Archive for the ‘What I Did This Weekend’ Category
It’s a once-in-a-lifetime experience when the first of your friends get married. I’ve been to a handful of weddings before, but just ones of distant relatives. I was not at all prepared for what to expect this past weekend when my friends EJ and Kati exchanged vows (given celebrity coupling patterns, what would that make them? Kee-J? E-Ti?). To top it off, I was in the wedding party. I wasn’t quite ready for this. Hell, I hadn’t even worn a tuxedo since my junior prom.
Being in a friend’s wedding is a rite of passage. Marriage is the last vestige of growing up, after all. Marriage is also the first signal of the upcoming traditions that strip you of spontaneity and youthful vigor. Not that I’m against getting married. It’s just that it’s a gateway drug for all these other dangerous things that adults do: buying a house, having kids, paying for college… once you dabble in these things, you’re hooked for life. Why would anyone do that to themselves?
But after seeing these two friends of mine dance their first dance as a married couple, I knew the answer. There are few words to explain it, but I watched true love blossom. I was with EJ and Kati at the moment they first met, and now I was there on their wedding day. It may sound sappy, but at that moment, it finally made sense.
Then the alcohol started to flow. Open bars at weddings are very, very dangerous. Somewhere, there is a picture of me air guitaring on the dance floor. There was money placed on which groomsman and bridesmaid would be hooking up at the end of the night. The dancing got more and more ridiculous. If any video surfaces of my actions on the dance floor beyond 11pm, it could be potential blackmail material. As special a night as it was, the wedding soon became like any other wild party we used to throw when EJ and I were neighbors: there were a lot of pictures taken of moments that none of us remember.
And so, life returns to normal. Except that EJ and Kati are a married couple, and I have three more of these affairs to look forward to this year (my wallet, on the other hand, will not be looking forward to those). With each of these weddings, my friends all feel a little older, but also a little wiser. Once you’ve seen the first of your friends get married, you know for sure that true love is possible, and it can be found in some of the places you least expect it.
And you also know for sure what you’ll write about on your blog the week after the wedding, especially when the groom begs to be mentioned on your blog for more than two years.
What did I do this weekend? Well, I did quite a bit. I went to a Passover Seder in Kansas, for example. I spent about an hour in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, but I couldn’t find any cheese. And I scored an interview with Paul Mecurio. Paul’s a standup comic after my own heart: he’s from Rhode Island, he’s spent a lot of time with Wall Street douchebags, and he rants and raves about bad customer service.
Paul’s back in New York City, playing at Comix this weekend, with two shows on Friday and Saturday night. Since I figured I’d need a better way to convince you to go to his show than my simple endorsement, I asked him a few questions.
Paul, thanks for taking some time out of your busy schedule to answer a few questions. So you’re playing Comix next weekend, which I think is becoming a mecca for great comedy in New York. But what’s the worst venue you’ve ever played?
On the Bowery in NYC there’s a real dive called “Downtown Beirut 2.” You know when people beg for money on the streets to drink? THIS is the place they go to drink. When I was still working on Wall Street as a lawyer doing mergers and acquisitions, I would work the open mic nights at this place. One night just before I went on stage there was a fight at the bar between a pimp and a John – the John grabs his neck and starts screaming, “He cut me man, he cut me!” The pimp had just sliced him across the neck with a box cutter, he was bleeding all over!
So I get introduced as the next act and when I hit the stage I say, “Nice to be here at Downtown Beirut 2, I always wanted to follow a slashing.” This guy hears me say slashing and charges the stage screaming, “You talking to me! I’ll kick your ass!” And he throws all these bloody wadded up napkins at me. They hit me and stick to my crisp white Brooks Brothers shirt. I keep going with my act, no one is listening, cops are in the bar now to take a report, EMT workers to help the guy. Then, suddenly the guy yells at me, “Hey, what are you doing?” I say, (scared out of my mind), “I’m trying to tell jokes.” He says, “Oh yeah? I like jokes.” He then turns to everyone in the bar and screams, “Hey everyone, shut the hell up, this guy’s trying to tell jokes.” The place quiets down, I finished my set, got a few laughs and got off the stage. Oh and the shirt with the giant blood stain? I still have it as a souvenir.
I know that you’re a native Rhode Islander. I am, too. That state is a black hole… nobody ever seems to leave. How did you manage to get out?
In the trunk of a Monte Carlo. I was lying next to a box of stolen car alarms. My family came looking for me but I got plastic surgery and changed my name to Ling Jong (for a while anyway).
Providence is a far cry from what it used to be. Do you go back to Rhode Island often?
Yes. I really like going back. They have coffee milkshakes and these hot dogs called New York System Hot Weiners – it’s got special meat sauce (stop snickering it’s really good, especially after you’ve been drinking all day and nigh … yes I said DAY. The beaches are great too, especially to watch the guido Italian guys walking around with “grape smuggler” bathing suits, goldchains and mucho, quaffed back hair.
In an interview recently, I was asked, “at what point do you become a true New Yorker?” I hate that question, but I’m going to ask you, since we both suffer from the fate of associating ourselves with New York despite having roots in New England. Do you consider yourself a true New Yorker?
No. Nothing against true New Yorkers, but I am from Rhode Island. The closest I ever came to feeling like a true New Yorker was when I was raped by a man dressed as the Statue of Liberty – ahh, good times!
I am the East Village Idiot, so I figure I’m obligated to ask this question: do you ever hang out in the East Village? Do you have any favorite restaurants and bars around here?
Yes, I do. Love it. I hang out all the time on St. Mark’s Place. A good friend of mine Peter lives there – do you know him? A lot of the clubs/bars I started at were in the East Village. They have since closed and the buildings have become all yuppified (is that still a word?).
With a piece in the New York Times, your Emmys and Peabody award for working on The Daily Show, and a Georgetown Law degree to boot, don’t you think you have an unfair advantage over those college-dropout standup comedians?
No, I am not smart. If I were wouldn’t have amassed massive student loans and then left Wall Street and a six figure job to tell jokes in dive bars while getting bloody napkins thrown at me. Oh my god, what have I done with my life?
I was kind of shocked while reading the New York Times Magazine a couple months back to see your byline. All I can imagine is the average elderly New York Times reader ending up at one of your shows and leaving in disgust after you drop your first expletive, saying, “well, I never!”
Actually, I got a lot of positive e-mails from people who can relate. A lot of people say, “Good for you! I do that too when customer service sucks.” So I guess there are a lot of elderly people who enjoy showing their saggy asses to the general public.
You’ve talked a lot in your act about being the victim of bad customer service. Do you think New York is a hotbed of bad customer service? I mean, I think a chain like Duane Reade wouldn’t survive in any other place but New York, considering how surly their employees are. New Yorkers just seem to put up with it. Have you had any horrible customer service experiences recently?
Well, there’s the time I pulled my pants down on a midtown Manhattan street and told a newsstand guy to violate me in the ass over a plastic bag. That’s the New York Times Magazine piece. I almost got arrested for that.
Then there was the time I called Dell Support for a service center 10 blocks from where I live in New York, and I got a guy with a VERY thick Indian accent, which was fine. But the problem is the guy tried to snow me and pretend he was in New York and that was insulting. I told him I wanted to go to 5th Avenue. And they guy was trying to be all “New York” and said, “Oh yes, FIVE Avenue.” And I’m thinking – who calls it “FIVE” Avenue?” Then he said, “FIVE avenue it’s right after 3 and Avenue.” So I asked him his name and he said, “AHHH STEVE!” Then I said, “Are you in India?” and he goes, “AHHH, MAYBE!” I hung up in frustration and punched a puppy.
Finally, you have exactly five words to sum up why people should see you at Comix next weekend.
Whipped cream, cherries, nails and my ass. Need I say more?
Sold.
SHOW DETAILS: Paul Mecurio @ Comix. Friday, April 25, 8:30pm, & 10:45pm and Saturday, April 26, 8:30pm, & 10:45pm. 353 West 14th Street (at 9th Ave), New York, NY 10014. Advance tickets $25, Day-of-show tickets $28, Dinner Package $81.25. Box Office: (212) 352-2716, www.comixny.com
How was your weekend?
It was all right. I drank a lot, it seemed.
Did you attempt to negate this by going to the gym at any point?
Negative.
Did you watch the Yankees-Red Sox game on Friday night?
Yes, unfortunately.
Did some of that heavy beer-drinking occur after the Red Sox blew a 5-run lead in that game?
Naturally.
Did you watch the Yankees-Red Sox game at a Red Sox bar on Saturday afternoon?
Affirmative.
Did you see a girl there wearing a Pokey Reese t-shirt and take a picture of it?
Of course I did:
Did you find a new bar in the East Village that totally blew your mind with its beer selection, jukebox, happy hour specials, and its inclusion of Golden Tee and Big Buck Hunter?
Yes. It’s called The Rook, and it’s on Avenue A between 5th and 6th Streets.
Did you take a picture of the alterna-chick bartender displaying the finest beers available there?
No, I took a picture of her holding cans of Porkslap Ale:
Is there a goofy picture of you enjoying several different varieties of the beer available at this bar?
Funny you should mention that.
Did you see a gaggle of mounted police officers on Avenue A on the walk back and take a picture of them for no particular reason?
Yes, I did that, too:
Did you buy a taco salad at San Loco, take it home, put it in the fridge for later, and then forget about it?
Yup. But I only forgot about it because of the party I crashed.
You crashed a party?
Yup. It was in another apartment in my building. It was all NYU frosh and sophomores, and I was easily the oldest person at the party by about five years.
Did you drink the non-descript jungle-juice-type concoction that was given to you in a red party cup when you walked through the door?
Um, absolutely not. But I was highly amused by it.
Did you flirt with any of the girls at the party, who were probably born when you were in third grade?
Not after I realized that they were probably born when I was in third grade.
Did a group of NYU kids invite you back to their dorm for the after-party?
Yes. And it took a few blocks of walking with them before I realized it was a terrible idea.
So, back to this taco salad. Did you go home and eat it?
Wait, don’t you want to pry more about my revisit to college life?
I’m the one asking the questions here. Back to the taco salad.
No, I didn’t eat it. I bought sushi from M2M and took it back home to eat.
What happened to the taco salad?
I completely forgot about it, but it became the most awesome surprise/hangover cure ever on Sunday morning.
So, did you have beer and watch football on Sunday?
Watch football? Yes. Have beer? Hell no. I couldn’t even think about beer.
Do you consider this weekend to be a success?
I would consider it to be an utter failure of my ability to resist the temptation to party like it’s 1999.
I have a much, much younger brother back at home. When I introduce him to people as my brother, they look at him, then look at me, and then think, “mistake!” My parents more kindly refer to him as a “surprise.” Seeing as how I had been through several sex ed classes by the time he was born, I’ve always known better. Also, I’d rather have not known in my high school years that my parents still had a sex life.
When those who don’t know us see my brother and I in public, they’re more likely to think we’re father and son. So I imagine that’s what happened this weekend when I took him to his very first minor league baseball game. It was one thing for me to stumble over my own words as I asked for a child’s ticket. It was another thing to be quietly judged as a parent by the other parents around me.
I have to admit that I don’t see my brother that often. So, when I get a chance to go home, I find myself spoiling him as though I was a grandparent. I take him out to the beach for chowder and clamcakes. I take him to the Science Museum. I take him out for ice cream. I’m clearly the favorite sibling, but that’s probably only because I buy him off.
Friday night’s ballgame was no different. He got everything he wanted. When we were in the team shop before the game, my brother wanted a pennant. “Chris, you should buy me this,” he told me. How can I say no to that? At two dollars, I figured he was going to be the cheapest date I’ve ever had. Directly behind me in line, another child saw my brother with the pennant and asked his parents for the same. They sternly lectured the child. “You can’t just get everything you want,” his mother said.
The guilt was poured on even heavier when I bought my brother a cup of french fries. We came back to our seats on the left field berm and plopped down with our fries. In no less than ten seconds, a little girl next to us was pointing in our direction, asking her parents for fries. “No,” her mother said. “They’ll make you fat.”
I nearly burst into laughter, but I avoided any eye contact with that family for the rest of the game. I feared getting a stare-down from the girl’s mom.
Now, to be fair, her mom was pretty hot… definitely a MILF. So the little girl’s got genetics on her side, and laying off the fries would probably do her some good. But I couldn’t help but think that I was being judged for spoiling my brother.
Of course, it isn’t my fault that these kids’ parents have principles. I can’t help the fact that they’re not willing to put out a simple two or three bucks to give their child their every want and need. I can’t help that they’re not willing to succumb to the puppy-dog faces and the “pleeeeeease, pretty pleeeeases” that their kids pull on them. Is it really my fault that I can’t say no?
Yes, it is.
I am going to make a horrible parent.
This extended holiday weekend called for some drinking. And I did a little too much of it this weekend. Or much too much of it. So much, in fact, that it led me to do stupid things like this - on command - in the Times Square subway station:
I will hang my head in shame. And consider a 12-step program.
I woke up Sunday morning with an awful hangover. It was one of the worst hangovers I’ve had in a long time. I ended up trying to sleep it off through most of the afternoon, too, to no avail.
So, what caused this hangover? I was stumped. I didn’t drink any more than I had in other recent weekends. But some of the details from Saturday night were fuzzy - particularly the last bar stop of the night. I couldn’t even remember the name of the bar, let alone what I had to drink there. Then I picked up my phone and poked through some of the pictures from Saturday night. Lo and behold, I found the root cause of my hangover:
Any beer that you can get at a bar in New York for $1 a can will result in a guaranteed hangover. I’m embarrassed to admit that in my drunken stupor, I voluntarily ordered this beer. And my body would not forgive me for that all day on Sunday.
Saturday night, I did my fair share of drinking. Our group ran up a $497 tab at just our first bar of the night. But the most embarassing moment of the night came before I was halfway through my second beer.
Because I had been craning my neck for the entire first period to watch a TV almost directly over my head, I got up from the table to watch the Sabres-Islanders game from a more comfortable angle. I chose a spot next to my friend against a short wall that divided the bar from the seating area. This spot also happened to be directly next to the hostess’ station.
I leaned back and watched the intermission report and talked with my friend while observing the massive crowd. I had been resting my elbow over the receipt printer, so whenever a waitress came over to close out a tab, I moved my arm away. Given how packed the bar was, I figured I was being a model bar patron.
A few minutes into the second period, the hostess came over and ripped off a piece of a receipt and took her pen to the paper. I was a little distracted by her frantic scribbling, but I thought nothing of it. Then, she took the small piece of paper and held it up in my general direction. I’ve taken the opportunity to painstakingly recreate what the paper looked like:
XYZ? I had no idea what the “XYZ” stood for. For a few seconds, I thought she was holding it up for another waitress behind me, or signaling to one of the bartenders. Then, I realized that she was making eye contact with me.
I gave her a strange look. “What?”
“X-Y-Z,” she reinforced.
“I see that,” I replied. “What does it mean?”
The hostess looked down towards my waist. “Your zipper.”
I stood in stunned embarassment. I looked down, and sure enough, the fly on my jeans was half-open, exposing my boxer shorts. Considering that the last time I had touched my jeans was after being at the gym that afternoon, I had probably been walking around Manhattan for at least four hours with my fly down. ”Oh. Wow. Thanks.”
“No problem,” she said. “I bet you haven’t heard that one since you were 8 years old. Like, your parents probably said that to you.”
“Yeah,” I began to concur. “Actually… I probably heard it the last time I was too retardedly drunk to remember to zip up.”
So, thank you, very attractive blond hostess, for sparing me from further embarassment and potential indecent exposure on Saturday night. Now, every time I zip up, I will think of you.
It seemed like a perfectly good idea at the time. One of the biggest drunkfests of the year for the Irish and wannabe-Irish alike is the St. Patrick’s Day Parade in Hoboken. I’m Irish. I like booze. I was free Saturday. I was willing to put aside the fact that people in New Jersey clearly don’t know how to read a calendar. I regretted this.
It was a beautiful day in Manhattan - sunny and 60 degrees. The weather motivated me and a few friends to jump on the PATH with visions of Guinness jigging in our heads. Things pretty much went downhill from there.
You can see Hoboken from Manhattan. Yet when we got to the street level from the PATH, we were shocked by the cold. It was about 15 degrees colder in Hoboken, and it was cloudy to boot. This was not a good start.
The city of Hoboken was pretty much a police state by the time we arrived. The SWAT team was stationed out on the street, ready to collect drunkards and toss them in the tank. Cops were writing tickets for open containers left and right, much to the amusement of our sober selves, who laughed at one cop’s exchange with a drunk:
Drunk Girl: How much is this ticket going to cost?
Cop: A lot.
Drunk Girl: How much is that?
Cop: Uh, a million, billion dollars.
Little did we know that we were about to be bilked ourselves.
As we started to walk further into town, we realized that essentially, McFaddens had left Midtown Manhattan to vomit all over Hoboken. McFaddens is full of drunken fresh-out-of-college fratboys and their slutty female counterparts. Hoboken did not have a single visitor over the age of 23, unless they were carrying a police badge or bagpipes.
McFaddens has an inexplicably long line with obnoxious drunks on cell phones at all hours of the night. Every bar in Hoboken had a line that was at least 30 people deep. I saw one line that stretched down an entire block. There is no way that any bar in Hoboken is worth that much of a wait.
McFaddens charges a cover to get into a bar that has nothing special to offer, and everything pretty much sucks ass. Virtually every bar in Hoboken was charging a cover on Saturday. Not one that we passed in our hour of walking was charging less than $20. In fact, one bar was charging a $40 cover.
Me: $40? What does that get you?
Guy Smoking Outside the Bar: Uh, it gets you in.
Me: Is there, like, a band playing or anything?
Guy Smoking Outside the Bar: Nah, bro.
Me: Do we get open bar or something?
Guy Smoking Outside the Bar: Nope.
Me: Cheap beer?
Guy Smoking Outside the Bar: Nah.
Me: Then, uh, why did you come here?
These poor, gullible kids. I think next year, I should buy a couple 12 packs, hold them over my head, and run past the long lines shouting, “FOLLOW ME TO FREEDOM!” I would then run into the PATH station and go back to Manhattan. On second thought, this might not be a good idea - people who are willing to pay $40 to get into a bar in Hoboken should just stay in New Jersey.
Not willing to fork over that much money to go to a shitty bar in Jersey, we decided to turn around and go home, dejected and sober. But not before seeing two drunk girls in a gutter climbing over each other to try to get up, getting sideswiped by a drunk guy who was seemingly running away from the authorities, and seeing a fratguy puke onto the side of a building. Over the course of our two hours in Hoboken, the sidewalks had turned from a sea of green to a sea of vomit. After seeing all that, all I wanted to do was poke my own eyes out.
Previously: How Many Tools Can You Fit In One Room?
And now, another remnant of my weekend at the alma mater: a clown juggling fire in the snow, complete with play-by-play.
See? That alone was totally worth the six-hour bus trip.
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