Ramblings From a Drunk Guy in New York City

Subway Game Theory

2007-02-25T17:13:00.000-05:00

Have you ever been in an empty subway car? In a city where there’s seven million people sharing an area that’s roughly 1.5 miles wide by 11 miles long, having a completely empty subway car all to your self is a refreshing experience. You start to think things like “wow, if I split this car in thirds, I could charge 2 grand a month in rent and make a fucking killing. I can see the ads on the back of AM New York now – Prime Manhattan location, accessible to all areas of the city. Pets and homeless welcome.” I digress.

So there I was, on a Saturday evening all alone enjoying my empty C train when one other dude jumps on board, sits directly across from me…the doors shut and the train takes off. For a moment we glanced at each other before making the obligatory look away as if to say “oops, sorry, I didn’t mean to make eye contact with you.” Then it hit me, I’m trapped 50 feet underground in this subway car with a complete stranger that looks like he’s headed waaaaaaaaaay uptown and there’s essentially no way out. I look back at him again to size him up, just as he’s glancing at me as if he just had the same thought I did.

OK man, it might be ‘go time’, I think to myself. From what I can tell, I’m a little bit bigger than this guy and think that if push came to shove I could take him, but I’d be at a severe disadvantage if he were to make the first move. Should I make the first move and catch him off guard or should I take my changes that he won’t make a move on me? Shit. This is the classic Prisoner’s Dilemma situation…damn you John Nash!

Let me explain how my mind was working here.

My outcomes are on the top left of each box, the strangers outcome is on the bottom right. As you can see, if he moves first I get my ass kicked and he walks away at the next subway stop completely unscathed - no witnesses, no repercussions; if I move first, I kick his ass and get away safe and sound. On the other hand if we both move at the same time, we kick each other’s asses. However, each of our optimal outcomes is to not do anything…like Eazy-E said, “nobody moves, nobody gets hurt.”…and that’s exactly what I did...nothing. The trains stops at Spring, five other people get in the car and our dilemma is over. Safety in numbers. Good thing for him too because I would have beat his unsuspecting ass.

Cheer,

NYCDG

New Year's Resolution

2007-02-05T21:46:00.000-05:00

I’m back. Yes, after an unprecedented (gasp) month hiatus, I’m back in the blog world. I wish I could say that I’ve spent the last four weeks “finding myself” on a booze and exotic drug binge through South East Asia, but I unfortunately I have not...I mean we all can’t live like my younger, smarter, tree-hugging-dope-smoking brother, right? I on the other hand have been working my ass off. Since the New Year, I have traveled to New Orleans, San Antonio and Miami on business (hey, it’s not all that bad, right?). In fact, in the over the past 20 work days, I’ve spent nearly 10 of them on the road…the rest I’ve been trying to catch up on all of those bull shit things that pile up while you’re not in the office, so that’s fun. No excuses, just facts, but I felt like I owed you an explanation…and now I digress.

Let’s see, what has happened in the past month of note. I guess I’ll start from the top. The New Years party was great. Nothing really to blog about, but I did finger a female friend of mine in front of another male friend…which nearly lead into a “finger cuffs” situation that would have been slightly awkward in the morning, but other than that, it was fairly uneventful. My trip to New Orleans was great. One of the nights on Bourbon Street was probably blog-worthy, but I wasn’t logging it in my Blackberry (which is absolutely critical when Hurricanes are involved), so I’ll probably miss some valuable pieces of information…and as you know, the devil is in the details. That said, I brought what ended up being a 23 year old virgin back to my hotel room and would have banged the crap out of her had it not been the tightest fucking hole I’ve ever experienced in my life. I’m not joking. She was wet as hell and when I stuck a finger in I felt like my circulation was going to get cut off…it seriously felt like someone had tied a rubber band around my finger eight times. I cursed the two second decision when I was packing for the trip 48 hours earlier not to bring the lube. Bad call, oh well. I jacked off on her tits and then passed out. That is essentially the gist of the first four weeks of my New Year.

I have a rule regarding the New Year: I don’t make New Year’s resolutions. I think they are pointless and set people up for failure and disappointment for the upcoming year. I make lists instead. I have a working list of 100 things I want to do before I die. Highlights include climbing Mt. Kilimanjaro, throwing out a first pitch at a Major League Baseball game, running a marathon, visiting all seven continents in the world, meeting a U.S. President (which I have done…he complimented me on my shoes) and having a threesome (what would a list be without some sexual goals as well? And no, I’ve never had a threesome, although I’ve come very close).

In addition to my running list of major accomplishments every New Year I write down some things I want to accomplish in the up-coming New Year. I always pepper in a few things from my “master list,” but I mostly include smaller things that I want to do over the next 12 months. You see, I subscribe to the Ferris Bueller school of thought that,”life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you just might miss it.” I think that in order to get the most out of our short time on this planet we should set some goals and see them through…hence my personal To-Do list. Here is a little peak at a few things from my list for 2007...and some of the things you have to look forward to reading about:

Backpacking Trip to Mount Hood in Oregon - don’t worry, I’m going in the summer

Blow Out Weekend for my 30^th birthday - yeah, I turn 3-0 this year…don’t remind me

Trip to a wine region that I’ve never visited

Las Vegas for NBA All-Star Weekend - I think I’ll have a few things to write about after this trip

Dinner at Per Se – I’ve been wanting to do this for awhile…I’m finally going to drop the 4 bills on a nine course dinner this year. The only problem I’m going to have is finding someone else to go with.

NYC Old School Pub Crawl – a crawl to the oldest pubs in Manhattan

Drunk Guy’s annual trip to Fenway Park – I want to meet some of my faithful Boston readers at the Cask n Flagon for some pitchers before the game (of course Jersey and Boston Red will be present as well)

Two chicks at the same time – it will be mine, oh yes, it will be mine

Looking forward to spending another great year with you guys!

Cheers

NYCDG

Shuckin' the Charmin

2006-12-27T23:05:00.000-05:00

I masturbate a lot. No surprise there, it's just something that guys do, right? Evidently I masturbate more than most guys…at least this is what my current fuck buddy tells me. She’s not the jealous type (which is great because I’m not either), but she does point out that she could come over and do that for me whenever I’d like. It’s not really about that though. What a lot of girls don’t understand is that guys like spending quality time with their penises. We like throwing on some porn, lubing up and shuckin’the Charmin…you know, play a little solo with the skin flute, choking the one-eyed trouser snake or whatever the kids are calling it these days.

Problem is that I have a very high sex drive, so even when I’m getting it on a regular basis – and I am getting it on a regular basis – I still want more. In fact, it’s not rare for me to rub one out immediately after a girl leaves my apartment in the morning…and after we’ve already had a few morning rounds. It’s not that she wasn’t good or didn’t satisfy me, it’s more that I have fresh mental masturbation material and want to use it.

Here’s a recent conversation between my fuck buddy and I about the topic of masturbation.

karen: i'm a little hot all the time though
Nycdrunkguy1: yeah me too
Nycdrunkguy1: i rarely pass a woman that i don't wonder what it would be like to fuck her
karen: i don’t necessarily do that
karen: so much as just want a firm cock in my pussy most days
Nycdrunkguy1: of course you do...that's hot
karen: i rarely imagine men naked
karen: i just get wet and tight
karen: and ready
Nycdrunkguy1: when does that happen though?
karen: all the time
karen: sometimes at work
karen: riding the train
karen: at the gym all the time
Nycdrunkguy1: what triggers it?
karen: i have no idea
karen: nothing really
karen: sometimes i have a little nerve spasm down there
karen: fucking awful
karen: i want to just tear off my pants and ride someone
Nycdrunkguy1: holy shit
Nycdrunkguy1: i just see a hot chick and want to fuck her
karen: oh no
karen: mine is worse
karen: haha
Karen: being a girl though, you dont get off as easily
Nycdrunkguy1: i can see how that would be the case
Nycdrunkguy1: i'll just go into a bathroom and jerk it or something
karen: really?
karen: i cant do that very easily
Nycdrunkguy1: yeah, i've jerked it in just about every place imaginable
karen: haha
karen: wow
Nycdrunkguy1: flying always gets me horny
Nycdrunkguy1: i jerk it in the bathroom of airplanes all the time
karen: wow
karen: i'd like to do it in the bathroom of an airplane
karen: so small though
Nycdrunkguy1: yeah it is
Nycdrunkguy1: can't really explain why i get so horny in a plane
karen: tight spaces, flight attendants
Nycdrunkguy1: yeah i think that's exactly it
Nycdrunkguy1: and the fact that you're 30,000 feet in the air
Nycdrunkguy1: i've fucked in a train bathroom before
Nycdrunkguy1: from Paris to Madrid
Nycdrunkguy1: i've jerked it in a library too
karen: oh my god
karen: ridiculous
Nycdrunkguy1: while driving in my car even
karen: i've given head in the car
Nycdrunkguy1: well yeah, i've got that too
karen: now i want to fuck
karen: ahhh
Nycdrunkguy1: damn, i'm sorry you’re so far away
karen: haha it's ok
karen: that's what vibrators are for
Nycdrunkguy1: trying to think where else i've jerked it
karen: it's so easy for you
Nycdrunkguy1: i've jerked it in a bathroom of the Trump building before
karen: you are insane
Nycdrunkguy1: you know, maybe i should make that a new thing
karen: where can you jerk it?
Nycdrunkguy1: yeah
Nycdrunkguy1: i saw an AM New York article a few months back about a group of people that had a drink in all five boroughs in one day, using the subway system to go from borough to borough
karen: you'd have a jerk in all five?
Nycdrunkguy1: I’m thinking i should pick a place in each of the boroughs and jerk it in one day
karen: why not fuck in all five
Nycdrunkguy1: that could work too, but there would be an innate sense of pride and personally accomplishment knowing that I had successfully completed the five-borough jerk in one day
karen: haha
karen: you are too much
Nycdrunkguy1: that would be great, so say i jerked it in all 5 boroughs in one day
Nycdrunkguy1: how many people could say that?
karen: haha
karen: not many
karen: i'll be so proud of you
Nycdrunkguy1: the five borough jerk....i'm totally going to plan this out now
karen: it's late
karen: i should go to bed
karen: good luck planning your five borough jerk
Nycdrunkguy1: thanks
karen: night
Nycdrunkguy1: night

I am planning the Great NYC 5 Borough Jerk-a-thon and yes, I will be writing about it afterwards. In case you were wondering if I have the stamina to endure such a challenge, my one-day jerk record currently stands at 11. That’s right, eleven times in one calendar day…now bring on the boroughs!

Cheers,

NYCDG

Overheard in New York

2006-12-27T00:25:00.000-05:00

I read Overheard in New York from time to time because I enjoy how it emphasizes the stupidity of others…especially tourists. This past weekend I actually had two “Overheard in New York-worthy” exchanges that I had to write about.

Finishing up my Christmas shopping on Saturday afternoon I was walking up 6^th Ave when I had this exchange with a female tourist standing on the corner of 49^th and 6^th:

Tourist: Excuse me, do you know if the streets get bigger going this way (pointing north)?

NYCDG (quickly walking by): No, they are all about the same size.

With all my Christmas shopping done, I had to go out and celebrate over a few cocktails on Saturday night. At the end of the evening I decided to take the subway home as it was still fairly early and I was feeling adventurous. As I step into an almost empty subway car and take a seat across from a homeless guy that looks like he’s about to settle in for the night, the following exchange occurs.

Homeless guy: Can you spare some money so I can get something to eat?

NYCDG: Sorry man, I don’t have any cash on me.

Homeless guy: Come on, please. I’m so hungry I’d suck your dick for a cheeseburger.

NYCDG: A Wendy’s cheeseburger or a White Castle cheeseburger?

Homeless guy: Man, fuck you.

Cheers,

NYCDG

New Year's Eve with the Drunk Guy

2006-12-20T00:01:00.000-05:00

Are you sick of paying hundreds of dollars on New Years to get into an overly-crowded bar that serves bullshit watered down drinks, only to receive a wine spritzer toast at midnight followed by a swift “fuck off” as they kick you out the door? Yeah, me too.

I say fuck them. A friend of mine and I are throwing a party this year at his four story townhouse just outside of Hoboken (public transportation provided by New Jersey transit). He’s got a sick view of Midtown Manhattan, lots of booze and of course, your chance to party with me and my friends.

Space is limited and the party is invitation only, so if you’re interested in joining us, send your name and e-mail address to me at nycdrunkguy@gmail.com and I'll add you to the party Evite list when we send it out.

Cheers,

NYCDG

Craig's List Loser

2006-12-10T22:32:00.000-05:00

"He who fucks nuns will later join the church."
-The Clash

As many of you know, from time to time I post my blog on Craig’s List to increase awareness and my readership. This almost always leads to some interesting responses. I get flagged and removed by douche bags in Boston and Philadelphia that hate me because I’m from New York. I get SPAM messages from bots that pan themselves off as hot, desperate chicks that are trying to get me to check out their “personal profiles,” which no doubt lead to pay by the minute web cam porn sites (although I’ve never checked them out…really, I haven’t). I get the occasional e-mail from gay dudes asking for pictures of my dick or offering to perform various acts of sexual deviance on me – the things I endure for my readers. I also get great e-mails from female readers in all over the country (sometimes they are even naked pictures, which I not only accept, but encourage – hint, hint), but Midwest women in particular love me. I’ve even inspired a woman in Chicago to start her own blog, Sex in the (Windy) City. Point being, random shit happens on Craig’s List.

I recently received an e-mail from a douche bag in Jersey who obviously didn’t take two seconds to read my pictureless post and discover that (a) I’m male (b) I’m promoting my blog (c) I’m not afraid to write about the stupidity of my own gender. That said, here is the e-mail I received the day after I recently posted on Craig’s List (names and personal information has been changed, but the rest is verbatim):

Would love to get together, if you are interested please call me direct it's
my cell phone 973.555.5555 I just bought a condo in Hoboken. Presently live
in little falls, but will be moving. Call if you would like to get together
or talk. This adds is for real. And I have no time for games or the bullshit
most women put men through, or what men put women through. I work in
Manhattan. If you would like to meet or talk and see if there is any
connection call. Life is short and you are missing out on a lot of fun.
Don't be shy give me a call. My cell is always on and I always answer.
Billy or message me on AOL billy32350
Or on yahoo billy32350 also you can see pictures of me, my toys and what
I like to do on MySpace http://www.myspace.com/40yearoldjerseydouchebag

Billy
Cell (973)555.5555

Seriously, it’s no wonder women in this city are fed up with members of my gender. A closer look at his MySpace page showed that this guy is 40 years old, slightly overweight, looks a little like Corky from Life Goes On, and has random pictures of a Lexus that he supposedly owns. I just couldn’t help it, I had to respond to his e-mail. Here’s what I wrote:

Wow, I thought I had seen all of the douche bags in New York, but yet again was proved wrong. If you read my post at all - obviously you didn't - you would have seen that I'm a male posting about a girl I used to date whom I ran into on the subway.

More importantly, I was trying to promote my blog, you bumbling idiot. Thanks for the e-mail though, you have given me something to post on my blog. Maybe you should actually read these ads before you respond.

It’s no wonder you are looking for women on Craig’s List, after reading your e-mail you obviously don't understand what woman want and respond to. Here is some free advice:

1. It's pretty obvious that you're just looking for sex. That's fine, all guys want to get laid and girls know this already. The thing about it is, if you're upfront about it before they even have a chance to get to know you a little, it's only going to drive them away. It's OK to take them there, they want sex too, they just don't want to feel like a cheap whore for fucking you, so don't make them feel like one.

2. You're showing off your supposed money by talking about your house in Hoboken (which you have yet to move into) and showing off your supposed Lexus on your MySpace page. This translates to one of three things to women: (a) he's got a small dick, (b) he's insecure (probably because he's fat, ugly or has a small dick) or (c) all of the above.

3."My cell is always on and I always answer" – a female translates this as: "I'm a desperate 40 year old man that's fat, ugly and has a small dick. I'll basically fuck anything that moves. Please call me, I haven't gotten laid in two years."

Good luck out there you moron.

Funny thing is, he never replied back. Oh well, I guess I’m not his type after all.

Cheers,

NYCDG

Positively 4th Street

2006-12-05T23:41:00.000-05:00

“Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine.”
–Humphrey Bogart

My commute to work last Friday morning was…shall we say awkward. I was on my way uptown, checking my Blackberry, minding my own business when Erin Gobraugh walks in and sits down right next to me at the West 4^th Street stop. My first thought was, “Positively 4^th Street…it was only a matter of time, damn you Bob Dylan.”

You remember Erin, the girl from the Wedding Crashers blog. Let’s just say that things between her and I didn’t exactly end smoothly. She kept pushing for things between us to get more serious; while I communicated to her several times that I didn’t want a relationship. I had to cut the head off of the relationship, so I did what any psycho-fearing guy would do…stop calling. OK fine, I didn’t deal with it in the best manner, I’ll admit that. Shit happens.

After one week of radio silence, the nasty e-mails start coming in. One that I’m an asshole. Delete. One about my character. Delete. One about my disgusting blog. Delete.

You got a lotta nerve
To say you are my friend
When I was down
You just stood there grinning

You got a lotta nerve
To say you got a helping hand to lend
You just want to be on
The side that's winning

Fast forward five weeks as Erin purposely sits down right next to me on a half empty E train.

Erin (evil smile): Hi

Me: Hello

Fuck me, this isn’t going to be good.

Erin: How are you?

Me: Great, how are you?

Erin: Good. So what have you been up to?

Me: Working a lot and traveling. You?

You say I let you down
You know it's not like that
If you're so hurt
Why then don't you show it

You say you lost your faith
But that's not where it's at
You had no faith to lose
And you know it

Erin: I hate you.

This is going to be a long commute.

Me: OK.

Erin: I think you’re disgusting.

Me: How so?

She’s read about the five girls.

Erin: You’re sleeping with five girls at the same time.

Yep, definitely not going to be good.

Me: I never said I was sleeping with them. I said I was dating them.

Erin: Well by sheer numbers you’ve got to be sleeping with at least 3 or 4 of them.

Me: I’m not, actually.

Erin: Whatever. The girls at Conde` Nast think you’re disgusting.

Me: Awesome.

I know the reason
That you talk behind my back
I used to be among the crowd
You're in with

Do you take me for such a fool
To think I'd make contact
With the one who tries to hide
What he don't know to begin with

[Sidebar: Dear girls at Conde` Nast,

I understand how you might have derived a negative image of me from our friend Erin, but I’m really not a bad guy…quite the opposite, actually. I mean Erin had to like me for some reason, right? At the end of the day, Erin and I just weren’t right for each other. Remember, there’s two sides to every story, if you want to hear my side e-mail me and let’s get together for a drink someday after work…I’ll even buy.]

Erin: I hate you. You’re probably going to blog about this.

Me (smiling): Keep talking.

(Erin looks down and opens her AM New York.)

Touche. Maybe she’ll shut up now.

(Two minutes later)

Erin: You know my mom read your blog, so that was fun. Oh and my sister-in-law, well she doesn’t even talk to me anymore, so it’s nearly impossible for me to see my nephew.

[Sidebar: Dear Sister-in-Law Jennifer,

Please talk to Erin and let her see her nephew. Yes, she called you Chewbacca and yes she’s very open about the fact that she doesn’t seem to like you for whatever reason, but the least you can do is let her see her nephew. Personally, I think the kid is a little top-heavy and drools like an idiot savant at McDonalds, but she misses him and wants to see him again soon. Thanks and best of luck with those two spinning heads. Kind regards.]

Me: Why did you tell them about my blog, you knew I was writing about the wedding?

Erin: I was trying to bond with her.

Me: That worked out well.

Erin: I hate you.

You see me on the street
You always act surprised
You say, "How are you?" "Good luck"
But you don't mean it

When you know as well as me
You'd rather see me paralyzed
Why don't you just come out once
And scream it

(Erin goes back to flipping through her AM New York)

If that guy sitting next to her writes a blog, he’s going to have plenty of things to write about tonight. I wonder if she’s done yet. Her stop is coming up; I wonder if she’s going to make a big scene on the train before she gets off at her stop.

(The train stops and she gets up to leave)

Me: Have a nice day.

Erin: I hate you.

I wish that for just one time
You could stand inside my shoes
And just for that one moment
I could be you

Yes, I wish that for just one time
You could stand inside my shoes
You'd know what a drag it is
To see you

I suppose that could have gone worse.

Cheers,

NYCDG

High Fidelity

2006-11-27T22:45:00.000-05:00

“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)

2006-11-22T20:03:00.001-05:00

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)

2006-11-20T23:41:00.000-05:00

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

2006-11-12T00:08:00.000-05:00

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

2006-11-02T23:21:00.000-05:00

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

Epiphany

2006-10-23T22:47:00.000-04:00

I had an epiphany tonight. I guess you can call it the blogger version of a “come to Jesus moment.” I realized that I haven’t been fair to you. All this time I’ve been writing about my drunken thoughts and talking about my experiences at bars, but I’ve never really wrote about my personal life (save the one blog about my mentally unstable ex fiancé - who, by the way still owes me several hundred dollars and is currently looking for "Mr. Right" on Match.com...sometimes karma is good enough). It’s not fair to you because I haven’t been telling my the whole story, the stories about the women that I’m dating and in some cases, the end of my drunken evenings in the city (queue the porn music). Truth be told, I would love to find a girl that I click with…someone that I can date for a prolonged period of time. Someone that’s not psychotic, on meds, has a stable family history, and most of all, appreciates me for me. Keep that in mind as I take you through the dating life of this Drunk Guy in New York City.

I suppose I should start by laying the ground work. I am currently dating five women. That’s right, I have the ability to call up any of five women on any given night, go out with them and have a great time. That shouldn’t be a surprise, especially when I tell you about my theory on women and dating in New York City (coming soon). Most of all though, when I’m dating a woman, I automatically expect that she’s dating five other dudes. That’s just how things are in this city. For the most part, women get a free ride when it comes to food and drinks, just give the guy the flirty eyes, a little kiss here and there and an occasional hand job and they can get away with anything short of murder. I mean let’s be honest, women need the extra cash to spend on shoes and handbags to “attract” the guys that ask them out…like any guy in the history of the penis has noticed a female’s shoes or handbag, but that’s besides the point.

Actually, when I’m going out with a girl, I hope she’s dating other guys…seriously. I mean if I start actually like to her, I would hope that she has other guys to choose from. Call it being cocky, call it confidence, call it passive or maybe I’m just lazy, but if a girl doesn’t like me then fuck it because there’s plenty more where that came from.

What I’m trying to say is that I’m going to turn over a new leaf. When I go out on dates that are blog worthy or for that matter, bang a bar hoe, I’m going to tell you about it. You’ve earned it.

Just to prove that I’m serious about this, I’m going to give you my final “point” count from this summer. My Drunk Guy hook up points between Memorial Day and Labor Day this year was seven. Yes, yours truly finished the summer with seven points. Since my epiphany is not retroactive, I’ll let you figure out how they are distributed, but moving forward, you won’t have to guess.

After all, this is a blog about a single guy’s thoughts and experiences, while living life in the “city that never sleeps” (but when it does, it’s usually with a member of the opposite sex)...and thus should be treated accordingly.

Cheers,

NYCDG

Wedding Crashers

2006-10-10T23:23:00.000-04:00

I went to three wedding receptions on Saturday night...I was only invited to one and crashed the other two. I have been hanging out with this American Irish girl (whom I will refer to as Erin Gobragh) for about a month now and so when she asked me to her cousin’s wedding in Freehold, New Jersey, you can imagine my hesitation. Hesitation, that is, until I heard the background of this wedding. Erin’s father has two younger brothers, Dave and Ronald. The last time the entire Gobragh family got together was three years ago at Erin’s brother’s (William) wedding. The family is Irish so they are basically all boozers, but Uncle Dave has a special affinity to the sauce…like he’ll wake up in the morning and crave a drink. Some might call it “an addiction”, others might call it “a great way to start the day,” I’m not going to pass judgment, but let’s just say he drinks like Billy Joel after the Christie Brinkley break up.

Rewind three years to William’s wedding. Evidently Uncle Dave and a few other family members started boozing around 10:00AM for a 5:00 PM wedding. Needless to say, by the time the reception came around, Dave was three sheets - and several other linens - to the wind. OK, there are two things you should know about the Irish: (1) they can drink a shit load of alcohol and (2) every so often – and sometimes for no particular reason – their Irish temper will rear its ugly head.

[Sidebar: I’m not going to lie, I’m pretty laid back, but every so often, this trait will come out in me as well…like last week when that mother fucking homeless militant Black Panther-looking guy wouldn’t move to let me out of the E train during rush hour. OK, probably not the best time to lose it, but what’s a guy to do? The curse of the Irish…an iron clad liver and loose lips.]

So now that Uncle Dave had demonstrated his ability to drink a lot, the Irish hooligan started coming out. As the story goes, Dave proceeded to nearly get into two fights: the first with the bartender who refused to serve him because “he’d had too much to drink” and the next was with some young guy whom he thought was trying to sleep with his teenage daughter. The point being that two huge scenes were made at this wedding and that didn’t even include the one created by the old guy who was wheeled out of the reception due to cardiac arrest. I couldn’t make this up. Needless to say, there has been some tension between the Gobragh families over the past few years. Which leads us up to last Saturday: Uncle Dave’s son was getting married and I was invited. No way in hell I was passing this one up, the possibility of premium blog material was off the charts. As chance would have it, I was right. Here’s what occurred in running log format (Erin’s comments in italics).

10:02 AM – (alarm going off) Fuck, already? I probably shouldn’t have stayed out until 5AM last night…I mean this morning.

10:27 AM – On all fours, face down paying homage to the porcelain god. That Sea Bass from Savoy isn’t nearly as good the second time around as it was the first.

11:17 AM – Meet Erin at the subway stop nearly 20 minutes late. She was less than psyched about my tardiness, but quickly got over it after I apologized…twice. That’s another thing about the Irish, we can’t hold grudges (well, most of us) like the Italians. We serve our revenge warm…get arrested, broken appendages (or both) and then it’s over. Besides, who could stay mad at this face for long?

11:54 AM – Having buyer’s remorse about agreeing to attend this wedding. I’ve been at William’s house for 10 minutes, I’m nauseous and the Gobragh family is making goo-goo faces at slobbering babies. Not only am I missing about 50 college football games today, but I could still be in bed sleeping last night’s wine and scotch bender off.

12:24 PM – In the car heading to Freehold, New Jersey with Erin’s brother and (infamous) sister-in-law, Jennifer. Remember the dynamic between Tom Cruise and Nicole Kidman’s characters at the beginning of Eyes Wide Shut? That’s what their relationship dynamic felt like…aloof, cold, and deliberate. I think Paul Simon and Art Garfunkel have more fun performing on stage together than these two do in their daily married life.

William: I wish this jerk off would move so I can drive around him.

Jennifer: Don’t say “jerk off,” what if the baby was around? I don’t want our son growing up saying things like “jerk off.”

William: Well he’s not around.

Long pause

William (under his breath): [still trying to get around the guy in front of him] Jerk off.

12:56 PM – Yuppies gone wild. Now they are talking about how many weddings they’ve attended as a couple. William thinks it’s over 100, Jennifer thinks it’s only 15. “Why don’t you make a list during the wedding,” Jennifer suggests. Are we there yet?

1:15 PM – I think my tits are going to fall out of this dress during the wedding ceremony.

1:16 PM – Sweet.

1:35 PM – First Bruce Springsteen song of the day. I’m setting the over/under at four Boss songs between now and the end of the evening…and I’m taking the over.

2:16 PM – The priest proceeds to go on a ten minute summary of the movie Jerry McGuire (peppered by minute-long fits of turn-your-face-red coughing) in order to set up the theme “you complete me,” which he abandons no less than five minutes later.

2:47 PM – I’m not Catholic, but there’s this time in the ceremony when the congregation prays for all this random shit…like the Pope, the President, married couples and then there’s a silent part where you pray for “unsaid needs.” I was praying for a stiff cocktail.

3:13 PM – On our way to the Jersey shore where the reception is being held, but since the cocktail hour isn’t until 5:30 PM we’re stopping at Uncle Ronald’s motel room for beers. Did I happen to mention that we are in New Jersey?

3:45 PM – We pull into the local “Motor Lodge.” It’s at this point that I realize that I’m definitely going to blog about this wedding.

4:11 PM – In a seedy pay-by-the-hour motel room with twelve Italian strangers drinking Bud Light out of a can. What happened to my life?

5:10 PM – We arrive at the reception hall 20 minutes early to hear the news that Uncle Lenny has passed out already. A few undisclosed relatives claim that his blood sugar was probably too low after all the excitement of the wedding. Funny how the Irish are so reluctant to blame it on the booze. I find myself doing the same thing though: “Naw, I must have gotten some bad meat at dinner last night…I’m sure the 14 Jack and Cokes had anything to do with the four pounds of liquid I regurgitated this morning.”

5:19 PM – We enter the reception hall to discover that the place holds not one, not two, but three reception halls and they are all having receptions that night.

Drunk Guy: There’s no way that we’re not crashing those other two weddings.

Erin: (evil smile) Totally.

5:31 PM – Cocktail hour has officially begun. Mmmmmmm, Tanq and tonic…I guess my prayers have been answered.

5:36 PM – Erin (holding a vodka martini): Hey Uncle Ronnie, how many of these do you think I’m going to knock back tonight?

6:03 PM – After two very stiff gin and tonics – on an empty stomach – I’m hitting the cocktail hour buffet like a homeless guy at Sizzler. You should have seen the size of these shrimp and crab claws. God damn!

6:27 PM – Being ushered out of the cocktail hour and into the reception hall. The last time I saw so many red-faced Irish guys, I was in Dublin on St. Patrick’s Day.

7:01 PM – I’m sitting next to a 20 year old alcoholic Gobragh cousin and she’s shouting across the table into my ear. I remember those days…being a young drunk and having absolutely no volume control. Nevertheless, I want to smack her. I need another drink.

7:11 PM – Second Bruce Springsteen song of the day.

7:47 PM – Some random girl came out of nowhere as we’re eating and starts to sing on the dance floor. I feel like I’m watching American idol try outs.

8:14 PM – Dinner is polished and so are the two bottles of wine that were sitting on the table when we sat down. It’s time to get serious with some Jack and Coke.

8:27PM – Third Bruce Springsteen song of the evening.

8:31 PM – Fourth Bruce Springsteen song of the evening.

9:07 PM – It’s about time to crash some wedding receptions. We decide to go downstairs to Debby and Michael’s reception.

9:12 PM – Attempting to dance the Electric Slide, standing next to Debby, the beautiful, albeit chunky bride.

9:18 PM – Dancing with Aunt Marge to the theme from Saturday Night Fever, while Erin pulls random old guys and drunk young guys onto the dance floor.

9:34 PM – Debby and Mike’s camera guy realize that Erin and I are ripping it up on the dance floor so he decides to take some picture of us. Classic. I wish I could be a fly on the wall when Debby and Mike are going through their wedding pictures and are trying to figure out who the hell we are. I decide that this is an absolute must for any wedding that I crash in the future.

9:45PM – Erin and I head back to her cousin’s wedding to check in, get a drink and make sure we’re not missing any fights or cardiac arrest.

10:04 PM – Two weddings down, one to go. It’s time to crash Leigh and Eugene’s reception.

10:06 PM – I’m a little nervous walking into this room because there are only about six people on the dance floor. Then I hear the beginnings of Neil Diamond’s Sweet Caroline and my feelings of trepidation immediately leave.

10:07 PM – Erin and I find the two drunkest guys on the dance floor and the four of us begin belting out the lyrics to one of the greatest drinking songs of all time. Erin starts dancing with one of the guys, which leads the other guy – un-tucked shirt, loose tie, droopy drunken eyes and all – to look at me, shrug his shoulders and then put his right hand on top of his head like a needle to a record…so I proceed to spin him around.

10:08 PM – TOUCHING MEEEEEEEEE, TOUCHING YOOUUUUUUUUUUU, SWEET CAROLINE. (BUM, BUM, BUM!) GOOD TIMES NEVER SEEMED SO GOOD (SO GOOD, SO GOOD, SO GOOD)…

10:12 PM – Between Erin pulling random people on the dance floor and me dancing with some bride’s maids and older women, the dance floor is packed. We completely turned this party out.

10:19 PM – Dancing with Leigh (the bride), telling her how great she looked and what a beautiful ceremony they had. I’m totally blowing smoke up her ass and she’s buying ever bit of it. I mean how different are weddings, right? She walks down the isle, they read passages from Genesis and 1^st Corinthians (well, at Gentile weddings, that is), they exchange vows and that’s about it. I can bull shit my way through that all day long.

10: 34 PM – Leigh and Eugene’s camera guy finally comes around and takes a picture of Erin and I ripping it up on the dance floor. Again, I wish I could be around for that conversation. “Honey, who’s this?” “Hmmm, I don’t know dear, I thought you knew them?” “No, I don’t. Well, if you don’t know them and I don’t know them…”

10:48 PM – Back at Erin’s cousin’s wedding. William and Jennifer want to leave the reception a few minutes early, so we say our drunken good-byes and head out.

I suppose I should say at this time that there’s a lot of tension between Erin and her brother and sister-in-law…I don’t know all of the background, but the tension definitely exists. Combine this tension with about four vodka martinis, half a bottle of wine, a Bud Light and a shot of Sambuca and you’ve got one interesting ride home. Here’s what transpired (again, Erin’s comments in italics):

11:02 PM – Erin starts to comment about how she never sees them and gives William a hard time for his plans to go to Jennifer’s parent’s house over Christmas.

11:05 PM – William proceeds to explain that Erin is welcome to come over to see them and Shaun (their baby) anytime she wants.

11:09 PM – Erin continues to bring up how William never spends any time with the Gobragh family. I have a sense that this is going to get nasty

11:11 PM – William is starting to get pissed. He’s even threatening to pull over and kick us out of the car. Talk about guilty by association, I’m not saying a word.

11:11 PM – What the fuck. Mr. I disagree with everyone who isn’t me. I have major problems with them being complete assholes.

11: 13PM – Jennifer sprouts two more heads and they all start spinning around as she screams, “I HAVE A FAMILY TOO!”

11:14PM – Complete silence in the car.

11:32 PM – Please get me out of this fucking vehicle.

11:34 PM – After what seems like an eternity of silence, Erin finally decides to speak again:

Erin: William, you’re driving like a champ. You’re like Luke Skywalker driving the Millennium Falcon.

William: Haun Solo drove the Millennium Falcon.

Erin: Yeah, that’s what I meant, you’re like Han Solo…and Jennifer is Chewbacca.

NYC Drunk Guy (thinking while laughing out loud): That was fucking classic. Too bad we’re about to get thrown out of the car in the middle of nowhere, New Jersey. Hell, that might have been worth it.

William (laughing with us): Yeah, she’s like Chewbacca. Jenn, make the Chewbacca sound.

Jennifer: (silent…although the two other heads she spouted had subsided)

12:10 PM – Back in Manhattan and very glad to be home. Wow, what a day. I assure you, this will not be the last time I ever crash a wedding.

Cheers,

NYCDG

I Need a Drink

2006-09-25T23:17:00.000-04:00

It’s not even Tuesday and I already need a drink. Yes, I NEED a drink…and yes, I’m completely aware that the last sentence is the first indication of a problem. You know what? You’re right, I do have a problem. The problem is that I’m trying to do three people’s work, while looking for two more people to fill out my department at work, so excuse me if I feel the need to take the edge off with a frothy cold one.

I started my week off with seven meetings. That’s right, seven. You know what happens in meetings? Nothing. You talk about shit that you should be doing when you’re not in meetings. The problem is that you have meetings all day long, so nothing ever gets done unless you stay late…and there’s the rub. My Monday consisted of meetings from 10AM to 5PM with five and 10 minute breaks peppered in between, allowing me to answer a few e-mails and slam a sandwich and Diet Coke. Basically I was bouncing around the office today like I’d done an eight-ball of cocaine. I, of course, hadn’t done an eight-ball, or any cocaine for that matter. As a side note, if I ever were to do some blow, I would make sure that it was off a stripper’s naked body. I mean really, if you’re going to drop some nose candy you might as well go all out, right? Just roll up a C-note and run a line straight down a long-legged, blonde whore’s big fake titties…but I digress.

Point being, I was pretty wound up today, to the point that I was two seconds away from biting someone’s head off. It was after 6PM and I was on the phone with a woman from another company that I’m trying to do some business with and if she would have said, “I have 15 years of direct marketing experience” just one more time, I would have flipped my shit. I’m not joking.

Listen bitch, I understand that you’re trying to cover up your insecurities, but I don’t give a flying fuck how many years of experience you have. Want to compare pay checks? Read’em and weep, biotch. Money talks and bull shit walks, so strap on your boots and don’t let the door hit you in the fat ass on the way out.

Wow…OK, I feel better now. Breath. Once more. OK, now let’s move on.

One other notable thing happened today. As I’m closing the stall door to spend some quality time with the bran cereal I had ingested three hours earlier, I find a newspaper and an empty cup of coffee on the floor next to the toilet. Are you fucking kidding me? Some dude I work with actually brought his morning coffee into the stall with him so he could drink it while reading the paper. Unfuckingbelievable. How much do you want to bet this is the same “mystery shiter” that whipped out his cell phone and was talking to his buddy on the can a few weeks back? Hell, why does this guy even have a desk? Between his cell phone, the wireless web and his laptop, he could just set up shop right there in the stall…pants around his ankles and all.

Yes, it’s only Monday and I need a drink.

Cheers,

NYCDG

Random Thoughts - Volume I

2006-09-20T00:50:00.000-04:00

I haven’t been ignoring you…really I haven’t. I’ve actually been in San Francisco for the past two weeks on business. Truth be told, I’ve been busier than a hooker at the Democratic National Convention. Nevertheless, I apologize for my absence.

My travels and the time away have given me a lot of time to think and if you’ve read my blog, then you know that can be a scary thing. Anyway, I’ve written down some of the random thoughts I’ve had over the past few weeks. Enjoy.

I hate going to Ethiopian food…I always leave the restaurant hungry.

Why is the hottest flight attendant always working in the first class section? Is this by design? And if so, how and when does that conversation actually occur?

Let’s play a quick game of “Otherwise Know As…”
The Diamond District of Manhattan, otherwise known as Jerusalem west.
The Puerto Rican Day Parade, otherwise known as the big Manhattan gang rape.

I have a drunken spinning theory. You know how you start to spin when you’re laying on the floor getting ready to pass out after you’ve puked all over the bathroom? Well my theory is that if you’re naturally left handed you spin counter clockwise and if you’re naturally right handed you spin clockwise. I’ve tested this theory with about 20 of my friends and it’s held true thus far.

I hate white cab drivers (yes, they do exist). At least Indian (dots, not feathers) cabbies make shit up when you talk to them as they are driving you home after a long evening at the bars. Little did I know that drunken NYU girls love to give head to smelly, hairy, Indian cabbies…riiiiiight, dude.

Speaking of Indian (dots, not feathers) cabbies, there’s a new game that I like to play with my friends before getting into a cab. I call it consonants or vowels. Basically you choose which one of the two you want, your buddy gets the other. When you get in the cab you count the consonants and vowels in the cabbies' name and whichever has more wins.

Is it just me or do The White Stripes sound a lot like The Electric Mayhem Band from The Muppets? Think about the song The Denial Twist…now think of Dr. Teeth banging away on his Organ.

Let’s play “Name that Band…”
“Dubs for Hire” would be a great name for a rap group and “Less than Stoked” would be a great name for a punk band

Is there bad signage in Albuquerque or was Bugs Bunny just really bad with directions?

And that concludes the first edition of Drunk Guy Random Thoughts. I’m back and I’ve missed you guys.

Cheers,

NYC Drunk Guy

Close Sitter

2006-09-07T01:28:00.000-04:00

So I am sitting on the train on my way to work waiting for the thing to take off when the urge comes over me. You know, the urge that says you’ve had something to eat the night before that have given you the morning farts. You know it’s going to be one of those mornings the second you throw off the sheets and start to get out of bed. You’re suddenly stopped as a stench rises so foul in the air that it singes your nose hairs and makes you queasy from the bodily gases that have been festering under your comforter over the course of the last six hours. This is why they call it the “Dutch oven,” although I’ve never really understood this reference. Do Dutch baked goods inspire flatulence? Do Dutch bakeries smell like crap? I need to know these things.

So there I am on a train without air conditioning, not a person in sight, other than the homeless guy that’s passed out at the other end of the car, when the urge comes over me. I look around one more time at the empty subway car and figure, “fuck it, not only can I let it go, but I don’t have to worry about the sound it makes”…and as a guy, when you’re not worried about the sound it makes, you make it as loud as possible. So I loosen up my sphincter, give a solid push from the diaphragm and with help of the plastic subway seats, I get some decent audible action.

Sweet, I give it about a six. No wait, what’s that? Wow, with a smell like that, let’s make it an eight. As I’m trying to figure out what I ate last night that could possibly inspire a smell like that, an Indian guy (dots not feathers) walks into the car.

Shit. No way to escape this one. This guy is definitely about to smell the inner workings of my intestines. Actually hold on, there’s no one else on this train and it doesn’t have any A/C, so even if he decides to stay he won’t sit anywhere near me. After all, this is New York City, people value their space when they can get it…

…everyone, except for this asshole. No joke. A completely empty train and he sits right next to me.

Is he gay? No, not likely. I don’t know what it is about him, but he’s not giving off a gay vibe.

I glance over to see if he’s pickig up on my freshly deployed air biscuit. Nothing. Not even a nose twitch. The guy is clearly clueless.

Whew. That was a close one. I can’t believe that he doesn’t smell that.

What, what’s that? It’s not my fart anymore, although it’s just as pungent. I think that smells like curry. Yes, that’s definitely curry, but it’s not like he’s holding a bag of leftovers. It was more like the smell of curry after it’s run through one’s system to the point of saturation…so much that it’s coursing through one’s veins. The guy literally smelled like a walking chicken Vindaloo.

Whatever, he’s Indian (dots not feathers), who cares if he smells like my last meal at the Curry Leaf (my favorite Indian restaurant in the city)?

Funny thing is, I’m not even rattled by how close this guy is sitting next to me. I’m actually more surprised at how the smell of curry can counter act the effects of flatulence. Who knew?

NYCDG

Addiction

2006-09-02T14:42:00.000-04:00

I have an addiction. No, it’s not starting my blogs with declarative phrases...although I do enjoy doing that. This addiction happens to be in the form of a television show. Before I tell you what TV show I’m addicted to, you need to understand a few things about me first:

(1) Other than watching sports (and I do a fair amount of that), I don’t watch television. I’m actually quite disillusioned with TV as we know it. Reality TV such as American Idol, Survivor, The Bachelor - the list goes on and on - has completely ruined television and I’m afraid there’s no going back. It won’t be long before we’re watching live executions, death matches and other forms of people killing each other on TV. I'm serious. Think about how desensitized we have become over the past 40 years to what we are served over the airwaves. We’ve come a long way since The Honeymooners. I just hope this leads to more nudity on TV. I hate being limited to the soft porn bull shit that’s on Skinemax after midnight...but I digress.

(2) While I don’t watch TV show when they are aired live - my sporatic schedule doesn’t allow me to get involved in any show (and I don’t have, nor want Tivo) - I do enjoy several shows that are on television. You see, I have Netflix, so I watch all of my shows after they come out on DVD. Yes, it’s somewhat archaic, but it works for me. For those of you out there that might actually care, my favorite shows include 24, The Sopranos, Curb Your Enthusiasm, The West Wing, The Family Guy and The Simpsons.

(3) Under normal circumstances I probably wouldn’t admit this, but after a few “hump day” cocktails, I’m feeling rather liberal with my inner-most secrets...so enjoy.

As of about a week ago I’m completely and totally addicted to The O.C. That’s right, yours truly can’t stop watching the modern day 90210. The funny thing is, I was never one to watch shows like 90210 or Melrose Place when I was growing up. This was probably due to the fact that I was living my own high school drama at the time. Captain of the football team, dating the captain of the cheerleading squad for our cross-town rivals. High school valedictorian with a penchant for getting myself into trouble every now and then. I mean the mark of popularity in high school (or anywhere for that matter) is when people know your name and you have no idea who the hell they are, right? This was my high school life. Hell, I was the modern day Brandon Walsh with a little bit of Steve Sanders and a hint of David Silver...so why watch it on TV?.

Now, in my staring down the barrel of the big 3-0, I find myself totally submersed in the “edgy kid from the bad part of town, meets Newport high society and drama ensues,” plot of The O.C. While I find the never-ending back and forth of Ryan and Marissa’s relationship to be somewhat unrealistic and contrived, Seth Cohen is a classic character, Summer is the “loveable bitchy snob,” and the dramatic tension created by exploits of Julie Cooper play the proverbial straw that stirs The O.C.’s drink.

Like most people with addictions, I am ashamed of my habit, but feel somewhat helpless to the draw of my vice. They say that admitting you have a problem is the first step to recovery. If that’s the case, then I have something I’d like to say:

“Hello, my name is the NYC Drunk Guy and I am addicted to The O.C.”

Have a great Labor Day weekend.

NYCDG

Pluto

2006-08-28T23:36:00.000-04:00

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

2006-08-25T22:39:00.000-04:00

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

2006-08-17T23:28:00.000-04:00

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

2006-08-14T22:28:00.000-04:00

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

2006-08-10T00:07:00.000-04:00

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.

2006-08-07T22:18:00.000-04:00

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

2006-08-01T23:56:00.000-04:00

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

Douche Bag

2006-07-29T13:39:00.000-04:00

Douche (doosh) noun - 1.(a) A stream of water, often containing medicinal or cleansing agents, that is applied to a body part or cavity for hygienic or therapeutic purposes. (b) a stream of air applied in a similar way
2. The application of a douche.
3. An instrument (read: tool) for applying a douche.

Some moments are just too good to pass up. You know what I mean. Those moments of Zen when the stars align and events unfold just perfectly. Last night on the subway, I had one of those moments and just had to capture it with my camera phone.

Last night around 7:30 PM on an uptown bound C train, I saw a the perfect, real-life personification of a douche bag. I’m serious. If a douche bag had two arms, two legs and could walk around the city, this is what he would look like. The douche in question was already on the train when I got on downtown...which would lead me to conclude that the douche lives in Brooklyn (shocker). He was rocking a pink polo shirt (the very first indication that someone might be a douche bag), although he didn’t have a popped collar, which is the tell tale sign of a douche bag. He was also wearing these circa 1983, I-hang- out-at-Studio-54-and-do-enough-cocaine-to-kill-a-small-rhino glasses and he had his name, well I’m assuming it was his name, “Joel” tattooed twice on his arm; once on his left forearm and once on his right bicep...probably in case he forgets how to spell it when applying for various fast food positions. Although it wasn’t clear what kind of music he was listening to on his ghetto, look-alike pink iPod, he wasn’t shy about over enthusiastically mouthing the words to anyone that would look in his direction. Classic. I had to get a picture of this guy.

The train was fairly packed and so I decided to move over to a middle poll at the West 4th stop in order to get a better angle. Perfect. I was standing directly in front of him. The problem was that I have never actually tried to take a picture of someone that wasn’t aware of what I was doing. I pulled my phone out and pretended like I was reading my text messages. I wondered what would the douche bag would do if he knew I was taking a picture of him. I started to get a little nervous. Fuck it. This douche bag is going in my phone. My readers need to see this. Click. Damn the picture is blurry. Let’s try again. Click. Perfect! The douche is immortalized. Save to phone. Done and done.

And without further ado, please let me introduce you to the C train douche bag...

Cheers,

NYCDG

Empty Seats

2006-07-25T21:00:00.000-04:00

It’s almost 8:00 PM on a Monday night and I’m waiting for the F train to take me downtown to meet a friend for a few drinks. I’m in Rockefeller Center on the back end of rush hour so I’m expecting at least a semi-full train. Needless to say, I’ve written the possibility of finding a seat off long ago. When the train pulls up and the door open, much to my surprise, I see there are a ton of open seats in the middle of the car, yet several people are standing up around the area where I walked in. Whatever. I take two steps towards an empty seat when I discover the reason they are open in the first place. The middle of the subway car smells like rancid shit.

If you’ve lived in New York City for any length of time, I guarantee this has happened to you. The fattest bum I have ever seen is sitting by himself, lounged out in the middle of the open area. I’m not kidding, the guy smells like he’s spent the last month of his life at the bottom of the East River.

It’s at this point that I have a decision to make. I’ve already committed myself in front of 25 people by walking toward one of these open seats. I could turn around and find an open area to stand at the end of the car or I could suck it up and smell the not-so-sweet fragrances of a life on the streets...or in the dump, which is where it seems that this guy likes to spend most of his time. I take a quick glance toward the end of the car and it’s pretty obvious that the people down there are still within nose-shot of the unwanted stench. It’s at this point that I figure “fuck it” if these are the cards I’ve been dealt this evening I might as well take a seat at the table so I can see the action up close and personal.

[Sidebar: as I’m capturing this moment in prose on my Blackberry, the guy proceeds to stick his hand down his pants, wrist deep and is doing something “down there.” What, I don’t know...and really don’t want to know.]

You might think that after a long day at work, I would be pissed about having to endure the smell of warm, steamy shit for the next six subway stops, but I’m actually kind of enjoying myself. The best part about this whole situation is watching the reactions of the people that get in the car at each stop. First you get the looks of utter delight as they step into the car to discover there’s a dozen open seats on the train (a look I no doubt had on my face three minutes earlier). Then as the hot, putrid aromas enter their nasal passages and fill their lungs, a look of complete horror and disgust rushes over their faces as they realize they’ve just stepped into quite possibly the worst smelling subway car in the history of the world. It’s really quite amazing (and funny) to witness how human emotions can go from one end of the spectrum to another in the course of a few short seconds.

At the 23rd street stop one large, black woman actually takes one step into the car directly next to the bum and exclaims, “Jesus Christ! It smells like shit in here!” Without hesitation, she turns around and walks out. That’s one approach I suppose I never considered. To each their own.

I suppose the moral of this story is: approach empty seats on the subway during rush hour with caution.

NYCDG

The Drunk Guy's Top 10 U.S. Party Cities

2006-07-23T18:48:00.000-04:00

I travel a lot. I'm a visit to North Dakota, Montana, Iowa and Alaska shy of having visited all 50 U.S. states. Actually, I move a lot too. In the last six years I’ve lived in six different states. OK, three of those states are in the tri-state area, but still.

As a perennial traveler, I have friends all over the country and when I visit them, I have the distinct privilege of experiencing their city as a local and not a tourist because they know the best bars, shops and restaurants. The number one reason New Yorkers hate Times Square is the constant flow of tourists walking around with theirs heads up their assess, hypnotized by all the lights and big buildings. “Just walk asshole, I have shit to do.” Anyway, as New Yorkers we know that if you visit NYC and never leave the Times Square area (and many tourists don’t), you are doing yourself a great injustice.

That said, I have been able to experience many U.S. cities, the way they were meant to be experienced: drinking in bars with the local, single crowd and off the beaten path of souvenir stores and cheesy theme restaurants. Here’s my list, in reverse order, of the ten best U.S. cities to party in.

10. Washington D.C. - the nation’s capital sneaks into my top ten due to the strong bar scenes of Adam’s Morgan, Georgetown and near-by Old Town Alexandria, VA. You can find great restaurants and beautiful people in all three. The major drawback is the pretentious D.C. power scene. Since everyone in Washington works for the government and is pulling in around $35K a year, expect a heavy dosage of “who do you know?” and “who do you work for?” talk. It’s a little disgusting, actually.

9. San Francisco - I’ve never seen as many white cab drivers in one city as I did the last time I visited San Francisco. I swear to God that one of the cabbies was Jerry Garcia...the guy looked just like the late Grateful Dead singer, although I don’t think my brother was buying it. Regardless, the city is full of great restaurants, great scenery and a plethora of chill bars with a funky, beatnik feel to them. The major drawback? Public transportation is somewhat of a bitch and cabs are expensive as all hell.

8. San Diego - I refer to this city as “Man Diego,” due to the disproportionate number of single guys to single women. I actually looked this statistic up once and found that 59% of singles in San Diego between the ages of 18-29 are male, while only 41% are female. Ouch. Talk about staking the deck (or the dick in this case). Granted, that 41% female is ALL quality, but don’t be surprised when you go out to the bars downtown and find sets of ten dudes conversationally masturbating around two girls.

7. Los Angeles - the level of pretentiousness in this city if off the charts, but if you’re able to suck it up and accept it for what it is, you’ll find tons of great places to go out. My personal favorites include the Hollywood/West Hollywood/Le Brea areas as well as Santa Monica. Public transportation and cabs in Los Angeles is somewhere between a bitch and non-existent, so make sure someone stays sober enough to drive to Roscoe’s for some fried chicken and waffles before heading home after the bars close.

6. Austin - the live music scene is this central Texas town is pretty much unrivaled. With the music, you can find plenty of beer swilling college students and even a fair share of beautiful, blonde and busty (everything really is bigger in Texas) 20-something women. 6th street is the place to go for the rowdy college Texas bar crowd. For a more chill, older Martini and cigar crowd venture over to 4th street. If you’re feeling extra adventurous grab 15 of your best friends, fill a cooler full of canned beer and spend a day floating down the Guadalupe river.

5. Las Vegas - you can find an answer in Las Vegas for any vice you might have. A weekend full of drinking, gambling, strippers and whores is the Vegas version of batting the cycle. So why is Vegas only number five on my list? From a strictly drinkers perspective you can get yourself into a lot of trouble in Vegas if you booze too much...which is absolutely set up by design. Also, if you’re a clubbing person, Vegas is great, but if you’re looking for a good old Irish Pub with great music, you’re not going to find one here.

4. New Orleans - I describe New Orleans as the best little shit-hole to party in and then get the hell out of...and this was before hurricane Katrina. The bars stay open all night long, you can drink in the streets (as well as piss and shit for that matter) and the drinks are the only thing stronger than the god-forsaken stench of the French Quarter. The last time I actually blacked out was in New Orleans. There was a period of three hours between 2 AM and 5AM that I don’t remember a fucking thing. All of a sudden, I snapped out of my drunken comma and I was drinking Cappuccino and eating Beignets at Café Du Monde.

3. Boston - the ultimate young-person’s city. Drinking isn’t something you do just to blow off some steam after work, drinking is a way of life in Boston. You go to a sports event, you booze. You go to a concert, you booze. You go to the Cape, you booze. To Bostonians, life is one big excuse to get fucked up...and who can argue with that? The partying drawbacks include the fact that some bars close at 1AM and some close at 2AM. (and there’s really no rhyme or reason as to why this is)...and it’s easier to find a sober person at a Red Sox game than it is to find a cab downtown at 2AM.

2. Chicago - There’s a reason why New Jersey/New York’s own Frank Sinatra called Chicago, “my kinda town.” This lakeside mid-west city is God’s gift to beer lovers. From downtown to Lincoln Park to Wrigleyville, you can find plenty of great bars with approachable and good-looking women. Hell, the women in this city will actually approach you. It’s unbelievable really.

1. New York - was there really any question as to the best city in the U.S. to party in? There are over 10,000 bars in NYC, they stay open until 4 AM and there are a plethora of cabs to take your drunken ass home at the end of the night. Not to mention, the city is full of great restaurants, beautiful women and heavy-handed bar tenders. This city is a boozer’s Toys ‘R Us with a bar and a drink for every taste and occasion. The biggest drawback? So many bars, so little time.

So what are you doing still reading this blog? Go out and party in the greatest city in the world!

Cheers,

NYCDG

Meet the NYC Drunk Guy

2006-07-20T22:41:00.000-04:00

I sometimes see these stupid polls that people send out on MySpace that asks questions about yourself and you’re supposed to spend half an hour filling it out and then sending it along to all of your friends in the form of another bulletin. Well, I’ve been getting a lot of great questions about myself from readers lately, so I thought I would put together my own Drunk Guy survey comprised of questions from some of my readers. And if you have the animalistic urge to copy the questions, put them in an e-mail, answer them for yourself and send them to me...well feel free to do so.

Drink of choice: Jack and Coke

Favorite NYC bar: Bar and Books

Stats: 6'2, 185lbs, brown hair and green eyes

Interesting fact about myself: I was named after a famous baseball player

Favorite NYC restaurant: Carmine’s

Drunk music: Billy Joel

Weird hobby: I collect vinyl records

Favorite area to hang out: The West Village

Favorite cigar: Padron 1964 Anniversary Series

Mexican or Chinese (food, that is): Chinese

Favorite movie: The Shawshank Redemption

Favorite movie set in NYC: Annie Hall

Real occupation: Marketing

Blondes or brunettes: Yes, please

Favorite city other than NYC? London

Tits or ass? Ass - nothing like two turtle shells in a tight pair of jeans

Martin or Sinatra: Sinatra, of course

Favorite Scotch: Lagavulin 16

Subway Line of choice: 4,5 or 6...it’s the Lexus of subway cars

Gun to your head, Yankees or Mets? Pull the trigger

Biggest celebrity spotting in NYC: Woody Allen...although Tom Hanks is a close second

Late night eats? Ben’s Pizza - regular slices with garlic and oregano

Current summer points tally (see my“NYC Hook-Up Fantasy Game” blog in the May archives)? 4 pts - I’ll leave you to wonder how they are distributed

If you’d like to indulge me with interesting questions or witty prose, you can e-mail me at nycdrunkguy@gmail.com

NYCDG

Fenway Sucky, Sucky

2006-07-18T00:49:00.000-04:00

I harbor no resentment towards Boston. I know there historically has been a lot of bad blood between New York and Beantown, but I would say that most of that ill will has come from the more northern of the two cities and has been based in some form or another around the cities respective sports teams. That said, when it comes to drinking, I think Boston is a great city to visit from time to time. I mean wouldn’t any city that’s known for it’s Irish population and sports teams plagued with curses (although that hasn’t been so true lately) be a great place to get bombed? This actually gives me an idea for another blog topic...stay tuned.

Anyway, I have a few friends in Boston that I go to visit every couple of months, I’ll call them Jersey and Boston Red. I’ve known both of these guys for about six years now and they’re quite interesting characters that in many ways embody the area of the country they are from...you guessed it, New Jersey and Boston, respectively. Jersey says things like “twournament” and “wudder,” and thinks that Bruce Springsteen and Bon Jovi are one person shy of making a Holy Jersey Trinity. While Boston Red is your quintessential Masshole, who has a fetish for everything related to Boston sports and would get freaked out if you ask him to leave the state of Massachusetts.

So I cruise up to Beantown this weekend so I can go to the Red Sox game on Saturday night with Jersey and Boston Red. Now if you’ve ever been to Fenway Park, you understand that going to a Sox game is an entire day event revolving entirely around consuming copious amounts of beer and foods that are sure to reduce your life span by a good few months. We get to the Cask and Flagon in the afternoon and proceed to start drinking like Ted Kennedy on election night.

About six pitchers into our Cask run, it’s getting close to game time, so we close out our tab and head over to the oldest park in the country. Usually when I visit Fenway, there’s a mandatory stop between the Cask and the stadium to get a sausage and peppers before heading in; however, on Saturday I was too full from lunch and appetizers to make it worth while...next time.

So we go inside and grab a couple of brews before heading to our seats. By the way, I think it’s park rules that you have to have two beers in your hands at all times at Fenway. It seems like everyone in the park is stumbling around carrying two beers with that look on their face like their two sheets into it and momma has just pulled out the clothes pins and is reaching in the laundry basket for the third. I especially like those dumb, hot, wanna-be Red Sox Nation girls with the pink hats and random beer stains all over their tight baby tees. I love going to baseball games in Boston.

Next thing you know, it’s the middle of the seventh and their playing “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” over the loud speakers. Another good drunk song, by the way...”buy me some peanuts and Cracker Jacks (AND A BEEEER!).” I always add that little extra line in for effect. The crowd around me seems to appreciate it.

As we get into the bottom of the seventh inning, this hot Asian chick with fake boobs, who’s sitting about six rows below us and slightly to our left, starts to get into a pretty heated argument with the guy behind her. She stands up and gets in his face and is yelling about something, while the guys around us start to tell her to sit down. As the argument starts to escalate and the white guy she’s with is trying to ignore his seemingly psycho Asian girlfriend, I, in my drunken-half-losing-internal monologue-state decide to yell out, “sucky, sucky five dolla!”

Well of course all the guys around me have a nice laugh out of my inebriated racist-sexist comment and we go back to watching the game. After a long pause (it was at least two minutes) an Asian guy, who happens to be sitting next to the psycho Asian girl who’s still arguing with the guy behind her gets up out of his seat, turns around, picks out a random guy about eight rows up and starts to shout, “What? You can say shit like that about my sister with my back turned, but you won’t say it to my face? Why don’t you come down here and say it to my face?”

Needless to say, this guy - who’s not sitting anywhere near me - has no clue what this Asian kid is talking about...which of course is my tasteless comment about his sister. He continues to call this innocent bystander out as the ballpark security get to his seat and proceed to escort him, his sister and her quiet boyfriend out of the park, to the delight of everyone around us.

I mean, yes they were causing unnecessary drama and they probably deserved to get kicked out, but I never once saw security come up to talk with the white guy that the Asian dude was calling out...or the white guy that was sitting behind them that the chick was arguing with. You can always rely on Boston authority figures to side with the white guys. After all, we’re just a bunch of Irish guys trying to get drunk and enjoy a baseball game.

NYCDG

Dating ADD

2006-07-14T00:15:00.000-04:00

I have a disease. Actually, I’ve had it for quite some time now, but just figured it out the other day. Don’t worry ladies, it’s nothing serious like The Clap or that one monkey-fucking disease from Africa. No, no. Rather it’s a fairly common and non-lethal mutation of the ADD disorder called “Dating ADD.” Evidently you’re at high risk to be infected with this disease if you’re single, living in New York City and drink the tap water from time to time (mmmm nothing like ingesting the nectar from the Hudson River Valley Sanitary District...tastes like chicken).

Wait....what’s that?

You have it too?

That’s crazy. Maybe we should go out sometime, have a few cocktails, some great conversation, a few laughs, get all sauced up and make a few bad decisions late one night, then never talk to each other again other than a few random 4 AM text messages that read something like, “waante 2 fuk?”

I mean seriously, isn’t that what happens in this city? Seems like no one even thinks about getting married around here until they are 35 years old. And honestly, why should they? Single people in this city have more options than Justin Timberlake at a national high school cheerleading competition. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve met a ton of awesome girls and I usually have great dates, but there comes a point where it’s like, “OK, she was cool and we had a great time, but it’s time to move on.”

Maybe it’s just the ADD speaking, but it’s not just me. I mean every now and then I’ll start to really like a girl and then it will just kind of die out. Either I don’t call her or she doesn’t call me...or we’re just too lazy to make time to call each other because you know why? There’s a million more girls and a million more guys all living on an island about a mile wide and eleven miles long.

I’m sure that I’ll find a cure one of these days for my Dating ADD, but until then I’ll keep the texting option on my cell phone on the “unlimited” plan.

NYCDG

Numbers Game

2006-07-12T00:34:00.000-04:00

I was out the other night and saw a couple that were obviously on one of their firsts dates. It became apparent that they were both pretty into each other, holding hands across the table and looking into each others eyes. Hold on while I pull the barf bag out of the seat in front of me. Anyway, as I was sitting there watching these two ogle over each other, I couldn’t help but think that this was all fun and games until they had “the talk.” You know “the talk.” That awkward moment, usually after sex when you’re laying there and she asks “baby...how many women have you slept with?” BAM! There it is. And once it’s out there, there’s no going back.

Now admit it, you’re curious about the answer to that question too, but guys just avoid the situation completely. Let’s be honest, no good can come from asking it, so why bother? Nevertheless, if you’re seeing someone for any significant period of time, the question will eventually rear it’s ugly head. Now as a guy, there’s one major reason not to freak out when you hear how many dudes your girl has given the proverbial ride to: she’s lying. Seriously, I mean doesn’t everyone?

No worries though, I’ve developed a formula that will get you within a few dudes of your girl’s true number. The formula goes something like this:

D = 1 + SQ + 2SQ + (SQ/2)^2

Simplified to

D = 1 + 3SQ + (SQ/2)^2

Where SQ = (CA-V)/3

The above terms are defined as:

D = dicks

SQ = sexual quotient

CA = current age

V = age at which she lost her virginity

This formula represents the culmination of years of research and is all based on the Sexual Quotient (SQ), which is essentially the number of years it’s been since your girl lost her virginity divided by three. The three is an estimation which when applied to the years since her virginity will give you the average number of long term relationships (over six months) she’s been in since that time. The “1" at the beginning of the equation represents that lucky fuck that took your girls virginity.

For all of you non math types, let me walk you through the reasoning behind this formula. For simplicity, assume that your girl is 30 years old and that she lost her virginity at 18, giving her a Sexual Quotient of four, meaning that she’s probably been in about four long term relationships since that fateful day (again this is an estimation). Since she’s dating you, those previous relationships did not work out, which also means that she’s been through the “I just broke up with my boyfriend and I can fuck anything that moves” phase. So let’s assume that each time during this phase she fucked an average of two guys. Finally, you have to account for those times when she’s not in rebound mode, but just needs sex and makes the late night “game time decision” as the bars are closing. This last part of the equation also accounts for the occasional ill- fated fuck buddy that everyone tries and never works out because one of the two “friends” usually develops feelings for the other (which is the reason you square the term).

OK, so according to the formula, you should think that you’re 30 year old girlfriend has probably been with about 17 dudes. Yeah, that’s right 17. If she tells you “four”, she’s either lying, fat, ugly or a combination of the three.

I like to think of this formula as a baseline from which to start. If it turns out that the number is less, you’re stoked. If it’s higher, well maybe you’re girl is a little slutty. Hey, life could be worse right?

So see guys, no reason at all to ask “the question.” All you have to do now is do your best to talk around the question when it’s asked of you and if worse come to worse, just lie...hell, you already know how many dudes she’s been with.

NYCDG

Drunk Songs

2006-07-06T23:57:00.000-04:00

I wore my underwear backwards today. Not on purpose. I got up a little earlier than usual this morning so that I could get a jump start on the day, but evidently I’m not a morning person, seeing as I can’t seem to place the tag of the boxers against my back side. The sad thing is that I didn’t notice until about 11 AM when my morning coffee set in and I needed to relieve myself. I went to the bathroom and couldn’t seem to find the easy access folds that occupy the front of a pair of boxers. It was at this point that I though, “so that’s why I felt a little turned around when I was walking to work this morning.” The sad thing was that I could have just gone into one of the stalls and flipped them around in two seconds, but thought “fuck it, I’m having a pretty good day so far, let’s see how this turns out with them on backwards.” Actually, I ended up having a great day. I might wear my boxers backwards again tomorrow.

What does this have to do with drinking songs? Absolutely nothing. I just thought that you might get a little laugh out of my otherwise private embarrassment.

I spent the last week visiting my brother in San Francisco. Last Friday night we were out at a bar in the North Beach area that looked a little like a twist between an Irish Pub, Sherlock Holmes’ house, and Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride at Disneyland...or Disney World depending on what part of the country you grew up in. Basically, the place was cool and played great music to boot...which got me thinking about the best songs to hear when you’re drunk.

Before I give you my list, I need to preface it with two rules when it comes to drinking songs:

(1) You’ve got to be able to sing along with it - not harmonize, but belt out like a bunch of drunk Irishmen (extra points if you can sway your beer with the harmony)

(2) The song needs to have at least one element of cheesiness, make you reminisce about “the good ole days,” and/or question your heterosexuality. If it has more than one of those elements, chances are it’s a great drunk song.

Finally, when I say “drinking songs” I mean great songs to hear when you’re absolutely shit-faced. When you’re at the point where you don’t care what you sound like or look like or act like. So without further ado, here’s my list of drunk songs in no particular order.

Sweet Caroline (Neil Diamond) - “BUM, BUM, BUM!” You know what I’m talking about. You’ve yelled these same words late night at a bar or a house party. Admit it, Neil Diamond is the king of cheesy drunk songs. If you haven’t heard the rest of the Neil Diamond collection, give Forever in Blue Jeans, I Am...I Said, or Cracklin’ Rosie a whirl the next time you’re three sheets to the wind.

Brown Eyed Girl (Van Morrison) - You haven’t lived until you’ve tied one on and danced with a brown eyed girl to this song. And if you’re not with one...just improvise the words to match the eyes of the girl you happen to be dancing with. If you’re too drunk to know what her eye color is...well, who really gives a shit at that point?

Pianoman (Billy Joel) - Probably the best damn drinking song of all time. Who’s going to argue that this is the ultimate drunk song, written by the ultimate drunk, about all those other drunks that don’t have enough ambition to get their ass off of the bar stool and make something out of their lives?

After the Rain (Nelson) - The cheese factor is very high on this one, but before you blow this song off, get good and sauced one night and then throw on a little Nelson. You’ll see what I’m talking about.

Jack and Diane (John Cougar Mellencamp) - This little ditty about Jack and Diane is great to sing along to. Grab a few cold, coldies, get your ten or twenty best friends together and belt this one out at 3'o clock in the morning.

Tiny Dancer (Elton John) - the song that accompanied a critical moment in the movie Almost Famous. I’m convinced that this is one of the greatest scenes in cinematic history and a great song to go along with it. “Softly....slowly...HOLD ME CLOSER TINY DAAAAAAAANCER, count the headlights on the highway...”

Family Tradition (Hank Williams Jr.) - “Hank, why do you drink?” TO GET DRUNK! Hey, it’s the south and it’s a family tradition...along with fucking your sister and pimping your pickup truck with gun racks and Confederate flags. Nevertheless, great drinking song.

New York, New York (Frank Sinatra) - Ever had that late night buzz in your head as you’re stumbling home from the bars and looking around at the buildings, the taxis, the lights, the bums pissing in the alley and say to yourself “fuck, I live in the greatest city in the history of the world?” That’s right bitch, this is New York fucking City and we’ve made it. That’s what Frank was talking about and that’s why I love this song.

Cheers,

NYCDG

White People are Crazy

2006-06-26T23:44:00.000-04:00

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?

2006-06-19T23:32:00.000-04:00

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

2006-06-16T00:14:00.000-04:00

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

2006-06-10T22:53:00.000-04:00

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

2006-06-08T22:03:00.000-04:00

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

2006-06-06T23:29:00.000-04:00

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

2006-06-03T13:26:00.000-04:00

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

Beer Pong and Jersey Girls

2006-05-29T22:08:00.000-04:00

I kicked off my NYC summer this weekend like any other red-blooded New Yorker that doesn’t have the scratch to go to The Hamptons...I went to the Jersey Shore. A friend of a friend was having his annual Memorial Weekend BBQ at his family’s place in Belmar and I decided to attend as I usually do when I’m in the tri-state area for the first weekend of the summer.

If you know anyone that’s 18-34 years old from New Jersey then you probably know by now that beer pong is the official game of the Garden State. I’m dead serious, they take this shit seriously in Jersey. A guy at the party was actually bragging that he has a “regulation” nine foot table and “official” beer pong plastic cups complete with his own logo, which he uses for his annual 32-team beer pong tournament (coming later this summer...stay tuned because I’m going).

When I asked if I needed to bring anything to the party, my friend told to bring ping pong balls (an integral part of any house party in New Jersey). Five minutes later I get a call back from him because he forgot to tell me to “get the ping pong balls with three stars on them.” I wish I was joking about this...like there’s a fucking difference from brand to brand of ping pong balls. These are the things that guys in New Jersey worry about, getting the right ping pong balls and having logoed plastic cups for their annual beer pong tournament. And they wonder why Jersey gets a bad rap.

After a long afternoon of beer pong accompanied by the music of Bruce Springsteen (a.k.a Jersey Jesus) and Bon Jovi - it wouldn’t be a weekend on the shore if you didn’t hear “Living on a Prayer” at least ten times - my buddies and I head out to Bar Anticipation (“Bar A” if you’re a local). Which begs the question, “what exactly are you anticipating?” Maybe the results of your next STD test after you hook up with one of the Jersey whores at this bar? Or maybe you're anticipating the moment when the slut you’re talking to pauses for a millisecond before rattling off another five run-on sentences about her pathetic central New Jersey existence. Whatever it might be, after about an hour at this place I was reminded why I only go to the shore about once a year.

So here I am, a good 20 beers into the evening talking to a girl from “fuck-if-I-know” New Jersey and wanting to shoot myself in the face. This girl is a spot-on ringer for the quintessential “Jersey slut.” She’s rocking the pink glossy lipstick and caked on purple eye shadow with three piercings in each ear (two studs and the obligatory overly-large hoop earring) look. As if this isn’t enough, she’s got a green bikini top on under a black shoulderless shirt that has these silver, washer-like holes in them, which have left some interesting tan lines from a full day in the sun. The best part of our conversation was when she started telling me about all the “white trash” that was at the bar she was at earlier in the evening. It was all I could do not to laugh out loud.

I know you’re thinking “easy half points,” and you’re right, but instead of starting off my summer with a half-point Jersey slut lay-up (see the NYC Hook-Up Fantasy Game post), I decided to bow out of the conversation and grab a few slices before passing out in the back of my SUV (as the floors of my friend’s house were already packed with random passed out people).

As the early morning sun shone through my tinted windows on Sunday morning, I couldn’t help but think how much happier I was waking up next to my duffle bag than that make-up beast with the nasally Jersey accent I was talking to the night before. Why do I ever leave Manhattan?

Note to Self

2006-05-27T12:23:00.000-04:00

Thirsty Thursday's in Hoboken are a bad idea. Yeah, I mean right now I'm feeling no pain whatsoever, but that might have something to do with the eight Stellas, two So-Co and lime shots and Irish Car Bomb I just had. But who’s to say?

Sidebar: I really miss Miss Kitty’s in the ‘Boken...that place was great. I think I pulled more tail there than Patrick Ewing at the Gold Club. OK, maybe not that much, but you get the point.

So why am I not taking a cab home? That’s a great question. I think it’s a combination of the fact that I’m a masocist and that I love riding the trains. No seriously, if you’ve read my other blogs, then you know I can’t get enough of the interesting people I see on the subway and trains in NYC. Like Liza Minnelli needs to start off her day with a vodka martini, I need the trains to help spawn my creativity. Where else in the world do you have a legitimate chance of seeing a transvestite, a bum, a Rabi, a guy that looks like Albert Einstein and another guy that looks like an able-bodied Stephen Hawking all in the same subway car? And yes, this actually happened to me once and I have a picture to prove it.

Unfortunately tonight I’m sharing a subway car with a slightly overweight Mexican dude in a wife beater that has no idea which direction the train is heading. “Hey buddy, read the fucking sign.” I swear to god he’s asked the train conductor if he’s going in the right direction twice in the last five minutes. I guarantee you he’s as drunk as I am right now...but who isn’t bombed riding the fucking PATH train at 1:34AM on a Thursday night. It’s going to be a painful morning tomorrow. Jesus, I need help.

NYC Hook-Up Fantasy Game

2006-05-24T00:24:00.000-04:00

The weather might not be reflective of it, but summer is upon us and we all know what that means. That’s right sports fans, the three sacred months between Memorial Day and Labor Day mark the official hook-up season in the NYC area. Like cockroaches scurrying out of the crevasses of the subway after a train has past, when Memorial Day weekend arrives the women in this city seem to wake up from their winter hibernation and start wearing less and drinking more. This, of course, leads to copious amounts of fornication and good times are had by all.

Getting laid in this city during that 100 day time frame is like playing dodge ball against first-graders, it’s still fun, but there’s really no challenge in it. I’m convinced that even the cabbies in this city get laid during the summer (think about that, the next time it’s 3:55 AM and you’re considering taking the chubby bar skank you’ve been talking to for the last hour home for a spin...just go to Ben’s Pizza and call it a night instead man, your stomach and your pride will thank me for it in the morning).

So feeling as if hooking up in the summer becomes less of an art form and more of a right of passage, I’ve come up with a hook-up game to make things a little more interesting. For all of you NFL football junkies that are dying because it’s a good three months before your fantasy football draft, this one’s for you. Get your buddies together this weekend, crack some beers and set your own ground rules. Here are some of my proposed “house rules” to get you started. (Note to all of my female and gay male readers: sorry these rules don’t apply to you...you could get laid on the subway if you felt like it, but please feel free to keep reading)

Setting the Stage:
• Season starts on the Friday of Memorial Day weekend and ends the Monday night of Labor Day (roughly 100 days)
• Leagues can consist of two to ten “Players”
• Scoring is on the honor system, so only allow “Players” in the league that you trust
• Prizes can vary, but I would suggest a winner-take-all pot with a $100 entry fee per “Player” and some kind of golden penis trophy(might be a good touch). I’d also suggest some form of “prize” for the person that finishes in last place; this keeps the game interesting for all involved throughout the summer...something humiliating like wearing a dress out with the buddies on a Saturday night.
• The definition of “hooking-up” needs to be clearly defined before the game can begin, as you can imagine the endless number of grey-area cases (e.g. does “just the tip” count, etc.)
• Hook-ups can only be counted once. This means if the girl you hook-up with becomes your booty call or girlfriend, you're done...so act accordingly.
• Unlike Major League Baseball, the use of performance enhancing drugs is strictly forbidden. This consists of drugs that might be personally taken or given to others. I might have a sick mind, but I’m not a rapist.

Scoring System:
• Any single girl hook-up (+1 point)
• If she has natural red hair or if she’s Asian (+2 points)
• Bar waitress (+2 points)
• If she’s married (+3 points)
• If she’s a bride-to-be at her bachelorette party (+4 points)
• Female bartender - the holy grail of the bar hook-up (+5 points)

Bonuses and half points:
• If another Player in your league has already hooked up with her that season (+half the points from the system above)
• Threesomes, or two hook-ups at the same time (+3 bonus points from the system above)
• If she’s over 40 years of age or more than 7 years your senior (half the points above - younger guy factor...or old desperate factor)
• If she’s more than 7 years your junior...and of course no younger than 18 (+2 bonus points from the system above)
• If you’re at a bar or met her at a bar in Connecticut (double the points from the system above) - prudes
• If you’re at a bar or met her at a bar in New Jersey (half the points from the system above) - this should be self-explanatory
• If she’s Puerto Rican (+half the points from above)

The “Player” with the most points at the end of the season wins. Easy as that. Have fun, remember to wear your jims, and be careful out there. Happy gaming fellas.

NYCDG

"Don't Let Impotence Ruin Your Sex Life"

2006-05-21T15:39:00.000-04:00

Riding the subway in New York City is always an adventure, you never know what kind of creatures you will encounter. If you ride the subway enough (as I’m sure most of you do), then you’ve no doubt seen the drunken, passed out guy with puke and/or shit all over him. Or what about the paranoid woman with the buggy eyes that keeps her purse so close to her chest that you’d think she’s breast feeding it? My personal favorite is the Bible-thumping crazy people that yell and scream in indecipherable accents about how we all need to repent before the world ends...next Tuesday. Does anyone else wonder how these people pay rent? What do they do when they are not preaching about the end of the world on the E train? Do all the Bible-thumpers know each other? Do they meet regularly to brainstorm about their message, so they are being consistent? Is there a Bible-thumpers union that has to negotiate with the “one-armed homeless guy” union over territorial rights on the subway lines? These are the questions that keep me up at night.

Last night I had a moment of Subway Zen, actually it was more like subway irony, but Zen sounds much more catchy. So I’m on the train going to meet some friends out for a few drinks and there’s this guy sitting across from me. At first glance, he seems like your typical Johnny Cool Balls, bridge and tunnel asshole that just walked off the PATH train. You’ve seen this guy before. That guy with the slicked back hair, the striped button-up shirt that’s only half buttoned, and a look on his face like he’s too good for the subway, but he really needs to save the eight bucks he would be spending on cab fare so he can start the night off with a vodka-tonic before progressing to his typical $4 Bud Lights.

So there we are, Johnny Cool Balls and I trying not to violate the unspoken rules of the subway and make eye contact with each other, when I notice that the guy is wearing brown loafers, no socks and has his jeans rolled up a good three times. What?!? Who does this? Does he think that makes him look cool? Did he see an American Eagle advertisement last week with some dude rocking the rolled-up jeans, no sock-wearing loafers look while fishing in Montana or what?

My moment of irony, you might ask? The very next moment I notice that Johnny was sitting directly under an ad that read, “Don’t let impotence ruin your sex life.” I couldn’t help but think that impotence was the last thing this American Eagle-looking asshole had to worry about ruining his sex life.

My drunken, random thought for the day.

The Subway

2006-05-20T15:07:00.000-04:00

The subway is the great equalizer. I'm looking around right now (it's 4:27 AM) at at all of these blue collar (read: poor) workers around me and guess who's standing? Yep, me. That's cool . I'm ok with standing while the salt of the earth sits down. Hell, they walked into the subway car before I did, so they have earned the right to sit. Seriously. I really don't mind.

In all other worlds, they are shining my shoes (while I sit), cleaning my toilets (where I sit), or doing other menial tasks which I don't even think about doing (as I sit on my cushy leather chair at work). My point is, and has always been, that the subway is the great equalizer. It doesn't matter if you're rich or poor, blue collar or white collar, toilet scrubber or toilet sitter, as long as you get on the damn train first, you get a seat.

The subway is a place where a school janitor can look a CEO straight in the eye and give him the "fuck you, buddy, I got here first" look. I think there's something poetic about that.

This is the Drunk Guy's World

2006-05-20T10:51:00.000-04:00

Hello and welcome to my world...the Drunk Guy's World, that is. Am I an alcoholic you might ask? No, absolutely not. Alcoholics go to meetings. I, my friend, am a drunk. But then again, who isn't in this city? Who doesn't like to go out after work and blow off some steam over a few cocktails after The Man has spent the last 10 hours of the day winding them to tight that a nun's asshole would be jealous?

Alcohol is not an end unto itself, it's a means to an end . It's what the proletariat use to help them forget how bad their lives are and what the bourgeoisie use to remind them about the greatness of theirs. It's a social conduit that unites people from all walks of life and reminds us that "hey, we're all in this together, so fuck it, let's get bombed and enjoy each other. "

Since this is my very first blog, I think that I should probably set a few ground rules up-front:

Rule 1: Nothing is sacred. I'm not a racist, a sexist, a homophobe, an anarchist, an atheist, or any other -phobe, -ist, or -ism, you might think of. That said, I reserve the right to taunt, make fun of, or talk shit about any race, religion, or political view point I feel like. If you're easily offended, this blog is probably not for you.

Rule 2: I am who I want to be at any particular moment. I call this "The Drunk Guy's Golden Rule." You know what I'm talking about, sometimes you never know what you're going to become after you've had a few drinks. You can become the "happy drunk," the "angry drunk," the "overly touch-feely drunk," the "sad drunk," the "obnoxious drunk"...the list goes on and on. Being that I will most likely be writing some of these blogs after a night on the town, I reserve the right to take on any personality trait for any particular blog. You might also recognize this rule as one that women live by on a daily basis.

Rule 3: Lighten up, it's only life. Read my blog (often), enjoy it, take it with a grain of salt and a shot of tequila, but don't live your life vicariously through my (mis)adventures. Go out and experience it for yourself. Have a few (too many) drinks, pour one out for the homies, and most importantly, enjoy the ride.

Cheers,

NYC Drunk Guy