The Philosophy Of Dog Butt

             Well, kids, here we are, right in the thick of it.

            A New York Summer.

            Right after the Fourth of July (and the litany of complaints, yet again, why they insist on having the fireworks on the Hudson instead of the more Borough friendly East River), we know summer is officially on like two coked out 20 year olds at the summer McCarren Park film screenings.

            Yes. We’ve been to the beach. We hit Ft. Tilden. We hit Coney Island (my favorite). We hit Jones Beach. The usual hag-like paleness is slowly leaving everyone’s skin.

            And the Cruel Summer of 2011 is in full force. The heat goes right to people heads. Sexual contact is immediate. Intimacy is shunned. There is just simply no time for anything but fun.

            And fun is the name of the game. The New York Brand style. Fun at any and all costs. The high price of hedonism. The naysayers are left in the dust. Summertime is no time to be depressed over Young Raven Haired Beauties reading Journey To The End Of Night  by Celine at the Subway Bar with an open notebook and a blue pen.

            (well….)

            This is shaping up to what Bananarama talked about in their famed song. The Summer is fierce, the summer is strong. Embrace it or hideaway in some air-conditioned room by your lonesome.  

            Philosophy, particularly during the hot summer days, has little room in people minds.  

            Our question this week, however, deals with a very important philosophical question. It is a phenomenon My Lovely Sister Laura and I developed while sitting on a stoop off Bedford watching the world go by on a Thursday afternoon.

            We call it what it is:

            The Philosophy Of Dog Butt.

            The Philosophy of Dog Butt is when a beautiful (often times extraordinarily so) woman (or girl) PURPOSELY adorns her face and body with intentionally ugly articles of clothing and accoutrements. Now this phenomenon is extremely popular here in the Burg, and frighteningly so.    

            You know what I mean, right?

            Super pretty girl, a total knockout in a black evening dress and some heels, but instead wears large, ugly red  glasses, pale white, stone washed, high-waisted jean shorts, all with an oversized, un-form-fitting blouse with the typical slits up the side revealing the ugliest beige bra K-Mart has ever designed.

            Now you tell me, what kind of sense does this make?

            My Lovely Sister Laura looks over at me, after seeing one of these templates walk by, and says, plain as day.

            “That chick looks like dog butt.”

            Right there.

            Genius.

            And it’s true. Why do obviously pretty girls seek to un-pretty themselves in such a way?

            It seems like an insult to non-model types, who have to earn their stripes the old-fashion way, like having a personality.      

            Not that the guys care.

            Hell, do you see what they have to wear just to sleep with these girls?  Dudes will do anything for sex. Talk about retard peacock feathers.        

            Let me speak now to these ‘dog butt’ girls.

            First, as a visually impaired person who HAS to wear glasses, these frames for style seem a little over the top. I mean, I don’t go rolling down Grand Avenue in decorative wheelchairs for style. Seems a little cruel, don’t you think?

            And as for the shitty bras you so willfully expose, throw down some of that cash your Dad gives you weekly on some sexy shit or just go raw dog. Give us some side boob. Who doesn’t like that? Way hotter than the Grandma Bra you rocking. Grandma’s have never been hot. Ever. Like never.

            The high-waisted jeans weren’t cool when they first came out either. I was old enough to remember (seriously, my mother wore those same ones back when she smoked Salem cigarettes in ‘87). My Lovely Sister Laura quotes: “Fuck gentrification of Williamsburg. I’m worried about the uglification of Williamsburg.”

            There’s an old saying apropos of this philosophy of dog butt: “If you got it, flaunt it.” It’s true. I know now you have every slim-hipped man wearing god-awful clothes to match your shitty style just so he can have Adderall-fueled sex in Bushwick with you at your beckon call, but age comes to all of us.   

            Remember when you looked through parent’s photo album and mocked at how fucked up and weird their style was ‘back in the day’. Someday, you too will look back at pictures of yourself outside The Charleston and whisper, shaking your head:

            "Damn I looked like DOG BUTT."          

            Till next time.  

      

The Best Dive Bars In Williamsburg (Part 1)

             The Dive Bar.

            A place to write peacefully, hidden away from the world. A place to drink your sorrows down alone in the darkness.

            The lawlessness.

            The depravity.

            Whitman sung hymns to such places. Bukowski formed a career from their dirty floors and back alley brawls.

            On any given night, in some of the best dive bars, you can take your potential mate and grope each other in peace. You can play Pantera and Prince back to back and no one blinks an eye. You can snort cocaine with impunity (and maybe even find a supplier).

            A Blowjob in a bathroom.  

            Clothes-lining someone off their bar stool.

            Meeting someone you fall in love with (Damn The Young Raven-Haired Beauty).

            Passing out, head down, slumped in the corner of the bar.

            The Dive Bar is the last true vestige of human freedom where one can still feel like an outlaw. No “yes, sir’s” and  “thanks, ma’am’s” here. More like “What the fuck do you want?” and “Why are you so fucked up?”

            The world outside may slowly be descending into some kind of sick kitsch gentility, but right when you can smell the smoke and beer from the floorboards, you know no version of manners will save you from the grimy reality of lives lived hard and lived well. You act up, you’re likely to get your nose broken. You bitch, the bartender will tell you to fuck off and bounce. No, you can’t talk to the manager. This ain’t the fucking Gap.

            To bartend in a true dive is the highest aspiration of the discerning bartender. The graduate class. I learned how to chicken wing a drunk out the front door, how to throw empty beer bottles over 12 feet into garbage cans with alarming accuracy. I’ve learned how to spot a good tipper quick, and how to tell when someone will eventually brandish a weapon.

            A Dive Bar is the truth of the world no one wants to see. Take away all the money, strip away all the pleasantries and lies, and here life is, steeped deep in Evan Williams and PBR.

            And as Williamsburg slowly gives way to the suburban, mauve colored condos, and increasing tyrannical health regulations by the New York City Hygiene Department, we are losing these cabal of drinking rooms to the ten dollar cocktail, zinc bar mentality of a gentrifying, speedily growing dull neighborhood.

            Here is a short list of the last true outlaw joints and why, like wild, beautiful, and highly dangerous animals, they are close to extinction:

            Note: We will have a grading system for these bars using 1-5, 1 being less violent, less dirty, and less dark, and 5 being incredibly dangerous, heavily soiled, and poorly (but fantastically) lit.  

            THE SUBWAY BAR (527 Metropolitan Ave at Union.)

            Rating: 4

            Anyone, ANYone, ANYONE who knows me knows that in my heart of all hearts, The Subway Bar is the greatest creation that has ever graced this neighborhood. What more do you want in a dive bar? Fantastic, well-formed barmaids, chalk full of sarcasm and wit, kindness and altruism for the impoverished, but respectful drunk. Some quotes from patrons have included “…where all good dreams go to die” and “…continuous drinking at the Subway Bar leads to nihilism, depression and suicide”. Just what I was looking for!!! The hipsters and newcomers to the hood are still afraid to drink here, and the tourists who stumble in off the Lorimer stop learn quickly to keep your head down and your mouth shut. Just ask the tourist who thought it’d be funny to steal a bottle of wine from behind the bar. Quickly followed out by several regulars who happen to be neighborhood guys, the tourist found himself on the back end of a severe beat down.

            *Perks: cheap drink specials, habitually sexy bartenders, and an assortment of psychological cases all for your anthropological needs.

            *You must be cool with: No music, bad lighting, and you, all alone with 3 regulars who stare with frightening expressions of fear/paranoia/wrath at you from across the room. Bring a good book and some Percocet.

            THE ABBEY BAR (536 Driggs Ave, at North 7^th)  

            Rating: 3

            Dark and red, the stuff out of some kind of narcotic legend, finding yourself at any given time at The Abbey Bar could lead to all manner of adventures. Okay, more honestly, the first time you walk into the Abbey you will not be impressed. On some days you could walk into an awkward Sunday movie day, with odd regulars who resemble something between the Beverly Hillbilly’s and the Addams Family, staring blankly at TV screens, shushing anyone who dares to speak. Other days you could run into raging cocaine fueled ex-musicians and construction workers drunkenly raving about the good old days when there were whores on the streets and syringes floating in the gutters.

            You may not like this place at all. It is not ‘cool’.

            And that’s okay.

            We like it like that.

            We don’t want you judgmental fucks drinking here. The Abbey Bar is the last bastion of true communities left in Williamsburg. This is where the real artists of the neighborhood drink. Any given day; musicians, poets, filmmakers, pool sharks, playwrights, braggarts, costume designers and painters saddled with methadone addictions drink whole-heartily with each other in the true spirit of what a dive bar should be: CHAOS!

            Secret unknown fact! Long ago in the early fledgling, violent days of Williamsburg, there were only three bars to go to and The Abbey Bar was one of them. Famed for their amazing jukebox (that no longer exists), the Abbey Bar soon grew as a destination spot. But what people don’t know is that The Abbey Bar started as a gay bar, but because of the great vibe, chaotic bartenders, and stumbling-home distance location, straight people came anyways. What’s left now 13 years later is the only mixed bar in existence, where the gays and the straights could give two shits what each other do. That, my friends, is a rarity indeed.

            *Perks: Cheap drinks bathed in red whorish light.

            *You must be cool with: Really, really long winded conversations with painfully obvious psychopaths, degenerates, and drug addicts. Hooray!

            THE LEVEE BAR (212 Berry Street, at North 3^rd)

            Rating: 3

            The two greatest words in the English language are “Yes” and the “Sportsmen”. Don’t know what a “Sportsmen” is?  Let me tell you (free advertising):

            The “Sportsmen” is a shot of Evan Williams and a can of Carling Black Label.

            And for how much?

            $4.

            You heard right: Four Fucking Dollars!

            If you have 20 dollars in your pocket, the Levee wants to fuck you up. Like stupid drunk. Like sleep with a very dirty and unwashed person drunk. And you even have money left to tip (which you damn well better do, or I’ll come after you personally).

            The Levee bar, under the constant roar of shitty metal bands, serves drunk types of food like Onion Dip and a bowel-ravaging meal called Frito Pie, all for incredibly hobo prices.

            The best time to drink at this fine establishment is during the day. Under the careful tending of Heather, Samantha, and Jeff, one can still feel proud about being a man, even if there’s only a $1.87 left in your bank account. The grainy light fading slowly through the windows, the well worn wood of the bar, and constant flux of early twenties hipster women to leer at make The Levee an A+ experience for the degenerate in you.

            But get out before night fall. The evil side to The Levee Bar is the unbelievable amount of douche bags that end up populating the joint. I don’t know where these people are from or how they found out about this Shangri La of watering holes, but they sure aim to ruin it.

            *Perks: Backyard patio to start drinking at noon and meet others with the same emotional/psychological problems you have.

            *You must get used to: Fighting. Yeah, it still happens here. Get hip to your backhand or some fisticuffs. It will serve you well.    

            Stay tuned to find out more on the topic of “The Best Dive Bars In Williamsburg”!    

Walking To New Orleans

            Just did.

            Yep.

             I just crawled out of the most exciting and extraordinary cities America has to offer. The first thing you notice are the smiles, from EVERYBODY. By far, the nicest people I have ever met. Then again, the other ones who don’t smile and talk to themselves as they walk grimy down Canal Street at 5 in the morning might just kill you.

            That’s the dichotomy with New Orleans. Bizarre luck, both matched with a sort of poetic decay and undefeated hope.

            I have been going down to this fair city for over a decade now. It is a bar man’s dream, the moody allure of the live oaks off Magazine Street, to the idyllic double shotguns homes in the Marigny, and everywhere, EVERWHERE a to go cup can be found stacked on the bar for you to take that drink you don’t quite feel like chugging down and move on. You do just that.

            Move on and smile.

            With a friendly gesture to the bartender, you’re off, sweat glistening on the skin, the faint sound of brass echoing in the distance, a fresh cold beer in hand.

            I could go on and on about this town, and I will in future blogs, but I have a grievance to address.  

            To me, New Orleans is The Big Easy, a place where a man or woman down on their luck can find a friend for the night, drink cheaply, and bask in the modern carnival of this citadel of inspiration.

            But I ran into someone who did not share this idea. And guess who it was?

            A BARTENDER.

            That’s right, my drinking friends, a man of my trade, a brethren in arms.  

            So, I’m on a small budget, trying to get my drink on and take some friends to a great bar I know in the Quarter.

            The Chart Room (Chartes and Bienville).

            This is like Captain Ahabs wet dream (nautical old maps and foreign moneys line the walls) meets a Bukowski den of dust, ice cold glasses of High Life, and a slew of battered regulars who look like they just got off a long ships voyage themselves.

            A Beautiful Place.

            I roll in, right up to the bar, filled with the spirit of New Orleans in my heart. Happily, I look up to the tall bartender and ask, very politely.

            “Sir, what are the cheapest beers you have in this fine place?”

            Right then, it happened. His face, once chipper and smiling with glee to the other customers, grows callous, as he says, bluntly:

            “Yeah, great opening. If you ain’t got no money, why don’t you just drink a sixer in your backyard? Bad start, brah.”

            And with that, walks over to some other regular, leans on the bar with some pride, and continues, chewing gum while he smiles, to finish his story.

            I look back at my friends. We’re all stunned.

            I mean, we live in New York. We’re used to douche bag bartenders. But here? Down in my favorite city in the world?

            My friend finally flags him down and gets us three High Life (which are two bucks all the time, by the way). We awkwardly watch him be super-sweet to everyone but us.

            Now look. I get it. Anyone who has read this blog understands I know how shitty this job can be. And I get it. Maybe he thought I was some jerk-off tourist.

            There are reasons a sane bartender would be rude like he was.

A)    I  was rude first.

B)     I was visibly wasted.

C)    He knows psychically about my Karma from another life and deemed himself some sort of delivery service of justice.

              Either way, I was definitely not the first two. So we split and head over to Molly’s on the Market (what up Kate and Michelle!), a bar where we could receive the true love New Orleans has to offer. And we did. All night. And danced to an all brass band. And drank cheaply. With no rudeness. Sat by the Mississippi River. Drank. Smoked weed.

            Glory, glory, hallelujah.

            Let me explain what a bartender is. We are there to get you drunk in any manner you see fit. You want high end Tequilla. We’ll fuck you up with it. You got 10 bucks. We’ll figure out a way to get you where you need to go (sobriety-wise).

            Bartenders are here to aid the wounded souls of the world. We’re the EMT’s for the spiritual bleeders. This guy (Will is his name, people) apparently does not live by this credo. And it’s guys like him that give bartenders a bad name. Someone asks you what the cheapest drinks are, you just fucking tell them and help them get where they need to go.

            I could have told him a million things about myself being a bartender, and I know how it is, and tried to bond with him, especially if he was having a bad day. But the fact he was so friendly to the others made his rudeness far more barbed then necessary.

            But as my Well Published Friend who watched the whole thing transpire said as an afterthought: “Where there’s a Will, there’s an asshole…”

            The Chart Room was redeemed, in the end, by native New Orleanian Julie Lacoste, whose absolute sweetness, warmth, and charity made our next several day drunks a glorious time.

            And to you, Will, I’ve got one last thing to say.

            Don’t be a dick, you Ron Reagan Jr. looking motherfucker. And if you still want to, I can get you a job in the Upper East Side. You’ll fit right in.

            PS- Other bartender notables and shout outs: Luke over at Mimi’s, Claudia at the Balcony Bar, and Krystal at the R Bar. Love you guys. You make bartenders proud all over the world. 

Ron Reagan Jr.

 This place Rules!!!!!

                 

PICKING UP GIRLS

             I knew it was going to happen.

            I knew someone would eventually would ask this question.

            Now,  I don’t normally do this, but I’m going to post the email sent to me by this sad and confused gentleman.

            To The Bartender Knows

            Okay. Why is it so hard to talk to girls at bars? Every time I try to approach a girl I feel like I’m being some weird stalker dude. And if I buy them drinks I feel like I’m being a desperate, weird, rapey stalker dude. What are the secrets to doing this? You’re a bartender. How do you do it? How do I talk to these girls without feeling like a total asshole?

                                                NEEDSTOKNOW

            Okay dude. Mr. NEEDSTOKNOW. Let me break down a couple facts about the fairer sex here in New York City.

            1.

            Women do not need you at all. They don’t. They don’t need you. The fifties are over, brah. All a girl needs nowadays is a Rabbit, two hyper-sexual gay friends she can live vicariously through, and a good income job. Seriously. Add a cool group of uber-fun dance party girl nights and she’s set.  It is 2011. And New York girls are way more manly then you are. They got game. They run the show. They’re choosing all the pockets, and sinking them in two runs. Face that fact first, bub. You ain’t shit.

            2.

            Any girl over 25 has been BURNED badly by some kind of shitty dude. They have loved and lost. They’re precious hearts have been broken into a millions pieces and somehow home-girl has survived to live another day. So you just having a penis means that yes, you might do what that man before you did:

            Fuck her shit up.

            And nobody wants their shit fucked up.  

            So already their man-palette is all dirtied up before you even walk over. You must realize their initial rudeness is merely the left-overs of Previous-Dude-Wreckage. You must, in a matter of moments, somehow eradicate that dirtied man-palette and get the equation set back to zero. So the slate is clean. That is just the beginning. Now you have to somehow differentiate yourself from the Legion of other men skinnier, richer, and better-looking then you are.

            3.

            Everybody DOES something in this town. And most men, because of their essential egotism, begin telling everyone around them what ‘they’ do. Women are especially bored by this. They don’t need to know who the fuck you are. That comes later. You need to ask THEM questions. Who cares what you do? It’s probably far less interesting then the 17 other more successful, attractive men that have hit on her that day, so shut the fuck up and ask the girl some questions. And don’t say shit like: “Do you like music?” or “What’s your favorite color?” (my sister swears that she has been asked these exactly questions in the first five minutes of dialogue). Don’t be retarded. Be genuine. Be yourself.

            Wait. No. Stop.

            Don’t be yourself. If you are yourself you’d have to tell them that you are writing to someone you don’t know about how to pick up chicks at bars. Don’t do that. Just keep the attention on them.

            4.

            Here’s some rules you should live by. One girl at a bar means she’s waiting for someone. One girl at a bar with a book means she’ll talk to you if you’re literary, but she’s either getting over a break up or has serious emotional problems. Two girls at a bar should not be approached. They are chatting, catching up, and talking about guys their fucking. You have no place there. Three girls at the bar means party time. Approach, but make sure you know which one you want in advance. You can’t switch later (well, you can, but by the sound of it, you’re in division one of these athletics, so keep it simple). Just be careful from attacks by the others. They will make it difficult. This includes approaching women with their gay friends. This can be exceptionally brutal, especially if the gay friend is of the super-queen variety, and, essentially being a guy themselves, knows just what to say to her that will fuck your shit up.    

            Bars are made for people. That is the simple fact. People go out to get fucked up, to meet with friends, and to get laid (and sometimes all three). It’s just the way it is. Women go out to meet guys. They do. Face it. If you see a done up lady (hair, make-up, the works) she did that for you. Well, maybe not for you, specifically, but for someone like you who just might be A) not a sleazebag, B) funny and interesting, C) not going to fuck her shit up six months from now.

            Just remember brother, we all want love in the end. I don’t care who you are. We are all just little hippies looking for the potion of love. Some of us may be like rescue animals who bite the strangers who try to pet us, but beyond all of our psychic scars, we want a hug. And a good lay.

            So chill out, NEEDSTOKNOW. Just follow these easy steps and write back if any of this gets you to first base.      

THIS IS WHY MEN ARE UNNECESSARY

             

            

           

Brunching Is The Most Important Thing To Do In Life

             So I get a call from my flagrantly gay friend Roland, who just happens to be stuck in some small town called Ft. Morgan in the great state of Colorado. He’s flustered:

            “I gotta get my ass back to New York City, bitch!” He says on the phone.

            “What the hell are you doing out there, anyway?” I ask.

            “Someone died.”

            “Oh, I’m sorry, Roland.”

            I hear him blow cigarette smoke into the phone (I know this because he smokes habitually. I scold him for this terrible habit, but as he says repeatedly: “My only two bad habits are Marlboro Reds and dick”).

            Roland continues: “What? No. Don’t worry you’re pretty little head, Matthew. It was some uncle who hates the gays, so whatever. But my mother was close to him, and I’m the good son, so now I’m stuck in this god forsaken redneck shit town wearing black at funerals with fat people.”

            “Jesus…”

            “Yeah. And there’s nothing to do here. New York has made me her bitch. I have to get back. There’s no place to drink. There’s no place to eat. I felt threatened buying cigarettes at the Wal-Mart out here.”

            “How are the bars?” I ask, for obvious reasons.

            “Horrible. Terrible. Disgusting. And not disgusting in a good way, like the Subway Bar, but like, actually Red State disgusting.”

            I think I know what he means.

            “I’m starving. I want to brunch. I NEED it. I need a fucking patio. I need a decent Bloody Mary. Matthew. I’m going CRAZY! The highlight of my trip was smoking dirt weed behind a Dairy Queen with some Goth kids.”

            I try to visualize Roland doing this and it makes me smile.

            But Roland brings up a good point. Here in Brooklyn, brunch is a very important part of life. Roland knows. The patio is important. The Bloody Mary is important (and I make the best, and y’all know this!).

            But there’s just some places that have been ruining my brunching high lately and it’s time to address this. Here’s a short list of places that have been fucking with my brunch life.

           

            1.

            EGG

            135 North 5th Street and Bedford.  

            You know what? Fuck you, Egg. I really, really wanted to like you. But like the popular chick in high school, you’re kind of a bitch. I heard great things about your food. I heard great things about your drinks. But that’s just the problem. There’s too many people who know about you. I know, I know, it’s like blaming a whore for sleeping around, they just can’t help it and they hate their Dad. But there’s other problems. Like the staff. Seriously, guys, smile. Just once. Pretty please? And get a bigger place, Egg. I feel like I’m on a subway car in Tokyo. By the time my food eventually arrived, the gravy over my biscuits was cold. And I fucking hate oatmeal. Egg, get over yourself. Expand and hire a new staff. Or at least hand out free Prozac to them to get a smile out of these fucks.

       

            2.

            MILLER’S TAVERN

            2 Hope Street between Roebling & Havemeyer.

            Again, what is with these uber-shiek terrible waitresses? Girl, I have been serving people all of my life. I need a refill on my coffee. Now stop talking to that bike messenger who doesn’t wash and fill a cup for a brother. So me and my now unemployed, full-time writing, less homicidal roommate Tony go into this joint to give it a shot. And of course, the waitresses here don’t smile either (perhaps it’s fashionable not to do your job now), they all are dressed like they’re at a fashion show, and the recommendations were terrible. Tony ordered something called Chicken Fried Chicken (or something ironic) and it ended up looking like two little wings tied together with a battered string, which he choked down begrudgingly. The portions are small, the plates are overpriced, and the service sucks. Good coffee though, which goes a long way. But we all know Stumptown is the shit.        

            3.

            RABBITHOLE

            352 Bedford Ave.

            You’re cute. You are. You’re very pretty. You are. I feel like I’m talking to that girl whose all looks and no substance. The Eggs Benedict here was served on rock hard biscuits. And I KNOW what Benedict should taste like. The sauce was like some imitation brand. Don’t fuck with what works, Rabbithole. Keep it classic. The Reuben Sandwich was horrible. The corned beef was sinewy and long, I felt like I was chewing on meat-flavored shoelaces. Now I know y’all used to own Read Café, and anyone who knows the hood knows that Café was the best Bedford Avenue had ever seen. But lay off the looks and get a new cook. 3 Michelen Star trained, my ass.

            Brunch is one of the most important things in life. Okay. Not really. But it can make life beautiful on a summer day with friends.

            Stay tuned for the Williamsburg Brunch joints that absolutely rule.   

            And let us pray for Roland’s safe return from Hicksville, USA.       

             

These are the kids I imagine Roland smoked weed with.

               

            

And this is where it went down. 

Who Ruined My LIfe??? (part 2)

            Most kids, particularly the nervy, book-obsessed, girl-shy, Dungeon and Dragons type (who ever would I mean?) wish that something special may happen to them. They wander the halls of high school, books clung closely to their chests, and hope, pray really, that somehow they’re horrible case of acne will disappear, that their Mother will stop dressing them in short blue shorts and lined blue and white tee-shirts, making you look like a pirate, but not any dangerous pirate, but the kind that repeatedly get mistaken in boy-porn ads in the back of crumpled Stag Magazines from the 1970’s. You hope that the bullies will finally leave you alone, that the old phrase ‘just punch ‘em in the nose’ was told to you by your pops (mine did not say that, they, being somewhat peace loving intellectuals, suggested I opt for diplomacy, which is an adolescent version of the French white flag of surrender quickly followed by bloodied noses)

            You can’t play sports worth a damn and always have a look of dejection on your face.

            Essentially you are a frightened little youth with zero social standing watching the world fly by without you (sort of like being broke in New York, but that comes later). You really wish you had a awesome friend named Stiles who’s got a quip for just about anything and an penchant for spot on tee-shirts.

    

            And, of course, you hope that maybe, maybe, that specially to-die-for lady (she’s probably only 15, but then again, so are you) will finally take notice of you (Facebook wasn't invented yet, neither was Internet Stalking). This dashing young lass, in eighties feathered hair  and always present cheerleader uniform, wanders the halls by you. You push out your chest, trying to act strong, hoping she notices, but instead wrinkles her nose like she smells fresh shit.  

            You know you just may be cursed to an invisible existence for good. Until you see the cinematic achievement called “Teen Wolf” starring Michael J. Fox. Never in my life have I wished I could suffer from lycanthropy more than after watching this film. I wanted to threaten old men into giving me a keg of beer, ride on top of Stiles weirdly similar but non-militant version of the A-Team van, and open beer cans with my teeth.

            Unfortunately, the sad truth is that it is all a lie that my little 14 year old self within can never quite give up on. The closest I come to “wolfing out” is on that 7 shot of whiskey and my only ‘feral’ skills is an uncanny nature to walk back unconscious to my door step in Williamsburg like a  lost dog who always finds his way home.

            Thanks Michael J. Fox. Just one more broken fantasy of youth. 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fbIerQkXm_k 

            Stay tuned for the next installment of “Who Ruined My Life??? (part 3)

 

            Did girls really look like this in high school? I don’t think so.