Pluto

The course of human history was completely changed the other day. I’m serious, the world as we know it today is completely different than it was yesterday and second graders and school administrators alike are scrambling to get their heads around these changes.

If you subscribe to Stephen Hawking’s teachings then you probably know that the universe is expanding. While this may be true, leading astronomers have recently made a decision that's shrinking our solar system. That’s right, Thursday, August 24th was a dark day in the history of the planet Pluto as it’s status as a planet in our solar system was officially downgraded to “planetoid” category. In baseball speak, that’s like being sent down to Triple A ball.

I just have one question:

WHO GIVES A FLYING FUCK???!!!!

I’m serious. This was main story news on CNN.com for pretty much the entire work day. You know what the headline should have read? It should have read:

“Scientists Reveal They Have Too Much Time on Their Hands”

I mean these are grown men who have dedicated their lives to studying Astrophysics, sitting in a room debating whether or not Pluto is actually large enough to constitute a plant or whether we should pull the “Indian giver” on Pluto’s planet title.

Will someone please explain to me how this changes anything? I mean, I’m sure that this decision is a huge blow to the psyche of Plutonians. I’m sure that psychiatrists on Pluto will start to charge higher rates due to increases in demand for their service. And no doubt there will be an influx of migration to Uranus. Go back and read that last sentence again.

Wait for it...wait...OK.

Sorry, I just had to soak up the moment because I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to tie in a reference to Uranus ever again...and yes, I know that Neptune is the closest planet to Pluto. I digress.

For me, this whole revelation made me think about what astronomers do when they aren’t meeting in Eastern Europe to discuss completely erroneous matters. Here’s a quick list of what I came up with:

• Play Magic the Gathering with interns and grad students
• Mail order brides from Asia
• Shop online for the fall line of pocket protectors
• Attend Star Trek conventions
• Masturbate to supernovas (nature’s version of “the money shot”)

Must’ve been a slow news day. Hey, given the alternative, I’ll take a planet downgrade on CNN any day of the week.

And then there were eight...

NYCDG

Chelsea and Ed

You know, the weirdest things happen when you go on a pub crawl in this city. In fact I think I’m going to start making pub crawls a fairly regular occurrence. I went out with some friends last Friday...hard.

We met up at Sutton Place around 3 PM to get the weekend started off with some happy hour cocktails. A few drinks and about two hours later we headed out to Peter Luger’s for some fat steaks and California wine. Yeah, I do it up right from time to time. Luger’s is just over the Williamsburgh Bridge and is the oldest and one of the best steak house’s in the city. Picture a German beer hall crossed with a place you might see some guys from Johnny Sack’s New York crew. Ironically enough the best part about Peter Luger’s isn’t the steak, it’s their homemade whipped cream they serve with dessert...which they affectionately call “Shlag” (pictured left). Seriously, I couldn’t make this up. It’s actually great stuff, although I couldn’t seem to shake the fact that I was eating something called Shlag. Does that make me a homo?

After Luger’s we headed back into the city to get serious about our Friday night shenanigans. I have a buddy that just moved into town from the west coast, so I decided to introduce him to NYC the right way, with a pub crawl through some of my favorite places in the West Village.

We started our little trip through The Village at this Mexican place with a great little bar and a shit load of tequila. After a couple of drinks, we realized that we were in the presence of greatness. None other than Chelsea Clinton was eating dinner with a few of her friends at that very Mexican restaurant. You remember Chelsea. That awkward girl with the frizzy hair, floral dress and braces standing next to the soon-to-be most powerful man in the world (who just happened to be her father) at the 1992 Democratic National Convention. Well, guess what? She’s grown up...and the last 14 years have been very kind to her. Granted I had been drinking for the past six hours at this point, but nonetheless, I used to be the first person to speak up when the “Chelsea is a dog” conversations started up back in college, but I have to admit, the Chelsea Clinton that I saw last week was very “dateable.” Let’s be honest, she’s smart (went to Stanford), rich, her parents are very progressive (well at least her adulterous father) and now she’s pretty good looking. Sign me up. The icing on the cake, of course, would be that you could tell all of your friends that you are banging the first daughter. Hell, that would completely destroy the NYC Summer Hook Up Fantasy Game as I would be given the coveted Golden Penis trophy and crowned Hook-Up King for life.

When Chelsea walked past me to go to the restroom, I briefly thought about getting the camera phone out and trying to snap a shot when she came back out. Then I thought about the twelve secret service dudes that would immediately jump on top of me and completely destroy my cell phone if I tried such a feat. I also remembered that I don’t subscribe to the phone insurance plan (which is the second biggest legalized scam in the country behind those grifters that try to sell you the extra insurance every time you rent a car. I’m covered you asshole...I already have insurance) and really didn’t want to go through the hassle of purchasing another cell phone over the weekend. Alas, there would be no blog picture of Ms. Clinton this time around. I choose my battles and that was not one I was willing to get into on a Friday night. There was booze to be drank and I was on a mission to drink it.

Then something really interesting happened. I met my own personal Blue. You know, the really old guy that dies from a heart attack K-Y Jelly wrestling with a couple of coeds in the movie Old School? Well last Friday night I met a guy named Ed that reminded me of him. I’m not going to name the bar I met him at, but if you look hard enough between Boxers and The Four-Faced liar on West 4th Street you’ll probably find Ed bellied up to a bar with a stiff cocktail in his hand.

Ed is this old, thin guy with a beard that’s as white as the winter snow in Central Park. A curious guy really, with a monotone and somewhat nasally voice. I sat next to him as the bartender poured my Jack and Coke and he immediately struck up a conversation with me.

Ed: Want to save my seat while I go outside for a smoke?

NYC Drunk Guy: Sure.

OK, so it wasn’t exactly like we were long lost friends, but when he returned from his smoke, he found a chair for me before taking his back. Nice guy.

Keep in mind that I was only sitting by Ed for one drink as we were on a pub crawl, so we had other places to go and other random people to meet. That said, in that one drink time frame, Ed proceeded to tell me all about his married life as well as his financial and credit history. Turns out that Ed is married to a woman who’s 20 years his junior and they have what he described as an “open relationship.” My interpretation of this was that she bangs whoever the fuck she wants and he puts up with it. I actually tried to get him to give me her cell phone number (half jokingly), but he wouldn’t. Shocker.

He then proceeds to tell me how hard he’s worked to get out of the $30,000 debt he was in ten years ago and how he now owns five houses in the New York area. Evidently the money is in buying lower income housing and selling them off when they appreciate...otherwise known as the Wal-Mart approach to real estate (yes, I did make that last part up). Nonetheless, Ed wasn’t shy about telling me about how important the idea of “net worth” is as opposed to what your salary is (I had him beat in that regard...I know you’re shocked). For those you dying to know, Ed is rapidly approaching a net worth of $1 million. Ladies, don’t all flock to West 4th Street at once. Ed is very faithful to his whore of a wife. You see “there’s a difference between love and sex.”

God I love old drunks...and pub crawls

Cheers,

NYCDG

P.S. Like my blog? If you want to be notified every time I update the site with a new post, enter your email address in the field to the right. No SPAM, just update notifications...I promise. If you can’t trust a drunk, who can you trust, right?

Confessions of a Drunk Guy

I’m writing this blog entry from my happy place. I’m drinking a $50 bottle of wine and smoking a Cuban cigar out on my balcony. You know why? Because I make good money and I can, that’s why. You see, this is where I come to relax, get away from the world and get my thoughts together.

I want to confess something. I mean, there’s something that you don’t know about me and I want to get it off my chest. Actually, there’s a lot that you don’t know about me (yet), but this is particularly big. I mean at our core, we’re all just the sum of all the little experiences that we’ve had, right? I’m on my way to being drunk, so if that doesn’t make any sense, I apologize.

So before I make my big confession to the world, I want to preface this with one statement: I’m not telling you this so that you feel sorry for me. That’s not my intention at all. In fact, it’s quite the opposite. I’ll be the first one to stand up and say that I’ve lived a very charmed life and I have no regrets...life is too short for that.

All right, so here goes. I’ve been engaged. Yes, yours truly, the NYC Drunk Guy was engaged. As recently as last year, in fact. I know what you’re thinking. Yeah, you fucked it up by getting drunk and nailing some bar skank one night. Actually, that couldn’t be further from the truth. Truth be told, I was completely in love with this girl. She had me...heart, soul and mind. I would have happily taken a bullet and given my life so that this woman could have lived one more day.

Great...so what was the problem. There was actually two problems: 1. My beloved fiancé wasn’t emotionally stable (read: she was divorced, still dealing with the repercussions from that relationship and subsequently, was also on meds) and 2. She didn’t like cold weather. So when I got an amazing job offer that was going to move me (and us) back to New York City (I was living in a - God forbid - southern state), she was less than excited about the idea...although all she said was that I should, “take the job because it’s a great opportunity.” You see, this job more than doubled my salary at the time and put my into a position to accelerate my career and provide a stable and very comfortable living for my future family. Essentially, I was looking at the job offer as a short term move that would benefit our family in the long run...she was looking at it like I was neglecting her affinity to warm weather. Nice, huh?

So there we were, two days before the movers came and she drops the bomb on me: “I can’t do the New York thing...I think we should break up.” Awesome. Funny, how you think that when someone commits to being engaged, spending the rest of their lives with you and then encourages you to take a job, that when you do, they decide to discontinue the relationship...because, “I wasn’t considering her feelings,” isn’t it? I’m not bitter or anything...really.

OK, so that’s it...that’s my story. Thanks for listening, I feel much better now. Like when you’ve been traveling for three days and you’ve had several large meals consisting of 20oz. steaks, Chinese food and burritos and you finally take that dump that’s been festering inside of you for the past 72 hours. Like a huge weight has been lifted off of me.

There’s a line from a Jimmy Buffet song where the old man that’s telling the story of his life says, “some of it’s magic and some of it’s tragic, but I’ve had a good life all the way.” The way I see it, that’s what living a perfect life is all about...there’s something innately human about dealing with the emotional lows and celebrating the emotional highs in life. Like the guy in Vanilla Sky says, “without the bitter [in life], you can’t appreciate the sweet.”

Tomorrow’s Friday...life’s good, go out and enjoy it.

Cheers,

NYCDG

Monday Morning

I think I have Pink Eye. I wish I was joking...I feel like I’m five years old all over again.

I woke up this morning and immediately realized that I could only open my left eye because my right eye was closed shut with midnight eye crusties. Happy fucking Monday, asshole.

After stumbling my way to the bathroom and taking my mandatory first-of-the-morning-one-hand-against-the-wall-to-keep-my-groggy ass-from-falling-over piss (although today I had to do this with only one eye...I felt like I was taking some fucked up version of a D.U.I. test), I realized that my right eye was more swollen than the face of a pubescent kid in jr. high school. Awesome. Let’s go check out WebMD and see what the symptoms for pink eye are...and how I can get rid of this shit. I quote:

Common symptoms of pinkeye are:

* Eye redness (hyperemia).
* Swollen, red eyelids.
* More tearing than usual.
* Feeling as if something is in the eye (foreign-body sensation or keratoconjunctivitis).
* An itching or burning feeling.
* Mild sensitivity to light (photophobia).
* Drainage from the eye.

It’s official, I’ve got Pink Eye. Sweet. I’m almost thirty fucking years old and I’ve got Pink Eye. By the way, what the fuck is keratoconjunctivitis? If I had a PhD, I wouldn't be on WebMD in the first place.

Cold compresses or warm compresses (whichever feels best) can be used. If an allergy is the problem, a cool compress may feel better. If the pinkeye is caused by an infection, a warm, moist compress may soothe your eye and help reduce redness and swelling.

OK. Sounds easy enough. Done and done. Wait, what’s this ? (reading on)

Do not attend day care or school or go to work until pinkeye has improved.

Well, I don’t have to worry about day care or school, but don’t attend work? Like I’m supposed to call my boss and tell him that I can’t come to work today because I have Pink Eye?! Fuck you. I can imagine how that conversation might go:

Drunk Guy: Yeah, hi David.

Boss: Hey Drunk Guy, what’s going on?

Drunk Guy: Well, I don’t think I should come to work today.

Boss: Yeah? Is everything all right? Are you feeling OK?

Drunk Guy: Yeah...well, I’m feeling OK, but you see...the thing is...well, I’ve got Pink Eye.

Boss: (laughing) No, seriously, is everything OK?

Drunk Guy: Um, yeah...I really do have Pink Eye.

Boss: (laughing harder) OK, well I’ll see you at the staff meeting at 9.

Drunk Guy: Yeah.

What a great way to start off the week. Is it Friday yet?

NYCDG

Times Square

I love Carmine’s. In fact, I think my love for this place is so intense I would say that it borders on the fringes of an obsession (what, me with an addictive personality?). If you know of something better than the chicken with lemon and butter, penne al la vodka or the shrimp Parmesan from Carmine’s then by all means, please let me know. There’s only one problem, I hate tourists and Carmine’s is on 44th between Broadway and 8th, right in the heart of Times Square...the tourist capital of the world. Yes, I know there’s also another Carmine’s on the Upper West Side, but quite honestly it’s a pain in the ass to trek all the way up there, so my friends and I generally suck it up and go to the one on 44th. In fact, I was there last Friday night.

[Random funny story of the night: the men’s restroom in Carmine’s has mouthwash dispensers that look like your typical soap dispensers. These mouthwash dispensers are directly left of the sink (where the soap in most restrooms usually is), while the soap is on the wall in front of the sink. So there I am drying off my hands getting ready to leave the restroom when this guy in his late thirties steps up to the sink and without hesitation takes two huge squirts of mouthwash into his hands and begins washing them. As I was leaving the restroom, I casually turned back and say, “that’s mouthwash, bro,” as I’m walking out of the door. The door shuts behind me and I hear a muffled voice exclaim “SHIT ” coming from the restroom I just exited. Meanwhile I have a smirk the size of George Washington Bridge running across my face as I walk down the stairs. My moment of Zen for the evening.]

Fast forward two hours, a bottle or so of wine and about two pounds of Italian food later, my friends and I are attempting to negotiate our way through Times Square. As we slowly work our way through the crowd (the approximate population of the state of Indiana), I begin to make a mental list of all of the reasons I hate Times Square. In abbreviated form with some of the expletives removed, here’s what was going on in my head:

Why the fuck are we walking through Times Square on a Friday night? Couldn’t we have just walked to 8th Ave and caught a cab? I hate Times Square. If I see one more person with an I (heart) NY shirt on, I’m going to flip my shit. It’s not like there’s one shirt here and one shirt there. No. They buy these shirts in packs...and wear them at the same time. Why don’t you cut out the middle man and just wear a shirt that says, “Look at me, I’m a fucking tourist!” When I die, I want to come back in my next life as the beneficiary of the person that has the copyright to those damn shirts. I can’t stand how slow these people walk. It’s like I’m in a heard of cows being marched to the slaughter.

“Hey kids, look at all the lights. Wow, that’s a tall building!”

Welcome to Manhattan asshole...now walk! Now that’s classic. An entire family wearing foamy Statue of Liberty head gear. Granted, I’ve never had a family, but if anyone ever sees me walking around with a green foam crown on my head, I give you express permission to shoot me in the face. There I’ve said it...it’s in writing, you’ll be completely indemnified.

Almost out of this hell hole, just a few more blocks. Jesus, there goes another women dressed up in a former bride’s maid dress. OK, yes this is Manhattan. Yes, we dress up when we go out, but you know what? We don’t wear clothes from our cousin’s wedding three years ago. Just because no one in this city was within 1,000 miles of the wedding, doesn’t make it all right to wear a lime green strapless dress with fluffy shit at the bottom. Will someone please tell this women she’s sticking out like a black guy at a Bat Mitzvah (or a white guy on 125th...whatever, insert your own racial joke here)?

Do you see what we have to deal with? Nothing against tourists...hell, nothing against Times Square either, it’s just this collective (and I think subconscious) feeling of every New Yorker that tourist collectively congregate in Times Square after the sun goes down. You know what? We live in a great city and there’s a lot of great restaurants and bars in other parts of the city. So do yourself a favor, take that damn foamy crown off of your head, nix the bride’s maid dress and go out there and explore the “real” New York for a change.

Cheers,

NYCDG

A.A.

The other day I received this email from an actual reader that goes by the screen name “Funbuns” (insert your own joke here):

“I would suggest an AA meeting my dear...apparently you post the fact you are drunk every night. Get help.”
- Funbuns

OK, this wasn’t the exact email, I had to edit it for spelling and punctuation, but you get the point. By the way, what kind of screen name is Funbuns? I can’t seem to decide if I think she’s 8 years old or some gay dude from Chelsea.

Anyway, after I got past the fact that this person has no sense of humor, I began to really think about her words of advice. Please don’t be worried, I wasn’t taking her seriously. I subscribe to the idea that a drunk likes to drink, an alcoholic needs to drink. I choose my lifestyle, my lifestyle does not dictate me...but I digress.

What I started to think about was what would life be like if I didn’t go out and tie one on every now and then. So I sat down and listed all of the things I do better when I’m drunk than I am when I’m sober. Here’s what I came up with:

• Sing

• Dance

• Speak my mind (read: lose inner monologue)

• Play Golden Tee

• Have interesting conversations with total strangers

• Send ill advised emails from my Blackberry at 3:30 in the morning

• Cope with overly crowded bars, douche bags and Jersey sluts

• Gamble

• Eat pizza

• Hit on women that are way out of my league

• Hit on women that aren’t even in the minor league system of my league

• Find places to piss in public out of everyone’s (read: most people’s) sight

• Bowl

• Play Beer Pong

• Pound Jager Bombs

• Find ugly women attractive

• Write this blog

Yes, without sweet, sweet alcohol running through my veins I would never have started this blog. What would my thousands of readers do at work all day long if not read about my drunken experiences? Actually work? God forbid. Just remember, I’m doing this for you guys.

Say what you will about me and my drinking habits, but my philosophy is this: life is a series of celebrations with brief periods of sleep and work peppered in between...drink accordingly.

Cheers,

NYCDG

Bathroom Talk

OK, I’ve had it. For the third day in a row I’ve been in the men’s room where a mystery man in one of the occupied stalls picks up his cell phone and starts talking while take a shit. Are you serious? Who does this in a public restroom? I’ve never, in the history of owning a cell phone, had a call so important that it couldn’t wait five minutes for me to wipe my ass and call them back. I mean, if the conversations had gone something like this I could understand:

Mystery shitter: “Hello.”

Three second pause

Mystery shitter: “She’s where?!?”

Two second pause

Mystery shitter: “In the emergency room!”

Three second pause

Mystery shitter: “They’re operating! Holy shit, I’ll be there in 20 minutes!”

See, that would be understandable. You get a pass, buddy. Sounds like a life and death situation...you’re allowed to talk on the can.

This, however, was not the case. The conversation I heard this afternoon as my turkey sandwich and Baked Lays from lunch were setting in, went something like this:

Mystery shitter: “Hello.”

Pause

Mystery shitter: “No, I’m not busy.”

NYC Drunk Guy (inner monologue): Hey asshole, there’s someone in the stall next to you. I am busy!

Mystery shitter: “Yeah, I did catch that Mets game the other day. I can’t believe they swept the Braves in Atlanta. This is our year, man.”

NYC Drunk Guy (inner monologue): Christ, he’s talking about the Mets while he’s taking a dump?? [pause] Actually, that’s rather fitting.

Mystery shitter: “Naw, I didn’t end up hooking up with that girl the other night at the bar, she was a B&T skank anyway.”

NYC Drunk Guy (inner monologue): This is the first time in my life I wish I had a case of ass-bomb diarrhea (sidebar: you know, the kind when your ass just explodes and you feel as if the movement that just happened in your bowels was reminiscent of the exact moment the universe was created. This is usually brought on by excessive beer drinking the night before, which is why I lovingly call it “Morning Mud.”).

Mystery shitter: “Yeah, I’m definitely down to hit a little happy hour tonight. I’ll be getting off work around six, I’ll give you a call. See ya.”

NYC Drunk Guy (inner monologue): Actually, I wish I’d had Chinese food for lunch instead of a sandwich.

So after he finishes his conversation, we’re both at a point where we’re done with our “business.” This is the worst. There’s nothing more awkward than the walk of shame from the stall to the sink when there’s someone else in the restroom. On one hand you’re kind of proud of the damage you’ve done in the men’s room, but on the other hand, you don’t want to announce it to the world. I decide to delay my exit and proceed to pull out my Blackberry and start to write this blog entry...

...OK, fair point, I guess that makes me a mystery shit blogger. What are you going to do?

NYCDG