SMILES4MILES

“You’ve always wondered who’s on match.com?” Ok, radio commercial, so maybe I have when lonely and desperate. I’ve thought about it, but when it came down to it I could never bring myself to do it. Call me old fashioned but I’m from the school of thought, that meeting people on the internet will only lead to your rape and/or slow disembowelment at the hands of some fucking psychopath. Now I know this is a little over the top and more imagination than the truth. Which in my case, would be a long and awkward evening with a boring, overly clingy, and slightly obese gal who’s love for Victorian clothing design is only outshined by her love for anatomically correct horse miniatures. Believe me, I am not trying to come off as some sort of prize. I’m sure the nice lass I mentioned above would be horrified to encounter the drunk, pot smoking, sarcastic, rocker dude that would pick her up after viewing my profile and exchanging a few messages. I mean it takes a tough broad to put up with me. If I were on an Internet dating site, I wouldn’t show all my cards from the get go. Isn’t it just human nature to hide our flaws from strangers? Shouldn’t you expect there’s something wrong with the stranger whose only photo is an above the shoulders only and profile that reads like a resume. Who trusts people in this day an age? Haven’t these people seen Chris Hansen on Dateline ousting all those pederasts? Wouldn’t these fears be the biggest obstacle for an advertising agency to overcome when marketing a dating website? I’m no ad exec, but wouldn’t the smart approach be to convince people, who may be on the edge of trying a dating site for the first time, that it is possible to meet some nice normal people. It seems that Dallas-based Launch Agency, didn’t think so when creating match.com’s new national advertising campaign.

I listen to the same sports radio station all day every day, so their commercials become repetitive very quickly. Recently two commercials for Match.com have caught my attention. The first one is of a man giving the overview of his profile. This cocky voice with a tinge of Guido in it saying something like a get away for me is out on the open road in a 62 Chevy. Ok, starts off fine, maybe the voice is a bit creepy, but other than that it’s fine. Then his voice takes an almost threatening tone and says there’s nothing better than being on the open road in a convertible with him. He sings or should I say croons to break the uncomfortable silence. It sounds like the SNL sketch where Will Ferrell does his impression of Robert Goulet, and to top it off his profile name is CROONERCOOL. It’s just the creepiest fucking thing. Mental images of this freak show come to mind. Out on the open road, with his special lady by his side, wind whipping through their hair, the sun beating down, then she says something that he might not agree with. A silly joke, meant to be nothing that accidentally questions his manhood. Next thing you know he’s thanking god for the craftsmanship of his good ol’ American car and their roomy trunks, as he stuffs her lifeless body into it. Who knew he could fit her next to the corpse of that truck stop hooker from last night. That bitch had the audacity to ask for the $20 he promised her for a half and half. I’m just saying if I were a woman this ad would not convince me that I wouldn’t end up meeting some nut bag that would wear my ovaries as a clown nose.

The next idea, which somehow didn’t get aborted with a coat hanger at the brain storming stage, was the match.com add intended to lure men to their site. Ah men that’s easy, who doesn’t know how to lure a large group of idiot men into throwing their money away. Have these people not opened a Maxum? Throw a seductive voice out there and every frat boy from here to the Mississippi will be on there looking for poon. Oh, maybe they’re trying to avoid that and cater to the needs of the nice guy. A shy didn’t lose their virginity until they were 25, type of guy. These guys are looking for a wholesome, caring woman, who they can also have fun with. What type of woman do you think the creative masterminds at Launch Agency came up with? SMILES4MILES, a vacant sounding woman wants to share something with us. Smiles over here, has a stand up mower and just loves mowing the lawn! “It’s just 3 hours where I can clear my head” Really, NO FUCKING WAY! That’s exactly what I’m looking for in a woman. I never thought I could find a person who could fulfill my lawn clipping needs, and my lust for a broad so bland, her most interesting quality is her love for mowing. I mean she’s not perfect, if she were perfect instead of calling it mowing the lawn she could have given it a cute slang name like lawnicure or a grassover. Don’t think you know everything about this lil wild card. She’s not some lawn care whore that will get don and dirty with your yard on the first date. She hates raking leaves, so don’t you go getting any ideas.

Nothing about either of these ads give me faith in match.com’s applicant pool In fact, if I were still single and on the verge of internet dating, I would turn off my computer, go to the nearest bar, and drink whiskey until the skank at the end of the bar is younger, prettier, and skinnier. Maybe the good people Launch Agency are actually an outfit of rouge guardian angles that are fighting the rise of the machines. Promoting getting out of the house and having drunk sex. They know that if computers can control at the dating process, then they will eventually take over the breeding process. For fuck sake people this will lead to the realization of all three Terminator movies. I mean it’s that or they’re just a bunch of fucking idiots. I mean how hard would it have been to use a woman who enjoyed watching sports and drinking beer. Or better yet, possibly a special someone for a woman that wouldn’t rape them. I’m on to you Launch, WE MUST DESTROY SKYNET!

Worst Date Ever!

I recently read something about the worst date you have ever been on. So figured I’d write my own little story. I mean the story I just read included vomit, menstrual blood, drugs, and only lasted a couple of hours. My story doesn’t so much to do with the person I was on the date with, but a series of unfortunate events that led to this 12 hour debacle.

One day while walking down the street I ran into an old friend from what seemed like another lifetime. I mean I hadn’t seen this girl since she was 15. We had a quick drink and really hit it off. She told me that her gay cousin was having a birthday party in Chelsea the following week and asked if I’d like to come along. I figured me and gays was like peas and carrots, and this could be a great time to show what a good guy I am. I was really looking forward to this. My lady friend had matured very nicely. If I hadn’t already known her, she probably wouldn’t have given me the time of day. Thursday night came around and I cleaned myself up the best I could. She swung by in her car and we drove up to Chelsea.

This was back before there was much of anything was along 10th Ave. The party was at a really small bar around 23rd St. As soon as I walked in I knew I was going to be ok. It didn’t take long before I was laughing and joking with this girl’s aunt and cousin. They loved me, and were amused by what I had to say. Hell, I’m not even amused by what I have to say. Everyone was really nice and we were having a great time. Being that most of my dates before and after this could be best described as awkward. I was shocked how smooth I was acting with this beautiful girl on my arm. The party started to wind down pretty early and my lady friend whispered into my ear, let’s go back to your place. I figured I’ve been dealt enough shit hands in my life that I deserved this. She handed me her car keys and off to my place we went.

Or so I thought. Walking down the street with a shit eating grin on my face, we turned onto 25th St where she had parked. I looked around and didn’t see the car. She thought maybe she parked it on another street. I knew we had parked there but was hoping I was wrong. The hotdog vendor next to us confirmed my worst fear. He asked if we were looking for the Honda. As I nodded yes, he said that the car had just been towed. FUCK!?!?!?!?! This prompted my lady friend to freak out, since it was her parents car. Taking it all in stride, I kept my cool and started to assess the situation. I called information and found the number to the tow lot. Luckily it was within walking distance. They told me it would take some time for the car to be processed and to call back in an hour. Now it was time for some damage control.

I assured the young lady that we would get the car out and everything was going to be ok. I suggested we walk up toward the impound lot that was at an old pier on the west side highway. I knew an old roadhouse type bar along the way that we could wait in. What cures fear better than booze? Obviously, I couldn’t think of anything, so I went with the sure bet. Always go with what you know, because the bar worked like a charm. It was empty and the bartender was sympathetic to our cause. I’ve never seen such a little girl swig such a large amount of whiskey. After a little bit the mood lightened up, and I found out the car had been processed. I closed out our tab and we walked hand in hand along the scenic Hudson River to the impound pier. I was going to salvage this night if it killed me or anyone in my path.

As with all public works in NYC, I knew this was going to be a long wait. Things were starting to look up though. The now inebriated girl was getting very close to me. Next thing you know we were making out in the office of the impound lot. Classy, I know. Sometimes you got to put on a show for all the miserable people in a impound lot office at 2am. Just when I began to think about how keeping my cool had paid off, she pulled away from me and made a run for the door leading to the pier. Under the cold stares of about a dozen people in that little office, I made my way outside. Not surprisingly, I found her hanging over the railing releasing the contents of her stomach into the Hudson River. I rubbed her back and told her everything was going to be all right. She responds, “I hate alcohol!” Not really knowing what to say, I joked that she shouldn’t blame my old friend alcohol for this. I wasn’t really prepared for the answer she returned. I backed away slowly when she screamed about abuse she had suffered her freshman year of college while drunk that had led her to leave school. I sat down on the steps while she finished up. After all that has happened tonight, this is where it starts to get heavy.

Luckily our number got called shortly after this incident and I coughed up the $350 that it cost to get the car out of the fucking lot. At this point I just wanted out of there, and out of this night. Little did I know, the end was no where in sight. As I drove her car down to my apartment, she sobered up a bit and apologized for everything that happened. I assured her I understood, and she said she couldn’t wait to just crash for a couple of hours with me. See, she had to get up extra early to get back home and help take care of her handicapped brother. I found a legal spot right outside my place and we headed up the five floors to my apartment. At this point it was about 4:30am, and I was so worn out that I barely know what was going on. I opened the door to my place and turn into my room. As I turn on the light and she walks into, I see my roommate passed out on the corner of my bed. He’s wearing a kimono that is wide open and the gay porn site asspig.com is displayed on my computer. I quickly cover him up while backhanding him simultaneously. I’m like get the fuck out of my room! To my shock he’s like fuck no. Not wanting to make a big scene by dragging a 6-6 naked man through the apartment, I just said lets crash in his bed. He chimes in, “Oh you don’t want to do that, there’s blood, shit, and lube all over that.” Disgusted, my lady friend walks out to the living room and curls up on the couch. I assure her that I will wake her when she needs to get going.

I see the bottle of gin I had brought home from Amsterdam, and just start drinking right from the bottle. As the suns starts to come up, I flip on the morning news and go over the night in my head. Around this time my roommate finally rises from his slumber and joins us in the living room. The little lady pops an eye open and somehow they strike up a conversation. Next thing you know they are engaged in a heated debate about sex and religion. As I started the get deeper in to the gin, I finally started to lose my cool. When it was her time to go, I wanted to kill both of them. I held it together for a couple more minutes and walked her to the car and kissed her goodbye. I figured with her owing me $350, there wasn’t much chance I’d see her again. At that point I didn’t really care. I got back up to my apartment and my roommate had gone to sleep in his room thankfully. I slammed the last of the bottle screamed at the top of my lungs and passed out on the floor.

That was one hell of a night. It was true I didn’t see her again for a number of years. I don’t know if she had ever intended on paying me back. I don’t know her well enough to judge her morals. A year later I was working with someone and it turned out they were friends with my date from that night. I jokingly told the story to them. I didn’t really give a fuck about the money anymore, but low and behold a couple of weeks later my work buddy handed me an envelope with my money in it. As I said, it really wasn’t a question of the person I was on the date with, but the circumstances that led to the events of that summer evening.

Southern Odyssey - Part One

With my first adventure to the south a couple of days away, I really had no idea what to expect. My paranoid parents had started scaring me away from the south since I was a little kid. My, not very traveled, mother from Brooklyn, and my father the constant traveler, from Trenton had always warned me against the south. My mom was convinced those confederates hated all Italians. My father at the tender age of 11 showed me Easy Rider and Deliverance, and asked if I wanted that to happen to me. I hadn’t quite grasped the concept of one man fucking another man in the ass, but I knew I didn’t want to squeal like a piggy. I also knew that I didn’t want to get beaten to death by redneck cops, or blown away with a shot gun. So these are probably some of the reasons that I had never made it down there, until now.

I woke up Sat. March 8, with plenty of time to get to the airport, and my dear friend Ricky offered to drive me to the airport. I had planned everything flawlessly and was ready to fly into Austin, TX, stay over, and then drive to New Orleans the next day. I would spend some time there, and then drive back to Austin for the SXSW music festival. Car rentals, motels, friends, and food were all researched and reserved. As I set out for the airport, it was raining. It was raining really hard. Once I got to LaGuardia Airport, all the flights were delayed. No problem, I would just take a spot at the bar, drink, and wait. Then my flight got backed up again, so I couldn’t make my connecting flight to Austin. I was rerouted through Chicago, but that flight was also delayed. Long story short, I spent 10 hours at the airport bar getting tanked, when I was told there was no way I was leaving that night. Slightly defeated, I made arrangements to catch the 6am flight out so I could be in Austin by 11am and set out on the long drive to New Orleans. I got back to my apartment around 11pm, after an expensive cab ride. I would have to get up at 4am to make this flight, just as I realized it was daylight savings and I would lose an hour that night. Fuck, what a start to my vacation!

In arose in the wee hours of the morning and headed out once again. No doubt, my friends were still out drinking somewhere. This time my flights went like clock work and I found myself in Austin right on time. I got my rental car, a delightfully feminine Chevy HHR in red. Sure, it was a totally lame car, but it was comfortable and it drove well. Once I got on the road, I realized the stress of the previous day didn’t really matter. All I had done was sit at a bar and drink, something I’m no stranger to, and I still set out for New Orleans around the time I had planned. I hadn’t really slept but that didn’t really matter. I decided to stop in Houston for some lunch. A friend had told me of this legendary Good and Company BBQ right on the highway I was traveling down. A beef brisket dinner with sides and a Shiner beer later I returned to my sweet ride. I reached around in my pants and removed the latex pinky finger of a kitchen glove I had smuggled down, filled with my favorite herbal remedy. Vacation was starting to look up, and I had plenty of time to get some good road thinking in while crossing the beautiful bayous of eastern Texas and southern Louisiana. I started to tire but made it to my hotel right on legendary Bourbon St with the help of a little trucker speed.


The band I technically manage, She Keeps Bees, had a show that night and I had just enough time to shower and cab it up to the bar, arriving a cool 10 minutes before they played. Sure it took 38 hours to get there, but I still got there on time. I definitely deserved some drinks, and made my way into some whiskey and Abita, the local beer. It was a good show and some nice people. I passed out in the back of a pick up truck riding around town, went to a couple of bars, and then made my way back to Bourbon St. Living in New York, I would never be caught dead hanging out in Times Square or other tourist traps. This being my first time in New Orleans I figured I should walk around Bourbon St, get more trashed, see the frat boys puking in the street, and maybe some tits. I was already deliriously tired and very drunk. Nothing of importance happened and I really wasn’t into the crowds at the bars along that strip. These were the people I had successfully avoided throughout college and I wasn’t about to start hanging out with them now. I got to the gay section and thought I’d feel more at home there. Then I thought, well if you take the gay friends out of going to the gay bar, you may need to start rethinking things. I just returned to my hotel, and got a great night sleep in a king size bed.

The next morning, I explored the French Quarter and enjoyed the park on the Mississippi River. Things started to get odd while I was waiting to meet some friends for lunch. Sitting on the curb a couple of guys asked me to take a picture of them by the Bourbon St sign. While taking the picture, I realized they were all wearing 311 t-shirts. I thought that was odd, I didn’t quite understand why they would all wear the same crappy band t-shirt. I sat there thinking that I haven’t heard of that band in 10 years. I didn’t know people still liked them. This was only the beginning. Once I met my friends, they said oh man you hear about the 311 concert tomorrow, gonna be sweet man. They recounted a story about the plane ride down where another set of douches had talked the whole time about the sweet concert, and how they saw them years ago. Thinking it was just an odd coincident, we finished our lunch (I had chicken fried steak, grits, and eggs at Clover Grill on Bourbon). By time we returned to the street it became brutally clear that we were surrounded. They were everywhere, in at least a million different types of 311 shirts. With minds blown, we retreated to a friend’s house and consulted Google about this phenomenon. Sure enough, 311 have a Phish like following of loyal white trash from across the country. We broke from our 311 research to purchase 15lbs of crawfish and a case of beer. I have never been so happy, slurping out the insides out of these little critters and drinking beer on the front porch of Kyle’s house.


We spent hours watching youtube videos on a giant flat screen TV, while joking that we were going to go to the official pre-311 day party. While even though I thought it would be a hilarious people watching experience, I did realize that it probably would lose its funny factor the second we walked in. After playing mystery date for a while at a local bar, Kyle was nice enough to drop me off back by my hotel. Once again I set out on my own to try and enjoy Bourbon St. As soon as I hit the strip, I could here 311 blasting out of every bar (except the one bar with a live band playing a Matchbox 20 cover). I couldn’t believe it, 311 fans as far as the eye could see. A pick up truck was being pulled over on a side road by the police. It had a giant 311 decal across the whole back window. A reasonably cute girl who was pushing her wheel chair bound friend around stopped to talk to me. The first words out of her mouth were, “I know you’re a 311’er, I just know it.” Now that may have been the first time I’ve had a girl try to pick me up in a very long time. Under any other circumstances, I would have been glad to show gimpy and her friend a good time, but this was the exact moment I realized they had a name for this group. 311’ers, JESUS FUCKING CHRIST!!! I just dropped my head and kept walking. I finally made it away from Bourbon and found a bar that did not have “311’ers” in it. I sat down next to an old black man who looked as drunk as I wanted to be. Before I could get a drink he was babbling away at me. I downed a couple of shots and a beer with my new friend. Next thing you know the old guy is up and making me sing Mary Jane’s Last Dance with him. A song I’m very familiar with, so I was more than happy to oblige. As long as it wasn’t 311! I forced myself to get a Hurricane on the walk back to the hotel. These are red icy drinks with a ton of booze in them, and usually served in those long plastic cups. It’s a New Orleans drink, but I had stayed away from them because of the indignity of carrying around that fucking cup. So I found a place with regular plastic cups and talked to the bartender about how much 311 sucks. After half that drink, I blacked out…..

As my hangover set in, the hotel people called to say I was late for check out. I quickly got my shit together and got back to the mom-mobile. With shit to do, I just drove around the city for hours, and checked out the damage left behind from Katrina. I found a typical New Orleans cemetery, and lived out my life long dream of getting stoned among the above ground tombs. I mean sure it wasn’t tripping on acid with a hot hooker, like in Easy Rider, but it did the trick.

My munchies attack led me to Guy’s Po Boys Shop where I stuffed myself silly with a catfish Po Boy. I picked up my friends and spent the rest of the day lounging in Audubon Park and City Park. The day was topped off with an amazing dinner at a little restaurant called Dick and Jenny’s. If you have a couple extra bucks, it’s a must if in New Orleans.

We were set to leave New Orleans the next day, but not before stopping at Domilise’s Po Boy shop, that Anthony Bourdain had visited on his TV show. It was finally time to say goodbye to New Orleans, and I set out for SXSW with Jess and Andy, the members of the soon to be legendary She Keeps Bees. On the advice of a Louisiana native, we stopped outside Lafayette, LA, among the many bayous along southern Louisiana. Our destination was Prejean’s Cajun restaurant I had the seafood gumbo, and both Jess and Andy had the Sausage and Chicken gumbo. I know I will not taste gumbo like that for a very long time. On a creepy note there was a web cam in the restaurant. We had Kyle to go to the site and watch us eat from the comfort of his own home, which ended up being weird. After stuffing our selves yet again, I drove for a couple more hours and we called it a night at a motel/RV park in Winnie, TX.

To Be Continued…………..

The State of 2008: Thus Far

We are now two months into 2008 and it has already been quite the shit show. As the ball dropped in Times Square, I had just been informed my grandmother had broken her hip. She’s already in a home from a stroke earlier in 2007, so this was going to be no pleasure cruise for my parents. As happy people rang in the New Year, my girlfriend was home visiting her family in the Midwest, and I was fairly convinced she was in the process of leaving me. A couple of days later, upon her return, she promptly dumped my ass. While some might say I was lucky to be employed, the recent layoff of my best friend, found me covering his job, as well as mine, and many other trivial tasks. This was making things miserable there as well. So with a very negative start to the year, I decided I would try and look on the bright side and hope for the best.

My new theme would cover all aspects of life and get me focused on just getting through the year. Small victories and tiny bits of luck were welcomed and I tried to be a positive person (being positive is not my strong point). I thought maybe the bad were all behind me when an unlikely New York Football Giants became Super Bowl Champions. This overly criticized team, at times looked down and out, and not once was given a chance to win. They hung in there and against all odds won. With not much else going for me, this provided a good amount of inspiration to just keep on doing my thing. Now a month later, if I am on the same path as the Giants, this would be the equivalent of their week 12 game vs. the Vikings. That week the Giants fell apart, Eli threw a career high four interceptions. It was by far their worst game of the season. Previous to this game, Giants fans looked forward to the upcoming playoffs, but this started to put doubt in the minds of everyone. This happened to be the one Giant game that I’ve attended in the three seasons. I wonder if I brought my cloud of misfortune with me.

Next week I will go on vacation to New Orleans, Houston, and Austin. I will be traveling with my friends in a band, going to shows, and going to SXSW for the first time. I have been looking forward to this trip for months. I had finally gotten flights, motels, a rental car, and every thing seemed to be falling in place. After I made the final reservation for a motel in Austin throughout the festival, I went to pay off some of my credit card. I have always been meticulous about paying bills and keeping track of my money. That being said, I was more than shocked when I logged into my checking account to see that my balance was -$1800.00. The last time I looked it was like $1200 and I don’t remember spending any money, and I had not lost my card. When I went to investigate and found that thousands of dollars where withdrawn from ATM’s in LA and Santa Monica. Fucking southern California, I didn’t like living there and I sure don’t like them stealing all my money. I of course called my bank to try and resolve the situation. The bank seemed understanding and willing to help. They said all the right things and made all the right moves. An hour after I discovered the fraud, I hadn’t freaked out, smashed anything, or started drinking. Just when I thought this was going to be simple to solve, that’s when I realized it wasn’t.

The fraud officer called me and said they were going to look into it and return my money in 10 DAYS!!!!!!!!!! 10 FUCKING DAYS!!!!!!!! In 10 days I will be on my way to the airport for this trip, not knowing whether I’ll have any money when I land. These ass fucks at the bank don’t say shit about my account being over drawn by almost two grand, but returning my money in a timely fashion isn’t a possibility. Not only am I leaving for this trip, but in two days time it will be March 1st. Usually around the first of the month my landlord wants a substantial check that allows me to stay warm and dry. As I said earlier I was in the process of paying bills, so I will paying a lot of late fees now. Playing with my money is like playing with my emotions, and this is the emotional equivalent to being raped in prison.

That is the state of 2008 so far. Hopefully from here forward, things will get better and I will make my own little Super Bowl run. I go away in a week, and I will be celebrating my 26th birthday this weekend, those are good things right? Aren’t they? Oh, nothing bad could happen, right? Mean while, I going to sit here the rest of the day and stew over the fact a pigeon just shit on my head.

Hockey Hooligans

While I have countless embarrassing stories to tell, they can’t all be about me and fat girls, can they. They sure can, but I’ll spare you that in this post. I am currently reading an excellent book called, Among the Thugs, by Bill Buford. It is an amazing story about English football supporters and violence in the late 1980’s and early 1990’s. Basically Bill Buford, an American journalist working in England, was intrigued with all of the stories of gang violence at and around football matches. He had the balls to infiltrate the depths of these gangs, Firms, and get a truthful image of these people. Since I was a kid, I had always wondered about this insanity surrounding European soccer. I always wondered why Americans never had this kind of problem/enthusiasm. There was no comparison in the mass amounts of group violence, but we did have some intense rivalries where violence was common place.

Everyone in the last ten years has focused on the Yankees vs. Red Sox rivalry as the greatest and the meanest in sports. That couldn’t be farther from the truth. I grew up in the 80’s, during which the Yanks sucked a big fucking dick from my birth all the way to my teens. The Red Sox were ok, but when the Yanks got good the Sox sucked until very recent history. I was already in my 20’s by the time those great Yankee v Sox series took place. Also the two cities are hundreds of miles apart and fans rarely travel to the opposing stadium. The real rivalry in the New York area, although much fewer people know the glory of hockey, has been between the New York Rangers and the New Jersey Devils.

I’ve been attending Devils games since I was 5 years old learned to hate the Rangers from the same age. The Devils came to New Jersey in 1982, and was dubbed a “Mickey Mouse Franchise” by hockey great Wayne Gretzky. The Rangers, an original six team, was surrounded by tradition, but hadn’t won the cup since 1940. No matter where in the standings either team was, the cross Hudson rivalry was always an intense one. I probably went to my first Rangers v Devils game in 1988 or 1989. I can’t remember who won, but I do remember that when the final buzzer sounded both benches cleared and they beat the crap out of each other for like 15 minutes. This was amazing to me especially the drunken NY fans who came to NJ and started shit with everyone including children. At first, I never had any delusions that the Devils were going to be the best, and all I ever wanted was for them to beat the Rangers. Then in the 1993-94 season the Devils and the Rangers met in the Eastern Conference Finals. The Devils held on till game seven and scored the tying goal with seconds left to bring it to over time. Unfortunately, that over time would haunt Devils fans forever. The Rangers went on to win the cup that year breaking their 44 year curse. It wasn’t a total loss, the Devils had established themselves as a major player in the NHL, and they had a new star goalie in Martin Brodeur. From that point on the NJ Devils became one of the greatest hockey dynasties, going to four Stanley Cup Finals in ten years and winning three. There was only one thing they had not accomplished, beating the Rangers in the playoffs.

In 2006 the Devils got their chance to take on the Rangers one more time in the playoffs. After winning the last 11 games of the regular season, the Devils snatched the Atlantic division title from under the Rangers on the last day of the season. As luck would have it the playoff draw had the Devils facing off against their arch enemy the Rangers in the first round. I immediately tried to purchase ticket to the series, but could only get tickets for game 7. After the first three games of the series the Devils were up 3-0 and it looked like I wouldn’t get the see a game live. Then the night before game four, my best friend and man among men, Dylan McDermott came through with rink side seats to the game at Madison Square Garden.

Now I had resisted all my life from attending games at MSG, because I swore nothing good could ever happen there. The first time I ever entered the arena was for my college graduation ceremony. I finally broke down and started going to Devils vs. Rangers at MSG in 2005, because I worked a couple blocks away, and it was a pain in the ass to get out to the Devils arena. In the four games I attended at MSG, the Devils lost them all, and still the Rangers fans threw stuff, cursed, and threatened me and usually Dylan was the one with me. So for this pivotal game four in the series Dylan and I knew what to expect, and planned to take those fuckers head on.

I woke up early and excited on game day, and picked up a sixer of tall boys to wake me up. If I was going to show up wearing a Devils jersey, I was going to need a lot of liquid courage. From my apartment in Brooklyn to 34th St subway, I hadn’t hit any problems yet. I hoped maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, boy was I wrong. I had to make my way from the subway two blocks to the Garden, and then underground through Penn Station to the NJ Transit terminal bar to meet my friends. From the second I hit day light I was getting screamed at by a lot of angry blue people. No big deal I heard it all before. I made it down to the train station when I encountered a fat fuck that held me up against a poll and made a noise like one of those Raptors in Jurassic Park. I politely asked him if the bow on his neck was tied to tight, because your team is choking (The Ranger play in a vintage jersey with a lace tie up around the neck). I then kicked him in the knee and ran like hell. I made it to Fridays, the bar on the NJ side of the station, and found Dylan, his brother, Liam, and our friend Scott. I could go on for days about Liam, but I’ll try to make it short. Liam has never helped to extinguish a situation. In fact he is usually the reason a situation starts. At six feet and six inches tall he is a menacing unintelligible mean drunk. While I knew who ever went to the game, we would most certainly be in for trouble. The presence of Liam assured it.

So onward with the liquid courage, I don’t know how much we drank but I can assure you it was a lot. With guts full of whiskey, Jager, and beer we headed up to the arena. My smoking friends took the opportunity to have a couple of cigarettes. This was in fact my favorite part of the day. Dylan had brought with him a small broom which Liam took the opportunity to sweet away rubbish from the feet of Rangers fans as they entered the arena. The strong police presence stopped people from attacking him. Once we were done taunting from the outside, we convinced Dylan to put the broom in his pants and hobble into MSG.

We got to our executive seats, which I assured Dylan that we wouldn’t get thrown out because they were his father’s company seats. Its Liam’s father too, if he got thrown out, that’s on him. The game was pretty tame for during the first period. Jagr was knocked out in the first minute of play, and the Rangers took their only lead of the series into the second period up 1-0. The Devils responded with two goals in the second period, and then two more in the third.

Once it seemed the end of the season was eminent, Rangers fans turned on us. People fired beers and anything they could down at the obnoxious Devils fans in the front rows. Since the second period a man in his late 50’s had been making comments about how big of assholes we were. Then in the third Liam, I actually think it was an honest to god mistake, spilled his beer on the man. We managed to settle the man down and assure security we would be good for the rest of the game. With five minutes remaining, out came the broom hidden under our row of seats (for none sports fans this represents a sweep of a series). The old man in front of us turned around and fired his beer onto Liam. All hell broke lose and before I knew what happened Liam and I were being dragged off by security. My repeated pleas of “Hey, F you I didn’t do anything” were met with, “This is for your own safety.” Once we were out in the concourse, Liam shouting obscenities at the security crew, I realized it had taken eight guys to get us out of there. I was given the simple choice, to do it the easy way or the hard way. Never being kicked out of a stadium or arena before, I figured I better make the best of it. I stated I will take the hard way and kick my legs out from under me. I was then dragged kicking and screaming to the elevator. In the elevator was the NYPD, I shut the fuck up, dusted myself off and got into he elevator of my own will.

This special elevator opened up to the street and the cops kicked us in the ass and out into the street. Liam articulately suggested we get to a bar right away and then threw up into his hand. A little throw up couldn’t stop this beast we headed into the first bar we saw and ordered beers. As time ran out my victory cheer sent me into an unbalanced tumble into the bar, some people, and then a table next to the bar taking out half the people, drinks, and broke a lot of glasses. For this offense I was physically removed from the bar. Seeing this Liam took it upon himself to curse off everyone in the bar and get thrown out as well. We found an empty Mexican restaurant that would still serve us, depite our state, and settled in.

Dylan found his way to the bar, and had blood coming out from over his eye. Apparently as soon as we were tossed, Dylan started talking shit to old man. Now he’s not sure what happened, the old man either connected when he took a swing, or Dylan got out of the way but lost balance and fell over a couple of rows. I would say that the truth is a little of both happened. Then Dylan was taken on the same walk as Liam and I had taken among a large group of security. Scott, being the only one with manners, stayed till the end and finally made it to the bar we were at. Finally it seemed like we had all had enough and it was time to go home.

We settled the check and Liam had already gone outside to smoke a cigarette. By the time we got outside he had already engaged a group of young and unsatisfied Ranger fans. With in seconds fist were flying, and we were all throwing punches. It was pretty tame except for Liam and his dueling partner. They just kept going at it. I have no memory of what happened next. I think, but am not sure that I was hit in the back of the head while trying to break Liam and this kid up. What ever happened knocked me down like a ton of bricks. I remember Scot helping me to my feet, and being very confused. I think I just said fuck it and wondered off.

I didn’t know what to do and my mental state was pretty bad. I stumble up to Times Square and up to my office where I knew my close friend Edan would be working. He would be able to help me. Unfortunately he wasn’t alone in the office. The computer tech was sitting at the front desk when I walked in, to which I slurred hello Steve! He said hello, but my name is John and you’ve known me for six years. I know I tried to go to the bathroom because I almost broke the key off in the lock. Edan did the best he could. He got me down stairs, into a cab and told the cabby where I lived. The next time I opened my eyes I was laying naked upside down on my bed at 2am. I ran right the bathroom and puked. This was not the puke of an extreme hangover, I could tell something was off. When I returned to bed I found that every time I closed my eyes I got so dizzy I would puke again. I put together what little facts I could remember and came to the conclusion that I had a concussion. I spent the next 24 hours praying that I would be able to close my eyes again with out vomiting.

Sure the Devils lost the next series, and I couldn’t think right for a week after the game, but it was all worth it. I’ve since tamed my hockey aggressiveness and haven’t run into to many problems. I still get way to drunk at hockey games, but in a more cheerful manor. In Closing, FUCK THE RANGERS! Also last night February 19, 2008, the Rangers blew a five goal lead in the third period to the Montreal Canadians. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH What a bunch of chumps!

The "Biggest" Fag Hag in Canada

The last Brad story reminded me of so many funny and hilarious things from those days. Not long after the button down shirt incident, Brad decided he was going to move out to San Francisco. It was probably better for the both of us that we separated and tried to clean up our lives, the nights of drink and drugs were taking a toll. Brad went to San Fran and didn’t clean up right away, and I managed to dig up another old roommate to move in, who was an even bigger alcoholic and druggy than I was. That didn’t turn out as well as one might imagine, or it turned out exactly like one might imagine. After six months I had to pack him up, buy him a plan ticket and put him in a cab to the airport so he could move back to the San Francisco area. You see, I had to do this for his health and sanity. The infamous Dugger had recently been fired from the job Brad had handed down to him at the posh health club, because he called out sick with AID’s. Following this he had swiped his mom’s credit card number and spent two weeks sitting in the corner of our apartment ordering Sapporo tall boy cans and Marlboro lights from the deli down the street. He was beyond going out of the house to get things, besides they would have wanted to see the credit card if he went in the store. By week two he was sitting in his own filth surrounded by a tower of empty beer cans and cigarette butts, so I had to get him out of there. After I shipped him out, I began to clean up my life, but things just were not exciting. I decided it was about time I make a little trip over to the west coast and pay my old partners in crime a little visit. Brad was very excited about this and thought we should also take a trip up to Vancouver, and that’s where this story begins.

After an extended weekend of booze, drugs, and strange sexual experiences it was time to head up to Vancouver. Dugger didn’t make it to the airport. We left him in a pile of empty beer cans and cigarette ash, cursing our existence because there were no more drugs. Probably for the better, we didn’t need him hindering our abilities to con, lie, and steal whatever we wanted. It was time to take this dog and pony show international! The flight was delayed a couple of hours late and I was happy because an old friend from Jersey was living in Vancouver at the time and had agreed to pick us up and show us around. I figured two good looking lads like us would cruise through the customs of our neighbor to the north. Apparently it is frowned upon if when the customs agent asks why you are coming to Canada, you respond “I don’t know got any suggestions?” We were then taken to the customs office and told to stand on this long line, so we could be examined more carefully. I was so pissed at Brads smart ass comment, but there wasn’t a whole lot you can do in that situation. After about an hour and half we were nearing the front of the line, and just as we were about to be called to the next agent an Indian kid, about 8 years old, who had been standing about 5 feet from us had a seizure. He’s flailing around and smacks his head on the corner of customs booth and blood starts shooting out everywhere. Between all the screaming the kids mother was doing, I mean like my sons dead guttural moaning, someone pushes us near one confused and scared customs agent. She took one look at our passports shook her head and stamped them and sent us through. We were hoping into my friend Pete’s car just as the ambulance was pulling up.

All of our hold up put us into Vancouver pretty late. Pete drove us to the motel room we had reserved. He told us we should just stay with him, because the motel was in a bad area. What the hell do you expect for $100 a week, but we weren’t picky. We pulled up to the Patricia Motel on East Hastings St to find junkies and hookers all over the place. Pete was skeptical, but Brad and I felt right at home. We get to the room which was a full bed and dresser which took up 85% of the space in the room. To the right of the bed was a five foot by five foot shower/shitter. That would prove convenient for passing joints back and forth while one person was taking a shit. We later found out Canadians think East Hastings is the worst strip in all of Canada. Ha, I was living in Bed-Sty Brooklyn at the time bitches. Canada’s got nothing on that. By the time we found some dinner the bars were all about to close because it was Monday. We realized for the both of us to share the small bed in that shit hole we were gonna need some help, and it was too late to buy booze and we didn’t know were to get pot yet. Pete was nice enough to direct us to the after hours gay club that would be closing shortly. It was now time for Brad and me to work our magic.

As we get to Club Liquid everyone is being pushed out into the street. One must be focused in these situations and keep your eyes on the prize. We needed to find the best after party in town. Brad took one side of the crowd and I went around to the other. Chatting, smiling, even showing a little skin we made friends quick. By the time we met in the middle of the crowd wed both been invited to the same after party. The first objective was complete. We walk for about a mile in our own little pride parade with about 30 other people into really nice neighborhood and arrive at a nice apartment complex. We get upstairs to an apartment way to small for the amount of people there and realize that it’s not going to be as easy as we thought to get what we at this point desperately need. You see we were now in another country and their party culture was different than ours. All these people were on either coke, but mostly E. These things would not improve our sleeping situation. Not a damn person had a fucking drink in their hand. We were talking to some people and asked whose apartment we were in. They told us it was the biggest fag hag in Vancouver’s place and she just loved to throw these parties. I wondered if there had been a fag hag contest that she had won, but just then I saw her. She was literally the biggest fag hag I had ever seen, she was 350 pounds easy. She makes it to the middle of the room and yells are there and any straight boys in the room for me tonight. Brad looked at me and said guess it’s your turn to jump on the grenade.

Knowing she may be our only chance to get what we needed I sheepishly raised my hand. Within seconds her meaty paw reached out and grabbed me. She had me sitting on her fucking lap, I felt like frightened kitten. It was now or never, so I got the courage to ask her where a straight boy could find some weed. She told me she would get me what ever I wanted. At least we were making progress. She got up took me and Brad to the balcony and sparked up a couple of joints. The joints didn’t come with out a price. She had her arms around me and was pushing my hand into different mushy places. I didn’t want to know what I was touching. It felt like a giant bag of pudding, until at one point I realized there was a nipple in my hand. Once the little smoke session ended I eluded the gargantuan monster that was abusing me. I met up with Brad in the kitchen and he informed me there was a half a bottle of Jack in the cabinet. He said he would need some time to get at it undetected and to just hang in there and everything would be ok. Just then the beast came up behind me and said she had “something else to show me.” She led me by the hand to the door of her bedroom, when I started searching deep with in me for a way out of this situation. She opened the door and there on her bed just happened to be a gay orgy. I swear the site of four men fucking each other has never been so glorious. She quickly closed the door and led me back out to the balcony. She was trying to force my hand past the top of her pants, but there wasn’t enough slack to get it through. At this point Brad made his way out to the balcony with a goofy look on his face enjoying every minute of my pain. Just as her pants and panties started to give some slack Brad could see tears coming to my eyes and provided an end to my suffering. With an over exaggerated lisp he got all pissy and screamed at me, “Paul, why ever time we go some place new you have to pretend to be straight.” And with that he stormed off. The monster released her grip on me told me to get the fuck out of her house, to which I gladly complied. When I got to the elevator Brad was sitting there sucking on the bottle of Jack. I could finally breathe easy, and we slammed that fucking bottle before we even got a block away.

The Black Button Down Shirt

Another uneventful day of work at a meaningless job had come to an end. As I walked home contemplating what the fuck I was going to do with the rest of my life, I decided to see what my roommate’s preference for dinner was. Once agreed, I stopped into the liquor store to pick up a bottle of whiskey. Dinner for the past six months had consisted of either whiskey or gin. My roommate, Brad, and I fallen into this routine some time earlier, while still in school. Then it was mostly a social thing filled with parties, bars, loud music, women, and dancing. Unfortunately things can’t stay the same forever and things were changing for the both of us. We had just graduated from an over priced liberal university with rather useless degrees, and had realized classmates with few worries about post graduation plans came from extremely wealthy families. They could afford not to worry. For us it was time to sink or swim and at this point the only thing we were swimming in was a lot of booze. Brad had picked up a job at a health spa in an expensive midtown hotel, and I was working as a Broadway theater delivery boy and picking up any freelance audio recording gigs I could find. The jobs paid the rent and didn’t ask too much mentally, so it didn’t really matter how hung over we came in. Brad had to at least put on a happy face while stretching out old rich women and basically working out for them. It wasn’t glamorous, but it wasn’t bad, and we could count on our nightly sessions to add a little spice to life.

I had just settled into the broken office chair, I had found on the street, when Brad got home from work. He seemed to have a lot of energy for a Wednesday. This always scared me, nothing good ever came from a drunk with energy. Brad poured himself a hefty glass of Old Granddad and slowly positioned himself on the broken Papasan chair that slowly chipped away the paint on the wall. This is what its like to be free men. No one to answer to, we could do as we please, and no one could say shit about it. Well I guess our neighbor had something to say. Enraged with our loud and obnoxious behavior, she knocked on our door on a regular basis to call us Nazi storm troopers. Being free men it didn’t mean we had to give a damn.

I was already quite relaxed from my first pint glass of whiskey, when Brad looked over and said were going out tonight and your getting laid. Brad had always had quite the sexual appetite, especially since realizing he was gay, but he’d never really had an interest in my sex life. He stumbled over to my closet and started going through my “nice” clothes, most of which still had tags on them. He settled on a black button down shirt. I had been wearing t-shirts and jeans for the last 8 years, and was in no mood to change because this asshole wanted to get me laid. He was sure this would get me laid, and I didn’t really put up a fight. Looking back I should have told him to go fuck himself, but I doubt it would have changed the outcome of the night.

We stumbled down the five flights of steps and down the block to a local bar, far classier than I was used to and far straighter than Brad was used to. Making the switch to gin to “wake us up”, I hoped Brad would lose interest in his goal for the evening. It didn’t matter at this point the stars had already aligned to make it one long and awkward evening. Sitting at the far end of the bar sat the beast that I would soon get to know all to well. I’m not sure if she could tell that we were the only two people in the bar nearly as drunk as her. She sauntered over to our side of the bar after almost falling twice, sat down next to me and started making small talk. I usually hate small talk but this broad touched on two subjects that got me paying attention. If what she said was true I would like to hear more, and if not, well interacting with crazy people is an integral part of NYC life. So not knowing me, the first things about her life to come out were that she worked for one of the Law and Order shows, and that her mother dated Roger Waters. Law and Order and Pink Floyd will always rank in my top 5 favorite things, so you can’t blame me for being slightly curious as to where this conversation might go. Some time later I would find out the Law and Order part was true. I still don’t buy the Roger Waters shit but who knows it’s a crazy mixed up world. It’s hard to be clear on how long we talked, what Brad was doing, or how things progressed. I do know that at some point she leaned over to kiss me, and I did with some hesitation. This luckily gave me a momentary bit of clarity as she asked me to go home with her. I tried to turn her down as nicely as possible, which I think came off as I want to drink more here. This moment of clarity also made me aware of how drunk I was, and that I had reached my limit. I excused myself and went to the bathroom where I projectile vomited all over the bathroom stall. I did the best to clean myself up and returned to the bar only to find that Brad had reappeared and invited the girl home with us.

Outside on the street while our lady friend clumsily collected her things inside. I told Brad that this is his fault, I was not going to have anything to do with this, and he was going to have to fuck her. Being a good friend he offered to jump on the grenade. This act of martyrdom would soon prove too little to late. Once we got back up to our place our new friend collapsed on the floor yelling shit at us. Brad did at least give it a shot to turn her attentions to him. Well actually he just poked her with his foot. This only led her to get up and make a beeline for my bedroom. I figured if I just hung out for a bit she would pass out and I could slip in unmolested. Let’s just say I was wrong, dead wrong. I’m glad the night provides darkness and well I just kept my eyes closed for the morning session. As she got up and dressed for work she reintroduced herself to me telling me her name, which being shitty with names I forgot again immediately. She then asked where we were, only to my horror find out she lives directly across the street. I spent the next year and a half sneaking in and out of my apartment hoping never to run into the beast again.