9.5% from a bomber
The Groupie Slums It
I don’t mean to offend when I explicitly state that attractive yet unmarried and never-married heterosexual women in their thirties who actually want to be married are either one of two things:
1. Overly picky
2. Fucking crazy
Becky was incredibly attractive and she didn’t seem crazy. Sparkling eyes that were neither too dead nor fidgety, a nice amount of looking into my peepers and nervously looking down. A kind smile that always spread just the correct amount between the ears and showed an exactly sufficient number of teeth depending on the circumstance*. A confident voice full of charm and charisma.
And she was on a date with always-undressed me at a Village bar frequented by underage NYU undergrads and most famous for winning New York Magazine’s “Most Vomitiest Bar” the last three years running. So how picky could Becky possibly be?
I spent the first half hour of our first date investigating her, scrutinizing her intensely like Sherlock Holmes. That’s not exactly a fun way to behave and doesn’t exactly lead to a love connection, but I had to figure out what was up. Soon, I realized it must be nothing, she was just one who had slipped through the cracks. Had a little misfortune in love. Perhaps I had very much lucked out in finding her.
Sure, she was a little obsessed with relationships, with finding “the one,” even with marriage, but most women are. Nothing wrong with that. She wasn’t one of those insufferable single gals, staying home at night with a stack of bridal magazines cutting out pictures of her favorite dresses, floral displays, bridesmaids’ gowns, and making a collage of her hypothetical wedding. She didn’t say stuff like, “I’m going to make my future husband buy me an 18 karet yellow gold eternity band emerald cut. I’ve already picked it out.” She didn’t have at all times on her person a list of one-hundred things her future mate had to meet, to which she’d say, “Do you have over $300,000 in the bank?” and then check off the corresponding box, hoping to fill them all out like she was participating in a concomitant scavenger hunt.
No, she was such a sweetheart. She just wanted to find someone near perfect for her because you can never find someone completely perfect for you, right? Some one she could grow old with. Who could take care of her for the next fifty years.
Hell, she realized she was getting older, we all are. And it ain’t easy, especially for a female. Quoth Robert Herrick:
Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,
Old Time is still a-flying:
And this same flower that smiles to-day
To-morrow will be dying.
Could I be the man for her? She’d ask me questions, bordering on interview queries but I accepted them because they were said with such earnestness.
The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun,
The higher he’s a-getting,
The sooner will his race be run,
And nearer he’s to setting.
“Do you date a lot?” “Why haven’t you found someone?” “It’s tough here in New York, isn’t it?” “Have you ever thought about JDate?”
That age is best which is the first,
When youth and blood are warmer;
But being spent, the worse, and worst
Times still succeed the former.
She talked about her successes, moreso her failures. The guy that did this wrong. The guy that did that bad. The guy that wasted that half-year of her life.
Then be not coy, but use your time,
And while ye may, go marry:
For having lost but once your prime,
You may for ever tarry.
After a few cocktails, I finally figured it out. She actually did all the work for me. I was getting bored with sitting and I asked her if she wanted to go revisit our youth and challenge some sophomores to a game of beer pong.
“Ha, that reminds me of the time Vince Carter** picked me up at the Soho Grand and all but forced me to go back to his apartment to play pool with him at 3 AM.”
“Vince Carter?! The uber-talented, uber-lazy NBA 8-time all-star?! Really? That’s so cool.”
Casually. “Yeah. Nice guy but a little boring. Unbeatable in pool though. You wouldn’t believe how good he is off the bumpers.”
We lost our first game of beer pong to two kids that have never known life with rotary phones and returned to our seats. A warbling John Mayer song I’ve never heard of because I know nothing about music since the tail-end of the grunge/gangster rap era came on the jukebox.
“Yuck. I always hated this song. I was actually there when John wrote this one.”
You know John Mayer too?
And there were more. Seemingly every single thing that came on the flatscreen, or the jukebox, or on an imbibing hipster’s ironic t-shirt, or even in an anecdote I told reminded her of a celebrity encounter she’d had in the past decade. And I say “encounter” because she was never saying that she dated these men, certainly never saying that she had intimate relations with them, she was just casually, and somewhat angrily, mentioning them in the same matter of fact way I could go:
“You know that dumb bitch Megan sure liked rum and cokes.”
“That terrible skank Tracy sure thought she was good at darts too.”
“Whoa boy, did that miserable Annette always act like she knew a lot about baseball.”
Then, the Yankees won and Michael Kay came on the YES post-game show on the bar TV.
“Ugh…I hate Michael Kay.”
“Yeah, me too. I’m a Yankees fan but he’s insufferable.”
“No, not that. He’s a major stalker. I go on one date with him a few months ago and now he won’t leave me alone!”
And it all made sense. She’d gone from dating (or fucking on the sly) an A-list hoopster in her knockout early-20s to a B-list rocker in her still-smoking mid-20s to a sleezy Z-list local television baseball announcer just earlier this year as her looks were starting to fade. Perhaps not for a “nobody” like me, but certainly for a big shot, rich celebrity.
Then another thing hit me. Her twenties’ goal of gathering ye rosebuds, gathering a rich celebrity mate, had all but passed her by and now she was onto a new stratagem: prospecting. The night I had picked her up it had been so easy for me. I wasn’t actually even talking to her at first. One of my friends was, casually in conversation mentioning that I was a writer. To that, she sprinted over to me and proceeded to yak my ear off, shoving her number, e-mail, fax, address, Facebook page, Twitter account, and every other possible contact info she could into my palm before leaving. Telling me I had to promise to contact her. I’m not sure if I’d even said more than a dozen words that first encounter.
She was prospecting. And she thought this might be her final shot at glory, Dan Jansen in the 1994 Winter Olympics. She’d heard I was a writer, and daftly thought I might soon be a famous one. Or at least a rich one.
HAHAHAHAHAHAHA. If she only knew.
Well, I certainly wasn’t going to let on. I went back to her apartment and hooked up with her anyways, unfortunate visions of Michael Kay dancing in my head (“Ssssssssssee ya!!!”)
I’ve always said that, were I a celebrity, I wouldn’t mind women throwing themselves at me for no other reason than my fame and I certainly don’t mind a slumming groupie faux-throwing herself at me hoping that her vagina is that magic key to getting me on the cover of “Entertainment Weekly.”
At least I won’t stalk her like Michael Kay.
Big ups to my friend Elizabeth who I made go to about fifteen different Chicagoland beer stores when she was there on business in order to find this coveted, highly regarded, DIPA for me. Another winner from Three Floyds who, apropos of barely something, I think may make my favorite labels in the biz. Taste-tested this openly against one of my favorites, Avery Maharaja, and I felt it took it down in a 10th round TKO. So fresh and fragrant. A fruit cocktail of tropical tastes in peach, mango, and citrus, with subdued hops bitterness balanced my a nice caramel malt backbone. Incredibly drinkable, deserves the acclaim it gets.
*Beware the women that smiles either too much or too little. The women that are ear-to-fucking-ear when you simply make a lame pun. Who show every teeth like a horse with peanut butter in its mouth when you crack a mild joke. And who spit take with hearty laughter when you so much as comment on the bartender’s bad hair cut. Also beware the ones that wouldn’t even crack a half-grin watching Eddie Murphy “Raw.” They’re either depressed or dumb.
**Celebrity names have been changed to protect…uh, I guess me from being sued for slander. Or is it libel?