tuesday miscellany
22 August 2006
Last night, I got home, made myself a nice lil’ dinner, and sat down to watch one of my favorites: that evening’s Tivo’d BBC World News. But I couldn’t. Because my cable was shut off.
So I did what they did before television and went for a walk, enjoying the beautiful Manhattan night.
The point: maybe I should focus on paying my cable bill instead of getting a car. I mean, I’m not a financial planner or anything, but that seems like the smart play. A car, I can live without. But if I can’t watch my BBC World News, my murder shows, and Tivo’d episodes of my favorites sitcoms, well, that’s not going to be good for anyone.
**********
Re: my bachelor party post yesterday. Those present, after reading my post, reminded me that I forgot two very important elements to the party. Of course, now out of the context of the post, they aren’t going to sound very funny. But in the interests of journalistic integrity (to really "surround the story"), I offer them to you now.
1) Dave & Buster’s, the place where most of the bachelor party took place, is an arcade-type place. Like most arcade-type places, they award tickets for high scores (like my high scores in ski-ball and foul shooting) that can be redeemed for prizes: anything from junk like plastic toys to fo’ real shit like microwaves and televisions.
One of the guys in the bachelor party is currently seeing a girl with a kid, a daughter who’s a toddler. He’s ok with this, but we sometimes "have fun" with him about it. The daughter’s name is Hannah.
All night it became a running joke that we were trying to achieve (in Lebowski parlance) in the various video games in order to win tickets to turn in for presents for Hannah. My buddy Ryan started this, screaming, "Hannah’s gettin’ a bracelet!" after he scored high in foul shooting. As each person kept playing and winning more tickets, we kept upping the prize for Hannah. Finally, when I blew everyone away with a 71 in foul shooting, I screamed, "Fuck it – Hannah’s gettin’ a pony!" After that, the joke sort of hit its ceiling. But, um, it was fun.
[See, I told you it wouldn't be funny a day later.]
[Or maybe, ever.]
[But conversely, there was a running joke on me. I've told you that no one can really tell that I've lost weight, and after a few drinks, barbs starting flying about this. Stuff like, "Dude, it was a really good idea for you to go on that strict diet, because I can totally tell that you've lost weight" and "So now are you shopping at Gap Kids or what?" Again not funny, but painful. Very painful.]
2) I have a disease. I would make up a cute name for it like textmessagitis, but I’d just as soon make out with a cousin. Basically, I text message EVERYONE when I’m drunk (or even getting drunk). If I have your number, odds are 99% that you’ve gotten a text message from me in the last two or so weeks (especially with last week’s weeknight drunkenness).
Generally this is not a problem. Most of the people I text I know pretty well (I mean, I have their numbers) and they know to take it as a joke or brush it off. And I’m not texting anything weird; my favorite last week was a quote from The Royal Tenenbaums: "Did you tell Margot about the letter I wrote to you?" (Richie asks Eli this). But I sent this to people who only knew the joke – the rest got something random and harmless.
But sometimes it is a problem. I’m hiding the fact that, in keeping with my creepy style, I’m a number collector. If we made out three years ago and you gave me your number, I still have it (even if we had never spoken again). I have numbers from people from college I haven’t spoken to since. Worse yet, I have numbers of girls I made out with either in college or post-college that I have not spoken to for a very long time.
And, as you might guess, these people get texts too. Again, stupid harmless stuff that can be as simple as "Hi" or "Do you smell that?" But sometimes I get a little faux-randy and send out a "Seriously, what are you wearing?" This is all fine to friends that I speak to regularly, but if I last spoke to you in a bar in November of 2003, well, it’s not so good.
My buddy Kyle is aware of this and always jokes with me about it. In the incipient stages of the night, he saw me reaching for my phone and texting away. He offered to take the phone from me so that I couldn’t text, watching it in case anyone called or texted me. I agreed. I realized I needed help.
I was ok with it during the night. I only missed my phone as a watch (since I don’t wear one, it tells me what time it is). But then there was a problem.
Kyle was supposed to be checking my phone for incoming calls or messages. But, being drunk, he kinda forgot. Finally, when we were leaving the strip club (at about 3:30), he gave me my phone back. Much to my chagrin, I had missed some texts – Kyle didn’t do a very good job of checking at all. Most of them weren’t important (like my old roommate Brian asking me where I was even though I had told him several times during the week and even the night before that I was in Philly – I guess he was, shockingly, pretty banged up).
But then I got an unsolicited message from a girl that in a previous life I used to make out with. She was in Philly. She knew I was in Philly. She wanted to see what was up. She had messaged me three hours earlier. I was unhappy.
Since Kyle failed to achieve, even in the modest task that was his charge, it cost me a potential make-out session. Desperate loser that I am, I immediately fired back a text to the girl. However, since bars close in Philly at 2 and it was now almost 3:30, I did not get a response. Fuck.
I suppose it’s for the best – I was probably too drunk/tired to get an erection anyway (assuming that an erection would even have been called for) and at least I got my broccoli cheese puffs. But I learned an important lesson: it’s better to be addicted to text messaging than to miss out on (potentially) making out. So fuck that. For those of you whose number I have, expect some texts this weekend.
**********
Finally, some extracurricular reading courtesy of Misha in Baltimore. This is an article from a Washington Post from last week, listing the smelliest places in NYC. I would like to point out that the first location they mention is literally two blocks away from my apartment. And I don’t mean to spoil anything, but I’m actually kinda pissed that they found that it wasn’t the stinkiest place in Manhattan. I mean, wtf? I’ll have to check out the winner and report back.
**********
And really finally: you’re going to get a lot of football over the next few days. You have been warned. If you want to just come back Friday, I’ll understand. See you then.
So I did what they did before television and went for a walk, enjoying the beautiful Manhattan night.
The point: maybe I should focus on paying my cable bill instead of getting a car. I mean, I’m not a financial planner or anything, but that seems like the smart play. A car, I can live without. But if I can’t watch my BBC World News, my murder shows, and Tivo’d episodes of my favorites sitcoms, well, that’s not going to be good for anyone.
**********
Re: my bachelor party post yesterday. Those present, after reading my post, reminded me that I forgot two very important elements to the party. Of course, now out of the context of the post, they aren’t going to sound very funny. But in the interests of journalistic integrity (to really "surround the story"), I offer them to you now.
1) Dave & Buster’s, the place where most of the bachelor party took place, is an arcade-type place. Like most arcade-type places, they award tickets for high scores (like my high scores in ski-ball and foul shooting) that can be redeemed for prizes: anything from junk like plastic toys to fo’ real shit like microwaves and televisions.
One of the guys in the bachelor party is currently seeing a girl with a kid, a daughter who’s a toddler. He’s ok with this, but we sometimes "have fun" with him about it. The daughter’s name is Hannah.
All night it became a running joke that we were trying to achieve (in Lebowski parlance) in the various video games in order to win tickets to turn in for presents for Hannah. My buddy Ryan started this, screaming, "Hannah’s gettin’ a bracelet!" after he scored high in foul shooting. As each person kept playing and winning more tickets, we kept upping the prize for Hannah. Finally, when I blew everyone away with a 71 in foul shooting, I screamed, "Fuck it – Hannah’s gettin’ a pony!" After that, the joke sort of hit its ceiling. But, um, it was fun.
[See, I told you it wouldn't be funny a day later.]
[Or maybe, ever.]
[But conversely, there was a running joke on me. I've told you that no one can really tell that I've lost weight, and after a few drinks, barbs starting flying about this. Stuff like, "Dude, it was a really good idea for you to go on that strict diet, because I can totally tell that you've lost weight" and "So now are you shopping at Gap Kids or what?" Again not funny, but painful. Very painful.]
2) I have a disease. I would make up a cute name for it like textmessagitis, but I’d just as soon make out with a cousin. Basically, I text message EVERYONE when I’m drunk (or even getting drunk). If I have your number, odds are 99% that you’ve gotten a text message from me in the last two or so weeks (especially with last week’s weeknight drunkenness).
Generally this is not a problem. Most of the people I text I know pretty well (I mean, I have their numbers) and they know to take it as a joke or brush it off. And I’m not texting anything weird; my favorite last week was a quote from The Royal Tenenbaums: "Did you tell Margot about the letter I wrote to you?" (Richie asks Eli this). But I sent this to people who only knew the joke – the rest got something random and harmless.
But sometimes it is a problem. I’m hiding the fact that, in keeping with my creepy style, I’m a number collector. If we made out three years ago and you gave me your number, I still have it (even if we had never spoken again). I have numbers from people from college I haven’t spoken to since. Worse yet, I have numbers of girls I made out with either in college or post-college that I have not spoken to for a very long time.
And, as you might guess, these people get texts too. Again, stupid harmless stuff that can be as simple as "Hi" or "Do you smell that?" But sometimes I get a little faux-randy and send out a "Seriously, what are you wearing?" This is all fine to friends that I speak to regularly, but if I last spoke to you in a bar in November of 2003, well, it’s not so good.
My buddy Kyle is aware of this and always jokes with me about it. In the incipient stages of the night, he saw me reaching for my phone and texting away. He offered to take the phone from me so that I couldn’t text, watching it in case anyone called or texted me. I agreed. I realized I needed help.
I was ok with it during the night. I only missed my phone as a watch (since I don’t wear one, it tells me what time it is). But then there was a problem.
Kyle was supposed to be checking my phone for incoming calls or messages. But, being drunk, he kinda forgot. Finally, when we were leaving the strip club (at about 3:30), he gave me my phone back. Much to my chagrin, I had missed some texts – Kyle didn’t do a very good job of checking at all. Most of them weren’t important (like my old roommate Brian asking me where I was even though I had told him several times during the week and even the night before that I was in Philly – I guess he was, shockingly, pretty banged up).
But then I got an unsolicited message from a girl that in a previous life I used to make out with. She was in Philly. She knew I was in Philly. She wanted to see what was up. She had messaged me three hours earlier. I was unhappy.
Since Kyle failed to achieve, even in the modest task that was his charge, it cost me a potential make-out session. Desperate loser that I am, I immediately fired back a text to the girl. However, since bars close in Philly at 2 and it was now almost 3:30, I did not get a response. Fuck.
I suppose it’s for the best – I was probably too drunk/tired to get an erection anyway (assuming that an erection would even have been called for) and at least I got my broccoli cheese puffs. But I learned an important lesson: it’s better to be addicted to text messaging than to miss out on (potentially) making out. So fuck that. For those of you whose number I have, expect some texts this weekend.
**********
Finally, some extracurricular reading courtesy of Misha in Baltimore. This is an article from a Washington Post from last week, listing the smelliest places in NYC. I would like to point out that the first location they mention is literally two blocks away from my apartment. And I don’t mean to spoil anything, but I’m actually kinda pissed that they found that it wasn’t the stinkiest place in Manhattan. I mean, wtf? I’ll have to check out the winner and report back.
**********
And really finally: you’re going to get a lot of football over the next few days. You have been warned. If you want to just come back Friday, I’ll understand. See you then.
