High Fidelity

“I seem to recognize your face, haunting familiar yet, I can’t seem to place it. Cannot find the candle of thought to light your name. Lifetimes are catching up with me…Hearts and thoughts they fade, fade away.” -Pearl Jam

I’m somewhat of a closet John Cusack fan. Actually, I can’t think of one of his movies that I haven’t seen. So excuse me when I say that I’ve felt that the last week of my life has been quite similar to Cusack’s movie High Fidelity. Indulge me for a moment.

I went home for the entire week of Thanksgiving and even if I told you where “home” is, you wouldn’t know it, although I’m sure you understand where I’m coming from. Like many people I’ve met in New York, I was raised in small town America – for the purposes of this blog, I’ll call it Smallville. Let me describe Smallville for you. There are only two high schools in the entire town and growing up the idea of a “rager” was driving out in the country, setting up shop by the city dump and drinking beer. The cow population in my home county outnumbers the human population by about a 2 to 1 margin and the local idea of “pimping your ride” consist of raising or lowering one’s pickup truck and adding a gun rack. I’m not kidding, this is the environment in which I was raised.

Every so often I’ll get an e-mail from an ex-girlfriend, just to check in and see how I’m doing. In fact, over the past month I received an e-mail from two exes that still live in my hometown. One was an ex from high school (the captain of the cheerleading team for my rival high school)-Danielle- and the other was a more recent ex from a few years ago when we tried to pull off a long distance relationship-Heather (now my idea of a long distance relationship is dating a girl that lives in Queens). Since I was going to be home for an entire week, I suggested we get together for some coffee when I was in town (Smallville just got their first Starbucks a few years ago).

Unfortunately, I was only able to catch up with Heather, as Danielle was too busy drinking beer in the country. I wish I was joking. Nevertheless, Heather and I met up on Tuesday evening at the local Starbucks for a chat over a latte. We hadn’t been together five minutes when I realized that I felt like I was John Cusack’s character in High Fidelity. Remember how he gets together with exes after a few years only to discover they are in the same place they were before and realize how he has moved on and grown into a better person for it? That’s exactly how I felt. Here is this person in front of me that I used to have pretty significant feelings for telling me how “boring” her life is in Smallville. She goes to work, hangs out with her roommate, watches her TV shows and that’s about it. She says she has dated occasionally, but that it’s very hard to meet new people in a small town. You see, making it to 30 without being married in my hometown is like a death sentence. Most of the people that I went to high school with that still live in Smallville are married and have several kids. In fact, I ran into a girl that I went to high school with at a local Mexican restaurant…she was there with her husband and their three children. I did my best to avoid eye contact, which, if I hadn’t would have lead to a very awkward conversation. I deliberately try to avoid people when I go home because I don’t understand the world they are living in and they certainly have no idea about mine. Many of them haven’t received a college degree, much less visited New York City. What do we really have in common? I’m not passing judgment one way or the other, but I just can’t imagine living in the same town, hanging out with the same people, doing the same things year after year after year. Life is too short and there are too many things to see in the world to fall into a rut at such an early age.

So Heather and I talked for about an hour and a half. She told me about how her family was doing, how her roommate still hasn’t figured out that the toilet paper should be placed on the roller so that the paper comes out over the top of the roll and how she can’t stand when the paper towels aren’t ripped perfectly down the perforation. I told her about my new job and recent promotion, the places that I’ve traveled in the past year and about my favorite restaurants in New York City. Yes, it was quite apparent how things have changed, how I’ve moved on and much like Cusack’s character in High Fidelity, I reaffirmed that the world I have built for myself is the world that I want to live in…that and the fact that Heather has since added 20lbs to her former size zero frame. I guess some things do change in a small town.

Cheers,

NYCDG

Vegas Baby, Vegas (Part II)

If Thursday night in Vegas was crazy, Friday night was what I would call “krunk.” Every so often, I do it up right. Food, wine, dessert, liquor, lounges, cigars, bars, clubs…pass out. And when I have one of those evenings, I like to kick it off with a great steak and a good bottle of California Cabernet, it just sets the right tone for the evening. After a full day of meetings, I was able to catch up on some sleep in the evening before our dinner reservations at the SW Steakhouse at the Wynn. While the steak was very good, it wasn’t in my top five filet’s of all time…definitely in the top 10 though. [In case you’re curious my top 5 filet list (in order) is as follows: Flemming’s - Houston, TX, Del Frico’s – NYC, Craftsteak – NYC, The Hitching Post – Buelton, CA (yes, the one in Sideways), and Manuel’s – Orlando, FL]. By the way, they sat our party of eight next to Magic Johnson and Cookie. It was kind of cool seeing Magic, even though he was directly responsible for contributing to roughly half of my traumatic memories as a child (yes, I am a Celtics fan).

After dinner, the plan was to head back to The Palms where we were going to start the evening at Ghost Bar, hit the club “Rain,” and take it from there. That’s when I get the following text message from a co-worker of mine:

“We have a table and two bottles of vodka @ Light @ Bellagio. Please come by b/c we can’t possibly drink it all. We are right by the dance floor. Show your business card to the host at the door and you’re set.”

Um, OK…twist my arm. Jump in a cab and 10 minutes later we’re at Bellagio’s trendy, albeit slightly pretentious club. Long line to get in? What line? Here’s the business card. “Good evening Mr. Drunk Guy, I’ll be your host tonight, please let me know if you need anything. I’ll show you to your table.” That’s right, bitch, you’ll show me to my table

After a short escalator ride upstairs, we’re taken to a booth directly next to the DJ and the dance floor. I see my friend with her boyfriend and a couple of girls…already drunk and dancing their asses off to Dr. Dre’s “California Love”. At the table are two comped bottles of Grey Goose, four mixers, an assortment of cut lemon and lime wedges a bucket of ice, and a short Asian waitress with fake boobs that are way too big for her tiny frame. Sometimes life just doesn’t suck. Game on.

You know that feeling you get when you’re just having a perfect day? This is very much what was going on with me last night. I had a great dinner with good friends and now we were getting the V.I.P. treatment at one of the hottest clubs in Vegas. Of course this kind of evening always lends itself to copious alcohol consumption and last night was no exception. OK, I’ll be honest, we were drinking our faces off.

My co-worker’s boyfriend ends up getting sick and spewing on the floor next to the table about an hour after we arrived. Nice one, amateur. They are cashed, their friends are out too…later geeks, more booze for me. And then there were six.

One thing about me that most people are surprised to find out is that I love getting my dance on. I’m actually one of the few white boys that can keep a rhythm. Natalie told me that once when I was freaking her.

[Sidebar: by the way, do you even remember Natalie? The dancer turned pop singer that had like one big hit a couple of years ago and then faded into obscurity? I’m friends with her. There’s your random Drunk Guy fact for the day.]

That said, I’m not a big “club guy.” I’m not opposed to going to clubs, but I just don’t very often because I hate dealing with all the bullshit that comes with the club scene; namely, long lines, $50 covers, over-priced drinks, and douchebags with attitudes. Last night was obviously the exception to that because I only had to deal with one of the above…unfortunately, douchebags are everywhere.

So the night is moving along, I’m on a good 6 or 7 vodka-cranberries (not to mention all the wine I had at dinner) and turning the dance floor out with a few of my co-workers. Suddenly, Greg (the guy trying to pick up the hooker from the night before) grabs my arm, swings me around and sets me face to face with this thin, 5’10 brunette girl named Stacy…or Lacy or Macy or Gracie…I really couldn’t tell because the damned music was too loud. No sooner than I say hello, does “Stacy” have her tongue down my throat and is freaking the hell out of me on the dance floor, “it’s nice to meet you too.”

My first thought is, “sweet, welcome to Vegas,” then I start thinking that one of two things is going on here; either (1) Greg’s picked up another hooker and this happens to be her “friend” or (2) these girls are legit and Greg is just trying to have me distract Lacy, so he can hook up with her friend.

Then it hits me, why has Greg so “graciously” set me up with this particular girl instead of her friend (I still analyze everything, even when I’m hammered)? So I pull back from the freak I’m getting on with this girl so I can get a good look at her. It’s at this point that I realize that Gracie could have very well been related to the 1950’s TV star “Mr. Ed.” Yeah, she was quite horsy in the face or as I like to say: she had a great body and the face to protect it. Thanks Greg, you scumbag.

I quickly let Stacy know that I need to use the restroom and that “I’ll be right back.” Riiiiiight. I head straight back to the table for another drink.

As 4:00 AM approaches the club starts to thin out, we decide to move on and grab a nightcap back to the lounge at the Wynn.

As I’m ordering a Macallen 12 with two ice cubes at the Wynn, a co-worker pulls out a cigar, hands it to me and says, “this stick goes for $100, one of my wife’s friends set me a box…enjoy.” Are you kidding me? Anyone that knows anything about cigars knows that you have to look pretty hard to find one that costs more than $30. I don’t know what made this stick worth a c-note, but it was fucking great, especially with a single malt Scotch. Actually, it was the perfect end to an evening of ridiculous exuberance.

I ended up rolling into my hotel at 7 o’clock in the morning; the sun rising over the big dessert sky accompanied me on my walk home. Yes, this is Las Vegas and this is most likely the reason why I missed my flight to L.A. this morning.

Cheers,

NYCDG

Vegas Baby, Vegas (Part I)

I’m an idiot. Actually, if that much wasn’t apparent by now then you are too. I’m sitting in McCarren Airport in Las Vegas where I will be waiting for the next three hours because I missed my flight to LA this morning. I should be watching the Ohio State-Michigan game at my buddy’s house on the beach in L.A. right now, instead I’m at a table in the middle of the airport watching what I can of the game from outside of a sports bar because (1) I’m too cheap to justify paying $10 for an airport beer and (2) the thought of consuming another ounce of booze right now absolutely disgusts me…probably because I consumed enough alcohol last night to kill a small elephant. You see, I’ve spent the last two days of my life in Las Vegas and if you’ve ever been here then you can probably sympathize with me right now. You know the feeling that comes over you about 45 minutes after you leave the oxygen-rich grounds of the casino coupled with the fact you’ve spent the last 48 hours pumping alcohol, tobacco and cholesterol-soaked foods into your body? That’s me right now and I want to shoot myself in the face.

That said, I’ve had a ridiculous trip to Vegas…let me explain.

I arrived in Sin City on Thursday just in time for the last afternoon session of the marketing conference I came here for. A few of my friends and co-workers were here already, so when the conference was over we were ready to go out for some drinks. My night started at the conference reception in the Palms. Mexican food and open bar, two of my favorite things. If there’s one thing I hate about living in New York City, it’s the fact that I can’t get decent Mexican food anywhere. I don’t care what you say, Puerto Ricans can not cook Mexican food…end of story.

So my friends and I spend the next three hours getting sufficiently liquored up before heading upstairs to Ghost Bar, the famous Palms hot spot which overlooks the Vegas Strip. Keep in mind that the company I work for happens to have some leverage in the hotel and entertainment industry, so we’re rolling V.I.P. where ever we go.

If you’ve never been to Ghost Bar then you’re doing yourself a great disservice. The bar sits on top of the 55 story Palms hotel and casino and since it’s a few blocks away from The Strip, at night you get the sickest view of Las Vegas, save the one from the top of the Stratosphere hotel. There really is nothing like drinking top shelf liquor and smoking a cigar from one of the outside lounge chairs at Ghost Bar. By the way, the last time I was here I missed Brittany Spears by two days…you remember, when she spent the evening at Ghost Bar and then went and got married to that dude she knew from high school. Who knows, I could have missed being the first Mr. Spears by 48 hours…se la vi.

As Ghost Bar was starting to clear out, such that the only people dancing on the dance floor were a 300 pound black woman dressed like she thought she was a size 6 and a drunk white dude that looked like he just stepped off the last flight from Toolburgh were the only people on the dance floor, it was time to move on.

We decided to end our evening at the new Wynn resort on the north part of The Strip. I had never been here before because the place opened up less than a year ago, but let me tell you there are more Philly’s in this place than the Preakness, Kentucky Derby and Bellmont Stakes combined…it’s like the Triple Crown for hoes. Unbelievable. Anyway, we’re sitting in the lounge, drinking some Scotch and smoking cigars when this girl sitting by herself at the bar keeps turning around and giving me the flirty smile and “fuck me” eyes. I’m thinking to myself, “I love West Coast women, they are always much more aggressive than their East Coast counterparts.” Keep in mind I’m with a couple of co-workers so I want to play this cool. A few minutes later these two guys come over and sit next to her; one of the guys looks like Pauly Shore and the other is old enough to be Pauly Shore’s father. Despite this interesting scene, she keeps looking over at me with that same “I want to rape you” look on her face and I’m thinking, “whatever” at this point, too oblivious to realize what’s really going on.

So my co-workers finish our cigars, pay the bill and start to walk out of this place. As we’re leaving, this bar girl quickly gets up and follows us out. She starts talking to my friend and I as we’re heading to catch a cab back to our hotel. That’s when this exchange occurred between my drunken buddy (whom I will call Greg) and this bar skank.

Skank: So where are you two heading tonight? [It’s 4:00 AM at this point, by the way]

Greg: Going back to our hotel, you want to come:

Skank: Maybe, are you looking for a good time?

Greg: I’m always looking for a good time.

NYC Drunk Guy (inner monologue): Of course. A hooker, I should have known…and my dumb ass buddy has no idea what’s going on. Should I save him or let him find out on his own? Fuck it, I want to see where this goes.

Skank: Great, where we going then?

Greg: How about back to my hotel room? You want some of this, right?

NYC Drunk Guy (inner monologue): Oh god.

Skank: Baby, you know I don’t fuck for free, right?

Greg: What? Wait a second, where are we again, Las Vegas ,right?

Skank: Yep, sure are.

Greg: Then can I get a comp?

Fucking hilarious. I actually didn’t hear how the rest of the night turned out for my friends, as I jumped into a cab and got the hell out of there. You know what? I really don’t want to know either.

The second part of this entry – my final night in Vegas…which was one of the most ridiculous evenings I’ve had in a long time - will be coming tomorrow.

Cheers,

NYCDG

You Say You Want a Resolution

Here’s a conversation I had with a female friend of mine over IM earlier this evening:

(Picking up in the middle of the conversation)

Friend: I had sex about a week ago

NYCDG: yeah, with who?

Friend: this guy I met at a bar

NYCDG: Nice. Random sex can be fun, but very awkward at times…especially in the morning.

Friend: yeah, tell me about it. All I wanted him to do was leave in the morning.

NYCDG: believe me, that’s probably all he wanted to do too. :)

Friend: thanks

NYCDG: np. So where did he jiz?

Friend: what kind of question is that?

NYCDG: an important one

Friend: If you must know, he came on my tits

NYCDG: nice one, buddy

Friend: I swear why are guys so obsessed with jizzing on things? Why can’t they just cum in the condom, that’s what it’s there for. I mean, I’m like “whatever,” but still…

NYCDG: resolution

Friend: what?

NYCDG: Guys like cumming on the female for resolution. Well, sort of.

Friend: bullshit. Guys like cumming on women because it’s degrading.

NYCDG: that couldn’t be further from the truth. Guys like cumming on women because that’s what porn stars do…and guys watch lots of porn.

Friend: porn stars to do it because it’s degrading to women.

NYCDG: false. Porn stars do it because the director tells them to do it

Friend: the director tells them to do it because it’s degrading to women.

NYCDG: also false. Directors tell porn stars to do it for resolution.

Friend: ?

NYCDG: as weak as it might be, porn movies still tell stories

Friend: yeah, of ugly sluts getting fucked in the ass

NYCDG: maybe, but it’s a story nonetheless…and all stories need resolutions. What kind of an ending would it be if the guy blew his load inside of her…or worse yet, shot it down her throat while she was blowing him?

Friend: I can’t believe we’re talking about this

NYCDG: think about it. An ending like that wouldn’t be sincere and could easily be faked. What god fearing guy is going to get his rocks off to some dude supposedly shooting his load? Guys are visual…we need to see what happens…enter the “money shot”

Friend: jesus

NYCDG: hey, it’s the truth…it’s all about resolution.

Friend: so if a guy wants to cum on me I should just let him because he’s visual and needs some resolution to the sex?

NYCDG: no, it’s probably because he’s a perv and wishes he was a porn star…but you should still let him

I thought you might like that.

Cheers,

NYCDG

Single Statistics

Guys I’ve got great news…no, it’s not that I’m off the market and your girlfriends are safe, but nice try. I learned something today that goes a long way in explaining why twenty and thirty-something year old women in Manhattan are perpetually frustrated with their dating situation and guys my age are walking around like they just banged two hot blondes that happen to be roommates – because they probably did.

I alluded to this fact in my last blog, so now it’s time for me to explain. You see guys, we’ve got numbers here. I’m not talking about the standard “52% female to 48% male” kind of numbers that the U.S. Census published a few years ago. No, I’m talking mad numbers. Let me explain. According to a recent local market New York City study, there are 79,000 single women between the ages of 25 and 34 years old in Manhattan, while there are only 68,000 single men. Yes, I realize that’s just shy of a 54% - 46% female to male ratio, but there’s one key factor that’s not accounted for in this study… gay men. Another study done by the University of Chicago a few years ago revealed that on average, 9.2% of men and 2.6% of females in major U.S. cities are gay.

Adjusting the previous numbers for the gay population gives you roughly 77,000 straight, single women to about 61,500 straight, single men, translating into a 56% female to 44% male ratio…a full 8 percentage point swing.

Maybe that doesn’t seem like a huge difference, but think about all of the women you know. All of those single females that you work with…they are all looking for guys and there are over 15,000 more of them than there are of us.

Still not impressed? Let me put this into context for you, picture standing in the middle of center court at Arthur Ashe Stadium. Now picture every fucking seat in the stadium filled with a single woman. Like the sound of that? Me too, that picture roughly represents the number of single women in NYC that do not have a single male counterpart. I’ll take that all day long.

Translation: Happy hunting out there guys. Ladies, if you find a good one, you better hold on to him…statistically, the odds are stacked against you.

Cheers,

NYCDG