company ink. I did that once at the last place I worked and wound up getting thrown into ths bizarre love triangle because the girl I was banging turned out to be a psycho, schizophrenic, pathological liar with a boyfriend (unbeknownst to me)...so I try to avoid those situations.]

It gets better. We finally arrive at her subway stop and she starts saying things like “this is your train too, right?” Then I realize that this drunken co-worker of mine is actually trying to trick me into going home with her and believe me, had I had a couple more drinks I probably would have. However, the sober half of those eight Jack and Cokes spoke to me and told me that I would regret that decision come the Monday morning staff meeting. So I gracefully bowed out, told her to have a safe trip home and got the hell out of there.

By the way, I don’t know where all of this restraint has come from, but in the last seven days I have passed up a hot (although annoying and badly dressed) Jersey slut and now I’m walking away from a co-worker whom I would have given the business to for the rest of the evening. Seriously, what’s wrong with me? Fuck.

How many “points” would a co-worker be worth anyway? I think two is about right. I mean there are numerous HR sensitivities that you have to negotiate before even getting to the point of hooking up. Then, once you have overcome the potential sexual harassment hurdles, you have to deal with the awkwardness of seeing that person on a daily basis. Actually now that I think of it, three points is probably more appropriate, but only if she works on your floor or is in your own department. Fuck.

The shitiest thing about how I decided to end my evening? I’m too far from Ben’s Pizza to even grab a slice before passing out. If you haven’t noticed, I only have two true loves in life, two things that will always be there for me no matter how fucked up things get: New York City and a late night slice. The rest is just details. Until next time...

NYCDG