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Category Archives: random person of the week

So I was doing my usual Sunday night ritual, drinking at the Turkey’s Nest and watching football with the guys, when I inadvertently mad the acquaintance of a very drunk fellow. Not a big deal, since I was quite inebriated myself. However, this guy was rather touchy-feely. To the point where my roommate practically demanded he quit molesting me. I mean, I’ve been around dudes who like touching, but this was ridiculous. There was even some rather weird touching of my chest. Not good times.

He was there with another guy and a girl. I thought that this couple was dating, but something seemed off. As in guy #2 was sane and sensible, while the girl was incredibly wasted, incoherently talking about her “Patriots” who had played far earlier that afternoon and had no reason to be spoken of during a Chargers-Colts game. But they definitely seemed to have something going on.

Later in the evening, around 1 am, the weird trio had left the bar, only for guy #2 to eventually return. He sat next to me at the bar, and soon apologized for guy #1’s behavior. “Yeah man, he was all over you,” he apologized.

“I don’t know what was up with that,” I responded. As a drinker, I know how tough it is to deal with friends that are acting in a rather embarrassing fashion. “How do you and your girlfriend know him?”

“Oh, her? She’s going out with him. I just met them tonight.”

“What?”

“Yeah, those two are weird. I see him all over you, and at the same time, she’s like hitting on me. She was kind of cute, I wanted to do something, but then I’m like, “This whole thing is weird.’.”

“Ha. You walked ’em both home?”

“Yeah. Weird.”

Well, just when I thought meeting people in bars couldn’t get any worse, now I was targeted by what appears to be a couple that has nothing in common except drinking, probably drugs, and pathetic attempts to pick up dudes.

Where does such a couple meet? How do they evolve into bisexual swingers? Does she try to pick up girls once in a while? Do they have three-ways where they share a guy, or do they prefer to pair off? How long have they been doing this? Do their parents know? Why the hell are they casing the Turkey’s Nest?

They live in the neighborhood, so I’m sure I’ll be seeing them again. You know, some say New York is a series of small towns. And every good small town should have it’s signature predatory bisexual swinger couple. Congratulations, Williamsburg!

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It’s been a while, but I haven’t forgotten you, my readers. I am carelessly neglecting you, as I’ve said before. I used a vacation day to create a three day weekend for myself, so I thought I would get you guys caught up:

  • Here’s how it works, people. You go up to the counter. You order the tacos. They call your name. You pick up the tacos, and then you eat the tacos. Simple enough, no? You’d be surprised at what shots of Jagermeister can do to make that process not go smoothly.
  • Went to PS 1 this weekend, and some guy’s idea of art was to show video some fat dude boxing with a topless woman. I guess I should be happy the fat guy wasn’t topless, but, really. Because you open said video installation with some observation about how it could be about your father but it’s really about your mother, it’s art? As opposed to, say a “documentary” called “Big Titty Fight Club?”
  • At this point, if you give out huge-ass, two-foot long straws with your drink, (I forget what Rusty Knot officially called it, but it was essentially a soup tureen full of of ‘zombies’), then you can’t complain about the fifteen minutes of “I drink your milkshake!” jokes that will inevitably follow.
  • You know, the party doesn’t officially start till the sloppy drunk blond albino girl falls all over your friend, who is scared half to death. Then she hits on him, and the fun really begins.
  • Ardbeg Scotch: If you like your scotch to taste like old cigars strained through through sweat socks, this is your drink. They were giving it away and the bartender was stunned when I asked for another. Not for the faint of heart.
  • A solemn but hopeful goodbye to Mickie, my favorite late-night bartender at San Loco. You’ll be missed, and good luck in Austin!
  • The number of black people we counted at the Sunday night Bruce Springsteen concert I attended at Giants Stadium other than myself and Clarence Clemons (not including concessions, security, ushers, and parking): 4
  • The essential dilemma of the middle-aged rock concert with middle-aged patrons: Sit, or stand? A fight nearly broke out in front of us. Luckily, it happened during “Tunnel of Love”, not necessarily a crowd favorite.
  • For a nearly 60-year old dude, he puts on a top quality, fun, energetic show, especially for his Jersey people. I don’t think I’m saying anything new by saying if you ever have a chance to see him live, do it. But I said it anyway.
  • Props to Max Weinberg, who we swore was gonna have a stroke, he was working so hard.
  • What do you get when you go to White Castle at 1 a.m. on a Sunday? Well, aside from indigestion, the line of the night from a very, uh, let’s say flamboyant gay man to someone who was harassing him and his tranny pal outside: “Oh no! You don’t mess with me! I might walk like Tina, but I fight like Ike!” He later bragged about his boxing trophies. Good times.
  • Cost of seats at Bruce Springsteen concert: $68. Having your white friends from Indiana clown you for engaging in what might possibly be the whitest activity alive, apparently: priceless.
  • “Step Brothers”: If you liked “Anchorman” and “Talledega Nights”, you’ll like this one. It might be the funniest of the three, I laughed pretty consistently, I have to say. And I went in quite worried, to be honest.
  • After the gym and some dinner, I decided to take the one of the movie tickets I gave blood for and see another one rather than sit around the house. After finding out that “Indiana Jones” is indeed long gone from the theaters, I decided to see “Hancock”. Review: I liked the beginning. I liked the ending. But they seemed to belong to two completely different movies. It wasn’t bad, but I think if they had stayed on a more comedic path, they would have had a better chance a  more consistent, classic comedy. In the end, it just ends up being okay. If you want to check out my spoiler-filled musings on the twist and ending it’s on my tumblr.
  • Also on my tumblr, I detail some really bad news about my living situation. And by bad, I mean a comedy filled train wreck that may leave extra cash in my pocket.

So, what’s the overall point of this weekend: 1. I need to take more days off, 2. I’m not going to apologize for liking Bruce Spingsteen, 3. sometimes it takes an albino damsel in distress to divine the line between good and evil, and 4. there’s still time for me to write the truly Great American Alcoholic Superhero Movie.

Sometimes, just when you think things are going are your way, that things are turning around, and that the there’s a light at the end of the tunnel, you get a rude wake-up call the light is a train, and it’s continuing to head in the same direction you can’t seem to stop going in.

Not to bring everyone down, of course.

Anyway, last week, my friend and I walked into a bar where there was dancing on the bar. One of the ladies dancing on the bar caught me nodding off a little bit and not paying attention to her dance skills. It was a late night indeed, and a school night, but there was no excuse not to look at her, except I was tired. I turned down her suggestion of a shot to wake me up, and found the whole thing amusing.

Later as I came back from the bathroom, she grabbed me, and we struck up a conversation for quite some time. Not only was she attractive, but she seemed intelligent and funny as well. Someone I would like to get to know a lot more, I think, on some level…yes, either the cheap tawdry one that lasts for a fleeting evening or a maybe, just maybe, a special one that lasts quite some time and adds depth and shading to your outlook on life and your experiences, no matter what the outcome. One never knows.

Anyway, I went over to make sure my buddy was okay. He said he was fine, except for the fact that the bartender, who we were familiar with, was treating him quite coldly. He had gotten her phone number in some drunken episode quite a while back and had apparently never called her. Oh well. I didn’t think much of it.

So I went back to the young lady. Quickly it dawned on m as things were different. Very different. As in , “I have work to do and have to get up early” different. When I asked if I could get in contact with her again, I was told, “Maybe you should ask {bartender’s name}, she’ll let you know.” I went home stunned, too drunk to realize what had happened.

I had my earth salted! More precisely, I had been cockblocked by a vengeful bartender. All because my buddy had never called her. Great. Way to exact revenge on him. Ohhh, strike another mightly blow for sisterhood, you showed that womanizing bastard up good by cockblocking some dude who was not even there to see the number exchange! Woooo! You got his friend! That’ll keep him up nights! That’ll learn him!

Well, another mighty blow for the female race, as I’m sure that woman will find somebody much more deserving with less antagonizing drinking buddies. What a rescue on your part. Congratulations. You’re our latest Random Person of Recent Times! And by congratulations, I mean hitting women is wrong, so I wouldn’t consider it, so I’ll just harbor this grudge until such time as a proper but classy revenge can be extracted.

 

 

 

 

 

Let’s not dwell on how long it’s been, shall we, and get right to it.

At Key Bar in the East Village, we decided to take seats near the bathroom. As we here hanging out, a woman walked by, sized up BrianVan and may myself and started chatting. The conversation was inconsequential, as no one was interested. She was a bit drunk, and a bit weird. at some point, introductions happened. That’s when she noticed my front teeth.

For those of you who have never seen me, I sport a gap in between my front teeth. A little wider than Letterman’s and Madonna’s, not as big as Michael Strahan’s. It doesn’t bother me as much as it used to, but it can look horrendous in certain photos. It definitely plays better in person, although if I ever ended up on TV, I probably would get it fixed.

Anyway, as soon as I laughed, (at her I assure you, not with her), she said “Oh!”

I was like, “What?”

“I see that thing you have in your mouth.”

I figured it was the gap in my teeth, so I said, “What about it?”

“It means you eat pussy!”

Well, that was the end of the conversation, because I didn’t know what that meant. A year or two ago, some skanky shot girl at a bar said the gap in my front teeth held some sort of secret about my sexual prowess. 

Now look, I’m not saying that I don’t eat pussy, or that you won’t generally get a top-notch effort from me, ladies (a high number of whiskey slushes, wines, and PBR’s notwithstanding), but do I really have to wonder about the message my front teeth are sending? Really? 

 

 

 

 

After a long and, um, eventful President’s Day Weekend (extended by one day due to, ahem, special circumstances), we have our Random Person of the Week. It was a pretty fierce competition, but as always, someone had to emerge a clear winner.

This week’s award goes to the dufus cabdriver whose car died not even halfway into our destination. No crime against him, these things happen. But his attitude was not helpful to an already bad situation.

I asked him, “So that’s it? The car’s dead?”

Here’s how he should have responded: “Well, I’m very sorry about this. I guess the car has died. Please be careful getting out. The fare is $6.60, but I’ll understand if you’re reluctant to pay.”

Here’s how he did respond, in a stern, somewhat menacing tone: “Look, the fare is 6.60, I got you all the way here.”

Really, you made it to 3rd Street and Second Avenue in Manhattan. Aw, that’s so nice. Maybe you deserve a jerky treat and a pat on the head. We’re going to Park Slope, Brooklyn, motherfucker! That is NOWHERE near our destination! So we’re supposed to be giddy and give you a hand job for it? What the fuck is wrong with you?

Here’s how he probably hoped I’d respond: “Oh, thanks so much? We’ll just have to get out and get another cab on a cold winter’s night. But that’s okay, you made it this far. I mean, you can’t control this, right?”

My actual response: “Shut the fuck up and listen. You’ll get your money, which you don’t deserve, but you’re going shut your mouth and listen to this first. Yeah, it’s not your fault the cab died. But your tone and attitude is rude. How dare you demand money with that attitude when you did not finish the service you were supposed to provide? The only reason I’m going to give you this money is so I don’t come across this partition and punch you in your fucking face.”

I threw seven dollars at him, and we left the cab. Eventually, we got another one and made our way home.

So, for being the person that got me dangerously close to going Kermit Washington on his punk ass, he is our Random Person Of The Week. The first rule of customer service is that even something happens that is not your fault, your first priority is still the customer. Not whether or not you’re going collect seven measly dollars when you completely failed to get the job done. Oh, and you risked being beaten lie you stole something by a drunk and angry blogger who had other issues to deal with. So, congratulations, Jackass Cabdriver Who Thought Being Rude and Collecting Seven Dollars Was More Important Than Being Courteous and Thinking About His Customers, you’re our Random Person of The Week! And you made a forty cent tip, which I will never forgive myself for giving you.

Also Receiving Votes: Guy Who’s Going to Jail Next Week But Seems Like A Completely Nice Guy, Girl Who Made Eyes With Me At the Bar Until Her Man Showed Up And Then Started Again After He Went Out For A Smoke.

Yes, with the writer’s strike over, it’s time to finally bring back one of everyone’s favorite pieces from the old blog, a feature I called Random Person of the Week, where I would award the honor of internet mockery to a person I dealt with during the week who changed my life. And by changed my life, I mean, make me go, “what the hell is wrong with people?!”

This week’s winner: the young lady ahead of me in line at the Chinese food spot (I refuse to say restaurant, a restaurant has tables and you can consider eating in there. I heard they only recently took down the bulletproof glass. Gentrification, baby!) Anyway, after placing her order, she requests some fortune cookies.

She tears into them, and stares at her fortune. (Anyway, aren’t you supposed to eat them afteryour dinner? If I’m not mistaken, Confucius put down an official ruling on this one, right?) She looked confused, and her friend looked like he had no idea what she was talking about or reading. Finally, she comes over to me, I pause my podcast of Around The Horn, and I hear this:

“Excuse me. What does this mean?” She hands me her fortune, and I read:

“Don’t put all your eggs in one basket.” Stunned, I looked at this woman and said, “It means you should diversify.”

She turned away without a response, because, let’s face it, if she had no idea what one of the oldest cliches in the history of the English language meant, she wasn’t going to know what diversify meant. Stunned, I just sat down, waited for my sesame chicken combination plate, and wept for future generations.

So congratulations to The Woman Who Did Not Know What “Don’t Put All Your Eggs In One Basket” Meant. Not only did you become the first RPOW of the Well Whiskey Friday Era, you beat some pretty stiff competition to do it, like the Couple Who Wanted To Haggle About Ticket Prices At The Door and The Dodgy English Chick Who Tried To Make Out With Me At The Bar. Savor this victory, lady! Well, if you can even read this.