We are in the thick of it.
Summer is here!
Let us welcome all the things that come along with this lovely season here in New York City and across our great nation in the Summer time.
There is a grand haze, like living in a steaming car, driving 90 miles an hour with no air-conditioning. Our lives speed along, windows fogged from our hot breath, into the 97 degree days, the concrete hot beneath us, the air humid, thick with moisture, and there never a time you are not sweating.
The beer goes down like water, the sun sets brilliantly with hues of purple and pink, it’s hard not to feel the infection of ‘let’s fucking party’. And we are. Everyone is. There is no stopping the carnival of ‘fuck it.’
Are there bills piling up behind your ears? Is the landlord angry again? Do you owe money everywhere?
Of course you do.
Have the credit card debtors been calling again? Has your ‘to-do’ list been replaced by empty beer cans and a half smoked joint on the kitchen table? Have you broken up with your partner so you can chase all the skin in the neighborhood so happily displayed in the heat of summer?
There is no more sexually frustrating place in the world than New York City in the summer time. This is the moment all of those packed into gyms and yoga classes during the ugly months of Winter wait for.
Last summer I went to watch a great band up from New Orleans called Jean-Eric. The lead fellah, shirt off and all, writhes onstage with his equally disrobed band mates, screaming into the microphone: “What the fuck do they put in the water up here? Everyone is sexy as fuck. Get me back to NOLA, we still got ugly down there!”
When one of my best friends moved here, I took him around and his eyes bulged at all the beautiful women strolling down Bedford Avenue.
He said, slightly dazed: “Jesus. Welcome to New York City, the town where you want to fuck every women you see.”
It’s true. I don’t know what Bloomberg puts in the water here. Must be some chemical mix of vanity and ambition.
Sadly, this summer, when everyone is out getting beat up and dodging gangster shit at the grand opening of the new public McCarren Pool, I have to work my three jobs. That’s right, no grandiose dance parties on rooftops in the Lower East side or running around chasing the fine women of this neighborhood.
I’m working my two bars, doing production work, and chasing literary dreams, all the while watching the world participate in the Holy Trinity of Summer life. You know what they are. I’ve spent so many summers just watching these people worship at this Trinity, and I hope one day I too will enact this holy union.
Here are the three ‘must do’s’ while we all live in the volcanic passion of Summer 2012 (the last summer on Earth).
Oh my God. Is there any more legal pornography than the beach? I can’t even walk on the sandy beaches without instantly becoming a leering pervert. No matter how hard I try, with that amount of skin parading around, it’s difficult for any red-blooded straight male to keep a lid on the visual spectacle.
And beach life is so wonderfully simple! The heat is everywhere, rendering the human to utter laziness, lounging beneath a giant umbrella, an easy summer read in your hands (and a REAL book, people, I hope you get sand in your Kindle).
Seriously, what else is there? You read, lounge, occasionally go dip your feet in the cool water, what are we Marseille Royals? The beach settles all problems.
Too many deep thoughts? Look into the ocean and contemplate eternity.
Suffer from depression? Get that Vitamin D up in that skin, yo!
The beach is a place of total peace and teaches you the truly important things in life:
Stop thinking so much and read a book.
Let’s enjoy the sun before the solar systems mystical alignment destroys the Earth’s gravitational pull on December 21, 2012 and kills us all.
And lots of nudity is lots of fun.
So you’ve hit the beach, huh? Well, the staple of any Summer is the rooftop/patio drinking lifestyle. Casually sipping an ice cold beer, watching the main thoroughfares full of people who all don’t have the luxury of day drinking on a Tuesday walking to work.
And as the sun slowly set behind the majestic citadels of the isle of Manhattan, you can listen to the interesting banter of the group you’ve assembled (sort of the anti-Avengers, no superheroes, just drunken reprobates), as the beautiful waitress keep the beers coming. Order yourself a delicious Margarita (without sour mix, bitches). Get some Gin gimlets up in you. The slews of delicious drinks for the Summer are endless. And for some reason, the drunk feels better on a patio or rooftop.
One Summer I won’t ever forget was the one I decided I would forsake my love of whiskey and drink only Tequila, Champagne, and Absinthe. Admittedly, I don’t remember much about this Summer except somehow starting a band, shooting my first two films, and sleeping with several women I cannot even remember their faces or names. I definitely Charlie Sheened that Summer, and I blame the season and the thirty-five patio/rooftop bars that line the three block radius from my front door for all the madness.
Meat. Steak. Salmon. For our vegetarian brethren, roasted veggies on the grill. Why in the world does food taste better basted and cooked over a grill in some backyard in Brooklyn? Much like the beach and rooftop/patio drinking, the spirit of the BBQ (truly mastered by those in New Orleans, where some of the best backyard BBQ was invented) is alive and well here in Bucktown.
Here are some ingredients you need. First, a skilled grill man, There are ways to fuck up grilling. You wouldn’t think of it, but I’ve had some shitty BBQ, overcooked meats, charcoal lighting problems, smoke inhalation injuries. You got to get a grill man of expertise, otherwise all them dogs and burgers will taste slightly like overcooked McDonalds dribble.
Second, you got to get a skilled bar man. Call me up, I’ll set your party up right. Mint juleps anyone? Keep that ice cold, keep those beers coming.
Music is key. Find someone with the best iPod. The right music to kick it to that pleases everybody. This is a skill. Your 90’s playlist may not work every time. Plus it’s hard to relax when the grimy vocals from your favorite Alice in Chains album pours from the speakers and force others to adopt a heroin habit of their own.
Next, get the right people. Talkers. Funny folks. Watch for inviting couple who do not participate in conversation. You know the types. They sit close and whisper to each other the whole damn party. Annoying motherfuckers. It’s like they are trapped in their own little world. You only get half-responses from them when asked direct questions. Leave those two to their own summer love and wait for the inevitable break up in the Fall to talk directly to them.
So have fun out their kids, and remember to think about me when y’all get to worship these Holy Trinities of Summer. I’ll be the one working my three jobs watching you enjoy this fine season.
Drink some Absinthe for me!
AND SERIOUS EMOTIONAL PROBLEMS? JUST SIT HERE FOR A DAY AND SEE WHAT HAPPENS!
YES. GOD EXISTS.
TAKE THIS LITTLE FAIRY FOR A SPIN THIS SUMMER. DIRECTIONS: DRINK IT EVERYDAY AND YOU'LL UNDERSTAND VAN GOGH.